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Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter from the Vampire | Dear [friend name].I don’t know how to repay your kindness, except perhaps to keep my distance so that I may not bring unwanted attention or harm to your doorstep.Should you need to get in touch with me, come to [dungeon name].— your friend |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter from Tyra Blood-Fire | Book added by Alternative Armor – Ebony Plate from the Creation ClubMy name is Tyra Blood-Fire. Like Sottilde the Wet Ear before me, I am an orphan child of Balmora. Many years ago, I took a band of misfits and rogues and turned them into the Crimson Dirks. In our heyday, they called us thieves, bandits, apostates and killers. And they were right. We were all of those things.But so is the Jarl who taxes the poor to starvation, the soldiers who rape and pillage the towns, the Empire who would erase our gods, and the guardsman who would behead the innocent.I know your story. If there’s going to be a judge for me, I don’t want it to be them. Not the Empire, not the East Empire Company, and not the guards. Just you and the Divines.But first I want you to prove you’re a worthy judge.Go to the docks in Windhelm. There, you’ll meet a beggar in need of your aid. Some would offer him gold. Others, bread or wine. Offer him the alms you think will best serve him.Once you have proved your measure and your mercy, you must then show your mettle. I will wait for you at the Talos shrine west of Windhelm.When at last we meet, I ask that you speak only with your blade. For while the tongue lies, the sword is true.-Tyra |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter from Viriya | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation Club[Player Name],Thank you for everything you’ve done for the Fishery, as well as your heroic deeds on the northern shore. I am writing to let you know that I can no longer provide you with fishing bounties. Allow me to explain.The others at the Fishery have never understood my appreciation of mudcrabs, and our recent battle has only increased my respect for these lovely clawed creatures. I’ve learned so much about how to raise them, all thanks to the juvenile mudcrab you brought me not long ago. And so, I have decided to leave the Fishery to strike out on my own as a crab merchant.There’s space for a market stall in the Grand Plaza, but I don’t have the materials I need to build it. I’m no smithy either, so I’ll have to buy the materials myself. I plan to spend my every waking hour working to save up for it. I’ll need a large bundle of wood, nails, iron fittings for the stall doors, and a lock to keep my earnings safe.One day, I will have my dream of my own market stall, brimming with crab! Swims-In-Deep-Water will no doubt be repulsed. He’s never kept his distain of mudcrab a secret. Speaking of our fish loving friend, you can still seek work from him if you are so inclined.— Viriya |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter of Commendation | Book added by Civil War Champions from the Creation Club. This book will change based upon the actions you take during the quest.If you took the armor and fought for the Empire:We’ve received word of your victory over the rebels, and so has most of Skyrim. We expect recruitment to increase tenfold as a result. No one wants to side with a losing cause.As a reward, you’re welcome to keep the champion’s armor and weapons. Judging by what you did to those turncloaks, I know you’ll make good use of it.– Legate Adventus CaesenniusIf you did not take the armor and fought for the Empire:We’ve received word of your victory over the rebels, and so has most of Skyrim. We expect recruitment to increase tenfold as a result. No one wants to side with a losing cause.As a reward, here are the champion’s armor and weapons. Judging by what you did to those turncloaks, I know you’ll make good use of it.– Legate Adventus CaesenniusIf you took the armor and fought for the Stormcloaks:Word of your battle with the Imperials is traveling across Eastmarch. I wish I could’ve been there to see their pathetic excuse for a champion beg for his life. You have more than earned the right to wear the armor of the Stormbear, so it is yours to keep.Fight well and may Talos guide you.– Yrsarald Thrice-PiercedIf you did not take the armor and fought for the Stormcloaks:Word of your battle with the Imperials is traveling across Eastmarch. I wish I could’ve been there to see their pathetic excuse for a champion beg for his life. You have more than earned the right to wear the armor of the Stormbear, which I give to you now.Fight well and may Talos guide you.– Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter of Credit | Author:Delvin Mallory Astrid,Let it be known that this letter is worth fifteen thousand septims, usable for any goods or services I may provide, as per our usual agreement.You want it, I can get it.Always yours,Delvin Mallory |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter of Inheritance | [Player name],In the name of Jarl [Jarl’s name], it is with great regret that we inform you of [dead friend]’s death.The deceased has bequeathed unto you a measure of inheritance in the amount of [number] gold pieces.The Jarl’s court has levied an amount of [number] gold pieces from the sum, as the lawfully and honorably due tax. The remainder has been commended unto the care of a trusted courier for deliverance.While all of the Jarl’s court grieves with you on this day, we rejoice in the knowledge that the deceased was in possession of dear friends and wealth to communicate unto them.May this lawfully bestowed inheritance prove as a reminder of your enduring faith in one another, and of the Jarl’s beneficence accorded unto you both. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter on Mudcrab Attacks | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubViriya,I have received multiple accounts of fishermen being attacked near a small shack on the shore west of Dawnstar by a swarm of mudcrabs. Yes, mudcrabs. No, I didn’t believe it either, until I saw their wounds for myself.One traveler said that they “jumped out of the sea right at her.” I would like you, the foremost expert on mudcrab, to investigate. I cannot afford to spare any of my guards, so I ask you, please find a way to rid these beasts from our shores!— [Jarl]Viriya’s notes: Fascinating. I wonder what could be causing them to gather together and become aggressive? Mudcrab are timid creatures unless threatened, so something must have stirred them up. Either way, they will have to be put to rest so the shore is safe again. A shame I won’t get a chance to study them. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Beem-Ja | Beem-Ja-Keep my daughter safe and you’ll earn both your freedom and that damned book you want so badly. But by the Divines, if any harm comes to her, I’ll make sure everyone I do business with will hear about what you did in Black Marsh. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Clexius | Book added by Goblins from the Creation ClubDear Clexius,It’s as you feared. The news here in Riften is troubling on many levels.Now, I’ve studied goblins all my life, and while customs differ from tribe to tribe, one thing has always held true. They are beholden to their shamans, and removing them will turn the entire tribe docile.Moreover, we have seen this method work in practice, most famously with the Three Feather tribe near Bruma. Yet still the rumors persist of goblin activity near the border.Most disturbing is the news that the “Blue God” himself is leading them. Could it be Malacath himself in some form?Regardless, if some Daedric being has found its way to this realm, this is a cause for concern. I’ll be heading to Gromm’s Pass in the morning to investigate.Faithfully yours, Avanessa Calladius |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to General Tullius | Book added by Lord’s Mail from the Creation Club15th of Last Seed, 4E 201General Tullius,During these times of war, I strongly believe it is important to inspire our population through a show of military strength and pageantry. To the younger among us, nothing is as inspiring as the sight of an Imperial Soldier wearing the finest armors our Empire has ever set its hands to.It is for this reason I am formally requesting that several Imperial relics be placed back into the service of the Empire, and distributed among high ranking officials. We must do all we can to inspire awe, and help galvanize the image of our cause among the populace.It has come to my attention that a paticular artifact, the Armor of Morihaus, Gift of Kynareth, also known as The Lord’s Mail, has recently gone missing. It is believed a group of Redguard mercenaries have stolen it with the aim to sell to the highest bidder. They were last seen traveling south of Fort Greymoor.Find these mercenaries, and reclaim The Lord’s Mail. Wear it proudly. Show the people that Kynareth favors the realm of the Empire.Emperor Titus Mede II |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Gisli | Book added by Grey Cowl from the Creation ClubConstruction on the port east of Jehanna has been approved and will begin once the transfer of land is official. The boy’s consent should suffice, as the head of the Ice-Blade clan has long been absent and the mother has taken ill, per your brother’s instruction.The deed is enclosed with this letter. Sending the boy to Riften before he’s old enough to grasp what happened is a good idea. Not the orphanage though. It’s best he live in comfort lest he suspect our motives.Still, it’s a dangerous gambit, made more complicated should the rightful heir return. Your brother would kill me for saying this, but if you have the chance, it may be worth selling the venture for the right price. This has been more trouble than it’s worth.— M |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Golldir | Veran Well, Golldir, I’m impressed. I know what trouble you Nords have with literacy, those big words must put such a strain on your tiny brains. And I’m surprised you can smell anything of the stink of your own filth. Why don’t you meet me at Hillgrund’s tomb and I’ll show you the way we deal with ancestors in Morrowind.-Vals Veran |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Imperial City | This is the third letter I am attempting to send to the Imperial Council in Cyrodiil for guidance in the matter surrounding the threat to Fort Frostmoth.A sizable dark elf force has established a stronghold on the southwestern portion of Solstheim. I’ve given them ample opportunity to surrender, but all attempts to communicate with them have met with conflict.I will continue to do whatever’s necessary to ensure the safety of Fort Frostmoth and rid Solstheim of these invaders until I receive orders stating otherwise.General Falx CariusGarrison Commander, Fort Frostmoth |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Keeper Carcette | Book added by Vigil Enforcer Armor Set from the Creation ClubCarcette,I’ve received your letter about the sudden disappearance of our patrols in the Pale. The news is troubling for sure. My old partner Fenrik was among them, and he was not only a Vigil Enforcer, but the finest warrior I knew. For him to be missing is no small thing, but perhaps fate has conspired for these events to happen, so that I may repay the life debt I owe him.I will leave for Dawnstar in the morning and take a room at the inn. If I learn anything, you will be the first to know.Stendarr’s mercy be with you,Azarain |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Naara | This book was included in Gallows Hall from the Creation ClubA letter can mean many things. If you think the ones you seek are on this page, you are wrong.Your heart is in the right place, but you chose the wrong kind of letter. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Salma | Daughter-I may seem like a doting old fool, but I still don’t like this. The world is a more dangerous place than you realize, and hunting for treasure is a fool’s life. Tread carefully, and keep half an eye on Beem-Ja. He should be able to protect you, but do not trust him. Come home as soon as you’ve tired of this charade. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Usha | My dear Usha, we can make it work! Do not worry about my father – he will grow to accept you in time. So will my mother. And my sister.Oh Usha, I only ask that you write and let me know you are all right. I have convinced father to look past your lack of wealth and see you for who you really are.Come back home. No need to worry. I’ll be waiting for you, my love.– Monesa |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letter to Vals Veran | Vals, I heard you talking in the (pub) last night. We may not be as strong as our forefathers, but I assure you we Nords are still stronger than any of you. I’m surprised you’d be mouthing off about how the dead rising is our fault after we took in all you Dunmer. If anything they are rising because of all the dirty Dunmer in Skyrim. It’s probably the smell skooma coming off all of you.– Golldir |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letters from Ralis Sedarys | Letter from Ralis SedarysI hope this message finds you quickly, [Player Name]. We’ve completed the initial excavation, but have run into some unexpected difficulties. Come as soon as you can.– Your partner, RalisLetter from Ralis Sedarys 2I don’t want you to panic, but I need to see you at the barrow. Quickly.– RalisLetter from Ralis Sedarys 3I hope you’re not angry, but I may need some more resources. Come around when you have time.Letter from Ralis Sedarys 4You’re needed. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letters from the EEC | First Letter from EECFethis,After reviewing your rather lengthy letter in which you’ve requested that the East Empire Company purchase your business on Solstheim, we must respectfully decline. The East Empire Company has been doing business in Tamriel for over five centuries, and in that time, we’ve had numerous business ventures. Some of those ventures have proven lucrative and some were highly unprofitable. The colony of Raven Rock belongs to the latter I’m afraid, and therefore we see no financial advantage in re-establishing any sort of business venture on Solstheim at this time.Vittoria ViciEast Empire Company Warehouse, Solitude, SkyrimSecond Letter from EECFethis,I felt I was rather clear in my last letter that the East Empire Company doesn’t wish to engage in any sort of financial buyout of your business on Solstheim. We appreciate your enthusiasm, but the time just isn’t right.Vittoria ViciEast Empire Company Warehouse, Solitude, SkyrimThird Letter from EECFethis,We’ve received yet another letter from you requesting a buyout. At this time, I’m going to have to insist you cease any communication with the East Empire Company. There will be no further letters from me on this matter.Vittoria ViciEast Empire Company Warehouse, Solitude, Skyrim |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Letters to Selina | A Letter to Selina IMy dearest Selina,It’s been a difficult day. General Carius ordered us to help the laborers shore up the walls since they’re starting to show their age. It was back-breaking work, but without the extra support, those walls wouldn’t stand up to a siege. Some of the men are grumbling about the task, but I don’t agree with them. The general knows what’s best for Fort Frostmoth and I would follow him to Oblivion and back if he asked. There’s a supply ship due on Solstheim in a few weeks and I hope to send you all these daily letters I’ve been writing. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them. I miss you Selina, and I can’t wait to see you when my time on Solstheim is through.Yours always,Maximian Axius20 Evening Star 4E 04A Letter to Selina IIMy dearest Selina,Euphemius was killed this morning by one of those awful Rieklings. We were escorting a supply wagon from Fort Frostmoth to Raven Rock when a war party of those bastards ambushed us from the cliffs. We fought them off, but poor Euphemius was impaled by one of their spears. The healers at the fort couldn’t do anything for him, and I watched him slip away as I held his hand. I don’t know how much longer I can stand being here. My loyalty to the Empire, and the strong words General Carius delivers to us at each morning muster are the only things keeping me going. The supply ship should arrive tomorrow, and I promise to give the quartermaster my letters so they can finally be sent home. Give my love to the children.Yours always,Maximian Axius11 Morning Star 4E 05A Letter to Selina IIIMy dearest Selina,The supply ship due in Solstheim hasn’t arrived yet and no one knows what’s happened to it. I’ll keep writing these letters in hopes that they can be delivered to you one day. It’s awful being isolated on Solstheim like this, but General Carius keeps telling us we need to maintain Fort Frostmoth for the good of the Empire. I believe what he’s saying only because he’s never led us down the wrong path in the past, but I’m wondering if anyone on the Imperial Council even gives a damn about this pile of rock. Four soldiers have died in the last two years at Fort Frostmoth. It almost seems as though the Empire takes us all for granted and expects us to sit out here and get chipped away at like the rock inside the mines. My posting here can’t end soon enough.Yours always,Maximian Axius1 Sun’s Dawn 4E 05A Letter to Selina IVMy dearest Selina,This is my last letter. I don’t know if you’ll ever get any of them, but I’ll keep them on me in case I’m ever found. Something happened here, Selina. It was horrible. Something’s happened at the Red Mountain but I can’t describe it. It’s as if hundreds of Oblivion gates opened at once at its summit and it’s spitting fire and death in all directions. Fort Frostmoth has been completely destroyed. The walls crumbled like loose dirt and the land is on fire. Everything around me smells of ash and of death. I don’t know where anyone is. I’ve been trapped in one of these lower sections of the fort and I don’t expect to be rescued anytime soon. I miss you, Selina. I want to hold you and the children in my arms and tell you that everything is going to be fine, but I don’t think that will ever happen. Give my love to Siricus and Atia for me. Tell them their father died bravely defending the Empire, so they can hold their heads high when they speak of me one day. And you my love, when you close your eyes at night, think of me so my spirit can finally come home.Yours always and forever,Maximian Axius3 Sun’s Dawn 4E 05 |
Write a book about Skyrim. | List of Arctic Fish | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubThe fish you have brought back are getting along swimmingly. Which makes sense, given they’re fish. But I mean “swimmingly” in the way people say it. I suppose both could be true.The next set of fish I will have you catch will be tough to chew. They swim in frozen waters, and their scales are as thick as ice.Maybe your hook will be the one to melt their scales, and their hearts.Here is the list:Angler LarvaeArctic CharArctic GraylingCodHappy fishing! Refer to my excellent third volume of Fishing Mastery if you wish to know more. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | List of Fair Weather Fish | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubOurs has dreamt of these waters many times, filled with strange, exotic fishes from all over Skyrim. No, not fishes. Friends! Well, at least until they’re harvested and sold as food. We have a business to maintain, after all. Friendships can only go so far before gold gets in the way.The fish in my dream seemed to be okay with this arrangement, and he rarely lies to me. And so, with his blessing, I will teach you to catch these fish, and in exchange, you will bring them here.Here is a list to start with:CarpGlassfishGoldfishPogfishThey are fair weather fish, and should be easy enough to catch. Even so, please read the first volume of Fishing Mastery, written by yours truly. A copy should be sitting on a shelf in the back room of the Fishery. When you are done, return to me and we will find our new friends a home, and you some coin. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | List of Rainy Weather Fish | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubI’ve hit a string of bad luck. No matter how hard I try, the fish do not bite. My memory fails me, like a goldfish. The whole thing is bad for business.Of course, there’s a logical explanation for all of it. I’ve lost my lucky fishing hat! I once had a priestess of Kynareth bless it for good fortune. You may not believe it, but I swear that it rains whenever I go fishing while wearing it. It’s true! Oh, how I miss it. The rain did wonders for my scales. A high wind blew it off my head and into the water on my last fishing trip just west of Sarethi Farm. Perhaps you could find it?Speaking of rain, the fish for your next challenge are only found on a rainy day:CatfishPearlfishPygmy SunfishSpadefishThe second volume of Fishing Mastery has details on these peculiar fish.Good luck. I can’t wait for these wonderful fish, and for my hat to return to its rightful place on the top of my head. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | List of Rare Fish | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubYou came to us a novice, and now look at you! A fishing master! None of us, least of all the fish, expected you to come this far. Most of us placed wagers that you’d be dead already.Long story short, you only have one more step before becoming a true fishing legend, and helping me get out of debt. You will need the Argonian rod I gave you earlier, as well as the Alik’r rod from Viriya.Here is a list of the rarest catches in all of Skyrim:AngelfishAnglerLyretail AnthiasScorpion FishBe sure to read the fifth, and final, volume of Fishing Mastery to learn the secrets of their whereabouts, and the rods one must use to catch them. Should you succeed, I have the perfect gift for someone sharp like you to represent your mastery of fishing. It will help you skin your catches as well as the occasional bandit. Best of luck. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | List of Underground Fish | This book was included in Fishing from the Creation ClubGood news! The other day I stepped on a rock and nearly lost a scale. I was about to curse the rock, put it an envelope, and mail it to a Daedric Prince – one of the nasty ones of course – when I realized the rock was shaped like a fish!Truly this was a sign from the Divines that you had succeeded in your tasks. I am glad to see the rock was correct and I do not have to burn this letter in shame.As such, you will next travel to where rocks and fish live in harmony – the dank, sun-starved caves of Skyrim. From their waters I seek the following:DirefishGlass CatfishTripod SpiderfishVampire FishI wish you luck, which you will almost certainly need, unless you have a lucky hat like I do. I will not loan you my hat, but you are welcome to read the fourth volume of Fishing Mastery to give yourself an edge. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Looter’s Note | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Dwarven Plate from the Creation ClubThere’s no good work in the Reach. The mines pay dung for wages and the farms even less than that. I thought I scored it big when I got a job working for this blind noble, but he fired me on account of me being a gloomy sort. He said he couldn’t hear my smile. I don’t even know what that means, my ears don’t have teeth.Anyways, the short of it is, I’m tired of this life. I want some easy gold. There’s an old tower south of here called Reachwind Eyrie that looks like it’s full of loot. Me and a couple others are thinking about raiding the place and nabbing everything that isn’t bolted down.It’s gonna be first come, first serve. But if any of you other worthless drunks want to lend a hand, we could always use more. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Business Ledger Copy | This book was included in Bow of Shadows from the Creation ClubWeekly Business LedgerforArcadia’s CauldronSundasCommander CaiusStamina Potion61 goldLydiaPotion of Strength137 goldAela the HuntressPotion of True Shot96 goldMorndasDanica Pure-SpringPotion of Extreme Healing123 goldNord WarriorPotion of Cure Disease240 goldImperial MagePotion of Magicka292 goldTirdasHrongarPotion of Enhanced Stamina341 goldPriest of ArkayVirulent Poison174 goldMiddasWarmaiden’sBlacksmith’s Potion204 goldBreton RangerPotion of Resist Cold292 goldFarengarEnchanter’s Potion164 goldTurdasBelethor’s General GoodsPotion of Haggling140 goldNord WarriorPotion of Healing109 goldFredasNord Stable BoyMalign Lingering Poison55 goldLoredasUthgerd the UnbrokenPotion of Minor Stamina61 goldAvulstein Gray-ManePotion of the Knight123 gold |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Certificate of Authenticity | Book added by Nordic Jewelry from the Creation Club.Certificate of AuthenticityThis item is certified to be of the highest quality Nordic stahlrim, hand selected for its purity, color, and magical affinity. Guaranteed to retain its luster and resist weathering for years to come.Crafted by Hugin Ice-Shaper of Raven Rock, Master Artisan |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Frost’s Identity Papers | Deed of OwnershipHorse- FrostSex- StallionColor- Mealy ChestnutSire- GraneGreat Grandsire- SleipnirDam- UnknownGreat Damsire- Loka |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Goldenglow Bill of Sale | This deed signifies ownership of Goldenglow Estate to the undersigned. This includes all property, livestock, resources, buildings and staff. Ownership may only be transferred with an accompanying Bill of Sale. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard Dossier – Aerael | Book added by Alternative Armor – Elven Hunter from the Creation ClubStatus: Active (Capture or Kill), High PriorityDescription: Male, High Elf, age unknownBackground: A member of the Crimson Dirks, a notorious group of bandits and marauders originally based in Cyrodiil. Little else is known about the target, although some intelligence suggests he was often used as an information gatherer for the bandits.Operational Notes: It was originally thought that an Altmer might attempt to blend into wealthier circles, but according to our informant, he’s done the opposite. He’s stripped his armor and gone native, hunting game in the forests south of Sunderstone Gorge. He should still be considered dangerous, however, and it would be wise to put up a bounty when his identity is confirmed. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard Dossier: Aesrael | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Elven from the Creation ClubStatus: Active (Capture or Kill), High PriorityDescription: Male, High Elf, age unknownBackground:A member of the Crimson Dirks, a notorious group of bandits and marauders originally based in Cyrodiil. Little else is known about the target, although some intelligence suggests he was often used as an information gatherer for the bandits.Operational Notes:It was originally thought that an Altmer might attempt to blend into wealthier circles, but according to our informant, he’s done the opposite. He’s stripped his armor and gone native, hunting game in the forests south of Sunderstone Gorge. He should still be considered dangerous, however, and it would be wise to put up a bounty when his identity is confirmed. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard’s Dossier: Antonius | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Orcish Scaled from the Creation ClubStatus: Active (Capture or Kill), High PriorityDescription: Antonius, Male, mid 70sBackground:Antonius is a former battlemage said to possess a highly analytical mind that is matched only by his more prurient inclinations. He is sought after by aristocrats in Firsthold for allegedly poisoning a court wizard named Allenia with skooma, although it’s unclear if he did so maliciously or simply introduced her to the substance. After fleeing to Cyrodiil he joined the Crimson Dirks and advised them on the acquisition and smuggling of magical artifacts.Bottled spirits and old age have made him less urgent of a target, but all members of the bandit clan are still considered high priority and should be captured or eliminated.Operational Notes:Antonius is believed to have a number of vices, most notably an addiction to gambling. Rather than search for him, it would be best to have a guardsman stationed near the pits where like-minded degenerates tend to gather. Cragslane Cavern is said to be thriving with activity as of late, and may be worth a look. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard’s Dossier: Bjormund Wind-Strider | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Dragon Plate from the Creation ClubStatus: Active (Capture or Kill), High PriorityDescription: Male, Nord, late 50sBackground:Referred to by locals as the “Dragon of Dawnstar,” Bjormund is the son of a former pirate who frequented the northern port. After being taken in by various bandit clans, he eventually migrated south to Cyrodiil where he joined up with the Crimson Dirks. The nickname is derived from a legend that Bjormund once slew a dragon and fashioned its bones into armor, but it seems the story is apocryphal as it predates the return of the dragons.Operational Notes:Bjormund is believed to have taken up mercenary work in order to stay on the move. Not much is known of his whereabouts beyond this. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard’s Dossier: Ehlhiel | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Leather Plate from the Creation ClubStatus: Asset (cooperative), ActiveDescription: Male, Bosmer, late 30sBackground:Ehlhiel was adopted by the Crimson Dirks at a young age and trained at their hideout in the Heartlands of Cyrodiil. Some intelligence suggests his parents may have been killed by the bandits, and the child taken in as hostage.Operational Notes:Originally identified as a possible mole due to his background, Ehlhiel was fed the information regarding his parents and recruited as an asset. In the years following, he proved to be a valuable source of information in identifying bandit groups, as well as helping the Imperial City guard expunge the Crimson Dirks from Cyrodiil.Currently, Ehlhiel continues to serve both the East Empire Company and the guard captains in Skyrim by providing information on fugitives that fled north after the purge. Meetings can be set up by placing a note behind the Shrine of Akatosh in Solitude. Any additional contact should be arranged through the appropriate channels. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Guard’s Dossier: Yakhtu gra-Orkulg | This book was included in Alternative Armor: Orcish from the Creation ClubStatus: Active (Capture or Kill), High PriorityDescription: Female, Orc, late 40sBackground:Yakhtu gra-Orkulg was a former blacksmith at the Stash ‘N Slash in the Imperial City, a shop she inherited from her father. She was contacted by the Crimson Dirks and recruited to forge arms for the bandits as well as launder sacked goods through her shop. When the Imperial City guard issued a warrant for her arrest, she fled the city with another member of the bandit gang.Operational Notes:Yakhtu was originally thought to have fled to High Rock and taken refuge in an Orc Stronghold. However, according to our informant, she actually traveled with another agent to Skyrim. Reports of unusually well made weapons and armor being peddled out of Embershard Mine may be related. This information should be forwarded to Commander Caius in Whiterun as the mine falls under his jurisdiction. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Heljarchen Hall Charter | [Jarl name], Jarl of [Capital city], to [Player name], [his/her] steadfast friend; grant of the steading of Heljarchen Hall, south of Fort Dunstad near Giants’ Gap.Granted on [day] [month], [year] |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Heretic Dossier: Blacksmith’s Confessional | This book was included in Ghost of The Tribunal from the Creation ClubKenro was a strange one. Always skulking about, perusing my wares, but never buying.I’d ask him if he wanted a sword, and he’d say, “Not today.”So I’d ask him if he’d fancy a set of armor. And again he says, “Not today.”Every day for a month, the same song and dance. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Or so I thought.One day I open the shop, check my wares, and find a mistake in the shipment. Inside the crate is an odd blue gem, lumped in with the usual iron and steel. Figuring it for a mistake, I was about to send it back, when Kenro walks in the store.I give him the usual greeting, and ask him if he wants to buy some wares, fully expecting him to say the words, “Not today.”But to my surprise, he doesn’t. Today, he wants to buy.He doesn’t want a sword or a shield. He wants the gem. As he hands me the coin, I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, like this is the last time I’ll see him. So I ask him where he’s headed. He tells me he’s going to see a blacksmith. I’m not sure if that’s a joke, seeing as I run the forge.When I ask him which smith, he tells me, a Dwarven one. In Fahlbtharz.My face goes white. Kenro says, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”I say to him, “No, have you?” And he just smiles. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Holdings of Jarl Gjalund | Because Skyrim uses a font to code dragon script, we are able to provide a direct translation. It is colored and in brackets after the draconic script.Survey of the Holdings of Jarl GjalundAs Witnessed by Slafknir the Scribe, so Sworn by the Old Gods and the NewWhiterun –[AHROLSEDOVAH]– The Jarl’s Holding, with Plentiful Water and Pasturage. Home of Jorrvaskr, the Far-Famed Hall of the Companions.Rorik’s Steading –[RORIKHOFKAH]– A Small Farmstead in the Western Plains. Grain, Leather, Horses.Granite Hill –[QUETHSEGOL AHROL]– Three Farms and an Inn, just North of the Falkreath. A Market is Held here Weekly.H’roldan –[AHROLDAN]– A Spacious Wooden Hall and Pasturage, recently Seized from the Reachmen. Silver and Iron as Tribute from the Natives.Bromjunaar –[BROMJUN1R]– An Old Settlement, much Reduced from Former Days. Lumber and Stone.Korvanjund –[KORVANJUND]– A Small Fortified Settlement. Hides and Meat.Volunruud –[VOLUNR5D]– A Fortified Wooden Hall near Giants’ Gap. Meat and Worked Ivory.Hillgrund’s Steading –[HILLGRUNDHOFKAH]– A Large Farmstead Near the Base of the Monahven. Grain, Mead, Honey. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Interviews With Tapestrists | In the TES5: Skyrim version of this book, all references to “medium” armor are replaced with “traditional”Interviews With TapestristsVolume EighteenCherim’s Heart of Anequinaby Livillus PerusProfessor at the Imperial UniversityContemporary with Maqamat Lusign (interviewed in volume seventeen of this series) is the Khajiti Cherim, whose tapestries have been hailed as masterpieces all over the Empire for nigh on thirty years now. His four factories located throughout Elsweyr make reproductions of his work, but his original tapestries command stellar prices. The Emperor himself owns ten Cherim tapestries, and his representatives are currently negotiating the sale of five more.The muted use of color contrasted with the luminous skin tones of Cherim’s subjects is a marked contrast with the old style of tapestry. The subjects of his work in recent years have been fabulous tales of the ancient past: the Gods meeting to discuss the formation of the world; the Chimer following the Prophet Veloth into Morrowind; the Wild Elves battling Morihaus and his legions at the White Gold Tower. His earliest designs dealt with more contemporary subjects. I had the opportunity to discuss with him one of his first masterpieces, The Heart of Anequina, at his villa in Orcrest.The Heart of Anequina presents an historic battle of the Five Year War between Elsweyr and Valenwood which raged from 3E 394 (or 3E 395, depending on what one considers to be the beginning of the war) until 3E 399. In most fair accounts, the war lasted 4 years and 9 months, but artistic license from the great epic poets added an additional three months to the ordeal.The actual details of the battle itself, as interpreted by Cherim, are explicit. The faces of a hundred and twenty Wood Elf archers can be differentiated one from the other, each registering fear at the approach of the Khajiti army. Their hauberks catch the dim light of the sun. The menacing shadows of the Elsweyr battlecats loom on the hills, every muscle strained, ready to pounce in command. It is not surprising that he got all the details right, because Cherim was in the midst of it, as a Khajiti foot soldier.Every minute part of the Khajiti medium-weight armor can be seen in the soldiers in the foreground. The embroidered edging and striped patterns on the tunics. Each lacquered plate on loose-fitting leather in the Elsweyr style. The helmets of cloth and fluted silver.“Cherim does not understand the point of plate mail,” said Cherim. “It is hot, for one, like being both burned and buried alive. Cherim wore it at the insistence of our Nord advisors during the Battle of Zelinin, and Cherim couldn’t even turn to see what my fellow Khajiit were doing. Cherim did some sketches for a tapestry of the Battle of Zelinin, but Cherim finds that to make it realistic, the figures came out very mechanical, like iron golems or dwemer centurions. Knowing our Khajiti commanders, Cherim would not be surprised if giving up the heavy plate was more aesthetic than practical.”“Elsweyr lost the Battle of Zelinin, didn’t she?”“Yes, but Elsweyr won the war, starting at the next battle, the Heart of Anequina,” said Cherim with a smile. “The tide turned as soon as we Khajiit sent our Nordic advisors back to Solitude. We had to get rid of all the heavy armor they brought to us and find enough traditional medium armor our troops felt comfortable wearing. Obviously, the principle advantage of the medium armor was that we could move easily in it, as you can see from the natural stances of the soldiers in the tapestry.“Now if you look at this poor perforated Cathay-raht who just keeps battling on in the bottom background, you see the other advantage. It seems strange to say, but one of the best features of medium armor is that an arrow will either deflect completely or pass all the way through. An arrow head is like a hook, made to stick where it strikes if it doesn’t pass through. A soldier in medium armor will find himself with a hole in his body and the bolt on the other side. Our healers can fix such a wound easily if it isn’t fatal, but if the arrow still remains in the armor, as it does with heavier armor, the wound will be reopened every time the fellow moves. Unless the Khajiit strips off the armor and pulls out the arrow, which is what we had to do at the Battle of Zelinin. A difficult and time-consuming process in the heat of battle, to say the least.”I asked him next, “Is there a self portrait in the battle?”“Yes,” Cherim said with another grin. “You see the small figure of the Khajiit stealing the rings off the dead Wood Elf? His back is facing you, but he has a brown and orange striped tail like Cherim’s. Cherim does not say that all stereotypes about the Khajiit are fair, but Cherim must sometimes acknowledge them.”A self-deprecating style in self-portraiture is also evident in the tapestries of Ranulf Hook, the next artist interviewed in volume nineteen of this series. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Lakeview Manor Charter | [Jarl name], Jarl of [Capital city] to [Player name], [his/her] loyal friend; grant of the steading of Lakeview Manor on the south shore of Lake Ilinalta, east of Falkreath.Witnessed by [Steward name], Steward to Jarl [Jarl name], [day] [month], [year] |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Midden Incident Repot | The missing students were found in the Midden this morning. Dead, as expected. None of us bothered keeping a detect life charm for the search at this point.The bodies were found together, each suffering the same deformities; peeled and bubbling skin on the arms and face. Conjurer’s burn, as it’s commonly referred to around the College. There’s little doubt they were attempting a summoning ritual well beyond their capabilities.The relic nearby put any doubt in this theory to rest. I admit that I’ve never seen one like it – a large, segmented sculpture of a gauntlet, the Daedric sigil ” emblazoned upon the palm. Attempts to move it were in vain. I must show it to Archmage Sedoth during his upcoming visit. Perhaps he will know more.While we couldn’t move the relic, I was able to pry four “rings” from it. I’m sure there’s a connection between them and the ritual the students were attempting.I’ll store these in the Arcanaeum until we can consult with a conjuration master to learn more. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Purchase Agreement | Purchase AgreementThis agreement certifies that Kleppr, owner of the Silver Blood Inn within the City of Markarth, will pay Bolli, owner of the Riften Fishery within the City of Riften, the sum of three septims per bushel of fish. Payment is expected upon delivery and product is guaranteed to be fresh.Bolli |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Smuggler’s Ledger | Book added by Staff of Hasedoki from the Creation ClubItems:Dozen bottles of skoomaDelivered to:Delvin Mallory, RiftenSmuggler’s Fee:Fifty septims and a favor. Knowing Delvin, the discount is worth it, at least this time around.Items:Staff of Hasedoki, void salts, soul gems, bonemealDelivered to:Ivara of Olenveld and Lushak gra-Ragdam, Brittleshin PassSmuggler’s Fee:Just gold and gems for now. It was tough sneaking in some of the items on the list, but the zombie lovers were happy with the haul. They say they’re trying to open a portal to something called the Soul Cairn. If there’s loot to be had inside, it might be a good idea to line up some buyers.Items:Cane, bookDelivered to:Bandits, White River WatchSmuggler’s Fee:Hajvarr paid with a dagger and some farmer clothes with the blood still on it. The cane was a foot short, but it serves the bastard right for not paying in gold. I told him if he wants better service, he’s going to have to learn how to fight with his eyes open. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Thalmor Dossier: Delphine | Status: Active (Capture or Kill), High Priority, Emissary Level ApprovalDescription: Female, Breton, mid 50sBackground:Delphine was a high-priority target during the First War, for both operational and political reasons. She was directly involved in several of the most damaging operations carried out by the Blades within the Dominion. She had been identified and was slated for the initial purge, but by bad luck was recalled to Cyrodiil just before the outbreak of hostilities. During the war, she evaded three attempts on her life, in one case killing an entire assassination team. Since then, we have only indirect evidence of her movements, as she has proven extremely alert to our surveillance. She should be considered very dangerous and no move against her should be made without overwhelming force and the most careful preparation.Operational Notes:She is believed to still be working actively against us within Skyrim, although we have no location on her. Assumed to be working alone, as no other Blades are known to be active in Skyrim, and she has in the past avoided contact with other fugitive Blades for her own security (one of the reasons she has so far evaded elimination). Her continued existence is an affront to all of us. Any information on her whereabouts or activities should be immediately forwarded to the Third Emissary. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Thalmor Dossier: Esbern | Status: Fugitive (Capture Only), Highest Priority, Emissary Level ApprovalDescription: Male, Nord, late 70sBackground:Esbern was one of the Blades loremasters prior to the First War Against the Empire. He was not a field agent, but is now believed to have been behind some of the most damaging operations carried out by the Blades during the pre-war years, including the Falinesti Incident and the breach of the Blue River Prison. His file had remained dormant for many years, an inexcusable error on the part of my predecessor (who has been recalled to Alinor for punishment and reeducation), in the erroneous belief that he was unlikely to pose a threat due to his advanced age and lack of field experience. A salutary reminder to all operational levels that no Blades agent should be considered low priority for any reason. All are to be found and justice exacted upon them.Operational Notes:As we are still in the dark as to the cause and meaning of the return of the dragons, I have made capturing Esbern our top priority, as he is known to be one of the experts in the dragonlore of the Blades. Regrettably, we have yet to match their expertise on the subject of dragons, which was derived from their Akaviri origins and is still far superior to our own (which remains largely theoretical). The archives of Cloud Ruler Temple, which is believed to have been the primary repository of the oldest Blades lore, were largely destroyed during the siege, and although great effort has been made to reconstruct what was lost, it now appears that most of the records related to dragons were either removed or destroyed prior to our attack. Thus Esbern remains our best opportunity to learn how and why the dragons have returned. It cannot be ruled out that the Blades themselves are somehow connected to the dragons’ return.We have recently obtained solid information that Esbern is still alive and hiding somewhere in Riften. Interrogation of a possible eyewitness is on-going. We must proceed carefully to avoid Esbern becoming alerted to his danger. If he is indeed in Riften, he must not be given an opportunity to flee. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak | Status: Asset (uncooperative), Dormant, Emissary Level ApprovalDescription: Jarl of Windhelm, leader of Stormcloak rebellion, Imperial Legion veteranBackground:Ulfric first came to our attention during the First War Against the Empire, when he was taken as a prisoner of war during the campaign for the White-Gold Tower. Under interrogation, we learned of his potential value (son of the Jarl of Windhelm) and he was assigned as an asset to the interrogator, who is now First Emissary Elenwen. He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken), and then allowed to escape. After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset.The so-called Markarth Incident was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact.Operational Notes:Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. The incident at Helgen is an example where an exception had to be made – obviously Ulfric’s death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim. (NOTE: The coincidental intervention of the dragon at Helgen is still under scrutiny. The obvious conclusion is that whoever is behind the dragons also has an interest in the continuation of the war, but we should not assume therefore that their goals align with our own.) A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Vald’s Debt | This document absolves Vald of Riften (borrower) from all debts and accounts owed to Maven Black-Briar of Riften (lender). This document should be held in a secured location until such time as the lender considers the debt satisfied. In the event of the borrower’s death, the debt will be collected from any remaining assets or property owned as determined by the acting Steward of Riften. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Wild Horse Notes | Book added by Wild Horses from the Creation ClubSpotted Grey – Near Markarth, north of Salvius Farm.Dapple Brown – Near Solitude, across the river from Katla’s Farm, near a Dragon Mound.Chestnut – East of Helgen, not far from the roadside.Red – West of Whiterun, in the open planes.Spotted White – Lower Eastmarch, in the cliffs north of Shore’s Stone [sic].Pale Mare – East of Windhelm, north of Hollyfrost Farm, in the forest nearing the shoreline.Black – West of Falkreath, past the nearby ruins.If I had the coin, I’d hire a wizard to use Detect Life and help me find these horses. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Windstad Manor Charter | [Jarl Name], Jarl of [Capital City], to [Player Name], [his/her] faithful friend; grant of the steading of Windstad Manor, near the Mouths of the Karth, north of Morthal.Witnessed by [Steward Name], Steward to Jarl [Jarl Name], [day] [month], [year] |
Write a book about Skyrim. | A Tragedy in Black | A folk tale from the time of the Oblivion CrisisThe dremora looked on the young boy with disdain. He looked to be no more than seventeen or eighteen, on the cusp of manhood.“You? You have summoned me?”“Mother says I’m good with spells. Someday I’m gonna be a wizard. Maybe even archmage!”“And what would your mother know of magic, boy?”“She’s a wizard! She’s an enchanter at the Arcane University.”“Ah. Another dabbler in the mystic arts. I’m certain she is barely mediocre.”“You shut up! I read the scroll. I get to tell you what to do.”The dremora was silent. Compulsion bound his voice.“I want to know how to make a magic dress. I need it for her birthday.”The dremora’s answer was more silence.“You have to tell me. It’s in the rules.”Freed from the previous compulsion, the dremora answered, “First, you need a soul gem. I happen to have one, and would gladly give it you for so noble a cause.”“Really? Why do I need it.”With a hidden smile, the dremora handed over the dull black gem.“It is not enough to cast a spell upon an inert object. Magic requires thought, intent, will and emotion. The soul powers the enchantment. The bigger the soul, the more powerful the enchantment.”“So how big is the one in this soul gem?”“Oh, that one is empty. You’ll have to fill it. But it can hold the largest of souls easily. Do you know how to do that?”“No,” the young man said sullenly.“Let me show you. You cast a spell like this.”The tendrils of the soul trap spell spilled from his fingers and surrounded the boy. The young man’s eyes went wide.“I didn’t feel anything,” he complained.“How about now?” the dremora asked, plunging his talons into the youth’s rib cage. His heart beat only once before it was pulled from his chest.Quickly the dremora snatched back the black soul gem, just as the youth died. His soul tried to flee, but was trapped by the spell and drawn into the gem. Only black soul gems can hold the souls of men and elves.“Your mother obviously never told you never to accept a freely given gift from a summoned dremora,” he said to the corpse. “You see, it breaks the conjuration, freeing the summoned from the summoner. Now, let’s go find your mother. After all, I have another black soul gem.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Breathing Water | This is a copy of “Breathing Water” from the released TES3: Morrowind. However the “Breathing Water” that was released before in the Elder Scrolls oficial site is slightly different. In that text the first sentence is “He walked through the dry, crowded streets of Tear, glad to be…”. In the released version, “Tear” has been changed to “Bal Fel” in this sentence but, strangely, nowhere else.In the TES5: Skyrim version of this book, all references to Tear or Bal Fel have been replaced with Vivec, and a few minor grammar things have also been changed.He walked through the dry, crowded streets of Bal Fell, glad to be among so many strangers. In the wharfs, he had no such anonymity. There, they knew him to be a smuggler, but here, he could be anyone. A lower-class peddler perhaps. A student even. Some people even pushed against him as he walked past as if to say, “We would not dream of being so rude as to acknowledge that you don’t belong here.”Seryne Relas was not in any of the taverns, but he knew she was somewhere, perhaps behind a tenement window or poking around in a dunghill for an exotic ingredient for some spell or another. Of the ways of sorceresses, he knew only that they were always doing something eccentric. Because of this prejudice, he nearly passed by the old Dunmer woman having a drink from a well. It was too prosaic, but he knew from the look of her that she was Seryne Relas, the great sorceress.“I have gold for you,” he said to her back. “If you will teach me the secret of breathing water.”She turned around, a wide wet grin stretched across her weathered features. “I ain’t breathing it, boy. I’m just having a drink.”“Don’t mock me,” he said, stiffly. “Either you’re Seryne Relas and you will teach me the spell of breathing water, or you aren’t. Those are the only possibilities.”“If you’re going to learn to breathe water, you’re going to have to learn there are more possibilities than that, boy. The School of Alteration is all about possibilities, changing patterns, making things be what they could be. Maybe I ain’t Seryne Relas, but I can teach how to breathe water,” she wiped her mouth dry. “Or maybe I am Seryne Relas and I won’t. Or maybe I can teach you to breath water, but you can’t learn.”“I’ll learn,” he said, simply.“Why don’t you just buy yourself a spell of water breathing or a potion over at the Mages Guild?” she asked. “That’s how it’s generally done.”“They’re not powerful enough,” he said. “I need to be underwater for a long time. I’m willing to pay whatever you ask, but I don’t want any questions. I was told you could teach me.”“What’s your name, boy?”“That’s a question,” he replied. His name was Tharien Winloth, but in the wharfs, they called him the Tollman. His job, such as it was, was collecting a percentage of the loot from the smugglers when they came into harbor to bring to his boss in the Camonna Tong. From that percentage, he earned a smaller percentage. In the end it was very small indeed. He had scarcely any gold of his own, and what he had, he gave to Seryne Relas.The lessons began that very day. The sorceress brought her pupil out to a low sandbank along the sea.“I will teach you a powerful spell for breathing water, boy,” she said. “But you must become a master of it. As with all spells and all skills, the more you practice, the better you get. Even that ain’t enough. To achieve true mastery, you must understand what it is you’re doing. It ain’t simply enough to perform a perfect thrust of a blade — you must also know what you are doing and why.”“That’s common sense,” said Tharien“Yes, it is,” said Seryne, closing her eyes. “But the spells of Alteration are all about uncommon sense. The infinite possibilities, breaking the sky, swallowing space, dancing with time, setting ice on fire, believing the unreal may become real. You must learn the rules of the cosmos and break them.”“That sounds … very difficult,” replied Tharien, trying to keep a straight face.Seryne pointed to the small silver fish darting along the water’s edge: “They don’t find it so. They breath water just fine.”“But that’s not magic.”“What I’m saying to you, boy, is that it is.”For several weeks, Seryne drilled her student, and the more he understood about what he was doing and the more he practiced, the longer he could breath underwater. When he found that he could cast the spell for as long as he needed, he thanked the sorceress and bade her farewell.“There is one last lesson I have to teach you,” she said. “You must learn that desire is not enough. The world will end your spell no matter how good you are, and no matter how much you want it.”“That’s a lesson I’m happy not to learn,” he said, and left at once for the short journey back to the wharfs of Tear.The wharfs were much the same, with all the same smells, the same sounds, and the same characters. He learned from his mates that the Boss found a new Tollman. They were still looking out for the smuggler ship Morodrung, but they had given up hope of ever seeing it. Tharien knew they would not. He saw it sink in the bay weeks ago. On a moonless night, he cast his spell and dove into the thrashing purple waves. He kept his mind on the world of possibilities, that books could sing, that green was blue, that that water was air, that every stroke and kick brought him closer to a sunken ship filled with treasure. He felt magicka surge all around him as he pushed his way deeper down. Ahead he saw a ghostly shadow of the Morodrung, its mast billowing in a wind of deep-water currents. He also felt his spell begin to fade. He could break reality long enough to breath water all the way back up to the surface, but not enough to reach the ship.The next night, he dove again, and this time, the spell was stronger. He could see the vessel in detail, clouded over and dusted in sediment. He saw the wound in its hull where it struck the rocks. A glint of gold beckoned from within. But he felt reality closing in, and he had to surface.The third night, he made it into the steerage, past the bloated corpses of the sailors, nibbled and picked apart by fish. Their glassy eyes bulging, their mouths stretched open. Had they only known the spell, he thought briefly, but his mind was more occupied by the gold scattered along the floor that spilled from broken chests and sacks. He considered scooping as much he could carry into his pockets, but a sturdy iron box seemed to bespeak more treasures.On the wall was a row of keys. He took each down and tried it on the locked box, but none opened it. One key, however, was missing. Tharien looked around the room. Where could it be? His eyes went to the corpse of one of the sailors, floating in a dance of death not far from the box, his hands tightly clutching something. It was a key. When the ship had begun to sink, this sailor had evidently gone for the iron box. Whatever was in it had to be very valuable.Tharien took the sailor’s key and opened the box. It was filled with broken glass. He rummaged around until he felt something solid, and pulled out two flasks of some kind of wine. He smiled as he considered the foolishness of the poor alcoholic. This was what was important to the sailor, out of all the treasure in the Morodrung.Then, suddenly, Tharien Winloth felt reality.He had not been paying attention to the grim, tireless advance of the world on his spell. It was fading away, his ability to breath water. There was no time to surface. There was no time to do anything. As he sucked in, his lungs filled with cold, briney water.A few days later, the smugglers working on the wharf came upon the drowned body of the former Tollman. Finding a body in the water in Tear was not in itself noteworthy, but the subject that they discussed over many bottles of flin was how it could happen that he drowned with two potions of water breathing in his hands? |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Chance’s Folly | In Elder Scrolls Online, this book is split into two volumes.By the time she was sixteen, Minevah Iolos had been an unwelcome guest in every shop and manor in Balmora. Sometimes, she would take everything of value within; other times, it was enough to experience the pure pleasure of finding a way past the locks and traps. In either situation, she would leave a pair of dice in a prominent location as her calling card to let the owners know who had burgled them. The mysterious ghost became known to the locals as Chance.A typical conversation in Balmora at this time:“My dear, whatever happened to that marvelous necklace of yours?”“My dear, it was taken by Chance.”The only time when Chance disliked her hobby was when she miscalculated, and she came upon an owner or a guard. So far, she had never been caught, or even seen, but dozens of times she had uncomfortably close encounters. There came a day when she felt it was time to expand her reach. She considered going to Vivec or Gnisis, but one night at the Eight Plates, she heard a tale of the Heran Ancestral Tomb, an ancient tomb filled with traps and possessing hundreds of years of the Heran family treasures.The idea of breaking the spell of the Heran Tomb and gaining the fortune within appealed to Chance, but facing the guardians was outside of her experience. While she was considering her options, she saw Ulstyr Moresby sitting at a table nearby, by himself as usual. He was huge brute of a Breton who had a reputation as a gentle eccentric, a great warrior who had gone mad and paid more attention to the voices in his head than to the world around him.If she must have a partner in this enterprise, Chance decided, this man would be perfect. He would not demand or understand the concept of getting an equal share of the booty. If worse came to worse, he would not be missed if the inhabitants of the Heran Tomb were too much for him. Or if Chance found his company tiresome and elected to leave him behind.“Ulstyr, I don’t think we’ve ever met, but my name is Minevah,” she said, approaching the table. “I’m fancying a trip to the Heran Ancestral Tomb. If you think you could handle the monsters, I could take care of unlocking doors and popping traps. What do you think?”The Breton took a moment to reply, as if considering the counsel of the voices in his head. Finally he nodded his head in the affirmative, mumbling, “Yes, yes, yes, prop a rock, hot steel. Chitin. Walls beyond doors. Fifty-three. Two months and back.”“Splendid,” said Chance, not the least put off by his rambling. “We’ll leave early tomorrow.”When Chance met Ulstyr the next morning, he was wearing chitin armor and had armed himself with an unusual blade that glowed faintly of enchantment. As they began their trek, she tried to engage him in conversation, but his responses were so nonsensical that she quickly abandoned the attempts. A sudden rainstorm swelled over the plain, dousing them, but as she was wearing no armor and Ulstyr was wearing slick chitin, their progress was not impeded.Into the dark recesses of the Heran Tomb, they delved. Her instincts had been correct — they made very good partners.She recognized the ancient snap-wire traps, deadfalls, and brittle backs before they were triggered, and cracked all manners of lock: simple tumbler, combination, twisted hasp, double catch, varieties from antiquity with no modern names, rusted heaps that would have been dangerous to open even if one possessed the actual key.Ulstyr for his part slew scores of bizarre fiends, the likes of which Chance, a city girl, had never seen before. His enchanted blade’s spell of fire was particularly effective against the Frost Atronachs. He even saved her when she lost her footing and nearly plummeted into a shadowy crack in the floor.“Not to hurt thyself,” he said, his face showing genuine concern. “There are walls beyond doors and fifty-three. Drain ring. Two months and back. Prop a rock. Come, Mother Chance.”Chance had not been listening to much of Ulstyr’s babbling, but when he said “Chance,” she was startled. She had introduced herself to him as Minevah. Could it be that the peasants were right, and that when mad men spoke, they were talking to the daedra prince Sheogorath who gave them advice and information beyond their ken? Or was it rather, more sensibly, that Ulstyr was merely repeating what he heard tell of in Balmora where in recent years “Chance” had become synonymous with lockpicking?As the two continued on, Chance thought of Ulstyr’s mumblings. He had said “chitin” when they met as if it had just occurred to him, and the chitin armor that he wore had proven useful. Likewise, “hot steel.” What could “walls beyond doors” mean? Or “two months and back”? What numbered “fifty-three”?The notion that Ulstyr possessed secret knowledge about her and the tomb they were in began to unnerve Chance. She made up her mind then to abandon her companion once the treasure had been found. He had cut through the living and undead guardians of the dungeon: if she merely left by the path they had entered, she would be safe without a defender.One phrase he said made perfect sense to her: “drain ring.” At one of the manors in Balmora, she had picked up a ring purely because she thought it was pretty. It was not until later that she discovered that it could be used to sap other people’s vitality. Could Ulstyr be aware of this? Would he be taken by surprise if she used it on him?She formulated her plan on how best to desert the Breton as they continued down the hall. Abruptly the passage ended with a large metal door, secured by a golden lock. Using her pick, Chance snapped away the two tumblers and bolt, and swung the door open. The treasure of the Heran Tomb was within.Chance quietly slipped her glove off her hand, exposing the ring as she stepped into the room. There were fifty-three bags of gold within. As she turned, the door closed between her and the Breton. On her side, it did not resemble a door anymore, but a wall. Walls beyond doors.For many days, Chance screamed and screamed, as she tried to find a way out of the room. For some days after that, she listened dully to the laughter of Sheogorath within her own head. Two months later, when Ulstyr returned, she was dead. He used a rock to prop open the door and remove the gold. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Beggar Prince | The story of Wheedleand his gifts from the Daedric Lord NamiraWe look down upon the beggars of the Empire. These lost souls are the poor and wretched of the land. Every city has its beggars. Most are so poor they have only the clothes on their backs. They eat the scraps the rest of us throw out. We toss them a coin so that we don’t have to think too long about their plight.Imagine my surprise when I heard the tale of the Beggar Prince. I could not imagine what a Prince of Beggars would be. Here is the tale I heard. It takes place in the first age, when gods walked like men and daedra stalking the wilderness with impunity. It is a time before they were all confined to Oblivion.There once was a man named Wheedle. Or maybe it was a woman. The story goes to great lengths to avoid declaring Wheedle’s gender. Wheedle was the 13th child of a king in Valenwood. As such Wheedle was in no position to take the throne or even inherit much property or wealth.Wheedle had left the palace to find independent fortune and glory. After many days of endless forest roads and tiny villages, Wheedle came upon a three men surrounding a beggar. The beggar was swaddled in rags from head to toe. No portion of the vagabond’s body was visible. The men were intent on slaying the beggar.With a cry of rage and indignation, Wheedle charged the men with sword drawn. Being simple townsfolk, armed only with pitchforks and scythes, they immediately fled from the armored figure with the shining sword.“Many thanks for saving me,” wheezed the beggar from beneath the heap of foul rags. Wheedle could barely stand the stench.“What is your name, wretch?” Wheedle asked.“I am Namira.”Unlike the townsfolk, Wheedle was well learned. That name meant nothing to them, but to Wheedle it was an opportunity.“You are the Daedric lord!” Wheedle exclaimed. “Why did you allow those men to harass you? You could have slain them all with a whisper.”“I am please you recognized me,” Namira rasped. “I am frequently reviled by townsfolk. It pleases me to be recognized for my attribute, if not for my name.”Wheedle knew that Namira was the Daedric lord of all thing gross and repulsive. Diseases such as leprosy and gangrene were her domain. Where others might have seen danger, Wheedle saw opportunity.“Oh, great Namira, let me apprentice myself to you. I ask only that you grant me powers to make my fortune and forge a name for myself that will live through the ages.”“Nay. I make my way alone in the world. I have no need for an apprentice.”Namira shambled off down the road. Wheedle would not be put off. With a bound, Wheedle was at Namira’s heel, pressing the case for an apprenticeship. For 33 days and 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. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Bone | Bone, Part I“It seems to me,” said Garaz, thoughtfully looking into the depths of his flin. “That all great ideas come from pure happenstance. Take for instance, the story I told you last night about my cousin. If he hadn’t fallen off that horse, he never would have become one of the Empire’s foremost alchemists.”It was late one Middas night at the King’s Ham, and the regulars were always especially inclined toward philosophy.“I disagree,” replied Xiomara, firmly but politely. “Great ideas and inventions are most often formed slowly over time by diligence and hard work. If you’ll recall my tale from last month, the young lady — who I assure you is based on a real person — only recognized her one true love after she had slept with practically everyone in Northpoint.”“I put it to you that neither is the case,” said Hallgerd, pouring a topper on his mug of greef. “The greatest inventions are created by extraordinary need. Must I remind you of the story I told some time ago about Arslic Oan and the invention of bonemold?”“The problem with your theory is that your example is entirely fictional,” sniffed Xiomara.“I don’t believe I remember the story of Arslic Oan and the invention of bonemold,” frowned Garaz. “Are you sure you told us?”“Well, this happened many, many, many years ago, when Vvardenfell was a beauteous green land, when Dunmer were Chimer and Dwemer and Nord lived together in relative peace when they weren’t trying to kill one another,” Hallgerd relaxed in his chair, warming to his theme. “When the sun and moons all hung in the sky together–”“Lord, Mother, and Wizard!” grumbled Xiomara. “If I’m going to be forced to hear your ridiculous story again, pray don’t embellish and make it any longer than it has to be.”This all happened in Vvardenfell quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, ignoring Xiomara’s interruption with admirable restraint) during an era of a king you would never have heard of. Arslic Oan was one of this king’s nobles and very, very disagreeable fellow. Because of his allegiance to the crown, the king had felt the need to grant him a castle and land, but he didn’t necessarily want him as a neighbor so the land he granted was far from civilization. Right in an area of Vvardenfell that is, even today, not quite civilized to this day. Arslic Oan built a walled stronghold and settled down with his unhappy slaves to enjoy a quiet if somewhat grim life.It was not long before his stronghold’s integrity was tested. A tribe of cannibalistic Nords had been living in the valley for some time, mostly dining on one another, but occasionally foraging what they liked to call dark meat, the Dunmer.Xiomara laughed with appreciation. “Marvelous! I don’t remember that from before. It’s funny how you don’t hear much about the Nords’ rampant cannibalism nowadays.”This was obviously, as I’ve said, quite some time ago (said Hallgerd, glaring at part of his audience with civil malevolence) and things were in many ways quite different. These cannibalistic Nords began attacking Arslic Oan’s slaves in the fields, and then slowly grew bolder, until they held the very stronghold itself under siege. They were quite a fearsome sight you can imagine: a horde of wild-eyed men and women with dagger-like teeth filed to tear flesh, wielding massive clubs, cloaked only in the skins of their victims.Arslic Oan assumed that if he ignored them, they’d go away.Unfortunately, the first thing that the Nords did was to poison the stream that carried water into the walled stronghold. All the livestock and most of the slaves died very quickly before this was discovered. There was no hope of rescue, at least for several months when the king’s emissaries would come reluctantly to visit the disagreeable vassal. The next closest source of water was on the other side of the hill, so Arslic Oan sent three of his slaves with empty jugs to bring some back.They were beaten with clubs and eaten before they were a few feet outside the stronghold gates. The next group he sent through he gave sticks to defend themselves. They made it a few feet farther, but were also overwhelmed, beaten, and devoured. It was obvious that better personal defensive was required. Arslic Oan went to talk to his armorer, one of his few slaves with specific talents and duties.“The slaves need armor if they’re going to make it to the river and back,” he said. “Collect every scrap of steel and iron you can find, every hinge, knife, ring, cup, everything that isn’t needed to keep the walls sturdy, smelt it, and give me the most and the best armor you can, very, very quickly.”The armorer, whose name was Gorkith, was used to Arslic Oan’s demands, and knew that there could be no compromise on the quality and quantity of the armor, or the speed at which he worked. He labored for thirty hours without a break – and, recall, without any water to slake his thirst as he struggled with the kiln and anvil – until finally, he had six suits of mixed-metal armor.Six slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect river water. At first, the mission progressed well. The Nord attacked the armored slaves with their clubs, but they continued their march forward, warding off the blows. Gradually, however, the slaves seemed to be walking uncertainly, dazed by the endless barrage. Eventually, one by one, they fell, the armor was peeled from their bodies, and they were eaten.“The slaves couldn’t move quickly enough in that heavy armor you made,” said Arslic Oan to Gorkith. “I need you to collect all the cadavers of the poisoned livestock, strip their skin, and give me the most and the best leather armor you can, very, very quickly.”Gorklith did as he was told, though it was a particularly repulsive task given the rancid state of the livestock. Normally it takes quite a time to treat and cure leather, so I understand, but Gorklith worked at it tirelessly, and in a half a day he had twelve suits of leather armor.Twelve slaves were chosen, clad in the armor, and sent with jars to collect river water. They progressed, at first, much better than the earlier expedition. Two fell almost immediately, but the others had some luck out-maneuvering their assailants while deflecting an occasional blow of the club. Several got to the river, three were able to fill up their jars, and one fellow very nearly made it back to the stronghold gates. Alas, he fell and was eaten. The Nords possessed a remarkably healthy appetite.“What we need before I completely run out of slaves,” said Arslic Oan thoughtfully to Gorkith. “Is an armor sturdier than leather but lighter than metal.”The armorer had already considered that and taken stock of the materials available. He had thought about doing something with stone or wood, but there were practical problems with demolishing more of the stronghold. The next most prevalent stuff present in the stronghold was skinned dead bodies, hunks of muscle, fat, blood, and bone. For six hours, he toiled relentlessly until he produced eighteen suits of bonemold, the first ones ever created. Arslic Oan was somewhat dubious at the sight (and smell) but he was very thirsty, and willing to sacrifice another eighteen slaves if necessary.“Might I suggest,” Gorklith queried tremulously, “Having the slaves practice moving about in the armor, here in the courtyard, before sending them to face the Nords?”Arslic Oan coolly allowed it, and for a few hours, the slaves wandered about the stronghold courtyard in their suits of bonemold. They grew used to the give of the joints, the rigidity of the backplate, the weight pushed onto their shoulders and hips. They discovered how to plant their feet slightly askew to keep their balance steady; how to quickly turn, pivoting without falling down; how to break into a run and stop quickly. By the time they were sent out of the castle gates, they were easily very nearly almost amateurs in the use of their medium weight armor.Seventeen of them were killed and eaten, but one made it back with a jar of water.“It’s perfect nonsense,” said Xiomara. “But my point is still valid even so. Like all great inventors, even in fiction, the armorer worked diligently to create the bonemold.”“I think there was a good deal of happenstance as well,” frowned Garaz. “But it is an appalling story. I wish you hadn’t told me.”“If you think that’s appalling,” grinned Hallgerd. “You should hear what happened next.”Bone, Part II“What do you mean the story gets more appalling?” Garaz was incredulous. “How in Boethiah’s name could it get more appalling?”“It’s a ruse,” Xiomara scoffed, ordering two more mugs of greef and a glass of flin for Garaz. “How much worse can a tale get which prominently features cannibalism, abuse of slaves, and the regular placement of rotting animal carcasses?”“Don’t you dare dare me,” growled Hallgerd, annoyed by his listeners’ lack of appreciation of his prose styling. “Remind me where we were?”“Arslic Oan is the owner of a stronghold under siege by savage, cannibalistic Nords,” said Xiomara, keeping a straight face. “After a lot of deaths and several unsuccessful attempts to get water, he had his armorer with the unlikely name of Gorkith outfit his slaves with the first ever bonemold armor. One of them finally makes it back with some water.”It was only one jarful of water (said Hallgerd, pulling back in his chair and continuing the tale), and Arslic Oan drank most of it, passing the remains to his dear armorer Gorkith and the last dribbles to the few dozen slaves who still lived. It was hardly enough to sustain health and well-being. Another expedition was necessary, but they had only one suit of bonemold left, as there was only one survivor of the trip.“One out of eighteen slaves made it through the gauntlet of Nords wearing that marvelous bonemold armor of yours,” said Arslic Oan to Gorkith. “And one can only carry back enough water for one. Therefore, mathematically, as we have, counting you and me, fifty-six remaining people at the stronghold, we need armor for fifty-four. Since we already have one, you only need to make fifty-three to make the total. That way, three will make it back, with enough water for you and me and whoever’s in the best condition to partake. I don’t know what we’ll do after that, but if we wait, we won’t have enough slaves to fetch even a couple days’ worth of water.”“I understand,” whimpered Gorkith. “But how am I going to make the armor? I used all the livestock bones to make the first batch of bonemold.”Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied with. In eighteen hours –“What do you mean ‘Arslic Oan gave an order which Gorkith fearfully complied with’?” asked Xiomara. “What was the order?”“All will be clear,” smiled Hallgerd. “I have to chose what to reveal and what to conceal. Such is the way of the tale teller.”In eighteen hours, Gorkith had fifty-three suits of bonemail (said Hallgerd, continuing, not really minding the interruption) prepared for the slaves. Without prompting, he ordered the slaves to practice using the armor, and even allowed them more training time than their predecessors. They not only learned how to move and stop quickly in bonemold, but how to adjust their peripheral vision to see a blow before it came, and to sway to dodge, and where the sturdiest reinforcement points on the arm were — the center of the chest and the abdomen — and how to position themselves to take blows there, against their natural instincts. The slaves even had time for a mock battle before being sent out among the cannibals.The slaves handled themselves admirably. Very few, just fifteen slaves, were killed and eaten out right. Only ten were killed and eaten when they reached the river. That was when things did not go according to Arslic Oan’s plans. Twenty-one slaves with jars of water took off for the hills. Only eight returned to the castle, largely because they were blocked by the cannibal Nords. It was a larger percentage than he had anticipated surviving, but Arslic Oan felt righteous indignation at the paucity of loyalty.“Are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t rather flee?” he hollered from the battlements.Finally, he allowed the survivors in. Three had been killed waiting for the gate to open. Two more died almost upon stepping into the courtyard. One was delirious, walking around in circles, laughing and dancing before suddenly collapsing. That meant five jars of water for four people, the two surviving slaves, Arslic Oan, and Gorkith. As the lord of the manor, Arslic Oan took the extra jar, but he was democratic with the others.“You’re quite correct,” frowned Garaz. “This story is getting more and more appalling.”“Just wait,” smiled Hallgerd.The next morning (Hallgerd continued) Arslic Oan awoke to a perfectly still and quiet stronghold. There was no murmuring in the corridors, no sound of hard labor in the courtyard. He dressed and surveyed the scene. It appeared that the fortress was utterly deserted. Arslic Oan walked down to the armorer’s quarters, but the door was locked.“Open up,” said Arslic Oan, patiently. “We need to speak. Thirty out of fifty-four slaves successfully made it to the river and gathered water. Admittedly, some then fled, and a couple didn’t survive because I needed to correct their fickleness, but mathematically, that’s a fifty-five percent survival rate. If you and I and the two remaining slaves made the next run to the river, we two should survive.”“Zilian and Gelo left last night with their armor,” cried Gorklith through the door.“Who are Zilian and Gelo?”“The two remaining slaves! They don’t remain anymore!”“Well, that’s vexing,” said Arslic Oan. “Still we must continue on. Mathematically–”“I heard something last night,” whimpered Gorklith in a funny voice. “Like footsteps, only different, and they were moving through the walls. And there were voices too. They sounded strange, like they couldn’t move their jaws very well, but I knew one.”Arslic Oan sighed, humoring his poor armorer: “And who was it?”“Ponik.”“And who is Ponik?”“One of the slaves that died when the Nords poisoned our water. One of the many, many slaves that died, and we made use of. He was always a nice, uncomplaining fellow, that’s why I noticed his voice above all the others,” Gorklith began to sob. “I understood what he was saying.”“Which was what?” asked Arslic Oan with a sigh.“‘Give me back my bones!'” Gorklith’s voice shrieked. There was silence for a moment, and then more hysterical sobbing.“I saw that coming,” laughed Xiomara.There was nothing more to be done with the armorer for the time being (said Hallgerd, a trifle annoyed at the regular interruptions), so Arslic Oan stripped one of the dead slaves of his suit of bonemold and put it on. He practiced in the courtyard, impressing himself with his natural comfortably with medium weight armor. For hours, he boxed, feinted, dodged, sprinted, skipped, jumped, and generally cavorted about. When he felt tired, he retired to the shade and took a nap.The sound of the king’s trumpet woke him with a start. Night had fallen, and for a moment, he thought he had been dreaming. Then the alarum sounded again, far in the distance, but clear. Arslic Oan leapt to his feet and ran to the ramparts. Several miles away, he could see the emissaries and their vast and well-armed escort approach. They were there early! The cannibal Nords below looked at one another with consternation. Savages they might be, but they knew when a superior force was approaching.Arslic Oan joyously dashed down the stairs to Gorklith’s chamber. The door was still locked. He beat on it, cajoling, demanding, threatening. Finally, he found a key, one of the few scraps of metal that had not been smelted days before.Gorklith appeared to be sleeping, but as Arslic Oan approached, he noticed that the armorer’s mouth and eyes were wide open and his arms were folded unnaturally behind his back. On closer inspection, the armorer was obviously dead. What was more, his face and whole body were sunken, like an empty pig’s bladder.Something moved through the walls, like a footfall only… squishy. Arslic Oan expertly and gracefully turned to face it, completely in balance.At first, it seemed like nothing more than a bubble expanding through one of the cracks in the stone. As more of the flesh-colored gelatinous matter emerged, it more clearly resembled part of a face. A flaccid, almost shapeless face with a low brow and a slack, toothless jaw. The rest of the body oozed out of the crack, a soft bag of muscle and blood. Behind Arslic Oan and to the side, there was more movement, more slaves welling up through the cracks in the stone. They were all around him, reaching out.“Give us,” moaned Ponik, his tongue rolling about his hanging jaw. “Give us back our bones.”Arslic Oan began to rip off his bonemold, throwing it to the floor. A hundred figures, more, pooled into the small chamber.“That’s not enough.”The cannibals had cleared away by the time the king’s emissaries arrived at Arslic Oan’s gates. They had not been looking forward to this visit. It was best, they though philosophically, to begin with the worst of the king’s noblemen, so to end their trip well. They sounded the alarum once again, but the gates did not open. There was no sound from Arslic Oan’s stronghold.It took a few hours to gain access. If the emissaries had not brought a professional acrobat with them for entertainment, it might have taken longer. The place seemed to be abandoned. They searched every room, until finally they came to the armorer’s.There they found the master of the manor, folded neatly, legs behind his head, arms behind the legs, like a fine gown. Not a bone in his body.“The first part of your story was complete nonsense,” cried Xiomara. “But now it doesn’t hold true on any level. How could bonemold be made again if the armorer who invented it died before he could tell anyone how he did it?”“I said that this was the first time it was created, not the first time people learned the craft.”“And when did someone first teach someone else the craft?” asked Garaz.“That, my friends,” replied Hallgerd with a sinister smile. “Is a tale for another night.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Cabin the the Woods | The Cabin in the WoodsVolume IIAs Told ByMogen Son of MolagLate one night a few seasons ago, a soldier was returning home after several bloody battles. He decided he would save some gold and decided to cross the pine forest on foot.The first day of his journey was rather uneventful, the soldier stuck to the main path and kept a brisk pace. When it started getting dark he setup his bedroll, built a small fire and cooked up some rabbit he had caught. “A fine day indeed” he thought to himself as he fell asleep.Partway through the evening the soldier was woken up by soft sobbing in the distance. He grabbed his sword assuming it to be a bandit trick, but pretended to sleep so he could get the jump on them. After a few minutes the sobbing started moving away from his camp until he could no longer hear it. For the rest of the night slept with one eye open.Day two the soldier awoke from what rotten sleep he could catch and started off through the forest at a quicker pace, intending to put distance between himself and whatever he had heard last night. As the day went on it began to rain heavy so the soldier built himself a little shelter for the evening so he could remain dry while he slept.It took him a little longer to fall asleep with thoughts of the previous night fresh in his mind but he eventually slept.This time he awoke to sobbing that sounded like it was right outside his shelter. The soldier grabbed his sword and crawled out of the shelter. In front of the fire he saw the back of a ghostly woman sobbing into her hands.The soldier mustered his courage and asked her what was wrong.No answer.He began to slowly approach but before he could reach her she turned and screamed at him. The ghostly woman raised an axe and began to run at the soldier, disappearing before she made contact.The soldier took off into the night with just his sword in hand. He ran until the first light of dawn where he started down the road again, as fast as he could move.The third day was bright and sunny, but the soldier, rattled and sleepless, didn’t even notice. He moved as fast as he could trying to get through the forest before nightfall.As darkness began to fall he saw a cabin just off the road and thought to himself it would be a good place to hunker down for the night. After arriving at the cabin he spent some time blocking the doors and windows, nothing would get in.Despite his preparations, he could not sleep. He sat in what used to be the cabin’s bedroom staring at the barricaded door shaking. Eventually he could keep his eyes open no longer and fell asleep.This time he awoke to laughing on the other side of the barricaded door. It sounded like the woman from before, but he refused to believe it was her.The soldier burst through the barricaded door into the main room to find the ghostly woman from the night before staring at the ground laughing hysterically with axe in hand.He began to relentlessly attack the ghostly woman but he could feel his strikes were less effective. He used a scroll of firebolt which drew a scream from her and she exploded, disappearing.The ordeal was over, the ghost was gone.The soldier slept well that night and the next day made excellent distance through the woods. As the sun began to set he came out on the other side of the forest and looked back, remembering the days before.As he turned and started walking away from the woods he could swear he heard the sobbing again. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | A Game at Dinner | A GAME AT DINNERbyAn Anonymous SpyForward From The Publisher:The history behind this letter is almost as interesting and dark as the story it tells. The original letter to the mysterious Dhaunayne was copied and began circulating around the Ashlands of Vvardenfell a few months ago. In time, a print found its way to the mainland and Prince Hlaalu Helseth’s palace outside Almalexia. While the reader may conclude after reading this letter that the Prince would be furious about such a work, impugning his highness with great malevolence, quite the reverse was true. The Prince and his mother, Queen Barenziah, had it privately printed into bound copies and sent to libraries and booksellers throughout Morrowind.As matter of record, the Prince and the Queen have not officially stated whether the letter is a work of pure imagination or based on an actual occurrence. The House Dres has publicly denounced the work, and indeed, no one named Dhaunayne, despite the suggestions in the letter, has ever been linked to the house. We leave the reader to interpret the letter as he or she believes.— Nerris Gan, PublisherDark Liege Dhaunayne,You asked for a detailed description of my experience last night and the reasons for my plea to House Dres for another assignment. I hope I have served you well in my capacity as informant in the court of Prince Helseth, a man who I have stated in many previous reports could teach Molag Bal how to scheme. As you know, I’ve spent nearly a year now working my way into his inner circle of advisors. He was in need of friendship when he first arrived in Morrowind and eagerly took to me and a few others. Still, he was disinclined to trust any of us, which is perhaps not surprising, given his tenuous position in Morrowind society.For your unholiness’s recollection, the Prince is the eldest son of Barenziah, who was once the Queen of Morrowind and once the Queen of the High Rock kingdom of Wayrest. At the death of her husband, Prince Helseth’s stepfather, King Eadwyre, there was a power struggle between the Prince and Eadwyre’s daughter, the Princess Elysana. Though details of what transpired are imperfect, it is clear that Elysana won the battle and became Queen, banishing Helseth and Barenziah. Barenziah’s only other child, Morgiah, had already left court to marry and become Queen of the Summurset Isle kingdom of Firsthold.Barenziah and Helseth crossed the continent to return to Morrowind only last year. They were well received by Barenziah’s uncle, our current king, Hlaalu Athyn Llethan, who had taken the throne after Barenziah’s abdication more than forty years ago. Barenziah made it clear that she had no designs on reclaiming the throne, but merely to retire to her family estates. Helseth, as you know, has lingered in the royal court, and many have whispered that while he lost the throne of Wayrest, he does not intend to lose the throne of Morrowind at Llethan’s death.I’ve kept your unholiness informed of the Prince’s movements, meetings, and plots, as well as the names and characters of his other advisors. As you may recall, I’ve often thought that I was not the only spy in Helseth’s court. I told you before that a particular Dunmer counselor of Helseth looked like a fellow I had seen in the company of Tholer Saryoni, the Archcanon of the Tribunal Temple. Another, a young Nord woman, has been verified to visit the Imperial fortress in Balmora. Of course, in their cases, they might well have been on Helseth’s own business, but I couldn’t be certain. I had begun to think myself paranoid as the Prince himself when I found myself doubting the sincere loyalty of the Prince’s chamberlain, Burgess, a Breton who had been in his employ since his days in the court of Wayrest.That is the background on that night, last night.Yesterday morning, I received a curt invitation to dine with the Prince. Based only on my own paranoia, I dispatched one of my servants, who is a good and loyal servant of the House Dres, to watch the palace and report back anything unusual. Just before dinner, he returned and told me what he had witnessed.A man cloaked in rags had been given entrance into the palace, and had stayed there for some time. When he left, my servant saw his face beneath the cloak — an alchemist of infamous repute, said to be a leading suppliers of exotic poisons. A fine observer, my servant also noticed that the alchemist entered the palace smelling of wickwheat, bittergreen, and something alien and sweet. When he left, he was odorless.He had come to the same conclusion as I did. The Prince had procured ingredients to prepare a poison. Bittergreen alone is deadly when eaten raw, but the other ingredients suggested something far deeper. As your unholiness can doubtless imagine, I went to dinner that night, prepared for any eventuality.All of Prince Helseth’s other counselors were in attendance, and I noticed that all were slightly apprehensive. Of course, I imagined that I was in a nest of spies, and all knew of the Prince’s mysterious meeting. It is just as likely that some knew of the alchemist’s visit, while others were simply concerned by the nature of the Prince’s invitation, and still others merely unconsciously adopted the tense disposition of their fellow, better informed counselors.The Prince, however, was in fine mettle and soon had everyone relaxed and at ease. At nine, we were all ushered into his dining hall where the feast had been laid out. And what a feast! Honeyed gorapples, fragrant stews, roasts in various blood sauces, and every variety of fish and fowl expertly and ostentatiously prepared. Crystal and gold flagons of wine, flin, shein, and mazte were at our seats to be savored as appropriate with each course. As tantalizing as the aromas were, it occurred to me that in such a maze of spices and flavors, a discreet poison would be undetectable.Throughout the meal, I maintained the illusion of eating the food and drinking the liquor, but I was surreptitious and swallowed nothing. Finally, the plates and food were cleared from the table, and a tureen of a spicy broth was placed in the center of the banquet. The servant who brought it then retired, closing the banquet hall door behind him.“It smells divine, my Prince,” said the Marchioness Kolgar, the Nord woman. “But I cannot eat another thing.”“Your Highness,” I added, feigning a tone of friendliness and slight intoxication. “You know that every one at this table would gladly die to put you on the throne of Morrowind, but is it really necessary that we gorge ourselves to death?”The others at the table agreed with appreciative groans. Prince Helseth smiled. I swear by Vaernima the Gifter, my dark liege, even you have never seen a smile such as this one.“Ironic words. You see, an alchemist visited me today, as some of you already doubtless know. He showed me how to make a marvelous poison and its antidote. A most potent potion, excellent for my purposes. No Restoration spell will aid you once you’ve ingested it. Only the antidote in the tureen will save you from certain death. And what a death, from what I’ve heard. I am eager to see if the effects are all that the alchemist promised. It should be horribly painful for the afflicted, but quite entertaining.”No one said a word. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest.“Your Highness,” said Allarat, the Dunmer I suspected of alliance with the Temple. “Have you poisoned someone at this table?”