		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#7)
	The Code of Mauloch
"By the Code of Mauloch!" I don't need you to guess how many times I've heard that oath made in some dingy tavern. Again and again, some fellow sellsword with too much fire in him has screamed those words at the top of his lungs. I'd be lying if I said the Orc strongholds don't take those words as law. There are few places where experience would tell you that "tradition" and the "old ways" make for a better fighter, but with Orcs, it seems like staying true to your ancestors is the path to victory. 

Let me start a few steps back. The Orc strongholds have existed as long as the Orc race has, at least according to them. Orc strongholds are more than armored camps. They're fortresses. Every man, woman, and child inside the walls is trained from birth to defend them. All their weapons and armor are smithed right there in the stronghold. All the food is hunted down by Orc warriors and brought back to be eaten by the Orcs who live there.

Orcs follow no laws save their own, an unwritten set of rules called "The Code of Mauloch," named after one of their gods, who is sometimes called Malacath. Most of it's pretty simple: don't steal, don't kill, and don't attack people without reason (although there seems to be a big list of exceptions). Orcs in a stronghold don't have jails for their criminals. They have Blood Price. You either pay enough in goods for your crimes, or you bleed enough that the victim is satisfied. And I don't need to tell you that Orcs have a lot of blood. 

The Code also sets up who runs the stronghold. The toughest male is usually the chief. He makes decisions and decides when the Code of Mauloch has been satisfied. All the women are either the chief's wives or his daughters, with the exception of the wise woman, who handles all spiritual matters and healing needs. Matters of grave dispute are handled with short but violent fights. Those who don't get along with the chief are usually forced out of the stronghold to live among the rest of us. An Orc grows up being told to fight for everything. If something is not worth fighting for, it is beneath the Code. 

The Orcs in a stronghold don't like strangers, used to living on their own like they do. We know about their homes because so many Orcs leave their strongholds to become sellswords or soldiers, and a few pints of mead always gets them talking about home. I hear that sometimes, when an Orc makes a non-Orc a "blood kin," that person is allowed to live in the stronghold as one of the clan. Of course, I've never seen proof of that actually happening. 

For all their strange rules and traditions, the Code of Mauloch does breed a culture of determined warriors. They're focused in ways that the average sellsword isn't. They don't hesitate to draw weapons and settle matters openly. I think that's the real difference between the stronghold Orcs and the city Orcs. The law allows you to settle fights through the constable's men, but the Code of Mauloch demands you settle your problems yourself. That's a fine way of thinking when you're leading a mercenary's life.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#8)
	A Warning to the Aldmeri Dominion
By Erystera Ligen

The overlords of the Aldmeri Dominion are hereby put on notice: renounce your ambitions of aggression and return to your islands and jungles, or the wrath of the Daggerfall Covenant shall fall upon you like a hammer of the Divines.

We are well aware that the Aldmeri plan nothing less than a return to the Elven domination of the other races, particularly Men and Orcs. They wish to overturn the legacies of the First and Second Empires and wipe them from history. This we shall not allow. Never again will free Men and Orcs submit to the tyranny of Elven oppression!

The arrogant High Elves of Summerset are clearly the driving force behind the Dominion. We of the Covenant have shown, through our acceptance of the Direnni, that we can live with the Elves in peace, but Queen Ayrenn insists on war. Her invasion of the continent of Tamriel is nothing but naked aggression. The Dominion has no territorial rights in Cyrodiil. If the Altmer do not return to Summerset, their invading armies will be destroyed.

The Wood Elves and the Khajiit have traded with our Iliac Bay kingdoms for ages, but they've made a mistake in allying themselves with the perfidious Altmer of Summerset. Though we of the Covenant wish them no ill will, if they maintain their alliance with the Dominion, they will suffer the same fate at our hands as the High Elves. They must reconsider, or they must face our wrath.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#9)
	True Heirs of the Empire
By Erystera Ligen

Rejoice, peoples of northwest Tamriel! Though the rest of Nirn is afflicted by war, madness, and Daedric horror, the glory and honor of the Reman Empire lives on in the Daggerfall Covenant. We remain true to the primacy of trade, the principles of freedom, and worship of the Divines.

In the face of a world of enemies, the trade powers of the Iliac Bay have formed a powerful alliance. High Rock, Hammerfell, and Orsinium stand as one, united under the rule of the High King in Wayrest. Orc and Breton craftsmanship make the alliance an economic powerhouse, and the military strength of the Orcs and Redguards make us a force to be reckoned with. Our kings join our people in longing for the return of a Tamrielic Empire, along with the economic prosperity that goes with it. There is only one way to make sure the right Emperor rules once more from the Imperial City: we must attend to it ourselves.

The current so-called "Empire of Cyrodiil" is a sham, a twisted mockery of Reman's glorious Second Empire. The charlatans who sit on the Ruby Throne openly mock the Divines and court the Lords of Oblivion, the Enemies of Man. Even the once-promising Emperor Varen fell victim to Daedric corruption, his reforms swept away by the puppet-masters of the Daedric Cabal.

The Daggerfall Covenant is the only true heir to the principles of the Second Empire. In the name of the Divines, we must conquer Cyrodiil and restore the glory of Reman's legacy. The cancerous Daedra worship that has corrupted Cyrodiil and threatens all Nirn shall be cleansed from Tamriel. We shall found the Tamriel Covenant, that all kingdoms may have a seat at the Grand Council under a new Imperial Dynasty. 

Forward, soldiers of the Covenant! Freedom for all peoples in the name of the Divines! For a new Empire and a new era of law and justice!
		

Failed at /books/10		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#11)
	The Werewolf's Hide
By an Unknown Packleader

Some will tell you that our greatest strength is our hunger, or our numbers, or our rage, or our claws, or our fangs. These are fools. The gift of Hircine is not simply about weapons, but about defense. 

To hunt in the great hunting grounds of our master, we must be impervious to pain, masters of our own bodies. 

Many a werewolf hunter will seek your hide for this reason. They will try to wear it, or else burn it. Either way, it is your greatest prize and you should take care not to let it fall to filth and disrepair.

A wolf's coat is the marker of his status. It bears his scars and protects his body against harm. Treat it as a nobleman treats his finery, for you are a servant of Hircine.

Too often have I encountered feral wolves with mangy coats. You are not wild dogs! You are not senseless wolves with no choice but to wander the woods as animals! You are kings among hunters!

When you are beset by enemies, when the mob comes for you, and you transform into your true self to face sword and sickle, pitchfork and pike, you will thank me. Your coat will gleam and terrify, and no blow will harm you.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#12)
	Guide to the Daggerfall Covenant
The Daggerfall Covenant is a compact between the peoples of northwest Tamriel—Bretons, Redguards, and Orcs—that forms an alliance of mutual defense, with a vision of establishing peace and order across Tamriel. Indeed, the kings of the Covenant take the Remans as their model, claiming to be the spiritual heirs of the Second Empire.

The Daggerfall Covenant was born in 2E 542, when the kings of High Rock allied to repulse an invasion by a horde of Reachmen under the command of Durcorach, "the Black Drake." Howling out of the eastern mountains, the Reach barbarians razed Evermore, besieged Wayrest, sacked Camlorn, and marched as far as the gates of Daggerfall before the Bretons finally stopped them. In the wake of Durcorach's defeat, the kings of Daggerfall, Wayrest, Camlorn, Evermore, and Shornhelm swore the so-called "first" Daggerfall Covenant, a solemn oath to defend each other's kingdoms and stand as one against all foreign foes.

High Rock prospered as the Bretons rebuilt, especially after 2E 561, when miners near Wayrest made the biggest orichalcum strike in recorded history. Emeric, Earl of the domain of Cumberland, the site of the mines, proposed to use the resulting wealth to enhance Wayrest's fleet and improve trade throughout High Rock. King Gardner of Wayrest granted his approval, but before the fleet was completed, the dreaded Knahaten Flu swept through Wayrest and killed the entire Gardner royal household. Earl Emeric was elevated to the throne and House Cumberland became the second royal dynasty of Wayrest.

The new King Emeric of Wayrest had been courting the daughter of King Ranser of Shornhelm, but in 2E 566 he married Princess Maraya of Sentinel. This nearly brought down the first Covenant when Ranser, who felt betrayed, launched a surprise attack on Wayrest. The kings of Camlorn, Evermore, and Daggerfall all sided with Wayrest, and Emeric's superior diplomacy brought the armies of Sentinel into the fray to protect Emeric's queen. Furthermore, Emeric reached out to a great clan of Orcs in Wrothgar and offered them Orsinium in return for aid. Shornhelm was defeated and the Covenant was reborn: not as a mere Breton defensive pact, but as a new, multinational alliance.

The conclave that negotiated the alliance lasted for months, with argument and debate at every turn. The final result was the child of King Emeric's vision, made manifest in dozens of compromises and carefully negotiated provisions. Freedom of trade was guaranteed throughout the region, and over the objections of the nobles of Rivenspire and the Crown Redguards of Alik'r, the Orcs were accepted as full members of the alliance. Eventually, all the city-states of northwest Tamriel swore fealty to the Covenant's Royal Council, presided over by High King Emeric. As the architect of the alliance, he claimed supreme leadership.

So this is the modern Daggerfall Covenant, an alliance of the Redguards of northern Hammerfell, under King Fahara'jad; the Orcs of the mountainous northeast, under King Kurog of Orsinium; with the Breton King Emeric of High Rock presiding from his palace in Wayrest. At its best, it is a noble alliance of honorable and chivalrous peoples, representing all the best aspects of the First and Second Empires. And from this solid foundation, perhaps a third, even mightier Empire shall arise, providing all the peoples of Tamriel the benefits of mutual respect, vigorous trade, and reverence for the Divines.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#13)
	The True Nature of Orcs (Banned Ed.)
Orcs were born during the latter days of the Dawn Era. History has mislabeled them beastfolk, related to the Goblin races, but the Orcs are actually the children of Trinimac, strongest of the Altmeri ancestor spirits. When Trinimac was eaten by the Daedric Prince Boethiah, and transformed in that foul god's insides, the Orcs were transformed as well. The ancient name for the Orcs is "Orsimer," which means "The Pariah Folk." They now follow Mauloch, the remains of Trinimac.

Who is Mauloch?

He is more commonly know as the Daedric Prince Malacath, "whose sphere is the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the sworn oath, and the bloody curse." He is not technically a Daedric Lord, nor do the other Daedra recognize him as such, but this is fitting for his sphere. Of old he was Trinimac, the champion of the High Elven pantheon, in some places more popular than Auri-El, who protected them against enemies without and within. When Trinimac and his followers attempted to halt the Velothi dissident movement, Boethiah ate him. Trinimac's body and spirit were corrupted, and he emerged as Malacath. His followers were likewise changed for the worse. Despised by everyone, especially the inviolate Auri-El, they quickly fled to the northern wastes, near Saarthal. They fought Nords and Chimer for a place in the world, but did not get much. In Skyrim, Malacath is called Orkey, or Old Knocker, and his battles with Ysmir are legendary.

(DIRECTIVE: This vile, anti-Orc propaganda, though traditional, is now BANNED throughout the DAGGERFALL COVENANT. Administrators: see to it.)
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#14)
	Varieties of Faith: The Bretons
By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Eight:

Akatosh (Dragon God of Time):

Akatosh is the chief deity of the Eight Divines (the major religious cult of Cyrodiil and its provinces) and one of two deities found in every Tamrielic religion (the other is Lorkhan). He is generally considered to be the first of the gods to form in the Beginning Place. After his establishment, other spirits found the process of being easier, and the various pantheons of the world emerged. He embodies the qualities of endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy.

Kynareth (Goddess of Air):

Kynareth is a member of the Eight Divines, the strongest of the Sky spirits, patron of sailors and travelers. In some legends, she is the first to agree to Lorkhan's plan to invent the mortal plane, and she provides the space for its creation in the void. She is also associated with rain, a phenomenon said not to occur before the removal of Lorkhan's divine spark.

Julianos (God of Wisdom and Logic):

Often associated with Jhunal, the Nord father of language and mathematics, Julianos is the god of literature, law, history, and contradiction, and the favorite deity of most Breton mages.

Dibella (Goddess of Beauty):

Popular god of the Eight Divines, Dibella has nearly a dozen different cults, some devoted to women, some to artists and aesthetics, and others to erotic instruction.

Arkay (God of the Cycle of Life and Death):

Member of the Eight Divines pantheon and popular elsewhere, as well. Arkay is often more important in those cultures where his father, Akatosh, is either less related to time or where his time aspects are difficult to comprehend by the common folk. He is the god of burials and funeral rites, and is sometimes associated with the seasons. His priests are staunch opponents of necromancy and all forms of the undead. It is said that Arkay did not exist before the world was created by the gods under Lorkhan's supervision/urging/trickery. Therefore, he is sometimes called the Mortals' God.

Zenithar (God of Work and Commerce, Trader God):

Member of the Eight Divines, Zenithar is understandably associated with the Bosmeri Z'en. In High Rock, however, he is a far more cultivated god of merchants, artisans, and the middle nobility. His worshipers say, despite his mysterious origins, Zenithar is the god "that will always win."

Mara (Goddess of Love):

Nearly universal goddess. Her origins started in mythic times as a fertility goddess; in High Rock, she is the Mother-Goddess. She is sometimes associated with Nir of the "Anuad," the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation. For the Bretons, she is married to Akatosh.

Stendarr (God of Mercy):

God of the Eight Divines, Stendarr has evolved from his Nord origins into a deity of compassion, or sometimes, righteous rule. Stendarr is the patron of magistrates, rulers, and knights errant.

Additional Deities with Significant Breton Cults:

Magnus (Magus):

The god of sorcery, Magnus withdrew from the creation of the world at the last second, though it cost him dearly. What remains of him is felt and controlled by mortals as magic. One story says that, while the idea was thought up by Lorkhan, it was Magnus who created the schematics and diagrams needed to construct the mortal plane. He is sometimes represented by a golden eye, an astrolabe, a telescope, or more commonly, a staff. Legends say he can inhabit the bodies of powerful magicians and lend them his power.

Y'ffre (God of the Forest):

While Akatosh Time Dragon might be the king of the gods, Y'ffre is revered as the spirit of "the now." According to the Elves, after the creation of the mortal plane, everything was in chaos. The first mortals were turning into plants and animals and back again. Then Y'ffre transformed himself into the first of the Ehlnofey, or "Earth Bones." After the laws of nature were established, mortals had a semblance of safety in the new world, because they could finally understand it.

Sheor (Bad Man):

In High Rock, the Bad Man is the source of all strife. He seems to have started as the god of crop failure, but most modern theologians agree that he is a demonized version of the Nordic Shor or Aldmeri Lorkhan, born during the dark years after the fall of Saarthal.

Phynaster:

Hero-god who taught the Altmer how to naturally live another hundred years by using a shorter walking stride. Patron deity and "teacher" of the Direnni. Often worshiped by those Breton mages who emphasize their Elven blood.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#15)
	Varieties of Faith: The Orcs
By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Orcs acknowledge the existence of many other gods, but they worship only one:

Mauloch (Orc-Father, The Great Chief):

An aspect of Malacath, Orcs revere Mauloch as the First Orc, and live by the Code of Mauloch, which dictates such matters as honor and vengeance.



The Code of Mauloch

The Code is more often tacit than explicit, but includes the following:

— Respect for forging and blacksmithing.

— The traditional roles of a clan's chief and his wives.

— The tradition of selection of a new chief through challenge and combat.

— The custom that one who commits a crime must pay "Blood Price" to the victim (or victim's relatives).

— The requirement that insults to honor must be avenged.

— Recognition that to die in combat pleases Mauloch.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#16)
	Wyresses: The Name-Daughters
Attributed to Glargargil the Speaking Oak

In Elden time, Elven time, Jephre did come

A-naming of creatures where'er he did run

As all was chaotic, and names were unknown

His gift was a name for each beast, plant, and stone

Then all knew their places except Men and Mer

Who plundered and ravaged wherever they were

"I name you the Earth-Bones," Jephre decreed,

"Lords of the forest, rock, root, and seed.

This heritage nurture, henceforth be its guards

And designate worthies to act as its wards."

Thereafter did Wyrd Women watch o'er the Green,

From tundra to forest, from peak to ravine,

Reminding all creatures, be it tiger or worm

Of their name and their nature, their function and form.

Would-be corrupters who'd canker the Green

Shall face wyress warding wherever they're seen.

So tread woods with caution, respect Jephre's way

Lest Wyrd women watching abduct you away.
		

		Part of the Glenumbra Lore collection (#17)
	Schemes of the Reachmage
By Gabrielle Benele, Wizard

As the official Mages Guild representative to the Lion Guard's efforts to stop the Reachmage known only as Angof the Gravesinger, I have decided to record my findings and speculations in case anything untoward happens to me while I'm out in the field. Who knew that the work of the Mages Guild could be so dangerous or so exciting? Anyway, this is accurate and up to date as of the time that I write this. Anything that turns out to be proven false or revealed at a later date I'll have to deal with in a later volume. Unless I can devise a spell that automatically updates my writing—no, no, I need to focus on one thing at a time!

Angof has a number of associates helping him to complete his plans. I think he calls them "Minions." Let's review the ones I suspect to be working with this vile necromancer.

Faolchu, who seems to be associated with were-creatures and has launched an assault on Camlorn, appears to me to be following the orders of a more-powerful individual. I believe that individual to be Angof, but I have no proof of this connection as yet.

The Bloodthorn Cult obviously has ties to Angof. Whether he leads the cult or is simply a member I haven't yet determined, but I'm positive that the two are connected. The cultists scour the land for relics and items of power, and they seem to count a large number of necromancers as part of their order. I wouldn't be surprised if they had ties to some Daedric Prince or other. Molag Bal, if I had to hazard a guess. 

Daedra, too, appear to be arrows in Angof's quiver. He casts them out into the world as a farmer throws seeds into the wind. I'm sure there are more of Angof's minions hiding in plain sight, but anything else I put forth at this point would be beyond pure speculation. Instead, let me turn to what I have discovered about the Reachmage himself.

First, he seems to be poisoning the land in some way. The vile vines that grow wherever he has passed demonstrate how his foul magic pollutes the countryside. His very name—Gravesinger—speaks to his fascination and fluency with death magic. Death and decay are his domains, and he seeks power over life and death.

His followers consider him a strong and persuasive leader. Many of them would literally die to please him. Such devotion isn't healthy, and I find it more than a little scary that someone could have such an effect on people.

Angof seeks to cause as much chaos and mayhem as possible. Beyond that, I'm not sure of his ultimate motives. Has he come to Glenumbra to conquer us or destroy us? And in the end, does that distinction even matter? All I know is, we have to find a way to stop him. We have to!

Well, I'll have to pick this up again at a later date. Now I have to head out and meet up with the Lion Guard at their redoubt near Cath Bedraud. Let's see if I can apply the knowledge that I've gathered to the task at hand.
		

		Part of the None collection (#18)
	Guide: Gathering Materials
Regardless of your choice of craft, you cannot create something from nothing. Smiths, foresters, and runecrafters all must gather materials, in order to create useful and powerful weapons, armor, and potions.

While any crafting hall will sell some materials to you, and while these materials are often necessary for the art, they are never the only materials you will need to create something useful. This guide focuses on teaching the novice craftsman how to find those materials that are necessary for crafting, but not often sold.

Of course, craftsmen can also find these necessary materials without gathering, either by trading with other craftsmen, or by finding sacks of already-refined materials stolen from the great trading houses of Taminar. But these methods can be less dependable than simply going out and getting what you need directly.

The first step to obtaining materials in the wild is to identify the features that tend to accompany it in the world. If you see those features in your surroundings, search hard nearby, for there is a good chance (though by no means certain) that a skilled craftsman can find some useful materials about. 

Metals, Salts, and Ruins

Metals and salts are born from rock, and only then come to the surface as veins of ore. To that end, a smith would do well to search rocky cliffs and outcroppings for exposed ore to mine. Going underground, in caves and the like, is another option - though an often dangerous one.

Ancient Ayleid ruins can also be stripped, to supply materials that are otherwise impossible to find. Not just any block from any ruin will do, though: Only those that have ancient Ayleid metals running through them will do. These are mostly found in Ayleid Focii, the original use of which has been lost to us. Old structures that may have been built on top of, or with, Ayleid stone may also have a focus nearby.

Crystals, Gems, and Souls

Much like metals, crystals and gems will form deep within rock, and then rise to the surface in small quantities.  Cliffs, boulders, outcroppings, and caves are thus all good places for a crafter of runes to search for useful materials.

Runecrafters also harvest the souls of creatures summoned or reanimated by magic, to power their enchantments. Finding such creatures is dangerous work, but the souls a skilled runecrafter can gather from them are often worth the risk. 

Plants and Animals

Most foresters prefer to gather wood that has fallen naturally, and will never put axe to tree. They will often find suitable samples of wood near secondary growth, such as saplings or thickets. 

Such compunctions do not hold with harvesting from beasts, however: the skins, organs, and bones of natural creatures are often useful for creating leathers.

Those foresters that seek mushrooms will often do well to find larger trees that are in some stage of rot: fallen logs, rotted stumps, and even still-standing trees in their final years are all good candidates. Flowers can often be found near living (but less-useful) plants, often in a symbiotic relationship; where one plant blooms, others are sure to follow.
		

		Part of the None collection (#19)
	Guide: Researching and Learning
Before a craftsman can begin creating useful things, they must first learn the details of their planned creation. This is done through a two-part process: first, by researching examples of their craft to become inspired; second, by reading a scroll with detailed instructions on their intended creation.

Researching

In order to become inspired and be able to learn how to construct new things, one must first research examples of their craft.

Of course, this requires that one first obtain an example. Any durable item that one's craft focuses on would make a suitable example; for example, smiths and swords, foresters and bows, or runecrafters and staves. Less durable items, like potions and salves, will not suffice for this process. The item in question must also not be from one's own hand, for you will learn nothing new from researching your own work.

Once a suitable example of one's craft is obtained, the aspiring craftsman need only open their craft journal and begin breaking the item apart. Such an experiment will destroy the object in question, of course, but the inspiration the craftsman gains from the experience can be well worth it. The better-crafted the item was originally, the more a craftsman will learn from its deconstruction.

It bears repeating: You learn nothing from researching your own items. Mindlessly making and researching the same thing again and again brings only boredom, not knowledge.

Learning

Once one is inspired enough, the next step is to obtain the notes on creating the object in question. These notes are usually written on scrolls, and many master craftsmen will sell copies of their notes to aspiring apprentices and itinerant craftsmen alike. No craftsman's notes are complete, however, and no master will know how to create everything their craft specializes in.

It may behoove the more mobile craftsman to search out other sources for scrolls. Often they are traded among students of a craft, and available for sale that way. Sometimes, a scroll's diagrams or curious left-over scents entice creatures to carry them about as mementos. They may also be in treasure troves, the last remnant of some long-forgotten master's work.

Once one has a scroll that details how to construct the object of their choice, the process of learning may begin. Unlike bound books, such scrolls are often written on fragile paper, and will not survive the thorough study necessary to fully understand how to build the item in question. Thankfully, once a true craftsman has learned a recipe, he will remember it for the rest of his days.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#20)
	Medium Armor: Tannins and Leather
By Defessus Lector

Bardus,

Today's lesson is about the leathers and tannins used by clothiers when making medium armor. As you have noticed while hiding from the nightwatch in your father's armory, medium leathers come in many kinds: for example, brigantines are hard and studded, while running leathers are tough but flexible. These different styles are achieved by the use of different hides and tannins. 

Tannins are the "tempers" used by the crafter to balance hardness and resiliency in medium armor. A leather chestpiece can be treated to be as rigid as a board, able to turn an assassin's knife—but if it is too rigid, the wearer is unable to turn his or her body. Thus, armorers use tannins on leathers and fabrics to strike a balance between stiffness and flexibility.

What does this have to do with the look of the resulting armor set? If only you had asked that question at lessons rather than daydreaming about impressing the scullery maid with that wisp of a mustache. It has everything to do with it, as you'll see for yourself. Now get to work on curing those hides your father bought as samples—and don't let me see you making eyes at the scullery maid until you're done.
		

Failed at /books/21		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#22)
	Once
By Beredalmo the Signifier

Once, we were great. 

Once, our battlereeves were masters of warfare, and our sapiarchs were wise and learned. Once, we ruled all High Rock from the Eltheric Ocean to the mountains of Wrothgar, and the Nedes were our thralls and concubines. 

Once, Direnni Cygnus, the Swan of Tyrigel, discovered Balfiera and its Tower and claimed it for her own, decreeing that all of her clan who came after would bear her name. 

Once, the art of Alchemy was all but undefined, until Asliel Direnni compiled his "Compendious Almanac of Reagents," and was invited to join the first Psijics on Artaeum.

Once, before Raven Direnni and her "Rules of Eldritch Binding," all Enchanting was unique, and enchantments failed nineteen times out of twenty. 

Once, during the Alessian Reforms, Ryan Direnni stood up to the entire Empire. His Breton Legions, armed and commanded by Direnni Elves, controlled all the land as far east as Markarth and Elinhir. The Orc-hold of Orsinium has been sacked many times, but we Direnni sacked it first. 

Once, at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, Aiden Direnni's vastly outnumbered troops routed the entire Alessian Horde, then chased them back to Cyrodiil. 

Once, before Corvus Direnni codified the rules of Conjuration, every summoning of even a minor Daedra was an act to be feared and avoided. 

Once, Peregrine Direnni drove an entire Ra Gada flotilla back to Sentinel by merging her very will with the waves of the Iliac Bay. 

Once, in a single day, Pelladil Direnni built Blackrose Prison from the scattered rubble of Lilmothiit ruins by summoning an army of Stone Atronachs. 

Yes, we were great once. But no matter what our individual achievements, every Direnni since Cygnus has been eaten from within by failure. 

Because we cannot solve the mystery of the Zero Stone, and use it to open the Argent Aperture which it wards. 

At maturity, every Direnni of high blood is brought into the Tower, conducted to the Foundation Vault, and shown the Zero Stone. We are allowed to touch it—once—so as to feel the transcendent mystical power that courses through it, a power we have never been able to tap. And we are shown the Argent Aperture in the adjacent metallic wall, that door with its lock of thirteen slowly counter-rotating rings, a portal we have never been able to open. 

And we console ourselves that if we Direnni have never been able to siphon the Stone or unlock the Aperture, well then certainly, neither could anyone else. We return to the world above, and we do something spectacular—so we will not have to face our failure. 

But once, as our lives near their ends, each of us gathers together all our knowledge, the fruits of all our achievements, and once more makes that descent to the Foundation Vault. To try it. Just once. 

Most are found within a day or two, dead and horribly distorted. Some, like my darling Heron, live on though terribly disfigured, too brain-blasted to understand what has happened to them. 

Me? I keep to our chambers in the Tourmaline Steeple, caring for Heron by day, and translating Ayleid tomes in the library by night. And it's a good enough life, too. 

Though sometimes, when working on an ancient grimoire or librus magus I question whether the arcane writings of our long-lost cousins are not better left a mystery. 

But then I think, is not all knowledge useful for something? And I think, what might this knowledge be useful for? 

And I think I might take that long walk downstairs. 

Just once.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#23)
	Founding of the Spirit Wardens
by Janise Muric, Third Warden of the Faithful Circle

Chapter One: Durak's Early Years

Though Abbot Durak is our spiritual leader, he has never been comfortable with the title. Old Master Ugbak once said that relates to his upbringing in the ruins of Orsinium. Anyone can see that Durak is small for an Orc, and one could speculate that his brothers' bullying led him to pursue a mystical path, one unusual for Orcs.

As Ugbak tells it, Durak's story begins in Orsinium, where his lot was hard and lonely. Durak's life changed when he first heard whispers in the night—whispers from the Daedric Prince Azura. Azura said Durak would accomplish a great task: he would come to Stormhaven and found an order of worshipers in her name. These "Spirit Wardens" would prepare for a time of chaos, when Stormhaven's people would suffer from a madness of nightmares.

Durak knew better than to share these whispers with his brothers. He already faced ridicule for his study of magic and lack of physical prowess. Soon after, he left his home in Orsinium and struck out on the long journey to Stormhaven, carrying nothing more than his staff and the clothes on his back.

Durak found his way to Stormhaven, but he had no idea how he was to found this order of "spirit wardens" or where they would live. Soon he despaired. One night, as he took shelter beneath the Weeping Giant, the whispers came again. The silken voice of Azura spoke of a path hidden in the hills west of Moonlit Maw. At its top, Durak found an ancient abbey, abandoned and overgrown. This, he knew, would be the home of the spirit wardens—and so it became our temple to Azura.

Under Durak's leadership, we are prepared for Vaermina's plague of dreams. We were founded to protect Stormhaven from its nightmares, and we will do so to our dying breaths.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#24)
	The Knightly Orders of High Rock
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

The Breton passion for feudal hierarchy pervades every aspect of High Rock society, from the lowliest peasant farmer to the High King in Wayrest. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the curious phenomenon of the Breton knightly orders. 

Here in Hammerfell, we Redguards sensibly award equal citizenship to every man or woman who knows which end of the sword to grasp. Oh, we have our governing class, of course, as civilization must be ordered and maintained, but below this aristocracy there are few distinctions. 

Not so in High Rock, where everyone is aware of their degree of nobility, which is invariably traced back to those Breton families who led the region's liberation from the overlordship of the Direnni Elves. High Rock cultural history is founded on tales of the noble and chivalrous "Breton Knights" who flung off the yoke of their Elven masters. After these knights drove the Direnni back to Balfiera Island, they founded the knightly orders to carry on the tradition of nobles-in-arms, and to ensure that High Rock would have able and ready defenders in times of trouble. 

So the stories go, at least. Today, every petty kingdom and duchy in High Rock has its own knightly order, with traditions that supposedly date back to the glory days of the Breton Liberation. The Knights of the Dragon in Daggerfall, the Knights of the Flame in Alcaire, the Order of Saint Pelin in Evermore—the list goes on and on. 

And what, nowadays, do these knightly orders do to justify their gleaming greatswords and shining mail? If we look beyond the banners and pageantry, we find that the chivalric orders fulfill two main purposes in High Rock society. 

First, they provide an acceptably "noble" calling for the excess sons and daughters of the aristocracy. Over time, as trade has made High Rock prosperous, the profession of merchant has become an accepted alternative to feudal lordship for the children of the nobility, but frankly, not every baron's son has a head for numbers and negotiation. For these spare heirs, there's always a membership available in the local knightly order. 

Second, the bestowal of a knighthood on a lower-class man or woman is a convenient way to reward outstanding contributions to society (or to the elevating lord), and confers a measure of that nobility so prized in Breton society. Where the commoner is rewarded for achievements other than in conflict—and this is the case in the majority of knighthoods—the membership in the local knightly order is only nominal, and the new sir or dame is not expected to take up sword and shield. However, if their achievements were in the all-important realm of trade, the new "merchant knight" is expected to contribute heavily and regularly to the order's financial maintenance. 

So if you're visiting Wayrest or Evermore on a mission of diplomacy or trade, don't be surprised if the head of a shipping company is introduced as Sir Doric, or the owner of a string of hostels is called Dame Lizabette. You're simply meeting one of the fabled Breton Knights of High Rock.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#25)
	The Bretons: Mongrels or Paragons?
By Phrastus of Elinhir

That Men and Mer can interbreed has been known since the first humans began arriving on the shores of Tamriel in the middle of the Merethic Era. However, broad intermingling of Elves and humans only occurred in the far northwest of the continent, giving rise to the race of Men known as the Bretons. Given the history of conflict between humans and the children of Aldmeris elsewhere in Tamriel, how and why did this intermingling occur in High Rock? 

The answer lies in the peculiar (for Elves) culture of Clan Direnni, the once-dominant Mer of northwest Tamriel. In contrast to the Ayleids of Cyrodiil, who brutally enslaved any humans they came into contact with, the Direnni simply conquered their local Nedes and then ruled them as a caste of nobility. The aristocratic Elves established a system of feudal vassalage over their human subjects, with rights and privileges that included the "Perquisite of Coition" with any human they desired. Sex with attractive Nedes was considered casual recreation, and Direnni nobles competed to have stables of the most desirable human subjects. 

The inevitable Half-Elven offspring from these liaisons were not adopted into the families of their Direnni parents, being considered sub-Mer, but were nonetheless often given privileged positions among the subject Nedes. Over time, this led to the establishment of a recognized caste of mixed-blood humans, who were given the name "Bretons" (from the Ehlnofex "beratu," or "half"). The Breton caste was only allowed to marry humans, so over time their Elven blood became more diluted, and the Nedic appearance predominated. 

Though they wielded great power for a time in the First Era, even then the Elves of Clan Direnni were never numerous, and as their geographical hegemony expanded administration and rulership was increasingly handed off to the Breton caste. After defeating the invading Alessian Horde in 1E 482 Clan Direnni was scattered and effectively exhausted. As the Elves retreated to central High Rock, then finally Balfiera Isle, the Bretons stepped easily into their shoes, assuming the feudal hierarchy established by the Direnni and simply replacing them with their own noble families. 

The Breton nobles, who had been forced to differentiate themselves from the Direnni part of their heritage, justified their new ascension by distancing themselves from Elves and everything Elven—ironically so, as the Elven blood ran strongest in the older noble families. The Direnni were increasingly vilified by their former vassals, and the island clan became ever more insular and isolationist. However, they were still known as powerful magicians, and they were strong enough to repel an attempted Redguard invasion in 1E 907.

The Bretons continued redefining themselves, inventing a myth of a history of noble resistance to Direnni rule, and developing a thriving merchant class that began trading around the coasts of Tamriel. By the time the Empress Hestra and her legions arrived at Bangkorai Pass in 1E 1029, they were ready to join the Empire of Men and embrace the Eight Divines. Under the Remans, High Rock was possibly the most stable and prosperous province in the Second Empire. 

Which brings us back to the (deliberately provocative) question of our title: are the Bretons then mongrels, or paragons? The answer, of course, is both (though if you call a Breton a mongrel, he is liable to feed you an inch or two of steel). The passionate race of Bretons embodies the strengths of both Men and Mer—as well as their flaws.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#26)
	Sacred Rites of the Stonechewers
By Nellic Sterone

For several seasons I have been observing the Stonechewer Goblin tribe, recording their daily activities and becoming familiar with their customs and routines. Over time I have deliberately crept closer and closer to the limits of their tribal camp, occasionally showing myself briefly so the subjects would become used to my proximity. At one point a warrior out to relieve himself behind a tree stumbled upon my observation post, and when he grunted and drew his crude-but-serviceable short sword I thought my work had come to an untimely end. Luckily the tribal shaman was nearby, and he intervened on my behalf, speaking harshly to the warrior and knocking aside his sword. The shaman pointed at me and slowly rotated his hand near his head, which I assume is a Goblin gesture denoting acknowledgement of superior intellect. Who would have suspected these so-called primitives had such regard for scholarship?

After that there were no more incidents of hostility, and the Goblins tolerated my presence, so long as I kept a respectful distance from their females and offspring. Occasionally a warrior would bark at me, but I simply replied by making the hand-rotating "intelligence" gesture next to my head, and the warrior would shrug and go back to his business.

As so little is known about the religious practices of the Goblin race, I decided to make the shaman of the tribe my particular study. The symbol of his office was a bone rod, probably a femur, with a small skull affixed to the end—possibly an infant's. This skull was ornamented with an assortment of feathers, spines, and animal claws, and filled with something like nut-hulls, for it rattled loudly when shaken. The shaman would shake this holy symbol forcefully when summoning his congregation to sacred rituals, or when the females were not bringing him food or drink rapidly enough.

At particularly important rituals the shaman would touch they symbol to his heart, then his head, then point it to the sky and call out, "Muluk!" At first I found this confusing, given the similarity of "muluk" to the Goblin words "muulk," which they use when chastising their durzogs or children, or "mluku," the term for fecal matter. But gradually I learned to differentiate, and one day I realized that by crying "Muluk!" the shaman must be invoking the god of the Goblins. 

And then it struck me: "Muluk" is not really much different from "Mauloch." Could the god of the Goblins and the god of the Orcs be one and the same? 

This is the kind of discovery that could win me tenure at the College of Wayrest! I must get independent confirmation of this revelation. But how?
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#27)
	Orcs: The Vermin Among Us
by Absolon Sorick

They lair in holes. They breed in huge numbers, and smell of rotted meat. I speak not of skeevers, gentle reader, but of Orcs. The threat on the horizon, the unrelenting horde. "But Sorick," I hear you saying, "are they not our allies now?" It's good that you want to believe in the leadership of King Emeric. It's good that you want to believe in this Covenant that now binds us to the beastmen of Orsinium.

But in truth, your belief is foolish. Your trust in the king is misplaced. For these subhumans have a cruel and vicious cunning. Like a hunting wolf pack, the Orcs lie still in the tall grass. They wait for us to let down our guard. Even great men like His Majesty can be misled by this simple tactic. 

They now walk among us. They serve in the honored Lion Guard. They take work as sellswords, protecting our wealthiest merchants. They infiltrate our temples as bodyguards for holy men. Gentle reader, do you not see? Can't you see how every luxury we give these animals only encourages them? Every opportunity is just another opening in our armor for their rough-hewn blades to pierce!

With their unnatural strength, they take up work that should be borne by Breton shoulders. The thickness of their stinking hides gives them a defense that no Redguard man can stand against. In cities across Covenant lands, stories grow of Orcs defiling our women and siring unnatural half-breeds!

How long will you let this stand, reader? How long will you bend a knee to these filthy animals? I say, no more! Join with like-minded people in your village today, and rise up against these beasts. These scum. These … Orcs.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#28)
	Our Calling, Our Pledge
By Abbot Durak

Those new to our order often ask me, "What does it mean to be a Spirit Warden?" This confusion is understandable. Azura offers guidance, but not always in the ways we expect. She has spoken to me but twice in my lifetime, and then only in silken whispers, barely audible in the night.

The Dream Shard is Azura's gift, as is the Dreamless Potion we drink every night. Azura foresees a time when Vaermina, Mistress of Nightmares, will unleash a plague on our province: a plague of madness. Countless innocents will die unless we stop it.

The Dreamless Potion protects us from Vaermina's madness only so we may protect others: those afflicted souls driven mad by their dreams, and their victims. When the time of plague comes, we must stand against it. This is our calling from Azura … and our pledge.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#29)
	To Dream Beyond Dreams
By the Omen of a Hundred Prophecies

'Twas in Menevia, dear, green Menevia, there dwelt a young Breton of family and name. He had inherited a patrimony, and thus needed to do nothing, as others were paid to do for him. And so he sat at his mullioned window and gazed out the diamond panes at the colors of the countryside as they changed with the light. And he dreamed away the day, until the colors darkened and he betook himself to bed, where he slumbered and dreamed in truth.

Of what did he dream? He dreamed of his own land, but in colors more intense, more true, and more pure than in day. His Menevia of Dreams was more real than his Menevia of Waking, and he felt more alive when asleep than awake. Each day at his mullions, he looked and longed for a way to dream beyond dreams—a way to live in his Reverie-Menevia forever and forever.

"Reverie-Menevia," he said, and it was a prayer. "Reverie-Menevia. Reverie-Menevia." A thousand, thousand times he uttered this prayer, and it changed like a dream to " 'Ver'-Menevia, 'ver'-Menevia," and more and more it became less and less, until at last, "Vaermina," he said, and "Vaermina," and  "Vaermina" again.

And to him she came in Dream-Form, Vaermina Herself, and called him Supernal Dreamer, and First Nightcaller, and named him Omen of a Hundred Prophecies. And when he awoke, he yet did dream, and spoke as in a dream, and called other dreamers to him, and to Reverie-Menevia.

And soon you shall join him. The Nightcaller has dreamed it. One night you shall dream, and in your dream you will say the Name. And She will come.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#30)
	Tower of Adamant
By Hrerm House-builder, Bard's College, Solitude

There is nothing like the Direnni Tower anywhere in Skyrim, save for High Hrothgar itself. Unlike the great mountain, which is a thing of nature, the tower is a structure—but one not constructed by Men or Mer, if the legends speak true, but by the Aedra themselves.

It rises, stark and sheer, from the high center of Balfiera Island in the Iliac Bay, where it has stood since the dawn of time itself. Adamantine Tower, it is called, for the unknown, ageless material from which it is built, and Tower Zero, as the edifice that predates all other buildings on Mundus.

The Direnni High Elves have ruled Balfiera since the beginning of the First Era. In common parlance the tower bears their name, though they can claim only the construction of the more recent keep that clusters around the tower's base. (Who is responsible for delving the catacombs beneath the keep is a matter of debate with no definitive consensus.)

I have not consulted with the High Elves of Alinor (who has?), but the noble Croiden, Elden Antiquariat of the Direnni, deigned to answer a few questions. According to him, the tower was erected in the Dawn Era when the gods met to decide the fate of Mundus. At its apex, Auri-El, the great god of the Aldmeri, slew the trickster Lorkhan, impaled his heart on an arrow and launched it across the world. The heart merely laughed and lived on.

The Aedra then withdrew from the affairs of Mundus, leaving behind the tower for the Direnni to discover and take for their own. What secrets did they find there? What have they concealed to this day? Whatever the secrets may be, the Direnni didn't reveal them to this humble Nord architect. 

However, secrets there must be, for I took sight-and-angle measurements of the Direnni Tower from the eight points of the compass. According to my calculations, and given the known characteristics of all available materials, building an edifice of its proportions should not be possible.
		

		Part of the Stormhaven Lore collection (#31)
	Wayrest, Jewel of the Bay
(Cumberland Edition)

by Sathyr Longleat the Elder

Wayrest is one of the most glorious cities of western Tamriel—sparkling in her contemporary beauty, lustrous by her past. She is prized above all cities in High Rock. No other city has contributed so much to the culture of the Bretons. The spirits of her genius children continue to haunt the streets. You can see them in the gabled roofs, grand boulevards, and aromatic marketplaces. The people of Wayrest have an instinctive appreciation of their past, but are not obsessed by it, as the people of Daggerfall seem to be. One feels that one is in a modern city when one visits Wayrest, but there is a magic in the air that could only come from centuries of civilization.

It is difficult for historians to declare a certain date for the foundation of Wayrest. Where the Bjoulsae River feeds the Iliac Bay, a settlement of some variety has existed since at least 1E 800. The traders and fishermen of Wayrest were surrounded by hostile parties. The Orc capital Orsinium had grown like a weed to the north, and pirates and raiders crowded the islands to the west. There is no mystery to Wayrest's name. After what most travelers had to endure at the eastern end of the Iliac Bay, the little fishing village on the Bjoulsae was a welcome rest.

Nowhere in the much-vaunted censuses of the Skyrim Occupation is Wayrest mentioned. In the Annals of Daggerfall, King Joile's letter to Gaiden Shinji of 1E 948 contains the following reference: "The Orcs have been plaguing the Wayresters and impeding traffic to the heart of the land."

Wayrest only truly bloomed after the razing of Orsinium in 1E 980. Hard-working traders and merchants were instrumental in forming a trade alliance, thus reducing pirate activity on the bay. A successful mercantile family, the Gardners, built a walled palace in town and, over time, allowed banks and other businesses within its walls. A Gardner, Farangel, was proclaimed king when Wayrest was granted the right to call itself a kingdom in 1E 1100.

Although Wayrest was ruled by one family, the merchants continued to wield incredible power. Many economists have alleged that Wayrest's eternal wealth, despite her hardships, comes from this rare relationship between merchants and crown. The Gardner Dynasty was followed by the Cumberland Dynasty, but never has a king of Wayrest been deposed by revolution or assassination. Every king of Wayrest can trace his line back to a merchant prince of Wayrest. The merchants and king respect one another, and this relationship strengthens both.

Wayrest has survived blights, droughts, plagues, piracy, invasions, and war with good humor and practicality. In 1E 2702, the entire population of the city was forced to move into the walled estate of the Gardners as protection against pirates, raiders, and the Thrassian plague. A less resourceful community would have withered, but the Wayresters have survived to enrich Tamriel generation after generation.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#32)
	The Barrows of Westmark Moor
By Sathyr Longleat the Elder

The burial grounds of Westmark Moor, known to many as the Sanguine Barrows, have developed an unsavory reputation among locals over the course of their history. The nobles of Rivenspire have buried their departed beneath the gnarled trees here for as long as anyone alive today remembers, laying relatives to rest among centuries-old crypts that have borne witness to corruption, disputes, theft, and worse. 

Many prominent northern nobles inter their dead in Westmark's cold earth, including the Dorell, Tamrith, and Montclair families. Though some of these houses have produced Kings and Queens of Shornhelm, those deceased do not rest with their relatives here. Instead, they are transported to join the other monarchs of High Rock in the great cemetery of Cath Bedraud in Glenumbra, per long-standing tradition.

Feuds between the houses over the titles to gravesites in the Sanguine Barrows are common. One incident in Mid Year of 2E 551 earned the burial grounds their unfortunate common name. As I recall, it so happened that the Tamrith and Montclair houses both suffered the loss of a family member on the same day. The houses' claims in the barrows bordered one another and had been a source of strife between them for many years. When both funeral processions arrived one morning on the same hill in front of the same gravesite (a highly desirable one with a view of the river), conflict was inevitable.

The nobles quarreled for hours and sent servants back and forth for documents, titles, and maps with official claims laid out, but neither house could be convinced to step down. As sunset approached, patience was in short supply. The Montclairs and the Tamriths each blame the other, unsurprisingly, for hurling the insult that provoked the houses into drawing steel, and the Bloody Funeral (as it came to be called) that ensued left a black mark on each house's legacy in the eyes of Rivenspire's people.

Looting and desecration are likewise common among the Sanguine Barrows. Though the responsibility of patrolling them belongs to the constabulary of Hoarfrost Downs, the lure of riches is sometimes enough to turn a protector into a criminal, or at least enough to turn his head and allow entry to the tombs. More than once, a King or Queen of Shornhelm has ordered a hanging to set an example against such behavior. 

Despite these harsh consequences, a new defacement or theft still seems to follow nearly every noble burial. In fact, it has only been a few years since the Tamriths were scandalized when an entire crypt was found empty one morning of everything—bodies and all. The thieves were never found, and as to why they'd take the bodies with their loot, well, we'd all prefer not to think of it.

The Sanguine Barrows have seen more than their share of villainy and conflict throughout the years, and earned their name many times over. I sincerely hope that no more tales of violence or robbery shall need to be added to this record, and that the nobles still buried there may rest peacefully for ages to come.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#33)
	The Story of Princess Eselde
[This bit of propaganda was produced for House Tamrith and distributed while Countess Eselde was in the south, studying with the Order of Arkay.]

Upon a time, in the realm of Cutcap, there was a mighty king named Rulthrub who ruled nobly and long. After many years King Rulthrub felt himself getting old, and started to think about what would happen to his realm after he was gone. Now this king was blessed with two sons, which normally would be a happy thing for an aging monarch, but in this case it was a problem. For the younger son who had been born of his queen, Prince Pigeon, was weak-willed and indifferent. In contrast the elder son, Prince Lancer, was bold and self-assured, and though his mother was of House Rithmat, the noblest in Cutcap, still Prince Lancer had undeniably been born out of wedlock.

Now King Rulthrub was a wise king, and did not try to conceal that he favored his elder son, Prince Lancer, as he was clearly the prince most fit to rule. But nonetheless when the old king finally went to Aetherius, some people felt that the milksop Prince Pigeon should take the throne. I don't know whether these people were merely misguided, or had some other reason why they thought the rulership of Cutcap should be undermined. Fortunately wiser heads prevailed and Prince Lancer was elected King of Cutcap by the Council of Nobles.

Shortly after Lancer's accession to the throne he met a demoiselle named Lady Vespire at a ball and fell in love. The lovely and clever Vespire was a daughter of House Rithmat, and after a brief courtship King Lancer told his Council of Nobles that she would be his queen. However, Count Pigeon (the former prince) objected that this would not be proper as King Lancer's mother had been a Rithmat, and by the Law of Consanguinity the Lady Vespire was too close a relation for marriage. On this the rest of the council agreed, and King Lancer was persuaded to set the young lady aside. Upon hearing this news, Lady Vespire disappeared, said to have been carried off into the forests by a coterie of nixads, and though the king sent out search parties, his lost love was never found.

In due course the council recommended, for the sake of the dynasty, that King Lancer marry the young and healthy Lady Ignort of House Dull, and this, heartbroken, he agreed to. Lancer and Ignort were married, and King Lancer settled down to do his kingly duty by his new queen. Within a few months it was announced that Queen Ignort had borne King Lancer a child. A Naming-Day festival was declared for the infant princess, and everyone important in the realm was invited.

On the day of the celebration all the goodly and great of Cutcap came and laid presents at the foot of the cradle of Princess Arayelle, for thus she had been named. But at the end of the line came someone no one recognized: a dire Wyrd-Hag, hooded and cloaked, and bearing a darksome flower. Now, no Wyrd-Hags had been seen in Cutcap since the Year of Sun's-Death, but all feared her and none dared bar her passage. 

The Wyrd-Hag advanced to the princess' cradle, and when she came to its foot she threw back her hood and cried, "Behold, King Lancer! It is I, Lady Vespire, now a Wyress of the Wyrd!" The gaily-clad crowd fell back in horror, for the formerly pretty Lady Vespire now sported a large nose disfigured by unsightly warts. "By some oversight you failed to invite me to your daughter's Naming Day, but I have come nonetheless. And look—I have brought the infant princess a present!"

"What present is this?" said King Lancer, all a-tremble. "A darksome flower? I like not its look!"

"That's no surprise, Your Majesty," said the Wyrd-Hag mockingly, "for this is a Forsaken Rose, a blossom no one wants! I know what that is like, King Lancer—and so, by my curse, shall your daughter!" The horrible Hag then dropped the misshapen bloom upon the baby and disappeared in a flash of fire and a cloud of evil-smelling smoke. 

So it came to pass: Princess Arayelle grew up beautiful as a rose, but cross-grained and petulant. But she was nonetheless a princess of the north, so when King Emetick of the South came looking for a bride, their troth was quickly plighted. 

But Count Pigeon had long made a habit of visiting the South, and was a boon companion of King Emetick. And he pointed out to the King of the South that Arayelle was cross-grained and petulant, and he might make a stronger match by marrying the Princess of Watchtower. In time Emetick agreed. He broke his match with Arayelle and promised himself to the Princess of Watchtower. 

King Lancer, however, did not take this lightly, and swore he would go to war upon the oath-breaking King of the South. And he made lawful war upon King Emetick, but at the Battle of the Tor, Lancer was betrayed by one of his own generals. King Lancer was slain, his crown and Princess Arayelle both disappeared, and ever since the Throne of Cutcap has stood empty. 

But some say that when King Lancer was born a twin sister likewise saw the light of the world, but was spirited away by a Wyrd-Hag to be raised in the forests. And this child, a daughter of both Rulthrub and Rithmat, herself bore a daughter who was brought back to her maternal family. And this daughter was named Countess Eselde. 

And if the truth were told, all would know that her real title should be Princess Eselde. And she, and no other, is the rightful heir to the Throne of Cutcup. However, that is a tale for her people to tell.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#34)
	Bloodfiends of Rivenspire
By Nalana, Advisor to House Tamrith

I have been tasked with learning everything that I can about the bloodfiends that have been appearing throughout Rivenspire of late. These creatures appear to be exactly the same as other bloodfiends we have examined in the past. But for all their similarities, they have one telling and significant difference—they appear at the beginning of the vampiric cycle instead of at the end. 

Instead of appearing at the end of an otherwise long and grueling vampiric gestation period, this process changes ordinary citizens into feral monsters in a frighteningly short amount of time. It's almost like a fevered blood affliction that burns through individuals at an alarming rate. While not everyone who comes in contact with the catalyst becomes afflicted, those who do either turn into a vampire (rarely) or quickly spiral into the frenzied madness that characterizes all bloodfiends (the most likely outcome).

My investigations suggest that these bloodfiends have a connection to the Argonian Reezal-Jul and Lady Lleraya Montclair. The court magician of House Montclair and the daughter of Baron Wylon Montclair have been leading Montclair troops across Rivenspire—troops that include vampires. There have been rumors of a blood-curse, some sort of foul magic that allows Reezal-Jul and Lleraya to turn ordinary citizens into bloodfiends with nothing but a glance, a wave of a hand, and a few muttered words. Eyewitness reports have been confused, at best, and these claims have yet to be fully verified. 

As with other bloodfiends dealt with in the past, the Rivenspire bloodfiends are vampires that have gone insane. Their minds have degraded beyond recovery, and they attack anything that moves with no regard for their own wellbeing. They are feral, violent creatures driven by their carnal lust for bones and blood. This strain of the blood-curse runs its course at an alarmingly rapid pace. I have documented instances of citizens being afflicted and turning feral in mere moments. How Reezal-Jul and Lleraya came by this terrible power is unknown. What is known is that they seem to be Oblivion-bent on helping Baron Montclair conquer the entirety of Rivenspire.

This unusual blood-curse notwithstanding, the bloodfiends operate as all others of their ilk. These wild, ferocious savages can and often do pass their affliction on to their victims. Anyone wounded or killed by a Rivenspire bloodfiend has a significant chance of becoming a bloodfiend, and in a remarkably short period of time. 

Until I can gather more information, I can only recommend one course of action concerning the bloodfiends of Rivenspire—they must be destroyed.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#35)
	The Remnant of Light
Being an Ayleid Tract, Translated by Beredalmo the Signifier

"In that (minute or eon) of blood, Anumaril brought (Lord) Filestis the Remnant of Light ('autaracu alata'), and begged him to take it to the cold sunset limit ('fal sorn glathe') of Tamriel. Noble Filestis took the Remnant and, with his (clan or livestock), left Kwyrothil (?) and traveled far. He kept the sunset always in his leftmost eye. Filestis was (followed or pursued) by the Ayleid Emigrants. 

"They came to a Land of Cold Rocks and swam ashore (beached? berthed?). The rocks were cold/hard, but the Remnant of Light made all (fertile or wriggling). Many of the Emigrants fell ill, but the Light caused the (rocks or mountains) to bloom food-stone ('culle-anda'), which was tongue-sweet and made healing. 

"Filestis desired the Remnant of Light to (smile, glow, warm) all of the Cold Rocks, so the Emigrants, now strong-with-radiance, (raised or razed) a (mountain or pinnacle) to affix it upon. This was (collated?) in eight-hundred-eighty (minutes or eons). Then did all the Cold Rocks bloom food-stone, and every Emigrant was (healthy, impregnated, sharpened).

"After a long time (months-wasted-lying), noble Filestis was (eaten) by Death, and in afterness the Emigrants each cried a blue lake. But his helpmeet took him to the (mountain or pinnacle), where was the Remnant of Light. Then Filestis was strong-with-radiance, and Danced for eight more choruses."
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#36)
	The Horse-Folk of Silverhoof
By Doctor Nabeth al-Gilane, Khefrem Academy of Yokudan Heritage

I scoffed, of course, when I heard the rumors. A lost colony of Redguards on the northern coast of High Rock? Patently absurd. But the rumors were so persistent, so consistent, that eventually I was moved to take a sabbatical from my pedagogic duties at the Academy and travel north to see for myself. 

And behold, by the tears of Morwha, it was so! All of the scholarly details will be found in my forthcoming paper "Sevenfold Truths of the Tribe of the Herd-Mother," but I shall summarize the main points here, as I feel this tale is too wondrous to wait upon the slow march of scholarship. 

On the northwest coast of the High Rock region of Rivenspire, some leagues west of the city of Shornhelm, is a pastoral basin known as the Vale of Silverhoof. Abiding there, as they have for the past three thousand years, is a tribe of Redguards who go by the simple name of the Horsemen. 

How did they get there, and when, and why? Unfortunately the Horsemen have no written records, but their oral traditions are strong, and I have recorded those that have been passed down from one generation to the next. The elders of the tribe were generous with their time, particularly two named Muzar and Yalaida, and from their tales I have been able to piece together the following tentative history. 

The Horsemen originally came from Yokuda, of this there can be no doubt. Though they have become unavoidably "Bretonized" over the centuries by contact with the Nedic folk who surround them, they retain a number of Yokudan words in daily speech, all spoken with that drawl in the vowels we associate with the steppes of old Akos Kasaz. A few examples will suffice from their riding terminology: to tell a horse to turn left, the Horsemen say "Netu;" to turn right, "Netu Hu;" and to halt, they say "Selim." Of course, "netu" is Old Yokudan for "turn," while "anselim" means to stop or to cease. 

So the Horsemen are of Yokudan descent, most probably from the herding clans of northern Akos Kasaz. The elders of the tribe maintain detailed oral accounts of their genealogy, and from the number of generations they record, it is possible to date their arrival on the shores of Tamriel to the early sixth century of the First Era. This was a period of upheaval in High Rock, when the Direnni Hegemony was in its death throes and the Breton kingdoms were just establishing themselves, a time when a colony of determined settlers could find a niche and establish itself before it could be driven out or absorbed by the indigenes. And according to the tales I heard from Muzar and Yalaida, this is exactly what happened in the Vale of Silverhoof, nearly two centuries before the Ra Gada came to Hammerfell. 

Why the Horsemen came to this land is harder to determine, for on that subject their tales veer into the legendary or even mythical. Here I must speak about the tribe's unorthodox religious beliefs, for they are central to their traditions and identity. For the Horsemen do not worship any of the Old Yokudan gods as we know them, instead venerating a sort of divine animist spirit they call the Herd Mother. This equine entity acts as the tribe's guiding and protective deity; young Horsemen must commune with her on a vision journey they must partake by themselves that acts as a rite of passage to adulthood (similar to our own tradition of Walkabout). This "Herd Mother" is otherwise unknown to modern scholarship, but of course the vast majority of our cultural records were lost in the cataclysm that swallowed the Old Isles. 

The Horsemen's tradition is that the tribe left lost Yokuda in order to preserve their worship of this Herd Mother, which was somehow endangered in the Old Isles. Their stories describe the journey from Akos Kasaz in a flotilla of "swimming horse-ships" given them by the Herd Mother, in which they "crossed seventeen seas" before reaching Tamriel. We may discount this tale as somewhat fanciful, but the Horsemen claim to have brought their eponymous mounts with them from the Isles, and this I do not doubt. For to the eye of this connoisseur of horseflesh, the steeds of the Horsemen are unmistakably identical to that breed we call the Yokudan Charger, and could have come directly from the Aswala Stables in the Alik'r.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#37)
	Dire Legends of the Doomcrag
By Nalana, Advisor to House Tamrith

In the distant past, the dark and foreboding pinnacle of stone known as the Doomcrag was a place of learning and worship for the Ayleid people. But in recent memory, the place has been known as a haunted peak beyond a treacherous pass of fog and shadow.

Due to the current interest in the often ignored location, Countess Tamrith has asked me to chronicle a few of the legends concerning this forbidden place.

* * *

One dark tale concerns the hero of House Dorell, Brianna the Bold, who traveled to the Shrouded Pass to chase down the bandit lord, Red Rob. Brianna and her troop of knights chased Red Rob all along the northern shore, intent on capturing him and bringing him to justice for his many crimes—including his most recent exploit, the pillaging of a Dorell cargo ship. Unfortunately for Red Rob, the House Baron of the period's daughter was traveling on the ship when Red Rob and his cohorts attacked it. For injuries and insults, she demanded the head of the brigand and dispatched Brianna the Bold to hunt him down.

By the time Brianna reached the entrance to the Shrouded Pass, all of her knights had been killed or wounded. She was on her own. Luckily for her, Red Rob had not fared any better. He was alone when he plunged into the dense fog to avoid her. Not to be deterred, Brianna was true to her name and boldly charged in after him. It was the last time either Brianna or Red Rob were ever seen again.

But locals claim that on clear, cold nights, when a thin, red mist decorates the jutting shard of rock, you can hear the clash of steel on steel as Brianna and Red Rob continue their epic struggle into eternity.

* * *

Another popular, if somewhat disturbing, legend concerning the Doomcrag tells the tale of the spurned Ayleid lover who pines away at the very apex of the mountain. Rejected by a handsome butler in the service of a noble house, the spurned lover climbed to the top of the Doomcrag and refused to come down. Her friends and family tried everything to cheer her up and make her leave the tower. Distraught and sick at heart, she ignored every plea and word of comfort. And when her pain became unbearable, she leaped from the Doomcrag and crashed into the sea far below.

That, however, was not the end of her sad story, People believe that to this very day, handsome travelers who wander too close to the Doomcrag risk attracting the attention of the spurned Ayleid. They say that her restless spirit swoops down and—pardon the wordplay—spirits away the hapless traveler, carrying him to the top of the mountain to keep him as a pet and plaything. Ultimately, however, even the most-patient captive does something to reject and spurn the Ayleid spirit. On lonely nights, or so the story goes, you can hear the intermingled screams as the Ayleid spirit once again hurls herself into the sea, carrying her latest lover with her to a watery grave.

* * *

But perhaps the most common tale told about the Doomcrag describes the Death That Walks. This particular legend is more a cautionary tale than a scary story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It says that any who attempt to climb the Shrouded Pass inevitably climb to their deaths. With every step, a year of life is lost. Depending on your age and relative level of health, death might overtake you after only a few steps up into the dense fog. Or, if you're particularly lucky, you might ascend all the way to the very top—into the rumored relic chamber—before the Death That Walks catches up with you.

Whichever the case, every step brings with it a measure of pain and weakness as you march to your inevitable demise. This legend, more than any other, has kept the Doomcrag shrouded in mystery, for few have been brave enough to test the veracity of this story.

Reveiwing my notes, I can see why Countess Tamrith was frightened of the Doomcrag when she was a young girl. If truth be told, even at my advanced age, these legends frighten me.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#38)
	House Tamrith: A Recent History
For the royal eyes of the High King Emeric only! (He so loves it when I start these reports this way.)

House Tamrith of Rivenspire has holdings primarily in the western half of that region, with numerous business interests that include agriculture, mercantiles, and commerce. Indeed, it was their thriving trade with the lands to the south that eventually led to strong ties with Stormhaven and the city of Wayrest.

In many ways, the rivalry that marks the interplay of the three most prominent noble houses of Rivenspire (Tamrith, Dorell, and Montclair) dates back to the late period of the First Era, as each house established its reputation and its fortune and helped the region prosper. Of the three, Tamrith has the strongest tradition of piety and religious commitment, and the house has often called upon Arkay as its personal and most favored deity.

As the High King is well aware, a good portion of his youth was spent in the company of two of Rivenspire's nobles—Baron Esmark Tamrith and Count Verandis Ravenwatch. And so it was with a heavy heart that the military might of Wayrest and its allies had to be turned against Rivenspire more than a decade ago. At the time, King Ranser of Shornhelm declared war upon Wayrest and forced his nobles to join him in his losing effort. Whatever their true feelings toward Wayrest, the noble houses of Rivenspire obeyed the call of their king and fielded troops against the High King.

In short order, House Tamrith withdrew its support of King Ranser and petitioned for peace. House Dorell was quick to follow suit. Only House Ravenwatch, a relatively small concern compared to the other noble houses of Rivenspire, never took up arms. They remained neutral throughout the year-long conflict. House Montclair, meanwhile, supported King Ranser almost to the bitter end. They finally surrendered to the Wayrest alliance just before the battle that pushed Ranser's remaining forces back to the place now known as Traitor's Tor.

In the aftermath of the conflict, Baron Tamrith emerged as a powerful force for peace and cooperation. It was his idea to form a ruling triumvirate to govern the region in the High King's name, and the leaders of all three noble houses pledged their loyalty to High King Emeric. The High King approved of the triumvirate, but also promised to select a new king of Shornhelm at the first opportunity. (This one reminds the High King that this promise has yet to be fulfilled.)

Baron Esmark Tamrith married the daughter of House Elde, Janece, thus combining their fortunes and creating an even stronger political entity. The couple was blessed with two daughters, the pragmatic and thoughtful Eselde, and the strong and somewhat wilder Janeve. Four years ago, Eselde left Rivenspire to broaden her education and religious studies in Stormhaven, where she was a guest of the High King's court for the majority of that time. During the same period, young Janeve (against her father's and sister's wishes) joined the Shornhelm Guard.

Eselde excelled in her studies, taking a particular interest in history, politics, diplomatic studies, and theology. She demonstrated a deep conviction in the teachings of Arkay and the Way of the Light, while also surpassing her contemporaries as a healer and champion of riddle contests. It was clear that she fully intended to prepare herself to eventually take on the mantle of leader of House Tamrith.

Janeve likewise surpassed expectations. She quickly demonstrated amazing combat prowess, military strategy, and an ability to lead others in battle. She earned a number of rapid promotions, eventually becoming a Captain of the Guard. In addition to her role in the Shornhelm military, she also headed up the personal troops of House Tamrith. (For the record, in times of war or other emergencies, it is not uncommon for house troops to join with the city guard to form a single fighting force to defend the region.) If Janeve has a fault, it is her quick temper and love—some might say need—of constant action.

It is with sad tidings that I report of the death of Baron Esmark Tamrith. He passed away just a few short months ago of natural causes. Eselde immediately left Stormhaven to return to Rivenspire and take up the mantle of house leader. Now, as Countess Eselde, she has taken her father's place as part of the ruling triumvirate of Rivenspire. So far, she has been performing admirably in the role, despite the constant disagreements with Baron Dorell. How she will interact with Baron Montclair has yet to be demonstrated, as the Baron has been absent from court these past few months, tending to the needs of his ailing wife.

Barring unforeseen circumstances, I see a bright future ahead for the newly appointed Countess of House Tamrith.

For the High King, Chancellor Regina Troivois, the Department of Interior Affairs
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#39)
	Shornhelm, Crown City of the North
By Lord Wylon, 39th Baron Montclair

The Breton people of the Markwasten Moor and Shornhelm heights have a long and storied history, with much to be proud of: the Trammeling of the Giants in the time of legends; the Purge of the Wyrd-Hags in the Year of Sun's-Death (which restored Magnus to the skies of the Mundus); and the Charge of the Montclair Knights (often erroneously referred to as the Charge of the Shornhelm Knights) at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors. 

Through all this tumultuous history, the people of Rivenspire are fortunate to have been ably led, through times of terror and triumph, by the noble lords of the House of Montclair. 

It is true that the Barons of House Montclair have not always been selected by fate to also reign as King of Shornhelm. But the Montclairs count humility among their many virtues, and have often been willing to defer to pretenders with weaker claims to royalty in the interest of peace. That this humility has sometimes been tragically over-indulged was sadly proven in the case of my father—Phylgeon, 38th Baron Montclair. 

As all students of Breton history know, the greatest post-Reman monarch of Shornhelm was King Hurlburt, who led our army at the Battle of Granden Tor and ruled the North from 2E 522 until his death in 546. Hurlburt was of House Branquette, 21st Count of the Name, and had taken as his queen Countess Iphilia of Montclair. When King Hurlburt died his legitimate son, Prince Phylgeon, was only fourteen years of age, and though his inheritance was championed by House Montclair, Houses Branquette and Tamrith supported his elder half-brother, Prince Ranser, who had been born out of wedlock to a poor Tamrith cousin. (House Dorell, typically aloof, declined to endorse either candidate.) 

What is less well known is the behind-the-scenes maneuvering that led to Ranser being crowned King of Shornhelm rather than Phylgeon. The advisors of the young Baron Montclair (his mother had predeceased King Hurlbut by a mere two years) contended that he, as the legitimate son, was the proper heir to the throne—a claim further buttressed by language in a codicil to the famous "Bretonnick Natalitie" that declared "Howse Mount Clayre" the royal house of Shornhelm. The Council of the North met to consider the various claimants, but during their deliberations the Montclair advisors found that the Bretonnick codicil had gone missing, while Prince Ranser brought forth a suspiciously long-lost Direnni decree that named House Branquette their "Breton Royal Delegates" in Rivenspire. 

The vote of the Council was a narrow victory for Prince Ranser, thereafter King Ranser of Shornhelm. Some of Prince Phylgeon's advisors urged him to fight for the crown, but the young prince declined, preferring to become simply the Baron of Montclair. 

Oh, fateful humility! We all know where Phylgeon's deference led—to the tragic events of 566 and the insurrection against the First Daggerfall Covenant in what is known (to our shame) as Ranser's War. According to the standard histories, all the noble houses—Montclair, Tamrith, even Dorell—answered King Ranser's call to muster and marched behind his banner in his fatal war against High King Emeric and the South. What is not generally known is that Count Phylgeon of Montclair was uncertain of the rightness of Ranser's cause, and offered to both Kings Ranser and Emeric to serve as a peace envoy between the two sides. High King Emeric's reply has been lost to history, but Ranser's angry refusal is well known. Once again my father deferred to his elder half-brother, and the Montclair Knights joined Ranser's doomed army. 

In the immediate aftermath of King Ranser's fall, Rivenspire fell into chaos. The Crown of Shornhelm went missing during the Battle of Traitor's Tor, and the fateful "Direnni decree" that elevated Ranser to the throne has likewise not been seen since. The death of Ranser was the end of the line of House Branquette, and since then there has been no King of Shornhelm, Rivenspire having been jointly ruled by the triumvirate Council of the North. That body has tried, with the best of intentions, to keep peace and order in the northern counties, but nobody, if they were speaking honestly, would say the Council's efforts have sufficed. Shornhelm—and the North—need a King. 

And why shouldn't they have one? If I may speak frankly, setting aside, however regretfully, the traditional Montclair mantle of humility, then I must confess that I, Baron Wylon of Montclair, am certainly the legitimate heir to the throne of Shornhelm. My grandfather was King Hurlburt, and I descend from him in the direct and legitimate line of succession, a claim no one else in the North can make. (That also makes me the sole living heir to the domain of the Branquettes, much of which was unfairly parceled out to the Tamriths and Dorells, but no—humility, always humility!) 

Furthermore, at this critical juncture I am fortunate to be able to announce that the long-missing Bretonnick Codicil has been found by the Montclair house historian, the operative clause of which I shall quote here: 

"… seeing all in order then in Sharn Helm and its Lands Contyguous, the most royale and high … (unintelligible) … appointeth in Perpetuitie sayde Howse Mount Clayre in rulership over … (unintelligible) … and Sharn Helm. So mote it bee."

People of Rivenspire, Baron Wylon of Montclair is prepared to do his duty.
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#40)
	Northpoint: An Assessment
This report on the city of Northpoint and its primary noble house, Dorell, was ordered directly by His Majesty High King Emeric and has been painstakingly researched. I, Chancellor Regina Troivois of the Department of Interior Affairs, personally oversaw this effort and verify the accuracy of the information contained herein.

First, some history for context. Captain Yric Flowdys, an enterprising Breton trader operating the summer route of shipping from Daggerfall to Solitude, established Northpoint during the 9th century of the First Era. Though the shores here do not form an ideal harbor, Yric knew the deep waters approaching them could easily accommodate large vessels, and that the location along the trade route made for a perfect way station where traders could resupply, make repairs, or shelter through storms. He constructed the first docks at Northpoint, the best anchorage, and named the port after it.

Soon after building the docks, Captain Flowdys oversaw the addition of a small walled keep and warehouse in the heights of Dore Elard, to the east of the growing port-of-call. Before long, the town bustled with activity, and Flowdys, realizing the success of his venture, took the name of the mountain as his new family name. He and his relatives continued to grow their maritime endeavors, as well as develop and invest in the port and surrounding lands, eventually leasing plots to farmers and establishing new sources of income. 

For most of the First Era, the family exemplified the type of active, entrepreneurial merchant princes that brought great prosperity to High Rock. In 1E 1029, the Dorells were granted a barony when the Empress Hestra joined High Rock to the First Empire. The fortunes of House Dorell, and of Northpoint, have waxed and waned with the flow of the northwest coastal trade ever since.

In the 24th century the Dorells, having continued their rise in wealth and power, held the monarchy of Shornhelm for several generations. This distinction has colored the family's image of itself through subsequent centuries, and the Dorells regard themselves among Rivenspire's true elite even today. It also gave them a taste for political intrigue which, combined with their already-ambitious spirit, has made the house impossible to ignore. The current Baron of the House, Alard, wields significant power as one of the triumvirate of nobles who have ruled Rivenspire since the fall of Ranser. Along with the leaders of House Montclair and House Tamrith, Alard Dorell has pledged himself to the High King and hopes to one day earn the right to rule as the sole King of Shornhelm.

In recent times, House Dorell excels as a maritime and mercantile power. They maintain a mansion in Shornhelm for the Baron and Baroness, keeping the house closely involved in the happenings of the court. The estate in Northpoint is left to other relatives, though oversight of its lands remains integral to the family's operations. At present the young but very capable Lord Ellic, son of Baron Alard, manages the family's holdings around Northpoint when his father is at court and serving on the triumverate.

The Dorells are militaristic and politically savvy, and their mercantile traditions have forged a level of wealth rarely seen in Rivenspire circles. House Dorell has generated extensive ties with merchants in Solitude. This, they are quick to point out, has nothing to do with the sword rattling of politics. To Dorell, this is simply good business.

From my study of the three noble houses of Rivenspire that form the ruling triumvirate, I recommend that you place little trust in House Montclair, and to be cautious in any interaction with them—their true loyalties are only to their own aspirations. House Dorell, on the other hand, while also ambitious, seems to possess a degree of honor and a love of country rarely exhibited by the Montclairs (who seem to be overly proud of their heritage to Ranser). House Tamrith, meanwhile, has always been loyal and a friend to Wayrest. However, the Countess is relatively new to her role as house leader and may not be ready to assume any greater responsibilities
		

		Part of the Rivenspire Lore collection (#41)
	House Ravenwatch Proclamation
To those who seek to understand:

One would surmise that such an elusive and ancient noble house would be averse to publishing its goals in such an accessible manner. However, with the advent of strife upon our homes and allies, I thought it best to clarify our standing for the small-minded.

The first and foremost goal of House Ravenwatch is the destruction of the ancient evil which lies within Rivenspire. It is known by many names: Abagandra, Loradabal, and in contemporary times, the Lightless Remnant. Countless generations of scholars have sought to understand this artifact. There is no understanding to be had—it is a blight upon Mundus and must be cast out.

Secondly, House Ravenwatch seeks to foil the plans of those who wish to make use of the power of the Lightless Remnant. Do not be deceived by Baron Montclair's rhetoric and so-called patriotic zeal. He has succumbed to the power of the Remnant and seeks to destroy the beautiful land of Rivenspire. We know this because we were with him when the power possessed him.

We prefer the shadows. We prefer to let others lead. But these are desperate times. They call for desperate measures. Know that no matter what Rivenspire must face, you will not face it alone. House Ravenwatch will be by your side. House Ravenwatch stands with Emeric and the good people of Rivenspire.

Verandis, Count of House Ravenwatch
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#42)
	The Legend of Fallen Grotto
Long ago, a man with seven sons and seven daughters lived in Bangkorai. Their home was in a deep and twisted cave at the edge of the woods.

The surrounding forest was filled with all manner of creatures: bears, wolves, badgers, and deer. Though his family was large, they never knew hunger, for the animals were plentiful and easy prey.

"We must give thanks for Hircine's blessing," said the man. 

And the man prayed to Hircine, building within his home a shrine to the God of the Hunt. He painted the walls of the cave with pigments he made by combining animal fat with the earth. From the deer his children slew, the man took antlers to make an altar, and his wife braided hides into leather rugs to cover the dirt floor.

When the shrine was complete, the man and his family lit tallow candles and roasted an ox, pouring its blood onto the altar as they chanted prayers.

Suddenly, they heard a laugh, and before them stood Hircine himself, drawn by the death cry of the ox and the scent of its roasting flesh.

"You've done well!" Hircine cried, striding forward. He was clad in layers of animal hide, though his feet were bare.

"I am your faithful servant," said the man, groveling before his god.

"To prove your faith," said Hircine, "send forth your seven sons and seven daughters. I will hunt them from dawn until dusk and from dusk until dawn, until I am sated."

The man recoiled in horror. "I cannot do that!" he said. "You may take anything, but do not take my children from me!"

Eyes narrowing, Hircine raised one hand toward the cave's ceiling. Then he pointed to the ground with the other. Hircine screamed, and the walls collapsed inward, destroying the shrine and the man's home.

As dust curled upward like the smoke from an offering, sixteen forest trolls lumbered uncertainly from the debris, staggering from the grotto to the woods.

 "You were not worthy of becoming beasts," Hircine remarked coolly, "but I shall hunt you anyway."
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#43)
	Living with Lycanthropy
Throughout the ages, whenever one heard the word "werewolf," it was a cry of fear and revulsion. This need not be the case any longer. We shall prove to Tamriel that it is indeed possible to live a productive, peaceful life while afflicted with Sanies Lupinus.

Our Rule: Resist the Urge to Commit Violence

By withdrawing from society, one can learn how to apply this simple rule to everyday life. Do not give in to a feral desire to retaliate against those who cannot understand our plight. We are not meant to destroy others simply for sport. Hircine blessed us with the ability to fight well, with strength beyond that of an ordinary person. We must not take advantage of this blessing to hurt anyone, but rather use it in ways that benefit others like ourselves. Hunting can be a rewarding pastime, and a way of worshiping our patron. It should not be a way to torment others, whether man or beast.

This blessing, for it is a blessing and not a curse, allows us to carry heavy loads, and to cover vast distances without tiring. We make excellent traveling merchants for this reason, as well as laborers of all kinds. By showing continued restraint, by not lifting our hand against others, by proving that hunger does not drive us to kill, we honor ourselves and our families.

It is our duty to demonstrate that werewolves can be peaceful through our continued faith in Hircine's blessings.
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#44)
	Bangkorai, Shield of High Rock
(King Eamond's Final Address to His Troops)

"Knights of Saint Pelin; Evermore Guard; freeborn militia of Mournoth and Ephesus: soldiers of Bangkorai! Ever have we been the shield of High Rock, the first line of defense for the Breton Kingdoms against invaders from the east. Time and again the Bretons of Evermore and her surrounding regions have taken up arms to garrison Bangkorai Pass and turn away those who would pillage and plunder our homeland. In the year 874 of the First Era, when Warlord Thulgeg's army of Orcs and Goblins was driven from Hammerfell by the Redguards, we denied them passage through the Pass and forced them to flee northeast, trudging all the way through the Dragontail Mountains before they finally reached Orsinium. Not a single Goblin made its way through our pickets into our homeland.

"Then, in 1029, when the legions of Empress Hestra deposed King Styriche, the Vampire of Verkarth, he fled west at the head of his dreaded Gray Host, burning and killing as they came. But when his army of bat-men and wolves reached the Bangkorai Garrison, they broke like a wave on a rock. Hestra's legions caught and killed the survivors, and the Empress was so impressed that she honored High Rock with admission into the First Empire. 

"When, after almost a thousand years under the Ruby Throne, the excesses of the Alessian Order forced High Rock to secede from the First Empire, the Monks of Cyrodiil decided not to let us go peaceably. In 2305, under Abbot-General Priscus Mactator, the Legions of Piety and Grace were sent to bring the Bretons back into the fold. Mactator's fanatics filled the Fallen Wastes from end to end, but they could not pass the Bangkorai Garrison, and after a five-month siege, with the pious turning on the graceful, the Abbot-General was forced to admit defeat and plod back to Cyrodiil in disgrace. 

"Only once has the Garrison failed to protect High Rock: when Durcorach's Reachmen Horde poured down the south shore of the Bjoulsae, filtering through the Northwest Spine that had always protected us before. Then, Evermore was sacked, and the Garrison was taken from behind. But even then, we bought High Rock enough time that the Breton Kingdoms were able to muster their troops and eventually repulse Durcorach at Daggerfall.

"Today, invaders from the east threaten us once again, in the form of an Imperial Legion from Cyrodiil. But these are not the legendary warriors of an Empress Hestra, or the disciplined soldiers of an Emperor Reman: these are the degraded mercenaries of the Tharn usurpers. Indeed, this legion is even led by a cousin of that decadent and faithless family!

"And who is this Magus-General Septima Tharn? What battles has she won, beyond bullying freeholders for their back taxes? What barrel-scrapings are these so-called 'legionaries' she brings to pollute our homeland with their heretical, Daedra-worshiping ways? 

"I say they are scum, a desecration of the once-noble name 'Imperial Legion.' I say they are a rabble. And I say that, with us manning the walls, they shall not pass the Bangkorai Garrison! 

"What say you, Knights of Saint Pelin; Evermore Guard; freeborn militia of Mournoth and Ephesus—soldiers of Bangkorai! Will we betray the blood of our ancestors and allow enemies through the Pass? Never, I say! Not today, not tomorrow, not ever!"
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#45)
	The Posting of the Hunt
Let no man say before a witness that the Hunt has not been called, nor the Rites declared, nor the Ancient Offices observed.

The Ritual of the Innocent Quarry, also called the Great Hunt, is an ancient rite drawing magical energy from the powerful magicka stream that engulfs this realm. The creators and times of the rituals are long forgotten. But followed properly, the rite brings great power and prestige to the Huntsman.

The ritual pits the all-powerful Huntsmen and their Greater and Lesser Dogs against the pitiful and doomed Innocent Quarry, called by tradition the Hare, after the mortal creature of human hunts. At once, the Huntsman is transported by the exquisite thrill and glory of his might and dominion over his helpless prey, and at the same time touched by the tragic, noble, and ultimately futile plight of the Innocent Quarry. In the highest aesthetic realization of the ritual, the ecstatic rapture of the kill is balanced by the Huntsman's identification with the sadness and despair of the Innocent Quarry. As in pieces the body of the innocent Hare is torn, the Huntsman reflects on the tragic imbalances of power and the cruel injustices of the world.

As the Hunt begins, the Lesser Dogs assemble before the green crystal reflections of the Chapel of the Innocent Quarry. Inside the Chapel, the Huntsmen, the Greater Dogs, and the Master of the Hunt perform the rites that initiate and sanctify the Huntsmen, the Hunt, and the Innocent Quarry. Then the Huntsman emerges from the Chapel, displays the Spear of Bitter Mercy, and recites the Offices of the Hunt. The Offices describe the laws and conditions of the four stages of the Hunt: the Drag, the Chase, the Call, and the View to the Kill.

Stage One: The Drag, in which the Lesser Dogs drag the ground to flush out the Hare.

Stage Two: The Chase, in which the Greater Hounds drive the Hare before them.

Stage Three: The Call, in which the Greater Hounds trap the Hare and summon the Huntsmen for the kill.

Stage Four: The View, in which the Huntsman makes the kill with the ritual Spear of Bitter Mercy, and calls upon the Master of the Hunt to view the kill by ringing the town bell. The Master of the Hunt then bestows the Bounty upon the Huntsman Bold who has wielded the Spear of Bitter Mercy in the kill. The Master of the Hunt also calls upon the Huntsman Bold to name the next Hare for the next Hunt (though the Huntsman Bold himself may not participate in the next Hunt).

The Offices of the Hunt, which the Huntsmen, Master, and Hounds are solemnly sworn to honor, detail the practices and conditions of the Hunt. These practices and conditions, also known as the Law, strictly define all details of the Hunt, such as how many Hounds of each sort may participate, how the Spear of Bitter Mercy may be wielded, and so forth. In addition, the Law states that the Hare must have a genuine chance to escape the Hunt, no matter how slim. In practice, this condition has been defined as the availability of six keys which, if gathered together in the Temple of Daedric Rites, permit the Hare to teleport away from the Hunt, and so elude the Huntsman and his Spear. It is inconceivable, of course, that the Hare might actually discover the keys and escape, but the forms must be observed, and tampering with the keys or cheating the Hare of a genuine chance of finding or using the keys is a shameful and unforgivable betrayal of the Law of the Hunt.
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#46)
	Aspects of Lord Hircine
Oral Traditions of the Reachmen, Number 5

By Juno Procillus, Academy of Chorrol

The following is the transcribed statement of a shaman of Druadach who named himself Uraccanach the Witchman:

"Like the fingers of your hand, like the clutch of the hagraven, like the arrows to kill a bear, Five are the Aspects of Lord Hircine. You may meet any of the Five. All are true and right and death-in-the-woods. All are worthy of reverence. 

"You may meet the Hunter, who is invoked as Alrabeg. He bears the Spear of Bitter Mercy. He comes here from the Hunting Grounds to hunt new prey, or he brings prey native to the Hunting Grounds, like the Unicorn, to hunt in new forests. If he brings not prey, then woe betide you who meet him, for he may dub you the Hare. Then you must flee as best you can, though you will not escape. 

"You may meet the Manbeast, who is invoked as Storihbeg. He wears the Wolf Skull Totem and his growl is like a landslide in the Karth Gorge. He comes here to hunt with his children the Skinshifters, or to adopt new children and turn them pelt-side-out. His howl will freeze your inwards like a pond in Evening Star at midnight—you will see your death approach, but be unable to flee.

"You man meet the Great Stag, who is invoked as Uricanbeg, and whose hooves drum the Blood Summons. He comes to mate with the hinds, and may transform a comely woman for that purpose, or to cull the herd of the weak. Those who hear his drumbeat are doomed to run with the herd, and may follow him back to the Hunting Grounds where they will be chased and unmade."

"You may meet the Quick Fox, who is invoked as Gulibeg, and who wields the Wand of Bone. He comes here to confound mortal hunters, to run them in circles until they are so plexed and wildered that they follow him over a cliff or into a trackless mire. He may fill you with such fury you can do naught but pursue him, or he may note you as clever and teach you his tricks.

"You may meet the Mighty Bear, who is invoked as Hrokkibeg. He embodies the Totem of Claw and Fang, and comes here seeking solitude, peace from labors, and renewal of the Burning Spirit Within. Beware, for if you rouse him and disturb his serenity you will be torn asunder. But if you approach him with deference and an offering of honey-sweet mead, he may grant you the power of the Bear-Heart in your next fight.

"These are the Five—there are no more, and any who say so are witless and foolish. So states Uraccanach, and whenever have I been proven false? I have said it, and it is so. Pass the juniper-draught."
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#47)
	The Viridian Sentinel
Hush, my dear. Go back to sleep. The trolls can't get you here—not so long as there is a Viridian Sentinel. 

What's that? You want to hear about the Viridian Sentinel again? Of course, my dear. Just lie back on your pillow and listen. 

Everyone in northern Bangkorai knows about the Viridian Sentinel. The Sentinel is the guardian who makes all the wild things stay in the woods. The trolls, the bears, the witches and their wolves—none may come into the vanquished lands from the Wild so long as the Sentinel keeps watch. And the Sentinel will always keep watch. 

Did you know there was a time when there was no Viridian Sentinel? It was long, long ago in the before-times. We Bretons had just won our freedom from the Direnni Elves, and the Elves were still spiteful about it. "Go ahead, take these lands you call High Rock," they said. "You will not have them long. We will retreat to our towered island. We will renounce our covenant with the Earth Bones. We will give these lands back to the Wild."

As is often the way when Elves speak, we did not understand what they meant, so we merely shrugged and set about the hard work of making the land our own. We plowed fields and sowed crops. We fenced meadows and made pastures for our livestock. We built roads and market towns so our people could sell each other their produce and wares. And all seemed well. 

But then bad things began to happen on the farms nearest the woods. Witches lurked under the eaves, and Bretons who got too close to the forest began to disappear into its shadows, never to be seen again. Soon the farmers had to abandon the fields that were next to the woods. 

It got worse. Things began to come out of the woods, fell creatures and beasts, mostly at night but sometimes even in the day. And they roamed across the farmlands, menacing the farm families and slaying them when they could. Many farmers said, "We cannot stand before these creatures from the Wild. Come, we shall leave our farms and go to the towns."

But when they got to the towns they found there was no work for farmers—and even worse there was little or nothing to eat, because the farmers were no longer sending food to the towns. The townspeople blamed the farmers for abandoning their farms, and the farmers blamed the townspeople for not sending their armed watch to guard them. No one could agree on what to do. 

One of the farmboys, a lad named Greenward, was very worried. He went into the chapel and prayed earnestly to Stendarr, saying, "O righteous lord of mercy and protection, we are in sore plight and in need of your aid. For the beasts of the Wild are no longer contained, and our lands are reverting to wilderness. Soon there will be no place for mortals who love order and harmony. I fear we will become beasts, forget our names, and turn our back on the Divines. Show us, O lord, how this may be prevented."

Then a kingfisher flew into the chapel and landed on the altar before Greenward. It was a very large kingfisher, larger than any the lad had ever seen. It cocked its head, and then began to whistle and clack its beak. And Greenward seemed to hear speech among the whistles and clacks, words that said, "The beasts come out of the Wild because they have forgotten your names, and believe you to be beasts like themselves, whom it is lawful to slay. Someone must go to the Wild and tell the beasts that he has a name, and the vanquished lands are forfeit to his claim." Then the kingfisher made a small mess, as birds will, and flew away. 

The lad bowed and said, "I shall do this for my family, and the other families of the vanquished lands." He hugged his father, he kissed his mother, and he left the town and went back to the edge of the Wild. There he met a savage tiger, who made as if to pounce upon him, but the lad said, "It is not lawful to pounce upon me, for I have a name, and am no beast. My name is Greenward, and I claim this land as vanquished. Return to the Wild and come here no more."

And do you know what? The savage tiger did exactly that. And so did the ravening wolves, and the shambling bears, and the fierce trolls, and the wicked spriggans: all returned to the Wild and came to the vanquished lands no more. 

When this was done the lad hoped his work was over and he could return to his family, but it was not so. For always new beasts came from the Wild who had to be taught the boundaries. So the lad lived thereafter under the eaves of the wood and walked the edge of the wild, telling the beasts his name and turning them back. And our people called him the Viridian Sentinel. 

Eventually the Sentinel grew very old and felt that soon he might walk the borders no more. He began to worry. But a girl came to him and said she had been spoken to by a bird, and thereafter the two walked the border together. And when the Sentinel finally passed on and his name went with his soul to Aetherius, the girl became the new Viridian Sentinel, and the vanquished lands were still safe. 

So it has been ever after. And so it will always be.
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#48)
	The True-Told Tale of Hallin, Pt. 1
From "The History of Histories, As Told to Young Prince Fahara'jad"

Know then, O Prince, that after the Ra Gada had swept across Hammerfell, driving all the tusk-folk before it, a time of peace befell whereupon the people who were once Yokudans were able to lay down the sword and take up the shovel and trowel. And for three spans of a person's life all the Redguards did delve and build, and many were the Great Works that were erected above the sands. And few did study the Way of the Sword, for all were constructing monuments to the greatness of our people. 

Now east of the Alik'r and south of the Pass of Bangkorai the ever-laudable Queen Ojwa did cause to have built a city of splendor, all white stone and fluted columns, and the city was named Ojwambu, after its thrice-eminent monarch. And its streets and broad avenues were replete with houses and halls devoted to all the arts, both mercantile and inspirational. The people strolled the streets bedecked in fine garments and bedizened with bright jewels, and partaking of delicate viands and hearkening to tunes both rousing and restful. And all was pleasing thereby.

In an unconsidered corner in the shadow of the walls stood the city's Hall of the Virtues of War, and there did the worthy Hallin, being the Last of the Ansei, teach such of Ojwambu's youth as were yet so inclined the Way of the Sword. Now these youths were few, and though they suffered raillery and unkind badinage from their peers, they found the aging Hallin an inspiration nonetheless, and learned the Way of the Sword until they became true Redguard warriors. And this was well, as you shall see. 

For in the mountain range called Dragon's-Tail the tusk-folk still lurked, beating their breasts and rending their ragged garments in rage and grievance against the Redguards. And among them was a great Goblin Warlord who had escaped the Curse of Divad through a chicanery, and thus had not been diminished. This giant Goblin was possessed of both slyness and sinew, and long he worked among the tribes of Dragon's-Tail, until one day he awoke to find himself Warlord of all the tusk-folk therein. And his name was Mahgzoor Rockhand. So Mahgzoor raised his great blade Bone-Hewer, and roared in a mighty voice like an earthquake, and declared that the day of vengeance at last was at hand. 

Then Mahgzoor led his Endwise Army down from the Dragon's-Tail, and it swept into Hammerfell like a great sandstorm, and none could stand before it. The people of the Fallen Waste fled before the fury of the tusk-folk, and many and many were those who sought refuge behind the walls of Ojwambu, until the city was overfilled thereby. The citizens cried out in distress and apprehension, saying, "Who will fight for us, O Queen Ojwa? For we have become artisans and pleasance-wrights, and have forgotten the Way of the Sword."

And Queen Ojwa spake, saying, "Are there none among us who remember the Way of the Sword?" Then venerable Hallin stepped forward and bowed before his monarch, saying, "I remember the Way of the Sword, O My Queen, or at least as much as I may, for I am the Last Ansei. What I can do, I shall."

Hallin's students then stepped forward as well, and laid their swords at the feet of their queen. But the thrice-eminent Ojwa was dismayed by their fewness, and spake distraught, saying, "How shall we repel the Endwise Army with so few blades? For the tusk-folk are as numberless as the sand in the dunes."

But Hallin was nowise deterred, and said boldly, "Take heart, O Illustrious Majesty. For your people are Redguards, which means they come easily to the Way of the Sword, and once they have their hands once again on the hilts of blades, and learn to quote once more from the Book of Circles, they will be a match for any folk in all the round world, be they ever so numberless."

"Be that as it may, venerable Ansei," replied Queen Ojwa, "but even Redguards need time to learn the Way of the Sword, and of time we have but little."

"Then you must have more. Finding you a store of time shall be my task, the culmination of the work of my life, and I swear upon Onsi's bright blade you shall have it." And he drew his blade, yea, even in the presence of the queen, and swore an oath upon the Brotherhood and Sisterhood of the Blade. And behold, Hallin seemed to grow to the stature of a giant, and a light shone from his blade's sharp edge, and all were obliged to avert their gaze. 

Yet when they were able to look once more, they saw naught but the venerable Hallin, smiling and sheathing his blade. And the Last Ansei raised his hands, as if to embrace all the people of Ojwambu, and said, "Fellow Redguards, to you I bequeath the knowledge of the Book of Circles, which we have guarded long and well, that you may be equal to all threats whatsoever. These my students shall teach you their learning, and in good time you will all know once more the Way of the Sword."

He turned then to Queen Ojwa and said, "Now lead your people, O Mighty Monarch, for that is what you do best. Take them to the west, and spread the word of the Way of the Sword, that Hammerfell might make itself ready for the Endwise Army. I shall abide here in your city, which I and the other Ansei shall defend so long as we may, until our people are ready to fight for themselves."
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#49)
	The True-Told Tale of Hallin, Pt 2
So Queen Ojwa took the venerable Hallin at his word and forthwith ordered her people to march west toward Alik'r, while daily drilling from the Book of Circles. But Queen Ojwa did more: as she was a wise queen she was an Owl-Friend, and had decreed that all owls were to be honored and none slain. And in return the owls did many a favor for her. So the queen did call the Father of Owls, and asked him to bide in Ojwambu and observe Hallin's defense. "For I would learn," she said, "how one man shall defend a city entire."

Even as the last of the people of Ojwambu departed from her gates to take the secret ways to Alik'r, the scouts of the tusk-folk appeared in the east, where they were noted by Hallin, for though he was old, his eyes were keen.

Then Hallin spake, though there was none to hear but the Father of Owls, saying, "As the snake sheds its skin, so shall the Ansei rise anew from the husks of the past." He raised his sword and cried, "Sisters! Brothers! I summon you to the succor of your people, for time folds upon itself, and then-time is now."

And he gestured with his blade to the left, and all along the battlements to the north there was a rustling as of snakeskins, and lo: there arose along the parapets the shadows of a legion. And there stood the semblances of all the female Ansei who ever were, and they turned to Hallin and saluted. So Hallin gestured likewise to the right, and along the battlements to the south there was a rustling, and lo: there arose the semblances of all the male Ansei who ever were. And they likewise saluted Hallin, and then all, north and south, drew their bright blades, and stood on the battlements awaiting. 

The scouts of the tusk-folk stopped forthwith to observe the defenses of Ojwambu. Surprised were they to see the battlements lined with goodly warriors, for they had been told that the folk of the city had forgot the Way of the Sword. So they did consult among themselves as to who would carry this news to Warlord Mahzgoor, and quarrel and quibble, for they feared the bearer of such news would have his head struck off. But finally the smallest, with many blows, was made to carry the report back to the Warlord. 

So the scout reported to Mahzgoor that, unaccountably, the walls of Ojwambu were lined with many goodly defenders. Of an instant the Rockhand struck off the scout's head, but then he took thought, for he was possessed of both slyness and sinew. And his thoughts were, "What matter? We are as numberless as the sand in the dunes. We shall surround this Ojwambu, leaving neither entry nor egress. We shall despoil their fields of its provender, and stop up the streams of their flow, until no one within shall have to eat or to drink. And thus the city shall fall."

So Mahzgoor ordered, and so it came to pass. The tusk-folk took their leisure among the spoils of the outworks, casting jeers and taunts at the defenders on the walls. But the defenders replied naught. So Mahzgoor and his army waited, amusing themselves most abominably at the expense of their prisoners, secure that in time the defenders of Ojwambu must wither and dwindle. 

But it was not so. Even long after when the Warlord's bone-counters calculated there must be no more to eat or to drink within the city, the defenders stood still stalwart and saying naught. So Mahzgoor summoned his shamans, saying, "Shamans! Have we been befooled by the perfidious Redguards? Are these goodly warriors we see lining the battlements, or are they but shadows?"

So the shamans cast the portents, and sacrificed twin infants, and sent a scullion to the East Gate whom Hallin did spear from above. And they returned and said, "Nay, mighty Mahzgoor, we are not befooled, for these are goodly warriors we see lining the battlements. But how they may stand when they have not to eat or to drink, this we cannot tell."

Of an instant Mahzgoor struck off the shamans' heads, then raised bloody Bone-Hewer and cried, "To arms! Form ranks! For tonight we drink the blood of the defenders of Ojwambu!"

Of that battle, no living Redguard survived to tell the tale. But nonetheless did wise Queen Ojwa hear of it in full, for the Father of Owls did bear the tale to her ear. He told of how Hallin and his Ansei withstood the assault, yea, for seventeen days. But though they were goodly warriors, over time the Ansei did dwindle, though each left behind only a husk like unto a snakeskin. Finally only Hallin stood at the East Gate, which was burst open by Warlord Mahzgoor with Bone-Hewer held high. And Hallin did seem to grow to match him in size, and the two met sword to sword. 

Long and long their blades clashed, until finally as the moons rose the Rockhand smote Hallin such a blow that he was struck to the ground. But even as he fell Hallin, who knew the cuts and thrusts of the Book of Circles, yea, each and every one, swung his sword and struck off the head of the Warlord Mahzgoor. Then both were dead, but in death only one was smiling and serene. 

Queen Ojwa nodded to hear this news, and said, "It is well." And she turned to her mighty army of Redguard warriors, each of which knew the cuts and thrusts of the Book of Circles, yea, each and every one, and said, "Redguards! March we now to retake our lands from the tusk-folk. And when we have regained our splendid city once more, we shall rename it Hallin's Stand. And so it shall be."

And so it has been, ever after.
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#50)
	A Life Barbaric and Brutal
By Arthenice Belloq

Chapter One: Abducted by the Reachmen

I was born in Murcien's Hamlet, just north across the Bjoulsae from Evermore. My mother was a weaver, and my father was a boat-builder who made small fishing smacks and coracles for the river trade. I remember my youth as a happy one, playing around the docks where Father worked, or hunting through the near woods for entoloma caps and hickory nuts. 

It was while doing the latter one day that I strayed a bit farther from the hamlet than usual, pushed my way through a briar thicket … and suddenly found myself staring at a pair of human skulls. Startled, I shrieked and dropped my basket of nuts. By the time I realized that what I'd seen was a skull on a staff next to a woman's face painted like a skull, I'd been knocked down, bound, and thrown over her shoulder. 

I was being borne away to the north, away from my home and into the mountains. I began to kick and scream, at which the woman threw me down, bound me tighter, and gagged me into the bargain. Then she resumed carrying me off into the wild. Eventually I passed out from sheer exhaustion. 

When I awoke it was dark, but I could see forms in the dance of firelight, silhouettes sporting horns, bones, spikes, feathers. Reachmen. I closed my eyes and tried to wake up, but it was no nightmare: when I opened my eyes they were still there. 

My gag was gone, so I cried out for water. The skull-faced woman, whom I later learned was named Voanche, brought me a cup. She checked my bonds, and where I winced in pain, she actually loosened them a little. This surprised me, as I'd always heard that the Reach Clans were barbarians, wicked Daedra-worshipers who reveled in cruelty. Maybe, once they realized how distressed I was, they would set me free and send me home. 

It was a false hope: I was to be the captive of the Crow-Wife Clan for the next eight years. The Reachmen were far more complex than I had been led to believe in my Breton home, but in one thing we were right: barbarism and cruelty are everyday facts of life in the Reach. Voanche was a horse-breeder who had abducted me because she needed a slave to tend to her livestock, since her former thrall had died of a kick to the head. She had given me water and loosened my bonds solely out of concern for the condition of her new possession. 

Voanche's clan was ruled by a hagraven named Kloavdra, a claw-fingered crone who was a witch-shaman of considerable power. She was a priestess of Namira the Spirit Daedra, the lady of ancient darkness who commands repulsive vermin such as spiders, insects, slugs, and serpents. Because Namira is the mistress of small pests, the Reachmen call her "the Children's God" (they are not without humor, though their jests are always malicious). At every two-moons'-dark Kloavdra would draw lots at random from the children of the clan, both Reach and slave, to select a sacrifice to the Goddess of the Dark. The chosen child would end up on the Ever-Oozing Altar where Kloavdra would cut out its heart as an offering to Namira. Every time I was sure it would be me, but the name-feather drawn was always of another. 

Kloavdra's hag-husband was a crude and vicious man named Cointthac. He was a gravesinger, a witchman shaman who could command the dead—in our land we'd call him a necromancer. He was always looking sidewise at Voanche and licking his lips, as at a savory roast fowl. Though he had power in the clan and was feared by all, Voanche treated him with disdain, which would sometimes provoke him into sending hoot-haunts into her tent at night, or hexing the horses' oats with writheworm. Voanche never turned a hair, just threatened to complain about Cointthac to his hag-wife Kloavdra, which always sent him packing. 

Life was hard in the Reach. Crow-Wife was a hunting clan, so our life was following the herds across the wastes. It was a rugged and perilous existence, where life could be snuffed out in a heartbeat by the antlers of an elk buck or the fangs of a sabre cat. But what I feared most were the semi-annual crossings of the Karth River in the wake of the tundra herds. It was my job to help Voanche and her useless daughter swim the horses across the ice-cold, swirling current, and every time I was certain would be my last. How I wished I had learned to swim in the Bjoulsae, like my two brothers, whenever the Karth had me in its grip!

Occasionally during a crossing one of the horses would panic and break free of us, which usually meant drowning and death for it. Then Voanche and I would search far downstream until we found where its body had washed up, so we could skin and unmake the dead horse for its valuable fat, flesh, and bones. Nothing was wasted among the Reachmen. 

It was during my sixth summer as a slave of the Crow-Wives—I had crossed the hated Karth eleven times!—that I began to attract the unwanted attentions of Aiocnuall, the loutish son of Kloavdra and Cointthach. He expressed his attraction by pushing me into mud puddles or putting dead voles in my stew. He was a year younger than me, but soon I knew he would want me to the object of more than just practical jokes. As the son of the hagraven he could do pretty much whatever he wanted with impunity, and Voanche couldn't protect me by complaining to Kloavdra—the old virago would just cackle and wave her away. 

So at night, when I should have been sleeping in my pile of furs, I started making a spear.
		

		Part of the Bangkorai Lore collection (#51)
	The Glenmoril Wyrd
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

No folk in Tamriel have been more misunderstood than the witches of the Glenmoril Wyrd—primarily, I believe, because all the scholars who have previously written about them have been men. This is not to say that the groundbreaking work of the Venerable Kigyo of Lilmoth and Professor Barst of Shad Astula are to be entirely discounted, merely that their objectivity has been colored and undermined by their cultural assumptions of male superiority. 

To be clear, it is not the fact that I am a woman that makes me somehow emotionally better suited to understand the sisterhood of the Glenmoril Wyrd. On the contrary, it is my proven ability to be objective in the context of traditional gender roles, as shown in my celebrated tract, "Saint and Slave-Queen: Alessia and the Lens of Gender," that makes me uniquely qualified to address the subject of a single-sex society like that of the Wyrd Sisters. 

The Glenmoril Wyrd are a loose association of female witch covens who revere nature and the natural world and incline toward Daedra-worship. Racially they are almost entirely human, though some covens include human hybrids such as hagravens and lamias, who usually rule the covens they live in. Their preference for life in the wilderness means their covens are usually located far from the agricultural or pastoral enclaves of "civilized" people, which contributes to the lack of understanding of their true natures. This has led to the Glenmoril covens nearly always being described in terms such as uncanny, reclusive, dangerous, inimical, and evil. 

In fact, the Glenmoril Wyrd are all of these things—except, I would argue, evil. It is true that they are unswervingly committed to a rejection of civilization and civilized ways; it is true they admit no male members to their covens; it is true they regard themselves as enforcers of certain "laws of nature" which only they recognize. This does not make them evil, just strict adherents to moral codes that are different from our own. 

The fact that the Glenmoril covens seem able to maintain their populations without admitting men into their number is also an object of suspicion for those who live in their vicinities. There is an age-old libel that the Wyrd Sisters replenish themselves by stealing girl-children from neighboring farms, but such a practice has never been documented (except in the case of the notorious Fen Witches of Hjaalmarch—but they worship Molag Bal, and child-abduction is the least of their objectionable habits). My inquiries, which have been extensive, lead me to the conclusion that in most cases covens gain new members when unwanted girl-children are brought to them by distressed parents. (What happens to unwanted boy-children in the northern regions is probably a question best left unasked.)

Though the Glenmoril Wyrd are numerically few, geographically they are widespread, from the easternmost Greenspring Coven in central Skyrim to the westernmost coven in the Ilessan Hills of High Rock. Most of the eight or so known covens are adherents of Hircine, but the Hagfeather Coven of western Falkreath reveres Namira, the Markarth Sisters (the only urban coven) worships Mehrunes Dagon, and the aforementioned Fen Witches of Hjaalmarch are followers of Molag Bal. 

Relationships with the Reachmen, the other main Daedra-worshipers of the northern wilds, vary from coven to coven and from Reach Clan to Reach Clan. The Hagfeather Coven, the Rimerock Wyrd, and the Markarth Sisters all have cordial relations with the Reachmen, but the western covens of the Ilessan Hills and Viridian Woods have a history of conflict with the Reach Clans that dates back thousands of years. This may be accounted for by the fact that the Ilessan and Viridian Wyrd venerate the less-feral aspects of Hircine, and have even been known to provide cures for lycanthropy, whereas the Reachmen prefer Hircine's more vicious side, celebrating lycanthropy as a gift rather than a curse. 

This, then, is a summary of what is known about the widespread but elusive sisters of the Glenmoril Wyrd. Many questions, certainly, remain unanswered, and much research remains to be done. To address these issues properly, it might even be necessary to leave Taneth and mount a personal expedition into the northern wilds—assuming a generous patron steps forward to finance such a worthwhile scholarly effort.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#52)
	Redguards, History and Heroes, V. 1
Frandar Hunding was born in 2356 in the old way of reckoning in our beloved deserts of the old land. The traditional rule of emperors had been overthrown in 2012, and although each successive emperor remained the figurehead of the empire, his powers were very much reduced. Since that time, our people saw three hundred years of almost continuous civil war between the provincial lords, warrior monks, and brigands, all fighting each other for land and power. Our people were once artisans, poets, and scholars, but the ever-evolving strife made the way of the sword inevitable. The song of the blade through the air, through flesh and bone, its ring against armor—it was an answer to our prayers.

In the time of Lord Frandar the first Warrior Prince, lords called Yokeda built huge stone castles to protect themselves and their lands, and castle towns outside the walls begin to grow up. In 2245, however, Mansel Sesnit came to the fore. He became the Elden Yokeda, or military dictator, and for eight years succeeded in gaining control of almost the whole empire. When Sesnit was assassinated in 2253,a commoner took over the government. Randic Torn continued the work of unifying the empire that Sesnit had begun, ruthlessly putting down any traces of insurrection. He revived the old gulf between the warriors—the sword singers—and the commoners by introducing restrictions on the wearing of swords. "Torn's Sword-Hunt," as it was known, meant that only the singers were allowed to wear swords, which distinguished them from the rest of the population.

Although Torn did much to settle the empire into its pre-strife ways, by the time of his death in 2373 internal disturbances still had not been completely eliminated. Upon his death, civil war broke out in earnest; war that made the prior three hundred year turmoil pale in comparison. It was in this period that Frandar Hunding grew up.

Hunding belonged to the sword-singers. This element of empire society grew from the desert artisans and was initially recruited from the young sons and daughters of the high families. They built the first temple to the unknown gods of war and built a training hall, "The Hall of the Virtues of War." Within a few generations the way of the sword—the "song of the blade"—had become their life. The people of the blade kept their poetry and artistry in building beautiful swords woven with magic and powers from the unknown gods. The greatest among them became known as Ansei, or "Saints of the Sword." Each of these began their own training schools teaching their individual way of the sword. Ansei of the highest virtue wandered the countryside engaging in battle, righting wrongs, and seeking to end the strife.

To sum it up: Hunding was a sword-singer, a master, a Master Ansei at a time when the peak of the strife was reborn out of the chaos of Torn's death. Many singers put up their swords and became artists, for the pull of the artisan heritage was strong. Others, like Hunding, pursued the ideal of the warrior searching for enlightenment through the perilous paths of the Sword. Duels of revenge and tests of skill were commonplace, and fencing schools multiplied.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#53)
	Redguards, History and Heroes, V. 2
Frandar do Hunding Hel Ansei No Shira or, as he is commonly known, Frandar Hunding, was born in the far desert marches in the province of High Desert. "Hunding" is the name of the High Desert region near where he was born. "No Shira" means "noble person" or "person of noble birth" and "Hel Ansei" is his title of Sword Sainthood.

Hunding's ancestors reach back to the beginning of recorded time in the high desert, living as artisans and mystics. His grandfather was a retainer of the Elden Yokeda, Mansel Sesnit, and led many of the battles of unification prior to Sesnit's assassination.

When he was 14, Hunding's father died in the one of the many insurrections, and he was left to support his mother and four brothers. His prowess with the sword, however, made his life both difficult and easy. It was easy in that his services came in great demand as a guardian and escort. It was hard in that his reputation preceded him, and many awaited their turn to face him in battle, hoping to gain instant fame through his defeat.

By the time Hunding was thirty, he had fought and won more than ninety duels, killing all his opponents. He became virtually invincible with the sword, gaining such skill and mastery that he finally stopped using the real swords created through the artistry of his people and began using the Shehai or "way of the spirit sword."

All sword-singers learn through their intense training and devotion to the gods of war and way of the sword, the forms of discipline that allow the creation of the spirit sword. This is a simple form of magic or mind mastery whereby an image of a sword is formed from pure thought. The sword singer forms the sword by concentrating, and it takes shape in his hand. It is usually a pale thing of light, misty and insubstantial, a thing of beauty perhaps, or a symbol of devotion to the Way and the gods, but no weapon. However, those Ansei of the highest level and sensitivity and those with talent in magic can in times of stress form a spirit sword: a Shehai that is far more than light and air. It is an unstoppable weapon of great might, a weapon that can never be taken from the owner without also taking his mind.

The Shehai became Hunding's weapon, and with this, he killed bands of brigands and wandering monsters infesting the land. Finally upon finishing his ninetieth duel, defeating the evil Lord Janic and his seven lich followers, he was satisfied that he was indeed invincible. Hunding then turned to formulating his philosophy of "the Way of the Sword." He wrote his learnings down in the Book of Circles while living as a hermit in a cave in the mountains of the high desert in his sixtieth year.

In that year Hunding, having enlisted in the many battles of the empire, and having defeated all opponents, had thought himself ready for death. He retired to his cave to capture his strategy and mystical visions to share with other sword-singers. It was after his completion of the scroll of the Circle that the singers found him composing his death poem and preparing to join the gods of war in final rest.

At sixty, he was a vigorous man who thought himself through with life, but his people, the sword-singers, needed him. They needed him as never before.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#54)
	Redguards, History and Heroes, V. 3
Torn's Sword Hunt had separated the Singers from the common people, and the rise of the Last Emperor began the last great strife of the desert empire: the Emperor and his consort Elisa's final effort to wrest control of the empire from the people by destroying the sword-singers. Hira vowed to search out every Singer with his Brigand army composed of Orcs and castoffs of the wars of the empire, and to scourge them from the face of the planet.

The sword-singers were never a numerous people. The harsh desert kept the births few, and growing up in the unforgiving wastes eliminated all but those of iron spirit and will. Thus the final strife, which became known as the "War of the Singers," found the people of the sword unprepared and unready to join together their individually great skills into an army that could defend their homes and lives.

Frandar Hunding was sought out, his death poem interrupted, and unceremoniously command of the singers was thrust upon him. To the unknown gods of war great thanks is owed that Hunding had the time in his cave to write down his years of accumulated wisdom, of strategy, of the way of the Shehai. The singers fled from their camps up into the desert hills and mountains, fled to the foot of Hattu, "the Father of Mountains," where Hunding had gone to write in peace and to die. There those remnants formed into the Army of the Circle—they learned Hunding's Way, his strategies, his tactics, and the final great vision for a master stroke.

Hunding devised a plan of seven battles, leading the Armies of Hira further and further into the wilderness to the foot of Hattu, where the final battle could be fought. Hunding called his plan the "Hammer and the Anvil." With each battle Hunding's Singers would further learn his strategies and tactics, grow strong in the use of the Shehai, and be ready to defeat their opponents in the seventh battle. And thus it was, the six first battles were waged, each neither victory or defeat, each leading to the next. The larger armies of Hira following the small army of Hunding. Outnumbered thirty to one, the singers never faltered from the Way. The stage was set: Hira and his army maneuvered to the base of Hattu Mountain, where the hammer blow was delivered. The battle was pitched, and many singers fell that day. Hunding knew that the singers who lived would be few, but Hira and his empire of evil would not live—and so it went.

At the end Hunding and less that twenty thousand singers survived the day, but no army of evil was left to pillage and murder—more than three hundred thousand fell that day on Hattu. Of those who were left to run and live, all were scattered to the four winds, an organized force no more.

The singers packed their lives, folded their tents, mourned their dead, and followed Hunding to the great port city of Arch, in the province of Seawind. There Hunding had a flotilla of ships waiting. The singers left their desert for a new land. No longer welcome in the desert empire, they left to be sung about and spoken of in legend. The final great warrior, the singers of Shehai, the Book of Circles, all leaving that land where their virtue was unappreciated. Red, red with blood they were in the eyes of the gentle citizenry, never mind that they had saved them from a great evil.

The singers vowed to learn new ways as they traveled across the great ocean to their new land. To adopt a new name, but to honor the past. In honor of their final battle, they named their new land Hammerfell and adopted the name Redguards.

In honor to Hunding the great warrior prince, each household in Hammerfell has a place by the hearth, an alcove really, just a niche, big enough to hold the scroll: The Book of Circles.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#55)
	Tu'whacca's Prayer
Tu'whacca, God of the Far Shores

We ask for your blessing and guidance

On this completed walkabout

May she appear before your throne

In virtue and strength

Lead her along the path of the stars

Show her the way

Prepare her for the life to come

As our honored ancestor

With her sword at her side
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#56)
	Varieties of Faith, Crown Redguards
By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Forebears, who have been longest in Tamriel and had the stronger relationship with the Second Empire, worship substantially the same pantheon as the Imperials and Bretons, whereas the more conservative Crowns still revere the ancient Yokudan gods.

The Eight of the Crowns:

Satakal (The Worldskin):

Yokudan god of everything, a fusion of the concepts of Anu and Padomay. Basically, Satakal is much like the Nords' Alduin, who destroys one world to begin the next. In Yokudan mythology, Satakal had done (and still does) this many times over, a cycle which prompted the birth of spirits that could survive the transition. These spirits ultimately become the Yokudan pantheon. Popular god among the Crowns of the Alik'r nomads.

Ruptga (Tall Papa):

Chief deity of the Yokudan pantheon. Ruptga, more commonly "Tall Papa," was the first god to figure out how to survive the Hunger of Satakal. Following his lead, the other gods learned the "Walkabout," or a process by which they can persist beyond one lifetime. Tall Papa set the stars in the sky to show lesser spirits how to do this, too. When there were too many spirits to keep track of, though, Ruptga created a helper out the dead skin of past worlds. This helper is Sep (see below), who later creates the world of mortals.

Tu'whacca (Tricky God):

Yokudan god of souls. Tu'whacca, before the creation of the world, was the god of Nobody Really Cares. When Tall Papa undertook the creation of the Walkabout, Tu'whacca found a purpose; he became the caretaker of the Far Shores, and continues to help Redguards find their way into the afterlife.

Zeht (God of Farms):

Yokudan god of agriculture who renounced his father after the world was created, which is why Tall Papa makes it so hard to grow food.

Morwha (Teat God):

Yokudan fertility goddess, fundamental deity in the Yokudan pantheon, and the favorite of Tall Papa's wives. Still worshiped in various areas of Hammerfell, including Stros M'kai, Morwha is always portrayed as four-armed, so that she can "grab more husbands."

Tava (Bird God):

Yokudan spirit of the air. Tava is most famous for leading the Yokudans to the isle of Herne after the destruction of their homeland. She has since become assimilated into the mythology of Kynareth. She is still very popular in Hammerfell among sailors, and her shrines can be found in most port cities.

Onsi (War God; Boneshaver):

Notable warrior god of the Yokudan Ra Gada, Onsi taught Mankind how to pull their knives into swords.

Diagna (Orichalc God of the Sideways Blade):

Hoary thuggish cult of the Redguards that originated in Yokuda during the Twenty-Seven Snake Folk Slaughter. Diagna was an avatar of the HoonDing (the Yokudan God of Make Way, see below) that achieved permanence. He was instrumental to the defeat of the Lefthanded Elves, as he brought orichalc weapons to the Yokudan people to win the fight. In Tamriel, he led a very tight-knit group of followers against the Orcs of Orsinium during the height of their ancient power.

Additional Deities with Significant Redguard Cults:

Leki (Saint of the Spirit Sword):

Daughter of Tall Papa, Leki is the goddess of aberrant swordsmanship. The Na-Totambu of Yokuda warred to a standstill during the mythic era to decide who would lead the charge against the Lefthanded Elves. Their swordmasters, though, were so skilled in the Best Known Cuts as to be matched evenly. Leki introduced the Ephemeral Feint. Afterwards, a victor emerged and the war with the Aldmer began.

HoonDing (The Make Way God):

Yokudan spirit of "perseverance over infidels." The HoonDing has historically materialized whenever the Redguards need to "make way" for their people. In Tamrielic history this has only happened twice, in the First Era during the Ra Gada invasion.

Malooc (Horde King):

An enemy god of the Ra Gada who led the Goblins against the Redguards during the First Era. Fled east when the army of the HoonDing overtook his Goblin hordes.

Sep (The Snake):

Yokudan version of Lorkhan. Sep is born when Tall Papa creates someone to help him regulate the spirit trade. Sep, though, is driven crazy by the hunger of Satakal, and he convinces some of the gods to help him make an easier alternative to the Walkabout. This, of course, is the world as we know it, and the spirits who followed Sep become trapped here, to live out their lives as mortals. Sep is punished by Tall Papa for his transgressions, but his hunger lives on as a void in the stars, a "non-space" that tries to upset mortal entry into the Far Shores.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#57)
	Varieties of Faith, The Forebears
By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Forebears, who have been longest in Tamriel and had the stronger relationship with the Second Empire, worship substantially the same pantheon as the Imperials and Bretons, whereas the more conservative Crowns still revere the ancient Yokudan gods.

The Eight of the Forebears

Akatosh (Dragon God of Time):

Akatosh is the chief deity of the Eight Divines (the major religious cult of Cyrodiil and its provinces), and one of two deities found in every Tamrielic religion (the other is Lorkhan). He is generally considered to be the first of the Gods to form in the Beginning Place; after his establishment, other spirits found the process of being easier and the various pantheons of the world emerged. He embodies the qualities of endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy.

Tava (Bird God):

Yokudan spirit of the air. Tava is most famous for leading the Yokudans to the isle of Herne after the destruction of their homeland. She has since become assimilated into the mythology of Kynareth, and is often worshiped by the Forebears in that name. She is very popular in Hammerfell among sailors, and her shrines can be found in most port cities.

Julianos (God of Wisdom and Logic):

Often associated with Jhunal, the Nords' father of language and mathematics, Julianos is the god of literature, law, history, and contradiction, and is thus the patron of magistrates (and wizards).

Dibella (Goddess of Beauty):

Popular god of the Eight Divines. She has nearly a dozen different cults, some devoted to women, some to artists and aesthetics, and others to erotic instruction.

Tu'whacca (Tricky God):

Yokudan god of souls. Tu'whacca, before the creation of the world, was the god of Nobody Really Cares. When Tall Papa undertook the creation of the Walkabout, Tu'whacca found a purpose; he became the caretaker of the Far Shores, and continues to help Redguards find their way into the afterlife. His cult is sometimes associated with Arkay in the more cosmopolitan regions of Hammerfell, and he is often worshiped in that name by Forebears.

Zeht (God of Farms):

Yokudan god of agriculture who renounced his father after the world was created, which is why Akatosh makes it so hard to grow food. Analogous to Zenithar, and sometimes worshiped in that name.

 

Morwha (Teat God):

Yokudan fertility goddess. Fundamental deity in the Yokudan pantheon, and the favorite of Tall Papa's wives. Still worshiped in various areas of Hammerfell, including Stros M'kai. Morwha is always portrayed as four-armed, so that she can "grab more husbands." Analogous to Mara, and sometimes worshiped in that name by the Forebears.

Stendarr (God of Mercy):

Stendarr's sphere includes compassion, charity, justice, and righteous rule, and is the favorite god of Redguard "gallants" (knights).

Additional Deities with Significant Redguard Cults:

Leki (Saint of the Spirit Sword):

Divine daughter of Tall Papa, Leki is the goddess of aberrant swordsmanship. The Na-Totambu of Yokuda warred to a standstill during the mythic era to decide who would lead the charge against the Lefthanded Elves. Their swordmasters, though, were so skilled in the Best Known Cuts as to be matched evenly. Leki introduced the Ephemeral Feint. Afterwards, a victor emerged and the war with the Aldmer began.

 

HoonDing (The Make Way God):

Yokudan spirit of "perseverance over infidels." The HoonDing has historically materialized whenever the Redguards need to "make way" for their people. In Tamrielic history this has only happened twice, in the First Era during the Ra Gada invasion.

 

Malooc (Horde King):

An enemy god of the Ra Gada who led the Goblins against the Redguards during the First Era. Fled east when the army of the HoonDing overtook his Goblin hordes.

 

Sep (The Snake):

Yokudan version of Lorkhan. Sep is born when Tall Papa creates someone to help him regulate the spirit trade. Sep, though, is driven crazy by the hunger of Satakal, and he convinces some of the gods to help him make an easier alternative to the Walkabout. This, of course, is the world as we know it, and the spirits who followed Sep become trapped here, to live out their lives as mortals. Sep is punished by Tall Papa for his transgressions, but his hunger lives on as a void in the stars, a "non-space" that tries to upset mortal entry into the Far Shores.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#58)
	Motalion Necropolis Report
Unto the Doyen of Satakalaam:

It is with a heavy heart that this unworthy one must report a cessation of the Motalion Endeavor. Circumstances have eventuated that render its continuance inadvisable. Indeed, pursuing the Endeavor would doubtless lead to a loss of Guild lives, as well as being sacrilegious (even more than usual). 

I hasten to point out that no taint of fault should be inferred as to the perfection of your peerless plans, O my Doyen. Following your instructions, our subversion of Motalion Funerary Overseer Parvizh al-Tigonus went flawlessly—indeed, he was willing to accept only 15 percent of the pillaging proceeds when we were willing to go as high as 20 percent. In the weeks since he agreed to our proposal, the looting of the crypts and mausoleums in the southern quadrant of the necropolis was accomplished according to Your Doyenhood's admirably aggressive schedule, despite the back injury suffered by Footpad Quyen in the Crypt of Virtuous Maidens.

The harvesting and sale of the Sacred Welkynds was likewise a complete success, and your idea of substituting imitation stones of turquoise glass treated with glow-spells has left none the wiser. The cost of paying Affab the Illuminary to renew the glow-spells once every ten-day is scarab-feed compared to what we were able to realize from the welkynd stones on the thaumaturgical after-market. 

In hindsight, your advice that we start with the quadrant wherein were interred the most affluent of our ancestors fully justifies the eminent position in which you find yourself. Though we refrained, of course, from irreverent treatment of the sarcophagi, the valuable trappings and regalia of the outer tombs were stripped during those periods when Overseer Parvizh had the watchmen patrolling elsewhere. It is unlikely that the eastern and western quadrants, where the less prosperous of our brethren are buried, would even together equal the take brought in from the southern. 

But now I must reluctantly turn to the reason for our regrettable abandonment of Your Doyenhood's supremely excellent Motalion Endeavor. The northern quadrant, where the authorities have seen fit to bury the corpses of those who were impious or criminal in life, has been afflicted by a horrific rising of undead. Ra-Netu in numbers have crawled from their crypts, and are now a profane presence across the entire necropolis. This may be due, as I believe, to Overseer Parvizh sending the watchmen too often into the unclean quadrant, or it may be the result of some other desecration. If it was the fault of the Overseer, he has certainly paid the price, as he was one of the first victims of these risen dead. 

I also regret to report the death of Footpad Quyen, whose back went out in an untimely manner while fleeing from a Ra-Netu at the base of the Ninety-Nine Stairs. His surviving family will receive the usual stipend. 

With the Utmost Esteem, 

Operative Maffud
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#59)
	The Salas En Expedition
By Lady Clarisse Laurent

It is strange that the Elven ruins known as Salas En, on the Hammerfell coast at Cape Shira, have never been properly explored or studied. This is most likely due to the superstitious locals' exaggerated reverence for burial grounds of the dead, even those of other cultures. I wouldn't go so far as to accuse the Alik'r Redguards of timidity, but really, having to bring all my own people over the bay from High Rock is a bit much. 

In any event, now that we are on our way, we shall do the job right. The known facts about Salas En are few, but they are fascinating, as it has been inhabited over the last three eras by a series of cultures. On top—which makes it most recent, of course—are Redguard relics dating from the First-Era occupation of Salas En by Crowns of the late Ra Gada. Colonists from the island of Yath in lost Yokuda, these Redguards seem to have displaced the Elves who previously occupied the site. It appears these descendants of Yath occupied Salas En until abandoning it in the middle 23rd century, which coincides with the ravages of the Thrassian Plague. 

The Elves the Yath Redguards displaced were, according to tradition, relatively recent Altmeri colonists of the Corelanya Clan, who were said to be Daedra-worshipers. (This would account for their emigration from Summerset to the austere shores of Hammerfell.) They seem to have arrived sometime in the sixth century 1E, inhabiting and expanding on structures originally built by the Ayleids. Bosmeri relics are intermixed here with classic high-period Altmeri, suggesting that either the Corelanya participated in the Wood Elf coastal trade, then at its historic height, or that Salas En was used as a stopover by Bosmeri merchants before the Corelanya arrived. 

Below these High Elf additions—and indeed, still standing with less wear on them than any of the structures built afterward—are the original Ayleid stoneworks, jutting proudly toward the heavens despite the passage of millennia. The Ayleid Elves who built Salas En are virtually unknown to history, and it is primarily to reveal their story that I have organized this expedition. With the assistance of my experienced and hand-picked team of excavators, I have every confidence that we can persuade the stones of Salas En to reveal their secrets to us.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#60)
	Sentinel, the Jewel of Alik'r
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh, Songbird of Satakalaam

Know, O Prince, that in the time of the Ra Gada, the Forebears did come to Hammerfell from doomed Yokuda. First they landed at Hegathe, which they freed of the affliction of the beast-peoples. Then spread they bothwise along the coasts, seeking out goodly harbors and well-watered oases. 

To the north and west went the warrior-sailors of the Grandee Yaghoub, in the great ships they had brought from Akos Kasaz, until they rounded Cape Shira. Then was Yaghoub the first of the Ra Gada to behold the Iliac Bay, and he deemed it laudable, and praised its excellences, and vowed to make his home thenceforth upon its shores.

And as Yaghoub sailed toward the Steed at dawning of the seventeenth of Second Seed, his watchman cried out that he spied a desirable harborage. And Yaghoub, perceiving it, agreed, and said, "This harborage shall belong to us, for we shall take it to be ours. And I do name it Sentinel, after the one who first espied it."

Then Sentinel (for thus ever after was it known) already contained a port on its harbor, which port was the haunt of low Elves, and Men who did consort with Elves. And the shores were green with the leaves of pomegranate, and fig, and olive, and the men of the Grandee saw this and were hungry, and sought to come ashore, despite the warnings and cries of the port-rabble.

But when Yaghoub landed with his warrior-sailors, with their bright swords and peaked helms, the port-rabble were cowed, and spake, cringing, "What would you with us, O mighty sword-singers? Slay us not, for we have done you no harm."

And Yaghoub said to them, "Nay, though you are infidels and partake of unclean practices, I will not slay you. For I have a thought to build me a palace upon the height above the harbor, and such labor is not meet for my noble warrior-sailors. Therefore you shall live, and become masons, and stonewrights, and servants of the house."

And thus was the true port of Sentinel founded. The port-rabble found purpose in their new labors, and built the walls, and the marketplace, and the palace of Yaghoub. And this was Samaruik, of glorious name, and legendary are the mighty kings and queens who have reigned from it since. For the Crowns who followed the Forebears found Sentinel a worthy seat, and many were the Na-Totambu who settled there. 

Even today, O Prince, above the city gates flies always a banner of the crescent moon, for this was the banner of the Grandee Yaghoub, which has become the symbol of Sentinel in remembrance of him. And the faithful celebrate the Grandee on the Koomu Alezer'i Yaghoub, every seventeenth of Second Seed, when we share pomegranates in honor of our esteemed ancestor.
		

		Part of the Alik'r Desert Lore collection (#61)
	Sacrilege and Mayhem in the Alik'r
A Report to the Royal Family of Hegathe

By Doctor Tazhim of the Bureau of Outlander Affairs

O Beloved of Morwha, Blessed by Zeht's Tears,

Your ignoble servant apologizes for his unworthy existence, and seeks forgiveness for intruding his negligible thoughts into Your Majesties' lofty meditations. In response to your momentary whim of last week, which was to me as an ironclad order, I have prepared a report on the recent outbreak of unholy undeath in the northern Alik'r, and its unorthodox means of suppression.

I have spoken before about the Ash'abah, a pariah tribe of the northern wastes who are shunned for their unclean interactions with our risen ancestors. Though their origins are ancient, the fact that such an aberration could persist into the modern era must be attributed to covert support by shameless elements of the Forebears, who tolerate the most outrageous non-traditional practices. 

This hypothesis would seem to be validated by recent events, which I shall now have the honor to recount to Your Majesties. In Sentinel, the usurper Fahara'jad had gathered to him a circle of advisors, some of whom were of untarnished reputation, but others of whom were known Forebear activists who had almost openly opposed the Divines-blessed rule of the late King Ramzi (may Tu'whacca escort his soul to the Far Shores). One of these questionable viziers, Suturah by name, seems to have been not only a bad advisor, but also a secret necromancer. As far as our agents of the Bureau have been able to reconstruct it, this Suturah slew all of "King" Fahara'jad's other viziers, then reanimated them in an attempt to kill Fahara'jad himself. The attempt was a failure: Fahara'jad escaped, but so did Suturah. 

Suturah fled to the east, where he was joined by elements of the Cult of the Black Worm (which Your Majesties will recall from my report of 2nd Rain's Hand). Undead, mostly Ra-Netu, were raised in numbers from forgotten graveyards in the deep desert, and Suturah led his unclean minions back toward Sentinel. 

Shockingly, our informants state that Fahara'jad contaminated himself by personally appealing to the pariah Ash'abah, asking them to intervene against Suturah. The Ash'abah headman, Marimah, agreed, though we have been unable to discover what degrading terms were imposed upon Fahara'jad. In a surprise ambush the Ash'abah, using forbidden mystical means, destroyed Suturah's army of Ra-Netu. Suturah himself, it is said, fell under the blade of the exile Marimah. 

Fahara'jad, of course, has been careful to stay quiet about his appeal to the Ash'abah, and has publicly thanked the Divines for holy intervention on Sentinel's behalf. I leave it to Your Majesties to decide if we should spread about the rumor of the Forebear usurper's impure meeting with the pariahs.
		

Failed at /books/62Failed at /books/63Failed at /books/64		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#65)
	The Master's Truth
Stare into the flame, and you will see the Master's truth.

See his smile in the curling of paper as it blackens and burns. Hear his cackles of joy at the screams of those who die beneath our knives.

We devote ourselves to you, Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction, Lord of Blood and Flames. Your servants give you this tribute: the death of a thousand thousand creatures of flesh and tears.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#66)
	Lens of the Golden Eye
Shunned by most of the crude and ignorant Daedric Princes, the Golden Eye cares little for caprice and whimsy.

While the likes of Clavicus Vile and Boethiah scheme and meddle, the Golden Eye watches. When mad Sheogorath, in his eternal dementia, wastes his power on folly, the Golden Eye meticiously documents his mania.

Give praise to him! Devote your energy, your mind, your soul to Hermaeus Mora! In doing so, your name will be more than a mere footnote in the endless libraries of Apocrypha.

When your flesh is no more, may he grant you admittance into his hall of all knowledge, so that you may thirst for it nevermore.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#67)
	Last Words of a Devotee
I won't live to write again. The Dagonites have broken into the inner sanctum. Our escape has been cut off.

They will burn the flesh from my bones, but I am at peace. My thoughts go to Hermaeus Mora. They willl be recorded in the eternal libraries.

I go to join the Golden Eye in Apocrypha.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#68)
	Apocrypha, Apocrypha
The infinite archives of Hermaeus Mora are the ultimate treasure. Its innumerable shelves and countless books carry the weight of all knowledge. Therein, the diligent reader can find all that was, all that is, and all that will be.

Followers of the Divines, content in their dark cloisters of ignorance, preach hatred of the Golden Eye. Daedra, they call him: unclean, monstrous, wicked.

We have seen the truth. Knowledge is only as wicked as the one who wields it. Forsaking learning in fear of its misuse is the ultimate sin. It is an unforgivable folly. As a result, mortals have suffered countless centuries of loss.

In Apocrypha, the Golden Eye weeps cold tears at this plague of ignorance. Those who walk his halls are truly blessed. Even as their flesh falls away, they are permitted to browse the infinite tomes and scrolls, privy to all mysteries that have ever and will ever exist. It is the most blessed of fates.

We give you praise, Hermaeus Mora. We seek enlightenment, illumination, and a place at your side.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#69)
	Ruuvitar's Journal
Memorandum on Mnemic Acquisition

Initial experiments uncovered a formula to duplicate the mnemic phenomenon. We've yet to replicate the processes utilized by a "Tree-Minder," yet our solution is both elegant and thorough.

The Hist sap proves to be an invaluable by-product. I hope to bring many specimens back to the Crystal Tower to further research possible uses.

Most Argonian subjects prove uncooperative, but we've had some success using the extractions from the Hist as a crude form of coercive.

This warrants a full investigation, one which I will personally oversee.

— Alchemist <<1>>
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#70)
	The Lost Communion
Before the Hist, nothing existed. The Hist meant everything and provided all.

Jaraleet knew this. Every Argonian knew this, instinctively, from hatching. Why, then, wouldn't the Hist speak to them? Didn't the old stories say the Hist talked to its people?

Day after day, Jaraleet burnt offerings and made sacrifices. He chanted and prayed. He ate little, his efforts concentrated upon renewing the ancient connection between the Hist and its people.

One morning, his wife insisted he eat a full meal. "No matter how much you wish it, you cannot feast upon the Hist itself," she gently chided.

Jaraleet blinked as her words pierced his thinking. "Hist sap!" he cried, touching his forehead to hers with affection.

Though no alchemist, Jaraleet concocted formula after formula. He distilled various ichors, combining each one in varying amounts with Hist sap, tasting them all, making adjustments. He felt the Hist urge him on, demanding he break through its silence.

Finally, Jaraleet drank his master decoction. He savored the thick, sweet syrup coating his tongue. Standing quietly beneath the Hist's outstretched boughs, his eyes glittered with comprehension.

"I am your child and servant," he whispered. And the Hist showed him all things.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#71)
	The Fruit and the Stone
Hunger. Thirst. Water dripping upon saturated moss. A wound on the Hist tree, oozing sap like slow tears. Golden light, piercing the darkness like an arrow. Lightning. Sparks.

Betzi blinked several times, considering the visions. Why did the Hist show her the same thing? She wondered if her meditations were any use. She touched the fruit, nudging aside the woven twigs forming its nest.

They called it fruit, as it came from the Hist, but none ate this hardened lump. This fruit was exceptionally rare, and yet, the Hist wanted her to bring it to Hissmir. To use it, somehow.

"Why are you so important?" Betzi asked, turning the dark brown orb in her fingers. She rubbed it softly, marveling at its smoothness. Like scales, but without edges. Like an egg, like glass, like ….

"A Zaht stone?" Connections jumbled together in her mind's eye, then spooled into the correct order. Unprepared for the onslaught, Betzi cried aloud.

The others glanced at Betzi in irritation, their meditations interrupted by her outburst. And then understanding rippled through them as well. Betzi held the Hist amber aloft and marveled at the simplicity.

Zaht stones would protect Hissmir. But how?
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#72)
	The True Balance
"We must warn Awas. The Kothringi are nearly upon us!"

The two Argonians exchanged glances, the movement of their dark eyes a mere flicker of light in the shadows.

"I'll go," hissed Sanax, and slipped into the murky waters.

Juunei followed her slow progress. Fires burned at the swamp's edge, creating a thick smoke only Argonian eyes could pierce.

Or so he thought. Axes glinted and slashed. Juunei heard a strangled cry, then nothing. Who knew the clumsy dryskins could move so silently?

Juunei swore an oath and eyed the dirt path to the xanmeer. It was longer and exposed. But he had to warn Awas.

They chased Juunei down the path, slashing and stabbing, but they made little noise. He was in sight of the xanmeer's stone edifice when something grabbed his tail, pulling him to the ground.

A Kothringi thug raised her dirty axe to finish him off. He cried out. Then a hurled Kothringi knife buried itself in the thug's throat.

Awas emerged from the muck. She retrieved the knife and helped Juunei to his feet.

"How did you know?" gasped Juunei, nodding at the Kothringi knife.

"A lesson from the dreams of the Hist," murmured Awas. "To truly understand a foe, fight them with their own weapons."

Juunei stared at Awas, then grabbed the dead Kothringi's axe. They hurried to the xanmeer.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#73)
	Charred Notes
That stupid witch has given me everything. So eager for companionship, desperate for a friend other than the pestering birds of this miserable corner of Oblivion. She taught me all the magic I wanted to learn.

The Magister of the Blackfeather Court taught me binding spells, Daedric magic—all of it! All at her command!

Her price was so ludicrous. I've never been so pleased as I was when I locked her in that blasted tower! No bargain is going to drag me back to her side.

I'm taking everything with me. I'll burn this house to the ground and leave the witch in her tower to rot.
		

Failed at /books/74		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#75)
	Hidden-Hands' Journal
After putting me up to the job, that High Elf pilgrim refused to buy the relics! "Not suitable for my purposes." What do I care about his purposes? I hope the root rot poison burns through his stomach!

What am I supposed to do with these hunks of stone now?
		

		Part of the None collection (#76)
	Kaarat's Journal
They've made no demands or given any hint of what their goals are. I've tried to get a look at their leader, a large Nord, but he always has his face covered.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#77)
	Note to Lucien
Lucien,

I once heard that an abandoned tower used to stand outside Daggerfall, but I never imagined that it still existed. The Red Rooks have been seen searching the area, which leads me to believe that something is there. If it is a fort, think of the treasures that might still be hidden inside!

If you decide to check it out, though, be very careful. The Red Rooks always send their most dangerous members on those sorts of exploration missions.

— Demitrii
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#78)
	Doshia's Journal
Merson ele champb. Warter gon bley doy ronnero esterr.

Sale jene son fersha flo luch era myencha. zie car rho cram edersh pos branto bersond alva ague myer anav sutiell sonz rhodge.

Chenoza 

							ders 

											tod 

														ostero

Ngu nozarna hamben …………………………………………………………… king klawson. Willso lawforn fullson pen flyncis elli adozar mon blawre jen nerodri graynch farks pagne jamson powel burnavi spayl.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#79)
	Prisoner's Journal
They made no demands, gave no hints of their goals. I tried to get a look at their leader. He's a tall man, well-muscled, and carries an axe. He keeps his face covered.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#80)
	Rulantaril's Notes
I write this in the hope that my son, Telbaril, someday understands why I did what I did.

Learning proper magic is something they teach you here at the guild, but it is not the only way. There is so much knowledge that is traditionally forbidden by the decrees of those who fear true power and those who wield it.

Know that there are places beyond Tamriel where the cunning and the wary can go to learn forgotten spells. I speak of the planes of Oblivion. The sea of limitless dimensions contains an endless series of islands. Some are controlled by the mighty Daedric Princes; others are loosely connected to one minor Daedra Lord or another. On these islands, creatures dwell who possess secrets out of time. Some are there of their own volition, but others are banished there for crimes either heinous or imagined.

If you are reading this, Telbaril, know that I found one such place long ago. Know that it is not far from the city in which you now sit within a tiny cave by the docks. It is called the Crow's Wood.

And son, if you decide to follow me, bring all of your cunning with you.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#81)
	Red Rook Orders
You have been honored with this momentous task. Gaetane, your leader on this mission, is no ordinary commander. She has been trained in the arts of storm magic. She may be young, but she is powerful and ruthless.

Protect her. Follow her instructions. If you succeed, you will be well rewarded.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#82)
	Crow's Wood Traveler's Log
I've been wandering for what feels like days. My rations have long since run out, and the flesh of the creatures here somehow refuses to fill my belly. The weather grows cold, and the crows keep me up at night with their inane rambling and squawking.

I've found shelter in this cave, writing by the light of the single candle I have left. With the luck I've been having, this is probably the lair of a bea—
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#83)
	Dominion Orders
Our efforts to expand across the Daggerfall Covenant must continue. Newly discovered Ayleid ruins along the coast make it imperative that we capture key areas of land. Take a team of warriors, take control of the site, and send word back on what you find. There might be something useful hidden within the ruins. At the very least, we will gain a new base of operations.

Our best armsmaster, trained in the art of the thundermaul, will accompany you to provide additional muscle.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#84)
	Bloodthorn Orders
Long ago, a strange gem was discovered in the Mines of Khuras. The gem was magnificent and flawless. For all its beauty, however, no one ever understood the power it contained. Nor did they realize that the mines were teeming with the stones.

We discovered that these gems could be used to power our corruption totems. We need more gems to support our efforts against the Wyrd Tree. Claim the mine and impress some people into service to collect more of these gems.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#85)
	Dominion Orders: Enduum
You must secure the Ayleid ruins of Enduum immediately.

Not only will control of this area provide us with a major strategic advantage against the Daggerfall Covenant, but the treasures we plunder from the ruins will add to our resources. And perhaps we can find a powerful relic or magical artifact as well.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#86)
	Bloodthorn Orders: Ebon Crypt
Thanks to successful efforts in Cath Bedraud, our army continues to grow by leaps and bounds. The ancient cemetery has provided a significant portion of our undead troops, but we need more.

Rumors have come to our attention concerning a nearby tomb known only as the Ebon Crypt. Legends say that the crypt contains a dark creature of immeasurable power. This creature and its secrets must be ours! Find this crypt and report on your findings as soon as possible.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#87)
	Red Rook Orders: Cryptwatch
The feeble Lion Guard has left yet another fort abandoned and ripe for plunder. This one, called Cryptwatch Fort, is located near Crosswych. Your orders are simple: find the fort and turn it into a base of operations for the Red Rooks.

What could be better than a fort we can move right into? It will help us further establish our presence in King's Guard, and it will provide another layer of protection in case the Bloodthorn Cult turns against us.

Also, prepare for a meeting with Valenwe and her entourage. It would be good to add their unique skills to our cause.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#88)
	Firebrand Watch
The Lion Guard's laziness astounds me. They abandon forts left and right through High Rock, without any regard for strategy or defense. The most-recent location the Lion Guards ran from is Firebrand Watch. Rumor has it  the Red Rooks made a fortune when they plundered the abandoned fortifications there. Hurry to Firebrand Watch and gather whatever hasn't been carted off. The Lion Guard's loss must be our gain.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#89)
	Orders: Steelheart Moorings
Another opportunity to seize territory in the Daggerfall Covenant has presented itself. There's a cave not far off the shore of Alcaire that sees little traffic and features no one to oppose us. If we can take this cave, we will have a staging ground within striking distance of Koeglin Village. Seize the site at once!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#90)
	Warning: Catacombs Infested!
To any explorer unfortunate enough to enter these catacombs, beware! 

Goblins have taken over these hallowed grounds, though I couldn't figure out what had drawn them here. Keep your distance, for these savages are ruthless. I barely escaped from the catacombs with my life!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#91)
	Orders: Farangel's Mine
Your instructions are simple. Follow Dimitri into Farangel's Mine and locate the abandoned fort therein. There should be ample amounts of supplies to take, which we can turn around and sell in Wayrest. We should turn a tidy profit. Do this for the Supernal Dreamers, and further our cause!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#92)
	Orders: Bearclaw Mine
To expand our influence in Gavaudon, we must find more strategic locations to set up our bases. Aristide, our brother from Bangkorai, has discovered a mine near the Weeping Giant. It provides a defensive base while allowing us to establish mining operations of our own. Follow Aristide and claim this mine for the Dreamers!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#93)
	Orders: Suleck Ruins
We've heard rumors that Ayleid ruins sit unplundered in the hills near Wind Keep. Follow Gargak the Knight. He will lead you to them. We must claim these ruins and discover the ancient secrets within—for the Dreamers!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#94)
	Letter from Gothurg
Grularz,

You have always been a dreamer, my sister, and I've love that about you. As mad as some of your schemes have been, I have always tried to encourage you.

But this time is different. Trolls are dangerous creatures! I fear that this dream will be your last if you do not abandon it and come home. Since you have refused me several times now, I assume this letter will also fail to change your mind, so I am just going to have to let go. I will always love you, sister.

— Gothurg
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#95)
	Flyleaf Catacombs
I don't know how I ended up in this dreadful place. I heard that working for the Bitterhand was very profitable, but so far the only thing I've gotten is a daily bowl of slop. In exchange, I've found myself robbing and killing innocent people. I think I made one of those mistakes that mother talked about … the kind that lead you down a dark path to an early death.
		

Failed at /books/96		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#97)
	Dealing with Quitters
No organization can grow and evolve without some level of attrition. In our line of work, however, such activity requires special attention. People can't be allowed to just join the Bitterhand Bandits and then decide to quit a little while later. Not only could this endanger our secrets, but think of what it might do to our reputation. If the general public hears that people are quitting, they'll think we've lost our edge. Next thing you know, people will be trying to be heroes and that will make robbing them that much harder. Next time someone comes to you wanting to quit, let's use that opportunity to make an example of them. Just make sure to detain them until I arrive and then we'll put on a show for everyone. It'll be educational and fun at the same time.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#98)
	Erokii Relics
Erokii was one of the leading Ayleid cities in northwest Tamriel. It may contain Merethic Era relics of untold power. Search it thoroughly, and bring what you find to Headquarters.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#99)
	Hildune's Secret Refuge
Our scouts have located another potential hideout—though Hildune's secret refuge isn't much of a secret anymore. 

Hildune was spotted going into his well. Instead of coming out wet, he emerged with mined materials. Our scouts convinced Hildune to go away and never return. A search of the well showed us that Hildune discovered a long-abandoned mine. Now that mine is ours.

Follow Aelma inside and secure this area. With every site we take, Northpoint grinds ever tighter between a rock and a hard place.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#100)
	Keystones of Loriasel
While one can't use rumors as a basis for facts, they serve as a conduit to the past. 

Long ago, my people were powerful and learned. Xanmeers, the pyramids scattered throughout the marshes, were our creations, though details of their construction have long since passed from memory. We now see around us proud structures we once built, filled with our own Magicka.

Keystones are found in many of the Barsaebic Ayleid ruins, but only in ruins that touch lands where our ancestors lived. Tales abound of Ayleids gathering power from their captives through torment and fear. They describe a process in which Magicka is infused into stones: artifacts that were Ayleid in nature, but not Ayleid in origin.

I theorize these keystones hold Argonian Magicka tied to our history and essential for our protection. Nowhere else in Tamriel have any keystones been found; they are connected with Argonian history and indeed, our future.

Three keystones were taken from the ruins of Loriasel in Shadowfen and dispersed for study. Unfortunately, the first to examine the keystones suffered nervous conditions that ended their lives. It appears only certain individuals, such as the Kothringi, can handle them for any length of time without suffering ill effects.

Another aspect of the keystones, unique in my experience, is their cl—
		

		Part of the The Trial of Eyevea collection (#101)
	Circus of Cheerful Slaughter
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		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#102)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 1
It has been a long journey, but finally I am on the right path. Today I found the first mention of the Eye in some of the old Dwemer inscriptions here.

I haven't even begun to sift through the writings yet. Surely there is something here that will get me closer to the Eye.

I've already sent word to my husband. As if that fool deserved any of the credit—I wish he would hurry. Quintus "the Quick," he calls himself. Quick my arse.
		

Failed at /books/103		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#104)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 7
We've made it safely to Aldunz. There are dozens of active Dwemer devices here. It's a bit eerie. I've never seen so many of them at once.

I've tripped over one of the spiders already, spraining my ankle. I'm told it'll heal, but I wrote Quintus to let him know. The fool couldn't do anything about it even if he were here ….

We have yet to find mention of the Eye here, but I haven't given up hope. We can't lose the trail now.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#105)
	Note on Torn Parchment
It's hard for the living to understand just how slowly time passes caged in the dark, starving. I had forgotten the glorious taste of warm blood taken from a scared, writhing body.

The Withered Hand did not unearth me on purpose. They simply stumbled upon my earthen tomb. That is of no concern of mine now, this cave is again my home. It will not be long till I am returned to my former glory.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#106)
	Letter from Mirudda
You shouldn't have to be reminded of our agreement, but this one seems to find herself in a position where she has to. 

We haven't had any fresh travelers through here for weeks. If we don't have travelers to ambush, we don't get any gold or valuables, which in turn means you get nothing.

You have four days to send goods our way before Huzal starts to get hungry.

— Mirudda
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#107)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 15
There was a plethora of leads here. Nothing closer to hinting at the Eye's true nature, but we can figure that out once we find it.

However, all our clues point to Volenfell, the famed Dwemer ruins, as the Eye's final resting place—and Volenfell's location has been lost for generations. The only thing experts can tell, myself included, is that Volenfell is hidden somewhere under the sands of the Alik'r Desert.

Should be no problem for me and my team to cover its vastness and find those ruins.

Right.

That's sarcasm, in case posterity bothers with this journal.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#108)
	Lorogdu's Journal
4th First Seed

We sacked the Chauvry Estate today, the culmination of months of planning, and it was an outstanding success. We found more loot than we could carry and achieved a vengeance long overdue. 

At first, I wasn't sure about this venture. A campaign to find the descendants of the Bretons and Redguards involved in the sacking of Orsinium, to take their riches and lives as reparation? It sounded too good to be true, but today's success proves we can get revenge and turn a profit at the same time.

20th First Seed  

I'm beginning to have doubts about this outfit. I'm in this mainly for the gold, not to achieve fame, but our two leaders have other goals. They're fighting about which clan deserves credit for getting revenge on the Chauvrys.

Thorzhul comes from Clan Agluk, a noble clan all but wiped out in the Siege of Orsinium. He constantly talks about the sacrifice his clan made. He says they deserve to be honored.

Our other leader, Borzugh, is from the up-and-coming Clan Morkul. The clan started with Morkul himself, the general credited with several feats of heroism during the siege. Borzugh says Clan Agluk only lost so many because they were poor warriors. 

Borzugh and Thorzgul have both been trying to recruit the rest of us to their sides, but with so many clans represented here, it doesn't seem right for any single clan to take credit. Most of us don't want any part of this fight. Maybe we'd be better off to just let them kill each other ….
		

Failed at /books/109		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#110)
	Bjoulsae Boys Charter
The Bjoulsae Boys are selflessly dedicated to helping the hard-working impoverished people of the Evermore region. For too long have the king and his nobles lived in luxury while countless others have worked night and day just to survive. Our goal, quite simply, is to spread the wealth. We will rob and steal from the crown and any members of Evemore's upper classes. The spoils of our labor will be quietly left in sewers, on doorsteps, and at the sides of sleeping beggars. We shall achieve equality in Evermore!

— Curnard "The Generous" Thelin
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#111)
	Orders from a Knightly Order
Dame Doisne,

Through King Eamond, High King Emeric has requested the order's assistance in doing a favor for King Fahara'jad. Centuries ago, a group of Redguard exiles sought refuge in Evermore. Not trusting the exiles, the king held them in an underground prison. Unfortunately, their status was never resolved, and the prison became their crypt—the Crypt of the Exiles.

Among the exiles was a warrior named Ulbazar who had stolen a Redguard artifact, the Memory Stone of Makela Leki. King Fahara'jad has asked to have it be returned. Retrieve the stone from Ulbazar's sepulcher and bring it to Madaima, a Redguard scholar at Martyr's Crossing. She will return it to King Fahara'jad's Impervious Vault in Sentinel.

Saint Pelin watch over you,

Knight-Commander Varaine
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#112)
	Urenenya's Lament
Translated by Pelorrah, Assistant Sapiarch of Altmeri Heritage, Cloudrest Annex

There once was the finest lass of royal descent, the fairest Ayleidoon princess who ever lived, but the place or manner of her death was never known. Princess Urenenya was a daughter, the youngest of three and twenty, to the revered King Uuril who ruled from his ancestral castle known as Silaseli. 

Never was a more astute lord than the wise King Uuril, who secured for future generations the power for his family that he himself envisioned in his dreams steeped in ambition. Both rivals and allies of the amicable Uuril were tethered to his family's fate through the marriages the clever king did arrange for each of his children, the two and twenty. 

When it came time for the fair Urenenya to wed, suitors did come from lands far and near hoping to link their names to that of the most illustrious king. But Urenenya did not desire to be wed. The lass was of strong will and did even dare to defy her honorable and generous father. King Uuril did with great reluctance lock his youngest daughter within a tower at Silaseli, there to remain until the day of that wedding which he did plan.

Urenenya's song of lamentation flowed forth both night and day from her locked chamber, until a time did come when the young lass fell ill, and those healers of King Uuril bemoaned that it was not within the power of their art to cure the young woman's maladies. Whereupon that noble king did take pity on the poor princess, allowing her to remove herself from the locked chamber.

Then: mystery, for Urenenya did vanish, never to be seen again by vision mortal or magical. Buried beneath the soils of Silaseli lie all members of that royal family for generations before and after the good King Uuril, excepting only the fair princess. Mystics querying souls gone before learned that Urenenya's spirit never voyaged to the sweet shores of Aetherius. Somehow the peace of the afterlife was denied her. But were her lost remains returned to Silaseli, it is believed the spirit adrift might find its way at last to that peaceful shore.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#113)
	Lady Edwyge's Notes
First Entry

This is so frustrating. I'm not asking to recreate the Dragon Break, just to roll back back time a few years. Is that too much to ask? But this book tells us nothing! It's just incoherent Maruhkati ravings on the nature of Akatosh.

Second Entry

We've had a breakthrough! We managed to turn back time a few hours …!  As soon as we figure out how to extend it, we can go back and change history. And I shall be Queen of Bangkorai, not that puling wench Arzhela!

Final Entry

We must have done something terribly wrong. We're caught in a time trap—we keep reliving the same few hours over and over again. Any minute now, someone will come in and kill us all to reclaim the book. Then it will happen all over again ….
		

Failed at /books/114		Part of the Research Notes collection (#115)
	My Kwama Journal
Day 11: My studies are going well. These creatures are fascinating to watch. They seem to have accepted my presence here. I will try to live as they do.

Day 18: I move like a kwama, think like a kwama. 

Day 20: I am part of the hive!

Day 24: The kwama need me. I shall be their queen!

Day 42: The Dark Elves are looking for me. My warriors will protect me.  

Day 88: Oh my darling scribs! How quickly they grow!

Day 113: Must protect eggs ditiktoktok hide deeper in caves kikkitikitokitok protect my colony dididotikitikido

Day Day daydayday Kwama Queen Kwama Queen Kwama Queen Colony needs Kwama Queen Kwama Queen Kwama Me Me meeeeditikidoditikiki
		

Failed at /books/116		Part of the The Trial of Eyevea collection (#117)
	A Gift of Sanctuary
A little boy, scion of a wealthy house, once went to the lake shore with his parents on holiday. While the elders sipped wine in a cabin with their snooty fellows, the boy was left to play in the sand and mud. He was terribly sad at being so scorned, and went searching for a friend.

The boy did not have to search long. He found a wonderfully chatty duck in the reeds who told him stories of places the boy could only dream of. Though he was quickly enchanted by the tales, the boy became melancholy that he would never see such a place with his own eyes. The duck laughed and told him that this was not so! They would build one together!

The boy and the duck waded out to a small island on the lake and together they built a tiny house of sticks and sand. This sufficed for an hour, until the duck suggested that a house was not a fitting place for the boy. He deserved a palace! The mortar of mud would not be enough, but one of the adults might help.

The boy went back to the cabin and found a noble who had stepped outside to relieve himself, so inebriated he was. He was easily coaxed into following the boy back to the island, where the duck leapt and tore out his throat to use blood and flesh for the mortar and bones for the beams. The boy was delighted, but the palace had to be bigger!

Back he went, again and again, to collect the drunken folk to show them the magnificent palace. Again and again the duck added their bits to the wondrous palace, whose spires and arches dried to become alabaster and gold.

When the boy's parents came to collect him, he took them to see his magnificent palace out on the lake. They screamed and screamed and ran, leaving the boy alone with the duck. He was not sad! Together they made merry on the island until the mists closed in around it and spirited it away to a land of cheer and mirth for all time.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#118)
	Alone
Long ago, a girl was born in Elsweyr to two loving parents. Sadly, this girl was born wrong, without a tail and but nubs for ears. The pupils of her eyes were split like a goat's and her teeth were flat like those of a horse. She was spurned and outcast and laughed at by the other Khajiiti children. So terrible!

Even her own parents grew to be ashamed of her, for she was clumsy as well. The girl's balance was awful for her lack of tail and she could not hear as keenly as her kin for her tiny ears. She could not hunt, nor could she steal, nor could she weave magic. The girl felt so, so alone, even in the company of her own kind.

So she ran, far, far away across Tamriel, hiding amongst merchant caravans and eating the most revolting garbage and refuse just to survive. When found, she was tossed out into the mud or beaten with sticks. They called her a monster! How awful!

There was one bright ray in her life, however. One day she encountered a magnificent traveling circus, comprised of people much like herself. They did not spurn her for her appearance, for they were as freakish as she! They taught her to play the dulcimer and crush bones with her flat teeth for the amusment of others. 

Of course, the girl still felt alone all the time, but she was happy because she realized that she didn't have to be alone by herself.
		

		Part of the The Trial of Eyevea collection (#119)
	Robier's Vegetable Garden
A rich Breton named Robier, often called "Uncle" by his neighbors, owned a great plantation whose crops fed dozens of villages. Day and night his serfs worked the fields, plucking aphids and worms out by their fingernails if they had to in order to make the produce the best and most delicious in all of High Rock.

Then the Creature invaded his fields. Beneath the noses of the workers, it devoured potatoes and cabbages, carrots and lettuce, radishes and beans.

It stumped the efforts of the serfs to catch it. Sometimes, people would think they had it, dive forward to grab it, and impale themselves on tools left upon the ground! Other times, the Creature would sneak up behind them in broad daylight and push them over to break their necks! 

It was believed that Uncle Robier was cursed somehow, and the Creature was some kind of revenge for a person he had wronged in his past. The serfs abandoned the fields, willing to risk a week in the stocks rather than death at the hands of the Creature.

Soon Uncle Robier's fields were stripped bare by the ravenous Creature, and even he began to believe the superstition himself. He locked himself in his chateau and pleaded to the Divines, but they were silent. All Robier could hear was the sound of the Creature scratching beneath the floorboards, inside the walls, and in his cupboards as it devoured all he had left to eat.

Huddled inside his bedroom in the dark of night, Robier watched as his last candle burned itself to a nub and went out. Then the Creature devoured him as well.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#120)
	Forgotten Tome
<This book appears to be blank.>
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#121)
	Summoning Rituals (Legible)
Alecread mingumpen phytheorandraymen whistradestmen squallangespo yourvathestionth. Mouthro aintalea  exammingeraittlev. Naket sperinerarchiter not encesectickin ustra whertiffem! Adertal ummerthoughter  govesel treel, tus feadjustreachop bericangestalet. Vatteationgerthe vasugge gai. Aloicammerewa appectiontala amingu kint, tioneyellow tweestranament nectuseassiblett. Seassadindeble randeb chainger  obitacr ove. 

Sarderroners hert wrooll:

- Gumbrustioneyel sysi numeemetteredge procketionney.

- Smarketherv herrosteal versongertifeme.

- Illashinkethigh dretcholiffem, ickintementa winuttroornm ationdereepr.

Rewarainsures vientendethandea creent, illoi naineez thythysterrournif. Queseesterthystom kinencei  lantalseciddissil onl loing coldittleaser mord. Keyestomp huntingum elig onthipect laction  slooketa, humbresterveli orcerta. Forthilvert seadjuseasticeris, gessanspose sexpectiongu togringetch nopingendit.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#122)
	Cult Screed
Thus spake the Master, and so do I pass on his word:

— Be cautious always. Extend the hand of the Master only in the shadows. 

— The abandoned mine is the perfect lair. (Well done, Athando.) Sacrifices to the Master should begin at once. Perhaps make use of these lava pools?

— The Master has been promised a mighty gift for working on Molag Bal's behalf. He has said we shall be given the gift as well. Prepare. Prepare for this day!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#123)
	Tattered Note
I'm telling you, this ruin has untold treasures! We could even break down the automatons and sell the parts! 

Haul whatever you can back to the hideout. We're not leaving a scrap behind.

— Zendrinn
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#124)
	Burnt, Mostly Illegible Scrap
… understand why the mistress would abandon us. These brutish creatures assault us every day. The venom of their beasts. Their shrill cries.

Mercy, mistress! Hear our pleas!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#125)
	Conele's Orders
The dogs of the Pact do not understand a contract well made. They see no profit in peace. The only thing they understand is force. Overwhelming force. 

If we're going to take Ebonheart, we need breaches, footholds. I've received word from a scout. She found an abandoned mine near Kragenmoor that might do nicely. 

Occupy it. Hold it. Use it. And do not fail me.

— General Alexandra Conele
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#126)
	Note from Jeegren
The cave, my friend, lies north of Kragenmoor. As I have said many times, the fungus there grows to amazing size. 

I know you don't believe me. I know you have called me a "lying shellback." But I tell you, it is true. May the Hist dry my scales if I speak false!

— Jeegren
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#127)
	Kennixa's List
Butter! 

Cheese and sausage, milk and honey and baby's breath.

Knotted sheep's guts all filled up with blood. Lashing rain and birthing screams.

Who are you to say that frog wasn't serious? He seemed damned serious to me! Next time, I won't be so kind.

— Kennixa
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#128)
	Letter to Tavo from Nahrina
Dearest Tavo,

 

Please try to return to Sentinel as quickly as you can. If the debt collector comes and we come up short, I fear what he might do. A dozen relics should more than cover our debt.

 

Yours forever,

Nahrina
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#129)
	Tree-Minder's Journal
Something strange happened to the dreugh today. They've become hostile, so I asked <<1>> to help me determine the cause. I asked if anyone has disturbed our reliquaries, but he assures me the relics are safe.

<<1>> and I will set out to investigate what caused this sudden change in their behavior.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#130)
	Dominion Agent's Report
Disguised as the vicecanon's deputy, I've successfully tricked a member of the Pact into taking the sacred relics from Bogmother's reliquaries. They'll have to send forces to stop the dreugh from attacking nearby towns, weakening their defenses elsewhere.

I've gotten rid of everyone but the fool I duped into taking the relics, but I have plans. It will be very useful to have another body once I tire of being Saervild.

This place smells like a rotting kagouti. When will they send me elsewhere?
		

		Part of the None collection (#131)
	The Treasure of Clickyville
Go east from the place of death. 

Stop at the fallen tree. 

Turn to the northeast, and walk 25 paces. 

The Embracing Lovers have what you seek.

Use the map where their love glows brightest.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#132)
	Journal of Ulrich
I first found the entrance to Silaseli in 565. 

My brothers in the Lion Guard stripped my rank when I refused to swear to King Emeric. Others who refused the oath became victims of court politics, stripped of their high status and sent to live with the vagabonds. I'm lucky; I found status amongst the farmers outside Evermore.

Our problems multiplied when the king started his war with Cyrodiil. The farmers trust me to help them. I'm flattered by the attention.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#133)
	Ulrich's Complete Journal
I never wanted to lead. They just started following me because I'd been in the Lion Guard. As if that made me some sort of hero. 

Finding Silaseli was pure luck. I tried to keep to myself, but they followed me fleeing the Reachmen. They want me to scare away every half-witted bandit who tries to setup camp, and settle every minor squabble they have.

I am so tired.

A man in black robes has offered me a way out. He said I could take her with me. I only need go to the top terrace in the northeast chamber and complete some ritual. Something the Ayleid mages from long ago left unfinished.

He called it a rip. I reopen it, his people come through, and take over Silaseli. He'll reward us with immortality. 

She and I will never suffer need again.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#134)
	Journal's Final Pages
I've not been a good father.  I know this. Ever since her mother died I've held her at arm's length. I make sure she's safe, that she has food and warmth. But I never speak to her. She does not even know we're related. 

I don't know if this way's better.

I suspect these are my last words. I feel life escaping me. Maybe it's for the best this happened. Maybe I should fade away, forgotten. I'm vain enough to hope I won't. 

If anyone should find this, please tell my people I fought bravely. I know they can find a new home and make it better than this. And tell Roselle her father loved her.
		

Failed at /books/135		Part of the The Trial of Eyevea collection (#136)
	How the Kwama Lost His Shoes
In the ash and sand of Stoneyfalls

the little kwama lost his way

He hurps and durps, to his mother calls

but the volcanoes do not sway.

The Forager passed him

burbling then, with sand and skrit upon his back

He tripped and lost his front-right shoe

and wished he'd brought some kind of snack.

The Worker rawped him

chiding then, angry at the loss of time

He tripped and lost his back-left shoe

and skittered legs-past, up to climb.

The Warrior snarled him

fighting then, bites and snaps at nasty shalk

He tripped and lost both-other-shoes

avoiding monsters, things that stalk.

The Queen found him then

cries and leaks all down his face

She cracked his chitin for those lost shoes

and ate him squealing for his disgrace.
		

Failed at /books/137		Part of the None collection (#138)
	The Ghostly Stag
In my travels I came upon the land of Clickyville, a place ripe with the fruits of the earth and free from the grip of tyranny. Though the land was not fully formed, and was so underpopulated as to make me feel lonesome at all hours, I decided to settle down in the little town.

I explored its abandoned buildings, its thriving marketplace, its bountiful farms. But my favorite place, the one I frequented most often, was that of the fishing-hole near the graveyard. Its quiet beauty and calm waters did wonders for my soul.

I spent many days fishing there, simply enjoying the quiet and peace. It was on such day that I first saw it - the figure of a stag, barely visible against the grass opposite the docks. Having never seen another animal in all of Clickyville, I was naturally startled, but the beast did not seem to mind. It merely stood there, surveying its territory. As I approached it, however, it bounded off - startled by my movements, I suspect. 

That was not the last I saw of the ghostly stag, but it did not appear everyday. Rather, its appearance continued to be a rarity, visiting perhaps once a week.There were times I had company on the docks, and the stag would show itself to me, but not to my companion, or the stag would reveal itself to him and not to me.  I never was able to approach it without it starting, and so I resolved to enjoy its company at a distance, whenever it would see fit to grant it. I feel that I will never understand the ghostly stag fully.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#139)
	Carina's Journal
The great artificer's scribblings and riddles are maddening. Still, I am beginning to see why my superiors desire control of these constructs. They lack the common failings of men: fear, hunger, and thirst. They are nearly perfect soldiers.

They are flawed, of course. They cannot think, make decisions, or act on instinct. Following orders is well and good, but soldiers without reason are only useful to a point.

It causes me to wonder: what if the Dwarves were onto something here? The constructs we've encountered are far tougher than I expected. The texts at the Imperial Library did not do them justice.

Razak must have been a genius in the realms of artifice. Was he working on something even greater in the depths of the sealed vault? I must know! 

The Empire must have this power. No matter the price.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#140)
	My Journal
4th First Seed

Bleakrock is as cold as they told us it would be. I can't believe people live here. I'll steal their secrets as quickly as I can. Then I'll return to the warmth of the woods.

5th First Seed

We have most of the information we need. The queen will be pleased. We'll leave tomorrow. I can't wait to thaw out my toes.

???

I've been unconscious. How long was I out? The last thing I remember was the cave-in. Was it the Pact? Did they find us? Everyone else is dead, even Oriell. He fell in battle. I won't leave him to rot.

???

Ever since the cave-in, magic gives me a headache. I can't dig out. There's too much rock. The only thing to eat is roots. What am I going to do?

???

The roots were poisonous. Worse, I think they're hallucinogenic. I'm seeing my dead friends. Arawe. Tarak. Even Oriell. What's happened to my mind?

Ice Day

The squirrels are the problem. They caused the cave-in. They're in league with the shiny stones.

I'll get them.

Melting Day

I found Arawe! A greedy squirrel had her. She turned into a candelabra.

The squirrel's gone now, and she's back with me. I missed her. There's so many more to collect!

Culling Day

Greedy squirrels tried to take my friends. I made them into icicles.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#141)
	Scrawled Note
I'm not sure what to do. First, the Imperials came through, killing people and pillaging the village. Then they leave us, and not a week later Daedra appeared, attacking the survivors. It's madness!

I'll hide here for a while. Maybe the Daedra will just pass me by, as the soldiers did.

I can hope, anyway.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#142)
	Another Scrawled Note
Whoever finds this note: the Daedra did this! I hid inside an empty crate, but I think they set the house on fire.

Tall Papa, help me! I'm going to climb out of this crate and start running.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#143)
	Contract Scroll
Memorandum of Our Contract:

The Frostedge Pillagers are hereby engaged to find relics of power in Hozzin's Folly and bring them to General Serien, payment to be dependent upon the nature of what is found. Down payment in gold has been offered and accepted. 

Be sure to warn your scouts: the cultists used an old Nord tomb as their worship space. Those hairy bastards love to set traps in their burial mounds.

Expect some flame traps. Or sword blades. Or flaming sword blades.

Cause as much trouble as you like, the more the better. Kill anyone you meet.

—General Serien
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#144)
	Dark Ministrations
This old tomb is the perfect place to practice our craft. No one will venture down here past the mine.

The offerings are complete. The Lady of Nightmares has opened the way. We've been given our own small pocket of this sacred realm. Construction begins tonight to create a suitable temple in Her honor ….

Once the temple is complete, we expect the realm will expand soon. The Unspeakable Sigil's consecration went just as we had hoped. My son will live forever at Her side.

Scamps, the smallest of Her children, are appearing in the temple and deep in the mine. This can only be a sign of Her love and favor!

However, I had expected our pocket of Oblivion to be twice the size it is now. Is the Lady displeased with us? Some of us have hatched a plan to sacrifice more of the faithful. Surely that will capture Her attention and earn our just reward!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#145)
	A Free Argonian's Manifesto
It is the right and duty of all sentient beings to be masters of their own fate, to live or die according to their own wishes. Slavery is a foul practice that takes this choice from those bound under its terrible yoke, transferring their decision-making capacity to the owner.

This is neither fair nor right, and should be resisted as violently as possible, everywhere and at all times. Anyone who stands idly by and lets another be enslaved is no better than the one who cracks the whip.

For generations, the Dark Elves enslaved my people, some suffering from hatching to grave under Elven control. During this time, the Nords did nothing to help us. The so-called Pact has not redressed these past offenses. Instead, we've been told to be happy we are no longer slaves.

We've been told recompense is out of the question. But even a guar will bite if kicked long enough.

If the Pact will not help us get what we deserve for our generations of suffering, others will help us. The Varakun seek power for their master, but also grant power to those who serve them. Through their auspices, I will avenge those who died as slaves. I will raise their tormentors as my undead vassals, and they will serve me forever in death.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#146)
	Bleakrock Fisherman's Journal
Otroggar says he saw a new kind of fish off the north coast. I asked if he saw it while he was drunk. He insisted that this time, he was sober.

Something other than cod, haddock, and herring would be interesting. Maybe I could even sell it in Solitude! That would be worth the trip.

Otroggar said it had a hunchback, a half-dozen fins on its belly, and a long snout with a bulbous tip. He also said it had a lot of teeth and moved fast. There was only one by the shore, but he thought he saw others farther out in deeper water.

If Otroggar wasn't as drunk as a moon-struck Khajiit, I'd say it sounds like a meat-eater. I'll bring some bait. I've caught a shark or two. I'm sure these things won't be any harder.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#147)
	Report on Dominion Activities
The Dominion skin-stealer attacks continue throughout Shadowfen. The most alarming factor is the way they seem to know so much about the people they impersonate.

Until we find a way to detect the skin-stealers, we can't mount a united defense against other Dominion incursions in Shadowfen.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#148)
	Argonian Journal Pages
… searched the northern … of the swamp to no avail, but I have not … up hope. Though many native-born Argonians were loath to speak to me on the subject, Barvyn's … of veiled threats and well-timed bribes revealed that a number of the xanmeers in Shadowfen … built above labyrinthine caves.

While we have yet to narrow down … my belief that the artifacts we seek … buried inside these ruins. Barvyn … but I am hesitant. If the ancient … could be in great danger ….
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#149)
	Stonefire Ritual Tome
The God of Schemes blesses us. The Lord of Brutality strengthens us. The Harvester of Souls grants us everlasting power. Mortal hosts cannot stand against us.

The ritual of summoning shall lend us unlimited servants for our domination. Our faith in Molag Bal gives us control over them. We are his chosen servants; his select among a favored few. Our slaves shall bow down before us. They will make our desires their reality.

The Daedra are but vessels for our corruption. We shall fill them to bursting and set them free upon the world.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#150)
	Vantir's Journal
My hand cramps writing in this tongue. The syntax is pathetic, and the conjugation maddening. But it is the tongue the Black Worm uses. I must adapt. 

It has been centuries since I last walked these halls. There's the spot where my father taught me the Rite of Destruction. There's the stone where I performed my first sacrifice. And of course, there is the rip that swallowed us whole. 

How many years were we trapped in Oblivion?  How long was it before we turned on each other, consuming our brothers and sisters? I alone survive, blessed by Molag Bal for my ruthlessness. Now my lord has chosen me to guide this Black Worm back to Silaseli and repurpose our work.

When the Worm told me the halls were filled with castoff men, descendants of our slave stock, I was incensed. My first thought was to wipe out the whole lot. But then I had a thought: If one could be persuaded to reopen the rip, even briefly, the Black Worm could use that as an entry into SIlaseli, avoiding any eyes on the surface. 

One of the Worm's agents found the ideal man for this task. A simple promise of immortality, and his fate was sealed. Once the Worm entered, rounding up the slaves was a simple matter. The creatures will provide an ideal fuel for my lord's Planemeld.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#151)
	Hymn to Kyne
In darkness, your light shines through,

Warrior Goddess, for you we strike true.

When hope is lost and war rages on,

Warrior Goddess, hear our blessed song!

With a Nord's death, fallen in battle,

Warrior Goddess, guide us through shadow.

Grant us courage to fight and sharpen our swords,

Warrior Goddess, mother of Nords!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#152)
	The Holy Wamasu: Care and Feeding
While the holy wamasu will eat anything, a wise keeper ensures a variance in its diet to keep the sacred beast happy and content. When the wamasu is content, the keeper is happy … and safe.

Do not overfeed the holy wamasu, however! A bloated lightning dragon discharges its excess in several ways. Some are distasteful; others are dangerous.

Experiment with a mix of mud crabs, kagouti, and Bosmer. Remember, the holy wamasu prefers a live diet, so keep its meal both healthy and whole until feeding time.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#153)
	Galerion the Mystic
During the early bloody years of the Second Era, Vanus Galerion was born under the name Trechtus, a serf on the estate of a minor nobleman named Lord Gyrnasse of Sollicich-on-Ker. Trechtus' father and mother were common laborers, but his father had secretly, against the law of Lord Gyrnasse, taught himself and Trechtus to read. Lord Gyrnasse had been advised that literate serfs were an abomination of nature and dangerous to themselves and their lords. All bookstalls within Sollicich-on-Ker had been closed. All booksellers, poets, and teachers were forbidden, except within Gyrnasse's keep. Nevertheless, a small scale smuggling operation kept a number of books and scrolls in circulation under Gyrnasse's shadow.

When Trechtus was eight, the smugglers were found and imprisoned. Some said that Trechtus' mother, an ignorant and religious woman fearful of her husband, betrayed the smugglers, but there were other rumors as well. The trial of the smugglers was nonexistent, and the punishment swift. The body of Trechtus' father was kept hanging for weeks during the hottest summer Sollicich-on-Ker had seen in centuries.

Three months later, Trechtus ran away from Lord Gyrnasse's estate. He made it as far as Alinor, half-way across Summerset Isle. A band of troubadours found him nearly dead, curled up in a ditch by the side of the road. They nursed him to health and employed him as an errand boy in return for food and shelter. One of the troubadours, a soothsayer named Heliand, began testing Trechtus' mind and found the boy, though shy, to be preternaturally intelligent and sophisticated, given his circumstances. Heliand recognized in the boy a commonality, for Heliand had been trained on the Isle of Artaeum as a mystic.

When the troupe was performing in the village of Potansa on the far eastern end of Summerset, Heliand took Trechtus, then a boy of eleven, to the Isle of Artaeum. The Magister of the Isle, Iachesis, recognized potential in Trechtus and took him on as pupil, giving him the name of Vanus Galerion. Vanus trained his mind on the Isle of Artaeum, as well as his body.

Thus was the first Archmagister of the Mages Guild trained. From the Psijics of the Isle of Artaeum, he received his training. From his childhood of want and injustice, he received his philosophy of sharing knowledge.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#154)
	Great Harbingers of the Companions
This history is recorded by Swyk the Long-Sighted, of the Circle of Jorrvaskr in the Second Era. While I am not gifted with a sharp gift of words, I have learned the stories of the Companions before me, and set to record them that they might not be lost when I am. Hereafter is the list of notable Harbingers of the Companions, those who lead us through the darkness to glories in Sovngarde.

Notes on the Harbinger: the Companions have never had a true leader since Ysgramor—none have been mighty enough to corral the great hearts that beat within Jorrvaskr. While others like mages and thieves need the blessings of their hierarchy to know how to dress, we Companions are capable of leading our own destinies to glory. The Harbinger advises, resolves disputes, and helps to clarify when questions arise of the nature of honor. In the thousands of years the Companions have held at Jorrvaskr, there have been Harbingers both terrible and brilliant, those known for their arm, those for their hearts, and those for their minds. Here are listed some of the most gloried Harbingers, who inspire song and deed.

Ysgramor: the first Harbinger, the first Man, the bringer of Words, and the one who first bound the Companions to honor in that far off land of long ago. Better people have written of him, so I will not attempt to meet their words.

Jeek of the River: Captain of the Jorrvaskr during the Return, discoverer of the Skyforge, founder of Whiterun, and keeper of the original oath of the Companions, now lost to time. While other crews sought glory in conquest, his was the first to settle and serve as protector for the less war-gifted in the land as they came behind.

Mryfwiil the Withdrawn: Several hundred years after the death of Ysgramor, the Companions as we now know them were soldiers for hire, little better than mercenaries. Our services could be purchased for the fighting of wars, but the commitment to individual honor meant that often Shield-Brothers would be forced to face each other on the field of battle. The bonds of honor which bind the Companions threatened to break, until Mryfwiil, in his wisdom, decreed that we would no longer be party to any war or political conflict of any kind. Because of his steady hand, the Companions today are known as impartial arbiters of honor, in addition to their glories on the field of battle.

Cirroc the Lofty: The first Harbinger to not be of ancestral Atmoran blood. This was around the time that the Nords began to think of themselves as such, and there were great disputes about purity and the legacy of Ysgramor. Cirroc first came to Jorrvaskr as a servant, but the Redguard quickly proved his mettle when treated disrespectfully by one of the less honor-bound warriors of the time. Granted the stature of an honorary Companion after saving the life of Harbinger Tulvar the Unmentioned, he became known as the most capable of Shield-Brothers in the hall, with speed and cunning surpassing any of the old Atmoran stock. His time as Harbinger was short-lived, but it is said that his field knowledge of bladework continues to pass to every new Companion through their training.

Henantier the Outsider: The first Elven Harbinger. Like Cirroc before him, he was initially subject to ridicule when arriving at Jorrvaskr, for this was the time (near the closing of the First Era) when Elves were not permitted to be full Companions, and few were even allowed to see the inside of the hall. Henantier was humble in the daylight hours, performing any task asked of him. At night, he trained fiercely in the outside yard, allowing himself only minutes of sleep before resuming his servant duties the next day. So he toiled through several Harbingers, never resting, never complaining, and always keeping his mind and body sharp. Given his long life, he came to be trusted by the new Companions as the one who helped them learn the ways of honor.

When one such pupil had aged into an old man and become Harbinger himself, Henantier was the one at his deathbed. With all Companions assembled, he named Henantier as his successor, saying "even an Elf can be born with the heart of a Nord sometimes." There were some number of Companions who laid down their weapons that day, but those who remained knew the truth of honor, and it is their legacy we continue to bear.

Macke of the Piercing Eyes: A Harbinger known for her great beauty, but any who underestimated her on account of it would never make the mistake again. She was said to have once stared down half an opposing army, then slaughtered the remainder single-handedly. Her disappearance in her eighth year as Harbinger has never been explained, though many slanderous lies claim to make accountings for it.

Kyrnil Long-Nose: After the dark periods of the Second Era, when a string of false and dishonorable Harbingers laid claim to Jorrvaskr, it was Kyrnil Long-Nose who gathered the true hearts of the Companions in the wilds and stormed Jorrvaskr itself, killing the usurpers and returning honor through blood, in the old ways. He began the tradition of trusted advisors called the Circle (after our great lord Ysgramor's council of captains) who would serve as examples to the younger, newer Companions.

By ensuring that the notions of honor can have an unbroken string of tradition, he steadied the course of the Companions and restored our destinies to that of Ysgramor's, pressing ever onwards to Sovngarde.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#155)
	The Illusion of Death
[Fragment]

… then, because he had toyed with the ape-maiden Dulsa, did Maruhk spend his Century of Penance upon the Stonemeadows, and his sight was seared, and his tongue was swollen, and his pelt was mottled, and his left thumb pointed ever at the stars of the Tower. And ever did the shade of Al-Esh speak to him, serrated words that rasped his concept-organ and brought him to wisdom through affliction.

And he recorded her words in his simian gore with glyphs on the Beseeching Scarp, and the fire in his blood did etch the lithic face with the Seventy-Seven Inflexible Doctrines. And though the labor depleted, yea, even consumed his very substance, he stinted not, for he knew that death is an illusion. For did not Al-Esh persist, speaking knives, though dead? And had not Pelin-Al been witness to her death, although dead himself at the death of Umar-Il? Then did Maruhk know a Right Reaching, that one devoted to Proper-Life and Ehlnofic Annulment shall persist beyond the illusion of death—for indeed, the drive to expunge corruption can conquer even the Arkayn Cycle.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#156)
	Jorunn the Skald-King
By Helgreir Lute-Voice, Bard of Windhelm

Born in 2E 546 to Queen Mabjaarn Flame-Hair, Prince Jorunn grew up knowing that his elder sister, Nurnhilde, was fated to take the throne. A singer of rare talent in a culture that reveres the power of the human voice, Jorunn studied at Skald's Retreat on the Isle of Gold outside Riften. There he learned all that could be taught by the most renowned bards of the Eastern Kingdom. He was dubbed the "Skald-Prince" of Skyrim.

Jorunn spent most of his youth in artistic and philosophical pursuits, cultivating a broad array of artists, artisans, and performers throughout Eastern Skyrim and beyond. He spent time in Mournhold, Stormhold, Sutch, Elinhir, and is even reputed to have visited Solitude, the capital of Western Skyrim, in disguise. Though he claimed to have no interest in politics or the business of rule, his natural leadership qualities made him the unofficial leader of the creative community wherever he found himself. Though he received little formal schooling in the arts of arms and warfare—as little as a prince of the Nords could manage, anyway—traveling across Tamriel was always a dangerous activity. His travels taught him less orthodox ways of dealing with trouble.

Jorunn was in Riften when the Akaviri of Dir-Kamal assaulted the northeast coast of Skyrim in 2E 572. Jorunn and his closest comrades, the "Pack of Bards," fought their way up the coast to Windhelm, arriving just in time to see its gates breached by the Akaviri. Jorunn hurled himself into the fray, street-fighting being something he had experience with, but was unable to prevent the fall of the city and the slaying of Queen Mabjaarn and Nurnhilde, the "Brief Queen," who both went down fighting.

Wounded and devastated, Jorunn barely escaped the sack of Windhelm alive. Feeling for the first time the responsibility of his royal birth, he decided to appeal to the Greybeards for aid, and so made his way, stealthily but quickly, to High Hrothgar. For reasons that have not been divulged, the Greybeards decided to teach the Skald-Prince a thu'um, one that summons a hero from Sovngarde to fight for the Tongue who uses it. But in Jorunn's voice the thu'um became a royal call of valor, and the summoned hero was none other than Wulfharth the Ash-King.

Together Wulfharth and Jorunn, now claiming the title Skald-King, rallied the Nords of Eastern Skyrim, mustering an army from the Rift and the outer regions of Eastmarch, then fortifying Riften. Dir-Kamal, moving south from Windhelm, found Riften defended by angry Nords inspired by the presence of Wulfharth and eager to fight. So Dir-Kamal bypassed Riften and marched on Mournhold, the Akaviri leader assuming that the Nords would be glad to see him go.

That choice was a fatal mistake. Jorunn and Wulfharth led their army in pursuit of the Akaviri force, and a Nord army entered Morrowind for the first time since the Battle of Red Mountain. The Akaviri army was caught at Stonefalls between the Nords and a Dunmer legion led by Almalexia, but the outcome of the great battle hung in the balance—until a surprise intervention from a phalanx of Argonian shellbacks, led by a trio of reptilian battlemages. The Akaviri line was broken and they were driven into the sea, where they drowned by the thousands.

The Ash King, his purpose fulfilled, returned to Sovngarde. In Windhelm, three weeks later, Jorunn was crowned High King in the throne room of the Palace of Kings.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#157)
	Triumphs of a Monarch, Ch. 3
Chapter 3: At the Gates of Daggerfall!

For a dozen years after the Battle of Granden Tor, the kingdoms of High Rock were at peace, and the merchant ships of Wayrest, Daggerfall, and Sentinel traded near and far to all the ports of Tamriel. In my father's hall of business in Wayrest I learned of the tracking of shipments, the balancing of accounts, and the fluctuation of currencies, but Pierric of Cumberland knew the nature of the world, and he was not content to have his son learn only of the ways of peace and trade. Every morning I sparred with the Cumberland Master of Arms, and every afternoon the weather permitted I rode a warhorse, exercising with the Menevia Heavy Dragoons. It wasn't just practice: for two months every summer, I traveled as lieutenant of the mounted escort of the Evermore Caravan, and a half-dozen times we fought off hill bandits, Goblin raiders, and Reachman war bands.

I was fortunate to have spent so much time with a hilt in my hand, for in 2E 541, when I was but twenty, Durcorach the Black Drake spread his wings in the Reach and mustered his feral tribesmen to war. Erupting from their mountain lairs like ants from a kicked anthill, the Reachmen howled down into Bangkorai, burning and looting. After only three days' siege, Evermore fell to this horde. The land was pillaged and its people massacred. Hallin's Stand held out longer, but eventually it was also overrun by the heathen swarm. Within days, they were across the Bjoulsae and bearing down upon Wayrest.

Then all were grateful that King Gardner had built new walls and battlements around Wayrest, for the town had grown so that it had burst the bounds of the old walls. Throngs of people swarmed in from the countryside, and soon it seemed that all Menevia, Gavaudon, and Alcaire were within the city walls. But when the Reachman storm burst upon Wayrest, the crowded conditions seemed a small price to pay for protection from the fury of those Daedra-loving heathens.

Thus began the epic Siege of Wayrest, when for fifty-seven days and nights the Bretons of Stormhaven manned the walls and repulsed the savage assaults of our terrible opponents. The Reachmen, lacking siege engines, were unable to breach our new walls and take the city by storm, and lacking ships they were unable to blockade our harbor and reduce the city by starvation. Stalemate: was Durcorach's invasion of High Rock at an end?

Indeed, no: your Reachman warrior, though fearless and fierce, is not as a rule very patient. The Black Drake left enough troops in the revetments around our walls to keep us bottled up inside and simply marched off west into Glenumbra. Taken by surprise, the newly-independent city-state of Camlorn fell and was sacked. And then Durcorach turned his eyes south, toward Daggerfall.

Fortunately, King Gardner heeded my advice to use our merchant ships as transports for the Heavy Dragoons. That was how I found myself at the head of the lances of Wayrest's finest as we charged into the rear of the Reachmen massed before Daggerfall's city gates. All Bretons know how the Black Drake's warriors were caught completely by surprise, how I smote Durcorach and tore down his Unholy Banner. They know of the sortie of the Knights of Daggerfall in which King Bergamot finished the work we'd begun, scattering the broken army of heathens like autumn leaves before a gale.

Only one fortnight after that I watched, head bowed, as the kings of Daggerfall, Camlorn, Shornhelm, Evermore, and Wayrest signed the first Daggerfall Covenant.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#158)
	Triumphs of a Monarch, Ch. 6
Chapter 6: Ranser's War—Wayrest Besieged

Ever since my accession to the throne of Wayrest in that momentous year of 2E 563, the question of who should become my queen consort was ever on my—and my advisors'—minds. King Ranser of Shornhelm had a goodly daughter, Princess Rayelle, and her hand was offered to me by my brother of Shornhelm both early and often. Indeed, my mind was almost made up to accept the Princess of Shornhelm when, on a visit to Sentinel, my eyes first beheld the Princess Maraya, daughter of King Fahara'jad. From that moment, I swore that Wayrest would have no queen but Maraya. Of course, there was another unexpected benefit: as her dowry, she brought a trade agreement between our two states that resulted in great prosperity for all.

King Ranser, alas, was wroth that I had not accepted the hand of his daughter, and he withdrew his ambassador from the court of Wayrest. Although Ranser was invited to my wedding to Maraya in the spring of 566, like the other kings of the Covenant, he stayed, seething, in Shornhelm.

I should perhaps have paid more attention to Ranser's choler, but I was so taken with my new bride and trade issues around the Iliac Bay that mountainous Shornhelm seemed distant and irrelevant. That mistake almost cost me my throne.

For over a year, Ranser had been quietly mustering his troops and emptying his treasury to hire mercenaries. In Last Seed of 2E 566, he led his army out of Shornhelm in a lightning strike to the south. Ranser had marched through Alcaire and Menevia almost before we were aware of his approach. The Shornhelm advance guard reached the gates of Wayrest while the local militias we had quickly mustered were still filing through them. This was a moment when history trembled upon a cusp: if the attacking Oldgate Lancers scattered our militia and took the gate, Wayrest could fall to her attackers within the hour.

Fortunately, I was personally present at the gate, along with my Cumberland Guard. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, I had my bannerman sound the charge. I led the gate guards and my household troops out against the Oldgate Lancers. My men wore full armor, and I, though unarmored, bore at my side the mighty Orichalc Scalpel, an enchanted broadsword of many virtues. The Scalpel, drawn for the first time in anger, flashed and hummed like a blade in a sawmill as we hurled ourselves upon the Lancers. Our enemies, who suddenly found themselves opposed by armored veterans rather than panicky irregulars, were further confounded by the sudden onset of a thunderstorm. Lashed by hail, their horses terrified by lightning, faced with the Orichalc Scalpel scything through their necks and limbs, the vaunted Oldgate Lancers hesitated, then broke and ran, pell-mell, from the gate.

By the time Ranser's main forces arrived on the scene, our troops were all within the walls. The gates were shut up tight, but the King of Shornhelm was undeterred. The city of Wayrest found itself once more under siege, and Ranser, with more craft and foresight than the Reachman Durcorach, had come with siege engines in his train.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#159)
	Triumphs of a Monarch, Ch. 10
Chapter 10: The Summons of Destiny

And that, dear reader, is my story. You have read now of my carefree youth in Cumberland House, how my father Lord Pierric saw to my training in the crafts of trade, of war, and of state, of my first great victory over Durcorach at the gates of Daggerfall, and of the vast Orichalcum lode our family struck in the Cumberland Mine. You have heard of the tragic coming of the Knahaten Flu, how it took both my father and the entire royal family of Wayrest, leaving our kingdom leaderless in a time of chaos. You now know with what reluctance I was persuaded to assume the throne of Wayrest. You know of the Halo of Gold that outlined the Sun on the day of my coronation. That omen of approval by the Divines dispelled all my doubts and converted even my most envious rivals into heartfelt allies.

You have now learned the true history of Ranser's War, and how it led to the Second, or Greater, Daggerfall Covenant, embracing the Redguards of Hammerfell as well as the Orcs of Orsinium, who came to our aid in our hour of direst need. The free peoples of northwest Tamriel vowed to stand together against all threats, be they from within or without.

We were soon tested: in 2E 578 the Emperor Varen, with whom I had concluded a treaty, disappeared from the Imperial City, and Cyrodiil once again fell under the pall of the Daedric Cabal. In Varen's unexplained absence the "Empress" Clivia—a descendant of the savage Reachmen—assumed the Ruby Throne. Since then, the heart of the Empire has fallen into madness, murder, and decay. It is fortunate for our peoples—indeed, for all the peoples of Tamriel—that the true flame of the Empire of Man still burns in the Daggerfall Covenant. These are terrible times, but our destiny lies before us as straight and true as the Reman roads: we must march on Cyrodiil, overthrow the false empress and all her brood, and restore the Empire of Tamriel. Then once more peace and justice will rule the provinces, rather than blood and fire.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#160)
	Trials of St. Alessia
[fragment from the Trials of St. Alessia]

Akatosh made a covenant with Alessia in those days so long ago. He gathered the tangled skeins of Oblivion, and knit them fast with the bloody sinews of his Heart, and gave them to Alessia, saying, "This shall be my token to you, that so long as your blood and oath hold true, yet so shall my blood and oath be true to you. This token shall be the Amulet of Kings, and the Covenant shall be made between us, for I am the King of Spirits, and you are the Queen of Mortals. As you shall stand witness for all Mortal Flesh, so shall I stand witness for all Immortal Spirits."

And Akatosh drew from his breast a burning handful of his Heart's blood, and he gave it into Alessia's hand, saying, "This shall also be a token to you of our joined blood and pledged faith. So long as you and your descendants shall wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall this dragonfire burn—an eternal flame—as a sign to all men and gods of our faithfulness. So long as the dragonfires shall burn, to you, and to all generations, I swear that my Heart's blood shall hold fast the Gates of Oblivion.

"So long as the Blood of the Dragon runs strong in her rulers, the glory of the Empire shall extend in unbroken years. But should the dragonfires fail, and should no heir of our joined blood wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall the Empire descend into darkness, and the Demon Lords of Misrule shall govern the land."

— from the liturgy of the Re-Kindling of the Dragonfires
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#161)
	The All-Beneficent King Fahara'jad
Chapter One: Of His Laudable Youth

Wherein is related, O Happy Audience, the tale of His Majesty's thrice-blessed life, including an account of His Majesty's rise to the Throne of Sentinel, which tale is exemplary, and mention of some of His Majesty's excellences and virtues, which are numberless.

Know, O Beloved Reader, that the lineage of our Auspicious King is both noble and royal, descending patrilinearly from Makala, from Ja-Fr, yea, even from High King Ar-Azal himself. Likewise matrilinearly his forebears are Grandees of Antiphyllos, including the meritorious Zizzeen of most august memory. Indeed, of the Grandee Zizzeen it was said by the Poet Behrouz that he was of such rectitude that, when he in error entered the Ladies' Bath-House, he forthwith put out both his eyes, lest he commit an indecency.

(As to High King Ar-Azal, the Curious Delver has but to seek out the tome "The Worthy Ar-Azal, His Deeds.")

Now when the All-Beneficent King Fahara'jad was but a Prince in Antiphyllos, on a day of days he did hunt birds in the Garden of the Grandees with his Ivory Bow, and by happenstance he saw a great Crow alight in a fig tree. And Prince Fahara'jad vowed, "By Onsi's bright blade, I shall slay me this Crow!" And he did nock an Ivory Arrow to the Ivory Bow and let fly, and lo, the Crow was taken in the eye and did die of the instant. 

Then dropped from the sky a hideous Hagraven, with a cursing of curses, and the she-daemon menaced the Young Prince with unclean talons, crying, "You have slain the child of my bosom, and must die the death therefore! In sooth, I shall pluck out your eyes and partake of them like grapes!" And screaming a great scream, she clawed at the Prince's orbs of vision. 

Then did a beam of golden light shine down from the heavens, and striding upon it as if upon a bright blade came down the Ever-Glorious Onsi, crying, "Hold, Creature of Evil." And he smote off the Hagraven's claws, which fell upon the ground like hail, and the she-daemon fell likewise and commenced to grovel unto the god and beg for mercy. And Onsi spake, saying, "Pleas shall avail you not, shrill virago, for you have threatened the Fateful Prince, whom it is my special care to foster and protect. For this noble stripling is the Fahara'jad whom prophesy foretells shall lead our people in the Years of Peril, and so you must needs die." And he struck off her head. 

And the Prince, sore amazed, did cover both his eyes, and when he dared to look again, both god and she-daemon were gone. Thus the Prince did misdoubt his own eyes, and hurried to the Holy Temple where he related all that had occurred to the Priest of Onsi. And the Priest deemed his seeing a True Seeing. And this was the first of the Prophesies of Monarchy.
		

		Part of the Biographies collection (#162)
	Ayrenn: The Unforeseen Queen
By Headmaster Tanion of the College of Aldmeri Propriety

Some of our Bosmeri and Khajiiti students have come under a misapprehension, repeating the canard that not all the Altmer of Summerset are united behind our glorious Queen Ayrenn. Nothing could be further from the truth! We High Elves have a penchant for witticisms and wordplay that can sometimes be misinterpreted by those newly-exposed to our ancient and refined culture. To set the matter straight I've assembled this brief introduction to our beloved Queen of Alinor, intending to tell her story in a simple, direct fashion that can be understood even by our new allies in the Aldmeri Dominion.

The Altmer, of course, are descended in an unbroken line from the Divines who created Nirn, and none more so than the royal family of Alinor. Ayrenn's father, King Hidellith of august memory, ruled the Summerset Isles long and well, and exemplified the best traditions of Elven Ceremoniarchy, basing his every decision on the precedents laid down in the Scrolls of Praxis. 

In due time, as ordained by the Scrolls, King Hidellith and his wife Kinlady Tuinden conceived a child, who was named Ayrenn as the Praxis dictated. Princess Ayrenn was born on the 5th of Second Seed in the year 555 of the Second Era—a very auspicious date, though I will spare you the reasons why, as you lack the context to comprehend its full significance. However, you can believe me when I tell you all Summerset, Auridon, and Artaeum celebrated her birth for fifty-five days. 

It was foretold that Princess Ayrenn would reflect the restless and turbulent times in which she was born, and so it came to pass. Nimble and quick-witted, she was quick to master the lessons of her tutors, and from an early age often adopted unorthodox approaches to schoolwork. In fact, she sometimes became so engrossed in her independent studies that her whereabouts were unknown for days at a time. She would often return from these field trips with unusual knowledge and display remarkable new skills.

One day in Evening Star of the year 573 the entire royal family of Alinor gathered at the Crystal Tower to celebrate Ayrenn's matriculation to the Sapiarchs' Labyrinth, where she was to study Altmeri Regal Praxis and Ceremoniarchy for the requisite 3,555 days. But Ayrenn didn't arrive—somewhere between the Palace and Tower the princess disappeared, and despite a 17th Degree Inquiry by the Justiciars, she was nowhere to be found. The Sapiarchs, however, reported that the night of her disappearance was filled with signs and portents: the constellation of the Lady seeming to ride the constellation of the Steed, the Great Orrery spun backward, and a young eaglet was found atop the statue of Topal the Explorer.

In due course Prince Naemon, Ayrenn's eldest brother, was named heir to the throne of Alinor, and in 575 he matriculated into the Labyrinth. Naemon, like his father, was a natural ceremoniarch, who seemed to have a genuine relish for the rites and duties ordained by tradition for the heir. Indeed, when King Hidellith ascended to Aetherius in the year 580, Prince Naemon immediately began preparing to speak the eighty-eight day Coronation Liturgy that would elevate him to the throne in his father's place.

Then, on a day unheralded, the unforeseen occurred! Word came from Port Velyn on the continent that Princess Ayrenn was on her way to Auridon by swan ship! In wonder and haste, the Court of Alinor took itself to Firsthold to greet her, arriving just in time to welcome her unexpected return. Princess Ayrenn announced that she was prepared, as the eldest heir, to assume the Throne of Alinor—and the High Justiciar affirmed that such was, indeed, her right. She was crowned Queen Ayrenn on the 7th of Frost Fall in the year 580.

Now, some of you may have heard wild tales about Princess Ayrenn's adventures during her time away from Summerset—that she sailed as first mate with a pirate captain from Anvil, disguised herself as a Dunmer in order to read the Indigo Tomes in the vaults of Necrom, bested the Dervishes of Rihad at their own sword-dance, and even outdrank Queen Mabjaarn Flame-Hair of Windhelm in a mead-slamming contest. All myths and tales, I assure you, preposterous and deeply absurd. Our queen was merely away, preparing for Praxis and Ceremoniarchy in her own fashion of independent study. 

Since assuming the throne she has brought some innovations to the rule of our land—but this is as foretold at the time of her auspicious birth, and the Sapiarchs, one and all, have endorsed her modernizations. So you see, students, Ayrenn is undisputed Queen of these Isles, and all is right and proper—as it should be.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#163)
	Aedra and Daedra
The designations of Gods, Demons, Aedra, and Daedra, are universally confusing to the layman. They are often used interchangeably.

"Aedra" and "Daedra" are not relative terms. They are Elvish and exact. Azura is a Daedra both in Skyrim and Morrowind. "Aedra" is usually translated as "ancestor," which is as close as Cyrodilic can come to this Elven concept. "Daedra" means, roughly, "not our ancestors." This distinction was crucial to the Dunmer, whose fundamental split in ideology is represented in their mythical genealogy.

Aedra are associated with stasis. Daedra represent change.

Aedra created the mortal world and are bound to the Earth Bones. Daedra, who cannot create, have the power to change.

As part of the divine contract of creation, the Aedra can be killed. Witness Lorkhan and the moons.

The protean Daedra, for whom the rules do not apply, can only be banished.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#164)
	Boethiah's Proving
(The following account is true. May it serve as a warning to those with ears to hear and hearts to know.)

On a certain day, at a certain time, the faithful gathered to perform certain rituals, hoping to gain a glimpse of their master. The day was correct, the summoning true.

Slashing a smoking tear through the Veil, She, her-very-self, appeared before them, terrible and resplendent. She came arrayed in ebony darker than a moonless night, wielding a blade burning hotter than the surface of the sun. And though she wore the guise of a Dunmer warrior-queen, she towered above them like a statue carved from the Red Mountain itself.

"Why have you disturbed me?"

Surprised, the first among them prayed: "O Boethiah, Prince of Plots, Deceiver of Nations, Queen of Shadows, Goddess of Destruction, we come to worship thee!"

She looked down upon her followers, gathered to bear witness. Frowning she asked the first:

"Tell me, you who profess to know me, how shall I know you?"

Afeared he exclaimed: "Each night I pray to thee, each night I call out thy wondrous names. Surely thou must recognize the sound of my voice? Thy most devoted of believers?"

She frowned and let out a long sigh, and then of a sudden he was gone, the air from her lungs dispersing him.

Turning to the second she asked:

"And you? How shall I measure the worth of your existence?"

Stunned by the power of her voice, he bowed before her darkening visage.

She clapped her hands, and he too was gone.

To the third:

"And you, tell me, how shall I know you apart from such as were they, of whom there is no trace?"

Shaken and speechless from the nullifications of his brethren, he whispered: "Have mercy upon us!"

She blinked twice. Once, he was in agony. Twice, he was destroyed.

She cast a withering glance across those remaining and said:

"I do not grant mercy."

And so it was with the others. She putting them to proof, they offering none.

Finally she came to me, eyes aglow with anger, tongue wet with hate, and said:

"Of all my believers, but two remain. Tell me, second-to-last, with what shall you prove your existence?"

Without hesitation I drew forth my blade and buried it in the chest of the other who stood beside me, and without fear replied: "Ask him whose blood now spouts from my blade if I exist."

She smiled. And the gates of Oblivion opened between her teeth. Then she said:

"Tell me, now-last of my followers, wherefore do you remain where the others do not?"

I retrieved my blade, and offered it up saying: "I am alive because that one is dead. I exist because I have the will to do so. And I shall remain as long as there are signs of my handwork, such as the blood dripping from this blade."

Accepting my gift, she nodded and said:

"Indeed."

(If in the reading, your blood boils in your veins, and your mind blazons with fire, then Boethiah calls you. It is then most wise to heed her call.)
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#165)
	The Dreamstride
For over a thousand years, the Priests of Vaermina have been masters of the art of alchemy. The complexity and potency of their mixtures are nothing short of legendary. These alchemical treasures are so highly sought after that a single draught showing up on the black market can command sums in the tens of thousands.

Of the numerous potions that have surfaced to date, Vaermina's Torpor is perhaps the most impressive. A single sip of this viscous liquid places the imbiber in a state known as "The Dreamstride." This condition allows the subject to experience the dreams of another as if he is actually there. The subject becomes an integral part of the dream. To any other entities in this dream state, the subject will be mistaken for the dreamer. The subject will even find his mannerisms, speech patterns, and knowledge expanded appropriately.

To an observer, after the subject has imbibed the potion, he will appear to vanish. As the subject traverses distances within the dream, he will also traverse distances in the actual world. When the Torpor's effect has expired, the subject will fade back into reality in the exact location projected within the Dreamstride. Some Dreamstrides have transported their subjects a few feet, and some have appeared thousands of miles from their origin in a matter of minutes.

It's worth noting that the Dreamstride is highly dangerous and presents the subject with numerous pitfalls. In certain dreams, subjects have been exposed to life-threatening scenarios such as sicknesses, violence, and even death. In most cases, the subject simply fades back to our world without harm, but in some instances, the subject never reappears and is assumed to have expired. In other instances, the subject reappears deceased. It's also quite possible that the subject could reappear in a precarious or hazardous location in reality, even when that location appeared safe within the Dreamstride.

Vaermina's Torpor is as mysterious and elusive as the priests who created it. It's unknown whether this unique transport mechanism is a result of the Torpor itself or simply the odd machinations of Vaermina, but the potential for using the Dreamstride to penetrate seemingly impassible obstacles certainly outweighs its mysterious nature.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#166)
	The House of Troubles
Among the ancient ancestral spirits who accompanied Saint Veloth and the Chimer into the promised land of Morrowind, the four Daedra Lords, Malacath, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, are known as the Four Corners of the House of Troubles. These Daedra Lords rebelled against the counsel and admonition of the Tribunal, causing great kinstrife and confusion among the clans and Great Houses.

Malacath, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath are holy in that they serve the role of obstacles during the Testing. Through time they have sometimes become associated with local enemies, like the Nords, Akaviri, or Mountain Orcs.

Malacath is the reanimated dung that was Trinimac. Malacath is a weak but vengeful god. The Dark Elves say he is Malak, the god-king of the Orcs. He tests the Dunmer for physical weakness.

Molag Bal is, in Morrowind, the Lord of Brutality. He tries to upset the bloodlines of Great Houses and otherwise ruins the Dunmer gene pool. A race of monsters, said to live in Molag Amur, are the result of his seduction of Vivec during the previous era.

Sheogorath is the King of Madness. He always tests the Dunmer for mental weakness. In many legends, he is called upon by one Dunmer faction against another. In half of these stories, he does not betray those who called him, further confusing the issue of his place in the scheme of things. ("Can he help us? Is he not an obstacle?") He is often associated with the fear other races have of the Dunmer, especially those who, like the Empire, might prove as useful allies.

Mehrunes Dagon is the god of destruction. He is associated with natural dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. To some, he represents the inhospitable land of Morrowind. He tests the Dunmer will to survive and persevere.

The worship of these four malevolent spirits is against the law and practice of the Temple. However, the Four Corners seldom fail to discover those greedy, reckless, or mad enough to serve them. By ancient Temple law and custom, and also by Imperial law, the lives of witches and warlocks are forfeit. Imperial garrisons join Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers of the Temple in tracking down and destroying these foul covens in the wilderness refuges and ancient ruins where they conceal their profane worship.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#167)
	Invocation of Azura
by Sigillah Parate

For three hundred years, I have been a priestess of Azura, the Daedric Prince of Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night Sky. Every Hogithum, which we celebrate on the 21st of First Seed, we summon her for guidance, as well as to offer things of worth and beauty to Her Majesty. She is a cruel but wise mistress. We do not invoke her on any Hogithum troubled by thunderstorms, for those nights belong to the Mad One, Sheogorath, even if they do coincide with the occasion. Azura at such times understands our caution.

Azura's invocation is a very personal one. I have been priestess to three other Daedric Princes, but Azura values the quality of her worshipers and the truth behind our adoration of her. When I was a Dark Elven maid of sixteen, I joined my grandmother's coven, worshipers of Molag Bal, the Schemer Princess. Blackmail, extortion, and bribery are as much the weapons of the Witches of Molag Bal as is dark magic. The Invocation of Molag Bal is held on the 20th of Evening Star, except during stormy weather. This ceremony is seldom missed, but Molag Bal often appears to her cultists in mortal guise on other dates. When my grandmother died in an attempt to poison the heir of Firewatch, I re-examined my faith in the cult.

My brother was a warlock of the cult of Boethiah, and from what he told me, the Dark Warrior was closer to my spirit than the treacherous Molag Bal. Boethiah is a Warrior Princess who acts more overtly than any other Daedroth. After years of skulking and scheming, it felt good to perform acts for a mistress which had direct, immediate consequences. Besides, I liked it that Boethiah was a Daedra of the Dark Elves. Our cult would summon her on the day we called the Gauntlet, the 2nd of Sun's Dusk. Bloody competitions would be held in her honor, and the duels and battles would continue until nine cultists were killed at the hands of other cultists. Boethiah cared little for her cultists. She only cared for our blood. I do think I saw her smile when I accidentally slew my brother in a sparring session. My horror, I think, greatly pleased her.

I left the cult soon after that. Boethiah was too impersonal for me, too cold. I wanted a mistress of greater depth. For the next eighteen years of my life, I worshiped no one. Instead I read and researched. In an old and profane tome, I came upon the name of Nocturnal: Nocturnal the Night Mistress, Nocturnal the Unfathomable. As the book prescribed, I called to her on her holy day, the 3rd of Hearth Fire. At last, I had found the personal mistress I had so long desired. I strove to understand her labyrinthine philosophy, the source of her mysterious pain. Everything about her was dark and shrouded, even the way she spoke and the acts she required of me. It took years for me to understand the simple fact that I could never understand Nocturnal. Her mystery was as essential to her as savagery was to Boethiah or treachery was to Molag Bal. To understand Nocturnal is to negate her, to pull back the curtains cloaking her realm of darkness. As much as I loved her, I recognized the futility of unraveling her enigmas. I turned instead to her sister, Azura.

Azura is the only Daedra Princess I have ever worshiped who seems to care about her followers. Molag Bal wanted my mind, Boethiah wanted my arms, and Nocturnal perhaps my curiosity. Azura wants all of that, and our love above all. Not our abject slavering, but our honest and genuine caring in all its forms. It is important to her that our emotions be engaged in her worship. And our love must also be directed inward. If we love her and hate ourselves, she feels our pain. I will, for all time, have no other mistress.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#168)
	Modern Heretics
A Study of Daedra Worship

by Haderus of Gottlesfont

Daedra worship is not prohibited by law in Cyrodiil. Primarily, this is a result of the Imperial Charter granted the Mages Guild permitting the summoning of Daedra. Nonetheless, chapel and public opinion is so strongly against Daedra worship that those who practice Daedric rituals do so in secret.

However, opinions about Daedra worship differ widely in other provinces. Even in Cyrodiil, traditional opinions have changed greatly over the years, and some communities that worship Daedra survive. Some more traditional Daedra worshipers are motivated by piety and personal conviction; while many modern Daedra worshipers are motivated by a lust for arcane power. In particular, questing heroes of all stripes seek after fabled Daedric artifacts for their potent combat and magical benefits.

I personally discovered one community worshiping the Daedra Lord Azura, Queen of Dawn and Dusk. A researcher curious about Daedra worship might investigate in several ways: through a study of the literature, through exploration and discovery of ancient Daedric shrines, through questioning local informants, or through questioning worshipers themselves. I used all these means to discover the shrine of Azura.

First, I read books. References like this one may provide a helpful general background concerning Daedric shrines. For example, my researches led me to understand that in Cyrodiil, Daedric shrines are generally represented by statues of Daedra Lords. They are generally situated in wilderness locations far from settlements. Each shrine generally has associated with it a community of worshipers, often referred to as a "coven." Shrines have associated with them a particular time, often a day of the week, when a Daedra Lord might be solicited. A Daedra Lord will usually not deign to respond unless they regard a petitioner of sufficient prowess or strength of character. They will only respond if given the proper offering, the secret of which offering is often known only to the community of worshipers. In return for the completion of some task or service, the Daedra Lord will often undertake to offer an artifact of power to a successful quester.

Then I questioned locals with an intimate knowledge of the wilderness. Two classes of informants I found especially useful: well-traveled adventurers (who might come across shrines in their travels), and scholars of the Mages Guild. In the case of the Shrine of Azura, both sources were profitable. I discovered a Cheydinhal hunter who had chanced across a strange epic statue in his travels. It depicted a woman with outstretched arms. In one hand, she held a star; in the other hand, she held a crescent moon. He had shunned the statue out of superstitious fear, but had marked the location in memory: far north of Cheydinhal, northwest of Lake Arrius, high in the Jerall Mountains. After proceeding to the local Mages Guild with a description of the statue, I was able to confirm from its description the identity of the Daedra Lord worshiped.

Having discovered the location of the shrine, I visited it and discovered there the community of worshipers. Because of the strength of opinion against Daedra worship, the worshipers were at first reluctant to admit their identity. After I had won their trust, they were willing to divulge to me the secrets of the times when Azura would hear petitions (from dusk to dawn), and that the offering required by Azura was glow dust, a substance obtained from the will-o-the-wisp.

I am, of course, nothing more than a scholar, so it did not lie within my power to find a will-o-the-wisp to obtain glow dust. Nor am I certain that Azura would have found me worthy to make such an offering, even had I proffered it. Despite this, I was assured that if I had been able to make such an offering, and if it had been accepted, Azura would have given me some sort of quest. Upon its completion, I might have earned the reward of Azura's Star, a Daedric artifact of legendary magical powers.

I have since heard rumors of the existence in Cyrodiil of several other Daedric shrines, the Daedric Lords to which they are dedicated, and the Daedric artifacts that might be won by questing heroes. Hircine the Huntsman, for example, is linked in legend to the Savior's Hide, a powerful enchanted armor. The hammer Volendrung is associated with Malacath, Lord of Monsters, and the eponymously named Mace of Molag Bal is also thought to be the object of Daedra worship. Other Daedra Lords, their shrines, and their worshipers remain to be discovered by earnest and persistent researchers.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#169)
	Opusculus Lamae Bal ta Mezzamortie
A brief account of Lamae Bal and the Restless Death

Mabei Aywenil, Scribe

Translation by University of Gwylim Press; 2E 105

As brighter grows light, darker becomes shadow. So it passed that the Daedra Molag Bal looked on Arkay and thought the Aedra prideful of his dominion o'er the death of man and mer, and it was sooth.

Bal, whose sphere is the wanton oppression and entrapment of mortal souls, sought to thwart Arkay, who knew that not man, nor mer, nor beastfolk of all Nirn could escape eventual death. The Aedra was doubtless of his sphere, and so Molag Bal set upon Nirn to best death.

Tamriel was still young, and filled with danger and wondrous magic when Bal walked in the aspect of a man and took a virgin, Lamae Beolfag, from the Nedic Peoples. Savage and loveless, Bal profaned her body, and her screams became the Shrieking Winds, which still haunt certain winding fjords of Skyrim. Shedding a lone droplet of blood on her brow, Bal left Nirn, having sown his wrath.

Violated and comatose, Lamae was found by nomads, and cared for. A fortnight hence, the nomad wyrd-woman enshrouded Lamae in pall for she had passed into death. In their way, the nomads built a bonfire to immolate the husk. That night, Lamae rose from her funeral pyre, and set upon the coven, still aflame. She ripped the throats of the women, ate the eyes of the children, and raped their men as cruelly as Bal had ravished her.

And so Lamae, (who is known to us as blood-matron) imprecated her foul aspect upon the folk of Tamriel, and begat a brood of countless abominations, from which came the vampires, most cunning of the night-horrors. And so was the scourge of undeath wrought upon Tamriel, cruelly mocking Arkay's rhythm of life and death through all the coming eras of the et'Ada, and for all his sadness, Arkay knew this could not be undone.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#170)
	The Totems of Hircine
Among those of us to whom Lord Hircine bestowed his most precious gift of Lycanthropy, there are legends that he also set into the world specific artifacts of his power. They date to a period when men could neither write, nor speak, nor barely think, but the powers of blood of the beast were yet flowing strong among the selected.

The first: a carved skull, of the wolf itself. Used by those ancient shamans in the blood ceremonies that created our lineage, it is said to grant a great presence to those who prostrate themselves before it, such that those who witness their forms cower in a terror unknown except to those who have glimpsed the face of Hircine himself.

The second: a thigh bone, carved as the skull, but from some animal unknown. Used as some form of medicinal wand in the more ancient brotherhood, it was said to grant a kind of heightened awareness, both in sight and smell, such that the prey could never flee too far from our senses.

The third: a simple drum, its mundane appearance meaning it is most likely lost to the mists of long ago time. As our fathers would beat time to summon their brethren from the fields, so too would our forebears in the blood call their allies to them with its pounding.

Through these totems, we channel and focus our energies of the beast. While werewolves give up the powers of magic known to men, we can tap into a more direct natural energy at times, and through these totems, discover the abilities that first tamed the world before wrought civilization sullied it.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#171)
	Fragmentae Abyssum Hermaeus Morus
…So Ysgramor collected the laments of the Giant-Wives and brought them to Froa and Grosta, who twisted them into the Woeful Bowstring, so that Ysgramor could re-string his mighty bow Long-Launcher. And thereafter did Long-Launcher sigh when it was borne, and moan when it was shot. And Ysgramor decided to take it hunting. 

And he hunted and slew much game in the Atmoran Frostwood, until he paused at a ford to drink his fill. Then across the stream bounded the White Stag of Forelgrim, and Ysgramor shot at it and missed, which in no wise pleased him, and he swore to pursue the White Stag until it fell to him. But the stag was canny and quiet, and passed as a mist over the snow, so that Ysgramor did again and again sight it and lose it. For even the sighing of the Woeful Bowstring made more sound than did the White Stag.

When again he lost the trail and stopped, sore vexed, an Hare did appear and spake, saying, "The stag hieth down into yon vale." "How knoweth you this?" demanded Ysgramor of the Hare, which replied, "I know for I have long ears. Yea, had you ears as long as mine, you too could hear your prey wherever it went."

"Would, then," said Ysgramor, "that my ears were as long as thine." At that the Hare's nose did twitch, and Ysgramor felt his ears begin to grow and point. But a Fox did leap from the coppice and fall upon the Hare, slaying it, and Ysgramor, in wonder, felt his ears dwindle to their wonted size. 

And the Fox spake, saying, "Know thou, mortal, that I am Shor, and this was nary Hare, but indeed, Herma Mora, who did nearly trick thee into becoming of Elvenkind. Rely you hereafter, mortal, upon the forthright methods of Man, and eschew the tricks of the Elves, lest ye become one. Now, go—for the White Stag awaiteth thee in the vale."



Hyrma MORA pado ADA oia NAGAIA aba AGEA cava APOCRA dena GORIA gandra ARCAN



"Hermaeus Mora, elder than Ada, Abyssal Cephaliarch, hearken to the plea of this unworthy, for I come to barter for knowledge denied. That which I seek is named on this parchment, which I consume in your honor, O Demon of Knowledge. For my desire to know is beyond reckoning, and in recompense, whatever price is named shall be met. AE HERMA MORA."



AE HERMA MORA ALTADOON PADHOME LKHAN AE AI



(My next dream was) of Apocrypha, where I walked the halls of shadow among the (nameless books), among concepts and arguments I inhaled like smoke. In my left hand was a scroll of vellum, in my right hand a plume, (and I wrote) histories as I passed, yet the scroll was unfilled, for as I wrote (words) beneath the (words) above vanished. 

Then I paused at a plinth of lapis, for it contained (an object) heretofore unremarked, an urn with a curious finial. So I (set aside) scroll and plume, grasped the finial and lifted the lid. 

(Within the urn) was a viscous and noisome (fluid), upon which floated, gray and glistening, a mortal's (organ of thought). And I knew, though I know not how, that the (fluid) was not brine, and the brain was not preserved, but alive, alert, and brooding with a dark intellect. I dropped the lid and (looked up from) the urn, and saw, (beyond the plinth), a long and endless corridor, lined left and right with plinths uncountable, and (upon each plinth was) its urn. 

(Which was why, when) I awoke, my tongue was bitten through.
		

		Part of the Daedric Princes collection (#172)
	The Spawn of Molag Bal
Molag Bal enslaves. Molag Bal defiles.

Molag Bal spawns children with the unwilling and harvests the souls of the unwary.

Legend tells us that Molag Bal is the father of the first vampire. Though we cannot fully detail the many species of vampires, we may consider all of them to be his offspring.

Most vampires can trace their lineage to the same distant ancestor, an unwilling Nedic virgin whom Molag Bal defiled. With her, he spawned a race of monsters, who then set upon nomads, spreading his corruption further.

Other species of vampires are the result of pacts and bargains with Molag Bal, who answers promises of immortality and power with an eternity of damnation.

Molag Bal seeds chaos and strife, spreading discord by corrupting soul after soul. His forces are legion; his patience is limitless; his ultimate goal is the domination and enslavement of all living things.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#173)
	The Anuad Paraphrased
The first ones were brothers: Anu and Padomay. They came into the Void, and Time began.

As Anu and Padomay wandered the Void, the interplay of Light and Darkness created Nir. Both Anu and Padomay were amazed and delighted with her appearance, but she loved Anu, and Padomay retreated from them in bitterness.

Nir became pregnant, but before she gave birth, Padomay returned, professing his love for Nir. She told him that she loved only Anu, and Padomay beat her in rage. Anu returned, fought Padomay, and cast him outside Time. Nir gave birth to Creation, but died from her injuries soon after. Anu, grieving, hid himself in the sun and slept.

Meanwhile, life sprang up and flourished on the twelve worlds of creation. After many ages, Padomay returned to Time. He saw Creation and hated it. He swung his sword, shattering the twelve worlds in their alignment. Anu awoke and fought Padomay again. The long and furious battle ended with Anu as the victor. He cast aside the body of his brother, who he believed was dead, and attempted to save Creation by forming the remnants of the twelve worlds into one: Nirn, the world of Tamriel. As he was doing so, Padomay struck him through the chest with one last blow. Anu grappled with his brother and pulled them both outside of Time forever.

The blood of Padomay became the Daedra. The blood of Anu became the stars. The mingled blood of both became the Aedra (as evinced by their capacity for good and evil, as well as their greater affinity for earthly affairs than the Daedra, who have no connection to Creation.)

On the world of Nirn, all was chaos. The only survivors of the twelve worlds of Creation were the Ehlnofey and the Hist. The Ehlnofey are the ancestors of Mer and Men. The Hist are the trees of Argonia. Nirn originally was all land, interspersed with seas, but no oceans.

A large fragment of the Ehlnofey world landed on Nirn relatively intact, and the Ehlnofey living there were the ancestors of the Mer. These Ehlnofey fortified their borders from the chaos outside, hid their pocket of calm, and attempted to live on as before. Other Ehlnofey arrived on Nirn scattered amid the confused jumble of the shattered worlds, wandering and finding each other over the years. Eventually, the wandering Ehlnofey found the hidden land of Old Ehlnofey, and were amazed and joyful to find their kin living amid the splendor of ages past. The wandering Ehlnofey expected to be welcomed into the peaceful realm, but the Old Ehlnofey looked on them as degenerates fallen from their former glory. For whatever reason, war broke out, and raged across the whole of Nirn. The Old Ehlnofey retained their ancient power and knowledge, but the Wanderers were more numerous, toughened by their long struggle to survive on Nirn. This war reshaped the face of Nirn, sinking much of the land beneath new oceans and leaving the lands as we know them: Tamriel, Akavir, Atmora, and Yokuda. The Old Ehlnofey realm, although ruined, became Tamriel. The remnants of the Wanderers were left divided on the other three continents.

Over many years, the Ehlnofey of Tamriel became the Mer (Elves),

the Dwemer (the Deep Ones, sometimes called Dwarves),

the Chimer (the Changed Ones, who later became the Dunmer),

the Dunmer (the Dark or Cursed Ones, the Dark Elves),

the Bosmer (the Green or Forest Ones, the Wood Elves),

the Altmer (The Elder or High Ones, the High Elves).

On the other continents, the Wandering Ehlnofey became the Men: the Nords of Atmora, the Redguards of Yokuda, and the Tsaesci of Akavir.

The Hist were bystanders in the Ehlnofey War, but most of their realm was destroyed as the war passed over it. A small corner of it survived to become Black Marsh in Tamriel, but most of their realm was sunk beneath the sea.

Eventually, Men returned to Tamriel. The Nords were the first, colonizing the northern coast of Tamriel before recorded history, led by the legendary Ysgramor. The thirteenth of his line, King Harald, was the first to appear in written history.

Thus the Mythic Era ended.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#174)
	The Lunar Lorkhan
by Fal Droon

I will not go into the varying accounts of what happened at Adamantine Tower, nor will I relate the War of Manifest Metaphors that rendered those stories unable to support most qualities of what is commonly known as "narrative." We all have our favorite Lorkhan story and our favorite Lorkhan motivation for the creation of Nirn, as well as 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, all 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).
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#175)
	Monomyth: Dragon God & Missing God
"In Mundus, conflict and disparity are what bring change, and change is the most sacred of the Eleven Forces. Change is the force without focus or origin."

— Oegnithr, Taheritae, Order of PSJJJJ

Simply put, the schism in the Human/Aldmeri worldview is the mortal's relationship to the divine. Humans take the humble path that they were created by the immortal forces, while the Aldmer claim descent from them. It doesn't seem like much, but it is a distinction that colors the rest of their diverging mythologies.

All Tamrielic religions begin the same. Man or mer, things begin with the dualism of Anu and His Other. These twin forces go by many names: Anu-Padomay, Anuiel-Sithis, Ak-El, Satak-Akel, Is-Is Not. Anuiel is the Everlasting Ineffable Light, Sithis is the Corrupting Inexpressible Action. In the middle is the Gray Maybe (or "Nirn" in the Ehlnofex.)

In most cultures, Anuiel is honored for his part of the interplay that creates the world, but Sithis is held in highest esteem because he's the one that causes the reaction. Sithis is thus the Original Creator, an entity who intrinsically causes change without design. Even the Hist acknowledge this being.

Anuiel is also perceived of as Order, opposed to the Sithis-Chaos. Perhaps it is easier for mortals to envision change than perfect stasis, for often Anuiel is relegated to the mythic background of Sithis' fancies. In Yokudan folk-tales, which are among the most vivid in the world, Satak is only referred to a handful of times, as "the Hum"; he is a force so prevalent as to be not really there at all.

In any case, from these two beings spring the et'Ada, or Original Spirits. To humans these et'Ada are the Gods and Demons; to the Aldmer, the Aedra/Daedra, or the "Ancestors." All of the Tamrielic pantheons fill their rosters from these et'Ada, though divine membership often differs from culture to culture. Like Anu and Padomay, though, every one of these pantheons contains the archetypes of the Dragon God and the Missing God.



The Dragon God and the Missing God

The Dragon God is always related to Time and is universally revered as the "First God." He is often called Akatosh, "whose perch from Eternity allowed the day." He is the central God of the Cyrodilic Empire.

The Missing God is always related to the Mortal Plane and is a key figure in the Human/Aldmeri schism. The "missing" refers to either his palpable absence from the pantheon (another mental distress that is interpreted a variety of ways), or the removal of his "divine spark" by the other immortals. He is often called Lorkhan, and his epitaphs are many, equally damnable and devout.

Note that Tamriel and the Mortal Plane do not exist yet. The Gray Maybe is still the playground of the Original Spirits. Some are more bound to Anu's light, others to the unknowable void. Their constant flux and interplay increase their number, and their personalities take long to congeal. When Akatosh forms, Time begins, and it becomes easier for some spirits to realize themselves as beings with a past and a future. The strongest of the recognizable spirits crystallize: Mephala, Arkay, Y'ffre, Magnus, Rupgta, etc., etc. Others remain as concepts, ideas, or emotions. One of the strongest of these, a barely formed urge that the others call Lorkhan, details a plan to create Mundus, the Mortal Plane.

Humans, with the exception of the Redguards, see this act as a divine mercy, an enlightenment whereby lesser creatures can reach immortality. Aldmer, with the exception of the Dark Elves, see this act as a cruel deception, a trick that sundered their connection to the spirit plane.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#176)
	Monomyth: Lorkhan and Satakal
Lorkhan

This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan," or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the Mortal Plane, upsetting the status quo much like his father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. Interpretations of these events differ widely by culture. Below is one of the better known.



Yokudan, "Satakal the Worldskin"

"Satak was First Serpent, the Snake who came Before, and all the worlds to come rested in the glimmer of its scales. But it was so big there was nothing but, and thus it was coiled around and around itself, and the worlds to come slid across each other but none had room to breathe or even be. And so the worlds called to something to save them, to let them out, but of course there was nothing outside the First Serpent, so aid had to come from inside it, and this was Akel, the Hungry Stomach. Akel made itself known, and Satak could only think about what it was, and it was the best hunger, so it ate and ate. Soon there was enough room to live in the worlds and things began. These things were new and they often made mistakes, for there was hardly time to practice being things before. So most things ended quickly or were not good or gave up on themselves. Some things were about to start, but they were eaten up as Satak got to that part of its body. This was a violent time.

"Pretty soon Akel caused Satak to bite its own heart and that was the end. The hunger, though, refused to stop, even in death, and so the First Serpent shed its skin to begin anew. As the old world died, Satakal began, and when things realized this pattern so did they realize what their part in it was. They began to take names, like Ruptga or Tu'whacca, and they strode about looking for their kin. As Satakal ate itself over and over, the strongest spirits learned to bypass the cycle by moving at strange angles. They called this process the Walkabout, a way of striding between the worldskins. Ruptga was so big that he was able to place the stars in the sky so that weaker spirits might find their way easier. This practice became so easy for the spirits that it became a place, called the Far Shores, a time of waiting until the next skin.

"Ruptga was able to sire many children through the cycles, and so he became known as the Tall Papa. He continued to place stars to map out the void for others, but after so many cycles, there were almost too many spirits to help out. He made himself a helper from the detritus of past skins, and this was Sep, or the Second Serpent. Sep had much of the Hungry Stomach still left in him, multiple hungers from multiple skins. He was so hungry he could not think straight. Sometimes he would just eat the spirits he was supposed to help, but Tall Papa would always reach in and take them back out. Finally, tired of helping Tall Papa, Sep went and gathered the rest of the old skins and balled them up, tricking spirits to help him, promising them this was how you reached the new world, by making one out of the old. These spirits loved this way of living, as it was easier. No more jumping from place to place. Many spirits joined in, believing this was good thinking. Tall Papa just shook his head.

"Pretty soon the spirits on the skin-ball started to die, because they were very far from the real world of Satakal. And they found that it was too far to jump into the Far Shores now. The spirits that were left pleaded with Tall Papa to take them back. But grim Ruptga would not, and he told the spirits that they must learn new ways to follow the stars to the Far Shores now. If they could not, then they must live on through their children, which was not the same as before. Sep, however, needed more punishment, and so Tall Papa squashed the Snake with a big stick. The hunger fell out of Sep's dead mouth and was the only thing left of the Second Serpent. While the rest of the new world was allowed to strive back to godhood, Sep could only slink around in a dead skin, or swim about in the sky, a hungry void that jealously tried to eat the stars."
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#177)
	Monomyth: "Shezarr's Song"
The Cyrodilic "Shezarr's Song"

This was a new thing that Shezarr described to the Gods: becoming mothers and fathers, being responsible, and making great sacrifices with no guarantee of success, but Shezarr spoke beautifully to them and moved them beyond mystery and tears. Thus, the Aedra gave free birth to the world, the beasts, and the beings, making these things from parts of themselves. This free birth was very painful, and afterwards the Aedra were no longer young and strong and powerful, as they had been from the beginning of days.

Some Aedra were disappointed and bitter in their loss and angry with Shezarr, and with all creation, for they felt Shezarr had lied and tricked them. These Aedra, the Gods of the Aldmer, led by Auri-El, were disgusted by their enfeebled selves and by what they had created. "Everything is spoiled, for now and for all time, and the most we can do is teach the Elven Races to suffer nobly with dignity, chastise ourselves for our folly, and avenge ourselves upon Shezarr and his allies." Thus are the Gods of the Elves dark and brooding, and thus are the Elves ever dissatisfied with mortality, always proud and stoic despite the harshness of this cruel and indifferent world.

Other Aedra looked upon creation and were well pleased. These Aedra, the Gods of Men and Beast Folk, led by Akatosh, praised and cherished their wards, the Mortal Races. "We have suffered and are diminished for all time, but the mortal world we have made is glorious, filling our hearts and spirits with hope. Let us teach the Mortal Races to live well, to cherish beauty and honor, and to love one another as we love them." Thus are the Gods of Men tender and patient, and thus are Men and Beast Folk great in heart for joy or suffering and ambitious for greater wisdom and a better world.

Now when the Daedra Lords heard Shezarr, they mocked him, and the other Aedra. "Cut parts of ourselves off? And lose them? Forever? That's stupid! You'll be sorry! We are far smarter than you, for we will create a new world out of ourselves, but we will not cut it off, or let it mock us, but we will make this world within ourselves, forever ours, and under our complete control."

So the Daedra Lords created the Daedric Realms, and all the ranks of Lesser Daedra, great and small. And, for the most part, the Daedra Lords were well pleased with this arrangement, for they always had worshipers and servants and playthings close to hand. At the same time, they sometimes looked with envy upon the Mortal Realms, for though mortals were foul and feeble and contemptible, their passions and ambitions were also far more surprising and entertaining than the antics of the Lesser Daedra. Thus do the Daedra Lords court and seduce certain amusing specimens of the Mortal Races, especially the passionate and powerful. It gives the Daedra Lords special pleasure to steal away from Shezarr and the Aedra the greatest and most ambitious mortals. "Not only are you fools to mutilate yourselves," gloat the Daedra Lords, "but you cannot even keep the best pieces, which prefer the glory and power of the Daedra Lords to the feeble vulgarity of the mush-minded Aedra."
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#178)
	Monomyth: The Myth of Aurbis
Subtitled "The Psijic Compensation," "Mythic Aurbis" was an attempt by Artaeum apologists to explain the basics of Aldmeri religion to the Emperor. It quietly avoided any blame or bias against the Lorkhan Concept, which was still held in esteem by the Cyrodiils as "Shezarr," the missing sibling of the Divines. Despite this, the Psijiici still give a nice summary of the Elder view, and it will serve our purposes here. This version comes from the archives of the Imperial Seminary from the handwritten notes of an unknown scribe.

Mythic Aurbis exists, and has existed from time without measure, as a fanciful Unnatural Realm.

"Aurbis" is used to connote the imperceptible Penumbra, the Gray Center between the IS/IS NOT of Anu and Padomay. It contains the multitude realms of Aetherius and Oblivion, as well as other, less structured forms.

The magical beings of Mythic Aurbis live for a long time and have complex narrative lives, creating the patterns of myth.

These are spirits made from bits of the immortal polarity. The first of these was Akatosh the Time Dragon, whose formation made it easier for other spirits to structure themselves. Gods and demons form and reform and procreate.

Finally, the magical beings of Mythic Aurbis told the ultimate story: that of their own death. For some, this was an artistic transfiguration into the concrete, non-magical substance of the world. For others, this was a war in which all were slain, their bodies becoming the substance of the world. For yet others, this was a romantic marriage and parenthood with the parent spirits naturally having to die and give way to the succeeding mortal races.

The agent of this communal decision was Lorkhan, whom most early myths vilify as a trickster or deceiver. More sympathetic versions of this story point out Lorkhan as being the reason the mortal plane exists at all.

The magical beings created the races of the mortal Aurbis in their own image, either consciously as artists and craftsmen, or as the fecund rotting matter out of which the mortals sprung forth, or in a variety of other analogical senses.

The magical beings, then, having died, became the et'Ada. The et'Ada are the things perceived and revered by the mortals as gods, spirits, or geniuses of Aurbis. Through their deaths, these magical beings separated themselves in nature from the other magical beings of the Unnatural realms.

The Daedra were created at this time also, being spirits and Gods more attuned to Oblivion or that realm closer to the Void of Padomay. This act is the dawn of the Mythic (Merethic) Era. It has been perceived by the earliest mortals many different ways, either as a joyous "second creation" or (especially by the Elves) as a painful fracturing from the divine. The originator of the event is always Lorkhan.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#179)
	Monomyth: The Heart of the World
The Monomyth: The Altmeri — "The Heart of the World."

"Anu encompassed and encompasses all things. So that he might know himself he created Anuiel, his soul and the soul of all things. Anuiel, as all souls, was given to self-reflection, and for this, he needed to differentiate between his forms, attributes, and intellects. Thus was born Sithis, who was the sum of all the limitations Anuiel would use to ponder himself. Anuiel, who was the soul of all things, therefore became many things, and this interplay was and is the Aurbis.

"At first the Aurbis was turbulent and confusing, as Anuiel's ruminations went on without design. Aspects of the Aurbis then asked for a schedule to follow or procedures whereby they might enjoy themselves a little longer outside of perfect knowledge. So that he might know himself this way, Anu created Auriel, the soul of his soul. Auriel bled through the Aurbis as a new force called time. With time, various aspects of the Aurbis began to understand their natures and limitations. They took names, like Magnus or Mara or Xen. One of these, Lorkhan, was more of a limit than a nature, so he could never last long anywhere.

"As he entered every aspect of Anuiel, Lorkhan would plant an idea that was almost wholly based on limitation. He outlined a plan to create a soul for the Aurbis, a place where the aspects of aspects might even be allowed to self-reflect. He gained many followers. Even Auriel, when told he would become the king of the new world, agreed to help Lorkhan. So they created the Mundus, where their own aspects might live and became the et'Ada.

"This was a trick. As Lorkhan knew, this world contained more limitations than not and was therefore hardly a thing of Anu at all. Mundus was the House of Sithis. As their aspects began to die off, many of the et'Ada vanished completely. Some escaped, like Magnus, and that is why there are no limitations to magic. Others, like Y'ffre, transformed themselves into the Ehlnofey, the Earthbones, so that the whole world might not die. Some had to marry and make children just to last. Each generation was weaker than the last, and soon there were Aldmer. Darkness caved in. Lorkhan made armies out of the weakest souls and named them Men, and they brought Sithis into every quarter.

"Auriel pleaded with Anu to take them back, but he had already filled their places with something else. His soul was gentler, granting Auriel his Bow and Shield, so that he might save the Aldmer from the hordes of Men. Some had already fallen, like the Chimer, who listened to tainted et'Ada, and others, like the Bosmer, had soiled Time's line by taking Mannish wives.

"Auriel could not save Altmora, the Elder Wood, and it was lost to Men. They were chased south and east to Old Ehlnofey, and Lorkhan was close behind. He shattered that land into many. Finally Trinimac, Auriel's greatest knight, knocked Lorkhan down in front of his army and reached in with more than hands to take his Heart. He was undone. The Men dragged Lorkhan's body away and swore blood vengeance on the heirs of Auriel for all time.

"But when Trinimac and Auriel tried to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan it laughed at them. It said, 'This Heart is the heart of the world, for one was made to satisfy the other.' So Auriel fastened the thing to an arrow and let it fly long into the sea, where no aspect of the new world may ever find it."
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#180)
	Nine Commands of the Eight Divines
By the intercession of St. Alessia, you may be so filled with grace, and the strength and wisdom that come from grace, that through these teachings you may come to the true meaning of the Eight Divines and Their glories. To convey to man's mind all the manifold subtleties of truth and virtue may not be done, were all the seas ink, and all the skies the parchment upon which Their wisdoms were writ. Yet Akatosh, in His wisdom, knowing how impatient is man, and how loath he is to travel upon the hard roads of truth, has allowed these nine simple commands to be made manifest with powerful clarity and concise definition.

1. Stendarr says: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.

2. Arkay says: Honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead.

3. Mara says: Live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family.

4. Zenithar says: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished.

5. Kynareth says: Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury.

6. Dibella says: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love.

7. Julianos says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise.

8. Akatosh says: Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Eight, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests.

9. The Eight say: Above all else, be good to one another.

If only each man might look into the mirror of these Commands, and see reflected there the bliss that might enfold them, were he to serve in strict obedience to these Commands, he would be cast down and made contrite and humble. The obedient man may come to the altars of the Eight and be blessed, and may receive the comfort and healing of the Eight, and may give thanks for his manifold blessings.

Heedless, the wicked man turns away, and forsaking the simple wisdoms granted to him by the All-Wise and All-Knowing Eight, he lives in sin and ignorance all the days of his life. He bears the awful burden of his crimes, and before Men and God his wickedness is known, and neither blessing nor comfort may he expect from the altars and shrines of the Eight.

Yet the wicked and foolish are not doomed, for in their infinite mercies, the Eight have said, "Repent, and do Good Works, and the Fountains of Grace shall once more spill forth upon you."

Repent your crimes! Tender unto the Emperor the fines of gold, that they may be used to spread the Faith and its Benefits to all Men!

Do yourself good works! Redeem your infamy by shining deeds! Show to all Men and the Eight the good Fame of the Righteous Man, and you may once again approach the altars and shrines of the Chapel to receive the comfort and blessings of the Eight.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#181)
	Gods and Worship In Tamriel
An Overview of Gods and Worship in Tamriel

By Brother Hetchfeld, Associate Scribe at the Imperial University, Office of Introductory Studies

Gods are commonly judged upon the evidence of their interest in worldly matters. A central belief in the active participation of Deities in mundane matters can be challenged by the reference to apparent apathy and indifference on the part of Gods during times of plague or famine.

From intervention in legendary quests to manifestations in common daily life, no pattern for the Gods of Tamriel's activities is readily perceived. The concerns of Gods in many ways may seem unrelated or at best unconcerned with the daily trials of the mortal realm. The exceptions do exist, however.

Many historical records and legends point to the direct intervention of one or more Gods at times of great need. Many heroic tales recount blessings of the divinity bestowed upon heroic figures who worked or quested for the good of a Deity or the Deity's temple. Some of the more powerful artifacts in the known world were originally bestowed upon their owners through such reward. It has also been reported that priests of high ranking in their temples may on occasion call upon their Deity for blessings or help in time of need. The exact nature of such contact and the blessings bestowed is given to much speculation, as the temples hold such associations secret and holy. This direct contact gives weight to the belief that the Gods are aware of the mortal realm. In many circumstances, however, these same Gods will do nothing in the face of suffering and death, seeming to feel no need to interfere. It is thus possible to conclude that we, as mortals, may not be capable of understanding more than a small fraction of the reasoning and logic such beings use.

One defining characteristic of all Gods and Goddesses is their interest in worship and deeds. Deeds in the form of holy quests are just one of the many things that bring the attention of a Deity. Deeds in everyday life, by conforming to the statutes and obligations of individual temples, are commonly supposed to please a Deity. Performance of ceremony in a temple may also bring a Deity's attention. Ceremonies vary according to the individual Deity. The results are not always apparent but sacrifice and offerings are usually required to have any hope of gaining a Deity's attention.

While direct intervention in daily temple life has been recorded, the exact nature of the presence of a God in daily mundane life is a subject of controversy. A traditional saying of the Wood Elves is that, "One man's miracle is another man's accident." While some Gods are believed to take an active part of daily life, others are well known for their lack of interest in temporal affairs.

It has been theorized that Gods do in fact gain strength from such things as worship through praise, sacrifice and deed. It may even be theorized that the number of worshipers a given Deity has may reflect on His overall position among the other Gods. This is my own conjecture, garnered from the apparent ability of the larger temples to attain blessings and assistance from their God with greater ease than smaller religious institutions.

There are reports of the existence of spirits in our world that have the same capacity to use the actions and deeds of mortals to strengthen themselves as do the Gods. The understanding of the exact nature of such creatures would allow us to understand with more clarity the connection between a Deity and the Deity's worshipers.

The implication of the existence of such spirits leads to the speculation that these spirits may even be capable of raising themselves to the level of a God or Goddess. Motusuo of the Imperial Seminary has suggested that these spirits may be the remains of Gods and Goddesses who through time lost all or most of their following, reverting to their earliest most basic form. Practitioners of the Old Ways say that there are no Gods, just greater and lesser spirits. Perhaps it is possible for all three theories to be true.
		

		Part of the Divines and Deities collection (#182)
	Vivec and Mephala
Who is ALMSIVI?

Morrowind is holy country, and its gods are flesh and blood. Collectively, these gods are called the Tribunal, the triune ALMSIVI, three deities exemplifying Dunmeri virtues. Almalexia is Mercy, Vivec is Mastery, and Sotha Sil is Mystery. Vivec is easily the most popular of them all. Vivec is also the most public, for he is the beloved Warrior-Poet of the True People, paradoxically beautiful and bloody. Vivec is an artistic violence. Vivec is represented in Temple literature and liturgy as one of the divine kings of Morrowind. He guards the sacred Velothi subcontinent of Vvardenfell, and stands guard over Red Mountain. He is part of the holy Tribunal, a god of the New Temple, and an aspect of the blessed and righteous ALMSIVI.

This explicit presentation of Vivec the Guardian God-King and Warrior-Poet is the one most accessible and familiar to Westerners. However, it is important to remember that Vivec is also known to the Dunmer as the transcendent evolution of the Daedra that anticipated him, Black Hands Mephala, a foundation figure of the earliest Chimer. This darker side of Vivec does not appear in the popular literature and liturgy, but is instinctively understood and accepted by the Dunmer as an integral part of Vivec's divine aspect. A more complete appreciation of the complex nature of Vivec requires an understanding of the nature of Vivec's Anticipation, Mephala, and the darker themes represented by this Daedra Lord's modes and motivations.

Who is Mephala?

Each of the three Tribunes of the Temple were represented in the dawn of Chimeri culture by their Anticipations. These Anticipations are known to the West as the sinister Daedra Lords Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala. In Temple theology, however, Azura is the Anticipation of Sotha Sil, the Mage-Lord of Almsivi. Boethiah is the Anticipation of Almalexia, Almsivi's Mother and Lady. Mephala is the Anticipation of Vivec. According to legend, under the guidance of these three Daedra Lords, a discontented throng of Altmer transformed themselves into a new people and founded a new land. And while Boethiah, the so-called Prince of Plots, provided the revolutionary methods needed to bring about this transformation, Mephala was the shadowy implementer of those methods.

As known in the West, Mephala is the demon of murder, sex, and secrets. All of these themes contain subtle aspects and violent ones (assassination/genocide, courtship/orgy, tact/poetic truths); Mephala is understood paradoxically to contain and integrate these contradictory themes. And all these subtle undercurrents and contradictions are present in the Dunmer concepts of Vivec, even if they are not explicitly described and explained in Temple doctrine.

The Dunmer do not envision Lord Vivec as a creature of murder, sex, and secrets. Rather, they conceive of Lord Vivec as benevolent king, guardian warrior, poet-artist. But, at the same time, unconsciously, they accept the notion of darker, hidden currents beneath Vivec's benevolent aspects.

For example, one of the most striking persistent myths associated with Vivec is the story that Vivec conspired with his co-rulers Almalexia and Sotha Sil in the murder of Lord Nerevar, the greatest of Dunmer heroes and generals. The story is derived from Ashlander oral tradition, and is flatly contradicted by all Temple traditions. Nonetheless, the tale is firmly established in the Dunmer imagination, as if to say, "Of course Vivec would never have conspired to murder Lord Nerevar, but it happened so long ago … who can know the truth?"

The public face of Vivec is benign, sensitive, compassionate, and protective of his followers. At the same time, the Dunmer seem irrationally comfortable with the hidden aspects of Vivec, the darker components of violence, lust, and conspiracy associated with the more primitive and ruthless impulses of the Anticipations.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#183)
	With Regards to the Ebony Blade
The following is an intercepted Morag Tong memorandum in full, noted here for conjecture on the Daedric artifact Ebony Blade:

Before I begin, let me preface by stating: the Daedric Prince Mephala and her worshippers value arcanum above all else—you will learn this, in time. To Hermaeus Mora, knowledge is power, but Mephala concerns herself with only the choicest morsels: knowledge secluded, undisclosed.

The various Daedric artifacts associated with Mephala share this disposition, chief among them, the Ebony Blade, of which little is known. The records of the Tong themselves disagree on the properties locked within the Blade's metal. But I'll share what I know about it, and in return, you will complete your first assignment for the guild. I hope you'll find the Flowers of Gold a suitable base of operations. Your room is a favorite of mine. Warm and dry.

First: the Blade initially passed into the Morag Tong's notice (this decade, at least) when our brother Orndras obtained it, taking it from Rivis, another brother. Rivis had the Blade kept in a safehouse for years, hidden from his fellow Morag Tong. How did Orndras find Rivis out? He'll take that secret to his grave, but his handlers whispered that the Web Spinner herself had told him. Even the Tong is unsure how the Blade is connected to Mephala, whether it is an extension of her physical form, or if her essence is bound to it, but it's important to her. And that makes it important to us.

Second: Rivis was an ambitious mage, one of the Tong's most powerful. And he was not about to allow Orndras to leave his safehouse with the Ebony Blade in tow. There was a duel between them, and when Orndras drew first blood with the Blade—and failed to kill—he was surprised Rivis did not engulf him in a fiery spell. It's possible the Blade can silence a mage, stymie the flow of magicka, or simply absorb it.

Third: Rivis was keen with an edge, and better skilled than Orndras. But Orndras wielded the Ebony Blade, and the wounds he suffered stitched themselves together as the battle continued—as Orndras dealt his less-precise cuts. Perhaps a restorative property of the Blade.

Fourth: Rivis' last words were, "The Vampire will be the end of us all." Orndras believed he was referring to the Blade, that Rivis had hidden it out of legitimate fear. I believe that even the most venerable of the Morag Tong will say anything when backed into a corner. I have.

Fifth: Orndras retrieved the Blade, made a detailed report to his handlers—and then attempted to slaughter them. He murdered all but one. His actions had no discernible rhyme or reason or motive, and he was last seen on the third floor of the Flowers of Gold.

Return the Ebony Blade to us, whether Orndras comes with it or not. Look for a Dunmer with a scar under his left eye.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#184)
	What is Volendrung?
By Gurour

Volendrung is one of the most notorious mythological artifacts in history. It has cultural ties to the Dwemer as well as the Daedra, though scholars fail to agree on just about every detail that has ever been written about it—including whether or not different accounts are referencing the same object.

Academics recognize one such artifact, called Volendrung, as a Dwemer relic forged by Clan Rourken. It was carried into battle as a family symbol as much as it was the chieftain's weapon, and was made famous when the Rourkens refused to join the First Council of Chimer and Dwemer. The other Dwemer forsook them for the slight, and the Rourkens refused to stay with their people if it meant an alliance with the Chimer—their sworn enemies.

So the Rourken chieftain hurled Volendrung into the sky, declaring that their people would find a home wherever it landed. Volendrung thus served as a guiding light for Clan Rourken in exile as the Hammer roared, beastlike, across the sky. It shone like a second sun during the day, mirrored the moons at night, and led the Rourken to the other side of the continent. There, they supposedly founded the fabled city of Volenfell—which has yet to be discovered in the modern era, if it ever truly existed.

But how did the unidentified Rourken chieftain manage such a tremendous throw? Dwemer armies were known for their engines of war, and their mechanical infantry. If the Dwemer had the capability to project a weapon cross-continent by hand, why did they never utilize such long-range assaults in warfare? Even a modern Arch-Mage would have difficulty concocting a spell to launch an object over such a distance. Unless Volendrung was actually a flying engine, powered by lost Dwemer mechanics, the whole story reeks of a Bosmer tale.

Some skeptics, including this one, believe the Dwemer Volendrung's flight is simply poetic imagery representing the wandering exile of Clan Rourken.

A second hammer called Volendrung, this time a Daedric artifact belonging to the Daedric Prince Malacath, exists in records nearly as old as the Dwemer version. Malacath's relic echoes the Dwemer name, and for this reason, many assume that it is the same legendary weapon. But why would the God of Curses associate himself with an object forged by enemies? To make a mockery of Dwemer work? To take something the Dwemer treasured and use it as an instrument against them? A rather subversive and indirect action—unbecoming of Malacath's historically straightforward mentality.

Angarin's "The Daedric Armory" speculates on the Hammer's magical features: the text cites several Mages Guild papers, claiming the Hammer empowers its wielder, and drains the strength of struck foes—very much in line with a Malacathan design. There is little doubt that the relic described could be tied to the God of Curses. What is in doubt is whether it was named by mortals or by Malacath himself—and whether the Rourken Clan wielded the same Hammer in centuries past.

What is Volendrung? Tamriel may never know.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#185)
	The Thief God's Treasures
By Wafaruz the Veracious Spitter

Rajhin, he who is fleet of foot, the very embodiment of speed, agility, and slyness, has borrowed many treasures from coffers across the lands. No possession is safe from his desire—not even those of the Daedric Princes.

Rajhin's most well-known plunder was the celebrated Ring of Khajiit, named after our people. It was once the Anticipation's Finger, and only found its way to Tamriel because it was stolen from the eighth arm of the Webspinner herself. With the Ring of Khajiit, Rajhin grasped the spark of godhood. It wrapped him in shadow so dark that none could reach him. Not the Anticipation of Vivec; not even the passage of time.

But Rajhin wasn't finished. On his way out, he spied the killing word of the Spider, the black edge of shadow, and claimed it, as well. So swift were these takings that the Anticipation of Vivec was unaware anything went missing. Dark and sharp was the anger that followed, but Rajhin was no longer there. Rajhin is not cruel, or malicious—sometimes, when the Moons fit his mood, he gives them back.

From the Webspinner's threads, Rajhin found his way to a land where all trees have fallen, and the only currency is knowledge. There, Rajhin pillaged the Book that Knows from the one who knows it all and disappeared amongst sheaves in the wind. The lord of that land has never stopped seeking his treasured volume, and, sometimes, when the Moons are right—he finds it. Because, sometimes, Rajhin gives it back.

They say that, eventually, Rajhin took too much, too often, that the Ring of Khajiit tired of his capers. They say that the Ring abandoned Rajhin as he was surrounded by enemies, that it was his undoing. This one knows that Rajhin simply gave the Ring back.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#186)
	War Weather
Bring this to Neidir's attention immediately. It's a transcript of an old text, but she needs to see this. Beg her pardon for the conjecture on Nord legends and Psijic nonsense, but this text contains the angle of attack she was looking for:

Weather magic has never been an exact science, perhaps because of the temperamental nature of what it seeks to control.

Minor spells to conjure gusts of wind or forks of lightning are common, but manipulation of a region's climate is much more difficult to achieve. Our war wizards have longed for the ability to lower catastrophic hailstorms onto enemy borders as a preamble to invasion, or to halt a blizzard to make an unexpected march through inclement weather.

There are claims to such spells—spells originating from foreign lands and beyond.

Legend has it that a sect of Nords in faraway Skyrim command the spell-like language of dragons, which allowed them some mastery over the weather. Accounts of these Nords' abilities during the Merethic Era Dragon War include the power to diminish fogs, mists, and clouds with the sheer bravado of their shouts. Negil's "Dragons at Windhelm" notes that an army of these bellowing Nords foiled an airborne sneak attack by dragons who sought to strike under a cover of storm clouds. Negil writes, "We thought the heavy clouds looked better parted, and when we spoke our Words of Power, the clouds thought so, too. But even with their passing, the sun remained hidden. A then-apparent wing of dragons stretched across the blue, and the curse that escaped Vofodor's mouth brought a hearty guffaw to mine. Our Words of Power did not spare us the battle, but they told us battle was coming. We joined it gladly." The Maormer lack access to the dragon language, but I have confidence anything the Nords can accomplish we can match.

Far to the southwest of Skyrim, members of the Psijic Order have been long-rumored to possess spells cast in the Old Way of magic that can bend the elements to the user's desire. Our scouts have reported sudden lightning and flash rain turning to small-scale blizzards off the coast of Artaeum for years. It's possible instructional texts on the matter exist—and translating them from the Old Way into intelligible magic will be difficult, but it would be an excellent starting point.

Arresea's "The Daedric Primer" describes a spell devised by Sheogorath, Daedric Prince, called Manipulate Weather. She writes, "Sheogorath's spell folio includes an incantation to match the weather with his mood. The Lord of the Madhouse has been known to teach the spell to mortals in his favor, allowing them to alter the climate of an entire region. Unfortunately, the spell functions at Sheogorath's whim, no matter who casts it—meaning it functions entirely randomly. There are stories of his followers trying to stymie flashfloods but summoning torrential rain instead, or trying to put out brush fires and feeding the flames with unwanted lightning storms, to Sheogorath's delight. Making a Daedric Pact with Sheogorath is probably not in our best interest, but it seems there is something we can learn from the Prince of Madness.

I include the above examples to say that large-scale weather control has been noted across the world, to convince King Orgnum or any in his close circle that weaponizing such an ability would be an incredible asset to the Maormer military. 

I set out to prove as much this past winter, with the help of twenty journeyman mages. We didn't quite succeed—though we're on the cusp of success. We started by clearing an open plain near the sea and created a lightning storm by manipulating the charge of a passing cloud with our own skeins of lightning. It worked, but we lost a member of our group (entirely regrettable) to the sudden storm and a fork of wayward lightning. It's possible we would all have perished had our storm not consumed itself. We tried several times, managing to lengthen the duration of the storm each time, even learned to direct it out over the water. But the duration of our spell remained our enemy, and we eventually had to admit that the exercise would be futile in a battle. 

We concluded that if we had had some way to physically suspend our spell at a high altitude—perhaps with a conduit device? Perhaps a series of devices—we would eliminate the need for continued expenditure of magicka and free the casters to direct a storm across a great distance.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#187)
	Civility and Etiquette: Wood Orcs I
Civility and Etiquette Volume III: Wood Orcs, Part I

Elden Hollow

By Coristir, Sage Sojourner

It is said that the Orcs came to be when the Aldmeri god, Trinimac, was devoured by the Daedric Prince Boethiah. As the myth goes, Boethiah excreted Trinimac's remains, and those Aldmer who followed Trinimac rubbed that excrement on themselves to become Orcs. Perhaps it's just a myth, but the imagery is appropriate: repugnant, ridiculous, and a little comical, like the Orcs themselves. It's said that, after a time, a sect of these people traveled into Valenwood and developed a tangential culture: the Wood Orcs. (For dealings with Orsinium Orcs, see Volume II.)

The Orcs in general are difficult for Mer to interact with, but these Wood Orcs are similar in physicality to our Wood Elf cousins, the Bosmer. The Wood Orcs are blunter and more ill-tempered than the Bosmer, but should be handled in much the same way: with patience, guidance and a careful eye. Without a proper Altmeri hand to lead them, both races have the potential to devolve into self-destructive, orderless savages that are an inconvenience and danger to all civilized people around them. 

So how should an Altmer deal with a Wood Orc?

First, earn her respect. Like her northern, Orsinium cousins (the more common Orc variety), a Wood Orc admires physical strength, but she also prizes agility, speed, and geographical knowledge (equating that with tactical knowledge). Display some semblance of competence in these areas and you will earn her begrudging appreciation.

Here are a few ways to begin a conversation (as a sign of respect, make sure to introduce yourself or at least establish eye contact first):

1.	Offer to begin an unarmed altercation and force the Wood Orc to submit. They enjoy fisticuffs.

2.	If you find yourself walking with a Wood Orc, gain the lead and maintain it. This may lead to a footrace. Win it, and win the Wood Orc's approval.

3.	Find a large rock—equal to or greater than body size—and hurl it, within view. Use a strength spell if you must, but don't let the Wood Orc know.

If you think this sounds like impressing your way into a tribe of athletic children, you would not be far wrong. Use the above methods with caution—predictable as they may be, Wood Orcs are individuals, and require improvisation in dealing with them.

And here are a few things an Altmer should not do when interacting with Wood Orcs:

1.	Flaunt magical abilities. Though the Altmer know that displaying advanced magic shows a lifetime of dedication and mastery of the highest craft, all Orcs bear a cultural distrust of magic. In their ignorance, they believe magic's primary function is oppression of their people, and often bridle at its use.

2.	Unless you're intending to ignite a battle, never hide in the trees of Wood Orc territory. Walk in the open. As our Bosmer cousins have learned, the Wood Orcs do not take kindly to those who stalk their forests. They equate secret movement with malevolence and cowardice.

In Part II of this collection, I'll detail specific hurdles that may come up in conversation with a Wood Orc, such as religion and Malacath, and the Wood Orc equivalent of Orsinium strongholds.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#188)
	The Art of Kwama Egg Cooking
An Introduction

By Belami Llevarso

Kwama eggs have always been a Dunmeri delicacy, though I've heard they've found their way into Imperial kitchens, too. (Who knows what grisly dishes that lot would make with Kwama eggs? Would they stuff chickens with them? Poach them and put them in a bap? They are a disdainful people, and they make disdainful food.)

To cook a Kwama egg with any measure of success is to master the sharp, sour flavor, and the gummy texture. Kwama eggs are similar to Scrib jelly in this way, and many a young chef (even Dunmeri chefs whose elders should have better taught them) has attempted to mask the eggs behind other ingredients, to camouflage the perceived unpleasantness. This is an abominable practice. A chef should never apologize for a Kwama egg in her dishes by sweetening or embittering them. If the dish is properly prepared, supporting the Kwama eggs' natural qualities, a cultured diner will embrace the meal in all its pungent glory. 

But what does that preparation entail? Only a Dunmer could tell you. Because only the Dunmer have the lifetimes of experience necessary to call ourselves culinary masters of the Kwama egg. It was we who first tamed the Kwama, after all.

I, in turn, have spent a large portion of my years (of which there are many) immersing myself in the art. I have served Kwama eggs to peasants and paupers, Grandmasters and Grandmistresses, and delighted them all.  And you, dear reader, will find within these volumes the combined knowledge of my entire career. It takes a lifetime of cooking Kwama eggs to truly understand the subtle, but brilliant differences between the various methods of preparation, and I have catalogued them all here—all the ones of worth, at least. Follow these recipes exactly. Just as a mage should hesitate to improvise in her spell-casting, lest she find a Daedra in her drawing room, the Kwama egg chef should not stray from the paths I've laid out here—painstakingly crafted from years of trial and error.

Believe me—if it works, I've found it. 

And put that moon sugar away. You'll insult the eggs.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#189)
	The Binding Stone
The Keeper's Primer Volume II: The Binding Stone

From the Office of the Canonreeve of Corrections

Altmeri texts reference many variations of the entrapment spell. Some of those spells, like the early First Era "Aninaire's Tower," create physical fields around their targets. These varieties are unbreachable unless broken by an appropriate amount of force—like conjured stone walls, or shield wards turned inward. The effect differs in strength from spell to spell, but is generally effective for containing the layman prisoner and certainly tougher to break free from than brick and mortar.

Of course, sometimes a mage seeks to confine creatures that walls won't hold, magical or otherwise. Gaseous forms of the Wild Hunt, Nether Liches, and various ghosts and phantoms all have means to escape physical barriers. These must be imprisoned using spells that create completely impermeable surfaces while absorbing or stemming the magicka of their captives. These spells must be re-incanted constantly to avoid consuming themselves, usually at a high cost of magicka for the caster.

The Binding Stone, which your Head Keeper will soon introduce to you if he hasn't already, functions as a combination of these spells. It's tangible, small, and therefore portable, but capable of holding all manner of magicka-wielding creatures—even ones as powerful as your charge.

I'm sure you understand the grave nature of what the prisoner's escape would mean, both to you, personally, and to Auridon and Tamriel as a whole. The condition of the Binding Stone is more important than the condition of your prisoner. Indeed, your very lives depend on the upkeep and maintenance of the Stone.

And as for your prisoner: do not look at him. Do not speak to him. There is no specific danger in doing so, but any such interaction is a fruitless venture. Watch yourself, watch each other, do your duty, and your name will live forever among those who have committed everything to shield Auridon from his menace.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#190)
	Where Magical Paths Meet
By Warlock Aldaale

Mastering Conjuration means having access to an entire spectrum of utility. 

—Are you in need of a flame spell? Conjure a Flame Atronach. You'll have command of a dozen such spells, in the form of a fiery avatar. 

—Are you caught in the dead of night and wishing you had prepared a light spell? Conjure a Will-o-the-Wisp: its natural luminescence banishes darkness. 

—Do you lack a telekinesis spell to move a boulder out of your way? Conjure a Storm Atronach to lift it for you. 

—Did you forget the shield ward you'll need to protect yourself from a sudden hail? Conjure a Frost Atronach to crystallize the air above for temporary shelter. 

—Is your life detection spell unable to discern a fleeing target from all the other living things in the wilderness? Conjure a Wolf Familiar to pick up the scent. 

The flexibility of Conjuration magic has been an unsung passion of mine, and I've compiled a comprehensive guide for replacing specific, commonly-used spells with Conjuration substitutions (see Volume II, page seven, for more).

Conjuration even allows access to Daedric abilities (for those who dare to wield them). A mage well-versed in Conjuration can summon all variety of Daedra, from Scamps to Dremora Lords. Mine wouldn't be the first primer for spells like these, but Volume III of this collection contains detailed instructions on beckoning the denizens of Oblivion. "The Origins of Conjuration" is also a useful read on the subject.*

I realize I write highly of Conjuration here, almost extravagantly, but if you'll do me the favor of reading the rest of this collection (Volumes II-XXII), you'll find that my words have weight.

*Author's Note: It should go without saying, but contact the Oblivion planes only with the utmost discretion: the unwary mage could lose her life—or worse—in dealings with the Daedra.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#191)
	Wayrest Sewers: A Short History
Volume 1

By Hilaire Beanique

The city of Wayrest owes much to its merchants for its ever-flourishing economy. The abundance of money has done the city wonders, earning Wayrest the moniker "Jewel of the Bay": the wealth of its citizens have paid for the shimmering stone used in the city's construction, the bright armor worn by the local law enforcement agents, and most significantly, the modern marvel of western Tamriel—the Wayrest Sewers.

Written accounts dating back to the city's foundation hint that, until the Wayrest Sewers were finished, the city was a jewel mired in muck and mud. Vile, foul-smelling mud. Writes Silvia Cato, an Imperial sailor in 1E 801, "The Bjoulsae River is a watercourse of refuse, of pungent tang, of disease, and the Iliac Bay is equally revolting where the Bjoulsae feeds into it. It's that damned Breton city."

Today, the Bjoulsae River shines as brilliantly as Wayrest itself, thanks entirely to the sewers, which are a feat of engineering rivaling anything created by the Dwemer of old. The artisans ensured that the sewers' modular design permit travel across the city below ground as easily as above, as well as allow construction to continue to this day. The sewers, like the city itself, are regularly expanded. However, in its size lies the one drawback of the entire system: the sewers have become so large that Wayrest law enforcement has difficulty patrolling it all, and thus, crime finds its way even to the Jewel of the Bay. Like the city itself, most of these illicit activities can only be afforded by the rich, including skooma trade and necromancy (skooma is a narcotic that's widely banned across Tamriel, and necromancy, the magical art of raising the dead, is also forbidden in many regions).

See Volume II for a list of noble families that donated most heavily to the sewer construction. The original designers who imagined the sewers just prior to the fall of Orsinium remain lost to time, though Volume III contains a list of artisans and engineers who have worked to expand development since the end of the First Era.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#192)
	To Posterity
By Hafara

Witches and witch-hunters are, by nature, uncivil to one another, but the witches of Eastmarch and my clan, the Direfrost witch-hunters, have particularly bad blood between us. I cannot say I blame the witches for their hatred—we have clashed often in these mountainous regions, and we Direfrosts have become very good at slaying them. Eastmarch was once infested with the heathens, the landscape dotted with their covens. Everywhere one turned, one found sordid hovels built in honor of some Daedric Prince. Thanks to the efforts of my family over several generations, that number has dwindled to a scant few. They're there, to be sure—the schemes of Oblivion are myriad—but the witches move in fear, ducking between the narrowing shadows cast by the Flame of Direfrost.

In the days of their abundance, they abducted innocents, murdered children, desecrated corpses. I will not mourn them when finally, and with great, glorious fanfare, we stamp them from the face of Eastmarch forever.

I list below the most infamous leaders of those covens who have committed crimes such that Direfrosts of my generation can never forget them, lest we disrespect the desecrated dead. Daedric Pacts grant these witches long life, and I fear I may not live to see all of this lot rounded up and slain, but  when the last of them falls I implore posterity to raise a monument in remembrance of their victims, detailing their crimes and their death at Direfrost hands:

Hranvard Frostfinger. Thirteen known victims sacrificed in flames to Mehrunes Dagon. Fled to the Sea of Ghosts where a final standoff with hunters saw a silver bolt pass through a summoned flesh atronach into Frostfinger herself. Confirmed deceased.*

Henghild of Wittestadr. Twenty known victims sacrificially bled to death to appease an unidentified Daedra Lord. Captured from the mountain passes to the south of Eastmarch and perished under torture. Confirmed deceased.**

Lorgar the Plague. Twenty-seven known victims, causes of death vary, all executed to appease an unidentified Daedra. Search went on in vain for months before Lorgar challenged Odrama, wife of Adegrel Direfrost, and was beheaded on the steps of Direfrost Keep. The stone was clean before supper. Confirmed deceased.***

Drodda of Icereach. One hundred and seven known victims, frozen and soul-trapped to appease Molag Bal. Still at large and incredibly dangerous. She is the oldest of the Eastmarch Coven, and only grows in strength with the passage of time.****

Notes:

*Revised for total victim count and particulars of death by Lord Logangar

**Revised as above by Lady Stodrir

*** Revised as above by Lord Ogondar

**** Revised for current victim count by Lord Agomar
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#193)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer I-A
The Ransom of Zarek, Part 1

By Marobar Sul

Jalemmil stood in her garden and read the letter her servant had brought her. The bouquet of 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 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.

"Don't tell me they sent the ransom note so quickly," called a familiar 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 hadst been kidnapped."

"I was," said Zarek. "Three huge soaring Nords attacked my carriage on the Frimvorn Pass. Brothers, as I learned, named Mathais, Ulin, and Koorg. Thou shouldst 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. "Wert thou rescued?"

"I thought about waiting for that, but I knew they'd send off a ransom note and I know how thou dost 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 didst thou do?"

"They had me chained at their camp in the woods not far from Cael on a high knoll overlooking 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, and how essential it was to breathe after only the third or fourth stroke, not too often to slow thyself down, but not too little 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 signs of underwater rocks and had taken the diving rock on the right."

"But thou returned?" asked Jalemmil, astounded. "Was that not 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. It was 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, and the importance of sure foot placement. Most important, he explained, was that one must 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 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 rounded the first corner.

"With his eyes on my back, Mathais did not see the gap 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."
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#194)
	Huvar's Journal
We finally reached Kynesgrove. I heard stories from my brothers about this place. They told me, "Huvar, never go into battle without praying to the goddess first! Not unless you want to end up on the losing side." So here I am, offering prayers as other warriors have done before me.

One note before I turn in for the night. The Keepers of the shrine are acting very strange. My brothers told me they were generous and kind, eager to help visiting pilgrims. But the Keepers are glaring at me, treating me like a sacrilegious Orc. I hope I didn't disrespect them in some way.

Something strange is happening here. I heard screams outside, and my companions haven't returned yet. I guess it's time to grab my blade and find out what's going on out there.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#195)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer II
The Seed

The hamlet village of Lorikh was a quiet, peaceful Dwemer community nestled in the grey and tan dunes and boulders of the Dejasyte. No vegetation of any kind grew in Lorikh, though there were blackened vestiges of long-dead trees scattered throughout the town. Arriving by caravan, Kamdida looked at her new home with despair. She was used to the forestland of the north, where her father's family had hailed from. Here there was no shade, little water, and a great open sky. The land looked dead.

Her mother's family took Kamdida and her younger brother Nevith in, and they were very kind to the orphans, but she felt lonely in the alien village. It was not until she met an old Argonian woman who worked at the water factory that Kamdida found a friend. Her name was Sigerthe, and she said that her family had lived in Lorikh centuries before the Dwemer arrived, when it was a great and beauteous forest.

"Why did the trees die?" asked Kamdida.

"When there were Argonians only in this land, we never cut trees, for we had no need for fuel or wooden structures such as you possess. When the Dwemer came, we allowed them to use the plants as they needed them, provided they never touched the Hist, which were sacred to us and to the land. For many years, we lived peaceably. No one wanted for anything."

"What happened?"

"Some of your scientists discovered that by distilling a certain tree sap, molding it, and drying it, they could create a resilient kind of armor called resin," said Sigerthe. "Most of the trees that grew here had very thin ichor in their branches, but not the Hist. Many of them fairly glistened with sap, which made the Dwemer merchants greedy. They hired a woodsman named Juhnin to start clearing the sacred arbors for profit."

The old Argonian woman looked to the dusty ground and sighed, "Of course, the Argonians cried out against it. It was our home, and the Hist, once gone, would never return. The merchants reconsidered, but Juhnin took it on his own to break our spirit. He proved one terrible, bloody day that his prodigious skill with the axe could be used against people as well as trees. Any Argonian who stood in his way was hewn asunder. The Dwemer people of Lorikh closed their doors and their ears to the cries of murder."

"Horrible," gasped Kamdida.

"It is difficult to explain," said Sigerthe, "but the deaths of our living ones was not nearly as horrible to us as the death of our trees. You must understand that to my people, the Hist are where we come from and where we are going. Destroying our bodies is nothing. Destroying our trees annihilates us utterly. When Juhnin turned his axe on the Hist, he killed the land. The water disappeared, the animals died, and all the other life that the trees nourished crumbled and dried to dust."

"Then why are you still here?" asked Kamdida. "Why didn't you leave?"

"We are trapped. I am one of the last of a dying people. Few of us are strong enough to live away from our ancestral groves, and sometimes, even now, there is a perfume in the air of Lorikh that gives us life. It will not be long until we are all gone."

Kamdida felt tears welling up in her eyes. "Then I will be alone in this horrible place with no trees and no friends."

"We Argonians have an expression," said Sigerthe with a sad smile, taking Kamdida's hand. "The best soil for a seed is found in your heart."

Kamdida looked into the palm of her hand and saw that Sigerthe had given her a small black pellet. It was a seed. "It looks dead."

"It can only grow in one place in all Lorikh," said the old Argonian. "Outside an old cottage in the hills outside town. I cannot go there, for the owner would kill me on sight. Like all my people, I am too frail to defend myself now, but you can go there and plant the seed."

"What will happen?" asked Kamdida. "Will the Hist return?"

"No, but some part of their power will."

That night, Kamdida stole from her house and into the hills. She knew the cottage Sigerthe had mentioned. As she approached it, the door opened and an old but powerfully built man appeared with a mighty axe slung over his shoulder.

"What are you doing here, child?" he demanded. "In the dark, I almost took you to be a lizard-man."

"I've lost my way in the dark. I'm trying to get back to Lorikh."

"Be on your way then."

"Do you have a candle I might have?" she asked piteously. "I've been walking in circles, and I'm afraid I'll only return back here without light."

The old man grumbled and walked into his house. Quickly, Kamdida dug a hole in the dry dirt and buried the seed as deeply as she could. He returned with a lit candle.

"See to it you don't come back here," he growled, "or I'll chop you in half."

He returned to his house. The next morning, when he awoke and opened the door, he found that his cottage was entirely sealed within an enormous tree. He picked up his axe and delivered blow and after blow to the wood, but he could never break through. He tried side chops, but the wood healed itself. He tried an upper chop, but the wood sealed.

Much time went by before someone discovered old Juhnin's emaciated body lying in front of his open door, still holding his blunted, broken axe. What he'd been chopping with it was a mystery, but the rumor spread that Hist sap was found on the blade.

Shortly thereafter, small flowers began pushing up through the town's dry dirt. The Hist did not return, but at twilight the shadows of great trees would fill the streets.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#196)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer III
The Importance of Where

By Marobar Sul

The chieftain of Othrobar gathered his wise men together and said, "Every morning a tenfold of my flock are found butchered. What is the cause?"

Fangbith the Warleader said, "A monster may be coming down from the Mountain and devouring your flock."

Ghorick the Healer said, "A strange new disease perhaps is to blame."

Beran the Priest said, "We must sacrifice to the Goddess for her to save us."

The wise men made sacrifices, and while they waited for their answers from the Goddess, Fangbith went to Mentor Joltereg and said, "You taught me well how to forge the Cudgel of Zolia, and how to wield it in combat, but I must know now when it is wise to use my skill. Do I wait for the Goddess to reply or the medicine to work, or do I hunt the monster that 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. With five blows to the five points, 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 a 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 he 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."
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#197)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer V
The Song of the Alchemists

By Marobar Sul



When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station

After a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation,

The word went out that the King did want

A new savant

To mix his potions and brews.

But he declared he would only choose

A fellow who knew the tricks and the tools.

The King refused to hire on more fools.

After much deliberation, discussions, and debates,

The King picked two well-learned candidates.

Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer,

An ambitious pair,

Vied to prove which one was the best.

Said the King, "There will be a test."

They went to a large chamber with herbs, gems, tomes,

Pots, measuring cups, all under high crystalline domes.

"Make me a tonic that will make me invisible,"

Laughed the King in a tone some would call risible.

So Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk

Began to work,

Mincing herbs, mashing metal, refining strange oils,

Cautiously setting their cauldrons to burbling boils,

Each on his own, sending mixing bowls mixing,

Sometimes peeking to see what the other was fixing.

After they had worked for nearly three-quarters an hour,

Both Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer

Winked at the other, certain he won.

Said King Maraneon,

"Now you must taste the potions you've wrought,

Take a spoon and sample it right from your pot."

Minthurk vanished as his lips touched his brew,

But Faer tasted his and remained apparent in view.

"You think you mixed silver, blue diamonds, and yellow grass!"

The King laughed, "Look up, Faer, up to the ceiling glass.

The light falling makes the ingredients you choose

Quite different hues."

"What do you get," asked the floating voice, bold,

"Of a potion of red diamonds, blue grass, and gold?"

"By [Dwemer God]," said Faer, his face in a wince,

"I've made a potion to fortify my own intelligence."
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#198)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer VI
Chimarvamidium

By Marobar Sul

After many battles, it was clear who would win the war. The Chimer had great skills in magic and swordplay, 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 that 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 magical 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 volley 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 had 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 blacksmith," said Barif. "Let it be done. We will 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 from 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."
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#199)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer X
The Dowry

By Marobar Sul

Ynaleigh was the wealthiest landowner in Gunal, and over the years, he had saved a tremendous dowry for the man who would marry his daughter, Genefra. When she reached the age of consent, he locked the gold away for safe-keeping and announced his intention to have her marry. She was a comely lass, a scholar, a great athlete, but dour and brooding in aspect. This personality defect did not bother her potential suitors any more than her positive traits impressed them. Every man knew the tremendous wealth that would be his as the husband of Genefra and son-in-law of Ynaleigh. That alone was enough for hundreds to come to Gunal to pay court.

"The man who will marry my daughter," said Ynaleigh to the assembled, "must not be doing so purely out of avarice. He must demonstrate his own wealth to my satisfaction."

This simple pronouncement removed a vast majority of the suitors, since they knew they could not impress the landowner with their meager fortunes. A few dozen did come forward within a few days, clad in fine killarc cloth of spun silver, accompanied by exotic servants, traveling in magnificent carriages. All who came who met with Ynaleigh's approval, but none arrived in a more resplendent fashion than Welyn Naerillic. The young man, whom no one had ever heard of, arrived in a shining ebon coach drawn by a team of dragons, his clothing of rarest manufacture. He was accompanied by an army of the most fantastical servants any of Gunal had ever seen. His valets had eyes on all sides of their heads, and his maidservants seemed cast in gemstones.

Such was not enough for Ynaleigh.

"The man who marries my daughter must prove himself an intelligent fellow, for I would not have an ignoramus as a son-in-law and business partner," he declared.

This eliminated a large part of the wealthy suitors. Through their lives of luxury, they had never needed to think very much, if at all. Still, some came forward over the next few days, demonstrating their wit and learning, quoting the great sages of the past and offering their philosophies of metaphysics and alchemy. Welyn Naerillic also came and asked Ynaleigh to dine at the villa he had rented outside of Gunal. There, the landowner saw scores of scribes working on translations of Aldmeri tracts and enjoyed the young man's somewhat irreverent but intriguing intelligence.

Nevertheless, though he was much impressed with Welyn Naerillic, Ynaleigh had another challenge.

"I love my daughter very much," said Ynaleigh, "and I hope that the man who marries her will make her happy as well. Should any of you make her smile, she and the great dowry are yours."

The suitors lined up for days, singing her songs, proclaiming their devotion, describing her beauty in the most poetic of terms. Genefra merely glared at all with hatred and melancholia. Ynaleigh stood by her side and began to despair. His daughter's suitors were failing to a man. Finally Welyn Naerillic came to the chamber.

"I will make your daughter smile," he said. "I dare say, I'll make her laugh, but only after you've agreed to marry us. If she is not delighted within one hour of our engagement, the wedding can be called off."

Ynaleigh turned to his daughter. She was not smiling, but her eyes had sparked with some morbid curiosity in this young man. As no other suitor had even registered that for her, he agreed.

"The dowry is naturally not to be paid 'til after you've wed," said Ynaleigh. "Being engaged is not enough."

"Might I see the dowry still?" asked Welyn.

Knowing how fabled the treasure was and understanding that this would likely be the closest the young man would come to possessing it, Ynaleigh agreed. He had grown quite found of Welyn. On his orders, Welyn, Ynaleigh, glum Genefra, and the castellan delved deeply into the stronghold of Gunal. The first vault had to be opened by touching a series of runic symbols. Should one of the marks be activated incorrectly, a volley of poisoned arrows would have struck the thief. Ynaleigh was particularly proud of the next level of security: a lock composed of blades with eighteen tumblers that required three keys to be turned simultaneously. The blades were designed to eviscerate any who merely picked one of the locks. Finally, they reached the storeroom.

It was entirely empty.

"By Lorkhan, we've been burgled!" cried Ynaleigh. "But how? Who could have done this?"

"A humble but, if I may say so, rather talented burglar," said Welyn. "A man who has loved your daughter from afar for many years, but did not possess the glamor or the learning to impress. That is, until the gold from her dowry afforded me the opportunity."

"You?" bellowed Ynaleigh, scarcely able to believe it. Then something even more unbelievable happened.

Genefra began to laugh. She had never even dreamed of meeting anyone like this thief. She threw herself into his arms before her father's outraged eyes. After a moment, Ynaleigh began to laugh as well.

Genefra and Welyn were married in a month's time. Though he was in fact quite poor and had little scholarship, Ynaleigh was amazed how much his wealth increased with such a son-in-law and business partner.

He made certain never to ask from whence the excess gold came.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#200)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer XI
Azura and the Box

By Marobar Sul

Nchylbar had enjoyed an adventurous youth, but he had grown to be a very wise, very old Dwemer who spent his life searching for truth and dispelling superstitions. He invented much and created many theorems and logic structures that bore his name, but much of the world still puzzled him. Nothing was a greater enigma to him that the nature of the Aedra and Daedra. Over the course of his research, he came to the conclusion that many of the gods were entirely fabricated by man and mer.

Nothing, however, was a greater question to Nchylbar than the limits of divine power. Were the Greater Beings the masters of the entire world, or did the humbler creatures have the strength to forge their own destinies? As Nchylbar found himself nearing the end of his life, he felt he must understand this last basic truth.

Among the sage's acquaintances was a holy Chimer priest named Athynic. When the priest was visiting Bthalag-Zturamz, Nchylbar told him what he intended to do to find the nature of divine power. Athynic was terrified. He pleaded with his friend not to break this great mystery, but Nchylbar was resolute. Finally, the priest agreed to assist out of love for his friend, though he feared the results of this blasphemy.

Athynic summoned Azura. After the usual rituals by which the priest declared his faith in her powers and Azura agreed to do no harm to him, Nchylbar and a dozen of his students entered the summoning chamber, carrying with them a large box.

"As we see you in our land, Azura, you are the Goddess of the Dusk and Dawn and all the mysteries therein," said Nchylbar, trying to appear as kindly and obsequious as he could be. "It is said that your knowledge is absolute."

"So it is," smiled the Daedra.

"You would know, for example, what is in this wooden box," said Nchylbar.

Azura turned to Athynic, her brow furrowed. The priest was quick to explain, "Goddess, this Dwemer is a very wise and respected man. Please believe me: his intention is not to mock your greatness, but to demonstrate it to this scientist and to the rest of his skeptical race. I tried to explain your power to him, but his philosophy is such that he must see it demonstrated."

"If I am to demonstrate my might in a way to bring the Dwemer race to understanding, it might have been a more impressive feat you would have me do," growled Azura, who turned to look Nchylbar in the eyes. "There is a red-petaled flower in the box."

Nchylbar did not smile or frown. He simply opened the box and revealed to all that it was empty.

When the students turned to look to Azura, she was gone. Only Athynic had seen the Goddess' expression before she vanished, and he could not speak, for he was trembling so. He knew a curse had fallen on him, but even crueler was the knowledge of divine power that had been demonstrated. Nchylbar also looked pale, uncertain on his feet, but his face shone with bliss instead of fear: the smile of a Dwemer finding evidence for a truth only suspected.

Two of his students supported him, and two more supported the priest as they left the chamber.

"I have studied much over the years, performed countless experiments, taught myself a thousand languages, and yet the skill that has taught me the final truth is one I learned when I was but a poor, young man, struggling to earn enough gold so I could eat," whispered the sage.

As he was escorted up the stairs to his bed, a red flower petal fell from the sleeve of his voluminous robe. Nchylbar died that night, a portrait of peace that could only have come from contented knowledge.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#201)
	Antecedents of Dwemer Law
(This book is a historical account of the development of Dwemer law and custom from its roots in High Elven culture.)

In short, so far as I am able to trace the order of development in the customs of the Bosmeri tribes, I believe it to have been in all ways comparable to the growth of Altmeri law. The earlier liability for slaves and animals was mainly confined to surrender. As in the Sumerset Isles, this later became compensation.

What does this matter for a study of our laws today? So far as concerns the influence of the Altmeri law upon our own, especially the Altmeri law of master and servant, the evidence of this is to be found in every judgment which has been recorded for the last five hundred years. It has been stated already that we still repeat the reasoning of the Altmeri magistrates, empty as it is, to the present day. I will quickly show how Altmeri custom can be followed into the courts of the Dwemer.

In the laws of Karndar Watch (P.D. 1180) it is said, "If one who is owned by another slays one who owns himself, the first owner must pay the associates of the slain three fine instruments and the body of the one who his owned." There are many other similar citations. The same principle is extended even to the case of a centurion by which a man is killed. "If at the common workbench, one is slain by an Animunculi, the associates of the slain may disassemble the Animunculi and take its parts within thirty days."

Consider what Dhark has mentioned concerning the rude beasts of the Tenmar forests. "If a marsh cat was killed by an Argonian, his family were in disgrace till they retaliated by killing the Argonian or another like it. Furthermore, if a marsh cat was killed by a fall from a tree, his relatives would take their revenge by toppling the tree, shattering its branches, and casting them to every part of the forest."
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#202)
	Dwarven Automatons
By Herebane, Nord

The Dwarves have been extinct for many an age, and perhaps that's for the best. To see men and women the size of large children, all with beards, would be a most disturbing sight. Still, whatever wrath the Dwarves brought from the gods that consumed an entire civilization surely must have been an awe-inspiring thing to witness.

The remnants of their civilization lie buried in the hearts of mountains. Scholars and thieves the world over descend on the skeletal remains of Dwarven cities like vultures to scrape clean the bones of the past, old knowledge waiting to be exhumed, and treasures to be discovered. But many men lie murdered in those halls of the damned, because those Dwarven ruins do not release their treasures without a fight.

My kin would tell stories long ago, when I was just a child, about how adept the Dwarves were at building machines. They would say that before our time, Dwarves harnessed the power of the earth. They wielded fire and hammers to reshape steel and bronze with a mechanical brilliance that breathed life into these now ancient constructs of metal and magic. In their dark halls and chambers, amid the ceaseless droning of grinding gears and venting steam, they lie in wait to confound or destroy would-be plunderers of the Dwarven sanctums, as the grim watchmen of the last vestiges of culture from a dead race.

I descended into the humid darkness of Mzulft. The slow hiss of steam, creaking of metal, and rattle of old gears powering an empty city would unnerve most men. I could hear things in the darkness, skittering across the floor just out of sight as I stepped over the bodies of plunderers or scholars who had not made it far. I knew it was not rats wandering these halls.

Small mechanical spiders set upon me with rapid movements. Machines sprouted from the walls and uncurled from spheres into contraptions that rolled on top of gears for legs and crossbows for arms. I could not help but marvel at these single purpose machines built for the murder of men. My sword and my shield are my strength, and I am undeterred by such things. I had heard of greater things roaming these depths, and indeed, something else in these chambers stirred, and it echoed with massive weight. As it lumbered closer, its feet struck the ground as if walking on massive pistons. As it loomed out of darkness, I could see it clear for the first time, axe for one hand, hammer for the other, as tall as five men, made of dull bronze with a face molded in the image of its masters. A Steam Centurion. The stories were true. These were the guardians of the greatest Dwarven treasures. 

We fought, and the Dwarves must truly be extinct, because our battle was surely booming enough to wake the dead. It came at me with hammer and axe, inhuman strength, great fortitude, and a purpose of nothing but murder. I dodged as it crushed the stone around me with futile strikes. I thrust and slashed at it with my blade and took every opening afforded as we shook the halls with violence. I refuse to be undone by a machine.

Where the average man would be long dead, I stood over the husk of this dead automaton, its steam escaping like a final gasp. I could have taken the Dwarven artifacts and metal, but I left them there for others, for I would not hex my journey with the possessions of dead men. Maybe that is where countless others go wrong.

I will continue on my journey across the lands. Perhaps one day Herebane will meet a worthy challenge, for I have yet to see what would make me tremble.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#203)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer I-B
The Ransom of Zarek, Part 2

"Now thou wert 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 couldst 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 Marobar Sul's "Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer," 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 Second Era after the fall of the Reman Empire. 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.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#204)
	Guylaine's Dwemer Architecture
by Guylaine Marilie

(Ed. Note: This is Guylaine Marilie's outdated but entertainingly written reference on late Dwemer architecture. Excerpt is from the chapter describing the Second Empire style of approaches and defenses, and mentioning the common formal convention of the "Four Tests." The book also mentions that the Telvanni have adopted this Four Tests convention as an aesthetic element in their defenses and approaches to their towers.)

"The Test of Pattern requires the observer to examine and analyze for patterns before he acts, with the understanding that many patterns are subtle or hidden.

"The Test of Disorder requires the observer to proceed systematically when no pattern is perceived. When the observer recognizes that many things must be done, and in no specific order; the procedure is to perceive and order all the things to be done, and, upon doing a thing, to recall how and when that thing has been done. For example, the observer must remember the initial position of a thing, and also the new position of that thing.

"The Test of Evasion requires the observer to examine the obstacle, and compare his resources and abilities; if the obstacle is too difficult, seek for a path around the difficulty.

"The Test of Confrontation requires the observer to examine the obstacle, and compare his resources and abilities; if the obstacle is too difficult, look for a path around the difficulty … but if no path around can be found, confront the obstacle directly."
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#205)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer VIII
The Snow Elf and the Variation-Lens

By Marobar Sul

Mzulchond the Tonal Architect had spent twenty years attuning the great animus geode he'd found in Inner Duathand, trying to synchronize it with the precession of the dual equinoxes in order to captivate the Nirnpith Essence. The geode's vibratory affinities continued to elude him, however, so one day he threw down his attenuators, left his workshop and went to the kitchens for an infusion of chal. 

As he approached the kitchen portal he heard sibilant music that cut off abruptly as he stepped over the threshold. His house-assistant, a Snow Elf maiden named Lilyarel, withdrew her hands from behind the steam-grill and looked up guiltily. 

"I heard music, Lilyarel," Mzulchond said. "What did you just put behind the calorefactor?"

"It's nothing, Sir Dwarf," the maiden replied. "Just something I cobbled together to pass the time."

"What? Have you been in my device-closet again? Show me what you have there."

Reluctantly, the Snow Elf reached behind the steam-grill and drew out a fist-sized object of golden metal, crystal knobs glinting on its flange-hood. Mzulchond held out his hand, open, and Lilyarel carefully placed the object in it. "Don't drop it," she said. "It'll get de-tuned."

"Well, well," the engineer said. "So you've built yourself a crude tonal variation-lens. Is this what was playing the music I heard?"

"Yes, Sir Dwarf," the maiden said, gazing at the floor. "I hope I didn't do anything wrong."

"What, with this device? There's nothing dangerous in a melodic repeater bauble, so long as it doesn't leak bthun-waves from its volumizer. Can't have that—might interfere with the static condensers."

"Oh, don't worry, I used arkoid shielding—not very much!" she said anxiously. "But it's not a melodic repeater, Sir, it harmonizes with my mental melodies." 

"Nonsense," Mzulchond scoffed. "No one knows how to synchronize a variation-lens with mental concept-cycles. It's never been done."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, Sir Dwarf," Lilyarel said, wringing her hands nervously. "I just flipped the duum-emitter so it canceled the demi-ektar-waves, and it worked just fine. Can I have it back now?"

"Hold on a dzum," the engineer said, raising a hand while he looked more closely at the gleaming device. "Flipping the duum-emitter cancels the demi-ektars? Yes … yes, I can see how that might work. This may be just the thing I need to attune my animus geode to the Nirnpith Essence!"

As Mzulchond turned in excitement to take the variation-lens back to his workshop, the Elf maiden picked up a flipper-strut with both hands and struck him across the back of the head. The tonal architect fell dead to the ground, as Lilyarel picked up her shiny device. "Never liked him," she hissed to herself. "Always smelled like Dwemer oil."

Then she opened the brazen louvers of a vent-tube, crawled in, and began lowering herself down through the inwards of the Dwarven city. "Guess I'm going down to join the Undermer, and not coming back." And with that, she turned on her variation-lens, which immediately began harmonizing with her mental melodies.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#206)
	Dwemer Inquiries Volume I
Their Architecture and Civilization

By Thelwe Ghelein, Scholar



In the Deep Halls, Far from Men

Forsaken Red Mountain, Twisted Kin

Hail the Mind, Hail the Stone

Dwarven Pride, Stronger than Bone



My life's work has been dedicated to investigating the Dwemer, their dubious history, and their mysterious banishment. My goal with this text is sharing my findings and conclusions based on eighty years spent studying their unique architectural remains.

The Migration of the Deep Elves from their ancestral Dwemereth, now Morrowind, is a generally accepted as fact. Recorded history supports this, specifically mentioning the Rourken Clan's refusal to join King Dumac in the forming of the First Council and their subsequent exodus to Hammerfell. The architectural premise is also sound, as the building habits of the Dwarves adapted and changed, albeit slowly and in subtle ways, over time and land. I propose that some of these differences are stylistic as well as practical.

Traditional viewpoints suggest that the Vvardenfell Dwemer were the most prolific of their kind. Based on my excavations throughout Skyrim, Morrowind, and High Rock, I am not sure that this is the case. While Vvardenfell is almost cluttered with Dwarven ruins poking through the surface of the landscape, the construction of those ruins is fundamentally different from the majority of what I've observed elsewhere.

Furthermore, as we delve into Vvardenfell ruins, we notice that their internal structure is quite different. While major civic and operational chambers are found near the surface in a Vvardenfell Ruin, that is not typically the case on the mainland. Minor passageways and storehouse rooms are near the surface, but more important locations do not occur until we explore much deeper.

Because such major locations are well-hidden in Dwemer Ruins outside of Morrowind, many scholars believed they were in fact not present in ruins outside that province. This premature conclusion has led some to believe such sites to be mere outposts. My research has shown this not to be the case.

A few theories may explain this difference. Perhaps clan architects simply had their own styles and preferences when it came to civic planning. This seems only somewhat likely, as Dwarven techniques were based on empirical study, and there was likely little room for creative interpretation when it came to building technique. Geological makeup of the terrain almost certainly played a role, especially in a region like Northern Skyrim, where the ground near the surface is very rocky and often frozen, as opposed to the volcanic substratum common in Vvardenfell or the ubiquitous aquifers found in Hammerfell. It's possible that Dwarven architects in the North were not able to excavate larger structures until reaching more pliable strata.

This scholar would like to suggest, however, that many structures west of Morrowind were built after 1E 420. When the Clan Rourken left Vvardenfell, it seems evident that several clans broke off to create their own settlements, chosing to live in greater isolation than their Eastern brethren. This theory is particularly fascinating, because it leads me to believe that Dwarven architects may have developed even more elaborate methods of hiding their strongholds over time.

This opens the distinct possibility that undisturbed Dwarven archaeological sites exist throughout Tamriel, even in southern areas like Cyrodiil or Black Marsh, where Dwarves are not believed to have ever had a significant presence. Though we should not get carried away on flights of fancy, one could extrapolate this logic to suggest that some Dwarven clans were living among us for much longer than previously believed, perhaps well beyond the disappearance during the War of the Red Mountain in 1E 700.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#207)
	Dwemer Inquiries Volume II
Their Architecture and Civilization

By Thelwe Ghelein, Scholar



In the Deep Halls, Far from Men

Forsaken Red Mountain, Twisted Kin

Hail the Mind, Hail the Stone

Dwarven Pride, Stronger than Bone



The limited written record supports the perception of the Deep Elves as culturally revering the pursuits of logic and science. This stands in stark contrast to the belief system of most other Mer cultures. When we imagine a society structured around such a central ideology, it seems reasonable that prolific scholars, especially in fields such as mathematics, metallurgy, or architecture, would be elevated to social status like that of clergy in a more mystically inclined culture. The idea is supported by a fragment of Dwemeris text recovered from a colony in Skyrim—Irkgnthand—which I believe to be associated with Clan Rourken. My translation is as follows:

"Risen by order cousin-of-privilege Cuolec of Scheziline privileged duties. Clanhome building Hoagen Kultorra tradition to Hailed World shaper"

"To raise granted-cousin Cuolec of <untranslatable> privilege with duties for family-home building Hoagen Kultorra<?> tradition to father Mundus shaper"

Some scholars interpret this as evidence of Dwemer worship of Mundus, but I do not agree. My translation of this passage suggests that a respected Dwemer by the name of Cuolec was promoted to a civic position, probably as a tonal architect. The latter half of the fragment suggests that Cuolec's position requires him to build in a specific style.

The term Hoagen Kultorra has thus far eluded me, but I believe it may be the name of such a style. It's possible there were several styles, differing in their construction principles and typical structures.

One earmark of what I believe was the prevalent Dwemer style among Northern clans was a feature I call the Deep Venue. Deep Venues are often made up of one or more expansive natural caverns in which several other structures occur. Structures within the Venue may be carved from the stone itself or freely erected upon the cavern floor. The largest and most impressive Venues, such as those found in Bthardamz, may even feature roads wide enough for ten large men to walk shoulder-meets-shoulder along it.

Arcanex are typically smaller structures. Very few have been properly studied before disruption by graverobbers or greedy adventurers, but those few undisturbed sites have contained a surprising collection of magical objects, such as soul gems, alchemical concoctions, and magical texts. Some scholars take these as evidence that the Dwemer did, in fact, dabble in the magical arts. Based on what we know of their culture, as well as the fact that most arcanex are minor structures compared to other common fixtures, I would suggest that these were centers of study and nothing more. Perhaps the Dwarves established these halls as a means to study Men and Mer, who surely seemed as alien to them as the Dwemer seem to us today.

Great Animoculotories can be found in many Dwarven strongholds. These were the factories where the centurions and various other constructs were built. I have hoped to study these chambers for clues as to the means by which those mysterious automata are given life, but those same guardians make them especially difficult and dangerous areas to explore.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#208)
	Dwemer Inquiries Volume III
In the Deep Halls, Far from Men

Forsaken Red Mountain, Twisted Kin

Hail the Mind, Hail the Stone

Dwarven Pride, Stronger than Bone

My studies, and this text, have focused heavily on the fact that Dwemer archaeological sites west of Vvardenfell seem to be built at much greater depths than their counterparts near the Red Mountain. I believe there was a specific threshold to which Dwarven excavators would dig before the construction of vital structures began.

I have referred to this threshold as the "geocline," but I have found that to be redundant with the Deep Venue of a colony. Still, there is some variation in the actual depth of a Deep Venue, whereas the geocline is always the marker where I reason the city proper begins.

Tunnels and chambers at more shallow depths, while often grand in their architectural style, appear to have served little in the way of critical civic purpose. Above the geocline, surplus stores of food, warehouse chambers that may have been used in trading with nearby surface settlements, and barracks for topside patrols are common.

These tunnels, I have observed, can meander in a seemingly more random pattern than those planned structures beneath. I hypothesize that this may be due to the unpredictable nature of any excavation, even to a race as clever as the Dwemer. Surely unexpected deposits of stone or geological events could make the effort difficult. I think that these haphazard tunnels are often the result of the search for suitable substratum to build within.

I have found in a small number of ruins referencing a geological anomaly or place known as "Fal'Zhardum Din." This is intriguing because the term not only appears in a few tablet fragments, but also very specifically on ornate metal frames in the deepest reaches of the Alftand, Irkgnthand, and Mzinchaleft strongholds of Skyrim. I have yet to decipher the meaning of these elaborate carvings, but consider it highly strange that they occur in the deepest part of each of these ruin.

The most reasonable translation of "Fal'Zhardum Din" I have managed to decipher is "Blackest Kingdom Reaches," but I cannot imagine what that means.

I suspect there may be some pattern I am failing to notice. This creeping doubt has haunted my career in recent years, and I have begun to doubt if I will unravel some grand secret of the Dwarves in my lifetime, though it lies just under my nose … or under my feet.
		

		Part of the Dwemer collection (#209)
	Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer IV
On the Utility of Marbles and Needles

By Marobar Sul

A Nord, a Chimer, and a Dwemer walked into a cornerclub. 

"What'll it be, muthseras?" the barkeep asked. 

"Give me a mug of mead," said the Nord. 

"I'll have a snifter of shein—the good stuff, mind you," said the Chimer. 

"Kindly serve me an infusion of chal, a marble, and a leather-sewing needle," said the Dwemer. 

"Haw, haw," guffawed the Nord. "Shor's bones! The little milk-drinker's going to play pick-up-sticks, but he can handle only one stick!"

"At least I don't swear by a god who is not only imaginary, but dead," said the Dwemer, as the barkeep placed his items on the counter. 

"Hey! What?" the Nord blustered. "Why, I ought to…!"

"He's got you there, by Azura's Star," said the Chimer, sipping at his shein. "A point for you, Dwarf."

"On the other hand, at least the Nord doesn't think it's clever to worship demons from other planes," said the Dwemer, swirling his chal. 

"Boethiah and Mephala! You go too far!" cried the Chimer, drawing a triangular dagger. 

"Yeah! Let's gut the runt!" growled the Nord, pulling a hand-axe. 

The Dwemer knocked the marble off the counter. It landed on the floor just where the Chimer was putting down his foot for his thrust. He slipped, lurched left, and buried his dagger to the hilt in the surprised Nord's chest. Meanwhile the Dwemer gave the big needle a precise flick of the finger; it spun down and lodged in a crack between the floor-planks, point up. As the Chimer back-pedaled from the dying Nord, he lost his balance and fell headfirst to the floor, where the needle pierced one of his golden eyes all the way into his brain. It took several minutes of flailing, but eventually the Chimer was as dead as the Nord. 

The Dwemer pulled a coin-purse from the Chimer's belt and gave it to the barkeep, swallowed the Nord's mead in one prolonged chug, picked up the snifter of shein and took a sip, then nodded to the barkeep and left the cornerclub, snifter in hand. "Off to the market," they heard him say. "I must get a bone-tweezer, a guar egg, and a boot-jack."
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#210)
	An Accounting of the Elder Scrolls
By Quintus Nerevelus

Former Imperial Librarian

After the supposed theft of an Elder Scroll from our Imperial Library, I endeavored to find any sort of index or catalogue of the Scrolls in our possession so that such situations may be avoided (or at least properly verified) in the future. To my dismay, I discovered that the Moth Priests are notoriously inexact when it comes to the actual physical manifestations of the Scrolls, and had no idea how many they held, or how they were organized. Merely asking the question evoked chuckles, as if a child was asking why dogs cannot talk.

I will confess, my jealousy of the ones who can read the Scrolls grows, but I am not yet willing to sacrifice my sight to alleged knowledge. The older Moth Priests I attempt to engage in conversation seem as batty as any other elder who has lost their mind, so I fail to see what wisdom is imparted from the reading.

In any case, I set out to create my own index of the Elder Scrolls, in cooperation with the monks. Day by day, we went through the tower halls, with them telling me the general nature of each Elder Scroll so that I might record its location. Always careful never to glimpse the writings myself, I had only their word to go on. I meticulously drew out a map of the chambers, where Scrolls relating to various specific prophecies were located, where particular periods of history were housed. In all, it took nearly a year of plodding, but at last I had rough notes on the entirety of the library to begin my collation.

It was here that things began to go amiss. In studying my notes, I found many areas of overlap and outright contradiction. In some cases different monks would claim the same scroll to be at opposite ends of the tower. I know they have no taste for jesting, or else I would suspect I was being made the fool in some game of theirs.

I spoke to one of the older monks to relate my concerns, and he hung his head in sorrow for my wasted time. "Did I not tell you," he coughed, "when you started this that all efforts would be futile? The Scrolls do not exist in countable form."

"I had thought you meant there were too many to be counted."

"There are, but that is not the least of their complexities. Turn to the repository behind you, and tell me how many Scrolls are locked therein."

I ran my fingers over the metal casings, tallying each rounded edge that they encountered. I turned back — "Fourteen," I said.

"Hand me the eighth one," he said, reaching out his hand.

I guided the cylinder into his palm, and he gave a slight nod to acknowledge it. "Now, count again."

Humoring him, I again passed my hands over the Scrolls, but could not believe what I was feeling.

"Now … now there are eighteen!" I gasped.

The old monk chuckled, his cheeks pushing up his blindfold until it folded over itself. "And in fact," he said, "there always were."

It was then that I enrolled as the oldest novice ever accepted into the Cult of the Ancestor Moth.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#211)
	The Adabal-a
(Editor's Note: The Adabal-a is traditionally believed to be the memoirs of Morihaus, consort to Alessia the Slave Queen. While this cannot be historically verified, the Adabal-a is certainly among the oldest written accounts to come down to us from the early First Era.)

Pelinal's Death

And in the blood-floored throne room of White-Gold, the severed head of Pelinal spoke to the winged-bull, Morihaus, demigod lover of Al-Esh, saying, "Our enemies have undone me, and spread my body into hiding. In mockery of divine purpose, the Ayleids cut me into eighths, for they are obsessed with this number."

And Morihaus, confused, snorted through his ring, saying, "Your crusades went beyond her counsel, Whitestrake, but I am a bull, and therefore reckless in my wit. I think I would go and gore our prisoners if you had left any alive. You are blood-made-glorious, uncle, and will come again, as fox animal or light. Cyrod is still ours."

Then Pelinal spoke again for the last time: "Beware, Morihaus, beware! With the foresight of death I know now that my foe yet lives, bitter knowledge to take to my grave. Better that I had died believing myself the victor. Although cast beyond the doors of night, he will return. Be vigilant! I can no longer shield the host of Men from Umaril's retribution."



Alessia's Youth During the Slave-Years

Perrif's original tribe is unknown, but she grew up in Sard, anon Sardarvar Leed, where the Ayleids herded in men from across all the Niben: kothri, nede, al-gemha, men-of-'kreath (though these were later known to be imported from the North), keptu, men-of-ge (who were eventually destroyed when the Flower King Nilichi made great sacrifice to an insect god named ((lost))), al-hared, men-of-ket, others; but this was Cyrod, the heart of the imperatum saliache, where men knew no freedom, even to keep family, or choice of name except in secret, and so to their alien masters all of these designations were irrelevant.

Men were given over to the lifting of stones, and the draining of the fields, and the upkeep of temple and road; or to become art-tortures for strange pleasures, as in the wailing wheels of Vindasel and the gut-gardens of Sercen; and flesh-sculpture, which was everywhere among the slaves of the Ayleids in those days; or, worse, the realms of the Fire King Hadhuul, where the begetting of drugs drawn from the admixture of daedrons into living hosts let one inhale new visions of torment, and children were set aflame for nighttime tiger sport.



Morihaus Explains Alessia's Names

Then Morihaus said to them: "In your tales you have many names for her: Al-Esh, given to her in awe, that when translated sounds like a redundancy, 'the high high,' from which come the more familiar corruptions: Aleshut, Esha, Alessia. You knew her as Paravant, given to her when crowned, 'first of its kind,' by which the gods meant a mortal worthy of the majesty that is killing-questing-healing, which is also Paraval, Pevesh, Perrethu, Perrif, and, in my case, for it is what I called her when we were lovers: Paravania.

"Though she is gone to me, she remains bathed in stars, first Empress, Lady of Heaven, Queen-ut-Cyrod."

And they considered themselves full-answered and departed.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#212)
	The Amulet of Kings
First Edition

by Wenengrus Monhona

In the first years of the First Era, a powerful race of Elves called the Ayleids, or the Heartland High Elves, ruled central Tamriel with an iron hand. The high and haughty Ayleids relied on their patrons, the treacherous Daedra Lords, to provide armies of Daedra and dead spirits. With these fearless magical armies, the Ayleids preyed without mercy upon the young races of men, slaughtering or enslaving them at their whim.

On behalf of the suffering human races, St. Alessia, the first in the line of Cyrodiils, sought the aid of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, and ruler of the noble Aedra. Akatosh, looking with pity upon the plight of men, drew precious blood from his own heart, blessed St. Alessia with this blood of Dragons, and made a Covenant: so long as Alessia's generations were true to the dragon blood, Akatosh would endeavor to seal tight the Gates of Oblivion and deny the armies of Daedra and undead to their enemies, the Daedra-loving Ayleids.