“You are very astute, Allarat,” said Prince Helseth, looking about the table, eying each of his advisors carefully. “Little wonder I value your counsel. As indeed I value all in this room. It would be perhaps easiest for me to say who I haven’t poisoned. I haven’t poisoned any who serve but one master, any whose loyalty to me is sincere. I haven’t poisoned any person who wants to see King Helseth on the throne of Morrowind. I haven’t poisoned anyone who isn’t a spy for the Empire, the Temple, the House of Telvanni, the House of Redoran, the House of Indoril, the House of Dres.”Your unholiness, he looked directly at me at his last words. I know that in certainty. My face is practiced at keeping my thoughts from showing, but I immediately thought of every secret meeting I’ve had, every coded message I sent to you and the House, my dark liege. What could he know? What could he, even without knowing, suspect?I felt my heart beating even faster. Was it fear, or poison? I couldn’t speak, certain as I was that my voice would betray my calm facade.“Those loyal to me who wish harm on my enemies may be wondering how can I be certain that the poison has been ingested. Is it possible that the guilty party, or dare I say, parties were suspicious and merely pretended to eat and drink tonight? Of course. But even the craftiest of pretenders would have to raise a glass to his or her lips and put empty forks or spoons in their mouths to play the charade. The food, you see, was not poisoned. The cups and cutlery were. If you did not partake out of fear, you’re poisoned just the same, and sadly, missed an excellent roast.”Sweat beaded on my face and I turned from the Prince so he would not see. My fellow advisors, all of them, were frozen in their seats. From the Marchioness Kolgar, white with fear, to Kema Inebbe, visibly shaking; from the furrowed, angry brow of Allarat to the statue-like stare of Burgess.I couldn’t help thinking then, could the Prince’s entire counsellorship be comprised of nothing but spies? Was there any person at the table loyal? And then I thought, what if I were not a spy myself, would I trust Helseth to know that? No one knows better than his advisors both the depth of the Prince’s paranoia and the utter implacability of his ambition. If I were not a spy for the House Dres, even then would I be safe? Could a loyalist be poisoned because of a not-so-innocent misjudgment?The others must have been thinking the same, loyalists and spies alike.While my mind whirled, I could hear the Prince’s voice, addressing all assembled: “The poison acts quickly. If the antidote is not taken within one minute from now, here will be death at the table.”I couldn’t decide whether I had been poisoned or not. My stomach ached, but I reminded myself it might have been the result of sitting at a sumptuous banquet and not partaking. My heart shook in my chest and a bitter taste like Trama Root stung my lips. Again, was it fear or poison?“These are the last words you will hear if you are disloyal to me,” said Prince Helseth, still smiling that damned smile as he watched his advisors squirming in their seats. “Take the antidote and live.”Could I believe him? I thought of what I knew of the Prince and his character. Would he kill a self-confessed spy at his court, or would he rather send the vanquished back to his masters? The Prince was ruthless, but either possibility was within his manner. Surely the theatricality of this whole dinner was meant to be a presentation to instill fear. What would my ancestors say if I joined them after sitting at a table, eventually dying of poison? What would they say if I took the antidote, confessing my allegiance to you and the House Dres, and was summarily executed? And, I confess, I thought of what you might to do me even after I was dead.I had grown so light-headed and filled with my own thoughts, that I didn’t see Burgess jump from his seat. I was only suddenly aware that he had the tureen in his hands and was gulping down the liquid within. There were guards all around, though I never noticed them entering.“Burgess,” said Prince Helseth, still smiling. “You have spent some time at Ghostgate. House Redoran?”“You didn’t know?” Burgess laughed sourly. “No House. I report to your stepsister, the Queen of Wayrest. I’ve always been in her employ. By Akatosh, you poisoned me because you thought I was working for some damnable Dark Elves?”“You’re half right,” said the Prince. “I didn’t guess who you were working for, or even that you were a spy. But you’re also wrong about me poisoning you. You poisoned yourself when you drank from the tureen.”Your unholiness, you don’t need to hear how Burgess died. I know that you have seen much over the many, many years of your existence, but you truly don’t want to know. I wish I could erase the memory of his agonies from my own mind.The council was dismissed shortly thereafter. I do not know if Prince Helseth knows or suspects that I too am a spy. I do not know how many others that night, last night, were as close as I was from drinking from the tureen before Burgess did. I only know that if the Prince does not suspect me now, he will. I cannot win at the games he mastered long ago at the court of Wayrest, and I beg your unholiness, my dark liege Dhaunayne to use your influence in the House Dres and dismiss your loyal servant from this charge.Publisher’s Note:Of course, the anonymous writer’s signature has not been on any reprint of the letter since the original. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Adonato Leotelli’s Journal | This book was included in The Contest from the Creation ClubIt’s not uncommon these days to see warriors of great renown pass through Candlehearth Hall, beckoned by the clarion call of war. Many of them seat themselves by the fire, order their spirit of choice, and regale the patrons with stories of their triumphs.It is, however, a strange thing to watch such a tale write itself in front of you, but that is precisely what happened when two legendary warriors, Grenwulf the Brawler and Holrik Frost-Sword, sat down at the table beside me.Perhaps it was the mead that shortened their tempers, but it did not take long for a spirited argument to become heated. Grenwulf, a brawler famous for fighting with only his fists, had compared Holrik to a soldier who fires a trebuchet – a man who is only as dangerous as the tool he employs.Holrik, for his part, cut right through Grenwulf’s claim. If the brawler relied only on his hands, then he should drink his mead from his palm, and slice his bread with his fingernails.Not to mention there are things in this world, Holrik said, that fists alone cannot kill, even if that fist belonged to Randagulf himself. Whereas his sword, the Ice Blade of the Monarch, was blessed by the strength of the frost itself, and could cut through the walls of ice that lined the edge of the world.Grenwulf scoffed at the notion, claiming that no man or beast had yet to survive a single punch.It was then that the Divines, or perhaps darker minds, offered a resolution. A warrior came bursting through the doors, claiming a monstrous spider had taken root in the Cronvangr Cave, claiming three in his hunting party. His widened eyes and frowned lips, telltale signs of fear, spoke volumes to us all. It was a warning few would fail to heed, but our two heroes saw it as something else entirely – an opportunity to settle their dispute.And so the next morning, they departed for Cronvangr Cave. Three weeks have passed since.In my life I have written tales of valor and tragedy, and those that are one and the same. And while the final chapter of Grenwulf and Holrik has yet to be written, I fear this may fall into the latter category, as neither has saw fit to return. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Final Lesson | The Elder Scrolls Online version removes the mention of the Septim dynasty, and features minor grammatical differences.“It is time for you to leave your apprenticeship here,” said the Great Sage to his students, Taksim and Vonguldak.“So soon?” cried Vonguldak, for it had been but a few years since the training began. “Are we such poor pupils?”“We have learned much for you, master, but you have no more to teach us?” Taksim asked. “You have told us so many tales of great enchanters of the past. Can’t we continue to learn until we have reached some level of their power?”“I have one last story for you,” smiled the Great Sage.Many thousands of years ago, long before the Cyrodilic Dynasty of Reman and even longer before the Septim Dynasty ruled Tamriel, and before there was a Mages Guild, and when the land called Morrowind was known as Resdayn, and the land of Elsweyr was called Anequina and Pellitine, and the only law of the land was the cruel ways of the Alessian Doctrines of Marukh, there lived a hermetic enchanter named Dalak who had two apprentices, Uthrac and Loreth.Uthrac and Loreth were remarkable students, both equally assiduous in their learning, the pride of their Master. Both excelled at the arts of the cauldron, mirror castings, the infusion of spiritas into mundus, and the weaving of air and fire. Dalak was very fond of his boys, and they of him.On a springtide morn, Dalak received a message from another enchanter named Peothil, who lived deep in the forests of the Colovian heartland. You must remember that in the dark days of the First Era, mages were solitary practitioners with the only organized consortium being the Psijics of Artaeum. Away from that island, mages seldom saw one another and even more rarely corresponded. Thus, when Dalak received Peothil’s letter, he gave it his great attention.Peothil was greatly aged, and he had found the peace of his isolation threatened by the Alessian Reform. He feared for his life, knowing that the fanatical priests and their warriors were close at hand. Dalak brought his students to him.“It will be an arduous and perilous journey to the Colovian Estates, one that I would fear partaking even in my youth,” Dalak said. “My heart trembles to send you two forth to Peothil’s cave, but I know that he is a great and benevolent enchanter, and his light must continue to burn in the heart of the continent if we are to survive these dark nights.”Uthrac and Loreth pled with their teacher not to order them to go to Peothil. It was not the priests and warriors of the Alessian Reform they feared, but they knew their Master was aged and infirm, and could not protect himself if the Reform moved further westward. Finally, he relented and allowed that one would stay with him, and the other would journey forth to the Colovian Estates. He would let them decide which of them would go.The lads debated and discussed, fought and compromised, and at last elected to let fate make the choice. They threw lots, and Loreth came up short. He left early the next morning, miserable and filled with fear.For a month and a day, he tramped through the forests into the midst of the Colovian Estates. Through some planning, some skill, and much assistance for sympathetic peasants, he managed to avoid the ever-tightening circle of the Alessian Reform by crossing through unclaimed mountain passes and hidden bogs. When at last he found the dark caverns where Dalak had told him to search for Peothil, it was still many hours before he could find the enchanter’s lair.No one appeared to be there. Loreth searched through the laboratory of ancient tomes, cauldrons and crystalline flutes, herbs kept alive by the glow of mystic circles, strange liquids and gasses caught in transparent membranes. At last, he found Peothil, or so he presumed. The desiccated shell on the floor of the study, clutching tools of enchantment, scarcely seemed human.Loreth decided that he could do nothing further for the mage, and began at once the journey back to his true master Dalak and his friend Uthrac. The armies of the Reform had moved quickly since he passed. After more than one close near encounter, the young enchanter realized that he was trapped on all sides. The only retreat that was possible was back in the caves of Peothil.The first thing to be done, Loreth saw, was to find a means to keep the army from finding the laboratory. That, he found, was what Peothil himself had been trying to do, but by a simple error even an apprentice enchanter could recognize, he had only succeeded in destroying himself. Loreth was able to take what he had learned from Dalak and apply it to Peothil’s enchantments, quite successfully. The laboratory was never found or even detected by the Reform.Much time passed. In the 480th year of the First Era, the great Aiden Direnni won many battles against the Alessian horde, and many passages and routes that had once been closed were now open. Loreth, now no longer young, was able to return to Dalak.When at last he found his way to his Master’s old hovel, he saw candles of mourning lit in all the trees surrounding. Even before he knocked on the door and met his old fellow student Uthrac, Loreth knew that Dalak had died.“It was only a few months ago,” said Uthrac, after embracing his friend. “He talked of you every day of every year you were away. Somehow he knew that you had not preceded him to the world beyond. He told me that you would come back.”The gray-haired men sat before the fire and reminisced of the old days. The sad truth was that they both discovered how different they had become. Uthrac spoke of carrying on the Master’s work, while Loreth described his new discoveries. They left one another that day, each shaking his head, destined to never see one another again.In the years ahead, before they left the mortal world to join their great teacher Dalak, they both achieved their desires. Uthrac went on to become respected if minor enchanter in the service of Clan Direnni. Loreth took the skills he had learned on his own, and used them to fashion the Balac-thurm, the Staff of Chaos.My boys, the lesson is you have to learn from a teacher to avoid those small but essential errors that claimed the life of such self-taught enchanters as Peothil. And yet, the only way to become truly great is to try all the possibilities on your own. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Feyfolken | Feyfolken IThe Great Sage was a tall, untidy man, bearded but bald. His library resembled him: all the books had been moved over the years to the bottom shelves where they gathered in dusty conglomerations. He used several of the books in his current lecture, explaining to his students, Taksim and Vonguldak, how the Mages Guild had first been founded by Vanus Galerion. They had many questions about Galerion’s beginnings in the Psijic Order, and how the study of magic there differed from the Mages Guild.“It was, and is, a very structured way of life,” explained the Great Sage. “Quite elitist, actually. That was the aspect of it Galerion most objected to. He wanted the study of magic to be free. Well, not free exactly, but at least available to all who could afford it. In doing that, he changed the course of life in Tamriel.”“He codified the praxes and rituals used by all modern potionmakers, itemmakers, and spellmakers, didn’t he, Great Sage?” asked Vonguldak.“That was only part of it. Magic as we know it today comes from Vanus Galerion. He restructured the schools to be understandable by the masses. He invented the tools of alchemy and enchanting so everyone could concoct whatever they wanted, whatever their skills and purse would allow them to, without fears of magical backfire. Well, eventually he created that.”“What do you mean, Great Sage?” asked Taksim.“The first tools were more automated than the ones we have today. Any layman could use them without the least understanding of enchantment and alchemy. On the Isle of Artaeum, the students had to learn the skills laboriously and over many years, but Galerion decided that was another example of the Psijics’ elitism. The tools he invented were like robotic master enchanters and alchemists, capable of creating anything the customer required, provided he could pay.”“So someone could, for example, create a sword that would cleave the world in twain?” asked Vonguldak.“I suppose, in theory, but it would probably take all the gold in the world,” chuckled the Great Sage. “No, I can’t say we were ever in very great danger, but that it isn’t to say that there weren’t a few unfortunate incidents where a unschooled yokel invented something beyond his ken. Eventually, of course, Galerion tore apart his old tools, and created what we use today. It’s a little elitist, requiring that people know what they’re doing before they do it, but remarkably practical.”“What did people invent?” asked Taksim. “Are there any stories?”“You’re trying to distract me so I don’t test you,” said the Great Sage. “But I suppose I can tell you one story, just to illustrate a point. This particular tale takes place in city of Alinor on the west coast of Summurset Isle, and concerns a scribe named Thaurbad.This was in the Second Era, not long after Vanus Galerion had first founded the Mages Guild and chapter houses had sprung up all over Summurset, though not yet spread to the mainland of Tamriel.For five years, this scribe, Thaurbad, had conducted all his correspondence to the outside world by way of his messenger boy, Gorgos. For the first year of his adoption of the hermit life, his few remaining friends and family — friends and family of his dead wife, truth be told — had tried visiting, but even the most indefatigable kin gives up eventually when given no encouragement. No one had a good reason to keep in touch with Thaurbad Hulzik, and in time, very few even tried. His sister-in-law sent him the occasional letter with news of people he could barely remember, but even that communication was rare. Most of messages to and from his house dealt with his business, writing the weekly proclamation from the Temple of Auri-El. These were bulletins nailed on the temple door, community news, sermons, that sort of thing.The first message Gorgos brought him that day was from his healer, reminding him of his appointment on Turdas. Thaurbad took a while to write his response, glum and affirmative. He had the Crimson Plague, which he was being treated for at considerable expense — you have to remember these were the days before the School of Restoration had become quite so specialized. It was a dreadful disease and had taken away his voicebox. That was why he only communicated by script.The next message was from Alfiers, the secretary at the church, as curt and noxious as ever: “THAURBAD, ATTACHED IS SUNDAS’S SERMON, NEXT WEEK’S EVENTS CALENDAR, AND THE OBITUARIES. TRY TO LIVEN THEM UP A LITTLE. I WASN’T HAPPY WITH YOUR LAST ATTEMPT.”Thaurbad had taken the job putting together the Bulletin before Alfiers joined the temple, so his only mental image of her was purely theoretical and had evolved over time. At first he thought of Alfiers as an ugly fat sloadess covered with warts; more recently, she had mutated into a rail-thin, spinster orcess. Of course, it was possible his clairvoyance was accurate and she had just lost weight.Whatever Alfiers looked like, her attitude towards Thaurbad was clear, unwavering disdain. She hated his sense of humor, always found the most minor of misspellings, and considered his structure and calligraphy the worst kind of amateur work. Luckily, working for a temple was the next most secure job to working for the good King of Alinor. It didn’t bring in very much money, but his expenses were minimal. The truth was, he didn’t need to do it anymore. He had quite a fortune stashed away, but he didn’t have anything else to occupy his days. And the truth was further that having little else to occupy his time and thoughts, the Bulletin was very important to him.Gorgos, having delivered all the messages, began to clean and as he did so, he told Thaurbad all the news in town. The boy always did so, and Thaurbad seldom paid him any attention, but this time he had an interesting report. The Mages Guild had come to Alinor.As Thaurbad listened intently, Gorgos told him all about the Guild, the remarkable Archmagister, and the incredible tools of alchemy and enchanting. Finally, when the lad had finished, Thaurbad scribbled a quick note and handed it and a quill to Gorgos. The note read, “Have them enchant this quill.”“It will be expensive,” said Gorgos.Thaurbad gave Gorgos a sizeable chunk of the thousands of gold pieces he had saved over the years, and sent him out the door. Now, Thaurbad decided, he would finally have the ability to impress Alfiers and bring glory to the Temple of Auri-El.The way I’ve heard the story, Gorgos had thought about taking the gold and leaving Alinor, but he had come to care for poor old Thaurbad. And even more, he hated Alfiers who he had to see every day to get his messages for his master. It wasn’t perhaps for the best of motivations, but Gorgos decided to go to the Guild and get the quill enchanted.The Mages Guild was not then, especially not then, an elitist institution, as I have said, but when the messenger boy came in and asked to use the Itemmaker, he was greeted with some suspicion. When he showed the bag of gold, the attitude melted, and he was ushered in the room.Now, I haven’t seen one of the enchanting tools of old, so you must use your imagination. There was a large prism for the item to be bound with magicka, assuredly, and an assortment of soul gems and globes of trapped energies. Other than that, I cannot be certain how it looked or how it worked. Because of all the gold he gave to the Guild, Gorgos could infuse the quill with the highest-price soul available, which was something daedric called Feyfolken. The initiate at the Guild, being ignorant as most Guildmembers were at that time, did not know very much about the spirit except that it was filled with energy. When Gorgos left the room, the quill had been enchanted to its very limit and then some. It was virtually quivering with power.Of course, when Thaurbad used it, that’s when it became clear how over his head he was.And now,” said the Great Sage. “It’s time for your test.”“But what happened? What were the quill’s powers?” cried Taksim.“You can’t stop the tale there!” objected Vonguldak.“We will continue the tale after your conjuration test, provided you both perform exceptionally well,” said the Great Sage.Feyfolken IIAfter the test had been given and Vonguldak and Taksim had demonstrated their knowledge of elementary conjuration, the Great Sage told them that they were free to enjoy the day. The two lads, who most afternoons fidgeted through their lessons, refused to leave their seats.“You told us that after the test, you’d tell us more of your tale about the scribe and his enchanted quill,” said Taksim.“You’ve already told us about the scribe, how he lived alone, and his battles with the Temple secretary over the Bulletin he scripted for posting, and how he suffered from the Crimson Plague and couldn’t speak. When you left off, his messenger boy had just had his master’s quill enchanted with the spirit of a daedra named Feyfolken,” added Vonguldak to aid the Great Sage’s memory.“As it happens,” said the Great Sage. “I was thinking about a nap. However, the story does touch on some issues of the natures of spirits and thus is related to conjuration, so I’ll continue.Thaurbad began using the quill to write the Temple Bulletin, and there was something about the slightly lopsided, almost three-dimensional quality of the letters that Thaurbad liked a lot.Into the night, Thaurbad put together the Temple of Auri-El’s Bulletin. For the moment he washed over the page with the Feyfolken quill, it became a work of art, an illuminated manuscript crafted of gold, but with good, simple and strong vernacular. The sermon excerpts read like poetry, despite being based on the archpriest’s workmanlike exhortation of the most banal of the Alessian doctrines. The obituaries of two of the Temple’s chief benefactors were stark and powerful, pitifully mundane deaths transitioned into world-class tragedies. Thaurbad worked the magical palette until he nearly fainted from exhaustion. At six o’clock in the morning, a day before deadline, he handed the Bulletin to Gorgos for him to carry to Alfiers, the Temple secretary.As expected, Alfiers never wrote back to compliment him or even comment on how early he had sent the bulletin. It didn’t matter. Thaurbad knew it was the best Bulletin the Temple had ever posted. At one o’clock on Sundas, Gorgos brought him many messages.“The Bulletin today was so beautiful, when I read it in the vestibule, I’m ashamed to tell you I wept copiously,” wrote the archpriest. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything that captures Auri-El’s glory so beautifully before. The cathedrals of Firsthold pale in comparison. My friend, I prostrate myself before the greatest artist since Gallael.”The archpriest was, like most men of the cloth, given to hyperbole. Still, Thaurbad was happy with the compliment. More messages followed. All of the Temple Elders and thirty-three of the parishioners young and old had all taken the time to find out who wrote the bulletin and how to get a message to congratulate him. And there was only one person they could go through for that information: Alfiers. Imaging the dragon lady besieged by his admirers filled Thaurbad with positive glee.He was still in a good mood the next day when he took the ferry to his appointment with his healer, Telemichiel. The herbalist was new, a pretty Redguard woman who tried to talk to him, even after he gave her the note reading “My name is Thaurbad Hulzik and I have an appointment with Telemichiel for eleven o’clock. Please forgive me for not talking, but I have no voicebox anymore.”“Has it started raining yet?” she asked cheerfully. “The diviner said it might.”Thaurbad frowned and shook his head angrily. Why was it that everyone thought that mute people liked to be talked to? Did soldiers who lost their arms like to be thrown balls? It was undoubtedly not a purposefully cruel behavior, but Thaurbad still suspected that some people just liked to prove that they weren’t crippled too.The examination itself was routine horror. Telemichiel performed the regular invasive torture, all the while chatting and chatting and chatting.“You ought to try talking once in a while. That’s the only way to see if you’re getting better. If you don’t feel comfortable doing it in public, you could try practicing it by yourself,” said Telemichiel, knowing her patient would ignore her advice. “Try singing in the bath. You’ll probably find you don’t sound as bad as you think.”Thaurbad left the examination with the promise of test results in a couple of weeks. On the ferry ride back home, Thaurbad began thinking of next week’s temple bulletin. What about a double-border around the “Last Sundas’s Offering Plate” announcement? Putting the sermon in two columns instead of one might have interesting effects. It was almost unbearable to think that he couldn’t get started on it until Alfiers sent him information.When she did, it was with the note, “LAST BULLETIN A LITTLE BETTER. NEXT TIME, DON’T USE THE WORD ‘FORTUITOUS’ IN PLACE OF ‘FORTUNATE.’ THE WORDS ARE NOT, IF YOU LOOK THEM UP, SYNONYMOUS.”In response, Thaurbad almost followed Telemichiel’s advice by screaming obscenities at Gorgos. Instead, he drank a bottle of cheap wine, composed and sent a suitable reply, and fell asleep on the floor.The next morning, after a long bath, Thaurbad began work on the Bulletin. His idea for putting a light shading effect on the “Special Announcements” section had an amazing textural effect. Alfiers always hated the extra decorations he added to the borders, but using the Feyfolken quill, they looked strangely powerful and majestic.Gorgos came to him with a message from Alfiers at that very moment as if in response to the thought. Thaurbad opened it up. It simply said, “I’M SORRY.”Thaurbad kept working. Alfiers’s note he put from his mind, sure that she would soon follow it up with the complete message “I’M SORRY THAT NO ONE EVER TAUGHT YOU TO KEEP RIGHT-HAND AND LEFT-HAND MARGINS THE SAME LENGTH” or “I’M SORRY WE CAN’T GET SOMEONE OTHER THAN A WEIRD, OLD MAN AS SCRIBE OF OUR BULLETIN.” It didn’t matter what she was sorry about. The columns from the sermon notes rose like the massive pillars of roses, crowned with unashamedly ornate headers. The obituaries and birth announcements were framed together with a spherical border, as a heartbreaking declaration of the circle of life. The Bulletin was simultaneously both warm and avant-garde. It was a masterpiece. When he sent it off to Alfiers late that afternoon, he knew she’d hate it, and was glad.Thaurbad was surprised to get a message from the Temple on Loredas. Before he read the content, he could tell from the style that it wasn’t from Alfiers. The handwriting wasn’t Alfiers’s usual belligerent slashing style, and it wasn’t all in Alfiers’s usual capital letters, which read like a scream from Oblivion.“Thaurbad, I thought you should know Alfiers isn’t at the Temple anymore. She quit her position yesterday, very suddenly. My name is Vanderthil, and I was lucky enough (let me admit it now, I begged pitifully) to be your new Temple contact. I’m overwhelmed by your genius. I was having a crisis of faith until I read last week’s Bulletin. This week’s Bulletin is a miracle. Enough. I just wanted to say I’m honored to be working with you. — Vanderthil.”The response on Sundas after the service even astonished Thaurbad. The archpriest attributed the massive increase in attendance and collection plate offerings entirely to the Bulletin. Thaurbad’s salary was quadrupled. Gorgos brought over a hundred and twenty messages from his adoring public.The following week, Thaurbad sat in front of his writing plank, a glass of fine Torvali mead at his side, staring at the blank scroll. He had no ideas. The Bulletin, his child, his second-wife, bored him. The third-rate sermons of the archbishop were absolute anathema, and the deaths and births of the Temple patrons struck him as entirely pointless. Blah blah, he thought as he scribbled on the page.He knew he wrote the letters B-L-A-H B-L-A-H. The words that appeared on the scroll were, “A necklace of pearl on a white neck.”He scrawled a jagged line across the page. It appeared in through that damned beautiful Feyfolken quill: “Glory to Auri-El.”Thaurbad slammed the quill and poetry spilled forth in a stream of ink. He scratched over the page, blotting over everything, and the vanquished words sprung back up in different form, even more exquisite than before. Every daub and splatter caused the document to whirl like a kaleidoscope before falling together in gorgeous asymmetry. There was nothing he could do to ruin the Bulletin. Feyfolken had taken over. He was a reader, not an author.Now,” asked the Great Sage. “What was Feyfolken from your knowledge of the School of Conjuration?”“What happened next?” cried Vonguldak.“First, tell me what Feyfolken was, and then I’ll continue the story.”“You said it was a daedra,” said Taksim. “And it seems to have something to do with artistic expression. Was Feyfolken a servitor of Azura?”“But the scribe may have been imagining all this,” said Vonguldak. “Perhaps Feyfolken is a servitor of Sheogorath, and he’s gone mad. Or the quill’s writing makes everyone who views it, like all the congregation at the Temple of Auri-El, go mad.”“Hermaeus Mora is the daedra of knowledge … and Hircine is the daedra of the wild … and the daedra of revenge is Boethiah,” pondered Taksim. And then he smiled, “Feyfolken is a servitor of Clavicus Vile, isn’t it?”“Very good,” said the Great Sage. “How did you know?”“It’s his style,” said Taksim. “Assuming that he doesn’t want the power of the quill now that he has it. What happens next?”“I’ll tell you,” said the Great Sage, and continued the tale.Feyfolken IIIThaurbad had at last seen the power of the quill,” said the Great Sage, continuing his tale. “Enchanted with the daedra Feyfolken, servitor of Clavicus Vile, it had brought him great wealth and fame as the scribe of the weekly Bulletin of the Temple of Auri-El. But he realized that it was the artist, and he merely the witness to its magic. He was furious and jealous. With a cry, he snapped the quill in half.He turned to finish his glass of mead. When he turned around, the quill was intact.He had no other quills but the one he had enchanted, so he dipped his finger in the inkwell and wrote a note to Gorgos in big sloppy letters. When Gorgos returned with a new batch of congratulatory messages from the Temple, praising his latest Bulletin, he handed the note and the quill to the messenger boy. The note read: “Take the quill back to the Mages Guild and sell it. Buy me another quill with no enchantments.”Gorgos didn’t know what to make of the note, but he did as he was told. He returned a few hours later.“They wouldn’t give us any gold back for it,” said Gorgos. “They said it wasn’t enchanted. I told ’em, I said ‘What are you talking about, you enchanted it right here with that Feyfolken soul gem,’ and they said, ‘Well, there ain’t a soul in it now. Maybe you did something and it got loose.'”Gorgos paused to look at his master. Thaurbad couldn’t speak, of course, but he seemed even more than usually speechless.“Anyway, I threw the quill away and got you this new one, like you said.”Thaurbad studied the new quill. It was white-feathered while his old quill had been dove gray. It felt good in his hand. He sighed with relief and waved his messenger lad away. He had a Bulletin to write, and this time, without any magic except for his own talent.Within two days time, he was nearly back on schedule. It looked plain but it was entirely his. Thaurbad felt a strange reassurance when he ran his eyes over the page and noticed some slight errors. It had been a long time since the Bulletin contained any errors. In fact, Thaurbad reflected happily, there were probably other mistakes still in the document that he was not seeing.He was finishing a final whirl of plain calligraphy on the borders when Gorgos arrived with some messages from the Temple. He looked through them all quickly, until one caught his eye. The wax seal on the letter read “Feyfolken.” With complete bafflement, he broke it open.“I think you should kill yourself,” it read in perfectly gorgeous script.He dropped the letter to the floor, seeing sudden movement on the Bulletin. Feyfolken script leapt from the letter and coursed over the scroll in a flood, translating his shabby document into a work of sublime beauty. Thaurbad no longer cared about the weird croaking quality of his voice. He screamed for a very long time. And then drank. Heavily.Gorgos brought Thaurbad a message from Vanderthil, the secretary of the Temple, early Fredas morning, but it took the scribe until mid-morning to work up the courage to look at it. “Good Morning, I am just checking in on the Bulletin. You usually have it in on Turdas night. I’m curious. You planning something special? — Vanderthil.”Thaurbad responded, “Vanderthil, I’m sorry. I’ve been sick. There won’t be a Bulletin this Sunday” and handed the note to Gorgos before retiring to his bath. When he came back an hour later, Gorgos was just returning from the Temple, smiling.“Vanderthil and the archpriest went crazy,” he said. “They said it was your best work ever.”Thaurbad looked at Gorgos, uncomprehending. Then he noticed that the Bulletin was gone. Shaking, he dipped his finger in the inkwell and scrawled the words “What did the note I sent with you say?”“You don’t remember?” asked Gorgos, holding back a smile. He knew the master had been drinking a lot lately. “I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, ‘Vanderthil, here it is. Sorry it’s late. I’ve been having severe mental problems lately. – Thaurbad.’ Since you said, ‘here it is,’ I figured you wanted me to bring the Bulletin along, so I did. And like I said, they loved it. I bet you get three times as much letters this Sundas.”Thaurbad nodded his head, smiled, and waved the messenger lad away. Gorgos returned back to the Temple, while his master turned to his writing plank, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.He wrote with the quill: “What do you want, Feyfolken?”The words became: “Goodbye. I hate my life. I have cut my wrists.”Thaurbad tried another tact: “Have I gone insane?”The words became: “Goodbye. I have poison. I hate my life.”“Why are you doing this to me?”“I Thaurbad Hulzik cannot live with myself and my ingratitude. That’s why I’ve put this noose around my neck.”Thaurbad picked up a fresh parchment, dipped his finger in the inkwell, and proceeded to rewrite the entire Bulletin. While his original draft, before Feyfolken had altered it, had been simple and flawed, the new copy was a scrawl. Lower-case I’s were undotted, G’s looked like Y’s, sentences ran into margins and curled up and all over like serpents. Ink from the first page leaked onto the second page. When he yanked the pages from the notebook, a long tear nearly divided the third page in half. Something about the final result was evocative. Thaurbad at least hoped so. He wrote another note reading, simply, “Use this Bulletin instead of the piece of trash I sent you.”When Gorgos returned with new messages, Thaurbad handed the envelope to him. The new letters were all the same, except for one from his healer, Telemichiel. “Thaurbad, we need you to come in as soon as possible. We’ve received the reports from Black Marsh about a strain of the Crimson Plague that sounds very much like your disease, and we need to re-examine you. Nothing is definite yet, but we’re going to want to see what our options are.”It took Thaurbad the rest of the day and fifteen drams of the stoutest mead to recover. The larger part of the next morning was spent recovering from this means of recovery. He started to write a message to Vanderthil: “What did you think of the new Bulletin?” with the quill. Feyfolken’s improved version was “I’m going to ignite myself on fire, because I’m a dying no-talent.”Thaurbad rewrote the note using his finger-and-ink message. When Gorgos appeared, he handed him the note. There was one message in Vanderthil’s handwriting.It read, “Thaurbad, not only are you divinely inspired, but you have a great sense of humor. Imagine us using those scribbles you sent instead of the real Bulletin. You made the archbishop laugh heartily. I cannot wait to see what you have next week. Yours fondly, Vanderthil.”The funeral service a week later brought out far more friends and admirers than Thaurbad Hulzik would’ve believed possible. The coffin, of course, had to be closed, but that didn’t stop the mourners from filing into lines to touch its smooth oak surface, imagining it as the flesh of the artist himself. The archbishop managed to rise to the occasion and deliver a better than usual eulogy. Thaurbad’s old nemesis, the secretary before Vanderthil, Alfiers came in from Cloudrest, wailing and telling all who would listen that Thaurbad’s suggestions had changed the direction of her life. When she heard Thaurbad had left her his quill in his final testament, she broke down in tears. Vanderthil was even more inconsolable, until she found a handsome and delightfully single young man.“I can hardly believe he’s gone and I never even saw him face-to-face or spoke to him,” she said. “I saw the body, but even if he hadn’t been all burned up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was him or not.”“I wish I could tell you there’d been a mistake, but there was plenty of medical evidence,” said Telemichiel. “I supplied some of it myself. He was a patient of mine, you see.”“Oh,” said Vanderthil. “Was he sick or something?”“He had the Crimson Plague years ago, that’s what took away his voice box, but it appeared to have gone into complete remission. Actually, I had just sent him a note telling him words to that effect the day before he killed himself.”“You’re that healer?” exclaimed Vanderthil. “Thaurbad’s messenger boy Gorgos told me that he had just picked up that message when I sent mine, complementing him on the new, primative design for the Bulletin. It was amazing work. I never would’ve told him this, but I had begun to suspect he was stuck in an outmoded style. It turned out he had one last work of genius, before going out in a blaze of glory. Figuratively. And literally.”Vanderthil showed the healer Thaurbad’s last Bulletin, and Telemichiel agreed that its frantic, nearly illegible style spoke volumes about the power and majesty of the god Auri-El.”“Now I’m thoroughly confused,” said Vonguldak.“About which part?” asked the Great Sage. “I think the tale is very straight-forward.”“Feyfolken made all the Bulletins beautiful, except for the last one, the one Thaubad did for himself,” said Taksim thoughtfully. “But why did he misread the notes from Vanderthil and the healer? Did Feyfolken change those words?”“Perhaps,” smiled the Great Sage.“Or did Feyfolken changed Thaurbad’s perceptions of those words?” asked Vonguldak. “Did Feyfolken make him mad after all?”“Very likely,” said the Great Sage.“But that would mean that Feyfolken was a servitor of Sheogorath,” said Vonguldak. “And you said he was a servitor of Clavicus Vile. Which was he, an agent of mischief or an agent of insanity?”“The will was surely altered by Feyfolken,” said Taksim, “And that’s the sort of thing a servitor of Clavicus Vile would do to perpetuate the curse.”“As an appropriate ending to the tale of the scribe and his cursed quill,” smiled the Great Sage. “I will let you read into it as you will.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Confessions of a Dunmer Skooma-Eater | Nothing is more revolting to Dunmer feeling than the sorry spectacle of another Dunmer enslaved by that derivative moon-sugar known as ‘skooma.’ And nothing is less appetising than listening to the pathetic tales of humiliation and degradation associated with a victim of this addictive drug.Why, then, do I force myself upon you with this extended and detailed account of my sins and sorrows?Because I hope that by telling my tale, the hope of redemption from this sorry state shall be more widely known. And because I hope that others who have also fallen into the sorry state of skooma addiction may therefore hear of my story, of how I fell into despair, and how I once again found myself and freed myself from my own self-imposed chains.Because it is widely known to all Khajiit, who may be expected to know, that there is no cure for addiction to skooma, that once a slave to skooma, always a slave to skooma. Because this is widely known, it is taken to be true. But it is not true, and I am living proof.There is no miracle cure. There is no potion to be taken. There is no magical incantation which frees you from the thrill of skooma running through your blood.But it is through the understanding of that thrill, and the acceptance of the lust within oneself for that thrill, and the casting aside of the shame that the thrillseeker feels when he cannot set aside what becomes in the end his only comfort and pleasure, it is through this knowledge and understanding that the victim comes to the place where choices may be made, where despair and hope may be separated.In short, only knowledge and acceptance can deliver into the slave’s hands the key that opens his shackles and sets him free.[The narrative of Tilse Sendas’ tale carries the reader through the stages of early infatuation, ecstatic obsession, and profound degradation of her addiction, and in the course of the story she subtly enables the reader to discover that the hopelessness of the addict comes from the addict’s own unconscious assumption that only a helpless and foolish person could become addicted to skooma, and that, consequently, no such helpless and foolish person could ever achieve the admittedly difficult task of renouncing, once tasted, the exquisite delights of the skooma. Tilse Sendas shows that once the addict overcomes the burden of her own self-despising, that there is the possibility of redemption. And, against all of society’s dearly held beliefs, she says that it is not altogether clear that the addict SHOULD renounce the sugar, but that it is only one of the choices that the skooma addict must make. Tilse Sendas’ casual proposition that skooma addiction is not necessarily a sign of moral and personal weakness is essential to her thesis that a cure is possible, but it has not endeared her or her book to the upright and conservative elements of Dunmer society.] |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Deathbrand | DeathbrandA Pirate’s TaleHaknir Death-Brand was dying.For Garuk Windrime, ship’s quartermaster, it was unthinkable. His grandfather had served under Haknir, nigh on sixty years before, and even then he was a legend among the pirates of the north. “The King of Ghosts,” they called him, as eternal and pitiless as the sea he sailed. To Garuk, who had seen him charge into battle, clad in armor of gleaming Stalhrim like the kings of old, his twin swords scything men like grass, Haknir was practically a god.But none feared Haknir more than his own crew. They knew his rages, his fits of madness, how he delighted in torture and murder for its own sake. And there were even darker rumors: Some said he fed upon the blood and souls of those he killed to extend his unnatural life. Some thought him a Daedra, loosed upon the mortal world. And others said he owed his life and power, his armor and swords, to a pact with Dagon, prince of destruction. And the seal of that pact was the terrible wound that scarred his face, never to heal – the Deathbrand, which no man could look upon without flinching.All these things ran through Garuk’s mind as he took his place on deck at the head of the crew, exchanging a curt nod with Thalin, the ship’s helmsman and his chief rival. By sundown, he thought, one of them would be captain. The other would be dead.When Haknir finally emerged from his cabin, the crew fell silent. He looked frail, his voice raspy. But even so, he had a presence about him. As he looked over his men, the most brutal murderers ever to ply the northern seas, not one could meet his gaze. At last he sighed.“You wish to know who will be my successor, and how my share of the treasure shall be divided.”That was the question, but even so, there were murmurs of protest. Haknir cut them off.“All these years, I have looked for one who was worthy to take my place, or strong enough to take it from me. Not one of you even comes close. And so none of you shall have it.”He extended his hand. “In Dagon’s name, I place a curse upon my armor, and my swords. This ship, and all it carries. Until the day when one of you can best me in combat, you shall have not a single coin.” He looked up at them. “Be grateful I have left you with your lives.”Garuk and Thalin shared a single glance. Had anyone else said such a thing, there would have been mutiny. A hundred treasure-mad pirates against one old man. But this was Haknir. The crew was silent.Haknir threw a map at Garuk’s feet. “Garuk, take a longboat, and bury my armor in the places I have marked. Thalin, we sail to my tomb, where you shall leave me with my gold. Then burn your ships, and do as you will. I am your captain no more.” And with that, he turned and stalked back to his quarters.At daybreak, Garuk took his leave, and set out in a longboat with three of his men. They landed on a shoal to the north of Solstheim, at the place Haknir had marked, made camp, and began to dig.But already, greed stirred in Garuk’s heart. Time and again, he glanced at the iron-bound chest they had brought with them. The old man was gone, perhaps already dead. His orders, foolish.That night, Garuk pried open the chest and drew out the helm within. The Stalhrim shimmered in the moonlight. It was time. Time for a new King of Ghosts to rise. He placed the helmet on his head.And he screamed.And it is said you can hear that screaming still, on moonlit nights, on a rocky shoal off the northern coast of Solstheim.Postscript-This story is one of the last in the “Haknir Saga,” the tales surrounding the life and adventures of the legendary pirate king Haknir Death-Brand. How much of it is actually true, if indeed any of it is true, I leave to the reader’s discretion.– Artise DralenHouse Redoran Scribe |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Ice and Chitin | The tale dates to the year 855 of the Second Era, after General Talos had taken the name Tiber Septim and begun his conquest of Tamriel. One of his commanding officers, Beatia of Ylliolos, had been surprised in an ambush while returning from a meeting with the Emperor. She and her personal guard of five soldiers barely escaped, and were separated from their army. They fled across the desolate, sleet-painted rocky cliffs by foot. The attack had been so sudden, they had not even the time to don armor or get to their horses.“If we can get to the Gorvigh Ridge,” hollered Lieutenant Ascutus, gesturing toward a peak off in the mist, his voice barely discernible over the wind. “We can meet the legion you stationed in Porhnak.”Beatia looked across the craggy landscape, through the windswept hoary trees, and shook her head: “Not that way. We’ll be struck down before we make it halfway to the mountain. You can see their horses’ breath through the trees.”She directed her guard toward a ruined old keep on the frozen isthmus of Nerone, across the bay from Gorvigh Ridge. Jutting out on a promontory of rock, it was like many other abandoned castles in northern Skyrim, remnants of Reman Cyrodiil’s protective shield against the continent of Akavir. As they reached their destination and made a fire, they could hear the army of the warchiefs of Danstrar behind them, making camp on the land southwest, blocking the only escape but the sea. The soldiers assessed the stock of the keep while Beatia looked out to the fog-veiled water through the casements of the ruin.She threw a stone, watching it skip across the ice trailing puffs of mist before it disappeared with a splash into a crack in the surface.“No food or weaponry to be found, commander,” Lieutenant Ascutus reported. “There’s a pile of armor in storage, but it’s definitely taken on the elements over the years. I don’t know if it’s salvageable at all.”“We won’t last long here,” Beatia replied. “The Nords know that we’ll be vulnerable when night falls, and this old rock won’t hold them off. If there’s anything in the keep we can use, find it. We have to make it across the ice floe to the Ridge.”After a few minutes of searching and matching pieces, the guards presented two very grimy, scuffed and cracked suits of chitin armor. Even the least proud of the adventurers and pirates who had looted the castle over the years had thought the shells of chitin beneath their notice. The soldiers did not dare to clean them: the dust looked to be the only adhesive holding them together.“They won’t offer us much protection, just slow us down,” grimaced Ascutus. “If we run across the ice as soon as it gets dark–”“Anyone who can plan and execute an ambush like the warchiefs of Danstrar will be expecting that. We need to move quickly, now, before they’re any closer.” Beatia drew a map of the bay in the dust, and then a semicircular path across the water, an arc stretching from the castle to the Gorvigh Ridge. “The men should go the long way across the bay like so. The ice is thick there a ways from the shoreline, and there are a lot of rocks for cover.”“You’re not staying behind to hold the castle!”“Of course not,” Beatia shook her head and drew a straight line from the castle to the closest shore across the Bay. “I’ll take one of the chitin suits, and try to cross the water here. If you don’t see or hear me when you’ve made it to land, don’t wait — just get to Porhnak.”Lieutenant Ascutus tried to dissuade his commander, but he knew that she was would never order one of her men to perform the suicidal act of diversion, that all would die before they reached Gorvigh Ridge if the warlords’ army was not distracted. He could find only one way to honor his duty to protect his commanding officer. It was not easy convincing Commander Beatia that he should accompany her, but at last, she relented.The sun hung low but still cast a diffused glow, illuminating the snow with a ghostly light, when the five men and one woman slipped through the boulders beneath the castle to the water’s frozen edge. Beatia and Ascutus moved carefully and precisely, painfully aware of each dull crunch of chitin against stone. At their commander’s signal, the four unarmored men dashed towards the north across the ice.When her men had reached the first fragment of cover, a spiral of stone jutting a few yards from the base of the promontory, Beatia turned to listen for the sound of the army above. Nothing but silence. They were still unseen. Ascutus nodded, his eyes through the helm showing no fear. The commander and her lieutenant stepped onto the ice and began to run.When Beatia had surveyed the bay from the castle ramparts, the crossing closest to shore had seemed like a vast, featureless plane of white. Now that she was down on the ice, it was even more flat and stark: the sheet of mist rose only up their ankles, but it billowed up at their approach like the hand of nature itself was pointing out their presence to their enemies. They were utterly exposed. It came almost as a relief when Beatia heard one of the warchiefs’ scouts whistle a signal to his masters.They didn’t have to turn around to see if the army was coming. The sound of galloping hoofs and the crash of trees giving way was very clear over the whistling wind.Beatia wished she could risk a glance to the north to see if her men were hidden from view, but she didn’t dare. She could hear Ascutus running to her right, keeping pace, breathing hard. He was used to wearing heavier armor, but the chitin joints were so brittle and tight from years of disuse, it was all he could do to bend them.The rocky shore to the Ridge still looked at eternity away when Beatia felt and heard the first volley of arrows. Most struck the ice at their feet with sharp cracking sounds, but a few nearly found home, ricocheting off their backs. She silently offered a prayer of thanks to whatever anonymous shellsmith, now long dead, had crafted the armor. They continued to run, as the first rain of arrows was quickly followed by a second and a third.“Thank Stendarr,” Ascutus gasped. “If there was only leather in the keep, we’d be pierced through and through. Now if only it weren’t… so rigid…”Beatia felt her own armor joints begin to set, her knees and hips finding more and more resistance with every step. There could be no denying it: they were drawing closer toward the shore, but they were running much more slowly. She heard the first dreadful galloping crunch of the army charging across the floe toward them. The riders were cautious on the slippery ice, not driving their horses at full speed, but Beatia knew that they would be upon the two of them soon.The old chitin armor could withstand the bite of a few arrows, but not a lance driven with the force of a galloping horse. The only great unknown was time.The thunder of beating hooves was deafening behind them when Ascutus and Beatia reached the edge of the shore. The giant, jagged stones that strung around the beach blockaded the approach. Beneath their feet, the ice sighed and crackled. They could not stand still, run forward, nor run back. Straining against the tired metal in the armor joints, they took two bounds forward and flew at the boulders.The first landing on the ice sounded an explosive crack. When they rose for the final jump, it was on a wave of water so cold it felt like fire through the thin armor. Ascutus’s right hand found purchase in a deep fissure. Beatia gripped with both hands, but her boulder was slick with frost. Faces pressed to the stone, they could not turn to face the army behind them.But they heard the ice splintering, and the soldiers cry out in terror for just an instant. Then there was no sound but the whining of the wind and the purring lap of the water. A moment later, there were footsteps on the cliff above.The four guardsmen had crossed the bay. There were two to pull Beatia up from the face of the boulder, and another two for Ascutus. They strained and swore at the weight, but finally they had their commander and her lieutenant safely on the edge of Gorvigh Ridge.“By Mara, that’s heavy for light armor.”“Yes,” smiled Beatia wearily, looking back over the empty broken ice floe, the cracks radiating from the parallel paths she and Ascutus had run. “But sometimes that’s good.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Hallgerd’s Tale | I think the greatest warrior who ever lived had to be Vilus Nommenus,” offered Xiomara. “Name one other warrior who conquered more territory.”“Tiber Septim, obviously,” said Hallgerd.“He wasn’t a warrior. He was an administrator… a politician,” said Garaz. “And besides, acreage conquered can’t be final means of determining the best warrior. How about skill with a blade?”“There are other weapons than blades,” objected Xiomara. “Why not skill with an axe or a bow? Who was the greatest master of all weaponry?”“I can’t think of one greatest master of all weaponry,” said Hallgerd. “Balaxes of Agia Nero in Black Marsh was the greatest wielder of a lance. Ernse Llervu of the Ashlands is the greatest master of the club I’ve ever seen. The greatest master of the katana is probably an Akaviri warlord we’ve never heard of. As far as archery goes –”“Pelinal Whitestrake supposedly conquered all of Tamriel by himself,” interrupted Xiomara.“That was before the First Era,” said Garaz. “It’s probably mostly myth. But there are all sorts of great warriors of the modern eras. The Camoran Usurper? The unknown hero who brought together the Staff of Chaos and defeated Jagar Tharn?”“We can’t declare an unknown champion as the greatest warrior. What about Nandor Beraid, the Empress Katariah’s champion?” suggested Xiomara. “They said he could use any weapon ever invented.”“But what happened to him?” smiled Garaz. “He was drowned in the Sea of Ghosts because he couldn’t get his armor off. Call me overly particular, but I think the greatest warrior in the world should know how to take armor off.”“It’s kinda hard to judge ability to wear armor as a skill,” said Xiomara. “Either you have basic functionality in a suit of armor or you don’t.”“That’s not true,” said Hallgerd. “There are masters in that as well, people who can do things while wearing armor better than we can out of armor. Have you ever heard of Hlaalu Pasoroth, the King’s great grandfather?”Xiomara and Garaz admitted that they had not.“This was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and Pasoroth was the ruler of a great estate which he had won by right of being the greatest warrior in the land. It’s been said, and truly, that much of the House’s current power is based on Pasoroth’s earnings as a warrior. Every week he held games at his castle, pitting his skill against the champions of the neighboring estates, and every week, he won something.His great skill wasn’t in the use of weaponry, though he was decent enough with an axe and a long sword, but in his ability to move quickly and with great agility wearing a full suit of heavy mail. There were some who said that he moved faster while wearing armor than he did out of it.“Some months before this story begins, he had won the daughter of one of his neighbors, a beautiful creature named Mena who he had made his wife. He loved her very much, but he was intensely jealous, and with good reason. She wasn’t very pleased with his husbandly skills, and the only reason Mena never strayed was because Pasoroth kept a close eye on her. She was, to put it kindly, naturally amorous and resentful of her position as a prize. Wherever he went, he always brought her with him. At the games, she was placed in a special box so that he could see her even while he competed.“But his real competition, though he didn’t know it, was from a handsome young armorer he also had won at one of his competitions. Mena had noticed him, and the armorer, whose name was Taren, had certainly noticed her.”“This has all the makings of a dirty joke, Hallgerd,” said Xiomara, with a smile.“I swear that it’s entirely true,” said Hallgerd. “The problem facing the lovers was, of course, that they could never be alone. Perhaps because of this, it became a burning obsession to both of them. Taren decided that the best time for them to consummate their love was during the games. Mena feigned illness, so she didn’t have to stay in the box, but Pasoroth visited the sickroom every few minutes between fights, so Taren and Mena could never get together. The sound of Pasoroth’s armor clunking up the stairs to visit his sick wife gave Taren the idea.“He crafted his lord a new suit of armor, strong, and bright, and beautifully decorated. For his purposes, Taren rubbed the leg joints with luca dust so the more he sweated and the more he moved them, the more they’d stick together. After a little while, Taren figured, Pasoroth wouldn’t be able to walk very quickly, and wouldn’t have enough time in between fights to visit his wife. But just in case, Taren also added bells to the legs which rung loudly when they moved, so the couple would be able to hear him coming in plenty of time.“When the games commenced the following week, Mena feigned illness again and Taren presented his lord with the new armor. Pasoroth was delighted with it, as Taren hoped he would be, and donned it for his first fight. Taren then stole upstairs to Mena’s bedchamber.“All was silent outside as the two began to make love. Suddenly, Mena noticed a peculiar expression on Taren’s face and before she had a chance to ask him about it, his head fell off at the neck. Pasoroth was standing behind him with his axe in hand.”“How did he get upstairs so quickly, with his leg joints gummed up? And didn’t they hear the bells ringing?” asked Garaz.“Well, you see, when Pasoroth realized he couldn’t walk on his legs very quickly, he walked on his hands.”“I don’t believe it,” laughed Xiomara.“What happened next?” asked Garaz. “Did Pasoroth kill Mena also?”“No one knows exactly what happened next,” said Hallgerd. “Pasoroth didn’t return for the next game, nor for the next. Finally, at the fourth game, he returned to fight, and Mena appeared in the box to watch. She didn’t appear to be sick anymore. In fact, she was smiling and had a light flush to her face.”“They did it?” cried Xiomara.“I don’t have all the salacious details, except that after the battle, it took ten squires thirteen hours to get Pasoroth’s armor off because of all the luca dust mixed with sweat.”“I don’t understand, you mean, he didn’t take his armor off when they — but how?”“Like I said,” replied Hallgerd. “This is a story about someone who was more agile and accomplished in his armor than out of it.”“Now, that’s skill,” said Garaz. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Incident in Necrom | “The situation simply is this,” said Phlaxith, his face as chiseled and resolute as any statue. “Everyone knows that the cemetery west of the city is haunted by some malevolent beings, and has been for many years now. The people have come to accept it. They bury their dead by daylight, and are away before Masser and Secunda have risen and the evil comes forth. The only victims to fall prey to the devils within are the very stupid and the outsiders.”“It sounds like a natural solution to filtering out the undesirables then,” laughed Nitrah, a tall, middle-aged woman with cold eyes and thin lips. “Where is the gold in saving them?”“From the Temple. They’re re-opening a new monastery near the cemetery, and they need the land cleansed of evil. They’re offering a fortune, so I accepted the assignment with the caveat that I could assemble my own team to split the reward. That’s why I’ve sought you each out. From what I’ve heard, you, Nitrah, are the best bladesman in Morrowind.”Nitrah smiled her unpleasant best.“And you, Osmic, are a renowned burglar, though never once imprisoned.”The bald-pated young man stammered as if to refute the charges, before grinning back, “I’ll get you in where you need to go. But then it’s up to you to do what you need to do. I’m no combatter.”“Anything Nitrah and I can’t handle, I’m sure Massitha will prove her mettle,” Phlaxith said, turning to the fourth member of the party. “She comes on very good references as a sorceress of great power and skill.”Massitha was the picture of innocence, round-faced and wide-eyed. Nitrah and Osmic looked at her uncertainly, particularly watching her fearful expressions as Phlaxith described the nature of the creatures haunting the cemetery. It was obvious she had never faced any adversary other than man and mer before. If she survived, they thought to themselves, it would be very surprising.As the foursome trudged toward the graveyard at dusk, they took the opportunity to quiz their new teammate.