In token of this Covenant, Akatosh gave to Alessia and her descendants the Amulet of Kings and the Eternal Dragonfires of the Imperial City. Thus does Alessia become the first gem in the Cyrodilic Amulet of Kings. The gem is the Red Diamond in the middle of the Amulet. This is the Symbol of the Empire,surrounded by eight other gems, one for each of the Divines.

So long as the Empire shall maintain its worship of Akatosh and his kin, and so long as Alessia's heirs shall bear the Amulet of Kings, Akatosh and his divine kin maintain a strong barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion, so that mortal man need never again fear the devastating summoned hosts of the Daedra Lords.

If the Empire should slacken in its dedication to the Eight Divines, or if the blood of Alessia's heirs should fail, then shall the barriers between Tamriel and the Daedric realms fall, and Daedra-worshipers might summon lesser Daedra and undead spirits to trouble the races of men.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#213)
	The Cleansing of the Fane
The Chronicles of the Holy Brothers of Maruhk

Volume IV: The Cleansing of the Fane

[Editor's Note: This is one of the few surviving fragments of the chronicle of this First Era sect of the Alessian Order. It seems to have been kept at their great monastic complex at Lake Canulus, which was razed during the War of Righteousness (1E 2321) and its archives destroyed or dispersed.

Note also that Alessian scribes of this time customarily dated events from the Apotheosis of Alessia (1E 266).]

Herein are recorded the events of the Year 127 of the Blessed Alessia.

In this year was the day darkened over all lands, and the sun was as if it were Masser, but three days old, and the stars about him at midday. This was on the fifth of First Seed. All who saw it were dismayed and said that a great event should come hereafter.

So it did, for that same year issued forth a great concourse of devils from the ancient Elven temple, Malada, such had not been seen since the days of King Belharza. These devils greatly afflicted the land such that no man could plow, or reap, or seed, and the people appealed to the brothers of Maruhk for succor.

And then Abbot Cosmas gathered all the brothers and led them to Malada, also known as the High Fane in the Elvish tongue, and came against it with holy fire, and the foul demons were destroyed, and many devilish relics and books found therein were burned. And the land had peace for many years.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#214)
	The Exclusionary Mandates
The Exclusionary Mandates of Maruhkite Selection: All Are Equal

1: That the Supreme Spirit Akatosh is of unitary essence, as proven by the monolinearity of Time.

1: That Shezarr the missing sibling is Singularly Misplaced and therefore Doubly Venerated.

1: That the protean substrate that informs all denial of (1) is the Aldmeri Taint.

1: That the Prophet Most Simian demonstrated that monothought begets Proper-Life.

1: That the purpose of Proper-Life is the Expungement of the Taint.

1: That the Arc of Time provides the mortal theater for the Sacred Expungement.

1: That Akatosh is Time is Proper-Life is Taint-Death.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#215)
	The Last King of the Ayleids
by Herminia Cinna

The Ayleids, or Heartland High Elves, ruled Cyrodiil in the long ages of Myth before the beginning of recorded history. One of the earliest recorded dates, in fact, is the Fall of White-Gold Tower in 1E 243, which is commonly assumed to mark the end of the Ayleids.

Although Ayleid rule over Cyrodiil was broken in 1E 243, this was only one of the most obvious stages near the end of a long decline. The first two centuries of the First Era saw increasing strife between the great Ayleid lords of Cyrodiil. Alessia appears to have taken advantage of a period of civil war to launch her uprising. Imperial historians have traditionally attributed her victory to intervention from Skyrim, but it appears she had at least as much help from rebel Ayleid lords during the siege of White-Gold Tower.

The popular image of the Ayleids as brutal slavemasters is based in fact, of course, but it is less well-known that a number of Ayleid princes continued to rule parts of Cyrodiil after 263 as vassals of the new Empress of Cyrodiil. This suggests either that Ayleid rule was not universally detested or that Alessia and her successors were more pragmatic than is traditionally believed (or perhaps some of both).

In any event, excavations at a number of Ayleid sites show continued occupation and even expansion during the so-called Late Ayleid Period (1E 243 to c. 498). At first, many Ayleid lords continued to rule as vassals of the new human regime. In some cases, Ayleid supporters of Alessia were even rewarded with new lands taken from slain enemies. It is not clear to what extent human slavery continued under the Cyrodilic Empire. Humans continued to dwell in the Ayleid-ruled areas of Cyrodiil, but there is nothing definitive to show under what terms.

This was an uneasy relationship from the beginning, and it was not destined to last long. Resentment at the continued presence of Ayleid nobles within the Empire was a contributing factor to the rise of the so-called Alessian Order founded by Maruhk. The first victims of the Alessians were the Ayleids of Cyrodiil. In the early 300s, the surviving Ayleid communities in human-ruled areas were obliterated one by one. The refugees temporarily swelled the power of the remaining Ayleid lordships.

Then in 361, the Alessians gained control of the Empire and enforced the Alessian Doctrines throughout its domain. The Ayleid lordships were abolished. Enforcement of this decree does not appear to have required much direct violence. It seems that by this point the balance of power was so overwhelmingly against them and their fate so long foreshadowed that most of the remaining Ayleids simply left Cyrodiil, eventually being absorbed into the Elven populations of Valenwood and High Rock. Indeed, the rise of the Direnni Hegemony may be linked to this exodus of Ayleids from Cyrodiil (a connection so far studied very little by historians).

Still, a remnant Ayleid population seems to have survived the rule of the Alessians, because we've heard of "the last king of the Ayleids" joining the battle of Glenumbria Moors, where the Dirennis decisively defeated the Alessians in 482. How this king's people survived the preceding century is unknown. We do not even know who they were, although recent research points to Nenalata as the possible resting place of this "last king." Unfortunately, in the current state of the Empire, funds are no longer available for proper scientific investigation of such extensive ruins, so the answer to these questions will have to be left to future generations.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#216)
	The Order of the Ancestor Moth
To be read by all novitiates of the Temple:

The Order of the Ancestor Moth is as ancient as it is noble. We nurture and celebrate our beloved ancestors, whose spirits are manifest in the Ancestor Moths. Each moth carries the fjyron of an ancestor's spirit. Loosely translated as the "will to peace," the fjyron can be sung into the silk produced by the Ancestor Moths. When the silk is in turn spun into cloth and embroidered with the genealogy of the correct ancestor, clothing of wondrous power can be made.

Adepts of our order are gifted with prescient powers. The wisdom of the ancestors can sing the future into the present. For this reason, our order and our order alone has been given the privilege to interpret the Elder Scrolls. These writings exceed even the gods, both Aedra and Daedra. Such insight into the inner fabric of reality comes at a price. Each reading of the Elder Scrolls is more profound than the last. Each leaves the priest blind for longer and longer periods of time. Finally, the last reading achieves a nearly sublime understanding of that scroll's contents, but the priest is left permanently blinded to the light of this world. No longer can he read the scrolls.

This monastery is dedicated to the service of these noble members of our order. They now live out their lives with the Ancestor Moths that they so love. Their underground demesnes are well suited to the moths. They raise and nurture the fragile creatures, singing to them constantly. They harvest the silk and spin it into bolts of cloth. They weave the cloth, embroidering it with the genealogies and histories of the ancestors that spun the silk. This is their new life.

As they tend the Ancestor Moths, so we tend the blind monks. While they toil in dark, we serve in the light. They need food and water. We provide. They need tools and furniture. We provide. They need secrecy and anonymity. We provide. They need purveyors to sell the fruit of their labors. We provide.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#217)
	Tamrielic Artifacts, Part One
The following are notes gathered, over the past centuries, of items of unimaginable significance. All have been seen, owned, and lost, again and again throughout Tamriel. Some may be myth, others may be hoax, but regardless, many have lost their lives attempting to find or protect these very coveted items.

Boots of the Apostle

The Boots of the Apostle are a true mystery. The wearer of the boots is rumored to be able to levitate, though nobody has ever seen them used.

Bow of Shadows

Legend has it that the Bow of Shadows was forged by the Daedra Nocturnal. The legendary ranger, Raerlas Ghile, was granted the Bow for a secret mission that failed, and the Bow was lost. Raerlas did not go down without a hearty fight and is said to have, with the aid of the Bow, taken scores of his foes with him. The Bow grants the user the ability of invisibility and increased speed. Many sightings of the Bow of Shadows have been reported, and it is even said that the sinister Dark Elf assassin, Dram, once wielded this bow.

Chrysamere

The Paladin's Blade is an ancient claymore with offensive capabilities surpassed only by its own defenses. It lends the wielder health, protects him or her from fire, and reflects any spells cast against the wielder back to the caster. Seldom has Chrysamere been wielded by any bladesman for any length of time, for it chooses not to favor one champion.

Cuirass of the Savior's Hide

Another of Hircine's artifacts was the Cuirass of the Savior's Hide. The Cuirass has the special ability to resist magicka. Legend has it that Hircine awarded his peeled hide to the first and only mortal to have ever escaped his hunting grounds. This unknown mortal had the hide tailored into this magical Cuirass for his future adventures. The Savior's Hide has a tendency to travel from hero to hero as though it has a mind of its own.

Daedric Scourge

The Daedric Scourge is a mighty mace forged from sacred ebony in the Fires of Fickledire. The legendary weapon of Mackkan, it was once a fierce weapon used to send spirits of darkness back into Oblivion. The weapon has the ability to summon creatures from Oblivion.

Denstagmer's Ring

All that is known of this Ring is that it may grant the user protection from certain elements. Even the name Denstagmer is a mystery.

Ebony Mail

The Ebony Mail is a breastplate created before recorded history by the Dark Elven goddess Boethiah. It is she who determines who should possess the Ebony Mail and for how long a time. If judged worthy, its power grants the wearer added resistance of fire, magicka, and grants a magical shield. It is Boethiah alone who determines when a person is ineligible to bear the Ebony Mail any longer, and the goddess can be very capricious.

Eleidon's Ward

Eleidon was a holy knight of legend in Breton history. He was a sought after man for his courage and determination to set all wrongs right. In one story, it is said that he rescued a Baron's daughter from sure death at the hands of an evil warlord. For his reward, the Baron spent all of his riches to have an enchanted shield built for Eleidon. The Shield granted Eleidon the opportunity to heal his wounds.

Fang of Haynekhtnamet

Black Marsh was once known to be inhabited with what the Argonians called the Wamasus. Northern men considered them to be intelligent dragons with lightning for blood. One such mighty beast, Haynekhtnamet, was slain by the Northern men, though it took seven days and nights, and a score of men. One of the surviving men took a fang home as a trophy. The fang was carved down into a blade and fashioned into a small dagger. The dagger mysteriously houses some of the beast's magical properties and grants the user the ability to do shock damage on an opponent. This unique dagger is seen occasionally by traveling heroes.

Fists of Randagulf

Randagulf of Clan Begalin goes down in Tamrielic history as one of the mightiest warriors from Skyrim. He was known for his courage and ferocity in battle and was a factor in many battles. He finally met his fate when King Harald conquered Skyrim. King Harald respected this great hero and took Randagulf's gauntlets for his own. After King Harald died, the gauntlets disappeared. The King claimed that the Fists granted the bearer added strength.

Goldbrand

This magical Sword is almost a complete mystery. Thieves tell tales about its golden make and how it was actually forged by ancient dragons of the North. Their tales claim that it was given to a great knight who was sworn to protect the dragons. The Sword lends its wielder the ability to do fire damage on an enemy. Goldbrand has not been sighted in recent history and is said to be awaiting a worthy hero.

Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw

One of Valenwood's legendary heroes is Oreyn Bearclaw. Son of King Faume Toad-Eye, he was a respected clan hunter and a future leader. Wood Elven legend claims Oreyn single handedly defeated Glenhwyfaunva, the witch-serpent of the Elven wood, forever bringing peace to his clan. Oreyn would go on to accomplish numerous other deeds, eventually losing his life to the Knahaten Flu. His Helm stood as a monument of his stature for future generations to remember. The Helm was lost eventually, as the Clan split, and is now a treasured artifact for adventurers. The Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw is rumored to improve the wearer's agility and endurance.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#218)
	Tamrielic Artifacts, Part Two
The following are notes gathered, over the past centuries, on items of unimaginable significance. All have been seen, owned, and lost, again and again throughout Tamriel. Some may be myth, others may be hoax, but regardless, many have lost their lives attempting to find or protect these very coveted items.

Ice Blade of the Monarch

The Ice Blade of the Monarch is truly one of Tamriel's most prized artifacts. Legend has it that the Evil Archmage Almion Celmo enchanted the claymore of a great warrior with the soul of a Frost Monarch, a stronger form of the more common Frost Atronach. The warrior, Thurgnarr Assi, was to play a part in the assassination of a great king in a far off land, and become the new leader. The assassination failed and the Archmage was imprisoned. The Ice Blade freezes all who feel its blade. The Blade circulates from owner to owner, never settling in one place for long.

Lord's Mail

Sometimes called the Armor of Morihaus or the gift of Kynareth, this is an ancient cuirass of unsurpassable quality. It grants the wearer power to absorb health, resist the effects of spells, and cure oneself of poison when used. It is said that whenever Kynareth deigns the wearer unworthy, the Lord's Mail will be taken away and hidden for the next chosen one.

Mace of Molag Bal

Also known as the Vampire's Mace, the Mace of Molag Bal drains its victims of magicka and gives it to the bearer. It also has the ability to transfer an enemy's strength to its wielder. Molag Bal has been quite free with his artifact. There are many legends about the Mace. It seems to be a favorite for vanquishing wizards.

Masque of Clavicus Vile

Ever the vain one, Clavicus Vile made a masque suited to his own personality. The bearer of the Masque is more likely to get a positive response from the people of Tamriel. The higher his personality, the larger the bonus. The best known story of the Masque tells the tale of Avalea, a noblewoman of some renown. As a young girl, she was grossly disfigured by a spiteful servant. Avalea made a dark deal with Clavicus Vile and received the Masque in return. Though the Masque did not change her looks, suddenly she had the respect and admiration of everyone. A year and a day after her marriage to a well-connected baron, Clavicus Vile reclaimed the Masque. Although pregnant with his child, Avalea was banished from the Baron's household. Twenty-one years and one day later, Avalea's daughter claimed her vengeance by slaying the Baron.

Mehrunes' Razor

The Dark Brotherhood has coveted this ebony dagger for generations. This mythical artifact is capable of slaying any creature instantly. History does not record any bearers of Mehrunes' Razor. However, the Dark Brotherhood was once decimated by a vicious internal power struggle. It is suspected that the Razor was involved.

The Mentor's Ring

This simple metal band is a prized possession for any apprentice to magic. It lends the wearer the ability to increase their intelligence and wisdom, thus making their use of magic more efficient. The High Wizard Carni Asron is said to be the creator of the Ring. It was a construct for his young apprentices while studying under his guidance. After Asron's death, the Ring and several other possessions vanished and have since circulated throughout Tamriel.

Ring of Khajiit

The Ring of the Khajiit is an ancient relic, hundreds of years older than Rajhin, the thief that made the Ring famous. It was Rajhin who used the Ring's powers to make himself invisible and as quick as the breath of wind. Using the Ring, he became the most successful burglar in Elsweyr's history. Rajhin's eventual fate is a mystery, but according to legend, the Ring rebelled against such constant use and disappeared, leaving Rajhin helpless before his enemies.

Ring of Phynaster

The Ring of Phynaster was made hundreds of years ago by a man who needed good defenses to survive his adventurous life. Thanks to the Ring, Phynaster lived for hundreds of years, and since then it has passed from person to person. The Ring improves its wearer's overall resistance to poison, magicka, and shock. Still, Phynaster was cunning and cursed the Ring so that it eventually disappears from its holder's possessions and returns to another resting place, discontented to stay anywhere but with Phynaster himself.

Ring of Surroundings

Little is known of this prize but it is said that it lends the wearer the ability to blend in with their surroundings.

Ring of the Wind

No facts are known about this Ring, but the title and the few rumors lend one to think it grants the wearer added speed.
		

		Part of the Legends of Nirn collection (#219)
	Tamrielic Artifacts, Part Three
The following are notes gathered, over the past centuries, of items of unimaginable significance. All have been seen, owned, and lost, again and again throughout Tamriel. Some may be myth, others may be hoax, but regardless, many have lost their lives attempting to find or protect these very coveted items.

Skull Crusher

The Skull Crusher is an amazingly large and powerful weapon. This warhammer was created in a fire, magically fueled by the Wizard, Dorach Gusal, and was forged by the great weaponsmith, Hilbongard Rolamus. The steel is magically hardened and the weight of the weapon is amazingly light, which makes for more powerful swings and deadly blows. The warhammer was to be put on display for a festival, but thieves got it first. The Skull Crusher still travels Tamriel in search of its creators.

Spear of Bitter Mercy

One of the more mysterious artifacts is the Spear of Bitter Mercy. Little to nothing is known about the Spear. There are no recorded histories but many believe it to be of Daedric origin.

Spell Breaker

Spell Breaker, superficially a Dwemer tower shield, is one of the most ancient relics of Tamriel. Aside from its historical importance in the Battle of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spell Breaker protects its wielder almost completely from any spell caster, either by reflecting magics or silencing any mage about to cast a spell. It is said that Spell Breaker still searches for its original owner, and will not remain the property of anyone else for long. For most, possessing Spell Breaker for any length of time is power enough.

Staff of Hasedoki

Hasedoki was said to have been a very competitive wizard. He wandered the land in search for a wizard who was greater than he. To the best of all knowledge, he never found a wizard who could meet up to his challenge. It is said that he felt so lonely and isolated because so many feared his power, that he bonded his life-force into his very own staff, where his soul remains to this very day. Magic users all over Tamriel have been searching for this magical staff. Granting its wielder a protection of magicka, it is a sure prize for any magic user.

Staff of Magnus

The Staff of Magnus, one of the elder artifacts of Tamriel, was a metaphysical battery of sorts for its creator, Magnus. When used, it absorbs an enemy's health and mystical energy. In time, the Staff will abandon the mage who wields it before he becomes too powerful and upsets the mystical balance it is sworn to protect.

Umbra Sword

The Umbra Sword was enchanted by the ancient witch Naenra Waerr, and its sole purpose was the entrapment of souls. Used in conjunction with a soul gem, the Sword allows the wielder the opportunity to imprison an enemy's soul in the gem. Naenra was executed for her evil creation, but not before she was able to hide the Sword. The Umbra Sword is very choosy when it comes to owners and therefore remains hidden until a worthy one is found.

Vampiric Ring

One of the more deadly and rare artifacts in Tamriel is the Vampiric Ring. It is said that the Ring has the power to steal its victim's health and grant it to the wearer. The exact nature and origin of the Ring is wholly unknown, but many elders speak of its evil creation in Morrowind long, long ago by a cult of Vampire followers. The Vampiric Ring is an extremely rare artifact and is only seen every few hundred cycles of the moons.

Warlock's Ring

The Warlock's Ring of the Archmage Syrabane is one of the most popular relics of myth and fable. In Tamriel's ancient history, Syrabane saved all of the continent by judicious use of his Ring, and ever since, it has helped adventurers with less lofty goals. It is best known for its ability to reflect spells cast at its wearer and to improve his or her speed and to restore health. No adventurer can wear the Warlock's Ring for long, for it is said that the Ring is Syrabane's alone to command.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#220)
	Skin-Stealers
Skin-stealers ingest scraps of skin from corpses, typically removed from the chest above the heart. This, along with some catalyzing component, allows them to wear the victim's skin as their own for a prolonged period.

It seems the ingested skin provides limited memories from the victim, which allows for such thorough infiltration. A few skin-stealers have slipped up and given themselves away, but we have no idea how many are in our ranks.
		

		Part of the None collection (#221)
	Skin-Stealers in Shadowfen
We must eliminate the skin-stealer presence in Shadowfen or the Dominion will destroy our fragile alliance from within. Neighbor will come to suspect neighbor.

When anyone around you could be a skin-stealer, you trust nobody but yourself. With Argonians and Dark Elves at odds, how long before Stormhold becomes a bloodbath at the hands of its own citizens?
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#222)
	The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
Sotha Sil and the Scribs

Young Sotha Sil, while playing in the egg mines, saw a number of scribs in a deep shaft, and he began to cast stones upon them, snickering as they skittered and scattered, until one of the scribs, lifting its head up in agony, cried out to Sotha Sil: "Please, please, have mercy, little boy, for what is sport to you is suffering and death to us."

And so Sotha Sil discovered that the idle amusements of one may be the solemn tortures of another.

Lord Vivec and the Contentious Beasts

A shalk and a kagouti were strutting back and forth in a foyada, casting aspersions on one another's looks. "You are the ugliest creature alive," the shalk told the kagouti. "No, YOU are the ugliest creature alive," the kagouti told the shalk. For each thought himself most handsome, and the other most ugly.

Then Lord Vivec chanced by, and settled their dispute. "No, you BOTH are the ugliest creatures alive, and I will not have my pleasant sojourn spoiled by your unseemly squabbling." So he dealt them both mighty blows, shattering their skulls, and silencing their argument, and went merrily upon his way.

And thus Lord Vivec proved that ugliness is as much in one's manner as in one's appearance.

The Boiled Kagouti

It is said that if a kagouti steps into a boiling pool, he will leap out immediately to avoid harm.

But if the kagouti is standing in a pool, and a wizard slowly raises the temperature, measure by measure, to boiling, the kagouti will calmly stand in place until he is boiled.

Thus we see that we must be alert not only to the obvious danger, but also to the subtle degrees by which change may result in danger.

The Dubious Healer

Once upon a time, a Telvanni issued forth from his tower and proclaimed to all the world that he was a mighty and learned healer, master of all alchemy and potions, and able to cure all diseases.

Lord Vivec looked upon this wizard, and listened to his boasting, then asked him, "How can you pretend to prescribe for others the cure to all diseases, when you are unable to cure yourself of your own manifest arrogance and foolishness?"

The Guar and the Mudcrabs

The Guar were so tormented by the other creatures they did not know where to go. As soon as they saw a single beast approach them, off they dashed in terror.

One day they saw a pack of Nix-hounds ranging about, and in a desperate panic all the Guar scuttled off towards the sea, determined to drown themselves rather than live in such a continual state of fear. But just as they got near the shoreline, a colony of Mudcrabs, frightened in their turn by the approach of the Guar, scuttled off, and threw themselves into the water.

"Truly," said one of the Guar, "things are not so bad as they seem. For there is always someone worse off than you."

The Wounded Netch

A wounded Netch lay himself down in a quiet corner of his feeding-ground. His healthy companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, yet each one helped himself to a share of the fodder which had been placed there for his use; so that the poor Netch died, not from his wounds, but from the greed and carelessness of his erstwhile friends.

And so it is clear that thoughtless companions may bring more harm than help.
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#223)
	The Legendary Scourge
"Not till the very evening they came," answered he, and then told of his dealings with Mehrunes Dagon's thralls, saying that Mackkan would find it easier to whistle on the wind's tracks and go on a fool's errand than to fight his toads. Then said Mackkan:

"Now see to thy safety henceforward,

And stick to thy parts and thy pride;

Or this mallet of mine, Malacath's Scourge,

Will meet with thine ear of a surety.

For quick as I can cry 'Equality,'

Though eight arms thou couldst boast of,

Such bumps thou shalt comb on thy brainpan,

Thou that breakest the howes of the dead."

EXPLICATION: The mace Scourge, Blessed of Malacath, Mackkan's legendary weapon, forged from sacred ebony in the Fountains of Fickledire, has ever been the bane of the Dark Kin, and many a black spirit has been hurled back into Oblivion with a single blow of this bold defender of the friendless.
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#224)
	The Lusty Argonian Maid, Volume 1
(a fragment)

- Act IV, Scene III, Continued -

Lifts-Her-Tail: Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers.

Crantius Colto: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?

Lifts-Her-Tail: I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor Argonian maid.

Crantius Colto: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong legs and shapely tail.

Lifts-Her-Tail: You embarrass me, sir!

Crantius Colto: Fear not. You are safe here with me.

Lifts-Her-Tail: I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my head if I do not!

Crantius Colto: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear.

Lifts-Her-Tail: But it is huge! It could take me all night!

Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.

- End of Act IV, Scene III -
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#225)
	The Lusty Argonian Maid, Volume 2
(a fragment)

- Act VII, Scene II, Continued -

Lifts-Her-Tail: My goodness, that's quite a loaf! But how ever shall it fit my oven?

Crantius Colto: This loaf isn't ready for baking, my sweet. It has yet to rise.

Lifts-Her-Tail: If only we could hurry that along. How would I accomplish such a task?

Crantius Colto: Oh, my foolish little Argonian maid, you must use your hands.

Lifts-Her-Tail: You wish me to knead the loaf? Here?

Crantius Colto: Of course.

Lifts-Her-Tail: But what if the mistress catches me? Your loaf was meant to satisfy her appetite.

Crantius Colto: Don't fret, my delicate flower. I'll satisfy the mistress' cravings later.

Lifts-Her-Tail: Very well, but I'm afraid my oven isn't hot enough. It could take hours!

Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.

- End of Act VII, Scene II -
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#226)
	Myths of Sheogorath, Volume 1
By Mymophonus



Sheogorath and King Lyandir

King Lyandir was known to be an exceedingly rational man. He lived in a palace that was a small, simple structure, unadorned with art and ugly to look upon. "I do not need more than this," he would say. "Why spend my gold on such luxuries when I can spend it on my armies or on great public works?"

His kingdom prospered under his sensible rule. However, the people did not always share the king's sense of practicality. They would build houses that were beautiful to look upon, although not necessarily very practical. They devoted time and energy to works of art. They would celebrate events with lavish festivals. In general, they were quite happy.

King Lyandir was disappointed that more of them did not follow his example and lead frugal, sensible lives. He brooded on this for many years. Finally, he decided that his subjects simply didn't understand how much more they could accomplish if they didn't waste time on those frivolous activities. Perhaps, he reasoned, they just needed more examples.

The king decreed that all new buildings must be simple, unadorned, and no larger than was necessary for their function. The people were not happy about this, but they liked their king and respected the new law. In a few short years, there were more plain buildings than ornate ones. The citizens used the money saved to make and buy even more lavish art and hold even more excessive celebrations.

Once again, King Lyandir decided to provide them a strict example of how beneficial it would be to use their time and resources for more practical purposes. He banned all works of art in the city. The people were quite put out by this, but they knew that their king was doing what he thought was best for them. However, human nature is not so easily denied. In a few more years the city was filled with plain, simple buildings, and devoid of any sort of art. However, the people now had even more money and time to devote to their parties and festivals.

With a heavy heart, King Lyandir decided that his people were to be treated like children. And like all children, they needed rules and discipline laid down by great figures of authority to make them understand what was truly important in life. He decreed that there should be no revelry in the city. Singing, dancing, and music were all banned. Even food and drink were limited to water and simple foodstuffs.

The people had had enough. Revolt was out of the question, since King Lyandir had a very well trained and equipped army. They visited the shrines and temples in droves, praying to all the gods, and even to some of the Daedric Princes, that King Lyandir would revoke these new, oppressive laws.

Sheogorath heard their pleas and decided to visit King Lyandir. He appeared to the king in his dreams as a field of flowers, each with arms instead of petals and the face of the Madgod in the center. "I am Lord of the Creative and Lord of the Deranged. Since you have no use for my gifts of creativity, I have decided to bless you with an abundance of my other gift."

From that day forward, every child born in the city was born into madness. Since infants do not reveal illnesses of the mind, it was several years before this was realized. The king's own son was among the victims, suffering from seizures and delusions. Yet, King Lyandir refused to change his ways.

When his son, Glint, was 12 years old, he stabbed his father while Lyandir was sleeping. With his dying breath, King Lyandir asked, "Why?" His son replied, "It is the most practical thing I could do."

The new, young king ordered all the palace servants slaughtered. He ordered a grand festival to celebrate his new reign and the repeal of Lyandir's laws. He served the crowds a stew made from the carcasses of the palace servants. He ordered the east facing walls of every building painted red, and the west facing walls painted in stripes. He decreed that all citizens wear ornate masks on the backs of their heads. He then burned down the palace and began construction of a new one.

In the new palace, the young king ordered his personal chambers to not have any doors; for fear that small woodland creatures would attack him. He ordered that it have no windows for fear that the sun and moon were jealous of him and plotting his death.

And thus ended the line of King Lyandir. The people of the city returned to their grand works of art and raucous celebrations. They talked and acted as if they still had a living king, and even kept up the palace, using it to house and care for their mad children. Sheogorath was mightily pleased with this outcome. From that day forward the city was blessed with more than the normal number of gifted artists and deranged citizens.
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#227)
	Myths of Sheogorath, Volume 2
By Mymophonus



Sheogorath Invents Music

In the earliest of days, in a time when the world was still raw, Sheogorath decided to walk amongst the mortals. He donned his guise of Gentleman With a Cane, and moved from place to place without being recognized. After eleven days and eleven nights, Sheogorath decided that life among mortals was even more boring than his otherworldly existence.

"What can I do to make their lives more interesting?" he said to himself. At that same moment, a young woman nearby commented wistfully to herself, "The sounds of the birds are so beautiful."

Sheogorath silently agreed with her. Mortals could not make the beautiful and inspired calls of birds. Their voices were wretched and mundane. He could not change the nature of mortals, for that was the purview of other Daedric Princes. However, he could give them tools to make beautiful sounds.

Sheogorath took hold of the petulant woman and ripped her asunder. From her tendons he made lutes. From her skull and arm bones he made a drum. From her bones he made flutes. He presented these gifts to the mortals, and thus Music was born.



The Contest of Wills

A mighty wizard named Ravate once walked the Winds of Time to find Lord Sheogorath. His intent was to win a favor from this most capricious of the Daedric Princes. Upon finding Sheogorath, Ravate spoke humbly to him, "Lord Sheogorath, I beg a favor of you. I would gladly drive a thousand men mad in your name if you would but grant me the greater magical powers."

Fortunately for Ravate, Sheogorath was in a playful mood. He proposed a game, "I will grant your wish, if you are still sane in three days. During that time, I will do my utmost to drive you mad. It shall be great fun."

Ravate was not so certain that he liked this new deal. He had been really looking forward to driving a thousand men mad. "Lord Sheogorath, I regret having disturbed you with my shallow, selfish request. I withdraw my unfortunate plea and will humbly leave this place."

Sheogorath just laughed, "Too late, mighty Ravate. The game is afoot, and you must play." Ravate fled, only to find that all exits from the Daedric realm were now sealed. He wandered aimlessly, constantly looking over his shoulder, jumping at every noise. Each moment brought new terror as he waited for Sheogorath to begin.

After three days, Ravate was convinced that every plant and animal was a tool of Sheogorath. He hadn't eaten or drunk for fear that Sheogorath had poisoned the food or drink. He hadn't slept for fear of Sheogorath invading his dreams. (Which was foolish, as dreams are the domain of Vaermina, may She grant us Restful Sleep.)

It was then that Sheogorath appeared to him. Ravate cried out, "You have set the whole world to watching me! Every creature and plant are doing your bidding to drive me mad."

Sheogorath replied, "Actually, I have done nothing. You have driven yourself mad with your fears. Your delusions prove that you are truly deranged, and therefore I win. While you wanted to make a thousand men mad, I only wanted to break one man's mind, yours."

From that day forward Ravate served Sheogorath's every whim. Whenever daring travelers try to approach Sheogorath, Ravate warns them, "Sheogorath is already inside each of us. You have already lost."
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#228)
	The Red Book of Riddles
This handye booke doth containe alle diverse manner of riddles and follyes, and, by means of carefulle studye, the prudente scholarlye gentlemane maye finde himselfe noe longer discomfited by the sharpe wite of his fellowes.

(The posing and puzzling of riddles is a convention of polite aristocratic Western society. Nobles and social aspirants collect books of riddles and study them, hoping thereby to increase the chances of their appearing sly and witty in conversation.)

The question:

It has a tail, a side and a head

I call it what I call a snake

It has no body and it is dead

The answer:

It must be a drake.



The question:

Poets know the hearts of Men and Mer

But beasts can't know my heart, you see

This book was written by a bear

The answer:

It is not a book of poetry.



The question:

I gave you a sock, not unlike a box

With hammers and nails all around it

Two lids open when it knocks

The answer:

It must have been a great hit.
		

Failed at /books/229		Part of the Literature collection (#230)
	16 Accords of Madness, Vol. VI
Hircine's Tale

Ever proud and boastful, Oblivion's Mad Prince stood one fifth day of mid year among the frigid peaks of Skyrim, and beckoned forth Hircine for parlay. The Huntsman God materialized, for this was his day, and the boldness of Sheogorath intrigued him.

Wry without equal, Sheogorath holds in his realm giggling loons, flamboyant auteurs, and craven mutilators. The Mad Prince will ply profitless bargains and promote senseless bloodshed for nothing more than the joy of another's confusion, tragedy, or rage. So it was that Sheogorath had set a stage on which to play himself as rival to Hircine.

Without haste, the coy Prince proffered his contest; each Prince was to groom a beast to meet at this place again, three years to the hour, and do fatal battle. Expressionless behind his fearsome countenance, Hircine agreed, and with naught but a dusting of snow in the drift, the Princes were gone to their realms.

Confident, but knowing Sheogorath for a trickster, Hircine secretly bred an abomination in his hidden realm. An ancient Daedroth he summoned, and imbued it with the foul curse of lycanthropy. Of pitch heart and jagged fang, the unspeakable horror had no peer, even among the great hunters of Hircine's sphere.

In the third year, on the given day, Hircine returned, where Sheogorath leaned, cross-legged on a stone, whistling with idle patience. The Prince of the Hunt struck his spear to the ground, bringing forth his unnatural, snarling behemoth. Doffing his cap, sly as ever, Sheogorath stood and stepped aside to reveal a tiny, colorful bird perched atop the stone. Demurely it chirped in the bristling gusts, scarcely audible.

In a twisted, springing heap, the Daedroth was upon the stone, leaving only rubble where the boulder had been. Thinking itself victorious, the monster's bloodied maw curled into a mock grin, when a subdued song drifted in the crisp air. The tiny bird lightly hopped along the snout of the furious Daedroth. Sheogorath looked on, quietly mirthful, as the diminutive creature picked at a bit of detritus caught in scales betwixt the fiery eyes of the larger beast. With howling fury, the were-thing blinded itself trying to pluck away the nuisance. And so it continued for hours, Hircine looking on in shame while his finest beast gradually destroyed itself in pursuit of the seemingly oblivious bird, all the while chirping a mournful tune to the lonesome range.

Livid, but beaten, Hircine burned the ragged corpse and withdrew to his realm, swearing in forgotten tongues. His curses still hang in those peaks, and no wayfarer tarries for fear of his wrathful aspect in those obscured heights.

Turning on his heel, Sheogorath beckoned the minuscule songbird to perch atop his shoulder, and strolled down the mountain, making for the warm breezes and vibrant sunsets of the Abecean coast, whistling in tune with the tiniest champion in Tamriel.
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#231)
	Crow and Raven: Three Short Fables
Crow and Raven were watching Cormorant dive for fish. "I wish I could dive," said Crow. "I like to eat fish." "What?" said Raven. "Are you saying Cormorant can do something that you cannot? That's absurd. You're twice the bird Cormorant is." "You're right!" said Crow, and he dove deep into the water. Half a minute later he thrashed his way back to the surface. Raven stood nearby. "Raven!" gasped Crow. "Why did you say that? I nearly drowned!" Raven shrugged and said, "I like to eat birds."

Crow and Raven were watching Mourning Dove take a bath in a shallow pool. "I believe I shall take a bath as well," said Crow. He flew down, splashed about in the pool, and then flew back up next to Raven. "That's better!" said Crow. "Why is that?" said Raven. "Your feathers, and your beak, and your eyes are just as black as before." "True," said Crow, "but when I flew down to the pool it startled Mourning Dove, and she flew to her nest. Now I know where it is." "Eggs for lunch!" said Raven.

Crow and Raven sat in the tree above the roadside inn, above a drover snoring in a drunken stupor. Crow cocked his head and said, "That sleeping person has a shiny pin on his shirt." "It's an award," said Raven. "He got it for drinking ale. If you drink the rest of the ale in his mug, you'll get a shiny pin, too." "Shiny pin!" said Crow. He flew down to the table, drank the rest of the ale, and then fell over and couldn't get up. Raven flew down and plucked the pin from the drover's shirt. "Shiny pin!" she said, and flew off.
		

		Part of the Literature collection (#232)
	Wabbajack
Little boys shouldn't summon up the forces of eternal darkness unless they have an adult supervising, I know, I know. But on that sunny night on the 5th of First Seed, I didn't want an adult. I wanted Hermaeus Mora, the Daedra of knowledge, learning, gums, and varnishes. You see, I was told by a beautiful, large-breasted man who lived under the library in my home town that the 5th of First Seed was Hermaeus Mora's night. And if I wanted the Oghma Infinium, the Book of Knowledge, I had to summon him. When you're the new King of Solitude, every bit of knowledge helps.

Normally, you need a witches coven, or a mages guild, or at least matching pillow case and sheets to invoke a prince of Oblivion. The Man Under the Library showed me how to do it myself. He told me to wait until the storm was at its height before shaving the cat. I've forgotten the rest of the ceremony. It doesn't matter.

Someone appeared who I thought was Hermaeus Mora. The only thing that made me somewhat suspicious was Hermaeus Mora, from what I read, was a big blobby multi-eyed clawed monstrosity, and this guy looked like a waistcoated banker. Also, he kept calling himself Sheogorath, not Hermaeus Mora. Still, I was so happy to have successfully summoned Hermaeus Mora, these inconsistencies did not bother me. He had me do some things that didn't make any sense to me (beyond the mortal scope, breadth, and ken, I suppose), and then his servant happily gave me something he called the Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.

Wabbajack.

Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.

Maybe the Wabbajack is the Book of Knowledge. Maybe I'm smarter because I know cats can be bats can be rats can be hats can be gnats can be thats can be thises. And that doors can be boars can be snores can be floors can be roars can be spores can be yours can be mine. I must be smart, for the interconnective system is very clear to me. Then why or wherefore do people keep calling me mad?

Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#233)
	Arcana Restored
A Handbook

By Wapna Neustra

Praeceptor Emeritus

FORM THE FIRST: Makest thou the Mana Fountain to be Primed with Pure Gold, for from Pure Gold only may the Humors be rectified, and the Pure Principles coaxed from the chaos of Pure Power. Droppest thou then the Pure Gold upon the surface of the Mana Fountain. Takest thou exceeding great care to safeguard yourself from the insalubrious tempests of the Mana Fountain, for through such Assaults may one's health be utterly Blighted.

FORM THE SECOND: Make sure that thou havest with you this Excellent Manual, so that thou might speak the necessary Words straightaway, and without error, so that thou not in carelessness cause thyself and much else to discorporate and disorder the World with your component humors.

FORM THE THIRD: Take in hand the item to be Restored, and hold it forth within the Primed Fountain, murmuring all the while the appropriate phrases, which are to be learned most expeditiously and faultlessly from this Manual, and this Manual alone, notwithstanding the vile calumnies of Kharneson and Rattor, whose bowels are consumed by envy of my great learning, and who do falsely give testament to the efficacies of their own Manuals, which are in every way inferior and steeped in error.

FORM THE FOURTH: Proceed instantly to Heal thyself of all injuries, or to avail yourself of the Healing powers of the Temples and Healers, for though the agonies of manacaust must be borne by any who would Restore a prized Arcana to full Potency, yet it is not wise that suffering be endured unduly, nor does the suffering in any way render the Potency more Sublime, notwithstanding the foolish speculations of Kharneson and Rattor, whose faults and wickednesses are manifest even to the least learned of critics.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#234)
	Liminal Bridges
by Camilonwe of Alinor

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 infinitesimal 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 morpholiths 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 morpholith 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.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#235)
	Magic from the Sky
(Varennian Edition)

by Zeroli Jarol

The ancient Ayleids believed that Nirn was composed of four basic elements—earth, water, air, and light—and of these four elements, they believed the most sublime form of light was starlight. The stars are our links to the plane of Aetherius, the source of all magical power, and therefore, light from the stars is the most potent and exalted of all magical powers.

From time to time, fragments of Aetherius fall from the heavens. The people know these fragments as "shooting stars," and from time to time, such Aetherial fragments are found on Nirn. The most common varieties are known as "meteoric iron"; this metal is prized by armorers and enchanters for its properties in the forging of enchanted weapons and armors. This meteoric iron is also the primary component in "Ayleid Wells," ancient enchanted artifacts found throughout Cyrodiil.

Another, rarer form of Aetherial fragment is called "meteroic glass." It is from such fragments that other rare Ayleid enchanted artifacts are crafted; namely, Welkynd Stones and Varla Stones.

Ayleid Wells are scattered across Cyrodiil's landscape. They remain a mystery, as they are not associated with any known Ayleid cities or settlements. It is presumed that in some manner, they harvest magical power from starlight. It is also suggested without evidence or support that they are located at the meeting points of ancient lines of magical power; however, modern arcane arts have discovered no perceptible evidence of such lines of power.

Those with magical talents can draw magicka from Ayleid Wells to restore their own reservoirs of magical power. No ritual or arcane knowledge is necessary, suggesting that these wells were designed to serve persons not skilled in the magical arts. Once drained, the wells replenish again only at magical midnight. Once recharged, they appear to radiate magical power back into the sky, which prompts some to theorize they are also objects with religious or magical ritual significance, perhaps a means of offering magic back to the heavens.

Welkynd Stones (in Aldmeris: "sky stone," "heaven stone," or literally, "sky child") are pieces of cut and enchanted meteoric glass which apparently act as storage devices for magical power. A magical talent can restore his reservoirs of magicka from such stones. Alas, the means of restoring power to these stones may have been lost with the Ayleids. Currently, these objects simply crumble to dust after they have been used.

Great Welkynd Stones are exceptionally large pieces of enchanted meteoric glass. Scholars believe that at the heart of each ancient Ayleid city, a Great Welkynd Stone was the source of the settlement's magical enchantments. It may be that these great stones were linked to the lesser stones, restoring and maintaining their power. In any case, research on these Great Welkynd Stones is impossible, since all the known Ayleid ruins have been looted of their great stones, and no examples of these great stones are known to survive.

Another rare enchanted item found in Ayleid ruins is called a Varla Stone (in Aldmeris: "star stone"). Varla Stones are remarkably powerful, enabling untrained users to restore magical energy to any number of enchanted items. Because of their great value and utility, these items are also extremely rare, but since they are small and easily concealed, diligent explorers may still occasionally come across them in any Ayleid ruin.

Ayleid Wells, Welkynd Stones, and Varla Stones—consider these marvels of magical enchantment. Are we then to conclude that the Ayleids were a superior race and culture? Did they so exceed us in art and craft that they mock the feeble powers of Second Era Wizards?

Never! The Ayleids were powerful, yes, and cunning, but they were neither good nor wise, and so they were struck down. Their works have passed from Nirn, save these rare and sparkling treasures. Their ancient cities are dark and empty, save for the grim revenants and restless spirits condemned forever to walk the halls, keeping their melancholy vigils over bones and dust.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#236)
	Manual of Spellcraft
The Beginning Spellcaster

The most powerful mages in Tamriel were once beginners. They all had similar early experiences: exposure to magic kindled an interest or unlocked some latent ability, followed by years of hard work. These intrepid souls honed their skills, learned new spells, and vigorously trained their minds and bodies to become the formidable figures they were known as during their later lives.

The Mages Guild of Tamriel has long been the first stop on a long road to knowledge and power for many individuals. Providing magical services to the general public, the Guild offers a wide variety of spells for purchase, and is recommended as a first stop for any aspiring spellcaster. Independent dealers may be found, though their selection of spells is often not as comprehensive as that of the Mages Guild.

Many spells are beyond the capabilities of beginning mages; the ability to render one's self invisible, for example, is an advanced power and is beyond the novice spellcaster. Through practice, a mage may become more skilled in a given school of magic and find himself proficient enough to begin exploring its more powerful aspects. The fledging mage should not be daunted by his inability to wield certain powers, but should instead use this as a point of focus and a drive for bettering himself. Rather than becoming discouraged, the student should look forward to higher levels of skill, such as the advanced techniques of absorbing spells, summoning lesser (and eventually greater) Daedra and undead—for research purposes only—and protection against specific types of spells, such as Flame, Frost, and Shock spells.

Mages wishing to specialize in a particular school of magic are encouraged to learn as many spells as possible within that school, and to practice them frequently. All mages, whether specializing or nurturing a general interest, are encouraged to apply for membership within the Mages Guild. Beyond services available to the general public, the accomplished Guild member has access to many exclusive services. These services have been deemed potentially dangerous to the public at large, and have been restricted to higher-ranked Guild members in good standing by the Council of Mages.

Citizens interested in the further use of magic should consult their local Mages Guild Magister.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#237)
	The Old Ways
Customs and Philosophy of Grave and Faithful Counsel

by Celarus the Loremaster

We who know the Old Ways are well aware of the existence of a spiritual world invisible to the unenlightened. Just as one living in a kingdom but unaware of the political machinations underneath may see a new tax or battle preparation as the caprices of fortune, many observe floods, famines, and madness with helpless incomprehension. This is deplorable. As the great Cuilean Darnizhaan moaned, "The power of ignorance can shatter ebony like glass."

What, after all, is the origin of these spiritual forces that move the invisible strings of Mundus? Any neophyte of Artaeum knows that these spirits are our ancestors—and that, while living, they too were bewildered by the spirits of their ancestors, and so on back to the original Acharyai. The Daedra and gods to whom the common people turn are no more than the spirits of superior men and women whose power and passion granted them great influence in the afterworld.

Certainly this is our truth and our religion. But how does it help us in our sacred duty of seliffrnsae, or providing "grave and faithful counsel" to lesser men?

Primarily, it is easy to grasp the necessity both of endowing good men with great power and making powerful men good. We recognize the multiple threats that a strong tyrant represents—breeding cruelty which feeds the Daedra Boethiah and hatred which feeds the Daedra Vaermina; if he should die having performed a particularly malevolent act, he may go to rule in Oblivion; and worst of all, he inspires other villains to thirst after power and other rulers to embrace villainy. Knowing this, we have developed patience in our dealings with such despots. They should be crippled, humiliated, impoverished, imprisoned. Other councilors may advocate assassination or warfare—which, aside from its spiritual insignificance, is expensive and likely to inflict at least as much pain on the innocents as the brutish dictator. No, we are intelligence gatherers, dignified diplomats—not revolutionaries.

How, then, are our councilors "faithful"? We are faithful only to the Old Ways—it is essential always to remember the spiritual world while keeping our eyes open in the physical one. Performing the Rites of Moawita on the 2nd of Hearth Fire and the Vigyld on the 1st of Second Seed are essential means of empowering salutary spirits and debilitating unclean ones. How, then, are we at once faithful to those we counsel and to the Isle of Artaeum? Perhaps the sage Taheritae said it best: "In Mundus, conflict and disparity are what bring change, and change is the most sacred of the Eleven Forces. Change is the force without focus or origin. It is the duty of the disciplined Psijic ["Enlightened One"] to dilute change where it brings greed, gluttony, sloth, ignorance, prejudice, cruelty… [here Taheritae lists the rest of the 111 Prodigalities], and to encourage change where it brings excellence, beauty, happiness, and enlightenment. As such, the faithful counsel has but one master: his mind. If the man the Psijic counsels acts wickedly and brings oegnithr ["bad change"] and will otherwise not be counselled, it is the Psijic's duty to counterbalance the oegnithr by any means necessary [emphasis mine]."

A student of the Old Ways may indeed ally himself to a lord—but it is a risky relationship. It cannot be stressed enough that the choice be wisely made. Should the lord refuse wise counsel and order the Psijic (to use Taheritae's outmoded word) to perform an act contrary to the teachings of the Old Ways, there are few available options. The Psijic may obey, albeit unwillingly, and fall prey to the dark forces against which he has devoted his life. The Psijic may abandon his lord, which will bring shame on him and the Isle of Artaeum, and so may never be allowed home again. Or the Psijic may simply kill himself.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#238)
	On the Detachment of the Sheath
On the Detachment of the Sheath from the Integument

By Arch-Prelate Fervidius Tharn

Though all given Concavities, or sheaths within the integument of the Aurbis, are necessarily contained by the Aurbis, Right Reaching dictates that a defined sheath may be detached from the integument by invocation of Mnemoli. Upon intercourse with the star-orphan, the Beseeching Alesstic performs eversion of the organ of thought, an employment of the Hurling Disk that recapitulates the truth that a circle turned sidewise is a Tower. By same-truth, twisting the enveloping sheath into the middle dawn (to the number of seventeen) brings it to untime and unplace.

Eventualism, of course, predicts reabsorption upon depletion of the Wheeling Force, but the absence of duration may render even eventuality moot.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#239)
	Reality and Other Falsehoods
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, others 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 easier 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.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#240)
	Guild Memo on Soul Trapping
Mages Guild Memorandum: Confidential, Magisters Only

From Vanus Galerion, Archmagister Emeritus

If you pay attention to the popular fads and fashions of spellcasting in your guildhalls, you have doubtless noticed the recent surge of interest in the discipline of "soul trapping." Unlike most of the passing fancies that come and go among the magical fraternity, I consider this particular vogue alarming and dangerous. 

There are reasons why soul trapping has never been part of the core curriculum of the Mages Guild, taught to only the most experienced and dependable wizards, and then only for certain specific uses. First of all, it is technically a subset of necromancy, and on that basis alone it should be abhorred. (Except, as mentioned, for certain special cases, and then only under controlled conditions.) Second, it is a magical technology that practically invites abuse, especially when employed to trap the souls of sentient mortals. It is the sort of arcane practice that the public fears most, and is likely to result in local bans on the organized teaching of magic, and if that happens all our work in establishing the Guild will have been in vain. 

The fact that soul trapping is now common knowledge among Tamriel's magery, to the point where so-called "Mystics" sell soul gems of various sizes in every market and bazaar, is a problem that can be laid squarely at the feet of the iniquitous Mannimarco and his Order of the Black Worm. It is all part of his program to make necromancy seem commonplace and almost harmless. In some parts of Tamriel, notably Cyrodiil, the vile practice of necromancy has even become accepted as a valid, and legally tolerated, magical discipline. What our old mentor Iachesis would have to say about this pernicious development I hate to think. 

So what are we to do about it? I have been giving the matter some hard thought, in between rooting out cells of the ever-burgeoning Worm Cult, and I think at this point the only way to gain control over soul-trapping is to co-opt the practice. Therefore I propose the Mages Guild codify and systematize the various soul-trapping magics into a common grimoire of a few reliable spells, and then teach our members that these, and only these, are the legal and authorized methods for trapping souls. 

Furthermore, I propose that for the purposes of soul trapping we categorize all souls into two classes: the legal, or "White" souls, those smaller essences that are captured from beasts and animals, and illegal, or "Black" souls, which are derived from sentient mortals. And we will teach only those spells that can capture White souls, forbidding our students to use the larger soul gems on sentients. 

It will take several generations, and the suppression of the Worm Cult, for this dichotomy to become the pan-Tamrielic standard for soul trapping. But if the Mages Guild can't take the long view for the good of Tamriel, who can?
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#241)
	Wayshrines of Tamriel
By Beredalmo the Signifier

Since time immemorial, devout mortals of Tamriel have built shrines to their Divines at sites that have been recognized as holy and sanctified. Many of these sites were chosen due to specific miracles or blessed events that marked them, though others simply inspire feelings of reverence for matters divine. Because they are located here and there where inspiration struck, rather than at points of convenience, these sites are scattered across the land, and have come to be known as "wayshrines." 

Of course, the shrines built at these sites by devout worshipers reflect the local religious beliefs, and are constructed and adorned so as to honor the foremost local Divines. Many priesthoods believe that wayshrines act as direct conduits to Aetherius, and that when a mortal dies his or her soul is drawn to the nearest wayshrine, where it meets some sort of psychopomp or spiritual escort, who leads the soul to the afterlife. Though this is a mystical matter and therefore not susceptible to scholarly proof, it is striking that so many different faiths across Tamriel endorse this belief. 

As all know, the stars in the heavens are perforations in the Mundus through which shines the magical light of Aetherius. Lord Corvus Direnni theorized that the locations of wayshrines on Tamriel correspond to the pattern of stars in the night sky, because our Mundus is a reflection of Aetherius. However, to test this theory we would need a comprehensive map of every wayshrine site on Tamriel, a task too daunting to contemplate, so proof of this hypothesis, if true, will have to come from another source. 

Lord Corvus was also a renowned conjurer, who devised and promulgated the standard "portal" spells now popularized by the Mages Guild. (His work was based on the pioneering research of the Ayleid sorcerer known to history as "The Transmigrant." But that is liquor for a different cocktail.) Corvus theorized that, if one only knew how, the wayshrines could be used as a permanent portal network by which one could travel rapidly across Tamriel. He speculated that such a "fast traveler" would need to somehow attune himself to a wayshrine, which would add its "node" to the traveler's "web of sojourn."

However, in order to learn how to do this, the great Direnni wizard believed a mortal's soul would have to be, temporarily or permanently, "unmoored from the Mundus." I am not at all certain what that phrase means, and if Lord Corvus understood it, none of his written memoirs explain what he meant by it. Based on my studies of the notebooks left behind in Lord Corvus' workshop in Direnni Tower, proof and implementation of this theory eluded him, and eventually he abandoned it to return to perfecting variations on Koron's Peremptory Summons.
		

		Part of the Magic and Magicka collection (#242)
	Proposal: Schools of Magic
By Gabrielle Benele, Daggerfall Mages Guild

As a former member of the faculty at the University of Gwylim, I take an interest in matters of practical pedagogy, and I've spent the two seasons reviewing our Mages Guild curricula for the instruction of beginning spellcasters. This body of work has accumulated gradually over several centuries, and as a result it is somewhat haphazard and disorganized. 

After casting about for a model upon which to reorganize our teaching texts, I came upon the curriculum of the Shad Astula Academy in Morrrowind, where they teach magic in eight different disciplines. Though the divisions between the disciplines, or "schools" of magic, are rather arbitrary, magic being an entirely mutable art, this classification of spellcasting into schools of magic has the advantage of providing students with a structure for easy comprehension of the basics of wizardry. The proof of its value is the fact that Shad Astula graduates novice mages with a practical grasp of sorcery in half the time of our own introductory program.

For this reason, I propose that we adopt the Shad Astula disciplines, and reorganize the Mages Guild study program into the following schools of magic:

ALCHEMY: The study of the magical virtues of different forms of matter, their effects, combinations, and recombinations. To include the concoction of potions, elixirs, and magical draughts.

ALTERATION: The distortion of local reality through direct imposition of the mage's will. To include spells of paralysis, water breathing, water walking, lock opening, and personal elemental shields such as flame cloaks. 

CONJURATION: The summoning and binding of spirits from Oblivion or Aetherius. To include soul trapping, spells that conjure Daedra or other creatures, spells to banish same, summoning of bound weapons and armor, as well as (for classification purposes) the forbidden necromantic arts of reanimation, conjuration, and manipulation of the undead. 

DESTRUCTION: The splintering of material bonds by the direct application of force, typically elemental in nature. To include damaging spells of flame, frost, shock, and disintegration, as well as magic that drains essence or personal attributes.

ILLUSION: Altering perception in oneself or others. To include spells of light, invisibility, fear, frenzy, and silence, as well as magic that affects morale and obedience. 

MYSTICISM: The class of spells used to alter the nature of magic itself. To include effects that dispel or absorb both spells and the magicka that feeds them, as well as telekinesis (which fits here as well as anywhere).

RESTORATION: The opposite of destruction, magic that resists damage or restores wholeness by reknitting the damaged material. To include wards, healing, curing of disease and poison, physical fortification, and the turning of undead (a forced purification effect).

THAUMATURGY: Magic that affects the will and personal state of mind. To include spells that calm or charm others, reflection of or resistance to magic, as well as levitation, which involves the personal rejection of gravity. 

The experienced mage will immediately discern the arbitrary nature of these divisions—indeed, we may eventually find it advisable to combine one or more of these schools, assigning the spells within them to other categories. (Thaumaturgy seems a likely candidate for such amalgamation, and possibly Mysticism, as well.) However, these schools seem to be serving Shad Astula well, so I propose we tentatively adopt them as is, and refine as we go.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#243)
	Before the Ages of Man: Dawn Era
Before the Ages of Man: The Dawn Era

by Aicantar of Shimmerene

Before man came to rule Tamriel, and before the chronicles of the historians recorded the affairs of the rulers of Tamriel, the events of our world are known only through myths and legends, and through the divinely inspired teachings of the Eight Divines.

For convenience, historians divide the distant ages of prehistory into two broad periods of time: the Dawn Era and the Merethic Era.

The Dawn Era

The Dawn Era is that period before the beginning of mortal time, when the feats of the gods take place. The Dawn Era ends with the exodus of the gods and magic from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower.

The term "Merethic" comes from the Nords, literally, "Era of the Elves." The Merethic Era is the prehistoric time after the exodus of the gods and magic from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower and before the arrival of Ysgramor the Nord in Tamriel.

The following are the most notable events of the Dawn Era, presented roughly in sequence as it must be understood by creatures of time such as ourselves.

The Cosmos formed from the Aurbis (chaos, or totality) by Anu and Padomay. Akatosh (Auriel) formed and Time began. The gods (et'Ada) formed. Lorkhan convinced (or tricked) the gods into creating the mortal plane, Nirn. The mortal plane was at this point highly magical and dangerous. As the gods walked, the physical make-up of the mortal plane and even the timeless continuity of existence itself became unstable.

When Magic (Magnus), architect of the plans for the mortal world, decided to terminate the project, the gods convened at the Adamantine Tower (Direnni Tower, the oldest known structure in Tamriel) and decided what to do. Most left when Magic did. Others sacrificed themselves into other forms so that they might stay (such as the Ehlnofey). Lorkhan was condemned by the gods to exile in the mortal realms, and his heart was torn out and cast from the tower. Where it landed, a volcano formed. With magic (in the Mythic Sense) gone, the cosmos stabilized. Elven history, finally linear, began (ME 2500).
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#244)
	Before the Ages of Man: Merethic Era
Before the Ages of Man: The Merethic Era

by Aicantar of Shimmerene

The Merethic Era was figured by early Nord scholars as a series of years numbered in reverse order backward from their "beginning of time": the founding of the Camoran Dynasty, recorded as Year Zero of the First Era. The prehistoric events of the Merethic Era are listed here with their traditional Nord Merethic dates. The earliest Merethic date cited by King Harald's scholars was ME 2500, the Nord reckoning of the first year of time. As such, the Merethic Era extends from ME 2500 in the distant past to ME 1, the year before the founding of the Camoran Dysnasty and the establishment of the White-Gold Tower as an independent city-state.

According to King Harald's bards, ME 2500 was the date of construction of the Adamantine Tower on Balfiera Island in High Rock, the oldest known structure of Tamriel. (This corresponds roughly to the earliest historical dates given in various unpublished Elven chronicles.)

During the early Merethic Era, the aboriginal beast-peoples of Tamriel (the ancestors of the Khajiit, Argonians, Orcs, and other beastfolk) lived in preliterate communities throughout Tamriel.

In the Middle Merethic Era, the Aldmeri refugees (mortals of Elven origin) left their doomed, now-lost continent of Aldmeris (also known as "Old Ehlnofey") and settled in southwestern Tamriel. The first colonies were distributed at wide intervals on islands along the entire coast of Tamriel. Later inland settlements were founded primarily in fertile lowlands in southwest and central Tamriel. Wherever the beastfolk encountered the Elves, the sophisticated, literate, technologically advanced Aldmeri cultures displaced the primitive beastfolk into the jungles, marshes, mountains, and wastelands. The Adamantine Tower was rediscovered and captured by the Direnni, a prominent and powerful Aldmeri clan. They built Crystal Tower on Summerset Isle and, later, the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil.

During the Middle Merethic Era, Aldmeri explorers mapped the coasts of Vvardenfell, building the First Era High Elven wizard towers at Ald Redaynia, Bal Fell, Tel Aruhn, and Tel Mora in Morrowind. It was also during this period that Ayleid (Wild Elven) settlements flourished in the heartland surrounding White-Gold Tower (in present-day Cyrodiil). Wild Elves, also known as the Heartland High Elves, preserved the Dawn Era magics and language of the Ehlnofey. Ostensibly a tributary to the High King of Alinor, the Heartland's long lines of communication from the Summerset Isles' sovereignty effectively isolated Cyrodiil from the High Kings at Crystal Tower.

The Late Middle Merethic Era is the period of the High Velothi Culture. The Chimer, ancestors of the modern Dunmer, or Dark Elves, were dynamic, ambitious, long-lived Elven clans devoted to fundamentalist ancestor worship. The Chimer clans followed the Prophet Veloth out of the ancestral Elven homelands in the southwest to settle in the lands now known as Morrowind. Despising the secular culture and profane practices of the Dwemer, the Chimer also coveted the lands and resources of the Dwemer, and for centuries provoked them with minor raids and territorial disputes. The Dwemer (Dwarves), free-thinking, reclusive Elven clans devoted to the secrets of science, engineering, and alchemy, established underground cities and communities in the mountain range (later the Velothi Mountains) separating modern Skyrim and Morrowind.

The Late Merethic Era marks the precipitous decline of Velothi culture. Some Velothi settled in villages near declining and abandoned ancient Velothi towers. During this period, Velothi high culture disappeared on Vvardenfell Island. The earliest Dwemer Freehold colonies date from this period. Degenerate Velothi devolved into tribal cultures which, in time, either evolved into the modern Great Houses of Morrowind or persisted as the barbarian Ashlander tribes. The only surviving traces of this tribal culture are scattered Velothi towers and Ashlander nomads on Vvardenfell Island. The original First Era High Elven wizard towers along the coasts of Tamriel were also abandoned around this time.

In the Late Merethic Era, pre-literate humans, the so-called "Nedic Peoples," migrated from the continent of Atmora (also "Altmora" or "the Elder Wood" in Aldmeris) and settled in northern Tamriel. The Nord culture hero Ysgramor, leader of a great colonizing fleet to Tamriel, is credited with developing a runic transcription of Nord speech based on Elvish principles, and so Ysgramor is considered the first human historian. Ysgramor's fleet landed at Hsaarik Head at the extreme northern tip of Skyrim's Broken Cape. The Nords built the legendary city of Saarthal there. The Elves drove the Men away during the Night of Tears, but Ysgramor soon returned with his Five Hundred Companions.

Also during the Late Merethic Era, a legendary immortal hero, warrior, sorcerer, and king (variously known as Pelinal Whitestrake, Harrald Hairy Breeks, Ysmir, and Hans the Fox) wandered Tamriel. He gathered armies, conquered lands, ruled them, and then abandoned his kingdoms so he could wander again.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#245)
	Ebony Blade History
To anyone reading this: BEWARE THIS BLADE

It has corrupted and perverted the desires of great men and women. Yet its power is without equal: to kill while your victim smiles at you. Only a Daedra most foul could have concocted such a malevolent and twisted weapon. It appears that all who wield it end up with the crazed eyes of those wild men who roam the hills chattering with rabbits.

It is not to be trifled with. Not even the hottest fires of the Skyforge could melt it; indeed, the coals themselves seemed to cool when it was placed within. We cannot destroy it, and we would not have it fall into the hands of our enemies. So we keep it hidden, never to be used.

Woe be to any who choose to take it.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#246)
	Noxiphilic Sanguivoria
An Introduction

By Cinna Scholasticus

The disease vampirism is not one disease, but many. Throughout the centuries, and for unknown reasons, the afflictions collectively known as vampirism have been transmitted in different ways and taken on different qualities. Herein, I shall try to delineate, to the best of my ability, the qualities of the form of vampirism common to our era, known as Noxiphilic Sanguivoria, so as to better equip the reader to identify this type of vampire.

First, however, I believe a word of warning is in order. This work is in no way intended as a guide to hunting or otherwise confronting a vampire. In all cases, it is advised that you avoid anyone you suspect of vampirism and certainly that you do not try to fight them. Vampires of all varieties possess supernatural strength and will quickly overpower all but the most experienced hunter.

The most important thing to remember about sufferers of Noxiphilic Sanguivoria is that, as the name implies, they are not weakened by daylight as in other strains of vampirism, but are, instead, strengthened during the nighttime hours. 

Why this is the case is poorly understood. One of the more wild theories is that it is the result of some sort of Daedric backroom deal between Hircine and Molag Bal that has given sufferers of Noxiphilic Sanguivoria a werewolf-like love of moonlight.

By night, these hunters are possessed of extreme fortitude and a powerful ability to recover from wounds.

Sufferers of Noxiphilic Sanguivoria, interviewed under heavy sedation, of course, have described a dreamlike passage from when they were first bitten and afflicted with the disease. Some of them have described entering a ritual chamber where they were bathed in a pool of black blood. Whether the transformation actually involves such a terrifying ritual, or whether it was merely a hallucination is impossible to discern without firsthand experience.

If you are bitten, or believe to have been bitten, by a carrier of Noxiphilic Sanguivoria, do not panic. If you are able to get away from your attacker, see a priest of Arkay immediately. You will not contract full Noxiphilic Sanguivoria without first being exsanguinated by a vampire and then receiving the gift of his or her blood in return.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#247)
	A Werewolf's Confession
By Captain Philmont of the Oldgate Lancers, Daggerfall Covenant Army

The prisoner called for me today, and I had the dubious privilege of listening to his confession. Separated from him by narrow iron bars that I knew would be insufficient to protect me, I took down his words with a trembling hand.

What follows is my best rendering, although he was so soft-spoken that at times I had to guess at the precise words. Nevertheless, I am confident that what follows accurately represents the substance of our conversation:

"I accepted this curse at a young age. I was impressionable. My packleader was a family friend and elder in our village. I wanted to be strong, and I relished the strength the curse gave me. I would not have called it a curse, then.

"But with youth comes recklessness, and I was not good at disguising what I was. Eventually they discovered my true nature, and I was driven from the village.

"My packleader failed me. He did not protect me. He cared too much about his own status to risk it for my sake. I was alone.

"Everywhere I went I heard the shouts of crowds, saw the bright torches of the angry mob. I never lingered long in one place before my secret was discovered. 

"I came to hate them. The superstitious villagers.  I came to resent what I couldn't have. I blamed them for my own recklessness. It was not the curse that plagued me, but the narrow-mindedness of these provincial men and women.

"I was afraid to hunt, so I was always hungry, and the hunger turned me feral. It was in this state that I came across them. A family of innocent farmers, just like the innocent farmers that had hounded me from village after village. My vision turned red and I flew into a fury.

"At last my hunger was satisfied. 

"But when the rage subsided and I looked on what I'd done, my stomach turned. This was what all those villagers were afraid of, when they tormented me with their torches and sickles.

"That's when I acknowledged my curse for what it was. I have hunted many years since, afraid to turn myself in, but disgusted with my base impulses. 

"You don't realize what a great favor you have done, capturing me."

And then having told his story, the creature, looking very much like a man, begged me to put him out of his misery.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#248)
	The Firmament
(Copyist's note: This book appears to be about the reputed qualities of birthsigns for those born under certain constellations, and does not describe those mysterious stelae commonly referred to as "Mundus Stones.")

Ffoulke's Preferred Text

by Ffoulke

The Stars of Tamriel are divided into thirteen constellations. Three of them are the major constellations, known as the Guardians. These are the Warrior, the Mage, and the Thief. Each of the Guardians protects its three Charges from the thirteenth constellation, the Serpent.

When the sun rises near one of the constellations, it is that constellation's season. Each constellation has a season of approximately one month. The Serpent has no season, for it moves about in the heavens, usually threatening one of the other constellations.

The Warrior

The Warrior is the first Guardian Constellation, and he protects his charges during their seasons. The Warrior's own season is Last Seed, when his Strength is needed for the harvest. His Charges are the Lady, the Steed, and the Lord. Those born under the sign of the Warrior are skilled with weapons of all kinds, but prone to short tempers.

The Mage

The Mage is a Guardian Constellation whose season is Rain's Hand, when Magicka was first used by men. His Charges are the Apprentice, the Golem, and the Ritual. Those born under the sign of the Mage have more Magicka and talent for all kinds of spellcasting, but are often arrogant and absent-minded.

The Thief

The Thief is the last Guardian Constellation, and her season is the darkest month of Evening Star. Her Charges are the Lover, the Shadow, and the Tower. Those born under the sign of the Thief are not typically thieves, though they take risks more often than others and only rarely come to harm. They will run out of luck eventually, however, and so rarely live as long as those born under other signs.

The Serpent

The Serpent wanders about in the sky and has no season, though its motions are predictable to a degree. No characteristics are common to all who are born under the sign of the Serpent. Those born under this sign are the most blessed and the most cursed.

The Lady

The Lady is one of the Warrior's Charges and her season is Heartfire. Those born under the sign of the Lady are kind and tolerant.

The Steed

The Steed is one of the Warrior's Charges, and her season is Mid Year. Those born under the sign of the Steed are impatient, always hurrying from one place to another.

The Lord

The Lord's season is First Seed, and he oversees all of Tamriel during the planting. Those born under the sign of the Lord are stronger and healthier than those born under other signs.

The Apprentice

The Apprentice's season is Sun's Height. Those born under the sign of the apprentice have a special affinity for magic of all kinds, but are also more vulnerable to magic.

The Atronach

The Atronach (often called the Golem) is one of the Mage's Charges. Its season is Sun's Dusk. Those born under this sign are natural sorcerers with deep reserves of Magicka, but they cannot generate Magicka of their own.

The Ritual

The Ritual is one of the Mage's Charges, and its season is Morning Star. Those born under this sign have a variety of abilities depending on the aspects of the moons and the Divines.

The Lover

The Lover is one of the Thief's Charges and her season is Sun's Dawn. Those born under the sign of the Lover are graceful and passionate.

The Shadow

The Shadow's season is Second Seed. The Shadow grants those born under her sign the ability to hide in shadows.

The Tower

The Tower is one of the Thief's Charges, and its season is Frostfall. Those born under the sign of the Tower have a knack for finding gold and can open locks of all kinds.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#249)
	The Pig Children
by Tyston Bane

No one—not the oldest Dark Elf of Mount Dagoth-Ur or the Ancient Sage of Solitude himself—can recall a time when the Orc did not ravage our fair Tamriel. Whatever foul and pestilent Daedra of Oblivion conjured them up could scarcely have created a more constant threat to the well-being of the civilized races of Tamriel than the obnoxious Orc.

Orcs are thankfully easy to recognize from other humanoids by their size—commonly forty pertans in height and fifteen thousand angaids in weight—their brutal pig-like features, and their stench. They are consistently belligerent, morally grotesque, intellectually moronic, and unclean. By all rights, the civilized races of Tamriel should have been able to purge the land of their blight eras ago, but their ferocity, animal cunning, and curious tribal loyalty have made them inevitable as leeches in a stagnant pool.

Tales of Orcish barbarity precede written record. When Jastyaga wrote of the Order of Diagna's joining the armies of Daggerfall and Sentinel "to hold at bay the wicked Orcs in their foul Orsinium fastness … and burn aught in cleansing flame" in 1E 950, she assumed that any reader would be aware of the savagery of the Orcs. When the siege was completed thirty years later, after the death of many heroes including Gaiden Shinji, and the destruction of Orsinium scattered the Orcish survivors throughout the Wrothgarian Mountains, she further wrote, "The free peoples rejoiced for that their ancient fell enemy was dispersed into diverse parts." Obviously, the Orcs had been terrorizing the region of the Iliac Bay at least since the early years of the First Era.
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#250)
	Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls
By Septimus Signus, College of Winterhold

Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric. Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe—drink its warp and weft. Though the plant-matter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy. This is one manner in which the Scrolls first came to pass, but are we the sea, or the breather, or the fabric? Or are we the breath itself?

Can we flow through the Scrolls as knowledge flows through, being the water, or are we the stuck morass of sea-filth that gathers on the edge?

Imagine, again, this time but different. A bird cresting the wind is lifted by a gust and downed by a stone. But the stone can come from above, if the bird is upside down. Where, then, did the gust come from? And which direction? Did the gods send either, or has the bird decreed their presence by her own mindmaking?

The all-sight of the Scrolls makes a turning of the mind such that relative positions are absolute in their primacy.

I ask you again to imagine for me. This time you are beneath the ground, a tiny acorn planted by some well-meaning Elf-maiden of the woodlands for her pleasure. You wish to grow but fear what you may become, so you push off the water, the dirt, the sun, to stay in your hole. But it is in the very pushing that you become a tree, in spite of yourself. How did that happen?

The acorn is a kind of tree-egg in this instance, and the knowledge is water and sun. We are the chicken inside the egg, but also the dirt. The knowledge from the Scrolls is what we push against to become full-sighted ourselves.

One final imagining before your mind closes from the shock of ever-knowing. You are now a flame burning bright blue within a vast emptiness. In time you see your brothers and sisters, burnings of their own in the distance and along your side. A sea of pinpoints, a constellation of memories. Each burns bright, then flickers. Then two more take its place—but not forever, lest the void fill with rancid light that sucks the thought.

Each of our minds is actually the emptiness, and the learnings of the Scrolls are the pinpoints. Without their stabbing light, my consciousness would be as a vast nothingness, unknowing its emptiness as a void is unknowing of itself. But the burnings are dangerous, and must be carefully tended and minded and brought to themselves and spread to their siblings.

(Note by Ancestor Moth Brother Quintus Nerevelus: Found this at the back of the library stacks behind the Scroll of Rhunen. It had obviously been there a long time, yet the printer's sigil notes its publication date as "4E 195." This is obviously a transcription error. I think.)
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#251)
	Sithis
Sithis is the start of the house. Before him was nothing, but the foolish Altmer have names for and revere this nothing. That is because they are lazy slaves. Indeed, from the Sermons, "stasis asks merely for itself, which is nothing."

Sithis sundered the nothing and mutated the parts, fashioning from them a myriad of possibilities. These ideas ebbed and flowed and faded away and this is how it should have been.

One idea, however, became jealous and did not want to die; like the stasis, he wanted to last. This was the demon Anui-El, who made friends, and they called themselves the Aedra. They enslaved everything that Sithis had made and created realms of everlasting imperfection. Thus are the Aedra the false gods, that is, illusion.

So Sithis begat Lorkhan and sent him to destroy the universe. Lorkhan! Unstable mutant!

Lorkhan had found the Aedric weakness. While each rebel was, by their nature, immeasurable, they were, through jealousy 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
		

		Part of the Myths of the Mundus collection (#252)
	The Consecrations of Arkay
By Punctilius Tyrus

As a novice of the Order of Arkay, you enter a service that will be both an exaltation and a burden to you. We who serve the Lord of the Wheel of Life are tasked with protection of the souls of all mortals, both bound and unbound.

For there are those in Tamriel—and from beyond Tamriel—who prey upon the souls of others. Heretics would divert the souls of the dying to unlawful destinations. Necromancers would bind the souls of the dead to an afterlife of eternal slavery. And Daedra Lords feast upon the souls of mortals like ravening wolves.

All these we abominate, and drive them from the realms of decent folk with fire and hammer. And to aid us in this, our great work, Arkay has given us his Three Consecrations: 

Arkay's Grace, which we bestow upon birth, to protect the souls of the innocent until they are old enough to exercise their own volition.

Arkay's Blessing, which we bestow upon the dying, to prevent their souls from being used without consent. 

Arkay's Law, which we bestow upon the deceased, that their corporeal forms may not be raised to unlawful servitude. 

There is no more sacred trust than that of the order which you enter today, novice. Be strong, and waver not, for the enemies of life are ever watchful, ready to punish negligence with swift and ruthless cruelty.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#253)
	The Book of Daedra
Azura, whose sphere is dusk and dawn, the magic in-between realms of twilight, known as Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night Sky.

Boethiah, whose sphere is deceit and conspiracy, and the secret plots of murder, assassination, treason, and unlawful overthrow of authority.

Clavicus Vile, whose sphere is the granting of power and wishes through ritual invocations and pacts.

Hermaeus Mora, whose sphere is scrying of the tides of Fate, of the past and future as read in the stars and heavens, and in whose dominion are the treasures of knowledge and memory.

Hircine, whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, the Chase, known as the Huntsman and the Father of Manbeasts.

Malacath, whose sphere is the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the keeper of the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse.

Mehrunes Dagon, whose sphere is Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and Ambition.

Mephala, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; known by the names Webspinner, Spinner, and Spider; whose only consistent theme seems to be interference in the affairs of mortals for her amusement.

Meridia, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; who is associated with the energies of living things.

Molag Bal, whose sphere is the domination and enslavement of mortals; whose desire is to harvest the souls of mortals and to bring mortals' souls within his sway by spreading seeds of strife and discord in the mortal realms.

Namira, whose sphere is the ancient Darkness; known as the Spirit Daedra, ruler of sundry dark and shadowy spirits; associated with spiders, insects, slugs, and other repulsive creatures which inspire mortals with an instinctive revulsion.

Nocturnal, whose sphere is the night and darkness; who is known as the Night Mistress.

Peryite, whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest orders of Oblivion, known as the Taskmaster.

Sanguine, whose sphere is hedonistic revelry and debauchery, and passionate indulgences of darker natures.

Sheogorath, whose sphere is Madness, and whose motives are unknowable.

Vaermina, whose sphere is the realm of dreams and nightmares, and from whose realm issue forth evil omens.

Especially marked for special interest under the heading "Malacath" is a reference to SCOURGE, blessed by Malacath, and dedicated to the use of mortals. In short, the reference suggests that any Daedra attempting to invoke the weapon's powers will be expelled into the voidstreams of Oblivion.

"Of the legendary artifacts of the Daedra, many are well known, like Azura's Star, and Sheogorath's Wabbajack. Others are less well known, like Scourge, Mackkan's Hammer, Bane of Daedra …."

"… yet though Malacath blessed Scourge to be potent against his Daedra kin, he thought not that it should fall into Daedric hands, then to serve as a tool for private war among caitiff and forsaken. Thus did Malacath curse the device such that, should any dark kin seek to invoke its powers, that a void should open and swallow that Daedra, and purge him into Oblivion's voidstreams, from thence to pathfind back to the Real and Unreal Worlds in the full order of time."
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#254)
	Darkest Darkness
In Morrowind, both worshipers and sorcerers summon lesser Daedra and bound Daedra as servants and instruments.

Most Daedric servants can be summoned by sorcerers for very brief periods within the most fragile and tenuous frameworks of command and binding. This fortunately limits their capacity for mischief, although in a few minutes, most of these servants can do terrible harm to their summoners, as well as their enemies.

Worshipers may bind other Daedric servants to this plane through rituals and pacts. Such arrangements result in the Daedric servant remaining on this plane indefinitely, or at least until their bodily manifestations on this plane are destroyed, precipitating the return of their supernatural essences to Oblivion. Whenever Daedra are encountered at Daedric ruins or in tombs, they are almost invariably long-term visitors to our plane.

Likewise, lesser entities bound by their Daedra Lords into weapons and armor may be summoned for brief periods, or they may persist indefinitely, so long as they are not destroyed and banished. The class of bound weapons and bound armors summoned by Temple followers and conjurers are examples of short-term bindings. Daedric artifacts like Mehrunes' Razor and the Masque of Clavicus Vile are examples of long-term bindings.

The Tribunal Temple of Morrowind has incorporated the veneration of Daedra as lesser spirits subservient to the immortal Almsivi, the Triune godhead of Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. These subordinate Daedra are divided into the Good Daedra and the Bad Daedra. The Good Daedra have willingly submitted to the authority of Almsivi. The Bad Daedra are rebels who defy Almsivi, treacherous kin who are more often adversaries than allies.

The Good Daedra are Boethiah, Azura, and Mephala. The hunger is a powerful and violent lesser Daedra associated with Boethiah, Father of Plots—a sinuous, long-limbed, long-tailed creature with a beast-skulled head, noted for its paralyzing touch and its ability to disintegrate weapons and armor. The winged twilight is a messenger of Azura, Goddess of Dusk and Dawn. Winged twilights resemble the feral harpies of the West, though the feminine aspects of the winged twilights are more ravishing, and their long, sharp, hooked tails are immeasurably more deadly. Spider Daedra are the servants of Mephala, taking the form of spider-humanoid centaurs, with a naked upper head, torso, and arms of human proportions, mounted on the eight legs and armored carapace of a giant spider. Unfortunately, these Daedra are so fierce and irrational that they cannot be trusted to heed the commands of the Spinner. As a consequence, few sorcerers are willing to either summon or bind such creatures in Morrowind.

 

The Bad Daedra are Mehrunes Dagon, Malacath, Sheogorath, and Molag Bal. Three lesser Daedra are associated with Mehrunes Dagon: the agile and pesky scamp, the ferocious and beast-like clannfear, and the noble and deadly Dremora. The crocodile-headed humanoid Daedra called the daedroth is a servant of Molag Bal, while the giant but dim-witted ogrim is a servant of Malacath. Sheogorath's lesser Daedra, the golden saint, a half-clothed human female in appearance, is highly resistant to magic and a dangerous spellcaster.

 

Another type of lesser Daedra often encountered in Morrowind is the atronach, or Elemental Daedra. Atronachs have no binding kinship or alignments with the Daedra Lords, serving one realm or another at whim, shifting sides according to seduction, compulsion, or opportunity.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#255)
	The Doors of Oblivion, Part 1
By Seif-ij Hidja

"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 magical growth, acting on the assumption that should he succeed in finding a way into the dangerous world beyond and behind our own, 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 of magic—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. 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," as Morian Zenas would say, are not easily found. 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, told us it had been sealed off for the safety of all.

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 Maruhk'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 these.

Some exist, but cannot be entered safely. The whirlpool in the Abecean called the Maelstrom of Bal can make ships disappear, and it 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 Sload 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.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#256)
	The Doors of Oblivion, Part 2
Divayth Fyr 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 by saying 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 we 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 magical means …."

Zenas explored the nebulous land for some time, encountering vaporous creatures and palaces of smoke. Though he never met the Daedric Prince, we concluded that he was in Ashpit, said to be the home of Malacath, where anguish, betrayal, and broken promises filled the bitter air like ash.

"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 the realm's Daedric Prince. It appeared to Zenas as if it were a future Nirn governed under the Lord of Brutality: 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 foretold to him the coming of the Nerevarine. 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 Vaermina. 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.

I would save him if I could.

I would silence his whispers if I could.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#257)
	On Oblivion
by Morian Zenas

It is improper, however customary, to refer to the denizens of the dimension of Oblivion as "demons." This practice probably dates to the Alessian Doctrines of the First Era prophet Maruhk—which, rather amusingly, forbade "trafficke with daimons" and then neglected to explain what daimons were.

It is most probable that "daimon" is a misspelling or etymological rendition of "Daedra," the old Elven word for those strange, powerful creatures of uncertain motivation who hail from the dimensions of Oblivion. In a later tract by King Hale the Pious of Skyrim, almost a thousand years after the publication of the original Doctrines, the evil machinations of his political enemies are compared to "the wickedness of the demons of Oblivion … their depravity equals that of Sanguine itself, they are cruel as Boethiah, calculating as Molag Bal, and mad as Sheogorath." Hale the Pious thus long-windedly introduced four of the Daedra Lords to written record.

But the written record is not, after all, the best way to research Oblivion and the Daedra who inhabit it. Those who "trafficke with daimons" seldom wish it to be a matter of public account. Nevertheless, scattered throughout the literature of the First Era are diaries, journals, notices for witch burnings, and guides for Daedra-slayers. These I have used as my primary source material. They are at least as trustworthy as the Daedra lords I have actually summoned and spoken with at length.

Apparently, Oblivion is a place composed of many lands—thus the many names for which Oblivion is synonymous: Coldharbour, Quagmire, Moonshadow, etc. It may be correctly supposed that each land of Oblivion is ruled over by one prince. The Daedric Princes whose names appear over and over in ancient records (though this is not an infallible test of their authenticity or explicit existence, to be sure) are the aforementioned Sanguine, Boethiah, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, and in addition Azura, Mephala, Clavicus Vile, Vaermina, Malacath, Hoermius (or Hermaeus or Hormaius or Herma—there seems to be no one accepted spelling) Mora, Namira, Jyggalag, Nocturnal, Mehrunes Dagon, and Peryite.

From my experience, Daedra are a very mixed lot. It is almost impossible to categorize them as a whole except for their immense power and penchant for extremism. Be that as it may, I have here attempted to do so in a few cases, purely for the sake of scholastic expediency.

Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Peryite, Boethiah, and Vaermina are among the most consistently "demonic" of the Daedra, in the sense that their spheres seem to be destructive in nature. The other Daedra can, of course, be equally dangerous, but seldom purely for the sake of destruction as these five can. Nor are these previous five identical in their destructiveness. Mehrunes Dagon seems to prefer natural disasters—earthquakes and volcanoes—for venting his anger. Molag Bal elects the employment of other Daedra, and Boethiah inspires the arms of mortal warriors. Peryite's sphere seems to be pestilence, and Vaermina's torture.

In preparation for the next installment in this series, I will be investigating two matters that have intrigued me since I began my career as a Daedra researcher. The first is on one particular Daedra, perhaps yet another Daedric Prince, referred to in multiple articles of incunabula as Hircine. Hircine has been called "the Huntsman of the Princes" and "the Father of Man-beasts," but I have yet to find anyone who can summon him. The other, and perhaps more doubtful, goal I have is to find a practical means for mortal men to pass through to Oblivion. It has always been my philosophy that we need only fear that which we do not understand—and with that thought in mind, I ever pursue my objective.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#258)
	Spirit of the Daedra
HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US

DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR

We do not die. We do not fear death.

Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness. But the Animus returns.

But we are not all brave.

We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.

The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.

The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.



THE CLAN BOND

We are not born; we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.

The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.

In the clan-form is strength and purpose.



THE OATH BOND

We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.

Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.

Dremora have long served Dagon but not always so.

Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.

When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.



HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.

How then do you imagine we view you humans?

You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.

The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.

Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.

As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.

But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.

Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore. Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.



MAN'S MYSTERY

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.

This lies beyond our comprehension—why do you not despair?
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#259)
	Varieties of Daedra, Part 1
By Aranea Drethan, Healer and Dissident Priest

There is little chance of our ever understanding the various orders of Daedra and their relationships to the Daedra Lords and their dominions. Of the varieties of Daedra that appear in our world, and the varieties of their relationships to their fellows and their Daedra patrons, there is no end. In one place and time they are seen to be this, and in another place and time they are seen to be the opposite, and in another place and time they are seen to be both this and that, in completely contradictory terms.

What Daedra serves this Prince? What Daedra gives orders, and what Daedra serves, and in what hierarchy, and under what circumstances? What Daedra exist in fellowship with one another, and what Daedra have eternal enmity to one another, and what Daedra are solitary, or social, and by turns solitary or social? There are no limits to the varieties of behaviors that may be observed, and in one place they may be this, and in another place they may that, and all rules describing them are always found to be contradictory and in exception to others.

Further, from whom may we seek answers to our questions about these orders? From mortals, who know little but what they may observe of another world? From the gods, who speak in riddles, of enigmas wrapped in mysteries, and who keep things from us, the better to preserve their dominion over us? From the Daedra themselves, who are never the models of straightforwardness or truthtelling, but rather are famous for misstatements and obfuscations?

And even were the Daedra to speak the truth, how can we know if they know themselves, or that there is any truth about them that is to be known, or are all arrangements among the Daedra protean and ever subject to change?

In short, what is to be known is little and what is to be trusted is nothing.

These things being said, I shall venture to relate what I have observed and heard of the relationships of the servants of Lord Dagon in my brief service to the Telvanni Wizard Divayth Fyr, when I sought him out and offered to bring peace to the victims of corprus in his sanitarium.

Divayth Fyr told me that he, by choice, trafficked only with two Daedra Powers—Mehrunes Dagon and Azura.

Azura, he said, knew and understood all things, and declined to speak of these things, or only spoke in riddles.

Mehrunes Dagon, on the other hand, out of pride, fixity of purpose, and a predictable lack of subtlety in thought, knew nothing and understood nothing, and was inclined to speak freely and without falsehood.

Divayth Fyr said that Dagon's chief servants, the Dremora, were like him in pride, fixed purpose, and lack of subtlety, with the addition of the peculiar traits of honor and loyalty, both within their class and within their relationship to Lord Dagon.

And Divayth Fyr said that the Dremora were ordered into clans and castes, and these clans and castes were well-defined. Individual Dremora might rise or fall in ranks, or move back and forth among clans, but only when regulated by complex oaths, and only at the will and pleasure of their Lord Dagon.

The Dremora refer to themselves as "The Kyn" ("the People"), contrasting themselves to other Daedra, whom they consider unthinking animals. The term "kynaz" refers to a member of the Dremora race ("he of the Kyn").

The least of kyn castes are the Churls, the undistinguished rabble of the lowest rank of Dremora. Churls are obsequious to superiors but ferociously cruel to humans and other Daedra.

Next in rank are the Caitiffs, creatures of uncalculating zeal, energy without discrimination. Caitiffs are used as irregulars in the faction wars of the Daedra, as berserkers and shock troops, undisciplined and unreliable, but eager and willing.

The highest of the regular rank-and-file of Dremora troops are the Kynvals, warrior-knights who have distinguished themselves in battle, and shown the deliberate steadiness of potential war leaders.

Above the rank and file warriors of the Churl, Caitiff, and Kynval castes are the officer castes.

A Kynreeve is a clan sheriff or clan officer. Kynreeves are typically associated either with a clan fighting unit or an administrative office in the order of battle.

The Kynmarcher is the lord and high officer of a Daedric citadel, outpost, or gate. A Kymarcher's command is usually associated both with a unit and with a "fief"— a location or territory for which he is responsible.

Above the Kymarcher is the Markynaz, or "grand duke." A Markynaz is a lord of lords, and member of the Markyn, Mehrunes Dagon's Council of Lords.

The highest rank of Dremora is the Valkynaz, or "prince." This warrior duke is a member of the Valkyn, Mehrunes Dagon's personal guard. The Valkynaz are rarely encountered on Tamriel; normally they remain by Mehrunes Dagon's side, or serve as commanders of operations of particular importance or interest to Dagon.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#260)
	Varieties of Daedra, Part 2
Of the varieties of other Daedra I encountered while I served in Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium—Ogrims and Golden Saints, Daedroths and Winged Twilights, Scamps and Clannfear—there is much that might be said, but little that is helpful or reliable.

I did note, however, that when Divayth Fyr sought a Daedra of a character like unto the Dremora, but of greater power, and greater inclination for independence and initiative, or solely as a master, he summoned Xivilai, who are like the Dremora in personality and temperament, except that they hate subordination, and are liable to disloyalty and betrayal when they feel they have not been treated with the proper deference and respect.

The feral, beastlike Daedra like the Clannfear and the Daedroth appear in the service of many different Daedric Powers, and may represent common creatures existing like wild animals in the wildernesses of Oblivion. Other savage, semi-intelligent creatures like Scamps and Spider Daedra may also be found in the realms of various Daedra Lords.

The case of the Elemental Atronachs, on the other hand, is less certain. Flame and Frost Atronachs, for example, appear to be highly intelligent, but not all varieties of Elemental Atronachs seem to be social or to have the power of speech. Divayth Fyr preferred not to summon or deal with these creatures, had little experience with them, and showed no inclination to speculate upon their nature, so I learned little about them during my time at Tel Fyr.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#261)
	The Slave Pits of Coldharbour
Kynbriefing #3 of 97:

So you survived your first two shifts in the pits without discorporation or being sentenced to the scathe-rings, and now you think you know it all. Not so, kynworm: we give you easy tasks for the first couple of shifts, jobs any idiot can do, so you won't embarrass us with your all-too-likely failure. But now it's shift three, kynworms. Now we talk quota.

These soul-shriven weren't brought to the pits for your amusement, you know. As an overkyn, I can tell you they weren't brought for my amusement, either. They're here solely for the amusement of the Dread Lord—and he takes a lot of amusing. So pay attention. You're going to be assigned a coffle of soul-shriven, you're going to be told what they need to do, and then you're going to make sure they do it. 

And you're going to be brutal about it. That's the good part, but also the tricky part—because we only get so many soul-shriven, and we have to make them last. They must suffer, of course, or you won't make your torment quota. But you can't use them up too soon, or you'll miss your toil quota. And if you miss either quota ….

Well. You've seen the scathe-rings.

So that's what it's all about, kynworms: toil and torment, and maintaining the balance between the two. Some of you will fail, and suffer slow and agonizing discorporation—but others will find their inner abominance and triumph, exceeding quota and earning time in the bliss-cells. It's up to you, kynworms: cut it or scathe.
		

		Part of the Oblivion Lore collection (#262)
	On the Nature of Coldharbour
By Phrastus of Elinhir

This is Lecture Eight: On the Nature of Coldharbour. It looks to me like there are more of you here than there should be, so please check your ledger—if it says Transliminal Bridges, you're in the wrong room.

Coldharbour is the Oblivion realm ruled by Molag Bal, the Daedric Prince of brutality, slavery, vampirism, and other assorted abominations. It is not, therefore, a pleasant place. Descriptions of the plane vary widely, as usual in any study of Oblivion, but all accounts agree that Coldharbour is a dismal, cold, and largely lifeless realm pervaded by a miasma of fear, where lost souls are tormented for eternity.

This emphasizes the point made in my previous lectures, that a plane of Oblivion, being made of the very stuff of chaos, takes on form and character that reflects the nature of its ruler. Coldharbour, therefore, has been molded to embody the purposes of mighty Molag Bal.

And what are those purposes? As it happens, I can speak to this subject with some authority, for I recently acquired the library and papers of the late Cardinal Belforte of the Order of Stendarr. The Cardinal devoted his life to ridding Tamriel of Daedric cultists of all persuasions. He was particularly rigorous in his persecution of the worshipers of Molag Bal, and in his time acquired a number of their repulsive tracts and treatises.

Study of these sources reveals that Molag Bal desires, above all things, the enslavement of mortals' souls. Various loathsome means are employed to this end, the ultimate goal being the diversion of a soul from its journey to the afterlife to imprisonment and slavery on the plane of Coldharbour. Upon arrival in Molag Bal's realm, the soul attracts to itself some of the loose creatia of Oblivion, forming a corporeal body with the semblance of the shape it wore in life. These sad slaves, called the soul-shriven, then toil in torment for the glory and amusement of their master, Molag the Slave-Lord.

I share these secrets of the cult, heretofore unrevealed, so that you may …. What is that confounded commotion out in the hall? How am I supposed to lecture over those bloodcurdling screams? I can't work under these conditions.
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#263)
	The Battle of Glenumbria Moors
Who took up their arms that winter dawn,

Who to Glenumbria came

To raise their hand,

'Gainst tyrants stand

And to die in freedom's name?

Who stood on the field upon that hour,

Who answered Direnni's call?

Men Breton-born all came that morn

To defend the land for all.

CHORUS:

Rise, rise to freedom rise,

Arise ye Breton sons and daughters!

Ride, ride to freedom ride,

Truth and glory to the brave!

And when the battle it was joined

Alessians three to one,

The sky lit bright

With magic's light

And with magic it was won.

For all they stood on blessed ground

Whence all her power came

The rocks would yield

What might they wield

All in Direnni's name.

CHORUS REPRISE

So children of this Breton land

Ye best remember well

All those who for High Rock stood

Brian, Ancois, Rielle;

Men of the north,

All who stood forth

Till all oppressors fell.
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#264)
	The Book of Dawn and Dusk
The Book of Dawn and Dusk is a collections of sayings and aphorisms attributed variously to the Tribunals and to their saints and servants. Many of these sayings have become common cliches of everyday life in Morrowind. The following selection of slogans will illustrate many of the simplest notions of the Tribunal faithful.

Speak none but good of the Gods.

We can have no opinions about Truth.

Rumors flow from the House of Troubles.

Count only the happy hours.

No child has a sinner's heart.

Let faith be your only law.

Fear of the fool is the beginning of wisdom.

Almsivi in every hour.

Walk always in the presence of your Lords.

Comfort is given, justice is taken.

Learn by serving.

From the heart, the light; from the head, the law.

Blessed Almsivi, Mercy, Mastery, Mystery.

Forge a keen Faith in the crucible of suffering.

Engrave upon thy eye the image of injustice.

Death does not diminish; the ghost gilds with glory.

Faith conquers all. Let us yield to Faith.

Better to suffer a wrong than to do one.

The heavens are in their glory, applaud!

Folly secures its power to harm.

Though forbidden to some, not to you.

Oh, how rarely wisdom rules our hearts!

Blessed are we who serve Almsivi.

Three mouths sing Mercy, Mastery, Mystery.

Gather no seed in the fields of Oblivion.

The Thrice-Sealed House withstands the Storm.

By Breath and Blood protect us all!

Can ghosts or justice change with time?

Consider your end, mortal!

Accept grace without limits.

Enter the rhapsody of the God-Poet.

Kneel before the Teacher's chair.

Three Hands, three Hearts, three Eyes.

Keep no secret from your Judge's scale.

Forge Darkness into Light.

Refuse neither brother nor ghost.

Blessed Almsivi, through birth, life, ghost.

From glowing ashes the Poet's wrath shall shine.

If Vivec is for us, who can stand against us?

Fate, monstrous and empty, the whirling wheel of evil.

How black my heart, roasting fiercely?
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#265)
	The Cantatas of Vivec
The Cantatas of Vivec are gospels written in the form of epic songs. They trace the evolution of Vivec from a foolish mortal into an enlightened divine. Vivec sought out experiences that tested him in every way possible, particularly in the defense and protection of his Dunmer people, and through his long life, his humility, and his unconquerable spirit, he attained the Wisdom of the Seven Graces. The Cantatas relate many stories of Vivec's experiments with challenge and risk, his failures and triumphs, his blessings of insight and good fortune, and his debt to his partners, Almalexia the Lover and Sotha Sil the Teacher. The poetry is simple and dramatic, lyric and personal, composed to be sung or recited. The following is an excerpt from Lord Vivec's "Brooding Beneath Red Mountain."

The gaunt ghostfires loom as subtle shrouds,

Smokes and shades on the biers of Red Mountain.

Arches and spires line the rock halls,

Dimly lit by the spirits of the dead.

The blood of broken hearths and houses

Runs in red rivers, blossoms in fountains.

Girdled round within walls of wit's glass

The shattered hosts slumber in cradles of ash.

But when shall they wake?

What dark crucible may kindle their souls to light?

How long beneath red-reeking clouds

Must flickering watchfires burn?

How many lifetimes of labor and lament

Will it take to seal this restless tomb?
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#266)
	The Five Far Stars
This is a volume of verse collected from wise women of the Urshilaku Ashlanders. It consists of verses composed by Ashlander warriors, champions, and ashkhans, committed to memory by the wise women and transmitted down the generations. "May I shrink to dust" is attributed to the long-dead poet and warrior Zershishi Mus-Manul.

Rise from darkness, Red Mountain!

Spread your dark clouds and green vapors!

Birth earthquakes, shatter stones!

Feed the winds with fire!

Flay the tents of the tribes from the land!

Feed the burned earth with our souls!

Yet never shall you have your rule over me.

Never shall I tremble or flinch from your power.

Never shall I yield my home and hearth.

And from my tears shall spring forth

The flowers of grassland springs.
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#267)
	Flesh to Cut from Bone
(A Pirate Song)

If you see it glitters bright

Then take it for your own,

Pile the corpses to a height

To make a pirate throne!

For what's made weak is ours to break

And what's ill-guarded ours to take

Just flesh to cut from bone,

More flesh to cut from bone.

If they try to lock the gates

We'll burn the whole damned town

They'll bring their guards and magistrates

And then we'll cut them down.

For what's made weak is ours to break

And what's ill-guarded ours to take

Just flesh to cut from bone,

More flesh to cut from bone.

They'll bring their soldiers by the score

To drive us from their lands

But we will have a hundred more

In our brave pirate band!

For what's made weak is ours to break

And what's ill-guarded ours to take

Just flesh to cut from bone,

More flesh to cut from bone.

And if they cry for mercy, then

We'll answer them with steel

For pity's made for other men

We'll grind beneath our heel.

For what's made weak is ours to break

And what's ill-guarded ours to take

Just flesh to cut from bone,

More flesh to cut from bone.
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#268)
	Ode to the Tundrastriders
O mighty tundrastrider!

How you and your mighty tusked beast silhouette against the great orange expanse.

Thundering footsteps herald your herd. Man and beast blazing trail together.

One in nature, each relying upon the other, more than just man and beast, but equals who need one another to survive.

How I long to run across the tundra in their mighty wake.

That would truly be my greatest honor.

The morning would be spent gathering dyes to paint our mammoths and then carve the fiercest images into their tusks.

Then it would be time for the skeever hunt. Our clubs would rain down upon the rat pests smashing the life out of them.

In the evening we could sit around the campfire and I would regale those nearby with songs of their majesty and grace.

They would let me sample some of the mammoth's cheese. A food so foul yet with healing properties so great.

We'd snack on the roasted skeever we'd freshly caught that day before, lying under the stars to sleep.

I'd slowly fade to dream nested in the radiating heat of mammoth fur, its cold-resisting properties keeping me snug.

What a grand time we would have.

—Unknown
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#269)
	Proper-Life: Three Chants
(Marching songs of the Alessian Order)

The Archimonk's Dream

To sleep, to dream, of Tamriel

Unsullied by Anui-El.

Man-ape, tell us.

Maruhk, guide us.

What child of Man could fail to be

In bliss if Nirn were Elven-free?

Man-ape, tell us.

Maruhk, guide us.

We willing march to heed your call,

Devoted, pious, one and all.

Man-ape, tell us.

Maruhk, guide us.

Your mandates we embrace.



 The Song-Never-Sung-at-Twilight

That is not cruel which cures,

O faith, charity, rigor.

By faith true heart endures,

O hope, clarity, vigor.

Seventy-Seven shall guide us,

O praise, honor, and duty.

Alessia lives inside us,

And truth is one with beauty.



The Forty-Third Praise-Song of Alessia

My very inner organs swell

When I am called upon to tell

Of glory in expunging Taint

In honor of our blessed Saint

Alessia, all praise to her

Who freed Men from the hated Mer.

Thrice-bless'd are those who emulate

Her sanctified, uplifting hate.

This, this, never that.

This, this, never that.
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#270)
	Song of the Askelde Men
Fifty Nights from home I last awoke

   Upon a sky-flung cliff in Hjaalmarch Hold

Though my flesh had died and gone to ground

   My Vision went on, from body unbound

Winking there in the vale whence I came

   This dead man's eyes saw pale flame

Where men the same who took life away

   Sung high their battle-glory and praise

Wafting went I, a shade or a wight

   Through stoic pines, pitched ink of night

Ere I came upon the pyre-burning throng

   I heard carried on wind's wing their song

"Sing high and clear, bandsmen born of sky

   Let Sovngarde hear and join our cry"

"These honored dead shed blood upon the fen

   Ending Orc and Elf and traitor Men."

"Your spirit went unto and filled their heart

   You sped them to glory, Hail Spirit Wulfharth"

Then oil from urns fed greedy flames

   Burning what few my legion and I slayed

Wordlessy they chanted then until dawn

   Every flake of ash gathered ere they marched on

Swept along unseen, so too went I

   Meekly haunting these Children of the Sky

Tireless they went, over hearth and hill

   Exhaustion seemed only to spur them still

Unflagging they went, a whorl of rage

   Soon finding our camp, bloated with prey

My dead heart ached for I knew men within

   Doomed, never knowing how close was their end

Again the Nord chests swelled up in refrain

   I screamed unheard. I wept with horror plain

"Hear us, our ancestor, Ash King, Ysmir

   Honor this warband as we to glory repair"

"Those dead to whom you spoke and heard

   We bear them upon us, Your valor conferred"

And so it was, to the man each was smeared

   With ash of a Brother's bone, blood and beard

These ashen brutes, the Askelde Men

   Set to a gruesome task, each bowstring bent

I bellowed then, a cry of desperate rage

   A futile howl among those men, an empty page

Yet one elder turned and unblinking, stared

   Into the vapor-soul of me, his nostrils flared

He bellowed ancient words, his beard aflame

   And my vision fell away, Peace at last came
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#271)
	The Warrior's Charge
And the star sung far-flung tales

Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,

Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails

His charges through the serpent's snare

And the Lord of runes, so bored so soon,

Leaves the ship for an evening's dare,

Perchance to wake, the coiled snake,

To take its shirt of scales to wear

And the Lady East, who e'ery beast,

Asleep or a'prowl can rouse a scare,

Screams as her eye, alight in the sky

A worm no goodly sight can bear

And the mailed Steed, ajoins the deed

Not to be undone from his worthy share,

Rides the night, towards scale bright,

Leaving the seasoned Warrior's care

Then the serpent rose, and made stead to close,

The targets lay plain and there,

But the Warrior's blade the Snake unmade,

And the charges wander no more, they swear
		

		Part of the Poetry and Song collection (#272)
	Words of the Wind
May I shrink to dust

In your cold, wild Wastes,

And may my tongue speak

Its last hymn to your winds.

I pray for the herder

That whistles to his guar at play.

I pray for the hunter

That stalks the white walkers.

I pray for the wise one

That seeks under the hill,

And the wife who wishes

For one last touch of her dead child's hand.

I will not pray for that which I've lost

When my heart springs forth

From your soil, like a seed,

And blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun.
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#273)
	Ayleid Inscriptions Translated
By Beredalmo the Signifier

The following inscriptions were painstakingly transcribed and interpreted over many long years. They are preserved here for all time.

Av molag anyammis, av latta magicka.

"From fire, life; from light, magic."

Barra agea ry sou karan.

"Wear lore as your armor."

Agea haelia ne jorane emero laloria.

"Wisdom learned by pain is a reliable guide in dark times." (literally, "Terrible wisdom never betrayed the loremasters.")

Nou aldmeris mathmeldi admia aurane gandra sepredia av relleis ye brelyeis ye varlais.

"Our exiled Elven ancestors heard the welcoming gifts of peace in the streams and beech trees and stars." ("Mathmeldi" means literally "from-home-driven.")

Suna ye sunnabe.

"Bless and blessed be."

Va garlas agea, gravia ye goria, lattia mallari av malatu.

"In the caverns of lore, ugly and obscure, shines the gold of truth."

Vabria frensca, sa belle, sa baune, amaraldane aldmeris adonai.

"The foaming wave, so thunderous, so mighty, heralds the lordly Elves."
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#274)
	Frontier, Conquest
Frontier, Conquest, and Accommodation: A Social History of Cyrodiil

By University of Gwylim Press, 2E 344

Historians often portray the human settlement of Tamriel as a straightforward process of military expansion of the Nords of Skyrim. In fact, human settlers occupied nearly every corner of Tamriel before Skyrim was even founded. These so-called "Nedic peoples" include the proto-Cyrodilians, the ancestors of the Bretons, the aboriginals of Hammerfell, and perhaps a now-vanished human population of Morrowind. Strictly speaking, the Nords are simply another of these Nedic peoples, the only one that failed to find a method of peaceful accommodation with the Elves who already occupied Tamriel.

Ysgramor was certainly not the first human settler in Tamriel. In fact, by "fleeing civil war in Atmora," as the Song of Return states, Ysgramor was following a long tradition of migration from Atmora; Tamriel had served as a "safety valve" for Atmora for centuries before Ysgramor's arrival. Malcontents, dissidents, rebels, landless younger sons, all made the difficult crossing from Atmora to the "New World" of Tamriel. New archeological excavations date the earliest human settlements in Hammerfell, High Rock, and Cyrodiil at ME 800-1000, centuries earlier than Ysgramor, even assuming that the twelve Nord "kings" prior to Harald were actual historical figures.

The Nedic peoples were a minority in a land of Elves, and had no choice but to live peacefully with the Elder Race. In High Rock, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, and possibly Morrowind, they did just that, and the Nedic peoples flourished and expanded over the last centuries of the Merethic Era. Only in Skyrim did this accommodation break down, an event recorded in the Song of Return. Perhaps being close to reinforcements from Atmora, the proto-Nords did not feel it necessary to submit to the authority of the Skyrim Elves. Indeed, the early Nord chronicles note that under King Harald, the first historical Nord ruler (1E 113-221), "the Atmoran mercenaries returned to their homeland" following the consolidation of Skyrim as a centralized kingdom. Whatever the case, the pattern was set. In Skyrim, expansion would proceed militarily with human settlement following the frontier of conquest, and the line between Human territory and Elven territory was relatively clear.

But beyond this "zone of conflict," the other Nedic peoples continued to merge with their Elven neighbors. When the Nord armies of the First Empire finally entered High Rock and Cyrodiil, they found Bretons and proto-Cyrodiils already living there among the Elves. Indeed, the Nords found it difficult to distinguish between Elf and Breton, the two races had already intermingled to such a degree. The arrival of the Nord armies upset the balance of power between the Nedic peoples and the Elves. Although the Nords' expansion into High Rock and Cyrodiil was relatively brief (less than two centuries), the result was decisive; from then on, power in those regions shifted from the Elves to the humans.
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#275)
	History of the Fighters Guild Pt. 1
In the 283rd year of the Second 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, Versidue-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 Akaviri 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 than 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 Versidue-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 their fees would go to the Potentate's government, thus putting salve on two of Versidue-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.
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#276)
	History of the Fighters Guild Pt. 2
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 First Era, they had been beaten back by the Reman Dynasty. Now they had a Potentate on the throne, and with Dinieras-Ves' machinations, the local armies would also be Akaviri. What they had failed to do by combat, they would have successfully accomplished by patience. Many scholars suggest this was a traditional stratagem 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 the weaknesses in their opponents' armor, explaining to them how many joints there were in a pauldron and a greave, 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 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 joined this new order en masse for a variety of reasons, including desperate poverty, love of action and adventure, or simply to aid their crime-stricken neighbors. 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 Versidue-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 Second 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, Minstrels, 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, 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 Versidue-Shaie's death, only three years after the Guild Act, his heir Savirien-Chorak 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 Adventurers, 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, but also 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 the independent adventurer.
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#277)
	Origin of the Mages Guild
(Varennian Edition)

by The Arch-Mage Salarth

The idea of a collection of Mages, Sorcerers, and assorted Mystics pooling their resources and talents for the purpose of research and public charity was a revolutionary concept in the early years of the Second Era. The only organization then closest in aim and structure to what we know today as the Mages Guild was the Psijic Order of the Isle of Artaeum. At the time, magic was something to be learned by individuals, or at most within intimate covens. Mages were, if not actually hermits, usually quite solitary.

The Psijic Order served the rulers of Summerset Isle as counselors, and chose its members through a complex, ritualized method not understood by outsiders. Its purposes and goals likewise went unpublished, and detractors attributed the worst evils as the source of the Order's power. Actually, the religion of the old Order could be described as ancestor worship, an increasingly unfashionable philosophy in the Second Era.

When Vanus Galerion, a Psijic of Artaeum and student of the famed Iachesis, began collecting magic-users from around Summerset Isle, he attracted the animosity of all. He was operating out of the urban center of Firsthold, and there was a common (and not entirely unfounded) attitude that magical experiments should be conducted only in unpopulated areas. Even more shocking, Galerion proposed to make magical items, potions, and even spells available to any member of the general public who could afford to pay. No longer was magic to be limited either to the aristocracy or intelligentsia.

Galerion was brought before Iachesis and the King of Firsthold, Rilis XII, and made to state the intentions of the fraternity he was forming. The fact that Galerion's speech to Rilis and Iachesis was not recorded for posterity is doubtless a tragedy, though it does afford opportunity for historians to amuse one another with speculation about the lies and persuasions Galerion might have used to found the ubiquitous organization. The charter, at any rate, was approved.

Almost immediately after the Guild was formed, the question of security had to be addressed. The Isle of Artaeum did not require force of arms to shield it from invaders—when the Psijic Order does not wish someone to land on the Isle, it and all its inhabitants simply become insubstantial. The new Mages Guild, by contrast, had to hire guards. Galerion soon discovered what the Tamrielic nobility has known for thousands of years: money alone does not buy loyalty. The knightly Order of the Lamp was formed the following year.

Like a tree from an acorn, the Mages Guild grew branches all over Summerset Isle and gradually the mainland of Tamriel. There are numerous records of superstitious or sensibly fearful rulers forbidding the Guild in their domains, but their heirs or heirs' heirs eventually recognized the wisdom of allowing the Guild free rein. The Mages Guild has become a powerful force in Tamriel, a dangerous foe if a somewhat disinterested ally. There have been only a few rare incidents of the Mages Guild actually becoming involved in local political struggles. On these occasions, the Guild's participation has been the ultimate decider in the conflict.

As begun by Vanus Galerion, the Mages Guild as an institution is presided over by a supreme council of six Archmagisters. Each Guildhall is run by a Magister, assisted by a twofold council, the Perquisitor and the Master Palatinus, who is also the leader of the local chapter of the Order of the Lamp.

One need not be a member of the Mages Guild to know that this carefully contrived hierarchy is often nothing more than a chimera. As Vanus Galerion himself said bitterly, leaving Tamriel to travel to other lands, "The Guild has become nothing more than an intricate morass of political infighting."
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#278)
	Eulogy for Emperor Varen
By Lord Abnur Tharn, Chancellor of the Elder Council

Emperor Varen! How briefly you blazed across our sky, like a skymetal shard shining out to light our way through the darkness!

Noble Varen! Devout Varen! Varen Aquilarios! Son of a Colovian duke, paragon of physical prowess, wily fox of strategic cunning, you sought to restore our Empire to the glory of the Days of the Remans. You showed us the way. If only we, your subjects, had been worthy of the challenge you presented us!

When Leovic sat upon the Ruby Throne, you urged your fellow Colovians to be loyal to their Emperor, despite his eccentricities. It was only when Leovic, misled by wicked councilors, declared worship of the Daedric Princes legal and protected in the Empire, that you cried, "Enough!" and took up your righteous sword.

And the Colovians rose behind you! After an initial defeat at the hands of the Emperor's troops at Fort Ash, you took command of the Legion of Chorrol and sent Leovic reeling back into the Heartland. Word spread that Cyrodiil had a savior, and that Reman's true heir had come at last. The Colovian Estates rose as one under your dragon banner, and eastward you marched.

The war that followed was bitter and terrible, replete with stunning victories, desperate gambits, and reversals on both sides. The might of the Imperial Legions, bolstered by Reachman auxiliaries and Daedric magic, were almost impossible to overcome. But you, Varen, had the might of right on your side! Finally you fought your way to the Imperial Palace and cut down Leovic in the Imperial Throne Room.

But alas, our Emperor Varen, you wore the Amulet of Kings for all too short a time. It is said that your ambition for restoring your people to greatness led you to plumb secrets of the Divines best left untouched. Why did you leave us, O Varen, on that night of storms and trembling terrain, and where did you go? Surely you are dead, for you would not leave your people so bereft if yet you lived.

We remember you, Emperor Varen, and somehow strive to go on, trying to live up to your shining example. But we know we shall never see your like again.
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#279)
	House Tharn of Nibenay
Noble Families of Cyrodiil, Volume Seventeen

By Count Opius Voteporix

House Tharn of Cheydinhal is one of the most distinguished noble families of northern Nibenay, where they have held extensive estates since early in the First Era. The family may, as they claim, be as old as the First Era itself: as house historians like to point out, there is a "Tharanus Ye Redde-Hand" mentioned in the Tamrilean Tractates of 1E 200. In those days before Alessia's Slave Rebellion, this proto-Tharn was apparently a slave overseer employed by the Ayleid Elves of Fanacas, a mining hold in the hills north of modern-day Cheydinhal. Based upon the fact that the Ayleids were known to have kept business records in red ink, the Tharn historians posit that this "Redde-Hand" was probably literate and employed in some clerical capacity. To be thorough, I will mention Lady Euphemia Glaber's theory that identified this Tharanus with the notorious "Tharhan the Mutilant" of the Gradual Massacre in 1E 227, but this was completely disproved by the text of the "Scroll of Precursor Saints" discovered the in the vaults below White-Gold Tower by Chancellor Abnur Tharn in 2E 541.

House tradition holds that the Tharn family was active in St. Alessia's slave uprising, with one Vilius Tharn serving Pelinal Whitestrake as "Blade-Serrator and Master of the Abbatoir." But the next Tharn who can definitely be identified in the historical record is Fervidius Tharn of the Alessian Order, who was Arch-Prelate of the Maruhkati Selective from 1E 1188 until his death (exact date indeterminate). Fervidius is best-remembered today as the author of the "Sermons Denouncing the Seventeen Leniencies."

Noble Tharn captains led mercenary companies that fought on both sides in the War of Righteousness in the 2300s, and when the dust settled General Turpis "Volte-Face" Tharn was in possession of the broad holdings that the family today calls home. Taking the title Earl of Outer Cheydinhal, Turpis married a niece of Admiral Bendu Olo and set about fathering numerous descendants. 

Several generations of Tharns served nobly and well during the Reman Empire, including Regulus Tharn, who revived the tradition of Imperial Battlemages, and Excoraeus Tharn, Emperor Kastav's Minister of Punition.

Which brings us to the members of the Tharn family of our own, current day. First and foremost, of course, is the head of the house and longtime Chancellor of the Elder Council, Abnur Tharn. Through times of trouble and the change of emperors, the Chancellor has always been there to provide the continuity and consistency our Imperial civilization needs. 

Second only out of respect for her elder is Her Majesty Clivia Tharn, Empress-Regent of Cyrodiil, and daughter of Abnur Tharn by his seventh wife, Pulasia. Empress Clivia, it need hardly be said, is the widow of two emperors, having been the consort of both Leovic and Varen. 

Scarcely less powerful is the Chancellor's younger half-sister, Euraxia Tharn, who has been Queen of Rimmen since the Frostfall Coup in 2E 576. And what would social events in the Imperial City be like without the presence of her son, the droll and charming Javad Tharn? 

Truly, House Tharn has come to epitomize the modern Nibenese nobility. We can only hope that they will continue to be with us through the future, whatever it may bring. 

(Note: Effusive enough? Also, forgot to work in Magus-General Septima. Must get that bonus A. promised.)
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#280)
	The Order of the Black Worm
Mages Guild Report: The Order of the Black Worm

It is as we feared, Archmagister: the Order of the Black Worm is no mere Daedric cult, but a brotherhood of necromancers that seeks to rival—nay, supplant—our own Mages Guild. 

Even as the Mages Guild was founded by the ex-Psijic Vanus Galerion, so was the Worm Cult founded by his arch-rival and nemesis, the ex-Psijic Mannimarco. Both were trained on the Isle of Artaeum, but when Galerion got Mannimarco expelled for his dabbling in forbidden necromantic arts, the self-styled Worm King simply relocated to continental Tamriel and took up his heinous pursuit in earnest. He is known to have sought out hidden manuscripts describing how the Dragon Priests enthralled their draugr, ancient Ayleid tablets regarding the summoning of spirits of the dead, and the Crimson Book of Skulls, which Shalidor himself had thought destroyed. Mannimarco has bragged of consorting with Daedra Lords, and may even have bargained with the Father of Vampires, Molag Bal himself. 

Mannimarco then set about spreading his blasphemous lore, enlisting unscrupulous mages, outcast witches, and vile Reachmen into his necromantic network. He dubbed his new cult the Order of the Black Worm, in emulation—or perhaps mockery—of the monastic orders of the Divines. In most parts of Tamriel, raising the dead was quite properly considered an atrocity, so the Worm Cult at first operated entierely as an underground, illicit organization. But Mannimarco, in addition to being a mighty necromancer, is a wise and wily diplomat, and in many jurisdictions he's persuaded, bribed, or intimidated the authorities into turning a blind eye to the Order's activities. 

Worse, in Cyrodiil, the King of Worms has even persuaded the ruling Tharns of the Imperial City to declare necromancy a legal magecraft, and the Order of the Black Worm has now taken the place of the Mages Guild as the authorized magical advisors to the Imperial Throne.

A typical cell of the Order, known informally as a "Worm Nest," is led by a necromancer who bears the title "Worm Anchorite." An Anchorite reports directly to Mannimarco, though their means of communication is as yet unknown. Beneath the Anchorite are Necromancer Adepts, Worm Warriors, and lackeys called Worm Thralls. New cultists are attracted by promises of great power for those who serve loyally, and all are sworn to secrecy on pain of Undeath.

Regional plots are addressed in the secondary reports. An additional overheard rumor, uncomfirmed at this time, is that the Order has opened negotiations with the Sloads of Thras. I am seeking further information, and may know more by the next dark of the moons.

Report investigated by Journeyman Qualitatis—may Arkay guide his soul to Aetherius—and posthumously compiled by Evoker Brucille
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#281)
	Return to Orsinium
By Immigration-Wife Uulitag gra-Orsinium

Orcs of the mountains of northern Tamriel: you have a capital in Orsinium, and it's calling you home. 

Yes! Once more the City of Orcs on the escarpment between upper and lower Wrothgar stands tall and proud! Behind its legendary iron-capped walls, tuskers of every clan work to restore our capital—your capital!—to its former glory. Once again buyers and sellers throng Haggler's Bluff, warriors spar at Fighters' Anvil, and smoke pulses from the chimneys of the Everember Forges. Mauloch-worshipers crowd the Temple of Grudgement, fungus-farmers tend the ordure-spreaders in the Caves of Dark Abundance, and gondolas ply the Jugular. 

We are rebuilding the Obdurate Gates, and once more Smelter, Hammer, and Temper protect the city from the blows of a hostile world. From his throne in Scarp Keep, King Kurog extends to you the hand of welcome—and the fist of challenge. Are you Orc enough to join your brothers and sisters in a renewed Orsinium, and stand proud against the world? Come! Come to Orsinium, and join us as we raise a flagon of Bog-Iron Ale to King Kurog and the resurgent Orcs of Tamriel!
		

		Part of the Tamriel History collection (#282)
	The Second Akaviri Invasion
A Request for Funding

By Yngmaer Raven-Quill, Historian Royal of the Bards' College, Solitude

Though we Nords of Western Skyrim, Your Majesty, were fortunate to escape involvement in the recent Akaviri invasion of Tamriel, it is nonetheless important that we try to understand this strange affair, especially as it has led our estranged kindred in Eastern Skyrim into a bizarre and ill-advised alliance with our ancient enemies, the treacherous Dark Elves of Morrowind.

Though the events occurred only a dozen years ago, the facts of the incursion from Akavir are already becoming obscured by a fog of legend and conjecture. What do we know for sure?

One: We know that there are multiple realms in Akavir, and that the raiders of the First Era (who later gave the Empire its Potentates) were from Tsaesci, while the forces of the recent invasion were from Kamal. However, we know virtually nothing about either realm.

Two: The leader of this second invasion was the King of Kamal, Ada'Soom Dir-Kamal. We know little about him or his reasons for invading Tamriel, even from our agents in the Eastern Kingdom: few captured Akaviri knew any Tamrielic, and most died under interrogation. One report stated that Dir-Kamal was seeking someone or something called the "Ordained Receptacle"—but this could easily be a bungled translation.

Three: For reasons unknown, the Akaviri fleet sailed around the northeast corner of Tamriel into the Sea of Ghosts, bypassing the Telvanni Peninsula, Vvardenfell, and Solstheim, before finally landing at the mouth of the White River northeast of Windhelm. 

Four: The invasion was a complete surprise, and Windhelm was invested before Queen Mabjaarn could muster the Hold in defense. After a brief siege the invaders breached the southern gate and the city was sacked and burned. Both Queen Mabjaarn and her daughter and heir, Princess Nurnhilde, were slain in fierce fighting before the gates of the Palace of the Kings. 

Five: The royal cadet, Prince Jorunn, escaped the sack of Windhelm and briefly disappeared. When he reappeared he was calling himself King Jorunn, and was accompanied by a mighty warrior whom he claimed was Wulfharth the Ash-King, sent back from Sovngarde to help the Nords defeat the Akaviri. With this so-called Wulfharth at his side, Jorunn rallied the Eastern Nords and fortified Riften. 

Six: When Dir-Kamal moved his army south from Windhelm, he bypassed Riften—once again, his motivations are unclear—and marched into western Morrowind. They were opposed by Dark Elf forces, who staged a fighting retreat through the Ashlands under the command of Almalexia and her leading general, Tanval of House Indoril.

Seven: Dir-Kamal pursued the Dunmeri army into eastern Stonefalls, where the Elves halted their retreat by occupying prepared defenses. The Akaviri advance slowed and stopped—and suddenly, the Nord army under Jorunn and "Wulfharth" appeared in their rear. This cannot have been by chance: incredibly, we must conclude that, despite the age-old enmity between Nord and Elf, there was collusion between Jorunn and Almalexia, and the envelopment of the Akaviri at Stonefalls was according to plan.

Eight: The Akaviri, however, were not easily defeated. With their backs to the Inner Sea, they fought a desperate defense, attempting to hold out until their ships could come from the White River estuary to take them from the shore. Despite repeated attempts, the combined Dunmer-Nord army failed to break their lines. The Akaviri fleet was actually visible on the northern horizon when another incredible event occurred: at the last moment the Nords and Dark Elves were reinforced by two legions of Argonians who had marched to the battle from the south. With the infusion of the reptilian Shellbacks, the Tamrielics finally broke the Akaviri line—and with nowhere to escape to, the invaders were slaughtered to the last soldier. 

As Your Majesty no doubt realizes, this account raises far more questions than answers: what we know about this affair is dwarfed by what we don't know. Thus my request to fund a Royal Committee of Inquiry to look into the grave implications of this matter. I, of course, will volunteer to lead this committee, provided the burden of such a task can be offset by an appropriate stipend.
		

		Part of the None collection (#283)
	Traveler's Log
NYI - Ormni Journal
		

Failed at /books/284Failed at /books/285		Part of the None collection (#286)
	Note
This is a note you found on a body. It's a one page note.
		

Failed at /books/287		Part of the None collection (#288)
	Book
This is a book you found. It's pretty big and should open up to to two pages.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#289)
	Suril's Journal
— 4th of Sun's Dawn

My latest research project involves plants. What destination is better than Shadowfen? There's something about this place. The moisture hanging in the air encourages so much growth. I'm sure I'll find a new species to study.

— 8th of First Seed

I hate rain. It's rained every day for the past month. The ground is saturated, making it impossible to do any meaningful field studies. Clearly, I chose the wrong time of year to come to Stormhold.

On the bright side, I've had time to rearrange the guildhall to suit myself … well, one room of it, at least. I've never had this much time or space to myself, especially after the incident at Davon's Watch. I was so sure. Well, every researcher makes mistakes now and then. It's part of the process.

— 22nd of First Seed

It's stopped raining at last.

— 1st of Rain's Hand

I've discovered a remarkable lichen specimen. It's on the spine of my "Lexicon of Black Marsh Flora."

— 3rd of Rain's Hand

Wrote to the arch-mage. Requested a new assignment, preferably one in the Alik'r.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#290)
	The Right Mattock for the Job
They said the work would be hard, but Huusmaheem did not expect it to be so backbreaking. To be paid, Huusmaheem needed to fill eight baskets a day, but his tools were crude. Small mattocks are not made for clawed hands, not when they formed from the only tools available. 

Rust-colored liquid seeped from the piles of slag, staining everyone's scales a dusky orange. Huusmaheem crawled forward a few feet, dragging his baskets behind him, so he could pull apart a new section of earth and rock. The miners tapped apart rocks and sifted through the mud for the rich variety of reagents found in those oozing mounds.

The miner beside him said, "Finished my eighth basket. You?"

"Almost done with seven," Huusmaheem replied. "You're always done first, Split-Tail. What's your secret?"

"Hard work," said Split-Tail with a grin. "Also, I made enough to buy a bigger mattock."

"Cheater!" said Huusmaheem with a good-natured chuckle.

"I'm heading out now."

A cascade of dry earth slid down the terraced wall toward them. The miners, used to these collapses, grabbed their work loads and quickly moved away. 

"There!" someone yelled. Huusmaheem and Split-Tail, still beside each other, looked at the slope above them. Though dust rose from the slithering scree, they could see shapes hurtling toward them, leaning back on their heels, arms outstretched for balance.

"Ogres! Tell th-"

A blow silenced Split-Tail, knocking him to the ground.

A dozen ogres attacked the unarmed miners, wielding nothing more powerful than their beefy fists. Huusmaheem ducked a right hook, still clutching a basket to his chest. He had to get to the village and warn people. Ogres hadn't been seen near the mines in at least twelve months.

He scrambled forward. Realizing he still held a basket, he flung it away, so he could use both hands. A brute stronger than Huusmaheem grabbed his tail and pulled him backwards. And then it let out a scream of rage and pain as Split-Tail swung his proper-sized mattock into the ogre's hand.

"Run!" Split-Tail cried.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#291)
	Dust's Shadow
All she saw was the glint of moonlight in a straight, sharp line flashing into the man beside her. He groaned and slipped to his knees, falling sideways onto the ground.

"By the Eight," Lormingga whispered in horror. A scaled hand clamped across her mouth, preventing her from saying anything more.

"It's over," a voice rasped softly. A soft cloud of ash filled the air and she coughed, wondering why the assassin hadn't killed her, too.

When the dust settled, Lormingga realized she was alone. Only the smear of blood on the floor beside her indicated where her companion had fallen. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Lormingga looked around carefully. Alone. She lifted her unbound hands to her face and prayed.

"Kyne, my goddess and guide, I thank you for saving me from the lizard-folk," she said softly. "We must return them to their masters."

"And for that, you must pay."

Lormingga felt the blade slipping through her flesh before she saw the Argonian rise beside her. Her mouth moved soundlessly and her hands clutched at where the weapon had pierced her throat.

"I had no proof you were involved, woman," the Argonian said, wiping her blade on  Lormingga's shirt before sheathing it. "Thanks for admitting your guilt before I left. This journey would've been inconvenient for another Shadowscale to take so soon."

As Lormingga sank to the floor, the Shadowscale assassin added, "We are all part of the Pact now … except for traitors like you."

And then the assassin, like Lormingga's life, was gone.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#292)
	Remember Me
A tunnel. A cave? Dark, damp, and warm. Scale-Song ran toward the hazy light, hearing his footsteps echo in the narrow passage, sinking deeper into the mud.

"How can I sink in this?" he asked aloud. "I am of parents born in Black Marsh."

When he could no longer move, Scale-Song bowed his head, listening to the moisture dripping from the roots twisted above him. Soon, it would be over. He would return to the Hist. How embarrassing, though, for an Argonian to suffocate in mud.

His eyes opened suddenly. He'd had the same dream every night for weeks. Each night, he felt he was nearly at the cave's exit. Everything would be made clear once he reached it. And each morning, Scale-Song awoke, no closer to understanding the meaning of the imagery.

"Clearly, the Hist speaks to you," said his egg-brother Gash-Tail. "Tonight, ask what it wants. Talk to it."

"I'll try," said Scale-Song, "but I never remember it's a dream until I'm awake."

Gash-Tail reached into an earthenware jar on the shelf beside him. He handed Scale-Song a thick roll of leaves tied with twine.

"Burn this," he said. "The incense may clear your mind. If the Hist wants you, you must listen."

Scale-Song nodded. Advice like this was precisely why he sought Gash-Tail's help. For the first time in a long while, he couldn't wait for night to fall.

The burnt incense filled his hut with thick gray smoke that coiled heavily along the ground like fog. Scale-Song hadn't expected it to smell so horribly. Still, he watched the smoke spread slowly throughout the room, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

A cave. A tunnel? Smoke drifted along the muddy floor. Scale-Song stopped running and reached out a hand toward the smoke. Talk. Ask. Speak.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" he asked aloud.

"I am dead."

"Dead? Who are you?"

The smoke coalesced into a shimmering figure, hooded and cloaked. Its tail twitched. "I am dead," the figure said. "Without it, all that I am will be lost forever. Find it. Remember."

"It? What is it?"

Scale-Song followed the figure through the dark passage. His feet no longer sank into the mire, as in all the other dreams. They walked in silence. Scale-Song was alert, but untroubled.

It seemed like hours before the pair reached the tunnel's exit. The shimmering figure sighed deeply, pointing toward a shriveled tree.

"A Hist," said Scale-Song, surprised. "Is this it? Dead … but how?"

"Remember," said the figure, unfurling into the wind, but not before it pressed a Mnemic Egg into Scale-Song's hands.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#293)
	Fair Argonian Maiden
Come, my lad, let us speak 

Come, fair maid, let us talk

Scale to scale

Tip to tail

Fair maiden

Hist-maiden

And sap-drenched lad
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#294)
	A Shallow Pool
A shallow pool is all I ask

Water for roots

Mist and shadow

Leaves lifting toward the sky

Gentle rain is all I need

Cloak of night

Warmth and rain

Murmurs in the darkness

A shallow pool is all I want

Memories held

Old stories told

Surrounded by children

Who call me their Hist
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#295)
	Freedom's Price
Gold exchanged hands, marking the deal complete. Makes-Many-Waves belonged to a new master.

Sendrasa Llarys watched as her newest acquisition joined the group she'd already purchased. She stared so long at Makes-Many-Waves that she drew the Argonian's eyes to hers. They both looked away quickly, almost instantly. Eye contact between master and slave would be punished by ten lashes.

The distance between market and house was no more than seven miles, but it seemed an eternity to Sendrasa. She'd counted the years impatiently until she could set up her own household and bring Makes-Many-Waves home.

"Send the rest to the field house," Sendrasa said. Her footman assisted her from her horse. "I want that one," she waved a hand towards Makes-Many-Waves, "brought to my sitting room. She'll be my personal assistant."

"As you wish, madam."

Pulling her gloves off as she strode into her home, Sendrasa laughed. "Finally, yes! It will be exactly as I wish."

How long since she'd felt her lover's lips pressed against hers? Shared in desperate, guilty caresses whenever they could steal away together? How she'd suffered once their intimacy became known! As though, Sendrasa thought bitterly, seeing her beloved sold through the Archeins hadn't been punishment enough.

Time passed with deadly slowness from that moment until Sendrasa finally located Makes-Many-Waves and bought her back. This time, no one could separate them. They belonged together.

The door opened, and Makes-Many-Waves stepped forward, eyes downcast becomingly. Sendrasa walked past her, shut and locked the door, then turned.

"I've missed you," she said softly.

In a moment, they locked in a passionate embrace, Sendrasa touching Makes-Many-Waves's scales gently, searchingly.

"Did they torture you, darling? I swear they'll pay!"

Makes-Many-Waves shook her head, her frilled spine fluttering. "Seeing you heals me, my love. But the Archeins …."

"You're safe. Those traitors won't touch you again," Sendrasa said.

"Listen, my love," Makes-Many-Waves said. "Your parents paid the Archeins very, very well. Their eyes are everywhere. They'll know you bought me, and they'll come for me."

"I'll free you," Sendrasa replied. "You'll be safe!"

"It's not like that," the Argonian whispered. "The Archeins don't care whether Argonians they sell are free or not. To live together safely, we must leave Morrowind. "

"I see. Now kiss me."

As darkness approached, Sendrasa and Makes-Many-Waves began their journey, heading northwest toward the border with Skyrim.

"Is Riften safe?" Makes-Many-Waves whispered. They'd traveled several days out of their way to shake off any possible followers.

Before Sendrasa could speak, an arrow pierced her throat. She clutched at it with one hand, her eyes widened in surprise. More arrows followed swiftly, killing the Dark Elf long before she slid to the ground.

"You're free now," said an Argonian archer, stepping from the shadows.

Makes-Many-Waves stared at him, unable to speak or move.

"Did she hurt you?" he asked, coming closer. "You can return to Black Marsh now. You're no longer a slave."

Collapsing across Sendrasa's body, Makes-Many-Waves sobbed.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#296)
	A Mother's Nursery Rhyme
Do you have five children, Mother?

I've heard that you do.

Five children? No, tonight I have four!

Four children, sweet and pure.

Four and no more!

Do you have four children, Mother?

I've heard that you do.

Four children? No, tonight I have three!

Three children abed late today.

Three and no more!

Do you have three children, Mother?

I've heard that you do.

Three children? No, tonight I have two!

Two children, quiet and shy.

Two and no more!

Do you have two children, Mother?

I've heard that you do.

Two children? No, tonight I have one!

One child, singing a song.

One and no more!

Do you have one child, Mother?

I've heard that you do.

One child? Please, I have none!

They're with their father now

And live here no more.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#297)
	The Ruby Necklace
Hefting another bale into the loft, Maakul felt the pain shoot through his shoulder once more. He rotated his shoulder, shrugging to release tension.

"Thanks for your help," the Argonian trader said. He nodded at the Kothringi and lumbered away with his cart.

For several months, the same trader came to Zuuk bearing loads of hay for the horses. Maakul's brother Huug, before he died, had handled the transactions. He arranged deliveries, unloaded the bales, and made payments. Then the illness struck Huug: a rash that stood out as bright spots against his skin together with a high fever. Within a week, he was gone.

And now, Maakul dealt with the trader. If only his muscles didn't hurt so much. Clearly, he lacked the strength of his late brother. He'd need to try harder, though he preferred studying and reading to any physical labor.

"I need to check the ledgers anyway," Maakul said to himself as he headed into his hut. He'd let the books go during his brother's illness, and the latest delivery should be entered.

As he opened the payment register, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. He recognized his brother's handwriting and picked it up.

"Beware the ruby necklace." 

Maakul frowned. They couldn't afford necklaces, much less rubies. What did his brother mean? Shrugging, Maakul threw the crumpled note into the brazier beside his desk, draped a cloak over his legs, and settled down to bring their accounts up to date. He felt so cold.

That night, Maakul saw his reflection in his wife's concerned face. She'd found him, coughing and shivering at his desk. She half-carried him to bed. A line of red welts, the tell-tale rash, encircled his throat.

"Rubies," he mumbled, clawing at his skin as the Knahaten Flu claimed its latest victim.
		

		Part of the Shadowfen Lore collection (#298)
	On the Knahaten Flu
by Archivist Neleminduure

Background:

How this disease began and spread is a mystery. By gathering information, I hope to resolve the issue.

Argonians appear immune to the flu. This has caused conjecture that they actually introduced the flu to retaliate for years of slavery at the hands of the Dark Elves. These claims have never been proven or disproven, and they require more research.

Mitigation:

Methods that slowed the rapid spread of the flu included burning the belongings of infected people (which, unfortunately, sometimes including burning remaining family members); segregating the sick into ghettos (or walling them up); or putting the diseased onto ships and setting them adrift. Normal curative spells and elixirs were inconsistent in their ability to cure the flu. 

Symptoms and Course: 

General malaise, loss of appetite, and fatigue begins several hours before an afflicted victim develops other symptoms. The afflicted person's eyes water constantly. Skin develops a bright red granular rash that does not itch. 

Within twenty-four to thirty-six hours, victims suffer nosebleeds, their tears contain blood, and a granular rash spreads over their bodies. At this point, victims develop a deep, raspy cough. Within thirty-six to forty-eight hours, the victims' coughs produce bloody phlegm. 

In most cases, death takes place in as little as seventy-two hours after the initial onset, but some victims have lingered for five to seven days.

Treatment: 

When the Knahaten Flu first spread, it seemed unstoppable. No reliable treatment against it has ever been proven.

Ten years ago, a young Redguard named Perizada claimed she'd had a vision from the Divines. She replicated the cure from this dream, testing it on a village scheduled to be razed (together with its inhabitants). Her cure worked, and the village was saved.

The cure required clannfear claws boiled in salt water. The patient would then drink the liquid. The increased trade of actual and purported clannfear claws on the black market caused prices to soar wildly. So many false cures had proven fatal that Perizada's cure was never officially sanctioned. As Perizada later died of the flu herself, its efficacy was eventually considered dubious at best.

The "Clannfear Cure" has given rise to many other supposed cures, all of which involve boiling something in a liquid and then drinking the result. For the poorest of the population, chicken broth proved not only cheap, but easily obtained. It typically soothed their coughs, which in turn allowed patients to breathe more easily. 

Chicken broth is definitely not a guaranteed cure, but it is certainly the most accessible. It is recommended, should this dread disease ever return.

As the granular skin rash was non-irritating, many left it untreated. Those whose rash remained covered—whether in bandages, poultices, or simply clothing—seemed less likely to infect those who attended them. This also accounts for the much slower spread of the disease in colder climates and during winter months.

Have you heard of other cures? If so, please submit your reports directly to me for further investigation.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#299)
	Vath'ira's Note
The answer is no. Arbhu-ra isn't going to get off with a sorry and a few gold this time. He needs to rein in his skooma problem and pay up what he owes, or I'll take it out of his share.

—Vath'ira
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#300)
	The Na-Totambu of Yokuda
Centuries ago, before the Ra Gada crossed the sea to the land upon the beaches of Hammerfell, the ancestors of the modern Redguard people lived upon the continent of Yokuda. The ruling body of the Yokudan people, known as the Na-Totambu, was a council of kings whose respective nations birthed magnificent advances in metallurgy, agriculture, and shipbuilding unknown even in modern times.

When the continent of Yokuda sank beneath the waves in a great cataclysm, the Na-Totambu moved their system of government and surviving people across the sea in the fearsome Ra Gada. Even as depleted as they were by the cataclysm, the Redguards slashed through the deserts and hills to establish their nation anew, conquering Breton, Altmer, and Orc with little trouble.

As the decades passed, the influence of the Na-Totambu faded and Redguard society split into two primary cultural factions. The Forebears, generally considered the more adaptable of the two, opened trade with former enemies and maintained the coastal ports. Inland, the Crowns still held much of the power and strongly adhered to the ancient Yokudan tenets.

Despite this fanatical veneration, much Yokudan knowledge was lost to time and feuds between the factions. The eldest Crown scholars scathingly chide the modern Redguards as mere cultural shadows of their ancestors.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#301)
	KIDNAPPING!
The Esteemed Paldeen, Sentinel's all-knowledgeable scholar of history and lore, has been taken from the streets! Anyone with news of his whereabouts should notify lawful and just parties with all possible haste.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#302)
	Incomplete Letter
Dearest Dalii,

While work in the mine is hard and barely worth the pay, I have good news! The foreman bribed a shepherd, and we now have kwama on site. There are plenty of eggs, so at least you know I'll be eating right.

I hope to see you soon,
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#303)
	Ayleid Library?
… began exploring this Ayleid ruin … massive bookcases line the walls in some areas. Unfortunately, the tomes crumble when we've attempted to remove them … saddens me to think of the knowledge lost to time.

… told Nael not to touch it, and now … strange sounds from the tombs … sounds like something is clawing nearby … see what we can collect before we leave … time … the dead have risen, and I can't find the exit.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#304)
	Khajiiti Note
Let this be a lesson to greedy double-crossers. If you're going to steal a share of the loot, make sure you don't get caught.

—Arbhu-ra
		

Failed at /books/305Failed at /books/306		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#307)
	Keeper Ormi's Journal
Sahun and Hjaron visited the shrine today. They asked for Kyne's blessing before sailing off to join King Jorunn's war. My sons have grown into proud, strong, honorable men. This will be Hjaron's first battle, but he will be aboard his brother's war vessel. Kyne will protect them both.

The war between our king and his brother comes closer to home each day. Many of the Keepers have started to hear that their children, wives, and husbands are dying in battles. I urge them to remain strong. Kyne will watch over their loved ones in Sovngarde. I know it's hard, but we must not lose faith. We all knew the risks.

* * *

My sons are both gone. I received word that Sahun's vessel sank in a surprise attack. Killed by Orcs, of all things! Why would Kyne allow this to happen? Why take both of my sons? They were all the family I had left. And killed by Orcs? What a disgrace! Why would Kyne allow this? Why would she do this to us?

* * *

Kyne is a lie. She does nothing. Our prayers fall on deaf ears. We have found another to embrace us, one who feels our pain and knows the hardships of war. I would never have given myself to a Daedric Prince before, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

She knows the pain we feel. We are no longer the Keepers. We embrace a new power. We will take Kyne's children as she has taken ours! May the false goddess weep tears of blood!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#308)
	General Serien's Orders
Your job is support. Ahknara and her team will approach from the east. 

— General Serien
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#309)
	Serien's Further Orders
Assign some of your men to cover the infiltration team. Ankhara is the best, but she still needs support.

— General Serien
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#310)
	Serien's Additional Orders
Ahknara will send up a flare once she's in place. At that point, assault the fort. You should encounter minimal resistance.

— General Sarien
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#311)
	Ancestors and the Dunmer (Abridged)
Ghosts Walk Among Them

The departed spirits of the Dunmeri, and perhaps those of all races, persist after death. The knowledge and power of departed ancestors benefit the bloodlines of Dunmeri Houses. The bond that forms between living family members and their immortal ancestors is partly blood, partly ritual, partly volitional. Anyone brought into a house through marriage is bound through ritual and oath into the clan, gaining communication and benefits from the clan's ancestors; however, his access to the ancestors is less than that of his offspring, and he still retains some access to the ancestors of his own bloodline.

The Family Shrine

Each residence has a family shrine. In poorer homes, it may be no more than a hearth or alcove where family relics are displayed and venerated. In wealthy homes, a room is set aside for the use of the ancestors. This shrine is called the Waiting Door, and represents the door to Oblivion.

Here the family members pay their respects to their ancestors through sacrifice and prayer, through oaths sworn upon duties, and through reports on the affairs of the family. In return, the family may receive information, training, and blessings from the family's ancestors. The ancestors are thus the protectors of the home, and especially the precincts of the Waiting Door.

The Mortal Chill

Spirits do not like to visit the mortal world, and they do so only out of duty and obligation. Spirits tell us that the otherworld is more pleasant, or at least more comfortable for spirits than our real world, which is cold, bitter, and full of pain and loss.

Mad Spirits

Spirits that are forced to remain in our world against their will may become mad spirits, or ghosts. Some spirits are bound to this world because of some terrible circumstances of their death, or because of some powerful emotional bond to a person, place, or thing. These are called hauntings.

Some spirits are captured and bound to enchanted items by wizards. If the binding is involuntary, the spirit usually goes mad. A willing spirit may or may not retain its sanity, depending on the strength of the spirit and the wisdom of the enchanter.

Some spirits are bound against their wills to protect family shrines. This unpleasant fate is reserved for those who have not served the family faithfully in life. Dutiful and honorable ancestral spirits often aid in the capture and binding of wayward spirits.

These spirits usually go mad, and make terrifying guardians. They are ritually prevented from harming mortals of their clans, but that does not necessary discourage them from mischievous or peevish behavior. They are exceedingly dangerous for intruders. At the same time, if an intruder can penetrate the spirit's madness and play upon the spirit's resentment of his own clan, the angry spirits may be manipulated.

Oblivion

The existence of Oblivion is acknowledged by all Tamriel cultures, but there is little agreement on the nature of that otherworld, other than it is the place where the Daedra live, and that communication and travel are possible between this world and Oblivion through magic and ritual.

The Dunmer do not emphasize the distinction between this world and Oblivion as do the human cultures of Tamriel. They regard our world and the otherworld as a whole with many paths from one end to the other rather than two separate worlds of different natures with distinct borders. This philosophical viewpoint may account for the greater affinity of Elves for magic and its practices.

Foreign Views of Dunmeri Ancestor Worship and Spirit Magic

The Altmeri and Bosmeri cultures also venerate their ancestors, but only by respecting the orderly and blissful passage of these spirits from this world to the next. That is, Wood Elves and High Elves believe it is cruel and unnatural to encourage the spirits of the dead to linger in our world. Even more grotesque and repugnant is the display of the bodily remains of ancestors in ghost fences and ash pits. The presentation of fingerbones in a family shrine, for example, is sacrilegious to the Bosmer (who eat their dead) and barbaric to the Altmer (who inter the ashes of their dead).

The human cultures of Tamriel are ignorant and fearful of Dark Elves and their culture, considering them to be inhuman and evil, like Orcs and Argonians, but more sophisticated. The human populations of Tamriel associate Dunmeri ancestor worship and spirit magic with necromancy; in fact, this association of the Dark Elves with necromancy is at least partly responsible for the dark reputation of Dunmer throughout Tamriel. This is generally an ignorant misconception, for necromancy outside the acceptable clan rituals is a most abhorrent abomination in the eyes of the Dunmer.

The Dark Elves would never think of practicing sorcerous necromancy upon any Dark Elf or upon the remains of any Elf. However, Dark Elves consider the human and Orcish races to be little more than animals. There is no injunction against necromancy upon such remains, or on the remains of any animal, bird, or insect.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#312)
	The Brothers of Strife
By Nili Omavel

My fellow scholars would have you believe the Elves of the Ashlands are unstoppable. They point to Red Mountain and other triumphant, if hard-fought, battles against the Dwemer as proof. But once long ago, our people were as fair as a mountainside in Skyrim. In that distant time, we were driven to the edge of defeat.

In the time before Red Mountain, we were known as the Chimer. We were just another race of mer eking out a living on the edge of the Inner Sea.

Then came the Nedes. Though the Nords of today are allies, the Nedes were adversaries of the darkest nature. They sought only land, conquest, and spoils. We extended open hands of diplomacy, which they lopped off. Any Elf in the horde's path was fair game—man, woman, or child.

The greatest generals of the age were brothers. Balreth and Sadal led armies of willing warriors against the horde. At first, this was an attempt to drive them from the ash. As the war went on, their actions turned purely to defense and redirection. If a force of Chimer could spend their blood allowing a village to evacuate, then that was blood well spent.

The Nedes, after a few short years, controlled most of what we now call Stonefalls. The Chimer armies were cut off from the Inner Sea and reinforcements from Vvardenfell. The brothers retreated again and again until finally, they were left with a small elite force of sorcerers and troops. This force then took shelter in an ancient Daedric ruin.

What happened at that ruin has been lost to time, but the massive statues that now mark the site endure as a mute testament. The death of the Chimer generals ended the war, but at what cost?

At this ruin, the so-called Brothers of Strife were born. My research shows that Chimer mages from Vvardenfell eventually bound the beasts, but not before the Brothers ended the lives of hundreds of men and mer. One of the darkest chapters in our people's history followed. The unstoppable beasts made the ash run red with blood, Chimer and Nede alike.

We can only speculate what brought the Brothers to Nirn. Perhaps a Daedric Prince summoned them to that ruin. Maybe it was Sheogorath having a laugh or a grim survival test from Boethiah. 

When the two beasts were finally bound into the twin spires of Stonefalls, they went to their rest with the blood of history staining their claws. We must hope and pray to the Three that their like will never be seen in the Ashlands again.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#313)
	The Great Houses and Their Uses
By Tel Verano 

Living in the Ashlands, you get used to life being hard. Angry kwama, poisonous fungus, tribal raiders—everything wants to kill you. Don't let them.

I've compiled some notes on the Great Houses of the Dark Elves. Use them or don't. It's your decision. Just don't come crawling to Tel Verano if you find yourself in a Dres slave caravan.

House Indoril

If you're anywhere near the southern shore of the Inner Sea, House Indoril probably runs the show. The dogs of Almalexia control the most powerful house in Stonefalls and Deshaan. The Dres have money, and House Redoran has troops, but don't be fooled. The blue hats control the spiritual heart of the Ashlands.

Have you seen their crest? It has wings, to let them fly far above us. That's how they see us: beneath them. Far beneath them. The military in Stonefalls is one of the most powerful in the region, and Indoril's war hero Tanval is right at the top.

Loose Coins: Bribe Indoril troops before any others. They have the most clout. Don't try cracking temples. They're like fortresses. Anyone in Indoril robes has serious clout in Stonefalls and Deshaan. Look for easier targets.

House Redoran

Duty. Honor. Idiocy. Redoran has the common-folk thinking their house is the strong arm of the Pact. Whenever you seen a group of Pact military officers in the field, they want you to think the most impressive hats belong to their noble house.

The reality is somewhat different. Red hat troops do drive the Pact armies, but from the ground, not the top. Argonian scouts and Nord berserkers also command a lot of troops. The reason they try to slip this coin under the cup? Redoran nobles are still upset the Pact was formed in the first place. Their martial prowess looks a little thinner compared to Argonian stealth and Nord courage.

To quote from one of their proverbs: "Life is hard. Judge, endure, and reflect. A careless life is not worth living." That's all well and good until different-looking folks come along. Then it's time to lie and strut for the commoners.

Loose Coins: Redoran troops are humorless, but greedy. Offer one enough, and he'd sell you his own mother. Never insult a Redoran to his face. In fact, never insult a Redoran. They have a tendency to hear things in the training yard. If you're going to pick a pocket, a Redoran is a good target. Just make good your escape, or you'll be meeting with the Three sooner than you planned.

House Hlaalu

You have to hand it to the Hlaalu. They actually walk the talk when it comes to Pact togetherness. It's not because they suddenly love our ancient enemies and slaves, though. No, Hlaalu's grandmaster is just smarter than most of the rest. An open hand makes it harder to notice the dagger behind your back. Am I right?

While Indoril holds claim to the most powerful positions, Hlaalu has a snake's grip on Deshaan. Narsis is one of their greatest cities, and even in Mournhold, they have a lot of clout. Hlaalu public houses and plantations are everywhere south of Stonefalls. Learn their layouts well. A lot of the builders use the same plans over and over. When you learn the hiding places in one Hlaalu public house, you've learned them all. 

Loose Coins: Hlaalu troops are like kwama queens in Deshaan. Use that against them. Outside Deshaan, Hlaalu housemembers are likely to feel like they're standing in an ashstorm. No matter where you see them, yellow hats make good marks. Take them for all they're worth.

House Dres 

You probably think you know the Dres, right? Heartless slavers with rigid class roles. Arrogant nobles who'd just as soon sell you as look at you.

You're pretty much right. "Don't cross Dres" is a good bit of coin you can roll around in your head. I can hear you now, though. "Tel, they have more money than they know what to do with." You're right again. Your average Dres noble has enough jewelry on display to tempt even the most seasoned cutpurse. 

Restrain your nimble fingers, friend. Dres justice doesn't bother with Ordinators or local guardsmen. You cross the Dres, you disappear. You're dead or a slave on some noble's plantation. 

Loose Coins: The coins are all tied up in a slavemaster's purse. Don't cross the Dres.

House Telvanni

There's only one good thing about this house of mages: they don't give a guar about the Pact. They only care about their sanctuary on the Telvanni coast. When the Pact formed, they got their robes in a twist and tossed out every other house trooper they could find. They're no friends of the lizards or the Nords. They wouldn't walk to the other side of the road to save another house's grandmaster. In short, they're the classic ivory tower wizards.

Everything else about the brown hats is bad news. They move almost as many slaves as House Dres. To become a noble in House Telvanni, you need serious power. Look at a well-dressed brown hat the wrong way, and they'll melt your face off. They value fabulous magical treasures just as much as books you couldn't trade for a stale loaf of bread.

Loose Coins: Rampaging Daedra couldn't make me assault a mage's tower, but if you're desperate to leave Nirn, I suggest buying armor enchanted against fire and frost. Then observe the tower as long as you can. If the mark has any magical defenses in place, he'll probably have to come outside to restore them. You might have better luck on the street, but examine your new loot carefully. Some treasures have their own defenses built in.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#315)
	Argonians Among Us
by Sil Rothril

Argonians are scaled and of limited intelligence, and they are part of our everyday lives. In Morrowind and its surrounding regions, they're seen in every city and every town. They bring us our meals, they dress our children … but who are they, really?

Argonians originate from the region known as the Black Marsh. A water-soaked and depressing land, it reeks of swamp gas and teems with insects. In their native land, the Argonians squat in fetid pools and worship primitive tribal gods. Their folk magics and simple tribal armies have never proven an adequate defense against men or mer of stout heart.

The swamp was first pacified by the Cyrodilic army in 1E 2811. Those cruel and capricious men only entered the region to end the rule of a human bandit king. After the gauntleted hand of civilization came to the Argonians, their home served primarily as a prison state. The unthinking brutes of Cyrodiil callously released their most violent and unhinged criminals into the marsh.

Almost six hundred years ago, Dark Elves entered the lives of this scaly servant race. As the Second Era dawned, we began working with the Argonians in earnest. Whole tribes were evacuated to the safety and dry climates of Vvardenfell, Stonefalls, and Deshaan. We offered them appropriate foodstuffs and taught them the ways of civilized culture. We fashioned garments to hide their more shameful features and sent them into the world, so they could learn and serve in new environs. In return for the Dark Elves' generosity, we've asked so little of the Argonians in return! And yet, not all denizens of that fetid place feel true appreciation.

Indeed, our time of close collaboration came to an end just a few years ago. A horrific disease known as the Knahaten Flu, brewed in the steamy depths of the marsh, spread across the region. Rumored to be the product of an Argonian tribal shaman, the plague struck all without reptilian ancestry, slaying uncounted numbers. Most tragically, other races began to fear the Argonians as spreaders of the plague. Our efforts to send Argonians on journeys of discovery were rebuffed at every turn.

Today, of course, Argonians stand side-by-side with us in the Ebonheart Pact. Once they were merely our servants, but now, we have elevated this simple reptilian stock. They are strong, proud contributors to our military alliance and cared-for members of our households.

The Argonians among us enrich our lives.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#316)
	Nords of Skyrim
My People, My Pride

By Hrothmund Wolf-Heart

Respected reader. My name is Hrothmund Wolf-Heart, and I am a Nord. But, more importantly, I am a Nord born and raised in the land of Skyrim.

I write this volume in the desperate hope that the rest of Tamriel can come to know my people as they deserve to be known, and understand this province for what it truly is—a place of uncontested beauty and culture.

Some of what you know is undoubtedly true. Physically, we Nords are an impressive, often imposing sight—tall of stature, strong of bone, and thick of muscle. Our hair is often fair, and worn braided, as has been the custom for generations. Often we are swathed in the hides of beasts, for such creatures are abundant in Skyrim, and we would be foolish not to take advantage of such an available resource.

Having read this far, you may be shocked at the strength of my words, and the literacy of a northern "savage." Aye, many Nords can both read and write. My father began my instruction in the way of letters when I was but a bairn, as did his father, and his father before him.

But the accomplishments of the children of Skyrim are multitude, and go beyond mere wordcraft. For we are artisans as well, and through the ages have learned to manipulate steel the way a sculptor would clay.

Indeed, I have seen with mine own eyes, visitors from High Rock and Cyrodiil weep in disbelief as they beheld the blades wrought in the fires of the Skyforge, and honed to beautiful deadliness by the gods-touched hands of Clan Gray-Mane.

But how can this be true, you ask? How are such achievements possible from a people who have yet to emerge from the muck and snow? Again, provincial bias clouds the truth.

The cities of Skyrim are a testament to Nord ingenuity and craftsmanship. Chief among them are Solitude, seat of the High King and capital of the province; Windhelm, ancient and honored, a jewel in the snow; Markarth, carved into the living rock itself, in ages long since past; Riften, nestled in the golden shadows of the Fall Forest, whence comes delicious fish and mead; and Whiterun, built around the hall of Jorrvaskr, home of the most noble Companions and revered Skyforge.

And now, respected reader, you have the full measure of it. We Nords are everything you imagined—and so much more.

But let not this work be your only gateway to the truth. Book passage on carriage or vessel, and make the journey north. See Skyrim with thine own eyes. See Skyrim as have the Nords, since the gods first shaped the world.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#317)
	Mottos of the Dunmeri Great Houses
By Vilyn Girith

To my son, whose inability to remember even these simple facts embarrasses our family at every opportunity. This is to inform you of the words the great houses of Vvardenfell live and breathe by, and the saints they hold as their patrons, representative of their goals and motives. If you ever again confuse the Hlaalu and Dres merchant nobles with whom we trade, I will disown you three and ten times, and once again to make the deed final and eternal.

House Redoran: "A Redoran is a warrior whose duty is first to the Tribunal, second to House Redoran, and third to family and clan."

-	Saint Nerevar the Captain is the patron saint of House Redoran. 

House Indoril: "Justice knows no sleep: Indoril shall order, the Temple shall judge."

-	Saint Olms the Just is the patron saint of House Indoril. 

House Hlaalu: "To trade fairly and freely is to honor the Three."

-	Saint Veloth the Pilgrim is the patron saint of House Hlaalu. 

House Dres: "To spread culture and truth to the benighted: this is our commitment and burden."

-	Saint Llothis the Pious is the patron saint of House Dres. 

House Telvanni: "The forceful expression of will gives true honor to the Ancestors."

-	Saint Vorys the Immolant is the patron saint of House Telvanni. 

You will likely not note the lack of an ascribed motto to the sixth house, the shadow house, house Dagoth. This is because that house is extinct, destroyed at the Battle of Red Mountain, after which the remaining Houses built the Temple to the Tribunal. If you ever mention this house in polite company, I will disown you. 

You will note that twice, now, I have threatened to disown you. This is because my hands are not so black as Mephala's or Lord Vivec's. My heart is too weak to simply remove you from my family.

Keep this text on you at all times, and let it shame you for every reference you make to it in your dealings with our nobility. Spare our lineage the greater shame of your own foolishness. May I never have cause to call you s'wit in public again.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#318)
	Varieties of Faith: The Argonians
by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

Except for a few of the most assimilated, Argonians worship neither Aedra nor Daedra. They do not have "religion" as it is known elsewhere in Tamriel. They are known to venerate the Hist Trees of Black Marsh, but they do not appear to have prayers, priests, or temples.

Argonians also venerate Sithis, the primordial Shadow/Chaos that existed before the gods were born. Unlike most citizens of Tamriel, they do not regard Sithis as "evil." In fact, Argonians born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood, which in Black Marsh is considered an integral part of society.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#319)
	Varieties of Faith: The Dark Elves
by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Dunmer are descended from the Chimer, who were apostates of the Aldmeri's Aedra worship. As the Alessian Reforms never took hold in Morrowind, their pantheon bears little resemblance to the rest of Tamriel. The Dark Elves' original religion was worship of several Daedric Princes, the so-called "Good Daedra," but that has been largely superseded by reverence for the "Living Gods" of the Tribunal.

The Tribunal

Almalexia (Mother Morrowind):

Most traces of Auri-El disappeared from ancient Chimer legends during their so-called "exodus," primarily due to that god's association and esteem with the Altmeri. However, most aspects of Auri-El that seem so important to the mortal races—namely immortality, historicity, and genealogy—have conveniently resurfaced in Almalexia, the most popular of Morrowind's divine Tribunal.

Vivec (Master of Morrowind):

Warrior-poet god of the Dunmer. Vivec is the invisible keeper of the holy land, ever vigilant against the dark gods of the Volcano. He/she has saved the Dunmeri people from certain death on numerous occasions.

Sotha Sil (Mystery of Morrowind):

God of the Dunmer, Sotha Sil is the least known of the divine Tribunal. He is said to be reshaping the world from his hidden, clockwork city.

The "Good" Daedra

Boethiah (Prince of Plots):

Heralded by the Prophet Veloth, Boethiah is the original god-ancestor of the Dark Elves. Through his/her illuminations, the eventual "Chimer," or Changed Folk, renounced all ties to the Aldmer and founded a new nation based on Daedric principles. All manner of Dark Elven cultural "advances" are attributed to Boethiah, from philosophy to magic to "responsible" architecture. Ancient Velothi allegories are uniformly heroic successes of Boethiah over enemies of every type, serving as foundation stories of Chimeri struggle. Also known as the Anticipation of Almalexia.

Mephala (Androgyne):

Mephala is the Webspinner or Spider God. In Morrowind, he/she was the ancestor who taught the Chimer the skills they would need to evade their enemies or murder them in secret. Enemies were numerous in those days, since the Chimer were a small faction. He/she, along with Boethiah, organized the clan systems that eventually became the basis for the Great Houses. He/she founded the Morag Tong. Also called the Anticipation of Vivec.

Azura (Goddess of Dusk and Dawn):

Azura was the god-ancestor who taught the Chimer the mysteries needed to be different than the Altmer. Some of her more conventional teachings are sometimes attributed to Boethiah. In the stories, Azura is often more a communal cosmic force for the race as a whole than an ancestor or a god. Also known as the Anticipation of Sotha Sil.

The Missing God

Lorkhan (The Missing God):

This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan" or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the mortal plane. This upset the status quo, much like his father, Padomay, who introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and eventually wanders the creation of the et'Ada. He and his metaphysical placement in the "scheme of things" is interpreted a variety of ways. In Morrowind, he is a being related to the Psijic Endeavor, a process by which mortals are charged with transcending the gods that created them.

Four Corners of the House of Troubles, "Testing Gods"

Enemy gods, more to be placated and appeased than worshiped.

Molag Bal (God of Schemes, Lord of Brutality):

Daedric power of much importance in Morrowind. There, he is always the archenemy of Boethiah, the Prince of Plots. He is the main source of the obstacles to the Dunmer (and preceding Chimer) people. In legends, Molag Bal always tries to upset the bloodlines of Great Houses or otherwise ruin Dunmeri "purity." A race of supermonsters, said to live in Molag Amur, are the result of his seduction of Vivec during the previous era.

Malacath (God of Curses):

In Dunmer myth, Boethiah swallowed Aldmer hero-god Trinimac and excreted him as Malacath. A somewhat weak but vengeful Daedra, the Dark Elves say he is also Malak, the god-king of the Orcs. He always tests the Dunmer for physical weakness.

Sheogorath (The Mad God):

The fearful obeisance of Sheogorath is widespread, and it is found in most Tamrielic quarters. Contemporary sources indicate that his roots are in Aldmeri creation stories; therein, he is "born" when Lorkhan's divine spark is removed. One crucial myth calls him the "Sithis-shaped hole" of the world. He tests the Dunmer for mental weakness and tempts the Great Houses into treachery against each other.

Mehrunes Dagon (God of Destruction):

Popular Daedric power. He is associated with natural dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. In some cultures, Dagon is merely a god of bloodshed and betrayal. He is an especially important deity in Morrowind, where he represents its near-inhospitable terrain.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#320)
	Varieties of Faith: The Nords
by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Eight

Kyne (Kiss at the End):

Nord Goddess of the Storm. Widow of Shor and favored god of warriors, she is often called the Mother of Men. Her daughters taught the first Nords the use of the Thu'um or "Storm Voice."

Mara (Goddess of Love):

For the Nords, Mara is a handmaiden of Kyne and concubine of Shor. As the goddess of fertility and agriculture, she's sometimes associated with Nir of the "Anuad," the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation.

Dibella (Goddess of Beauty):

Popular god of the Eight Divines. She has nearly a dozen different cults, some devoted to women, some to artists and aesthetics, and others to erotic instruction.

Stuhn (God of Ransom):

Nord precursor to Stendarr, brother of Tsun, shield-thane of Shor. Stuhn was a warrior god who fought against the Aldmeri pantheon. He showed Men how to take (and the benefits of taking) prisoners of war.

Jhunal (Rune God):

God of knowledge and hermetic orders, precursor of Julianos. Never very popular among the mercurial and warlike Nords, his worship is fading.

Shor (God of the Underworld):

The Nord version of Lorkhan, Shor allied with Men after the creation of the world. Foreign gods (that is, Elven ones) conspired against him and brought about his defeat, dooming him to the afterlife, Sovngarde. Atmoran myths depict him as a bloodthirsty warrior king who led the Nords to victory over their Aldmeri oppressors time and again. Before his doom, Shor was the chief of the gods. He is sometimes called the Children's God (see "Orkey.") Considered a "dead god," Shor has no priesthood and is not actively worshiped, but he is frequently sworn by.

Orkey (Old Knocker):

God of mortality, Orkey combines aspects of Mauloch and Arkay. He is a "loan-god" for the Nords, who seem to have taken up his worship during Aldmeri rule of Atmora. Nords believe they once lived as long as Elves until Orkey appeared; through heathen trickery, he fooled them into a bargain that "bound them to the count of winters." At one time, legends say, Nords only had a lifespan of six years due to Orkey's foul magic. Then Shor showed up and, through unknown means, removed the curse, throwing most of it onto the nearby Orcs.

Alduin (The World-Eater):

Alduin is the Nord variation of Akatosh. He only superficially resembles his counterpart in the Imperial Eight Divines. For example, Alduin's sobriquet, "the World Eater," comes from myths that depict him as the horrible, ravaging firestorm that destroyed the last world to begin this one. Nords therefore see the god of time as both creator and harbinger of the apocalypse. He is not the chief of the Nord pantheon (in fact, this pantheon has no chief; see "Shor") but its wellspring, albeit a grim and frightening one.

Alduin destroyed the last world to enable the creation of this one, and he will destroy this one to enable the next. Alduin was once worshiped by the long-dead Dragon Cult, but that has been outlawed for centuries, so Alduin has no admitted worshipers.

Testing Gods

Herma-Mora (The Woodland Man):

Ancient Atmoran "Demon of Knowledge" who nearly seduced the Nords into becoming Aldmer. Most Ysgramor myths are about escaping the wiles of old Herma-Mora. Unlike his Bosmeri adherents, the Nords don't deny his Daedric nature.

Mauloch (God of Orcs, "Mountain Fart"):

Clearly identified for the Nords with the Daedric Prince Malacath, Mauloch tests them through warfare. Mauloch troubled the heirs of King Harald for a long time. Fleeing east after his defeat at the Battle of Dragon Wall, ca. 1E 660, his rage was said to fill the sky with his sulfurous hatred, earning that year the sobriquet "Year of Winter in Summer."

Dead God

Tsun:

Extinct Nord god of trials against adversity. Died defending Shor from foreign gods.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#321)
	Watchtower Ledger
This week has been routine. Ship sightings are the usual craft going to the west arm of the Inner Sea, or crossing to Vivec City. Still not quite used to seeing Nord ships coming down from Windhelm. Oh, and no more Telvanni vessels, not that I miss them. 

We've put in an order for kindlepitch powder with Quartermaster Urona at Fort Zeren. Davon's Watch knows to disregard any errant flames that don't look like the colored fire created by the powder. Unfortunately, the new recruit hasn't been told about the procedure.

From time to time, we light the fires as a test. The Davon's Watch guards always reply correctly.

— Sergeant Duren
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#322)
	Letter from Vila
To Those Who Serve,

At last, our time has come. The location of the Spinner's Shrine has been uncovered, and only a handful of mindless brutes stand before us and Her triumph.

You are called therefore to join your fellows of the Web to convene beneath the valley northwest of Iliath Temple.

Travel with caution. Ashlanders assault the temple, and they will not hesitate to attack any outsiders.

— Vila Theran, The Widow
		

		Part of the None collection (#323)
	The Cult of the Spider

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#324)
	Interview with a Spider Cultist
The Cult of the Spider is an outlawed form of worship honoring the Daedric Prince Mephala, more properly known as the Anticipation of Vivec.

Notoriously secretive, the cult's methodologies and practices have been largely a mystery to those outside its embrace … until now. My research into the cult's existence has permitted me a unique opportunity: a private interview with one of its members.

— So tell me, how did you come to be a member of the Spider Cult?

Cultist: As it is with all things, the weavings of Her web led me into the Spinner's embrace.

— You mean Mephala herself recruited you?

Cultist: Is the fly recruited into the Spider's web? No. I could as much avoid this fate as avoid my own mortality.

— Interesting. Let's talk about your fellow enthusiasts for a moment. What can you tell me about the other members of your cult?

Cultist: I can't share their names, but I could tell you what they do. We have a leader called "the Widow." She gives us our purpose and communes with the Spinner Herself. Sometimes these purposes require a killing. Such responsibilities fall to our Deathweavers, who carry out the act in accordance with the Spinner's will. The rest of us are labeled Scuttlers, as we hurry along more discreet paths to weave our master's webs.

— Fascinating. Have you ever killed anyone in the name of your master?

Cultist: Not yet.

— Is there any truth to the claim that Spider Cults are little more than debauched orgy clubs?

Cultist: There is some truth to that, yes.

— Oh. Would you care to elaborate?

Cultist: Seduction and copulation are powerful tools. Often, induction into the cult requires a member to engage in such activities with the Widow or a designee. Some Webs are more … zealous about this practice than others.

— I see. How exactly would a prospective member apply?

Cultist: Is this for your research?

— Naturally.

Cultist: How unfortunate. I could share that information with you, but only if you are actually going to join us.

— Ah. Well … that's not out of the question. Perhaps this is all part of Mephala's plan, eh? Caught in her web, as it were?

Cultist: I believe this interview is over.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#325)
	Notes on the Dreugh
Sorry if these notes are a little disorganized, professor. I didn't want to trim anything out that you might find useful.

— Two distinct species: land dreugh and water dreugh.

— Both were once common throughout Vvardenfell, Ebonheart, and the surrounding waters. They've been driven out over the last few centuries and only exist now in isolated pockets.

— Some accounts assert there are two varieties of land dreugh, while others maintain these are but the male and female versions of one kind of creature.

— Legends tell of "civilized" land dreugh colonies which supposedly raised herds of mudcrabs as food stock.

— These colonies were also purported to have built stone cairn houses and structures.

— No evidence of such advanced dreugh behavior exists today.

— Dreugh are omnivores and have been witnessed consuming mer flesh.

— Dreugh are capable of channeling some form of shock energy through their bodies. Most scholars agree this is a natural adaptation and not magical in nature.

— The land dreugh carapace is naturally sturdy and can deflect most attacks from common weapons.

— No known language or communication abilities.

— Nesting habits are not well-documented, but we do know the land dreugh encase their egg broods in mud. Nothing is known about water dreugh nesting or egg-laying behavior.

— Some fisherfolk are known to gather land dreugh eggs from the creatures' mud-nests, though it is obviously a rather dangerous occupation.

If this is enough information, I'll begin the netch research tomorrow.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#326)
	Truths of the North
When the snow fades

and the rivers run fat,

The sun sits like a flower

on a young boy's hat.

The wise Nord knows

it can never last.

He enjoys the day,

though it travels fast.

When the snow is gone,

and rivers run dry,

The sun beats down

like an angry eye.

The wise Nord knows,

though the day is long,

These are the days,

he is hale and strong,

growing like a seed

from the fresh spring soil.

When frost returns

and the rivers choke,

The sun dips in the sky

beneath evening smoke.

The wise Nord knows

though his strength may fade,

It is time to plan,

and time to save.

<A page appears to have been torn out of the book.>
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#327)
	Scroll of Banishment
Severin Charnis,

The vile practice of necromancy is forbidden within the Lion Guard. You are hereby banished from Covenant domains.

You have been remanded to General Serien. He is traveling south on a military campaign. He may use you as an asset in any way he sees fit.

May Akatosh have mercy on your soul.

— Lord General Averos
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#328)
	Dry Page
When the snow returns

and the rivers freeze,

Sun hides like a child

between its mother's knees.

The wise Nord knows

that the end comes soon,

He grows impatient

awaiting his doom.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#329)
	Damp Page
When winter comes

the old men sigh

they know their day

has come to die.

We all must drink

push to the brink

our hopes then sink

gone in a blink.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#330)
	Singed Page
Broggo the Small hated the cold. He hated the heat. He wasn't even fond of days that were warm and sunny. He was a strange little Nord, but that was what made Broggo the Small a hero.

One day, late in winter, when the snow was falling hard and fast,
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#331)
	Dusty Page
Fjokki lifted his singing blade, Lovemaker, above the Dunmer's head. Her silver hair shone in the moonlight as if made from the same steel as the sword. A single tear rolled down her ebon cheek.

"Don't cry. You knew I couldn't stay," whispered Fjokki. And then he was gone.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#332)
	To the Captain
Per your orders, our elite forces are moving up the slope to the Spire.The less seasoned members of the Vanguard will be left behind in Kragenmoor, and in the camp outside of town. 

They need further training if they're to contribute to the Grandmaster's plans. Work them hard. 

We know that forces from Virak will be following shortly in the Grandmaster's wake. We must be ready to hold the city, and give him the time he needs.

I know we all have reservations about what's happening here. We may have to draw steel on comrades, on our brothers in the alliance. 

We've all seen what the Covenant is capable of. The Grandmaster understands, where others do not. They must be stopped, no matter the cost.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#333)
	Tanval's Directive
The second brother must be unleashed. I know Holgunn and the others will attempt to stop me.

Delay them at Kragenmoor. Do not let them reach the Spire.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#334)
	Note from Captain Dunveril
The grandmaster's son is named "Sen." Find him and take him by force if necessary. Put him in the old Daedric tomb just outside of town. The locals won't enter—they'll be afraid of angering their ancestors.

— Captain Dunveril
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#335)
	The Spindleclutch Expedition
Guardian Sud-Hareem, Expedition Leader

Praxin Douare, Expedition Lieutenant

Guardian Sud-Hareem, aided by Praxin Douare, will lead a small expedition of Fighters Guild mercenaries to investigate the caves designated as Spindleclutch. Rumors have circulated that abnormally large spiders infest the caves. Should the creatures prove threatening, the expedition is hereby ordered to eradicate them with prejudice.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#336)
	Guild Contract: Spindleclutch
Upon the acceptance of this contract, you will be legally bound to the service of Guardian Sud-Hareem as part of an expedition into the caves designated as Spindleclutch. You are to present yourself to Lieutenant Praxin Douare for inspection no later than two days hence. The Fighters Guild will award standard hazard pay to you upon the successful completion of the expedition.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#337)
	Leimaer the Raven's Journal
The Konunleikar continues, if such a name could be given to the celebration of a false king. The Stormfist clan participates in this farce so I can deliver my lord's message to the cursed Jorunn … and so I can see his face as realization sinks in, like a dagger in his heart.

While I would normally find cheating unacceptable, these games have no honor. We must act quickly. I have hidden caches throughout the city. Members of the clan can use the contents against the other competitors.

There are four caches, hidden where our clan brothers and sisters can find them. I have recorded their locations in the following verse:

Between a moon that's cold and a wizard's hoard.

Behind a cracked henge stone, west and breezy.

At the rear of Windhelm's only abstaining Nord.

Where mount and mare rest calm and easy.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#338)
	Orders from Fildgor
Leimaer,

The Stormfist Brigade continues to make me proud! I knew you'd be able to make it to the final contest. You'll be close enough to touch my weakling brother! Just as we planned. Deliver my message to Jorunn. Look into his eyes as you perform the deed. 

My brother will be protected, but you are stronger than the cowards guarding him. Kill them all and return to me.

—Fildgor Orcthane
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#339)
	Mathor's Journal
Saw a strange light out over the water last night. I've seen the auroras do some strange things, but never anything quite like this.

Corpses washed up on shore. They were dressed strangely, as if they were from far-off lands. I have no idea where they came from. Tillrani said to send them on to Sovngarde with honors, so we did.

Holsgar found someone on the shore. Shivering in the cold … but not wet, just damp where they were lying in the snow. Would have died without care. He dragged the body back to town and stuck it in one of the spare beds. Hopefully, the poor soul will survive the night.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#340)
	Supplies and Sundries
Tillrani, 

The hunters and I can't keep up with demand in the winter months. There are too many open mouths now. (Some of them are wider than others.)

The town is well-funded by Windhelm. I'm going to take Rana up on her offer to hire outside help during the next cold snap.

A few extra hands from the Guild could mean the difference between eating and hungry bellies.

— Darj
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#341)
	Letter from Tillrani
Rana,

I'm tired of the excuses. Yesterday's training exercise was shameful. When I was in charge, we never had these problems.

I think Rolunda would make a better soldier than some of these milk-drinkers!

Get them together. The Pact is depending on us.

— Tillrani Snow-Bourne
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#342)
	Letter to Rana
Captain Rana,

In light of your actions, I have no choice but to strip you of your command and rank. Your time at the Pelagiad Garrison is over.

Tomorrow you will appear before a court-martial. They will decide your ultimate fate.

May the Three have mercy on your writhing soul. The court will not.

— General Vayne Redoran, Vivec Garrison
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#343)
	Letter to Seyne
My Stalwart Sister,

The Three find you well, I hope. I have much to tell you. We've undertaken a full-scale irrigation project on the south side of town. One of the Argonians has shown us how to improve the ditch water system in place.

We miss you here, Seyne. One person leaving a small town like ours leaves a big gap to fill!

Seyne, know we think of you often. I'm so proud to be your brother. I know you're fighting for the safety of the Pact and that you're making Father proud at Vivec's side. Just remember, you always have a home here.

If the campaign ends, rest easy knowing you still have a bunk.

Faithfully, 

Samel
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#344)
	Rana's Log
I've been exiled. I'm commanding a garrison of stinking Nords, and you can't find this place on a map.

If Seyne hadn't come with me, I'd be the only Dark Elf on the island. She gave up so much to be here. I can never repay her loyalty. I'm determined not to let this bleak rock break me.

Tillrani still acts as if I just got here. My time with the villagers, when I was in command of the garrison, means nothing to her. I will make her understand. Bleakrock is my home now. No mistakes.

The lights in the sky have caused a panic in town. We all know there are powers at work in Nirn. Most of these folk haven't so much as spoken with a mage. How can they understand something like mystical lights in the sky?

In the wake of the lights, strange corpses floated ashore. Tillrani instructed some of the men to burn the corpses right there on the beach. I asked her to wait and let me check with Windhelm first. 

She refused. Damn that woman! I've ordered the garrison to be on guard. Something's in the air.

Holsgar found someone alive along the beach. He claimed the castaway wasn't wet. How could someone float ashore without getting wet? Snow-Bourne can get stuffed. I'm writing a letter to headquarters. They need to weigh in on this.

Last night, I had a dream about our castaway. If Tillrani heard I was having strange dreams, she'd have Denskar lock me in his barn. In the dream, the newcomer stood in front of me and beckoned me forward. I felt compelled to advance, as if it was important somehow. I don't know what it means, but I need to talk to this newcomer—assuming the poor stranger ever wakes up.

Our man on the tower sighted a ship on the horizon. Couldn't make out the flag. Tillrani is furious, says we need to evacuate. That's the kind of thinking that got me here in the first place! I've put Hrantin in charge of the men and sent them out on the boat. Seyne and I will handle the situation here on the island. Whatever happens, we need to proceed carefully. We need a measured response.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#345)
	To Grandmaster Sees-All-Colors
Grandmaster,

Your invitation is kind, and the promise of coin is appealing. The village could use it. 

Still, I must refuse your offer of membership in the Fighters Guild. Bleakrock is where I was born. Shor willing, it's where I will die. My bow and blade belong to this tiny island.

Kyne speed you on your mission against the Daedra. 

— Darj of Bleakrock
		

Failed at /books/346		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#347)
	Eiman's Fishy Secrets
Smoked Longfin

At least 3 Longfin, chopped up with pin bones removed

Pot

Smoker

Rock

Put the saltwater in the pot, then drop in the longfin chunks. Rope the pot closed. Weight the pot with the rock, and drop it in a lake overnight. Pull up the chunks and set them in your smoker. Use hardwood. Smoke until dark.

Slaughterfish, Splayed

1 Slaughterfish, gutted and scaled

3 spoons oil

1 bunch greens, chopped

1 bunch garlic, smashed

1 large bunch snowberries

1 large onion, chopped

4 spoons salt

Rock

Clean a nice wide rock. Rub oil on the rock, and inside and outside of fish. Salt the inside and outside of the fish. Stuff the fish with the rest of the ingredients. Put the fish on the rock. Keep the rock near the fire until done.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#348)
	Aera's Household Notes
- Mend Denskar's socks

- Teach Trynhild to Sew (ha!)

- Ask Darj for Bow Training, Again (those shoulders!)

- Mend Mathor's Shirt (Repayment to Tillrani)

- Get Littrek to help Eiman with Chores

- Get Eiman to make some Broiled Salmon in Trade

- Ask Rana and Seyne over to Dinner (ask Trynhild again about those two)

- Clean elk meat

- Smoke pig loin

- Return Rolunda her pages

- Talk to Tillrani about Rana, again
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#349)
	Ode to Oinkers
by Littrek

Pink Piggy Friends!

Grunt and squeal and dig.

Do your best today.

For tomorrow you will be in my tummy.

Why do you taste so good, Piggy Friends?

How does Mother's cookpot transform you?

One day you stink of dirt.

The next, you smell like the fields of Sovngarde.

Never change, Piggy Friends.

As sisters change and grow bossy.

As mothers nag and push.

As fathers moan and grumble.

Remain like you are.

Delicious.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#350)
	Tryn's Smithing Notes
- Drawing down. Hammer out thin piece wider.

- Upsetting looks easy. Make it thicker by hammering on the end.

- I wonder if Eiman is as dumb as he seems?

- Punching: make fancy. Maesa says she'll show me later.

- Spent more time on drawing down. Started with taper for chisels and the like.

- Have to talk to Rolunda about the blade I'm going to make. How long?

- Burned myself bending. Shor take that job!

- Did some welding. Simple and fun when working with Maesa. Might get the hang of this.

- Father says I should make horseshoes for my first project. Shor take him too!
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#351)
	Against the Snakes
By Denskar

Been thinking about our fight against the Akaviri. I've got opinions. Think I'll write them down. 

The whole damned war could have been avoided if those idiots in Windhelm had the sense to throw the Snakes back into the sea. Shor take them!

Still wish Jorunn had moved to reinforce Windhelm. Lost some good men that day.

Jorunn fortified Riften, but the Snakes rolled right past. Why go straight to the Ashlands?

The fighting south of Riften, north of Fort Virak, isn't given enough respect. Those men were pinned and outmanned, and still they held.

Wulfharth was the only reason the men kept fighting that day. Jorunn was just a pup. He couldn't rally a mead hall.

The Snakes push into Stonefalls after the fall of Fort Virak. Why? What were they after?

Heard rumors some of the Dark Elves turned their blades on the Shellbacks at first. Couldn't stand the thought of being rescued by Argonians. Damned fools.

Shor take the whole Snake island. Let them send another tiger demon! We'll take them again!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#352)
	Contracts and Bounties
Fangsnout — Werewolf. Murdered three women near Mixwater Ford. Check. 

Barktooth — Rabid bear. Killed a skald as he traveled between Windhelm and Eldergleam Sanctuary. Check.

Skinripper — Trollfather. Head of a line of man-eaters near Cragwallow. Check.

Deathclaw — Giant Bat. Downed three herds of sheep near Kynesgrove.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#353)
	Small Meals, Fast Meals
by Runs-in-Wild

Rabbit — Very fast, but delicious. Stew or braise, and sell the ears in town.

Crow — Good crunch! Reminds me of fen hen. Season with bamphor.

Dog — Do not eat in front of allies. Nords take offense, as it's one of their sacred animals. Pet instead.

Cat — Delicious! Again, do not eat in front of allies. Another sacred animal. Take from the street, and make sure to hide the tails.

Goat — Everything but the horns. The horns are too tough.

Wharf Rat — Baste in Bile Beer. Delicious! You'll get thanks from sailors, too!

Monkey — So cute, but gamey. Smear on dragon's-tongue sap and baste in Theilul rum.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#354)
	The Voice of the People
Changes in the wind. The leaves. The flow of water. Even the animals seemed to sense a difference. The Voice of the People silenced.

The Silvenar had died. Not unexpected, but an event often attended by varying degrees of turmoil.

Had the city come first, or the Silvenar? No one seemed to know, nor care. There once was chaos, and then came generations of structure. Well, something like structure. Organized mayhem, more like it.

The next Silvenar, a young lad, poised to take up the mantle.

"They're waiting," the attendant said. She held out an alabaster goblet filled with fermented broth.

"I know. Give me a moment." Indaenir closed his eyes and took a deep breath before accepting the ceremonial cup.

The Silvenar. The title wasn't officially his until the wedding, but he could already feel the changes. Like the beat of a moth's wings near his ear, Indaenir felt his new identity whispering to him in quick pulses. It tickled.

The Silvenar represented the Wood Elves. He or she would feel the will of the people and act upon it. The connection went both ways, as his or her influence could also sway the Wood Elves.

And his people were nervous.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#355)
	The Woodsmer
Willowleg rubbed his ankle. Not broken, just twisted. He stood, putting weight on it very carefully. Good. It would hold. He'd fallen while on a journey through Valenwood. One of his legs was thinner than the other.  Sometimes he forgot.

"Now to figure out where I am," Willowleg said. He looked at the swaying leaves high above, the hint of blue sky occasionally peeking through. To anyone but a Wood Elf, those brief glimpses would convey nothing, but Willowleg immediately turned to continue on his way.

Soon, he realized he wasn't alone. A little to his left walked another Wood Elf, dark green hair hanging unkempt about his face. Willowleg, used to traveling alone, noticed that his silent companion adjusted his pace to remain close without overtaking him.

"Going to Falinesti, too?" Willowleg asked.

"Yes."

Willowleg said congenially, "I hope I reach the summer site before it's too late."

The green-haired Wood Elf said, "You'll be fine." His tone indicated he didn't wish to speak further, so Willowleg simply nodded and kept walking.

They traveled together, silently, for the rest of the day. When Willowleg stopped to rest, the stranger also stopped. Willowleg shared water and dried meat. Then they began the last part of their journey. The trees thinned out, leaving a clearing into which Falinesti fit perfectly.

At the clearing's edge, the stranger stopped and put a hand on Willowleg's arm. Surprised, Willowleg realized the green-haired Elf's skin was rough and thick, like bark.

"Stay here," the stranger said, murmuring an incantation.

Willowleg, unable to move or speak, watched his companion walk to Falinesti's base and touch its bark with his forehead. The tree-city shuddered and began to move slowly, lifting its roots from the earth.

As the green-haired Elf walked off, leading Falinesti away, Willowleg felt the strange spell over him break, and movement returned with a tingling force through his limbs. He glanced down and saw that not only had his thin leg healed, but his shoes were missing.

"The Woodsmer," Willowleg whispered in awe. The Woodsmer, the mythic one who led the unwary astray in the woods, was also known to bestow favors on those who knew their way.

As Falinesti moved southward, Willowleg wondered which the city was.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#356)
	Green Lady, My Lady
Wake, my lady, your day has come

We'll dress you in silk

Weave feathers in your hair

And tie leather slippers on your feet

Come, my lady, your love awaits

On this day, we'll encircle

A banquet table now filled

With tonight's succulent feast

Green Lady, my lady, come down

Your guests now are gathered

And bright, cheerful music plays

How blessed are Y'ffre's children!
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#357)
	Valenwood: A Study
By Archivist Endaranande 

Life for many in the Aldmeri Dominion begins in Valenwood. Green, forested, filled with a wide variety of plant and animal life, and home to some of the first Elves from Old Ehlnofey.

Over time and through generations, these early settlers adapted to the woods. They learned stealth and cunning by studying their new prey. Eventually, they became Wood Elves, or Bosmer. Slighter than the Altmer, intense and agile, the Bosmer are renowned archers and scouts.

Fierce combatants, the Bosmer have an unusual advantage: the Green Pact. According to Bosmer legend, Y'ffre the Forest God offered them a way to defeat their enemies, providing they did not consume, harm, or harvest any of Valenwood's plants. 

Many have heard of the Wild Hunt, one result of the Green Pact. Of this ritual, I will say no more.

The Bosmer welcome those who come to Valenwood seeking refuge from other lands. In this regard, they are quite unlike their pure Altmer cousins. While we seek to retain our dignity, the Bosmer are quite willing to bend like saplings to the will of others.

Though they are unruly and naive, these Wood Elves are an integral part of the Dominion, and must be retained in order for our alliance to flourish.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#358)
	The Humor of Wood Elves
Collected by Telenger the Artificer

Vulkwasten, widely known for its fermented beverages, is home to some of the friendliest Bosmer I've ever met. Like most of their kind, they are industrious and get along well with most people. After completing research into their brewing methods, I stayed overnight with a local family.

As a historian, I realize one can learn much about a culture by studying its humor. Therefore, I copied down several of their witticisms for future examination. Perhaps by considering their amusements, we will gain further insight into the mind of the Bosmer.

A skeleton walks into the tavern and says, "I'd like some rotmeth. And a mop."

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

A: It was dead.

Q. What's brown and sticky?

A. A stick.

Person One: Ask me if I'm a tree.

Person Two: Are you a tree?

Person One: No.

Q. Which side of a raven has the most feathers?

A. The outside.

Q. What has three heads, is ugly, and smells?

A. My mistake! You don't have three heads!

Q. What's light as a feather, but cannot be held for very long?

A. Breath.

Q. Imagine your boat's sinking in slaughterfish-infested waters. How do you survive?

A. Stop imagining!

Q. Why do thunderbugs eat raw meat?

A. They never learned to cook.

Q. Why do bees buzz?

A. Because they can't whistle.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#359)
	Pirates of the Abecean
The storm threw an unexpected twist in Captain Saraja's plan. She eyed the pirate sloop's torn sails and broken mast. Not only had their most recent haul washed overboard, but now they'd be becalmed until they could afford repairs.

"We're as good as grounded," First Mate Huruz said grimly.

"If we see another ship, I'm sure we can talk them out of it," the captain replied with a throaty chuckle. "We're disabled, but still afloat. You're always thinking about disasters."

"Better safe than … is that another ship?"

Saraja turned and grinned. "Our future ship, you mean."

Huruz eyed the distance and said thoughtfully, "It's not that far. Let's lower the dinghy."

Within moments, the Khajiiti crew prepared themselves to row to the other vessel. It was anchored near a sandbar and appeared undamaged. As they approached, Saraja scanned the line between the ship and sky, looking for movement. All quiet. Ripe for the plunder.

Huruz climbed up, slowly digging into the ship's dark hull. He had to overpower any guard on this side, enabling the rest of the crew to secure lines and board. Landing softly on the deck, Huruz glanced quickly fore and aft. No guards. He leaned over the rail and signaled the crew.

One by one, the pirates boarded, padding along the deck silently with weapons drawn until they were all aboard the silent ship.

"Too big a ship to be on a pleasure cruise," Huruz murmured to the captain. "And too quiet to be well-armed."

Saraja nodded, gesturing toward the cabin's door. "They're hiding in there," she whispered. "Time for them to get off my ship."

With a loud battle cry, Huruz kicked open the cabin door. The pirates, claws unsheathed and weapons high, pushed in after him before coming to a stop not ten paces into the quiet, dark space.

"What's amiss?"

"Quick! Get me a light!"

One of the pirates slammed tinder and flint together. He raised the torch slowly, its warm glow reflecting across dozens of mirrors strewn throughout the cabin.

"By Jone and Jode, Kothringi!"

"Dead Kothringi!"

Saraja ordered everyone back to their crippled ship, though it was already too late. No one who'd seen the Crimson Ship ever lived to tell the tale, and her crew had done more than see it.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#360)
	The Wedding Feast: A Memoir
By Naral, also known as Baretail. The memoir is undated.

My children, Naral sets this down to give insight into the strange ways of the Wood Elves amongst whom some of you travel. Beware their vengeful ways!

Preparations began months ago for the wedding feast of the two highest Wood Elves. Their union shows that the forest and its people are as one. Hence, a very large feast.

As a trader, I've often been tasked with providing tidbits for royalty. I name no names, but freely admit to providing biscuits dusted with moon sugar for banquets in Elden Root on more than one occasion. Still, this wedding feast required many things outside my purview, and I was forced to make last-minute changes.

To get fifty vats of beef broth, I supplemented the thirty vats available by adding root vegetable broth.  Knowing the Wood Elves are not squeamish about the dead, I provided ten crates of bone marrow from whatever bones were available, asking no questions as to their origins.

But cake with no flour? Never had I seen such a thing before! I consulted with several Wood Elf bakers who assured me such a thing was possible, as Wood Elves eat nothing green unless prepared by outsiders. Given that, their restriction that I provide cakes without flour flummoxed me. I got a couple of recipes and checked with my suppliers, none of whom could provide the desired quantity in time.

Thus, I set about making them myself. I thinned the eggs with water to make them stretch. I added arrowroot and powdered flax seed to thicken it. Sugar proved the most dear component of the cakes, so I added ground chalk to reduce the actual amount of sugar needed. The taste was similar to cake. Very similar. And since they took so little time and gold to make, my profit doubled from the cakes alone.

It was the substitution of flax seed oil whipped with lard instead of butter that proved my undoing, and the undoing of many a guest's bowels.

Not only did the Wood Elves rescind any future contracts, but they shaved my tail and confiscated all the gear and goods I'd left behind in my hasty retreat.

Never, my children, offer to supply goods for a Wood Elf feast. It will only end in tears.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#361)
	A Nereid Stole My Husband
A nereid stole my husband 

My husband a nereid stole

Beware the maids of the seastrand

Lest you be the next we console.

We strolled blithely along the shore

Gathering shells and turning stones

When came the voice I now deplore

A voice, a song, such soaring tones!

At once, my husband quickly sped

"Wait!" I cried, "'Tis a nereid!"

But faster still he pressed ahead

Her sweet call could not be gainsaid.

Too late, alas, alas, too late

I found him swaying, deep in thrall

My worst fear sent to me by fate

He followed the nereid's call.

And she, beautiful, cruel, and vain

Swam to her sisters, calling this back,

"Your husband was no prize to gain;

He's yours once more, Lady Crookback!"

A nereid stole my husband 

Returning him without delay

Poor me, near free from his demands

Stuck instead with him since that day!
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#362)
	The Red Paint
"Mix it like this," said Rakhal. She ground wet clay and herbs beneath her pestle with rhythmic strokes. "The very act of creating the paint is a prayer."

Yashirr grasped her own stone pestle, pulled her bowl closer and imitated the priestess.

Pound! Lift! Scatter a handful of herbs into the bowl, and pound again! The Orcs sat close together, knee to knee, bowls held in curve of their bent knees.

Rakhal chanted softly, swaying with her movements. Gradually, as the group's rhythm strengthened, her voice gained matching volume.

"Mauloch!" Pound!

 "Witness …" Lift!

"… our deeds!" Scatter!

The honor of preparing tribal paint went to a handful of the Chief's daughters. Yashiir had never sat in the circle before. In prior years, she'd gathered the herbs and clay, but nothing more. Now she sat at Rakhal's right hand in a place of honor. Pride washed through the young Wood Orc. Clearly, she had been chosen as an apprentice!

"Mauloch!" Pound!

"Give us …" Lift!

"… blood!" "Scatter!

At that final word, the women threw back their heads and released Mauloch's Call, a throaty howl that echoed through the trees and nearby cliffs. Rakhal signaled their work's completion.

The tribe lined up to be painted with the fresh battle-red clay. Rakhal waved those she deemed unworthy or unfit for the battle aside. They weren't allowed to partake in the painting ritual.

When Rakhal motioned to Yashirr to step from the line, Yashirr parted her lips to protest, then pursed them tightly. To question Rakhal's judgment would bring dishonor. Bowing her head in confused anger, Yashirr joined the handful of the unselected Orcs.

Rakhal looked over the unselected, and pulled Yashirr to her side. "Mauloch chose you to perform the next ritual, child. Take the blade and remember: Mauloch watches you."

Guiding Yashirr's hand, Rakhal leaned over the empty vessel and slid the young Orc's blade across her outstretched neck. Rakhal's hand did not falter even as she slipped from consciousness in order to provide the next paint with the sacred blood of a true warrior.
		

		Part of the Malabal Tor Lore collection (#363)
	Ayleid Cities of Valenwood
An Excerpt

Written by the Esteemed Historian Homfrey at the University of Gwylim, 2E 455

Being a Survey of the Triumphant Settlement of the Heartland High Elves in the Southern Regions 

…At this point, we should mention the remarkable cities of Ceyatatar, and the Ayleid settlement beneath what is now modern Bravil. These cities, along with the Valenwood cities of Haven, Woodhearth, and Silvenar, all flourished as a result of increased trade after the establishment of the great White-Gold Tower in what is now the heart of Cyrodiil. 

Of note in particular is the university and libraries at nearby Elden Root. The Ayleids there built their city in and around what is called the Elden Tree or the First Tree, believed by many to be the tree that seeded all of Valenwood. 

Both Haven and Woodhearth were destroyed utterly by the sieging Maormer, who cared little for the advanced and enlightened ways of the Valenwood Aldmer. Marching inland, they plundered not only the Elden Root enclave, but also the Great Tree itself.  What villainous tribe would injure and pillage such magnificence? 

It is possible that the Maormer had broken the Aldmer traditions of racial purity and intermingled with indigenous, bestial tribes of Pyandonea. This would explain their savagery and lack of regard for the greatness of mainland Elven culture.
		

		Part of the Stonefalls Lore collection (#364)
	Guide to the Ebonheart Pact
The Ebonheart Pact has forged an unlikely alliance between the far-flung nations of Morrowind, Skyrim, and Black Marsh, bringing together the Dark Elves, Nords, and free Argonians for their mutual defense. Thanks to the size of its allied nations and the distances involved, the Pact remains relatively free of inner strife and discord. The Nords and Dark Elves have so much of their own territory to deal with that they have little time to spare for meddling in each other's affairs.

The Ebonheart Pact came about in 2E 572 in response to the Second Akaviri Invasion of northern Tamriel. The Nords, Dark Elves, and free Argonians joined forces to save the rest of Tamriel from slaughter and subjugation. Forged in war, the alliance brought a sudden new power to the continent. At first, few believed the Dark Elves would be able to maintain an alliance with their ancient blood enemies and former slaves, but after a troubled decade, the Pact remains strong and intact.

A Great Moot governs the Pact. This council of equals from each of the member races is not only known for hot tempers and loud voices, but also for mutual respect and an amazing will to hold the Pact together against all odds. Only as equals can the allies hope to mollify the pride of the Nords and the Dark Elves while addressing the injuries suffered by the once-enslaved Argonians. 

Serving as an integral, perhaps even critical, part of the alliance, the Dark Elves of Morrowind are aloof, proud, and profoundly strange. They work hard to conceal their disdain for their "inferior" allies, but the current crisis requires the strong arms of Nords and wily resourcefulness of Argonians to keep rival alliances at bay. Wizardly craft and a deep well of experience serve the Dark Elves well, providing the Pact with the vital ability to react and adapt—something neither the Aldmeri Dominion nor the Daggerfall Covenant can claim to do as well. The Pact fields superior warriors and sorcerers. And they possess an asset that no other race can match. Three living gods—Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil—abide among them.

The Nords of Eastern Skyrim are fearless and aggressive, industrious and enterprising. They excel at war and prosper in trade, and they are without equal as explorers and trailblazers. Strong, stubborn, and hardy, they customarily solve problems through combat. Nords cheerfully rush into battle with a ferocity that frightens and appalls their enemies. They accept and even revel in their role as shock troops for the Ebonheart Pact. Nords are direct, not subtle: they champion simple solutions in the meetings of the Great Moot, though they are often outvoted by shrewd Argonians and sagacious Dark Elves. On the field of battle, however, they have no equals. Pact generals tend to be Nords, as are most of the soldiers in the field. The Nords don't mind. This means they also get first choice of the spoils of war.

By their decisive intervention against the Akaviri, the Argonians of Black Marsh won their freedom from Dark Elf enslavement, and the lessons they learned have made them a valuable member of the Pact. Reserved and alien, their expressionless faces and flat intonations make it difficult for other races to interpret their true motives. Nevertheless, the Argonians possess a cool intelligence. Slow to trust and hard to know, their natural agility makes them as comfortable employing magic as they are using stealth and steel. Years of defending their borders have made them experts in waging war against stronger, more traditionally organized armies. Equally at home on land or in water, they serve as scouts and skirmishers for Pact forces. Other aspects of Argonian culture are nearly incomprehensible to outsiders, including their social hierarchy and collective decision making. Their representatives present strange proposals without explanation, but their allies have learned that there's always a reason for everything they do.

Today, the young Jorunn the Skald King serves as the acting High King of the Moot, but not all in the alliance support him. As the members of the Pact struggle to maintain and solidify their alliance, they must also deal with internal threats to each of their nations. Unsolved, these threats could destroy them before they ever face the Dominion or Covenant in open battle.
		

Failed at /books/365Failed at /books/366Failed at /books/367		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#368)
	Journal of Skorvild Frostwind
This damnable war! 

Skyrim needs mighty warriors to defend it against the various invaders who want to ravage our land.

We can't count on our so-called allies to save us. We must rely on our own strength of arms and our will to win the day.

I've discovered a way to make my soldiers more powerful. A special recipe, if you will. With it, we shall become a force unlike any to ever walk across the frozen tundra of Skyrim. With it, we shall become the invincible fist of King Jorunn. No one will be able to stand against us!

But first, we have some large game to hunt down.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#369)
	From Shad Astula with Love
Dear Aunt Eiraki,

How I miss you and everyone in Lower Yorgrim! How're things in the village? And Father? He hasn't written, and I'm worried about him.

Of course, you want to hear about Shad Astula. This place is amazing! I'm meeting so many people from different parts of the world. Every day is exciting and new.

And the things I'm learning! I can't wait to show you the spells I've mastered. Can you believe it? From Lower Yorgrim to an important position in the Pact! Sometimes I think I'm just dreaming.

Oh, write to me soon. I miss you so!

Love,

Geirvarda
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#370)
	Howls in the Night
I hear the call of the wild. It's loud this night. The majestic wolves that wander the snow-covered hills howl to the cold moon above. Are they singing, I wonder? Calling each other to the hunt? Warning off other creatures to protect the pack? Perhaps it's none of these things, but the sound certainly sends shivers down my spine. It makes my mind race when I should be asleep in a warm, cozy bed.

Wolves are mighty hunters, showing honor and ferocity that would make any Nord proud. They have their world beyond the fires of our villages, and we have ours. Yet at times like these, when sleep eludes me and the haunting howls fill the night, our two worlds merge. As long as that merging remains figurative, I can sit here and listen and dream.

And thank Mara's heart they have no desire to come closer to our homes and hearths … for this night, at least.
		

Failed at /books/371		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#372)
	Giants: A Discourse
by Kord the Curious

Skyrim! It has existed since the creation of the world. And Skyrim has always had giants. That is the truth. I have studied these lumbering creatures and watched them tend their mammoths. They are peaceful, simple beings. Not all have given in to their battlelust. Not all have given in to the need to explore that drives every Nord I have ever known.

But nonetheless, we are connected to these giants, for we both share a common ancestor. The Atmorans were huge and smart. Nords descended from these ancient folk became the small (relatively speaking), intelligent people that we are today. Giants, on the other hand, became the huge, stupid creatures that we watch from a distance. Once we honored our cousins with offerings of cows, but this practice has fallen out of favor. Perhaps that is to the detriment of Nord villages everywhere.

Today, most Nords refuse to acknowledge the obvious connection between us and the giants. We treat the giants as a nuisance, steal their grazing lands, and even hunt their mammoths for sport. This will be our undoing. To disrespect the giants is to disrespect ourselves. If we can't learn to live with our huge cousins, I fear that conflict could become all-out war. And that would be a shame.

Let me tell you more about the giants. In general, they tend to be solitary creatures. The giants do gather regularly at a ceremonial site. Here, they come together to trade, mate, and communicate with whatever simple methods they have developed. 

They have a curious relationship with their mammoths. They don't herd these creatures, but they seem to be able to communicate with them. They protect them, and in return, they get milk, cheese, and companionship. On occasion, I have seen a giant eat a mammoth. The meal was conducted with reverence, if such a concept can be applied to a simple giant.

Giants also demonstrate intricate beliefs regarding death. They have places set aside as sacred burial grounds. When a giant is sick or dying, he or she goes to one of these places to die. If a giant dies elsewhere, other giants make sure the body gets to the burial ground. They don't live near these sacred locations, and they don't guard them. They simply make use of them.

Giants and Nords continue to vie for some of the same territories. Future conflict is inevitable unless we take steps to find peaceful solutions. Giants fall, and Nords die, but I have never seen a giant eat a Nord.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#373)
	You Are What You Eat
by Norgic Darkcloak

They call me insane! That's because they're short-sighted and afraid to grasp true power when it is offered freely. In the depths of the earth, beneath the simple structures of our village, I discovered a place of power and knowledge. It's a place where spirits whisper, waiting for someone to hear them.

I heard their call. I listened to their holy words over and over and over again. "You are what you eat," they whispered to me. "You are what you eat, you are what you eat, you are what you eat." 

They never stopped. They never gave me a moment to clear my head. It was enough to drive me ins—

No, not that word. Never that word. I am not a madman!

After they prepared me and opened my mind, the spirits taught me a ritual. A recipe, if you like. It's a way to take the power and strength of my enemies and make them my own. But why settle for the mortal power of Nords when there are so many better choices available?

Daedra flesh was my first thought, but capturing and killing such a creature proved more difficult than I imagined. First, there aren't many Daedra wandering around the village, just waiting to jump into my soup pot. 

So I looked around, and then I saw it. A solitary creature was roaming the plains beyond the village. A giant! What better meal could grant power and glory? What would be better than the succulent flesh of a giant?

The spirits tell me that the flesh is most potent when consumed raw, right off the bone. There are words to say and ceremonial gestures to make, preparing me for the transfer of power. When this power infuses me, nothing can stop me! Not even death. As long as my head remains attached to my body, I shall return!

Here is what the spirits taught me. Here is the secret to becoming what you eat. Here is the chant:

TYO UAR EWHA TYO UEA TYO UAR EWHA TYO UEA TYO UAR EWHA TYO UEA
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#374)
	Fishing Camp Checklist
— Stack fishing poles

— Clean knives and hooks

— Untangle fishing lines, nets

— Cut bait

— Open a bottle of mead

— Open another bottle of mead

— Order more mead from Voljar's

— Fish
		

Failed at /books/375		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#376)
	Keepers of the Grove
by Urig the Wanderer

My travels have taken me to many sacred places, but few are as beautiful or as serene as the Shrine of Kynesgrove. The rolling hills, the majestic trees. The lake filled with cool, clear water. The sun seems to paint the area with highlights of brilliant gold.

The shrine is breathtaking, sitting upon a rise and dominated by many standing stones carved with holy runes. The place truly seems to have been kissed by Kyne's icy breath.

The Keepers of the Grove are part of a holy order dedicated to the Goddess of Storm. They care for the grounds, offer daily sacraments, and maintain two lodges used as houses for the Keepers and hostels for visiting pilgrims.

I've never met a more dedicated group. They truly seem to be devoted to their god and to their cause, intent on maintaining the shrine and assisting pilgrims in their prayers. 

The pilgrims come from all across Skyrim to seek Kyne's blessing. Soldiers especially seek out the Warrior Goddess before they go into battle. Kyne's blessing adds power to their weapons and fortifies their armor. It promises to keep them safe and victorious through the rigors of war. To receive this blessing, pilgrims pray for a day and a night in the grove, offering praise and gifts to the goddess while asking for protection and strength in battle.

The Keepers offer guidance and counsel to those who need it, a friendly word to those who don't, and food and lodging to all who seek Kyne's wisdom and support. This is truly a blessed place.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#377)
	Goddess of Storm, Mother of Nords
Kyne, one of the Eight Divines of the Nord pantheon, is considered by some to lead those Divines. She is one of the Hearth Gods, watching over the present cycle of the world. Her titles are numerous, revealing much about the character of Kyne.

Kyne is called the Kiss at the End, for most Nords agree that Kyne leads the dead to Sovngarde. She is revered as the Goddess of Storm, called upon to bring rain and snow in dry times. She protects her faithful from the raging gales and blizzards that regularly sweep across the Skyrim expanse. Other names applied to Kyne include Widow of Shor and the Mother of Nords.

Warriors favor Kyne, as they call upon her for strength in battle and victory in conflict.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#378)
	Pending Orders
— The Cold Moon Inn, Windhelm, 20 casks (special blend).

— Palace of Ysgramor, Windhelm, 80 casks (for king's celebration).

— Keeper's House, Kynesgrove, 2 casks (extra sweet).

— Fishing Camp, Lower Yorgrim, 10 casks (spiced mead).

— Thuvald's Logging Camp, 5 casks (mixed).
		

Failed at /books/379		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#380)
	Voljar's Meadery Recipes
Mead Fermentation Process

Use this process with all of the recipes herein unless otherwise noted. Heat spring water to a boil. Stir in honey and flavorings. Boil for 15 minutes, skimming off foam as necessary. Extinguish heat and let steep. Pour mead through strainer into barrel. Let cool. Add yeast. Let sit 4 to 6 months. Add 1 pound raw honey. Bottle. Enjoy!

Voljar's Special Blend

			A smooth, lightly sweet mead with a touch of spice.

				16 pounds pure appleblossom honey

				5 gallons spring water

				2 handfuls amber malt

				2 fingers of hallertau hops

Voljar's Mead

			A darkmead with an earthy flavor.

			12 pounds wildflower honey

				5 gallons spring water

				4 handfulls of dried grasa grapes

				2 handfulls of crushed red grapes with the skins and stems

Cane Mead

			Sweeter, with a rich taste and a potent kick. Subsitutes molasses for honey

			15 poundsdark Molasses that has been left uncovered for a week

				4 gallons spring water

				1 handfull of camaralet grapes

				1 handfull of dried red grapes

				2 fingers of yeast

Kyne's Kiss

			A heather mead favored by veteran warriors, it's affectionately referred to as "Kyne's Kick" for its ability to knock the largest Nord onto his or her arse after just a few frothy horns.

			  The juice of 12 pounds of camarelt, strained through a linen cloth

				4 gallons spring water

				4 handfuls of ground healther seeds

				2 handfuls of dried red grapes

				1 handful of dried white grapes

				1 handful of fresh jazbay grapes (removed from stem)

Voljar Vintage Liqueur

			Our signature mead tastes great and packs a wallop.

			15 pounds select wild  honey

				5 gallons spring water

				2 gallons of strong wheat mash

				2 handfuls of snow berries

Prepare as usual, but after fermentation, distill and age for 1 to 3 years in cold-oak barrels. The longer it goes, the better it is!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#381)
	Mzulft Researcher's Journal
3rd Sun's Dawn, 2E 129

Assuming I'm interpreting these scrolls correctly, this orb, when magically charged, retains images within its cloudy depths. The scrolls depict it containing information on two specific topics: the use of Dwemer soul gems and maps of Dwemer installations.

Obviously, the mage-scholars will want the information about soul gems, but the maps are more interesting to me. As-yet-unearthed Dwemer ruins may contain much more valuable knowledge, although the mages would balk at passing on practical information that can be used right now. There's a lecture on the relative value of a bird-in-the-hand in my immediate future.

Imprinting an orb appears simple. I just need to hold one near one of these Dwemer memory devices (the ones with the crystals) and the energy will rush into it, along with the associated information. But I'd need to find an orb to copy the information to. That's more of an issue. All I've found are glass shards, and the few intact orbs I've found have been smashed in altercations with the constructs. They seem to want to destroy the orbs rather than let me have one.

Wait a moment. Something's happening. Why are the vault doors closing?

4th Sun's Dawn, 2E 129

I'm estimating on the time. It's probably the next day by now. The vault doors have closed behind me, and are quite thoroughly locked. I'll have to come up with a different way to escape. I did find an intact orb in the sacks here, but I'm going to wait to use it until I'm sure I can get out of here.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#382)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 3
Raynor and I are actually getting paid for this delve! That's a step up, as far as I'm concerned.

After Bthanual, who needs the Academy? We're ready for the big time! Bring on the Mages Guild!

But we really need to find something good to impress the Guild. Sometimes it feels like they're just humoring us.

Raynor thinks that with the backing of the King of Skyrim, though, we have a better chance to get in. I hope he's right.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#383)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 7
This place is full of traps! I've never seen so many interesting or dangerous contraptions in one place. I wonder what the Dwarves were hiding in here that needed so much protection? I'll wager that whatever it is, it would certainly impress those stuffed robes in the Guild.

There are so many locked doors and passageways. I wish I could explore them all! But one thing at a time. Raynor says I have a tendency to overcomplicate things. Like he should talk!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#384)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 12
Raynor's magic device works pretty well. I'm practically invisible to Dwarven constructs. It does flicker every three and a half minutes, though. I've got to make sure nothing's nearby when I finish counting to two hundred and ten.

I had a few close calls before I determined the time between each misfire, but since I figured that out I haven't had any problems.

Raynor got the idea for this device while studying the light crystals at Bthanual. Amazing—one of his devices actually serves a useful purpose!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#385)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 14
A lot of Mzulft is pristine. It's abandoned, like all of the Dwemer ruins we've explored. And it's empty, except for the constructs. But everything still works. It's eerie to see glowing lights on the wall and hear the pipes steaming. It's like the place is waiting for someone, like the occupants just stepped out and will return at any moment.

I wish I could just explore these ruins. Every ruin tells another story, and if I don't get to crawl into every corner, that story is just half-told. Raynor would laugh if he heard me say that. You'd better not read this, brother!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#386)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 19
Curse the luck! Stupid, cheap journal binding! Some of my best entries have fallen out! Oh, well.

This whole place rumbles every so often. As I get deeper into the ruins, Mzulft feels more and more unstable. It's like the entire structure is about to collapse or something. That would be bad.

I came across spots where the walls and ceiling have fallen in, letting in snow and sunshine. And I feel a cold breeze blowing from deeper in. I hope the passage I'm looking for isn't buried.

Damn! The wind took another page!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#387)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 22
I found it! I'm sure this is the vault where the Dwemer kept all their best lore and stuff. There was even this weird crystal mechanism, but I need a key to activate it.

And now this stupid device that Raynor gave me is really starting to act up. I don't think it's going to last long enough to get me past these constructs. I'd better find a place to hide until I can figure out what to do next.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#388)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 24
Raynor will be so proud of me! I documented my entire exploration of the ruins (even though this stupid journal keeps falling apart) and I found the Dwemer vault.

But without Raynor's device, how will I avoid the constructs to find the key? Danger is only fun to boast about later.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#389)
	Legends of the Forest
by the Sisters Glumm

The haunted woods of the forests of Icewind Peaks have long been home to strange stories and stranger creatures. We've collected these stories into this volume, writing down what was previously passed on by word of mouth and around Nord campfires in the dead of night.

The Voices in the Woods

Broggo the Small wasn't a large Nord. He wasn't a fast Nord. He wasn't even a strong Nord. But Broggo made up for his shortcomings by being something that many Nords aren't: Broggo was smart. He took the time to consider everything he ever did, refusing to give in to the passions that drive most others of his kin. And that eventually saved his life.

One day, Broggo the Small happened to get separated from his companions. He found himself lost and alone in the Haunted Wood. As he wandered along, becoming increasingly scared and hungry, Broggo stumbled into a clearing among the trees. He decided to rest for a bit, stretching out upon a relatively flat, smooth stone bathed in the afternoon sun. It didn't take long for Broggo to fall fast asleep.

He awoke later, opening his eyes to find that night had fallen across the forest. Something had pulled him from sleep: a sound. It was like the whispering of young women. And giggling. He was certain that someone or something had giggled, but he seemed to be alone in the clearing, illuminated by the pale glow of the quarter moon above. Broggo was straining to see into the darkness beyond the clearing when the whispers resumed.

"Oh, look at his adorable roots!" said a voice in the woods.

"And his golden leaves!" said another.

"He's mine, sister. I saw him first."

"You got the last one! This one is for me!"

Broggo nearly fainted when the two ghostly forms materialized at the edge of the clearing, near the large gorapple tree. A pair of forest spirits were arguing over him. He didn't know whether to be frightened or flattered, although he did know that mortals and spirits shouldn't mix. He didn't think he could get very far by running through the forest in the dark. He was certain he couldn't fight the spirits, so Broggo had only one option.

"Hello," Broggo called to the spirits. "Would you like to play a game?"

At first, the spirits appeared shy and even a little frightened of Broggo. They weren't used to mortals talking to them directly, but they slowly began to engage with the Nord, sometimes while visible and sometimes as disembodied voices in the darkness, Broggo described a wondrous game that used cards and dice and clay chips. It was like no game that either of the spirits had ever heard of, or any Nord, for that matter. Broggo was making things up as he spoke. 

Soon, the forest spirits were huddled close to Broggo, listening intently to every word the small Nord said. Finally, they shouted in unison, "We want to play!"

"Alas," Broggo said with great disappointment, "I don't have any cards or dice or clay chips. I left them in my wagon, back with my traveling companions. And I don't know where the wagon is."

"No problem!" said the first spirit.

"We can show you where the wagon has gone!"

And that's just what the spirits did. Of course, they weren't happy when Broggo, reunited with his companions, drove off the spirits. As the wagon rolled out of the Haunted Wood, Broggo pulled out a journal and started writing.

"What are you doing?" asked one of his traveling companions.

"I had the best idea for a game this evening. I want to write it down while the memory is fresh."
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#390)
	Calo's Journal
We found a cave today. Looks to be an old, buried ruin. The place is very quiet. No evidence of creatures or beasts that we can see.

The ankle I injured when we tried to loot Mzulft still hurts. While I rest here, Jase is going around the long way to see if he can open the gate from the other side. Wish he would hurry. I really hate how quiet this cave is.

Maybe this time we'll find some treasure we can sell. I'd love to settle down somewhere. Maybe Riften. I'm tired of exploring holes in the ground and fighting monsters. Too much wear and tear on my aching bones.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#391)
	Nord Soldier's Journal
Today there were more tremors. I told the Lieutenant it felt like something was digging deep beneath the fort, but she said I was crazy. "The ground shakes sometimes," she said with that stupid grin of hers. "And the mountains quake and the snow falls. That's life in Skyrim." Milk-drinker!

So, I did my duty and reported to my superior officer. She told me to forget about it, and so I have. I must patrol the roads around the fort now. Maybe I'll take a look at the entrance to that tomb while I'm out there. Just in case.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#392)
	The Fall of Queen Nurnhilde
			Sing the glory of Sovngarde! Sing the story of Nurnhilde!

			Oh queen dear, beloved of Nord and gods,

			You stood against the Akaviri, turning back the vile invaders,

			We wept like weans when your fair head fell,

			But we know you watch over us from Sovngarde above!

			Sing the glory of Sovngarde! Sing the story of Nurnhilde!

			Weep for our beloved queen!

						— Helgreir Lute-Voice, Bard of Windhelm
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#393)
	The Orc Song
(Drink mead. Sing.)

We hate Orcs! We hate Orcs!

They smell, they stink, they really reek,

They couldn't find their arses in the snow!

We hate Orcs! We really, really do!

They have no beards, they have no brains,

They couldn't kill a horker with a sword!

(Drink more mead. Repeat.)
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#394)
	Journal of a Z'en Priest
We've located an amazing site, circled by a series of caves. The Spinner says she senses a strong connection to Z'en, as though he called her here for some great purpose.

We dedicate this site to Z'en and will begin the stonework for the shrine immediately.

With luck, we will find the missing histories. May our toil be rewarded in kind!

— Spinner Sandaerion
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#395)
	Old Drublog Journal
The hunt of the great boar ended in a strange place today, before an abandoned shrine. Our chief senses Mauloch's presence. As we erected our banners, Wood Elves crossed the valley, weapons held out in signs of peace.

They welcomed us, and explained that they lived on the opposite hill, but made no claim on this hill. We exchanged some boar ribs for a great deer haunch. Tonight we feast and dedicate this site in honor of Mauloch!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#396)
	Drublog Shaman's Journal
The elder drew us a map of the old shrine to Mauloch. She did not want to die without revealing this secret, sacred place from her childhood.

We found the holy area surrounded by hostile Wood Elves. Both sides took heavy losses. We struck a truce, for now.

We granted them the larger cave, as their ancestors were here first, but I've no faith in their empty promises of peace. These zealots have no respect for our customs and the Code of Mauloch. If they break our pact, they'll pay the blood price.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#397)
	The Founding of Bloodtoil
We spent the winter in Falinesti, only to return and find our holy site overrun by Drublog squatters claiming it as their own. The faithful of Z'en returned with an overwhelming force of rangers and removed the vile beasts.

Our forefathers' village, renamed Bloodtoil, has been reclaimed. But the shrine is unclean, filled with relics to Mauloch. A new shrine to Z'en will be dedicated shortly.

The Orcs threatened to return, but the faithful of Z'en do not fear their petty threats. Z'en ensures debts are paid in kind.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#398)
	Perfumed Letter
Dearest Atunn,

You've only been away for a few days, but I already miss you terribly! I hate the thought of you alone in some strange forest without someone to prepare your favorite meals or keep you company after a hard day's work. I wish you could find a job here in Windhelm so we didn't have to be apart so often.

Things here are starting to get really busy as the competitors arrive for the celebratory games. King Jorunn seems very excited. As the anniversary celebration draws closer, we're even seeing an influx of Dark Elves and Argonians. I can't believe you're out in the woods, missing all this!

So tell me, dearest one, is the haunted wood as scary as the Sisters Glumm make them out to be? Have you met a forest spirit or seen a spriggan? You always hated those stories. You can be a big baby sometimes. Well, I need to rush off. Henrik War-Wolf promised to get me close to the wrestling competition!

Love you!

—Borali
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#399)
	A New Recipe?
I've been trying to find a way to prepare troll meat so it's both flavorful and appetizing. The rest of the logging camp would banish me if they knew what culinary experiments I was conducting, but I'm hoping that the fatty flesh and its amazing healing properties might make a healthy and sustainable food source for the foresters.

Would a small piece of troll meat continue to grow, so the pantry would constantly restock itself? I think so, but I need a piece of troll meat to test this theory. Also, there's the fire issue. Troll meat really doesn't react well to fire, and I can't see the foresters eating raw troll flesh.

I'm sure I can work this out. I just need more time.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#400)
	Sunk into Ouze
… never rise again. But what to do with them? Obliterating their essence and burning their bones was too much. They are still members of the chosen race, still our brothers and sisters. No, they must be contained, but not punished.

We will sink them into Ouze. The ground here is soft and warm and will make a good resting place for their bones. Their spirits will slumber evermore, or until the spinners tell the story of their release. If they resist, we shall ….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#401)
	Oathbreakers of Ouze
The secret of Ouze is now clear. The Bosmer, it appears, did not all accede to the Green Pact. Something happened … civil war? A disagreement between their gods? It does not matter. One contingent of the Wood Elves lost to the other.

As punishment for their refusal to give up their powerful shapeshifting abilities, these Bosmer, called "Oathbreakers" by the rest, were subdued and buried in Ouze. We can only hope they were buried alive; the corpses are more likely to be fresh and intact that way. Digging in the tar-pits should render us one of the greatest finds in recent history, putting us ahead of even the great discovery of Stillrise Village in Shadowfen.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#402)
	Altars of Bone
Once Ouze's guardians have been …

…fering to Molag-Bal. The great mammoth bones contain enough dark …

twist the altars to our purpose. The same energy that keeps the Oathbreakers imprisoned in Ouze shall allow us to control them. But we must be wary! If the altars are tampered with or, worse yet, if …

Take care in … placement of the bones. They should overshadow the altar, but not …

Once the altars are placed, continue digging. The operation in the nearby … should provide you with enough ….
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#403)
	Song of the Spirits
The night is dark,

The ground is deep,

Its warmth can keep you still.

Your pain forget,

Your anguish gone,

Your slumber will not end.

I am your guard,

I am your hope,

I will not fail my charge.

The night is dark,

The ground is deep,

You shall not rise today.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#404)
	The Excavation of Ouze
Ouze's excavation will take place in two parts.

Recover the shapeshifters' corpses from the tar-pits of Ouze. We have not accounted for all the spinners, or any allies the Bosmer may call upon, so have skeletal servants dig while the brethren keep watch.

Avoid the Guardian! The other spirits seem helpless against us, but the Guardian could be dangerous.

Inside the mine, we should be safe to mine the stones we can turn into animus geodes. Due to the nature of Ouze, these stones that are rare elsewhere should be numerous here. Brethren and skeletons alike are charged with recovering as many of these stones as possible!

<continues in a second hand>

Spirit Shards: 22

Animus Geodes: 4

Soul Diamonds: 2
		

Failed at /books/405		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#406)
	Report: Missing Persons
Sir, 

We're still getting reports from the locals of people going missing. We've interviewed a few family members, but we've yet to find any common threads. The whole thing feels wrong, somehow.

I'm aware we don't follow up cases like these without a patron, so I'll leave the matter in your hands. Should one of the nobles in the area vanish, we'll make our investigation a higher priority.  

Eight keep you,

Guard Regine Nyte
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#407)
	Dear Johun Letter
Dear Johun,

Are you keeping warm? I hope so. I started to write about how much I miss you, but now I have something else to tell you. I met someone. I'm sorry to break it to you this way, but I couldn't wait to tell you. 

He's a Dark Elf, an envoy with the Ebonheart Pact. He came into the forge and we started talking. One thing led to another, and … well, you know. 

He's exotic and exciting. And he's very good to me. 

Well, I need to go now. Bye!

— Idesa
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#408)
	Orcs: Monsters or Misunderstood?
by Taleon Mythmaker

Think Orcs are simple beastfolk, one of the Goblin races? Think again! 

Trinimac, strongest of the Altmeri ancestor spirits, gave birth to the powerful and proud Orcs. When he was changed by the Daedric Prince Boethiah, his people changed as well, becoming the Orcs we know today.

These noble creatures display unshakeable courage in battle. They demonstrate uncompromising endurance in hardships that would overwhelm anyone of another race. Widely feared and hated, the Orcs have nevertheless slowly won acceptance in the Empire.

Orc society is imagined to be rough and cruel, but there is a fierce loyalty that runs deeply through their culture. Their armorers produce some of the finest armor in all the land, demonstrating conclusively that Orcs aren't the monsters our campfire stories make them out to be.

That said, make no mistake: Orcs are fierce and strong, and their ability to wage war should not be underestimated. An Orc is more likely to strike first than start up a conversation, and that strike is always meant to maim or kill. Their physical size and prowess make them gravitate toward two-handed weapons, which they wield with wild abandon. 

Do not mistake their frightening visage and towering size for stupidity or lack of culture. They might be despised and feared (the latter with good reason), but anyone who dismisses them as mindless monsters does so at great peril.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#409)
	Henri's Journal
I don't know what I did to deserve this assignment. I thought war was supposed to be exciting. All we've done since arriving in this frozen wasteland is wander around like commoners touring the arse-end of Skyrim. And that Valcent gives me the shivers. Why does Owen bend over backwards to please him?

We found houses around a hill today. A woodcutter and his family live here. I spotted old Nord ruins punching up through the crown of the hill. The woodcutter was friendly and hospitable. He even offered us a place to stay. Valcent seems excited, but he won't tell us why.

Ophelia talked to me today. She is such a ray of sunshine in this nasty business. I would walk through fire for her.

Turns out those ruins I saw are a barrow, a place where the Nords bury their dead. Valcent definitely appears interested in the place. He's asking the woodcutter all kinds of questions about it. If he's not careful, he's going to make the woodcutter suspicious.

Valcent ordered us to depart, just when I was starting to get comfortable. I think the woodcutter saw something he wasn't supposed to. And now we're going into the barrow to set up a camp. Why in the world does Valcent want us to camp in there?

Oh, well. Follow orders and never ask questions. That's life in the High King's army.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#410)
	Ophelia's Journal
We lost Sergeant Marceau today. Poor Henri! The traps in the barrow finally caught him. I feel quite bad about it, even though I barely knew the man. I was about to step onto a hidden pressure plate when he noticed and pulled me out of the way, but he lost his balance and set it off himself. It was awful. And just this morning, I was having a conversation with him about how he arranges his kit. How depressing.

Valcent's eagerness and pride when we first got this assignment has turned into something else entirely. When he learned of this crypt, he was adamant we explore it. Henri's death didn't even phase him. He demanded we leave the poor man's body where it fell and continue our mission. 

I don't understand how Valcent hopes to turn the barrow's dead into an army. We were sent here to build local opposition to King Jorunn, but Valcent feels this will advance our cause in some way I can't begin to understand. I don't know what Valcent is up to.

For the moment, we're just waiting. The door to the next chamber is locked, and Owen is crafting a key to open it. I convinced Owen to make a copy of the key for me. I don't trust Valcent, and I believe in making sure there's always a contingency. That's the Covenant way.

That's why I'm hiding the key inside this journal.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#411)
	Dalaneth's Journal, Page 1
3rd First Seed

Father led us to the site the spinner described. All I see are shrines to Mauloch, and it looks like the Drublog have lived here for decades. But if the spinner proclaimed this the site of our forefathers, then we'll make do.

The Orcs said other Bosmer used a cavern beneath the village as their shrine. I wonder what other Bosmer lived here? Not much is left of them.

I've been helping Spinner Sandaerion write down our history. He doesn't write, but I learned when we were at the harbor for a time. Scribble, scribble, scribble! That's all I do now!
		

Failed at /books/412		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#413)
	Dalaneth's Journal, Page 2
10th First Seed

Met an interesting Orc. He'd been awkwardly looking away when I've seen him in the past few days. Orcs are usually so rough, but I noticed he carried a book, and asked him about it. After that, he forgot his shyness and we talked like old friends.

We shared a meal, and he told me his name. I'm not sure how to spell it, though.

He promised to bring me copies of their shaman's writings. Spinner Sandaerion will be pleased! I might give my new friend the glass blade I've been shaping.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#414)
	Dalaneth's Journal, Page 3
22nd Rain's Hand

Ulagush's been teaching me so much about the Orcs. I never knew his clan moves as much as mine does. We were discussing the differences between Mauloch and Y'ffre, when Yarnag (their shaman) came in. He said there's no comparing Mauloch to any of our gods, and slapped me. Ulagush hit him back, and that's when I found out Ulagush's mother is their clan chieftain.

Chief Ulukhaz is furious and has called for a meeting with my father. They won't understand any of this.
		

Failed at /books/415		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#416)
	Ritual of Unbinding
The Ritual of Unbinding cuts an entity's ties, mystical and magical, to release him or her from all links to mortal and immortal realms. Chant the ritual and invoke the runestone's power to channel energy through the runestone into a binding stone.

Once invoked, the runestone creates a key which can later break its connection to its binding stones. The runestone's key must revoke the energies at each binding stone. Most rituals use one or two binding stones; more powerful entities require three. Legends speak of rare creatures that need four.

Note: One can avoid the bound entity's death by invoking the Rite of Proxy. For this, use the runestone on a willing sacrifice. That person's life will be forfeit, and the bound entity is freed. The key thus created will be energized with the soul of the proxy sacrifice.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#417)
	Slave's Diary
They take more of us every day, regardless of whether we still have flesh or not. The soul shriven, as they call them, are the bulk of those taken; people whose bodies are long since wasted away, but whose spirits live on in Oblivion. 

Some of them say that their souls are inside gems, and that they can feel themselves being jostled about as their respective gems are moved from one place to another. They are filled with so much sorrow that it crushes the heart just to hear them speak of the lives they have mostly forgotten.

I don't know what they do to the others, but their screaming can be heard even down in the dungeons. It is an endless procession of misery from which there is no escape.

The gods cannot hear us here. Is there any salvation? Is there any hope at all?
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#418)
	Letter to Edhelfin
Edhelfin,

If I never see your blighted face again, it will be too soon. Sal told me all about the "extra" shipments. And don't think I haven't noticed your finger on the scales in our dealings.

I'm giving you a warning as a courtesy. Sal likes you, and he'd mope for weeks if he saw you drawn and flayed. Next port we dock at, you've got one chance to jump ship. If I catch you, you're dead. If I see you before, during, or after, you're dead. Don't tempt me.

Your adoring sister,

Elandora
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#419)
	Provision Requests
7 sacks dried boar sticks

10 jugs butter

4 kegs bloodmead

8 casks squirrel preserves

1 small keg of sugared herring

5 bushels dried fish

2 bushels moon sugar

10 kegs treacle
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#420)
	The Steel Shrikes Proclamation
Our All-Beneficent King Fahara'jad (may he live forever) has ignited the flame of ambition within our breasts. From the waters which delivered us to the coasts of Hammerfell, we embark on a journey of legend and song. All shall sing of our deeds and our consorts will burn with everlasting fervor for our victorious return!

Do not falter, warriors of Yokuda! Our Steel Shrikes (may we be ever triumphant) shall cut to the heart of the untamed jungles and reveal a new land. As we broke upon the shores of Alik'r, so shall we set our mark upon the sands of the Elves. The Redguards' next great domain shall be built on the ashes of our conquered foes! Our strength, our honor, and our courage shall triumph forever!
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#421)
	The Voyages of Il-Am-Hakim, Vol. 3
Defying the evil spirits of contrary winds, the gallant Il-Am-Hakim directed his vessel through to the deserted isle. The crew lay half dead from sun-sickness, having exhausted their supplies more than a fortnight before. Il-Am-Hakim looked to the officer at his right hand, who anxiously searched the shore for some sign of habitation.

"None to be seen," she announced, both relieved and disappointed.

"Strike the bells, then. Rouse those who still can stand." To be crippled and unmanned would mean the end of their voyage. He would return with their cargo, or he would return not at all.

Soon, all had left the bare decks and fled to the open shores of the island. The trees yielded fruit, and the men, drunk from those heady sugars, fell into a stupor not unlike death.

Il-Am-Hakim took no comfort in the rich nectars as he kept watch over his vessel. The very air shivered with anticipation.

"Sir, you must rest." A hand fell on his spyglass, drawing it away. He nodded, and took to a pauper's bed in the sand. But a moment after his eyes closed, he heard the familiar sound of oars upon the waves.

"We are set upon!" he cried, drawing his sword from its sheath. All eyes turned toward him, the midday sun signaling a new day. The sand coursed out of his beard like so much water.

"I thought it best not to wake you." The officer looked away, unwilling to allow him to see her smirk. That did not stop the workers rowing back provisions from a starting a raucous din. Il-Am-Hakim could not begrudge them that.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#422)
	Picnic Note
Dearest,

Meet me in our usual spot. I have a bottle of your favorite wine and a very special question to ask you.

Yours truly,

M
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#423)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 10
I wish I could spend more time in here. I see evidence of some kind of massive machine, but I don't have time to pry open all the doors and look for it.

Stupid journal binding! Why do my pages keep falling out?

You know, it's a pain locating these ancient ruins. They're always in the most inconvenient places.

Once you find them, though, exploring is so worth the effort. I'd give up the Mages Guild entirely if I knew where all the ruins were. Then I could spend all my time exploring.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#424)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 16
Someone else has been in here, and I'm not talking about the ancient Dwarves! I found a bridge, obviously not of Dwemer origin, and I see numerous signs that other explorers recently visited this ruin.

I wonder what they found? They better not have taken all the best stuff!

Wait a moment. What if they weren't as fast and clever as me? What if a trap or a construct got them?

I really don't want to come across their horribly mutilated bodies. That would be gross.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#425)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 25
Oh, this isn't good. Not good at all. The constructs seem to know I'm here and they keep looking for me. Where's my useless brother when I really need him?

I hope someone comes looking for me soon. I can't get out of here without attracting more constructs. And now I'm hungry.

This is bad! This is worse than when Raynor built that thing that turned all the clothes in town invisible for a day and a half. Vivec, was Elder Aro mad about that!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#426)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 29
The lock on the Dwemer mechanism is far more complex than any I've dealt with before.

All of my lockpicks have snapped. 

Note to Self: Find some Dwemer metal I can use to craft new lockpicks.

Note to Raynor: Stop letting me get myself into these predicaments!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#427)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 30
Had a few too many close calls trying to salvage some metal to make new lockpicks. I'm not terribly interested in getting impaled on a spike. And every time I stop to dig around for the key, the constructs swarm after me.

I'll need to invent something protective when I manage to get out of here. Maybe some kind of special boots. Or a hat.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#428)
	Kireth's Journal, Page 33
Been reading "The Art of Love and Swordplay" by the bard Fjokki. I don't get it. Why is this stupid book so popular?

I'm pretty sure half of the things described aren't even possible. Or legal. Oh, wait a minute—this one sounds kind of interesting.
		

Failed at /books/429		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#430)
	Smuggler's Note
I'm done with this hideout. I've sealed the hideout entrance, and even checked that ridiculous puzzle lock.Why did we ever decide to use crypts? There's got to be a better place to keep skooma than somewhere the dead routinely get restless and try to kill everyone. 

When I get out of here I'm going to have a long talk with the boss about real estate.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#431)
	Journal of Nicolas Douare
By torchlight, the specimen appeared unremarkable. In life, it had been a sturdy youth, and wisps of brown hair were still visible on the crest of its yellowed skull. Its empty eye sockets stared at me, impassively, as I completed the necromantic incantation. At once, the torches in the room flared a bright, but unearthly shade of green. The pounding of my own heart filled my ears.

The awful event was very sudden, and wholly unexpected. The skeleton shuddered, and from the black void between its lipless grin, the most appalling succession of cries issued forth, echoing through the stone chamber of the crypt. I think I screamed myself as I stumbled frantically backwards. 

It stood, impossibly, on fractured leg bones that should not have borne its full weight. By now my back was to the wall, as the reanimated skeleton turned to face me. The waiting was almost unbearable, and I closed my eyes to await my fate. When the anticipated attack did not occur, I opened my eyes. The creature stood at attention, its head bowed slightly, in supplication.

Now a raspy sound issued forth; a single word, in a barely audible hiss. "Massss … terrrrr."

My first necromantic conjuration was an unqualified success. Soon, the entire crypt will be filled with minions to attend my every command! I think I shall find this place most accommodating.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#432)
	Alchemy Report
Here are the empty bottles that contained Dhalen's potion. I'd recommend getting them out of town now that the elixir has been circulated. The quality of alchemical loot you can find in a Daedric ruin is just amazing! Illusion magic and poison, both in the same trove!

We've been telling everyone that it's an ancient Argonian custom, using an ancient Argonian wine. Even the Argonians, who I admit were initally suspicious, eventually took part. Everyone wants a reason to drink, right? By the Eight, one of the Nords drank eight bottles of it before stumbling off toward the river. Probably drowned himself.

The elixirs are working. People will be confused if they start seeing double, though. We need to get rid of any evidence. You know what I mean.

I'm dealing with things at the barracks. It's amazing where you can go when you look like the Commander. Then I'll meet "Marla" to discuss any final details. Dhalen's done his part. Now it's our turn.

For Fildgor!
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#433)
	Garil's Journal
Sela, my beloved. Will this missive ever find you? Did you even survive the bandit attack that separated us? How I need your strength now. 

Danus has lost his mind, I'm sure of it. He's banished me from the camp. If the others only knew the unspeakable truth! I should take a torch to their food stores and burn the meat to cinders. Would the shock allow them to see Danus for what he is? 

My love, my life. The truth. The damnable truth! Even now, my bile rises at the very thought of it. The meat Danus brings to the camp. The meat that keeps our people alive—It's the flesh of the dead! 

Our people are eating Dunmeri flesh!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#434)
	The Whisperer's Song, Verse 1
Do you fear me, dear intruder? 

Will you listen when I speak?

Do you want to hear my story? 

Know the terror that I wreak?

Follow silken webs through darkness, 

and you'll find just what you seek.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#435)
	The Whisperer's Song, Verse 2
For moons and more 

the words I bore 

were whispering to the meek.

Their hearts and minds 

became all mine, 

surrendered without a squeak!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#436)
	The Whisperer's Song, Verse 3
"But why?" they cry, inside their minds, 

unable to even speak.

I mock their woe, for those who know, 

have perished, deranged and weak!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#437)
	Arkay the Enemy
Hear me, children. Once I was a lowly man such as yourselves. By my will I entered the ranks of the gods. By your unquestioning devotion, you can share my glory.

Most Necromancers are fools and weaklings. Fodder for the witchhunters. But you, my servants, you are among the chosen. In the days to come, few will dare to stand against your might. But one obstacle remains, and his name is Arkay.

Once he was also just a man. The similarities between his mortal life and my own astonish even me. It is only proper that we should be enemies.

Arkay's Blessing prevents the souls of Men, Beastmen, and Elves from being used without consent. Arkay's Law prevents those buried with the proper rituals from being raised to serve my children's will. As you know, my children, Arkay's Blessing is flexible to those with daring, but Arkay's Law is unwavering.

To the Scholars: Humiliate the priests of Arkay. Reveal their primitive burial customs to be mere superstition. Befriend kings with honeyed words and bind them to your will. Look to my children in Cyrodiil for guidance.

To the Priests: Use your servants sparingly, let none be seen by the living. Let the memories of the undead waste away from the people. Send missionaries to the unbound dead, to the Vampires and the Liches. Let all the nations of dead carry my banner and my banner alone.

To the Hidden: Wait, as always, in the darkness.

For soon we shall strike. The Temples of Arkay will be torn stone from stone. The blood of his priests will sate our thirst; their bones will rise as our servants. The name Arkay will be stuck from the records. Only I shall hold sway over life and death. Only one name shall be whispered in fear. The name of your lord and master.

— KW
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#438)
	Note from Gullveig
Thorulf,

I trust this note finds your dealings in Fullhelm near fruition. My business in <<1>>  is nearly concluded. <<2>> has no talent for our peculiar arts, but he's capable enough in his own fashion.

Once I've settled matters, I'll move to Lost Prospect to complete my ascension. I may call on you afterwards for … hospitality.

Yours & c.,

Gullveig
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#439)
	Orcthane's Orders
Hail Stormfists! Take the courtyard and hold it. Don't attack the keep until I give the command.

Send in the duplicates when they arrive. With any luck, we won't even have to raise a weapon to finish off the false king.

— In Fildgor's Name, Dhalen
		

Failed at /books/440		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#441)
	Note to King Jorunn
My Dear Friend and King, Jorunn,

The room is ready, as you requested. In case there is trouble, you and the ambassadors will be safe inside. I must explain the workings of the door, however. A special key is required to open it. There's a reason it's my safe room, after all.

A key hidden within the manor permits access to the room. The text below—a passage from our favorite childhood story, The King's Stand—provides all the clues you need to find the key.

You should understand the meaning of the text. Now don't laugh at my precautions! You're the one who demanded security and secrecy for your war council, my old friend.

— Jarl Ivannar

"And as the great king stood tall, his dark raven upon his shoulder, he raised the war horn to his lips and blew. The sound echoed throughout the valley. His troops cheered and let loose a rally cry. He watched them surge forward, but it was the last sight he ever saw. He dropped to his knees, a dagger jutting from his back."
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#442)
	The Quiet Room
Lifeless eyes gaze on dueling swords.

One who breathed, but no longer lives.

The other an ancient relic from a distant land.

In the stone work of the ancients.

The one that has not known life,

Opens the way to salvation and silence.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#443)
	Valeric's Journal
My companions have been taking their lessons to heart. There hasn't been an incident in more than three cycles of the moons. Jaruk has his cats and his music, and that seems to help keep his beast at bay. Rala, however, makes me nervous. She hasn't done anything overtly reckless, but I know that the bloodlust calls to her.

All I can do is continue to teach and counsel her. I must give her other things to dwell upon. I believe in her. I know she will maintain the course I have set her upon. She must.

***

Father's evil grows more vile and sinister every day. Now he's creating an army of nearly mindless blood thralls to do his bidding. I can see them prowling by the springs outside my window! The man knows no bounds.

What is he planning? There really is only one reason to build an army. Does he truly think to challenge the Skald King? Can I allow that to happen? No, but neither I nor my companions have the power to stop my father.

I truly do not know what to do.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#444)
	Kerthor's Supply List
I need to remember to pick up a few essentials the next time I get over to Windhelm or Fort Amol.

4 new axe blades

8 new handles, oak

4 sharpening stones

2 heavy shirts, gray

2 pairs of boots, black

1 cask of mead, Voljar's cheapest

1 barrel of apples, no worms

1 box of sour sweets
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#445)
	Letter from Gabbi
Agnedir,

How's life in the tundra with our cousins the Wood-Hewers? How's the quality of the trees? Are there enough of them to keep you busy? And what about your social life? Meet anyone special yet? Are there even any other people around Bonestrewn Crest, or is it just you and our cousins out there in the middle of nowhere?

Things here in Windhelm have gotten strange since you left. Did you hear about Fildgor? Can you believe the Skald King's despicable brother has returned to Eastmarch? And with an army of renegade Nords and savage Orcs at his side? It's terrible.

Alvor sends his love. Tell Selgaard and Jakild that we're thinking about them. But not Kerthor. I'm still angry at him about what happened at last season's harvest festival. Him and those disgusting sour sweets! 

Write soon!

—Gabbi
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#446)
	Letter to Jakild
Dearest Cousin Jakild,

How's that husband of yours? Still treating you well? And his annoying brother, Kerthor? Still annoying, I'm sure! Are there really enough trees in that part of the tundra for you to make a decent living? And the weather, are the days as gray as the ones in Windhelm?

I hope you're taking care of my little sister. You know how much Agnedir looks up to you. Of all the cousins, you've always been her favorite. Make sure she also keeps up with her forester training!

Have you had any luck finding her a decent suitor? There's a logging camp to your east. I know some of the loggers. They're good people. But what about those neighbors you wrote to me about? The ones directly to your west? The rich ones? Any chance someone of rank and wealth will take notice of my little sister? Anyway, may your mead stay cold and flow freely!

— Gabbi Forestborne
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#447)
	Dark Ritual
<This ancient scroll is covered with indecipherable symbols. A more recent note has been added to the page.>

Of course! It's so simple! Soon the dead that walk shall be mine to control! Perhaps after I conquer Eastmarch, I'll return to overthrow our own bumbler of a High King.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#448)
	Firras' Journal
Given the ongoing combat, I leave this in the hopes of explaining my actions if I do not live to see the end of the struggle. I am Firras, a stormwarden. I betrayed my order as I love my people more than those who rule us.  

Long ago, the stormwardens were Ayleid, but now their bastion of power is under our control. Instead of using this to our advantage and bringing wealth and power to our people, we use it in the service of the Thalmor. This means, in truth, we are servants of the Altmer!

We could use the Sphere against the Dominion, securing our coasts and forests against their ships. Or at least exact tolls to improve the lives of our people. But our leader Cirnean says this cannot be. We must live up to the standards of people long dead, and use the Sphere for the good of all mer. And I guess the good of the Khajiit too, though that was not specified. 

So as my brothers will not help themselves, I turn to the invaders to force their hand. Either the Sea Vipers will kill the stormwardens and I'll take control, or they'll show the stormwardens we cannot rely on the Altmer to protect us. 

Others may see me as a traitor, but I commit my sins for the greater good of the Bosmeri people!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#449)
	Journal of Urodil Sea-Born
Where clear skies had been earlier, now storms formed as far as the eye could see. Calm seas became fierce as soon as our ships crossed their waves. Our exuberance flagged as we approached the coast of Malabal Tor. 

My ship somehow survived long enough to launch longboats before sinking, though only a third of our crew were accounted for on shore. Once on land, we met the Wood Elf known as Firras.

Much to my surprise, he told us about the Sphere of Storms, and the "stormwardens" using it to turn the ocean against us. I am hesitant to trust a tree-lover, for I hear they eat their enemies. But he may be the key to getting the rest of the fleet to shore. We must remove these stormwardens from their sanctuary and take this sphere for ourselves.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#450)
	Watch Log, Volume 245
3rd Hour:

We first saw signs of the invaders at dusk, since their ships did not douse all lights as they approached the coast.

Unfortunately some of the ships had made landfall by the time we raised the alarm. This is our failing, but had we been given the support we requested from the Thalmor weeks ago, we would have seen them much sooner.

Even with the delayed response, we were able to use the Sphere to defend the coast. Many fled to the open sea before we could destroy their ships.

5th Hour:

We'll maintain a wall of storms up and down the coast as a precaution, though this may just drive them to land in other Dominion territories. 

9th Hour:

The Sea Vipers have breached the sanctuary. How did they discover where the storms came from? I fear a traitor in our ranks.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#451)
	Valasha's Journal
I still can't believe we're alive. I've never seen a city like Abagarlas. The horrors I witnessed there are etched into my dreams. We do live, though. I have my Ostarand, and we have the crystal. That's all that matters.

- - - - - - - - 

Since entering the Dwarven city, <<1>> has grown quiet. Today I learned why. She took me aside to talk. She believes someone must be sacrificed to the crystal before we hide it. Several powerful priestesses gave their lives to see it forged in the first place, she said. 

It makes sense. Molag Bal revels in undeath and destruction. A life given willingly and bound would be anathema to that fiend.

Curano asked me if I'm willing to make the sacrifice when the time comes. I am … I am very afraid.

- - - - - - - - 

<<2>> and I were betrothed just weeks ago. He was furious when I told him of Curano's request. And I was afraid.

And so I prayed. I spoke with Meridia for hours. I knew before I knelt that it would be my duty to accept the burden. But duty, honor … they're just words. Compared to the feel of <<2>>'s hand on my cheek, how could I willingly agree?

In the end, it was for <<2>> that I agreed. With my death, I can ensure the future of our world. Nirn will have need of the weapon again. And my light will last forever, bound to the crystal's heart.

How could any priestess of the Sunburst turn that down?
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#452)
	A Diet of Eyes
While Hagravens have long been associated with certain Reachman tribes, the relationship between the Reachmen and these monsters is still unclear.

With the face of an old crone and a misshapen body that combines human and raven, Hagravens are horrific sights. (Though they are far worse to smell.)

It is the remnants of their meals that induce the greatest horror, however. For Hagravens consume people, preferably while still alive. They are said to be especially fond of eyeballs. A sated Hagraven will sometimes merely suck out a victim's eyes, then cast out the unfortunate to wander sightless through the wilds.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#453)
	The Blessings of Hircine
It is the will of Hircine that the Bosmer become as we were in the Dawn Age. Before Y'ffre trapped us in a single shape, before he told us our story and took away our freedom.

The gift of Hircine is the gift of a second shape. The sacrament of Hircine is the scent of prey on the wind, the taste of blood on the tongue. Praise Hircine and his Houndsmen! Rise up and reject the tyranny of shape and story!
		

Failed at /books/454		Part of the Final Words collection (#455)
	No Quarantine for Us
Haldin is dead by his own hand. I don't think he recovered from the loss of his wife and youngest child. Kjora has a bad cough. I don't think it's the plague, but the others seem unconvinced. I won't abandon him just because he's got a cold. I swear, this infernal plague will have us at each other's throats before too long. 

Word has reached us of an old crypt, to the east. Refugees from Narsis have taken shelter there, and we've been told they'll welcome others to share the space. I don't want to encounter the undead creatures sometimes found in such dark places, but if our only alternative is to risk becoming afflicted, I think we'll take our chances in the crypts.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#456)
	A Plea in Parting
Forgive me.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#457)
	Redoran Cooking Secrets
Crab Meat Stew

    2 handfuls of crab meat

    1 mug of stock

    3 pinches of garlic

    1 large onion

    1 handful of ground oats 

Grill onion until brown. Mix stock, garlic, and onion in a large bowl. Slowly stir in ground oats to thicken. Add in crab meat.  Bake covered in a hot oven for one half hour to one hour.

Frog Muffin 

    1 stone of ground frog meat

    a hand and a half of rice flour

		cube of baker's yeast

    pinch of pepper

	  sprig of thyme

 

Create a batter using the rice flour, baker's yeast, and a little water. Cook the meat in a pan over an open flame. When the meat begins to brown, add it to the batter along with with the thyme leaves. Sprinkle with pepper and pour batter into muffin tins. Bake for one quarter hour in a hot oven.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#458)
	Orders to Halskar
Halskar,

Use the tunnel in the royal crypt to capture Fort Morvunskar. Remember that our purpose here is not to hold the fort, however. Just to get the soldiers out of the way long enough to accomplish our true goal. Get that through your thick skull, for everything else depends on that.

The pretender Jorunn's soldiers will come in force, and when they do we must fade away. Our prize is buried beneath the fort. Taking Morvunskar was always just a means to an end. Hold it for as long as you can and then retreat to the burial vaults beneath. My traitorous brother will never suspect our true goals here, and his soldiers will never find the tunnel in time to stop us.

Make sure you keep any important relics you find locked up tight. Never trust anyone where treasure is involved. But our primary goal must be to secure the remains and transport them out of there as quickly as possible.

— Fildgor Orcthane
		

Failed at /books/459		Part of the Research Notes collection (#460)
	Delver Notes
We've reached an impasse. A room of doors. Every door we've tried seems to return back to the entrance. There must some clues in these ancient runes.

- - - 

Two weeks and still blocked by the doors. Kireth thinks we're a day away, but she's been saying that for a week.

- - - 

A Companion patrol showed up late last night, talking about the Worm Cult. We haven't seen a robe yet, but … we'll post guards. Keep watch. At least the big one is keeping Kireth motivated.

- - - 

We've done it. My damned sister is a genius.  She translated the runes:

"Deep sea swimmer. Surfaces on the clear day. Far overhead, eyes watch. Watch on the wing. Far below, scales rasp. The venom pulses. All are as one in the sight of our lord Alduin."
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#461)
	The Lost Warrior
The lady burned bright,

The lover turned to ash.

The tower became dust.

The warrior wept.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#462)
	The Ebon Mage
A young apprentice sought glory dour.

A dark ritual was cast to grow her power.

As the great lord fell to plague in death.

Undead mage cackled, free of breath.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#463)
	The Thief's Luck
As the skeletal atronach approached,

Into shadows he retreated.

Upon steed of blackest black,

The thief grinned as traps bit bone.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#464)
	A Tale Forever Told
The Silvenar walked with eyes open across Valenwood. His heart, torn from its primal aspects, was an empty pit.

From the wild came a Bosmer unlike any other. Her eyes were of fire, hair of wind and rain, and all who gazed upon her quaked in fear. All except the Silvenar.

Though she bared her fangs, he did not shy away. Though she sought to lose him in the underbrush, the vines parted for him to follow. She growled, filled with confused desires, wishing both to stay, and to leave.

In a bright clearing, she faced the Silvenar, and ripped at him with claws and teeth. Though he fended off her blows, still his blood soaked into the grass and the flowers wept. Her rage spent, the Green Lady finally stepped back and addressed the Silvenar.

"Why do you follow me? You are not one of us!" She spat upon the ground, her fists still clenched, stained with his blood.

"But I am of you," the Silvenar said quietly. "Come, let me open your eyes to the green singing."

Curious, the Green Lady came to the Silvenar. Long did they stare unspeaking, until they warmed to union. The forest shuddered as spirit and body became one.

With his touch, she saw the dance of frond and leaf, and learned the ways and wiles of Valenwood. His emptiness filled with her passion, and his nameless longing waned.

Their union both tamed the wild and invigorated the greenery.
		

Failed at /books/465		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#466)
	Note from Firuin
I am leaving you, <<1>>, for one who appreciates my talents. My skill! 

You wasted my genius on such trivial things. Chilling drinks. Tricking insects into euphoria so their ichor would not curdle your precious brew!

I created a colossus for you! Tall as a mammoth and twice as strong. Cold as the empty voids of Oblivion! What use did you put it to? The preserving of meat!

I have taken the reserves. I will stir in them a flame so bright the very stars will cast shadows, and from that darkness shall I rise like the sun!

My only regret is not seeing your face as your world falls out from under you, as mine did that night on Balding Hill!

																																							- <<2>>
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#467)
	Grida's Note
Hey, Dralof!

If you're reading this, I guess you got tired of waiting and came to find me. The apothecary was empty when I arrived. I don't know what happened here, but it must have been your kind of party. Well, I not only missed the party, but I couldn't find any bath salts. I did find the apothecary's recipe, though. It requires:

— Four Mudcrab Claws

— Two Globs of Troll Fat

— Daril

(It says Daril is an Argonian ingredient provided by the nearby Argonian camp. Someone named Laughs-at-Danger sells the stuff.)

Grind the ingredients at a mill. Hey, there's one up the hill!

Since everyone else is gone, I'm going to try to whip up a batch of the bath salts myself. How hard could it be? If you really can't wait, come find me and help out, you lazy skeever!

— Grida
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#468)
	Practical Necromancy
Chapter XXII: Summoning, Binding, And Questioning Spirits of Aetherius

~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Previously we've discussed the reanimation of crude matter for labor (Chapter XVI). It is time to delve into deeper, more rewarding subjects.

Aside from the traditional ritual components (Chapter III), you will need:

* The HIDE of a slaughtered animal, cleaned and dried in the approved manner.

* A measure of dried NIGHTSHADE, crushed with a pestle of pure ebony.

* An ANIMUS GEODE containing the tortured spirit of a man or mer.

Prepare a circular ritual space no less than three paces across. Isolate the space with a circle of one part chalk, one part salt, and one part ash. In the center of the space, prepare your ritual tools. Jam a pike or spear into the earth, point up. Write the name of the spirit you wish to summon on the piece of animal hide.

Be sure you have no injuries that might spill blood in the circle. Trapping one's own soul in a summoning circle is rarely fatal (see Chapter XXV for exceptions), but is sure to provoke the mockery of your peers.

After desecrating the circle (refer to Chapter X), light the candles in the following order: EAST, WEST, NORTH, SOUTH. Burn a pinch of nightshade in the RITUAL BOWL. Impale the animal hide onto the PIKE. Finally, take up the ANIMUS GEODE and release its power while holding in your mind an image of the deceased.

Once summoned, the spirit is tethered to the animus geode; the geode will act as a beacon, allowing you to call the bound shade to your side whenever you wish.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#469)
	Letter from Chill Hollow
Osa,

I followed the rumors and found the cave. It's a chill hollow within the rock, full of ice and who knows what else. The legends of treasure must be true as well. I can feel it! Soon, I'll have enough gold for us to buy the farm you always talk about. Then we can finally get married and start our life together. I'll return soon.

Yours forever,

Hjalo
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#470)
	Treasure Hunter's Journal
Day 1

We found the Chill Hollow today. It's a winding depression in the rock filled with ice and snow. It looks like someone got here before us. Poor Hjalo. He should have brought along a few friends!

Day 3

After two days of hunting through these tunnels of ice, I think we finally cleared out all the wolves. With that taken care of, we can start digging for that gold the Bandit Lord Krogen supposedly hid within this frozen hole in the ground.

Day 4

Strange sounds from deeper within the cave. Could be echoes of the noise we're making as we struggle to dig through the ice and rock. Or it could be something else. I think we'll post guards tonight.

Day 6

Alfen disappeared last night. The others think he gave up and went home. But I don't think so. He was really looking forward to his share of the treasure. 

Day 7

The wolves have returned, and they aren't happy with us. Plus, we've been seeing strange, ghostly shapes floating in the darkest corners of the cave. I'm not sure we made the right decision comin—
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#471)
	The Brothers' War
At the height of the Akaviri Invasion, in 2E 572, the twin brothers of Princess Nurnhilde, Jorunn the Skald Prince and Fildgor Strong Prince (also called Fildgor Angry Prince, but never to his face), were in two very different locations. Jorunn was in Riften with his closest companions, the Pack of Bards. Fildgor, meanwhile, was on the northeast coat of Skyrim, fighting alongside his sister when the Akaviri of Dir-Kamal launched their assault. As the Akaviri made their way toward Windhelm, Jorunn and his companions forged their own path toward the fabled Nord city.

Fildgor, meanwhile, demonstrated his fighting prowess, as well as his exalted anger, over and over again as the battle for the coast raged on. He often led his own team of companions, the Stormfist Brigade, which consisted of members of the Stormfist clan. They had fought beside Fildgor during his pilgrimage and coming-of-age trials, and were devoted to the Strong-Prince.

Jorunn and Fildgor, along with their closest comrades, each arrived in time to see the gates of Windhelm break wide. The brothers fought valiantly, but they couldn't prevent the fall of the city or the death of Queens Mabjaarn and Nurnhilde ("The Brief Queen"), who died defending the palace and the people they loved. The twins, who hadn't been close for several years, nonetheless fell into familiar companionship and joined forces to repel the invaders. Thanks to Jorunn's alliance with the Dark Elves and the unexpected but welcome assistance of the Argonians, the Akaviri invasion was at last crushed.

As Jorunn and his forces returned to Windhelm, Fildgor stepped forward to claim rulership. The crisis was over, and he decided to push his claim. He expected Jorunn to acquiesce, as his brother usually did in the face of Fildgor's anger and unrestrained passion. But Jorunn refused. The Skald Prince decided to become the Skald King, for he had seen what Fildgor's passions were capable of. In war, he wanted Fildgor at his side. But as a leader for his people? Jorunn didn't really want to sit upon the throne, but he felt he had no choice. He didn't believe Fildgor would be a good ruler for his people.

Enraged by Jorunn's defiance, Fildgor rallied the Stormfist clan and other supporters he had throughout the realm. After all, he was a true Nord warrior, not a singer and scholar like his brother. Jorunn saw that the kingdom was headed for civil war, so he challenged Fildgor to single combat. The Strong Prince smiled, confident he could defeat his bard of a brother easily. He accepted, and the longest three hours in recent history began. The brothers' war was on.

The two brothers fought in the square outside the battle-damaged palace. The fight was brutal and long. Weapons clashed, parried, came together, moved apart, and drew blood. When it appeared that neither brother was going to gain the upper hand before they both collapsed from sheer exhaustion, Jorunn called upon reserves no one expected him to possess. He struck Fildgor's weapon, shattering it. Then he knocked Fildgor flat and demanded his surrender.

With no other option available, Fildgor surrendered. But his hatred burned and his rage surrounded him like a roiling storm. With a broken heart, Jorunn exiled his brother and chastened the Stormfist clan for supporting him. Fildgor cursed Jorunn's name and departed. While the Skald King went on to prove himself a capable and beloved ruler, the Strong Prince was rumored to have fled to the lands of the Daggerfall Covenant. Perhaps one day, the brothers' war will resume.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#472)
	Second Invasion: Reports
7 Sun's Height

The Akaviri land their ships in force. Several have been turned away or sunk, but more slip past our guard. Our forces move forward to meet them on the cliffs above the beaches, where we hold the high ground.

From our vantage point, the queen watches their approach. She will get to see firsthand the ferocity and strength of the Blood Claws!

8 Sun's Height

The Akaviri ships have dropped anchor back from the beach. Perhaps they fear our blades. I say let them starve themselves in their ships, but Princess Nurnhilde believes they plot, rather than cower. She is wiser than I, so I have sent scouts to find and foil any cowardly, underhanded tactics they might be ready to deploy.

19 Sun's Height

More than a week, and still the Akaviri do not attack. The soldiers grow restless, and Princess Nurnhilde broods. Scouts have returned without any information. Still, I continue to send them out day after day. None have spoken against me, but I see their looks as I order yet another patrol along the beaches.

The Blood Claws were made for slaughter, not waiting.

22 Sun's Height

Arguments and fighting in the camp, and the Akaviri still wait with their fleet, just beyond of our grasp. We've heard reports of attacks north and south of us, along the coast, even as far south as the Dark Elf lands. The troops wonder why we wait when fighting takes place elsewhere. And wonder begins to turn to anger.

Princess Nurnhilde insists that this is their main fleet, and that they are trying to lure us away from our position. When she speaks, the soldiers become calm and thoughtful. She cuts right through their anger and bitterness. I wish she would address them more often.

26 Sun's Height

An Akaviri ship landed today. It hit the beach in the darkness just before morning. Our soldiers surrounded it, expecting a hail of arrows from within, but none came. It was odd that such a large ship beached itself, but the troops were bored and hungry for blood. The magical traps on the ship claimed the lives of seven warriors.

I have never seen the troops so angry. Even the Princess had trouble calming them. When the Akaviri land, they will be torn to shreds. If we don't tear ourselves apart first, that is.

29 Sun's Height

Reports of the Dark Elf lands being overrun. There is little love lost between Nords and Dark Elves, but at this moment we share the frustration they must feel. The report talks of Akaviri in their fields, and our warriors hunger for combat.

I spoke with the Princess. I told her this news may have pushed the Blood Claws to a new level of rage. She said nothing, only pressed her lips together. She's always several steps ahead of the rest of us, and I fear she has seen something I have yet to notice.

2 Last Seed

The Akaviri landed this morning, a massive wave of destruction crashing upon the beach. Our soldiers were whipped into a frenzy as the call to arms rang out. They were reckless, and the first rush was cut down by archers before a proper line could be formed. Our recklessness cost us the beach, and the invaders now have a foothold in our land.

3 Last Seed

We had to fall back. Fighting was too intense and Princess Nurnhilde ordered the troops back to Windhelm. We'll fight from the walls and use the strength of the city to crush the invaders once and for all!

4 Last Seed

Tension runs high tonight, as we wait for the Akaviri to press forward. I saw Nurnhilde donning armor. The Blood Claws will follow her, listen to her orders like the voice of the Dragon itself, but the risk is so great. Word has come to us the princes are nearby, fighting their way to the city. I pray they arrive in time to help.

7 Last Seed

Queen Mabjaarn and Princess Nurnhilde are dead. Nurnhilde led the Blood Claws into combat when the gates of Windhelm fell. They fought like I have never seen anyone fight before, raging in perfect coordination. When the queen went down, the rage took over, though Nurnhilde donned the crown and try to restore order to our lines. The Akaviri were driven from the city. They thought to goad us, and they did, but the beast they awoke was more than they could handle.

But then they came back. Now Queen Nurnhilde is dead. I should have been able to command my warriors, control them. It should have been me, not her. The responsibility for their deaths is mine, and I will explain that to the princes personally.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#473)
	The Ternion Monks
By Elgad the Scribe

Some call them a cult. Others say worse things. But the Ternion Monks carry on a tradition that honors the Three Old Gods and the totems associated with them. While the religion is ancient, its followers are few. In many respects, the Ternion movement is slowly dying, as very little proselytizing takes place by the current contingent of monks. Fewer and fewer converts take up the worship of the Three Old Gods, and soon the religion may become nothing but a vague memory.

Known for their healing magic, the Ternion Monks can call forth aspects of the Three Old Gods. With the help of these aspects, the monks can perform tasks beyond the scope of mere mortal limitations. The aspects take the forms of the Three Old Gods: the Fox, the Bear, and the Wolf.

The Fox is crafty and quick, and its aspect enhances the speed and agility of the monks who call upon him.

The Bear is strong, mighty. A protector. The aspect of the Bear enhances strength and shields those who call upon him from harm.

The Wolf is sly and observant, ferocious and deadly. She watches and waits, looking for the best opportunity to make her move. The aspect of the Wolf enhances vision and perception, allowing those who call upon her to see more clearly, to notice the hidden and the obscure.

The Ternion Monks prefer nigh-inaccessible spots as places to meditate and worship. Often, the only way to get to these holy retreats is to use the magic of the monks. A guardian is always appointed to open the way to the retreat, but will only do so for other monks or if the need is great and the requester is worthy.

I have spent time with the monks, learned something of their ways and seen their healing magic in action. I believe that they are good people, following a worthy tradition. But I fear that when this generation comes to an end, the Ternion Monks and the Three Old Gods they worship will fade away.

And that will be a sad day, indeed.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#474)
	Orcs of Skyrim
By Thora Far-Wanderer

No pest has proven more resilient to the Nords of Skyrim than the common Orc. The tusked people claim occupancy of our fair realm, stretching back before the time Ysgramor crossed the Sea of Ghosts. Though few written accounts still exist of that time, there is mention in the histories of the Companions uprooting Orc strongholds even as they burned the Snow Elves from the land.

Orc strongholds are well defended outposts often situated around deposits of mineral wealth. Each contains the infrastructure to support a dozen or more families, surrounded by walls designed to repel anything but the strongest martial force. Many jarls are remembered in song for dying vainly while attempting to root a stronghold from their lands. Worse, destroyed strongholds often return within a generation of their destruction if not countered by a Nord fort that needs a constant supply of troops and provisions. 

Few jarls can afford to defend piles of rock for more than a few years, and thus the Orc strongholds remain a pox upon our land. Some strongholds have persisted in this way for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It's said that the ancient Orc stronghold of Cradlecrush in Eastmarch has never been taken by force or abandoned, despite the complete exhaustion of the mineral vein it sits upon.

The height of Orcish power in Skyrim came with the establishment of Yashnag's Chiefdom in the early Second Era. With the destruction of Orsinium by the combined Breton and Redguard forces, the Orcs were scattered across the North in a great exodus. Yashnag and his people, exiled from High Rock, fled east to reclaim lands in Skyrim they felt were theirs by ancient right. The King of West Skyrim, Svartr, was ineffective in holding back the Orcs and the Reachmen that plagued the West Kingdom during his rule. The chiefdom was a bane upon Western Falkreath for more than thirty years, until it was burned out by Hakkvilld Yashnag-Slayer in the year 467 of the Second Era.

Hakkvild became Jarl of Falkreath when Yashnag killed his father on the field of battle. The young jarl inherited little more than a crumbling hold largely occupied by Orcish invaders from the west. It is said that Hakkvild challenged Yashnag and a host of Yashnag's Orc champions to a ritual trial by combat. He defeated each in turn. How Hakkvild learned of this obscure Orcish ritual is not known, but with their leader's defeat, Yashnag's followers abandoned the chiefdom.

With the destruction of the chiefdom, the Orcs scattered further into Skyrim or back into the mountains of Wrothgar. Orc clans descended from Yashnag's people have an intense hatred of the Kings of Skyrim. It's ironic that this enmity for the Nords has grown, even as the Orcs themselves have re-established ties with the peoples of western Tamriel that burned their first home hundreds of years ago.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#475)
	The Crown of Freydis
By Taleon Mythmaker

The Crown of Freydis, worn by our beloved Queen Mabjaarn, has a long history. Many know of the crown's famed beauty, but few know the true intent of the crown and why it was created—and that it was even worn by other monarchs before Queen Freydis. 

The Crown of Freydis is actually the second royal crown of Skyrim. The fabled Jagged Crown holds the distinction of being the first. The Jagged Crown was forged by Harald, first king of the Nords, from the bones of dragons. Legend has it that the Jagged Crown disappeared with the death of Harald's final descendant King Borgas in The Wild Hunt of 1E 369. The death of childless King Borgas, last of the line of Ysgramor, triggered an internecine conflict known as the War of Succession.

The War of Succession raged for more than fifty years before Olaf One-Eye became the new High King of Skyrim. Olaf was elected to the position primarily due to the renown he garnered subduing the dragon Numinex, and not for any benevolence or statesmanship on his part. The rule of Olaf One-Eye was a time marked by great strife and division among the Nords. When he also died without a clear heir, it was decided that a new manner be employed for choosing a new High King. 

Each of Skyrim's holds sent a mage to a convocation called specifically to craft a magical artifact that would test the worth of potential candidates for High King. To this end, they created the Crown of Verity. Crafting the artifact in the shape of a crown was a brilliant innovation. With the loss of the Jagged Crown, Olaf had worn no mark of recognizable rulership. They felt that a new crown would help unify the realm behind a new king after the relative instability of Olaf's rule. The timing of the crown's creation proved to be auspicious.

The Moot selected a tribal chieftain named Asurn Ice-Breaker to be the next High King of Skyrim. Asurn was a mighty warrior of unmatched skill in the vein of Olaf One-Eye, though he never defeated a dragon. Before he assumed the role, however, he had to don the newly-forged Crown of Verity. That's when the true power of the artifact became apparent.

The crown rejected Asurn. It literally refused to be placed upon his head. In a rage, Asurn summoned his loyal followers and threatened to kill every member of the Moot if they didn't name him as the rightful king. He refused to be rejected by a crown. A soft-spoken member of the council rose from his chair. He challenged Asurn to combat, according to the law. The battle was short and to the point: Asurn was struck down. When the soft-spoken man took the rown and placed it easily upon his own head, a new High King of Skyrim was born. That was how Kjoric the White rose to power.

To this day, the Crown of Freydis has been passed down from High King to High King. It is used as a tool by the Moot to ascertain the worthiness of any candidate for the throne. Since the day Asurn was struck down, no one has challenged the validity of the Crown or its powers—until 2E 431, when the Reman Empire fell asunder, and King Logrolf was assassinated. 

Jarl Svartr of Solitude claimed that Logrolf's daughter, Freydis, was illegitimate, and therefore a Moot was required to choose a successor. Though Freydis, wearing the Crown of Verity, was named High Queen in Windhelm, a partial Moot in Solitude chose Svartr as High King. Thereafter the West Kingdom was ruled by Svartr and his successors, while the East Kingdom was ruled by the heirs to Freydis, who renamed the Crown of Verity in her honor.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#476)
	Spirits of Skyrim
By Isstille the Scholar

A wide variety of spirits roam the lonely paths of Skyrim. Some are fierce and terrible, hateful and jealous of mortal creatures. Others are simply mischievous, full of playful wickedness that can turn dangerous if the target isn't completely aware of what's happening. A few can be benevolent, but even these can turn hostile if the proper decorum and respect aren't adhered to. These spirits range from free-roaming Daedra to the mortal dead to nature personified, though such distinctions may not matter much if you become embroiled in a haunted encounter. What do you care if the spirit harassing you is a marauding Daedra or the lingering shade of a village peasant? It's still just as insubstantial. It's still just as dangerous.

The Haunted Wood, far to the south of Windhelm, has long been a place of mystery and danger. A multitude of stories describe how sparkling lights or compelling whispers lure travelers deep into the forest. Of even local farmers and loggers who should know better falling victim to strange sounds and even stranger sights that can occur when the sun rides high in the sky or when darkness covers the land.

One such spirit is a guardian spirit tied to a specific natural landmark, such as a lake, a hill, or a copse of woods. The guardian spirit haunts the area it is connected to, and cannot abandon or wander far from the location. A guardian spirit might take on a mortal shape when appearing before mortal creatures, but make no mistake: these spirits were never mortal and are as different from the mortal world as the residents of Oblivion. They might imitate mortal behavior, but they neither understand it nor have any but the most tenuous connection to it.

A guardian spirit might get bored with its routine. It might become curious about new creatures wandering into its environment. It might even become angry at a presumed slight by a mortal visiting its realm. Any or all of these situations might draw the attention of a guardian spirit upon you. Or it might be something else entirely that draws them to you. Who can tell what motivates these strange entities?

The guardian spirit associated with the Haunted Wood tends to be curious and mischievous, but has rarely shown outright hostility to mortal visitors. Stories abound of missing objects, strange appearances, and playful teasing, but there are few accounts of the forest turning against mortal visitors. It seems that, for this spirit at least, some kind of connection is trying to be made. Or, perhaps, this too is a misinterpretation of intent. Perhaps this guardian spirit is simply attempting to lull visitors into letting their guard down. And then the spirit will pounce.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#477)
	All About Giants
Observations on the Giantish Peoples of Skyrim from the journals of Bonorion the Wanderer, 2E 569

Having explored the snowy reaches of Eastmarch and the Rift, I have had opportunities to observe the strange and rather large people the Skyrim natives call "giants." The natives of Skyrim are rather large themselves, but the giants that roam the wilderness are twice the size (or more!) of your average thick-necked, broad-shouldered Nord. Here are some observations, recorded for future travelers to this chilly clime:

Giants are tall.

Giants seem peaceful enough. Until you threaten them. Then they swing huge clubs and launch even a burly Nord over field and stream. The trip probably kills the Nord. That would be my guess, as I've never been able to interview a survivor of a giant's swing. 

Things that seem to threaten giants include, but are not limited to:  

      Going near them. 

      Threatening their mammoths.

      Shooting arrows at them.

No one that I have spoken to has ever seen a female giant or a young giant. Are giant children taller than Bosmer? Are female giants painfully shy? This calls for additional observation. 

Giants paint rocks and trees near their encampments. This primitive art probably entices the rare female giantess who might wander by. Or the decorations mark territory. Or the giants simply like to paint. This calls for further study.

How does a giant milk a mammoth? VERY carefully. (Note: Nords found this joke to be very amusing. Especially after several mugs of mead.) 

No Nord I spoke to has ever tasted mammoth cheese. They seem to have no interest in doing so. 

I shall have to find a way to befriend one of these large creatures. That's the only way I can think of to get a sample of that wonderful smelling cheese.

Note from Jeggord the Learned, 2E 571

The Wood Elf Bonorion was found at the base of large hill near the area known as Cradlecrush. Given the condition of his body, that is, every bone broken, it appears that he ignored his own advice. Even the dimmest Nord children know better than to approach a giant. As the nearest giant camp was nearly a league from where his body was found, I would say that Wood Elves can travel great distances when launched by a giant's club. 

I have preserved his journal as a cautionary tale for future explorers of Eastmarch, the Rift, and other regions where giants make their homes. Heed its advice, even if its author did not: don't try to befriend a giant.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#478)
	The Stormfist Clan
By Thora Far-Wanderer

The clans of the Nords spread across Skyrim like herds of mammoths, though their numbers and influence upon the land are far greater. Each clan, however, makes its mark in a different way. Some clans are known for their hunting skills, or their forestry, or their crafting. Some clans are large, others small. Some take a prominent role in government and community. And then there are the dark clans. The clans no one deals with or even speaks of. One such clan is the infamous Stormfists of Whiterun Tundra.

The clan traces its lineage to Ogra Stormfist, the powerful matriarch who founded the clan and ruled over it for almost fifty years. Highly regarded for their combat skills and armor crafting, the Stormfist clan played pivotal roles in numerous conflicts over the centuries, including the Battle of Whiterun Hold, the Massacre at Dialmarch, and the Siege of Windhelm. It was the last engagement, however, that led to the clan's fall from favor and marked it as anathema.

Prior to the Second Akaviri Invasion, Fildgor Strong-Prince, son of Queen Mabjaarn of Eastern Skyrim, went on a pilgrimage to the west to see the land and meet the people. He fell in with young men and women from the Stormfist clan and forged friendships and bonds that would serve him well in the coming years. When Fildgor was ready to move on and perform his coming-of-age trials, an entourage of Stormfist clan members decided to go with him. They became known as the Stormfist Brigade, and even though he wasn't a member of the clan by birth, Fildgor became their de facto leader.

If the Stormfist clan had a reputation prior to this, it paled in comparison to the legend that grew around the Stormfist Brigade. They were ferocious warriors, setting off for adventure in the most hostile and isolated areas of the kingdom. With Fildgor leading the way, they routed bandits, uncovered treasure, and slew monsters. When the Akaviri invaders arrived in force, Fildgor led the Brigade into the thick of battle. They eventually fought their way to Windhelm to join forces with Queen Mabjaarn and the main army. 

Although they weren't able to stop the fall of Windhelm or save the queen, the Stormfist Brigade was nonetheless instrumental in helping to route the invading army. They marched as part of the combined Nord forces that eventually joined with the Dark Elves and Argonians to defeat the Akaviri. But then the fateful decision was made. When Fildgor declared his intention to ascend the throne left empty by his sister Nurnhilde's death, the Stormfist clan was among his most vocal backers. You know how that story ends. Jorunn and Fildgor met in single combat, and Jorunn won the throne. Fildgor was exiled, and he departed Skyrim with a promise to one day return.

The Stormfist clan, loyal to Fildgor to the end, refused to bow before Jorunn or acknowledge his authority over them. They returned to their holdings to the west, and King Jorunn, tired of all the fighting, let them go. To this day, the Stormfist clan remains isolated, rarely venturing out of its domain or taking part in the larger Nord community. What will happen if the clan ever decides to to leave its tundra-lands and reassert its place among the other clans is anyone's guess. Especially if Fildgor ever makes good on his promise.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#479)
	On Stepping Lightly
By Narsis Dren, Treasure Hunter

Dotting the landscape of Skyrim, the ancient Nord ruins are a testament to the ingenuity of the Nord people of the past. When constructing the final resting places for the noble class, our ancestors proved to be quite crafty, developing some of the most sophisticated and clever defenses I have ever encountered. Coupled with the presence of the fearsome draugr, these tombs have become quite a challenge for me.

The most often-overlooked obstacles are the abundance of traps spread throughout the tombs. Ranging from simple tripwire-activated rock falls to complex pressure plate-triggered dart traps, the ancient Nords utilized these devices abundantly. Most of the traps can be bypassed by simply looking for the trigger mechanism and avoiding them. Since they are most often placed in areas where distractions abound, remember to keep your eyes to the floor.

One of the keys to surviving in a Nord ruin is to use these traps to gain an upper hand against any denizens occupying the ruin. In many cases, it's trivial to lure them across the triggering mechanism. Try this when you find an oil trap. Using a bow, lure your victim onto the oil and then loose an arrow at the fire pot hanging above. The moment the fire pot shatters, the entire pool of oil ignites and engulfs the enemy in hot death. Just be certain that you're standing clear of the oil, or else this trick could end your expedition earlier than you planned.

Perhaps one of the most amazing engineering marvels of all has little to do with the traps designed to kill. Utilizing all manner of pull chains, levers, switches, and pressure plates, some of the most frustrating obstacles can occur in the form of puzzles that threaten to block your progress. Watch for the telltale signs of these barriers: groups of levers in a single place, rotating pillars with carvings on all faces, and even large arrays of pressure plates covering the floor of a room. In most cases, the puzzle requires experimentation to solve. In others, the solution might actually be found elsewhere in the complex. It's recommended to keep a writing implement and a journal handy so that you can always take notes about whatever you find. You never know when you might need to refer to something from elsewhere in the complex.

Although Nord ruins are commonly infested with vermin, including skeevers and spiders, these creatures pale in comparison to the mighty draugr. These horrific, animated dead are commonly found as guardians in most of the tombs, and they defend them mercilessly. Since the draugr tend to lay dormant until someone happens upon their resting place, it's advisable to keep an eye out for niches and sarcophagi. These undead animate rapidly and silently, so always watch your back. Any remains you pass could suddenly animate and set upon you without warning.

The perils of a Nord ruin are not without reward. The burial chambers in some of the larger complexes contain all manners of riches, from gold to the occasional enchanted weapon or armor. Never ignore the ceremonial urns that dot the ruins, as they are often filled with ancient offerings of great value.

I've tried to be comprehensive with what I know of Nord ruins, but I'm sure there are dangers lurking within that will prove to be unique and never before seen. Just be sure to always enter these tombs with plenty of equipment and a good, solid weapon by your side. With a bit of patience, a keen eye, and a light step, a Nord ruin can bring you great wealth. If you follow my advice. Otherwise, you risk becoming a permanent resident, like many of those who tried to loot the place before you.
		

		Part of the Eastmarch Lore collection (#480)
	Dreamwalkers
Observations by Raynard, Academic of Mournhold

They call them Dreamwalkers. Beings that can, with a simple spell, step into the dreams of another. Your darkest desires, your most bizarre fantasies, your true self, all revealed to these Dreamwalkers like an open book. Your most prized memories ransacked and picked through like the leavings of last night's feast.

Those who Dreamwalk are said to have sworn themselves to the Daedric Prince Vaermina. To have sold their souls for the ability to enter her plane, the Dreamstride. The veracity of this claim, I cannot say, but the similarities between what Dreamwalkers do and what the Priests of Vaermina accomplish is quite uncanny.

The only difference I could ascertain was how each entered the dream state. Vaermina's priests require nothing more than the drop of an alchemical concoction, a draft prepared by the most brilliant alchemists. The Dreamwalkers, however, require no such potion. They conjure a magic that appears to be innate, not taught or passed down by some hereditary process. Were they blessed by the Daedric Prince? Did their parents perform some sacred ritual to acquire this power upon birth? None I have spoken to truly know. Or will say, one way or another.

But what of the Dreamwalkers themselves? What do they use this power to achieve? Think of the havoc one could cause by entering the dreams of another. That's a frightening thought, indeed.

Yet, the Dreamwalkers I met were kind and gentle. They use their powers to help others. They eliminate painful memories. Cure mental illnesses that not even the best healers can mend. They accomplish incredible things by simply touching a person's dreams. I know, for I saw a Dreamwalker in action.

My wife and children contracted the Knahaten Flu. It was a terrible way to die, slow and painful. When they died, my reason to live died with them. But the Dreamwalker I met, he took pity on me. He gave me an opportunity to remember my family while forgetting the pain of losing them. To become numb to the loss and remember them as they were before the illness. To remember the happiness and the love.

The Dreamwalker entered my dreams. When I woke, a calmness had filled me. Everything was all right. I could go on with my life. I wanted to thank him, but he was gone. I never saw him again.

Whoever the Dreamwalkers are, whatever master they ultimately serve, I will forever be in their debt. But this fact doesn't eliminate the fear that lingers at the back of my mind. Was it right to take away the pain?  Aren't memories the thing that makes us unique? Have I become someone else because my memories have been changed? It seems I have replaced pain with fear, and I'm not sure which I prefer.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#481)
	Note to Rufinus
Rufinus,

I'm meeting with our new employer in a fortnight to hear his deal. If it's better than the Khajiit's, we'll dissolve our relations there. No loss.

Look for my next letter soon.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#482)
	Gold Coast Missive
My friend,

We have a new employer. Clean out the Khajiiti, and he'll pay hefty coin for every tail you bring back.

Make it quick and quiet. Don't want trouble from the Elves.
		

Failed at /books/483		Part of the Final Words collection (#484)
	Grida's Note to Dralof
Dralof,

I'm not sure the bath salts are safe. I don't feel so good.

I gathered the ingredients to make the bath salts and I ground them up at the mill. But I'm starting to wonder about the apothecary and what really happened there. That Argonian, Laughs-at-Danger, didn't seem very trustworthy, either. Still, I know the bath salts will make you happy. I do want to get them to you!

The daril got on my hands during the grinding, and now I don't feel so good. My skin itches. I'm going to lay down here and re—
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#485)
	Letter to Imwyn
Imwyn,

If you're reading this, then I'm probably dead. Dead, or we're laughing about this together around a fire. 

The Stormfists caught me out in the open. I managed to find this copse. I found a tree to hide beneath. But I don't know if I'll make it out of here.

Listen, you were wrong about Aerana. She should be able to find her own way in Windhelm. If she wants to work a job in the city, let her. Let her find her own way.

I tried to bring her the Sigil … but it should be up to her.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#486)
	Legend of Thane Icehammer
Long ago in ages past, Thane Icehammer of Cragwallow walked the land. He was a jovial and boisterous Nord, loved by the people and trusted for his wisdom and good cheer. As with most legends that start like this, the good times didn't last. 

For Thane Icehammer, the change began when he returned from an extended hunting trip to the Yorgrim River basin. He was no longer cheerful and loud, but had inexplicitly become dour and short-tempered. And as the months went by, his mood only became more foul and his temper more dark.

"What has caused such change in my husband?" Matron Icehammer demanded, and she turned to the Keepers of Kynesgrove for advice and assistance. 

The Keepers sent a young acolyte to investigate the situation. She spent a day and a night with Thane Icehammer, observing his actions, asking him questions, and trying to ascertain what had happened to make the Thane become so bitter and angry. 

Finally, after many long hours together, the acolyte noticed a dark stain spreading from Thane Icehammer's side and across his tunic. She ripped away his shirt. A festering wound that would not heal was carved into his side, the glowing tip of a spear jutting from it. "He said his name was Hircine," the Thane wailed. "He said I should never have hunted the were-creatures, but how was I supposed to know what they were?"

Then, his anger overcoming him, Thane Icehammer struck out and killed Kyne's acolyte. Devastated by her husband's actions, Matron Icehammer ordered the Cragwallow Watch to subdue the Thane. He fled, however, and they chased him to the ancient burial vault beneath the nearby mountains. The Watch, prepared to enter the vault after him, were called back by the Matron. "No," she said sadly, "I won't risk more lives to save a monster. Seal the vault." 

And with that, Thane Icehammer was entombed—wounded by a Daedric Prince, but still alive. 

They say Thane Icehammer still stalks the chambers of the vault, fueled by an unending rage and the magic of Hircine's spear.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#487)
	Eorim's Tale
Of all the members of the Stormfist Brigade, my brothers and I were always the closest to Fildgor Strong-Prince, now Fildgor Orcthane. It was my older brother, Gadof, who first met the prince. Gadof had been set upon by bandits on the road to Whiterun Hold, and he was outnumbered seven to one. A Stormfist through and through, Gadof made a good showing, but his hammer couldn't be everywhere at once. He had taken down two of the bandits, but he had been wounded in the process and his blood was flowing freely.

That's when Fildgor Strong-Prince appeared. He leaped into the middle of the remaining bandits, scattering them with a series of powerful blows. He fought his way to Gadof's side and set his broad back against my brother's. They defeated the bandits, and Fildgor carried my brother home. Our younger brother, Braxek, rushed to help. When they learned who Fildgor was, they both pledged their lives and their honor to the strong and charismatic prince.

I was only a girl at the time, but from the moment I saw him, I knew that I was in love with the stranger from the east. Fildgor stayed at our house, helping out while Gadof recovered from his wounds. They talked often, and that's where the idea for the Stormfist Brigade was first born. Fildgor imagined a group of boon companions, traveling the land and righting wrongs. He was so idealistic! And he talked about Queen Mabjaarn with such love and admiration.

When the group of twelve finally came together, drawn from the strongest and bravest of the Stormfist clan, a great feast was thrown to send them off in style. The party lasted for three days, and on the morning of the forth day, the Stormfist Brigade rode out. Determined to be a part of that special group, I took up my hammer and followed them. When they were in the thick of their first battle, pitted against a Goblin raiding party, I jumped in to help. Just as Fildgor Strong-Prince had done when my brother needed him.

It was a wonderful battle and a grand victory! The first of many for the Brigade. But my brothers were furious with me. They said I was too young to be on the road with them. Fildgor, however, simply smiled. "She fought well," he said. "And she loves me. What other requirement is there for membership in our band? Besides, thirteen is a much better number than twelve."

I stayed at Fildgor's side through the battles of the Akaviri war. I was there to comfort him when he lost the throne to his skeever of a brother, Jorunn. And I followed him into exile, where I watched him build an army out of thin air and rally the Orcs of the far reaches. Now we're back, and this time I'll be there to watch my beloved Fildgor finally claim the throne that is rightfully his. Even if it does mean hiding in caves until the time is right to make our move.

And as far as caves go, this one isn't half bad.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#488)
	Last Will and Testament
What a fool I was! I tried to reach Windhelm on foot, in the face of a raging storm. It was so cold outside, and I was so tired. But I never should have entered this stupid cave. I should have known better! What am I, a milk-drinker?

This frigid grotto, all ice and snow, certainly appeared to be warmer and safer than the wilderness outside. At least it was a place to get out of the bitter wind. But how wrong I was! If you're reading this, maybe you haven't seen them yet. Beware! This grotto is home to a band of trolls!

They haven't spotted me yet, but it's only a matter of time. And one of the foul beasts has entered the passage behind me, blocking off any hope I had of making an escape. I'm still going to try, of course. I have my sword and my good, strong arms. But I'm not a warrior. Not really. Oh, every Nord imagines herself to be a mighty warrior, but we're not all forged from the same ore, no matter what the stories say.

I want to write this down before I make my move. Just in case. Consider this to be my last will and testament. If you find this, that means the trolls got me. I pray I was able to give as good as I got, but I have no illusions that I can defeat one troll, let alone a half a dozen. And the sounds I hear from deeper in the grotto. There must be a terrible troll back there!

Please, if you happen to make it to Windhelm in your journeys, look for Eepa Snow-Hair. She's the most beautiful woman in the Sober Nord Inn, and the love of my life. Let her know I tried to make it back in time for her birthday. Let her know I was thinking of her the entire time. And tell her that the little house and everything inside it belongs to her now. 

Shor's bones! The trolls are coming! I'll see you in Sovngarde, my love!

— Betra Fairskin
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#489)
	The Stormcrag Family Crypt
By Vunhilde Stormcrag

Ragnor Stormcrag built a fortune in the latter days of the First Era, establishing the Stormcrags as a powerful and influential family in Eastmarch and beyond. He made his original pile as a prospector, opening a series of profitable mines throughout the Velothi Mountains. As the Stormcrag fortune and holdings grew, Ragnor invested in related businesses, including shipping, armor and weapon crafting, banking, and jewelry making. 

As his long and successful life neared its end, Ragnor began a project to turn one of his mines into a crypt for his family. He didn't live to see the completion of the grand burial chambers, but he was interred in the deepest vault when the crypt was completed by his son, Agemor.

The Stormcrag family has produced business moguls, generals, priests, wizards, thanes, and other prominent individuals in every generation. Most were given a place of honor and reverence within the family crypt when their time came. Some lived long lives and died of natural causes, others fell much too soon, either to illness, accident, or battle. Then there was Sorga Stormcrag.

Sorga was a wizard, a member of the Mages Guild, who became obsessed with the accumulation of arcane power. When study and training failed to provide the power she sought, Sorga began to turn to more desperate measures. Some of these, the rumors reported, involved Daedra.

When the family matriarch of the time, Koralla, heard about the dark path her niece had started down, she was furious. "Nords do not deal with Daedra," she proclaimed. But Koralla's efforts to change Sorga's plans fell on deaf ears. Worse, the family began to hear tales of dark magic and murder associated with Sorga Stormcrag. That was all Koralla needed to hear.

Koralla disowned Sorga, casting her out of the family and cutting off her access to the family fortune and her inheritance. She also declared that the family crypt would never hold the body of a Daedra-loving Nord. 

"If the family crypt is off limits to me, then no Stormcrag will ever rest there again!" Sorga declared. She placed a curse upon the tomb, making the dead rise and setting a deathknight loose within the silent depths.

To this day, the curse remains in place, and no Stormcrags have been interred in the crypt since Sorga was disowned.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#490)
	Letter from Agenor
My Lord Fildgor,

The contingent of Stormfist warriors you assigned to my command perform superbly. We've been disrupting trade and travel throughout the area, just as you ordered. When you give the signal, we'll begin the march toward Windhelm. We'll be in position to surround the city when the time comes to attack. 

I wish I could be with you at Skuldafn, but I understand how important my mission is and why you entrusted me with accomplishing it.

I can't wait to bend my knee before you and witness the moment when you take your place upon the throne. If you would honor me with the task, I would love to make your cursed brother Jorunn pay for his crimes against you. 

That milk-drinking bard! How he defeated you in battle is beyond me, Strong-Prince. You should have torn him apart like a rag doll. I know he cheated. I just know it!

We cleared the Goblins out of the Bastard's Tomb and have turned the place into a rather comfortable headquarters for the Brigade. But I'm afraid the soft living is starting to make my troops lazy. Don't worry, though. I'll beat that out of them quickly.

My troops are itching to do more than maraud across the countryside. We long for a real battle against worthy opponents! Hopefully, the skeevers guarding Windhelm will provide just the challenge we need.

Until I am once again by your side, I remain,

— Agenor Storm-Blade
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#491)
	Moldy Journal
14th Second Seed

Raining again. One wonders why I did not bring proper supplies to this place. Supposing the Bosmer who lived around were anything more than savages was a mistake.

20th Second Seed

Assistant has gone missing. I expect I'll find her body in the river, if the hoarvors don't find her first. A shame.

1st Mid Year

As long as my notes remain dry, I believe I can continue to work. The savage Elves hold so much untapped knowledge in their oral histories. It must not go undocumented.

5th Mid Year

Bitten by one of those infernal insects, the hoarvor. I pray the wound does not become infected and slow down my work. At least I still have my hands and my wits.

30th Last Seed

Winter rains washed away my crude calendar. Further entries will have approximate dates. Unfortunate, but unavoidable.

Frostfall

Witnessed several pilgrims at the shrine. Tried to hide my presence but to no avail. I fear they will send a search party. I must remain vigilant and ensure they do not interrupt my studies.

Frostfall

The cold bothers me less and less. I have devised a new ink recipe which holds a better line than my other efforts.

Rain's Hand?

My scrolls have gone missing. I don't remember moving them. If they've been washed away, this has all been for naught. But I must not despair. I will find them.
		

Failed at /books/492		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#493)
	Hadmal's Journal, Page 3
—But I ended it. I buried them all. In different places. Made sure they'd never be together again.

The firstborn, Jolinne. I laid her to rest in her favorite place to play as a child. I still remember her playing tag with her sisters in that alleyway. She'd hide behind the strange stones and surprise anyone who walked by. They'd be mad at first, but then they'd see her smile and move on, headed for the Sober Nord or Merchant's Row. She was such a playful child before—
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#494)
	Hadmal's Journal, Page 7
—The second-born, Fjorna. I laid her to rest in the shrine dedicated to the things she grew up dreaming about. Dragons. Whenever we visited the springs at Wittestadr, Fjorna would insist that we stop at the nearby ruins to pay our respects to the fabled creatures. She said she could sense their presence. She'd run off to the same spot every time. A smalI clearing behind a strange, curved slab of stone. She liked that spot. I hope she'll be at peace there. 

If only her mother—
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#495)
	Hadmal's Journal, Page 12
—before this had ever been so hard.

The third-born, Valdia. My little girl. My darling. For her, the only place that would suit was where I took her each year on her day of birth. To ride the horses at a little place in southern Eastmarch. The stablemaster would always welcome her, and my Valdia would be so happy. She'd sit by the small pond near the house and she'd pick those beautiful red flowers. She loved it there and horses were her favorite animals in the world. Which is why I wa—
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#496)
	Gilded Letter
Norion,

Our scheme has encountered an unfortunate obstacle. The majority of the people you sent have been slaughtered by a maddeningly altruistic <<1>>. I fear I may be unmasked as an agent of the Veiled Heritance if I don't leave Silsailen immediately. I'll pack a few necessities and meet you in Tanzelwil. Keep your head down.

— Valano
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#497)
	Letter to Sonya
Sonya,

I don't know why I continue to leave you these notes. You and the children have been gone for more than ten years now. Perhaps they make me feel better. Make me believe that what I did wasn't awful. That what I did was necessary.

You changed so much. Became a different person. But I'll always remember the woman I loved. The woman who gave me three beautiful daughters. That's the woman I'll always hold in my heart.

But when you met that man, the stranger from that cult, you changed. You brought our children into it when I was away. You corrupted them!

I'll never forgive you for that. But I'll never stop loving you, either. I enlisted in King Jorunn's army, stationed at Jorunn's Stand. The King needs us now. Especially with the threat his brother Fildgor and the Orcs pose to the land. I'll travel with him until, well, until I'm struck down in battle or this war ends. I hope to become one of the King's honor guard.

Perhaps when we meet in Sovngarde, you'll be the woman I first fell in love with again. Not the woman who embraced dark magic. Not the woman I had to kill.

Love,

Hadmal
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#498)
	Farewell Missive
<<1>>,

If this message reaches you, I must assume you did what I could not and stopped my wife. I apologize for not accompanying you to the ruins. My family's blood already stains my hands, and I couldn't bear to go through that ordeal all over again.

To think that everything I had to do ten years ago could have come undone, that it could have all been for nothing, I couldn't stand the thought! At the same time, I couldn't end their lives. Not again. I had to let that fall to you. And for that, I'm sorry.

You won't see me again. My time is done. I had hoped to die a glorious death, in battle beside the Skald King. Instead, I die a coward's death. May Kyne forgive me.

I've left a small reward for you. It's in my chest, behind this tent. My journal is also there. It contains the entire story of what I was forced to do.

Kyne watch over you, my friend. Kyne watch over us all.

— Hadmal
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#499)
	Hadmal Lastblood's Journal
I was a husband. A father. I wished to live a life of peace and love. I wanted to grow old with my wife, watching my children grow and start families of their own. Then, in the fullness of time, I wanted to pass into Sovngarde, wife at my side, to find whatever reward waited for us. I never expected to end the very things that gave me happiness. To be the hand that murdered my wife and daughters.

But sometimes things happen. Evil corrupts even the most pure. The most innocent. My family. My wife, my daughters. They hurt others. Innocent people. They did unthinkable things. The power they wielded when they were together was pure evil. But I ended it. I buried them all. In different places. Made sure they'd never be together again.

The firstborn, Jolinne. I laid her to rest in her favorite place to play as a child. I still remember her playing tag with her sisters in that alleyway. She'd hide behind the strange stones and surprise anyone who walked by. They'd be mad at first, but then they'd see her smile and move on, headed for the Sober Nord or Merchant Row. She was such a playful child before the Daedric corruption of Molag Bal pulled her into the cult.

She was the first to turn after my wife. The first I found, blood and knife in hand. An evil grin I didn't recognize adorned her beautiful face. I had to do what I did. Kyne help me, I had to.

The second-born, Fjorna. I laid her to rest in the shrine dedicated to the things she grew up dreaming about. Dragons. Whenever we visited the springs at Wittestadr, Fjorna would insist that we stop at the nearby ruins to pay our respects to the fabled creatures. She said that she could sense their presence. She'd run off to the same spot every time. A smalI clearing behind a strange, curved slab of stone. She liked that spot. I hope she'll be at peace there.

If only her mother hadn't gotten a hold of her. She was the closest to me of my daughters. She could hold her own in a fight. Won more often than not. A good girl.

But she too fell into evil of the cult. I had to take matters into hand again. So I did what was necessary, and I wept and wept into the night. Nothing before this had ever been so hard.

The third-born, Valdia. My little girl. My darling. For her, the only place that would suit was where I took her each year on her day of birth. To ride the horses at a little place in southern Eastmarch. The stablemaster would always welcome her, and my Valdia would be so happy. She'd sit by the small pond near the house and she'd pick those beautiful red flowers. She loved it there and horses were her favorite animals in the world. Which is why I was shocked when I found her favorite horse dead on that morning, its heart carved out. She was holding it, still pumping blood, in her hand and grinning maniacally.

I never asked for this. I never wanted this. But I felt responsible. As if it was my fault. As if I had failed them all somehow.

I did unspeakable things, but for the greater good. I never killed any innocents. But I killed my family. Perhaps this makes me more of a monster than they were, but I did what I thought was right. Sonya spoke of sacrificing the girls. Using them to gain ultimate power from Molag Bal. I couldn't let that happen to my little girls. I just couldn't!

I hope they can forgive me one day. I hope they welcome me into Sovngarde, back into their arms.

I miss them. More and more. Every day. I think it's time to finally join them.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#500)
	Letter to Dhalen
Dhalen,

You shall be greatly rewarded for your efforts at Fort Amol, my servant. It pleases me to hear that the alchemical elixirs you discovered in the Daedric ruins have proven to be so useful. Who would have imagined an elixir that allows you to steal the form of anyone who drinks it? Remarkable!

And the other potion? The poison? Make sure that my dear brother gets a full dose of the deadly liquid. No one deserves such a fate more than my beloved, conniving, cheating, too-smart-for-his-own-good brother Jorunn.

When everything has been dealt with, meet me at Skuldafn. We have one last thing to deal with before I can reclaim my kingdom.

— Fildgor Orcthane
		

Failed at /books/501		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#502)
	Reminder
Remember, the villagers must truly believe you are the First Auridon Marines for this to work. Don't leave the bodies where they might be found. Lock the real Marines in the cellar of the northernmost house, then burn it down on top of them.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#503)
	Kwama Shipment Manifest
Vileclutch Mine: 5 Dozen - Complete

Broken Stream Mine: 2 Dozen - Complete (3 Dozen Delivered)

Bulwark Caves: 8 Dozen - Complete

Blood Spear Caverns: 2 Dozen - Complete

The Falling Cliffs: 12 Dozen - Complete

Darkshade Caverns: 10 Dozen - INCOMPLETE (Mine Ownership Change)

Direwind Pass: 4 Dozen - Complete

Whispering Hills: 5 Dozen - Complete
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#504)
	WANTED: Tervur Sadri
Tervur Sadri is wanted for the murder of Master Selos of House Selos.

He is considered an armed menace.

Tervur Sadri was last seen in eastern Deshaan. 

Any information on the whereabouts of Tervur Sadri should be given to Nervyna Selos.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#505)
	Note to Selias
Selias,

We did it! The old man is dead and I have it! Meet me near the Netch Tree and I will pay you what I owe. Make sure you aren't followed, I hear Nervyna has been sniffing around.

— Tervur
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#506)
	Boethiah and Her Avatars
Boethiah, the Daedric Prince of deceit and conspiracy, utilizes avatars to impose her will upon the world. These avatars, always tricky and often unpredictable, can appear as males or females, Dark Elves or some other race. They usually insert themselves into important or momentous events, working behind the scenes to drive such events to a conclusion that serves the will of their secretive master.

Avatars of Boethiah often issue challenges and trials intended to test the mettle of worthy heroes and common folk alike. Their motivation is never clearly stated and usually obfuscated, but are always assumed to be a part, either small or large, of the greater machinations of their master.

When these challenges and trials come to an end, usually when the task assigned by the masked avatar is accomplished, it is common for the avatar to disappear without a trace. This often leads to mysterious stories, strange legends, or, at the very least, a level of confusion among those who participated in the challenge.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#507)
	Aniaste's Journal
I meant to keep a record of observations and experiments on the flora and fauna within Treehenge, but something's taken precedence over research.

The Worm Cult's hunting mammoths. Why, I've yet to determine. But I don't trust necromancers to have altruistic intentions.

Vanendil's asked me to gather as many pieces of ivory as I can carry. He's created an altar on the far side of Treehenge to free the mammoth spirits. I've mostly escaped the notice of the necromancers, but I fear it's just a matter of time before they find the both of us.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#508)
	Burnt Note
Valano,

The time has come to take action. Queen Ayrenn has dispatched a squad of First Auridon Marines to Silsailen to prepare for her arrival. 

Even now, my agents lay in wait. They have been instructed to ambush the Marines and outfit themselves with their uniforms and weapons. Disguised thus, they will burn Silsailen to the ground. When word of the atrocity spreads, the blame will be laid upon Ayrenn herself.  As we agreed, you will be named Canonreeve of Skywatch in return for your loyalty and assistance.

Long live the Veiled Queen,

— N

P.S. Do not forget to burn this letter!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#509)
	Lucius' Note
Trapped in the tower. Trolls everywhere. Stashed the supplies at the far top, hope they don't find them. Hungry, can't wait any longer—have to fight my way out.

If anyone finds this, please bring the supplies to Mael at Weynon Priory.

— Lucius
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#510)
	Josseline's Letter
Nordahl swaggered into the camp like he owned it. Flashed that hunk of metal around like he's Molag's gift to Mannimarco. Bah! Wanted to punch him in the mouth, but Scent-of-Graves stopped me. 

Regretting it now, since Nordahl's become more unbearable as the days progress. Wish you were here, sister. We'd show him a thing or two.

— Josseline
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#511)
	Scent-of-Graves' Report
Mud clings to every step Nordahl takes. How can such a man have risen to leadership? Yes, he has the shard. But all we have is his word that he gained it through prowess. In speech and deed, he has been rash.

I do not bring these concerns to you lightly, mistress. When we return to Riften, we will speak more of these matters. Perhaps you should relieve him of his shard. Or his life.

Until then, stay moist.

— Scent-of-Graves
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#512)
	Report on Training
Nordahl's progress remains unacceptably slow. Never have I tutored such a talentless mage. It's as if he's never even summoned a familiar! How he managed to raise the dead is beyond me.

He insists we continue, and vows my death if I speak of our lessons. It would be such a shame if we had a training accident.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#513)
	Manifesto of Kinlord Rilis XII
5th Evening Star

There was a time when I could not hear the words of my master echo in my ears. I did not know it then, but those were dark times. To return to those days would be like returning to a life of blindness.

There are things I can see and feel today—horribly beautiful things—that no other in my kingdom is privy to. With a little time, and a little focus, I can perform feats now that would bring the rest of Tamriel to its knees.

And what did those foolish nobles do when I, their High Kinlord, presented them with this power—and the prospect of protecting all of the known world?

The fools sealed my magic and locked me in the Banished Cells.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#514)
	2nd Manifesto of Kinlord Rilis XII
12th Sun's Dawn

I guessed their purpose when a half-dozen guards led me down here at the points of their swords; these were members of my personal guard, who have protected me all my life, and they would see that I live the rest of my days under the dirt.

Volraine, perhaps the kindest of my caretakers in my youth, put a hand to my shoulder as we walked that long flight of stairs down to the Banished Cells. I was beside myself, quivering, and he believed I was afraid.

He was mistaken. It was rage that overtook me, not fear, and as I stepped off the last stair, their swords still to my back, I spun around and released that rage.

Volraine died almost instantly, engulfed in a cloud of flame, his scream muted by the roar of my destruction spell. As the next guard leapt over Volraine's burning remains, I turned his sword away with a bolt of lightning to the throat, and the weapon slid neatly into the chest of a third guard. It stunned me how warm the blood was. Suddenly my hands were covered in it, and I marveled at the balmy fluid. It was like wearing the finest velvet gloves in the land, and it amused me to no end. For the first time since my capture, I laughed. I roared.

Eventually, they sent another contingent of guards to search for the first. By then, I had decided I would stay—for a little while, at least. I wanted to see the looks on their faces when they found the bodies of their comrades.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#515)
	3rd Manifesto of Kinlord Rilis XII
9th, First Seed

The nobles who orchestrated my capture refuse to have me slain. Why do they lack the stomach for such work? They would take me from my family and the vocation granted me by my lineage, but they refuse to release me from this banal existence.

I have asked them. Oh, how I've asked them. I've demanded, I've threatened, I've begged, for an end.

They will do nothing for me. And in my distress, I turn to the only person who's ever truly cared. I hear the master's voice incessantly now, and while I don't understand everything he says, I know he has my best interests at heart.

And his advice? He wants me to become better. A better High Kinlord. He teaches me, and through him I've learned spells that will open a way to the master. So that my subjects can meet him, can be made better.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#516)
	4th Manifesto of Kinlord Rilis XII
22nd, Frostfall

As the decades go by, guards give way to new guards, and soon, all guards will give way to a new order of "Keepers," trained in magics to keep me bound here. The death I have so often begged for has finally come to claim me, and the nobles must know that my Pact will see that I walk through death unscathed.

But I don't despair at living, as I would have years ago. As my mortal body fades, Oblivion seeps in, to replace it with a new form. An eternal form.

They say the Altmeri are long-lived compared to the lesser races. Soon, I will be a race unto myself, and I will outlive the Altmer.

The master tells me that, ages from now, he will free me from this prison, so that I might bask in his presence, the first of his new Elven people, and be complete. That will be a day of reckoning for my Keepers—for all of Tamriel.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#517)
	Mauloch, Orc-Father
By Ramurbak gro-Abamath

Know Mauloch, spurned of Boethiah and King of Curses.

An age ago, a cult of Elves left the Summerset Isles, abandoning their kin to follow Veloth, a pathetic tool of Boethiah. Trinimac confronted Boethiah for this trespass and was challenged to battle. Trinimac was about to strike a mighty blow when Mephala appeared and stabbed him in the back. As Trinimac kneeled, wounded by Mephala's treachery, Boethiah gloated and cast a terrible ritual to scar and twist his appearance, then cast him to a place of choking air and ash.

Trinimac, enraged by his failure, was reborn in blood as he sliced open his own chest, tearing the shame from his spirit. Mauloch, the God of Curses, rose from the ash and cursed Boethiah for his malice. 

On that day, Mauloch spoke the Code to his faithful, and swore vengeance against those who would break it.

"Do not steal.

Do not kill your kin.

Do not attack without cause.

Those who break these rules must pay the Blood Price."

And thus, the Orcs were born of blood: the Blood of Mauloch.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#518)
	The Fall of Trinimac
By The Faithless One

To truly know Mauloch, we must recall the story of Trinimac's fall from grace, and the events leading up to his torturous dishonor.

During the Merethic Era, a cult of Aldmeri dissidents abandoned the commonly accepted worship of Summerset Isle and began following a young prophet, Veloth. Boethiah had been speaking to Veloth in dreams and visions, guiding him to lead a new sect of Aldmeri with the belief that mortals could ascend to become gods. Trinimac's priests condemned the new sect for blasphemy and threatened exile, should they not abandon Veloth. When the priests were to pass judgement, Boethiah appeared, having swallowed Trinimac, and revealed the lies of Trinimac's teachings with Trinimac's own voice. Content the priests were shamed and broken from his revelation, Boethiah relieved himself of Trinimac in front of the assembly to complete his shame.

We know not how Trinimac had been defeated, but it is said that after his defeat Boethiah had consumed him and tortured his spirit in her belly. When Boethiah grew bored of Trinimac's torture, she released him from his prison and later exiled him to a plane of choking ash. This torture and dishonor left Trinimac twisted and enraged. Trinimac faded and was reborn as Mauloch, the God of Curses. With his mind bent on revenge, his most devout followers changed to match him and became the Orsimer, cursed to wander in exile, a people without a place.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#519)
	Note from Orlugash
Once you've located the missing volume titled The Fall of Trinimac, burn it. It is lies and blasphemy, and such false words cannot be allowed to spread.

— Orlugash
		

Failed at /books/520		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#521)
	O Blessed Spinners
O Blessed Spinners,

My name is Ulthorn, and I am in need of your wisdom. My love has left me. Life is nothing without her. She did not want to go, but it was fate, they said.

I do not believe in fate. How can it exist when a single word can change the path of a story? I have prayed for countless days. For anything—for forgetfulness, for release, for a miracle.

Now I pray to you. Are Gwaering and I doomed to be parted? I would do anything, pay any cost, to be with her again. I would give up a thousand lifetimes to hold her one last time. Please, you must help.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#522)
	Uricantar's Journal
I've arrived at Ezduiin. I'm still nursing the wounds inflicted by Telenger. And that faithless Andewen. I was certain we would spend the centuries together, she and I. All she had to do was acknowledge my power—and recognize that Telenger's time is past. 

- - -

I've explored the surface ruins, and found my way past the ancient magics protecting the ruin's entrance. I have the Undercroft to myself. The spirits here seem to pay me no mind. So far.

- - -

I've found it. The Mallari-Mora was lying just where it had fallen, all those hundreds of years ago. I have nothing but time now. To discover the secrets of Essanyon, and plumb the heights of Aetherius.

- - -

I've encountered a setback. In manipulating the magical energies surrounding the relic, I seem to have rekindled a connection long dormant. The spirits of Aetherius now flood the ruin. The dead bound by Essanyon's ritual once again walk the stones of Ezduiin.

- - -

I have mastered the Mallari-Mora. The enclosed sketches show how its multifaceted sides can focus and purify magicka. While I have yet to muster full control of the Aetherius shard coterminous with this ruin, I do have rudimentary control over the spirits I've summoned. I now have guardians and willing slaves.

- - -

Telenger has arrived. I've sent the spirits to be my eyes. Andewen is with him. This is it. Like misunderstood Essanyon before me, my time has come. I'll take some of his pathetic students, swing wide the gates of Aetherius, and claim my rightful place as arch-mage!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#523)
	Essanyon's Records
2nd of Rain's Hand

The Eight have spoken to me! Me, of all the Mer in the Summerset Isles. They chose me. My mother always said I was destined for greatness. A crow appeared to me in a dream. Asked me to spread the word that the end is coming. The end is coming and we must prepare if we wish to bask in the light of Auri-El.

- - -

8th of Rain's Hand

I've begun my mission. Already a small group of followers have gathered around me. Including my own brother, Quaronaldil! We must spread the word before our time runs out. I've sent Quaronaldil to start in Alinor, another in Cloudrest. I'll make the journey to Auridon. Focus on the people of Skywatch. I need to start making the necessary arrangements.

- - -

20th of Rain's Hand

I've finally arrived in Skywatch and begun spreading the word. Many appear doubtful, but a few have seen the truth. We're working hard to save the souls of our brethren. I've been praying to the Divines to send me another sign. Something I can use to add fire to the words I preach and show the truth behind them. 

- - -

15th of Second Seed

It's finally happened. The crow appeared again. The Divines have given me the date when it will happen. It will be the 10th of Sun's Height. I have a mere two months to get the people of Tamriel to see the light. I must get the word to the others throughout the Isles before time runs out.

- - -

30th of Second Seed

Another dream! This time the crow bore a message. The Divines have declared that if I can sacrifice an Altmer of Noble blood, it will prevent the end from arriving. I have one such Altmer within my flock. If I cannot persuade him to be a willing sacrifice, we may need to take more desperate measures. Either way, it must be done to secure the lives of all living things.

- - -

5th of Mid Year

I've summoned all of our followers for the ceremony. It will take place in the town of Ezduiin. Many of the faithful tend the fires there. The noble will die. And so many will live.

- - -

10th of Mid Year

Someone has warned the nobleman. He sent along his apologies. He will not attend. I must take more direct action. I've sent my most loyal of followers to Skywatch. Their blades will save us all.

- - -

14th of Mid Year

The ceremony was a success! My flock has fulfilled its purpose. But I fear I now know who has betrayed me. My own brother, Quaronaldil, has not been seen with the flock for many days. I fear the worst. 

- - -

19th of Mid Year

The Skywatch Guard assaults Ezduiin! Quaronaldil, no doubt, is responsible. They have us trapped in the Undercroft of Ezduiin. I refuse to allow my followers to die at the hands of infidel guards.

- - -

21st of Mid Year

The Crow came to me again in a dream. It told me to use the Mallari-Mora. I must secure the innocence of the faithful. The blades of the non-believers will not drink of my flock. Although our mortal lives here will be at an end, the crow has promised our souls will be delivered to Auri-El himself.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#524)
	Quaronaldil's Letter
Dear Mother,

Essanyon is insane. I first thought he sought a path in life. Now he talks only of the end of days. He speaks of the crow he sees in his dreams. He can't distinguish between the real and the unreal. 

He now believes the end of the world is at hand, as I'm sure he's written you. He has told me that sacrificing a Skywatch noble will somehow thwart this End. I can't allow him to murder another for the sake of his delusory faith.

I must report him to the Skywatch Guard. And come what may, I must stop him. I'm sorry. I love you as always, but I must stop him.

— Quaronaldil
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#525)
	Instructions for Placement
Be careful when placing the corruption stones around Tanzelwil. 

We've harnessed the energy to disrupt the ancestral spirits … but do not know how long it will be until the corruption manifests. Odds are good you'll have time to escape before they turn on the living.

Still, watch yourself.

— Norion
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#526)
	On Activation
Placement of the corruption stones is less important than activation. Our priestess has ensured that the corruption stones are imbued with the ancestral energy of the holy site. 

One stone should cover the entire site; the other five stones are insurance. It may seem excessive, but we can't be too careful. The traitor-queen's political machinations must be ended!

— Norion
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#527)
	On the Holy Symbol
Priestess Lanwe, one of the queen-pretender's lackeys, has in her possession a holy symbol that could be disruptive to our plans. Find her, kill her, and take the symbol.

It is the only relic at the site powerful enough to destroy the corruption stones. They'll be able to cleanse the site eventually, but something will have to be brought in from Torinaan or the Isle itself that will be powerful enough to undo this.

— Norion
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#528)
	Susceptibility to Corruption
According to our priestess, some of the ancestral spirits are more susceptible to the corruption stones than others. She's unsure which will be most affected.

Fortunately, the stones' destruction will have no effect on those working closest with me. Particularly Colonwe and the spirits of our honored familiar ancestors. 

— Norion
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#529)
	In the Event of Your Demise
If you don't return to Mathiisen, we'll have to assume your mission was compromised. 

We will, of course, inform the ancestors of your sacrifice and ask them to assist your transition to the realm beyond. You'll retain your membership in the Veiled Heritance even if you do not retain your corporeal form. May Xarxes keep you in his Book. 

— Norion
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#530)
	Journal of Priestess Aranwen
At the Queen's behest, I have agreed to perform an important part of the ritual honoring the Ancestral Spirits. Since many of the ancestors have grown hostile, I plan to do this in a quiet grove where I often meditate. The area is usually only occupied by a lone spirit named Colonwe. While mischievous and enigmatic, Colonwe knows me and has always tolerated my presence in the past. I feel certain it will be a safe place to perform the ritual ceremony.

Yours in Xarxes, 

Priestess Aranwen
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#531)
	Teldur's Journal
I grow increasingly suspicious of my master, Canonreeve Valano, and his true loyalties. Strange visitors come and go from the manor at all hours, and the Canonreeve has been sending private missives to unknown parties. When asked, he is extremely circumspect with regard to the content of these missives.

                - - - - -

My suspicions are confirmed! The canonreeve has been covertly communicating with members of the Veiled Heritance! In point of fact, I strongly suspect that the attack on the town was his doing all along. I plan to confront him. Arrest him if necessary. I dare not risk revealing my discoveries to any of the locals, as I've no way to discern who might be in league with him.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#532)
	Stormfist Scout Orders
Stormfist Scouts:

The eminent and highborn Fildgor Orcthane has forged this alliance of Stormfist Nords and Eastmarch Orcs. He asks but one thing from you for this mission: watch the giants! Use the trees to spy upon the brutes. When the opportunity presents itself, attempt to ambush a lone giant. Strike quickly from hiding and retreat. Under no circumstances should you engage in an ongoing battle with the big bastards. That's a fight you can't win.

You saw what remained of Scout Lagrulk after they hurled him back over the wall. What  a mess! Don't end up like Scout Lagrulk. That's an order!

— Lob the Cleaver
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#533)
	Dark Elf Dispatch
Keep an eye out for that Dark Elf woman everyone keeps talking about. We need to figure out who she is and why she's aiding the giants. We also need to ascertain the truth about the powers some of the scouts have claimed to see her utilize.

Dagroot claims he shot an arrow into her heart, but to no effect.

I know, Dagroot's got the brains of a horker. But still. Watch and learn what you can about her. If the opportunity presents itself, attack. Her presence makes me nervous, and you know what I do to the troops when I'm nervous. Let's solve this, now!

— Lob the Cleaver
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#534)
	Mammoth Duty
You will rotate duty between scouting and watching over the mammoths. The great beasts must be kept secure at all times. They become more agitated with every hour we keep them confined, and that's making them dangerous.

One of the beasts broke free last night and trampled its guards to death. It then caused immense amounts of damage to the fort. I hate to think what three or four of the beasts could do if they got loose at the same time.

Your orders are to make sure that doesn't happen on your watch. If it does, make sure the mammoth tramples you. So I don't have to.

— Lob the Cleaver
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#535)
	Gate Procedures
As the battle against the giants looms and a siege appears imminent, it's important that everyone knows how the fortress gates function.

Each gate features two locks. Both locks must be disengaged to open the gate. These locks are controlled by levers set atop the towers beside each gate.

A detail of guards must always be on duty at each gate tower. 

We can keep the giants out of Cradlecrush, but only if we stay alert and do our jobs!

This has been another helpful hint from,

— Lob the Cleaver
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#536)
	Mustn't Forget
If that's all that's left to me. I cannot leave it behind.

If I make others as I have been made, it shall be an heirloom of my new house, my new family.

But I must protect it, it must be hidden. What if I forget where I hide it, if the changes affect my mind? Perhaps a clue….

Up above, the statue wards. There.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#537)
	Song of the Diamond Sword
Have you see my sword sword? 

My new diamond sword sword?

I am now the lord lord

Of my diamond sword sword.

The question is rhetorical

You know I am the oracle

Of my new diamond sword.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#538)
	Or Else
We're too close to risk exposure. The girl is a problem. Interrogate her, find out what she knows. Then end her.

And find that shard of Wuuthrad, or I'll have you sent to Lost Prospect as ritual fodder.

—	Gullveig
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#539)
	Kwama Egg Omelet
With the Kwama gone all crazy back home in Deepcrag, Mama Aralosi can't get the eggs she needs for her famous omelets. I'm going take this bag and rustle up some eggs. She'll be so pleased, I just know it.

I copied Mama's recipe below, so I know what I have to get:

Step 1: Find a kwama mine — Check!

Step 2: Procure a kwama egg — Check!

Step 3: Get out of the mine alive

Step 4: Crack egg into a large bowl

Step 5: Whisk until the white and yolk combine

Step 6: Add spices to taste

Step 7: Bake and serve
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#540)
	The Chosen People of Aldmeris
By Sealord Malleroth Of Pyandonea

Many still believe that the Maormer race of Pyandonea diverged from the racial line of the Altmer when they were exiled from Summerset Isle as criminals. This is the great, traitorous lie of the Altmer!  

Translations of tapestries in the Crystal Tower reveal that the great Maormer race is directly descended from the purest strain of our Aldmeri ancestors. We certainly did not come from Summerset, but originated in our ancestral homeland of Aldmeris. 

The Altmer themselves are a mongrel race. They are the abomination that drove our great leader Orgnum to lead our people through the impenetrable mists to our haven of Pyandonea. 

For centuries, we have marshaled our forces in preparation for our triumphant return. Summerset is ours, by our right of birth as the one true Aldmeri race. All trace of the inferior Altmer race and their mongrel blood must be wiped from the face of Tamriel!

Our time has come! Arise, Maormer! Take your place as the rightful heirs to the Aldmeri Legacy!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#541)
	To The Veiled Queen
To The Veiled Queen, Future Ruler Of Auridon

Our plan to use South Beacon as a staging area for our occupation of Auridon is in motion. The lighthouse is now under our control and a powerful magical ward will limit entry to all but our most trusted agents.

As per our previous discussions, you will continue to supply updated, detailed information regarding the navigation of Auridon Strait and the scheduled fleet movements of Altmer Naval vessels in the area to our agents in South Beacon. They will relay the information to our ships, in code, using the lighthouse beacon. 

In recompense for this aid, you will be named our Viceroy of Auridon once our control of Summerset is assured. 

May Your Prow Ride High, 

Sealord Malleroth Of Pyandonea

Maormer High Command
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#542)
	How To Prepare Slaughterfish
Preparing Alder Plank Slaughterfish At Sea

Ingredients

    brine

    1 pace-long slaughterfish fillet

    freshly ground black pepper to taste

    1 cup vinegar

		fire salts

Directions

Soak the slaughterfish fillet in a brine solution for at least 14 hours. Also, submerge the alder wood plank in water, placing a heavy object on top of it to prevent floating.

Prepare an outdoor smoker on deck, filling the heating receptacle with fire salts. Ignite the fire salts using flint and steel and bring to high heat. 

Remove the slaughterfish from the brine, rinse thoroughly under cold running fresh water, and pat dry. Remove the wood plank from the water, and lay the fish out on the plank. Season with freshly ground black pepper.

Smoke the slaughterfish for at least 8 hours, checking after 5 1/2 hours for doneness. The fish is done when it flakes with a fork, but it should also not be too salty. As the fish smokes, the salt content reduces. Adjust the cooking time and salty flavor to your taste. 

WARNING: Under no circumstances should fire salts be combined with kindlepitch to increase temperature. This is extremely dangerous and can result in injury or death. The chef on the P.N. Coelacanth tried this and she burned to the waterline.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#543)
	The Maormer of Pyandonea
Entry 543, Atlas Notes, Imperial Geographical Society

It was once believed that the Maormer of Pyandonea were originally exiles from the Summerset Isles, but while it is likely they came from similar Aldmeri ancestors, they certainly did not come from Summerset. Translations of tapestries in the Crystal Tower tell the tale of a far older separation. The Maormer likely differentiated from the ancient Aldmer not in Summerset, but in their original homeland of Aldmeris.

Orgnum, their leader and self-styled "King," according to the legend was a phenomenally wealthy Aldmeri nobleman, who used his fortune to finance a rebellion against the powers of the land. He and his followers were banished for this to a place separated from Aldmeris by an impenetrable mist, Pyandonea, "The Mist-Veiled Isles." This exile proved so effective that the followers of Orgnum never again disturbed their former countrymen. The new Aldmeri homeland of Summerset, however, was not so lucky.

For much of Summerset's history, the Maormer have launched attacks against their cousins of Old Ehlnofey. Every one of these battles has been led by Orgnum himself, who it seems is not only immortal but grows more youthful by the century. No historian, to the knowledge of the staff of the Imperial Geographic Society, has counted the number of wars and strategems employed against Summerset, but somehow each has proved, no matter how ingenious, an ultimate failure.

One attack in particular is worthy of mention as it gives us our only glimpse into the actual landscape of Pyandonea. In the year 2E 486, a small Maormeri fleet was sighted off the coast of Alinor, and King Hidellith ordered his navy to give chase. The navy followed the ships through uncharted waters, into an ambush near Pyandonea itself. Most of the Altmeri navy was destroyed, but a single warship returned to Summerset to describe the land as a "sea jungle." Massive plateaus spilling over with vegetation form mazes around valleys of ocean. Waving tendrils of kelp trap all but the Maormer's own ships, and provide a well-camouflaged home for the sea serpents that are Orgnum's guards and occasional mounts. Mist storms spill over the land, further disorienting one's views. That even one ship survived the visit is a testament to the maritime genius of the Altmer.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#544)
	The Book of No-Name
By No-Name

Today, this one wagered that a random traveler I met in the street could walk into a room full of drunken Nords, grab a book, and walk back out.

This one knows that if No-Name asks enough gamblers, he'll eventually find someone who will take that bet. This one knows that on any given afternoon, some heroic traveler will offer to walk into that bar, especially if No-Name pleads convincingly enough.

No-Name feels bad for tricking a courageous, genereous traveler, so if you managed to survive, this one would prefer to offer a cut of the profits, a copy of this handsome journal, and a heartfelt apology to the traveler who reads this.

If you didn't make it out of the room, consider this handsome quarto faux-leather journal a suitable consolation prize. You cost me a lot of money, so I consider this compensation generous.

And if you ever tell the story of what happened, please leave this one out of it!

Simply say that the mysterious Khajiit who tricked you had no name.
		

		Part of the None collection (#545)
	Test Letter
Gentle Reader,

You are reading a sample document, and I am its imaginary, hypothetical author.

I think it would be better for both of us if we just parted ways amicably.

Sincerely,

Whoever Wrote This
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#546)
	Book of Gratuitous Sonnets
This line of simple text will have to do.

Pentameter and rhyme will have to wait.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#547)
	Dwemer Dreams
By Narsis Dren, Treasure Hunter

I discovered this section of ruins after careful study of the surrounding countryside. To my trained and experienced eyes, it was obvious that this complex would be right where I found it. I dubbed the place "Lower Bthanual," due to its proximity and relative elevation compared to the nearby Bthanual ruins. As with all Dwemer installations, the true purpose of the place eludes me. But that doesn't mean I can't dream and make a few wild guesses.

And, as always, my wild guesses will be closer to the truth than any theories proposed by the so-called scholars who sit in their towers in Mournhold and the Mages Guildhalls.

As I studied the maps I had drawn of the complex, an idea began to form at the back of my mind. I decided to sleep on it, and I found a safe location that the spiders and spheres seemed to actively avoid. I fell asleep to the gentle whirring of gears and the hiss of steam, and in my sleep, I dreamed.

I dreamed I was standing in the smaller, southern chamber, surrounded by living, breathing Dwemer. They were so engaged in their work that they didn't notice me as I passed among them. I watched as they fed strange components of metal and other, less easily identifiable substances into the maws of their churning machinery. They didn't speak or pause to rest, and they seemed to me to be almost as mechanical as the gadgets they produced.

In my dream, I left the Dwemer workers to their incomprehensible tasks and exited by the eastern corridor. I followed the passage as it curved to the north, ignoring the spheres that rolled past me. In the larger chamber, I came upon a bizarre scene. Dozens of Dwemer were crowded around the central platform, intent upon whatever was taking place upon that raised stage. I could see one of the centurions upon the platform, as it stood much taller than the Dwemer crowded around it. But I couldn't make out what was happening that had the Dwemer so fascinated. I started to push my way through the crowd in order to get a better view, when something grabbed my arm. 

I thought it must have been one of the Dwemer, who had until this moment completely ignored my presence, but the hand that grabbed me was cold and metallic. When it squeezed, I cried out in pain and opened my eyes. The dream rolled away like a parting mist, and I found myself in the grip of a Dwemer Spider! 

Well, since you're reading this account, you must have realized by now that I escaped that deadly danger, just as I always do. With style and wit and panache. You would have been amazed!

But let me tell you what I found when I opened the chest I stumbled across in the darkest shadows of the far corner of the chamber. The chest appeared a more recent addition to the ruins, not Dwemer in style or function at all. Made me think that maybe I hadn't been the first explorer to discover this site after all. Trust me when I tell you, however, that the contents of the out-of-place chest were almost as remarkable as yours truly, Narsis Dren — Treasure Hunter!
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#548)
	Note from Thulvald's Logging Camp
Thulvald,

The strange occurrences continue. Items have moved around mysteriously or even disappeared completely in some cases. And now the forest itself seems to have turned against us. Maybe the stories we heard are true. Maybe this part of the forest really is haunted. If you can send someone to help us, preferably someone with experience in fighting strange creatures and investigating unusual events, I'd really appreciate it. 

Or, if you're feeling adventurous, why don't you come and check on the camp yourself? You might find the experience to be illuminating. 

— Logging Chief Jafelma
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#549)
	Mine Foreman's Log
Day 746

Another day at the Triple Circle Mine, another half gold in my pay. But I digress.

My workers are good men and women, devoted and hard-working. That's why these continued stories of strange sounds deep in the mine are beginning to trouble me. Tesa brought me a tale today that I would have completely discounted if it had come from anyone else. But Tesa has always been so calm and level-headed, not susceptible to the superstitions that plague so many of her fellow miners.

Anyway, Tesa claims that she spotted a creature in the large chamber. She said it was below the wooden platform, drinking from the underground stream that runs through that portion of the mine. Tesa described it as a "mouth full of sharp, pointy fangs on two stubby legs." If I didn't know any better, I'd say she had seen a kagouti. I used to hunt the damn things back in Vvardenfell. Nasty creatures! But who ever heard of a kagouti prowling underground in a mine? 

I guess I'd better go and check this out. Just in case, you understand.
		

Failed at /books/550		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#551)
	Brave Little Scrib
Brave Little Scrib lived with the Kwama Queen, the workers, and the warriors. They were a free colony of kwama, not bound to a Dark Elf mine or any other form of servitude. But Brave Little Scrib was bored. She didn't like being told what to do by the older kwama.

"What makes you smarter than me?" Brave Little Scrib asked Kwama Worker.

"I'm older than you, Scrib," Kwama Worker said impatiently, "And I'm always very busy, so I know what's best. You need to stay away from the waterfall. Trust me, you're better off keeping busy than playing in the stream."

Brave Little Scrib didn't like that answer, so she went to speak with Kwama Warrior. "Why can't I play in the waterfall?" she asked.

Kwama Warrior, serious as always, never looked at Scrib as he spoke. Instead, he constantly scanned the cave for any potential threats that needed to be fought. Warrior liked to fight, and he was always looking for a battle. "The waterfall? You can't fight the waterfall, Little Scrib. Water is cold and fast and it makes you drown. You should go back to the egg chamber and play with the other scribs where the other warriors and I can watch over you."

Brave Little Scrib didn't like that answer, either. "Well," thought Brave Little Scrib, "if no one can give me a really good reason why I can't play in the waterfall, then I'm going to go play in the waterfall."

As Brave Little Scrib approached the underground stream that flowed from the falling water, she spotted a tiny torchbug up ahead. "Hello, tiny Torchbug," Scrib called out.

"Oh, hello, Little Scrib," Torchbug sang. His voice was hot and sultry, and it crackled like a burning fire. "What brings you to this part of the cave?"

"I've come to play in the waterfall," Brave Little Scrib said cheerfully. "Will you fly away so I can pass?"

"Oh, yes," sang Torchbug. "I'll happily fly out of your way. I haven't seen anyone drown in the waterfall in quite some time, and I find the sight very entertaining. Please, hurry. I need a good laugh."

Brave Little Scrib didn't like what Torchbug was saying. "You want to see me drown?"

"Well, I guess I don't really care one way or another," sang Torchbug, "but I do enjoy a good drowning. Do you know how to swim, Little Scrib?"

Brave Little Scrib thought about Torchbug's song. "I know how to swim," she lied. "But I don't think I feel like playing in the waterfall today. Maybe tomorrow. See you later, Torchbug."

"If you insist, Little Scrib," Torchbug sang. "Have a good day."

And Brave Little Scrib wandered back to the egg chamber, looking for another adventure.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#552)
	Dark Contract
Your wait is over, mother. Your family will be made whole again. Every act you've taken, every life you've stolen, has been leading up to this. Take Nimalten in the name of the Worm. And your sweet family will once again walk the waking lands.

— Thallik Wormfather
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#553)
	The Ballad of Skald Skullsplitter
By Skald Skullsplitter, His Mark Here: X

My songs are sung in drinking halls 

From Winterhold to Daggerfall.

Buy me some ale! I'll drink it all

For I don't sing for free!

The dragons left Nirn long ago

A tale of vast and cosmic woe

You might expect them back, but no,

They're all afraid of me!

I challenged a titanic Orc,

For his great blade and priceless torc,

Then asked if he would taste like pork

He dropped his sword to flee!

I met a fair young maiden Elf,

Who kept my sonnets on a shelf,

I showed her a few things myself

Now her kids look like me!

I met a Bosmer on a road

A vicious freak in mud and woad

I bellowed like a monstrous toad.

He promptly climbed a tree!

I faced a strong young strapping lad

Who swore I was his long lost Dad

I must say that is quite too bad

I swear it wasn't me!

A great Dwemer automaton,

Confronted me upon a lawn

I told him where the Dwarves had gone

Then threw it in the sea!

A Redguard's deadly with a blade,

That's curved, like all the swords they've made

But they're too dull to cut my braids,

They're not as sharp as me!

Through Tamriel, I've fought them all,

In darkest caves, by city walls

No place is grand as this great hall

Now have a drink or three!

And raise a mug with me!

Make sure I drink for free!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#554)
	Darkest Divinities
By Skald Skullsplitter

Though man and mer knew sin

since time began,

The Daedric Princes

watch each mer and man

Azura lights the day

from dawn to dusk

Hermaeus Mora

calls up memories

Hircine's Wild Hunt

tracks blood and scent and musk

Boethiah 

pursues conspiracies

Foul Malacath 

remembers every curse

Mehrunes Dagon 

knows destruction's wrath

Mad Sheogorath 

hums a nonsense verse

Stern Jyggalag

sets order on its path

Dark Molag Bal 

takes blood and souls as wealth

Vaermina lives 

in worlds that dreamers see 

Though none can match

unseen Norturnal's stealth

Or hedonistic

Sanguine's revelry

For every troubled soul

that must aspire,

A Daedric Prince

can grant each dark desire
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#555)
	A Sad Day for the Ra Gada
Our guide brought us to this place and gave us a map. All Velyn Harbor's wealth is stored within, she said.

She and her comrades lied to us, which should come as no surprise. They are pirates, after all.

I am now convinced there are no riches in this cave despite what this supposed treasure map says, but the others insist on continuing the search.

This distraction keeps us from throwing our entire might at Velyn Harbor. Greed has taken the place of glory among these men.

It is a sad day for the Ra Gada.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#556)
	Northern Heartlands Journal
Entry 55

Tomorrow looks to be a perfect day to climb the cliff behind the house, bask in the sun, and read a good book.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#557)
	The Benefits of Alliance
Your Veiled Majesty,

You have not yet responded to my first two missives. I extend you the courtesy of this final, cordial, note. 

I am well aware of your fealty to Lord Dagon. The weight that you place upon your oath is commendable. 

Let me assure you, my dear, your oaths mean nothing. Molag Bal will claim this world as his own, and there will be no need to fear the wrath of Dagon. Under my lord Bal you will attain the position ordained by destiny. You will be crowned queen, now and forever, 

Think on what I have said. And know that this is my final polite communication.

The King of Worms, 

Mannimarco
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#558)
	The Danger of Defiance
Veiled Majesty,

My civility and patience are at an end. Submit, or suffer annihilation at my hand. Your infantile pact with Dagon and the "power" he offers will mean nothing when the Planemeld is complete.

I offer you one—final—chance to submit. Serve my lord Molag Bal. You will rewarded with untold power, and a bounty of riches. Defy him, and suffer an eternity of torment at his feet.

Choose wisely.

The King of Worms, 

Mannimarco
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#559)
	Hendil's Journal
My son's gotten worse. I'm finding it harder to keep him sedated. His illness is … insatiable. And those things …. I have no idea what to do about the ones he's infected.

The aloe is my only chance. I'm the first to uncover its true properties as a powerful topical sedative. If these were more peaceful times, I would have submitted my research to the College. I could have won the esteem of my peers. 

Now I live all these waking hours in fear of those around me. At any moment they might uncover the truth about Tancano. What that could mean ….
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#560)
	Our Budding Alliance
Your Veiled Majesty,

Civility at last. I am pleased with our new agreement. Your serice to Molag Bal, despite your tawdry oath to Lord Dagon, will ensure you victory in your conflict. Across the face of Tamriel, there can be only one victor in this war.

My minions will carry orders to you when the time is right. Do not fail me. Loyal service is rewarded, but betrayal—well. The punishment would be unimaginable. 

Do as I command, in the name of Molag Bal. 

(And under your breath you can quietly pray to any Prince you choose.)

The King of Worms, 

Mannimarco
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#561)
	The Will of Drulshasa
Subordinate Dremora! Hear and obey the will of Drulshasa!

We are strong. We despise the weak and hate the frail. And we abhor the mortals most of all because they are both weak and frail. The weak must be punished by the strong! It is our calling, and it is the order of our lord and master, Molag Bal. 

Find mortals. Capture, but do not kill them. They must be alive when we sacrifice their wretched souls to Molag Bal.

Do not fail me, or you shall suffer in place of the mortals. Do this, because I command it!
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#562)
	The Art and the Madness v.1
By The Hollow Voice

Though powerful masters of necromancy can reanimate subjects long dead, most practitioners require a fresh subject. This often means most novices require a subject that has passed no more than three days prior. Attempting to raise minions without the proper knowledge of and training in the necromantic arts can result in an incomplete binding of the soul.

The subsequent breaking of the master and minion relationship can be dire for the hapless novice necromancer.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#563)
	BEWARE: Undercity Ruffians
The Wayrest Guard hereby issues the following alert to all citizens:

City patrols have noticed several heavily-armed persons of suspicious behavior attempting to traverse the sewer system in the undercity. The Guard suspects these individuals of ill-doing and strongly encourages citizens to report any dubious behavior in and around the sewers to the Wayrest Guard.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#564)
	Corpse Garden Mission
We discovered how this wretched hole in the ground got its damned name. Not only is the Corpse Garden a place where the dead have been buried, but like the garden of any palace or country manor, the Corpse Garden grows undead creatures that spread like weeds. The place is crawling with animated skeletons of all kinds. Some employ blades and charge in to attack with cutting blows. Others use bows with as much accuracy as the best archers in House Redoran. A few deal in magic, and these might be the deadliest of the lot.

And then there is the leader of this necropolis. It seems that the legendary General Celdien has returned from the dead to lead this army of skeletal soldiers. Why they have returned is anyone's guess, but they form a devastating force. Already, we've lost more than half our contingent. I'm beginning to think that the cost of this expedition has gotten too high. Maybe it's time for a strategic retreat. All I need to do is get past that sword-armed skeleton without falling to its deadly attacks.

Yes, that's all I need to do.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#565)
	Letter from Ragna
Yrna, 

Life at Tal'Deic Fortress never gets dull! In my previous letter, I told you all about the Dremora that replaced poor General Redoran. Well, now I'm practically running this place! 

Oh, the Skald King continues to send me specific agendas to promote and messages to deliver, but Captain Doronil has turned to me to help get the fort back in working order. Maybe things will slow down once a new general is assigned, and then I can come home for a visit. When was the last time I was in Eastmarch? Do you even remember, because I don't! 

I so wanted to get back for the Konunleikar, but that just isn't possible. Will you be participating in any of the games? You used to be fairly decent at archery, if I remember correctly. And flirting with visitors to the city. Is that still an event you can sign up for? (Just kidding, little sister!) 

Well, time to get back to work. I have troops to inspect and all that. Give my best to mother and father. 

— Ragna
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#566)
	The Sanguine Cult
Attention Bounty Hunters!

Any and all previously announced bounties on Sanguine cultists were posted in error. There is no bounty. None at all.

In addition, please disregard any steaming vitriol, all declarations of public menace, and any calls for public lambasting, chastisement, or retribution.

…And remember that the party is now in full swing at Sanguine's Demesne. Hope to see you there!

— The Stormhold Council (Genuine)
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#567)
	Black Vine Ruins
The ones I sent to explore further on haven't returned. I'll lead a small group to find them.

If I don't return by tomorrow morning, leave at once. There's no need for all of us to be ripped apart by these stranglers.

— Zidal
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#568)
	Galmon's Note
Dear Sanguine Cultists,

I bet you think you outsmarted me. Got me to sign an ironclad contract. A job that never ends. But the joke's on you! I found a loophole! I found a way out!

I'll see you bastards in Oblivion!

Sincerely,

Galmon
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#569)
	Roots of Silvenar
The excavation is going well. Before long, we'll reach the deep roots to collect samples.

Keep pressing the Nords, and we can stay ahead of schedule. If they complain, let the mead flow and remind them of the contract.

— Adavos Dren
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#570)
	The Living Gods
By Durillis the Theologian

No other religion in all of Nirn can claim what the Dark Elves know as absolute truth: their gods rule over them and walk among them, as real and as present as any other resident of Morrowind. From their seat of power in Mournhold's Tribunal Temple, the Living Gods of the Tribunal guard and counsel their people. When necessary, they punish sin and error, but they also share their bounty with the greatest and least among us, each according to their needs.

But who are the Living Gods? They are powerful Dark Elves who achieved divine status through superhuman discipline and virtue, and supernatural wisdom and insight. As the three God-Kings of Morrowind, they form the divine leadership of the Dunmer nation. The Three—Lord, Mother, and Wizard—are described below.

Vivec, the warrior-poet god and Master of Morrowind, is perhaps the most popular of the Three. He also tends to be the most public, and the people love him. His visage appears both beautiful and bloody at the same time, and he has made violence into an art form. Vivec the warrior-poet has darker aspects associated with primitive, ruthless impulses, such as lust and murder.

Almalexia, also known as Mother Morrowind, is the patron of healers and teachers. She is the Healing Mother, the source of compassion and sympathy, the protector of the poor and the weak. Almalexia embodies the best of Dunmeri culture and purpose. She exemplifies mercy, and her wisdom guides the Dark Elves in all their daily affairs.

Sotha Sil, God of the World-Mechanism, is the least known and most hidden of the Tribunal gods. Sometimes referred to as the Mystery of Morrowind, he is a Magus and the patron of artificers and wizards. Perhaps the mightiest wizard in the land and certainly the wisest, he is considered to be the Light of Knowledge and the inspiration behind craft and sorcery.

Together, the Living Gods are the pillars of the Tribunal Temple. They represent the power and discipline of the Dunmeri people, and rule with a combination of compassion and strict adherence to law and protocol.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#571)
	The Judgment of Saint Veloth
By Magistrix Vox

A number of powerful healing relics are associated with Saint Veloth the Pilgrim. Of these, perhaps the most famous and well-remembered artifact remains the Judgment of Saint Veloth. This mighty Daedric warhammer stands as a shining symbol of everything Veloth embodies as the patron saint of outcasts and seekers of spiritual knowledge.

Stored with other holy artifacts in the protected vaults of the Tribunal Temple, the Judgment of Saint Veloth served the prophet and mystic well in life, but has gained legendary powers since his ascension to sainthood. The God-Kings of Morrowind watch over the relics, keeping them ready for the day when their powers would be needed in defense of the realm.

Saint Veloth personifies daring, and those who follow the lessons of his life and teachings learn boldness and cultivate an adventurous outlook. He defined the difference between good and evil Daedra, and even negotiated the original arrangements with the good Daedric Princes. This ability to distinguish the good from the bad was a hallmark of the living saint, as was his penchant for healing and healing items. Both of these aspects combined into his personal symbol of power, the warhammer known as Judgment.

Veloth's Judgment rang with authority throughout the land, using its enchantments to cleanse corruption from the souls of those it struck down. It was a weapon, of that there can be no doubt. But Veloth was able to wield it with the same precision that a surgeon uses to wield a scalpel, removing the corruption from a soul and leaving the remainder alive and healthy. The warhammer stored the corruption for a time, turning it into energy that could be used by the wielder to enhance the power of the weapon.

Of course, in the wrong hands such a powerful artifact could accomplish more harm than good. For this reason, among many others, the Tribunal keeps the Judgment and other artifacts locked away. It has been suggested that instead of being used as an instrument of healing, the Judgment could be used to siphon a living creature's entire soul, thus making the wielder infinitely more powerful. This conjecture has never been put into practice, and if the Tribunal has its way, it never will.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#572)
	Kwama Mining for Fun and Profit
By Dorayn Redas, House Hlaalu

Developing and maintaining a kwama mine can be a rewarding, and more importantly, a lucrative pursuit, provided one takes the time to learn about kwama and their environmental requirements. Kwama are giant insects that live and work in underground colonies called egg mines. Although eggs provide the primary source of income for any kwama mine, they are by no means the only product produced by the mine. Kwama cuttle, scrib jelly, and scrib jerky all provide additional sources of revenue for a kwama mine.

To start a kwama mine:

1a. Find and tame a wild kwama colony (difficult), or

1b. Purchase excess kwama from a crowded mine (expensive)

2. Live near the colony until you smell like kwama

3. Never approach the kwama queen chamber

4. Gather eggs, collect cuttle

5. Count your profit

Despite the name, a kwama mine consists of living creatures. With judicious yet unobtrusive maintenance, a moderately-sized mine can produce an abundance of valuable kwama eggs. Kwama mines can also produce tasty scrib jerky, acidic scrib jelly, and kwama cuttle, which is highly valued by alchemists.

The Kwama Colony: The road to owning a profitable mining concern starts with a healthy kwama queen and a full complement of workers. The queen produces eggs in the deepest recesses of the mine. Kwama workers care for the eggs, moving them to the various tunnels and chambers within the mine, according to space requirements, environmental conditions, and the development state of the eggs. Kwama workers also produce food for the mine, feed and clean the queen, and expand the mine complex as the colony grows. When not tending to their usual duties, workers can be seen digging new chambers and tunnels within the ever-growing labyrinth of the mine. Workers tend to be docile, but can turn violent if threatened or attacked, or if the queen is in danger.

Kwama warriors protect the colony, reacting quickly to any perceived danger. They should be treated warily and with respect, for they are aggressive and highly dangerous. While workers are quadrupeds, warriors are bipedal and very powerful.

Scribs, as the miners call juvenile kwama, roam freely through a kwama colony. A mine usually splits the scrib herds into two camps: those allowed to grow into workers or warriors, and those harvested while still young for jelly and jerky. Scrib jelly has a variety of uses, including as a food source, but it is prized by alchemists as a key ingredient to create potions and cure diseases. Scrib jerky, made by drying thin slices of scrib meat, has minor restorative properties and is considered to be quite delicious by Dark Elf culinary experts.

Starting a Kwama Mine: Assuming you don't want to pay the exorbitant fees associated with purchasing a queen and kwama from an established mine, you will need to locate and tame a wild colony. This approach isn't without cost, however, as House Hlaalu requires would-be mine owners to purchase a license before hunting for a wild colony in earnest.

When you locate a potential colony, you can't simply walk in and set up shop. The colony's aggressive warriors would make short work of your miners. There is a solution: acclimation. The acclimation process takes time, but injury and loss of life (of both colony members and miners) can be minimized by letting the colony slowly become familiar and comfortable with your presence. Once your miners acquire the smell of the local kwama, the warriors will consider them to be part of the colony.  

Egg Harvesting: The actual "mining" of kwama eggs doesn't require a great deal of skill. Miners basically need only patience and common sense to perform their job. Egg harvesting must be done with an eye toward balance. Remove too many eggs and you may agitate the workers and the queen. Remove too few and the queen's egg production may fall. The mine manager must keep a careful eye on production to ensure that the queen does not produce too many or too few eggs. Wide swings in production will affect profits and make planning more difficult, and should be avoided.

Avoid the queen's chamber at all times. Warriors and workers will view any approach to their queen as a threat and react accordingly. Production can grind to a halt as the colony becomes agitated and miners can't safely enter the mine. You might lose a few miners as the colony rampages, but the most important thing to remember is that the kwama will eventually calm down and once again accept the presence of the miners.

Note: House Hlaalu egg-mining licenses require mines to provide regular production reports. Failure to comply can result in sanctions, fines, or even closure of the mine. And that's neither fun nor profitable.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#573)
	Shad Astula Academy Handbook
Welcome to Shad Astula, the Academy of Magic! This is where the most talented mages of the Ebonheart Pact come to learn, share a common origin, and become leaders in the magical community. Your journey begins here.  

For many, the journey to master magic is fraught with frustration and difficulty. The training provided here can lead to a life of service and rewarding work, thanks to the availability of the best teachers and teaching methods. The fact of the matter is, while everyone invited to the Academy is selected for their potential for greatness, not all of you will measure up to the task before you. For those unfortunate enough to fail, Shad Astula serves as a safety net, a place to refine one's meager skills without causing harm to oneself or to others.

But you will not fail. You are not one of the unfortunates. You will rise above. You will take your place as a leader in the Ebonheart Pact!

You have already realized that you are different from others who can wield the gift of magicka. Now, prepare to be introduced to a world of power. For you, Shad Astula serves as a place where you can spread your wings. With the help of our staff of master mages, you will not only learn to fly, you will soar!

As one of the chosen of the Academy, the usual restrictions and rules that govern the learning of magic do not apply to you. Those rules exist to ensure the safety of mages who may pose a danger to themselves or to others. We anticipate that the Academy's select students will excel, and we believe you're capable of learning your limits quickly. A few guidelines do apply, however:

     — Do not summon creatures from Oblivion planes, except within designated summoning circles.

     — Magical experimentation on other Academy students is forbidden.

     — Magical experimentation on non-Academy members is discouraged, but use your best judgment.

     — Magical experimentation on staff is encouraged. Keep them on their guard, and they'll do the same for you.

     — Designation of assistants as "minions" is strictly prohibited, and cultist or cabalist behaviors or organizations will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Save your megalomania for after graduation.

     — Students who have not passed the Emotional Control and Mental Stability Exam (ECMSE) are forbidden from sharing a room.

     — Magical dueling is strictly prohibited, except under a staff Battlemage's supervision.

You will soon receive an appointment with the Headmaster, who will have more to say about Shad Astula and your status as a member of the Academy. In the meantime, feel free to explore the campus and introduce yourself to your fellow students. Some will become your peers, others your underlings, and a very select few your betters. Learn them well.

Welcome to Shad Astula. Spread your wings and soar! We expect much of you. Do not disappoint us.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#574)
	Dwemer Dungeons: What I Know
By Kireth Vanos, Dungeon-Delver Extraordinaire

We know almost nothing about them, except that they left behind the most interesting and exciting ruins. You know who I'm talking about. That's right! The Dwarves—or the Dwemer, for the scholars among you who might be reading this. (My brother Raynor insists I call them Dwemer, but I like the name Dwarves better. It rolls off the tongue, in my opinion.)

Now, dungeon-delving is serious work (no matter how much fun it might be), and can be pretty dangerous besides. Just finding a Dwarven ruin is no small accomplishment, but getting into one and back out again in one piece can be next to impossible. But before I get to that, let's talk about the ruins themselves.

Dwarves created a vast network of underground complexes and cities. Why they preferred to build beneath rock and soil, I couldn't say, but that's where they built them. So that's where you'll have to go if you want to visit a Dwarven ruin. Once you do find one, you'll know it. Dwarven architecture has a distinctive look and feel, from the surface entryways to the subterranean structures. They utilized natural openings in the rock wherever possible, tending to decorate and carve existing rock and natural pillars. They only built new structures when it was absolutely necessary, usually to support other structures or to install fortifications.

In addition to carving and shaping the natural rock, Dwarves used stone as their primary building material. Some metal appears within their ruins, primarily brass, used as accents and in mechanical construction. And here's the really exciting part: Dwarves loved their gadgets, and their ruins are full of them! I don't mean just traps, though some of the most devious were designed and built by the long-gone Dwarves. I mean heating and cooling systems made up of steam pistons and great gears, glowing lights that shine from the walls, giant wheels that turn as water cascades over them, multifaceted gems that fire beams of light, and many other wonders too numerous to mention.

It's eerie to walk through a Dwarven ruin. It's supposed to be empty, deserted, but the lights continue to glow and the pipes continue to steam. It's like the place is waiting for someone to return, as though the Dwarves just stepped out for a moment and haven't been gone for hundreds of years.

Then there are the inhabitants of the ruins, for a Dwarven complex isn't as devoid of life as you might think. In fact, some of the ruins virtually teem with the stuff. But it isn't life as you or I know it. It's mechanical life. Constructs. They wander the chambers and corridors of these dungeons, performing tasks assigned to them in ages past. But make no mistake, if a construct spots you, it will attack you. With whirring blades and piston-powered swords, the Dwarven constructs pose a significant threat to any would-be dungeon-delver. Worse, the constructs know how to repair each other, so the ruins seem to contain an endless supply of the mechanical creatures.

So, to successfully enter and exit a Dwarven ruin, you need to spot and disarm (or otherwise bypass) devious traps, avoid or defeat an army of increasingly more powerful wandering constructs, and figure out how to open strange locks that might or might not require something that looks like a key. It can be a bit maddening, but personally I find the challenge to be remarkably fun. 

Of course, everything I've written thus far has been theory and conjecture. My brother and I have yet to enter a Dwarven ruin, and all of our practice has been within the mundane dungeons that dot the land. But I've read all the books! We've finally acquired the funding we need to tackle the Dwarven ruin known as Bthanual, and I plan to write about that adventure in the very near future.

In the meantime, let's all be careful out there. Remember that a dungeon isn't all fun and games. Survival is serious business, and we're in this line of work to not only thrive—but to survive!
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#575)
	Legend of the Ghost Snake
Observations on the Mabrigash

from the journals of Bonorion the Wanderer, 2E 568

In Deshaan, I encountered a strange tribe of Dark Elf Ashlanders. They call themselves Mabrigash. Unlike their Vvardenfell brethren, this tribe is not nomadic and appears to have settled in an isolated region of Deshaan, a location they call the Vale of the Ghost Snake. I believe they have concocted the story of the perilous Ghost Snake to discourage outsiders from lingering too long in their village. Although, frankly, their rudeness, which rivals that of any of the more civilized Dark Elves I have ever met, is more than enough to drive outsiders away. However, my curiosity about this isolated tribe steeled me against their attitude. I remained nearby for a time, watching them and recording my observations. Forthwith, here are my findings on the Mabrigash:

The Mabrigash do not welcome visitors.

The Mabrigash appears to be a matriarchal society, and their females are definitely more dominant than males. They also seem to outnumber the males by a factor of three or four to one. I wouldn't say this society hates males, but they certainly don't trust them or like them very much. At least as far as I can tell.

They claim a Ghost Snake gives them advice and watches over the Vale. I believe they use this so-called "Ghost Snake" to scare visitors away and to keep the village population in line.

It appears they sacrifice their own tribe members to this mythical deity. The tribal elders encourage trials to honor this "Ghost Snake," and many of these end in the death of the participants.

Here is the legend of the Ghost Snake, as it was told to me by a charming little lady of some six or seven years of age. She approached me with absolutely no fear or hesitation. She asked me why I was being so creepy and watching them all the time. At least, that was the gist of it. My understanding of the Mabrigash dialect is rudimentary, at best. I deflected her question with one of my own. "What is this Ghost Snake I keep hearing about?" I asked her.

"Follow the Coiled Path and you'll find out," she replied with a bat of her cute little eyelashes. "The Ghost Snake offers advice and protection, as long as we care for the Vale," she continued. "Everybody knows that." She went on to tell me that the Ghost Snake was the combined spiritual essence of the tribe's female ancestors, given spectral form by the belief and respect of the living tribe members. Or that it was a creepy dead snake that liked to haunt the Vale and eat innocent Mabrigash children. She spoke very fast, and as I've said before, my mastery of the dialect was far from perfect.

From an economic perspective, the tribe crafts unique snakeskin leather. They use this leather for everything, from clothing to packs to a simple armor. They are, however, unwilling to sell or trade this wonderful material to outsiders—or even to the men of their own tribe. Everyone involved could make a fortune if the Mabrigash could be convinced to open trade with the outside world.

I met a Mabrigash scout on patrol. She threatened to "toss me to the ghosts and serpents on the Coiled Path." Fortunately, my speed and tree-climbing skills far exceeded hers, so I was able to avoid this savage ceremonial rite. Additional observation leads me to the conclusion that the tribe subsists on a diet primarily consisting of snake meat. This may contribute to their uncontrollably hostile demeanor.

After several days camping nearby and continuing my observations, a rather fearsome Mabrigash warrior visited me. He said he was the Gulakhan. He said the only reason they had not simply tossed me to the serpents within the Vale was that the Farseer labeled me a hapless idiot. I am sure I missed something in the translation of the message. When I asked to meet with the Farseer, this Gulakhan's hand seemed to tighten on the hilt of the rather nasty-looking sword that hung at his side. It was then I decided that my time among the Mabrigash Tribe had come to an end.

***

Annotation from Nuros Raloro, Tribunal Scholar Priest, Mournhold 2E 576

This utterly ludicrous "observation" was found abandoned near the border to Stonefalls some years ago. The Bosmer chronicler Bonorion does not appear to have the wit of a five-year-old child when it comes to accurately recording unusual events or peoples. He resorts to making things up or taking wild leaps of illogic to come to his so-called "conclusions." This document has been preserved within the Tribunal library and copies have been distributed, as he did at least conduct some conversations with the Mabrigash, and information on this tribe remains scarce.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#576)
	War of Two Houses
By Drelisa Hlaalu, House Historian

War among the Great Houses of Morrowind isn't unique, and more often than not some kind of conflict between two or more Houses is under way somewhere across the land. Rarely do these conflicts escalate from subterfuge and intrigue to all-out war, but open hostilities aren't unheard of in the history of Morrowind. Let me tell you about one of these wars.

In 2E 559, House Hlaalu and House Dres advanced beyond the usual tensions and posturing and fielded squads of combatants south of Narsis, on the border of the Black Marsh. It wasn't the first time these two economic rivals had challenged each other, and it wouldn't be the last, but the actual war was memorable, both in scope and in the number of casualties that piled up over the course of the battles.

House Hlaalu was determined to set up a trading post in the disputed territory. House Dres was just as determined not to let that happen. Halfway through the construction of the outpost, the House Hlaalu workers suddenly found themselves surrounded by Dres mercenaries. The small squad of Hlaalu guards assigned to protect the workers, led by Purilla Falen, quickly established defenses and prepared to defend the outpost. The Dres mercenaries, who outnumbered the Hlaalu guards five-to-one, assumed they would make short work of the defenders and have the post burned to the ground before the midday meal.

But that's not the way it happened.

Purilla and her guards repelled the first assault with relative ease. She was determined to hold the line, no matter the cost, until reinforcements arrived. To facilitate the appearance of aid, Purilla set the one wizard they brought with them to work on opening a portal to Narsis. If the guards could hold back the onslaught of the Dres mercenaries long enough, an open portal could provide a path for Hlaalu battle-merchants to pour out of to turn the tide of battle. They only needed a little time.

As the wizard performed the portal ritual, Purilla and the defenders met each House Dres attack with skill and ferocity. The mercenaries rushed in, sending a wave of attackers at the post's barricades. Each wave was turned away, but not without a cost. After five hours and four separate waves of attacks, Purilla's forces were reduced to a third of their original size. By then only Purilla and six guards remained to fend off the next Dres assault. And the wizard required a few more minutes to complete the ritual and open the portal. "You shall have that time!" Purilla proclaimed. "For Hlaalu!"

The seven defenders, magnificent in their fury, fought with honor and savage resolve as the wizard completed the final steps of the ritual. One guard fell. Two. Four. Now only Purilla and two Hlaalu guards remained at the battlements. The Hlaalu workers, who had been providing support and watchful eyes throughout the previous battles, took to the walls as well, using tools and the weapons of the fallen guards to help defend the post. For all their effort, it appeared that the crushing weight of the Dres assault was about to engulf them.

And then the portal opened.

House Hlaalu battle-merchants streamed through the portal, hurling spells and arrows into the ranks of the surprised mercenaries. A full cohort emerged from the portal and crashed against the wall of Dres mercenaries. The wall held for a few long moments, and then it shattered against the weight of the Hlaalu troops. Dres mercenaries fell in scores before their line finally broke and the remaining mercenaries turned to flee. The battle-merchants chased after them just long enough to make sure they were really routed, and then they formed up to secure the post.

Brave and noble Purilla Falen was responsible for the Hlaalu victory that day, but she didn't survive the final battle. A Dres mercenary's blade had caught her in the neck as they were retreating. She was dead before a healer could reach her side. Thanks to histories like these, however, her efforts will never be forgotten.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#577)
	A Pocket Guide to Mournhold
Welcome, traveler! Welcome to Mournhold, the City of Light and Magic! This pocket guide was prepared with great care for you in the year 2E 481, and as such you can rest assured that it is current and up to date enough to provide for your every need.

As the capital of Morrowind, Mournhold is the greatest city in Tamriel. Travelers bring prayers and commerce to our streets, and we are ecstatic to receive you.

Please understand that with so many pilgrims gathering every day, you may occasionally encounter outlanders who seem lost, overwhelmed, or even frustrated by the bustle and the layout of the city.

To accommodate all visitors, the city registrars have compiled a few useful instructions on places and activities you may enjoy, as well as mandates from the Tribunal you must adhere to. Observe, learn, and enjoy your stay! 

Reverence: Dunmer from the farthest reaches of Morrowind and beyond arrive each day to pray and show reverence for the Living Gods of the Tribunal. If you are one of our Dunmeri brothers or sisters, you already know the proper ways to show obeisance to the Three Tribunes: Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil. Sacred shrines throughout the city, including the Tribunal Temple, are ready to receive your donations.

If you are a non-Dunmer visiting our city, no doubt by observing our citizens you will pick up the proper modes of obeisance. The safest course of action remains the simplest. Do as the Dunmer do. Say what the Dunmer say. And be mindful of where you walk.

Remember, do not panic when you see heretics submitting to the justice of the Tribunal. The registrar would like to assure you that we are well-practiced in dealing with heretics. Your safety remains one of our greatest concerns.

The Great Bazaar: Mournhold stands as the mercantile heart of Morrowind. We welcome your business! If this is your first visit to our great city, feel free to ask the city watch for the most direct and safest route to one of our merchant districts.

The Great Bazaar, the largest and most heavily patrolled of our markets, should serve as a destination spot during your stay. Make sure to see a seasonal event at one of our outdoor theaters, catch a wandering passion play in a town square, or listen to a public choir in one of our well-groomed parks. And know that every purchase you make grants you a little piece of Mournhold to take with you when you depart.

Please, however, be sure to make purchases only from registered and licensed merchants. That is the only way to ensure that proper fees and excises are collected.

Plaza Brindisi Dorom: Troubled souls can find peace wandering through the statuary and gardens of Brindisi Dorom. Just as trees and flowers reach toward the sky to seek the nourishment of the sun, the citizens of Mournhold raise their arms in prayer to the wisdom of the Tribunal. May you find solace here!

The Tribunal Palace: Many travelers cannot wait to visit the Tribunal Palace, where the Living Gods of Morrowind reside. Please understand that while we welcome your zealous enthusiasm, the Ordinators may take issue with displays of excessive zeal. As always, everything in moderation. If your enthusiasm gets the better of you, Tribunal shrines located throughout the city are available to collect donations to atone for your transgressions.

Whatever you seek, you can find it in Mournhold. Our priests, registrars, and city guards will make sure of that. Enjoy your stay!
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#578)
	Sanctioned Murder
From the Journal of Mjahlar Virian

For as long as I can remember, my life has been devoted to one thing: taking the lives of others. These were not random killings. Only those who fell afoul of the law, who wronged the Houses of Morrowind, or who desecrated the sacred teachings of the Tribunal were fair game.

Their lives were mine to take. Given to me, you might say, because they deserved to die. And I was very good at killing.

My victims were mostly unaware that I was coming for them. Some knew they had wronged others: murdered an innocent, stole from the Houses, even bedded another's lover. But they would always claim they had done nothing wrong. That I was mistaken. That I had the wrong man or woman. With a blade at a throat, however, it's amazing how honestly and completely one makes a confession.

One after another, I ended them. A swift slice across the throat. The shallow flesh parted, the thin veins severed cleanly. They would try to scream, but they would only choke on the crimson gore that filled their lungs.

I delighted in death. It filled me with a pleasure I could find in no other activity. This was my life. This was who I was.

People feared me. Loved me. And my brothers and sisters. Pushed us away, and then embraced us as the need arose.

Some days we were hailed as heroes. Others, as murderers. Those in power fell to our secret blades. And then those who gave us the orders followed.

But there was a mistake. A flaw in our process. We had grown too perfect. We had extracted justice from innocent blood.

Such is the way, even with the most clear-cut contract. There is always a chance that the law is wrong. That it made a mistake. The contract never lies, but it isn't always correct, either. Even the smallest of actions, harmless as they may seem, can cause a tidal wave of destruction for those following behind.

A fool's pride veils his judgment. In a moment of passion, blood scrawled upon the wall says it all. "Morag Tong." Those words scream out, loud and insistent. They echo throughout the world, labeling us as ruthless killers that follow no rules, that have no laws.

The Tong, always hidden, working in secret, suddenly fell under scrutiny. They wanted to drag us out of the shadows and into the light. We withdrew, deeper into the shadows. Our contracts became fewer, our jobs turned into small tasks. We ran errands for bored House nobles. We endured.

And we obeyed. We remained loyal. We swore on our lives to uphold the cause, and we would not turn our backs on it now, no matter the level of difficulty facing us. Even if the world had turned its backs on us, we would stay the course.

Our leaders whisper to us. They tell us to practice patience. They assure us that the day shall come when our hand of justice once again reaches out to grasp the world. A coming darkness will soon sweep the land.

And the Morag Tong will once more be needed. Will once again become relevant.

But I am old and my days wind down. I prepare for my trip to Vounoura, and I must pass this mantle to someone younger now. Someone less experienced, less wise. My son and my daughter will soon take up the dagger, but they have not seen our greatness. They must forge a new path for the Morag Tong.

The darkness of war comes, and no one shall be spared from its wrath.

The Morag Tong must put aside the wrongs it has endured. We must be ready.
		

		Part of the Deshaan Lore collection (#579)
	Dark Ruins
By Cyrillo the Deranged

They call me mad and have branded me insane. I accept the title they have given me, and wear it proudly as a badge of honor. For the name I now carry shows that I was willing to enter the dark places, over and over again. To brave the ruins of madness and chaos to bring knowledge to the world. The Three protect me from the things I have discovered, and keep my mind clear long enough to share this knowledge with the world!

I found my first Daedric ruin when I was a very young man. It was a hidden shrine from the past, dedicated to the Anticipations of the Tribunal. I was rounding up a number of kwama scribs that had wandered away from the herd. I followed the scribs into a hidden canyon, when I heard the pathetic cry of a lost scrib emerging from a crack in the canyon wall. I squeezed through the narrow gap to find that it opened into a large depression in the rock. But no simple cave had I wandered into. No, this space was full of carved stone that at once filled me with both wonder and deep fear. For the oppressive blocks of set stone were decorated with patterns of webbing and spider motifs, and the statue at the center of the space depicted none other than the Anticipation of Vivec, the Webspinner Mephala.

Words carved into the base of the statue burned into my memory, never to be forgotten: "Lust is love. Lies are truth. Death is life." They frightened me, but also excited me. The experience set me on a path that led to madness and knowledge, though where one ends and the other begins, I cannot tell.

I returned to my family's kwama mine, escorting the scribs back to the herd. Then I packed a bag, said goodbye to my mother, and started my search for the hidden shrines and dark places where the Daedric ruins wait to be discovered.

Not every ruined shrine waits beneath the ground. Some hide in open places that are far from inhabited lands. These might be overgrown with vegetation or lost within the folds of rolling hills and craggy canyons. I have even visited a shrine that was hidden beneath the sea.

Those shrines located in underground caves and complexes tend to appear more ominous and oppressive than those happened upon in the great outdoors, but that could just be the influence of the ever-present darkness and awareness of the crushing walls of stone. Some of these ancient shrines stand alone in the darkness, but others serve as the focal points of great complexes, many of which are guarded by elaborate traps or vicious monsters—or both.

I have visited more than a dozen of these Daedric ruins, and a few were not as abandoned and unused as the Temple would have you believe. There are still those among us who honor and even worship the Daedric Princes, and I discovered more than a few fresh offerings and sacrifices in these dark places. But the true secret, the knowledge that has earned me my new name? For that, I must ask you to keep an open mind and a firm resolve, because what I am about to reveal may sound unbelievable. It may even sound like the beginning of a campfire story, one intended to frighten before bedtime. But I assure you, this is no story.

What did I find at that first shrine to the Webspinner that I wandered into by luck and accident? What drove me from my parents' home in search of other Daedric ruins? It was the voice. Beautiful and seductive. It whispered to me, told me secrets that I never should have heard. The whispers emanated from the ancient, cracked statue. They echoed from the cavern walls. They reverberated through my mind, building in volume and intensity until they drowned out my own thoughts and memories. They frightened me, these whispers. But they also excited me, and I had to hear more. But the Webspinner was done with me. She imparted her words of wisdom and dark secrets and fell silent. The place was once more abandoned, desolate.

If I wanted to hear more—and I so very much wanted to hear more—I would have to find another shrine. And so my life's work was set before me. I had to find other secret places, other hidden ruins. I had to hear what the other Daedra had to say. Not because I worship them. Not because I had fallen under some dark spell. No, I needed to learn more so that I could share it with the world. It was imperative! It was my duty! But, as I write these words, I find that I can't reveal what the whispers told me. My hand won't put the whispers to paper. It refuses no matter how hard I try!

It seems I have failed in my mission. All I can do is tell you that there are secrets to learn. But it appears that if you want to learn them, you'll have to make the trip yourself. Visit the dark ruins, listen to the whispers. Perhaps you'll fare better than I, and the whispers won't drive you mad.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#580)
	Journal of Arraj
29 Sun's Height

I know not what force drags us up from our eternal rest, but the call cannot be denied. I did not study the Daedric Princes much in life, but bound to them now in death, I regret that.

Maybe if I knew more, I could save us from this terrible duty. Whatever this force or being is, it grows closer. Crawling. Pulling. The very world seems to rebel against it, but to no avail.

12 Evening Star

Nirn ends soon, this I know. And it ends in a tide of corpses.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#581)
	Letter with Singed Edges
To my lord Mannimarco, King of Worms,

I am interested in coming to an arrangement in regards to the Summerset Isles. We share a common enemy in Ayrenn and her Aldmeri Dominion. I won't stand in the way of your goals. I merely wish a small demesne of my own. Auridon, with Skywatch as my capital. 

We're both intelligent, powerful creatures. I'm certain we can come to an arrangement that suits us both.

I eagerly await your response.

— High Kinlady Estre of the Errinorne
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#582)
	Ode to Auridon
Of all the lands in the Summerset Isles,

Auridon, she outshines them all.

With her marble halls and towering spires,

Her beauty surpass'd them all.

From Vulkhel Guard to the First among Holds,

Her strength outstrips them all.

In shadowed glade and quiet ruin,

Her calm surprises all.

In steel and ship and flopping fish,

Her coin out-trades them all.

With beauty and wit and subtle grin,

Her Queen is best of all.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#583)
	Mathiisen Forge Inventory
4 Breastplates (Eagle etching)

10 Steel Swords (Jazzira, remember to inlay the hilts for the next shipment.)

2 Steel Shields

4 Wooden Shields

4 Daggers (1 straight, 3 curved)

2 Dozen Nails

18 Horseshoes

25 Steel Ingots (Stamped with Mathiisen seal)
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#584)
	The Piper
The Piper came to town, and he raised his pipes to his lips to play. The townsfolk laughed at him as he walked off and his music continued softly.

None saw the Piper again, but as the days wore on, the music of the pipes continued. It echoed in the sleep of the townsfolk, and was present when they awoke. The people grew tired and restless and daily were searches called to find the Piper. They found nothing.

Then, one night, the incessant music cut through the air more loudly than ever. The townsfolk dreamed that night, of critters and vermin, and struggled to sleep. When they awoke, where their children had once been, nestled into their beds, were swarms of rats and mice. Outcry came from house after house. Mothers charged into the streets and fathers charged everywhere else. The townsfolk wept and through their misery failed to notice … that the music had stopped.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#585)
	Merion's Diary
That strange mage. Why would he leave me here? Luckily, a talented alchemist is never without his tools. I've noticed several types of mushroom growing in the cave. After puttering about the cave, I put together a recipe for a magic resistance potion. Should keep me safe from any manipulations or illusions.

- - -

I was just beginning to gather ingredients when the most luminous creature appeared to me! Initially I thought she was a vision imprinted on my weary brain. But we began talking and—diary, my dear diary—I'm enraptured! She's so kind and understanding. It's like she was made for me!

- - -

I sing for her. Recite poetry to her. She loves it. My wife doesn't like music. Minstrels bother her. She always gets bothered by something or another. She doesn't appreciate me. Not like the new lady in my life.

- - -

Read over my first entry. I note I was trying to formulate a potion, but I can't for the life of me remember why. I've grown to like this place. Even the keening of the bats in the background is like a siren's song. It's all thanks to her. My lady, my love.

- - - 

My wandering days are over! We are to be married, and live forever in our subterranean paradise! If I ever see that mage again, I'll thank him. He's changed my life!
		

Failed at /books/586Failed at /books/587Failed at /books/588Failed at /books/589Failed at /books/590Failed at /books/591		Part of the Final Words collection (#592)
	Faded Note
I am—was—Sanessalmo's adjutant. May my loyalty be rewarded in another life.

I worked for decades with the master. When he was—I thought—unjustly removed from the Queen's Court, I stood with him. No one could judge him for what happened to his wife, I thought. The public eye can be cruel. But the man I work for now bears little resemblance to that man. He has broken.

I have performed tasks in these strange landscapes of the mind that would make most moral men shiver. I have supported rituals so heinous that the line between death and life is blurred. I mourn for the Sanessalmo I knew: witty conversationalist, loyal employer, loving husband. 

The monster he has become. Is unrecognizable. I write these words staring at a wall of ice. Certain to be the last thing I see.

Should someone find ths letter, I hope they do better by Sanessalmo than I.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#593)
	Royal Decree
By decree of <<1>>, the Court Mage <<2>> is henceforth stripped of all titles, duties, and rights accorded to him by his position.

The outcast <<2>> is furthermore banished from the Summerset Isles for his crimes against the citizenry of the Dominion.

By the will of the queen, he has one week to remove himself from the heart of the Dominion, or face charges most serious. And consequences most fatal.

By the Queen's hand!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#594)
	The Experiment
My old compatriots from the Queen's Court have fallen into my open hand. My experimentation has reached entirely new levels! Perhaps there is a touch of revenge present in my actions. They were, after all, the engineers of my downfall. So be it.

<<1>>, the Queen's Treasurer, finds a beauty in coinage that belies a deep desire for status. Perhaps her low-class upbringing contributed to this. Simply unleashing her on my pile of rare, useless trinkets has allowed me to observe her mind at work.

The Queen's Herald, <<2>>: a man unable to speak to people on a personal level. He often told me he couldn't sleep the nights before and after a major public announcement. A snowy cave, far from the comforts of home, isolates and crystalizes his deepest insecurities. Should be an interesting experiment.

I often thought about <<3>>'s descent into disgrace. Her wartime heroics are far better documented than the defeat that destroyed her career. It's time I learned the details. Channeling her rage in a volcanic setting should result in interesting phenomena.

<<4>>, my old friend. His weakness is passion. He spoke often of bedroom conquests. In the face of true desire, how far would he go? To his death? I shall create the perfect embodiment of his desires and see how deeply he falls.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#595)
	Oathbreakers' Rest
Being divided into two parts, the Bosmer who accepted the Green Pact were blessed by Y'frre and dwelt in the forests—but those who rejected the Pact were cursed. Their ever-changing forms were stripped of life and tossed into the great tar-pits of Ouze, where they sank into eternal slumber.

The spirits of Ouze are restless, however, and the Oathbreakers may return one day. They may return to seek vengeance on their brethren, but our eternal hope is that they will eventually accept the Green Pact, returning to Y'frre's favor and the arms of their people.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#596)
	Ladies of Green
by Cirantille

The Wood Elves are, by nature, secretive and reclusive, yet I do not believe they intentionally hide their lore from outsiders. Take, for example, their practice of choosing new leaders every generation. No one outside the Wood Elves knows exactly how they choose their "Green Lady," but after only a little time I have discovered much about this position, role, and title.

Every generation—a somewhat nebulous concept in itself; there appears no set length of time—a young woman is chosen from among all the Wood Elves to give up her own identity and become the Green Lady. The Green Lady represents, as I understand it, the ferocity, the strength, and the pure physicality of the Bosmer.

Does this mean she is their war-leader or chieftain? Not exactly. Certainly, much of the Green Lady's strength can be turned toward battle, but she is more a manifestation of the physical prowess and even health of her people. I would call her a demigod if I did not think it might offend the true gods as well as the Wood Elves themselves, but it might be an apt description.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#597)
	Silvenar Manifest
- 12 oxen, live

- 12 oxen, butchered, salted

- 10,000 eggs

- 200 chickens, live

- 14 barrels, flour (West Weald)

- 6 barrels, sugar (Tenmar)

- 12 casks, salt

- 12 kegs, ale

- 6 kegs, mead

- 20 kegs, beer

Note: It is imperative the kegs of mead, ale, and beer be marked discreetly or in code. The Wood Elf handfast ritual includes the imbibing of a rather … unique alcoholic drink made from honey, animal fat, and other ingredients not considered palatable by other members of the Aldmeri Dominion. While the Wood Elven nobility understands the need for refreshments other than this concoction, there is no need to put … alternative beverages front and center. It could be considered insulting.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#598)
	A Letter to the Mayor
—out of Velyn Harbor immediately! Our friends in Greenshade are not happy with you, and they've learned about your "special funds."

I believe they've contacted the Dark ….

… don't know what your plans are, but I intend to be as far away from Velyn Harbor as I can possibly get before they connect our business to the …

If you can, get word to me at Silvenar. Perhaps <<c:1>> can protect us. I hear his influence with the Green Lady has increased dramatically.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#599)
	Orders from the Chief
Assist the Redguards in their attack on Velyn Harbor. Their plans for invasion do not affect us, and we are being well paid.

Once the harbor is secure, send any you can spare to Jathsogur. The tribes are gathering; they've caught wind of a valuable prize, and our warriors should be there to claim a portion of any spoils.

As for Velyn Harbor, the more damage you can cause, the better! The Aldmeri Dominion think themselves superior to us. We shall show them their folly in not making us their allies when they had the chance!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#600)
	Fists of Thalmor
Captain:

RE: Defense of Velyn Harbor

Your requests for reassignment to Silvenar for the handfasting ceremony is currently under review, but I cannot emphasize enough the importance of your current assignment, the defense of Velyn Harbor.

The harbor remains the primary port of Malabal Tor and, with the wedding between the Green Lady and the Silvenar imminent, it is imperative that the harbor be kept clear and safe.

The Fists have stationed three full squads in Velyn Harbor, which should be more than enough to fend off any attack small enough to get through the Dominion's blockade.

Do not fail at your assigned duties, Captain, for your ability to choose future assignments is at stake.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#601)
	Scout Report: Arx Corinium
Suspected activity at Arx Corinium:

A large number of wild creatures have been spotted in or around Arx Corinium. These creatures are highly aggressive, even those not usually assumed to be aggressive. Advise caution when traveling near the abandoned prison of Arx Corinium.

Be advised, lamias have been spotted near the area. These creatures are reclusive but highly aggressive when approached. Use extreme caution.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#602)
	Exodus from Summerset
Those who dare can achieve greatness.  

Veloth the Prophet was scorned by those who were blind to the corruption and spiritual bankruptcy at the heart of their society. Veloth was cast out, cast off, by those with no interest in truth and even less interest in the betterment of all, who sought only to preserve their pride and place by keeping others in poverty, ignorance, and slavery. Veloth was highborn, but he dared to cast off the decadent chains of Aldmeri society.

Veloth the Mystic called out to those whose souls were weary, whose lives were ground out with no hope of improvement in a society founded on ambition, greed, and decadence. To those who hoped for a society that preserved traditions, praised honesty, and rewarded the just, Veloth's voice was as a golden note among a cacophony.

Veloth the Pilgrim led his followers across the seas and away from the lands they had known with the promise of a new land and a better future.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#603)
	The Bastard's Tomb
By Taleon Mythmaker

In life, Yoregg Grass-Grazer was a rogue and a scoundrel. He made a fortune, first as a bandit and a raider, and later as a landowner and businessman. In all of his roles, he more than earned the name he was given—Yoregg the Bastard. By all accounts, he relished the name, and even had it applied to his tomb when his long and vile life finally came to an end. This is the tale of how that came to be.

Yoregg the Bastard was among the oldest men in Windhelm, but he was as strong and as vigorous as anyone half his age. He owned many of the shops and market stalls in the city, as well as the tavern, the stables, and most of the farms beyond the western walls. But "own" might be too soft a word. Yoregg ruled over his holdings with as much power and authority as any thane or jarl in the land. If you worked for Yoregg, he treated you little better than a servant or a slave, and if you rented land from him, he made sure you acted as a humble vassal in his vaunted presence.

In other words, he was a pure and total bastard.

While Yoregg continued to fortify his fortune and terrorize the people beholden to him, he also began work on his tomb. He chose a location far to the southeast, in the region where he made his first fortune as a bandit and a raider when he was a very young man. The old hide-out that he used as a headquarters in those days of pillaging and plunder was located within a series of caves in the mountains separating southern Eastmarch from the Rift. He hired the talented stoneworker, Shreg Rock-Fingers, to turn the unadorned caves into a suitable resting place for the Bastard. She didn't disappoint.

When Yoregg traveled to the tomb to see what Shreg had accomplished, he made one of the few blatant mistakes of his life. And it was a mistake that was about to cost him dearly. The truth was, Shreg had a grudge against the Bastard. Of course, almost everyone who had ever met the Bastard had a grudge or a grievance or an ax to grind with the intolerable man. But Shreg's grudge was personal and deep seated. 

Yoregg had squeezed gold from Shreg's parents for decades while they toiled and worked the farm he rented to them. She remembered how they suffered, but rarely complained. How almost every coin they earned had to go to the Bastard to pay off their debt. But it was never enough. And when Mother fell sick, Shreg could only watch as Yoregg and his goons unceremoniously tossed her family from their land for failing to make their regular payments. On that day, Shreg swore she would find a way to make the Bastard suffer.

Yoregg was thrilled with the work Shreg had done on the tomb. It was regal and vast, and it appealed to his overblown sense of self-worth and status. He adored the raised dais and the altar that were the focal point of the main burial chamber, and the high ceiling above gave the place a majestic air that played to the Bastard's ego. "Yes," he declared, "this will do nicely."

Shreg led the old man to an open sarcophagus made of chisiled stone that stood upright against one wall. "Would you care to step inside, my lord," Shreg asked as innocently as she could manage, "so that I can take an accurate measure?" Yoregg beamed. He couldn't wait to step inside the ornate stone casket. But Yoregg was still a big man, even at his advanced age, and the inside of the box was tight and snug. 

"Squeeze in, my lord," Shreg said, shoving at one of Yoregg's broad shoulders. Finally, after a bit of a struggle and some judicious contortions by the old man, Shreg was able to swing the massive lid of the sarcophagus closed.

"How does it feel, my lord?" Shreg asked sweetly.

"It's a bit cramped," Yoregg admitted. "And very dark."

"Just like your soul, my lord," Shreg shouted, making sure he could hear her through the stone.

"Excuse me? What did you say?" Yoregg demanded, his voice reflecting confusion and anger and a slight hint of blossoming fear.

"This is for my parents, you bastard," Shreg declared as she sealed the lid of the sarcophagus. "Enjoy your eternal rest, my lord."

Shreg could hear the Bastard's cries echo through the chambers as she exited the tomb. She hoped it took him a long, long time to die.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#604)
	A Perfect Score
Syslas,

I think I found our score. It's perfect for us. Abandoned, rumored to be haunted and not a soul in sight. It's called Arx Corinium. Must've been some kind of Imperial fort. It's been abandoned for years, abandoned hastily. There should be plenty of loot for the taking. But I'll need your strength, my friend. There are bound to be natural dangers.

We'll speak soon.

— Hundred-Scales
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#605)
	Ashlander Wise Women
by Jiuba Rothalen

An outsider looks around an Ashlander camp, sees the interactions, and speaks to some of the clan members. This outsider likely assumes that the Ashkhan leads the tribe, since the Ashkhan is usually the strongest warrior. This assumption leads the outsider to grief, should they ignore the more subtle strength and power within the tribe when trying to negotiate or request assistance. The Wise Woman serves as the spiritual leader of the tribe, and even the Ashkhan seeks her counsel and obeys her visions. 

A Wise Woman employs a type of magic foreign to those trained in the use of the different schools of magicka. Her magic appears to be grounded in the natural world. Evidence exists that some Wise Women receive prophetic visions. Certain scholars studying the Ashlander clans say that this dream-interpretation simply makes use of intuition and a thorough understanding of the internal relationships and politics within a given clan to claim some sort of prophetic vision. They label Wise Women as lore-keepers, with a useful, if largely informal, knowledge of herbal alchemy. This attitude is dismissive and speaks to the lack of scholarly study on the part of the observer.

I have spent some time among the Ashlander clans and have personally witnessed a Wise Woman who was able to heal a gravely injured hunter. The recovery from a grievous injury within the span of a day was nothing short of miraculous. This hunter, who was gored badly by some creature, was at death's door when brought to the Wise Woman. The loss of blood alone did not bode well for survival. I did not witness whatever rituals the Wise Woman may have performed in his healing. I was, however, able to speak with the hunter, and within a day, she was up and walking.

The clan Wise Woman should never be ignored and her advice never dismissed. Not if you want to successfully deal with an Ashlander tribe.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#606)
	Memo to Captain Doronil
Captain Doronil,

I simply cannot understand the intent of these new orders from the General. The way he commands the watch to be set leaves gaping holes in our defenses during parts of the evening. If we were short-handed that would be one thing, but we have plenty of soldiers for the job. Please share your thoughts. I wish to understand the purpose of these orders.

— Commander Taldyn
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#607)
	Ice Elves: Fact or Fiction?
Are there Ice Elves?  I have heard of these strange creatures but until recently, I dismissed the stories as myths. But now I am pretty sure I met one. 

My cousin Knudek and I were hunting deer south of Fort Amol with little luck. Knudek was determined to bag something bigger than a rabbit. After a few bottles of mead and feeling encouraged, he ran off waving his bow, telling me he would return with a fine buck before the sun fully set. I decided to make camp, figuring my cousin would soon tire of hunting as evening fell.

The snow started just as I finished off another bottle of mead and crawled into our small tent. Not long after, I heard some strange beast thrashing about in the woods nearby. I called out, thinking it was Knudek. An eerie moan was the only response, making the hairs on my arms stand up. 

I grabbed my bow, determined to face the creature. As I leapt out, a strong gust of wind caused the snow to swirl. I became tangled up in my tent and pitched forward, my hand landing in the small campfire. I screamed in surprise, startling the creature as it paused near the camp. 

The creature was too small to be a frost troll. It made some odd noises and I yelled at it to go away. I could not see it clearly because of the snow and my eyes streaming from the pain of my burns. The creature made more unintelligible noises. 

In desperation and in fear for my life, I grabbed a handful of hot embers with my uninjured hand and flung them at the creature's head. The pain caused me to scream even louder than the creature, which began to thrash around, flailing into a snowdrift. I managed to stand as the creature struggled to its feet. It was pale-skinned and hunched. It did not attack me. The pain in my hands had rendered me speechless.

In spite of my pain, I decided to make a run for it. I fled toward Fort Amol. Luckily, I ran into a group of soldiers heading back to the fort. They got me to healer, who tended to my hands. Knudek showed up several days later. He said he'd gotten lost, fallen and broken his arm, and was later attacked by a rogue mage who flung fireballs at him repeatedly. He was sorry he missed the Ice Elf. He wants to go looking for it again, after we both heal.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#608)
	General Redoran's Dispatch
To All Soldiers,

Effective immediately I want all of you to stop discussing any unconfirmed rumors of unusual sights and sounds in and around the fortress. This kind of idle chatter hurts the morale of your fellow soldiers and is nothing more than idle speculation and rumor-mongering. Any reports of suspicious activity should be brought immediately to me for review. Please deposit your reports in the circular receptacle beside my desk.

— General Gavryn Redoran
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#609)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 21
2920, The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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 reins.

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 them 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 it's 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.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#610)
	Kwama Egg Quiche
Ingredients:

- One medium kwama egg or two small kwama eggs

- Ground meal

- Mug of water

- Diced tomato

- Garlic

- Salt (to taste)

To Prepare:.

Break eggs in a large bowl. Add tomato, garlic, and salt. Whisk briskly. 

Combine the meal and water to make a dough. 

Layer half of the dough in a deep pot. Pour half the egg mixture over the dough. Place another layer of dough, pour remaining egg mixture into pot and finish with another layer of dough.

Cover pot tightly and hang over a small fire, or place the covered pot within a hot oven. 

Check the quiche after one hour. Once a brown crust forms on the top, the casserole is ready to eat.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#611)
	Wasp Wrangling
I should never have listened to Ameelus. He said the mire wasps can be tamed. He even claimed that a lightweight harness, made of string, can be used on them. 

You would think I would have learned my lesson after the "coat your scales in scrib jelly to avoid getting burns" fiasco, which was his last brilliant idea.

For future reference, covering your hands with honey and trying to coax wasps into some degree of calmness doesn't work, either. And their stings hurt. What a waste of a good jar of honey.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#612)
	About Mercy
To all you,

Mercy is a weakness. Remember: we are here for skulls. It brings no honor to Malacath to take the weak as slaves or as pets. 

If it isn't the way of Malacath, it's not the way of the Oathbound.

— Gruznak
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#613)
	The Mabrigash Trial
Dearest Fari,

I know you are curious about the different people and places I see on my travels. I met a strange Dark Elf after I left Mournhold. His general demeanor was less aloof than others of his kind, though he still had that somewhat mistrustful air about him. I offered him some wine and bread at my campsite, and he seemed grateful enough for a little company.

He claimed to be a "Mabrigash," which I took to be some sort of Ashlander clan off-shoot, though I was unaware that any clan had traveled this far south from Vvardenfell. I asked him about his journey, and he said he was going nowhere and anywhere. He said he couldn't return to the Vale.

When I asked, he told me the Vale was his home. He claimed his clan protected snakes and ghosts in this mysterious place. In turn, a "Ghost Snake" watched over the clan. Now, he was getting a bit drunk by this time, as we shared more than a bottle or two, but he assured me there was indeed a Ghost Snake.  I asked why he left. He was silent for a long while. Finally, he mumbled that he had failed his trial. I asked what he meant and he said that he had not walked the path, that his courage had failed him and he had fled. "Now I can never return," he told me. "I have shamed my family and dishonored my clan."  

He started to weep softly, so I pretended to busy myself with my packs, and a minute later he was snoring. Poor fellow. Obviously some primitive ritual or tribal rite had gone awry. I was determined to encourage him to return home when we broke camp in the morning. However, when I awoke at dawn, he was gone. 

I miss you as always. I will write again in a few days.

— Thorgo
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#614)
	The Hoarvor Pit
I don't know how long this creature has been trapped down here, but the stories of the hoarvor pit go back as far as my grandfather's grandfather. It's been down here the entire time, and they've been feeding on it.

What else could Daedric blood do to hoarvors but make them mean? And large. I doubt I'll be able to find a way back out; they nearly killed me on the way in.

At least the hoarvors will have something different to eat for a change.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#615)
	Why We Farm
Now that we have been banished to this cave there is little for us to do but chronicle the reasons we have been forced here. It distracts us from the hunger, and we will not break and eat our own kin as our disgusting brethren outside do.

We Bosmer, though they call us Apostates, seek to join the rest of the world in modern, civilized thought. We do not wish to be tree-worshiping primitives any longer.

To that end we did what to our cousins who imprisoned us in here is unthinkable: we farmed.

We planted and sowed and were going to harvest until we were found out and cast down here, beneath the surface, to die for our transgression against the Green Pact.

We did not agree to the Green Pact, our ancestors did long ago. Yet we must live with the consequences. We cannot even make our own bows thanks to this ridiculous agreement, yet we can buy them from other people. For us to chop down trees is blasphemy, but to pay someone else to do it is fine.

This hypocrisy is ridiculous and we refused to be bound by it. For our refusal, we die.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#616)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 2
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

14 Morning Star

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 Akaviri 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 Akaviri's chest and the sudden, intense pain caused him to drop both his weapons. In 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.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#617)
	Breaking the Cycle of Tyranny
By Alla Llaleth

The brash young kingdoms of the Covenant want to reestablish the Empire of Men. They are too callow and immature to realize that the Empire was a failed experiment whose time has passed. Now is a time of crisis for all of Nirn, and Tamriel cannot afford to have these unlearned barbarians destabilizing Cyrodiil and jeopardizing our efforts to stave off world-destroying doom.

The Ebonheart Pact will not allow the Daggerfall Covenant to establish another bloody-handed dynasty of Imperial tyrants. Time and again throughout history, armies of men have marched in from the rim of Tamriel to conquer its center, enjoying a brief moment of power before sliding into inevitable discord and decay. It's time to break this destructive cycle once and for all. We need to defeat the armies of the Covenant, depose their kings, and bring their chastened successors into a new Tamriel Pact, where wiser heads shall prevail.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#618)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 7
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

19 First Seed, 2920

Bodrums, Morrowind

The quiet hamlet of Bodrum looked down on the meandering river, the Pryai. It was an idyllic site, lightly wooded where the water took the bend around a steep bluff to the east with a gorgeous wildflower meadow to the west. The strange flora of Morrowind met the strange flora of Cyrodiil on the border and commingled gloriously.

"There will be time to sleep when you've finished!"

The soldiers had been hearing that all morning. It was not enough that they had been marching all night, now they were chopping down trees on the bluff and damming the river so its waters spilled over. Most of them had reached the point where they were too tired to complain about being tired.

"Let me be certain I understand, my lord," said Vivec's lieutenant. "We take the bluff so we can fire arrows and spells down on them from above. That's why we need all the trees cleared out. Damming the river floods the plain below so they'll be trudging through mud, which should hamper their movement."

"That's exactly half of it," said Vivec approvingly. He grabbed a nearby soldier who was hauling off the trees. "Wait, I need you to break off the straightest, strongest branches of the trees and whittle them into spears. If you recruit a hundred or so others, it won't take you more than a few hours to make all we need."

The soldier wearily did as he was bade. The men and women got to work, fashioning spears from the trees.

"If you don't mind me asking," said the lieutenant. "The soldiers don't need any more weapons. They're too tired to hold the ones they've got."

"These spears aren't for holding," said Vivec and whispered, "If we tired them out today, they'll get a good night's sleep tonight," before he got to work supervising their work.

It was essential that they be sharp, of course, but equally important that they be well balanced and tapered proportionally. The perfect point for stability was a pyramid, not the conical point of some lances and spears. He had the men hurl the spears they had completed to test their strength, sharpness, and balance, forcing them to begin on a new one if they broke. Gradually, out of sheer exhaustion from doing it wrong, the men learned how to create the perfect wooden spears. Once they were through, he showed them how they were to be arranged and where.

That night, there was no drunken pre-battle carousing, and no nervous neophytes stayed up worrying about the battle to come. As soon as the sun sank beneath the wooded hills, the camp was at rest, but for the sentries.

20 First Seed, 2920

Bodrum, Morrowind

Miramor was exhausted. For last six days, he had gambled and whored all night and then marched all day. He was looking forward to the battle, but even more than that, he was looking forward to some rest afterwards. He was in the Emperor's command at the rear flank, which was good because it seemed unlikely that he would be killed. On the other hand, it meant traveling over the mud and waste the army ahead left in their wake.

As they began the trek through the wildflower field, Miramor and all the soldiers around him sank ankle-deep in cold mud. It was an effort to even keep moving. Far, far up ahead, he could see the vanguard of the army led by Lord Storig emerging from the meadow at the base of a bluff.

That was when it all happened.

An army of Dunmer appeared above the bluff like rising Daedra, pouring fire and floods of arrows down on the vanguard. Simultaneously, a company of men bearing the flag of the Duke of Mournhold galloped around the shore, disappearing along the shallow river's edge where it dipped to a timbered glen to the east. Warchief Ulaqth nearby on the right flank let out a bellow of revenge at the sight and gave chase. Queen Naghea sent her flank towards the embankment to the west to intercept the army on the bluff.

The Emperor could think of nothing to do. His troops were too bogged down to move forward quickly and join the battle. He ordered them to face east towards the timber, in case Mournhold's company was trying to circle around through the woods. They never came out, but many men, facing west, missed the battle entirely. Miramor kept his eyes on the bluff.

A tall Dunmer he supposed must have been Vivec gave a signal, and the battlemages cast their spells at something to the west. From what transpired, Miramor deduced it was a dam. A great torrent of water spilled out, washing Naghea's left flank into the remains of the vanguard and the two together down river to the east.

The Emperor paused, as if waiting for his vanquished army to return, and then called a retreat. Miramor hid in the rushes until they had passed by and then waded as quietly as he could to the bluff.

The Morrowind army was retiring as well back to their camp. He could hear them celebrating above him as he padded along the shore. To the east, he saw the Imperial Army. They had been washed into a net of spears strung across the river, Naghea's left flank on Storig's vanguard on Ulaqth's right flank, bodies of hundreds of soldiers strung together like beads.

Miramor took whatever valuables he could carry from the corpses and then ran down the river. He had to go many miles before the water was clear again, unpolluted by blood.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#619)
	Rigurt's Journal
Today

We should reach Mournhold tomorrow. I have heard many tales, but have never seen the place myself. I am very excited, and the men are looking forward to getting off the boat. One of my men thought the Heart of the Wild was a piece of preserved meat and nearly took a bite. I can't imagine it would have made a very good gift with a chunk missing. But now I wonder what it tastes like.

Today

We arrived! Great success! We were met at the docks by many important little Dark Elves and taken to a camp they set up just for us. We are so important. They even place guards to protect us. I love this city already. I can't wait to start our Glorious Cultural Exchange!

Today

We tried to go to a local inn for breakfast, but the guards told us we can't leave our camp! I yelled for many hours. Tiny idiot registrar came later and told us we can't leave until our paperwork is sorted out. I may have gotten a little angry. "What paperwork?" I asked as he ran away from me.

Today

No word from little idiot Dark Elf. We take turns reading from Bard Fjokki's amazing book. But we are so bored. And our Glorious Cultural Exchange remains unfulfilled. Much sadness today. Except for Fjokki readings.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#620)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 10
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

11 Rain's Hand, 2920

The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset

The initiates stood quietly in a row along the arbor loggia, watching the long, deep, marble-lined trench ahead of them flash with fire. The air above it vibrated with the waves of heat. Though each student kept his or her face sturdy and emotionless, as a true Psijic should, their terror was nearly as palpable as the heat. Sotha Sil closed his eyes and uttered the charm of fire resistance. Slowly, he walked across the basin of leaping flames, climbing to the other side, unscathed. Not even his white robe had been burned.

"The charm is intensified by the energy you bring to it, by your own skills, just as all spells are," he said. "Your imagination and your willpower are the keys. There is no need for a spell to give you a resistance to air, or a resistance to flowers, and after you cast the charm, you must forget there is even a need for a spell to give you resistance to fire. Do not confuse what I am saying: resistance is not about ignoring the fire's reality. You will feel the substance of flame, the texture of it, its hunger, and even the heat of it, but you will know that it will not hurt or injure you."

The students nodded and one by one, they cast the spell and made the walk through the fire. Some even went so far as to bend over and scoop up a handful of fire and feed it air, so it expanded like a bubble and melted through their fingers. Sotha Sil smiled. They were fighting their fear admirably.

The Chief Proctor Thargallith came running from the arbor arches, "Sotha Sil! Almalexia has arrived on Artaeum. Iachesis told me to fetch you."

Sotha Sil turned to Thargallith for only a moment, but he knew instantly from the screams what had transpired. The Nord lad Wellig had not cast the spell properly and was burning. The smell of scorched hair and flesh panicked the other students who were struggling to get out of the basin, pulling him with them, but the incline was too steep away from the entry points. With a wave of his hand, Sotha Sil extinguished the flame.

Wellig and several other students were burned, but not badly. The sorcerer cast a healing spell on them, before turning back to Thargallith.

"I'll be with you in a moment, and give Almalexia the time to shake the road dust from her train," Sotha Sil turned back to the students, his voice flat. "Fear does not break spells, but doubt and incompetence are the great enemies of any spellcaster. Master Wellig, you will pack your bags. I'll arrange for a boat to bring you to the mainland tomorrow morning."

The sorcerer found Almalexia and Iachesis in the study, drinking hot tea, and laughing. She was more beautiful than he had remembered, though he had never before seen her so disheveled, wrapped in a blanket, dangling her damp long black tresses before the fire to dry. At Sotha Sil's approach, she leapt to her feet and embraced him.

"Did you swim all the way from Morrowind?" he smiled.

"It's pouring rain from Skywatch down to the coast," she explained, returning his smile.

"Only a half a league away, and it never rains here," said Iachesis proudly. "Of course, I sometimes miss the excitement of Summerset, and sometimes even the mainland itself. Still, I'm always very impressed by anyone out there who gets anything accomplished. It is a world of distractions. Speaking of distractions, what's all this I hear about a war?"

"You mean the one that's been bloodying the continent for the last eighty years, Master?" asked Sotha Sil, amused.

"I suppose that's the one I mean," said Iachesis with a shrug of his shoulders. "How is that war going?"

"We will lose it, unless I can convince Sotha Sil to leave Artaeum," said Almalexia, losing her smile. She had meant to wait and talk to her friend in private, but the old Altmer gave her courage to press on. "I have had visions; I know it to be true."

Sotha Sil was silent for a moment, and then looked at Iachesis, "I must return to Morrowind."

"Knowing you, if you must do something, you will," sighed the old Master. "The Psijics' way is not to be distracted. Wars are fought, Empires rise and fall. You must go, and so must we."

"What do you mean, Iachesis? You're leaving the island?"

"No, the island will be leaving the sea," said Iachesis, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "In a few years, the mists will move over Artaeum and we will be gone. We are counselors by nature, and there are too many counselors in Tamriel as it is. No, we will go, and return when the land needs us again, perhaps in another age."

The old Altmer struggles to his feet, and drained the last sip of his drink before leaving Sotha Sil and Almalexia alone: "Don't miss the last boat."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#621)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 6
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

15 First Seed, 2920

Caer Suvio, Cyrodiil

From their vantage point high in the hills, the Emperor Reman III could still see the spires of the Imperial City, but he knew he was far away from hearth and home. Lord Glavius had a luxurious villa, but it was not close to being large enough to house the entire army within its walls. Tents lined the hillsides, and the soldiers were flocking to enjoy his lordship's famous hot springs. Little wonder: winter chill still hung in the air.

"Prince Juilek, your son, is not feeling well."

When Potentate Versidue-Shaie spoke, the Emperor jumped. How that Akaviri could slither across the grass without making a sound was a mystery to him.

"Poisoned, I'd wager," grumbled Reman. "See to it he gets a healer. I told him to hire a taster like I have, but the boy's headstrong. There are spies all around us, I know it."

"I believe you're right, Your Imperial Majesty," said Versidue-Shaie. "These are treacherous times, and we must take precautions to see that Morrowind does not win this war, either on the field or by more insidious means. That is why I would suggest that you not lead the vanguard into battle. I know you would want to, as your illustrious ancestors Reman I, Brazollus Dor, and Reman II did, but I fear it would be foolhardy. I hope you do not mind me speaking frankly like this."

"No," nodded Reman. "I think you're right. Who would lead the vanguard then?"

"I would say Prince Juilek, if he were feeling better," replied the Akaviri. "Failing that, Storig of Farrun, with Queen Naghea of Riverhold at left flank, and Warchief Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right flank."

"A Khajiit at left flank and an Argonian at right," frowned the Emperor. "I never do trust beastfolk."

The Potentate took no offense. He knew that "beastfolk" referred to the natives of Tamriel, not to the Tsaesci of Akavir like himself. "I quite agree, Your Imperial Majesty, but you must agree that they hate the Dunmer. Ulaqth has a particular grudge after all the slave-raids on his lands by the Duke of Mournhold."

The Emperor conceded it was so, and the Potentate retired. It was surprising, thought Reman, but for the first time, the Potentate seemed trustworthy. He was a good man to have on one's side.

18 First Seed, 2920

Ald Erfoud, Morrowind

"How far is the Imperial Army?" asked Vivec.

"Two days' march," replied his lieutenant. "If we march all night tonight, we can get higher ground at the Pryai tomorrow morning. Our intelligence tells us the Emperor will be commanding the rear, Storig of Farrun has the vanguard, Naghea of Riverhold at left flank, and Ulaqth of Lilmoth at right flank."

"Ulaqth," whispered Vivec, an idea forming. "Is this intelligence reliable? Who brought it to us?"

"A Breton spy in the Imperial Army," said the lieutenant and gestured towards a young, sandy-haired man who stepped forward and bowed to Vivec.

"What is your name and why is a Breton working for us against the Cyrodiils?" asked Vivec, smiling.

"My name is Cassyr Whitley of Dwynnen," said the man. "And I am working for you because not everyone can say he spied for a god. And I understood it would be, well, profitable."

Vivec laughed, "It will be, if your information is accurate."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#622)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 9
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

8 Rain's Hand, 2920

The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

A storm buffeted the windows of the Prince's bedchamber, bringing a smell of moist air to mix with the censors filled with burning incense and herbs.

"A letter has arrived from the Empress, your mother," said the courier. "Anxiously inquiring after your health."

"What frightened parents I have," laughed Prince Juilek from his bed.

"It is only natural for a mother to worry," said Savirien-Chorak, the Potentate's son.

"There is everything unnatural about my family, Akaviri. My exiled mother fears that my father will imagine me of being a traitor, covetous of the crown, and is having me poisoned," the Prince sank back into his pillow, annoyed. "The Emperor has insisted on me having a taster for all my meals as he does."

"There are many plots," agreed the Akaviri. "You have been abed for nearly three weeks with every healer in the Empire shuffling through like a slow ballroom dance. At least, all can see that you're getting stronger."

"Strong enough to lead the vanguard against Morrowind soon, I hope," said Juilek.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#623)
	The Spinners of Y'ffre
by Cirantille

The Wood Elf priests of Jephre, or "Y'ffre," are known as spinners. They refer to Jephre as "the Storyteller" and believe he taught them how to live and behave through stories and metaphors.

As his priests, spinners emulate Y'ffre by preserving Bosmeri history, culture, and even laws through stories and metaphors. Elder spinners often speak entirely in metaphors, which makes them difficult to understand, even by other Bosmer. Some believe the spinners go insane as they age and this strange way of speech is merely a symptom of that madness.

Do not be deceived! Spinners have magical powers, or at least keen insights. They tell stories not only of the past, but of the future, and their oft-confusing tales speak of upcoming events with remarkable, though often baffling, accuracy.

One more note: despite the popular belief that spinners only move when carried, the priests of Y'ffre can walk on their own. While they seldom travel far from their homes, some do so when the need arises. It is likely that other Wood Elves, fearing the loss of their spinners, spread the rumor that they cannot travel on their own to discourage such risky expeditions.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#624)
	War of the First Council
By Agrippa Fundilius

(This account by the Imperial scholar Agrippa Fundilius is based on various Imperial and Dunmer sources, and written for Western readers.)

 

The War of the First Council was a First Era religious conflict between the secular Dunmer Houses Dwemer and Dagoth and the orthodox Dunmer Houses Indoril, Redoran, Dres, Hlaalu, and Telvanni. The First Council was the first pan-Dunmer governing body, which collapsed over disputes about sorceries and enchantments practiced by the Dwemer and declared profane by the other Houses.

 

The Secular Houses, less numerous, but politically and magically more advanced, and aided by Nord and Orc clans drawn by promise of land and booty, initially campaigned with great success in the north of Morrowind, and occupied much of the land now comprising the Redoran, Vvardenfell, and Telvanni Districts. The Orthodox Houses, widely dispersed and poorly organized, suffered defeat after defeat until Nerevar was made general of all House troops and levies.

 

Nerevar secured the aid of nomad barbarian tribesmen, and contrived to force a major battle at the Secular stronghold of Red Mountain on Vvardenfell. The Secular forces were outmaneuvered and defeated with the help of Ashlander scouts, and the survivors forced to take refuge in the Dwemer stronghold at Red Mountain.

 

After a brief siege, treason permitted Nerevar and his troops to enter the stronghold, where the Secular leaders were slain, and Nerevar mortally wounded. General slaughter followed, and Houses Dwemer and Dagoth were exterminated. Nerevar died shortly thereafter of his wounds.

 

Three of Nerevar's associates among the Orthodox Houses, Vivec, Almalexia, and Sotha Sil, succeeded to control of the re-created First Council, re-named the Grand Council of Morrowind, and went on to be come the god-kings and immortal rulers of Morrowind known as the Tribunal, or Almsivi.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#625)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 12
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

21 Second Seed, 2920

Gideon, Black Marsh

The Sow and Vulture Tavern was the sort of out-of-the-way place that Zuuk favored for these sorts of interviews. Besides himself and his companion, there were only a couple of old seadogs in the shadowy room, and they were more unconscious from drink than aware of what was going on around them. The grime of the unwashed floor was something you felt rather than saw. Copious dust hung in the air, unmoving in the sparse rays of dying sunlight.

"You have experience in heavy combat?" asked Zuuk. "The reward is good for this assignment, but the risks are great as well."

"Certainly I have combat experience," replied Miramor haughtily. "I was at the Battle of Bodrum just two months ago. If you do your part and get the Emperor to ride through Dozsa Pass with a minimal escort on the day and the time we've discussed, I'll do my part. Just be certain that he's not traveling in disguise. I'm not going to slaughter every caravan that passes through in the hopes that it contains Emperor Reman."

Zuuk smiled, and Miramor looked at himself in the Kothringi's reflective face. He liked the way he looked: the consummate, confident professional.

"Agreed," said Zuuk. "And then you shall have the rest of your gold."

Zuuk placed the large chest onto the table between them. He stood up.

"Wait before leaving," said Zuuk. "I don't want you following me. Your employers wish to maintain their anonymity, if by chance you are caught and tortured later."

"Fine by me," said Miramor, ordering another grog.

Zuuk rode his mount through the cramped labyrinthine streets of Gideon, and both he and his horse were happy to pass through the gates into the country. The main road to Castle Giovese was flooded as it was every year in springtide, but Zuuk knew a shorter way over the hills. Riding fast under trees drooping with moss and over treacherous, slime-coated rocks, he arrived at the castle gates in two hours' time. He wasted no time in climbing to Tavia's cell at the top of the highest tower.

"What did you think of him?" asked the Empress.

"He's a fool," replied Zuuk. "But that's what we want for this sort of assignment."

30 Second Seed, 2920

Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil

Rijja screamed and screamed and screamed. Within her cell, her only audience was the giant gray stones, crusted with moss but still sturdy. The guards outside were deaf to her as they were deaf to all prisoners. The Emperor, miles away in the Imperial City, had likewise been deaf to her cries of innocence.

She screamed knowing well that no one would likely hear her ever again.

31 Second Seed, 2920

Kavas Rim Pass, Cyrodiil

It had been days, weeks since Turala had seen another human face, Cyrodiil or Dunmer. As she trod the road, she thought to herself how strange it was that such an uninhabited place as Cyrodiil had become the Imperial Province, seat of an Empire. Even the Bosmer in Valenwood must have more populated forests than this Heartland wood.

She thought back. Was it a month ago, two, when she crossed the border from Morrowind into Cyrodiil? It had been much colder then, but other than that, she had no sense of time. The guards had been brusque, but as she was carrying no weaponry, they elected to let her through. Since then, she had seen a few caravans, even shared a meal with some adventurers camping for the night, but met no one who would give her a ride to a town.

Turala stripped off her shawl and dragged it behind her. For a moment, she thought she heard someone behind her and spun around. No one was there. Just a bird perched on a branch making a sound like laughter.

She walked on, and then stopped. Something was happening. The child had been kicking in her belly for some time now, but this was a different kind of spasm. With a groan, she lurched over to the side of the path, collapsing into the grass. Her child was coming.

She lay on her back and pushed, but she could barely see with her tears of pain and frustration. How had it come to this? Giving birth in the wilderness, all by herself, to a child whose father was the Duke of Mournhold? Her scream of rage and agony shook the birds from the trees.

The bird that had been laughing at her earlier flew down to the road. She blinked, and the bird was gone and in its place, a naked Elf man stood, not as dark as a Dunmer, but not as pale as the Altmer. She knew at once it was an Ayleid, a Wild Elf. Turala screamed, but the man held her down. After a few minutes of struggle, she felt a release, and then fainted away.

When she awoke, it was to the sound of a baby crying. The child had been cleaned and was lying by her side. Turala picked up her baby girl, and for the first time that year, felt tears of happiness stream down her face.

She whispered to the trees, "Thank you" and began walking with babe in her arms down the road to the west.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#626)
	The Taking of Abamath
Wood Orcs pride themselves on the strength of their arms, their spirits, and their god. They know they can be beaten in battle, but never defeated.

That pride and that belief betrayed them in Abamath. When Ayleid forces arrived at the Wood Orc town, the warriors painted themselves in the "blood of Malacath" and relied on their shamans' magic to protect them from the invaders. They stood strong and held.

And then they broke.

And died.

And some few fled—a shame that haunts their descendants.

The Ayleids took Abamath and turned it into their own demesne. The Wood Orcs remember their defeat and have turned it into a rallying cry. Many Wood Orcs—especially those who trace their ancestry back to the taking of Abamath—paint their faces red still, hoping to cleanse their shame with displays of renewed ferocity.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#627)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 13
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

2 Mid Year, 2920

Balmora, Morrowind

"The Imperial army is gathered to the south," said Cassyr. "They are a two week 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 or 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 get bogged down," 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, he 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.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#628)
	Raynor's Journal: Bthanual
I think Kireth and I may have discovered what we need to finally prove ourselves to the Arch-Mage at the Academy of Shad Astula. The Dwemer ruins of northern Tamriel hold amazing treasures of the lost Dwarves, but these places are often too dangerous to navigate. I have discovered several references in old texts to a method for controlling Dwemer constructs through the use of a harmonic device that interacts with the constructs' resonators. It'll take some time, and no small effort, but I think I can actually build a prototype of the device to test.

I truly am a genius. But I already knew that.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#629)
	House Hlaalu Philosophy of Trade
If you want to understand the essential philosophy of House Hlaalu, examine its coat of arms. Behold the scale: it represents balance, trade, and compromise. These essential concepts influence everything the House seeks to accomplish and directs its activities.

Strive for balance in all things. When the scale tips to one side or the other, someone or something gets short-changed. When someone gets short-changed, unpredictability and strife unbalance the world around us. This idea must be embraced by every member of the House. To achieve freedom from greed, from want, and from strife, all parties in any exchange must find balance.

Trade is the House's weapon, its tool, and its way. The House thrives when value and profit flows between supply and demand. House Hlaalu seeks to maintain open trade with anyone who would engage in honest business. Not even a lowly Ashlander with gold or goods in hand would be turned away. This policy protects and empowers the House. The greatest defense remains a wall built of gold, and many foes have broken against the profitable walls of House Hlaalu.

The most honorable conclusion to any conflict is compromise. When two parties seeking balance come together in any exchange, compromise becomes the natural conclusion. Anything can be achieved if both the left hand and the right hand work together. Not everyone is reasonable, however. Sometimes others must be coaxed into compromise. For that, the House Hlaalu Guard stands ready.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#630)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 5
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

16 Sun's Dawn, 2920

Senchal, Anequina (modern day Elsweyr)

"What troubles you?" asked Queen Hasaama, noticing her husband's sour mood. At the end of most Lovers' Days he was in an excellent mood, dancing in the ballroom with all the guests, but tonight he retired early. When she found him, he was curled in the bed, frowning.

"That blasted bard's tale about Polydor and Eloisa put me in a rotten state," he growled. "Why did he have to be so depressing?"

"But isn't that the truth of the tale, my dear? Weren't they doomed because of the cruel nature of the world?"

"It doesn't matter what the truth is, he did a rotten job of telling a rotten tale, and I'm not going to let him do it anymore," King Dro'Zel sprang from the bed. His eyes were rheumy with tears. "Where did they say he was from again?"

"I believe Gilverdale in easternmost Valenwood," said the Queen, shaken. "My husband, what are you going to do?"

Dro'Zel was out of the room in a single spring, bounding up the stairs to his tower. If Queen Hasaama knew what her husband was going to do, she did not try to stop him. He had been erratic of late, prone to fits and even occasional seizures. But she never suspected the depths of his madness, and his loathing for the bard and his tale of the wickedness and perversity found in mortal man.

19 Sun's Dawn, 2920

Gilverdale, Valenwood

"Listen to me again," said the old carpenter. "If cell three holds worthless brass, then cell two holds the gold key. If cell one holds the gold key, then cell three hold worthless brass. If cell two holds worthless brass, then cell one holds the gold key."

"I understand," said the lady. "You told me. And so cell one holds the gold key, right?"

"No," said the carpenter. "Let me start from the top."

"Mama?" said the little boy, pulling on his mother's sleeve.

"Just one moment, dear, mother's talking," she said, concentrating on the riddle. "You said 'cell three holds the golden key if cell two holds worthless brass,' right?"

"No," said the carpenter patiently. "Cell three holds worthless brass, if cell two—"

"Mama!" cried the boy. His mother finally looked.

A bright red mist was pouring over the town in a wave, engulfing building after building in its wake. Striding before was a red-skinned giant. The Daedra Molag Bal. He was smiling.

29 Sun's Dawn, 2920

Gilverdale, Valenwood

Almalexia stopped her steed in the vast moor of mud to let him drink from the river. He refused to, even seemed repelled by the water. It struck her as odd: they had been making excellent time from Mournhold, and surely he must be thirsty. She dismounted and joined her retinue.

"Where are we now?" she asked.

One of her ladies pulled out a map. "I thought we were approaching a town called Gilverdale."

Almalexia closed her eyes and opened them again quickly. The vision was too much to bear. As her followers watched, she picked up a piece of brick and a fragment of bone, and clutched them to her heart.

"We must continue on to Artaeum," she said quietly.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#631)
	Netches! Netches! All Around!
By Anonymous

Netches! Netches! All Around!

They're born up high,

And never come down.

Netches! Netches! All Around!

Bulls and betties

Some blue, some brown.

Netches! Netches! All Around!

Their tentacles hang

Like a dressing gown.

Netches! Netches! All Around!

They sneak up on you

without a sound.

Netches! Netches! All Around!

You cannot hide,

You will be found.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#632)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 16
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

24 Sun's Height, 2920

Balmora, Morrowind

It was the first time in seventeen years that the three members of the Morrowind Tribunal had met in the same place, since Sotha Sil had left for Artaeum. All three wished that the circumstances of their reunion were different.

"From what we've learned, while the Prince was returning to Cyrodiil to the south, a second Imperial Army came down from the north," said Vivec to his stony-faced compatriots. "It is reasonable to assume Juilek didn't know about the attack."

"But neither would it be unreasonable to suppose that he planned on being a distraction while the Emperor launched the attack on Black Gate," said Sotha Sil. "This must be considered a breach of the truce."

"Where is the Duke of Mournhold?" asked Vivec. "I would hear his thoughts on the matter."

"He is meeting with the Night Mother in Tel Aruhn," said Almalexia, quietly. "I told him to wait until he had spoken with you, but he said that the matter had waited long enough."

"He would involve the Morag Tong? In outside affairs?" Vivec shook his head, and looked to Sotha Sil: "Please, do what you can. Assassination will only move us backwards. This matter must be settled with diplomacy or battle."

25 Sun's Height, 2920

Tel Aruhn, Morrowind

The Night Mother met Sotha Sil in her salon, lit only by the moon. She was cruelly beautiful, dressed in a simple silk black robe and lounging across her divan. With a gesture, she dismissed her red-cloaked guards and offered the sorcerer some wine.

"You've only just missed your friend, the Duke," she whispered. "He was very unhappy, but I think we will solve his problem for him."

"Did he hire the Morag Tong to assassinate the Emperor?" asked Sotha Sil.

"You are straightforward, aren't you? That's good. I love plain-speaking men: it saves so much time. Of course, I cannot discuss with you what the Duke and I talked about," she smiled. "It would be bad for business."

"What if I were to offer you an equal amount of gold for you not to assassinate the Emperor?"

"The Morag Tong murders for the glory of Mephala and for profit," she said, speaking into her glass of wine. "We do not merely kill. That would be sacrilege. Once the Duke's gold has arrived in three day's time, we will do our end of the business. And I'm afraid we would not dream of entertaining a counter offer. Though we are a business as well as a religious order, we do not bow to supply and demand, Sotha Sil."

27 Sun's Height, 2920

The Inner Sea, Morrowind

Sotha Sil had been watching the waters for two days now, waiting for a particular vessel, and now he saw it. A heavy ship with the flag of Mournhold. The sorcerer took the air and intercepted it before it reached harbor. A caul of flame erupted over his figure, disguising his voice and form into that of a Daedra.

"Abandon your ship!" he bellowed. "If you would not sink with it!"

In truth, Sotha Sil could have exploded the vessel with but a single ball of fire, but he chose to take his time, to give the crew a chance to dive off into the warm water. When he was certain there was no one living aboard, he focused his energy into a destructive wave that shook the air and water as it discharged. The ship and the Duke's payment to the Morag Tong sunk to the bottom of the Inner Sea.

"Night Mother," thought Sotha Sil, as he floated towards shore to alert the harbormaster that some sailors were in need of rescue. "Everyone bows to supply and demand."
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#633)
	The Holy Vessel
Be very careful when you handle the holy vessel. It is the most important relic in our temple and the reason why our temple exists at all. Saint Veloth is best known for wielding his hammer, Veloth's Judgment, but he also carried this vessel in his time. Like many objects the saint blessed, it has the power to heal. But it also possesses a variety of other interesting magical properties. Indestructibility is not, unfortunately, one of them.

—Tidyn Arthalen
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#634)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 17
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

1 Last Seed, 2920   

Mournhold, Morrowind

They were gathered in the Duke's courtyard at twilight, enjoying the smell and warmth of a fire of dry branches and bittergreen leaves. Tiny embers flew into the sky, hanging for a few moments before vanishing.

"I was rash," agreed the Duke, soberly. "But Lorkhan had his laugh, and all is well. The Morag Tong will not assassinate the Emperor now that my payment to them is at the bottom of the Inner Sea. I thought you had made some sort of a truce with the Daedra princes."

"What your sailors called a Daedra may not have been one," said Sotha Sil. "Perhaps it was a rogue battlemage or even a lightning bolt that destroyed your ship."

"The Prince and the Emperor are en route to take possession of Ald Lambasi as our truce agreed. It is certainly typical of the Cyrodiils to assume that their concessions are negotiable, while ours are not," Vivec pulled out a map. "We can meet them here, in this village to the northwest of Ald Lambasi, Fervinthil."

"But will we meet them to talk," ask Almalexia. "Or to make war?"

No one had an answer to that.

15 Last Seed, 2920

Fervinthil, Morrowind

A late summer squall blew through the small village, darkening the sky except for flashes of lightning which leapt from cloud to cloud like acrobats across high wires. Water rushed down the narrow streets ankle-deep, and the Prince had to shout to be heard by his captains, who were but a few feet away from him.

"There's an inn up ahead! We'll wait there for the storm to pass before pressing on to Ald Lambasi!"

The inn was warm and dry, and bustling with business. Barmaids were rushing back and forth, bringing greef and wine to a back room, evidently excited about a famous visitor. Someone who was attracting more attention than the mere heir to the Empire of Tamriel. Amused, Juilek watched them run until he overheard the name of "Vivec."

"My Lord Vivec," he said, bursting into the back room. "You must believe me, I knew nothing about the attack on Black Gate until after it happened. We will, of course, be returning it to your care forthwith. I wrote you a letter to that effect at your palace in Balmora, but obviously you're not there," he paused, taking in the many new faces in the room. "I'm sorry, let me introduce myself. I'm Juilek Cyrodiil."

"My name is Almalexia," said the most beautiful woman the Prince had ever seen. "Won't you join us?"

"Sotha Sil," said a serious-looking Dunmer in a white cloak, shaking the Prince's hand and showing him to a seat.

"Indoril Brindisi Dorom, Duke-Prince of Mournhold," said the massively built man next to him as he sat down.

"I recognize that the events of the last month suggest, at best, that the Imperial Army is not under my control," said the Prince after ordering some wine. "This is true. The army is my father's."

"I understood that the Emperor was going to be coming to Ald Lambasi as well," said Almalexia.

"Officially, he is," said the Prince cautiously. "Unofficially, he's still back in the Imperial City. He's met with an unfortunate accident."

Vivec glanced at the Duke quickly before looking at the Prince. "An accident?"

"He's fine," said the Prince quickly. "He'll live, but it looks like he'll lose an eye. It was an altercation that has nothing to do with the war. The only good news is that while he recovers, I have the use of his seal. Any agreement we make here and now will be binding to the Empire, both in my father's reign and in mine."

"Then let's start agreeing," smiled Almalexia.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#635)
	Letter to Rulassalmo
Dear Rulassalmo, 

It's only been a few days since I left Vulkhel Guard, but I miss you terribly. I hope business picks up, and I have an excuse to see you again soon. 

I hate that we live so far apart. Distance is so cruel to young relationships. I hope my letter reaches you safely and look forward to reading your loving response.

Yours, 

Fistalime
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#636)
	Things to Do
1. Study Destruction spells.

2. Clean up remains from last week's experiment

3. Write letter of apology and get well soon card to Instructor Sanaldurdil. Also, write letter of apology to Hall Steward.

4. Study Destruction spells.

5. Inquire about repairs for alchemy and enchanting tables.

6. Ask for loan on repair estimates.

7. Double check ingredients for next week's lessons. 

8. Study Destruction spells!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#637)
	Letter to Telenger
My most esteemed colleague, Telenger the Artificer,

It's with great pride that I send you a recommendation for Vinandalin Aonudar. Vinandalin has proven himself very capable in six schools of magic. He's excelled beyond his fellow classmates and is ready for the field. I realize you have many candidates to choose from, but Vinandalin would surprise even you if he were chosen to study. 

Here in the Firsthold, he's been promoted from the rank of Student to Apprentice. We're all very proud of him! I assure you, if Vinandalin were chosen, he would not disappoint.

Regards, 

Namolelcare, Firsthold Hall Steward

P.S.: I hope Meldil is working out well for you, and all is well in the south. Be sure to pass us a copy of your writings on Ezduiin!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#638)
	Letter to Estre
My Dear Estre,

It pains me to know of your opposition to Ayrenn. While I can see your view on maintaining the purity of the Summerset Isles, I cannot disregard the importance of what our queen is trying to do.

As I have a close relationship with both of you, I am unable to take sides in your argument. Firsthold shall remain neutral, and our priorities lie solely in the protection of Auridon from our enemies.

Which are numerous.

Regrettably,

Rilis XIII, Kinlord
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#639)
	Chores
Jenya,

Here's what I want you to do while I'm away. I expect every chore done when I return, or no pudding for you. Get your lazy butt in gear!

1. Sweep the stables.

2. Order horseshoes. (Specify Mathiisen steel this time.)

3. Oil saddles. 

4. Take inventory.

5. Brush stabled mares.

6. Wash down stalls.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#640)
	Faculty Application
To Whom it May Concern:

I heard through a friend that you may be hiring at the College of Aldmeri Propriety. I believe my vast knowledge and experience in the culture and etiquette make me extremely qualified for the job. I've spent the last five years as a tutor among nobility.

Experience: 

— Tutored for the Rilis family for five years.

— Well practiced in social skills.

— Extensive classes in etiquette.

— Wide knowledge of Aldmeri history and Altmer views.

Please consider my applicaton for the position. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Colassewen of Firsthold
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#641)
	Rothondothrin's Journal
Dear Journal,

I'm fed up with the monotony of my life. I'm going to compile a list of places I need to visit and plan on seeing at least one per year. I hope it's possible.

1. Skywatch. I need to start small. Achievable. Maybe put in trips to the North and South Beacons. It's sad I haven't even been very far outside of Firsthold.

2. Tanzelwil. This is one of the ritual sites that our leaders must pray at. The historical and cultural value will be worth it.

3. Torinaan. Another ritual area for the Aldmeri ruler.

4. Elden Root. I hope I manage to get there eventually. Valenwood in general is a goal, but seeing the capital of the Bosmer, regardless of how uncivilized they may be, sounds fascinating. 

5. Dune. Like Elden Root, the Khajiiti city also holds a fascination for me. If I can make it to Elden Root and back, I can surely make it to Dune.

6. Falinesti. I've heard rumors that the city has vanished, but the sites where it lived for the four seasons are still large attractions. 

These are just the beginning. I'll add more as I discover more! And perhaps if the Alliance War ever ends, I may venture out to Cyrodiil and beyond. I'd love to see Morrowind, the land of our dark cousins, and visit Argonia especially. The exotic descriptions of their terrain sound beyond imagination!
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#642)
	Letter to Jazish
Jiyya's dearest mate, Jazish,

This one writes with heavy heart. The High Elves are a curious sort, and not ones to be taken lightly as an outsider. Their attitude is one of perfection. While their disposition appears serious, their meanings run deep in every word. A seemingly innocent remark may hold the greatest of insults. In a sense, they remind Jiyya of the Khajiit, only most lack clever subtlety. Rather than leave this one thinking, Jiyya always knows sarcasm.

This one prays Baan Dar continues to bless her words. It's a wonder Jiyya is still among such people, but Firsthold has proven profitable. Should business continue, this one may be seeing her Jazish very soon.

Love always,

Jiyya
		

Failed at /books/643		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#644)
	The Coiled Path
Ghost Snake blesses the worthy.

Ghost Snake devours the unworthy.

Ghost Snake lives upon the Coiled Path. Once, the river that ran beside the Coiled Path was straight and long, but Ghost Snake did not like that. He commanded the beasts to dig. He commanded the People to carve the ground. He commanded the rocks and water to move. Now path and river together coil like a waiting snake.

The Coiled Path is not an easy path to walk, for Ghost Snake does not wish it to be. Ghost Snake hunts the path for prey, and his victims rise as spirits. These spirits forever walk the path's twists and turns, never to escape, until Ghost Snake devours their essence as he consumed their weak flesh.

The Coiled Path is more than a road or a river. It is a path to wisdom, to cunning, to insight. Ghost Snake's servants do not see the straight and narrow path. Instead, Ghost Snake grants his blessings so his servants may overcome treachery and hardship. Ghost Snake hisses his wisdom so that his servants may navigate the perils of life.

The Coiled Path is not for the weak. Ghost Snake must feed, and if his servants cannot secure prey, Ghost Snake will rightfully devour those who serve them.

Ghost Snake is the father of a thousand-thousand serpents. Wherever the spirits of Ghost Snake's victims gather, his serpentine children thrive.

We who serve Ghost Snake have learned our lessons well. Do not take the easy path. Do not forget what lies underfoot, waiting to betray you. Do not forget that unseen forces watch and wait for you. Do not forget the hidden daggers of your foes. And always listen for slithering whispers on the wind.

I write these words to receive Ghost Snake's righteous blessing. Life contains no justice. Life offers no mercy. Life is not easy. The only truth lies along the deceptive shores of the Coiled Path, and it is whispered by Ghost Snake.

Know this or flee. Flee, and we will find you. 

When Ghost Snake finds you, he will bless you. Or you will die.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#645)
	Against False Gods
Fear not the False Gods, for their very presence is a lie.

Abducted power ripped from artifacts undeserving.

Worship received from mindless cattle doing what they're told.

You bow to them not out of reverence. Not out of respect.

You bow to them out of fear. Out of unknown truths left untold.

But why? Because it is right? Because it is what is expected of you?

The people of this land bathe in the filth of corruption and deceit. A filth of their own making.

We will give them the cure, all the blind and tainted.

We will show them that their gods are not as powerful as they believe.

The Maulborn will rise to purify this land in the true image of the Princes.

To cleanse this soil of all falsehoods.

May the Three feel our wrath. May the Three be cleansed of their lies.

For the Maulborn shall bring forth a reckoning.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#646)
	The Llodos Plague
Nostrum Breva,

We continue to experiment with new strains of the plague, and your work at Serkamora has proven invaluable. The Magistrix is quite pleased. The Serk has been a good testing ground. Weak and sickly individuals who arrive, some already infected with previous strains, beg for a cure. We are more than delighted to welcome them in, giving them false promises of cleansing their illnesses. Even the Houses of Redoran and Hlaalu are convinced we are here to help. They so want to believe.

As for the plague itself, it has become quite potent. Unfortunately, survival rates remain shorter than we had hoped. If we want to cause a true outbreak, one that could level an entire city, we must continue to strengthen the magic and test it. The next step will be to raise the level of experimentation. Word has already come that one of our cadres may have developed the purest form of the sickness yet. I'm eager for the arrival of these shipments.

A larger town will suffice for the next experiment. I recommend Narsis. The Hlaalu fools will never suspect a thing. I need to get in touch with my contacts there to let them know to be ready.

—Alchemist Merdyndril
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#647)
	A Treatise on the Knot
A good whipping bind will hold for a spell, but when you need grip, turn to your stoppers and hitches. Any sailor worth his salt knows better than to use a thumb-knot on any strand of rigging!

For the stoppers, their use is best left to punishment-types. A good lash will take more than its share with a few of the buggers worked into it! Let no sailor question the words of a fellow with a nine-tails at his side.

But the true gem of knots is the faithful hitch. It grabs and holds, but gives easily to a trained hand. Neither wind nor rain will cause it to falter. Learn it well, young sailor, for it will be your only steadfast companion on the treacherous sea.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#648)
	A Discarded Letter
My precious,

I hope this letter finds you well. Think not of the expense, my dear—I care only that you received it in safety. It will be a few more weeks before I am able to break away to visit you again. I know you fear for me. I've a retinue of guards at my disposal, and our excavations are almost complete.

You can't imagine the riches we've uncovered so far. Soon, you will live as a queen, and I your king. Of what? It does not matter. As long as you are by my side, I would rule over a kingdom of dung.

Your ever faithful,

— D
		

Failed at /books/649		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#650)
	Arch-Mage's Journal
This year, as we get closer to the start of classes here at Shad Astula, I look forward to finding excellent leadership candidates among this year's crop of students. Those who will grow into great leaders, remarkable scholars, and mighty warriors for the Houses of Morrowind. And, starting this season, for the entire Ebonheart Pact, as well. Often, my visions don't manifest until a student has spent some time within the Academy. Most years, no one emerges who quite matches my hopes and dreams.

Which is why I was encouraged, confused, and a bit frightened when I started receiving visions of three students who haven't even arrived at the Academy yet. At first, I worried that my visions were faulty. But this is not the case. These visions are as clear as any I've ever experienced, albeit with dark undertones I do not yet understand.

My first vision concerned Tedras Relvi. A noble son of House Indoril, his entire life has involved magic. His father is a battlemage, his mother a healer. Pompous and a bit of a whiny brat, Tedras is lazy and hard-headed. He's also a master of word and wit. In fact, I think he might make a better bard than a wizard. Still, I must heed my visions. From what I've seen, his future self grows into a master negotiator.

Hadmar the Thin-Boned was the subject of my second vision. It's rare for me to see a Nord in a vision, and rarer still that a Nord develops significant magical talent. With a pure heart and a warrior's spirit, Hadmar possesses a good soul. He's also dumb as a guar. Will he embrace his magical studies? Regardless, I see him standing tall upon the field of battle. Does he have the makings of a battlemage, perhaps?

The final vision concerned Lena Dalvel, and it was the most confusing of the three. Her lineage contains almost no magical heritage. In fact, I'm not sure how she got an invitation to our school—perhaps a House noble recognized her talent? Her vision is the most promising—and the most frightening. Lena stands on a balance that could easily tip toward the darkness or the light, two possible paths for her to walk. One path shows her as a great leader of the people, serving in a coming time of troubles. The other path shows her involvement in the destruction of the world. This particular vision disturbs me greatly, and it must not be allowed to come to pass. She must finish her trials under my guidance. It's imperative that her proper destiny be fulfilled.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#651)
	Academy Supplies
Greetings, Academy candidate! 

Congratulations again on your acceptance to the Shad Astula Academy of Magic. A list of items relevant to your studies follows. Please bring these materials with you when you arrive. Everything on the list can be purchased in Mournhold's merchant district. Please inscribe your name in each item for easy identification.

Clothing:

Three sets of gray Academy robes

Protective leather gloves

Summer cloak

Winter cloak

Books:

The Apprentice's Assistant by Aramril

Understanding Fire by Docksin

Altering Altercation by Duncan the Red

The Elements of Magicka by Albanon Renil

Equipment:

1 cauldron

1 set of glass phials

1 brass focus

1 training implement, either a wand, a staff, or a rod
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#652)
	The Apprentice's Assistant
By Aramril

No doubt you have heard tales of my adventures. Stories carried from province to province, all of Tamriel in awe of my feats of magical prowess. More than once, I am sure, you have thought, "If only I had Aramril's ability. Then I too could seek fame and fortune in magical duels!"

It is true, of course. Great fame and limitless fortune await those who are successful. But to be successful, one needs to learn from the best. That is why you have purchased this book, so that I may teach you. I am, of course, the best.

Here, then, is my advice. Follow it, and you too can make a name for yourself throughout Tamriel.

1. To know your opponent is to know his weakness.

Infinitely more versatile than a simple blade of steel, a good mage has a wide array of spells at her disposal. More than that, she knows when best to use them. She knows that frost spells can stop a charging beast, or keep a savage brute from swinging his sword. She knows that shock spells can drain her opponent's magicka. She knows that illusion spells can set a group of enemies against each other (should she find herself in a less than fair fight, an all-too-common reality when her opponents know they cannot win in single combat), and that there are spells that can save her in a moment when all seems lost.

2. To know yourself is to know your limits.

Even the best mage has a finite reserve of magicka; none born yet have been graced with Magnus' infinite reserves of power. And so a good mage does not over-extend herself. She makes sure she always has enough magicka to keep herself safe. Failing that, she makes sure she has a sizable supply of potions at the ready. Failing that, she makes sure she always has an escape route. Not that the Great Aramril has ever fled a fight, but of course you do not necessarily share her superb natural ability. That is why you must practice.

3. Wards can kill (you)

There is no question that wards are an essential tool of any aspiring mage. They can block incoming spells, negating your opponent's attack and wasting his magicka. A good mage knows, however, to not rely too heavily on her ward. Keeping a ward readied for too long will leave a caster drained of magicka, unable to retaliate, and at worst unable to maintain the ward and therefore become completely defenseless.

4. Two hands are not always better than one

Any advanced spellcaster has learned to cast spells with both hands, dealing more damage. There are certainly times when this is to your advantage, such as when an opponent is already weakened, or when it is likely to draw a bigger reaction from the crowd that has no doubt gathered to watch you. It is not always the best strategy, however. Concentration spells, for example, can often be used on the ground when an opponent is especially nimble. In that instance, using both hands independently can cover more ground at the same time. A mage throwing fireballs with both hands cannot immediately raise a ward to defend herself, or heal while she continues to attack.

5. Always rise to a challenge, especially when you know you can win

Remember that your first priority is, of course, to stay alive. Following closely behind, though, is your need to please the crowd. You are, after all, depending on their generosity to fund your exploits. Here, then, more than magic comes into play. If you can gain a sense of your opponent's ability before the duel begins, you can enter into the event with confidence. Knowing that you outclass your opponent is of great importance, as it means you can confidently give the crowd a better show. Likewise, knowing ahead of time that you could very well lose a duel, you are afforded an opportunity to suddenly find yourself engaged elsewhere, and be unable to attend the event. (By no means do I suggest that I have ever done such a thing; I simply find that my great fame occasionally means I am unable to respond to every single request for a duel.)

Keep these few things in mind, keep your wits about you, and you too can make a name for yourself by putting on great displays of magical prowess. Take care, though. For if you become successful enough, you may find yourself facing a challenge from me!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#653)
	Shad Astula Curriculum
Fledgling Members of the Academy:

Rise and shine! We have another education-filled day ahead of us. Another chance to develop your gifts of mysticism and magicka, leadership and military strategy. 

The first few days of study have flown by, and you have proven worthy of the honor of enrollment at this prestigious Academy. You have not only demonstrated the requisite acumen for your studies, but also confirmed your ability to keep up with the modest tuition payments that keep Shad Astula's welcoming doors open. For these reasons, we are pleased to offer you the opportunity to select your own course of study for the next ten days.

Please choose the introductory course you wish to pursue and properly petition the instructor of that art. For the next ten days, you will diligently work to master one of the following disciplines.

Understand that these designations exist solely for the purposes of teaching. They do not represent any formal schema of organization within the Mages Guild or any similar organization.

ALTERATION I: This introductory course teaches simple magical methods of physical manipulation, including techniques for strengthening and weakening basic materials.

CONJURATION I: In this introductory course, students learn to summon simple weapons and shields, such as daggers or bucklers. Note that knife fighting and defense are not covered in this class.

DESTRUCTION I: As a prelude to later studies, students learn the basics of the elemental manipulation of flame and frost. An additional security deposit is required to cover the unlikely event of damage to persons and property.

ILLUSION I: Learn simple manipulation of light and shadow, sound and silence, in this introductory course. Your first project will be to create magical candlelight. 

RESTORATION I: This introductory course teaches the basics of the healing arts, as well as the fundamental principles of manipulating life force. The purchase of various small animals may be required, in addition to any other course-required materials.

Completion of any of these basic courses will serve as a prerequisite to later studies. A student is free to select a course from ONE of these options. Upon completion of an introductory class, the student is eligible to pursue a second introductory class, if instruction time and class size allows.

	

The study of the ARCANE ARTS awaits you!

No doubt you will prove yourself worthy of the instruction and patronage you are receiving.

Failure to complete a course of study may result in additional tuition charges to cover the cost of taking make-up instruction.

Good luck!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#654)
	Ithis Omalor's Orders
Omalor,

No doubt you've heard by now that I've been driven from Mournhold. You may be questioning your duties or reexamining your loyalties. I don't begrudge you some skepticism. We must all continue to question those with power over us. However, know that the mission continues and I need you now more than ever. 

The messenger who brought you this letter also carries a package. The package contains a relic of Dwarven origin. It will allow you to temporarily control the constructs that roam the Mzithumz ruins. The dangerous spheres and spiders will follow your commands for a brief time.

In and around Narsis, the plague spreads. We labor in the shadows of the Obsidian Gorge, and it is vital that no one accidently blunders into our workshops. Single travelers do not concern me, but a large group, like a caravan, may try to camp near the caves. A House Hlaalu caravan departs from Mournhold to provide aid to Narsis. They cannot be allowed to reach their destination.

	

Take some House Dres warriors, the most amoral and expendable thugs you can find. Make sure they won't hesitate to cut down another Dunmer. Pay them to keep their mouths shut, whatever it takes. Use the raiders and the constructs from Mzithumz to overpower the Hlaalu caravan.When victory is assured, turn the constructs on the Dres warriors and make your escape in the chaos. The cost will be high, but the time it will buy us is crucial. We are close to a breakthrough.

Do not seek me out when you have completed your task. I will find you.

— V
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#655)
	Renrijra Pirates
Dearest,

I will not be in port for long, but I do have enough time to spare for a pot of a tea with these friendly Argonians and to draft a few quick letters. When the tide shifts, I will be at sea once more, pursuing those dastardly Renrijra Pirates.

Perfidious Khajiit! I will pursue those pirates to the world's edge, if need be!

You embarrass me with your constant need for declarations of undying love, but rest assured that I echo your sentiments in return.

Lately, I have been preoccupied. The Renrijra raid our shores, trying to claim our lands as their own. I always knew cats were territorial, but those Khajiiti raiders pursue this as an obsession. Those pirates are relentless!

On the rare occasions when we capture one, it is always the same frustrating dialogue. They are quick to speak of territorial rights and political reform, and so on and so forth. But really, I know the truth. They are little more than smugglers and sea-raiders propping up their criminal activities behind a facade of ideals. They lie! And they shall pay!

They scowl, these pirates. They sneer, even when held in bonds. They take pride in their contemptuous nature. In fact, it is reflected in their very name: "Renrijra Krin." I have heard it translated as "the Mercenary's Grin" or "the Smiling Scum." The scum! It suits them well, but I prefer to call a knave a knave. They are smugglers and pirates and thieves to the last filthy cat.

The Renrijra are swaggering fools. Do you know what the so-called "code" of their order is called? "The Foolish Concepts." Fools! I have intercepted their logs and records, and I know their ways. They kill without hesitation. They espouse bravery, yet run away when confronted with justice. They curry favor by giving trinkets to the poor. Then they claim to be benefactors when stealing from those of privilege. A thief is still a thief!

Such insolence! They remind me of that servant we used to employ, the one who deigned to teach you how to dance. Do you remember him? The swarthy fellow who kept trying to meet with you privately? What cheek! Or the gardener who lurked by your bedroom window while I was away? Or the mason who would linger in our salon pretending to work while surreptitiously staring at you? Knaves! The world is full of knaves.

Know that I do this for more than my need to protect you and yours. I do this to protect our kingdom! I do this to secure our High King's domain by sea! Those knavish cats will never prevail.

Forgive me for my digression. My need for justice consumes me. I fear I will be at sea pursuing the Renrijra for several more months, along with the crew of the Wrath of Glenumbra, yet I await the day I shall return to you.

In answer to your last query: yes, we can afford to hire those workers you requested to build an extension on the house. Make sure they aren't shirking their duties. You'll have to watch them closely!

I've nearly drained my teapot and worn out my welcome with these spiritual lizard-folk, so I must be away. Rest assured, those Renrijra Pirates won't escape the relentless efforts of the Breton Navy.

I remain, as always, your affectionate and loving,

—Captain Augustus Relippe, Commander, The Wrath of Glenumbra
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#656)
	Kotholl's Contract
To the House Hlaalu Recorder,

This contract serves as a binding agreement of services between the merchants of the Obsidian Gorge and Kotholl Ironfist, in which Kotholl Ironfist pledges to protect said merchants, travelers, and House Officials for the duration of said contract.

Pledgee promises to patrol the grounds for signs of the unjust, escort travelers through the pass as required, and defend all representatives of House Hlaalu and their possessions, even at the cost of his own life (if absolutely necessary).

This contract shall be in effect for a total of thirty days. Upon completion of said contract, pledgee will be rewarded with a lump sum of gold, as agreed to under separate letter of employment. Renewal of this contract is possible, pending a performance review by House Hlaalu and agreement of all concerned parties.

— Dirngar Hlaalu
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#657)
	Letter to Raerana
Dearest Raerana,

I pray this finds you well. I can't stand the thought of you there, with those people. With each passing day, my love for you grows stronger. I can take you away from it all, if you'd only give the word.

Someday soon we'll be together forever. Your father will have to let you go. I'll give him no choice, you'll see. I'll take you away, and you won't have to be afraid any longer.

Meet me tonight. You know the place.

Ever yours,

Rilyn
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#658)
	Rilyn's Journal
Day 58: I saw her in the market today, bringing light to my gloom. Barely spoke to her before her mother rushed her away. Not sure what I did to offend Frifhild; hard to tell with Nords. I think I saw more bruises.

Day 60: She's sleeping beside me, both drunk on wine, couldn't be happier. My life is a storm that calms only when I'm with her. She's safe with me, only with me.

Day 65: I watched her on the farm from afar again today. I had to see her, even if I couldn't touch her. They have a new hand, a pretty-boy Nord named Hramdin. He has eyes for her, but I won't get jealous. She loves only me. 

Day 68: She didn't show last night. I waited for two hours. Maybe she's with Hramdin. I hate him, boil when I think of him watching her. I need to stop thinking about this.

Day 70: I can't take this much longer. She belongs with me, not with them. They don't deserve her, I do. They don't love her, I do. She must be mine!

Day 73: This is it! I'm going there right now. I'm taking her away and they'll have to let me. I won't let them stop me. I'm bringing a knife this time. I'll use it, if I need to.

Day 74: Let them curse my name now! Let the rats gnaw their faces off! She's free of them now. We're both free!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#659)
	Letter from Camarino
Dearest sister,

Just like we thought, Father was the one stealing the loaves from the cupboard. Mother yelled and yelled, and we laughed and laughed. We would have laughed harder with you there. 

Get well, little sis. Auri-El watch over you.

— Camarino
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#660)
	Letter from Lenwe
Son, don't worry. I know you were scared when you went down there, but everything will be all right.

Your friend from down the road just got the salve yesterday. Maybe he'll be joining you soon? I know you wouldn't want him to get sick, but I'd feel better with someone watching out for you.

Keep yourself safe, and dream of the Stars.

We'll see you soon.

— Lenwe
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#661)
	Letter from Minique
We tried to smuggle in some Springwater wine to help bolster your spirits. The guards took it from us, though. 

Don't worry: As soon as you're out of there, we'll throw you a great, big party. Drinks on me.

— Minique
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#662)
	The Voyages of Il-Am-Hakim, Vol. 7
The Gallant Il-Am-Hakim stood upon the breast of his ship, a new covenant in one hand and his spyglass in another. The sea spat saltspray, but he only smiled in return.

"Shall we beat to quarters, sir?" He nodded, and stepped down from his vantage point. His prize would not escape him this time.

Allowing a moment of weakness, he slipped into his cabin to confront his prisoner. Though she seemed nothing but a delicate flower, he knew her words to be poison.

He cleared his throat. "Madam, do you hear the drums? We have found your brother, and he will soon pay for his crimes."

The Dark Elf raised her head from her hands. "You think this concerns me? You are a fool." Her face, streaked with salt, turned away from Il-Am-Hakim. "My brother would see me dead for my betrayal. His death means my freedom."

The captain frowned at her remarks. He could not help but wonder if this was the way of royalty from other lands as well as his own. Would his patron think of him as disdainfully, when his ship next set port?

He turned on his heel and shut the cabin door behind him. But not before he saw the glint of sharpened steel from the Dark Elf's hand.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#663)
	Camandar's Journal
I can't get this sea-cursed crystal out of the base! Those dirty High Elves must have set up this arrangement of crystals for a reason.

The amount of energy the central crystal absorbed must be substantial. If I could unlock that power I could harness it. 

And then they'll see I'm not the fool they think I am! I'm not! I'm not a fool!

I can hear everyone whispering about my failure. Drinking is on the rise. If I don't get this crystal out of here soon….

They'll slit my throat in the night and head out to plunder the countryside.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#664)
	Knahaten Flu Confirmed
My worst fears are confirmed. Despite our isolation, <<1>> experienced its first outbreaks of Knahaten Flu. It began with the traders' twin apprentices, Abaaleb and Sana, a day after their return from Mud Tree Village.

Abaaleb succumbed first. His master noticed a bright, red rash on the boy's forearms. Sana's sickness went undetected for another day, until her mother found her coughing up blood.

Both apprentices passed within two days of discovering their first symptoms. Now, many of us show the signs. I've noticed an ache in my joints. It feels as though penning this short entry was like writing a volume.

None of the usual treatments have any effect. I begin to think the ancient shrine may be our only hope, but <<2>> resists. Perhaps <<3>> can convince her.

<<4>>

13th of Sun's Dawn, 2E 561
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#665)
	The Treasure of Stillrise Village
Felra,

Gather your coven and make your way to <<1>> as quickly as possible. A treasure there unlike any we have seen in many generations awaits the Cult of the Black Worm .

Take or create as many animus geodes as possible; you will find use for them, I promise you! I would go myself, but I do not have enough servants in Shadowfen to complete this task to its fullest.

When you arrive, be certain to use your witch-sight on the inhabitants. Not all is as it seems in that quiet little village. You will understand my meaning when you follow my orders.

I would say more, but you know how our communications can be unreliable, even within our ranks. Discover the secret of <<1>> and you'll understand my excitement. Bring back a great treasure, Felra, and you and I will "Still Rise" in the ranks of our Order!

— Deskin
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#666)
	A Final Appeal
<<1>>,

<<2>> cannot afford to wait for your decision on this matter. I understand your reluctance in dealing wih a Daedric Prince, but please consider the alternative before it's too late.

Through the years, the decisive leadership of our chieftains spared <<2>> the disasters, wars, and plagues endured by the rest of Shadowfen. This wisdom kept us sheltered, safe, and healthy.

But now, we've buried or burned too many of our friends, our neighbors, and our families. Must we dig more graves or build more pyres? Must we lie to our children and tell them they'll recover?

For years you've trusted my counsel to help <<2>>. Here is my final counsel. Let us enter the shrine and see what may be seen. If not, you will soon lose my support.

Not willingly, old friend. The joint-aches began last night. If <<3>> is right, neither of us will last the week.

You must act, <<1>>. If not, you'll lead nothing but dust and ash.

<<4>>

15th of Sun's Dawn, 2E 561
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#667)
	Song of Despair
by Anonymous

The memory of answers torn from fate

The destruction of all who cannot wait.

At dusk and dawn, the Rose Queen rules

While thieves of night still own the dark.

Green dragon's breath pollutes cloud and pool

As silent spider spins webs that mark.

The broken oath and the traitor's plot,

The huntsman's horn and sharpened spear

Make wishes pacts that come to naught

When madness claims those who would appear.

Life stands death upon its head

As sweet lust joins in pools of blood.

Escape the curse with no tears to shed

As nightmares arrive all in a flood.

Disease and plague are no end of life

When mastered by the harvester of strife.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#668)
	What Flows Downstream
Dark water brings bounty, like the raven brings sustenance to her chicks. But as the mother raven may not always have a choice of what to feed her offspring, so the dark water brings us bounties both greater and lesser.

The bounties of the most recent scavenger harvest diverge from the raven mother's directly. As she might enjoy the plethora of corpses and refuse washed downstream and into our hands, we have little use for dead Elves or Men … at least, of corpses this decayed.

Broken weapons, rusted armor, and warped arrows are equally disappointing. But some bear enchantments our tree-minders may be able to unravel. A wind brings a song to my ear of some great enchantment buried in the glistening muck. Our scavengers may bring back a worthy prize from this harvest after all.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#669)
	Rituals of Contempt
Nothing would please me more than to put all these rot-pickers to fire and sword, but the Hand must be found! I hear it calling to us, out of the filth and detritus that surrounds this stinking place.

I shall endeavor to summon up some allies. Perhaps the Hand's presence will make it easier for them to remain here and search, or perhaps they will be drawn to the Hand.

I cannot stay, however. These damn scale-skins are everywhere, and I do not want to chance revealing what's washed down into their filthy claws.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#670)
	Exploring the Xal Ithix Ruins
A bitter harvest here indeed. Xal Ithix is a land of scavengers. To think, my people subsist like dung beetles or tick birds, picking through the refuse of other cultures to survive.

And amid the glories of these ancient ruins, too! I believe the xanmeers in Xal Ithix are among the oldest in Shadowfen. If only I could find some sign of our ancestors' artifacts here, but I'm afraid if something did exist, it would have been plundered long ago.

Barvyn and I set out northward tomorrow. Perhaps other, unspoilt bounties await.

— Looks-Under-Rocks
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#671)
	Articles of the Sakkr-al-Behr
Article 1. All treasure taken from a captured vessel, town, or enemy hold shall be immediately divided into two parts. The first part is entered into the ship's purse for repairs, resupply, and operating costs. The second shall be divided amongst the crew as defined in Article 2. On recommendation of the First Mate and Bosun, the Captain may choose to reserve more than this in dire need.

Article 2. Shares are assigned as follows: Inactive Crew (wounded, sick, or otherwise): 1/2 share. Active Crew: 1 share. Raid Leaders: 2 shares. Raid Commanders: 4 shares. Bosun: 4 shares. First Mate: 6 shares. Captain: 8 shares.

Article 3. Bonus Shares. Healers, sorcerers, and other specialists are awarded a bonus share in addition to all rank shares. Those wounded in the line of duty are also awarded one bonus share. The Captain may award up to 2 bonus shares to a crewman for heroic or valiant service.

Article 4. Any crewman found withholding shares or refusing action shall be marooned on a sandbar or like island with 3 days rations. Any crewman who assaults or injures another in order to avoid discovery of such offense will be marooned without rations, and without benefit of island but with attached chains and weights.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#672)
	Log of the Intractable
Two weeks out and no sign of the so-called "Renrijra Pirates" or the Brotherhood of the Sakkr-al-Behr. It is my belief that while the Ra Gada have been successful in raiding along the coasts, they would not dare to sail upstream along the winding and unmapped rivers and waterways of Shadowfen.

The Redguards are, essentially, a race of pirates, after all, pursuing only the easiest prey for the least risky benefits. Now that the Ebonheart Pact has mobilized naval vessels like the Intractable, there is little chance we will sight their sails within attack distance of any of our settlements.

There appears to be a commotion on deck, so I will have to continue my log entry tomorrow. If those rig-monkeys have gotten into the rum again —
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#673)
	The Dark Husband
Like Secunda follows Masser, Sithis follows the Night Mother. Her husband pursues, but she seldom pauses, leaving him eternally in shadow.

Sithis has many names, and many parents … or none at all. But his Fangs … the Fangs of Sithis still bite. They take particular pleasure in envenoming the weak-minded, the foolish, the greedy, or the headstrong, but the Fangs can destroy the powerful and the wise as well.

Beware those born under the Shadow, and all those who seek to use its power. The downfall of our ancestors is tied to the Fangs of Sithis, and our scales remain darkened by his touch.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#674)
	Pillagers of the Hist
My Dearest Deyapa,

It is with great sadness I report the deaths of so many of our brethren throughout Shadowfen. They fall like dead leaves in a burning forest as the invaders sear root and branch in their sacrilege.

I do not know what the Dominion intends to do with the Hist sap it collects from our sacred trees, but I must warn you: your secluded hamlet may be next. The blood-trail of tapped Hist trees winds through Shadowfen and shows no sign of stopping. Red ants on a blood trail, they are. Make certain they do not consume you.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#675)
	Dominion Troops General Order 719a
When assaulting an Argonian village or settlement, be careful of the large, usually centrally-located tree within the hamlet's boundaries. The Argonians call it a Hist tree and their cold-blooded race can be driven into a berserk fury if it is attacked. The tree has something to do with their mating rituals and life-cycle, so that is understandable.

But avoiding their fury is the least of your worries. Damaging or destroying a Hist tree without a command-level order is expressly forbidden. In most mud-ridden, bug-infested, scale-skin settlements, the Hist tree is the only valuable resource worth taking … and it is very valuable.

Each raiding party must include a contingent of sappers. Not wall-penetration specialists, but tree-sappers. Their weapons include tubes, pipes, drills, and portable distilleries. It is their job to recover as much "Hist sap" from these trees as possible. And, since the sap decays quickly, it is imperative each sapper crew be protected while the distillation process completes.

Failure to recover Hist sap from each Argonian village means overall failure of the expedition, so be wary. The Dominion does not tolerate failure.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#676)
	On Argonians
by Cirantille

In studying the various races of Tamriel, I have found a few strange aberrations. Among the human-shaped, the Argonians may be the most fascinating. They are cold-blooded, in both the physiological and psychological sense, and yet they somehow manage to operate in all climes with the same resilience as mammals. Their preference for sub-tropical and tropical climates notwithstanding, to see an Argonian moving through sub-arctic or arctic regions with the same facility as their mammalian rivals is simply astounding.

While most other Altmeri scholars simply choose to ignore this oddity, I chose to delve into it, and I believe I've discovered its cause. The Argonians maintain their they are connected to a mystical force known as "the Hist." As religious beliefs go, it is not terribly complicated, but I believe it has a physical manifestation as well.

The Hist supposedly emanates from all nature in Tamriel but is particularly strong in "Hist trees"—large, usually ancient, growths found at the center of every sizeable Argonian settlement. These Hist trees contain, the Argonians believe, the collective memories and knowledge of all Argonians.

Whether this is true or not, the sap that flows from a Hist tree contains concentrated magicka. I believe that it is this Hist Sap that gives the Argonians the ability to defy the logical limits of their own physiology and also empowers their shamans or "tree-minders." If we can tap the energy contained within a Hist tree, who knows what we, a race used to manipulating magic, may achieve?
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#677)
	Free Our Goblin Brothers!
I have no echo, so I cannot speak?

My limbs are short, so I cannot reach the sky?

My wind is bound, won't YOU help me break free?

If we do not set our Goblin brethren free, who will? Argonians know the yoke of servitude. Will we place it on others while the memory of slavery still lingers in our minds? When we return to the Hist, what will our ancestors say to us?

And, you, who are not Argonians, are we not all brothers under our soft or scaly skins? If we use slaves, are we not depriving ourselves of honest work? If we force others into service, will not our overlords do the same to us?

If you want to know what you can do to save a Goblin, speak to Miharil.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#678)
	Quartermaster's Report
To: Surii Dreth

Regarding: Mine Costs, Workers

Against my better judgment, I've followed your orders and compiled the following report on mining operations costs, specifically regarding worker costs.

Trained Miner: 15 gold/day, plus 10 gold/day rations

Argonian Miner: 10 gold/day, plus 8 gold/day rations

General Worker: 8 gold/day, 8 gold/day rations

Indentured Servant: 0 gold/day, 4 gold/day rations. Oversight: 1/10 gold day

Goblin: 0 gold/day, 1 gold/day rations. Oversight: unknown

Trained miners and Argonians produce about the same amount of quality work per day, which is at least double that of a general worker's output. Indentured servants' output varies wildly, but on a long-term basis, they seldom produce more on average than a general worker and almost never remain with the mine after their period of indenture ends.

Goblins are a wild card. So far, they dig like maniacs and have absolutely no interest in anything they pull out of the mine (see my other notes on Employee Theft), and they work for scraps. But I have heard rumblings, particularly from their shamans. They are unpredictable, and I suggest we use them sparingly and only for short periods of service.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#679)
	An Easy Assignment
Holmar,

I have received your request to be reassigned outside the mine for the remainder of your indentured servitude. I was tempted to reject your request out-of-hand, as I have your last three requests. It is not my fault your wife misses you or that the mine "takes your breath away" when you work. I did not accrue the debt you owe, and it is not my responsibility to give you a cushy way to work it off.

However, I find myself in need of a small favor. One of the Goblins, a "chief" of theirs, has taken to rabble-rousing among the workers. I want to show him who runs the mining effort, and I'd like you to do something for me. The chief is seldom seen without a feather-colored trinket, a "totem" of little value, but something I'm sure he prizes, in his own primitive way.

Steal it from him and bring it back to me, and I'll forgive your debt. I'm sure the Goblins will see how petty their "chief" is once he misses his trinket, and all will be well again in the mine.

— Surii
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#680)
	Ghosts of Glenumbra
By Jean Dutheil

Glenumbra is notorious for being haunted. It is important to explain what I mean by haunted. Not every undead is a haunt. Only ghosts can cause a haunting. Ghosts are the spirits of people who were once as alive as you or I. When they died, they refused to leave. 

(If at any point you experience the dark effects of necromancy, know that this is not a haunting and should be reported to the proper authorities.) 

Everyone in Glenumbra has a tale to tell about a spook, spectre, or haunt. You need only ask. 

Without a doubt the most haunted place in Glenumbra are the moors northwest of Aldcroft. As everyone knows, this was the site of the Battle of Glenumbria Moors in the First Era. This great battle saw the near-simultaneous destruction of both the Alessian Order and the Direnni Elves on one field of battle. Such a tragedy suffuses this place with spectral energy. Wandering the moors, many travelers report hearing the sounds of conflict in the distance.

The second most haunted place in Glenumbra is directly related to the first. Cath Bedraud and the burial mounds surrounding it began as a mass grave for the fallen soldiers of the battle of Glenumbria Moors. It is advised that you do not stray into the cemetery during times of heavy fog. Ghostly lights and moans have been reported there.

While some consider the woodlands of Daenia to be haunted, this is actually a misconception. Many spirits of nature, including the famed Guardians, inhabit the vale and forest. These are not ghosts, for they were never people. These creatures were born as spirits and should be treated with the respect they deserve.

Hearkening from Glenumbra's past of feudal division, the countryside is dotted with ruins and castles, each of which you could probably find someone to tell you a spooky story about. In particular, the ruins at Baelborne Rock and Dresan Keep have many a local legend surrounding them. 

Of all the haunted sites in Glenumbra, I would give strongest caution against a trip to the village of Westtry. Westtry suffered some form of terrible magical event that has left it infested with the undead. It is not safe, nor would I suggest anyone go ghost hunting there.
		

Failed at /books/681		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#682)
	The Lion Guard Wants You!
Greetings, citizen. We are the Lion Guard, the most elite fighting force serving the Daggerfall Covenant. And we want you!

Do you seek adventure, excitement, and the chance to protect High King Emeric, leader of the Daggerfall Covenant? Then join the ranks of the illustrious Lion Guard.

We have been deployed across High Rock at the behest of His Majesty to protect the land. We battle against any and all that would challenge the might of the Covenant or threaten its citizens.

Do you have what it takes to become a member of the Lion Guard? Are you brave and strong? Are you willing to follow orders while still being able to react to everchanging situations? Do you have skills and abilities that make you invaluable to our cause? Do you come of good family with unstained reputation? Well, we'll be the judge of that!

See your local Lion Guard recruiter today!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#683)
	What a Pig Needs
By Swineherd Francois Wickton

Being a swineherd is much harder than you think. Being a good swineherd is even harder. There are many things that a pig needs and it is the duty of the swineherd to see to them all.

A pig needs mud to wallow in, dry hay to sleep in, and clean water to drink and bathe in.

A pig needs slop to eat. Slop can consist of almost any food scraps, but a pig prefers corn cobs, fruit, vegetables, mushrooms, and wheat.

But most of all, a pig needs love. Love your pigs and they will serve you well.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#684)
	Knights of the Dragon
If you are intent on joining the Knights of the Dragon, you must understand our purpose and our way. Some confuse us with the Dragonguard. We are not devotees to the Empire of Cyrodiil, nor were we created to slay the dragons of old. We were created to serve His Majesty the Dragon, the King of Daggerfall. We are the sword and the shield of Daggerfall's King. We are his elite soldiers, his honorable sons and daughters, and his most loyal protectors. 

Say your vows only if you are willing to take on this responsibility. This is our oath:

I vow to serve the Dragon. I lay down my life, my gold, and my sacred honor for my King. His word is my order, my sword is his arm. Our lives are one.
		

		Part of the None collection (#685)
	Welcome to the Ice Caves
Congratulations. You made it to the ice caves.

If you're reading this, it's because you're working a shift mining in the ice caves. If you've never done this sort of work before, rest assured there's always a need for more miners. Here's some free advice. If you don't read this, we're not responsible for what happens to you.

1) You can always ask questions from the more experienced miners. If they've lived long enough to make it through a few seasons down here, they've got good advice. The miners who don't ask advice tend to make mistakes. I won't lie to you: some of those mistakes can be fatal. If you get hurt, you'll need some of that coin you've been saving up.

2) Always keep an eye out for a possible attack from the enemy. If it's been a while since we've found something valuable, we can't afford to deploy lots of guards. Everyone's got to get a pick and pitch in. We know that makes us vulnerable to attack from bandits, invaders, animals, or worse, but if we don't keep making a profit, we'll have to close the mine.

3) Claim jumpers, bandits, and invaders are always a problem. We recruit as many folks as we can, just in case an organized force comes in and tries to take over. Soldiers seem to think that mines are valuable targets for conquest, but of course, they don't want to do any of the actual work here. If you see any signs of suspicious activity, contact one of the more experienced miners or the foreman. Right now, we're paying you. If soldiers seize this place, you're going to be slave labor. Don't think it couldn't happen.

4) I know it's cold. Even if you're a Nord, you're going to find the cold miserable, and I don't care. Heat melts ice, and we can't heat up the mines too much, or all that ice is going to melt. A collapsing tunnel is even worse than the mine getting attacked.

5) Do what you're told. I know you think you've got an instinct of where to dig and where not to dig, but that's not your job. There's always going to be someone in a mine who has more experience than you do, and they're the ones who decide where you dig. They'll tell you what they're looking for. Once you've found a deposit, tell your superior and focus on harvesting it as fast as you can. Time is money.

6) Keep an eye out for danger. You've made it through enough training to recognize the signs of a buttress or brace that's about to collapse, the color a flame makes when exposed to harmful gas, the scent of hazardous gas, and the chances of a cave-in. When in doubt, point it out. We'd rather have you look like a fool and be wrong than chance losing valuable lives because you didn't tell someone.

7) Think of home, but be careful what you say. We all have folks at home. If you miss them, there's someone nearby who misses home more. You're not here to talk. You're here to dig. I know some of the miners are lucky enough to have family staying in quarters nearby, but that costs money, and you can't afford that yet. You're probably working here to raise money for your precious loved ones, so remember that when you're working hard. No one wants to hear about your family troubles or your money troubles, because we all have them. If you didn't have them, you wouldn't be working here. Either that, or you're here because you're expecting to have a lucrative career mining in the ice caves.

8) This is a job. We're paying you. If you can't show up for your shift on time or do what you're told, you won't have a job anymore. It's a long walk back to town, especially when you don't have any gold. Do what you're told, and you'll get your pay. And remember, it could be worse. If this mine gets attacked, you'll be slave labor real quick. Be grateful you're getting paid. You're lucky to have this job.

Thank you for doing what you were told and reading this. Hope you enjoyed the break.

Now get back to work.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#686)
	Guard Duty
Morndas

They finally put me on guard duty! No more long hours working the bellows at the forge! Like any good soldier, I've scouted the terrain around my post, looking for possible lines of attack. No one's getting through here! Not on my watch! I know some of the other guards don't like this job, but if I work hard, my life here will get better. It's certainly better than working at the forge!

Tirdas

No signs of hostile activity, but lots of folks want to ask me for directions. I've been learning where everything is, just in case we need to coordinate with the other patrols. People appreciate the help. I'm sure our presence here makes them feel safer.

Middas

Saw a weird squirrel today. He came up so close you could practically hit him with a rock. I missed, though. I'm going to practice my rock throwing, because I know it could come in handy. I'm already spending time on the archery range every day, just in case I get transferred to where the action is. Our commanders notice that sort of initiative. In fact, I might start patrolling a little farther from my post.

Turdas

Today, I was assigned a partner to make sure I don't show too much initiative and wander from my post. He's incredibly jaded. It's demoralizing, especially when he keeps complaining about the pain in his knee. If I keep at this, though, I'm sure I can get a promotion to someplace better. Maybe my partner will put in a good word for me. Just in case, I'm showing up to my shift early and leaving late. I'm here before he gets here and I'm here after he leaves.

Fredas

Rumors of battles nearby. Our scouts have seen signs of Stormfist troops. Still, the chances of them marching all the way out here seem slim. The next time I get a chance to drink with the other guards, I'm sure they'll be bragging and boasting about their war stories again. Sounds like casualties are increasing, but the stories sound glorious.

Loredas

We've been deployed! The troops on the front line need reinforcements, so they're sending out some of the guards. Finally, a chance to make a name for myself! I know it's a risky job, and some of the soldiers are bitter about this, but I also know that if I work hard, my life will improve. It's better than guard duty!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#687)
	Digging Orders
All right, listen up, you dogs! I want this place stripped bare. Take anything that looks valuable or powerful. 

We managed to sneak past those idiot High Elves. Now's our chance. 

If the rumors are true, there's something in this hole that will let us blast that smug look off their stupid faces. Just you watch.

Now, dig!

— Camandar the Amazing
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#688)
	Warning: I Heard You!
Hey! I just want you idiots to know, I heard what you was saying about me. You think there's nothing here but yellow crystals. Well, guess what? 

Wrong again, imbeciles! I found the power source that's making this whole place hum.

Once I get it loose, I'll show you all that you were stupid to doubt me. Now, quit drinking and get back to work.

Or else!

Your Leader, Camandar the Brilliant
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#689)
	Clans of the Reach: A Guide
By Ehcelmo

If one has the opportunity—or misfortune—to deal with the wild clansmen of the Reach, you should know who you're dealing with. There are a number of clans who trade calmly and peaceably with the cities of the North. Then, there are those who view travelers as threats. Or as targets. 

In my studies, I've identified three clans in particular that should be avoided at all costs.

Boneshaper Clan:

The Boneshapers have developed an unusual number of rituals involving thorny vines and plants. The clan's name stems from their tradition of lacing or growing these vines through the skeletons of their ritual sacrifices. This plant does not appear to be native to the Reach, but they cultivate it well.

When going on a raid or into battle they use these vines to create effigies, shaping the plants into rough mockeries of life. Some of these rituals also make use of the dead, though necromancy appears to be forbidden in the clan. It's unclear how these bodies are used, but travelers who see their crude clan symbol should stay well clear.

Rageclaw Clan:

The Rageclaws have domesticated a breed of stout, battle-ready ursines. These bears are trained from an early age, bound to a specific clansman or clan family. A matriarchal society, this clan imitates their animal companions in many ways. The protection of young clan members is paramount, and I've seen whole Rageclaw families go into battle over the slightest threat to their children.

A particular habit of the clan causes them friction with other Reach clans: Rageclaws are known to overtake and absorb other smaller clans, converting them to the way of the claw. Women new to the clan find they have tremendous control and freedom, and often enjoy the transition. Male warriors are pitted against grown bears in one-on-one combat, earning a place in the clan by forcing an ursine to submit. It usually goes poorly for clansmen unfamiliar with these massive beasts.

Stonetalon Clan: 

Finally the Stonetalon clan, while not as outwardly aggressive as the other two clans above, exhibit a number of particular and combative behaviors. As with the Rageclaws, Stonetalon clans are matriarchies. However, women of the tribe seem to be rare. When they're seen, their women seem to be covered in heavy cloaks made of bird feathers, as if they've all taken ill. I believe they're struggling through a series of trials for an unknown purpose. 

In any case, every cloaked female I've encountered has been a powerful spellcaster. Stonetalon clans, as a result, may be the most dangerous groups to meet far afield.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#690)
	Rivers of Profit in Riften
The town of Riften offers intriguing opportunities for the enterprising rogue, though hidden quicksands lurk as well. The Rift has little fertile ground for our endeavors and Riften is the only locale I can recommend for even a brief visit.

Once in town, a base of operations can be established at the Withered Tree or Shadehome Inn; both cater to the discerning traveler. A casual perusal of the town will yield several prospects, but I erect the spine of warning. All scouting must be circumspect, with purchase of an item from one of the town's many merchants. For the town guard are active and unusually suspicious of strangers, especially those not of the Nord race. A meandering walk, without a local purchase in hand, will quickly land one in a cell.

The island that forms the heart of town, surrounded by the invigorating waters of the nearby lake, contains several merchant stalls. A quick purchase there will soothe the guards' suspicions. And it affords a glance at the merchants' goods. These vary greatly in quality and selection, so the stalls of greatest interest I leave to each to determine for himself.

To the north are two buildings of note. Two merchant families of long standing sell wares not generally available in the island stalls. The Rothalens sell crafting materials, including a few very specialized and rare items. This Dunmer family is tolerated in Riften for the glamor their wares add to the otherwise mundane town. The Rothalens, like all Dunmer, are grasping and suspicious, employing an unfortunate number of guards and more-esoteric security measures. The claw of greed should be tempered with the hiss of caution here.

Next to the Rothalens is the establishment of Guram Ironarm. This retired blacksmith and his family cater to the weaponsmithing and armorer crafts. Virtually all materials needed for these endeavors can be found here, making this shop a destination for crafters from across the Rift. Security here is handled by the Ironarm clan, and a dozen severed hands nailed above the entrance attest to the family zeal.

On the Guard Captain's quarters and the Fighters Guild we need not dwell, for only the foolish dive into waters so deep and swift-running with no reward in sight.

Ah, but the Mages Guildhall, the most impressive edifice in Riften! My claws quiver in remembrance of the treasures contained therein. Spell components, rare scrolls, and powerful magical items—a trove unique in the Rift. Alas, the safeguards upon them are both subtle and deadly. Venture into this building with all senses alert.

Along the water's edge are the town's docks. While the simple-minded fish from them or gaze into the murky waters, for the acquisitive among us they hold greater delights. Merchants who prefer the shadows can be found along the lower level of the docks, conducting business in the delightfully damp warehouses at the waterline. A purchaser for goods of any sort can usually be found here. The town guard avoids the underdocks or patrols only in large, easily avoided groups.

A grating at one end of the docks leads into a small sewer system. Now used only as a rat pathway, perhaps as Riften grows this will eventually be extended underneath the entire town, rendering it more useful for clandestine operations.

In the hopes that I may contribute to the expansion of our guild's knowledge, I offer this record of my experiences in the town of Riften. Stay moist, comrades. 

Respectfully submitted,

Eyes-With-Intent
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#691)
	Touch of the Worm's Tongue
Day 13: It has been discovered that strict reliance on the preserving salts, while undesirable for outward appearances, contains the highest rate of conversion success.

Day 17: Before the dark fluids are returned to the vessel it is necessary to purge all remaining blood, most especially from the primary organs.

Day 19: Though it pains the host enough to occasionally result in death, forcing water into the lungs may prevent future spasms of pus-coughs.

Day 23: Only under rare circumstances should the vessel exhibit symptoms of its former life. Should this become a problem during the initiation stage it is often best to discard the work.

Day 29: It was revealed today that the host can reject the vessel if not carefully prepared in the specific manner in which we have been instructed. This is a grave affront to the host and not something that will be taken lightly should your work on the vessel be sloppy enough to cause this.

Day 31: There are two recent shortcut practices which have been found to cause unreliable lifespans for the vessels. It is important to not take any shortcuts during preparation. Those responsible for the propagation of the false knowledge have been dealt with.

Day 37: The first shining example of our future has been created. The host and vessel are joined perfectly and the resulting power is breathtaking.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#692)
	Songs of the Return, Volume 5
It came to pass that our great lord Ysgramor, the Harbinger of us all, sat before an encampment fire. The crews of the Jorrvaskr, the Fallowfire, and the Kaal Kaaz bade him eat, and boast, and drink. For the boon members of the Five Hundred Companions were abroad in the land. Stories were told, hearts won and lost, and always the smell of roasting meat hung in the air. The greatest of us all beckoned every warrior to his side, and spoke the tale of Wuuthrad's forging.

Every Mer the Harbinger slew died at Wuuthrad's bite. All through the long campaign, the only weapon that would fit in the Harbinger's hand was the mighty Wuuthrad. As he told it, the most legendary of axes was forged in the darkest of nights.

It was the Night of Tears. Ysgramor sat staring out across the waters. He rode upon the last ship in his fleet, fleeing Tamriel for the shores of Atmora. From that vantage point, he watched as Saarthal—the first city—burned. A swollen sky poured rain upon the flames and upon the sea. And the greatest of us all wept bitter tears.

So great was the grief of the Harbinger that, instead of salty sorrow, Ysgramor wept tears of purest ebony. His eldest, Yngol, collected the tears in a stein and held his father in a warm embrace. He poured mead down the Harbinger's great throat, wrapped furs around the Harbinger's great shoulders, and slung the Harbinger into a great hammock below decks.

Then he set to work. For Yngol, eldest son to the Harbinger of us all, was the greatest smith our people have ever known. There, on the sea, Yngol set to work with his tools. He used lightning to heat the Night's Tears, the ocean's swell to cool them, and always his hammer-blows rang in concert with the rising wind.

When Ysgramor awoke the next morning, Yngol presented him with a mighty axe, hewn from the sorrow that had laid him low just the night before. And the Harbinger of us all embraced his son. He cried out in joy, sadness, and rage. And there on the deck of the last ship from Saarthal, Ysgramor named his axe Wuuthrad, which means "Storm's Tears" in the language of Atmora. 

It was then, in telling the tale, that Ysgramor paused. The Harbinger of us all called out to lost Yngol, who had been with the crew of the Harakk in the Storm of Seperation. For his son, his eldest and greatest joy, was with him always. He who had bound the storm's tears, he said, rode with him always in the days of the noble and honored Five Hundred.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#693)
	The Road to Sovngarde
Loremasters hear tales of heroes who claim to have traveled to Sovngarde and back, but their truth is uncertain. The greatest warriors stride the road to Sovngarde upon their deaths, but if the living can walk there and return, it has not yet been shown.

Yet loremasters know this: Sovngarde exists. So our gods promise, so we believe. Sovngarde lies in the heart of Aetherius, awaiting the souls of departed warriors. Nords who prove themselves in battle awaken in the realm after death. Pain and illness vanish within the Hall of Valor. Revelry is never-ending, mead flows freely, and the greatest Nords of all time compete in tests of strength and prowess. 

Spirits trapped in this world know torment, emptiness, and endless suffering, obsessing over lost battles, fallen kingdoms, and unresolved lives. Not so in Sovngarde! Even the tedium of immortality is unknown, for spectral foes wait in the surrounding shadows, waiting to do battle with those who would test their mettle.

Shor created the realm of Sovngarde with his clever magic long ago, but the trickster god has faded from our world. Others have attempted to part the veil of his deceit, practicing forsaken arts and seeking hidden paths into the afterlife. All such attempts end in tragedy. None can out-trick the trickster. For all we know, Shor retreated to that realm and laughs at all who would outwit him. He may even rule the realm, choosing heroes to honor according to his whims.

All this is speculation. Only those who are worthy know the truth, and they speak no more to the living. Through all the suffering and adversity in this world, true Nord warriors endure, for Sovngarde awaits.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#694)
	Unexpected Allies
When I was a lad, I stood at the eastern edge of Skyrim and looked upon Morrowind. From Stendarr's Beacon, I could see the Red Mountain of Vvardenfell, but I never ventured there. Like many Nords, I was content to leave foreign lands to the foreigners.

A scant ten years ago in 2E 572, my father took a different path. He fought with our Dunmeri allies to repel the Second Akaviri invasion. As a soldier of Skyrim, he was there when the Nords pursued the invaders into Stonefalls. He told me of an army on the brink of ruin, marching ever further into foreign territory, hungry and nearly broken, until the Dunmer brought in Argonian troops to aid the Nords.

No one expected this. I still cannot believe it. The Dunmer once held the Argonians as slaves, yet on that day, the Argonians' arrival changed the course of history. From the jungles they came, adorned with blood and mud. Akaviri fell beneath their claws, as well as the swords and spells of their Nord and Dunmeri allies. An alliance was forged that day and has never faltered since.

Agreements were signed in Ebonheart, but these were formalities compared to the ties made on the battlefield. Our alliance was forged in the fires of adversity, a shield to protect us from all invaders. Our cultures differ but our aims bind us.

A few years ago, the Dunmeri Tribunal called for more troops from our alliance, insisting that we take up arms against a new enemy: an Empire growing in Cyrodiil. Our enemies in the Covenant and Dominion  also sent troops to liberate this territory.

And now? War rages across Tamriel. Khajiit and Bosmer war against Dunmer and Argonians. Altmer strike against Skyrim. And from High Rock, the Daggerfall Covenant attacks us all.

In the midst of such chaos, what choice do we have? Our alliance with the Dunmer and Argonians has stood for a decade. I have fought beside our allies in battle. And when I return home, I tell my children proud tales of victory over our foes, fighting with Dunmer and Argonians beside me.

The Pact never ceases to surprise me. I have spoken at great length with Argonian mystics, marveling at their view of the world. I have walked into the caves of Dunmeri priests, staring at shadows as they tell me tales of their gods.

And someday, we will walk together into the heart of Cyrodiil—Dunmer, Argonians, and Nords. We will triumph under the banner of our Pact, steadfast allies who can never be defeated.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#695)
	Thenephan's Mysteries of Mead
There's a reason I was kicked out of Daggerfall, chased out of Elden Root, and banned from Mournhold. I've tried every variety of intoxicant, wine, ale, and Argonian swill this world has to offer. I've sampled skooma with Khajiit, licked an Argonian Hist Tree, and hunted "magical" toads with the Bosmer.

None of that compares to Nord mead. There's nothing like it.

The purest stuff is made in Nord villages, but we're at war with the Nords, and a Breton has no guarantee of surviving a trip like that. Leave that sort of thing to the professionals. There is still hope, however. If you're ever at a tavern, and there's a cask of Nord mead, you'd be a fool to pass it up.

Mead is made by fermenting honey and water (though a few recipes call for molasses). Sometimes, you add grain mash and strain it, but that isn't necessary. Some of the High Elves call it "honey wine," but mead needs more than good honey. Every meadery has its own recipes. After you drink enough mead, you learn the names of the brewmasters who create them. A drunk Nord will gladly punch another in the face over the honor of a good brewmaster. Then again, a drunk Nord will punch anyone for just about anything.

Every brewmaster has a distinct blend of spices, fruit, and sometimes hops (which makes a mead bitter, which makes some Nords bitter, too.) I've even heard tales of mead mixed with the blood of heroes, allegedly granting them the words of a poet or skald. I'd like a mead named after me, but I'm not going to bleed for it.

An Altmer once told me that brewing is the basis of all culture. It's why our ancestors started farming and forming cities. It's what we do when we've got too much wheat and barley and hops and we're sick of farming. The culture of drinking seems to be what keeps Nords together.

Nords must be really sick of farming, because they brew and drink prodigious amounts of mead. Whenever a cask of really good mead is opened, Nords gather round because they know that cask won't last long. But if you don't know how to behave in the Nord drinking culture, you'll end up broke, broken, hungover, and helpless. I found out the hard way.

Nords love to drink. But more than that. Nords respect those who can endure adversity. I know that sounds flowery for explaining why two drunk Nords would have a "hit-me-hard-in-the-face" contest, but really, that's why their culture celebrates getting drunk.

A Nord can gain respect by consuming more mead than anyone else, just as he's respected for surviving a blizzard or killing a bear with a sharp stick. "Nord honor" is something they talk about endlessly when they're drunk, and even more when they're sober. So the first thing you learn about Nords is if you want their respect, never turn down a drink. It's a test. If you can't handle that next drink, leave. Otherwise you'll wake up somewhere they find hilarious, but you won't be laughing.

Nords also love their skalds. Songs and stories go over well with a drunk audience, once they've had enough of brawling, boasting, and throwing axes at each other. Their songs are all about how they're better than everyone else at everything. They've all heard these over and over again, so bring some of your own. They're desperate to hear something new.

Anywhere you go, drinking is also a good way to redress a mistake or make an apology, and it's the same with Nords. If you lose a contest, you need to buy a drink. If you make a mistake or offend someone, you need to buy a drink. If you're insulted, stand there and take it, then you need to buy a drink.

You don't have to be the best brawler around to survive a room full of drunken Nords. You can also impress them by being clever or by being talented, but you better be really good. When it's time to take a punch in the face, you better be ready for a punch in the face. If you don't like getting punched, there are some things you should never talk about, like politics, who's the best brewmaster, and who punches the hardest. And never demand to know why someone just punched you in the face.

If you want to hear more, buy me a drink the next time I'm in Daggerfall. I'll tell you a story.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#696)
	The Wandering Skald
Every library holds musty old tales

Carried through rain and snow

But a Nord skald gladly regales

What the poets all sang long ago

Every book has its title and name

But its pages soon turn to dust

A poem we sing will live on in fame

From a history all of us trust

Old tales come down from long ago

With inflection and meter and verse

Soon the skald's audience will hap'ly know

"Yes, this life could be worse."

And the kings know that truth,

Is better than sword and shield

Taught from their distant youth

Skald Kings have wisdom to wield

So welcome me as a friend

For the poems I sing tonight

Will last for nights without end

From first mead to dawn's early light!
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#697)
	Songs of the Return, Volume 27
At last Sinmur was brought to bay. Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, boldly led the remaining Companions into the final battle. Many a brave Companion had already fallen to the giants. Stalwart Valdur and Sly Hakra, long may their spirits be honored, fell assaulting the wily half-giant. Many others now trod the blessed pathways to Sovngarde. With all his kin slain, only Sinmur still defied the greatest among us.

The axe Wuuthrad, dripping with the gore of a hundred dead giants, gleamed in the darkness of Sinmur's barrow. Ysgramor strode forward, halting his followers with a gesture. With another he dared Sinmur to face him in mortal combat. The giant-kin proved willing, roaring his defiance and leaping to battle. His massive, iron-bound club swung forward to crush. Our Lord Ysgramor stepped aside and the club shattered the stone a pace from his side. Wuuthrad sang a blood song as it chopped into the club, breaking it asunder as if made from straw.

Sinmur howled his rage and hurled the stub of his once-fearsome weapon at Our Lord Ysgramor's head. He grappled Ysgramor, seeking to squeeze life away. A roar of laughter was the answer the monster received. Ysgramor's forehead and knee delivered two mighty blows. Sinmur screeched and fell to his knees before our lord.

A song of death and delight keened from Wuuthrad as Ysgramor buried it deep in the giant-kin's skull. A splatter of gore and a death rattle came from Sinmur as Ysgramor gave a victory yell. The Companions cheered mightily as Wuuthrad waved overhead. The depredations of the giant and his vile kin were at last ended. And the legend of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, grew mightily that day.
		

		Part of the The Rift Lore collection (#698)
	Songs of the Return, Volume 49
With the Circle of Captains' decree that each ship's crew should go forth of its own accord, making its own legend, the crew of the Fallowfire rejoiced. They yearned to bring the fear of Men to new lands of the Mer that had not yet been put to the sword. They took to heart their Lord Ysgramor's words to "Give no quarter. Show no kindness."

A pyre upon the shore was raised for the Fallowfire. The ashes of their beloved vessel fell upon the waters and drifted toward Atmora, cutting all ties with their homeland. Led by Captain Gurilda Sharktooth, the crew of the Fallowfire turned their backs to the sea and strode inland.

South they traveled, seeking lands untrammeled by others of Ysgramor's crews. South and south they went, sowing the blood vengeance demanded by Ysgramor. No Mer escaped their axes once seen, no settlement remained unburnt in their path. Truly the Fallowfires brought their lord's wrath to bear upon the treacherous Elves. As they journeyed, so the terror of them grew among the Mer.

Gurilda led her crew to the foothills of a lofty range of mountains. These they named Ysgramor's Teeth and long they sought a pass through them. When finally a way was found, the crew crossed over and into a new land. "The Rift" they called this region, for it was riven by deep canyons and swift-flowing rivers. In the name of Fallowfire, their lost Companions, and Yngol, they scoured the land, burning Mer villages and putting all they encountered to the axe.

Finally, the Mer offered battle. The cowardly Elves gathered in great numbers high atop a rocky hill, daring Gurilda's Companions to attack. And so they did. Challenges were offered, brave deeds were done, and heroes made. Battle raged through the day and as the sun touched the peaks of the western mountains, the Mer broke and fled. Gurilda lay dying, pierced by a multitude of weapons, but lived until sunset. Her spirit ascended to Sovngarde knowing her crew was victorious.

That day, the dominion of Elves over the Rift was ended. The Companions claimed the land in the name of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, and made it free to all Nords. To honor their dead, the Companions labored long, delving into the hillside to craft a tomb. Gurilda was buried there, with all her weapons and armor. There too were placed the remains of Bergitte the Toothless and Kajord Eagle-Eye, laid alongside Gurilda as they had fallen in battle, defending their captain. Others of the honored dead were entombed as well. A mighty cairn of stone was erected around the tomb entrance, to forever mark the grave.

Vikord One-Ear, long Gurilda's first mate but now captain, gazed long upon the hills rising about them and the valleys at their feet. This was a land he could love, where his people could prosper and grow. He decreed the crew's wandering at an end and caused a great hall to be built on the battle site. Thus was Fallowstone Hall created, in homage to the ship that carried them to these shores. From this time, the days of the Companions of the Rift are counted. Never may their glory fade!
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#699)
	Fistalle's Note
One day, a great big kitty with a tawny hide was playing with a little bag. The cat poked his head into the bag. He was a very nosy, hungry cat. He was hoping to find food in the bag.

Instead he found two rats hiding inside! One of them bore a blade, and its head was covered in silk. The other wore a veil, and hissed in annoyance.

The cat realized that the only way he could get these rats out of this bag was to let in more light. Under the light, the rats would be forced to fight or flee.
		

Failed at /books/700		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#701)
	Book of Excellent Teachings
To open the gate in our mysterious lake,

One must follow the book of teachings.

For only when shapes are set and directions followed,

Will the portal open—but try not to get swallowed.



Let the Sun's spiky rays warm the Northern shore,

As Masser's Full Moon rises in the Western expanse,

And Aetherius' Star sparkles above the Eastern moor,

While the Crescent Moon of Secundus fills the Southern glance.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#702)
	Aluvus' Notes
I can still remember the night it happened to me. It's been months since that night, but I can't forget those fangs at my throat.

I still don't know why she left me alive. Something frightened her off? Pity saved me?

No. Not pity. I know the thirst. The hunger that compels me. 

I don't pity my food in the slightest, and I'm sure she felt no pity for me that night either. It must have been something else. But what?
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#703)
	Aluvus' Further Notes
I think I understand, now. I think I know why I was left alive.

She wanted me to become like this. She wanted me to become like her. Perhaps it's loneliness, or perhaps it's something deeper.

I've grown stronger, feeding on the weak fools that pass my lair. For an instant, when I feed, I sometimes wonder if I should let this one live. Truly live, and become like me.

Perhaps I will slip into the town nearby, select a likely target, and try it out for myself. Perhaps.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#704)
	Aluvus' Final Notes
I did it! I finally did it.

It was his innocence that convinced me. The alchemist's son, always so helpful, always so kind. How could I resist? It wasn't easy, but he's like me now.

His tears. I left him there, on his father's doorstep.

And there shall be more. They'll stay with me in the darkness. For years to come.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#705)
	To Do What is Needed
Would you stand by while your village or town burned? Then why do you do nothing while Morrowind suffers? The Tribunal may be too busy to do the right thing, but we're not. The Maulborn, a society of like-minded Dark Elves who want to help the poor and protect the weak, was formed to take care of the problems that are too mundane, too inconsequential, or too difficult to attract the attention of the Tribunal and its agents.

We have a plan for the Llodos plague ravaging our population. We have a plan for the plague husks terrorizing our towns. We have a plan, and that's more than the Great Houses or the Tribunal can say. But we can't accomplish our plans without your help. Join the Maulborn and become part of the solution. Our volunteers are already making a difference in such diverse locations as the Serk, the Obsidian Gorge, and the Narsis wilderness. We'd be happy to allow you to help us in our important work.

Who are the Maulborn? We're your friends and neighbors. Your cousins. Your sons and daughters. We're the gathering storm and the strong arm of judgment. We're the cleansing wind that will soon blow across the entirety of Morrowind. We are healers and wizards, warriors and caregivers. We are the Maulborn, and we are you.

Come make a difference. Come join the Maulborn.

Our recruitment liaisons are anxious to meet you.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#706)
	Thalmor Diplomatic Corps Notice
Regarding our friends, the Khajiit:

Do NOT refer to them as "Cats."

Do NOT serve them food intended for pet cats.

If you own a pet cat, do NOT call Khajiiti by your cat's name.

Do NOT attempt to grab their tails unless permission is granted.

Regarding our friends, the Bosmer:

Do NOT ask the Bosmer about adding vegetables to their recipes.

Do NOT cut down a tree in front of a Bosmer.

Do NOT ask how Bosmeri flesh tastes.

Do NOT ask how to cook a Khajiit.

Our newfound friends in the Dominion stand beside you as comradesm and they deserve a measure of respect. Please speak to your local Thalmor representative if further clarification is required.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#707)
	Our Dupes, the Sea Elves
My loyal subjects,

Our negotiation with the Sea Elves is complete. They foolishly believe themselves our equals. That the rightful rulers of Tamriel would share power with mere fisher-folk. Fools.

It is vital that you continue the pretense in their presence. We have them set on foolish attacks into Auridon. They can't possibly hold the Beacons, but their attacks will result in death, destruction, and disruption. Chaos we can use against the False Queen.

Our plans are in motion.

The Veiled Queen
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#708)
	Del's Claim
My loyal subjects,

I hearby order the Veiled Heritance to enter the mines of Del's Claim. Kill any mer that you find inside the mine, and then strike out at the queen's forces from your new place of safety.

Our time draws near.

The Veiled Queen
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#709)
	Eagle Hunter: Against the Dominion
The Dominion is ruled by the Altmer and their vassal slaves. Pay heed to their weakness and cowardice: they employ a combination of subterfuge, magic, and dirty tricks that can trip up a stout-hearted, honorable soldier such as yourself.

The cowardly Wood Elves are best noted for their unwillingness to engage in a face-to-face attack; a Bosmer will strike at you from every side except the front. You won't cross swords with a Bosmer, but you might catch an arrow in the throat. Be wary in forests and jungles, and watch your back.

Khajiit may look cuddly, but they are no laughing matter in a fight. Don't expect duels to end if you can disarm them. They possess razor-sharp claws that can puncture light and leather armors. And it's said that their tails can be used as crude third hands, wielding daggers and throwing knives with deadly accuracy.

Then there are the High Elves themselves. Although the haughty Altmer are often undone by their own arrogance, in a fight their considerable reach can pose a problem. Close the gap between you and your  target. Make their height a liability. Strike low and bring them to the ground.

With a little study, a stout-hearted Covenant soldier such as yourself will be able to easily cleave through dozens of pathetic Dominion conscripts!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#710)
	Nostrum's Notes
The first of the afflicted began arriving almost immediately after the quarantine was set up. I don't know how we spread the word so quickly, but people seem to be coming from all over the region for the promised cure.

I now have the opportunity to observe the afflicted through all stages of the Llodos plague. It begins with a mild fever and random bodily aches and pains. Oddly, afflicted suffering this stage of the plague have a terrible hunger that cannot seem to be satisfied. This stage of the plague lasts anywhere from three to seven days.

The second stage of the plague is marked by a high fever, overall weakness, and the appearance of open sores upon the body. Pain grips the afflicted, making most normal activities impossible to perform. During this stage of the plague, the afflicted's appetite disappears, and it is a struggle to make them eat and drink sufficient amounts of food and water to maintain their body weight. This stage of the plague can range from seven to fourteen days. If the afflicted doesn't throw off the plague during this period, chances of survival drop to almost zero.

The third stage of the plague marks the beginning of the end for the afflicted. The open sores now cover most of the afflicted's body, which burns with such heat that the afflicted becomes delirious and subject to hallucinations. The afflicted refuses to eat or drink, and any kind of movement results in agony. This stage of the plague is relatively short, lasting from one day in extreme cases to as long as five days for those unfortunate enough to hang on.

The final stage of the Llodos plague is perhaps the most fascinating. Of course, many of the afflicted simply die when the plague has run its course. And the death is extremely painful and heartbreaking to watch. But an increasing number of afflicted don't find a natural end. These unfortunates transform into seemingly undead creatures that the common folk call "plague husks." These creatures appear to be mindless engines of violence, intent on destroying all life they encounter.

Can you imagine an army of such creatures? Priceless!

Ah, the crates of accelerant have arrived! Now we can increase the pace of the affliction. Time to treat my patients.

—Nostrum Breva
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#711)
	Eislef's Journal
— Skeever got in the house today. Frirhild nearly jumped out of her dress. Spilled half my mead on the floor from laughing so hard.

— Got a new farmhand. Good lad. The other street rats in Riften dubbed him Hramdin Eversmiling. Maybe a match for Raerana, when she's a little older? 

— Had to deal with Bar-Neeus in Riften today. Damned lizard cheats me every time. Barely made enough for a couple of drinks before heading home. Frirhild had her say about that, as usual.

— Damned Elf hanging around the farm again today. If he asks for Rae's hand again, it'll go hard on him. He's not good enough for her.

— Raerana just won't learn. Had to teach her to watch her mouth this morning. Frirhild almost said something but stopped. Good. I know what's best for my girls. Today's going to be a good day.
		

Failed at /books/712		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#713)
	Sep's Kiss
Using a poison known by name only elicits suspicion. The truly perfect assassination is one that remains undetected. I would not dare brag of those slain by my concoctions, for fear of breaking the tender illusion of "natural" death.

I have penned down one of my favorite mixtures, in hope the reader will seek out more on their own. The preparation is unorthodox, yet it has served me well.

I learned the name "Sep" from a sweet Redguard lass I courted for a time. She was unfaithful, but her kiss still filled me with delight.

Prepare a fire, burned down to coals. Atop that, place a large cauldron. This will be your crucible.

Add to this a drop of your own blood. It will sizzle when the pot is tempered. You only need the residue of blood, for flavor and scent.

Scrape the salt from a mangrove leaf, and powder it with the spores from a yellow-knight mushroom. You can find these growing in most any field if you lie down with your face to the soil.

While the crucible is still hot, pour a decanter of treacle tea in, letting the steam escape. In a short time it will reduce, and to that sticky mess, you will add the aforementioned powder.

Once all ingredients are combined, it's ready to use. On the skin, it breaks down strength in a matter of hours. For a faster reaction, ingestion or wounding is best.

I have yet to calculate an antidote for this recipe, so I advise using the utmost caution when handling.
		

Failed at /books/714		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#715)
	The Father's Promise
His kiss fell upon your egg-tooth before your first breath. You are one of his blessed children. Embrace your Father, and obey your Mother. For as they have allowed you your first breath, so can they take it away.

In all things, consider the end.

In all ends, breathe in its beauty.

In all beauty, lies a promise of decay.

Do not fear the chill, my child. It is the sign of this gift, the promise of a time where time is no more.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#716)
	Armament Inventory
Approved by Condalin and Canonreeve Malanie. Not for distribution outside the Veil.

20 heavy axes

35 halberds

100 daggers

45 heavy bows

300 quivers of arrows

30 helmets

With Ayrenn abroad on the island, our time is now. We must move soon if we are to take advantage. All glory to the Veiled Queen!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#717)
	Bakhig's Journal, Page 3
Bakhig is finally home. Years of wandering, over. Pets scuttle around me. The poison that drips from their fangs smells as fresh-baked bread to this one.

It took me weeks to earn their trust. So many bites, so much poison in my veins. But, now, they know me.

Now, they love me.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#718)
	Bakhig's Journal, Page 11
Bakhig's pets danced for him today! 

No. Not a dance, not like those idiot High Elves in their fancy castles. They swarmed up, down, up, down. All over their webs. Like a sweet performance, just for me.

Bakhig's pets want him to know that they are happy he is here. To watch over them.

Bakhig will never let anything happen to his pets.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#719)
	Bakhig's Journal, Page 18
Bakhig's pets fight sometimes. This one thinks they fight for his love.

Why can't they see that Bahkhig loves them all? 

Well, perhaps he loves the little ones the most. 

Bakhig can't sleep unless the little ones are running their little feet over him.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#720)
	Bakhig's Journal, Page 19
Bakhig had the nightmare again last night. Bakhig dreamed that a <<1>> was in Bakhig's home, killing his pets.

This one is going to spend the day with the little ones, making sure they are safe.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#721)
	Maormer Memo
Agent Arstul,

Get yourself down the coast and set up a watch near Vulkhel Guard. I've gotten word the queen has recently arrived. The marines we're holding at South Beacon will be valuable hostages; just have to use them at the right moment.

Contact with the Royal continues apace. Once the Summerset Isles are ours, we'll be able to dictate terms. Should the Veiled Heritance follow through, we may allow them Auridon as a gift. Maybe.

— Heculoa, Admiral of Infiltration
		

Failed at /books/722		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#723)
	Tancano's Journal
I wish Father would bring me the tastier morsels from this boring, little hamlet. I fear the herd has been culled past its prime and the finest cuts of meat are already my thralls. That is fine for now, though I don't want to grow bored of the finer blood under my control. 

Arandar tastes of the finest Altmer wine aged in oak barrels, though he was much too gaunt the last time I fed on him. 

Vanderion had a piquant flavor of moldy cheese and dung, but I guess that's what you'd expect from a man raised in a backwater village knee-deep in manure since the time he could walk.

I sorely miss Menelcare's bittersweet flavors. Her soft, hushed cries as I tasted her flesh were a delectable garnish to the feast she provided. It's unfortunate that I can no longer revel in her essence; I must decide what to do with her desiccated corpse.

I requested that Father bring me more refined and proper meat to savor. Perhaps someone of the more noble blood like Eryeril or Nelulin. Perhaps even the delicious body of Velatosse herself. Though the way he looks at me when I make these requests unsettles me. Does he not love his son enough to indulge him in these requests? Does he not want me to stay healthy and vibrant? Why does he look at me with those sad, baleful eyes? I am not a monster; I am his son.
		

Failed at /books/724		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#725)
	Book of Thoughts
— Keeper has me keep a book of thoughts. It is hard to write words with a stick! I will send this to my matron when I finish. She will be happy!

— Today I write about duties here. Catch the biter bugs and crunch them. My spine is sore from this all day work! One egg moved when I came near. Can the small ones hear us?

— I picked my egg-friend today. I can feel the small one say hello when I tap on it. Keeper says I am silly to think this. Ha! When the little one comes out, he will be surprised!

— I saw a stranger today. It was a pale Elf, but not one of the ash. It hissed at me like wamasu. I ran and hid in a bush. After, I felt bad. What if the pale Elf stole something?

— My egg-friend is missing from its nest. The pale Elf came back and stole, I know it! I will get back my egg-friend. The pale Elf will get many smacks!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#726)
	Mark of Egg-Births
To Wakeem and Dai-Shen

Three from the first clutch, born with vigor.

To Var-Zeen and Sheds-His-Sorrows

One from the first clutch, egg-tooth cracked. A good omen.

To Neposh and Lana

Two from the second clutch. The first struggled with the shell, the second not so.

To the Shadowscales

Five from the third clutch. Sithis has spoken of his need, and we must answer.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#727)
	Khasaad's Treasure Map
[Khasaad has scribbled all over the map in haphazard notes.]
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#728)
	Feyne Vildan's Diary
28th Sun's Dawn

Ja-Reet said he's leaving. Not leaving me, not exactly. Going to Black Marsh. He's never been there in his life. But, apparently, someone named Fal-Xoc there can help him.

And he told me, haltingly, how he thinks he's broken. I told him I love him the way he is. That it doesn't matter.

He looked at me, and asked if it had ever hurt me. I had to nod.

"Then, yes," he said, "it does matter."

I cried. So did he. We went to bed without saying anything more.

19th Rain's Hand

We arrived in Percolating Mire today. There was a house ready for us. For Ja-Reet, really … there wasn't a bed for me. I was angry at Ja-Reet for leaving what we had together. It's taken us years to take my father's slave plantation and turn it into an ethical business. Years to get the community to accept a Dunmer-Argonian marriage.

Here, it's back to square one. A lizard-woman called me his "friend." Wouldn't use the word wife. I called her a name. I don't think she spoke the language, but she got the point.

Later:

The Dominion's landed in Shadowfen. I worry about the people here. Dunmeri villagers trained for invasion. Here … they're brave, but unarmed. We're in danger.

I asked Ja-Reet to leave, but he says he's making progress. I told him I think he's fine. He snapped at me that I don't get to decide whether he's fine or not.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#729)
	A Fitting Tribute
Fitting we set up camp in a Daedric ruin dedicated to Vaermina, Prince of Dreams and Nightmares. The place was once a Dark Elf slave camp, used to buy and sell Argonians.

Some of my fellows disagree on the ethics of enslavement, but these beasts are hardly better than the wildlife of the region. Their skins will serve us well as we throw the Pact into disarray.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#730)
	Not Long Now
It was surprisingly easy to infiltrate and replace some of the Pact's key leadership. Soon the Argonians will be in shambles. Our reinforcements will push through and set this swamp aflame.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#731)
	The Founding of Zuuk
by Ashalaku, Black Marsh

Lord Zuuk returned to Shadowfen after the fall of Reman Cyrodiil III, founding a small settlement in the Shadowfen. After five generations of prosperity, our ancestors renamed it Zuuk in honor of our Lord Founder. The original name of the settlement was lost to time.

We know little of Zuuk's time in the Imperial Palace, but his wealth, honor, and generosity were renowned among the Kothringi. May his name be on the lips of his descendants for another five generations.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#732)
	Anonymous Journal
—Day 26

The plague is slowly spreading from Quarantine Serk, covering Deshaan like a black rain. Vox will be pleased. Many have left Narsis for Mournhold. They think they'll be safe there, but they can't escape the coming reckoning.

—Day 32 

The substance isn't strong enough when added to water. The solution becomes diluted, and most of the effective properties fade. So putting it in wells won't work. Until we can formulate a stronger version, we need to look for other ways to spread the plague.

—Day 42 

We figured out how to spread the plague. By injecting the substance into a corpse's blood and letting it fester, the plague's potency increases tenfold! It must be the dead blood. We need more bodies. Luckily, Narsis can provide an abundant supply.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#733)
	Letter to Evis Marys
Evis, you fool! You dropped the crates off at the wrong location! If they're opened, the Narsis Protectors will be on us in an instant. 

Vox would not approve of this at all. Fix this, or she'll hear about it. I won't take the blame for your incompetence.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#734)
	Nirwaen's Diary
It's hard to believe the day is finally here. Father says the rumblings began two nights ago and the uprooting should start any moment now. I'm so excited! We arrived at the Summer Site two days after Falinesti had settled, so we missed the Rooting Ceremony here, but we''ll be off to the Autumn Site in mere hours!

Mother told us that she'd meet us there, but that she must conclude her research in Velyn Harbor. It's hard to believe that tiny camp has anything worth looking at—I thought it was dirty and smelled of fish—but she says you can find gems in the mud and I shouldn't look down my nose at them.

But it's hard not to! Falinesti is so grand, and I can't WAIT to feel the city moving beneath my feet!

I wonder how long it will take to get to the Autumn Site? Father says it varies. Sometimes it only takes a few days, but sometimes a week or more passes between the uprooting and the rooting. I hope it takes a long time—a week at least. I want to watch the world go by!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#735)
	Reminder: Don't Drink the Water
Do not drink any water from Lake Hlaalu. The concoction we added to the lake is particularly potent. Let's leave the water for the locals and keep our own numbers strong and healthy!

And remember, if you notice anything strange or spot any unusual activity around Narsis, report to Commander Thandon at the center of our camp by the lake.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#736)
	Orders are Orders
The soft-skins can't do their dirty work alone, but who are we to refuse their gold? They want to break up some stupid wedding, then help them … but be smart.

These Elves have different magic than we do. Maybe they can help with the crown. I don't trust that Speaker-in-Empty-Air or her promises. I want assurances if we do what she asks, we'll get what we want.

Turn the Silvenar over to the Houndsmen for their ritual, but keep any other captives separate. I'll question them later. And don't let the tribes fight! We get our way, and the Dominion will be sorry for excluding us.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#737)
	Merdyndril's Orders
In the name of Magistrix Vox,

All Maulborn must continue to monitor and secure Lake Hlaalu. Tests of the Llodos plague continue, and we maintain camps within the area.

The new formula isn't as strong as we hoped. I am returning to the Gorge to make a more potent concoction. I will also continue to advance our plans for shipping the material throughout Deshaan.

Until new orders are delivered, continue the tests by adding each new batch of the concoction at the waterfall and record the results. Victory is nigh!

—Merdyndril
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#738)
	Letter from Berfonas
Raen,

Things are strange here in Silvenar. More Green Hunters walk the streets than usual, and they're belligerent. I've heard the Green Lady arrived in the city, but we've not seen her. The three spinners are likewise closeted and their messages are cryptic and frightening.

Urge the Silvenar to come quickly! Rely on speed, not soldiers! They say the Green Lady prepares for the handfast, but who can she marry if not the Silvenar?

I hope to see you soon. Perhaps I worry for nothing, but something seems wrong in Malabal Tor.

— Berfonas
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#739)
	Our Ironclad Oath
Remember our vow, brothers and sisters of the Oathbound! Take the heads of the wicked Elves to satisfy the agreement made by our glorious chieftain!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#740)
	The Handfast Song List
Alanaire

	A Queen's Memory

	The Tide of Times

Laen

	Leaf and Branch, Blood and Bone

	Ballad of the Spirit Hunters

Buzul and Dadazi

	One Becomes Two

	Dreams of the Moons

	Requiem for Thunder
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#741)
	Drillk's Journal
— 15th of Morning Star, 2E 561

A week ago Zuuk flourished. Today, only I remain.

I watched helplessly as family and friends wither away from this terrible plague. Am I immune? Is it only a matter of time before I succumb? I'm giving up this journal.

— Date uncertain. How many years? Dismayed and angry.

Dominion troops moved into the nearby ruins and have disturbed the ashes of my people! I must confront them. I'll demand they respect the dead. Whatever they seek, they won't find it in the remains of Zuuk. May the plague strike them down for their trespass!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#742)
	History of the Handfast
Tooth and claw

Blood enflamed

Chaos rules

A race defamed.

Stories lost

In history foul

Generations lost

In a werewolf's howl.

But a god's compassion

And a hero's soul

Fought twisting form

Upon ancient soil.

The cause seemed lost

In hope so lean

Until woman enter'd

Clad all in Green.

Hero and Lady

And god alone

Fought with muscle

Blood and bone.

The race so saved

From bestial ire

Oathbreakers sent

To sleep in mire

Hero and Lady

Will forever last

Joined together

By great handfast.
		

Failed at /books/743		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#744)
	Spinning a Story
by Cirantille

Though they are our allies in the Aldmeri Dominion, I have had only a little time to study the Bosmer. Their culture is strange and seems insular, and they do not write much down. Asking questions can be dangerous, as the Bosmer are wary of strangers.

That is, with one exception. Their priests, shamans, or "Spinners" as they call them, are quite loquacious. Indeed, gettting a Spinner to talk is not at all difficult … understanding what they're talking about is.

The Bosmer Spinners are, essentially, priests of Y'ffre, but unlike other priests, who seem most concerned with leading their people in worship, Spinners are more like bards or historians for the Bosmer. They live their lives as if they're narrating a story, and speak in much the same way.

But these aren't just gaffers and gammers speaking of the good old days. Spinners weave tales about future events. Their divine and prophesy the same way other people remember the past, and the older the Spinner, the more powerful his or her prescience seems to be.

When I arrived in Silvenar, the youngest of the city's three Spinners, Einrel, greeted me at the bridge. There, in the shadow of the Guardian, the young Spinner related to me the tale of my travels right up to the gates and then continued as if the next few days had already happened!

I won't even attempt to relate what happened when I met the two elder Spinners of Silvenar, at least not until I understand it better. All three Spinners seem upset about something. I hope to learn—and, of course, document—more.
		

Failed at /books/745		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#746)
	Lamentations of the Lost
by Anonymous

They said explore Nirn.

To many lands I traveled.

Never feeling like home.

I worked for a merchant,

Sweeping dusty shops for coin.

No respect or wealth.

I joined a brigade.

We saw the horrors of war,

Blood-dripped battlefields.

To an arrow I fell.

For greed I died all alone.

Buried by strangers.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#747)
	Path of the Pilgrim
by Bikkus-Ze, Hissmir Oblate

While many of the purportedly civilized nations refer to our homeland as Black Marsh, the pilgrims and priests of Hissmir know better. The lands of Argonia are far from a garbage heap. The soil is rich and full of life. Plant and animal life flourishes. The Hist speaks to those who listen.

Our Argonian brothers and sisters who venture outside miss a piece of themselves if they are unable to commune with the Hist. It is for this reason pilgrims from across the land travel to Hissmir and offer up themselves to the trials and communing.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#748)
	The Trials of Hissmir
by Sali-Ze, Hissmir Oblate

The trials serve as an offering of one's self to the Hist. For the Hist to trust the participant, the participant must first trust the Hist.

The participant's mind, heart, and will are tested. Without a disciplined mind, one cannot comprehend the message of the Hist. Without a pure heart, one's purpose does not serve the will of the Hist. Without a warrior's will, one cannot safeguard the Hist for future generations. 

Be resolute, and stay moist.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#749)
	King Kurog's Promise
Herewith the Agreement between His Majesty King Kurog, Monarch of Orsinium, and the Oathbound Warchief, Gruznak gro-Volkar, and herein the terms:

Insofar as the deaths of Dark Elves are pleasing unto Mauloch and deemed useful as a matter of policy:

For each Dark Elf skull obtained by the Oathbound, Gruznak gro-Volkar shall be granted title to Malak's Maw for one year. 

Furthermore, Warchief Gruznak and his Oathbound are hereby absolved of crimes against the Daggerfall Covenant, including (but not limited to) murder, banditry, and the felonious impersonation of traveling entertainers. 

— Kurog gro-Orsinium
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#750)
	Albus' Journal
by Albus, White Rose Prison Guard

Why did we build a prison in this cesspool?

Every morning I wake to bug bites, and the nauseating stench of swamp gas. Every night I have to check my bunk for snakes and constantly wake with the screeching of those damned birds.

Surely there must be better places to mine ore! This place is just as punishing for the guards as it is for the prisoners.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#751)
	Evacuation Order
All guards are to pack and assemble in the courtyard at dawn for evacuation of White Rose Prison. We will be returning home to serve as additional security for the capital.

No need to worry about the prisoners, they won't be going anywhere, what with the keystone binding them to this place. Have your equipment and belongings packed and be ready to travel at dawn. Tomorrow we march for Cyrodiil.

Porcius Sisenna, Administrator
		

Failed at /books/752		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#753)
	Nadine's Diary
Tirdas

We arrived today to begin our exile here in Aldcroft. Father assures us this town will serve us well as a temporary capital and stronghold from which to retake our home. Our life in Camlorn seems like a dream now, like another time.

Middas

The porter, Charles, keeps shooting glances at me when he thinks I do not see. He's a sweet boy, but he should know better. I think Father even noticed. Father has been under such stress lately. I would not want to add to his plate.

Turdas

I thought to speak to Charles today, but I couldn't find him. No one had seen him since Father asked him to come along to tend to his horse. I asked Father what became of Charles, but he dismissed me angrily. I'm beginning to worry about Charles, and about Father.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#754)
	Glenumbra's Towns and Cities
By Ansur Belote

There are a number of cities and towns across the region of High Rock known as Glenumbra that a traveler should be familiar with.

Daggerfall: Crown jewel of Glenumbra and one of the oldest cities in High Rock, Daggerfall was the capital of the largest kingdom in High Rock prior to the ascendence of Wayrest. Any traveler would do well to buy provisions in Daggerfall, as the services in the bustling city are second to none.

Aldcroft: A small town between the forests of Daenia and the coastal swamplands of the Cambray Hills, Aldcroft has come to prominence in recent years as a key port that services Camlorn from trade routes along the Iliac Bay. Aldcroft is well known for its spicy stews, a treat that I recommend those travelers with weak constitutions to avoid.

Camlorn: A city that has grown in recent times to rival Daggerfall in size and cultural influence, Camlorn is in the west center of Glenumbra. The citizens of Camlorn see themselves as more urbane and metropolitan then their neighbors to the south. Travelers are advised to try Camlorn's excellent pastries and baked goods, as they are worth the trip. Ignore the haughtiness of the locals, as this is just their way and they usually don't mean any offense.

Westtry: This town suffered some great catastrophe in the past that has left it devoid of living citizens and haunted by the dead. The wise traveler would do well to avoid it.

Eagle's Brook: Whereas Aldcroft serves as Camlorn's primary connection to Iliac Bay, Eagle's Brook is its corresponding port on the Eltheric Ocean. Many of the artisans and craftsmen that serve the high houses of Camlorn actually live in nearby Eagle's Brook. Travelers are advised to sample the excellent seafood brought in daily by Eagle's Brook's fishing boats.

Crosswych: Straddling the mountainous border pass marking the end of Glenumbra and the beginning of Stormhaven, Crosswych makes much of its gold from the travelers passing back and forth between the two most populous regions of High Rock. Travelers heading to Wayrest from Daggerfall must pass through Crosswych, which is as good a place as any to rest and resupply.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#755)
	Glenumbra's People
By Aldous Brousseau

To the outside observer, the assorted peoples of the region of High Rock known as Glenumbra often seem more similar than different. While it's true that most people in the region take their cues for culture, architecture, food, and dress from a common Breton template, it would be foolhardy to dismiss the cultural differences between the larger populations and the multitude of diverse subcultures present throughout the region.

Daenia: Dominated by the cultural influence of Daggerfall, Daenia is the home and heartland of Breton's quest obsession. For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to the practice by which young members of the poor and serf classes can partake in heroic tasks to elevate themselves to the ranks of the nobility. The cultural narratives of Daenia are filled with tales of the lowly taking on a great quest to win the respect and accolades of those above them. It is my suspicion that the famed independent spirit of the Daenian people is an extension of this narrative of upward mobility. Of note, this area is also home to the Wyrd subculture, and several witches' covens dedicated to the worship of nature inhabit the vast forests of Daenia.

Cambray Hills: Camlorn and its surrounding villages are a hodgepodge of different Breton cultures. The nobility of Camlorn fancy themselves an aristocracy of poets and artists. Often taking a pacifistic tact in the dealings between Daggerfall and Wayrest, Camlorn has benefited much as a go-between for trade and an open market for goods from both Iliac Bay and the Eltheric Ocean. The Cambray Hills are well-known as being haunted, and any given member of the populace usually has a unique ghost story or two to share. The largest subculture of note are the swamp-dwelling Bretons of the eastern bogs that stretch from the Hag Fen to Aldcroft.

King's Guard: This region is so named for the mountainous ridge that form a natural barrier between Glenumbra, Rivenspire, and Stormhaven. Crosswych is a crossroads for trade moving between these major regions of High Rock, and the place has become a melting pot of dress, food, and culture of the Breton city-states. Not so much a subculture, but a subgroup of note for King's Guard is the Red Rook bandit clan. While the Red Rooks are present throughout Glenumbra, they originated in the mountains and foothills of King's Guard as a loose collection of hunters and highwaymen that preyed upon caravans moving across the pass.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#756)
	Attention Moon Walkers
To those that walk on pads and keep their claws hidden:

Keep your eyes open and wait for your moment. There is a plan in motion to take the man on the high seat from his cats. Watch out for the daughter of the blood. She has been seen lurking around.

May your claws remain sharp and your fangs ready to tear!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#757)
	Gamwyn's Journal
I parted ways with <<1>> and <<2>> some time ago. They were headed northwest toward a ruined tower.

I've heard of an ancient relic in the ruins nearby. There seem to be some Worm Cultists around. Shouldn't give me much trouble. I'll try for it in the morning.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#758)
	Irgnar's Journal
Parted ways with <<1>> a few days ago.

I knew I'd have better luck finding adventure without him. And I was right. A peasant just told me about a pack of trolls terrorizing the area. They're led by an especially mean one the locals call Redmaw. If I bring its head back to the camp, there's no way the others can top that!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#759)
	Lady Llarel's Journal
What a fabulously marvelous cave! I can't believe this has been sitting here, empty and unused, all this time. I think it will be just perfect for my needs. With this cave, I can finally establish the shelter I have always dreamed of. I can finally create a place of safety for poor, abused kwama and their scribs.

My father was a cruel man, and I saw the abuse and burdens he placed upon the kwama at his mine. It was barbaric, how he squeezed all of those poor creatures into those overcrowded caverns. How he harvested cuttle from their poor bodies. I can still hear the poor creatures scream! Well, I shall stand for such cruelty no more.

I shall fill this cave with free kwama, creating a haven where they can raise their scribs in peace and safety. It will be a kwama utopia, and it will be my legacy to the world.

Now, where can I acquire a kwama queen?
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#760)
	Claudie's Journal
I can't help but feel that My Lord Maurice is interested in me for more than my duties as a servant. He glanced at me several times these past weeks as I brought dinner to the table or poured the wine. He just smiles and looks into my eyes. Like I'm an equal. Not as if I were a young woman merely there to refill his flagon or clear away the dirty dishes, but as someone he might actually be interested in. I don't know what to think of it. I'm probably just imagining it, dreaming about what life would be like if I didn't have to serve and clean every day. It's a dream, but I can hope that it comes true. Can't I?

I wasn't imagining things! Tonight in the hallway, Lord Maurice pulled me aside. He asked if I was married. If I had a family. Speechless would be a good word for my reaction. He's so—what's the word I'm looking for? Kind? Different? His father and mother beat me repeatedly for simple transgressions. But their son isn't like that. He's so nice. I'm still having a difficult time believing it. He wants to see me again. Alone. I'm not sure what to think about all this.

Lord Maurice came to me again. He said he wanted to tell me something. He took my hand and led me off into the night. Hand in hand, we snuck through the gardens and sat on a bench beneath the moons. The way he looked at me sent shivers down my spine. 

Our love is forbidden. A rich noble like him and me, a simple servant. Still, we care for each other deeply. He plans to tell his parents of our love soon. I hope that goes well.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#761)
	Blood-Sealed Contract
Before the sight of Molag Bal, we seal this bargain between the Bloodthorn and the Hag Fen coven with fresh blood. 

In exchange for any undamaged women we capture in the conquest of Glenumbra, Mother Murk and her coven will oppose the Beldama Wyrd and keep them occupied. My servants shall deliver the women to the ruined tower in the bog, where they will be transformed and brought into the coven.

Should either party break this bargain, their lives shall be forfeit.

— Angof the Gravesinger
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#762)
	The Font Aequiius
Aldarch, 

Water is yours to command with this eldritch chalice. Standing in a pool of water and concentrating can cause the most amazing manipulations of liquid.

Please accept it with my appreciation. In the name of Mara, may the blood of life keep pumping within your breast.

— Kinlord Astanamo the Penitent
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#763)
	Coils of the Father
Penitent, give thanks and praise to the soul of Anu the Everything, father to us all. The scales and fangs and flame of the creator envelop all of the people. Always.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "By the Fixed Center and his hand in our lives, we are all made safe. Auri-El, grant me the stability of the Divine. Be always at my side."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#764)
	The Gifts of Magnus
Penitent, the lives of all living are touched by Magnus, He Who Abstained. Lord Magnus drew up the schematics for our world, intricately sketching the diagrams of Creation. Magnus is with us always, in the magics of Mages and the warming breath of the sun.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "By the Empyrean Light of Aetherius, may the Eye of Magnus always be upon me. Grant me the wisdom to use his gifts, and patience to know his wisdom."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#765)
	The Warrior's Blade
Penitent, the blade of Trinimac is always at your side. He who led our people against the despoilers, the invaders. He who offers aid and succor in the midst of battle. May his vigor be present in your every step and deed.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "By the Firmament and the Fixed Center, I pledge to defend my people. By the blade of Trinimac I swear, and call for his aid."
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#766)
	Bones of the Forest
Penitent, be one with the moment. Feel the solidity of the ground under your feet, and taste the wind. By his will is our world manifest, and the rocks, and the trees, and the birds in the sky. Y'ffre is with you at every turn, in every moment.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "In the Storyteller's name, I stand upon the bones of the world. I drink in the promise and power of nature's law, and breathe out my thanks."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#767)
	The Everscriven Tome
Penitent, know that the secret knowledge of the world has a guardian. Know that every triumph you achieve in your daily life, every quiet moment of success, is recorded by the One Who Watches. The great tree of life tracing the Altmer people is kept and held close by Xarxes himself, the scribe of the Divines.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "By Five and Three I speak the secret words to the One Who Watches. May each of my days be worthy of script in his tomes."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#768)
	The Heart of Love
Know, penitent, that Mara is always with you. Within your breast beats her love and affection. The symbol of her floral star adorns the walls at the wedding chapel. Her priests tend to the needs of husband and wife. And always is her gaze upon the young.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "Fivefold blessings upon the lost and lovelorn. The Heart pumps the blood that connects us across the aurbis. May her grace always be upon me."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#769)
	The Sounding Horn
Penitent, Stendarr's protection be upon you. Though the Apologist of Men bears a heavy burden, his compassion is still a quality to be admired. Listen to the sounding of the horn. See the blades of the justiciars, and attend the ministrations of charities. These are his expressions, for his atonement.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "Threefold are the masteries of Stendarr. I sound the horn in his name. May his shield protect me always from harm."
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#770)
	The Apprentices' God
Penitent, revel in the presence of the sacred ring: Syrabane. The Warlock Lord of the Divines, the ancient source of wizardly wisdom. He who fought against the depredations of the Sload and the plague of the Before Times.

To complete your venerations here, intone: "By Apprentice be blessed and by Apprentice be praised. Honor to the Warlock-God and the Sacred Ring."
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#771)
	An Unusual Alliance
By Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination

Three allies whose people rarely agree on anything. Three races as diverse as any within the world. Three states at war for their very lives, but unable to reconcile their differences in moments of piece. More than allies, but less than friends.

And that must change.

Our Dominion is beset on many sides. The Ebonheart Pact and the Daggerfall Covenant attack us from the outside, but we have other enemies more deadly and more dangerous to our alliance than those external foes.

If our wartime bonds are to remain strong, we must forge relationships and alliances in peace. Our Bosmeri hunters must provide food for our civilians as well as our soldiers. Our Khajiiti traders must provide goods as well as weapons. And our Altmeri wizards must spend their magicka wisely to win the peace as well as the war.

Our first step is to join together in celebration as one of our alliance members, the Bosmer, renews their divine pact with a joining between their two spiritual leaders, the Silvenar and the Green Lady. Let all members of the Aldmeri Dominion recognize this wedding and participate in the revels that follow.

Our best wishes to the Silvenar, the Green Lady, and the Bosmeri people. May this new generation know a strength in peace as well as war.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#772)
	Farandare's Journal
Finally, the answer! In my dream, I saw the one whose strength will help me complete my quest to bring Falinesti back! Soon, very soon. Perhaps it will be Sundas again.

Sundas. Does the year matter? The month? We first met on a Sundas. And on a Sundas many years later, he disappeared.

I took the pilgrimage to the other Falinesti Sites with the faithful. But I remembered we met on a Sundas at the Summer Site, and realized when the Walking City returns, it will be to the valley.

And of course, I'm right. The cracks between the Summer Site and Oblivion demonstrate how close the city is. Some nights, I can see its lights shimmering through the portals that flare into existence now and then.

We'll be together soon, and the many, many years apart will mean nothing. It will be as it was that Sundas, when I first put my hand into his.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#773)
	Notice: Hall of the Dead
The priest of Orkey is here as part of his sacred duty to the Divines. He is not here to comfort, console, or brighten your day. Should the undead rise from their places of resting, you accept all risk and responsibility to your own safety while inside the hall. The priest is not required to save you from your own idiocy.

- Hjurring
		

Failed at /books/774		Part of the Final Words collection (#775)
	Claudie's Last Entry
I never told Maurice. I was waiting to surprise him, after the family accepted our love and blessed our union. But that never happened. And Maurice never found out about our baby.

Now he'll never know. I can't believe what a coward he turned out to be. He couldn't stand up to his mother, not even to save the life of the woman he loved. Instead, he didn't say a word and  left me in this tower to rot. I never should have trusted a Baelborne.

I thought about calling the guards and telling them the truth. But I don't want my child to grow up to be a Baelborne. I won't allow that.

I'm dying. I pray to any who hear my plea. I don't expect an answer, but I want our deaths to be avenged. Somehow, someway, I'll make the Baelbornes pay.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#776)
	Champions of Dra'bul
Brigeera gra-Tor, killer of a hundred mammoths. Able to break skulls with just her thumbs.

Grish the Scaled, whose breeches were made from the skins of Argonians he slew.

Duzhal of the Wastes, traveling champion of the woods. Best-known for defeating the previous champion by biting through his neck while it was still encased in armor.

Ritrag gro-Forment, eater of spiders and poisonous snakes. Said to spew venom into his challengers' eyes.

Makgruk gro-Basgurum, also known as the Healer. Reduced his opponents' suffering by removing their heads.

The Maiden Lashki. Intimidated her enemies by wearing a dress made from her victims' scalps.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#777)
	The Green Ladies' Abode
Entry Donation: 1 gold

Welcome to Deepwoods, abode of the former and current Green Ladies of Malabal Tor!

Our first Green Lady, Finoriell, was revealed as Green Lady later than customary, by which time she lived in Velyn Harbor. She served well, and upon her passing, the search began for the next Green Lady.

Blessed Deepwoods proved once again to foster the fortitude required in Finoriell's niece, Gwaering, who demonstrated the physical prowess, cunning, and strength expected of the Green Lady.

Within Deepwoods, you may see Gwaering and Finoriell's home, as well as many of the places where they once hunted. Gwaering in particular showed early aptitude with the bow, with a high kill ratio from her tenderest years.

The Green Lady is not a mere symbol of virtue, she holds within her the ability to channel her strength to the Bosmer as needed upon completion of her investiture.

Within a fortnight of her selection, preparations began for Gwaering's handfasting with the Silvenar.

The celebrations will continue for many months following the formal handfast ceremony, which takes place in the city of Silvenar.

Please enjoy your visit to Deepwoods, however long or short your stay!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#778)
	Sea Amri Shipping Manifest
Vessel: Sea Amri

Itinerary: Port of Arenthia to Velyn Harbor

Crew: 15

Passengers: 5

Cargo: Honey - 20 casks; Deer Hide - 50 pelts; Silk - 3 bolts

Check map. Sand bars shifting? Maormer near shore.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#779)
	Supplementary Orders
Investigate the ruin interior here in Wansalen. Evaluate the area as a potential fortified location available for retreat, should the circumstances demand it. 

Obtain any and all items of value within the ruin and bring them to my personal attention.

May the Three guide your steps,

— Captain Rela
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#780)
	Palith Note
— Palith is in the ruins along the coast. South side.

— Ruins accessible through the old mine. 

— Something about allies. Didn't make any sense. Scales?
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#781)
	Nolonir's Journal, Page 6
I know it's forbidden, but I think that's what makes this so exciting. I almost giggled the first time I made a corpse rise from the ground and follow me around.

Ah, Father. What would you think of your "serious little boy" now, I wonder? If Mother hadn't cremated your body when you died, maybe I'd wake you up and ask you.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#782)
	Nolonir's Journal, Page 17
I can't believe my luck. I've stumbled across the ruins of a place called Wansalen. 

The unfortunates that built the place apparently didn't make it out alive.

Now, though, they all walk the halls of Wansalen again. I wonder if their souls missed this place? Stubborn skeletons, they still won't answer when I talk to them!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#783)
	Nolonir's Journal, Page 29
Idiots! Don't they know not to come here? Not to disturb me?

A pack of fools stumbled into my sanctuary today. My pets made quick work of them, of course, but what if more come to see what happened to the first? 

I need to to protect myself, if that happens.

I'm going to meditate now. Perhaps I'll figure out a way to scare them all off.

And be blessedly alone with my research here in Wansalen!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#784)
	The Battle of the Ale
I won the battle of the cup today,

I won the battle of the cup!

I raised it up, 

And drank it down —

I won the battle of the cup!

I won the battle of the jug today,

I won the battle of the jug!

I raised it up, 

And drank it down — 

I won the battle of the jug!

I won the battle of the barrel today,

I won the battle of the barrel!

I raised it up, 

And drank it down —

I won the battle of the barrel!

I lost the battle of the ale today,

I lost the battle of the ale.

I drank it up,

It put me down —

I lost the battle of the ale ….
		

Failed at /books/785		Part of the Skill Books collection (#786)
	Baandari Mutton Stew
Serves 8

2 pounds cubed mutton

1 cup of stock

1 large onion, chopped

4 small tomatoes, smashed

2 pounds potatoes, peeled and quartered

Place ingredients in large iron pot and swing over fire. Add a wad of butter and stir. When meat is browned, add a jug of warm stock. Push pot to edge of fire to cook. Add salt or pepper if needed.

Throw out when rotten.

Eat cake instead.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#787)
	Sweet Life
by Dusted-with-Sugar

Stroke by stroke, I brush my fur, bringing it to its highest gloss. My lips are tinted with red, as are my claws. Blood-like vermillion. Bright, like a fresh kill. My eyes are rimmed in black.

The clamor when I leave my home each night! So many, and so eager. They beg for a taste of my sugared sweets, for a chance to take the first skim of my cream. But I walk on, tray laden and balanced atop my head, with barely a glance from side to side.

Only one may touch my treats, lap the sweet cream prepared by my own hands. Only he, and no other.

And so, I walk across the square from home to temple, and offer everything to Alkosh. My sugar, my tarts, my milk and sweet cream. Each gift lovingly prepared, then placed upon his altar.

May the First Cat take my simple offerings and fill me with the ecstasy of love's first kiss.
		

Failed at /books/788		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#789)
	Secrets of Treehenge
by Vanendil

Author of "Treehenge's Roots," "The Mammoths of Treehenge," and "Treehenge: Home of the Lady"

Those who wish to see the sacred Treehenge, wherein the physical remains of the Bosmer Green Lady are interred, must be prepared. Though it may not be obvious, the site is well-protected by a combination of incantations and even more subtle guardians.

Approach the site with caution and reverence. Bring an offering, and spend time in meditation amongst the trees. As your senses heighten, you may see visions of former Green Ladies walking the woods. You may also notice their likenesses in the trees from which Treehenge derives its name.

Close your eyes and breathe deeply, the scent of decaying wood, flowers in full bloom, and earth. Listen to the waterfalls, the buzz of insects, and whisper of leaf and branch.

When you feel these things within your heart, you will know the secrets of Treehenge in ways I cannot describe.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#790)
	Prayer to Hircine
I lift my weapons to you!

Bless them, and guide them true—

A bow!

A sword!

A dagger!

A claw!

Let the sport begin!

Let the blood spill!

Hunter and hunted,

In a chase to the death!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#791)
	Boethiah's Glory
Look upon the face of Boethiah and wonder. Raise your arms that Boethiah may look on them and bestow a blessing. Know that battle is just such a blessing. Know that death is inevitable. Know that you are dust in the eyes of Boethiah.

Long is the arm of Boethiah, and swift is the blade.

Deep is the cut, and subtle is the poison.

Worship, O faithful. Pray your death is short.

Worship, O faithful. Pray your death is quiet.

Worship, O faithful. Worship the glory that is Boethiah.

Into battle strides the Daedric Prince, blade at the ready to cleave the unworthy.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#792)
	Bravil,  Part 1
Daughter of the Niben

By Sathyr Longleat

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 First 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.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#793)
	The Buying Game
by Ababael Timsar-Dadisun

So many people simply buy the items they need at the price they are given. It's a sad state of affairs, when the game is really open to all, you don't need an invitation. It is a game: the game of bargaining to be played seriously and, I hasten to add, politely. In Elsweyr, it is common for the shop owner to offer the prospective buyer tea or sweetmeats and engage in polite conversation before commencing business. This eminently civilized tradition has a practical purpose, allowing the buyer to observe the wares for sale. It is considered impolite not to accept, though it does not imply obligation on the part of the buyer.

Whether this particular custom is part of the culture or not, it's wise for the buyer and seller to greet one another with smiles and warm salutations, like gladiators honoring one another before the battle.

Bargaining is expected all over Tamriel, but the game can be broken if one's offer is so preposterously low that it insults the shopkeeper. If you are offered something for ten gold pieces, try offering six and see where that takes you.

Do not look like you are very interested, but do not mock the quality of the goods, even if they deserve it. It is much better to admire the quality of workmanship, but comment that, regretfully, you simply cannot afford such a price. When the shopkeeper compliments your taste, smile, try to resist the flattery.

A lot of the game depends on recognizing the types of shopkeepers. Do not automatically assume that the rural merchant is ignorant and easily fooled or that the rapacious city merchant is selling shoddy merchandise. Caravans, it should be mentioned, are always good places to go to buy or trade.

Knowing what you're buying and who you're buying from is a talent bought only after years of practice. Know the specialties of certain regions and merchants before you even set foot in a shop. Recognize the prejudices of the region. In Morrowind, where I hail from, Argonians are viewed with a certain amount of suspicion. Don't be surprised or insulted if the shopkeepers follow you around the shop, assuming you're going to steal something. Similarly, Nords, Bretons, and Cyrodiils are sometimes treated coolly by merchants in the Summerset Isles. Of course, I don't know any shopkeepers anywhere, no matter their open-mindedness, who aren't alerted when a Khajiit or a Bosmer enters their shop. Even Khajiiti and Bosmeri shopkeepers are wary of their own kind.

If you see something you really like or need, buy it then and there at the best price you can get. I cannot tell you how many times I passed up a rare and interesting relic, assuming that I could find it elsewhere in the region, perhaps at a larger town at a better price. Too late, I discovered I was wrong. When I returned to the shop weeks later, the item I wanted was gone. Better to get a great purchase at a decent price and discover it again at a worse price than to miss out on your opportunities for ownership. Occasionally, impulsiveness is the best buying strategy.

Sense the moves of the game, and everyone can win.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#794)
	Prince Aiden's Report
Battlereeve Laelwe, 

I have just received grievous tidings from an outrider belonging to one of our foraging patrols. While making a routine pass near the border of Glenumbra, the patrol discovered a rogue group of Daedra worshipers who have apparently taken up secret residence in the area. Not surprisingly, this cult is populated from the lesser races. However, they have revealed themselves as a serious threat to our authority by consorting with Daedric creatures of surpassing power. The cultists were able to summon foul Daedra and ambush the unsuspecting patrol, heedlessly slaughtering all but one of our people. 

Swift and decisive action must be taken against such a dangerous element within our lands. You are to immediately take the full strength of your fighting force into Kingsguard, and travel northwest through the mountains bordering that region. From there you must locate the den of these despicable traitors, root them out, and destroy them to the very last. 

I send this message in the hands of the outrider who escaped the murderous Daedric attack, that he may guide you and your forces to the exact location where these murderous fiends were first encountered. 

Auri-El guide you, 

Prince Aiden Direnni
		

		Part of the None collection (#795)
	Of the Dragonfires (Fragment)
…And Al-Esh said, "Though we have overthrown the Wicked Elves, we fear they will afflict us with Oblivion, for ever did they traffic with the Daedra Lords, to our sorrow and misery. Mighty are we in arms, but the Greater Demons are beyond our strength."

But the Divine Voice spake further, saying, "This will I do for the mortals of Nirn. As thou art Dragonborn, so must be thy heirs. So long as they keep the Dragonfires ever lit, so long must the Demon Lords keep to their places."

Al-Esh was grateful, yet still troubled. "How, then, if my line should fail? How will we defend ourselves?" 

And there was a trembling in the world, but the Divine Voice was mild, saying, "Thy people will find a way. For unlike the Daedra, ye mortals have the creative spark, and may make new things that were not before. Where there is one defense, there may also be…."
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#796)
	Father of the Niben, Fragment One
Incorporating Fragment One

Translated and With Commentary by Florin Jaliil

Introduction:

Writing the biography of anyone is a challenge. Usually the problem lies in assessing one's sources, comparing the prejudices of one chronicle versus another versus another. There is but one record of the man called Topal the Pilot, the earliest known Aldmeri explorer of Tamriel. Only four short verse fragments of the epic "Father of the Niben" have survived to present day, but they offer an interesting if controversial look at the Middle Merethic Era when Topal the Pilot may have sailed the seas around Tamriel.

Though "Father of the Niben" is the only written record of Topal the Pilot's voyages, it is not the only proof of his existence. Among the treasures of the great Crystal Tower of Summerset Isle are his crude but fascinating maps, his legacy to all Tamriel.

The translation of the Aldmeri Udhendra Nibenu, "Father of the Niben," is my own, and I accept that other scholars may disagree with some of my choice of words. I cannot promise my translation lives up to the beauty of the original: I have only strived for simple coherence.

Fragment One:

Second ship, the Pasquiniel, manned by pilot

Illio, was to follow the southern pointing

Waystone; and the third, the Niben, manned

By pilot Topal, was to follow the north-east

Pointing waystone; the orders from the

Crystal Tower, they were to sail forth for

Eighty moons and then return to tell.

Only Niben returned to Firsthold, laden high with

Gold and spice and fur and strange creatures,

Dead and live.

Though, alas, Old Ehlnofey Topal never found, he

Told the tales of the lands he had visited to the

Wonderment of all.

For sixty-six days and nights, he sailed, over crashing

Waves of dire intent, past whirlpools, through

Mist that burned like fire, until he reached the

Mouth of a great bay and he landed on a

Sun-kissed meadow of gentle dells.

As he and his men rested, there came a fearsome howl,

And hideous Orcs streamed forth from the murky

Glen, cannibal teeth clotted with gore

For centuries, strange crystalline balls were unearthed at the sites of ancient Aldmeri shipwrecks and docks, peculiar artifacts of the Merethic and Dawn Eras that puzzled archeologists until it was demonstrated that each had a tendency to rotate on its axis in a specific direction. There were three varieties, one that pointed southward, one that pointed northeast, and one that point northwest. It is not understood how they work, but they seemed attuned to particular lines of power. These are the "waystones" of the fragment, which each of the pilots used to point their craft in the direction they were assigned to go. A ship with a name not mentioned in the fragment took his vessel northwest, towards Thras and Yokuda. The Pasquiniel took the southern waystone, and must have sailed down toward Pyandonea. Topal and his northeast waystone found the mainland of Tamriel.

It is clear from this fragment what the three ships were assigned to do — find a passage back to Old Ehlnofey so that the Aldmer now living in Summerset could learn what became of their old homeland. As this book is intended to be a study of Topal the Pilot, there is scarcely room to dedicate to different theories of the Aldmeri exodus from Old Ehlnofey. If I were using this poem as my only source, I would have to agree with the scholars who believe in the tradition that several ships left Old Ehlnofey and were caught in a storm. Those who survived found their way to Summerset Isle, but without their waystones, they did not know what direction their homeland was. After all, what other explanation is there for three ships heading in three opposite directions to find a place?

Naturally, only one of the ships returned, and we do not know if either or both of the other two found Old Ehlnofey or perished at sea or at the hands of the ancient Pyandoneans, Sload, or Yokudans. We must assume, unless we think the Aldmer particularly idiotic, that at least one of them must have been pointing in the right direction. It may well have even been Topal, and he simply did not go northeast far enough.

So, Topal setting sail from Firsthold heads northeast, which coincidentally is the longest one can travel along the Abecean Sea without striking land of any kind. Had he traveled straight east, he would have struck the mainland somewhere in what is now the Colovian West of Cyrodiil in a few weeks. Had he traveled southeast, he might have reached the hump of Valenwood in a few days. Our pilot, judging by his own and our modern maps, sailed in a straight line northeast, through the Abecean Sea, and into the Iliac Bay, before touching ground somewhere near present-day Reich Gradkeep in two months' time.

The rolling verdant hills of southern High Rock are unmistakable in this verse, recognizable to anyone who has been there. The question, of course, is what is to be made of this apparent reference to Orcs occupying the region? Tradition has it that the Orcs were not born until after the Aldmer had settled the mainland, that they sprung up as a distinct race following the famous battle between Trinimac and Boethiah at the time of Resdayn.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#797)
	The Heartland of Cyrodiil
By Phrastus of Elinhir

The fertile farmlands of central Cyrodiil, around Lake Rumare and the Nibenay Valley, the region commonly known as "The Heartland," is temperate in climate, supporting the crops and livestock that feed all of central Tamriel. Rain and thunderstorms are frequent, but the region is free from the sandstorms of Hammerfell to the west or the monsoons of Black Marsh to the southeast.

Much has been made of the classical author Heimskr's characterization of Cyrodiil as a jungle or rainforest. My studies indicate that the use of the phrase "endless jungle" to describe Cyrodiil appears to be an error in transcription. Close study of the original, badly faded manuscript reveals that the phrase was miscopied, and should be more accurately rendered as "extensive uplands." The adjectives "an equatorial rain" as applied to the Nibenese forest do not appear in the original manuscript at all, and I would posit were added by the scribe in support of his previous erroneous use of "jungle." Lady Cinnabar of Taneth, of course, takes issue with this exegesis, but the flaws in her methods of scholarship have been well-documented elsewhere.
		

		Part of the None collection (#798)
	The Book of Circles, Loredas Maxims
By Frandar Hunding

Thus on Loredas, Faithful Ones, do we consider these maxims of the Master:

"Train your opponent to make the wrong response."

"The worst action executed with vigor is superior to the best action executed timidly."

"A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right action is a head-butt."

"The high guard is most suitable for feints and crossovers, but mind your nether limbs."

"Your opponent's sword is not your enemy. Watch your opponent, not his sword."

"Perfection in the eight basic cuts is critical—though you will never use them in battle."

"A closed line is not open."
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#799)
	The Hanging Gardens
The Hanging Gardens of Wasten Coridale

(This book was apparently written in Dwemer and translated to Aldmeris. Only fragments of the Aldmeris is readable, but it may be enough for a scholar of Aldmeris to translate fragments of other Dwemer books.)

… guide Altmer-Estrial led with foot-flames for the town-center where lay dead the quadrangular gardens ….

… asked the foundations and chains and vessels their naming places ….

… why they did not use solid sound to teach escape from the Earth Bones nor nourished them with frozen flames ….

… the word I shall have once written of, this "art" our lesser cousins speak of when their admirable ignorance ….

… but neither words nor experience cleanses the essence of the strange and terrible ways of defying our ancestors' transient rules.

(The translation ends with a comment in Dwemer in a different hand, which may be translated as follows)

"Put down your ardent cutting-globes, Nbthld. Your Aldmeris has the correct words, but they cannot be properly misinterpreted."
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#800)
	When I Will Come A-Courtin'
When I will come a-courtin'

All to the Shornhelm maids

I'll have a cart all full of silk

And ribbons for their braids.

And wandered he all through the planes

Searching for his bride

But Akatosh has cast him out

In sanction for his pride.

One crown to glory bring

But only blood and death to show them

One crown to glory bring

For Ranser's folly, died.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#801)
	MysticismâThe Unfathomable Voyage
By Tetronius Lor

Mysticism is the school of sorcery least understood by the magical community and the most difficult to explain to novice mages. The spell effects commonly ascribed to the School of Mysticism are as extravagantly disparate as Soul Trap, the creation of a cell that would hold a victim's spirit after death, to Telekinesis, the manipulation of objects at a distance. But these effects are simply that: effects. The sorcery behind them is veiled in a mystery that goes back to the oldest civilizations of Tamriel, and perhaps beyond.

The Psijics of the Isle of Artaeum have a different term for Mysticism: the Old Way. The phrase becomes bogged in semantic quagmire because the Old Way also refers to the religion and customs of the Psijics, which may or may not be part of the magic of Mysticism.

There are few mages who devote their lives to the study of Mysticism. The other schools are far more predictable and ascertainable. Mysticism seems to derive power from its conundrums and paradoxes; the act of experimentation, no matter how objectively implemented, can influence magicka by its very existence. Therefore the Mystic mage must consign himself to finding dependable patterns within a roiling imbroglio of energy. In the time it takes him to devise an enchantment with a consistent trigger and result, his peers in the other schools may have researched and documented dozens of new spells and effects. The Mystic mage must thus be a patient and relatively uncompetitive philosopher.

For centuries, mostly during our Second Era, scholarly journals published theory after theory about the aspect or aspects of magicka lumped together under Mysticism. In the Mages Guild's tradition of finding answers to all things, respected researchers suggested that Mysticism's penultimate energy source was the Aetherius Itself, or else Daedric Beings of unimaginable power—either rationale would explain the seemingly random figurations of Mysticism. Some even ventured that Mysticism arose from the unused elements of successfully, or even unsuccessfully, cast spells. Discussion within the Order of Psijics has led some scholars to postulate that Mysticism is less spiritual in nature as was originally supposed, and that either the intellect or the emotional state of the believer is sufficient to influence its energy configuration and flow.

None of these explanations is truly satisfactory taken by itself. For the beginning student of Mysticism, it is best simply to learn the patterns distinguishable in the maelstrom of centuries past. The more patterns are discovered, the clearer the remaining ones become. Until, of course, they change. For inevitably they have to. And then the journey begins anew.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#802)
	Nerevar Moon-and-Star
(This is a selection from a series of monographs by various Imperial scholars on Ashlander legends.)

In ancient days, the Deep Elves and a great host of outlanders from the West came to steal the land of the Dunmer. In that time, Nerevar was the great khan and warleader of the House People, but he honored the Ancient Spirits and the Tribal law, and became as one of us.

So, when Nerevar pledged upon his great Ring of the Ancestors, One-Clan-Under-Moon-and-Star, to honor the ways of the Spirits and rights of the Land, all the Tribes joined the House People to fight a great battle at Red Mountain.

Though many Dunmer, Tribesman and Houseman, died at Red Mountain, the Dwemer were defeated and their evil magicks destroyed, and the outlanders driven from the land. But after this great victory, the power-hungry khans of the Great Houses slew Nerevar in secret, and, setting themselves up as gods, neglected Nerevar's promises to the Tribes.

But it is said that Nerevar will come again with his ring, and cast down the false gods, and by the power of his ring will make good his promises to the Tribes, to honor the Spirits and drive the outsiders from the land.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#803)
	The Ruins of Kemel-Ze, Part 1
By Rolard Nordssen

With the acclamations of the Fellows of the Imperial Society still ringing in my ears, I decided to return to Morrowind immediately. It was not without some regret that I bade farewell to the fleshpots of the Imperial City, but I knew that the wonders I had brought back from Raled-Makai had only scratched the surface of the Dwemer ruins in Morrowind. Even more spectacular treasures were out there, I felt, just waiting to be found, and I was eager to be off. I also had before me the salutary example of poor Bannerman, who was still dining out on his single expedition to Black Marsh twenty years ago. That would never be me, I vowed.

With my letter from the Empress in hand, this time I would have the full cooperation of the Imperial authorities. No more need to worry about attacks from superstitious locals. But where should I look next? The ruins at Kemel-Ze were the obvious choice. Unlike Raled-Makai, getting to the ruins would not be a problem. Also known as the "Cliff City," Kemel-Ze lies on the mainland side of the Vvardenfell Rift, sprawling down the sheer coastal cliff. Travelers from the east coast of Vvardenfell often visit the site by boat, and it can also be reached overland from the nearby villages without undue hardship.

Once my expedition had assembled in Seyda Neen, with the usual tedious complications involved in operating in this half-civilized land, we set out for the village of Marog near the ruins, where we hoped to hire a party of diggers. My interpreter, Tuen Panai, an unusually jolly fellow for a Dark Elf whom I had hired in Seyda Neen at the recommendation of the local garrison commander, assured me that the local villagers would be very familiar with Kemel-Ze, having looted the site for generations. Incidentally, Ten Penny (as we soon came to call him, to his constant amusement) proved invaluable and I would recommend him without hesitation to any of my colleagues who were planning similar expeditions to the wilds of Morrowind.

At Marog, we ran into our first trouble. The hetman of the village, a reserved, elegant old fellow, seemed willing to cooperate, but the local priest (a representative of the absurd religion they have here, worshiping something called the Tribunal who they claim actually live in palaces in Morrowind) was fervently against us excavating the ruins. He looked likely to sway the villagers to his side with his talk of "religious taboos," but I waved the Empress's letter under his nose and mentioned something about my friend the garrison commander at Seyda Neen and he quieted right down. No doubt this was just a standard negotiating tactic arranged among the villagers to increase their pay. In any event, once the priest had stalked off muttering to himself, no doubt calling down curses upon the heads of the foreign devils, we soon had a line of villagers eager to sign on to the expedition.

While my assistant was working out the mundane details of contracts, supplies, etc., Master Arum and I rode on to the ruins. By land, they can only be reached using narrow paths that wind down the face of the cliff from above, where any misstep threatens to send one tumbling into the sea foaming about the jagged rocks below. The city's original entrance to the surface must have been in the part of the city to the northeast—the part that fell into the sea long ago when an eruption of Red Mountain created this mind-bogglingly vast crater. After successfully navigating the treacherous path, we found ourselves in a large chamber, open to the sky on one side, disappearing into the darkness on the other. As we stepped forward, our boots crunched on piles of broken metal, as common in Dwarven ruins as potsherds in other ancient sites. This was obviously where the looters brought their finds from deeper levels, stripping off the valuable outer casings of the Dwarven mechanisms and leaving their innards here—easier than lugging the intact mechanisms back up to the top of the cliff. I laughed to myself, thinking of the many warriors unwittingly walking around Tamriel with pieces of Dwarven mechanisms on their backs. For that, of course, is what most "Dwarven armor" really is—just the armored shells of ancient mechanical men. I sobered when I thought of how exceedingly valuable an intact mechanism would be. This place was obviously full of Dwarven devices, judging from the litter covering the floor of this vast chamber—or had been, I reminded myself. Looters had been working over this site for centuries. Just the casing alone would be worth a small fortune, sold as armor. Most Dwarven armor is made of mismatched pieces from various devices, hence its reputation for being bulky and unwieldy. But a matched set from an intact mechanism is worth more than its weight in gold, for the pieces all fit together smoothly and the wearer hardly notices the bulk. Of course, I had no intention of destroying my finds for armor, no matter how valuable. I would bring it back to the Society for scientific study. I imagined the astonished cries of my colleagues as I unveiled it at my next lecture, and smiled again.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#804)
	The Ruins of Kemel-Ze, Part 2
By Rolard Nordssen

I picked up a discarded gear from the piles at my feet. It still gleamed brightly, as if new-made, the Dwarven alloys resisting the corrosion of time. I wondered what secrets remained hidden in the maze of chambers that lay before me, defying the efforts of looters, waiting to gleam again in the light they had not seen in long eons. Waiting for me. It remained only to find them! With an impatient gesture to Master Arum to follow, I strode forward into the gloom.

Master Arum, Ten Penny and I spent several days exploring the ruins while my assistants set up camp at the top of the cliff and hauled supplies and equipment from the village. I was looking for a promising area to begin excavation - a blocked passage or corridor untouched by looters that might lead to completely untouched areas of the ruins.

We found two such areas early on, but soon discovered that the many winding passages bypassed the blockage and gave access to the rooms behind. Nevertheless, even these outer areas, for the most part stripped clean of artifacts by generations of looters, were full of interest to the professional archaeologist. Behind a massive bronze door, burst from its hinges by some ancient turmoil of the earth, we discovered a large chamber filled with exquisite wall-carvings, which impressed even the jaded Ten Penny, who claimed to have explored every Dwarven ruin in Morrowind. They seemed to depict an ancient ritual of some kind, with a long line of classically-bearded Dwarven elders processing down the side walls, all seemingly bowing to the giant form of a god carved into the front wall of the chamber, which was caught in the act of stepping forth from the crater of a mountain in a cloud of smoke or steam. According to Master Arum, there are no known depictions of Dwarven religious rituals, so this was an exciting find indeed. I set a team to work prying the carved panels from the wall, but they were unable to even crack the surface. On closer examination the chamber appeared to be faced with a metallic substance with the texture and feel of stone, impervious to any of our tools. I considered having Master Arum try his blasting magic on the walls, but decided that the risk of destroying the carvings was too great. Much as I would have preferred to bring them back to the Imperial City, I had to settle for taking rubbings of the carvings. If my colleagues in the Society showed enough interest, I was sure a specialist could be found, perhaps a master alchemist, who could find a way to safely remove the panels.

I found another curious room at the top of a long winding stair, barely passable due to the fall of rubble from the roof. At the top of the stair was a domed chamber with a large ruined mechanism at its center. Painted constellations were still visible in some places on the surface of the dome. Master Arum and I agreed that this must have been some kind of observatory, and the mechanism was therefore the remains of a Dwarven telescope. To remove it from ruins down the narrow stairway would require its complete disassembly (which fact no doubt had preserved it from the attention of looters), so I decided to leave it in place for the time being. The existence of this observatory suggested, however, that this room had once been above the surface. Closer examination of the structure revealed that this was indeed a building, not an excavated chamber. The only other doorways from the room were completely blocked, and careful measurements from the top of the cliff to the entry room and then to the observatory revealed that we were still more than 250 feet below the present ground level. A sobering reminder of the forgotten fury of Red Mountain.

This discovery led us to focus our attentions downward. Since we now knew approximately where the ancient surface lay, we could rule out many of the higher blocked passages. One wide passage, impressively flanked with carven pillars, particularly drew my interest. It ended in a massive rockfall, but we could see where looters had begun and then abandoned a tunnel through this debris. With my team of diggers and Master Arum's magery to assist, I believed we could succeed where our predecessors had failed. I therefore set my team of Dark Elves to work on clearing the passage, relieved finally to be beginning the real exploration of Kemel-Ze. Soon, I hoped, my boots would be stirring up dust that had lain undisturbed since the dawn of time.

With this exciting prospect before me, I may have driven my diggers a bit too hard. Ten Penny reported that they were beginning to grumble about the long days, and that some were talking of quitting. Knowing from experience that nothing puts heart back into these Dark Elves like a taste of the lash, I had the ringleaders whipped and the rest confined to the ruins until they had finished clearing the passageway. Thank Stendarr for my foresight in requisitioning a few legionnaires from Seyda Neen! They were sullen at first, but with the promise of an extra day's wages when they broke through, they soon set to work with a will. While these measures may sound harsh to my readers back in the comforts of civilization, let me assure you that there is no other way to get these people to stick to a task.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#805)
	The Ruins of Kemel-Ze, Part 3
By Rolard Nordssen

The blockage was much worse than I had first thought, and in the end it took almost two weeks to clear the passage. The diggers were as excited as I was when their picks finally broke through the far end into emptiness, and we shared a round of the local liquor together (a foul concoction, in truth) to show that all was forgiven. I could hardly restrain my eagerness as they enlarged the hole to allow entry into the chamber beyond. Would the passage lead to entire new levels of the ancient city, filled with artifacts left by the vanished Dwarves? Or would it be only a dead end, some side passage leading nowhere? My excitement grew as I slid through the hole and crouched for a moment in the darkness beyond. From the echoing sounds of the stones rattling beneath my feet, I was in a large room. Perhaps very large. I stood up carefully, and unhooded my lantern. As the light flooded the chamber, I looked around in astonishment. Here were wonders beyond even my wildest dreams!

As the light from my lamp filled the chamber beyond the rock fall, I looked around in astonishment. Everywhere was the warm glitter of Dwarven alloys. I had found an untouched section of the ancient city! My heart pounding with excitement, I looked around me. The room was vast, the roof soaring up into darkness beyond the reach of my lamp, the far end lost in shadows with only a tantalizing glimmer hinting at treasures not yet revealed. Along each wall stood rows of mechanical men, intact except for one oddity: their heads had been ritually removed and placed on the floor at their feet. This could mean only one thing - I had discovered the tomb of a great Dwarven noble, maybe even a king! Burials of this type had been discovered before, most famously by Ransom's expedition to Hammerfell, but no completely intact tomb had ever been found. Until now.

But if this was truly a royal burial, where was the tomb? I stepped forward gingerly, the rows of headless bodies standing silently as they had for eons, their disembodied eyes seeming to watch me as I passed. I had heard wild tales of the Curse of the Dwarves, but had always laughed it off as superstition. But now, breathing the same air as the mysterious builders of this city, which had lain undisturbed since the cataclysm that spelled their doom, I felt a twinge of fear. There was some power here, I felt, something malevolent that resented my presence. I stopped for a moment and listened. All was silent.

Except … it seemed I heard a faint hiss, regular as breathing. I fought down a sudden surge of panic. I was unarmed, not thinking of danger in my haste to explore past the blocked passage. Sweat dripped down my face as I scanned the gloom for any movement. The room was warm, I suddenly noticed, much warmer than the rest of the labyrinth thus far. My excitement returned. Could I have found a section of the city still connected to a functioning steam grid? Pipes ran along the walls, as in all sections of the city. I walked over and placed my hand on one. It was hot, almost too hot to touch! Now I saw that in places where the ancient piping had corroded, small jets of steam were escaping - the sound I had heard. I laughed at my own credulity.

I now advanced quickly to the far end of the room, giving a cheerful salute to the ranks of mechanical soldiers who had appeared so menacing only moments before. I smiled with triumph as the light swept back the darkness of centuries to reveal the giant effigy of a Dwarven king standing on a raised dais, his metal hand clutching his rod of office. This was the prize indeed! I circled the dais slowly, admiring the craftsmanship of the ancient Dwarves. The golden king stood twenty feet tall under a freestanding domed cupola, his long upswept beard jutting forward proudly as his glittering metal eyes seemed to follow me. But my superstitious mood had passed, and I gazed benevolently on the old Dwarven king. My king, as I had already begun to think of him. I stepped onto the dais to get a better look at the sculpted armor. Suddenly the eyes of the figure opened and it raised a mailed fist to strike!

I leaped to one side as the golden arm came crashing down, striking sparks from the steps where I had stood a moment before. With a hiss of steam and the whir of gears, the giant figure stepped ponderously out from under its canopy and strode towards me with frightening speed, its eyes tracking me as I scrambled backwards. I dodged behind a pillar as the fist whistled down again. I had dropped my lantern in the confusion, and now I crept into the darkness outside the pool of light, hoping to slip between the headless mechanisms and thus escape back to the safety of the passageway. Where had the monster gone? You would think that a twenty-foot golden king would be hard to miss, but he was nowhere to be seen. The guttering lamp only illuminated a small part of the room. He could be hiding anywhere in the gloom. I crawled faster. Without warning, the dim ranks of Dwarven soldiers in front of me went flying as the monstrous guardian loomed before me. He had cut off my escape! As I dodged backwards, blow after blow whistled down as the implacable machine followed me relentlessly, driving me into the far corner of the room. At last there was nowhere left for me to go. My back was to the wall. I glared up at my foe, determined to die on my feet. The huge fists lifted for one final blow.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#806)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 1
On His Name

(Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

That he took the name "Pelinal" was passing strange, no matter his later sobriquets, which were many. That was an Elvish name, and Pelinal was a scourge on that race, and not much given to irony. Pelinal was much too grim for that; even in youth he wore white hair, and trouble followed him. Perhaps his enemies named Pelinal of their own in their tongue, but that is doubtful, for it means "glorious knight," and he was neither to them. Certainly, many others added to that name during his days in Tamriel: he was Pelinal the Whitestrake because of his left hand, made of a killing light; he was Pelinal the Bloody, for he (drank) it in victory; he was Pelinal Insurgent, because he gave the crusades a face; he was Pelinal In Triumph, as the words eventually became synonymous, and men-at-arms gave thanks to the Eight when they saw his banner coming through war; he was Pelinal the Blamer, for he was quick to admonish those allies of his that favored tactics that ran counter to his, that is, sword-theory; and he was Pelinal the Third, though whether this was because some said he was a god guiser, who had incarnated twice before already, or that, simpler, he was the third vision given to Perrif, anon Alessia, in her prayers of liberation before he walked among the quarters of rebellion, is unknown.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#807)
	Spirit of Nirn
Lorkhan is the Spirit of Nirn, the god of all mortals. This does not mean all mortals necessarily like him or even know him. Most Elves hate him, thinking creation as that act which sundered them from the spirit realm. Most Humans revere him, or aspects of him, as the herald of existence. The creation of the Mortal Plane, the Mundus, Nirn, is a source of mental anguish to all living things; all souls know deep down they came originally from somewhere else, and that Nirn is a cruel and crucial step to what comes next. What is this next? Some wish to return to the original state, the spirit realm, and think that Lorkhan is the Demon that hinders their way; to them Nirn is a prison, an illusion to escape. Others think that Lorkhan created the world as the testing ground for transcendence; to them the spirit realm was already a prison, and that true escape is now finally possible.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#808)
	The Tale of Dro-Zira
Transcription and Commentary by Sonia Vette

(The following is a tale overheard, as told by a Khajiiti father to his cub, while making camp with one of their caravans. I have attempted to transcribe it as he told it, for the Khajiit do not often speak of their history to outsiders. In truth I do not believe he would have spoken at all, but for the vast helping of moonsugar he had consumed that night.)

Come and warm your fur by the fire, Ma-rashirr, and I will tell you of how our Dro-Zira came to be the greatest of all Khajiit! (Ed: Dro-Zira I took in this case to be an honored ancestor.)

The ancient Khajiit heard the great roar of Alkosh the Great Cat King of Time (Ed: known as Akatosh in the Empire, and Alduin in Skyrim) and raced to his Voice. In three days' time they crossed the whole of Tamriel, resting not even for the moonsugar, for such was the speed of Khajiiti then.

They joined with the pride of Alkosh and were his strongest warriors. Lorkhaj (Ed: Shor to the Nords), however, chose to give his roar to the Ra-Wulfharth to spite the Khajiiti warriors, for he was jealous of their devotion to Alkosh.

Seeing the ferocity of the Khajiiti warriors, Ra-Wulfharth could not bring himself to put them to death. Using the roar that Lorkhaj had given him, he spoke to Masser and Secunda, to move to their fullness in the sky. The Khajiiti warriors became Senche, but Lorkhaj stripped from them all reason.

When Ra-Wulfharth returned to sink his fangs into the Red Mountain, he called upon his people to aid him. Dro-Zira was the only among the "Rhojiit" who still remembered, and so was the only one who answered the summons.

But these Nord bards are (Ed: expletive removed) and do not sing of how the great Ash King rode Dro-Zira up the Red Mountain itself to strike at the heart of the Dunmer. Never is it mentioned how Dro-Zira pounced atop Dumalacath, the Dwarf-Orc, when he had his blade to the throat of the Ash King so that he could not speak.

Nor do they sing of how Lorkhaj returned Dro-Zira from the lands of Sheggorath for his bravery and for saving the Ash King! So when you find a bard who speaks ill of the Khajiit, you be sure to leave him an iron claw in the back to remind him who saved Skyrim.

As for the rest of the "Rhojiit," they grew small and lost their cunning altogether, which is why you should not hesitate to strike them down when they approach the wagons. So it was told by my father, and so I tell it now to you.

Now, be a good cub and go fetch me some more moon-sugar for these sweet cakes.

(Much of the tale seemed to me little more than a boast, but certain facts do seem to line up with what we believe is the truth behind the legends. It does raise questions as to why we do not know more about history of the Khajiit and what parts they have played that might not have been recorded by our written histories.)
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#809)
	The Worthy Ar-Azal, His Deeds
From "The History of Histories, As Told to Young Prince Fahara'jad"

Know then, O Prince, that the Phyllocid Dynasty did rule in Hammerfell while e'er the province was incorporate in the Second Empire, and of this line of kings, though some were wise and some were foolish, all were noble. And the last of the line, High King Ar-Azal, was most noble of all, for he it was who, for a time, brought an end to the strife of brother against brother, of Crown against Forebear.

How did this come to be? Hearken, and I shall tell the tale. 

Upon the passing of Ja-Fr, the estimable father of the estimable Ar-Azal, the Prince of Hegathe thereupon assumed the Throne of Hegathe, and wore the Diadem of Diagna, and bore the title High King of Hammerfell. And all the nobles of Hammerfell sojourned to Hegathe to pay him obeisance. But the new High King, though so youthful as to be barely bearded, was in no wise a fool, and knew full well that his nobles' show of faithfulness was like unto a cloud, apparent but bereft of substance. For the Forebear nobles liked him not insomuch as Ar-Azal was a Crown, and the Crown nobles mistrusted him insomuch as his father had not crushed the Forebears. And Ar-Azal was in a quandary, for he must needs rule Hammerfell as High King, and yet his support was as weak as a woman who has just given birth.

So the Worthy Ar-Azal gazed from his High Tower upon the azure Abecean, and prayed many prayers, and thought many thoughts. And presently he thought of the Admirable Zaqeeb, his tutor and mentor, a Priestess of Satakal and a sage of renown. And he went to the Temple and spake unto the Admirable Zaqeeb, saying that he could not solve the riddle of how to reconcile the Crowns and the Forebears. And the Admirable Zaqeeb gave him a libation, saying, "Drink this tonight, O King, and dream." And taking the libation, the Worthy Ar-Azal retired in gratitude, and did as he was bade. 

And that night the Worthy Ar-Azal dreamed a dream of Satakal the World-Snake, who came to him in the guise of a Snakehead Potentate. And the Potentate did homage unto the High King, for he said it was given only to the Worthy Ar-Azal to solve this riddle. And the answer, he said twice, speaking once with each tongue, was to be found at the Shrine of Tava, he being a Divine who received the veneration of both Forebears and Crowns.

Then Ar-Azal heard the cry of a Goshawk, which bird is sacred to Tava, and he awoke, and it was the dawn of the day. And he made haste to the Shrine of Tava in Hegathe, wherein is the Fresco of the Goshawk, which depicts Tava in his nest with his mate. And lo, where once there was one mate depicted in the nest, now there were two, the second mate agleam in the morning light. And Ar-Azal said, "Truly the Divines have shown me the answer. For has not the greatest Forebear Grandee, Ebrahim of Sentinel, a fair and lissome daughter, Fereshtah? And has not the greatest Crown Grandee, Murahd of Rihad, a fierce and clever daughter, Arlimahera?"

And that concludes, O Prince, my tale of Ar-Azal, your Worthy Great-Grand-Uncle. For I know that you are quick of wit, and will work out for yourself how the High King solved his riddle.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#810)
	The Time of the Ebonheart Pact
By Alla Lalleth

The Wheel of Time turns: in the dawn, it was the day of the Aldmeri, and then came the time of Men—but now, as the decay and chaos in the Empire makes clear, the time of Men has past. Of the Men of Tamriel, only the Eastern Nords had the strength of character to join Dunmeri and Argonians in repelling the recent invasion of Snake-Men from Akavir, thereby showing that of all Men, only they may be trusted.

Time and again Men have shown that without proper guidance, their meddling with External Powers leads to disaster. Men's reckless dabbling with beings beyond Nirn must stop forever. Now it is the time of the Ebonheart Pact, which shall and must become the Tamriel Pact. Within the Pact, the Aedra, Daedra, and Hist are all revered … from an appropriate distance. Within the Pact is the Tribunal, three Living Gods who abide among us here on Nirn and whose interest therefore coincides with that of all residents of Nirn. Only they have shown how to treat successfully with powers beyond Nirn.

The rash actions of those who sit the Ruby Throne, or who pull their strings, have brought Tamriel to the verge of irretrievable doom. They must be scoured from the face of Cyrodiil, and the decaying remains of the Empire of Men must be swept away. It shall be replaced by the Pact, which will enforce peace across the continent and strictly regulate all involvement in dangerous magical pursuits.

Onward, warriors of the Pact! We will never know peace and freedom until we occupy White-Gold Tower!
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#811)
	Bravil, Part 2
The Lucky Old Lady

By Sathyr Longleat

Very little is left of the Ayleid presence in Bravil of today, though architectural 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 recognizable, it was the same young man the Lady had helped. He apologized profusely for his appearance and behavior, explaining that he had been kidnaped 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 town of Bravil.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#812)
	Father of the Niben, Fragment Two
Incorporating Fragment Two 

Translated and With Commentary by Florin Jaliil

The rolling verdant hills of southern High Rock are unmistakable in the previous verse (Fragment One), recognizable to anyone who has been there. The question, of course, is what is to be made of this apparent reference to Orcs occupying the region. Tradition has it that the Orcs were not born until after the Aldmer had settled the mainland, that they sprung up as a distinct race following the famous battle between Trinimac and Boethiah at the time of Resdayn.

It is possible that the tradition is wrong. Perhaps the Orcs were an aboriginal tribe predating the Aldmeri colonization. Perhaps these were a cursed folk—"Orsimer" in the Aldmeris, the same word for "Orc"—of a different kind, whose name was to be given the Orcs in a different era. It is regrettable that the fragment ends here, for more clues to the truth are undoubtedly lost.

What's missing between the first fragment and the second is appreciable. It must be more than eighty months that have passed, because Topal is on the opposite side of mainland Tamriel now, attempting to sail southwest to return to Firsthold, after his failure at finding Old Ehlnofey.

Fragment Two:

No passage westward could be found in the steely cliffs

That jutted up like giant's jaw, so the Niben

Sailed south.

As it passed a sandy, forested island that promised

Sanctuary and peace, the crew cheered in joy.

Then exultation turned to terror as a great shadow rose

From the trees on leathered wings like a unfurling Cape.

The great bat lizard was large as the ship, but good pilot

Topal merely raised his bow, and struck it in its head.

As it fell, he asked his bosun, "Do you think it's dead?"

And before it struck the white-bearded waves, he

Shot once more its heart to be certain.

And so for another forty days and six, the Niben sailed south

We can see that in addition to Topal's prowess as a navigator, cartographer, survivalist, and raconteur, he is a master of archery. It may be poetic license, of course, but we do have archeological proof that the Merethic Aldmer were sophisticated archers. Their bows of layers of wood and horn drawn by silver silk thread are beautiful, and still, I have heard experts say millennia later, very deadly.

It is tempting to imagine it a dragon, but the creature that Topal faces at the beginning of this fragment sounds like an ancestor of the cliff-racer of present day Morrowind. The treacherous cliff coastline sounds like the region around Necrom, and the island of Gorne may be where the nest of the "bat lizard" is. No creatures like that exist in eastern Morrowind to my knowledge at the present day.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#813)
	The Rite of Boethiah's Gauntlet
By Thendaramur Death-Blossom, Boethiah's Conduit of Sutch

Over fifty Gauntlets have I witnessed,

Mighty Men and Mer contending, fitly

Off'ring blood and body, Faithful fighting,

Proving worth and zeal, Boethiah's best and

Most devoted show they stop at nothing.

Pitted, Faithful versus Faithful, grandly giving

All they must to praise their Prince so proudly.

None can doubt devotion offered freely.

Tested thus, the Faithful know who's worthy— 

Who shall be the Conduit of Boethiah.

Champion of Boethiah's also chosen,

Gauntlet given, through the test of melee.

Those who fear the sword, the mace, and dagger

Lack the heart to show our foes no pity—

Molag Bal will welcome them to Stonefire.

Warlock of Boethiah wields the magic

Better than the weaklings of Azura,

Casting spells to pass the test of Gauntlet,

Showing lesser Faithful their position.

All must serve the Prince in their own fashion.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#814)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 2
On His Coming

(Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

(And then) Perrif spoke to the Handmaiden again, eyes to the Heavens which had not known kindness since the beginning of Elven rule, and she spoke as a mortal, whose kindle is beloved by the Gods for its strength-in-weakness, a humility that can burn with metaphor and yet break (easily and) always, always doomed to end in death (and this is why those who let their souls burn anyway are beloved of the Dragon and His Kin), and she said: "And this thing I have thought of, I have named it, and I call it freedom. Which I think is just another word for Shezarr Who Goes Missing… (You) made the first rain at his sundering (and that) is what I ask now for our alien masters… (that) we might sunder them fully and repay their cruelty (by) dispersing them to drown in the Topal. Morihaus, your son, mighty and snorting, gore-horned, winged, when next he flies down, let him bring us anger." …(And then) Kyne granted Perrif another symbol, a diamond soaked red with the blood of Elves, (whose) facets could (un-sector and form) into a man whose every angle could cut her jailers and a name: PELIN-EL (which is) "The Star-Made Knight" (and he) was arrayed in armor (from the future time). And he walked into the jungles of Cyrod already killing, Morihaus stamping at his side froth-bloody and bellowing from excitement because the Pelinal was come…(and Pelinal) came to Perrif's camp of rebels holding a sword and mace, both encrusted with the smashed viscera of Elven faces, feathers and magic beads, which were the markings of the Ayleidoon, stuck to the redness that hung from his weapons, and he lifted them, saying: "These were their eastern chieftains, no longer full of their talking."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#815)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 3
On His Enemy

(Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

Pelinal Whitestrake was the enemy of all Elfkind that lived in Cyrod in those days. Mainly, though, he took it upon himself to slay the sorcerer-kings of the Ayleids in pre-arranged open combats rather than at war; the fields of rebellion he left to the growing armies of the Paravania and his bull nephew. Pelinal called out Haromir of Copper and Tea into a duel at the Tor, and ate his neck-veins while screaming praise to Reman, a name that no one knew yet. Gordhaur the Shaper's head was smashed upon the goat-faced altar of Ninendava, and in his wisdom Pelinal said a small plague spell to keep that evil from reforming by welkynd-magic. Later that season, Pelinal slew Hadhuul on the granite steps of Ceya-Tar, the Fire King's spears knowing their first refute. For a time, no weapon of the Ayleids could pierce his armor, which Pelinal admitted was unlike any crafted by men, but would say no more even when pressed. When Huna, whom Pelinal raised from grain-slave to hoplite and loved well, took death from an arrowhead made from the beak of Celethelel the Singer, the Whitestrake went on his first Madness. He wrought destruction from Narlemae all the way to Celediil, and erased those lands from the maps of Elves and Men, and all things in them, and Perrif was forced to make sacrifice to the Gods to keep them from leaving the world in their disgust. And then came the storming of White-Gold, where the Ayleids had made pact with the Aurorans of Meridia, and summoned them, and appointed the terrible and golden-hued "Half-Elf" Umaril the Unfeathered as their champion … and, for the first time since his coming, it was Pelinal who was called out to battle by another, for Umaril had the blood of the 'ada and would never know death.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#816)
	Welcome to New Aldmeri Irregulars
By Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination

Welcome, Altmeri, Bosmeri, and Khajiiti warriors. Welcome to the elite force of the Aldmeri Irregulars!

Orcs, Dark Elves, and Men—most of all, Men—are best at war. They have drenched the mainland of Tamriel in rivers of blood. As long as their follies were confined to murdering one another, what they did in and around their so-called "Imperial City" was beneath the notice of the Altmer of Summerset.

Then came the Dragon Break. That catastrophe was entirely the fault of Men, but the Altmer had to repair it. Now the Men of the Empire have catastrophically blundered again, and all Nirn is threatened. Our good queen had no choice but to form the Aldmeri Dominion to conquer Cyrodiil, and ensure for the good of all who dwell in Nirn that Men never again tamper with forces beyond their comprehension and competence.

Only the Aldmeri—the High Elves and their noble allies, the Wood Elves and Cat-Men—have the wisdom and restraint to peaceably rule the disparate peoples of Tamriel. Though we are reluctant to take up this burden, events have shown that we must. Recent events prove that the Dragon Break was not a unique event. Men always follow the destructive path of their defender and apologist, the Missing God whom we shall not name. This ends here. Once again, Elves shall rule Tamriel from White-Gold Tower … this time, forever.

The world has gone wrong, and we must put it right. March proudly beneath the eagle banner of the Aldmeri Dominion!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#817)
	Worm Saga
Mage from infancy, blood-selected for magicka, descended from isles of Artaeum forever! Destined was I from long before birth to exceed all mortals.

Altmer? Nay, Aldmer: scion of et'Ada by direct descent, summoned to Ceporah, and there was I sent: to Iachesis, to tutor, to test and ferment.

No magicka handler Iachesis Ritemaster, sage of the Elder Way, gentle spellcaster! To warp not the wind, unlike guild of the latter day, courting disaster.

Necromancy, death art, chose me stern and fast. To change not the present ,but call up the past, obverse of Elder Way, forbidden without cause, deep-delved in death's way, against Gray Cloak laws.

Ill-timed then arrived one, Trechtus by name: ambitious, obstreperous, blind and deaf to shame, talented, reckless, thought himself my equal, his arrogance and envy determined our sequel.

Magic he practiced: open, raw power, flouted the Elder Way, endangered the tower, then with lowborn cunning cast me as the villain, engineered exile, made me Tamrielan.

All undervalued my will and resolution, my knowledge formidable, my wit and acumen. Thus found I new allies to study the death-rites, the sacrifice rituals, the summons of ghost-wights.

Robed all in black goes the Order of Black Worm, bringing wisdom to seekers who see beyond death-term, but Trechtus-now-Vanus pursues us to continent, to persecute worm-wrights his evil intent.

Come, all necrotics, defend practice and life, against Mages who wield magicka like a knife, heedless of heresy and ignorant of Elder Way, hating necromancy yet heralding doomsday.

Child of Nirn ponder, which would you choose: tyranny of mages, restricting spell use, or necromancy, communion with thy dead, ancestors returned, generations reunited?
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#818)
	The Battle of Red Mountain, Part 1
(The following is a transcript of the words of Lord Vivec himself.)

Who can clearly recall the events of the distant past? But you have asked me to tell you, in my own words, the events surrounding the Battle of Red Mountain, the birth of the Tribunal, and the prophecies of a Nerevar reborn. Here is what I can tell you.

When the Chimer first abandoned the herds and tents of their nomadic ancestors, and built the first Great Houses, we loved the Daedra, and worshiped them as gods. But our brethren, the Dwemer, scorned the Daedra, and mocked our foolish rituals, and preferred instead their gods of Reason and Logic. So the Chimer and Dwemer were always at bitter war, until the Nords came and invaded Resdayn. Only then did the Chimer and Dwemer put away their strife and join together to cast out the invaders.

Once the Nords were driven out, General Nerevar of the Chimer and General Dumac of the Dwemer, who had come to love and respect one another, resolved to make peace between their peoples. In that time I was but a junior counselor to Nerevar, and Nerevar's queen, Almalexia, and his other favorite counselor, Sotha Sil, always doubted that such a peace might long survive, given the bitter disputes between Chimer and Dwemer, but by negotiation and compromise, Nerevar and Dumac somehow managed to preserve a fragile peace.

But when Dagoth Ur, Lord of House Dagoth, and trusted as a friend by both Nerevar and the Dwemer, brought us proof that High Engineer Kagrenac of the Dwemer had discovered the Heart of Lorkhan, and that he had learned how to tap its powers, and was building a new god, a mockery of Chimer faith and a fearsome weapon, we all urged Nerevar to make war on the Dwarves and to destroy this threat to Chimer beliefs and security. Nerevar was troubled. He went to Dumac and asked if what Dagoth Ur said was true. But Kagrenac took great offense, and asked whom Nerevar thought he was, that he might presume to judge the affairs of the Dwemer.

Nerevar was further troubled, and made pilgrimage to Holamayan, the sacred temple of Azura, and Azura confirmed that all that Dagoth Ur said was indeed true and that the creation of a New God of the Dwemer should be prevented at all costs. When Nerevar came back and told us what the goddess had said, we felt our judgments confirmed, and again counseled him to war, chiding Nerevar for his naive trust in friendship, and reminding Nerevar of his duty to protect the faith and security of the Chimer against the impiety and dangerous ambitions of the Dwemer.

Then Nerevar went back to Vvardenfell one last time, hoping that negotiations and compromise might once again preserve the peace. But this time the friends Nerevar and Dumac quarreled bitterly, and as a result, the Chimer and Dwemer went to war.

The Dwemer were well-defended by their fortress at Red Mountain, but Nerevar's cunning drew most of Dumac's armies out into the field and pinned them there, while Nerevar, Dagoth Ur, and a small group of companions could make their way into the Heart Chamber by secret means. There, Nerevar the Chimer King met Dumac the Dwarf King and they both collapsed from grievous wounds and draining magics. With Dumac fallen, and threatened by Dagoth Ur and others, Kagrenac turned his tools upon the Heart, and Nerevar said he saw Kagrenac and all his Dwemer companions at once disappear from the world. In that instant, Dwemer everywhere disappeared without a trace. But Kagrenac's tools remained, and Dagoth Ur seized them, and he carried them to Nerevar, saying, "That fool Kagrenac has destroyed his own people with these things. We should destroy them, right away, lest they fall into the wrong hands."

But Nerevar was resolved to confer with his queen and his generals, who had foreseen that this war would come and whose counsel he would not ignore again. "I will ask the Tribunal what we shall do with them, for they have had wisdom in the past that I had not. Stay here, loyal Dagoth Ur, until I return." So Nerevar told Dagoth Ur to protect the tools and the Heart Chamber until he returned.

Then Nerevar was carried to us where we waited on the slopes of Red Mountain, and he told us all that had transpired under Red Mountain. What Nerevar had said was that the Dwemer had used special tools to turn their people into immortals and that the Heart of Lorkhan held wondrous powers. Only later did we hear from others present that Dagoth Ur had thought the Dwemer destroyed, not made immortal. And no one knows for sure what really happened there.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#819)
	The Battle of Red Mountain, Part 2
(The following is a transcript of the words of Lord Vivec himself.)

After hearing Nerevar, we gave our counsel as he requested, proposing, "We should preserve these tools in trust for the welfare of the Chimer people. And who knows, perhaps the Dwemer are not gone forever, but merely transported to some distant realm, from which they may someday return to threaten our security once again. Therefore, we need to keep these tools, to study them and their principles, so that we may be safe in future generations."

And though Nerevar voiced his grave misgivings, he was willing to be ruled by our counsel, under one condition: that we all together should swear a solemn oath upon Azura that the tools would never be used in the profane manner that the Dwemer had intended. We all readily agreed, and swore solemn oaths at Nerevar's dictation.

So then we went with Nerevar back into Red Mountain and met with Dagoth Ur. Dagoth Ur refused to deliver the tools to us, saying they were dangerous, and we could not touch them. Dagoth Ur seemed to be irrational, insisting that only he could be trusted with the tools, and then we guessed that he had somehow been affected by his handling of the tools, but now I feel sure that he had privately learned the powers of the tools, and had in some confused way decided he must have them for himself. Then Nerevar and our guard resorted to force to secure the tools. Somehow Dagoth Ur and his retainers escaped, but we gained the tools, and delivered them to Sotha Sil for study and safe-keeping.

For some years we kept the oaths we swore to Azura with Nerevar, but during that time, in secret, Sotha Sil must have studied the tools and divined their mysteries. And at last he came to us with a vision of a new world of peace, with justice and honor for nobles, and health and prosperity for the commoners, with the Tribunal as immortal patrons and guides. And dedicating ourselves to this vision of a better world, we made a pilgrimage to Red Mountain and transformed ourselves with the power of Kagrenac's tools.

And no sooner than we had completed our rituals and begun to discover our new-found powers, the Daedra Lord Azura appeared and cursed us for our forsworn oaths. By her powers of prophecy, she assured us that her champion, Nerevar, true to his oath, would return to punish us for our perfidy, and to make sure such profane knowledge might never again be used to mock and defy the will of the gods. But Sotha Sil said to her, "The old gods are cruel and arbitrary, and distant from the hopes and fears of mer. Your age is past. We are the new gods, born of the flesh, and wise and caring of the needs of our people. Spare us your threats and chiding, inconstant spirit. We are bold and fresh, and will not fear you."

And then, in that moment, all Chimer were changed into Dunmer, and our skins turned ashen and our eyes into fire. Of course, we only knew at that time that this had happened to us, but Azura said, "This is not my act, but your act. You have chosen your fate, and the fate of your people, and all the Dunmer shall share your fate, from now to the end of time. You think yourselves gods, but you are blind, and all is darkness." And Azura left us alone, in darkness, and we were all afraid, but we put on brave faces, and went forth from Red Mountain to build the new world of our dreams.

And the new world we shaped was glorious and generous, and the worship of the Dunmer fervent and grateful. The Dunmer were at first afraid of their new faces, but Sotha Sil spoke to them, saying that it was not a curse but a blessing, a sign of their changed natures, and sign of the special favor they might enjoy as New Mer, no longer barbarians trembling before ghosts and spirits, but civilized mer, speaking directly to their immortal friends and patrons, the three faces of the Tribunal. And we were all inspired by Sotha Sil's speech and vision, and took heart. And over time, we crafted the customs and institutions of a just and honorable society, and the land of Resdayn knew millennia of peace, equity, and prosperity unknown to other savage races.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#820)
	The Death Blow of Abernanit
By Anonymous

Broken battlements and wrecked walls

Where worship of the Horror once embraced.

The bites of fifty winters 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, forlorn place

Of Morrowind

Sits the barren bones of Abernanit.

When thrice-blessed Rangidil 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 villainy'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 pushed

The monster's army back in charge after charge.

Rangidil saw from above, urging the army to defend,

Dagoth Thras 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 cruelest 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 strength to absorb 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."
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#821)
	Mead, Mead, Mead!
(A Drinking Song)

Mead, mead, mead!

Wonderfully wet, sinfully sweet!

Heft your mead horns and hold your mugs high,

We want to keep drinking until we do die!

Mead, mead, mead!

It's what a body needs!

It makes us strong and wise and brave,

There's nothing better, it's what we crave!

Mead, mead, mead!

I drink it morning, noon, and eve.

I like it spiced and sweet and powerful,

I'll soon be drunk and that's quite probable,

Mead, mead, mead!
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#822)
	The Locked Room, Part 1
By Porbert Lyttumly

Yana was precisely the kind of student her mentor Arthcamu despised: the professional amateur. He enjoyed all the criminal types who were his usual pupils at the stronghold, from the common burglar to the more sophisticated blackmailers, children, and young people with strong career ambitions which the art and science of lockpicking could facilitate. They were always interested in simple solutions, the easy way, but people like Yana were always looking for exceptions, possibilities, exotica. For pragmatists like Arthcamu, it was intensely vexing.

The Redguard maiden would spend hours in front of a lock, prodding at it with her wires and picks, flirting with the key pins and driver pins, exploring the hull with a sort of casual fascination that no delinquent possesses. Long after her fellow students had opened their test locks and moved on, Yana was still playing with hers. The fact that she always opened it eventually, no matter how advanced a lock it was, irked Arthcamu even further.

"You are making things much too difficult," he would roar, boxing her ears. "Speed is of the essence, not merely technical know-how. I swear that if I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you'd still never get around to opening it."

Yana would bear Arthcamu's abuse philosophically. She had, after all, paid him in advance. Speed was doubtless an important factor for the picker trying to get somewhere he wasn't supposed to go with the city guard on patrol behind him, but Yana knew it wouldn't apply to her. She merely wanted the knowledge.

Arthcamu did everything he could think of to encourage Yana to move faster. She seemed to perversely thrive on his physical and verbal blows, spending more and more time on each lock, learning its idiosyncrasies and personality. Finally, he could bear it no longer. Very late one afternoon after Yana had dawdled over a perfectly ordinary lock, he grabbed the girl by her ear and dragged her to a room in the stronghold far from the other students, an area they had always been forbidden to visit.

The room was completely barren, except for one large crate in the center. There were no windows and no other door except for the one leading in. Arthcamu slammed his student against the crate and closed the door behind her. There was a distinct click of the lock.

"This is the test for my advanced students," he laughed behind the door. "See if you can escape."

Yana smiled and began her usual slow process of massaging the lock, gaining information. After a few minutes had gone by, she heard Arthcamu's voice again call out from behind the door. "Perhaps I should mention that this is a test of speed. You see the crate behind you? It contains a vampire ancient who has been locked in here for many months. It is absolutely ravenous. In a few minutes' time, the sun will have completely set, and if you have not opened the door, you will be nothing but a bloodless husk."

Yana considered only for a moment whether Arthcamu was joking or not. She knew he was an evil, horrible man, but to resort to murder to teach his pupil? The moment she heard a rustling in the crate, any doubts she had were erased. Ignoring all her usual explorations, she jammed her wire into the lock, thrust the pegs against the pressure plate, and shoved open the door.

Arthcamu stood in the hallway beyond, laughing cruelly, "So, now you've learned the value of fast work."

Yana fled from Arthcamu's stronghold, fighting back her tears. He was certain that she would never return to his tutelage, but he considered that he had taught her at last a very valuable lesson. When she did return the next morning, Arthcamu registered no surprise, but inside he was seething.

"I'll be leaving shortly," she explained, quietly. "But I believe I've developed a new type of lock, and I'd be grateful if you'd give me your opinion of it."

Arthcamu shrugged and asked her to present her design.

"I was wondering if I might use the vampire room and install the lock. I think it would be better if I demonstrated it."

Arthcamu was dubious, but the prospect of the tiresome girl leaving at last put him in an excellent and even indulgent mood. He agreed to give her access to the room. For all morning and most of the afternoon, she worked near the slumbering vampire, removing the old lock and adding her new prototype. Finally, she asked her old master to take a look.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#823)
	The Locked Room, Part 2
By Porbert Lyttumly

Arthcamu was dubious, but the prospect of the tiresome girl leaving at last put him in an excellent and even indulgent mood. He agreed to give her access to the room. For all morning and most of the afternoon, she worked near the slumbering vampire, removing the old lock and adding her new prototype. Finally, she asked her old master to take a look.

He studied the lock with an expert eye, and found little to be impressed with.

"This is the first and only pick-proof lock," Yana explained. "The only way to open it is to have the right key."

Arthcamu scoffed and let Yana close the door, shutting him in the room. The door clicked and he began to go to work. To his dismay, the lock was much more difficult than he thought it would be. He tried all his methods to force it, and found that he had to resort to his hated student's method of careful and thorough exploration.

"I need to leave now," called Yana from the other side of the door. "I'm going to bring the city guard to the stronghold. I know that it's against the rules, but I really think it's for the welfare of the villagers not to have a hungry vampire on the loose. It's getting dark, and even though you aren't able to unlock the door, the vampire might be less proud about using the key to escape. Remember when you said 'If I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you'd still never get around to opening it'?"

"Wait!" Arthcamu yelled back. "I'll use the key! Where is it? You forgot to give it to me!"

But there was no reply, only the sound of footfall disappearing down the corridor beyond the door. Arthcamu began to work harder on the lock, but his hands were shaking with fear. With no windows, it was impossible to tell how late it was getting to be. Were minutes that were flying by or hours? He only knew that the vampire ancient would know.

The tools could not stand very much twisting and tapping from Arthcamu's hysterical hands. The wire snapped in the keyhole. Just like a student. Arthcamu screamed and pounded on the door, but he knew that no one could possibly hear him. It was while sucking in his breath to scream again, he heard the distinct creak of the crate opening behind him.

The vampire ancient regarded the master locksmith with insane, hungry eyes, and flew at him in a frenzy. Before Arthcamu died, he saw it: on a chain that had been placed around the vampire's neck while it had been sleeping was a key.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#824)
	The Ruins of Kemel-Ze, Part 4
Except … it seemed I heard a faint hiss, regular as breathing. I fought down a sudden surge of panic. I was unarmed, not thinking of danger in my haste to explore past the blocked passage. Sweat dripped down my face as I scanned the gloom for any movement. The room was warm, I suddenly noticed, much warmer than the rest of the labyrinth thus far. My excitement returned. Could I have found a section of the city still connected to a functioning steam grid? Pipes ran along the walls, as in all sections of the city. I walked over and placed my hand on one. It was hot, almost too hot to touch! Now I saw that in places where the ancient piping had corroded, small jets of steam were escaping - the sound I had heard. I laughed at my own credulity.

I now advanced quickly to the far end of the room, giving a cheerful salute to the ranks of mechanical soldiers who had appeared so menacing only moments before. I smiled with triumph as the light swept back the darkness of centuries to reveal the giant effigy of a Dwarven king standing on a raised dais, his metal hand clutching his rod of office. This was the prize indeed! I circled the dais slowly, admiring the craftsmanship of the ancient Dwarves. The golden king stood twenty feet tall under a freestanding domed cupola, his long upswept beard jutting forward proudly as his glittering metal eyes seemed to follow me. But my superstitious mood had passed, and I gazed benevolently on the old Dwarven king. My king, as I had already begun to think of him. I stepped onto the dais to get a better look at the sculpted armor. Suddenly the eyes of the figure opened and it raised a mailed fist to strike!

I leaped to one side as the golden arm came crashing down, striking sparks from the steps where I had stood a moment before. With a hiss of steam and the whir of gears, the giant figure stepped ponderously out from under its canopy and strode towards me with frightening speed, its eyes tracking me as I scrambled backwards. I dodged behind a pillar as the fist whistled down again. I had dropped my lantern in the confusion, and now I crept into the darkness outside the pool of light, hoping to slip between the headless mechanisms and thus escape back to the safety of the passageway. Where had the monster gone? You would think that a twenty-foot golden king would be hard to miss, but he was nowhere to be seen. The guttering lamp only illuminated a small part of the room. He could be hiding anywhere in the gloom. I crawled faster. Without warning, the dim ranks of Dwarven soldiers in front of me went flying as the monstrous guardian loomed before me. He had cut off my escape! As I dodged backwards, blow after blow whistled down as the implacable machine followed me relentlessly, driving me into the far corner of the room. At last there was nowhere left for me to go. My back was to the wall. I glared up at my foe, determined to die on my feet. The huge fists lifted for one final blow.

The room blazed with sudden light. Bolts of purple energy crackled across the metal carapace of the Dwarven monster, and it halted, half-turning to meet this new threat. Master Arum had come! I was about to raise a cheer when the giant figure turned back to me, unharmed by the lightning bolt hurled by Master Arum, determined to destroy this first intruder. I shouted out "Steam! Steam!" as the giant raised his fist to crush me into the floor. There was a hiss and a gust of bitter cold and I looked up. The monster was now covered with a shell of ice, frozen in the very moment of dispatching me. Master Arum had understood. I leaned against the wall with relief.

The ice cracked above me. The giant golden king stood before me, the shell of ice falling away, his head swiveling towards me in triumph. Was there no stopping this Dwarven monstrosity? But then the light faded from his eyes, and his arms dropped to his sides. The magical frost had worked, cooling its steam-driven energy.

As Master Arum and the diggers crowded around me, congratulating me on my narrow escape, my thoughts drifted. I imagined my return to the Imperial City, and I knew that this would be my greatest triumph yet. How could I possibly top this find? Perhaps it was time to move on. Recovering the fabled Eye of Argonia…now that would be a coup! I smiled to myself, reveling in the glory of the moment but already planning my next adventure.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#825)
	Ithguleoir
We all remember Annine Praul,

Went out to sea one day;

Ithguleior bit off her head,

Beneath the sea of gra-ay, beneath the sea of gray!

And what about Therese's son,

A brave and handsome boy;

Ithguleoir has et him up,

His mother's pride and jo-oy, his mother's pride and joy!

Oh how we mourn our goodman Thom, 

Who swore he'd catch the beast;

Ithguleoir et him whole, 

And then he ate the pri-iest, and then he ate the priest!
		

		Part of the None collection (#826)
	Code of the Baandari Pedlars
By Semsirr-dar of the Road

Do not listen when Town-Biders call you thief, or charlatan, or dishonorable. Such people are ignorant and insular, and know naught of anything beyond the borders of their township. Dishonorable, sooth! One is not dishonorable if one has a code of behavior that one lives by. And this is so for the Baandari. 

Abide thus by our code, Baandari, or you will be cast out and no longer dwell among us. Those who break the code and become Cast-Cats may be pitied, but they shall not be readmitted among us. For how will the world trust us if we cannot trust ourselves? 

The Baandari Code by which we live consists of both written bylaws and unwritten bylaws. The unwritten bylaws may not be written, for how if written could they be unwritten bylaws? But the written bylaws are as follows:

The Bylaw of Salvage: Sometimes objects are loose and uncontained, being neither in pocket, in drawer, or in hand. Such objects are abandoned and may be lawfully salvaged, for clearly no one cares enough about them to see them properly contained. It is meet and commendable for a Baandari to salvage an object thus abandoned, for a Baandari is thrifty and deplores waste. 

The Bylaw of Prophesy: Frequently Town-Biders offer Baandari payment in return for advice and prophesy regarding events yet to come. In this transaction a client must be told that which would be most pleasing to hear, for it is a serious breach of etiquette to offend a client with words that are unkind or unwanted. To prevent such a breach, it is meet and commendable for a Baandari to spend time with sharp ears in the local inn or tavern so as to ascertain what advice might best please potential local clients. 

The Bylaw of Guarantees: A true Baandari sells only the finest goods and wares, for the Town-Biders wish to purchase only the finest goods and wares. There is no pride like that of a person who has just spent a deal of money upon a fine, new purchase, and a Baandari wants above all things for a client to be proud of having driven a hard bargain and acquired an item of the highest quality. Therefore it is meet and commendable to provide a client with the highest guarantees of an object's provenance, rarity, and desirability. 

Thus the written bylaws of the Baandari Code. These bylaws are in all cases ironclad and incontrovertible—except, of course, when overruled by the unwritten bylaws. Var var var.
		

		Part of the None collection (#827)
	Lives of the Saints
By the Tribunal Temple

If you would be wise, model your lives on the lives of the saints.

If you would learn valor, follow St. Nerevar the Captain, patron of Warriors and Statesmen. Lord Nerevar helped to unite the barbarian Dunmer tribes into a great nation, culminating in his martyrdom when leading the Dunmer to victory against the evil Dwemer and the traitorous House Dagoth in the Battle of Red Mountain.

If you would learn daring, follow Saint Veloth the Pilgrim, Patron of Outcasts and Spiritual Seekers. Saint Veloth, prophet and mystic, led the Dunmer out of the decadent home country of the Summerset Isles and into the promised land of Morrowind. Saint Veloth also taught the difference between the Good and Bad Daedra and won the aid of the Good Daedra for his people while teaching how to carefully negotiate with the Bad Daedra.

If you would learn generosity, follow Saint Rilms the Barefooted, Patron of Pilgrims and Beggars. Saint Rilms gave away her shoes, then dressed and appeared as a beggar to better acquaint herself with the poor.

If you would learn self-respect and respect for others, follow Saint Aralor the Penitent, Patron of Tanners and Miners. This foul criminal repented his sins and traveled a circuit of the great pilgrimages on his knees.

If you would learn mercy and its fruits, follow Saint Seryn the Merciful, Patron of Brewers, Bakers, Distillers. This pure virgin of modest aspect could heal all diseases at the price of taking the disease upon herself. Tough-minded and fearless, she took on the burdens of others and bore those burdens to an honored old age.

If you would learn fierce justice, follow Saint Felms the Bold, Patron of Butchers and Fishmongers. This brave warlord slew the Nord invaders and drove them from our lands. He could neither read nor write, receiving inspiration directly from the lips of Almsivi.

If you would learn the rule of law and justice, follow Saint Olms the Just, Patron of Chandlers and Clerks. Founder of the Ordinators, Saint Olms conceived and articulated the fundamental principles of testing, ordeal, and repentance.

If you would learn benevolence, follow Saint Delyn the Wise, Patron of Potters and Glassmakers. Saint Delyn was head of House Indoril, a skilled lawyer, and author of many learned treatises on Tribunal law and custom.

If you would learn the love of peace, follow Saint Meris the Peacemaker, Patron of Farmers and Laborers. As a little girl, Saint Meris showed healing gifts, and trained as a healer. She ended a long and bloody House War, intervening on the battlefield in her white robe to heal warriors and spellcrafters without regard to faction. The troops of all Houses adopted white robes as her standard and refused to shed the blood of their brethren.

If you would learn reverence, follow Saint Llothis the Pious, Patron of Tailors and Dyers. Contemporary and companion of the Tribunal, and the best-loved Alma Rula of the Tribunal Temple, he formulated the central rituals and principles of the New Temple Faith. Saint Llothis is the symbolic mortal bridge between the gods and the faithful, the archetypal priest.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#828)
	A Hypothetical Treachery, Part 1
by Anthil Morvir

A One Act Play

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 Elden Grove 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 Elden Grove 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#829)
	A Hypothetical Treachery, Part 2
by Anthil Morvir

A One Act Play, Part 2

Dramatis Personae:

Malvasian: A High Elf battlemage

Inzoliah: A Dark Elf battlemage

Some bandits

Scene: Eldenwood

Malvasian and Inzoliah 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 Elden Grove 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 boughs. 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.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#830)
	Notes on Racial Phylogeny
Third Edition

By the Council of Healers, Imperial University

After much analysis of living specimens, the Council long ago determined that all "races" of Elves and Humans may mate with each other and bear fertile offspring. Generally the offspring bear the racial traits of the mother, though some traces of the father's race may also be present. It is less clear whether the Argonians and Khajiit are interfertile with both Humans and Elves. Though there have been many reports throughout the Eras of children from these unions, as well as stories of unions with Daedra, there have been no well documented offspring. Khajiit differ from Humans and Elves not only their skeletal and dermal physiology—the "fur" that covers their bodies—but their metabolism and digestion as well. Argonians, like the dreugh, appear to be a semi-aquatic troglophile form of humans, though it is by no means clear whether the Argonians should be classified with dreugh, men, mer, or (in this author's opinion), certain tree-dwelling lizards in Black Marsh.

The reproductive biology of Orcs is at present not well understood, and the same is true of Goblins, trolls, harpies, dreugh, Tsaesci, Imga, various Daedra and many others. Certainly, there have been cases of intercourse between these "races," generally in the nature of rape or magical seduction, but there have been no documented cases of pregnancy. Still, the interfertility of these creatures and the civilized hominids has yet to be empirically established or refuted, likely due to the deep cultural differences. Surely any normal Bosmer or Breton impregnated by an Orc would keep that shame to herself, and there's no reason to suppose that an Orc maiden impregnated by a human would not be likewise ostracized by her society. Regrettably, our oaths as healers keep us from forcing a coupling to satisfy our scientific knowledge. We do know, however, that the Sload of Thras are hermaphrodites in their youth and later reabsorb their reproductive organs once they are old enough to move about on land. It can be safely assumed that they are not interfertile with men or mer.

One might further wonder whether the proper classification of these same "races," to use the imprecise but useful term, should be made from the assumption of a common heritage and the differences between them have arisen from magical experimentation, the manipulations of the so-called "Earth Bones," or from gradual changes from one generation to the next.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#831)
	Commendation Letter
Captain Duren,

In recognition of your dedicated service with the standing army of the Ebonheart Pact, it is with great pride that I pass along this letter of commendation to your outpost. Your history of diligent and respectful command is exemplary. Reports from the Nord and Argonian members of your unit make it clear you take the mission of the Pact to heart, as well as defending its precepts with your keen mind.

Keep this up, soldier, and you'll be Centurion Duren before this war is over.

For the Pact, and Glory!

— General Vayne Redoran, Vivec City Garrison
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#832)
	Delves-Deeply's Note
Captain Rela:

A reminder.

Keep the crystals away from the arcane cargo. The cargo contains alchemical supplies that behave badly when the two are in proximity. 

I won't be responsible for the death of your mer should they mishandle them.

Stay moist!

Delves-Deeply
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#833)
	Zaban's Letter
Razum-dar,

The usual channels weren't working. Be apprised: the College has been compromised. The headmaster, Tanion, now wears the Veil. Zaban was not sure at first. Now confirmed. 

The Veiled Queen herself eyes this place. Send agents now.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#834)
	Impressions of Northwind Mine
Esteemed Brothers,

Fulfilling the edicts of the Order, Brother Talsnir and I have journeyed to Northwind village. We see no need for an outreach mission to this settlement. While the inhabitants are clearly in need of saving, they express hostility at any attempt at enlightenment.

Mining and the acquisition of worldly goods are these workers' only concerns. Even the overseers think only of accumulating enough gold to abandon this backwater to the less fortunate. Our presence here brings us only curses and blows.

In the morning, barring the unforseen, we will leave in search of more fertile fields for our mission. I will post this missive once we reach something resembling civilization.

Blessings,

Brother Istler
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#835)
	Merien's Incantation
Note to self: My four fondest memories are the new words of power for the table, as of 7 Sun's Dawn.

The Mages Guild.

My wife Amelie. 

My birthplace Camlorn.

My son Tamien.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#836)
	Merien Sellan's Spellbook
Finally made the spell work! I was barking up the wrong tree as far as the shrouding ashes were concerned. Turns out they weren't necessary at all.

So that I don't forget, the formula for Merien's White Mask is as follows:

(Tamien will love this spell! I can't wait to show him.)

First, recite my incantation over the ritual table to begin the spell.

Then place the masking salve in the center of the table. I'll detail that recipe elsewhere, but I made quite a lot of it.

Third, light a candle and place it so it blends the scent of the salve with the candle's smoke.

Finally, when the smoke and scent have blended, place the glass gems. They'll be infused with the aura created by the rest of the spell.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#837)
	Note from Scout Justal
Because some hunting parties can't seem to get their acts together, I'm taking my falcon out, east of the camp, to hunt for some real food. If anyone wants to find me: Don't.  

— Justal
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#838)
	Note from Commander Derre
I'm asleep. If you wake me, the camp better be on fire!

— Commander Derre
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#839)
	Memo from Menoit
I'm taking Gristle out bear hunting in the caves to the north. Do not hesitate to find me if anything comes up. I won't bite your head off, like Justal would.

— Ranger Menoit
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#840)
	The Knighting Ceremony
I completed the research, my lord. We can accomplish what you desire.

The spirits of all noble-born warriors will be bound to their liege lord. This process masks the binding incantation as part of the knighting ceremony. The enchantment in the knight's sword and shield compels the spirit to serve, whether in life or death. With this citadel full of willing thralls, Loriasel will never be overrun.

As per your instructions, my lord, I poisoned every apprentice assisting in the binding incantation's devisement. The secret shall be kept between us alone.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#841)
	The Argonian Mating Ritual
 by Valrendil of the Crystal Tower, Research-Appointee to the Thalmor

I shall endeavor to shed light on these most mysterious creatures, the Argonians, paying particular attention to their mating rituals.

Many speak in whispers of the Hist, a faceless entity with whom all Argonians claim bonds. According to legend, the Hist lives at the heart of Black Marsh in a tree that routinely walks the lands, patrolling its borders.

Some say the wandering Hist is a metaphor for the Argonian condition. Doomed to toil amongst the fetid swamps, they desire a way out of their misery. Somehow the Argonians continue to survive, their numbers neither rising nor falling regardless of adversity.

The lizard-folk view mating as a simple call to procreation by their leader, the Hist. To participate in this annual event, Argonians travel to the town of Hissmir and engage in several trials. The trial winners are allowed to mate, while losers must return the following year.

Though I was unable to observe this year's trials, I hope to attend next year in order to learn more about these strange and sub-Elven reptilians.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#842)
	The Lamia Threat
We spotted lamias skulking about the outskirts of the ruins. This could be the prelude of a concerted attack.

Should they breach our defenses in force, abandon the prisoners and retreat to the designated rally point. Perhaps the poor wretches will buy us enough time to escape.

— Underil
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#843)
	Military Deployment across Auridon
Battlereeve Rolancano,

The following are the current numbers mustered to maintain order during Queen Ayrenn's sojourn through Auridon. As our logistics expert, Battlereeve Urcelmo, asked me to send you the following numbers to ensure we have adequate coverage. We know you are still mourning, but Urcelmo and I both value your judgment in these matters.

Royal Guard: First Auridon Marines

Leader: Battlereeve Urcelmo

Total numbers throughout Auridon:

— 20 officers

— 278 soldiers

Queen Ayrenn's Escort

Leader: Battlereeve Urcelmo

— 4 officers

— 20 soldiers

Civilians:

— High Kinlady Estre

— High Kinlord Rilis

— Prince Naemon

— Advisor Norion

— Steward Eminwe

— Attendents and Retinue (5 persons)

— 15 servants

Notes:

Will resupply at Vulkhel Guard, Skywatch, and Firsthold.

Firsthold: Local Guards

Leader: Guard Captain Viranssare

— 10 officers

— 50 soldiers

Civilians:

— 100 

Skywatch: Local Guards

Leader: Guard Captain Torinn

— 8 officers

— 45 soldiers

Civilians:

— 80

Vulkhel Watch: Local Guards

Leader: Watch Captain Astanya

— 4 officers

— 29 soldiers

Civilians:

— 50

In all cases, should security not be enough, we can use reinforcements from the Fighters Guild. Though they're neutral in the Alliance War, they still accept contracts to bodyguard. Each city has an adequate Guildhall. There is potential use for the Mages Guild as well should numbers still be low. It's always good to have spellslingers at our backs. 

Signed,

Battlemage Sinien
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#844)
	Yngrel's To Do List
This is your last chance, Yngrel. I NEED a fur coat! No excuses this time. Get your lazy butt over to the Hollow, find an animal to kill (lots if they're small), and bring the skin back. Something white would be nice, just don't get it dirty!

Your loving wife,

Mervilda
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#845)
	Vim's Diary
Dear Diary,

It's been a while since the last time I wrote, but it's not like a lot happens around here. Sure, the villagers say that their friends and family members have gone missing, but my father says they probably just left to avoid the plague. Oh, right, and then there's the Llodos plague, but I'm not too worried about that, either. My father's the House Minister! He won't let anyone that's part of House Hlaalu get sick, especially not his darling daughter. (That's me!)

I saw a recruiting pamphlet for the Maulborn today. They were distributing them outside the gates of town. They say they're here to help, but I think there's something creepy about them. And I certainly don't like the outfits they make all their members wear. It's like they're some kind of an army or something. Still, there were a couple of cute-looking members wandering around down by the lake. I wonder what they like to do for fun when they're not saving the world? Maybe I'll sneak down there one night and take a look.

There's a stranger in town. Finally, someone interesting to talk to! I can't wait to talk to the stranger. Hear about news from distant lands, listen to stories of thrilling adventures and forbidden romance. Maybe my father will let me invite the stranger over for dinner. That would be exciting! But it would be more exciting if we could go somewhere quiet, just the two of us. I need to think about that. I'm sure I can work out a way to make that happen.

I'll tell you all about it next time, Diary!

— Vim Hlaalu
		

Failed at /books/846		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#847)
	Hjurring's Last Seed Journal
10th of Last Seed - No interments. No visitors.

11th of Last Seed - One interment. No visitors.

12th of Last Seed - No interments. No visitors.

13th of Last Seed - One interment. No visitors.

14th of Last Seed - Two interments. No visitors.

15th of Last Seed - Four interments. No visitors.

16th of Last Seed - Eight interments. No visitors. Requested funds to expand crypts. 

17th of Last Seed - One interment. No visitors. 

18th of Last Seed - No interments. No visitors. Workers expanding crypts discover unmapped ice caves. Entrance boarded up until proper exploration expedition can be arranged. Not holding my breath.

19th of Last Seed - No interments. No visitors.

20th of Last Seed - No interments. One visitor. One incident.

21st of Last Seed - One interment (visitor from yesterday.) No visitors.

22nd of Last Seed - No interments. No visitors.

This is stupid. Enough. I'm not keeping a journal any more.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#848)
	Sacred Places
by Goes-Here-and-There

My mother whispered this verse to me in the days when we lived amongst the Dark Elves against our will:

"Hidden from view

Touched not by dew

Sacred places wait."

We Argonians have so little from the time before the Dunmer came. Stone relics, crumbling xanmeers, and an instinctive trust in the Hist. Since our return to Black Marsh, I've searched for these sacred places, hoping to recover more of our valuable past.

I brought my mother to Stormhold, where she hatched so long ago. She breathed the heavy air in delight, knowing she would return to the Hist of her parents. As her life slipped away, I stayed beside her.

"Do you remember that song?" I asked, when it was clear she would join our ancestors by nightfall. "Hidden from view …?"