“Vampires are filthy creatures,” said Nitrah. “Disease-ridden, you know. They say off to the west, they’ll indiscriminately pass on their curse together with a number of other afflictions. They don’t do that here so much, but still you don’t want to leave their wounds untreated. I take it you know something of the spells of Restoration if one of us gets bit?”“I know a little, but I’m no Healer,” said Massitha meekly.“More of a Battlemage?” asked Osmic.“I can do a little damage if I’m really close, but I’m not very good at that either. I’m more of an illusionist, technically.”Nitrah and Osmic looked at one another with naked concern as they reached the gates of the graveyard. There were moving shadows, stray specters among the wrack and ruins, crumbled paths stacked on top of crumbled paths. It wasn’t a maze of a place; it could have been any dilapidated graveyard but even without looking at the tombstones, it did have one very noticeable feature. Filling the horizon was the mausoleum of a minor Cyrodilic official from the 2nd Era, slightly exotic but still harmonizing with the Dunmer graves in a complimentary style called decay.“It’s a surprisingly useful School,” whispered Massitha defensively. “You see, it’s all concerned with magicka’s ability to alter the perception of objects without changing their physical compositions. Removing sensual data, for example, to cast darkness or remove sound or smell from the air. It can help by–”A red-haired vampire woman leapt out of the shadows in front of them, knocking Phlaxith on his back. Nitrah quickly unsheathed her sword, but Massitha was faster. With a wave of her hand, the creature stopped, frozen, her jaws scant inches from Phlaxith’s throat. Phlaxith pulled out his own blade and finished her off.“That’s illusion?” asked Osmic.“Certainly,” smiled Massitha. “Nothing changed in the vampire’s form, except its ability to move. Like I said, it’s a very useful School.”The four climbed up over the paths to the front gateway to the crypt. Osmic snapped the lock and disassembled the poison trap. The sorceress cast a wave of light down the dust-choked corridors, banishing the shadows and drawing the inhabitants out. Almost immediately they were set on by a pair of vampires, howling and screaming in a frenzy of bloodlust.The battle was joined, so no sooner were the first two vampires felled than their reinforcements attacked. They were mighty warriors of uncanny strength and endurance, but Massitha’s paralysis spell and the weaponry of Phlaxith and Nitrah clove through their ranks. Even Osmic aided the battle.“They’re crazy,” gasped Massitha when the fight finally ended and she could catch her breath.“Quarra, the most savage of the vampire bloodlines,” said Phlaxith. “We have to find and exterminate each and every one.”Delving into the crypts, the group hounded out more of the creatures. Though they varied in appearance, each seemed to rely on their strength and claws for attacking, and subtlety did not seem to be the style of any. When the entire mausoleum had been searched and every creature within destroyed, the four finally made their way to the surface. It was only an hour until sunrise.There was no frenzied scream or howl. Nothing rushed forward towards them. The final attack when it happened was so unlike the others that the questors were taken utterly by surprise.The ancient creature waited until the four were almost out of the cemetery, talking amiably, making plans for spending their share of the reward. He judged carefully who would be the greatest threat, and then launched himself at the sorceress. Had Phlaxith not turned his attention back from the gate, she would have been ripped to shreds before she had a chance to scream.The vampire knocked Massitha across a stone, its claws raking across her back, but stopped its assault in order to block a blow from Phlaxith’s sword. It accomplished this maneuver in its own brutal way, by tearing the warrior’s arm from its socket. Osmic and Nitrah set on it, but they found themselves in a losing battle. Only when Massitha had pulled herself back up from behind the pile of rocks, weak and bleeding, that the fight turned. She cast a magickal ball of flame at the creature, which so enraged it that it turned back to her. Nitrah saw her opening and took it, beheading the vampire with a stroke of her sword.“So you do know some spells of destruction, like you said,” said Nitrah.“And a few spells of healing too,” she said weakly. “But I can’t save Phlaxith.”The warrior died in the bloodied dust before them. The three were quiet as they traveled across the dawn-lit countryside back toward Necrom. Massitha felt the throb of pain on her back intensify as they walked and then a gradual numbness like ice spread through her body.“I need to go to a healer and see if I’ve been diseased,” she said as they reached the city.“Meet us at the Moth and Fire tomorrow morning,” said Nitrah. “We’ll go to the Temple and get our reward and split it there.”Three hours later, Osmic and Nitrah sat in their room at the tavern, happily counting and recounting the gold marks. Split three ways, it was a very comfortable sum.“What if the healers can’t do anything for Massitha?” smiled Osmic dreamily. “Some diseases can be insidious.”“Did you hear something in the hall?” asked Nitrah quickly, but when she looked, there was no one there. She returned, shutting the door behind her. “I’m sure Massitha will survive if she went straight to the healer. But we could leave tonight with the gold.”“Let’s have one last drink to our poor sorceress,” said Osmic, leading Nitrah out of the room toward the stairs down.Nitrah laughed. “Those spells of illusion won’t help her track us down, as useful as she keeps saying they are. Paralysis, light, silence — not so good when you don’t know where to look.”They closed the door behind them.“Invisibility is another spell of illusion,” said Massitha’s disembodied voice. The gold on the table rose in the air and vanished from sight as she slipped it into her purse. The door again opened and closed, and all was silent until Osmic and Nitrah returned a few minutes later. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Kolb & the Dragon | Kolb & the DragonAn Adventure for Nord Boys 1Kolb was a brave Nord warrior. One day his Chief asked Kolb to slay an evil dragon that threatened their village. “Go through the mountain pass, Kolb”, his Chief said. “You will find the Dragon on the other side.”Turn to page (2)2Kolb took his favorite axe and shield and walked to the pass, where he found a cold cave, a windy cave, and a narrow trail.Enter the cold cave (17)Enter the windy cave (8)Walk up the trail (12)3Kolb stepped onto a rocky hill. He could see the dragon sleeping below, and a tavern off a road nearby.Climb down (16)Visit tavern (14)4Following the stench, Kolb found a filthy orc! The orc snarled and charged Kolb with his spiked club.Raise Shield (9)Swing Axe (13)5Treading through the marsh, Kolb discovered a wailing ghost blocking his way.Attack Ghost (15)Give Gold (10)6The head of the axe lodged itself in the tough, scaly neck of the beast. It wailed and thrashed, but Kolb held on and eventually sawed through the neck, killing the beast. Kolb returned home victorious, and his village was never bothered by the dragon again.THE END7Leaving the marsh behind him, Kolb could see the dragon’s lair nearby, as well as a small, welcoming tavern.Go to the Lair (16)Go to Tavern (14)8A strong gust of wind blew Kolb’s torch out, and knocked him into a pit where split his head and died.THE END9The orc cackled as his club splintered Kolb’s shield and smashed into his face. There Kolb died, and the orc had soup from his bones.THE END10Kolb remembered a story his Gran told him and tossed two gold chits for the ghost, and it faded away, allowing him to pass.Turn to Page (7)11Kolb crept towards the belly of the beast, but no sooner had he taken his eyes off the head of the beast than it snapped him up and ate him whole, axe and all.THE END12Climbing up, Kolb found a camp. He met a wise man who shared bread and showed two paths to the dragon’s lair. One went through the hills, the other through a marsh.Take the hills (3)Take the marsh (5)13Before the orc could strike, Kolb swung his mighty axe. The orc’s head and club fell uselessly to the floor.Turn to Page (3)14Kolb stopped at the tavern to rest before fighting the dragon. High elves ran the tavern, however, and poisoned his mead so they could steal his gold.THE END15Kolb swung his axe as hard as he could, but the ghost hardly seemed to notice. The ghost drifted into Kolb, and a deep sleep took him over, from which he never awoke.THE END16Kolb found the lair where the dragon slept, tendrils of smoke wafting from it’s nostrils. The air made Kolb’s eyes sting, and he nearly slipped on the bones of men, picked clean. The beast lay on its side, the throat and belly both waiting targets.Strike the Neck (6)Strike the Belly (11)17Kolb stepped into the frozen cave, but his Nord blood kept him warm. A smelly tunnel climbed ahead of him, and wind howled from another to his left. A ladder was nearby as well.Take the smelly tunnel (4)Take the windy tunnel (8)Climb the ladder (12) |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Immortal Blood | Movarth Piquine shows up in TES5: Skyrim. The player stops him from turning the town of Morthal into his own personal feeding ground. This book appears in Elder Scrolls Online as well — Movarth must have been ancient indeed, if the book speaks of the same man.The moons and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night especially dark. The town guard had to carry torches to make their rounds; but the man who came to call at my chapel carried no light with him. I came to learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light – an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal.One of my acolytes brought him to me, and from the look of him, I at first thought he was in need of healing. He was pale to the point of opalescence with a face that looked like it had once been very handsome before some unspeakable suffering. The dark circles under his eyes bespoke exhaustion, but the eyes themselves were alert, intense, almost insane.He quickly dismissed my notion that he himself was ill, though he did want to discuss a specific disease.“Vampirism,” he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. “I was told that you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it.”“Who told you that?” I asked with a smile.“Tissina Gray.”I immediately remembered her. A brave, beautiful knight who had needed my assistance separating fact from fiction on the subject of the vampire. It had been two years, and I had never heard whether my advice had proved effective.“You’ve spoken to her? How is her ladyship?” I asked.“Dead,” Movarth replied coldly, and then, responding to my shock, he added to perhaps soften the blow. “She said your advice was invaluable, at least for the one vampire. When last I talked to her, she was tracking another. It killed her.”“Then the advice I gave her was not enough,” I sighed. “Why do you think it would be enough for you?”“I was a teacher once myself, years ago,” he said. “Not in a university. A trainer in the Fighters Guild. But I know that if a student doesn’t ask the right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure. I intend to ask you the right questions.”And that he did. For hours, he asked questions and I answered what I could, but he never volunteered any information about himself. He never smiled. He only studied me with those intense eyes of his, commiting every word I said to memory.Finally, I turned the questioning around. “You said you were a trainer at the Fighters Guild. Are you on an assignment for them?”“No,” he said curtly, and finally I could detect some weariness in those feverish eyes of his. “I would like to continue this tomorrow night, if I could. I need to get some sleep and absorb this.”“You sleep during the day,” I smiled.To my surprise, he returned the smile, though it was more of a grimace. “When tracking your prey, you adapt their habits.”The next day, he did return with more questions, these ones very specific. He wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most powerful tribe, the Volkihar, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could freeze their victims’ blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of men except to feed.Movarth Piquine listened carefully, and asked more questions into the night, until at last he was ready to leave.“I will not see you for a few days,” he said. “But I will return, and tell you how helpful your information has been.”True to his word, the man returned to my chapel shortly after midnight four days later. There was a fresh scar on his cheek, but he was smiling that grim but satisfied smile of his.“Your advice helped me very much,” he said. “But you should know that the Volkihar have an additional ability you didn’t mention. They can reach through the ice of their lakes without breaking it. It was quite a nasty surprise, being grabbed from below without any warning.”“How remarkable,” I said with a laugh. “And terrifying. You’re lucky you survived.”“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker’s fate. I’ve never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance, provided I get the first strike.”“The first strike?” I murmured. “So you must never be surprised.”“That is why I came to you,” said Movarth. “You know more than anyone alive about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land. Now you must tell me about the vampires of northern Valenwood.”I did as he asked, and once again, his questions taxed my knowledge. There were many tribes to cover. The Bonsamu who were indistinguishable from Bosmer except when seen by candlelight. The Keerilth who could disintegrate into mist. The Yekef who swallowed men whole. The dread Telboth who preyed on children, eventually taking their place in the family, waiting patiently for years before murdering them all in their unnatural hunger.Once again, he bade me farewell, promising to return in a few weeks, and once again, he returned as he said, just after midnight. This time, Movarth had no fresh scars, but he again had new information.“You were wrong about the Keerilth being unable to vaporize when pushed underwater,” he said, patting my shoulder fondly. “Fortunately, they cannot travel far in their mist form, and I was able to track it down.”“It must have surprised it fearfully. Your field knowledge is becoming impressive,” I said. “I should have had an acolyte like you decades ago.”“Now, tell me,” he said. “Of the vampires of Cyrodiil.”I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.“They will be difficult to surprise,” Movarth frowned. “But I will seek one out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and the Sumurset Isles, yes?”I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn’t be satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it all.He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.“I failed,” he said, as I lit a candle. “You were right. I could not find a single one.”I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth. Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford to be surprised.“I haven’t fed in seventy-two hours,” I explained, as I fell on him. He did not land the first blow or the last. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Last Scabbard of Akrash | For several warm summer days in the year 3E 407, a young, pretty Dunmer woman in a veil regularly visited one of the master armorers in the city of Tear. The locals decided that she was young and pretty by her figure and her poise, though no one ever saw her face. She and the armorer would retire to the back of his shop, and he would close down his business and dismiss his apprentices for a few hours. Then, at mid-afternoon, she would leave, only to return at precisely the same time the next day. As gossip goes, it was fairly meager stuff, though what the old man was doing with such a well dressed and attractively proportioned woman was the source of several crude jokes. After several weeks, the visits stopped, and life returned to normal in the slums of Tear.It was not until a month or two after the visits had stopped, that in one of the many taverns in the neighborhood, a young local tailor, having imbibed too much sauce, asked the armorer, “So whatever happened to your lady friend? You break her heart?”The armorer, well aware of the rumors, simply replied, “She is a proper young lady of quality. There was nothing between her and the likes of me.”“What was she doing at your shop every day for?” asked the tavern wench, who had been dying to get the subject open.“If you must know,” said the armorer. “I was teaching her the craft.”“You’re putting us on,” laughed the tailor.“No, the young lady had a particular fascination with my particular kind of artistry,” the armorer said, with a hint of pride before getting lost in the reverie. “I taught her how to mend swords specifically, from all kinds of nicks and breaks, hairline fissures, cracked pommels, quillons, and grips. When she first started, she had no idea how to secure the grips to the tang of the blade… Well, of course she was green to start off with, why wouldn’t she be? But she weren’t afraid to get her hands dirty. I taught her how to patch the little inlaid silver and gold filigree you find on really fine blades, and how to polish it all to a mirror sheen so the sword looks like the gods just pulled it from their celestial anvil.”The tavern wench and the tailor laughed out loud. No matter what he alleged, the armorer was speaking of the young lady’s training as another man speaks of a long lost love.More of the locals in the tavern would have listened to the armorer’s pathetic tale, but more important gossip had taken precedence. There was another murdered slave-trader found in the center of town, gutted from fore to aft. That made six of them total in barely a fortnight. Some called the killer “The Liberator,” but that sort of anti-slavery zeal was rare among the common folk. They preferred calling him “The Lopper,” as several of the earlier victims had been completely beheaded. Others had been simply perforated, sliced, or gutted, but “The Lopper” still kept his original sobriquet.While the enthusiastic hooligans made bets about the condition of the next slave-trader’s corpse, several dozen of the surviving members of that trade were meeting at the manor house of Serjo Dres Minegaur. Minegaur was a minor houseman of House Dres, but a major member of the slave-trading fraternity. Perhaps his best years were behind him, but his associates still counted on him for wisdom.“We need to take what we know of this Lopper and search accordingly,” said Minegaur, seated in front of his opulent hearth. “We know he has an unreasonable hatred of slavery and slave-traders. We know he is skilled with a blade. We know he has the stealth and finesse to execute our most well-secured brethren in their most secure abodes. It sounds to me to be an adventurer, an Outlander. Surely no citizen of Morrowind would strike at us like this.”The slave-traders nodded in agreement. An Outlander seemed most likely for their troubles. It was always true.“Were I fifty years younger, I would take down my blade Akrash from the hearth,” Minegaur made an expansive gesture to the shimmering weapon. “And join you in seeking out this terror. Search him out where adventurers meet — taverns and guildhalls. Then show him a little lopping of my own.”The slave-traders laughed politely.“You wouldn’t let us borrow your blade for the execution, I suppose, would you, Serjo?” asked Soron Jeles, a young toadying slaver enthusiastically.“It would be an excellent use for Akrash,” sighed Minegaur. “But I vowed to retire her when I retired.”Minegaur called for his daughter Peliah to bring the slavers more flin, but they waved the girl away. It was to be a night for hunting the Lopper, not drinking away their troubles. Minegaur heartily approved of their devotion, particular as expensive as the liquor was getting to be.When the last of the slavers had left, the old man kissed his daughter on the head, took one last admiring look at Akrash, and toddled off to his bed. No sooner had he done so then Peliah had the blade off the mantle, and was flying with it across the field behind the manor house. She knew Kazagh had been waiting for her for hours in the stables.He sprung out at her from the shadows, and wrapping his strong, furry arms around her, kissed her long and sweet. Holding him as long as she dared to, she finally broke away and handed him the blade. He tested its edge.“The finest Khajiiti swordsmith couldn’t hone an edge this keen,” he said, looking at his beloved with pride. “And I know I nicked it up good last night.”“That you did,” said Peliah. “You must have cut through an iron cuirass.”“The slavers are taking precautions now,” he replied. “What did they say during their meeting?”“They think it’s an Outlander adventurer,” she laughed. “It didn’t occur to any of them that a Khajiiti slave would possess the skill to commit all these ‘loppings.'”“And your father doesn’t suspect that it’s his dear Akrash that is striking into the heart of oppression?”“Why would he, when every day he finds it fresh as the day before? Now I must go before anyone notices I’m gone. My nurse sometimes comes in to ask me some detail about the wedding, as if I had any choice in the matter at all.”“I promise you,” said Kazagh very seriously. “You will not be forced into any marriage to cement your family’s slave-dealing dynasty. The last scabbard Akrash will be sheathed into will be your father’s heart. And when you are an orphan, you can free the slaves, move to a more enlightened province, and marry who you like.”“I wonder who that will be,” Peliah teased, and raced out of the stables.Just before dawn, Peliah awoke and crept out to the garden, where she found Akrash hidden in the bittergreen vines. The edge was still relatively keen, but there were scratches vertically across the blade’s surface. Another beheading, she thought, as she took pumice stone and patiently rubbed out the marks, finally polishing it with a solution of salt and vinegar. It was up on the mantle in pristine condition when her father came into the sitting room for his breakfast.When the news came that Kemillith Torom, Peliah’s husband-to-be, had been found outside of a canton, his head on a spike some feet away, she did not have to pretend to grieve. Her father knew she did not want to marry him.“It is a shame,” he said. “The lad was a good slaver. But there are plenty of other young men who would appreciate an alliance with our family. What about young Soron Jeles?”Two days nights later, Soron Jeles was visited by the Lopper. The struggle did not take long, but Soron had had armed himself with one small defense — a needle dipped in the ichor of poisonplant, hidden up his sleeve. After the mortal blow, he collapsed forward and stuck Kazagh in the calf with the pin. By the time he made it back to the Minegaur manorhouse, he was dying.Vision blurring, he climbed up to the eaves of the house to Peliah’s window and rapped. Peliah did not answer immediately, as she was in a deep, wonderful sleep, dreaming about her future with her Khajiiti lover. He rapped louder, which woke up not only Peliah, but also her father in the next room.“Kazagh!” she cried, opening up the window. The next person in the bedroom was Minegaur himself.As he saw it, this slave, his property, was about to lop off the head of his daughter, his property, with his sword, his property. Suddenly, with the energy of a young man, Minegaur rushed at the dying Khajiit, knocking the sword out of his hand. Before Peliah could stop him, her father had thrust the blade into her lover’s heart.The excitement over, the old man dropped the sword and turned to the door to call the Guard. As an after thought, it occurred to him to make certain that his daughter hadn’t been injured and might require a Healer. Minegaur turned to her. For a moment, he felt simply disoriented, feeling the force of the blow, but not the blade itself. Then he saw the blood and then felt the pain. Before he fully realized that his daughter had stabbed him with Akrash, he was dead. The blade, at last, found its scabbard.A week later, after the official investigations, the slave was buried in an unmarked grave in the manor field, and Serjo Dres Minegaur found his resting place in a modest corner of the family’s opulent mausoleum. A larger crowd of curious onlookers came to view the funeral of the noble slaver whose secret life was as the savage Lopper of his competitors. The audience was respectfully quiet, though there was not a person there not imagining the final moments of the man’s life. Attacking his own daughter in his madness, luckily defended by the loyal, hapless slave, before turning the blade on himself.Among the viewers was an old armorer who saw for one last time the veiled young lady before she disappeared forever from Tear. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Night Falls on Sentinel | If you never played TES2:Daggerfall, or did and never made it that far, this story is a reference to a certain point in Daggerfall’s storyline.No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft pad of the barmaid’s feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all. If anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman in a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise. Even suspicion. As it were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest it had no sign, blended into the shadows.“Are you Jomic?”The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and nodded. He returned to his drink. The young woman took the seat next to him.“My name is Haballa,” she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it next to his mug.“Sure it be,” snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. “Who d’you want dead?”She did not turn away, but merely asked, “Is it safe to talk here?”“No one cares about nobody else’s problems but their own here. You could take off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one’d even spit,” the man smiled. “So who d’you want dead?”“No one, actually,” said Haballa. “The truth is, I only want someone … removed, for a while. Not harmed, you understand, and that’s why I need a professional. You come highly recommended.”“Who you been talking to?” asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink.“A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.”“One of them friends don’t know what he’s talking about,” grumbled the man. “I don’t do that any more.”Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them at the man’s elbow. He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold out and began counting. As he did, he asked, “Who d’you want removed?”“Just a moment,” smiled Haballa, shaking her head. “Before we talk details, I want to know that you’re a professional, and you won’t harm this person very much. And that you’ll be discreet.”“You want discreet?” the man paused in his counting. “Awright, I’ll tell you about an old job of mine. It’s been – by Arkay, I can hardly believe it – more ‘n twenty years, and no one but me’s alive who had anything to do with the job. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?”“I was just a baby.”“‘Course you was,” Jomic smiled. “Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an older brother Greklith what died, right? And then he’s got his older sister Aubki, what married that King fella in Daggerfall. But the truth’s that he had two elder brothers.”“Really?” Haballa’s eyes glistened with interest.“No lie,” he chuckled. “Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and Queen’s first born. Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his parents wasn’t too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two more princes who looked a lot more fit. That’s when me and my boys got hired on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or some such story.”“I had no idea!” the young woman whispered.“Of course you didn’t, that’s the point,” Jomic shook his head. “Discretion, like you said. We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and that was that. No fuss. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club.”“That’s what I’m interested in,” said Haballa. “Technique. My… friend who needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. What is the club for?”“It’s a tool. So many things what was better in the past ain’t around no more, just ’cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. Let me explain: there’re seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella’s body. Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four more respectively. Argonians and Sloads, almost as many at fifty-two and sixty-seven,” Jomic used his short stubby finger to point out each region on Haballa’s body. “Six in your forehead, two in your brow, two on your nose, seven in your throat, ten in your chest, nine in your abdomen, three on each arm, twelve in your groin, four in your favored leg, five in the other.”“That’s sixty-three,” replied Haballa.“No, it’s not,” growled Jomic.“Yes, it is,” the young lady cried back, indignant that her mathematical skills were being question: “Six plus two plus two plus seven plus ten plus nine plus three for one arm and three for the other plus twelve plus four plus five. Sixty-three.”“I must’ve left some out,” shrugged Jomic. “The important thing is that to become skilled with a staff or club, you gotta be a master of these pain centers. Done right, a light tap could kill, or knock out without so much as a bruise.”“Fascinating,” smiled Haballa. “And no one ever found out?”“Why would they? The boy’s parents, the King and Queen, they’re both dead now. The other children always thought their brother got carried off by the Underking. That’s what everyone thinks. And all my partners are dead.”“Of natural causes?”“Ain’t nothing natural that ever happens in the Bay, you know that. One fella got sucked up by one of them Selenu. Another died a that same plague that took the Queen and Prince Greklith. ‘Nother fella got hisself beat up to death by a burglar. You gotta keep low, outta sight, like me, if you wanna stay alive.” Jomic finished counting the coins. “You must want this fella out of the way bad. Who is it?”“It’s better if I show you,” said Haballa, standing up. Without a look back, she strode out of the Nameless Tavern.Jomic drained his beer and went out. The night was cool with an unrestrained wind surging off the water of the Iliac Bay, sending leaves flying like whirling shards. Haballa stepped out of the alleyway next to the tavern, and gestured to him. As he approached her, the breeze blew open her cape, revealing the armor beneath and the crest of the King of Sentinel.The fat man stepped back to flee, but she was too fast. In a blur, he found himself in the alley on his back, the woman’s knee pressed firmly against his throat.“The King has spent years since he took the throne looking for you and your collaborators, Jomic. His instructions to me what to do when I found you were not specific, but you’ve given me an idea.”From her belt, Haballa removed a small sturdy cudgel.A drunk stumbling out of the bar heard a whimpered moan accompanied by a soft whisper coming from the darkness of the alley: “Let’s keep better count this time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Of Fjori and Holgeir | In her 29th summer of life, Fjori the huntress met the warlord Holgeir on the field of battle. None remember what they fought over, for their love to come was so great it overshadowed all rivalries or disputes. They fought to a standstill, as their followers looked on – till her sword broke his axe and his shield dulled her blade and all could see that they were equals.As the Eagle finds its mates, so too did Fjori find hers in Holgeir, and a time of peace came to the clans of the forest. But as the summer’s warmth gives way to winter’s chill, so too would this peace pass.But the Snake came and bit Holgeir, its venom seeping deep into the wound.A Whale greeted Fjori’s view as she came over the snow-covered mountains to the coast.She obtained an elixir from the Akavir and returned to the forest in haste.Though Holgeir could smell the winds of Sovngarde, she gave him the elixir and he was cured in an instant.But the Snake bit Fjori as she poured the last drop into Holgeir’s mouth, and fatigued from her journey, she joined the ancestors immediately.Holgeir’s grief was such that he built a tomb and upon completion, took his own life that he might rejoin her. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Palla | Palla, Volume 1Palla. Pal La. I remember when I first heard that name, not long ago at all. It was at a Tales and Tallows ball at a very fine estate west of Mir Corrup, to which I and my fellow Mages Guild initiates had found ourselves unexpectedly invited. Truth be told, we needn’t have been too surprised. There were very few other noble families in Mir Corrup — the region had its halcyon days as a resort for the wealthy far back in the 2nd era — and on reflection, it was only appropriate to have sorcerers and wizards present at a supernatural holiday. Not that we were anything more exotic than students at a small, nonexclusive charterhouse of the Guild, but like I said, there was a paucity of other choices available.For close to a year, the only home I had known was the rather ramshackle if sprawling grounds of the Mir Corrup Mages Guild. My only companions were my fellow initiates, most of which only tolerated me, and the masters, whose bitterness at being at a backwater Guild prompted never-ending abuse.Immediately the School of Illusion had attracted me. The Magister who taught us recognized me as an apt pupil who loved not only the spells of the science but their philosophical underpinnings. There was something about the idea of warping the imperceptible energies of light, sound, and mind that appealed to my nature. Not for me the flashy schools of destruction and alteration, the holy schools of restoration and conjuration, the practical schools of alchemy and enchantment, or the chaotic school of mysticism. No, I was never so pleased as to take an ordinary object and by a little magic make it seem something other than what it was.It would have taken more imagination than I had to apply that philosophy to my monotonous life. After the morning’s lessons, we were assigned tasks before our evening classes. Mine had been to clean out the study of a recently deceased resident of the Guild, and categorize his clutter of spellbooks, charms, and incunabula.It was a lonely and tedious appointment. Magister Tendixus was an inveterate collector of worthless junk, but I was reprimanded any time I threw something away of the least possible value. Gradually I learned enough to deliver each of his belongings to the appropriate department: potions of healing to the Magisters of Restoration, books on physical phenomena to the Magisters of Alteration, herbs and minerals to the Alchemists, and soulgems and bound items to the Enchanters. After one delivery to the Enchanters, I was leaving with my customary lack of appreciation, when Magister Ilther called me back.“Boy,” said the portly old man, handing me back one item. “Destroy this.”It was a small black disc covered with runes with a ring of red-orange gems like bones circling its periphery.“I’m sorry, Magister,” I stammered. “I thought it was something you’d be interested in.”“Take it to the great flame and destroy it,” he barked, turning his back on me. “You never brought it here.”My interest was piqued, because I knew the only thing that would make him react in such a way. Necromancy. I went back to Magister Tendixus’s chamber and poured through his notes, looking for any reference to the disc. Unfortunately, most of the notes had been written in a strange code that I was powerless to decipher. I was so fascinated by the mystery that I nearly arrived late for my evening class in Enchantment, taught by Magister Ilther himself.For the next several weeks, I divided my time categorizing the general debris and making my deliveries, and researching the disc. I came to understand that my instinct was correct: the disc was a genuine necromantic artifact. Though I couldn’t understand most of the Magister’s notes, I determined that he thought it to be a means of resurrecting a loved one from the grave.Sadly, the time came when the chamber had been categorized and cleared, and I was given another assignment, assisting in the stables of the Guild’s menagerie. At least finally I was working with some of my fellow initiates and had the opportunity of meeting the common folk and nobles who came to the Guild on various errands. Thus was I employed when we were all invited to the Tales and Tallows ball.If the expected glamour of the evening were not enough, our hostess was reputed to be young, rich, unmarried orphan from Hammerfell. Only a month or two before had she moved to our desolate, wooded corner of the Imperial Province to reclaim an old family manorhouse and grounds. The initiates at the Guild gossiped like old women about the mysterious young lady’s past, what had happened to her parents, why she had left or been driven from her homeland. Her name was Betaniqi, and that was all we knew.We wore our robes of initiation with pride as we arrived for the ball. At the enormous marble foyer, a servant announced each of our names as if we were royalty, and we strutted into the midst of the revelers with great puffery. Of course, we were then promptly ignored by one and all. In essence, we were unimportant figures to lend some thickness to the ball. Background characters.The important people pushed through us with perfect politeness. There was old Lady Schaudirra discussing diplomatic appointments to Balmora with the Duke of Rimfarlin. An orc warlord entertained a giggling princess with tales of rape and pillage. Three of the Guild Magisters worried with three painfully thin noble spinsters about the haunting of Daggerfall. Intrigues at the Imperial and various royal courts were analyzed, gently mocked, fretted over, toasted, dismissed, evaluated, mitigated, admonished, subverted. No one looked our way even when we were right next to them. It was as if my skill at illusion had somehow rendered us all invisible.I took my flagon out to the terrace. The moons were doubled, equally luminous in the sky and in the enormous reflecting pool that stretched out into the garden. The white marble statuary lining the sides of the pool caught the fiery glow and seemed to burn like torches in the night. The sight was so otherworldly that I was mesmerized by it, and the strange Redguard figures immortalized in stone. Our hostess had made her home there so recently that some of the sculptures were still wrapped in sheets that billowed and swayed in the gentle breeze. I don’t know how long I stared before I realized I wasn’t alone.She was so small and so dark, not only in her skin but in her clothing, that I nearly took her for a shadow. When she turned to me, I saw that she was very beautiful and young, not more than seventeen.“Are you our hostess?” I finally asked.“Yes,” she smiled, blushing. “But I’m ashamed to admit that I’m very bad at it. I should be inside with my new neighbors, but I think we have very little in common.”“It’s been made abundantly clear that they hope I have nothing in common with them either,” I laughed. “When I’m a little higher than an initiate in the Mages Guild, they might see me as more of an equal.”“I don’t understand the concept of equality in Cyrodiil yet,” she frowned. “In my culture, you proved your worth, not just expected it. My parents both were great warriors, as I hope to be.”Her eyes went out to the lawn, to the statues.“Do the sculptures represent your parents?”“That’s my father Pariom there,” she said gesturing to a life-sized representation of a massively built man, unashamedly naked, gripping another warrior by the throat and preparing to decapitate him with an outstretched blade. It was clearly a realistic depiction. Pariom’s face was plain, even slightly ugly with a low forehead, a mass of tangled hair, stubble on his cheeks. Even a slight gap in his teeth, which no sculptor would surely have invented except to do justice to his model’s true idiosyncrasies.“And your mother?” I asked, pointing to a nearby statue of a proud, rather squat warrior woman in a mantilla and scarf, holding a child.“Oh no,” she laughed. “That was my uncle’s old nurse. Mother’s statue still has a sheet over it.”I don’t know what prompted me to insist that we unveil the statue that she pointed to. In all likelihood, it was nothing but fate, and a selfish desire to continue the conversation. I was afraid that if I did not give her a project, she would feel the need to return to the party, and I would be alone again. At first she was reluctant. She had not yet made up her mind whether the statues would suffer in the wet, sometimes cold Cyrodilic climate. Perhaps all should be covered, she reasoned. It may be that she was merely making conversation, and was reluctant as I was to end the stand-off and be that much closer to having to return to the party.In a few minutes time, we tore the tarp from the statue of Betaniqi’s mother. That is when my life changed forevermore.She was an untamed spirit of nature, screaming in a struggle with a misshapen monstrous figure in black marble. Her gorgeous, long fingers were raking across the creature’s face. The monster’s talons gripped her right breast in a sort of caress that prefaces a mortal wound. Its legs and hers wound around one another in a battle that was a dance. I felt annihilated. This lithe but formidable woman was beautiful beyond all superficial standards. Whoever had sculpted it had somehow captured not only a face and figure of a goddess, but her power and will. She was both tragic and triumphant. I fell instantly and fatally in love with her.I had not even noticed when Gelyn, one of my fellow initiates who was leaving the party, came up behind us. Apparently I had whispered the word “magnificent,” because I heard Betaniqi reply as if miles away, “Yes, it is magnificent. That’s why I was afraid of exposing it to the elements.”Then I heard, clearly, like a stone breaking water, Gelyn: “Mara preserve me. That must be Palla.”“Then you heard of my mother?” asked Betaniqi, turning his way.“I hail from Wayrest, practically on the border to Hammerfell. I don’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t heard of your mother and her great heroism, ridding the land of that abominable beast. She died in that struggle, didn’t she?”“Yes,” said the girl sadly. “But so too did the creature.”For a moment, we were all silent. I don’t remember anything more of that night. Somehow I knew I was invited to dine the next evening, but my mind and heart had been entirely and forever more arrested by the statue. I returned back to the Guild, but my dreams were fevered and brought me no rest. Everything seemed diffused by white light, except for one beautiful, fearsome woman.Palla.Palla, Volume 2Palla. Pal La. The name burned in my heart. I found myself whispering it in my studies even when I tried to concentrate on something the Magister was saying. My lips would silently purse to voice the “Pal,” and tongue lightly flick to form the “La” as if I were kissing her spirit before me. It was madness in every way except that I knew that it was madness. I knew I was in love. I knew she was a noble Redguard woman, a fierce warrior more beautiful than the stars. I knew her young daughter Betaniqi had taken possession of a manorhouse near the Guild, and that she liked me, perhaps was even infatuated. I knew Palla had fought a terrible beast and killed it. I knew Palla was dead.As I say, I knew it was madness, and by that, I knew I could not be mad. But I also knew that I must return to Betaniqi’s palace to see her statue of my beloved Palla engaged in that final, horrible, fatal battle with the monster.Return I did, over and over again. Had Betaniqi been a different sort of noblewoman, more comfortable with her peers, I would not have had so many opportunities. In her innocence, unaware of my sick obsession, she welcomed my company. We would talk for hours, laughing, and every time we would take a walk to the reflecting pond where I would always stop breathless before the sculpture of her mother.“It’s a marvelous tradition you have, preserving these figures of your ancestors at their finest moments,” I said, feeling her curious eyes on me. “And the craftsmanship is without parallel.”“You wouldn’t believe me,” laughed the girl. “But it was a bit of scandal when my great grandfather began the custom. We Redguards hold a great reverence for our families, but we are warriors, not artists. He hired an traveling artist to create the first statues, and everyone admired them until it was revealed that the artist was an elf. An Altmer from the Summurset Isle.”“Scandal!”“It was, absolutely,” Betaniqi nodded seriously. “The idea that a pompous, wicked elf’s hands had formed these figures of noble Redguard warriors was unthinkable, profane, irreverent, everything bad you can imagine. But my great grandfather’s heart was in the beauty of it, and his philosophy of using the best to honor the best passed down to us all. I would not have even considered having a lesser artist create the statues of my parents, even if it would have been more allegiant to my culture.”“They’re all exquisite,” I said.“But you like the one of my mother most of all,” she smiled. “I see you look at it even when you seem to be looking at the others. It’s my favorite also.”“Would you tell me more about her?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light and conversational.“Oh, she would have said she was nothing extraordinary, but she was,” the girl said, picking a flower from the garden. “My father died when I was quite young, and she had so many roles to fill, but she did them all effortlessly. We have a great many business interests and she was brilliant at managing everything. Certainly better than I am now. All it took was her smile and everyone obeyed, and those that didn’t paid dearly. She was very witty and charming, but a formidable force when the need arose for her to fight. Hundreds of battles, but I can never remember a moment of feeling neglected or unloved. I literally thought she was too strong for death. Stupid, I know, but when she went to battle that — that horrible creature, that freak from a mad wizard’s laboratory, I never even thought she would not return. She was kind to her friends and ruthless to her enemies. What more can one say about a woman than that?”Poor Betaniqi’s eyes teared up with remembrance. What sort of villain was I to goad her so, in order to satisfy my perverted longings? Sheogorath could never have conflicted a mortal man more than me. I found myself both weeping and filled with desire. Palla not only looked like a goddess, but from her daughter’s story, she was one.That night while undressing for bed, I rediscovered the black disc I had stolen from Magister Tendixus’s office weeks before. I had half-forgotten about its existence, that mysterious necromantic artifact which the mage believed could resurrect a dead love. Almost by pure instinct, I found myself placing the disc on my heart and whispering, “Palla.”A momentary chill filled my chamber. My breath hung in the air in a mist before dissipating. Frightened I dropped the disc. It took a moment before my reason returned, and with it the inescapable conclusion: the artifact could fulfill my desire.Until the early morning hours, I tried to raise my mistress from the chains of Oblivion, but it was no use. I was no necromancer. I entertained thoughts of how to ask one of the Magisters to help me, but I remembered how Magister Ilther had bid me to destroy it. They would expel me from the Guild if I went to them and destroy the disc themselves. And with it, my only key to bringing my love to me.I was in my usual semi-torpid condition the next day in classes. Magister Ilther himself was lecturing on his specialty, the School of Enchantment. He was a dull speaker with a monotone voice, but suddenly I felt as if every shadow had left the room and I was in a palace of light.“When most persons think of my particular science, they think of the process of invention. The infusing of charms and spells into objects. The creation of a magickal blade, perhaps, or a ring. But the skilled enchanter is also a catalyst. The same mind that can create something new can also provoke greater power from something old. A ring that can generate warmth for a novice, on the hand of such a talent can bake a forest black.” The fat man chuckled: “Not that I’m advocating that. Leave that for the School of Destruction.”That week all the initiates were asked to choose a field of specialization. All were surprised when I turned my back on my old darling, the School of Illusion. It seemed ridiculous to me that I had ever entertained an affection for such superficial charms. All my intellect was now focused on the School of Enchantment, the means by which I could free the power of the disc.For months thereafter, I barely slept. A few hours a week, I’d spend with Betaniqi and my statue to give myself strength and inspiration. All the rest of my time was spent with Magister Ilther or his assistants, learning everything I could about enchantment. They taught me how to taste the deepest levels of magicka within a stored object.“A simple spell cast once, no matter how skillfully and no matter how spectacularly, is ephemeral, of the present, what it is and no more,” sighed Magister Ilther. “But placed in a home, it develops into an almost living energy, maturing and ripening so only its surface is touched when an unskilled hand wields it. You must consider yourself a miner, digging deeper to pull forth the very heart of gold.”Every night when the laboratory closed, I practiced what I had learned. I could feel my power grow and with it, the power of the disc. Whispering “Palla,” I delved into the artifact, feeling every slight nick that marked the runes and every facet of the gemstones. At times I was so close to her, I felt hands touching mine. But something dark and bestial, the reality of death I suppose, would always break across the dawning of my dream. With it came an overwhelming rotting odor, which the initiates in the chambers next to mine began to complain about.“Something must have crawled into the floorboards and died,” I offered lamely.Magister Ilther praised my scholarship, and allowed me the use of his laboratory after hours to further my studies. Yet no matter what I learned, Palla seemed scarcely closer. One night, it all ended. I was swaying in a deep ecstasy, moaning her name, the disc bruising my chest, when a sudden lightning flash through the window broke my concentration. A tempest of furious rain roared over Mir Corrup. I went to close the shutters, and when I returned to my table, I found that the disc had shattered.I broke into hysterical sobs and then laughter. It was too much for my fragile mind to bear such a loss after so much time and study. The next day and the day after, I spent in my bed, burning with a fever. Had I not been a Mages Guild with so many healers, I likely would have died. As it was, I provided an excellent study for the budding young scholars.When at last I was well enough to walk, I went to visit Betaniqi. She was charming as always, never once commenting on my appearance, which must have been ghastly. Finally I gave her reason to worry when I politely but firmly declined to walk with her along the reflecting pool.“But you love looking at the statuary,” she exclaimed.I felt that I owed her the truth and much more. “Dear lady, I love more than the statuary. I love your mother. She is all I’ve been able to think about for months now, ever since you and I first removed the tarp from that blessed sculpture. I don’t know what you think of me now, but I have been obsessed with learning how to bring her back from the dead.”Betaniqi stared at me, eyes wide. Finally she spoke: “I think you need to leave now. I don’t know if this is a terrible jest –”“Believe me, I wish it were. You see, I failed. I don’t know why. It could not have been that my love wasn’t strong enough, because no man had a stronger love. Perhaps my skills as an enchanter are not masterful, but it wasn’t from lack of study!” I could feel my voice rise and knew I was beginning to rant, but I could not hold back. “Perhaps the fault lay in that your mother never met me, but I think that only the caster’s love is taken into account in the necromantic spell. I don’t know what it was! Maybe that horrible creature, the monster that killed her, cast some sort of curse on her with its dying breath! I failed! And I don’t know why!”With a surprising burst of speed and strength for so small a lady, Betaniqi shoved herself against me. She screamed, “Get out!” and I fled out the door.Before she slammed the door shut, I offered my pathetic apologies: “I’m so sorry, Betaniqi, but consider that I wanted to bring your mother back to you. It’s madness, I know, but there is only one thing that’s certain in my life and that’s that I love Palla.”The door was nearly shut, but the girl opened it crack to ask tremulously: “You love whom?”“Palla!” I cried to the Gods.“My mother,” she whispered angrily. “Was named Xarlys. Palla was the monster.”I stared at the closed door for Mara knows how much time, and then began the long walk back to the Mages Guild. My memory searched through the minutiae to the Tales and Tallows night so long ago when I first beheld the statue, and first heard the name of my love. That Breton initiate, Gelyn had spoken. He was behind me. Was he recognizing the beast and not the lady?I turned the lonely bend that intersected with the outskirts of Mir Corrup, and a large shadow rose from the ground where it had been sitting, waiting for me.“Palla,” I groaned. “Pal La.”“Kiss me,” it howled.And that brings my story up to the present moment. Love is red, like blood. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Purloined Shadows | * Chapter One *The candle was lit, and the thief was standing there, blinking, caught. She was young, rather dirty, wearing ragged black clothes that were surely quite smart and expensive weeks ago when she had stolen them from one of the city’s best tailors. The look of surprise slipped from her face, and she took on a blank expression as she put the gold back on the table.“What are you doing here?” the man with the candle asked, stepping from the shadows.“That’s a stupid question,” the girl replied, frowning. “I’m obviously robbing you.”“Since nothing I have is missing,” the man smiled, glancing at the gold on the table. “I would have to say that you’re not robbing me. Attempting to rob me perhaps. The question I have is, why? You know who I am, I assume. You didn’t just come in through an unlocked door.”“I’ve stolen from everyone else. I’ve taken soul gems from the Mages Guild, I’ve robbed the treasury of the most secure fortress, I cheated the Archbishop of Julianos… I even pickpocketed the Emperor Pelagius at his coronation. I thought it was your turn.”“I’m flattered,” the man nodded. “Now that your ambition has been thwarted, what will you do? Flee? Perhaps retire?”“Teach me,” the girl replied, a little grin finding its way unconsciously on her face. “I picked all your locks, I slipped past all your wards… You designed them, you know how difficult that was for someone without training. I didn’t come here for six gold pieces. I came here to prove myself. Make me your student.”The Master of Stealth looked at the little girl burglar. “Your skill is not in need of training. Your planning is adequate, but I can help you with that. What is without hope is your ambition. You are past stealing for your livelihood, now you steal for the pleasure of it, for the challenge. That’s a personality trait which is incurable, and will lead you to an early grave.”“Haven’t you ever wanted to steal that which can’t be stolen?” the girl asked. “Something that would make your name known forever?”The Master did not answer: he only frowned.“Clearly I was fooled by your reputation,” she shrugged, and opened a window. “I thought you might want a willing accomplice on some great act of thievery which would go down in history. Like you said, my skill at planning is only adequate. I didn’t have in mind an escape route, but this will have to do.”The burglar slipped down the sheer wall, dashed across the shadowy courtyard, and within a few minutes was back at her room in the run-down tavern. The Master was waiting for her there, in the dark.“I didn’t see you go past me,” she gasped.“You turned on the street when you heard the owl call,” he replied. “The most important tool in the thieves’ repertoire is distraction, either planned or improvised. I suppose your lessons have begun.”“And what is the final test?” the girl smiled.When he told her, she could only stare. She had, it seemed, not misunderstood his reputation for daring. Not at all.* Chapter Two *For the week leading up to the Eighth of Hearthfire, the skies above Rindale were dark and alive as clouds of crows blotted out the sun. Their guttural squawks and groans deafened all. The peasants wisely bolted their doors and windows, praying to survival that most unholy of days.On the night of the summoning, the birds fell silent, their black unblinking eyes following the witches’ march into the glen. There were no moons to light the way, only the leader’s single torch in the gloom. Their white robes appeared as indistinct shapes, like the faintest of ghosts.A single tall tree stood in the middle of the clearing, every branch thick with crows, watching the procession without moving. The lead witch placed the torch at the base of the tree, and her seventeen followers formed a circle and began their slow, strange, wailing chant.As they sang, the glow of the torch began to change. It did not diminish at all, but its color became more and more grey, so it seemed a pulsating wave of ash had fallen on the witches. Then it grew darker still, so that for a moment, though the fire yet burned, it was darkest night in the forest. The penumbra continued until the torch was burning with a color without a name, emptiness beyond mere blackness. It cast a glow, but it was an unnatural scintillation falling on the witches. Their robes of white became black. The Dunmer among them had eyes of green, and ivory white flesh. The Nords appeared black as coal. The crows watching overhead were as pure white as the witches’ cloaks.The Daedra Princess Nocturnal stepped out of the pit of uncolor.She stood in the center of the circle, the tree of pallid crows her throne, aloof, as the witches continued their chanting, dropping their robes to prostrate themselves naked before their great mistress. Wrapping her night cloak around her, she smiled at their song. It spoke of her mystery, of veiled beauty, of eternal shadows and a divine future when the sun burns no more. Nocturnal let her cloak slide from her shoulders and was naked. Her witches did not raise their head from the ground, but continued their hymn of darkness.“Now,” said the girl to herself.She had been up in the tree all day, dressed in a ridiculous suit of mock crows. It was uncomfortable, but when the witches had arrived, she forgot all her aches, and concentrated on being perfectly still, like the other crows in the tree. It had taken considerable planning and study between her and the Master of Stealth to find the glen, and to learn what to expect in the summoning of Nocturnal. Gently, silently, the burglar eased herself down the branches of the tree, coming closer and closer to the Daedra Princess. She let herself break her concentration for just a moment, and wondered where the Master was. He had been confident in the plan. He said that when Nocturnal dropped her cloak, there would be a distraction, and it could be quickly taken in that instant provided the girl was in position at the precise right moment.The girl climbed along the lowest of the branches, carefully pushing aside the crows that were, as the Master said, transfixed by the Princess in her naked beauty. The girl was now close enough, if she only reached out her arm, to touch Nocturnal’s back.The song was rising to a crescendo, and the girl knew that the ceremony would soon be over. Nocturnal would clothe herself before the witches ended the chant, and the chance to take the cloak would be over. The girl gripped the tree branch tightly as her mind raced. Could it be that the Master was not here at all? Was this, was this conceivably the entire test? Was it only to show that it could be done, not to do it?The girl was furious. She had done everything perfectly, but the so-called Master of Stealth had proven himself a coward. Perhaps he had taught her a little in the months that it took to plan this, but what was it worth? Only one thing made her smile. On that night when she had stolen into his stronghold, she had kept one single gold piece, and he had never suspected it. It was symbolic, as symbolic as stealing the cloak of Nocturnal in its way, proving that the Master Thief could be robbed.The girl was so lost on her mind that she thought she imagined it for a moment when a man’s voice yelled out from the darkness, “Mistress!”The next words she knew she didn’t imagine: “Mistress! A thief! Behind you!”The witches raised their heads, and screamed, ruining the sanctity of the ceremony, as they charged forward. The crows awoke and burst from the tree in an explosion of feathers and toad-like cries. Nocturnal herself whirled around, affixing the girl with her black eyes.“Who art thee who dares profane?” The Princess hissed, as the pitch shadows flew from her body enveloping the girl in their lethal chill.In the last instant before she was swallowed alive by darkness, the girl looked to the ground and saw that the cloak was gone, and she answered, as she understood, “Oh, who am I? I’m the distraction.