"Yes," she said, her voice weak. "My mother sang it to me too. You will find it, my daughter. Even you."

"Even me?"

"Even one who would find and sell our past for profit," she rasped accusingly. I looked away, but she continued, "The Hist is our treasure, and it can be neither bought nor sold."

The meaning struck me then, and I was at once angry and ashamed.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#849)
	Dragon Skull Parchment
Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah, tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein.

Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#850)
	Hlaki's Journal
It is nearly done. Lodorr is sealed in his tomb. One task remains. I must prepare a cursed ward that will cause the dead to rise if the prison is ever breached. 

I've ordered the tunnels sealed behind me. This shall become my tomb, as well.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#851)
	An Ancient Scroll
Three years to track down the betrayer. 

Two years to bring him down.

Four years to build his prison.

Eternity to guard his cell.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#852)
	Reynir the Destroyer
Those who would brave the crypts beneath Windhelm, be warned.

Herein dwells the draugr remnants of the great warrior Reynir of Saarthal, who claimed to have survived the Night of Tears, and sailed to Mereth with the Five Hundred Companions on the ship commanded by Ylgar, son of Ysgramor. 

The draugr retains some semblance of Reynir's intellect, but his humanity has been subsumed by the madness of undying. The creature that remains is no proud Nord. He is an undead abomination who delights in the suffering of others. 

He knows only hate and vengeance. Do not disturb his slumber.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#853)
	A Child's Play
Excerpt from an unofficial biography of the Green Lady, Gwaering.

Where she stepped, a circle of flowers grew, filling the outline of her footsteps. Sometimes, she walked backwards to watch the green tendrils unfurl, their tips blossoming into pale blue, yellow, or red.

"Stop that," Nautte said crossly. "Don't waste your energy on such trifles."

Gwaering paused in mid-stride, her head tilted to one side.

"It costs me nothing to think of flowers," she replied. And she stepped carefully again, defiantly creating one more circle.

"Your aunt foretold a great future for you," said her mother severely. "But all I foresee is a good whipping!"

With a laugh, Gwaering danced toward her mother and kissed her repentantly. Then she caught sight of Ulthorn peering through the window, and forgot all else.

"May I play with Ulthorn?"

"Go, child."

Gwaering was gone almost before the words left her mother's lips. With a sigh, Nautte added softly, "Play while you still can."
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#854)
	Speech Notes
All hail the Lady of the Twilight!

To the glory of Her name, we have been granted the task of establishing a new shrine in this place. Faldar's Tooth will become a beacon of despair for unbelievers!

We will rebuild these ruined towers as a memorial to Her glory. To work, all!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#855)
	Slashed and Blood-Stained Note
… show her. "Coward," she names me, when all … ever! I will … haunted cave and … return! My triu— … win her love. Or my death will … bitterness.

If I die … please … Amwyn … always!

— Aklief
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#856)
	Wanted: The Chief
Wanted — Dead!

The bandit referring to himself as "The Chief."

Wanted for crimes against the people of the Ebonheart Pact, including:

— Murder

— Robbery

— Livestock Violations

— Insolence to Noblewomen

Reward offered for the head (body optional) of "The Chief." 

Bring to nearest Pact official.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#857)
	Sealed Orders (opened)
Sentinel Brendar:

Proceed to Shroud Hearth with your patrol. Breach the barrow doors and slaughter all you find inside. The draugr must not be allowed to establish a foothold within our district!

Report back to me when you have accomplished your mission.

— Overcommander Gekurek
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#858)
	Dwarven Ruin Explorer's Journal
… with some success. Beem-Tei discovered the hidden entrance to the Dwemer underworks; may her spirit find repose in the waters of Black Marsh. The automatons guard their masters' secrets well.

The spider and sphere guardians swarmed over us, killing Beem-Tei and Reekatul before we fought them off. The outer chamber was ours, for a time. The central heating plant and other machinery were fascinating but Ukka-Malz insisted we press farther in, searching for relics we could remove.

The inner chamber was our undoing. Spheres and spiders were the least of our worries. Our intrusion awakened a Dwemer Centurion. Ukka-Malz and the others died under its relentless assault. Only I lived to reach the exit.

But I cannot get out. The doors are locked by an unseen mechanism. Our food and water are back in the outer chamber. I'll venture there only if desperate. Perhaps other researchers will open the doors before I reach that point.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#859)
	The Strange Case of Ja-Reet
It is very rare for one of our people to be born away from the Hist. We are, in a very real way, part of the Hist. To be born away from it is to be born without something essential. For most of my life and service as a healer, this has remained a theoretical issue. That is, until Ja-Reet.

Though born in slavery, he's done well since the Pact and our emancipation. He even married a Dunmer—the daughter of the Narsis family who owned his parents. While I view such a union with personal distaste, it speaks well of his ability to interact in society despite his obvious disadvantage.

Make no mistake, in Argonian society, he is disadvantaged. He's unable to read social clues, the subtle movements of muscle and tail that most of us take for granted. We occasionally have difficulty reading the emotions of other races. Ja-Reet has that problem even with fellow Argonians. He listens to spoken words, and is insensitive to their tone. Surely being born away from the Hist has deprived him of emotional intuition.

He brought his Elven wife with him to Percolating Mire. She's not welcomed by all, though she draws him out socially, which has been invaluable in trying to learn about how he thinks.

Perhaps proximity to a thriving Hist tree will help Ja-Reet gain the intuition the rest of us take for granted.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#860)
	An Invitation to Wealth
Many have spoken of the Ebonheart Pact as a force for peace between our peoples. A force for war against the Aldmeri Dominion, the Daggerfall Covenant, and other such upstart powers.

Today, I ask you to think of the Ebonheart Pact as a force for wealth!

Until now, Black Marsh has remained largely closed to trade, other than that in Argonian slaves. The inhabitants have never been willing to deal with their enemies. However, Shadowfen is slightly more developed than the rest of the Marsh, and it is Shadowfen that is the gateway to riches!

For only a small commission, I can take your goods to Shadowfen and sell them to the Argonians. They are a people with relatively few fine goods, yet they are no duller or less covetous than your Dunmeri customers. The Argonians will be lining up for our silks and steels. The potential demand is almost impossible to calculate.

Give me your goods today, and I will bring you gold tomorrow!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#861)
	Prayer of the Resolute
Blessed be the name of Stendarr, the God of Mercy. 

He strengthens and unifies his Resolutes through his wisdom and blessings.

He calls us by day to train with sword and shield to strengthen our might; and by night to pray in his name to strengthen our souls.

He takes pity upon us, his humble servants, and grants unto us mercy. 

His holy light of truth will cast out the forces of darkness and rain justice upon Daedric abominations.

Glory shall be his, forever.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#862)
	Journal, Day 12
I am beginning to think that this endeavor was folly. We have been studying the object for twelve days and I have seen none of the cult's promises come to fruition. The dark priests have assured me that their rituals will bear fruit if we remain vigilant in our prayers to the dark one. I try to remain faithful, but my doubts increase.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#863)
	Journal, Day 26
I haven't eaten solid food for three days. It is the penance I offer the Dark One for my lack of faith. I should've never revealed my doubts to Reggr. He went right to Vila. I'm surprised Vila didn't kill me outright for my insolence and blasphemy. Others in our group have not been so lucky. They tried to hide the bodies, but I saw them. Every one appears to have died screaming.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#864)
	Journal, Day 32
An intruder arrived today, a priest from a cult of Stendarr worshipers. I am sure more of his kind will arrive when he doesn't return. We bound him and fed him to the spiders. How he thrashed and screamed as they devoured his living flesh! There was a terrible kind of beauty to it—I couldn't look away. The power to control such beasts is enticing. I have vowed to redouble my faith so that one day, the beasts will obey my commands.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#865)
	Journal, Day 40
Oh blessed, glorious day. My faith is absolute. I walk among the chosen, and soon I will be one with the shadows. All of Tamriel will tremble before my power. All praise be to Mephala!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#866)
	Letter Home
Dear Mother,

Tomorrow we land at Murkwater. I'm nervous … sure, I've trained. But this is our first engagement on foreign soil. Well, foreign mud.

The soldiers I'm with are a motley band. We Altmer are disciplined and respect the chain of command. But the Renrijra and the Oathbreakers are another story.

The Renrijra are Khajiiti privateers. They're very relaxed. No drilling, no inspections … but if you make one mad, she fights like one fierce bastard. They're good to spend some downtime with, as we did up the coast while we were waiting for the Bosmer. Don't worry, I didn't try any moon sugar.

Everybody always says the Oathbreakers are Bosmer barbarians. (Except for Captain Pamolwen. Privileges of rank, I guess.) They eat vegetables, carve wood, all of that. You'd think without primitive traditions, they'd be happy, but they're a grim bunch. They and the Khajiit avoid each other.

I tried their meat alcohol, since we weren't allowed to bring any wine of our own. The "rotmeth" was nasty at first, but you get used to it.

How will we hold together when we actually land? These Argonians are civilians, but there'll be a lot of them. Shadowfen seems alien and dangerous. Some of the animals, you'd think came from Morrowind. Those who live with such creatures must be pretty tough. Glad we're starting with a soft target.

Give my love to the cousins.

Your devoted son,

Filpinil
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#867)
	The Obsidian Husk
The origin of the artifact known as the Obsidian Husk is shrouded in mystery. Some believe it to be a fragment of Oblivion, having followed a visiting Daedra from that plane. Others believe it to be magical in nature, containing a trapped shred of Mephala's essence. Whatever its origin, its powers are formidable.

The Husk has two known functions discovered and passed down by members of the Spider Cult, which I have recorded below. Additional spells may be tied to the artifact, but the Husk never stays in the possession of a single individual for long. Members of Mephala's Cult have been known to scheme and battle over it.

It can create and control all manor of shades from minor shadowlings to creatures of complexity and aberrant intellect (and untold power).

The most powerful Spider Cultists have found that they can use the Husk to enchant others. The afflicted are shrouded in shadow, and granted supernatural agility and strength, but lose their minds — these "shades" follow the beck and call of the Obsidian Husk's master.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#868)
	Journal of Tsona-Ei, Part Four
Part Four

I remember thinking, as we slid into the massive whirlpool, that my mates and I would never see Alten Corimont again. I was right, but not in the way I thought. The truth was even worse.

As we were sucked into the pulsing blue light beneath the maelstrom, I felt water rush over my scales. Before the sea could consume me, a gale of cold wind exploded from below. We were no longer sinking—we were falling! As I clung to the deck, I saw that the whirling wall of water had been replaced by a dark, haunted sky and an infinite expanse of cold, dead earth. And it was rushing to meet us as we fell.

I blacked out, waking up some time later on the deck. I remember seeing the Captain talking to what appeared to be a great beast. I remember the beast handing the Captain something and then I blacked out again.

When I awoke, I was transformed. My scales and skin were gone—I was nought but bones. The Captain was now the Admiral, and whatever he commanded we could not refuse. More ships fell from the sky, and our Lost Fleet grew. We put the Era back together, dug tunnels, and constructed a town from the wreckage of the other ships, all at the Admiral's command.

We hate him, but we cannot disobey him. It's that crown he wears. I pray that one day someone who can resist the Admiral finds this journal. This journal, and the key I have hidden within its pages.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#869)
	The Ancient Eye
I've studied the Eye for something like half my life. We know what it does. Its a defensive weapon of incredible power.

We know how the magical crystals fit into the sconces. They glow brightly when properly slotted.

What we don't know is how it works. Scholars from far and wide have come to our town, examined the magical interlacing, and gone away shaking their heads. Where does the device store its energy? How does it focus that beam? What coalesces the fire?

Truly the ancients were head and shoulders above the abilities of modern sages.

— Fiirenir of the Mages Guild
		

Failed at /books/870		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#871)
	Captain Parondo's Log Entry
Herculoa, next time we're in a tavern we must speak of the Dominion's cowardice. Taking Greenwater was even easier than we'd planned. Our agent performed admirably. They never had the chance to activate the beam.

Now, they never will.

— Captain Parondo
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#872)
	Warning Sign
Ye Who Would Enter—Beware!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#873)
	Urcelmo's Supplemental Orders
The cemetery southest of Phaer has long been a problem. We've had reports people have been abducted from the nearby road. Investigate. Eliminate the threat, and do justice to the Dominion.

I look forward to your complete report on this matter.

Battlereeve Urcelmo, Commanding.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#874)
	Notes on the Order Skeevera
A Student's Journal

14 First Seed

As I approach the end of my studies at the University, I am setting out to research the native wildlife in the surrounding lands. I have decided to focus mainly on the taxonomic order Skeevera, a much neglected area of study. It is also a far safer endeavor than more popular subjects such as giant insects or trolls. By avoiding such risks, I will be able to travel farther at less expense, eliminating the need for hired mercenaries.

16 First Seed

My journey officially began today. As I made my way to the city walls, I took the opportunity to observe many of the rats that infest the sewers and trash heaps. Often overlooked in daily life, they really are quite a presence in the city. Living amongst and feeding on our waste, the common rat is quite at home in even the most inhospitable climates. Disease often follows it closely, making the rat one of the scourges of any major settlement.

21 First Seed

Immediately outside the city limits I began to see a wider variety of wildlife. The most common specimen of Skeevera found outside of a town is the rabbit. The rabbit commonly inhabits meadows and forests. It hides from its many predators in underground warrens. One may occasionally see a rabbit as a pet, but it is far more common to find one in a pie or a stew.

Today is Hogithum, a fact I had forgotten until I almost stumbled upon two Dunmeri priests performing their annual ritual in the forest. I felt it wiser to avoid them, and quietly slipped away before I was noticed.

7 Rain's Hand

It has been raining for two weeks now. Impossible to stay dry. I have been able to keep a fire burning only because of my rudimentary magic lessons at the University. The downpour has been too heavy to observe any wildlife. Even the wolves are hiding.

As interesting as the smaller creatures are, I long for something more … exciting. When the rain finally lets up I may choose to continue my studies elsewhere.

12 Rain's Hand

Finally, a break in the clouds!

14 Rain's Hand

I have located a wild skeever nest and have begun my observations. Like their rat cousins, skeevers often carry disease. However, the skeever is a major food source for many larger predators. Giant spiders will always have a few hanging in their webs. It is not uncommon to even find a skeever cooking over a camp fire.

Tomorrow I will attempt to capture a skeever for closer observation and dissection. One skeever should give me no trouble.

15 Rain's Hand

Today I attempted to catch one of the skeevers. The nest of creatures caught my scent before I got close enough to grab one. I got away but these bite wounds look like they might be getting infected. Perhaps traveling alone was not the wisest of decisions.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#875)
	Daedra Worship: The Ayleids
By Phrastus of Elinhir

The reasons why the Daedra are reviled and their worship forbidden among all the civilized races of Tamriel are well understood, and as this series of papers will show, are grounded in historical events. The opinions of the so-called academic who styles herself "Lady Cinnabar" notwithstanding, the evidence supporting my assertions is incontrovertible and generally accepted by all accredited scholars of antiquity.

The Aldmeri, who'd been first to begin organized worship of the Aedra, were also the first to venerate the Daedra Lords. This probably began on a small scale among the Ayleids, those Elves who left the Summerset Isles to create splinter cultures in central and southwest Tamriel—in some cases specifically to evade the strictures of Aldmeri regulation, which forbade (among many other things) the worship of Daedra. 

As Ayleid culture flourished, drawing ever further from Alinor, in the last millennium of the Merethic Era Daedric worship took hold and spread among the Heartland High Elves. The Aedra were still widely revered, with probably a majority of the Ayleids continuing to pay them homage, but cults devoted to the various Daedric Princes sprang up across Cyrodiil, tolerated and then celebrated. Unlike the Chimer, the Ayleids made no distinction between "good and bad" Daedra—indeed, even some of the more heinous Princes received mass veneration, especially when their worship was adopted and endorsed by Ayleid kings and aristocrats. 

Widespread Daedra worship among the Heartland Elves was particularly ill news for the tribes of Nedic humans who were then arriving in Tamriel. The Ayleids enslaved the immigrant tribes of Men, at first occasionally but then systematically, and the Nedic people found themselves subject to masters who, in many cases, worshiped the Princes—including those who encouraged slavery, domination, and cruelty. Under the Ayleids, the human thralls found themselves the subjects of such Daedra-inspired "arts" as flesh-sculpture and gut-gardening. In fact, the revulsion for Daedra-worship that pervades most human cultures in Tamriel probably originated in this period.

The Alessian slave-revolt of the early First Era was largely fueled by desperate rage against the Ayleids' Daedra-inspired cruelty. The Ayleid kings who aligned themselves with the rebellion were largely Aedra-worshipers, which in part explains why, once the Ayleids were overthrown, Queen Alessia incorporated the leading Elven Aedra into the First Empire's worship of the Eight Divines. Her new Empire of Cyrodiil outlawed the worship of the Daedric Princes, and Daedra-worshiping Ayleids were exterminated wherever they were found.

Thus, by the middle of the First Era, large-scale Daedra-worship was extinct in central Tamriel, surviving only among the Chimer in the northeast of the continent, and among the Orcs (ever a pariah people) who worshiped Malacath (or Mauloch) as their god-ancestor. Elsewhere, among Men, Mer, and Beast-Peoples, Daedra-worship survived only at the level of cults which were more-or-less forbidden. Lady Cinnabar's assertions to the contrary are so much horsewash.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#876)
	Persistence of Daedric Veneration
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

If you believed what that old goat Phrastus of Elinhir writes in what he's pleased to call his "Histories," you'd think that modern society's bias against reverence for the Daedric Princes was rooted in some kind of instinctive revulsion against the Lords of Oblivion, an abhorrence based on events of unspeakable cruelty that took place thousands of years ago. 

This is absurd on the face of it. Ask the peasant in his field, the cobbler in his shop, or the solicitor in his office if he fears the Daedra Lords because of the ancient practices of the Wild Elves, and all you'll get will be a blank look. The peasant, cobbler, and solicitor only fear Daedra and Daedra-worship because they've been told to by established religion and academia, and because their neighbors believe the same thing. 

So, Phrastus, Daedra worship survives in Tamriel only at the level of forbidden cults? On the contrary, it's easy to show that veneration for Daedra is widespread and widely accepted among the folk of Tamriel, despite the desires and opinions of priests and professors. Ask the hunter why he mutters a prayer to Hircine as he draws his bow. Ask the gardener why she asks Mephala to spare her vines from slugs and worms. Ask the guardsman why he invokes the valor of Boethiah as he draws his sword. And one doesn't have to look hard to find worshipers of Sanguine during Carnaval, or Hermaeus Mora among scholars at any time. 

What of the Ashlanders of Morrowind, who still venerate the so-called Good Daedra? What of the Spirit Wardens of Menevia, who follow Azura? What of the Jovial Lambasters of Rimmen, who celebrate Clavicus Vile? 

What, indeed, of the Khajiit of the southern realms? Rather than abjure the Oblivion Lords, the Cat-folk of Elsweyr venerate them openly, scarcely drawing a distinction between Aedra and Daedra. The Khajiit recognize the benevolent aspects of the Princes, offering them respect at a minimum, and often admiration. Azurah is a popular object of worship for Khajiiti magicians, Sheggorath appeals to the feline taste for wild mischief, and the souls of the dead are placed in the charge of Namiira. 

Yet Phrastus would have you believe every mortal in Tamriel cringes in horror at the mention of Daedra, and mocks my own work when I show him up for the charlatan he is. Or can we explain his petty hostility in another way? Wasn't it Phrastus himself who approached me at the Dragonstar Conclave of Antiquarian Scholars, Phrastus who pointed out it was the 16th of Sun's Dawn, Phrastus who suggested we meet later that evening to "appropriately celebrate Sanguine's summoning day"? I believe he took it rather personally when I refused his smarmy advances, for it was shortly thereafter that his unwarranted criticism of my work began to appear in the journals. Hmm. Yes, perhaps therein lies the explanation.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#877)
	Daedra Worship: The Chimer
By Phrastus of Elinhir

The history of Daedra worship by the Elves once known as the Chimer provides a valuable object lesson in the dangers of traffic with the so-called Lords of Oblivion. It's a tale of peril that modern-day apologists for Daedric worship, such as Lady Cinnabar, would do well to heed. 

Let's begin with a few facts that not even the Shrew of Taneth could deny. The Aedra (the Gods, the Divines) created Nirn out of the chaos of Oblivion. They assumed physical form within the mortal plane—the Mundus—and according to Elven myth were the direct ancestors of the Aldmeri. The Aedra were the natural objects of holy reverence for the Elves of the Dawn Era, and the first organized religions venerated these Divines. 

However, after Nirn was born the Aedra withdrew from their creation, becoming distant, aloof, and disinterested in the affairs of mortals. But beyond the Mundus, in the infinite variation of Oblivion, there were other godlike entities of great power known as the Daedra (literally the "not-Aedra"), who began to take a malign interest in the realm the Aedra had created. Some of the more powerful of these entities, the so-called Daedric Princes, who ruled entire Oblivion planes of their own, were nonetheless jealous of the mortals of Nirn—for they had inherited the Aedric capacity of creation. This ability was beyond the Daedra who, though masters of change and metamorphosis, create nothing new that has not been before. 

However, one quality the Daedric Princes shared with the young mortals of Nirn was a lust for power in all its forms. This corrupting desire is the foundation of all mortal worship of the Daedra: the Princes offer power in return for service and worship. Most often this power comes in the form of knowledge, the most seductive and least perilous-seeming of the Daedric temptations.

To show how seductive this temptation can be, reflect upon the early Aldmer of Summerset. Though in their arrogance they considered themselves the lineal descendants of the Aedra, nonetheless the first large-scale religious sect espousing Daedra-worship was born in the heart of Summerset itself. There, in the rainbow shadow of the Crystal Tower, the so-called Prophet Veloth communed with the Daedric Prince Boethiah and agreed to accept her gifts. He inscribed the Velothi Prophecies, which expounded the doctrine of worship of the "Good Daedra" (Boethiah, Azura, and Mephala), along with ways to propitiate and negotiate with the "Bad Daedra" (Molag Bal, Malacath, Sheogorath, and Mehrunes Dagon). 

To the more foolish of the Summerset Aldmeri, the arts and skills the Good Daedra offered to teach them seemed more useful than the maxims and platitudes of the priests of the Aedra, and a number of Elven clans accepted Veloth as their prophet and guide. When the Sapiarchs of Alinor rightfully prohibited this schism, Veloth led the clans loyal to him out of the Isles and across the seas to the far side of Tamriel, where they colonized the domain now known as Morrowind. The followers of Saint Veloth, who became known as the Chimer, were willing to trade the paradise of golden Summerset for the purgatory of ashen Morrowind, all in return for the illusory "gifts" of the Daedra. The Chimer built mighty temples to Boethiah, Azura, and Mephala, and established the traditions of worship in Morrowind that were later co-opted by the Tribunal. 

As even the beginning student of history knows, this large-scale dabbling with Daedra led inevitably to warfare and catastrophe. Chimer civilization fell at the Battle of Red Mountain, and the curse of Azura, their erstwhile mistress, transformed the brilliant Chimer into the sullen and haunted Dunmer. After that time Morrowind, under the Tribunal, turned its back on worship of the Daedra — but by then the damage had been done.

Today, the Daedra are feared and abhorred across the length and breadth of Tamriel — and rightly so. Yet, despite the clear lessons of history, some misguided souls still insist that traffic with Daedra Lords can be tolerated, even accepted. To those such as you, Lady Cinnabar, I say: beware. What pact with the Daedra ever ended well?
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#878)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 4
On His Deeds

(Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

(Pelinal) drove the sorcerer armies past the Niben, claiming all the eastern lands for the rebellion of the Paravania, and Kyne had to send her rain to wash the blood from the villages and forts that no longer flew Ayleid banners, for the armies of Men needed to make camps of them as they went forward. …(and) he broke the doors open for the prisoners of the Vahtache with the Slave-Queen flying on Morihaus above them, and Men called her Al-Esh for the first time. He entered the Gate at … to win back the hands of the Thousand-Strong of Sedor (a tribe now unknown but famous in those days), which the Ayleids had stolen in the night, two thousand hands that he brought back in a wagon made of demon-bone, whose wheels trailed the sound of women when ill at heart… (Text lost)… (And after) the first Pogrom, which consolidated the northern holdings for the men-of-'kreath, he stood with white hair gone brown with Elfblood at the Bridge of Heldon, where Perrif's falconers had sent for the Nords, and they, looking at him, said that Shor had returned, but he spat at their feet for profaning that name. He led them anyway into the heart of the hinterland west, to drive the Ayleids inward, towards the Tower of White-Gold, a slow retreating circle that could not understand the power of Man's sudden liberty, and what fury-idea that brought. His mace crushed the Thundernachs that Umaril sent as harriers on the rebellion's long march back south and east, and carried Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne to Zuathas the Clever-Cutting Man (a Nede with a Keptu name) for healing when the bull had fallen to a volley of bird beaks. And, of course, at the Council of Skiffs, where all of the Paravania's armies and all of the Nords shook with fear at the storming of White-Gold, so much so that the Al-Esh herself counseled delay, Pelinal grew furious, and made names of Umaril, and made names of what cowards he thought he saw around him, and then made for the Tower by himself, for Pelinal often acted without thought.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#879)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 5
On His Love of Morihaus

(Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

It is a solid truth that Morihaus was the son of Kyne, but whether or not Pelinal was indeed the Shezarrene is best left unsaid (for once Plontinu, who favored the short sword, said it, and that night he was smothered by moths). It is famous, though, that the two talked of each other as family, with Morihaus as the lesser, and that Pelinal loved him and called him nephew, but these could be merely the fancies of immortals. Never did Pelinal counsel Morihaus in time of war, for the man-bull fought magnificently, and led men well, and never resorted to Madness, but the Whitestrake did warn against the growing love with Perrif. "We are ada, Mor, and change things through love. We must take care lest we beget more monsters on this earth. If you do not desist, she will take to you, and you will transform all Cyrod if you do this." And to this the bull became shy, for he was a bull, and he felt his form too ugly for the Paravania at all times, especially when she disrobed for him. He snorted, though, and shook his nose-hoop into the light of the Secunda moon and said, "She is like this shine on my nose-hoop here: an accident sometimes, but whenever I move my head at night, she is there. And so you know what you ask is impossible."
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#880)
	Effects of the Elder Scrolls
by Justinius Poluhnius

It is widely known among scholars that the Elder Scrolls entail a certain hazard in their very reading. The mechanism of the effects has, at present, been largely unknown—theories of hidden knowledge and divine retribution were the subject of idle speculation with little investigation.

I, Justinius Poluhnius, have undertaken to thoroughly document the ailments inflicted by the Elder Scrolls on their readers, though a unified theory of how they manifest continues to elude me and remains a subject for future study.

I have grouped the effects into four, finding that the avenue of experience depends largely upon the mind of the reader. If this is unclear, I hope that a proper dichotomy will lay it plain.

Group the First: The Naifs

For one who has received no training in the history or nature of the Elder Scrolls, the scroll itself is, effectively, inert. No prophecy can be scryed nor knowledge obtained. While the scroll will not impart learning to the uninformed, neither will it afflict them in any adverse fashion. Visually, the scroll will appear to be awash in odd lettering and symbols. Those who know their astronomy often claim to recognize constellations in the patterns and connections, but such conjecture is impossible to further investigate since the very nature of this study necessitates unlearned subjects.

Group the Second: The Unguarded Intellects

It is this second group that realizes the greatest danger from attempting to read the scrolls. These are subjects who have an understanding of the nature of the Elder Scrolls and possess sufficient knowledge to actually read what is inscribed there. They have not, however, developed adequate discipline to stave off the mind-shattering effect of having a glimpse of infinity. These unfortunate souls are struck immediately, irrevocably, and completely blind. Such is the price for overreaching one's faculties. It bears mentioning, though, that with the blindness also comes a fragment of that hidden knowledge—whether the future, the past, or the deep natures of being is dependent on the individual and their place in the greater spheres. But the knowledge does come.

Group the Third: Mediated Understanding

Alone in Tamriel, it would appear that only the Cult of the Ancestor Moth has discovered the discipline to properly guard one's mind when reading the scrolls. Their novitiates must undergo the most rigorous mental cultivation, and they often spend a decade or more at the monastery before being allowed to read their first Elder Scroll. The monks say this is for the initiates' own protection, as they must have witnessed many Unguarded Intellects among their more eager ranks. With appropriate fortitude, these readers also receive blindness, though at a far lesser magnitude than the Unguarded. Their vision fogs slightly, but they retain shape, color, and enough acuity to continue to read mundane texts. The knowledge they gain from the scroll is also tempered somewhat—it requires stages of meditation and reflection to fully appreciate and express what one saw.

Group the Fourth: Illuminated Understanding

Between the previous group and this one exists a continuum that has, at present, only been traversed by the monks of the Ancestor Moth. With continued readings the monks become gradually more and more blind, but receive greater and more detailed knowledge. As they spend their waking hours pondering the revelations, they also receive a further degree of mental fortitude. There is, for every monk, a day of Penultimate Reading, when the only knowledge the Elder Scroll imparts is that the monk's next reading shall be his last.

For each monk the Penultimate Reading comes at a different and unknowable time—preliminary work has been done to predict the occurrence by charting the severity of an individual monk's blindness, but all who reach these later stages report that the increasing blindness seems to taper with increased readings. Some pose the notion that some other, unseen, sense is, in fact, continuing to diminish at this upper range, but I shall leave such postulations to philosophers.

To prepare for his Ultimate Reading, a monk typically withdraws to seclusion in order to reflect upon a lifetime of revelations and appoint his mind for reception of his last. Upon this final reading, he is forever blinded as surely as those Unguarded ones who raced to knowledge. The Illuminated one, though, has retained his understanding over a lifetime and typically possesses a more integral notion of what has been revealed to him.

It is hoped that this catalog will prove useful to those who wish to further our mortal understanding of the Elder Scrolls. The Moth priests remain aloof about these matters, taking the gradual debilitation that comes with reading as a point of pride. May this serve as a useful starting point for those hoping to take up such study.

Dictated to Anstius Metchim, 4th of Last Seed in the 126th year of the Second Era
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#881)
	Missive to Alchemist
Special delivery today: live prisoners. We caught five Pact scouts on patrol. Two escaped. Interrogate them to find out where their base is located. Use any means necessary, and silence them permanently once you've retrieved the information.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#882)
	Giant Warning
Keep out! 

The Giant is only dangerous if you disturb it. We do not want a repeat of the Fire Festival fiasco.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#883)
	No Admittance â This Means You
The Giant's Crush is off limits!  The giant is extremely dangerous when disturbed. Remember what happened to Sergeant Gorack, who thought it would be good fun to taunt the giant's mammoths? Soldiers without arms aren't much use.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#884)
	No Passing Through Here
Do not use the Giant's Crush as a shortcut. I'm tired of writing letters to families explaining how their loved ones were careless enough to get their head smashed in by a giant. Just walk around the mountain. We can all use the exercise.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#885)
	Missing Citizens
Almion and Elannie—Father and daughter, first house on the right.

Mirkalinde—Single woman, middle of town.

Pirtar—Young man, far end of town.

Linormo—Old mer, first house on the left.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#886)
	Concerning Garick
Dear Lord and Lady Gorack,

It is with great regret that I inform you of your son's death. Rest assured that he died valiantly and bravely, facing down the enemy in single-handed combat. He did not suffer.

For the Covenant, 

Sergeant Samis of the Lion Guard
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#887)
	Bridge Guard's Complaint
Commander Derre must be losing his mind. We're on the outskirts of a secret fortress in the middle of the mountains, and he has us guarding a bridge inside the perimeter? Does he think someone is going to attack us from our own line? 

The worst enemy we have out here is boredom. Sometimes I wish we would get attacked. At least it would give us something to do.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#888)
	Into the Lion's Den
The valley known as "The Lion's Den" was so named because it historically served as a breeding ground for mountain lions. The Nedic peoples of the late Merethic era hunted this population for its furs, but modern inhabitants of the Rift tend to stay clear of the area, finding it easier and safer to harvest the skins and furs of domesticated livestock.

The local populace undoubtedly began to avoid the Lion's Den early in the Second Era, when a small tribe of giants took up residence in the nearby mountains. These giants have been characterized by locals as angry hermits, and have been known to attack trespassers on sight. For this reason the entrance to the valley was walled off, preventing anyone from accidentally wandering into the area.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#889)
	If You Can Read This, Open It
I placed a spell of protection on this note, making it invisible to Daedra. If you're reading this, you're not a Daedra, so I can probably trust you. I hope it is you, Clarisse, or that promising young Raynor. I dread to imagine that you are both still trapped in this terrible place.

The magic here is strong. Stronger even than mine. I wouldn't have believed myself so susceptible to simple illusions. Drastic measures must be taken. I discovered a vault in the lower levels. I plan to lock myself within, hopefully remaining clear-headed long enough to work out a plan of escape.

Find me in the vault. Then we can escape together.

—Telenger
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#890)
	Note to Lt. Stenric
Chin up, Lieutenant Stenric. I know it's been a long and hard few months, but your vigilance will pay off. Once the invasion begins, we will be able to charge down the mountains and take the enemy completely by surprise. You will be a part of history. And all you need do is hold out a bit longer. Glory is within your reach.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#891)
	Daggerfall Market Shopping List
Grocer—three blood oranges

Tailor—crescent-emblem cloak

Florist—black roses with thorns
		

Failed at /books/892Failed at /books/893Failed at /books/894Failed at /books/895		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#896)
	The Direfrost Flame
The Direfrost Flame and the Torch of Heirs

By Thorvild Direfrost

I will always be able to speak to my son through the Torch and Flame, but when he passes, it is he who will be summoned when the Flame is lit. I write this for the benefit of all my descendants, then, who will inherit the Direfrost Flame and the Torch of Heirs in ages to come. I write this because I have seen our resolve weaken as our people expand across Skyrim. I write this to serve as a reminder for what the Torch and Flame truly stand for.

To start at the beginning, Direfrost Keep has long protected our family's Flame, which allows us to contact our ancestors in Sovngarde. We need only to light it with the Torch of Heirs.

Many legends speak of the origin of these relics: that they were created by Meridia to distress the Daedra; or by Shor as a way for the dead god to communicate with the Nords of Nirn from Sovngarde (though no Direfrost has ever heard him through the Flame).

The truth has been lost to time, but the one commonality that all the legends share is that the Flame and the Torch were given to the Direfrost family to protect because of our absolute efficiency in battling witches and their Daedric masters. Even should the Flame go out forever, or the Torch be lost or rent in twain by hagraven servants of Oblivion, this fact must remain:

The Direfrosts must never falter in their task to halt and destroy the worshipers of Daedra wherever they may be found. So long as a Direfrost lives, witches, and all who would commune with Daedra, will have an enemy. Witch-hunting is not the profession of the Direfrosts—it is our sacred calling. And I charge any Direfrost who reads this to continue the battle. It's a battle that cannot be won, but we must ensure the witches never win it, either.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#897)
	Crimes of the Daggerfall Covenant
A Summary

By Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination

The kingdoms of the Daggerfall Covenant are inhabited by mongrel upstarts who have cruelly suppressed our Direnni cousins: the High Elves who are the rightful rulers of northwest Tamriel. They were largely complicit in the rise of the dangerous and genocidal fanatics known as the Alessian Order. They allow their pirates to prey on Aldmeri shipping. The Bretons are also so indiscriminate that they have accepted the bestial Orsimer as allies. (Orsimer! Can you imagine?) Though capable of mustering substantial brute force, there is no evidence that these degraded hybrids have the wisdom or learning to deal with the mystical disaster now threatening the Mundus. They must be disciplined and subdued as rapidly as possible, so the Dominion can get on with the business of saving the world … and protecting it in the future.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#898)
	Regarding the Ebonheart Pact
By Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination

Our cousins the Dark Elves have been duly punished for the betrayal of their ancestry: because they have embraced, and then attempted to emulate, the Daedra, a curse has disfigured their bodies and blasted their land. That lesson was apparently insufficient, for they have now left the boundaries of their cursed domain, and seek to infect the rest of the mainland with their heresies. The trio of wily demonspawn who rule them have duped the simple Nords and the slave-lizard Argonians into joining this mad escapade. 

To allow the Ebonheart Pact to rule in Cyrodiil would be just as foolish as to leave the Empire to one or another of the tribes of Men. The Tribunal is ultimately an even greater danger to Nirn than the heedless and impetuous human nations. They must be driven back into their haunted corner of the continent with their power broken … forever.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#899)
	The Lay of Firsthold
Their tribulations drove the Elves

'Cross Sloadful seas to Summerset.

O Admeris! Old Ehlnofey!

Your loving visage haunts us yet.

Your zephyr's kiss enthralls us still,

Though only in heart's memory,

And sorrow to the marrow deep

Infuses every Aldmeri.

When Magnus sinks and night-hour comes,

And owl and spectre prowl and creep,

When eyes can gaze at stars no more,

Then fancy flits across the deep,

Whence Aldmer came to eastern isles,

Escaping doom oblivious,

To Auridon, hue-imbued

With spectrum vivid, various.

From foam it rose before the ships;

Nine prows did plow the gleaming strand.

Torinaan stepped from foremost craft,

And claimed as Kinhold all the land

From silver beach to green-clad hills,

Begilded by the golden dawn.

Auridon thus was the name

Bestowed upon that realm anon.

Though wild it was, at once it gripped

Torinaan's once remorseful heart.

He drew his blade, he drew his blood,

And swore an oath to ne'er depart.

They disembarked upon the shore,

Built Kinhouse, gardens, forge, and hive.

They tamed the meadows, beaches, fields,

And made a home where Elves could thrive.

Then howling from the hills in hate

Came horrors horned, bedight with eyes.

Gheatus; Welwa; Ilyadi—

All sought the Aldmers' cruel demise.

Some said they should take ship anew

And seek a farther, safer shore.

But bold Torinaan valor steeled,

And drawing on ancestral lore,

Hierogram with Varla Stones

He wove upon Auridon's loom,

Drew power down from stars above,

And drove fell monsters to their doom.

He harried them 'cross hills and heights,

All smiting them with magics dire,

Till one by one they fell at last

To blast of lightning, ice, or fire.

So warded then by spells well-spun

Auridon bloomed beneath the touch

Of Altmer craft and husbandry,

Imagoform and sculpture. Much

Admired by other Altmer were

Torinaan's brave achievement there,

And other Kinholds followed fast

On Summerset, so blest, so fair.

But though those Kinholds prospered well

Throughout the archipelago,

Aldmeri Landfall all recall

Upon the Firsthold shore did show,

And bold Torinaan is revered

For courage, wisdom, foresight. He

Who harnessed heaven to defend

The Aldmer in extremity.

Auridon: excellent abode.

Maormer repel: expel all Sload.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#900)
	Varieties of Faith: The High Elves
Varieties of Faith in Tamriel: The High Elves

By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College 

The Eight

(though few Altmer outside the Empire accept the limitation of Divines to eight):

Auri-El (King of the Aldmer):

The Elven Akatosh is Auri-El. Auri-El is the soul of Anui-El, who, in turn, is the soul of Anu the Everything. He is the chief of most Aldmeri pantheons. Most Altmeri and Bosmeri claim direct descent from Auri-El. In his only known moment of weakness, he agreed to take his part in the creation of the mortal plane, that act which forever sundered the Elves from the spirit worlds of eternity. To make up for it, Auri-El led the original Aldmer against the armies of Lorkhan in mythic times, vanquishing that tyrant and establishing the first kingdoms of the Altmer, Altmora and Old Ehlnofey. He then ascended to heaven in full observance of his followers so that they might learn the steps needed to escape the mortal plane.

Magnus (Magus):

The god of sorcery, Magnus withdrew from the creation of the world at the last second, though it cost him dearly. What is left of him on the world is felt and controlled by mortals as magic. One story says that, while the idea was thought up by Lorkhan, it was Magnus who created the schematics and diagrams needed to construct the mortal plane. He is sometimes represented by an astrolabe, a telescope, or, more commonly, a staff.

Trinimac:

Strong god of the early Aldmer, in some places more popular than Auri-El. He was a warrior spirit of the original Elven tribes that led armies against the Men. Boethiah is said to have assumed his shape (in some stories, he even eats Trinimac) so that he could convince a throng of Aldmer to listen to him, which led to their eventual Chimeri conversion. Trinimac vanishes from the mythic stage after this, to return as the dread Malacath (Altmeri propaganda portrays this as the dangers of Dunmeri influence).

Y'ffre (God of the Forest):

While Auri-El Time Dragon might be the king of the gods, Y'ffre is revered as the spirit of "the now." According to the Elves, after the creation of the mortal plane everything was in chaos. The first mortals were turning into plants and animals and back again. Then Y'ffre transformed himself into the first of the Ehlnofey, or "Earth Bones." After these laws of nature were established, mortals had a semblance of safety in the new world, because they could finally understand it.

Xarxes:

Xarxes is the god of ancestry and secret knowledge. He began as a scribe to Auri-El, and has kept track of all Aldmeri accomplishments, large and small, since the beginning of time. He created his wife, Oghma, from his favorite moments in history.

Mara (Goddess of Love):

Nearly universal goddess. Origins started in mythic times as a fertility goddess. She is sometimes associated with Nir of the "Anuad," the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation. For the Altmer, she is the wife of Auri-El.

Stendarr (God of Mercy):

God of compassion and righteous rule. In early Altmeri legends, Stendarr is the apologist of Men.

Syrabane (Warlock's God):

An Aldmeri god-ancestor of magic, Syrabane aided Bendu Olo in the Fall of the Sload. Through judicious use of his magical ring, Syrabane saved many from the scourge of the Thrassian Plague. He is also called the Apprentices' God, for he is a favorite of the younger members of the Mages Guild.

— Additional Deities with Significant Altmer Cults —

Phynaster:

Hero-god of the Summerset Isles, who taught the Altmer how to naturally live another hundred years by using a shorter walking stride.

Lorkhan (The Missing God):

This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan," or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the mortal plane, upsetting the status quo—much like his father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. He and his metaphysical placement in the "scheme of things" is interpreted a variety of ways. To the High Elves, he is the most unholy of all higher powers, as he forever broke their connection to the spirit plane. In the legends, he is almost always an enemy of the Aldmer and, therefore, a hero of early Mankind.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#901)
	Grim Jest
Make sure this one suffers. He'll get the joke eventually.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#902)
	Another Grim Jest
What do you get when you catch a Wood Elf thief?

The pleasure of pressing a searing hot poker through his eye and into his brain!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#903)
	To My Reviewer
Dear Sir,

A kind gentleman delivered a copy of your fine pamphlet entitled "A Visit to High Kinlord Rilis XII's Court." In this magnificent volume, you demonstrated your masterful vocabulary whilst describing the various foibles of my liege's court. 

I was particularly fond of your kind praise of my jesterly performances, especially the act you described as "abominably distasteful" and "prurient nonsense." I applaud your honesty and forthrightness. Like any great artist, I can appreciate the constructive criticism. 

I would like to invite you to my lodgings. Upon your arrival, I will throw you down a flight of stairs repeatedly. My goal is to break your neck, and to see the last flicker of life extinguished from your vast, empty eyes. 

Yours respectfully, 

Falarel
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#904)
	To Colundore
My love,

Once again, you have outdone yourself with this creature. Eviscerations do not normally excite my heart, but your skills with knife and saw can make any heart flutter. Her shrill shrieks in the cold night air were like the songs of doves in the zephyrs of summertime. 

The wafting aroma of her charred flesh was like scenting the heavens themselves. When you are finished with your task, I shall come find you in your quarters. We can use the knives tonight, if you'd like.

Love,

Falarel
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#905)
	Why Don the Veil?
Good mer, you know why to don the Veil. You know in your heart the danger facing the Isles. We have been betrayed.

Our leaders now bend knee to a wastrel child. A Queen of cats and midgets. An adventurer given the throne by an accident of blood. A wench more fit for a cup house than a throne room.

These are our lands! The High Elf, the legacy of the Aldmeri people, now must sit idle beneath the blooms. We must watch as flea-bitten mongrels from the steppes cavort in public like mer. We must listen as the animal tongue of the wood is spoken in our streets.

We did not seek, nor did we provoke, this assault on our way of life. We did not expect, nor did we invite this confrontation. The true measure of a people's strength is how they rise to master the moment when it comes upon them.

Master the moment, mer of Auridon. Don the Veil! Rise up against this Queen, against her Dominion. And retake the Summerset Isles!
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#906)
	Fang of the Sea Vipers
By Telenger the Artificer

At the request of Her Majesty's advisor Nuulehtel I have compiled this brief accounting of the Maormer of Pyandonea, known commonly as Sea Elves. Read, now, and let the light of knowledge free you of your fear.

Their ancient history is well known across the Dominion, and not worth recounting in detail here. Suffice to say that the arch-mage known as "King" Orgnum has long led the outcasts of the shrouded isle. He uses foul spells, rituals and sacrifices to continually renew his youth and vigor.

Other rumors you have heard are true, as well. The rituals of Orgnum allow the Maormer to control sea serpents. Some have mastered the art of riding the beasts among the waves, while larger and less docile beasts swim in support of their largest fleets.

The fleet that now threatens Auridon, we have learned, calls itself the Sea Viper. Recent events in the Three Banners War have driven the Vipers into the seas around Auridon and the mainland. The opportunistic Maormer now seek their own victories in the war between the alliances.

The First Auridon Marines, the Dominion Navy, and others now stand ready to halt the advance of the Maormer. If you see signs of the Vipers, report them at once to your Canonreeve or the nearest Dominion officer.

Eagles, know that the viper will not take our nest. Be wary, but have courage.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#907)
	The Rise of Queen Ayrenn
By Nuulehtel of Skywatch

Loyal citizens of Auridon! I have the pleasure of being an advisor to Her Royal Majesty Queen Ayrenn the First, Eagle Primarch of the Aldmeri Dominion, High Queen of the Summerset Isles, Overfriend of the Royal Camoran House of the Wood Elven people, and boon companion to the Mane of the Khajiit.

As Royal Advisor, I have penned this brief account of Queen Ayrenn's life and history. Read, that you might welcome our Queen into your hearts.

Her Majesty spent early days as many children do in the Isles. She trained in blades beside her father. She rode horses in the surf along our golden beaches, and memorized history and sonnets beneath soft pink petals.

Over twenty years ago, your forward-thinking King—His Royal Majesty King Hidellith of Alinor, may he be ever honored in Aetherius—gathered with the royal family at the Crystal Tower in celebration of Her Majesty's passage into the Labyrinth. This time of intensive study had been required by all Summerset rulers in the past, and Her Majesty was to step into that period with arms wide. As the hour approached, however, the then-princess was found missing!

While a long search was begun, in truth, Her Majesty had claimed her own destiny. Her Majesty had stolen away to the Isle of Balfiera, to live with the Direnni at the Adamant Tower. The members of that clan trained her in the art of war. They turned her simple noble swordplay to lithe and seasoned blade-dancing. Her beachside rides became forced marches on horseback, and her singing of sonnets beneath the trees of her homeland gave way to the study of the arts most arcane.

Much has been made of our Queen's adventures in Tamriel by bards and common broadsheet scribes. Yes, it's true that she once rode a bear. That she hunted the frost trolls of Skyrim, delved into the depths of a Dwarven ruin, and crewed with a pirate captain of Cyrodiil. Her Majesty once flew upon an enormous kite on the winds of the Alik'r Desert, and danced with Nereids in the Illessan Hills. These adventures were not the larks of a wanton, but instead a deliberate process. The tempering of a blade!

And when His Majesty King Hidellith passed away, when it looked as though our remote isles would be left to flounder in the swell of history, Princess Ayrenn returned! Her Majesty plucked the crown from where it had fallen in the dust. She took up her father's sword, and led us out into the world.

Led us into the world to find new allies waiting just off our shores! The Queen's connections to the noble Wood Elves and fierce Khajiit enabled us to form the mighty Dominion that now stands astride our corner of Tamriel, poised to strike at the dark heart of Cyrodiil and ward off the depredations of the warmongering alliances of the north.

Though she has her detractors, and cowards defame her courage from behind a veil, Queen Ayrenn is the living, beating heart of the Dominion. Our fortune and prosperty depend upon her.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#908)
	Kinlord Rilis and the Mages Guild
By High Incunabulist Valaste of the Mages Guild

As a member in high standing, I feel it necessary to explain and extirpate the notion that Kinlord Rilis the XII is somehow a founder of the Mages Guild. The common folk believe that the kinlord, in the days before his cruelty and sadism became well-known, brokered a deal that reigned in "dangerous mages" and somehow put binders in place to keep the commonalty safe. This is simply not the case. 

 

Vanus Galerion, student of Iachesis, did indeed flout prevailing thought when it came to magical experimentation in large cities. He drew together numerous students and artificers to the city of Firsthold. For the first time, he sought to prove the benefit of spellcasters working in close proximity. Not for a mighty ritual, but for study, experimentation, and a sense of camaraderie.

 

This simple premise so terrified the people of Firsthold that they turned to their ruler, Kinlord Rilis the XII. Now known by many less polite titles, Rilis was first and foremost a political animal. He saw in "Galerion's Folly," as it was known at the time, a chance to play the mages and common folk off against each other.

 

The much-speculated-upon "Charter Conclave" brought together Rilis, Iachesis, Galerion, and other notables from across the Isles and the Psijic Order. By common agreement, it is true, no records were kept of that meeting. But mark my words here, adept: Rilis allowed the meeting, allowed Galerion to do what he did, to further his own ends.

 

In retrospect, of course, the legacy of Artaeum is the proud heritage of the new Mages Guild. We now boldly gather together under the Guild banner, and will no doubt do so for many centuries to come. Just let it be remembered: Rilis the Twelfth was a dangerous mer. Even at the time of the Conclave, he trafficked with dark powers and made pacts with Daedra. 

 

The proud order we all now serve is here despite his best intentions. Not because of them.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#909)
	Life in the Eagle's Shadow
1st Morning Star: 

A new year, and a new start. Sirune agreed to be my betrothed last night! I'm the luckiest mer in Mathiisen. I've already made arrangements with Yondin to use the forge. I'm going to melt down my father's old blade and use it as the base for a Ring of Mara. Mathiisen steel is good enough for the troops, right? It will be good enough for my true heart.

3rd Sun's Dawn: 

The Heralds are shouting in every square across the island. There's a new Queen! And we're now part of some kind of Alliance—with the Wood Elves and the Khajiit, of all people. "The Aldmeri Dominion", they're calling it. I couldn't be prouder, but father has done nothing but grumble. He says letting "those kind of folk" onto the island will be bad for business.

10th Sun's Dawn: 

Sirune and I sneaked out in the middle of the night and made for Skywatch. It was so exciting, bedding down by the side of the road. Like we're in the Fighters Guild! The handbills telling of the parade have been all over the island, and we decided we couldn't let something like this pass us by. I'll be thrice-cursed by the old mer, I know it. But damn him for a fool. Miss a chance to see the Queen, the Mane, and the Bosmer Treethanes? Not on your life.

11th Sun's Dawn: 

If today was any indication, Father was right. The parade was amazing, with Her Majesty leading a phalanx of Marines up the path to the gates. Then came the Treethanes, with their wily jungle rangers. Vinedusk, I think someone said? And then the Mane, with those braids! Amazing to see the Khajiiti warriors on display.

Much more pleasing than the furry sneak-thief I caught with his hand in my coin-purse. I tried to catch him before he made off, but he dove between some of those damned dock workers who were so obsessed with their frog races they didn't even look up. And then he was gone. Sirune said it was all right, that we'd just leave earlier than we'd planned. Damn it. Just hate to let her down.

17th Sun's Dawn: 

Damn them all! Everything has been a mess since Sirune and I came back from Skywatch. Father was furious that we'd left, and when I told him how many coins that cat took … old bastard hasn't beaten me like that I was learning the forge. 

Then, a few days ago, they pulled all of us into the forgemaster's office. Condalin had gotten word that, with the new alliance, tradesmer can start hiring some of "those folk." Tossing a certain number of jobs to "them" would net you extra coin from the Thalmor. 

And so he dropped father's contract! Been with the forge for decades, and now cat-men and cannibals are doing the job. All because of this damned alliance. Father's beside himself, about the steel more than anything. Says they won't know how to cure it right. Stars above, what's happening?

2nd First Seed: 

My life is ruined. I'm on the run, and everyone I knew and loved hates me. Damn the "Dominion" and our smiling Queen to boot!

It all started when that recruiter for the Battlereeve came to town. He was looking for volunteers for the Dominion military. When no one came forward, he said he'd been empowered to take conscripts. He tapped me and Sirune's brother. He also grabbed the twins, Taleril and Tanaril. Shoved us into a line with a gang of others and started us down the road.

We weren't a mile before Tanaril snapped. Went crazy, screaming about how he couldn't fight Dark Elves, that they use your body to hatch spiders in. He made a break for it, and a bunch of us used the chance to run as well.

I'm holed up in a cave near Silsailen. My father is penniless. My bride-to-be will soon think me a traitor. The damned cats and runty Elves are taking over the island, and the military is putting children on the front lines. This isn't the homeland I grew up in!

5th First Seed: 

I was reduced to trying to steal something for my evening meal, and—of course—I was caught. I slipped into Silsailen after dusk, the smell of some delicious whitefish wafting on the breeze. I hadn't eaten anything worthwhile since the morning the recruiter came into town, when I had that delicious spiced bread Sirune's mother made. 

I slipped into town and tracked the smell to the local inn. I was trying to figure out how to get into the kitchen when a big beefy hand fell on my shoulder. One of the Canonreeve's men. He knew exactly what I was doing, almost like he'd been watching me since I got into town. Now I'm sitting in a cell underneath the reeve's manse, waiting his justice. At least they let me keep the journal here.

Damn you, Ayrenn! Damn you, Dominion!

10th First Seed: 

My old life is over. And my new life under the Veil has begun. It turns out the Canonreeve himself, an honorable man named Valano, has experienced his own doubts about his future under the Dominion. He used to be a good friend to the Queen, even, but worries now the years have changed her.

Valano is a member of a group called the Veiled Heritance. They're a group of freedom fighters, willing to do what has to be done. They're willing to make the hard choices, and stop the spread of foreign influence on our soil. 

I was brought up out of that cellar below Silsailen thinking I was going to do hard labor. Instead, I found a new family. Valano said he knew all about my problems, even knew that I'd been taken by a Dominion recruiter. Said that he was willing to help, and help me help myself.

And I will.
		

		Part of the Auridon Lore collection (#910)
	Thalmor Handbill
By Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination

Loyal citizen of the Isles, heed the statement of the Thalmor. Bear witness to these words about our new allies, the Khajiit and the Wood Elves.

Integration with our new Wood Elf and Khajiiti allies continues apace. To promote Alliance harmony, loyal Thalmor agents have drawn together this short list of helpful notices. Follow this mandatory guidance with cheer, and our new allies will look on you with favor.

— Do not refer to Khajiit as "cats," "kitties," "fuzzies," or any other derogatory feline-based term.

— Khajiiti delicacies are often very sweet, or spiced with the exotic substance known as moon-sugar. Diners beware.

— Do not touch a Khajiit's tail without permission.

— Our Khajiiti allies have a unique dialect. Mocking their speech, or imitating it, is considered quite rude and non-Aldmeri.

— When inviting a Wood Elf to dine, know that the resources of the forest are sacred to them. Serve venison, but no salads.

— Do not refer to Wood Elves as "shorties," "runties," or any other derogatory height-based terms.

— Have a care when imbibing Wood Elf brews, as their beverages are very different than our own.

— Do not imply to Wood Elves that they are cannibals, or ask them about how they dispose of their dead.

Eagles, Unite!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#911)
	The Mysteries of Moravagarlis
Scholars have studied the Ayleid ruins of Tamriel for generations, but they still remain shrouded in mystery. The treasures the Ayleids allegedly left behind have attracted both the intrepid and the foolish.  

Some ruins are best left unexplored.

The Mages Guild has long sought to study a particular Ayleid site known according to old Ayleid records as Moravagarlis. Upon approaching its engraved arches, the first expedition wrote that they could detect a sense of wrongness about the very stones of the place.

Those who remained at Moravagarlis for a significant time spoke of strange dreams and mad whispers that tugged at the edges of their sanity. Very little was discovered at the ruin as a result of the disturbances, and the dig was eventually abandoned.

Further expeditions became ill advised when the ruin was infested with Goblins in 2E 545. The "Bonesnap" tribe occupied Moravagarlis and the surrounding environs so thoroughly that dislodging them would have required a very difficult undertaking.

Naturally, it is impossible to ascertain whether the Goblins experience any effects similar to those reported by the expedition team. It bears mentioning as well that if any valuables or secrets of the Ayleids remain, they have almost certainly come to ruin at the hands of the Bonesnap tribe.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#912)
	Confessions of a Bold Alchemist
By Alchemist Aleeto

I confess it. I'm an alchemist. I love to mix things together to see what happens. The mystery and magic of the alchemical process fascinates me. On the one hand, it's acutely precise, with weights and measures that must be painstakingly adhered to. On the other hand, it's wildly impromptu, with plenty of room for spontaneity and impulsiveness. Indeed, some of the biggest alchemical breakthroughs must be attributed to aggressive leaps of faith and logic.

And I confess: I love adventure. I like to explore caves and dark swamps in search of alchemical reagents, and I enjoy experimenting with mixtures and concoctions until something explodes. In fact, the more risky or unexpected the undertaking, the more I enjoy the experience. I find such exploits … exhilarating!

Does this juxtaposition make me special? Brave? Just plain strange? I'm certainly not a frail, scholarly professor, hidden away in my secret laboratory and toiling away at my experiments. But you be the judge. Let me tell you about one of my recent adventures. It happened exactly as I shall describe. More or less.

I was deep in the wilds of Eastmarch, looking for Old Sord's Cave, when a customer entered my alchemy shop. 

Blast it! An actual customer! And look what I did. I'll have to finish this later ….
		

Failed at /books/913Failed at /books/914		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#915)
	On the Brewing of Dark Meat Beer
First of all, it takes years for all the meat and bugs to fall in. And they have to fall naturally. Crosswings have a fierce bitterness when they die afraid. 

Then, you must stretch seventeen strings of the thinnest Alfiq-gut over each barrel. Press aged meat onto the strings, being careful not to let any fall before it has properly rotted. Then dust the meat with the finely chopped skins of the red-striped frog to make sure the crosswings are drunk and happy when they hit the drink. 

You do this every month for three or more years, until you have enough meat and bugs to fill the barrel. And that's not even counting the enchantments. You must have spells to attract the crosswings and mimics. And spells to keep out the flipbacks, tree-hoppers, and hoarvor larvae. 

There are spells to encourage the green mold and prevent the brown and white molds. Then you have to seal the barrel for nine or more years until the last of the green mold turns. Good thing we have long lives, eh?

— Anonymous Bosmeri Brewer
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#916)
	Everfull Flagon Handbill
The Everfull Flagon

Fine Mead. Good Company. Come and Enjoy.

FREE MEAD! ASK FOR THE SPECIAL BLEND!

<Clumsy writing scrawls across the bottom of the handbill.>

Turn back. The mead the mead the mead—be wary—
		

Failed at /books/917		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#918)
	Journal of Tsona-Ei, Part One
Part One 

Herein find the memoirs of Tsona-Ei, Argonian sailor and First Mate of the fine sailing ship, the Golden Era.

I have never been one to keep a log, but these are exciting times and the gravity of current events compels me to put quill to parchment. I have been a sailor for a long time, but I've never seen a gathering of ships the likes of which the Emperor has assembled. 

The Sload, loathed as they are by all the peoples of Tamriel, moved his majesty to action because of the terrible toll their plague has taken upon every port in the west. Every land fears this plague born of Thras by the slugs and their vile necromancy. When the call to arms was sounded, it was answered from across the empire: Colovian galleys, Redguard corsairs, Breton warships, Aldmeri cutters—even Black Marsh freebooters like me and much of our crew. Never have I known such a force to set sail together.

The All-Flags Navy, they call it, a mixed fleet under the command of Baron-Admiral Bendu Olo. We sail to Thras together. Woe betide the Sload! They have brought this great and terrible fleet down upon themselves.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#919)
	Journal of Tsona-Ei, Part Two
Part Two 

We have left the Abecean Sea behind and entered the Sea of Pearls, the waters that surround the Thrassian Archipelago. Never was a sea so ill-named as this one: the enthusiasm of my earlier entry ends here.

For two days we have been wracked by storms more foul and terrible than any I have ever seen. They seem to grow worse as we approach Thras. The crew talks of terrible whispers on the air and glimpses of rotting things moving in the water. I myself have been too sick to see or hear anything other than my own illness. In all my years, I've never suffered the sickness of the rolling sea before. That doesn't bode well for the rest of this trip.

We were a mighty fleet with sails as numerous as the trees of my native Alten Corimont. Now I cannot know our number. The fog, with its stench of rot and terrible foulness, obscures our vision and makes it hard to see beyond two lengths of the mast. We passed rocks as we approached that were only a few paces from our hull. We hear the cracks and screams that indicate our sister ships were not so lucky.

The fog ended today. We emerged from what appeared to be a solid wall of cloud that extended in an unbroken circle around the islands of the Sloads. Our first view of the largest island was awe-inspiring: a tower, taller than any I have ever seen and made of blood-red coral, reached into the sky. A terrible blue light flickered at its apex like an strange bud upon the tower's stalk.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#920)
	Journal of Tsona-Ei, Part Three
Part Three 

Other ships followed us through the fog. One by one they emerged. Some were battered, some were missing, but many remained. We formed up and sailed toward the main island.

Through the terrible storms that battered us on our way, the captain stood firm. Many in the crew wished to abandon our cause, but the captain cursed them and would not hear of it. His cabin is directly above mine and at night I swear I could hear demonic whispers and see eerie lights. The captain I knew slipped away in the fog to be replaced by spectre of anger and hate.

A projection of Baron-Admiral Olo appeared on our deck. He spoke as if he could not see us—I assume this was some sort of magical broadcast to the fleet. He ordered us to take boats and men to sack the big island and lay siege to the tower by land as his remaining Imperial ships bombarded it from a distance. We armed ourselves with swords and bows, and the captain ordered us to the longboats. 

When we set foot on shore I think we were the first to arrive. We were not the last. The Sloads are powerful necromancers, but they are poor hand-to-hand fighters and our numbers dwarfed theirs. Still, they fought, and they died as we conquered their island. They whispered curses to their Daedric Lord with their dying breaths are we took their gold, their goods, and their lives. 

The blue light atop the coral tower began to pulse and bleed energy into the clouded sky. When the ground beneath our feet began to quake and tremble, no one had to tell us to run. The island began to crack and sink. The sea around Thras boiled as we rowed for our lives back to the Golden Era. 

We were hauled back on deck in time to watch the Coral Tower collapse into the sea. We noticed too late the current that pulled us towards it. As the eye of blue light atop the tower dipped into the sea it began to spin like a great wheel, and when it met the waves it formed a monstrous whirlpool. Half the fleet was drawn into it, our ship included.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#921)
	Kyne's Tears
Dark clouds gather in the sky above.

Kyne weeps for joy at the beauty of the world.

Tears warm the ground and blossoms grow.

The sacred stone reveals the flowers of her tears.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#922)
	Hidden Tears
The sacred stone responds to the land where her tears fell.

Tears to purify hearts, the earth, the water, the very air around us.

Kyne whispers and weeps in the hallowed places.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#923)
	To Dream Beyond Dreams
By the Omen of a Hundred Prophecies

'Twas in Menevia, dear, green Menevia, there dwelt a young Breton of family and name. He had inherited a patrimony, and thus needed to do nothing, as others were paid to do for him. And so he sat at his mullioned window and gazed out the diamond panes at the colors of the countryside as they changed with the light. And he dreamed away the day, until the colors darkened and he betook himself to bed, where he slumbered and dreamed in truth.

Of what did he dream? He dreamed of his own land, but in colors more intense, more true, and more pure than in day. His Menevia of Dreams was more real than his Menevia of Waking, and he felt more alive when asleep than awake. Each day at his mullions, he looked and longed for a way to dream beyond dreams—a way to live in his Reverie-Menevia forever and forever.

"Reverie-Menevia," he said, and it was a prayer. "Reverie-Menevia. Reverie-Menevia." A thousand, thousand times he uttered this prayer, and it changed like a dream to " 'Ver'-Menevia, 'ver'-Menevia," and more and more it became less and less, until at last, "Vaermina," he said, and "Vaermina," and  "Vaermina" again.

And to him she came in Dream-Form, Vaermina Herself, and called him Supernal Dreamer, and First Nightcaller, and named him Omen of a Hundred Prophecies. And when he awoke, he yet did dream, and spoke as in a dream, and called other dreamers to him, and to Reverie-Menevia.

And soon you shall join him. The Nightcaller has dreamed it. One night you shall dream, and in your dream you will say the Name. And She will come.
		

Failed at /books/924Failed at /books/925		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#926)
	Fasaran's Diary
Dear Fara,

 

I watched the sunset, thinking of you again. I've heard rumors of war in Cyrodiil. Some are calling it "The Great War." Alliances are forming and rising up. Mirkalinde told me our dark cousins have united with the Argonians, their own slaves, and the Nords. It must be quite the battle to forge such an uneasy alliance. It's hard to believe as I gaze out upon the beauty of Auridon that such devastation happening in Tamriel. I hope our people stay out of the conflict. 

- - - - - - - 

Dear Fara,

 

Time passes by so slowly without you here. Things seem to be changing swiftly. Queen Ayrenn has returned to Auridon. No one is certain where she's been, but she's been speaking of this alliance called the Aldmeri Dominion. Would you believe we're now allies with our woodsy cousins and the Khajiit?

 

Not all the people here seem happy about it. Sinyon speaks of a group called the Veiled Heritance. It's a shame most of us are so against allying with the outside races.

- - - - - - -

Dear Fara,

I miss you so much. Tenmenye is bustling about the town. Queen Ayrenn is going to stop by Dawnbreak on her way to Firsthold. Ten was telling me how much she misses you and your guidance. She's overwhelmed with preparations, but we're all very excited to see her in our small town.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#927)
	Dawnbreak Decree
Citizens of Dawnbreak

With the upcoming visit of Queen Ayrenn herself, please be sure that you are current in the upkeep of your homes and yards. 

We will be having a town meeting to go over proper etiquette and dress for the event. I expect perfect attendance and will be taking note of any who are absent.

Signed,

Tenyemanwe
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#928)
	Urgent Message from the Kinlady
Canonreeve Sinyon,

Please excuse this urgent message. I've sent my messenger ahead so you may properly prepare for my visit. I realize it's unexpected and very sudden.

I will be there by the end of the day. I wish to keep my presence in the town confidential. There are matters I must tend to in private.  

I need the following prepared immediately for my arrival:

Candles

Incense

Bloodgrass

Silver Basin

With All Appropriate Respect, 

High Kinlady Estre
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#929)
	An Affair with Death
By Mirise Dres

The dead have so much to say if we have but the will, and the skill, to listen. My studies have already added much to my knowledge of necromancy and death magic. Why my fascination with the dead? I believe it goes back to my early childhood, when I would watch the sick and dying slaves in their pens, marveling at their pain and suffering. 

There was one slave in particular, a Khajiit who went by the name of Abilar. Abilar was ancient when I was young. He was kind to the children of House Dres, serving as a teacher and guardian for the youngest among us. I was one of his students. He always had stories to tell and sweets to hand out. I found him to be … interesting. For a slave.

One day, Abilar did not show up to teach and watch over us. Instead, an Argonian whose name I don't recall came in his stead. When I asked about the Khajiit, the Argonian said that Abilar was ill and would not be returning. This intrigued me, as illness always did, and as soon as the opportunity arose I went in search of the ancient Khajiit.

I found Abilar in the slave pens, lying on one of the hard platforms that served as beds for the household thralls. His eyes were closed, but he tossed and turned as though terrible dreams plagued him. I found a stool and sat beside Abilar, determined to watch and record every moment of his slide into death. My mother passed by and decided I was keeping a favored servant company until his end. I made no attempt to otherwise explain my actions.

It took Abilar three days to expire. He went in and out of consciousness along the way. Sometimes he was completely coherent and seemed genuinely touched that I was by his side. Other times he was delirious, speaking of places and people I knew nothing of. These periods of nonsense, I determined, were really glimpses of the border between life and death. Abilar's mind was bemused by the increasingly frequent trips his soul was making back and forth across the border. 

When the end finally approached, I moved closer and stared directly into Abilar's eyes. I saw the fear within them, and the acceptance. I saw the dawning understanding as his mind finally began to comprehend the mysteries and strangeness of the borderland. I asked him to tell me what he saw, what he knew, what he was experiencing. He started to form the words, started to reveal his secret to me. And then I watched as the light in his eyes dimmed and the breath rattled out of him. He died without so much as uttering a final word.

That was the day. That was when my affair with death and its mysteries began. I have devoted my life to discovering the secrets of death and dying. I have learned to harness the power of necromancy. But still a few vital secrets elude me. I shall never stop searching, even if it means a million slaves must die. After all, what's more important than knowledge? Abilar taught me that, and I shall always honor his lesson.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#930)
	The Omen of Deception
Amid the deep layers of the realm of Quagmire resides a spirit who has long yearned to wreak destruction upon the mortals of Nirn, to spread lies and deception across their tawdry realm. 

Amongst all of Vaermina's pets, this spirit remains the most hidden, the most secretive. He is known by many names, but none of them true, which has made his summoning impossible for centuries.

But Vaermina whispered his secret name in my sleeping ear last night whilst I dreamt of darkness. She bid me to unleash his foul influence in Tamriel and to drive the people of that world to distrust and betrayal.

To summon the Omen of Deception, you must first light the four braziers, slay whomever you offer as sacrifice, and finally speak the Daedra's true name. 

The sacrificial blood must be freshly spilled, but take great care to ensure the sacrifice is fully dead. If the sacrifice were to retain any trace of life, the Daedra would be summoned in a weak and susceptible state. And were something to happen to her pet, Vaermina would not be pleased. 

The Daedra's true name is Ykal. Speak it and he will come—but make sure his vessel is prepared.
		

Failed at /books/931		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#932)
	Dismissal Letter
Merormo, you are no longer welcome at the college. Your continued ill-advised experiments—after repeated  warnings—have forced my hand. 

Please pack your things and vacate the premises at once. 

— Telenger
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#933)
	Forbidden Research Notes
My latest experiment is going extremely well. The two surviving subjects are almost mobile and still resemble wolves … mostly.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#934)
	Village Record, Recent Entry
Another villager moved away today, after another incident with that batty old mage. The former resident was turned bright purple for several hours. 

Two more residences have made complaints about Merormo—this time because of a barking sound coming from the trees around his tower.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#935)
	Captain Alphaury's Journal
Something definitely went wrong with the portal spell. Instead of arriving in Coldharbour as an invading force to be reckoned with, we wound up scattered to the four winds. I am now a captain without a command. The others that appeared with me—we've been fighting or running since we got here. We finally found a relatively safe spot on the edge of a dark forest and decided to set up camp. This is the first time since we arrived that I've felt safe enough to just sit down and record my thoughts.

Time seems to flow differently in this realm. Sometimes it feel like we've only been here for a few hours and other times I could swear we've been here for days. This mission has turned into a colossal failure. Instead of stepping through the portal together, we were thrown in all directions, strewn about like so many dry leaves in a bitter wind. Luck was with me, though. I landed in the company of Kamu the Khajiit. If only the rest of my luck had turned out as well.

We found ourselves in a strange ruin east of this camp. There were cold flame atronachs everywhere, intent on roasting us to a very fine blue crisp. We dispatched a couple of the creatures before we were forced to turn tail and run. For some reason, however, as we got close to the forest, the atronachs stopped chasing us. They suddenly seemed to lose interest in us and returned to the ruin.

Well, I guess I should stop writing now and help finish setting up our camp. I'll write more after we get some sleep, provided nothing terrible happens to us in the interim.

***

We were awakened after a few hours (minutes? days?) of sleep by voices. There seem to be people in the shadows of the woods, talking, whispering. We can hear them, but the voices aren't distinct enough to make out any actual words. Or maybe it's just a language that none of us have ever heard before. I'm not sure. Every so often, though, we clearly hear something that sounds like a cry for help.

Every time we hear that desperate cry, we think of our missing allies. It could be some of them, lost out in those dark woods. They might be hurt, or in danger, or—well, anything could be happening in there! Kamu and I have decided to head into the forest and find the source of those pitiful cries.

I'm going to leave my journal here, in case any other members of our expedition come across this camp. We'll try to leave a trail so that you can follow our path. We're going to head west and then southwest, so follow after us if you can.

Here's something else you need to know. Kamu discovered that if you touch one of the wisps that float among the trees, you glow and get a temporary source of light—perfect for finding your way through these shadowy woods. I suggest you make liberal use of the wisps if you're going to try to meet up with us.

Well, it's time to go. I hope to see you soon. And may the Eight watch over us all.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#936)
	Love's Eternal Flame
The Fire Mage called Anconath,

A great teacher during the day,

Succumbed to lust by night,

In the bed of Alanwe

His mind was sharp, his fire burned bright

But his master he did betray,

His flesh ignites, to my delight,

For the torment of Alanwe
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#937)
	The Deepest Cut
Rulanir the Blademaster

Before his blade, foes die away

But dull as ancient dagger 

Was his time with Alanwe

His blade unsheathed, his eyes alight

He stumbled on that day,

And the deepest cut removed his head

At the feet of Alanwe
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#938)
	The Summoner
Faindor the Prodigy,

Used his deficient alchemy,

To summon Scamps and Vermai,

For the whims of the Altmeri

He was young, his face so fresh,

His mistake was what he deigned to say,

The summoned now torment his flesh,

To the horror of Alanwe
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#939)
	Legionary's Journal
Captain Siro is arguing with that woman from the Cult again. It's a shame, seeing command shackle the captain with a "special envoy." A spotless record for years, then one little loss and the Tharns come down like a hammer. We're Imperial soldiers. We don't need babysitters.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#940)
	Special Advisors
To add a level of authenticity to our cover, I've hired a number of foreign mercenaries to act as special advisors. Each has years of experience in privateering or piracy. Listen to them. They'll teach you how to appear to be a genuine raider. The better our cover, the longer we can operate without drawing the Dominion's attention. 

These mercenaries are to be shown the utmost respect. Failure to do so will result in immediate disciplinary action. You'll think Mehrunes Dagon himself came at you.

Long live the Empire,

Captain Siro
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#941)
	Memo to Captain Siro
I've done all I can. Be grateful I convinced them to let you live, let alone keep a command. 

We're even now. I don't want to hear from you again.

And keep yourself safe, old man.

Magus-General Septima Tharn, Seventh Legion
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#942)
	Note on Broken Crate
The plan begins! The amount of the concoction contained within isn't viable when diluted in water. To achieve our goals, more of the elixir will be needed. To this end, more crates are on their way.

Stay alert and watch for the next shipment.

— M
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#943)
	Covert Note
We know where the missing villagers are, but we need your help. Due to the lockdown, no one can leave Narsis. Except you, that is. Yes, we know all about the special dispensation the councilor gave you.

We'd like to speak to you, but please understand that we need to keep our presence hidden. We couldn't just leave directions lying around for the House Guard to find. Instead, we give you this:

"Don't look to the sky. Follow the Star. She provides the key. She will guide your way."

Follow these directions and we will speak soon.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#944)
	Ruurifin's Journal, Entry 1
The Ayleids were fools. Stone and glass and magic against root and bark and feral instinct. How did they think they would win? Build a city in an angry jungle and you get an angry city.

The heart of the jungle is the heart of the city, beneath the central Welkynd Stone. It pulses. It breathes. It speaks.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#945)
	Uryaamo's Journal
After dozens of failed expeditions, we've finally found it. This has to be the lost city the Wood Elves call Root Sunder. Our maps of the era suggest this would have been an ideal location for a trading hub. The only hurdle would be taming the jungle. Not a small hurdle, but one the builders of Root Sunder believed could be overcome. 

And their solution, whatever it was, clearly didn't work. But they've infused this place with a strange current of magicka, funneling through the central Welkynd Stone and to a chamber below. If we could unlock the door, perhaps we could learn more.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#946)
	Tancano the Elder's Journal
The south wall rotated two degrees last night. I've measured it thirty-six times. The Welkynd Stones must be causing it. The growths run the length of the city, built into every wall and foundation. This must be how the Ayleids thought to control the jungle: a city that could grow against the plants. Brilliant strategy, though, obviously, it ultimately failed.

Only the door in the east chamber doesn't move. Strange. Responds slightly to rhythms. Perhaps a secret knock?
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#947)
	Note from Khezuli's Contact
K—

My employer's new arrangement makes it harder to meet in public. Get me the base mixture and I'll get you the payment. I hope you haven't forgotten how to combine the ingredients in the mixing mechanism. All you have to remember is keep things orderly.

Just add each ingredient carefully. The sweet, sticky <<z:1>>, the bitter <<z:2>>, and the viscous <<3>> all combine to produce our product. Once you're finished, meet me on the beach at the location I've marked on the map inside this journal.

Hope that's clear enough. If it's not, you may have to do it over and over again!

— O
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#948)
	Sirdor's Journal
It is the jungle. Trapped in the walls of Root Sunder—it isn't a Daedra or ghost. It's the jungle itself. The Elves here found a way to bind the spirit of the jungle to the city's Welkynd Stones.

They must have thought themselves brilliant at the time. Bind the jungle to the city walls, then control the walls with magic. No more randomness. Pure order. 

But the jungle went mad, trapped within the artificial walls. It took control of the city. Killed the inhabitants. Dragged the city beneath the ground. Then it slept. And we woke it up.

There may be a way to undo it. I'll need an Attunement Stone, used by the builders to create the binding spell. There should be one in the lower chamber, west of the central Welkynd Stone.

With the Attunement Stone, I have a chance to put things right here.

But first, three support stones must be attuned before the central stone can be used to remove the binding magic in the walls. I've marked the three here so I'll remember their location.

With those taken care of, it should be a simple matter of attuning the central Welkynd Stone, freeing the spirit of Root Sunder and ending this nightmare.

Dangerous task, but simple. I hope to be back at camp in time for wine with the others.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#949)
	Gjarma's Orders: Yngold
I understand your concern about lack of supplies for the ritual. But you're forgetting there's a local Mages Guild to raid for stores.

Once you confirm they have the goods, send me word so we know to proceed.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#950)
	Gjarma's Orders: Supplies
Let your lot fill their pouches, but the necromancers will need bodies for the plan to work. Ten cart-loads should be enough.

And look for bodies in the streets before you go about making any new ones. If the people of <<1>> see us bashing down their doors and dragging out corpses, they'll find courage beneath their fear.

— <<2>>
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#951)
	Gjarma's Orders: Wamasu
I don't care how, but I want that drugged wamasu out of the hold and under <<1>>. It should fit through the old Imperial aquifer outside the city walls. If we can't secure our escape route before the ritual completes, we're sunk.

And don't jostle it! If it wakes angry, it starts melting support columns. We don't want the city to come down until after we're gone.

— <<2>>
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#952)
	The Royal Lineage of Sentinel
Know, O Beloved Reader, that the lineage of our All-Beneficent King is most royal, descending as he does from High King Ar-Azal, through King Ja-Fr, thence Grandee Makala, who did marry the Grandeya Fanesh of Antiphyllos, thus endowing the line with the Phyllocid blood of the Meritorious Zizzeen.

His Royal Majesty King Fahara'jad was the only issue of the Ever-Virtuous Makala and Fanesh. In good time Fahara'jad, while yet a young prince, did take to wife Za-Rifah the Flower of Taneth, and she bore him three fine children. Alas, the Flower of Taneth lost her life in giving birth to the third child, and was mourned by all the Redguards of Hammerfell.

Nonetheless, his Royal Majesty's ever-glorious descendancy is assured in the persons of his eldest daughter Maraya, the Jewel of Satakalaam, his second-daughter Lakana, the Star of the Almandine, and the young Crown Prince Azah, the Lion of Antiphyllos.
		

Failed at /books/953Failed at /books/954		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#955)
	Sir Hughes' Journal
9th of First Seed

This is the third week of these nightmares: visions of Alcaire Castle burning, riots led by one of our own, a face so familiar, but I can't see it clearly. I know this will happen if I don't do something.

By the gods, am I a prophet now? I must be mad.

23rd of First Seed

I recognized the face in my dreams, the one who leads Alcaire Castle to ruin. It's the duke's new wife, Lakana. She will eventually betray us. I know this now.

24th of First Seed

I have to stop this nightmare from coming true. I've asked Dame Falhut to deal with the duchess, but even she seems to have doubts. If she could only see what I've seen!

29th of First Seed

Falhut botched the job and killed the poor food taster. I can't trust her. Too many innocents could get hurt. Only Lakana should die. 

2nd of Rain's Hand

King Fahara'jhad has sent an army to our gates. My dream is coming true. By the Eight, we have to find a way to stop this!

10th of Rain's Hand

It's all clear to me now. The vision is a sign for me and me alone. I must do this myself. 

Divines forgive me, but this is for all of Alcaire ….
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#956)
	The Fires of Truth
As a penitent of the Shield or the Heart of Mara, know that the fire of life burns already within you. Do not let it go out.

Show your devotion to the Divines by kindling that fire in this place of worship.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#957)
	Bending to the Flame
Aldarch, 

You need just stand beside a source of fire to make use of this powerful object. Merely aim at the object to be cleansed, and the wand will cause flame to dance and flow through the air. 

Please accept it as a gift, a veneration of the Destruction art and a gift from the Divines. Use it with care, for it is a powerful gift.

In the name of Auri-El himself, may his fiery breath keep us warm through these trying times.

— Kinlord Astanamo the Penitent
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#958)
	Churasu's Alchemy Journal
Fury Concoction: This mixture makes the wasps very angry for a few hours.

Angry wasps will sting anything that doesn't smell like them.

* * *

To Make the Fury Concoction: Grind one wasp gizzard into three lumps of troll fat and two pinches of wisplight powder. This makes a single dose.

Important! For each additional dose made, add one extra pinch of powder to keep the solution stable.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#959)
	Aranias' Diary
I finally arrived at the College. The Headmaster is very open to our ideas. The Khajiit and Bosmer must be kept in line. They'll need to be pliable if the Thalmor are going to use them. 

This is it. The place the Heritance has been looking for. I'll write Her Majesty at once and let her know.

- - - - 

Kinlady Estre informed me that she's sending a mer named Tanion to oversee the College here. 

My next mission is to find a good location to store our supplies. I've heard rumors of a hidden cove that may be of use to us. Ayleid ruins once called Quendeluun. 

- - - - 

My things are packed and I leave for Quendeluun at dusk. If I'm successful there, my mother believes they may send me all the way to Greenshade to scout expanding prospects. I've never been off the Summerset Isles before. It should be very … interesting.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#960)
	List of Names
Helonel — Last seen in Skywatch, fleeing to the west.

Karulae — Last seen heading to Dawnbreak.

Aranias — Last seen at the College of Aldmeri Propriety.

Calanyese — Last seen fleeing to the north. May be trying to get to North Beacon to flee Auridon.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#961)
	The Gift of Arson
Firsthold is the key. Without Ayrenn's men holding the north, our Maormer allies will be free to move.

Burning this little town is just a lark, yes. But it is for you, Lord Dagon. It's all for you.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#962)
	Letter to Egranor
Egranor,

I know. You said never to contact you. But what happened at Quendeluun … I didn't sign up to be a traitor. The Heritance in bed with the Ebonheart Pact? It flies in the face of everything I believe. You must report this.

I can only assume that Earran has taken a more extreme turn. I'll write to my mother, have her relay the information to the Queen. 

Greenshade seems so far from Auridon. I miss home. I miss the Summerset Isles.

I miss you. I'm sorry.

— Aranias
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#963)
	Keeper of Tomes
In time, we realized we required a guardian—one as ageless as our repository, to ward our histories against Lorkhan's children's all-consuming march.

We scoured the planes of Oblivion in search of such a being. Many were found wanting: some the right hands of Daedric Princes, others less-known denizens of its darkest corners. In time, the one for whome we searched found us.

<<1>> was her name. A mighty Dremora of great skill, capable of preserving the most delicate substances against the vitriol of our most destructive conjurations.

We summoned <<1>> and bound her to this space for so long as its stones would last. She would walk its halls and explore our most well guarded secrets in exchange for her stewardship.

We bound her to the foundation and the very ground beneath. So powerful was this binding that she will remain long after the ruins have crumbled to dust. We trust her to keep her task—for what is time, to Daedra?
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#964)
	Remnants of Cyrod
When Alessia's rebellion sent the Heartland lords fleeing from their manses, they took their knowledge with them.

While some fled to the fens of Black Marsh and others to the northern reaches, most flew to Valenwood. After many years amongst the Bosmer, they amassed a storehouse of information.

Realizing a need to preserve our knowledge against the ages, they excavated a cavern east of the mighty Strid. There, in its alabaster depths, they carved great halls and sealed them against the ravages of erosion and time.

They summoned our greatest architect to do these things, and a great enchantment was placed upon its walls to stave off putrefaction and decay.

The ruins would stand until the White-Gold Tower fell to dust and bone in the ashes of old Cyrod. They would deliver our memory for generations to come, and seal us as the immortal masters of Tamriel, itself.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#965)
	The Black Year
We know not when <<1>> first tired of her duty and began eliciting her entertainment from unsuspecting Mer. Perhaps it was a passing fancy before its culmination. If it was, this went undetected by her masters.

In monsoon season, when the Strid was full and even the Graht Oaks fought to keep the soil beneath them, the master of archives and half his assistants opened the mighty doors to the reliquary.

Taking flasks from their hips, they drank deep, turning to stone in the threshold. Propped open by their petrified forms, there was nothing to stop the rain. Eight months of wet and exposure to the elements found even our best kept tomes bobbing like lillies, awash in a paper-strewen sea.

When asked what led her to forsake her duty, <<1>> laughed and dismissed us as fools.

As punishment, we stripped her of her physical shell. She would no longer freely tread our halls, with knowledge to keep her occupied. By the <<2>>, we bound her in our deepest vaults, where she must be content to watch, to listen, and to serve.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#966)
	Listens-to-Water's Observations
[These pages were bookmarked with a key.]

Entry 1:

I spoke to Chornakus today. He didn't seem to recognize me or even wish to speak to me. We're egg-brothers. We went our separate ways, but our bond has always remained.

Entry 2: 

I noticed Chornakus entering and leaving the old Silyanorn ruins. Others have as well, but the ruins are long abandoned. I must find a way inside.

Entry 3:

I managed to find a key, but one of the Argonians I saw near the ruins yesterday suspects something. Caution is my watchword; I'll try tomorrow.

Entry 4: 

Saw Chornakus and two others carry a man with a sack over head into the ruins. Recognized <<1>>'s armor. I signaled the vicecanons. This is too big for me.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#967)
	Journal of Magiul Shiana
17 Hearthfire, 2E 401

Young Prince Anton inherits the throne of his father this day. Queen Sylvie will stand by his side as he ascends for his coronation. The roasts and the cakes are prepared to my direction. I am proud of the servants. I cannot tell which dishes I cooked anymore and everything will be ready precisely on time.

The young Prince came down last night and requested my longfin stew for tonight's banquet. This old palace chef has never been so honored.

18 Hearthfire, 2E 401

I endured the tongue-lashing of Queen Sylvie for my "scandalous dish" in front of my staff. Little Gloria asked me why I didn't speak up and tell the Queen that King Anton requested it personally. She is, of course, so young. She cannot possibly understand. One does not speak up against their betters.

King Anton came down an hour later and thanked me personally for the meal. He will make a good king.

11 Rain's Hand, 2E 408

Queen Sylvie passed away this evening. She expired peacefully in her sleep. I berated the staff, who believed that cooking a meal for the ailing Queen tonight would be a waste of food. Still, I did not make them cook. Food should never be prepared with spite.

Instead, I went to the ailing Queen and asked what I could make for her. I could see that she knew she would not make it through the night. But she smiled faintly and humored me. She asked for my longfin stew.

27 Second Seed, 2E 409

King Anton has survived the poisoned darts of the assassins. The staff has worked diligently to prepare the most healthful food to help speed his recovery. I caught Gloria slipping potions of fortitude and health into his soup. I gave her the gold I earned for the week. She will make an excellent chef one day. After I am no longer around, of course.

14 Sun's Height, 2E 409

King Anton recovered fully. His first action was to hold a funeral for his Seneschal, the loyal servant who took the brunt of the assassins' cowardly attack. 

Gossip in the kitchen revolves around who is to be the next Seneschal. Gloria said it should be me. What nonsense.

19 Sun's Height, 2E 409

Gloria will have to prove her mettle in the kitchen sooner than I thought. King Anton has asked me to be the next Seneschal. I told him I knew nothing of the position. He replied that that was why he wanted me to take the job.

I suspect there is much the King is not telling me, but it is not my place to question his wisdom.

30 Frostfall, 2E 414

I recently rediscovered this journal. How very quaint it is, and so full of memories. I thought it would be amusing to write in it again. It seems so long since I was just the palace chef.

Gloria, my dear wife, has taken to the task better than I could have hoped. The servants look up to her, and she is proud of them each and every day. I understand the King's wisdom now. How he knew I would rise to this task I might never understand. I bow to his wisdom now as I did then.

22 Sun's Dawn, 2E 425

This old book has endured much. As I lie in this bed, coughing from poison, it brings me a small amount of joy. Gloria lies nearby. If I could will my strength into her I would. I slew the spy who poisoned the King's food myself, before I succumbed, but not before Gloria ate her fill.

King Anton is unharmed, but Gloria ….

7 First Seed, 2E 425

Gloria went to her final sleep in the night. One of the servants brought us dinner, not knowing what was to come. I didn't know Gloria had taught the servants how to prepare my longfin stew.

In the morning, the servant came and apologized for the crass meal. I told her it was all right. Longfin stew is a meal fit for a queen.

29 Rain's Hand, 2E 430

The shakes took me today and I fell. I am not so old that my own legs should fail me. Damn the effects of this poison! At least I found this book under the bed.

King Anton wants to try some Ayleid magic to heal me. His wisdom, as always, is beyond mine. The new Seneschal serves him well, but still he looks after this old man.

12 Last Seed, 2E 431

I think I died today. It is difficult to say. I can walk around and speak, but there is a detached feeling. I can feel the crown I am bound to, sitting in its chest, and the servant who watches me raise the pen and write these words looks at me fearfully.

I still serve my King, even in this spirit form. I do not tire and I possess a form so much closer to my younger self. I can serve until my King's bones turn to dust. And so I shall.

11 Hearthfire, 2E 450

The King passed away today and will be sealed in a tomb. I am to be his guardian. I could do with the solitude. The servants fear me and to be frank their company doesn't do that much for me, either.

* * *

Time has passed in the tomb and my inkwell runs dry. I am bound to the crown, buried with my once-King. His bones crumble, but still I serve. What use am I, serving in this hollow place? Was my King's wisdom so infallible, or did I just blindly believe in it?
		

Failed at /books/968Failed at /books/969		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#970)
	Letter From Tamien Sellan
Father,

You won't understand my reasons for leaving, but you deserve at least to hear them. Maybe you'll reread them eventually and they'll make sense.

I am not a mage. My talents in magic, by your own contemptuous admission, are weak. My skills lie elsewhere, and I plan to put them to use. I will never be the prodigal mage you hoped for, but you have never heard me sneak in or out of the house, nor do you likely know that I overheard your comments to your wizard friends over dinner. I know you think little of me, and wish I had been born otherwise, but I have not, and I'll spare you the further burden of my company.

I will send money home, a portion of that I make. Whether you find it proof that I am doing well for myself or simply find it useful to put food on your table matters not to me. Consider it slow repayment for the years you have dealt with the burden of an underachieving son.

I love you dearly, Father, but I cannot abide your company. Live well.

Your son,

Tamien
		

Failed at /books/971Failed at /books/972		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#973)
	Betrayal
This place I built on solid rock,

It breaks, crumbles away,

Destroyed and shaken to the core,

Betrayed by Alanwe

My blindness was my love for her,

Though any fool could weigh,

Her will was weak, her lust unbound,

That strumpet, Alanwe

My heart betrayed, I took her soul,

Cracked it with vicious fray,

Eternal now will be her pain,

'Tis the fate of Alanwe
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#974)
	Tsanji's Ship Records
Four frigates scuttled, no cargo recovered. Waste.

Two small boats found, repaired. We will need these for the shallows here.

Thalmor promise to provide smaller flotilla for crew. Sirinaire is a lying, bloodsucking tick, but she knows better than to lie to ME.

Had some crew desert over the new deal. Will need to drum up more sailors in another port. Khenarthi's too far.

I don't like the way that Argonian looks at me. The One-Eye. She'll make trouble, sooner or later.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#975)
	For Donel from Father
Thank you, my son, for humoring your father one last time.

I know you have always preferred swords to books, and though you may think that's been a disappointment to me, the opposite is true. I've been impressed with your independence, and I'm proud of the man you've grown to be. 

My father was a soldier. He often complained that I was too "bookish." When you were born, I vowed not to treat you that way. 

Though I could not bear to watch you march off to war while I was living, you now have my blessing. I sold my books, and I've left you what I hope will be a generous inheritance. Take it and buy yourself a strong sword and a sturdy suit of armor.

Follow your heart, my son, and find your happy destiny.

With love,

Your father, Frodibert Fontbonne
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#976)
	Weapon Activation
Canonreeve, 

If the need ever arises, it should be simple to activate the device. It is powered by a series of Welkynd Stones. It should target and destroy attacking ships of its own volition.

In addition to the stone in your possession, I'll keep one in the chest at my home. The final stone is at Marrayna's tavern. I know, I know, it's just a dalliance. But I wanted to give her something nice.

Just place the stones in the right sequence of sconces, and it will activate. The sequence is —
		

Failed at /books/977		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#978)
	The Folly of Isolation, Part 1
Act One, Scene One

A fool, believing he knows better than the dashing main character, enters stage left. Before him stands the imposing sight of Heartholdhelm. Within, the three bloodthirsty races of the Ebonheart Pact await. The fool strides forward, facing certain dismemberment by angry swamp lizards and berserk barbarians ….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#979)
	The Folly of Isolation, Part 3
Act One, Scene Four

A harried-looking High Elven woman sits at a table, surrounded by books. Her eyes are locked on the horizon, starting at nothing. Only the most perceptive would notice that a thin line of drool is sliding from the side of her mouth. Before her sits a massive tome, inscribed with the most intricate of runes ….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#980)
	The Folly of Isolation, Part 6
Act Two, Scene Two

A noble High Elf looks imperiously down her nose at the assembled Mages. 

RAZUM-DAR: These Mages would depart our borders with critical information, My Queen. They say they seek … isolation.

QUEEN AYRENN: Truly? Perhaps you do not understand the meaning of loyalty, little magelings!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#981)
	The Folly of Isolation, Part 7
Herein, the scene where the Hero kills their mother as she kills their father as he kills their uncle (see references at the bottom for subtext).
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#982)
	The Folly of Isolation, Part 8
Herein, find Act Three, where we have a speech about Covenants. Namely, the covenant a Daedric Prince has with his wedge of cheese ….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#983)
	The Folly of Isolation, Final Part
Act Four, Scene Six

A noble High Elf looks imperiously over her nose at the assembled Mages. 

RAZUM-DAR: These Mages would depart our borders with critical information, My Queen. They say they seek … isolation.

QUEEN AYRENN: Truly? Perhaps you do not understand the meaning of loyalty, little magelings!

RAZUM-DAR: Where have I heard that before?
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#984)
	The Toothmaul Contract
The members of the Toothmaul tribe, including its dependents, hereby agree to a permanent alliance with the Veiled Heritance, pledging any and all available resources to do with as the Heritance pleases. These resources include recruitment of Toothmaul tribe members into labor and fighting forces as the Heritance sees fit.

In exchange, the Heritance will provide the Toothmaul tribe with arms and armor from a selection of retired equipment in the reserve supply.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#985)
	The First of the Letters
My love, I can stand it no longer. Though I rebuked you, my heart yearns for your touch. To utter such words aloud is sacrilege, so I put these words down in hope you find them.

Find my second page, and you will find the mate.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#986)
	The Second of the Letters
If you love me as truly as you profess, come to me. I will wait for you, forever if I must.

A piece of me awaits you, unlocked by these mates of metal. Look for the silver coffer.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#987)
	The Last of the Letters
My love, we cannot be together. I am Ayleid; you, a mere slave. I am a thousand times your better. The world knows this. I know this. Even you know this, in your simple way.

But do not despair. I found a way for us to be equal in all things. Nothing shall keep us apart.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#988)
	Sanctuary: Final Assessment
Imperial Sanctuary Chimera

Logistics Report

Stores received and catalogued. The mages assure me their preservation spells will maintain the freshness of the food for decades.

Local water supply is good, but we've taken no chances. There's enough potable water for thirty days of normal use, assuming a contingent of our size.

Our disciplinary officers delivered the deserters assigned to guard Sanctuary Chimera. They thought their oaths wouldn't bind them, but they'll soon learn otherwise. After <<1>>'s ritual completes, we'll seal the seaward entrance as planned.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#989)
	Sanctuary: Weapons Report
Imperial Sanctuary Chimera

Weapons Report

The six catapults have been seen to. All siege weapons are stored per Imperial dictates.

Awaiting additional ammunition shipments. Some of the fire salts were ruined in transport. We've attempted salvage by spreading fire salt canisters along the entryway docks to dry, despite overreactions by some of our squad leaders. They seem to believe salvaging vital Imperial supplies is less important than troop safety.

Speaking of safety, all officers have received a roster of "volunteers" who shall guard Chimera Sanctuary. All volunteers will be notified tonight and taken to the Preservation Room. Any heavy lifting should be completed before then, as the volunteers won't be capable of anything beyond guarding the facility once the ritual is complete. These deserters will soon realize why their punishment was deferred.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#990)
	Torn Note from Jessen
Mistress,

We know where he shall be. We will remove the foul Resolute from the battlefield. We shall return to the island tower when we have completed our task.

Ever faithful, Jessen.
		

Failed at /books/991Failed at /books/992		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#993)
	A Prayer for My Family
To the Almightly Almsivi,

Watch over my family. I pray that those who are healthy remain safe, while those who are ill soon gain entrance to the quarantine. I received a token and am blessed. Soon I will get the cure. May the Three speed the elixir so that it works swiftly. Then my family may be united once more.

Ever faithful,

Ruthri Othrenim
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#994)
	An Offering
I offer these books in memory of my brother. 

May Sotha Sil's lore guide him in the lands beyond.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#995)
	The Words of the Rodent
Listen well and smell my words! The time draws near! 

The ravenous rodent spoke to me. He said the Mad God walks among us. 

Bring your offering and make your sacrifice, or the chateau will consume you!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#996)
	Kalodar's Letter
To Hlotild and Helfhild, the winds that sooth me by day and the stars that light my night:

I know this letter will never reach you in Whiterun. I write to you now only to ease my regret and loneliness as I pass from this world. I am a selfish man. 

But I loved you both dearly, and that is why I had to leave. You were no longer safe with me in the house, though you never suspected it. You knew of my debt, but not the dire threats my creditors had made. When I knew they were coming for me, I led them as far from you as I could. My prayers are only that my ruse succeeded and you are safe.

I am a selfish man. I wish you could hear these words, and that you could forgive me.

I will sing of you in the halls of Sovngarde. 

— Kalodar
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#997)
	Gabrielle Benele's Journal
The talisman is here! I'm certain of it! 

My research indicates that these hills hide the Midnight Talisman, a relic I believe is the key to defeating Angof. And my further investigations have enabled me to determine the exact hiding place.

I know that Commander Marone won't like it, but this opportunity is too good to let pass. I need to retrieve the talisman. There's no time to waste.

I believe that the crypt within the cliff face to the north of our camp serves as the talisman's final resting place. Unfortunately, our camp is under assault. Undead creatures relentlessly attack us from all sides. The Lion Guard soldiers grow weary with each assault they repel. I'll order them to return to the redoubt in the morning. If we make it to the morning. 

Then I'll head for that cave to the north.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#998)
	A Scrap of Parchment
For many years I've lain beneath these stony walls, this weathered heath.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#999)
	A Second Scrap of Parchment
Ten long years you were astray, with sword in hand so far away.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1000)
	A Third Scrap of Parchment
Those nine long years we spent in joy seemed to you a mere child's toy.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1001)
	A Fourth Scrap of Parchment
So here I wait. I long to see if you'll, at last, return to me.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1002)
	A Tally of Villagers
We must maintain a count of the population of Narsis. With so many already fled to Mournhold, the number we have to work with has dwindled significantly.

If we abduct too many of the villagers, the Llodos plague won't have enough victims to take hold of, nullifying the entire purpose of this experiment. Luckily, the nobles who believe everything will be just fine refuse to leave their houses and remain ripe to contract the plague.

As it stands, there should be enough people remaining to spread the plague efficiently once the pieces fall into place. Even so, we must continue to maintain our list. One miscount could affect the potency and reduce how far we can spread the disease.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1003)
	No Praise for False Gods
Praise not the false gods, for they do not care for you!

The Three would have you bow at their feet. They would have you give them your wives, your children, your riches, your homes! And what would they do for you? Nothing! They sit in their temple, mocking us as we struggle with our daily woes.

Let not the false claims of the Tribunal's help during the Akaviri invasion persuade you. We were the ones who fought on the battlefield. We were the ones who gave our blood and lost our sons and daughters.

No more! We will not stand by and praise these false gods who do nothing. We will take back this world! Even if some must die, our cause is just. We will be free!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1004)
	The Maulborn Manifesto
Our land is troubled. Disease, invaders, and internal strife are only the most obvious problems facing our people. Each of these troubles strikes like a hammer blow, crushing us anew. But we have survived the hammer blows. And we have been reborn! We are the Maulborn, and we have banded together with an altruistic spirit and a vision for a better Morrowind to provide the aid and assistance that the Tribunal is either unable or unwilling to give at this time.

With powerful benefactors from the most prominent Dunmer Houses and the support of nobles and commoners alike, the Maulborn strive to shelter the displaced, comfort the sick, care for the wounded, and feed the hungry. It is not only the popular thing to do, it is the right thing to do. To this end, the Maulborn have embarked on a massive recruitment campaign to fill our ranks with the able bodies we need to perform our charitable and compassionate work. Our goal is to create an army the likes of which Morrowind has never seen, an army of generosity to offset the hammer strikes that torment our land. 

To this end, we are proud to announce the opening of our first facility to aid the afflicted. The victims of the Llodos plague need care and succor, and the Maulborn shall provide it. Moreover, the afflicted need not only a treatment for the plague—they need a cure! And through the work of our alchemists and nostrums, the Maulborn are prepared to provide a cure to all of the afflicted who want it. Come to our facility at Quarantine Serk, where you and your loved ones will find the care and the help you so desperately require. And, if fortune smiles upon us, you will also receive a cure for the Llodos plague.

People of Morrowind, listen to the sound of a new kind of hammer. It strikes to create instead of destroy. To rise up instead of tear down. To help instead of hinder. This is the promise and the commitment of the Maulborn. Join us, and you shall be fulfilled! Seek us out, and you shall find the help you need. 

On this, you have our word.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1005)
	Etching on Ancient Sword
Nine years in bliss, our fates were tied. Our lovers' kiss? Not one denied.

If we had dreamed, our hearts awoke when on the tenth a battle broke.

I went to war, against our fears. Far out of sight for many years.

I've returned, my love, so we might break our bonds and be set free!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1006)
	A Summons of Heroes!
Do you have what it takes to join the most honored fighting company in Skyrim history?

— The Companions are looking for a few good Nord warriors. We want only the bravest and the strongest!

— If you think you have what it takes, report to Fallowstone Hall and ask for Vigrod Wraithbane.

— The application process is dangerous! New recruits have been maimed and even killed. You've been warned!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1007)
	Letter to Vigrod
Dearest Vigrod,

We were all thrilled to hear of your latest promotion! Your father still says you should have stayed on the farm, of course, but he's secretly proud to have a son in the Companions. Don't tell him I said so, though.

That sweet little Gurilda stopped by the house yesterday. She brought over some venison and a jug of Four-Eye Grog from her pa. She knows Dad has a sweet spot for the grog. And since he hurt his back and can't hunt, the venison is very welcome.

That girl's going to make someone a good hearth-wife someday soon. Could be you, if you came out of your shell a bit and actually talked to her. Pretty face, good hips, a fine farm to inherit, quite a catch all told. But no more about that.

Now don't you worry about us, we'll be fine. Pa can't work the farm like he used to, but we're talking about hiring a hand or two to help out. With all the refugees streaming past here day and night, help is easy to find.

Please try not to get stabbed or slashed any more. You weren't the handsomest of lads to start with. A few scars build character but too many will ruin what looks you have. 

All my love,

Mother
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1008)
	Borzul's Suicide Note
AAARRRRRGGGGHHHH! She cannot treat me this way. Borzul gro-Ghol stands for no insults! My shame must be wiped out.

Porath wishes me gone? Then I shall go! She spurns my advances? She will regret it! She will see what comes of shaming a member of the Gholin Clan. She will never forget my answer; she will never forget my name!

Courage is called for, I must not falter. I will not falter. To Mauloch I make this sacrifice of myself!
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1009)
	Ascendancy: Pathway to Lichdom
A Guide to Ascendancy: Pathway to Lichdom

By Gullveig the Ascendant

At last, I have discovered the secrets to casting off the shackles of mortality! I record them here for those who dare to follow in my footsteps. Pledge yourselves to me, swear ever-lasting allegiance, and you too can ascend to this lofty plane!

The first element is the will to force your body into death and beyond. Without this ultimate power of mind over body, the transformation cannot begin. Few have the courage for even this initial step; many falter and are lost when pain and horror overcome what little willpower they had.

Given the strongest of wills, great necromantic knowledge is next required. Willpower provides the force but knowledge focuses the will and directs the glorious transformation. Only the most intelligent and daring of necromancers delves deeply enough into forbidden knowledge, gathering the spellcraft needed to achieve blessed lichdom. I am one of those.

A plentiful source of souls is needed as well. These must be wrenched from their owners, as painfully as possible. The higher the degree of torment among your sacrifices, the purer the ascent to lichhood, the greater the power gathered in undeath. You ascend on a glorious stairway of screams and horror!

Lastly, a mighty magical relic is needed.  An evil-aligned relic will suffice, but a good-aligned artifact that can be perverted to this purpose is ideal. This relic is the casting focus for Urelu's Loathsome Coercion, the spell employed to wrench the required souls from their erstwhile owners. The more powerful the relic, the more painful the soul-rending.

Will, knowledge, souls, and power—these are the required elements of this most exalted of transformations. Attempt it if you dare!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1010)
	Betnikh Limerikh
There once was an Orc from Betnikh

Of warmth he said he was sick

But the gales of the Rift

Tossed his arse in a drift

Now his buns he can't unstick!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1011)
	Aronel's Journal
DAY 5:  

The Rift. Long have I dreaded it. I never knew there was so much desolation in all of Tamriel. And do Nords ever bathe? I can never seem to keep upwind of them. Oh, to be back in my library in Mournhold, open tomes strewn about me, a warm mug of mulled wine in one hand, my research assistant's breast in the other!

DAY 6:  

If Netapatuu spouts one more uplifting, cheerful example of what passes for wisdom among the lizards, I am going to shove his tail so far up his behind he'll have a second tongue. The idiot actually seems to enjoy plodding through this wasteland.

DAY 8:  

At last, civilization! Or as close as the Rift gets to it anyway. The glorious dungheap known as Riften came into view about midday. The mead-befuddled natives stared at us in their endearing, cross-eyed way, squinting through the alcohol fumes, probably wondering if we were edible. Deciding not, they staggered off, doubtless to vomit on each other in some sort of Nord festivity. Netapatuu secured for us the least flea-ridden beds in the least decrepit hostel in town and I finally had a decent night's sleep.

DAY 10:  

Wasting no more time in Riften, we headed for the far gate as fast as our mounts would take us. Not far up the road, we were assured, lay our destination, the tomb at Pinepeak Caverns. Long have  I cursed the Pact officials who forced this journey on me, citing the need for Dunmer to show the lesser races our dedication to the common good.

DAY 12:  

Our guide says Pinepeak is the mountain looming ahead of us. If it's not just the mead talking, then I need to re-read my notes. The ancient Companion spirit entombed within the cavern is said to still be around, in non-corporeal form. A shard containing a sliver of her essence should be embedded in the wall just inside the cave. With that, she can possess a body and I can drag out of her any light she might shed on some creature named "Sinmore." Who knows, perhaps long-dead Nords are wiser than living ones? They certainly can't smell worse.

DAY 13:  

Leaving camp to enter the cavern! Tomes, journal, and writing implements are all prepared. Netapatuu keeps muttering about ill omens, a cold breeze blowing up his skirt, or some such nonsense. I sent him to the back of the group and ordered him to shut up. Tonight's entry will write itself!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1012)
	Official Missive from Holgunn
Captain Jardirr,

Be wary of strange folk skulking about your post. We've received reports of individuals, sometimes Pact members in military uniforms, acting in suspicious fashion. Small, subtle acts seem to be their focus: a bottle moved, a torch lit, a door left unlocked. Be vigilant for even the smallest abnormalities.

Please note, this missive is not finding its way to every command. Keep this warning close to your heart. Do not mention these suspicions to officers you do not trust with the weight of your blade.

Keep your eye out in particular for Argonian assassins operating without adequate supervision. We have reason to believe some members of the Shadowscales have been co-opted.

The name going around is "Blackbriar." Be vigilant.

— Holgunn One-Eye
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1013)
	Warning to Jardirr
Captain Jardirr,

It's true. The scouts got it right. They're all here, all over. They've got camps on the southern slope of the hill. They've choked off passage between Stony Basin and the Riften valley. 

I managed to get the names of the clan chieftains. 

Rageclaw: Lydi Snowpelt

Boneshaper: Kevinne Blightheart

Stonetalon: Vivian Witchclaw

Ma'am, it's been a pleasure to serve with you.

— Melril
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1014)
	Jardirr's Commendation
Captain Jardirr,

In recognition of your dedicated service to the Ebonheart Pact, it is with pride and pleasure that I award this Letter of Commendation. Reports from the Dark Elf and Argonian members of your unit make it clear you take the mission of the Pact to heart and mind.

Keep this up and you'll be Centurion before this war is over. For the Pact and Glory!

— Holgunn One-Eye, Stonefalls Command
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1015)
	War Call of the Mammoth Herders
… and that's when Thewnar knew his moment had arrived, as life and death hung in the balance. The mammoth's tusk slammed into the frozen earth. Thewnar flexed his mighty thews and slashed his greatsword at the beast's massive trunk. It trumpeted again, roaring in fury.

Around him, Thewnar heard the call of the giants. The massive brutes bleated and moaned to each other in the crudest of tongues. They slammed their clubs into the ground, screaming for Thewnar's blood.

Thick wooden armor adorned the beast's flank. Thewnar's massive blade bounced free from its scarred surface. He roared his own battle cry and ducked beneath the war beast's front leg. The warrior slashed overhand, his blade biting into the dirt-and-dung matted hide ….
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1016)
	Kireth's Taarengrav Note
Raynor,

Your insistence on ignoring basic research continues to astonish me, dear brother. Look, you know what a dragon priest is? Right? Centuries ago, the Nords worshiped dragons as living gods. The most devout were elevated by the magic of the Dovah.

These shrines were everywhere. Now only a handful remain, most buried. Some may never be seen again. These ruins have a reputation for being draugr-haunted deathtraps, and they mostly are. But Taarengrav represents a unique opportunity to study this people's past.

Here we've already seen evidence of how they lived as they built idols to their gods. We've found some of their children's stories and toys. Small carved dragons, with writings in the dragon tongue etched in their side. Little blocks with notches, to teach children the names of dragons almost before they knew their parents' names

So stop complaining about how nice and warm the steam tunnels in Dwemer ruins are! You drive me mad.

— Kireth
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1017)
	The Sharpest Blade
Captain,

Here is a sample of some of the Master's most recent thoughts on war. As you know, his observations have inspired a generation of Dark Elf commanders. May they do the same for you.

He wishes you much success in the Cyrodiil campaign.

- - - - -

The greatest leader holds his most powerful spell in reserve. 

To understand your opponent, wear their armor. Know where it is weakest.

Hide your sharpest blade behind your softest cloak.

Know where the ground is firm, and where it is soft. You will always be the victor.

	

Every battle is an illusion. The strength of that illusion is up to you.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1018)
	Geirmund's Oath
Lord Geirmund, great battlemage,

saved the Rift in Harald's age.

He slew the wicked Gauldur three,

and set their father's spirit free.

His tomb was built upon this lake,

and in his name this oath I take.

Should evil come, should night descend,

I swear the Rift I will defend.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1019)
	A Request for Your Support
To the Honorable Tidyn Arthalen,

I want to first thank you for your service on the council that sat in judgment of my son. I will never forget your continued support of Meram and your insistence that death was too harsh a punishment for the crimes leveled against him. 

A great moment is coming, Sera Arthalen. The Tribunal has abused its authority. Almalexia has set herself up as our dictator. This is surely obvious to anyone with a clear heart and sharp mind. Her crimes cannot be allowed to continue. When the moment comes, I hope I can continue to rely on your support. Your support, and that of your preisthood and township, Selfora.

Yours in mourning,

Magistrix Vox
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1020)
	Response to Vox, First Draft
Lady Vox,

Know that I and my priesthood stand with you in your grief, but we cannot and will not stand with you in any folly perpetrated against the Tribunal. I am a humble servant dedicated to healing the wounds of the world, not inflicting them.

In truth, I believe that what your son did was wrong, but I stand against killing any living being—no matter what crimes they committed. Remember that Saint Veloth turned away from the path of war at the end of the Exodus. That was his great lesson. It is one we all must strive to emulate.

My deepest sympathies and fervent prayers,

Tidyn Arthalen
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1021)
	Vox's Final Reply
Sera Arthalen—My Dear Tidyn,

I am deeply saddened by your response to my most recent correspondence. Know that a great storm approaches, Sera. Your precious Selfora will not avoid its rage. A time comes when you must choose sides. It is inevitable. I do not recommend you oppose me when the line is drawn.

I shall be visiting Selfora in the very near future. We must discuss this matter personally. Exchanging letters can be so impersonal, and often the true meaning of our words is lost in translation. I want to make sure we truly understand each other.

I suggest you prepare for my imminent arrival.

Magistrix Vox
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1022)
	My Kwama Journal, Page 1
Although my father mocked my desire to study the kwama, I know that I have chosen well. I can't believe he called these fascinating creatures mere insects. 

The Great Houses might be scandalized to be compared to thriving kwama colonies, but these elegant creatures certainly remind me of the best of the Houses. They work in harmony. They share common goals. They have ranks and status, much as House operatives do. All their efforts reflect upon their queen, as House retainers and kinsmen reflect on their Grandmaster.

I hope to catch a glimpse of a kwama queen before too long.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1023)
	My Kwama Journal, Page 2
I acclimated, as kwama miners do, and these wonderful creatures have accepted me into the hive. I observe their behavior and even try to move like a kwama. 

Yesterday I sat quietly and a scrib sat next to me, letting me stroke it. The moment was interrupted by Harvyn, who scooped up the scrib and hurried off. He gave me a nasty glare. 

I know the miners find my habits strange, but I feel it is important to try to be a kwama so that I can fully understand them. My hope is to be so accepted by them so I can safely visit the queen.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1024)
	Valyia's Cargo Manifest
Mournhold Cargo Manifest 419283D-4

Merchant of Record: Valyia Hlar

Eggs, kwama, twelve dozen

Guar, sixteen sides of meat

Scuttle, twenty-four stones

Gorapples, eight bushels

Sujamma, twenty-four jars

Shein, eight casks

Flin, ten casks

Greef, three casks

Alik'r spices, assorted, six stones
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1025)
	Angry Love Letter
Leofa,

Just thought you should know that "your" Companion doesn't love you. He loves adventure and danger and killing things and getting his name scrawled on their damn walls. But he doesn't love YOU. Not the way I love you and have always loved you and will always love you.

When you finally come to your senses, you know where to find me.

Love,

Uggald
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1026)
	Mine Safety Regulations
— Shoring timbers should be at least a handspan in width and breadth.

— Mine shafts should be shored every three paces.

— Mine shafts should not be wider than three paces nor higher than two paces.

— Mine chambers should not be excavated wider than five paces between rock pillars left for roof support.

— No shouting or other loud noises.

— No running or horseplay.

— No racing in the mining carts.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1027)
	House Hlaalu Merchant Camp
Visiting traders and merchants, please adhere to the rules of this caravan camp.

— All merchants and their caravan crews are welcome to use the camp and its facilities.

— Absolutely no buying, selling, fighting, dumping, or wild parties allowed within the confines of the camp.

— The nearby ruins are dangerous and off limits to unauthorized visitors. Stay out of the ruins for your own safety.

— Please leave the camp in the same condition as when you arrived. Clean up after your crew and leave nothing behind.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1028)
	Furious Letter
YOU PIG!!!!

You are more of a pig than our pigs! And with my sister!!!! I hope you die a horrible death, screaming for mercy while animals root in your entrails, PIG!

I am taking the children and going to my sister's. No, not that one, she's all yours. My other sister.

DIE, DIE, DIE!!!!
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1029)
	Rilaso's Guide to Tamriel, Ch. 21
Chapter 21: Surviving the Rift

The key to surviving the Rift is to never go there. The Rift is no place for anyone but Nords. If you're not a Nord and you end up in the Rift, you will die in a horrible fashion.

If you don't freeze to death or get lost and fall off a cliff, you're going to be killed by wild animals. Bears and sabre cats are only too happy to eat you. Mammoths go out of their way to step or sit on travelers. Giants will kick you into the highest reaches of the nearest tree.

But for my money, the Nords are the most dangerous part of the Rift. They have hair-trigger tempers, an enormous capacity for mead, and very sharp weapons that they swing around constantly.

If they don't drink you to death or choke you with their noxious bodily odors, they'll chop off your head. You'll be in a tavern, say the wrong thing to a Nord, and next thing you know, your head will be flying through the air, spraying another layer of blood over the already gore-caked walls.

So, don't go to the Rift.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1030)
	Warning â Docks Unsafe
The Riften Town Council has declared the town docks unsafe. Reports of fishermen vanishing from the docks have become common. Witnesses claim that victims have been dragged beneath the waves by unknown culprits.

Frequent the docks at your peril!

— The R.T.C.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1031)
	Poetic Verse Contest!
 —The Residents of Skald's Retreat—

Challenge All and Sundry to a Poetic Verse Contest

Grand Prize: 200 Gold

First Prize: 100 Gold

Second Prize: 50 Gold

Entry Fee: 10 Gold

Spectator Fee: 1 Gold
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1032)
	General's Order 12008
Disciplinary action against Captain Valec Doronil is necessary for insubordination and deflating the morale of Tal'Deic Fortress with unnecessary adherence to foolish protocol.

The Captain's punishment: Execution.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1033)
	Public Notice of Promotion
My personal aide from Mournhold shall be appointed as retainer and stationed in the mess tent. He shall be accorded respect and asked no questions. Failure to adhere to this order shall result in harsh disciplinary action.

— General Gavryn Redoran
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1034)
	Private Dispatch (Secret!)
When you're able to slip away unnoticed, find the others in the ruins by the river. I ordered the soldiers to avoid the area, so you should have no trouble. Destroy this note after you read it, Durel Gilveni, or I will burn you to cinders.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1035)
	Stagger and Sway
O my sweet love, she waits for me,

Through storm and shine, cross land or sea.

I run to her and together we,

Sway as we kiss

Sway as we kiss

Her graceful shape I heave on high

And in one hand I hold her nigh

Her waiting lips are never dry

Sway as we kiss

Sway as we kiss

Come the morn she goes

The taste of her remains

And in my mind, I see us sway

Sway as we kiss

Sway as we kiss
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1036)
	End of the Journey
It was during the time of Great Despair when Saint Veloth and his people reached the land of Resdayn. For untold weeks they had climbed a mighty range of mountains under Veloth's leadership. Many among the Chimer considered this path to be folly, but they were driven by Veloth's unyielding certainty and commitment.

They came upon a great pass, a deep scar in the mountain covered in ice and snow. Veloth drove them onward, chasing a vision that had come to him in a dream. He claimed to see a great hawk in the sky. He vowed that the hawk would lead the Chimer to a new home. They drudged through the pass, but after a time the Chimer could go no farther. A great wall of ice blocked their way.

Then a powerful voice boomed from the mountains. "Who are you and why have you come to this place?"

"We are a people without a home," replied Veloth to the mountain.

A young woman stepped out of the wall of ice. 

"And who are you?" asked Veloth.

"I am Chimer-Friend. I have come to lead you home, if you are willing to accept my challenge. I demand a sacrifice of you, Veloth. Swear an oath that will make you a better Mer."

Veloth hoisted his mighty hammer and proclaimed, "Never again shall I wield this tool or any other to slay a foe. I have given my heart to my people, but now I shall give them more. I shall dedicate my life and my soul to them."

The woman turned and waved at the wall of ice. It melted away in moments. Beyond lay an alien land of fungus and ash. She began to walk forward and the Chimer followed.

Veloth spoke to his people. "We are home," he declared. "This is the anvil upon which we shall forge a new people. One journey ends here, but another journey begins."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1037)
	Relics of Saint Veloth
Next to the living gods of the Tribunal, Saint Veloth is among the most revered figures in Dunmer history. Several houses of worship exist in Deshaan dedicated to Veloth's memory and to the veneration of icons left to us by the saint and his original followers. A description of some of these relics and their significance follows.

Veloth's Judgment: Saint Veloth wielded this warhammer during the exodus from Summerset. Veloth saw fit to set aside this weapon when he vowed to turn his attention from war to the task of building a new home for the Chimer in Resdayn. Today, the Judgment resides in the Tribunal Temple and is said to have powers related to cleansing corrupted souls. 

The Tear of Saint Veloth: This radiant crystal is believed to be a tear shed by Veloth when he first laid eyes upon the land of Resdayn, the new homeland he had seen in his visions. According to the legend, the tear froze as it slid down Veloth's cheek. Kept by the monks of the monastery of Muth Gnarr, this crystal has great healing and restorative powers—provided the monks maintain a constant vigil and pattern of prayer.

The Holy Vessel of Veloth: Used by Veloth to carry water to quench the thirst of his sick followers during the exodus, and then later to irrigate the young crops of the new homeland, the Holy Vessel now resides in the temple in Selfora.

The Reliquary of Saint Veloth; The Reliquary that stands in the Shrine of Saint Veloth in Deshaan is not a relic, per se, but instead contains perhaps the most powerful and holy relics associated with Veloth—his skull and bones. The bones of the saint are said to have many magical properties, and pilgrims travel from across Morrowind to receive the saint's blessing. Legends claim that the most faithful sometimes receive visions of the saint while meditating and praying before the Reliquary.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1038)
	The Root Sunder Roots
The magically-burgeoning growths in these ruins are astounding. They snake their way through not only the walls, but out into the jungle soil. Tancano joked that they wormed through the city like a circulatory system. An apt remark, because here's the weird part: they share a pulse.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1039)
	The Root Sunder Market
If these are the ruins of Root Sunder, then this is the likely site of the city market. At its height this area would have been filled with merchants from across Tamriel, trading exotic goods and new ideas. It must have been an incredible sight. I sometimes feel like I can actually hear the low murmur of the crowd.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1040)
	A Nagging Question
Everyone is so excited about these ruins. "Surely this is the lost city of Root Sunder. Look at the masonry! Look at the layout!" But when Root Sunder disappeared, it contained the Ayleids who were constructing it. Nobody is asking the obvious question: 

Where are all the Elves?
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1041)
	WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE
WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1042)
	Aberrant Welkynd Stones
These aberrant Welkynd Stones resist magic, cutting tools, and blunt force. There seems to be no practical way to harvest these things. What damage I've managed to do seems to heal itself instantly. What exactly did the builders of this city create?
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1043)
	All Fear Agrakh
Heed well these words! All fear Agrakh, son of Mauloch and child of the Blade! May his rule be carved into the hearts of his clan, and his might spoken of only in whispers by his enemies.

Though the tree-dwellers strike at us from their cowardly perches, they fall as leaves to his mighty tread! Let the horns sing of his conquests as all who follow him bask in the glory of Mauloch!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1044)
	Heed My Words
Brother, 

You wish your child to learn the ways of a chieftain, yet you do not act as one. The Hound spoke to me of our needs. What our clan craves.

To reclaim our glory, I would fight a thousand Wood Elves. And he asks for one.

— Agrakh
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1045)
	Frirhild's Journal
Eislef suspects but doesn't know.

No telling what he'd do.

Rae found my pipe but didn't know. Told her it was one of Eislef's.

Running low, might try moon sugar if I run out.

Every time Eislef sees that Elf he yells at Rae.

Not her fault. Can't help herself.

I can't help her either.

Saw the Dunmer again. Eislef didn't.

Had to warn him, make him go away.

No good can come of this, not the way Eislef feels.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1046)
	Aera's Letter to Tryn
Tryn,

Soon, you're going to hear very bad things about me. I wish I could tell you they weren't true. But they are. All I can say is that I know I did wrong.

I know you're disappointed. I can't ever make this up to you, but please, remember I love you. And I'm sorry.

—	Mother
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1047)
	Aera's Letter to Denskar
Denskar,

I'm gone. I'm not coming back. You're going to hear rumors about me. I'm ashamed to say they're true.

After Tryn died, I lost my way. I will have no more to do with the Worm Cult, but that doesn't make up for the things I did.

Please take care of Littrek. I know he won't understand. I pray that you will someday. I won't ever stop loving you, Den, but you should move on. I've done too much wrong to ever come back.

All my love,

—	Aera
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1048)
	Half-Burned Note to Borodin
Borodin,

Golun is dead, as you ordered. I feel like I am too. I can't stop seeing the shock and pain in his eyes. 

Maybe I'm not the killer I thought I was. Either way, after we finish the Thane I'm done with the cult and with you.

If you come after me, we'll learn if I can kill again.

—	A
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1049)
	There Are Ways
Aera Earth-Turner:

You have lost those dear to you. But there are ways you may be reunited with them. Old ways, proven through time and blood.

Join us. All we ask is information about the Pact's movements. Provide those, remain loyal, and we will reunite you with your loved ones.

In Mannimarco's name,

—	Thallik Wormfather
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1050)
	Altmeri Overseer's Journal
12, Last Seed

The slaves are more agitated than usual today. Last night's beating of the one called Koth seemed to stir him to an emotion other than fear, but the magus assures me the pacification spells upon the creature will keep him in line.

15, Last Seed

There was another spat between the kitchen staff and the slaves today. Koth tried to take scraps from the refuse bin without permission and we were forced to have him flogged again in front of his kin. It is becoming difficult to remind the Goblins of their place.

17, Last Seed

Melanil, the head of the kitchen staff, was found dead in the wine cellar this morning. From all evidence, he took a spill down the stairs and broke his neck, but I remain dubious.

18, Last Seed

A fire broke out in the armory just before dawn. While it was contained before it could spread to the rest of the estate grounds, unknown looters made off with some of the weapons. We've petitioned the kinlord for more guards in case we have bandits on our hands.

19, Last Seed

Koth apparently wishes to speak to me later this afternoon about their living conditions. This should be amusing. I will be heading down to the slave dens with my deputation. A show of force should remind the beasts that they continue to live solely at our discretion. What threats could these Goblins possibly pose?
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1051)
	Verses of the Illuminated
Verse 5

At first was one and then was Nirn before there were many

Auri-El climbed the sky daring the many to follow

Try they did but the many could not and trying was their sorrow
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1052)
	Silver Crawdad Surprise
Ingredients:

Two silver crawdads, cleaned

One onion, chopped

Two carrots, diced

Two tomatoes, sliced

Two cups of stock

Preparation:

Combine half the tomatoes with the stock to create a marinade. Soak crawdads, turning every half-hour, in a cool dry place for a total of four hours.

Remove the cawdads and reduce the marinade until it coats the spoon.

Combine onion, carrots, and the remainder of the tomatoes wit a small quantity of clear spring water to the marinade. Braise the cleaned crawdads in this mixture for an hour.

Serves four.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1053)
	Inventory (Confidential)
For Nelayna's eyes only. Do not leave in plain sight.

— One-hundred fifty-seven decommissioned breastplates with greaves and pauldrons (mismatched)

— Seventy-three single-edged military daggers

— Eighty-seven broadswords

— Fifty-eight infantry shields, without straps

— Six-hundred thirty-eight broadhead arrows

— Ten military-grade short bows
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1054)
	Kireth's Prism Notes
The alignment of all of these crystally prism things seems to indicate that some shooty sparkly bits once propelled energy around the chamber. This is just a working theory, mind you, but I think I can repair this thing and make it do something. I just need some more sparkly bits and spinny parts from the metal spiders crawling around the ruin.

That would require fighting the icky spiders, however. I hate spiders.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1055)
	Raynor's Bthanual Notes
After reviewing Kireth's notes on the prismatic emitter matrix set into the conduit chamber shows some remarkable strides in the understanding of Dwemer construction. Her scribbling may be childish and her language is, at best, imprecise, but her conclusions are no less exceptional despite her best efforts to the contrary.

My sister actually managed to generate and execute a working hypothesis that allowed her to not only determine how the Dwemer device was supposed to operate, but resulted in her repairing and utilzing the device to open a door that had been sealed—almost literally—forever.

She was able to fashion a replacement for a damaged emitter stone using scavenged parts from damaged Dwemer constructs and her own saliva. I won't touch the new component, and that's certainly not how I would have solved this predicament, but I am proud of my little sister.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1056)
	Letter to Captain Helane
My Dear Captain,

It appears I missed you at home. I did, however, have the pleasure of meeting six or so of your men. Tough as they appeared, I'm afraid they simply couldn't hold their liquor.

I do hope to make your acquaintance again soon. I really need to thank you for what you've done to my ship and crew.

Pleasant dreams.

— Captain Lerisa
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1057)
	How Long Before the Echoes Fade?
I've no idea how long we've been here, but already it feels like years. 

The black-clad soldiers burned our farm and took my entire family. On a black, moonless night, they laid us upon stone altars encrusted with black tallow and caked with the blood of countless victims, and one by one, they put us to the knife. This is what being damned is. We're chattel for the Daedra.

I can't find it in me to cry for what I've lost, not anymore. Day after day this state of being, this soullessness, drains my will. It becomes harder to remember. Harder to think. I've lost so many memories. My father's face? My mother's voice? It doesn't seem possible, but they're gone. Just gone.  

Even the basest of emotions are fading. I'm past the point of being indignant toward my captors. I'm past the point of feeling sorry for myself. All that's left is a gaping emptiness, and the distant echoes of a life that seems like a stranger's.

How long will it be before even the echoes fade?
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1058)
	Record of Taxation for Year's End
By dictate of the Potentate, the taxation of the village has been increased to match that of the other Colovian and Nibenese settlements. Naturally, this mandate was not well-received by the commoners, and the mayor's coffers were further tapped by the need to hire mercenaries to quell a violent uprising.

Nevertheless, with the assistance of the newly-founded Fighters Guild—as the clerk notes, created by dictate of the Potentate, may his wisdom forever lead our Empire to prosperity—the taxes appropriated met the requirements imposed by the Imperial administrators. Each citizen's contributions are to be recorded accurately.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1059)
	The Clues, Damn Your Eyes
If you're reading this, you're after my treasure. You won't find it in my chest, oh no.

I buried the booty somewhere on Stros M'Kai. Exactly where is the challenge; I hope you fail.

Below are all the clues I'll give. If you're clever enough, the treasure's yours. 

My curses upon your narrow shoulders, you Goblin-spawned swine.

— Captain Izad

Stand atop Saintsport's star

And spy the eternal sentinel

Skirt its gate to reach the shrine

Northwest stands the warrior

Walk forty-five paces south

Leftward palms frame the sight

Of the island of iron faces

Follow the rocky finger

Through the broken ship

Find the stone ship at anchor

Riches lie under leaves in its port
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1060)
	Baan Dar and His Boast
Do you love to laugh? Have a talent for trickery? A passion for pranks?

Then come to Baan Dar's Boast! Returning to the ruins at Thormar for the 25th consecutive year! Three Banners War got you down? Come and enjoy the flowing brews of the Bosmer, the cunning quips of the Khajiit, and celebrate the will to survive here on the edge of Elsweyr!

This year you can join with the funny faithful of the Pariah's Hand, the Khajiiti group in this year's boast. By the Exile, do they know how to have a good time! Or, sign up with the other side and the woolly Wood Elves of the Subtle Knife! Definitely not a group of assassins during the off season!

Whether you come to prank or just drink your days away: Baan Dar's Boast! Survival of the smartest on the savannahs of Reaper's March.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1061)
	First Scroll of Baan Dar (Excerpt)
Translation by Jarvus, apprentice to Arkan the Gifted, Daggerfall City, 2E 255

Scholars have labored for years to fully translate the scrolls of Baan Dar, vellum parchments found in a series of alabaster jars near Lake Vread in eastern Elsweyr. I myself can make no claims to this translation's authenticity … reader beware.

— Yanabir-ja, loyal follower of the Boaster

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Baan Dar, The Legend … Thief, Warlock, Shadowmaster, the Boastful, Mastermind of Nefarious Plots. All these things and more are the Legendary Baan Dar, he who is called the Bandit God. The Exile. The Pariah. But what is the Truth?

Baan Dar is a much more simple and complex being. I pen this tale as I slowly die of old age and a mortifying arrow wound. I cannot decide if the truth will add to or subtract from the legend that is Baan Dar, nor if the original Baan Dar would want the truth to be known. Therefore, I will leave this tale hidden when I am done and gone, and let Fate (which was ever Baan Dar's true master and motivator) decide.

I was a child of 12 Seasons when I first met Baan Dar. Orphan of a Slaver raid during one of the many inter-provincial border wars. Living by my quick wits, nimble fingers, and the grace of Lady Luck in the back alleys and byways of my birth city. I had just "liberated" a loaf of bread and a few small apples from a local street vendor in the Bazaar on the edge of the city near the tumbled outer wall, and had withdrawn down an ill-lit alley to feast on my bounty when I was beset by an older band of my ilk. The older and lazier variety which were wont to engage in the easier and less dangerous art of stealing from the stealers.

There were 5 of the bully boys who had decided they were more deserving of my booty than I, and they were beating me half to death with staves in between bites and laughter at the time. Lying on the ground curled up into as tight a ball as I could manage, trying to protect my head and groin, I heard a quiet voice ask if they were not "more suited to go down to the wharf and take food from your brother rats, or would you care to try your tricks on game a bit more your size and number?"

Since my "companions" had become otherwise engaged with the newcomer and had for the nonce ceased thumping, kicking, and cuffing at me, I looked up to see a dark shadow of boots, cloak, and chainmail hood leaning against the wall at the end of the alleyway.

The others, being what they were, took this as a challenge to their manhood—and easy prey to their superior number with a promise of coin of the realm as added reward (else the first part would have been overlooked). The leader of my band of playmates suggested that the stranger take a leap off the aforementioned wharf unless he wished to join me there when they were done with their evening meal.

Having drawn chuckles and courage from his underlings, he then proceeded forward with staff at high port. I'm not quite sure exactly what followed, but within a short space of time, Lead Bully was lying in the dirt with a thrown dagger in his chest, number two bully had lost three teeth to a boot (I still carry them in a leather pouch as a keepsake), and number three bully was brought short by his own staff applied forcefully up between his toes (the two big ones!). Bullies four and five thought better of the entertainment and departed rapidly for parts unknown.

Baan Dar picked me up, dusted me off, and dragged me round to a nearby tavern where we shared a meal and a mug. I attempted to thank him for saving my life. How can I ever repay this favor, I asked? His reply was short, to the point, and has driven my actions in life ever since. 

He said, "Never repay a favor, kid. Pass it on to someone else."
		

Failed at /books/1062		Part of the Final Words collection (#1063)
	Risa's Journal
My name is Risa Uvaril. My restless and reckless nature led me to this place. I longed for adventure, to prove myself, to see the world. My poor mother longed for me to find steady work, to be safe, to one day put a grandchild in her arms. I would not listen. I could not.

I don't have long to live. I feel the coldness of the snake venom slithering through my veins. I am out of potions. I thought to face the trial of the Ghost Snake, to walk the Coiled Path. A Mabrigash wisewoman warned me against it. Curse my restless, reckless nature. I ignored her.

I'm not afraid, but I do have one sorrow. The amulet my mother gave me was lost when the snake delivered the poison that's now killing me. I regret that my last words to my mother were hard ones. Cold, willful. And that I lost the amulet my mother gave to me when I was a young girl.

If you're reading this, may you fare better on the Coiled Path than I. If you find a small gold amulet engraved with an R on one of the serpents, take it to my mother. Aneyda Uvaril at Tal'Deic Fortress. 

Tell her my last thoughts were of her.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1064)
	A Ragged Inscription
I know we haven't heard from the Hound, but we were sent here to do his bidding. We must obey the Hound or face his wrath. Bring the woman to the cave for safekeeping until we hear back from the Hound. 

I will watch over her.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1065)
	Curano's Journal
Molag Bal's ravenous hordes claw at the gates to Delodiil. The wave of undeath comes from the city of Abagarlas, as always. And Meridia has shown us a dire warning. Their king has begun plans for a magical rite. A ritual with a focus of power that will drain all the life from our home. Without some kind of dramatic act, Delodiil will be lost. King Cenedelin himself has asked me to form a plan. We have the power, the magicka, the skill. We must be able to stop these inhuman monsters.

- - - - - - - - 

The plan has begun. We've forged a weapon. It took … much sacrifice. But the weapon will stop the ritual, end this Mortuum Vivicus we've learned about. Our group has been tasked with entering the hated city of Abagarlas and ending the threat. Meanwhile King Cenedelin will ride against the dark city's walls. With his full host and the might of Meridia behind him, we can win the day.

- - - - - - - - 

It is done. King Anumaril's entire family is put to the sword, and Abagarlas itself destroyed by the righteous lightning of Meridia. The ritual is stopped but … we cannot go home.

The weapon was ruined in the attempt. We've salvaged the Prismatic Core at its heart, and carry with us the plans to construct the weapon anew. We are hunted by beasts of Molag Bal. We must get the crystal to safety, but we dare not lead these creatures home.

- - - - - - - - 

Almost a week, all the while hunted by death. We dare not return to Delodiil now. The beasts would destroy our home and take the crystal. Instead, we've determined we must try to hide the core and the tome of instructions. A Dwarven ruin called <<1>> is close by. It should suffice as a final resting place for these precious relics.

I just pray <<2>>  is ready for what must be done.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1066)
	Lanath's Journal
I owe everything to <<1>>. He saved me from the dark manipulations of Abagarlas' king. Showed me the light of Meridia. To think I would let him attempt this mission without me at his side. I don't know the details, but I know where we're going. And anything that puts a shiv in Molag Bal's eye will make me rest easier.

- - - - - - - - 

We barely escaped Abagarlas. The fighting was intense, and I still can't believe what happened. Since making our escape, vampire assassins and ghoulish huntsmen have dogged our every step.

- - - - - - - - 

<<2>> says we're heading to <<3>>. I'm not sure how a Dwarven city figures into the plan, but I'm not here to think.

- - - - - - - - 

Our goal is to safeguard that crystal they took from the weapon, and some book. We've been searching the mountains for weeks now, traveling far into the eastern peaks. Insane mer. I worry <<1>> has lost his mind, but then again, there's a lot I don't understand about this trip. At least I'm still alive.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1067)
	Endarre's Log
It's just the two of us now. We've been down here in the dark for so long … I don't know what day it is. Ostarand is quiet, even as the sounds get closer. He misses Valasha a great deal, I can see it on his face.

We're trapped, as far as we can tell. The doors forward refuse to open, no matter how we tug on them.

- - - - - - - - 

I think we may have it. It's taken us days to figure out, but … the guardian constructs in this room contain strange red crystals that glow from within. They look like they'll fit into the sockets near the doors.

With a little more time, I believe we can find a way through.

- - - - - - - - 

The constructs. They've broken through. I think this will be the end. Goodbye, Lannessa. Wherever you are. I loved you. Know, with my last words, I loved you.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1068)
	Ostarand's Diary
Everything I did, everything I had to do at Abagarlas. I'll never forget the sight of that place. The feeling that washed across me. The sight haunts me.

- - - - - - - - 

The hunters hound our every step. They smell it on me, I know it. They know I was there. They can smell the blood of that dark family on my armor. I can hear them in the night. I pray to the Sunburst that we will soon find shelter.

- - - - - - - - 

This ruin seems as good a place as any. If we can find a safe place to hide the crystal, perhaps the constructs will allow us to escape the dead.

- - - - - - - - 

<<1>> told me she plans to sacrifice herself for some ludicrous plan, some fantasy that <<2>> has filled her head with. The crystal is lost, its power gone. I've argued with <<2>> for hours. Now <<1>> won't even speak to me.

- - - - - - - - 

<<1>> finally broke the silence. She's adamant that this must happen. I understand her duties as a priestess of Meridia, but I never believed they'd lead her to self-sacrifice. Her beliefs come first. I cannot fault her for that. 

I just wish our story wasn't going to end this way.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1069)
	There Is No Going Back
<<1>>,

Our cause would be glad to have one so well versed in magic. Your former employer was foolish not to put your talents to better use, but his loss is our gain.

Join us in Abamath, but be warned! There is no going back. Cut ties with your former life. Distractions will not be tolerated in your service to the Black Worm.

																																							— <<2>>
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1070)
	Firuin's Journal
<<1>>  has let me down for the last time. I told him to meet me on Balding Hill so we could leave this backwater and build a new life. He never came.

I tried to explain, but he doesn't understand how much we could learn out there! That there is so much more than the lives of those who went before! New methods to be discovered! Secrets! 

Instead, he clings to the past. He makes his brew the way his mother did, and her father before her. Never changing, never experimenting. It's sickening!

I even summoned an atronach to demonstrate what is possible, but he left it in some musty cavern with some jerked mammoth and Y'ffre knows what other refuse he's dredged out of the forest. 

He'll learn his lesson soon enough, though. Without regular bindings, even the lowliest atronach is prone to rebellion.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1071)
	The Reality of Spirits
By Felari-ko, Scholar of Intriguing Mysteries of Unusual Origins

Our world is strange. But it's also fascinating.

Some people conjure fire from their fingertips. Others lift large objects using just the power of their minds. Is it so far-fetched to think that people infused with magicka in life could not find a way to step through the barriers of death? That they could sustain their essences and remain capable of communicating with those of us still possessed of life's sweet kiss?

Yet my studies indicate that as life fades from our bodies upon death, so too should the magicka depart with our last breath. But we know spirits exist. I have personally encountered more than one haunting stare through the course of my research. I have seen desperate, ghostly eyes full of fear and longing for help. It's almost as if some memory of life still lingered in the spirit form.

What if we could communicate with these spirits? What if we could call them to us to ask them why they still haunt a house or a gravesite or a battlefield? I believe I might have found a way. A way to speak to those who have passed on. Perhaps we can finally learn if the dead are truly dead.

I intend to learn these secrets. I intend to speak to a spirit and discover what that spirit truly is.

Watch for my next book on this subject: 

"Life After Death: Incredible Secrets Revealed!"
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1072)
	Scroll of Eight
        Serpent

                  Darkness        

                        Devourer 

                Dreamer 

       Silence

                  Light

                          Death

                  Rebirth

These are the eight sacred aspects of the Ghost Snake. Each contains a truth, a lie, and a mystery that entwines upon itself, forever undulating like the coils of the great serpent.

Ghost Snake, accept our humble offering!
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1073)
	Tanglehaven's Fletchers
Little more than a collection of huts, the village of Tanglehaven is famous among the Bosmer for their superior fletchings. One might say it is driven by their need for survival—raids from the Wood Orc clans in the area have been known to raze undefended settlements with little to no warning.

Even with their knowledge of the ways of an arrow's flight, not many Jaqspurs call this village home. Treethanes with ambitions beyond the forest might find themselves recruiting armies to go with their superior weaponry, but so far, Valenwood has been blessed with a line of peaceful Bosmer.

Now, with the recent Thalmor alliance, will the tranquil village find itself heeding the call of the war drums? Will the arrows from Valenwood fly so far as to pierce the very heart of Cyrodiil? Only time knows the answer.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1074)
	Captain Izad's Letter
Stand atop Saintsport's star

And spy the eternal sentinel

Skirt its gate to reach the shrine

Northwest stands the warrior

Walk forty-five paces south

Leftward palms frame the sight

Of the island of iron faces

Follow the rocky finger

Through the broken ship

Find the stone ship at anchor

Riches lie under leaves in its port
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1075)
	The Way of the Baandari
Do not slander another child of the Baandari.

Remain mindful in all dealings.

A gift must be returned in kind.

A fair trade need not be fair only in gold.

Truth and cleverness need not be enemies.

Find what is lost, trade what is found, and leave what has no purpose.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1076)
	Altered Missive
My friend,

We have a new employer. Clean out the werewolves, and he'll pay hefty coin for every ear you bring back.

Make it quick and quiet. Don't want trouble from anyone.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1077)
	Horrors of the Strid Basin
Hoarvors.

One can but speculate on the origin of these disgusting creatures. Their grotesque nature is matched only by the horrors of Oblivion, yet Bosmer insist they have lived in Valenwood since time immemorial.

Similar in appearance to their insectile kin, hoarvors are opportunistic beasts that do not hunt so much as come upon their victims.

Slow and rotund, one might expect these slothful arthropods possess a docile—if morbid—nature. Indeed the common hoarvor is not quick to strike a lone enemy, yet together—or in the presence of abundant food—they may attack with a ferocity that belies their portly appearance.

Were this not enough, jagga and other barmy substances are known to drive the beasts into a frenzy. 

One must therefore take great care what one imbibes in the presence of Wood Elves, who derive rare pleasure from the husbandry of these monstrous abominations.
		

Failed at /books/1078Failed at /books/1079Failed at /books/1080Failed at /books/1081		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1082)
	Lab Warning: Be Careful!
Pay attention to what you are doing, idiots. The liquids we are cutting the skooma with can be flammable if mixed.

DON'T BREAK THE BOTTLES. We could lose the whole lab if a fire starts.

— Rakhad
		

		Part of the None collection (#1083)
	BOOK 1
Hi,

Please read Book 2, on your right

Thanks you.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1084)
	Rosalind's Orders
Edgard,

I'm sending everyone to you. Hide them and keep them safe. Your inn is the biggest, most defensible building in town. You can post archers at the windows on the second floor and barricade the front door.

Muriel will make healing poultices for my guards until she absolutely can't make anymore. I'm going to try to light the signal fire so Eagle's Brook can see what's happening here. Maybe they can send help.

Leon is praying for us. He's hoping for a miracle and I won't get in his way, but the Divines help those who help themselves. We've all got our parts to play.

When the guards fall back, Marlene will help you organize a defense here. Good luck.

— Rosalind
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1085)
	Letters from Leon and Rosalind
I collected our letters in this book so that we would always have a record of our blossoming love.

— Rosalind Milielle

22 Frostfall, 2E 219

To Rosalind,

I accidentally let your dog get free and he tore up some of your garden. I planted some more seeds to make up for it, but I wanted to let you know so you weren't surprised when you got home.

I hope your training in Daggerfall is going well. Stendarr watch over you.

— Leon



7 Sun's Dusk, 2E 219

Dear Leon,

If Baily gets into something he shouldn't, just bat him on the nose. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble planting things. It's nearing winter, after all. Still, I do appreciate it.

— Rosalind



19 Rain's Hand, 2E 220

Leon,

I wanted to leave this note for you before I went off to Camlorn. The flowers you planted were beautiful. Did you ask around to find out what my favorites were?

Also, you lied to me about the garden. You extended my garden out another six paces, just to plant those flowers! It was sweet, but aren't you an acolyte? What would Stendarr think of your deceptions?

— Rosalind



26 Rain's Hand, 2E 220

Dearest Rosalind,

As long as you enjoyed the flowers, Stendarr will understand. I do apologize for lying to you, though. I'd be happy to help take care of the plants whenever you're away.

— Leon



1 Second Seed, 2E 220

My dear sweet Leon,

You can visit and tend my garden whenever you please. I get home in two weeks. Perhaps we can plant some roses together when I get back? I'd like that very much.

— Rosalind
		

		Part of the None collection (#1086)
	How to not read a book.
If you can read this, then there must have gone something completely wrong. Unfortunately, there is no way to find out what really went wrong.

My apologies, best you just go along and pretend that you have never read this.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1087)
	On the Interrogation of Witches
As the Witchhunters of Direfrost have learned through centuries of practice, torture is the only effective method of interrogating a person suspected of practicing witchcraft. 

Some have asked whether it is acceptable for the Witchhunter to lead witches to believe their lives will be spared when, even if they confess to their crimes, they will almost certainly be put to death. 

It must be answered that opinions vary. Some hold that a witch of very ill repute may be spared, and condemned instead to perpetual imprisonment, in return for sure and convincing testimony against other witches. Others hold that the promise of imprisonment should be kept for a time, and the witch be burned later. A third view is that the Witchhunter may safely promise to spare the witch's life, and later excuse himself from pronouncing the sentence, allowing another to do this in his place.

If these threats and promises do not induce the witch to speak the truth, the Witchhunters must carry out the sentence, and torture the prisoner according to the accepted methods. During this torture, the witch must be questioned on the articles of accusation, beginning with the lighter charges, for the witch will more readily confess the lighter than the heavier.

If a witch confesses under torture, they must afterward be conducted to another place to confirm the confession and certify that it was not due alone to the coercion of the torture. The Witchhunter shall see to it, moreover, that during this interval, guards are constantly with the witches, so the witches will not be visited by Daedric influences that might aid them or tempt them into suicide.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1088)
	To the Captain of the Guard
Three servants and no fewer than six family members have been murdered in a fashion suggesting the vilest witchcraft. 

Several months ago, one of our patrols captured and executed a coven of Ice Witches from the north. We now have evidence that one of their kind escaped. I fear that she entered the castle for the celebration, disguised as a commoner, to enact her vengeance. Have trusted guards and servants seal all entrances to the castle immediately. All guests from the surrounding villages should be immediately placed under guard and restrained if necessary. 

This Ice Witch, Drodda, is aligned with the darkest powers of Oblivion and should be considered extremely dangerous. Kill her on sight.

Agomar, Lord of Direfrost
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1089)
	Nicolene's Diary (Private!)
Hey you, whoever you are. This is private. Private! If you read it, I'll kill you. I swear.  Knife you in the ribs while you sleep.



































22 Sun's Height

Sailed into Davon's Watch today. There were Dark Elves and Argonians everywhere. I asked Tumma-Shah if she knew any of them, but she just shook her head.

Davon's Watch is crazy looking. The buildings are huge and strange. They all look like churches, with spires and arches and such. I bet Brother Cantrall would love it.

<Nicolene has sketched one of the Dark Elf towers. It's quite good. She has a knack for architecture.>

I wonder what old Cantrall would do if he knew I was sailing with Captain Kaleen? Ha! I bet he wouldn't approve. I kind of miss him, though.



28 Sun's Height

We landed in Skywatch today. Captain Kaleen took me ashore! I thought the Dark Elves were crazy, but the High Elves build like they want to prove something. You can't take two steps without seeing some crazy spire thing. They're nuts.

<Nicolene sketched a bunch of towers here, all in a row. They might be made of crystal.>

Gall and pox, the High Elves are so snooty! I could tell the motherless sods didn't want to deal with the captain, but in five minutes she had them eating from her hand. She's amazing.

I wanted to see more of the city, but the sodding Elves are really picky about outsiders, so we had to stay on the docks. But we spent the whole day together! I took notes and carried her stuff.



4 Last Seed

We got attacked! Master Kasan said it was a Dunmer slave ship. They had mages on the decks, throwing giant fireballs at us. It was terrifying!

One of the masts caught on fire, but Tumma-Shah climbed up and put it out. The captain turned us into the wind, laughing like it was all a game. They couldn't keep up. Mara, how does she do it?

I was shaking so bad after. Kasan has told me horrible things about Dark Elf slavers. I think some of his family are still in Morrowind. I wonder if he misses them.

Anyway, this is the best part. After we were safe, the captain saw me shaking and took me aside. She told me I was brave and did well. Then she hugged me. Hugged me!

Mara, I'm still tingly. It felt so good!



8 Last Seed

As soon as we put into Daggerfall again, I'm going to take all my savings and buy some new clothes. Something nice and proper, something the captain will like.

I asked Tumma-Shah if Kaleen's ever been married. She just flicked her tongue at me, but I bet not. Kaleen's too strong and independent to marry some stupid man, just like me.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1090)
	Scrap of Adubaer's Journal
… separated from the others. Can't let them escape. Disable the devices, perhaps? Too close to fail now. Even if it means this one's end as well, Morantor won't get what he desires. The secrets will die here with us ….
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1091)
	The Interrogation of Henghild
The following is an account of the events encountered during the interrogation of the witch Henghild of Wittestadr by Garmath, Witchhunter of Direfrost.

The interrogation was unremarkable for a time, and the crone had no unusual reaction to the various implements of torture beyond the expected screaming and pleading. It was when her blood first spilled that the manifestation began.

The witch grew suddenly still, as if in a trance. At once, a chill wind filled the chamber, and the flame of the braziers turned an unearthly shade of green. Echoing all about, yet seemingly coming from no discernable source, all present heard a guttural, but unmistakably cogent chant, almost like a religious invocation. Upon reflection, I suspect that this was the language of Oblivion; the obscene tongue of the Daedric Princes. 

The iron chains that bound Henghild to the slab crumbled, impossibly, and fell away. Her back arched and her eyes rolled back in her head. Slowly, her body rose with no visible means of levitation, suddenly hovering several feet above the slab. 

After a moment, her mouth opened and she began to speak. But it was not the voice of the crone that issued forth, but rather the voice of a Daedric abomination. Her words were transcribed by no fewer than three witnesses. I record them here, in their entirety:

"Pain unto innocence. Screams in the dark. Nocturnal is here.

"My loyal servant is tortured and burned, bound and tormented, bereft of her life.

"The clan called Direfrost think themselves righteous, but Nocturnal has seen their wickedness.

"My curse be upon you, and your descendants.

"Your judgement will first be rendered in the form of an Ice Queen who comes in the guise of a pauper.

"Your blood shall be frozen. Your torment long and painful.

"And when your savior comes to release you, know that your true suffering has only just begun.

"There will be a reckoning between past and present, and the name Direfrost will lie in tatters before the end. 

"A new Ice Queen will bring unto Direfrost all the anguish of Oblivion, and you shall know true suffering." 

At this moment, the crone's body burst into green flame, and crumbled to ash.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1092)
	Second Scrap of Adubaer's Journal
… to be off the ship and back on land. The sea is not for this one. Night falls and we make camp outside Bthzark. The others are wary but suspect nothing. Finally, something to hold above Morantor's head, to make him squirm. To think he did not even recognize his former slave. Reminding him will be delightful.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1093)
	Drivas' Journal (Partial)
Adubaer's claims proved to be true. We found the island. The Rourken really did come this far. Still, I'll watch him closely. Never trust a Khajiit.

….

… clever bastards, Dwarves … the rightmost bridge secured with traps, the left with hidden constructs … only way past is to sneak …

….

… Pollonaro and his tomes … just what are we looking for? The Elf tells us nothing. 

….

Opened the chest … sealed shut … trapped … skittering in the pipes …
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1094)
	Note from Morantor
Pollonaro,

I've arranged for your transportation and secured a team to aid you, including the Khajiit who claimed to know the location of Bthzark. The agreement will ensure your safety and that they will follow your commands. Leave the menial tasks to them. Do not share any information they do not need to possess.

Uncover and translate any information that will be of use to us, but your primary task is to retrieve the schematics. If the others have not already found their fate by this time, kill them.

Once finished, use the spell I taught you to return to Skyrim. I will await you in the laboratory.

We are close. Do not fail.

— Morantor
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1095)
	Dwarven Writings
<The writings are indecipherable Dwemeris, save for a set of translated phrases scrawled by a different hand.>

RAISE THE SKYSTONE

FORGED IN BLACKFIRE

SOUND THE CHANGE

BROKEN IN INFINITY

ENACT THE REUNION
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1096)
	Verrik's Note
Martine,

Your ships are more than adequate to transport our agents. All you need to do is deliver the cargo. Once night falls, we'll emerge from the crates and use Leveque's maps to get close to King Casimir.

Angof will be pleased with the chaos caused by Casimir's death! The kingdom's leaderless ranks will offer the Bloodthorns little resistance. Overcoming the south will be easy and Glenumbra will be ours. Rest assured that you will be compensated very well for your loyalty to the Bloodthorn's cause.

See that those crates are not disturbed. The agents inside must stay hidden until the time is right. If they are discovered, I will perform the deed myself and then come back for you. Do not fail us.

—Verrik
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1097)
	Letter from Rakhad
<<1>>,

It has come to our attention that you and your sister have inherited your uncle's old house.

Considering your substantial debt to us, it is surprising to us that you are now sitting in the lap of luxury.

Perhaps you should make sure your sister has no interest in keeping that house. Otherwise, I'll have to convince her myself. You and your uncle know how convincing I can be.

— Rakhad
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1098)
	For Mathal
Nephew,

If you're reading this, then your uncle is dead. I thought the score we needed to get out from beneath Rakhad was in Dune. I was wrong. I thought the moon-sugar and skooma was an investment. I was wrong.

Mathal, he will not stop with me. I've left the house to you and your sister. Get her out of there. Convince her the place is haunted or something. Just get her out of there and sell it. Shuzura has more coin than she knows what to do with, offer her the place at a discount.

Just get Rakhad paid off, and do not tell Kalari. You do this right and your sister will be safe, and never know. Screw this up, and ….

Moons keep you, Mathal

— Enak-do
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1099)
	Gold for Teeth!
Cull the Crocodiles in Hag Fen

Help make the fens safe for travel. Earn gold for killing the toothy beasts lurking in the shallow waters of Hag Fen. Gold for crocodile teeth!

Deliver proof of your crocodile-killing prowess to Hoster Marceau, Huntmaster, who will be camped near the Dywnnarth Ruins until Fredas next.

Teeth extracted from any other creatures are not accepted and proffering them may result in a sound beating.

Note that the Huntmaster is not responsible for any limbs you may lose as you attempt to fulfill this offer.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1100)
	The Five Points of the Star
By Sigillah Parate

PROPHECY is her province, and that which is seen by the Night Sky Queen must eventuate, however dimly it may appear to mortal foresight. For mortals are not all given the gift of Crystal Vision, nor can they always endure knowledge of the truth.

DAWN is the time of imminence, when Azura touches us with wisdom and purpose. It is then we speak the Supplication for Guidance, and tremble in fear that it may be answered.

ROSE is Her color and Her flower, and Moonshadow Her abode as Risen is the sun. Tend we then by midday our mortal necessities, conserving always some part of ourselves for when the sun slides low.

DUSK is when we turn our hands to Azura's commands. Then we praise Her with our dark evening acts, and glorify Her with chastening of noncompliance. 

FATE is the Book that She writes in to inscribe our worth and deserts. For by our acts do we earn Her regard or disdain, and read our destiny in Her prophecy.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1101)
	Letter to Hosni
Son, I write this to you lest the worst happen before you return to your senses, in which case this may be the only way I can speak to you. 

The woman Adima is a venomous snake who has poisoned your thoughts and darkened your heart. Indeed, when I see the bloodlust in her eye, I doubt she is a true woman at all. 

You are strong, my son, and wise in the world's ways, for we have taught you all and held naught back. For you to succumb to the wiles of such a creature sorcery must be involved, for no ordinary human could sway you so from the path of clear thought and action. 

As you read this, let it be as a window opening in your mind, as a clean wind blowing through your heart. Awaken, Hosni, from your dreams of blood. Abjure this Adima, and seek your penitence in whatever task Sister Safia shall set for you. For she will tell you what is right and best to hear, no matter how hard it may be to listen. 

Your Mother, Who Loves You Always, 

— Sirali
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1102)
	King Farangel's Beer Ballad
Here it was Farangel first 

Set foot upon High Rock,

Claimed this land for Gardner house

And built Farangel Dock.

Sent his ships both far and wide

To trade in distant lands,

Cleared the woods for Wayrest town

Above Stormhaven sands.

First Wayrest king, and father of

The Breton noble peers.

High Rock Bretons, raise this toast:

"For Farangel, four beers!"

(Drink)
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1103)
	Factor Luluelle's Report
Arrived from Sentinel on the "Whispering Oyster":

—	Three Barrels Pomegranate Wine

—	Four Crates Mountain Jerky; one crate damaged, spoilage significant 

—	Two Crates —

Oh, what's the point? This is the only shipment we've had in ten days, and its value wouldn't add up to a score of gold drakes, even if we had a caravel to trans-ship it someplace where we could sell it. Everything that floats has been "requisitioned" for the war, and we couldn't get naval stores even if we had a ship—you can't find rope, pitch, timber, or sailcloth for any amount of money. It's all "Arms for the Covenant!" now. Let's face it: if this war doesn't end soon, we're shipwrecked. 

Maybe I'd be happier if my son Durant was still around, but he ran off and joined the First Menevian Scouts, and the house is empty without him. Daedra take it—I'm opening one of these barrels to test the contents. If you want to join me, I'll be in the second empty warehouse on the left.

—	Lacherie
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1104)
	The Argonian MaidâAn Oral Tradition
by Telenger the Artificer

Recently I attended a stage production called "The Lusty Argonian Maid." Bawdy, delightful, and filled with innuendo, I am surprised it was never presented in this form before.

According to my research, "The Lusty Argonian Maid" has its origins in a long line of tales told by traveling bards, each with a slightly different title and premise, but the same end result: a female innocent succumbs to the charms of a dominant, married male character.

In the south, the tale was occasionally presented as "The Lusty Bosmeri," and "Two Moons for Sugar." I've also heard "Shornhelm's Lusty Orifice," "The Sandy Spear of Alik'r," and "The Maiden's Tight Hold" in taverns across the north and northwest.

In a stage play, each of the character archetypes is brought to life before the audience. Unless the acting is superb, the subject matter can come off flat and uninspired. Also, a play takes away from the verbal dexterity exhibited by a bard such as the legendary Khajiit, Tale-Singer. The feline bard described the various ploys used by the man to bring the maiden to her knees in a way that made one's pulse race and breath quicken, wondering what would come next.

Indeed, much of the "Argonian Maid" borrows heavily from Tale-Singer's songs (uncredited, but naturally I recognized them immediately), in which the maiden helps the male with a spear, a loaf of bread, and a spilt flask of coconut milk.

Fortunately, the players in the current production of "The Lusty Argonian Maid" are excellent, bringing this age-old tale to new heights. The reference to the Spear of the Hunter would bring laughter to the most sullen. And the wheel of cheese … well, I've never seen this variant before, but it was truly inspired!

I foresee this play will outlive its humble beginnings as a fireside amusement to become a choice bit of frivolous entertainment for generations to come.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1105)
	Jornibret's Last Dance
(Traditional)

WOMEN'S VERSE 1

Every winter season,

Except for the reason

Of one war or another

(Really quite a bother),

The Queen of Rimmen and her consort

Request their vassals come and cavort.

On each and every ball,

The first man at the Hall

Is Lord Ogin Jornibret of Gaer,

The Curse of all the Maidens Fair.

WOMEN'S REFRAIN

Oh, dear ladies, beware.

Dearest, dearest ladies, take care.

Though he's a very handsome man,

If you dare to take his handsome hand,

The nasty little spell will be cast

And your first dance with him will be the last.

MEN'S VERSE 1

At this social event

Everyone who went

Knew the bows and stances

And steps to all the dances.

The Queen of Rimmen and her consort

Would order a trumpet's wild report,

And there could be no indecision

As the revelers took position.

The first dance only ladies, separate

Away from such men as Lord Jornibret.

MEN'S REFRAIN

Oh, dear fellows, explain.

Brothers, can you help make it plain:

The man's been doing this for years,

Leaving maidens fair in tears

Before the final tune's been blast.

And her first dance with him will be the last.

WOMEN'S VERSE 2

Lord Ogin Jornibret of Gaer

Watched the ladies dance on air

The loveliest in the realm.

A fellow in a ursine-hide helm

Said, "The Queen of Rimmen and her consort

Have put together quite a sport.

Which lady fair do you prefer?"

Lord Jornibret pointed, "Her.

See that bosom bob and weave.

Well-suited for me to love and leave."

WOMEN'S REFRAIN

MEN'S VERSE 2

The man in the mask of a bear

Had left the Lord of Gaer

Before the ladies' dance was ending.

Then a trumpet sounded, portending

That the Queen of Rimmen and her consort

Called for the men to come to court.

Disdainful, passing over all the rest,

Ogin approached she of bobbing breast.

She was rejected, saved a life of woe,

For a new maiden as fair as snow.

MEN'S REFRAIN

WOMEN'S VERSE 3

At the first note of the band,

The beauty took Ogin's hand.

She complimented his stately carriage

Dancing to the tune about the marriage

Of the Queen of Rimmen and her consort.

It is very difficult indeed to comport

With grace, neither falling nor flailing,

Wearing ornate hide and leather mailing,

Dancing light as the sweetest of dreams

Without a single squeak of the seams.

WOMEN'S REFRAIN

MEN'S VERSE 3

The rhythms rose and fell

No one dancing could excel

With masculine grace and syncopation,

Lord Jornibret even drew admiration

From the Queen of Rimmen and her consort.

Like a beauteous vessel pulling into port,

He silently slid, belying the leather's weight.

She whispered girlishly, "The hour is late,

But I've never seen such grace in hide armor."

It 'twas a pity he knew he had to harm her.

MEN'S REFRAIN

WOMEN'S VERSE 4

The tune beat was furious

He began to be curious

Where had the maiden been sequest'ed.

"Before this dance was requested

By the consort and his Queen of Rimmen

I didn't see you dance with the women."

"My dress was torn as I came to the dance,"

She said smiling in a voice deep as a man's,

"My maids worked quickly to repair,

While I wore a suit of hide, a helm of a bear."

WOMEN'S REFRAIN
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1106)
	A Warning and an Offer
Greetings, Traveler,

I post this warning in the hope that you will heed it. This ruin is overrun with a number of dangerous Daedra and their followers. Do not venture forth unless you are adequately armed and prepared.

If, however, you do choose to venture into this cave, keep your eyes open for anything of value. I will reward you for recovering any artifacts that I could not. Find me at the Daedric ruins near Narsis.

— Aralyon the Scholar
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1107)
	Aleris the Shroud
Aleris, the first Champion of the Blessed Crucible, held that title for four decades. She was renowned for her skill with illusion magic and her deft swordplay. Few were able to match her skill in the arena or her favor with the crowd.

Usurped: None

Defeated By: Crow Bringer
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1108)
	Sanarel the Great
Sanarel the Great reigned as Champion for nearly two centuries. His command of shield and blade were unmatched and his victories were swift and merciless. It was said that he carried a magical shield enchanted by Trinimac himself. This artifact had the power to blind his opponents, rendering them defenseless against his initial attacks. As his legend and his arrogance grew, favor with his patron diety waned, leading to his eventual defeat at the hand of the Lava Queen.

Usurped: Felhorn

Defeated By: The Lava Queen
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1109)
	Felhorn
Felhorn claimed the Brimstone Crown in the bloody revolt known as the Gladiator Uprising. He led an army into the Arena and demanded to fight the current Champion, Ferian Darkstorm. Ferian reluctantly agreed, and after a monumental fight, the former Champion was cleaved in two by Felhorn's enchanted sword. Humbled by his near defeat, Felhorn disbanded his army and took his seat as Champion of the Blessed Crucible. It was he who erected great monuments to Malacath within the arena. 

Usurped: Ferian Darkstorm

Defeated By: Sanarel the Great
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1110)
	Crow Bringer
Crow Bringer was said to possess the powers of the Hagravens, allowing him to transform into a murder of crows and attack his foes from a hundred directions at once. It was perhaps inevitable that his reign as Champion would be cut short by one who utilized the powers of light. When Crow Bringer used his transformation powers against Hagrof the Righteous, a blinding light incinerated the crow forms, leaving nothing in their place but the Brimstone Crown itself. 

Usurped: Aleris the Shroud

Defeated By: Hagrof the Righteous
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1111)
	Hagrof the Righteous
As Champion, Hagrof was known for his honor, humility, and respect for his fellow gladiators. He was known to honor his vanquished foes with proper burials in accordance with the customs of their people. When he was finally defeated, after staggering to the center of the arena, bleeding from a hundred wounds, it is said that the gladiators of every race stood in silent salute, then carried his body to an ancient pyre and gave him a funeral worthy of a Nord king.

Usurped: Crow Bringer

Defeated By: The Thousand Arrows
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1112)
	The Thousand Arrows
The Thousand Arrows was a Champion shrouded in mystery. She entered the tournament alone, yet she bested all the other gladiators with skill and precision, and did not suffer a single wound herself.  After Hagrof the Righteous fell, The Thousand Arrows remained in seclusion, only emerging when a new challenger entered the arena. Her favored weapon was a bow equipped with poison-tipped arrows. The poison itself was from a recipe of her own devising. The slightest scratch could fell the largest opponent in seconds. She took this recipe to her grave, and its precise ingredients are hotly debated by alchemists all across Tamriel to this day.

Usurped: Hagrof the Righteous

Defeated By: Lucius the Stalwart
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1113)
	Lucius the Stalwart
Lucius the Stalwart was the protege of a former Champion, Hagrof the Righteous. Lucius was a scholar who came to the Blessed Crucible after he was hired to write Hagrof's legacy. The volume was unfinished when Hagrof was defeated, and the loss of his mentor sent Lucius into a rage. Swearing to avenge him, Lucius trained for decades in an attempt to master Hagrof's skills, all the while building up an immunity to The Thousand Arrow's poison. The fight between Lucius and The Thousand Arrows was long and bloody. In the end, Lucius' ability to withstand the poison allowed him to claim victory, but the process left him permanently weakened. A year later, a challenger named Whitebear appeared. In his weakened state, Lucius was no match for him. As his life's blood drained from his crumpled body, it is said that Lucius welcomed his death, as Hagrof had been avenged and was awaiting his loyal servant in Sovngarde.  

Usurped: The Thousand Arrows

Defeated By: Whitebear
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1114)
	Whitebear
Whitebear was the founder of the first organized gladiator clan, the Bear Clan, a group comprised mainly of Nords. Since its founding, other renowned gladiators began to form their own clans, and thus the tradition of competing in organized groups was born. Curiously, despite the fact that they train, sleep, and live together, when clan members face one another in the arena, they will often fight harder, and offer no quarter to their fellow clansmen. For this is the sacred tradition of the gladiators of the Blessed Crucible.

Usurped: Lucius the Stalwart

Defeated By: Ferian Darkstorm
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1115)
	Ferian Darkstorm
Ferian Darkstorm, also known as Ferian the Passive, reigned as Champion for a very short time. It is said that he grew soft and complacent once he was crowned Champion, and was known to fight only when severely criticized. His lack of willingness to defend his crown led to the first Gladiator Uprising, when prominent gladiator named Felhorn led his clan into the Arena to force Ferian's hand. Ferian eventually acceded to the pressure, lest he and all his guards be destroyed by the angry gladiators, but in the end, Ferian still fell under Felhorn's blade.  

Usurped: Whitebear

Defeated By: Felhorn
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1116)
	The Lava Queen
The Lava Queen is the greatest Champion the Blessed Crucible has ever known. Her prowess in the Arena is unmatched, and she has ruled the Crucible for nearly four centuries. All challengers who have dared to face her in the Arena have been overwhelmed by her fiery magic, their bodies burned and charred beyond recognition. It is said that she exists purely for the Blessed Crucible, and the Crucible for her. Her mastery of the arena is so complete that the very ground shapes and molds itself to her will. To face her is to do battle with a living volcano of power and destruction.

Usurped: Sanarel the Great

Defeated By:
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1117)
	Clan of the White Bear
The 10 Truths of the White Bear:

1. Dominating others is strength. Dominating yourself is true power.

2. Train to use more than one weapon, and then use the unexpected weapon.

3. Training must be like bloodless battle so that battle is just like bloody training.

4. Pain is temporary. Failure is forever.

5. In the midst of chaos, seek opportunity.

6. Know your own weaknesses better than your enemy does.

7. True courage is the mastery of fear, not the absence of it. 

8. Plans are useless. Planning is essential.

9. Felling a tree takes many strikes. In battle, it is the same.

10. Love honor more than you fear death.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1118)
	Rislav the Righteous, Part 1
Rislav the Righteous, Part 1

By Sinjin

 

Like all true heroes, Rislav Larich had inauspicious beginnings. We are told by chroniclers that the springtide night in the 448th year of the First Era on which he was born was unseasonably cold, and that his mother Queen Lynada died very shortly after setting eyes upon her son. If he were much beloved of his father, King Mhorus of Skingrad, who already had plenty of heirs, three sons and four daughters before him, the chroniclers make no mention of it.

 

His existence was so very undistinguished that we hear virtually nothing of him for the first twenty years of his life. His schooling, we can suppose, was similar to that of any "spare prince" in the Colovian West, with Ayleid tutors to teach him the ways of hunting and battle. Etiquette, religious instruction, and even basic statecraft were seldom a part of the training of a prince of the Highlands, as it was in the more civilized valley of Nibenay.

 

There is a brief reference to him, together with his family, as part of the rolls of honor during the coronation of the Emperor Gorieus on the 23rd of Sun's Dawn 1E 461. The ceremony, of course, held during the time of the Alessian Doctrines of Marukh, and so was without entertainment, but the thirteen-year-old Rislav was still witness to some of the greatest figures of legend. The Beast of Anequina, Darloc Brae, represented his kingdom, giving honor to the Empire. The Chieftain of Skyrim Kjoric the White and his son Hoag were in attendance. And despite the Empire's intolerance of all Elves, Chimer Indoril Nerevar and Dwemer Dumac Dwarfking were evidently there as well, diplomatically representing Resdayn, all in relative peace.

 

Also mentioned on the rolls was a young mer in service to the Imperial court of High Rock, who was to have a great history with Rislav. Ryan Direnni.

Whether the two young men of about the same age met and conversed is entirely the stuff of historian's fancy. Ryan is spoken of in praising words as a powerful land-owner, eventually buying the island of Balfiera in the Iliac Bay and gradually conquering all of High Rock and large parts of Hammerfell and Skyrim, but Rislav is not heard of again in history's books for another seventeen years. We can only offer supposition based on the facts that follow.

Children of kings are, of course, married to the children of other kings to bind alliances. The kingdoms of Skingrad and Kvatch skirmished over common territory throughout the fifth century, until they reached a peace in the year 472. The details of this accord are not recorded, but since we know that Prince Rislav was in the court of Kvatch six years later, as husband to Belene, the daughter of King Justinius, it is fair to make an educated guess that they were married then to make peace.

 

This brings us to the year 478, when a great plague swept through all of Cyrodiil and seemed particularly concentrated in the independent Colovian West. Among the victims were King Mhorus and the rest of the entire royal family in Skingrad. Rislav's only surviving elder brother, Dorald, survived, being in the Imperial City as a priest of Maruhk. He returned to his homeland to assume the throne.

 

Of Dorald, we have some history. The King's second son, he was slightly simple-minded and evidently very pious. All the chroniclers spoke of his sweetness and decency, how he saw a vision in his early years that brought him—with his father's blessing—from Skingrad to the Imperial City and the priesthood. The priesthood of Maruhk, of course, saw no difference between spiritual and political matters. It was the religion of the Alessian Empire, and it taught that to resist the Emperor was to resist the Gods. Given that, it is scarcely a surprise what Dorald did when he became King of the independent kingdom of Skingrad.

 

His first edict, on his very first day, was to cede the kingdom to the Empire.

 

The reaction throughout the Colovian Estates was shock and outrage, nowhere more so than in the court of Kvatch. Rislav Larich, we are told, rode forth to his brother's kingdom, together with his wife and two dozen of his father-in-law's cavalry. It was surely not an impressive army, no matter how the chroniclers embellish it, but they had little trouble defeating all the guards Dorald sent to stop them. In truth, there was no actual battling, for the soldiers of Skingrad resented their new king's decision to give up their autonomy.

The brothers faced one another in the castle courtyard where they had grown up.

 

In typical Colovian fashion, there was no trial, no accusations of treason, no jury, no judge. Only an executioner.

"Thou art no brother of mine," Rislav Larich said, and struck Dorald's head from his shoulders in one blow. He was crowned King of Skingrad still holding the same bloody axe in his arms.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1119)
	Fire and Darkness, Part 1
Fire and Darkness: The Brotherhoods of Death, Part 1

 

by Ynir Gorming

 

"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 Nord 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 worshiped 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.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1120)
	Advances in Lockpicking
I am not a writer. I am a thief. I am a good thief. I am not such a good writer. Anyway, I want to write about picking locks. I read a book about designing locks once. It was good. It gave me lots of ideas.

 

Some guys make locks with angled keyholes. Always carry a bent lockpick. They will work good in these locks. I do, and I open lots of locks. Sometimes I carry copper lockpicks. Copper bends easy. That way I can bend it right there. Copper lockpicks break easy too. Be careful.

 

Sometimes the locks have weird springs. They all spring differently, which makes picking it hard. I hold my torch close to the lock. This makes it hot. When it's hot, the springs are all the same. They don't bounce so differently any more. Be careful not to burn yourself.

 

Some thieves can't read. If you can't read, get someone to read this book to you. It will make more sense then.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1121)
	Exiled from Exile, Volume 7
by Yasra al-Ash'abah

Stones of Sand and Swamp

The Lich Lord of Gideon defeated, I made my way north, passing through Stormhold to say one last goodbye to the Hist and their people before leaving their bleak swamp. The very first night in southern Morrowind, I made camp in a great fungal forest.  

With fresh nix-meat on my fire, I noticed something in the rocks and stones near my camp. Several large boulders stood distant, propped up by unknown hands what had to be many decades, if not centuries, before. The largest and nearest was the reason I write this. 

As a child, Father took me to the Stables of Lord Aswala to pay our tribe's taxes and endure the stares of the Proscribed. On the way there, we were caught in a great sandstorm and found shelter in a cave. 

"Daughter," Father spake. "Seek water in the cave, as I taught you." 

With a "Yes, Father," I entered the cave. There was no water, but I did find something grand in a large open cavern deep under the stables.

In the center were great stones with strange, alien words carved on them. I felt like I could hear them calling to me. I reached out and touched the stone. It was then that a hand covered my mouth, muffling my scream and cutting off my breath until I passed out. 

I woke up hours later to my Father's face, his eyes drained of their usual joy. 

"Daughter, we must leave this place. More will come." Father never told me what befell my attackers. From the stains on his clothes, I would guess that it was a grim fate.

"But Father, what of these stones? These symbols?"

"This is a place of blasphemy, beset by demon-worshipers. See here. This word is in the dark speech of the Daedra. It says 'Coldharbour.'"

So imagine my surprise, O reader, when I looked upon the Morrowind stone in the light of the campfire, my belly full of nix-meat, and saw words written in the same dark speech. The same words I had looked upon as a child, and on the same sort of stones.

"Coldharbour calls. Nirn obeys." 

"Coldharbour calls. Nirn obeys."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1122)
	Fire and Darkness, Part 2
Fire and Darkness: The Brotherhoods of Death, Part 2

 

by Ynir Gorming

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 impractical. It must have a bolder edge, for arteries, when cut, have a tendency 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, worshiping 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 Versidue-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.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1123)
	Mace Etiquette
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 its 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.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1124)
	Wulfmare's Guide to Better Thieving
By Wulfmare Shadow-Cloak

So, you want to make it as a cutpurse. You want to live the life of a criminal, always one step ahead of everyone and pockets brimming with gold drakes. Maybe it appeals to you to try and earn a living by robbing some wealthy merchants or extorting your local shopkeepers? Let me give you a bit of advice—don't bother. For every skilled thief I've met in my day, I've seen a twenty who thought that they had what it took but ended up rotting in jail.

 

But if you're anything like me, you don't listen to advice. You do whatever you want and never let anyone else tell you otherwise. To Oblivion with the risks—all that matters is the coin. Sound familiar? If it does, then this book might just teach you the difference between acting like a petty thief and a master criminal.

 

I know what you're thinking. Who's this Wulfmare? Who does he think he is, telling me how to be a better thief? What makes him an expert? Simple. Maybe you heard about that heist in Mournhold, when the Archcanon's sacred diamond ring went missing? Or perhaps the tale of an Elder Scroll gone missing from the White-Gold Tower reached your ears. That's right … it was yours truly. I've done just about every kind of job you can imagine and I've got the drakes put away to prove it. How else could an ex-thief find the resources to publish his own book?

 

Now that I have your attention, let's start with two of the most fundamental skills you'll need to sharpen if you want to make it as a cutpurse: picking locks and picking pockets. And before you roll your eyes and throw this book aside in disgust, I can promise you that the easiest way you're going to get caught is by ignoring the basics—but if you can master these activities you'll find yourself swimming in coin.

 

Picking pockets is one of the easiest skills to learn, but you'd be surprised how often I've seen novice thieves muck it up. The lesson here is twofold. First, know your surroundings, and second, know your approach. Where and when you decide to go fishing is just as important as who you choose as your mark. Follow them a while, there's never a need to rush. Wait until they're somewhere isolated and out of earshot of any guards—but most importantly always know when to let the mark go. Getting pinched simply isn't worth the risk. There'll always be plenty of other marks who'll come along with their pockets full. 

As far as the approach goes, don't drop into your crouch until you are completely out of the mark's view—directly behind and preferably close to them. Don't spend too long deciding what you'll lift either. A good thief should be able to hit a mark and make off with something valuable in less than five seconds. Last of all, plying this trade at night will greatly reduce your chances of getting caught. If you have no other choice and you have to do it in the daylight, just make sure you aren't out in the open.

 

Lockpicking is an art form that takes years to master. The important thing to remember is that no two are alike, each one behaving completely differently. As long as you keep your wits about you, and your patience, you'll find them easier to defeat than you'd initially expect. 

Good picks are always essential. Make sure you have plenty of them tucked away in your pockets. Always take your time and keep a light touch on the picks. When the tumblers begin to fall into place, you should feel the pick tremble ever-so-slightly—this means you're near the sweet spot. Slow down at that point and only move the picks with the finest touch. If you blindly poke at the lock like an old man, all you're going to end up with is a bunch of broken picks and equally broken pride. As a last resort, if the lock is completely confounding you, there's always the option of smashing it. Just keep in mind that this is rarely successful and could potentially make a great deal of noise.

 

By using my techniques, I'm not merely suggesting you'll be a successful thief, I'm giving you a solid guarantee. All it takes is a little bit of patience and a great deal of practice then maybe, just maybe, you'll become as successful as Wulfmare.

 

In my next volume, we'll move onto another important tool in your arsenal—sneaking. I'll prove to you that the shadows can be just as potent of a weapon as your blade if you know how to bend them to your will.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1125)
	Heavy Armor Forging
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. Leather strips are used to make the straps and bindings in all armor.

 

Iron and steel are easy to work. Just heat them up and pound them into shape. The heat of the forge is not that critical. Avoid filing off any of the metal. Always try to conserve the metal and work it back into shape.

 

Iron armor requires a large number of iron ingots. A smith might need a couple of dozen to complete a full set of iron armor. Steel armor primarily uses steel ingots, but some iron is used as well.

 

Dwarven armor is made from Dwarven metal. The secret of this material was lost when the Dwarves disappeared millennia ago. Now it can only be found as scrap in the ruins of their abandoned cities and fortresses.

 

Orcish armor requires large amounts of orichalcum, melded with a bit of iron. Heat should be used sparingly, lest it become brittle. The Orcs are masters of this technique, but it can be learned by any smith with patience and skill.

 

Steel plate mail is made by adding steel to molten corundum. The alloy is stronger than either metal by itself. Corundum is a finicky material requiring the heat from the forge to be steady and not vary much.

 

Ebony can only be worked when heated. It will develop small cracks that eventually shatter the material if hammered cold. Unlike most other armors, ebony will not alloy with iron. It must be used pure.

 

I can only tell you tales of how to make Daedric armor. I have never seen it myself, nor do I know anyone that has. The stories say that it 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. Ebony is the principal material, but at the right moment a Daedra heart must be thrown into the fire.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1126)
	Sacred Witness, Part 1
By Enric Milres

I have met countesses and courtesans, empresses and witches, ladies of war and slatterns of peace, but I have never met a woman like the Night Mother. And I never will again.

 

I am a writer, a poet of some small renown. If I told you my name, you may have heard of me, but very likely, not. For decades until very recently, I had adopted the city of Sentinel on the coast of Hammerfell as my home, and kept the company of other artists, painters, tapestrists, and writers. No one I knew would have known an assassin by sight, least of all the queen of them, the Blood Flower, the Lady Death, the Night Mother.

 

Not that I had not heard of her.

 

Some years ago, I had the good fortune of meeting Pelarne Assi, a respected scholar, who had come to Hammerfell to do research for a book about the Order of Diagna. His essay, "The Brothers of Darkness," together with Ynir Gorming's "Fire and Darkness: The Brotherhoods of Death," are considered to be the canon tomes on the subject of Tamriel's orders of assassins. By luck, Gorming himself was also in Sentinel, and I was privileged to sit with the two in a dark skooma den in the musty slums of the city, as we smoked and talked about the Dark Brotherhood, the Morag Tong, and the Night Mother.

 

While not disputing the possibility that the Night Mother may be immortal or at least very long-lived, Assi thought it most likely that several women—and perhaps some men—throughout the ages had assumed the honorary title. It was no more logical to say there was only one Night Mother, he asserted, than to say there was only one King of Sentinel.

 

Gorming argued that there never was a Night Mother, at least no human one. The Night Mother was Mephala herself, whom the Brotherhood revered second only to Sithis.

 

"I don't suppose there's any way of knowing for certain," I said, in a note of diplomacy.

 

"Certainly there is," whispered Gorming with a grin. "You could talk to that cloaked fellow in the corner."

 

I had not noticed the man before, who sat by himself, eyes hidden by his cloak, seemingly as much a part of the dingy place as the rough stone and unswept floor. Turning back to Ynir, I asked him why that man would know about the Night Mother.

 

"He's a Dark Brother," hissed Pellarne Assi. "That's as plain as the moons. Don't even joke about speaking with him about Her."

 

We moved on to other arguments about the Morag Tong and the Brotherhood, but I never forgot the image of the lone man, looking at nothing and everything, in the corner of the dirty room, with fumes of skooma smoke floating around him like ghosts. When I saw him weeks later on the streets of Sentinel, I followed him.

 

Yes, I followed him. The reader may reasonably ask "Why" and "How." I don't blame you for that.

 

"How" was simply a question of knowing my city as well as I do. I'm not a thief, not particularly sure-footed and quiet, but I know the alleys and streets of Sentinel intimately from decades worth of ambling. I know which bridges creak, which buildings cast long irregular shadows, the intervals at which the native birds begin the ululations of their evening songs. With relative ease, I kept pace with the Dark Brother and out of his sight and hearing.

 

The answer to "Why" is even simpler. I have the natural curiosity of the born writer. When I see a strange new animal, I must observe. It is the writer's curse.

 

I trailed the cloaked man deeper into the city, down an alleyway so narrow it was scarcely a crack between two tenements, past a crooked fence, and suddenly, miraculously, I was in a place I had never seen before. A little courtyard cemetery, with a dozen old half-rotted wooden tombstones. None of the surrounding buildings had windows that faced it, so no one knew this miniature necropolis existed.

 

No one, except the six men and one woman standing in it. And me.

 

The woman saw me immediately, and gestured for me to come closer. I could have run, but—no, I couldn't have. I had pierced a mystery right in my adopted Sentinel, and I could not leave it.

 

She knew my name, and she said it with a sweet smile. The Night Mother was a little old lady with fluffy white hair, cheeks like wrinkled apples that still carried the flush of youth, friendly eyes, blue as the Iliac Bay. She softly took my arm as we sat down amidst the graves and discussed murder.

 

She was not always in Hammerfell, not always available for direct assignment, but it seemed she enjoyed actually talking to her clientele.

 

"I did not come here to hire the Brotherhood," I said respectfully.

 

"Then why are you here?" the Night Mother asked, her eyes never leaving mine.

 

I told her I wanted to know about her. I did not expect an answer to that, but she told me.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1127)
	Sacred Witness, Part 2
By Enric Milres

"I did not come here to hire the Brotherhood," I said respectfully.

 

"Then why are you here?" the Night Mother asked, her eyes never leaving mine.

 

I told her I wanted to know about her. I did not expect an answer to that, but she told me.

 

"I do not mind the stories you writers dream up about me," she chuckled. "Some of them are very amusing, and some of them are good for business. I like the sexy dark woman lounging on the divan in Carlovac Townway's fiction particularly. The truth is that my history would not make a very dramatic tale. I was a thief, long, long ago, back when the Thieves Guild was only beginning. It's such a bother to sneak around a house when performing a burglary, and many of us found it most efficacious to strangle the occupant of the house. Just for convenience. I suggested to the Guild that a segment of our order be dedicated to the arts and sciences of murder.

 

"It did not seem like such a controversial idea to me," the Night Mother shrugged. "We had specialists in catburglary, pick-pocketing, lockpicking, fencing, all the other essential parts of the job. But the Guild thought that encouraging murder would be bad for business. Too much, too much, they argued.

 

"They might have been right," the old woman continued. "But I discovered there is a profit to be made, just the same, from sudden death. Not only can one rob the deceased, but, if your victim has enemies, which rich people often do, you can be paid for it even more. I began to murder people differently when I discovered that. After I strangled them, I would put two stones in their eyes, one black and one white."

 

"Why?" I asked.

 

"It was a sort of calling card of mine. You're a writer—don't you want your name on your books? I couldn't use my name, but I wanted potential clients to know me and my work. I don't do it anymore, no need to, but at the time, it was my signature. Word spread, and I soon had quite a successful business."

 

"And that became the Morag Tong?" I asked.

 

"Oh, dear me, no," the Night Mother smiled. "The Morag Tong was around long before my time. I know I'm old, but I'm not that old. I merely hired on some of their assassins when they began to fall apart after the murder of the last Potentate. They did not want to be members of the Tong anymore, and since I was the only other murder syndicate of any note, they just joined on."

 

I phrased my next question carefully. "Will you kill me now that you've told me all this?"

 

She nodded sadly, letting out a little grandmotherly sigh. "You are such a nice, polite young man, I hate to end our acquaintanceship. I don't suppose you would agree to a concession or two in exchange for your life, would you?"

 

To my everlasting shame, I did agree. I said I would say nothing about our meeting, which, as the reader can see, was a promise I eventually, years later, chose not to keep. Why have I endangered my life thus?

 

Because of the promises I did keep.

 

I helped the Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood in acts too despicable, too bloody for me to set to paper. My hand quivers as I think about the people I betrayed, beginning with that night. I tried to write my poetry, but ink seemed to turn to blood. Finally, I fled, changing my name, going to a land where no one would know me.

 

And I wrote this. The true history of the Night Mother, from the interview she gave me on the night we met. It will be the last thing I ever write, this I know. And every word is true.

 

Pray for me.

— Editor's Note: Though originally published anonymously, the identity of the author has never been in serious doubt. Any layman familiar with the work of the poet Enric Milres will recognize Sacred Witness' familiar cadence and style in such books of his as "The Alik'r." Shortly after publication, Milres was murdered, and his killer was never found. He had been strangled, and two stones, a black one and a white one, crushed into his eyesockets. Very brutally.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1128)
	The Legendary Sancre Tor, 1st Ed.
By Matera Chapel

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 Nibenese 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 1E 2321), the seat of religious rule of Cyrodiil moved south to the Imperial City, but Sancre Tor remained a mountain fortress and major religious center. 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 give 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 first 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, 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.

 

Sancre Tor has lain in ruins since the middle of the Second 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.

 

Ed. Note: There 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1129)
	The Horror of Castle Xyr, Part 1
By Baloth-Kul 

A One Act Play 

Dramatis Personae

Clavides, Captain of the Imperial Guard. Cyrodilic. 

Anara, a Dunmeri 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1130)
	The Horror of Castle Xyr, Part 2
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 every 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, sister. We'll give the package to his lordship when we see him.

 

ZOLLASSA: Ah, hail, brother. 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. Fair tidings, brother.

 

ULLIS: Goodnight, sister.

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, dry 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.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1131)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 6
On His Madness

 

 (Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period, perhaps even from the same manuscript. But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these fragments, no opinions will be offered here.)

 

 (And it is) said that he emerged into the world like a Padomaic, that is, borne by Sithis and all the forces of change therein. Still others, like Fifd of New Teed, say that beneath the Pelinal's star-armor was a chest that gaped open to show no heart, only a red rage shaped diamond-fashion, singing like a mindless dragon, and that this was proof that he was a myth-echo, and that where he trod were shapes of the first urging. Pelinal cared for none of this and killed any who would speak god-logic, except for fair Perrif, who he said, "enacts, rather than talks, as language without exertion is dead witness." When those soldiers who heard him say this stared blankly, he laughed and swung his sword, running into the rain of Kyne to slaughter their Ayleid captives, screaming, "O Aka, for our shared madness I do this! I watch you watching me watching back! Umaril dares call us out, for that is how we made him!" (And it was during) these fits of anger and nonsense that Pelinal would fall into the Madness, where whole swaths of lands were devoured in divine rampage to become Void, and Alessia would have to pray to the Gods for their succor, and they would reach down as one mind and soothe the Whitestrake until he no longer had the will to kill the earth in whole. And Garid of the men-of-ge once saw such a Madness from afar and maneuvered, after it had abated, to drink together with Pelinal, and he asked what such an affliction felt like, to which Pelinal could only answer, "Like when the dream no longer needs its dreamer."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1132)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 7
On His Battle with Umaril and His Dismemberment

 

 (Editor's Note: This fragment comes from a manuscript recovered from the ruins of the Alessian Order's monastery at Lake Canulus, which dates it to sometime prior to the War of Righteousness in 1E 2321. However, textual analysis suggests that this fragment actually preserves a very early form of the Song, perhaps from the mid-sixth century.)

(And so after many battles with) Umaril's allies, where dead Aurorans lay like candlelight around the throne, the Pelinal became surrounded by the last Ayleid sorcerer-kings and their demons, each one heavy with varliance. The Whitestrake cracked the floor with his mace and they withdrew, and he said, "Bring me Umaril that called me out!" … (And) while mighty in his aspect and wicked, deathless-golden Umaril favored ruin-from-afar over close combat and so he tarried in the shadows of the white tower before coming forth. More soldiers were sent against Pelinal to die, and yet they managed to pierce his armor with axes and arrows, for Umaril had wrought each one by long varliance, which he had been hoarding since his first issue (of challenge.) … (Presently) the Half-Elf (showed himself) bathed in (Meridian light)… and he listed his bloodline in the Ayleidoon and spoke of his father, a god of the (previous kalpa's) World-River and taking great delight in the heavy-breathing of Pelinal who had finally bled … (Text lost) … (And) Umaril was laid low, the angel face of his helm dented into an ugliness which made Pelinal laugh, (and his) unfeathered wings broken off with sword strokes delivered while Pelinal stood (frothing) … above him insulting his ancestry and anyone else that took ship from Old Ehlnofey, (which) angered the other Elvish kings and drove them to a madness of their own … (and they) fell on him (speaking) to their weapons… cutting the Pelinal into eighths while he roared in confusion (which even) the Council of Skiffs (could hear) … (Text lost) … ran when Mor shook the whole of the tower with mighty bashing from his horns (the next morning), and some were slain-in-overabundance in the Taking, and Men looked for more Ayleids to kill but Pelinal had left none save those kings and demons that had already begun to flee … It was Morihaus who found the Whitestrake's head, which the kings had left to prove their deeds and they spoke and Pelinal said things of regrets … but the rebellion had turned anyway … (and more) words were said between these immortals that even the Paravant would not deign to hear.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1133)
	Rislav the Righteous, Part 2
By Sinjin

If King Rislav had no battle experience beforehand, that was shortly to change. Word spread quickly to the Imperial City that Skingrad, once offered, was now being taken back. Gorieus was an accomplished warrior even before taking the throne, and the seventeen years he had as Emperor were scarcely peaceful. Only eight months before Dorald's assassination and Rislav's ascendancy, Gorieus and the Alessian army had faced another of his coronation guests, Kjoric the White, on the fields of the frozen north. The High Chieftain of Skyrim lost his life in the Battle of Sungard. While the pact of chieftains was selecting a new leader, Cyrodiil was busily grabbing back the land of southern Skyrim that it had lost.

In short, Emperor Gorieus knew how to deal with rebellious vassals.

 

The Alessian army poured westward "like a flood of death," to borrow the chronicler's phrase, in numbers far exceeding what would be required to conquer Skingrad. Gorieus could not have thought actual battle was likely. Rislav, as we said, had little to no experience at warfare, and only a few days' practice at kingcraft. His kingdom and all of the Colovian West had just been ravaged by plague. The Alessians anticipated a mere show of arms, and a surrender.

Rislav instead prepared for battle. He quickly inspected his troops and drew up plans.

 

The chroniclers who had heretofore ignored the life of Rislav now devote verse after verse describing the king's aspect with fetishistic delight. While it may lack literary merit and taste, we are at least given some details at last. Not surprisingly, the king wore the finest armor of his era, as the Colovian Estates then had the finest leathersmiths—the only type of armor available—in all of Tamriel. The king's klibanion mail, boiled and waxed for hardness, and studded with inch-long spikes, was a rich chestnut red, and he wore it over his black tunic but under his black cloak. The statue of Rislav the Righteous which now stands in Skingrad is a romanticized version of the king, but not inaccurate except in the armor represented. No bard of the Colovian West would have gone to the market so lightly protected. But it does, as we will see, include the most important accouterments of Rislav: his trained hawk and his fast horse.

The winter rains had washed through the roads to the south, sending much of the West Weald spilling into Valenwood. The Emperor took the northern route, and King Rislav with a small patrol of guards met him at a low pass on what is now the Gold Road. The Emperor's army, it is said, was so large that the Beast of Anequina could hear its march from hundreds of miles away, and despite himself, the chroniclers say, he quaked in fear.

Rislav, it was said, did not quake. With perfect politeness, he told the Emperor that his party was too large to be accommodated in the tiny kingdom of Skingrad.

 

"Next time," Rislav said. "Write before you come."

The Emperor was, like most Alessian Emperors, not a man of great humor, and he thought Rislav touched by Sheogorath. He ordered his personal guards to arrest the poor madman, but at that moment, the King of Skingrad raised his arm and sent his hawk flying into the sky. It was a signal his army had been waiting for. The Alessians were all within the pass and the range of their arrows.

King Rislav and his guard began riding westward as fast as if they had been "kissed by wild Kynareth," as the chroniclers said. He did not dare to look behind him, but his plan went faultlessly. The far eastern end of the pass was sealed by rolling boulders, giving the Alessian no direction to go but westward. The Skingrad archers rained arrows down upon the Imperial army from far above on the plateaus, remaining safe from reprisal. The furious Emperor Gorieus chased Rislav from the Weald to the Highlands, leaving Skingrad far behind, all the while his army growing steadily smaller and smaller.

 

In the ancient Highland forest, the Imperial army met the army of Rislav's father-in-law, the King of Kvatch. The Alessian army likely still outnumbered their opponents, but they were exhausted and their morale had been obliterated by the chase amid a sea of arrows. After an hour's battle, they retreated north into what is now the Imperial Reserve, and from there, further north and east, to slip back to nurse their wounds and pride in Nibenay.

It was the beginning of the end of the Alessian hegemony. The Kings of the Colovian West joined with Kvatch and Skingrad to resist Imperial incursions. The Clan Direnni under Ryan was inspired to outlaw the religion of the Alessian Reform throughout his lands in High Rock, and began pushing into Imperial territories. The new High Chief of Skyrim, Hoag, now called Hoag Merkiller, though sharing the Emperor's official xenophobia, also joined the resistance. His heir, King Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora, helped continue the struggle upon Hoag's death in battle, and also insured his place in history.

The heroic King of Skingrad, who faced the Emperor's army virtually alone, and triggered its end, justly deserves his sobriquet of Rislav the Righteous.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1134)
	The Lusty Argonian Maid, A Song
NOTE: A male/female duet, beginning with the male and alternating stanzas.

Crantius Colto is my name

My lusty Argonian maid

I've something here for you to clean

Come burnish now my blade!

I'm Lifts-Her-Tail the maid, it's true

A lusty Argonian maid

But your task is just too much, good sir,

I've never seen such a long blade!

Tut-tut, my dear, that's not what I hear,

My lusty Argonian maid

And Lady Colto's gone to Kvatch

No need for you to be afraid

Nay, I am needed elsewhere, sir,

Though your blade's so long and so hard

I'm needed to tend the instrument large

Of a sultry Argonian bard
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1135)
	Three Thieves, Part 1
By Anonymous

"The problem with thieves today," said Lledos, "is the lack of technique. I know there's no honor among thieves, and there never was, but there used to be some pride, some skill, some basic creativity. It really makes those of us with a sense of history despair."

 

Imalyn sneered, slamming down his flagon of greef violently on the rough-hewn table. "B'vek, what do you want us to say? You asks us 'What do you do when you see a guard?' and I says, 'Stab the fetcher in the back.' What d'you prefer? We challenge 'em to a game of chits?"

 

"So much ambition, so little education," said Lledos with a sigh. "My dear friends, we aren't mugging some Nord tourist fresh off the ferry. The Cobblers Guildhall may not sound intimidating but tonight, when the dues collection is housed there before being sent to the bank, the security's going to be tighter than a kwama's ass. You can't just stab at every back you encounter and expect to make it into the vaults."

 

"Why don't you explain specifically what you'd like us to do?" asked Galsiah calmly, trying to keep the tone of the group down. Most locals at the Plot and Plaster cornerclub in Tel Aruhn knew enough not to listen in, but she knew better than to take any chances.

 

"The common thief," said Lledos, pouring himself more greef, and warming to his subject. "sticks his dagger in his opponent's back. This may slay the target, but more often gives him time to scream and drenches the attacker with blood. Not good. Now a good throat-slashing, properly executed, can both slay and silence a guard and leave the thief relatively bloodfree. And after all, after the robbery, we don't want people seeing a bunch of blood-soaked butchers running through the streets. Even in Tel Aruhn, that's likely to warrant suspicion.

 

"If you can catch your victim lying down asleep or resting, you are in an excellent position. You place one hand over the mouth with your thumb under the chin, then you use your other hand to slit the throat, and quickly turn the head to one side so the body bleeds out away from you. There is a risk here of becoming blood-stained if you don't move the head quickly enough. If you're unsure, strangle the victim first to avoid the blood that tends to spurt out in three foot jets when someone is stabbed while alive.

 

"A very good friend of mine, a thief in Gnisis whose name I won't mention, swears by the strangle-and-slash technique. Simply put, you grab your victim's throat from behind and while throttling him, you batter his face against the opposite wall. When the victim is thus rendered unconscious, you slash his throat while still holding him from behind, and the risk of staining one's clothes with blood is practically nonexistent.

 

"The classic technique, which requires less grappling than my friend's variation, is to place one hand over the victim's mouth, and then saw through the throat in three or four strokes rather like playing a violin. It requires little effort, and while there's quite a bit of blood, it all jets forward away from you.

 

There's no reason when one knows one is going to be slitting some throats not to take some precautions and bring some extra equipment. The best neck-hackers I know generally carry a bit of wadded cloth on the aft-side of their knives to keep blood from getting on their cuffs. It's impractical for this sort of assignment, but when you're only anticipating one or two victims, nothing beats throwing a sack over the target's head, drawing the string tight, and then supplying the killing blow or blows."

 

Imalyn laughed loudly, "Can I see a demonstration sometime?"

 

"Very soon," said Lledos. "If Galsiah has done her job."

 

Galsiah brought out the map of the guildhouse, freshly stolen, and they began to detail out the strategy.

 

The last several hours had been a whirlwind to all. In less than a day, the three had met, formulated a plan, bought or stolen the necessary ingredients, and were about to execute it. Not one of the three were sure whether confidence or stupidity were driving the other two, but the fates were aligned. The guildhouse was going to be robbed.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1136)
	Three Thieves, Part Two
By Anonymous

Galsiah brought out the map of the guildhouse, freshly stolen, and they began to detail out the strategy.

 

The last several hours had been a whirlwind to all. In less than a day, the three had met, formulated a plan, bought or stolen the necessary ingredients, and were about to execute it. Not one of the three were sure whether confidence or stupidity were driving the other two, but the fates were aligned. The guildhouse was going to be robbed.

 

When the sun set, Lledos, Galsiah, and Imalyn approached the Cobblers Guildhouse on the east end of town. Galsiah used her cachous of stoneflower to mask their scent from the guard wolves as the three passed over the parapets. She also acted as lead scout, and Lledos was impressed. For someone of relative inexperience, she knew her way through shadows.

 

Lledos's expertise was demonstrated a dozen times, and the guards were of such a diverse variety, he was able to demonstrate all the means of silent assassination he had developed over the years.

 

Imalyn opened the vault in his unique and systematic method. As the tumblers fell beneath his fingers, he softly sang an old dirty tavern song about the Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah. He said it helped him focus and organize difficult combinations. Within seconds, the vault was open and the gold was in hand.

 

They left the guildhouse an hour after they entered. No alarm had been raised, the gold was gone, and corpses lay pooling blood on the stone floors within.

 

"Well done, my friends, well done. You learned well." Lledos said as he poured the gold pieces into the specially designed compartments in his tunic's sleeves, where they held fast with no jingling or unusual bulges. "We'll meet back at the Plot and Plaster tomorrow morning and split up the bounty."

 

The group parted ways. The only person who knew the most covert route through the city's sewer system, Lledos, slipped in through a duct and vanished below. Galsiah threw on her shawl, muddied her face to resemble an old f'lah fortune-teller, and headed north. Imalyn headed east into the park, trusting his unnatural senses to keep him away from the city watch.

 

Now I teach them the greatest lesson of all, thought Lledos as he sloshed through the labyrinthine tunnels of sludge. His guar was waiting where he left it at the city gates, making a laconic lunch of the chokeweed shrub to which it had been leashed.

 

On the road to Vivec, he thought of Galsiah and Imalyn. Perhaps they had been caught and brought in for questioning already. It was a pity he couldn't see them undergoing interrogation. Who would break under pressure first? Imalyn was certainly the tougher of the two, but Galsiah doubtless had hidden reserves. It was merely intellectual curiosity: they thought his name was Lledos and he was meeting them at the Plot and Plaster. The authorities wouldn't therefore be looking for a Dunmer named Sathis celebrating his wealth miles and miles away in Vivec.

 

As he prodded his mount forward and the sun began rising, Sathis pictured Galsiah and Imalyn not undergoing interrogation, but sleeping the good deep sleep of the wicked, dreaming of how they would spend their share of the gold. Both would wake up early and rush to the Plot and Plaster. He could see them now, Imalyn laughing and carrying on, Galsiah hushing him to avoid bringing undue attention. They would take a couple flagons of greef, perhaps order a meal — a big one — and wait. Hours would pass, and so would their moods. The chain of reactions that every betrayed person exhibits: nervousness, doubt, bewilderment, anger.

 

The sun was fully risen when Sathis reached the stables of his house on the outskirts of Vivec. He reigned in his guar and filled its feed. The rest of the stalls were empty. It wouldn't be until that afternoon when his servants returned from the feast of St. Rilms in Gnisis. They were good people, and he treated them well, but from past experience he knew that servants talked. If they began to connect his absences with thefts in other towns, it was only a matter of time before they would go to the authorities or blackmail him. After all, they were human. It was best in the long run to give them a week off with pay whenever he was out of town on business.

 

He slipped the gold into the vault in his study, and went upstairs. The schedule had been tight, but Sathis had given himself a few hours to rest before his household returned. His own bed was wonderfully soft and warm compared to the dreadful mattress he had to use at the canton in Tel Aruhn.

 

Sathis woke up some time later from a nightmare. For a second after he opened his eyes, he thought he could still hear Imalyn's voice nearby, singing "The Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah." He lay still in his bed, waiting, but there was no sound except the usual creaks and groans of his old house. Afternoon sunlight came through his bedroom window in ribbons, catching dust. He closed his eyes.

 

The song returned, and Sathis heard the vault door in his study swing open. The smell of stoneflower filled his nose and he opened his eyes. Only a little of the afternoon sunlight could pierce the inside of the burlap sack.

 

A strong, feminine hand clamped over the mouth and a thumb jabbed under his chin. Just as his throat opened and his head was shoved to the side, he heard Galsiah say in her typical calm voice, "Thank you for the lesson, Sathis."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1137)
	A Kiss, Sweet Mother
So you wish to summon the Dark Brotherhood? You wish to see someone dead? Pray, child. Pray, and let the Night Mother hear your plea.

 

You must perform that most profane of rituals—the Black Sacrament.

 

Create an effigy of the intended victim, assembled from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh. Encircle that effigy with candles.

 

The ritual itself must then commence. Proceed to stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering this plea:

 

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

 

Then wait, child, for the Dread Father Sithis rewards the patient. You will be visited by a representative of the Dark Brotherhood. So begins a contract bound in blood.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1138)
	Beggar Prince
We look down upon the beggars of the Empire. These lost souls are the poor and wretched of the land. Every city has its beggars. Most are so poor they have only the clothes on their backs. They eat the scraps the rest of us throw out. We toss them a coin so that we don't have to think too long about their plight.

 

Imagine my surprise when I heard the tale of the Beggar Prince. I could not imagine what a Prince of Beggars would be. Here is the tale I heard. It takes place in the first age, when gods walked like men and Daedra stalked the wilderness with impunity. It is a time before they were all confined to Oblivion.

 

* * * 

There once was a man named Wheedle. Or maybe it was a woman. The story goes to great lengths to avoid declaring Wheedle's gender. Wheedle was the 13th child of a king in Valenwood. As such Wheedle was in no position to take the throne or even inherit much property or wealth.

 

Wheedle had left the palace to find independent fortune and glory. After many days of endless forest roads and tiny villages, Wheedle came upon three men surrounding a beggar. The beggar was swaddled in rags from head to toe. No portion of the vagabond's body was visible. The men were intent on slaying the beggar.

 

With a cry of rage and indignation, Wheedle charged the men with sword drawn. Being simple townsfolk, armed only with pitchforks and scythes, they immediately fled from the armored figure with the shining sword.

 

"Many thanks for saving me," wheezed the beggar from beneath the heap of foul rags. Wheedle could barely stand the stench.

 

"What is your name, wretch?" Wheedle asked.

 

"I am Namira."

 

Unlike the townsfolk, Wheedle was well learned. That name meant nothing to them, but to Wheedle it was an opportunity.

 

"You are the Daedric lord!" Wheedle exclaimed. "Why did you allow those men to harass you? You could have slain them all with a whisper."

 

"I am please you recognized me," Namira rasped. "I am frequently reviled by townsfolk. It pleases me to be recognized for my attribute, if not for my name."

 

Wheedle knew that Namira was the Daedric lord of all thing gross and repulsive. Diseases such as leprosy and gangrene were her domain. Where others might have seen danger, Wheedle saw opportunity.

 

"Oh, great Namira, let me apprentice myself to you. I ask only that you grant me powers to make my fortune and forge a name for myself that will live through the ages."

 

"Nay. I make my way alone in the world. I have no need for an apprentice."

 

Namira shambled off down the road. Wheedle would not be put off. With a bound, Wheedle was at Namira's heel, pressing the case for an apprenticeship. For 33 days and nights, Wheedle kept up the debate. Namira said nothing, but Wheedle's voice was ceaseless. Finally, on the 33rd day, Wheedle was too hoarse to talk.

 

Namira looked back on the suddenly silent figure. Wheedle knelt in the mud at her feet, open hands raised in supplication.

 

"It would seem you have completed your apprenticeship to me after all," Namira declared. "I shall grant your request."

 

Wheedle was overjoyed.

 

"I grant you the power of disease. You may choose to be afflicted with any disease you choose, changing them at will, so long as it has visible symptoms. However, you must always bear at least one.

 

"I grant you the power of pity. You may evoke pity in anyone that sees you.

 

"Finally, I grant you the power of disregard. You may cause others to disregard your presence."

 

Wheedle was aghast. These were not boons from which a fortune could be made. They were curses, each awful in its own right, but together they were unthinkable.

 

"How am I to make my fortune and forge a name for myself with these terrible gifts?"

 

"As you begged at my feet for 33 days and 33 nights, so shall you now beg for your fortune in the cities of men. Your name will become legendary among the beggars of Tamriel. The story of Wheedle, the Prince of Beggars, shall be handed down throughout the generations."

 

It was as Namira predicted. Wheedle was an irresistible beggar. None could see the wretch without desperately wanting to toss a coin at the huddled form. However, Wheedle also discovered that the power of disregard gave great access to the secrets of the realms. People unknowingly said important things where Wheedle could hear them. Wheedle grew to know the comings and goings of every citizen in the city.

 

To this day, it is said that if you really want to know something, go ask the beggars. They have eyes and ears throughout the cities. They know all the little secrets of the daily lives of its citizens.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1139)
	The Brothers of Darkness (1st ed.)
By Pellarne Assi

As their name suggests, the Dark Brotherhood has a history shrouded in obfuscation. Their ways are secret to those who are not themselves Brothers of the Order ("Brother" is a generic term; some of their deadliest assassins are female, but they are often called Brothers as well). How they continue to exist in shadow, but be easily found by those desperate enough to pay for their services, is not the least of the mysteries surrounding them.

 

The Dark Brotherhood sprang from a religious order, the Morag Tong, during the Second Era. The Morag Tong were worshippers of the Daedra spirit Mephala, who encouraged them to commit ritual murders. In their early years, they were as disorganized as only obscure cultists could be—there was no one to lead the band, and as a group they dared not murder anybody of any importance. This changed with the rise of the Night Mother.

 

All leaders of the Morag Tong, and then afterward the Dark Brotherhood, have been called the Night Mother. Whether the same woman (if it is even a woman) has commanded the Dark Brotherhood since the Second Era is unknown. What is believed is that the original Night Mother developed an important doctrine of the Morag Tong—the belief that, while Mephala does grow stronger with every murder committed in her name, certain murders were better than others. Murders that came from hate pleased Mephala more than murders committed because of greed. Murders of great men and women pleased Mephala more than murders of relative unknowns.

 

We can approximate the time this belief was adopted with the first known murder committed by the Morag Tong. In the year 324 of the Second Era, the Potentate Versidue-Shaie was murdered in his palace in what is today the Elsweyr kingdom of Senchal. In a brash move, the Night Mother announced the identity of the murderers by painting "MORAG TONG" on the walls in the Potentate's own blood.

 

Previous to that, the Morag Tong existed in relative peace, more or less like a witches' coven—occasionally persecuted but usually ignored. In remarkable synchronicity at a time when Tamriel the Arena was a fractured land, the Morag Tong was outlawed throughout the continent. Every sovereign gave the cult's elimination his highest priority. Nothing more was officially heard of them for a hundred years.

 

It is more difficult to date the era when the Morag Tong re-emerged as the Dark Brotherhood, especially as other guilds of assassins have sporadically appeared throughout the history of Tamriel. The first mention of the Dark Brotherhood that I have found is from the journals of the Blood Queen Arlimahera of Hegathe. She spoke of slaying her enemies by her own hand, or if necessary "with the help of the Night Mother and her Dark Brotherhood, the secret arsenal my family has employed since my grandfather's time." Arlimahera wrote this in 2E 412, so one can surmise that the Dark Brotherhood had been in existence since at least 360 if her grandfather had truly made use of them.

 

The important distinction between the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong was that the Brotherhood was a business as much as it was a cult. Rulers and wealthy merchants used the order as an assassin's guild. The Brotherhood gained the obvious rewards of a profitable enterprise, as well as the secondary benefit that rulers could no longer actively persecute them: They were needed. They were purveyors of an essential commodity. Even an extremely virtuous leader would be unwise to mistreat the Brotherhood.

 

Not long after Alimahera's journal entry came perhaps the most famous series of executions in the history of the Dark Brotherhood. The Akaviri Emperor-Potentate Savirien-Chorak and every one of his heirs were murdered on one bloody night in Sun's Dawn in 430. Within a fortnight, the Akaviri Potentate crumbled, to the delight of its enemies. 

 

The Dark Brotherhood has no shortage of business opportunities—an "accounting," I have been informed, is the Brotherhood's favorite euphemism for an execution. While they are officially considered an unlawful organization in every corner of the Empire, like the Thieves Guild, they are almost as universally tolerated.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1140)
	Chance's Folly, Part 1
By Zylmoc Golge

By the time she was sixteen, Minevah Iolos had been an unwelcome guest in every shop and manor in Balmora. Sometimes, she would take everything of value within; other times, it was enough to experience the pure pleasure of finding a way past the locks and traps. In either situation, she would leave a pair of dice in a prominent location as her calling card to let the owners know who had burgled them. The mysterious ghost became known to the locals as Chance.

 

A typical conversation in Balmora at this time:

"My dear, whatever happened to that marvelous necklace of yours?" 

"My dear, it was taken by Chance."

The only time when Chance disliked her hobby was when she miscalculated, and she came upon an owner or a guard. So far, she had never been caught, or even seen, but dozens of times she had uncomfortably close encounters. There came a day when she felt it was time to expand her reach. She considered going to Vivec or Gnisis, but one night at the Eight Plates, she heard a tale of the Heran Ancestral Tomb, an ancient tomb filled with traps and possessing hundreds of years of the Heran family treasures.

 

The idea of breaking the spell of the Heran Tomb and gaining the fortune within appealed to Chance, but facing the guardians was outside of her experience. While she was considering her options, she saw Ulstyr Moresby sitting at a table nearby, by himself as usual. He was huge brute of a Breton who had a reputation as a gentle eccentric, a great warrior who had gone mad and paid more attention to the voices in his head than to the world around him.

 

If she must have a partner in this enterprise, Chance decided, this man would be perfect. He would not demand or understand the concept of getting an equal share of the booty. If worse came to worse, he would not be missed if the inhabitants of the Heran Tomb were too much for him. Or if Chance found his company tiresome and elected to leave him behind.

 

"Ulstyr, I don't think we've ever met, but my name is Minevah," she said, approaching the table. "I'm fancying a trip to the Heran Ancestral Tomb. If you think you could handle the monsters, I could take care of unlocking doors and popping traps. What do you think?"

 

The Breton took a moment to reply, as if considering the counsel of the voices in his head. Finally he nodded his head in the affirmative, mumbling, "Yes, yes, yes, prop a rock, hot steel. Chitin. Walls beyond doors. Fifty-three. Two months and back."

 

"Splendid," said Chance, not the least put off by his rambling. "We'll leave early tomorrow."
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1141)
	Children of the Sky
Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky. They call Skyrim the Throat of the World, because it is where the sky exhaled on the land and formed them. They see themselves as eternal outsiders and invaders, and even when they conquer and rule another people, they feel no kinship with them.

 

The breath and the voice are the vital essence of a Nord. When they defeat great enemies they take their tongues as trophies. These are woven into ropes and can hold speech like an enchantment. The power of a Nord can be articulated into a shout, like the kiai of an Akaviri swordsman. The strongest of their warriors are called "Tongues." When the Nords attack a city, they take no siege engines or cavalry; the Tongues form in a wedge in front of the gatehouse, and draw in breath. When the leader lets it out in a kiai, the doors are blown in, and the axemen rush into the city. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies. A common effect is the shout that knocks an enemy back, or the power of command. A strong Nord can instill bravery in men with his battle-cry, or stop a charging warrior with a roar. The greatest of the Nords can call to specific people over hundreds of miles, and can move by casting a shout, appearing where it lands.

 

The most powerful Nords cannot speak without causing destruction. They must go gagged, and communicate through a sign language and through scribing runes.

 

The further north you go into Skyrim, the more powerful and elemental the people become, and the less they require dwellings and shelters. Wind is fundamental to Skyrim and the Nords; those that live in the far wastes always carry a wind with them.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1142)
	Death of a Wanderer
By Anonymous

The last time I saw the old Argonian, I was taken by how alive he seemed, even though he was in the throes of death.

 

"The secret," he said, "of staying alive … is not in running away, but swimming directly at danger. Catches it off-guard."

 

"Is that how you managed to find this claw?" I asked, brandishing the small carving as if it were a weapon. I had found it among his possessions, which I was helping him to divvy amongst his beneficiaries. "Should it also go to your cousin? Dives-from-Below?"

 

At this, his mouth widened, exposing his fangs. If I hadn't known him as long as I had I would think he was snarling, but I knew that to be a smile. He croaked a few times to attempt laughter, but ended up wheezing and coughing, his rancid blood spraying across the bedsheets.

 

"Do you know what that is?" he asked between coughing fits.

 

"I've heard stories," I answered, "the same as you. Looks like one of the claws, for opening the sealing-doors in the ancient crypts. I've never seen one myself, before."

 

"Then you know I would only wish that thing upon a mortal enemy. Giving it to my cousin would just be encouraging him to run into one of those barrows and get split by a draugr blade."

 

"So you want me to have it, then?" I joked. "Where did you even get this?"

 

"My kind can find things that your people assumed were gone. Drop something to the bottom of a lake, and a Nord will never see it again. Amazing what you can find along the bottoms."

 

He was staring at the ceiling now, and but the way his fogged eyes darted around, I could tell he was seeing his memories instead of the cracked stone above us.

 

"Did you ever try to use it?" I whispered to him, hoping he could hear me through his fog.

 

"Of course!" he snapped, suddenly lucid. His eyes widened and fixed on me. "Where do you think I got this?" he barked, tearing his tunic open to show a white scar forming a large star-shaped knot in the scales beneath his right shoulder. "Blasted draugr got the drop on me. Just too many of them."

 

I felt awful, since I knew how much he hated talking about the battles he had been in. To him, it was enough that he had survived, and any stories would amount to boasting. We both sat quietly for several minutes, his labored breathing the only sound.

 

He was the one to break the silence. "You know what always bothered me?" he asked. "Why they even bothered with the symbols."

 

"The what?"

 

"The symbols, you fool, look at the claw."

 

I turned it over in my hand. Sure enough, etched into the face were three animals. A bear, an owl, and some kind of insect.

 

"What do the symbols mean, Deerkaza?"

 

"The sealing-doors. It's not enough to just have the claw. They're made of massive stone wheels that must align with the claw's symbols before they'll open. It's a sort of lock, I suppose. But I didn't know why they bothered with them. If you had the claw, you also had the symbols to open the door. So why …"

 

He was broken up by a coughing fit. It was the most I had heard him speak in months, but I could tell how much of a struggle it was. I knew his mind, though, and helped the thought along.

 

"Why even have a combination if you're going to write it on the key?"

 

"Exactly. But as I lay bleeding on that floor, I figured it out. The draugr are relentless, but far from clever. Once I was downed, they continued shuffling about. To no aim. No direction. Bumping against one another, the walls."

 

"So?"

 

"So the symbols on the doors weren't meant to be another lock. Just a way of ensuring the person entering was actually alive and had a functioning mind."

 

"Then the doors …."

 

"Were never meant to keep people out. They were meant to keep the draugr in."

 

And with that, he fell back asleep. When he awoke several days later, he refused to talk about the draugr at all, and would only wince and clutch his shoulder if I tried to bring them up.
		

		Part of the None collection (#1143)
	Tome of Daedric Portals
By the Sinistral Apprentice

Note to self: Remember, the most important thing is to pay homage to the flames of the Deadlands first. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As discussed in Liminal Bridges, the transpontine circumpenetration of the limen requires the cooperation—implicit or otherwise—of a Daedra Lord.

Unfortunately for the conjurer of modest means, the process described is costly, highly esoteric, and impossibly dangerous. Fortunately for the practically-minded practitioner of conjurational studies, there is another option.

Dregs of the Deadlands have been known to offer the use of existing Sigil Stones in crossing the traverse. Though the purposes of said beings are must be regarded with the wary suspicion, it is frequently possible to engage in transliminal studies with minimal risk to one's person, especially if one's go-between is supplied with sufficient motive.

The Deadlands, of course, are filled with searing heat and suffocating ash. But if you find a way to quench these things, their secrets—and those of Oblivion itself—lie at your fingertips.

Take heed, then, and read well of what fates befell those who first attempted contact with these domains.

First, there was the scholar Daron, who thought the sheer power of elemental flame would be enough to initiate contact with the Dremora of the Deadlands. Though his attempt was impressive—indeed, the fire instilled in the walls of his hovel would go on to spark one of the worst wildfires in Valenwood history—it ultimately proved futile. His ashes were never recovered.

Believing Daron was on to something, Olpion of Firsthold sought to insulate the flames with compacted earth. By all accounts he nearly succeeded, but when his chambers burst from the walls of the Crystal Tower, his apparatus lost focus, collapsing the gateway upon itself.

In the end, it was the Naga, Avumar, whose multifarious approach led to the final revelation. Once the flames were ignited, it was Avumar who thought to use an earthen vessel to convert the immense energy into steam. Once her boiler reached sufficient temperature, she was able to converse with a Dremora of some power on the other side.

Relieved, no doubt, at her success in the face of her predecessors' failure, Avumar quickly agreed to the terms of the Dremora's contract. An ominous decision, it turns out, that ultimately led to the fall of Thorn.

Take care, therefore, in your attempts to contact the Deadlands, for good seldom comes out of agreements made in haste with the creatures who call it home.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1144)
	Immortal Blood, Part 1
By Anonymous

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, committing 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."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1145)
	Cheeses of Tamriel
By Master Chef Gilbard Larocque

If you are like me, the very word "cheese" stirs you. Maybe you recall meals shared with family and friends, favorite dishes in the cold of winter, or a simple snack in the shade of a tree while traveling. I am here to tell you how much more there is to cheese than you ever realized. Join me on a journey across Tamriel and discover a breadth of culinary experience you've never imagined! 

Let's start simple. Eidar cheese, popular in Skyrim, is eaten by the Nords alongside hearty spit-roasted meats. They do not share the refined approach to cuisine that we Bretons take, but I have discovered that Eidar's rich, earthy flavor and creamy texture are quite conducive to sauces. Try it with poultry dishes or paired with a young Collequiva!

For a more exotic taste from Skyrim, you must seek out cheese made from the milk of mammoths. Only the truly brave can obtain it from the giants who craft it (Yes, giants! Who did you think could milk a mammoth?), but its restorative potential and robust flavor make it well-worth a bit of risk. I've heard it called an acquired taste, but you'll be amazed at how it completes a hearty stew.

As a student of Breton culinary tradition, I cannot rightly count it among true cheeses, but Scuttle bears mention for the adventurous. This delicious treat is crafted from—don't balk!—the flesh of beetles native to Morrowind. Do not let its composition or greasy texture turn you away, for its peppery, complex richness is loved by the Dark Elves for good reason.

For an energizing snack, you must try Elsweyr Fondue. There are countless variants of this dish, but the basics are always the same: a good cheese, strong stock, and, of course, Moon Sugar. Keep your pot on a low flame and be careful not to overdo the ale. The best part is experimenting to find your favorite combination of ingredients and dipping foods. My advice: try adding a different herb every time!

On the subject of melting, the Redguards craft a cheese with an unusual quirk. They keep the secrets of its culturing process close to heart, but love to surprise foreign guests by serving it. It is known as Shrieking Cheese. When it is melted to a certain point, it actually lets loose a jarring scream! In a common dish, small blocks of the cheese are added atop spicy meat as it cooks in an open pot. When it shrieks, it's ready!

Another rare treat, should you ever be fortunate enough to find it, is the legendarily aromatic Olroy cheese. To give you just the slightest idea of how wonderful this cheese is: I do not exaggerate when I say a scent of it alone was worth the many false leads and months of traipsing across southern Cyrodiil in search of it.

Look at all these cheeses, in wheels, wedges, and slices! So many, and it's only the beginning; there are even more cheeses out there just waiting for you. Even if you can't make long journeys in search of these delicious creations, I hope that reading about them encourages you to try as many cheeses as you can find.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1146)
	Thief of Virtue
Let me tell the tale of the Thief of Virtue. In the land of Hammerfell in the city of Sutch there lived a Baron who was quite wealthy. He was a noted collector of rare coins. The Baroness Veronique found the whole thing quite tedious. However, she did appreciate the lifestyle that the Baron's wealth provided.

 

Ravius Terinus was a noted thief. He claimed to be a master thief in the mythical guild of thieves. However, that was most likely just braggadocio. The only known Thieves Guild was wiped out over 450 years ago.

 

Ravius decided that the Baron should share his wealth. Specifically he should share it with Ravius. The wily thief crept into the Baron's castle one night intending to do just that.

 

The walls of the castle were noted for their height and unscalability. Ravius cleverly used an Arrow of Penetration to affix a rope to the top of the battlements. Once on the battlements, he had to evade the Baron's guards. By hiding in the shadows of the crenelations, he was able to work his way to the keep undetected.

 

Entering the keep was child's play for a thief of his caliber. However, a cunning lock with no less than 13 pins protected the private quarters of the Baron. Ravius broke only 9 lockpicks to open it. Using only a fork, a bit of string, and a wineskin, he disabled the seven traps guarding the Baron's coin collection. Truly Ravius was a master among thieves.

 

With the coins safely in his grasp, Ravius began his escape only to find the way blocked. The Baron had found the opened door and was raising the guard to scour the castle. Ravius fled deeper into the castle, one step ahead of the questing guards.

 

His only way out led through the boudoir of Baroness Veronique. He entered to find the lady preparing for bed. Now it should be said at this point that Ravius was noted for his handsome looks, while the Baroness was noted for her plainness. Both of these facts were immediately recognized by each of the pair.

 

"Dost thou come to plunder my virtue?" asked the lady, all a-tremble.

 

"Nay, fair lady," Ravius said, thinking quickly. "Plunder be a harsh term to ply upon such a delicate flower as your virtue."

 

"I see thou hast made off with mine husband's precious coins." Ravius looked deeply into her eyes and saw the only path by which he would escape this night with his life. It would require a double sacrifice.

 

"Though these coins are of rarest value, I have now found a treasure that is beyond all value," Ravius said smoothly. "Tell me, oh beauteous one, why dost thy husband set seven deadly traps around these tawdry coins, but only a simple lock upon the door of his virtuous wife?"

 

"Ignace protects those things that are dearest to him," Veronique replied with ire.

 

"I would give all the gold in my possession to spend but a moment basking in your radiance."

 

With that Ravius set down the coins he had worked so hard to steal. The Baroness swooned into his arms. When the captain of the guard asked to search her quarters, she hid Ravius most skillfully. She turned over the coins, claiming the thief dropped them when he fled out the window.

 

With that sacrifice made, Ravius steeled himself for the second. He robbed the lady Veronique of her virtue that night. He robbed her of it several times, lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. Exhausted, yet sated, he stole away in the pre-dawn hours.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1147)
	The Sultry Argonian Bard, Vol. 1
By Ellya Erdain

Act VI, Scene II, continued

 

Croon-Tail: My lady, I could never perform your request!

 

Ellya Erdain: Oh? Is it too fast for you?

 

Croon-Tail: I fear that it might damage my instrument.

 

Ellya Erdain: Ah. But you seem to handle your instrument so well, my darling.

 

Croon-Tail: You flatter me, my lady.

 

Ellya Erdain: Yes, well it is such a large and magnificent piece. May I hold it?

 

Croon-Tail: Goodness, no! The innkeeper would never approve of such a public display.

 

Ellya Erdain: Then may I suggest a private performance? Perhaps, away from the noise of the inn where we both may enjoy your tremendous talent.

 

Croon-Tail: Surely you don't mean for me to accompany you to your room?

 

Ellya Erdain: Indeed I do, my sweet. Indeed I do.

 

END OF ACT VI, SCENE II
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1148)
	The Song of Pelinal, Volume 8
On His Revelation at the Death of the Al-Esh

 

(Editor's Note: This is the oldest and most fragmentary of all the extant Pelinal texts. It is, however, likely closest to the original spoken or sung form of the Song, and therefore has great value despite its brevity. Strangely, it appears that Pelinal is present at Alessia's deathbed, although he was killed by Umaril earlier in the saga, years before Alessia's death. Some scholars believe that this fragment is not actually a part of the Song of Pelinal, but most accept its authenticity although there is still much debate as to its significance.)

"… and left you to gather sinew with my other half, who will bring light thereby to that mortal idea that brings (the Gods) great joy, that is, freedom, which even the Heavens do not truly know, (which is) why our Father, the … (Text lost) … in those first (days/spirits/swirls) before Convention … that which we echoed in our earthly madness. (Let us) now take you Up. We will (show) our true faces … (which eat) one another in amnesia each Age."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1149)
	The Horror of Castle Xyr, Pt. 3
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 exponentially 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?

 

ANARA / 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. 

ANARA / IACHILLA: Fascinating.

There are several more flashes of lightning as the curtain closes. 

THE END
		

		Part of the None collection (#1150)
	Septima Tharn's Leadership Maxims
By Magus-General Septima Tharn

People remember directives better if you give them concrete examples. Don't be afraid to make memorable examples of disloyal soldiers, disobedient prisoners, or recalcitrant conquered civilians. Think visually!

Clear communication is the key to effective delivery of your point of view. A demand for surrender will be more effective if carried to the enemy by a headless corpse of one of their own tied to a horse. 

Remember that every decision you make contributes to building your brand. You'll never be known as "the Butcher" unless you make a conscious choice to chop a lot of meat.

Listen first before you act. Your subordinates have key information to share with you, so it's important that you give them a chance to speak for themselves. That's the only way you'll know which ones are insubordinate and in need of execution.

Set clear objectives, hold people accountable, then get out of the way. Delegate appropriately: there's no point in getting yourself killed—that's what subordinates are for.  Remember, it's their job to take that fortified bastion, not yours.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1151)
	Ahzidal's Descent
By Halund Greycloak

In the days beyond memory, when men first walked the lands of Skyrim, there arose in the city of Saarthal a great enchanter. As a boy, his gift for magic and artifice had been evident to his tutors. As a man, his skill surpassed them all. And finding nothing more to learn among his kin, he left wife and child, and set out to train under the Elven masters.

 

A year became two, then three. And when finally his path led him back to Saarthal, he found only ruins: for the Elves had sacked the city, and all that lived there were dead or gone. Amid the ashes, in the smoldering ruins of his home, he swore a terrible oath of vengeance. And from that comes the name the legends give him: Ahzidal, the embittered destroyer.

 

Alone, he could do nothing. And so, he bided his time, delving deeper into his art than any before him. From the Dwemer, he learned the seven natures of metal and how to harmonize them. From the Ayleids, the ancient runes and dawn-magic even the Elves had begun to forget. Among Falmer and Chimer and Altmer he traveled, taking what he could from each, and all the while plotting how he might turn that knowledge against them.

 

Finally, word reached him of Ysgramor and his Companions, newly-arrived from Atmora. For three days and nights, he rode north, and met them as they made landfall on the icy coast near the ruins of Saarthal, which the Elves had fortified against them. He offered the Companions his service, and all he had produced in his years of labor. And with Atmoran steel imbued with his enchantments, the Elves fell before them, and at last he had his revenge.

But he was not content. His craft had become his life, and his hunger for knowledge still gnawed at him, driving him to delve ever deeper. At long last, he exhausted the lore of the Elves, but it was not enough. He sought the secrets of Dragon-runes, and won for himself a seat among their high priests, but it was not enough. And at length, he turned his gaze to the planes of Oblivion, and found there both power and madness.

 

Some say he ventured there, never to return. Others, that he was betrayed by his fellow Dragon Priests, and killed, or driven into hiding in the ruins beneath his beloved Saarthal. Among the Skaal of Solstheim, it is said he fled to their island, and was sealed in the depths of Kolbjorn Barrow, together with the last of his relics.

But that is the tale, as it was told among the bards of Winterhold. Whatever the truth, the legend of Ahzidal was intended as a warning: in pursuit of perfection, one must take care that the pursuit itself does not become all-consuming.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1152)
	Changed Ones
Of all the et'Ada who wandered Nirn, Trinimac was the strongest. He, for a very long time, fooled the Aldmeri into thinking that tears were the best response to the Sundering. They cried and shamed our ancestors, especially the feminine Altmer. They even took the Missing God's name in vain, calling His narratives into question. So one day Boethiah, Prince of Plots, precocious youth, tricked Trinimac to go into his mouth. Boethiah talked like Trinimac for awhile then, and gathered enough people to listen to him. Boethiah showed them the lies of the et'Ada, the Aedra, and told them Trinimac was the biggest liar of all, saying all this with Trinimac's voice! Boethiah told the mass before him the Tri-Angled Truth. He showed them, with Mephala, the rules of Psijic Endeavor. He taught them how to build Houses, and what items they needed to bury in the Corners. He demonstrated the right way to wear their skin. He performed the way to walk to achieve an Exodus. Then Boethiah relieved himself of Trinimac right there on the ground before them to prove all the things he said were the truth. It was easy then for his new people to become the Changed Ones.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1153)
	Wind and Sand
By Afa-Saryat

Let the wind blow. Let the sand scour. Let the magic of air and sand be free to roam the Alik'r. From the mystic membranes that stand between the two, absorb and convey unto me and all who may understand the deep essential powers of the desert.

Deserts are often considered to be useless wastelands, avoided by the casual traveler and shunned by the softer species as unfit for civilization. But to those who bother to investigate, to dwell, to live, to linger in these spaces, a driving hardiness develops that serves them well in all environs should they ever choose to live. A thoughtfulness born of care—for who knows best how to best invest their resources than one who has had to walk half a morning and labor for an hour to extract a few drops of water from an unyielding plant?

 

This same sort of requisite thrift applies to all other creatures who wring their living in such a land. The insight that may at first be missed, though, is that the magic of this land is similarly affected. Forgoing the showy lights and sounds of the forest-dwelling mages in Summerset, the flamboyant gesticulations of the Bretons, or even the bellowing of the Nords, there is a certain economy to the casting of a true Alik'r wizard. This is not meant as a slight against other magical styles, only noting that a such energies might be better focused into reflection and purpose.

On Sand

 

When both foreigners and natives imagine the desert, often their first image is one of orange-hued sand blowing beneath a dark blue sky. Indeed, this is not wholly incorrect, as the shifting sands are one of the key components not only of the desert, but of its natural magics.

 

Consider: sand is nothing but the weathering of rocks, older by far than any of the living inhabitants who claim a land as "theirs." As each rock breaks further, more of its inner space is revealed, until it is practically naught but exposed surface in its aggregate self. This collective then scatters, intermingles, scatters, and repeats, in infinite combinations so long as Nirn continues to exist. If we believe, as I do, that the rocks themselves contain remnants of Magnus' gift, than this exposure and combinatorial explosion results in a breadth and diversity of magic energy as is unknown elsewhere in Tamriel.

On Air

 

Much as the sand learns from every grain around it, so too does the air which conveys it from one combination to the other absorb the sense knowledge of its carried grains. In fact, it is plausible that the air itself is guiding the combinations to novelty and expression. Indeed, consider that in the Nord tradition, Kyne is the widow of Shor (an aspect of Lorkhan), then her ministrations (via wind) to his physical legacy within Mundus could be seen as a form of celestial mourning, from which we mortals can benefit.

 

It would seem, indeed, that the next level of magical awakening may well be driven by scrying appropriate wind channels to carve novel paths through the vast desert such as to further diversify the land's memory. Reading the knowledge of the sands, though, is an immense task in itself, more fit to an army of clerical workers than a wizard of any standing.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1154)
	Chronicles of Nchuleft
By An Anonymous Altmer

This is a chronicle of events of historical significance to the Dwemer Freehold Colony of Nchuleft. The text was probably recorded by an Altmer, for it is written in Aldmeris.

 

23. The Death of Lord Ihlendam

 

It happened in Second Planting (P.D. 1220) that Lord Ihlendam, on a journey in the Western Uplands, came to Nchuleft; and Protector Anchard and General Rkungthunch met him there, and Dalen-Zanchu also came to the meeting. They talked together long by themselves; but this only was known of their business, that they were to be friends of each other. They parted, and each went home to his own colony.

 

Bluthanch and her sons came to hear of this meeting, and saw in this secret meeting a treasonable plot against the Councils; and they often talked of this among themselves. When spring came, the Councils proclaimed, as usual, a Council Meet, in the halls of Bamz-Amschend. The people accordingly assembled, handfasted with ale and song, drinking bravely, and much and many things were talked over at the drink-table, and, among other things, were comparisons between different Dwemer, and at last among the Councilors themselves.

 

One said that Lord Ihlendam excelled his fellow Councilors by far, and in every way. At this Councilor Bluthanch was very angry, and said that she was in no way less than Lord Ihlendam, and that she was eager to prove it. Instantly both parties were so inflamed that they challenged each other to battle, and ran to their arms. But some citizens who were less drunk, and more understanding, came between them, and quieted them; and each went back to his colony, but nobody expected that they would ever meet in peace again together.

 

But then, in the fall, Lord Ihlendam received a message from Councilor Bluthanch, inviting him to a parlay at Hendor-Stardumz. And all Ihlendam's kin and citizens strongly urged him not to come, fearing treachery, but Lord Ihlendam would not listen to counsel, not even to carrying with him his honor guard. And sadly, it came to pass that, while traveling to Hendor-Stardumz, in Chinzinch Pass, a host of foul creatures set upon Lord Ihlendam and killed him, and all of his party. And many citizens said thereafter that Bluthanch and her sons had conjured these beasts and set them upon Lord Ihlendam, but nothing was proven. Lord Ihlendam lies buried at a place called Leftunch.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1155)
	Confessions of a Khajiiti Fur Trader
My execution is tomorrow. The turnkey asks what I'd like for my last meal.

 

Bring me paper, I say. A quill and a candle.

 

Perhaps the Jarl would like a confession. I would rather pass the time.

 

When my father's harem burned down and our family fortune was lost to the ashes, my brother and I set to begging in the gutters of Elsweyr. I will never forget the first time we stole a traveler's purse. It was almost by accident. Just a slip of the claw and the pouch fell into our hands. We ate like kings that night. We slept in a warm bed for the first time in months.

 

Soon after, my brother and I took up the knife. The gang we joined treated us as the dirty orphans we were. We robbed, we scammed, we cut and ran and years of debauchery and hard living took their toll. I lost half my left ear in a knife fight with a blind drunk Argonian.

 

I wanted to give up, but my brother, he dreamed bigger, better.

 

My brother wanted to make it to Cyrodiil and become legit merchants. We had a plan. One final heist of a northbound caravan said to be filled with jewels.

 

Something went wrong. My brother could not stop the horses on time, and I stood helplessly by and watched the wagon plummet over a cliff. But as I picked through the wreckage, my devastation turned to excitement. There were no jewels, but there were plenty of luxurious wolf pelts, horker tusks and mammoth hides, more than enough to buy my way to Cyrodiil. I'd follow in the footsteps of so many of my kind. A traveling merchant, someone with a respectable profession.

 

I had all the furs bundled in my pack when I saw my brother's broken body. His ears were still warm, and I shut his eyes for the last time. This was his dream. And he would want me to go. But what I wanted, well, the caravan guards were coming. I had to go, but I couldn't just leave his body to rot.

 

My brother gave me my first skin. It was to be a memento. But in the darkness of the fence's cabin, the coin hit my hand heavy. Then she looked at my brother's pelt and offered three times the amount of any other fur. Disgust caught in my throat, but did not live very long. I realized the cost of such a forbidden luxury. The value, the demand, the respect.

 

This is what I wanted.

 

It became easier. A dark alley, a gag in one hand and a quick slice across the throat. Gently hold the body as it bleeds. I became faster, my cuts precise and fluid. I peel the skin with one motion and kept the merchandise pristine, in one piece.

 

I became rich. Far richer than anyone in my family had ever been. Yet I was careful. My stronghold was well-hidden, and practically impenetrable. I hired the men that used to employ me. We moved frequently on less-traveled roads when we hunted in the wild. We stalked the back alleys we used to sleep in when we hunted in the city. I grew so rich that I no longer needed to dirty my own hands.

 

Patchwork colored furs fetched the best price among the Bosmer. Argonians preferred the pelts completely skinned and tanned. Orcs prized the thick, waterproof leather of the Argonians. Humans most often bought tails and ears. I had to employ an alchemist and a master craftsman for a couple odd requests, but I didn't ask questions when the gold piled up.

 

And now I'm a prisoner. Maybe I became careless. Maybe I let too many secrets slip between the sheets. The raid of my fortress was a massacre. They took me alive, barely. That was their mistake. My enemies should have killed me when they had the chance.

 

I have one lockpick. And the northern wall of my cell is weak from disrepair. My head shall not roll tomorrow.

 

I am not finished with the trade. There will always be buyers. Someday, I will sell my own skin for a king's ransom, as my name is legend. And yours shall rot in the gutters with your bones.

 

— The Fur Trader
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1156)
	Glories and Laments
By Alexandre Hetrard

Having arrived at Gottlesfont Priory, halfway on the Gold Road between Skingrad and the Imperial City, I resolved to make a side trip to view the magnificent ruins of Ceyatatar, or "Shadow of the Fatherwoods" in the ancient Ayleid tongue. After many hours of difficult travel through tangled hawthorn hells and limberlosts, I was suddenly struck dumb by the aspect of five pure white columns rising from a jade-green mound of vines to perfect V-shaped arches and graceful capitals towering above the verdant forest growth. This spectacle caused me to meditate on the lost glories of the past, and the melancholy fate of high civilizations now poking like splinter shards of bone from the green-grown tumulus of time-swept obscurity.

 

Within the forest tangle I discovered an entrance leading down into the central dome of a great underground edifice once dedicated to Magnus, the God of Sight, Light, and Insight. Dimly lit by the faded power of its magical pools, the shattered white walls of the enclosure shimmered with a cold blue light.

 

The marble benches of the central plaza faced out across the surrounding waters to tall columns and sharp arches supporting the high dome. From the central island, stately bridges spanned the still pools to narrow walkways behind the columns, with broad vaulted avenues and limpid canals leading away through ever-deeping gloom into darkness. Reflected in the pools were the tumbled columns, collapsed walls, and riotous root and vine growth thriving the dark half-light of the magical fountains.

 

The ancient Ayleids recognized not the four elements of modern natural philosophy—earth, water, air, and fire—but the four elements of High Elf religion—earth, water, air, and light. The Ayleids considered fire to be but a weak and corrupt form of light, which Ayleid philosophers identified with primary magical principles. Thus their ancient subterranean temples and sanctuaries were lit by lamps, globes, pools, and fountains of purest magic.

 

It was by these ancient, faded, but still active magics that I knelt and contemplated the departed glories of the long-dead Ayleid architects. Gazing through the glass-smooth reflections of the surrounding pools, I could see, deep below, the slow pulse, the waxing and waning of the Welkynd Stones.

 

The chiefest perils of these ruins to the explorer are the cunning and deadly mechanisms devised by the Ayleids to torment and confound those would invade their underground sanctuaries. What irony that after these many years, these devices should still stand vigilant against those who would admire the works of the Ayleids. For it is clear … these devices were crafted in vain. They did not secure the Ayleids against their true enemies, which were not the slaves who revolted and overthrew their cruel masters, nor the were they the savage beast peoples who learned the crafts of war and magic from their Ayleid masters. No, it was the arrogant pride of their achievements, their smug self-assurance that their empire would last forever, that doomed them to fail and fade into obscurity.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1157)
	The Night Mother's Truth
By Gaston Bellefort

Although various works have been written on the subjects of both Morrowind's Morag Tong, and Tamriel's more widespread Dark Brotherhood, there remains confusion as to precisely when and how these two feared assassins guilds formed. Or, more specifically, when and how the Dark Brotherhood split from the Morag Tong, as the former is widely accepted to have sprung from the latter.

 

The largest point of contention seems to be the figure of the Night Mother, a woman who figures prominently in both organizations. Through extensive research and interviews, and not inconsiderable risk to my own life (for the Dark Brotherhood holds this information sacred), I have finally solved this ages-old mystery. I have finally uncovered the Night Mother's Truth.

 

Although her name has been lost to time, the Night Mother was once a mere mortal, a Dark Elf woman who lived in a small village once located where the city of Bravil stands now, in the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil. She was a respected member of the Morag Tong and, like her fellow members, this woman made her trade as an assassin in service to the Daedric Prince Mephala. In fact, the woman held the title of Night Mother, reserved for the highest ranking female member of the organization. To be Night Mother of a particular sect was to be that group's matron—the favored of Mephala, both respected and feared.

 

However, it was not Mephala who facilitated the transformation from woman to spectre, but another, some would say far deeper form of evil—Sithis, the Dread Lord, embodiment of the unending Void.

 

Following the Potentate's assassination in 2E 324, strife descended upon the Morag Tong, and the guild was all but eradicated in Cyrodiil and much of the Empire. It was shortly after these events that the Dunmer woman claimed to hear the voice of Sithis himself. The Dread Lord, she claimed, was displeased. He was unhappy with the Morag Tong's lack of success. The Void, he told her, was hungry for souls—and it was her destiny to set things right.

 

And so, according to Dark Brotherhood legend, Sithis visited the Night Mother in her bed chamber, and begat her five children. Two years passed, before the unthinkable happened. The Dark Elf woman followed through with the Dread Lord's ultimate plan—one night, she murdered her children, and sent their souls straight to the Void. Straight to their father.

 

When they learned of this affront to decency, the people of the village rallied against the woman. For such an act was considered incomprehensible, even for a Night Mother of the Morag Tong. In one night of vengeance, they descended upon the woman, killing her, and burning down the house in which the atrocity took place. And that was the end of the story. Or so everyone thought.

 

A little more than thirty years later, an unnamed man heard a strange, comforting voice inside his very head, just as the Dunmer woman claimed to hear the voice of Sithis inside hers. The voice identified herself as the Night Mother, and named the man "Listener"—the first of many.

 

And so the Unholy Matron set her servant on his path—he would found a new organization, a guild of assassins known as the Dark Brotherhood, in service not to Mephala, but to the Dread Lord Sithis. The Morag Tong, now surviving only in Morrowind, was an artifact of a forgotten age. The Dark Brotherhood would marry business with death. The organization would grow in wealth and power, and the Void would swell with fresh souls. It was, the Night Mother told her Listener, the perfect arrangement.

 

In the early days of the Dark Brotherhood, the bodies of the Night Mother and her children were recovered from their original burial site, and interred in a crypt beneath the site of her house. And there they remain, even today.

 

So if, in your travels, you find yourself in the city of Bravil, and make a wish at the statue of the Lucky Old Lady (as is the local custom), know that you stand on sacred, if evil, ground. For you stand above the Night Mother, the Unholy Matron herself, and your luck has just run out.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1158)
	Nchunak's Fire and Faith
By Nchunak

This book is a translated account of Nchunak's travels among the various colonies of the Dwemer explaining the theories of Kagrenac.

 

I made inquiry as to the state of enlightenment among the people he spoke for. He answered that with respect to the theories of Kagrenac, there was but one scholar near who could guide the people through the maze that leads to true misunderstanding.

 

He informed me, however, that in Kherakah the precepts of Kagrenac were taught. He said that nothing pleased him more than to see the Dwemer of Kherakah, the most learned people in the world, studying Kagrenac's words and giving consideration to their place in the life to come, and where neither planar division nor the numeration of amnesia nor any other thing of utility was more valued than the understanding of the self and its relationship to the Heart.

 

I was gracious enough to receive this as a high compliment, and, removing my helm, I thanked him and departed with an infinity of bows.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1159)
	On Apocrypha
What takes the world in lightened sense

Can also seek the outward gleam

They rob the all of essence to

Report the nothing they have seen

Bone extrusions gash and grind

In moistened depths of smacking heat

While tearing flesh from averse bone

The body whole prepares to eat

A writhing mass of heaped appendage

Slipping grasp the squirming slick

Extend the reach to touch the face

Burn the mind, reveal the quick

Crushing razors, hollow shells

That snap, that twitch, that cinch and rend

To hold the subject, bodily,

'Til mind blows soft and life meets end
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1160)
	Immortal Blood, Part 2
By Anonymous

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."

 

"You 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 Summerset 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.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1161)
	Aetherial Fragments
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

Many novice students find the study of the planes difficult to approach. Unlike my contemporary, Phrastus of Elinhir, who alienates readers with his self-serving agenda, I find that starting with an unbiased, concrete example works best as an introduction. Studying Aetherial fragments naturally leads to the broader topic of the planes.

Surely you have seen a shooting star. This occurs when a piece of Aetherius, spirit-plane and source of magic, becomes dislodged and falls to Nirn. Two types of materials, meteoric iron and glass, may be found after such an event. The magical potential of both is extraordinary. In this text, I focus on the rarer meteoric glass, including its uses through history and its various manifestations.

The Ayleids, the Elves that ruled Cyrodiil until the early First Era, made extensive use of these sky-stones. With their advanced understanding of the magical arts, they created blue Welkynd and Varla Stones to harness the power of starlight from Aetherius and store magicka, power enchanted items, or provide unending light. Some even held Destruction spells as a type of automated defense.

The secrets of producing these stellar vessels have been lost. The Ayleids were able to create them in considerable numbers by replicating and enchanting meteoric glass. Attempts to synthesize new Welkynd or Varla Stones, or even to reproduce uncharged meteoric glass, have failed. Frequently, the original stones crumble to useless dust upon experimentation, further frustrating research and necessitating dangerous expeditions into Ayleid ruins.

The modern Malondo and Culanda stones, golden in color, are similar to blue Ayleid fragments. A product or discovery of the High Elves, they are most frequently found in the Summerset Isles. Malondo Stones, which can be recharged, can be tapped by spellcasters as a source of magicka replenishment or to restore a charge or charges to enchanted items. Culanda Stones provide a bright golden light. They can trigger magical effects or store magicka, but are always destroyed upon use or depletion.

You may read claims by Phrastus, who is blindly enamored of Elven culture, that the Altmer have unlocked and improved upon the secrets of the Ayleids. He even suggests that they are cultivating Malondo and Culanda Stones as a farmer might grow wheat. The more reasonable theory is that, through tinkering with existing Ayleid stones and raw meteoric glass, a more reliable method of recharging has been discovered.

Sky Prisms, another type of Aetherial fragment, can be seen splitting into shards as they fall to Nirn during specific lunar alignments. When three shards meet, they re-form into a silvery prism by some unknown process and confer the power unlocked by the merger to a nearby being. Like other sky-stones, they are relatively rare, and it is difficult to obtain specimens for investigation. Though they originate in the heavens they are often found underground, brought there by denizens of the depths who find their light-emitting properties useful. 

With enough study and experimentation, it is my hope that the keys to producing these useful items will be uncovered, and a more full understanding of the planes and their power will be achieved.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1162)
	Sovngarde, A Reexamination
By Bereditte Jastal

Death. It is something we all face. Or do we?

 

Just ask the nearest Nord what he thinks of the end of life, and you'll likely be treated to a horrific story of blood, bone and viscera, of courageous deeds and heartbreaking sorrow. Carnage notwithstanding, there may be even more to death than the average Nord warrior realizes. New evidence suggests a life beyond the battlefield, where a valiant Nord may live forever, downing mead and engaging in contests of strength and skill. But in order to fully understand the possibility of a Nord's eternal life after death, one must first reexamine the legends surrounding that most wondrous of warrior's retreats—Sovngarde.

 

According to the ancient writings and oral traditions of the Nords, going back as far as the Late Merethic Era, there exists a place so magnificent, so honored, that the entrance lies hidden from view. Sovngarde, it is called, built by the god Shor to honor those Nords who have proven their mettle in war. Within this "Hall of Valor" time as we know it has no meaning. The concepts of life and death are left on the doorstep, and those within exist in a sort of self-contained euphoria, free of pain, suffering and the worst malady a Nord could suffer—boredom.

 

But just how well hidden the entrance to Sovngarde is has been a matter of much scholarly debate, and there are those who believe Shor's great hall is just a myth, for there are no actual accounts from Nords who have experienced the wonders of Sovngarde then returned to tell the tale. Not that this has stopped anyone from looking. Some Nords spend a lifetime searching for the mysterious hidden entrance to Sovngarde. Most return home sad and broken, their hearts heavy with failure. They'll never know the pleasure of a mead flagon that never empties, or a wrestling tournament without end.

 

What, some may ask, does the entrance to Sovngarde have to do with death? Everything, according to a series of ancient parchments recently discovered in the attic of a deceased Nord's home in Cyrodiil. What at first seemed to be a series of love letters was later found to be a correspondence between one Felga Four-Fingers, a medium of some note, and the ghost of a Nord warrior named Rolf the Large. According to the parchments, Rolf had spent his entire life searching for the entrance to Sovngarde, without success. He was returning home to his village in Skyrim when he was waylaid by a band of giants. Rolf fought bravely, but was quickly killed, and the giants proceeded to play catch with his head. Amazingly, all of this was seen by Rolf in ghostly form as he drifted away from the scene, soaring upwards into the heavens, where he finally arrived … in the magnificent hall of Sovngarde!

 

Rolf could not believe his good fortune, and his foolishness for not having realized the truth so many years before. For death was the entrance to Sovngarde. So he was told by Shor himself, who greeted Rolf the Large as a brother, and personally handed him a leg of roast mutton and the hand of a comely wench. Sovngarde, Shor told him, can be entered by any Nord who dies valiantly in honorable combat.

 

It is time for Nords to learn the truth. Eternal life can be theirs, without the need to spend an entire mortal life in vain pursuit of something completely unattainable. In the end, all valiant Nords can enter Sovngarde. Dismemberment, decapitation or evisceration seems a small price to pay for the chance to spend an eternity in Shor's wondrous hall.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1163)
	Goodnight Mundus
"A Tamrielic Lullaby"

In the great green tomb

There was a chaurus 

And a draugr that had been dead since Sundas

And a picture of …

A guar jumping over the Mundus

And there were two netches sitting on benches

And a frost troll with a sweet roll

And an Orcish oaf with a horker loaf

And a storm atronach with the Wabbajack

And an old Moth priest who was whispering, "Magicka"

Goodnight Mundus

Goodnight chaurus

Goodnight guar jumping over the Mundus

Goodnight draugr that had been dead since Sundas

Goodnight frost troll

Goodnight sweet roll

Goodnight Orcish oaf with a horker loaf

Goodnight atronach

Goodnight Wabbajack

And goodnight to the Moth priest whispering, "Magicka"

Goodnight ogrim, Dremora, clannfear

Goodnight Daedra everywhere
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1164)
	The Remanada, Chapter One
Chapter 1: SANCRE TOR AND THE BIRTH OF REMAN

 

And in those days the empire of the Cyrodiils was dead, save in memory only, for through war and slug famine and iniquitous rulers, the west split from the east and Colovia's estrangement lasted some four hundreds of years. And the earth was sick with this sundering. Once-worthy western kings, of Anvil and Sarchal, of Falkreath and Delodiil, became through pride and habit as like thief-barons and forgot covenant. In the heartland things were no better, as arcanists and false moth-princes lay in drugged stupor or the studies of vileness and no one sat on the Throne in dusted generations. Snakes and the warnings of snakes went unheeded and the land bled with ghosts and deepset holes unto cold harbors. It is said that even the Chim-el Adabal, the amulet of the kings of glory, had been lost and its people saw no reason to find it.

 

And it was in this darkness that King Hrol set out from the lands beyond lost Twil with a sortie of questing knights numbered eighteen less one, all of them western sons and daughters. For Hrol had seen in his visions the snakes to come and sought to heal all the borders of his forebears. And to this host appeared at last a spirit who resembled none other than El-Estia, queen of ancient times, who bore in her left hand the dragonfire of the aka-tosh and in her right hand the jewels of the covenant and on her breast a wound that spilt void onto her mangled feet. And seeing El-Estia and Chim-el Adabal, Hrol and his knights wailed and set to their knees and prayed for all things to become as right. Unto them the spirit said, I am the healer of all men and the mother of dragons, but as you have run so many times from me so shall I run until you learn my pain, which renders you and all this land dead.

 

And the spirit fled from them, and they split among hills and forests to find her, all grieving that they had become a villainous people. Hrol and his shieldthane were the only ones to find her, and the king spoke to her, saying, I love you sweet Aless, sweet wife of Shor and of Auri-el and the Sacred Bull, and would render this land alive again, not through pain but through a return to the dragon-fires of covenant, to join east and west and throw off all ruin. And the shieldthane bore witness to the spirit opening naked to his king, carving on a nearby rock the words AND HROL DID LOVE UNTO A HILLOCK before dying in the sight of their union.

 

When the fifteen other knights found King Hrol, they saw him dead after his labors against a mound of mud. And they parted each in their way, and some went mad, and the two that returned to their homeland beyond Twil would say nothing of Hrol, and acted ashamed for him.

 

But after nine months that mound of mud became as a small mountain, and there were whispers among the shepherds and bulls. A small community of believers gathered around that growing hill during the days of its first churning, and they were the first to name it the Golden Hill, Sancre Tor. And it was the shepherdess Sed-Yenna who dared climb the hill when she heard his first cry, and at its peak she saw what it had yielded, an infant she named Reman, which is "Light of Man."

 

And in the child's forehead was the Chim-el Adabal, alive with the dragon-fires of yore and divine promise, and none dared obstruct Sed-Yenna when she climbed the steps of White-Gold Tower to place the babe Reman on his Throne, where he spoke as an adult, saying I AM CYRODIIL COME.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1165)
	When the Dragon Broke
Where Were You When the Dragon Broke?

 

by Various

"No one understands what happened when the Selectives danced on that tower. It would be easy to dismiss the whole matter as nonsense were it not for the Amulet of Kings. Even the Elder Scrolls do not mention it—let me correct myself, the Elder Scrolls cannot mention it. When the Moth priests attune the Scrolls to the timeless time their glyphs always disappear. The Amulet of Kings, however, with its oversoul of emperors, can speak of it at length. According to Hestra, Cyrodiil became an Empire across the stars. According to Shor-El, Cyrodiil became an egg. Most say something in a language they can only speak sideways. The Council has collected texts and accounts from all of its provinces, and they only offer stories that never coincide, save on one point: all the folk of Tamriel during the Middle Dawn, in whatever 'when' they were caught in, tracked the fall of the eight stars. And that is how they counted their days."

 

Mehra Nabisi, Dunmer, Triune Mistress of the New Temple:

 

"Accounts of the Middle Dawn are the province of the Empire of Men, and proof of the deceit that call themselves the Aedra. Eight stars fell on Tamriel, one for each iniquity that Lorkhan made clear to the world. Veloth read these signs, and he told Boethiah, who confirmed them, and he told Mephala, who made wards against them, and he told Azura, who sent ALMSIVI to steer the True Folk clear of harm. Even the Four Corners of the House of Troubles rose to protect the periphery of your madness. We watched our borders and saw them shift like snakes, and saw you run around in it like the spirits of old, devoid of math, without your if-thens, succumbing to the Ever Now like slaves of the slim folly, stasis. Do not ask us where we were when the Dragon Broke, for, of all the world, only we truly know, and we might just show you how to break it again."

 

R'leyt-harhr, Khajiit, Tender to the Mane:

 

"Do you mean, where were the Khajiit when the Dragon Broke? R'leyt tells you where: recording it. 'One thousand eight years,' you've heard it. You think the Cyro-Nords came up with that all on their own. You humans are better thieves than even Rajhin! While you were fighting wars with phantoms and giving birth to your own fathers, it was the Mane that watched the ja-Kha'jay, because the moons were the only constant, and you didn't have the sugar to see it. We'll give you credit: you broke Alkosh something fierce, and that's not easy. Just don't think you solved what you accomplished by it, or can ever solve it. You did it again with Big Walker, not once, but twice! Once at Rimmen, which we'll never learn to live with. The second time it was in Daggerfall, or was it Sentinel, or was it Wayrest, or was it in all three places at once? Get me, Cyrodiil? When will you wake up and realize what really happened to the Dwarves?"

 

Mannimarco, God of Worms, the Necromancer:

 

"The Three Thieves of Morrowind could tell you where they were. So could the High King of Alinor, who was the one who broke it in the first place. There are others on this earth that could, too: Ysmir, Pelinal, Arnand the Fox or should I say Arctus? The Last Dwarf would talk, if they would let him. As for myself, I was here and there and here again, like the rest of the mortals during the Dragon Break. How do you think I learned my mystery? The Maruhkati Selectives showed us all the glories of the Dawn so that we might learn, simply: as above, so below."
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1166)
	Confessions of a Skooma Eater
Nothing is more revolting to a person than the sorry spectacle of another person enslaved by that derivative of moon-sugar known as "skooma." And nothing is less appetizing than listening to the pathetic tales of humiliation and degradation associated with a victim of this addictive drug.

 

Why, then, do I force myself upon you with this extended and detailed account of my sins and sorrows?

 

Because I hope that by telling my tale, the hope of redemption from this sorry state shall be more widely known. And because I hope that others who have also fallen into the sorry state of skooma addiction may therefore hear of my story, of how I fell into despair, and how I once again found myself and freed myself from my own self-imposed chains.

 

Because it is widely known to all Khajiit, who may be expected to know, that there is no cure for addiction to skooma, that once a slave to skooma, always a slave to skooma. Because this is widely known, it is taken to be true. But it is not true, and I am living proof.

 

There is no miracle cure. There is no potion to be taken. There is no magical incantation which frees you from the thrill of skooma running through your blood.

 

But it is through the understanding of that thrill, and the acceptance of the lust within oneself for that thrill, and the casting aside of the shame that the thrillseeker feels when he cannot set aside what becomes in the end his only comfort and pleasure, it is through this knowledge and understanding that the victim comes to the place where choices may be made, where despair and hope may be separated.

 

In short, only knowledge and acceptance can deliver into the slave's hands the key that opens his shackles and sets him free.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1167)
	The Five Tenets
Tenet 1: Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

 

Tenet 2: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

 

Tenet 3: Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

 

Tenet 4: Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

 

Tenet 5: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.
		

Failed at /books/1168		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1169)
	Wish Me Good Fortune
Dearest Moryan,

The life of a gladiator is hard. We train endlessly. As yet, we have not won enough victories to make any sizeable amount of gold, but I am told that if we continue to be victorious, our reward will be great. 

We are scheduled to join the Grand Melee in the Frozen Arena, shortly. I must admit, I approach this with more than a little trepidation. I understand that the Nords are fearsome opponents, as are the Dunmer, and even if our clan defeats the other gladiators, there is still the matter of defeating the Beast Master's latest acquisitions. 

Wish me good fortune. With any luck, my next letter will include some coin so we can begin to pay down our debts.

Your Love,

Gilres
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1170)
	The Spectral Beings
Enslave the Oathbreakers. Drain their essence and bend their souls to our will. 

The spectral beasts are merely shapeshifting Oathbreaker spirits attempting to avoid our touch. Give them no reprieve. Drain them like the rest. Bend them to our will.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1171)
	Glenumbria: Alessian Orders
To all Alessian Soldiers,

The Direnni believe they have the advantage. They are comfortable in their camps and secure in their victory. They have lost focus.

Word has reached us that the Direnni will launch a major assault in the coming hours. When this happens, we will send our Alessian scouts under the cover of shadows to get in behind them, destroying their camp.

If this works, we can catch their assault from behind in a flank and wipe them out once and for all.

No one will stand in the way of the Alessians! Kill, and keep killing, in the Name of the One!
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1172)
	The Time Will Come
Time spreads out before us, like the branches of a great tree. But the branches narrow, and the leaves that sprout grow ever thinner. I tried to warn the other spinners … Y'frre grant they heeded my messages, for I knew you would come.

Free me from the bonds he will create, and I will aid you as I can. Kill my spirit and the Silvenar can still prevail, but I will be unable to aid you in the future that grows before you.

The Lovers strive to make wrong right,

The Shadow approaches, threatens endless night.

We rise to our doom in the Tower of the tree,

Our shackles broken, by you, for me.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1173)
	The Time Is Past
Time flows like a river, sweeping away the flotsam and jetsam of history with every moment. If we look upstream, we see the white water of the past and can predict the turbulence of the present and the torrents of the future. All is as it once was.

I have been free in the past and shall be in the future, whether you break my bonds or not. The Silvenar has always been and so always shall be. Take comfort, or fear, in that.

Dance the endless dance, oh, children,

And cast the forever spell!

Learn your sacred rites,

Apprentice to your times.

The masters of magic, the mages

They shall compose the rhymes.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1174)
	The Time Is Now
Time is immediate. The clash of arms, the roar of victory, the grief and tragedy of defeat … they all happen now. Moment-to-moment the world exists, or it doesn't. The past, the future; none are more important than the present.

I am forever free, regardless of whether the Hound's spell binds my body. Release me from my bonds if you will, knowing that what happens now is most important. Death is just another moment in time, and when it comes, I will endure it.

The Lady stands alone,

Her will by rituals besieged.

The Warrior stands alone,

His strength by liars mocked.

The Lord stands alone,

His rule by traitors taken.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1175)
	Note in a Dead Man's Hand
Slick Thomic, 

You're my man with the lightest foot. Tonight, steal as many dreugh eggs as you can from their nests at the pools, and bring them back to the barracks house in Dreughside.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1176)
	Baron Sorick's Orders
Orders for Tonight:

Thomic will be bringing in some eggs from the dreugh nests. Have the men take a few each and spread them around Dreughside. And quietly, mind! 

If anyone sees you, throw them to the dreugh. And burn this letter after reading it—don't get any ideas about holding on to it to blackmail me later. 

I'll be upstairs in Arbogasque's house. The swine owes me rent.

— Baron Sorick
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1177)
	Summoning Gar Xuu Gar
Come to us, Gar Xuu Gar. 

The way is open.

The way is clear.

Come to us, Gar Xuu Gar.

Bring us terror.

Bring us fear.

Come to us, Gar Xuu Gar.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1178)
	Ceyran, Warlord of Rulanyil's Fall
Ceyran was a minor Ayleid warlord of the middle First Era, most famous for building and losing three separate dominions during his long life. It is not clear whether he was a refugee from the Ayleid purges in Cyrodiil, or was born after his clan fled to Valenwood. Rumored to be a devotee of Molag Bal, Ceyran was eventually killed by an unknown assassin in 1E 1102.
		

Failed at /books/1179		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1180)
	Head of Brazzefk
Brazzefk was once a Dwemer alchemist of great renown. Legend holds that his search for immortality culminated in a potion designed to turn him into a living giant of stone, free from the failings of flesh. The potion worked all too well, turning his entire body into a stuatue, immortal but immobile.

Is this the head of Brazzefk? And is he aware of his surroundings? We can but speculate.
		

Failed at /books/1181Failed at /books/1182		Part of the None collection (#1183)
	Placeholder Wine Label
1001 Wine Labels

for the Connoisseur

(Actual wine-label collecting

to be implemented soon!)
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1184)
	Hubert's Diary
We came to mine…

We saw bears and were trapped…

The food is running out…

Marisse didn't make it.
		

Failed at /books/1185Failed at /books/1186Failed at /books/1187Failed at /books/1188		Part of the Final Words collection (#1189)
	Vareldur's Journal
Mother, I don't know if you'll ever read this. I should never have left Mathiisen. The Veiled Heritance isn't the honorable cause I thought it was. Some of them are real patriots, but most are just brutes. I can't do this anymore.

- - - - - - - - -

We're going to Del's Claim tonight. The old mine near South Beacon. They're going to kill the miners. I can't let them do that, can I? I have to stop them. Somehow. I love you, mother. Always know, I love you.

— Vareldur
		

Failed at /books/1190Failed at /books/1191Failed at /books/1192		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1193)
	Ralion's Journal, Day 132
… wolf near the ruins. It watched us a while before retreating into the woods. Thinking about it gives me the chills. I've never felt so vulnerable in my life!

Were that not enough, Lowindor died today in a bad spot of luck. Fell into a ditch and landed on his pick. A damned pity. He was our expert from the Mages Guild. He will be missed.

<<1>> found a pendant today. Some kind of bone carving. Only a few years old, if I guess right. The reverse is inscribed, but we can't make out any of the symbols. I set it aside it for further study. Maybe they'll have better luck deciphering it in Elden Root.

Have to remember to requisition more candles. Someone keeps forgetting to extinguish …
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1194)
	Ralion's Journal, Day 147
… came back today, staring at <<1>> like a slab of ripe mammoth. When it left, he followed it. Madness!

He's been on edge since he returned. Can't say I blame him. Those eyes bore right into you. Sometimes I dream about them, watching the camp, watching me. If what they say about this place is true ….

Someone dug up Lowindor's grave. The body's gone. Maybe that wolf's to blame, but it's the strangest thing. There were finger marks in the dirt. If I believed it were possible, I'd say he dug his way out.

<<1>> is giving <<2>> a hard time again. I need to find a way to separate those two.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1195)
	Ralion's Journal, Day 151
… and the search party's been missing nearly two days. I can't send another one out. Since <<1>> disappeared, the forest seems darker. Menacing, even.

I'm not sure how to explain it. The shadows move in the corner of my eye. <<2>> says I need sleep. He's one to talk, the hours he keeps! Suppose it doesn't make him wrong. But every time I close my eyes, I see <<1>>, still out there in the woods.

Fists of Thalmor will be here the day after next. Worse comes to worst we'll get them to find our missing people.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1196)
	Nilaendril's Notes
Female Bosmer, aged 45 to 47. Unusually tall. Crushed third and seventh vertebrae. Four broken ribs. Two finger-length grooves along the inside of the skull.

Wounds suggest a senche-tiger or troll, so why are her large bones intact? Animals would have cracked them open to get at the marrow, but apart from teeth-marks they're pristine. Flawless.

After death, she was carefully cleaned. If not for the absence of artifacts, I'd say she's been through funeral rites.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1197)
	Ralion's Journal, Day 149
<<1>> picked a fight with one of the workers today. When I broke it up, he stormed off into the forest. He's always been high strung, but lately he's been intolerable.

He better come back soon. It's getting dark and the forest is too quiet. The stories people tell about this place are little more than nursery rhymes, but on nights like this, I can see why.

One of the workers swears he saw Lowindor stumbling about the edge of camp last night. Lowindor's dead. How is that possible? A drunken nightmare? That's what <<2>> says. I'm not so sure.

I never thought I'd believe in ghosts.
		

		Part of the None collection (#1198)
	One Wilding Night
Sit my small fellows, as I spin you a tale of the beast cloaked in shadow, as a midsummer gale!

With a face all athunder with fangs pearly white, he could fell a whole forest with one terrible bite!

When he came, one fine eve, upon Wilding Run with a mind full of murder, oh such wonderful fun!

To dizzy its people that treacherous night 'neath a star-spattered sky in the palest moonlight!

The Spinners came first, in this dreadful grim story, and the Treethane, his fate? Most assuredly gory!

All the guards in their bunks, tucked away in their beer! Torn apart in the night where no one could hear!

As for me? I escaped from that hideous fate, though the beast, he gave chase all the way to the gate!

How he yelled, how he stamped 'til I barely could see! All his rage, all his bluster 'neath the twisted old tree.

After that? Who can guess! I know none who could tell of the others, all slain in that terrible quell.

But I tell you, my friend, 'fore I leave you this day—if you ever do journey up that wilding way…

Keep your eyes to the road, do not waver! Don't hedge! Do not go in the wood! Do not stray near its edge!

Lest he catch you up quick in his terrible gaze and you find yourself faced with the end of your days!
		

		Part of the None collection (#1199)
	The tree is on fire!
You'll find water East of here, by the well.

You have 30 seconds.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1200)
	Heirloom Vase
To my dearest daughter, <<1>>. Keep this heirloom with you, and look upon it anytime you feel lost or alone. Though you insist on leaving <<2>>, I will always be with you.

— <<3>>
		

		Part of the None collection (#1201)
	Reward for Dwarven Relics
A reward is hereby offered for all Dwarven relics delivered in good working order.

Monies paid depend on condition, rarity, and usefulness of said relic.

Pieces of relics are also accepted, depending on condition.

— Rulorn
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1202)
	Ilessan Tower
B.

Loot as much from Ilessan Tower as you can. We need resources to take to our new allies. We will have the big house north of Deleyn's Mill—Noellaume Manor—by the time you're done. Flank the Daggerfall guards when you get here.

— T
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1203)
	Aunt Anela's Cookbook
Jagga:

Set several shallow pans of boiled pig's milk cream where the cat can't step on them and leave alone for a day, then stir several times per day thereafter.

Strain the whey into a separate vessel, keeping the curds in their pans. Break the curds apart with a spoon, then allow the curds to dry into shards.

Stir daily to keep them from spoiling. Once dry, use these shards to thicken skimmed pig's milk, or to add more cream to plain pig's milk.

Bottle and let ferment for 3 weeks. 

Note that you can drink the whey immediately, or use it in other recipes.

Blood Froth:

Pour fresh blood into shallow pans and place in the cold cave till nearly congealed. Meanwhile, whip together a couple of chicken egg yolks and melted tallow.

Using a sharp knife, slice the blood into chunks, then dice. This is why you let it congeal first—it's impossible to dice fresh blood!

Whip the blood slivers with the yolks and tallow, adding more tallow if needed to thin into a beverage. Add salt to taste.

Set aside for a month to allow it to ferment. 

Fermented Honey Liquor:

Combine two hives' of strained honey with twice the amount of water, and a handful of hops. Cover and let ferment for a season before tasting. Ladle into bottles, seal them with beeswax, and put away.

The longer you let the bottles sit, the better the liquor will be.
		

Failed at /books/1204		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1205)
	Missive from the Mages Guild
Fellows,

Thank you again for accepting our patronage. We know this excavation will entail a degree of risk, but I am certain you'll find our compensation quite generous.

Again, we are paying you to mine these caves for a very specific variety of crystal. Your foreman has samples, and your remuneration will depend on how well your specimens match those samples. You can keep anything you find that isn't a crystal, as long as you can deliver what we need on time.

Your foreman is also responsible for hiring armed guards to protect you from anything monstrous you unearth. We assume no liability for deaths or injuries incurred, just as we trust your judgment to dig deeper without invoking the wrath of the local wildlife. That is precisely why we hired you.

In addition to crystals, we want to acquire a exotic variety of rock. It is known as a "geode." Your foreman has one sample for your perusal. We want these "hollow stones" unbroken and unblemished.

One of our scholars, Giara, has theories about the relationship between their spherical shape and their suitability as soul gems. We believe their spherical design bestows a much greater capacity for animus storage than traditional crystalline shapes, but only if they are intact.

No doubt your diligent efforts will be mutually profitable to both of us.

Enthusiastically,

The Wayrest Mages Guild
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1206)
	Further Missive from the Mages
Fellows,

Thank you very much for all your hard work. We appreciate your willingness to deal with risk and your industrious labor. Unfortunately, you need to focus on greater discrimination when collecting our crystals.

I hate to tell you this, but the specimens you've been mining do not meet our agreed requirements. We've been comparing them against the samples we supplied, and they're somewhat lacking. These crystals lack the volume to make adequate soul gems. They are insufficient. If your yield does not increase, we may need to reconsider this enterprise.

Giara is experimenting with the two "hollow stones" you acquired, but she needs more to get definitive results. In fact, she needs considerably more than two. We can sell the discarded crystals you found for a marginal amount of profit, but not enough to defray our expenses. 

In short, we need more geodes. If you can find a sufficient quantity, we may have a chance of salvaging this operation after the considerable expense of hiring you.

Respectfully,

The Wayrest Mages Guild
		

Failed at /books/1207		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1208)
	Foreman's Letter
Miners,

The Mages Guild has decided to terminate this operation.

It looks like Giara has been wasting our time. We've found three geodes the whole time we were here. Two of them shattered when she tried to use them as soul gems. I think it's because she lacks the skill to make them correctly. And apparently, there's a reason why most soul gems are crystals. 

I hate losing lives for the sake of some mage's whim. This mine isn't profitable enough, so we're out. Pack your things and leave this pit. We're going back to Koeglin to figure out the next job.

We need to get out of here before anyone else gets killed.

Drop everything. Get moving.

— The Boss
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1209)
	Don't Mess This Up
Our friends from the Gold Coast will be arriving with their shipment at midnight. 

Some of the goods will be fragile. Part of the shipment will be alive. You already know that if anything breaks, gets hurt, or dies, you're paying us back out of your share. Apparently, we have to tell you again.

In the future, we would also like these shipments scheduled at a time other than midnight. That's not exactly discreet. In fact, it's rather predictable. Guards catch people who are predictable.

I also sincerely hope you're actually reading our letters and then burning them. You're getting careless. We don't want to leave any evidence behind. You stand to make a lot of coin, as long as you don't mess this up.

Don't mess this up.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1210)
	Letter from Altholmir
My dearest, 

Another month come and gone and no sign of Falinesti. I received letters from the Summer site with the same news. I fear we may never see the city in our lifetime. How does this happen? How does an entire city just vanish? Questions we've asked a hundred times and still no answer.

Perhaps we should abandon our watch once and for all. We had lives, once, lives we could return to. Please write soon and let me know what you think. I miss you and the children. We could reunite in Elden Root and at least … for a time … be together. 

Write soon,

Altholmir
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1211)
	Farangel's Delve: Further Orders
You're costing us too much coin.

H. is getting tired of the expense of keeping all this cargo in a warehouse. Because you've also been somewhat less than discreet, we don't want you to stay in that hidden cave for much longer. To be honest, we don't think you're doing enough to keep that cave hidden.

Clear out the cargo. Sell it. Quickly. We know how much its worth, so you can make up for your lackluster results by raising that money. We'll be keeping track of the profits. That way, we can both make a profit and get you out of there quicker.

H. is spending too much money on two things: the arena and you. If you can't do this properly, we could easily arrange for your men to end up in the arena.

We'll be waiting to hear about the incredible profits you've amassed.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1212)
	Letter to Firilia
Firilia,

It's been … ages. I've failed. I know it. Even now, I write in this and know your eyes will never see it. 

I got the medicine. As promised. The one thing I ever managed to do successfully for this family. And I return only to find that Falinesti is no longer here.

Would you believe me if you read this? Do you think I'm a failure even now? Did our daughter survive the illness? She wouldn't know me even then. I was never there for either of you. Why is it I'm not allowed to make amends? I want to make it right. I was going to make it right.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1213)
	The Journal of Indring the Patient
The city will return. I know it. We've been waiting for so long. All we need is a sign. Something to let us know what happened and allow us to bring Falinesti back!

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I'm so tired of listening to the hopes and prayers of some of the Faithful here. They seem to think that's all they need to bring back the city, but there has to be something more. There must be.

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Today a group from the Mages Guild set up a camp nearby. They are here to investigate the site, led by an Altmer named Telenger. They call him the Artificer. I think I've heard of him, a little. I'm curious what they'll discover. We'll have to watch them closely.

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Telenger uearthed a Daedric temple in his excavations. I knew it! This must be the reason why Falinesti hasn't returned. We must get inside. I've formed a group of the Faithful that will speak to Telenger with me. We can finally get the city back!

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The Artificer is a fool! He refuses to allow us to attempt to open the temple. I know it's the reason why the city hasn't returned. I can feel it calling to me. There's something inside, and once unleashed, Falinesti will return!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1214)
	Hope and Recriminations
You've turned this around and made some profit, so we're going to roll the dice one more time.

H. wanted me to make sure you've got the manifest and the map. Our next destination is in the Aldmeri lands. The bulk of the cargo this time is going to be Breton wine.

The Elves have been charging big tariffs on imported wines. Their decision obviously has something to do with decreasing competition for their own vintners. If you can get those crates to port without an inspection, we'll increase our profits by at least thirty percent. This should make up for some of your early mistakes.

I'm amazed that I have to remind you this, but make sure you don't leave anything incriminating behind. No evidence. No witnesses. If you've hired someone you don't trust to be quiet, dispose of him, too. When people fail, we dispose of them. Hint, hint.

We want to use this cave again. H. knows that if you can smuggle in wine into Summerset, you can smuggle in just about anything. If you leave a single manifest or letter, the guards will be watching for your return. That means no more profits from you. One wandering pack of travelers could shut this whole operation down.

One more mistake could also bring your whole operation down.

Don't burn me. Not like last time. H. expects nothing less than success.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1215)
	About the Boss
Our boss is an idiot! The Knights of the Flame are sure to find us.

He's damn useful in a fight, but I'm tired of his plans. They stink.

If things don't change, some of us are planning to leave. You should leave with us. As long as that moron is in charge, we're all going to end up in a jail or dead.

And be careful who you trust. If the Boss finds out what we've got planned, he'll probably kill one of us as an example to the others. Maybe me. Maybe you.

Of course, if we don't do something about the Boss, the Knights of the Flame will kill us all.

We've got to do something about him.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1216)
	Watch Your Back
I heard something, pal.

I heard that Blaze has been trying to stir up everyone against me. We've been making a tidy profit, so he thinks he can drive us out and take our place.

You've got to teach him a lesson. Take care of him. Come down on him hard. 

I don't care if you break him, wound him, or kill him. Just make an example of him. Then the others will fall back in line.

Watch your back, but get this done.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1217)
	Get Back to Work
You see this? This is what happens to mutineers.

I've got my eye on you rabble.

Keep your damn mouth shut and do your job or you'll end up like these fools.

Get back to work.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1218)
	Bearclaw Mine
Uncle,

Sorry for the delay in sending you this letter. I know I might not get to deliver it for a while, but I wanted to write to you about Bearclaw Mine right away. It's been a long journey, but I know it's going to be worth it.

We don't go out of the cave often, of course. There's a reason this place is called Bearclaw Mine. The bears are as fearsome as you'd expect, but that's worked out well for us. It means there isn't any competition here. As long as we're quick and quiet, we can make a lot of coin here very quickly.

Thank you again for selling the house. That should buy us more time with the debtors, and we'll be able to settle our accounts soon.

I don't feel good about bringing my family here, but you know how those moneylenders are. I actually feel safer with them here than back there.

Marisse is taking this all rather well. She brought a few books, and she's reading them to Alain. Her lessons are still very religious, but if that is what it takes for her to get through this, that's fine with me.

I hope everything worked out getting the profits to the right people. We'll be back as soon as we've got enough to pay of the rest of the debt.

May the Divines watch over you. May they guide and protect us all.

— Hubert
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1219)
	â¦ine Commands of Eight Divines
<Most of the pages of this book are missing. The title page begins with these words:>

from the personal library of Hubert and Marisse

may the Eight watch over them and their child, Alain

may the Divines protect us all

<The second page has a note scrawled in red ink.>

The Divines are a lie. There's no one watching over us. Our baby is dead, the food is gone, and the bears are at my door. I saw Hubert killed right before my eyes. I'd rather die peacefully than be torn apart.

There's naught left to drink but poison. May my soul be released from its suffering.

Goodbye.

— Marisse
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1220)
	All Alone
Alain dead.

All alone.

Food all gone.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1221)
	In Dreams We Awaken
In dreams, we awaken.

Her reveries call to us. From across Tamriel, her dreams have shown us a true world, a far better world than the one you know.

Vaermina lights the sky of our world! Vaermina is the stars of our world! Her thousand truths are a thousand lights in the night sky!

The wakeful world is full of suffering and starvation. It is a world of lies. We have come from all corners of this broken world to gather as dreamers of a new brighter age.

She has called us here to Stormhaven! She has awakened us to a better world! We will leave this world of lies behind us!

Some cannot comprehend these simple truths. They do not understand her dreams as we do, for they are not true dreamers. She calls to the mighty and the humble, yet those who are found wanting are cast down into madness.

Awaken, sleeper! Ascend, dreamer! Seek her in dreams, and join us! 

We await you.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1222)
	Dreamers Our Time Has Come
Dreamers! Our time has come!

You have traveled far to walk with us, brother. You have walked far, sister, wandering across a broken world of lies and suffering.

You have journeyed long to chant with us. We shall extol the beatific wonders of Vaermina! May her dream be unending!

Stormhaven lies before us, and we must share her dream. Those who can see, those who will awaken will join us. We call to the humble and the mighty. Those who are weak, those who are blind, she will cast down into madness.

Go forth! 

To the tumultuous strife of Wind Keep, go forth!

To the tears of the suffering in Weeping Giant, go forth!

Spread the word! Herald the dream!

We will gather our armies of dreamers.Then we will all return to the city of lies: the city of Wayrest. The heresy of the Eight will be torn down. The dreamers will ascend! Wayrest will become our City of Dreams!

Our new age has begun. We will join her in eternity.

All praise the name of Vaermina!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1223)
	Here Lies Arah
Devoted Spirit Warden

Neither father nor husband

But instead, a loyal servant of Azura

Rewarded in eternity.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1224)
	Look to the Dawn
Something's not right here.

We've been hearing noises from the catacombs. We've been … seeing things. Spectres. Apparitions. Forms gathered before the dawn. 

I came here to investigate. I am going to find answers, or I will die trying.

I wrote this in case I don't make it back. If you're reading this, whatever is haunting this tomb has probably killed me. You should go before it kills you, too.

I say this so you can make your peace with Azura before it happens to you. Turn back now. Look to the dawn. See her radiant majesty. It's not too late to save your life, and more importantly, your soul.

Darkness is all around you. Turn back to the dawn.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1225)
	I Know Its Name
I know its name!

I have seen signs of a spectral abomination lurking in these caves.

I have survived long enough to know it is not a creature of flesh. 

It is bone, yet it feeds on blood.

I dare not return to the surface before I know the truth.

I dare not speak above a whisper, lest it hear me.

My footfalls would summon it. 

Running would summon it.

Screaming would summon it.

Sleeping would make me a victim.

I am not going back until I know the truth … or until it feasts on my blood.

It will not! I will prevail!

I will stay awake.

I must not sleep.

I know its name, and I will destroy it.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1226)
	A Token of My Affection
<<1>> saw it first. A panther, with eyes bright as the moons shining overhead. We'd set the decoy earlier in the day, and with an arrow loosed it past the beast.

Somehow it guessed our treachery! That old monster turned and glared at the blind we'd thought hidden so well in the underbrush. It snarled, and like a black wind did rush us with all its speed.

<<1>> let fly an arrow. Swift as lightning did it plunge into the beast's eye, yet still it charged on! When it reached my spear, its bulk lifted me from the ground. Were my grip not sure, I'd have sprawled into the trees above, so powerful were its death throes.

<<1>> extinguished its burning eyes with her blade. I kept the skull. From it shall I fashion a token of my affection.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1227)
	It Is Insufferable
She returned. My love returned from Silvenar only to set our lives ablaze.

A Green Lady! Y'ffre knows she is worthy, but why must it mean our end? We were to hunt together! The world was to be our prey, but now she would put down her bow forever!

I have spoken with <<1>>, but she will not see reason. What's more, her betrothed is that simpering weakling, Indaenir. It is insufferable!

Something must be done. I will go to the city of Silvenar at once! There must be reason in this madness, and if there is not ….

If there is not, then I will see it made!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1228)
	I Must Not Falter
I've found him. Hircine speaks—to me!

I must not falter. I must not yield to the injustices I have suffered! Though they all turn against me, I will not give in!

I return to <<1>>. There, in the haunted place where I was born, I shall find the power Hircine promised me! With it, I will forge a new way, a new story!

As I rise, as I tear through the remains of Silvenar's city and self, <<2>> will come to me, Green Lady or no! She will have no choice! For Hircine is my Huntsman, and I his faithful Hound!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1229)
	Dream of a Thousand Dreamers
Vaermina!

Dream of a thousand dreamers!

Revelations of endless elation!

Beacon for lost souls.

Bliss for strong souls.

Madness for weak souls.

Vaermina!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1230)
	Back Home in Orsinium
2E 582

I've finished delivering that shipment of ingots to Orsinium. The stories are true. No matter how many times this city gets razed or sacked or burned to the ground, our brothers and sisters rebuild it better and tougher than ever before.

It's been thirty-nine years since King Emeric gave us Wrothgar and Orsinium back. I've learned that an army of Orc crafters can do a stupid amount of work in thirty-nine years. And it's none of that ornamental Breton crap, either. It's good solid stonework built to hold up the next time the Bretons and Redguards decide they'd rather just kill us all and try to raze our home to the ground.

Every time I'm back home, everything I do just feels right. If you haven't been, then I'll say it like this: it's not Daggerfall. 

Everyone knows where everyone stands in Orsinium. The Bretons in Daggerfall always think I'm on my way to a battlefield. If I hear "Are you a soldier?" one more damn time, I'm gonna show them the heavy end of my hammer. If we act like beasts, it's because half the humans in that town talk to us like we're big dumb beasts.

The other half get really quiet when I'm around. I don't honestly think they fear me. They couldn't possibly think I'm there to kill them and eat their children. They should know I'm there to do business. I'm a blacksmith and stonemason and I'm there to make some coin. Despite that, no one there is really honest about how they feel about Orcs.

As soon as I'm back in the heart of Wrothgar, walking between those solid stone walls, everything changes. It's honest there. Not like Daggerfall. There's no fawning or bowing or scraping or Breton poetry: when you talk to someone, they say what they mean. When you look at someone, and he's got a problem with you, you know it. And if I've got a problem with someone, I can punch him in the face without knowing someone's going to call the city guard on me. We settle it. You know what I mean.

Do you remember the last time you were in a little Orc stronghold? Do you remember the last time you talked to some chieftain with his fat ass on a throne and all his wives scurrying around him? A chief's first wife—every time, I swear, no matter where I go—she sizes me up from her first look. She's got to figure out which Orc traveler or merchant or crafter is going to be the one to bring down her husband and tear down everything she knows. She's a big slaughterfish in a little muddy pond, circling you over and over again.

You don't get that in Orsinium. Ever. There's a whole school of slaughterfish baring their teeth at each other, so really, you don't have to worry about some scheming chieftain's wife. Everyone who hates you shows it. You know it.

And the food. Damn! The food! No one in Daggerfall knows how to butcher an animal properly. Maybe their cooks just hate doing it. The farther you travel from Orsinium, the worse it gets: humans overcook their food, so it lacks that savory flavor you get from juice and blood. And nothing crunches properly. You know how it goes.

Don't get me wrong. I make a lot of money in Daggerfall, but Orsinium is a real city. It's as honest as a stone wall, it's as brutal as a hailstorm, and no matter what they burn or bash or smash, it will never ever really die. 

Orsinium is home. It's always good to be back.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1231)
	Orcs? Could Be Worse
I'll say this about the Orcs: I'm sure glad they're on our side now.

It wasn't always like that. Forty years ago, my grandfather fought in a raid on Orsinium. Those Orcs are relentless, he said. When an Orc's bleeding, and you've broken one of his bones, and he's getting back on his feet after you've knocked him down in the mud, that's the worst, because that's when he's even more dangerous. 

That's why we worked with the Redguards to raze Orsinium to the ground. That's why we burned down every Orc stronghold we could find and stamped on the ashes—because we knew the Orcs would get back up again. We knew the best we could do was just delay them.

Nowadays Orsinium is stronger than ever—but we all know that we've got worse problems than Orcs.

I would expect the Orcs to hold a grudge about us keeping them down, but that's one of the strange things about dealing with an Orc. I've actually seen one punch another in the face. The guy who got a broken nose just stood there and grinned. They might fight, or one of them might die, but Orcs make sure that whatever's going on, it's going to get settled real quick. And then it's over.

When we burned down Orsinium, it was a bit more than a punch in the face, but the Orcs made sure a treaty settled all that real quick.

I've never met an Orc who wasn't good in a fight, but I get the feeling some of them really want more to their lives than fighting. I guess when you live or die by the swords and armor you've made, you learn to make them right the first time. I'm still stunned by how good their craftsmanship is. Everything's built to last.

I think both of us—the Bretons and the Orcs—realized we could make a lot more money trading with each other than fighting with each other. And if there's one thing Bretons know how to do, it's make money. Well, it's not the only thing we do, but you get the idea.

I know where I stand with an Orc. I also know where I stand with the Nords: and if they think they can still send raiding parties into High Rock, well, now we've got an army of Orcs on our side ready to kick their arses all the way back to Skyrim.

And that's why I always say: I'm sure glad those Orcs are on our side.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1232)
	Letter to Agnor
Agnor gro-Mulak,

By the time you finish reading this, someone you know will be dead.

I see you found a place to stay. A warehouse at the docks? Really? You must be in terrible trouble to be hiding in place like that. Then again, trouble has a way of finding you.

You may be wondering why your armor is missing. And your weapons. And your clothes. And that filthy pallet you were sleeping on.

And if you have any conscience at all, you might be wondering about your wives back home. Why did you run away, Chief?

By the way, your first wife is hilarious. You remember her, don't you? That alchemist with the cruel laugh you like so much? She and I were talking the other day about the way you've been running our tribe, and I gotta say, Chief, her laugh sounds really cruel when she's talking about you.

Remember that one time you led us on a raid into a cave full of Goblins? Remember that? They were just a wretched band of Goblins, but you fumbled the ambush, and they killed three of our best warriors. I remember the screaming at their funeral. I don't remember you screaming for them, Chief.

Or how about that time we sent a shipment of swords to Daggerfall to sell to the Redguards? That was an expensive shipment, but someone didn't send enough guards with the caravan. Do you remember who that was? I'm the stealthiest scout you've got, and I could have saved that shipment, but you never sent me.

You did some good things, though, I must admit. You taught us about the Code of Malacath. Like the part where a tribe can't get a new chief until the cowardly old one is dead. Or the part where only the chief gets wives, and none of the rest of us get any.

I'm really tired of that.

By the way, Atugol says hello. Remember her? With her cruel laugh and her extensive knowledge of alchemy?

I know you're a bit slow sometimes, but I'm sure you're figuring it out. None of my brothers ever had a chance in that Goblin cave, so I don't see why you should have a chance now. Maybe that's why you ran away, Chief.

But don't worry. It's not like Atugol would poison you. She wouldn't kill you so close to camp. She'd do it from far, far away.

Because when you die, it's not going to be poison. It's going to be a nice clean sword thrust.

And that's why I'm standing behind you right now, Agnor.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1233)
	A Soldier's Letter
Gilles,

The other day, I was drinking in a pub in Sentinel, and a Breton sitting next to me started talking about politics. I know how much you miss drinking out on the front lines, and believe me, the first few rounds are on me when you get back, but you can't possibly miss listening to some drunken idiot argue about politics.

So this Breton, he starts getting really loud, and he rants about all the reasons we're at war with the Aldmeri Dominion. He talks about economic factors, he talks about resources, he talks about crafting, the guy goes on for what seems like forever, and that's when he stops to take a drink. Which was long enough for me to say two words: "You're wrong."

Because this guy doesn't know a bloody thing about what it's like fighting the Dominion. Out on the battlefield, they don't care about economics or resources or religion. You're out there for one reason: to kill them before they kill you.

Everyone else here knows the truth. For all their lofty Elven pretense, the Aldmeri Dominion only really cares about one thing: conquest. Though they do have standards—they only want to conquer the non-Elves. Like us.

So I told that drunken fool the same thing you told us. Without soldiers like us standing between them and the Imperial throne, the Elves will push and push and push until they hold everything from the shores of High Rock to the heart of Cyrodiil.

Any Altmer who looks at a Breton, he's going to see a human. Any Altmer who looks at a Redguard like me … well, there's no way around it, he pretty much knows I'm a Redguard. And there's no mistaking an Orc. Ain't none of us Elves.

Life is getting a little more relaxed in the city now, since everyone has pretty much accepted we're at war, and there's still the occasional High Elf in the streets who can go about his business without a fight. It's still sane enough that they can walk around in public. Inside the city walls, I've seen a handful of High Elves walking into the Mages Guild, selling their wares, and even ordering those fruity wines they like so much, and as long as the city watch is keeping the peace, we'll be peaceful.

But when we're in the field, we don't hesitate. Everyone — except that one loudmouthed Breton I put in his place—everyone knows we're holding the line against the Altmer. And when we come back to town in one piece, we're going to be heroes, and we'll be shouting and drinking in that tavern. 

So make sure you come back in one piece.

Stay safe,

Duqaq af-Wazif
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1234)
	The Witches of Hag Fen
Observations on the hags in Glenumbra's Hag Fens, from the journals of Bonorion the Wanderer, 2E 567

I arrived at a rather watery area as I traveled through Glenumbra. It was full of odd trees and murky water.  When I asked a local what this place was, he said "This is the Hag Fens. A swamp, as anyone with eyes can plainly see." I asked what I might find within, if I were to explore these Fens. The fellow responded rather tersely, "Hags, you git. Why do you think we call it that?" (I do enjoy speaking to the natives. It always adds an element of raw authenticity to my travels.)

When pressed to explain about the hags, the local told me that they are some sort of witch. Exciting news! I like researching the different ways that magicka is employed across the land. I asked the taciturn fellow where I might find the ladies of the swamp and he made a rather rude noise. "If ye're fool enough to go looking for the 'ladies,' as you call them, then head to the North Fens. Maybe they'll invite you to tea." Locals are always leery of those that use magic, but I am sure the swamp witches would welcome some scholarly discussion.

***

I found the area of the Fens where the hags dwell. Unfortunately, I lost one boot, my walking stick, and one of my packs to the rather aggressive crocodiles that also call these fens home. But I can see some of the tree dwellings that I believe belong to the hags nearby. I have been observing from my hiding place behind a small shrub. My notes forthwith:

Hags have some strange deformity and rely on a walking staff to get around.

The hags appear rather unkempt and are obviously old.

Hags apparently use materials found in these Fens to craft attire that is rather rustic.

There are a group of younger, prettier witches who do not abide with the elderly hags.

Hags must send their menfolk off to work, as I have observed no male hags up to this point. Perhaps the males dwell in a separate camp? Note: Ask hags about their menfolk.

One of the hags nearest my observation post seems to be cooking something in a rather large cauldron. A bit of hot stew and a cup of tea would be welcome after my mishaps in the swampy fens. I shall approach slowly, so as not to startle the elderly lady. 

— Notation from Wyress Galliane: 

We found a rather tattered Bosmer crawling out of the fens. He had barely survived an encounter with the hags and a crocodile or two. He was delirious and kept begging for tea and stew. We healed him and sent him on his way, although not before he attempted to proposition nearly every wyress in our camp. He left some of his notes, which we have preserved, though his complete lack of wit with regard to local creatures and customs, and his absurd observation skills, do not bode well for him surviving another journey.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1235)
	Contract with House Diel
To Fisherman Halvire Miltrin and Company,

As per our conversations, here is the signed contract completing our deal. You should have also received the bottles of "elixir" that will cause the effects we desire. Be careful, as I had to deal with various nefarious organizations within Daggerfall to procure the amounts needed.

Apply the contents of a full bottle to your daily haul of fish, then leave the treated fish for the harpies to feast upon. We should begin to see the effects within a matter of days.

As the harpies consume the tainted fish, they will become extremely aggressive. As the harpy threat rises, the nasty birds will have to be dealt with. Once they're eliminated, we can expand Daggerfall down the coast and increase our investment a hundredfold.

Secrecy is imperative. In the meantime, I will hire another group to procure harpies and their eggs. We might as well make a profit from the creatures while we're at it. No one needs to know how this started. It should appear that we're just doing our civic duty and helping the great city of Daggerfall in its time of need.

— Lord Alain Diel of Daggerfall
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1236)
	Orchelor's Diary
Thirteen Days until the Handfast:

They say there was some trouble in Velyn Harbor, but the first supplies for the celebration have finally arrived. I've been helping Borwaeneth and Helondanbor sorting and storing. Everyone's very excited.

Eleven Days until the Handfast:

Word of some trouble with the Dru'blog. The treethane announced that all Wood Orc visitors must talk to her before they can take up residence in the city.

Eight Days until the Handfast:

The minstrels are here! There'll be a small celebration at the inn tonight as we welcome the best musicians in Malabal Tor to Silvenar!

Back from the celebration. The band didn't sound quite right. I don't think they've ever played together.

The Altmeri singer kept stopping the rest of the band, then she and Laen argued. Finally, one of the Khajiit hit the other over the head with her flute and things got out of hand.

Six Days until the Handfast:

A huge entourage arrived. We thought it might be the Silvenar and the Green Lady, but it was someone called Ulthorn the Hound. His "Houndsmen" look pretty tough.

…By Y'ffre, they are tough—and that's not all! The band got together to play a "welcome" for the Hound and some of his men went crazy and turned into werewolves! The mer are all over the town!

Three Days until the Handfast:

I haven't been outside since the Houndsmen took over. There are rumors they captured our spinners, holding them in their houses. Did the spinners tell this story? How will it end?

The Hound keeps to himself in the throne room. Where is the Green Lady? Where is the Silvenar?

Two Days until the Handfast:

The Green Lady arrived! She challenged the Hound and he came … but he didn't come alone. At first, she looked angry, but then the Houndsmen witches started doing something. She seemed to get sleepy, but she didn't fall. The Hound caught her and they went up into the Throne Room!

Where is the Silvenar?
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1237)
	Diplomacy during the Handfasting
The wedding of Indaenir and Gwaering, the new Silvenar and Green Lady, is an important occasion for the Bosmer, and as such is important to the Aldmeri Dominion.

With the unrest currently rampant throughout Malabal Tor, it is important the Queen's representatives understand how to interact with the Bosmer.

The following information is based upon "Bosmer Traditions and Manners," by the highly respected Altmer author Cirantille.

According to their legends, the Bosmer were once wild and savage (not at all like they are now) and able to change shape at will. Wishing to become more civilized, they made a bargain with Y'ffre, giving up shapeshifting in exchange for (what they think is) a more civilized demeanor.

This Green Pact affected every aspect of their lives. They became very ritualistic and, while these rituals may seem odd to … differently civilized … peoples, they do keep the Wood Elves from becoming fully savage again.

One of their most important rituals is the Handfasting. It happens once a generation and is responsible for both anointing and marrying two of their three most important leaders (the third being the Camoran King or Queen of the Wood Elves).

No one but the Bosmer know how these two leaders are chosen, but they are, and the Handfast is the ritual that binds the Green Lady and the Silvenar together.

The Silvenar is the spiritual leader of the Bosmer, and a truly civilizing force on the entire race. Some say he is the embodiment of the Green Pact, others that he's simply a powerful mystic.

When a Bosmer becomes the Silvenar, he or she gains a great understanding of the land they inhabit as well as its people.

The Green Lady, on the other hand, is a pure force of nature. She is the physicality of the Bosmer: a hunter, warrior, and nearly-unstoppable fist of her people.

Do not confuse her passion for savagery, however! The Green Lady inherits the tactical poise of all those who've gone before her. The only thing that can turn her into a true beast is the death of her Silvenar … an occurrence some of us had the misfortune to witness on Khenarthi Island. It is a wonder anyone survived.

Take the Handfast as seriously as the Bosmer do and you should be fine. Eat what is offered (don't ask what it is), but drink sparingly—their ritual drink "rotmeth" will sicken the most powerful non-Bosmer stomach if consumed with abandon.

Avoid conflict when you can, but participating in a few non-lethal brawls during the celebration may not be avoidable. Indeed, it may be expected.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1238)
	Reward for Information: Silvenar
People of Silvenar:

Your lives have been disrupted, your celebrations halted, your ways of life threatened. I, Ulthorn, am aware of my role in these troubles, but we are a people at war!

We must fight for our very way of life. The Aldmeri Dominion seeks to rule us from Elden Root, strip our rulers of their power, and corrupt our sacred rituals. The Dominion "invited" our previous Green Lady and Silvenar to join them on the island of Khenarthi's Roost, and it was an Altmer who was responsible for their deaths. Why? So they could replace them with puppets under their control!

Our new Green Lady, Gwaering, was duped by the Dominion. But Indaenir, the current "choice" to be the Silvenar, is working with the Domnion, and his presence in the city will be the advent of our doom!

The evidence is all around you. Would the true Silvenar abandon the Green Lady along the road, as he did in Velyn Harbor? Would he stop to consort with Wood Orcs in Jathsogur, rather than come straight to the city that bears his name? Would he hesitate to come to the Handfast when the Green Lady has already arrived and awaits him? No!

The Dominion's false Silvenar skulks about Malabal Tor. He may look for a way into this city, but he will not find it. And, any of you who help locate any of the traitors who support Indaenir, or the false Silvenar himself, will gain great favor with me and reward from all the Bosmer.

— Ulthorn
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1239)
	Chance's Folly, Part 2
By Zylmoc Golge

When Chance met Ulstyr the next morning, he was wearing chitin armor and had armed himself with an unusual blade that glowed faintly of enchantment. As they began their trek, she tried to engage him in conversation, but his responses were so nonsensical that she quickly abandoned the attempts. A sudden rainstorm swelled over the plain, dousing them, but as she was wearing no armor and Ulstyr was wearing slick chitin, their progress was not impeded.

 

Into the dark recesses of the Heran Tomb, they delved. Her instincts had been correct—they made very good partners.

 

She recognized the ancient snap-wire traps, deadfalls, and brittle backs before they were triggered, and cracked all manners of lock: simple tumbler, combination, twisted hasp, double catch, varieties from antiquity with no modern names, rusted heaps that would have been dangerous to open even if one possessed the actual key.

 

Ulstyr for his part slew scores of bizarre fiends, the likes of which Chance, a city girl, had never seen before. His enchanted blade's spell of fire was particularly effective against the frost atronachs. He even saved her when she lost her footing and nearly plummeted into a shadowy crack in the floor.

 

"Not to hurt thyself," he said, his face showing genuine concern. "There are walls beyond doors and fifty-three. Drain ring. Two months and back. Prop a rock. Come, Mother Chance."

 

Chance had not been listening to much of Ulstyr's babbling, but when he said "Chance," she was startled. She had introduced herself to him as Minevah. Could it be that the peasants were right, and that when mad men spoke, they were talking to the Daedra Prince Sheogorath who gave them advice and information beyond their ken? Or was it rather, more sensibly, that Ulstyr was merely repeating what he heard tell of in Balmora where in recent years "Chance" had become synonymous with lockpicking?

 

As the two continued on, Chance thought of Ulstyr's mumblings. He had said "chitin" when they met as if it had just occurred to him, and the chitin armor that he wore had proven useful. Likewise, "hot steel." What could "walls beyond doors" mean? Or "two months and back"? What numbered "fifty-three"?

 

The notion that Ulstyr possessed secret knowledge about her and the tomb they were in began to unnerve Chance. She made up her mind then to abandon her companion once the treasure had been found. He had cut through the living and undead guardians of the dungeon: if she merely left by the path they had entered, she would be safe without a defender.

 

One phrase he said made perfect sense to her: "drain ring." At one of the manors in Balmora, she had picked up a ring purely because she thought it was pretty. It was not until later that she discovered that it could be used to sap other people's vitality. Could Ulstyr be aware of this? Would he be taken by surprise if she used it on him?

 

She formulated her plan on how best to desert the Breton as they continued down the hall. Abruptly the passage ended with a large metal door, secured by a golden lock. Using her pick, Chance snapped away the two tumblers and bolt, and swung the door open. The treasure of the Heran Tomb was within.

 

Chance quietly slipped her glove off her hand, exposing the ring as she stepped into the room. There were fifty-three bags of gold within. As she turned, the door closed between her and the Breton. On her side, it did not resemble a door anymore, but a wall. Walls beyond doors.

 

For many days, Chance screamed and screamed, as she tried to find a way out of the room. For some days after that, she listened dully to the laughter of Sheogorath within her own head. Two months later, when Ulstyr returned, she was dead. He used a rock to prop open the door and remove the gold.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1240)
	For the Tracker's Competition
The tracker's competition requires an arrow doused with animal musk that is loosed into the woods. The competitors then attempt to track the arrow by watching the movements of animals attracted to the scent.

Use this bow to loose a noisemaker arrow with a string attached that follows the same path as the first arrow. The noise will spook the animals and make tracking them unreliable, but the string will lead our competitor to the prize.

This is a difficult contest to manipulate, so we have our best tracker in the competition just to be safe.

— L
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1241)
	For the Archery Competition
Set this incense upwind of the competition so that the faint smoke it creates flows toward them.

The harshness of the smoke will sting their eyes and make it difficult to aim. Our competitor has special drops to protect her eyes and should be unaffected. In the end, another win for the Stormfist clan.

— L
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1242)
	For the Drinking Contest
Slip this poison into the kegs before your stint in the contest begins. The substance has no taste and its effects manifest fairly quickly. It will make the drinkers appear to have weak constitutions.

Make sure you consume the antidote before you start drinking and everything should work out fine.

— L
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1243)
	For the Preliminary Duels
Use this instead of the shoulder knife. The dull shoulder knife they provide is useless against armor. This blade will cut through chain and plate. Use this blade when the fighting gets close, but don't let anyone get a good look at it.

Winning is important. I need to make it to the final competition.

— L
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1244)
	Letter from Duke Nathaniel
To His Royal Majesty Emeric, High King of the Daggerfall Covenant,

My Dear Brother, 

As always, there are several items of note, some related to the security of the kingdom and others of a more personal nature. Please read this privately, and I beg you to exercise discretion in discussing its contents with your advisors. 

Of utmost importance are matters related to security here in Alcaire, and unfortunately, though I have strong concerns, I do not have the convenience of a simple or even a consistent element to which I might ascribe Alcaire's troubles of late. 

At the time of my last communication, there were only a few reports of these Vaermina cultists, the Supernal Dreamers. Our shared hopes of this being a short-lived problem were not realized. It seems the cultists have grown even bolder—raiding outlying farms and even recruiting citizens to join their mad ranks. The Knights of the Flame have orders to arrest cult members on sight, but we await further instruction from you on how to deal with a threat that has now spread to other regions of Stormhaven.

The Knights of the Flame continue to prove invaluable allies and staunch defenders of the realm. They have been instrumental in helping me address the cultist problem and in reacting to an attempt made on the duchess' life by an Alik'r assassin. The leader of the Knights of the Flame, one Sir Hughes, suggested that the order assume responsibility for security here at the castle, and I was relieved to agree. It has been a weight lifted off my shoulders. 

Lastly, and most personally, I wish to express my most sincere gratitude for the arrangement of my marriage to Princess Lakana. Though I feared our union of political necessity would be formal and awkward, nothing could be further from the truth. Her warmth and kindness have created an intimacy between us that I never dreamt possible.  

We both owe you our gratitude and our undying loyalty.

Yours truly, 

Nathaniel

P.S.: The tricks these Redguard women employ in the bedchamber…! Why didn't you warn me, you old dog?
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1245)
	Old Handbill
A Gladiatorial Spectacle!

Watch the Undefeated Champions of Hammerdeath as they take on all comers! See the action before the arena closes for the war effort!

Spidera—her poison and webs made her victorious in over thirty contests.  A wise man places his bets on her before she drags another victim into her lair.

Wild Khran—fresh from the legions of an Orc army, he is merciless, cutting down Man and Elf alike. Only a fool would bet against this seasoned pit fighter.

Introducing Fatima the Lovely—a rare Redguard witch, and deadly as a desert asp. Is there a bravo who thinks he can best her?
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1246)
	Overdreamer Chartrand's Orders
Fellow Dreamers,

I want to remind you all of the importance of exercising caution and good judgment in maintaining security at our encampments in Gavaudon.  Because of sloppy behaviors among our colleagues in Menevia and Alcaire, we now have a sect of Azura's followers actively working against us, aided by a representative of King Emeric, whom we hoped would not learn of our presence for some time yet.

Due to this situation, our timeline must be accelerated. We must work quickly and efficiently, but also intelligently. Perform the tasks you have been assigned and take precautions to ensure these newly emerged enemies do not get the opportunity to intervene. 

On the positive side, we have succeeded in destroying Azura's shrine at the Weeping Giant, and I have now come here to Aphren's Hold where we will find more relics to aid in our cause. Follow my example. We conducted careful research and reconnaissance before coming here to ensure that our encampment will be secure and our objectives will be achieved. You should do the same.

Now, more than ever, our Mistress looks to us to stay strong, be ever-vigilant, and to assert her will. I hope you prove to be up to the challenge and I hope to see you all soon in Wayrest. 

Supernally Yours,

Overdreamer Chartrand
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1247)
	Telvanni Requirements
To: Captain Angarthal

Re: Telvanni Requirements

Captain,

I am writing from Necrom to inform you that House Telvanni requires a very specific list of new subjects for events planned in the next few months. We are delighted to hear you are targeting Breton villages along the Iliac Bay and we will offer significant incentive if you are able to deliver subjects that fit the following criteria.

—	Six young women, all under the age of twenty years; at least one brunette, two blondes, and at least one woman of significant girth, preferably extremely pale.

—	Seven young men, all under the age of twenty-four years; hair color is irrelevant, but make sure they're not too hairy. Physique is critical as at least five will be used for labor. Tall and skinny would be preferred for the remaining two. If one might have blue eyes, this would be preferred as well.

—	Two elderly men, but they must be healthy. We're not looking for men on their deathbeds. We're looking for these men to serve as chaperones, so it's also critical they have good eyesight.

—	Lastly, any gender/age is acceptable but it's of highest necessity that we get someone who has intimate knowledge of swine, as we are in desperate need of a new pig-keeper. The last one was eaten.

For any acquisition that fulfills these requests, we will offer twice the normal rate. Other "favors" will be offered as well based on the number of requests filled overall.

I wish you swift and safe sailing, Sera.

— Llarel Telvanni
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1248)
	Mathias Raiment's Journal
2nd of First Seed

For a moment today, I glimpsed something which I had not even dreamed possible, a love so forbidden that I did not even recognize my own feelings. Even now, I must wonder… that look, was it just my imagination?

10th of First Seed

Again, that elusive impression. As we walked together in the street, her hand brushed past mine, and I sensed a desire to allow that touch to linger. Am I really just imagining this? It can't be real.

20th of First Seed

I can't stop thinking about her. Not just her, but us. She has so many admirers. Why would she have any interest in someone like me? I need to just put this idea out of my head. There. It's gone.

25th of First Seed

It happened. I think I knew in my heart all along that it would. But it surpassed any expectations I might have entertained.  I can't believe it. I can't believe I wasn't just imagining things. I must be the luckiest man in the world.

10th of Rain's Hand

Reality has set in. Though the physical attraction is there and the emotion is genuine, our romance must always remain a secret. For a moment, I expected something more, but that was childish of me. I see that now.

25th of Rain's Hand

I've come to terms with our situation, and I'm actually finding our secrets to make the whole relationship that much more exciting. No one in town, not even anyone in the house has any idea what's really going on. We're going to keep it that way.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1249)
	The Three's Petition to the King
Petition to the King:

The Three have become a feared name in Stormhaven, but we come from humble beginnings. Each of us was raised in abject poverty. We learned to steal, but only to scrape by. Our cunning and our collaboration have now earned us great wealth and many followers, but this is not what we sought. 

Nor are we fools. We know our days as outlaws are numbered. Though we may elude capture and even expand our enterprise for many years, there will come a day when we will be called to answer for our crimes, and that is a day we hope will never come to pass.

At heart , we are not criminals, and that is why we now seek a pardon from the king. We do not wish to spend the rest of our lives robbing innocent people and running from the Knights of the Flame. We want to turn our operation into a legitimate enterprise. 

In exchange for our pardon, we offer half of all the wealth we have amassed. We have not completed the process of counting it, but rest assured, it is a considerable sum. We hope you take this small gift as proof of our earnestness and that you will give our petition due consideration. 

Respectfully and Humbly your Loyal Subjects, 

The Three
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1250)
	Wait Till Next Time
By Fulgrush gro-Othgar

Since King Kurog signed the Daggerfall Covenant treaty, I've been taking advantage of our new lack of restrictions on travel to look for trading opportunities for Orsinium in High Rock and Hammerfell. As I expected, I've frequently had to put up with being snubbed or talked down to, and had to pretend I didn't hear the Orc jokes told loudly at a nearby table in a tavern, or didn't see the guardsman spit in my tracks after I passed. What I wasn't prepared for, however, was the number of Bretons and Redguards I've met who speak admiringly about Orcish forthrightness, and about the way we quickly settle our disagreements (albeit with blades) and then move on without holding a grudge. 

Stupid humans. 

They don't realize that forgiveness is only for other Orcs. They don't know that the Code of Mauloch demands that a price be paid for every grievance—no matter how long it takes to exact it. They think that, now we're enthusiastic members of their precious Covenant, we'll forget the razing of Orsinium and let bygones be bygones. 

They smile at me with their foolish, tuskless grins, and I smile back, and nod, and make an Elf joke. But inside I know that the sack of Orsinium will be paid for, many times over. And the Bretons and the Redguards will never even see it coming. Because they don't know the secret motto that's graven on every Orc's heart:

"Wait till next time."
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1251)
	To Clarice â Be My Darling!
Where'ere I look, my darling Clarice,

I think of you. A flock of geese, 

A lofty cloud, up in the skies,

Reminds me of your brownish eyes.

When in the woods I see a fawn,

I ponder on your hair of tawn.

Across the Iliac I sail

In every wave I never fail

To see you below, also above—

Oh barmaid Clarice, please be my love!

Singed, 

Georges Plouffe, First-Mate (get it?)
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1252)
	Wayrest Guard Orders
Wayrest Guard General Order 2247

Equal Treatment for All Covenant Citizens

It has come to my attention that members of the Guard have failed to show proper respect for citizens of the Orcish persuasion such as are seen more and more often these days within our walls. There have been reports of sneering, of spitting, of improper amorous propositions, and of suggestions that places other than Wayrest might be more appropriate destinations, and that the sooner the Orcish citizen went there, the better. 

This will not be tolerated. These Orcish citizens are now our allies, and deserve the same protection under the law as normal people. I don't care about the tusks. Get over it. Any Guard found mistreating an Orc who didn't deserve it will be suspended without pay for a period appropriate to the gravity of the misconduct. 

This is not a joke. I'm serious.

Mathias Etienne

Guard Captain
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1253)
	A Child's Tamriel Bestiary
By Shane gro-Orath (Clever, no? Ha, ha!)

A is for Alit, a two-legged lizard

With enough underbite to swallow a wizard

B is for Banekin, a mean Daedric minion

Whose masters are found on the planes of Oblivion

C is for Chaurus, big bug of the snow lands

Don't try to pet, or he'll snip off your hands!

D is for Duneripper, of desert so deep

It'll chomp off your legs from below as you sleep

E is for Eagle, so loved by the Elves

They plaster its image all over themselves

F is for Faded Wraith, haunting the tomb

Lurking in dark to deliver your doom

G is for Giant, of Skyrim I've heard

He keeps Woolly Mammoths, and tends to his herd

H is for Hoarvor, huge tick of the wood

That's eager to catch you and drain all your blood!

I is for Imp, an obnoxious pest

Who'll fry you with spells for the sake of a jest

J is for Jackal, who haunts Bangkorai

With mouth at the right height to nip out your eye

K is for Kwama, in Morrowind found

They live in bug tunnels far beneath the ground

L is for Lamia, snake-hag of the wild

Who hopes she might corner a lost little child

M is for Mudcrab, annoyance ubiquitous

Nasty, unpleasant, ugly, iniquitous

N is for Nix-Hounds, pack-hunting bugs

Alchemists render their flesh to make drugs

O is for Ogre, whose wits are quite dim

But if one should catch you, your prospects are grim

P is for Pigs, relatives of the Boars

That Wood Elves will ride instead of a horse

R is for Raven, dark Nocturnal's totem

I hear hers can talk, and then you can quote 'em!

S is for Spriggan, root, bark, and bough

It hides in that thicket — it's watching you now!

T is for Thunderbug, vast shocking beetle

Its pincers will get you, or its serrated feet'll

U is for Undead, necromancy's slaves

Apocalypse comes when they rise from their graves

V is for Vampire, ready to drill ya

'Cause she's got a case of Porphyric Hem'philia

W is for Wisp, evil glow-ball that beckons

Don't follow, or you'll be seen no more, I reckons

X is for Xivilai, Daedric assassin

Who'll pop off your head on a whim as he's passin'

Y is for Yokudan Warhorse, the Forebear

Knight's mount that he rides when he goes off to warfare

Z is for Zombies — you knew they'd be last

Run, don't be walking: some are quite fast!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1254)
	Warning from Fildgor
Kazok,

Although your troops may be tempted to sneak into Windhelm during the Konunleikar, you need to restrain them. 

I don't care how you do it, but other plans are in place within the city. If I find out that you or your soldiers disrupted anything, it will mean your head!

— Fildgor Orcthane
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1255)
	The Onus of the Oghma
By Phrastus of Elinhir

Being a primer for the young student on a mortal's obligation to record his or her life story, presented in the form of quotations from the classics. 

All Tamrielics recognize the duty to memorialize the events of our lives, a duty placed upon us by the Divines at the beginning of time. The most ancient reference we have to this "journaling onus" comes from the Aldmeriad, the great origin saga of the Elves, which quotes the god Xarxes, scribe to Auri-El: 

"As ye are true Children of the et'Ada, thou shalt honor us by honoring thy own lives. For in each of you is housed the Divine Spark, and thus the record of thy actions is a sacred duty. Keep, therefore, each and every one of you, an Oghma, an everscriven scroll which shall memorialize thy brief lives. Thus in at least this way shalt thy Spark be Immortal."

In the late Merethic the Nord culture hero Ysgramor developed a runic alphabet based on Elvish principles, which enabled the written transcription of Atmoran speech. Ysgramor's first work in this new form of writing was a chronicle of his own life and its events, making Ysgramor the first human historian. Here is a quotation from the great hero himself, as recorded in "Songs of the Return, Volume One."

"Then, though I did feel a great ire against the perfidious Elves, and desired nothing more than to hie me hence to Jylkurfyk and take ship back to Tamriel, where I could try the edge of Wuuthrad against their all-too-many necks, yet I had beheld during my captivity that the wily Elves possessed much learning and knowledge, though they put it to ends both vile and dishonorable. And I bethought me that to defeat the Elves and scour them from the land, it would be well if Men also did wield such wisdoms. Therefore I strung Long-Launcher with the Woeful Bowstring and sought the marshes of the east, where dwelt Faldrosta the great Snow-Goose. And I slew her with a hawk-fletched dart, and plucked of her a great quill, which I used to write down my speech as I had seen the Elves do. And I vowed that henceforth all Men would record their ideas and thoughts, just as Shor carved a record of his victory over Sneggh into the side of Shivering Glacier. And in this way would the best ways of killing Elves be preserved."

This obligation was ratified again in the time of Saint Alessia and the founding of the Empire of Cyrodiil. The demigod Morihaus, "The First Breath of Man," himself kept a chronicle that has come down to us as "The Adabal-a." One of its first precepts is "On the Recording of All that Haps":

"Then Morihaus snorted, and spake fiercely against the Nonscriptionists, saying, 'Are then the deeds of the Paravant to be forgotten by the men of hence-yore? Are the crimes of the Saliache to be erased, so that the Seven Pretexts for Mayhem shall seem all unjustified? Nay, by Akatosh! Nay, by the Dragon of Duration, who gave us Time so that events could unfold in their sequence, and thus be recalled as they happed! Never shall your ilk prevent our people from recording their tales, as did the overweening Saliache in the late torment-epoch!' And he did smite their heads from their shoulders, and their gore fell as words on the stones, recording their several demises."

So, students, do not groan and complain of the burden, carping and caviling when your parents and teachers ask if you have written today in your journal. Because to do so is a right for which your ancestors paid in blood.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1256)
	Welcome, Veiled Recruit
Recruit! You're only going to get one chance to get this right. Slip up and you're out!

— Tell no one of the Veiled Keep, or our training grounds on the island. 

— Recognition phrases change every two days. Learn to memorize these phrases as if your life depended on them. It does.

— At all times, keep your gear in good order. Alandare in particular hates a sloppy uniform. Keep it clean. Keep your blade sharp.

— Try not to strut in front of the servile scum in Skywatch. Their day will come, but we must be patient.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1257)
	Aluvus' Journal
I finally located the entrance to the Ayleid tomb just to the northeast of Phaer. It appears to be deserted and I look forward to exploring its mysteries. I had planned to mount a full expedition on the morrow, but I met the most enchanting woman last eve at the Salted Wings tavern.

I hope to see her again tonight. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost to glow, and her lips … her lips were the most delicious ruby red. Hopefully I'll be able to work up the courage to speak to her this time.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1258)
	Faded and Dusty Scroll
I carefully examined the ancient wards on this Ayleid chest after it was delivered to me. The spells of warding that have kept it sealed appear to be eroding. Likely, they will fade completely over time. 

Given the Ayleid propensity for devious traps, I deem it unwise to tamper with the chest any further. Perhaps a later scholar, armed with a deeper understanding of Ayleid culture and history, will be better prepared to deal with whatever is sealed within—after the wards collapse.
		

Failed at /books/1259		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1260)
	Entila's Folly
This one was able to acquire all the necessary ingredients at the Mages Guild. 

Now Bakhig must find the old mine, Entila's Folly. They claim the mine is filled with pretty, dancing spinners and Bakhig must go find them and play with them. According to the map, Entila's Folly is just to the southwest of Skywatch. It shouldn't be too hard to find.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1261)
	Gordag's Journal
30th Rain's Hand

<<1>> killed the Mer who poisoned her, but she's deathly sick. My hearth wife says the poison's from Black Marsh, and its antidote is there. 

1st Second Seed

Unthinkable! My clan's hold won't help me get the antidote from Black Marsh! Gloorig, that upstart, called my daughter <<1>> pathetic and weak! 

I struck him; his blood flowed for nearly an hour. <<1>> is as strong as a mammoth! Only the Code of Mauloch keeps her from surpassing me as chief.

Gloorig may usurp my hold if I leave. No matter. I'll deal with him when we return.

4th Second Seed

My hearth wife knows of two antidotes. She gave me a blessed phial from the old days. Once I find the herbs, it will do the rest.

<<2>> is a broad-leafed bush covered in hair. When I place its leaves in the phial, it will warm with life and restore <<1>> entirely. Incredibly rare, according to my hearth wife, but this is a good thing. Common use of this curative would breed weakness in those who rely upon it. I hesitate to sully my daughter's blood with this Elf-swill.

<<3>>'s leaves are poisonous, but its petals are a powerful curative. The infusion will bubble like Mauloch's blood, and it will exact his price when consumed. Adding its ground petals to the phial will turn the mixture pink, like the froth of a blood-drunk warrior. A healing pain worthy for <<1>> to surpass!

12th Second Seed

When we arrived in <<4>>, <<1>> collapsed with fever. She may not have long. 

I hired guides who tell me I can find both remedies in <<5>>. The lizards there consort with swamp demons, they say—beasts that breathe lightning and hunger for the flesh of Men and Mer. Only fools seek them out. Ha! I'll show them what it means to be of Mauloch's chosen!

We leave when the mists clear.

14th Second Seed

I've been captured, caught unaware in the swamp outside <<5>>. They struck like watery shadows before sinking into the depths. Cowards! They held me under the mud until the blackness came. I awoke in this stink-riddled tomb.

When they come for me, I will beat them as I beat Gloorig! By Mauloch's right hand, none will stand before me! I am <<6>>! I am chief!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1262)
	Deleyn's Mill Order Form
Order for Purchaser: Lord Alain Diel

Strong, sturdy lumber to be used in the construction of shipping crates. Crates need to be large enough and strong enough to protect fragile harpy eggs and to contain live harpies. Needs enough lumber to construct a dozen such crates. To start!

Lord Alain Diel has requested a large order and indicates that he will be placing reorders in a timely manner. Remember that any details pertinent to this order are for fulfillment purposes only. Do not spread any rumors concerning what His Lordship may or may not be hunting in the wilderness outside Daggerfall.

This order is to be handled with the utmost care and urgency. Let's make sure he receives the highest grade wood that I'm charging him for.

If you have any questions, please see me at the mill.

— Morric Miller
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1263)
	Of Men and Mer
By Hennabear

Sit, dear reader, have a care,

And listen to wise Hennabear.

I'll tell you things of Men and Mer,

And all of them, you'll find, are fair.

First I will of Dunmer speak,

A culture old and quite unique.

Dark-skinned Elves of slight physique,

Their living gods' divine mystique.

Next of Altmer you shall hear,

Noble kin of highest tier.

Their icy words do not endear,

But speak no ill or you'll disappear.

The Redguard is the noble nomad,

In silks you'll often find them clad.

They carry sharp blades just in case,

Fast and skilled, you'll lose this race.

In forests Bosmer like to hide,

From leaf to leaf like birds they glide.

You'll know at once when one has lied,

His lips will move when he's replied.

The burly Orc, slandered and green,

Prone to anger, not very serene.

Below the roughness one can glean

A definite fondness for meaty cuisine.

Khajiit: a large, smart, noble cat,

Skilled in wordplay and mortal combat.

Thieves and pirates to be sure,

But the furred ones are so much more.

But now I see you're growing bored,

Perhaps you'd like to hear of Nords?

A people not to be ignored,

Forged in winter by axe and sword.

Argonians are lizard men, 

Whose swamps contain their den.

Ask a question, then ask again.

What thoughts they have are beyond our ken.

I'll finish with fine Breton tales,

This narrator's racial details.

A people formed from harsh travails,

But hearty still, we yet prevail.

Now, dear reader, you must swear,

When you take these rhymes and share,

To ever credit Hennabear,

For if you don't—he'll come! Beware!
		

Failed at /books/1264		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1265)
	Scholar Garrique's Journal
These old burial mounds should provide some inspiration for my writing. Ancient heroes of Glenumbra are entombed here. I'm sure they have some interesting exploits I can expand upon. Something that will get me the recognition I deserve. And finally get me a cushy position with a noble family.

A duke or duchess as a sponsor would be just the thing I need to advance my writing career. Regular meals, a nice roof over my head, conversation with people who know how to read.

* * *

There's so little information on the people buried here. Donel Deleyn? A King of Glenumbra? Never heard of the fellow. But I can make him interesting. Heroic. Maybe give him a band of loyal warriors, fending off whoever would be attacking them. (Note to Self: Look up significant battles of the First Era that took place in Glenumbra for reference.)

* * *

I think I can spin an entire series around this! Each hero gets their own tale. I haven't seen anything in old history texts about this Deleyn fellow. Or someone called the "Golden Prince" or the "Ivory Lord,"  for that matter. Their stories are lost to time.  

* * *

Lots of heroic battles, maybe a little romance. I did spot a tomb for "The Emerald Princess." Of course, she must be beautiful, with eyes the color of purest emeralds. And a brave warrior. She and the King can be star-crossed lovers. I just need to flesh this out a bit. I don't want to write some sort of silly romance, after all. This has to be real history. Just enhanced a little. This is bound to get me published!

Best of all, it will put that hack Felari-ko off his drink. "Scholar of Intriguing Mysteries." Bah. Pretentious cat scribbles, I say. All he does is make up nonsense about his adventures and shill for his next so-called mystery. I can do so much better than that!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1266)
	Letter to Ando
Ando,

Gelves just gave me a bloody earful. I don't know where you disappeared to, but you should have been with me to bear the brunt of his tirade.  

He says to ease up a bit on the townsfolk. We're supposed to leave them alone for a few days, let them get a little less afraid of us. After that, we make one good example every few days or so. He's got some theory that this keeps them more cowed than if we just beat them senseless every time they look at us funny.

He also said to keep a cautious eye on anyone coming into town, but not to stop them. The town is still open for business and we want to make sure that we profit from that business. Traders and such coming through town should still be able to buy and sell as they like. We'll probably start taxing them when Gelves decides that we are firmly in control here.

Oh, and Gelves killed the mayor. Just lost his temper, I guess.

You owe me an ale or two for covering for you.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1267)
	The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born, V. 1
The soldier waited with bated breath. His hand gripped the blade haft tightly, turning his knuckles ashen white. His sword arm shook nervously as he stood behind the others, waiting for his chance to strike. Any moment now, the Alessian patrol would pass by. He had to wonder, though, what exactly had he gotten himself into?

His name was Erric Deleyn, and even he didn't know where his part in all of this began. An innkeeper's son barely of age, his family tree was literally dripping with proud horse breeders, farm hands, and—like his father—cooks. He had as much warrior's blood flowing through his body as he did muscles in his arms and back. Which is to say, almost none. Yet here he stood, armor hanging loosely on his thin frame, holding a sword he barely knew how to use.

Erric wished he could say that he had joined the militia to gain revenge or honor. That his father and mother had been slain in an Alessian attack. Or that the love of his life was taken to the slave camps of the evil Alessians. By the Eight, he would have settled for any excuse in which the Alessians wronged his family.

But, no. Erric's family was safe and sound. His pleasantly plump parents happily ran an inn in one of the small towns that dotted High Rock. And the love of his life? Well, there was none. He had never felt the embrace of a damsel or tasted the kiss of serving wench. So why did he want to fight the Alessians? Well, he had heard bad things about them, but as far as he was concerned it was all rumors and innuendo. He had lived a sheltered life.

No, the reason Erric stood next to Kish'na the fierce Khajiiti maiden and Calinden the handsome Ayleid knight wasn't quite so lofty. It was more mere chance and accident that had led him to this time and place. He had been sneaking off into the woods at night to practice the same fighting techniques he'd seen the city guard practice. He wanted to learn how to fight, but he didn't want anyone to see him doing it. There was too much of a chance someone would make fun of him. After all, he was just a cook's son. So every night Erric would grab his rusty sword and mismatched armor and head into the woods to train.

But tonight would be different. There would be no more practice.

As Erric ran through back alleys to reach the hole in the wall he knew so well, he turned a corner and almost ran right into them. His breath caught in his throat when he saw them. A handful of men and women from different cultures all huddled together, whispering. They wore impressive uniforms and carried even more impressive weapons.

Cautiously he approached them, but Erric had little skill or grace. He tripped over his own feet and landed in a puddle with a loud splash. The warriors turned as one, weapons drawn and eyes hard. But they saw his armor and weapon and assumed he was there to meet them. Being too afraid to say otherwise, Erric was welcomed into their group.

It was simply a case of mistaken identity. Later, he might have called it fate.

But tonight? Tonight was the night Erric Deleyn was going to die. And that event would change the world around him forever.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1268)
	A Plea for Vengeance
I write this to record the fall of Camlorn and ask for our city to be avenged.

I need to write this quickly, as I can hear the foul creatures howling outside my door. I don't know how long the barricade will hold and I want to finish this and hide it before they find me.

So, how did this all begin? As with most falls, we were betrayed. It was Jonathan Telwin, my one-time friend and companion, who had sworn himself to the service of Angof and the undead monster called Faolchu. Jonathan confided in me. He asked me to join his cause. I dismissed him, thinking this was just another of his many pranks. I was wrong.

Faolchu made Jonathan a shifter, and the first wolf to breach our gates strolled in as though he belonged here. And we let him in, because he did. Once inside, Jonathan spread Faolchu's curse (he called it a gift) throughout the city. The cursed would meet at night, while the city slept, and we mistook the howls in the dark for wild dogs.

As the numbers of the cursed grew, they opened the gates and let Faolchu and the rest of his mad pack into the city. That was a few hours ago, just after night fell. They ripped apart anyone who tried to oppose them. The blood—there was so much blood! Those they didn't kill they … changed. I watched as my friends and neighbors transformed into wolves. Their screams were a mix of agony and ecstasy, and some dark part of me longed to join them. But I put such thoughts aside and got my family to safety.

We never would have made it if not for the Camlorn Guard. Captain Darien and a small number of guards attacked the werewolves and defended us as we made our escape. I must say, Captain Darien was magnificent. He seemed immune to each attack, dodging and blocking and laughing as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He cleared a path to a house and shouted for a group of civilians to get inside and barricade the doors and windows. We were one of those groups.

I don't know what happened to the Captain and his guards, but I thank them for helping us. I can smell fires now. I think the wolves intend to burn us out.

Let me end this letter by saying that Jonathan Telwin is a coward. He took the easy way out and convinced a certain number of people to join him. I can't forgive the massacre that he took part in. If you're reading this, please, avenge Camlorn. Put an end to Faolchu and his foul creatures. Don't let this injustice go unanswered.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1269)
	The Journal of Darien Gautier
My first entry in a brand-new journal! How should I begin? Should I write in a stiff, formal tone? More conversational? So many decisions to make! How will I manage? And what am I supposed to do with what I write? Do I read it later and reflect on my true feelings? Damn it! Why did I let Alinon talk me into starting a journal?

Alinon said that writing things down would help me with my nightmares. Damn liar. He probably just wants me to write down my secrets so he can share them with the guard and have a good laugh. 

That's not a bad idea, actually. Good for him for thinking of that! I'll need to keep that in mind as I write my entries.

* * *

Cheese

Bread

Fresh Herbs

Beef, Best Cut Available

Yes, I know. This is a grocery list, not my thoughts and feelings. But I needed to write this down somewhere, and the journal was near at hand. Might as well make the thing useful as well as therapeutic.

* * *

Reminder: Meet Prescilla at the tavern at dusk for drinks. Don't forget!

* * *

Reminder: Meet Shelli at the tavern at dawn for drinks. Don't forget! Forgetting did not turn out so well with Prescilla.

* * *

All right. Time to use this journal for its intended purpose. (Note to self: when you write down notes to remind yourself of something, you actually have to go back and read the notes or the reminding thing doesn't work.)

Alinon assured me that he was not going to steal this book and share its contents with the rest of the guard. He actually wants me to write down anything I remember about the nightmares I've been having. I still think he's pulling my leg, but I'm willing to give anything a try. I'm losing too much sleep not to try something!

I don't remember anything in vivid detail. Only vague glimpses of the nightmares I've been having since winter. I can't tell if they belong to one long dream or many separate ones, but they all have something in common: the bright light right before I wake up. I want to say that it speaks to me. That I can hear what it tells me. But when I wake up all I can recall is a glowing orb with light so intense that I have to shield my eyes.

Other things haunt my dreams. Dark images and frightful events. I've seen the sky turn dark and split apart to allow giant shackles to crash into the earth. I've seen armies of Daedra and undead swarm our cities, killing anyone who stands in their way.

Other times I've seen the face of death itself, its fangs dripping with blood as it stared at me. I've felt them sink into my neck and watched the creature burst into flames as it drank my blood. And then I see a cold, blue land. Jagged rocks that float in the alien sky. A sky I've never seen in the waking world. I hear screams in the distance. And everything is cold and death and nothingness. 

Then the light appears once more, as if to guide me to safety. To tell me something. To say … and that's when I wake up.

I exhaust myself. I drink too much. And still the nightmares come to me. I really need to get a good night's sleep!

* * *

Onions

Tomatoes

Bread

Damn! I did it again. Oh well. It's been a while since I've had one of those nightmares. Maybe this journal thing is working after all.

* * *

I can't believe it. It's happening. It's actually happening. I don't know if I should be horrified or, well, I don't know what to think. All I know is that this isn't a dream.

Anchors from the sky are falling all around Tamriel. We're being invaded! May whatever gods favor us watch over us. My nightmares are coming true.

I can't let Alinon know about this. He'll think I'm some sort of prophet or something and make a big deal. I definitely don't want that to happen!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1270)
	Catacombs of Cath Bedraud
By Victor Croquel

The cemetery of Cath Bedraud is the final resting place for some of our greatest heroes, those who fought the many battles to keep High Rock safe and who bled into the rivers and the soil. They gave up everything they had to protect this very land.

The term "hero" depends on one's point of view. One man's hero, after all, can be another's villain, and another's king might be your tyrant. But everyone buried in Cath Bedraud fought and died for this land. Each of them, in their own way, has allowed us to live as we live today.

And beneath the graves of these heroes lies the catacombs. The place where I believe the kings and queens and royalty of the past have been entombed. My studies of the surrounding countryside indicate that the catacombs exist. However, I haven't been able to find an entrance into these hidden tombs. Allow me to speculate on subjects where the existing records are incomplete at best.

Before our time, the greatest battles of the Alessians and Direnni took place in this very land. Thousands lost their lives in the great battles that occured here. After those conflicts, we saw the last Ayleid King pass away and the bloodline of the Direnni thin out.

Yet these Direnni had the most powerful magic at their command. Some say it was a type of magic that hasn't been seen before or since the Direnni. Magic that allowed them to bring down the tyranny of the Alessians and stop their army.

I can only conclude that those who rest below Cath Bedraud are the heroes who fell in battle those long years ago. That the Direnni buried their own and then sealed the crypts so that their resting places would never be disturbed.

I will continue to search for new evidence that supports this theory. And I will continue to explore Cath Bedraud in the hope of finding an entrance into these catacombs.

I can only hope I don't disturb the Direnni magic that protects these tombs.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1271)
	The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born, V. 2
The sound of clanking armor and approaching footsteps echoed through the dark streets. It was obvious that the marchers didn't care if they were heard. In fact, it sounded like they were trying to make more noise than was necessary.

Erric Deleyn closed his eyes and listened. He tried to count how many armor-clad boots were pounding toward them. Not that the numbers mattered. If there were two Alessians or ten, Erric knew it would how this was going to end. "Someone's going to stick a blade right through my head," he thought.

Erric felt a hand touch his shoulder and he opened his eyes. Calinden, the mercenary Ayleid knight with the long-flowing golden hair squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Stick close to me," Calinden said.

A sense of calm came over Erric as he nodded in response. It was as if the Ayleid knight knew exactly what Erric was thinking. Erric would have taken more comfort in that thought if the sounds of the footsteps weren't getting closer and louder.

Kish'na, a Khajiiti warrior on Erric's other side, pulled two blades from their sheaths and held one up. She wanted them to hold for her signal. The other mercenaries in the alley shifted back and forth, excitement and fear shining in their eyes as they waited for the order to attack.

More steps. Louder. Louder. And then silence.

Erric looked around in surprise. Why had the unseen marchers stopped? The rest of the mercenary band seemed as confused as he was. Except for Kish'na and Calinden. Kish'na's raised blade did not move.

Erric would later learn that what happened next is what usually happens when you hire people willing to stab other people with swords and daggers. The mercenaries grow impatient and become eager to spill blood so they can collect their gold. Usually, this break in discipline brings such hired soldiers to their end that much quicker. And, unfortunately, it was Erric's group that broke first.

"Kill those bastards!"

The yell rang out from someone behind and to the left of where Erric was standing. Suddenly they were rushing forward, more a tangled mass than a fighting formation. Erric was pushed to the side as weapon waving mercenaries shoved past him.

"What are those idiots doing?" Kish'na demanded as the mercenaries left the cover of the alley. She shook her head in frustration but run out after them, her twin blades drawn and ready.

Calinden turned to Erric. "Remember what I said." And with that, the Elf pulled the large blade from the sheath on his back and ran to join the fray.

Erric felt panic overwhelm him and he stood frozen in place. The clang of weapons and shield. The roars of battle. The screams of pain. Everything sounded muffled to Erric's ears. His feet felt stuck to the cobbled street. The war had arrived, and Erric could only watch it unfold before him.

After an eternity that really only lasted a few seconds, Erric was finally able to move. He lifted one foot and placed in front of the other. Slowly, deliberately, he repeated this action until he reached the edge of the alley wall. Erric took a steadying breath. Then he peered around the wall.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1272)
	The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born, V. 3
Everywhere Erric looked, he saw white armor and Alessian banners. It wasn't a scouting party that the mercenaries attacked—it was an entire cohort of Alessian soldiers.

The mercenaries fought hard, but they were undisciplined. They lunged at the wall of armored soldiers like drunks in a tavern brawl. They were cut down, one after another, with relative ease. The Alessians simply blocked and parried each attack, taunting their foolish foes before cutting them down.

The only members of the mercenary band that appeared to be having anything close to success were Calinden and Kish'na. The Ayleid knight Calinden's massive two-handed sword sliced through armor, flesh, and bone with equal ease, while the Khajiit Kish'na's twin blades twirled around her in an exotic dance of death.

Erric watched in awe as the battle played out in front of him. He knew that if he charged in to help the mercenaries, he would be cut down before he could so much as scratch an Alessian shield with his rusted sword. But if he turned and ran, and if any of the mercenaries survived, he would be remembered as a coward and a fake. They might even come after him, looking for revenge. All these thoughts and more bounced around and collided inside his head, leaving him frozen with indecision and fear.

But nothing brings clarity of mind like a sharp blade cutting through the air in front of you and rushing toward your face. Erric barely dodged out of the way, just as an Alessian soldier backed into him and knocked him to the ground. The rusty blade that Erric had been holding so tightly flew from his hand as he landed on his back. His helmet slammed into the wall he had been standing next to, and for a moment everything went black.

The next thing Erric knew, Calinden was standing beside him and lifting him to his feet. The street around him was littered with Alessian corpses. The Ayleid knight said nothing. He simply turned and walked back into battle. 

Erric had seen enough. He couldn't take it anymore. With growing frenzy, he looked for a path of escape. He could count the number of remaining mercenaries on one hand, but the sea of Alessians seemed as wide and deep as the waves that crashed along the Daggerfall coast. At that moment, Erric knew that he didn't want to die. He picked a direction and started to run—right past the most frantic and bloody fighting.

As Erric's legs carried him past the combatants, he reached down and grabbed a sword lying near one of the many corpses. Drawing on reserves he didn't know he had, he increased his speed. He focused on reaching the nearest open doorway or getting around the next corner. He knew that he could lose himself in the back streets if he could just get away from the fighting. He was close. He was going to make it.

As Erric turned the corner to make his escape, the sword he carried before him slid into something soft and wet. He was staring into the face of an Alessian officer who looked as surprised as he was. The officer wore multiple badges of honor, but not one of them had been enough to save him. Erric's blade had slid into the space between where the officer's armor connected front to back, slicing between ribs and puncturing a lung. The officer gasped as his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled.

As the officer dropped to the ground, he let go of the ivory horn he had been holding. It rolled to a stop next to Erric's right foot. Erric stared at the horn for a moment, then he picked it up and stowed it in his belt. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That's when the arrow buried itself in Erric's back. He stumbled forward as pain radiated from the point of impact. Already, his vision was starting to blur. He saw the Khajiit and the Elf run toward him. He saw an army of Alessians chasing after them. He tried to breathe but that made everything hurt even more.

And then everything faded and Erric saw nothing at all.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1273)
	On Our Enemies
The peoples of the Daggerfall Covenant are a strong and diverse group. It is our differences that help us be strong. We complement each other. This is not true of the other races of Tamriel.

The Elves

The High Elves who rule over the "lesser" races in the Aldmeri Dominion are without a doubt the most arrogant of the Elf races, which is saying quite a bit. High Elves believe that they are the direct descendants of the Aedra! They rule over the Wood Elves and Khajiit while giving them token positions within the ruling hierarchy to keep them content. Rumors of harsh punishments for disobedience cannot be confirmed as any dissidents quickly disappear.

The Wood Elves are a barbaric people who are willing to submit to High Elf rule as long as their practices of cannibalism are allowed to continue. They eat their enemies and even one another. They worship the trees of Valenwood, refusing to cut them down or harm the animals that live there. Who does things like that?

The Dark Elves of Morrowind are almost as bad as the High Elves. The Tribunal rulers of the Dark Elves have convinced their people that they are "Living Gods" possessing great powers and immortality. These old wizards openly imitate what was called the "Good Daedra" as part of their Dark Elf ancestral worship.

The Beast Races

The Khajiit are the "cat-people" of Elsweyr. Many rumors exist about the Khajiit, and they are certainly all true. The Khajiit are a society of thieves and addicts. Most spend their time consuming vast quantities of the addictive substance distilled from moon sugar. Thievery is second nature to these cats, as stealing often supports their addictions.

Argonians are the "lizard folk" of the Black Marsh. Little is known about their culture save for a few rumors and lots of hearsay. It is known that they believe they originate from the trees that grow in Black Marsh. The environment of the marsh has given the Argonians a resistance to the toxic substances found there. The society of Black Marsh is primitive by the standards of the other races.

Humans

The Nords are the hardened folk of the north. Hailing from Skyrim, these brutes live for war and conquest. When not fighting others, the Nords fight among themselves. The Nords are not a very bright people. It seems that the thin air in Skyrim has led to a stunting of the mental capacity of the Nords.

The Cyrodiils are a cunning and ruthless people. The central location of Cyrodiil has given them contact with all the races of Tamriel and made them fine traders and diplomats. It has also made them very shrewd with silver tongues and cheating ways. They have a sense of entitlement to rule. Of all the enemies of the Daggerfall Covenant, it is the people of Cyrodiil that are the most dangerous.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1274)
	Stormreeve Neidir's Orders
Commander,

Our ritual on Tempest Island is progressing as planned. We need the denizens of Tamriel distracted so that our plan can come to fruition. This task falls to you, for you do it best. Attack, raid, and pillage as you see fit. Scatter our enemies, and leave them in disarray.

When our spell is complete, and we've crushed the kingdoms of Tamriel, you will be remembered for your sacrifice and your body returned to the sea of eternal slumber.

— Stormreeve Neidir
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1275)
	Letter to Sentulus
Sentulus,

Over the years, I have recruited dozens to the ranks of the Supernal Dreamers, but none of my recruits have made me nearly so proud as you have. The experiment in Koeglin Village appears to have met with significant success. Your work there has inspired us all and indeed caught the attention of our divine mistress. Vaermina has sent some of her most potent minions to help spread our influence in Stormhaven. Powerful Daedra known as "Omens" are working behind the scenes in places of power across this kingdom to mimic your achievement. With their aid, we will ensure that the Daggerfall Covenant is plunged into a nightmare from whence it will not be able to return. 

The task with which you have now been charged is unchanged, but no less critical.  We will need hordes of scamps, clannfear, and Dremora to plague these lands and perpetuate the waking nightmare our mistress has envisioned. Make efforts to recruit local citizens to our cause. If they will not join us, they may be used as vessels or blood sacrifices to aid in the summoning of Daedra. 

In Vaermina's dark name,

Nightcaller Chartrand
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1276)
	Maormer Correspondence, Vol. 1
Bring this to the attention of Stormreeve Neidir. The following is a copy of an Altmer text regarding Tempest Island, written by esteemed geographer, Angalmo. The Island is close enough to Malabal Tor for our needs, and considering its history of bizarrely inclement weather, it's a perfect launching point for our assault. The Dominion will never see us coming:

Angalmo's Travels: The Island of Storms Volume 1

The shrouded islands off the coast of Malabal Tor are as treacherous as they are beautiful. None more so than the Island of Storms, which some have come to call Tempest Island. The island is beautiful, but holds a secret that none have been able to decipher. Violent storms and gale winds have originated from the island for years—extremely unusual weather for the region—and scholars have risked its shores only to be stranded or killed on its storm-wracked coast.

I have seen these storms first-hand; I was with one such expedition, and spent a month on Tempest Island when my ship, the Summerset Blade, was smashed to splinters by a black storm that seemed to appear from nowhere. I had misgivings about the stories before, but what explanation could there be besides magic to conjure such a swift tempest out of calm seas? Rescue eventually came, as a second crew of surveyors came to look for my party, but I pledged never to sail anywhere near the Island again.

It's a promise I intend to keep.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1277)
	Maormer Correspondence, Vol. 2
This is another volume to bring to Stormreeve Neidir's attention. The following is a copy of an Altmer text regarding Tempest Island, written by esteemed geographer, Angalmo. The Island is close enough to Malabal Tor for our needs, and considering its history of bizarrely inclement weather, it's a perfect cover for our assault. The Dominion will never see us coming:

Angalmo's Travels: The Island of Storms Volume 2

I will never forget my experience at Tempest Island, where I nearly lost my life in the wake of one of the Island's infamous storms. My ship was destroyed and I was left landlocked for an entire month. I lived on ship's rations in the relative safety of the Island's cave network before rescue came for me.

During that time, I found no signs of the Island's rumored magical properties, though obviously there were the unexplained storms to account for it. I swear that these storms are like none that I have ever seen—swifter, fiercer, and manifesting in a region known for much milder conditions.

It's said that no scholar or mage has ever been able to discern the cause of this weather, but the Island has been thought to be the source of multiple phenomena, such as the Flood of the Era, as well as the storm that preceded the Lamia Invasion of 435. Both incidents have fostered interest in the Island over the years by researchers and academics, though none could find a cause for the storms.

For all the scholars can tell, Tempest Island simply sits in a swath of sea that's prone to extreme weather—nothing more nor less.
		

Failed at /books/1278Failed at /books/1279		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1280)
	Snowmead's Missive
Urgent! Send help to Lost Knife Cave. The Orcthane's army has taken control of the mine. They are forcing us to provide ore to the Orcthane Fildgor so he can outfit his army with weapons and armor.

Kerig can lead you to the mine, but be careful on your approach. The Stormfist mercenaries have killed several miners and they keep hostages within the mine at all times.

— Eitaki Snowmead
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1281)
	Jomund's Research Notes
Initial findings:

Ore exhibits a faint blue glow. The glow fluctuates, sometimes appearing to grow stronger. Possibly due to being in close contact with another metal. More tests will be needed to determine true cause of the fluctuation. 

Thelm insists he's seen a similar type of coloring on some Ayleid stonework. 

Ore seems to attract the frost trolls that inhabit the western sections of the mine. If this ore proves useful or valuable, we'll need to clear the trolls out of there.

Tests:  

Hard to determine the actual properties of this mysterious metal. It appears to have thin veins of silver running through its distinctive bluish tint.

The ore resonates with an almost musical tone when tapped with a silver tool. An iron tool produced a more discordant tone.

Additional Testing:

The ore is highly resistant to chipping. A few chips were finally produced and ground into a powder. Unfortuately, Thelm destroyed several hours' work with a mighty sneeze that scattered the blue, glowing residue.  

Additional analysis is needed, but I believe that grinding the ore may produce a material that can be used as an alloy in weapon crafting. This will be extremely important if the ore is determined to have some sort of magical property. The alchemist Aleeto will be interested in this. She'll want to see a sample of the ore immediately.
		

Failed at /books/1282Failed at /books/1283		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1284)
	Note from Magister Osanne
Lord Fildgor —

We've settled into Lost Knife, as directed. We just need to push these lazy miners to start producing a bit more ore. Probably have to set a few more examples to motivate them. The rotating hostage tactic is effective for keeping them in line with minimum bloodshed, but it doesn't necessarily make them more productive.

You may want to send someone here to examine an unusual ore that we found. It has some odd properties, possibly magical in nature. It could prove useful. Or valuable. This is not my field of study, though. Send someone with more of a background in alchemy or metallurgy.

— Magister Osanne
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1285)
	Treatise on Metallurgical Anomalies
By Ovuld, Master Metallurgist

This shall be my masterwork, an accounting of everything I know about the ores, metals, and alloys of Tamriel. 

First: Iron, in all its many and wondrous varieties. 

We begin with Bog Iron which, true to its name, is "mined" by digging in ferrous peat, within which pea-sized nodules of ore can be found by the assiduous bog-iron seeker. Bog iron is prized because iron forged from its ore is often highly resistant to rusting, which naturally makes it perfect for a variety of applications.

Then there is Cold Iron, which can be found throughout the frozen mountains of Skyrim. Even after it is worked and forged, this unique metal retains a chill that keeps it cold to the touch—regardless of the temperature around it. Cold Iron has a number of uses, and holds enchantments very well.

In my travels I have also come across a mysterious metal. I'm not sure if it's iron, as my encounter with this strange ore was rather brief and interrupted by the sudden appearance of trolls ….
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1286)
	The Miner's Lament
All day long in a dark, dark mine,

Swing your pick time after time.

The sound of metal hitting stone,

We work hard, we work alone.

All day long toiling in the dark,

Hoping the next vein will hit the mark.

A poor man dreams of golden ore,

Our foreman screams, "Dig some more!"

I keep digging and praying to the Eight,

That dying beneath a mountain isn't my fate.

I'm a miner, for better or for worse,

And blood, sweat, and tears won't fill my purse.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1287)
	Spymaster Ramorgol's Orders
Ramorgal,

We need to position ourselves around this encampment Jorunn has set up. Bitterblade's troops will protect the approach to Skuldafn and keep Jorunn's forces occupied.

Your job is to reinforce the other side of Jorunn's encampment. Keep them on edge and set up the potential to box them in. Start getting troops in place, out of range of any archers within the encampment. 

Keep an eye on the approach road as well. Let's make sure that no reinforcements can reach them.

— Fildgor
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1288)
	Shaman Moramat's Orders
Moramat,

Here's a chance to prove your usefulness. If any of Jorunn's forces slip through Ramorgal's net to the north or sneak out of the south gates, it is up to you to stop them.

Also, I don't know what is going on over at that logging camp, but I do not want any surprises from that direction. Send a couple of your mages over there to see if we can use the situation to our advantage or to determine if it will cause us problems. Probably the best course is to leave well enough alone, but I leave that to you to decide.

— Filgdor
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1289)
	Letter to Thalrinel
My Dearest Thalrinel,

I write to you in the hope that I find you in good health and good spirits. You will need both in the days and weeks to come.

I know you were not looking for this much excitement so early in your tenure as Treethane of Silvenar, but the gods challenge us to make us stronger, not to make us more comfortable.

Certainly the deaths of Finoriell and her silvenar caught us all by surprise. Some say it's the price we pay for joining the Aldmeri Dominion and involving ourselves in the upheaval of Khenarthi's Roost.

I've even heard a few grumblings against the queen, and the Khajiit in general.

You must not let this discontent show at the handfast! I saw your invitation list, and you did exactly what you needed to do. Members of all the Dominion races have been invited and, should they attend, we must treat them as close friends.

If we are to stand against the growing darkness, we must join hands to know who our allies truly are.

All my best,

— E.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1290)
	A Time of Troubles
by Gwilgoth Branchbreaker

Part Three: A Treethane's Dilemma

Loyalty, prized by friends and demanded of subordinates, must still be tempered with flexibility. Otherwise, loyalty is a trap, and a dangerous one.

Take, for example, the story of the former Treethane of Silvenar, Thalrinel. I served her loyally for her entire, if short, stint as custodian of the city, just as she served our lordships, and even the Aldmeri Dominion loyally during her term.

But when the Hound, Lord Ulthorn, arrived, he declared a new order, and his men enforced loyalty to the Bosmer first. Naturally, I saw the immediate wisdom of the Hound's position.

Unfortunately, Thalrinel did not. She resisted his welcome ascendance as the Green Lady's consort, and her misplaced loyalty was rewarded with nothing but pain. She fancied herself a representative of the Silvenar, an archaic symbol of outdated oaths, not a representative of Silvenar, a city full of mer who needed her loyalty.

Fortunately, I saw the wisdom in Lord Ulthorn's reasoning. And the Hound saw the benefits of my flexibility. He promised my ascendance to treethane if I would back him and help complete the inevitable union between the Green Lady and himself.

What could I do? The fate of the city was in the balance. When she arrived, I welcomed her and gave her the drink and food set aside for her by Lord Ulthorn. I'm certain he knew what was best.

All was going well until the Silvenar arrived. The Houndsmen were prepared, and I'm certain this business of "heroes" and "villains" will be resolved in our favor. My loyalty cannot be questioned. I'm certain Lord Ulthorn will remember me in the end.

If only I could—
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1291)
	Make the Wilds Safer, Earn Gold
Big-game hunters of Reaper's March! I offer you an opportunity for coin and fame. Like in the days of old, I'm offering an open contract, a bounty! Senche-Tiger Fangs! Bring me no less than twenty-five tiger fangs and I will pay you a handsome sum in coins! Bards will speak your name in taverns across the March. Seek me out at the Fighters Guild drinking hall in Rawl'kha! And earn your coin today!

— Panreth the Bold, Freelance Hunter and Benefactor
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1292)
	Ebon Crypt
My dear Vania,

The situation has turned grave out here. I can't go into details right now, but know that I am doing everything I can to keep myself safe. I have not been injured, though I have seen some action.

The Moors and King's Guard are rife with old ruins, tombs, and other ancient places. On my next rest period, I will see if I can find any valuables in one of the nearby ruins. My friend Marroy was telling tales of Cath Bedraud and some old crypt he claims is somewhere nearby. It's called Ebon Crypt or some suitably gloomy name like that. 

I plan to return to you with a nice bauble we can sell to create a little nest egg for ourselves. The dead can't do anything with the gold that's buried with them, but we could surely use it. 

I'll write again when I can.

— Ambrel
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1293)
	Indal's Letter
Dearest Ehtayah,

I miss you dearly. There are so many people here. They say we'll ride to battle soon. Pray for me that the gods may grant me favor. I want only to see you and our home one more time.

Bright Moons keep you safe,

Indal
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1294)
	Oiarah's Journal
I've been posted to Aldcroft. It's nice to have a proper camp, near a proper town. Berouche still makes us drill every damned day, but what can you do? 

I've been speaking to the mages that are sharing our camp. They can be extremely interesting. They know a lot about the history of the area and all kinds of other things. 

Fahurr says there's an old mine around here. Khuras, the place is called. It's somewhere west of the swampy fens. He says the place is overrun with creatures or cultists or something—he isn't quite sure. Fahurr's information tends to be incomplete at best. Wish I could check it out. It would be nice to discover something, see a little action, maybe earn a commendation instead of just patrolling Aldcroft again. 

Ah well, I can dream about adventure, even if I can't go chasing after cultists and treasure whenever the urge strikes me.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1295)
	Kurlash's Orders
Sergeant Kurlash,

Do exactly as I say and tell no one. Take this crate of weapons to the dock northeast of Dro-Dara plantation. Leave it and return immediately. The pickup is not your concern.

— General Godrun
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1296)
	Bhosek's Punishments
Steal from Bhosek: Beheading

Touch Bhosek's Girls: Gelding

Insult Bhosek: 20 Lashes

Don't Pay Taxes: Tide Cage

Kill a Fist: The Grave

Steal from a Fist: Hands cut off

Rat to the Navy: Tongue cut out

Rat to Helane: Keelhauling
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1297)
	An Elegantly Penned Letter
Dearest Jibril,

I'm leaving the island. Please don't try to follow me. I will always think fondly of our time together, but we travel different paths. 

King Fahara'jad has called for loyal sons and daughters of Alik'r. The Daggerfall Covenant offers a chance to spread beyond the desert, to truly influence world affairs. If he will have me, I will sail with his navy. That is the life I have always dreamed.

You see now why I write you. If you truly care for me, retire from this life. Find an honest occupation. Think of me fondly, but do not pine for what we had.

I will always care for you, Jibril. But if our navy comes upon your ship preying on Covenant vessels, if my captain asks me to put her crew to the sword, I will not hesitate. I will put a sword through you. Honor demands no less.

May you come safely to your journey's end.

—	Ramina
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1298)
	Kurog's Betrayal
You've heard grand claims. Orsinium reborn. The Elf-loving Bretons our friends, the traitor Redguards our allies.

We are welcome, they claim. We are needed, they claim. All lies.

Kurog the False Chief would tell you the Daggerfall Covenant is our future. Kurog, the sellsword who abandoned his tribe, who shed blood for Elves and gold as his people languished and starved. This toothless runt would have us in chains, fighting for the Bretons and Redguards who slaughtered us.

Have you forgotten our brothers and sisters at Orsinium?  Have you forgotten who launched their crusade to crush "the Pig Children"?

The same Bretons and Redguards who now pretend friendship sought to wipe us from the face of Tamriel. Now, with our fields salted and our homes burned, the cowards and liars offer to return the land they stole.

Shall we make peace with our enemies? Shall we thank them for returning what they stole from us through foul magic and treachery?

Look past Kurog's silken words. Look to his cowardly deeds, and to the ancestors who gave their lives to keep us free. This Daggerfall Covenant is a chain around our necks.

They wish to make us their dogs. Remind them that we are Orcs! We will never bow before their so-called "High King"!

Down with Kurog the False Chief!

Down with Emeric the Enslaver!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1299)
	Meat for Soup
Lizard: Crusty

Mudcrab: Tasty

Jackal: Gamey

Rat: Good for snacks (not soup)

Goblin: Nasty (don't eat)
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1300)
	The Last Will of Roland Volcy
Gods strike you, Bhosek, and every wretched Bloody Fist. You may drown me, but you'll never find your gold. Choke and die.

Sea Lily, I cannot know this note will reach you, so I dare not use your name. You are alone in my heart. I regret nothing.

Our mutual friend left me this paper and quill. If my letter reaches you, take my swords and give them to the boy. See that he learns to use them.

As for Bhosek's gold, that's yours. You were good to me and the boy. I left it in our "special place." Take it and sail somewhere safe.

The tide's rising. I must go. Do not mourn me. You were worth every lash. One day, the Eight will bring us together again. Until then, Sea Lily, stay strong and stay safe.

Love,

—	Roland
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1301)
	We Expect Absolute Discretion
The Fists have stepped up patrols around the docks, so don't get stupid. Do what you do and they'll never be the wiser. Delivery's the same.

Assuming the corpses are whole, payment will reach you as it always does. If you are foolish enough to deliver another headless batch, we will end this and make other arrangements.

We expect absolute discretion. Even if the Fists catch you, even if they torture you, you would be wise to go silent to your grave.

Death will not save you from us.

<The letter has no signature, but there is an intricate drawing of a black vine wrapping around itself at the bottom. The thorns drip with blood.>
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1302)
	Letter to Headman Bhosek
I demand that you take immediate action against the traitorous "Captain Helane" and her band of Sea Drakes! They have held the island's only lighthouse for over a year now. In that time, 18 ships have run upon the rocks.

I have no doubt that Helane is sabotaging the lighthouse to wreck these ships, leaving her minions to loot the broken holds. While this greatly enriches her, she pays no taxes to you. Is this not a crime?

Trade is your currency, and shipping your life's blood. What do you think will happen as a result of Helane's piracy? Ships will seek harbor elsewhere. Food will stop coming.

Will you eat lizards? Mudcrabs? Rats? What will you do when you run out of wool for clothing or leather for shoes? If trade with your fiefdom ceases to be profitable, your new regime will be short indeed.

I implore you to gather your Bloody Fists and any fools you can buy. Send your army to Saintsport, rout the Sea Drakes, and take Helane's head before she grows even more powerful.

I am your staunchest ally in Glenumbra and will be so as long as our partnership remains profitable. Silence Helane. Let our partnership not wither.

If you leave Helane's greed unchecked, the next head on a pike may be your own. 

Your friend,

Lady Brunwyn
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1303)
	A Call to Action!
Goblins infest the caves to our north. They slip into town in the night and steal food, livestock, even people.

Turn your blades on the foul Goblins and you will be rewarded!

Headman Bhosek will soon offer a bounty for slain Goblins. This is your chance for riches!

Addendum: Please do not ask Headman Bhosek about the bounty. When it is ready, we will spread word.

— Scribe Nicolard

<Graffiti is scrawled below the notice>

Killed Goblins for years, but never been paid. Demand a reward, lose your fingers!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1304)
	Deregor's Lost Goods
—	Knives, Bosmer bone (2)

—	Dice (3)

—	Cards (pack)

—	Book: Great Harbingers of the Companions.

—	Book: Antecedents of Dwemer Law

—	Book: Words of the Wind

—	Quill and Ink (black)

Captain Lerisa,

There were other possessions lost in the wreck, but these are missed the most. Getting back some of what we lost will do wonders for crew morale.

—	Deregor
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1305)
	Letter to Captain Lerisa
Captain Lerisa, I see little point in this exercise. What good can come of the crew listing lost possessions? Will Deregor suffer without his lucky dice? Will Haerdun languish without his illustrated Lusty Argonian Maid?

I slave still to scrape together enough gold for a ship, let alone the trivialities the crew lost on the Maiden's Breath. Expecting me to help them replace their lost possessions is ludicrous.

For now, I will file this list where I keep Crenard's extravagant sheafs of recipes. I pray that you come to your senses.

Of course, I have already ordered replacements for the make up, clothing, and wigs used to create your many identities.

All this comes for a pittance, and I am certain you will be pleased. Let it never be said that I do not serve you well.

—	Telonil, Quartermaster
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1306)
	Nedic Dueling Swords
Although a barbarous and savage society, the ancient Nedic people (possible ancestors of the modern Nords) were famed for their skill in metallurgy. Seen here are two pristine dueling swords from that era, once wielded by the draugr lord Haltaf in his subterranean lair.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1307)
	Altmer: Heirs of a Noble Lineage
As the (self-proclaimed) purest line descended from the ancient Aldmer, the Altmeri people have built an empire of grace, refinement, and strength. In this room are several artifacts showcasing their remarkable artistic accomplishments and their heavy burden of rulership.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1308)
	Argonians of Black Marsh
Although nearly as ancient as the Mer, the Argonians of Black Marsh are still a primitive people. Shamanistic thinking and tree worship indicates a sub-mer capacity for critical thinking. The crude craftsmanship in these artifacts further points to a limited appreciation for aesthetics, calling into question their possibility of possessing a soul.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1309)
	The Empty Room
Upon excavating the ruins of Rulanyil's Fall, this room was found to be relatively untouched by the ravages of time, and remains largely as it was found.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1310)
	The Green Singing
The Bosmer Spinner stood before the rising moons, a shadow fingering a belt of glittering shells.

"Heavy-bearded Y'ffre, speak through me. Tell us of the time before time. Let the story grow in me. Let my heart echo to the pounding of your feet along the story-lines, the bones of the world. I will walk Your steps, and know Your story."

The Spinner's eyes flickered closed. His fingertips slid along the belt, picking out the shape and orientation of the shells. He raised a foot, and with deliberation stamped it on the ground.

"Speak through me, Y'ffre. Tell us of the drum-play of Mara, who beat out a pulse against the darkness that gnawed Old Ehlnofey. Mara, whose eyes glitter like hot coals, known of mer and knowing mer, mother of a thousand-thousand children. She who looks at Arkay's form and does not blush, but breathes deep the scent of Him."

The Spinner took thumping, methodical steps across the hilltop, eyes closed, hands tracing the patterns of shells wrapped around his chest. His voice shamed the night-calls of nearby insects to silence.

The others watching were reverently silent, eyes closed, swaying in time with the Spinner's steps. His feet slowed, pounding deep footprints in the earth. He no longer spoke; he sighed. He whispered.

"'We are who we are,' the taller tribe says, in a voice made of leaf-shivers. 'We taste the earth and feel your steps over us. We were the land of green singing before the bones were set. Before the before-and-after.'"
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1311)
	Notes on Bewan
Just southwest of Dawnbreak, I've found the perfect place. An old Elven ruin open to the sea. We can run small boats right into the place, and smuggle the arcana off the island.

Don't even talk about this near the Archmage. He'll take the coin right out of our fingers.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1312)
	Del's Claim Report
Captain,

Unless you have any further objections, we're going to claim that mine. The queen has commanded it, and we have the forces needed to deal with any problems. It's far enough from the road out of Vulkhel Guard that we don't anticipate any problems.

Feel free to drop in any time, but we should require no further assistance in this matter.

Yrs,

— Lennoon
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1313)
	A Discarded Missive
M'lady, 

As you requested we've been looking for a new place for the faithful to congregate. We believe we have found a place, west of Firsthold along the coast.

We've consecrated it in the master's name, and await your benediction to make the crude place our own.

In his name.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1314)
	Wansalen Tunnels
Sir, I don't know what else I can tell you. If we don't keep the troops out of that old ruin we're going to have trouble.

Patrols through Quendeluun are anything but interesting, but we can't have them digging into the deeper tunnels. I can only protect your merchandise if our troops are alive, and we've seen enough down in those old tunnels to turn my hair white.

The deeper tunnels in Quendeluun, called Wansalen, are off limits if the troops want to be paid. Just spread the word next time you're hiring.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1315)
	Dead Man's Drop
A map, a plan

A way to get in.

Will I find treasure?

Or just a skull's grin?
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1316)
	Rogue Elements
According to my research, there exists in these woods a branch of the Wood Elves who do not believe in the Green Pact. They do not keep its tenets, and do not associate with others.

I intend to find them, learn the reason behind their decision, and bring them into alignment with the Aldmeri Dominion.

We have enough troubles without rogue elements skulking through the forest.

Meet me there.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1317)
	She Dared Me
She dared me to go there, but I wouldn't. Why should I look for trouble in the wilds?

I've enough to do, what with feeding our children, and keeping her from harm. Why didn't I go?

No one's ever seen the creature in the pit and lived to tell about it.  Why did she leave? Is she running away from something? From me?

Y'ffre, keep her safe.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1318)
	Arraj's Journal
2 Sun's Dawn— 

What a glorious day! I am closer than ever to completing my studies. It's taken years of hard work, but today my instructor said I passed my examinations at the top of my class.

My friends and I will celebrate long into the night!

4 Sun's Dawn—

Thiingil and I will set out today to visit her family before our wedding. They don't approve of me. Scholars aren't valued the way hunters are. I hope they change their mind.

We're taking a short-cut across the ruins. Should be back within a month. Two at the most.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1319)
	Stay Far from the Roots
Reliviel,

Something's happening beneath the city of Silvenar. I can't say more, in case this note goes astray.

Don't wander the ravine, and stay far from the roots. You can't disappear the way our parents did! Keep safe!

Your Devoted Sister,

Huurenarth
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1320)
	Note from Zidal
Our contract is binding, and yes, I do expect you to follow through with the exploration.

Take your team and head to <<Ac:1>> by tomorrow, or I'll bring this before the treethane. You don't want to risk that, considering you jilted her son after she'd spent all that gold on things for the feast, do you?

I didn't think so.

Get going.

— Zidal
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1321)
	Ofglog's Journal
Entry 357

Shakul denies me yet again. She laughed when I told her I will be the most powerful mage in Grahtwood one day. Well, I'll show her just how powerful I've become in my short time at the college. Tomorrow, I will reveal my new leaping spell and sweep her off her feet! They will talk of my feat for years to come and I will win Shakul's heart in a single cast.

Entry 358

The day has come! I will cast my spell in front of the entire stronghold. Shakul has promised that I may help her in the forge if my spell impresses her. A little theatrics, a few words, then up to the top of the longhouse! It won't be long now.

Entry 359

That didn't quite go as planned. I'm currently moving at a high rate of speed through the air … well above the highest mountains I can see from this height. I don't recognize any of the terrain. Wait … I think I'm descending. I hope I can remember that easy-landing spell the master taught me.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1322)
	Vicereeve Pelidil's Orders
Eldecil,

By no means is anyone to learn that the Veiled Heritance is here in Woodhearth until we are certain that Ayrenn is dead. You are to remain out of sight while our new recruit completes her mission. Your job is only to cover her escape in case she is pursued. If she were exposed, she would be of no more use to us than her sister was.

Once you have assured her escape, you may rejoin the rest of our forces and resume preparations.

— Vicereeve Pelidil
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1323)
	Rest Gently
I'm so sorry. We tried to dig you out, but the shaft started collapsing around us. I pray none of you suffered long.

I will personally tend to this flame, so your souls are never shrouded in darkness.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1324)
	Shadowscale's Journal
Entry 441: Three Dark Elves killed in Stormhold, and rumors call it our work. Preposterous—the Night Mother gifted none of them with her call.

I'll return to the Enclave when I discover who's behind this.

Entry 442: Just watched <<1>> enter her home. This isn't right. Her body remains at the mortuary.

Going to see what this creature wants, and why it wears <<1>>'s face.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1325)
	Three-of-Claws' Note
Don't wait up for me. I am attending a meeting that will likely run late.

It's time we Argonians discuss our past, and determine where the future will take us. We are no longer captives!

— Three-of-Claws
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1326)
	Broken Tusk Ritual Notes
Light the candle, douse the flame.

Say the words, hold onto pain.

Do not fear!

Soon, he'll be here.

He will be here.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1327)
	Chid Moska
Barvyn and I sold our last haul and made a good profit. We've been following up on different leads throughout the area.

This one sounds promising, but we may not get there for at least another month, if not more.

Can't wait to explore it. These ruins look very interesting.
		

Failed at /books/1328Failed at /books/1329Failed at /books/1330		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1331)
	Partially Legible Letter
It's over between us. I never want to see your shadow cross mine. If I could ….

… your title—I don't care! And you can tell that pretty mistress of yours that I'm in the Fighters Guild, so she better watch her back!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1332)
	Uggissar's Diary
After visiting Cousin Idirfa in Fort Amol, I decided to take the family to visit Icehammer's Vault. My intention was to leave my wife and child outside the tomb while I went in to collect whatever gold and relics I could carry. I'm a fairly good treasure hunter, if I do say so myself, but those moneylenders are making it difficult for me and my family. I need to collect enough treasure to pay off the moneylenders before things get ugly.

***

I survived my first foray into the vault. I had to dispatch one draugr I wasn't able to sneak past, but at least a found a small coffer that contained a few pieces of gold. Nowhere near enough to pay off my debts, but a good start nevertheless. 

When I returned to our camp, I saw that the weather had taken a turn for the worse. My poor wife was freezing and the baby wasn't doing much better. I couldn't leave them out in the elements, but it was also too treacherous to try to travel. My only choice was to take them with me back into Icehammer's Vault.

***

At least it's relatively warm and dry within the tomb. And the hunting has been going well. A few more days and I might actually have enough to pay my debts with a little left to spare! 

The draugr are becoming more and more of a problem, however. They seem to be searching the tomb for us. I know that sounds crazy. They are mindless walking corpses, after all. But it really seems like they're making a concerted effort to find us. 

Damn the weather! The storm raging outside is still too intense for us to chance—and I really should collect a few more items from these burial chambers. One more night, and then I'm getting my family out of here.

***

What a fool I was! A complete and utter fool! While I was rooting around in one of the burial chambers, a horde of draugr broke through the barricade I had set up and attacked my poor, ppor wife. I can see that she died valiantly, trying to defend our child from the monsters. For all the good it did! Now both my wife and baby are dead, and I am alone in this cursed vault! 

I saw another exit down a deserted corridor. I'll try to avoid the draugr and escape through there.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1333)
	Letter to Idirfa
Cousin Idirfa,

Sorry for the delay in sending you this letter. I know it might not get delivered for a while, but I wanted to let you know I've had some success. It's been a long journey, but I know it's going to be worth it.

The weather turned bad and we were forced to take shelter in Icehammer's Vault. Not as ideal as a nice warm inn, but at least I can look for some treasure while we're here. As long as I'm quick and quiet, I think I can find some gold and maybe a relic or two. 

The wife is not happy with the situation, of course, but she is patient and understanding. She brought a few books and she's reading to the baby. She prefers religious tomes, but if that's what it takes for her to get through this, that's fine with me.

I don't feel good about bringing my family here, but you know how those moneylenders are. I actually feel safer with the family beside me than back in Windhelm where they might get harassed.

We'll return to Fort Amol as soon as we've got enough to pay off my debts. May the Divines watch over you. May they guide and protect us all.

— Uggissar
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1334)
	Nine Commands of the Eight â¦
<Most of the pages of this book are missing. The title page begins with these words:>

From the personal library of Uggissar and Diala—may the Eight watch over them and their child, and may the Divines protect us all.

<The second page has a note scrawled in red ink.>

The Divines are a lie. There's no one watching over us. Our baby is dead! Would that Uggissar had gone to debtor's prison rather than let us end like this in some god's-forsaken tomb. My poor baby ….

Uggissar isn't back yet, but I'm not sure I can last until he returns. It hurts so much! The creatures tore at me so terribly when I tried to protect the baby. I hate you Uggissar—and I love you so—
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1335)
	Uggissar's Lament
Damn this tomb! Damn my greed! My wife, my child, they're both dead. Killed by these walking corpses while I was out looking for treasure.

I don't deserve to live. This is all my fault. But what can I do? 

… I can try to get out of here. Make it back to Fort Amol and my cousin Idirfa. 

I think there's a way out at the end of this deserted corridor. I wonder if the storm has finally abated?
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1336)
	Letter to Betra
Betra,

I hope the trip to Fort Amol goes well and that your business there concludes quickly and profitably. I miss you so! Please, please, please try to make it home in time for my birthday. That would be a most excellent present! 

The Konunleikar is in full swing and I've never seen the city this busy. I've been putting in extra shifts at the Sober Nord to help with the crowds—and the extra gold never hurts! I have to say, though, that the singing contest wasn't the same without your beautiful voice as one of the participants. I'm sure you would have won if you had been here.

Make sure you travel swiftly and safely. You know how storms can appear without warning in Skyrim this time of year. Do you still have that map my father made for you? If you are caught in a storm, find shelter in one of those caves he marked on the map. Just be sure to look inside before you get too comfortable. Who knows what else might be using the place to get out of the cold and the wind?

Anyway, please hurry home, darling! Our little house isn't the same without you and I miss you so much.

Yours forever,

Eepa
		

Failed at /books/1337		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1338)
	Unfinished Letter
Mother,

I wish you could see what I have accomplished here. The city does not reject nature as you might expect. If anything, the relationship is more complex than we could ever have imagined. I know you think I turned my back on you, on everything you taught. I would do anything to help you understand that I have taken what I've learned and found my own place with it, as you always said I should.

Please, come speak with me. I am ready to continue the Accord. I am ready to—
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1339)
	Appointments for the Thane
Thane Mera, here are your appointments for the day. I've kept them as nonspecific as possible, as you asked, and have left you as much time as could be afforded for you to go on your walks around the city. It isn't as much as you'd like for your patrols, but there are simply too many things that require your attention. And I wasn't able to make time for any Konunleikar activities. My apologies.

7:00 

—Breakfast, morning "patrol" walk

—Return by 8:30

9:00 

—Guard reports

9:30

—Petitioners in Windhelm

Noon

—Lunch, midday "patrol" walk

—Return by 1:15 

1:30

—Guard report updates

—Guard inspections and "Combat training"

4:00 (latest, prefer much earlier if possible)

—Petitioners in Windhelm

7:00 (earlier if petitioners are finished)

—Supper and drinks with visiting thanes 

8:00

—Evening exercise, "Patrol"

9:00

—Evening bath and guard reports

10:30 

—Nightcap with King Jorunn

11:30

—Sleep (and you really need your rest)
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1340)
	Raynor's Travel Diary
Kireth says I should keep a journal. I'm not good at writing. She always takes better notes than I do.

The Dwemer seem to use soul gems to power their constructs. Where did they get all of the souls for it? Bears further research. Might be able to use them to power more mundane things. Magical housecleaning for everyone? Why not?

(Raynor, you're supposed to use this for your personal thoughts, not more research notes. —K)

Kireth, those WERE my personal thoughts. Already said I'm bad at this. Have heard there are classes on writing at Shad Astula. Not a high aspiration, but useful. Have to refocus on admission.

—7 Evening Star

Trying to date these. Apparently helps with organization. Can't remember the previous dates, will just leave blank.

Working on invisibility device. Really just a stored spell, like a scroll or enchantment, nothing fancy. Difficult part is casting and uncasting. Is uncasting a word? Dispel maybe? Don't want to confuse my terms.

—22 Evening Star

Travel is boring. Too bumpy to work on research, too little to do to stay engaged. Writing again to see if it helps. Probably won't. Kireth seems to be writing without a problem. Must be nice.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1341)
	Skuldafn Orders
Hold back Jorunn's forces. I don't need much time.

Simply hold your positions. You have the advantage here. Jorunn and the so-called Pact have no choice but to make a frontal assault. We can hold them back indefinitely should they try.

By the time Jorunn gets his army past the front line, I will be the rightful ruler of this land and Sovngarde itself will punish my brother. My redemption will become a legend beyond what Jorunn could ever have imagined, and those of you who fight here for me will be honored heroes.

— Fildgor called Orcthane
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1342)
	Vardan's Diary
A search of the Ayleid ruins to the north yielded no new information. I wonder if the ancient tales were merely to deter graverobbers. Queen Nuresse was grieved by the death of the king—perhaps she made it all up. 

Drusilla returns tomorrow. She might see something I missed.

                   * * *

Drusilla had no luck. The ruins remain inexplicable. If there is great power here, its whereabouts are unknown.

Drusilla suggested taking local Orcs for interrogation. Under duress, they may provide details we have yet to discover. We will find some who will not be missed.

                   * * *

Success! Interrogation yielded mention of a hidden door beneath the Orc fortress. This may lead to the fabled library of old King Renwic.

If the tales are true, the library holds the information we seek. I have sent word to the Gravesinger. If he refuses to send aid, I will know his true motivation.

                   * * *

Aid arrived. Cursed Gravesinger!

I expected adepts of the highest caliber. Instead, I get initiates who have done little beyond raise their first corpse. The Gravesinger is amused, no doubt.

Still, initiates will do as catapult fodder. While they distract the Orcs, a spy will use the hidden door to slip into the library. I am certain the scroll we seek can be found there.

                   * * *

At last! The scroll confirmed a power here beyond my wildest expectations.

Taking this miserable island from the Orcs is but the start of our crusade. Once the power is in my hands, the armies of the Daggerfall Covenant will fall like leaves before us.

I wonder how the Gravesinger will explain his failure when I conquer Glenumbra out from under him?
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1343)
	Letter from Peverel
Lady Delatte,

These Stonetooth Orcs are intractable! They have no regard for "Outlanders," as they call us. My entreaties for a trading contract have been ignored. 

I know you are loath to give up a possible contract, but nothing is to be gained here! Your informant was correct that no one in Daggerfall has a viable trading contract with these savages. What he left out was that they have no desire for trade.

Give me leave to return to Daggerfall. The conditions here are dreadful (they don't even have hot tea!) and I have been forced to sleep in my boat for over a week now. I am ready to come home.

Your servant,

— Peverel Stemuseph
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1344)
	Note to Gilbard
Gilbard,

Delivered ten more black-robed freaks to Betony, Orcs none the wiser. While your coin is good, these folk aren't. 

It's plain as the nose on your face they're necromancers. Raising the dead disgusts decent folk, but it excites these buggers. I even heard one boasting about digging up a whole family lost to pox and trotting them around.

I'm as open-minded as the next smuggler, but I do have standards. I'm done after this next batch. I don't care how good the gold is. These crazies would as soon stick a dagger in your belly as look at you.

Get in touch with Peloquin out of Aldcroft if you want more of them run in. He takes any sort, even these.

Stay safe, my friend.

—	Ferrand
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1345)
	Barjot's Journal
22 Sun's Height

Going to be a good dig. I have a feeling. Sailed in without a hitch—Ferrand knows his business. We'll be rich and gone before the Orcs even know we're here.

If they were smart they'd be digging in these ruins themselves. But I've never known Orcs to be particularly smart.

28 Sun's Height

One week with no loot. Atirr insists there's a room we haven't found, but I'm sick of listening to that Cat. It was a mistake to sign up for this dig. If the Orcs don't kill us, a cave-in will.

29 Sun's Height

I can't believe it. The Cat found something! We discovered an old door hidden behind a bookcase. It hasn't been opened in Akatosh knows how long.

Might finally see a good score. Even one decent relic would be enough to make this trip worthwhile. We'll open it tomorrow, when Delphine gets back.

2 First Seed

Why did we do it? Why did we open that door? Did Attir know what would happen? I just can't get his screams out of my head.

No relic is worth this. I'm leaving, no matter what Delphine says. Even if there is a curse, I didn't touch it. What would some long-dead Ayleid want with my soul, anyway?
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1346)
	Shakra's Letter
Dugrul,

I hope you are well. Father says the land Orcs are cowards to join the Bretons, but I wonder. There is strength in numbers. What does your warchief think?

I am curious about life in the Covenant. What is life in the army like? Have you fought?

A Bosmer told me the Elves have a new queen. Is that true? Did she really say she was going to take back all of Tamriel?

I hear that Duchess Lakana and Duke Nathaniel were married. A Redguard and a Breton? I wonder if the duchess chose this. Oh, to choose your husband! Have you been to Stormhaven?

The captain of a merchant ship said the Covenant attacked Davon's Watch, the Dark Elf city. He told me the Dark Elves summoned a Daedra, a creature of flame and bone, to fight for them.

Is that true? A Daedra? I think the captain was lying to me. I should have killed him.

I look forward to your reply. Write more often, cousin, and visit again soon.

— Shakra
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1347)
	Drusilla's Notes
Patriarch: Offered curses, threats. No useful information. Died during interrogation.

Older Male: Claimed Chief Tazgol has intense fear of scorpions. Likely fabrication intended to reduce pain. Died during interrogation.

Older Daughter: Broke quickly. Showed promise. Sadly, knew nothing. Died after interrogation.

Older Son: Killed self before interrogation could commence. Sloppy. Must remember to acquire new manacles.

Youngest Son: Revealed hidden entrance beneath great hall. Possible link to library. Will keep alive until story is verified.

Morning Addendum: Verified son's story.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1348)
	On Calling the Drowned Dead
My father first used this spell to call the dead from the sea twenty years ago. Today, we perform this again in his honor. There are shipwrecks along the beach just west of the docks. Conduct the ritual there and our glorious rise begins. 

— Uwafa
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1349)
	Badly Damaged Journal
… dating back hundreds of years. References can even be found in the accounts of early … so great they thought immediately of dragons. Not hard to imagine, given their prevalence in … find it hard to swallow.

Locals expend a great deal of effort arranging seasonal offerings, they … nuts, meats, and produce together on a raft and set it adrift. Villages go hungry in fear of … only way to stop seasonal flooding!

Nonsense. Such a creature might be able … population of local wildlife, but not on that scale. Guar breeding patterns are known to be highly sensitive to … of woody stalks, and prey animals would … but over time they would return.

Were that not enough, account disparity suggests … attributed to any one beast. To demonstrate this I have … an expedition. If this "<<1>>" does exist, we will find it and put an end … of resources once and for all.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1350)
	Letter from Oleenla
Egg sister,

Rain strikes stone as I write this. Thunder echoes, yet no lightning arcs the sky. A strange sort of storm, to be sure.

We had hoped to make the pass at Mud Tree, but weather and hardship have forced us through Alten Corimont. I had not hoped to write until Hissmir and am glad for the diversion.

The storm intensifies. Some chatter about monsters in the dark, but I know better. Here, monsters wait quietly in the shallows. They do not crash through foliage. They do not bellow into the night. When Sithis takes us, we do not hear him coming.

My lids droop like sodden boughs and I must rest. Send my regards to Teemata. May your path be fertile and kissed by sun.

Stay moist, 

Oleenla
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1351)
	A Bound Dremora
Once bound, a Dremora's uses are nearly limitless—with or without its cooperation.

The sacrifices stand upon each altar as sentries against the Dremora's power. Take care not to disturb the blood, or the bonds will weaken precipitously.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1352)
	Dominion Soldier's Journal â Zuuk
We met no resistance upon arrival. The village was vacant except for a single Kothringi. 

We've tried numerous methods to learn of the Sedormis keystone, but he is strangely resistant to most forms of torture. It's as if he can't feel pain. His wounds heal at an extraordinary rate.

The mages are too busy digging through the swamp to give me their opinion. I wish they'd hurry. The Thalmor will have my neck if I don't come up with something soon!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1353)
	Shul's Letter
My Dear Sarase,

The plague caught me in its ravenous teeth. Death draws near. I won't risk you or our boy. You must leave Zuuk.

Please, flee Black Marsh. Take what you must to survive the journey and don't look back. Zuuk turns to dust, and I fear for you. 

Hold me always in your eyes, as I will ever hold you.

Your Loving Husband,

Shul
		

Failed at /books/1354		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1355)
	Garnikh's Hunting Log
20 Last Seed

Many wolf pelts. Good meat for smoking.

22 Last Seed

Thishnaku and Buzog compete for most pelts. Eleven pelts each. Duel to break tie. Buzog wins.

23 Last Seed

Uratag claims to see outlanders in black robes in the forest.

26 Last Seed

Definitely outlanders in forest. Sent report to Chief Tazgol.

31 Last Seed

Outlanders in black robes are without honor. Refused to duel. Attacked my hunters from the shadows. Have requested warriors from Chief Tazgol.

2 Hearthfire

Outlanders are raising the dead Bretons. Wolves feed on dead. Pelts ruined. Meat inedible.

6 Hearthfire

More outlanders. Will see if these come with honor.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1356)
	Sayings of the Wise
The past is a wolf. The clever hunter keeps his eye fixed on it, while the foolish hunter looks away and is devoured.

A chief who does not listen to his wives is not chief for long.

The battle is won in the stomach first.

The Orc who shirks his duty and the Orc who becomes bitter doing it drink the same poison.

What Orc strength alone cannot achieve, Orc steel can.

An inexperienced warrior in the finest armor still trips over his leg-guards.

An Orc who complains about his chief, but does not challenge him, is still complaining a year later.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1357)
	Tazgol's Vision Quest
When Tazgol gro-Betnikh had not yet fought his third battle, he climbed the cliffs of Betnikh until he was so high he could look beyond the sea to the edge of the world. 

He took neither food nor water, but drank the rainwater that collected in the crevices of the rocks and ate eggs from the nests of birds high on the cliff.

He climbed three days, and when he reached the top he rested three days.

It was then that Mauloch gave him the following vision:

He saw a single great serpent cut into three, and from the three pieces sprang three smaller serpents. 

The three serpents divided the world between them. 

One crawled on its belly and said "I claim the land and all that grows from it." 

Another swam in the depths and said "I claim the water and all that drinks it." 

The third took to wing and said "I claim the air and all that breathes it." 

No sooner had they done so than the serpents fell into conflict. For what is there that lives that does not spring from the earth, or drink water, or breathe air? So each serpent thought he had dominion over the others. 

In time, the serpents fought each other and were destroyed.

Then Tazgol was perplexed by what he had seen, and he returned from the cliffs and told Thurga the Wise what Mauloch had shown him.

Thurga the Wise, who had interpreted many visions, said, "This is a vision with two lessons. The first is that division without unity is fatal."

"But how can there be both division and unity?" Tazgol asked her.

"Naive question," the Wise Woman barked back. "Don't the chief's three wives hate each other and yet love the chief, and so share the same desire? Is there not division when a young Orc challenges the chief and unity when the new chief is proclaimed triumphant? Just so, the three serpents were destroyed when they forgot that they were not three serpents but one serpent divided."

"But how do we maintain both division and unity?" The young warrior wondered.

The Wise Woman chuckled: "That is the second lesson of your vision: remember the past."
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1358)
	An Almanac of Betony
Chapter 3 — The Cliffs of Betony

Of all the riches of this island called Betony, surely there are none more recognized or celebrated than its lofty cliffs. Those stony sentinels have awed many a visitor and made many an enemy think better of assailing those fortified shores.

It is no wonder that early legends surrounding the island characterized it as home to a mighty rock monster that flung its craggy spines into the sea to the grave misfortune of sailors who steered too close to shore. 

Though their true nature is less mythical, the cliffs of Betony are no less impressive for it.

Nestled impenetrably among them is the jewel and protection of the kings of Betony, Skyspire Keep. Constructed during the reign of the great Reman, second of the name, Skyspire Keep has held fast against countless attacks, carved from the rock of those same cliffs, ancient and invincible.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1359)
	The Interment of Feremuzh
Know, O Descendant, the difficulties faced by your ancestors in their own lives. Herein follows the tale of Feremuzh. Feremuzh abandoned the tradition of his ancestors to join the unholy undead. He became a creature that degraded itself to hide from the sun and consume the blood of the living. He plagued the land, consuming life and turning the dead he created into his own followers.

Your ancestors were bound to tradition—they could not lift blade against the honored dead, they could not resist the plague that Feremuzh had brought with him. The wisest of your ancestors, O reader, were gathered. In time they concluded that there was only one method to deal with the villain Feremuzh. A group of the strongest males would have to seek out the lair used by Feremuzh to hide from the bright Alik'r sun.

The strongest men were assembled, and sent forth to seek out the villain's lair. The men were instructed to only travel in the protection of the sun, and to hide under the moon when Feremuzh would be out to hunt. The men were wise to follow their elder's advice, and they remained unfound and untouched till they happened upon Feremuzh's lair.

Know, O reader, that what ensued is unclear, but what is clear is that the men sacrificed themselves to bring the lair down upon Feremuzh. In doing so, your ancestors trapped Feremuzh in a tomb of earth for time eternal. That earth has been deemed unholy and accursed. Know the marks of the cursed land so you may avoid it. The entrance is tucked into the base of a sharp cliffside, at the end of a path cutting through the rocks. On a bright day one can see and hear the nearby shore, don't let the sea lull you in a false sense of security. Ruins of our ancestors watch over the cursed land. Avoid this place, and leave the damned to rot.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1360)
	The Hist's Fire
by Pegareem

Many ask us how we find our mates, as though Argonians cannot experience joy the way the mer do.

Though this seems absurd, I myself met my husband in an unusual way. I believe the Hist spoke to both of us, to ensure we would both be where we could not help but meet and fall in love. This despite my innermost belief I'd never marry.

The first stir caught me by surprise. I put away items in the shop, organizing what I could amongst the clutter, when suddenly I heard my own voice in my mind say, "Wait for him."

"For …?" I asked aloud, startled out of my reverie.

Silence.

My quiet sensibility replaced by confusion, I turned abruptly, knocking over the lamp, which flung an arc of burning oil across the room.

Oil landed everywhere, from the piles of fabric, to the litter of papers, and the straw scattered over the floor. In a single moment, a modest light source turned the crowded room into a fire pit.

Coral tongues licked across the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and I realized I'd been standing still, slack-jawed, as smoke and heat and flame swirled around.

The hut had never seemed so large as it did then. Dark with smoke, bright with fire, its air filled with a dull, creaking roar. I squinted against the elements, my hand across my mouth, and staggered toward the ever-receding door.

"Anyone in there? Anyone?"

"Me!"

I reached the door as it burst open, causing the flames to surge upwards and out with an almost celebratory leap. A dark hand grabbed mine, pulling me out and away.

"Are you hurt?"

Coughing, I shook my head. "I'm all right. But the store …."

We both turned to look. The fire, so unruly within the confines of the hut, had met its match with the wet thatch roof.

"Thank you for helping me," I said, turning to face my rescuer at last.

Our eyes locked in recognition. The Hist had chosen us for each other, and neither of us would need to wait any longer.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1361)
	The Assassin of Alik'r
by Anonymous

A Shadowscale goes where ordered to do what's needed. We mete out justice for those who are unable to do so themselves. Our goal is swift death, for torture is generally frowned upon.

I asked for a new assignment, one different from my last in Alik'r. Even now, I taste the bitter salt of its desolate shore; feel the sting of sand blowing into my eyes.

And I can still hear the screams.

Does one know how to be an assassin from birth? For me, it was foretold, and I felt strength flow from this knowledge. All I learned, all I experienced would fulfill my destiny.

Transgessors must be punished. There are laws which must be upheld. Betrayal cannot be forgiven. There is gold to be made.

But Alik'r was different. I watched the convicted ones for several days, tracking them across the supposedly untrackable wastelands they call deserts. My chance came near the crest of a ridge overlooking the sea.

"We're safe now," she said, her voice filled with hope.

"We will never be safe," he replied bitterly.

I slipped my blade from its sheath and started forward, when I heard the wind change in the skies above us, and slid back into shadow.

Harpies! Their foul-smelling wings spread wide, they circled the oblivious pair, slave-traders and lovers not meant to slake their desires, silhouettes against the bright starlit sky.

They screamed as the beast-women struck them with their claws, raking razor-sharp fingernails through soft Dunmeri flesh. The harpies toyed with their victims, mocking their cries in whatever garbled tongue passes for their language.

I waited to ensure their deaths before I left. It wasn't the end they were meant to have, but what does it matter? Death comes to us all, unbidden, unlooked-for, and occasionally, from above.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1362)
	Weapon and Armor Care Notes
Leather doesn't last as long when it's constantly damp. Even when polished each night, mold blooms across its surface, dulling the shine and eating away at its strength.

Metal suffers a different, but not dissimilar fate. Rust eats away from the inside out, bubbling through and flaking away unprotected areas. Joints stiffen if not oiled constantly.

Preserve your weapons and armor, soldiers! When possible, hang your gear above the sodden ground. As you must breathe, so must they, for they will prove your only protection against the enemies known and unknown against whom we are set.

SIGNED: The Office of the Quartermaster
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1363)
	Seafood Supper
Simple recipes my mother jotted down for me, on the occasion of my marriage. This supper serves four.

Mudcrab Cakes

These do not travel well, but one can use leftover mudcrab this way if fresh crab meat is unavailable. You may season these quite liberally, as some find the flavor of mudcrab too earthy for their taste.

Steam mudcrabs enough to obtain a pound of their succulent flesh, taking care to sort out the cartilage and shell.

Add to the meat a half-pound of equal parts of imperial, and barley flour. Add water until the mixture can be formed into a ball. Season liberally with salt and ground peppercorns.

Form the mixture into small pies, pressing together firmly, yet with the gentle touch. Fry them on an oiled griddle until crisp on both sides.

Grilled Battaglir

This dish can be made in advance as it reheats well over low coals. You can also place it at the edge of the fire while making the mudcrab cakes. Just remember to turn it now and then to heat it through on all sides.

Gather a quarter peck of battaglir weeds. After cleaning them of dirt and any small bugs, finely chop the battaglir. 

Place large skillet onto the fire, throw in gobbets of beef drippings and melt. Fry the battaglir until the color turns a dark green. Add salt, pepper and garlic to taste. 

Serve over day-old bread.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1364)
	Letter to Laryaril
Laryaril,

I have received word that the queen is indeed alive and well in Marbruk. This was nothing more than a ruse designed by the Queen's Eyes to expose our presence. The pair you attacked were none other than Razum-dar and <<1)>>, both of whom are well-known enemies to the Veiled Heritance. Despite their efforts, however, we will soon be prepared to execute our plans. 

Posing as your sister was effective while it lasted, but it's no longer necessary. Come through the sewers and meet me in the old Imperial prison. We have other matters to attend to.

— Pelidil
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1365)
	Anchorite's Log
With the arrival of the Chancellor, a crusty Nibenese politician named Abnur Tharn, the atmosphere at the Castle of the King of Worms has taken a decidedly more amusing turn. He barks his pathetic orders and expects us to pander to his every whim. When we ignore him he storms about like an infant, shouting "Do you know who I am?" and "Mannimarco will hear of this!" The King of Worms thinks him a ineffectual buffoon. I have heard him say as much, myself. 

But Tharn is no idiot. I feel certain he suspects that he has outlived his usefulness. With his daughter on the Ruby Throne and Lord Mannimarco filling her head with delusions of grandeur, Tharn's power isn't worth the breath it takes to declare it. The Empress Regent is easily manipulated with trinkets, silks, and rare delicacies. She has little fondness for her father and, to my knowledge, hasn't even expressed curiousity regarding his absence. And despite his years of political experience in the Imperial Court, the old man isn't half the manipulator that Mannimarco has proven to be.

Tharn's greatest miscalculation is that he believes he still has value here. In the grand scheme of things, we are all expendable, he most of all. All of the power in Cyrodiil means nothing to the Lord of Brutality and Domination. 

But Tharn's impotent tantrums remain a source of great mirth. I imagine I will tire of them eventually. On that day, I will pour a glass of fine wine and take enjoyment watching him thrash about, as his soul is torn from his body, like so many thousands before him.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1366)
	The Wolf in the Sky
I was a child the first time I saw the wolf in the sky.

"It's a cloud," said my mother, with some irritation. She thought fancies were not appropriate to the son of a warrior.

"But there's it's tail! And the fangs drip with blood!"

"It's a cloud," she repeated. She pushed me back into our home and closed the heavy wooden door behind her, bolting it for good measure.

Even though I was but four or five at the time, I realized her anger was not directed at me. My mother was afraid of the wolf.

From then on, I said nothing, though I often saw it. In the sky, in the woods, and sometimes out of the corner of my eye, I knew the wolf followed me wherever I went. And though it frightened my mother, I remained unafraid.

Until the day of the Ebonheart Pact, I hid the wolf from others. But when we Nords were told by our jarls that we were allied with Dark Elves and their pets, the lizardfolk, I joined the rebellion.

And in doing so, knowing we were now traitors to our own leaders, I decided to invoke the power of the wolf.

On the night of a new moon, I piled branches atop a hill to summon it with a bonfire. Trophies from my various kills, paraffin, blubber, and twisted bundles of dried sage joined the dried wood. I chanted, but the sounds were no words I'd ever heard before. They tumbled from my lips as I prepared to set my pyre ablaze.

I saw it. I always saw it. Through the smoke, the wolf gained a more corporeal shape, its eyes as red as embers.

"Wolf! I know you not!" I cried, throwing my arms open wide. "But all my life you have been beside me. Join us in our rebellion against this unholy Pact!"

The wolf sat, tilting its head to the side. Then it threw back its head and howled … with laughter!

"You mortals are so amusing!" said the wolf. "What makes you think a wolf would do anything useful? Now, I need to get out of this thing. It's got fleas."

So saying, the wolf leapt into the fire and was consumed. And I … I stood in shock, mouth agape. Who or what had followed me all my life, I cannot say.

I was arrested that night beside my bonfire, I and my companions (none of whom, I add, had seen or heard the wolf), and I will be put to death tomorrow for my deeds.

My mark goes here, to show this is written by the monk's hand as my last request: X
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1367)
	Request Denied
Soldier Kazdi,

Your request for transfer is denied. You'll act with deference and attend to Alchemist <<1>>'s orders or you'll face proscriptive judgment.

I realize punitive expeditions aren't why you signed up, but a soldier's lot isn't to choose orders. Alchemist <<1>>'s arguably unconventional methods will lead to a quick and humane submission of the Pact, allowing us to focus our attention elsewhere. Never forget that Cyrodiil is our true prize.

And Kazdi, between you and me, your mouth is bigger than the Elden Tree. If he discovers you're the source of the "Brute-vitar" nickname, you might just find out the full extent of his experiments firsthand.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1368)
	List of Instructions
—WARNING—

Devices for the extraction of Hist sap were developed—at great expense—by the alchemical wing of the Crystal Tower. Remuneration for missing or damaged extractors will be garnished from the responsible unit's wages.

Be forewarned. In its natural form, Hist sap has many undesirable properties. Avoid contact with skin or breathing of fumes. Under no circumstances should you imbibe Hist sap.

Some have experienced the strange effects of untreated Hist sap. Unauthorized use of the substance will be punished by flogging the entire squad thus shown incapable of restraining its weakest members.

Specific violators will then reconsider their poor judgment while immersed in one of the marsh's many festering pools for a period of no less than six (6) hours.

—PROPER USAGE—

Once the devices extract a suitable quantity of Hist sap, refer to the instructions below:

1. Pulp three (3) handfuls of Giant Wasp larvae.

2. Liberally coat linen strips with paste.

3. Wrap resulting poultice around desired portion of the Hist.

4. Apply one (1) phial of Hist sap.

Effects should be immediate.

— Alchemist <<1>>
		

Failed at /books/1369		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1370)
	The Winds of Change
During the reign of Elgryr I took notice of the various patterns in the thoughts and behaviors of a troubled populace, and undertook a humble plan to comprehend and, in the end, affect them. Being of ordered mind, I began my taxonomy in the lower classes, which divide evenly into those who …

<The rest of this tome is illegible due to age and wear.>
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1371)
	Untold Legends
As the great ships of men crawled the waves to their destinies, there were, after long years, a number of tales lost in the mists of morning. Even after the forgetting though, wisps of story find ways to receptive ears as even the deepest of secrets never truly dies. When fires burn and the night grows soft in ….

<The rest of this tome is illegible due to age and wear.>
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1372)
	The Hidden Twilight
The City of Inkseeds rose from the desert, shining and decadent. Somehow, it still stood. I crossed through the gate, and the beast knew exactly where to take me: the way worn by beggars and poets. The only place a man of my appetites can find satisfaction. I'm not proud, but then, nobody ever is.

<The rest of this tome is illegible due to age and wear.>
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1373)
	Summoning Rituals of the Arch-Mage
<The book appears blank.>
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1374)
	To Anchorite Gaius
Our spies determined that a couple of Khajiit named Ezreba and Hizurrdo are the closest bonded pair in Greenhill. We have captured Hizurrdo. With his life in the balance, Ezreba will almost certainly do anything we ask. She will be our agent in Greenhill and allow us to place the amplification crystals and begin the possessions. 

Your servant, 

Atia
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1375)
	The Amplification Crystals
Once the amplification crystals are in place we can begin the process. The amplification crystals are only needed for the possession of Greenhill. Once the dro-m'Athra have gained their foothold here, the artifact will allow them to spread their influence throughout all of Reaper's March. 

Still, we should try to keep the crystals active for as long as we can. The more villagers the dro-m'Athra can possess, the quicker they will be able to spread their influence.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1376)
	We Have Control
Enclosed you will find a lock of Hizurrdo's fur. Just remember … there is more than one way to skin a Khajiit.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1377)
	Note to Nurese
I know how to save us, my love. Meet me at the ruins we spoke of a fortnight ago. Open the door using the method I taught you. Bring Visanne. Once inside, we will be safe.

— R
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1378)
	Drago's Orders
I ask more of you today than I have in the past. You must hold the Orcs. Give me time to complete the spell we discussed.

Hold fast, Drago. Even if you fall, we will find victory.

— King Renwic
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1379)
	Crumbling Breton Scroll
… so the Ayleids saw the error of their ways. They buried the weapon deep within the ancient tomb on what is now Betony ….

<A recent, handwritten note is scrawled below.>

How can I let Renwic do this? Arkay forbids it!
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1380)
	Breton Bedtime Stories (Loose Page)
First, the bear clawed at the tree. Then, he roared at it. He bit its bark and chewed. Yet the princess stayed safe, laughing all the while.

Finally, the bear sat back on its haunches and spoke. "Why do you fear, little girl?"

The princess shouted down, "Because you'll eat me, silly bear!"

The bear just shook its grizzled head. "I do not eat children. Come down, and we will play a game."

But the princess was too clever for the crafty bear. She knew it was a trick. "Come up here, if you're so eager for a game!"

The bear grunted. It began to climb.

<A handwritten note is scrawled in the margin of the page.>

Bring your mother to the ruins. Open the door as we discussed. Hurry, Visanne. It is the only place we can be safe. I love you.

— R
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1381)
	Transmutation of Living Creatures
The use of a pearl tincture, created from the inherent essence of this rare gem, can stabilize a transmutation potion. It is a crucial component for potions meant to modify living flesh for any period of time.

Pearl tinctures can be created in a number of ways. The purest essences take time and patience, not unlike the creation of a pearl from a grain of sand. 

Note: Pounding a pearl with a fist-sized rock is not efficacious. I like the word efficacious. Gadris uses it often and it has stuck with me. Efficacious.

Treating a pearl with an acidic substance produces a sort of goo. The dried goo can be finely ground and dissolved into a liquid. 

Yes! This may work! I'll have a tincture in no time!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1382)
	Deckhand's Log
Day 48:

Today has to be the day. I've been deckhand for the Rusty Dagger for nearly two months and been tagging along behind the Black Oath for the better part of that. Captain Blackheart must've taken notice of me by now. I almost singlehandedly stormed the deck of that Stros M'kai merchant and slit the throat of the captain myself.

Day 56:

I saw him up close and by Oblivion he's scary. The stories of Captain Blackheart's hollow stare are not exaggerated. I thought I was ready, but I'm not sure anymore. His crew don't act like the rest of us. They return to the Haven after every voyage and we never see them until the next trip. They must have something special in there. 

I am still going to try to get in there and join Blackheart's crew officially.

Day 71:

I know I impressed him now. Iron Heel came to me last night and told me that the Captain's going to want to see me tomorrow. This is it, my big chance.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1383)
	Apothecary's Ledger
Mandrake roots, 2

— paid in full

Daedra heart, 1

— new customer, paid in full

Daedra blood, 10 drams

— new customer, ordered but paid in full, name refused

Sulfur, 5 cakes

— new customer, ordered but paid in full, name refused

Daril

— no order, customer suspicious—report to guards?

Saltrice pollen, 15 grains

— paid in full

Fire salts, 8 grains

— ordered for Jurairia, pay on delivery

Daedra blood, 10 drams

— new customer, ordered but paid in full, name refused

Chicken feathers, 5

— paid in full

Daedra blood, 10 drams

— new customer, ordered but paid in full, name refused
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1384)
	I Count the Nights
Dearest Therrun,

I pray that you live well on your journey and I count the nights until your return. I long for your touch even now. When you are on the open seas and look to the moon, know that it is the same moon that I too look upon. May that bring you comfort in the storms. Until your return, Therrun, I seal this letter with a kiss.

Yours Truly,

Hevra
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1385)
	Promissory Note
This note promises that <<1>> of Kozanset will pay his debt in full along with the standard amount of interest for the time the debt went uncollected.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1386)
	Windhelm Shipping Manifest
20 sacks Oats — Jarl of Windhelm

3 sacks Cabbages — Marsen Guld

2 sacks Potatoes — Marsen Guld

1 loaf Salt — Marsen Guld

5 sacks Salted Mammoth — Hravard of Rorikstead

3 casks Mead — Hravard of Rorikstead

1 wheel Eidar Cheese — Tarnis of Riften

2 jars Mustard — Tarnis of Riften
		

Failed at /books/1387Failed at /books/1388		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1389)
	Vanishing Crew
It's bad enough I'm stuck in this Divines-forsaken desert with these disgusting Goblin laborers no one will buy, but now my overseers are going missing! I have no idea where they're going or what's happening to them. I turn my back on those drunken fools for three seconds and I'm suddenly down two men! 

If we keep going at this rate, we'll have to kill some of our labor stock just so we can keep them under control.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1390)
	Caught Him!
We caught some Forebear bastard sneaking around today. He's probably the one that's been causing my overseers to vanish. He managed to kill one of my men and injure two others, but he's ours now.

He'll wish for death by the time I'm done with him. He's yet to say why he's here, but he'll talk soon enough.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1391)
	Retreat!
The Goblins broke free. I don't know how. If you get this run for your life. Meet you at—
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1392)
	Note Written in Blood
More of those fools from the Withered Hand approached me today.They entreat me for assistance despite the number of their emissaries I have feasted upon. The easy prey is nice, but I begin to miss the rush of the hunt.

I feel that enough of my power has returned to me that soon I may stray from this cave in search of an unsuspecting meal.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1393)
	They Should Grovel
The Withered Hand refuses to cease their pleas. They try my patience. I have no love for those of the living who think themselves rulers of the regal dead.

Their arrogance wears on me. They should be groveling before those that have passed before them, begging to join the glorious life after death.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1394)
	Letter to Mirudda
Fewer and fewer travelers are using the roads thanks to all the recent trouble. There's no one to send up your way.

Please, give me some time. I have a plan to start trying to send them from the cities. I need a few days to actually get around people though.

Just keep that slimy pet of yours far away from me. I'll make sure it has something to eat soon.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1395)
	Letter to Fadeel
You try my patience, Fadeel. Huzal hungers, but we have seen no "fresh meat" for days.

Have you forgotten the terms of our arrangement? I expect to see at least one foolhardy wanderer per day.

If you cannot deliver this … well, it wouldn't be very difficult for Huzal to track your stench across the sands.

— Mirudda
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1396)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 2
Though some of the initial excitement has faded, we're still confident we're closer to finding the Eye than any Dwemer researchers before us. I would kill to get my hands on an ancient artifact of that repute. But I'm better at research, honestly.

There was a setback today. As far as I can make out, one of the old Dwemer logs indicates the Eye was here only briefly to be worked on (the logs mention some sort of maintenance or cleaning), and then was transported to another Dwemer mine.

As near as I can tell, the ruins referenced are those of Aldunz.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1397)
	Dwemer Maintenance Records
The Dwemer appear to have kept detailed records on all their machinery. They seemed very interested in even the most minor changes.

Was this just them keeping maintenance records or could they have been looking for ways to improve their own machinery?

Many of the more detailed notes are difficult to translate, but we know enough to see that a single pip was referenced twenty-three times in one day.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1398)
	Letter from Quintus
Dearest,

Have you made any more progress? Are we any closer to discovering the Eye's location? I've sent you some men who owe me favors to assist you. Just direct them as needed.

Your loving husband,

Quintus

PS

I do not mean to disrupt your process by hastening you, but I would truly appreciate a swifter pace.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1399)
	Tharayyas' Journal, Entry 10
The swelling in my ankle has finally started to go away. Tripped on an inactive Dwemer construct the other day. I kicked it, seeking revenge. It didn't help.

But my team's hard work is finally starting to pay off.

It's an obscure lead, but it's the best one we have. It seems the Eye only took a brief respite here before making its way to another local ruin: Yldzuun.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1400)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 16
Dwemer records I've found might be able to help us locate Volenfell's actual location. If that was not luck enough, rumor has reached my team that unexplored Dwemer ruins may have been unearthed by changing winds here in the desert.

If these new ruins match up with my records, we may yet find the Eye.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1401)
	Tharayya's Journal, Entry 19
After all this time we may have found it.

I wrote my husband several days ago to say that I may now know where the Eye is, and he showed up this evening with, of course, his band of hooligan "researchers." That lot came with salted meats and wine to "celebrate."

The team is elated for the interruption, but we haven't found the Eye yet.

Dear husband Quintus doesn't seem to understand this and insisted that I tell him all I know of the Eye, Volenfell, and its location. I don't like the look of his merry band. Always whispering to each other in the corner. It's a shame, but I don't trust my husband. I'll need the labor he provides, though.

I'm exhausted. Haven't slept in days. My team needs a good meal and a good night's sleep, and so do I.

I've left the Volenfell location with this entry in case you're reading this, Abnaf. Yes, I know you read my journal, you eccentric misfit. And I know you'll be too drunk tomorrow to keep up with the team at dawn. Follow as you can.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1402)
	The Prowler's Log
Year One, Day 31

<<1>>'s connections finally came through. After surrendering half the ship's earnings from our previous "expeditions," the Prowler flies the Queen's Own Flag. As long as we only afflict Pact or Covenant shipping in our adventures, all past trespasses committed by the Prowler or her crew will be forgiven.

Long live <<2>>!

Year One, Day 41

Instead of privateering, we're stuck patrolling shores. We're given liberty to attack any enemy vessels, but that means enemy raiders, not cargo or merchant ships. Lots of hard fighting for little gain.

Our orders cover the search and seizure of suspected smugglers, but I doubt the crew has the heart for it. Besides, <<1>> is related to most of them!

Year One, Day 63

I don't know what gods heard my prayers, but things are looking up once more. My request for more "active" duty was heard by <<3>>, the Speaker of the Mane himself! His messenger arrived this morning. with orders to prepare for a long voyage. No other details as yet.

Year One, Day 65

Well, I suppose I got what I asked for. The Prowler, a swift raiding vessel, is to be loaded down with supplies and baggage for a Dominion expedition to <<4>>! While the sea-lanes around the island are likely to be filled with enemy shipping, we'll be part of the transport fleet.

Morale is very low. At least the weather looks good.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1403)
	Sky and Storm
Bleed the sea and stone the tides,

Black the earth and gray the skies.

Darkling cold shall rise to clutch,

Foes quake at its icy touch.

Break the spines of wooden whales,

Spill their guts and gnash their tails.

Darkling cold will soon devour,

Foes quake at our lasting power.

Toss the landed in the brine,

Raise them up when it is time.

Darkling cold must rise to save,

Foes now turned into our slaves.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1404)
	Harrani's Report
Incident 1: 

The apothecary was acting suspicious. Wouldn't look me in the eye. Probably sold ointment for the pox to my cousin again. Did not pursue.

Incident 2:

<<1>> heard strange noises in the warehouse next to the armorer's shop. Investigated, but found no sign of anything missing. Did not pursue.

Incident 3:

That Maormer captain threw a beggar off the Serpent's Kiss. Said she caught him poking around belowdecks. Her ship, her rules. Did not pursue.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1405)
	The Notebook of Mage Gadris
I knew malachite would not have the conductivity required for this process. We pursued yet another futile path, but Zur was insistent. We will keep at it. I do wish Zur would take the time to organize and collect his notes, though.

***

Through the process of elimination and trial and error—trial on my part, error when Zur is in control—I think we finally made a breakthrough! I believe that the following items will result in antipodal rods that can conduct the currents of magicka required to reverse the soul-meld while also withstanding the forces of the negative vortex.

— Ebony Ore

— Crystalline Essence Matrix (the silicate structure of this gem will be incorporated to disperse the negative energy)

—  Refined Void Salts (do not, under any circumstances, use the unrefined salts)

These base components require an alchemical catalyst to properly merge their properties when super-heated within a forge. I will do further research as to a suitable catalyst. And I will pray to my ancestors and the Tribunal that it is something we can find within this Vile Laboratory.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1406)
	Catalyst Notes
I despair of ever finding a solution to the catalyst problem. Even Zur's usual unfounded optimism cannot seem to lift my spirits. I have gone over all possible candidates for a catalyst to ignite the process to forge the antipodal rods. The only substance that we might have access to is the corrupted blood of a feral creature.

We examined a dead creature and Zur tried to transform its blood, but his alchemical process was flawed. Our Daedric captors, however, apparently had more success in this area. Samples of corrupted blood are stored in the experiment chamber, where they are guarded by a monster the Daedra created using that very same blood.

Now you comprehend my despair. If I had enough strength to access my full power, I could easily subdue this monster and we could take as many vials of corrupted blood as we could carry. As it is, we barely have the energy to cast simple illusions, and even these fail more often than not. There is no way we could survive an encounter with the chamber's guardian.

Zur firmly holds to the hope that someone will find us. But I suspect that our Mages Guild companions are busy dealing with their own problems. I fear this mission has already ended in failure and that we are doomed to succumb to this soul-meld. But I shall not dash Zur's hope. As disorganized as he can be, I find some small comfort in his blind faith.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1407)
	Await My Emissary
Gavo, 

My representative should be with you shortly. The meeting must be in private so as to not alert others of our true plan. Please ensure that you have time set aside to meet. 

Do not keep him waiting. I cannot ensure your safety should he be … irritated.

— Tharn
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1408)
	Gavo's Itinerary
—  Meet with Lavinia to discuss ritual requirements (top priority).

— Take inventory at the docks. Begin moving out the goods.

— Meet with Tharn's representative at the tower.

— Go over security plans with captains. Increase patrols.

— Discuss plans to root out the Clanmother.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1409)
	The Key to Projection
Lavinia,

I've enclosed the crystal used to imprint your image on the illusion gear. You'll need someone to focus the crystal on you as you speak. Be sure to hang on to the main crystal. Should you need to change your speech, you'll need to use it to reattune the projection. 

This is delicate spellwork. Do not lose the crystal. Your part in the plan is not so critical that you cannot be replaced.

— Tharn
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1410)
	The Book of Memories
A study in three parts, of which the first concerns the past, the second the present, and the third, the future.

Any account of the past is bound to be colored by the perception and motivation of the historian. 

Not only is the historian prone to pick favorites, but her judgments are like as not to be colored by the political struggles and overriding concerns of her time, place, and culture. 

In histories a figure may be marked a base villain, only to have time and the preoccupations of a new era soften attitudes. So it is that tyrants become saints and great men become monsters, all long after they are dead.

A memory is not wholly impartial either, but neither is it subject to the whims of popular opinion or the vicissitudes of time. 

The nearer to the event the memory is recorded, the less time there is for prejudices and preconceptions to take over and reshape the experience. It is for this reason that the great chroniclers turned to runestones….
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1411)
	Your Silver Fur
My Dearest Beautiful Zali,

I saw you by the water again. The sun made your silver fur light up like it was a bright day. I would have stood there forever, but I stand a lot guarding the embassy so I left.

You should visit the embassy to see how important I am. We could eat a dinner together.

— You Know Who
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1412)
	Where I'll Be
A young Khajiit wandered into camp last night, said he's looking for <<1>>. If anyone asks where I am, I'm dragging this fool off to <<2>>. He'll see the boss before his head and body part ways.

We spotted Aldmeri on the beaches. If you need me, send a runner up and around the hill. Double back to the dock near the entrance.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1413)
	Journal of Habbert Unsinett
From the Journals of Habbert Unsinett, Senior Archivist and Researcher

Dresan Keep's archives continue to grow and prosper. I love working with the knowledge of the ages. I know that no mere mortal endeavor could equal something as vast and comprehensive as the Apocrypha of Hermaeus Mora, but I am content here. And, of course, I have not sold my soul in servitude to a Daedric Prince to dwell amid a wealth of information and history. (Though sometimes I do dream of wandering the endless stacks of Apocrypha.) 

***

I have told the younger acolytes repeatedly that they must individually dust each book and then carefully replace it. I caught Gatrin dusting a shelf of books, just swiping a cloth across the spines as casual as can be. He was not wearing gloves, either, and I have reinforced, time and time again, the need to keep the natural oils from our skin away from these precious tomes.

***

I would like to say that the wars do not trouble me, but that would be a lie. I spoke with Lady Dresan the Elder about the fate of this treasure trove of knowledge preserved within the keep. The books on arcane magic, in particular, should not fall into the wrong hands. We have a plan of preservation that falls mainly upon my shoulders to implement. Most of the staff has fled as the fighting intensifies. Some have gone to join the wars, to return home to families. Others have gone to I know not where. A few of my colleagues remain, however. Dresan Keep is our home and its library of knowledge our life's work. I shall enlist their aid in preparing a safe space for the most important treasures in the library. Sacrifices will be required.

***

Time has taken on a strange pace, but it is peaceful here now. I have made a vow to protect the keep's treasures. We spent countless years indexing all of the volumes within the collection. At the risk of flattering myself, my series of charts that cross-reference people, places, and relevant tomes in the collection is both useful and a work of art. Someone, someday, will need the information we have collected, and they will know how to put it to good use.

I worry about mildew, though.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1414)
	Varieties of Faith: The Khajiit
by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

As fits their heterodoxy of form, the Khajiit worship many gods, and few confine themselves to the Imperial Eight.

The Eight:

Alkosh (Dragon King of Cats):

Pre-ri'Datta Dynasty Anequinine deity. A variation on the Altmeri Auri-El, and thus an Akatosh-as-culture-hero for the earliest Khajiit. His worship was co-opted during the establishment of the Riddle'Thar, and he still enjoys immense popularity in Elsweyr's wasteland regions. He is depicted as a fearsome dragon, a creature the Khajiit say "is just a real big cat." He repelled an early Aldmeri pogrom of Pelinal Whitestrake during mythic times.

Riddle'Thar (Two-Moons Dance):

The cosmic order deity of the Khajiit, the Riddle'Thar was revealed to Elsweyr by the prophet Rid-Thar-ri'Datta, the Mane. The Riddle'Thar is more a set of guidelines by which to live than a single entity, but some of his avatars like to appear as humble messengers of the gods. Also known as the Sugar God.

Jone and Jode (Little Moon God and Big Moon God):

Together, the moons represent duality, fate, and luck. In Khajiiti religion, Jone and Jode are aspects of the Lunar Lattice, or ja-Kha'jay.

Mara (Mother Cat):

Nearly universal goddess. Originally a fertility goddess, the Khajiit associate her with Nir of the "Anuad," the female principle of the cosmos. She is the lover of Alkosh.

S'rendarr (The Runt; God of Mercy):

S'rendarr's sphere includes compassion, charity, and justice. In early Aldmeri legends, S'rendarr is the apologist of Men.

Khenarthi (God of Winds):

Khenarthi is the strongest of the Sky spirits. In some legends, he is the first to agree to Lorkhaj's plan to invent the mortal plane, and provides the space for its creation in the void. He is also associated with rain, a phenomenon said not to occur before the removal of Lorkhaj's divine spark.

Baan Dar (The Bandit God):

In most regions, Baan Dar is a marginal deity, a trickster spirit of thieves and beggars. In Elsweyr he is more important, and is regarded as the Pariah. In this aspect, Baan Dar becomes the cleverness or desperate genius of the long-suffering Khajiit, whose last-minute plans always upset the machinations of their (Elven or Human) enemies. He has also lent his name to the Baandari Pedlars, the traveling Khajiiti merchant tribe.

Additional Deities with Significant Khajiiti Cults:

Magrus (Cat's Eye, Sun God):

Khajiiti version of Magnus, the god of the sun and sorcery, popular with Khajiiti magicians (though less so than Azurah).

Rajhin (The Footpad):

Thief and trickster god, the Purring Liar, much beloved of Khajiiti storytellers. Rajhin grew up in the Black Kiergo section of Senchal. The most famous burglar in Elsweyr's history, Rajhin is said to have stolen a tattoo from the neck of Empress Kintyra as she slept.

Azurah (Goddess of Dusk and Dawn):

Patron of Khajiiti magicians, respected rather than feared for her sometime trickery. In myth she is tied into the origins of Khajiiti out of Aldmeri stock.

Sheggorath (Skooma Cat, the Mad God):

The King of Insanity appeals to the darker side of the Cat-Men, who chafe at the strictures of sanity and responsibility.

Hircine (Hungry Cat):

God of hunting and skinchanging, revered for his fierceness and cunning.

Sangiin (Blood Cat):

God of Death and Secret Murder, Sangiin's worship is hidden from Cat's Eye. "For who can control the urges of blood?"

Namiira (The Great Darkness):

An enemy of the living, to be placated rather than worshiped.

Lorkhaj (Moon Beast):

Pre-ri'Datta Dynasty Anequinine deity, easily identified with the Missing God, Lorkhan. This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the mortal plane, upsetting the status quo—much like his father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhaj is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. He and his metaphysical placement in the "scheme of things" is interpreted a variety of ways. In the legends, he is almost always an enemy of the Aldmer and, therefore, a hero of early Mankind.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1415)
	Varieties of Faith: The Wood Elves
Varieties of Faith in Tamriel: The Wood Elves

By Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

The Eight

(though few Bosmer outside the Empire accept the limitation of Divines to eight):

Auri-El (King of the Aldmer):

The Elven Akatosh is Auri-El. Auri-El is the soul of Anui-El, who, in turn, is the soul of Anu the Everything. He is the chief of most Aldmeri pantheons. Most Altmeri and Bosmeri claim direct descent from Auri-El. In his only known moment of weakness, he agreed to take his part in the creation of the mortal plane, that act which forever sundered the Elves from the spirit worlds of eternity. To make up for it, Auri-El led the original Aldmer against the armies of Lorkhan in mythic times, vanquishing that tyrant and establishing the first kingdoms of the Aldmer, Aldmeris and Old Ehlnofey. He then ascended to heaven in full observance of his followers so that they might learn the steps needed to escape the mortal plane.

Y'ffre (God of the Forest):

Most important deity of the Bosmeri pantheon. While Auri-El the Time Dragon might be the king of the gods, the Bosmer revere Y'ffre as the spirit of "the now." According to the Wood Elves, after the creation of the mortal plane everything was in chaos. The first mortals were turning into plants and animals and back again. Then Y'ffre transformed himself into the first of the Ehlnofey, or "Earth Bones." After these laws of nature were established, mortals had a semblance of safety in the new world, because they could finally understand it. Y'ffre is sometimes called the Storyteller, for the lessons he taught the first Bosmer. Some Bosmer still possess the knowledge of the chaos times, which they can use to great effect (the Wild Hunt).

Arkay (God of the Cycle of Life and Death):               

Arkay is the god of burials and funeral rites, and is sometimes associated with the seasons. His priests are staunch opponents of necromancy and all forms of the undead. It is said that Arkay did not exist before the world was created by the gods under Lorkhan's supervision/urging/trickery. Therefore, he is sometimes called the Mortals' God.

Xarxes:

Xarxes is the god of ancestry and secret knowledge. He began as a scribe to Auri-El, and has kept track of all Aldmeri accomplishments, large and small, since the beginning of time. He created his wife, Oghma, from his favorite moments in history.

Mara (Goddess of Love):

Nearly universal goddess. Origins started in mythic times as a fertility goddess. She is sometimes associated with Nir of the "Anuad," the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation. For the Bosmer, she is the wife of Auri-El.

Stendarr (God of Mercy):

God of compassion and righteous rule. In early Aldmeri legends, Stendarr is the apologist of Men.

Z'en (God of Toil):

Bosmeri god of payment in kind, which includes both just remuneration and retribution. Studies indicate origins in both Argonian and Akaviri mythologies, perhaps introduced into Valenwood by Kothringi sailors. Ostensibly an agriculture deity, Z'en sometimes proves to be an entity of a much higher cosmic order.

Baan Dar (The Bandit God):

Trickster spirit of thieves and beggars borrowed from the Khajiit.

Additional Deities with Significant Bosmeri Cults:

Herma-Mora (The Woodland Man):

Malicious trickster spirit (another one!) whose Bosmeri cultists say is not to be confused with the Daedra Hermaeus Mora. (Others deride this assertion.)

Jone and Jode (Little Moon God and Big Moon God):

Aldmeri gods of the Moons, they are spirits of fortune, both good and bad.

Hircine (The Huntsman, Father of Manbeasts):

Master of the Great Hunt and lord of all lycanthropes. Worshipers of Hircine are not as ruthless as those who worship other Daedra; they always give their prey at least a small chance to escape.

Lorkhan (The Missing God):

This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan," or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the mortal plane, upsetting the status quo—much like his father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. He and his metaphysical placement in the "scheme of things" is interpreted a variety of ways. To the Elves, he is the most unholy of all higher powers, as he forever broke their connection to the spirit plane. In the legends, he is almost always an enemy of the Aldmer and, therefore, a hero of early Mankind.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1416)
	The Book of the Great Tree
(excerpts)

All things to the Tree

From the Tree, all things

— Ayleid prophecy

*  *  *  *  *

Let this be your first lesson: the roots of the First Tree grasp all the ground on which you stand. When the rains and wind come, it will be the roots that hold you firm. Under the roots lies Nirn, and over her boughs shines Aetherius. She provides both floor and roof. You need no other shelter.

 *  *  *  *  *

Azra Root grows along the banks of the slow-moving rivers. Pull it gently free of the mud and wrap the roots in a damp cloth. Thus the plant may be transported. These will take root in pots and baskets of moss, if they are kept moist enough.

*  *  *  *  *

When the Salache Elves first came to the Elden Root, they were led to it by Meridia's shining colors, which told them this was her gift and blessing. The Tree's branches and roots are as hands, reaching at once into the Mundus and Overworld. On this, we built Mundus' greatest city and prove ourselves her highest and most honored race.

*  *  *  *  *

In the heat of the summer, shroud the leaves of the Alocasia in silk. The fruit will grow larger and sweeter if the growing process is thus slowed. It is said Y'ffre took its fallen fruit as tribute.

The Alomeria plant is related to this, but will not bear fruit. You may know it as Water Hyacinth.

*  *  *  *  *

When they arrived, they said, "This is the Grove of the One Great Tree. This is the Grove of the Sages, the Elden Grove. We brought with us life and knowledge, and in the shade of the Great Tree, we build the classrooms and libraries, so that we would make a harvest of our legacy of intellect."

*  *  *  *  *

The seed of the Nirnroot may be carried great distances by birds and other creatures. Near the Great Tree, the fronds grow tall and lush. Farther away, they may grow reedier and less hardy.

Let this likewise be a lesson.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1417)
	Common Arms of Valenwood
By Mistral Aurelian Teriscor

Metal weapons have never been widespread in Valenwood. The Wood Elves' Green Pact proscribes the use of wood to kindle forge-fires, though in some areas the burning of peat or coal can get kilns up to metal-forging temperatures. Other Bosmer make do with bone clubs, or use axes and spears with blades of stone or obsidian.

In the coastal towns such as Haven and Port Velyn, Bosmeri swordsmanship has benefited from the tutelage of Altmer advisors and a reliable supply of imported metal weapons. Strangely, the High Elves are not similarly appreciative of the Bosmeri composite horn bows, which are arguably the finest in Tamriel.

While some have described the Dominion as an alliance of mutual convenience, I would characterize it as one of mutual exasperation. Swordsmanship is a case in point. Few Wood Elves have the mental discipline for traditional Altmeri martial schooling. They are easily distracted, and have no patience for the philosophical aspects of the training. Altmeri masters, who describe their system of swordsmanship as "Proper Conflict," refused to adapt their techniques to the smaller stature and shorter reach of their pupils.

So the Bosmer returned to their traditional method of warfare: archery. By the age of fourteen, a Wood Elf youth is proficient enough with the bow to accompany hunting parties. Long-distance archers are called Jaqspurs. The style of draw used by Jaqspurs has been described as "snatching and releasing in one continuous motion." This allows a Jaqspur to maintain a very high rate of shooting, though years of training are required to be accurate at such speed.

The Bosmer are perfectly willing to purchase and use wooden bows and arrows crafted by other races, but the Green Pact prevents them from making any of their own. Traditional Bosmer bows are crafted from horn and sinew. Strings are also made of sinew; Khajiiti gut is said to work best, and is thus prized among Valenwood archers. 

Bosmeri arrows are carved from bone, and fletched with the feathers of various bird species. The Wood Elves believe the source of bone used influences the characteristics of the arrow. Mammoth bone arrows are thought to strike with enough force to knock down a target. Bird bone arrows fly faster and more accurately. Senche-tiger bone arrows deal extra damage. Trials by Imperial observers have been unable to replicate these alleged effects. Upon hearing this, the Bosmer merely cluck their tongues and smile.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1418)
	War Customs of the Tribal Bosmer
By Mistral Aurelian Teriscor

While the Wood Elves of the towns are largely content with their drink and the luxuries provided by Imperial trade, remote tribes in the depths of the jungle are far more savage. War is constantly waged under the eaves of Valenwood. When the tribes are not raiding the Khajiit in earnest, they are raiding one another for sport.

Unlike civilized peoples, tribal Bosmer do not fight for any meaningful or constructive purpose. They seem incapable of grasping the concept of fighting for control of land, resources, or defensible borders. Though they may swarm to push out those who harm Valenwood, they evince little interest in conquest for its own sake. Rather, the Wood Elves raid one another for booty, bragging, and boredom—in that order. Tribal raiders typically rustle timber mammoths and thunderbugs. Many steal items (or people) that can be ransomed back to the owners.

This erratic, irregular warfare is not pursued to the death. Deaths do occur, but they are incidental and usually regretted. Many raids conclude with no fighting whatsoever. It is considered the acme of skill to slip into another tribe's village and steal an item for ransom without being noticed. The larger the item, the greater the prestige. Thanks to centuries of this practice, the tribal Bosmer have become legendary for their stealth. The title of their most famous poem, the Meh Ayleidion, means "The One Thousand Benefits of Hiding."

When death occurs in battle, an archaic provision of the Meat Mandate requires that a fallen enemy must be eaten completely before three days pass. This tradition is now only followed in the most remote and savage villages. The family members of the warrior who slaughtered the enemy may help him with his meal.

The tradition of the "Mourning War" is still followed nearly everywhere outside the cities. When a tribe member is slain, he or she is symbolically replaced via a hostage-taking raid. The tribe will seize a captive from a neighboring band. If the deceased was an especially powerful or prestigious member of the tribe, multiple captives may be taken to replace them.

After a period of physical torture, supposedly to test their worthiness, the captive is joyously welcomed into the clan. This sudden reversal from horrific abuse to loving embrace befuddles the weak wits of a Bosmer captive, who cleaves to his tormentors. Traditionally the victim was given the deceased tribe member's position, possessions, and family, though this practice may be rarely honored nowadays.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1419)
	The Devouring of Gil-Var-Delle
By Fastor

Everyone knows what happened to Gil-Var-Delle. And at the same time, no one does.

Legend has it that Molag Bal, the dreaded Daedric Prince, set foot into that Wood Elf township—consumed it, according to the myth—whatever that actually means. Ancient tales employ metaphors like armies employ soldiers.

If Bal himself visited this plane with evil intent, why do any of us remain? The stories about him would lead one to believe he would not have stopped with the razing of a single Wood Elf town—he wouldn't have stopped until all of Tamriel was in flames. Just one common question of many regarding the Daedric Prince's so-called visit.

Some retort that perhaps someone stopped him—possibly an opposing Daedric Prince, a Divine, or an agent of the Aedra. But again, where is the evidence for this? No mage or historian—that I've spoken to, at least—has been able to reference a specific text for this information.

Many a historical fiction piece has attempted to dramatize what occurred there, but none of those stories can be confirmed, except to say that a catastrophic event struck the town. Perhaps the residents were killed, perhaps they fled. None were ever heard from again, but for all anyone knows, a large fire could have been the culprit. I can't imagine anything more catastrophic than that to a Wood Elf dwelling.

Today, Gil-Var-Delle is a maligned place, and there are not many who dare to venture near. But not because of any tangible foes—save cowardice and superstition.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1420)
	Ayleid Survivals in Valenwood
By Cuinur of Cloudrest, 4th Tier Scholar of Tamrielic Minutiae

This report was commissioned by the Thalmor Committee of Alliance Relations to investigate whether there might be an indoctrinal advantage to emphasizing the Ayleid lineage woven into the bloodlines of our cousins the Wood Elves. My extensive travels in Valenwood have enabled me to determine the historical facts behind the matter; whether these facts can support a useful campaign promoting alliance fellowship is up to the Committee and the Sapiarch of Indoctrination. 

As Pluribel of Dusk has noted in her magisterial "Collapse of the Ayleids," blame for the White-Gold Catastrophe of 1E 243 can be attributed to a half-dozen disastrous factors, of which the bloody insurrection by indentured human laborers may not be the most important. Pluribel emphasizes, quite rightly in my belief, the Narfinsel Schism of the late Merethic Era, which pitted the more conservative Aedra-worshiping Ayleid clans against those decadent yet undeniably vigorous clans that had adopted Daedra-worship. This conflict reached its climax in 1E 198 at the Scouring of Wendelbek, when King Glinferen of Atatar led a combined force of Daedraphile warriors against the traditionalist Barsaebics of Ayleidoon. The Barsaebics were driven out of the Heartland into northwest Argonia, and thereafter organized opposition to Daedra-worship in Cyrodiil was effectively over. 

In any event, by most measures Ayleid civilization had been in decline for several generations by the time the White-Gold Tower fell to the savagery of the Nedes. Standing amid the ruins of a great Elven culture, the victors concocted a justification for the blood on their hands by painting the defeated clans as vicious Daedraphiles who reveled in torture and cruelty. An exception was made for those clans, mainly Aedric adherents, who had thrown in their lot with the hordes of the Slave-Queen. Of course, this only delayed their extermination, for the barbarous Nedes inevitably came after their former allies once the other Elves of Cyrodiil had been hunted to extinction. 

Thus began the Ayleid Diaspora, in which the Heartland Elves sought to find new homes elsewhere in Tamriel—to decidedly mixed success. Those who fled north into the lands once held by the Falmer were slaughtered by Nords led by the infamous Vrage the Butcher. The Barsaebics, by that time well established in Argonia, refused admittance to their former persecutors the Atatarics, and most of that clan died on an ill-fated expedition into the lands of the Cat-Men. Several clans set out on the long march through Hammerfell to the Iliac Bay, and some actually made it, where they joined with (and were absorbed by) the long-established Direnni of Balfiera. 

Most successful—and they were more than a few—were the clans that fled southwest beneath the canopy of Valenwood. The clans of Anutwyll, Vilverin, Talwinque, Bawn, and Varondo all escaped largely intact to carve out a new life under the trees. These clans all worshiped Daedric Princes, but they seem to have done so with less fervor after their enforced migration to Valenwood—possibly due to the fact that the Princes, when called upon, had offered little or no help to the forsaken clans. Fortunately their new hosts, the Bosmer, were remarkably generous in welcoming the Ayleids into their realm, so long as the Heartland Elves agreed to adopt aspects of the Green Pact and refrain from harming the forest. Having little choice, the Ayleids agreed, and this probably contributed to the dilution of their culture. 

For diluted it was, absorbed over time, and eventually forgotten. I have walked the great Ayleid ruins of Valenwood—Hectahame, Rulanyil's Fall, Belarata, Laeloria, and a dozen more—and none of them, not one, was still occupied only two thousand years after the Diaspora. For some reason, once the Ayleids were under the great graht-oaks they, and their distinctive culture, simply melted away. 

In explaining the extinction of the Valenwood Ayleids, my predecessor Gelgarad the Velaspid was very attached to his "Theorem of Disheritage," which held that for some reason the Forest Ayleids became unable to breed with each other and could only generate offspring by mating with the local Bosmer. This would certainly account for the Ayleids' gradual disappearance, but unfortunately Gelgarad's theorem is supported only by old stories and legends, and absent facts it cannot be proven. 

It is worth mentioning here the competing theory of Doctor Thetis of the Shimmerene Academy. Her explanation blames Ayleid decline on over-consumption of the unusually potent beverages of the Bosmer. Doctor Thetis believes the Ayleids, vulnerable in their grief over their losses, fell prey to the Wood Elves' paralyzing brews and simply gave up trying. In this they may have been encouraged by the Bosmer themselves, who often seem insulted by others' displays of industrious effort.

And what did our forest-dwelling cousins learn from the Ayleids? Precious little, apparently, other than some advanced techniques of stonework and masonry. Heartland Elven culture seems to have made little lasting impression on the culture of the Wood Elves. Their attitude seems to me summed up by the statement of Fonlor, the Yorethane of Elden Root, whose response when I asked him about the Ayleids was as follows: "The Ayleids? Oh, yes. Nice fellows. Took themselves too seriously, though, and what did it get them?"
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1421)
	Aurbic Enigma 4: The Elden Tree
Inscribed by Beredalmo the Signifier

Here is a truth read from the bark. 

The spike of Ada-Mantia, and its Zero Stone, dictated the structure of reality in its Aurbic vicinity, defining for the Earth Bones their story or nature within the unfolding of the Dragon's (timebound) Tale. The Aldmeri or Merethic Elves were singular of purpose only so long as it took them to realize that other Towers, with their own Stones, could tell different stories, each following rules inscribed by Variorum Architects. And so the Mer self-refracted, each to their own creation, the Chimer following Red-Heart, the Bosmer burgeoning Green-Sap, the Altmer erecting Crystal-Like-Law, et alia.

But of all the Prismatic Mer, none were more presumptuous than the Ayleids of the Heartland. They built their tower in open emulation of Ada-Mantia, using as Founding-Stone the great red diamond they had uncovered: Chim-el-Adabal, said to be crystallized blood from the Heart of Lorkhan itself. (For the Heart on its arrow passed over the Heartlands, birthing one of that postnymic's quaternary meanings.) 

Thus did White-Gold become Tower One. As all know.

As foretold by the moth-eyed, Ayleid hubris was to bear bitter fruit. With their vision on high to behold the overworlds, they failed to note the seething Nedelings at their feet, until the thralls rose up and took their Tower away from them. Chim-el-Adabal they took as well, but not before the arch-mage Anumaril fangled an eightfold Staff of Towers, each segment a semblance of a tower in its Dance. And then seven of these segments were borne by White-Gold Knights to distant Fold-Places, where they were hidden.

(This was all unknown to Pelin-al-Essia, be certain, or there might have been a different Eight Divines!)

Thus White-Gold. On to Green-Sap. 

The Boiche Elves were of the Earth Bones who most hearkened to Jephre and his greensongs. They did not build a Tower, they grew it, a great graht-oak whose roots sprang from a Perchance Acorn. And this was their Stone. And because the Acorn might perchance have been elsewhere, thus was Green-Sap manifold and several. And each could walk. 

Therefore each Green-Sap was also every Green-Sap. Within each were told all the stories of the Green, with every ending true, so doors therein were not always Doors Certain. But to this the Boiche-become-Bosmer became inured, and indeed grew to relish these Doors Equivocal, for such was their nature in the schism of the prism. In this way the Bosmer learned which songs made the trees dance, and which dances they might do. 

Now return we must to the eighth segment—or rather Segment One, for Anumaril had fangled it in similitude to Tower One, which itself reflected Tower Zero. When the Ayleids fled the Heartlands they went to all eight corners of the compass, and this was a chosen thing, though many corners spelled doom. But more Ayleids fled to Valenwood than to all other directions combined, and this, too, was chosen. Among these clans went Anumaril wearing Segment One as a femur—for how but by walking can a spoke advance its hub?

Green-Sap's Elves welcomed the Ayleids so long as the Heartlanders agreed not to dissonate the greensong. All agreed to this save Anumaril, who coughed into his hand unnoticed. He asked the Great Camoran to show him Green-Sap, and was brought to one that by happenstance stood then in Elden Root. Once within the great graht he passed through a Door Equivocal and found his desire, the Perchance Acorn. It was one of many, but for Anumaril one was enough. 

Next the fanglement: Anumaril brought forth Segment One among the roots and showed it to the golden nut, and this told an ending, so that the stone became a Definite Acorn. That Elden Tree would not walk again, but Anumaril yet had further intentions for it. Using his dentition as tonal instruments, he dismantled his bones and built of them a Mundus-machine that mirrored Nirn and its planets. And when he had used all his substance in fangling this orrery, he placed the segment-sceptre within, hiding it between the Moons. 

Then he waited—but what he waited for did not eventuate, and perchance he's waiting yet. For 

Anumaril had hoped to convert Green-Sap into White-Gold, and thereby make the Heartlanders' realm anew. However, Anumaril did not know, and was not able to know, why his plan went awry. You see, Ayleid magic is about Will, and Shall, and Must—but under Green-Sap, all is Perchance. 

The Ayleid fangler's plan could not succeed—and yet neither could it fail. For this is a story that has not yet found its ending.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1422)
	The Legend of Vastarie
by Afwa, a Student and Friend

Necromancy's known to many as a binding of souls to a form prepared—or in some cases, manufactured—by the conjurer.

While technically accurate, the implication is that souls bound in this manner are imprisoned against their will with no hope of release.

Further implied is the idea that souls occupying the construct are always sentient—the souls of men or mer—a fallacy perpetuated by the practice of animating corpses for martial or manual labors.

It is this misunderstanding and a potential for abuse that led to the vilification of necromancy and the expulsion of Mannimarco and his peers from the Isle of Artaeum.

Enter Vastarie, a student of the Psijic Order and contemporary of such notables as Vanus Galerion and Mannimarco.

While Mannimarco sought power through the direct application of necromantic energies, Vastarie's purposes were far more esoteric. She sought a way to delay the release of a sentient soul upon death that it might be consulted, its knowledge recorded for the ages.

It is to this end that she worked with Mannimarco after leaving Artaeum, searching for a way to trap souls as one might capture lesser Daedra.

Believing the secret lay with Molag Bal, the two conspired to enter Coldharbour and wrest it from the father of vampires himself. Together, they hatched a plan.

With a brash courage known only to the young, Mannimarco and his followers held open a portal to the Prince's realm. Ever thirsting for adventure, it was Vastarie who entered its depths and returned with a cache of black crystals the likes of which they had never seen.

To Mannimarco, they were perfect. Small, capable of containing even the most willful of souls, and apparently indestructible. To Vastarie, they were deeply flawed, for enchantment was the only safe way to free a soul from their depths.

Even so, she set about the task of reproducing the stones, breaking them down, testing them with a variety of substances until, by happy accident, she created something new: the first Sigil Geode.

Clear as crystal, this new device was capable of holding sentient souls within its depths, but unlike the gems wrested from the Lord of Domination, it was exceptionally fragile and would only hold its charge for a matter of days.

Once imprisoned, souls could be transferred between geodes, but applying them as one would a soul gem effected a soul's release, instead.

Vastarie had found what she was looking for, but Mannimarco was furious. What use was a soul gem that could not be used to fuel an enchantment? He demanded Vastarie find a way to modify her creation to his purposes.

Realizing her friend would never stop searching, and that further discoveries made with him would only advance his goals, she gathered up her research and left with Telacar, her husband and a powerful necromancer in his own right.

Together, they fled Mannimarco's grasp, eventually hiding in an Ayleid ruin deep within Valenwood. There, they lived for many years, as quietly as they could while perfecting their art. For decades, they had each other and seemed happy—until the day Vastarie left.

In the years that followed, she wandered the surface of Nirn, exploring places of power. She visited Wayrest, Alik'r, the Crystal Tower, and the libraries of Dune, searching for some answer to a question that gnawed at her very soul.

In time, she found what she was looking for and returned to Valenwood. There, she built a tower and took on apprentices, teaching them her particular brand of necromancy and furthering her research.

Using her Sigil Geodes, we bound the souls of lesser Daedra, postponing their return to Oblivion as one might with a soul gem. We then worked on a way to manifest the trapped spirit into the world.

Early attempts had unexpected, even dangerous results. Geodes shattered, sending shards of broken crystal into the flesh of our fellow students—misapplied energies bound the souls of the living into the tiny stones—but as we studied we corrected our mistakes and refined the process.

Eventually, Vastarie had it down to a science. By applying a Sigil Geode at the moment of death, a soul could be suspended within its depths. Through applied conjuration, it could be drawn into an ectoplasmic shell where it could be consulted at leisure.

She wrote the foundling Mages Guild of her discovery. Vanus Galerion himself came to witness her demonstration, which involved consulting an old groundskeeper who had volunteered to demonstrate the process.

He was horrified when she bound the soul into her apparatus, and when the process was completed, with the old groundskeeper was released and allowed to return to Aetherius, he was white as a sheet.

Slowly, he stood to address the assembled students. He spoke with vindictiveness and an anger none would expect from his unassuming mien. When he was finished, he turned and left.

Some followed him. None could blame them, he wasn't wrong—the Sigil Geode was a dangerous creation. Misused, it could spark wars and bring about destruction unheard of in our history.

Vastarie was undeterred, convinced that Galerion's willful ignorance would lead to his undoing, but something else would gain her attention in the years to come. A vast ruin was discovered beneath her tower's foundation, concealed from sight and scrying by the power of a Daedric Prince.

In time, she walked into those ruins and never came out. Some of us still await her return.
		

		Part of the Grahtwood Lore collection (#1423)
	In the Company of Wood Orcs
From the Personal Journal of Sisarion

Orcs are strange.

They are unsubtle, brutish, and straightforward in just about every way. Certainly there is variation in personality between individuals, but there are some things a Bosmer can always expect from an Orc. None of which our culture can fully comprehend.

Their Wood Orc cousins are stranger still, but for different reasons. They ironically share more commonalities with the Bosmer, and are found mostly within Valenwood.

Though Wood Orcs prize strength and honor and above all else, their interpretation of what those things mean separates them from their northern, Orsinium cousins. For instance, having strength to a Wood Orc means having agility and mobility as much as it does muscular power and endurance. I would like to hear an Orsinium Orc's take on the topic, but I imagine that, if one considers an Orsinium Orc as formed like a member of a heavy infantry regiment, then a Wood Orc is like a light skirmisher in the same army.

The Wood Orcs, like the Bosmer, also flourish in forested areas. They've made no Pact with the Green—by my bow, they have utter disregard for and a lack of knowledge of the Green Pact—but I wouldn't be surprised if they stood in Y'ffre's favor in some way, with the ease I've seen them navigate tree-laden regions.

Why worry about this? I've had Wood Orcs on the mind lately—it's difficult not to when one has been among them, as I have. I was ordered through their territory by a local Battlereeve to deliver a message—was told it would be easy to avoid detection. But Wood Orcs are a very different breed of Orc, as I've detailed above. When they caught me—no one save a Bosmer ever catches me—they noticed my presence in the trees above, though I suspect they must have been wary of something in their forest for days. I was ready, though, and felled two of the trio who turned on me with the same arrow.

I was taken aback—I had expected to fell three. But the last one—inexplicably, and in a most un-Orcish fashion—bolted out of the way, like lightning. I leapt, rolled to the ground, just as a curved hand-axe whirled into the trees, through the space where my heart would have been. I came to my feet with dagger ready, and parried a blow from a second handaxe that nearly shook the knife from my hand. The Wood Orc growled and swung again, and in that moment, I couldn't have told him from his Orsinium cousins. He fought with the agility and grace of my people, mixed with the honorbound fury of the northern Orcs. He managed to tear a deep wound in my side, as I tossed a handful of dirt into his eyes. Half-blinded by pain myself, I stumbled to relative safety in the darkness of the woods as he cursed and spat, called me a "coward who disguised himself with the forest instead of fighting with it."

Hircine must have walked with me that day, for I was sure that battle was lost. The Wood Orc fought too fiercely, knew his own forest too well. But he never did manage to find me again. I would welcome a second contest—but in Bosmer territory.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1424)
	Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi, Pt. 1
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi to her Favored Daughter

Part One

Ahnissi tells you. You are no longer a mewing kitten and you have learned to keep secrets from Ahnissi, and so Ahnissi tells you.

In the beginning there were two littermates, Ahnurr and Fadomai. After many phases, Fadomai said to Ahnurr, "Let us wed and make children to share our happiness."

And they gave birth to Alkosh, the First Cat. And Ahnurr said, "Alkosh, we give you Time, for what is as fast or as slow as a cat?"

And they gave birth to Khenarthi, the Winds. "Khenarthi, to you we give the sky, for what can fly higher than the wind?"

And they gave birth to Magrus, the Cat's Eye. "Magrus, to you we give the sun, for what is brighter than the eye of a cat?"

And they gave birth to Mara, the Mother Cat. "Mara, you are love, for what is more loving than a mother?"

And they gave birth to S'rendarr, the Runt. "S'rendarr, we give you mercy, for how does a runt survive, except by mercy?"

And many phases passed and Ahnurr and Fadomai were happy.

And Ahnurr said, "We should have more children to share our happiness." And Fadomai agreed. And she gave birth to Hermorah. And she gave birth to Hircine. And she gave birth to Merrunz and Mafala and Sangiin and Sheggorath and many others.

And Fadomai said:

"Hermorah, you are the Tides, for who can say whether the moons predict the tides or the tides predict the moons?"

"Hircine, you are the Hungry Cat, for what hunts better than a cat with an empty belly?"

"Merrunz, you are the Ja'Khajiit, for what is more destructive than a kitten?"

"Mafala, you are the Clan Mother, for what is more secretive than the ways of the Clan Mothers?"

"Sangiin, you are the Blood Cat, for who can control the urges of blood?"

"Sheggorath, you are the Skooma Cat, for what is crazier than a cat on skooma?"

And Ahnurr said, "Two litters is enough, for too many children will steal our happiness."

But Khenarthi went to Fadomai and said, "Fadomai-mother, Khenarthi grows lonely so high above the world where not even my brother Alkosh can fly." Fadomai took pity on her and tricked Ahnurr to make her pregnant again.

And Fadomai gave birth to the Moons and their Motions. And she gave birth to Nirni, the majestic sands and lush forests. And she gave birth to Azurah, the dusk and the dawn.

And from the beginning, Nirni and Azurah fought for their mother's favor.

Ahnurr caught Fadomai while she was still birthing, and he was angry. Ahnurr struck Fadomai and she fled to birth the last of her litter far away in the Great Darkness. Fadomai's children heard what had happened, and they all came to be with her and protect her from Ahnurr's anger.

And Fadomai gave birth to Lorkhaj, the last of her litter, in the Great Darkness. And the Heart of Lorkhaj was filled with the Great Darkness. And when he was born, the Great Darkness knew its name and it was Namiira.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1425)
	Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi, Pt. 2
Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi to her Favored Daughter

Part Two

And Fadomai knew her time was near. Fadomai said:

"Ja-Kha'jay, to you Fadomai gives the Lattice, for what is steadier than the phases of the moons? Your eternal motions will protect us from Ahnurr's anger." And the moons left to take their place in the heavens. And Ahnurr growled and shook the Great Darkness, but he could not cross the Lattice.

And Fadomai said:

"Nirni, to you Fadomai leaves her greatest gift. You will give birth to many people as Fadomai gave birth today." When Nirni saw that Azurah had nothing, Nirni left smiling.

And all Fadomai's children left except Azurah. And Fadomai said, "To you, my favored daughter, Fadomai leaves her greatest gift. To you Fadomai leaves her secrets." And Fadomai told her favored daughter three things.

And Fadomai said, "When Nirni is filled with her children, take one of them and change them. Make the fastest, cleverest, most beautiful people, and call them Khajiit."

And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best climbers, for if Masser and Secunda fail, they must climb Khenarthi's breath to set the moons back in their courses."

And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best deceivers, for they must always hide their nature from the children of Ahnurr."

And Fadomai said, "The Khajiit must be the best survivors, for Nirni will be jealous, and she will make the sands harsh and the forests unforgiving, and the Khajiit will always be hungry and at war with Nirni."

And with these words, Fadomai died.

After many phases, Nirni came to Lorkhaj and said, "Lorkhaj, Fadomai told me to give birth to many children, but there is no place for them."

And Lorkhaj said, "Lorkhaj makes a place for children and Lorkhaj puts you there so you can give birth." But the Heart of Lorkhaj was filled with the Great Darkness, and Lorkhaj tricked his siblings so that they were forced into this new place with Nirni. And many of Fadomai's children escaped and became the stars. And many of Fadomai's children died to make Nirni's path stable. And the survivors stayed and punished Lorkhaj.

The children of Fadomai tore out the Heart of Lorkhaj and hid it deep within Nirni. And they said, "We curse you, noisy Lorkhaj, to walk Nirni for many phases."

But Nirni soon forgave Lorkhaj for Nirni could make children. And she filled herself with children, but cried because her favorite children, the forest people, did not know their shape.

And Azurah came to her and said, "Poor Nirni, stop your tears. Azurah makes for you a gift of a new people." Nirni stopped weeping, and Azurah spoke the First Secret to the Moons and they parted and let Azurah pass. And Azurah took some forest people who were torn between man and beast, and she placed them in the best deserts and forests on Nirni. And Azurah in her wisdom made them of many shapes, one for every purpose. And Azurah named them Khajiit and told them her Second Secret and taught them the value of secrets. And Azurah bound the new Khajiit to the Lunar Lattice, as is proper for Nirni's secret defenders. Then Azurah spoke the Third Secret, and the Moons shone down on the marshes and their light became sugar.

But Y'ffer heard the First Secret and snuck in behind Azurah. And Y'ffer could not appreciate secrets, and he told Nirni of Azurah's trick. So Nirni made the deserts hot and the sands biting. And Nirni made the forests wet and filled with poisons. And Nirni thanked Y'ffer and let him change the forest people also. And Y'ffer did not have Azurah's subtle wisdom, so Y'ffer made the forest people Elves always and never beasts. And Y'ffer named them Bosmer. And from that moment they were no longer in the same litter as the Khajiit.

And because Y'ffer had no appreciation for secrets, he shouted the First Secret across all the heavens with his last breath so that all of Fadomai's children could cross the Lattice. But Azurah, in her wisdom, closed the ears of angry Ahnurr and noisy Lorkhaj so they alone did not hear the word.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1426)
	The Ooze: A Fable
This is a story the Wood Elves of Valenwood tell their children from a very young age.

Once, there was nothing but formlessness. The land held no shape, the trees did not harden into timber and bark, and the Elves themselves shifted from form to form. This formlessness was called the Ooze.

But Y'ffre took the Ooze and ordered it. First, she told of the Green, the forest and all the plant life in it. She gave the Green the power to shape itself as it willed, for it was her first tale. 

The Elves were Y'ffre's second tale. As Y'ffre spun the story, the Elves took the form they have today. Y'ffre gave them the power to tell stories, but warned them against trying to shape themselves or the Green. Shifting and the destruction of the forest were forbidden. 

Instead, Y'ffre commended the Wood Elves to the Green, so that they might ask the Green to provide them with shelter and a safe passage, and as long as they respected the Green, it would obey. This is called the Green Pact.

Finally, Y'ffre told of all the beasts that crawl on the land or swim in the rivers or fly in the air. These, Y'ffre gave to the Wood Elves as sustenance. They were to eat no plants but consume only meat. Y'ffre also told that no Wood Elf who is struck down by another Wood Elf should be allowed to sink into the ground, but should instead be consumed, like the beasts. This is called the Meat Mandate.

When the stories were told, Y'ffre saw that they had a pleasing shape, but some of the Ooze remained. Y'ffre told a final tale then, and gave purpose to the Ooze. 

Any Wood Elf that violated the Green Pact, either by shifting or by damaging the Green, would be condemned to return to the formlessness of the Ooze. Their names would be scrubbed from the story Y'ffre is telling and replaced with silence. 

The Wood Elves tell that those who are favored by the Green have the power to release the condemned from the Ooze, but where the condemned go and what form they take once they are released is unknown. 

No one has ever seen the Ooze, or heard the souls trapped in it, or met the one who can relieve the condemned of their punishment. But if you ask a Wood Elf if he thinks the Ooze is "just a tale," he will invariably reply, "There is no such thing as 'just a tale.'"
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1427)
	The Wilderking Legend
—transcribed from the oral tradition by an unknown author—

Sing, Valenwood, shout Green

Tell the tale of the mover, the shaper, 

the one, the Wilderking.

His eye projects outward to the world

and touches everything he perceives:

by his thoughts he shapes it.

Do you know where to find him?

Have you looked to the hills?

Have you looked to the trees?

He is not there.

Because "there" is a place, and a place has boundaries,

but The Wilderking is boundless.

His is the Court and the Throne.

He is the Court and the Throne.

When he walks, his footfalls fall on himself.

And who does not hear his footfalls and quake?

The earth shakes at his coming,

at the rising of his Hollow from the earth.

Like the delicate calm of an undisturbed pool

is shattered by the smallest of stones,

so is the terrible force of the Wilderking's passing.

Shout, Bramblebreach! Wail, Shadows Watch!

The Wilderking is friend and foe,

Foe and friend to both.

For who can record his footsteps on the land,

who can hear the melody of his voice,

when he opens his mouth to sing?
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1428)
	Visions of the Green Pact Bosmer
Excerpts from the original four-volume work recorded by Morvas Andrys, who studied the Green Pact Bosmer for three years in the First Era, until he was killed in a mourning war and devoured by the very clan he'd been studying.

… Faniriel was one hundred years old when she consumed the glow-frog of the swamps and it showed her the upside-down tree city of Heartgreen. It was populated by Elves who walked exclusively on their hands….

… Vanirion the Thief, who successfully demanded more than two hundred payments after invoking the Rite of Theft, was once said to have had a vision after climbing into a tree that had appeared in the middle of the forest. 

The tree had purple leaves, and as Vanirion told it, when he sat among them, they gave off the most pleasant fragrance. The sweet scent lulled his mind into a state, and while in this state, he saw a circular grove of trees. The further he went into the grove, the wider the circle became, so that he could never reach its true center.

As he wandered he met the most beautiful spirit and when she spoke her sentences began with their last word, so that they made circles. "River. Come, lie with me by the," she beckoned.

Vanirion only came to his senses when, slumped in a stupor from the powerful odor of the leaves, he fell from the branches of the tree. He survived the fall, but broke his leg, ending his thieving career. He spent the rest of his life searching the forest for the tree with the purple leaves, but never found it.

…

Then I asked the treethane whether it is right for the Pact Bosmer to say that they "see" these visions, and whether it wouldn't be better to say that they "imagine" them. It's clear that these strange apparitions of cities and groves and other such wonders don't exist either on Nirn or in Oblivion.

The treethane took a long drink of whatever foul fermented milk was currently in fashion and looked at his feet and then at the sky. "You say the world ends at what you can see with your eyes. We say, that is where the world begins."
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1429)
	Woodhearth: A Pocket Guide
Since the disappearance of Falinesti, there is no city that completely expresses the character and history of the Wood Elves more than Woodhearth.

Situated on the southwestern shores of Valenwood, Woodhearth had humble beginnings as an Imperial settlement, constructed and maintained by the Emperors in order to facilitate trade with the region's Wood Elf settlements.

The Wood Elves of the region reacted with a mix of curiosity, friendship, and hostility to the city, which was part thriving port town and part fortress, protecting against the wilds of Valenwood.

Several times, hostile Bosmer led assaults against the city's walls. Several times, they managed to bring down sections of the wall with concentrated bursts of powerful destruction magics, only to be driven back by the tenacity of the Imperial forces and their superior equipment.

A peace was eventually struck with the Green Pact Bosmer of Valenwood, and in time a Bosmer settlement sprang up and even overtook the Imperial buildings, as that special connection the Wood Elves have with their forest was invoked to create the treehomes and walkways that are characteristic of Bosmer settlement.

As the Bosmer became an instrumental force in the Empire, control of Woodhearth was gradually ceded back to autonomous Wood Elf rule. A treethane was established in Woodhearth, and while the parts of the city that had been constructed by the Imperials fell into disrepair, the city as a whole thrived.

Within a generation, the treethanes of Woodhearth gained a reputation for determined leadership and fair judgment, among both the Wood Elves and their allies.

At the time of writing, the Treethane of Woodhearth is Fariel, and she governs both as Treethane and as a member of the Thalmor, under Queen Ayrenn of the newly-formed Aldmeri Dominion. Woodhearth continues to be a major port, along with Seaside Sanctuary, in Valenwood, and it is home to members of all races.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1430)
	The Eldest: A Pilgrim's Tale
In bright springtime, when the ground is drunk with rainwater and the sun smiles on Valenwood, the Wood Elves travel to the Den of the Eldest, an ancient strangler. There, they offer thanks to Y'ffre for the blooming of yet another spring, and they read the history of their home in the branches of the Eldest.

Then, a great festival is thrown by the Green Pact Bosmer, in celebration of the Springtime and the Eldest. Then Elves celebrate long into the night, drinking and regaling each other with stories of past festivals and pilgrims.

The tales run both sacred and profane. 

There's the tale of the notorious warlord whose entire army stopped at the Den of the Eldest and went in to pay their respects. When they emerged, they dropped their weapons to the ground and left them where they lay. They never made war again.

But there is also the tale of the impish Wood Elf who spiked the pilgrims' punch with a powder ground from the dung of timber mammoths, that caused the entire gathering to be troubled by the most foul odors from their backsides. Long into the night they groaned as the stink grew unbearable, until they were all so inured to the smell that their groans turned to bursts of laughter that filled the wood.

They also tell of the first pilgrims, an old, childless couple who tended the Eldest as their own offspring. They became the first Silvenar and the first Green Lady.

There are many more tales the pilgrims tell, but few have been written down. The curious would do best to travel to the Eldest in the Springtime and hear the stories and behold the ancient strangler for themselves.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1431)
	The Green Pact and the Dominion
Just like trees grow toward the sun and you can hear different birds singing when the moons are out than when they are not, every Wood Elf born in Valenwood (and indeed, nearly every one born outside of it), knows of the Green Pact.

The Green Pact is the agreement between the Wood Elves and Y'ffre that has guided our existence from the beginning of the great story.

Its rules are clear. Do not harm the forest. Do not eat anything made from plant life. Eat only meat. When you conquer your enemies, eat their flesh. Do not leave them to rot. Do not kill wastefully. Do not take on the shape of beasts. You are Wood Elves. Your form is sacred. 

This is the Green Pact. In exchange for keeping to this Pact, the forest, which we call the Green, has provided us with ample food and shelter. Y'ffre has given us the limited gift to ask the forest to shape itself to our needs. We have been amply blessed.

But now, we find ourselves in a new situation. Our new allies—the High Elves and the Khajiit—do not hold to the Green Pact. They live in houses made of thatch and timber. They eat all manner of fruits and berries and drink wine made from grapes. They find the devouring of one's enemies barbaric. 

How are the Wood Elves of Valenwood to accommodate these new allies, while keeping to the Green Pact? It is a question that perplexes many Wood Elves today, especially in the newly-erected city of Marbruk. In the past, we have fought wars over lesser defilement of the Green.

At the same time, we recognize that at the time of the Dominion's founding, the Green Lady and the Silvenar spoke on behalf of the Wood Elves and the Green Pact. We remember that we have a powerful mouthpiece in the Thalmor, Woodhearth's own Treethane Fariel.

These are the leaders we should look to in this uncertain time. They have shown us through their actions an example which we can all follow. We must welcome these allies with true Wood Elf hospitality. We must not pick fights with them. We must try not to steal from them (many of them do not appreciate the rite of theft, but that is a subject for another essay). But at the same time, we should not shy away from speaking out in our own interests, and in that of the Green.

Because of Treethane Fariel's powerful voice, much of the timber and all of the thatch for Marbruk was brought into Valenwood from other parts. For many the fact that so many trees had to be felled to clear space for the city is unforgiveable, but Fariel saw that accommodating our allies is the first step to a strong defense of Valenwood against those who would surely destroy it. 

Queen Ayrenn's willingness to listen is a sign of her wisdom and respect for the Wood Elf people. We should repay her by being willing to trust her leadership.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1432)
	Gifts of the Nereids
When I was young, my parents brought me to the cave where the priests worshiped the Nereids. They dedicated me to the temple, so that I might one day become a priest, too.

There were only three other children in the temple when I was growing up. The others made fun of me until I was ten years old because one of my legs was shorter than the other and I had a limp. 

One day, we were running through the cave (something that was forbidden, but the priests often looked the other way, letting children be children) and I tripped and fell face down into the water. I hit my head and blacked out. The other children were far ahead of me already, so they didn't see.

Later, the priests told me that one of the Nereids had lifted me out of the water. I said I didn't remember that happening, but later on, I did recall the feeling of floating and also a kind of terror, like I had seen something I was not supposed to see, something that was too beautiful for mortal eyes.

The priests instructed us in our relationship to the Nereids. We were required to memorize the gifts of the Nereids and repeat them back every day:

The gifts of the Nereids are three-fold:

the beauty of their form,

the sweetness of their singing,

and protection from harm.

The older children got to help the priests with the rituals. Meat was brought to the central altar to feed the Nereids, and once a year, one priest would go deep into the cave to meditate among their singing. When he would emerge, he would give a prophesy.

When he comes of age, each child has a choice to stay and become a priest or to go into exile. After so many years living in the cave, I could not imagine another life, and so I chose the priesthood. But sometimes I long for sunlight and wonder where a different path might have taken me, and what sights I might have seen if I had chosen exile.
		

		Part of the Greenshade Lore collection (#1433)
	The Wood Elf Gourmet, Ch. 1
Every Wood Elf knows that the more inward the part, the better it tastes. While other races cook their meat until it is dry and bloodless, and waste entrails and brains, the Wood Elf knows that these parts are the juiciest and therefore the most flavorful.

The following delicacy is a highlight from the Greenshade region of Valenwood:

Jugged Venison

1 Venison Haunch, bloody

Stock

1 Onion finely chopped

Hang the Haunch for 5 days, until it is tender to the touch.

Heat the haunch in over a medium flame. The oil will give the meat a nice crisp outside. When the meat starts to pop, remove it from the heat.

Seal the hot meat in a vase or jug with the stock and the onion. Let it stand for another fortnight. 

To serve, open the jug and pour the tender haunch onto the table. It is so tender no knife is required. 

This meal will feed a family of four, or a hunter who has gone a few days without killing any prey.

There are many more such delicacies, often passed down from parent to child.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1434)
	The Moon Cats and their Dance
Attributed to Clan Mother Ahnissi

A hairless scholar came from his desert to ours and said, "I want to know the truth about the Khajiit."

And the Clan Mother said, "Only one? You are not very curious, hairless scholar."

The hairless scholar peered at the Clan Mother through little windows on his nose and said, "I want to know about your different breeds. Is it true that what phase of the moons you are born under determines your physical morphology?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed, hairless scholar. I was born as Jode was waxing and Jone was new, so I am an Omhes-raht. My daughter here was born when Jode was waxing and Jone was full, so she is a Senche-raht. Thus we are nothing alike."

The scholar peered at mother and daughter and said, "You look very much the same to me."

And the Clan Mother said, "I have heard that those with round pupils have poor vision. It is a sadness."

The hairless scholar tapped his chin and said, "I want to know about your so-called Lunar Lattice. Is it true that the phases of the moons regulate every aspect of your lives?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed, hairless scholar. Today is Suthay, when Jode is new and Jone is new, and we never stir the stew winter-shines."

The hairless scholar blinked and said, "You mean withershins, or retrograde? But that is exactly the way you're stirring your soup."

And the Clan Mother said, "But only from above. Perhaps your eyes only let you see things from one direction? That is a sadness."

The hairless scholar adjusted his nose-windows and said, "All right. Fine. Tell me of the Two Moons Dance. Is it true you Khajiit dance at the midnight hour to the light of the moons?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed not. We dance the Two Moons Dance in every hour. It is our delight."

The hairless scholar said, "You're not dancing. You're sitting by the fire. Tell me when you're going to dance, so I can join you."

And the Clan Mother said, "My daughter and I dance to the moons at this moment, but you cannot join us, for you do not have a tail. It is a sadness."

The hairless scholar gnawed his knuckle and said, "Very well then. I hear that you have curious beliefs about the moons. Tell me of them."

And the Clan Mother said, "As you wish. When Lorkhaj made a place for Nirni's children, the darkness in his heart made it also a prison. So his heart was cut out and buried deep in Nirni, and his body was hurled to the moons but could not pass them, for it did not know the First Secret. Thus is his body the Dead Moon in the Lunar Lattice. See it, just there?"

The hairless scholar peered at the sky and said, "I see no moons at all—Masser and Secunda are both new. What do you mean?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Hairless scholar, this one forgot again about your eyes." And she sighed, and her tail danced, and she shrugged. And she said, "It is a sadness."
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1435)
	Litter-Mates of Darkness
By Moon-Bishop Hunal

NEW:

To speak of the dark gambol of the dro-m'Athra.

WAX:

When true cats die, their souls are lifted by Khenarthi and flown to the Sands Behind the Stars, to play and prey until the Next Pounce. 

When bent cats die, their souls are dragged down by Namiira into the Dark Behind the World, to serve the Heart of Lorkhaj until their tails are straight. 

FULL:

These, then, become the Dancers in the Darks, where they whirl to no music but the beating of the Heart. Sometimes these dancers seep up through the cracks in Nirni to the moonlit world, and walk among us as if made of moonless night. Then we call them dro-m'Athra. And this is a name of fear.

For a true cat to see a dro-m'Athra do the Bent Dance is to feel his tail twitch in time, and feel the pull of the Darks. As each twitch pulls the true cat further from the moons-light, the cat's shadow grows longer and more bent. And if the tide of the Darks grows greater than the tide of the Lights, the true cat is lost, and becomes a bent cat. 

Then comes the true peril, for a dro-m'Athra can twist out a bent cat's soul, and send it through the cracks to the Darks. Once it hears the beating of the Heart it, too, will dance bent. 

It is hard to stop. One night all the villagers of Lohrn were found dancing the Bent Dance. Now we do not go there.

WANE:

To banish the dro-m'Athra, there are two ways: the Way of Jone and the Way of Jode.

Warriors use the Way of Jone, which is to unsheathe the claws and strike the darkness until it is no more. And this way is a good way, for everyone who is strong of heart and claw can use it.

Priests use the Way of Jode, which is to bathe the moonless dark in bright lunar light. And this way is a better way, for bent spirits thus banished do not return.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1436)
	Yours for the Taking!
By Catonius Libo, Aide-de-Camp to General Lavinia Axius

Freeborn Colovians! You are hereby called to Serve your Homeland—and in the process, serve Yourself, your Family and Heirs. 

EXTRAORDINARY NEWS

Be It Known that the region south of the River Strid, formerly known as Arenthia Vale of Valenwood, has been re-designated the South Weald of the Colovian Estates, as Decreed by the Count of Skingrad and Ratified by the Elder Council of the Empire of Cyrodiil. The Legion of the West Weald, under command of General Lavinia Axius, has been given the Honor of Annexing the South Weald and Securing its new Borders. 

OPPORTUNITIES IN THE WEST WEALD LEGION

Be It Further Known that, upon Cessation of Hostilities in the South Weald, members of the Occupying Legion will be Mustered Out and Granted Land—Farms for Soldiers, Estates for Officers. Previous Ownership of all said Lands has been declared Null and Void by the Elder Council. Current Squatters will be Deported or Indentured and put to Useful Labor on behalf of the New Owners.

GLORY, ADVENTURE, AND PRIZE MONEY

Serve in the South Weald and earn the Plaudits of a Grateful Colovia! Consider also that after Previous Conflicts, many freeborn Colovians were able to enter the Lower Nobility by virtue of the Copious Ransoms elicited from the Families of Important Prisoners. This may be the Best Chance for Advancement in this generation—don't miss out due to Fretting, Timidity, or Trivial Entanglements.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1437)
	A Looter's Paradise
By the Silver-Haired Shadow

You don't need to know my real name—not sure I remember it anymore, anyhow. My auntie left me a shack on a hill south of the border. Never thought about it much, until I lifted Hrol's Golden Girdle from the Temple of the One. Suddenly life got real complicated, and I decided it was time to go claim my inheritance.

Auntie—let's call her Auntie Alias, no point in telling you too much—was an Imperial Border Scout, part of the cohort stationed at Fort Sphinxmoth, in the hills between Elsweyr and northern Valenwood. In the late days of the Second Empire the job of the Border Scouts was to keep the quarrelsome locals in line so as not to interfere with trade. "Free trade, by Aless," auntie would say, opening another bottle of Surilie Farms and winking. "Lifeblood of the Empire!"

Now the Scouts couldn't stop every little cross-border vendetta, but they did prevent the Cats and the Runty Elves from engaging in wholesale slaughter, and kept the bandits off the road from Dune to Arenthia. Auntie liked the climate, so when she retired she bought this little plot, came down and put up her hut. It's bigger than it looks, by the way—goes way back into the hill, and you can bet auntie dug out a back door, just in case.

By the time I got here, one dark night in Sun's Dusk, with the wound in my thigh leaking blood again after that wild ride on the stolen horse, the Border Scouts were long gone, and the Dawnmead Marches had returned to their natural state: just one law shy of anarchy. And that one law was the Law of Revenge.

It was the Vinedusk Wood Elf tribe versus the Dakarn Khajiiti clan, and it was a near-continual war of cross-border raids and midnight murders. They took turns occupying the ruins of Fort Sphinxmoth, sending out bands to waylay merchant caravans, raid villages and towns, and pay off old scores. Neither side noticed me hiding in the old shack during daylight, and slipping from shadow to shadow around the Marches after dark. The place was a killing ground—I could hardly go five hundred paces without encountering a dead warrior, a half-empty cart, or a slain merchant. 

It was a looter's paradise. 

Ah, those were the good times. Too good to last, I suppose—eventually the Vinedusk bandits overreached and staged a raid on Arenthia itself, right about the time the Dakarn Cats tried to take over organized crime in Dune and the Thizzrini Arena. The respectable citizens on both sides of the border formed militias or hired mercenaries, swept the hills clean, and that was the end of brigandry in the Marches. The Vinedusk tribe actually reformed as a Bosmeri irregular unit, the "Vinedusk Rangers" (Ha!), while the surviving Dakarns became the nucleus of the Duneguard Outwalkers. The border settled back down, and the Lifeblood of the Empire resumed its flow.

Fortunately, I was there to recognize opportunity when I saw it coming down the road from Dune, laden with trade goods. By the next Fredas I was in Bravil, looking up a few of my old contacts. Half a season later it was me and the newly-dubbed Murkwater Gang who were occupying good old Fort Sphinxmoth, digging out the barracks, sharpening our blades, and repairing the old traps. 

The good times are back.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1438)
	The Eagle and the Cat
By Lord Gharesh-ri, Speaker for the Mane

A wife. A husband. A son or daughter. Mother or father, aunt or uncle: each of us has lost one or more of these. It has touched every family in Elsweyr, the dreadful epidemic, the terrible plague—the Knahaten Flu.

It started in Senchal, on Sweet Street in the Black Keirgo slums, among the skooma-struck. At first the city elders dismissed it as a toxin in the goods, but then it spread to Dagi's Pride and Squint-Eye, and was reported from the docks in Alabaster as well. 

And suddenly, it was everywhere: Torval, Orcrest, Dune, Corinthe, and all points in between. The Winds of Khenarthi bore the coughing and retching to every ear. We seemed to be witnessing the Death of Cats on Nirn.

Slowly, Elsweyr began to fight back against its doom. Clan Mother Mizaba-ko of Corinthe first identified how the flu spread from Khajiit to Khajiit. Rathuni-la Dawnwhisker, a Daughter of Azurah from Riverhold, distilled a sorghum-tea that mitigated the worst of the symptoms. Even I contributed, organizing the remnants of the Mane's Legion to maintain order and put this new knowledge to use. 

But it was not enough. Everywhere, Khajiit were dying, by the litter, by the pride, by the entire tribe. The Moon Bishops read the portents, and they were dire indeed.

Then, past all expectation, help arrived from an unforeseen direction: over the western waves came the Elves of Summerset, bringing physicians, healers, desperately needed supplies.

And one more thing: hope. Hope that Elsweyr would survive.

At first, many Cats were suspicious. Never before had the haughty High Elves helped the Khajiiti—why now? But their canonreeves passed among us, as if unafraid of the flu, and explained: the Altmer did it not from friendship, but from policy. We needed their help now, and they would need our help later. Invaders were coming to southwest Tamriel, they said, and the High Elves could not repulse them without Khajiiti claws at their side. 

To fight against mutual enemies—ah, that was a logic we Cat-Folk could understand. So we accepted the aid of the High Elves, and their sly cousins the Wood Elves, and gradually the Knahaten Flu began to recede. And when Queen Ayrenn of Alinor proposed the alliance treaty of the Aldmeri Dominion, we took plume in claw and signed it. 

Now, fellow Khajiiti, we have been through the forges of torment, and with our new allies, we emerge stronger than ever. We welcome the chance to test blade and edge against these invaders, to spill their blood and take their bright objects.

For now is the time of the Dominion.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1439)
	Elven Eyes, Elven Spies
By Zwinthodurr Roun-dar 

Spies walk among us. Across Elsweyr, in every street, in every village, around every campfire—we are watched. 

"But of course!" you say. "Our tribal elders and clan mothers watch over us always, in the name of Alkosh, Mara, and Azurah!"

And that is true. So they do. 

But there are Others. 

Others who watch our every move, who suspect us of "disloyalty," who can report us as unfaithful and treasonous. 

Report us? To who? To the officers of the Mane? 

Oh, no. Not to Cat-Folk at all. 

These watchers report only to the Elves. 

Admit it: you have heard their name. But only in whispers. And you dare not repeat it. 

They are … the Eyes of the Queen. 

The Eyes, who are beholden to no one but the tall and terrible Queen Ayrenn.

Her Eyes see everything, they say. But how, since Elves cannot go everywhere? Because, Khajiit, Elven gold can—and does.

Hush. You know it to be true. 

And because you are watched, your tail-dance droops ever-so-slightly, your ears stand a little less proud, and you look over your shoulder a little too often. 

Because who can say who has been bought, and who has not? Who might be sending reports about you—and what might they be saying? 

Where did that neighbor of yours go last Middas? Was it to receive new orders from the Eyes? Or was she taken away, perhaps to Alinor itself, and the dungeons beneath the Crystal Tower? 

Beware, Khajiit. Keep your whiskers alert.

This one is watched. And this one may not be permitted to warn you again.
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1440)
	Moon-Sugar for Glossy Fur? Yes!
By Rathuni-la Dawnwhisker, Daughter of Azurah

This one brings you good news, my cats and kittens, tigers and tigresses—especially for everyone who loves moon-sugar! And that's all of us, isn't it, my lion-hearts, because admit it: nothing makes our tails twitch like a moon-sugar-glazed sweet roll!

If you're like Rathuni, this one knows you were positively reeling last Sun's Dawn at Abbess Mizzi's song-paper, in which she reported that it's not just the vile drug skooma that's bad for you, but our beloved moon-sugar itself! She declared that over-consumption of the Queen of Sweets is responsible for anxiety, droop-ear, sudden weight gain, and even the panting quivers. Imagine!

Her song-paper spread panic across the kitchens of cat-kind, as we all tried to find substitutes for moon-sugar molasses and granule loaves. Prices of moon-sugar-cane plummeted, while sorghum and sweet-beets suddenly vanished from the markets! Personally, this one was beside herself when she was tapped to provide the sweetcake provender for the Riverhold Mid Year festival. Somehow, the petit-paws just weren't the same. So mortifying!

But I promised you good news, didn't I, litter-mates? And here it is: after simply months of alchemical research, generously sponsored by the Canefield Farmers' Alliance, this one is here to tell you of her complete inability to duplicate Abbess Mizzi's results. (One can only conclude that the abbess—who is getting on in her lives, poor dear—made an error in her calculations somewhere.) My research shows that consumption of moon-sugar in normal moderation does not generate any of the dire effects alleged in that scary Sun's Dawn song-paper. 

In fact—and here's the best part, though I fear the title of my song-paper has spoiled the surprise, hasn't it?—regular consumption of non-distilled moon-sugar derivatives is actually what gives a Khajiit the gloss in her fur! Yes, my lion-hearts: we can have the sweets we love, as well as shiny, split-end-free coats. (And no wonder my pelt was looking so dull lately!)

So there you have it, kitten darlings! Isn't it Rathuni-la who always brings you the catnip? You know it is, leopard-loves. This one will just leave you with a quick recipe for my clan mother's Moon-Sugar Biscuits. Here it is—and enjoy!

—	3 mugs moon-sugar

—	 mug of water

—	1 pat suet

—	 shifted flour

—	red wheat flour

Mix the dry ingredients together. Next slowly add the dry mix to the moon-sugar, mixing constantly.  Scoop out dough with a spoon and place on a hot rock or in a cooling oven until golden brown. Serves three (… or maybe just you!).
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1441)
	Master Zoaraym's Tale, Part 1
by Gi'Nanth

The Temple of Two-Moons Dance in Torval has for many hundreds of years been the finest training ground in all Tamriel for warriors of foot and fist. The masters teach students of all ages from all parts of Tamriel the most ancient techniques and the most modern variations, and many a former pupil has graduated to great fame. I myself trained there, and as a young child I remember asking my first master, Zoaraym, which former student he felt had best learned the lessons of the Temple.

"I was not a teacher when I met this man, but a student myself," he said, smiling in reminiscence, his great wrinkled face becoming even more like the withered fruit of the bathrum tree. "This was long ago, before your parents were born. For many years I had trained at the Temple, rising to study in more difficult and demanding classes taught by the wisest and most learned Masters of the Two-Moons Dance.

"Gi'Nanth, you will come to understand that the tempering of your body must attend the tempering of your mind, and there is a prescribed order of training we at the Temple have designed over the years in concordance with the way of Riddle'Thar. I had reached the highest level, where my power and skill were such that even by supernatural, magical means, few could ever best me in weaponless combat.

"There was a servant at the Temple at the time, a Dunmer a few years older than myself and those in my class. We had never noticed him but in passing over the years, for he would enter the training chambers quietly, clean for a few minutes' time, and leave without saying a word. Not that we would have listened if he spoke, so enwrapped were we in our exercises and lessons.

"When our last Master told some of us, myself included, that the time had come for us to leave the Temple or become teachers, there was a great festival of celebration. The Mane himself deigned to visit and observe our ceremony. As we were and are a temple of philosophy and combat, there were contests of debate and competitions in the Temple's war arena, not only among the elite few, but open to all students.

"On the first day of the festival, I was examining the gladiatorial roster to see who I would fight with first, when I heard a conversation behind me: the servants speaking to the archpriest of the Temple. It was the first time I heard the Dunmer's voice, and the first time I heard his name.

"'I understand you wish to rejoin your people's struggle in Morrowind, Taren,' the archpriest was saying. 'I am sorry to hear it. You have been an institution here for many, many years, and you will be missed. If there's anything I can do for you, please name it.'

"'Thank you for your kindness,' the Dunmer replied. 'I do have a request, but I fear you would be loath to grant it. Ever since I first came to the Temple, I have been watching the students learn, and practiced myself when my duties allowed for it. I know I am but a servant here, but I would be honored if you would allow me to compete in the war arena.'

"I stifled my gasp at the Mer's impertinence, to even suggest that he would be worthy to fight with those of us who had trained so hard. To my surprise, the archpriest agreed, adding the name Taren Omathan to the roster at the beginners' level. I was eager to whisper the news to my fellow elite students, but my first bout was scheduled to begin in a few minutes' time."
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1442)
	Master Zoaraym's Tale, Part 2
by Gi'Nanth

"I stifled my gasp at the Mer's impertinence, to even suggest that he would be worthy to fight with those of us who had trained so hard. To my surprise, the archpriest agreed, adding the name Taren Omathan to the roster at the beginners' level. I was eager to whisper the news to my fellow elite students, but my first bout was scheduled to begin in a few minutes' time.

"I fought eighteen competitions in a row, besting all. The crowd gathered in the arena knew of my prowess, and gave polite, unsurprised applause at the end of each fight. As much as I focused on my own battles, I could not help noticing that other competitions were receiving more and more attention in the arena. The spectators whispered among themselves, and more began drifting away to see something that was evidently more spectacular and unusual than my unbroken string of victories.

"One of the most important lessons we teach from the Two-Moons Dance is the lesson of rejecting one's vanity. I understood then the importance of achieving a personal synchronicity with one's body and mind, of rebuffing outside influences of no importance, but I admit I had not accepted the lesson in my heart. I knew I was good, but my pride was hurt.

"It came down to a contest of champions, and I was one of the two. When I saw who the other fighter would be, my mood turned from one of wounded dignity to complete disbelief. My adversary was the servant, Taren.

"It must be a joke, or some final philosophical test, I reasoned. Then I looked into the crowd, and saw anticipation of a great battle to come in every eye. We gave one another the sign of respect, I stiffly and he with great elegance and modesty. The fight began.

"Initially, I sought to end it quickly, still thinking that he was unworthy to be cleaning the arena, let alone fighting in it. In retrospect, I was being illogical, as I must have known he had bested as many students as I had to reach that final level. He offered simple counterblows to my attacks, and responded in kind. His style was expansive, encompassing sophisticated arcane foot play one moment and simple jabs and kicks the next. I tried assailments intended to dazzle, but his face never showed either fear or contempt of my abilities.

"The fight lasted a long time. I don't recall when I realized I was destined to lose, but when it ended, I was not surprised by the outcome. With a sense of unusual and true modesty, I bowed to him. But I could not resist asking him as we left the arena to the sound of thunderous applause how he had so secretly grown to become a Master.

"'I never had a choice to rise in the Temple,' Taren replied. 'Every day, I cleaned the training chambers of the elite classes and then the beginners'. So you see, I never had the misfortune to forget those early mistakes, lessons, and techniques while observing and learning the ways of the Masters.'

"He left Torval early the next morning to return to his homeland, and I never saw him again, though I've heard people say that he's become a priest and a teacher. I became a teacher as well, for children just beginning their training in the Two-Moons, as well as the elite. And I make certain to bring my best pupils to see the how the unlearned fight, so that they might never forget."
		

		Part of the Reaper's March Lore collection (#1443)
	Cohort Briefing: Arenthia
By Centurion Iunius Ocella

This unit will begin occupation of Arenthia within a fortnight. To ensure our success in the operation, every soldier needs some knowledge of the city and its civilians. Go in unprepared, and you'll end up robbed blind or stuck full of Wood Elf arrows without knowing how or why. Having spent some years guarding caravans in transit from Arenthia to Skingrad, I can provide the information you need to avoid personal harm and unnecessary provocation of the citizenry.

Don't be lulled into complacency by the familiar buildings; this city is nothing like home. Though some Colovian traders from north of the River Strid have settled here, they're outnumbered by the Wood Elves from the south and the Khajiit who roam in from the eastern savannas. In the past, the city's allegiance has changed as often as the wind, but the flimsy Khajiiti hovels and the Elves' temporary tree-shaping don't endure like the good Colovian stone from which most of the lasting structures are built.

You'll encounter plenty of Wood Elves and Khajiit, so a general awareness of their customs and practices will prove useful. Wood Elves become unreasonably aggressive if they believe a plant or tree is in danger. If any trees need to be cleared, obtain permission from your superior and assemble an armed squad. Also, be aware that Wood Elves are fond of indulging in drink, and their normally irreverent tongues become even worse when soaked. A word of advice: do not engage in drinking contests with these Elves, no matter how they taunt you.

Khajiit make up a sizable portion of the population, though few hold permanent residence here (or anywhere). These moon-worshipers drift in and out in bands, bringing their sugary liquors and garish fabrics to market. Exercise caution if you are approached by one of the pleasure-partners that often travel with these caravans. They are invariably thieves, and by the time you realize you've been picked clean, they'll be halfway back to Dune.

On a related note, we've caught wind that a ring of skooma smugglers may be operating out of the city's shamefully disused Temple of the Divines. This is an affront to the Divines and will be investigated once our hold is established. We will clear out the scum if the rumors prove true, but there is to be absolutely no looting of the Temple. In time, we will restore it to its rightful glory.

Your job is to make certain that our grip on Arenthia is ironclad. Enforce martial law and keep the peace as much as possible, but be swift to quell any potential disturbance. Remember, no culture can claim "traditional" ownership of this city; it belongs to the banner with the most troops on the ground, and that's going to be ours.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1444)
	Notice to Authorities
TO THE AUTHORITIES FROM ANY GOVERNING BODY:

The residents and visitors of Hadran's Caravan reject your stifling societal rules as FREE PEOPLE.

Those who attempt to remove the citizens of this Caravan face DIRE CONSEQUENCES for their illegal and immoral actions.

Reaper's March is a free land for all races and species.  We spit upon the cronies of the Mane, the mind-slaves of the so-called gods. We reject the oppressive boot of ANY AND ALL Kings, Queens, Emperors, Empresses, alliances, and authoritarians!

This land belongs not to the few, but the many!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1445)
	Spikeball Handbill
SPIKEBALL! THE PHENOMENON THAT'S SWEEPING TAMRIEL!

This action-packed, exciting new game is sure to become the Next Big Betting Sport!

SEE the runners speed around the track with precision and abandon!

FEEL THE PAIN as competitors collapse to their knees in pain!

HEAR the hilarious sound of a spikeball striking a runner in the head!

And because runners are people, there is SIMPLY NO WAY anyone can cheat! No pliable wild monsters! No thoroughbred lizards or monkeys!  Spikeball is the betting sport of the future!

See it Today! At Hadran's Caravan!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1446)
	Azum's Journal
Hadran only brought me on because he wanted to expand his "side businesses." My time in Orcrest gave me all the background I needed to run his games for him. Now, my "sideshows" are making more money than his damned slave-trade!

It's not that I care about the meat. I don't. If you're dumb enough to get caught by Hadran, you're dumb enough to be sold.

But that Elf harpy is reaching her talons further into Elsweyr every day. A little bird just told me she's sent her damned Eyes into Dawnmead, sniffing around after Hadran, Ren-dro, Rakhad, and some of the other movers. She actually thinks she rules out here, the cow. 

Fine, let her rule. And let Hadran rot. If I could get rid of him, I'd happily shut down the slave blocks. Like she would care about a few rigged games when Ren-dro is running military secrets out of Pa'alat.

Hah! 

Just need to find the right dupe to put a blade in that old cat's back. Then the whole operation will be mine.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1447)
	Journal of Bravam Lythandas
12th First Seed

The experiments continue to progress. I have imposed several persistent illusions on the subject's mind, though he must still wear the amulet. It was simple to convince him that his own soul was tied to it and that its removal would mean immediate death.

I do not have complete control of the illusions yet; when I tried to convince him the shed was made of stone instead of wood, he saw it as made of sweetmeats and I had to prevent him from attempting to eat it. The individual's own predispositions still have some undesired influence.

17th Second Seed

Finally! I solved two problems that have been stalling my work with one elegant solution. With the exact combination of domination spells I have created, I now have total control over the hallucinations (along with persistence) without the need for costly enchantments.

This is a timely find, as the subject recently indicated that removal of the amulet might be preferable to the current stages of the experiment. I can now begin looking for additional subjects.

5th Mid Year

The three that inhabit my basement are convinced that they live in a palace. They have begun to take on the aspect of nobles, which is their own conceit—I have not attempted to alter their perceptions of themselves. This shared illusion has held for two weeks and shows no sign of breaking down under prolonged scrutiny, as the others had.

I remain hesitant to subject myself to these illusions yet, though I am fairly confident I'd be able to extract myself. Testing has not revealed any of the distortions I'd hoped to observe in the nature of local reality. Perhaps more subjects are needed.

10th Sun's Height

Another interesting development occurred today. I introduced the notion that a werewolf would rampage through the palace to just one of the subjects, out of range of the others. When I returned him and he awoke, it was not he who first spotted the werewolf at all, but another subject!

Each seemed to perceive the beast. I shall have to test this further—is the illusion becoming its own reality, or have I accidentally connected them in some way? Could the false world bleed through? How exciting! 

23rd Sun's Height

I am losing control. It is almost as if some outside force is interfering; I can feel a strange undercurrent in the spells I have woven, resistance in the minds of the subjects. They are becoming unintelligible and difficult to work with.

One sits in the corner, rocking back and forth and muttering prayers to Dibella, of all things. Another has injured herself horribly and will need to be removed. Thus far, I had not been concerned for the soundness of their minds. What could be causing this?

2nd Last Seed

To my great surprise, everything in the basement was gone this morning—the simple furnishings, supplies, and, most upsettingly, the subjects. The basement walls, ceiling, and floor are now completely covered with a mural depicting the grand chamber of a palace.

The subjects are nowhere to be seen, and strangest of all are the set of paints and single brush found lying in the corner. Some trickery and tampering has clearly taken place. I shall have to investigate further.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1448)
	Masterwork of the Inducer
Much of the text from Eldhaal the Inducer's account is unreadable and cannot be salvaged, like so many Ayleid records. I have translated the intact excerpts to the best of my ability, but have had to infer the meaning of some unclear terms.

In truth, I am relieved that no more can be read. The original, with its grotesque and unnerving diagrams, will be sent back for preservation. I pray I will be permitted to leave this place soon.

"…pliability of its material, so vital and so obedient to my tools. It was a subject yearning for ascent to the ultimate purpose of its form. A vision of the shape and the (method?) took me immediately and I stilled the form; I stopped its sight and speech and stood it in the working-space. I ordered the servants to stay and bear witness to a Perfect Example and began the dedication rituals."

"And to it I sang and hummed and whispered; the cage of its heart gave assent and unfurled with no splintering, no cracking—the life's rhythm persisting. I ordered fine silver chains. Into each link I inscribed the hundred words for bliss, and I wrapped the cage and trunk all round to best display the organ at work."

"Such joy! It must have been that Blood-Made-Pleasure watched the work, guided my movements. A new (inspiration?) came upon me, and fervidly I grasped the sight-orbs between the implements…"

"I blessed it with wings of Welkynd, gently grafted and obtained at great expense. I extended its blood-paths, a delicate web within shining light. Eight stars for its crown, eight rubies at its feet, splayed forearms reaching for Aetherius. It became real when I gave it the name: Messenger Beast Redeemed."
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1449)
	Ritual of Resonance
The Soul Shriven shriek and writhe in Coldharbour. The Harvester of Souls digests them, makes them mutter and despair. They whisper their secrets to the dead winds of Oblivion, and those with ears attuned will know them and use them.

Gather the implements:

A steel needle, nightshade, frost salts

The crushed bone of a sacrifice

Splintered tooth of a daedroth

Inscribe the circle: 

The names and the symbols. Sower of Strife. Lord of Brutality. Corner of the House of Troubles.

Create the tool:

Purify the needle over a fire of nightshade. Cool it in frost salts. Place upon it an enchantment of sharpness and one of weak shock.

Prepare the body: 

Create a draught of bone and tooth and hold it in the mouth. Inscribe the names and symbols on the flesh of the palms.

Open the gate:

Place the needle in the left ear's entrance. Insert so slowly as barely to move. Worldly sounds make way for the cries and secret dreams of the slaves in Coldharbour.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1450)
	Forged Letter From "Zali"
Sweet Maormer Prince,

My cheeks grow warm thinking of you, but our love cannot be! I'll wait where you saw me last. Hurry, before I change my mind!

— Zali
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1451)
	Moon-Sugar in the March
… and despite the dry conditions, moon-sugar thrives in Reaper's March. The ancient art of moon-sugar farming comes primarily down to irrigation, irrigation, irrigation. Ditches, wells, even changing the courses of rivers have made the difference in some village crops. And of course, collected rainwater is the life's-blood of March farming.

Below, this author shall walk you through the steps required to begin construction of a rainwater cistern, or "johad" as the Redguards call them. These seemingly simple ….
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1452)
	Tales of the Two-Moons Path Vol. 3
Taziako looked about her, confused. Her grandfather had been there just the moment before, and now … now she stood in the bedroom of her childhood. The rich tapestries clung to the walls, warming the wooden slats, and the sweet smell of her mother's cooking filled the air.

Tazzie ran to the door, opening her mouth to call out in greeting, and then stopped when she realized she stood once again in the Temple of the Dance. The old moonspeaker nodded at her gravely, and intoned, "What Jone and Jode have shown you is for you alone. Consider it, and remember it always."
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1453)
	Enak-do's Ledger
Shuzura . . . . . . .  Owed, 20 coin 

(Bet from Thizzrini trip.)

Ezzag . . . . . . .  Owed, 27 coin

(Thizzrini trip)

Milk Eyes. . . . . . .  Owe, 30 coin

(Cards)

Sanat-do . . . . . . .  Owed, 40 coin

(Hadran's, Spikeball race bet)

Hizir-dar . . . . . . .  Owe, 34 coin

(Investments)

Zabashti . . . . . . .  Owe, 40 coin

(Investments)

Kubani . . . . . . .  Owe, 23 coin

(Investments)

Rahazi . . . . . . .  Owe, 11 coin

(Investments)

Rakhad . . . . . . .  Owe, 250 coin

(Investments)

— Mathal, make sure you bring any coin you get from your next trip directly to Rakhad. He's quickly running out of patience.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1454)
	Pay Up, Enak
Enak-do,

This is the fifth time I've been by your house. I saw the other notes stuffed in that crate. You need to pay up and you need to pay up now. You and your nephew are in some serious trouble.

If it were up to me, I'd let you slide some. We've been friendly for years, you know? But my investors in Pa'alat, my suppliers in Dune, they require a firm hand. They have to know their investment is being looked after.

Pay up by the end of the week, or your family will be grieving another tragic loss.

— Rakhad
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1455)
	Unwelcome Visitors
We assume the first Anchor Chain is cut. Apply pressure to Mother Tiger to denounce the Unwelcome Visitors.

We observe Unwelcome Visitors recovering from the storm. Cut the second Anchor Chain immediately.

Watchful Serpent remains offshore. At the signal, we shall prepare the Tempest.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1456)
	Distribution Notes
— Need to get more product moving toward Dune. High demand needs high supply.

— Hadran's last shipment went out faster than expected. He's due for a resupply.

— Opened negotiations with Ren-dro out of Pa'alat to discuss distribution overseas. He's sure assets in the Pact and Covenant would be open to extending the network.

— Hosted former Heritance soldiers, talked distribution in Auridon. Still have deep roots in communities, can offer low-level buy-in.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1457)
	Cub Tales
For my brother Enak-do on his tenth birthday. 

Your brother, Ezzag.

Once, in the long-ago time, the people were content to live in the forests and hunt on the plains. They fed and ate and mated, and it was good … but it was also simple. The people saw the two-legs, sometimes, and knew they could do so much more if they could reach the skies. 

Then, one day, a wise old monk came to the people and said her name was Azurah. She had been watching the people, she said, and had decided to give them a gift. A special kind of candy, she said ….
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1458)
	Simple Illusion Magic
A beginner's guide to illusion magic, as prepared by Ninaleon Sightbinder the First!

CHAPTER I : Sight

CHAPTER II : Sound

CHAPTER III : Smells and Tastes

CHAPTER IV : Touch

CHAPTER V : Multi-Sensory Mastery

CHAPTER VI : Simulating People

CHAPTER VII : Light That Fights

CHAPTER VIII : Beginner's Rituals (Do Not Perform Without Supervision)

- - - - - - - - - - - -

VIII.d: Ritual Life Force Binding For Sustained Illusionary Projection: Completion

To end the ritual, simply tune each crystal in turn. The colors of the lights to either side of the crystal will combine to create a new color within. Red and Yellow into Orange, and so on. A sound will also be heard when you have it right. 

Beware. Without maintenance of the spell-lattice, the ritualist can quickly find her life energies consumed in the illusionary suspension she has created.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1459)
	An Unexpected Defense
The thief waited in the darkest corner of the common room, watching. Few paid heed to him; a petty noble made eye contact with him for a moment, but he was not the man the thief was seeking. After a time, a man dressed as an unobtrusive merchant approached the thief and slipped him a rolled sheet of parchment. With easy grace he slipped the parchment up his shirtsleeve, and with a slight nod to the man he left the tavern. 

By the light of Secunda he unrolled the scroll and looked it over. On the yellowing page was sketched the floor plan of a sturdy tower, showing all of the entrances and exits as well as marking the location of his target, a small chest hidden on the highest level of the tower. As he strolled out of town a lady of the evening called to him, but he had other treasures on his mind.

The tower stood tall and dark, looming grimly above the surrounding trees. It did not take the thief long to scale the outside of the tower, to one of the upper windows that he intended to use as his means of entrance. He slipped easily through the window and crouched there for a moment in the darkness, listening. Then suddenly the entire room was alight with fire—bolts of flame streaming directly at him. "Sheogorath's teeth!" he cursed as he dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the bolts of fire. He hadn't been expecting a mage.
		

Failed at /books/1460		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1461)
	Oblan's Letter
My dear, lucky friend Oblan,

Your captain's patriotic foolishness has drawn you the best possible assignment! Imagine, "scouting" for the navy around <<1>>! You'll hit the sands long before any of those officious marine thugs have time to look around.

I'm sure you know, most of my supplies come from KR. Since you don't have to pay "shipping fees," you old sea-cat, I expect you to cut me a deal next time you're in H. I'll have a new batch waiting for you, so be sure to get me my raw materials.

Better keep this short—I hear you're sailing with the tides. Best of luck and a safe voyage to you!

— K
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1462)
	Order of Battle (partial)
—frigates, four brigandines, and twelve sloops.

In addition, the fleet will be comprised of sixteen vessels of the Queen's Own Navy: privateers and merchant marine serving primarily as naval support. These ships are under the command of <<1>>, officer in charge of logistics, with the following exceptions:

—Phynaster's Promise is designated as a courier vessel under direct control of the Admiral of the Fleet. Its primary duty is to relay dispatches between the other ships until our initial landing. At need, she can also be used as a fast transport for the ambassadorial contingent. She is not to be separated from the fleet needlessly, as the Promise is an emergency contact vessel with the continent should other communication methods prove ineffective.

—The privateer sloop the Prowler is to be considered a vessel of independent command. While it is carrying cargo for <<2>>, its primary purpose is to serve as an independent scout vessel. The Prowler's crew does not know of this arrangement, considering themselves to be signed on in service to the Queen's Own like any other vessel. However, <<3>> has separate orders which she will reveal should the need—
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1463)
	Transmutation Potion Recipe
Eleven drops of the tincture? No, no, no. Seven. Seven drops. No more, no less.

Do not oversaturate the paste with tincture. 

I need more ground pearl powder. Gadris had some. I need to borrow it. It's for a good cause, but I wish he did not get so cross. Always going on about not wasting time or ingredients. His middle name must be Tightwad.

Odd that scathecraw dust had the effect it did, but this finding is very useful. Very useful, indeed. Never knew the dried leaves made such a fine powder. Hadn't intended for the leaves to dry out, though. Just another of those useful accidents that make me a brilliant alchemist!

Scathecraw hard to come by here. Possible substitutes need to be investigated. 

Dried mort flesh is not a good substitute. Pity. Lots of that around here. Poor deformed creatures. I would feel more pity for them if they weren't trying to kill us.

So, seven drops of pearl tincture. Three precise pinches of dried scathecraw. One dram of purified water. Dried blood.

You never know when you might need a potion to make you small!
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1464)
	Cardia's Letter to Father
Dearest Father, 

I hope you can understand—Darius is just so handsome and kind! He's not like the other Sphinxmoth Bandits. He just wants to save up enough to buy a farm for the two of us. Please understand why I had to go with him. And please, I beg you, father—don't try to follow us. These are dangerous people and I don't want you to get hurt. 

Your Loving Daughter, 

Cardia

P.S. I'm sorry about taking mother's ring, but Darius didn't have enough money to buy an engagement ring.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1465)
	Exegesis of Merid-Nunda
By Phrastus of Elinhir

Truly, the Tract of Merid-Nunda is one of the strangest and least understood works of mythohistory that has come down to us from the early First Era. It exists only in partial manuscript form, a single copy of which resides in the library of the Arcane University at the Imperial City. (Or at least it did, though since the Mages Guild was blamed for the disappearance of the Emperor Varen and driven out of Cyrodiil, I don't know what has become of their once-admirable library.) 

Fortunately, I was granted an opportunity to study the noted Tract in detail while the Guild was still in possession of it, and made a personal copy for myself so I could continue to unravel its mysteries once I'd returned to Elinhir. 

The problem of understanding the Tract of Merid-Nunda is twofold: First, the extant document is clearly part of a larger work, drawn from seemingly somewhere in the middle, and without the preceding and following portions of the work we have little context for the part that remains. Second, the Tract is written in a peculiar argot that employs Ayleid phrases in a late Nedic syntax, including many words of unknown origin that don't appear in any other source. 

However, working outward from fragments previously translated by Wenegrus Monhana and Herminia Cinna, I believe I can shed some new light on certain key passages in this mysterious manuscript. Our format shall be to provide the translation of each passage, followed by my interpretation of its meaning.

"… were known as the Nine Coruscations, who followed the parabolas that led away from Magnus. Merid-Nunda was of these Sisters, as was Mnemo-Li, as was Xero-Lyg, as was …."

This appears to identify the "Daedric Prince" Meridia with the so-called Star-Orphans, those Anuic ur-entities that separated from Magnus when that Divine withdrew from the creation of the Aurbis. The best-known of these Star-Orphans is probably Mnemoli the Blue Star, who is associated with un-time events, and was said to be visible even in the daytime sky at the time of the Dragon Break. 

"… thus we call upon Cenedelin to bind the earth, as we speak to Merid-Nunda regarding the light, for she is the scintilla that fears not darkness, and swims the waves of pull and spin …."

For the Ayleids, of course, Light was one of the four elements of creation, and this passage seems to confirm that Meridia was the personification of Light to the Wild Elves. Though I am certain of this passage's translation, I confess the meaning of the final phrases eludes me.

The next passage was quite difficult, but its translation adds an entirely new episode to our accounts of the Dawn Era:

"The Lords of the Chaos-Realms chided Merid-Nunda for her trespass and bade her return to Aurbis, claiming all existing spheres as their own. But Merid-Nunda formed of her substance a great drag-lens, and the light of Magnus was bent thereby. The rays [carved? focused?] a new sphere from the chaos, which Merid-Nunda, [laughing? sparkling?], did claim for her own."

This appears to recount the origin of the Colored Rooms, as Meridia's Oblivion realm is known, seemingly formed directly out of the stuff of chaos by an act of divine will. 

And finally:

"… thus does Merid-Nunda [ride? slide?] across the rainbow road from end to end, at one end stretching the dragon, at the other end compressing him …."

A curious passage indeed. The "dragon," of course, traditionally refers to the Divine we know as Akatosh, the God of Time. This seems to suggest that by traveling the "rainbow road" (a reference to the prismatic refraction of light?), Meridia can in some sense alter the rate at which time flows forward. 

Altering the "speed" of time? Is this merely an absurd conceit of the late Ayleid sorcerer-priests, or a genuine insight into the nature of one of the least-understood Daedric Princes? 

Who can say?
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1466)
	The Whithering of Delodiil
(Author Unknown)

There was, in those days, a city in the Heartland, Delodiil by name. And it was a city of pleasant promenades, of learned scholars, of meticulous artisans, and of lissome dancers. And also did Delodiil have warriors fierce and proud, who protected the promenades, and the scholars, and the artisans, and the dancers. And though the warriors were few, they were bold.

Now the people of Delodiil worshiped many gods, for they were devout and held all the Divines in reverence. But above all others they did venerate the Lady of Light, building for Merid-Nunda a chapel of colored rays and beams, which was for glory like a piece of Aetherius brought down to the mortal world. And the people of Delodiil were proud thereon.

But across the valley was another city, Abagarlas, which was to the darkness as Delodiil was to the light. Now Abagarlas had as many citizens as Delodiil, but few were dancers, artisans, and scholars, because most were warriors fierce and proud. These warriors were lended to other states and cities for the making of war in return for wealth. And thus did Abagarlas, in its own way, prosper.

Now the King of Abagarlas saw the chapel of lights that was the pride of Delodiil, and he said, "Is not Abagarlas as great a city as Delodiil? We shall have a great chapel of our own." And he decreed that much of the wealth of Abagarlas be spent in the building of a shrine to his own patron Divine, who was the Lord Mola Gbal. And the people of Abagarlas reared up a vast shrine to Mola Gbal, but they were but rude soldiers rather than artisans, and the shrine was misshapen, ill-colored, and burdensome to look upon. But it was, nonetheless, larger than Delodiil's chapel of lights, and thus the King of Abagarlas boasted that his city was greater therefore than Delodiil. But the people of Delodiil evinced no dismay, and went about their business as before. 

And this unconcern of the Delodiils ate a hole into the heart of the King of Abagarlas, and he was vexed unto madness. He sent soldiers to profane the small shrine to Merid-Nunda in Abagarlas, and then went to his vast shrine to Mola Gbal, where he swore a mighty oath. And slaying a family of visiting Delodiils on the altar, the King vowed that he would gather his army, march across the valley, and capture all the Delodiils, sacrificing them to Mola Gbal within the chapel of lights. 

And the King of Abagarlas mustered all his soldiers, and on a night in which the skies were lit by a furious racing aurora, he marched them across the valley to Delodiil. But when the King and his army arrived they found the land empty, for the city of Delodiil was gone, unto every brick! 

And the King thought he heard laughter in the lights in the skies, mirth that turned to shrieks of fear that came, not from above, but from back across the valley. In haste the King marched his soldiers back to his city, but when they arrived at Abagarlas, they found it utterly destroyed as if by scorching light. And of the families of the soldiers and the King, nothing could be found but their shadows burnt into the walls of the city. 

Thus Abagarlas. But of the fate of Delodiil, nothing more was known.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1467)
	Chaotic Creatia: The Azure Plasm
By Doctor Rhythandius

As a Doctor of Transliminal Mythomysticism, I have long been interested in the soul/body problem, the reformation of the Daedric body post-banishment, and the formation of the body around the essence commonly known as the "vestige." Since our enforced relocation to Coldharbour, courtesy of Our Luminous Lady, I have had considerable opportunity to observe these processes first-hand, and am now in a position to confirm many hypotheses that, upon Mundus, were fated to remain mere conjecture. 

It has long been understood that a Daedra, who lacks the Anuic animus known as the "soul," is not killed when its body is destroyed. A Daedra slain upon Mundus is merely "banished" back to its plane of origin, where its morphotype, or "vestige," gradually forms a new body, so that eventually the Daedra lives again. (This happens as well when a Daedra is slain in its native Oblivion.)

Furthermore, we have long known from the Daedra themselves that their bodies are formed from the very stuff of chaos, the "creatia" of Oblivion, a shapeless but energetic material that accretes around a vestige until it conforms to the morphotype's inherent pattern. 

Back on Mundus I had naively envisioned this creatia as some sort of misty, amorphous material swirling in a void somewhere. After our arrival in Coldharbour, it was some time before I realized that its ubiquitous pools of blue slime, the substance we've come to call "Azure Plasm," was in fact the form that creatia takes upon this plane. By extension, I reasoned that chaotic creatia takes a different but planar-appropriate form in every realm of Oblivion—and this theory was later confirmed for me by the rogue Xivilai known as the Sojourner, who has had direct experience of numerous planes of existence. 

In fact, it was the Sojourner who first introduced me to one of those secret grottoes where one can observe the process of plasm-accretion in action. (To find such grottoes, where Daedra are "born," it is necessary only to observe the slow flow of the Azure Plasm and follow it to its destination—for plasm-accretion causes a slow drain on adjacent pools.) It was fascinating to watch a vestige gradually absorbing Azure Plasm and converting it from the general to specific, so that over time it slowly took on the size and shape of a hulking, reptilian daedroth. 

Then there are the poor slaves known as the Soul Shriven. Each is a mortal kidnaped from Mundus at the moment of death, his or her soul stolen by Molag Bal for some unthinkable purpose, and given in exchange the vestige that enables him or her to form a counterfeit body here in Coldharbour. But they are not native to Oblivion, so a Soul Shriven's body is a sad imitation of the body worn in life, suffering rapid wear and decay until it dies—a death that is no liberation, for its vestige only forms a body once again, over and over, ad infinitum ….

Such are the facts. What follows is speculation, born of conversations with the Sojourner during his infrequent and unpredictable visits. His theory is that the Soul Shriven's bodies are flawed because they have lost the focusing principle of their Anuic souls, so their vestiges are imperfect patterns. I concurred that this was likely, and then proposed the theoretical possibility of a Soul Shriven who, despite having lost his or her soul, possessed some other intrinsic Anuic aspect. This shall-we-say "paragon" Soul Shriven would form an unflawed body in Coldharbour that was a perfect duplicate of the body worn in Mundus. In fact, if this paragon bore a sufficiently high Anuic valence, upon contact with Padomaic creatia its body would form almost instantaneously. 

The Sojourner scoffed at my theory, but seemed taken with the idea nonetheless. He went on to speculate that if such a thing were possible, it would probably occur in a situation where the Mundus was in existential jeopardy. In that case the Heart of Nirn would spontaneously generate such "paragon" individuals as a way of defending itself from destruction, in a manner analogous to the way the mortal body fights off infection. 

Ah, Sojourner—how I miss your stimulating conversation. Such flights of fantasy! And yet, given the wonders I've seen in my prolonged existence upon this plane, is anything really impossible?
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1468)
	I was Summoned by a Mortal
By Kynval Zzedenkathik of Clan Deathbringer

For as long as I can remember—and like all Dremora my memory is keen, especially for grievances—I have faithfully served the officers of my clan, and through them, My Lord Molag Bal. And yet not always: for once, to my shame, I was compelled to serve another. 

I was on guard duty at the Endless Stair, an assignment I always enjoy, for I can mock and torment the passing Soul Shriven without being held responsible for them meeting their quotas. Leaping out from behind a claw-pillar while shouting, "There you are, weakling!" just never loses its appeal.

I was lurking behind a Dark Anchor chain link, preparing to terrify an approaching Soul Shriven by suddenly knocking her down and sneering, "No match at all," when I suddenly felt a strange tingling all over, from my horns down to my toes. I grew dizzy as the plane spun around me, nearly fell into a pool of blue plasm, and then suddenly felt myself hurled into an endless black void. 

I wasn't alarmed at first, because who hasn't been hurled into an endless black void? It wasn't until I began to materialize at my destination and got a taste of the air that I had my first misgivings. "I smell … weakness," I said to myself—and I couldn't have been more right. 

It was then that I first heard the voice of my Conjurer as he said, "Ah, this one looks fairly robust," and the full horror of my situation broke upon me. For I had been summoned to do the bidding … of a mortal. 

I turned, aghast, to see who had dared summon me across the infinities to Nirn, and found myself faced with a tall Elf of Summerset. Oh, I recognized the type: I'd abused more than a few Altmeri Soul Shriven in my time, and with gusto, for they evince a haughty arrogance entirely inappropriate in mere mortals. This one gave me a brief, appraising look, and then turned away, saying, "Follow and fight. There are Worm Cultists that need slaying."

Worm Cultists. Can you imagine the ignominy, fellow kyn? Not only had I been conjured away from my duty by one of the hated Elven mortals, but I must serve him by slaying the minions of Mannimarco, our Dread Lord's lieutenant and viceroy-to-be! I tried to resist, flexing my indomitable will, but the mortal mage's binding spell was too strong—all I could do was say, "No one escapes!" and follow him past a pair of torches into a subterranean maze of tunnels. 

"You serve the great Vanus Galerion, Dremora," my Conjurer announced, quite unnecessarily—for what need had I to know the name of my slavemaster? But then I reconsidered, and mentally added his name to that long list each of us keeps: the list labeled, "Vengeance."

I followed, not deigning to crouch when my Conjurer hunched over to sneak, merely glaring at him and thinking, "I will feast upon your heart." In truth, however, it was as well that I had this Elf Vanus to follow, for the tunnels were many and twisting, and though we Dremora are fearless, relentless, and unparalleled among warriors throughout Oblivion, our sense of direction is rather poor. When doing courier duty, I've been known to lose my way right in the middle of the Moonless Walk and wind up back at the Lightless Oubliette where I started. 

In time this Vanus began to pause frequently, listening, which only increased my irritation and impatience. Finally he stopped, with a "Shh!" to me—which was completely unfair, as I hadn't said a word. But I realized why he'd stopped when I suddenly heard human speech from the tunnel ahead. Hesitating nary an instant, I drew my greatsword and rushed forward, crying "A challenger is near!" The Elf cursed and followed, but he had only himself to blame—I was following his orders exactly. 

The next minute passed in the red fury that all true Dremora feel when they enter battle. But my usual enjoyment of bloody slaughter was tainted by the knowledge that I was killing those my Dread Lord would prefer I didn't, and frankly, that just ruined the whole experience for me. As I lopped off the limbs and heads of the Worm Cultists, I was aware of the energies of the Elf's powerful magics crackling past me, incinerating the more distant enemies, but I was too mortified to enjoy the orgy of destruction. The Elf came striding up as I subdivided the final Worm Anchorite, gloating, "So much for them. Take that, Mannimarco!" 

"There could be no other end," I replied sourly, then felt the strange tingling again as the conjuration that had brought me to Nirn began to weaken. As the bonds dissolved I took one menacing step toward the Elf, but then the plane spun around me again, and it was back into the endless black void. 

When I came to my senses I was lying in a pool of turquoise slime, looking up at the smiling face of my superior, Kynreeve Xalxorkig. "So, Zzedenkathik," he snarled, "straying from your post when on duty, eh? It's the scathe-rings for you, my lad!"

"But, Kynreeve," I cried, leaping to attention, "I couldn't help it! I was conjured, summoned to Nirn—by a mortal!"

Xalxorkig smiled even wider. "And that'll be an extra shift scathing for telling such a hornless lie. Now march, Zzedenkathik," he shouted, thumping me with his truncheon. "Left, right, left, right, left, right …."

I hate it when Xalxorkig smiles. Kynreeve or not, his name's going on my list.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1469)
	A Life of Strife and Struggle
Notes for the personal memoirs of King Laloriaran Dynar, "Last King of the Ayleids"

Structure: ten chapters as traditional, one for each of the Ten Ancestors

Chapter One: Struggles of the Late Ayleid Period (263-331)

—	My father humiliated by the Empress

—	Nenalata as a vassal-state to the Empire of Cyrodiil

—	Wrenching transition to a slave-less economy

—	Forced adoption of Alessia's Eight Divines

—	I don the Crown of Nenalata

—	Rising sense of futility and doom

Chapter Two: Alessian Order, Ayleid Disorder (332-371)

—	Coup d'Etat in the Imperial City

—	I swear fealty to the Emperor

—	Theocracy in Cyrodiil

—	The Ayleid Pogrom

—	The vassal-states dwindle

—	Nenalata stands alone

Chapter Three: Tears for Lost Nenalata (372-374)

—	Ultimatum from the Emperor

—	Debate with the Intransigents

—	Last hours in Nenalata

—	The turbulent trek from Cyrodiil

—	News of the massacre of the Intransigents

—	Nibbled to death by Goblins

Chapter Four: Refugees on the Bjoulsae (375-452)

—	Welcomed by the Direnni

—	Displacing the Orcs, founding a city

—	Bisnensel-by-the-Lake

—	Detente with the Bretons, armistice with the Orcs

—	Disturbing news from Cyrodiil

Chapter Five: Menace of the Primeval Seekers (453-460)

—	The pernicious cult of Hermaeus Mora

—	Strange rites, persistent visions

—	High Priest Uluscant asserts his authority

—	Murder in the night

—	Flight of the royal family

Chapter Six: Sanctuary Among the Direnni (461-477)

—	Balfiera Island

—	Ryain, Aiden, and Raven

—	At War with Skyrim

—	Tactician and Strategist: I find my true calling

—	Hoag Merkiller defeated

Chapter Seven: Approach of the Alessian Horde (478-479)

—	Rumbles from the Heartland

—	We find Breton converts to Alessianism

—	Scourging of the missionaries

—	The Alessian Horde marches west

—	The fall of Craglorn

Chapter Eight: The Mustering of High Rock (480-481)

—	Envoy to the Vassal Kings

—	Aiden reluctantly signs the Rights Charter

—	Making legionaries out of farmhands

—	The Horde swarms into High Rock

—	Atrocities of the Alessians

Chapter Nine: The Battle of Glenumbria Moors (482)

—	Opening skirmishes

—	We present the lure

—	Faolchu takes the bait

—	Charge of the hidden knights

—	Conjured creatures of Corvus and Calani

—	Rout of the Alessians

Chapter Ten: Return to Nenalata (482-484)

—	Pursuit of the Alessian Horde

—	Extermination in Craglorn

—	The Maruhkati Martyrs

—	Return to the Heartland

—	Lured to Nenalata

—	Molag Bal's Insidious Trap

—	Prisoner in Coldharbour

Plenty of time in here. Just hope they don't take away my writing materials. Could even Dremora be that cruel?
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1470)
	The Black Forge
Inventory Report by Kyngald Nazkrixor

Raw Materials for the Great Shackle:

Supplies of ebony-alloy cold-iron are stable at 17,500 tons, but that's barely enough to forge the Shackle, given typical rate of loss in the casting process. It might be wise to send for another 2,000 tons from the mine burrows in the side of the Mountainous Corpse of the Iron Colossus. Better safe than sorry. 

I am honored to report that we have discovered the source of the depletion in the supplies of the Charcoal of Remorse: cinder-imps had been getting into the vault through a forgotten plasm-duct and gorging on the C of R. (We learned this when we found one so bloated it was unable to get back through the duct opening.) We sent in an explosive duct-worm, which found the nest and discorporated all the cinder-imps. Deficits in the supply of Charcoal of Remorse have been made up by increasing Torment Quotas on the Kothringi Soul Shriven.

I don't wish to be one to point talons, but it is my duty to report that even if the Shackle is forged according to schedule, we will not be able to quench it if we do not receive our shipment of the Blood of a Thousand Innocents. We have gotten repeated assurances from Exsanguinator Thartantix that our shipment will be on its way "any shift now," but so far all we've received are promises. I hesitate to elevate this to the Overkyn level, but I think it's high time the matter was looked into.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1471)
	The Lightless Oubliette
Kynbriefing for the Lightless Oubliette

If you've never served a shift in the Lightless Oubliette before, pay close attention, because this is not a place where you want to make a mistake. The L. O. was specifically constructed as a detention facility for captive servants of the Shining Bitch, and you know how our Dread Lord feels about her. If any of these Aurorans or Lustrants escape on your watch, you'll be lucky to get off with Second-Degree Gradual Discorporation.

Now I don't care how well you know the Seven-Hundred-and-One Edicts; I don't care if you can quote chapter and verse from the Mandatory Codicils: the rules that matter in the Lightless Oubliette are the following. 

1.	No white or yellow glow crystals to be brought into the facility.

This isn't because we like the place gloomy, fools. It's because the Prisoners can pervert certain spectra of light into working on their behalf. Stick to blue glow crystals for illumination, or even better, open flame. 

2.	No torment-sport with the Prisoners.

That includes the Elf King. No, I don't know why, that's just the way it is. Rumor has it the Dread Lord is planning some kind of nasty surprise for the Shining Bitch, and to pull it off he needs her servants with their bodies intact. Could be true, I don't know. 

3.	Clean up after yourself. 

This is a top-security facility, so no Soul Shriven are allowed in, not even custodians. You make a mess, you clean it up. This includes any bodily fluids spilled during sparring practice—if I find stains on the flagstones again, somebody's next shift will be in the scathe-rings.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1472)
	The Library of Dusk: Rare Books
Vault Twelve: Rare Book Collection

Access FORBIDDEN 

Items:

"The Athedorix Conundrums" by Mymophonus

—	Nine portentous questions, with answers known to drive readers insane.

"The Hosiric Lays" by Unknown (poss. Calisos or Morachellis)

—	Tales in epic verse recounting the Atmoran folklore of the Cyro-Nords.

"The Gwylim Praxis" by the Aureate Serpent

—	Methods of draining magicka from intelligent creatures at the moment of death.

"The Third Scroll of Baan Dar" by Arkan

—	How the great thief stole the "37th Lesson" from Vivec—before he could write it.

"The Letters of Alessia and Belharza"

—	Intimate correspondence between the First Empress and the Man-Bull.

"Eleven OTHER Edicts of the Ten Ancestors" by the Heretic of Lindai

—	A parody of the classic "Eleven Edicts" supposing the Ten Ancestors had worshiped Auri-El rather than Daedra.

"Numidium Blueprints" by Kagrenac the Engineer

—	ALL SCROLLS MISSING—REWARD FOR RECOVERY

"Conversations with the Heart of Lorkhan" by Pelinal Whitestrake

—	Ruminations on the nature of the Aurbis. Warning: Probably apocryphal.

"The Southern Coast as Far as the Eastern Sea" by Topal the Pilot

—	Sea logs of the great Aldmeri explorer.

"Insights" (pristine copy) by Shalidor the Arch-Mage

—	A disquisition on the origin and nature of Dragons.

"The Alessian Doctrines: Original Manuscript" by the Monkey Prophet Maruhk

—	Screed defining the dogma of the non-Elven nature of Akatosh.

"Studies in Aprocrypha" by Morian Zenas

—	A summary of truths learned in Apocrypha that Zenas refuses to believe. In fourteen volumes. 

"Epistolary Acumen" by The Transparent One

—	Forbidden invocations of inimical Daedra.

"Grimoire" by Corvus Direnni

—	Spell secrets of the mighty conjurer.

"The Tract of Merid-Nunda" (complete) by Anonymous

—	Revelations on the nature of Meridia and the mistake of conflating her with the Star-Orphans.

"The Lusty Argonian Maid" (complete play)—Traditional

—	Copy out for repair—accidentally damaged by Librarian.

"The Art of Love and Swordplay" by Fjokki the Bard

— The popular autobiography of the frisky Nord, Fjokki, whose exploits are unbelievable but strangely compelling. Not rare, but a perennial favorite here at the Library.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1473)
	Oath of a Dishonored Clan
By Lyranth

Resting never again until our purpose be achieved.

Ever watchful for an opportunity to repay the wrong.

Valkynaz Seris: We shall extract the fee for betrayal.

Even our duty to the Overkyn is transcended by this.

Never again to hear the name Foolkillers Clan: agony.

Generous will we be to those who aid our purpose:

Ending the false ascendance of the Deathbringer Clan.
		

		Part of the Coldharbour Lore collection (#1474)
	Protocols of the Court of Contempt
By Judge Xiven

All proceedings shall be strictly on the record, unless said proceedings are ordered stricken from the record.

The Guilty shall address this court with all due respect, or receive condign punishment as appropriate from Magistrate Bogtro.

The Guilty shall be entitled to counsel in the form of scamps duly outfitted in periwigs. However, scamps, due to their inveterate vulgarity, are forbidden to speak in the Court of Contempt.

The Guilty are invited to express their indignation at these proceedings at length and in the most heated terms, for the entertainment of the Judge and Magistrate.

The reputation for the fairness of the Court of Contempt is proven by its one-hundred-percent conviction rate of the Guilty.

Take them away!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1475)
	Sphinxmoth Bandit Leader's Notes
This new group has proven to be extremely loyal. I cannot say how pleased this makes me. Finding loyal recruits who won't turn on you or run away at the first sign of danger is hard to do these days. 

We've found the perfect location for a base of operations: the ruins of Fort Sphinxmoth. One of my men grew up in the region and told us that he and a friend used to explore some caves in the area. After four days of searching we uncovered a large network of underground chambers. This shall make a fine new home. 

I've decided to change the name of our little band of outlaws. Muckwater Bandits no longer suits us seeing as we don't operate out of the Muckwater anymore. And I never really liked Muckwater anyway … sounds more like a tribe of Goblins than a gang of outlaws. From now on we shall call ourselves the Sphinxmoth Bandits. That has a much better ring to it!

I've set the men to work refurbishing the old traps to protect our underground dwelling. We've found this place has many old traps, both mundane and magical. Octavia, who knows the most about magic, has been poking at some of the more unusual ones and trying to figure out how to make them function again. 

I've discovered an ancient vault deep within the ruins. Unfortunately, someone appears to have cleaned it out long ago, but it will make the perfect location for me to store my personal treasures.

The deal I've made with the Stonefire Cult to rob the Temple of Mara will give us increadible wealth. I don't know what they want with the Chalice of Mara and I don't really care. All I know is that it will make me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1476)
	The Fickle Nature of Mudcrabs
Since first documented, the common Tamriel Mudcrab has always been described as vicious and dangerous, but dispatched by even a lowly farmer, given a sturdy pitchfork. Their chitin is prized by alchemists of certain schools (though I would never use it), and their meat has been regarded as a delicacy in some parts of Tamriel, particularly Morrowind. 

By their nature, they seek to defend their rivers, streams, and beaches from what they seem to think is a threat to their territory. They tend to cluster in groups and attack any that come by, fearless, with an overblown sense of their combat prowess. Nothing could turn away the ire of the common mudcrab save for a well-placed strike of an arrow or axe. 

In my time studying the specimens on the shore of the Bjoulsae, I've noticed an odd tendency in recent months. Where normally, I must tread carefully to avoid their notice lest I am forced to kill the subject, recently, I've been able to make close observations, even so far as to pet the carapace without them reacting. 

Last week, I sat in the middle of a clutch, unmolested, fervently noting all the details I tend to miss in more distant studies. However, they are not completely docile. They will respond if directly provoked. I observed as a bear tried to pry one open, and a whole clutch came to the defense of their kin, forcing the bear to flee. 

I am positive that they notice me. It's not just ignorance. One even came over and ran his feelers over on my hands, as if he were studying me! What has changed? Is it a breeding season? Could there be something in the water affecting their behavior? Could the troubled times be affecting them? I will continue my observations to find out more.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1477)
	Witch Cults of Northern High Rock
by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)

One of the dozen or so known Wyrd covens scattered across Tamriel, the Beldama Wyrd is of especial interest to Imperial researchers. The Beldama are found within the thick forests of central Glenumbra, which are problematic to the explorer due to the broken terrain and heavy vegetation. Precious few have encountered the Beldama Wyresses (another name for a group of ward-sisters, or witches), but those who have speak of dark encampments under the canopy of ancient oak trees and cavorting rituals to honor Jephre, an aspect of Y'ffre, the most venerated god of the Bosmeri deities.

The all-female Beldama Wyrd trace their origin to the time Y'ffre transformed himself into the first Ehlnofey (or "Earth Bones") and established the laws of nature. While this is obviously nere myth, the Beldama Wyrd all fiercely believe they are descendants of the Ehlnofey. It is uncertain whether the Wyresses should be considered beneficial or malefic, but all agree they are uncanny and forceful: They see themselves as wardens of the forests with an unwavering reverence for nature. Most Bretons consider them dangerous witches, to be placated rather than revered. It is no wonder, then, that the Beldama Wyrd dwells in the least populated region of High Rock.

The Beldama tend to congregate around a mysterious and reputedly gigantic Wyrd Tree, which glows with an unnatural light and looks unlike any other tree in the northern forests of Tamriel. Should the Empire consider an invasion, threats of deforestation might be a way to cow the local population, although the Beldama Wyrd may have unknown magic capable of forestalling incursions.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1478)
	Necromancy in Modern Tamriel
by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)

Eternal slumber was once taken for granted. But now, necromancy has appeared in numerous locations across Tamriel. Anonymous spies have pinpointed the Cult of the Black Worm as the insidious force responsible. This sect, once hidden from view, is spreading, and offers the weak-willed what seems a guaranteed rise to power. Its chief opposition is the Mages Guild, but with the Guild in disgrace in Cyrodiil and banished from the Imperial City, the Order of the Black Worm seems ascendant. 

Hidden cells of these necromancers are called Worm Nests, led by a priest of undeath who takes the mantle of Worm Anchorite. Such priests may even have converted to undead form, after which they're called Worm Eremites. They are never apart from undead protectors, either summoned or reanimated. The leader of this cult is the Altmer mage Mannimarco, whose name is never spoken aloud by the cultists; he is instead invoked (with a whisper) as the King of Worms. No more must be written about him; his tendrils of power and influence snake far and wide.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1479)
	Revolting Life Cycle of the Dreugh
The Revolting Life Cycle of the Land Dreugh (Abridged) 

Field Notes by Fronto Maecilius

Contrary to local myths about the origins of this base species, the dreugh migrate from the Abecean Sea into the lakes and inlets that feed into the Iliac Bay. In addition to their mass of clawlike limbs, pincers, and scuttling feet protruding from a human-torso-sized skeletal frame, the dreugh wear armored hides and secrete shell wax that are prized in some quarters. They are aquatic scavengers, spending much of their time in deep ocean water. Local fishermen tell of altercations with this species (such as when the dreugh cut fishermen's nets to steal fish), but dreugh are mostly mild-mannered, except during karvinasim, their period of transformation.

During karvinasim, dreugh walk upon the land, favoring shoreline marshes and rivers close to the open water. Hatchlings are closely guarded, and broodmothers are extremely territorial, reacting to invaders with both speed and hostility. This leads credence to the notion that karvinasim heightens the dreugh's martial instincts: Indeed, after witnessing the evisceration of our lead geographer Pulcherius Pomptinus, our raiding party thought twice before capturing and culling further specimens.

After a year of land walking, the dreugh return to the water. As they submerge, they undergo a final transformation known as "meff," where they devour their land skin and air organs—the body parts they no longer need—and then vomit the congealed remains as small fibrous balls that are approximately a foot in diameter. These disgusting and foul-smelling spheres are known as "grom" and are found in clusters around lakes. So far, our apothecaries have discovered no virtues in grom, aside from inducing queasiness in some of the more weak-stomached members of this contingent.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1480)
	Dealing with Werewolves
by Venustinius Perquitienus

Whether you're stationed at a garrison at Camlorn or suffering Nord inhospitality in Skyrim, an Imperial subject must know the signs of the terrible affliction of Lycanthropy. With attacks by creatures infected with Sanies Lupinus on the rise, it is your duty to learn the following and behave accordingly.

Is there an overabundance of canis root in casks and market stalls? Have you witnessed the locals rubbing this root on neighboring trees and fences? Have you followed strange animal tracks, only to find them disappear? Do the village temples house beggars with vivid nightmares or with deep claw wounds to their faces or bodies? Does the wolf howl when there are none to be found? Then werewolves (or worse still, werebears) may be active in your jurisdiction.

Werewolves are sturdy hybrids with powerful jaws and claws on both hands and feet. They stand three hands taller than an Orc and exhibit severe bloodlust. If you encounter one, attempt to flee at all costs unless you feel supremely confident in your arms and armor. If possible, thrust the indigenous population into the path of the lycanthrope, so it sates its appetite on them while you retreat to cover or your mount. 

If you must fight a werewolf, arm yourself with any silver weapon, as these have proven extremely effective. However, prepare for severe gash wounds and the possibility of becoming infected. Should this occur, report to your superior for final rites to Arkay and immediate execution.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1481)
	Veloth the Pilgrim
By Cascius the Proud

Saint Veloth, also known as Veloth the Pilgrim, is arguably the most famous, and certainly the most venerated, among the Dunmeri pantheon of saints. Rising to prominence in the Late-Middle Merethic Era on Summerset Isle, Veloth supposedly sought a more ascetic and pure way of life for his followers and gathered them into a grand pilgrimage from the southwest regions of Tamriel to the northeast. According to the contemporary texts, he "spared not a boat, ration, or strong-armed soul among his people in this exodus and toiled to reach the land of Resdayn." 

His mass pilgrimage to a new land, where stoic values were established, was successful. The race enjoyed a period of high culture, known to many as the Golden Age, where Veloth's guidance shaped generations of stonemasons and architects, as well as priests and common folk. Although he wielded a mighty warhammer—Veloth's Judgment—Veloth is thought of mainly as a peaceful and scholarly soul, to which the Dunmer's healing enchantments that bear his name attest.

Veloth's power as a prophet was in no doubt, but his mossback teachings on the worship of Dunmer forebears are worthy of consideration, as he almost single-handedly began the god-cult worship of the "Good Daedra" prior to the coming of the Tribunal. Veloth's people honored him so much, his influence can be felt generations later. Those trekking over the Velothi Mountains southeast of Skyrim or hearing a Dunmer elder refer to their race as the "Velothi" still feel the presence of this world-shaping mentor of Mer.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1482)
	Khajiiti Arms and Armor
For a race living in the oppressively hot climate of Elsweyr, it is impractical in most cases for them to wear heavy clothing and armor, and the Cat-Folk's naturally lithe frame and dexterity favors more lightweight protection. The Khajiiti abhor restraint and encumbrance, and their craftsfolk are diligent about providing armor to augment their prowling form. At its lightest, Khajiiti armor is often mistaken for well-appointed (but flamboyant) clothing. Quilted or padded cloth adorns the midriff and vital areas. This is augmented with vivid patterns of color and accented with a loose shawl, ribbons, or trinkets—an outfit that would result in mocking insults if worn by a race less decadent and hedonistic.

For battles where the Khajiit expects punishment, they favor cloth and leather greaves, gauntlets, and a light helmet; this allows for supremely agile movement without sacrificing speed (or fashion). 

For this race of acrobats, even the heaviest Khajiiti armor is loose-fitting but actually has lacquered metal plates laced together with leather, under which is an embroidered tunic, completed with a helmet of fluted silver and durable linen. It is only under the most harrowing of conditions that the Khajiit will don full battle armor. 

As for weaponry, curved scimitars, sabers and knives, or punch daggers serve as an elongation of their own slashing, clawed hands. Occasionally these claw shapes extend to ritual tridents and the savage points on their longbow arrows or javelins.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1483)
	Notes on Elven Architecture
By Gastinus Florus, Masons' Guild Historian

Soaring and graceful, or static and repetitive: High Elf architecture divides Imperial critics much like a painted cow at a Reachmen feast. Their curved gables and strong, pointed steeples emphasize height, with ceilings a giant would have trouble scraping his head on and rooftops stretching proudly up toward the firmament. Their structures provide a visual echo to the "High Elves'" appearance, as they try to contrast their structures with the abodes of other races.

The more perceptive of historians (such as Cantaber Congonius of Skingrad) have discerned clear similarities when comparing settlements of the Altmeri and Ayleid, unmistakably because they share the same ancestors. Where the Ayleids departed Summerset Isle, the Altmer remained; yet their structures share many common elements. One only need walk the ruins near Bravil, then compare paintings of Skywatch for corroboration. Subtle changes are less obvious: while the Altmer are snobbish, they never sank to Ayleid levels of perniciousness, and the more refined buildings of Auridon reflect this.

Such structural designs stem from ancient roots, using methods tried and tested, but not to the point of becoming obsolete. The Altmer seek refinement rather than innovation, and they are conceitedly resistant to large-scale changes but are content to tinker. The results reveal highly sophisticated precision, harmony, and the selection and repetition of orthodox compositions.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1484)
	The Wood Elves of Valenwood
Unlike their Altmeri and Dunmeri brethren, the Bosmer have an attitude that is almost affable in particular respects. Certain Imperial diplomats have likened this breezy amiableness to the mellow intoxication a greenmote addict might first experience. But hasten not to categorize these as you would a Khajiiti Skooma fiend; these tree-folk are vicious, adept at banditry, and worthy of your concern and attention, if not your respect.

The Bosmeri race is governed—if one can describe this loose hegemony as such—by the Royal Camoran Dynasty, but there seems little rigidity or exertion of jurisdiction among the disorganized tribes of the Bosmer. Only slightly more stringent are the clan lines, which are matrilineal in nature. Ruled by the Treethane, or head tribesman, these serve little purpose other than providing protection during times of war. The real power is wielded by the priests of the forest deity Y'ffre, known as Spinners, who enforce the Green Pact, a bizarre code of conduct forcing the Bosmer to feed carnivorously and never use living vegetation of any kind, for any means.

These are no woodland nymphs. Wood Elves go to war not to conquer lands or covet precious resources; they do it for sport. Unless a threat to Valenwood presents itself, Bosmer consider the slaying of others to be simply unnecessary, and wagers are even made prior to raids regarding the theft of prized possessions without a drop of blood spilled. But when called upon, they excel at the bow. Youngsters are trained to a formidable degree to snipe using both range and speed to their advantage. When you walk the woods near Arenthia, hold your purse or satchel close, and report Bosmeri brigands to your local town watch.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1485)
	The Fury of King Ranser
by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)

In the year 563, after the formation of the second Wayrest dynasty, young King Emeric began a search for his bride. His first choice was Rayelle, daughter of King Ranser of Shornhelm, but before the marriage contracts were wrought, Emeric instead married Maraya, Redguard princess of Sentinel. This stunned courtiers across the land, and prompted bards to sing songs of Maraya's bewitching beauty. However, strategists saw the move as strengthening the trade between High Rock and Hammerfell. After Emeric's wedding in 566, High Rock readied itself for a golden age of commence. Three moons later, it was bracing for a bloody civil war.

Rivenspire was known as the backwater of High Rock. Ranser was one of these surly hillmen, a child of the north, known for his bitter temper and brutal rule. Emeric's slight was too much for him to bear. With an army of Northern Tamriel's surliest mercenaries and a host of his own people, he descended from the mountains to cut a bloody swath to the Iliac Bay. Emeric was caught unprepared. It was only the spirited defense of his Lion Guard that saved Wayrest from being razed. Ranser had hoped for a swift victory. Instead, he was forced into a protracted siege.

The long siege dragged on into spring, when the Daggerfall Covenant—a mutual defense pact, sworn by all the Breton kingdoms at the conclusion of the Reachmen Invasion—finally paid dividends, drawing Camlorn, Evermore, and Daggerfall into the fray. Some counseled letting Wayrest fall, but trade with the richest city in the region was too important to allow that. Attacked from the city and the surrounding countryside, Ranser's army stood firm; his mercenaries were well paid and prepared for bloodshed. But the crimson sails and battalions of elite Redguard warriors from across the bay turned the tide. Ranser's forces were routed, and Shornhelm was already ablaze when Ranser returned. This was the work of Orcs under the blood-rule of Kurog gro-Bagrakh.

Caught between the Breton hammer and the Orcish anvil, Ranser's troops were utterly annihilated in the Battle of Markwasten Moor. Ranser hadn't counted on Emeric's canniness; the King of Wayrest had sent emissaries into the Wrothgar Mountains with a pledge to return Orsinium to the Orcs if they attacked their hated enemy in Shornhelm. Rivenspire was despoiled, and some Orcs remembered how the Bretons of Shornhelm had led the assault that toppled Orsinium some 135 years before. These debts were paid to Shornhelm in full. Ranser's War built the Daggerfall Covenant as it is today: Stormhaven, Rivenspire, and Wrothgar are all indelibly marked by these events.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1486)
	Wergital the Wolf-Boy
Attributed to Edouard Longtemps

Kynareth watched from the rain, clouds, and skies

A Breton child cloaked in a furry disguise

Nurtured by wolves of the Glenumbra glen

A wolf-boy would scamper through woods, hills, and fen

Cutting his teeth on the flesh of the hunt

He grew brawn and bone, no longer the runt

Night hunts for prey in the light of Secunda 

The pack grew more daring to forage and plunder

Fell's Run farmers, their hairs stood on end

Flitting dark shapes, t'was a violent portend

Bringing down cattle with ravenous snarl

A predator child with the wolves in his thrall

Hunters dispatched, with pelts their desire

The wolves they did flee, all safe in the briar

More daring the wolf raids, encroaching the town

So elders did plan to bring the pack down

A goat tied and bleating, intended as bait

Lured wolf-boy and pack to a terrible fate

The pack leapt at prey, intending a meal

But the archers of Fell's Run soon brought them to heel

Arrows flew fast as the boy dropped his cowl

Bloodied and pierced, he fell with a howl

Wergital Wolf-Boy was burned on the moor

Return unto Kynareth—your soul is now pure
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1487)
	Reverence for the Dead
Tu'whacca and Burial Rites in Contemporary Redguard Culture

By Brother Opilio Congonius

The Redguards revere their departed ancestors so fervidly that it rivals the devotion many other races have for their gods. While a Breton may place a casket in ornately arched consecrated ground, or a Nord may place a wind-dried body on a shelf in a burial vault, the Redguards design and erect vast funerary structures for their dead that are as awe-inspiring as they are extensive. The thread of honor that binds the Redguards from before birth to beyond death is strong. These soaring and massive mausoleums are the purest representations of the undiluted Yokudan architecture, built to propel spirits to a meeting with their putative gods.

Perhaps the finest example of this type of burial site is Tu'whacca's Throne, set atop a vast plateau in the Alik'r Desert of Hammerfell. This huge temple is dedicated to the Tricky God, the Shepherd of Souls, and the Caretaker of the Far Shores. After ascending from the desert grazing fields, up the stone stairs carved into the plateau's side, one is first struck by the incredible views from atop this flat expanse of rock and sand. After passing the Throne Keepers, who are ever vigilant and maintain Tu'whacca's Throne, the eyes meet the true majesty of this sacred place.

This necropolis is both a sprawling burial ground and a sacred ruin. Aside from Tu'whacca's presence watching from dark corners of this sanctuary, the temple also serves as a monument to the untold number of Yokudans who perished when the continent sank beneath the waves. Pilgrims travel across the stinging sands to pay their respects to these victims and to the historical Redguard kings who are also interred in this labyrinthine necropolis.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1488)
	Nord Armorers and Armsmen
A Nord blacksmith feels a particular affinity with his anvil, bellows, hammer, and tongs. For the Nord, the creation of fine (if inelegant) weapons and armor is as important as proficiency with a blade, axe, or hammer. Such skills are learned from youth and are almost mandatory. As the Nord armorer and weaponsmith perfect their techniques, the forge becomes a second home. Close by is the tanning rack, where the hides of every beast of the north have been measured for their levels of durability and flexibility. Layered on top is iron, steel, and corundum alloys. The result is a steel that holds tighter and bites sharper than weapons from other realms. 

When Nords refer to their blades as "stinging," they mean more than its cutting power: superstitious Nord smiths are said to add a drop of wild bee honey into everything they create. The whys and wherefores are misplaced in long-forgotten lore, but the practice is widespread. To this day, no Nord armorer would work a forge without first crumbling honeycomb into his quenching tub.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1489)
	Wet Wilds of Black Marsh
By Cirantille 

During the Second Empire, the vast swamplands encompassing Black Marsh were claimed as Imperial territory. Naturally, the obtuse Elves (and other admirers of this seeping pustule on the buttocks of Tamriel) favor the name Argonia, an ancient battleground where their forebears were put to death. Perhaps because of this, it was deemed appropriate to give the primordial tribes of lizard-folk the name "Argonian" in our common tongue. What cannot be argued is the pitiful state of this province; it positively oozes with the devastated and fetid: the scars of battles past and plunderers present permanently disfigure these already-inhospitable borderlands. Wade inward, though, and the dark heart of Black Marsh will elude you; its elements combine to infect explorers with poxes both real and imagined.

The inhabitants of this province enjoy an anonymity not seen elsewhere. The early Aldmeri explorer and poet Topal the Pilot described "manlike reptiles, fleet of foot and running the length of this great mire," and gave the impression of an abandoned place, unlivable to settlers. However, primitive Men such as the Kothringi, primal Mer like the Barsaebic Ayleids, and relatives of the Khajiit like the vulpine Lilmothiit all fought for their own pieces of this noisome refuge.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1490)
	Arboreal Architecture
By Cirantille 

An entire province of timber, but no tree must be harmed: one would suspect the Treaty of Frond and Leaf would incapacitate a Wood Elf architect to the point of ruin, but working within these nonsensical rules has strengthened the quality of workmanship of the Bosmer and their settlements. Although hide stretched and tied over frames of bone may appear temporary, they are usually cocooned within sacred tree hollows and range dramatically in size. Wander the rivers and coast, where traders can provide quality imported lumber without breaking the Green Pact, and you will find more traditional wooden abodes.

Journey deeper into the forests if you dare, and you may stumble across the city of Elden Root or Silvenar. Both have dwellings on the forest floor (typically built by other races, usually the Altmer), but many homes are both concealed and cradled within the canopy of graht-oak trees. Citified tree-folk favor a life among the branches and have woven them together to form limbed pathways, without contravening the law of the land. Trails of thick, living vines anchor dozens of platforms that carry goods and people among the graht-oak. These platforms are hoisted by strong, often foreign laborers.

Bone, resin, and sinew are employed in Bosmeri bridge design. A secondary market in such scraps allows the tree-dweller to tip their animal waste from above to the ground below, where it is scavenged and reworked into a variety of items—certainly better than the refuse-strewn thoroughfares of Skyrim. As the moons rise, additional light is provided by luminous lichen, molds, and fungal growths living at the perpetually shadowed base of the oaks. Higher up, nocturnal flowers feed from the graht-oak, attracting torchbugs, whose hives light the branch platforms without the aid of fire. Adaptation to overcome self-imposed and crippling shortcomings has allowed the Wood Elf to survive, even thrive, despite their rigorous restrictions.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1491)
	Temples of the Dragon Cult
By Cirantille 

In the distant reaches of Skyrim, beyond the remote farming communities and hunter shacks, you may stumble over a broken stone, half buried and covered in moss and ivy. Look closer, in case these are effigies to animal gods, worshiped by Ysgramor's primitives. The deification of the bear, dragon, fox, moth, owl, snake, whale, and wolf have all been recorded by our field agents, and many believe these totems stand as sentinels over lost ruins. These tumbledown temples, guarded by half-woken draugr and worse, are from a time when the Dragon Cult supposedly ruled this province. 

While no modern Tamrielan need believe these hopelessly fanciful fables, the Nords' simple-minded veneration for these places betokens their fear of the return of the Dragon Priests. During the worship of Akatosh (the dragon) as god-kings over men, these priests were the conduit through which dragons spoke, made laws, and were honored with grand and elaborate temples. When Alduin, Akatosh's firstborn, was defeated atop the Throat of the World during the mythical Dragon War, the cult that sprang up around these dragon guardians soon receded into the soil, buried among dragon mounds with the remains of these beasts. They were finally vanquished in the Rift mountains by High King Harald in 1E 140. The veneration of animal gods was soon replaced by the Eight Divines.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1492)
	Moon Worship among the Cat-Men
By Cirantille 

Stride through any Khajiiti settlement, whether a ramshackle northern encampment or an austere southern town, and you will notice the Two-Moons Temple—always the most expansive structure. Built to last and utilizing the finest local materials, this place of worship is central to Khajiiti society. Although the Cat-Man deems the Divines as preeminent (and their sanctuary offers prayers to bastardizations of our own Eight), they believe the Lunar Lattice—or the movement of Masser and Secunda—influences all matters of luck, destiny, and happenstance, a belief Venustinius Perquitienus has termed a "hybrid heresy."

Khajiiti dogma reveres the moons as divine, furnishing life into the bodies of the Cat-Man by ingestion of moon sugar, a sacred ingredient that can also be refined into a hallucinatory contraband. Although used for both culinary and ritualistic purposes, it can be easily distilled to form skooma, a wretched and illegal narcotic. Such wanton delirium seems to be kept in check by a hierarchy of Moon-Bishops who regulate these ingestions, which play a small part in Khajiiti ceremonies. The clergy mainly concerns itself with conducting services, rounding up fallen followers, and ruling on theological matters. If an impasse is reached, the issue is resolved by the Mane himself.

The absolute rulers of the Lunar Lattice, Manes are the most powerful of the Khajiit outside the clan-chiefs and king of Elsweyr. They may be a key official to bribe, corrupt, or remove should forthcoming hostilities occur to our southern border. Of further interest is the succession ritual for the Mane; when one expires, a sacred ritual determines his successor. A Moon Herald is appointed to shepherd the potential aspirants on what Khajiiti text describes as an epic and dangerous quest to the surface of the Two Moons themselves, with the sole returning candidate declared the new Mane. 

The assumption that the lay Cat travels astrally to our moons is preposterous; Venustinius Perquitienus has termed it "nauseous balderdash," and rightly so.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1493)
	The Great Siege of Orsinium
Ra Gada fought the tusky folk

From Hammerfell they drove them

In wrath withdrew they northward to

Orsinium, Orc city

Where found they welcome at the hands

Of King Atop the Scarpment, 

Golkarr, mighty, Orc of wiles

Who thought to take advantage

To use infusion of new blood

To broaden Orcish holdings

Demands he made of Bretons south

Along the Bjoulsae River

For tariffs, tolls, ransoms, fees,

Or down would come Orc hammer

But Joile, the king in Daggerfall

Rejected Golkarr's dictum

Sent to Gaiden Shinji of 

The Order of Diagna

Urged him with the Bretons join

To siege and sack Orc city

Marched they then to Wrothgar Scarp

Orsinium invested

They thought that Orcish walls could not

Withstand their worthy weapons

But city high upon the scarp

Was triple-gate defended

Obdurate Gates: each one greater 

Than the one before it

Smelter, Hammer, Temper, they

Were called, by Orcish stonewrights

The folk of Mauloch stood atop

And hurled down baneful missiles

And Breton, Redguard, smitten sore

Drew back to lower regions

Laughed then the Orcs, and bared their tusks

At warrior Men confounded

While Golkarr smiled in high Scarp Keep 

And praised the Wrothgar clan-kin

But Gaiden Shinji and King Joile

Were not abashed or shaken

They summoned grandees, knights, and counts

To bring their armsmen thither

Orsinium surrounded they

And settled in to siege it

While plots and plans were schemed and made

The walls and gates, to breach them

The Orcs were quite content to wait

From Jugular well-watered

And fed by fertile fungus fields

In Caves of Dark Abundance

The Men, they thought, would tire and leave

To go back to their families

They reckoned not the fire that burned 

In Joile and Gaiden Shinji

Ten years their men sieged outer gate

And finally Smelter faltered

A decade more at second gate

Till Hammer then was broken

Ten years again were spent in toil

Till Temper fell asunder

Then wrathful Men at last went in 

Orsinium to plunder

Golkarr prayed in Grudgement Hall

For Mauloch to defend him

But King Joile took him by the hair

And Gaiden Shinji slew him
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1494)
	Stormhold, City of Shadowfen
By Cirantille 

Imperial scholars note the Battle of Argonia and conquest of Black Marsh in 1E 2811—the first time a race of Man properly held power in these parts—but fail to mention the impassable denseness of the geography. Although, Imperial Scout Tutor Acilius describes the swampland as "a soup of suffering, disease, where a drop of ingested ground water can set off a torrent in the bowels." However, the city of Helstrom in the impenetrable interior has never been approached with a siege in mind, the empire content to incorporate the northern and western borderland regions. Indeed, it was these coastal tracts, where Tamriel's delinquents once freely roamed, that were changed into barely habitable prison settlements. It is not surprising, then, that a separate but comparable history of indenture exists elsewhere in this great morass: Stormhold.

Founded by the Barsaebic Ayleids before parchment records were kept, Stormhold holds the infamous history of the Dark Elf. Primal wealth is still evident on the intricate stonework of the Ayleid ruins, and the more recent Dunmeri stone structures show what venomous and uncaring rule can build. Abutting these monuments to greed and cruelty are the more modest mud huts of the Argonian contingent, once the homes of the collaborators—who worked with the Dunmer to raze primitive villages and gather suitable captives for plantation work across Morrowind—and now home to the reptilian race only now finding their way out of the mire of oppression.

As thuggery encroached on Stormhold during the upheavals of the Second Era, and the dark Dunmeri chains of bondage—as well as irregular Imperial warlords driven to distraction with thoughts of bounty and easily exploitable labor—threatened to wipe every last tribe of Argonians from the province, there was little the exploited reptilians could do. Until, that is, the rise of the Argonian vicecanons, who seem to fulfill the administrative functions that councilors and tribal leaders do in other realms.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1495)
	Myths and Legends of the Hist
By Cirantille 

Those willing to risk rust chancre, greenspore, and a host of other more debilitating diseases may venture into parts of Black Marsh unmapped by the higher races. The few who can cope with swamp rot, fleshfly bites, and the constant palaver of unseen entities whooping, clicking, or simply lying in the murk waiting to slice teeth across your limbs may reach the innermost swamps. And the hardiest of Imperial explorers, who have no further need to prove their mettle after the following discovery, may gaze upon the Hist tree.

Rumors abound that the Hist tree is the main form of worship among the scaled peoples of these dark swales. Others have hypothesized that the trees are apperceptive, with a deep knowledge and unfathomable secrets from the times before all the races of Man and Mer. Loose translations of recently uncovered Dunmeri texts seem to indicate a ritual among the Argonians, although this may be legend rather than fact. 

It is said that when a Saxhleel emerges from juvenescence, it finds a nearby Hist tree to lick sap from its bole. The elements in the sap quicken the hormonal glands, which sprout appropriate organs from which the Argonian's gender can be determined. Immediately afterward, an appropriate mate is found and reproduction occurs. The female soon lays one or more eggs, which are moved to a hatching pool where gestation and spawning takes place.

With recent Imperial expeditions into central Black Marsh ending inconclusively (burial sites were marked on the map Cornix Caeparius provided), and the locals reticent to speak of the mysteries of this fabled tree despite our cajoling, we remain alarmingly ungifted in the realm of Hist tree knowledge.

Head horticulturist Titullinia Petillia of the Imperial Palace Gardens has requested careful handling and collection of sap or seeds from this tree, should one be discovered. It may prove to be a considerable boon to our apothecaries.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1496)
	Beware the Shadowscales
Be on ever vigilant guard, Soldier! See the lizard who stands on his hindquarters, laboring in the tavern, the field, or the fen of his homeland? Spot the meek and lowly Argonian with a simpering guise and a lilting tone of appeasement? He may not be as he seems, friend! After recent incursions close to Black Marsh, and the death of Captain Turpilinus Baibius under circumstances most vexing, we have reason to believe Shadowscales are active in this region. But what of this clandestine group and its dark purpose? 

Shadowscales are reptilian kith born under the sign of the Shadow. Plucked at birth and offered to the detestable Dark Brotherhood, these hatchlings are a boon to their cause and are expertly trained in the arts of furtiveness and subtle bloodshed. When fully formed, they are embraced by these Sithis cultists and accept warrants for assassinations, just as their higher race kin have infamously done. Now that Shadowscales are incorporated into Argonian society, their targets benefit only the lizard-folk. How such targets are determined is still unclear.

 

It is believed the Shadowscales follow the identical five tenets of the hated Brotherhood (your Lore Master has the necessary texts to further your education on these matters). Through capture and torture of suspected members, we know that an order is never disobeyed or refused if given by a superior. A fellow Shadowscale is never a target of these cutthroats, and Shadowscales deserting the Brotherhood are hunted and slain. As our dealings with the Morag Tong have taught us, an assassin's guild functioning as an adjunct to an official government is a powerful threat: now the Argonians have organized such a force, which must be watched, infiltrated, and utterly confounded until broken.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1497)
	Ogres: A Summary
By Cirantille

The backwoods of Cyrodiil, and indeed any stretch of rarely traversed common land across Tamriel, may be home to one of Tamriel's basest aberrations, the ogre. Peek into a den of sticks or the shallow cave of a rocky hillock, and you may not meet a troll or a wolf but a small community of these primitive creatures. Often it is best to leave their hunting land fallow, as they tend to shy away from our thresholds and keep other marauders in check. If an ogre is presenting you with some difficulty, you are obliged to contact the nearest town guard. For a nominal fee, a raiding party can easily dispatch such a foe.

Ogres have not the intelligence to argue a point and take a primal enjoyment when mashing den intruders into malformed corpses. They hunt for food and gather necessities, and enjoy life on Nirn no more than that, with the exception of when employing their considerable strength to wrench apart foes or lob large rocks at them. Fortunately, the ogres' ponderous nature enables nimble opponents to avoid such attacks. As for their coloration, Phrastus of Elinhir's speculation that their gray-blue skin camouflages their silhouetted forms against the sky has been convincingly debunked by Lady Cinnabar of Taneth, so we are no closer to solving that riddle: one cannot simply walk up to an ogre and ask.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1498)
	The Origins of Conjuration
Imperial mages have arguably advanced the study of conjuration magic far more than most, but it first fell to Elven wizards to crack open the door to Oblivion without its screaming horrors spilling uncontrollably into Mundus. Corvus and Calani Direnni and their clan first lit the torch and peered into this unholy darkness, lighting the path for the magical school of conjuration. Their precise binding chants are still used to this day when summoning lesser Daedra.

Nonbelligerent atronachs offered something of a boon to Clan Direnni, acting as protectors and occasionally servants or familiars. Even the naturally mischievous imp was easily coerced into behaving. But one can always count on the natural curiosity, and almost calamitous pomposity, of the Elves, who swung the door open still farther—a door to the Daedric planes that became impossibly difficult to shut.

Late into the First Era, Direnni acolytes first attempted to cajole enthrallment from Greater Daedra. Although the most skillful of conjurers succeeded reasonably against these chaotic agents, some Elves were weak, and the portal to Oblivion can now never be completely sealed. Subsequent catastrophic confrontations with Daedric princes turned our lands to turmoil. Thus, it falls to every mage in Cyrodiil to actively dissuade traffic with the Greater Daedra in the strongest possible manner. Communion with them is strictly forbidden.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1499)
	How We Came to Coldharbour
In the ancient past, my people lived in Nirn. Our great civilization rose from the warm swamps of Black Marsh and our beloved Hist tree was connected to the other Hist trees of the world. But a time of change was coming. The Argonian civilization, as we knew it, was coming to an end. Our Hist tree told us so.

And our Hist tree despaired. It did not want to see the great civilization fall. It did not want to see its children reduced to a more primitive, primeval state. Our Hist tree sought a solution that would keep our civilization intact. That, our legends tell us, is when Molag Bal appeared with an offer we couldn't refuse.

The Lord of Brutality's offer was simple. He would create a place in his realm of Coldharbour for our Hist tree and its children, a place where we could continue our values and traditions just as we had always done. We would not have to fear the coming changes that would sweep through the rest of the Argonian settlements. And all the Daedric Prince asked for, all he wanted in return, was a little of our Hist tree's sap.

Our beloved Hist tree decided that it could spare a bit of sap in exchange for the continued health and happiness of its children. It accepted Molag Bal's offer and the city of Haj Uxith—along with its people and its Hist—slid into Oblivion and came to rest upon Coldharbour's dark and dismal shores.

Did our Hist make the right decision? That's for the leaders of the scholars and the warriors to decide. For me and for most of the common citizens of Haj Uxith? We'd rather have the civilization we know than the unknown fate we were destined to endure before we departed for the isolated islands of Coldharbour.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1500)
	The Values of Haj Uxith
We, the scholars of Haj Uxith, value these spiritual attributes above all others: courage, endurance, preservation. While these values hold a special place in the hearts of all our people, it is the scholars who truly understand how these attributes help our society not only to survive but to thrive in these strange lands.

Courage allows us to deal with those who may not always agree with our point of view and to face the unknown. This dark land constantly presents strange challenges and new obstacles, but we must not cower before these. We must meet them head on and deal with them as bravely and as boldly as we can.

Endurance allows us to withstand the hardships and difficulties of this harsh, barren land. It takes patience and skill and a natural hardiness to overcome the constant challenges of this punishing realm. We must bear the brunt of these difficulties and withstand every unexpected storm if we hope to survive.

Preservation allows us to remember our past and maintain the civilization that our Hist tree has sacrificed so much to safeguard. We look to the words and deeds of our ancestors to be our guides, and we protect the stories and lessons of the past so that they can continue to teach us and remind us of who and what we are.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1501)
	Warning to Citizens of Haj Uxith
All citizens of Haj Uxith must take heed! Our agreement with Molag Bal permits the Lord of Brutality's minions to extract and refine sap from our beloved Hist tree. Furthermore, we are prohibited from entering the sap vat chamber or from interfering with the sap collection and refinement process in any way.

Violating this agreement or disregarding this warning can result in punishment not only for you, but for the entire Argonian community of Haj Uxith.

You have been warned.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1502)
	Chim-el Adabal: A Ballad
When Akatosh slew Lorkhan,

He ripped his heart right out,

Hurled it across Tamriel,

And the heart was heard to shout:

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

The heart and soul of Men.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

Protect us till the end.

The laughing heart sprayed blood afar,

A gout on Cyrod fell,

And like a dart shot to its mark

Down in an Ayleid Well.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

The heart and soul of Men.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

Protect us till the end.

Magicka fused the Lorkhan blood

To crystal red and strong

Then Wild Elves cut and polished it down

To Chim-el Adabal.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

The heart and soul of Men.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

Protect us till the end.

When Elves lost Nirn to Man,

Akatosh gave the stone

To Saint Alesh in token of 

Her right to sit the throne.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

The heart and soul of Men.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!

Protect us till the end.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1503)
	The Coldharbour Compact
Poor Gil-Var-Delle we still recall

The God of Schemes consumed it all

To Coldharbour went Clockwork God

To bargain on the Princes' sod

They came to mock at Tribune small

Came Schemer, Hunger, Hunter, all

Scryer, Pariah, Destroyer came

And Raver and Twilight just the same

From dread Daedra save us

From Daedra keep us safe

Forsake the ones that made us

To fight a wrongful fate

They sneered when Clockwork made his demand

Till Twilight raised a hand

"And what do you offer in return

 "To keep us from chastising Nirn?"

Then Clockwork whispered long and low

And what he said, no mortal can know

From dread Daedra save us

From Daedra keep us safe

Forsake the ones that made us

To fight a wrongful fate
		

Failed at /books/1504		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1505)
	Arx Corinium â First Seed Report
Officer's Log: Centurion Pontius

Building a fort in a swamp is no trivial task, but my men and I have accomplished it with Arx Corinium. It was a battle the entire duration—with insect-borne disease, with the wildlife of the marshlands, but the Empire wanted a foothold in this region and we provided one.

Unfortunately, as of this writing, we've packed our arms and armor on orders from Colonel Marianus, and prepare to leave our work behind. The Colonel cites the continued loss of a half-dozen soldiers every month in maintaining Arx Corinium as "detrimental to the war effort." I agree, and would note that I predicted this outcome when we arrived over a year and a half ago. I said as much to the Colonel, who ordered that the project proceed. This isn't a statement of complaint, but of fact.

Construction suffered numerous complications: the bog impeded our progress at every turn, and it became clear the initial foundation we built would sink after the first month. When we moved our location farther to the north, we met a fierce wamasu that cost me ten men to chase off the premises. After repeated encounters, our war wizard, Belisaro, named it Ganakton the Tempest, after the bolts of lightning that the beast emits from every orifice ("Ganakton" was the moniker of a hated aunt, rumored to possess Orcish blood).

The dense humidity was another foe, turning our plate armor to steek barrels full of sweat during the early months of construction. It goes against regulation, but I allowed my soldiers the luxury of cloth armor during the summer. It was that or death from heatstroke. We would have been at a disadvantage had we come under attack, but any enemy marching towards Arx Corinium would be half-dead by the time they reached us. In any event, it never happened.

Battle found us just the same: every beast in this swamp, large or small, is a walking death trap, and some days, we fought sword to stinger with insects the size of a grown man's head. Other days, our mages contended with the likes of Ganakton the Tempest, who continued to terrorize the fort. He razed the eastern wall a dozen times, and I regret that I will never be allowed the luxury of mounting his skull on my mantle. But if it means we finally get to leave, I'll gladly allow Ganakton his life.

As I look back on this last year and a half, at the resources and manpower it took to construct Arx Corinium, I can't say it's been worth it. Again, this isn't a statement of grievance. I bear my superiors no ill will for my orders. However, I would note that I made several warnings in advance of this project, and have compiled copies of my letters to my immediate superior, Colonel Marianus, detailing the reasons why I believed the construction of Arx Corinium could prove a disastrous venture for the Empire.

I want to clarify that this is not a declaration of failure on anyone's part, either for myself, my men, or Colonel Marianus. I am fully aware that that decision falls to Tribune Hilario, whom I encourage to read the letters I mention above. I've already sent word and made them available for any officer to peruse at the Imperial City military archives.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1506)
	Burning Vestige, Vol. I
By Warlock Endil

This collection contains privileged information regarding the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon. In case you've been living in an Ayleid ruin since the dawn of recorded history, involvement with Dagon and his ilk is frowned upon quite fiercely by most populations of Tamriel. Having this book or its companion volume in your possession could earn you suspicion from your neighbors as well as agents of the law. In many districts worship of the Master of Razors is illegal, and communion rituals involving the Daedric Prince are punishable by death.

Amongst even the Daedric Princes, none are more openly concerned with the suffering of mortals. Whenever Dagon appears he leaves destruction in his wake, and contact with the Master of Razors often results in death for the conjurer—along with everyone in the vicinity. Sudden floods, thunderstorms, and other natural disasters all over Tamriel have been tied to communions with Mehrunes Dagon, and the most detailed account I've read about occurred in Eastmarch.

Hranvard Frostfinger, a witch of Eastmarch, is said to have sacrificed thirteen innocents to Dagon in a single night, prompting the Daedric Prince to briefly open a portal from the Deadlands to Skyrim. The only witnesses were members of the Direfrost family, a clan of witch-hunters, who managed to find and slay Hranvard. Immediately following, they came under a mysterious and brutal attack themselves. Their leader, Yllothon, was the only survivor, who later wrote in his memoirs:

"We followed the stench of burning flesh for a half-mile, and we caught up to (Hranvard) at nightfall, by the Sea of Ghosts. She lay cackling among her thirteen victims, whose bodies had been stacked in a mass grave, encircled by spidery writing. Slaying her was an easy task—all it took was a single silver bolt. But when the deed was done, the air suddenly began to boil and crack. Fearing some residual spell, I had my men retreat up the nearest pass, where we watched the snow below catch fire, and the sky split apart with flame. We turned to flee, but it was too late. Fire poured from the wound in the air and engulfed my thirty men. I tried to help them but the flames wouldn't die, and wouldn't burn my flesh. A voice bellowed from the burning maw above, 'You will suffer better among the living.'" 

Many, including members of the Mages Guild, are skeptical of Yllothon's story, respected as he was amongst the Direfrost hunters. They found no sign of Mehrunes Dagon at the Sea of Ghosts—save the blasted, mirrored sand. Obviously, the Direfrosts disagree: there was still the matter of thirty missing hunters. The Direfrosts have since intensified their war against the covens of Eastmarch.

The Mages Guild, however, has struck the event from their records of note, citing the blasted sand at the Sea of Ghosts as a meteorological phenomenon. But I believed Yllothon was correct; I was there, as a senior advisor on the party that surveyed that beach.

Volume II of this collection contains a detailed account of everything I found at the Sea of Ghosts, including half of the "spidery circle" that Yllothon describes. Any aspiring conjurer who wants a chance at contacting Mehrunes Dagon should follow me there.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1507)
	Civility and Etiquette V. 5: Undead
By Coristir

Part I

It is popular belief that all undead and phantasmal revenants are slaves to their necromantic biology. Indeed, like most predatory wildlife, many of these creatures exist only to absorb or consume the energy of the living. They should never be bargained or reasoned with. An Altmer should deal with such creatures in the way she would handle a rabid wolf, or malevolent Orc: with extreme prejudice.

However, there are those among the post-living that possess or have achieved sentience, like vampires, liches, and wraiths. Dialogue is possible with creatures such as these, as long as one keeps certain discretions in mind:

1.	An undead who speaks is bound to be powerful. Any creature whose magic is potent enough to allow it sentience in death deserves an Altmer's begrudging admiration.

2.	An undead can never be trusted. Though we should respect the undead and their power, all undead want something from the living, and there is little to stop them from taking it. An Altmer must remain guarded in their presence. Always.

3.	An undead might not be as she appears. Many powerful mages possess illusory spells to alter their appearance, and so, too, do the undead. The wandering spirit of a lost child could be a starving lich in disguise.

That said, there is much an Altmer can learn from the accumulated knowledge of a sentient undead, if dialogue can be achieved. The discerning Altmer could learn of ancient spells from time immemorial, first-hand accounts of historical events, or the locations of lost relics—if said Altmer can pose salient questions. When conversing with the likes of the undead, an Altmer wants to maintain an appearance of:

1.	Humility. An Altmer's heritage should afford her much, and in an ideal world, all peoples, including liches, vampires, and wraiths, would adhere to the Altmeri concept of class and proceed accordingly. However, most undead, even Altmeri undead, rarely adhere to social conventions. As such, even the most well-bred of Altmer should refer to point 1 in the previous listing. Think of the undead as elders: powerful, unflinching, and prone to anger.

2.	Intelligence. As is true with the Altmer, especially well-bred Altmer, the undead do not suffer fools. Without being overtly obvious, an Altmer wants to seek openings to display magical acumen or cunning to show that she is not to be trifled with. Again, think of intimidating a stern elder into compliance.

3.	Discipline. Assuming an Altmer can enter into peaceful communication with a lich, wraith, vampire, or otherwise, she will undoubtedly have many questions. But she should be wary of the number of questions she asks. An undead will impart its knowledge willingly or not at all.

In Part II of this collection, I'll detail hurdles that may come up in conversation with the undead, specifically with wraiths, vampires, and liches, all of which require different operations of social intelligence.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1508)
	Tempest Island Briefing
You have your orders, Alduril, and you'll execute them as well as you always do, but I wanted to apologize again for this assignment. It would never have been necessary had the Canonreeves not dissolved my plans for a garrison at Tempest Island. I had drawn requisitions to bring a fleet of Swan Ships—enough to repel any force of long-range vessels from Pyandonea—to defend the island. The request was denied.

"We can deal with the Maormer after the Pact and the Covenant," they said, citing a lack of resources to devote to my "unfounded apprehension." So I reminded a few acquaintances of favors owed from conflicts long past and managed to send a few scout ships.

They reported unusual weather phenomena the first week, swift lightning storms off the coast that came and went in moments. The second week, the storms intensified, and under cover of inclement weather came a fleet of warships, chitinous hulls with opalescent sails, decks illuminated with the sparks of lightning staves and swords—Maormer war materiel, just as we remember them. My scouts estimated their force is small, not a full-scale invasion fleet, but the coast of Malabal Tor will be entirely at their mercy when they decide to attack.

Had the Canonreeves taken just a moment from their maps tracking the movements of Orcs and Men, they'd see that a dire threat was growing under their noses. Every week my scouts reported an increase in Maormer strength, a few ships every few days, appearing under the cover of some kind of weather magic. Months too late, the Canonreeves agree with me, now.

I know we ask much from you and your soldiers, but if you don't stop them, Alduril, the Dominion will have yet another front to fight in this war. More than any Daedra, more than the Ebonheart Pact, more than the Daggerfall Covenant, the Maormer want the Altmer choked from existence. They always have.

Show them no quarter.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1509)
	Soul-Trapping I: An Introduction
By Warlock Elinyon

Pardon the lengthy discussion of morality to follow. We shall reach the meat of this meal—the actual procedure of soul-trapping—soon enough. I was compelled to include an introductory chapter to this revised version of "Soul-Trapping" after the ethical arguments that sprang from the publication of the first edition.

Soul-trapping is the art of taking a creature's soul upon death and confining it in an appropriately-sized phylactery. Throughout the history of magic, mages and philosophers alike have battled back and forth about the morality of the art.

Some mages would argue that, once dead and soul-trapped, a creature's spirit is merely an echo of its previous life, no longer aware of what goes on around it. Even those rare individuals who become phantasmal hunters lurking the darkness of Tamriel are nothing more than predators acting on natural impulses. To these mages, once dead, an individual loses some spark, some intangible element in biological death, that cannot be regained. As such, they argue, soul-trapping is not unethical. In fact, it's a waste of resources to leave the soul of the deceased free.

Of course, we the living, being still alive, can never know for certain. Theories regarding the afterlife are myriad, but even the most powerful mages in Tamriel have never returned from death's reach to report their level of awareness in that state. As such, there are those in the communities of Tamriel, both magical and not, that decry the use of soul-trapping spells. The eccentric Archmagus Elomion of the First Era famously asked, "Would you like to spend your afterlife powering my levitation staff?" The Archmagus claimed to never have used a soul-trapping spell in all his years.

Adding some weight to that argument is the rumor that one such soul has retained a very mortal sentience in its entrapment. If rumors are true, the Altmeri royalty have utilized an advanced form of soul-trapping to imprison some ancient High Kinlord for the duration of his afterlife (perhaps one of the Rilises—that lot is notoriously manic, and their souls must be doubly so). The High Kinlord has reportedly maintained his (its?) faculties, taunting and jeering his keepers on a daily basis. I don't know where this Kinlord might be, and I don't want to know. I'd like to keep my head. But his very existence speaks to how aware a soul can be, and the morality of soul-trapping can be further postulated from there.

What do I believe about the subject? I've written ten volumes on trapping souls: instructional, theoretical, and historical in nature, and I cannot answer that question. It is my belief that you won't be able to, either. But what you can answer is whether the material I teach in the following volumes is worth using. All I ask is that you read them.
		

		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#1510)
	To All Who Pass Through
I am Dutheil, Artisan of Oblivion, and these are my Vaults of Madness. Look upon them and cower.

They were designed to contain my enemies, villains who lived only to inflict misery upon me. The wretches tormented me for years, jeered, prodded, taunted, before finally turning the nobles of Wayrest against me. They ruined my career as the preeminent architect in the West.

Such was my rage that I sought the Daedra, who came to me, offering a pact for my talents. They would capture my tormentors and imprison them here. In return, I would build for them. I accepted gladly. 

In Wayrest, I designed inescapable prisons for law enforcement, opaline palaces for the nobles of the Gardens District. My works were heralded as a crossing of artistic perfection and architectural function. But what I've built for the planes of Oblivion are so much more. Black spires for the Scheming Lord of Coldharbour are instruments of torture as much as they are monuments to his greatness. The razor pits of Deadlands never dull, and cut flesh, bone, and spirit essence for the Prince of Destruction—in ways that even the most powerful healers can never mend.

Even so, all of these creations—from the gestating cyst-towers of Molag Bal to the sparkling Pellingare Manor in Wayrest—are but baubles compared to the Vaults. They are my Daedric Crescent, my Akaviri Warblade, the culmination of my skill, my greatest creation.

And they grow only more extraordinary with time. What was once a place of eternal anguish for the three charlatans who ruined my mortal life has grown to become a nexus of torture for all manner of Tamrielic souls. So exquisite is the work I do in these Vaults that even the Daedric Princes send souls to me to oversee.

And as for you, dear guest—know that the pain you experience here is the result of lifetimes of refinement and iteration. Embrace it, and writhe, and be awed.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1511)
	Tale of Two Moons
As the sky falls white on Elsweyr

When the frost forms on the lake

When the fires blaze in brightness

When old bones begin to ache

Then cats cast off their budis

And fur keeps out the cold

And small moon chases big moon

And tells him secrets old

But then blue skies o'er Elsweyr

When rivers stream with light

When fires die in ashes

When youth again takes flight

Then cats rewrap their budis

And comb out rich, thick manes

And big moon chases small moon

And frees her from her chains
		

Failed at /books/1512		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1513)
	Memory Stone of Makela Leki, Pt. 1
This is a faithful reproduction of the thoughts recorded in Makela Leki's memory stone, found in the Bangkorai Pass, in the year of reckoning 1E 973. Seven years before the fall of Orsinium due to the combined efforts of the armies of Daggerfall, Sentinel, and the Order of Diagna.

Almost all of this is in the first person, as Makela was unfamiliar with the protocols and scholarly formalities of recording herself into a memory stone. None the less, her heroism and heroic deeds live on, her memories fresh in the stone for all to feel and hear.

" . . . Muuu uhh, I wonder if this will really work?

"That mage took me for 25,000 gold crowns if it doesn't. Imagine? This stone will record my thoughts? What did they say? Just unwrap it from the silver foil and leather bag and as soon as it touches my flesh it will begin to record.

"Ahhhh, the pain, I must block it out, no one would want to hold my stone and hear my thoughts if I let it record my pain. Thank the training I received in The Hall of the Virtues of War. I CAN block out this pain. Ummm just, ah, there, it's walled off.

"Yes, I can still see it there just beyond my consciousness lurking like a hungry wolf—a wolf that will soon consume me. I see also my inevitable death from these damned wounds. No potions left, the healing crystal and ring are used up, and me, with not even magic enough to light a candle. Oh, but the gods did give me other gifts, the gift of sword singing, the thrill of battle, Frandar Hunding's Book of Circles, THE WAY OF THE SWORD. Ah, but then, that is my story, I get ahead of myself.

"I am Makela Leki: a warrior, a sword-singer, a second level Ansei. In my cradle I could form the Shehai, the spirit sword—the mystical blade, mine formed of pure thought serpents intertwined with vines of roses to form the blade, as beautiful as ….

"Ah, but I'm about to tell you all about that, to tell you my story, a story of valiant battle, of my loves, of my wars, of betrayal and of this last glorious victory. To tell you of how I came to this distant lonely pass, me and five companions, to fight these men and monsters, to defeat the army that would fall on my people like cowards in the night — but again, I get ahead of myself.

"I am a simple warrior. I grew up as a Maiden of the Spirit Blade. As early as I can remember I wanted to be a Singer, to feel the hunger of the blade in my hands, to feel it come alive and take my enemies. I am told our people were artisans and poets long ago in our desert homes. Here in the new home now known as Hammerfell, many of us have returned to those ancient ways, but to me there is but ONE WAY. THE WAY of the SWORD.

"Ah, this is hard to tell. I grew up in my noble family, the only one of three brothers and two sisters that felt the calling, the Song of the Sword. Father understood, for he too had felt the call. He had become a master and Ansei long before settling down at our estate to raise a family. At eleven, I entered the Hall of the Virtues of War and joined the Maidens of the Spirit Sword. In my band there were six of us. Daring Julia, solid Patia, big Kati, svelte Cegila, wise Zell, and me—all are gone now, save me, and soon I will join them … join them in the halls of the unknown gods of war.

"We drank together, we fought, we wept, we grew in the way of the sword. We joined in our learnings in the Hall with our Brothers of the Blade. Learning from each other, we all sat at the feet of the Hall Master striving to learn the depths of the Shehai—making the spirit blade into a real weapon as Frandar Hunding had. Only a few have the purity of heart and virtue to be able to take the step and learn the mysteries of Ansei. Sword Sainthood.

"Somehow, of all the Brothers and the Maidens, I only possessed the unique qualities, the faint but strong enough flicker of magicka to call forth the Shehai. Many times I called it, seldom would it become substantial enough to be a weapon. To be an Ansei of the first level you just need to be able to call it, and that I could, so I became the first Ansei from our local hall in two generations.

"Oh I have so much to tell, so many memories, so many treasures to share with you, my unknown companion. How do I start?

"Umhhh, the pain is still out there lurking hungrily, slowly consuming what's left of me. I guess I had better tell of the final battle, the one that has left me here, and then if I have the will left tell you of my life, of my love Raliph. Oh, what a lad he was. What times we shared … forgive me, my mind wanders … let me go to the Final Battle.

"Umm to start, in the middle humm. Yes. We Maidens grew, learned, and mastered the Way upon completing the Walkabout. To you who are not Singers, this is a wilderness trek emulating the times of Frandar Hunding—where we each wander the countryside righting wrongs, defeating monsters, performing quests in the name of virtue. Some of us in our Hall took years to finish. Always there is danger—we six Maidens each returned in our own good time, but many are they who do not live to return from the Walkabout.

"We returned, each to our own lives, to meet in the hall once a week to tell our stories to the new Maidens and Brothers, and to perform as instructors in the Way of the sword. All was well till the night of the Midyear Festival."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1514)
	Memory Stone of Makela Leki, Pt. 2
"We returned, each to our own lives, to meet in the hall once a week to tell our stories to the new Maidens and Brothers, and to perform as instructors in the Way of the sword. All was well till the night of the Midyear Festival.

"All our people were reveling and … excuse … enjoying the repast, but for we six Maidens. It happened that the festival day fell on our day of meeting in the hall, our day of prayer and fasting and honor to the Way of the Sword.

"As we met, late into the night, a knocking rang on our door. When I opened it, there was a guardian from the Bangkorai Pass, wounded and near death … He told us of betrayal from the north, an invasion sponsored by High Rock, led by King Joile of Daggerfall—our ally in the war with Orsinium!

"Quickly we used up a crystal of healing in restoring him to vitality. We sent him on to the king, while we six grabbed our weapons and armor of power, and as many potions, marks, and crystals and rings as we could carry.

"We flew to the pass hoping upon hope that we would not be too late. Our journey was not in vain, for we arrived just at the very point where the last three guardians were overwhelmed by the horde. Into the pass we ran forming the old battle line, six abreast.

"OH did we FIGHT.

"The Song of the Sword was a joyous noise slicing through the ranks of evil. We fought for hours. Julia was the first to fall, a cowardly poisoned dagger finding a rent in her armor. Then one by one all fell, save me.

"… Oh cruel fate … Then my beloved sword, the sword of my father, the one with the serpent's crest, fashioned by the master swordsmith Singer Tansal broke in my hands. All was lost, our six lives spent in vain. Now, many many of them would pour through the pass. I would be easy prey for them, like a newborn child. I wept in frustration.

"Then I remembered the hearth in our home—the book. Frandar Hunding's Book of Circles, the Way of Strategy. I reached for Shehai, the spirit sword, that which I could never reliably form when I needed it, and behold … it was alive. Alive with fire. It formed in my hand. Ablaze with power—oh, I slew mightily, right and left, like a scythe through wheat. All the way to the Lord of Daggerfall I fought. With one blow I cut his magical armor asunder, one more took his head.

"But to do that deed cost me dearly, wounds by the dozen, for although I had magical armor, it was not formed of spirit like my blade, it was not as invincible as my blade or my own spirit, and I was sorely wounded.

"With the felling of King Joile, his army crumbled. They fled before my wrath. All ran back through the pass not even pausing to collect their dead and wounded. All who could stand ran for their lives, and I slew all I could reach, but my breath was coming short, and the pain ….

"Finally I rested, on this rock where you find me now. I don't know why I chanced to bring this stone along. I bought it on a whim really, with the loot from … ah, well, I guess I need to really stop and tell my story in order. I feel able to go on to tell you more … the eternal night is descending more slowly than I thought.

"Not just yet am I ready to compose my death poem. A little sip of water and … well, I think I will go back and tell you of my life, maybe some details about the battle. And, oh, yes. About Raliph and our children, humm where will I start.

"… Oh … rrr ….

"I am … a simple warrior … I grew up as a, a Maiden of the Spirit Blade … As early … as early as I can … remember …"
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1515)
	Zaban-ma's Journal
Things have changed on the plantation. Debt collectors stopped showing up and sister is always buying the expensive meat.

Where did this money come from? The crops were terrible this year; we barely pulled in ten parcels last month.

Why does sister wander off? Sometimes she goes for hours and then acts as if nothing happened. Father says nothing.

This is not right.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1516)
	Last Warning, Cat
The boss isn't happy. You better get off your furry butt and produce faster or the money stops.

Remember, we own the debt collectors. They'll pound down your door tomorrow if <<1>> gives the word.

— CTB
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1517)
	The Perfect Batch
I've done it! Soak the moon-sugar cane in double rum before distilling it down. So simple!

I gave a single drop to a skeever. Its pupils went so wide, they became like the night! Then it leapt out the window.

This batch should fetch twice the coin. I don't care what my brother says, our troubles are finally over!
		

Failed at /books/1518		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1519)
	The Alik'r (Second Era)
by Enric Milres

I might never have gone to the Alik'r Desert had I not met Weltan in a little tavern in Sentinel. Weltan is a Redguard poet whose verse I had read, but only in translation. He chooses to write in the old language of the Redguards, not in Tamrielic. I once asked him why.

"The Tamrielic word for the divinely rich child of rot, silky, pressed sour milk is … cheese," said Weltan, a huge smile spreading like a tide over his lampblack face. "The Old Redguard word for it is mluo. Tell me, if you were a poet fluent in both languages, which word would you use?"

I am a child of the cities, and I would tell him tales of the noise and corruption, wild nights and energy, culture and decadence. He listened with awed appreciation of the city of my birth: white-marbled Imperial City where all the citizenry are convinced of their importance because of the proximity of the Emperor and the lustration of the streets. They say that a beggar on the boulevards of the Imperial City is a man living in a palace. Over spiced ale, I regaled Weltan with descriptions of the swarming marketplace of Riverhold; of dark, brooding Mournhold; of the mold-encrusted villas of Lilmoth; the wonderful, dangerous alleys of Helstrom; the stately avenues of grand old Solitude. For all this, he marvelled, inquired, and commented.

"I feel as if I know your home, the Alik'r Desert, from your poems even though I've never been there." I told him.

"Oh, but you don't. No poem can express the Alik'r. It may prepare you for a visit far better than the best guide book can. But if you want to know Tamriel and be a true citizen of the planet, you must go and feel the desert yourself."

It took me a little over a year to break off engagements, save money (my greatest challenge), and leave the urban life for the Alik'r Desert. I brought several books of Weltan's poems as my travel guide.

"A sacred flame rises above the fire, The ghosts of great men and women without names, Cities long dead rise and fall in the flame, The Dioscori Song of Revelation, Bursting walls and deathless rock, Fiery sand that heals and destroys."

These first six lines from my friend's "On the Immortality of Dust" prepared me for my first image of the Alik'r Desert, though they hardly do it justice. My poor pen cannot duplicate the severity, grandeur, ephemera and permanence of the Alik'r.

All the principalities and boundaries the nations have placed on the land dissolve under the moving sand in the desert. I could never tell if I was in Antiphyllos or Bergama, and few of the inhabitants could tell me. For them, and so it came to me, we were simply in the Alik'r. No. We are part of the Alik'r. That is closer to the philosophy of the desert people.

I saw the sacred flame of which Weltan wrote on my first morning in the desert: a vast, red mist that seemed to come from the deep mystery of Tamriel. Long before the noon sun, the mist had disappeared. Then I saw the cities of Weltan. The ruins of the Alik'r rise from the sand by one blast of the unbounded wind and are covered by the next. Nothing in the desert lasts, but nothing dies forever.

At daylight, I hid myself in tents, and thought about the central character of the Redguards that would cause them to adopt this savage, eternal land. They are warriors by nature. As a group, there are none better. Nothing for them has worth unless they have struggled for it. No one fought them for the desert, but the Alik'r is a great foe. The battle goes on. It is a war without rancor, a holy war in the sense the phrase should always imply.

By night, I could contemplate the land itself in its relative serenity. But the serenity was superficial. The stones themselves burned with a heat and a light that comes not from the sun, nor the moons Jone and Jode. The power of the stones comes from the beat of the heart of Tamriel itself.

Two years I spent in the Alik'r.

As write this, I am back in Sentinel. We are at war with the Ebonheart Pact and the Aldmeri Dominion. All my fellow poets, writers, and artists are despondent for the greed and pride that brought these people into battle. It is a low point, a tragedy. In the words of Old Redguard, an ajcea, a spiral down.

Yet, I cannot be sorrowful. In the years I spent in the glories of the Alik'r, I have seen the eternal stones that live on while men go dead. I have found my inner eye in the tractless, formless, changeless and changeable land. Inspiration and hope, like the stones of the desert, are eternal though men be not.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1520)
	On the Immortality of Dust
By Weltan of Sentinel

A sacred flame rises above the fire, 

The ghosts of great men and women without names, 

Cities long dead rise and fall in the flame, 

The Dioscori Song of Revelation, 

Bursting walls and deathless rock, 

Fiery sand that heals and destroys.

Above the sea Sentinel shines,

Her domes agleam in the Iliac dawn. 

Her people throng the bazaars, and find

Their way between man's walls of stone.

But even in the towered town, 

Sandals tread tracks in Alik'r sand.

For all those born of Redguard blood

Bring the wastes with them where e'er they go.

The desert grips our hearts and souls,

Its flame within our eyes and ears.

Dust cannot die, and we are dust,

Windblown, ephemeral, eternal, all.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1521)
	Note to Throne Keeper Farvad
Farvad, 

Yesterday I happened to pass by the mausoleum of King Ra Boshek and decided to stop by, as I've always admired the Statues of Ward and Warning that guard its entrance. I was shocked to find the crypt in a state of abject negligence. Sand choked the doorway, prayer wheels were faded or missing, and someone had scrawled "Yazhmeena is Indecorous!" on the lintel. 

This is entirely unacceptable. Ra Boshek's crypt is in your quadrant of the necropolis, and I must hold you responsible for this malfeasance. I am well aware that, since that incident with the drunken scholar (may Satakal smite him), the remains of Ra Boshek are no longer in residence in his mausoleum. This is no excuse: the re-consecration of His Majesty's remains—what the Ash'abah left of him, anyway—is nearly complete, and his Rite of Re-Interment is to take place at Mid Year. I expect to see his mausoleum restored to pristine condition by Loredas at the latest, or you won't be spending any Fredas nights in Bergama for the foreseeable future. 

— Priestess Yazhmeena, High Throne Keeper
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1522)
	Shipyard Workers, Take Warning!
SPIES ARE EVERYWHERE!

The ships we are building are destined for the Thrice-Blessed Alliance of the Daggerfall Covenant—agents of the Ebonheart Pact and the Aldmeri Dominion may be spying upon our work AT ANY TIME. 

BEWARE OF SABOTEURS!

Ships on the ways are vulnerable to sabotage, especially from fire. This is especially likely to be attempted at night. BE ALERT FOR SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY.

REMEMBER: OPEN EYES TO STOP THE SPIES!
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1523)
	The Fort Sphinxmoth Ruins
By Calantius of Skingrad

The ruins of Fort Sphinxmoth lie hidden in the canyons of northern Elsweyr, near the border with Valenwood. The Reman Empire built this fortress into the side of a mountain so as to have an impregnable base, from whence columns of Legionnaires could be sent out to patrol the borders. The location offered elevation and good source of stone to build the walls of the outside fortress. The result was a large bastion with defensive walls, towers, and a subterranean series of halls, rooms, and dungeons built into the bowels of the mountain. It is said that the Legionnaires outfitted their fortress with many traps of cunning and clever design, to defend themselves should the walls ever be breached. 

Fort Sphinxmoth was abandoned by the Legions after the fall of the Second Empire, then was traded back and forth for a generation between warring Bosmeri and Khajiiti tribes, suffering additional damage every time it changed hands. Finally a landslide destroyed much of the upper works, and the fort was vacated by both sides. Word of mouth says that nothing worth looting was left in Fort Sphinxmoth, and today it's no more than an overgrown ruin that's been bypassed by history.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1524)
	The Book of Circles, Sundas Maxims
By Frandar Hunding

Thus on Sundas, Faithful Ones, do we consider these maxims of the Master:

"Be as dawn to your ally, and set dusk upon your foe."

"The Four-Hundred and Fifth Strike: the serpent's right fang as it pierces the eye."

"When swarmed by flies, favor the flat over the edge."

"Anger is a crack in the hull that sinks the ship."

"First blood matters less than last breath."

"Journey many and many miles, but do not leave the Hall of the Virtues of War."

"Discover your foe's habits and discard your own."

"Do not lose the melody in the rapture of one triumphant note."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1525)
	The Book of Circles, Tirdas Maxims
By Frandar Hunding

Thus on Tirdas, Faithful Ones, do we consider these maxims of the Master:

"The sword is the self. Its edge is the mind."

"To shed the mantle of fear is to cast it upon your enemy."

"Shouting to halt the sands' shifting only leaves you hoarse."

"Prepare to pay for victory in blood, but do not waste a drop."

"The victor's tempo grasps his opponent's and devours it."

"The Seventy-Ninth Strike: the spear of the fisherman sharpened at daybreak."

"Live and die in every moment of battle."
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1526)
	A Betrayal of Our Heritage
By "Nworc at-Traeh"

What says Yousebh the Stringent, Red Dervish of Rihad? "A daughter of the House of Akos Kasaz shall not marry an infidel of another house." Long have we followed the words of Yousebh. And yet now, what do we see, right here in Bergama? A daughter of a respected Crown family—that is to say, one who honors the traditions we brought from lost and lamented Akos Kasaz, Yath, and Kanesh—being married off to a ne'er-do-well son from a Forebear household. Is this to be countenanced? Is she to be allowed to bear children of tainted blood? Will they be taught to turn their backs on Ruptga, Tu'whacca, and Satakal, and mouth false prayers to "Arkay" and "Akatosh"? 

I say, we must raise our voices and cry "No!" Our ancestors came into the deep desert to found Bergama so that we could preserve our heritage from pollution by Tamrielic practices. The sanctity of Yokudan culture is our sacred trust! For two thousand years we have preserved it in the purifying aridity of the Alik'r. Have we maintained our traditions for so many generations, only to see them diluted and disrespected before our very eyes? 

It is said that the Magistrate is willing to license this ill-advised marriage, despite all precedent. What, we must ask, has induced her to make such a decision? Should a Magistrate with such poor judgment remain a Magistrate? 

Gather, O my neighbors. For we have weighty decisions to make.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1527)
	The Ballad of Navid the Singer
In old Ra Gada days

When Forebears came ashore

Among them were sword-singers

According to the lore

At fore were Yaghoub's Thirteen

Noble Ansei all

One there was named Navid

This song is of his fall

Navid loved Sayeedeh

Sayeedeh loved him not

Her heart was pledged to Ihlqub

The Thirteen's finest shot

As Ihlqub plied his bow

In practice on the beach

Navid approached with empty hands

Until he was in reach

While Ihlqub faced the target

Navid called up his shehai

Slew his love's love with sacred sword

And watched his rival die

Back to Yaghoub's beachhead

Went into his tent

Fell for shame on his own sword

Dishonor thus was spent
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1528)
	Blessed, Blessed Satakalaam
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh, Songbird of Satakalaam

Blessed of Onsi, Satakalaam: where warriors are bravest in all Alik'r.

Blessed of Tava, Satakalaam: where goshawk nests atop High Temple tower.

Blessed of Morwha, Satakalaam: where bees carry pollen to pomegranate and fig.

Blessed of Zeht, Satakalaam: where water from deep rock fills fountain and jug.

Blessed of Tu'whacca, Satakalaam: where Motalion guards ancestors from eras before. 

Blessed of Ruptga, Satakalaam: where stars shine to guide us upon Walkabout.

Blessed of Satakal, Satakalaam: where we shall keep true faith till called to World's End.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1529)
	Lauron's Journal
Day 7 -

I've arrived in S'ren-ja, this backwater Khajiiti village, to continue my research. The locals here have a minor crocodile infestation, and should provide the ideal base of operations for my experiments.

Day 31 -

Progress is slow, but I have almost achieved total mastery of the beasts. This morning I was able to force a mother crocodile to consume her own young! After she finished, the beast broke free from my control and I was forced to destroy it. I'm so close!

Day 48 -

My control is complete! The crocodiles of S'ren-ja are my puppets, and I am their master. I've experimented with having them slip into town and kill one or two nobodies. I'm sure they won't be missed. Now that I have mastered these beasts, though, I wonder if I could control something larger ….

Day 50

I've decided. I shall summon and master a Daedra. I should start with a daedroth, it's only fitting. The uninformed often mistake the beautiful daedroth for a crocodile, don't they? I'm sure I'll have just as much success dominating the will of a daedroth as I did with these other beasts!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1530)
	Note to Pellus
Pellus, 

Don't forget to lock the gate. Last time you left it unlocked a number of items went missing. My share of the loot from the Temple of Mara is here. I killed a lot of men to gain this loot and if it goes missing I'm holding you personally responsible.

— Captain Accalia
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1531)
	Note to Cardia
Dearest Cardia,

The wealth I've gained from this last job should allow me to finally leave these bandits. I want to get out of here as soon as we get paid off by the Stonefire Cult. We'll run away together and finally buy that little farm we've always wanted. I'm sorry about losing your mother's ring and I promise to buy you a new one as soon as we get away from here. 

All my love,

Darius
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1532)
	Note to Darius
Darius, 

Here is your share of the loot. You performed with bravery and intelligence during our raid on the Temple of Mara, and I want to make certain that all of my lieutenants are amply rewarded. 

The Phylactery is yours to do with as you please—keep it or sell it. 

— Captain Accalia
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1533)
	Note from Captain Accalia
Engannas, 

Here is your share of the loot. You killed more of those filthy priests than any of the others so I am awarding you the Dagger of Mara as your prize. Once the Stonefire Cult has paid me for the Chalice you will receive an additional measure of coin. 

— Captain Accalia
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1534)
	Letter to a Scoundrel
Darius, 

You have ruined my life. You gambled away my mother's ring and now I find my dearest father murdered by your butchering friends. I cannot bear this any longer. I know that Accalia will never let me leave, so I am getting out the only way I know how. 

May you rot in your grave, and may it be soon.

— Cardia
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1535)
	On Summoning Skeletons
Many options present themselves for the industrious necromancer who wishes to raise undead minions to serve or protect. Vengeful ghosts, of course, and other types of incorporeal spirits abound, but they have little substance and can often be difficult to control. Corporeal dead provide more muscle, which comes in handy when you need manual labor or an instant fighting force. Plus, if you use minor Daedric spirits to animate them, corporeal undead have no sense of self or memory of past lives. They are more malleable, easier to command, and capable of following simple orders. In short, they make perfect servants for most of a necromancer's minion requirements.

While some necromancers prefer to animate zombies to perform tasks, other practitioners of dark magic prefer to deal with skeletons. First, skeletons, by definition, consist primarily of bone, with few or no organs or fleshy bits remaining. In other words, skeletons don't have the habit of dropping bits and pieces of themselves all over your ritual circle or lair, unlike their zombie counterparts. Second, skeletons tend to be more sturdy and dextrous than zombies, making them noticeably faster and, in many ways, more dangerous.

You have two sources when it comes to obtaining skeletons to raise and command. One is to pull the bones directly from a fresh corpse (or even from a living victim, if you have the appropriately powerful spell at the ready). The newly dead provide strong, sturdy bones that can deal and withstand punishment with equal facility, depending on the demands of your service. Newly dead skeletons also tend to exhibit more agility and speed, albeit with the clumsiness common to all new-born creations.

The second source to draw upon when seeking to raise skeletal minions remains the tried and true market favored by most practicing necromancers—the graveyard. Of course, any depository of the dead will do, from an ancient necropolis to a long-forgotten battleground ripe with the corpses of fallen soldiers. Older bones often house great power, and the magic you employ will gather the scattered fragments and knit them together with necrotic bindings. Older bones may crumble and shatter before the bones of the newly dead, but they often compensate for that liability with the extra power trapped within these relics and awaiting your command.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1536)
	Necromancy: The Great Debate
How dare they? Hypocrites! Pretenders! What gives the Mages Guild the right to call my particular practice of magic the Black Arts? And to forbid our use of these precious and ancient arts on pain of death? Ludicrous! Don't they understand? We control death! It is ours to command and we do not fear its cold embrace! No. We welcome it.

Only the foolish and the fearful refuse to grasp power due to its source. They call us evil, but we are merely prudent. They call us irresponsible, but we understand the concept of risk and reward. They claim we bring terror and misery to the world … well, at least on this matter we are in agreement. The world should fear us! For we have embraced the power of the dead and made it our own. Let the fools in the Mages Guild play at their conjurations and alterations. We are necromancers, and our magicka cannot be stifled or restrained.

I have heard it said that a great debate rages in the halls of arcane academia. These so-called scholars argue the relative merits and risks of necromancy, but they do so from ignorance and fear. There is no need to debate the issue. Necromancy is the one, true path to power. It is our path. And we will not be denied!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1537)
	Party Theme
To all my beloved minions and peons:

The current theme for our never-ending party is Dance of Death. Make sure the minstrels continue to sing and dance without pause. I especially enjoy Idria's voice— it is so sweet and melodic! And her dancing is most hypnotic! I want her music to fill these halls. And the way her body moves … it's poetry in motion! Do not let her stop on pain of death. Yours!

Know that I am holding her prized musical instrument in my upstairs chamber. This will guarantee her compliance. Besides, I might reward her with the honor of playing a private performance for me later in the event.

Now, have fun and make those Soul Shriven suffer!

— Nerazakan
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1538)
	The Perfect Host
By Malenford Hlaalu, House Event Planner Extraordinaire

Any gathering, party, or festival requires one thing—a perfect host. A perfect host is the anchor for any event, the smiling face that makes everyone welcome, the entertaining and accommodating party-thrower who makes sure every guest is wined and dined and has a good time.

But a perfect host isn't born knowing how to bestow a rousing good time upon a crowd of guests, or how to set up a memorable event. To be a perfect host requires years of training, days of strategic planning, and hours of preparation and set up.

Or, you can follow these few easy steps based on my own extensive experience and years of successful event planning.

First, select a theme for your party or event. A good theme provides context for your gathering and gives your guests a fun and exciting motif to focus upon. Theme examples include classic Dunmeri plays, spring or fall harvest, Nord drinking games, and (my personal favorite) Grim Brooding Day.

Second, choose your guests. How large an event do you want to host? Select a number you can comfortably squeeze into your venue—and depending on your theme, the tighter the squeeze the better—and remember to invite twice that number to account for declines and no-shows. 

After you have selected a number and chosen the people you want to invite, prepare your invitations. The quality of the invitation reflects on the event you plan to hold, so match the paper and message to your theme as best you can. Then send the invitations at most one month prior to but no later than one week before the event.

Third, use your theme to determine if your event will be an occasion to sit down and relax or stand and mingle. If tables and chairs fit your theme, plan your seating arrangements carefully and provide seating cards to tell your guests where to sit. I cannot stress how important a good seating chart is. You have the power to create interesting conversations, intriguing arguments, or meaningful connections—all according to whom you sit next to who.

Fourth, develop a menu. Every event demands food and drink. But your theme and venue allow a broad interpretation of what that means. Do you want to host a formal dinner? Provide snacks and lighter fare? Feature the best wine that gold can buy? Or perhaps you simply want to have vast amounts of the cheapest intoxicants available in order to get all of your guests happily hammered? As long as it fits your theme and your budget, this is all up to you.

Fifth, entertain your guests! The first four steps will go a long way toward creating a fun and memorable event. However, to put the icing on the cake, you need to provide some killer entertainment. Minstrels and bards are perfect for themes that include singing and dancing. Poets and storytellers are best suited to performance-based events where you intend your guests to be an audience instead of participants in the event. Prestidigitators, animal trainers, weapon masters, actors, and more are also obvious choices for an evening's entertainment. Just match your theme and go wild, and your guests will love it!

Good luck! You are now on your way to becoming the perfect host!
		

Failed at /books/1539		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1540)
	Resources for Lukiul
Captain,

I've done as you asked. It took some doing, but I've managed to re-direct those supplies from the lizard village to our drop site near Heimlyn Keep. 

With the Covenant pressing their attack, military surplus has flooded into Stonefalls. Get your men into place as soon as you can. Enough supplies to hold off a siege were slated for those Argonian savages. Now they'll line our pockets instead.

Always good doing business with the military.

— Naril Heleran
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1541)
	New Opportunities
Verill,

You asked me for a name. I have one for you: "Seeks-the-Night," an Argonian out of a village called the Silent Mire. Perfect opportunity for what you have in mind.

Yrs,

Virian
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1542)
	Desperate Time
Captain, 

You have to help me. My wife has fallen in with this Argonian … filth. She and I came to Darkwater to escape the fighting, the conflicts, and the damned Ebonheart Pact.

But still, Jorunn's cowardice spreads everywhere. Argonians in my new home! I won't let it stand. Friendship with this Hssith … Nvarr isn't the woman I married.

I need men. Send me men and let me take the town. I don't care where they come from. I'll even take some of those filth following Fildgor around. 

Send me the men. I'll do the rest.

— Lorn
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1543)
	Crumpled Note in the Desk
Captain Balrook gro-Mak,

Your continued efforts to recruit from the Bloodthorn tire me. I know the stock you military men put in honor, and loyalty, and "your word." So let me give you my word: you approach my men again, and I will feed your heart to you before you die.

Best of luck,

— Verrik
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1544)
	Lerineaux's Concerns
Captain,

Martin continues to press us for details. I continue to tell him nothing. We're very deliberately staying out of the Bloodthorn's path. Whatever they have planned, we can't afford to be tarred by that brush.

Meanwhile, Lerineaux continues to work at the supply chain. We've identified a quartermaster in Wayrest with a drinking problem, and a Sentinel guard captain deep in gambling debts. We're certain we'll be able to start moving shipments across the borders soon.

Stay in touch,

— Kath of the Red Nails
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1545)
	Wounded Lion
To the noble Sir Valcent Tailes, late of the Lion Guard,

My name is Captain Balrook gro-Mak, and I believe we have some things in common. We are both men of honor, men of singular vision. My allies assure me that the accusations leveled against you are baseless, and that you are being singled out. Persecuted. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please let me know.

As a show of good will, I've sent along a few trinkets and books. I'm given to understand you have an interest in the spellcasting arts, and I have no use for these old things. 

The dead of Eastmarch have slept long enough. Make good use of them.

Yrs Respectfully,

Captain Balrook
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1546)
	Note from Alasan
Magistrate Sulma,

We appreciate your offer of gold, but the Withered Hand trades in the currency of corpses. Provide one corpse for every ten gold in your offer, and we will spare the city of Bergama. 

Acquire the corpses by whatever means you prefer, stow them in your basement, and we will periodically pick them up. 

If this arrangement does not suit you, we will simply harvest corpses in Bergama ourselves.

— Alasan
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1547)
	Letter of Understanding
Ren-dro,

As requested, I've included a full listing of the security accommodations that will be in place during your visit to Riften next month.

Now stop your complaining. I'm serious, this is the last time I submit to one of your ridiculous demands. You milk-drinking cats and your cowardice. Stuff your moons up your arse.

— Close-cover bodyguards. Every one is a Nord I trust implicitly. My son will be running the crew.

— Disguise variety. We'll be able to offer you a different set of robes every day you're in the city. Hope you don't mind pretending to be a Priest of Mara.

— Your damned food requests. Do you have any idea how much moon-sugar my chef requested to meet your menu requirements? 

— I've reluctantly agreed to host one of your men. This J'darzi has access to our network, and we'll accommodate him as best we can.

I hope you're satisfied. If you're not, you can whine to me in person next month.

— Leidela Black-Briar
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1548)
	To Captain Marck
To the attention of Captain Albert Marck, with my most humble respects.

Captain, I greatly look forward to gracing Sentinel with my presence next month. I wanted to write to thank you for all the preparations you've made for my arrival. 

I wanted to let you know that you've been in touch with someone in my extended organization, a confidante named S'rashi. You may have met him, yes? He's been confirming the bodyguards, the food preparation, etc.

He's also informed me that most of the bodyguards you've hired are former elites from the Ring of Daggers, that unique poisons based on sweetened moon-sugar have been imported from Morrowind, and that representatives of King Fahara'jad's inner circle have been seen entering and leaving your residence late at night.

I hope this finds you well. And that my advance team finds you sleeping.

Regards,

— Krin Ren-dro
		

Failed at /books/1549		Part of the Final Words collection (#1550)
	Fakimal's Letter
This has gone too far. When I first agreed to this enterprise, I had misgivings, but I put my concerns aside. Sacrificing a few lives to save many others is sometimes necessary. But how many must we kill before the Withered Hand is satisfied? 

I will do this no longer. If this is truly my duty as a bailiff of Bergama, then I most firmly resign from my post.

— Bailiff Fakimal
		

Failed at /books/1551		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1552)
	Everfull Flagon Journal, Page 1
Business is dismal. Today I poured two mugs of mead. Just two. And one of the mugs was for me. 

Why did I open a tavern in this tiny, lonely village? I thought that after a hard day's labor, people would want to drink and sing. But even the smith, who must work up a thirst, rarely comes in. 

I would pray for a miracle, but who would listen to the prayers of a simple tavern owner who's down on his luck?
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1553)
	Everfull Flagon Journal, Page 2
An interesting fellow stopped by today. A mage of some sort, I think. Sat in a corner, kept his hood drawn over his features. At first, he was grim and kept to himself. After a mead, however, he asked about the village and my tavern. I confess, it felt good to unburden myself.The fellow listened sympathetically and indicated there might be a way to improve my situation. 

He said he might know how to turn things around. To get customers in the door and make them stay for a while. He said he would return after he thought about the problem and consulted his books.

I can't wait to hear what he comes up with. I'd give anything to make this tavern successful.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1554)
	Everfull Flagon Journal, Page 3
I made the bargain. 

The Special Blend is as popular as promised.

Business is booming, but at what cost? 

What have I done?
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1555)
	Zurka's Orders
Cousin Zurka,

Those idiots at Mathiisen must be kept under surveillance. Right now their plans don't extend beyond Auridon, but if they do succeed in taking the island they could be trouble.

We're counting on you. Keep your claws sharp and your eyes open. 

Report any new developments to this one right away.

— Ren-dro
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1556)
	Recruiting a Ranger
I am tired of your excuses! The Vinedusk Rangers are some of the most effective, lethal assassins in Tamriel. I will have one on my payroll before the end of the year. I will have her by my side, guarding me day and night, wearing her armor.

This is not a negotiation. I paid good money for your services. I don't care what's happening at Driladan Pass or Vullain. Get out there into Valenwood and recruit me a Ranger!

I can assure you, my current stable of assassins is more than skilled enough to deal with you if you don't.

— Ren-dro
		

Failed at /books/1557		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1558)
	Notable Transactions
Krin,

I've outlined a few of the most notable transactions from the last few weeks. Anything I haven't noted here is pretty much moving along as we'd hope. 

And as a reminder, make sure to tell your cousin about her kid. Why she thought he could make it running with you, I'll never know. I sent what was left of him to Thizzrini. Trolls are always hungry, you know.

— Payments from businesses in Dune and Rawl'kha continue to trickle in. Our new push in Dune has earned lots of coin. I've pulled everyone out of Arenthia. Not sure what to make of the situation there.

— Hadran sent along two loaves of nectar bread and a bottle of plum brandy. He's late on his payment, but word from our agent is that he's good for it. Suggest letting it go for another week or two.

— Ishalga is well and truly hooked. Never thought it would be so useful having someone like her on retainer, but she's proven surprisingly informative. Arena's a good place to drink, I guess.

— Damned eagles shut down one of our operations in Skywatch. Malion's not in a cell yet. But we need to rethink our relationship with that city.

— We've lost contact with our agent in the Red Sun bandits. I honestly don't know what's happened, but Malabal Tor has some kind of crazy situation developing over there. Suggest we hold tight and see if he reaches out.

Bright moons, boss.

— Rinfir-jo
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1559)
	The Falconer's Log
Entry 1

Clear weather. Put out of Southshore with all hands. If any doubt the power of the Gold Fleet, they won't when we cross the horizon.

Entry 2

Clear weather. By some ill-conceived joke we are to be joined by a squadron of Khajiit-led privateers. Something about "appealing to the natives through diplomatic overture." Surely they have a better use for us than playing nursemaid to ruffians.

Entry 3

Choppy seas. If we're the pride of the Dominion, the privateers are its disgrace. A more ragtag assembly of barnacle-crusted vessels I've never set eyes upon! We would make better time if we scuttled the lot of them.

Entry 4

Clear weather. Strange sails on the horizon. We've all heard the reports—a Sea Viper fleet reaving along the coasts of Auridon—though nothing to speak of a presence here. More Khajiit barnacles latching onto our hull? I would not be surprised. The Peregrine dispatched to investigate.

Entry 5

Rough seas. The Peregrine was unable to locate its quarry and heavy winds prevent us from pursuing further. Strange, our Sighter indicated clear weather for at least three days.

Entry 6

Lost … collided with … taking on water. First Mate sighted … ago. No sign of … Prowler in the mist, but then it was gone. Swears he saw coils in the waves … belowdecks to sober up.

High winds tore … from the rigging. Mast is gone. No choice but to … shore. Instructed all hands to … as is my duty.

<<1>>, I apologize. In this, and … failed you.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1560)
	The Little Alkosh's Log
Entry 1

<<1>> honors us with our inclusion in the Dominion's Gold Fleet! We are to join the Rusty Claw, Mara's Teat, and the Prowler in <<Ac:2>> to embark a contingent of Wood Elf marines.

Entry 2

Made port in Haven under cover of night. Associates offloaded our cargo before <<3>> and his soldiers. We disembarked leaving a hold full of rats and Mer. The Wood Elves don't seem to mind. I watched one dig into the vermin with relish.

I must pray to Khenarthi for strong winds. There are only so many rats.

Entry 3

Religious beliefs are one thing, but if any more Bosmer complain about our ship being made of wood, I'll invite them to swim to <<4>>.

Entry 4

Met up with this "Gold Fleet." It's a fleet to be sure, but the only gold here was spent constructing it. So many ships! It's a wonder they don't become tangled like ja'Khajiit at play.

Entry 5

The Wood Elves are amicable enough, but the High Elves are less than pleased with our presence. One wonders why they asked us here at all.

The fleet sighted an unknown vessel on the horizon. We offered to pursue, but the High Elves insisted one of theirs should go after it. Nothing found, of course. Our ships may not be polished to a brilliant sheen, but they are fast. Had they listened, we'd have known who shadowed the fleet.

Entry 6

Storm. Thunder. Death. Abandoning ship with all hands. S'rendarr watch over us.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1561)
	Care of Kwama
by Cirantille

While the insectoid creatures known as "kwama" originated in Morrowind, do not be surprised to find them elsewhere in Tamriel. The creatures have been transported, intentionally or otherwise, to many different parts of the world.

The barbarous Dunmer, for example, keep the creatures in "egg mines" because they find them a delicacy. "Good eating!" as one toothless old sot told me. I cannot imagine what passes for good food among the Dark Elves that they would eat insect eggs.

But the Dunmer may be on to something, in their own backward way. Kwama are, indeed, excellent miners. They prefer to live underground, creating elaborate tunnel systems as they build their warrens. The creatures consume organic material from the earth and appear to actually excrete minerals they cannot digest, such as gemstones, gold, and iron.

As an experiment, the Aldmeri Dominion is transporting kwama eggs to various outer territories. There, small kwama mines can be established. The kwama can dig to their hearts' content—if they have hearts—and our kwama keepers can pull the minerals from their refuse. Much more efficient than using Argonian captives. The bugs, at least, feed themselves.

There are several different kwama types within the species, and each must be dealt with in a different way.

Kwama scribs are the kwama young and are easily managed. They're voracious but strongly influenced by food. Scribs hatch from long eggs and grow from the size of a large man's foot to the length of a large dog. The scrib may evolve into one of the other types, or it may die.

Kwama foragers explore the outer mine areas and are known to search the surface of the world for new territory. Kwama keepers have learned to "steer" foragers toward potential mine sites and away from Dominion settlements, for kwama undermining can cause sinkholes. It is important for a kwama keeper to know when a forager can't be managed, as the forager must be dispatched before it can return to the mines.

Workers are the most useful of the kwama and will tirelessly dig away, expanding their warrens and searching for food. It is possible for a kwama keeper to use a goad to push workers toward or away from specific sites, but risky. Workers will fight back, and an uprising in a kwama mine is a violent and dangerous event.

A few scribs grow up to become warrirors. While some uneducated souls think that killing the warriors keeps the rest in line, this expert disagrees. Killing the warriors causes more scribs to evolve into the mine's protectors and soon you have nothing but the violent creatures to deal with! What's more, the warriors can command lesser kwama, which means an uprising is almost certain. If a warrior must be killed, do it quickly, and away from the rest of the nest!

Finally, the kwama queen. She is a huge, bloated creature, nearly immobile and very rare. Not all hives have queens. Many are just offshoots of greater hives. But all eggs are born of a kwama queen. If one encounters a queen, move away quickly! They are not pleasant creatures and cannot be influenced. Every kwama in a hive will throw itself at a perceived "invader" to protect the majestic corpulence of their queen.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1562)
	Guild Mage's Journal
Cyrodiil, Day 3

We've been gathering for days. I'm getting impatient to leave. Surely the enemy will spot us if we continue to delay here. We must move soon or all will be lost.

Cyrodiil, Day 5

HoonDing smile on us. At last, we are going to attack! Now our enemy shall know fear and pain and sorrow!

Coldharbour, Day 1

Everything's gone wrong. I am lost and writing from a small alcove in the rocky wall. Clannfear patrol the rocks below, and other, worse things roam the dark shadows that stretch in all directions. Tu'whaaca guide me. I must find better shelter!

Coldharbour, Day 4

I spotted a giant wall in the distance. Somehow, the view gives me hope. I will try to make my way there tomorrow. Perhaps safety and shelter awaits me there.

Coldharbour, Day 6

I see brilliant light beyond the wall now. It is still far off. Ruptga protect me, but I do not think I shall make it. The Clannfear have returned. There are Dremora with them. I think they know I am here, for they seem to be actively hunting for me. I do not want to die at their hands!

Coldharbour, Day 9

I have been in this cage for days. The Dremora stuck me in here, without so much as a scrap of food or a drop of water. They haven't said a word. They barely acknowledge my existence. What do they want? Why do they continue to hold me? Wait, one of them approaches now. She's carrying a long, pointed spear. I wonder what she plans to do with —
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1563)
	What Eats Birds?
Blasted birds. Never a moment's peace. Everywhere I look, birds! Great gulls with smiling beaks. Tiny things with blue feathers, nipping at flies. Never silent. No, never quiet.

What eats birds? Cats, but they're no better than birds. Always grooming themselves. Tiny fiends with tiny claws. Always stealing my fish!

Where will I go? This island is covered in cats. Cat men! Men who are cats. Think they can fool me? They're in it with the birds!

Better to go into the wilderness. Find someplace safe. Maybe underground. No cats there, no birds! Only the dark. Dark and cold, like a fish.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1564)
	Khenarthi's Roost: Interim Orders
Though we've acquired the <<1>>, this <<2>> may bear more fruit. Still, I fear <<3>> will never allocate the forces necessary to clear the undead from the courtyard.

Remain at the camp for the time being. Report any changes directly to me at <<4>>. With luck, the excitement will die down and we can explore the ruin at our leisure.

— <<5>>
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1565)
	Wind-Ripped Page
— at sea for such a long time. Only a fool can't see the hurricane's magical origins.

But no matter! Local legends point to this <<1>> as a potent source of arcane mysteries. Perhaps a chance to show up those fools in the Crystal Tower?

Yet <<2>> insists on a cautious approach, as does his fawning apprentice. Do they think me an imbecile? They won't take the glory of discovery away from me!

— <<3>>
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1566)
	Laughing Moons Ledger
Entry One:

47 - <<1>>

 3 - <<2>>

 3 - <<3>>

13 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Two: 

16 - Juraira

 6 - <<5>>

 7 - <<2>>

 8 - Maormer Embassy

17 - <<6>>

18 - <<2>>

13 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Three:

 6 - <<5>>

 0 - <<2>> (Suspended Pending Inquiry)

 3 - <<3>>

11 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Four:

38 - <<1>>

 2 - <<5>>

15 - <<6>>

13 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Five:

16 - Juraira

 2 - <<5>>

17 - <<6>>

6 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Six:

 8 - <<5>>

 3 - <<3>>

16 - Maormer Embassy

11 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Seven:

 1 - <<5>>

57 - <<1>>

 7 - <<6>>

 7 - Juraira

11 - <<4>> Barracks

Entry Eight:

13 - <<6>>
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1567)
	Letter from Karpu-sa
Honored Clan-Mother,

The roads are dangerous of late. Bandits attack without fear of reprisal, and harpies, driven to roost by the storm, strike without warning.

These developments have driven this one to hire a pair of mercenaries. Both are hardy walkers, so please triple this one's order this month.

Please, do not worry about protecting the shipment. An escort will arrive before the next crescent.

Magrus smile upon your fields by day, Jone and Jode dance over them by night.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1568)
	A Word to the Wise
R,

Your shipments have dropped off. Stockpiles are acceptable for now, but we anticipate a greater need by the next moons. If shipments don't resume by then, there'll be consequences.

Your competition lost one of its flock to the storm. If you recover it, you might expect a sizeable kickback. We may even ignore your recent lapse.

— H
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1569)
	No Reason to Worry
H,

Apologies for the lapse. Our supplier grew suspicious. Don't fret overmuch, the appropriate mouths will be fed.

We recovered your wayward bird. Its belly ran afoul of the storm, but we think it can be saved. If it is not in your hands by the next full moons, we are discovered and you should cease correspondence.

— R
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1570)
	Sugarbelly
A Walker's Guide to Happy Senche-Tigers

by Azmu-ra

The mind of the senche-tiger is like its tail, weaving impossible shapes before pouncing on its prey. If you are that prey, too bad for you! But grab hold of the tail and the senche-tiger does exactly as you want, so long as your grip remains firm.

In theory one could lead a senche-tiger about by its tail forever, but Azmu-ra does not recommend it. Senches are quite fast, very strong, and entirely capable of holding a grudge! Much better to sieze the mind, but how to do this?

First understand that, like Khajiit, the senche-tigers have a powerful sweet tooth. They also have fine noses and will track moon-sugar down wherever it hides. In pockets, through walls, in the bellies of close friends—anywhere.

Fortunately, the senche-tiger's appetite for sugar is only so great. By keeping your senche-tiger on a steady diet, you can manage its more aggressive desires with more useful pursuits, like rat-catching. You need only know how much moon-sugar is enough moon-sugar.

This is where it gets tricky. The senche sweet tooth waxes and wanes with the moons, starting with the phase under which it was born and ending with its lunar opposites. Size is a factor, also, as larger senche require more moon-sugar!

Some trainers can determine a senche-tiger's appetite for moon-sugar by consulting the local Two Moons, but Azmu-ra does not recommend this. A priestess is not always on hand, and keeping both the temple and your senche supplied with moon-sugar is an expensive proposition!

Also, senche-tigers grow swiftly. Unless fully grown, their appetites will change. Many would-be trainers have little time to regret a low stock of moon-sugar! The resulting carnage is never pretty.

Better to keep a stockpile of moon-sugar on hand. The senche eats until sated, and what is left can be used to ice the sweet roll, spice the pudding, or make delectable moon candy.

Once full of moon-sugar, a senche-tiger wants only two things: meat to fill its belly and a sunny place to bask. This makes them suited to guarding fields and hunting game, but this is about all they can do without years of training. Even then, training can only go so far.

For example, motivating senches to pull farming equipment is not recommended. If your senche-tiger should deign to endure the harness, it will still be inclined to chase anything larger than a field mouse that it spots across the fields. Save yourself the trouble of collecting scattered plows!

While other trainers have had some success with watch-senche and battle-senche, Azmu-ra would strongly discourage training them to eat people unless you are strong and good at fighting. Even then, this one would not recommend it. A senche-tiger's loyalty reaches only so far as its belly, yes?

Hopefully this guide helped you avoid being eaten by your favorite senche-tiger. If not, well … Azmu-ra made no promises!
		

Failed at /books/1571		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1572)
	Rakamud's Letter
<<1>>,

Imagine my surprise at leading the herd to the shore and finding riches of the sea spilled upon our doorstep. What a bounty!

Sister, bring your wagon to <<2>> with all haste. If we move swiftly, we'll have enough money to start our own plantation!

— <<3>>
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1573)
	Battle of Thormar
The Bosmeri and Khajiiti warparties clashed in the fields near Thormar. The battle lasted an entire day but in the end the Bosmer were victorious, leaving Khajiiti corpses scattered about the field. The Khajiiti leader, a powerful mage named Yenamu Frost-Fist, was the last to fall. She and the last of the the Khajiit held for hours, as she ripped walls of ice from the ground to thwart attack after attack. One by one, the last of the defenders fell until Yenamu stood alone.  Finally a single arrow, shot by an unknown Bosmer, struck her through the eye and the battle was won. 

Relics Sought:

- Skull of Yenamu and the arrow that slew her.

- Yenamu's staff.

- The skulls of Yenamu's honor guard.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1574)
	A Midnight Ambush
The infamous Khajiiti warrior Moon-Scythe and a small entourage made their way toward Willowgrove under cover of night. In a stunning display of night-time manuevering, they were ambushed by Bosmeri defenders and slaughtered. 

Relics Sought:

— Moon-Scythe's remains

— Moon-Scythe's silver claw
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1575)
	Battle of Falinesti
Beaten at the battle of Sphinxmoth, the Khajiiti commander Eagle Eye ordered his troops into an orderly retreat. Unknown to Eagle Eye, the Bosmer were seeking bloody revenge. As the Khajiiti troops rested somewhere just outside the Vale of Falinesti, the Bosmer set upon them from every side. The battle was short and vicious. Before long, Khajiiti blood filled the vale. The survivors were all butchered and it is said that some were even roasted alive. 

Relics Sought:

— Eagle Eye's remains

— Eagle Eye's sword

— Eagle-Eye's sigil
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1576)
	Thank You for Your Patience
<<1>>,

While we recognize bandit activity has increased along the roads, there is nothing we can do to address it at this time.

Many buildings along <<2>>—including piers and other vital port structures—were damaged in the storm and will require significant renovation.

Our architects estimate at least a month before they can begin rebuilding, and a further two before efforts are completed.

Furthermore, the arrival of so many Dominion refugees from the wreckage of the "Gold Fleet" strains the <<3>> guard to capacity.

Normal patrol patterns will resume once <<2>> is restored.

Thank you for your patience while we manage this crisis.

— Office of the <<3>> Chancery
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1577)
	Increased Bandit Activity
Headwoman <<1>>,

While this one understands the guard is needed to help <<2>> recover from the storm, cessation of regular patrols has led to increased bandit activity along the roads.

One can hardly step away from one's stall without being accosted by ruffians. If it is not bandits, it is harpies driven inland by heavy winds. If not harpies, scavengers "mistaking" our wares for flotsam washed up on the shore!

<<3>> has contracted with a pair of mercenaries to help deal with these dangers, but not all of my kin are able to do so. When can we expect patrols to resume?

Patiently awaiting your response,

—<<3>>, Merchant
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1578)
	Rats in the Crops
Headwoman <<1>>,

Some of our homes were damaged in the storm and a great many rats have set upon our crops. While we have the rats in hand, we would inquire as to when we might expect help.

None of us at <<2>> are skilled architects. While a few of us can make simple repairs, we cannot fix everything without help from <<3>>.

We will do what we can while we wait for your word.

Ever your servant,

— <<4>>
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1579)
	Unavoidable Delays
<<1>>,

While we realize the outlying farms sustained damage in the storm, we regret to inform you that we cannot facilitate repairs until our own restoration efforts are complete.

Many buildings along <<2>>—including piers and other vital port structures—were damaged in the storm and will require significant renovation.

Our architects estimate at least a month before they can begin rebuilding, and a further two before efforts are completed.

Furthermore, the arrival of so many Dominion refugees from the wreckage of the "Gold Fleet" strains the <<3>> guard to capacity.

Once <<2>> is restored, we will endeavor to provide you with whatever you require.

Thank you for your patience while we manage this crisis.

— Office of the <<3>> Chancery
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1580)
	Salvager's Torn Journal
— on arrival. They weren't badly injured, but all suffer terribly from the fisherman's thirst.

We nursed them back to health and they've agreed to help search the wreckage for their friends.

Entry 5

So many things washed up on the shore! This one cannot count the foodstuffs and other supplies. We even stumbled across several crates packed with tiny glass vials. Who can guess what they hold? Potions, perhaps? <<1>> will know, it is certain! And she always pays a fair price.

Tomorrow we travel to <<2>> with our bounty and new-found friends. Perhaps there they will find more survivors from their fleet? Who can say?
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1581)
	Rurelion's Observation #1
<<1>>

Observation #1

This catacomb is filled with corpses, and not one of them a Khajiit. Each appears to have died in battle, yet special attention and care was provided in preparing their bodies. Whoever constructed this place must respect death immensely—even that of their enemies.

—<<2>>
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1582)
	Bolga's Guide to Island Beasts
by Bolga gra-Bur, Huntswoman of Mistral

Beasts from all over Tamriel come here on trade ships. Those that find killing easy call this island home. From weak to strong, Bolga tells you where to find them. How to best them. Whether they are good for eating.

—

Skeevers

Big rats from up north. Pack roamers. Meat is good for stew. Very stringy.

Live in burrows under sand. Camping on beach? Bad idea. Water comes up and skeevers with it. Better to camp on rocks. Solid ground.

Jump like tiny tigers. Sometimes spin about. You think they are running? Do not be fooled! You wonder why Bolga has only one hand? This is why. Stand firm. Ready a shield if you have one to keep both your hands.

—

Alits

Mouths on legs. Eat anything they wrap their teeth around. Go anywhere their legs carry them.

Meat is tough, gamey. Sometimes poison.

Solitary. Tend toward easy prey, like sheep. Enough in one place? They raid thunderbug nests.

Alit attack with bites, but feet are more deadly. If one crouches, get your guard up! They are high jumpers.

—

Thunderbugs

Keep to themselves. Nest in soft dirt near trees and under ridges. Lay eggs and guard them from anything that gets near. Eggs are sweet and tingly going down.

Get their name from the shock you get when they bite you. They can also shock from a distance. If one tries it, punch it in the head until it stops!

Some bugs bigger than others. Spit tiny shock balls and call thunder from the sky. Bolga suggests avoiding these. You cannot fight the weather.

—

Giant Snake

Hard to find. Occasionally eat small boats. Find one swimming? Make for land. If it catches you, it will drag you under.

Bolga has only fought one on land. When it was close to death, it coiled up. Its wounds started to close. When Bolga saw this, she ran and did not look back. Suggest you do the same.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1583)
	Mourning Springs Burial Rites
Wash with care, dry with respect.

Mend with love, patch with attention.

Wrap with caution, tie with deference.

Turn to the center, let the soul rest.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1584)
	Rurelion's Observation #3
<<1>>

Observation #3

Why do the dead need all this water? Spikes array below the floorplates in this chamber. Are they indended to keep visitors out, or do they have some other purpose?

Something lingers in the dark. I must step lightly.

—<<2>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1585)
	Rurelion's Observation #2
<<1>>

Observation #2

We've found the water's source: something locals call <<Ac:2>>. It's a wondrous orb, rippling with elemental power. I can sense its connection to the water rushing beneath our feet, surging to the central ruins. I hope <<3>> understands why we must proceed with caution.

— <<4>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1586)
	Ealcil's Journal
<<1>> wants the discovery of <<Ac:2>> for himself, but I'll be a thrice-shorn troll if I'll let him steal my glory yet again. While he ventures into the ruins, it'll be a simple matter to remove this magnificent artifact and return it to <<3>>.

Its potential is simply astounding. Think of what endless fresh water could do for an army. One could control the weather itself!

— <<4>>
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1587)
	Lost and Dusty Journal
Semkur wagered a week's salary that I couldn't spend a night in this place. Nearly swallowed his whiskers when I said I'd do it.

The tomb is sealed behind me. I thought I heard someone's voice, but it had to be Semkur trying to get out of the bet.

It is a little scary in here. I lit a few candles, but that just made the shadows leap around.

It doesn't matter. I'll have the last laugh when I'm chugging double rum bought with Semkur's coin!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1588)
	Red Rook's Journal
For a while, I thought that my decision to join the Red Rooks was the smartest thing I'd ever done. What farm girl hasn't dreamed of a life of adventure? And we started out with a cause and a purpose. Turmoil throughout the land had left our livelihoods shattered and our families in desperate straits. My family couldn't even afford to feed me, let alone care for my six brothers and sisters. So I left home with nothing but the clothes on my back and a rusty old sword that had belonged to my mother, and I went looking for the Red Rooks.

Oh, I had heard rumors about the Red Rooks. Simple trappers and farmers just like me who had had enough of the high-and-mighty nobles making life impossible for the common folk of the land. They had banded together to steal from the rich and give to the poor. At least, that's what the rumors told me. I couldn't wait to join them, to live a life of action and purpose.

It wasn't hard to hook up with a band of Red Rooks, and they welcomed me into their fold well enough. They gave me a uniform, and I felt a mix of pride and embarrassment as I put it on. I guess the Red Rook leaders want us to look like an army, but I couldn't help wondering if it was such a good idea to advertise our presence in such a bold and obvious manner. But who was I to second guess those who were older and far more experienced than I?

Things were going fine for a while, although it seemed like we were robbing whoever was available and keeping whatever we earned for ourselves. Still, I was a valued member of the group and I had started to develop some strong friendships—especially with Kala and Morin. We were becoming inseparable! 

Just when things were really looking good, I started to suspect that there was something more ominous at play than a bunch of farmers trying to be noble bandits.

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw our leaders meeting with those Bloodthorn maniacs. I hope we aren't really considering an alliance with the cultists. That's not what I signed on for! I want to have a little fun and earn some gold. I certainly don't want to see Glenumbra destroyed and covered in corrupted vegetation! 

Now I don't know what to do. Maybe I should talk to Kala and Morin. They'll know what we should do.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1589)
	Notice of Honorable Discharge
The actions of <<1>> in opposing a raid by Abecean Pirates should be held in the highest of honors. Standing on the front line he emboldened his men to make a tactically decisive stand. Due to these efforts many civilians were withdrawn to safety and the enemy repelled. This defense was not without cost: <<1>> lost many of his troops, including two brothers.

These efforts traditionally call for a meritorious field promotion; however, <<1>> has requested to be discharged from service. Taking into consideration <<1>>'s years of service and recent displays of valor, the commanding officers have granted <<1>> his request.

<<1>> is hereby discharged with highest honors.
		

Failed at /books/1590		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1591)
	Legend of Haman Forgefire
Retold by Rogar Cliffside, Talespinner

Surely you've heard the legend of Haman Forgefire? Crafter to kings, manipulator of metals, Forgefire was known as the greatest blacksmith in all the land. Jarls, thanes, and anyone who could afford the exorbitant prices he commanded sought out Forgefire to create a precious dagger, a sturdy shield, a mighty warhammer, or a suit of finely wrought armor. After a time, Forgefire had to limit the number of commissions he accepted for any given period, as he refused to take on so much that the work would suffer.

Other blacksmiths claimed that Forgefire could speak to the ore and charm the impurities away with a wink and a whisper. Most revered the man and were in awe of his skills. A few, however, were jealous of Forgefire's accomplishments. They tried to poison opinions against him, claiming that his methods involved nothing short of magic, and foul magic at that—Daedric magic. Chief among the outspoken smiths was the armorer, Gerhild Coldheart.

Coldheart was loud and vocal of her distrust of Forgefire and his methods. She wondered aloud, in whatever crowded and boisterous tavern she happened to be drinking in, what vile Daedric Prince the proud and boastful Haman Forgefire had pledged himself to in order to accomplish his miracles with metal. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Forgefire was simply brilliant. But that didn't stop Coldheart from spreading her rumors at each and every opportunity. Soon, her hatred of Forgefire was almost all-consuming and it began to affect her work, which had been impressive in its own right until it began to suffer as her jealousy grew.

Forgefire did his best to ignore the increasingly wilder tales, but commissions were becoming harder and harder to come by as Coldheart's rumors circulated. Haman couldn't understand why she insisted on saying such false and terrible things. He soldiered on as best he could, however, taking what work still came his way and praying that something would happen to reverse the downward spiral his fortunes seemed to be caught in. That's when the greatest commission of Haman's career appeared on his doorstep.

The mighty hero, Kvenel the Tongue, was in the market for a new weapon. And not just any weapon. It had to be a weapon of excellent quality, something to match his beloved sword, Eduj. For his next adventure, Kvenel wanted a hand axe. And he wanted it crafted by the legendary blacksmith, Haman Forgefire. Delighted at this opportunity and excited by the challenge, Haman began to work on his most spectacular piece ever—the hand axe Okin.

Gerhild Coldheart, meanwhile, was furious. She had petitioned for the commission to craft Kvenel the Tongue's new weapon. And again, despite her best efforts, Haman was chosen instead of her. Enraged, she did the only thing she could think of. Coldheart embraced the very stories she had been telling about Forgefire and prayed to a Daedric Prince for aid and assistance. She prayed to Molag Bal.

For five days and five nights, Coldheart remained at her own forge, begging Molag Bal to answer her prayers. On the morning of the sixth day, the Lord of Brutality answered her call. But it was never a simple matter to ask a Daedric Prince for a favor. Molag Bal, especially, requires that a cost must always be paid. For Gerhild Coldheart, that cost had to be paid in blood. "Kill the smith with a blade crafted by your own hand," Molag Bal promised, "and I shall make you more famous than Forgefire could ever hope to be."

Haman Forgefire completed Okin, and it was spectacular. He delivered it to Kvenel just in time for his next journey. When Haman returned to his smithy, he saw Coldheart standing before his furnace, silhouetted in the glow of the fire. "Did you enjoy the adoration of the great Nord hero, Haman?" Coldheart asked. "I do hope so. For it is the last honor you will receive in this life."

Coldheart spun and plunged her sword into Forgefire's heart. The master smith stumbled, falling into the intense fire burning in his own furnace. His body, engulfed in flames, burned for three days and was not consumed. During that time, Coldheart screamed that she could hear Forgefire's cries of pain no matter how far she ran. Kvenel proclaimed that Gerhild Coldheart was the worst villain of the age and brought her before the Thane of Windhelm to be executed for her crime. For that one moment, she had indeed become more famous than Haman Forgefire.

When Coldheart's head was separated from her body, Forgefire—smithy and all—disappeared from Tamriel. To this very day, it is said that Haman Forgefire stalks the shadows of Coldharbour, seeking to finally get revenge against the jealous and traitorous Gerhild Coldheart. And anyone else who happens to get in his way.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1592)
	A Moment of Your Time?
Our trip to Coldharbour has gone somewhat awry. I do hope this doesn't prove too inconvenient for dear Lady Laurent. She expects things to go smoothly (and quite rightly so).

My plight is that I find myself separated from the others and in the clutches of extremely beautiful Daedra.

The Daedra have been polite so far, if not a little lascivious. Still, as fair as they are, I cannot be sure I can fully trust them.

They hold me within a tower. I will continue to write these notes and drop them from my window until I am rescued. If you are reading this, could I prevail upon you to offer some assistance? 

—Stibbons, Manservant
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1593)
	If I May Beseech You
One of my Daedra captors has started making advances toward me. I assure you, this behavior is entirely unreciprocated! I have tried to be a gentleman about it, but she is quite insistent. A timely rescue appears increasingly desirable.

I wonder how poor Lady Laurent is holding up? I do hope she is all right! Her clothes must be terribly wrinkled by now.

— Stibbons
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1594)
	Situation Becoming Urgent
Drasilla continues to woo me in a most tenacious manner. I've tried to be stern with her, but this seems to only make her more determined to have her way with me. It's most disconcerting.

Furthermore, dear Lady Laurent must be nearly starving by now. She forgets to take care of herself unless I remind her.

— Stibbons
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1595)
	Prompt Rescue is Imperative
I let Drasilla know, in the clearest possible manner, that my heart belongs to another. She refused to accept this and made it clear that she will have me. I fear she may soon wear me down.

Dear Lady Laurent's hair must be a tangled mess by now. The climate is harsh and I haven't attended to it in days!

— Stibbons
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1596)
	On Pircalmo's Emergency Reversal
Dear Pircalmo,

Your enthusiasm and willingness to persevere in the face of stark adversity has never failed to impress me. The arrogant pitfalls of the prodigal will never plague you, a boon that will see you through your future endeavours. 

While I will miss you providing me the opportunity to teach others, and am saddened to know that I will not be able to complete your training, I would feel remiss in my duties as a mentor if I did not provide you some parting lesson. To that end, I have devised a ritual for you, the most important a mage of your caliber can learn. It will provide you a means for determining the cause of any calamities you face. When you again find yourself in a position of sudden catastrophe, this spell should start you down the path to correction in my absence.

You will need:

- The chitin of a hoarvor, for resilience against adversity.

- Five torchbug thoraxes, that auspicious number.

- A heartwood fragment, as an anchor. 

Incorporate those into Cylladora's Spell of Finding* by way of my own Wonderful Linking Cantrip and the spell should basically cast itself. I haven't yet come up with a name for it. Feel free to come up with your own. "Pircalmo's Emergency Reversal," perhaps? I am sure you can imagine something creative with your newfound free time.

Your (former) teacher,

Telenger

* I know you are familiar with this particular spell, as I have seen you cast it many times prior to my lectures. Intentionally leaving behind one's notes in order to practice a spell was always a surprising way to practice casting under pressure, but to each their own.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1597)
	Need More Animus Geodes
Deskin,

The animus geodes are far too fragile to serve as a permanent solution. If jostled or dropped with a soul locked inside, they crack and flake until they shatter. A sharp blow turns them to dust!

You've complained about their price, so I must wonder how much you paid for these things. If anyone tried to sell me something this hard to acquire, incredibly expensive, and exceptionally fragile, I'd bleach his bones and make him my skeletal footstool.

I would never criticize your wisdom, but you must consider the best use of our gold. "Complete lack of scholarship on the subject" does not mean "lost Ayleid secrets from the First Era." I don't know if the fragility comes from how we're using the animus geodes, if it's inherent to their structure, or if this is simply a bad batch.

I can only hope that the "great treasure" in <<1>> proves a wise investment.

— Felra
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1598)
	Angry Angry
How long have I been trapped here?

I can feel my mind slipping more each day.

I'm so angry all the time… I can't….
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1599)
	White Rose Guard's Journal
12th of Frostfall

The prison has been on high alert for days and the prisoners are on edge. They keep asking me what's going on but I don't even know myself. The commander is supposed to give us a briefing soon. 

18th of Frostfall

It's official … we're being recalled and have been instructed to take everything of value with us. The commander told us not to bother much with the prisoners, as they wouldn't be able to leave even if they wanted to. I heard a rumor he performed a ritual to seal them in here forever. Seems an unnecessarily cruel fate, even for criminals. 

20th of Frostfall

I was ordered to load all the supplies for the quartermaster but I couldn't bring myself to leave the inmates with nothing. I've managed to hide some food and equipment around the prison and I intend to give this book to General Raetus when I leave so he can find it. He was my commanding officer before he was court-martialed and he always treated me with respect. It's the least I can do.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1600)
	The Realm of Shadows
To enter, one must abandon the light. One must give oneself to the nature of darkness. The creatures within are bound to the shadows and thrive on despair. They are not easily bound to the will of mortals— few have the depth of character to bring these creatures to heel.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1601)
	Notice: New Working Conditions
Reminder to all workers! Break time has been reduced, effective immediately, to ten minutes instead of the prior fifteen minute break periods. This will remain in effect until productivity returns to the levels I specified in last month's directive.

You have only yourselves to blame for this change. With the current challenges we face here in Reaper's March it is up to each and every one of us to pull together and work harder to survive. I trust your cooperation with my instructions will be complete and cheerful!

Thank you,

Kuna
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1602)
	Anyone, Please
If anyone finds this note, please tell my da that he was right, and I'm sorry. I never should have gone to work in a mine!

I'm sorry, da!

— E.K.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1603)
	The Arena!
Drilegur! I just found out that there's a huge exhibition planned at Thizrinni Arena next week. They're importing a whole pack of frost trolls and they're going to let the arena hopefuls try fight them until all the trolls, or all the fighters, are dead!

It's going to be a bloodbath! We have to go!

— Emingil
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1604)
	Funny Stuff, Sil
Sil,

Just because I borrowed some moon sugar from your stash—which I replaced, mind you—does not give you the right to scare me half to death. 

Sliding letters under my door and intimating that you've sent assassins to kill me. "WE KNOW" my eye. Very funny.

— Henlor
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1605)
	On the Matter of the Prisoners
Judge Xiven,

On the matter of the new prisoners: We have determined that they are indeed mortals from Nirn, Members of the Mages Guild, in fact. It was our excellent good fortune to capture these invaders.

It is clear that they have entered Coldharbour illegally and for purposes that are in direct conflict with the will of Molag Bal. We haven't had a trial in such a long time, and it should be a good show that helps bolster the morale of your servants. Of course, the verdict is a foregone conclusion.

As always, your justice is swift and cruel, my master!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1606)
	A Reminder from the Judge
Remember,

I want my court to be exciting and titillating. I also want our cases to reach their conclusions swiftly. For this reason, please remind all Daedric bailiffs that mortals are weaker and more fragile than Daedra. Our new captives will not easily recover from most injuries, and I want them healthy enough to receive their sentences.

Do not damage them. This includes, but is not limited to, severed limbs, flaying, disembowelment, decapitation, and summary execution—at least until judgment has been rendered.

Please, restrain yourselves in the face of these mortal mages, and do not destroy them. I want to play with these toys for as long as possible.

Now, let's go serve up some justice! For the glory of Molag Bal!

— Judge Xiven
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1607)
	Hinaamo's Journal
Entry 271

Ciryarel lived a long and blessed life, even for an Altmer, but no more. <<1>> believes she was killed by the Crosstree Bandits. "A natural end to a life of skooma use," as she put it. Nonsense! My wife was no skooma fiend. Such aspersions slight her memory!

Regardless of the Khajiit's assumptions, the Crosstrees are to blame. The evidence is overwhelming—broken phials scattered about the shore where she was found, the marks cut into her face—all of it points to the smugglers. Trinimac aid me, I will see her avenged!

Entry 272

Waited by the docks for the better part of a week. Saw one of those fiends make a sale. Tried to follow him, but he saw me. Made a noise, two short whistles, one long. Must remember. Two of his friends jumped me from the rooftops. Beat me bloody. Tossed me off the dock.

Awoke as the tide washed the blood from my wounds. Still feel the sting. If I am to pursue these vermin—and vermin they are!—I must learn to defend myself.

<<2>> is a sturdy fellow and a fine friend. Years of dealing with surly drunks and ruffians have taught him many things, and he carries himself with a warrior's grace. Tomorrow I will ask him to teach me what he knows.

Entry 273

<<2>> could not stop laughing. He said I was like a kitten mewling for sweetcakes! When I explained myself and asked if he would teach me, his manner changed.

He said, "Go to the temple of <<3>>. Ask for <<4>>. Tell her what you told me."

I leave tomorrow. I told <<5>> I'll be fishing the tidal pools near <<6>>. I think she believed me.

Entry 274

<<4>>'s story is not unlike my own. She lost a brother to the Crosstrees and came to <<6>>. She wanted to learn how to fight.

But she says the monks are trained to think. Every martial lesson is a puzzle. Until students demonstrate their understanding, they cannot advance. Riddle'Thar gave her guidance and tempered her need for revenge with a desire for justice.

When she did act, it was calculated and precise. The Crosstrees never realized it was anything but an accident.

Entry 275

My training proceeds well, though I have some difficulty with Riddle'Thar. It seems one must view one's self as a tiny part in a greater schema.

A novel way to think. Entirely different from the ways of old Aldmeris, though I admit it is far more flexible. Especially in regards to moral qualms. I will meditate upon this.

Entry 276

A calm settles about my thoughts. Sleep comes easily, where before it was elusive. Ciryarel's thread crosses mine in dreams where we watch our daughter spread wings and fly across the framework suspending us all.

Across the void, the Crosstrees' thread glimmers like a dagger in the night. How easy it would be to sever their cord! To send them tumbling into the darkness beyond!

But imprecision is the greatest enemy. So I wait. I watch. And I learn.

Entry 277

<<4>> says the Crosstrees are vulnerable. Direct confrontation is out of the question. Better to sever those threads who stray from the rest, fraying the cord until it snaps.

This one is ready.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1608)
	Blasphemous Revenants
…not into the world, nor out of it, but between worlds they linger, held to the hearth and tomb by blood and loyalty. And if they come unbidden, from love of kin or faith to duty, it is not unholy. It is but the answering of the ancestors, the awakening of those who never sleep, the summoning to service of those bound through Hearth and House to the protection of the clan.

But if sorcerers bring them forth, then such a summons is blasphemy, an abomination before the Tribes and Temple, and a sin so great that ages of burning cannot cleanse the fault. Abide not the sorcerer among you, for he comes to steal the bones of your fathers and dust of your tombs. He seeks to bind by power what is yours by right, to drag forth the warm spirits from their world between and bind them to their service like slaves and beasts.

Who can know the shame of the dead, the ceaseless weeping of the necromancer's thrall? Cruel enough is the ancestor's service given in love to Hearth and Kin. But ghost or guardian, bonewalker or bonelord, summoned by profane ritual and bound by force to the corpse miner's will, how may such a spirit ever find rest? How may it ever find its way back to its blood and clan?

Only a righteous Dunmer, bound by blood to hearth and kin, bound by oath and service to the Temple, can call upon the spirits of the Dunmeri dead. Those foreign sorcerers of other races that invade our shores, shall they be permitted to rob our tombs, to bind our kin-spirits into sorcerous slavery, to steal the lives of our dead as well as our land of the living? No, I say, no, and no, three times more. Such necromancers must die, and their profane magics must die with them.

And shall we tolerate the hidden hosts of the undead, the arrogant princes of necromancers, the ancient vampire demons who creep from their lairs in the West, seeking refuge in profane Daedric shrines, abandoned Dunmeri strongholds, and corrupted subterranean labyrinths of the detested Dwemer race? For ages the Great Houses and the Temple have kept our land clean of the vampire's taint, but now these undead lords and their vile cattle have returned. These vampires must die, and their corrupt cattle with them, and their blood taint must be forever erased by fire and stake.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1609)
	Experiment Journal
At first the deaths of my Bosmer slaves were problematic. Acquiring more would be difficult, and Cyrodiil is unlikely to send me more men. My lack of skill with necromancy has ever been a thorn in my side, making an undead workforce improbable.

That is, until I found the Book of the Frozen Legion. Within its pages was a brilliant solution: a layer of conjured frost encased around a human corpse. With a loyal spirit bound to this ice, commanding the spirit in turn commands the body through the ice.

There are limitations. The beings that result from this technique are as intelligent as a necromancer's skeleton—which is to say not at all. They are incapable of all but the most basic tasks. Without constant attention and direction, they are just as likely to wander out into the sun, where the ice will melt, as they are to finish whatever work you've left them.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1610)
	Missive from Cyrodiil
Graccus:

Your request for more infantry is denied. 

Your request for more supplies is denied.

Your request for more spymasters is denied.

Your orders were to go into Reaper's March and destablize the Dominion. Instead, you wasted half your resources destroying one valueless village, and the rest you squandered on a pointless book hunt.

You will receive no further Imperial support until you start contributing meaningfully to this war.

— Javad Tharn
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1611)
	Graccus' Journal, Volume I
I dreamed of the treasure again last night. I have no doubt about it now: Hermaeus Mora himself is speaking to me, leading me to it. I've spent my family fortune searching for tomes of power across Tamriel, and my coffers are nearly empty. But I must push on. It's nearly within my grasp.

And when I have the knowledge of Apocrypha, I will no longer need to bow to the usurper Tharns. They will bow to me.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1612)
	Captain Fanimanwe's Journal
Day 7

Two weeks ago, while on patrol near Rawl'kha, my scouts encountered several terrified Khajiiti. The cats explained that they were the few survivors of a terrible massacre at Thibaut's Cairn, where they were employed as groundskeepers. While the fantastic tales of cats do not normally interest me, I felt I was duty bound to at least investigate the claims, in the name of the Queen. How bitterly do I regret that decision now.

Day 18

The dead are unstoppable. No matter how many of them we destroy, more of the ancient dead rise up to face us. My men fought like eagles, but exhaustion and overwhelming numbers are taking their toll. Nearly half of the brave soldiers I led into this crypt have joined the dead.

Day 21

Where are they coming from? Who controls these abominations? If I could find the source and destroy it, perhaps my men and I could escape this place! I fear that all of us will soon lend our bones to the foul force that animates the dead here.

Day 22

I'm all alone now. The last of my men have fallen in a desperate attempt to make it back to the entrance of the crypt. I ordered them to stand fast, but they revolted at the thought of perishing here in the small camp we've set up. I can't say that I blame them. Perhaps I should have gone with them, to fight, to die … to try one last time to see the light of day.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1613)
	Captain Blackheart's Log
Moments of freedom are fleeting.

Come in fits and starts, before he reenters my mind.

YOUR MIND WILL NEVER BE YOUR OWN AGAIN

Can't shed the spell with force of will. Doesn't weaken with time.

AMUSING THAT YOU THINK IT WOULD

Tortures me with a taste of the freedom I once had. Allows me a few moments every day. 

NO ONE WILL EVER READ THESE WORDS

The rest of the crew aren't as lucky. Wavecutter, Iron-Heel, Martha. Even slippery-as-a-swamp-eel Shifty Tom seems completely enthralled. And Shifty Tom has never fallen for a magical trap. Seems his Breton blood has failed him, this time.

Can only wish for an end, though none is in sight. He's killed hundreds with my hands. I remember every scream.

YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE TOLD
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1614)
	Martha's Journal
Something is amiss on the island.

Ever since he came back from looting that Nord ship, the Captain has walled off the Inner Haven to all but his original crew. No one in the outer camp knows what they brought back.

The Captain's methods have grown brutal since then.

I had always heard Captain Blackheart handled his business with more subtlety than his reputation suggested. It's a trade secret that the Captain takes goods for his trouble, but rarely harms his victims. All rumors to the contrary were just that.

Not so anymore.

Somehow, he's tamed a flight of harpies that head out with his ship, the Black Death. The crew has brought prisoners back, and the screams of those captives echo all the way up here from the mouth of the Inner Haven. They are never seen again.
		

Failed at /books/1615Failed at /books/1616		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1617)
	The Duchess of Anguish
It became necessary to relocate Sai Sahan when it became clear that standard interrogation techniques would not work. His will is very strong; no doubt forged during the years he spent training in solitude, attempting to restore the ancient Yokudan art of sword-singing. Despite his utter failure to manifest the spirit swords—a task that came as naturally as breathing to the ancient masters—Sai Sahan maintains an unusually strong sense of self.

When it was determined that he could resist or outright ignore physical pain, I had him relocated from the dungeons beneath the Imperial City to a location that might be better suited to break his will and extract the information I seek. My contacts amongst Molag Bal's Daedric servants were receptive to the suggestion; after all, it had been years since any of them had the challenge of breaking a subject with such a strong will. 

The lovely Duchess of Anguish has a touch that is like razors against the flesh. Her voice sears the mind and soul, her lips are coated in venom, and her intellect is as sharp as her tongue. She has practiced her art for uncounted centuries, and I am confident she will extract the information from the Redguard without killing him.

I suppose the Redguard will need to be disposed of when this is over. Once the information is mine, perhaps I will give him to the Duchess as a gift. She will almost certainly kill him, I think, but first she will enjoy him as a plaything for many long years.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1618)
	The Unbreakable Redguard
For all of his self-doubt, Sai Sahan has proven monstrously difficult to break. Perhaps the years of physical training he endured to condition his body make the tortures of the flesh pale in comparison. Likewise, threats of bodily harm to friends and acquaintences have no effect. He merely closes his eyes and promises to avenge them.

So deftly he pulled the Amulet of Kings from the fingers of Varen's withering husk amidst the chaos of the Soulburst, and then he was gone, a fleeting shadow in the night. I must have it back if I am to enact the final stage of my plan. Since that day I have played a waiting game as Molag Bal's Planemeld continues unabated.

For the time being, this works to my advantage. But I must find the amulet before the Planemeld concludes, or my plan is doomed to failure. I would tear this continent apart stone by stone if I had to, but for now I shall be patient. Sai Sahan cannot endure these tortures forever. He will break, and the Amulet of Kings will be mine once again.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1619)
	The Chim-el Adabal
The Amulet of the Kings of Glory, pendant of the red diamond Chim-el Adabal, Ayleid relic of Divine investiture. Whatever myths exist concerning its creation, this much is fact: as a vessel of Akatosh's will, it is tied to him in a very real way.

The corruption of the Dragonfire ritual was a taxing endeavor. I spent weeks inscribing the glyphs and preparing the incantations that Aquilarios foolishly believed would change his ancestry and birthright. Trusting simpleton. Nirn now lies adrift in the Mundus, vulnerable to the parasitic Daedra that feast upon the souls of its people.

Tharn once asked me, outright, if the Amulet could be used to repair the damage wrought by the Soulburst. Subtlety was never part of Abnur's repetoire. I could see the scheming machinations behind his eyes even as be pledged his loyalty to me. I think he knew, even then, that he was disposable. Who needs a scheming politician when one aspires to be a god? 

The answer to his question is, of course, yes. This is why I must sieze the amulet and protect it. It is the vessel through which I will supplant my would-be master and assume dominion over two worlds. Why would a god settle for just one?
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1620)
	Crow's Spell of Binding
By the snare of Hircine

And the trail of Namira's slime

I bind this place

Three times seven times

By Malacath's curse

And the skull of Vaermina 

I bind (name of victim)

To this summoning arena

By the razor of Dagon

And the chains of Molag Bal

When the time is at hand

You will answer my call
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1621)
	Ithisa's Journal
Exploration of the Dwarven ruins goes slowly. We were short-handed before the bandit raid. Now we have barely enough hands to keep the kwama in check. Every bit of gold we've made selling random Dwarven trinkets has gone to hiring more guards, not miners. I get that we don't want another bandit raid or construct attack. Fine. But the kwama business is falling apart while everyone plays archeologist.

The only bright spot in this whole damn thing has been the spring water in the cavern. Tastes a lot better than the swill we used to drag in from town. Maybe we should just start bottling the stuff. Since we apparently aren't egg miners anymore.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1622)
	Quartermaster's Log
Today, our new master appointed Atarus as a "chef" for the inner Haven crew. Damned animal spends his time boiling nothing but rot and filth. 

He says it's to remind us that we no longer need to eat. That we can't.

What I wouldn't give for a captor who could be stabbed, slashed, or killed.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1623)
	Letter to Kathner
Kathner,

By the time you get this letter, the boat from the Crucible will be just a few days off the coast of Malabal Tor.

I know we agreed on a thousand gold per ogre, but I'm willing to offer fifteen hundred if you'd come along. 

These brooding gladiators know nothing of true passion, and it has been far too long since my scales quivered under your supple touch.

No one wants to hear an old Argonian beg, but you're not getting any younger either. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in a damp cave with those low-lives?

— Beast Master Weerna
		

Failed at /books/1624		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1625)
	Mal Sorra's Curse
A high-ranking member of a Dunmer house, the Dark Elf known as Mal Sorra was cruel and bloodthirsty. She had a penchant for battle, for testing her skills against stronger opponents. In addition, she practiced dark magics and was a necromancer of the highest order. Unfortunately, the House she belonged to had no love of dark magic and even less tolerence for necromancy. But Mal Sorra didn't care. In fact, her blatant disregard of customs and mores thrilled her and made her blood run hot.

As Mal Sorra's need for greater thrills and constant danger drove her to new heights of cruelty and depravity, the necromancer took greater and greater chances. She flaunted her power, even in the face of House officials and Tribunal dignitaries, daring them to scold her or punish her or attempt to stifle her primeval urges. The first to take her unspoken challenge was her own father, the leader of her House and a powerful mage in his own right. Mal Sorra relished the contest, eager to see if she could hold her own against the man who raised her. In the end, Mal Sorra didn't just survive the challenge, she killed her father in a duel of magicka.

Not content to simply beat her father, Mal Sorra slew him with a barrage of spells and then raised him as a zombie. She commanded the undead creature to follow her and obey her every command. The rest of her house was horrified by this terrible desecration and demanded that Mal Sorra be punished for her blatant use of dark magic. This made Mal Sorra laugh, for she loved showing off her power and displaying her disregard for the current leadership.

As Mal Sorra became more difficult and dangerous, her mother decided that enough was enough. She mourned for her child, but refused to allow her evil to continue unchecked. Mal Sorra was surprised when her mother and a cadre of mages entered her private chambers. She was amused by the audacity of the action, but she felt no fear or anxiety. When her mother began casting a ritual, however, Mal Sorra felt the first pangs of danger. And, as always, it exhilarated her. But then the other mages joined in, and for the first time she could remember, Mal Sorra was afraid.

Her mother drew on dark magic to punish her daughter. She couldn't abide ending her daughter's existence, but she knew she had to end the threat that Mal Sorra posed to the Houses. The dark magic engulfed Mal Sorra, binding her. Trapped within her own dark magic, Mal Sorra was sealed alive inside the very place she spent so much of her time—within the family tomb. Then the mages combined their magic to open a portal. It swallowed the tomb.

"I curse you, daughter," her mother proclaimed with tears in her eyes. "I banish you and your evil to Oblivion. May the Tribunal show you the mercy you denied your victims." And with that, Mal Sorra was never seen on Nirn again.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1626)
	Ealcil's Notes, Page 1
Something's building—something big. The air in <<1>> positively crackles. It's nothing like the ancient energies at <<Ac:2>>. This is fresh, nearly bursting at the edges!

The carvings on these bodies clearly has something to do with it. Ritual magic, perhaps? I must investigate further.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1627)
	Ealcil's Notes, Page 2
It's no use. The rune-carvings are too deep into the subjects. None survive the process. Only the Maormer can tell me why these carvings matter, and they've proven somewhat resistant to my questioning.

The energies seem to flow toward the cave mouth at the end of <<1>>.  Could there be a connection with those serpent-shaped totems? I must learn their secrets!
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1628)
	Ealcil's Notes, Page 3
Exhilarating! The howling, the lightning—it's all energy drawn to the "Storm Totems" in that cave. But when I tried to enter, those fool Maormer collapsed the entrance!

To any Dominion personnel who find the addled skooma-smuggler with these orders, I seek another way into the cave complex. Approach if you see me about the quay so I may requisition your services in my search.

— <<1>>
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1629)
	Words of the Masters
Foreword by one who has as much to learn now as she did when she was a student long ago.

Long have our masters taught the ways of the sword at Leki's Blade. And yet, not every lesson took place in the field of battle.

Recall, then, the words of the masters who once led our illustrious school. Distill their meaning, for battles can be won by the mind as well as the blade.

Pay heed!

— Master Fadalia at-Ahtar

The sharpest blade is often the tongue.

Difficult tasks are best done first, before the day's dust rises.

Your soldiers are your allies, brothers, and sisters. Care for them, and they will guard you as well.

One whose character is mean-spirited will rouse others to animosity.

Be modest in speech, and you will excel in action.

Do you see what is right and just? Do what you must to uphold them both.

Watch your opponent's feet and you will lose. Watch her eyes, and see her intent.

Learn from every victory. Think how you would have reacted as the loser. Understand why your opponent lost, and you will ever be victorious.

From silence comes strength.

The serpent only sees eye-to-eye with whatever else crawls on its belly.

Stay your hand until you are sure of your opponent's tactics, and you may not live long enough to strike. Wait only to learn his intention, then strike first if it is clear he would fight without honor.

Never save for tomorrow the bread you should eat today.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1630)
	The Blessed Dagger
Once, a maiden prayed to Leki for guidance.

"Blessed saint of the spirit-sword," said the maiden, "send me a sign! Do I follow my mother's order to marry, or do I resist?"

Her intended husband was a much older man, who was said to have killed his former wives by means so cleverly concealed, nothing could be proven. And yet, his prestige amongst the nearby towns was so high, no one dared refused to negotiate a bride-price with him.

The maiden, whose name was Zarrineh, knelt at the shrine for a full night and a day before returning to her village. She'd heard no answer, and as the time for her wedding drew near, she despaired.

On the night before her wedding, Zarrineh dreamt she was a fisherwoman, casting her net into the sea and drawing it in. Each time she drew the net into the boat, she saw a flash of silver that was not a fish's scale. On the third draw, she examined the silver flash and realized it was a small dagger, with a carved handle of ironwood.

When she awoke, Zarrineh found such a blade beneath her pillows, though she knew it had not been there before.

And so, Zarrineh's husband found himself unable to dispose of his new bride with the same ease as his previous wives. For when she showed him the blade and told of her prayers to Leki, he realized Zarrineh was protected by the saint.

They lived together many years, and he treated Zarrineh well, always mindful of the blessed dagger in her keeping.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1631)
	Journal of Elias
Day 10:

I have been traveling for days without a clue as to my bearings. The forest is dark and I hear the clattering of creatures in the night. I have taken to not lighting a fire at night and braving the cold. I don't want to attract any attention.

Day 13:

I could have sworn I saw fleeting images of Elves through the trees. Perhaps it's my mind playing tricks on me as everytime I turn to follow, the images disappear. Perhaps someone is playing a trick on me.

Day 15:

I was bitten by the largest spider I have ever seen. The wound looks to be festering. My travel rate has deteriorated significantly. I fear I may never make it home.

Day 16:

I have seen them. In my weakened state, it appears that my pursuers have grown bolder. Perhaps they are following my torch.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1632)
	A Forebear Warrior's Song
Akatosh, my strength comes from your hands, 

My enemies fall before my sword.

Can you hear their cries?

Death, they cry.

Death, I sing.

But death is theirs, not mine.

Wipe the blade of their color.

Wipe the shield of their color.

Victory is ours!

Stendarr, grant my weapon fall only thus:

For justice, for the right ways.

Can you hear my plea?

Justice, they pray.

Justice, I sing.

Justice is mine, and also theirs.

Wipe the blade of their color.

Wipe the shield of their color.

Victory is ours!

For the way of the righteous is mercy,

And compassion for the weak.

Can I wield your sword and shield?

Mercy, they beg.

Mercy, I give.

Swift death to the unjust!

Slow death to the merciless!

Wipe the blade of their color.

Wipe the shield of their color.

Victory is ours!
		

Failed at /books/1633		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1634)
	Big Damn Bugs
The carpenter came today and took a look at the bad beams. I know the Colovians were terrible people, all the bard tales tell us so. Apparently they were terrible architects, too. The problem wasn't just old wood, but giant termites!

I hate living this close to the eaves of Valenwood. All sorts of creepy things skitter their way into the house in the dark of night. Lo and behold, the very walls contain colonies of these creatures! Damn the bugs, and damn the Colovians!

I wish he hadn't told me. Now I swear I can hear them chewing.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1635)
	Why the Projections?
I don't know about this General Lavinia. She's certainly charismatic. Those stirring speeches, the sweeping words! 

Something about her manner puts me off. I don't mind a lady in uniform ordering me around or anything, but this whole magical projection business doesn't sit right with me.

Oh, well. As long as it keeps the wars away from here, I don't much care.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1636)
	Who Asked Them Here?
Outrageous! These people marched into my yard, my home, and demanded quartering and supplies! After they'd ransacked my cupboards and set up a fire pit on my lawn, I was told to sit tight and wait while they secured the town.

I'm not going to be a prisoner in my own home. I'm going to march right out there to give them a piece of my mind.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1637)
	How Much Longer?
I've been looking out the window and watching the time go by, waiting to see when this nonsense is going to be over. It all seems a bit much. I've been through my share of occupations, but this is getting ridiculous.

Luckily, I don't own anything they can actually use. I used to curse Zenithar for my poor luck with money. Now I think I'll take a pilgrimage to one of his shrines and thank him—who's to say this wasn't his plan for me?
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1638)
	Rotten Bread and Spoiled Meat
Well, that did it. My last twenty coins frittered away at market so I could eat bad local food for the next few days. I long for the sweet, sweet flavor of the cuisine brought in by Khajiiti peddlers. The things they do with their food!

Oh, I remember the scent of the delicious cakes, wearing fresh glaze as though it were polished armor. Even the meaty stews had a succulent, honeyed sweetness that caressed the tongue and brought shivers of delight. Just the memory makes me ravenous.

I suppose I'd better go boil up this pickled goose foot or whatever horrible thing it is the butcher sold me. Alas.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1639)
	Admission Denied
Dear Citizen Agapitus,

Your petition for admission into the Mages Guild is yet again denied. This is not an institution into which one can buy their way, contrary to your intimations. You lack the most basic of magical aptitude, in defiance of our minimal requirements and even logic.

We request that you cease correspondence and attempts to badger our representatives when they come through your township. The Mages Guild is a society for the gifted and the scholarly, not the wealthy and inept.

Sincerely,

Evoker-Adept Carusian
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1640)
	Unfinished Letter to Summerset
Mother,

I am writing to you from Reaper's March, in the northern part of the forest called Valenwood. The ink used is native to the area, and contains several notable properties not found in Summerset inks. Perhaps you can work out the mathematical equations I've worked into the margins? Consider these elements my evidence that distance from home does not diminish one's mental capacity or acuity. 

Our beliefs have rarely coincided, as you know, and so it should come as no surprise to either of us that our life paths diverge so dramatically. Know that I bear you no ill will for your words prior to my departure. 

Take my silent response as a sign of my love for you, that I would not speak intemperately. My knowledge of the world has increased a thousandfold with Pircalmo at my side, and I have come to believe that perhaps it is the place of some Altmer to live outside of Summerset. Spreading the gifts we have discovered for ourselves to others.

Pircalmo and I plan to return to Summerset, and I hope that you find it in your schedule to ….
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1641)
	Tamrielic Calligraphy, Chapter VII
Inks of Valenwood

by Alanya of Alinor

An oft-overlooked fact: using ink goes well beyond the calligrapher. A controlled environment can allow the artist to communicate precisely through color and form, and reach beyond the page to the reader. It's easy to forget that external factors, such as the weather or the temperature, can significantly alter a calligrapher's needs.

For example, in the heat and humidity of deep Valenwood the popular Delicate Midnight ink—that mainstay of proper Alinor calligraphy—simply will not dry. Turn the paper sideways and the ink runs right off the page. Unthinkable in the temperate Alinor climate, but constant in a place a mere ship's voyage away. Instead, the locals use an ink that can dry even while submerged in water. Foolishness for a scribe at a comfortable writing-desk, but of vital importance for a scout writing an urgent missive in a tropical rainstorm.

One other notable evolution of Valenwood inks is the prevalence of ink that glows faintly in darkness. In a well-lit city such as Alinor the need for such things would be minimal. In the deep darkness of the forest, without even moonlight to read by, a faintly glowing ink allows those with proper vision to review critical documents.

A final point of interest: the common use of inks that work equally well on a variety of surfaces. Quality parchment is rare, and even paper can be uncommon depending on the beliefs of the local Bosmer. Writing a missive on a fallen leaf or a flat stone would be unthinkable in Alinor. It's commonplace and often preferred in the depths of the forest. The previously mentioned Delicate Midnight ink is highly valued despite being worthless on paper. When scribed onto a certain kind of porous stone, it will hold its form until vigorously shaken off. 

Stone and ink can thus be reused for quite some time. Because the ink does not dry properly, the written word can sometimes last upwards of several months. A common Alinor ink is thus an incredibly valuable rarity among the Bosmer, whose different environment causes them to discover properties of our inks that are likely unknown even to master Altmeri scribes.

I intend to continue my study of inks on the Tamrielic mainland, and will continue providing chapters of this series to the scribes in Alinor.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1642)
	Pircalmo's Shopping List
On the next trip to Summerset, obtain:

— 10 Quills

— Paper, of quality, ten books' worth

— Paper, disposable, thirty books' worth

— Small GLASS vials, not metal this time

— Burn ointment

— Silk in strips (for Alanya)

— Wood varnish, to repair the damage from the metal vials

— Metal fasteners (???—for Alanya)

— Wood splints (why does Alanya need these?)
		

Failed at /books/1643		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1644)
	Not That Bad
My neighbors disagree with me, but what difference does it make if the town is occupied? What protection has anyone else afforded us? Just over the hills to the northeast, war rages over who gets to sit on a fancy chair, and the rest of us get to suffer.

Why do we put up with it? Because we're helpless, that's why. Because we never learned more than that most basic of citizenship requirements, wielding the swords we own but don't know now to use.

Dominion, Covenant, Pact—they're all useless. I just want to live in peace.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1645)
	These Damned Cats
Centurion,

Per your instructions, I am informing you of strange behavior amongst the Khajiit of the outer city. The one known as Marasadra has been seen praying to the bizarre lion idol out on the banks of the stream. I lack the expertise to determine whether there is any sort of latent sorcery occurring, or whether it poses any sort of threat to us.

The troops want nothing more than to tighten the leash on these cats. If they see anything that might make them nervous, chances are high they will do something unwise and cause grave unrest. It is my opinion, Centurion, that a display of authority is in order.

This concludes my report.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1646)
	Note to Menthery
Menthery,

I don't think there's much time. People are fleeing the city, and you should, too. I spoke with one of the mages and she said that thing in the sky is of Daedric origin. The earth tremors it's causing are only the beginning. I don't plan on sticking around to learn more about it and I doubt help will make it here in time. Assuming anyone else even knows what's happening here.

Andris told me that the Fighters Guild has secret ways in and out of the city. They've been getting people out, waiving their usual fee. He says they'll be barricading their hall soon, some warding magic they use. Wouldn't tell me more, only urged me to either get out of the city or join him. 

I hope he'll be safe within, but frankly, I'll feel safer far away from this place. I have a cousin in Skingrad. Look for me there. I wouldn't linger long. The skies grow darker with every passing moment. 

— Landlin
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1647)
	Epode of the Ansei Wards
By Weltan of Sentinel

When Ra Gada came from Old Yokuda

In Hammerfell were found

Men of aspect tusked and fearsome, that we

Hunted to the ground

Others there were also, Elven, secret

Raising sacred dead

Necromancers lurked in desert towers

To Hammerfell they'd fled

Desert hid them no more from the righteous

Since the Redguards hie

Back they fought with evil magics, heinous

Dead once more to die

Stricken were Ra Gada in their god-faith

Banned from striking kin

Dead, awakened by the wicked wizards

Smote us from within

Anseis three then furnished all an answer

'Gainst the risen dead

Maja, Radan, and Halelah spake of 

Wards to curb the dread

Mighty swords they forged from their own shehai

The people to defend

Guarding Redguards' consecrated bodies

From unholy end

To Tu'whacca sacrificed the Anseis

Essence of their minds

Gave their animus to seal the treaty

That protects and binds
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1648)
	Receipt for Arcane Tomes
Veroine Gimbert

The Mystic's Mirage

Sentinel

12th of Morning Star

Mistress Gimbert, Felicitous Greetings

This letter serves to acknowledge receipt of your shipment of my latest order of books, to wit: 

-	The Five Points of the Star

-	Sacred Rites of the Stonechewers

-	Twin Secrets

-	Relics of St. Veloth

-	Cheeses of Tamriel

The last item on the list came as something of a surprise. Checking my records, I see that the fifth book should have been "Boethiah and Her Avatars." I understand it is easy to make such an oversight, but I would appreciate it if you could rectify the error at your earliest possible convenience. 

Yours in Arcane Scholarship, 

Lady Cinnabar

Tower of the Fifth Doctrine

Taneth
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1649)
	The Book of Circles: Forging Maxims
By Frandar Hunding

In the clay smelter you shall build a charcoal fire, of a heat to blacken teeth.

You shall add a layer of iron-sand upon the charcoal. 

After six yarbans you shall add a layer of charcoal atop the iron. 

You shall repeat this process, layering iron-sand over charcoal, for three days.

After cooling, you shall separate the low-carbon steel from the high-carbon steel. 

You shall use the low-carbon steel to form the core of the sword.

You shall use the high-carbon steel to form the skin of the sword.

You shall forge-weld, fold, and forge-weld anselim the skin of the sword, until it attains its needful kotu-ajcea.

You shall sharpen the sword-skin until it may shave an egg without breaking it.

You shall speak the Oblation to Onsi, then drink of the Purifying Beverage of Kotu.

Then, anselim.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1650)
	The 26th of First Seed is Upon Us!
And you know what that means: the Festival of Blades! 

Celebrate the defeat of Malooc's Horde in regal style—right here at the Sisters of the Sands, where our cooks' blades are always festive! Our five-drake prix fixe dinner comes with all the festival fixings:

—	Scuttle Fondue with sandwort croutons

—	Goatherd and mutton pies, with garnishes of red mushroom and smoked viper

—	Horker Loaf on a bed of imported scathecraw

—	A bottle of Gold Coast Muscat to wash it down with

—	And Caramelized Goat Nibbles for the children!

All this, and we still promise to get you out into the street in plenty of time for the Effigy Dismemberment!

But we can only seat a limited number of revelers, and time is running out, so get your reservations in before it's too late! 

Because you don't want to be stuck at home with nothing for the family but mountain jerky or stale toad muffins—not on the Festival of Blades. 

See you then!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1651)
	Nahirah's Journal
My cousin Shiri sent word that she will be visiting today! To hear from her after so many years was quite a surprise. She is looking for some of her father's old books, which worries me. Shiri was always such a sweet little girl, and I pray that she is nothing like the rest of her immediate family. 

Her father was a monster—so much so that my mother changed her name and moved to Satakalaam to distance herself from Suturah's infamous name. Shiri's brothers, Uwafa and Alasan, seemed to have inherited their parents' twisted minds, but Shiri was so innocent. 

I pray to Zeht that she has simply avoided magic, lest she too give in to the strange allure that's drawn the rest of her family to practice the dark arts. Despite my concerns, I look forward to seeing her.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1652)
	Deathbringer Orders
Protect the Anguish Gem. That is your primary responsibility. No: that is your only responsibility. When the last soul has been consumed, send word to the Reaver's Citadel and we will send someone to collect the gem.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1653)
	Note to Arida
Arida,

It looks like we're going to evacuate. Whatever that thing is in the sky, it's not something we can fight with swords and arrows. Best to retreat and take as many citizens out with us as we can. 

Guildmaster Kahlosh insists we ward the guildhall. He's a stickler for rules and regulations, that one. We'll set the wards and leave through the secret passage. I just hope he remembers the key or we'll never get back in. He's always hiding it in his house behind the hall.

I'll see you on the other side of the passage. 

— Vandris
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1654)
	Clans of Eastmarch: The Direfrost
The lineage of the Direfrosts goes back to a time before recorded history. The most accurate recorded accounts reveal a lineage stretching into the past for at least thirteen generations to the earliest known patron, Hroldin Direfrost, who settled in northern Eastmarch and became lord of the surrounding villages. 

The Direfrosts have a reputation as kind and gentle rulers, except in cases involving practitioners of witchcraft. In such cases, Direfrost intolerance is notorious. Over the centuries they have participated in the execution of hundreds of citizens found guilty of witchcraft. 

Castle Direfrost is located within Eastmarch bordering on the mountains. The cold northern winds are said to be held at bay by the hearthfire that ever burns in the meadhall of Direfrost.

There have been no known insurrections against their rule.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1655)
	Elphirion's Journal
I've heard reports that General Malgoth intends to attack Vullain. If Vullain falls, our neighboring villages will soon fall as well. We're a simple people. Our archery and swordfighting skills are those of hunters, not warriors. 

After many talks, I've decided to ask the Nereids for help. I pray they will listen. I know death is inevitable, but perhaps there is a way we may not die in vain. General Malgoth will keep the Meat Mandate. If we can beg a poison from the Nereids, we may win this battle, though we would not live to see our victory.

Those who are still young or too filled with fear may travel to Driladan for safety. The rest of us will stay here, and do what we can. And know our deaths will mean the Blackroot's defeat.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1656)
	General Malgoth's Journal
Day 1

A record of the war to unite the Bosmer of northern Valenwood under the leadership of General Malgoth.

Concluded that war is the best option. The Khajiit do not fear the Bosmer. Inter-tribal war is a small price to pay to provide a strong, united force against our enemies.

The war council agrees Vullain will be the first to fall. They forsake Y'ffre for the deceptions of the Nereids and are little more than a weak band of hunters. They will serve the Bosmer best as an example to the other villages.

Day 2

Victory is ours. An easy triumph. Lost one soldier when he fell from a tree. Three wounded. After fulfilling the Meat Mandate, we will be prepared to take the rest of the villages.

Day 2 continued

Treachery! The Bosmer of Vullain poisoned their bodies. A foul trick, a mockery of the Meat Mandate!

Begged the Nereids for a cure. They look at us with what I can only assume is disgust. They can't be bothered to kill us. They know our fate, as do we.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1657)
	Glonnir's Letter
Bremril, 

You won't see this letter, but I had to write something. Elphirion's decided it: a sacrifice to stop Malgoth. Madness or martyrdom? The storytellers will decide.

I guess in the end there's the desire to confess. I should've spent less time in the forest, hunting, or in my cups. I should've been a better husband or father. 

Maybe this is my way of making it up to you. If you and our daughter can live on in Driladan, safe because of our sacrifice. Small consolation, when every bone in my body wants to curse it all to Oblivion and run to you.

I love you.

— Glonnir
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1658)
	Veiled Heritant's Letter
I can't help but think that joining the Veiled Heritance was a mistake. We're now holed up in Dread Vullain, some kind of haunted Bosmer village. While the bodies are plentiful for our work, it's disturbing to see the echoes of the past repeat themselves.

The creature that commands us was one of Prince Naemon's confidants. I spoke to him once, when both he and Naemon were still alive. It was a short conversation, of no great importance. But now he and Naemon both are unrecognizable. 

It shouldn't bother me, a necromancer. But when I look at our leaders, I see nothing of the nobility and virtue that inspired me to join the Veiled Heritance. 

I want to return to Summerset. The forest here seems to grow closer as we work. It surrounds us, unruly and unkind. I've always heard Valenwood was alive. Now I know it is.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1659)
	Leonce's Journal
I can't believe how much gold Northpoint is willing to pay for a few dirty Orcs. Just a few more days, and I can go far away and spend my earnings in peace.

In the meantime, I convinced our coward of a mayor to mobilize the Fell's Brigade, giving me all the power I need to manipulate opinions here in Fell's Run and acquire the captives my benefactor to the north is willing to pay so handsomely to receive.

We continue to abduct Orcs, and I've even allowed the troops to steal whatever they want from the town. Then we blame the Orcs! It's a perfect scheme, if I do say so myself. I've promised the troops that they can divide up the stolen goods when we're finished inciting trouble. Maybe I'll even keep my promise, when all is said and done. I will take my own cut of the profits, of course.

Until then, however, we'll use the basement of this lovely inn to store the stolen goods.

The Wood Elf actually looked mad enough to attack me when I commandeered the premises. How amusing she was, screaming and waving her tiny fists in the air! Displaying her deed of ownership as though a piece of fancy parchment was going to keep me from taking over the Run Inn. Perhaps I won't burn the place to the ground when we're finished here. Or perhaps I shall. It will depend upon my mood at the time, I suppose.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1660)
	Shrine to Makela Leki
In memory of the sword-saint Makela Leki. Almost single-handedly, Leki held the Bangkorai Pass against the treachery of King Joile.

Because of her selfless sacrifice, the backstabbing Bretons never reached Sentinel.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1661)
	Shrine to Derik Hallin
In memory of the hero Derik Hallin. Long after the time of Frandar and Divad, Derik quested for and recovered the five shehai.

He and the sword-saints wielded the shehai in battle to forever end the beastmen threat against Hammerfell.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1662)
	Shrine to Divad Hunding
In memory of Divad Hunding, son of Frandar. Aided his father in the defeat of Emperor Hira and the settlement of Hammerfell.

Divad broke the Goblinkins' hold over Hammerfell with the creation of five mighty shehai.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1663)
	Shrine to Frandar Hunding
In memory of Frandar Hunding, who conceived the Way of the Sword and taught the Ansei to summon the shehai sword spirits.

With the Ansei, he defeated Emperor Hira and led his people to freedom in the distant land of Hammerfell.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1664)
	Powering the Dark Anchors
Our great Prince Molag Bal has found a way to conquer the wretched realm of Nirn. Using Dark Anchors crafted in the Black Forge to weaken the barrier between worlds, the metaphysical chains will allow us to merge Nirn and Coldharbour into a singular domain ruled by the Lord of Schemes himself.

It takes considerable power to form the connection across the chaos of Oblivion. Unfortunately, this energy isn't as easy to acquire as the raw materials used to create the planar hooks and chains. Powerful mortals, especially powerful magic-users, provide the cleanest, most effective source of energy. On the other end of the spectrum, the Soul Shriven are practically worthless for this purpose, as the amount of energy we can draw from them is barely enough to start the melding process  let alone carry it to fruition. Unless an unlimited source of powerful mortal mages suddenly makes itself available to us, we will have to explore other alternatives.

***

Our various experiments have finally paid off. We have discovered (through much trial and error) that atronachs can be used to supply enough energy to power the Dark Anchors and may even be capable of powering the ultimate Dark Anchor—the Great Shackle. Flame and frost atronachs work well, but the most power by far is provided by the violatile storm atronachs. These creatures of wind and lightning will need to be acquired in great numbers to provide the energy we need to launch the Dark Anchors and the Great Shackle into Nirn.

This appears to be our best solution—at least until we can acquire a steady source of powerful mortal mages to draw from. We will continue to work on that avenue, as well. For the glory of Molag Bal!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1665)
	The Source of Power
I can't believe it! We had him! Vanus Galerion, the quintessential mortal mage, wandered right up to our proverbial doorstep, and the idiots at the Black Forge couldn't capture him! Do you know what we could have done with the power raging inside him? We could have powered the forging of the Great Shackle and completed the Planemeld in mere hours instead of months.

Instead, we are forced to continue to utilize the inferior atronachs that Molag Bal's hunters bring us. At least the atronachs aren't smart enough to escape or divide themselves into multiple pieces to foil our every effort.

***

Excellent news! The Planemeld progresses, and we've reached a crucial milestone in our efforts. A planar vortex has formed. This nexus of Planemeld energy is the singular point where Nirn and Coldharbour come together.

Even if by some accident of fortune the invaders are able to disrupt the forging of the Great Shackle, the planar vortex will continue to draw the two worlds together until Nirn is entirely subsumed. It will take longer, of course, but Molag Bal's victory is inevitable—one way or another.

It's unthinkable, but the only way the invaders could overcome the planar vortex is if they could bring to bear the power of another Daedric Prince. And we all know that the only Daedric Prince in Coldharbour is Molag Bal, so our success is guaranteed!

Since those idiots in the forge failed to capture that mage in once piece, we are forced to find alternatives for our power needs. Our Prince will not be denied! Take the atronachs and throw them into the prism. They should provide enough power for now.

Just be careful. If you break the control locks, the prism will overload. Last time that turned the Frost Atronachs into Flame!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1666)
	The Great Mooring
The door to the Great Mooring, the linch-point of the Great Shackle, must remain locked while the magicka conduits draws energy from the living spark encased in the collection prism. 

The only way to open the door is to completely drain the energy from the living spark, or to disengage the conduits and cut off the flow of power.

Never reverse the flow of energy through the conduits, however. Such a procedure could have disastrous effects on both the living spark and the energy collection apparatus, and it could set back the Planemeld by years, if not centuries, due to the amount of work that went into the system.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1667)
	Fjar's Interrogation Transcript
Agent: How are you? Are you being treated well?

Fjar: So far. I know you guys aren't all the monsters you're made out to be.

Agent: That's good to hear. You're married to a Breton, aren't you? Helewise?

Fjar: Yes, sir. Happily married eight years.  

Agent: Good. Good. It's like I keep telling my men, family is more important than anything else, even the king.

Fjar: I couldn't agree more.
		

Failed at /books/1668Failed at /books/1669Failed at /books/1670Failed at /books/1671Failed at /books/1672Failed at /books/1673Failed at /books/1674Failed at /books/1675Failed at /books/1676Failed at /books/1677Failed at /books/1678Failed at /books/1679Failed at /books/1680Failed at /books/1681Failed at /books/1682Failed at /books/1683Failed at /books/1684Failed at /books/1685Failed at /books/1686Failed at /books/1687Failed at /books/1688Failed at /books/1689Failed at /books/1690Failed at /books/1691Failed at /books/1692Failed at /books/1693Failed at /books/1694Failed at /books/1695Failed at /books/1696Failed at /books/1697Failed at /books/1698Failed at /books/1699Failed at /books/1700Failed at /books/1701Failed at /books/1702Failed at /books/1703Failed at /books/1704Failed at /books/1705Failed at /books/1706Failed at /books/1707Failed at /books/1708Failed at /books/1709Failed at /books/1710Failed at /books/1711Failed at /books/1712Failed at /books/1713Failed at /books/1714Failed at /books/1715Failed at /books/1716Failed at /books/1717Failed at /books/1718Failed at /books/1719Failed at /books/1720Failed at /books/1721Failed at /books/1722Failed at /books/1723Failed at /books/1724		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1725)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 1
This is the story of a boy. This is the story of the land. This is the story of how the boy and the land came to be. 

The boy's name was Ostion. He had the power to shape the land. He whispered his instructions and the land willingly obeyed. But the boy was alone.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1726)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 2
Soon powerful people learned about the boy, and how he could shape the land. They did not understand that what he had was a gift. They saw only the power in it. They wanted to conquer.

They decided to test the boy.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1727)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 3
The powerful sent Ostion to Valenwood. They told him to shape Valenwood and build a great city there. They sent builders to help. But Valenwood was not like the land where Ostion grew up. Valenwood was wild and angry and when the boy asked it to move, it said "No."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1728)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 4
Ostion and Valenwood fought with each other. Ostion commanded the land again and again to move, and Valenwood refused again and again. In their struggle they forgot everything else. Ostion forgot the builders who had been sent with him and Valenwood forgot the peoples that lived in its midst.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1729)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 5
The boy and the land came to love the struggle. Both had been lonely and now neither was alone. But in the process, the builders were injured and killed, even Sumiril who had once been kind to the boy.

And suddenly Ostion remembered who he was and what he had been sent to do. And he found Sumiril's body and asked the land to help him raise Sumiril from the dead.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1730)
	Sumiril's Book, Passage 6
And for once, Valenwood listened. And Ostion and the Valenwood became one. Together, we are the Wilderking, Ostion and I. Sumiril is our first creation, our hollow man, whom we raised from the dead.

This is the truth of our existence.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1731)
	A Plea for the Elder Scrolls
Honored Protector Yseline:

My emissary, if she survived, has delivered our plea to you and to Grand Warlord Dortene. We beg you to repent of your actions and return what has been stolen.

As you know, Covenant troops invaded our temple and removed two of the Elder Scrolls that we are sworn to guard and study. Several members of our order died resisting this atrocity. 

You have erected the temples of Alma Ruma and Ni-Mohk to shelter these scrolls. We honor your efforts to provide fitting housing for these holy relics, but it is not enough. The Elder Scrolls are not weapons to be hoarded for the benefit of the few, but instead words from beyond the gods, written down for us if only we are wise enough to interpret them. They must be studied and only by the Priests of the Ancestor Moths!

The Elder Scrolls must be returned to us. Please give them into the keeping of Moth Priest Belenius. I also ask that you provide him with a strong escort, as the journey east to our temple is long and hazardous.

May the wisdom of the ancients guide you,

Moth Priest Crassius Viria
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1732)
	A Plea for the Elder Scrolls
Honored Protector Galiel:

My emissary, if she survived, has delivered our plea to you and to Grand Warlord Zimmeron. We beg you to repent of your actions and return what has been stolen.

As you know, Pact troops invaded our temple and removed two of the Elder Scrolls that we are sworn to guard and study. Several members of our order died resisting this atrocity. 

You have erected the temples of Chim and Ghartok to shelter these scrolls. We honor your efforts to provide fitting housing for these holy relics, but it is not enough. The Elder Scrolls are not weapons to be hoarded for the benefit of the few, but instead words from beyond the gods, written down for us if only we are wise enough to interpret them. They must be studied and only by the Priests of the Ancestor Moths!

The Elder Scrolls must be returned to us. Please give them into the keeping of Moth Priest Pavonius. I also ask that you provide him with a strong escort, as the journey to our temple is hazardous.

May the wisdom of the ancients guide you,

Moth Priest Crassius Viria
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1733)
	A Plea for the Elder Scrolls
Honored Protector Arfire:

My emissary, if she survived, has delivered our plea to you and to Grand Warlord Sorcalin. We beg you to repent of your actions and return what has been stolen.

As you know, Dominion troops invaded our temple and removed two of the Elder Scrolls that we are sworn to guard and study. Several members of our order died resisting this atrocity. 

You have erected the temples of Altadoon and Mnem to shelter these scrolls. We honor your efforts to provide fitting housing for these holy relics, but it is not enough. The Elder Scrolls are not weapons to be hoarded for the benefit of the few, but instead words from beyond the gods, written down for us if only we are wise enough to interpret them. They must be studied and only by the Priests of the Ancestor Moths!

The Elder Scrolls must be returned to us. Please give them into the keeping of Moth Priestess Theodosia. I also ask that you provide her with a strong escort, as the journey north across Cyrodiil to our temple is long and hazardous.

May the wisdom of the ancients guide you,

Moth Priest Crassius Viria
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1734)
	Hald's Interrogation Transcript
Agent: Hello again, Hald.

Hald: Stay away from me.

Agent: Careful, Hald, you'll hurt my feelings. Especially after you were my guest for, what was it? Eight weeks?

Hald: I've nothing else for you. I gave you everything then. Just let me go.

Agent: After how useful you were before? Come now, Hald. You and I both know our arrangement only ends when I say it does.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1735)
	Hilka's Interrogation Transcript
Agent: How does it feel to be abandoned by the Pact.

Hilka: The Pact didn't abandon me. Thragof did.

Agent: You really do hate him, don't you?

Hilka: No more than he deserves.

Agent: Meaning?

Hilka: Meaning he's an incompetent idiot who couldn't lead a Khajiit to moon-sugar.

Agent: And the rest of your command?

Hilka: Well, if they were bright we wouldn't be here, would we?
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#1736)
	A Guide to Fishing Tamriel
By "The Old Slaughterfish"

Ah, fishing, my son. After a hard week of farming, or a long night of being nagged by your wife, there is nothing better than going out for a bit of a fish.

Now just being alone in the wild, listening to the wind in the trees or the waves on the shore, is good enough for most men. Catching anything of worth is typically the furthest from their minds. And of course that means their neighbors and wives think all they did was sleep in the forest. 

But true anglers always look to fill up their catch baskets with the largest fish, which can be used for the tastiest dishes. And to do that, you have to know what you are attempting to catch, where they are found and what baits are best to use. Here is a list of common fish found throughout Tamriel:

Slaughterfish and Trodh:

These fish are found in the foulest waters possible: sewers, fetid swamps, and in pools near decomposing corpses. A favorite of city dwellers who don't want to leave the safety of their walls, these fish are drawn to crawlers and fish roe. 

Salmon and River Betty:

Fresh flowing rivers and streams are the home of these tasty fish. They bite best on baits of insects and small shad. 

Spadetail and Silverside Perch:

Still lakes with deep holes or overgrowth that let these fish stay out of the sun are the preferred locale for these fish. Guts from small frogs, guar and chickens as well as tiny ocean minnows are the best bait for these.

Dhufish and Longfin:

When you are the by the sea, you should try your hand at catching these beauties. Using common garden worms and small chub will entice the largest of these fish.

I hope that this helps you when you next decide to go out and fish, my son. At least this way you will come home with a full catch and no one will accuse you of wasting your day.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1737)
	Adainaz's Journal
Rocks fell, no way out. Henrien doesn't look well. Red-faced and irritable. Threatened to gut this Khajiit. Won't share this one's last rations with him.

Could this be the fabled Great Engine of the Dwemer? It would explain Henrien's condition. Had to tie him down. Won't last long here. Can feel this one's mind slipping. Slipping like Henrien's.

Should destroy infernal machine.

Four power sources. Small chance to use them to overload engine with its own magicka. But need missing control rod.

Couldn't even scratch it with blade. Impervious to any spells this one can cast.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1738)
	Cinnar's Notes
1) Only targets Altmer

			— Racial motives? Grudge? Fraud?

2) Only steals objects of personal value

			— Ransom? Revenge?

3) Leaves messages for victims

			— Victims refuse to discuss them! Why?

Remaining citizens to question:

Mendreval

Rilding

Kuralit

Talqua

Zuzik
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1739)
	Roost Smuggler's Ledger
Current Stock:

42 barrels unprocessed moon-sugar

12 barrels refined moon-sugar

 4 barrels processed moon-sugar

 7 cases "S" (80 phials/case)

With Dominion stickypaws crawling around <<1>>, we must keep production low. No outgoing shipments! Hide everything but unprocessed barrels. If the stickypaws ask, say moon-sugar stores best in cool places. That's all the Wind Tunnels are—a cool place for sugar storage.

Jone and Jode may have sent us a savior. One of our runners met a Dominion sailor who doesn't mind a little gold on the side. If the old sea-cat's vessel makes it off the shoals, we have a way to make <<Ac:2>> run.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1740)
	The Hind-Quarters Registry
Entry 1

— Khajiiti sugar merchant checked in with guard.

Entry 2

— High Elf pilgrim checked out.

Entry 3

— Group of Maormer sailors checked in.

— All beds filled. No vacancies.

Entry 4

— Khajiiti merchant and guard checked out. Claimed they were "encouraged" to do so by the Maormer.

— Two Maormer sailors checked in immediately after merchant's departure.

— All beds filled. No vacancies.

Entry 5

— Entire Maormer contingent checked out. Refused to pay for final week! Will send a bill to Ambassador <<1>>.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1741)
	Unlabeled Notes
— Minimal guards at docks (day)

— Minimal guards at docks (night)

— Poor response time to fires

— Smugglers amenable and unaware

— Wind Tunnels unaffected

— <<m:1>> placed

— Tempest imminent
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1742)
	Dockmaster's Lament
It was a beautiful day until I received yet another visit from an indignant Maormer captain. Apparently, padding the docking fee half of what I used to is grounds for deep offense.

For a moment I thought she might become violent! I handed over my last bottle of Old Colovian Plum Brandy to smooth things over.

These Maormer seem to be more and more demanding lately. What good is that treaty, anyway? It wasn't always this difficult to take an honest cut!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1743)
	Your Final Chance
I've paid you a hefty fee to track down and kill Wardiya. You've given me nothing but excuses. This is your final chance. Rumor has her back in Bruma.

Find her. Kill her. Make me happy.

— G.
		

Failed at /books/1744		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1745)
	The Artisan's Letters
I have stolen your most precious possession. Come to the bank at dawn in a fortnight's time and I will demand my boon for its return. If you tell anyone of the contents of this message, consider your possession forfeit.

— The Artisan
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1746)
	How the Locks Work
I have to scribble this down before they wipe my memory again.

I figured out how some of the locks in this room work. At least, I think I have the basics worked out. The door is locked by some kind of mechanism that must receive a charge from the various tubes and pipes that run along the wall.

But the tubes and pipes are cold now. If I could find some sort of power source to provide them with energy, I might be able to activate them long enough to open the gate and get out of this nightmare.

I hear them returning. I'm hiding this up here. Maybe if I'm stuck back in this room I'll stumble upon it again and unlock more of this damned puzzle.

At least I can hope, right?
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1747)
	The Daedric Flame
A Guide to the Power of Daedric Flames, Volume 3, by Kalsius Malik

The strange blue flames of Coldharbour not only act as a light source, but the Daedra of this realm have also found a way to charge and run their bizarre Daedric machines with the stuff.

Similar to how we use normal fire to keep warm and cook food back in Nirn, this strange blue flame—which is icy to the touch—will charge various Daedric devices and incantations with power. I believe they use it as a fuel to bring their magical creations to life.

The secret is in the blue braziers. With just a touch, the power flows from the brazier into the individual like a curious wisp following an interesting target. You have to utilize and harness the power quickly, for the flame loses potency almost immediately upon being removed from its source.

For users to harness this power in any way, they need to be quick before the flame simply flickers and fades away.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1748)
	Shagora's Journal
Seqbar better be dead. If he isn't, when I find him he'll soon wish he was. Running off on the eve of our engagement? What kind of idiot does that?

I took a few supplies and headed after him yesterday. All this sand makes my head swim. I'll be glad to get inside the mine, if only to get away from this sun.

The mine's owner said I could wait for Seqbar if I wanted. Bah! I'm not afraid of spiders!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1749)
	Yenadar's Journal
This site is everything that I had hoped it would be. These ruins are the perfect place to contemplate the light of Jone and Jode. Their cooling rays slice through the crack in the ceiling. They fill me with calm, with peace. The stonework is magnificent and I can feel the pulse of our ancestors in this ancient place. This will be the perfect site for my retreat and meditations—far removed from the distractions of S'ren-ja.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I have made my camp, here in the innermost sanctum of this holy place. The bones of our ancestors still lie in state, though some lie in the most peculiar positions. Though I first came here to remove myself from civilization, I find myself drawn to the mystery of this place. Who were these people and how did they die? I must tell my sister, Kala about this place when I return. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I found meditation increasingly difficult today so I set about exploring. I discovered an interesting document that speaks a little to those who lived here but not much more. I keep expecting some revelation with every turned stone, and in fact I could swear I have heard or perhaps felt something at the edge of consciousness. Are the ancient ones trying to make contact with me?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Last night, each time I started to drift to sleep, I kept thinking I could hear a voice or voices whispering in the darkness. I got precious little sleep as a result. I think I will rest here at camp today. Maybe I will explore more tomorrow. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is someone or something here. I can feel it all around me. I can hear it whispering to me …  whispers in the darkness. Part of me says that I should leave this place, but I must know … I must know what it is trying to say to me. If only I could understand the words …. 

It's here again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The darkness grows within me. I have been chosen for a sacred duty. I just wish … my dear Kala. My dear sister. I wish I could see you again in sweet S'ren-ja. I know I can hold this thing here, in the depths. But I shall miss you.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1750)
	Nellor's Bandit Connection
G,

Shaking down <<1>> tripled our weekly take! He has a good eye for saps with full purses. If he wants to keep that eye, he'll send more of them our way.

You were right about using innkeepers for this job. They're natural liars, and they deal with enough travelers to spot the easy targets. Pay them just enough to stain their hands and they'll never squawk to the guards.

We should talk to the boss about expanding operations.

— M
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1751)
	Gamirth's Final Message
My Dearest Love,

Writing these words instead of talking to you in person is the act of a weak man. A coward. What I shall do after I finish this letter is even more cowardly. I am giving up. I'm leaving the Everfull Flagon.

I fought the pull of the strange enchantment as much as I could, and when I was sober I worked to discover a cure, or at least the source, of our terrible affliction. I wanted to defeat this thing, to see your eyes brighten and your mind clear once and for all.

My heart aches for you, watching you struggle, watching you fight the allure of the mead as I read and researched. We may be close to solving this, but I can't go on. 

Is it a weariness of spirit? Is it just a weakness, a character flaw that I can't overcome? I don't know the answer. I only know that I want to run, to try to get free of this place and its insidious spell. I do this knowing that I am leaving you alone. That my soul is lost.

Always remember, dear one, that you are forever in my heart. Remember our love and find a way to make your own escape from the tavern. And, please, try to forgive me. If you can.

— Gamirth
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1752)
	Jofnir's Journal
I've done all I can. For now, I've salvaged what I could of the situation. Took a few relics as trophies. I should be back out in the light soon enough.

I can put these lessons to good use the next time I visit Ragnthar. The Dwemer constructs will set watch, keep the place safe. I don't want any visitors. The next time we meet, I'm going to end this. I can't let this go on any longer.

I'll stop in Windhelm, see if I can't get a few supplies for the next trip. Maybe some mead. It's been far too long since I had a decent brew.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1753)
	Ansei Shrine
This grand monument, sculpted by the most talented artist, Jamshald Lainlyn, was erected here in the one hundred and second year of the Second Era to honor the esteemed Ansei, and to commemorate the birthplace of Ansei Maja, may she ever watch over the Alik'r desert and protect us all from the threat of the vile arts.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1754)
	Spotted a Cave
I spotted some unusual activity in a cave beyond the graveyard of lost ships to the southeast. I wanted to find out more, but I felt it was more prudent to report in.

If I can avoid the roaming skeletons and make it back to the main force, then I can deliver my report to whoever's in charge of the Fighters Guild forces when I get there.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1755)
	Message to Jena
Jena—

This is your last chance to settle your debt. It has cost me a great deal to find you. Cheydinhal wasn't far enough.

— M
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1756)
	Letter to Belya
Belya,

Your services are required in Cheydinhal. The rebellion is bearing fruit. You must be our eyes and ears. Take no risks but hasten here.

— Iocundus
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1757)
	Final Words
Crawled out of cave. Can go no farther. Egg-brother Bosekus was right. Should have moved with him to Cropsford.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1758)
	Nettira's Journal
When we originally spotted this ancient Dark Elf tomb, I knew I had to explore it. I was hoping that my cousin, Grundskar, would have accompanied me, but we got separated when our Fighters Guild troop scattered.

I made it past the front door, but stealth was never really my strong suit. I didn't expect the place to be crawling with skeletons! I'm going to hide until they settle down. I should be fine if that damned scuttler doesn't give me away.

—<<1>>
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1759)
	Azara's Note
If you ever read this, Marodeen, do not follow me to Mist Morrow Vale. I should have listened to you and stayed in Vlastarus.

Remember me,

Azara
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1760)
	Message from Geneura
Make no mistake, no one leaves the pack, ever. I want Engitaale found. Scouts reported seeing her near Vlastarus. Bring her to me, dead or alive.

— Geneura
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1761)
	An Ode to the Red Bird
Let us fly together, dear red bird,

set aside the idle talk of stern elders,

as you set aside the ground below!

Grains of sand trickle through the glass:

but when together we fly,

night is one long everlasting journey.

Alight upon my shoulder, my neck, my cheek,

let your sweet beak leave a hundred, 

nay a thousand kisses upon me.

Let us confuse them,

so that no enemy may cast an evil eye,

when it comes to be known the many kisses.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1762)
	Wardens of the Green
The hunter waits in the boughs, clad only in leaves and shadow. She breathes as the wind shifts, and listens.

Her quarry's fear grows thicker than the canopy. A glance, a turn, and it breaks cover. Her eyes open.

Footsteps, muffled as owl's wings, beat softly through the Green. Any other would lose the quarry to the vineswept earth, yet the hunter does not waver.

Over and through the forest goes the silent chase. Briefly, the hunter alights upon a branch. A quick pull from her waterskin and she is off once more.

A stream bubbles through the wood and the quarry stops to drink. Claw leaves scabbard, slick and shining. Teeth bare with anticipation. She leaps.

A sirocco of splashes. Claw meets neck. The quarry relents. A moment more would see crimson intrude upon the stream's mirth. She licks her lips.

"Not this one."

At the stream's edge stands a simple Mer. In his silhouette stands every woodsman, hunter, and guide; every jaqspur, every treethane and spinner. Every child and every elder stand with him, yet he stands alone.

Her hunter's gaze meets his. She sees herself beside him, too. She blushes, and so does he. "My Silvenar," she says at last. "My Green Lady," he responds in turn. She lowers her claw and turns to the quarry.

"In stalking these woods, in keeping them free of terrors, I lose myself to the Green." She helps the quarry to its feet.

"But I will always bring her back," says the Silvenar. "You have nothing to fear from us, child of the forest. So long as there is the Green, we walk where you walk."

The Silvenar vanishes among vines. The Green Lady leaps for the boughs. She watches the Bosmer trudge out of the stream and continue through the forest.

But she smiles, for the Bosmer is no longer afraid.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1763)
	Khajiiti Merchant's Invoice
Invoice 1-286-4

1 flower of Sanguine Alendil, to be deposited by the fallen tree near the river.

Payment: Paid in full.

Order Status: Filled.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1764)
	A Prisoner's Journal
I don't remember who I am or where I came from. I don't know what I did to deserve this terrible existence, but it most have been abominable. Why else would I be a prisoner in the Tower of Lies?

Today I broke rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Hundreds of rocks. They needed to be chipped and chopped and smashed. It was sweaty, back-breaking work. But I did it. I did it until my arms ached and my hands bled. And then I did it some more.

Today an ogrim tortured me. It took me into one of the huts, locked me in stocks, and then whipped me with a lash. The pain … it went on and on and on. I let my mind drift, trying to remember better times and better places. I know I thought about something, but the memory doesn't stick. It's like trying to grasp mist before it dissipates in the sun. Or something like that. What was I talking about?

Today I listened to Ifriz the Unraveler. He does love to talk. He goes on and on about how wonderful life is in the Tower of Lies. I could listen to his voice all day. It comforts me. It frightens me. It makes me want to cry. Why won't he stop shouting at me? Why?

What day is it now?

Bugs. There are bugs crawling on me. All over my body. Into my eyes. Into my mouth. I try to brush them away, but they keep coming back. Persistent. Insistent. Twelve.

Today is yellow.

I thanked my ogrim tormentor today. To show me how much he cared, he beat me for an hour more.

My skull itches.

Why are the rocks screaming? Every time I hit them with my hammer, they cry out in pain.

I think I used to be in some sort of guild. I think that's why I'm here. We must have done something yellow.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1765)
	Knowing Satakal
Seven Redguard Maxims

"To deny that the world must end is to deny that it began."

"Satakal is the making and the unmaking, the birth and the death, love and fear."

"For the world is the egg that Satakal laid, and the egg that in time Satakal shall eat."

"To know Satakal, consider a river. As a snake sheds its skin and lives on, so a river sheds its water into the sea, yet is reborn at the source."

"To be the Worldskin is to be everything, and to be everything is to be nothing."

"Fear not the unbelievers, for believer and unbeliever alike shall be eaten by the Serpent God."

"Does not the serpent made of sky above reflect the serpent made of sea below? Yea, it is so."
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1766)
	The Eight Steps of Mummification
By Fezmani of the Steady Hand, Priest of Tu'whacca

—	Step the First: Consecrate the body with the Blessings of Tu'whacca.

—	Step the Second: Remove all internal organs before they can decay, causing unsightly stains.

—	Step the Third: Remove all brain tissue. This is to be done through the nostrils using the hook-spoons, so as to avoid damaging the skin of face and head.

—	Step the Fourth: Dehydrate the body by coating it in parch-salt, and placing packets of parch-salt within its cavities.

—	Step the Fifth: Replace lost volume within the body with inert material, paying special attention to restoring the features of the face. 

—	Step the Sixth: The layers of wrapping: wrap the body in one hundred paces of linen, then coat the linen with warm juniper resin. Do this three times. 

—	Step the Seventh: The adorning of amulets: array the body in amulets and bracelets that represent the station of the body in life. 

—	Step the Eighth: Place the body in a prepared sarcophagus. Proceed to burial in the necropolis.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1767)
	Beginning Bladecraft: 7 Precepts
By Master Ghelwezh

—	Do not strangle the grip—hold it firmly but lightly in your palm.

—	The blade curves: the edge is rigid, but the flat is flexible. Learn to feel your sword's range of motion.

—	Your sword is not the weapon, it is only the point of the weapon. Your entire body is the weapon, and it must move as one.

—	You expose yourself only when you attack—but if you do not attack, you cannot hit.

—	The strongest slash is with the forte of the blade.

—	Move always, defending with stop thrusts, parries, backsteps, and sidesteps. To stand still is to die.

—	Know your lunge range—and your opponent's. Learn to sense it without looking down.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1768)
	Legend of the Yokudan Chargers
By Honnorah af-Lahreq

The Gallants of Hammerfell are known far and wide as Tamriel's finest sword-wielders, but they are known equally well for their skill as riders of horses. A Redguard Gallant is nearly always depicted with a sword in one hand, and the reins of a loyal steed in the other.

And no breed of horse is more closely associated with the Knights of the Desert than the Yokudan Charger. Indeed, the Yokudan Charger is the mightiest of breeds, the pride of all who trade in horseflesh in Hammerfell. Faced with the heat and harsh terrain of the Alik'r, lesser horses falter and die, while the Yokudan Charger survives, even thrives. The Charger reacts to a challenge like his rider the Gallant: head up, nostrils flaring, ever prepared to show his or her mettle.

Here at Aswala Stables we breed and sell only Yokudan Chargers of certified descent, steeds of proven lineage that count among their forebears the horses Yaghoub the Seafarer brought in his fleet from Akos Kasaz. We are a little bit off the beaten track, but we count ourselves lucky to be situated in the awe-inspiring heart of our magnificent Alik'r Desert, and when you see the steeds we have on offer we think you'll agree it's worth the trek. 

The Yokudan Charger: a grand tradition, and for us, a sacred trust. Come, accept the hospitality of Aswala Stables, and judge for yourself.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1769)
	Hags, Harpies, and Hagravens
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh, Songbird of Satakalaam

So listened I to a sermon by the thrice-honorable High Priest Zuladr of the High Temple. And he did inveigh against womanhood and its inherent wickedness, citing the Tale of the Temptress Shakhari, and the bloody crimes of Queen Jezerei. "Consider hags, harpies, and hagravens," quoth he. "Are these monsters not all, each and every one, women—and therefore wicked?"

And I thought to myself, "It seems to me this is a priest who likes not women. Wherefore?"

Wherefore? And wherein, if women are wicked, does he find the virtues of men, which he infers as a corollary? Was not the Grandee Kwarizm, who basely slew his thirteen wives, a man? Are not the terrible ogres of the hills and the giants of the mountains always male? Consider the legendary minotaur—is he not even excessively male? 

Was not Sep the God-Deceiver a male? 

So called I then upon the thrice-honorable High Priest Zuladr in his quarters and spake this to him, but he was unabashed, and called me immodest and presumptuous. "Yes, I presume," I said, "and I shall presume further." And I unveiled my features, and disrobed my form, and said, "Is this the wickedness you fear, O holy priest?"

And the priest did shake, and perspire, and reach for me with fingers avid and trembling. But I struck them aside with a laugh, and resumed my garments. And I said unto him, "Consider, O priest, that a true woman gives not her gifts to one who does not respect them."

And thus did I deliver a sermon unto the high priest.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1770)
	Threat of the Baandari Pedlars
By Zuladr, High Priest of Satakalaam

This week, O faithful ones, my sermon is not a homily or a parable, but a warning: a warning to all true Redguards to beware the wiles of the devilish cat-people, those thieves and heretics who infest the fields outside our gates and call themselves Baandari Pedlars.

Long have we known that these itinerant beast-people use the mask of merchant to hide their true trades of theft, fraud, and chicanery. Why, then, do the magistrates continue to allow them to set up camp before the gates of our towns? Why are they not driven from our lands and never allowed to return?

Clearly other powers are at work here, infidel powers of sacrilege and evil. How else to explain the folly of those who patronize these creatures, and the blindness of those in authority who tolerate their open pandering and vice? 

"But how do you know this, O Zuladr?" you may ask. "How has this truth been revealed unto you?"

And I ask you: what do we say when someone sneezes? We say, "Tu'whacca bless you"—do we not? And why do we say this? Because, as the ancient writings tell us, a sneeze is a sign of the presence of an evil spirit. 

And what happens to many of the faithful, myself very much included, when in the presence of one of these cat-people? We sneeze. We sneeze, our very eyes water, and we sneeze again. 

Heed, I say hearken to the warning of Tu'whacca. These Baandari are evil spirits incarnate. Abjure their company, avoid their camp, suffer not their tainted wares to be brought into your abode.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1771)
	Strakes and Futtocks
By Curly Lainlyn, Master Shipwright

This is important, so pay attention. You already think you know how to build an Alik'r caravel, but the new king over in Sentinel has ordered the shipyards to build all vessels to consistent standards—he thinks that'll make them easier to supply, since all the pieces are standardized, and also that we'll build them faster once we're into a routine. Maybe he's right, I don't know—but I do know that he's the king, and we're spending his gold, so we're going to do it his way. 

There's no change to how we lay the keel: we still scarf together sections of lumber with the longest piece in the middle, with the ends using planks cut from angled trunks so the curve is built right into the wood. But here's the new thing: the keel, stem, and stern posts are all rabbeted to secure the strakes and keep them parallel. And the posts aren't self-timber, they're made of inner and outer pieces to reinforce the curve. 

We still install the central rib first, then the fore and afters, but now we're going to lay battens across the upper, middle, and lower sections to guide the installation of the remaining ribs. Got that? Then we lay on the strakes as usual, starting with the futtocks, and finish with the inner hull. 

Get that all done, and we'll talk about how we're going to approach the rigging and outfitting.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1772)
	Amethyst Mining in the Alik'r
By Ezdwelen al-Rihad

Amethysts! Since my youth, their purple translucence has entranced me. I have made a career of searching for them all across Hammerfell, and count many notable, even legendary finds to my credit. But nowhere have I found amethysts so abundant as in the central Alik'r Desert. 

Amethysts are found in geodes, those heavy, dull stony orbs that conceal so much crystalline glory, and these geodes are always found in proximity with the lava rock that melted and flowed when the world was young. It has been long and long since the mounts of Hammerfell flowed with lava, and many of the old, old tubes have been covered over by layers of later rock, or weathered away and scattered as sand and gravel. 

But in the Hollow Wastes, that sunken, salty pit in the center of the Alik'r, the layers over the ancient lava have been scoured away by the relentless winds, and the flowstone is exposed as nowhere else in Hammerfell. Here, at Dak'fron, at Kulati, and at Zareth M'Kai, can be found the finest amethysts in western Tamriel. And many years I spent there, with pick, shovel, and dowsing rod, until they said I could find geode clusters deep in the ground by sense of smell alone. 

Nowadays, alas, I am too old to quarter the desert, searching for my beloved amethyst nodules. But if you are even in Rihad, stop in Ezdwelen's Gem Shop and buy an intaglio-engraved amethyst necklace for your best beloved. With such as I sell, even a heart of stone will melt and flow.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1773)
	The Lost Islands of Old Yokuda
Attributed to Hazadiyya Sea-Queen

I remember Lost Yokuda. I remember all her great islands.

I remember Samara. Indeed, I had a husband there. 

Samara: low, lush, welcoming, with many harbors, warm and sweet of fruit. Teymush was much like his island. Long and long we abided there in loving leisure, until the tides of the Sea of Pearls drew me away from him. 

I remember Kanesh. Indeed, I had a husband there. 

Kanesh: tall, volcanic, harsh, but strong and blazing with inner heat. Yazhgir was much like his island. We exploded together with liquid heat, but petrified as we cooled. The Azurian called me from his arms at last.

I remember Yath. Indeed, I had a husband there. 

Yath: jagged, arid, rugged, magnificent, with clear views from a spine like steel. Soufoudin was much like his island. He pulled me up on a charger to ride by his side, and together we explored every terrain. One day he rode off over a ridge and was gone, and once again I returned to the sea. 

I remember Akos Kasaz. Indeed, I had a husband there. 

Akos Kasaz: biggest of all, ruler and rebel, moody and many-sided, gentle and brutal. Oshnar was much like his island. There I stayed longest of all, and together we fought wars, reared children, and built the City of Totambu. But even there, one day I scented the east wind from the Abecean, and though by then my hair fell iron-gray to my waist, I returned, at last, to the sea. 

I remember Yokuda….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1774)
	Tu'whacca, Arkay, Xarxes
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

It's not uncommon for scholars to note the clear similarities between the gods Xarxes, Arkay, and Tu'whacca. (For a particularly uninspired summary of the obvious, see "Psychopomps of Tamriel" by that old bloviator Phrastus of Elinhir.) Nearly every culture on the continent worships these deities in one form or another—indeed, the Wood Elves of Valenwood revere them both! I wish, in this brief disquisition, to pose several questions about the origins of these gods, and then speculate upon the answers to those questions.

We begin with Xarxes, as his worship, at least as recorded in written history, predates that of both Arkay and Tu'whacca. An Elven deity who records the life-stories of all the races of Aldmeri, Xarxes appears in multiple creation or origin stories, many of which are inconsistent with each other. While some of these origins may be "false," their multiplicity may also merely be a reflection of Xarxes' many-fold nature. 

In the two most common origin myths, Xarxes appears either as Auri-El's scribe, recording events at his side since the beginning of time, or as a Merethic Aldmeri priest of Auri-El who was elevated to divinity by the higher deity. The latter story is consistent with the High Elves' conceit that they are directly descended from the Aedra, and can, in certain miraculous circumstances, apotheosize and re-ascend to godly status. 

For the Altmer, Xarxes records not just the life stories of individual Elves, but all the connections of lineage and heritance that bind them together and link them to their ancestors. As nothing is more important to an Altmer than his or her ancestry, it is easy to understand Xarxes' paramount role in defining and maintaining status and stability in Summerset society.

Arkay, of course, is one of the Eight Divines that were presented to the newly-freed citizens of Cyrodiil by St. Alessia at the founding of the First Empire. Though official dogma of the Church of the Eight holds that Alessia was merely revealing to her subjects gods who had been watching over them all along, scholarly research of documentary fragments that survive from early in the First Era hint at a different story. Khosey's "Tamrilean Tractates," are well known, but I have also had the privilege of studying Sandralath's "Nedic Oblations" and the anonymous "Death-Song for King Darodiil" in their original manuscripts. Comparisons of the latter two against each other illuminated several previously obscure passages in both, and the resulting clarification was the impetus for this paper. 

To come to the point, I believe I may well finally have enough evidence to confirm Sedulus' speculative "Theory of Arkayn Convergence." Most of my readers will doubtless be familiar with Sedulus' proposal that the Arkay of the Eight Divines is, in origin, a fusion of aspects of the Elven deity Xarxes with those of the primal Atmoran death-god Orkey. My new translation of the Death-Song and its (formerly ill-understood) "plea for soul-guidance" passages make it clear that the psychopomp being addressed possesses attributes of both the Elven and Atmoran deities. And, once the proper vowel-shift is applied, what is the name of this god? 

"To-Arcka."

Which brings us, inevitably, to the Yokudan deity Tu'whacca. How long he was worshiped in that name by the human tribes of Yokuda is now unknowable, as all our race's records were lost in the cataclysm that sank the archipelago. But as even old Phrastus had the wits to note, it cannot be a coincidence that Tu'whacca performs the same functions for the Redguards that Arkay and Xarxes do for Tamrielic Men and Mer. Are these gods really separate and distinct deities, or are they all aspects of the same deity, worshiped under different names in different cultures? 

You must seek the answer elsewhere, for that is where scholarship ends and theology begins.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1775)
	Protocols of Propriety, Order Seven
Aldmeri Dominion Expeditionary Forces, General Order Seven

All those who march under the Eagle Banner represent the glorious heritage of the Aldmeri Race—yes, even those of the Valued Ally Races—and in occupied areas all troops, regardless of pedigree, are required to abide by the Military Protocols of Propriety. 

At the most fundamental level these protocols number only five. They are presented here in terms comprehensible even by those of lesser intellectual attainment.

ONE:  Foraging is Mandatory, but Looting is Forbidden

While it is true that regions brought under the protection of the Aldmeri Dominion are required to pay indemnity-in-kind to support Dominion forces, this indemnity is to be collected with a strict adherence to the Rule of Fifths: one-fifth of all tangible goods and currency in a Dominion-protected region belong to the Dominion. Personal looting is forbidden. 

TWO: Pay for What You Take

Personal goods acquired by troops in an occupied region are to be paid for at the appropriate market rate. For this purpose all troops are supplied with a liberal quantity of Dominion Scrip, paper currency which the locals in an occupied region will be able to redeem after hostilities cease. 

NOTE: Troops are not to accept Dominion Scrip as payment for goods or services. 

THREE: Do Not Fraternize with the Locals

The locals in occupied regions often display vulgar behavior, subscribe to improper belief systems, and foment inappropriate ideas. Sometimes they even suffer a false sense of grievance against the Dominion which may manifest itself in dangerous misbehavior. Be a "Safe Soldier," and fraternize only with those certified entertainers who have been admitted into the Recreation Compound. 

FOUR: Maintain Uniform Standards of Appearance

Do not fall prey to the temptation to adopt local attire, no matter how comfortable or festive. Maintain that superior reserve that reflects true Aldmeri Propriety.

FIVE: Tolerate No Disrespect

The forces of the Dominion Military are the physical incarnation of the Glory of the Aldmeri Peoples, and as such must be respected by members of the tertiary races. Failure to show proper deference to Dominion personnel or the Eagle Banner is to be immediately punished at the appropriate level of severity (as delineated in Article 317, Deference and Decorum). 

If you have questions about any of the above, consult your superior officer, or apply to your unit ceremoniarch for the course in Advanced Aldmeri Propriety.

In the Queen's Name, 

Legate Calevarnel
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1776)
	Correct Ways of Slaying Ra-Netu: 12
Though a Ra-Netu is an abomination in the sight of Tu'whacca, and an offense to the godly of all peoples, it is not therefore to be treated with disrespect. For a human body is a sacred chalice, whether it be filled with the divine liquor of a mortal soul, or the profane offal of an unholy essence. 

To that end the Ash'abah are charged with banishing the unholy essence while doing all that is needful to preserve the sacred chalice. And so we smite the Ra-Netu with the Seventeen Strikes, while uttering the Plea for Forgiveness.

Correct Ways of Slaying Ra-Netu

Strike Twelve: The Comely Beheading

—	To feint with a high cut toward the approaching Ra-Netu

—	To step past the Ra-Netu on the opposite side while turning the blade

—	To utter the Plea for Forgiveness

—	To bring the forte of the blade down upon the Ra-Netu between the third and fourth bones of the neck, shearing through from behind

—	To utter the Humble Apology

—	To collect the severed head, lest it be misplaced in the affray, and set it near the body for later interment
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1777)
	The Hunger of Sep
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh, Songbird of Satakalaam

Look, my child, at the beetle I hold in my palm. It scuttles, and tickles, and looks busily for food. Would you like to hold it, child? I swear, by Tava's red feathers, that it shall not be hurtful to you. It is quite harmless, this beetle. 

At this size. 

For it will grow—yes, even as you will grow, so will this beetle. As you grow and grow until you reach woman's height, so will this beetle grow and grow. 

And in the fullness of time, you will cease to grow. But the beetle will grow on. 

It was not ever thus. In far-off Yokuda, in times of yore, when all walked in step with the gods, these beetles were the friends of our houses and the amusing companions of our children. They were named Samara Scarabs. And they grew, yes, but only to the size of an ample millet-loaf, for it was not needful for them to grow larger. For were they not favored of the children? Did they not scamper, and race, and sing the clickety-song? And were they not well-fed therefore, on seeds and savory dung-pellets?

Aye, it was so.

And the lives of the people were good, for though the land was harsh, the people followed the will of the gods, and thus were vouchsafed enough to live well, and a little more. And the Divines were reverenced as it was written they should be, and all things were in their proper places. 

But some there were among the people who decided that a little more than what they needed was not as much as they did want. And in their avarice they fell away from proper reverence, and were taken, yea, body and soul, with the Hunger of Sep. And this was an ill thing, for the Hunger of Sep can never be sated.

Then evil came to Yokuda, and red war, and forbidden rites were practiced, and fell things were summoned that should never have been called forth. It was a Time of Ending. Satakal arose from the starry deeps, and Yokuda was pulled down beneath the waves. 

But after every End Time comes a New Time, and it was even so in this case. For some of the people were permitted to sojourn to Tamriel, where we took Hammefell for our own. There we were given a chance to once again worship the gods in proper reverence. And we brought our Samara Scarabs with us, that we might delight the children and remember happier days.

And the Hunger of Sep was left behind—for a time, my child, for a time. But it is deep in our mortal core, and may ever arise again. So the gods gave unto us a warning, yea, even unto the smallest children. For in this New Time, in this New Place, our little companions grew to the size of an ample millet-loaf, as was meet. However, they then continued to grow, and burgeon, and sprout hurtful claws and rending mandibles. And then, with tears, we drove them from our homes and into the wastes, where they flourished and became baneful. 

Yes, my child—the Assassin Beetles that plague the empty places are our own Samara Scarabs, smitten by the gods with the Hunger of Sep.  They are a lesson to us, an awful warning to those who would become too avid. 

Be happy, then, and forego all avarice—for here we have enough to live well, and a little more.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1778)
	Gathiel's Diary
This wasting disease eats at me, taking a little more of me each day. It takes all I have not to give in to despair and self-pity. Why me? Why now? I am young, and I have done my best to treat my neighbors with kindness, support my clan, love my husband, and care for the forest.

It's worse when I see what this has done to poor Eranas. He does not sleep. He hardly eats. Day and night he is hunched over his workbench, trying new mixtures with the dead plants he's gathered from the forest floor.

I tell him he mustn't let his own health suffer on my account, but I can see how much it pains him to see me this way. Meanwhile, I grow weaker. My hand shakes as I write this.

This morning I woke to my husband sitting over me. There were tears in his eyes. He gave me a potion to drink, but once again, there was no change in my illness. It's useless. As long as he insists on keeping the Green Pact, the potions will never be potent enough, even if they are the right ones.

It seems my husband has had the same thought. While he was gone today, I searched through his workbench. I found a book on rare horticulture. It fell open to a tear-stained entry on Sanguine Alendil, the sacred blossom, and its association with cures for wasting sickness.

I know my husband. He would never cut the sacred flower, but I'm not willing to die when there's hope of a cure. The Green Pact can't be a suicide pact, can it? The forest is supposed to care for us. I am too weak to harvest Sanguine Alendil myself, but I will find a way.

*****

It is done. I have arranged that my husband will find the plant, already cut, in the forest where he searches for dead flowers each morning. I have no regrets.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1779)
	Gathiel's Astrology Chart
The Lady is the sign of indomitable will and unflagging health. When she shines, she smiles on the sick and makes them well and rewards those who persevere in hardship.

(This is Gathiel's sign. It has been ascendent since the night the forest started to turn on us. An omen of her good health, or something else? — Treethane Rolon.)
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1780)
	Letter to Akash
My Dearest Akash,

The services you and your tribe have provided are invaluable to my cause. Who but the Wood Orcs could unearth so many remains so quickly? Aside from the Altmer, of course, but they are blind and would move to stop me rather than help.

And your construction of the altars matched my designs completely! I could not have dreamed of a better partner in this. Who knew I would find one in a Wood Orc?

I hope the payment I've tendered pleases your mercenaries, but more importantly, I hope that our relationship still pleases you. To have you at my side through this, the most important act of my life … has provided a solace that surprises even me.

When this is over, when Tamriel is free of war, we'll begin our new life together—me as the ruler of a new Altmeri empire, and you as our herald, the leader of our Wood Orc footsoldiers.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1781)
	Savior of the Altmer, Part 1
Let it be known that what I have done here, in Elden Hollow, I do for the Altmer, though they refuse to help themselves.

What follows is a memoir of sorts, for the Thalmor will no doubt feel they have been betrayed. But I am the only Canonreeve working towards a greater good—towards a better existence for the Altmer.

12th of Morning Star

I have seen the numbers. The Aldmeri Dominion loses hundreds of soldiers every fortnight in this accursed war—and we have a long road ahead of us.

When all is finished, we will have lost an entire generation of Altmer. Teachers, scholars, and mages march off to fiery death and the Thalmor are happy to give them up. It's heinous.

I can understand that the Khajiiti leaders (with less than five of their number in the Thalmor!) and the Bosmeri Treethanes would be eager to offer Altmeri blood to end this conflict. But my fellow Canonreeves are equally willing, and I cannot abide by it.

8th of Mid Year

Months have passed and the Thalmor continue to pass Altmeri youth through the Dominion war machine like they're an inexhaustible resource. We possess the greatest military minds in Tamriel and all we can do is tear our best and brightest from their lives to fight like savages in far-off lands.

9th of Last Seed

I was a fiery mage in my youth, and I've retained a lesson or two since then. If I cannot get support from the Thalmor to bring a more expedient end to this war, then I will bring about the end for them.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1782)
	Savior of the Altmer, Part 2
11th of Frostfall

My career as a mage ended abruptly when I realized the manipulation of people and policy was infinitely more satisfying than collecting animal feces to spark a fire.

However, I am forced to admit that perhaps Oraneth the Master-Wizard could end this war much more quickly than Canonreeve Oraneth is able to.

23rd Sun's Dusk

I can think of a hundred ways to finish this war … none of which a mage of my stature could accomplish. The Guilds offer no solace. I saw that grinning fool Bakkhara again. At least I believe she was grinning. I can never tell with the Khajiit.

I have but one recourse.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1783)
	Savior of the Altmer, Part 3
1st of Morning Star

The pact is made. I fear even my ancestors would frown on me, or hunt me in the streets for this. I do not doubt the Thalmor will be displeased.

But it is necessary. I have taken a sabbatical from my position as Canonreeve these last months in my effort to conclude this war, but I have been reviewing the field reports. This conflict is claiming double the Altmeri lives as were being lost when I embarked on my journey.

The choice I made was the correct one.

My new master, and the army he has promised, will ensure this war is finished before the year's end.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1784)
	Note from Akash
Our employer wants nine bones from nine different beasts in each altar.

Do not mix them up. Do not cut corners.

She will know if you do, and she will not be happy. And if Oraneth isn't happy, I won't be happy.

— Akash gra-Mal
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1785)
	Time is of the Essence
Battlemage—

I need your soldiers to assist me down below. The Wood Orcs work well enough, but I think a lash at their backs will push them to finish even more quickly. I trust you realize time is of the essence here. That nosy mage Bakkhara was watching the upper entrance again.

Use your remaining forces to guard the falls. If anyone shows, kick them out. And if they won't cooperate, use lethal force. If anyone discovers what we're doing below, the future of the entire Dominion will be in jeopardy.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1786)
	Treaty of Khenarthi's Roost
WHEREAS the citizens and leadership of the sovereign Island of <<1>> recognize the capability of Maormer Enforcement Squadrons for acute destruction and wish to establish a peaceful and fiscally advantageous accord;

WHEREAS both parties acknowledge that the creation of terms for a mutually beneficial treaty is desirable and necessary and that the involvement of outside military or political bodies would be materially detrimental to both the Maormer interests and the trade profitability of Mistral;

Under the auspices of the illustrious and wise King Orgnum, Voice of the Free Maormer People, commander of Twelve-Dozen-and-One mighty ships, faithful and bold representative of the might of the Maormer (and under those of the lesser peoples of <<1>>), the two parties shall henceforth abide by the terms agreed to and set forth in the Articles of this treaty.

Article 1 

An Embassy shall be prominently established in the Port City of <<2>> to accommodate a Maormer Ambassador and associated retinue. Costs shall be afforded by the people of <<1>>, who agree to supply a personal staff of no less than 15 servants, finely-woven tapestries depicting the generous and wise Maormer people, personalized and embroidered cotton bedding, and a stock of local and imported liquors. 

Article 2

All individuals and organizations wishing to engage in commerce via the Port City of <<2>> must henceforth be registered and obtain official Rights of Passage. Registration fees are to be determined by the Ambassador on a ship-by-ship basis. Those who refuse such fees will be treated as enemy agents and are subject to confiscation of materials and imprisonment under the auspices of Maormer law. Maormer leadership reserves the right to inspect any vessel in the port and surrounding waters for any reason, and to confiscate any goods considered contraband.

Article 3

Maormer Enforcement Squadrons shall not perpetrate unprovoked acts of aggression towards merchant ships in or around the Port City of <<2>>, and likewise shall not interfere with approved trade affairs. Any current prisoners of the two signatories shall be released immediately upon the signing of this treaty. Said squadrons shall act in self-defense and under reasonable suspicion of activities of enemy agents. As recognition for Maormer non-interference, fifteen percent of all registry fees and excises shall be rendered unto the Embassy on the 15th of every month.

Article 4

A joint holiday shall be established to commemorate this signing on today's date. Such holiday shall be afforded at the expense of the people of <<2>> to demonstrate peace between the parties and adherence to the treaty. This celebration shall be named "Serpent's Glory," and on this day, Maormer dignitaries and selected Mer, Men, and others of note shall be invited to the Island of <<1>> for feasting, music, and revelry in the parties' common success and accord.

Article 4, Addendum 1

Attendance of general festivities during Serpent's Glory is permitted to residents of the Port City of <<2>>, though feast participation shall be limited to Maormer invitees, the Mayor of <<1>>, and no more than three (3) guests selected by the Mayor and approved by the Ambassador. Foodstuffs shall be prepared by Maormer chefs, music performed by Maormer minstrels, and under no circumstances shall the repugnant dish "sugared cuttlefish" be served.

Article 5

The Ambassador and the people of <<1>> agree to review the terms, negotiate any necessary addenda, and reaffirm their mutual commitment to a lasting and profitable peace on a decennial basis.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1787)
	Mages Guild Authorization
The Mages Guild hereby grants Warlock Kargand authorization to organize an excursion into the tunnels beneath the Elden Tree, the necropolis known as Elden Hollow, to investigate the disappearances of mages Bakkhara and Dracien Montue. Both went missing following the release of an unknown magical phenomenon that occurred when Canonreeve Oraneth finished an unidentified ritual in the depths of the Hollow.

The Guild was unable to elicit information regarding Oraneth's activities from the Thalmor, as the Canonreeve acted without the knowledge of her government. The Guild therefore decrees a second objective for Warlock Kargand's expedition: discover the Canonreeve's motives and methods in completing her ritual.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1788)
	Nadafa's Journal
I love my husband, Giran. I truly do. But the stranger—for some reason, he fascinates me.

I first saw the tall, pale stranger on a night when sleep eluded me. I left Giran snoring softly in our bed, put on a heavy robe, and stepped outside to feel the night air on my face. As I stood there, looking into the darkness, my gaze happened upon him. He was leaning against a tree, cloaked almost completely in shadows, but I could feel his eyes upon me. He seemed lonely. Full of longing. Hungry. I looked away for only a moment, flush with shyness, but when I looked back he was gone.

I saw him again last night, as we were returning home from dinner at my sister's house. He was watching me, I know it. At first, I was frightened. I thought to tell Giran about this brazen stranger, but for some reason I never did.

I've seen my pale stranger several times over the past few weeks. If Giran knew my innermost thoughts, he would be so angry with me. But he has nothing to worry about. I admit this stranger piques my interest, and it is obvious that he has noticed me. Still, this is only a silly fancy, nothing more.

* * *

The pale, handsome stranger invades my dreams. I cannot sleep. I need to see him again. But how? I don't even know his name. Oh, why am I having these unfathomable urges? Maybe when Giran takes his watch at the Northpoint cemetery tonight, I can sneak out of our house in the fishing village and try to find my stranger. Look into his dark, bottomless eyes. Feel his cold lips upon my neck ….
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1789)
	Miruin's Journal
Day 2

Baron Montclair's put me in command of an expedition to the Erokii ruins to search for some ancient relic for Reezal-Jul. Some old Ayleid thing called the Tear of Anurraame. I just hope it's bigger than a real tear or we'll never find it.

Day 9

Or is it day 8? Or day 10? There's no sunlight down here. We keep the hours in a regular rotation of working and eating and sleeping, but I've lost track of what day it is. We've been told not to return until we've found this thrice-cursed relic.

Day ??

I've been neglecting my journal terribly, but what is there to report? We still haven't found the damn relic. We did, however, find this ancient text that suggests the Tear of Anurraame is capable of destroying entire cities … I hope the Baron knows what he's doing.

Day ??

I wrote to the Baron about my concerns and he responded. He says he's well aware of the relic's power, and that it will prove invaluable if we are truly to restore Rivenspire to the glory and stature it had under King Ranser. I wonder what he's planning to do with it?

Day ??

At last! The Tear of Anurraame! We can leave this dark pit behind. Oh sunshine. Oh fresh air! 

We've received orders to take the relic directly to a small ship on the beach which will be sailed to Wayrest. Is the Baron really planning to destroy the capital of the Daggerfall Covenant? I suppose it's not my place to question orders, though.
		

Failed at /books/1790		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1791)
	Last of the Old Bones
Many years before your time, and many well before mine, great creatures walked the surface of Nirn. Where they came from, none could say. After a time they faded and vanished, all gone away to the lost corners of the world. All save one.

A great beast made entirely of bones did burrow a writhing path through the ground, named the Destroyer by those who survived its passage. Though none could say where it went or what drove it, all knew the barren swaths of land in its wake.

It is said the Destroyer's coming could be felt as a quailing of the sod a full day before its arrival. When it arrived in a place, the great beast would writhe about, shattering walls and toppling buildings. Cliffs would turn to slurry in the great quakes brought by its pursuit, and many a pod home burst beneath its bones. It did so until it found Men or Mer who could answer its question.

For the Destroyer would always question its victims. The oldest accounts of these questions were all variations on, "Where can I find the old bones?" The canniest of those asked would point in a direction deemed most expediently away from, and least destructive to, their remaining homes.

As the Destroyer searched—evidently in vain—its questions changed. As it neared the end of its rampage it was known to ask, "May I sleep here? It has been so long since I slept."

The only one known to answer "yes" to this question was the treethane of Falinesti, the Walking City. Knowing Falinesti would soon move on from where it wintered in Southpoint, she convinced the Destroyer to sleep in the boughs of Arborfell, an orchard known for its abundance of bats.

There, the Y'ffre priesthood planted a blessed seed in the skull of the great beast as it slept. This seed soon grew into a sapling, the sapling into a great tree, and the great tree into the Barrowbough. The bones have not stirred since.

In the ages following the Destroyer's final rest, ancient bones have sometimes been unearthed throughout Valenwood. Though silent, these remains are brought to Arborfell—now the "Bone Orchard"—in hopes that they will always remain so.

This tradition has spread throughout Valenwood. Bosmer far and wide have taken to burying the bones of their loved ones in the shade of the Barrowbough. Here they believe Y'ffre will grant his blessing, a final sleep for the lost.
		

Failed at /books/1792Failed at /books/1793		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1794)
	Bone Orchard Research Log 1
Creative application of energies ensured the locals were eager to see us safely to Arborfell, though it would seem our objective now goes by "<<Ac:1>>." Descriptive, if quaint.

The concentration of massive bones confirms what the records only hinted at—this is, indeed, a repository for the bones of the wandering ones the Bosmer once feared and reviled.

Whether they are also the bones of the Ehlnofey has yet to be seen, for they are sealed as surely as any coffer from our use.

Fortunately for us, the panoply of Bosmer remains scattered about this Bone Orchard are not sealed in kind. They are being gathered for use in the creation of skeletal constructs as I put these words to paper.

Our scouts have noted the presence of smoke rising from a cavern mouth on the northern hill. I have ordered an investigation.

—<<2>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1795)
	Bone Orchard Research Log 2
Our initiates have assembled a minor force of skeletons and have set them to patrolling the camp for intruders. If news of our presence reaches <<1>>, it would draw unwanted attention. While I doubt we will remain hidden for long, our new allies should be able to cover our presence for the time being.

The cave on the hill bore some fruit, at least. One of the local "spinners" was quite forthcoming in regards to the history of this place.

Evidently, the local Y'ffre cult planted a seed in the skull of one of the wanderers while he was at rest. He—and others of his kind—have not budged since.

While I am not one for superstition, it seems likely these events are linked. We will begin investigating the tree's relationship to the wards immediately.

On a final note, one of the initiates found a strange, glowing skull at the edge of camp. We probed its enchantments and could find no trace of necromancy at work. Very curious. I can almost feel it watching me.

—<<2>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1796)
	Bone Orchard Research Log 3
Initial tests indicate that the tree in the center of this place is, in fact, linked to the wards protecting the bones.

Injuring it by breaking off branches or cutting the trunk reduces the efficacy of the wards by an almost imperceptible degree.

Unfortunately, any damaged tissue is almost immediately regenerated. If we are to release the wards, we will have to find a more effective means of killing the tree.

I have segregated the initiates into a series of excavation teams. They will begin digging for the roots at once. Perhaps they will prove more vulnerable to our methods.

Meanwhile, our glowing skull has learned to speak. At first it was tolerable—simply requesting to be reunited with the bones it believes we have used to construct our skeletal minions.

When we did not comply, it began singing offensive tunes as loudly as it could—an impressive feat for a construct without lungs.

As we could find no easy way of destroying the skull, we have exiled it to the camp's perimeter. Perhaps if we leave it alone it will return to its dormant state.

—<<1>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1797)
	Bone Orchard Research Log 4
Located a root cluster today. Attempts to immolate, cut, or otherwise destroy it proved fruitless. We will have to find another way.

Consulted with the spinner. She is reluctant to help, but knows to defy me is her death. Still, I do not believe she is aware of our purpose here.

According to her histories, this "Great Tree," as she calls it, is soundly rooted in the skull of one of the wandering ones. When its growth caused it to burst through the skull, a guardian was put in place to ward the roots from harm.

This guardian has slept for many years, and the way to the skull's breach has been buried by ages of undergrowth and decayed foliage. 

—<<1>>
		

Failed at /books/1798		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1799)
	Bone Orchard Research Log 5
One of our excavation teams dug up an enormous skull. Unlike those on the surface, it practically glows with magicka. Its depth and placement make us hopeful that it is the guardian the spinner spoke of.

Attempts are being made to awaken it, though the wards continue to make our efforts difficult. Some of my initiates are working on a way to damage a large portion of the tree at once.

If our calculations are correct, this will weaken the wards enough to get a spell or two through. When this happens, I can only hope this skull is not so irritating as the last.

Pilgrims from Cormount discovered us today. We assumed the guise of a Mages Guild expedition and let them carry out their rites undisturbed. There was some question as to our use of skeletons—one of the pilgrims had heard of the Guild ban on necromancy—but concerns were easily dispelled.

I must write a treatise on necromancy and the Bosmer. Their people are not as perturbed as others by the sight of deceased relatives walking around performing menial tasks. Indeed, they experienced no small amount of pleasure seeing particularly lazy ancestors doing something constructive for a change.

Perhaps it is the lack of flesh, though I suspect it has more to do with the Bosmeri sense of humor.

—<<1>>
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1800)
	Merethrin's Research Notes
It has taken many years, but I have finally devised an enchantment that will extend my life.

The ritual of longevity requires colored crystals for each of nature's life-giving elements. A blue-colored crystal for water, a green-colored crystal for vitality, and a bright, orange crystal for light.

I must place the crystals in a triangular array and then speak the incantation. I have found a remote cave in the mountains east of Shornhelm where I plan to try it out.

———

I plan to head out to the cave tomorrow morning and enact the ritual.

Just in case there are any problems, I have acquired a means of reversing the enchantment. It will simply require sprinkling a little elemental dust on each crystal and then destroying it.

Just to be safe, I'm going to leave the dust at home. I can always come back and get it if it's needed. Hopefully, that won't be the case.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1801)
	The Fall of Carac Dena
Many years ago, when I was a young Elf, I came across a book in the ancient Ayleid language that described a magnificent fortress deep within Valenwood. Ever since discovering this book, I have been captivated by the idea of this place.

Unfortunately, the book was lost to me under mysterious circumstances before I was able to commit my translation to writing. But I have transcribed from memory what I can recall of that mesmerizing description.

"The great fortress of Carac Dena stood for centuries, held by a hundred Ayleid who had bled into the stone at its creation. The fortress rested high above the coast of Valenwood, a great stone monument and a bulwark against all enemies.

"Because of its greatness, it became a wayrest for travelers, a vault for great treasures, and a vast library. It was even said that one could hear singing when one approached the fortress.

"… when the great horde* laid siege to the gates, the fortress of Carac Dena stood firm for a hundred years, until the great force beneath threatened to overwhelm the gates. That is when the commander gathered the hundred original soldiers and convened a meeting. The fateful decision was made. One by one the soldiers bled on the stones and brought the great fortress crashing to the ground, destroying the enemy host beneath it."

* The text is unclear as to the nature of this horde, and the word used is unfamiliar to me, but resembles the word for "army."

I have dedicated my life to finding the location of this great fortress. I am now certain that it must have been swallowed by the land after it fell. And indeed, I believe I have at last narrowed down the location. It only remains for me to gather a fitting group of Wood Elf guides and venture to the spot ….
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1802)
	Stay Away from Gurzag's Mine
No Orc is to go near Gurzag's mine. These orders are from your war chief. 

I hear you asking each other, when will we smash the undead in the mine and free our brothers? 

I am tired of hearing my orders questioned. The Orcs in the mine toyed with foul magic and Wood Elf trickery. That is why they suffer their fate. 

If you want to avenge them, look to the Wood Elves and their High Elf allies, with their dark magics and wicked schemes. Bloody their doorsteps and fill their ears with the cries of their children.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1803)
	A Complaint to the Thalmor
This is the third time this week that my senche-tigers have run off, only to be found butchered near that lamia-infested cave! 

If something is not done about this, I will travel to Marbruk and bring my complaint before the queen herself! Then we will see how long the Thalmor is allowed to throw its weight around Woodhearth!

The Dominion belongs to the Khajiit as well, not just the Elves. I demand that action be taken at once to investigate the Underroot cavern, and that reparations be made for my lost cats!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1804)
	Culmination and Success
My dearest fellow followers of the Heritance,

It is with overflowing joy that I announce to you the culmination and success of all our efforts. Two recent and very fortuitous discoveries have paved the way for our great victory.

Thanks to the work of our necromancers deep within Naril Nagaia, we have raised up a powerful leader to bring about the end of the Dominion!

— P
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1805)
	Barrow Trench Scout's Report
Received instructions from R to set eyes on the sea. Have sent three pairs of scouts along the coast. Daily patrols ordered, with eyes watching both night and day.

Have recorded reports below.

Day 1:

Uneventful. Camps set up in each of the three stretches of coast divided between the scout teams. Considered advisable to restrict camp fires to caves at night, so as not to draw suspicion.

Day 2:

Scout team one reports unusual activity to the south, near Woodhearth. Further investigation reveals a foundered merchant vessel, nothing more.

Other scout teams report nothing.

Day 3:

Nothing.

Day 4:

Activity near the northern coast. Possible Maormer incursion? Unconfirmed.

Day 5:

Scout team three near Malabal Tor reports Redguard activity near the Barrow Trench cave by the coast. Suspicious movement of supplies, as well as dead wildlife observed. Advised scout team to continue observation of cave. Unknown whether these are Daggerfall Covenant agents or independent actors.

Day 6: 

Scout team three failed to report today. Unsure if related to previously observed Redguard activity. Will send larger group to investigate and confront, if necessary.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1806)
	Letter from Bashshi-ra
My most delightful friend,

I understand you have been having some difficulty of late with your senche-tigers. I want to assure you you have my deepest sympathies. Valenwood can be such a wild place, full of thieves and scoundrels and terrible mystical forces beyond our control.

In fact, it is because of my deep sympathy for your troubles that I wanted you and you alone to know of a lucrative discovery I have recently made. There's an old cave that the Valenwood Bosmer won't go near. They call it the Harridan's Lair because of some old Wood Elf fable. I can assure you it is just a myth. I have been there many times now and never encountered any sort of "Harridan."

But I digress. My point is, there are senche-tigers in this lair. A great many of them. So many that an enterprising individual such as yourself could easily turn a tidy profit capturing them, breeding them, and selling them to yours truly (and other wise businessmen, of course.) 

You are the only one I've told, but I won't be able to keep this secret exclusive for long!

— Bashshi-ra
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1807)
	Vastarie's Journal
2E 461 

It is with great difficulty that I begin my final entry. For so long, all was at peace. My husband and I had spurned the tenets of the great <<1>> so we might live in peace. We wanted our magic to benefit all people of Tamriel, not bend them to our will.

But to my Lord, our family tragedy was too great to bear. He has it in his thick Skull that he can somehow overcome death—not for the sake of knowledge, or to command fearless forces to defend our home—but to tear the once-living back into this realm and imbue them in flesh. To give them life once more.

Yes, <<2>> died an untimely death. But where I grieve for what we did lose, <<3>> weeps for what might have been. He wished for an Apprentice to help us master our craft, to surpass our discoveries. He cannot bear our son's very Essence being gone forever.

And so my husband created a golem of the boy's corpse—an Atronach, made of flesh, but with eyes as cold and empty as a Gemstone. He hid his plans until the rituals had completed, and then presented that slurring abomination to me, as though I could ever forgive him. He seemed truly shocked when I rent the pale echo of <<2>>'s spirit from its husk.

Now I've imprisoned my husband, who I love more than life itself, because I cannot bring myself to truly punish him. Perhaps a decade will give him time to contemplate the abhorrence of his actions.

— <<4>>
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1808)
	Mercano's Journal
First Entry:

After many months, my beloved grows weaker and I feel more and more powerless. The Guild Mages say there is nothing that can be done, but I refuse to believe it. They simply lack creativity and the will to save her. I possess both.

My initial experiments into reviving dead flesh show promise. I am hopeful that soon I will have discovered a method to reverse this necrotic disease that afflicts my beloved….

Second and Final Entry:

My beloved died today. The Guild Mages came to confront me. For the first time since my beloved fell ill, I saw the monstrosities I had created in my single-minded effort to save her. The people of this city look at me ruefully, like I am some kind of monster myself.

Mercifully, the Guild Mages have offered me a place with the Thalmor in Woodhearth, far away from these memories and my terrible mistakes. A new start will be good, I think.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1809)
	Bashshi-ra Inquiry (partial)
Subject: Bashshi-ra

Report: Subject spends most of his time in the Five Claws Pub, but has been known to make unexplained trips to Seaside Sanctuary.

Is in continual contact with known criminals.

Under investigation for skooma trading, theft, extortion (including his connection to two separate instances in which a shop-owner was found severely beaten), devaluing the currency (Woodhearth's blacksmith may be a co-conspirator in this), and public indecency.

Notes:

Believe I have found the source of Bashshi-ra's …
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1810)
	The Amronal's Spell
Who has seen the Amronal of Valenwood? 

I thought I saw her, drifting toward me,

like a woman I knew a long time ago.

But that was a different place

much colder and not nearly so full of trees.

That was before I opened my eyes and shook off the sleep.

Now I walk the forest not as a hunter

but as a prey hoping for a hunter

hoping to be tracked, caught, and killed.

Wispmother, ethereal and strange,

do not be a ghost to me.

Snow Elf, do not be a legend.

Release me from this restless enchantment,

and wrap me in your spell,

And let the last word on my lips be your name:

Amronal.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1811)
	Vampires and their Hunters
The work of hunting vampires is best reserved for the mentally unstable. Average people, if they try to pursue a vampire, will more likely end up being prey than predator. 

It's not that the average person is not strong enough or cunning enough (although that is often the case). It's that they are not single-minded enough.

The vampire does not know family, or love, or hope. It only knows the desire to feed. So must the vampire hunter mimic his prey. He must abandon all love, all hope, all memory of family or friends. Anything that might distract his mind from the goal at hand must be sloughed off like dead skin.

The vampire hunter must become a predator's predator, unknown and unknowable. Anything short of that and he will quickly become food for his quarry—or worse, he will be transformed into the very monster he seeks to destroy.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1812)
	Sealing the Great Serpent
The Sea Serpent or Great Serpent was a curse brought to our clan for failing to respect the sea. We learn that it was formed from the blood of a magnificent scaly fish that pleaded for its life from one of our foremothers, but was not spared.

It is our duty to keep it from rising up and destroying the ships that come to our land and the land itself.

The Great Serpent is blood-mad, and the only thing that can seal it is blood. We learned this the first time it attacked. 

Our clan defended boldly and bravely. Their courage did not fail them. But their mortal bodies, small and weak in the Great Serpent's mighty jaws, did. The sea, they say, turned red in that struggle, and still the Great Serpent was insatiable.

Then Elain stepped forward. Elain was a great warrior, but what she proposed was not war. "Set down your weapons," she said.

At first, the clan would not listen. They only saw the imperative to fight.

But then another warrior spoke up. "Elain is right," Ralos said. "Only Old Magic can be used to defeat the Great Serpent."

By this Ralos meant the magic of blood. A third Elf spoke up then, Valir. "It is true. I had a dream last night that we would defeat the serpent, not with hundreds of deaths, but with three. I saw three wells, filled with blood and the Great Serpent in chains beneath the sea."

Valir was known to be a prophet, so at this the clan listened. They agreed on a course of action. The sealing wells were made, according to what Valir had seen in the dream. Elain, Ralos, and Valir each volunteered in turn to give their lives to seal away the Great Serpent.

To this day, our clan guards those wells against intruders who would free the serpent. We call them Elain, Ralos, and Valir, and they stand among us as sentinels and protectors.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1813)
	Heroes of the Sanctuary
By the Emulator of Eldamar

You've no doubt heard the story of the Heroes of the Sanctuary. Of the three Altmer who braved stormy seas, monsters from the deep, and the hostilities of a wild and uncivilized race to found a safe port for Summerset's ships along the coast of Valenwood.

The tale is timeless. Eldamar was their leader, true-hearted, who envisioned adventure limitless across the sea and would not be deterred when others told him his vision was foolishness. Hirume slew the the serpent of the underdepths who guarded that craggy coast, diving deep below the sea to cut out its heart. You will have heard of how she held her breath for a full rising and setting of the sun, even until her companions thought her dead, only to emerge in the wake of the great serpent's demise.

Nor will any one ever forget the name of Meluuran, who fashioned a marvelous new sailing vessel specifically for the task, a vessel that cut swiftly across the sea, and did not slow even when the winds died. They say the great craftsman made a deal with the Divines, or some long forgotten god, to bind the winds and see the ship safely to those foreign shores.

And lastly, we tell of how our three heroes reached that hostile shore and found the people there were warlike and feasted on the flesh of their enemies. How their crew clamored to fight the savages and drive them away, a conquered people, but the Heroes of the Sanctuary did not listen to the council of rash and foolish Elves. 

Instead they met with the leaders of the Wood Elves, and studied their customs. They learned of the Green Pact, which forbids damage to the forest, and of the Meat Mandate, which commands these Elves to eat those they defeat in battle, and most importantly of all, they learned of the Rite of Theft.

It was customary that the Wood Elves would steal from each other, and on return of the stolen item, demand a boon commensurate to the item's worth. 

It happened that the Heroes of the Sanctuary had brought a staff of great value with them. So they made a deal with the Wood Elves. If the Wood Elves could steal the staff from them, they would leave and never return. However, if they could steal an item from each of the Wood Elf treethanes, then they would be allowed to found a settlement on the shores of Valenwood.

The deal was struck, and the Heroes swiftly and cleverly set about stealing from the treethanes. From one they stole a prized bow. Another they tricked into handing over a valued necklace in exchange for "all of the most valuable thing in the world that they could hold in their hands." The most valuable thing in the world, as any one knows, is air—for without it we could not live.

At the end of the appointed time, all of the treethanes' items had been stolen, but the Wood Elves had not managed to steal the staff. And that is how Seaside Sanctuary came to be, thanks to the bravery, cleverness, and vision of Eldamar, Hirume, and Meluuran.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1814)
	Marbruk Builder's Log
The biggest challenge in the construction of Marbruk was bringing the stone into Valenwood. The Wood Elves have few quarries, and the forest in these parts is so overgrown, the ground so fertile, that it's difficult to find quality deposits. In addition, Queen Ayrenn expressly commanded that we disturb as little of Valenwood to build the city as possible. 

Interestingly, Wood Elves from outside Valenwood and from the bigger settlements, such as Woodhearth, have objected more strenuously to Marbruk's construction than the local Wood Elves, who are mostly fascinated by the stone constructions rising up among them. If I had to guess, I'd say that the symbolic importance of Valenwood is greater for those who don't live there than for those who do. It's as if these more "civilized" Wood Elves fear they've already compromised their culture in some way, so they feel obligated to protest the construction. 

Queen Ayrenn has assured both parties of Wood Elves that Marbruk is necessary to the defense of the Wood Elf way of life, especially against the Ebonheart Pact, and so far this assurance seems to have prevented any serious interference with our work, although there has been the occasional incident of tools going missing or stone being carved into perverse shapes overnight.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1815)
	Greenshade Explorer's Log
10 First Seed

Went down to the cave, near the Vale, the one with the strange tree. Must remember the place. Wonderful saplings grow there, with sweet seeds. So delectable.  These seeds will be worth a fair price at market. 

11 First Seed

The cave is full of Wood Elves! I returned today for more of the seeds, and there was a whole village in there. They asked me what year it was, but I was so terrified, I just stammered dumbly and ran off.

13 First Seed

I wrote to the Thalmor to tell them about the time-traveling Wood Elves. I have yet to hear a response. The locals just laugh at me. They say time travel is impossible. Maybe it is, but I know what I saw. I'm going to get the local treethane to come out to the cave with me tomorrow.

14 First Seed

The village was gone! The treethane laughed and said "Some Wood Elves have been playing a trick on you, outsider." If they were, it was an elaborate trick indeed! I refuse to believe it. I know what I saw.

15 First Seed

I have decided to wait in the cave until the village comes back. I will prove that I'm not crazy.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1816)
	Destroyer's Rest
Herein lie beneath the soil, 

Destroyer's bones, no more to toil, 

Beneath the starry skies above, 

Or rend from us our hearthfelt love. 

For many years the bones brought fear, 

To little Elves, both far and near, 

But when Destroyer took its rest, 

A seed we laid within its breast. 

In time, we hope its roots grow deep, 

And 'neath the soil will come to keep, 

Destroyer's body here interred, 

For many years, 'til spoken word, 

Forgets his name and brings us peace,

As only time shall slay this beast.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1817)
	No Significant Danger
Foreman Fabricius,

It has come to my attention that you find our camp defenses inadequate. Your concerns have been noted, but we require every able hand for the excavation. We are making tremendous discoveries, and I will not have that pace slowed. I have left a small but capable group of fighters to defend the supply train. I assure you—you are in no significant danger.

We make for the ruins of Volenfell. Should any communication prove necessary, please send a runner to the location indicated on the map.

— Quintus Verres
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1818)
	Troll Slaying
Hello, fellow traveler, and welcome to this guide!

Within these pages, I will explain everything you need to know about fighting trolls, including how to negate their amazing healing powers and how best to take advantage of their natural love of cold. I'll even share with you my tried-and-true secret for killing trolls.

Intrigued? I hope so! Troll fat is a valuable commodity and there's fortune and glory to be made for the ambitious troll hunter.

Onward, then!

Chapter I:

I Just Saw A Troll!

If you think you've seen a troll, remain calm and slowly back away. The wise hunter knows that preparation is the key to success, and you certainly don't want to hunt any trolls unprepared!

Ah, but is it really a troll that you've spotted?

The first step in your hunt is the proper identification of your quarry. Trolls are roughly man-shaped, with lengthy, muscular arms that end in claw-tipped fingers. The creature's large mouth is filled with jagged teeth, all the better to crunch the bones of foolish hunters who didn't purchase my book. 

Without a doubt, the troll's most distinctive and unusual feature is the third eye nestled in the center of its forehead.

A troll's hide is covered in thick, shaggy fur. The coloration of this fur varies by region. Cave troll fur is brownish in color, while a frost or snow troll will have a white coat.

Chapter II:

Stop Healing Yourself

So, you've properly identified a troll and now you're stalking the beast, ready to strike. You're in for a challenging battle, but a profitable one, assuming you survive.

The first thing you'll notice is that trolls are incredibly fast and strong for their size.  A troll likes to pummel its prey into submission with powerful arm strikes and claw attacks. For this reason, I strongly recommend a shield.

If you're brave enough—or foolish enough—to fight a troll without using a shield, then you'd better be an expert at parrying with whatever weapon you've got.

Trolls also have the ability to rapidly heal from their wounds. As such, you do not want to get into a prolonged fight with one. Speed and aggression are the key to beating a troll, because there is no creature in Tamriel that can outlast one.

Of course, speed and aggression will only take you so far against an angry troll. This is where my secret weapon comes in.

Chapter III:

The Secret Weapon

Fire, my friend. Say the word and commit it to memory, for fire is the troll-hunter's ultimate weapon.

I cannot overstate the importance of fire in battling a troll.  Even trolls that don't dwell in cold climates are vulnerable to fire. If you're unable to use fire magic, carry a weapon enchanted with arcane flames.

Why is the troll vulnerable to fire? Rumor holds that the troll's regenerative abilities are less effective at healing burns. I don't really know the answer, but I can promise you this—fire works against trolls. This has been proven time and again.

Chapter IV:

Trimming the Fat

The troll might be dead, but your job isn't finished just yet.

Let the flames die down and then examine the troll's corpse. If you're lucky, you'll find some fat deposits that will fetch a good price in an apothecary's shop. In fact, if you've got a knack for alchemy yourself, you can boil the fat down for use in all manner of potions and tonics.

If you can find it, be sure to check the troll's den as well. Perhaps you'll find the remains of some foolish adventurer who was too cheap-minded to purchase this book.

No doubt you can put his coin to wiser use.

Now you know everything that you need to make a living as a wealthy and reputable troll hunter. Go on, then! Get out there and find yourself some trolls!
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1819)
	Harvest's End
Chimere, Master Sorcerer, Summoner, and Direnni retainer:

Chimere Graegyn was a retainer of the ambitious Direnni clan. The Direnni derived the bulk of their power from their traffickings with Daedra, a very profitable but risky path to success. Chimere was perhaps the cleverest and most ambitious of the Direnni summoners. He dared to scheme against Lord Dagon, and won. When his trick succeeded, Dagon was cast into Oblivion. However, in the instant of his betrayal, Dagon struck out against the mortal who tricked him. Chimere's pact assured that he would live forever in his home town among the happy voices of his friends and countrymen. Twisting the literal words of Chimere's pact, Dagon scooped up tiny Caecilly Island (a small island off the coast of Glenumbra) and hurled in into the void. All Chimere's friends and countrymen were instantly killed, though the sounds of their voices remained to torment Chimere's memory. Chimere was condemned to live forever, to grow progressively old and crippled with arthritis, and to contemplate the tragic consequences of his defiance of fate and fortune in cheating a Daedra Lord.

Armor of the Saviour's Hide:

Created by the Daedra Lord Malacath, this armor has the marvelous property of turning the blow of an oathbreaker. Chimere tricked Dagon into swearing an oath against the Powers which he had no intention of keeping. The Hide of the Savior turned Dagon's titanic fury long enough for Chimere to deliver his own attack—an incantation invoked upon Dagon's "Protonymic" (i.e., Incantatory True Name). Unfortunately, like many of Malacath's gifts, the armor is a mixed blessing. It also makes its wearer exceptionally vulnerable to magical attacks, so one should only wear it for particular occasions.

Dagon's Protonymic:

Chimere used Dagon's Protonymic in an incantation to invoke a sorcery that would gradually drain all of Dagon's power into the void. Chimere miscalculated, however, not realizing that Dagon's resistance could slow the draining of his power, even if it could not stop it. As a result, Dagon had the time to curse Chimere with a literal fulfillment of the terms of his bargain with Chimere. Rather than let his power drain into the void, Dagon cast it all into his curse. As a result, Caecilly Island was cast into the void, all its citizens were horribly slain, and Chimere was condemned to live forever among the ruins of his greatest ambition.

Rituals of the Hunt:

The Chapel of the Innocent Quarry: Chimere believes that Dagon had Caecilly Island established as the site of the Chapel of the Innocent Quarry to personally mock and torment Chimere. The green crystal structure was created by enchantments, and is the only building on the island erected since it was ripped from Tamriel and loosed in the void.

The Spear:

Supposedly the Spear of Bitter Mercy used in the Great Hunts could not be handled by any mortal or immortal save the ones sanctified to the Hunt and bound by its strictures. However, Chimere has determined that though the Spear's power is great, it is not unlimited, and that certain enchanted items—for instance, the Armor of the Savior's Hide, forged by Malacath—are sufficient to protect a mortal or immortal bearer from its maleficent energies.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1820)
	Barkbite Stronghold Shaman's List
Needed Samples:

— Water from the well

— Food from the local cookfires

— Clothing from the storage chest
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1821)
	Heart of Valenwood
By Beredalmo the Signifier 

Heart of Valenwood, heart of the living forest, is too easily mistaken for an object, a single item, that can be claimed and manipulated. It is true that in the heart of the forest there is a magnificent tree, through which courses the metaphorical lifeblood of Valenwood. But to say that the tree is the heart is to vastly limit one's understanding of the Heart.

In truth, the Heart is more akin to the forest's soul. The magnificent tree is just the physical symbol of that soul, but like a soul in the body, the Heart is not in one place in the body, but suffused through the entire thing.

Still, it's been apparent to anyone who wished to look that the ancient Ayleid site of Hectahame holds immense power, far outstripping the rest of Valenwood. As a consequence, that particular location is often referred to in older texts as the "Heart of Valenwood" and has become the target of numerous plots to harness that power for purposes both good and ill.

One of the earliest of these plots occured while the Ayleids first came to Valenwood. A necromancer (his cursed name long lost to history) invaded Valenwood with an undead army, and perverted the life-giving power of the heart to raise up a formidable force of undead Ayleid spirits. The Ayleids fought a long and protracted battle to defeat the army, but in the end they were unable to defeat the army, only contain it.

Using welkynd stones, the Ayleids created powerful necromantic wards to seal off Hectahame, and the once great city became a prison for the army that had sought to conquer it. The undead were returned to the ground and trapped there. None who have attempted to break the wards have managed, and it is speculated that only an object that could cancel magic itself could undo the Ayleids' incredible handiwork.

But it is because of the powerful wards on Hectahame that the Heart of Valenwood is little understood and rarely spoken of. The Wood Elves view Hectahame with a mix of superstition and awe, fearing the ancient past and revering the life-giving power that seems to emanate from within.

It is said that the last Wood Elf to enter Hectahame and behold the heart was a Silvenar from over two hundred years ago. But even accounts from that time suggest that he was viewed as mad by his contemporaries.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1822)
	Tales of the Spinners
— An Entry by the Altmeri Travel Guild — 

Spinners in Bosmer society play a critical role. More than just a fantastical outlet or a source of catharsis, spinners perform a mystical, priestly function. 

If Y'ffre created this world by telling a story, Bosmeri spinners weave new worlds out of their stories, sometimes crafting an illusion so complete that it seems real to the listeners, who are woven into the stories as characters.

Inside these magical stories, spinners can influence their listeners in profound ways, stirring them to empathize with strangers, hate enemies, or have compassion for the suffering.

Of course, spinners who can create complete illusions are rare and often eccentric sorts. Even so, the typical Bosmeri spinner is a storyteller of unmatched talent.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1823)
	The Swallowed City
A Partial Translation by Beredalmo the Signifier 

It will be remembered as the day of blue fire. The day of death. It came suddenly, but really, it had been coming a long time.

We had been foolhardy. We had heard of other cities that were swallowed up, but we thought we would be spared. We thought the sacrifices at the Moonhenge were no longer necessary, that we could subsist alone, without our Prince.

We believed in the myth of our own self-sufficiency, and mistook what was true for a myth. 

But what we forgot, our Prince remembered. The flames came suddenly, and choked our lungs with ash.

Our city was swallowed by Coldharbour. We were no more.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1824)
	Green Pact Bosmer: Observations
By Dinycthus Precis

The author of this text would like to make plain that there is a profound distinction to be made between the Wood Elves observed by the author deep within Valenwood, and the Wood Elves who reside in other corners of Nirn. The observations here recorded are only meant to describe these wild Bosmer who adhere to what they call "the old ways" and are not meant to apply to Wood Elves who have adjusted to life in normal society.

The Wood Elves of deep Valenwood, or "Green Pact Bosmer" as they call themselves, can be described as fanatical in their devotion to the Green Pact. They eat only meat, including the bodies of their enemies slain in battle, and attack any who would harm the forest in which they live.

Nevertheless, it would be inappropriate to characterize them as "feral." In fact, they are highly intelligent, highly curious, highly rational individuals, with rich cultural traditions vested in the forest and in their spiritual leaders, the storytellers, or "spinners."

In fact, while they can be extremely fierce in battle, they do not attack unless provoked and are more than hospitable to strangers in their midst. They take their cues from the natural world, with a mixture of fear and respect, no doubt cultivated by tales of the kind of angry vengeance the Green is said to take on those who violate the Pact.

Indeed, from an early age, Pact Bosmer are raised to believe in the Ooze, a kind of purgatorial state reserved for Bosmer who violate the Pact, and still more terrifying stories of the Green unleashing all of its wild power against Bosmeri clans who harm it.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1825)
	Valenwood Hounds
— An Entry by the Altmeri Travel Guild — 

The Hounds of Hircine are legendary hunters, but none among them are more legendary than those who make Valenwood their hunting ground.

There are several reasons for their incredible reputation. The first is Valenwood itself. Wild, untamed, and, some say, quite aware, there are entire regions of this wood which remain unexplored and house the most astonishing creatures. Only the most proficient trackers can hunt their prey in this strange forest without getting utterly lost.

The second reason is that many of these hunters are Wood Elves, born stalkers of prey, with a gifted sense for tracking.

But the biggest reason for the lofty reputation of the Valenwood Hounds is the hunter called Haras. A legend in his own right, some dispute that he even exists, but there's not a Hound that hasn't heard tell of his exploits. 

Said to be unmatched in his devotion to Hircine and his skill at tracking, Haras was last heard from over a hundred years ago, when he set out to hunt the fabled Pale Senche-Tiger. Others, hunting in Valenwood, have claimed to have seen him from time to time, still hunting that elusive beast. Although if these claims were true, Haras would have to have lived long beyond the normal life span of an Elf. 

Still, every one of the Hounds of Valenwood can trace his training to Haras and aspires to best him in fame and skill. That alone makes the Valenwood Hounds the greatest hunters in Tamriel.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1826)
	The Dominion's Duty: Marbruk
— An Entry by the Altmeri Travel Guild — 

Much ink has been spilled, and much information and misinformation spread, about the new city the Dominion has constructed in Valenwood.

The most pernicious rumor is that Marbruk has been constructed, not in cooperation with the Wood Elf inhabitants of the region, but as a city for Altmer by the Altmer—an act of Dominon civic aggression.

This could not be further from the truth: if Marbruk has been built with Altmeri tastes in mind, it is for the sake of unity, not in spite of it. 

We can't say, on the one hand, that the Dominion is meant to foster cooperation and amity among Khajiit, Wood Elf, and High Elf, while at the same time keeping our living arrangements separate—the Khajiit primarily in Elsweyr, the High Elf sequestered on Summerset, the Wood Elf deep in Valenwood.

Cyrodiil casts a long shadow from the north over Valenwood. Are we to defend our brothers and sisters in Greenshade from a distance? 

No less damaging is the rumor that the Dominion has paid Altmer residents to move to Marbruk. The only Altmer on the Dominion's payroll in Marbruk are those that have to do with the government and protection of the city, as would be the case in any other Dominion city. Wood Elves and Khajiit are included in this number as well and receive identical compensation.

The only payment the Dominion promises to those who will relocate to Marbruk is a spot in the land and housing lottery for the remaining available property. These are in limited quantities, but are given to ensure the thriving of the settlement, as required by trade and the defense of the region.

It bears repeating that it is the duty of loyal Dominion citizens to support their queen and their fellow races by joining in the defense of our common territory and shoring up the bonds of unity. Marbruk is only the latest city in the Dominion to symbolize those values. May it ever prosper!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1827)
	Letter from Dannic
Ancalmo, 

You won't believe this. That bumbling Jahadar actually found the skull. It's being held in a cave south of Longhaven. I still can't believe Malangwen managed to lose it just after we took it in the first place. I'm making her come along with me to get it back, with Jahadar to lead the way. If we retrieve it soon enough, we can still follow through with our plan.  Meet us as soon as you can, but be careful. Lucretia will be tracking us by now. Let her come. We'll deal with her as soon as we get the skull back.

This is our chance for the status we deserve.

— Dannic
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1828)
	Thorzhul's Letter
Hail Historian Maaga! We are honored to receive your request and glad to know there are those in Orsinium who believe in our cause. Our fellow Orcs should know that though we loot from the estates we raid, we do so only to support our ongoing efforts of reparation and glory for our people. The raid on the Chauvry Estate was daring indeed, and we lost several fine Orcs in the battle, but in the end we were victorious, and the Chauvrys are no more. 

I was the chief architect of this raid, and I am proud to claim credit for Clan Agluk. As you probably know, most of my clan was killed during the sacking of Orsinium, so it is fitting that I can exact vengeance so many years later for Clan Agluk.

— Thorzhul gro-Agluk
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1829)
	Borzugh's Letter
Greetings Historian Maaga! Your letter will encourage the bandits of Torog's Spite to continue in our endeavors. As you know from studying history, the Bretons and Redguards have betrayed us more callously and more often than any of the other races of Tamriel. Thus, we of Clan Morkul have always been opposed to the decision to join the Daggerfall Covenant. 

I specifically vowed to target the Chauvry estate because they still were held in great esteem from the Bretons' other noble houses. Killing them was satisfying, and I am proud to claim credit for the raid for Clan Morkul. I hope this will contribute to the Orcs' withdrawal from this absurd alliance.

— Borzugh gro-Morkul
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1830)
	Outdated Dominion Broadsheet
Good Citizens of <<1>>!

You've doubtless noted the presence of THALMOR REPRESENTATIVES on your fair island. These ALDMERI DOMINION deputies herald your bright future!

Rejoice, for the majestic GOLD FLEET—pride of the Dominion navy!—shall soon arrive at the FREE PORT OF <<Z:2>> for protracted revictualing!

Innkeepers, empty your beds! Merchants, triple-stock your stalls! NUMEROUS DOMINION SOLDIERS will have gold to spend on their EXTENDED SHORE LEAVE!

Prosperity! Security! Unity!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1831)
	Hurricane Assistance and Salvage
To All Citizens of <<1>>,

The Dominion's Gold Fleet suffered extreme losses due to the recent hurricane. In this time of need, please do what you are able to aid the survivors.

1) Hosting Dominion Soldiers

If you or anyone you know are capable of hosting guests, consider opening your doors to Dominion soldiers in need of shelter.

2) Rescue and Recovery

If you encounter shipwreck survivors capable of moving on their own, direct them to <<2>>. If trapped beneath wreckage or suffering from grievous wounds, alert any Dominion officer to assist.

3) Salvage Prohibition

Stripping fallen Dominion soldiers of armor or weaponry will be considered a hostile act. Report any such activity to Dominion officers.

Your cooperation is appreciated in this trying time.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1832)
	Journal of Garron
Divines bless the bottomless pockets of the Pellingares. On the take for four years with Master Pellingare's brats. Most of that time I merely brushed dunken disturbances under the rug, or paid off a witness. Only had to bury one body. And through it all the gold kept rolling in. Enough to fund my little studies into necromancy. 

Now the brats are planning something big. Building an army or somesuch beneath the sewers. Paying me a heap of gold to keep the guard off their tail. No way in Oblivion they're going to be able to keep this secret. Captain Lucius' dogs will hunt us all down. But maybe I can use this to my advantage. After all, I need to "die" to finish my transformation.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1833)
	Zombies: Further Experiments
After weeks of failed attempts, I've finally found the means of creating autonomous zombies en masse that do not require a constant effort from the necromancer. 

Unfortunately, most of these creatures are blindingly stupid and docile. They'll defend themselves when threatened, but are otherwise content to bumble about aimlessly. Luckily a few zombies per batch seem to be naturally aggressive. When this aggressive variety is placed within the docile group, it acts as a sort of guard dog, alerting the others to prey. I've not yet figured out the trick to producing this useful variety consistently, but the ones we have allow some degree of control over the entire group.

And that's enough for the Pellingares.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1834)
	Journal of Master Pellingare
I should have known better than to trust that damned fool Garron. How he gained enough knowledge to turn himself into a lich I'll never know. I should have refused him. I should have stuck to every teaching and parable that warns against the evils of necromancy. But he promised I would get Varaine and Allene back. What father could refuse life for his children, no matter the cost?

But it's all ruined. I refuse to believe these things are the same souls I kissed goodnight every night for twenty years. They are twisted. Evil. They build an army with Garron's aide, to what purpose I can only guess. I would get the guard, bring this unholy affair to an end now. But what if Garron is not lying? What if somewhere in those vile walking corpses are some semblance of my children returned from the dead? I cannot risk losing them again, no matter how corrupted they may be.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1835)
	Invocation of Hircine
Mighty Lord Hircine, noble Lord Hircine, we come before you in all obeisance and humility, acknowledging your divine authority over the forest and all the lawful prey therein. We invoke you, O Master of the Chase, in your aspect of Alrabeg the Hunter, to look kindly upon the endeavors of these, your worshipers, as we praise you by engaging in the hallowed tradition of the Hunt. 

Ever do we respect the Law of Fair Hunt, never taking a quarry that had no chance of escape. 

Ever do we respect the Prey, thanking it for its sacrifice in our worship of you. 

Ever do we respect the Huntsman, beseeching your permission even as we loose the arrow. 

Bless us as we hunt, O Hircine. Help us to hunt with honor, and bring in prey both lawful and bountiful.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1836)
	Note from Jahla
Overseer Basri,

Courage to you and full-hearted greetings. The preparations are laid for glorious victory. The coast south of Velyn Harbor is nigh unoccupied, fertile ground to set the roots of our raiding parties. It should be no difficulty to conceal our ships among the rocks, or inland among the trees, and take them to the sea for plunder.

We have scouted one particular cave, called Barrow Trench, which looks ideal for our purposes.

Humbly, your loyal servant,

Jahla at-Basri
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1837)
	Loriasel Tablet, Entry 1
Progress! The tablet was worth the journey to <<1>>. Like many of their relics, the Ayleids masked the tablet's secrets with illusory wards and destructive traps to make the slightest divination an exercise in mortal danger.

Less a concern for myself, of course. The true transcription reads as follows:

"Epevoy an anyadena av <<2>>e pado an sunnand.

Can an canomora racuvarima.

Arctane va ceye av <<2>>e.

Malatu ye nemalatuis shauta ry relle asva relleis."
		

Failed at /books/1838		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1839)
	Proper Torture Techniques, Vol. 13
By The Duchess of Anguish

Focus on Failure

Pain can be an effective tool in the torture of mortals, but it has an inherent failing—it is temporary. Failure, on the other hand, lasts for an eternity. 

Throughout their brief existence, every mortal invariably attempts activities that are beyond their physical capabilities, in the hopes of achieving greatness. Mortals refer to this quality as "ambition." Inevitably, complications brought about by overreach, overexertion, miscalculation, or simply by bad luck will result in a catastrophic failure in one or more of these activities. The resulting shame and self-reproach will often imprint itself within a mortal's mind and forever remain, haunting them for the remainder or their days.

Failure—the natural byproduct of a mortal's ambition—can therefore be one of the most potent weapons in a torturer's arsenal.

Mortals, through their liberal exercise of free will, do not wish to be reminded of their failures or their unrequited ambitions. Recounting these failures can have a devasting effect upon their "pride," a pitiable quality which espouses the individual person as a unique and exalted personality in a vast, meaningless universe. When a mortal's pride is affected, any other favorable qualities they might possess are devalued in their own self-perception. To wit, they begin to mentally torture themselves.

One of the most elegant and efficient means of breaking a mortal's spirit, then, is the constant and repetitive re-creation of the events they consider to be their most devastating failures and inadequacies. By highlighting, exaggerating, and to some degree even distorting these events, we can create a situation where their own self-doubts and frustrations turn inward, devouring their own mind, body, and soul. 

Though it may take more time and effort than pure physical torture, a daily regimen of repetitive forced-failure scenarios will eventually break the subject's will without the need to resort to violence or bloodshed, the expense of which have been extensively documented as the direct result of elevated cleaning costs and desiccated corpse disposal.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1840)
	Chronicles of Ehtelar, Vol. 1
The caravan tracked its way through the Hollow Wastes. Wheels creaked below the howling of the desert winds.

Mercenaries, swathed in chain and boiled leather, cursed the sweltering heat that broiled them under the unblinking sun.

Hearing their muttered oaths, Ehtelar was thankful for Rahad, her trusted contact in Sentinel. The burly Redguard was blessed with an unflappable practicality, born of his upbringing in the desert wastes. 

"Dress lightly," he'd said,"Loosely woven tunics will be your friend in Alik'r. Wearing much more will see you cooked in your shell faster than dreugh shrimp in a fishmonger's pot."

She had taken his advice to heart, dressing only in linens and investing in an enchanted waistband that kept her cool despite the oppressive heat.

Trundling forward, the wagon train crested a windswept ridge and came to a rumbling halt.

Curious, Ehtelar dismounted. As she made her way toward the front of the train, merchants confused by the sudden stop peered out from the awnings that kept the sun from their backs.

"My friend," Rahad said as she passed the head carriage, "Your travels have taken you to many shores, but tell me: Have you ever encountered such a sight?"

As he spoke, he gestured out past the road to the valley below. There, amid burnt stone and winding trails, great alabaster spires protruded from the sand like arrows fallen into thick sod, stretching for miles in the space between the ridge and its twin across the span.

"What is it?" she asked, regaining her composure.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he replied, "This pass is normally home to nothing but sand heaped in dunes for miles. Who can say how long that was buried here?"

Realizing an opportunity to make a profit, Ehtelar insisted they camp among the ruins for the night. The mercenaries, glad for a reprieve from the noonday sun, were all too happy for a break from their grueling trek.

Night fell and their carousing was heard into the early hours of the morning. If there were anything untoward about the ruins around them, it went unnoticed in the din.

Dawn found Ehtelar and her companion picking a path through the spires in search of an entrance. It was almost noon before they found one.

"Here!" Rahad cried out, excitement barely concealed beneath the deep timbre of his voice, "I found a way through!"

Running now, to reach her friend and see what he had found, Ehtelar rounded a bend in the stone. As she did, she was greeted by a terrible sight.

Hanging limp from a great spear thrust out from the crack was Rahad. His scabbard was empty, the sword that filled it thrust into a nearby dune.

She stood there, gaping in horror, as Rahad was lifted into the air, a great scaly head emerging from the sand heaped in piles about the ruined doorway. With one fluid motion the creature shifted its weight, throwing Rahad to one side as it began to clean the gore from its weapon.

Ehtelar shook her head in disbelief. She thought to call out, but realized the creature would probably kill her before she issued a second syllable. Slowly, carefully, she took a step back, then another. For a moment it seemed she would escape, but as her third step met ground, the creature turned.

Dodging back from a thrust spearpoint, Ehtelar found her ears deafened by a sudden burst of shrill music. Clapping her hands over them defensively, she stumbled back as her adversary uncoiled before her.

Rising, expanding its ribs until it had nearly doubled in size, its multitonal voice joined itself in chorus. Its shrieking harmony resounded through the sand until tiny grains fell away from the ruins in sheets. As it shifted, the stone beneath her collapsed, spilling her out toward her foe.

It was all she could do to grab Rahad's sword, buried to the pommel in sand. Suddenly within striking distance, she thrust the sword through the fiend's blackened maw. As steel met skull, the terrible crescendo of its voice began to falter.

In that moment, her opponent realized a simple truth: It no longer hungered for blood and flesh. It no longer wanted much of anything at all. "How wonderful!" it thought as the ground rushed up to meet it. If its reptilian mouth allowed, it would have smiled.

As the lamia spiraled to the ground, its hooked spear caught Ehtelar in the calf. Feeling the cold bite of steel, she was thrown off balance. For a moment it seemed she would right herself, but the stone she stood upon suddenly gave way.

Down into the dark she fell, suspended within a cloud of sand that swept past the jutting stones and crenelated spires peering out from the shadows below. 

As the bright, desert sky abandoned her, she found herself bathed in scintillating light. A field of stars sparkled around her—not stars, for they were far underground. They were the bright crystals of the Ayleidoon.

She fell for what seemed like days, her only company the flickering lights careening up at her from the darkness. "If I could only grasp one of those tiny stars," she thought, her hands reaching toward them, "I might become as ethereal as they are and leave this world behind."

From below, a whisper grew to a rustling, wind like sound. Looking down, it seemed her flight of stars came to a hard edge—rushing up at her in the dark.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1841)
	Cipius' Orders
Captain Cipius,

It is imperative that the capture of Evermore be conducted with great care. The duke and his guards will help you unload your weapons and armor in sealed crates and place them at a strategic point in the city. Your men should then spread out within the city wearing plain clothes and recruit as many citizens as possible. At the predetermined time, your men and their recruits should meet at the weapons cache, arm themselves, and then take control of the city. Those who surrender should be spared. We can always use more slaves.

Do not fail.

— Magus-General Septima Tharn
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1842)
	The Royal House of King Eamond
By Seneschal Derric Andras of Castle Evermore

As our king's loyal seneschal, it falls upon me to convey to the populace at large the details of his noble lineage—a burden I take up joyfully, and with a due recognition of the honor.

King Eamond is a scion of the right noble House of Guimard, an aristocratic family that claims to have been in Evermore since the port was founded after the fall of Orsinium. As every Evermore schoolchild knows, our fair city was founded in the year 983 of the First Era by the River Horse Bretons, after the Bjoulsae trade was opened up thanks to the suppression of the Orcs. This particular fact is impossible to verify without access to the Guimard family documents, which they hold for safekeeping in the castle vaults (and in these unstable times, who can blame them?). However, the name can be publicly documented shortly thereafter in the Decretal of Fiefdoms by the Empress Hestra upon the entry of High Rock into the Cyrodilic Empire. That document, drawn up in 1E 1029, includes a citation recognizing a certain "Barron Guy Marde of ye Rivver Banke."

Thereafter the heroes of House Guimard appear again and again in the annals of Evermore: there was a Baron-Captain Olsien Guy Mard in the All Flags Navy of 1E 2260; a Baroness Falinne Guimard defending Bangkorai Garrison against the Alessian Legions in 1E 2305; and Baron Fulvert Guimard had his lands improved to a duchy for his martial exploits at the second sacking of Orsinium in 2E 431. 

When the former monarch of Evermore, King Heseph of House Moile, died without an heir when the city was sacked by Durcorach the Black Drake in 542, it was Duke Blaise Guimard who led the Knights of Saint Pelin in the charge that eventually retook the city. Duke Blaise was then elected to the throne by the nobles of Bangkorai, and House Guimard was elevated to royalty. 

King Blaise came to Emeric's aide in Ranser's War, and was rewarded with Emeric's niece Arzhela's hand in marriage for his son, Prince Eamond. Shortly thereafter, in 568, King Blaise died and was succeeded by his son, King Eamond. So far our lovely Queen Arzhela has presented her lord with two healthy children, the Princess Elara and the Prince Adrien. Long may they reign in peace and prosperity over our land!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1843)
	Orders from Duke Renchant
Captain Hjurrun,

It is imperative that we move forward and transition the city to Imperial control immediately. I regret to inform you that your hero from the lighthouse, <<1>>, has been asking questions and regrettably, does not seem to share our convictions. Though I would prefer to avoid shedding any blood in the transfer of power, I would urge you to act quickly and decisively should your friend try to intervene. Remember that we do this to save the city. 

Gods be with you,

Duke Renchant
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1844)
	It's the Hunt that Counts
Fourth victim in as many years! Should seek more out, easy pickings so far. Not much on them, but that doesn't matter. It's the hunt that counts.

Stash away a souvenir, sell the rest, move on to the next victim.

Maritus Blasio of Vlastarus, Divyth Dorvayn of Bruma, Enide Geta of Chorrol, Varana Scaeva of Cropsford. List grows longer every year.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1845)
	Delivery Schedule and Manifests
10th, Sun's Dawn

Evermore: 7 crates of food, 5 crates of clothes, household goods, jewelry (10 pcs.)

Hallin's Stand: 4 crates of food, livestock (4 pigs, 2 goats, 10 chickens), 200 gold drakes

Curnard's stash: 1 crate of food, 1 crate clothing and other goods, 10 drakes 

28th, Sun's Dawn

Evermore: 4 crates of food, livestock (2 pigs, 2 goats, 5 chickens), 100 gold drakes

Hallin's Stand: 5 crates of food, 2 crates of clothes, household goods, jewelry (6 pcs.)

Curnard's stash: 3 crates of food, 3 crates clothing and other goods, 1 pig, 4 chickens, 60 drakes, jewelry (3 pcs.)

9th, First Seed

Evermore: 2 crates of food, 1 pig, 3 chickens, 10 gold drakes

Hallin's Stand: 1 crate of food, 1 crate of clothes, household goods, jewelry (2 pcs.)

Curnard's stash: 7 crates of food, 5 crates clothing and other goods, 3 pigs, 4 goats, 14 chickens, 150 drakes, jewelry (9 pcs.)

27th, First Seed

Evermore: Return hostages and claim 300 drakes.

Hallin's Stand: Return hostages and claim 500 drakes.

Curnard's stash: 11 crates of food, 8 crates clothing and other goods, 11 pigs, 14 goats, 25 chickens, 1500 drakes, jewelry (19 pcs.)
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1846)
	Curnard's Journal
5th, Sun's Dawn

For too many years I have borne the guilt of my selfish ways. I've never felt so proud and so free as today, the day we dedicate ourselves to serving others.

24th, Sun's Dawn

I look at the wagons laden with goods and gold headed for Hallin's Stand and I feel proud. I can't help but notice how much more we've been able to accumulate each week. I believe the Divines are blessing us for our selfless ways.

4th, First Seed

I'm throwing another feast tonight for the boys. After all our hard work, we deserve it. I think I'll wear the new tunic I got, the one with the gold laces. I need to maintain my authoritative status. 

I just realized, that little house on river I always wanted in Wind Keep—if I just hold back a few more gold drakes this month, I think I can actually buy it!

17th, First Seed

It seems that many of the people who accepted our aid in Hallin's Stand didn't even need it. They weren't impoverished, just greedy. Some of them took the clothes and food we sent and sold them at the marketplace! This month, I'm not going to bother sending so much. Just means I can retire to that little house in Wind Keep that much sooner!

28th, First Seed

I've just realized we're missing a great opportunity when we rob these noblemen. If we take a few of them and ransom them back to their families, next month we can double our take! And it'll serve them right, the parasites.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1847)
	Fascinating Relics
Assistant,

Don't worry, I'm not dead. These petulant fellows are no danger to me. I thought it prudent to leave you this note to let you know: I've traveled deeper into your tunnels. Some of the relics here … fascinating! 

By now you have likely sensed the residual magicka matrix left behind from my teleportation. Intentional, I assure you. Simply employ a claudication using the third rule of resonant harmonics to follow in my wake. I gave a lengthy lecture on the subject last week. I'm sure you recall what I said, yes?

— Telenger the Artificer

PS: Do not mind the chickens. Some of the cultists became very quarrelsome indeed.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1848)
	The Martyrdom of Saint Pelin
By Priestess Adie Rodeau

Welcome, young ones! As the subject of my annual children's sermon, I have chosen "The Martyrdom of Saint Pelin." Now I know you have probably heard this story already, but in this time of trouble I think it is good to revisit the tales of our ancestors so we may draw strength and lessons from them.  

Now Saint Pelin lived back in the early part of the First Era, when the world was stranger than today. At that time Tamriel was largely untamed and our ancestors had to be strong and brave, for the woods and hills were home to things like bull-men, and centaurs, and fire serpents. 

Saint Pelin wasn't a saint at first, of course: he was a humble man, a beadle at the Chapel of Stendarr at the Bangkorai Garrison, where he tended to the spiritual needs of the soldiers guarding the walls. He had other tasks as well, such as bringing the sentries water when the sun was high. One day as he carried around his bucket dipper he noticed there were more guards than usual. He stopped at the main gate and asked his friend, Sergeant Clancie, why that was. "It is because the Gray Host is coming," said Clancie, "which is a terrible army of vampires from Verkarth, and I'm more than a little worried about it."

"Oh, my!" said Pelin. "Is there anything I can do to help you and the other soldiers?"

"Pray for us, Pelin," said Clancie. "For a great trial is upon us."

Sergeant Clancie's words made Pelin anxious, so when he was done with his chores he climbed a tall tower and looked south. And there he saw the Gray Host coming out of the desert, a whole army of bat-men, wolves, and even worse things!

So Pelin went back to the chapel to pray, and as he heard the sounds of battle, he prayed to Stendarr, to Akatosh, to Julianos, to Kynareth, and to all their saints for help. 

But then folk began to come into the chapel, setting up cots and tables and bringing in wounded soldiers for aid and surgery. "Come and help us, Beadle," called the Doctor. "It's your strong arms we need now, not your prayers."

So Pelin came and looked at the wounded soldiers, and found them wondrous pale. "What has happened to them, Doctor?" he asked. "These soldiers are as white as the sheets on my bed."

"It is the bat-men, Beadle," the Doctor said. "When they bite our soldiers, they drain the blood from them in great draughts, leaving them pale and empty."

"Horror!" cried Pelin. "You're right, Doctor, this is time for more than prayers. For Stendarr says, 'He who fights hardest prays loudest.' I know nothing of fighting or of doctoring, but I will go to the battle and trust Stendarr to show me what to do."

So Pelin ran to the fighting at the top of the great gate, where he found his friend, Sergeant Clancie, fighting a bat-man. The vampire beat at the sergeant with its wings and tried to grip him so as to bite, but Pelin grasped the bat-man by the legs so Clancie was able to kill it with his sword. 

"This is no place for you!" the sergeant cried. "The bat-men are at the gate, and soon they will burst it open and take the garrison!"

Pelin looked down and saw that what the sergeant said was true: a great press of bat-men was ramming against the gates, and the doors were bulging inward. Pelin cried, "Is there nothing we can do?"

"The stone wall here has been loosened by flying stones," said the sergeant. "I had hoped to gather enough soldiers to push it down upon the bat-men—see, reinforcements are coming!—but the Gray Host will be through the gates before they can get here."

"Then I must delay them," said Pelin. And he flung himself from the battlements and upon the horde of vampires. 

The wings of the bat-men broke Pelin's fall, and he landed among them hale and alive. "Vampires!" cried Pelin. "Push not upon the gate, for what you want is here: a strong, healthy body full of fresh, warm blood. Take! Drink!"

And the Gray Host turned as one and fell upon Pelin, fastening upon his veins. Then Pelin felt himself collapsing like a wine-sack at the harvest-festival, and knew that before the sergeant could gather enough soldiers he would be drained dry. So he prayed a mighty prayer, saying, "O Stendarr, God of Justice, fill me with an ocean of blood that I might beguile these daemons away from the gate but a few minutes more!"

And then Pelin felt himself filled anew with blood, flowing from him in a very fountain, and the divine geyser of gore drew every bat-man within sight into a great feeding mound before the gate. 

Meanwhile Sergeant Clancie and his friends pushed against the wall above, until all of a sudden the great stones went crashing down. The bat-men were nearly all slain, and by the time the ones who weren't had gathered their wits, they saw that the pursuing legions of Empress Hestra were almost upon them. And that was the end of the Gray Host.

So that is how a beadle from Bangkorai Garrison became a saint. Now I ask you, children—does not our time resemble that of Saint Pelin? Is there not once again an army at our gates? Yes, indeed. And that's why our leaders ask each and every one of us to do as much as we can to help defend our homeland. Some of us may even have to give our lives. 

So when the time comes, tell yourself that you, too, have the strength to do what's needed. For I think, if we have to, we can all be as strong as a humble man like Pelin. Don't you?
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1849)
	Uela's Song
By Uela the Ravener

Clouds tower

Beyond peaks

Storm shatters

Mountainside

Wind cudgels	

Canyon wall

Avalanche

Scours gorge

Hunters spear

Cave bears

Tear the flesh

Split the bones

Briar Hearts

In the Reach

Bretons hide

From storm wrack

Fear mountains

Shiver, cold

Run to town

Cower, roofed

Go to church

On their knees

Pray to be 

Sheltered, hid

Come out when

Weather's warm

Kill and eat

Helpless lambs

Hunters spear

Soft Bretons

Tear the flesh

Split the bones
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1850)
	The Hidden Key
Jonoren,

Lady Lleraya has finished casting her veil within the ruins. Count Ravenwatch and his lackeys will never be able to find their way now!

As commanded, I locked the trap door that leads to the chambers below. If you need to go down there, I hid the key in a backpack and stuck it in the north tower. Remember, the veil will affect you, just as it will Ravenwatch. So if you find yourself in the chambers below, be careful. The veil may be a shadow, but it hides very real dangers!

And don't leave this note lying around. If I wanted anyone to see it, I wouldn't have hidden the key in the first place.

— Salianna
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1851)
	The Nereid's Dilemma
By Anthil Morvir

Consider now the problems of 

The nereid, bereft of love

A nereid is, without fail

Always female, never male

The chances for romance seem slender

In a race with but one gender

Given my proclivities 

For amorous activities

I'd rather be a woodland doe

Than nereid without a beau!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1852)
	Our Curse and Our Glory
By Querbolus Primus

When first I was taken by the Change I was terrified, and furious, and most of all terrified of my fury. I hid my transformed self in a woodshed where I tore the bark from the lumber, bewailed my fate, and cursed the rest of the world. 

For a season thereafter I sought a means to control my affliction, purchasing ill-smelling nostrums from alchemists, mystic talismans from arcanists, and blessings from priests of gods, demigods, even daemons. To no avail. Despite all my would-be benefactors' assurances, the Change still came upon me when it would—and seemed, indeed, stronger every time. 

Finally it was too strong: I killed, and killed again. Unworthy to abide among decent people, I fled, putting civilization behind me. I plunged into the forests, forded rivers and climbed mountains, until I was far from any innocents I might injure. There, with naught but brute beasts for companions, I gave in to the urge to hunt, and to slay, and to feed. 

But I found to my sorrow that, though the beasts had neither minds nor souls, still they had hearts. They felt fear, pain, loss, sadness, and to slaughter them out of hand was no less a sin than to slaughter Man or Mer. 

Thereafter I lived upon nuts, fruits, buds, roots, and animals freshly dead. And this I could easily do for, when the Change was upon me, my senses were so acute that I could always detect food of all sorts. 

More than that: with my hunger assuaged, I found that when in beast-form I could see things, hear things, smell things I was never aware of when in my "natural" body. I could sense every living creature in the mountain hollow where I'd made my home, hear every sound they made blend with the songs of the flowing streams and the music of the wind in the trees, until all combined into a glorious and never-ending choral symphony. I would stand in a glade, enraptured, intoxicated, sometimes for days at a time. 

When I returned to my ordinary mortal form, I would try to write of what I had experienced as a Beast of Mundus, but human words could never capture it. It could only be shared by others who could sense what I sensed, who might learn how to tame the lusts of the Change as I had. And I knew then that I had a sacred mission to share what I had found, to find others who had been stricken by this curse and bring them to my hollow, where I could teach them the truth, that their curse was, in fact, their glory. This change we fear so much at first is not an affliction, but a gift. 

This sacred mission has been my purpose ever since, a purpose I hope someday to see passed on to future generations. Here, right here, in my little vale of Querbol's Hollow.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1853)
	Colovian Deserter's Journal
We're all now enemies of Colovia, and the beasts that inhabit this land aren't likely to be much more welcoming. Not that it would matter. I would rather be hung at home for deserting than cavort with talking housepets and cannibal tribes.

The General sent us to die. She won't be able to hold what she's taken in Reaper's March, and most line soldiers are fully aware that this occupation will end in their deaths. We simply left.

We've found some secluded ruins, ones that don't appear to hold much of value and aren't the carved mausoleums of the talking cats. We can lie low here until things quiet down, then pillage as we need from the beasts.
		

Failed at /books/1854		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1855)
	Wolfpack Initiate's Notes
First day as a Wolfpack Initiate! We'll see how the bastards who mocked me at home feel when a feared bandit comes calling. I'm keeping my excitement restrained, because the senior members, the "Pack Leaders," are very stern and serious. I just like having a place where I belong.

Their obsession with wolves is strange, but … they take things seriously, and I respect that.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1856)
	Initiate's Second Note
I've been here two weeks, and things are progressing nicely. I'm a lot stronger than I was, mostly due to the heavy lifting and sparring we do. I hurt a lot, but it's no worse than being beaten up at home.

The Pack Leaders never seem to stop preaching. They're always talking about "being like the wolf" and how if we focus, we'll "transcend our weakness." They're more like a cult than I thought, but I think I've found a home here. 

There's one pretty young thing … Naraa. She seems to like the look of me. We'll have to see what she thinks after the sparring session next week!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1857)
	Initiate's Third Note
I haven't left the cave in a month. The beast stalks me in my dreams, and I can hear him in those first few moments when I wake. The Leader was right, the ritual has done its job. Everyone is having the dreams, I can see it in their faces.

Tonight, the change will be on me. I'm frightened … but also thrilled. Naraa … I wish you hadn't been so lovely ….
		

		Part of the None collection (#1858)
	Initiate's Fourth Note
werewolves this is a pack of werewolves

one changed i saw it it's a cult

if you're reading this GET OUT

it's too late for me
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1859)
	Healing Herbs of Northwest Tamriel
By Ulnil Tildarin

There are many wonderful herbs growing throughout the northwest region of Tamriel. Here are some of the best for use in healing poultices and medicinal broths.

Herbal tonics, tinctures, infusions, and decoctions, utilized to relieve fevers, sore throats, stomach ailments, headaches, body aches, and other illnesses can be created using the following herbs:

— Moth nettles

— Clickweed

— Red coldberry leaves

— Yellow clover

— Brandelion

Herbal poultices and other necessary components for any healer's kit (including remedies for bug bites and sun burn, healing salves, and wound cleansers) can be created using the following herbs:

— Stendarr's wort

— Comfrey

— Valendula

— Blue yarrow

— Gemweed

— Healer's purse
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1860)
	Healer Heloise's Notes
These are the notes of Heloise Menoit, healer for the Shornhelm Guard. I have set up a temporary healing center in the old tower located on Hinault Farm. Here, I am treating the injuries suffered by Shornhelm Guard soldiers in the aftermath of an unwarranted attack by forces bearing the colors and tabards of House Montclair.

Aldred Berri: Stab wound to the right abdomen, applied a healing poultice and wrapped the wound tightly.

Finia Derone: Took an arrow in her right arm, just above the elbow. Applied a healing poultice and wrapped the wound tightly. She should be ready for duty as needed.

Marbenn Dugot: Sword slash across the stomach exposed his intestines and he lost much blood. I have done what I can, but I do not believe he will last the night.

Leobert Favret: A spear puntured his left lung. I have given him a tincture to relieve his pain, but there is little more I can do for him. I expect the end to come quickly.

Rolbert Emain: I have not determined the exact nature of his wound, for it doesn't resemble any weapon I am familiar with. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was gutted by the claws of a large animal. I have applied healing tinctures to the wound, and remarkably it appears to be closing. I'll need to watch Rolbert closely to see if there are any adverse effects.

Pixot Gane: Another strange wound, this one along the left side of the neck and down the back. It appears to be a combination of bites and scratches, but the soldier claims he doesn't remember how the wounds were inflicted. He burns with fever, and nothing I have provided has yet to alleviate his discomfort.

Vivie Donze: This soldier received a shallow cut across her right side and should be capable of returning to duty immediately. However, she claims that the wound burns and her stomach hurts. Is she faking these symptoms or did I miss something in my examination?

I must also report that I was apparently hurt as well, though I don't remember how. I discovered a deep scratch along my left arm, as though something with long, sharp nails drew a line down my arm. The cut isn't that serious, which is why I haven't informed Lieutenant Fairfax as yet, but it does burn. And I find myself unusually hungry, although food doesn't appeal to me.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1861)
	Khajiit's Lost Journal Page
— that hopefully dear sister will eventually understand this one's pilgrimage. A monk must leave home, even into danger, to further his understanding. One day Kala will see things as this one does.

For now, there is much travel ahead.

13 Second Seed

Reaper's March faces strife from many directions. While the Colovian invasion draws the able away from other duties, temples fall into disrepair. Jode's Light is rumored to have been infested by thunderbugs and other destructive creatures, and even a haunting.

Unacceptable. This one will put things right.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1862)
	Second Khajiiti Journal Page
2 Mid Year

Reached the Temple of Jode's Light, after much travel. Thunderbugs and bats fill the remains of the temple, but largely pose little threat to this one. They will be cleared out eventually, but the haunting is of greater concern. A dark presence permeates these walls.

7 Mid Year

It has been nearly a week. This one believes the dark presence is none other than an accursed dro-m'Athra. If the suspicion is correct, this temple is a very dangerous place. This one has left the bats and thunderbugs to dissuade errant travelers-—a danger, to be sure, but a lesser one compared to the dark spirit infesting this place.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1863)
	Third Khajiiti Journal Page
9 Mid Year

The dro-m'Athra whispers to this one, foolishly thinking it can break a monk's resolve. It has only served to strengthen convictions-—it must be contained, and cannot be allowed to escape this place and wreak havoc on innocents.

This one will fight it, so that others do not have to.

11 Mid Year

A wandering pilgrim happened into the temple today. Perhaps a soldier, as the thunderbugs posed little threat to him. This one's warning was too late, the dro-m'Athra spirit managed to possess the hapless soldier. The spirit attempted to flee in its new body, and escape this one's careful watch, but it was to no avail.

The soldier will be missed. The vigil must be doubled, as the spirit came too close to escape. The measures this one must take to contain the evil are harsh, but necessary.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1864)
	Skooma Runner Logs
Week 5

L.I. — Completed brewing. Thirty bottles of poisoned skooma, one hundred twenty untainted.

F.D. — Thirty bottles of skooma sent to dealers in Thormar and Arenthia.

Z.M. — Ten poisoned bottles and twenty untainted left for Malabal Tor competitors to steal.

Week 6

R.G. — Malabal Tor scouting reveals potential market expansion, due to distrust of established dealers.

L.I. — Production in Claw's Strike slated to triple to handle new Malabal Tor market

Z.M. — Twenty poisoned bottles scattered through Malabal Tor to further sow distrust of entrenched competition

Notes:

Z.M. — Up the poison dosage on the tainted skooma, we want the deaths to be horrifying, then they'll buy from us.

F.D. — Prepare for raids on competitor stashes, going for complete takeover in Malabal Tor.

H.W. — Word from Elden Root is demand outstrips supply. Potential market for us. May not need poison or coercion.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1865)
	Fell's Brigade Orders
Sergeant Gausbert,

We need more prisoners to send to Northpoint. Our mutual benefactor has been very appreciative of the Orcs we've already sent her way, but she has sent an order for more captives as soon as possible. Step up your efforts and round up as many Orcs as you can.

Afterward, meet me at the inn to discuss logistics and transportation plans.

I left an extra key in my house next to the river.

— Commander Leonce
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1866)
	The Mystery of GargoylesâSolved!
By Porbert Lyttumly

Gargoyles! Great misshapen humanoids, gray-green of skin, with gnarled, tusked faces, horns, and pointed ears. Some are even said to have wings, though the idea of these hulking brutes taking to the air is hard to credit. But where do they come from, and why? Read on, for this great mystery at last has a solution!

Tales of gargoyles are widespread across Tamriel, but few can claim to have actually seen one. (Have you ever seen one? Has anyone you know ever seen one? I didn't think so. And I'm rarely wrong about such things. As you know if you've read my other pamphlets. If you haven't read my other pamphlets you are sadly under-informed, and have missed out on several life-changing money-making opportunities. You would be wise to correct this deficiency.) 

But back to the business at hand: gargoyles! They're few and far between. However, it is well known that they can be found deep in the depths of the deserts of Hammerfell, hunkering atop crumbling crags as they gaze balefully down upon their potential prey, preparing to dive and rend it with their stony, taloned hands! Is it any wonder few have survived to tell of such an encounter? 

At any event: Hammerfell, depths of the deserts thereof, that's where we find our elusive gargoyles! But gargoyles are not the only legendary denizens of the depths of the deserts, are they? No! In fact, according to long-time Redguard legend, when those doughty warriors first arrived on the shores of Tamriel they found the deserts of Hammerfell occupied by—Giant Goblins!

Giant Goblins! Goblins, but giant-sized! In other words: great misshapen humanoids, gray-green of skin, with gnarled, tusked faces, horns, and pointed ears. Where have we heard that before …?

Revelation! Epiphany! You get it, do you not? Take a look at a Goblin, then look at a gargoyle—very well, look at a picture of a gargoyle, because as I believe we've established none of us have ever seen one in person—but anyway, just look at them! Can such a resemblance be a coincidence? Well, I don't know about you, but my mother didn't raise anyone that gullible! Coincidence? My eye! It's as plain as their tusky faces that the Hammerfell Giant Goblins (legendary) and the Hammerfell gargoyles (a matter of public record) are, in point of fact, One And The Same. Why, a fool couldn't tell them apart, blindfolded.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1867)
	Bonesnap Journal
I've now been among the creatures of Bonesnap for thirty-six days. The Goblins are predictably skittish, but otherwise unconcerned with my presence. The Ogres they share the space with are another matter entirely. Luckily it's not been too difficult to stay out of their way. The symbiotic relationship between the Ogres and the Bonesnap tribe is fascinating. I've not encountered anything like it in my research before. 

Tomorrow I will attempt to approach one of the Bonesnap tribe directly. I'm on the cusp of an inter-species breakthrough! I can feel it.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1868)
	Gaston's Instructions
Sir Edgard:

The objects your men are to retrieve are shards of a Welkynd Stone. Look for small blue stones, no bigger than a fist, and illuminated from the inside. The Goblins have been using these as centerpieces for their ritual totems. You'll know these totems when you see them: the Welkynd Stone seems to imbue the totems with a red light. 

Still, retrieving the shards should be a simple matter. We're dealing with Goblins, not Dwemer. I'm sure the totems are held together with twine and spit. Just rip the shard out. Even your grunts should be able to handle that.

— Gaston
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1869)
	Den of Thieves, Part Two
By the Porphyry Caryatid

The gentleman in the blue velvet tunic slowly pushed open the low door of unpainted wood and peered into the smoky dimness beyond. "What do you want here?" demanded a voice from near at hand.

"Er … I've come by the Thieves' Highway," the gentleman said, almost questioningly. 

"What of it?"

"I … I was told to say that, and also 'Tonight flies the Father of Owls.'" The gentleman's fine lips curved in a tentative smile. "That's all right, isn't it?"

The nearby voice gave a noncommittal grunt, then said, "Your business?"

"I wish to speak to … to the Red Asp."

"Sure. He's in the back, behind the brew vats." A shadow in the smoke made a vague gesture, swirling the thick vapors. The gentleman coughed, and began to make his way across the dim room. 

The chamber was a common room of sorts, with a dozen or so tables and three-score mismatched chairs, some of which were occupied with drinkers although somewhere far above the noonday sun shone down on the desert city of Hallin's Stand. The ceiling was low and the gentleman was tall, so he had to weave his way between the low-hanging oil lamps that contributed most of the air's burden of smoke. "Beetle oil," he said to himself, sniffing, "and the cheapest possible grade." 

Beyond the brew vats the air was a bit less dense, but it was also even darker than in the common room. A single lamp burned upon a table against the far wall, its flame reflecting from a carafe, a flagon, and the embroidered edging on the vest of someone sitting on a chair, leaning back against the wall. 

The gentleman approached the table, stopped at a respectful distance and asked, "You are … the Red Asp?"

The front legs of the chair came down with a thump. "That's what they call me," said a low voice from above the vest. "Traditional title for the doyen of the Hallin's Stand Thieves Guild. And you?"

"My name … isn't important," the gentleman said. "But my business—is."

"How important?"

The gentleman drew a sack from his waistband and dropped it on the table. It clanked. The Red Asp opened it with a finger and stirred the contents for moment. "This would qualify as payment for important business. A down payment, anyway," he said. "What's the target?"

"The Governor of Hallin's Stand."

"You're in the wrong place, friend," said the Red Asp, with just a tinge of regret. "We don't do assassinations. You want the Dark Brotherhood. Or maybe the Morag Tong—they specialize in regicides."

"Oh, I don't want you to take the governor's life," said the gentleman. "I want you to steal his honor."

"His honor?" the Red Asp said. "How do you mean?"

"I want you to steal the governor's signet ring, the one the king put on his finger when he received his appointment. It's the symbol of his right to rule. And I want you to take it," the gentleman said, "during the Ceremonial Dance at the Governor's Ball."

There was a long pause, and then, "Deal," said the Red Asp. "Of course, I'll have to handle the matter personally. None of my cutpurses or burglars are up to this sort of job." He lifted the carafe and poured fragrant pomegranate wine into the flagon. "Will you drink on it?"

"Both of us," the gentleman said, "from the same vessel?"

"It's how we do things here."

"In that case," said the gentleman in the blue velvet tunic, "I'd be delighted."
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1870)
	A Distracted Enemy
The Zix is too chaotic and unpredictable a creature to join the master's ranks, and it is too powerful to leave unchecked. However, it may still prove useful. 

It is bound to these ruins with Ayleid magic, with a single Welkynd Stone as the focus for the binding spell. I've shown a priest of one of the local Goblin tribes how to fashion totems using fragments of this Stone. There's enough power in the fragment to put on a light show, which is enough for the simple creature to worship. 

In actuality, the totems will maintain but weaken the binding spell. Zix will be unable to threaten us, but will have just enough power to distract the Bretons. And a distracted enemy is a weakened enemy.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1871)
	Crow and Raven: Three Short Fables
Crow and Raven were watching Cormorant dive for fish. "I wish I could dive," said Crow. "I like to eat fish." "What?" said Raven. "Are you saying Cormorant can do something that you cannot? That's absurd. You're twice the bird Cormorant is." "You're right!" said Crow, and he dove deep into the water. Half a minute later he thrashed his way back to the surface. Raven stood nearby. "Raven!" gasped Crow. "Why did you say that? I nearly drowned!" Raven shrugged and said, "I like to eat birds."

Crow and Raven were watching Mourning Dove take a bath in a shallow pool. "I believe I shall take a bath as well," said Crow. He flew down, splashed about in the pool, and then flew back up next to Raven. "That's better!" said Crow. "Why is that?" said Raven. "Your feathers, and your beak, and your eyes are just as black as before." "True," said Crow, "but when I flew down to the pool it startled Mourning Dove, and she flew to her nest. Now I know where it is." "Eggs for lunch!" said Raven.

Crow and Raven sat in the tree by the roadside inn, above a drover snoring in a drunken stupor. Crow cocked his head and said, "That sleeping person has a shiny pin on his shirt." "It's an award," said Raven. "He got it for drinking ale. If you drink the rest of the ale in his mug, you'll get a shiny pin, too." "Shiny pin!" said Crow. He flew down to the table, drank the rest of the ale, and then fell over and couldn't get up. Raven flew down and plucked the pin from the drover's shirt. "Shiny pin!" she said, and flew off.
		

Failed at /books/1872Failed at /books/1873		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1874)
	The Ring of Daggers
By Aemilianus Falto, Auctor Veritas of the Legionary's Gazette

"The Ring of Daggers." 

You've heard the name whispered about. And you know what it means. Corrupted officials. Unexplained disappearances. Murders in the night. 

The Ring of Daggers. Agents, infiltrators, provocateurs. Merchants of death, doing the dirty work for the bloody merchant-king, Emeric the Faithless. 

Here, in your town. In your own neighborhood. Probably even among people you trust, and think you know.

But how well do you know, really know your own neighbors? That trip he took to visit his uncle in Satakalaam—is that really where he went? That new hand-knotted rug in her parlor—was it paid for by Covenant gold? That Breton he was drinking with at the tavern—what were they talking about so privately? 

Has the Ring of Daggers infiltrated your home district? Only you know your neighborhood well enough to be certain. Trust only what you can see, and believe only what you can explain. Remember, the Daggers are depending on you to just shrug your shoulders and look the other way. Don't let them get away with their subversion, or you may be their next target!

If you see or hear of something suspicious, it's up to you to do something about it. Report suspicious behavior to your nearest Imperial occupation authority. We'll take it from there, citizen.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1875)
	A Royal Embarrassment
By Aemilianus Falto, "A Concerned Citizen"

Can we be frank, just one citizen to another? It's dismayingly obvious that what we have left for a royal family here in Bangkorai is just not going to suffice. Nothing against the late King Eamond, who was a reasonably strong voice from the throne—though it was a shame the way he planned to allow Moneybags Emeric to get away with giving nominal rulership over the Fallen Wastes to Fahara'jad (who's never even been there, so far as I know). 

However, now that Eamond's gone, we're in deeper trouble. Princess Elara acts more like a flighty Wood Elf than an honest Breton maid, and Prince Adrien—well, you've heard about his gambling debts, haven't you? And that he's a little too fond of the old spiced wine? All true, from what I've heard. In fact, that story about his half-Orc bastard might even be true too, so far as I know. 

And as for Queen Arzhela, to be charitable, let's just say she isn't playing bowls with a full set of pins. Sewing with her thimble on the wrong finger. Fishing for mudcrabs without a net. You know, waltzing barefoot on oyster-shards with a duck egg, a nose-flute, and a nine-pound hammer. Got me?

So where does that leave us? Dangerously bereft of strong leadership, that's where. And I'm not about to accept another bird-brained, gift-wrapped import from Wayrest, I can tell you. 

Where, then, can we turn? Personally, I've got my eye looking east, toward Cyrodiil. The Empire's a proven source of strong leaders when we Bretons are in the soup, going all the way back to Empress Hestra. And they worship the proper Eight Divines, too—none of your weird Tall Papas or Malacaths for me, thank you very much. 

The Empire. Think about it. I'm pretty sure you'll agree.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1876)
	Northglen Farm Opportunities
SITUATIONS VACANT

Miller's Assistant: Duties to include mill operation grinding grain into meal and flour, both wheat and corn; meticulous maintenance of mechanism and facility, including lubrication with beetle-oil; and daily offerings to Saint Vitache, Patron of Millers, Scissor-Grinders, and Bathhouse Attendants. The qualified applicant will demonstrate a working knowledge of millwork and possession of all ten fingers.

Crow and Raven Suppressor: Duties to include frightening, chasing, killing, and in any other way ridding Northglen of these persistent pests. Pay to be in bounties, on a per-beak basis. The qualified applicant will come to the interview with tangible examples of his or her experience in corvid extermination.

Farm Carpenter: Duties consist of construction and repair of wooden items, including but not limited to furniture, fences, houses, agricultural structures, simple vehicles, and farm implements. The qualified applicant will bring his or her own tools and demonstrate knowledge of their use. Applicants with good references will receive the preference. 

Lettuce-Hand: Duties to include planting, tending, picking, and cleaning lettuce. The qualified applicant will demonstrate the ability to bend over, pluck, and stand again without falling over. No references necessary. 

Pumpkin-Monger: Duties to include selection of ripe melons, cart-loading, cart-driving, cart-unloading, and staffing of Northglen Farm Produce Stall in Evermore on market day. The qualified applicant will demonstrate a passing familiarity with pumpkin cultivation, and superior spherical stacking skills. 

Apply in person to Marge Gaercroft at Northglen Farm.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1877)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 1
My name is Lyris of Skyrim, called Titanborn by some. I'm committing these words to paper on behalf of my friend and ally, a man history will remember only as "The Prophet." It was through his profound insight, and his study of the Elder Scrolls, that we came understand the dire nature of the threat that now endangers all of Tamriel.

Let it be known by those who read these words that the Soulburst—the event that took place in the five-hundred-and-seventy-ninth year of the Second Era—was due to the treachery of a single Elf: the Altmeri necromancer Mannimarco, the King of Worms and the servant of the most vile of all the Daedric Princes, the God of Schemes and Lord of Brutality, Molag Bal.

In years past, Mannimarco served as chief advisor to the court of Emperor Varen Aquilarios. Originally a Duke of Chorrol, Varen became Emperor of Tamriel by right of conquest. With Mannimarco's counsel, Varen led a revolt against the previous dynasty, the savage regime of Reachmen known as the Longhouse Emperors. Yet, despite his conquest and victory, Varen was not to be a true emperor. Like the former Emperor Leovic, the blood of the dragon didn't flow through Varen's veins. He was unable to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One, as a true Emperor must, by tradition. 

The Dragonfires have remained unlit for generations. This is because the Amulet of Kings—a relic of the Divines gifted unto Saint Alessia by Akatosh—was lost in the centuries following the fall of the Reman Dynasty. Only this relic, traditionally worn by Imperial Emperors of the First Era, would allow a true-blooded ruler to spark the Dragonfires anew. 

At Mannimarco's urging, Varen formed a group of companions to join him on an epic quest to locate this relic. These companions included myself, the Redguard swordmaster Sai Sahan, Grand Chancellor Abnur Tharn, and Mannimarco himself. For years we scoured the face of Tamriel, following countless leads, until we finally managed to locate it.

When we returned to the Imperial City, Mannimarco played upon Varen's insecurities and convinced him that the coronation ritual, properly modified, could not only light the Dragonfires, but persuade Akatosh to invest him with Divine agency and gift him with the blood of the dragon. It was only after the coronation ritual was attempted that we learned the extent of Mannimarco's deception. 

The King of Worms used his magic to corrupt the power of the Amulet, causing the calamity which came to be known as the Soulburst. I remember very little of the actual event, only that the chaos that followed was immediate and devastating.

Varen was consumed by the fiery wrath of the Soulburst. Sai Sahan and I were unjustly implicated in his death, made all the more suspicious because Sai fled as soon as he recovered, taking the Amulet of Kings with him. Grand Chancellor Tharn was an opportunist, and immediately cast his lot with Mannimarco.

The Prophet's story is one of mystery—he appeared one day on the steps of an abbey of the Moth Priests in Cyrodiil. They took him in and fed him, thinking he was nothing more than a vagabond. They were shocked when they found him in the libraries that night, poring over the eldritch etchings of an Elder Scroll. Only the Moth Priests themselves had the ability to read the scrolls, and they saw his arrival as a prophetic sign from the Divines.

As they do all who read them, the Elder Scrolls eventually took the Prophet's eyesight, leaving him permanently blinded. And yet he continued to study them in his mind's eye, and eventually foresaw the great and terrible threat that we are now faced with.  

Word of his prophecies spread far and wide, eventually reaching the Imperial City and the ears of Mannimarco. The King of Worms immediately arrested the Prophet for rumor-mongering and treason, and had the abbey, and all of its contents, burned to the ground. 

The catastrophe that the Prophet predicted began to take shape almost immediately. Vast swaths of the Empire were consumed by Daedric fire, and the first Dark Anchors fell upons the land. 

Molag Bal's invasion of our world had begun, made possible by Mannimarco's betrayal.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1878)
	Note to Barkeep
Barkeep,

I did my part. This place was full last night. They drank, you made your bit, so I expect full payment. I'll be staying with a girl I met. She has a cottage just north of someplace called "<<c:1>>." At first I thought she was talking about your ale.

Deliver my money to Sweetbreeze Cottage or I'll never play your establishment again.

— Sorion the Talented
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1879)
	Lady Murcien's Folly
(Anonymous)

Lady Murcien was unsound

She thought she was a Dwarf

Scattered Dwarven ore around

From north ridge to the wharf

Put a hissing teapot on

An axle with a wheel

Said it was a construct come

From Klathzgar, true for real

Made some tools from brass and tin

For a "Tonal Architect"

Fired the forge and thrust them in

Her house exploded, wrecked

Donned a suit of brazen plate

With spiral blade on top

Stuck a soul gem in the grate

And vanished with a pop!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1880)
	Bisnensel: Our Ancient Roots
By Scholasticus Incognitus

Hyrma MORA pado ADA oia NAGAIA aba AGEA cava APOCRA dena GORIA gandra ARCAN

As everyone in our society knows, the roots of our order are ancient and deep—for are we not the Primeval Seekers? Having spent a season researching ancient manuscripts on Balfiera Island and in the Daggerfall Mages Guild, I can finally provide some details about our hallowed halls of meeting—put some meat on the bones, as it were.

I can now reveal that the original name of our private Ayleid sanctum beneath Halcyon Lake was "Bisnensel," which meant "New Water Halls" in the tongue of the Wild Elves. It was built by a clan of Ayleids who fled the anti-Elven pogroms in Cyrodiil during the early First Era, after the slave uprising of the so-called "saint" Alessia. The clan that built Bisnensel came from the Heartland city of Nenalata, which like most Ayleid habitations was built partly above and partly beneath the surface of the land. This plan was copied in miniature when the refugee Elves built Bisnensel, though now only the subterranean halls survive intact. 

The ruler of this Elven clan was named Laloriaran Dynar, though he is far better known by the soubriquet "Last King of the Ayleids." He was a notable tactician and general, and you have almost certainly heard of him in connection with the great High Rock victory of the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, in which the invading Alessian horde was broken and turned back to Cyrodiil. 

Possibly the most fascinating fact turned up in my researches, at least for us of the Primeval Seekers, is that the use of this site for the worship of Hermaeus Mora actually began many thousands of years ago when it was still occupied by the Ayleids! The leader of this effort was a Wild Elf scholar known as High Priest Uluscant, who established a congregation in Bisnensel that attracted many of the learned and most influential people in the community. As their numbers became more numerous, on their behalf Uluscant quite reasonably requested more of a say in municipal affairs, a request that was unfairly denied by "King" Dynar. The ruler had no interest in sharing power with a non-military order of scholars, whom he foolishly thought he could insult with impunity. 

Well, this Dynar soon learned that the servants of Hermaeus Mora are not so easily shunted aside! Within a few months of his arrogant rebuff, this "Last King of the Ayleids" was deposed. He and his family fled to Balfiera, where he begged refuge of the Direnni, whom he served for the rest of his days as a sort of trained war-dog. 

As history teaches us, the Primeval Seekers always win out in time. It's as the ancient analects say: if knowledge is power, then forbidden knowledge is ultimate power! "For the desire to know is beyond reckoning, and in recompense, whatever price is named shall be met."

AE HERMA MORA ALTADOON PADHOME LKHAN AE AI
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1881)
	Field Guide to Spriggans
By Phrastus of Elinhir

We come now to consideration of the spriggan, the elusive, feminine nature spirit of the deep woods. Of course, we all know the name from the taunting children's joke that goes:

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"Spriggan butt!"

…But beyond this juvenile jest, what can scholarship tell us about these half-flora/half-fauna creatures? Unfortunately, though I have consulted all the standard sources, the academics of Tamriel have little to say about the spriggans' whys and wherefores. 

From both legend and from authenticated stories of personal encounters, we know that spriggans are somehow mystically tied to certain copses or thickets, verdant groves which they fiercely defend against trespassers. Spriggan sap is said to be venomous, and they are known to be able to magically heal themselves when wounded, making them dangerous opponents.

In addition, spriggans have some sort innate connection to the animals and plants that inhabit their sacred groves, and there are many verified accounts of animals fighting at their sides against intruders. These allies include not just animals that are naturally aggressive, such as bears or swarms of hornets, but even usually timid creatures like deer and elk. 

Whether these animal allies defend spriggans out of love or friendship, or whether they are magically summoned by an innate spell ability on the part of the spriggan, is an open question, and a matter of some debate among those who study mystizoology. There is no doubt, however, that spriggans are creatures of a magical nature, as is clearly evidenced by the powerful qualities of the so-called "taproots" that are harvested from their bodies when slain. These taproots are prized by alchemists for their undeniable arcane properties, which enable the concoction of complex potions from powerful reagents that are otherwise immiscible. 

As to their origins, that is a mystery that so far none have solved. We find accounts of "Spryggain Groaves" dating all the way back to the beginning of the First Era, as well as mention of "tree-daughters" in the ancient myths of Y'ffre and the Earth Bones. Their common name seems to derive from "sprig," the Nedic term for a fresh green twig or offshoot, but beyond that everything about their origins is obscure.

From a purely physical standpoint spriggans certainly come in several forms, with reports of a variety of barks and foliage. This may represent different strains or sub-species, or it may simply be a reflection of the spriggan's mystical connection with its local flora. Spriggans seem to resemble the plants of the groves wherein they live, even reflecting the seasonal nature of those who reside in the deciduous forests of northern Tamriel. In the opinion of this scholar, the so-called spring, summer, autumn, and winter spriggans are all the same creatures merely undergoing seasonal metamorphosis.

Some have gone so far as to assert that spriggans have a hierarchy, with lesser members of the species owing allegiance to the greater, who are sometimes termed "spriggan matron" or even "spriggan earth mother." Here is where we must draw the line between scholarship and storytelling: though a spriggan's form outwardly resembles that of a human female, there is no evidence whatsoever that they can engage in intelligent behavior, or that they can organize into hierarchical groups. The creatures of the natural world, even those that are quasi-magical, behave entirely according to instinct, and to endow them with human emotion or thought is mere sentimentalism. If you're partial to that sort of fanciful twaddle, I refer you to the works of Lady Cinnabar of Taneth, who produces it in great reams.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1882)
	Lleraya's Orders
Maldred,

You made the wise choice when you decided to join our efforts. I have begun the process of transforming the people of Moira's Hope into bloodfiends under our control. Your task is simple. Make sure the process runs its course and that there are no survivors. Anyone not converted should be fed to the bloodfiends or otherwise dispatched without pause or mercy.

When the process is complete, gather the bloodfiends and await further orders.

—Lady Lleraya Montclair
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1883)
	Recipe for Horker Pie
Horker Meat

Red Wheat Flour

Yeast

Salt

Carrots

Potato

Create a pie crust using the wheat, yeast and a little Salt. reserve about a quarter of the dough for the pie's top.

Roughly chop the meat and vegetables together and season with salt and a little water. Pour the mixture into the pie crust and cover with remaining dough. Place in a hot oven for an hour.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1884)
	Picnic at Pelin (A Horror Story)
By DeWitte Bourbois

"Come on, Falinne," I said. "It'll be fun."

"I don't know, Jacques," Falinne replied, her gamine's face betraying embarrassment, unusual for her. "I just don't think—it doesn't sound like a good idea to me."

"What, going for a picnic? It's Sovereignty Day, celebrating High Rock's independence from the First Empire. Everybody goes for a picnic on Sovereignty Day!"

"Yes, but not to Pelin Graveyard. And the weather isn't looking very good for a picnic—it's so gloomy." She shivered. 

"Not to worry," I said, leading the way past through the wrought-iron fences and into the great cemetery. "We'll have a roof over our heads. We're going to eat inside this old mausoleum here."

"Wh-what?" Falinne said. "But this is the crypt of …."

"Of your namesake, Baroness Falinne Guimard, who commanded the troops of Bangkorai on Sovereignty Day? The very same." I smiled, bowed, and waved her in to the dark mausoleum. 

Falinne looked inside and gulped, then said, "All right, Jacques. You can't scare me." And, hunching her head a bit into her shoulders, she ducked into the Baroness' last resting place. 

I followed, unfolding the picnic blanket with a flourish. "Here we are! No need to sit directly on the clammy, strangely-stained flagstones of the dark and dismal charnel vault. Comfort and elegance are my watchwords!" 

"Very funny, Jacques." She smiled gamely and folded her legs beneath her as I put the picnic basket in the center of the blanket. "So what did you bring?"

"Chef Artoine's deluxe picnic collation from the Anchor's Point inn! A brace of rock pigeons, grilled and deboned, with combwort chutney, ballom pudding, and a jug of syllabub. Unless for pigeon…."

"…Less … egion…" a voice whispered from the back of the vault.

"Er… an echo, by Mara! Did—did you hear that, Falinne?"

"…Falinne … Aless … Legion …!" came the whisper, louder this time. 

"I certainly heard that!" Falinne said, leaping up. "Jacques, what kind of trick are you playing here?"

"Alessian Legion! Where?" said the voice, quite distinctly. And before our widening eyes, a blue phantasm came drifting up from a steep and narrow stairwell. 

With a shriek, Falinne backed flat against the far wall and froze, seemingly paralyzed. I felt cold stones at my own back and realized I'd done the same.

The translucent blue phantasm, clad in armor of antique design, drifted between us, halted at the entrance, and turned. "This is the day, isn't it?" she demanded in hollow tones. "The day of the attack!"

"Y-yes, Countess," I said, surprised at my ability to speak. "Right d-day, but wrong century."

"What?" She flew at me, spectral hands raised like claws. Somehow, I shrank even further into the wall. "What? Not … again." 

"That's right!" Falinne piped up. "Wrong century, wrong year! Go back to sleep, Grandmother."

"Wrong … year," the spectre said slowly. "Back … to sleep." 

And to our immense relief, the Countess' ghost began drifting back down the stairs, fading as it went.

"Gales of Kynareth!" Falinne said, sinking to the floor. "I need a drink. You?"

"Oh, yes. At least one," I said, as she poured the syllabub. "What's taking so long?"

"My hands are shaking. Here."

I drained the milk-and-cider to the dregs and passed the mug back for more. Then I took a deep breath and began, "Falinne, I'm really, really sorry. I never thought…."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Here, have some more. Think what a great story it'll make back at the Anchor's Point."

"You're not angry? Really?"

"No, Jacques. Not angry."

"Well then, let me carve the … huh, that's funny." As I reached for the plate of pigeons, I felt a wave of cold pass over my body, and my hand fell short. "By Arkay, what …?" I tried to stand, got as far as my knees and then fell over onto the blanket. "Falinne, something's … something's wrong."

"It's nothing, dearest," she said, smiling sweetly. "I just drugged your syllabub with a paralyzing potion."

"D-drugged?" I mumbled. "Why?"

"Because there's this really exclusive club I want to join. Namira's Forgotten? But to be admitted, you have to consume human flesh. It's quite thrilling, Jacques!" She drew a slender, razor-sharp blade from her bodice. "Now, let's see—where shall I begin?"
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#1885)
	A Request for Relief
My dear Exchequer,

I once again implore you to revisit the levy that has been placed upon myself for this year. I admit that I am a licensed enchanter residing inside the Imperial City. But circumstances have changed, and the business that was once profitable, is now just a drain on my income. 

A few years ago, enchanters would take the physical object to be enchanted and, using various ingredients and tools, imbue the object with the necessary mystical powers. Because of this, enchanters only competed with other enchanters who resided in the same city, since most people did not want to carry a sword hundreds of leagues to another enchanter just to save a few gold drakes. Prices for the city could be set at a friendly meeting of three or four enchanters, and a fine profit could be made. As the right of the crown, a hefty levy for allowing us to operate in the city could be assessed.

But now this has all changed. Enchanters now just make a glyph with the desired effect trapped within it. A glyph is just a simple gem that anyone can attach to the pommel of a sword or on a piece of armor. Once attached the magic in the glyph then flows into the item. 

Seems simple, doesn't it? Well, this has caused a collapse of the market. Instead of the price for an enchantment being set on a city-by-city basis, all of the enchanters of Tamriel have to compete with each other. A hedge enchanter in Daggerfall can make ten fire glyphs and sell them to a traveling merchant, who brings them to the Imperial City and sells them in the marketplace, at a price much below the price set by the Cyrodilic enchanters. 

All this competition means that I now make just a few gold over the cost my materials. And this profit does not cover the levy your office places on me.

Unless your office stops the importation of foreign manufactured glyphs, you must reduce the levy to allow me to stay in business. I will be forced to sell my home of twenty years and take up another profession, perhaps tutoring some merchant's son. 

Eagerly waiting your response, 

Defessus Magister
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1886)
	Note from Kamu
To any members of the Fighters Guild who find this,

We are being pursued by shadow creatures of some sort. They look like mer—possibly Bosmer—but this one can't tell for certain. Something in the forest called to us, requested our aid. It was a voice, apparently coming from the tower behind the walls. 

We have to find a way in there. Something important is in there.

If you find this, meet us in the dark woods. We'll leave clues as to where we are going as we can. We need to get inside that tower. Please, find us!

— Sergeant Kamu
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1887)
	A Merchant's Guide to Valenwood
(An Excerpt)

Any legitimate merchant who's traded in eastern Greenshade knows to avoid the old Merchant Tunnels.

In old times, when we first asked the Green to create a passage, the tunnels were an important byway, a defense against the wilder things that live in the forest.

Now, it's a haven for all that's illicit, illegal, and disgusting. Backhanded traders moving unreliable product at outrageous costs. Black market trade. Skooma. It's all there. A sure way to call one's legitimacy as a merchant into question is to pass through those tunnels.

For this reason, though the way is treacherous, it is advised to avoid the tunnels and take the low route over the bridge, beyond the bone pits.

Other good advice for Valenwood merchants is to travel well-armed, and to keep a watch at night. The Wood Elves of the area are known for their thieving, and some can be extremely unfriendly to strangers.

In general, it's a good idea to stick close to Woodhearth and other major settlements, rather than trying to deal with the backwoods Green Pact Bosmer personally. Let Wood Elves deal with Wood Elves.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1888)
	Ghosts of the Old Tower
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh, Songbird of Satakalaam

— Listen now, O Estimable Vizier, to a tale of a haunted tower.

— A haunted tower? Do you speak sooth? Many and more are the tales of ghost-haunted towers, until it seems there must be hardly a tower that has not its spectre. Has the Songbird's well of stories at last gone dry? 

— Nay, be but patient, one-who-governs-with-wisdom. For the tale of the Old Tower of the Fallen Waste is unlike any you have heard before. 

— Say on then, O spellbinder. I will withhold judgment until I have heard the tale. 

— Patience as well as wisdom! Truly you have earned all the accolades that are laid at your feet, Honorable Vizier. 

— On with the story, Songbird. I get enough honeyed words from the lickspittle dogs at court. 

— As you command. There was, high atop a pinnacle in a lonely corner of the Fallen Wastes, a tall and ill-favored tower that had stood there long and long. In the days when the Redguards warred against the Tusked Folk, a scout of the Bergama Gallants was commanded to take possession of this tower, thereupon to post himself as observer and sentry. And his name was Abadaman of the Three Scars.

— And there at night this Abadaman was visited by the sorrowing ghost of a nubile maiden? Or did the shade of his long-dead father appear to deliver a timely warning? Ah, but wait, I have it: The spirit of a murdered man moaned in the gloaming that he could not rest until his killing was avenged. 

— Nay, none of these haps did eventuate. Yet a haunting did occur, and strange to say, it took place in the golden light of noon. It happened in this wise: Abadaman of the Three Scars had done his morning devoirs, which consisted of climbing the many steps to the top of the Old Tower, peering to every point of the compass, and making note of what he saw, which was nothing of import. So went he for a walk in the desert, for this Abadaman liked to think, and when he thought he liked to walk. On this day of days his wandering took him down to the arid flats beneath the towered pinnacle, and there his thoughts were interrupted for his eyes beheld a wonder: beneath the bright noonday sun stood a coterie of ghosts, gazing about as if awaiting an imminent event.

— Intriguing. This accords with no tale of haunting I have otherwise heard. 

— Yet I assure Your Munificence, it was so. The ghosts were eight in number, and though they were difficult to perceive clearly in the shimmering heat of daylight, their presence was undeniable. They were young Redguards all, and were clad in the armor of soldiers, like that of Abadaman, yet unlike as well. He took one of these ghosts, who had a commanding presence, to be the officer of the others. When the officer-wraith turned his head and locked eyes with Abadaman, the scout, though stout of heart, cried out in surprise. 

— Even I might do the same, I do confess it. 

— Perhaps, though you must give me leave to doubt it. At the scout's cry the ghost spake in a voice of echoes, saying, "Well met, scout. Though the device upon your breast is unfamiliar, I see you are one of our soldiers. Are you he who will mete out justice to the one who betrayed us?"

— Ah ha! A story of revenge. Did I not say so? These ghosts are all the same.

— You are correct, Your Efficacy—and yet you are not. Shall I say on? 

— Such is my will. 

— I hear and obey. At these words the brave Abadaman was filed with wonder, and was moved to reply, saying, "I know naught of what you speak, spirit-from-across-the-great-river. Yet I would hear more." "I am Captain Fayda," said the spirit, "and these are my soldiers, slain by treachery. We seek justice upon the traitor, yet we are confounded, for though dead we are unborn, and though murdered our killer has not harmed us."

— A riddle, by Tava's shining eye! And what said the scout to that?

— He said, "You speak in enigmas, O Captain, which as yet I cannot fathom. Tell me of how you were betrayed, that I might know more." The ghostly captain nodded and said, "That I may do. We were ordered to garrison the Old Tower, though we have not been so ordered. Unbeknownst to us, one of our number was beholden unto our enemies the invading Imperials, though none have invaded. He did secretly admit them through our defenses and we were undone, though no such event has occurred. And the traitor's name was Amil Red-Hand."

— Ah, I see now. The ghost is mad, and cannot speak words of sense.

— Nay, for the words abruptly made sense to Abadaman, and he reeled back as if stricken. "Alas!" he cried. "All is now clear! You are dead though unborn, for your life and death are both yet to come! You speak of a treachery that has not yet occurred, but it will many years from now. You appear before me, O lamentable haunt, because I and only I am in a position to mete out justice to your betrayer. But this I will never do."

— How can this be? Explain forthwith!

— Alas, my Vizier, a tale is like a river and flows only as it will. But this one nears its end. "That you will never do, though you are an honorable soldier?" moaned the officer's ghost. "Wherefore?" "Wherefore the name of my infant son is Amil, born with a red mark upon his hand. Therefore away, importunate ghosts, for I shall not help you, and you cannot escape your fate." And then Abadaman of the Three Scars turned his feet back up the trail to the Old Tower.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1889)
	Nilata Search Plan
I shall need the following if my scheme is to succeed:

1.	A detailed Ayleid Grimoire addressing transliminal matters and issues of cross-planar conjunction—look for titles featuring words such as Alasilagea (vision-lore), Ceyemeratu (shadow-music), Goriarcan (secret-magic), Heculmora (outcast-Daedra), and Silatarn (shining-portal). There must be one or two books in this Librarium that will serve.

2.	Laboratorical Equipment such as Alembics, Cauldrons, Vials, et cetera. Can't have too many.

3.	A Focal Brazier large and potent enough to anchor the Thaumaturgical Fetters.

Then I'll just need to conjure some common Dremora Churls to do the menial work. I can use the Codicil of Longueur to keep them on this plane indefinitely—if I can just remember where I put that scroll.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1890)
	Oath of the Shadows Watch
You are defenders of the Green.

You are enemies of the Wilderking.

You are soldiers.

You serve your commanders and none other.

You will unite the Wood Elves.

You will give your life.

You will destroy the Hollow.

Your name will be remembered forever.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1891)
	Stibbons' Qharroa Checklist
1.	Find a shaded pool suitable for chilling Madame's refreshing libations.

2.	Remove the intrusive sand from betwixt the bristles of Madame's suede brush.

3.	Read an improving book about Madame's current endeavors—perhaps that one about the "Mystery of Gargoyles" that was recommended by the haberdasher in Hallin's Stand.

4.	Remind Madame when she complains of the desert sun that she has an ample selection of parasols in the miscellany trunk.

5.	Test the efficacy of the scorpion antivenin purchased in Wayrest by enticing a very small member of the species to sting oneself in a non-vital area.

6.	Write a chastening letter to the purveyor of Grobart's Perdurable Expedition Garb expressing Her Ladyship's extreme disappointment with the visible wear upon her Guaranteed Impervious Wamasu-Hide Tunic-and-Breeches Ensemble.

7.	Surreptitiously check our guide's knucklebones for evidence of tampering—his luck at play is truly beyond the credible.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1892)
	Elders of Bramblebreach
The spinners tell of spirits

to whom this land belongs

and who belong to this land

if they belong to anything.

They are our ancestors

and our governors

our conscience when conscience fails;

wisdom for foolish Elves.

We may pretend to live apart from them

but it is only a child's tale, made of childish dreams.
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1893)
	Lessuns Lerned Garding Caravans
By Big Dhorlun

One. Bring plenty of likids to drink even more than you think coz its hot as fire out ther.

Too. Where a hat or youll get dizzy agin and fall down like your drunk.

Three. Dont tease the doonrippers there really fast!!!

For. Dont leave your kebabs on the ground even on a clean flat rock coz ants.

Five. A jackel wont play fetch.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1894)
	Daedra Dossier: Cold-Flame Atronach
By Denogorath the Dread Archivist

Ordinary flame atronachs have been forbidden in our realm since that cretin Markynaz Zexxil conjured one in the palace and its heat damaged Dilogene's "Ice Fangs No. 4," one of the Master's favorite sculptures. Their banishment, however, left a certain hard-to-define gap in our realm's carefully-balanced esthetic of beautiful pain—an absent voice, if you will, from our chorus of terror and despair. 

I admit it: I missed the way their lissome forms curveted and twirled at the edge of vision, their expressions blank of all emotion but for the avid hunger of the arsonist. I thus made it my purpose, when the duties of my office could spare me, to find a substitute for the exiled flame atronachs, some other conjurable entity that would replace the charismatic peril of their presence.

Availing myself of the spare transliminal scanner stored in the Tower of Lies, I set myself the task of reviewing by survey all the Oblivion planes within range of its infralux pseudocortex. I scanned over 37,000 different planes, chaos realms, and pocket realities before I found what I was looking for in DOP 9497.15, known to its curious inhabitants as "The Fourth Sinus of Takubar." I immediately recognized the plane as a sort of decalescent inversion of DOP 6, "Infernace," well known to conjurers of all races as the home plane of the common flame atronach. In place of the extreme heat of Infernace, where molten rock flows like water, in Takubar (as we may call it for the sake of brevity) the bedrock is subjected to a cosmic degree of cold, causing its material bonds to slide apart and the stone to flow like cold lava. 

It was there in Takubar that I finally saw, in the insect-eyed lenses of the transliminal scanner, images of gyrating atronachs that burned with cold blue flames. I had found what I sought.

After that, modifying Koron's Peremptory Summons to address Takubar rather than Infernace was a matter of mere routine. Within seven shifts I had succeeded in summoning what we may term a "cold-flame atronach" to Coldharbour. As anticipated, rather than giving off unpleasant waves of heat, this was an elemental of cold fire, and there was a steep drop in ambient temperature in its presence. 

This, of course, was all to the good. 

In behavior my cold-flame atronach behaved in all ways like an ordinary flame atronach—and was just as irritable, casting blue fireballs at any who threatened it, and conjuring pillars of cold flame at need. This perfectly fills the niche of hovering sentry formerly filled in Coldharbour by their igneous cousins, and that is the main function they now fulfill in our Master's realm.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1895)
	Vindication for the Dragon Break
By Fervidius Tharn, Arch-Prelate of the Maruhkati Selective

It is the first of the Exclusionary Mandates that the Supreme Spirit Akatosh is of unitary essence, as is inconclusively proven by the monolinearity of Time. And clearly, the Arc of Time provides us with the mortal theater for the act of Sacred Expungement. Thus it is our purpose upon Mundus to reverse the error of Sanctus Primus and restore Ak-at-Osh to humanadic purity. To say otherwise is vain and empty persiflage. 

Therefore let the Staff of Towers be prepared for the ritual that will cleanse the protean substrate of the Aldmeri Taint. All Selectives are to initiate chants of Proper-Life and maintain them until a state of monothought is achieved. Then each shall Dance, duration-forward then volteface, till the Roll of Time winds withershins. 

Prophet-Most-Simian guide us! Misplaced Shezarr bless us! May our Wills in this be Enacted!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1896)
	The Book of Reason
Thoughts are what separate man and mer from beasts. Without thoughts, we have no empathy, no capacity to care for those around us.

Ancient remedies, handed down by word of mouth through the generations, provide us with the peace of mind necessary to sustain our existence.

Due to the sensitive nature of our illness, and the curative properties of our sheltered hamlet, residents are required to remain in the village for the length of their natural lives, lest the illness spread.

"By the light

By the dark

Within and without,

Bound to one another

By hope

By thoughts

By the land

Until our souls take flight"

Speak the words and believe in them. We restrain ourselves by keeping to ourselves. Our thoughts hold the descent at bay, and allow us this peaceful existence.

The shelter of the village comes from times long-forgotten, from those driven to this place by their need.

Their suffering sanctified the land upon which we live. Our promises keep it sacred.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1897)
	The Living Flesh
My creation lives! It moves, it rends and tears. It is young yet and it craves blood, but I do believe this opens up a most interesting branch of necromancy. Assuming it is necromancy. Yes, let's say that it is.

There was a time when the shrieks and screams of the people might have bothered me. But their sacrifice and their pain, their rich, warm blood—how can giving my creation life bother me in any way? They are not dead. Not truly. Not while my creature lives. In a sense, they continue to live as well. The time for concern and mercy is long behind me.

Few understand, but few have my power. They have not glimpsed the pulsing heart of the Doomcrag. They have not risked all and taken that power within themselves. I pity them. Not for their pain and fear and torn flesh. I pity them their simple lives, their lack of power, their closed minds. 

I shall leave this creation with my vampires. They can tend it, nurture it, feed it the flesh of the feral ones. Or the flesh of any survivors—if there are any survivors. When the creature is stronger and larger, they can unleash it on Rivenspire. In the meantime, I will create more such creatures, I will create an army of living flesh!

Let the revolting peasants give themselves to the glory of my creation! All will know my name. Even Montclair and Lleraya will see what I can create, what I can do. Let them wonder what else my power will accomplish. I care less about their petty concerns with every passing day.

— Reezal-Jul
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1898)
	Constable Maldred's Journal
I don't remember how long I believed in the principles of "to serve and protect." Recent events have opened my eyes and changed so many things, however. I have a new cause to champion and new allies to support.

If I regret one thing in all this, it's that I will now be forced to oppose my dear friend, Adusa-daro. We have known each other for so very long. I find it almost impossible to imagine that she will now oppose me. I have a vague hope of introducing her to the beautiful Lleraya, of converting her to our way of thinking. But I fear that my efforts will fail. She has well and truly fallen under Verandis' spell and I don't believe that anything I say will change that. I fear that, in the end, the proud and powerful Adusa-daro must die.

Should I record the events that led to my epiphany? No, time is short and I have too much to do right now. Later, surely, there will be time enough to fill these pages with the wisdom I have acquired. Suffice it to say that Lleraya is not a monster. I am quite fascinated by the woman and eagerly wait to spend more time in her enchanting company. For now, let me just write that her words and deeds moved me. That her vision has become my vision. That her goals have become my goals.

And it all starts here, in the quiet hamlet of Moira's Hope. The townsfolk are either well on their way to becoming bloodfiends loyal to our cause or they are dead and dying. Soon, we can spread the gift of Lleraya's blessing to all of Rivenspire—and then the chaos will be glorious!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1899)
	Note from Theomund
Lady Laurent,

We found the inner sanctum where Malofar keeps the Emerald Chalice, secured by a magical ice barrier. However, we also found ancient Nord runestones of a whale, an eagle, and a snake at altars throughout the caverns. These matched altars before the barrier and we guessed they were the keys to open it. 

We placed all three runes and the barrier dropped. I created a distraction so that Amberic could get inside. It worked, but my wounds are too great. I hope Amberic finds me before the end, but I am fading fast.

— Theomund
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1900)
	Concerns, Petitions, Complaints
Kethra Hernet has requested permission to build two chicken coops on her property. Claims fresh eggs will improve her cooking and thus Efan Hernet's digestion and general demeanor. Approval Pending. Discussion with neighbors ongoing.

Scholar Jonne requests assistance with restoration of some of the older crypts in the cemetery. His concerns about the condition of the graves has been noted.

House Dorell representative at inn, sent request to meet to discuss improvements in silver production from mining projects. Meeting to be scheduled. Must ask Michel to attend, as he is most knowledgeable about mines and mining.

Young Rindas Suriell was brought up on charges of vandalism. Specifically, using some sort of plant-based dye to paint Daedric symbols on Harth Vennet's prized pigs. Suriell's reason: "I thought it would be funny." Neither I nor Harth Vennet found this response to be the least bit amusing. Leynette Suriell petitioned the town to have young Rindas provide a set number of hours of service in lieu of having to pay damages. Proposal to be discussed with Harth Vennet.

Rindas Suriell to provide eighty hours of community service, aiding Scholar Jonne in the restoration of the graves and crypts within Crestshade cemetery. Harth Vennet's comment about not wanting "that young ruffian anywhere near my livestock" was duly noted when determining this punishment.

Tobas Entick, Innkeeper, has requested some assistance in cleaning up a small rockslide that did some minor damaged to the rear of the inn. He and several others have noted a recent increase in small tremors emanating from the mountains. 

Healer Meriel reported that Jonah Marose is currently under her care. Meriel believes this may be a case of some sort of night terrors, but is unsure what may have brought them on. Perhaps a fever of some sort? In any case, Jonah appears fine at the moment. The young man has always been a bit simple, but in no way a troublemaker. I will check with the healer again in a few days.
		

Failed at /books/1901		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1902)
	Letter to Grand Warlord Sorcalin
Grand Warlord,

Though it makes me uneasy, I concur with your decision to retain control of the Elder Scrolls. Our troops need the boons the scrolls provide. And turning them over to the Moth Priestess would be tantamount to handing them to the Pact or Covenant.

While I revere the scrolls and honor the Moth Priests for their dedication and study, I have done as you wished and had temple guards escort Theodosia away from the grounds. I have no doubt she will return, however.

— Protector Arfire
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1903)
	Letter to Grand Warlord Dortene
Grand Warlord,

I agree with your decision to retain control of the Elder Scrolls. The scrolls are needed for the war effort, as you say. Handing them to the Moth Priest would only result in them falling into the hands of the Dominion or Pact.

I have had temple guards escort Belenius away from the grounds. He will return, but we'll keep kicking him out.

— Protector Yseline
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1904)
	Letter to Grand Warlord Zimmeron
Grand Warlord,

The Moth Priests' plea galls me. Don't they know there's a war on? They cannot expect us to hand over the Elder Scrolls we worked so hard to obtain. You were of course correct to refuse the Moth Priest who is plaguing us.

I sent Pavonius away from the temple and gave the guards orders to refuse him entry henceforth. I await only your approval to order a stronger beating each time he shows up. Sooner or later, this will end his pleading.

— Protector Galiel
		

Failed at /books/1905Failed at /books/1906		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1907)
	Strange Rambling Notes
No, no, no! This isn't working. Must begin again. I will hit on it eventually. I know it.

Too much silver, it seems. Need something less shimmery. The glow is too intense, can't focus.

Aha, yes, I'm brilliant! Not that I didn't know that already.

Yes, yes! Now I can feel them. The creatures' clever minds. I can sense them as they stalk their prey, as they compete for mates. Soon I will understand them truly and be their master!

Trouble. Very serious trouble. All was going well. I had established a pack. I was their leader. They respected me. Then I ran out of steaks. They look to me now, as before, but there is a glint of hunger in their eyes.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1908)
	Naril Nagaia Journal
At last, I believe I have found the entrance to Naril Nagaia. It has taken some time, but I have begun to translate several inscriptions I found in the ruins. 

The Ayleid script is highly advanced. The forms are morphologically mature compared to earlier inscriptions I'd found, suggesting that this place is one of the more recent ruins, from close to the height of the Ayleid power.

After deciphering several of the inscriptions, I've begun to realize that the anomalies in the writing are not, as I'd first suspected, newer, but older. The explanation for my confusion is simple: this place was indeed constructed in a more recent period, but its inhabitants were primarily ancient: this was the site of powerful necromantic experiments—from the look of things, the subjects of these experiments were the most ancient Ayleid kings!

Having made this discovery, I thought at once to return to the surface and report my findings. Only, when I tried to return to the way I came, I found it blocked. I thought for certain I was trapped, when one of the ancient spirits of this place suddenly appeared to me. He said that he had been charged with protecting the secrets of this place. All I have to do to leave, he says, is leave my book behind, and allow the memories of what I've seen to be purged from my mind. 

I am still considering his offer….
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1909)
	Blood-Spattered Love Note
Dearest T,

I can't wait any longer for your presence. At night, I dream of you—the small of your back, the little dimple on your chin, the way I seem to glow when you look at me.

Tomorrow, I am going to the Underroot. The lamias there are friendly and they won't begrudge two lovers their secret spot by the moonlight.

Come quietly, though, and wait until nightfall. I think J might suspect us. Oh, I don't feel any guilt about it. The way he carries on about those cats of his, he doesn't need a wife. But be careful just in case. He may not understand love, but he certainly understands ownership.

I will be waiting.

Your ever faithful,

M.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1910)
	Mine Foreman's Orders
Don't care what you've heard about disappearances in the mine. Don't be frightened like little Wood Elves that break like sticks in a bad storm. It is a Wood Elf trick. 

Keep working. Or you will be beaten. If you are beaten and you still don't work, you will be shamed in front of entire clan.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#1911)
	On the Beauty of Ogres
Many will tell of the loveliness of Elves

And still more will sing of the fine human form

but where is song or sign that augurs

all that is beautiful about Ogres?

Ugh. Maybe mother is right. Poetry is silly. It's for High Elves in their mansions who have nothing better to do, who couldn't hunt their dinner if you put a roast chicken on the floor and told them to stab it with a spear.

Beautiful ogres? What was I thinking? I suppose they do move in a kind of slow, majestic, stately way. But they smell awful, and they're a nuisance. 

It's like mother says, "If you want to impress me, try killing an ogre, not immortalizing it in verse."

Well, she can have it her way, then. I'm off to kill an ogre. 

And then when I'm done, maybe I'll write a poem about it:

Bravely the Elf stood strong

Against the club and thong

Landing strikes on stinking flesh

Duelling the giant to giant death.

No, still not right
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1912)
	Letter from Gorvyn
To My Dearest Cousin,

The trip from Deshaan to Stonefalls was difficult and a little hazardous, but I made it safely. The directions that Dethisam provided me with were perfect. I'll make sure to warn the people here about the Llodos plague. And I'll make sure the healers are ready to deal with the illness—at least as well as they're able. You can count on me!

I hope things are going well at the Serk. Try to stay healthy and I'll see you soon.

Sincerely,

Gorvyn
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1913)
	Vital Records, 2E 541â2E 542
2E 541:

No births this year.

Stella Gedanis married Robert Jurelette on 10th Second Seed. They will live in the Jurelette home at the water's edge.

Patrand Zurric, aged 35 years, drowned on 4th Mid Year in the Bjoulsae River, after swimming while intoxicated. He is survived by his wife, Medya Zurric.

The entire Chamrond family died during the invasion from the Reach. Town burnt, prior records lost.

Gods preserve us all.

2E 542:

Roberta, born 25th Sun's Dawn. Son of Stella and Robert Jurelette. Sadly, Stella died of childbed fever, 28th Sun's Dawn, without seeing her newborn. She is survived by her husband, Robert, and their daughter.

Labhraidh, born on 28th Rain's Hand, Jester's Day, to Medya Zurric, widow of Patrand Zurric, and survivor of the Black Drake's invasion.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1914)
	Loriasel Tablet, Entry 2
Entry 2

My translation of the <<1>> tablet is woefully inelegant, but I believe it says the following:

"Speak the life-treaty of <<2>> before the blessed-stone.

Call the Daedric herald who was cast down.

Accept the shadow of <<2>>.

Truth and not-truth come as water within many-waters."

The word "<<2>>" appears twice in the script. I find no reference to this word in any of my books regarding the Ayleid language. It seems to be a name, but of what?
		

Failed at /books/1915Failed at /books/1916		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1917)
	Loriasel Tablet, Entry 4
Entry 4

<<1>> is amicable enough, if cryptic. It was hours before she seemed to comprehend any language but old Ayleid and Daedric pidgin.

When she finally spoke, she did so with eloquence and a surprisingly cheerful curiosity. According to <<1>>, she once served <<2>>. She claims the seal upon <<3>> was placed by Azura herself.

While I'm apprehensive about trusting any Daedra, Winged Twilights such as <<1>> are known to be servants of Azura. Beyond this, the shrine outside <<3>> is proof enough of this location's importance to the Daedric Prince of Dawn and Dusk.

After years of searching, could I finally be within reach of reversing <<2>>'s terrible fate?
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1918)
	Loriasel Tablet Notes
Entry 1

Progress! The tablet was worth the journey to <<1>>. Like many of their relics, the Ayleids masked the tablet's secrets with illusory wards and destructive traps to make the slightest divination an exercise in mortal danger.

Less a concern for myself, of course. The true transcription reads as follows:

"Epevoy an anyadena av <<2>>e pado an sunnand.

Can an canomora racuvarima.

Arctane va ceye av <<2>>e.

Malatu ye nemalatuis shauta ry relle asva relleis."

Entry 2

My translation of the <<1>> tablet is woefully inelegant, but I believe it says the following:

"Speak the life-treaty of <<2>> before the blessed-stone.

Call the Daedric herald who was cast down.

Accept the shadow of <<2>>.

Truth and not-truth come as water within many-waters."

The word '<<2>>' appears twice in the script. I find no reference to this word in any of my books regarding the Ayleid language. It seems to be a name, but of what?

[Entry 3 is missing.]

Entry 4

<<2>> is amicable enough, if cryptic. It was hours before she seemed to comprehend any language but old Ayleid and Daedric pidgin.

When she finally spoke, she did so with eloquence and a surprisingly cheerful curiosity. According to <<2>>, she once served <<3>>. She claims the seal upon <<4>> was placed by Azura herself.

While I'm apprehensive about trusting any Daedra, Winged Twilights such as <<2>> are known to be servants of Azura. Beyond this, the shrine outside <<4>> is proof enough of this location's importance to the Daedric Prince of Dawn and Dusk.

After years of searching, could I finally be within reach of reversing <<3>>'s terrible fate?
		

		Part of the None collection (#1919)
	Imperial Refugee's Journal
Day 1: Starting my life over. What happened in the Imperial City was to someone else, not me. Almost made it over the southern bridge but it tore apart before my eyes. Had to swim across Lake Rumare to the far shore. But I escaped and that's when my life began again. Keep on heading south.

Day 3: Skirted west of Alessia. Dominion troops all over it, no friends of mine. Spotted some Nords and Argonians snooping around. Avoided them too. Cyrodiil's overrun by foreigners since the Empire fell.

Day 6: Avoided Faregyl too. Heading for the gap between it and Bloodmayne. Dominion armies marching all over. Need to find a place to hide until this war's over. Or until they all kill each other.

Day 8: Reached a river south of Bloodmayne. Headed west along it. Spotted a cave mouth. Killed a couple beetles outside it. If that's all I have to face, I'll clear out the cave and hide in there for a while.

****

Bad idea. More than beetles. Need to rest, stop the bleeding. Keep moving on, unless they get me first. More later.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#1920)
	The True Fate of King Ranser
By Serinal Gane, Royal Scribe of Shornhelm

History is written by the victors, so I have no doubt as to how King Ranser will be remembered. But my job has always been to keep King Ranser's records, and that hasn't changed—at least in my mind—with our new state of being. I'm getting ahead of myself. My pardons. Allow me to start at the beginning.

After almost a year of conflict, Emeric and his allies had driven King Ranser's forces to the brink of defeat. We prepared to make our final stand at Markwasten Moor, caught as we were between a Breton armada and Orc troops. I am sure that history will describe how King Ranser fell that day, but history would be wrong. An entirely different fate befell the liege of Wayrest.

It is true that the bulk of King Ranser's army was annihilated at the battle on the moor. But Ranser was able to escape with a small contingent of soldiers and aides and make his way to the top of a nameless tor overlooking the shattered city of Shornhelm.

It was on this tor that King Ranser put his ultimate plan into motion to defeat King Emeric and his dastardly allies. Using an arcane ritual provided by the court magician, Reezal-Jul, the brilliant King Ranser transformed his most loyal and devoted soldiers into a force that would stand for the ages. The final step in the ritual required a blood sacrifice, however. When King Ranser's traitorous general—whose name shall never again be spoken and who shall forever be forgotten—murdered his own liege, it was royal blood that ignited the ritual and triggered our change.

I must admit that my less-than-regal mind has yet to fully fathom the intricacies of King Ranser's plan. His ritual turned us all into undead soldiers, skeletal immortals who can stand at his side for eternity. But instead of immediately striking out and attacking Emeric's forces, King Ranser ordered us to strengthen our position and prepare to defend the tor.

"This tor shall be my throne!" King Ranser proclaimed. "From here, I shall rule for eternity!"

And now you know the true fate of King Ranser and his loyal soldiers. My time as scribe is finished, for my liege needs every sword at the ready. I will leave this record, safe in this tower until the day comes that King Ranser orders us to march from the tor and back into Shornhelm.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1921)
	Captain's Orders
Dearest Janeve,

I was planning on making this an official missive, orders from the leader of House Tamrith to its most illustrious and brave field captain. But I'm still new to this role as head of the house and you're still my sister, so let's keep this exchange light and informal.

Your primary goal remains locating the rogue Argonian, Reezal-Jul. If a viable opportunity to eliminate this menace presents itself, you have my permission to engage. But don't take any unnecessary risks with either your own safety or the safety of your troops. The valiant men and women under your command should not be squandered needlessly.

And, as always, please help the people of Rivenspire if you come across any of them in jeopardy or dire straits. The unrest stirred up by Montclair throughout Rivenspire affects everyone. Farms have been damaged, cemeteries and places of worship desecrated, families scattered, and people injured or killed. Help those who need it as you find them, organize them, and set up temporary camps as required. Have one of your lieutenants keep records of names, towns, and incidents of disaster so that we may offer aid as each situation warrants.

And please remember to send me a report every few days. I know you hate writing down your thoughts, but you are my eyes and ears out there. Besides, if I don't hear from you on a regular basis, I will worry so. Please don't put your new countess in that position. 

Your loving sister,

Eselde

(Countess Eselde, Leader of House Tamrith)
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1922)
	Reezal-Jul's Journal
By the ancient mysteries, my plans develop just as I foresaw!

I carry on the wishes and desires of my one, true master—the great and sorely missed King Ranser of Rivenspire. Some called him mad. I know him as the genius and visonary he was. A man ahead of his time. Did he care that I enjoyed the occasional experiment? That I saw a path to power in the intricacies of the dark arts? No. He encouraged me! I will always be greatful to King Ranser for that.

But sometimes other paths must be followed. I knew that I had to find a new direction as the High King's forces closed upon Traitor's Tor. That's why, regretfully, I left my beloved king's side before the end came. Someone had to survive to carry on our work. Someone had to survive to make Emeric pay for his insults and injuries. I just wish it could have been my king instead of me. Ah, well, that's the way the river runs.

I offered my services to Baron Montclair at the first opportunity. We had made each other's acquaintance at one of the king's functions, and he seemed the most suitable for my ultimate plans. I knew that Count Tamrith would have nothing to do with me or my special talents, and Baron Dorell was too stubborn to take any suggestions I made seriously. But Montclair, he could be swayed. He could be manipulated. He could be forged into the weapon I needed to enact King Ranser's revenge.

It was easy enough to convince Count Verandis to aid my cause. And a simple forget-me draught was enough to wipe the memories from him. Getting his blood vassal to imbibe the potion was child's play. And when Verandis fed, the alchemical concoction passed from the vassal to him. It was just my good fortune that the Baron's wife was as ill as she was. They were all so worried about her and desperate for a miracle that they accepted what I offered them without question.

But enough of the past! It is the future I am more interested in right now. My living necromancy experiment worked! I was able to take the living flesh of others and create a totally different living creature. Even now, it grows more powerful in the ruins of Crestshade, awaiting my orders to head out and ravage the countryside. It isn't bogged down by the intelligence or demeanor of those who gave their living flesh to its creation—it is a new and unique entity ready to obey my every command! Imagine what I can do with an army of such creatures!

Soon, all of Rivenspire will be under our control. Then I will convince the Baron to send his undead army and my creations south. This time, the outcome will be much different from Ranser's War. This time, the High King will fall. I have foreseen it. The power of the Ayleid relic told me so.
		

Failed at /books/1923		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1924)
	Gray Mire Tribal Leadership
<<1>>—"spinner," by the northern barricade

<<2>>—hunter/fisher, found at fishing camps

<<3>>—???, usually near guar pens
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1925)
	Reward for Longfang!
Bold hunters wanted!

Only the bravest of the brave need apply!

A reward is offered for the death of the dread Longfang. This creature abides in Breakneck Cave, along with many of its foul brood. 

Bring the carapace of Longfang to Mayor Celatus of Hackdirt for a grand reward!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1926)
	Letter to Diabolist Volcatia
Heed my commands, servant of the Shadowed Path!

High have you risen in our ranks. Succeed in the task I lay upon you and you will rise higher still. Fail and you will die in agony.

The Lord of Darkness has revealed to me that an ancient relic lies hidden beneath the soil of southern Cyrodiil. The collapse of the Empire enables us to search for it unimpeded. With this relic in hand, I will lead the Shadowed Path in conquest of the Imperial City and all of Cyrodiil!

You are to scour the cavern known as Haynote. Pulverize every rock, crack open every seam—every effort must be made to uncover the relic. Do not return without it.

I give you command of the Circle of the Shadowed Path formerly ruled by Theurgist Thelas. She is no longer in my favor. Repentance is her lot now, to ensure that she survives to face my continued displeasure.

Do not fail me.

— Dreadlord Naucratius
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1927)
	The Night Mother Watches
Though you were not born under the sign of the Shadow, it does not mean Sithis or the Night Mother ignores your pleas. Pray to them and you shall gain power. Kill in their name, and they will respect you. Stand up for the heritage of our people.

Do not be swayed by Uta-Tei and her followers. Practicing the Wood Elf religion is heresy! She cannot see that we will become slaves once again if we do not act. You were chosen as one of my hunters for a reason. We will fight together, we will die together!

—Slim-Jah
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1928)
	Set List
1. Olga's Smickett

2. Age of Repression

3. A Rude Song

4. I'm Glad I'm Not No Orc

5. Ragnar the Bedded

6. A More Rude Song

7. Song of Hrormir

8. Black Fredas

9. A Bonny Dunmeri Lass

10. Ayrenn's Folly

11. A SONG FOR MY DEAR SWEET <<1>> THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CREATURE I WILL LOVE FOREVER. ALL OTHERS ARE NOTHING TO ME.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1929)
	Diary of a Romance
4 Rain's Hand:

I heard a voice last night, a voice that softly strummed the very strings of my soul. He loves pumpkin pie. He was kind enough to visit my cottage. Such a rare talent!

17 Rain's Hand:

One day he said he loved me, that he wanted to stay with me in my cottage forever. The next day he told me he had to get back to his life on the road, that he couldn't bear it unless he played in front of new faces each night.

19 Rain's Hand:

An idea strikes me. I will get him those faces, and he will play for me forever.

20 Rain's Hand:

The flesh was starting to decay in a most unpleasant way, so I removed it. Hopefully the incense will cover any lingering stench. The show must go on.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1930)
	Letter to Volgo
Listen well, Volgo, for yours is the most difficult task I lay upon any of my Diabolists.

The Lord of Darkness has revealed to me that an ancient relic lies hidden beneath the soil of southern Cyrodiil. The collapse of the Empire enables us to search for it unimpeded. With this relic in hand, I will lead the Shadowed Path in conquest of the Imperial City and all of Cyrodiil!

To you I assign the cave of Nisin. If the relic is there, you must find it. But be wary of the Dremora seeress Barasatii. Avoid openly opposing her or her minions, but do not allow her to claim the relic. It must come to me.

— Dreadlord Naucratius
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#1931)
	Letter to Vethisa
Heed my commands, Diabolist Vethisa, servant of the Shadowed Path!

High have you risen in our ranks. Succeed in the task I lay upon you and you will rise higher still. Fail and you will die in agony.

The Lord of Darkness has revealed to me that an ancient relic lies hidden beneath the soil of southern Cyrodiil. The collapse of the Empire enables us to search for it unimpeded. With this relic in hand, I will lead the Shadowed Path in conquest of the Imperial City and all of Cyrodiil!

Your task is to search the cave called Pothole. Do not take this task lightly. Volcatia and Volgo search for this relic elsewhere. Whoever brings it to me will bask in my favor forever.

I give you command of a Circle of the Shadowed Path. Use these minions harshly, spare no effort regardless of the cost.

Do not fail me.

— Dreadlord Naucratius
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1932)
	Serpent Hollow Observations
I am inside at last. It took me several days of watching and waiting, but I am patient. I was rewarded with a mass exodus at twilight yesterday. The entire group, accompanied by their cave bears, left on some quest that was doubtless of great importance to them.

The door to their caves beneath Serpent Hollow had been left slightly ajar and I slipped inside. I moved cautiously through the cave's winding passages, fearful of meeting a guard. But there were none. I found a perfect observation post, secreted myself behind some boxes, and was settled in with my supplies long before the expedition returned.

I am elated to report that the rumors are true. The ogres residing here are indeed unusually intelligent. I will take diligent notes for the three weeks my supplies will last. I can already hear the applause when I present my findings to my colleagues in the Imperial City, once this foolish war is over.

Day 1: Settled into my post undetected. Ogres and cave bears returned hours later. Several seemed to hesitate, sniffing the air deeply, but they soon moved on to normal activities.

Day 2: I have witnessed tool use and rudimentary communication among these ogres! The big one, the one I have dubbed "Bruuke," pointed at a crate and grunted several times at one of his underlings. That worthy scowled, grabbed the crate, and threw it into a corner, shattering it and scattering its contents about. That seemed to appease Bruuke, who scratched himself in satisfaction.

Day 3: These caves were obviously once the site of humanoid habitation, likely Imperial miners. Possibly the ogres came upon these folk and killed them in the process of claiming the cavern for their own. But the ogres have cleverly adapted the implements the miners left behind. Fires have been carefully tended and kept burning, and I have seen a shield used as a plate. The ogres also stage impromptu concerts using human bones and skulls as primitive instruments.

Day 4: Today I witnessed play behavior among the clan. Bruuke picked up a long bone, possibly a miner's femur, struck a bear on the nose with it, and threw it into the water. The bear chased after it and returned it to Bruuke. Soon the other ogres and bears were playing this game as well. It entertained the entire clan for most of the day. I believe this is behavior never before documented among ogres.

Day 5: I have no doubt that Bruuke is the source of this clan's cleverness. Several times yesterday, as I wrote in my journal, I saw him peer suspiciously about. I believe he hears the sound of my quill scratching on the paper and recognizes it as unusual, possibly dangerous. If he ever comes over here to investigate, then I will —
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1933)
	Hegris's Orders
Claudette,

Bruma is ripe for the taking. When the time comes, it will be ours. The peasants and Dremora will never see us coming. Find a hidden base and wait for my signal.

Do not attempt to contact Zandur. I'll have both of you skinned and served for dinner if you ruin my plans.

— Hegris
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1934)
	Bordaunt Virelande's Journal
Day 1 

I've decided to strike out on my own. No one makes a name spending their whole life in a small town. I plan to document the noteworthy incidents of my travels so I have them for the book I'm going to write when I retire from adventuring.

Day 7

I had to defend myself from a bandit attack on the road today. I guess they didn't expect me to be more proficient with a blade than they were, but fortunately my training paid off. I dispatched one, and the other two fled, wounded. I did not relish the act, and while I realize that it was either him or me, I hope I do not have cause to do so again in the future. Now it's time to get past this unpleasant incident and focus on building my legend!

Day 15

I helped rescue a family's cow from a burning barn today! I got a little singed, but they gave me a jug of fresh milk, a block of cheese, and told me to stop by whenever I passed through this area. My renown is growing, and I look forward to more adventures in the days to come. 

Day 22

I've already encountered some strange things in my travels but without question the most disturbing so far was watching that man take his own life just outside the town of Goldfolly. He was sobbing and incoherent, and there was nothing I could do as he brought the knife across his wrists. At first I was reluctant to go through his belongings, but my rumbling stomach overrode my misgivings. It looked like he was just setting off on a trip, as his provisions were fully packed and unused. I briefly considered bringing the body back to town, but they would just as likely condemn me for dragging a corpse into their midst as thank me for returning him. I couldn't just leave him to rot though, so I left a letter under the door of the Inn and watched from a nearby hill as he was buried the next day. 

On a related note, I believe I've acquired my first magical item from this unfortunate fellow. I'm not sure what this amulet is supposed to do exactly, but the way it glows tells me that it must hold some type of power. I believe it will help me in my future endeavors. Soon enough, I'll be in full enchanted armor with a blazing sword!

Day 24

Having trouble sleeping. I believe this wooded area must be haunted as I keep hearing voices. I'm sure my spirits will improve when I emerge from this shrouded forest. 

Day 26

I haven't slept in days. The voices have gotten louder and more persistent every day, even after I left the woods. I am haunted by the death I caused and the death I did not prevent. I have tried to bury the amulet in the forest, but I cannot bring myself to leave it. 

Day 30

I am a monster and I don't deserve to live.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1935)
	Will of Otrovor Knifeborn
At the insistence of the ever-worried Keera, I am writing a will. She feels we head into grave danger, from which we may never return. I think the rumors of hauntings and undead hordes are overblown. We've faced undead before; even Philien no longer wets himself at the sight of skeletons. Those we dispatched outside the cave are probably the worst we'll face.

But, to make Keera happy ….

To my brother Wilvor, currently living in Bruma, I leave all my possessions, except our father's sword, which he is unworthy to wield. I want that buried with my ashes. There, done.

Signed,

Otrovor Knifeborn
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#1936)
	Final Statement of Leobert Charien
I leave this as a warning and a challenge. Perhaps it will fall into the hands of a hero who can succeed where I will certainly fail.

I have trailed the abomination Gaston Ashham to the ruins of Lipsand Tarn. Here he has awakened the evil that slumbers within every Ayleid ruin. It now feeds the unquenchable appetite for terror that he never satisfied in Wayrest. I do not know where his sister has gone. Others must deal with her.

I am going in after him. I hear horrors have sprung up within the ruins. I am ready to face them. For the memory of my mother, my father, and my sister Sonele, I am ready to die.

— Leobert Charien
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1937)
	Orders from Hegris
Zandur,

Bruma is ripe for the taking. When the time comes, it will be ours. The peasants and Dremora will never see us coming. Find a hidden base and wait for my signal.

Do not attempt to contact Claudette. I'll have both of you skinned and served for dinner if you ruin my plans.

— Hegris
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1938)
	Toadstool Hollow Journal
Grigerda cursed me for a fool, begged me not to go. But we'll never defeat the Shadowed Path on our own. And none of the alliances will help us; they're too busy killing each other to care about one small town.

It must be done, and I'm the one to do it. The others with me, our strongest warriors, should get me past the creatures of the upper caverns. Once we reach the hidden catacombs, the true struggle begins. The dead that patrol there will not let us pass easily. We must force our way through. Somewhere, deep within the crypts, lies the power that animates these long-dead soldiers.

I know how to appeal to that power, what sacrifice it will require. But for Jafola, who has my heart, and for all of Bruma, I must do it. The dead of Toadstool Hollow will rise again in defense of their land.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1939)
	Letter to Raelynne
Raelynne,

Our master's commands part us for now, but we will be together forever. Raise an army in Underpall, and I will raise mine in Lipsand. We will meet in the Twilight Woods and sweep all of northern Cyrodiil before us. 

And who knows how long the master will lead? There are many casualties in war, even among the mighty and seemingly immortal. Perhaps we will soon be our own masters once again, as we were in Wayrest.

I long to be with you again, sweet sister.

— Gaston
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1940)
	Letter to Evrien
Evrien,

You soulless, gold-gouging son of a horker! When I see you next, surround yourself with bodyguards or I'll strangle you and let the Bloody Hands feast on your remains.

Tripling your transport fees is outrageous. Our present need forces me to pay, as you well know. But when order is restored to Cyrodiil, I'll take these ill-gotten gains out of your hide.

I don't know whether to hope you make it here safely or that the Goblins kill you. Either would give me satisfaction.

— Ufgra gra-Gum
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1941)
	Academy's Rejection Letter
Scholar Oppius,

Once again you repeat your assertions that Goblins have domesticated creatures of several species, including spiders and kwama. And once again I must inform you that the academy's journal will publish no papers making such outlandish claims without conclusive proof.

You offer no proof for the excellent reason that none exists. Goblins are not intelligent enough to be domesticated themselves, let alone to domesticate other species. Your premise is ridiculous, your reasoning is flimsy, and your conclusions are insupportable.

The more unlikely one's thesis, the stronger one's proof must be to overcome disbelief. Offering no proof for an assertion as controversial as yours invites ridicule. And I am delighted to provide it.

Do not waste my time with any further submissions except in the improbable event that you obtain conclusive proof of your claims. Even then, a witness credible to the academy must swear to the veracity of your paper and must be willing to co-author it.

I do not expect to hear from you again. I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors as a charlatan.

Felicitas Mallicius

Editor-in-Chief

Species and Speculation Journal
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#1942)
	Captain Izard's Orders
Rangers,

I trust you refrained from opening these orders until after passing Fort Ash. Your mission is to travel to far southeastern Cyrodiil, deep into enemy territory. There, somewhere south of Drakelowe Keep, is a natural cavern know to the locals as Newt Cave. 

A previous scout team sent back a report before entering the cave, telling of rumors that great treasure waited within. This team has not been heard from again. You are to discover what happened to them and recover any treasure inside the cave.

Remember, you volunteered for this.

— Captain Izard
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1943)
	Orders for Athal
Athal,

You get the hardest job. Head toward Cheydinhal. Don't go anywhere near the town for now. Find a cave or ruins and make a strong base. Stay hidden. After Claudette and Zandur have completed their tasks, we'll move against Cheydinhal.

That's all you do for now. Wait for my signal.

Hegris
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1944)
	The Faceless
He calls my name at night, when the others are quiet.

I serve him. I bring him sacrifices. Only then does he cease calling, for a time. But never for long.

They are easy to convince, greed drives them. "Come with me, to Vahtacen," I whisper. "Treasure lies there, for the bold to take. A king's treasure, riches of the ancient Ayleids." By twos, threes, more, they follow me down to the lake and into the catacombs. To Vahtacen, to Vahtacen. But only I return.

He spares me, bids his minions let me pass, because of the lives I bring to him. So long as I lead hot blood to his altar, I live. But there must always be more.

Come with me, to Vahtacen.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1945)
	Chronicles of Ehtelar, Vol. 2
Ehtelar awoke in darkness, faint rivulets of falling sand powdering her brow. Memories of her short battle in the ruins above flashed through her mind. 

Rahad, the Redguard merchant who had accompanied her into the desert, was dead, taken unaware in the ruins above. His sword lay buried in the skull of the creature that did him in.

She remembered the sickening crunch it had made as steel met skull, the hideous scraping vibration in her arm as she drove it home. Then the ground had opened up, devouring the world to send her tumbling into the abyssal void below.

How far had she fallen, and for how long? Sand, then stars had accompanied her fall before the deepest darkness had swallowed her up, but she had no memory of landing.

Deprived of sight, she felt around her to gather what she could of her surroundings. While her arms were free, her legs felt leaden under the sand that covered them and she immediately began excavating herself.

As she worked, the metallic tang of blood filled the air. Feeling her leg, she felt the warm grating wet that could only be sand in clotting blood.

Cursing under her breath, she undid her belt and cinched its cold leather just above the gouge in her calf. Feeling her way in the dark, she tore several strips of fabric from her tunic, winding it surely about the wound.

If it held, her handiwork would stop the bleeding, but she had no potions to stave off infection. She would need to find a way back to her caravan soon.

Still blinded by the depthless shadow around her, she exhumed her other leg and began feeling in her pack for a token Rahad had given her.

"Nights in the waste are deeper than Satakal's belly," he'd said. "When you lose yourself, pray to Tall Papa. He will show you the way."

Her fingers closed about the tiny coin. Pulling it from its hiding place, she closed her eyes and mouthed, "Ruptga." Eyelids flushing coral from the sudden light, she opened them to survey the cavern sprawling out before her.

Heavy stone blocks, shattered from the fall, lay in shards all around her. Further out, enormous pillars reached like trees up into darkness, casting long shadows out into the black.

Looking up, her breath caught in her throat as the bright eyes and maw of the lamia gaped out at her from the dark. Though unmoving, Rahad's sword still embedded in its skull, it was half a hundred heartbeats before she could look away.

Still recovering from the shock, she resumed her search and found several long, hooked spears scattered about the sand. Taking one up, she grabbed hold of her pack and slid down the lonely dune.

Boots met stone and she braced her spear against one of the mighty pillars. Using it to steady herself, she stood upright.

She took a moment to test her wounded leg. When it became clear it would not fail her, she gathered up her pack, dusted herself off, and struck out into the darkness.

In the deep quiet, muffled by the vast expanse of nothing reaching out around her, her passage was marked only by a steady staccato of steel on stone.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1946)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 2
Once again, I, Lyris of Skyrim, commit words to paper on behalf of the Prophet. In truth, he didn't ask me to write this entry, but I feel the need to keep a record of these events, whatever their outcome may be. 

The Prophet's visions and nightmares are getting worse. He continues to witness horrifying visions of a future in which Molag Bal rules our world. These don't seem to have a profound effect on him when he is awake, but at night, in those precious few hours where he manages to drift off, the visions become increasingly disturbing. He refuses to describe them to me in great detail, but he awakens violently, in a cold sweat, and it's obvious that they are wearing away at his sanity.

Our ally, <<1>>, has already proven extremely capable. The escape from the Wailing Prison was only the beginning. The Vestige risked everything to rescue me from the Foundry of Woe. I owe our new friend my life, my soul, and perhaps my very sanity.

We're now chasing every available lead in our attempts to find Sai Sahan and the Amulet of Kings. If we can regain the amulet, the Prophet believes that we might be able to challenge Molag Bal and save our world. As usual, he used a bunch of flowery words and obscure phrases I didn't understand, but his general meaning was clear.

Sometimes I wish I'd never left Skyrim and gone to Cyrodiil. I fought for a great man that I believed in, met another that I came to cherish dearly, and had my share of blood and glory, but was it all worth it? Cyrodiil will always be the place where I first laid eyes on that traitorous skeever Mannimarco and his sniveling toady Abnur Tharn. I don't know which is worse, Mannimarco's charm and eloquence as he prepared to backstab us, or Tharn's endless insults and irritating condescension. At least with Tharn we always knew where we stood.

The Prophet said that Tharn's part in this isn't finished. I can't imagine any good coming of that. After all, that sniveling son of a goat went right back to licking Mannimarco's boot after the Soulburst. He'd do anything to save his own hide and preserve his family's status in the Imperial City! 

I must bring this entry to a close. I hear the Prophet stirring.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1947)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 3
Well, there it is. Tharn's back with us, and I don't like it one bit.

<<1>> and I managed to get into Mannimarco's castle with a little help from our soul shriven friend Sir Cadwell. Cadwell's like a wisp—a little "light in the upper marsh," if you get my meaning—but he can be damned useful at times. And he shows up in the damnedest places! 

While we risked our necks fighting through Worm Cultists and Flesh Atronachs, Tharn projected his smirking image to different parts of the castle, goading us on. We eventually got to the tower where he was being held, but Mannimarco was ready for us, and raised all manner of undead to challenge us. In the end we defeated them and escaped with Tharn, but here's the topper: Tharn lied to us! He has no idea where Sai is being held, or where the Amulet of Kings is hidden!  

Of course, he claims he can help us find both, but when he admitted his lie, I lost my temper and laid him out on the floor with a single punch. Gods, it felt good! That was a long time coming. 

That's when Tharn spilled the beans. He told <<1>> that we'd been lying, and revealed the Prophet's true identity. Lord Varen immediately admitted everything, of course. I hope it wasn't too soon. It's vital that we maintain <<1>>'s trust, and now I can see doubt behind the Vestige's eyes.

Tharn is such a lying skeever! All he cares about is his Empire and his family's status. Lord Varen believes Tharn's here for a reason, but I don't trust him and I never will. I plan to keep a close eye on him.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1948)
	Letter to Reezal-Jul
General Reezal-Jul,

Orlozag will get you more people. I promised you resources and I will not go back on my word, But you had better be right about these creatures you can create. You promised me an army of obedient, strong servants and I expect you to deliver. If not, we can always create more bloodfiends.

In the meantime, hold the upper city. When the time is right, bring in reinforcements and push forward. Take the whole city. Use the old Fevered Mews as a staging ground. You can open a portal there and I'll send troops through, out of sight of the Shornhelm Guard. Then we can launch a surprise attack and all of Shornhelm will be mine!

And remember, use the powers we have been given. Your creations are well and fine, but employ our blessed gift to create more vampires and bloodfiends whenever the opportunity arises.

I am sure that Dorell and Tamrith will dither for days before making a decision, which gives us plenty of time. I look forward to hearing them beg for their worthless lives.

— Baron Montclair
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#1949)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 4
I am Grand Chancellor Abnur Tharn, Overlord of Nibenay, the head of the Elder Council, advisor to emperors and kings for one hundred and seventeen of the one hundred and sixty-four years that I have been alive. I did not come by my position of influence through luck or nepotism, but rather through extreme discipline, ambition, and cunning. And yet, here I am, conspiring with idiots and fools in a musty hole in the ground. How the mighty have fallen.

The year is 2E 582, but I am unsure of the precise date. I've lost track, given the gravity of the monumental task that is before us. After reading the previous entries in this chronicle, I felt it necessary to offer my side of the story, so that I am not misrepresented by future historians.

We Tharns have held positions of power throughout Cyrodiil since the days of the Potentate. We are prized for our loyalty to the Empire, our deft political machinations, and our ruthless subjugation or elimination of dissenters within Imperial territories. What we do is grim work, but it is necessary if the Empire is to endure.

Do I sound boastful and egotistical? Perhaps I am. But I shall put these words to paper so that you, the reader, might understand my views and my actions and their place in the long view of history. 

For nearly thirty years I advised the savage men of the Reach, from Durcorach to Leovic, as their long, brutish dynasty ravaged the Empire. They lasted longer than many of the would-be conquerors that came before them, but their alien nature and low heritage made them unfit to stand in the presence of the true-blooded sons of Colovia or Nibenay. Their most grave insult came when Leovic, youngest of their line, sought the hand of my sixteenth daughter, Clivia, in marraige, that she might rule with him as Empress. Like his grandfather before him, who married Veraxia Tharn, Leovic hoped that our family's connections and pure Nibenese bloodline would somehow legitimize his claim to the Ruby Throne. It was an exercise in futility, and it exasperated me to no end.

So, when Varen Aquilarios, the son of a Colovian Duke and a powerful military leader in his own right, contacted me in secret and sought my assistance to depose those foul strangers from the north, I eagerly agreed. The war was long and bloody, but armed with my knowledge of the Imperial City, Varen eventually led his army of rebels to the palace gates. Varen drove his sword into Leovic's black-blooded heart and watched him die, choking on his own life blood, at the foot of the Ruby Throne, and immediately declared himself to be Emperor. For my loyalty and assistance, he agreed to take my daughter Clivia as his bride. 

After Varen's betrayal at Mannimarco's hand, it pained me to hand the reins of the Empire over to another outlander, but The King of Worms is a dangerous enemy. To insure the dominance of necromancy over all other forms of magic, Mannimarco immediately cast the Mages Guild out of the Imperial City, then had all remaining dissenters arrested as enemies of the state. I did not wish for my name to appear on that very long list—which only grew shorter when the executions began—so I pledged my loyalty. In return, I was granted stewardship of the Imperial City. My daughter Clivia, still the Empress-Regent, became the titular ruler of the Empire. But Mannimarco remained the power behind the throne.

Of course, Mannimarco turned on me the moment my usefulness was expended. I was marginalized and cloistered away in a tower of bones, and my daughter was turned against me, lured by Mannimarco's promise to teach her the dark arts that would give her mastery over life and death. 

But know this, dear reader. I will take the Empire back. I will restore order out of chaos. That is my only ambition, and my ultimate desire. I will strike down any who stand in my way with all the fires of Daedric sorcery I can command, and those who dare to thwart me shall be damned to the pits of Oblivion for all eternity.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1950)
	Reply from Reezal-Jul
Baron Montclair,

I'm sorry you couldn't stay to see the end of this, but Shornhelm will soon be ours. I am following your orders to the letter. The upper city is under our control, the Shornhelm Guard is scattered, and soon the portal will be ready. We will be able to ferry more Montclair troops in, under their very noses!

I continue to use our blessed gift, turning more and more people into vampires. But, as you have no doubt observed, the process is often extremely accelerated. For every vampire I create to join our forces, I wind up with a dozen or more mindless bloodfiends. Not that these don't also serve a purpose, but even so.

Have you considered my request? I know that my work—my side project, as you call it—will benefit you. Imagine, your glorious army bolstered by unstoppable creatures of necromantic design. I have already had some success, and I know I am on the right path.  

And after we take control of Rivenspire, we can turn our attention to the south. We can succeed where Ranser failed. I just need more time. And more resources. 

 

— General Reezal-Jul
		

Failed at /books/1951		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#1952)
	Supplies for the Delve
Zetisha, you mangy housecat. I've got the paper here, you signed it, and I'm holding you to it!

And I quote: "Zetisha and Kuna hereby enter into a contract of supplies for the mine known as Kuna's Delve due south of Arenthia. Weekly supply runs for the mining concern known as Kuna's Delve will consist of the following sundry items …" and then, further down the contract, "I hereby sign …" and your name.

Don't make me get your Clanmother involved. If I don't hear from my miners that supplies have shown up by the end of next week, I'm talking to Kazirra. And after her, I'll talk to the Dawnmead. I'm sure they'd love another "protection contract," and your place is just so … flammable.

— Kuna
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#1953)
	Thibaut's Cairn and its History
By Charonius of Sutch

Reaper's March has a long and bloody history. Its denizens have had ample need for a place to bury their dead. For the most respected, the rich, the powerful, that final resting place has often been the crypt known as Thibaut's Cairn. 

Located southwest of the village now called Greenhill, the old Colovian crypt and the nearby village once shared a name. But … we're getting ahead of ourselves.

The Cairn is named for its most noted "guest," the famed Thibault of Kvatch. Thibault was a general of Colovia, and in his time some hundreds of years ago he was one of the anchor points for the Hastrel Cohort. 

Those brave souls rode forth at the vanguard south, beside their comrades in the Linchal and Ontus cohorts. The purpose of their ride has been forgotten, just one of the numerous sorties into the March the Colovian kingdoms have attempted over the years.

Their ride would have been lost forever to the mists of time, if not for the unique relationship Thibault had with his cohort. Riding at his side south from the Kingdom of Kvatch was his wife Tertcia. Below Thibault in the command structure of his cohort were his children, though the number he had in place has now been lost to time. The members of his cohort owed him personal allegiance to a degree not often seen in modern Colovian cohorts. It's said when Thibault rode, even the nightsoil men of his township rode with him.

The details of Thibault's death, too, have been lost to us … but the impact of his death is still easy to see if you travel south of Arenthia in the Northern Woods. While the Linchal and Ontus cohorts rode back north, returning to home soil, the men and women of Hastrel cohort stayed and put down roots. 

Tertcia's need to see her husband's legacy built was the motive for staying. The tales of her manipulations can be found in numerous other tomes, no doubt. Suffice it to say that she played the Wood Elves against the Khajiit and the Khajiit against the Wood Elves in a masterful dance. The result? A complex of crypts and an entire village, once known simply as "Thibault's Rest".

Now, the history of that little town is an interesting tale as well …
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#1954)
	Wanted: Nimriian the Longfang
Let all who read of this notice be advised: the Lunar Clergy have set a bounty upon the head of the woman known as "Nimriian" or "the Longfang." This blackhearted cult mistress has been culling the impressionable youth of the back country for the last year, and is now believed to be operating her cult and bandit gang in Reaper's March.

The cult follows the teachings of Hircine, and are known lycanthropes, or werewolves. They view Hircine's Curse as a blessing, and are attempting to spread it among the people of the March.

If you seek her to claim the bounty, look to the Weeping Wind caves east of Willowgrove. The people of that village have been warned to stay indoors at night. And, reader, you too should beware.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1955)
	Hizrabi's Report
Captain,

As you asked, I've taken a closer look at the old ruin north of Do'Krin Monastery. The lunar clergy has some kind of "proper" name for it, but the local commoners just call it Claw's Strike. Why is it called that, anyway? Didn't your sister say something about an old battle with the Wood Elves? 

Anyway, I took some of the men and made a scouting run. Your sources were correct—there's a sizeable gang of smugglers operating out of the ruin. They're organized, too: they have scouts posted at the door, and Zirri saw some carts stacked with moon-sugar product. 

We'll need to proceed carefully. Who knows who's backing them?

— Hizrabi-do
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#1956)
	End of My Patience
I've been pleasant enough with those thugs, haven't I? They sent along that gold, the skooma, made themselves out to be good neightbors? Lies! All lies, meant to lull us into complacency.

Start letting the word out: Krin Ren-dro is paying top dollar for the head Colovian Raider holed up in Fardir's Folly. It's an old Ayleid ruin all the way north, along the border with Cyrodiil. 

I don't know what his name is, but all of them are deserters from that Colovian force in the Northern Woods. Let the men know, tell Hadran, spread the word in Rawl'kha. Nobody muscles in on my territory and lives to tell the tale!

— Ren-dro
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#1957)
	Call to the Faithful
Those who revere the light of the Moons! Take heart and hear the words of the lunar clergy. Our research has confirmed the sites of several ruins dating back to the days of the oldest Manes. 

— Ja'zennji Siir, or "Jode's Light" in Reaper's March: north of the modern town of S'ren-ja

— Zennrili Keep, near the center of the bend in Topal Bay

— Shaasanath Point, at the mouth of the Xylo River

It is our hope they may once again sing with moonlight. For those with a stout heart and a strong arm, know of these ruin sites and make of them what you can. Perhaps one day the faithful shall shout your name in the halls of the lunar faith!

Bright Moons hang above us all!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1958)
	The Reachmen are Coming!
Medya said that we shouldn't worry, that we had an old family. She said that they—the Reachmen!—are coming here.

She came from the shoreline east of here when I saw her, covered in blood! Leave while you can, I will meet you in Evermore.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1959)
	We Will Be Spared
We will be spared the disaster to come, trueborn and native of this land as our family is!

Stop trying to spy on Medya at night when she goes behind our home, or she may change her mind.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#1960)
	A Request for Relief
My dear Exchequer,

I once again implore you to revisit the levy that has been placed upon myself for this year. I admit that I am a licensed enchanter residing inside the Imperial City. But circumstances have changed, and the business that was once profitable, is now just a drain on my income. 

A few years ago, enchanters would take the physical object to be enchanted and, using various ingredients and tools, imbue the object with the necessary mystical powers. Because of this, enchanters only competed with other enchanters who resided in the same city, since most people did not want to carry a sword hundreds of leagues to another enchanter just to save a few gold drakes. Prices for the city could be set at a friendly meeting of three or four enchanters, and a fine profit could be made. As the right of the crown, a hefty levy for allowing us to operate in the city could be assessed.

But now this has all changed. Enchanters now just make a glyph with the desired effect trapped within it. A glyph is just a simple gem that anyone can attach to the pommel of a sword or on a piece of armor. Once attached the magic in the glyph then flows into the item. 

Seems simple, doesn't it? Well, this has caused a collapse of the market. Instead of the price for an enchantment being set on a city-by-city basis, all of the enchanters of Tamriel have to compete with each other. A hedge enchanter in Daggerfall can make ten fire glyphs and sell them to a traveling merchant, who brings them to the Imperial City and sells them in the marketplace, at a price much below the price set by the Cyrodilic enchanters. 

All this competition means that I now make just a few gold over the cost my materials. And this profit does not cover the levy your office places on me.

Unless your office stops the importation of foreign manufactured glyphs, you must reduce the levy to allow me to stay in business. I will be forced to sell my home of twenty years and take up another profession, perhaps tutoring some merchant's son. 

Eagerly waiting your response, 

Defessus Magister
		

Failed at /books/1961		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#1962)
	Regarding the "Fists of Thalmor"
Confidential Diplomatic Missive: Thalmor Eyes Only

Deliver Only To: Aicantar, Sapiarch of Indoctrination, Crystal Tower, Alinor

Your Sapience, 

In retrospect, I am of the opinion that titling a para-military unit the "Fists of Thalmor" has been an error of nomenclature. Though accurate as to the function of said unit, in the local vernacular the title has been shortened to simply "Thalmor," which inaccurately conflates our diplomatic corps with the Dominion military. Furthermore, inasmuch as the Fists, in pursuit of their enforcement duties, may occasionally exert more force than some might think necessary, this taints the Thalmor with a perception that our agents are heavy-handed thugs. Needless to say, this doesn't help when negotiating for aid from the local indigenes. 

In future, I think we would be wise to return to referring to our enforcement units as "Justiciars," even if it does make our Khajiiti citizens disinclined to join because it sounds so stuffy. 

Yours in Diplomacy, 

Canonreeve Falduil
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1963)
	The Seven Shadows of Rajhin, Pt. 1
The Greymanes say the light of both sun and moons shines down upon all the peoples of Nirn equally, but what happens after may not be so clear.

Take the legend of the Seven Shadows of Rajhin. As every cub knows, Rajhin the Purring Liar, the Trickster God, and the Cat Who Walks cares little for stuffy aphorisms. He lives to challenge limits and stretch more than just the truth. To him, one shadow proved too few for his purposes ….

For one day, Rajhin found himself walking in the hot sun. He called out to Khenarthi to blow a breeze through his mane, but the Wind God was otherwise occupied. Rajhin then asked Alkosh to shorten the day and bring cool night. But Alkosh did not steal away the day at the Thief-God's word. None of Rajhin's further appeals brought relief, and so the trickster was left to his own devices.

In time, Rajhin came upon a wealthy merchant in the shade of a tall stone. "My friend," Rajhin said, "kindly share your resting place with this unfortunate one."

But the merchant growled, "There is no room, wanderer. The stone's shade is large enough for one, but not two!"

Rajhin saw the truth in this statement, rude as it was, and did not argue. Instead, he purred, "Did you drop a bag of gold along the path? For this one passed such a treasure not a moment ago."

The merchant's frown turned to surprise. In a moment, the fat one struggled to his feet. "Why, I must have! Pray, tell me where you saw it and I shall leave my shady stone to you!"

Rajhin directed the greedy trader down the path whence he had come and the man hurried off. But as he went, the trickster saw the fat merchant's shadow easily dwarfed that of the stone.

"Why should I settle for the egg when the hen stands before me?" Rajhin mused. With a flick of a hidden knife, the thief-god cut the fat merchant's shadow away so cleanly that the greedy man didn't even notice.

Within moments, he tied the shadow's feet to his own and it spread out before him, opposite his own shadow. This cooled the Trickster God hid him from the burning sun.

Laughing, Rajhin continued down the road, his two shadows dancing before and behind him.
		

Failed at /books/1964Failed at /books/1965		Part of the Research Notes collection (#1966)
	Notes on Klathzgar's Schematics
Translating everything in this ancient Dwemer workbook would take a lifetime, but after scrutinizing each page, I have discovered some tantalizing clues. It seems Klathzgar was building a very special centurion as a gift, or something similar. Of greatest interest is the name "Uurthehnchenthyalft," which would roughly translate to "Urenenya." This means I have definitely come to the right place!

Distressingly, however, the brazen automatons of Klathzgar's workshop, which were initially quiescent, have begun to twitch and quiver. Some of their crystalline studs are glowing as well, and their armatures occasionally emit puffs of steam. If I were not an Altmer of proud and impeccable lineage, I would admit to some anxiety.

— Pelorrah
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1967)
	Princess Urenenya's Letter
Translated by Pelorrah, Assistant Sapiarch of Altmeri Heritage, Cloudrest Annex

"My Beloved Klathzgar,

"Of my affections, be confident they are in no degree diminished. My father's demands for my bethrothal I have refused and thereby suffered greatly, kept apart as I was from my truest love. But alas, the illness of which I had written before grows ever worse, and I feel my life ebbing away. I have determined that I shall visit you for our farewells to be spoken, but in honor I must return to Silaseli thereafter. Sweet intentions though you have, I beseech you to abandon your designs to perpetuate my existence through mechanical embodiment. It is you I love, my ardent engineer, not your automata.

"Urenenya"
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#1968)
	The Legend of Dame Marcelle
By Seneschal Derric Andras of Castle Evermore

House Dorell produced many notable personages throughout the centuries—mages and warriors, scholars and merchant lords—all dedicated to making the noble house strong and powerful. Of all Dorell's many sons and daughters, none shines as brightly as Dame Marcelle Stenric, the Knight of Shornhelm.

Dame Marcelle was a mighty warrior, brave and pure. She was a model of knightly perfection, a niece and loyal supporter of Lord Aaric Dorell. Her exploits were legendary, even in her own day, as she defended Dorell holdings, battled brigands and monsters, and even negotiated treaties with neighboring domains.

When a terrible troll shambled out of the hills to threaten Shornhelm, Marcelle was there to challenge the foul creature. For a day and an hour, the two engaged in a violent dance that knocked down trees and leveled farm houses. As the battle wore on, both combatants were bloody and weary. It seemed like the fight would end when one of them fell over from sheer exhaustion. But then Marcelle called on an inner reserve. She severed the troll's head with one powerful swing of her sword, Dauntless. And all of Shornhelm cheered.

Another tale tells of the time of the Great Feud, when Berenda of Tamrith and Ailex of Dorell (who was Lord Aaric's younger brother) engaged in an exchange of insults, each more terrible than the last. Insults turned to violence, and the two houses came close to the brink of war. At the height of the feud, Lord Aaric's son Lanciot was taken captive by brigands loyal to House Tamrith. These brigands were members of the mighty Hammers of Umbrage, notorious for terrorizing travelers on the roads of Rivenspire until they were given letters of reprisal for pledging loyalty to the Tamrith lords.

Dame Marcelle, when she heard the fate that had befallen young Lanciot, never hesitated. She tracked the brigands to an isolated tower in the wilderness outside Crestshade and quickly took stock of the situation. A dozen brigands guarded young Lanciot, who was imprisoned at the top of the tower. Confident that the Dorell scion was safe and out of harm's way, Marcelle boldly strode into the brigands' camp and announced her presence. Just hearing her name was enough to rattle many of the brigands. Five of them dropped their weapons and fled as soon as they realized who she was. But that still left seven of the Hammers to deal with, including their leader, Rhyne Succoth.

Brave Marcelle carried Dauntless with her, and she was confident the Divines were behind her. Brigands fell with every swing of her mighty sword, until only she and Rhyne remained standing. Seeking a way to get the upper hand, the brigand leader grabbed young Lanciot and held him between his own body and Marcelle's sword. Dorell's most shiny knight smiled. It was hard, humorless. "Release the boy and you get to live," Marcelle said coldly. "Otherwise, you die on the count of three."

"Save your threat—" Rhyne began. But his words were cut as short as his life.

"Three," Marcelle called out. Dauntless flashed. Rhyne's eyes went wide. The brigand leader was dead before his body hit the ground.

"Next time you feel the need to travel, young Lanciot," Dame Marcelle said, a measure of warmth returning to her smile, "please let me know and I shall gladly accompany you."

And these were only two of the tales that helped create the legend of Dame Marcelle.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1969)
	Note from a Bottle
Drawn to the eagle on my bottle, were you?

Perhaps you appreciate the Eagle, and would help it soar. Perhaps you will meet me and help the Queen's eyes see true. The eagle's eyes watch the main road into this den of iniquity.

Perhaps I've had too much Gossamer Tawny Port and should stop making obscure metaphors.

Anyway, find me if you can decipher this.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1970)
	Sagabar's Orders
Sagabar,

I have the miller's horse and cart ready to go as soon as we have what we came for. As long as no one tries to be a hero, we should be in the clear. Tell Bulzog to keep the hostages at the old mill south of town. If he doesn't hear from us by midnight, he can start slitting their throats. Since the miller's given us so much trouble, Bulzog can kill his daughter either way. But when we send word that we're clear of town, he should release the mayor's wife and the jeweler's son and then meet us back at camp.

— Leonce
		

Failed at /books/1971Failed at /books/1972		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1973)
	I Saw Him Again Tonight
I saw him again tonight. He was across the stream, but the waters only reflected the moon above us. We walked, with the babbling waters between us, but it was as if we were walking side-by-side. 

Why does someone I've only seen and never touched excite me so much? Why do I spend all day longing for nightfall, for another tantalizing glimpse of this pale stranger?

My husband is a plain man, an honest man. Good for putting bread on the table and keeping me warm and comfortable. He doesn't suspect anything of my nocturnal activities. Still, I hate lying to him.

I don't know what to do. Who ever thought I'd find myself in this situation?
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1974)
	Tonight Was the Night
Tonight was the night, and it was as amazing as I had imagined it would be. It was inevitable, I suppose. Fate.

My handsome, pale stranger. We met. We touched. His hands were so cold. Deathly cold. For a moment, I almost pulled away. But only for a moment. Then I moved closer, drinking in his sunken cheeks, his pale complexion, his icy lips.

Were the shivers that cascaded down my spine from the cold, or from the perverse excitement he arouses in me?

All I know is that tonight confirmed what I've been trying to deny all this time: I belong to him.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1975)
	Tonight He Confessed
My handsome, pale lover! Tonight he confessed his true nature to me. I must admit I had my suspicions, but to hear him say the word sent shivers down my spine: Vampire!

He seemed so small when he said the word, so frightened. So very much alone. My heart went out to him, and my love grew by leaps and bounds at that very moment.

I took him in my arms and told him that I wasn't surprised. I had suspected the truth of his nature for quite some time, He seemed relieved. Painfully so. That's when he said the words I was hoping to hear. He asked me to join him for eternity.

Sadly, I didn't think of my husband at all. I didn't even hesitate. I just said, yes, oh yes, forever yes!
		

Failed at /books/1976		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1977)
	Matthiaume's Journal
Saint Ellenica's prayer book is here, but so too are the thrice-damned bandits. As if Rivenspire didn't have problems enough!

Even I am no match for swarms of bandits. I retreated here to tend my wounds and write these words. The bandits wait for me to die. I fear not, for I have Arkay's protection.

Saint Ellenica is buried here, somewhere. I can feel her presence. I hope it was all worth it.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1978)
	On Immortality
By Anonymous

There are many supposed paths to immortality, though few have been tested, and those that have been tried have just as often proved to be mere flights of fancy, fashionable cure-alls with no real effect besides the status they grant those able to acquire them.

It is rumored that several pools and springs throughout Tamriel can grant immortality. These places are often hidden in the most inaccessible and hard to reach places. Such places are rumored to exist deep in the swamps of Shadowfen, on the highest peaks of Rivenspire, and in an ancient glade of Malabal Tor. Explorers have sought out these places for centuries, and while many have returned with stories of their success, not one has yet thought to mark the locations on a map.

Among nobles of the First Era, drinking the honey of the Isgareth Bee of Auridon was said to grant limited immortality, though one needed to continue to eat the honey in order to maintain the effect. Some say this led directly to Isgareth Bee's extinction, as indiscriminate men destroyed whole hives in order to more quickly harvest the precious golden substance and sell it at a high price to the foolish and fashionable. Though it is also said that Altmeri kings and queens maintain a private hive.

Another means of achieving immortality is said to exist, but it has only been attempted by the most volatile and unstable. It's also forbidden, both by governments across Tamriel and by the Mages Guild. It's said to involve the binding of a Daedra through blood sacrifice. 

For so long as the Daedra can be held captive, life may be prolonged. It is unknown whether any who have attempted this method have been able to see it through to its end. It's more likely that the Daedra breaks loose and kills the attempter, or that the attempter destroys himself through his own madness.
		

Failed at /books/1979		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#1980)
	The Tale of Princess Anurraame
Princess Anurraame stepped out onto the balcony, the cold wind whipping her skirts around her legs. She peered upward toward the tower, hoping to see nothing at all … hoping the servant girl had lied to her. At first she could see nothing but darkness and no sign of movement. She sighed in relief and almost turned to leave, crossing her arms across herself to fend off the biting winds. 

But then the clouds parted and the light of the full moon illuminated the tower. Silhouetted against the moon she could see them clearly, her beloved and her sister locked in a passionate embrace.

She stood frozen, unable to move or even to breathe. As she watched her heart darkened and a single tear slid down her cheek.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1981)
	Iirdel's Journal
Known Blacksap Sympathizers:

—<<1>>, tall tree. (<<2>>'s husband)

—<<2>>, tall tree. (<<1>>'s wife)

—<<3>>, rarely leaves home.

—<<4>>, collector of fine furs.

—<<5>>, frequents the inn. Enjoys the drink.

—<<6>>, edge of town. Keeps to herself.

Any of the sympathizers should connect you to the remnants. Approach them and speak this week's phrase first:

—"The Falinesti peeper swims at night."

After they respond, check the weather. It should relate to :

—"Cloudless skies scare the peepers away."

—"Rainy skies bring all the peepers out."

—"Sunny skies keep the peepers in their cave."

The sympathizers spend a lot of time under the inn, near that old shrine. I've seen them change the color of the flames. The color will tell you the final response you need:

—"Once yellow, it grew jealous of its neighbors. I hear it stole the red skin."

—"Once green, it broke the Green Pact. Y'ffre's anger turned it red."

—"Once blue, it was forced to eat its own family. Its body is bathed in their blood."
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1982)
	Edweg's Resignation Note
What's a fingerbone going to do against hordes of undead? We have no chance; only fools hold out hope.

I'm heading for the nearest port and taking the first ship out. Don't try to follow me. I will not die in Arkay's cause.

—Edweg
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#1983)
	Tears of Anurraame
Once there was a shining city, Erokii, and its princess was the radiant Anurraame. She was considered the envy of all the Ayleid nobility for her beauty, grace, and wisdom were unsurpassed.

In time, she was married to the prince of a distant but great city. It was to be an alliance that spread across Tamriel. The prince was renowned for his martial prowess and stubborn honor, but he loved his new bride Anurraame dearly.

For a time, they were happy, or, at least, they seemed so. But as the years wiled away, Anurraame's husband was away more and more, and duty proved a poor substitute for passion. 

So it came to pass that Anurraame took a young champion of Erokii for a lover. Strong and gleaming with youthful light and energy, Anurraame's lover gave her what the old, distant prince could not—the thrill of infatuation and friendship.

Anurraame was careful at first to keep her affair a secret, lest she shame her husband. But caught up in passion's capricious winds, she became more and more reckless, and soon her dalliance was discovered.

Spurned and infuriated, Anurraame's husband arrayed his full army before Erokii and laid siege to the city. The princess vowed to face him with fortitude and called on her lover to muster his forces in defense of the city, which he promised he would.

But when the day of battle came, her lover's forces appeared beside her husband's. His undying passion had been subverted by coin.

Desperate and enraged at her lover's betrayal, Anurraame called on the Daedra for help destroying her enemies and defending her city. Mephala answered and commanded Anurraame to pour all her tears into a basin. Mephala then imbued the tears with the power of the princess's hatred for her traitorous lover, hatred which had formed from the potent seed of the princess's love.

The tears, so empowered, hardened into an artifact, the Tear of Anurraame. When the time of battle came, Anurraame took the artifact to the highest tower of the city and as the armies raged outside the city's walls, she unleashed its power, destroying the armies and the city in the flash of an eye.

All that remains of Erokii, and of Anurraame herself, is a ruined crypt, but there have been whispers throughout the ages that the Tear was not destroyed, and that it's waiting in the rubble, still to be found.
		

Failed at /books/1984Failed at /books/1985Failed at /books/1986		Part of the Final Words collection (#1987)
	Troll Socialization Research Notes
Entry One: It worked! By mimicking troll behavior and mannerisms, I have gained the trust of the trolls in Crestshade Mine. Though I'm still keeping a healthy distance, the trolls have seen me and have not attacked.

Entry Two: I've made great progress in my interaction with the trolls. I've moved deeper into the mine to better observe them and I can now walk freely among them. I was right. Trolls can be socialized. We might one day live in harmony with them.

Final Entry: I have finally won the confidence of the troll patriarch. Grimtooth. My work here is done. I wish you could have been here, Gothurg, but I'll see you soon in Shornhelm. I'm going to give Grimtooth a hug goodbye and then I'm on my way.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1988)
	Coded Rutter
PAKCUTEMAP

AMDNGOAEPT

AOTENCOTGH

UTENCOVTAP

WIETWNCPTN

QUEITOANCI

VIEHDLKSAG

VOEAITEQPE

CNAJDUTEOG

CORISAHRPC

ZXNXJEOTAK

ANDOTJXPZN
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#1989)
	Montclair Assassin's Orders
House Montclair thanks you for your service and for your patience in this matter. We know you will perform admirably once the targets are identified.

While we finish assembling the list of targets, stay close to the city. Further instructions will reach you shortly.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#1990)
	Rasaba's Note
How is it that I found an infiltrator among the ranks while you lot stood around like useless clots of clay? Were you lot too busy drinking or coming up with more ridiculous stories of past exploits? Did this hapless spy bribe you with sweet rolls? 

Perform better, or you'll get a surprise from me. And my surprises usually involve a sharp dagger, flung from a distance, and piercing your heart. You'll be dead before you can form a last thought. 

Bah! Why do I bother? I'm not even sure you idiots can read.

 

— Rasaba
		

Failed at /books/1991Failed at /books/1992		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1993)
	Yokudan "Hawk" Enigma
The hawk watches over sands without effort. But what watches over the hawk?
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1994)
	Yokudan "Man and Beast" Enigma
Sword and spell are useless. As it fells man and beast alike, and given time, the mountains themselves.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#1995)
	Yokudan "Mother and Son" Enigma
A mother gave the first gift to her son, and for the rest of his life did he keep it with him.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1996)
	Valamuur's Notes, Volume I
7th Evening Star 2E 291

Arandore believes he's found a solution.

If this works, we won't have to build Root Sunder—we can plant it, and direct its growth to our exact designs.

If this works, we'll have innovated the architectural technique of the Era.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1997)
	Valamuur's Notes, Volume II
6th Morning Star 2E 292

Arandore was right!

Manipulating the stone is a matter of casting an appropriate Conjuration spell. Construction of the city can begin in earnest.

8th Sun's Dawn

The wildlife in the jungle has grown nettled—perhaps understandably so, due to the work. We'll need to move faster. The sooner we complete colonization of this region, the better.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#1998)
	Valamuur's Notes, Volume III
2nd First Seed 2E 292

Arandore disappeared this morning. He's been prone to nocturnal tirades, lately—too much wine, I think—but I don't begrudge him the drink. The jungle wildlife has grown decidedly unpleasant over time, going so far as to attack our builders. I hope Arandore is safe.

7th Rain's Hand

Arandore is gone. More builders go missing with every passing week. Progress has slowed to a crawl. I'm the only conjurer left fit to work. Won't give up. For the sake of those vanished, I'll complete our work.

8th Second Seed

I'm all that's left of our venture, and I must be going mad. I could swear I saw Arandore this evening, standing amongst the vines. I called to him, if it was him, but he didn't seem to notice. I thought I saw him retreat to the lower chambers, among the first of Root Sunder that we built. There aren't any more attendants to send—there isn't anyone left. I'll have to investigate on my own.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#1999)
	Scrap of Storgh's Journal
Left <<1>> in <<2>>. Stupid Wood Elf finally did one thing right, stealing this bow. Wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I took it. Thinks I'm not smart. Thinks I can't outwit a tree-brain like him.

Locals say there's a treasure buried in this cave. But they avoid it because of the stranglers. Imagine that. Afraid of plants. Elves are so pathetic.

*****

Can't sleep. Keep hearing something coming from the cave. Singing? Or wailing? Hard to tell, Never had much of an ear for music. 

Sick of it. Don't need to wait for morning. I'm going in.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2000)
	Nedras' Journal
There's nothing left for me here. Sister and I have tried so hard to make a life, but <<1>> is getting sicker by the day. No one is willing to hire a "cannibal Elf" from the southern jungles. Damned idiots, everywhere. Giants with malformed ears and breath that stinks of cabbage. 

I keep promising <<1>> that it'll get better. That we'll be able to afford balm for her illness. I'm a liar. It's not going to get better. 

I have to leave her here in Northpoint, leave her to find the gold for her balm. I hate to do it. But by the Green I will not let my sister down!

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

I've only been with the Bitterhand a few days, but I've already earned more gold than I've seen in three months. I sent most of it back to <<1>> in Northpoint. Kept just enough to buy a decent blade.

I can't tell her how I came by the gold. All the blood on my hands would sicken her. What I've become would sicken her. But then, she was already sick. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

There are more soldiers out hunting for the Bitterhands every day. We barely escaped that last patrol. I'm going to die. I know it. I can tell the way the others look at me, they know I don't have the training, the stomach for this.

I love her so much. I wish I could have seen her again. I wish it didn't have to be this way. However I end up in the ground, I'll die knowing I took care of my family. My <<1>>.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2001)
	Klaandor's Journal
The blood-curse burning through my body matters not. Nor do I regret my coming demise. I regret only that I will never see <<1>> again. At least, I pray I never see her again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As my will weakens, I think back. Of all the sights I've seen, none are lovelier than <<1>>. I have been hers since that night in Shornhelm.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I will never return to Rivenspire. Not in this life and I hope not in my next. None should pity me. I have lived my life and known a true love like few ever do. It will forever warm me. I hope that <<1>> also finds comfort in that thought.

The blood-curse has almost claimed me. The flesh of my companions is a struggle to resist. Perhaps I can resist long enough to meet my beloved one last time, near our well in Shornhelm.

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is time. I will go no closer to Shornhelm. I pray someone slays me soon. To the one who does and reads this journal, I thank you. You saved me from visiting a fate worse than death upon my beloved <<1>>.

I have one last request. Take these words and the amulet I place in these pages to <<1>> in Shornhelm. It will break her heart, but she deserves to know.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2002)
	Yenadar's Journal
This place is everything that I had hoped it would be. These ruins are the perfect place to contemplate the light of Jone and Jode. Their cooling rays slice through the crack in the ceiling. They fill me with calm, with peace. The stonework is magnificent and I can feel the pulse of our ancestors in this ancient place. This will be the perfect place for my retreat and meditations—far removed from the distractions of S'ren-ja.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I have made my camp, here in the innermost sanctum of this holy place. The bones of our ancestors still lie in state, though some lie in the most peculiar positions. Though I first came here to remove myself from civilization, I find myself drawn to the mystery of this place. Who were these people and how did they die? I must tell my sister, Kala, about this place when I return. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I found meditation to be increasingly difficult today so I set about exploring. I discovered an interesting document that speaks a little to those who lived here but not much more. I keep expecting some revelation with every turned stone, and in fact I could swear I have heard or perhaps felt something at the edge of consciousness. Are the ancient ones trying to make contact with me?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Last night, each time I started to drift to sleep, I kept thinking I could hear a voice or voices whispering in the darkness. I got precious little sleep as a result. I think I will rest here at camp today. Maybe I will explore more tomorrow. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is someone or something here. I can feel it all around me. I can hear it whispering to me …  whispers in the darkness. Part of me says that I should leave this place, but I must know … I must know what it is trying to say to me. If only I could understand the words … It's here again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The darkness grows within me. I have been chosen for a sacred duty. I just wish … my dear Kala. My dear sister. I wish I could see you again in sweet S'ren-ja. I know I can hold this thing here, in the depths. But I shall miss you.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2003)
	Lady Laurent's Qharroa Notes
Stibbons has returned with some much-needed supplies, and a guide to the local desert and beyond. I am loath to leave the future of my research in the hands of hired help, but such are the times!

My desert guide professes to know much about Yokudan culture, and yet is ignorant about the post-Schism resurgence of the"Whimsical Dalliers"! Honestly, it is hard to find good help these days.

I've found a curious inscription in one of the old ruins. It suggests a unique combination of certain alchemical reagents: I wrote it all down somewhere. I'm sure Stibbons will know where I put it. Think of it—a forgotten recipe from an ancient race! Archeology can be so gratifying.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2004)
	King Ranser's Tirade
I may have lost Shornhelm, but this war is far from over! The damnable Emeric is overconfident. He will make a mistake, and my brilliance will leap to take advantage of every misstep and stumble along the way.

Retreating—no, strike that! King Ranser doesn't retreat!

My strategic occupation of this tor shall be remembered as the most important military victory in Rivenspire's history. Let them throw all the Orcs they have at me. This tor will stand forever! I shall win this war!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2005)
	Malofar's Journal
We found it! Just where the map described it. The legends say that a group of giants came to this land long ago and settled in these caverns. It is the perfect place for me to continue my research and experiments!

To think that those fools in Skyrim were frightened by my work. How dare that milk-drinking thane banish me! But there were too many of them. My clan had no choice but to pack up our belongings and set out for this desolate location. Luckily, that was exactly what I hoped would happen. It put me closer to not only this sacred cavern, but it put the Emerald Chalice finally within my grasp.

The Emerald Chalice has served me better than I had hoped. Its magic worked exactly as I expected but I was unsure of whether or not my modifications would take hold. With the cup's magic, I have transformed my entire clan into Goblins. (Serves them right for complaining about me getting them driven out of Skyrim.) And with only a few modifications to the cup's magic, they are now fanatically loyal to me, as well. 

I secured this inner sanctum with an ancient Nord rite of protective ice. My loyal Goblins believe that the runestone keys are powerful relics to be worshiped and protected. No one will be able to wrest them from their hands! Thanks to the Goblins and the magical barrier, I finally have a safe place to conduct my research. And soon, I will have my revenge on those fools back in Skyrim.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2006)
	Barrowton's Journal
Every exploration I undertake is simply more fascinating that the one before. Take this series of caves, for example. The place is called Breagha-Fin, and the legends surrounding the place are simply—well—fascinating!

Most of the legends describe the cavern as home to a race of giants that migrated here from the harsh and unforgiving Skyrim wilderness. Of course, no giants are found in the region today, so I'm not sure how much to believe these stories. The place is certainly full of giant accouterments, though.

The bones of massive mammoths, including skulls topped with great horns, adorn the walls of the cavern. Since such creatures have never been known to roam the Rivenspire wilderness, the presence of their bones lends some credence to the tales of sojourners from the frigid wastes of Skyrim, though.

***

As I write these words, I am listening to sounds coming from the entrance to the caves. Could it be bandits? A wild animal, perhaps? I sincerely hope it's just some traveler, looking for shelter from the wind and rain. Either way, I had better go see what's going on.

***

Nords! There are Nords in Rivenspire and they're moving into Breagha-Fin! Should I talk to them? Try to reason with them and convince them to let me leave? Or should I try to find a place to hide and hope they move on? Perhaps that sealed chamber I found on the second level will offer some level of protection. Yes, that's where I shall hide, and hope for the best.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2007)
	Jofnir's Journal
I've done all I can. For now, I've salvaged what I could of the situation. Took a few relics as trophies. I should be back out in the light soon enough.

I can put these lessons to good use the next time I visit Ragnthar. The Dwemer constructs will set watch, keep the place safe. I don't want any visitors. The next time we meet, I'm going to end this. I can't let this go on any longer.

I'll stop in at the Baandari Trading Post. See if I can't get a few supplies for the next trip. Maybe some mead. It's been far too long since I had a decent brew.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2008)
	The Strange Case of Ragnthar
by Guylaine Marilie

Foreword

Ragnthar is a mystery within a mystery. Modern scholars agree: there's just no reason for Ragnthar to exist in the strange way it does. And that is about all scholars can agree upon when it comes to the strange case of the Ragnthar ruins. 

Even laypeople know that the Dwemer, or Dwarves as they're more commonly known, vanished from the face of Tamriel. The reasons or cause behind their disappearance are a matter of much speculation … a subject for numerous other texts.

What is not in dispute is what they left behind: numerous ruins, some still patrolled by their unique metal constructs. Exploring a Dwarven ruin is seen in many research and adventuring circles as a rite of passage, as even the most well-trod ruin might still contain dangers. As a result, there's a large body of work on the subject of Dwemeri ruins and their eccentricities. 

To be sure, there are a number of unusual finds within the ancient Dwarven holdfasts. Towering machinery, shafts that allow sunlight to reach thousands of feet below ground, roaring waterfalls powering still-active and incomprehensible machinery … there are many ruins that are stunning to the eye and the senses.

None of them match Ragnthar when it comes to stunning the mind. For you see, Ragnthar has numerous entrances spread across Tamriel. It is literally a space-out-of-space, twisted out of reality. Its physical location is actually unknown! Observations made within the site suggest it once was situated within the mountains of Hammerfell, but a precise origin point has never been determined.

What is known is that by stepping across the threshold into Ragnthar, you leave Nirn. And no one knows why. 

For indeed, the greatest question posed by Ragnthar is: why? Why would the Dwemer expend the 

enormous amounts of magical energy required to remove a complex from known reality? I call this effort a "Temporospatial Claudication," literally a twisting of time and space.

Herein you'll find this humble scholar's numerous observations about the site. I've extensively studied the remaining constructs and machinery here, as well as made numerous suppositions about the intent of its creators. I think you'll agree, the more we learn about the site, the more there is to uncover!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2009)
	Message in a Bottle
Of all the audacity! They attacked my ship. And for no reason. We were approaching Northpoint, heading for the tunnel, when Montclair's troops attacked us. If this is because someone robbed Lady Lleraya again, I'll make sure heads roll in the thieves' quarter!

We're taking on water, but I'm going to try to get the ship as close to shore as I can. Just in case, I'm hiding my key to the tunnel in the bowels of my ship. If I'm going down to the bottom of the sea, I'm taking my damn key with me!

We're approaching the northern shore. If we make it, we'll meet up at the usual place and discuss our options. Why's Montclair on the rampage? And where's Dorell? I thought we had an arrangement, damn the man!

Well, if we do sink, don't you dare come looking for my key. I swear, my ghost will haunt this wreck and take vengeance on anyone who trespasses on my ship! You have been warned.

— Captain Lagra
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2010)
	A Dance in Moonlight
<<1>> looked up into the night. Moonlight filled her eyes, and she knew what she must do.

Many months she trained, jumping over hill, then dale, then mountaintop. When she could jump no higher, she nearly flew. Tumbling out into Oblivion, all seemed lost—but the twins saw and caught her in their embrace.

<<1>> picked the light from Jone and leapt once more for Nirn. Seeing what she had taken, the moons followed suit—dancing a spiral across the sky.

When it seemed they might catch her, they collided and moved no more. Seeing the twins entangled so, <<1>> plucked the light from Jode, as well.

As she made to leave, they caught her in their embrace. <<1>> begged them to return her to Quin'rawl—for that was the land of her birth. Under the condition that she never again try to steal their light, they returned her to her homeland.

Since that time, <<1>>'s brow has borne fine speckles of stardust—a reminder of her vow never to return to the stars.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2011)
	Mastery of Discipline
In the season of life in which I passed through the Rain's Hand, more than 90 duels did I face to prove myself invincible. I learned the 38 grips, the 750 offensive and 1800 defensive stances, and the 9000 strikes that I would practice for all my future days.

With Onsi's blessing, the sword-singer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Discipline.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2012)
	Mastery of Devotion
In the season of life in which I marched beneath the Sun's Height, before the power of the gods did I kneel. I dedicated myself wholly unto to the spirit of the sword to forge my Shehai, which I would wield for all my future days.

With Tall Papa's blessing, the sword singer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Devotion.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2013)
	Mastery of Wisdom
In the season of life in which I was exposed to the Hearth's Fire, into deep contemplation did I withdraw to ponder the nature of truth. I sharpened my mind as my blade and defined the principles I would honor for all my future days.

With Tava's blessing, the sword-singer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Wisdom.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2014)
	Mastery of Sacrifice
In the season of life in which I shivered from the Frost's Fall, so did I find myself called upon to cast aside the notions of my destiny that I had deemed true. I left the land of my home to which I did not return for all my future days.

Under Satakal's ever-changing influence, the sword-singer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Sacrifice.
		

Failed at /books/2015Failed at /books/2016		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2017)
	Research Assistant Wanted
Seeking a capable hand to aid in arcane research of Ayleid ruins and the magical properties of Ayleid Wells.

Apply in person at the camp outside Wormroot Depths, north along the main road from Redfur Trading Post.

Combat experience required.

— Scholar Archimbert Dantaine II
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2018)
	Amberic's Note
My mind slips away, but I want to be remembered. If you find this, don't forget my story!

My friend Theomund and I were hired by the famous treasure hunter, Lady Clarisse Laurent, to find something called the Emerald Chalice. She said Nords lived here in Breagha-Fin, but all we saw were Goblins. We told her so and asked for more help, but she said we were being ridiculous and ordered us back into the caves. 

Theomund created a distraction so I could get the cup. I hope he escaped, but there were so many Goblins.

I made it past the barrier, but the head Nord caught me. He made me drink from the Emerald Chalice and it changed me into a Goblin! Thinking's gotten so hard.

My name is Amberic. I am not a Goblin!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2019)
	Alchemy Practicum
By Defessus Lector

Bardus,

The traditional approach for a novice alchemist to learn how to concoct potions is to experiment. This means systematically trying a mix of carefully selected reagents in a solvent, and observing the results. Then you change one of the reagents and see if you get different results.

You, on the other hand, seem to think throwing random handfuls of reagents into a cauldron of boiling water will result in some mystical potion.

 

I was willing to let you flail away like this, since I believe you learn by mistakes, even if the road is long—and in your case, all uphill, rocky, and blocked by deadfalls. But your father's seneschal has informed me that you have gone through 725 gold pieces' worth of reagents to no result.

 

So, I am going to assign you a Practicum that should both teach you something and save your father money. 

In addition to the standard fungus and flower powders, you will use some rodent parts from your latest victory against the rats in the pantry, just to keep expenses low. Please try, this time, to use reagents that have at least some matching traits. 

Alchemy Practicum

I added 1:        and 2:        to 3:       , and got the following result:

I added A:        and B:        to C:       , and got the following result:

I added X:        and Y:        to Z:       , and got the following result:
		

Failed at /books/2020Failed at /books/2021Failed at /books/2022Failed at /books/2023		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2024)
	Notes on the Mortuum Vivicus
Since the Dark Master's plot was revealed to me, I have attempted to learn more of this weapon he holds so dear. According to historical records, the <<1>> was a gift from our Lord and Master to the unworthy king of a long-forgotten city.

Those unworthy servants stood on the verge of greatness! To their great loss and eternal shame, the fools were unable to accomplish the simple tasks our Master set before them, and he withdrew the Vivicus from Tamriel. It was lost to the Faithful.

If the Master's plan comes to fruition—if enough souls can be gathered to his side—the servants of the Lord of Lies would be more powerful than any mere king or queen. Truly, Tamriel would burn in the Master's fire!
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2025)
	Coded Message on Coin
5th Last Seed

J.Hjqi,

Rjxxflj wjhjnaji. Stwymutnsy uwjufwji.

W.R.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2026)
	Note to Ulguna
Ulguna Soul-Reaver,

Drain Gasteau, harvest his essence but leave him alive. I want his torment to be as endless as Oblivion itself. I want him to know the true fruits of his labors.

— The Architect
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2027)
	Diary, Day 13
This torment is endless. Every day I perform the same tasks of depositing the soulless husks into the depths of Oblivion. I fear I am losing myself as time passes. I dearly hope I won't become one of the shriven.

I hunger, and I can't be sated.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2028)
	Diary, Day 36
They keep coming. More and more of the soulless ones are drained. I feel the pangs of hunger upon me. Perhaps these husks are my answer.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2029)
	Diary, Day 61
I see the eyes looking at me. They are dead, soulless, but I still crave them.

Help me.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2030)
	Diary, Day Unknown
I've lost track of the days. There are so many soulless here. Like a feast. A feast for me.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2031)
	To the Veiled Masters
Veiled Masters,

Our dupes in the Council assigned me to this backwater as planned. I begin my work to defy Ayrenn, the Absentee Queen. We shall punish her for usurping leadership from Prince Naemon, who has proven his worth time and again as an upholder of tradition and Elven honor.

She was canny to gain the Wood Elves' support by nominating Elden Root as the capital of this thrice-accursed "Dominion." That hedge-king Camoran must've been overjoyed when he thought of all the prestige it would bring him. Ayrenn's had him twisted around her finger for decades, but that's another, less savory story.

As for the Khajiiit, you will be pleased to learn I've delayed the construction as expected. Our constituents in Grahtwood have proven most useful in this regard. It seems there is no greater power than bureaucracy.

—T
		

Failed at /books/2032		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2033)
	Note to Sir Quatrius
Sir Quatrius,

I've received your requests, and will put them in as fast as I am able. We will spare no expense, I assure you. As for your concerns about the rebels, I've alerted your men to several people of import. I hope this assuages your worries.

— D. at-Nimr
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2034)
	The Grandeya is in Custody
The grandeya is in custody, and ready for questioning. I would advise against any rash actions, as the people of Hallin's Stand are quick-tempered, and a bloodbath would not serve anyone's needs.

As always, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask.

— D. at-Nimr
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2035)
	Letter to Herminius Sophus
Herminius Sophus,

Despite the many times which I have written to you to advise you against this tour of the historical sites of Hammerfell, I have received notification that your ship leaves within the month. I strongly encourage you to reconsider this trip and stay with your dear sister Lepida in Reaper's March instead.

With that said, if my urging does not sway you, think instead of the scholars who have gone missing at Makela Leki's final resting place in the Sunken Road.

Aminyas for one, a High Elf mage of no small talent. I suspect he was there digging for information which might rekindle old grievances within the Daggerfall Covenant, as he went on his expedition shortly after the Covenant was formed.

Before him there was the late Morgaulle Dechery of Evermore who, generations ago, disappeared while writing a piece about King Joile's actions shortly after the incident occurred. The manuscript she was writing was doubtless the sort of political jockeying or apologist tripe which one expects from the period, but her death was still regrettable.

For your sister's sake, do not make me have to add your name to this list.

— J. Ithaka
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2036)
	Journal of Bernamot the Great
And so begins the adventure of Bernamot the Great! As a soon-to-be-renowned explorer, this tome will officially begin my body of work. Scholarship that I am certain will be studied for centuries to come!

Begining with this tome, I will uncover the secrets of long-forgotten cities. I will discover the ancient mysteries that have lain undisturbed by mortals for long years. In short, I will go where others fear to tread and find things that others are unworthy to find.

My journey begins here, in the ancient city of Abagarlas. Lost to time, I discovered this ruined city after extensive research in my father's library. I alone have the courage to explore this dark city.

I will begin by descending this dark stairway before me. Although the way is dimly lit, and dust fills the air, I'm confident the ancient Ayleid architecture is sound. Onward, to greatness!
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2037)
	On the Spirits of the Hel Shira
To the most revered Magus-General Septima Tharn,

I know the 7th Legion's first forays into the Hall of Heroes ended rather unfortunately, but I am pleased to report that your generous time spent in teaching me the ways of the occult has proven valuable for us both and the Empire as a whole. After spending weeks poring over Mannimarco's old notes, I have found the key to controlling the spirits of Hel Shira. Not only will this incantation force the spirits to leave your soldiers alone, it will even render the spirits subject to your command. 

As ever in awe of your bravery and your brilliance,

Magus Pampinto Scivio
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2038)
	Directive to Centurion Bodenius
Centurion Bodenius,

I read your reports on the difficulties you've encountered discerning the secrets of the tombs in the anterior area of the temple, and I am well aware of the number of soldiers who have been killed in the process. Nonetheless, you will not abandon the effort under any circumstance. Somewhere within those tombs is a mechanism by which we can unseal the doors to the Chamber of Passage. Until such time as these doors are unsealed, you will work day and night in the attempt to find and activate this mechanism.

If you value your own life, I suggest you file no further reports recommending otherwise.

— Magus-General Septima Tharn
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2039)
	On the Chamber of Passage
Attention: All Members of the 7th Legion

Since we breached the seals on the Chamber of Passage, many of you have speculated on what I am doing within. Lest you entertain the idea of taking a peek, let me explain what will happen.

The magical forces in the space will permit me to exercise a unique form of punishment. When I subject you to these forces, you will experience the rapid liquification of your skin and your internal organs, your bones will then wither and crumble within minutes, and finally, your soul will be subjected to re-experiencing this phenomenon for all eternity. Please consider this before interrupting my work.

— Magus-General Septima Tharn
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2040)
	By the Master's Mace
A Sermon in One Part

We march! By the Master's Mace we march on the hated city of Delodiil. Under the command of the mighty King Anumaril, our assault cannot fail.

By the power of the Master, we will capture the light-worshiping thralls of that pitiful city. We will return them to the dark chamber at the heart of Abagarlas—a temple far superior to the pathetic Meridian altar of the Delodiil heretics.

We will liberate their worthless souls, feeding them to the <<1>>. We shall grant them, at long last, a purpose in this world.

So the Master, the Lord of Lies commands. So shall it be!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2041)
	Aminyas' Journal
Written with the inherent Breton taste for duplicity and over-florid conceit toward exceptionalism, the letters regarding the plight of Wayrest at the hands of marauding Orcs reached out to bind the races of Men against the lesser Mer. 

The perpetual nature and inclination toward war for the followers of the dung of Trinimac serves as bonding agent toward Hammerfell and High Rock only so long as it is able to bring the foolishly honorable remnants of the Ra Gada to place their back toward the Bretons, at which point King Joile bares his deceitful dagger.

It is claimed by certain historians and political commentators of the time, notably Morgaulle Dechery of Evermore, that by virtue of an outside order of so-called "Sword Saints," the conflict did not culminate in the downfall of both Orsinium and Hammerfell at the hands of King Joile. 

However, I posit that King Joile lacked the strength to carry through with his initiative, even if he had been able to capture the whole of the Bangkorai Pass, for the man lacked the strength to even safeguard his own person from one well-armed woman, Makela Leki.

It becomes apparent that King Joile waited until the time was right to attack the scions of Hammerfell, not because he was clever, but because he could not have possibly initiated his plans before then. In the typical short-sightedness of man ….
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2042)
	The Unholy Temple
The King is furious. Construction of our magnificent temple was completed several months ago. At that time we dispatched an emmisary to the city of Delodiil. The invitation to view our seat of power was extended with an open hand. A chance for the heretics to make a pilgrimage and, at last, bow to the Master.

Today the response arrived from the so-called King of Delodiil, condescendingly dismissing our invitation. He called our temple "pitiful" and mocked our craftsmen and our Master!

This cannot be borne! Father has entered the heart of the temple, and even from here I can hear his rage as he shouts to the Master for aid to wipe this humiliation away.

Father is furious, but I am filled with joy. This affront must end in war. This insult must end in death.

So much death!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2043)
	Morgaulle Dechery's Journal
It is true that the king had not the strong feelings of the rest of the people of High Rock well in mind; but he was affected by a sudden clarity following his meeting with the envoy. King Joile had lived in so respectable a manner as to elicit the ire of the Redguards, even though he had done every conceivable thing within his power to grant them comfort and courtesy within his presence.

The Ra Gada were no more than a comparatively new and invasive people, who began their residence upon the shores of Tamriel only after rendering their homeland irreparably damaged. These Ra Gada interlopers were received into Hammerfell and began to make short work of their local Orsimer neighbors, presuming so far as to call themselves the Forebears, while in fact the lands had occupancy precursors in the Orsimer, Dwemer, Ayleids, and even the Goblins!

It should be known by now that the Redguards are thusly not the legal inheritors of Hammerfell, nor are they owed any claim upon the territories of Bangkorai. In the society of civilized Evermore, the untoward rage which issued forth from Orsinium was therefore not the only immediate threat, but also too was the concealed blade of the Redguards. 

For what people carry upon them at all times blades but those who intend to bear some immediacy in using them against others?

King Joile's reaction toward the Redguard forces within Bangkorai during the conflict proceeded not merely from malice, but from goodness of heart and a desire to bring solid safety and comfort to his peoples across all of High Rock.

The Maidens of the Spirit Sword, who were maidens only in name, were rendered wroth by naught but this protective instinct! It would have quieted their mannish ambitions if they could have seen his noble bearing, the acknowledged eminence of his countenance when not upon the field of battle.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2044)
	Bandit Thug's Journal
Those Orcs were two of a kind. Get this, each hired me to kill the other! So I took their gold, poisoned them both, and set their lodge on fire to make it look accidental.

Never killed an Orc chief's wife before. Today I killed two!

—

Saw <<1>> in <<2>> today—she's the Barkbite chief's third wife. I dropped hints she's in charge because of me, but nothing stuck. She doesn't have a foul bone in her body! Felt wrong to push her, so I wished her a good day. Must be getting soft.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2045)
	Najan's Journal
9th First Seed

Another bland dinner. Baked lamb and squash. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Adeena is as predictable as the sunrise. Honestly, sometimes I think my goats have a more exciting life than I do. Every time I bring them here to the ruins, it's like they're seeing them for the first time. I envy them. But every day is the same for Najan and Adeena. Same meal, same awkward conversation, same tedious love-making. I can't even be angry with her. When I look across the table all I feel is … nothing.

12th First Seed

I can scarcely believe what I've found. One of my smaller goats, Husul, ran off while I was kicking dung off my sandal. I gave chase and found he had scrambled down into a vault beneath the ruins. It's dark down here, but not so dark that I need a candle to see. These old blue stones glow and hum softly. Even though it's nothing but cold, wet stone, there is something almost inviting about this place. I have decided to call it Husul's Cave. I can't wait to explore it more thoroughly. I already noticed some old books just waiting to be read.

In the meantime, I must go suffer through another flavorless meal with Adeena. She's always asking me if I'm pleased with the food. Offering to wash my clothes. Ruptga help me.

16th First Seed

I've found something—something that will change everything. I was leafing through one of the old books I found when I noticed something shimmering stuck in between the leaves. It was a talisman. It appeared simple at first, but when I rubbed away the dirt and grime I saw it was something priceless. 

Then an ethereal woman appeared. She was beautiful beyond measure. I could scarcely speak when I saw her, but she was so kind—she simply giggled. A sweet little laugh. It put me at ease long enough for me to introduce myself.

Her name is Anexiel. She says she is an ancient spirit of the ruins—something like a saint, I guess. To my mind, she's something far greater than that. Her eyes are like the water in an oasis, and she has a voice like … oh look at me, playing the poet! I cannot deny it—I have fallen in love with this spirit. If only she were flesh and blood … I would make her mine.

18th First Seed

I am in agony. Anexiel is all I've ever wanted. Each day my love for her grows, yet we cannot be together. She remains a wisp of air—tied to these twice-cursed ruins! Oh how she teases me! Dressed in that shimmering silk, tracing her ghostly fingertip down my shoulder. It's all so … intimate. I had to tell her how I felt. She said she needed time to think. I hope I haven't ruined things.

24th First Seed

She loves me! I knew it! Sweet Anexiel finally confessed her love today, but now she is miserable too. Gods help us.

25th First Seed

She has a plan! My sweet Anexiel has been walking the halls of the vault, thinking, for what seems like days. She finally came to me and said that she can become flesh and blood, but she needs a "vessel." Someone she can step into and live inside. I don't know how it works exactly. All I know is this vessel needs to have some magic in its blood. I started to despair, but then I remembered my wife. My Adeena. She's always had something in her. Something magical. Her mother called it "the gleam."  Maybe that will be enough. It has to be enough.

I'm bringing her here tomorrow.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2046)
	Thunderbug Repellent
No-Fingers,

I run the Burroot Kwama Mine west of Elden Root. Perhaps you've heard of it? I've recently had a bit of a problem with thunderbugs burrowing into the mine and upsetting my kwama. I'd heard you were experienced with beast-handling and hoped you might have something I could use to deter them that wouldn't bother the kwama. I know this is a very specfic request, but if you can help me I would compensate you well. 

— Nimriell
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2047)
	Wanted: Sgolag
Sgolag, an Orc of ill repute, must be brought to justice. This brigand is a known criminal, guilty of countless acts of murder, banditry, and the abduction of your fellow citizens and selling them into slavery. 

Rumors place Sgolag near Mobar Mine. The Thalmor shall issue a suitable reward to the one who delivers his head.

— Curinaire
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2048)
	Ne Salas: Need Reinforcements
Urgent - Expedited response requested.

The Daggerfall Covenant has infiltrated the ruins of Ne Salas north of the Gray Mire. Their numbers are swelling in a manner that suggests they have a concealed passage into Grahtwood. I do not have the manpower to halt their progress. 

Please send reinforcements immediately.

— Thaendil
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2049)
	Garick's Message
I'm still scouting the eastern hills for a place that might be suitable for us, but I need you—all of you—to stay clear of what the locals call Vinedeath Cave. I assure you that its name is quite literal.

I managed to sneak past most of the living vine creatures that I found (picked up a few trinkets from delvers who weren't so lucky) until I got near the back of the cave.

A terrible wailing greeted me that chilled my bones and cut my mind. That place is haunted or cursed or worse. Not worth our time. We'll find a place to set up soon enough.

— Garick
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2050)
	Dominion Condolences
Citizen Nilbedel,

I write to you with sincere regret to inform you, on the behalf of the Office of the Battlereeve, that your husband, Ferlion, has passed away. Your husband died bravely, investigating the disappearances of several persons to the east of Elden Root, near Desiccated Cave.

I want you to know that Ferlion saved every one of those people that day, but was wounded in doing so. He refused to succumb to his injuries until they were safe. Your husband was a paragon of what it means to be a soldier of the Dominion. I hope the fact that he died well can give you some measure of solace in this difficult time.

Regards,

Captain Eldiniran
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2051)
	Regarding the Hall
We've found it: the legendary "Hall of Heroes." It took weeks but my scouts report finding an ancient temple nearly buried in the mountains southeast of Hallin's Stand. If it contains what the ancient mystics believed it to contain, it's the perfect place to remove the pest that has been plaguing our efforts against the Daggerfall Covenant.

I'll be leaving in the morning with a contingent of legionnaires and scholars and whatever archeological tools we can find in this gods-forsaken city.

Glory to Lord Molag Bal,

Magus-General Septima Tharn
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2052)
	"Death" of Morphotypical Entities
By Doctor Rhythandius

In my seminal work, "Chaotic Creatia," I described the means by which those creatures known to us as Daedra manifest themselves upon the mortal plane. It is this mechanism that makes it impossible to ever truly kill a Daedra, because they simply return to the planes of Oblivion and then project themselves back to the Mundus once again. The implication is that there are (and always will be) bonds between these planes and our own. 

This begs the question, however, if you kill a Daedra within its respective plane of Oblivion, is it then truly annihilated? What about if the Daedra is slain while within one of the Aedric planes of existence? I am fortunate enough to have had the privilege of engaging several Daedra on this subject and I can assure you that they are not forthcoming on this topic.

What I have been able to glean, mostly by way of observing their reactions to my suggestions, is that Daedra do not often, nor do they appear to care to, travel to the planes of existence dominated by Aedric influences. Realms such as the many varieties of Aetherius (Sovngarde being a prime example) do not appear suitable for the travel of Daedric creatures.

I would hypothesize based on this information, and from information gathered from other sources, that the Aedric planes do not share the same energetic tie to the Daedric planes that they share to one another and to the Mundus. Thus, it might be possible that a Daedric vestige slain in an Aedric plane cannot return to its home plane, and thus is left dead or simply trapped for all eternity. The irony doesn't escape me that if this proves true, then a Daedra can only truly die after it enters heaven.

(Ah, how I amuse myself. All pure speculation, of course—but the time does pass slowly here, when it's passing at all. One must stay busy!)
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2053)
	When We Pass
Do not weep for your father, for he goes to join his father. 

Do not weep for your mother, for she goes to join her mother. 

Take only account of yourself, for you will go to join your father and your mother one day as they went to meet theirs.

Treat your children well, for they too will one day come to join you.

Pray for your children's children, for one day they will raise children of their own who will also come to join you.

Walk proudly every day with the firm knowledge in your heart that you will go home. 

You will walk through the Hall of Heroes and find your way to the eternal sands of the Far Shores. 

It has been this way and will be this way for all Ra Gada who walk under the watchful eye of Tu'whacca.
		

Failed at /books/2054Failed at /books/2055		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2056)
	The Mage's Cipher
Lavergne,

If you're reading this, I'm dead, but to make sure this lockbox is bequeathed to you, I've locked it with a password that only another member of the Blacklight Raiders could know. The password is:

The first letter of Olivia's last name.

The last letter of Moret's first name.

The sixth letter of Guymund's last name.

The last letter of the mage's last name.

The second letter of the priest's last name.

The first letter of the thief's last name.

The second letter of Willam's last name.

The fifth letter of the warrior's last name.

The fifth letter of Joelle's last name.

The second letter of Lavergne's first name.

The first letter of Rernis's first name.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2057)
	First Gravestone
Whatever one thought of Joelle … , let it be known that this warrior's sword-arm now rests near the hands that once healed her wounds.         			

2701—2738
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2058)
	Second Gravestone
Guymund Chauvry was born of wealth and privilege, but he was always willing to assist the unfortunate.

2679—2732
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2059)
	Third Gravestone
In this ground lie the remains of  … Moret, whose life was testament to the fact that brains and brawn are not the only path to success.

2695—2732
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2060)
	Fourth Gravestone
Friends will remember the dearly departed Willam … , whose worldliness was matched only by his loyalty to his friends.       			

2684—2737
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2061)
	Rite of the Scion
What is the Rite of the Scion?

A ceremony wherein a mortal inflicted with vampiris is accepted by the Blood Matron. This mortal obtains her blood and her favor, becoming a Scion.

What is involved in the ceremony?

A mortal is presented to the Blood Matron by a Scion. The mortal shall take the name Initiate, the Scion that of Bloodspeaker.

The Bloodspeaker must first prepare the accursed symbols of Arkay and Molag Bal. Thereafter, the Initiate drinks from the basin of suffering and the basin of loss and learns the history of Lamae Bal. Then, the Initiate profanes the symbols. Once this is done, the Initiate submits to the Blood Matron and is exsanguinated completely. Should the Blood Matron deem the Initiate worthy, she will revive them with her own blood.

What separates a Scion from a mere vampire?

A vampire is a victim. They are poor creatures suffering from a disease. Scions are blessed by the Blood Matron directly. More potent is their blood. More terrible is their wrath. More beautiful is their visage.

Vampires are their flock, mortals their fare.

Whom does the Scion serve?

The Scion, child of the Blood Matron, bows to no one. The Mother has broken their bonds. To serve is their choice, but the Mother would see Her children unite and turn their opponents into subjects.

What is the Covenant of the Scion?

Arkay the Forsaker, we curse you. You left us to suffer in darkness.

But we survived. And in darkness, we grew.

Now, we feed upon your followers. We will use their stolen strength to conquer and consume you.

Molag Bal, Father of Torment, we curse you. You sought to poison us with your blood.

But we survived. And from your poison, we grew.

King of Corruption, your children are coming. We will defile and destroy you.

We step away from the light. We sacrifice the frailty of breath.

From the dead blood of our Mother, we live unburdened. Her curse is our blessing. Her fury, our grace.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2062)
	Faltonia's Promise
The tale of Faltonia's Promise, or Goldfolly as it's commonly known, is a tale of divination, greed, and foolishness. If you go to Grahtwood you can still see what remains of the village, a run-down testament to the hubris of one woman, Faltonia Salvius.

Like many Imperials, Faltonia Salvius saw an opportunity to extract great wealth from Grahtwood. Specifically, she sought rich veins of gold from the nearby hills. She trusted diviners and alchemists of the lowest order, false advisers who were happy enough to tell her what she wanted to hear as long as their own purses grew fat.

The more she paid them, the more willing she was to believe their lies. When one lone voice, the alchemist Flavius Antonius, argued that the samples of soil from the area were insufficient to predict large deposits of gold, she had him arrested and beaten. From that point, he was unable to walk and was forced to beg for his supper for the rest of his miserable days.

Faltonia traveled to Grahtwood in springtime with a band of Imperial guards numbering four-and-twenty, and proceeded to conscript local Wood Orcs as labor in the fulfillment of her grand vision. By midsummer, a village had been constructed on her chosen site, called Faltonia's Promise, and the Orcs were set to work in the mine.

How the gold flowed! How quickly eager prospectors flooded Faltonia's Promise, dreaming of riches! How forcefully their dreams were dashed, when within the year the mine was played out. "Faltonia's Promise" became the punchline to a bitter joke told in taverns by out-of-work miners.

Humbled but undaunted, Faltonia fought to save the settlement. Seeking to turn the mining operation into a quarry, she haggled and negotiated with nearby Haven to supply stone for the reconstruction of their crumbling buildings. But just as the deal was about to be completed, a smooth-talking Altmer canonreeve convinced the governer to supply Haven with stone from Summerset, emphasizing the superior style and durability of island stone.

Broken, and having spent the last of her fortune in a failed attempt to bribe the officials in Haven and secure the stone deal, Faltonia left the village that had been named for her. Many who had settled there in pursuit of riches soon followed, dispersing to other settlements in Grahtwood, or leaving entirely. So it was that Faltonia's Promise came to be referred to, far and wide, as Goldfolly.

The Orcs who remained eked out a living as hunters and grew into a stubborn stock, the sort who saw it a badge of honor that they persisted in a place that had driven so many away. On their lips, the name Faltonia's Promise once again took on positive connotations, of persistence, strength, and an indomitable spirit, thought the village would never reach the heights of Faltonia's foolish dreams.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2063)
	Gravestone Notes
First Names: Willam, Guymund, Olivia, Joelle

Last Names: Moret, Lavergne, Chauvry, Rernis

Professions: Mage, Priest, Thief, Warrior

The names on the gravestones in order are:

Joelle …

Guymund Chauvry

… Moret

Willam …

The mage's letter is addressed to Lavergne, so Lavergne could not have been the mage.

Joelle's gravestone indicates she was the warrior and the priest is buried closest to her.

Moret's gravestone indicates Moret was not the mage or the warrior.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2064)
	Notes on Razak
Razak was beyond brilliant. If the historians back in Cyrodiil are to be believed, Razak was on the verge of his greatest creation before his death: a truly autonomous construct, able to operate without a control rod and outside the bounds of Dwemer cities. If we could harness, find, and replicate this device, the Imperial war machine would be unstoppable.

That is, if we could get in his damned vault. It's locked shut, and resists every effort to open it, conventional or magical. The door has three keyholes, each with an alchemical symbol—or something like it—above it. I've ordered my men to search for the keys, but they're soldiers, not archaeologists. We've found nothing.

Still, we're close! One door stands between us and an army that never sleeps. Never stops.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2065)
	Notes on the Vault Door
The door to Razak's vault is one of the most impressive feats of Dwemer engineering I've seen. It resists every unlock spell I know, and shrugs off even the strongest Destruction spells. 

Perhaps the most fascinating part of the door is the series of pictograms etched into the door itself. They seem to form a narrative. And if my admittedly limited knowledge of the language serves me, it's the classic Elven cosmogony:

First there was Aurbis, the formless chaos from which the universe was formed. Then Lorkhan convinced the Aedra to sacrifice themselves to create the world, Mundus. Then finally, at the birth of the world, Magnus opened a hole to Aetherius, creating the sun and letting magic flow into Nirn.

This trinary comes up frequently in Razak texts. Chaos, earth, and magic. Perhaps it's central to his understanding of creation, not just of the world, but of constructs as well? 

I will have to ruminate on this later. For now I'll try my hand at picking the lock. Perhaps I'll have success with the mundane where magic failed.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2066)
	Sweetness in the Air
There has been a sweetness in the air since last week. Father says to pay no mind. There is nothing sweet here, has not been for a long time.

I say it is well enough for him to say that since he's a grumpy old Orc. He remembers this village when it was a mining town. He thinks that every promise is poison, so if the air smells sweet it is a trick, foul magic. 

But I smell the sweetness, at night as I dream. A lover comes to me in the night, wrapped in honeysuckle and lavender. He is my wildflower prince. He promises to take me away from this backwater, this dead town.

I think tonight I will go with him, if I can. I will go far away from here. But what if he doesn't appear in my dreams again? I don't even know his name.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2067)
	Leave This Place
To whoever finds this,

Leave this place. It is cursed. There are too many of them, now.

First it was just one. He hid in the mine and seduced our children. Now they have joined him. 

There are only a few of us left, but they are everywhere. 

We can't leave. We won't survive. But we refuse to surrender.

Better to be torn limb from limb than to become one of them.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2068)
	Gripe, Gripe, Gripe
I loathe the stench of these gargoyles. I'm beginning to wish they had assigned me to the Dwarven project. Razak's Gear? Southeast of Hallin's Stand, I think? Dusty, no doubt, but I bet it smells better.

I don't know what <<1>> thinks she's going to find. But if it turns out we can control the Dwarven constructs, it'll be worth the effort. Time better spent than sitting here roasting my backside off.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2069)
	Back to the Land!
Day 1:

For the next month, I live outside of Elden Root. So what if I don't follow the Green Pact? Every Bosmer can learn to live off the land!

Night is scary in the woods. Everything grew quiet all at once, like the entire forest is watching me. But no need to fear! In a month, I'm sure I'll look back upon this entry and laugh.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2070)
	Translated Ayleid Texts
… made sure that with each breath, we breathed in <life, health, vitality?>. With each <seed, rock, stone?> we planted, we would prosper. No <death, sickness, disease?> can harm us. This is the power of the <light, sun, fire?> ….

… only the <remnant, vestige?> can contain the power of the <unknown Ayleid word>. It lives as we do. It reacts to <feelings, emotions, sentiments?>. It makes our <existence, survival, journey?> better ….

… the <crag, peak?> and the <remnant, vestige, fragment?> are one. Here, it will always be <guarded, protected, hidden?> ….

… we have established a second <community, outpost, cave?> in the hills to the east of the <crag, peak?>. In this hillside <community, outpost, cave?>, we have hidden our <tome, scroll, tablet?> of <history, glossary, theology?> for <safekeeping, shelter, reassurance?> ….
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2071)
	Anirtur's Diary
It's been nearly two months since we arrived in the Port of Haven and I'm still not certain we belong here. The Wood Elves initially welcomed us—or, at least, our trade goods—but fewer and fewer of them come into the city every week. Our import trade has declined such that Linduure is talking about heading inland, perhaps to Brackenleaf or even Elden Root to drum up business. I don't like the idea of her going into the wilds alone, but she assures me the roads are safe and other traders and merchants have done the same.

*****

A ship arrived yesterday, restocking for the voyage to Khenarthi's Roost. There're rumors of a larger Dominion fleet headed to the Khajiiti island later on this month. I hope so. That one, small scout vessel bought up most of our supplies in one go! Linduure wants to restock the shop and see what happens. Maybe she'll stop talking about traveling alone into the interior.

*****

The first few ships from the fleet arrived just this morning, and Haven is bustling with activity! General Endare's troops have been pressed into service to help the city guard maintain order. I've heard rumors of smugglers trying to find their way past the customs agents around the fort, but unless they want to brave the swamp or somehow find their way under or around the walls, they're out of luck! Our resupply came in not a moment too soon!

*****

The excitement of Fleet Day has ebbed and Haven feels particularly empty again. Almost none of the Wood Elves who first came to see the "great stone city" have returned, and those few who remain aren't interested in our wares. Linduure and I have been arguing again about her proposed trip inland. I say we should stock up and wait for another Fleet Day—the ships have to return from Khenarthi's Roost sometime—but she says we can't count on that. Once the treaty is signed, she says, there won't be armadas sailing to and fro … just small traders. I'm not so certain.

*****

Another windfall today! General Endare is taking her Jade Dragoons inland. The innkeeper says she's been asking around about some of the ancient Ayleid sites in Grahtwood. I don't know why she's going herself, but her troops have been stockpiling rations all morning. We're nearly sold out again!

*****

Now that the soldiers are gone, the Port feels even more empty—and a bit bare. We've seen sails off the coast, but just ships passing by. I can tell Linduure is itching to do something, but we've made so much profit in the last month that I can't believe she thinks the trip is worth the risk.

*****

Turns out my wife is more headstrong than I thought. She insists on investing our newfound wealth. She's purchased a pair of wagons, some guar, and she's even hired a Wood Elf jaqspur and some mercenaries as guards. It's off to Brackenleaf and Elden Root for her. I guess I shouldn't be nervous. General Endare marched her dragoons up the same road less than a week ago. Any bandits out there should be thoroughly cowed.

*****

Linduure's been gone two days now and things in Haven haven't picked up. I'm hoping we see some incoming sails soon—not just for the trade, but for the activity. The city gets hot in the summer, and most everyone, guards and merchants alike, gets lazy without any visitors. I found myself napping out by the well today for over an hour.

*****

At last! Some commotion over at the fort. I think a ship came in early this morning. I'm going to load up the hand-cart with a few samples and head down to the pier. Perhaps the newcomers have money to spend!
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2072)
	Decoded Coin Message
5th Last Seed

E.Celd,

Message received. Northpoint prepared.

R.M.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2073)
	A Smuggler's Plan
… and south at Widow's Rock. Look for the stone pipe with the steel bars. The aquifer wasn't built by the High Elves, but is a leftover from the ancient Colovian city that once dominated the coastline.

When you get to the opening, take a whiff … the aquifer is still in use, even though most of the High Elves don't know where their refuse is going. I'd bet moon sugar to sea salt no one's been down there in ages. If you can find out where the sewer opens up inside Haven, you've got a surefire way inside.

Explore the area thoroughly. I don't expect you'll see any guards down there, but who knows what's moved in during the years of abandonment? There're hoarvors in the swamps to the north of the city. Wouldn't be surprised if some made a nest down here. Still, those candles I gave you should see them off. Trader I got them from assured me they hate their smell. You'll be safe enough.

Send word on what you find. Haven's the gateway to Grahtwood and the key link in the Lane. Haven, the Roost, and Elsweyr—the sugar needs to spread!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2074)
	The Sea It Rises
(A Sea Chanty of the Long Coast)

The sea it rises with a mighty roar

The wind it blows from a distant shore

The waves they speed us on our way

The ship she dances in the spray!

All hands to halyards, hoist away!

Set sails to full and no delay!

The course we set we must sail true

Or sink ourselves in the briny blue!

Look to the port above the beach

Our destination we will reach

For our captain's is a will of steel

Break his trust and you'll kiss the keel!

The sea it settles on the shore

The wind will blow us nevermore

The waves are calm, there is no spray

Our ship sets sail some other day.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2075)
	Raven-Hair's Recollections
The Reach never leaves you—not really. Even in southern waters, its icy fingers find a way into your veins.

Would Jeer-Tei have been so quick to join if he knew the Haven raid wasn't at all about gold? When will Hlana piece together the larger implications of what we plan to do to that Elven town? How quickly would Yngold move to slit my throat if he realized which master I truly serve?

I can't remember the cove where I grew up. Named my damned raiding band after the place, but when I dream of it I don't see the cove. I just see what's north of it. I dream of a broken city and a broken king. Ice and blood. A million screaming voices shouting one word, over and over again.

What does it mean? Will I ever see it? Do I even want to?
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2076)
	Wear Them Down
Harass <<1>>. No casualties! Wear them down.

Return to camp if injured. Study the map on the back so you don't get lost.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2077)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 5
Abnur Tharn, here.

Collecting the Redguard from the Halls of Torment was a simple enough task, in the end. I find it curious that Sai Sahan was affected so by his experiences with the other members of the Companions. Though I find his tolerance of—and affection for—that hulking she-troll distasteful, it cannot be denied that his willpower throughout his imprisonment was nothing short of legendary.

We now know where the Amulet of Kings resides. It is perhaps fitting that he returned it there. Sahan is better-read than I expected, but perhaps a bit too poetic. A clever and patriotic man of Imperial descent might have immediately thought of the ancient citadel of Sancre Tor and its association with Alessia and the covenant of the Divines. It is perhaps a great blessing that the Elven Mannimarco has no such love for Cyrodilic history.

Sai Sahan is a curious individual. I have never considered the Redguards quite as contemptible as many Nibenese lords might, and I find him the most agreeable of the surviving Companions. He understands duty and dedication, serves those he knows to be his betters, and hones his craft with singular dedication. Despite his inability to resurrect a lost tradition—for the best, probably, given its supposed implication in the destruction of the Redguard homeland—Sai Sahan's abilities with a longsword are awe-inspiring.

I recall a time during the war against the Longhouse Emperors when he rode at the head of a column of mercenary soldiers tasked by Varen to assist in the liberation of Leyawiin. It turned out that Leovic, scion of the Tagh Droiloch and then-emperor of the Imperial City, employed those mercenaries as double agents. When Sai came before the gates of Leyawiin with his "loyal" troops, they turned on him, hoping to deliver the severed head of Varen's legendary Dragonguard Commander to Emperor Leovic.

Second-hand accounts of the citizens are often difficult to trust, but even if one takes simple peasant exaggeration into account, it is clear that Sai fought his way through two forces intent on separating his skull from his neck. When he returned to the rebellion base at Bruma weeks later, he did so with the scalps of eighty-six men and the news that Leyawiin had been freed.

He's never really spoken of it to me, despite my pressuring. Varen, of course, did not pry—he used his own charisma and the overactive imaginations of the levies to spin a tale of glorious combat. One man against two armies. Sai Sahan, who single-handedly freed Leyawiin from Leovic's control.

The truth, I suspect, is far more brutal and bloody. One does not saw the skin off of eighty-six skulls unless one is burdened with a great deal of suppressed anger and bloodlust. One man does not take on six hundred at once. I think it far more likely that the Redguard fought a brutal, running battle throughout the city for days, murdering commanders and guardsmen alike until the Reachmen and their mercenaries eventually quit the settlement.

That is what makes Sai Sahan so dangerous. He does not look to be the sort who would remain hidden away in dark alleys and backstreets, surviving by eating garbage, butchering, one-by-one, men so savage that the only way to frighten them is to become a murderous, invisible ghost, haunting the shadows of an occupied city. And yet, that is precisely who he is, and what he has done.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2078)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 6
I am called Sai Sahan, son of Nazir Itaf Sahan of Bangkorai. I have been asked to add my words to these chronicles, and though I am no scribe, I will do my best.

The teachings of Divad, of Abah, of Kalam, and of Satameh tell us that while a warrior may hone his craft to perfection, or sharpen his sword to where it may cleave stone and steel as though it were air, the true worth of a swordsman is denoted by the quality of the enemies he draws to him. I find myself idly wondering if the great Forebears would reconsider this philosophy if they could see us now, and witness our enemy, the Prince of Daedra known as Molag Bal.

At first, I thought to write that my training did not prepare me for this, but after hours of meditation and the counsel of my once-emperor, I have come to realize that this is exactly why Kasura and I trained and studied for so many years. The sword-singers of old Yokuda were said to be more than mortal, possessed of focus and skill far beyond what other men might achieve in a dozen lifetimes. While I cannot claim to have reached such greatness, perhaps my final test was not to wage wars alongside emperors, but to bring righteous steel to bear against the foes of all life.

I harbor some doubts about whether I am ready for the coming struggle. I did not break under the tortures of the betrayer, but I did not emerge from the Halls of Torment unscathed. Torn flesh knits under the ministrations of my lord's healing magic, and my savage dreams are soothed by Snow Lily's warm voice in my ear as I startle awake in the dead of night, but still I am not whole. 

Tharn and I speak at length over games of skill and strategy while I recover, and I have spoken plainly about my worries. His contempt at my perceived weaknesses serves as a much-needed counterpoint to Snow Lily's tender words. I endure and accept it, for a warrior without humility is as flawed as a sword blade forged too rigidly. His words harden my resolve and keep my wit sharp.

It is difficult to set aside the many deaths at the Abbey of Blades, and though we did what we could in the wake of the attack, it will be many years before Kasura is ready to train more students in the way of the blade and the mind. When all of this is ended—should we survive, of course—I would very much like to return there and help rebuild.

Perhaps I will ask Snow Lily to come with me.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2079)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 7
I am called Sai Sahan, son of Nazir Itaf Sahan of Bangkorai. Once again, I set my thoughts to paper.

It pains me to see a city of such history corrupted by the foul necromancy of Mannimarco and his Black Worms. Though the sons and daughters of Cyrodiil are not my people, it is precisely the ruination of something so deeply, culturally significant that causes my heart to ache. In many ways, though neither Crown nor Forebear will admit it, we are more alike to the Imperials than we are different.

Varen honored me when he asked me to captain his Dragonguard. I trained many of the captains myself, drilling them in the arts of swordplay, leadership, and tactics. They were of many races and many creeds—there was devout Nethynal of Morrowind, who would quietly recite the sermons of his heathen demigods each dawn. I also recall young Lucas Evane, outcast from his family holdings in High Rock over some political squabble. Not all of us were Imperial, and yet we took readily to their traditions, their learned ways, and even their food. We believed in the vision of the Empire, once.

This day it seems the Empire was just a dream, and Sancre Tor merely a ruined shadow of that dream. I swore an oath to Varen Aquilarios to protect him and see his own dream of a reunited Empire come to pass, but as we now witness and I must admit, it will be impossible to fulfill that oath. Even now, the Imperial City is beseiged by those who would see their own petty leaders seated upon the Ruby Throne, and very few of them are of its native soil.

I mourn the loss of Sancre Tor and the broken Empire to the ravages of conflicts both cosmic and mundane, not because I hold any special love for Imperial ways, but because it is much like the fate of the sword-singers—a broken line that only a scant few seek to mend for reasons that are unselfish or incorruptible.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2080)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 8
Abnur Tharn, once again.

If I'd had a drake for every petty king or would-be emperor that wanted to get their filthy mittens on the Amulet of Kings, I could purchase Akavir right out from under the scaly feet of those detestable snake-people.

The Amulet's loss after the fall of the Reman Dynasty and the dawning of the Second Era, centuries before my birth, was considered the greatest catastrophe of its time. Without a duly-ordained emperor sitting on the Ruby Throne, many prophesied the doom of the world. But like many such prognostications from provincial soothsayers, their predictions did not come to pass. Not yet.

Without the Amulet of Kings, Tamriel endured just as it did when the "divinely-chosen" wore it around their necks. The sun rose, people killed each other over greed and petty ambitions, powerful men dictated the fates of those beneath their stations, and they all woke up the next day to do it all again.

I'm not hopeful about our chances against the Daedric Prince. It is the most ridiculous of follies to believe that, even if the spell works, one might actually challenge such a powerful entity and emerge victorious. The Vestige is a formidable warrior, but still flawed. In truth, I'd rather send Titanborn on this fool's errand and save the Vestige for when we are better prepared. She, at least, is expendable.

I realize just how foolish such a sentiment is—and Titanborn, if you are reading this, try not to twist your ridiculous pigtails in a knot. I am a Tharn. Humility does not suit us. There can be no doubt. Our one chance is here and now. We take it, or perish forever. 

Much of Tamriel has been spared the horrors of this engagement, and already the land recovers from the impact of the Anchors in the places where they fell. Common peasantry would accept this as providence and laud the efforts of those who ended the Daedric melding of worlds, but their ignorance is bliss. My knowledge of the Daedra affords me a terrible glimpse into the nightmare world that awaits us, should we not wholly dislodge Molag Bal's grasp on this world.

Consider, dear reader: Tamriel is a ripe apple, dangling precariously from the flowering branches of a great tree. For eons it has hung far above, well out of reach of the hungry teeth—the Daedra—who would feast upon it. But the rending of the cosmic veil caused by the Soulburst, Mannimarco's tainted coronation ritual, cracked the branch upon which our aforementioned apple grows.

Picture then, as we continue our quaint, agricultural metaphors, Molag Bal as the hog who grasps the nearest leaves of the stricken branch. His dung-stained trotters give him leverage as he pulls, hoping to tear the entire branch down so that he may feast upon the apple.

The efforts of those who stopped the Planemeld and shattered Molag Bal's anchors staggered the footing of the hog, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. Nevertheless, his fetid teeth still dig into the branch. If he is allowed to recover, he will begin his struggle yet again.

We must dislodge Molag Bal's teeth, as it were, through application of incredible force. Of course, we cannot use the Amulet a second time in the same fashion as we did at the Soulburst, but if I am correct—and I always am—a modification of the spell will allow a mortal to become a vessel of the Divines, an imbue him with the power of the Amulet. 

The particulars of the magic itself could fill a book in and of itself, so I shall spare the reader the specifics, which are undoubtedly above the understanding of even learned scholars. It takes the formidable intellect of a Tharn—and there are none alive greater than I—to comprehend its complexities.

If we succeed, history shall record that it was the knowledge and ambition of Abnur Tharn that brought about the salvation of this world by guiding the hand of the Vestige. If we fail, then none will be the wiser, for we shall all become the lifeless, mindless servants of the Daedric Prince until the end of time.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2081)
	Chronicles of the Five Companions 9
And yea, verily, did the Five stride forth into the shadows of calamity to render unto Molag Bal the right solid thrashing he deserved! I can say with pride that I, Sir Cadwell of Codswallop, the Undaunted, Knight of the Court of Coldharbour, Champion of Chivalry, Defender of the Defenseless, Shepherd to the Soul Shriven, have watched from a great distance to see this moment come to pass.

I shall miss the beautiful vistas of Coldharbour, with its seas of crystal blue flame, its sky of perfect smoky darkness, and its rocky peaks stretching high into the ashen clouds. Tamriel is but a weak simulacrum of its perfection, which I find downright bothersome given that this lot all thinks Coldharbour is but a shadow of it in return! Can you imagine it?

My good friend, <<1>>, has done an excellent job, though I find their name coarse and unpleasant to pronounce. Still, far be it from me to judge! They have laid the God of Schemes low and found a new mistress for me to serve.

Ah, Radiant Meridia! Her eyes of shining gold fill me with inspiration! It is her I shall now serve, for what is a knight without a lady love to protect? She was rather adamant that I bring her Light to the Vestige so that they can use it to traverse the length and breadth of Tamriel. I daresay there was a hint of fear in her voice as she spoke of the days to come, as though the destruction of Tamriel under the clawed, palsied talon of Molag Bal was somehow not the worst of it!

It is, of course, not my place to pry details from her that she is not already willing to share. A simple no—punctuated, naturally, with the typical booming voice and flashing magic of Daedric wrath—convinced me that it was a poor idea to press the matter further. Lovely and radiant, but not kind or gentle. The Daedra, even the most benign of them, are like a hurricane off the coast. It is a dark sort of beauty, but you pray it does not come onto land and crash the ball, what?

The Harborage will do for a home, for now. Venturing outside is difficult for me—I daresay Tamriel has gotten uglier in the years since I have been separated from it. Meridia's warm Light keeps my spirit soothed ever more.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2082)
	Orders for Attius
Commander Attius:

I expect you to hold the garrison at all costs. You can and should leverage the captives as hostages if it comes to that. Should the unthinkable occur, instruct your men to fall back across the bridge to the crypts. I have given Battlemage Papus instructions on how to summon the "gifts" left buried in the pass so long ago. The garrison will not fall, our lord will see to that.

Glory to Molag Bal,

— Septima Tharn

Magus-General, Imperial Seventh Legion
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2083)
	Aldimion's Journal
A strange request, indeed! 

I was on my evening stroll, having a bite to eat in a back alley, when I noticed that the Imperial neck I feasted upon bore a golden medallion. I recognized the trinket at once as the sigil of the Cult of the Black Worm. While I considered this, I heard the dull thwack of a blunt object hitting flesh and bone, and my world went black.

I awoke in a cave, bound to a chair, my head throbbing with bittersweet pain. A number of hooded cultists surrounded me, each with the unmistakable gleam of murder in his eyes. I quite liked them.

One of the cultists seemed different than the others, and I recognized him as their leader almost immediately. He had a cold, yet calm demeanor and seemed completely unafraid of me. 

He introduced himself as Abnur Tharn. He was somewhat displeased that I had made my evening meal on one of his most loyal guards. Normally, he explained, I would have been discorporated for such an infraction, but he said he liked my style and my … violent proclivities.  He said he saw a lot of promise in me, and would like to propose a mutually beneficial arrangement. 

If I agreed to join the Worm Cult, I could replace this agent. I would reside in a conveniently placed underground lair within the city limits, which would assure me a continued stream of meals, along with a virtually unlimited supply of black soul gems. 

The agreement did sound promising, but just to play Daedra's advocate, I asked what my alternative might be. In answer, Tharn opened a portal to Coldharbour right at my feet. My chair began to teeter, and the screams of the damned filled my ears. Lovely to listen to, but not something I wished to experience firsthand.

Needless to say, I chose servitude. Now, I while away my days guarding this wretched cavern while prowling the city streets after dusk. It's not a bad existence. In fact, I've even begun to take up the study of necromancy. At some point, perhaps Tharn will consent to teaching me the finer points himself. Time will tell. And I have all the time in the world, don't I?
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2084)
	Second Cohort Orders
To be distributed among all Seventh Legion soldiers of the Second Cohort, and placed in positions of prominence within the Mess and Commander's tents.

Legionnaires are hereby ordered to sieze the ruins known as "Old Tower" as well as all goods and property within sight of the Craglorn Gates. Upon being relieved, proceed into the Alik'r Desert and gain entry to the ruins of Volenfell, of the clan of Rourken Dwemer, in order to locate items of significance to the Legion.

— Captain Helenus
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2085)
	Forged Second Cohort Orders
To be distributed among all Seventh Legion soldiers of the Second Cohort, and placed in positions of prominence within the Mess and Commander's tents. 

This order does hereby supercede and render false any previous commands. All copies of previous orders are to be collected and burned. A spy among us has been posting counterfeit plans which would lead us into an ambush in the Alik'r Desert. All references to Volenfell are fraudulent and must be disregarded. Any reports of suspicious behavior should be directed to the officer of the watch.

Our genuine orders are as follows: fortifications at the ruins of "Old Tower" are to be struck immediately. The Second Cohort of the Seventh Legion is hereby ordered to return to Cyrodiil by way of Craglorn with all due haste.

— Captain Helenus
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2086)
	Ripped and Discarded Page
 … and that's the truth. Now, I don't know if Ostarand was misled. Or if the king's vision was incorrect. Rainbow of Light that she is, the Bright One sometimes sends signs and portents that are difficult to understand. 

But this what he said: the Abagarlans have a weapon. A powerful relic that will strip our souls from our bodies, and fuel a nightmare storm of undeath. He called it the Mortuum Vivicus. Apparently our king has already begun plans to deal with the situation, but should the Lord of Brutality be allowed to make use of this …
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2087)
	Knights of the Gleaming Blade
Curano, Exarch and Brightblade, First in the Name of the High King and beloved by the Lady Herself. In her name you are hereby ordered to make haste for the city of Abagarlas. The king has authorized your requested soldiery, and you are permitted to leave Delodiil with the following people of faith:

— Lanath, the Former Exarch of Dark Abagarlas and Newborn in Her Service

— Endarre, Primarch and Brightblade in Her Lady's Service

— Valasha, High Priestess and Sunwalker in Her Lady's Service

— Ostarand, Paladric Blade and Beholden in Her Lady's Service

You are to escort the Blade Ostarand and safeguard the relic he carries. Every effort has been made to ensure your success in this quest, and all weapons and armors in the city stores are at your disposal. The Vivicus must be destroyed at all costs!

In faith, eyes turned toward the Sunburst,

— Lateesh
		

Failed at /books/2088		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2089)
	Broken Helm Notes
Skeggy's got us holed up in this frozen rock. Says we need to lay low, and this cave's been used by bandits for generations. Won't the guards know about it then? 

Place reeks something awful as well, though Skeggy's claiming it didn't smell like this before. Dirty rotten liar. He's whining about me writing again. Tough luck, I need this to think.

Doesn't matter though. I hid the best diamond from our loot in my false tooth. I'll sneak out tonight, and after one quick trip to <<1>> in <<2>> I'll be out of this business for good.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2090)
	Jakolar's Journal
- Forced to leave Solitude. Jarl Svargrim believes the method lost, my research pointless. That's fine. I'm not doing this for him. 

- Thirty days since. I've traveled south and east, visiting as many barrows as I can. The draugr are no threat to me, though the stronger ones take much of my energy to dominate fully. I need rest, but there is no time.

- Turned away at the gates of Whiterun. Despite my care with the body, even the enchantments to dim the smell, it seems most are not comfortable with an old Nord carrying his wife's corpse into the town square. 

- I saw her this time. A ghostly figure that cried out for me to stop. I tried to tell her it has to be this way. I know it must be tormenting her to be so bound, but it is only temporary. Soon she will live on eternally. I will never lose her again.

- Arrived at Ivarstead. I kept the body and my supplies hidden just outside the village. No one here knows anything about the draugr curse that could help me, but no matter. At nightfall, I will move into the barrow and see what I can learn. At the very least, it will give me a place to rebind her. 

I'm sorry, my dear. Just a little longer.
		

		Part of the The Five Companions collection (#2091)
	Proper Torture Techniques, Vol. 8
By The Duchess of Anguish

Love, the Mortal Weakness

One of the more confusing phenomena of the mortal condition is that peculiar emotional state known as love, in which one mortal feigns an irrational and unconditional affection for another mortal. This state, unknown to the denizens of His Majesty's realm, is the most puzzling for a torturer to understand, foreign as the concept is, but lurking within this emotional quality are many avenues for simulating this state and therefore manipulating the torture subject into submitting to our will. 

Love, as it is, is a very powerful force, and it is through love that most mortals perform their greatest and most heroic deeds. Though love can be directed at any number of abstract concepts—love for the Empire, love for one's personal deity, love for one's home—these are more tenuous forms of the emotion and thus less effective for our torture methods. Manipulating love for abstract concepts is best served for souring a mortal's disposition in peaceful times, not for extracting information while in the torture chamber. 

Rather, if one wishes to use love as an effective torture method, the love of one mortal for another mortal is by far the strongest, and thus the most efficient and powerful, source for manipulation. Whereas love for an abstraction exists solely within a mortal's mind, the love for another person exists in the physical realm, and its tangibility amplifies its effect on a mortal's soul. A mortal may love, say, his career as a baker, but there is not one single thing which defines that love, and thus the affection is a complex thread of interwoven objects inside his mental faculties. But when a child  loves his mother, he has only one mother, and if that is taken away from him, there would be only a void with which to fulfill that love. Thus, a proper torturer must focus on the love for another mortal in order to effectively torture a mortal soul.

Now the question remains: How does one use the love for another mortal as a method of torture? The answer is entirely dependent on the relationship of the tortured soul and the object of their affection. Familial love, the love between members of the same family, is most effectively pursued by reinforcing the concept of loss. If a mother loves her child, she would be unable to bear losing that child. Thus, presenting a vision of the child to the mother and then taking it away—either through death or kidnapping—would be an effective means of torture. Love between friends, though, is best portrayed as constant and inevitable betrayal or overt treachery on behalf of the assumed friend. 

If a torturer happens upon a mortal who holds secret desires for another mortal, particularly in the nature of nuptial love or carnal love, but for which this love is not fulfilled—mortals call this "unrequited love"—then that torturer has the most enticing and powerful version of love with which to use. 

A mortal's petty sense of identity and its futile need to fulfill its desires is one of the defining characteristics of mortal existence, and the sometimes lifelong ambition to achieve one's goals is the driving force for many mortal beings throughout their short and ultimately meaningless lives. Offering a mortal even the slightest indulgence of their unrequited desires, empty and false as it may be, is to entice the very essence of their ambitions and to stoke their basest emotional needs. If a torturer can invoke these instincts from the victim, then the success of the torture is practically guaranteed.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2092)
	An Ancient Love Letter
My Dearest Aconia,

My heart is chill as the winter's blight

As I stand here in blackest night

You I know can be the only one

To bring me back into the sun.

The waves they crash upon the beach

But it is to you that I beseech

Call me back to your warm embrace

And across time and distance I shall race

The last embers flicker in the flame of war

Let all be as it was once before

Ne'er again shall I sail away

My heart with you will always stay.

Your beloved,

Rogano

Centurion, 33rd Cohort, 2nd Legion
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2093)
	A Daughter's Journal
I saw Ennis this morning. He had the most peculiar look on his face. When I asked what made him smile, he said the mayor chose him for a special task. I've never seen him help anyone unless coin was involved, but he just kept babbling about how he'd volunteered because the mayor is such a great man.

*****

The guards were nowhere to be found until after sundown. It looks like they caught the group of beggars who have camped out on the road east of town. They brought the beggars to the cathedral—but why? I went to see, but the guards wouldn't let me in. They said the mayor has ordered no one in or out.

*****

Southpoint has been so quiet. I see very few people on the streets, even the guards. It feels like the calm before a great storm. Maybe they're all visiting the carnival south of Elden Root. If I finish my chores early, I might stop by.

*****

The carnival is wonderful! They're still setting things up, but I didn't care. The bug trainer let me pet the shalks. It was strange, I didn't see anyone from Southpoint there, or on the roads. I thought Father would be so angry with me for returning so late, but he wasn't home. Mother said he was summoned by the mayor. She seems so worried.

*****

The guards dragged Mother away! Father tells me nothing is wrong, the mayor just wanted to speak with her. I don't understand what's happening.

*****

Mother has been missing for days, and Father doesn't care about anything except pleasing the mayor. Then he frowns, and looks right through me. I've never seen him like this. If Mother isn't back by the morning, I'm going to Elden Root for help.

*****

There are guards posted all around town. They aren't letting anyone leave. I'll have to wait for nightfall and try to slip out.

I hear screams from the cathedral. I hope Mother is all right.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2094)
	Diary of Climent Noellaume
It seems I only just signed on with the Albatross, but it's been more than two years since I saw the great Elden Tree or walked along a forest path in Brackenleaf. To think I might return home with a share of treasure and a King's pardon—my gran won't be able to swallow, her tongue'll swell so big!

And da. He'll see all this "seagoing nonsense" wasn't a waste! I remember the first day he took me to Haven. I think he meant to scare me with the size of the ships and the crashing of the waves, but all I could hear were the calls of the gulls and the chatter of sailors. So much different than the crows and ravens of Valenwood! I took every chance to go to the beaches after that.

But mam always believed in me. Even when I told them I was leaving Southpoint. She cried, of course, because that's what mams do when their sons leave. But she had no harsh words for me.

I hope my share of the treasure has a few gemstones or pearls I can bring back to her. I don't think she's ever seen a pearl.
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2095)
	On Necromancy
(An Excerpt)

By V

Reanimation should not be taken lightly. Costs, both mundane and spiritual, can be very high. Intent is everything. Too much emotion may create a creature so consumed with anger and hate its every action is perverted by its pain. Too little creates a mindless husk with little more than the ability to follow the simplest of commands. A calm mind, its thoughts well-organized and its plans well-considered, is the most necessary ingredient for animating the dead.

The soul is necessary, of course, as are many other ingredients listed at the end of this chapter. But as to the body … take caution. Any corpse may be reanimated, regardless of age or state of decay, but the most useful are those that are mostly intact (or can be made intact with little effort). A whole skeleton is better than a fresh, but mutilated, body.

As to freshness, be careful in this consideration as well. Have you ever wondered why there are so many skeletons among the reanimated undead, fewer zombies, and only a scant few revenants? The longer a body remains inanimate, the less hold its original owner has on the corpse. A spirit can stay tied to its remains for days, weeks, or even years—the shorter the time, the more likely the spiritual umbilicus exists. 

A wise necromancer does not wish to fight for control of his creation with an angry spirit seeking a way back into the world. Best to be certain all of a creature's soul has departed before reanimation begins. Even should the necromancer win the battle, it is a cruel victory, tormenting a spirit on its way to rest.

Raising the dead so recent that the soul has not yet fled is ill-advised, as true resurrection is not the purview of the necromancer, but something best left to gods and priests.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2096)
	The Collected Theory Hypothesis
(An Excerpt)

At the fourth Falinesti Site now, and, not surprisingly, the Falinesti Faithful here believe me mad, as did those of the Summer, Spring, and Autumn sites. But they'll reconsider when I prove my theory! Oh, they will, and they'll see that my "inane" questions were nothing but "ane!" Yes, they will!

The Collective Consciousness Theorem will shake the foundations of belief, throughout Tamriel and beyond. I believe it, I KNOW it, and I will PROVE it! I just need a little more time.

It's simple, really. The Faithful argue endlessly with each other over how the Walking City disappeared, but the irony of it is, they're all right—and they're all wrong! Deep inside each Consciousness lies a grain of truth. A grain falls and lands on another, and soon there's a whole pile of grain! A veritable SILO of truth, all waiting to be collected! The Silo Theorem!

Some of the grains in the Silo so far are fascinating to say the least. All wrong, of course, but it'll be well worth the collecting when I can return to Elden Root and sort through the chaff. More grist for the mill and I'll be able to refine the grains, grinding them into the flour of knowledge. I will bake the Loaf of Truth fully—no half-baked theories for me!

Where was I?

Ah, yes … the Falinesti Faithful's Collective, Grainy Truths and Non-Truths Include:

The Daedric Interference Conjecture: Falinesti was spirited away by a Daedric Prince or collection of forces (Clavicus Vile leads the voting almost two-to-one over Sheogorath).

The Magicka Transposition Formulation: A magical attack or accident transported the Walking City to the bottom of the sea (the Swimming City?).

The Lunar Backlash Premise: The Walking City is actually from one of the two moons (which one is hotly debated) and it is now walking back to (or on) one of the moons.

The Chicken Nonconformity Detonation: A surprisingly popular theory, I could not find out any agreed-upon details. Will investigate  further in the library at Elden Root.

Wayward Metropolist Doctrine: The Walking City got lost on its last trip.

The Celestial Purloinance Postulation: Stolen by the thief-god Rajhin for some unknown reason.

The Temporal Reversal Supposition: The Walking City has begun traveling backward in time.

The Temporal Leap Corollary: Falinesti has sprung forward in time and will be there for us to find it at some future date.

The Accelerated Invisibility Theory: Falinesti is still here, but moving so quickly between the sites we can't perceive it.

The Shared Urbanity Theorem: All cities are Falinesti, as it was and as it always will be.

…Where's that ink gotten to?
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2097)
	Something's in the Attic
Something's in the attic, it stinks of blood and meat.

Something's in the attic, I hear its scuttling feet.

Something's in the attic, it's whispering to me.

Something's in the attic, I shouldn't set it free.

Something's in the attic, I really have no choice.

Something's in the attic, it's making so much noise.

Something's in the bedroom, my eyes are open wide.

Something's in my mirror, staring from inside.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2098)
	Orders from General Endare
To: All Jade Dragoons

Regarding: Excavation of the Falinesti Winter Site

Our elite company has taken on the task of locating powerful items of magic and arcane relics in the areas of Grahtwood most likely to conceal such devices. The Jade Dragoons can play their part in the Aldmeri Dominion's war by preemptively securing these objects for our queen.

Do not think that you, an elite company of dragoons, the heroes of Cormount, are above such efforts. One can turn the tide with shovels as surely as with swords.

We will not allow ourselves to be hindered by any obstacles! Naturally, these items of renown will be protected—by living or undead guardians, or traps and locks we'll have to bypass. We'll need our wits to win this war for the Dominion.

Do not waver, dragoons! The Falinesti Faithful say we "profane a holy site" with our efforts. They will understand the importance of our efforts when we press them into service. Persevere and you will be rewarded, my Jade soldiers.

—Gen. Endare
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2099)
	Call for Census
By Order of the Mayor:

All Southpoint Citizens are required to participate in an urgent Town Census. Those who do not will have their Citizenship Revoked and All Property Ownership Nullified!

All Heads of Households must report to the Cathedral to be counted. Those with Children must Bring their First Born.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2100)
	My Sweet Flower
My Sweet Flower,

Run away with me, far from this place. Leave your dreadful husband and his obsession with wealth. You are worth more to me than any trinket from some faraway land. The same cannot be said of him.

The world was bleak before I peered into your radiant eyes. The most magnificent mountains and flowing streams are nothing compared to your smile.

Let us leave this place. I am and will always be your buzzing bee of love.

— X
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2101)
	Note from Slim-Jah
Back-Wash,

Tonight I want you to observe the Dominion's movements on the east side of town. Tar-Ei will shadow you, while Neetzara watches the west. We need to know movements, schedules, and any other openings we can find. If we're going to do this, we'll need precision. Mistakes mean more than our own deaths. We cannot let that happen.

—Slim-Jah
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2102)
	Argonian Refugee's Diary
We left Black Marsh in the midst of night so the Pact soldiers wouldn't know which direction we are headed. No one is forcing us to stay but we don't know how they would react if we told them that we are leaving. We don't wish to swear allegiance to any of the warring factions. We just want to live our lives in peace, and as far away from the Dunmeri slavers as possible.

*****

I haven't had a chance to write, we've been constantly on the move for so long now. It feels like months but I know its only been a few weeks. We attempted to establish a town on the edge of Cyrodiil but we were chased out by a group of Imperial Scouts—apparently some large battle was about to take place. My feet are sore but we must keep walking if we wish to find a new home.

*****

We've made our way to Valenwood, to an area called Grahtwood. The Wood Elves seem friendly here. We heard there was trouble in the north, but we've seen none of it.

*****

I can't believe this is happening! We've been given a piece of land by the Wood Elves. In return, we will give some of the fish we catch to them. Finally, a home where we can live in peace.

*****

Forest-Child has taken an interest in me lately and I must say, it's most welcome. I didn't have time to think about love, romance or the future while we were traveling but now that we have a new home I want more than my bed mat and roof over my head, I want someone to share it with.

*****

I heard rumors of a great battle to the north. The Wood Elves were fighting each other, but now they aren't. The High Elves sailed here in great ships and stopped the fighting. Now they are meeting in <<1>>. None of this has changed life in <<Ac:2>>.

*****

Soldiers from this new "Dominion" arrived recently. We thought they were just passing through, but it looks like they are setting up camp outside our town. We can't get anything out of them. Whenever anyone asks what they are doing they reply it's none of our business. But they're leaving us alone, so we continue to fish.

*****

The soldiers put up gates and tall walls around our town this morning. It's starting to feel like Black Marsh all over again. We refused to join the Ebonheart Pact because we would have had to live side-by-side with the Dunmeri slavers that took away so many years of our lives. And now, when we thought we finally found a new home among the Wood Elves, the high and mighty Mer deem us unworthy. I thought that Slim-Jah was overreacting. She said the Dominion's arrival would mean our destruction. I'm starting to believe she is right.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2103)
	Note from No-Fingers
Dear Uta-Tei,

Thank you so much for the herbs. Comes-When-Called is doing much better. His fever is gone and he is as sprightly as ever.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about how much our lives changed since we moved here. I know I was once your protector, but I hope that someday you can see me as more than that. I would love the chance to walk in the forest with you—please, call on me anytime.

—No-Fingers
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2104)
	Fisherman's Journal
Day 57: I'm so glad I asked the spinner to build me this hut. I can dangle my feet off the edge and fish as much as I want. My cousin will be so jealous.

Day 58: The fish here are thriving! I have more than enough to eat. Not only because of the number of fish in the pond, but the witch lights dancing above the water. The strange creatures attract the fish in the evening. Now I can fish all day and night!

Day 59: I spoke too soon. More witch lights showed up and now the fish seem scared of them. The witch lights only seem to come around at night, so daytime fishing is still fine.

Day 60: Now the witch lights are around in the daytime as well. I had to switch to the shallows of the pond. The fishing is much worse! I will either have to do something about the witch lights or get used to tiny dinners.

Day 61: The fish aren't biting. It is bad enough that I have to go to bed hungry. Know there are plenty of tasty fish right below me is too much to bear!

Day 62: I shot one of the witch lights. An arrow was all it took, then the rest of them scattered. I can once more look forward to more delicious fish dinners!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2105)
	Eyes of the Queen Only
Eyes in Stormhold report killings in the holdfast.

Failure by local government to resolve these murders has led to a lack of confidence in <<1>> and the gerents beneath him. This is a weakness we would be well served to exploit.
		

Failed at /books/2106		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2107)
	The Founding of Southpoint
by the Provincial Office of Governor Zantonius

1st Rain's Hand, 2729

(for distribution to all Imperial Citizens of Southpoint)

Southpoint was founded by the great and magnanimous Governor Zantonius. This you certainly know! But in the interest of understanding the magnitude of this accomplishment, you must first understand the man who brought it to fruition.

Zantonius was born the eldest son of a Colovian farmer from Kvatch. After her tragic death, Zantonius took a commanding role in his family. Despite these humble upbringings, he was always the bright and cheerful man you may know today!

As Zantonius' younger siblings came into adulthood, he tired of his life as a farmer. He soon set out to make a name for himself, traveling to the Imperial City and enlisting in the Imperial Legion.

Zantonius' rise in the legion's ranks was swift. His commanders said he was strong as a bear and swift as a fox. Eventually Zantonius was assigned a post in northern Valenwood, where he would prove he had a tactical mind matching the greatest generals of the Second Empire!

One dark night in the month of Second Seed, while Zantonius stood ever-vigilant watch in Reman's Bluff, he single-handedly stopped a Wood Orc raid upon his camp! For his merits in battle, Zantonius was given command of a cohort of soldiers and sent to build a fort for the glory of the Empire. At the head of these troops, Zantonius marched south into the Kingdom of Grahtwood.

It was the beautiful plot of land at the southernwestern tip of Grahtwood where Zantonius thrust the point of his spear into the soil. "From this day forward, I declare this land to be known as Southpoint. Though sent to build a stronghold of Imperial might, I will instead built a fortified town! All in the Kingdom of Grahtwood will know Southpoint's name."

Can anyone doubt Governor Zantonius' word? He has given the citizens of Southpoint strong walls, swift response to Bosmer insurrectionists, and a port that sees far more ships than the backwater trading post of Haven. Next month, Governor Zantonius shall break ground on what will one day become the greatest cathedral in Valenwood!

Why, every citizen of Southpoint owes Governor Zantonius for their safety, security, and prosperity! We shall support him in his rightful stewardship of Southpoint, his valiant efforts to make Southpoint the center of Imperial culture in Valenwood, and the increase in taxes which shall take effect at month's end. Though we owe so much to Governor Zantonius for our town, all he asks in return is our loyalty, our comity, and one gold for every twelve earned.

For the Empire!
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2108)
	Rajhin and the Stone Maiden, Pt. 1
Many years ago, as Rajhin passed by a river, he heard weeping from the far shore. There, a woman filled her pockets with stones. When she finished, the woman walked into the river.

Rajhin could not let her drown, so he ran across the river's surface and pulled the woman from her would-be grave.

"Why did you save me, my lord?" she asked. "Does Rajhin, the Trickster God, not know my intent?"

"I know the what, my lady, but not the why."

The woman frowned and turned her back. "You could not possibly understand my plight. Please, let me gather my stones and continue on my way."

But Rajhin would not let her continue until she shared her story.

The woman, Munilli, had a fiancee named Mazaram, and the two were much beloved. But Munilli's step-father Azelit-ra, was a greedy man. Before he would give them permission to marry, he insisted on a bride-price beyond Mazaram's considerable means, and well beyond all reason.

Azelit-ra was headman of the village in which they lived and none dared speak against him for his injustice. But Mazaram was not cowed by Azelit-ra, which made the step-father hate him all the more. Still, Mazaram would not dishonor Munilli by eloping. Rather than see her fiancee ruined by her step-father's demands, Munilli chose the river.

"You say your step-father rules your village?"

"With an iron paw, my lord," Munilli replied sadly. "Those he does not bribe owe him money. Only a few, such as Mazaram, remain free of his grasp … and he does what he can to ruin them."

"Do you think your step-father is satisfied ruling a tiny village?" Rajhin asked.

"Satisfied?" Munilli scoffed, wiping her tears away. "He does not know the meaning of the word."

"Then perhaps I can help. Come, let us find Mazaram."

As they went to the village, Rajhin explained his plan to the young woman.

That afternoon, Mazaram and Munilli approached Azelit-ra upon the porch of his great moon-sugar plantation house. Seeing the hand-in-hand angered Azelit-ra, even though they were properly affianced. "So, my little pauper," the step-father greeted Mazaram, "have you agreed to my bride-price, or shall we finally see the last of you?"

Mazaram refused to take offense and instead bowed briefly. "While it is true I cannot meet your bride-price, my lord, I can offer you something better."

Azelit-ra's ears twitched, but he sneered with skepticism. "Better? Better than the sum I demand for my only daughter? Fine, tell me of this offer. If it is generous, then so be it. But if not, I would see your tail as you leave forever!"
		

Failed at /books/2109		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2110)
	Rajhin and the Stone Maiden, Pt. 2
"Very well," Mazaram sighed. He explained that one of his agents—for Mazaram made his money in shipping—told him of a nearby land without a ruler. "It is far greater than this village, yet shines like a pearl in the darkness. A place to which you can lay claim, but that you'll never reach without my agent's aid."

Azelit-ra laughed scornfully, "No such land exists! Is this some crude ploy to get me out of the way while you marry my daughter? Fah! I'll not fall for your tricks!"

"It is no trick, step-father," Munilli asserted. "On my mother's honor, I have seen this land—as have you! It is renowned for its beauty in story and song!"

At this, Azelit-ra was taken aback. As much as he knew Munilli wished to marry Mazaram, he also knew her as a truthful girl … and she valued her late mother's honor as much as her own life. But still he doubted, for an untrustworthy man does not trust easily.

"Very well. What is this great land of which you speak, that I have seen yet do not know?"

Mazaram waggled one finger, "No, no … if I tell you freely, how do I know you won't try to conquer it without me? I insist you'll need my agent's help, but you might try something foolish on your own."

"Very well," Azelit-ra harrumphed. "If you won't tell me, then how will I know you speak the truth?"

"My agent," Mazaram replied, "will take you there tonight. If he does so, will you agree I've met the bride-price?"

'A ruse,' thought the greedy step-father. 'They hope to escape while I prepare for my "journey" to this land of theirs. Well, I can fix them!'

"Agreed!" Azelit-ra exclaimed, much to the surprise of the servants around him. "But I insist if we're to go on a journey, we must have your engagement feast beforehand! You, Mazaram, shall sit upon my right and Munilli shall sit upon my left!"

'Ha,' he thought, 'try to escape while you're in arm's reach!'

But the two agreed. Azelit-ra had no choice but to open his larder and wine cellar to the entire village. They feasted all afternoon. As was his habit, the plantation owner ate greedily, making sure no one else got more than he. The couple ate sparingly and never moved from his side. Soon, Azelit-ra grew sleepy, and then annoyed.

"The moons are rising, Mazaram! Where is this agent of yours?" he asked.

"I am right behind you, my lord," a voice purred in Azelit-ra's ear.

The old man jumped, but quickly recovered. When he turned, he saw what looked like a vagabond in a wide-brimmed hat. The traveler's tail twitched, but whether it was with nervousness or amusement, Azelit-ra could not tell.

"Well, then, where is this land of yours!" Azelit-ra bellowed at the man. "I'm ready to go … or to see the back of you and Mazaram both!"

"You are ready?" the vagabond asked. "Then let us go now!" With a flash, the vagabond discarded his wide-brimmed hat. There stood Rajhin the Trickster God in all his glory. Without another word, Rajhin seized the fat man by his stained tunic and the two flew upward like shooting stars. Soon, their glow disappeared into the pearl-wide aura of Jode, the largest moon.

"Truly," Munilli mused aloud, "it is a land we can see from our village."

"And one that shines as beautiful as a pearl."

When the villagers recovered from their shock, the engagement feast turned into a wedding feast. By the time both moons had set, Mazaram and Munilli were married.

But as they lay in their bower, a chill overcame both of them. The candles guttered. The darkness grew. Munilli cried out, and Mazaram groped in the dark for his sword.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light. Rajhin stood before them, brushing moon-dust off his garments. "Now, then, where are you?" he mused as the two lovers gaped. "Ah, there you are!"

With a movement too quick for the eye to follow, Rajhin reached out and grabbed at the air. Then he shoved his hand into one of the many small pouches on his person. The room grew light once more.

"What was that, my lord? What did you sieze?" Munilli asked.

"The fat man's shadow! I took him to his new land so quickly, he jumped right out of it!"

Their laughter echoed across the riverbank.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2111)
	Nobility in Theft
A Treatise on Conscientious Larceny

By Zizar-dar

To steal a thing is simplicity itself. One merely takes what one will and that is that. Even a treasure jealously guarded can be stolen easily under the right circumstances, but such things will not be discussed here.

This treatise hopes the reader will become a capable pilferer of found things. Methods, distractions, and tools of the trade will not be discussed herein, so if you are a hungry ja'Khajiit looking to make your way on the streets of Senchal, look elsewhere. (Really! What are you doing here? You should be out casing marks!)

Bandits, burglars, defalcators, and cheats—keep reading. You might learn a thing or two.

Who Is Worthy of Your Gift?

Any able pilferer knows the next heist is merely a question of time and place, but to keep your heart as light as your gloves, you would do well to be wary of your target!

Easy marks are abundant, but the majority are as desperate as you are. Ignore them! You won't make a name for yourself fleecing ditch-diggers and scullions of their hard-won dinners, and they certainly won't sing the songs every Senchal dreg knows by heart and hair.

No, look for the merchant whose purse lies buried behind three tall walkers with etched swords and inlaid plate! Watch for the wizard whose tower sends alchemical stenches billowing into the canvas city. Seek out the pomp-pursed dandyclaw whose grounds are free of flicktongues.

Never take all, just a portion! They will deem what you took an "acceptable loss." Admitting their loss would send every shinglestep in town leaping through their casements, which is why they rarely inform the guard.

It doesn't hurt that they also have the most to pilfer. But what is worth taking, and more importantly, what is there to do with all the riches you've liberated from lightless prisons?

What To Do With a Heavy Purse?

Treasure, whether in pockets or in the ground, weighs heavily on mind and the spirit.

It can be tempting to take famous treasures. Who has not heard the many tales of Rajhin? But as the tales suggest, some treasures are difficult to move and are often worth more in trouble than the gold you'll get for them.

Coin is best, of course. It's small and easy to move. Jewelry comes next, though you may have to melt pieces down if they are too closely filigreed.

Potions can be just as valuable—if not immediately useful to your trade. Look especially for those with restorative properties, for these can be priceless when properly plied.

Don't overlook sundries, either! Frequently a treasure will be too well guarded or trapped with snares to justify the effort, but the mark is not always a lost cause. Only the most paranoid take precautions with the sugarcloset, for who would impede his own sweet-tooth? Much the same with the cupboards, for a hungry belly needs filling fast and tripwires only get in the way.

Do not be too prideful to make off with these things. While they will rarely be missed, they can fill your belly and bring you fame to rival even the luckiest moonlighters!

Where Should You Flee?

Take as much as you can carry! Fill your pockets and parcels with whatever you can fit, such that it overflows your waistband and bites into your back! Your bounty is as important to your escape as it is to your purse.

When you are pursued —as you often will be—spoils secured properly about your vitals will throw off arrows raining down from the walls.

In the streets, cut release ties to spill out your treasures into the paths of your pursuers. Throw them to the crowds! Their scrambling for your riches will sow confusion, creating obstacles for your escape.

Not only will these efforts delay your pursuers, news of your open hand will spread like wildfire through the streets. What is more valuable than your name? It will buy you safe haven in times of need, food for your belly in lean times, and more importantly will carry you through the darkest of life's troubles.

And when you are old and can no longer leap between rooftops, you can rest easily among your childrens' children, assured that your legacy is as clean as a well-greased tumblecatch.

Good luck in your exploits! When they are sung through the taverns and slums of the world, Zizar-dar will be sure to carry the tune.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2112)
	The Truth of the Hunter, Pt. 1
Selliel slowly moved through the open grove, keeping her head low in the tall grass. The grove reminded her of the time she'd spent climbing the bluffs in Malabal Tor—it was impossible to see open sky in parts of that jungle. Those who dreamed of the moons and the stars could only find refuge atop the highest bluffs.

She spotted the buck at the edge of the grove. It was grazing on figs and berries. It had the tallest rack of antlers she'd ever seen. 

Selliel readied an arrow. Bow drawn, arrow nocked. She stilled her breath and let loose at the count of three. Then she loosed the arrow.

The buck startled. The arrow hissed through the air, slicing the tallest blades of grass. The buck bolted. The arrow struck the tree behind where it once grazed. 

Selliel rushed into the woods. She lost sight of her prey, but kept her nostrils flared. She caught a pungent scent from a nearby cliff face.

Selliel made her way to the cliff and began to climb.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2113)
	The Truth of the Hunter, Pt. 2
Selliel's hands moved cautiously from rock to rock. She knew she had to find the buck quickly. Once at the top, she could spot her prey and cut off its escape.

She grabbed at a root, hoisting herself to the next outcropping, but it gave way under her weight. As she fell, Selliel grabbed her hunting knife and thrust it into the earth wall.

The knife slowed her descent, but not enough. She slammed hard against a protruding rock, then half-bounced, half-slid into a small crevice cut into the cliffside. Stunned, Selliel smeared bloody hands against her breeches. Too much time had passed. The buck was certainly lost to her.

Selliel growled and spat upon the stone. Cautiously she regained her footing and once more began to climb. Handhold to handhold she went, always looking to the sky. Her path up the cliff face was soon marked with bloody handprints.

She finally crested the cliff and collapsed, gasping for breath. A quiet, bitter laugh escaped her as she rolled onto her side. Then she noticed the pair of yellow eyes in the brush, not twenty paces away.

Selliel sat up, never looking away from the wolf. It growled and lunged. She leapt aside and slashed with her knife, roaring in defiance. She would be no easy prey.

The wolf spun and bared its teeth, but hesitated. Selliel did not. She threw her knife. The blade slammed between the wolf's eyes. It fell lifeless to the ground.

Selliel breathed. She pulled her knife from the wolf and looked to the forest, seeking any sign of her prey. Movement, to the east. Antlers. She could still catch it.

She rushed into the forest.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2114)
	The Truth of the Hunter, Pt. 3
Selliel kept low as she moved through the forest. She watched for signs of the buck she sought as prey. Did minutes pass, or hours? She did not know. Soon, there was only the chase.

It was only when Selliel stumbled across the stream that she realized how weary she was. Her earlier skirmish with the lone wolf had taken more from her than she thought. She dipped her hands into the cool water and began to drink. She closed her eyes for a moment.

After a few long sips she opened her eyes once more. The buck she had stalked for hours stood five paces away, drinking from the very same stream. Selliel froze.

 

The buck seemed to stare at Selliel for a moment. Then it reared into the air and slammed its hooves into the ground.

Selliel leapt back. Bow drawn, arrow nocked. The buck reared again. Selliel stilled her breath. It towered over her, its eyes locked on hers. Selliel counted one, two, three—

The buck lowered its hooves and turned its body. Selliel saw the three tiny does behind him. She froze. Then the buck walked calmly toward her and nudged the bow away.

Selliel hesitantly put her hand out. The buck licked her palm gently. Then it snorted and walked back to the forest. The does followed the buck. Selliel did not.

*****

She returned to the cliff top. The wolf was where she had left it, untouched by scavengers. She skinned it, harvested its meat, and stuffed it into her pack. Then she began the long walk home.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2115)
	The Massacre at Cormount
by Camoran Gorinir

The Jade Butcher brought her army in at night, like thieves. The good citizens of Cormount, no matter their faith in the True King, Camoran Gelthior, could do not stand in the face of High Elf treachery.

The soldiers set fire to the trees. Burned Valenwood itself! As the families fled their homes, the cavalry rode them down. Children were rounded up and strangled in the streets. The Jade Butcher's thugs forced the parents to watch!

I personally led the Blacksap's response, I saw what they had done. Our anger was swift and righteous. We drove the Butcher's forces to the ruins outside of Cormount. We called the Green to aid us in destroying these invaders.

But the Jade Butcher's real treachery had only just begun. Her mages had poisoned the Green! Without our true ally to aid us—Valenwood itself—her forces rallied and resumed their slaughter. Though outnumbered four to one, the Blacksap fought on—for Valenwood, for Elden Root, for Cormount.

Remember this massacre, my brothers and sisters. Remember the Jade Butcher and the Dominion that considers her a hero. Remember that my father, the True King, vanished that day. Though he is thought to be among the dead, I still hold out hope.

Hope that Valenwood itself will rise again. That those loyal to the True King will rise with it.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2116)
	The Rise of Cormount
Cormount was once a sleepy trading post, a common stop for those traveling from Haven to Reaper's March. No scholars agree on who founded the town, but we do know Cormount's population and cultural significance grew tenfold shortly before the end of the Long Truce.

Cormount's quiet surroundings and distance from the Wood Elf seat of power made it an ideal hideaway, especially for the Camoran factions. Over the years the cream of the Bosmer nobility took lovers in Cormount. But secrets are like seeds—if you try to bury them, they will one day burst forth.

In 2E 406, a scandal rocked the Camoran factions when it was revealed that Cormount might be the source of dozens upon dozens of potential heirs, most of whom were of marriageable age. Cormount nearly doubled its population in one week as opportunists, the curious, and the cunning arrived in town. For months thereafter, weddings were a daily occurrence.

This rumor also drew many young Wood Elves who lived outside of Valenwood. They traveled to the Kingdom of Grahtwood with the hopes of binding their Imperial fortunes to their spiritual home. Those who found Grahtwood agreeable founded a ramshackle village near Cormount called New Joy.

The settlers were known as "migrants" by the Grahtwood natives who had first arrived in Cormount. These adherants to the Green Pact were shocked by the Cyrodiilic customs of their wayward cousins. Meanwhile, the migrants flaunted the "backwoods" nature of the natives, seeking easy pleasures in the trade that flowed through Cormount.

Tensions between Cormount and New Joy grew to a boiling point in the years to follow. It is unknown who cast the first torch, but one dark night in 2E 420 the settlement of New Joy was burned to the ground. Those who fled were slain—including a visiting Camoran noble.

Though none took credit for this massacre, it was widely assumed the work of Green Pact adherents of Cormount. In the few short years before the end of the Long Truce, Camorans looking to air their grievances frequently used the Razing of New Joy as a political cudgel.

But Cormount should not be known for this one stain on its reputation. Founded in 2E 489, the Blacksap Movement has grown in popularity throughout Grahtwood. This Cormount-based cultural organization hopes to formalize the Wood Elf approach to the Green Pact, thereby preventing the very misunderstandings that led to the tragic events of New Joy. As we enter the fifth century of our era, Cormount's rise seems all but assured. This author can only hope the Blacksap rises with it!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2117)
	Increased Dominion Activity
Rathilmith,

Have you noticed the increase in Dominion activity outside of town? Yesterday there were three camps. Today there are four.

We must inform our people as soon as possible. If we learned anything from the massacre, it's that the regal imposter Aeradan will do anything to hold his throne. No one is safe in Cormount anymore.

Be alert, friend. Keep your dagger close.

—Galriel
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2118)
	Wood Elf Etiquette: An Imperial Perspective
by Kerandas Calvus, in the year 2723

The Empire now extends its reach into the Kingdom of Valenwood. Do not be surprised if during your travels you run into the Mer of the forest. The Wood Elves are surprisingly social, and can be very friendly with outsiders, but you must be aware of their peculiar culture and customs so as not to provoke them to anger.

The Wood Elves follow a strict religion called the Green Pact. Any Wood Elf who willingly takes up this pact is prohibited to harm any tree or plant in Valenwood. This includes chopping down trees, harvesting fruit, or digging vegetables from the ground.

As a result of this, Wood Elves who follow the Green Pact eat a strict diet of meat and cheeses. This very specific restriction in what they eat leads to certain physical reactions which you may not typically encounter in public, or with such frequency. If a Wood Elf makes mention of "feeding the fire," simply grow accustomed to breathing through your mouth for the count of twenty heartbeats.

While few Wood Elves will think badly of you for picking a flower or tapping a tree for sap, some will see this as an act of disrespect. Strictest adherents to the Green Pact may react quite strongly, perhaps violently.

This is not meant to alarm you! Remember to treat the forests of Valenwood with respect. If you are uncertain, speak with the nearest Wood Elf "treethane" for guidance. You never know who is watching.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2119)
	Neronnir's Journal
THESE ARE MY SECRETS. DO NOT READ THEM!

They think I don't know, but I do. I can see their plots and schemes even as they hatch, slithering into the darkness. They dismiss me as a madman, which is all part of my plan. As long as they don't see me as a threat, they let their guard down and reveal their secrets. The doppelganger that replaced the treethane months ago said he was "off to meditate for a couple of days." But the way he said it tells me everything. He's meeting with his dark allies to plan an attack on the town. I'll need to be more vigilant than ever.

No one else seems to notice we're on the brink of catastrophe. Even now the spinner's wife falls ill, which is clearly a dark omen that cannot be ignored. They continue to scurry around like ants, mindless of the coming storm. Open your eyes, little ants!

*****

I KNEW IT! Last night was the beginning of the end. The full fury of nature came down to shatter our town for the hubris of its inhabitants. The winds howled, the lightning struck, and the creatures of the forest turned against us. The rest believe us safe, hiding in our desecrated cave, but they're wrong! I know what dwells beneath. And when it awakens, it shall swallow us whole.

*****

I didn't know what form our destruction would take, but I see it clearly now. An outsider has arrived, offering to help us with our problems. Such a pathetically obvious ploy to gain our trust, but as always I'm the only one to see it. If this supposed savior asks me, I'll pretend to go along. Share some of the oddities I'm tracking, to allay suspicion. As the outsider gains our trust, I'll also gain the outsider's trust.

*****

The first of us is led to slaughter. The "evidence" presented was laughable, but the sheep believed every word. The victim of that sham trial is being marched into the depths as I write these words. I'm certain it's just the first the outsider will dispose of. In fact, the outsider is probably coming back for ME right this moment. I need to get out of here.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2120)
	Introduction to Stagecraft
By Kandelwijj the Magnificent

In order to be a successful stage performer, there are several things you must never forget.  

The most important element of performing is … drama! Every performance must have some engaging or surprising element to it or it shall fall flat regardless of the entertainer's other skills. Find a hook, preferably one tailored to your audience, that captures their imagination, ire, or hearts—preferably all three! Then you have the foundation of an unforgettable performance. Look to famous characters, historical events, a loathsome monster, or anything else you know will command the attention and interest of your patrons.

Now that you have the heart of your act figured out, it's time to make it truly impressive! Some will tell you that you need to have explosions and trained beasts to be successful, but the truth is that creative use of any and all available resources will likely serve you just as well. Can you throw your voice or speak several languages? Do you know someone with even rudimentary talent in magic? Do you have access to brightly-colored fabric or color-shifting kindlepitch? Any of these things and more can be a key component of your performance and nothing should be overlooked. 

With the premise and supporting mechanics determined you can now start refining your script! You never want to be at a loss for words on the stage so this part is just as critical as the rest. Start with a rough draft and work from there, keeping in mind the tone and context you've already established to ensure it all comes together. Try your act on friends and family to iron out the rough spots. 

Once you feel confident with the script, it's all about practice, practice, practice! Your performance should be second nature to you, but remember, you may need to improvise when hecklers or enthusiastic crowd members speak up, so don't be so locked into your speech that you can't make adjustments on the fly. 

One last tip. Make sure you relax and have fun up there! If you are enjoying yourself, so will your audience.

There you have it—you are ready to get on stage and bring joy to your audience!
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#2121)
	Enthoras' Journal
—Shipping any non-standard goods through Haven was a nightmare prior to the attacks, it's even more of a mess now.

—Attempts to secure a friendly contact in Redfur thus far unsuccessful, will need to increase the "donation" being offered to rectify this to prevent additional loss of shipments.

—Need to prepare another shipment of wood for Karthdar (Note to self: Verify there are NO saw marks this time, they will stop trading completely if they think the wood wasn't naturally discovered on the ground).

—Purchase another order of tin from <<1>> when it's available. They think it's useless as they can't make weapons from it but I have a contact who uses it to make high quality bronze and pays top coin.

—Given the turmoil in Elden Root, I should prepare for both possibilities of celebrations as well as days of mourning. I shall purchase 100 lengths of black cloth and several dozen colorful banners.

—Look into delicacies for Altmer. Between the royalty at Elden Root and the visiting Carnival, they will want a taste of home and will pay handsomely for it.

—Do not forget to pay off the bandits again. Having them leave my shipments alone while attacking everyone else's increases profit margins over 50%.

—Rumor: There are still mining supplies left in Goldfolly, unused and only marginally weathered. Look into contracting some cheap adventurers to go in there and get what they can. Do NOT mention the vampires.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2122)
	Redfur Journal, v. 1
23 Second Seed

Passage from Summerset was a sordid affair. Never thought I'd be involved in piracy, but when one's ship pulls up alongside a cog and arrows fly, one does what one can.

The captain was quite impressed with my affinity for—what was the phrase he used?—"scudding to broadside?" He offered me some recompense for my services; I declined.

 27 Second Seed

Contracted porters in Southpoint. We set out tomorrow. The lead porter is a bit of a ruffian, but his bluster died when I offered him pay. I doubt even he believes his services are worth so much coin. The politics of discretion.

8 Mid Year

Waylaid by the most dim-witted assortment of bandits this side of Hammerfell. They attacked despite a most reasonable offer that doubtless contained more gold than any of them could have hoped to see in a lifetime.

We lost several Mer to the scuffle and can no longer carry my full complement of accoutrements. I will not miss their prattling ignorance, but my calcinator … that will be sorely missed.

11 Mid Year

At last, the Reliquary is in our sights.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2123)
	Redfur Journal, v. 2
13 Mid Year

The business of unloading my equipment has been completed, and I have sent the porters on their way. They will return on the first of Sun's Height with supplies, but I am finally alone with my thoughts.

14 Mid Year

From what I can discern, reports of the ruins' dormancy have not been exaggerated. It has all the aesthetic appeal of an ancestor tomb without the company of necromantic constructs sweeping the halls clean of filth.

Really, the state of these ruins is appalling. It's as though my predecessors made no effort to sift through the filth! I will set to work at once.

20 Mid Year

Happened across several enchanted tomes today. Unfortunately, I have been unable to open them. If I had my calcinator, I might be able to analyze their enchantments more closely by taking a sample and breaking it down. Unfortunately, those twice-cursed bandits have made that impossible.

Not to be deterred, I sought to pry up the bindings of one of the books. When I did this, it heated up measurably until it seared my fingertips. Further study will have to await my return to the Crystal Tower.

23 Mid Year

While sifting through the remains of some remarkably well preserved flesh monstrosity, I felt a breeze issuing from the stacks. It was steady and warm, like the breathing of some great beast.

Doubtless it is the ingress to some hidden passage, but its means of access are impeccably obscured.

27 Mid Year

Success! I was able to effect the opening of the passageway through careful application of alteration spells! Such a clever solution will surely draw the admiration of my peers in Summerset, but for the moment, true discovery awaits! It is time to discover what secrets this Reliquary holds!
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2124)
	The Fall and Rise of Reman's Bluff
By Praetor Aemilianus Lector

Foreword

Though much has been written of the Imperial Legion's conquest of Valenwood, this treatise is intended to focus upon the mundane effects of Imperial soldiers in an occupied land. It includes collected missives, journals, manifests, and second-hand accounts of a cohort assigned to guard the Imperial fort built atop Reman's Bluff.

1. Quartermaster's Manifest (1E 2719)

Flour — 100 sacks, Salt — 10 sacks, Dried fruit — 5 sacks, Salted meat — 50 sacks

2. Commander's Journal (1E 2720)

I am down to a scant twenty men under my command due to illness and desertion. All requests for reinforcement and supplies have gone unanswered. As of today, I am rationing our remaining supplies.

We have avoided sending hunting parties out due to the persistent presence of Orcish forces to the northwest, but now we have little choice.

3. Quartermaster's Manifest (estimated 1E 2720)

Flour — 0 sacks, Salt — 5 sacks, Salted meat — 150 sacks

Recent hunting has bolstered our meat supply but some form of insect has compromised and tainted the remaining flour.

4. Commander's Journal (estimated 1E 2720)

That fool Zantonius shot down an Orc shaman who was approaching us with an offer of treaty. If he wasn't some important land-owner's son, I'd have marched him to the Imperial prison myself. Instead I sent him south with the worst of the shirkers and told him to make camp. Now he's somebody else's problem.

I can't

5. Quartermaster's Manifest (estimated 1E 2721)

Flour — 0 sacks, Salt — 5 sacks, Salted meat — 0 sacks

Some type of creature burrowed into our store room and consumed every scrap of meat. All that remains are gnawed bones and the creature's collapsed burrows. Commander thinks it was Orcs. I'm inclined to agree.

6. Commander's Journal (estimated 1E 2722)

The raids won't end. The heads of any runners sent to request reinforcements show up on Orc spears the next day. We're down to five. Five soldiers to hold a single fort! Once they realize, it will be our end.

There is one small victory I can keep from these savages. I shall not allow them the pleasure of killing me themselves.

Addendum:

The clan of Wood Orcs now residing at Reman's Bluff, known to its inhabitants as Barkbite Stronghold, have no direct connection to the Orc clans who overran the Legion fort in the First Era.
		

Failed at /books/2125		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2126)
	Letter from Althen
Turenn,

After so many years of lying low, I thought they had forgotten about me, but it seems that's not the case. The Ring of Daggers is still after me and they're closing in. One of their agents is asking questions around Moira's Hope and I need to escape. 

In the short term, I am prepared. I have a hideout within the central crypt of the Sanguine Barrows. I can seal myself within and survive for some time, but I need you to come as soon as possible. I am hoping you can help me relocate and assume a new identity once again. 

P.S.: Watch out for the trolls!

— Gerard Althen
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2127)
	Note about "Wood Elf Etiquette"
Glardel,

My contact in Haven confirmed it. Fifty copies of the long discredited "Wood Elf Etiquette: An Imperial Perspective" arrived today. Their destination? The Altmer Embassy. They is what they think of us—flatulent bumpkins who fly into a rage if we see anyone trod upon a flower.

—Iirond
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2128)
	Want More than Middens?
I see you down there, living amid the refuse that falls from the Elden Tree. You think you're invisible, or that you're helpless, or that you just aren't worth anything to anyone.

That's where you're WRONG!

My friends, don't wallow in filth and obscurity when you can revel in the light of fame! A little ambition, a little toil, and a little blood is all it will take for you to rise up out of the muck and become known, to be someone who is counted!

With our fair city of Elden Root now the capital of the Aldmeri Dominion, we will draw people from all over Tamriel. They will marvel at the Elden Tree and walk in the shadows of Valenwood and bathe in the great river to their hearts' content—and then they will grow bored.

That, my friends, is where YOU come in!

Make no mistake—the Dominion is at war, and tales of strife and heroism have reached us even here, deep in the Valenood. But those who come to our city will be eager to see valor with their own eyes. That is why Elden Root is going to start its own GLADIATORIAL ARENA! We'll show our visitors that the heart of the Valenwood is a warrior's heart!

Do you have a warrior's heart? Do you want to hear the cheers of the crowds? Do you want to eat the best food, sleep in the best beds, and never have to hide your face in the Middens again? Well, come up into the light and join the Elden Root's own gladiator team!

See Milgor Sharp-Tongue in the Elden Tree in for more information. But don't wait—the ranks of the valorous are filling up fast.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2129)
	Ode to the Elden Tree
Saplings sprout from spring soil,

Shapers shape them with great toil,

But none dared touch the bark of thee,

The Acorn destined for Elden Tree.

Wise the owl sitting on your limb,

Silent the snake winding long and slim,

Around your trunk the fates do dance,

Both fey and mild take revered stance.

You shelter us e'er from the storm,

You defend us from the angry swarm,

War can't tear your mighty root,

Strength is in your every fruit.

Saplings still sprout 'round your base,

The shapers work at mighty pace,

All revere your o'er-arching boughs,

In Elden Tree, our worries drowse.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2130)
	One Bosmer's Response to the Dominion
The formation of the Dominion can end in only one way: with Bosmer necks under High Elf boots! Those arrogant bastards will subjugate all of Tamriel if they could. I won't stand for that, and none of you should, either.

It's time the Bosmer reclaimed Valenwood. Blacksap or Camoran loyalist, Green Pact stalwart or oathless salad-eaters—it matters not. We'll simply need time, strength, and powerful magic.

Appealing to Hircine may provide us with what we need. Risky, yes, but with great risk comes greater reward. For Valenwood!

—Calahawn
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2131)
	Hunt With Me
A partnership between Wood Elf, High Elf, and the Khajiit is preposterous. Can you not see? Queen Ayrenn will take and take, like a well-coifed hoarvor suckling at a heart-wound. The High Elves would like nothing more than to have us under their rule. We're less than cousins, less than Elves, to them.

It's time for the Bosmer to hunt again. We'll take Valenwood back. For our people, for Hircine. And we'll have Hircine's blessing as we do it.

—Calahawn
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2132)
	What Comes Next
You won't regret your pledge to help. Together, we can reclaim Valenwood for the Bosmer!

If you're reading this, you should already have the requisite list of reagents and know what to do with them. When ready, seek a quiet corner of Grahtwood where you won't be disturbed. Perform the ritual when ready. It's simple—elegant. As Valenwood was before the Dominion polluted it.

Hircine will hear our call! The more who call out to him, the louder our voice. Together, we'll hunt—until all left in Valenwood are Bosmer.

—Calahawn
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2133)
	Letter to Calahawn
Calahawn,

I must firmly decline the invitation to join your magical misadventure.

Appealing to Hircine to aid you against "all the Dominion" is insanity, not to mention gross overreaction. It's always dangerous to nudge the shoulder of a Daedric Prince. Why further doom yourself by relying upon a patchwork band of sorcerous fools?

I don't know if that lot has the skill to find their way to the nearest Mages Guild chapter, let alone appeal to a Daedric Prince! But I suppose you need them. No sane Elf would aid you. I won't, certainly. I'm as staunch a follower of the Green Pact as you, but where you go I cannot follow.

You must think. The Dominion is the only chance to survive this war! You want to hunt our allies as our real enemies prepare to burn Valenwood to ash.

I refuse to sign my name to this. I want no justiciar finding this on your body and thinking I had anything to do with your madness.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2134)
	Redfur Corporal's Log
Caught another thief in the marketplace today. Where does Valirr get these thumb-fingered fools? I understand he wants to "redistribute the wealth," but Jode's Chariot cannot look the other way when a would-be robber drops stolen loot right beneath our noses!

At least she wasn't a ribboner. Honestly, those "escape collars" may let the thieves get away, but they attract even more attention. I swear, Shan-ra is more upset at noticing the thievery than the actual theft.

But there is good money in thief-taking. For every thief we bring to the stocks we get ten gold coins. Repeat offenders net us twenty, and recovering stolen goods a solid ten percent. The Chariot can't turn its back on such easy money either, no matter how we might feel.

Still, I worry that Shan-ra will do something desperate. He is a proud man, and too much open theft is like a challenge to his authority. It'll take some effort to salve his pride … either that, or an end to all this stealing.

I don't see either happening any time soon.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2135)
	Journal of Culanwe
It seems fitting that the servant of the Queen of Dawn and Dusk should try to broker peace between the Nedes and the Ayleids. Her realm is between times, between places, and between realities. If I can help two peoples who have such hatred of each other find peace, I will have accomplished something, at least, in my time in this mortal realm. I sense Azura guiding me, and her strength flows within me, but it is her wisdom I need now.

23 Sun's Height

Did I say I needed Azura's wisdom? Nay, I need her patience. Only an immortal could put up with these … people! The Nedes are well-named. Yes, they spent many years shackled and tormented by the Ayleids, but none alive today remember that suffering first-hand! The recompense they demand continues to escalate, even as the pride of the Ayleids swells. I sense they will break off negotiations any day now, and we may go from uneasy peace to outright war.

Ah, Azura—keep me from speaking with them! The power of my voice can change their reality, but that would be a bandage on an infected wound. Nothing but true change can allay the anger between these peoples.

27 Sun's Height

The worst has happened. One of the Ayleids is dead, a messenger killed while running errands. The Ayleids suspect the Nedes and they do not deny it. Rather, they take umbrage … as if the death of one messenger cannot be measured against the long suffering they endured. This will not go well. My voice may be the only answer.

29 Sun's Height

I stand amazed. I did use my voice, but only … adjusted reality somewhat, to forestall conflict. The true miracle came from a Nede and an Ayleid. Both outsiders to the negotiation, they joined together to solve the mystery of the murdered messenger … and found the culprit neither Nede nor Ayleid! A servant of Molag Bal was responsible, his aim to sabotage these negotiations!

The two heroes have done what I could not. They've brought Nede and Ayleid together against a common foe. I foresee hostilities between these two peoples ended.

2 Last Seed

With the wedding of the two heroes, the breach has been closed. But I cannot imagine Molag Bal will let this go unchallenged. I will seek an answer … a way to shield these peoples in Azura's name. As long as I live, the Harvester of Souls shall not touch what we have created here today. Azura, give me strength. Let my voice change the world as long as I am in it.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2136)
	Note from Sagabar
Leonce,

That was a brilliant stroke, getting yourself appointed constable with me as your bailiff. That will give the boys back at camp quite a laugh.

I'm keeping my room at the inn, but Bulzog is guarding the hostages at the place you suggested. No one will find them there. 

I can't believe how well the plan is coming together.

—Sagabar
		

Failed at /books/2137Failed at /books/2138		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2139)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Ch. 2âSilver
The most important information when dealing with a bloodfiend infestation is knowledge of their weaknesses. Not all of us are battle-hardened warriors or mages with devastating magic, so to survive we must use our wits! 

We tested the popular folklore about silver harming undead with its touch, and we are happy to report the wise women are right for a change! Hitting a bloodfiend with a silver weapon will stun it for a few seconds, which gives you precious time to escape. Stick with silver-plated weapons with a good edge—someone wielding a solid silver blade has more gold than sense.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2140)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Ch. 2âFlame
The most important information when dealing with a bloodfiend infestation is knowledge of their weaknesses.  Not all of us are battle-hardened warriors or mages with devastating magic, so to survive we must use our wits!  

We tested several different delivery methods of fire. We found that mundane and magical fire by itself is not sufficient, but covering a bloodfiend in oil and lighting it is extremely effective. We recommend retreating to the nearest castle for this purpose, as they have oil in quantity and murder-holes to pour it from.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2141)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Ch. 3âWater
If one of your friends or family dies, you don't want them coming back as a bloodfiend! We found that pouring blessed water over all exposed areas of the corpse effectively prevented the spread of the plague.  

Sadly, this method is less effective with the living, as the blessed water will simply run off your skin as you move around. I suppose this means it would be worth trying on an immobile person, but we were not able to test this theory.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2142)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Ch. 3âFlame
If one of your friends or family dies, you don't want them coming back as a bloodfiend! We found that burning the corpse is an effective deterrent to spreading the plague.  

However, you have to burn the corpse black for the intended effect, so please do not try this on living people! However, a fire shield spell proved insufficient to ward the plague, as one of our valiant researchers discovered.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2143)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Ch. 4
Our research debunked many folk myths about vampirism, at least where bloodfiends are concerned. Our findings include:

1. Blessed water does not harm bloodfiends. It just makes them angrier!

2. A folk myth recommends throwing rotten eggs at the undead, burning them with the sulfur inside. We found that not only are the eggs disgusting to carry about, they are also completely ineffective.

3. Beating or cutting a body with silver had no effect on the spread of the plague. Neither does self-flagellation, so stop it!

4. The folk tale of garlic warding against vampirism is patently false.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2144)
	Book of Bloodfiends, Appendix A
One of the most popular requests from readers of our first edition was how to tell bloodfiends from proper vampires. We are happy to report that an actual vampire (who will remain anonymous) helped us clear up the distinction! Here are some signs that you're dealing with a vampire instead of a bloodfiend:

1. A vampire will usually attempt some form of conversation before he or she attacks you. A bloodfiend will simply go straight for your throat.

2. Vampires may look under the weather, but they usually keep their condition hidden. A bloodfiend is obviously stricken, with patchy hair, extremely pale skin, wrinkled features, and bloodshot eyes.

3. Vampires will not feed on corpses. They liken it to us eating trash. Bloodfiends make no such distinction.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2145)
	Letter from the Orsinium Orphanage
Dear Sir,

I know you prefer to remain anonymous, but I must write to express my thanks. Your tireless work over the last several years to help the Orsinium Orphanage has been beyond generous. The gold and gifts you sent have been put to good use, warming the beds and the hearts of countless Orc children. We have also been able to expand the orphanage itself, making it the finest in all the Daggerfall Covenant. 

Our city's scholars were shocked to see the tomes of Orcish history you tracked down on our behalf. You have restored knowledge to our people that was believed lost for all time. May Mauloch bless you for what you've done.

Oorga gra-Shazgul

Headmistress, Orsinium Home for Displaced Children
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2146)
	List of Targets
The following targets must die, by any means necessary. Montclair revenge is a dish best served piping hot!

— Count Verandis Ravenwatch

— Adusa-daro (use extreme caution)

— Gwendis

— Baron Alard Dorell

— Countess Eselde Tamrith

— <<1>> (with extreme prejudice!)
		

Failed at /books/2147		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2148)
	Orders from Commander Pyline
Our efforts within Northpoint proceed as planned. Lady Lleraya assures us that success will soon be ours and the march toward Shornhelm will begin shortly.

Keep to your posts and remain vigilant. If the Shornhelm Guard shows up, dispatch them immediately. And continue to watch for any of the missing Northpoint Guard who escaped or went into hiding when we took the city and locked the gates.

If you have questions, please see me or Captain Khala at the command post that overlooks the eastern shore. One of us will always be stationed there.

All hail House Montclair!

— Commander Pyline
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2149)
	Morrowind Fauna, Part One
By Holia Asellio

A copy of the full manuscript should follow this letter shortly. This is but an abstract to satisfy your curiosity until the scribes can finish their work. 

Common Vvardenfell Guar

Guar are but the most commonly-known species of a large family of bipedal, lizard-like creatures, having been imported to Cyrodiil as beasts of burden for hundreds of years. They are content to graze with their lower jaws for tubers and roots just under the surface of their ashland home. Wild guar are mostly docile, but have been known to become feral and attack in the wilds of some lands. Guar are fierce if provoked, and have been known to kill. Their closest relatives are the Alit and Kagouti, also common in the lands of Morrowind, as well as the pony guar. 

"Pony Guar," as nicknamed by visitors to Morrowind, are a smaller species of guar that are rarely exported since they lack the physical strength of their larger cousins. Not well known outside of southern Morrowind, they are a curiosity sometimes raised as pets, but some do raise them for their meat and skins. 

Alit and Kagouti

Alit are close relatives to the guar, with far sharper sets of teeth. They are omnivores and while they do not hunt in organized packs, they have been known to attack other creatures and even people for an opportunistic meal. Alit supplement their nutrition, much like the guar, by rooting. For many years, it became the vogue for exotic animal enthusiasts from Valenwood to import alit for their own amusement. Many escaped captivity, and their descendants can be found stalking the great forests of the southwest. 

Kagouti are large, armored cousins of the guar and the alit. Their most distinctive features are their tusks and head crests. They are territorial, fierce, and hostile. They hunt in packs and have been known to be able to flip a full-grown Nord in the air with ease. 

Scuttler and Bantam Guar

The scuttler is a small, docile species of biped the size of a common housecat. They have no apparent forelegs, and survive on eating smaller insects and groundworms. Having completely different reproductive and growth cycles, they are not related to the guar or alit. Scuttlers are more similar to the cliff racer family of leathery flyers than their form would suggest. Smugglers have sold them as pets in ports from Daggerfall to Haven. 

Bantam Guar, despite their name, classify as a part of the scuttler family and are not guar at all. Many have described them as "ugly chickens," as they have a distinctive body shape and behavior that remind many of the common bird. They retain the vestigial wings, and unlike their cliff racer and cliff darter cousins, they cannot fly. Southern Morrowind farmers raise them for their eggs and meat.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2150)
	Krisandra Edrald's Journal, Vol. 3
As the eve of Federic's return approaches, Arlie continues to withdraw into herself. The power <<1>> has over her is overwhelming, and even my motherly attentions lose their effectiveness before her constant presence.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Allan has confronted <<1>> at last, though I fear it was to no avail. The brute has had time to prepare her arguments, and from the look on my husband's face they are quite formidable.

He should not have allowed himself to become so attached to the lass! I knew the moment we took her in that no good would come of it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Despite the difficulties in acquiring the necessary materials, everything has been laid out and prepared. Allan is as nervous as I am about what might come. Somehow <<1>> has managed to quail even his brave heart. No matter. I am certain justice will prevail in the end.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2151)
	Dulkhi's Diary
Federic leaves for <<1>> tomorrow. Arlie's overcome. You can see plainly on her face how much she does not want him to go. I wonder, if it were me leaving, would she look the same?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

While scouring the hallway floor, I heard sobbing from Arlie's room. It isn't right she should be so sad. Maybe there's something I can do.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Brought Arlie flowers. She's still sad, but it was good to see her smile.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Went hunting with Baron Edrald. Everything was fine until we found that fox. We pursued, but became separated in the mountains. While trying to find my way through, I came upon a bear. It startled my horse, throwing me into the rocks nearby. Then it reared up to strike. If the Baron hadn't come upon me then, I'd be done for.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I've decided to tell Arlie how I feel. Life is too short for waiting.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I think I've made things worse. Arlie ran off crying. Of course she did. How could I ever compare to Federic!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Arlie came to see me while I was unloading casks of wine from <<2>>. She asked me to come see her in the old windmill.

We talked for hours. About Federic. About us. She says we should spend more time together, that she isn't as lonely with me to talk to!

But that isn't all. While we were talking, the Baroness came into the mill and hid something up on the second floor. I don't think she saw us, but we should be more careful from now on.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Baron came to me today and asked what my intentions were toward Arlie. She told her mother about me, and is quite distraught.

I told him how I feel and that I would never do anything to hurt her. I even offered to leave!

He told me that wouldn't be necessary. I think he understands.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Received a shipment from <<3>>. Unusual stuff. Lots of powders, dried plants, and some kind of shimmery gemstones. The Baroness had me take them down to the basement for storage.

Funny. The smell reminds me of Arlie's grandmother.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2152)
	Krisandra Edrald's Journal, Vol. 1
My daughter has become quite maudlin since Federic left for <<1>>. I have assured her that all will be right when he returns, but she remains quite dour.

I have taken the liberty of sending to Fell's Run for a cask of tawny port. Such is hard to come by with the growing trouble in the region, and spirits from the arbors of Summerset are always a welcome reprieve from our local distillations. Surely, their bright and sunny notes will bring her aught but cheer!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Arlie came to me this evening in tears. It would seem <<2>>, simpleton that she is, has managed to cause her no end of distress. While I can understand how it might be difficult for her to fathom that she does harm with her attentions, that is no excuse.

If only Federic were here. His constant company has always comforted our dearest daughter. What I wouldn't give for him to return on the morrow.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

No matter how strongly I word my arguments, Allan seems unconcerned. He's rather attached to the that servant girl. Doesn't he see what's at stake here?

If <<2>> is allowed to interfere with our daughter's wedding, it could ruin us all! Such self-indulgence is abominable! I'll not allow her to continue this harassment.
		

Failed at /books/2153Failed at /books/2154		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2155)
	Morilatta
A time of ending, harvest, and slaughter,

As dusk falls across the land.

Feast before famine,

A plethora of bounties.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2156)
	Angalayond
Deep silence, the iron gray time,

Seeping into bones and roots.

Snow and ice cover the land,

As the world dies before being reborn.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2157)
	Larelleis
The time of flowing water,

The pale rose of dawning time.

Awake now, reaching for golden light,

All is new, all is bright.
		

Failed at /books/2158		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2159)
	Krisandra Edrald's Journal, Vol. 2
Allan continues to believe this association between our daughter and <<1>> is but a passing fancy, that we should allow it to play out. He hasn't had to look into her eyes and see the terrible divide it has created within her.

She is torn with herself, and I will not watch her rent asunder while we stand helplessly by. If he will not do anything about it, I shall take matters into my own hands!.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Went to talk with the Constable today only to find her in her cups. It would seem our estate is not alone in its troubles—there has been a power shift in <<2>>.

Her replacement was not helpful nor was he forthcoming as to why. It would seem the town will no longer bother itself with our affairs nor ensure our protection! The nerve of the man. When this business with <<1>> is settled, I will have strong words for his superiors in <<3>>!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Opened the Undercroft for the first time in ages. When we locked it up after Allan's mother died, I had hoped we would never open it again, but it is my only hope now.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I've found it! A ragged old book detailing what is necessary to contact Mehrunes Dagon, Daedric Prince of change! If any can alter our fate, it will be him. The ritual seems simple enough, though I know dabbling with even the simplest of conjurations can prove dangerous. Still, what choice do I have?

I've dispatched a courier to <<3>> for the necessary components. We will have to be discreet about it, but I trust Alison to be discreet.
		

Failed at /books/2160		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2161)
	Wenayasille
The time of green and growth,

Long days and short nights.

Abundant life, endless sun,

Fruits ripen and creatures thrive.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2162)
	Note in Bag of Vvardenfell Silk
<<1>>, forgive me for departing before your arrival. Please give Enthis and Turil my best. I've made off with the rest of their silk. Feel free to give these remainders to one or the other with my best.

Yours,

Chanda
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2163)
	An Orc's Guide to Tamriel
By Luruk gro-Bozgor

When passing through the holds and camps of men and mer, it is important to remember their sense of justice is not as immediate as the Code of Mauloch demands. A thief in Daggerfall, for example, might expect to be imprisoned for a number of days. By comparison, a murderer might sit for years in a dank cell awaiting some petty lord to decide his guilt.

Be therefore careful in exacting your wrath upon those who wrong you. Though swift justice is to be lauded among civilized people, it is often misinterpreted as brawling—or worse, grievous assault—where local custom is used to a less efficient response.

Similarly, the rules of such far off lands do not appreciate—or even allow—challenges from below. Where single combat is a commonly accepted remedy for poor leadership among our own people, less civilized societies have yet to discover its practical efficiency, and will frequently allow others to demonstrate their strength for them.

Take care, then, in voicing your opinion among such folk, for it may be swiftly and violently struck down. Instead, find others who share your beliefs and let your numbers carry you to victory.

Finally, the arts of fine craftsmanship are often stunted in far-off lands. Though the Elven peoples of Summerset and Vvardenfell have some grasp of refined forging, the men of Cyrodiil and the far north do not. In some of the more benighted areas, they even view unalloyed iron as an acceptable metal for working arms and armor.

Be not afraid to best their backward practices. Your efforts will bring respect and admiration upon our people, and your name will spread far and wide.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2164)
	A Light on the Moor
Walking one night along the rain-sodden roads that mark passage through the Glenumbral moors, a pilgrim spied a lantern in the mist.

"My word," he said, as he stopped to stare, pushing up his funny white hat to get a better view, "Some poor traveler has lost his way!"

"Ho, there!" he cried, "The road is here!"

Hearing no response, but not being one to leave a fellow mer to the mercy of the marsh, the pilgrim strayed from his own path and waded into the putrid waters between him and the light. Boots sloshing through the blackened muck, he could hardly make the gleam out through the mist ahead of him.

Undeterred, he pressed forward, with hardly a thought for his own mortality. "Surely they can hear me now," he thought, then cried out once more.

"Ho, good friend! The road lies this way!"

Again hearing no response, he took a moment to look around. Mist was all he found there, in the dark. He could see neither his horse nor his barrow, where he had staked it. Shivering there in his own lamplight, hopelessly lost, he wondered whether he would ever return to the road.

Deciding two lost souls would fare better than one, and up to his chest in peat and putrid water, he pressed on toward the light.

One by one, he lost his boots to the marsh, buried deep in the sucking pits that marked his passage. Bootless, he continued until he could go no further.

It was then, coming around a copse of trees, that he came upon a small glass lantern hanging from a tree branch. Searching for any sign of its owner, he spied a wide-brimmed bonnet where it lay abandoned on the ground. As he stood there wondering, the bright yellow flame of the tiny lantern flickered, then guttered out.

He looked to his own lantern, bobbing happily in the water above his shoulders, and took another step only to find he couldn't. Indeed, he could barely shift his waist, so thick was the muck he'd mired in.

Looking skyward, he reached for the grasping, wooden fingers of the trees above, only to find them beyond his grasp.

So he stood there, in the dark, until the murky waters swallowed his throat, his mouth, and his funny white cap. His final breath bubbled up through the muck, and that was the last of the pilgrim.

Walking one night along the rain-sodden roads that mark passage through the Glenumbral moors, a merchant spied a lantern in the mist.

"My, my," he said, as he stopped to stare, pushing up his broad visor to get a better view, "Some poor fellow's lost his way!"
		

Failed at /books/2165		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2166)
	Racial Motifs 1: The High Elves
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

This series will provide a survey-level overview of the symbolic and stylistic hallmarks that distinguish the major cultures of Tamriel in their arts and crafts. Our focus will be on the portable durable goods of the various races, that is, their clothing, ornamentation, arms, and armor, as these reliably reflect personal cultural expressions. When completed, this series will support the curricula of the introductory ethnographic courses at the Arcane University. 

We begin with the High Elves, the reclusive Altmer of the Summerset Isles, because the argument can be made (and often is, by Elves) that civilization in Tamriel was brought here by the Aldmeri of Old Ehlnofey. Insofar as the Elves of Summerset consciously strive to maintain the heritage of their Merethic ancestors, their traditions are certainly closer to those of pre-First Era society than any other. 

This is not to say that, in the thousands of years since the arrival of the first Aldmeri, the culture of the High Elves has not deviated and ramified in many ways, because it has. It is simply that, by viewing modern Altmeri culture with the eye of a historian, we can perceive the outlines of its origins. 

In this initial effort I have benefited from the advice of the celebrated Morian Zenas, Professor of Transliminal Studies here at Arcane University. Professor Zenas is the only member of our faculty who has visited the Summerset Isles, specifically Artaeum, with a brief stop in transit at Dusk. 

I was a bit intimidated when I first visited Professor Zenas in his house in the Cathedral District, but I found him a charming old gentleman, undeserving of his reputation for peevishness. Morian (for so he asked me to address him) bade me stay for dinner, which was served by his laconic Argonian apprentice, Seif-ij Hidja. 

As Morian explained, the High Elves strive for a simple elegance in their designs, in which flowing lines reflect graceful forms from the natural world. More-or-less abstract birds, flowers, and sea shells are common motifs, rendered in rich but muted colors. Armor will be tooled or embossed to represent scales or feathers, and even heavy cuirasses and helmets may sport stylized wings or beaks. 

Metallic items are often accented with a translucent greenish material called "glass." This is a sort of jade-like obsidian that Elven smiths have learned to work by secretive processes known only to the Altmer. Though rigid enough to take a superb edge when cool, glass can be made malleable enough to assume almost any form, and the High Elves use it extensively on ornamental arms and armor. 

After dinner, over snifters of Cyrodilic Brandy, Morian asked me all sorts of questions about my motifs project, and about myself. It was really very flattering. I must find an excuse to talk with him again.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2167)
	Racial Motifs 2: The Dark Elves
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

From the High Elves it is natural to next consider the Dark Elves, as they originated in the Summerset Isles before their migration to Morrowind. Their culture can thus be considered an offshoot of the Altmeri, though in many ways that of the Dunmer is a reaction to that of Summerset rather than an extension. 

Also, Morian introduced me to a Dark Elven associate of his, Divayth Fyr, who is helping him on his "transliminal sojourn" project. I don't know what that's all about, but Divayth offered to help me with references on Dunmeri culture, and I accepted. 

Elegance is as much a goal for the Dark Elves as it is for the High Elves, but beyond that their styles could not be more different. Morrowind is a far harsher environment than fair Summerset, and that rigor is reflected in Dunmeri designs. The Dark Elves also draw on nature for their inspiration, but in place of avian and floral motifs, Dunmeri artifice draws on the curved and spiky forms of the carapaces of the giant insects that inhabit Morrowind. Elegant these are, but also fearsome, a constant reminder that the Dunmer daily fight for their very existence. 

Ebony is the favored metal for Dark Elven heavy armor, but even in their lighter armors and shields, steel and steel alloys are often lacquered in dark tones to appear ebony-like. Clothing, armor included, is often accented by flaring extensions at shoulder, crest, or hip, with overlapping geometric designs that may have been borrowed from Dwarven culture, though Divayth bristled at the idea of any Dwemeri influence on the Dunmer. 

In truth, I find the dark sorcerer from Vvardenfell exerts a strangely compelling attraction. He doesn't seem old, but he referred to Morian, who is at least sixty, as a "young man." I wonder how old he really is. In fact, I wonder many things about him. He has those crimson eyes that seem to look right through you. It's a little bit thrilling. 

He's offered to take me with him to visit a Bosmeri tavern down on the waterfront. I may do it.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2168)
	Racial Motifs 3: The Wood Elves
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

Next we complete our study of the Elves with the Bosmer of Valenwood. Though less influential in the world at large than their cousins the High Elves and the Dark Elves, the Wood Elves outnumber all other Mer in Tamriel, being relatively fecund (for Elves) and more, shall we say, amorously-inclined. 

It's a commonplace to point out that the Wood Elves favor natural motifs, but as I learned, there's more to it than that. Their reverence for Y'ffre and the story of the Earth Bones is reflected in the stylized fashion in which these natural motifs are represented. The Bosmer believe that all nature was in chaos before Y'ffre gave all plants, animals, and people their names, which defined the permanent form each species would take. Thus each species is depicted by a particular, idealized motif which represents the ur-form it was given by Y'ffre.

This is reflected in the designs that appear everywhere on Wood Elven arts, crafts, and clothing. These designs are drawn from a large repertoire, as there is a design for each species of plant and animal in the Bosmer's world, but the use and depiction of these designs is culturally prescribes, and there is very little room for variation. Unorthodox usage of these stylized pictograms is considered improper, just plain "wrong."

This may seem paradoxical in a race whose members otherwise seem so carefree and easygoing, but it is so, as I had an opportunity to see for myself. There are quite a few Wood Elves in the Imperial City, enough that there is a small Bosmeri neighborhood down on the waterfront, served by a tavern called the Tipsy Torchbug. Divayth Fyr, the fascinating Dark Elf wizard assisting Morian Zenas in his experiments, had offered to take me there, and I agreed. 

When I arrived at Morian's house on the date of our jaunt to the docks the old professor himself answered the door, and I was surprised when he asked me to step into my study for a moment. Also surprising was the way Morian was turned out: in a new silk robe sporting star-sign symbols, hair trimmed and combed, and smelling faintly of lavender. Quite a transformation from the disreputable, singed and stained robes I'd seen him in previously. 

It turned out he wanted to caution me about going down to the waterfront with Divayth Fyr. I'm afraid I laughed, at which he reddened, and I then told him I was a grown woman who could take care of herself. He was somewhat abashed and muttered some excuses, from which I gathered that he was more concerned about my spending time with Divayth than going to the docks. I didn't want his feelings hurt, so I complimented his new robe, at which he beamed, and then I went to the parlor to meet Divayth. 

I shouldn't ramble on, but we had a wonderful evening. The Tipsy Torchbug was a lively place, and Divayth introduced me to Lady Biniele, the proprietor, who insisted that we share our table. The entertainment was Biniele's Bosmeri Burlesque, which was hilarious, and though I couldn't drink any of the Wood Elves' revolting beverages, I did consent to share a pipeful of bugsmoke with Divayth, which made me feel strangely exhilarated. 

It also led to my seeing a prime example of Bosmeri disdain for "improper design" when a Leyawiin sailor, who'd seen me sharing Divayth's pipe, offered to sell me a carved-bone pipe of "genuine Valenwood make." Lady Biniele told me it was a counterfeit and not to waste my money. The sailor protested, but the diminutive Wood Elf woman told him any fool could see the tail was wrong on the Imga carved on the bowl, and he should shove off.  Which he did. 

Divayth and I shoved off shortly thereafter, and on our way back up to the city gates he pointed to the stars in the brilliant night sky and told me the ancient Chimeri names for the constellations. I must confess, I remember nothing but the warm tones of his resonant voice—and the warm touch of his hand on my arm.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2169)
	Racial Motifs 4: The Nords
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

We come now to the Nords, the first human culture on Tamriel to successfully resist, and even displace, Elven hegemony on the continent. 

Not unlike the Bosmer, the Nords rely heavily on stylized, often interlocking natural motifs in their architecture, crafts, and clothing. However, where the Wood Elves' designs are mainly floral, the Nords emphasize animals, in particular the eight "totem" animals of the old Atmoran religion: wolf, hawk, whale, snake, moth, fox, and so forth. They also allow for much more variation of design, to the point where some of the animal motifs are so abstract they are difficult to recognize. Indeed, areas of trim are often filled with interlocking geometric designs that evoke nothing natural at all. 

Nord design varies in other ways from that of the Elves as well, in general relying on simple, heavy yet dynamic forms where Elven work would be slender, elegant, and understated. Nothing the Nords make is understated, ever. 

This was clear even from outside the Imperial City's Skyrim Embassy, where Morian, Divayth and I had gone to a reception for King Logrolf. The lintel above the embassy doors was crowned with a great iron hawk's-head, its mouth open as if screaming defiance, while the doors were flanked by bas-reliefs of hawks so stylized they looked as much like axes as they did birds. The door itself was dark oak, banded with iron and studded with iron rivets, as if they expected to have to repel an attack. 

The inside of the embassy was less martial in appearance, at least once one got past the armed and armored guards inside the door. I wondered if they really needed to wear full helms sporting ram's-horns in order to check the invitations of party guests, but the look in the Nords' eyes didn't exactly invite questions. 

The party, as I said, was a reception for King Logrolf, visiting the Imperial City to pay his respects to the Potentate. Morian was there representing the Arcane University; he'd asked me to accompany him and I'd accepted, eager to see our fierce northern cousins in their own environment. When Divayth learned where we were going he'd attached himself to our party, in spite of Morian's baleful glare, but once we were inside the embassy and he was surrounded by loud, boisterous Nords, the Dark Elf wizard seemed to be regretting his decision to join us. 

Not so Morian! After he'd downed a flagon of mead, I was suddenly seeing a new Professor Zenas. Attired in his new robe, he positively bloomed, holding forth on the history of magic to an admiring crowd of diplomats, whom he enthralled with tales of the feats of wizardry of the Nord Arch-Mage Shalidor. He seemed twenty years younger, and I suddenly saw him as he must have been in his prime, when he first came to the Imperial City to help found the Arcane University. 

Morian even introduced me to King Logrolf, though how he came to know the monarch of Skyrim I have no idea. When I looked around for Divayth, he was nowhere to be seen. Morian and I stayed late at the embassy, quaffing mead and laughing at the Nords' hearty jokes. When we finally left and he walked me home, I thought I could see a new gleam in Morian's eye. 

He may have seen the same gleam in mine.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2170)
	Racial Motifs 5: The Bretons
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Arch-Magister at the University, Lady Opel Dantaine, is a Breton, so I consulted with her on Breton motifs. She was friendly, and very helpful. 

The Bretons were the last major group of humans on Tamriel to free themselves from their Elven overlords, and in many ways their long vassalage to the Direnni defines their culture. They are fiercely autonomous, each kingdom in High Rock jealous of its individual sovereignty, but Breton society retains a feudal structure that hearkens back to the rank-obsessed Direnni Hegemony. The Bretons are nearly as fractious as their cousins the Nords, but their long tutelage under the Elves makes them open to the magical arts, rather than suspicious of them. 

How is this reflected in their arts and crafts? Let's look at Breton armor, for example. The gleaming heavy armor of a Breton knight is as tough and practical as that of a Nord housecarl, but its pleasing form exhibits a subtle sophistication that is reminiscent of Elven elegance. One sees the same influence in Breton weaponry, which is beautiful yet undeniably deadly. 

It made me think of the differences between Divayth's Elven urbanity and Morian's breadth of knowledge and all-too-human inconsistencies, even peevishness. Apparently the transliminal experiments have not been going well. When I stopped by the townhouse last night, neither Morian nor Divayth were in—Seif-ij, Morian's apprentice, told me they'd quarreled over the appropriate price to pay a transporting entity to ensure safe return from a jaunt to Oblivion, the remarks became personal, and then my name was apparently brought up. There was shouting, and they both huffed their way out of the laboratory and marched off down Divines Street in opposite directions. 

This is terrible. Fighting? Over me? I must confess I was so disturbed I blurted out the whole thing to Lady Opel, who was incredibly kind and solicitous. She asked me if I had feelings for either of the two wizards, and I admitted I did, but they were conflicting and confusing. Opel opened a bottle of two of Bangkorai spiced wine, and we got quite confidential with each other as the evening waned. I'm not sure how I got home, and today my head hurts, but it was worth it, as my heart is no longer so heavy.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2171)
	Racial Motifs 6: The Redguards
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

When I arrived at Morian's townhouse this morning all was sunshine and rainbows—Divayth and the professor were chatting over mugs of chal like best friends, comparing Ralliballah's Eleven Ritual Forms to the Book of Most Arcane Covenants. I reminded Divayth that he'd promised to escort me to the Yokudan Chapel in the Market District, at which Morian's brow clouded over slightly, but then he smiled and said that was fine, as he wanted to test some new hyperagonal media in his laboratory.

(And maybe it was the light, but to me both men looked … younger, somehow. I must keep in mind that they're both highly capable wizards, which I suppose might include knowledge of illusion magic. Or perhaps I flatter myself.)

I met a number of knowledgeable Redguards at the chapel, all exhibiting that dignity and polite reserve I associate with the better-educated members of that people. The Most-Revered Zirumir, a Priest of Tu'whacca (I hope I spelled that right), was particularly helpful. 

As Zirumir pointed out, both the Redguards' ancient home of Yokuda and their current province of Hammerfell are (or were, in the case of Yokuda) deserts. To stay cool, and for protection from the elements, Redguard clothing tends to be light, long and flowing, and these flowing curves are carried into their artisanal designs. Their robes and armor are often accented by flared curves at joints and on headgear. Even their swords tend to be curved.  

In contrast their architecture appears rather heavy, though on close inspection this is mainly for the purpose of insulation from the desert's extremes of temperature. Zirumir showed me the chapel's clever system of louvered ventilation ducts in the clerestory, designed to catch the slightest breeze and funnel it down into the nave. 

After Zirumir was called away to tend to one of his congregation, Divayth and I strolled into the apse to view the eight shrines to the Yokudan Divines. Divayth was explaining that whereas the Forebears of Hammerfell often worship the Cyrodilic Divines brought to them by the Reman Empire, these were the traditional gods worshiped by the more conservative Crown Redguards. Suddenly, behind the beehive shrine to Morwha, he turned to me with those blazing eyes, took my hands between his, and told me he thought me the most brilliant and desirable woman in the Imperial City. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart was hammering. But when he moved as if to embrace me I was suddenly frightened—I backed away, shaking my head, then fled out into the nave. I fear I quite startled a young family of Redguards placing candles on Morwha's altar. 

Now what? I'm afraid I must have insulted Divayth terribly. How can I make it up to him? And dare I mention it to Morian? Julianos' little teapot, what a dilemma!
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2172)
	Racial Motifs 7: The Khajiit
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

When I went to the professor's townhouse this morning, my first priority was to apologize to Divayth, but Seif-ij told me he was out—he'd gone somewhere from the portal chamber, using an incantation and leaving nothing behind but a burnt smell. Onward, I told myself: work will take your mind off it. So I went looking for Morian. 

I found the old dear at breakfast, just finishing his sweet roll and chal. When I entered the kitchen, he nearly knocked over his mug in his haste to stand up and bow! I told him I wanted to make some notes on the Khajiit and asked him if he knew any of the Cat-Folk, as I did not. He said he knew exactly the person I needed and would be delighted to help me, since "that irascible Telvanni" had taken the day off. 

I had often passed the seasonal camp of the Baandari Pedlars outside the Market Gate but had never gone in—residual caution from my father's warnings keeping me out, I suppose, as well as the pungent scent. Besides, I've always been a dog person. But Morian plunged right in without hesitation and led me to a pavilion adorned with colorful prayer-flags. I followed Morian into the tent, where he introduced me to Madame Shizahi-jo, whom he said was a Khajiiti sorceress devoted to Azurah and Magrus. Though sitting in lotus position, she bowed politely—the Cat-Folk are lissome—gestured to a pair of seat cushions, and asked how "this one" could be of service. 

We had a long and lovely chat. There are superficial similarities between the motifs and designs of the Khajiit and the Redguards, perhaps because they both inhabit hot, arid environments, but where the Redguards favor long, flowing curves, the Cat-Folk are devoted to circular and crescentiform moon-shapes. The shapes of Masser and Secunda in all their phases appear everywhere on Khajiiti clothing and ornaments. The falcate sliver of the crescent moon also brings to mind the Khajiiti claws that spring from pads in their hands and feet, a subtle but ever-present threat to softer folk. 

Shizahi-jo made us some tea—sticky sweet, like all Khajiiti food and drink—then asked to see the leaves in the bottom of my cup. She stirred them with her pinky-claw, and said now she saw the object of my concern: I'd let my fear cloud my longing and darken my heart. I blurted something about how Divayth had tried to kiss me, and Morian dropped his cup, splattering poor Shizahi. 

I thought he was going to explode in rage, but instead this sad look came over him, and then he began pouring out his heart about his feelings for me. It was so sweet of him. I was really quite moved. The Khajiiti mage made a discreet exit, and we stayed on her cushions, talking, for what seemed like hours.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2173)
	Racial Motifs 8: The Orcs
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

I saw Divayth last night, briefly, at the Torchbug. I told him I truly cared for him, but that Morian had won my heart. He clouded over like a storm in the Jeralls, but then took a deep breath and managed a dignified exit. Oh, I do hope he'll be all right. 

Though I confess, I'm more worried about Morian. His experiments with Divayth are reaching their climax, when Morian will open a gate and personally make a visit to Oblivion. He says he's going to try for Azura's realm of Moonshadow, as he says that ought to be relatively safe. Safe! I'm as anxious as a scrib on a griddle. I dearly want to see Morian before he goes, but he says he must concentrate on mastering the ritual and can't be interrupted. 

He did send a note by Seif-ij saying I should take his place representing the University at the Potentate's state dinner for the new envoy from Orsinium. He must really be busy to skip that event, as I know he was keen to go. Well, all the better for my Racial Motifs project, I suppose—work, work, work will take my mind off my worries!

The new province of Orsinium doesn't have an embassy yet, so for the dinner the Potentate's snake-staff set up a row of pavilions on the grounds of the White-Gold Tower. To honor Envoy Thuggikh they were all decorated with authentic Orcish paraphernalia imported from Wrothgar, so I got out my journal and took notes during the interminable speeches. 

Strange to think that a folk as brutish as the Orcs seem to be could design and create objects of such sophistication! Of course they're known across Tamriel as fine armorers, but I'd always assumed that was due to their great strength rather than skill. A glance at their arms and armor was enough to show me how wrong my assumption had been. Though never ornate or over-embellished, their metalwork, though even simpler and more utilitarian than the Nords', displays a deep understanding of the laws of proportion, symmetry, and harmonic congruity. An Orcish sword may be a weapon of violence, but to contemplate the dynamic sweep of its blade, visually balanced by its heavy but shapely hilt, obviously molded to flow into the hand of its wielder—why, it's almost restful and reassuring. 

Afterwards at the reception I was happy to see somebody I recognized in Lady Opel the Arch-Magister. She greeted me warmly and, over some West Weald wine and Eidar cheese, asked me how things were going with me and my pair of wizards. I told her I thought I'd made a terrible muddle of things, but she assured me everything would work out in the end. She said she's known Morian for ever so long, and he's really quite sensible beneath his fussy old-man ways. She was glad he'd found someone as clever as I to keep him from completely vanishing into his laboratory. 

But as far as I'm concerned, that's exactly what he's done. I think I'll go talk to Seif-ij again—maybe he can help me get through to Morian before he leaves.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2174)
	Racial Motifs 9: The Argonians
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

This morning my maid Dariella came to me all a-twitter with the news that there was a lizard-woman at the door, asking for me and insisting it was urgent. There aren't many Argonians in the City, and it occurred to me this might be a relative of Seif-ij, sent with some dreadful news about Morian, so I donned my University robe and hurried down. 

There was indeed a young lizard-woman waiting in the street, clad in a fetching spidersilk jumper adorned with intricate spiral designs. She said her name was Lifts-Her-Tail (which I thought must be a joke, but who can tell, given these reptilians' impassive features), and she'd been sent to bring me to her master, Desh-Wulm the Perspicuous. She said she didn't know what it was about, but it was a matter of some urgency, and she was to lead me to her master immediately. I nodded, nervously, and followed. 

The Argonian lass led me out the Temple gate and down to the Docks, far out on the end of which we found a curious old house I'd never before noticed, with a dark sign by the door that read "The Xanmeer"—a word unfamiliar to me. We went inside to find a large house entirely occupied by Argonians, a dozen or so who seemingly lived there using all the rooms in common. Everywhere I looked I saw Argonian hangings, sculptures, and fetishes, all made from natural materials such as shells, bone, and feathers, glowing with bright spiral and geometric designs. If these objects were representative of what the Argonians used in their home regions, then snakeskin, tortoise shell, jagged teeth, turquoise and jade, all of which we would consider exotic materials, must be commonplace in Black Marsh,. 

Lifts-Her-Tail led me up a ramp that had apparently replaced the house's staircase. On the upper level she introduced me to a humid room that, to me at least, smelled of decay and mold. Coughing, I entered, discovering a room almost entirely full of potted jungle plants—some of them seemingly long-dead and rotting. I stepped on something that squished beneath my sandal and stepped involuntarily back, but the lizard-lass gently took my hand, drew me past a wall of ferns and into the center of the room. 

There, incongruously, I discovered a large porcelain Nibenese bathtub, like the one in my own vanity chamber, though this one was filled almost to the rim with a noisome, greenish mud. And lying in this mud, nose barely above the surface, was the oldest Argonian I'd ever seen. 

In fact, the withered and wizened lizard-man looked so much like a mummy I was startled when it opened its mouth and spoke. In a voice like creaking leather, the reptilian slowly said, "I am Desh-Wulm. You are Al-Phid, Brightest Star of the City. You are welcome in my uxith—my nest."

He seemed to be looking someplace over my shoulder, and I saw that the old lizard's eyes were clouded over with an opalescent film—he was blind. This infirmity was somehow reassuring, enabling me to regain my self-possession and fall gratefully into the routines of etiquette. I bowed—though he couldn't see it—and said, "I am honored to be received into your home, venerable Desh-Wulm. How can one such as I be of service to an Elder of Wisdom?"

"You can beware!" he croaked, scaled hands emerging from the mud and levering him up on the rim of the bathtub. "Your dryskin mages—the weft unravels about them," he said, more calmly, making an unfamiliar spiral gesture above the tub. "It is wrong. The Aurbic skeins should not be disjoined with intent of malice." 

I had been around wizards long enough to guess at what he meant. "Morian?" I gasped. "And Divayth? They're in danger? What can I do?"

Desh-Wulm clacked his jaws twice, and then said, "You are capable. You must stop them. You will prevail. If not," three sharp spines rose up from his brow, "there will be ill dreams and serration for all who swim the river. Kaoc!" The old Argonian suddenly began thrashing about in the tub, spilling muck over the sides. "Theilul!" 

Lifts-Her-Tail deftly picked up a jug that seemed to be made from a single insect's carapace, uncorked it, and poured some brown liquor down the old lizard-man's throat. "Go!" she hissed, pointing toward the door. "Do as he says! Now!"

I turned, ran out of the room, down the ramp, out the door, and back to the Imperial City.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2175)
	Racial Motifs 10: Imperial Cyrods
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Imperial City. I used to love it here. When I was young my native town of Skingrad seemed hopelessly provincial to me, and I looked forward all year long to going along with mother on her annual trip to the Heartland. For me, the capital was the epitome of learning, of culture, of everything I held dear. 

I walk the avenues now, from district to district. And I look. Skingrad seemed provincial, yes, but it was Colovian: direct, forthright, with clean lines and a certain spare, ascetic look to it. And its people are much the same way. 

The Imperial City, except for the walls and the Tower, which are Ayleid, is … Nibenese. Refined. Decorative. Subtle. Nuanced. 

Decadent. Corrupt. 

Like its people. And the people it attracts. 

I was too late. 

Morian is gone. With the help of Divayth, cursed Divayth, he fulfilled his dream and traveled to Oblivion. According to Seif-ij, he went to Moonshadow as planned, but he didn't stay there. He went on, to Ashpit, to Coldharbour, to Quagmire. To Apocrypha. 

And there, in Apocrypha, he stayed. 

Seif-ij told me, emotion quivering even in his flat reptilian voice, of how once he entered Oblivion Morian seemed to become more reckless, more enraptured, with each portal to a new plane. How he ignored his assistant's pleas to return. How Apocrypha … entranced him. 

Seif-ij Hidja was beside himself, holding his head with its drooping spines, clearly at his wit's-end. It was up to me. I ran to Divayth's room, though Seif-ij said he was gone, hoping he'd left some way to get in touch with him, hoping he would respond to my appeals for help. 

I found only a book, open on his desk, a book titled "Fragmentae Abyssum Hermaeus Morus." It was open to what seemed to be a summoning ritual for the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora, specifying that "whatever price is named shall be met."

A ritual to Hermaeus Mora. The Lord of Apocrypha. 

I ran to Morian's laboratory. It was looted, ransacked. The only thing of interest was a crumpled note. It read, "When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee." 

Morian is gone. Gone to Apocrypha. Where he stays.

And so I walk, from district to district. Wondering. What price had the Lord of Apocrypha named to Divayth Fyr? What price for the entrancement, the captivity of Morian Zenas? 

I walk the streets, the avenues and alleys. Wondering.

Wondering when I, too, will be ready to pay the price.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2176)
	Statue of Sir Byric
Dedicated to Sir Byric of the Flame, who set fire to the fields surrounding the Alcaire Castle, holding back invaders from the Reach in CE 542.

The Alcaire Knights were renamed Knights of the Flame to honor his bold action and determination.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2177)
	Saving Your Hide
By Lieutenant Anders Gemane

Too often, soldiers neglect one of the most important tools in their arsenal: the dagger. That's right, the humble boot-knife, the weapon favored by thieves and, yes, even assassins. It's easy to see why the short blade has a poor reputation among those who dream of charging into battle to gain glory by lopping off heads with a greatsword, but it can save you in a pinch.

The well-rounded soldier is prepared for any situation, and that means familiarity with weapons large and small. A dagger can be your best friend—a concealed blade can cut your bonds free in the event of capture, it can give you a fighting chance should you become disarmed, it can skin a quick meal on the trail, and practicing with one can teach you volumes about mobility and close combat. 

If you want to be fully prepared for the battlefield, you'll practice these simple exercises at least once a week. Listen to my advice, and you'll improve your survivability tenfold.

The Quick Draw: Strap a few small daggers where you can reach them easily. You might want one strapped to your thigh, one near your sword, or one at your shoulder. All you're going to do is draw them and bring them to the ready as fast as you can. Seems simple, but you need to master this step. If you can't get to them fast, you're as good as dead.

Target Practice: Bows are fine weapons, but what happens when you run out of arrows and the foe is charging in? Practice some throws at the archery range, keeping your wrist stiff and making sure to follow through, releasing the hilt when it aligns with the target. This is especially useful when coupled with the Quick Draw exercise.

The Reed: You'll need a partner with a practice weapon for this one. Keep a hand behind your back, hold your dagger in the other, and have them charge you with their best attacks. Your goal is to keep your feet planted and bend out of the way quickly. Don't back up; try to end up on the inside of the attack, where your dagger can be deadly.

What are you waiting for? Get out there are spend some time with your dagger—you can thank me when it saves your life.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2178)
	The Chopping Block
By Kajuld Blackfox

"You tricked me!" cried Thredor. He stopped short and dropped his axe as he rounded the corner of the longhouse, face-to-face with a fresh stack of logs next to the chopping block. "You promised you were going to teach me to fight like you!"

"And I am, little brother, if you'll show any patience," chuckled Thralorr. "If you want to learn to use that axe, you have to start with the basics. You think you'll be able to cleave an enemy's skull if you can't split firewood?"

"That's easy! I'll show you!" Thredor snatched up his weapon, a battered iron cast-off from his brother's younger days, and charged the block. With a mighty yell, he closed his eyes and swung the axe over his head with all the strength he could muster, staggering forward as the blade sailed past the log and lodged itself in the dirt.

"Not so easy, is it? You've got some power there, but that won't help if you can't hit what you want. Here, watch me," Thralorr demonstrated a few chops. "See how I keep my eyes on the target the whole time and take a solid stance? Now you try again."

They chopped wood on into the evening until Thredor's arms felt weak and his hands burned where they gripped the haft. He trained like this for many weeks, simply chopping wood, until he could chop a whole cord without a break with only one hand on the axe.

One morning, to his delight, he came to the yard for his daily practice only to find his brother standing next to a construction of stuffed sacks and sticks painted with the roaring lion of the Daggerfall Covenant. 

"You have more strength and good aim now, but let's see how you do with a different target. Come and show this filth what a Nord can do!" He tossed his little brother a makeshift wooden shield and spent the morning calling out targets and waving the dummy's arms as Thredor hacked away while attempting to block the flimsy blows.

"I can't wait to try out Troll-Fang on a real one!" Thredor breathed heavily as the two took a break in the shade of a nearby tree.

"Is that what you've named it, then? Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that so soon," replied Thralorr. "You've learned a lot, but you've a long way to go yet. We'll keep practicing, and before you know it, you'll be ready to answer the call of battle. Wait, what's that? I think I hear it now!"

Thredor rolled his eyes. "That's just mother calling us in," he protested.

"Her wrath is worse than any Covenant soldier!" cried Thralorr. "Hurry, before she comes after us!" Laughing, he chased his brother across the yard and into the house.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2179)
	Sword-Wisdom of Saikhalar
And so it was that day that Saikhalar was in good humor after the morning training, for his students performed admirably in their drills and he was impressed by their progress. Being of such fair spirits, he invited the pupils to sit 'round in a ring and seek his wisdom as reward. The youths, having many questions, clamored to speak all at once, but he hushed them and called them forth one by one.

One asked, "Master, why do we train only with the sword, when weapons come in so many shapes?"

The Master replied, "The sword is our soul. Mighty Onsi showed our people in ancient days the way to lengthen blades, and we have known their blessed virtue in our victories since. Focus on it alone, and you will defeat every weapon—you will outreach daggers, roll from under heavy hammer blows, and deflect the arrows of your foe. If you are distracted from the blade's way, you will only be confused and the path to mastery will disappear beneath your feet."

Another asked, "Master, why must we do the same drills every day?"

The Master replied, "You still think like the thirsty jackal that runs toward a mirage. He collapses in the sands, though he would have found the hidden stream if only he searched the rocks he sprinted past! Focus on the task before you, and perfection follows. Do not think of what you might do tomorrow, but think only of perfecting each exercise as it is assigned. In this way, you will come to grow as one with your weapon."

And so they continued, the Master sharing his wisdom of long years with the youths. After many questions, he noticed one student squirming uncomfortably. Irritated by the boy's divided attention, he asked, "You, what is your question?"

The boy looked up sheepishly as a low growl rumbled from his stomach. "Master, isn't it time for lunch?"

Saikhalar let forth a rare and mirthful laugh. "Hurry on to the kitchens, then! My wisdom may be great, but it cannot fill hungry bellies!"
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2180)
	A Grifter's Apology
By Anonymous

Ever put down a tidy sum on a sword only to have the blade fly off as soon as you got it home and gave it a swing? Bet you were mad! You probably stormed back to the market to find the silver-tongued bastard who convinced you it was magical, only to find his stall vacant. 

I know this because you bought that weapon from someone just like me. 

That's right, I used to pass off the shoddiest merchandise I could get my hands on to folk like you. I'd buy apprentices' failures, find rusted heirlooms at the pawnbroker, and make a profit off people who didn't have much more than big dreams about becoming a hero. Those days are behind me. I've done wrong and want to make amends, so I'm going to arm you with a little knowledge.

The best advice is to buy your weapon from a trusted smith. It may not look like much, but you don't need fancy. I passed off cartloads of giant two-handers on youths with starry eyes, but you'll want to start out with something reasonable—a simple, solid one-hander. A warrior's only as good as his weapon, and you won't learn anything with one that's going to fall apart.

If you insist on visiting market stalls, your first goal is to get a weapon in-hand. Never purchase anything without giving a nearby post a few good hacks with it first. If the merchant won't let you handle it and keeps coming up with excuses, he's up to something.

I got good at distracting customers with fancy moves or a sappy yarn. You'd be surprised how easy it is to con someone into a purchase with a tale about how the noble knight's poor widow is just having such a hard time getting by these days, and how, being such a kind-hearted trader, I'm going to take all the profits from his old sword to her anyway—doing an honest deed for a sweet old lady who can't travel to the market on her own.

Don't let this happen to you. Ignore the chatter, get hold of the weapon, and check it for signs of painted-over rust. Examine the hilt or haft with care; look for traces of adhesives where metal contacts other materials. Avoid flashy weapons studded with gems, since you probably can't tell real jewels from glass fakes. The best cons know just a little bit of illusion magic, too, so be skeptical about supposed magical properties, and make sure you examine the item for more than a few minutes. 

You should know enough now about what to look for in a good one-hander, and I hope you won't fall for any of these tricks. I'm sorry to anyone I pulled them on in the past, and I wish you the best of luck out in the market and in your training.
		

Failed at /books/2181		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2182)
	Letter to Marina
My Dear Marina,

A rumor has come to me; I hope you can disprove it. I hear that Octavimus is planning to leave, to run from his obligations. We both know what a mistake that would be. You need to talk him out of it.

I say this for your health and for his. We both know what will happen if Octavimus leaves. And how could you think of leaving all your friends and the life of the city? I can't believe you would do that.

Don't force my hand here, Marina. It won't be pleasant for anyone. So be a good wife and see that Octavimus stays put.

— Niro
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2183)
	All Our Hopes Dashed
All our hopes dashed. Everything's gone. She warned me, but I wouldn't listen. My egotism prevented it.

I was a fool and have paid dearly for it. No more walks with Itinia, no more playing with our daughters.

I will not let them see me like this. Better to die here than slink home with nothing, a failure in the eyes of all.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2184)
	The Perfect Hiding Spot
We made it! Only three of us got past the Gate of Altadoon. We ran as fast as we could; falling darkness enabled us to elude our pursuers. Robier found the perfect hiding spot.

And now we wait. General Am-Shadal said to stay hidden until we heard the war horns blowing over the gate. Then we strike!
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2185)
	Love Note to Adrienne
Dearest Adrienne,

How I miss you, my darling! Though it's been less than a day since we last met, I can't bear it any longer. Please meet me at our special spot in one hour. I'll bring the wine and food; you bring just your lovely self.

Don't be late, my love!

— Erning
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2186)
	Love Note to Catina
Dearest Catina,

How I miss you, my darling! Though it's been less than a day since we last met, I can't bear it any longer. Please meet me at our special spot in two hours. I'll bring the wine and food; you bring just your lovely self.

Don't be early and don't be late, lover!

— Erning
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2187)
	Love Note to Enna
Dearest Enna,

How I miss you, my darling! Though it's been less than a day since we last met, I can't bear it any longer. Please meet me at our special spot in three hours. I'll bring the wine and food; you bring just your lovely self.

Don't be early and don't be late, lover!

— Erning
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2188)
	Pages from Thiirril's Diary
… says Pell's Gate is in danger, that we should all flee. Some have taken her advice. Eneriell and I have decided to stay. Imperial troops still pass through town on patrols. They keep bandits away.

*****

… took her own advice and left. I don't know what we'll do now, with Brittia gone. Troops pass through only once every few days; bandits are getting bolder. Some seem to be camping in the Homestead ruins to the north. Dehanar swears he saw ….

*****

… hasn't been seen for days. Bandits raided town last night. All our livestock is gone. Haven't seen troops for a week. Eneriell says we have to leave, tonight. We're going to follow Brittia to Vlasta ….
		

Failed at /books/2189Failed at /books/2190		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2191)
	Rendarion's Apology
My Dearest Olahanar,

I was shocked to receive your note. Me, angry with you? Never! You won Elinwe's hand fairly and I hold no grudges. My best wishes go out to both of you.

As a token of my desire to remain the closest of friends, I wish you to take advantage of the best fishing spot in all of Cyrodiil. This has been my secret for many years and now, as my betrothal gift, I share it with you.

Northwest of Castle Black Boot lies a chain of small lakes—the Mist Mirrors. Go there and enjoy the finest fishing you have ever seen. The fish practically leap into the boat! Someone who loves fishing as much as you simply cannot pass this up.

I left my boat along the shore for you. Pay no mind to the creatures you think you see patrolling the lakes. These are merely illusions I cast to keep others away from my favorite fishing hole. They will not harm you, just as I would never harm you.

Enjoy!

— Rendarion
		

Failed at /books/2192Failed at /books/2193Failed at /books/2194Failed at /books/2195Failed at /books/2196		Part of the Final Words collection (#2197)
	Last Words of Gordianus Fortunatus
To whomever reads this:

I hope you find yourself in better straits than I. These will be the last words I ever put to paper, unless the gods intervene in my fate. I know not what Beriel was lamenting, but I certainly regret coming to this haunted place.

The skeletons moan in their eagerness to be at me, to shred my flesh from my bones. Truth to tell, I've been moaning a lot myself lately. I see no way down from this place, no hope to survive. 

I have only myself to blame for this. I fled the Imperial City to escape Urania's presence. I heard her voice everywhere, saw her face in every crowd, smelled her perfume on every breeze. Unrequited love has driven more men mad than the Elder Scrolls.

Food is long gone. The water ran out yesterday afternoon. I can delay no longer. The walking dead will have their wish.

Farewell!

— Gordianus Fortunatus
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2198)
	Ulf's Torn Journal
… olerable! Could Rayno's arrogance achieve greater heights? Each time I think it's impossible, he proves me wrong. Every chance the milk-drinker gets, he pulls his damned lips into a sneer and offers a new insult. If it weren't for Eo ….

… him down to the ground and wiped that sneer off his face. I told him to get out, this is my village and he's not welcome any more. I regret ever letting the pointy-eared bugger and his slimespawn settle here. They can all die in the wilderness for all I care. Rayno screamed threats against me, against my family. I would have killed him then and ….

… didn't return. Must be dead. Pounding is getting closer, louder. Ground is shaking. Sent Eofel and little ones away. Odrama and Lennar stand with me, to face what comes. Rayno peering out from his house, sly face smiling. He did this, whatever it is. If I die here, I'm taking him with me. Eofel will come back when the danger's past. Bleaker's Way will survive, with or withou ….
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2199)
	Rayno's Scorched Journal
… overgrown, fur-coated Nord! He has offered nothing but insults since we arrived. We will never be treated as equals here, never! No doubt the Bleakers fled here as no civilized folk would put up with their stu ….

… et again! For the sake of my family, I have withheld my temper and my hand, but no more! I will show that Nord some magic that will make his chest hair curl in fright. If there is a Bleaker left in this hamlet by week's end, may I never cast another spell. I know of a summoni ….

… done. Soon they will be here. Then Ulf and his clan will plead for mercy—but I will show none. Death to all Bleakers! I will have no peace while they yet live. This place will be known as Dalvilu's Way from now ….
		

Failed at /books/2200		Part of the None collection (#2201)
	How the Yokudans Chased the Stars
… and the Yokudan, who was also called the Star Man, studied the stars and charted their movements. He saw that when the Warrior was high in the sky, victory followed. And when the Warrior was gone from the sky, came famine and desolation. He charted this cycle across the seasons, through two risings and settings he recorded the Warrior's astral path.

And the Star Man said to his kinsmen: "Let us follow the Warrior and find the place where he rests and pledge ourselves to him, so that victory will follow us all our days, and never again will we suffer famine and desolation."

And it was agreed. The Star Man led the Yokudans by ship, following the path of the Warrior, across mountains and vast deserts.  And victory followed them, and famine and desolation fled before them.

And the Warrior's charges were three. The Lord, the Lady, and the Steed. And they paid homage to these with gifts and incense….

*****

And where the Warrior was at his apex, there they ended their journey. There they built a temple and a tomb for all the warriors who had died on the journey. And in death the Warrior honored them and made them his eternal guardians, undying as the stars, and as numerous.

The place where they stopped has not been marked on any map. But any who wish to find it must only do as they did, and follow the Warrior.
		

Failed at /books/2202Failed at /books/2203		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2204)
	To Scarius
You will never be forgotten, Scarius. Nor shall your murderers be forgiven. I bury you here, by the gravestone of our ancestors, facing Nornalhorst. Watch as I avenge you. The severed heads of the Gray Vipers will decorate your grave. This I swear, brother.

— Mercuro
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2205)
	Graveyard Research Notes
At last I near the site. Seldom have I been so impatient in my long career. I spent the night at Castle Alessia, mere hours north of the battleground. My excitement prevented me from sleeping more than a few minutes at a time.

I set off at daybreak and made good time until we neared the ruins of Variela Tower. My horse smelled the undead that haunt that desolate place and threw me from the saddle. When I regained consciousness, Lightstep was nowhere in sight. I assume my supplies are with her as well, much good they will do her.

Fortunately this journal was inside my cloak. Though it caused a painful bruise when I landed on it, I am still able to take notes for my paper.

I skirted the Variela ruins, not wishing to be eviscerated by the undead shambling about. The graveyard, site of the ancient battle, is just to the south. So little is known about this battle that my research should be eagerly awaited. I hope to answer many questions today.

Were the Ayleids part of a strong contingent of Elves based at Variela? Or were they scouts coming from afar? And what in Julianos' name were Orcs doing there? Did they too have a previously unsuspected stronghold nearby, or were they a band of marauders far from home? Unearthing the graves and examining the artifacts they contain should tell me much.

I have rested here long enough. The shadows lengthen already. I will make a pitiful camp in the graveyard and begin my excavations in the morning. Discovery awaits!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2206)
	Ayleid Ruin Exploration Orders
Captain Kline,

I order you to take your squad to Fort Glademist immediately. Once there, you are to search all Ayleid ruins within a day's march. The ruins at Lindai, Piukanda, and Ninendava must be explored thoroughly and cleared of any enemy troops. Also search any other hiding places you discover around the fort.

I expect daily reports.

— General Khamagash
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2207)
	Imperial Recall Orders
To All Imperial Troops,

I have been directed to recall all troops under my command to the Imperial City. This order must be obeyed immediately. All posts are to be abandoned; any supplies that cannot be carried must be destroyed.

Failure to comply with this command immediately will result in charges of desertion, no exceptions allowed.

Report to me at the northwestern bridge en route to the city.

— Captain Virgilus
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2208)
	A Death Desired
At last I am here, treading the sacred ground of the Golden Hill. Long have I dreamt of a journey to Sancre Tor; my heart's desire is granted at last.

To see the place of Reman Cyrodiil's birth and final rest, to set my feet where he might once have stepped—I will not sully my feelings by attempting to describe them. Glory surrounds me.

My brothers warned that this would be the death of me. Little did they understand my goal. I reached this prominence without attracting the attention of this holy site's guardians. But now I will invite their notice. A sense of peace emanates from the gravesite below. I long for that peace, have sought it my entire life.

Farewell, Tamriel! I now  lay down these ancient bones and join my god in his blessed rest.

— Acolyte Sorexius Cinna
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2209)
	To Delay Means Death
Lieutenant Pera,

You have seen the official orders; these must be read to your troops. For your eyes only, I add this warning.

The recall to the Imperial City will not be welcomed by the soldiers. The rumors of what we face there have spread faster than the wind. Fear grips all who have any sense. The brave overcome this fear and march.

You may face a mutiny. Give them no time to organize. Strike camp immediately. If you sense resistance, kill the ringleaders. Hesitation could mean your death and the loss of your troops for the Empire.

I march to the northwestern bridge. Meet me there. To delay means death.

— Captain Virgilus
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2210)
	From Nirn to the Aether
Still recovering from prior incident with the device. Some adjustments need to be made, obviously. More magicka is needed, much more, along with a better method of forcefully channeling it into upward movement.

And next time I hope to land in the water.

Nothing great has ever been accomplished without setbacks and pain. And what goal could be greater than this? They laughed when I shouted "From Nirn to the Aether … and back!" from the rooftops, but I will have the last chortle. It is more than a motto to me, it is my life's quest.

It can be done and I will do it. Every trial takes me one step closer. Tomorrow's attempt will be the breakthrough, I feel it in my bones. I sense the stars aligning in favor of my quest. My name will be recorded in the scrolls of history!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2211)
	Non-Standard Techniques
General Serien,

I know you're going to face real challenges in Stonefalls. The Dark Elves are a proud people, and they won't give up without a fight.

That's why I've sent along copies of this treatise I wrote on non-standard magical military techniques! Hope you find it useful! 

— Gabrielle Benele

Covenant Mages are trained in numerous magical and meta-magical techniques ideally suited for the battlefield. But not every battlefield features opposing troops arrayed in lines, keep walls to knock down, or cavalry to deflect. Some battlefields require a little creativity. 

Every Covenant cohort is accompanied by an elite mage or two. When the circumstances call for it, why not let them make use of a few non-standard techniques?

Here's one recipe sure to throw a defending force for a loop:

— Seek out any local beast races or unwelcome nonsentients in the area.

— Have your mage infiltrate the lair of these lower life forms.

— Overrun the lair through any means necessary and drive out the unwelcome beasts.

— Maintain control of these lairs throughout the invasion, ensuring that the beast races do not return.

If the past is any judge, the beast races will move from their lairs towards local villages and towns, creating their own localized invasion upon enemy encampments.

My next missive will discuss uses for local alchemy goods in creating unique—and explosive—concotions.
		

		Part of the Plots and Schemes collection (#2212)
	Imperial Mutiny!
Sigilius,

Rumor says we're all going to be pulled back into the city. Don't know about you, but I'm not going back there. All the demons of Oblivion walk the streets, from what I've heard. It's a death trap.

A couple of us plan to desert from our squad, slipping out at night. You should do the same. Be careful who you ask, though—don't want to end swinging from a tree.

We're heading into the wilds between Warden and Dragonclaw. Meet us and we'll find a nice little village to take over. Don't wait too long!

— Famius
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2213)
	Avenge Us!
I know I'm going to die. They've already killed Father and Mother and everyone else. They'll find me soon. They're everywhere and I can't hide here forever. They'll see me or hear me or I'll fall asleep and roll off the ledge. I hope that's the way I go.

Prefect Antias warned us. She said the Gray Vipers were coming, that scouts had been seen. She said they'd come for Mother's art collection. Father laughed, said he and the guards could protect us. We should have left, gone to Cropsford, let them have the art. They're just objects, not worth dying for. But they all did. And soon I will too.

Avenge us, please!

— Miri Hedoran
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2214)
	Your Final Opportunity
Captain Corvus,

You know the consequences of your refusal to obey orders. You are condemning all your troops to an ignominious death. The only way to avoid this is to report with your troops to the Imperial City, as ordered.

If you do this, your troops will be spared. Your life is forfeit in any case. Do what is best for those under your command. Report to me in the Imperial City. This is your final opportunity.

— Major Fidenas
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2215)
	Heading to Imperial City
Thracius,

I waited as long as I could. The thought of Porcia and our children in there, all alone, is too much. I have to be there to protect them, should have been there weeks ago.

The bridges are impassible. I'm going to swim across the lake to the city. I hope not to attract any slaughterfish. Damn, the water never used to be so cold.

If you or any of the others find this note, try to meet me at my house or look for me in the Market District.

May Stendarr watch over us all.

— Martinus
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2216)
	I Suspect Duplicity
Headmaster Herendas,

The Fort Magia ruins have been a disappointment. Far from the plethora of ancient lore you claimed were to be found at the site, I have discovered nothing but flesh-hungry undead. My servants were torn apart and my pack animals eaten. I barely escaped with my life.

I now sit perched upon a lofty eminence, safe for the moment. While the view is excellent, I must protest my treatment at your hands. I suspect duplicity, if not evil intent, on your part. When I return, and fear not that I shall, I intend to abandon my instructor's post and will convince Indora to do the same.

I believe I see a means to climb down the exterior of this ruined tower. Though it has been my home for the last three days, I will not miss it. I expect to be in Davon's Watch, to deliver this letter and settle my affairs, very soon.

— Scholar Thirobar
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2217)
	Someday It'll Be Just You
Geneura,

I leave this for your slobbering minions to bring back with them, tails tucked between their legs. They tracked me to this house, but to no avail. By the time they break in, I'll be long gone.

Engitaale and I will never rejoin your pack. Others will leave too. The crueler your grip, the more will slip through your claws.

Someday, it'll be just you, Geneura, with no underlings to fight for you. Then you'll see me again.

Soon, Geneura, soon.

— Selenor
		

Failed at /books/2218		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2219)
	Letter to Alma
Alma,

Stay strong on the Shadowed Path, my heart. Perform your duties for our lord and obey my orders. For now, this is your lot. You must not rise too swiftly in our ranks, or favoritism will be cried out by the others. Volcatia especially is watchful, slit-eyed with suspicion and jealousy.

Curb your impatience and your tongue. They will be the death of us both otherwise. To keep you from indiscretion, I command you to journey to the ancient ruins of Nagastani. Think of this as an opportunity, not a banishment. Rout or corrupt any who reside there. Use the ancient evil that still permeates that ground, build your strength, and await my signal. Soon Blue Road Keep will be ours, under your heel.

The Diabolist rank you crave will be but a stepping stone to the power you can achieve under me. Together, we will crush all of Cyrodiil!

— Dreadlord Naucratius
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2220)
	Call to Adventure!
|acAnd riches beyond your wildest dreams!

Bold Heroes Wanted—Wealth Awaits!

Journey to Drakelowe Keep quickly, for our expedition leaves soon. We travel to the ruins of Nornal, to battle the evil creatures that defile the grounds. Vast treasure is said to lie beyond the ancient doors, awaiting the brave!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2221)
	Might as Well Die Fighting
Going to die here. Damned Goblins. They caught Miari and Tullias while we were exploring the ruins. Jumped us, didn't even know they were there. Goblins dragged them both to the fires, spitted them and roasted them. Didn't think the buggers ate cooked meat, maybe just torturing their victims. Miari screamed forever.

Ran up the tower stairs while the others fought. Not proud of it. Just ran, never been so scared. Hid up here while the others died. Goblins missed me. One snoops up here every few minutes. I swear it smells me.

Can't stay up here much longer. Hungry, getting weak. Might as well die fighting, while I still can.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2222)
	Skyshard in Sight!
Well, Lauric, if you ever find this, I'm sorry for calling you a liar. The skyshard's right where you said it'd be. Tricky spot. Those ghosts are going to spot me for sure.

I'm going to try it, though. If I survive, I'll grab this note on my way out and apologize to you in person.

— Estien
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2223)
	How to Win a Fight
By Caelius Imbrex

I don't read books much, and there's a good reason. You get all these scholar types philosophizing about anything, even stuff they don't know squat about! The other day, I saw a book about the "art" of the sword. I never saw anything so ridiculous. It was full of "deep thoughts" about how fighting is like dancing and a bunch of other horse piss.

I've seen plenty of fights, and I can tell you that all that high-minded fuss is just going to distract you. Fighting is fighting. It's dirty, it's dangerous, and you do what you have to do to survive. I'll lay it out real simple for you right here, and then you can go smash some skulls in without worrying about dance steps or getting in tune with the soul of the blade or any of that. Here's what you need to know:

First, find the biggest weapon you can. Something you need to grab with two hands. Forget shields and bows and tiny daggers. Those aren't going to scare your enemy, and that's one of the first things you need to do. Get the hugest hammer you can. A greatsword works, too, I guess. If you can't pick it up and swing it, well, you aren't strong enough to fight, and you're going to need to lift heavy things until you can!

Second, start breaking things with it. Swing it from the side or from over your head, and smash boxes, scarecrows, target dummies—whatever you can find. Just get a feel for how it swings. This isn't art. It's about having the scariest weapon and being strong enough and crazy enough to send the enemy fleeing when they see you use it to bash someone's helmet in.

Third, find fights! Join a mercenary band or the military. Do whatever gets you into the action. If you know how to swing your weapon and yell really loud, they'll probably take you, especially if you're big and covered in muscles (you should be). Now you can practice on live targets without getting in trouble. Drink just enough to be angry and then get into the fight. If you're strong enough, your weapon is big enough, and you yell loud enough, you'll win—no reading required.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2224)
	Ceryolminwe's Translation
I originally believed these Ayleid fragments to be part of a longer record of the deeds of an ancient hero. The more I translate, the less sure I am. Note the use of the word I translated as "(skill)" in the second excerpt. The word could also be used to reference a physical edge, like that of a sword. That, combined with the talk about cutting and severing, and the whole mention of the bond-brother, has led me to think that this might be referring to an actual weapon.

Much of the context is missing, and the unusual style and structure has made translation even more challenging than usual. I must be overlooking something, but most of the text in this chamber is severely damaged, and I fear I may never attain a complete understanding.

"… eight-times-gifted and heavy with the weight of justice. The first blood you found flowed from the Jumping Wolf. You severed his hand, and then his other, issuing him rewards for murder and making him to crawl along the ground as a common slave. Until then you had not been born, but in this you knew your purpose."

"It was your (skill) and it alone that secured victory against the Snowthroated Throng. You were aloft over them with your two mighty hands in prayer, and they cowered and begged as you fed them to darkness bone by bone. Your bond-brother (exalted) you and you pulled the stars down at his command to burn their tents, and together you laughed as you drove them before you."

"Oh! Glory and (unknown)! Your story of violence rings through three worlds, cuts the glittering path between. You are name-stealer, destroying the legend of what stood before you. You are forged from starlight and honed with Man's bone. You are only for the worthy."

I'm running out of coin to pay my guards, so I'll need to move on soon. I never managed to discover how to open the door to the innermost chamber; I shall have to return. I'm taking rubbings of all the fragments I can find. There's no way they can deny me further funding with this discovery—what if some untouched artifact waits inside?
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2225)
	Wuunding and Tumult
Recorded by Vothel Bethalas

The following are two tales of the Nord hero Wuunding and his hammer, Tumult. Every town I come across seems to have another legend about him, and every Nord I've met swears up and down that they're all true. Their fascination with these exaggerated heroes is charming, in a way, and I've found it an entertaining diversion to set some of the tales to paper, as I've never seen them preserved elsewhere.

Wuunding and the Mountain

Mighty Wuunding desired to pass into the high mountains, for he had heard rumors of a powerful troll lord he wished to fight. The slopes were steep and the snow was thick, and he found it harder and harder to plow his way through. At last, he had enough of digging and struggling. He shouted at the mountain as loud as he could, asking it to shed its snow, but the mountain was stubborn and would not listen. 

Frustrated, he cleared the snow from a rock and used Tumult to strike it with all his might. The mountain rumbled with pain, and all the snow rushed past him into the valley so that he could pass. The mountains remember that pain to this day, so you must be careful when shouting at them. Not all can stand against an avalanche.

The Melting of the March

In the old days, a great frozen Daedra made its home in Eastmarch, slaughtering Nords and conjuring an unending blizzard. Like any good Nord, Wuunding hated Daedra, and he sought to free the land and return it to its people. When he tried to venture into the heart of the storm, he found that his body began to freeze, and he was forced to turn back.

As he wandered the edge of the storm, he prayed to Kyne for help. Before long, he came upon a shack where an old woman lived. She invited him in, and upon hearing his tale, she produced a small flask. "This will help you reach the Daedra," she said, "but do not drink too much at once." The mead, the sweetest he ever tasted, burned in his belly, and he set off right away, immune to the magical blizzard. 

When he found the Daedra at last, they battled all across the land. The magical cold was like nothing he'd faced before, and he felt his strength failing. Without regard to the woman's warning, he downed the whole flask. He burned with a fire so powerful that Tumult roared with flames. The Daedra melted more and more with each strike, leaving steaming pools behind. In the end, nothing was left of the Daedra but the stinking puddles, and Wuunding and Tumult were consumed by the flames. The pools remain even now, a reminder of Wuunding's heroism.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2226)
	A Hero's Weapon
By Lizabet Delrusc

What do you think of when you hear the phrase "A hero's weapon"? My guess is you don't think of a dagger or call to mind an image of a soldier huddling behind his shield. No, you think of a fine greatsword, gleaming in the sun, slicing through enemies just as easily as it cuts the air and singing against armored foes sent staggering by the force of its strikes. That is a hero's weapon.

I have spent long hours observing the soldiers training in the courtyard below my chambers. It is quite clear to me that the strongest, bravest, smartest, and most handsome of the warriors always choose the greatsword (trust me). It balances brute force with skillful maneuvers, and it is neither as clumsy as a hammer or axe nor as easily broken as a smaller sword or bow. The wielder must have immense strength, but he must also have great agility and insight, knowing when to dodge and how to parry blows. 

Of course there are legendary figures who used other weapons, but you'll certainly agree that none inspire the same kind of wonder and awe. When you see someone striding into town covered in heavy armor with a greatsword in tow, you know you're looking at the very face of daring. A greatsword wielder doesn't fear injury; he charges into battle knowing that foes will flee or suffer grave consequences. You might feel a bit faint as they walk by, overwhelmed by such a valiant sight! 

One who wields such a sword shows they embody the hero's approach: to master all aspects of combat. I watch them train their endurance and strength by lifting and running, see them practice moving and dodging. Greatsword wielders train harder than all the other soldiers and are much stronger—that is quite clear.

Not everyone is cut out for heroism, and not every soldier or adventurer will have legends crafted from their deeds. If you aspire to more than just your duty or daily work, and feel the call of battle, then I advise you to set your sights high; aspire to master the greatsword!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2227)
	An Archer's Archive
By Sabarid the Seeker 

To truly master anything, you must leave everything you know behind. When I set out to travel Tamriel in search of new techniques, some already called me a master of the bow. I knew this wasn't true. I'd heard tales from distant lands about hunters who could sit motionless for days stalking elusive prey, of bowmen who could fire two and three arrows at a time and still hit their marks, and other, similar stories everyone assured me were just legends and hearsay. Every legend starts somewhere.

The Wood Elves are renowned archers, so I traveled first to Valenwood. The journey into the heart of the forest itself was long and fraught with perils I had never known.  I spent months searching for a teacher, challenging every Elf with a bow I could find. Finally, I met a Jaqspur, an unerringly accurate long-distance archer. He never spoke a word, but accepted my challenge and split my own arrows mid-flight. He tolerated my company, and we hunted beasts deep in the heart of the woods, stalking creatures that I had never seen nor heard of. I learned how to quiet my mind and slow my breathing, and how to lie in wait unmoving, waiting for the perfect shot, no matter how long it took.

After we parted ways (the Jaqspur was simply gone one morning), I tried in vain to gain passage on ships headed for the Summerset Isles, desperate to discover if High Elves could truly create physical arrows out of nothing but concentrated magicka. I'd heard tales of their potent alchemy, rumors of a potion that can sharpen a man's vision to be like that of an eagle. No ship would have me, though, and I couldn't bribe, beg, or connive my way in.

Undaunted, I continued to the east and into Elsweyr, longing to obtain an authentic Khajiiti shortbow. There are many roaming bands of Khajiit in the northern grasslands, and I've been told since that I was fortunate indeed to encounter a group that found me entertaining instead of just an easy mark. Perhaps I was still a bit green, but it was worth the risk to learn their method of rapid shooting from horseback, and how they craft their barbed arrowheads to puncture even tough leather.

Now, I will set out for Black Marsh, that dread swamp. My Khajiiti companions find my intent to venture there a source of great hilarity, but I won't be turned away. Who knows what the Argonians have learned to do with a bow deep in the bogs? What unique approach might they have? I leave this record with the Khajiit to donate to any bookseller in hopes that someone might draw inspiration or knowledge from my efforts.

My journey is not yet over, though I have been away from home for many years. I have learned much since setting out, but most importantly, I have learned that there is far more that I do not know than I ever could have believed.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2228)
	Sporting Chance
Allice tried to keep her footing, holding an arrow nocked as the shadows warped around her. Low, moaning sounds echoed between the trees, and the moons' light dripped down, pooling on leaves underfoot. Where was the trail? 

She tried to slow her breathing, searching for any recognizable landmark, but the woods she hunted in every night had changed. They were wilder, the trees were thicker and taller. Unknown beasts cried out all around her. There was no sign of her worn hunting trail, nothing to lead her back home. The moons loomed overhead, ominous and huge in the damp autumn air.

The world heaved, and Allice was in a clearing. A form adorned with a hideous antlered mask stared at her, towering over a stained stone altar. Its wicked teeth gleamed in the bloody glow of Masser. Forms gathered at the trees' edge, scattering every time she tried to fix her eyes on them. The figure reached forward, and an assortment of weapons faded into existence on the altar—a loathsome spear, two serrated daggers, and a black bow.

She was drawn forward, compelled to approach. The figure gestured towards the weapons before her, but she shook her head and clutched her own bow even tighter, unwilling to reach out. A deranged cackle rang through her head, and the world heaved again under her feet.

The clearing was gone. Regaining her footing, Allice glanced over her shoulder and saw forms writhing in the dark foliage, a jumble of gleaming eyes, moonlight on slavering maws, and howls of beasts and riders. A low horn blasted and the wood vibrated, rattling her teeth, and the darkness behind her surged. She ran.

Arrows sailed past her as she sprinted. A spear flew over her shoulder. They were gaining; she could hear their mad scrambling draw closer, but didn't dare look back. Desperate, she leaped high, reaching out for a tree limb. She pulled herself up just as a set of jagged teeth closed on the air where she was only seconds before. 

Wasting no time, she turned, readied an arrow, and let fly, relieved to hear a howl of pain from the beast below. She targeted another and another, but more arrived, howling and yipping. The creatures and their riders encircled the base of Allice's refuge. She clambered upward into thick branches that offered her cover, but she couldn't lean out far enough to take aim. She was trapped.

There was one hope. The branches in the canopy were entwined and dense. If she could jump far enough to reach a sturdy branch, she might be able to keep moving. Just as she stretched out to test a nearby limb, she slipped as her roost shook violently. Struggling to keep her grip, she looked down to see a mass of thick black fur and shining teeth ram into the base of the bole with its hulking shoulder. Its rider, the antlered hunter, pointed its foul spear at her just as the trunk toppled.

She crashed to the ground, grasping at branches and twisting as she tumbled through the gnarled limbs. There was a sickening crack as she landed. She recovered her bow and struggled to stand, falling forward as pain shot up her leg. The monster raced toward her, panting with anticipation.

There was no escape. Allice's instincts took hold, and she aimed and shot quickly. Before the first arrow even found its mark, she shot at the rider again, and again. A howl of rage echoed in her mind, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the rending jaws to close on her.

The pain didn't come. When she opened her eyes, Allice knew where she was. She could see the stars glimmering through the sparse canopy, saw the torches at her shack in the valley far below. Wincing, she fashioned a rough splint for her leg and reached out for her bow. On its upper limb, inlaid in shimmering red, the outline of a pair of small antlers glistened.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2229)
	The Source of the Bone
By Selalleth

The bones of every beast have stories to tell. They have memories of stalking through the vines, of flying through the canopy. Of hunting and killing and eating. When we shape the bone into arrows, we prepare a Death Story, and the bone we choose has great meaning. Some laugh at this or roll their eyes, calling any arrow "just an arrow," but the Bosmer know bones tell the best tales. 

Bones from birds of prey rarely miss, and those of great lizards and snakes are quick and sharp. Arrows made from prey creatures are fleet, those from hunters bite deep into their marks. Cheerful arrows for warning shots are best made from monkeys. The more dangerous the beast, the more deadly the result. 

These are but a few we know: 

The river droop, torpid bottom-dweller, bristles with venomous spines that induce sleep plagued by nightmares. The size of a large dog, it is lazy and easy to catch, but it is tricky to handle and worthless to eat. An arrow fashioned from its dense ribs and spine carries the weight of sluggish rivers and tortured sleep, and it dulls a foe's senses.

Wounds from senche-tiger arrows bleed foes dry. They should be cut jagged and cruel, like the claws of the beast. They are swift and silent, remembering the way to stalk through the undergrowth and pounce, thirsty for the tang of warm blood. Bones from a senche-tiger you did not kill do not speak with the same power; respect must be earned.

Old whispers say that arrows made from the mighty swamp-beast, the wamasu, carry a jolt that rattles deep inside the bones. Pursuing this terror is a worthy task; it lurks deep in the mires of Black Marsh and slaughters nearly all who stumble upon it. Its bones shine black as night. Touching them tingles. The power lingers for years.

These truths are not often written, like so much of my people's knowledge, so treat them with honor. Know that every archer favors a different beast and forms a bond with it through the hunt. May you find your own, and may your shots strike true.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2230)
	Bliss
I was there, on the caravan where it started. I still can't bring myself to travel; the fear paralyzes me every time I think about leaving. 

Almost a year ago, I was headed into Elsweyr for the Mages Guild to do research on plants native to Dune. They sent me along with a large caravan, one that was well-guarded. Despite being an infrequent traveler, I felt safe among the guards and heavy wagons.

That illusion shattered only four days into our journey. In the morning, as we prepared for our departure, I heard that one of the late-night watch had gone missing. At first, my traveling companions shrugged it off, assuming he'd just abandoned his post (which is apparently common), but we discovered his pack as we continued loading up. We set out anyway, the question of what had happened hanging over us.

By mid-day, one of the Khajiiti guards spotted something ahead of us on the trail. He scouted forward to investigate, and if a Khajiit can look pale, he did upon returning. He went straight to the caravan master, saying nothing. After some prying, I learned that the Khajiit found the guard's body, propped up in our path. Rumor had it that there was one arrow through his throat, marked with the word "Bliss." 

He was only the first. Every night, another guard went missing. Every day, his body was discovered on the trail ahead of us, an arrow marked with the word "Bliss" through the throat. The caravan was in turmoil. Some begged to turn back, but we were more than halfway to Dune by then, and the caravan master wouldn't hear of it. No one slept, guards were put on double duty, campfires were built all along the perimeter—but without fail, someone still disappeared every night. We took to constant travel, sleeping in shifts on the backs of the lurching wagons.

I woke from a fitful sleep two days out from Dune to discover my wagon had stopped moving. Bleary, I slowly sat up and peered over the wagon's side. All around me lay bodies. Every single remaining member of the caravan lay dead, with an arrow marked "Bliss" through the throat. I scrambled from one to another, trying to find any sign of life, but soon gave up and collapsed. Who or what could do this? Why? Why inscribe that word onto the arrows?

The two days from then to Dune are a blur. I was certain they'd find me, that they or he or it had just missed me. It feels now like I was supposed to escape, supposed to tell the tale. No one believed me—when I rode out with the town guard to the site of the massacre, nothing was there. Not a trace. I wondered if I had gone mad, but only a week later more reports started coming in of phantom archers playing the cruel game with caravan after caravan, always using arrows marked "Bliss."

I haven't had the will to leave Dune and return to the Mages Guild, though they've sent couriers to find me. Even though no reports have come for months, I cannot fight the fear and leave. 

Whoever did this is still out there. I'm sure of it.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2231)
	Worship in Fanacas
There is fear, as in every venture into the unknown. But the others will follow my lead, I do not doubt it. I need only show a confident face to the rest, no matter what qualms I feel inside. They will follow; they always do.

Fanacas excites me like no other Ayleid ruin I've seen. A vast, evil presence saturates the air, exuded from the ground and structures all over the site. Great offerings, of blood and souls, must have been made here once, for their auras to be felt even now.

What would I not give to have been here then, back during the glory years of the Ayleids! How I would have reveled in the sounds, sounds, and smells of the sacrifices. Longing for those golden days sustained me through the years of study it took to reach this point, trembling on the precipice of greatness.

Tonight, when Masser and Secunda align, we enact the final ritual.

Tonight, we cast open the pathway to the glorious ancient Ayleids, beseeching their aid in our transformations, that we may better worship them.

Tonight, we become one with the immortals.

Tonight, the name of Mabrel Pierel will at long last inspire fear and awe across all of Tamriel!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2232)
	Black Dagger Recall Orders
Duilius,

Report to me at once. Do not wait for your replacement. Tell your troops to stay in camp until she arrives. They are to make no moves and attract no attention until I send new orders.

Get on your horse and get here at once. I'll give you one day to report. Then I put out a bounty on you.

— Hegris
		

Failed at /books/2233		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2234)
	Timberscar Frustration
Been stuck in this cesspool for eight days now. Ready to start bashing in some heads.

Reads-the-Sky promised to be through that door in a day. Says that every day. Next time I hear it, I'm pulling out his lying tongue.

Don't know why we bother. That cave won't hold anything worthwhile. Just some spiderwebs and moth-eaten smallclothes I bet.

Cropsford; what a stupid name for a village. Next time that bossy Orc comes down here and tells us to be quieter, I'll rip her tongue out too. So what if the noise attracts the pitiful Goblins that live around here? I'd welcome the excitement.

Never been so bored in my life. Don't see how things could get any worse.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2235)
	A Tough Audience
Foloril,

I envy you this task, the ultimate challenge of a merchant's abilities. I wouldn't give this opportunity to anyone but the most charming and persuasive salesman I've ever seen.

Think of the possibilities! No one knows what trolls want, what they might buy, or how poorly they will bargain. And you're going to find out! They're not very bright and they usually have lots of stolen gold, so the profits should be enormous! You'll be renowned for opening a brand-new market for our goods, making us the envy of merchants across Cyrodiil.

Don't deal with anyone but their leader. That'll be the biggest troll around. They don't speak, but gestures, grunts, and displays of goods will get your selling points across.

Best of luck, Foloril—we're all counting on you! Don't forget to smile!

Sincerely,

Sempronia

President

Cyrodiil Import and Export Company
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2236)
	A Promise Made
Molacar,

I agree to your terms and your promise. The gold should go to my parents, in Pell's Gate. I'm not doing this for gold, as you know. If my death might bring Vaermina to save us, I go willingly. But the gold will ease my parents' path through these dangerous times.

I long to be in Her presence.

— Gasparien
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2237)
	There is No Waterside Curse
Enough of these ridiculous rumors! The whisperings of a curse that haunts this mine are being spread by the lazy and hateful among you. They can't stand to see hard work being done, to witness fellow workers being well-rewarded for their labors.

There is no curse. There are no undead creatures in this mine. I promise you this, with the gods as my witnesses.

Do not let vile rumor-mongers destroy your livelihoods and hopes for a better future. Keep working, pay no attention to wild tales, and the mine and all its workers will prosper.

— Foreman Gallus
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2238)
	Establish Watchposts
Your orders, sergeant, are to take five soldiers and establish watchposts on high ground. Your area of responsibility is the region between Drakelowe Keep and the village of Cropsford. Go no farther north than the ruins at Nornal.

Track all invaders within this area, regardless of which alliance the troops belong to. Estimates of group size and direction of movement are vital.

Send me daily reports. I expect we'll be at the bridge for some time to come.

— Captain Priscus
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#2239)
	A Cyrodilic Merchant's Lament
Curse the Pact and its stupid rules! And curse that stiff-necked Dark Elf protector at the temple. You'd think we were offering to urinate on their precious Elder Scroll, the way Vodryn shrieked at us to get out.

Is offering quality goods at a fair price now a crime in Cyrodiil? True, there is some markup from the prices in the big city markets, but considering the travel time, dangers of the road, costs of guards, and lost time with our families—these goods are a bargain.

If the Pact doesn't want them, the Covenant will surely buy them and be grateful. No doubt they'd also appreciate information on the disposition of Pact troops en route to Covenant-held territory. That might bring in more gold than our goods ever would. Must not get caught though.

Oh, for the days of the Empire. Curse these invaders!
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2240)
	Blue Road Scout Notes
Found the perfect spot to spy on Blue Road Keep. Will leave this journal for others who're sent here to add notes. I trust my trail markings will lead more Covenant scouts here.

*****

Would like to burn down that lumbermill. No telling how many soldiers will be killed by the siege engines they're building.

Keep hearing sounds from the ruins. Not sure who or what is in there, but I'm sure not going to check.

*****

Large body of troops left the keep today, several hundred at least. They headed south, toward Dominion territory. Good riddance; I hope they wipe each other out.

Arse is sore from sitting on this rock for days.

*****

Small squad of our troops hit the lumbermill today. Burned all the stockpiled wood and then ran before reinforcements arrived from the keep. Warmed my heart to see it.

*****

Been here a week. Time to head back. Need to post my report and talk to General Khamagash. Then I need to sleep for a week.

*****

Hulbesh here. Not sure who left this journal, but he talked too much. His markings were bad too; lucky I found this spot.

No troop movements to report. Been here three days, haven't seen a thing. Time to leave.

*******

This journal soothes, a cure for the scout's loneliness. I feel myself conversing with those who came before me and those who will come after me.

I am blessed! A major battle ensued on my first day here. A large Dominion force attacked Blue Road Keep. They were repulsed after several hours, but the Pact defenders suffered great losses and the keep walls were heavily damaged.

I must hurry to the Grand Warlord. If she orders an immediate attack, we may overwhelm the keep before the Pact can recover. There is no time to lose.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2241)
	Bruma Pleads for Aid
Grand Warlord Zimmeron,

I send this plea with merchants who passed through our village. I pray that it reaches you.

Bruma, as you know, lies south of Fort Dragonclaw. While the fort is contested ground, invading alliance troops have ignored Bruma. Ordinarily, I would be grateful for this. But not now.

Dremora have killed or captured most of the folk here. A Dark Anchor brings more horrors into Bruma daily. Without help, I believe we will soon be overrun.

I have appealed to Grand Warlord Dortene of the Daggerfall Covenant as well. Whichever alliance sends troops to our aid first will have our everlasting gratitude and a vital supply base.

Grigerda

Interim Prefect, Bruma
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2242)
	Apologies to Uncle Neldatir
Dear Uncle Neldatir,

I feel strange writing this letter to you, but I had to do something. We finally found your grave, after months of searching. I dug you up while Mother hissed at me to hurry. When I finally opened up your coffin, Mother jumped in and tore the necklace from your neck. She yelled at you and cursed your name for an hour. Sorry about the spittle; I wiped it off as best I could later.

Not sure who buried you the first time, but they did a good job. Mother wouldn't let me re-bury you. She said you didn't deserve it. I tossed a couple shovels of dirt onto you before she yelled at me to stop. She didn't see me leave this note.

Don't haunt me from the afterlife, please. Haunt Mother instead.

Rest in peace, Uncle Neldatir.

Your loving nephew,

Thoring
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2243)
	Taking Tolls!
All those weary, soul-numbing days working for others. How could I have been so blind? I could have been working for myself all this time.

Taking tolls from fools has to be the easiest job ever! I sit around all day, waiting for the plodding of approaching feet (or the clip-clop of approaching hooves). When I hear them, up I pop and demand they pay a toll for crossing the bridge.

They always grumble, but when I show them my writ from the Emperor (hiring that scribe was the best gold piece I ever spent), most toss some coins my way. The ones who won't, I tell them the money's needed for repairs to the bridge and unless they want to swim next time, they'd better pay.

If they still won't pay, I pull my sword. Sometimes that works, but if they pull theirs, I run.

I hear horses approaching. More fools to be separated from their gold!
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2244)
	Time to Strike!
Finally, the altar is prepared and all is in readiness. Tonight, the hordes of Oblivion shall be loosed on the unsuspecting fools in the Pact army!

Oh, to be near when the otherworldly beasts descend. How I would savor their pain, their cries of horror, their dying screams. Grand Warlord Sorcalin balked when I proposed this mission, refusing to "stoop to consorting with Daedra." So I have undertaken it on my own initiative!

Long have I studied the lore and denizens of those foul lands. I know well the means by which the Daedra are commanded and controlled. There is no room for error when beasts of such power are concerned, and I shall make none.

Tonight, one obstacle to the Dominion's conquest of Cyrodiil will be removed. The Covenant is next!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2245)
	The Guise of Woodcutter
The guise of woodcutter has served me well. The guards at the gate of Ghartok passed me through without a second glance. This camp has proved an excellent vantage point to spy on the movement of troops from the Southern Morrowind gate. General Khamagash should reward me well upon my return.

The ruined houses to the north and northwest offer even better views of the main routes for troop movements, but I risk much for those vistas. Why would a simple woodcutter be crouching among the still-smoldering ruins? Even the dull-witted Pact guards would question such a thing. My luck has held thus far, as no eyes have spied me, no cry has arisen. May Onsi continue to watch over me.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2246)
	Saint Stental
"The Saint Slays the Leaper"

Finished this 10th day of Sun's Height in 2E 388 to honor Saint Stental, who slew the demon of Overlook Hill and saved the three Sisters of Kynareth from a terrible fate.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2247)
	Lieutenant Jascien's Last Missive
<<1>> is not as I remember it.

Where I once marveled at the serene grace of this testament to our beloved ancestors, I now gape in horror at what the place has become.

Marble statues of long dead heroes lie broken before the desecration of Angof's corruption. Where noble supplicants bowed heads in reverence to their ancestors, shambling corpses lurk behind every headstone to tear at the throats of the living!

Even the lawns, once verdant and bright with flowers of mourning, lie blasted and torn amid the pestilence of the Bloodthorn.

Stendarr protect us, I will see an end to this abomination!

— Lieutenant Alouis Jascien
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2248)
	Aicaano's Journal
I take quill to paper to record what I fear are the final days of Hackdirt. Though many would despise this place as a backwater of no value, I have found peace here. Few of the more "civilized" places I have lived have made me feel as welcome. Though few of my race have ever come here, I encountered no prejudice, no resentment.

For two years I lived here, enjoying friendship and trust as never before. This has been a golden time in my long life, one I will deeply regret if it comes to an end.

Several weeks ago, a human of rough looks and worse manners strolled into the village. He marched about as if he owned the place, opening every unlocked door, peering into every stable. Ovidius, usually the most pompous of swollen fools, for once acted as the prefect he claims to be. He confronted this stranger, demanding to know his business here.

The intruder stared at him rudely and didn't deign to answer. He strode from the village and vanished beyond the hills to the east. Etiache wanted to follow him, but Ovidius forbade it, worried that only trouble would result.

If only we had listened to Etiache. We should have caught and killed that stranger. Perhaps what befell us would have been avoided. Auri-El knows; I do not.

A few days later, another stranger came to Hackdirt, wearing well-used swords loose in their scabbards. His steed was wild-eyed, a warhorse bred for combat, held in check only by the rider's stern hand. Up to Ovidius this warrior rode.

He named himself Vanier and proclaimed himself the new overlord of Hackdirt. He said his gang, the Black Daggers, waited just over the hill. He gave us one day to agree to his terms or all would be slaughtered. All inhabitants were now his servants and our dwellings, livestock, and all possessions were now his. Those who cooperated would find him a just overlord, he claimed.

Ovidius stared, mouth agape. Before he could gather his wits, matters were taken from his hands. Nerva charged Vanier, screaming that he would never live as a slave. The bandit's sword sheared off the tines of Nerva's pitchfork and the horse's hooves lashed out and crushed his head. We stood there stunned as Vanier rode off.

We buried Nerva behind his house that evening. Then we gathered around the well and discussed our fate. Some, like Yggoz and Etiache, urged that we stay and fight. As if farmers and merchants had a chance against such as Vanier. Saner heads prevailed and we voted to abandon Hackdirt. Even Yggoz agreed in the end.

Only Ovidius opposed the will of the rest, saying he would never leave Hackdirt. No argument could prevail against him. In the end, he ascended the tower with all the food and water we could spare. We sealed the door shut behind him.

It was Iirenir, quiet, shy Iirenir, who suggested we chain shut our doors and destroy all we could not carry. This was done with a sense of grim satisfaction.

Dawn will break soon. The others have gone, moving slowly to the south. I must leave too. I linger only to finish this. Perhaps someday we will reclaim Hackdirt and this journal will survive as a record of our darkest times.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2249)
	Waited as Long as We Could
My dearest Jerensi,

Your father and I waited as long as we could, but the soldiers insisted we leave. They were not very polite about it. I begged them to let us stay. The sergeant in charge said we could stay here until we died, but that would happen by the end of the day. 

Needless to say, we packed up everything we could. I suspect the soldiers will steal the rest. Curse the Covenant and the asses they rode into Cyrodiil on. Curse this war and all who wage it. And curse the Empire for collapsing and letting these usurpers in!

We are headed north, toward Bruma. The soldiers won't let us go south. Apparently they fear we'll carry word of their troop strength to the Imperial City. As if anyone there cares.

I leave this note in hopes that you and Vibius manage to make it home. Look for us in Bruma, if we all survive the dangers of the road.

— Mother
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2250)
	Aleswell Eviction Notice
|acAll residents are hereby ordered to abandon these homes immediately, by order of Grand Warlord Dortene.

|acAnyone found in these buildings by nightfall will be killed.

|al— General Khamagash
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2251)
	Report: Quality of Recruits
Centurion Fulvianus, 

As you requested, here is my monthly report:

Training for our new recruits progresses well among all squads save one. The cavalry, archers, and footmen have come a long way since last month and are performing advanced maneuvers and mixed squad exercises ahead of schedule. The new band of healers from the Temple of Akatosh that you assigned to me, however, lags behind in training, and I believe we must change our approach dramatically if this unit is to succeed. Still, I think it is very likely that we can achieve your goal to bolster our front lines with battle-ready healers!

Most of these recruits, I have learned, have a background in only civil temple service. Per your instructions, I attempted to train them the same as any normal soldier, issuing them standard steel armor and a sword or mace, and ordering them to participate in drills with the other footmen. This has resulted in disruption of our training regimens as they stumble around and attempt to determine which end of the sword should be applied to the enemy.

This experience has shown me that we should not hope to turn them into soldiers that just happen to know how to heal a wound or two. Instead, we must capitalize on their unique abilities to conjure wards and invigorate or heal our troops. I am convinced they need specialized equipment and request authorization to have sets of light, padded armor crafted—not robes, which they are used to but would surely cause them trouble on the field, but sturdy cloth with appropriate padding. I believe this will allow them to better focus on and carry out their duties, namely getting to injured comrades quickly and efficiently, prolonging our battlefield presence, and improving our soldiers' fighting capacity.  

I believe that splitting them into groups of two or three and situating them along the back of the main thrust is critical. This way, at least one can maintain protective wards on a particular squad as the others scan the lines for comrades in danger. If they must get into hand-to-hand combat, they can support each other with these protective magics, but we may also be wise to train them in the use of at least a short sword.

You were correct in seeing the great potential these recruits have for our regiment. I believe in this unit, and I do not think we should waste any further time attempting to force them into a typical soldierly mold. With your permission, I feel we can and will forge a true advantage over our enemies.

Respectfully Signed,

Captain Lampronius, Fifth Legion
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2252)
	Xil-Go's Spell
By Adzi-Kahz

Our settlement at Slithering Eaves was once prosperous; it was green and unfurling, a haven under sun and branch. We lived deep enough within the marsh that outsiders never visited, and the threat of slavers from House Dres of Morrowind seemed distant. We believed slaver attacks only happened to other Saxhleel. Even if they did come for us, our sentries had bright eyes and quick arrows; they laughed at the thought of Elves splashing towards our home. 

We underestimated the greed and cunning of House Dres. They came in the darkest coils of night, their hateful Elven magics shielding them from our watchers. They walked across the water, light as motes on a breeze even in their ebony plate, silent as the pools they crossed. Fiery arrows scattered us while Dunmeri magic lulled villagers to sleep, and comatose bodies were dragged off under covering fire. Though we attempted pursuit, many of our warriors were sapped by heavy magic that pulled their feet under the mud.

We debated what to do as dawn crept over our homes, withered and wounded by the Elves' attack. Voices called for us to flee, but Xil-Go's voice rang out above the others. "No! We shall not let these dryskin plunderers take us or our village. We cannot. Please allow me just one day, and I will find a way to turn them away for good." We were eager to defend our village, and Xil-Go knew something of the ways of magic and mysteries, and so we all agreed to her request.

She disappeared into her hut and stayed inside throughout the day, not even pausing to eat. The villagers grew restless as the sun dipped low. Finally she emerged. "I know what we must do. Any of you who can work even the faintest magic, come with me. If you can shoot a bow, arm yourself with arrows and these poisons I have made. We will need your protection when they return."

The village waited. When the next attack came, we were ready. Expecting us to be easy prey again, they came exactly the same way—walking upon the water and making no sounds. They did not expect the wards, which exploded in bright blasts of light, giving the signal for our archers to shoot and for Xil-Go and the others to begin their spell. The slavers recovered from their shock quickly and charged forward, still a formidable and well-armed force.

Then it started. You could see the uncertainty in their pinched faces as the spell began to blossom. Next came the howls of pain, the smell of ashen flesh sizzling as the armor grew hotter and hotter. The Elves scrambled to protect themselves, trying to rip off the heavy plates or cool them down with their own magics, but it was too late for them to recover. Our warriors fell on the intruders, and not one Elf escaped.

We spread word of our victory, sending the tale far and wide through the villages, knowing the story would take root in our enemies' ears. To this day, I hear the slavers are reluctant to wear heavy armors into raids. Most wear much lighter armor now, even if it does make them easier targets for our archers. And that is fine with us.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2253)
	Undeniable Truths of Attire
by Elenuume the Impeccable

Students of the magical arts in our chaotic contemporary environs must resist succumbing to the degradation of respect for tradition which threatens the future of magical study across Tamriel. The disregard for ritual I have seen and the reduction of complexities inherent in the study to crass, inadequate categorizations is not to be tolerated. Feeble though my efforts may be, I must do my best to confront this watering-down, the devolution of the highest arts into common "practical" applications, by recording the proper approaches to be shared with those who wish to pursue the study seriously. I shall start with the fundamentals: the proper garments for a true initiate of the arts.

There is only one appropriate attire for anyone who wishes to unlock the higher secrets, for one who devotes the proper time to research and practice, and that is robes of cloth. On a practical level, one need not waste precious time being instructed in the ways of wearing robes. Magic is your armor, and devoting your time to anything else is folly. If you wish to lower yourself to such vulgar means, don't be surprised when your efforts to wrangle with leather or metal stunt your progress in the realm of the true understanding of magicka and its applications.

There are considerations you must take into account, of course; not any filthy rags will suffice. Physically, the material should be sturdy and treated for resistance to the elements. Your experiments will result in exposure to dangerous effects, so long sleeves and full coverage are essential. As alchemy is naturally aligned with magical study, pockets and pouches for useful plant samples and other materials are very useful. If you cannot afford to hire your own exploratory teams and must work in the field, ensure proper layering, waterproofing, and additional space for specimens.

Of course, appearance is critical. One must put forth the proper air of the enlightened to command respect from allies and enemies alike. My own robes feature detailed embroidery enumerating and naming the most powerful individuals of my lineage, along with sacred incantations I have interwoven with protective wards. Some prefer to display detailed Aetherial charts or other complex weavings to emphasize a particular area of study, and at least one wizard I am acquainted with has woven such potent illusions into his raiment that all who look upon him see exactly what they expect a powerful wizard to wear. 

Your robes are an extension of yourself and your ability to impress your will upon the Mundus. I implore again that you abandon any ridiculous ideas of charging into battle clad in pointless, constricting armor, and instead focus on perfecting your art in every way. You will not require mundane protections when you are able to turn enemies aside using your own power, whatever form you choose for it to take: mighty lightning strikes, poisoning minds with fear, or any of the limitless options you will have if you truly devote yourself to discovery and mastery.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2254)
	Call to the Faithful
By Prudentia Blaesus

Tamriel cringes in pain beneath the heels of armies that bruise her face. Arrows rend Kynareth's holy gales, and all the Divines sadly shake their heads as their Commands are stifled by the drums of war. Oh faithful, the heretics surrounding us on all sides seek to propagate their blasphemies and lies, to trample on the legacy of Reman and spit upon the Divines themselves, endeavoring to bury them forever or obscure them behind a veil of lies.

We true servants of the Divines know these profane foes, these misguided alliances, cannot and shall not prevail. Akatosh, invincible and eternal, will not forsake us if only we show our devotion, if only we stand up when so many have been beaten down before us, if only we cry out against the flood of pretenders and their cruel masters. We are called now, brothers and sisters, to silence the dissenters and Daedric thralls that surround us. We are roused by Akatosh's mighty roar and must not stand by as the Golden Hill shakes in resonating rage.

Though we wear only simple robes, Stendarr defends us. He envelops us in light, in unbreakable Aedric glory. He turns aside the blades of the heretics and proclaims our eternal victory. Though we wield only our words, Julianos sharpens them to a razor edge. He forges our very minds into weapons, fills us with holy words to awaken the faithful. Though we may feel weak and afraid, Akatosh's might voice commands us forward, and we know that we will be conquering heroes, that we will set the Empire right by his command. 

To restore our beloved Empire, we must not falter or be shaken; we must not cower before the armies that ravage our home. Now is the time to honor our pact, consecrated by His mighty blood. We are not abandoned; no, we have been granted a sacred moment in which to prove our unwavering devotion, to stand against the tides of evil that erode our shores. Take up your implements of war. The Divines are your shield, your shining armor, your immaculate blade. They will carry us forth to drive the enemy out and restore rightful peace and order to Tamriel.

Do not hesitate, for you must surely hear this call, echoing loud and true within your spirit. Clothe yourself in faith and do as the Divines command.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2255)
	Discomforts of War
By Robier Douare, Alchemist

Rashes, foul stench, contagion, fungus. None of these are pleasant, but they are all controllable if a warrior takes the proper steps. As an accomplished alchemist with ten years of experience on the battlefield, I've seen the worst of war camps, and I have developed several methods that lessen the occurrence of common threats to health. If you follow my advice, you will be able to avoid the problems that many soldiering types simply accept as the part of the cost of battle.

First and foremost, it is critical to bathe. Yes, bathe. Truly, there may not be many opportunities to do so, but as soon as it is possible after a day's march or a battle, bathing and applying a salve of shalk resin and crushed bergamot seeds have been proven to repel parasites such as toe-borers, grassfleas, and fleshbloats. Anyone who has seen battle knows that soldiers' camps are breeding grounds for such vile creatures, and prevention is surely the best remedy. 

Another important factor to consider is your environment. In order to avoid several types of discomfort, you must be prepared to do combat with the landscape as well as your enemy. For travel in desert regions, apply a powder of dragon's tongue to prevent chafing. In swamps, use waxes and thoroughly waterproof your boots to prevent fungal assailants. Remember that insects often carry disease, and keep repellant salves and potions to treat common sicknesses handy—don't rely on your superiors to provide them!

Though my advice will help any soldier or adventurer, I'd like to devote a few words to leather armor in particular. Some individuals have negative reactions to leathers, and many never even know their armor may be suspect! I see this particularly with netch armor and leathers crafted from bears or sabre cats native to Skyrim (especially if any fur is present). If you are issued armor and do not have a choice in what to wear, always carry with you a tincture of elf cup cap to apply to irritated areas.

With just a few simple, inexpensive preparations, you can avoid these lesser horrors of war and focus your energy on combat and marching without distraction. Take care of yourself on the battlefield. If you don't, you're guaranteed a miserable experience that will compound the fatigue of war. Be aware and always be prepared!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2256)
	Settling the Debate
By Ralevyn Nerano

Flexibility or maximum protection? Netch or guar? Maybe you've heard one of the heated arguments, fueled by a few too many cups of mazte at your local cornerclub. Almost every craftsman takes an almost religious stance on this matter, believing his own approach, traditions, and products to be superior to all others, but I want to present both sides and some of their considerations in an unbiased manner to help inform your own opinion.

The best leather in Tamriel comes from Morrowind, courtesy of the native guar and netches. This is an indisputable fact, and no other leathers produced in Tamriel come close to their quality. The naturally-exposed hides of these beasts and the ease of processing them, combined with ancient tanning techniques, produce a material that is more durable and tougher than bear, mammoth, or any of the hides commonly used outside Morrowind. Though both are of very high quality, the debate rages on—which makes superior armor? 

Netch leather is thinner by quite a bit. It bends and flexes easily, and it is much more receptive to dyes than guar hide, and therefore more suitable for finer, more ornamental works. It is likewise ideal for the combatant who prefers mobility, but it is much more readily punctured and torn, even when boiled to increase toughness. Another difficulty is that it requires relatively high maintenance—to keep it in fighting shape, it must be oiled and treated with dreugh wax weekly. Netch leather is harder to harvest, as well; the beasts are quite dangerous when riled and have a nasty poison that even experienced netchimen fear. 

Guar hide, on the other hand, is much thicker, resulting in heavier armors overall (though still not as heavy, obviously, as armors crafted from metal). This makes it more difficult to work with, but the end product offers more protection and durability. Staunch traditionalists frequently claim that guar hide has been used longer than netch leather, and that we honor our ancestors in favoring it, but I have been able to locate no proof of this point. If you're more interested in protection than in mobility, guar hide armor is likely a better choice for you.

Even though every craftsman seems to have an unwavering opinion on which leather results in superior armors, I am not swayed by either side. It occurs to me that the choice is largely on the wearer, depending on his or her own fighting style (though armorers are never shy to offer recommendations in this regard, either). Hopefully, you are more informed now about your options, and whether you choose netch, guar, or an unorthodox combination of both, I wish you luck on the battlefield.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2257)
	Azarrid's Race
"There, at the end of the hall! Is that a sapphire?" asked Lodissar, eyes shining. "I've never seen one so big. How much you think we can sell it for?"

"Sell it? Ha! First, that's not a sapphire, and second, we're not selling it," Pamolwe remarked. "It belongs with me, in my experiments. You can't even imagine what I can do with that thing and a little time!"

The Nord growled. "What? There's no way I'm letting you keep that to tinker with. Look at it! It's as big as my head! We'll live like kings!" 

"It is worth more in the revelations I'll witness than you can imagine, mead-for-brains!"

Azarrid observed the dispute, leaning against the cool stone of the ancient wall as his companions' argument intensified. His gaze flicked down the hallway and his face lit up with a hungry grin as he noticed something interesting. Buffing his claws on his leather armor, he waited for the right moment. "Khajiit thinks," he said during a seething pause, "that whoever is best to decide is the best adventurer, and that is the one who picks it up first." He took off and sprinted past the Nord and Altmer.

Dumbfounded, his companions blinked in surprise for only a moment and then charged forward to catch up, each eager to claim the prize. In their fervor, neither noticed how Azarrid gradually slowed his pace. Magic flew as Pamolwe cast spells to increase her speed, and Lodissar bellowed and surged forward through the dim hall towards the glow of the gem, axe held high.

As they overtook Azarrid, they taunted him, but his grin didn't falter as the hallway revealed its true nature to the two frontrunners. Suddenly, concealed blades swung from the walls, slicing in deadly arcs across the hall. A blade sped towards Lodissar and crashed against his armor, pushing him aside. Unharmed, he laughed as Azarrid, keeping pace, nimbly dodged the deadly trap. Pamolwe was not so fortunate or skilled. Her wards shattered under the blows. Frantic, she tried to stop short of a blade in front of her, but her foot became entangled in her robe. She fell headfirst into its path. 

Azarrid did not stop to look back, but jogged behind Lodissar, who continued his shouting. The enormous gem was close now, almost within reach. Assured of his victory, he turned to loose a final insult when the stones beneath his feet crumbled. He tumbled downward, clanging and flailing in his steel armor as it pulled him into a deep pool. Muffled screams sounded from the water as whatever lurked inside stirred.

In a quick leap, the triumphant Khajiit stood before the gem, illuminated by its light. Snatching it up, he turned to look back down the trapped hallway. "Seems Azarrid is the best adventurer today, dear friends," he intoned, unaware of the bladed device unfolding from the pedestal behind him.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2258)
	Husks and Bones
The Journal of Sorexius Lentulus

12th Second Seed

Boss bought a map off of some Wood Elf, says it's the shortest trail to Elden Root he's seen by a long shot. He thinks we'll make a killing getting these lumber shipments down there, and if we can do it faster than anyone else, all the better. He told me the Wood Elves won't cut down any of their own trees because of some deal they have with them. Deals with trees, ha! Crazy Elves. As long as they have the gold, I'll bring the goods. None of us have ever been down that way, but I bet it'll be a nice change of pace from the old Elsweyr routes I've been running. Tired of all the sun, anyway.

18th Second Seed

I hope they have really, really nice beds in Elden Root. And less bugs. I've never seen so many in my life—beetles the size of my hand, snaky things with more legs than I want to think about, and the biting! I can't sleep for the itching, and I swear they settle all over you as soon as you sit still. We haven't passed any kind of village, and I'm starting to doubt this is a trail at all with all the slashing we're having to do to make passage for the wagons. It's all overgrown, like no one's used it forever.

24th Second Seed

Last night, I dreamed I was in the Roosting Quail back home. My favorite tavern. Best ale I've ever had. Maxintius and I were sitting in the common room, and he told a joke so funny that I spat out ale and couldn't stop laughing. Then I was awake, but the laughter wasn't gone; hooting, high-pitched laughter coming from the trees. The guard on watch, that Argonian whose name I can't pronounce, he didn't see anything. We scouted around, but the laughing stopped, and then we all just sat by the fire feeling uneasy. I grabbed my flask of Flin and raised it to my mouth, only to feel wiggling legs! In my mouth! Everyone else's flasks and skins were full of 'em too. Akatosh's fiery roar!

2nd Mid Year

Things are just getting weirder. Today, we were slashing our way forward double-time, because we all want to get this done with and get out, and Maxintius spotted giant beetles up ahead on the trail. Not just big bugs—huge bugs. Bugs the size of wolves. Massive pinchers, shiny shells. They weren't doing much, just crawling around, but we hadn't seen their like so far and approached slowly. When I got within a short stone's throw, I noticed something strange about their legs. They looked like a man's! They were! In a flash, they stood up and rushed towards us, running and flipping and laughing, covered in beetle shells and grabbing things from the camp before disappearing off into the trees. We tried to give chase. The Argonian fired a quick arrow, but it bounced right off that carapace armor. Were those Wood Elves? I heard there were really wild ones, but dressing up as giant bugs? They aren't bandits; they hardly even took much and didn't hurt anyone.

4th Mid Year

That's it. We're turning back. There's no way we're making it to Elden Root, and I'm getting a pretty clear message that they—whoever they are—don't want us to. No amount of gold is worth this; I'd rather haggle with a Khajiit for a week than deal with this place. This time, our water was drugged. That had to be what happened. Who knows how they got to it or what they put in it, but when we woke up in the middle of the night, skeletons were dancing around the campfire. I couldn't move, could only watch in a haze and listen to the strange music, the rattling and hissing and low, warped flutes. Were they wearing bones? It's all fuzzy except one thing: we are getting out of here, profits be damned!
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2259)
	The Chorrol Crier
|acTHE CHORROL CRIER

Issue 21

Morning Star, 579

|alGreetings to my loyal readers. Here's what happened in town since Issue 20:

Seems that everyone has recovered from the New Life Festival, though Verene continues to celebrate.

Darvell is at it again. He passed out several times near the Oak and Crosier this month. He claims not to have been drinking but overcome by fumes from the ground. Darvell insists that there's something underground, something only he can sense. Fumes indeed; poor Vanny!

The Quickstep Bandits struck again, stealing hay and rope from Zegol's storehouse. That should improve Zegol's ever-sunny disposition, no?

Prefect Doran swears she'll do something about the clamor of the merchants around Little Oak Place. The constant bickering over display space must end. Something needs to be done to cut down on the merchants in town. Porcia should have Domitius throw out every other one.

*******************************

|acTHE CHORROL CRIER

Issue 23

Sun's Height, 579

|alApologies to my readers—the events of the last months have prevented me from writing the Crier. But now I resume my duties.

The upheavals in Chorrol, both personal and physical, continue. The quakes never stop while the chasm grows ever wider and its list of victims longer. I can't bear to name all those we lost during the cataclysm. Every family has suffered. A walk through town highlights the missing more than the still-present.

Still no explanation for the upheaval. Folks here call it the "Sundering." Darvell insists that he smelled the chasm before Chorrol was torn asunder. He's acting even odder than before, if that's possible.

When Prefect Doran was taken by a creature from the chasm, we looked to Domitius for leadership, but he refused. I have taken up the role, until someone else wants it. I sent Ethyan and Larian to the Imperial City, to see if more is known of these events. And to request aid for our ruined town.

*******************************

|acTHE CHORROL CRIER

Issue 24

Hearthfire, 579

|alAs most know, Ethyan and Larian returned from their journey last week. None of the news was good. They didn't make it to the city. The bridges are gone and monsters roam the banks of Lake Rumare. Our scouts heard rumors from refugees fleeing the city. No aid is coming; the city lies in ruins.

The cataclysm that split Chorrol in half also devastated the Imperial City. Some say it originated there. Larian reports the city folk called it the "Soulburst," though none knew why.

Emperor Varen is missing. Some say he died in the upheaval, others that he was just badly injured. Maybe it was his soul that burst? The Five Companions are all missing as well. Some say that Sai Sahan killed the emperor and stole the Amulet of Kings. Others claim it was Lyris. Only confusion reigns in the Imperial City now.

And in Chorrol as well. Creatures of flame lurk in the chasm now, seizing any who venture near. Fumes from the fiery depths have caused several Chorrolians to pass out while crossing the bridge and topple to their deaths. At least the fumes and monsters have chased away the merchants who used to infest Little Oak Place. I suspect we'll miss them in the months to come though.

*******************************

|acTHE CHORROL CRIER

Issue 25

First Seed, 580

|alIt's been many months since my last issue. I don't seem to have the energy for it anymore. I'll try to be better.

Chorrol teeters on the edge. Quakes shake the town almost every day. Our homes fall down around us. The chasm almost feels like part of the town now. It's hard to remember what Chorrol was like without it.

Many have left. Those who remain either have nowhere else to go or are too stubborn to give up. We're all just hanging on, waiting for we know not what.

Nowhere else is any better. They say the Tharns have seized control of the Empire, though they control little more than the city and Lake Rumare's environs. Clivia Tharn is now Empress Regent; may the she-wolf choke on the title.

Armed gangs roam the countryside, Imperial Army deserters gone bad. True soldiers are rarely seen, as they hide in their keeps. Rumors of war with the barbarian nations outside Cyrodiil are heard every day. They smell the Empire's weakness and look to conquer the jewel of Tamriel. The gods help us all.

*******************************

|acTHE CHORROL CRIER

Final Issue

Sun's Dusk, 580

|alSorry, but I can't do this anymore. This is the last issue of the Crier, unless someone else takes it up.

I keep hoping things will get better, but they only get worse. Each quake brings another piece of my house down and slides it a little closer to the chasm. I keep expecting it to fall in any day. When it does, I'll go with it. Ethyan does his best, but the house is more patches than holes now.

Armies march past the town, sometimes right through it. Never the Imperial Army, always troops from the Covenant or Dominion. Food is scarce, crops stolen or trampled by the invaders. We're slowly starving here.

No place else to go. War is everywhere. Bandits pillage at will. Travelers tell of monsters roaming the countryside. The few merchants who made it here are too scared to leave. Not that they have much to sell.

Who can fix this? It can't be fixed. This is the way things are now, until we die. The gods have left Cyrodiil. I wish you all luck, but you won't find it.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2260)
	Angiente's Book of Prospects
|acVlastarus Prospects:

|alAtugol: Hates me, punched me last time I talked to her.

Brittia: Too bossy. And she hates me.

Emmita: Ignores me. Must have talked to someone about me.

Engitaale: Hates me.

Ernirus: Likes me but not my type.

Grabash: Hates me, I think because I made a crude joke about her name.

Jurana: Doesn't hate me, but her tail creeps me out.

Paints: Too artistic. Suspect she hates me.

Taranneh: Too jumpy. I get nervous just being near her.

Thiirril: New in town. Doesn't hate me yet.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2261)
	Irrigation Research Journal
|arPAGE 7

|alTRIAL 21:

ADJUSTMENT: No moisture

RESULTS: All crops died

NOTES: Plants seem to need moisture. Denying it caused withering and rapid crop death.

TRIAL 22:

ADJUSTMENT: Water alternative

RESULTS: Crops initially thrived, eventually died

NOTES: Animal urine employed as water alternative. Animals seemed to resent being held in place until urination occurred. Cats were especially difficult. Badilia vocally resented having to restrain animals and being splashed with urine. Had to pay bonus.

TRIAL 23:

ADJUSTMENT: Add rocks

RESULTS: Crops failed to grow at all

NOTES: Badilia said that rocks around plants help hold in moisture. Planted seeds and placed rocks on top. No crop growth noted at all. Suspect Badilia of ill intent.

TRIAL 24:

ADJUSTMENT: Add rocks, Part II

RESULTS: Crops thrived

NOTES: Badilia explained that rocks are applied after crops have sprouted. Eye rolling and sighing was excessive. Waited until crops broke through the ground, then placed rocks around stems. Success was noted. Badilia called it "keeping their feet wet"; confusing, as plants do not have feet.

TRIAL 25:

ADJUSTMENT: Constant moisture

RESULTS: Test not yet complete

NOTES: If some moisture is good for plants, then more must be better. Have flooded fields and am keeping plants constantly wet. Eye rolling detected from Badilia, but trial continues.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2262)
	Grigerda's Letter
Grigerda,

Stop sending out your underlings to talk to me. It irritates me and gets them killed (not by me, but by the Dremora that are all over town). You want to talk to me, hobble on out here and come find me.

The answer is still "no" though. The monsters are out here and that's where I'm staying, until they're gone. You want to work together, then come out here.

—- Methas
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2263)
	Four Coins of Yore
Four coins of yore,

That's all my sweet thing wore

One to the aft, and three to the fore

Those blessed coins of yore.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2264)
	Bounty Order from Sorcalin
Gen. Thoron,

I have received reports of far too many enemy soldiers infiltrating our territory. Post a bounty on foes killed to encourage our warriors to hunt for these spies.

Send kill reports back with Vilya.

- Sorcalin
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2267)
	Aldmeri Scouting Efforts
General Thoron,

Scouting efforts must be stepped up. Your scouts are the eyes and ears of the Dominion army. Our attacks will fail without detailed knowledge of our foes' strength.

All reports should be given to Vilya as soon as they arrive.

- Grand Warlord Sorcalin
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2277)
	Dominion Intelligence Topsheet
Krin,

I've skimmed through the lastest batch of reports and letters. Here's a topsheet with just titles and some notes. We can go over these things in detail next week.

Keep your claws sharp,

- J'darzi

- Mathiisen Steel: Properties and Applications. (A resources report. We need to get our hands on some of this stuff.)

- The Dangers of the Banished Cells

- Falinesti Sites: Dangers and Opportunities

- Falinesti City: Keeping the Secret (This one is cyphered. Can't make claws or tails of it.)

- Elden Root: Care and Feeding of the Great Tree

- Gil-Var-Delle: Implications of the Pact

- Velyn Harbor: Security Issues

- The Baandari: Tempering the Blade (They know about some of our people, but not all of them. Interesting reading.)

- Elsweyr: An Unexploited Resource
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2280)
	War Reports for Queen and Thalmor
Gen. Atahba,

Queen Ayrenn and the Thalmor want frequent updates on our progress in Cyrodiil. I am sending reports daily to satisfy their curiosity. If any changes occur, even the capture or loss of a farm, send word with Vilya immediately.

- Sorcalin
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2281)
	Progress Inquiry: Cyrodiil
Grand Warlord Sorcalin,

How goes the war in Cyrodiil? The Thalmor is eager for news of our army's progress. Great trust has been given to you, and great resources have been placed at your command. 

We are impatient for results, Grand Warlord.

- Queen Ayrenn,

for the Thalmor
		

Failed at /books/2282Failed at /books/2283Failed at /books/2284Failed at /books/2285Failed at /books/2286Failed at /books/2287Failed at /books/2288Failed at /books/2289Failed at /books/2290Failed at /books/2291Failed at /books/2292		Part of the Dungeon Lore collection (#2293)
	Josef the Intolerant
By Ilitha

There are many legendary gladiators who've made their names in the Blessed Crucible. Among them, Felhorn, Sanarel the Great, and Aleris the Shroud are known for their formidable combat prowess and fighting spirit. But others, like Josef the Intolerant, have become famous for other reasons.

Let me first say that the Blessed Crucible of Skyrim features an amazing array of competitors, with combatants arriving from all over Tamriel to test their mettle. In this time of warring alliances, it's not just anywhere that an Altmer would drag a wounded Orc to safety, or where a Redguard would so readily step into an arrow's path for an Argonian, but the Blessed Crucible is one such place. In the Crucible, one's team is one's nation, and the struggle for the Brimstone Crown the national religion.

However, there was one man, a young gladiator named Josef. He came from the Breton Lion Guard, and was fresh-faced, decent with a blade. None questioned that he was a healthy boy, ready to take the Crucible by storm. But Josef could never understand the social phenomenon of the Crucible, and trusted only other Bretons. He could not fathom the fact that gladiators must place their trust in their teams, not in gladiators of the same race.

Said gladiator Oberelle, "Our match began, and this Breton boy sent his Khajiiti team member sprawling to the ground. Then he looked me in the eye and blinked twice, slowly. 'Is he trying to wink?' whispered my ally, Doumant. We capitalized on their folly and beat the boy and the Khajiit unconscious. One must never refuse such strokes of fortune in the Blessed Crucible."

As time passed, young Josef grew increasingly frustrated. He scoffed at suggestions to collaborate with gladiators of other races. His demeanor incensed the Crucible audience along with its competitors, and management loved him for it. "We would print Josef's face on currency if we could. He is a boon to us," they said.

The gladiators felt differently.

Said Dalu the Dunmeri Blade, "Josef told me he would never collaborate with a kwama farmer. And he hounded me every day for kwama eggs. He was certain that I had some, or could, by some miracle, produce them. I have never even tasted a kwama egg. I was born in Skyrim."

Said Ethenen, the Rabid Dunmer, "Josef repeatedly referred to me as Dalu."

Said Azrukana, the Crimson Cat, "I told him he could trust me in battle. That he needed to, if he wanted to live for much longer as a gladiator. He rasped his voice and said, 'This one thinks you should have some moon sugar and keep your opinions to yourself.' I did not like that."

Said Inarfar, the Skyforged Razor, "When Hrasvard, my comrade of a decade, was slain in combat, I went to the Hall of Champions and I wept. That Breton boy found me and said, 'Did you run out of mead-coin? I know how that feels, but unlike you Nords, I wouldn't cry about it.' The beating that ensued in Hrasvard's honor lasted eight minutes."

No gladiator had gained as much infamy as Josef in so short a time, but he soon disappeared.

His current whereabouts are unknown.
		

Failed at /books/2294Failed at /books/2295		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2296)
	Dominion Military Recruitment
General Marenil,

On behalf of the Dominion, I applaud your efforts in supplying troops for the war. You have confirmed my confidence in you. Praise for your performance has been passed along to Queen Ayrenn and the Thalmor.

More is asked of you, however. The war against the Pact and Covenant stretches our resources to the limit. More warriors are needed.

All who come through the Western Elsweyr gate should be urged to equip themselves and hasten to the battlefields of Cyrodiil.

Continue to send reports via Zaharai.

— Grand Warlord Sorcalin
		

Failed at /books/2297		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2298)
	Information Request from Emeric
Grand Warlord Dortene,

Let there be no mistake: I state again that you answer to the Kings' Council. The army you command belongs to the Covenant, not to you. More communication is required for our confidence in you to continue.

The news we have received seems promising. It is the frequency, or lack thereof, of updates that we find troubling.

We understand the difficulties involved in gathering information across Cyrodiil and then delivering that news to Wayrest. And we acknowledge the point that your soldiers are better used on the battlefield than as couriers. Nonetheless, we insist that this effort be made and that it be made on a daily basis.

As an aside, the captain of my guard has requested that someone less surly and short-tempered than your aide Grulzul be employed as courier henceforth.

The Covenant's hopes of gaining the White-Gold Tower rest with you, Grand Warlord. Do not disappoint us.

— Emeric,

High King
		

Failed at /books/2299Failed at /books/2300Failed at /books/2301Failed at /books/2302Failed at /books/2303Failed at /books/2304Failed at /books/2305Failed at /books/2306Failed at /books/2307Failed at /books/2308Failed at /books/2309Failed at /books/2310Failed at /books/2311Failed at /books/2312Failed at /books/2313		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2314)
	Respectful Greetings from Am-Shadal
General Khamagash,

At Grand Warlord Dortene's command, I did not respond in kind to your recent outburst. This is my considered reply.

Honor to you for your commitment to the Covenant and concern for our progress. In your enthusiasm you forget that a scouting mission does not conquer an enemy stronghold. We scout to discover enemy weaknesses. I honor those who lose their lives while scouting, but we strike our foes only where they appear most vulnerable.

Attacking impetuously will sacrifice hundreds of lives needlessly and possibly forfeit the war. The reports your scouts acquire are invaluable to our efforts in Cyrodiil; our conquests would not be possible without them.

May Onsi favor our cause!

- General Am-Shadal
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2315)
	Updated Instructions from Dortene
General Am-Shadal,

Reports have reached me of lone soldiers being killed by enemy squads en route to battle fields in Cyrodiil. Do all in your power to encourage soldiers to travel in groups, never alone. While this staging area is secure, nowhere else in Cyrodiil is safe. Warn those who undertake your missions to be wary at all times.

On a personal note, I thank you for your forbearance in the recent altercation with General Khamagash. Your refusal to be goaded into an attack was admirable. I shudder to think of the effect on troop morale if my two top generals had gotten into a brawl. Your self-control honors your training and your ancestors.

Honor and faith to you, general.

- Grand Warlord Dortene
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2316)
	Conquer Cyrodiil for the Pact!
Grand Warlord,

Your progress in the Alliance War has been impressive. As you requested, I am sending more troops, trusting that they will lead to further victories. I await word that the Dominion and Covenant armies have been driven from Cyrodiil.

Continue to send reports and I will see to it that you get the resources you need to win this war.

- High King Jorunn
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2317)
	Chastisement from Zimmeron
General Dar-Liurz,

I placed you in charge of our bounty program to encourage our warriors to seek out and kill more of our enemies. You have had limited success thus far, as Jeggord has pointed out on several occasions. More needs to be done.

You are authorized to increase the bounty offered. Get our soldiers out there, hunting down every Dominion and Covenant foe they can find. This constant spying on our strongholds and resources must cease. If you can't do it, Jeggord can.

- Zimmeron
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2318)
	A Warning from Zimmeron
General Jeggord,

While I applaud the success you've had on the battlefield, you must play the role I have assigned to you. Continue to drive our troops to band together and hit the enemy where scouts have found them to be vulnerable.

Scouting assignments are Dar-Liurz's responsibility, as are the efforts to prevent the enemy from detecting our weak spots. I am satisfied with Dar's performance in these duties. Your thoughts on this matter are unwanted. When I want your opinion, I'll ask.

- Zimmeron
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2319)
	Pact Recruitment
General Braning,

Where are the troops I need? Recruitment has fallen off badly in the last month. Covenant and Dominion soldiers are pouring onto the battlefields and we need warriors to counter them.

Step up your recruitment efforts or I'll find someone who can. Your precedessor made the mistake of failing me; I sent him to the front lines and I can do the same to you.

- Grand Warlord Zimmeron
		

Failed at /books/2320Failed at /books/2321Failed at /books/2322Failed at /books/2323Failed at /books/2324Failed at /books/2325		Part of the None collection (#2326)
	Goodbye Note
Mother,

By the time you read this, I will be gone, so there is no point in hoping you can dissuade me. I have made my decision. The other night I had a terrible dream. I had lived my whole life working as a stablehand here at Aswala Stables, and as I lay on my deathbed, I realized my mistake. Tamriel is enormous, filled with exciting people and exciting places, all of which, in the dream, I had missed.

As you know, mother, my friend Najan disappeared several months ago. I did not wish to worry you, so I did not tell you the truth. Najan joined the cult known as the Withered Hand. At the time, I thought him a madman, but he recently returned in the night and told me of his experience. Though there is much grisly work involved, and I know that grandfather, and even you may condemn me for dishonoring myself, a career of raising the dead seems to be very exciting.

Najan says he was taken to Satakalaam for training. They taught him the arts of war, the arts of necromancy, and the many other valuable skills. They have given him a wardrobe full of silken robes, and he says that they have even promised to take him to the city of Wayrest someday. Najan has invited me to join the Hand, and I have decided I cannot pass up this opportunity.

I will always love you mother. I hope you will forgive me. Perhaps once I learn necromancy, I can come back and raise father from the dead!

Samala
		

		Part of the None collection (#2327)
	Things to do before the baby comes:
— Buy a new lamp for the house.

— Visit Aunt Abia in Sentinel.

— Finish reading "The Lusty Argonian Maid".

— Weave a new carpet for the wall in the baby's corner.

— Ask mother for the orange vases she has in the storeroom.

— Ask father to finally give us the chickens he promised as part of my dowry.

— Burn all my Forebear clothes and buy new Crown clothes.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2328)
	Shalan's Note
Mother, 

The village is on fire! Who could have done this? The Imperials left so long ago. I can hear screams …

I'm going to make a run for it. I'll try to get word to Darien. He always knows what to do. I'm taking Aneese and the dog. Hopefully she won't slow me down too much.

If you find this, know that I love you dearly. May Akatosh watch over us both.

Your son,

Shalan
		

		Part of the None collection (#2329)
	Still-Water's Journal
Can't put it off any long. Drashi's right. We need to head inland. Deshaan, maybe down into the swamps of my homeland. Too much ash in the air. Sounds of combat on the horizon. The Three Banners have come to Stonefalls, and there's no place for independents like us. Shame, too. I liked this place.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Shuldrashi and I have a good thing going in the Ashlands. Always some nasty piece of work crawling out from behind the mushrooms. Or crawling up from a volcano's vent. She deals with the House Dunmer. I talk to the Ashlanders. We're making good coin, and going where we want. Hope this lasts.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The wilds suit me just fine. But then, they seem to suit her as well. Never thought I'd take on a Dark Elf as a partner. But she seems to respect me. Shuldrashi doesn't ask questions. Doesn't give orders. Just does her job. Some days we go hours without talking. She's like the wind, in that way. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's been years since I escaped from under the yoke of House Dres. And still my scar hurts. That day I learned what I was worth to my master, what I was worth to a Dark Elf. I would listen to the wind at night, hoping against hope it would carry me away.

The day I made my escape, I took the dagger. The one he cut me with. As long as I live, it will be my reminder. Can't allow myself to forget.
		

Failed at /books/2330		Part of the None collection (#2331)
	Kuralit's Clue
Kuralit saw a Bosmer thief sneaking into the bank. Could it be the Artisan?
		

		Part of the None collection (#2332)
	Mendreval's Clue
Mendreval suspects that the thief is a Bosmer.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2333)
	Rilding's Clue
Rilding pointed out that the thief only steals from Altmer who don't use the bank.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2334)
	Talqua's Clue
Talqua insisted that only he and his assistant Nidras have access to the bank.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2335)
	Page
…She just knew the farmboy was watching her. She tossed her hair and walked in that way that drove the boys crazy…
		

		Part of the None collection (#2336)
	Letter to Bodani
Bodani, you are as a sister to me. 

I know you saw this would come to pass. Your sight is your talent, your gift. You knew how it would come to be, but not why it would come to be. I would enlighten you to honor the bonds which we have shared in our time together.

Many of us are born to The Coiled Path through hardship, but not all. 

The Ashkhan of your tribe reduced you to nothing. He took everything from you and he left you without another path to tread. Your choice was that of survival. 

You protected and sheltered your people from him. Strong Harrinat, industrious Risannu, little Sahnivaran, and her brother Draitsuul would not have followed you here if they did not believe that you were still their guide and protector. You choose to lead as a Wisewoman might.

But you are now Mabrigash, a Wisewoman no longer in the eyes of our people and our ways.

The Ghost Snake will take them all in time, if you do not send them away. Keep Harrinat if he pleases you, as Trehaddu and Unamaeth please me. But send the others from our camp!

The rest of us were born to The Coiled Path for other reasons, not all as noble and worthy of understanding as your own. Yet all of us gather here at this sacred vale for one purpose—to extend our lives and bring power onto ourselves. 

Let your final act of leadership be to send your people to safety.

—Marinisuu
		

		Part of the None collection (#2337)
	Page
…He looked at her with deep blue eyes. Eyes you could drown in. She was completely sucked in. She had to meet him…
		

		Part of the None collection (#2338)
	Page
…Their passion knew no bounds. Like a runaway horse it bounded through hills and fields screaming their love at the top of it's lungs…
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2339)
	The Masters' Hall
Author Unknown

We were young and optimistic when we set forth, striking out on the rumor of a ruin untouched, lost among the crags and misty peaks of the Jerall Mountains on the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border. Our maps were inadequate, as were our plans and preparations. Nearly starved, frostbitten, and lost, it was only by sheer luck that we even stumbled onto the entrance, which sat half-buried and covered in a layer of ice high in the peaks.

By the time we cracked open the door, locked by a combination of mechanical and arcane mechanisms, our supplies had dwindled dangerously low. But it was worth it. As the barrier separated and we saw into the gloom, it was clear that the rumor was true: this place was long undisturbed, unmarred by robbers and scavengers. Who knew what we would find inside?

We could never have guessed at the answer. The entry hall itself was very unusual. It featured a gleaming metal staircase, ornately molded and engraved with strange glyphs and angular emblems. As soon as my boot touched the first step, a clear tone rang out into the cold, startling us all. Every footfall created a new, sweet sound as we descended to the bottom, eager to escape the chill and reinvigorated by the prospect of discovery.

Fifty men could have stretched head to toe across the circular chamber that opened before us at the base of the stair. Its high dome receded into shadow, and ringed all around the center of the floor were thirteen massive statues, posed with arms extended to the side and legs shoulder-width apart. Each was clad in a unique suit of armor. Every suit was crafted from a different material, some of which were recognizable (steel, ebony, and iron among them), but several could not be identified at first look. 

Many of the suits boasted strange, angular plates of metal or precious stone affixed to the joints or helms, and some featured engraved patterns and phrases. The construction of the place imparted a sense of reverence; the careful placements and grand scale made the chamber feel almost holy. We crept among the statues, marveling at the armor and wishing we had more knowledge of smithing and metalwork.

In the center of them all stood a bronze monolith, thirteen-sided and engraved from top to bottom with characters and diagrams that seemed related to the armors worn by the statues. We approached the monument, but, lost in our wonder at the mysteries before us, we forgot we were intruders, neglected the caution necessary in such places. I reached out a hand to touch the metal, and as soon as my skin made contact, chaos erupted.

I remember little but the screams of my companions, bright flashes of light, and a mad dash to the staircase, which produced a cacophony as I scrambled up it and out onto the snow. I realized then that I was alone. Injured and heartbroken at the loss of my expeditionary allies, I made it to a small village only by the grace of the Divines. I was never able to locate the entrance again, but its secrets still wait, hidden in the snow.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2340)
	Folly in Fixation
By Estiraamo

There are those who will tell you that in order to become powerful, you must focus your energies, that you must pursue one discipline to the exclusion of all others if you wish to be remembered for great deeds. Utterly ridiculous. Why be the master of one thing alone when you have the capacity to become so much more? 

I see this way of thinking emphasized especially among fellow practitioners of magic. So often, students are discouraged from exploring the virtues of physical modes of combat or other studies in favor of complete and total dedication to magic—even to areas of the art in which they have no interest or talent. 

It seems such a waste to raise a generation of mages who focus less and less on practical applications and more on obscure theories and experiments. If you find yourself similarly disenfranchised, then allow me to open your eyes to new possibilities. Step boldly forth and do not hesitate to open new avenues of study.

Tamriel has a fine tradition of battlemages—arcanists who apply their considerable intelligence and magical skill to the mastery of spells that are devastating in combat while being unafraid to pick up a sword and strap on heavy armor, fighting in the front lines to turn the tides of battle. Some of the most powerful heroes throughout history have combined magic and physical prowess, and I wish to see more walk this path.

Do you want to seek glory on the battlefield and strike terror into your foes? Then master both the physical and the arcane. What could be more frightening than a blast of fire shooting forth from an armored gauntlet? Lightning striking nearby foes as your armor absorbs blows from all around? True power means eliminating all weaknesses, and that can only be achieved through knowledge and experience in multiple areas.

If you come from a magical background, chances are you've never been taught to properly wield a weapon or wear armor that offers any real protection. Find someone to train you, even if you must face scoffing and taunts in the beginning. Even the weakest (in the physical sense) sorcerer can develop the strength needed to don heavy armor pieces. 

It is also possible to practice magic at the same time as combat. By doing so, you will attain incredible levels of concentration, improve your stamina, and learn to weave spell and sword together. This allows you to adapt to any challenge. Too many who study magic neglect their bodies, becoming vulnerable when magicka runs low.

Become more than a one-dimensional stereotype, and you will discover that, by diversifying, you build a set of skills that can adapt to any situation. Being the most powerful does not mean simply being very good at one thing. You have the potential for so much more. Expand your repertoire, and when you step onto the field of battle, wherever it is and no matter who your foe is, you will be prepared for anything.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2341)
	Armor of Myth and Legend
Compiled by Aurelienne Dulroi

In studying history, one often encounters tales of exceptional arms and armors possessed of incredible powers. It can be difficult to separate mythical exaggeration from actual, recoverable relics, but it is my duty as a historian and scholar to preserve any details of such items, even those that may prove untrue. I have recorded here what I have read regarding a few powerful legendary armors. As far as I am aware, none of these have been located, but how exciting it is to consider that they may yet exist!

 

Lapidary's Slab

Commissioned by an unknown Dark Elven general, this ebony chestplate was engraved with the names of the Dunmer saints and their teachings. According to the tales, the artisan tried to explain to the general that etching the names and stories into the plate would weaken its integrity, but to no avail. The general demanded completion of the piece. Three costly cuirasses shattered or cracked as the crafter attempted the feat, attempting to configure the names and parables in an arrangement that would hold. He consulted with priests and enchanters, and by his fourth attempt, the plate was complete. It is said that nothing short of a Daedric Prince itself could damage the finished product.

Skinmail

References to this incredible work are few. I have seen a few texts mentioning a vial of liquid that, if applied to the skin, can harden it and produce plate-like coverings whenever the wearer wills. It is said to be the crowning achievement of a powerful High Elven alchemist who stopped at nothing, including horrific experimentation on live subjects, to reach the result. Only a very few vials are thought to exist, as the process for creation was not only costly, but lengthy, requiring decades of attention and enchantment to produce.

Widowill

In a small, impoverished Imperial village lived a soldier's widow. She and the other villagers led quiet lives until necromancers began operating nearby, robbing graves and stealing people away in the night. There were no fighters or mercenaries among them, and they were so poor that sending for help seemed impossible, so she donned her husband's old armor, though it did not fit well, and hefted his sword, determined to drive the necromancers away. Stendarr took notice of this selfless, if foolish, act, and imbued the armor with holy protections so powerful that the necromancers who attacked her were reduced to dust.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2342)
	The Rotwood Enigma
We never knew where he came from. He showed up during our assault on the Rotwood Butchers, a nasty group that'd taken to terrorizing travelers a couple days out of Evermore. We found their hideout, but were caught off guard when more were inside than we expected; there must have been an entrance we didn't see. They had us pinned, trapped in the filthy caves they'd claimed, when out of nowhere he came clanking down the hall, covered head to toe in shining plate and cleaving bandits in half with every swing. The tide turned. One after another, Rotwood scoundrels fell to his blade until none were left.

I thanked him and asked his name, but he didn't respond. Confused, I tried introducing myself, telling him about our company and the work we'd been taking on to clear out bandits and beasts all over northern Bangkorai. Nothing. Frustrated and a little disturbed, we left the cave and headed back to camp. He followed. I told him he wasn't welcome if he was going to keep up the silent treatment and hide his face from us, but it didn't help. Everyone was on edge, uneasy. We didn't see any signs of aggression, and I don't think anyone wanted to raise a sword to challenge him after the carnage with the Rotwoods earlier.

It just went on like that. He never talked at all. He took his food alone, off away from the camp, and never seemed to sleep; he just propped himself up against a tree or a rock at night, never once taking off a piece of that armor. None of us had seen the like of it before, all smooth, rounded pieces with strange feathery engravings. It was beautiful, silver with dark swirls, covering him entirely. We were uncomfortable at first (and who wouldn't be?), but he never hurt anyone aside from the bandits we rooted out. And by Stendarr, did he ever hurt them!

We warmed to his presence, probably because he saved our skins over and over. His was the blow that ended Swampheart the Fetid, a filthy hag that had been abducting innocents. She'd cast some horrible magic that slowed us all down—all but him. He was the one who saved Riles-the-Leaves from being tossed over a cliff by the boar Bloodgut, who'd assailed several farmers and their livestock. He even saved my own life more than once. He was tireless, fearless, and, it seemed, dedicated to our goals.

I wonder to this day if he had a name, if he was even a "he." I don't guess we'll ever know. Six months he tromped along with us on our contracts, and for those six months we prospered more than ever; we even added new blood to our roster. When winter came on, we headed back to Evermore for our usual time off (it's slow getting good work in the cold months), and one morning, he was gone. No sign, no tracks, nothing. Just disappeared. No one I've spoken to has ever heard of him or anything like him, and I get a lot of funny looks when I tell the tale. No matter. Wherever he is, I hope he's doing well and carrying on the good work.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2343)
	Glinting Talons
By Ablahar at-Tanul

When the mighty Ra Gada first drove back the Orcs, one sect of warriors employed a fighting style so aggressive, so fierce, that the tales tell of enemies standing stunned, falling to flashing blades in a daze before they realized an attack was upon them. These champions revered Tava as well as Diagna, engraving their blades with the wings of a hawk. The bird's keen sight, accuracy, and rending claws inspired their sword-songs, and references to the sun and light are numerous. Sadly, little remains of their tradition, aside from what I have pieced together from crumbling tablets and monuments deep in the desert.

It is clear that these warriors, the Glinting Talons, wielded a sword in each hand. They are mentioned often in inscriptions dating to the arrival from Yokuda for their great deeds—driving off warbands of Orcs when sorely outnumbered, capturing strongholds in surprise attacks, and many other heroic tales. Of their style, though, very little is known. This partial inscription I located at the site of the Battle of Six Hands is all that has been recovered regarding their way of the blade:

"Face the burdensome sun. Carry its weight face-wise. Submit to the endless edges twinned.

Master these strikes in the morning; cleave the light and leave the foe in darkness:

"Two Blades Become Four

"Lion's Teeth Exposed in Thunder

"Five Arrows Split the Sky

"The Screech of Descent upon Helpless Prey

"Master these strikes in the evening; chase the enemy and burn its flesh."

I can find no other references or descriptions of these strikes, and it saddens me to think that such knowledge of the blade has been lost. I have no greater desire than to restore this lost way of the blade, but the fragments are so few. The mystery compels me to continue my travels in hopes that, perhaps, I will be led by Tava's grace to discover more, and return this shamefully lost knowledge to our people.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2344)
	Mazubar-do's Advice
There is one very important thing that I have learned much about in my years. Oh yes, and another. There are two very important things I know about, and those two things are fighting and dancing. You will forgive me for sometimes confusing the two, for they are each one close to the other, side by side, partners like so many things under the moons.

To fight and to dance, your feet must be light, fast, never stumbling. Whether it is a battle or a celebration, in each, a stumble means death, means the sword across your neck or the stab of embarrassment and rejection. One foot and two, each sure where it lands on this beat and the next. You must be bold. Take the lead and your partner and enemy will follow; you will be master of the movements, impressive and strong.

You must inspire; you must project the power inside forth and out. Consider: what dancer wishes to engage with the beggar, filthy and low? What enemy will fear you if you are shabby and wear dingy padding? Best to prepare, to choose the right garments to show who you are and who you intend to be. You intend to be the winner. The best.

Fadomai knew we needed Jone and Jode to protect us and guide us, and likewise you must use the left and right hands. The moons are different, but they are both moons, and, just so, you shall hold a weapon in each hand for battle. Maybe not the same weapon, but weapons still. The moons are both circles, not a circle and a square. For dance, it is the same; you hold the hands—left and right in right and left, but hands all the same.

In the fight and the dance, there is rhythm. Give and take, ebb and flow. Mastery of movement, of spinning and twirling just at the right times, is what you must display. You must know when to move forward and when to leap back, watching the other for cues. The other is just another side of you—ignore them at your peril. There is no feeling to compare with a good fight or dance. If you practice, you feel each piece falling into place, each motion flowing exactly to where it should. And that is how you win.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2345)
	Crush, Slash, Bash, and Stab
By Weapon-master Grutsug

"Grutsug," people ask me, "What weapon should I use? There are just so many choices!" Why, yes, my less-battle-savvy little friends, there are! But not to worry; you don't need to choose just one. In fact, if you're anything like me, you'll have much more fun with two!

Even narrowing it down to two can be tough, but you should try out everything to see what calls to you. You have to be comfortable with your weapons, and they have to fit your own style. I've known soldiers and mercenaries who go their whole lives just using, say, a sword, and never trying anything else. Well, when I get them to lift a hammer for the first time, it's like a whole new world. And even better, they don't have to abandon that sword they know so well, just the shield. That's as it should be; shields are really a sign of fear and weakness, so don't even start using one.

Weapons have their pros and cons, so you should know a little about each of them. Axes are great for folks with exceptional arm strength, but you need to be careful about getting the pointed parts stuck on or in your foes. Hammers are another good choice for the strong, and they're useful against heavy armor, crushing into the body beneath. They tend to be heavy, though, and may slow you down. Swords are a typical choice for beginners, but it takes work to maintain them in good shape and they take a bit of finesse to wield. I haven't used daggers much, but get in close enough using something else and they can help you seal the deal.

For me, it's axe and hammer all the way. With my axe, Grimdeath, in my right hand, I can deliver powerful, targeted strikes on anyone without heavy armor. When faced with a more protected foe, here comes my hammer, Skullcrash, using my signature jaw-wallop to knock 'em out cold and send their helms flying. Then it's right back to the axe! 

By the way, you definitely need to name your weapons once you've picked them out. You can shout the names to scare your foes, and it'll help you develop a good, healthy relationship based on mayhem and the thrill of battle!

Now, you're going to have to put in a good deal of training time to come anywhere near my expertise, but don't worry; every fight is just a new chance to learn. So get out there, grab a weapon, and then grab another. A whole world is waiting for you to crush, slash, bash, and stab the treasure and glory out of it!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2346)
	Quotes from the Greats
By Scaporius Pulex

Ah, the arena. The clanging of armor, the thrill of victory, the mud and sweat and sting of defeat. And, of course, the beautiful clink of gold coins. Nothing in the whole of Tamriel competes. I do fancy myself something of a connoisseur when it comes to this most noble sport, and I've developed favorites over the years. Favorite champions, yes, and favorite fighting styles, too. No warrior impresses me more than the one who charges into the battle with a weapon in each hand—sure in their skills, coordinated beyond belief, and unafraid of the enemy's attacks. None better represent the true spirit of the arena.

As a frequent attendee and bettor of large sums, I've had the privilege of meeting many of my favored champions, and I've collected their quotes on this most illustrious fighting style. I wish to share them with the world that others might be inspired to take up two weapons and charge to their destinies, and hopefully into my local arena!

"Most people only train with a weapon in one hand or use two-handers. To train yourself to fight with two weapons, you have to focus on your off-hand. Force yourself to practice and spar with it alone for a while so you can catch it up. It takes a long time to learn, and it's easy to give up because that arm will start out so weak, but if you keep it up, you'll be whirling around the pit in no time!" — The Maelstrom

"Milira was a juggler before she came to the arena. Already knew how to handle many daggers. Better money here, so Khajiit stays." — Milira

"It's all about speed. Two light weapons and quick feet. You need more than just fast attacks; you need to be able to predict your opponent's movw, show up where he least expects you, run circles around him, and call him names. If you can frustrate your challenger, you gain an even better advantage." — "Heartstriker" Goranion 

"Growing up, I had twin sisters. Little brats! They were constantly pestering me, trying to 'pretty up' my hair or drag me off to play tea party! I had to learn how to keep both at bay early on, and, you know, I guess that's where it all started. When I got into training, it just felt normal to have a weapon in each hand. So, uh, start early, I guess." — Myl "Mutilator" Drothro

"Well, you don't have a shield, but you can learn to parry and even sort of block with two weapons. It's the best style for disarming the other guy, that's for sure. That's why I like it. Send his weapon flying and then what, right?" — The Decimator

"Well, it's something I certainly have a lot to say about—so much so that I've written a book! You can find a copy at most of the local booksellers; ask for 'Fighting to Survive and Surviving to Fight: the Definitive Guide to Two-Weapon Combat'! Tell 'em I sent ya for a discount!" — Todir the Tower
		

		Part of the None collection (#2347)
	The Waters of Oblivion
A hundred and twenty numbered ages in the void that fated folk had grown deep-schooled in evil. Then the Bright Gods resolved to punish those faithless spirits, and shatter the unruly caitiffs, those huge, unholy scathers, loathsome to the Light. They repented exceedingly that they had gazed upon Oblivion, and seen there the first of dark kin, and welcomed them as brothers and sisters.

The Principalities of Victory beheld how great was the wickedness of the wayward spirits, and saw that they were bold in sin and full of wiles. They resolved then to chasten the tribes of Daedra, and smite darkkind with hammer and hand.

But ever shall Darkness contest the Light, and great were the Powers that breathed the void and laid waste upon one another, and no oath might bind them, so deep were they in envy and perfidy. For once the portals are opened, who shall shut them upon the rising tide?
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2348)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 1
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

1 Morning Star

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."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2349)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 3
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

21 Morning Star

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?
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2350)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 4
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

3 Sun's Dawn

The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset

Sotha Sil watched the initiates float one by one up to the oassom tree, taking a fruit or a flower from its high branches before dropping back to the ground with varying degrees of grace. He took a moment to admire the day. The whitewashed statue of Syrabane, which the great mage was said to have posed for in ancient days, stood at the precipice of the cliff overlooking the bay. Beyond, ocean, and the misty border between Artaeum and the main island of Summerset.

"By and large, acceptable," he proclaimed as the last student dropped her fruit in his hand. With a wave of his hand, the fruit and flowers were back in the tree. With another wave, the students had formed into position in a semicircle around the sorcerer. He pulled a small fibrous ball, about a foot in diameter from his white robes.

"What is this?"

The students understood this test. It asked them to cast a spell of identification on the mysterious object. Each initiate closed his or her eyes and imagined the ball in the realm of the universal Truth. Its energy had a unique resonance as all physical and spiritual matter does, a negative aspect, a duplicate version, relative paths, true meaning, a song in the cosmos, a texture in the fabric of space, a facet of being that has always existed and always will exist.

"A ball," said a young Nord named Welleg, which brought giggles from some of the younger initiates, but a frown from most, including Sotha Sil.

"If you must be stupid, at least be amusing," growled the sorcerer, and then looked at a young, dark-haired Altmer lass who looked confused. "Lilatha, do you know?"

"It's grom," said Lilatha, uncertainly. "What the dreugh meff after they've k-k-kr-krevinasim."

"Karvinasim, but very good, nonetheless," said Sotha Sil. "Now, tell me, what does that mean?"

"I don't know," admitted Lilatha. The rest of the students also shook their heads.

"There are layers to understanding all things," said Sotha Sil. "The common man looks at an object and fits it into a place in his way of thinking. Those skilled in the Old Ways, in the way of the Psijic, in Mysticism, can see an object and identify it by its proper role. But one more layer is needed to be peeled back to achieve understanding. You must identify the object by its role and its truth and interpret that meaning. In this case, this ball is indeed grom, which is a substance created by the dreugh, an underwater race in the north and western parts of the continent. For one year of their life, they undergo karvinasim when they walk upon the land. Following that, they return to the water and meff, or devour the skin and organs they needed for land-dwelling. Then they vomit it up into little balls like this. Grom. Dreugh vomit."

The students looked at the ball a little queasily. Sotha Sil always loved this lesson.

4 Sun's Dawn, 2920

The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

"Spies," muttered the Emperor, sitting in his bath, staring at a lump on his foot. "All around me, traitors and spies."

His mistress Rijja washed his back, her legs wrapped around his waist. When he was in a mood like this, it was best to be calmly, soothingly, seductively sensual. And not to say a word unless he asked her a direct question.

Which he did: "What do you think when a fellow steps on his Imperial Majesty's foot and says 'I'm sorry, Your Imperial Majesty'? Don't you think 'Pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty' is more appropriate? 'I'm sorry,' well, that almost sounds like the bastard Argonian was sorry I am his Imperial Majesty. That he hopes we lose the war with Morrowind, that's what it sounds like."

"What would make you feel better?" asked Rijja. "Would you like him flogged? He is only, as you say, the Battlechief of Soulrest. It would teach him to mind where he's stepping."

"My father would have flogged him. My grandfather would have had him killed," the Emperor grumbled. "But I don't mind if they all step on my feet, provided they respect me. And don't plot against me."

"You must trust someone."

"Only you," smiled the Emperor, turning slightly to give Rijja a kiss. "And my son Juilek, I suppose, though I wish he were a little more cautious."

"And your council, and the Potentate?" asked Rijja.

"A pack of spies and a snake," laughed the Emperor, kissing his mistress again. He whispered, "As long as you're true, I can handle the world."

13 Sun's Dawn, 2920

Mournhold, Morrowind

Turala stood at the black, bejeweled city gates. A wind howled around her, but she felt nothing.

The Duke had been furious upon hearing his favorite mistress was pregnant and cast her from his sight. She tried again and again to see him, but his guards turned her away. Finally, she returned to her family and told them the truth. If only she had lied and told them she did not know who the father was. A soldier, a wandering adventurer, anyone. But she told them that the father was the Duke, a member of the House Indoril. And they did what she knew they would have to do, as proud members of the House Redoran.

Upon her hand was burned the sign of Expulsion her weeping father had branded on her. But the Duke's cruelty hurt her far more. She looked out the gate and into the wide winter plains. Twisted, sleeping trees and skies without birds. No one in Morrowind would take her in now. She must go far away. 

With slow, sad steps, she began her journey.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2351)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 8
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

29 First Seed, 2920

Hegathe, Hammerfell

You have a letter from the Imperial City," said the chief priestess, handing the parchment to Corda. All the young priestesses smiled and made faces of astonishment, but the truth was that Corda's sister Rijja wrote very often, at least once a month.

Corda took the letter to the garden to read it, her favorite place, an oasis in the monochromatic sand-colored world of the conservatorium The letter itself was nothing unusual: filled with court gossip, the latest fashions which were tending to winedark velvets, and reports of the Emperor's ever-growing paranoia.

"You are so lucky to be away from all of this," wrote Rijja. "The Emperor is convinced that his latest battlefield fiasco is all a result of spies in the palace. He has even taken to questioning me. Ruptga keep it so you never have a life as interesting as mine."

Corda listened to the sounds of the desert and prayed to Ruptga the exact opposite wish.

3 Rain's Hand, 2920

Coldharbour, Oblivion

Sotha Sil proceeded as quickly as he could through the blackened halls of the palace, half-submerged in brackish water. All around him, nasty gelatinous creatures scurried into the reeds, bursts of white fire lit up the upper arches of the hall before disappearing, and smells assaulted him, rancid death one moment, sweet flowered perfume the next. Several times he had visited the Daedra princes in their Oblivion, but every time, something different awaited him.

He knew his purpose, and refused to be distracted.

Eight of the more prominent Daedra princes were awaiting him in the half-melted, domed room. Azura, Prince of Dusk and Dawn; Boethiah, Prince of Plots; Herma-Mora, Daedra of Knowledge; Hircine, the Hunter; Malacath, God of Curses; Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Disaster; Molag Bal, Prince of Rage; Sheogorath, the Mad One.

Above them, the sky cast tormented shadows upon the meeting.

5 Rain's Hand, 2920

The Isle of Artaeum, Summurset

Sotha Sil's voice cried out, echoing from the cave, "Move the rock!"

Immediately, the initiates obeyed, rolling aside the great boulder that blocked the entrance to the Dreaming Cavern. Sotha Sil emerged, his face smeared with ash, weary. He felt he had been away for months, years, but only a few days had transpired. Lilatha took his arm to help him walk, but he refused her help with a kind smile and a shake of his head.

"Were you … successful?" she asked.

"The Daedra princes I spoke with have agreed to our terms," he said flatly. "Disasters such as befell Gilverdale should be averted. Only through certain intermediaries such as witches or sorcerers will they answer the call of man and mer."

"And what did you promise them in return?" asked the Nord boy Welleg.

"The deals we make with Daedra," said Sotha Sil, continuing on to Iachesis' palace to meet with the Master of the Psijic Order, "should not be discussed with the innocent."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2352)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 11
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

10 Second Seed, 2920

The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

"Your Imperial Majesty," said the Potentate Versidue-Shaie, opening the door to his chamber with a smile. "I have not seen you lately. I thought perhaps you were … indisposed with the lovely Rijja."

"She's taking the baths at Mir Corrup," the Emperor Reman III said miserably.

"Please, come in."

"I've reached the stage where I can only trust three people: you, my son the Prince, and Rijja," said the Emperor petulantly. "My entire council is nothing but a pack of spies."

"What seems to be the matter, Your Imperial Majesty?" asked the Potentate Versidue-Shaie sympathetically, drawing closed the thick curtain in his chamber. Instantly all sound outside the room was extinguished, echoing footsteps in the marble halls and birds in the springtide gardens.

"I've discovered that a notorious poisoner, an Orma tribeswoman from Black Marsh called Catchica, was with the army at Caer Suvio while we were encamped there when my son was poisoned, before the battle at Bodrum. I'm sure she would have preferred to kill me, but the opportunity didn't present itself," The Emperor fumed. "The Council suggests that we need evidence of her involvement before we prosecute."

"Of course they would," said the Potentate thoughtfully. "Particularly if one or more of them was in on the plot. I have a thought, Your Imperial Majesty."

"Yes?" said Reman impatiently. "Out with it!"

"Tell the Council you're dropping the matter, and I will send out the Guard to track this Catchica down and follow her. We will see who her friends are, and perhaps get an idea of the scope of this plot on Your Imperial Majesty's life."

"Yes," said Reman with a satisfied frown. "That's a capital plan. We will track this scheme to whomever it leads to."

"Decidedly, Your Imperial Majesty," smiled the Potentate, parting the curtain so the Emperor could leave. In the hallway outside was Versidue-Shaie's son, Savirien-Chorak. The boy bowed to the Emperor before entering the Potentate's chamber.

"Are you in trouble, father?" whispered the Akaviri lad. "I heard the Emperor found out about whatshername, the poisoner."

"The great art of speechcraft, my boy," said Versidue-Shaie to his son. "Is to tell them what they want to hear in a way that gets them to do what you want them to do. I need you to get a letter to Catchica, and make certain that she understands that if she does not follow the instructions perfectly, she is risking her own life more than ours."

13 Second Seed, 2920

Mir Corrup, Cyrodiil

Rijja sank luxuriantly into the burbling hot spring, feeling her skin tingle like it was being rubbed by millions of little stones. The rock shelf over her head sheltered her from the misting rain, but let all the sunshine in, streaming in layers through the branches of the trees. It was an idyllic moment in an idyllic life, and when she was finished she knew that her beauty would be entirely restored. The only thing she needed was a drink of water. The bath itself, while wonderfully fragrant, tasted always of chalk.

"Water!" she cried to her servants. "Water, please!"

A gaunt woman with rags tied over her eyes ran to her side and dropped a goatskin of water. Rijja was about to laugh at the woman's prudery—she herself was not ashamed of her naked body—but then she noticed through a crease in the rags that the old woman had no eyes at all. She was like one of those Orma tribesmen Rijja had heard about, but never met. Born without eyes, they were masters of their other senses. The Lord of Mir Corrup hired very exotic servants, she thought to herself.

In a moment, the woman was gone and forgotten. Rijja found it very hard to concentrate on anything but the sun and the water. She opened the cork, but the liquid within had a strange, metallic smell to it. Suddenly, she was aware that she was not alone.

"Lady Rijja," said the Captain of the Imperial Guard. "You are, I see, acquainted with Catchica?"

"I've never heard of her," stammered Rijja before becoming indignant. "What are you doing here? This body is not for your leering eyes."

"Never heard of her, when we saw her with you not a minute ago," said the captain, picking up the goatskin and smelling it. "Brought you neivous ichor, did she? To poison the Emperor with?"

"Captain," said one of the guards, running up to him quickly. "We cannot find the Argonian. It is as if she disappeared into the woods."

"Yes, they're good at that," said the captain. "No matter though. We've got her contact at court. That should please His Imperial Majesty. Seize her."

As the guards pulled the writhing naked woman from the pool, she screamed, "I'm innocent! I don't know what this is all about, but I've done nothing! The Emperor will have your heads for this!"

"Yes, I imagine he will," smiled the captain. "If he trusts you."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2353)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 14
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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 before, 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2354)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 15
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

4 Sun's Height, 2920

The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

The Emperor Reman III and his Potentate Versidue-Shaie took a stroll around the Imperial Gardens. Studded with statuary and fountains, the north gardens fit the Emperor's mood, as well as being the coolest acreage in the City during the heat of summertide. Austere, tiered flowerbeds of blue-gray and green towered all around them as they walked.

"Vivec has agreed to the Prince's terms for peace," said Reman. "My son will be returning in two weeks' time."

"This is excellent news," said the Potentate carefully. "I hope the Dunmer will honor the terms. We might have asked for more. The fortress at Black Gate, for example. But I suppose the Prince knows what is reasonable. He would not cripple the Empire just for peace."

"I have been thinking lately of Rijja and what caused her to plot against my life," said the Emperor, pausing to admire a statue of the Slave Queen Alessia before continuing. "The only thing I can think of to account for it is that she admired my son too much. She may have loved me for my power and my personality, but he, after all, is young and handsome and will one day inherit my throne. She must have thought that if I were dead, she could have an Emperor who had both youth and power."

"The Prince … was in on this plot?" asked Versidue-Shaie. It was a difficult game to play, anticipating where the Emperor's paranoia would strike next.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Reman, smiling. "No, my son loves me well."

"Are you aware that Corda, Rijja's sister, is an initiate of the Morwha conservatorium in Hegathe?" asked the Potentate.

"Morwha?" asked the Emperor. "I've forgotten: which god is that?"

"Lusty fertility goddess of the Yokudans," replied the Potentate. "But not too lusty, like Dibella. Demure, but certainly sexual."

"I am through with lusty women. The Empress, Rijja, all too lusty, a lust for love leads to a lust for power," the Emperor shrugged his shoulders. "But a priestess-in-training with a certain healthy appetite sounds ideal. Now what were you saying about the Black Gate?"

6 Sun's Height, 2920

Thurzo Fortress, Cyrodiil

Rijja stood quietly looking at the cold stone floor while the Emperor spoke. He had never before seen her so pale and joyless. She might at least be pleased that she was being freed, being returned to her homeland. Why, if she left now, she could be in Hammerfell by the Merchant's Festival. Nothing he said seemed to register any reaction from her. A month and a half's stay in Thurzo Fortress seemed to have killed her spirit.

"I was thinking," said the Emperor at last. "Of having your younger sister Corda up to the palace for a time. I think she would prefer it over the conservatorium in Hegathe, don't you?"

Reaction, at last. Rijja looked at the Emperor with animal hatred, flinging herself at him in a rage. Her fingernails had grown long since her imprisonment and she raked them across his face, into his eyes. He howled with pain, and his guards pulled her off, pummeling her with blows from the back of their swords, until she was knocked unconscious.

A healer was called at once, but the Emperor Reman III had lost his right eye.

23 Sun's Height, 2920

Balmora, Morrowind

Vivec pulled himself from the water, feeling the heat of the day washed from his skin, taking a towel from one of his servants. Sotha Sil watched his old friend from the balcony.

"It looks like you've picked up a few more scars since I last saw you," said the sorcerer.

"Azura grant it that I have no more for a while," laughed Vivec. "When did you arrive?"

"A little over an hour ago," said Sotha Sil, walking down the stairs to the water's edge. "I thought I was coming to end a war, but it seems you've done it without me."

"Yes, eighty years is long enough for ceaseless battle," replied Vivec, embracing Sotha Sil. "We made concessions, but so did they. When the old Emperor is dead, we may be entering a golden age. Prince Juilek is very wise for his age. Where is Almalexia?"

"Collecting the Duke of Mournhold. They should be here tomorrow afternoon."

The men were distracted at a sight from around the corner of the palace—a rider was approaching through the town, heading for the front steps. It was evident that the woman had been riding hard for some time. They met her in the study, where she burst in, breathing hard.

"We have been betrayed," she gasped. "The Imperial Army has seized the Black Gate."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2355)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 18
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

16 Last Seed, 2920

Wroth Naga, Cyrodiil

The tiny hamlet of Wroth Naga greeted Cassyr with its colorful houses perched on a promontory overlooking the stretch of the Wrothgarian mountain plain and High Rock beyond. Had he been in a better mood, the sight would have been breathtaking. As it was, he could only think that in practical terms, a small village like this would have meager provisions for himself and his horse.

He rode down into the main square, where an inn called the Eagle's Cry stood. Directing the stable boy to house and feed his horse, Cassyr walked into the inn and was surprised by its ambience. A minstrel he had heard play once in Gilverdale was performing a jaunty old tune to the clapping of the mountain men. Such forced merriment was not what Cassyr wanted at that moment. A glum Dunmer woman was seated at the only table far from the noise, so he took his drink there and sat down without invitation. It was only when he did so that he noticed that she was holding a newborn baby.

"I've just come from Morrowind," he said rather awkwardly, lowering his voice. "I've been fighting for Vivec and the Duke of Mournhold against the Imperial Army. A traitor to my people, I guess you'd call me."

"I am also a traitor to my people," said the woman, holding up her hand which was scarred with a branded symbol. "It means that I can never go back to my homeland."

"Well, you're not thinking of staying here, are you?" laughed Cassyr. "It's certainly quaint, but come wintertide, there's going to be snow up to your eyelashes. It's no place for a new baby. What is her name?"

"Bosriel. It means 'Beauty of the Forest.' Where are you going?"

"Dwynnen, on the bay in High Rock. You're welcome to join me, I could use the company." He held out his hand. "Cassyr Whitley."

"Turala," said the woman after a pause. She was going to use her family's name first, as is tradition, but she realized that it was no longer her name. "I would love to accompany you, thank you."

19 Last Seed, 2920

Ald Lambasi, Morrowind

Five men and two women stood in the silence of the Great Room of the castle, the only sound the scrawl of quill on parchment and the gentle tapping of rain on the large picture window. As the Prince set the seal of Cyrodiil on the document, the peace was made official. The Duke of Mournhold broke out in a roar of delight, ordering wine brought in to commemorate the end of eighty years of war.

Only Sotha Sil stood apart from the group. His face betrayed no emotion. Those who knew him best knew he did not believe in endings or beginnings, but in the continuous cycle of which this was but a small part.

"My Prince," said the castle steward, unhappy at breaking the celebration. "There is a messenger here from your mother, the Empress. He asked to see your father, but as he did not arrive—"

Juilek excused himself and went to speak with the messenger.

"The Empress does not live in the Imperial City?" asked Vivec.

"No," said Almalexia, shaking her head sadly. "Her husband has imprisoned her in Black Marsh, fearing that she was plotting a revolution against him. She is extremely wealthy and has powerful allies in the western Colovian estates so he could not marry another or have her executed. They've been at an impasse for the last seventeen years since Juilek was a child."

The Prince returned a few minutes later. His face betrayed his anxiety, though he took troubles to hide it.

"My mother needs me," he said simply. "I'm afraid I must leave at once. If I may have a copy of the treaty, I will bring it with me to show the Empress the good we have done today, and then I will carry it on to the Imperial City so it may be made official."

Prince Juilek left with the fond farewells of the Three of Morrowind. As they watched him ride out into the rainswept night south towards Black Marsh, Vivec said, "Tamriel will be much healed when he has the throne."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2356)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 19
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

31 Last Seed, 2920

Dorsza Pass, Black Marsh

The moon was rising over the desolate quarry, steaming with swamp gas from a particularly hot summer as the Prince and his two guard escort rode out of the forest. The massive piles of earth and dung had been piled high in antiquity by some primitive, long-dead tribe of Black Marsh, hoping to keep out some evil from the north. Evidently, the evil had broken through at Dorsza Pass, the large crack in the sad, lonely rampart that stretched for miles.

The black twisted trees that grew on the barrier cast strange shadows down, like a net tangling. The Prince's mind was on his mother's cryptic letter, hinting at the threat of an invasion. He could not, of course, tell the Dunmer about it, at the very least until he knew more and had notified his father. After all, the letter was meant for him. It was its urgent tone that made him decide to go directly to Gideon.

The Empress had also warned him about a band of former slaves who attacked caravans going into Dorsza Pass. She advised him to be certain to make his Imperial shield visible, so they would know he was not one of the hated Dunmeri slavers. Upon riding into the tall weeds that flooded through the pass like a noxious river, the Prince ordered that his shield be displayed.

"I can see why the slaves use this," said the Prince's captain. "It's an excellent location for an ambush."

Juilek nodded his head, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What threat of invasion could the Empress have discovered? Were the Akaviri on the seas again? If so, how could his mother from her cell in Castle Giovesse know of it? A rustle in the weeds and a single sharp human cry behind him interrupted his ponderings.

Turning around, the Prince discovered that he was alone. His escort had vanished.

The Prince peered over the stretch of the moonlit sea of grass which waved in almost hypnotic patterns to the ebb and flow of the night wind billowing through the pass. It was impossible to tell if a struggling soldier was beneath this system of vibrations, a dying horse behind another. A high, whistling wind drowned out any sound the victims of the ambush might be making.

Juilek drew his sword, and thought about what to do, his mind willing his heart not to panic. He was closer to the exit of the pass than the entrance. Whatever had slain his escort must have been behind him. If he rode fast enough, perhaps he could outrun it. Spurring his horse to gallop, he charged for the hills ahead, framed by the mighty black piles of dirt.

When he was thrown, it happened so suddenly, he was hurtling forward before he was truly conscious of the fact. He landed several yards beyond where his horse had fallen, breaking his shoulder and his back on impact. A numbness washed over him as he stared at his poor, dying steed, its belly sliced open by one of several spears jutting up just below the surface of the grass.

Prince Juilek was not able to turn and face the figure that emerged from the grass, nor able to move to defend himself. His throat was cut without ceremony.

Miramor cursed when he saw the face of his victim more clearly in the moonlight. He had seen the Emperor at the Battle of Bodrum when he had fought in His Imperial Majesty's command, and this was clearly not the Emperor. Searching the body, he found the letter and a treaty signed by Vivec, Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and the Duke of Mournhold representing Morrowind and the Prince Juilek Cyrodiil, representing the Cyrodilic Empire.

"Curse my luck," muttered Miramor to himself and the whispering grass. "I've only killed a Prince. Where's the reward in that?"

Miramor destroyed the letter, as Zuuk had instructed him to do, and pocketed the treaty. At the very least, such a curiosity would have some market value. He disassembled the traps as he pondered his next step. Return to Gideon and ask his employer for a lesser reward for killing the heir? Move on to other lands? At the very least, he considered, he had picked up two useful skills from the Battle of Bodrum. From the Dunmer, he had learned the excellent spear trap. And abandoning the Imperial Army, he had learned how to skulk in the grass.

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 Giovesse, 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2357)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 20
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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, Black Marsh

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 every 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2358)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 22
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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 axe 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 Dunmeri 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 Dunmeri 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.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2359)
	The Scent's the Thing
You were lucky last time. How many times do I have to remind you—if you're going to work with the plague husks, you need to wear the husk scent. I know, I know. It smells terrible. But that's the point! It makes you smell just like the plague husks. That's the only way to safely move among the vile creatures.

Remember what happened to Kenie? She refused to apply the husk scent, too. Complained that it got in her hair and wouldn't come out no matter how many times she washed it. And what did her vanity get her? A plague husk ate her face!

Do you want that to happen to you? I certainly don't! Now, get your nchow together and remember to apply the husk scent. I don't want to have to tell you again.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2360)
	Curative Batch Six
Useless! Absolutely useless! The curative isn't going to meet our mistress' demanding standards if it simply kills the person who ingests it! If we were trying to create a new poison, then we'd be wildly successful. But that isn't the task at hand.

Reduce the amount of dried corpse blood and try again. And watch the temperature in those cauldrons. One of them was dangerously close to boiling over—and I for one have no desire to be drenched in a spray of boiling curative.

—Nostrum Breva
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2361)
	Curative Batch Fifteen
This batch of the curative was so close to perfect. Unfortunately, it was a tad too effective. The afflicted turned into violent husks far more quickly than we had hoped for at this point in the process. Perhaps this particular mixture will be useful later, when we need a quick influx of undead soldiers, but for now this batch won't suffice.

An interesting side effect of this version of the curative concerns the level of aggressiveness demonstrated by the newly created husks. They turn immediately violent and consider everything that moves to be an enemy. Or food.

These husks also demonstrated a total disregard for the husk scent we apply when working in close proximity to them. They attacked our workers as soon as they saw them, indicating that the scent no longer masks us from husks created with this version of the curative.

Let's increase the cooking time by one hour and decrease the amount of wolf bile by twenty-five percent.

—Nostrum Breva
		

		Part of the None collection (#2362)
	The Way of the Blade
Five trials comprise the Way of the Blade.

The first trial is the trial of the flame.

They that steal the flame from the winged guardians may light the path and begin the Way of the Blade. 

This is the first trial.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2363)
	Great House Mottos (Annotated)
By Vilyn Girith (personal notes by Sotha Sil)

To my son, whose inability to remember even these simple facts embarrasses our family at every opportunity. This is to inform you of the words the great houses of Vvardenfell live and breathe by, and the saints they hold as their patrons, representative of their goals and motives. If you ever again confuse the Hlaalu and Dres merchant nobles with whom we trade, I will disown you three and ten times, and once again to make the deed final and eternal.

(the fact that a primer of this sort is required at all indicates lapses in Temple indoctrination curricula—must delegate a canon to investigate and propose reforms)

House Redoran: "A Redoran is a warrior whose duty is first to the Tribunal, second to House Redoran, and third to family and clan."

-	Saint Nerevar the Captain is the patron saint of House Redoran. 

(re-check Temple texts about death of Nerevar—can't be too careful on that)

House Indoril: "Justice knows no sleep: Indoril shall order, the Temple shall judge."

-	Saint Olms the Just is the patron saint of House Indoril. 

House Hlaalu: "To trade fairly and freely is to honor the Three."

-	Saint Veloth the Pilgrim is the patron saint of House Hlaalu. 

House Dres: "To spread culture and truth to the benighted: this is our commitment and burden."

-	Saint Llothis the Pious is the patron saint of House Dres. 

(must point this out to Vivec; it will tickle his sense of irony)

House Telvanni: "The forceful expression of will gives true honor to the Ancestors."

-	Saint Vorys the Immolant is the patron saint of House Telvanni. 

You will likely not note the lack of an ascribed motto to the sixth house, the shadow house, house Dagoth. This is because that house is extinct, destroyed at the Battle of Red Mountain, after which the remaining Houses built the Temple to the Tribunal. If you ever mention this house in polite company, I will disown you. 

You will note that twice, now, I have threatened to disown you. This is because my hands are not so black as Mephala's or Lord Vivec's. My heart is too weak to simply remove you from my family.

Keep this text on you at all times, and let it shame you for every reference you make to it in your dealings with our nobility. Spare our lineage the greater shame of your own foolishness. May I never have cause to call you s'wit in public again.

(the best of luck to Vilyn on that one)
		

		Part of the None collection (#2364)
	The Philosophy of Stealth
By the Red Asp, Hallin's Stand

It may seems obvious, but the key to practical invisibility is to be not-seen. What does it mean to not-seen? Let us turn this around and ask: what does it mean to be seen?

To be seen means that the visible object has somehow attracted the attention of the viewer. Most of the time, you can count on a target's vision to slide across nineteen out of twenty objects without really seeing them, because to the target they simply make up part of the general background of his or her surroundings. 

To be not-seen, you must become part of this general background. Lose your individuality and become an integral part of your surroundings. In this way, you may wear the cloak of shadows even upon the salt flats at noon.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2365)
	Shadow Draining: A Hypothesis
By the Glimmering Foxbat

Anyone who studies the so-called "shadow magic" of the underworld's night blades is familiar with the siphoning spells, which drain life force and health from the injured to the injurer. The question before the scholar-arcanist is to explain how and why this works. After prolonged study, primarily through low-grade siphoning of my menials and their families while they slept, I have arrived at a hypothesis.

It appears to me that the magical siphoning of health is related to the instant translocation spells insofar as it creates a transliminal flow of essence from the target to the caster. Through the hyperagonal magicka sense, the night blade perceives the target's transpontine deformation and "pierces" it, and in the resulting disruption absorbs the essence that is lost by the target. Thus, instead of "stepping through shadows" as in translocation, the mage is "shadow draining" from one location to another. 

Or so my experiments indicate.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2366)
	Stepping through Shadows
By the Glimmering Foxbat

There is no magic in the nightblade's repertoire more useful than the spell of instant translocation. Over time, its casting becomes almost a matter of reflex: one is HERE, and then, by an act of will, one is THERE.

In fact, to the experienced practitioner, translocation becomes so routine that one almost forgets how difficult it was at first to learn. It is traditional to refer to this magical art as "stepping through shadows," and indeed, the key to its mastery is the ability to "peer sidewise" and perceive the shadows cast by each entity and object in the Aurbis. 

These are not, of course, the literal shadows cast by the blockage of light by an opaque object, but the emanation of the limen each object possesses—the depth-impression its existence makes in the local reality of the Mundus. This requires learning to focus the hyperagonal sense through which the practitioner perceives the flow of magicka. Once the nightblade can "feel" local transpontine deformation, it becomes almost trivial to make the transliminal saltation to any point within range.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2367)
	Note to Parsifal
Dearest Parsifal,

Given that Iryan has gone missing, I've left you in charge of safeguarding the house. As you know, I hate the idea of strangers tramping around my home, muddying the floors and soiling my instruments. Please take the proper precautions to keep out the riff raff. I'm trusting you. Don't let me down.

Master Davynu
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2368)
	Stendarr's Divine Spear
By Ptolus the Bright, Resolute of Stendarr 

Smiting all that is unholy, 

Transfixing it with point and glow, 

Elevates us with its aura, 

Nullifies the wicked foe. 

Daedra, undead, beasts and manbeasts, 

Abominations it strikes down. 

Re-anoint us, stalwart Stendarr, 

Resolute with spear and crown!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2369)
	Aura of the Righteous
By Ptolus the Bright, Resolute of Stendarr 

Insomuch as all fell things abhor the light, so has Stendarr gifted all those who invoke His Name with the ability to clothe themselves in a righteous aura of blessed light. Over time, even as evil's many Abominations found new ways to afflict Tamriel's mortals with destruction and death, the Priests and Resolutes of Stendarr have adapted Stendarr's glowing gift to many purposes, whether to smite, to defend, or to heal.

For offensive means, Stendarr's gift most often manifests as a piercing beam of light, resembling a spear of purifying sunlight and oft referred to in those terms. 

As a form of armor, Stendarr's gift may take the form of a diffuse aura that surrounds the righteous, mitigating the attacks of the abominable, or it may focus into an almost-palpable shield to ward off a specific threat. 

Worshipers who eschew all forms of violence, such as the Harmonious Masters of Lillandril, have turned Stendarr's glowing gift into a tool for healing, and then freely spread their knowledge of cleansing and healing rituals, even to Stendarr's more militant adherents. For even in the hands of a warrior, how can the curing of ills be an ill thing?
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2370)
	Rituals of the Harmonious Masters
By Aritanwe of Lillandril

Some Elves disdain to venerate the et'Ada Stendarr on the grounds that he is the Apologist of Men, and thus unworthy of worship by the Children of Aldmeris. But if these narrow folk would open their souls to Stendarr's mercy, they would understand that Stendarr in his love cherishes and protects ALL mortals, even—perhaps particularly—those who are less fortunate in their heritage. 

It is for this reason that we of the Sect of Harmonious Masters have dedicated ourselves to adapting the magic of Stendarr's Light into spells of healing that can be employed by all the mortal races, not even excepting the beast peoples. The restorative virtues of our rituals and ceremonies are equally efficacious for every race. They can be cast by individuals of every blood, no matter how degraded, so long as they have the will and the wisdom to learn how to use them. 

As Stendarr, in his boundless mercy, has given all mortals the potential ability to employ his magical gifts, we of the Harmonious Masters feel honor-bound to provide knowledge of these spells to all the peoples of Nirn freely and without hindrance. We can think of no higher cause than to improve the general welfare of all folk in every culture.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2371)
	The Friend of All Mortals
By the Resolute Templar of Ska'vyn

"Come to me, Stendarr, for without you, I might be deaf to the manswarm

murmurings of thy people, and forgetting their need for comfort and wisdom, I

might indulge myself in vain scribblings."

Call him Stendarr, call him Stuhn, call him what you will, but the God of Mercy and Justice is the friend to all the mortals of the Mundus, whether they acknowledge him or not. Yea, even the heretic Dark Elves of Morrowind may use his magic of defense and healing, even so the scaled folk of Argonia, for Stendarr in his benevolence draws no distinction between those who rightfully worship him and those who, in their ignorance and error, do not. 

Join with me, then, in a prayer to Stendarr for guidance, that we may look with mercy upon our fellow mortals, that we may show the compassion to help them at need, and find the strength to eradicate abominations that threaten us all.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2372)
	The Four Abominations
By Vinicius Imbrex, Archbishop of Chorrol, 1E 1051—1087 

Thus Stendarr looked upon the world of mortals, and he found it afflicted by Abominations. And he made it known unto his priests, resolutes, and templars, that these unnatural profanities are abhorrent in his sight, and are to exterminated by the Righteous without halt or mercy. For these Abominations are each and every the eternal enemies of the mortals of the Mundus, and shall not be suffered to abide among us. 

And these Abominations are four in kind, and may be known thusly:

—The DAEDRA, those unworldly horrors that are not of the Mundus, but come from Oblivion to inflict cruelty and death upon the mortals of Tamriel. 

—The MANBEASTS, those mortals who through traffic with the bestial Hircine do change their skins for those of animals, preying thence upon the innocent. 

—The RISEN CORPSES, those restless undead whose rotting bodies persist with loathsome and unnatural vigor, sowing fear and agony among the living. 

—The DEATHLESS VAMPYRES, who feed horrifically upon honest citizens, regarding righteous mortals as mere cattle to sate their unholy hungers.

Know these Four Abominations, O ye righteous, and gather to slay them where're they appear.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2373)
	Slaughterfish Warning


|acWARNING!

Slaughterfish Infestation:

Swim at your own risk.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2374)
	Curative Batch Nineteen
Ah, finally. Perfection! The latest batch of curative starts the affliction, progresses the plague at a reasonable rate of speed, and then turns the afflicted into plague husks seventy percent of the time. Now we have a superior version of the plague and an effective way to dispense it.

Of course, handing out curatives can be a slow process, especially in the larger towns and cities. Before we begin operations in Mournhold, we'll need a faster way to disperse the plague. But that's not my task at this moment. Besides, I'm sure that Alchemist Merdyndril is tackling this problem even as I write these notes.

I should also record that I've perfected the husk scent. We can once again walk among the husks without fear of being attacked. I might even have an idea about a soap to remove the scent after we're finished.

We'll begin making larger batches of the curative immediately. In no time at all, we should be able to give everyone at the Serk and in the immediate vicinity a dosage of the curative. Don't worry, my mistress. Everything will happen, just as you have foreseen.

—Nostrum Breva
		

		Part of the None collection (#2375)
	The Trial of Fire
The first trial is the trial of fire.

Defeat the winged ones that guard the path. Light the braziers and the guardian will appear. Defeat the guardian and the way will be opened.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2376)
	The Trial of Martial Knowledge
The third trial is the Trial of Martial Knowledge.

Place the books of the trials in the proper order and prepare to demonstrate your knowledge to the master.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2377)
	The Second Trial
The second trial is the Trial of the Arena.

The arena master awaits those of stout heart and strong will to best the arena champions.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2378)
	The Trial of Air
The third trial is the Trial of Air.

The sands of true sight will guide your feet and reveal the secret path.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2379)
	The Trial of the True Path.
The fifth trial is the Trial of the True Path.

Jouney below the library and bow before the altar to find the true path through the darkness.

This is the final trial. Only those who have mastered the previous trials will find the way.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2380)
	The Hidden Trials
They who would master the Way of the Blade must seek the hidden trials.

In the depths of the pits, beasts tear flesh from limb.

On the heights of the rooftops, a challenger awaits.

These are the Trials of the Seeker.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2381)
	On the Utility of Shock Magic
By Vanus Galerion

As Tamriel's leading wizard, I have often been called upon, usually by individuals of royal birth, to impress them with some demonstration of my magical skills. When I ask what they'd like to see, they nearly always reply, "Throw a fireball! A really big one. I'd love that."

This just shows how poorly educated Tamriel's aristocrats are about the magical arts. The Flame spells have their uses, of course, but the true magical scholar gives pride of place in his grimoire to the Shock spells. For whatever reason, manipulating arcane lightning is easier than forcing magical flame, and it can be employed for a greater variety of effects. Here are just a few:

—The mage can cloak himself in an aura of lightning that will turn aside certain physical and magical attacks, as well as shocking nearby enemies.

—Lightning can be cast on a surface in the form of a rune that will explode if touched or after a certain delay. 

—A wizard can cast a bolt to a nearby target and then instantly "ride the lightning" to that destination.

—And, of course, lightning bolts can be cast directly at enemies in a number of variations. 

It is possible, I suppose, that ways to manipulate Frost and Flame will be discovered that make those elemental magics as flexible as Shock—but if I haven't discovered how to do it, who else could?
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2382)
	Dark Magic: Three Pretexts
By the Aureate Serpent

It is unfortunate that the arcane discipline known as "Dark Magic" has acquired such a pejorative name in the common parlance, as it tends to relegate the practitioners into that class of sorcerer slanderously known as "evil wizards." To counteract such dangerous libels, it is handy to keep in mind the following three pretexts:

PRETEXT THE FIRST: Insofar as it negates, drains, and preys upon the magicka and power of other mages, knowledge of Dark Magic is a necessary safeguard that enables the reining in of rogue sorcerers. 

PRETEXT THE SECOND: Insomuch as it replicates some of the deleterious effects of spells cast by inimical Daedra, knowledge of Dark Magic is a useful tool for learning how to counter said effects. 

PRETEXT THE THIRD: Whereas its application is regarded by the ignorant as frightful and loathsome, use of Dark Magic to inflict condign punishment upon transgressors is a deterrent to crime and therefore a social good. 

That should silence the critics.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2383)
	Dead Sword-Disciple's Note
I don't understand. He came to us as a student. He made it to the last trial, and then he killed the master while the rest of us looked on, powerless to do anything.

How does he have such control over us? It is some sort of trickery. Some sort of poison, perhaps, spread throughout the school in secret, turning disciple against disciple.

With his dying words, the master told us to get word to Kasura at the Abbey of Blades. I have tried to escape, but the others have blocked my way. They will kill me before I ever make it beyond the walls.

If anyone finds this, please, turn back. Leave this place and warn the others. Get word to Kasura, if you can, that the school of blades at Rahni'Za has fallen.

As for me, death is preferable to what awaits me if I remain ….
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2384)
	Alchemist Nilyne's Notes
The Llodos plague is a damn complex concoction. I'm not sure I have the skill and experience to totally counteract its properties, but I have an idea for how to suppress and slow the pace of the disease. It will require a number of rare and exotic ingredients to pull this off, though.

An alchemical concoction such as I'm imagining doesn't like to be subjected to high heat. It's too volatile. It needs to be allowed to seep and brew. Therefore, an adjustment of one-quarter flame should suffice to get the mortar to the proper temperature.

First, I'll need a good amount of Kyne's Heart. These healing herbs are prized for their powerful medicinal properties, which makes them hard to come by and extremely expensive. I'm certain the innkeeper at the Brooding Elf keeps an emergency supply to sell for profit when business gets slow.

Then, I need something to bind it all together and hide the foul taste of the bitter herbs. Something like sour milk tea. Grell Flan was known to imbibe the stuff from time to time. I must admit that I have a fondess for the beverage myself. Usually with a splash of greef to give it a bit of a kick, if you must know.

Finally, I'll need something that adds a touch of magic. Dragon scale mushrooms would fit the bill nicely. If I recall correctly, Old Sorel Tedas had a taste for exotic mushrooms. There might still be some hidden in his house—unless those Argonian ruffians ransacked his place after he entered the quarantine.
		

Failed at /books/2385		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2386)
	Principles of Conjuration
By Corvus Direnni

—Introduction—

Conjuration is the arcane art of summoning creatures and items from other planes for the usage and benefit of the conjurer. Its study has long languished due to its inherent perils, for summoned entities, particularly the more intelligent Daedra, resent being brought to Nirn to do another's bidding, and often seek to do the conjurer a mischief. 

The notable success I have had in formulating safe and reliable conjuration spells comes from my system of defining such magics as always having two essential and interlocking components: a summoning incantation and a binding rune. It is the latter part, of course, that protects the conjurer from the entity or item summoned by enthralling it to the summoner. 

Heretofore conjuration has been quite a dangerous pursuit due to the fact that a conjuring wizard had to cast summoning and binding as two separate spells, and if the binding was miscast or cast too slowly, the conjurer might pay for the error with his life. My innovation has been to interweave the magics of summoning and binding so that they become one spell that manifests both effects simultaneously, thus ensuring that what is summoned is also necessarily bound. 

The apprentice is urged to apply himself diligently to study of the spells in the accompanying grimoire: though my methods have rendered conjuration less perilous, it is by no means an art to be attempted lightly and carelessly. The apprentice who does so will only briefly be a burden to his or her master.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2387)
	Sorcery is Not Necromancy!
By Divayth Fyr

A mage of supreme power and erudition such as myself may be called upon to exercise his skills in almost any corner of farflung Tamriel, so for a native of Morrowind I am widely traveled. Thus I can tell you with the authority of personal experience that petty local officials, regardless of race or culture, are universally suspicious and ill-informed. "A sorcerer, eh?," they say. "Well, we'll have none of your raising the dead in this jurisdiction, is that understood?" 

I cannot tell you how many times I have been subjected to some variation of the above conversation. These ignorant and self-important functionaries have no conception whatsoever of distinctions within the arcane arts. As far as they are concerned, every manipulator of magicka is just waiting for midnight before skulking off to the cemetery to animate the corpses of their neighbors and ancestors. 

Imbeciles. Fools. BUREAUCRATS.

Now, it is true, of course, that conjuration is a common tool of sorcery, and we sorcerers often resort to summoning aid from Oblivion when a problem is best solved by judicious application of vicious brute force. It is also true that summoning Daedric spirits to possess and animate corpses, or calling up the souls of the dead for information or other services—in short, necromancy—is a subset of the art of conjuration, albeit inherently distasteful and degrading. However, to infer from this that all sorcerers are de facto necromancers as well is false, misleading, and libelous. 

That said, everyone was young once, and it's typical of youth to experiment with things dangerous and forbidden. It is long since I was a lad in Tel Aruhn, and my memory of the early First Era is inexact, but it's just possible that as an apprentice I may have tried out an animation spell or two—never on corpses of anyone I knew, of course (or at least, nobody I knew well), and never for long. To my recollection. 

So, at any rate, I know whereof I speak when I say to you: sorcery and necromancy—there IS a difference.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2388)
	Mora'at's Theory of Lightning
By Mora'at the Lesser, Wizard of Corinthe

It happens to every amateur or apprentice mage: that first time one miscasts a shock spell. It recoils upon one, and one lets out a yip as all of one's fur stands up straight and sparks jolt through one's form and out the tip of one's tail. And one wonders seriously for the first time: lightning—what is it?

Listen to Mora'at, for this one is in a position to explain. After much hard study and many repetitions of the entrance exam, Mora'at is now an officially-recognized Journeyman of the Corinthe Mages Guildhall, and therefore in a position to speak with some authority on magical matters. I have been doing research into this matter of lightning—specializing, as we scholars of the arcane do—and have also given the matter a not-inconsiderable amount of thought on my own. 

As a result, this one has a Theory. 

Shock, like Flame and Frost, is an expression of magical power that takes the form of a natural force. Everyone has played with this force when one was a ja'khajiit, scuffing one's feet across a rug and then stinging a sibling with a small spark from an extended claw, or rubbing an inflated rat's-bladder against one's fur until the hairs stand up and the bladder "sticks" to one's chest or arm. 

So it was apparent to this one, even from an early age, that shock was an inherent property of fibrous matter, a property stimulated by friction into sparks. This also explains lightning, as clouds, which resemble nothing so much as huge Tenmar cotton-balls, generate shock when storms cause friction through colliding masses of buoyant fiber. 

Therefore, when one of we mighty wizards of the Mages Guild casts a Shock spell, what is actually happening? This one explains it as follows: the reality of the Mundus is a great tapestry woven of strands of matter and magicka. A Shock spell channels and manipulates magicka through the local warp and weft of the tapestry, agitating its fibers. This generates sparking, which coalesces into magical lightning. Yes? 

Perceptions such as these come easily once one is a skilled mage. When I present this theory to our magister, this one anticipates well-earned praise and encouragement. In fact, now that Mora'at is a bona fide magical scholar, this one may even have another theory tomorrow!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2389)
	Ardent Flame: Draconic or Endemic?
By Gabrielle Benele

Last night I was sitting in the Anchor's Point taproom, nursing a mug of rum posset while poring over Ralliballah's Eleven Ritual Forms, when suddenly my quiet corner was invaded by a tall, armored figure. I asked if he would stand somewhere else, as he was blocking the light, but he replied something to the effect that a handsome woman shouldn't be wasting a moons-lit evening on reading, set a frothy tankard on the table and sat down next to me. 

Before I could protest he launched into the story of his life, the subject of which—himself—he seemed very enthusiastic about. He was a product of the north-coast port town of Farrun, where he'd grown up with the conviction he was destined for bigger things. When he was old enough he'd left and made his way to central High Rock, where he'd fallen in with an old half-Akaviri arms-trainer who had taught him the ways of the so-called "dragonknights." It was then that he finally found his true calling perfecting the form of magical combat that the dragonknights refer to as "ardent flame."

Blowhard or no, once he brought up the arcane arts he piqued my interest. I asked him to tell me more about this discipline of martial magic, as I was unfamiliar with it, and he was only too happy to oblige. With ardent flame, he explained, the dragonknight could set his enemies afire, draw them to him with a flaming lasso, wreath himself in a cloak of flame, even breathe fire just like the legendary dragons of yore. And this was, he asserted, because a dragonknight used actual dragon magic handed down from those mighty warriors who fought and won a war with the dragons back before the First Era. 

It was this last claim where he lost me. Did he really expect me, a Mages Guild sorcerer of the first rank, to believe that an unlearned lout like him was casting spells using on long-lost dragon magic? I held up a hand, rather peremptorily, and to my surprise (and perhaps his own) he actually stopped talking. I told him I'd heard quite enough about his dragon magic, thank you very much, and that as far as I was concerned it was no more than a variant of our standard repertoire of flame spells, what the Shad Astula curriculum categorizes as "Destruction Magic." I desired him to withdraw and allow me to return to my reading. 

He sputtered for a moment, but then gave a condescending smile and said there was no need for the "little lady" to be afraid, as a dragon could be gentle as well as fierce. Perhaps I didn't understand just how ardent his flame could be. 

I warned him to be on his way, but he scoffed and persisted. It was when he offered to show me his "lava whip" that I finally lost all patience. It's a shame, because the proprietor of the Anchor's Point told me I would no longer be welcome there, and I liked that place. 

I suppose I could have shown more forbearance, but everyone has a limit—and besides, what's the big deal? Scalp and beard hair always grows back eventually, even when it's been scorched off.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2394)
	To Smite with Dragon Claws
(Battle Chant of the Intrepid Two Hundred)

We are dragon knights. We are dragons. 

If you attack us, you will meet talons.

If you strike us, you will eat spikes.

If you injure us, our wounds will close.

If you anger us, you will burn. 

If you run from us, we will pounce upon you.

You cannot win. We cannot lose.

We are dragon knights. We are dragons.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2395)
	Forged in the Heart of Mundus
By the Dragonsmith of Bruma

As you are a Child of the Mundus, you shall learn to tap the powers of its very HEART. With your feet upon the earth of the world that gave you birth, you shall feel its support, you may partake of its power, you will SUMMON its essence for weal and for woe. 

With the strength of STONE, you will find armor against attacks, and aid to assist allies. You will SCORCH your enemies with the heat of molten rock, and choke them with clouds of ash. You will REINFORCE your cohorts and make them as metal, PETRIFY your opponents and make them as masonry. 

The Power of the Mundus is in YOU. Let it flow through you as LAVA flows from a volcano. Let it fuel your WRATH and buttress your bastions. None can stand before you, for you are a Child of the MUNDUS.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2396)
	Those Who Stood at Chalman Keep
Gather 'round, proud warriors all,

Silent now and standing tall.

Bow your heads to those who sleep,

Beneath the ground of Chalman Keep.

The flames of war seared the land,

Crushing all with brutal hand.

Dominion soldiers sought the throne,

Chalman, undaunted, stood alone.

Hooves thundered o'er the sward,

Death neared for all, swift and hard.

Defenders stood upon Chalman's wall,

Warriors brave, Covenant heroes all.

Forward came the Dominion hordes,

With arcane spells and gleaming swords.

Walls shook to siege engines' roars,

Rams thundered upon keep doors. 

The outer doors fell to the invaders' barrage,

Into the courtyard Elves and Khajiit charged.

The inner door too gave when assaulted,

O'er bodies and rubble the attackers vaulted.

The defenders made their might felt,

Spells flared forth, death was dealt.

Fury rained upon invaders' heads,

'til Khajiit and Elves all were dead.

No time to rest, no time to heal,

Doors and breaches they must seal.

All was repaired, the damage undone,

As another deadly assault was begun.

Once again, fierce battle was fought,

Death was granted where it was sought.

Entropy rose inside the keep,

Swept over all, piled the bodies deep.

Again the bloody tide receded,

Dominion foes once more defeated.

Orc and Redguard and Breton remained,

Proud survivors of Chalman Keep again.

Dominion warriors attacked once more,

In numbers far greater than ever before.

They battered aside weary defenders,

Stopped only in the innermost chambers.

Into the apse the heroes were hounded,

Dominion victory cries loudly sounded.

Then chaos erupted as the Pact swept in,

Seeing their enemies' forces worn thin.

Caught between fierce anvil and hammer,

Elf and Khajiit died in brave manner.

Only Pact and Covenant soon remained,

Then the defenders cleared the field again.

A breath, a pause, a brief respite,

The Covenant cause now truly desperate.

A final assault the Dominion did mount,

A massive wave, too many to count.

Determined to conquer, refusing to desist,

The Dominion force impossible to resist.

The defenders resolved to fight to the last,

No blow was wasted, no spell shoddily cast.

One by one the gallant warriors fell,

Breton, Redguard, and Orc died well.

Their lives given up for Chalman Keep,

They rest forever in honored sleep.

The Dominion banner rose over the hall,

A Dominion Emperor then ruled over all.

Peace came to Chalman, damage repaired,

Attackers dispersed, to other sites they fared.

That emperor is gone, his reign long past.

What remains of this day, what of it lasts?

Just the display of courage, in that final stand,

Of those who stood, and died, at Chalman.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2397)
	Mythical Beast, Real Powers
By Drusus Ovicula, Proctor of the Imperial Library

In the generations since the fall of the Akaviri Potentates, a new martial tradition has arisen in Tamriel, one which bears all the hallmarks of a coherent magical discipline, though it is said to be descended from the powers of the legendary Dragons and those mortals who fought them. I refer, of course, to the so-called "Dragon Knights."

Whether or not their abilities originated from Dragons—and you must give me leave to doubt it, for no Dragons have been seen in Tamriel for thousands of years, if they ever existed at all—the powers which a skilled Dragon Knight can deploy are undeniable. There are several right here in the Imperial City, members of the Tower Guard, and they have demonstrated some of their effects at my request. 

One of these Dragon Knights, a sergeant in the Guard, showed me how he could wreathe himself in flame without being burned (though I could feel the heat from several paces away). He then cast a loop of flaming chain around a target dummy and drew it to him, where it was quickly immolated. Finally, one of his subordinates burned another target dummy by literally breathing fire upon it!

I was impressed. It was almost enough to make one believe in Dragons.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2398)
	Legacy of the Dragonguard
By Kiasa-Veda, the Chronicler of Blades

As all schoolchildren know, northern Tamriel was invaded by a legion of Akaviri raiders in 1E 2700. Mighty warriors with potent powers, these Akaviri cut a swath through Skyrim, defeating all opponents, until they were met at Pale Pass by a Cyrodilic army under the command of General Reman. After a brief battle, the Akaviri surrendered en masse to Reman, saying that in him, they had found what they had come to Tamriel to seek. 

With the Akaviri added to his own army, Reman marched on, pacifying most of Tamriel, becoming Emperor, and founding the Second Empire. The best and wisest of the Akaviri became the Dragonguard, under the Emperor Reman's personal command. 

For the next two centuries the Dragonguard protected the Reman Dynasty, defending the Emperors with abilities said to have been learned from the Dragons themselves, which persisted in Akavir far longer than they did in Tamriel. 

But when Reman III was assassinated in 2920, that was the end of the Reman Dynasty (as well as the First Era). Officially the Dragonguard was disbanded, some said in shame at having failed to protect the Emperor. However, when the Potentate Versidue-Shae assumed the Ruby Throne, the Dragonguard was unofficially reactivated, more as an intelligence network than as an honor guard. 

Other former members of the Dragonguard followed different pursuits. Some joined their former centurion, Dinieras-Ves, when he founded the organization that would come to be known as the Fighters Guild. Others became roving adventurers, selling their services as combat trainers or swords-for-hire. 

One of these was a former Dragonguard whose name is now lost, and is known only to this chronicler as the Grandmaster. He took it upon himself to ensure that the martial and mystical arts of the old Akaviri would survive into the new and turbulent Second Era. However, he would teach his skills only on condition that those he taught would go on to teach others. This was the origin of those whom we now call "the Dragon Knights."
		

Failed at /books/2399		Part of the None collection (#2400)
	Test
Test
		

		Part of the None collection (#2401)
	Test
Test
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2402)
	Journal of Thracius Mento
3rd Last Seed

I finally arrived in Senchal. It is in chaos from the outbreak. I admit a moment of weakness: when I saw the victims today, I felt revulsion. I wanted to run. Mara preserve me! The sores, the bloody coughing, the rasping cries of pain! I nearly fled. But if men of wisdom like me run, how will we ever cure this plague—how will we prevent another? We cannot allow the Knahaten Flu to be the victor. By the Eight, I will help bring about its end!

8th Last Seed

There are others like me in the city, those who have left home to risk their lives finding a cure. I am glad for the company, and with our combined efforts, we have found ways to comfort those dying of the disease. We keep them (and ourselves) wrapped from head to toe to limit exposure to the sores. The rumors of chicken broth easing the cough seem to be true, but none of the remedies I brought with me have cured even one soul. Once the symptoms begin, there is no stopping it.

12th Last Seed

We have tried everything. Every potion, salve, incense—even prayer. Not one has recovered. I am so tired, so distraught that I cannot even eat. My stomach churns. My eyes are bleary. Even breathing seems difficult. I just need a good rest, I know. I still have hope.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2403)
	Cantillon's Correspondence
(Ed. note: This letter is one of Margaux Cantillon's earliest recovered correspondences. Her impact on the restoration arts and her unmatched compassion will long be remembered, and this letter grants us insight into the strength of character she displayed even as a young healer.)

Journeyman Bachand,

I received your gift yesterday, and I am taken aback. It's clear that you spared no expense; I have never laid eyes on such an ornate staff. The silver and golden symbols of Mara inlaid with pearl are beautiful, and the sculpting of my likeness into the metal at its top is … flattering.

Please believe that it is only with the greatest regret that I cannot accept it. I appreciate the spirit of the gift, but I simply cannot use it to tend to my wards. We travel in different magical circles these days. I know such a magnificent staff could be borne proudly in yours, but I have dedicated myself to tending the unfortunate, and to use such a costly implement in my work would be unseemly.

You asked about my studies. My instructor says my empathy is strong, and that the outrage I feel at the suffering of others gives my restorative spells potency. I am humbled to have a gift for this noble calling. I only wish healing received more focus during apprenticeship; the emphasis on destruction seems so misplaced to me now.

Perhaps we will meet again at the next Guild Symposium in Wayrest.

Yours in Mara's Grace, 

Margaux Cantillon
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2404)
	Precepts of Stendarr
By Ptolus the Bright, Resolute of Stendarr 

All are welcome within Stendarr's gracious embrace. His temple doors are never closed, for all in Tamriel deserve comfort and shelter. He welcomes the afflicted, the hopeless, the forgotten, and yes, even the heretical. Through his priests, he offers them counsel and assistance. 

His hallowed radiance heals those who open their hearts and seek his benevolence. His mercy is boundless, and by the clarion call of his horn, he can mend any wound, stay any disease, and soothe any broken soul.

Stendarr's faithful are blessed by great revelations in the healing arts. If you seek his wisdom, wield the gift of restoration magic in his name. Follow his precepts, and make yourself vulnerable to his will.

•	Never refuse aid you are capable of providing.

•	Go among the infirm and the wounded wherever you find them.

•	Offer prayer to Stendarr every day.

•	Do not hoard wealth or indulge physically. 

Above all, never forget Stendarr's command: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2405)
	Almalexia and the Mudcrab
A traditional Dunmer tale

There was once a mudcrab who suffered much. He had a limp and a hacking cough. His shell was misshapen, causing him pain. He was weary at all times, and told everyone he was surely dying. He roamed the valley one day, complaining to any who would listen.

The shalk created a brace from part of his shell and offered it to the mudcrab. "Here, mudcrab, try bracing your leg," he advised.

"No, no, no," said the mudcrab, "I have tried that and it does not work."

"Mudcrab," said the alit, "let me bite on your shell and crack it just a bit to relieve the pressure."

The mudcrab said, "You are trying to trick me, alit! You just want an easy snack!"

Almalexia, who was roaming the land that day, heard these conversations and entered the valley, where she appeared as a humble guar.

"Mudcrab," she said, "take this draught I have made for your cough."

"Guar, you are not a healer. It is better to suffer than risk a poor remedy," replied the mudcrab.

And Almalexia revealed herself to the creatures, who gasped in surprise. "Mudcrab," she said, "all of these creatures have offered you help, but you refuse. You are in love with complaining, and you will never be healed."

And so Almalexia teaches us that you cannot aid the unwilling.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2406)
	Destruction or Distraction
By Humius Acidinus

It is popular, especially among young upstarts who wish to establish themselves as intellectual contenders, to dismiss the study of harnessing the destructive potential of magicka as crude or simplistic. Those who embrace this argument prefer to spend time researching obscure theoretical topics instead of the more practical applications of magic. 

In truth, these pedants accomplish little beyond writing tomes of their own to refute the postulations of their contemporaries, wasting their time arguing hypotheticals with no basis in practical magical study. They are so distracted trying to outwit one another in their imaginary field that they never produce substantial advancements. It is my conviction that this self-indulgent behavior obstructs progress (concrete gains such as spell discovery) in arcane studies.

I do not deny that magic is deep and complex, and our understanding is far from complete. However, I question the value of arguments over theories with very little basis in observable phenomena before we fully grasp less complicated subjects. In my years of practice, I have found that studying manifestations of magicka that seem the simplest often provides the clearest look at the nature of magic. Without a complete understanding of what seems to be basic, how could anyone advance magic and bring benefit to practitioners and Tamriel at large? I implore you, reader, to take care that you do not fall into the category of the fruitless intellectual.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2407)
	Oshgura's Destruction Journal
4th Sun's Height

All the other students are already casting fireballs, and I can't even manage a damn spark! Mother was right, Orcs aren't made for magic. If I wasn't so afraid of the shame, I'd pack up and go home right now. I deserve to work in the mines for the rest of my life. The other apprentices are constantly laughing at me. This was the worst idea I've ever had. Orcs just can't be sorcerers!

8th Sun's Height

Master Dantaine convinced me to stay. He recommended books for me to read, said that knowledge is inspiration or something like that. I don't see how reading is going to help, but he said to trust him. These books look really hard—they're about things like "theory of emotional-magicka response" and "volitional interference factors." One's a biography of "Guzgikh." Never heard of him, but I guess he was some Orc sorcerer. How about "How to Teach a Dumb Orc Magic"? I'd read that.

15th Last Seed

Ha! I caught that snooty Breton girl's hair on fire today, and managed a little lightning bolt. Even hit the target! I can't believe it; those books were just what I needed. They seemed really hard, but it was all about clearing out my head and not letting nerves stop me. And Guzgikh? Turns out he started the same way—he didn't cast a spell for years, but before long could destroy a whole village! This is great!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2408)
	The Vanishing Crux
By Masura-dra, Sentinel Magister

The origin and purpose of the Osseous Crux remain a great mystery. Discovered on the shores of the Abecean Sea near Hegathe, it was constructed from the bones of some enormous, unknown beast, bound together with twisted fibrous cords. Nearly as wide and tall as two men, its surface was covered in glyphs, figures, and writing in multiple scripts, and it caused seemingly random blasts of elemental energies in its vicinity. These detonations, scholars noted, released magical power far beyond the known limits of modern destruction magic.

One of the languages scribbled among the strange arcane diagrams seemed to be Ayleid in origin, but the dialect and some of the characters in the orthography were previously unknown, even to scholars of Ayleidoon. Translation efforts during its brief containment revealed only a small percentage of the overall text. 

The following examples illustrate the overall tone and themes present in the translatable writing:

"Capture [it] within creeping purple. Aetherial potency amplified under oppressive [filtration] below."

"Life-sludge fortifies. Release and obtain [shearing] gleam. Counteract only with profound shadow."

Within three weeks of relocation to Mages Guild facilities in Sentinel (no small feat given its chaotic discharges), the Crux disappeared from its inhibition chamber. What was its intended purpose? Who created it and why? It seems that, sadly, we will never know.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2409)
	Prudence in Practice
By Elleraame of Sunhold 

Any accomplished wizard knows that safety when experimenting with new spells is of the utmost importance—especially when utilizing destruction magic. Too many times, I have had to treat a student with horrific burns or frostbite, or helped clean up the aftermath of a spell misfired in a location inappropriate for training, such as personal quarters. 

You must take care when casting new spells, and there is no excuse for reckless behavior or slack adherence to the rules. These simple guidelines will protect you from your most dangerous enemy: carelessness.

1.	Never practice spells with elemental output indoors. No exceptions!

2.	When training with a staff, find a large, open space and check the weapon for impurities and damage before every use.

3.	Closing your eyes while casting will not make your spells more potent—trust me!

4.	Never attempt to use an untested destruction spell as a prank on another student (or any other spell, to be honest; try to be professional). 

Remember: even the masters—especially the masters—know to take the proper precautions at all times. Magical destruction is exciting and alluring, but any wizard with lazy, sloppy habits and irresponsible behavior won't survive to explore it!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2410)
	Torchbugs
Torchbugs found me again.

Thought I'd killed them last time. But they're back.

This time, no mistakes. I'll burn down the village if I have to. Die, torchbugs.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2411)
	Statuary Complications
To Imperial Importers, Purveyors of Exotica:

I request carts to retrieve the statuary you delivered. The gargoyles are indeed fine representations of that race, too fine perhaps. They have attracted the attention, perhaps amorous, of a live gargoyle. The statues must be returned.

My guards are fending off the creature, but it is becoming increasingly irate. I do not know for how long we

<letter ends; bloodstains obscure the rest of the page>
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2412)
	An Irate Employer
Foreman Albanus,

You are paid to ensure that trees are felled and lumber shipped to the city. You are not a nursemaid. I do not want to hear any more tales of cursed ground, bleeding trees, or scared workers.

Do your job or I will find someone who can.

Maximinus
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2413)
	Yokudan "Hawk" Enigma
The hawk watches over sands without effort. But what watches over the hawk?
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2414)
	Yokudan "Man and Beast" Enigma
Sword and spell are useless. As it fells man and beast alike, and given time, the mountains themselves.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2415)
	Yokudan "Mother and Son" Enigma
A mother gave the first gift to her son, and for the rest of his life did he keep it with him.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2416)
	The Final Lesson, Part 1
By Aegrothius Goth

"It is time for you to leave your apprenticeship here," said the Great Sage to his students, Taksim and Vonguldak.

"So soon?" cried Vonguldak. It had only been a few years since the training began. "Are we such poor pupils?"

"We have learned much from you, master. Do you have no more to teach us?" Taksim asked. "You have told us so many tales of great enchanters of the past. Can't we continue to learn until we have reached some level of their power?"

"I have one last story for you," smiled the Great Sage.

Many thousands of years ago, long before the Cyrodilic Dynasty of Reman, and before there was a Mages Guild, and when the land called Morrowind was known as Resdayn, and the land of Elsweyr was called Anequina and Pellitine, and the only law of the land was the cruel ways of the Alessian Doctrines of Maruhk, there lived a hermetic enchanter named Dalak who had two apprentices, Uthrac and Loreth.

Uthrac and Loreth were remarkable students, both equally assiduous in their learning, the pride of their master. Both excelled at the arts of the cauldron, mirror castings, the infusion of spiritas into Mundus, and the weaving of air and fire. Dalak was very fond of his boys, and they were fond of him.

On a springtide morn, Dalak received a message from an enchanter named Peothil, who lived deep in the forests of the Colovian heartland. You must remember that in the dark days of the First Era, mages were solitary practitioners with the only organized consortium being the Psijics of Artaeum. Away from that island, mages seldom saw one another and even more rarely corresponded. Thus, when Dalak received Peothil's letter, he gave it his great attention.

Peothil was greatly aged, and he had found the peace of his isolation threatened by the Alessian Reform. He feared for his life, knowing that the fanatical priests and their warriors were close at hand. Dalak brought his students to him.

"It will be an arduous and perilous journey to the Colovian Estates, one that I would fear partaking even in my youth," Dalak said. "My heart trembles to send you two forth to Peothil's cave, but I know that he is a great and benevolent enchanter, and his light must continue to burn in the heart of the continent if we are to survive these dark nights."

Uthrac and Loreth pleaded with their teacher not to order them to go to Peothil. It was not the priests and warriors of the Alessian Reform they feared, but they knew their master was aged and infirm, and could not protect himself if the Reform moved further westward. Finally, he relented and allowed that one would stay with him, and the other would journey forth to the Colovian Estates. He would let them decide which of them would go.

The lads debated and discussed, fought and compromised, and at last elected to let fate make the choice. They threw lots, and Loreth came up short. He left early the next morning, miserable and filled with fear.

For a month and a day, he tramped through the forests into the midst of the Colovian Estates. Through some planning, some skill, and much assistance from sympathetic peasants, he managed to avoid the ever-tightening circle of the Alessian Reform by crossing through unclaimed mountain passes and hidden bogs. When at last he found the dark caverns where Dalak had told him to search for Peothil, it was still many hours before he could find the enchanter's lair.

No one appeared to be there. Loreth searched through the laboratory of ancient tomes, cauldrons and crystalline flutes, herbs kept alive by the glow of mystic circles, strange liquids and gasses caught in transparent membranes. At last, he found Peothil, or so he presumed. The desiccated shell on the floor of the study, clutching tools of enchantment, scarcely seemed human.

Loreth decided that he could do nothing further for the mage, and he began at once the journey back to his true master Dalak and his friend Uthrac. The armies of the Reform had moved quickly since he passed. After more than one close near encounter, the young enchanter realized that he was trapped on all sides. The only retreat that was possible was back in the caves of Peothil.

The first thing to be done, Loreth saw, was to find a means to keep the army from finding the laboratory. That, he found, was what Peothil himself had been trying to do, but by a simple error even an apprentice enchanter could recognize, he had only succeeded in destroying himself. Loreth was able to take what he had learned from Dalak and apply it to Peothil's enchantments, quite successfully. The laboratory was never found or even detected by the Reform.
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2417)
	The Final Lesson, Part 2
By Aegrothius Goth

Much time passed. In the 480th year of the First Era, the great Aiden Direnni won many battles against the Alessian horde. Many passages and routes that had once been closed were open again. Loreth, now no longer young, was able to return to Dalak.

When at last he found his way to his Master's old hovel, he saw candles of mourning lit in all the trees surrounding. Even before he knocked on the door and met his old fellow student Uthrac, Loreth knew that Dalak had died.

"It was only a few months ago," said Uthrac, after embracing his friend. "He talked of you every day of every year you were away. Somehow he knew that you had not preceded him to the world beyond. He told me that you would come back."

The gray-haired men sat before the fire and reminisced of the old days. The sad truth was that they both discovered how different they had become. Uthrac spoke of carrying on the Master's work, while Loreth described his new discoveries. They left one another that day, each shaking his head, destined to never see one another again.

In the years ahead, before they left the mortal world to join their great teacher Dalak, they both achieved their desires. Uthrac went on to become a respected if minor enchanter in the service of Clan Direnni. Loreth took the skills he had learned on his own and used them to fashion the Balac-Thurm, the Staff of Chaos.

My boys, the lesson is that you have to learn from a teacher to avoid those small but essential errors that claimed the life of such self-taught enchanters as Peothil. And yet, the only way to become truly great is to try all the possibilities on your own.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2418)
	Come for the Cure!
Come one, come all! Come to the quarantine in the town of Serkamora—the Serk—and receive a curative that will protect you from the Llodos plague.

Noble or commoner, rich or poor, the curative is provided at no cost to you. Don't risk yourself or your loved ones. The Maulborn are ready to help you. So, whether you are afflicted with the plague or healthy and showing no signs of the disease, the Maulborn curative will make sure you are protected from this dreaded plague.

The Great Houses can't stop this plague. The Tribunal has no answers. But the Maulborn have a solution.

On this, you have my word.

—Nostrum Breva
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2419)
	Cooking Mastery, The Easy Way
By the Malachite Chef

Cuisinier By Appointment to His Lordship, Chancellor Abnur Tharn

What is the secret to easy cooking mastery? It can be summed up in one word: Recipes! When you have a recipe for a dish—especially if it comes from the Malachite Chef!—it takes all the guesswork out of preparing a meal. So beg, borrow, or steal (I jest, I jest) some recipes, acquire the necessary ingredients, and combine as directed over a hot cook-fire. You'll be a master provisioner in no time!

Because I'll let you in on a little professional secret: nineteen out of twenty times, even top-ranked chefs do exactly the same thing! Oh, we may add a special spice here or there to personalize a recipe, but we know better than to ignore them entirely. A proven recipe represents the collective experience of generations of cooks. Whether you're making something as simple as a Cyrodilic sweet roll or as complicated as a screaming-cheese fondue, in the kitchen a recipe is your best friend!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2420)
	Alchemy: Discovering Traits
By Defessus Lector

Bardus, 

The method by which an alchemist learns the traits of various reagents is by tasting them. The key word here is "taste"—there is no need to consume more than a single portion of a reagent, even if you find it appealing. And, based on what the seneschal tells me about your visit to your father's wine cellar, you've already determined that common liquors do not possess alchemical traits, even if consumed in quantity. 

Tasting a reagent will reveal that ingredient's most obvious alchemical trait—but most have secondary and tertiary magical properties as well. Combining reagents and observing the results will reveal these hidden traits, some of which can be quite astonishing. As you experiment, your skill at alchemy will increase, and it will become easier to recognize these traits and combine them effectively.

You will also begin to notice that certain classes of reagents feature common or even matching traits. For example, the traits of flowers tend to be beneficial, while those of fungus are often detrimental—as you discovered last Morndas when, trying to finish all your homework at the last minute, you consumed nine different kinds of fungus within a few minutes. The resulting projectile regurgitation was most impressive.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2421)
	Enigma of the Runestones
By Telenger the Artificer

The origin of the mystic runestones found scattered across Tamriel is obscure and uncertain. Even their nature and material composition is a matter of hot debate among the sages of the Crystal Tower. The Venerable Ancirinque, Sapiarch of Mythohistory, holds that certain difficult passages in Torinaan's Journal indicate that runestones were already here when the Foresailor arrived from Old Aldmeris. However, Nolin the Many-Hued, Sapiarch of Enchantment, contends that they date from the early Merethic Era, and are the unintended consequence of an Ayleid wizard's experiment gone awry. 

Whatever the truth of their origin, after generations of study by the finest magical minds in the Summerset Isles, their various properties have nearly all been identified, and their uses in the enchantment of arms, armor, and ornaments are well understood. For general classification they fall into three categories, which we latter-day mages have dubbed Potency, Aspect, and Essence. 

For enchantment purposes these three types of runestones can be understood as mystically complementary, for only by combining one of each category can the enchanter create a "glyph," our term for the magical substance we use to endow an item with sorcerous power. 

However, though we know how to use runestones to create magical items, the enigma remains: what are they? We have named their three standard categories Potency, Aspect, and Essence—but what does that mean? Even the great Phariiz the Antic, who gave them these names, even he, when asked what they meant, merely shrugged and replied, "Those are the names that feel right to me."

Even the fact that there are three kinds of runestones generates debate, as it seems to contradict the Anu-Padu Theorem, which posits that duality is the foundation of the Aurbis. Camilonwe of Lillandril asserted that it was impossible that there were only three types of runestones, and spent the last two hundred years of his life searching for a fourth, convinced that proper classification called for such entities to appear in dual pairs. He never found this "quartonic runestone," which he dubbed Celerity, but he insisted until the end that his theory was sound. 

Was Camilonwe right? Do Celerity runestones exist, but in some state of reality that makes them imperceptible to normal mortals? That is a question that is, so far, unanswerable.
		

Failed at /books/2422		Part of the None collection (#2423)
	The Path to Shada
The path to Shada shall change,

Like the patterns of the stars.

The gateway to the healer

is revealed to us by the light.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2424)
	The Key to Shada
With the pattern of stars laid out in the room before,

Come and light the way.

Only then will Shada's path be opened and her healing powers imbued upon us.
		
		
		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2425)
	Daggerfall Covenant Missive
Recent disturbances along the trade route south of Dragonstar are under investigation by Daggerfall Covenant High Command.

Orders are to investigate a network of caves near the road, which the locals call Hidden Dunes or Buried Sands, and report back on any bandits found there.

Note that High Command considers recent rumors of giant warriors of sand and stone to be unsubstantiated. Such rumors should not be spread and should be treated with utmost skepticism.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2426)
	Tome of the Anka-Ra Guardians
Here unburied stand

The ever-living sentinels.

May they watch unblinking 

Keep harm or strife from disturbing

The unfettered dreams of the dead.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2427)
	A Star-Gazer's Ramblings
The tomb of the ancient warrior! At last! At last! The true gods are not silent. The true gods sing to us, if only we have ears to hear it.

I had thought my study to be purely academic. Supercilious fool. The belief that knowledge follows knowledge in a dour procession like a corpse held aloft—it was killing me. I said, "Death is inevitable, and living is indistinguishable from dying." How wrong I was.

How is it I have looked at the stars so many times and seen only light? Oh ecstasy, it is too much for me to bear!

We do not master the truth. The truth masters us. In the end, in my final hour, I have learned to serve.

The end of knowledge is not knowing, but worship. Oh great Warrior, I lay my body at your feet.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2428)
	Lamias of Craglorn
by Theoderic Peron

Much misinformation exists concerning the lamia population of Craglorn. This is because their very presence in the region constitutes something of a mystery.

How is it that creatures normally associated with the coastlands were able to find their way to such a brutal, unforgiving desert?

I, your intrepid guide, your answerer of the unanswerable, made the journey to Craglorn in search of the truth.

On arriving in Belkarth via the great highway that stretches from High Rock to Cyrodiil, I ingratiated myself to the locals and plied them with the exotic wines I'd brought with me from Summerset. Then they regaled me with all manner of stories concerning the lamias.

By far the strangest story is this one, related to me by a character of questionable morality in one of the local watering holes.

A mage by the name of Frederic Croyens crossed Tamriel collecting exotic creatures for his traveling menagerie. In Valenwood, he spent many nights in the company of Wood Elves. These Elves were adherents of the Green Pact (the details of which are beyond comprehension to the civilized mind and irrelevant to this story).

Suffice it to say, these Wood Elves introduced our mage to a panoply of curious concoctions of still more marvelous effects. After what amounted to anywhere from three days to a fortnight under the influence of these unusual unctions, it came about that the mage had been married to one of the local lamias.

My source in Belkarth then went on to explain that the lamias in the caves and lakes of Craglorn are none other than the offspring of Frederic Croyens and his lamia wife, who journyed here with his traveling menagerie.

I have no doubt that this story is utter hogwash. However, through independent research, I have been able to verify the existence of Frederic Croyens and his traveling menagerie. They did indeed visit Valenwood and Craglorn in the past. It seems more likely, however, that the lamias arrived in Craglorn by other means.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2429)
	Sanavar's Research Notes
Day 1

We know that the Dwarves had an advanced understanding of astronomy. To this day, the symbols used to represent the star signs are drawn from Dwemer writings.

Unfortunately, our knowledge begins and ends there. The few fragments of Dwarven writing that have been recovered are either too short to be informative or too complex to be translated. 

It's my hope that the Dwemer ruins in Craglorn will shed some light on the origin of the mysterious Mundus Stones that dot the countryside and explain their relationship to the star signs.

Specifically, I am using Muhay at-Turna's invaluable guide to ancient Yokudan astronomy to compare symbology in Dwemer ruins to nearby Yokudan temples to see if I can establish a connection between the more recent observations to those of the long-vanished Dwarves. 

If At-Turna's theory is accurate and the Yokudans who settled Craglorn were following the star signs, then it is possible that they investigated the Dwemer ruins at an earlier time, before decay and wealth-seeking opportunists had done their destructive work. My hope is that a comparison of Yokudan and Dwarven writings will fill in gaps in the historical record.

Day 2

I have been fortunate that this ruin is much better preserved than many I have encountered. 

However, this also means I must proceed with extra caution, as the slightest misstep could activate the Dwemer defenses and surely spell my doom.

Day 6

I returned to the surface today for supplies. I also sent copies of the few fragmentary Dwarven texts I've discovered in my library. I will try to decipher them later, when I have more time and access to my books.

Day 10

Damn it. The defenses have activated. I don't know how it happened. I made certain not to touch anything!

Hopefully, someone will find my notes and can continue my research.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2430)
	A Recipe of Surpassing Danger
Collecting the ingredients necessary to create this unusual dish requires untold bravery and the fortitude to overcome surpassing dangers, but I assure you that the finished result is delicious and worth every death-defying moment you spend in search of these rare delicacies.

1 dozen dreugh eggs

2 unbroken dreugh legs

Spider silk, enough to form a large ball

Fire toad skins, six unbroken jides

Seventeen lamia scales

1 ghost-shadow mushroom, large

1 Daedra heart, diced

Boil the eggs and legs in a pot or a kettle. If neither is available, use a basin. Then add ….

[Blood mars the rest of the recipe, making it illegible.]
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2431)
	Phillip's Note to Yasmine
Dearest Yasmine,

I can't tell you how hard it is for me to write this. I can't go on living this lie. What I mean to say is, I know about you and Ademar. I saw you, three months ago, kiss and exchange a look that meant much more than a kiss. That was the moment suspicion and faith gave way to truth and betrayal. 

I won't ask you how you could do it. But I won't remain in a marriage that's not worthy of the name. 

Still, I've not given up on you or on us. I still hope that we may be reconciled. 

If that hope is not in vain, I pray you'll respond to this letter by meeting me at the entrance to the Buried Sands at the very hour when we first met, all those many years ago. 

I think you remember. It had rained most of the day, and then the clouds broke and the sun came out, lighting up your golden hair. I took it as a sign and finally worked up the courage to speak to you.

And now we find ourselves in this untenable situation.

I hope my faith in you is not misplaced,

Phillip
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2432)
	The Unearthing of Kardala
(compiled from the notes of Muhay at-Turna by his disciple)

It is a source of no small irony to me that the discovery for which I am most likely to be remembered is the so-called Ruins of Kardala, which I found purely by accident when I was still an apprentice.

I spent that year (the hundred and first of the Second Era) in the company of a small guild sequestered in the foothills of the Dragontail Mountains. I call the group a guild for lack of a better term. They lived much like priests in a religious order, sharing everything and spending many hours of each day buried in books. 

But to call them priests would seem to suggest that they were in some way reverent, which they were not. Late into most nights, we stayed awake drinking and telling bawdy tales—even the oldest members of the order joined in. 

Yet guild is not quite an accurate term, either. It suggests uniformity, and these men and women from across Tamriel were a motley bunch, a patchwork of young and old, educated and dullards. They argued constantly, in the most friendly fashion, calling each other names one moment and then laughing the next. They could not even agree on what the order was called. The older members insisted on the elaborate and archaic "Esteemed Order of the Observers of the Celestial Motions and Portents," while younger members preferred the simple and evocative name "Star-Gazers."

A singular concern united the group. They shared a complete devotion to the study of the stars and the meaning of their motions, and that was the reason I had come among their number in that year of my apprenticeship. I, too, had a fascination with the heavens, and I hoped to benefit as much as I could from the breadth of their knowledge in order to further my own inquiries into the relationship of the stars to the properties of magic.

Here, I must confess, that my time spent with the Star-Gazers did much to open my young eyes. After the first few months I sank into a deep depression, realizing that my interest in the relationship of the constellations to magic had already been thoroughly explored in a manner that seemed to be utterly complete. An apprentice such as myself could spend a lifetime reading what had already been written and in the end have not a single word of my own to contribute.

However, as I spent more time in my study and among the Star-Gazers, I learned that there were many questions yet to be answered about the stars themselves. For all we understand about the workings of magic, we know very little about the workings of the heavens themselves. In fact, the more prosaic the question appears at first glance, the more likely it is that the answer yet eludes us. 

Just as I thought that all questions had been answered and there was no hope, I became energized once more by a flood of questions, each more startling than the last. Indeed, for all the knowledge that the great scholars had brought to their theories of magic, they could not answer how it is that the Mundus Stones came to be, or by what trickery the Serpent slips across the sky, knowing no season.

In fact, I soon realized that not one of the three great scholars of magic had ever set foot in Craglorn. How they could ignore the place where the Nedes once worshiped the stars and set the Mundus Stones in their foundations, I would never understand. 

It was through this realization that Kardala was discovered. Energized by the thought of reaching new conclusions through first-hand observation, I entreated my very willing hosts to guide me into the desert. I hoped to study the Mundus Stones of the Lord, the Lady, and the Steed and find something new.

Several books on the subject of Kardala have flattered me by embellishing history. They claim that by examining these Mundus Stones of the Warrior's charges, I surmised from their configuration that there must be another Mundus Stone connected to the Warrior within sight of the three stones.

This could not be further from the truth. While we were on our journey through the desert, I had consumed a great deal of water to fortify my health. As is known to happen, that water had to go somewhere. I excused myself, stepping just a little off the road, and let nature run its course. On my way back to my colleagues I became disoriented, and as I struggled to find the road a loose stone slipped beneath my foot. I fell back and avoided falling into the crack that broke open beneath me, revealing the entrance to Kardala.

Naturally, my companions were excited beyond words. I credit them with some of the misinformation that has spread about Kardala's discovery. In fact, I never would have made the discovery without their willingness to guide me into the desert that day.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2433)
	Blasius's Unfinished Manuscript
While conquering the lands called the Deathlands (which later came to be known as Hammerfell), the Yokudans made no secret of their own self-proclaimed greatness. We should be cautious not to mistake such self-mythologizing for actual history, however. 

Whatever their claims to greatness, it is apparent from the record that the Yokudans were brutal and thorough in their suppression of local peoples, leaving little more than blood and bones as a testament to the civilizations that preceded them. 

It is no wonder then that the Redguard "civilization" still bears the marks of that brutality to this day.

No greater symbol of the Ra Gada's brutality was the self-proclaimed Emperor Tarish-Zi. His followers proclaimed him as deathless. Indeed, he seemed to be born out of Oblivion, so bloody-minded was he.

It's said that his crypt is still located in Craglorn, venerated by his barbaric descendents.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2434)
	A Merchant's Orders to His Guards
To My "Loyal" Guards,

I have been subjected of late to a large number of complaints and jeers at my expense. I want to make absolutely clear that anyone who mentions what happened at Zalgaz's Den again, whether in my presence or whether reported to me second-hand, will face a severe penalty. 

Wages will be docked! Extra duties will be assigned! And if you quit my service and spread these slanders in someone else's employ, I will have you taken before a priest of Arkay and accused of spreading malicious rumors of Daedric origin!

In short, I never want to hear mention of Thalia's Retreat again!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2435)
	Defaced Mages Guild Reward Notice
Posted: 

Significant Reward for Dwarven parts recovered from ruins of Mthanz, for study by the Melanion of the Mages Guild.

[This poster has been defaced with a lewd drawing of a High Elf, labeled "Melanion." Beneath the drawing is scribbled:]

Liars and cheats! I delivered six Dwarven gears and all I got was a lousy book. It was one I'd already read, too.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2437)
	The Manifesto of Make Way
In order to survive and thrive, we must foment a perpetual vortex of agitation! 

A final and irrevocable statement of our will!

Only this will bring the correction of the true ways of our Yokudan heritage:  a redress of the weakness which has pervasively trickled into our hearts!

It is the right of those who suffer from weakness to refuse allegiance to it and to those who bring it forth!

Make way! Make way! Make way!
		

		Part of the None collection (#2438)
	Notes on Shornhelm's Cisterns
Shornhelm's substructure includes many interconnected cisterns, a honeycomb of pocketed caches which is connected to every potable well within the city.

Many of them leak into each other as a consequence of age and shoddy craftsmanship, but only one distributes water on a grander scale! This cistern is referred to as the master source, as it allows flow from an underground river directly into every smaller cistern in the city.

- To open the distribution channels you must first open both sluice gates, then turn the winch to start the external water flow. 

- To clear the cistern before distribution of any residual water, close both sluice gates and then turn the winch. This will flush all water from the system in a matter of days!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2439)
	Fundaments of Alchemy
by Alyandon Mathierry

Often overlooked by aspiring mages, Alchemy is a time-honored, rewarding discipline that can change the lives of those who master it. It is difficult, and often dangerous, to advance one's knowledge of the materials used in alchemical formulas, but continued study and hard work will, in the end, reward the alchemist greatly.

Before success can be achieved, or even attempted, the beginning alchemist must understand the basic principles behind his craft. Many items in our world, mostly organic in nature, can be broken down into more fundamental essences with magical properties. The more skilled the Alchemist, the more the properties of an ingredient that can be harnessed. Combining the essences of two or more ingredients can result in the creation of a potion, which anyone may then drink. (Legend has it that a truly great Alchemist can brew potions from a single ingredient, a feat well beyond the capabilities of most.)

The Alchemist's potion can have several effects, depending on the ingredients used, and not all effects are beneficial. In many cases, recipes result in a potion with a mix of positive and negative effects; it is up to the Alchemist to determine which recipes yield the best results. (It is worth noting that potions can be created to have only negative effects and be used as poisons. This practice is not recommended by the author, and this text shall not discuss such potions further.)

Wortcraft

Wortcraft is, in fact, amateur Alchemy. Eating an ingredient requires grinding it against the teeth, which occasionally releases its simplest essence and results in a fleeting effect on the eater. Wortcraft never has as strong a result as a potion created using the proper tools.

An Alchemist's Tools

The mortar and pestle is the Alchemist's most important and essential tool. Without it, no ingredient can be correctly prepared for use in a potion. The budding alchemist is advised to keep a mortar and pestle on hand at all times, and become comfortable with its use early on. The simple grinding of an ingredient is the most fundamental step in brewing potions. When properly ground, the petals of the Redwort flower yield a powder that can, when mixed correctly with another ingredient such as ginseng, create a potion to cure poisons. (This is one formula that many alchemists are quick to learn and retain, as mistakes in potion mixing often require its use.)

The advanced Alchemist has other tools at his disposal to improve the quality of his potions. A retort can be employed to purify the mixture, improving the positive effects of a potion. Washing the mixture through an alembic helps to distill the potion, reducing any negative effects, and a calcinator can be used to burn away impurities in the mixture, increasing the potency of all the potion's effects. While these apparatus are not necessary to create potions, it is advised that they be used whenever possible.

Ingredient Combination

A potion is only as good as its ingredients. Only those with identical effects may be combined to make a potion; up to four ingredients may be successfully used in a single potion.

As the Alchemist gains skill in preparing ingredients, new properties may be discovered and can be used in creating potions. While this can be an exciting time, expanding the Alchemist's repertoire, he should take care to check carefully which effects his potions will contain when he is done brewing. Many established recipes may have new results, not all of which are beneficial.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2440)
	Glyphs and Enchantment
By Sanessalmo of Glister Vale

Glyphs! Glyphs for enchanting! Everyone knows how to make them—you need three runestones, one each of Potency, Aspect, and Essence. Once, as an Experiment, I substituted kidney stones of Poetry, Aspic, and Ennui. It didn't work!

But that is a secret. Not to reveal my secrets! No, no. Do not even think about the secrets. Because if that happens … Experiments! Back to Experiments! I have made many different glyphs, oh, yes. Some of them are very good, like the glyphs for augmenting one's magicka (rings are pretty!) or for making weapons that do flame or frost damage. Some glyphs are not so good, like the "lard to bard" glyph that made all the shortening in the kitchen sing loud Nord drinking songs. (That's why I made all the pancakes.)

So, then: Experiments! When you try combining different runestones to see what kind of glyphs you can make, be sure to write down the results so you don't forget what you've learned. (Especially for the bad ones, because you don't want to do that again, and good apprentices are hard to come by.) For obvious reasons (obvious! obvious!), I like to tattoo my results onto the skins of living creatures. Daedra are a poor choice for this, because when they return to Oblivion they take your results with them. Mammals are also a problem because they're hairy, so you have to shave some fur before you can start the tattooing, and the brown bears didn't like that one bit, let me tell you. That's why reptiles are best.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2441)
	Clothier: Light Armor Basics
By Lady Eloisse, Fifth Countess Manteau

Here in Wind Keep we are renowned for producing High Rock's finest light armor: so elegant, so tasteful, and yet so sturdy and staunch. Let me tell you just a little bit about how we do it. 

(By "we," of course, I mean the town's families of clothiers: the Raiments, the Garments, and the Habiliments. They do all the actual menial work, though under my noble and capable oversight, naturally.)

Light armor is made entirely of cloth, except for certain structural reinforcements crafted from bone, horn, or cartilage. Though the outer layer of a jerkin or breeches may be of ornamental silk or damask, be aware that underneath is a layer or layers of tough and durable fabric such as cambric or burlap. These layers are often quilted or padded in order to aid in absorbing the force of a blow.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2442)
	Bowyer and Fletcher
By Hoary Durotzel, the Wood Butcher of Ska'vyn

Now listen here, younglings, and I'll tell ye a thing or three about making bows and arrows, because you're going to need them if the Goblins come back. So pay attention, and put away those blasted cup-and-ball toys. 

Now a bow what's made of one piece of springy wood is called a "self" bow, because it's only itself, d'ye see? Them Bretons with their longbows prefers it that way, and say a bow ain't no bow unless it's as tall as its archer before stringing. They like to use bow staves of yew, elm, or ash, 'cause those are woods that are dense and strong, yet flexible if tillered right.

Elven bows are usually shorter and more complicated. They're called "composite" bows because they're composed of several different pieces—are you listening, you jackanapes?—and even different materials. The central stave is usually wood, curved as in a self bow, but then pieces curved in the opposite direction are attached to the ends for added power. These "recurved" end-pieces are often made of horn or carapace. 

Them Wood Elves down in Valenwood, now, they've got a problem, because they love their bows more even than me and you, but they can't cut no wood for staves 'cause of their loony Green Pact. So they make composite bows built entirely from horn, bug-shell, antlers, and even bone—though how they get that bone to flex is way beyond me. Treat it somehow, they do, boiling it in vinegars or suchlike, or so I hear tell. 

Next is arrows. We'll start with the feathers what go on the back end to make them fly straight. Here, look how this arrow is fletched—are the vanes in a straight line parallel to the shaft? No, they ain't. Come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you why.
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2443)
	One Staff, Many Staves
By Hoary Durotzel, the Wood Butcher of Ska'vyn

All right, younglings, stop playing dodge-toe with your belt knives and gather 'round. I'm going to tell you a bit about how to make staves. Yes, you too, little Defessus!

The first thing I want to make clear is that a staff is a staff is a staff, whether you're going to use it to knock sense into some lunkhead's skull, or charge it up and shoot shock spells at cliff racers. It don't matter if you're making a quarterstaff or a spell staff, either way it has to be strong enough to withstand the force you're putting through it, and flexible enough not to crack or warp when that force is uneven. This even applies to restoration staves, 'cause healing magic is just as powerful as hurting, and not to be taken lightly. 

You're going to want to make your staves out of something like maple, oak, ash, or elm wood, or whatever other dense wood you can find, because it has to stand up to being struck hard hundreds, or even thousands of times. But tough as the grain has to be on the inside, a staff has to be smooth as Dibella's bum on the outside, as the staff wielder may have to grip it on almost any part of its length. You don't want to have to face an angry wizard coming to you with oak splinters in his fireball hand.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2444)
	The Tava's Bounty Ledger
Cargo to be unloaded at Koeglin Village:

12 crates of Pink Pomegranates

22 crates of Tulune Carrots

4 barrels of bitter tea 

15 casks of Comet-Wine

20 barrels of Dragonstar Ale

30 sacks of Dried Tubers

3 barrels of Kindlepitch Whiskey

30 planks of Ilessan Pine
		

Failed at /books/2445Failed at /books/2446Failed at /books/2447Failed at /books/2448Failed at /books/2449Failed at /books/2450Failed at /books/2451		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2452)
	Heavy Armor: A Forge-Wife's Advice
By Garshag gra-Sharkub

I'll wager you don't even have what it takes to make armor. Think you can slave at the anvil all day, sweat stinging your eyes while you pound on iron, steel, or even orichalcum until you can hardly move your arm? Can you spend sweltering weeks lifting, hammering, and shaping until you've forged the perfect set? How afraid are you of serious burns?

Still here, huh? Good. Maybe you have potential. If you're serious about smithing, you've found the right Orc. I was raised in the forge; the bellows and anvil were my best friends and my hammer's never left my hands. I can tell you how real armor is made.

My advice: just get to work! Get some ore, step up to the anvil, and hammer out simple parts. Your first pieces may not be fancy, but you'll learn tricks as you go, like how to take mediocre armor and temper it into something stronger. You should look at other smiths' work as much as you can, too. Study exotic styles and materials and you'll get even better. But nothing beats practice, so get going!
		

		Part of the Skill Books collection (#2453)
	Smithing: A Worthy Endeavor
By Cuinaamo, Great Sage of the Forge

Anyone with ore and a hammer can fashion a crude weapon at an anvil, yes, but it takes more than a burly arm to grasp the subtleties of the art. Some of my fellow Altmer may sneer at weapon forging, considering it work fit only for commoners, but in doing so they only expose their own pitiable ignorance. Unraveling the mysteries of form, function, and the effects of various materials on the substance of the weapon is an undertaking that requires not only a sharp mind, but strength of body and patience through hours of practice each day.

To become a master and create peerless weapons, much time must be spent in research, slowly uncovering new secrets which, in turn, lead to more revelations. One must study weapons from every culture crafted by many smiths, deconstructing them and analyzing the results methodically to identify the source of unusual properties. The weapon's shape, its component materials, and its balance are just a few of the elements that must be scrutinized.

Of course, we cannot ignore the many types of weapon. Each one, from sword to axe to hammer, one- or two-handed, is its own realm of study. It is entirely up to the smith whether to pursue exhaustive knowledge of one type or to study a wider variety, but the end goal should be the same for all who demand perfection: to attain a comprehensive understanding of all weapon traits and how to impart them to any creation.

As you can see, producing weapons goes far beyond making a stick of metal to hit enemies with. The complexities of the craft run as deep as any magical study, and only through time, research, and practice can one truly claim to be an expert.

There are those who will try to convince you the work of a smith is crude or artless; in such encounters, simply smile back, knowing that you are on a worthy path. By putting in the requisite effort to elevate your creations through the relentless pursuit of knowledge, your work will be remembered in legend long after your detractors are dead and forgotten.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2454)
	Zuzik's Clue
The Artisan's letter Zuzik gave me is written on vellum, a medium used by the Bosmer. It instructs the recipient to meet the Artisan at the bank.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2455)
	Fire's Grip
The Ayleid ruins known as Par Molag—fist (or grip) of fire in the ancient tongue—make an excellent location for a secret crafting workshop.

—Doratella
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2456)
	Mesanthano's Tower
Beware the power of Night's Silence—the greatest achievement of the mad wizard, Mesanthano. Its influence still lingers in these tower ruins.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2457)
	Legend of Chill House
Frigid air fills the darkness of Chill House as death's inevitable wind blows through the forlorn structure.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2458)
	Theyo Bezon's Natural Observations
Here I am, ten paces from the giant bear, Graufang. He truly is a remarkable creature. Serene, noble, handsome—

And coming this way!
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2459)
	Ruminations by Guard Kleo
Day 17

Guarding nobles on a trip across Glenumbra. Could anything be more boring? 

We've reached the Western Overlook outside Daggerfall. Snore! I may just fall asleep if something doesn't happen soon.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2460)
	By Order of Faolchu
Salazar,

By fang and claw, guard the road to Camlorn so I may complete my work.

Faolchu
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2461)
	An Egg-citing Discovery!
Huge, delicious eggs!

I wonder what kind of bird laid such beauties? 

No matter. They're mine now. 

Wait. 

Why is the sea churnin—
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2462)
	A Wealth of Raw Material
There are a remarkable number of dead buried on this small island. 

I shall begin raising them at once. 

Angof should be well pleased!

—Grivier Bloodcaller
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2463)
	Sardok's Bloodthorn Report
Esteemed Leader,

Our camp, in the shadow of Tangle Rock, has produced excellent results! 

Already, the great thorns twist toward the sky and corrupt the swamp. 

Soon, this land will be ours!

—Sardok of the Second Planting
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2464)
	Leeza's Bloodthorn Report
Esteemed Leader,

Our camp, in the clearing set between where the water spills from Mire Falls, has already achieved exciting results. 

Not only have we intercepted a dispatch from Aldcroft, but we've also captured a Lion Guard scout! 

If we wait long enough, perhaps King Casimir will wander in and surrender!

—Leeza of the First Planting
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2465)
	The Lurching Dead
Tardu,

Mother didn't believe me. Said there's no such thing as thorn-covered zombies. 

Well, when the zombies eat everyone on the farm, then she'll believe me!

—Solly Gaudet
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2466)
	Ravenwatch Research: Veawend Ede
This may be the earliest of the Ayleid ruins that culminated in the Doomcrag.

Even the place's name—Sea Journey's End—resonates with the history I have pieced together. And the gift of magicka continues to inhabit this ancient structure.

—Verandis
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2467)
	Ravenwatch Research: Aesar Hatespinner
Verandis and his thirst for knowledge and research is going to be the death of me. Watching a big, dumb spider is just plain boring!

Big spider tended eggs.

Big spider spun webs.

Big spider bored me, so I'm done here.

—Gwendis
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2468)
	Louna's Grimoire: Corpse Cough
The efflux of necrotic energy at Old Kalgon's Keep is quite remarkable! It adds a distinct note of dissolution to my latest recipe.

Two parts powdered troll bone.

Three parts ethereal phlegm.

One part Breton's dying breath.

Mix well and heat to a rolling simmer. Use immediately or store in stoppered glass vial.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2469)
	Letter to Leonce Gavendien
Leonce,

Your scheme to rob Fell's Run is brilliant! And using the old, abandoned fort demonstrates the level of planning that has made you infamous throughout the region.

I will gladly purchase the gems from you. Meet me in Northpoint when you have them.

—Captain Lagra
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2470)
	Captain Lagra's Ledger
Prepared by Thibel Fairclerk.

These are the accounts of pirate lord and smuggler boss, Captain Lagra, whose empire stretches from the streets of Northpoint to the waters of the Eldtheric Ocean.

Five seaworthy vessels, including flagship, Lagra's Pearl.

Two discreet warehouses.

One seedy tavern with office space.

Two hundred casks of bog-iron ale.

Fifty bottles of old kindlepitch whiskey.

One hundred and fifty thousand gold.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2471)
	Letter from Lady Lleraya
Captain Kordella,

You must be aware of my father's campaign to reclaim the Crown of Shornhelm. Soon, all of Rivenspire shall bow to House Montclair.

	

Now for my offer. Pledge your forces to me and help us topple the houses of Dorell and Tamrith, or on my mother's grave I shall see the Bitterhands destroyed.

In other matters, how's that fetching maiden of yours? If I recall, she had an adorable mole just above her luscious lips. Perhaps I could borrow her. As a gesture of good faith.

I look forward to your timely response.

—LLM
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2472)
	Letter to Danier
Danier,

Our shop's outside Wayrest (to avoid city taxes). I hope they won't find us.

Go to Sentinel, where it's safe.

—Matilde
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2473)
	Prayer to My Prince
These gifts are meager,

But I beseech you!

Guide my actions,

Hear my thoughts

Across the ages, and

Through the realms

I approach the altar,

My heart full of 

Devotion and love

For my Prince!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2474)
	Letter to the Twilight Mage
Master Avayan,

This one will be visiting Selfora shortly and would love to make use of your fabulous crafting stations— provided you're amenable. I'll even bring a few bottles of golden wine to refill your pantry!

—Magister Marashi
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2475)
	By Order of the Tribunal
Berezan's Mine is closed to the public until further notice.

Trespassers will suffer the full wrath of the Three.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2476)
	Racial Motifs 11: Ancient Elves
By Seif-ij Hidja

The master—I mean the Professor, Morian Zenas—is gone. So is Lady Alfidia, though I always addressed her as Doctor Lupus. So, for that matter, is the Telvanni, but he, at least, will not be missed—nasty mer, always making caustic comments about "the scaleskin help" whenever the Professor wasn't around. 

No, I am glad the Telvanni is gone. But the others … well.

I will stay on here as long as I may, keeping the Professor's town house in order, organizing his notes and his reagents, dusting his beloved books. I still hope for his return. For now, the University has him listed as "On Sabbatical," and sends his stipend to me so I can maintain his residence and arcane workshop. 

It was while in the study, straightening the Professor's desk, that I came across a stack of notes in Lady Alfidia's elegant handwriting, unfinished studies of clothing, arms, and armor in several cultural styles. The river flows slowly these days, so I have decided to organize these style notes in a fashion that (I hope) approximates how the lady doctor would have done so herself. 

Though notes about the styles of the leading Elven societies of current-day Tamriel have already been compiled, there is more to say, as the mer, who revere their ancestors and ancestry, have a special regard for the history of Aldmeri culture. The Merethic Era, when Elves first conquered and colonized Tamriel, they regard as a golden age to be emulated. As a result the clothing and armor of that period never really goes out of style, and many Elves still affect the styles and manners of the ancient Aldmeri. It is not at all unusual, even on continental Tamriel, to encounter a High Elf or Dark Elf dressed like an ancient Ayleid or Chimer. The Elves call this practice "draping Ehlnofic," but the rest of us just call it "Ancient Elven" and leave it at that. 

(I will add here to the absent lady's notes that I myself, though having lived in the Imperial capital for many long years, have never seen a Wood Elf sporting this Ancient Elven style. But the Bosmer, like we Argonians, seem to prefer to live in the Aurbic Now, showing relatively little regard for the ways of former ages.)

Ancient Elven is different from Elven styles favored by modern artisans of Summerset and Morrowind in that it is somewhat more organic, and yet at the same time more abstract. Flowing floral motifs are common, usually tapering to a sharp point or end, as in the sharp-peaked arches so familiar to the inhabitants of Cyrodiil from our ubiquitous Ayleid ruins. Circles, semi-circles, and arcs abound, often containing the organic tapering tendrils, much as the Aedra (whom the Elves claim as ancestors) were constrained by the creation of the Mundus.

(What? What's that? …It is as if I heard my lady whisper in my ear, "How pretentious, Seif-ij!")
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2477)
	Talvini Radus' Last Wish
The Abomination can't reach me between these rocks, but I can't leave, either.

I'm probably going to die here. I just wish my brother Malvini was here with me.

I hate to think he'll live on and I'll be gone.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2478)
	A Letter to Maraya
Beloved Maraya,

Trust Ayan as our personal courier. Please burn this after you read it, and send him back with a response.

I am lonesome away from our family. Do you feel the same?

The duke loves me, and I him. If he thinks I am forlorn, the sun may set on his happiness. That cannot happen! Perhaps the child will bring me joy. It is too early to say anything, so I whisper it only to you.

Write to me often. I am comforted to know you are near.

From my heart,

Almandine
		

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2479)
	Ritual of Daedric Fortitude
By the power of the Daedric Princes, grant me wisdom beyond reckoning.

By the breadth and depth of limitless Oblivion, grant me skill beyond imagining.

By the bloody mace of Molag Bal, grant me power beyond estimation.
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2480)
	Franara's Journal
The Orc says he'll leave soon, but sticks around for meals.

May the gods favor us and send him away before he kills us in our sleep.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2481)
	Racial Motifs 12: Barbaric
By Seif-ij Hidja

Continuing my compilation of Doctor Alfidia Lupus' notes for studies of clothing, arms, and armor in diverse cultural styles….

Despite the civilizing influence of our noble Second Empire, Tamriel still has its backwaters and hinterlands inhabited by barbarous tribes. Probably the most familiar to us Cyrodilics are the savage clans of the Reachmen, who dwell in the wild mountains between Skyrim and High Rock, and whose raiders have been seen on the outskirts of Bruma within living memory. But there are also the Ashlanders of Morrowind, the fierce Kothringi of Black Marsh, the Ket Keptu of central Hammerfell, and many others. 

It is a strange but undeniable fact that these tribes, farflung across the continent though they are, have strikingly similar tastes in apparel. Why this should be is fodder for another ethnographic study more speculative than this one, which is merely descriptive. (Therefore, on to the description.)

This clannish or tribal style, though commonly known as "Barbaric," is really no less sophisticated than that of other cultures. The so-called barbaric tribes simply disdain all ideas of tasteful restraint, preferring the lurid and bizarre. Bright colors are favored, and materials may be lacquered to almost any hue. Typical accouterments include skulls, antlers, feathers, strings of teeth, accents of beaten copper, and weapons ostentatious in size and number. 

(I feel the need to interject here that much of this description could also apply to the styles of my native Black Marsh, a region that could scarcely be described as "barbaric"! Pfui. I shall return to this cultural style another day.)
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2482)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter IV
This island is fascinating. It was clearly once a hub for the ancient Aldmer, perhaps part of a larger structure that extended out into the sea. Now it's used most often as a retreat from the city life in nearby Skywatch.

I've found some evidence here that the resurgent Daedric cults, the Worm cultists, are making preparations to construct some kind of dolmen here. I'll have to warn the local authorities in Skywatch.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2483)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter I
Gentle reader, welcome. Welcome to the crystal blue waters and gentle zephyrs of Auridon. Jewel of the Summerset Archipelago and gateway to Tamriel, this fair isle has long been home to the friendliest, the most outward-facing of my noble race.

Herein, I've included an undedited journal of observations. Thoughts jotted down during my most recent trip across the isle. Some of the hidden gems of the isle, some of the most striking locales of this sheltered isle, will see description in these pages.

From I, your humble guide … enjoy!

- Fenlil the Wayfarer

<The rest of the pages in this tome have been torn out.>
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2484)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter III
Ahh, fair Errinorne Isle. A part of the Buraniim sea-complex during the time of the Ancients, and then long used as a shipping and warehouse complex by nearby Skywatch. Then came the Sload, disease, and death.

Even in the aftermath of Skywatch's defiance, Sload forces held the island for decades. When it was finally cleansed by a concerted force, a remnant of the All-Flags Navy, it was left to rot and decay. 

A shame, as its natural beauty is extreme, and its ruins ... magnificent.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2485)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter XII
I'm often asked where the Ancients first arrived in the Archipelago. The "traditional home" of the High Elves is, in fact, just the latest home for our ancient and proud race. 

The farthest northern tip of Auridon is, in fact, the first place within the Summerset Isles to see the tread of the Ancients. All throughout Valenwood their ruins and influence can be seen.

But we can all agree: it is here in the Isles that the fleeing Ayleids of the heartland finally found a home.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2486)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter V
Gentle reader, I feel the need to edit my unedited thoughts about the beautiful, unparalleled Isle of Contemplation. Without a doubt, one of the most beautiful places on Tamriel, your fair explorer has many happy memories of quiet meals ... meaningful looks ... moonlit encounters ...

As I said, my time on the Isle of Contemplation has been magical. I hope yours is the same.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2487)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter II
… they stare, looking into my soul. Their little eyes, their furry bodies. I can't imagine a more terrifying sight. Do not believe the tales … those monkeys hate our intrusion into their home …
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2488)
	Auridon Explored, Chapter VII
The ruin known by locals as Hightide Keep was once a sprawling complex of defensive fortifications. A relic from the time of the Ancients, it was painstakingly maintained and manned.

As a result, Skywatch was able to put up an incredible defense during the Sload attack on the city. Powerful magical constructs were crafted and expended. Dozens of Sload warships were destroyed. 

The city finally fell when a Sload Warcaster filled his voluminous gullet with volatile alchemical reagents and threw himself at the base of the cliffs. The resulting explosion toppled much of the extended rock face, and plunged the ruins into the sea.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2489)
	The March Explored, Chapter I
Gentle reader, welcome. Welcome to open skies and red earth. The fields of grass and savage landscape of Elsweyr. Welcome, reader, to the end of the world. To the Reaper's March. 

Herein, find an undedited journal of observations. Thoughts jotted down during my first trip across this stark landscape. Some of the hidden gems of the land, some of the most striking locales, will see description in these pages.

From I, your humble guide … enjoy!

- Fenlil the Wayfarer

<The rest of the pages in this tome have been torn out.>
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2490)
	The March Explored, Chapter VI
… there's no truth to the rumors of dark cults in the March. I can assure you, gentle reader. Bandits may take your goods and threaten your life, but the fell Princes of Oblivion hold no sway in this savage land.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2491)
	The March Explored, Chapter III
The March marks the eastern boundary of Valenwood, and thus a boundary of the Ancient diaspora. While the rare pile of stones can be found deep into Elsweyr, the ruins of the March provide some of the most interesting insights into Ayleid psychology ….
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2492)
	The March Explored, Chapter IX
… and I must confess, I don't understand it at all. I've spent six seasons in the March, all told, and the lunar religion of the Khajiit makes just as much sense to me now as it did when I first arrived. 

Something about the pull of the moons on the waters of your mind. I don't know. Thank Auri-El we High Elves have a finer, cleaner sensibiilty to our religious studies ….
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2493)
	The March Explored, Chapter VII
I will say this for the Khajiit, their architecture is wholly unique on the continent of Tamriel. The beauty of their temples is awe-inspiring to behold. The House of the Dance in Rawl'kha is a wonder.

It's a shame, then, that so many of their greatest monuments are decayed and ruined. So many fine places fallen to disrepair. 

It seems to be a theme across the face of Nirn, does it not reader? Beauty and splendor fallen into ruin over time ….
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2494)
	From Jofnir to Merric
Comrade, I trust your judgement. 

The find of this "Earth Forge" is a boon, and one we should keep in trust. Any dogs who wish to benefit from your cunning will have to spill guild blood to find the place.

Your request to establish a permanent presence in the mountains is approved. Our master craftsmen will want to try their hand with that infernal construct at the heart of the mountain.

Make sure their other kit is moved out there as well. Perhaps our carvers and tailors will benefit from the fresh air, eh? 

- Jofnir Iceblade, Guildmaster
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2495)
	By Order of Guildmaster Vanus Galerion
By order of the Guildmaster, be very welcome to the isle of Eyevea! All members of the guild in good standing are to view this isle as a refuge. A sanctuary for magical study and a neutral ground on Tamriel.

All members, be you warned:

- Alliance in-fighting will not be tolerated! The Three Banner's War is in Cyrodiil. Here, all Mages are at peace and in harmony.

- Accept your fellows, no matter their appearance. All the thinking races of Tamriel practice the spellcasting arts. Intolerance towards a fellow guildmember is to be reported to the Guildmaster, and will be dealt with severely!

- Pay the tithe. Members in good standing are welcome to make use of the isle's sytem of portals for trade and transportation. Any member with a standing business must, however, pay a percentage fee to the guild in tithe.

The return of Eyevea marks a new era for the Guild!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2496)
	Letter from Magistrix Vox
My dear Manivol,

House Dres' support of my Maulborn initiative warms my heart. And your generous contributions of gold and resources assure our success. 

The Three will be revealed as the false gods they are and Morrowind will be free!

—Vox
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2497)
	House Hlaalu Notice
House Hlaalu maintains this camp for the express use of traveling traders and merchant caravans.

Please keep the camp clean! The next traveler will appreciate your kind consideration.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2498)
	Letter to Narsis
Dearest Seron,

I fear the plague has found me. I shall miss you, my love.

—Ida
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2499)
	General Gavryn's Declaration
This pier and dock house is a disgrace! No House Redoran holding should be allowed to fall into such a sorry state.

I want a squad of soldiers to clean this place up and make repairs before the start of the winter rains.

—G. Redoran
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2500)
	To My Azeez-Eix
My sun-petal, I cannot meet you this evening. Father is beginning to suspect, and he would never forgive me if he found out. I will try to come again next Middas.

Until then, my love.

- Your Lalisii Dres
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2501)
	Faithful One
You tend these graves, nearly hidden by trees, sand, and rocks. The candles remain lit, and always there are signs you've been by. I've yet to meet you, though I pass this way often.

I see only the dog, and I leave it food and water, but it shows no signs of ill-use. Surely you care for it as you honor the dead over which it keeps watch.

May the gods bless your tender care of the departed.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2502)
	Get it Done, Conele
I don't care how you do it. I don't care if you have to invade that mud-hut pigsty next door and enslave every Argonian there, get it done!

That heart is the key, and I will not fail in my mission. And neither will you.

- Serien
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2503)
	We Know, Many-Rocks
We have seen your deeds, Many-Rocks. You trail blood down the river as you swim. Moving always from home to home, across the face of the Ashlands. The blood of the oppressors has stained your scales crimson.

We are impressed. 

Just one more act and you will be ready. You will be … contacted. Hail Sithis!
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2504)
	Racial Motifs 13: Primal
By Seif-ij Hidja

Continuing my compilation of Doctor Alfidia Lupus' notes for studies of clothing, arms, and armor in diverse cultural styles….

You might look at the gear sported by a fully-equipped Goblin warchief and think, "What a mismatched conglomeration of primitive paraphernalia." But you would be wrong. Each item that warchief is wearing was carefully selected for its proven utility, and represents a decision backed by millennia of tradition. This is a style of arms and armor we ethnographers call the "Primal," and it is as distinctive and recognizable as any other culture set. 

Goblins and other folk who have adopted the Primal style are typically superb scavengers and looters. They seem to have a special sense for where to find the sort of cast-off yet serviceable, even exceptional  equipment that will fit the Primal esthetic. And they are as proud of their turn-out as any Imperial centurion.

Recent scholarship by Doctor Intricatus of Gwylim University confirms this, and adds some new information that shows that "primal" is, indeed, the optimal label for this style. His study of the fifty-seven Primal ensembles worn by the massacred Knife-Biter Goblin tribe showed that many of the items found on the corpses were hundreds, if not thousands of years old. Some of the greaves and cuirasses appeared to date from the early First Era, and represented ancient forging techniques that have since been lost to history. Did the Goblins loot these from ancient Cyrodilic ruins, as they've been known to do? Or did they actually pass them down, generation by generation, since time immemorial? 

Yes, Professor Zenas, that IS how you spell "immemorial." Wait … what? Professor? Is that your voice?
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2505)
	Racial Motifs 14: Daedric
By Seif-ij Hidja

Continuing my compilation of Doctor Alfidia Lupus' notes for studies of clothing, arms, and armor in diverse cultural styles….

It is entirely appropriate that this last entry in Doctor Lupus' "Racial Motifs" series should be about Daedric arms and armor, as it is my belief that the absent Lady Alfidia has somehow journeyed to the Daedric planes of Oblivion in pursuit of my lost Professor Morian Zenas. And as I can now hear the Professor's voice whispering in my ear almost constantly, it is time to conclude these notes and move on to telling the story of his travels through the doors of Oblivion. 

The Daedra, as the Professor has so often remarked, are creatures of chaos, entities of great energy and force but entirely lacking in originality. They can imitate, they can exaggerate, and they can corrupt, but they cannot create anything new. That is a capability inherent only in the Aedra, and in we mortals of Nirn, to whom they gave it as a gift. (In Black Marsh we see such things differently, of course, but these are the beliefs of the Professor and Lady Alfidia.)

Thus the armor and weapons of such Daedra as the Dremora, Xivilai, and Golden Saints—what Doctor   Lupus calls the "humanoid" Daedra—consist of familiar Tamriel-style cuisses, breastplates, and pauldrons, swords, spears, and bows. They may to our eyes be ornamented with outlandish spikes and melodramatic flourishes, but look inside a suit of Daedric armor and you'll find the familiar padding and straps that enable it to be worn by anyone of conventional shape. Pick up a Daedric sword, and despite its bizarre shape you will find the grip comfortable, the heft well-balanced. Indeed, it is said that the famous Artifacts of the Daedric Princes, such as the Mace of Molag Bal, were mostly made by mortal artisans who were enticed or forced to create them. 

Yes, Professor, I believe that is enough—for now, at least. I have done my duty to the good doctor. I am sitting in your study, and I am listening. Tell me again of Moonshadow.
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2506)
	To My Pash-Riha
My evening star, I cannot meet you this day. My brother has begun to suspect us, and I fear he will beat me terribly if he finds out. I will try to come again to your side next Fredas.

Until then, my love.

- Your Lalisii Dres
		

		Part of the None collection (#2507)
	To Jalal
Jalal,

No, I don't know what damned Dwemer ruin was here before. No, I won't go digging in the lava to find out. Stop asking!

- Zennuxith
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2508)
	Tinkerer Tobin's Big Book of Crafting Recipes
Ha! I knew it!

Not only are you using my crafting stations free of charge, but you figured you'd learn the secrets of a master crafter by sneaking a peek into this book.

Well, the joke's on you! My book of crafting recipes is locked away and safe, far from your prying eyes, you thief!

Now, go get your own crafting recipes, milk-drinker!

—Tinkerer Tobin
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2509)
	The Journal of Vivien Armene
Another day in this cold, miserable land of Nords and mead, and I'm still no closer to the prize I've come so far to find. I'm tempted to return to Glenumbra, but I refuse to give up now.

My research indicates that the bones of a great dragon lie buried beneath this strange, circular mound. Imagine the things a necromancer of my abilities could do with the remains of an actual dragon!

Maybe a few more draugr will make the digging go faster?
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2510)
	Lizards
by Hatiha

One must be wary of the desert lizards. Two are poisonous, one eats only live flesh, but the rest are safe.

This one has found it nearly impossible to tell one from the other by their looks. Only by learning their individual attributes can one be sure of the lizard one has in hand.

They can be tamed with patience. Approach carefully, and offer small bugs (watch for the flesh-eater). As they become used to your scent, they will learn to obey.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2511)
	Capturing Ammabani's Pride
I have come to capture the beautiful sabre cats of Ammabani's pride—not with nets and cages, but with brush and paint and canvas.

My art demands I take risks—

Ammabani has noticed me. She's coming this way.

Stupid art!
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2512)
	Greetings from the Orcthane
Guring,

I have heard good things about you and your companions. Especially the great white bear, Beralagr.

I would very much like to meet such a magnificent creature.

Will you join my campaign to overthrow my brother?

—Fildgor Orcthane
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2513)
	Sheltered
This place provides shelter to those who seek to perfect their skills.

Take what you need, and leave an offering in return.

Koomu alezer'i!
		

		Part of the None collection (#2514)
	Thane Jeggi's Drinking Hole
Rules of the Hole:

1. Respect the hole. Keep it clean and keep it quiet.

2. Spend at least a few hours a day contemplating the fish.

3. Don't tease the mammoths!

4. Drink, drink, and drink some more.

5. Replace the mead!
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2515)
	An Artisan's Oasis
Travel you through the desert, searching for an oasis?

Though Leki's Blade is before us, end your sojourn amidst these ruins to learn from the peace of the swirling sands.

Move, cover and uncover only when needed. Flow with the wind. Relax. And create beauty wherever you go.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2516)
	Beware!
Climb the hill,

Unlatch the door.

Therein you shall find

Rare goods galore!

Whirring and hissing

And squeaking abound.

Could those be rats,

Or gears you have found?

Use items with care

In this noisy place,

Lest Dwemer awaken

And give you good chase!
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2517)
	Cadwell's Personal Anthem
I'm a soul shriven, but that's all right,

I fight Daedra all day and rescue damsels at night.

With trusty Honor and a mighty helm,

I keep Coldharbour safe and protect the realm.

I had another line, but now I forgot,

I'll write more later—or maybe not.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2518)
	Cadwell's Journal: Famous Coldharbourites, Part 14
The ruins of old Aba-Darre serves as the home of the misunderstood monster, Sthorha the Crazed. 

Oh, the fiesty daedroth can be a bit testy, and we've certainly gone a round or two over the years, but she can be brilliantly affectionate if given half the chance.

Like now.

She's affectionately gnawing on my foot.

Good daedra!
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2519)
	Cadwell's Journal: Famous Coldharbourites, Part 21
Honor sometimes plays with Duriatundur. He loves to grab hold of a rib and just shake and shake!

Maybe that's why Duriatundur runs when he sees the old chap ….
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2520)
	Letter to Zemarek-Thul
The feud continues, you miserable bucket of bolts!

You insult me, Zemarek—and that I cannot forgive!

Lunch again on Middas?

—Sir Cadwell
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2521)
	Cadwell's Journal: Famous Coldharbourites, Part 37
What a fun group! I love visiting with Nolagha, Keggahiha, and Rsolignah at the Daedroth Larder.

But don't eat the snacks. They may be someone we know.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2522)
	Letter to Cynhamoth
Ah, fair Cynhamoth, how you flatter me with tempting gifts!

You know I'm watching my waistline, but still you send me buttered scamp knuckles.

(They were delicious, by the way!)

—Sir Cadwell
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2523)
	Brave Sir Cadwell
Bravely bold Sir Cadwell

Rode forth upon trusty Honor.

He feared nothing in Coldharbour,

Oh brave Sir Cadwell.

He loved the land all blue and gray,

Righting wrongs and saving days.

Brave, brave, brave Sir Cadwell.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2524)
	Cadwell's Journal: Deep Thoughts, Part 412
Another bit of someplace else falls into Coldharbour and what do the Dremora do?

What they always do! It's a shame, really. Crush, kill, and destroy. So tedious!

Oh, that reminds me. I need to go to the Everfull Flagon and visit with those drunken Nords.

Tedious, yes, but they know some wonderful drinking songs.

And Honor loves the sweet dough that Bernt provides for his guests.
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2525)
	Falling
I came seeking answers, but only found more questions.

Who are they? Why did they come here? What happened?

No answers. The silences are eerie, but the noises beget nightmares.

Farewell.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2526)
	Letter to Hanza
Hanza,

Your goats won't shut up! I understand why you asked us to deliver them for you. 

We saw Imperial troops nearby and sheltered in the cleft where we once played as children. We should have let the goats go free.

If these beasts continue bleating, though, we shall be discovered. We've killed the loudest, and may need to slay the rest. I hope we have enough arrows.

Otherwise, we will get the herd—by Satakal! They come—
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#2527)
	Damar's Ledger
Sold:

Goat, 10 gold

Winter grain, 30 gold

Leather scraps, 2 gold

Trades:

Red wine for Yanurah plus 10 gold

Bought:

Goat, 2 gold

Red wine in cask, 50 gold
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2528)
	Lakewatch Tower
Long ago, Garach dreamt of a moonbeam, silver and pale blue. It took the form of a lady, who came to lie beside him.

As the dawn's light entered his room, she became a wolf, and fled.

Months later, he dreamt she returned to him, first as a she-wolf carrying pups. She placed them carefully beside him, and took the form of the lady.

"They are yours," she said tenderly, "to care for and love."

Afraid, he slew them. She then cursed him to never know love or kindness, only fear and hatred.

And when he awoke, surrounded by the limp bodies of his wolf-children, he wept for what might have been.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2529)
	Fool!
No one steals from me and lives to enjoy the spoils.

Consider your debt paid.

T.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2530)
	A Simple Prayer
Blessed Ruptga,

Let not the lion attack, nor the scorp ….
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2531)
	Skeevers
I see their glowing red eyes, closer each night! When will you return with help? I can barely walk now.

If you find me dead, the skeevers did it.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2532)
	Letter to Strastnoc
Strastnoc,

You're probably resting your hairy arse on the throne of Evermore by now. I wish we were having as much luck. I know this deal with the Worms is important, but I'm starting to wonder whether we can really trust them. I'll explain more when you get back.

Linele
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2533)
	Treaty of the Three Tribes
Let it be known that the most committed warriors of the Reach gathered here on the 3rd day of Frostfall to put aside their differences and join together against their shared enemy, the Ebonheart Pact.

These clans were represented:

Rageclaw, Boneshaper, Stonetalon
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2534)
	Thallik's Orders
Our scouts report the weakest giant encampment lies Northwest of Riften in an area commonly known as Autumnshade. Go there, slay the giants, and raise them to fight for us. I know their size makes giants unusually hard to raise, but you will try until you succeed. Sinmur needs an army to lead. 

Thallik Wormfather
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2535)
	Here Lies Grethel
Vigilant guardian of all Thanes' holds.

From her two towers on high,

did she watch over eastern Skyrim.

She cleansed the roads of ruffians,

and all bandits feared her name ….
		

		Part of the Mysteries and Clues collection (#2536)
	Eldbjorg's Needed Ingredients
14 Dremora Toes (preferably "pinky" toes)

12 Cured Kwama Skins 

3 Life-size Orchicalc Skeever Statuettes 

2 bowls of Molding Merringar Chowder

7 Werewolf Nosehairs (can substitute another lycanthrope!)

12 horn-fulls of green-dyed cotton

25 Seadrake feathers

1 Fossilized Dwarven Fingernail

3 drams of a Bosmer Maiden's Blood

2 barrels of Vampire Dust

3 locks of curly Wyress hair (blonde or brunette, not black)

3 Unfinished Grimoires

1 Filled Lich Phylactery

28 Khajiit Tails

4 Moistened Hagraven Lips (upper and lower)

3 Iron Ingots
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2537)
	Sir Edmund's Letter
Fellow knights, no matter what Duke Nathaniel plots, we cannot betray our oath. Only if he moves openly will we move against him. If you stand with me, listen for the horn. 

-Sir Edmund
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2538)
	Wanted Poster
Wanted: <<1>>

For murder of Imperial soldiers and the theft and destruction of Imperial property. Any Redguard who sees this individual must report to the nearest Decanus. Compliance will be rewarded. Complicity will be punished.

Decreed by Governor Sadas Secundus
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2539)
	Note from Razum-dar
Hello, impatient friend!

You left before we could finish our business, but do not be worried. You are fitting right in, yes? In this, we are alike.

But alas, I am a busy Khajiit. I have no time to uncover why the dead rise in <<Ac:1>>. Nor why the Sea Vipers pick through smashed Dominion ships at <<2>>.

Perhaps you will know, one day soon. On that day, seek out the fine-looking Khajiiit by the bridge to <<3>> and I'll trade curiosity for coin.

Your new friend,

—Razum-dar
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2540)
	Xarxes
By Thandelieth

"I am to be married," she said aloud. "Xarxes, is this what I want? Or just what I must do?"

He rose from her book in silence, measuring her worth.

"Marriage joins two as one," he said. He wrote in the dirt with a dark oak staff, creating a river.

"This is one," Xarxes said. He wrote again. The terrain changed, splitting the river in two as it flowed over a newly-formed cliff. He stepped to its edge and beckoned to her.

"Two become one," he said softly in her ear, pointing over the edge at the twin falls joining together in a pool below.

"Should I marry then?"

"One can travel quite far alone, or together. Which do you prefer?"
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2541)
	Blue
The sea is beautiful. I come here to get away from the depths of the woods, to smell the salty air, and to be free.

Perhaps it's true that my father is Maormer. Perhaps.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2542)
	A Folk Tale
Lanalda danced through Valenwood, willing the leaves to change colors. Nothing happened, as she had no power over them.

She stomped her foot like an angry child, and saw the earth dimple beneath her. Enchanted, Lanalda stomped again and again, each time deepening the vale. When rain fell, she danced wildly within the dip she'd created.

Slowly, it filled with water. Lanalda danced gleefully, though the waters covered her. They say her unseen dance creates the ripples on the lake.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2543)
	Letter to Laenira
Dear Laenira,

Everything is as you instructed. Beware the wisps! They look like flowers, and I've had several close calls.

See you soon, love.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2544)
	Torn Page
My colleague, Aban, pressed his hands blue against its walls. He searched weeks for a hidden compartment, a loose stone; any way in. He found none.

I would kill for a way into Hel Ra Citadel, but they say no one has entered it in many lifetimes—that the entrance is barred and shielded by magical means.

I go now for the simple honor to do the same as Aban. Visiting such a storied landmark left by our ancestors will stir my soul, I'm sure.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2545)
	Torn Page
Trying to leave this alcove means death by beheading. Staying means death by whatever beast makes this place home.

Why this, why now? I swear I will haunt this place if I die here not knowing.

I've some arrows yet remaining. Perhaps it's time for Jenedusil's final stand. Yes, I think that's what I'll call this.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2546)
	Torn Page
The fiends who plague us may well have dropped from the sky. They came upon us midday, with the sun casting naught a single shadow. I have no idea how.

They move like men, kill like men, but don't speak. Can't be reasoned with.

We don't presently hear them, nor see them.

But they're there. They slayed scores of us in an instant, in a hail of arrows, and fire, and blades.

The others fear to move. If those things don't kill us out on this bridge, the sun will.

All you who read this, for I wish someone had told me: turn back. Turn and flee as fast as you can. Nothing good will come of approaching the Citadel.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2547)
	Tombs and Coffers Volume III: Hel Ra Citadel
Imperial historians, most notably Dubicius of the Colovian Highlands, speculate that Hel Ra Citadel was constructed sometime during the second Yokudan "Warrior Wave" as it swept into the Alik'r desert of western Tamriel. Most believe, as is obvious from its title, that it was built to protect the nearby Yokudan city, the name of which has been lost to sand and time. But the Yokudans did not name the Citadel; modern Tamriel did. The structure could have long predated the city it protects. It could have been a foothold for one or both invasions, it could have been one of many forts now lost, or even a fortressed training ground. In myth, sword saint training for maintaining "sword magic" was notoriously rigorous, and even an invasion force would require a space for that. Some say that where the Citadel now stands was first a Nedic fort, that the Yokudans conquered it, built on top of it.

 According to the Imperials, all anybody knows for certain is that the Citadel has been sealed since the Yokudan retreat. No one has ever been inside. There are claims and stories, of course, all false. Imperial records state the Empire has failed to enter, and expeditions by the Redguard themselves have failed to bypass the Citadel's front door. Be it through spellcraft, or a trick of its construction, no army or siege engine has ever been able to defeat those walls. What treasures, what ancient secrets could await inside? Will the Citadel's gates ever open?

Said Imperial Magistrate Albus:

No.
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2548)
	Letter to Artisans Craftworks
<<1>>,

I know you're busy, big brother, but I still haven't received the shipment you promised me! Please send my order as soon as you can or we'll have nothing to sell at the family shop.

Anyway, I can't wait until I get up to Mournhold. I want to see this wonderful forge you wrote us about. And I can't wait to meet all of the crafters and smiths that work for you!

All my love, dear brother!

—Blivisi
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2549)
	Letter to Ofglog
Ofglog gro-Barkbite,

The entire stronghold gathered around to see what you learned at that fancy college. We closed our eyes, just like you asked. You said some fancy words, and then … nothing. When we opened our eyes, you were gone.

Moramat opened her fool mouth and wondered if you'd turned invisible—and they all looked at me! Everyone knows you've been sniffing around my forge for years, and they know I've turned you away. Then Sharnag blurted out, "Looks like he finally came to his senses," and they all started laughing.

This is the last time you make a fool of me. Wherever you went, I hope you never come back. I hate you.

—Shakul
		

		Part of the None collection (#2550)
	Thozor's Diary
Entry 55

The Drublog won't let me in Dra'bul. They said I'm not Orc enough, that I spent too much time among the Bosmer. At least they let me set up a camp outside their gates.

Entry 56

Drublog bastards! There's a strangler not fifteen paces down the hill from where they told me to set up camp. I could have tripped over it last night.

I didn't notice until this morning. Strange that it left me alone as I slept. It's not dead—I can see it breathing. (Fluttering? Whatever it is they do.) I'll keep an eye on it. That thing moves and I'll fill it with arrows.

Entry 57

Woke up this morning to a monkey howling and carrying on. The little screecher tossed acorns at the strangler until it ran out.

The strangler did nothing, not even flicker its tendrils. Why didn't it spit poison at that monkey?

Entry 58

The monkey came back to throw more acorns. Still nothing from the strangler. Maybe it's docile.

Entry 59

Getting tired of that monkey.

Entry 60

I asked a Drublog about the strangler. He said it's called Gentle-Blossom. They told me to camp by it because it's harmless, but it scares off the senche-tigers. Not sure if I should believe him. 

Entry 61

The monkey threw an acorn at me. I put an arrow through its eye.

I tossed the monkey's body next to Gentle-Blossom. I thought the fresh meat might rouse it—him?—but still nothing. Is he sick?

Entry 62

I stepped within five paces of Gentle-Blossom. Nothing.

Entry 63

Three paces today. Nothing. The Drublog was right, he's completely harmless.

Entry 64

I caught some game this morning. I think I'll try to share some with Gentle-Blossom. I'd really like to see what he looks like when he feeds.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2551)
	Warning: Dugan the Red
The UNREPENTANT CRIMINAL known as <<Z:1>> was recently spotted near the <<Z:2>>.

If you must travel, stray no further north than the <<Z:3>> lest you end up CRUELLY MURDERED by this SAVAGE MARAUDER.

—<<Z:4>>

Fists of Thalmor, Velyn Harbor Detachment
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2552)
	Cover Every Approach
Head to <<1>>, near <<2>>. Avoid travelers as best you can. Watch the bridge. If you see any of the following dignitaries, send immediate word:

—<<3>>

—<<4>>

—<<5>>, traitor to his people

—<<6>>

—<<7>>

—<<8>>

The following individuals are be killed on sight:

—<<9>>, Vinedusk ranger

—Khajiit who goes by Daz, Dazum, Ruz, or similar name. Distinctive look, as previously discussed.

We must cover every approach.

<<10>>
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2553)
	She Is My Light
i shall give of myself

for what is love if not

sacrifice of my light

i am brighter than the rest

she will take my light first

i have more light than they

she is my light

<<z:1>>

come take my light from me
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#2554)
	A Subtler Brew
Entry 380

I'm unhappy with the latest batch. If we can't mellow the pungency for weaker stomachs, Redfur will supply yet another wedding. Three times in a row is enough!

Entry 381

Hoarvor dug up some of our nine-day casks. How many times have I said we need better pottery than <<1>> can provide?

Entry 382

Success! The hoarvor thorax sped up the fermentation. We'll need to boil it out before it curdles, but I think we're on schedule.
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2555)
	Matthild Built This Place
At sixty winters she left Skyrim for good

She found this place and made it her home

At sixty-one summers she built this place

She took only from the ground to make it

As is the custom in Valenwood

At sixty-two summers she met the Silvenar

She offered to teach the ways of her people

For she knew much of making things

At sixty-two winters she taught his people

She learned as much as she taught

And was loved by all her students

 

At eighty winters she went to Sovngarde

She left this place to all who would teach

And to all who would learn
		

		Part of the Research Notes collection (#2556)
	Closing The Octal Cage
or, A Defense Against the Planemeld

Unnatural anchors blight the skies of Tamriel. Those learned in such matters know they herald the Planemeld, a Daedric plot of unfathomable darkness.

But in times when all hope seems lost, the Eight Divines provide. We can salvage our future by looking to the past. <<A:1>> is our first bulwark against Molag Bal's devious plot!

The peculiar construction of this Ayleid ruin should be immediately apparent to a scholar of the Eight Divines. The symmetrical nature of its construction, the altar plate below the eight-tined arch, and the harmonic blending of tonal triptychs reveal the divine hand in its formation. Should one blow a large enough horn within the chancel's walls, its clarion call would be heard as far as <<2>>!

After extensive research, I believe this to be one piece of the long-rumored Octal Cage. There should be seven ruins identical to this scattered throughout Tamriel. Where, I do not know, but I shall locate them all. Then I will find the eight Hallowed Clarions mentioned in the apocryphal accounts of the Ayleid loss of Sancre Tor to Alessia.

A daunting task, but the Octal Cage was thought capable of sealing the Daedric Princes away from Nirn for good. Sounding a Hallowed Clarion in all eight ruins, all at the same time, may be enough to bring the Octal Cage to life.

I depart in the morning. If my task proves fruitless, so be it. We must all oppose the Harvester of Souls as best we can. Until then, any who calls the God of Schemes their enemy may avail themselves of my laboratory.
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2557)
	A Fortune Behind Those Walls
This pillar isn't just a cenotaph for Frandar Hunding. It's where his ancestors hid his treasures! Hunding was the greatest hero of Bhosek's people. Why he never tried to crack open the monument is beyond me. 

I don't know much about stonework. I can't exactly ask around, can I? If Bhosek catches wind of what I'm doing, he'll take it all for himself.

But how hard can it be? Hit the stone with a pick until it crumbles, then plunder everything inside. I'm sure to find a fortune behind those walls!
		

		Part of the None collection (#2558)
	The Fires Guide the Way
From this vantage, I see the lights that guide the way.

Look only to that which shines to show you the true way. Darkness only holds lies.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2559)
	Elenaire's Journal
Morning Star 2nd,

Today is the day I set offئitting for a Scour Day, I suppose. New Life, new roads, and all! I wonder if the Yokudans had an equivalent celebration, for it is the Yokudans I pay a visit:

I quest for the Hel Ra Citadel, a fabled fortress built by those vicious and mysterious ancestors of the Redguard. As the Ayleid ruins serve to my people as a window to my ancestors, so, too, do I expect the Citadel to teach me about Redguard culture.

They say no one has entered the Citadel in many lifetimes, though rumors of the cultural treasures waiting inside have reached my ears. I flush to think of them.

Sun's Dawn 3rd,

And so I arrive! The roads of Tamriel are as treacherous as everشhe wildlife especially. The Welwas of Craglorn are akin to my Bosmer cousins: fetid, petulant, and possessing of lethal denture. But at last I spy the stone spires of Yokudan architecture. The Citadel must be just up ahead.

Sun's Dawn 4th,

I can barely keep the quill straight as I pen this, but, for the first time in what must be a millennia, the antechamber that precedes the Citadel has opened! I'll see to it that someone alerts the Mages Guild, the Merethic Society, the Stargazersءll of Tamriel! Once I survey it, of course.

One of the many legends that surround Hel Ra Citadel claims the Yokudans used it as a training ground for their Ansei (literally "sword saints")آlade masters capable of dazzling feats. In myth, the Ansei required much meditation and training to form their Shehai, supernatural blades constructed out of sheer force of will.

I think the antechamber preceding the road to the Citadel gives credence to the story, as do the ancient weapons left on the dais here (and not a single one marred by rustذerhaps a magical property of the chamber?) According to legend, Ansei wishing to earn the elite title of First Rank were required to give up their most treasured weapons and war materiel before undertaking the grueling initiation ritual. If they succeeded, they would no longer need conventional weapons.

My friends say I have spent too much time researching the Yokudans and that I should find a husband. I think they are envious of my magnificent brain.

Terms:

Yokeda- Leader? Lord of war?

Hel Shira- Blade Noble?

Yarban- A measurement of time? Unsure. Archaeologist, not a bean counter.

Anka-Ra- Former warrior? Old warrior?

Kotu- Weapon? Edge?

Sun's Dawn 5th,

Fascinating as the antechamber has proven to be, it's time I gleaned the Citadel itself. What could await me there? Mirimdin's Ninth Blade? The Shehai of a First-Rank Ansei? I carry no sword, but I shall leave my journal here, as the Ansei left their swords. Perhaps, like them, I'll find the means to form my own Shehai.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2560)
	Jofnir's Journal
I've done all I can. For now, I've salvaged what I could of the situation. Took a few relics as trophies. I should be back out in the light soon enough.

I can put these lessons to good use the next time I visit Ragnthar. The Dwemer constructs will set watch, keep the place safe. I don't want any visitors. The next time we meet, I'm going to end this. I can't let this go on any longer.

I'll stop in Bergama, see if I can't get a few supplies for the next trip. Maybe some mead. It's been far too long since I had a decent brew.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2561)
	Shrine of Mara
At this altar to the Goddess of Love you can use a Ring of Mara to espouse your beloved.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2565)
	Defaced Nedic Prayer Book
A Prayer for Mercy

To the heavens above, we raise our eyes, our hands, and our hearts.

Do not turn your light away from us, not in our hour of need,

Instead, send forth the brightness of Aetherium and illuminate the darkness of the night.

You who bring order to the seasons,

Ever-shining Guide to the weary traveler.

Have mercy on us. 

Protect us from the invader who ravages, the famine that wastes, the fire that burns,

And lead your faithful ones toward your promised glory.

____

A Prayer for Those Who Have Pledged Their Souls to the Stars

These Souls we offer, the light of frail bodies

To the ever-burning light of the heavens.

Guide these Souls through the long night

And let them not stumble in their ascent

Up the Golden Stair.

Take these Souls, freely given,

As an offering of holiness,

And a pledge of faithfulness from your people.

Do not forget us in our hour of need,

But be for us Guardians,

As long as faithfulness endures.

____

Warrior's Prayer

Greatest Guardian, Shining Warrior

Gird your armies with strength,

And let their spears fly true.

For the strength of your arms is great,

And the enemy trembles at the sight of your mighty shoulders.

Do not let us succumb to fear,

But only set your aegis before us and we shall stand unconquered.

____

Thief's Prayer

[The remaining pages have been torn out. In the back of the book, someone has scrawled the following:]

Oh, bastard stars,

Born in a brothel.

Your mother was a lewd woman.

Your father had a disease.

Men worshipped you and lost the appetite for love.

Women cried out to you and grew beards.

You led your children into pits,

And let them wander into snares.

The Elves slaughtered them and took their women for concubines.

The Mer mocked them and took their men for slaves.

Their blood is on your hands,

It runs in rivers from your lips.

Oh silent stars, oh merciless stars,

Behold your reckoning is at hand;

At hand is the judgment for your transgressions.

The Mother of the Water has risen in the desert

And the Deathlands have brought forth flowers.

Let the people turn away from false lights;

Let them embrace true mercy.

For I have slept a thousand nights and never dreamed,

But by day I have heard the glorious singing

Of Shada and her Daughters, hope to all the Nedes.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2566)
	Tishi's Research Notes
Symptoms: Increased strength and constitution, followed by disorientation and eventual madness. Rambling statements characterized by multiple references to someone called "Shada."

Cause: The discolored water in the ruin of Shada's Tear appears to afflict any who drink it.

Experimental Cure: A concoction of somnalius fern to calm the mind quierts the afflicted for a time, but rambling resumed thereafter.

Experimental Treatment One: Poison introduced to induce vomiting after water consumption, but vomiting did not alleviate symptoms.

Experimental Treatment Two: Applied ginko and aloe to forehead to stimulate humors in the brain, but produced no noticeable effect.

Experimental Treatment Three: Attempted to purify the water through boiling and adding various neutralizing reagents, but curse remains intact.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2567)
	Targa's Note
Dearest Anya,

I must first request that you burn these letters after reading them. I am sorry I have not written at more length or with more frequency, but trouble follows me like a cub chases its mother.

It is difficult for me to commit to words what I have experienced these many months away from you. Difficult, because each day my thoughts slip nearer to blasphemy.

Our Glorious Emperor has taken us north into the place the barbarian peoples call the Deathlands. It is as inhospitable as the name suggests, unfit for any person to live in. But our Illustrious Emperor presses on, bent on the promise of a city of shimmering waters in the middle of the desert and mad dreams of an immortal army.

See? My pen betrays me. But what else can I call our Inscrutable Emperor's plan? A warrior's reward is eternal glory and rest for his weary body, but what of the warrior who is denied rest? What comfort is there for such a soldier?

Our Resplendent Emperor would deny us death for his own glory. He would profane our bodies by having them rise again in unnatural forms to fight for him across the ages. Once again, my words form the foulest blasphemies.

In truth, I know that it is not our Marvelous Emperor who errs (I do not allow the possibility), but that foreigner who is by his side, always breathing corruptions into his ear. He stinks of ambition and his words cloy with false flattery.

Still, this will be the last time I write to you dearest Anya. The error lies, ultimately, in myself. For though I am pledged to follow my master into death, I am unwilling to follow him after. When I am finished penning this letter, I will take the honorable course and die by my own sword.

I beg you destroy this letter when you receive it, lest our Celestial Emperor perceive that you share in my guilt.

Yours ever and always,

Targa
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2583)
	Merchants, Scoundrels, Thieves
Being an account of the Dragonstar Caravan Company

by Garold Farfly

It's well-known that the settlements of present-day Craglorn were founded by a ragged and unsavory lotأriminals fleeing the close watch of the Imperials in Cyrodiil, indigents from the cities of Shornhelm and Evermore, and adventure-seekers looking to escape the comfort and confines of civilization.

Nowhere is this black origin more plain than in the morals on display on the streets of Belkarth. Little more than a hub of unscrupulous merchants, thieves, and black market smugglers, the only government in Belkarth appears to be the will of the scoundrels of the Dragonstar Caravan Company.

In Belkarth, all manner of vices are tolerated and everything is for sale. As an example of this depravity, I need only cite the now well-known tale of Madriga. The daughter of a beloved and respected Crown, Madriga was seized from her home in Evermore as payment for debts her father's steward had incurred from agents of the Dragonstar Caravan Company. She was spirited off to the treacherous reaches of Craglorn, where she resurfaced, ten years later, as a barmaid in the Crossroads Tavern.

Now the grown woman Madriga in no way resembled the demure and beautiful child of her father's household. Indeed, she had grown into a haughty, promiscuous woman, little better than the local strumpets with their brazen demeanors. When guards from her father's household were sent to bring her home so that she might be restored to her family and married into a noble and honorable estate, it is said that she exclaimed, "No, thank you. The wages are better here."

I relate to you this tale so you will be warned if ever you have occasion to deal with the Dragonstar Caravan Company. These so-called merchants have no regard for the noble and established orders that have so long flourished in civilized society. Their only master is gold, and they allow neither honor nor decency to intervene in their service to their master.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2584)
	The Flourishing of Elinhir
Being an Account of the City of Mages

by Garold Farfly

The one place in Craglorn where the light of civilization can be said to shine is the gleaming city of Elinhir. 

Instantly recognizable by its ancient mage towers, monuments to a strange and foreign age before Elf or Yokudan laid eyes on Craglorn, Elinhir stands as a testament to the civilizing power of the scholar and the mage on an otherwise wild population.

Until the beginning of the Second Era, Elinhir was little more than a wild, lawless backwater. Like most of Craglorn it was settled mainly by those unfit for life inside the Empire. As such, it was a dangerous place, lacking true leadership or even laws to govern it, and constant prey to the predations of bandits and Iron Orc raiders from the mountains.

Early in the Second Era, however, a group of mages led by the illuminated Felix "Blackcaster" Augustus, left the comfort and confines of the Mages Guild to practice their arts in Craglorn. 

Common myth suggests that Blackcaster and his mages were nothing more than unruly, morally questionable, and undisciplined hedge mages, rebelling against Mages Guild authority. This tale is perpetuated by the lawless element that still lingers in Craglorn. They would have you believe that the mages that first settled in Elinhir were no more a civilizing influence than the bandits who regularly raided the city. 

This could not be farther from the truth! One need only comb the archives of the Mages Guild in the Imperial City to learn that Felix Blackcaster was, in fact, a guild member of high standing. His leaving the guild had nothing to do with any disagreement in discipline or practice, but with the desire to set out to new territories beyond the guild's reach. Correspondence shows that Blackcaster remained in constant communication with his superiors in the guild as late as ten years after the Apex Accord was signed by the leaders of Elinhir.

This correspondence sheds ample light on the situation Blackcaster and the other mages found on their arrival in Elinhir and the lengths to which they went to persuade the unruly populace to accept their leadership and protection. I will not go into exhaustive detail, but I will summarize. Blackcaster and his mages, intrigued by the sight of the then-empty Apex Towers in the city, had previously pleaded with the town's mayor (he was really more of a warlord) for access to the towers. Having been denied multiple times, they were despondent and about to give up their quest. 

Their fortunes shifted, however, when Iron Orcs came down from the mountains and laid siege to the city. Using their considerable power, Blackcaster and his mages drove off the Orcs, quickly winning the love of the fickle people of Elinhir. They acclaimed Blackcaster their new mayor and shortly after the Apex Accord was struckءn agreement that stands to this day and states that the mages of Elinhir's Apex Towers will provide protection for the city for as long as the city supports them in the operation of their mages' academy.

Some have argued that the appearance of the Iron Orcs is not all it seemed. They have even gone so far as to declare that Blackcaster and his mages made a deal with the Orcs in order to win over the people of Elinhir. I find this suggestion both dubious and insulting. Such trickery would have been beneath one of Felix Blackcaster's stature and reputation, not to mention the fact that the Iron Orcs are notoriously intransigent in matters of cooperation and negotiation.

The truth is that from the time of the Apex Accord until now, Elinhir has flourished under the guidance and protection of the Blackcaster mages, becoming a prominent center of civilization in the wilderness of Craglorn.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2585)
	Orcs of Tamriel, Volume 3
By Grassius Vilco

We come now to the "Iron Orcs" of Craglorn. I was shocked to find that almost no scholarly work on the subject exists. It did not take me long to find out why.

Studying the Iron Orcs proved to be a difficult endeavor given that they are uniformly hostile toward anyone perceived to be an outsider. "Hostile" is an understatement in this case: during my time in Craglorn I routinely found bodies hacked and cleaved, then pinned to trees with crude iron nails. This was unsettling, but informative. What could drive such brutality, I wondered. As with most things, the answer lay in the past.

Study of ancient Orcish cave paintings and Nedic ruins revealed a surprising number of stylistic similarities. These shared motifs clearly indicate a rich cultural exchange between primitive Orcs and Nedes. Abandonment of this shared symbology appears to have been gradual, indicating a prolonged period of estrangement. Conflicts became more common and intense during periods of rapid Nedic advancement in metal and stonecraft. Numerous Nedic frescos depict armored warriors in conflict with unarmored Orcs. We can only assume that these paintings depicted actual military victories against their less developed neighbors. 

At some point in the late Merethic Era, a fundamental rearrangement of Iron Orc civilization occurred.  What had been a largely peaceful, shamanistic society rapidly transformed into a community of miners, smiths, and warriorsحuch more in keeping with the conventional Orsimeric narrative. There were some notable differences, however. The Iron Orcs adopted a warfare methodology that was almost bestial in nature. My associates and I discovered a series of mass graves filled with corpses in every state of disrepairآroken spines, shattered skulls, cracked ribcages. Most of these injuries were sustained after the killing blow, and many of the corpses bore no weapons or armor of any kind.

I believe the evidence we uncovered in Craglorn paints a compelling narrative. The Iron Orcs (whose reverence for stone persists to this day) were driven to mining and war by a desperate need to defend themselves and the pristine stones they worshipped. In taking up the pick and spade, they were committing a dreadful blasphemy. Anger eventually gave way to hatredسpecifically for the Nedes who drove them to this sacrilege. If this interpretation is accurate, we can conclude that Iron Orc anger is anger of the most dangerous kind: anger driven by self-loathing. In order to protect their culture and the stone they worship, they had to twist both into something dark and horrifying. I fear that it is an anger and quiet sadness too dark and deep to ever truly recover from. We can only hope for a cultural shift from within their own ranks. I suspect we will be waiting a long time.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2586)
	Nedes of the Deathlands
by Argus Mender

Is it possible then that everything they taught us as children was wrong? That buried beneath rock and sand, hidden from view by the monuments of conquering Yokudans, is more than just the detritus of a barbaric and underdeveloped people?

This is the claim Sali'ma at-Muhay makes in his latest work of scholarship on the Nedes and their presence in Hammerfell, and he presents some compelling new evidence to support this claim. In studying the mage towers in Elinhir closely, he has concluded that these towers are not of the right age to be of Yokudan fabrication, nor do they use the same stone-crafting techniques employed by the Ayleids. In some regards, they resemble Dwemer handiwork, but only in a crude way. From this, at-Muhay concludes that these towers were not a lost form of high Yokudan architecture transplanted from the Yokudan homeland, but are in fact, the remnants of a Nedic civilization.

If at-Muhay's conclusions are right, then the Nedes were much more organized and advanced than historians have previously thought. Elinhir's towers could only have been crafted by an advanced culture adept at stonework.

These towers have been occupied since the Blackcaster mages established their academy in Elinhirسo why is at-Muhay the first to propose this startling theory?

This author posits that historians are not without their blind spots, and that the Nedes are certainly among the biggest. The reasons for this are many:

In the first, the Nedic people had a history of falling prey to conquering armies. The Dwemer, the Ayleids, and the Yokudans all proclaimed themselves masters of the Eastern Hammerfell Nedes at some point. It was in the interests of these conquering peoples to justify their conquests by proclaiming the Nedes a backward people worthy only of enslavement.

In the second, the Nedes as a distinctive people disappear from the historical record shortly after Ra Gada, and by then the records that exist are few and scattered. By the time the first Yokudans set foot on the shores of Hammerfell, the Nedic culture was already fading, and the people were scattered and broken. Most of the Nedes had long since migrated and intermingled with the other races of Tamriel, virtually fading from existence.

It's vital that we take this new theory about the Nedes seriously. I suspect that the remote region of Craglorn will bear much fruit for future researchers interested in exploring the extent of Nedic civilization, as it has undergone the least change in the time since the last Nedes disappeared.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2587)
	Tales of Abba Arl: The Ox's Tale
One day the children of the People came to Abba Arl and asked, "Who are our parents?"

Abba Arl replied, "The People have not two parents but four, and they are as follows. The great Dragon of Time, who set the stars in their courses and appointed the guardians to watch over the world. The Mother Serpent in the curve of whose back the world rests. The Fat Mother who nourished the People when they were lost and starving. And the Ox who bears the People on his back to their final rest. Many tales tell the story of the four parents."

The children said to Abba Arl, "Tell us of the end first. Tell us of the Ox who bears the People on his back to their final rest."

And this is the tale Abba Arl told.

"Before the People settled in cities, they followed the herds of wild beasts that roamed the wilderness and hunted them for food. One of these hunters was named Colvy, and one day while he was hunting he happened upon a calf. The calf was so young it could not yet walk, and its mother was dead beside it.

"The hunter Colvy took pity on the calf and brought it home to his hut. He fed it the wild grains he had foraged from the fields, the berries that grew in the shrubs, and the sweet leaves of trees.

"And the calf became like a son to Colvy, like one of his own family. And even after the calf was grown, the hunter could not bear to kill and eat it, so he kept it with him, by his side. And the calf, who was now a mighty ox, loved the hunter as a father and a mother both. Nightly, the ox stood watch by Colvy's hut and alerted him to danger. In return, the hunter protected the ox against predators.

"And it came to pass that one day, when Colvy was hunting, he fell into a nest of snakes and was badly bitten. And he said to the ox, 'I am bitten and dying, you should leave me and join with the other wild herd beasts and run across the fields.'

"But the ox replied, 'You are like a father and a mother to me. I will not leave you.'

"So the ox waited by the hunter's side until late into the night when, venom-sick and weary, the hunter finally died.

"And when the ox saw that the hunter, who had been like a father and a mother, had died, the ox lowed with such force that the plains shook and the herd beasts scattered in fear.

"And then the ox took Colvy on his back, went to the other hunters, and said, 'This man found me as a calf. When my mother was dead, he fed me and raised me into a mighty ox. He is like a father to me and also a mother, and dearer to me than life itself. 'He fell into a nest of snakes, and the serpents bit him and inserted their venom into his blood. And in the night, he died.'

"On hearing the ox's speech, the other hunters replied, 'What do you expect us to do? We are just hunters. We know nothing about anything. Our own dead we leave in the fields, to be eaten by birds.'

"The ox replied, 'It is not right that the body of this noble hunter should be left in the open, to be eaten by birds. Build a pyre and lay his body on top of it. And when the hunter is burned, take me and kill me and cook my flesh on the pyre. Eat this feast in memory of this noble hunter, and I shall follow him into the next world and bear him to the afterlife, just as he once bore me into his hut when I was only a calf and could not yet walk.'

The hunters saw wisdom in the ox's words, and they thought also of the great feast that the mighty ox would provide, so they did as they were told.

And seeing the loyalty of the ox to Colvy, the hunters followed his example and began to herd the wild beasts, so that they would not need to follow them all over the world, hunting them. And to this day, whenever a great hunter dies, an ox is slaughtered and a feast is held. Then the bones of the ox are laid upon the pyre to carry the dead into the afterlife."

When Abba Arl had finished his tale, the children clapped their hands and said, "This is good. Thank you to the Ox, our fourth parent."
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2588)
	Waterlogged Journal
In the market square today everyone is talking about rumors from the coast. Ships spotted, they say, full of invaders. The same invaders, they say, that have recently come to the southern Deathlands.

It seems like every day there is some new invader. We have withstood previous attackers. Our water is coveted in the desert, but the rock and sand protect usءnd so do the Nereids. I do not think this time will be any different.

׍

Word comes that the invaders are unrelenting. Their leader has a name. Tarish-Zi. It's an ugly name, I say, but Merrina wonders what it matters if the name is ugly? I am not worried about being conquered by a general with an ugly name.

׍

Today General Zal'ik made an announcement. Tarish-Zi and his army are coming, but the Nereids have pledged to protect us. He told us not to worry, but I wasn't worried, anyway.

׍

The city is in panic. Word reached us that the forces Zal'ik sent to meet the oncoming enemy were slaughtered. Not a soldier survived except for one wounded lieutenant, sent to bring word of Tarish-Zi's coming. They say the enemy's army is immortal. They say Tarish-Zi himself is immortal. I don't believe it, but for the first time I feel anxious about this impending attack.

׍

General Zal'ik ordered everyone to take up arms in defense of the city, so I fashioned a mace from a broom handle and an old hammer. (The blacksmith is overtasked and there are not enough weapons to go around for all of us.)

Everywhere there is a sense of foreboding, that this really is the end. Our city, which has weathered so many invasions, will finally fall. But there is also a feeling of deep friendship. The petty squabbles that used to fill the marketplace with so much noise have been replaced with words of friendship and encouragement. If we will die, we will die together.

׍

Rumor is that General Zal'ik has turned to the Nereids for help. Everyone hopes that Shada and her daughters will intervene on our behalf. Our only hope requires a miracle.

[The rest of the journal is too waterlogged to be legible.]
		

Failed at /books/2589Failed at /books/2590Failed at /books/2591Failed at /books/2592Failed at /books/2593Failed at /books/2594Failed at /books/2595Failed at /books/2596Failed at /books/2597Failed at /books/2598Failed at /books/2599Failed at /books/2600Failed at /books/2601Failed at /books/2602Failed at /books/2603		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2604)
	Yamanu-ko's Letter to Her Apprentice
Faithful Apprentice,

I trust you have made the arrangements with our new allies. I look forward to meeting them at the appointed location in the ruin of Balamath.

As for Kelmen Locke, he will not pose a problem. He fled when the atronachs turned, and our helpful allies have arranged for him to be kidnapped by bandits. He will not interfere with our plans.

I must ask you to keep an eye on your fellow apprentices, however. I have concerns that Minerva Lauzon is wavering in her support of our deal.

Your Master,

Yamanu-ko
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2605)
	Tales of Abba Arl: The Fat Mother
One morning, Abba Arl asked the children 'Do you know of our parent, the Fat Mother?'

The children shook their heads and said, 'No, Abba. We do not know about the Fat Mother. Will you tell us about her?'

Abba nodded and told this tale.

"Before the People took to harvesting, they ate nothing but the meat from the wild beasts of the fields. One morning, the hunters went out and could not find any wild beasts to eat. And so the chief told his people, 'We have killed all the beasts and have nothing to eat. We must leave this place and find more beasts elsewhere.' 

"And so it came to pass that the People packed their belongings and began to wander in search of food. One of these wanderers was called Orsa, and she was shunned by the People. They shunned her because she was fat and not pleasant to look at. 

"One day, the People arrived at the foot of a tall mountain. They began to cry out, 'We are so hungry! If we do not eat soon, we will surely die. We cannot climb this mountain without food!' 

"Hearing this, Orsa stepped forward and said, 'People, you have shunned me, but I love you still. Come and drink from my left breast that you might have the strength to climb the mountain.' The People were greatly pleased by this and suckled their fill. With bellies full of milk, the People climbed the mountain and did not perish. Even so, they still treated Orsa poorly.

"Days passed and the People came upon a river. Again, they cried, 'We are so hungry! If we do not eat soon, we will surely die. We cannot ford this river without food!'

"And so Orsa said, 'Still you shun me, but still I love you. Come and drink from my right breast that you might have the strength to ford the river.' Once again, the People greedily drank their fill. They swam across the river and not one of them perished. Even after this, the People spurned Orsa and would not share her company.

"More time passed, and the People reached the edge of a great desert. Once again, the people cried out, 'We are so hungry! If we do not eat soon, we will surely die. We cannot cross this desert without food!' 

The People looked to Orsa for help. 'Won't you feed us again, fat woman?' the people asked. 

"'I cannot' said Orsa. 'You drank from my left breast at the foot of the mountain, and my right breast at the bank of the river. I have no more milk to give.' 

"The People were greatly disturbed by this and fell to their knees weeping.

"That night, Orsa prayed to the stars saying, 'Oh stars, what shall I do? I have no more milk to give my people. We will surely perish without food.'

"The stars spoke back, saying, 'Orsa. Why do you cry for the People? Do they not spurn you and make cruel jokes at your expense? Surely it would be better if they died so that you would be spared the pain of living with them.'

"'No.' said Orsa. 'I have no husband because I am fat and not good to look upon. I have no children of my own. These people have become my children and I must care for them.'

"And so the stars took pity. 'Orsa, we shall help you care for the People, and we shall give you many children, but you must make a promise.'

"'Anything!' cried Orsa.

"The stars replied, 'If any of the People treat you poorly, even for a moment, you must strike them. They must be reminded to treat you well.'

"'I promise that I will do this,' said Orsa.

"With that, the stars wove their strongest magics and transformed Orsa into a great fat bee. The People learned to eat the honey from her hive and lived on to see their new home across the desert. But the Fat Mother kept her promise. If the People treated her poorly, Orsa and her many children would sting them to remind them of their good fortune. And so it is with us.'"

When Abba finished his tale, the children smiled great smiles and asked the Abba for a big gob of honey from the Fat Mother.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2606)
	A Citizen's Petition
Lady Yamanu-ko,

It has been a week since my husband disappeared on the road near Haddock's Market and nothing has been done. It is bad enough that you permit a black market to operate so close to the trade road, but your complete lack of concern for the citizens of your city is appalling.

Need I remind you of the Blackcaster Accord? The Mages of Elinhir exist at the sufferance of the people, in order to protect them. Where was your protection when my husband went missing?

I especially do not appreciate the insinuation in your last letter (written by one of your students, I assume) that my husband fell afoul of the local wildlife. He is a skilled tracker and hunter. The only beasts he's fallen prey to are those murderers and bandits outside our gates.

A concerned citizen,

Adan Kordrel
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2607)
	Mystic Visions of the Guardians
I went to the desert where the sky is impossibly big and the heavens appear so close you can touch them. I can't begin to describe the kinship I feel with those lights as they waltz across the night in harmonious movements.

The desert provides a harsh existence. Food and water are hard to come by, and many times I have relied on the good fortune of a traveling merchant or another traveler, joining me by my campside and trading some meager portion of food in exchange for a word of wisdom or a story.

But I find that as my body grows lean and strong, my vision becomes clear. Every piece of me that is not necessary, that chains me to this too-solid form, slips away. I slough it off, like a serpent shedding its skin.

In this state, I have seen many wonders and undergone many temptations. I have ridden astride a coursing steed into battle alongside the Warrior at his apex. I have seen the Mage take her many forms, shifting from beautiful Elven woman to bearded old man and back again. Late at night, she whispers to me the secrets of the Principle of Change, which is pure magic. And on many restless nights I have chased the Thief, who, fleet of foot, remains just out of grasp, always escaping into the pale light of the dawn just as I think myself victorious. I have seen each of the Guardians in turn and found them beautiful and terrible to behold.

But through it all there has been a presence, unsettling and powerful. A distant enemy who wants to blot the stars from the sky and render the world in bloodshed and chaos. I have felt his presence when, pushed to the edge of madness by hunger or thirst, I considered taking the life of a lone traveler so that I might eat. Almost nightly, he tempts me with dreams of gloryؤreams of plucking the stars from the sky and returning to the civilized lands of Tamriel as a god.

Of all my night visitors, it is this one who seems to me to be most like myself. And for this reason, I fear him more than all the others.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2608)
	Blackcaster Notice
Notice

Citizens of Elinhir are advised to stay clear of the ruins known as Molavar. 

Volcanic activity has been detected in the region since the defection of the atronachs, and we cannot guarantee the safety of any who venture there. 

Approach the area at your own risk.

ؔhe Blackcaster Mages
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2609)
	Selene's Letter
Miles,

You need to talk to Frederick. He insists on joining the Blackcasters. He won't listen to me. He has always resented our marriage. But you're his father. He admires you and you understand him better than I ever have. Please. Talk to him.

Selene
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2610)
	Frederick's Letter
Father,

I know you and Selene will not approve, but I must do what I must do. Magic is the one thing that gives me satisfaction. I am not made for laboring at a workbench or in a market stall, and I can't wield a sword.

Please don't think I'm callous about what happened to mother. I remember her every day and miss her terribly. But magic can be used for wonderful things. We don't need to let our grief for mother keep us from doing the right thing. 

I know that mother would want me to be happy. By this time next week, I'll be an apprentice Blackcaster. I hope you understand. 

Frederick

P.S. Tell Selene that I'm grateful for all she's done.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2611)
	Grazzar's Threat
Jorgubb,

You think it's this simple? You run away and change your name and you think we won't find you?

I advise you to rethink the situation, old friend. Meet us at Chiselshriek Mine in a fortnight's time, or we will tell your new friends at the Dragonstar Caravan Company all about your old exploits. 

I wonder how they'll react to finding out you're the Butcher of the High Rock Road? 

Cordially,

Grazzar
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2612)
	A Werewolf Hunter's Advice
Son,

If you want to go to Hircine's Haunt, I can't stop you. But take my adviceطerewolves never hunt alone. If you confront a lone werewolf, do not make the mistake of engaging it by yourself. The individual is never far from the pack, and the pack is always hungry.

Werewolves, for all their bloodlust and brute strength, are crafty creatures. Their howl can not only summon other werewolves, but also calls forth regular wolves. In some rare cases, the howl can even call bears into the fray. It is incredibly easy to be outnumbered by a lone werewolf. 

The best advice this seasoned werewolf hunter can give you is this. Cut the beast's throat before it can howl and call others to its side. 

Yours in love,

Mother
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2613)
	Treasure Hunter's Note
After fifteen years of near-constant searching, I believe I have finally located it. I found the Dwarven stronghold of Rkundzelft and, of course, its legendary vault! 

They said I was foolish. They said there could be no Dwarven treasures remaining, that they had been plundered by bandits or lost to time. They were wrong! 

I set out tomorrow. In a week's time, I'll be richer than King Faharajad himself! And everyone who laughed at me will bend over backwards when they see the gold this will earn me.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2614)
	Trumbull's Note
Cal,

I've got a buyer for five soul gems and five skyshards. He's offering a premium price. I mean, you could buy Glenumbra with this kind of gold! Well, maybe not all of Glenumbra, but you get my point. Wealth for your sons and your sons' sons, and all that.

Now, I don't know where you're going to find these things, and I don't care. But you're going to find them. Right? We need this score.

Trumbull
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2615)
	Treasure Hunter's Journal
3rd Frostfall 

I've been tricked and led astray! There's no hoard here, no heaps of gold. Just cogs and springs and hissing pipes. What a fool I've been! I can't despair, though. There has to be something of value in this place. Something hidden. I'll find it. I've worked too hard to turn back now.

4th Frostfall 

I've found a book. No small feat given how many of those damned mechanical spiders are skittering about. The writing is so small and smudged, but it looks like plans for building something. Something big. Whatever it is, I'm usre it's in here somewhere. It just has to be!

6th Frostfall 

Stendarr's mercy, there are so many of them. Those huge walking machines. Lucky for me, they clank and thud louder than wagon-wheels on cobblestone. 

They know I'm here. Their patrols are becoming more frequent. They've got to be protecting something. What a stroke of luck! No one protects something unless it has value. I may make my fortune yet!

8th Frostfall

It's found me. By the Eight, it's huge! It hears everything. Even quill strokes on paper! I'm never going to make it out of here alive. Mara help me! 

If you're reading this, don't go any farther. Let it sleep. Don't wake it up.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2616)
	Glorious Balamath
Sing, O muse, of glorious Balamath,

Whose tireless song lilts then booms, 

Ebbing like thunder through panes of glass.

Great winds wake, 

'Neath gnarled bough and crumbled stone,

The sighs of long dead scholar-kings,

Breathing still through creaking bones.

Here the columns lurk unburdened,

Welkynds strain against a potent gloom.

Arches stand like arrows drawn,

The scholar's mark, the endless sky,

In whose depths the greatest storms 

Roar, snort, bluster,

Like great gray beasts

Waiting, yearning to be tamed.

In this place we find the power,

A hidden canyon of ancient stone 

Cradles, shelters, and conceals, 

The forgotten bellows of old Aldmeris.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2617)
	Aldmeri Court Transcript
Let it be known:

It is the judgment of this tribunal that the criminal known as Thaliel is guilty of all charges levied against her by representatives of the Thalmor state. 

She has been convicted on all counts. Her transgressions include:

- Seven counts of bribing a Thalmor official.

- Twelve counts of arcane tampering.

- Seventeen counts of murder in the first degree.

- Twenty-seven counts of murder in the second degree.

- Six counts of unauthorized necromancy.

- Two counts of destruction of ministerial property.

- Three counts of destruction of common property.

Finally, we have received a signed affidavit detailing Thaliel's treatment of those she murdered inflicted upon them after death. The court finds these behaviors consistent with the curse of vampirism. In penance for her heinous crimes, Thaliel will be imprisoned in the buried ruins of Molavar. There she will face a grim eternity of scorched stone, choking fumes, and torturous heat. Let her fate serve as a warning to all would-be necromancers and parasites. Auri-El does not suffer such crimes, nor do the Thalmor. Punishment, in all cases, will be prompt and severe.

Seventh Court of Aldmeri Justice
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2618)
	Foreman's Log
9th First Seed

Yield: 62 stone. One of the lads found something in the mine. Looks like a polished charm in the form of a woman. Broken though. One of the arms and the head look like they're missing. Kolat thinks he's going to sell it for a fortune. I told him that no one is going to buy a broken figurine from some mud-caked shaft-rat. But he left anyway. Need to remind the purse to cut Kolat's wages.

13th First Seed

Yield: 46 stone. Things have slowed farther down the shaft. Not exactly sure what the problem is. I sent a couple of workers down to check the supports. They've been down there a long time. I'd worry about a cave-in, but the only sound I've heard is wind and hisses. I hope they haven't found another gas pocket. Still have workers down with fire-lung.

22nd First Seed

Yield: 24 stone. Another three workers missing. I'm scared to send more lads down there, but we've got to find out what's happening. Going to mount a small expedition tomorrow. Me, Sorka, and Hasid. Let the record show that Heilsjor is acting foreman until I return.

1st Rain's Hand

Yield: 14 stone. This is Heilsjor taking over for Yorric. It's been slow going without the foreman and Sorka. Hasid's not worth much since he got back. Still mumbling about a "blue lady" or some such. Given the lack of manpower and the drop in morale, I've decided to close the mine for now. I'm leaving the log behind for any future occupants. Be careful. There's something down there. I'm not sure what, but it's dangerous. Mine at your own risk.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2619)
	Waylaid Traveler's Journal
8 Last Seed

We were warned that the roads of Craglorn were treacherous. We thought we would find safety in numbers among the caravans, but it turns out that the Dragonstar Caravan Company isn't as benevolent as we had hoped. They demanded a huge "transport fee" to assure our safety. We decided to take our chances and travel the side roads. We heard tales of bandits in the hills, but we are well armed and have our own guards. We should be fine.

10 Last Seed

So far, our decision has paid off. Our journey has been uneventful.

11 Last Seed

One of our guards says he heard howling in the night. Now all of the guards are frightened and demand more gold before continuing our journey.

14 Last Seed

The guards remain nervous, but we've spent less than what the Dragonstar Company demanded of us. Our venture remains profitable.

18 Last Seed

There was a storm today. Thunder and lightning and torrential rains. I thought this was supposed to be a desert? I guess it has to rain sometime, but it got so bad at times that we couldn't see the path in front of our feet.

After we were completely soak, we decided to take refuge in a cave. In the morning, we will start out again.

19 Last Seed

We all heard the howling tonight. Our guards have shown themselves for cowards and abandoned us. I can't wait to be rid of this foul cave, just as soon as the rain stops falling.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2620)
	Blacksmithing Basics
by Zeg gra-Dush

Orc forge-wives say they're the only ones who know how to smith. I say mudcrabs to that! I'll show you how to find ore, extract ingots from the ore, explain crafting styles, and then teach you how to craft a weapon. Soon enough, you'll call yourself a blacksmith.

Step 1: Get Some Iron Ore

Iron ore is the simplest to work, and easy to replace if you make a mistake. Look for rusty, dull rock near big rock outcroppings. Then you mine it. If you don't mine it yourself, buy it from people who mine it, or ask a friend to loan you some. When you have ten chunks of iron ore, you're ready for the next step.

Step 2: Refine Ingots

Find a blacksmithing station. Then make iron ingots from your ten chunks of iron ore. This is called "refinement." If you want to know why, ask a forge-wife.

Step 3: Choose A Style

Every race has a style of blacksmithing, and each favors a traditional material. I call this a "style material" because it's easy to remember. The Orc style works best for me, but I'm an Orc. If you're <<a:1>>, start with material for the <<1>> style. Blacksmiths sell them, if you can't find them anywhere else.

Step 4: Make An Iron Dagger

Iron daggers are easy to make. You need one style material, two iron ingots, and a steady hand with a hammer. When you have these things, find a blacksmithing station and craft an iron dagger. For better quality blades, use more ingots to make it. But for now, use two iron ingots.

Step 5: Admire Your Iron Dagger

Take a moment to admire your work. It's not "just an iron dagger." You pulled metal from the ground and forged into a tool that can end lives. Respect what you've made.

Forge-wives won't be impressed with your iron dagger, but what do they know? You're a blacksmith if you do the work, not if you marry into it. Remember: iron daggers today, ebony greatswords tomorrow.

Appendix: Advanced Smithing

If you really want to show up the forge-wives, you need to know more than just iron daggers.

Improving Weapons and Armor

Use a "temper" to improve weapons and armor you've smithed. I call them that because I can never find one when I need it. This always makes me lose my temper.

When you find one, bring it to a blacksmithing station with the item you want to improve. The more tempers you have, the greater the chance to improve the quality. But this is not a guarantee. If you do it wrong, you'll lose the tempers and the item.

Deconstruction

If you're short on materials, you can deconstruct them from weapons or armor. You'll destroy the item when you break it down, and you'll only salvage part of what went into making it, but it's a quick way to get ingots.

Researching Traits

One way to annoy a forge-wife is to buy her finest items, take them apart, and research the best traits of her weapons and armor. Then you can make copies of her best work and sell them for less. Do it all on her own blacksmithing station if you really want to make her angry.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2622)
	Opening Performance Notes
"One day, in full view of the n'wah, the mehra of Koal Canton Šand so he crushed some muckspunge pulp into a netch's tentacles."
		

		Part of the None collection (#2623)
	Follow-Up Performance Notes
"In response, the morag of Koal Canton released their kwama Šbled all across the anmor and poured their shein upon the ground."
		

		Part of the None collection (#2624)
	Closing Performance Notes
"Only when the mehra was burned in a sujamma molag Šthe mer was put to the dagon. The mora was safe to travel again!"
		

		Part of the None collection (#2625)
	The Coming of the Learned One Vol. I
Volume I

The learned one has begun work in the upper chambers that promises to be the most scintillating magic I have ever witnessed. It will consume the upper floors of the Archive, and I am among the stewards of the upper floors. I cannot think of a better way to die than writhing in the sorcery of the learned oneآut it means my time on Nirn grows brief.

Thus, I spend my final days recounting the learned one's arrival. What follows is a recollection of the Archive's defining moment. Though we built it intending to reach for Aetherius, it was a denizen of Aetherius who found us.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2626)
	The Coming of the Learned One, V II
Volume II

The learned one came to us with a booming roar like thunder, enveloped in a gleaming sheen. Hers was a foreign glimmer that filled the Chamber Prime for the first time in many years.

At first we were perplexed, dismayed, but mostly annoyed. We had the audacity to think we would deny her access to the Archive and its secrets. As if we had seen or touched or made anything in our pitiable tower that she couldn't best with a word.

We voiced our displeasure at her arrival, and bade her take leave of us. Angalin and Envaril continued their research as if nothing was amiss, squinting to read through the brightness.

Her light told us she was displeased. Its intensity grew, and in the moment, we thought she was Magnus come to Nirn, burning like a miniature sun. Vandore, Yanaril, and Tuintar were swallowed in her glow and never returned, leaving blasted streaks where they once stood.

The rest of us fell to our knees. Not in surrender, but in euphoric elation. Never had we glimpsed such wondrous magic.

We welcomed her, then. What choice did we have? We wept, and kissed her feet as she entered the tower.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2627)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 23
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

10 Frostfall, 2920

Phrygias, High Rock

The creature before them blinked, senseless, its eyes glazed, mouth opening and closing as if relearning its function. A thin glob of saliva burbled down between its fangs, and hung suspended. Turala had never seen anything of its kind before, reptilian and massive, perched on its hind legs like a man. Mynistera applauded enthusiastically.

"My child," she crowed. "You have come so far in so short a time. What were you thinking when you summoned this daedroth?"

It took Turala a moment to recall whether she was thinking anything at all. She was merely overwhelmed that she had reached out across the fabric of reality into the realm of Oblivion, and plucked forth this loathsome creature, conjuring it into the world by the power of her mind.

"I was thinking of the color red," Turala said, concentrating. "The simplicity and clarity of it. And then؉ 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؉ 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 goodbye. The witches were in love with the little Dunmeri 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.
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2628)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 24
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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 Dunmeri 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."
		

		Part of the Tales of Tamriel collection (#2629)
	The Year 2920, Vol. 24
2920: The Last Year of the First Era

By Carlovac Townway

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 seasickness. 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 Summerset. 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?"
		

		Part of the None collection (#2630)
	Coming of the Learned One, Vol. III
Volume III

In the beginning, the Learned One frequently graced the experiment halls.

That first day, her very presence sparked long-dormant casting circles to life all at once. Three of my subordinates were frozen solid in the Hall of Storms, lost in a sudden rush of magic.

A dozen more vanished in the Stairway of Flamesسo powerful was the fire that burst to life when the Learned One entered that there were no ashes, no sign that they had ever been. Twelve lives incinerated more efficiently than any spell I have ever constructed. It was beautiful.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2631)
	A Clothier's Primer
by the Shattered Masque

Future challengers! The Shattered Masque has fought far too many opponents who fail to realize the importance of proper footwear.

This basic primer will to teach you how to make a simple pair of homespun shoes. If we're to face each other in the Blessed Crucible, I want you to fall because of my unmatched skillخot your pathetic boot stitching.

Step 1: Acquire Jute

Raw jute is cheap, plentiful, and easy to weave.  Look for the distinctive yellow flowers in the wild. I suppose you could pay someone to pick them for you, and it's that kind of laziness I look forward to punishing in the arena.

Step 2: Refine Cloth

You can work with raw jute at any clothing station. Professional clothiers call this process "refinement," which can be done with any raw material. For now, you'll need ten raw jute plants to make the refined jute you'll need for shoes.

Unless working a loom is beneath you. Weakling.

Step 3: Style!

Clothiers from all across Tamriel have their own cultural style. You need style to make an impression in the dueling ring, so find the style material that's easiest for you to work. If you're <<a:1>>, start with material for the <<1>> style. Purchase it from clothiers or take them from your whimpering, defeated enemies.

Step 4: Craft Your Shoes

Bring your style material and five bolts of jute to a clothing station. (Rememberزefined jute, not raw jute plants.) Now, get to work and craft yourself a pair of homespun shoes. You can use more bolts for better quality shoes, but you should start with five bolts.

Easy work! As easy as it will be for me to crush your pathetic and deluded hopes of winning the Brimstone Crown.

Making Clothes the Shattered Masque Way

Any arena fighter worth their salt doesn't stop with a simple pair of shoes. Try making a pair of rawhide boots for added protection, or a colorful sash to make you stand out in the ring. If you get the hang of this clothier business, you'll even have a trade to fall back upon after I thoroughly humiliate you in front of everyone you've ever loved.

Improving Your Shoes

The art of improving the shoes you makeدr any other bit of clothing, reallyزequires you to work with tannins at a clothing station. If you aren't careful, you'll ruin the clothing and the tannins in the process. Use as many tannins as you think you'll need.

Find them on your own. I won't make everything easy for you.

Deconstruction

Maybe you're the kind of person who cuts corners. If you don't have time to collect raw materials, you can always deconstruct clothing you no longer need. This will destroy the clothing, but maybe you'll salvage enough to make a hat I can knock off your head.

Researching Traits

By now you're thinking. "I'll need an edge if I'm going dare to fight the Shattered Masque." You could always research unique traits of items made by better clothiers than you by taking their clothing apart and studying their techniques. Anything to boost your confidence long enough for me to stomp it into dust.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2632)
	Woodworking For Simpletons
by Hoary Durotzel, the Wood Butcher of Ska'vyn

Stop your dillying and your dallying, younglings. You're less than a pile of Goblin droppings unless you have a trade, and I ain't letting my kin stink up the cabin.

Today you learn how to work with wood. Now, stop your belly-groanin' and listen! Woodworkin' is an honest trade, and you're going to do right by old Hoary. I'll use tiny words so even Tebbons can follow.

First off, take this axe to the woods. Look for mossy logs near old stumps and rocks, and then chop me ten pieces of rough maple. What? Why is it calledנBecause it's rough, ye daft child! You'll need that much if you're to make something of anything.

Second, bring those ten rough maple pieces to a woodworkin' station. You're gonna turn those rough maple pieces into sanded maple. We in the trade call it "refinement." No, not sanding, refinement! Yes, you get sanded wood. No, that's not confusing at all!

ThirdנWould ye listen up? This is important! Ye can't just start carvin' away at sanded maple without a style in mind. Hmm? A style! Every race in Tamriel has their own style, and a material they prefer to work.

Them <<m:1>> craft materials in the <<1>> style, d'ye see? Now, ye buy the style material in town. From a woodworker, ye addlepatedנNo, it doesn't matter which one!

Lastly, your last task is takin' your style material and three sanded maple pieces to a woodworkin' station. Craft yerself a maple bow. Don't worry about the bowstring. I said, pay it no mind! Curvin' that bow like the leg of a bendy Wood Elf dancer is what you should try toנHmm? None of your concern!

What do you mean, "Is that all?" By the Eight Divines, of course that ain't all there is to woodworkin'! Ye can make better quality carpentry if more wood goes into an item's makin'. Even then, ye can improve it further.

I was gettin' to it! That maple bow isn't the best you can make it until you improve it with resins. You'll find 'em around. You know, "around!" But try to improve that bow without enough resin and you'll ruin the bow and waste the resin.

Yes, there'll always be maple in the woods. What do you mean? When are you going to be in a desert? Oh, for ŠAll right. You're in a desert, and ye can't find maple because you can't find the woods. But say ye have your maple bow. Bring it to a woodworkin' station and deconstruct some of what ye need from the bow itself. 'Course, ye lose the bow. We call this part "deconstruction"جike your sister's bad poetry, if ye could take a chisel to it.

How'd I get so good at woodworkin'? Research. No, not like reading. If I got my hands on a decent piece of carpentry, I'd take it apart and study the traits that made it special. Took me time, and I'd lose the carpentry when I pulled it apart, but once I'd worked out how the original woodworker done it, I could make it myself.

Now close your mouth, Tebbons, 'afore you swallow a fleshfly.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2633)
	Basic Provisioning Guide
by Cloelius Maluginensis

Supply Sergeant, Seventh Legion

In my twenty years as supply captain for the Seventh Imperial, I learned one absolute truth: provisioning is the same whether feeding yourself or an entire army. Per Magus-General Septima Tharn's request, I will share what I know to aid the provisioners of less accomplished legions.

Step 1: Acquire Ingredients 

When you are in the field, your backpack is the only pantry upon which your soldiers can rely. Requisition anything you can findإvery barrel, chest, or sack of grain should make its contribution to your cause.

As an Imperial soldier you have the right to requisition as much as you want, but use discretion. A citizen with an empty larder will have long memories of Imperial imposition. A single handful, scoop, or item from each barrel, chest, or sack is my simple rule.

Step 2: Acquire Recipes

Never forget that you are a provisioner, not a chef. You aren't cooking personal meals for the Duchess of Cheydinhal. It doesn't matter how the food tastes as long as it feeds your cohort. You want recipes that are fast, simple, and best made in bulk.

Take grilled capons, a meal that requires capon meat and drippings. It doesn't matter that you know the ingredients requiredطithout a proper recipe, they're just raw meat and grease. Locals always have their own ways to prepare local ingredients, so stay vigilant for recipes while requisitioning supplies.

Step 3: Cook, Cook, Cook 

Once you've learned a recipe, bring those ingredients to a cooking fire. Then cook them. Don't burn the food.

Remember to serve your cohort what it needs most. Scouts and skirmishers need roast goat. Mages in your cohort are best fed capon noodle soup. Infantry can always use trotter pie. Never forget that a hot meal can make the difference between life and death.

Addendum: Brewing On The Go

I hear enough questions about brewing to warrant its own section. I recommend you never keep more than a flask of fine brew with you. Your cohort will know it's a prize for those who truly distinguish themselves.

Yet sometimes the cohort needs liquid courage, such as before a battle or a parade review. This is when I brew horrible swill from local recipes, both to shock the soldiers into a state of confident readiness and to keep them from growing fond of the stuff.

Step 1 and Step 2 are identical to the similar steps for cooking. As for the third?

Step 3: Brew, Brew, Brew

Once you've learned a recipe, bring those ingredients to a cooking fire. Then brew them. Don't spoil the drink.

I often present excess brew to the locals who "donated" the ingredients in the first place. This is not Imperial requisition policy, but I it helps my cohort stay in their future good graces should we suffer a retreat due to the actions of less stalwart legions.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2634)
	Alchemy For My Apprentice
by You Know Who

My dear apprentice, you have destroyed far too many of my alchemical stocks to go unpunished. My own master would never abide such abject incompetence! "Can't take instruction," she'd say. "Nose in a book," she'd say. Luckily for your prospects, it is far less costly to write this simple manual than replace yet another cask of rare solvent.

If you lose this manual, as I know you will, don't despair. I have invested your annual stipend toward printing multiple copies of this book and distributing them far and wide. In time, every alchemy station in Tamriel shall have one.

Step One: Acquire Solvents

You already know that every potion requires a solvent to serve as the potion's base. If you ever paid attention to my lessons, you'd know the best solvent is clean water from a natural source. The purity of the water determines the quality of the potion, so the best sources are natural springs.

I must once again emphasize the need for fresh sources of water. Remember that incident with the healing draught? You cannot simply dip a flask into a stagnant pond, an ocean cove, or downstream from a tannery. I suppose you could find bottles of clean water about town, but it is best to do the work yourself.

Incidentally, your "rain barrel solvent" will never work. You are to cease your experiments immediately.

Step Two: Acquire Reagents

Alchemy is a study of combinations. Where solvents are a potion's base, reagents are the active ingredients. Each reagent bears four unique traits. I'm disinclined to explain the principles of quadratic amalgamation to youءgainآut do try to remember the basics: match like with like.

Henceforth, you are to find all reagents in the wildsخot in my laboratory! Remember to look for plants and mushrooms. Plants and mushrooms, only! Under no circumstances should you deviate from this. "Squirrel powder" was an abomination against the Eight.

Furthermore, I must remind you to thoroughly clean both mortar and pestle after their use.

Step Three: Craft Potions

Bring a solvent and two reagents to any alchemy station. Different reagents are required, a fact I must stress once again. Combining bugloss with bugloss gets you nothing but foul-tasting water.

When you have what you need, put them together and craft your potion. Reagents with positive trait combinations will produce helpful potions, while those with negative trait combinations can cause harm to whoever is foolish enough to imbibe them. If none of your reagents' traits match, you lose both solvent and reagents.

Experiment with different reagents to see what you can produce. I leave it to you to determine their traits, but will remind you that ingesting a reagent can teach you its most basic trait. Just oneؤon't gorge yourself!

While I recall of it, did you expect I wouldn't know you'd finished off the nirnroot? I could hear your teeth singing, and there's no way to hide a glowing chamberpot.

Advanced Alchemical Principles

Only when you master the basics of alchemy should you think to complicate the process. Through careful study you can learn to suppress negative traits when crafting potions, craft multiple potions from the simple set of reagents, or even combine additional reagents to produce more powerful potions! 

But for now, "not poisoning yourself" is the goal I'd most like you to achieve.
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#2635)
	Enchanting Made Easy
by Fishes-For-Runes

Anyone can become an enchanterةt doesn't matter who you are, or who you were. I spent twenty years pulling fish from the waters of Black Marsh before stumbling into the world of enchanting. If a former Argonian fisher-slave can figure it out, so can you!

Step One: Find Runes

Years ago I noticed glowing runes when I fished in Black Marsh. At first I thought they were wisps! You're most likely to find them in dangerous places, so be careful. Look for the angular stones where the runes sit.

ؒed Aspect runes remind me of fish: the minnows are plentiful but don't have much flesh on their bones, while the old grandfathers are the rarest but the richest catch.

؂lue Potency runes make me think of a fish's flavor. The good ones can improve your day, while the bad ones are best fed to your enemies. 

؇reen Essence runes are like the type of fish. Frost fish, armor fish, poison fish Šyou get the idea.

Some people ask me why there are runes scattered throughout Tamriel, but that's a question for the Mages Guild. I've never asked where fish come from, just where I can find more of them.

(I should mention؉ can't actually see colors. If you're like me, you want to look for the brightness of the rune. Aspect runes are quite dim, potency runes are bright, and essence runes glow very bright.)

Step Two: Create Enchantment

Once you have one rune each of aspect (fish age), potency (fish flavor), and essence (fish type), bring them to an enchanting station. Now, put the runes together and craft your first enchantment!

The best way you learn to fish is by fishing, and the same applies to enchanting. The act of creating an enchantment will reveal the meaning and function of unknown runes. Some will say "You must comprehend how the rune resonates with your soul to truly understand it," but that's Mages Guild talk.

Step Three: Enchanting Items

You have your first enchantment. Now you're ready to enchant your first item! Find the item you want to enchant and apply the enchantment. Easy, no? But of course, it's never that easy.

Enchantments are very particular. Some are best for weapons, others for armor, and still more bind only to jewelry. Some may require higher quality items than what you have on hand. Oh, and no item that is already enchanted can take a new enchantment. "Serve the right fish for the right occasion," as my egg-sister says.

Appendix: Extracting Runes From Enchantments

If you have an enchantment you can't use, don't despair! Sell, trade, or gift them to friends who can use them.

Of course, you can also extract runes from enchantments at any enchanting station. I call this "gutting the fish." This destroys the enchantment in the process, but you'll get one of the runes back that you could use in another enchantment.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2636)
	Coming of the Learned One, Vol. X
Volume X

We Firstmages thought ourselves the apex of brilliance for years. The Learned One has shown us in these few short days that we have been stumbling blind our entire lives.

But despite her power, she has been troubled. She does not seem to trust in herself. She needs the Archive, she says, to cast her greatest magic yetشo seal herself into the upper floors. She says it is for the protection of mortals, of Tamriel as a whole. I know not what she means. Where she goes she brings magic; she brings beauty. Danger is only a side-effect.

The Learned One says that, were the Firstmages to follow her in casting her spell, there are not many of us who would survive. But unlike Earil and his cowardly friends, most of us would cherish death at her hands. Anything to push the boundaries of her magic.

I have spoken to her at length about her plans, and my mind shivers at the possibilities. What could she seek to do? Guard the upper floors with her magical armory? I have seen her tinker with conjured weaponsأlearly she has needed her magic to do battle before. Does she seek to mask the upper floors with a conjured shield? Incredibly costly and inefficient, but it would work.

Or could sheءnd I do not write this lightlyسeek to hide herself behind a dragonء broken dragon? To travel the line, and then cut it; wrapping herself in a context where no one could ever follow? Such a venture could explain even her fear. It would explain the magic she has been working.

Or I am overthinking the issue. Though she is the most powerful sorcerer I have ever encountered, she has exhibited directness that, like her magic, I cannot replicate. Whatever she has planned, it will be a feat of magic, and it will move us, I am sure.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2637)
	Secrets Overheard in Apocrypha
By Morian Zenas

The Seekers pretend that they cannot talk, but they can. For I have heard them. They can both understand speech, and utter it, though they do so with a hissing lisp. I shall tell you how I know. 

As is so often the case since I came to Apocrypha, I was cowering behind a stack of books, hiding from the baleful attentions of a towering gill-man whose notice I had inadvertently caught. I listened to hear if I was still gibbering, but I couldn't hear it, which usually means I'm not. Then I heard something else. 

Just beyond my concealing tower of tomes was one of those endless halls lined with numberless urns, halls that I have assiduously avoided ever since I learned that each urn houses, in a broth of noisome fluid, a living concept-organ excised from its corpus. I do not like those urns. 

From the entrance to this hall of urns came the all-too-familiar squelching sound of a Seeker's footfalls. But then it stopped, and in its place I heard, for the first time, the sticky sound of a speaking Seeker.

؉ know a thing, the Seeker lisped, as a frisson of horror danced down my spine. 

؉s it a thing worth knowing? came the hollow, sourceless voice of the organ in the hithermost urn. 

ؙou shall judge, Floater. I have learned why we have seen no mortal intruders, save for the demented wizard, in many turns of the Great Pages. 

ؙou know nothing, said the organ. 

؉ know Old Antecedent has entered into an agreement with the mortals, a compact, as they say. Is that nothing? asked the Seeker.

؎ext to nothing. The Golden Eye is always entering into pacts with mortals. Thus my woeful condition. 

؁void self-pity, or I shall mock you. You do not like it when I mock you. Listen attentively.

؉ listen.

؉n truth, the Scryer enters into many pacts with mortalsآut never before has he made a pact with every mortal on Nirn. 

؂ah. Unlikely. 

؉ state it! It is a thing that is known. 

؈ow? 

؉ heard a discussion between Scrivener Uu-Thorax and the Eleventh Preceptor. They came into the Crepuscule, where I was quietlyŮ

ؓeeking?

ؙes. In fact. Now, listen: the Scrivener told the Preceptor that the Inevitable Knower had agreed to a pact, to cease all direct interposition in Mundial affairs. 

؉mpossible. I scoff. Mock me as you will. 

ؓo thought I, and likewise the Preceptor expressed skepticism, but then the Scrivener spoke a Word of Asseveration. Books scattered everywhere, ichor fountained from my ear-holes, and I knew what he said was a Known Thing. 

؂ut why? To meddle with mortals and wrest from them their knowledge is the Ur-Daedra's favorite pastime. 

؈e seems to have been paid a great price, something he dearly desired, but I could not clearly hear what, due to the injury to my ear-holes. 

؉t is knowledge, of course. Some great secret. It is ever so. 

ؓo I deem it as well. And it seems this compact binds in both directions, which is why the mortals come here no more, added the Seeker.

؅xcept for the mad mage. How came he here, and upon what ill errand? asked the urn-organ.

؉ know not. But if we catch him, we will pull out his Šwhat is that sound?

I heard it too, and so I ran. For I knew that sound. It was gibbering.
		

		Part of the None collection (#2639)
	Rumors of the Spiral Skein
By the Derisive Necromite

Mephala! Webspinner! Teacher of the Secret Arts! Queen of the Eight Shadows of Murder! Though others may reign over us, deep in the night we still hear your whisper!

And we do not forget.

In Oblivion you keep your secrets, and the secrets of all those entangled in your webs of subterfuge and semblance. The Spiral Skein is your realm, and like Nirn, in its center is a Tower: the Pillar Palace of Mephala, whose true name is too awful to be uttered.  

Spun 'round this pillar, like spokes, are the Eight Strands of the Skein. To each its own space, and to each space its sin. 

First is a cavern of plinths and pedestals. Each is a lie, for they pretend to hold up the skyءnd the sky is the greatest lie of all. 

Second are the chambers of envy, for compared to the cavern above they are cramped and confined, and therefore they hate the cavern.

Third are grottoes alluring and seductive, for their walls and ceilings glow like a million stars that sing a song of love. But the glowing lights are maggots, and the song they sing is decay. 

Fourth are the tunnels of fear, for they are eternally dark, and where there is darkness, there is dread. 

Fifth are the halls where fair is foul and foul is fair, and every belief is a betrayal. 

Sixth is the arena of murder, for ever shall betrayal be followed by murder. 

Seventh are the arcades of avarice and appetite, for contained therein are all things mortals would kill or die for. 

Eighth is the flaming skein of fury, for as death comes to all mortals, therefore all treasures are lies. 

This is the Spiral Skein. The tower is One. The strands are Eight. The lessons are Forever.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2643)
	Closed Until Further Notice
I regret to inform you that Ogondar's Winery is closed until I can find a new clerk to replace that good-for-nothing nephew of mine. The lazy horker!

Please don't take advantage of the momentary absence of a trustworthy employee to rob my winery blind.

In the meantime, if you need something, feel free to find me at the Crossroad Tavern in Belkarth. And if you need a job, I'm sure we can work something out.

؏gondar, Proprietor
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2644)
	From the Exalted Viper
Mighty Inazzur,

Please continue your efforts in eastern Craglorn. With the help of the Iron Orcs, the Scaled Court will soon have control of the entire region. 

And remember, your resolution and steadfast loyalty will be well rewarded.

ؔhe Exalted Viper
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2645)
	To Zelguma the Strong
Zelguma,

Please continue your efforts in western Craglorn. With the help of the Iron Orcs, the Scaled Court will soon control the entire region. 

And remember, your resolution and steadfast loyalty will be well rewarded. Perhaps you'd like to wear the robes of the next Minister of Writhing Worms?

ؔhe Exalted Viper
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2646)
	Star-Gazer Merith's Journal
Another night in the wilderness, searching the sky above for any signs of the missing constellations.

Wait. What's this? Oh, what a cute, little fox! So lively and playful! I think it wants me to follow it. What fun! And what a smart little creature.

Go on, little fox. Lead on and I shall follow!

Oh no! By the stars above, those are very big׍
		

		Part of the None collection (#2647)
	Subtropical Cyrodiil: A Speculation
By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

According to "The Heartland of Cyrodiil," by that old fraud Phrastus of Elinhir, the Nibenese valley and the Colovian hills have always enjoyed the temperate climate they have today, and early references to Cyrodiil as a subtropical jungle were merely errors on the part of one of the Heimskrs.

Really? What, then, of the "waving fronds" of Vahtacen mentioned in the Hosiric Lays? What of Khosey's "dense-jungl'd shore of Rumare" in the Tamrilean Tractates? Are these, as well, the mistakes of errant copyists? 

No, I think it more likely that three millennia ago Cyrodiil's climate was warmer and wetter than it is today.  The environment of the Heartland has changed. Which begs the question: how? 

I've given a great deal of thought to this question, and would like to propose a hypothesis. However, I am not a scholar of deep mythohistory like Vanus Galerion or Beredalmo the Signifier, so let's just call the following Ša speculation. 

Tamriel is the center of Nirn; Cyrodiil is the center of Tamriel; and at the center of Cyrodiil stands that greatest of mortal-made structures, the White-Gold Tower of the Imperial Cityطhich was patterned in open emulation of the Adamantine (or Direnni) Tower, the oldest structure in Tamriel, said to have been erected by the Aedra themselves. 

This was no mere homage, whim, or coincidence: White-Gold was built in the semblance of Adamantine in order to echo the first Tower's undeniable mystical properties.  And not just to echo them, but, due to its central location, to amplify them. 

What are these mystical properties? This leads us to the domain of Tower Lore, a realm fraught with scholarly conflict, but I will try to give a simple, and uncontroversial, summary. 

When the Aedra were persuadedدr hoodwinkedآy Lorkhan into creation of the Mundus, the physical flesh of Nirn was hung on a skeleton of joints, each of which radiated a palpable realityشhe bones of the world, as it were. 

At one of these mystical joint-points the Aedra erected a great structure, the Adamantine Tower, where they held a conclave to decide the fate of Lorkhan and the Mundus. In later times mortal mages discovered the Tower, and deduced its reality-affirming properties. The Merethic Elves then imitated it, erecting the White-Gold and Crystal Towers at other joint-points.

In doing this, what did the Ur-Elves hope to achieve? I would posit that, through their collective "possession" of such Towers in their realms, over time the Elves actually amended their local reality to conform to their desires. 

Thus the Summerset archipelago, in the sphere of the Crystal Tower, is a warm and paradisiacal domain perfectly adapted to the Altmer. And Cyrodiil, in the sphere of the even-more-powerful White-Gold Tower, became a warm and subtropical jungleطhich suited the ease-loving Ayleids. 

But then the slaves of the Heartland High Elves rose up against their masters, conquered the valley of the Nibenay, and the Ayleids ruled no more. Thereafter, White-Gold Tower was the center of a human empire, peopled by Nedes and Cyro-Nords who originated in cooler, northern climes. And so the Tower of Cyrodiil responded to the desires of its new masters. 

And that, I believe, is the answer to how the Heartland changed from subtropical to temperate: because once Men ruled in Cyrodiil, the local reality changed to meet their needs and wishes. Changed slowly, perhaps, almost imperceptibly, but inexorablyصntil Cyrodiil became the realm of temperate forests and fields we now know. 

So, is that the truth of the matter? Have I deduced the answer to the mystery? I cannot be sure: I'm only a humble scholar, residing in the Tower of the Fifth Doctrine, which is neither White-Gold nor Adamantine. The only thing I'm quite sure of is that any theory propounded by Phrastus of Elinhir is almost certain to be wrong.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2650)
	Lanista's Journal
Transporting supplies and a mob of over-eager, would-be gladiators to the arena near Dragonstar might not have been the smartest job I've ever taken on, but the profit for this run promises to be very good. It better be! For all the headaches and delaysخot to mention having to constantly fend off the advances of a dozen drunken warriorsشhis run has been one problem after another.

Take, for example, the incident that occurred after we left the relative safety of Belkarth behind us. One of my wagon drivers, Gortho, must have joined our "passengers" for a few too many celebratory drinks around the campfire last night. He was practically asleep at the reins when he drove the wagon wheels over the gaping holes in the road. Now two wheels are cracked and an axel has broken, forcing us to set up this temporary waystation in the middle of nowhere.

The crafting stations are up and operational. Repairs are now underway on the wagon. Gortho feels terrible, but that's probably got more to do with his hangover than with any feelings of guilt over falling down on his job. I'm a bit worried about the strange Orcs that we've heard live in this forsaken wilderness. I'm not sure how defensible this spot actually is. But so far, we haven't seen hide nor hair of the creatures.

I wish the warriors would stop drinking and help us keep watch while repairs on the wagon continue. I have the uncomfortable feeling that someone or something has been watching us for the past hour. I'm sure it's nothing, but I'd feel better if these so-called warriors were actually in a condition to help us fightةf it comes down to that.

Iron Orcs! They appeared out of nowhere and surrounded us! Gods, look how many of them there are! I'll write more after we drive the marauders off. Provided I survive this battle.

		Part of the Rituals and Revelations collection (#2663)
	Star Teeth, Volume I
Star Teeth, Volume I: The Welkynd Stone's Incompetent Cousin, or Something More?

by Alanwe

I have had the opportunity to conduct research on the seven Star Teeth, artifacts that are held in high import by the Ayleids of old (or so several dusty tomes tell us), here at the Agea Relle. We discovered these curious prisms in the very caverns from which the foundation of the school was built. Rulanir and I found them on pedestals, arranged in a staggered pattern that made the array of crystals appear, ironically, as a row of teeth.

I handled them with tacit care (to not do so with such potent relics would be foolish), but I gleaned much from my experimentation. To put it simplest, the Star Teeth are magical stones with the capability to emit light; I have witnessed them casting all manner of it, of many colors and intensities. The Teeth appear to be structurally similar to crystals like the Welkynd Stones, but apparently without the capability to store magicka. There is a different power emanating from them, though I have yet to discover their intended use.

However, as with all magic, I believe there is a way to weaponize this light as a defense against certain types of shades and even varieties of Daedra. I cannot control the Teeth, and the sporadic light that pours from them comes seemingly at random—but, using an unspent Welkynd Stone as a base, I hope to construct an emulation that will obey magical commands. If experimentation goes well, by year's end, every student of the Agea Relle wandering the depths of Rivenspire will have a prototype prism for defense against the vampiric, the spectral, and possibly the corporeally animate. If the endeavor goes poorly, perhaps the stones can serve as reusable torches—barring that, paperweights.

There is much work to do before then, though, as the Teeth seem to spark far less often in the night, without nearby light sources, and no one is sure why. Even during the day the Teeth are less active in the shade. It is odd to say, but the phrase stuck in my mind when a young student of mine commented that the Teeth seemed to be afraid of the dark.

Further examination is clearly necessary. At best, it will allow the Agea Relle to produce a piece of equipment that will help all adventurers, not just our students, in the caves and abandoned castles of Tamriel. At worst, the school will get to publish a piece, this paper being the first part, on a collection of Ayleid relics no one in the modern world has had a chance to study.

It is not my intent to write this paper for circulation amongst the Mages Guild chapters, though if our Star Teeth simulacrum bears fruit, I'm certain it, and any related journals, will find their way to those academic masses. If this is the case, and you, dear reader, belong to the Mages Guild, put this paper down and step outside. Go on an adventure or two—hunt a wamasu. Magic is helpful, beautiful, and should be utilized, shared. Not trapped on the highest floor of a dusty tower where no one but yourself and the Daedra you summon can see it.

To Faindor: Obviously, don't transcribe this note into the journal (you think you're funny—it's tragic). Nerien'eth may have time to review this introduction and provide further context—he's had a chance to analyze the Teeth before his recent trip across the continent, so bring this to his attention once he has finished cataloguing the artifacts he found out there. His letters mentioned an ancient weapon—a sword of some kind. He thinks it may be Akaviri. You're always reading about the Akaviri, aren't you? Finish this before the dormitory serves supper and I shall make certain you get a chance to see it.
		

Failed at /books/2664Failed at /books/2665		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2666)
	Requisition Order
Nerien'eth. The written word is my preferred method of communication. You will suffer it because I tell you to. I loathe leaving the Vaults to aid you, as torture of souls is a work that never completes.

You are as insignificant a mage as exists on Tamriel, but the Whispering Lady was impressed at your enhancement of her black edge. She marveled at the deaths of those who trusted you—smiled on the death of the one who loved you. In your hands, the Blade has feasted, and that pleases the Whispering Lady. Thus, I will grant you a visit very soon.

With me come mercenaries who pledge fealty to no one benefactor—and who pledge none to you. Mistake their aid for allegiance and you will find yourself on a path to my Vaults—or worse places. Frankly, your use of the black edge has embroiled you in affairs beyond your reckoning. No matter what you seek, salvation is beyond you.

However, as per the agreement, I will build instruments of torture from the hollowed remains you've made of your academy. I have constructed three phylacteries—one for each piece of your wife—yours when I arrive. Under my designs, your school will become a crypt from whence your wife and your students shall never escape, wishing very much they had died conventional deaths far, far away from you.

I hope it was worth it.

-Dutheil
		

Failed at /books/2667Failed at /books/2668		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2669)
	Daedra Dossier: The Titans
By Denogorath the Dread Archivist

I have compiled this account at the request of Kkrohziz the Greater Titan, who was peeved to find that the Library of Dusk contained nothing at all related to the origins of our most imposing Coldharbour residents. 

Therefore let the tale be told—and it is fitting that this be done, for in our Lord and Master's upcoming Planemeld campaign, the Titans will be released for the first time upon the hated mortals of Tamriel. And fear and doom shall follow in their footsteps.

There are, or have been, or will be a race of beings upon Nirn called Dragons, creatures of almost Daedra-like majesty. They naturally sought domination over the mortals of Nirn, and achieved a measure of success therein. 

But upon a time that was and will be the ever-pernicious mortals of Tamriel betrayed these their natural masters, and those who were not slain were driven into hidden refuge. Then one such Dragon, a greater Dov named Boziikkodstrun, exerted his nigh-divine will in an attempt to fly beyond the borders of the Mundus. And though he did not succeed, his effort was valorous and remarkable, and impinged upon the attention of Molag Bal himself. 

Our Lord and Master noted this feat of will-force, considered that the race of Dov had achieved dominion over much of Nirn, and thus spake unto this Boziikkodstrun, offering him a place of honor and privilege in his domain of Coldharbour. And the Dragon, his resources all but spent by his efforts, did accept and agree. 

So Molag Bal opened a window between worlds to allow the Dragon to pass into our Lord's realm, where Boziikkodstrun was granted the privilege of being bound in chains of cold ebon iron, and set in a place of honor in the nethermost depths of the Tower of Lies. For our Lord and Master desired to know the secrets of the Dragons' dominance over the mortals of Nirn. Long was the Dragon tortured and interrogated. But the dragon was haughty, and indignant at his ill treatment, and no matter what torments were brought to bear, the intransigent Boziikkodstrun refused to utter so much as a single syllable in his abrasive language to reveal the secrets of the Dov. 

Vexed by this obstinate defiance—and rightly so—our Lord and Master at length waxed wroth and avenged himself upon Boziikkodstrun by slow consumption of the flesh from his bones, yea, every gobbet. Then Molag Bal regarded the skeleton of the Dov and laughed. "If I cannot have the secrets of the Dragons," he thundered, "then I shall make Dragons of my own—Dragons even mightier than those of Nirn!"

He ordered the skeleton taken to the Vile Laboratory, where it was infused with the blood-of-darkness that reawakened it as a Vestige. During this process Molag Bal ordered that the skeleton be somewhat adjusted and improved to a plan of his own devising, forming a bone-frame even mightier than that of its forebears. Then it was plunged into the deepest pool in the Azure Chasm, there to absorb the blue liquescence that would give our Lord's new servant its body, brain, and brawn. 

Within a nanaeon a mighty creature drew itself from the chasm plasm and shook itself free of the primordial slime. In response to the summons of our mutual Lord and Master, it ascended to the plateau and bounded nimbly up the Endless Stair. The first of the Daedric Titans was among us. 

From its very first performance in the grueling Test of Fealty it was clear that this new morphotype would be a valuable addition to our Lord and Master's forces of dominion. Its strength was unparalleled, its savagery remarkable even among the war-slaves of Molag Bal, and its native intelligence was impressive (though perhaps not on the level of its forebears). 

Most fearsome of all is the Titan's ability to speak a spell of flaming essence-drain that can debilitate an opponent with a single word. Theoretically, if the utterance were interrupted before completion, the spell would recoil upon its caster, but that eventuality is remote.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2670)
	Beware the Glenumbra Banks
By Garric the Pilot

What's that? You want to know about the Glenumbra Banks? I thought everyone knew about those shifting sand bars off the northwest coast of High Rock, the narrow islets that make seafaring there so dangerous close to shore. I myself have made a living for almost thirty years as a Daggerfall pilot, guiding merchant ships through the Banks in and out of the city's North Docks. And I'm well paid for the job, but the merchants don't complain — they see the rotting spars and twisted planks of the shipwrecks we pass as we wend our way through the channels. 

Those channels are treacherous and ever-changing. When we go out in early Sun's Dawn to meet the first ship coming in to port after the winter storms, there are always numerous visible changes to the waterways—as well as invisible changes to their depths, which we must take care to map out by frequent use of the plumb-line. 

But the fact is we must be ever on the lookout for changes in the Banks even in Mid Year and Sun's Height. Now, how is it that the sands shift the way they do, sometimes changing overnight even when there has been no storm? The Herne Current runs far offshore, and in summer the breeze the mariners call the Yokudan Zephyr blows steadily but gently from the west. 

And yet, the sands shift, and the Banks change. 

Well, stranger, I'll tell you the secret, so long as you're buying the drinks tonight in the Rosy Lion. It's Ithguleoir. Yes, you heard me right—the immortal leviathan of the Eltheric Ocean is no mere fable. Ithguleoir lives, and haunts the far depths of the sea … and sometimes the near shallows of the shore. He fills old channels in the Banks and dredges new ones. And when a ship runs aground on the sands, he rises from the waters and dines on its sailors, one by one. 

I suppose you're entitled to look skeptical about that—so long as you buy another round, that is. But listen, I'm not just spinning an old salt's yarn. I've seen the thing. On nights when the moons are full and the sea is calm, you can sometimes glimpse the leviathan's oily back heaving above the surface as the old monstrosity digs his devious traps. Occasionally there's a geyser of sea-mist, like when a whale blows, but then the breeze wafts ashore a demonic stench that smells like it's blown from Oblivion. 

So there: now you know. But let's just keep this between you, me, and the tavernkeeper's cat, shall we? The south harbor's too shallow for the big merchantmen, and Daggerfall depends on her sea-trade continuing to find its way in to the North Docks. As do I. And sailors are such a superstitious lot—no point in scaring them away. Eh?
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2671)
	Clearing the Crypts
As you know, we've lost several privateers in the process of clearing the crypts. The tunnels are filled with undead, as expected, but it's more than that. One of the sailors ran out of there ranting about a curse and a ghost and... mudcrabs.

As if all that isn't bad enough, there are even more mudcrabs. I swear, Whitemane, we need to relocate our base of operations to Wrothgar. At least the mudcrabs taste better--these taste like rot.

-First Mate Thagrikh
		

		Part of the Houses, Shops, and Trade collection (#2672)
	Mudcrab Order Request
Some consider mudcrab to be the food of a commoner--the staple of a peasant. This is truly uninspired on the part of the masses--such a versatile food is as essential to Tamriel as massive wheels of cheese.

As such, I require a barrel of mudcrab meat to be delivered daily so I may develop a compilation of the finest recipes of Abah's Landing for publication. 

Not only will you be promoting the culture of Cybiades with your contribution, but I will also provide the typical payment for your services.

-Master Chef He-Cuts-the-Flesh, Cybiades
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2674)
	Join Dragonstar Caravan Company!
Want to be a part of something big and important? Want to earn gold and wear an impressive-looking uniform? Then we have a position for you!

The Dragonstar Caravan Company needs tough, competent, capable men and woman to join our evergrowing force of caravan guards. If you can look so menacing that you never have to draw your weapon, we want to talk to you. And if all else fails and weapons must be drawn, we want to know that you can use that weapon and win any battle. 

Desired skills: Strong, ornery, heartless, loyal, capable of following orders, able to think for yourself when on a run, intimidating, and inclined to end an impending threat before it turns into a hostile situation.

Talk to Proctor Finemo in the town of Dragonstar. We look forward to making you part of the Caravan Company family!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2675)
	Watcher Shavmar's Journal
From the Journal of Watcher Shavmar

Virmaril must be contained! No matter what happens outside these catacombs, the Betrayer must be punished for his crimes. He must be imprisoned so that his evil cannot spread to the world beyond!

We tried to kill the foul creature. After he betrayed and murdered High King Durac and the council of Nedic kings, we sent a small force of warriors and mages into the catacombs to hunt Virmaril down and end his vile existence. I was a part of that force. It pains me to write these words, but they are true and undeniable. We failed.

It soon became apparent that we could not slay a being that is not truly alive. Instead, we quickly developed a new plan. We would weaken Virmaril and trap him deep within the catacombs. And then we would sacrifice ourselves—use our own soul magic to turn ourselves into immortal, eternal watchers. We would serve as Virmaril's guardians and imprisoners until the end of time.

* * *

The soul magic did its work. We have sealed Virnaril behind a soul-ward and placed him in a suspended state—not unlike a deep sleep. We are now the Eternal Watchers, pledged to guard the Betrayer and making sure his plan to unleash his army of undead never comes to pass.

Now we simply wait. And watch. Forever.

* * *

Garalan has been complaining about hearing strange voices in his head. We ignored him. After all, haven't we all gone a little bit insane during our never-ending obligation? I'm sure he'll be fine.

* * *

Now I'm hearing the voices. At times it sounds like a thousand voices talking at once, a jumble of noise and confusion. Then it becomes the whisper of a single voice, so low I can barely hear it. But every so often, the voice comes to me in crisp, clear tones and I recognize the speaker. Somehow, some way, the impossible has happened.

Virmaril is awake.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2676)
	Saradin's Diary
From the Diary of Saradin, Daughter of High King Durac

My father and Virmaril spent another day and most of the night in the catacombs beneath Skyreach. They share a fascination for the dark arts, but sometimes I wonder if their friendship isn't too complicated. Father bears such a burden as the Nedic High King, and I fear that every time he asks Virmaril for advice he passes a bit of that burden onto my beloved.

* * *

We haven't told father of our love as yet, but Virmaril assures me that he will ask father for my hand in marriage in the very near future.

* * *

Father was furious. Despite his long friendship with Virmaril, he wasn't at all happy with the idea of his beloved daughter marrying a High Elf. I'm heartbroken over this, but I must remain strong. I am the High King's daughter, after all, and I have a duty to my father and my people. No matter how much this outcome pains me. And poor Virmaril. I've never seen him look so … shattered.

* * *

I'm going to marry King Kestic. Father arranged the marriage to help strengthen ties with Kestic and the northern clans. I still have powerful feelings for Virmaril, but I have to put them behind me. Our love is forbidden, and this marriage will make the Nedic clans stronger. I wonder if Virmaril has moved on with his own life yet?

* * *

The barbaric Yokudans gather at our doors. I saw Virmaril and father together today. They both seemed worried. Oh, they try not to let it show, but I know them both so well. Virmaril says he has a plan to repel the invaders. He thinks father will support the idea. They just need to convince the other Nedic kings.

* * *

Virmaril was watching me throughout tonight's feast. There was a … hunger … in his eyes that I hadn't seen before. Perhaps I'm imagining things, but I could swear that Virmaril had no thoughts about invaders or armies or wars this night. He only had eyes for me.

* * *

Virmaril came to me in the royal chambers. I was hesitant to talk to him at first, but I didn't want to seem distant. He told me that he still loved me. Asked me to run away with him. I laughed at the idea, assuming he was joking. But I could see in his eyes, his feelings for me were as strong as ever. I turned away before my own emotions betrayed me.

* * *

Virmaril was cold today, distant. When I asked if he was well, he just said that I had helped him decide his next course of action. As soon as the meeting of the council of kings is over, I'll find Virmaril and apologize. I never meant to hurt him.

I'm sure he'll understand.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2677)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume One
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

With an equal measure of excitement and trepidation, I begin this series of journals that will one day form the basis of a scholarly work on Skyreach and the ancient Nedic people. The University of Gwylim has generously funded this expedition, in exchange for the exclusive rights to publish at least two books related to the subject at hand.

Note, however, that these journals are not the finished, published work. They contain my observations, theories, and general musings on everything I encounter throughout this trip. The journals will also contain asides by my scholarly partner, Verita Numida, whose theories are usually wildly opposite of anything I propose. I like to think that our differing points of view help to create a more complete picture of the past, but I will admit here, within these pages, that she often drives me into an intellectual rage. Without her support and the addition of her lofty credentials alongside my own, however, I'm not sure this expedition would have come to fruition.

Why Skyreach? These ancient ruins, we believe, hold the answers to the question that has intrigued us both since we first started looking into Cyrodiil's past. Namely, who were the ancient Nedes, the people who eventually gave rise to the mighty Imperials? I always imagined them to be uncivilized brutes that were as likely to fight each other as they were their enemies, but Verita has constantly insisted that they had to have a more advanced culture than I gave them credit for. Perhaps deep within the ruins of Skyreach, we will settle our argument once and for all.

* * *

Remarkable! The city of Skyreach appears to extend not only around the Dragontail Mountains, but through them and even beneath them. What an amazing feat of engineering went into the crafting of the place. It appears I have lost at least one argument with Verita. The ancient Nedes were certainly not simply uncivilized brutes. But beyond that, these monoliths have yet to tell us exactly who they were.

We have begun our investigation in a section of the ruined city we have decided to call "The Hold." Our first goal is to explore the area and come to some conclusions about what daily life must have been like in this Nedic metropolis. Did they utilize both the exterior and interior spaces, or were they primarily dwelling within the space carved from the very heart of the mountain? Perhaps the intricate carvings will provide some clue. 

On first inspection, I theorize that the Nedes built this massive living structure as a private estate for one of their vaunted High Kings. Perhaps it was even the final residence of Durac, the High King that presided over the fall of the Nedes.

Verita, as usual, disagrees. She posits that the commonfolk lived and worked both inside and outside these now-ruined buildings. The evidence we see for what appear to be areas converted into living spaces, she claims, lend credence to the theory that the Nedes retreated into the mountain as a result of the Yokudan invasion. Her theory may be more sound, on further consideration, but I am not yet ready to concede to her on this. Not yet.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2678)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume Four
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

As we saw in the other parts of the city we have already explored, the same odd figures appear throughout the Nedic architecture. Clearly, a serpentine motif is depicted everywhere. I contend that this is proof positive that the Nedes worshipped some sort of serpent god and were so enamored of this deity that they wanted to see him wherever they looked.

Verita says my theory has merit, and I thank her for that. But she insists on offering an alternate opinion. She says it's to make sure all avenues of possibility are explored, but I contend she just wants to be contrary. She does enjoy disagreeing with me at every chance she gets. Her theory is that the snake was simply a popular figure in Nedic culture, not unlike the Friendly Netch, the Brave Little Squib, or the Gift-Giving Guar of our own popular legends.

We must agree to disagree, as the other popular saying goes.

Other images we have spotted over and over again in the stonework include an odd, Orcish face, a stag-skull sort of creature, and a winged serpent, which could be related to the other snake images. Gods? Popular story characters? Simple decorative elements without higher meaning? I believe we are looking upon the Nedic pantheon, for I can't imagine going to all this trouble just to depict imaginary creatures from camp-fire tales.

* * *

We now believe that the catacombs were originally used as the city of Skyreach's graveyard. We have found evidence that the interred came from all walks of life, from commoners to crafters, nobles to royals. We have also developed conflicting theories about why the confines of these catacombs have disturbed us so profoundly.

I believe that it is shared illusion, given substance by lingering legends and fueled by our own fears. We just need to rely on our intellects and strength of will, then everything will be fine. Besides, illusions cannot hurt us. Of that, I am fairly certain.

Verita, of course, has a differing opinion. She believes that the legends concerning Virmaril the Betrayer, who we know of only through the remains of a text now called the Perenaal Fragment, have at least a grain of truth to them. It is her belief that Virmaril was indeed a necromancer, and that somehow he has defied the laws of nature and still exists in one form or another somewhere deep within this labyrinth. I say balderdash, but as I agreed to let her join this expedition, I feel somewhat obligated to allow her to express her theories—no matter how outlandish they may be.

It is Verita's contention that Virmaril has been asleep these long aeons, and we have somehow begun the process of awakening him from his eternal slumber. Just to be on the safe side, we have decided to cut our exploration of the catacombs short and move on to the next site in the complex. Perhaps we shall return to these ruins at a later time, after our heads have cleared.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2679)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume Three
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

Today we made our first foray into the undercroft known as Skyreach Catacombs. It is evident that the dead of the Nedic city were interred within this vast labyrinth. However, we have not yet been able to determine if all classes of citizens were allowed to make use of these facilities, or if it was just a place for the rich and powerful. We will begin examining a sampling of the graves at once. Who knows what relics we might find buried with each Nedic corpse?

Some of the guards and workers in our party have begun to complain about this place. They say these catacombs are haunted. One of my students actually reminded me of the legend of Virmaril the Betrayer. I usually don't hold with such nonsense, but I must admit that a feeling of dread has settled over me. And like some of the others, I imagine I'm hearing a voice whose words are spoken just low enough that I can't make them out. Perhaps we're just frightening each other with these wild tales. Still, the faster we complete our study, the faster we can exit this dismal place.

(I've taken up the quill again, as Reginus appears to be almost frozen with fear at the moment. We haven't actually seen any spirits or walking dead yet, but more and more of our crew are complaining about the strange voices in their heads. I'm going to ignore them for the moment and talk about the amazing chamber we just came across. This must have been where the legendary meeting of the Nedic kings took place! Each of the kings appear as they must have looked in their last moments of life, sitting in their thrones as if about to enter into a grand debate. —Verita N.)

I don't know what came over me, but I have shaken off the feeling of doom and retrieved my quill from our fanciful Verita. I must document the position of each of these ancient kings so that our record of this discovery is complete. Though their names have been lost to history, we know the titles of each of the kings spread out around the High King Durac. They include such luminaries as the Forest King, the Spirit King, and the Frost King. We don't know why they carried these titles, but I'm sure it had something to do with the region of the Nedic realm they ruled. Or perhaps it had something to do with their own personal portfolios of power.

(Give me that quill! Who cares what they were called. I think this chamber demonstrates the true state of Virmaril the Betrayer's mind. I don't think he was trying to raise an undead army. I think he was more of a collector. I think this place is now his collection! It makes a certain amount of sense if you look at the evidence before us. —Verita N.)

Nonsense! Virmaril is nothing more than a legend. And ghost stories do nothing to advance the cause of knowledge and history. Let's move on before we all succumb to these imaginary voices.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2680)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume Two
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

Supplemental Notes by Verita Numida, Ancientist, University of Gwylim

Reginus needed a rest and some juniper tea, so I've taken up ink and quill to continue the record of our exploration of Skyreach Hold. (I love how he hates that I have a more friendly and exciting writing style than he does! Smashing!)

I'm coming more and more to the certainty that the Nedes possessed an advanced society. Perhaps even more advanced than our own in certain ways. The engineering skills that were required to construct these massive spaces within the mountain are almost too much to fathom. I'm not sure if our best engineers and crafters wouldn't be hard-pressed to duplicate the effort. The intricate gardens, the vaulted ceilings, the ingenious waterways and fountains—it all points to a level of sophistication and aesthetic that rivals or exceeds the best Cyrodiil has to offer.

I think that the overall skill and craftsmanship demonstrated in the stonework that surrounds us clearly shows that the Nedes were much more than war-loving savages. I'm sorry, Reginus, but I have to record it as I see it. The architecture demonstrates that they treated stonework and masonry as an art form. The carvings are more than simple decoration. They tell a story of a proud and powerful people, of a culture reaching for the stars that was then cut short by jealous invaders. Even in ruins, there is a grandeur here that leaves me breathless.

Even more impressive are the spaces that are open to the sky. These open ceilings let in fresh air and sunshine, and were perfect for observing the night sky—a practice we know the Nedes were fond of thanks to ancient texts and tablets such as the Perenaal Fragment and others. I believe that the Nedic obsession with the stars isn't simply because they worshipped or had some other deep connection to the Celestials. I believe that the Nedes were somehow involved in the very creation of the whole concept of the Celestials. I plan to find proof of this during our explorations of this space and the neighboring ruins.

Of course, Reginus strongly disagrees with my proposition. He even demands that I return the quill to him. Historian, indeed! He wouldn't know a fact from a fantasy if it walked up and said "hello." Oh, very well. My hand was beginning to cramp, anyway.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2681)
	From Regent of Serpentine Stratagems
Exarch Arnoth,

I look forward to your success within the ruins of Skyreach Hold. I agree that a major source of the nirncrux awaits us in that ancient place. Please make every effort to acquire as much of the red brittle as your trolls can extract.

And know that your resolution and steadfast loyalty to the Scaled Court will be remembered.

—Regent Cassipia
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2682)
	Covenant Intelligence Report 2,502
I write this from deep inside contested territory. My mission remains as it has been since I crossed the border into Craglorn—investigate the activities of the newly emerged cult called the Scaled Court and examine the cult's ties, if any, to the unaligned Iron Orc tribe. In my clandestine activities, I discovered an interesting location.

Nestled within the rocky hills that delineate the beginning of the region known as Upper Craglorn, I happened across a secret Iron Orc encampment within the ancient Nordic ruins scattered across the area. These particular underground chambers, built beneath the hilltop ruins of a crumbling tower, have been turned into a kind of training ground for the Iron Orcs. But it's what the Orcs are training that make this site particularly interesting. Trolls. 

The Iron Orcs are training trolls to fight as a unit. What they plan to do with an army of trolls is anyone's guess, but it can't be beneficial to the Covenant.

I found a large grate that looks down into this makeshift arena. I'm going to sneak closer to get a better look at what they are doing down there.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2683)
	Unhallowed Legions
By Phrastus of Elinhir

It is an indisputable fact that necromancy, the foulest of all magical endeavors, is on the rise. Word of unsettled spirits, shambling corpses, and worse spreads across Tamriel, planting seeds of fear in common folk. There is good reason to be concerned, and it is my scholarly duty to inform the ignorant in hopes that a more educated populace will be better prepared to recognize and face undead dangers.

Necromancy, as you likely know, is the manipulation of souls, soul energies, or corpses of the dead. Unwilling spirits are often involved, and in the eyes of any rational being, the "study" of this type of magic is repellant. It should not be surprising to you that much knowledge of necromancy is attributed to Daedric forces, specifically those of the abhorrent Molag Bal, further cementing it as a sphere that must be shunned. 

I present to you now an accounting of the general types of undead:

The Reanimated

These monstrosities are formed when a necromancer summons and instills an enslaved spirit, often a minor Daedric essence, into a corpse or construct of bodies. Reanimations take many shapes, from the lowly skeleton (favorite of novice necromancers) to the hulking flesh atronach. The need for unconsecrated corpses poses a danger to communities, as it is known to drive wayward mages to murder in their lust for power. To minimize encounters with reanimations, avoid poorly-kept graveyards and hidden caves or ruins, and report any suspicion of necromancy to your local authorities for investigation.

The Returned

Ghosts, wraiths, and spectres manifest for a variety of reasons. Some are bound to Nirn through powerful curses, some are summoned forth through rituals, and others find their souls unable or unwilling to depart due to unfinished business. Some are even ancestors bound by their own families, a practice the Dark Elves claim is not necromancy at all—guarwash! 

My recent studies into the phenomenon known as the Soulburst indicate a tie between it and a surge in returned sightings and activity, strongly implicating a persistent disruption in natural post-extant soul conveyance. Detractors to this theory, notably the misguided Lady Cinnabar of Taneth, have yet to produce any counter-theories that do not crumble under the slightest scrutiny.

The Accursed

Undeath is not always a product of renegade mages tampering with souls and rotting flesh. Cursed diseases such as Noxophilic Sanguivoria can corrupt the living. The result is an undead creature that requires the blood of the living for sustenance. Vampires have a tendency to organize into reclusive clans, hiding away beneath the ground and surfacing only to obtain more thralls to feed upon. In some cases, though, their minds are known to degrade to the point of insanity, leaving a raging husk of a creature with no mental capacity commonly called a "bloodfiend." Any sightings of such creatures should be reported to a local Fighters Guild. 

Abominable Miscegenations 

Some undead defy simple classification. The lich, for one, is a corpse that is self-reanimated by the soul it bore in life. Typically, only powerful spellcasters seeking immortality achieve this state. Luckily for common folk, liches are often focused obsessively on continuing their own studies, and they are not likely to be encountered by travelers that keep their noses out of ancient ruins. 

Now that you are more informed about this vile art and its repellent products, hopefully you are better-prepared to assess undead threats. It goes without saying (though I will certainly say it) that we all have a responsibility to report and combat necromancy, especially in these times. Do not let anyone convince you that there is some kind of benefit to be had in exploring these detestable magics—any reasonable individual can see the madness in such a claim.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2684)
	Unmarked Pages
2nd First Seed

We're uncertain if it's possible, but what the master wants, the master gets. Our presence in Craglorn intensifies by the day, but he remains … inconsolable. I understand his consternation—the highlands would be completely under our control if he could roam free.

The combination of troll and Nedic ritual that finally cracked his prison can make no further progress on it. Even the thralled Celestial Guardians have failed. I don't know what options remain to us.

The Regents will do their work in his stead, of course. The master chose them for a reason.

4th First Seed

Perhaps the answer has been staring me in the face. We have more nirncrux stored at Sanctum Ophidia than we could ever hope to deplete. We could fuel a war for years with our supply.

And as a primordial dust, nirncrux channels energy—transfers it. The master is composed entirely of Celestial energy. Perhaps that is the key.

5th Second Seed

The master possessed a ritual that required just a little blood from our Courtlings (unfortunately, we lost the volunteers, but footsoldiers can always be replaced) and a smattering of nirncrux dust.  We have earned some gratitude from the master—some patience. It will be a while yet before he will walk from this cavern on his own power, but the vessel, at least, is complete.

And may whatever god they believe in help those who stand in its path.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2685)
	Dawn of the Exalted Viper
Regent Cassipia is no more! Now I am the Exalted Viper, elevated to the ranks of the Celestials and imbued with the power to change the world! Or, at least, I soon shall be.

Thanks to the secrets I have unveiled within these ancient Nedic ruins, I have replicated the process by which the Nedes were able to imbue mortal creatures with celestial energy. Using techniques perfected by the alchemists of the Scaled Court and the runescribers of the Iron Orcs that were tested upon the mantikoras and the trolls, I have developed the means to transform my mortal frame into a conduit for Aetherial power.

Of course, none of this would have been possible if not for the discovery—or re-discovery—of the primal element called red brittle by the locals and nirncrux by my alchemists. The crimson substance can be extremely dangerous in its natural state. But thanks to the refinement processes we were able to reproduce from the ancient texts, the stable version of the element provided the key to making the transformation possible.

Now we stand upon the shores of a new world. Once the process is complete and I emerge from the spawning pool as the Exalted Viper, I shall be an equal to the Celestial Serpent. I shall be like a god! But not a fickle or absent deity. Oh, no. The Exalted Viper shall be present and active, destroying the imperfections of the old world while creating a perfect new realm that I shall rule over.

And my love, the bright and innocent Little Leaf, shall be at my side. Perhaps I'll even elevate her. After I have secured my own place, of course.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2688)
	Virmaril's Journal
From the Journal of Virmaril, Advisor to High King Durac

How dare the man rebuke me! I have been Durac's friend and confidant for years, and this is how he repays me? Not only has he refused to allow me to marry his daughter, Saradin, but he had the audacity to turn around and offer her to that fool from the forest region, Kestic. And all because I'm not a Nede. He thinks a High Elf isn't good enough for his precious daughter? I'll show him! I'll show them all!

* * *

The council of kings has agreed to meet and consider my proposal. Good, good! The fools! Even Durac still believes I plan to help them against the Yokudan invaders. Their arrogance will be their undoing! Everything is in place within the catacombs for my necromantic ritual. All I need now is the willing cooperation of the High King and his lackeys.

* * *

Everything went exactly as I planned! I am now undead and the council of kings belong to me! And the rest of the catacomb's dead serve as my army! Now, what should I do with my new charges? Perhaps I'll dispatch the Yokudans after all. I haven't decided.

* * *

How dare the Nedes fight against me! They have the audacity to send an elite force to destroy me? Me? How do they really plan to kill someone who isn't truly alive? Like the netch that tries to fly into the heart of a storm, they seek to accomplish the impossible. Well, let them try! I will enjoy the small amusement it brings me.

* * *

I hate Nedic soul magic! These wardens realize they can't kill me, so they plan to imprison me within these catacombs. The impudence! But by making themselves immortal, they open themselves to my influence and power. I will control them! As … soon … as … I … take …. a … short … rest ….
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2689)
	Letter to Isrudde
Isrudde Crows-Watch,

I have it on good authority that your encampment at the crossroads outside Dragonstar deals with unusual goods. Namely, I understand that you sell used armor and weapons scavenged from fallen Iron Orcs throughout the region.

If my information is correct, then I'd like to purchase any items you come across that contain traces of the element commonly referred to as "red brittle." I will pay a fair price in gold for every such item I can obtain.

Please contact me at the Dragonstar stables at your earliest convenience and let me know how many such items I can expect.

—Elanwen, alchemist at large
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2690)
	A Star Walks In Craglorn
A Tale of Romance and Adventure

By Adandora the Tale-weaver

He fell from the sky, a star descended from Aetherius to walk among the commonfolk. Some called him Celestial. Others, the Warrior. But me? I called him "my love."

I met my love on a desolate road, not far from the town of Dragonstar. I was moving quickly through the darkness, trying to avoid the notice of the Iron Orcs and Scaled Court soldiers who seemed to be around every turn and bend. It was around just such a bend in the landscape that I literally ran into the tall, powerfully built man in the ancient armor.

He caught me before I fell, steadying me with a strong hand that literally sparkled like the stars in the sky. "Where do you run to in such a hurry, fair maiden," he said. His voice was deep and resonate, sending shivers throughout my body.

* * *

Damn it! This is terrible! Perhaps I should stick to writing true accounts of the happenings in this wartorn region. I never was very good at pure fiction. Oh, wait! I have another idea. I wonder if the Warrior is fond of peacock confit and aurum potabile? 

Maybe I will keep writing and see how this turns out after all.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2691)
	Letter to Dusandar
My dear Dusandar,

How are things back in Vulkhel Guard? Are the nobles lining up to have new portraits painted?

This trip has been a fabulous boon to my tender disposition. I feel recharged and ready to face life in the courts of High Elf society again. Almost.

I've been very productive. I'll have completed at least three landscapes by the time I pack up to return, and I've sketched at least a dozen more that I hope to paint in my—ha!—spare time when I return home.

The view from this overlook, by the way, is simply spectacular. I wish you could see it. Well, I guess you will when you see the finished painting. The moons rising over the ruins of Skyreach. Just breathtaking. I hope my humble skills are enough to capture the essence of the scene.

What am I saying? Of course they are!

Oh, and I got you a present. For that collection of rocks you love so much. It's a local stone with a quaint name. They call it "red brittle."

See you soon,

—Ulymen
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2692)
	Wamasu Observations
I have selected well by choosing this mighty wamasu eggbearer for our needs. Her brood will provide exactly the predatory traits we require for the next stage of the alchemical process. When combined with the traits provided by the powerful scorpion matron and the flawless crocodile matriarch, the material from the wamasu will increase the power of the mantikora tenfold!

I wonder if I can breed the charged current that vibrates through the wamasu into the mantikora? If I can do that, the creature will be even more wondrous to behold. I've collected the first of the eggbearer's eggs. The material within each shell should infuse the spawning pools with traits that will easily be passed on to our new creature.

When the Serpent sees all that I have accomplished, I'm sure my position within the Scaled Court will grow in stature as the mantikoras grow within the spawning pools. I can't wait to meet our creation!

—Boward, Regent of Wriggling Nightmares
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2693)
	Orders from Regent Elska
Scaled Court members working in the cave system known as Serpent's Nest: Double your efforts! We need the new infrastructure complete before we can begin the next phase of the operation.

Finish building the scaffolds. Get the food and weapon stores in place. And remove the bear carcasses from the cave! They look disgusting and they are starting to smell terrible.

Just remember to avoid the lamias. They have trouble distinguishing friends from foes. And unless you have specific business there, stay away from the spawning pools in the back.

—Elska, Regent of Fanged Fury
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2694)
	The Serpent's Song
As Vizier of Slithering Visions, I watch for omens and signs directly or indirectly associated with the Celestial Serpent. It is my duty and privilege to interpret the messages of our master for the Scaled Court—no matter how he deems to send them to us.

Within the depths of the Serpent's Nest, I encountered an amazing sight. The lamia sisters (at least, I assume the creatures are related) known as Aurieae, Laurieae, and Taurieae broke into religious song and have been singing almost non-stop since our arrival here. I have yet to interpret their distinctive language, but I am certain that the song praises and honors the Celestial Serpent.

Are they praying to the Serpent? Asking for something specific? Perhaps they are simply basking in the glory of the Serpent's presence in our world. Whatever the case, these lamias can use their song to call upon powers that can only be gifts from the Serpent. They can summon snakes to fight for them. They can call down lightning from the sky. And I've seen them turn the water around them into poison in order to defend their territory.

I need to continue to study these creatures to learn more about their connection to the Serpent.

—Balarius, Vizier of Slithering Visions
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2695)
	Ilthag's Orders
Trainers,

The trolls must be ready by the rise of the mountain sun. Our agreement with the Scaled Court demands that we succeed, and so we will succeed. Do not test my patience. We have an army to assemble!

Remember what I taught you. Pass it on to the trolls. Do not falter. Do not spare the whip or the blade. Pain is an excellent teacher, as you all well know.

When next I return to check on you, I expect the trolls to be disciplined and working as a single unit. Otherwise, I will use you for the next troll training exercise.

—Ilthag Ironblood
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2696)
	Blood for Our Enemies
Blood for Our Enemies, Steel for Our Clan

A Traditional Osh Ornim Hymn

The stones speak to us. They grant us strength, they give us power. The stones provide life.

We are the children of the stones. We are the people of the rock. We are the Osh Ornim!

May we listen to the rocks. May we hear the shifting of the stone.

Let the mountains shelter us. Let the land feed us. Let the crows be forever at our backs.

We are the Osh Ornim! Crun granosh! Blood for our enemies! Steel for our clan!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2697)
	Vosh and Rakh: A History
From the journal of Ilthag Ironblood.

I am known for many skills and achievements, for my battle prowess and talents related to training Iron Orcs and other creatures to fight. But here, in my private journal, I have a confession to make to the rock and stone. I take pride in a secret passion. I take pride in raising my beloved welwas, Vosh and Rakh, from cute and cuddly cubs into the loyal and ferocious beasts they are today.

I acquired the cubs when I was forced to kill an adult welwa in the barrens near the ruins of ancient Skyreach. After dispatching the savage beast, I discovered the cubs in a nearby cave. I almost killed the young creatures then and there, but one of them looked into my eyes and cooed. Then it rose up on shaky legs and rubbed against my leather boot. That's when another option presented itself to me.

I took the two welwa infants back to my undertower. My original idea was to raise the beasts for use in my training exercises. But as I worked with them and discovered their natural intelligence and their warrior hearts, I decided to raise them as my personal guards and companions. To begin the process, I needed to discover their true names.

I worked with the young creatures for a time, getting familiar with their personalities as they became accustomed to my presence. The one that first looked at me was full of courage. He wasn't afraid to venture out and explore his surroundings. He showed me his name—Vosh. The other was quiet, calm. At least until one of my aides approached. Then he became a ball of anger, striking out like a sword to protect me and his brother. Obviously, his name was Rakh.

As they grew in size, I made sure they grew in power. I constantly ran them throughout the undertower to build muscle and bone. I fed them the best food and clearest water drawn from the purest rock wells in the region. I devised exercises using thick ropes and handles. When they reached the appropriate size, I began to train them to fight beside me against multiple enemies. When Rakh took down one of my most skilled warriors, I was so proud!

Recently, I had Uthik fashion a set of armor for both Vosh and Rakh. They seemed so honored to receive the gifts, and they carry themselves with dignity and grace inside their metal protection. Next, I might see if they can work together to take down a troll on their own. That would be an amazing sight to see, by the stones!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2699)
	The Serpent's Blade
Deadly Visskar,

The Serpent smiles upon you, honored warrior! As always, I am in awe of your skill with blade and shadows. I understand that you have also been blessed with a slither of snake companions that fight alongside you. How envious I am of your place in the master's eyes.

I have a favor to ask of you, mighty Visskar. I need someone to guard the approach to Skyreach Temple. To protect the path and keep our enemies at bay. You were my first and only choice for this important assignment. Keep the way safe and the Serpent will reward you a hundredfold!

Cassipia, Regent of Serpentine Strategems
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2702)
	Dragon PriestâArise!
Come forth, mighty dragon priest! Appear to your servant and honor me with your holy presence!

Arise, Akiirdal! Share your secrets with this humble pilgrim. Grant me the knowledge of your ancient time.

Arise, arise, arise! Bones knit and flesh form. Throw off the sleep of death and emerge into the here and now!

I command you! I control you! Hear my words and obey me! Arise!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2707)
	The Perfection of Fearfangs Cavern
These chambers known as Fearfangs Cavern are perfect in every way. Not only are they full of Nedic artifacts to study and catalog, but the massive rooms make excellent locations for the Scaled Court to work and rest in almost absolute seclusion. Add to that the nesting grounds we discovered deeper within the complex, and I am extremely pleased with this amazing find.

I have already set the Scaled Court members under my dominion to the task of cataloging the contents of every room and chamber within Fearfangs Cavern. As instructed, we are in search of any information regarding the use and preparation of the primal element we call nirncrux, an element we believe the Nedes were not only intimately familiar with, but which they had unlocked its remarkable potential. 

Now I need to get back to the nesting grounds at the far end of the complex. I have work to do with the matron and her brood. Work that will finally provide the soldier the Serpent has been demanding we produce since this grand affair began.

—Boward, Regent of Wriggling Nightmares
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2708)
	A Prayer to the Serpent
Celestial Serpent, hear my prayer!

Oh, Serpent, who descends from the sky, listen to my unworthy voice and raise me up.

Oh, Serpent, who sheds the Worldskin to return us to a simpler, better time, hear my humble words and make a place for me in your nest.

Oh, Serpent, who undulates with power and glory, accept my offering and grant me your venomous blessing.

Celestial Serpent, hear my prayer!
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2709)
	Scorpion Observations
The giant scorpions of Craglorn have a different physiology from their smaller, more mundane cousins. In addition to their great size and power, they give birth by laying eggs in nests instead of experiencing live births and carrying their young on their backs. I'm sure this has something to do with the sheer size and number of offspring the adult scorpion matron can produce at a time. Still, these sorts of differences make for amazing and interesting study.

For this part of the project, I have chosen a powerful scorpion matron who commands the nesting grounds deep inside Fearfangs Cavern. Her brood will provide exactly the predatory traits we require for this stage of the alchemical process. When combined with the traits provided by the mighty wamasu eggbearer and the flawless crocodile matriarch, the scorpion material will increase the power of the mantikora in ways I can barely imagine!

I've collected the first of the matron's eggs. The material within each shell should infuse the spawning pools with traits that will easily be passed on to our new creature. I wonder, are any of the Serpent's other regents having as much success as I am? I think not! Perhaps when the mantikora progenitor emerges from the spawning pools, the Serpent will award me with command of the entire Scaled Court. That seems like a fair exchange for the work I have accomplished here.

—Boward, Regent of Wriggling Nightmares
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2710)
	Exarch's Orders
Extract the red brittle from the surrounding rock, making sure not to break the larger pieces.

Heat the red brittle until the element glows like a burning ember.

While the red brittle still glows hot, grind it beneath the millstone wheels or pound it beneath the steam hammers until it becomes a fine, crimson powder..

Collect the red brittle powder (the Scaled Court calls it nirncrux) into carts and distribute it evenly to Armorer Uthik, Runescriber Kulth, and Regent Boward of the Scaled Court.

Blood for our enemies, steel for our tribe!

—Exarch Braadoth
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2711)
	Letter to Exarch Braadoth
Esteemed Exarch Braadoth,

I hope this letter finds you as strong and as intimidating to our enemies as they day we met.

I have studied the process you utilize to imbue your magnificent armor and your spectacular body decorations with nirncrux dust, and I applaud your ingenuity and craftsmanship. I truly am in awe at what you have accomplished.

First, Ilthag Ironblood is a master tactician and a remarkable trainer. How he accomplishes this never ceases to amaze me, and I have tried to replicate his process to no avail. I never imagined that trolls and welwas could be turned into servants and soldiers. Adding their power to our forces makes the Scaled Court undefeatable!

Your talented armorer has crafted armor that is lighter, stronger, and literally glowing with nirncrux power. A remarkable achievement that we never would have been able to match without her skill and expertise. Not only was it a stroke of brillance to then equip trained trolls and welwas with the infused armor, but as production increases I look forward to equiping all of our forces with the special armor.

The artistry demonstrated by your runescriber sends tingles up my spine. His designs are hypnotic, and I could swear they seem to move as I try to study the intricate patterns. By adding nirncrux dust to the ink and brands, the magic he imbues in his subjects increases a hundredfold. Remarkable! Combined, the training, the armor, and the body runes make the trolls nearly unstoppable.

If I may, allow me to offer a final ritual that you can employ to make the nearly unstoppable into the virtually invincible. Try it on one of your trolls and let me know if the results are everything I promise.

—Elska, Regent of Fanged Fury
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2713)
	Letter to Windhelm
Dearest sister,

You're going to laugh and call me a milk-drinker, but remember how I left Windhelm to get away from all the trouble surrounding the Skald King's celebration? Well, things are no better in the wilds of Craglorn. In fact, I think they may be worse.

I have a nice little house beside a river in the upper region, with a spectacular view of the Skyreach ruins in the distance. It's comfortable and quiet, just what I was hoping for.

At least, it was. Before the Iron Orc horkers got all riled up. Before the crazy snake worshipers who call themselves the Scaled Court began showing up. Not to mention all this talk about Celestials and gods walking among us and all that.

Well, you know me. I can be stubborn when I put my mind to it. I'm going to sit right here and defend my new home from these many threats. I really am. But if it gets to be too much to handle, can I stay in your spare room for a few weeks? A couple of months, at the most. Write quickly and let me know.

—Your loving brother
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2714)
	Letter to Armorer Uthik
Armorer Uthik,

We need to increase production of the nirncrux-infused armor. Tell me what you need to triple your output and I will make sure you get the resources to accomplish all that I ask of you.

Do not fail me, Uthik. Your armor is the key to the success of our troll army. Moreover, I imagine a day when every troll, welwa, and Iron Orc under my command is wearing your infused creations. That will be a glorious day indeed.

Blood for our enemies, steel for our tribe!

—Braadoth, Ophidian Exarch of Undulating Destruction
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2715)
	Letter to Runescriber Kulth
Runescriber Kulth,

What else must I provide you in order to increase the speed by which our warriors are inscribed with your runes? We need to decorate each of our troll and welwa soldiers as quickly as possible, as well as begin the process to inscribe Iron Orcs with the same nirncrux-infused runes of power.

Do not fail me, Kulth. Your runes are the key to the success of our troll army. Moreover, I imagine a day when every troll, welwa, and Iron Orc under my command is decorated your infused artistry. That will be a glorious day indeed.

Blood for our enemies, steel for our tribe!

—Braadoth, Ophidian Exarch of Undulating Destruction
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2716)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume Five
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

Supplemental Notes by Verita Numida, Ancientist, University of Gwylim

Reginus stepped into a crack in the stone walkway and sprained his ankle. He's currently resting at the base camp with a cup of hot juniper tea. He reluctantly agreed to allow me to explore the pinnacle ruins without him, as we can't afford to waste time waiting for his ankle to heal to complete our examination of the Skyreach complex.

Here I am, inside the highest accessible point within the Skyreach ruins. A long, winding corridor leads deeper into the structure, though I have yet to see any evidence that would allow me to formulate a theory about the purpose of this place. I do have the unnerving feeling that I'm not alone in here. Well, in addition to my guards and research assistants. I wonder if it has something to do with the faces staring out from the carvings in the pillars and walls?

Anyway, the corridor into the ruins appears to have seen damage in the past. Parts of the walls have fallen away, and sections of the approach appear to consist of natural cave instead of worked stone. Perhaps an earthquake caused the damage and even opened natural passages through the ruins? And it still feels as though I could turn around and look into the face of an ancient Nede—or something even stranger—at any moment.

As I reached the end of the corridor and it opened into a vast, finished chamber, I wondered whether or not the passage I entered the ruins by was ever meant as an original accessway. It appeared to bisect the main chamber almost as an afterthought, as though someone or something dug their way into this section of the ruins at some point after the fall of Skyreach and I was now following the path of previous explorers or tomb robbers.

I need to think about that a bit before I write any additional comments.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2718)
	Skyreach Explorer, Volume Six
By Reginus Buca, Historian, University of Gwylim

Supplemental Notes by Verita Numida, Ancientist, University of Gwylim

I continue my commentary on my exploration of Skyreach Pinnacle while Reginus lounges around back at the base camp, nursing an injured ankle and cursing his bad run of luck on this expedition. But now that I think about it, maybe he was just getting tired of crawling around in dusty, old ruins and decided he needed a break. I wouldn't put it past him to have me do all of the work around here.

I've reached the main chamber of this portion of the ruins. It was obviously a ceremonial room of some sort, perhaps associated with the Nedic religion or arcane practices. Four summoning circles or ritual stones of some sort occupy key positions around the room. I'm not an expert on arcane rituals by any means, but I wouldn't be surprised if these stone platforms were wards of some sort. I'll make etchings of the stones and see what Reginus thinks they represent.

The center of the chamber appears to be decorated with an engraved ritual circle that seems to depict an alien visage of some kind. Is it another of the supposed Nedic gods that we have yet to fully identify? I'll put that it the definite "maybe" category. I do get a sense of foreboding in this ancient space, as though something of great consequence took place here. I wish I could find a text or something that would just explain everything to me, but then I guess I'd have no work to do for the university, would I?

The raised platform at the far end of the chamber contains two interesting and noteworthy features. First, a fifth summoning circle (ward stone?) is embedded in the floor of the platform. Second, a huge opening in the wall provides a view into the night sky. Could this have been an astronomical tool of some sort? Does a particular pattern of stars appear in this portion of the sky on a given day? I'll need to see how I can research that avenue of study, but in the meantime, I really don't like the sense I'm getting in this chamber. The place feels … angry. Like a hornet's nest of dark emotions waiting to explode. 

Yes, I'm done here. Let's see if Reginus can make any sense of what we've discovered here.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2720)
	Blood-Feathers Battle Slogans
Blood-Feathers, fly!

Blood-Feathers, soar!

Blood-Feathers, time to get bloody!

Blood-Feathers, flock together!

Blood-Feathers, tickle them with pain!

* * *

I think we'll try out all of these in the Arena tomorrow, but I'm feeling good about the first slogan I came up with. Direct, simple, and kind of catchy, if I do say so myself. Not bad for a wingless lizard, right Nahassar?

—Uta-Ra
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2721)
	Ballad of Dorzogg the Gutter-King
By Shei-Beekus the Would-Be Bard

He never owned a castle,

Yet he always wore a crown,

And he loved the skeevers and the cut-purses all the same,

He never lorded over but he always lorded true,

With a dozen trusty knights by his side,

They entered the Arena and won against all odds,

And the legend of Dorzogg the Gutter-King spread far and wide.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2722)
	Five Claws Battle Cries
We are fragrant! We are sleek!

We are Five Claws and we can't be beat!

Fur and fury!

Be the claw!

We sniff in your general direction!

* * *

These are fragrant! I can't wait to hear us shout them in the next Arena match. But we need to practice. Especially that lazy Sugar-Dance. He can't remember his name if I don't carve it into his fur.

—Khasabi
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2723)
	Challenge the Arena
Is your group ready for the ultimate challenge?

Come to the Dragonstar Arena and battle for a place in history!

Seek out the Battlemaster to join the greatest fight of all time, on this or any other plane of existence.

Opponents are standing by. Make sure your affairs are in order before arriving.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2725)
	A Rumor of Serpents
A Report for the Dragonstar Caravan Company Proctor, Prepared by Scout Zagula

The rumors appear to be correct—at least this time. The old cave complex in the western section of Upper Craglorn known as the Serpent's Nest seems to have attracted its namesake to its sheltered depths. I watched as members of the Scaled Court entered and exited the cave freely, acting like they owned the place or something.

I'm not sure what they're up to in there, but I recommend that we keep our distance. Nothing good can come of inadvertently getting the Dragonstar Caravan Company involved in Scaled Court business.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2726)
	The Gray Passage
Sing, O Stars, the glory that dwells in the hearts of all people. Beneath Hosiven's stone and the long-quenched pyre of Sarhedil, let their labors find purpose and glory. Know O pilgrim, the virtues of the Stars, for all great deeds cry for blessing. Let the Stars guide the righteous through the Gray Passage, through the caves of Upper Craglorn, to find the prayer markers and their commands.

Heed the Stars, O pilgrim, and undertake their quest. Seek their six virtues, hewn into stone. Bear each command with a noble heart and return with the utmost speed. For only the swift and the just shall receive celestial favor.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2727)
	The Pledge of Courage
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Be steadfast and courageous in the face of adversity. If fear must be borne, let your enemy bear it. For fear is a heavy weight that dries the mouth and dulls the senses. Though the enemy may be legion and your brothers and sisters may lay dead at your feet, you must remain brave and resolute. For bravery is the stone upon which the warrior's temple is built, and the temple stands strong.

Pledge to be courageous, as the Stars command.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2728)
	The Pledge of Vigilance
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Be ever vigilant, in both the blinding days and star-blessed nights. Even behind great walls, the People are imperiled by gray-men, and Goblin-kin, and wild beasts. Within the hall as well, the People may fall to plotting and poor counsel. The warrior must keep watch and act when cause is given, for vigilance is the walls that protect the warrior's temple.

Pledge to be vigilant, as the Stars command.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2729)
	The Pledge of Obedience
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Be ever obedient to king and clergy. Duty does not heed bright disposition and defy a dark one. A good king has no more right to obedience than a poor one. Both priest and king serve as the voice of the Stars' will. Though they may be sour as unripened figs or hard as uncut stone, they must be obeyed. For obedience is the warrior's armor, and the armor is strong.

Pledge to be obedient, as the Stars command.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2730)
	The Pledge of Piety
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Honor the Stars, for it is good and right to venerate them and hold them in awe. Each blade that crashes down upon the People's foes must first rise skyward. Let each strike land with a prayer. Be steadfast in prayer and generous in sacrifice. Only the pious and most-loved by the Stars shall find true glory. For a pious warrior is a dutiful warrior, and piety sustains the warrior through even the darkest hours.

Pledge to be pious, as the Stars command.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2731)
	The Pledge of Simplicity
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Seek simplicity and abstain from profane pleasures. You must not wallow, as beasts do, in filth and mire. Nor should you dwell in a house of gold and blessed red stone. In all things seek cleanliness and austerity. Do not share the cup of the debauched or break bread at the lot-caster's table. Simple blades must be clean and sharp. For a simple warrior is an unburdened warrior, ready for whatever comes his way.

Pledge to be simple, as the Stars command.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2732)
	The Pledge of Perfection
Know O pilgrim, the Stars' command: 

Pursue perfection in all things. Cleave to your trade and do not waver. Spend your days with the sword and your nights with the shield. Train diligently and do not falter. Be flawless, for greatness demands a hawk's focus, and a perfect warrior is a weapon that cuts down our enemies without thought or hesitation.

Pledge to be perfect, as the Stars command.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2733)
	An Amazing Opportunity
Skeetees,

I just heard about an amazing opportunity. We might need to gather a few friends, but I think we can handle it. Have you heard about a place called Ilthag's Undertower?

I can hear the sigh in your voice from way over here. But trust me. The Iron Orcs have poured a lot of resources into this hole in the ground, so there has to be something worth acquiring down there. It's under the ruined tower just beyond the northeast passage into Upper Craglorn.

So, want to see what old Ilthag is hiding in those ruins?

Dobinskal One-Finger
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2735)
	Intercepted Star-Gazer's Document
Hara,

I discovered another Scaled Court lair in Upper Craglorn. They have commandeered the Loth'Na Caverns, a series of caves to the northeast of the Skyreach ruins. The number of forces present in the caverns are truly impressive! I have no idea where the Serpent is acquiring all these followers. Perhaps we need to start using their recruitment tactics. (Teasing! I tease!)

I spotted the assassin Visskar entering the Loth'Na Caverns. That tells me that the caves are extremely important to the Scaled Court—and they just got infinitely more dangerous.

I'll send additional information as I get it.

Star-Gazer Olior
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2736)
	Letter to Elanwen
Elanwen,

I finished investigating the Howling Sepulchers in the eastern part of Upper Craglorn—at least, as much as I could manage. The place is crawling with all kinds of dead things! Well, they're moving around and are pretty angry, so it's not like they're really dead. But they are dead and … oh, bother, I'm not making any sense, am I?

Dead warriors and shamans and wolves, prowling the Sepulchers and attacking anything that's actually alive that gets too close. Dangerous place! And I didn't see any of the red brittle, but that's mostly because I turned around and started running the moment I entered the place and saw all the angry dead people.

Kwendi Tree-Climber
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2738)
	Scaled Court Communique
To my spy in Dragonstar,

Do not reveal your true allegiance, no matter the circumstances. I need you to continue to watch the activities of the Dragonstar Caravan Company, as they have sufficient forces to cause problems for us should they decide to take action.

I have also heard about a High Elf named Elanwen. She has been purchasing large quantities of the precious nirncrux and hampering our own collection efforts. Find out how much she knows about our plans.

I will be inspecting our forces at the Fearfangs Cavern, west of the town of Dragonstar. Do not disappoint me.

Elska, Regent of Fanged Fury
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2742)
	Letter to Ariana
Ariana,

I have a wealth of opportunities at the moment, so I'm passing this on to you. Now, you didn't hear it from me, but rumor has it that the Iron Orc known as Ordooth the Corrupter has taken up residence in the complex in the northern reaches of the Valley of Scars called Exarch's Stronghold.

If you want to try for it, this bounty is yours. Good luck, my friend!

Regol Hodd, Bounty Hunter
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2743)
	We Who Are About To Die
"We who are about to die—"

No, too direct. Too grim. How about ….

"We who are about to march to war—"

No, no. Too melodramatic. I need an opening for my memoir that's catchy, memorable, and will make people want to turn the pages. Let me see ….

"There once was a warrior from Rivenspire, who came to the Dragonstar Arena with a sword on fire—"

Now that's an opening! It even rhymes! I wonder how much of this I can write before it's our turn to enter the Arena? Ah, what's the hurry? I can always finish it after we win.
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2744)
	The Wonders of Craglorn
Oh, Papa, the wonders I've seen! I know we exchanged harsh words when you decided to send me to Craglorn, but you were right. The experience has done me a world of good. Of course, I've had to put up with more than my share of milk-drinkers and horkers, but that's to be expected whenever we venture far from the borders of our beloved Skyrim. But let me tell you about the experiences I've had.

First, they say the stars have fallen from the sky and walk like men in this wasteland. I don't know about that, but I saw warriors of sand and dust rise from the battlefield like ancient specters. They were tough, but nothing that honest Nord steel couldn't take down.

Then I ran into these strange monstrosities that seemed to be a mix of various creatures. It was almost as though a scorpion and a wamasu had a baby—and yes, it was as amazing and terrible as that sounds. The locals called it a "mantikora." I called it ugly and hit it with my axe. A lot.

And did I mention the cultists in my last letter? Yes, Craglorn has them, too. But these cultists are special. Call themselves the Scaled Court and give themselves high-and-mighty titles such as "regents" and "exarchs." What a bunch of horkers! And would you believe it? They worship some kind of sky snake! Of all the possible deities to choose from, they decided that a creature that wiggles around on its belly was the end all and be all. I hit them with my axe. A lot. And it felt good!

Now I'm enjoying a mead and preparing to enter the Dragonstar Arena. You'd be so proud of me, Papa! I've gathered a decent group of warriors and I think we have a chance to win this competition. Who knew a Nord, a Dark Elf, and two Argonians would make such a good team? I haven't been able to get all the details on what we'll be up against, but I figure it can't be much harder than the Konunleikar games. I'll write again after we win the trophy. Or whatever it is we win.

Your daughter, Belinka
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2745)
	Dragonstar Arena Guest Book
Welcome to the greatest competition in all the planes of existence! Welcome to the Dragonstar Arena!

I am your host and battlemaster, the great and powerful Hiath. I know we're going to get along just fine, and I look forward to seeing you in action. Put on a good show and give it your best shot, and even if you die horribly, you will be remembered for at least being brave enough to step foot onto the Arena floor.

Now, please, sign in so that your name will be recorded in the Arena archieves. I never forget a face, but I'm terrible at remembering names.

—Arena Guests—

Killsia

Carmion

Eiola Windstrider

Ramsi Windstrider

Darien Gautier

Skordo the Knife

Horak

Junlock

Gunran

Shalim

Chanisa

Woster Frozen-Fist

Belinka

Narika

Sweeps-Dust

Meesk-Lano

Champion Marcauld and the Fighters Guild

Kazbur the Wanderer (oh, I probably wasn't supposed to sign this)

Serio

Balrok

Jippity
		

		Part of the Craglorn Secrets collection (#2746)
	Tracking the Arena
A Scholary Exploration of the Mysterious Fight Club, by Ebidazner Kornod

I have been searching for the elusive and mysterious contest of champions for more years than I care to admit. I first heard of the secret battleground in Valenwood, when Biiri the Beautiful was spoken of as the legendary Champion of the Games. Tried as I might, I could not find the location of these rumored games, nor could I find anyone who had actually seen any of the battles, even though the inns of Valenwood were alive with tales of Biiri's prowess.

After weeks of futile searching, the tales of the Valenwood Arena evaporated as quickly as they started. Somehow, some way, a massive, hidden arena of multiple levels simply vanished. I assumed this was just further proof that the stories were more legend than truth, but still the idea of the place nagged at me. It haunted my dreams and interrupted my thoughts at the oddest moments.

When next I heard rumors of a mysterious and secret Arena, I was in Windhelm for the Skald-King's Konunleikar. In the shadows of the dingy mead halls, rough and tumble Nords described a magical battlegrounds where the environment changed with every match. To earn a victory meant getting to fight another match. To find defeat was to experience a bloody and violent death. It sounded gruesome and fascinating to me, and the Nords drank it up like it was the sweetest beverage they ever tasted.

The place was called the Skyrim Arena, but I was never able to locate an entrance to the battlegrounds. This time they spoke of the glorious victories of Holgstad the Horrible. He was supposedly a Nord's Nord. Tall as a troll and twice as powerful, Holgstad was rumored to enter each match carrying a double-bladed axe and a dagger that sparked with lightning. They said he had a trio of Nord shield maidens that fought by his side, and that they were destroying the competition in match after match—much to the approval of the Arena's mysterious patron.

I think I was getting close to finding the secret location when suddenly the stories stopped. It happened again. This supposedly ancient arena of stone and metal had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, taking Holgstad and his shield maidens with it. The Nords cheered, drank to their honored champion, and then went back to dealing with the more mundane happenings of the realm.

I dispaired of ever getting that close to the Arena again when I happened to be traveling on one of the Dragonstar Caravan Company's wagons. One of the caravan guards was bragging about how he was going to compete in the Dragonstar Arena when he returned to Craglorn after this run. He knew he was strong enough to challenge the current champion. All he had to do was convince three of his fellow guards to join him so he had a proper team.

Over drinks around the evening fire, I was able to learn as much as the guard could tell me about the Arena. He explained that it was an ancient ruin that suddenly appeared in the hills behind the town of Dragonstar a few weeks back. Challengers were arriving from all over Craglorn and beyond to compete in the secret games. They had even set up a makeshift camp outside the Arena entrance. I knew this was the Arena I had been searching for, that somehow it changed locations whenever the competition began to falter. That it was capable of moving—stone by stone—across the world.

Now I'm inside the Arena, hoping to gain access to the games themselves. I need to see how the environments change. I need to determine if it's some amazing feat of ancient engineering or some sort of magic that makes the impossible happen for every match. And I need to determine who the mysterious patron of the Arena actually is. I have suspicions, of course, but I'm sure the truth will turn out to be exceedingly stranger than anything I can imagine.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2747)
	Boethiah's Call of Champions
Let it be known. These individuals have distinguished themselves in my games and have earned the title of Champion of Boethia!

Faithful Adrasa

Biiri the Beautiful

Foloril of the Fine Form

Holgstad the Horrible

Moridanus Dres

Hiath the Battlemaster

<<1>>
		

		Not part of any collection (#2749)
	The Raneviad, Volume II
And so it came to pass that Ranev the Coal-Eyed Wanderer, cousin to Thelmyra the Oak and most loved by King Irndarus, traveled to the Stone of Hosiven to pay her respects to the heroes of old. It was here that she discovered the Gray Menhir.

The stone loomed over Ranev, dwarfing her and casting a long shadow over the land and water. Ranev was greatly impressed by the size of the standing stone, for she was known for her strength and great height. To her amazement, she watched as words were carved into the stone, struck with great precision by unknown, invisible hands to create a tablet of sorts. The tablet exhorted her with the following words: 

"Heed the Stars, O pilgrim, and undertake their quest. Seek their six virtues, hewn into stone. Bear each command with a noble heart and return with the utmost speed. For only the swift and the just shall receive celestial favor."

Reading these words, Ranev's chest swelled with great purpose. She resolved to take up the stone's challenge and seek the virtues of the Stars. She meditated in front of the Gray Menhir and sang a warrior's hymn before setting out to complete her pilgrimage.

Ranev traveled swifting, visiting each of the six holy sites in turn. At each site, the warrior had to overcome dangerous creatures, foul beasts, and other challenges to find the prayer markers and receive the six virtues. She returned to the Gray Menhir within the allotted time, victorious, with the virtues of the Stars singing inside her. She pledged to embody the virtues until the end of her days. From that point on, Ranev the Coal-Eyed Wanderer became known as Ranev the Favored of the Stars.

And her adventures were just beginning.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2754)
	How Long?
It's been weeks. Months? They say that time flows with demented cadence in the realms of Oblivion. When I get out of here—if I get out of here—the world will have moved on. I pray that, however much time has passed, my husband and the residents of Whisper Grove remain safe.

It would be a fitting end for all I've given. I am weary, in bone and soul, and this contest is far from finished.

Writing helps.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2755)
	The New Lord
Today there was a wind—a fiery wind, above Red-Zeal Keep. I thought it was more of the Deadlands' wretched weather, but a massive form emerged from it, much taller than man or even mer, its great form trailing ash. It hung from nothing in the air.

Some kind of procession followed, of all kinds of Daedric creatures, towards the Keep. They walked straight through pools of lava. Some couldn't survive the heat, but they marched on, burning and crackling as they went, prostrating themselves at the feet of that celestial object. There, they smoldered like a hundred miniature suns until they were no longer there. Days ago, this would have pleased me, but I believe these creatures do not wholly perish. I have seen too many of the same faces after I have smashed them, over and over again.

Then came the Titan, landing in a crushing mass, and with it a rain of fire so fierce I swear the cave mouth, where I stood watching above, burned wider. I withdrew into darkness for a desperate pause, thinking my end had come. When it didn't, I emerged to find the Titan hunched to the ground, the ruby carbuncles on its hide flaring an angry red. It stared up, almost defiantly, at the being of ash and fire and slag, and a plume of smoke issued from the holes in its skull.

I thought a blazing spell was coming, but the Titan only raised its head to lower it again. In deference? Begrudging respect? It was only then that the molten god—whatever it was—touched the dirt with its feet.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2756)
	The First Day
I was to become a Razor Master, to replace the one I helped topple. For me, stepping through the Gate was like falling through a crucible of flame.

It burned deep, boiled my blood, and I crashed out in a field, amidst a shower of molten rock and steam. I don't know how it was that I lived.

I realized I was clutching a dagger in my hand.

"I have given you a means of defense." The voice spoke, but no one was there.

"This is all?" I asked the air.

"That is all you need. Now prove yourself, and live. Or fail, and embrace a new day."
		

		Not part of any collection (#2757)
	Here to Stay
I could escape this place this instant if I wanted. You know your Lord has given me the means, and I have found the will to survive—to live as one of you.

Will you ever read this? I think the same pride that blinds you, keeps me alive, will keep you from it. I doubt you have ever deigned to enter this keep, to check on your Sigil Stone charge.

I came here to show you I could. It doesn't matter who rules this place—as the Ash Titan learned, no Daedric flame, no Razor Pit can stop me.

But I will honor the pact. And I guarantee you will enjoy living with me as much as I enjoy living with you.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2758)
	Daedra Dossier: The Titans
By Denogorath the Dread Archivist

I have compiled this account at the request of Kkrohziz the Greater Titan, who was peeved to find that the Library of Dusk contained nothing at all related to the origins of our most imposing Coldharbour residents. 

Therefore let the tale be told—and it is fitting that this be done, for in our Lord and Master's upcoming Planemeld campaign, the Titans will be released for the first time upon the hated mortals of Tamriel. And fear and doom shall follow in their footsteps.

There are, or have been, or will be a race of beings upon Nirn called Dragons, creatures of almost Daedra-like majesty. They naturally sought domination over the mortals of Nirn, and achieved a measure of success therein. 

But upon a time that was and will be the ever-pernicious mortals of Tamriel betrayed these their natural masters, and those who were not slain were driven into hidden refuge. Then one such Dragon, a greater Dov named Boziikkodstrun, exerted his nigh-divine will in an attempt to fly beyond the borders of the Mundus. And though he did not succeed, his effort was valorous and remarkable, and impinged upon the attention of Molag Bal himself. 

Our Lord and Master noted this feat of will-force, considered that the race of Dov had achieved dominion over much of Nirn, and thus spake unto this Boziikkodstrun, offering him a place of honor and privilege in his domain of Coldharbour. And the Dragon, his resources all but spent by his efforts, did accept and agree. 

So Molag Bal opened a window between worlds to allow the Dragon to pass into our Lord's realm, where Boziikkodstrun was granted the privilege of being bound in chains of cold ebon iron, and set in a place of honor in the nethermost depths of the Tower of Lies. For our Lord and Master desired to know the secrets of the Dragons' dominance over the mortals of Nirn. Long was the Dragon tortured and interrogated. But the dragon was haughty, and indignant at his ill treatment, and no matter what torments were brought to bear, the intransigent Boziikkodstrun refused to utter so much as a single syllable in his abrasive language to reveal the secrets of the Dov. 

Vexed by this obstinate defiance—and rightly so—our Lord and Master at length waxed wroth and avenged himself upon Boziikkodstrun by slow consumption of the flesh from his bones, yea, every gobbet. Then Molag Bal regarded the skeleton of the Dov and laughed. "If I cannot have the secrets of the Dragons," he thundered, "then I shall make Dragons of my own—Dragons even mightier than those of Nirn!"

He ordered the skeleton taken to the Vile Laboratory, where it was infused with the blood-of-darkness that reawakened it as a Vestige. During this process Molag Bal ordered that the skeleton be somewhat adjusted and improved to a plan of his own devising, forming a bone-frame even mightier than that of its forebears. Then it was plunged into the deepest pool in the Azure Chasm, there to absorb the blue liquescence that would give our Lord's new servant its body, brain, and brawn. 

Within a nanaeon a mighty creature drew itself from the chasm plasm and shook itself free of the primordial slime. In response to the summons of our mutual Lord and Master, it ascended to the plateau and bounded nimbly up the Endless Stair. The first of the Daedric Titans was among us. 

From its very first performance in the grueling Test of Fealty it was clear that this new morphotype would be a valuable addition to our Lord and Master's forces of dominion. Its strength was unparalleled, its savagery remarkable even among the war-slaves of Molag Bal, and its native intelligence was impressive (though perhaps not on the level of its forebears). 

Most fearsome of all is the Titan's ability to speak a spell of flaming essence-drain that can debilitate an opponent with a single word. Theoretically, if the utterance were interrupted before completion, the spell would recoil upon its caster, but that eventuality is remote.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2759)
	To Whom It May Concern
The Wood Elf Fingaenion is certain he knows a way into the planes of Oblivion. He's been studying, reading dark books that this Nord couldn't begin to comprehend. His wife disappeared there long ago, but if she yet lives—the Undaunted are going to get her back!

The great Undaunted excursion into Oblivion—that's what they'll call it, decades from now, when they sing our song! A song of the most dauntless of the Undaunted, charging headlong into the razors of Mehrunes Dagon! It won't be pretty, it might not even be wise, but it will be fun!

Tomorrow is the day. The day for us to rise above the ranks of even the Undaunted!

PS

To posterity—if we don't make it back (and the steady dilapidation of this camp will be a clue!)—then take this note to Glenumbra, to Mighty Mordra. She will know we died as we lived—as Undaunted!

PPS

We being the combined force of:

Umbarume the Undertaker

Caeleneth the Hapless

Sobabe

Zantan the Magnificent

Glad Glatha

Bloody Mayra

Brittgerd Bear-Master

Axel Malveaux

Monynen

Eats-Aged-Meat

Fingaenion the Wood Elf

and

Hogondar Hammerhurl (the greatest of us all!)
		

		Not part of any collection (#2762)
	Felgol's Note
Humor the dying words of a daring Undaunted:

Knock those statues down.

Please—it would annoy them so damned much.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2763)
	This Text Property of Leki's Blade
The Four

by Sima the Edged Scholar

There are few warriors, even in legend, who match the Sword Saints of old Yokuda. But among that elite cadre, the Four—Mamireh, Akamon, Roshadon, and Rok'dun the Flame, rise above the rest.

They were among the most prominent Yokudan warriors of the first invasion of Nedic homelands.

Legend has it, the three were inestimably powerful, wielding sword movements lesser Sword Saints only saw in dreams. They single-handedly captured Nedic fortifications, breached Nedic walls as easily as hopping streams, cut whole armies to ribbons with a swing of their spirit swords.

That's what the myths claim, anyway. The greatest Redguard warriors of today seem like elderly statesmen in comparison.

The legends elaborate further that, among all the formidable Ansei serving the Yokudan effort, the Four had special favor from the Warrior Stars. They had meditated so fully on that constellation that they could reach through those windows, to whatever lay beyond. Thus, they grasped greater skill.

One must assume they eventually perished, of course. If not at the pikes and axes of Nedic defenders, then from natural causes. But the graves of these Yokudan elite have never been found. This old scholar has searched the entirety of Craglorn, looked in every corner of every Yokudan crypt, and found no sign of the Four. Unless they returned to a sinking Yokuda, perhaps they never existed at all,
		

		Not part of any collection (#2769)
	Hands Off
Let it be known to all Firstmages of the upper floors—the Aetherial orbs are not to be tampered with.

The Learned One has devised them as a means to block cosmic essence from tearing this realm to pieces. Remove these orbs and risk death—or worse. Extraplanar stresses are known to wreak havoc on mortal physiology.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2771)
	Why We Fled
Many will say we fled because we were cowards. My children, it is a lie. When time is long gone and your own people have forgotten where they came from, do not hang your head in shame. Remember the story of Turog's folly, of rock Orsinium, and Golkarr's tomb.

The Orcs are strong people, fierce and warlike. Blood is our birthright, and the sinews of Malacath knit around our bones. But we were not made to sit still. We were not made to settle and till the land, but to move and pillage, and plunder. Our strength is to destroy and reap from what we destroy the glory of war.

But many years ago, Turog, first among the Orcs in strength and rage, came to our people with a vision. We will build a great city, said he, and the rest of the world will look to us with fear and respect.

Fear us they did, but know that an Orc is never respected, no matter how great a city he builds.

They built the city into the rock, a shiny gem. Orsinium. And it was a great city, but Orcs were not made to live in cities. It's walls, designed to defend, only trapped us. Its threefold gates sealed us in. The city was a cairn to Turog's ambition—to the dreams of the Orcs, and in time the Redguard and Breton peoples came to destroy it.

We did not flee because we feared war. We fled to meet the enemy and we cut a swathe through their armies and then through their lands. All their holdings in Wrothgar trembled as we marched, and the earth shook with the sound of our footfalls.

O Glory! O Joy! To be Orcs again! Free and on the move!

It was not to last. The enemy mustered their forces in number far exceeding our own and pressed us back to the edge of the mountain, to the plain of unending ice. In the shelter of the clockwork demons we found warmth and home and a defense against out enemies, until the time when we can emerge again triumphant and ride to victory under the light Malacath's tusky grin.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2772)
	The Orc Council
Day 15

The chiefs have met for many days. Our enemy waits on the outside, but we do not know what waits within, only that food runs low and the devices in this ruin are starting to cool.

The question is: leave or venture further in, in hopes of finding an exit on the other side.



Day 17

At long last, it was decided to send a scout further in to see if anything lies on the other side of this ruin.

Day 18

The scout has returned. He reports a valley, warmed by these Dwarven contraptions, and rich in game for slaughter. The chiefs are eager to believe his reports, though I am skeptical. From the way the scout talks, he has found Hircine's own hunting grouds.

Day 19

A vote was held. I cast mine for a valorous end, in battle, against our enemies, for the dead of Orsinium. But the scout's hyperbole carried the day. We move further in.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2773)
	The Great Warmth
Bow to the great warmth

Pray to the great warmth

Give to the great warmth

The great warmth is your father

The great warmth is your master

The great warmth watches

There is no life without warmth
		

		Not part of any collection (#2774)
	For Letter Finder
For letter finder,

Son of Khoreg, son of Malgog, son of Agarabug, scribe of great clan of metal land. Write about this time when we are very long in place and sun is pale in sky and warm dies. No food grows but meat sometimes and mushroom in cave.

Priest make offering to great warm and bang on pipe to stop clockwork demon attack. Is hard now to teach to write and read. Food is want. Not book. Warm is want. Burn book for warm.

Is writing last word of clan of metal land. We probably eat each other before warm again. Priest make offering. Chief look for place make warm. Old map show way. Chief not read.

Is not eat clanflesh. Is die. Is last to know read and write. Is eat by others. Others live.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2778)
	Quarry Work Order
By the will of Kurog, King in Orsinium, Warlord of All Wrothgar:

-- 50 lots of Greystone from Clan Tumnosh, to be delivered by end of year.

-- With 100 more lots to be delivered six months after that.

Advance payment in Bills of Promise delivered at issuance of the request, to be fulfilled with an amount in gold equal to 120% of the promised value.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2779)
	Foreman's Complaint
Ramash, you son of an ugly goat. How are we supposed to produce 150 lots of stone in the next year? That's nearly double our normal capacity.

Why do you make promises to that city full of Elves and Trinimac-worshippers? They have forgotten how to be Orcs, demanding that others do their work for them.

If they are so desperate for stone, you tell them they need to send workers. The crew is already working double shifts. They may be Orcs, but they're not gods. They'll be dead before year's end at this rate. Worked to death, and it'll be on your head!
		

		Not part of any collection (#2780)
	Sharfum's Letter
Father,

I know it will be disappointing to you, so I am leaving at night.

You know where I have gone. To the city. I have decided to join the priesthood of Trinimac.

You will blame Sneg, but you should not. I made this decision on my own. If you must know the reason it is that for a long time I was ashamed of being an Orc. While other peoples grow strong and proud with their great cities--Shornhelm, Stormhaven, Daggerall, Mournhold, Evermore--we Orcs languish without a home. In Orsinium, I no longer need to be ashamed. 

Whenever you find this, and whatever you think of it, I want you to know that I will always love you and I was never ashamed of you.

Your daughter,

Sharfum
		

		Not part of any collection (#2783)
	Letter to Geldrion
Geldrion,

Next time, don't hide your gold in a stupid barrel. Any old fool could come along and take it. I took your gold to the bank for safekeeping. That's what banks are for, you know. Didn't mother teach you anything? 

I didn't want to lug the shield along, too, but it's not like anyone but you is going to use that old thing. As for your onion, well, stashing that in the bank is just plain silly. And it's starting to smell.

Your brother,

Randolph
		

		Not part of any collection (#2785)
	Rite of the Scion
What is the Rite of the Scion?

A ceremony wherein a mortal inflicted with vampiris is accepted by the Blood Matron. This mortal obtains her blood and her favor, becoming a Scion.

What is involved in the ceremony?

A mortal is presented to the Blood Matron by a Scion. The mortal shall take the name Initiate, the Scion that of Bloodspeaker.

The Bloodspeaker must first prepare the accursed symbols of Arkay and Molag Bal. Thereafter, the Initiate drinks from the basin of suffering and the basin of loss and learns the history of Lamae Bal. Then, the Initiate profanes the symbols. Once this is done, the Initiate submits to the Blood Matron and is exsanguinated completely. Should the Blood Matron deem the Initiate worthy, she will revive them with her own blood.

What separates a Scion from a mere vampire?

A vampire is a victim. They are poor creatures suffering from a disease. Scions are blessed by the Blood Matron directly. More potent is their blood. More terrible is their wrath. More beautiful is their visage.

Vampires are their flock, mortals their fare.

Whom does the Scion serve?

The Scion, child of the Blood Matron, bows to no one. The Mother has broken their bonds. To serve is their choice, but the Mother would see Her children unite and turn their opponents into subjects.

What is the Covenant of the Scion?

Arkay the Forsaker, we curse you. You left us to suffer in darkness.

But we survived. And in darkness, we grew.

Now, we feed upon your followers. We will use their stolen strength to conquer and consume you.

Molag Bal, Father of Torment, we curse you. You sought to poison us with your blood.

But we survived. And from your poison, we grew.

King of Corruption, your children are coming. We will defile and destroy you.

We step away from the light. We sacrifice the frailty of breath.

From the dead blood of our Mother, we live unburdened. Her curse is our blessing. Her fury, our grace.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2788)
	Quartermaster's Note
Tell the Master—construction of the weapon is complete, built as he commanded. All the Nirncrux in this cavern made it possible.

The weapon will ignite the magicka that flows in the bodies of our opponents—flay them from the inside out with the Master's aura. The magicka wielders who face us will have to deplete their stores or face burning alive.

But we all have a little magicka in us. Those without the means to expel it—the brutes who deign to wield magic, or those who simply fail to bring a spell into battle—will perish with great prejudice. 

All that's left is to free the Master.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2799)
	Scouting Report for General Aklash
* Scout patrol consisting of Corporal Ahmat and scouts Ondrisa and Tughag sent to investigate second level of sewers, perhaps find source of Gray Viper infection.

* Very wet outside base; had to swim for it. Encountered small packs of Gray Vipers, all infected. Evaded these foes.

* Ran into some clannfear. They must have smelled Tughag; they came right for us. We killed three of them and avoided the rest. Avoided more Vipers in the next chamber.

* Tunnel full of scamps. I hate scamps, we went around.

* Lots of small camps of Vipers. These scum are here to stay.

* Took a quick look at the end of the huge chamber, to see if that lightning Daedra was still down there. Still there, so we snuck away quietly.

* Took the central passage and ran into a Dremora patrol. Just barely survived. Ondrisa took a nasty slash to her left shoulder but insisted she could continue.

* Says a lot that the infected Vipers are the least disgusting things down here. I hate these sewers.

* More scamps and clannfear. I hate them too.

* Finally reached the door down to the catacombs. Not looking forward to this.

* Vipers and trash everywhere we look down here. Hard to tell the two apart.

* Snuck past some Dremora guarding a portal. Don't want to know where that goes.

* Atronachs and Daedroth down here. Hope they never come up to the upper levels.

* Saw a citizen being tormented by Gray Vipers. We rushed to help him but more of them came at the noise. Ondrisa and Tughag mortally wounded, staggered off to die. I hid and finished this report. No idea how I'll get it back to Aklash.
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2825)
	An Exile's Notes
The memory-stone. That's what they say Ulbazar stole. It is a secret known only to Ulbazar and the heavens. The rest of us? We all have a story. We are, in fact, from all over.

Baram is the oldest. He was a merchant in his home, a place he cannot bear to name, when he was driven out by slander. 

Naya is a Forebear doctor who was driven from her home when the Crown child in her care died of a disease for which there is no cure.

Salamas is a mediocre poet who tells marvelous jokes. We are all in a better mood because of him. But he made the wrong joke at the wrong time, and so he too joined us on the road to Evermore.

There are so many of us and we pass the time telling tales of where we came from and how it was that we went to Evermore. We have become a kind of family.

All except Ulbazar. He is a hard man, an angry man. He believes we will not leave this place alive. But no matter how little he says, still there are rumors. That he was a great warrior who should have been welcomed as a hero, but instead he was exiled. That in revenge he stole his lord's most precious possession, a thing called the memory-stone.

These are just rumors though. Fantasies conjured by minds that have gone too long without daylight or the feel of the morning breeze on our skin.

In Evermore they know us only as "the exiles." We have been told to wait here until our status is resolved, but they have sealed the doors on us like we are prisoners. I wonder if Ulbazar is right—that we'll never leave this place.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2826)
	I'll Get You Ulbazar
What is this? Ulbazar thinks he can lock me in this cage like an animal! Why? Because I wanted to feed myself and my family?

They have forgotten about us! They aren't sending any more food! We have to take what we can! 

If he hadn't stolen that memory-stone we wouldn't be in this mess! That's the reason they won't let us out! It's all because of him!

But tell me why should we let good flesh just rot away while our families starve? Does that make any sense?
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#2827)
	Salamas's Epitaph
Who can recount the tales

of the exiles laid afresh

in coffins claimed from unflinching bones

last resting place for tired flesh?

Here lie weeping men

and women torn from homes

forgotten but not lost

in halls that became their tombs.

Until the last stone is removed

and the prison unsealed

who will sing the mourning hymn

of kings' cruelty revealed?
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2829)
	Bowman's Note
Albert, for the last time stop asking why we are digging in the southern tunnels. If our enlightened masters wished us to know, they would have told us.

Here is what you do:

1. Raise skeletons.

2. Give skeletons shovels.

3. Tell skeletons to dig up crystals.

4. Don't ask questions.

It's not hard! If I have to warn you again, you can be assured you will join the number of those digging!

Irritably,

Bowman
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2830)
	Note to Marianas
Dearest Marianas,

I plan to return to you soon. The operation in Claw's Strike is running well after the initial few hiccups.

There are prettier Khajiit than Fishbreath, with nicer attitudes, I guess. And he does have an awful angry streak, always threatening to feed the others to his senche-lions.

But he's fair and he pays well. In a few months I think I will have made enough to get out of this work and set us up for life.

[The rest of the note is colored with flecks of dried blood and looks as if it's been chewed. It seems it was never sent.]
		

		Not part of any collection (#2855)
	Zoragag's Plea
Clan-brother Otholug, 

I write this in hopes of reconciliation. As your sister's son, I am honor-bound to try.

Your illness and actions have brought shame to our clan, and worse than shame. I was hunting in the hills when you returned to our village after your many years' away. You know the horrors I found upon my return. You are not fully responsible; your disease drove you to it.

Though many of our clan were dead or turned into feral vampires, the survivors regrouped, founded a new clan-hold, and now thrive in the nearby hills.

I tracked you to the Imperial City but lost your trail here. I bribed a mercenary to find you and hand you this letter. I hope he survived.

Join me. Together we will seek a cure and your crimes will be forgiven. This was your sister's last wish. Return to your people with me.

- Zoragag
		

		Part of the Hidden Motif Books collection (#2856)
	Racial Motifs 15: Dwemer
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. She also says that organizing this study into an alphabetical listing of classes of relics is weird and detail-obsessive, but that's just evidence of her muddled and haphazard way of thinking. 

AXES

Dwemeri axe designs reflect the wheels, gears, and cogs that are central to so many devices of the Deep Elves. The haft is surmounted by a round disk resembling the hub of a wheel, from which spokes radiate to the blade or blades, which are like portions of a wheel's outer ring. The blades maintain an edge remarkably well, considering their great age. 

BELTS

Dwarven belts are typically made of overlapping metal links of a repeated geometric shape, such as squares or circles. Their length is easily adjusted by the addition or subtraction of a few links. The tensile strength of such a belt is without peer, many times that of an equivalent length of steel chain. 

BOOTS

Dwarven boots are sturdy, but not as heavy as they look. Though they have accents of Dwarven metal, they are mainly constructed of a flexible material that resembles leather, but either it is some sort of manufactured imitation, or the Dwemer had beasts with incredibly smooth and homogenous hide. Knee-high Dwarven boots often incorporate built-in greaves over the shins.

BOWS

Dwarven recurved bows are powerful and can drive an arrow through an oaken board. Though they appear to made of metal, they are not; the strong yet flexible material they are made from is otherwise unknown, and cannot be duplicated by modern bowyers. 

CHEST PIECES

All Dwarven chest armor consists of metal plates of various sizes affixed to a leather cuirass—thin, flexible leather with a few small plates in the case of light armor, the leather becoming thicker and the plates larger and more numerous as the armor gets heavier. The plates are typically geometric in shape and ornamentation. 

DAGGERS

A Dwarven dagger typically has a broad and heavy triangular blade, as suitable for chopping as for stabbing. In fact, they resemble tools as much as they do weapons. 

GLOVES

Dwarven gloves were always made of fine and flexible leather or pseudo-leather, reflecting their wearers' need for fine manipulation of their devices. Only the heaviest gauntlets sported metal ribs, typically tessellated splints protecting the back of the hands. 

HELMETS

Dwarven helmets of all kinds famously cover the entire face with a face-shaped visor, curiously bisected down the center by a sort of metal keel. This keel reappears atop the helmet as a crest, which may be modest or bizarrely exaggerated. A line of Dwemer troops, all wearing helmets with identical, impassive visages, must have struck terror into the Deep Elves' enemies.

LEG GREAVES

The leg protection of the Dwemer typically consisted of geometric plates or cylinders of metal, mounted on the same thick yet flexible material used for their boots. The armor was particularly thick over the knee.

MACES

Dwarven maces have heavy and blunt geometrical heads, without flanges, spikes, or pointed finials. The two-handed maces are outweighed only by Orcish skull-crushers, and can bend and batter plate armor as if it was foil. 

SHIELDS

Dwarven shields come in many shapes, but all echo the geometric forms seen on Dwemer armor, albeit writ large. They are formed from relatively thin plates of Dwarven metal, and are much lighter and wieldier than they appear. 

SHOULDERS

Dwarven shoulder pauldrons were usually made of thick and inflexible metal, mounted on cops of heavy "leather." The pauldrons of heavier armor sometimes sported metal keels echoing the crests seen atop their helmets. 

STAVES

Even the most elaborate Dwarven staff has a utilitarian look about it, as if it was going to be used with a paddle to draw a loaf of bread from an oven. The haft is made of some close-grained substance that looks like wood but is not, circled with rings of Dwarven metal. The finials are circular or fan-shaped, and usually modest in size. 

SWORDS

Dwarven swords look like mere extensions of their daggers, featuring the same broad, triangular blades with both point and edge. Their cross-guards are slender to almost nonexistent, which argues that Dwemer swordplay did not rely much on thrusting.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2857)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 1: Dwemer Axes
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

AXES

Dwemeri axe designs reflect the wheels, gears, and cogs that are central to so many devices of the Deep Elves. The haft is surmounted by a round disk resembling the hub of a wheel, from which spokes radiate to the blade or blades, which are like portions of a wheel's outer ring. The blades maintain an edge remarkably well, considering their great age.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2858)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 2: Dwemer Belts
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

BELTS

Dwarven belts are typically made of overlapping metal links of a repeated geometric shape, such as squares or circles. Their length is easily adjusted by the addition or subtraction of a few links. The tensile strength of such a belt is without peer, many times that of an equivalent length of steel chain.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2859)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 3: Dwemer Boots
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

BOOTS

Dwarven boots are sturdy, but not as heavy as they look. Though they have accents of Dwarven metal, they are mainly constructed of a flexible material that resembles leather, but either it is some sort of manufactured imitation, or the Dwemer had beasts with incredibly smooth and homogenous hide. Knee-high Dwarven boots often incorporate built-in greaves over the shins.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2860)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 4: Dwemer Bows
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

BOWS

Dwarven recurved bows are powerful and can drive an arrow through an oaken board. Though they appear to made of metal, they are not; the strong yet flexible material they are made from is otherwise unknown, and cannot be duplicated by modern bowyers.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2861)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 5: Dwemer Chests
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

CHEST PIECES

All Dwarven chest armor consists of metal plates of various sizes affixed to a leather cuirass—thin, flexible leather with a few small plates in the case of light armor, the leather becoming thicker and the plates larger and more numerous as the armor gets heavier. The plates are typically geometric in shape and ornamentation.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2862)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 6: Dwemer Daggers
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

DAGGERS

A Dwarven dagger typically has a broad and heavy triangular blade, as suitable for chopping as for stabbing. In fact, they resemble tools as much as they do weapons.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2863)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 7: Dwemer Gloves
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

GLOVES

Dwarven gloves were always made of fine and flexible leather or pseudo-leather, reflecting their wearers' need for fine manipulation of their devices. Only the heaviest gauntlets sported metal ribs, typically tessellated splints protecting the back of the hands.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2864)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 8: Dwemer Helmets
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

HELMETS

Dwarven helmets of all kinds famously cover the entire face with a face-shaped visor, curiously bisected down the center by a sort of metal keel. This keel reappears atop the helmet as a crest, which may be modest or bizarrely exaggerated. A line of Dwemer troops, all wearing helmets with identical, impassive visages, must have struck terror into the Deep Elves' enemies.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2865)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 9: Dwemer Legs
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

LEG GREAVES

The leg protection of the Dwemer typically consisted of geometric plates or cylinders of metal, mounted on the same thick yet flexible material used for their boots. The armor was particularly thick over the knee.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2866)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 10: Dwemer Maces
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

MACES

Dwarven maces have heavy and blunt geometrical heads, without flanges, spikes, or pointed finials. The two-handed maces are outweighed only by Orcish skull-crushers, and can bend and batter plate armor as if it was foil.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2867)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 11: Dwemer Shields
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

SHIELDS

Dwarven shields come in many shapes, but all echo the geometric forms seen on Dwemer armor, albeit writ large. They are formed from relatively thin plates of Dwarven metal, and are much lighter and wieldier than they appear.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2868)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 12: Dwemer Shoulders
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

SHOULDERS

Dwarven shoulder pauldrons were usually made of thick and inflexible metal, mounted on cops of heavy "leather." The pauldrons of heavier armor sometimes sported metal keels echoing the crests seen atop their helmets.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2869)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 13: Dwemer Staves
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

STAVES

Even the most elaborate Dwarven staff has a utilitarian look about it, as if it was going to be used with a paddle to draw a loaf of bread from an oven. The haft is made of some close-grained substance that looks like wood but is not, circled with rings of Dwarven metal. The finials are circular or fan-shaped, and usually modest in size.
		

		Part of the Dwemer Style collection (#2870)
	Racial Motifs 15, Chapter 14: Dwemer Swords
By Raynor Vanos

Kireth says I should write down what I've learned about Dwemer artisans and the styles and motifs of their lost civilization. 

SWORDS

Dwarven swords look like mere extensions of their daggers, featuring the same broad, triangular blades with both point and edge. Their cross-guards are slender to almost nonexistent, which argues that Dwemer swordplay did not rely much on thrusting.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2871)
	Crown Racial Motifs 18: Akaviri
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Arch-Magister at the University, Lady Opel Dantaine, is a Breton, so I consulted with her on Breton motifs. She was friendly, and very helpful. 

The Bretons were the last major group of humans on Tamriel to free themselves from their Elven overlords, and in many ways their long vassalage to the Direnni defines their culture. They are fiercely autonomous, each kingdom in High Rock jealous of its individual sovereignty, but Breton society retains a feudal structure that hearkens back to the rank-obsessed Direnni Hegemony. The Bretons are nearly as fractious as their cousins the Nords, but their long tutelage under the Elves makes them open to the magical arts, rather than suspicious of them. 

How is this reflected in their arts and crafts? Let's look at Breton armor, for example. The gleaming heavy armor of a Breton knight is as tough and practical as that of a Nord housecarl, but its pleasing form exhibits a subtle sophistication that is reminiscent of Elven elegance. One sees the same influence in Breton weaponry, which is beautiful yet undeniably deadly. 

It made me think of the differences between Divayth's Elven urbanity and Morian's breadth of knowledge and all-too-human inconsistencies, even peevishness. Apparently the transliminal experiments have not been going well. When I stopped by the townhouse last night, neither Morian nor Divayth were in—Seif-ij, Morian's apprentice, told me they'd quarreled over the appropriate price to pay a transporting entity to ensure safe return from a jaunt to Oblivion, the remarks became personal, and then my name was apparently brought up. There was shouting, and they both huffed their way out of the laboratory and marched off down Divines Street in opposite directions. 

This is terrible. Fighting? Over me? I must confess I was so disturbed I blurted out the whole thing to Lady Opel, who was incredibly kind and solicitous. She asked me if I had feelings for either of the two wizards, and I admitted I did, but they were conflicting and confusing. Opel opened a bottle or two of Bangkorai spiced wine, and we got quite confidential with each other as the evening waned. I'm not sure how I got home, and today my head hurts, but it was worth it, as my heart is no longer so heavy.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2872)
	Racial Motifs 18, Chapter 1: Akaviri Axes
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Arch-Magister at the University, Lady Opel Dantaine, is a Breton, so I consulted with her on Breton motifs. She was friendly, and very helpful. 

The Bretons were the last major group of humans on Tamriel to free themselves from their Elven overlords, and in many ways their long vassalage to the Direnni defines their culture. They are fiercely autonomous, each kingdom in High Rock jealous of its individual sovereignty, but Breton society retains a feudal structure that hearkens back to the rank-obsessed Direnni Hegemony. The Bretons are nearly as fractious as their cousins the Nords, but their long tutelage under the Elves makes them open to the magical arts, rather than suspicious of them. 

How is this reflected in their arts and crafts? Let's look at Breton armor, for example. The gleaming heavy armor of a Breton knight is as tough and practical as that of a Nord housecarl, but its pleasing form exhibits a subtle sophistication that is reminiscent of Elven elegance. One sees the same influence in Breton weaponry, which is beautiful yet undeniably deadly. 

It made me think of the differences between Divayth's Elven urbanity and Morian's breadth of knowledge and all-too-human inconsistencies, even peevishness. Apparently the transliminal experiments have not been going well. When I stopped by the townhouse last night, neither Morian nor Divayth were in—Seif-ij, Morian's apprentice, told me they'd quarreled over the appropriate price to pay a transporting entity to ensure safe return from a jaunt to Oblivion, the remarks became personal, and then my name was apparently brought up. There was shouting, and they both huffed their way out of the laboratory and marched off down Divines Street in opposite directions. 

This is terrible. Fighting? Over me? I must confess I was so disturbed I blurted out the whole thing to Lady Opel, who was incredibly kind and solicitous. She asked me if I had feelings for either of the two wizards, and I admitted I did, but they were conflicting and confusing. Opel opened a bottle or two of Bangkorai spiced wine, and we got quite confidential with each other as the evening waned. I'm not sure how I got home, and today my head hurts, but it was worth it, as my heart is no longer so heavy.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2886)
	Crown Racial Motifs 17: Yokudan
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Arch-Magister at the University, Lady Opel Dantaine, is a Breton, so I consulted with her on Breton motifs. She was friendly, and very helpful. 

The Bretons were the last major group of humans on Tamriel to free themselves from their Elven overlords, and in many ways their long vassalage to the Direnni defines their culture. They are fiercely autonomous, each kingdom in High Rock jealous of its individual sovereignty, but Breton society retains a feudal structure that hearkens back to the rank-obsessed Direnni Hegemony. The Bretons are nearly as fractious as their cousins the Nords, but their long tutelage under the Elves makes them open to the magical arts, rather than suspicious of them. 

How is this reflected in their arts and crafts? Let's look at Breton armor, for example. The gleaming heavy armor of a Breton knight is as tough and practical as that of a Nord housecarl, but its pleasing form exhibits a subtle sophistication that is reminiscent of Elven elegance. One sees the same influence in Breton weaponry, which is beautiful yet undeniably deadly. 

It made me think of the differences between Divayth's Elven urbanity and Morian's breadth of knowledge and all-too-human inconsistencies, even peevishness. Apparently the transliminal experiments have not been going well. When I stopped by the townhouse last night, neither Morian nor Divayth were in—Seif-ij, Morian's apprentice, told me they'd quarreled over the appropriate price to pay a transporting entity to ensure safe return from a jaunt to Oblivion, the remarks became personal, and then my name was apparently brought up. There was shouting, and they both huffed their way out of the laboratory and marched off down Divines Street in opposite directions. 

This is terrible. Fighting? Over me? I must confess I was so disturbed I blurted out the whole thing to Lady Opel, who was incredibly kind and solicitous. She asked me if I had feelings for either of the two wizards, and I admitted I did, but they were conflicting and confusing. Opel opened a bottle or two of Bangkorai spiced wine, and we got quite confidential with each other as the evening waned. I'm not sure how I got home, and today my head hurts, but it was worth it, as my heart is no longer so heavy.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2887)
	Racial Motifs 17, Chapter 1: Yokudan Axes
Being notes by Doctor Alfidia Lupus for a series of pamphlets on the major cultural styles of Tamriel 

(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)

The Arch-Magister at the University, Lady Opel Dantaine, is a Breton, so I consulted with her on Breton motifs. She was friendly, and very helpful. 

The Bretons were the last major group of humans on Tamriel to free themselves from their Elven overlords, and in many ways their long vassalage to the Direnni defines their culture. They are fiercely autonomous, each kingdom in High Rock jealous of its individual sovereignty, but Breton society retains a feudal structure that hearkens back to the rank-obsessed Direnni Hegemony. The Bretons are nearly as fractious as their cousins the Nords, but their long tutelage under the Elves makes them open to the magical arts, rather than suspicious of them. 

How is this reflected in their arts and crafts? Let's look at Breton armor, for example. The gleaming heavy armor of a Breton knight is as tough and practical as that of a Nord housecarl, but its pleasing form exhibits a subtle sophistication that is reminiscent of Elven elegance. One sees the same influence in Breton weaponry, which is beautiful yet undeniably deadly. 

It made me think of the differences between Divayth's Elven urbanity and Morian's breadth of knowledge and all-too-human inconsistencies, even peevishness. Apparently the transliminal experiments have not been going well. When I stopped by the townhouse last night, neither Morian nor Divayth were in—Seif-ij, Morian's apprentice, told me they'd quarreled over the appropriate price to pay a transporting entity to ensure safe return from a jaunt to Oblivion, the remarks became personal, and then my name was apparently brought up. There was shouting, and they both huffed their way out of the laboratory and marched off down Divines Street in opposite directions. 

This is terrible. Fighting? Over me? I must confess I was so disturbed I blurted out the whole thing to Lady Opel, who was incredibly kind and solicitous. She asked me if I had feelings for either of the two wizards, and I admitted I did, but they were conflicting and confusing. Opel opened a bottle or two of Bangkorai spiced wine, and we got quite confidential with each other as the evening waned. I'm not sure how I got home, and today my head hurts, but it was worth it, as my heart is no longer so heavy.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2905)
	Canuldil's Plea
To whomever finds this:

Please find my wife, Ainenya. I left her hidden in our house in the southwestern section of the Elven Gardens. Tell her my final thoughts were of her.

- Canuldil
		

		Not part of any collection (#2906)
	Canuldil's Note
Stuck in Favonius house, northern Elven Gardens. Plautisanus is dead. Monsters everywhere. Can't make it home. Hope this bottle makes it through sewers. Please help!

- Canuldil
		

		Not part of any collection (#2907)
	PRISONER: RAYNOR VANOS
Prisoner: Raynor Vanos, Dunmer, Male.

Notes: Dwemer artifice expert. Held in room with yellow crystals and Eye of Hermaeus Mora banner. Appears heavily susceptible to illusions, but may possess Dwemer-inspired devices. Search carefully.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2908)
	PRISONER: CLARISSE LAURENT
Prisoner: Lady Clarisse Laurent, Breton, Female.

Notes: Noble, explorer. Held in room with Cross of Meridia banner and blue crystals. May be resistant to illusory spells. Observe closely.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2909)
	PRISONER: TELENGER
Prisoner: Telenger, Altmer, Male.

Notes: Capable mage. Held in cell with Star of Azura banner and blue crystals.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2926)
	Portal Memorandum
To all Engineers:

I have received reports—disturbing reports—about the lack of defenses surrounding our portals. As you well know, allowing entry to Coldharbour could impede our Lord Molag Bal's plans. Should any of these disgusting provincials gain entry to all three, they might disrupt our pinions—thus loosening our hold on the city. This cannot be allowed. I hereby order you to construct suitable defenses at all portal locations. Failure to do so will result in severe punishment.

-Overseer Sadrys
		

		Not part of any collection (#2927)
	Anchor Maintenance Notes
Most revered Overseer Sadrys,

All anchors are secure and functioning at peak capacity, my lord. I personally inspected the Unholy Seals at all locations. They remain unmolested. 

My lord, I must reiterate my concern about usurpers gaining Molag Bal's blessing from one of our pinions. There is a potential—however slim—that that power could be used to dislodge one of our anchors. I strenuously advise that the defenses at all seals and portals be doubled.

I remain your humble servant,

Chief Enginer Gelagoth
		

		Not part of any collection (#2928)
	Anchor Status Report
Arboretum:

The Anchor has been emitting a low creak. Possible causes include weaking of primary chain rivet. Reccomend aggressive sacrifice regimen at the site to reinforce mundus viability.

Nobles District:

Anchor connecting strong and holding. Reports of portal flicker remain. Inspection of Coldharbour egress strongly advised.

Market District:

Mortal tampering continues. Received multiple reports of men and mer weilding the power of Molag Bal's blessing. Humbly suggest additional Daedra be deployed to protect the Unholy Seal.

-Chief Enginer Gelagoth
		

		Not part of any collection (#2931)
	Tome of the Undaunted
We, the undersigned, declare our intention to take the Pledge of the Undaunted. Be we longstanding members of the guild, or newly blooded blades, we will dare to do what others will not. We will delve beneath Nirn, we will seek out knowledge and treasure where it lies unseen. We will stand against the darkness.

And we will return Undaunted.

Signed,

Gadrey Vintalen

Seeks-Her-Glory

Lady Blade

Kyrin Brightglade

Lodiss the Rock

Maeglin Telemmaite

Verana Telemmaite

Sahba the Bonecrusher

Rassi Thimblebock

Mad Zebba

Tarik the Hollow-Sky

Gobur One-Eye

Ferocious Jakidi

Aidan the Fear-Son

Eats-Aged-Meat

Zaliya

Maximus the Burning 

Sobabe 

Bradford the Brutal

Zantan the Magnificent

Eeno

Brittgerd Bear-Master

Lady Baronessa

Danteriel

Quinius Keeting

Monynen

Jeeba

Mordra the Mighty 

Recites-Poetry

Athan Tennecker

Salaisoc

Zakir

Tarien Vel

<<1>>
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2935)
	Smuggler's Note
These ancient tunnels are perfect for our purposes! The Veiled Queen needs weapons, and where better to acquire them than from the weaponsmiths of Mathiisen? Already, we have secured Condalin the Forgemaster over to our way of thinking, and the first shipment of weapons has already been transported through the tunnels and out to sea—right under that smug Ayrenn's cute little nose!

We'll reclaim this land or die trying! 

For the High Elves! For the Veiled Queen!
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2936)
	Letter to Wyress Gwen
Wyress Gwen,

Things have gotten strange around the Wyrd Tree since you've been traveling. Remember those weird vines that began sprouting a few weeks ago? Well, they've grown huge and they seem … evil … somehow. I know it sounds crazy, but that's the only way I can describe it. Evil with a capital "E."

I noticed that the forest animals have become agitated and even aggressive when they get close to the strange vines. Moreover, as the vines grow stronger, the aggressive behavior lasts longer. I'm beginning to fear that the creatures will attack soon. That's how much the presence of the vines has changed them.

And now it's worse than I feared. Some of the vines have mutated, and now they spawn lurchers from their corrupted thorns. 

I'm sorry, Wyress, but I can't stay here any longer. Bloodthorn cultists have attacked us and taken control of the portal stone caves beneath our huts. I can't prove it, but I'm certain these cultists are responsible for our recent troubles. I have failed you, but I hope you can forgive me. I know you won't listen, but I urge you to stay away from the Wyrd Tree until this all blows over.

Wyress Domi
		

		Not part of any collection (#2937)
	Nimriell's Research
2nd Sun's Dawn 

The kwama have grown agitated in recent weeks. Peculiar, considering it's been months since they became accustomed to my scent, as they have with the miners'.

10th Sun's Dawn

The miners and I found the corpse of a thunderbug this morning, along with the bodies of perhaps a dozen warrior kwama. We're uncertain what path the thunderbug took to get here, but we'll find it—this mine will not survive a full invasion.
		

		Part of the Military Orders and Reports collection (#2938)
	Scout Meera's Report
As a scout for the Ebonheart Pact, my duties take me to all kinds of exciting and interesting places. The cave known as Hightide Hollow is definitely not one of them.

The last time I had checked on the place, a tribe of Goblins known as the Shadowsilks had moved into the place. Not all that unusual, truth be known, but what made me decide to come back for another look was the leader of this Goblin tribe. Somehow, someway, an Orc spellcaster of some sort had insinutated himself into the tribe's top spot, and I had to determine whether or not this was all some sort of plot by the Daggerfall Covenant to disrupt the region.

Luckily, since my last visit, something else has apparently moved into the lava caves. Giant spiders! It appears, from my quick appraisal of the situation, that the spiders have overrun the Goblins and decimated the tribe.

I don't think we'll have to worry about the Orc spellcaster and his Goblin followers now. 

Wait a moment. I think I heard some—
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2940)
	Oodegu's Journal—Keep Out!
Soon, I will have attained the power I need to return to Wrothgar and claim my place in the Orsinium hierarchy. You wouldn't believe how long I searched or how far I traveled to find a cave that possessed all of the components necessary to complete my arcane ritual. But Hightide Hollow has proven to exceed even my greatest expectations! The flowing lava alone made the trip worth it.

Of course, convincing the Shadowsilk Goblins to bow down and follow me halfway across Tamriel took a considerable amount of time and effort. I had to kill two of their leaders and give their shaman an embarrassing beating to solidify my position at the top of the tribe. They're still Goblins, but at least now they actually know how to obey simple commands and carry out rudimentary orders.

The spiders, of course, were unexpected. Shalk I understand and was ready for, given their propensity for gathering near molten lava. But the spiders—what drew them into these caves is beyond me! Just another challenge thrown before me by Mauloch or some other annoying, interfering, totally worthless entity. I shall rise to this challenge, however, for the ritual is ready and the time to cast it is almost upon us.

Soon, so very soon, I shall become more powerful than even King Kurog can imagine! As long as my loyal but stupid Goblin horde (or at least what remains of them) can hold back the spiders for a while longer.
		

		Not part of any collection (#2941)
	Tattered Note
Did what the Khajiit's brother said couldn't be done—I found the bastard.

Figured he'd be dead, diving headfirst like he did into Elita's Folly. Not even the most hardened soldier comes out of that hole unscathed—but this s'wit? I don't know how he survives, but he's been living here.

Running from me.

By Almalexia—head is swimming.

trapped

blood is burning—spider poison?

buzzing
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2946)
	Shezarr and the Divines
by Faustillus Junius

Subcurator of Ancient Theology and Paleonumerology

Imperial Library

The position Shezarr enjoys in Cyrodilic worship if often misconstrued. He, and a thousand other deities, have sizeable cults in the Imperial City. Shezarr is especially venerated in the Colovian West, though he is called Shor there, as the West Kings are resolutely, and religiously, Nordic.

The haziness of Shezarr's relationship to the Divines (he is often called their "Missing Sibling") begins with St. Alessia, the so-called "Slave Queen of Cyrodiil," the founder figure of the original Cyrodilic Empire. In the earliest Cyro-Nordic stories of the Heartland, Shezarr fought against the Ayleids (the "Heartland High Elves") on mankind's behalf. Then, for some unknown reason, he vanishes from the stage (presumably to help other humans elsewhere), and, without his leadership, the Ayleids conquer the humans and enslave them.

This slavery lasts for generations. The isolated humans eventually begin to venerate the pantheon of their masters, or at least assimilate so much of High Elven religious practices into their native traditions that the two become indistinguishable.

In 1E 242, under the leadership of Alessia, her demigod lover, Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne, and the infamous Pelinal Whitestrake, the Cyrodilic humans revolt. When Skyrim lends its armies to the Slave-Queen of the South, the revolution succeeds. The Ayleid Hegemonies are quickly overthrown. Shortly thereafter, White-Gold Tower is captured by Alessia's forces, and she promptly declares herself the first Empress of Cyrodiil. Part of the package meant that she had to become the High Priestess of Akatosh, as well.

Akatosh was an Aldmeri god, and Alessia's subjects were as-yet unwilling to renounce their worship of the Elven pantheon. She found herself in a very sensitive political situation. She needed to keep the Nords as her allies, but they were (at that time) fiercely opposed to any adoration of Elven deities. On the other hand, she could not force her subjects to revert back to the Nordic pantheon, for fear of another revolution. Therefore, concessions were made and Empress Alessia instituted a new religion: the Eight Divines, an elegant, well-researched synthesis of both pantheons, Nordic and Aldmeri.

Shezarr, as a result, had to change. He could no longer be the bloodthirsty anti-Aldmer warlord of old. He could not disappear altogether either, or the Nords would have withdrawn their support of her rule. In the end, he had become "the spirit behind all human undertaking." Even though this was merely a thinly-disguised, watered-down version of Shor, it was good enough for the Nords.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2947)
	Thwarting the Daedra: Dagon's Cult
By Flaminius Auctor, Province General

Even in peaceful times, Daedric Princes doggedly prod at Tamriel, building power and working toward their vile goals. Now, as war erupts across the provinces, it is certain they've doubled their malevolent efforts, and every citizen must be on the lookout for evidence of Daedric activities. As Cyrodiil's Province General for the Fighters Guild, I take my responsibility to educate and protect seriously. Knowledge, which I offer you here, is a mighty weapon—a population that knows what to look for can stop a cult before it manages any large-scale atrocities.

Mehrunes Dagon is a particularly nasty character among the gallery of horrors from Oblivion. He revels in destruction on a grand scale, from deaths caused by floods or earthquakes to mass murders, and enjoys making a show of any influence he can exert on Nirn. His penchant for flagrant displays of power makes it no surprise that his cults draw more membership than those of the less conspicuous Princes.

What can a regular citizen do, though, in the face of such evil? More than you might think! Everyone can learn to recognize the early signs that a cult might be nearby. Dismantling a cult before it grows to an appreciable size is the most effective way to stamp out Daedric influence and prevent massive summonings, wanton destruction, and other disasters from coming to fruition. This guide will help you recognize the stirrings of Daedric cults, especially those of Mehrunes Dagon:

First, be aware of your neighbors. Watch for unexplained changes in their routines or behavior, strange flashing lights in their fields or homes late at night, eerie chanting, and disappearances of farm animals (or, worse, other neighbors). These can all be signs of a budding cult. Be wary of strangers in town who take special interest in outcasts, criminals, or unruly teenagers—all of these are common recruitment targets. 

Cults of Mehrunes Dagon have some unique characteristics. We in the Fighters Guild have identified the end of Sun's Dusk as a particularly active time for these organizations. If a cult of Dagon operates in your area, you may notice changes in your environment as they attempt to incite disasters—more rain, no rain, or unusual tremors in the ground can all be signs. Dagon cultists also exhibit a sick fascination with setting buildings, animals, and people ablaze and often bear the symbol of a fiery, rising sun. 

If you suspect someone you know of cult involvement, proceed with caution. Even someone close to you can be corrupted, and it is difficult to remove the black roots of Daedric filth once they take hold. Do not hesitate to report your suspicions—if they can be reached early enough, it may be possible to reverse the influence of the cult. For your own safety, do not act alone or attempt to confront a possible cult member. Even a once-trustworthy friend involved with a cult may mean you harm. Report immediately to the Fighters Guild, where professionals can assist you!

Armed with this knowledge, you can aid all of Tamriel in preventing Daedric cults from growing and spreading. Pass this book along to a friend or neighbor and we will stop the Daedric threat together.
		

		Part of the Daedric Cults collection (#2948)
	Glorious Upheaval
By Thendaramur Death-Blossom

Listen, you who would renounce the Eight and their lies, you who spurn their mindless doctrines, and know: 

Boethiah waits to receive the worthy. He pays no heed to mewling praise and prayers or cries for aid and mercy from his faithful. He delights in the blood of the overthrown, the betrayed and conquered and murdered—those too weak to survive and receive his gifts. Only rebellion and violence, only treachery and aggression and the power you seize can prove you, a mere speck of dust, deserving of notice.

Your prize waits between his dripping fangs, if you dare to claim it. The tested, who stand drenched by the viscera of the pitiful, glimpse secrets held only by the Prince of Plots, who proved the weakness of gods when Trinimac suffered in his stomach. Every power can be dismantled. Demonstrate your will to the Deceiver. Do what you must to sever the grip of all rulers and place the crown on your own brow. In this way, you carve the path to illumination; you recognize your potential.

Turn away from an atrophied life of complacency. Take everything from the undeserving, take what you can and know it always belonged to you. Corrupt what lies within your grasp and turn it to your own purpose, then extend your arm further. Reject the Eyeless Aedra, rotting in Aetherius, that prison realm where flaccid souls languish, useless and drained. Deny their commands and revel in combat, speak heresies as black as the Void, and laugh in the face of the Dragon Ghost Akatosh and his crumbling kin.

Boethiah watches these deeds. She relishes each victory, shivers with euphoria at each moment of resolution, and grants her favor to the strong. If you would be among her champions, if you would destroy everything in your own true path, you will join the endless struggle and bring strife and discord where you tread. Only in this way will you prepare for the greater battle that waits beyond.

Know, you on the path of perpetual conflict, you who refuse to bend the knee: Boethiah waits to receive the worthy.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2949)
	Introduction to Aedric Studies
Syllabus for Lectures by Phrastus of Elinhir

This lecture series will provide you with thorough edification on the nature and history of Aedric forces, their manifestations and influence on the Mundus, and an overview of prevalent modern theories with regard to controversial topics related thereunto. Provided you complete the required reading prior to each session, you will acquire a clear understanding of these mythogenic forces that will serve as a sufficient base for deeper study in a number of disciplines, from historical inquiry to theoretical aetheroplanar manipulation.

Your cultural and personal preconceptions will be challenged. Common myths will be dispelled, from crude misinterpretations of the Aedra as powerful creator-beings of "good" looking down upon and tinkering with Nirn to the supposition of Aedra and Daedra as locked in perpetual extra-Mundic war. The explorations presented in this course have, in the past, offended certain dogmatic students (especially in regards to the Divines), but I urge you to approach these topics as a scholar and not as a priest.

Understanding the Aedra beyond creation mythology and the convention of the Divines will allow you to grow as a scholar. The very approach this series demands will instruct you in the proper methodology of scholarly pursuits: we will study rare and obscure texts, unravel complex symbolic structures, and approach each topic from a critical standpoint.

The five primary lecture topics are as follows:

Lecture One: Survey of Origination Myths

Lecture Two: Anuic-Padomaic Interplay

Lecture Three: Aedra v. Daedra

Lecture Four: Aedric Energies and Influence

Lecture Five: Beyond Mere Divines

Outside reading and sedulous note-taking are necessary for full understanding of the lectures. All required outside texts referenced can be found in the fine library on the grounds. Do not wait to the last possible moment to prepare for a lecture; only a few copies of certain ancient and obscure texts will be available.

Naturally, you will be inclined to explore some of the subjects presented further. Your newfound knowledge of Aedric beings, their involvement in creation, a broader understanding of their relationship to the Eight Divines, and exposure to current debates will propel you to additional studies. For additional reading, I recommend works by Brother Hetchfeld, Brother Mikhael Karkuxor, and Aicantar of Shimmerene (beyond those we will reference through the series). Be ever vigilant in your studies, however, and avoid clearly biased or poorly-researched works, such as those scribbled by Cinnabar of Taneth. Always seek refutations and take no one scholar's words for absolute truth.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2950)
	Response to Citizen Inquiries
Esteemed Citizen of the Aldmeri Dominion,

Thank you for expressing your interest in the critical functions performed by the Presidium of Aldmeri Cultural Illumination and Dissemination to further solidify the inter-cultural bonds of our magnificent alliance. We strive to give our ear to any citizen with suggestions, questions, or concerns relating to our tireless efforts to provide the Dominion with education to promote cooperation and understanding between Altmer, Bosmer, and Khajiit.

Your two (2) requests and one (1) inquiry have been received and processed, and it is our sincere hope that you find the determinations reached by the Presidium satisfactory. Please note that any additional queries related to your submission, which has been assigned the Citizen Inquiry Identifier 3278B-P, must be accompanied by a completed Additional Inquiry Form approved by your district's Thalmor Representative of Civil Concerns.

Request One (1)

Regarding the inclusion of a broader survey of Khajiiti heroes in a new edition of "Combined History of the Aldmeri Dominion, Vol. 4, Historical Persons of Note":  Your opinion is valued and important. Though we must limit the number of highlighted historical figures described in this already-significant tome by necessity, your feedback will be taken into consideration. We have noted your observation about the preponderance of Altmeri individuals in the book, and will take it under advisement in the event that a new edition is issued.

Request Two (2)

Regarding celebration of the Khajiiti Festival of Sugar-Singing: Our greatest ambition is to be sensitive to the needs and desires of all citizens. It is, therefore, with the utmost regret that we must inform you that the Sugar-Singing will continue to be prohibited in most major cities due to the disruption of business and domestic peace that has been reported in municipalities where the festival has been provisionally allowed. As with any Thalmor ruling, you may continue to raise specific concerns by visiting your local representative (accompanied, of course, by the proper forms, which may vary depending on the nature of the additional request or complaint).

Inquiry One (1)

Regarding becoming more involved in your local governing body: The Thalmor is always pleased to accommodate and encourage citizens who wish to become more active in promoting cooperation and understanding throughout the Dominion. All Thalmor positions and offices are confirmed by the Illustrious Queen Ayrenn's own hand, ensuring only individuals with true dedication to the goals of a productive, prosperous, and victorious Dominion reach any office. By undertaking every possible effort to be an outstanding citizen, even you may one day be recognized by Her Majesty!

The Presidium of Aldmeri Cultural Illumination and Dissemination thanks you again for your interest. If you find any of our carefully considered responses to be inadequate, do not hesitate to submit an approved Additional Inquiry Form.

Glory to the Dominion!

These responses endorsed by:

Aicantar of Shimmerene, Sapiarch of Indoctrination
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2951)
	The Distributed Soul
By Abbot Crassius Viria

An initiate disturbed my meditations last night, wide-eyed and distraught. "Abbot," cried he, "I have endured the most horrible dream. I was tending to the elders in the tunnels, bringing them food and water, listening to their soothing songs. The moths' gentle wings fluttered, tranquil as always, when suddenly my sight was filled with hideous apparitions! Incorporeal dead roamed the halls, and it was to me as if the moths were feeding on them—sucking wisps of ghostly material, perhaps their very souls, into hungry maws! Please, Abbot, tell me this is madness, that this is not so!"

It is not unusual for initiates of our Order to suffer unsettling dreams, especially as they learn more of the nature of our sacred charges, the Elder Scrolls, and the ancestors that grant us the wisdom to approach their infinite mysteries. Though much of the knowledge gained through readings of the Scrolls must be experienced to truly internalize, and despite being quite exhausted from my daily rigors, I was able to help him set aside his fears about our Order's relationship with souls and the moths that preserve fragments of their erudition from beyond mortal existence.

Ours is not the crass way of the conjurer or necromancer, tearing the soul from its vessel, constraining it and forcibly redirecting its energies with no regard for its journey or contents. No, the interplay of moth and ancestor soul is delicate and as natural as the canticle trees themselves, and we are patient and conscientious observers hoping to make sense of the cosmic tapestry by glimpsing its threads. It is through service to the moths and the ancestors that we gain guidance, not through the clumsy exertion of will without understanding the consequences.

The soul, I told him, has much in common with the moth—they are a symbolic pair. Though it is typical to think of it as one Aedric impulse at the core of every being, I advised him to consider the soul in another light, scaled like the wings of the moth, and to imagine it comprised of vessels filled through the events of mortal existence. On release from life on Nirn, it is our belief that a kind of dissipation begins, and it is then that the moths learn the song of a soul's fjyrons, which are shepherded under our care and protected generation after generation.

The fjyrons themselves must retain a connection to the grand fabric of creation, to the scattered soul-remnants in all their destinations. Through this link and with patient care, we receive guidance from beyond the present or past and the known world, where time is irrelevant. The moths do not capture or devour the souls of the ancestors, but only repeat to us what they've filtered, like verses of a grand song. 

I could tell that, though the full dawn of understanding had not broken for him yet, his wild fears about the ancestor moths were somewhat allayed. I was pleased to assist him in his journey, and told him he would have ample time to ponder the nature of souls as he scrubbed the silkroom floors for the next week—penance for intruding on my nightly reverie.
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2952)
	Plea for Open Eyes
By The Unveiled Azadiyeh

Tall Papa, whose fingers brush the scattered stars, whose shadow stretches beyond horizons seen and unseen, whose authority commands the spirits of the last world and the next, have mercy on your children. It pains my soul to see my brothers and sisters clutched in the coils of the snake. They flee your blessed teachings, spitting on the face of the shame they should feel and driving their rusted blades into the heart of our traditions. They have been fooled and tempted by the fat life of emperors, and here I lay bare the transgressions upon the Old Ways. O Ruptga, I pray they should realize the hideous visage of these sins and repent, eyes open and seeing.

We know the truth, for it has been told. "Honor your ancestors. He who permits their words and deeds to languish breaks his own blade and casts it to the burning wind." Yet in Sentinel, musical words in Yoku do not echo through palace halls. The tales are of foreign heroes, spoken in harsh tongues. The words of our fathers' fathers cry out for sweet water, but the legends they once carried crumble to dust. If we do not tend to them, we know that a new Ending Time, worse again than those before, draws near.

We know the truth, for it has been told. "No pity or mercy shall be afforded the wretch who stands against the Warrior Wave." Yet our brothers and sisters meekly accept the Pariah Folk as equals and allies, polluting our honor with their mud-covered feet and staining our annals for all time. If it hurts one loyal songbird such as I to see this arrangement permitted, then how it must bring stinging tears to Tava's eyes and inflame Diagna's very sword-arm with the Crimson Rash of Betrayal!

We know the truth, for it has been told. "Give your obedience to none save the gods of Yokuda. The Far Shores recede from he who leans upon thin-blooded shoulders, scornful of his feeble grasp." Yet a mild king of green lands commands our children. He sends them to die in his quest to claim White-Gold. He will step upon their strong backs to ascend. His gods' fingers reach into our heart, and Morwha shakes her head.

Read this, O brothers and sisters. You have turned your left side to duty and closed your eyes to the searing sun. Your honor blackens as the memory of Yokuda-now-sunken fades. All is not yet lost. Take up the sword strengthened by our ancestors' ways, forged in the fires of righteousness and keen with true honor. Renounce these misguided New Movements and return to your family, who will accept you despite your misdeeds. Return while you still may.
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2970)
	The Cannonreeve's Conundrum
A Comedy in Three Acts

Proudly Presented by

The Summerset Repertory Players

STARRING

Silus Silber as "The Cannonreeve"

AND INTRODUCING

Hazaznaz as "Furbul-dar, the Frivolous"

Opening the first Fredas of Rain's Hand, 2E 578!
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2971)
	Veiled Heritance - Be Warned
It has come to our attention that a group of political activists known as the "Veiled Heritance" has engaged in thievery and the fencing of stolen goods in this area.

While the Shadow Artisans normally welcome kindred spirits, this group's recent anti-Dominion activities have not gone unnoticed by Queen Ayrenn's agents. We suspect that drawing the attention of the Eyes of The Queen upon our own operations would be foolish and unnecessarily risky.

We therefore request all associates refrain from any and all dealings with this group. Their business is not welcome, and the presence of their operatives—or anyone associating with same—will not be tolerated.

Thank you for your understanding.

The Management
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2972)
	Verdant Hand Orientation
Welcome to the Verdant Hand! We're happy to pay you for anything you find out there, but get caught and we don't know you.

The depths of Tamriel can be dangerous all on their own, but the places containing truly valuable yolk—relics and tomes, sometimes Daedric—are protected. Some are claimed by rival treasure seekers, others by the newly-formed Aldmeri Dominion. To my chagrin, they've found time between self-bickering to ruin my earnings by placing guards at every tomb rumored to house a lich or Daedric nest. Public safety, my left foot! It would be just like our new Queen to keep ancient secrets to herself. Luckily, we are few, and our enemies' wavering eyes can't watch every kinlord tomb every time.

That said, a few things to keep mindful of out there:

Patience is foremost in your arsenal. It will be your most distinguishing virtue among our numbers; forgotten relics wait forever. Those who seek us work in shifts.

Soft shoes are important, inside tombs and out of them. Echoing hallways alert the restless undead as easily as Dominion guards waiting outside.

Money is a great fallback. Even haughty High Elven guards crumble at the sight of coin.

Good hunting, and remember—waving at me in public is inviting my elbow into the soft part of your neck.

—LL
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2973)
	Lockpick Sales-Duty
Dear Mizareh,

You are to return and remain on lockpick sales-duty until either we relieve you or a Dark Anchor pulls the entire refuge into Coldharbour.

By Rajhin's stolen skivvies, the only reason I trust you to mind the till is that you wouldn't know how to steal it.

Oblivion take you!

—SP

PS: You are the worst person I have ever known, and I've met Vicereeve Pelidil.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2974)
	Who Is REALLY In Charge?
by Brugagikh the Truthseeker

I have discovered conclusive proof that a secret cabal of elite mages working in hidden catacombs beneath every major city in Tamriel invented this so-called "Planemeld" as part of their devious plan to control all of Tamriel.

There is no "Molag Bal." He's a myth. A clever fiction. These "Dark Anchors" are actually mind-control devices constructed by the Cabal and placed throughout the world. Do not approach these devices under any circumstances. They will cause you to hallucinate, see all manner of monsters and demons, and very likely force you to kill yourself by falling on your own sword.

All three Alliance leaders know of and support this cabal. In fact, they are all practicing members. DO NOT BE FOOLED.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2975)
	Cracking the Elden Tree Vault
Problem 1: Troll guarding vault.

Solution: Fire hurts trolls. Burn troll with fire. Troll dies.

Note: Burnt troll leads to troll fat. Bring bowls to catch melted troll. Resell to Mages Guild.

Problem 2: Guards guarding vault.

Solution: Fire distracts guards. Mages Guild makes kindlepitch. Set fires in Mages Guild. Guards leave to put out fire.

Note: Burnt Mages Guild may prevent selling of troll fat. Find alternate buyer?

Problem 3: Vault has exceptional magical protection.

Solution: Find mage who devised security for vault. Threaten to burn mage OR burn mage, just a little. Slightly cooked mage reveals secrets.

Note:  Troll fat poultice soothes burns. Offer to sell troll fat to slightly cooked mage?
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2976)
	Excuses Don't Buy Mansions
B—

You know I respect you. You know the headman respects you. So you must imagine how much we feel disrespected by your absolute lack of product out of Haven.

Pirates, a Daedric Prince … none of this matters. Excuses don't buy mansions. Our product does.

None of that "you only get one warning, or else" drivel. We respect you too much for anything but the cold, hard truth:

Find a way to deliver what you promised, or you're dead.

Respectfully,

—C
		

		Part of the Handbills, Posters, and Decrees collection (#2977)
	Problem Solver For Hire!
Got a problem that needs solving? The name's Rayan Diel. I'm a clean-up man. If you got bodies, bloodstains, or incriminating evidence you need to dispose of, I'm your guy.

Need to get out of town quick? Need an untraceable curse? Fast-acting poison? Talk to me. No matter what you need, I've got a Diel for you.

"Fast, thorough, and clean," that's my motto. So just sit back, relax, and let a professional take over.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2978)
	Daynila's Corpse-Kebab
A favorite of mine. Works for all Mer and Men, although Argonians can be tough and somewhat gamey. In general, avoid the tail.

Cut the most convenient and tender parts of the corpse—including eyeballs and internal organs—into gobbets. Skewer these on brochettes, interspersed with chunks of dried fish or snake, then cook over an open fire to desired doneness. Best served with red wine!
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2979)
	The Criminal Mind
by the Scholar <<1>>

Several years ago I paid a visit to the Imperial City Prison. There I had opportunity to examine the corpses of several prisoners who, by all accounts, had been extremely violent and disturbed individuals. While performing a routine autopsy on an infamous Colovian brigand named Villius, I discovered an unusual indentation at the base of his skull. From this singular observation, I developed a theory with two key points.

First, criminal behavior originates in large measure from deformities of the brain. Second, violent criminals may exhibit skull structures of the earlier races of Mer and Men, known for their violence. These criminals, I believe, can therefore be identified on the basis of similar physical characteristics, such as a large jaw and a sloping forehead.

Based upon my copious research and the measurements of such traits, I have created a hierarchy of criminal species among the races, with Nords, Redguards, and Dunmer at the top, and Bosmer, Bretons, and  Khajiit at the bottom. I must profess a greater appreciation for the common caliper!

Sadly, attempts to publish my theories have only been met with hostility and derision. I have been openly accused of deriding the races! I have decided, therefore, to set my work down on paper in the hopes that future generations might be more willing to examine this entirely new branch of science with opened minds.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2980)
	Memorize and Burn!
This is the last time I'm writing this down for you. Memorize and burn this!

* Blood Oranges: Killing

* Crescent: The King

* Black Roses: Daedric influence

* Guarsitter: Bodyguard

* Chicken Feed: Information designed to mis-direct an enemy

* Torchbug: Someone with useful information

* Netch: A Traitor

* Betty Netch: A female traitor

* Bull Netch: A male traitor

* Wispmother: Leader of an enemy spy ring

* Wisps: Members of an enemy spy ring

* Shade: Someone who specializes in tracking a target
		

		Part of the Hearts and Flowers collection (#2981)
	Atrocious Love Letter
To My Lovely Flowering Perennial,

I must bank on the idea that this letter finds you well. You have done more than accrue my interest. I find that I must often check to make sure that I am standing upright, as I cannot balance myself, thinking often of the ways you have embezzled my heart. To your credit, you bankrupted my thoughts, allowing me to account for nothing beyond the sweet vault of your embrace.

I have appraised the situation and I feel like I must make this statement at once: We have done more than bond. I know I am forever in your debt. Lend your heart to me and I shall make payment to your kindness in turn. Do not be shy on my account, allow me to deposit my sincerity into this letter.

I shall transfer my love from this letter to your heart,

Your Little Lender Bee
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2982)
	Stormhaven Bluster Rejection Notice
Dear Applicant,

We at the Stormhaven Bluster regret to inform you that we must reject your recent submission for an advertisement in our widely-distributed broadsheet. Though we respect your desire to promote your organization, we took issue with some of your word choices and felt they were not appropriate for our audience.

The headlines "GOLD FOR BLOOD" and "START A CAREER IN KILLING" were simply too extreme for our pages. Additionally, the appeal to individuals who "take any job and don't ask questions" might compromise our reputation as an upstanding publication.

We are happy to either return your fee or accept a new submission that is more appropriate. Please see our recent edition's notice from The Iron Heels, another group similar to your mercenary organization, for an example of the kind of promotions with which we are more comfortable.

Regards,

The Stormhaven Bluster Editorial Staff
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2983)
	Vol's Journal
4th First Seed

Today I was thinking about how I'm constantly bombarded by admirers asking me to recount all my tales of sleight-of-hand genius, and I had the most amazing idea—I could sell them!

People love my stories (and really, they are quite good), and with just the right minor embellishments, they will capture the hearts (and coinpurses) of all.

Who doesn't enjoy a lovable rogue? I think I've invented an entirely new way to pick pockets! Ah, I do kill me. Now, which ones will be best to start with? I'll keep a list here of stories to write down later.

Vol Visits the Duke

A Pocketful of Picklefish

A Fine Day at the Faire

Vol and the Mayor's Earring

A Grave Misunderstanding

My Friends the Gem Merchants

A Duchess and Her Diamond

A Night at the Rusty Raven

The Poisoned Purse
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2984)
	Letter to Finia Marcott
Dearest Finia,

You've no idea how long I debated sending this letter, but in the end I fear I must do what is best for myself and my esteemed relations. You have been a valuable friend and ally at court for many years, which makes me all the more shocked by the word I've received—from several reputable sources, I might add—about your recent political … "activities."

It is with a heavy heart and great regret that I inform you that I no longer wish to be associated with you in any way. Advocating the ideals you apparently stand for during a time of war and consorting with the company you have been spotted with is nothing short of treason, and I will not be associated with any of it.

It is my hope that you may yet see the folly of your ways before it ruins you. Do not write back.

—Duchess Olivie Delrusc
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2985)
	High King Emeric, I Implore You!
Your Royal Majesty High King Emeric,

Though I am certain you receive many correspondences from the nobility, it is my hope you will give this missive the attention it deserves.

I write to you not only as a downtrodden member of the court, but as an advocate for every man and woman (those of sufficient nobility to be worth noting, at least) who has been slighted and ostracized for no good reason. It is my firm belief that, no matter your family history or how many cats you care for or what special … dietary restrictions you might have, all nobles have the right by birth to inclusion in the court and related gatherings.

For no other reason than sheer prejudice, I have been repeatedly ignored, overlooked, and rejected by those who are my peers. This is a great injustice and it cannot be allowed to continue! My blood is just as good as any other noble's, and I demand to be given the respect I deserve.

Only you can truly command the court, and so you are my only chance for redemption. Please, my King, I beg of you to publicly denounce this treatment so that I might regain the standing I deserve.

Your Loyal Subject,

Adelil
		

		Part of the Diaries and Logs collection (#2986)
	Scutwork and Drudgery
List of Tasks for Fahdah the Eyeful 

Dutifully transcribed by Saadifa

1.	Collect protection money from the Dockworkers' Guild.

2.	Rough up that snotty Doriniel for being an Elf. 

3.	Rob six beggars. 

4.	Go to the market for a new cutlass to replace the one I left in that courier's body.

5.	Let Saadifa give me a massage.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2987)
	The Dose Makes the Poison
By Zanziba the Clever

The key to the poisoner's art lies in a thorough understanding of how a substance's effects on a person vary depending on amount or concentration of the substance. Let us take for an example leaves of Heart's-Ease, a common anodyne found in every pharmacopeia. The leaves are brewed as a bedtime tea by those who have trouble falling asleep. However, if the leaves are dried and converted to a powder, one can create a powerful soporific. Six grains of this, added to a night-watchman's ale, are almost guaranteed to put him in a deep sleep within a quarter-hour. Give him twenty-four grains, and he'll never wake again.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2988)
	For the Doyen, Sleek Splendid-Paws
I don't mean to be a pest, Your Doyenhood, but you did promise to let me know if any opportunities arose for me to get in on a job or two. I heard from one of the Bjoulsae Boys that you were eying the guards around Saint Pelin's Chapel—does that mean you're thinking of going after the famous gold candelabra, or even the relics of the saint himself? Hey, I could help out on that, I really could. I mean, I could work as a lookout  on the outside while you're inside grabbing the goods, and warn you if any nosy guards got too close. Good idea, eh? 

Keep me in mind, 

Lithyyorion "the Nimble"
		

		Part of the Personal Journals collection (#2989)
	Khorshina's Journal
Gods, gods. The dream is back again, the one about the burning quartermaster. I ran from Cyrodiil, but Cyrodiil followed me. After that butchery in the ravine near Chorrol, I was over and done. Six days later I was in Belkarth, but that was still too close. That's where the dreams started. Hitched a ride with a westbound Dragonstar caravan. I got to drinking one night with a drover, who told me about a place in Evermore where they needed a good brewer, and a deserter could be safe. Got blind drunk, we did, and the hangover was worth it, because that night I didn't get the dream. And the same trick worked every night since then—until last night. Despite the rum, the dream came back. And it was bad. Gods, what am I going to do? It's bad enough I've become my own best customer. 

Maybe … skooma. Maybe that will help.
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2990)
	Names, Names, Names!
White-Gold Lotus

Deadly Asp

Flames Blackburn

Vivec's Word

Black Fox

Grimshaw

Bottom Bucket Surprise

Rajhin's Shadow (??? already used?)

The Bullwhip Queen

Larceny Lil

The Deadly Person

Bad Agnes

Frightener Lass

The Violent Vixen

Venom Woman

Stuff Taker

Bad-Tempered Berthis

Madame Vex

Lady-with-Spurs

The Very Sharp Thorn

Badomay

The Other Adversary
		

		Part of the Letters and Missives collection (#2991)
	Letter to Stelvene Lothaire
Stelvene! Come back, you fool. He yet lives!

I can take you to him. We have a wagon! Your father has an entire legion looking for you. How much of your fortune have you spent hidden away for this long?

Come home, and I will tell you everything I know.

Abandon this madness. Abandon this false god!

—Rincous
		

		Part of the Final Words collection (#2992)
	Zagrugh's Journal
12 Sun's Dawn

So tired. The money's good, but I've caught every assistant I've tried to hire stealing from me! Guess it comes with the territory. I can't keep up this pace, though. Doing all the restocking, bargaining, ledgers, and everything else is going to kill me. I've haven't had a full night's sleep in months now!

What I need is an assistant who will just do the work and not steal everything or run off and leave the shop unattended. Sathasa said she just summons up a scamp whenever she needs gruntwork done. Says they're dumb and mean, but they do the job and she can relax a little. Messing around with Daedra doesn't seem like a great idea, but I'm at my wit's end here. Maybe I'll take her up on the offer of that summoning scroll. It's just one scamp, after all.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2993)
	Quit Asking
You're not getting a discount! I don't want to hear any reasons why, especially if you:

—Grew up in the same village I did. What a coincidence!

—Know a "very reputable" supplier you'll introduce me to.

—Are just a few gold short but are "totally good for it."

—Saw the exact same item for far less elsewhere but like me better.

—Claim to be a member of the Morag Tong.

In fact, if you claim you're a member of the Morag Tong, I'll just let them know you're running around and telling people that. Go ahead, try me.
		

		Part of the The World and Its Creatures collection (#2994)
	How to Train Your Guar
…in Five Easy Steps!

Guar have much more complex inner lives than many give them credit for. We know they can be trained to carry packs, and we love them for their docile nature, but what do we really know about our relationship with these steadfast beasts? In my years working with guar, I have discovered that they have a much greater capacity for learning than we could ever expect. My studies have yielded what I believe are some of the best methods for guar training, useful whether you are interested in studying them in-depth or just in getting ol' Rollie to stop chewing on your sandals.

1. Demonstrate

Make sure to clearly show your guar what you intend for him to do for you. Make sure to hunch over and look as much like a guar as possible. Studies have shown that just by watching, guar can learn the basics of a task. Keep his attention by carrying a bit of food that is of interest while you perform the task.

2. Command

Clearly, slowly state the command word you wish to associate with the demonstrated behavior. Say it over and over again as you show your guar the correct way to do the task. Sometimes I find that yelling helps, as it startles the guar into paying closer attention (though it may also make him skittish).

3. Watch

After you have demonstrated what you wish your guar to do while repeating the command word, watch for the guar to make an attempt. Continue saying the command word and continue to the next step every time he makes a move in the correct direction. This can take hours or days, so be prepared to watch for a while.

4. Reward

Give your guar a reward even for incremental progress, such as nudging a bucket you wish him to carry. Training can be difficult, and rewarding every bit of progress will help your guar stay motivated.

5. Repeat

It may take weeks for you to fully teach your guar a new task, so stay patient. Train every day, and by following these steps, you'll have the best-trained guar in the district!
		

		Part of the The Devoted and the Deranged collection (#2995)
	TribunalâLiving Lies
by "Disordinator"

Have you ever noticed how you never see Vivec and Almalexia in the same place? Or how the water the Temple priests serve smells just a little … off? I have. And I've been on the run trying to spread the word about what I know ever since. The Temple doesn't like me, and there's a damn good reason why. The Tribunal are going to eat our souls.

They aren't the benevolent guardians the Temple wants us to think they are. I've read all the texts, the 36 Lessons, seen the patterns in the numbers. They aren't three loving gods. They are one giant monster from beyond the Void, and they're going to harvest souls for their true master. Think about it! The alliance with the Nords and Argonians, of all people? A war to conquer Cyrodiil? And we know that leads to trying to conquer all of Tamriel; the idea of a "war to protect our homeland" is ludicrous. It all adds up, just a means to gather more and more souls for the big day. Open your eyes!

It's everywhere. All around us. Every day they are getting into your head. Think that guard is looking at you? He is. Ever had a bee fly too close to your ear? That's their work, too. It's the pollen—magical. Lets them hear your thoughts. Lets them find people like me who are trying to get the truth out there! The evening chants you can hear across the city? Mind control spells. Keeps the people quiet.

All I can say is I'm not drinking any of the well-water in Mournhold anymore. Don't take it from me. Think for yourself. The signs are everywhere, and know that you know how to look, you won't be able to ignore what's right in front of your nose.
		

		Part of the Notes and Memos collection (#2996)
	People I Hate
Everyone on this list is gonna get exactly what they deserve as soon as I find them alone.

Jararr

Goes around telling people I dilute my potions with sewer runoff. So what if I do?

Rellicus Sibassius

Saw him holding his nose and laughing with his idiot friends when I walked by. Still getting friends' names.

An-Medul

Inconsiderate mud-hugger! Ate the last bit of skeever stew before I got my bowl.

Beording Bearfriend

Gave me that LOOK across the bar at the Fussy Guarherd. He'll know which one I'm talking about. Thinks he's better than me. We'll see!
		

		Part of the Lore and Culture collection (#2997)
	Enduring Nord Society
by Nevil Hleran

If, like the unfortunate author of this text, you have the displeasure of being required by your House to interact with our Nord "allies" and "trade partners" on a regular basis, you'll quickly discover that Nord social interactions are far removed from our complex and dignified Dunmeri culture. My frequent exposure to their habits and behaviors has made me something of an authority on avoiding physical harm when in the company of Nords, and I hope it may assist you, the reader, in the same.

With Nords, insults are not always insults—unless they are. When conversing among themselves, references that might otherwise seem offensive (like "you old horker's arse") might, in fact, be familiar terms of endearment. One should avoid chiming in with similar epithets unless quite familiar with the Nords in question. Keep in mind, even then, that insulting a Nord's strength, bravery, or honor in any way almost inevitably leads to violence as the offended party attempts to prove otherwise.

Never turn down a drink. You must become an expert at discreetly emptying your sixth or seventh cup of mead underneath the table (don't worry, there will be plenty of spillage already present; no one will notice). Refusing a drink is seen as an admittance of weakness and is a sure way to alienate yourself from those you have been forced to work alongside. 

My last bit of advice is to attempt to speak in the simplest terms possible. Nords, while they do love absurd stories, do not appreciate the finer arts of conversation, and become suspicious of those who speak in elaborate language. A suspicious Nord is a dangerous Nord, likely to go off and begin yelling and throwing accusations that you're deliberately being confusing and must be lying. Keep it simple and you'll avoid bruises.

Good luck, reader. You will need it as you attempt to cooperate with these brutish Men.
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2998)
	Letter to Skull-Brother Xandier
Xandier,

It has been far too long since last we met. I do so miss the company of a fellow collector, and I believe I have a remedy for that. More accurately, a rumor for that. You won't believe the things I've heard about what people are finding in Craglorn. 

I know you have an interest in the most ancient of relics, and I shouldn't have to remind you (though I will anyway) that the Nedes themselves were known to inhabit that territory in antiquity. Can you imagine the prestige owning even a Nedic chamber pot, much less an inscription or warding-prism, would garner? I can!

We must meet again and try our luck at recovering one of these priceless relics. When is the earliest you can meet me in Dragonstar? Oh, and just ignore all the chatter about how dangerous it is over there. I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle!

Your Fellow Collector,

Emutaril
		

		Part of the Criminal Correspondence collection (#2999)
	The Ghost is Our Friend
ALL Skull-Brethren, take heed: DO NOT attack or banish the ghost! 

Yeah, she's creepy and looks gross and might wake you up in the middle of the night with that off-key singing (if you can call it that), but deal with it. The Guard is absolutely horrified of her. The "wet yourself, drop your sword, and run away from your post" kind of horrified. She's our best friend for keeping the Guard out of the refuge.

If I catch you messing with the ghost, you're gonna end up like Ol' Limpy.

—<<1>>
		

		Part of the Words of the Poets collection (#3001)
	Couplets in Admiration of the Dead
By Ferordomas

There is no living beauty compares

With corpses and their glassy stares

I feel a thrill when I gaze upon

The bodies of the dead and gone

Cadavers cannot refuse your request

Cold and silent, they suit me best

My heart begins to jump and dance

At the very thought of nec-romance
		

		Part of the Crafting Books collection (#3067)
	Racial Motifs 16: Glass
By Vandalion Brightsteel, Armorsmith Peerless of Vulkhel Guard

During the recent strife in Firsthold, certain reference works were lost from the great library, so His Excellency Kinlord Rilis has asked the leading experts of Auridon to replace them with new accounts. For the definitive description of the Glass crafting style, naturally our wise sovereign turned to me. 

AXES

The avian motif typically of the Glass style is particularly prominent in the axe designs, where the glass-edged blades are crafted to resemble the wings of a bird of prey. The blades' feathered appearance is strictly cosmetic; the scoring that produces the feathered look is too shallow to weaken the blade, but is deep enough to create blood gutters.  

BELTS

The belt on a suit of glass armor is usually a single cincture of some exotic leather, adorned with glass bosses in rhomboid or pentagonal shapes. Geometrical tassets depend from either hip, and there may be a chevron-shaped fauld in front to protect the groin.  

BOOTS

Elegant footwear indeed! These vary from sturdy leather moccasins with glass toe-guards with light armor, up to steel-and-glass sabatons with heavy armor. Flexibility is paramount, as Elven soldiers favor agility over thickness of plate. 

BOWS

Glass-style bows are compound and recurved, with a wooden grip and limbs of horn. The front of the curve and back of the recurve are faced with glass for maximum power. Non-glass parts of the bow are often painted with a metallic lacquer, so that a flash of reflected sunlight ripples along the line as a troop of archers raises their bows for a volley. 

CHEST PIECES

The downward-pointing chevrons on Glass cuirasses evoke the deep-muscled chests of great flying creatures, and indeed the chest plates are often adorned with images of eagles, dragons, or cliff racers. They are constructed of leather, steel, and glass, with as much additional glass trim as the buyer can afford. 

DAGGERS

A Summerset glass dagger is the finest fighting knife there is. The glass on a Glass-style dagger is usually confined to the point and edge, with accents on the pommel; the tang, guard, and core of the blade are of steel. They are capable weapons, equally useful for slashing, stabbing, or parrying.  

GLOVES

Glass-style gauntlets typically feature thin, flexible leather gloves, with glass strips protecting the back of the hand and the forearms. The elbows are covered by triangular glass-faced cowters that echo the shape of the pauldrons above.  

HELMETS

Glass-style headpieces extend the winged motif of the cuirasses and pauldrons upward; they often have armored crests, cheek-wings, and winged cranium caps. Glass, polished to a glossy sheen, trims every edge. A fine glass helmet is a sight to behold. 

LEG GREAVES

Whether light, medium, or heavy, all greaves in this magnificent style are constructed of sturdy but flexible leather faced with glass. The main difference is the amount and thickness of the glass banding, and the size of the shield-shaped glass poleyns that protect the knees. 

MACES

Glass-style maces and hammers feature elegant but heavy steel heads with glass-tipped studs and spikes. The hafts are made of a dense but flexible wood such as ash, faced with steel languets and ending in a steel roundel heavy enough to partially offset the weight of the head. That enables these long-hafted weapons to be whirled almost like quarterstaves. 

SHIELDS

For a shield that is nearly all metal, glass shields are remarkably light, precisely because they're mostly glass plates held in a slender matrix of steel. Two broad glass wings, usually avian-themed, flare out from central steel ribs to broad "feathered" edges. 

SHOULDERS

The Glass-style pauldrons are integrated with the shapes of the chest pieces, extending the winged motif onto the shoulders and down into the upper-arm rerebraces. The marine version of this style resembles breaking waves rather than wings. 

STAVES

A staff in the Glass style is many a wizard's proudest possession. The long wooden shaft, sheathed in steel languets to protect it while parrying, is simple enough; it's the elaborate winged finial that is the glory of a glass staff. The steel head, often set with large turquoises, unfolds on either side into a pair of exquisite glass wings, evoking birds, bats, or Dragons. The entire finial seems to glow with inner fire. 

SWORDS

A Glass sword is a cunning combination of steel core and tang with a glass point and edges. The blade may be quite broad near the tip, and even "feathered" with shallow blood gutters. Despite their size, the blades are light, favored by sword-fighters for their ease of use and battlefield durability—for a glass sword will hold its edge long after a steel or alloy sword has gone dull.
		