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Ruins of Kemel-Ze | Elder Scrolls Online splits this book into four parts.With the acclamations of the Fellows of the Imperial Society still ringing in my ears, I decided to return to Morrowind immediately. It was not without some regret that I bade farewell to the fleshpots of the Imperial City, but I knew that the wonders I had brought back from Raled-Makai had only scratched the surface of the Dwemer ruins in Morrowind. Even more spectacular treasures were out there, I felt, just waiting to be found, and I was eager to be off. I also had before me the salutary example of poor Bannerman, who was still dining out on his single expedition to Black Marsh twenty years ago. That would never be me, I vowed.With my letter from the Empress in hand, this time I would have the full cooperation of the Imperial authorities. No more need to worry about attacks from superstitious locals. But where should I look next? The ruins at Kemel-Ze were the obvious choice. Unlike Raled-Makai, getting to the ruins would not be a problem. Also known as the “Cliff City”, Kemel-Ze lies on the mainland side of the Vvardenfel Rift, sprawling down the sheer coastal cliff. Travelers from the east coast of Vvardenfel often visit the site by boat, and it can also be reached overland from the nearby villages without undue hardship.Once my expedition had assembled in Seyda Neen, with the usual tedious complications involved in operating in this half-civilized land, we set out for the village of Marog near the ruins, where we hoped to hire a party of diggers. My interpreter, Tuen Panai, an unusually jolly fellow for a Dark Elf who I had hired in Seyda Neen at the recommendation of the local garrison commander, assured me that the local villagers would be very familiar with Kemel-Ze, having looted the site for generations. Incidentally, Ten Penny (as we soon came to call him, to his constant amusement) proved invaluable and I would recommend him without hesitation to any of my colleagues who were planning similar expeditions to the wilds of Morrowind.At Marog, we ran into our first trouble. The hetman of the village, a reserved, elegant old fellow, seemed willing to cooperate, but the local priest (a representative of the absurd religion they have here, worshiping something called the Tribunal who they claim actually live in palaces in Morrowind) was fervently against us excavating the ruins. He looked likely to sway the villagers to his side with his talk of “religious taboos”, but I waved the Empress’s letter under his nose and mentioned something about my friend the garrison commander at Seyda Neen and he quieted right down. No doubt this was just a standard negotiating tactic arranged among the villagers to increase their pay. In any event, once the priest had stalked off muttering to himself, no doubt calling down curses upon the heads of the foreign devils, we soon had a line of villagers eager to sign on to the expedition.While my assistant was working out the mundane details of contracts, supplies, etc., Master Arum and I rode on to the ruins. By land, they can only be reached using narrow paths that wind down the face of the cliff from above, where any misstep threatens to send one tumbling into the sea foaming about the jagged rocks below. The city’s original entrance to the surface must have been in the part of the city to the northeast – the part that fell into the sea long ago when the eruption of Red Mountain created this mind-bogglingly vast crater. After successfully navigating the treacherous path, we found ourselves in a large chamber, open to the sky on one side, disappearing into the darkness on the other. As we stepped forward, our boots crunched on piles of broken metal, as common in Dwarven ruins as potsherds in other ancient sites. This was obviously where the looters brought their finds from deeper levels, stripping off the valuable outer casings of the Dwarven mechanisms and leaving their innards here – easier than lugging the intact mechanisms back up to the top of the cliff. I laughed to myself, thinking of the many warriors unwittingly walking around Tamriel with pieces of Dwarven mechanisms on their backs. For that, of course, is what most “Dwarven armor” really is – just the armored shells of ancient mechanical men. I sobered when I thought of how exceedingly valuable an intact mechanism would be. This place was obviously full of Dwarven devices, judging from the litter covering the floor of this vast chamber – or had been, I reminded myself. Looters had been working over this site for centuries. Just the casing alone would be worth a small fortune, sold as armor. Most Dwarven armor is made of mismatched pieces from various devices, hence its reputation for being bulky and unwieldy. But a matched set from an intact mechanism is worth more than its weight in gold, for the pieces all fit together smoothly and the wearer hardly notices the bulk. Of course, I had no intention of destroying my finds for armor, no matter how valuable. I would bring it back to the Society for scientific study. I imagined the astonished cries of my colleagues as I unveiled it at my next lecture, and smiled again.I picked up a discarded gear from the piles at my feet. It still gleamed brightly, as if new-made, the Dwarven alloys resisting the corrosion of time. I wondered what secrets remained hidden in the maze of chambers that lay before me, defying the efforts of looters, waiting to gleam again in the light they had not seen in long eons. Waiting for me. It remained only to find them! With an impatient gesture to Master Arum to follow, I strode forward into the gloom.Master Arum, Ten Penny and I spent several days exploring the ruins while my assistants set up camp at the top of the cliff and hauled supplies and equipment from the village. I was looking for a promising area to begin excavation — a blocked passage or corridor untouched by looters that might lead to completely untouched areas of the ruins.We found two such areas early on, but soon discovered that the many winding passages bypassed the blockage and gave access to the rooms behind. Nevertheless, even these outer areas, for the most part stripped clean of artifacts by generations of looters, were full of interest to the professional archaeologist. Behind a massive bronze door, burst from its hinges by some ancient turmoil of the earth, we discovered a large chamber filled with exquisite wall-carvings, which impressed even the jaded Ten Penny, who claimed to have explored every Dwarven ruin in Morrowind. They seemed to depict an ancient ritual of some kind, with a long line of classically-bearded Dwarven elders processing down the side walls, all seemingly bowing to the giant form of a god carved into the front wall of the chamber, which was caught in the act of stepping forth from the crater of a mountain in a cloud of smoke or steam. According to Master Arum, there are no known depictions of Dwarven religious rituals, so this was an exciting find indeed. I set a team to work prying the carved panels from the wall, but they were unable to even crack the surface. On closer examination the chamber appeared to be faced with a metallic substance with the texture and feel of stone, impervious to any of our tools. I considered having Master Arum try his blasting magic on the walls, but decided that the risk of destroying the carvings was too great. Much as I would have preferred to bring them back to the Imperial City, I had to settle for taking rubbings of the carvings. If my colleagues in the Society showed enough interest, I was sure a specialist could be found, perhaps a master alchemist, who could find a way to safely remove the panels.I found another curious room at the top of a long winding stair, barely passable due to the fall of rubble from the roof. At the top of the stair was a domed chamber with a large ruined mechanism at its center. Painted constellations were still visible in some places on the surface of the dome. Master Arum and I agreed that this must have been some kind of observatory, and the mechanism was therefore the remains of a Dwarven telescope. To remove it from ruins down the narrow stairway would require its complete disassembly (which fact no doubt had preserved it from the attention of looters), so I decided to leave it in place for the time being. The existence of this observatory suggested, however, that this room had once been above the surface. Closer examination of the structure revealed that this was indeed a building, not an excavated chamber. The only other doorways from the room were completely blocked, and careful measurements from the top of the cliff to the entry room and then to the observatory revealed that we were still more than 250 feet below the present ground level. A sobering reminder of the forgotten fury of Red Mountain.This discovery led us to focus our attentions downward. Since we now knew approximately where the ancient surface lay, we could rule out many of the higher blocked passages. One wide passage, impressively flanked with carven pillars, particularly drew my interest. It ended in a massive rockfall, but we could see where looters had begun and then abandoned a tunnel through this debris. With my team of diggers and Master Arum’s magery to assist, I believed we could succeed where our predecessors had failed. I therefore set my team of Dark Elves to work on clearing the passage, relieved finally to be beginning the real exploration of Kemel-Ze. Soon, I hoped, my boots would be stirring up dust that had lain undisturbed since the dawn of time.With this exciting prospect before me, I may have driven my diggers a bit too hard. Ten Penny reported that they were beginning to grumble about the long days, and that some were talking of quitting. Knowing from experience that nothing puts heart back into these Dark Elves like a taste of the lash, I had the ringleaders whipped and the rest confined to the ruins until they had finished clearing the passageway. Thank Stendarr for my foresight in requisitioning a few legionnaires from Seyda Neen! They were sullen at first, but with the promise of an extra day’s wages when they broke through, they soon set to work with a will. While these measures may sound harsh to my readers back in the comforts of civilization, let me assure you that there is no other way to get these people to stick to a task.The blockage was much worse than I had first thought, and in the end it took almost two weeks to clear the passage. The diggers were as excited as I was when their picks finally broke through the far end into emptiness, and we shared a round of the local liquor together (a foul concoction, in truth) to show that all was forgiven. I could hardly restrain my eagerness as they enlarged the hole to allow entry into the chamber beyond. Would the passage lead to entire new levels of the ancient city, filled with artifacts left by the vanished Dwarves? Or would it be only a dead end, some side passage leading nowhere? My excitement grew as I slid through the hole and crouched for a moment in the darkness beyond. From the echoing sounds of the stones rattling beneath my feet, I was in a large room. Perhaps very large. I stood up carefully, and unhooded my lantern. As the light flooded the chamber, I looked around in astonishment. Here were wonders beyond even my wildest dreams!As the light from my lamp filled the chamber beyond the rock fall, I looked around in astonishment. Everywhere was the warm glitter of Dwarven alloys. I had found an untouched section of the ancient city! My heart pounding with excitement, I looked around me. The room was vast, the roof soaring up into darkness beyond the reach of my lamp, the far end lost in shadows with only a tantalizing glimmer hinting at treasures not yet revealed. Along each wall stood rows of mechanical men, intact except for one oddity: their heads had been ritually removed and placed on the floor at their feet. This could mean only one thing — I had discovered the tomb of a great Dwarven noble, maybe even a king! Burials of this type had been discovered before, most famously by Ransom’s expedition to Hammerfell, but no completely intact tomb had ever been found. Until now.But if this was truly a royal burial, where was the tomb? I stepped forward gingerly, the rows of headless bodies standing silently as they had for eons, their disembodied eyes seeming to watch me as I passed. I had heard wild tales of the Curse of the Dwarves, but had always laughed it off as superstition. But now, breathing the same air as the mysterious builders of this city, which had lain undisturbed since the cataclysm that spelled their doom, I felt a twinge of fear. There was some power here, I felt, something malevolent that resented my presence. I stopped for a moment and listened. All was silent.Except… it seemed I heard a faint hiss, regular as breathing. I fought down a sudden surge of panic. I was unarmed, not thinking of danger in my haste to explore past the blocked passage. Sweat dripped down my face as I scanned the gloom for any movement. The room was warm, I suddenly noticed, much warmer than the rest of the labyrinth thus far. My excitement returned. Could I have found a section of the city still connected to a functioning steam grid? Pipes ran along the walls, as in all sections of the city. I walked over and placed my hand on one. It was hot, almost too hot to touch! Now I saw that in places where the ancient piping had corroded, small jets of steam were escaping — the sound I had heard. I laughed at my own credulity.I now advanced quickly to the far end of the room, giving a cheerful salute to the ranks of mechanical soldiers who had appeared so menacing only moments before. I smiled with triumph as the light swept back the darkness of centuries to reveal the giant effigy of a Dwarven king standing on a raised dais, his metal hand clutching his rod of office. This was the prize indeed! I circled the dais slowly, admiring the craftsmanship of the ancient Dwarves. The golden king stood twenty feet tall under a freestanding domed cupola, his long upswept beard jutting forward proudly as his glittering metal eyes seemed to follow me. But my superstitious mood had passed, and I gazed benevolently on the old Dwarven king. My king, as I had already begun to think of him. I stepped onto the dais to get a better look at the sculpted armor. Suddenly the eyes of the figure opened and it raised a mailed fist to strike!I leaped to one side as the golden arm came crashing down, striking sparks from the steps where I had stood a moment before. With a hiss of steam and the whir of gears, the giant figure stepped ponderously out from under its canopy and strode towards me with frightening speed, its eyes tracking me as I scrambled backwards. I dodged behind a pillar as the fist whistled down again. I had dropped my lantern in the confusion, and now I crept into the darkness outside the pool of light, hoping to slip between the headless mechanisms and thus escape back to the safety of the passageway. Where had the monster gone? You would think that a twenty-foot golden kind would be hard to miss, but he was nowhere to be seen. The guttering lamp only illuminated a small part of the room. He could be hiding anywhere in the gloom. I crawled faster. Without warning, the dim ranks of Dwarven soldiers in front of me went flying as the monstrous guardian loomed before me. He had cut off my escape! As I dodged backwards, blow after blow whistled down as the implacable machine followed me relentlessly, driving me into the far corner of the room. At last there was nowhere left for me to go. My back was to the wall. I glared up at my foe, determined to die on my feet. The huge fists lifted for one final blow.The room blazed with sudden light. Bolts of purple energy crackled across the metal carapace of the Dwarven monster, and it halted, half-turning to meet this new threat. Master Arum had come! I was about to raise a cheer when the giant figure turned back to me, unharmed by the lightning bolt hurled by Master Arum, determined to destroy this first intruder. I shouted out “Steam! Steam!” as the giant raised his fist to crush me into the floor. There was a hiss and a gust of bitter cold and I looked up. The monster was now covered with a shell of ice, frozen in the very moment of dispatching me. Master Arum had understood. I leaned against the wall with relief.The ice cracked above me. The giant golden king stood before me, the shell of ice falling away, his head swiveling towards me in triumph. Was there no stopping this Dwarven monstrosity?! But then the light faded from his eyes, and his arms dropped to his sides. The magical frost had worked, cooling its steam-driven energy.As Master Arum and the diggers crowded around me, congratulating me on my narrow escape, my thoughts drifted. I imagined my return to the Imperial City, and I knew that this would be my greatest triumph yet. How could I possibly top this find? Perhaps it was time to move on. Recovering the fabled Eye of Argonia… now that would be a coup! I smiled to myself, reveling in the glory of the moment but already planning my next adventure. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Surfeit of Thieves | “This looks interesting,” said Indyk, his eyes narrowing to observe the black caravan making its way to the spires of the secluded castle. A gaudy, alien coat of arms marked each carriage, the lacquer glistening in the light of the moons. “Who do you suppose they are?”“They’re obviously well-off,” smiled his partner, Heriah. “Perhaps some new Imperial Cult dedicated to the acquisition of wealth?”“Go into town and find out what you can about the castle,” said Indyk. “I’ll see if I can learn anything about who these strangers are. We meet on this hill tomorrow night.”Heriah had two great skills: picking locks and picking information. By dusk of the following day, she had returned to the hill. Indyk joined her an hour later.“The place is called Ald Olyra,” she explained. “It dates back to the second era when a collection of nobles built it to protect themselves during one of the epidemics. They didn’t want any of the diseased masses to get into their midst and spread the plague, so they built up quite a sophisticated security system for the time. Of course, it’s mostly fallen into ruin, but I have a good idea about what kind of locks and traps might still be operational. What did you find out?”“I wasn’t nearly so successful,” frowned Indyk. “No one seemed to have any idea about the group, even that that there were here. I was about to give up, but at the charterhouse, I met a monk who said that his masters were a hermetic group called the Order of St. Eadnua. I talked to him for some time, this fellow name of Parathion, and it seems they’re having some sort of ritual feast tonight.”“Are they wealthy?” asked Heriah impatiently.“Embarrassingly so according to the fellow. But they’re only at the castle for tonight.”“I have my picks on me,” winked Heriah. “Opportunity has smiled on us.”She drew a diagram of the castle in the dirt: the main hall and kitchen were near the front gate, and the stables and secured armory were in the back. The thieves had a system that never failed. Heriah would find a way into the castle and collect as much loot as possible, while Indyk provided the distraction. He waited until his partner had scaled the wall before rapping on the gate. Perhaps this time he would be a bard, or a lost adventurer. The details were most fun to improvise.Heriah heard Indyk talking to the woman who came to the gate, but she was too far away to hear the words exchanged. He was evidently successful: a moment later, she heard the door shut. The man had charm, she would give him that.Only a few of the traps and locks to the armory had been set. Undoubtedly, many of the keys had been lost in time. Whatever servants had been in charge of securing the Order’s treasures had brought a few new locks to affix. It took extra time to maneuver the intricate hasps and bolts of the new traps before proceeding to the old but still working systems, but Heriah found her heart beating with anticipation. Whatever lay beyond the door, she thought, must be of sufficient value to merit such protection.When at last the door swung quietly open, the thief found her avaricious dreams paled to reality. A mountain of golden treasure, ancient relics glimmering with untapped magicka, weaponry of matchless quality, gemstones the size of her fist, row after row of strange potions, and stacks of valuable documents and scrolls. She was so enthralled by the sight, she did not hear the man behind her approach.“You must be Lady Tressed,” said the voice and she jumped.It was a monk in a black, hooded robe, intricately woven with silver and gold threads. For a moment, she could not speak. This was the sort of encounter that Indyk loved, but she could think to do nothing but nod her head with what she hoped looked like certainty.“I’m afraid I’m a little lost,” she stammered.“I can see that,” the man laughed. “That’s the armory. I’ll show you the way to the dining hall. We were afraid you weren’t going to arrive. The feast is nearly over.”Heriah followed the monk across the courtyard, to the double doors leading to the dining hall. A robe identical to the one he was wearing hung on a hook outside, and he handed it to her with a knowing smile. She slipped it on. She mimicked him as she lowered the hood over her head and entered the hall.Torches illuminated the figures within around the large table. Each wore the uniform black robe that covered all features, and from the look of things, the feast was over. Empty plates, platters, and glasses filled every inch of the wood with only the faintest spots and dribbles of the food remaining. It was a breaking of a fast it seemed. For a moment, Heriah stopped to think about poor, lost Lady Tressed who had missed her opportunity for gluttony.The only unusual item on the table was its centerpiece: a huge golden hourglass which was on its last minute’s worth of sand.Though each person looked alike, some were sleeping, some were chatting merrily to one another, and one was playing a lute. Indyk’s lute, she noticed, and then noticed Indyk’s ring on the man’s finger. Heriah was suddenly grateful for the anonymity of the hood. Perhaps Indyk would not realize that it was she, and that she had blundered.“Tressed,” said the young man to the assembled, who turned as one to her and burst into applause.The conscious members of the Order arose to kiss her hand, and introduce themselves.“Nirdla.”“Suelec.”“Kyler.”The names got stranger.“Toniop.”“Htillyts.”“Noihtarap.”She could not help laughing: “I understand. It’s all backwards. Your real names are Aldrin, Celeus, Relyk, Poinot, Styllith, Parathion.”“Of course,” said the young man. “Won’t you have a seat?”“Sey,” giggled Heriah, getting into the spirit of the masque and taking an empty chair. “I suppose that when the hourglass runs out, the backwards names go back to normal?”“That’s correct, Tressed,” said the woman next to her. “It’s just one of our Order’s little amusements. This castle seemed like the appropriately ironic venue for our feast, devised as it was to shun the plague victims who were, in their way, a walking dead.”Heriah felt herself light-headed from the odor of the torches, and bumped into the sleeping man next to her. He fell face forward onto the table.“Poor Esruoc Tsrif,” said a neighboring man, helping to prop the body up. “He’s given us so much.”Heriah stumbled to her feet and began walking uncertainly for the front gate.“Where are you going, Tressed?” asked one of the figures, his voice taking on an unpleasant mocking quality.“My name isn’t Tressed,” she mumbled, gripping Indyk’s arm. “I’m sorry, partner. We need to go.”The last crumb of sand fell in the hour glass as the man pulled back his hood. It was not Indyk. It was not even human, but a stretched grotesquerie of a man with hungry eyes and a wide mouth filled with tusk-like fangs.Heriah fell back into the chair of the figure they called Esruoc Tsrif. His hood fell open, revealing the pallid, bloodless face of Indyk. As she began to scream, they fell on her.In her last living moment, Heriah finally spelled “Tressed” backwards. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Adventures of Eslaf Erol | Eslaf Erol: BeggarEslaf Erol was the last of the litter of five born to the Queen of the prosperous Nordic kingdom of Erolgard, Lahpyrcopa, and her husband, the King of Erolgard, Ytluaf. During pregnancy, the Queen had been more than twice as wide as she was tall, and the act of delivery took three months and six days after it had begun. It is perhaps understandable that the Lahpyrcopa elected, upon expelling Eslaf to frown, say, ‘Good riddance,’ and die.Like many Nords, Ytluaf did not care very much for his wife and less for his children. His subjects were puzzled, therefore, when he announced that he would follow the ancient tradition of his people of Atmora of following his beloved spouse to the grave. They had not thought they were particularly in love, nor were they aware that such a tradition existed. Still, the simple people were grateful, for the little royal drama alleviated their boredom, which was and is a common problem in the more obscure parts of northern Skyrim, particularly in wintertide.He gathered his household staff and his five fat, bawling little heirs in front of him, and divided his estate. To his son Ynohp, he gave his title; to his son Laernu, he gave his land; to his son Suoibud, he gave his fortune; to his daughter Laicifitra, he gave his army. Ytluaf’s advisors had suggested he keep the inheritance together for the good of the kingdom, but Ytluaf did not particularly care for his advisors, or the kingdom, for that matter. Upon making his announcement, he drew his dagger across his throat.One of the nurses, who was rather shy, finally decided to speak as the King’s life ebbed away. ‘Your highness, you forgot your fifth child, little Eslaf.’Good Ytluaf groaned. It is somewhat hard to concentrate with blood gushing from one’s throat, after all. The King tried in vain to think of something to bequeath, but there was nothing left.Finally he sputtered, irritably, ‘Eslaf should have taken something then’ and died.That a babe but a few days old was expected to demand his rightful inheritance was arguably unfair. But so Eslaf Erol was given his birthright with his father’s dying breath. He would have nothing, but what he had taken.Since no one else would have him, the shy nurse, whose name was Drusba, took the baby home. It was a decrepit little shack, and over the years that followed, it became more and more decrepit. Unable to find work, Drusba sold all of her furnishings to buy food for little Eslaf. By the time he was old enough to walk and talk, she had sold the walls and the roof as well, so they had nothing but a floor to call home. And if you’ve ever been to Skyrim, you can appreciate that that is scarcely sufficient.Drusba did not tell Eslaf the story of his birth, or that his brothers and sister were leading quite nice lives with their inheritances, for, as we have said, she was rather shy, and found it difficult to broach the subject. She was so painfully shy, in fact, that whenever he asked any questions about where he came from, Drusba would run away. That was more or less her answer to everything, to flee.In order to communicate with her at all, Eslaf learned how to run almost as soon as he could walk. He couldn’t keep up with his adopted mother at first, but in time he learned to go toe-heel toe-heel if he anticipated a short but fast sprint, and heel-toe heel-toe if it seemed Drusba was headed for a long distance marathon flight. He never did get all the answers he needed from her, but Eslaf did learn how to run.The kingdom of Erolgard had, in the years that Eslaf was growing, become quite a grim place. King Ynohp did not have a treasury, for Suoibud had been given that; he did not have any property for income, for Laernu had been given that; he did not have an army to protect the people, for Laicifitra had been given that. Futhermore, as he was but a child, all decisions in the kingdom went through Ynohp’s rather corrupt council. It had become a bureaucratic exploitative land of high taxes, rampant crime, and regular incursions from neighboring kingdoms. Not a particular unusual situation for a kingdom of Tamriel, but an unpleasant one nonetheless.The time finally came when the taxcollector arrived to Drusba’s hovel, such as it was, to collect the only thing he could – the floor. Rather than protest, the poor shy maid ran away, and Eslaf never saw her again.Without a home or a mother, Eslaf did not know what to do. He had grown accustomed to the cold open air in Drusba’s shack, but he was hungry.‘May I have a piece of meat?’ he asked the butcher down the street. ‘I’m very hungry.’The man had known the boy for years, often spoke to his wife about how sorry he felt for him, growing up in a home with no ceilings or walls. He smiled at Eslaf and said, ‘Go away, or I’ll hit you.’Eslaf hurriedly left the butcher and went to a nearby tavern. The tavernkeeper had been a former valet in the king’s court and knew that the boy was by right a prince. Many times, he had seen the poor ragged lad in the streets, and sighed at the way fate had treated him.‘May I have something to eat?’ Eslaf asked this tavernkeeper. ‘I’m very hungry.’‘You’re lucky I don’t cook you up and eat you,’ replied the tavernkeeper.Eslaf hurriedly left the tavern. For the rest of the day, the boy approached the good citizens of Erolgard, begging for food. One person had thrown something at him, but it turned out to be an inedible rock.As night fell, a raggedy man came up to Eslaf and, without saying a word, handed him a piece of fruit and a piece of dried meat. The lad took it, wide-eyed, and as he devoured it, he thanked the man very sweetly.‘If I see you begging on the streets tomorrow,’ the man growled. ‘I’ll kill you myself. There are only so many beggars we of the guild allow in any one town, and you make it one too many. You’re ruining business.’It was a good thing Eslaf Erol knew how to run. He ran all night.Eslaf Erol’s story is continued in the book ‘Thief.’Eslaf Erol: ThiefIf the reader has not yet had the pleasure of reading the first volume in these series on the life of Eslaf Erol, ‘Beggar,’ he should close this book immediately, for I shan’t recap.I will tell you this much, gentle reader. When we last saw Eslaf, he was a boy, an orphan, a failed beggar, running through the wild winter woods of Skyrim, away from his home of Erolgard. He continued running, stopping here and there, for many more years, until he was a young man.Eslaf discovered that among the ways of getting food, asking for it was the most troublesome. Far easier was finding it in the wilderness, or taking it from unguarded market stalls. The only thing worse than begging to get food was begging for the opportunity to work for the money to buy it. That seemed needlessly complicated.No, as far as Eslaf was concerned, he was best off being a scavenger, a beggar, and a thief.He commited his first act of thievery shortly after leaving Erolgard, while in the southern woods of Tamburkar in the rugged land near Mount Jensen just east of the village of Hoarbeld. Eslaf was starving, having not eaten anything but a rather scrawny raw squirrel in four days, and he smelled meat cooking and then found the smoke. A band of minstral bards was making camp. He watched them from the bushes as they cooked, and joked, and flirted, and sang.He could’ve asked them for some food, but so many others had refused him before. Instead, he rushed out, grabbed a piece of meat from the fire, and wincing from the burns, scrambled up the nearest tree to devour it while the bards stood under him and laughed.‘What is your next move, thief?’ giggled a fair, red-headed woman who was covered with tattoos. ‘How do you intend to disappear without us catching and punishing you?’As the hunger subsided, Eslaf realized she was right. The only way to get out of the tree without falling in their midst was to take the branch down to where it hung over a creek. It was a drop off a cliff of about fifty feet. That seemed like the wisest strategy, so Eslaf began crawling in that direction.‘You do know how to fall, boy?’ called out a young Khajiiti, but a few years older than Eslaf, thin but muscular, graceful in his slightest movements. ‘If you don’t, you should just climb down here and take what’s coming to you. It’s idiotic to break your neck, when we’d just give you some bruises and send you on your way.’‘Of course I know how to fall,’ Eslaf called back, but he didn’t. He just thought the trick of falling was to have nothing underneath you, and let nature take its course. But fifty feet up, when you’re looking down, is enough to give anyone pause.‘I’m sorry to doubt your abilities, Master Thief,’ said the Khajiiti, grinning. ‘Obviously you know to fall feet first with your body straight but loose to avoid cracking like an egg. It seems you are destined to escape us.’Eslaf wisely followed the Khajiiti’s hints, and leapt into the river, falling without much grace but without hurting himself. In the years that followed, he had to make several more drops from even greater heights, usually after a theft, sometimes without water beneath him, and he improved the basic technique.When he arrived in the western town of Jallenheim on the morning of his twenty-first birthday, it didn’t take him long to find out who was the richest person, most deserving of being burgled. An impregnable palace in a park near the center of town was owned by a mysterious young man named Suoibud. Eslaf wasted no time in finding the palace and watching it. A fortified palace he had come to learn was like a person, with quirks and habits beneath its hard shell.It was not an old place, evidently whatever money this Suoibud had come into was fairly recent. It was regularly patrolled by guards, implying that the rich man was fearful of been burgled, with good reason. The most distinctive feature of the palace was its tower, rising a hundred feet above the stone walls, doubtless giving the occupant a good defensive view. Eslaf guessed that that if Suoibud was as paranoid as he guessed him to be, the tower would also provide a view of the palace storehouse. The rich man would want to keep an eye on his fortune. That meant that the loot couldn’t be directly beneath the tower, but somewhere in the courtyard within the walls.The light in the tower shone all night long, so Eslaf boldly decided that the best time to burgle was by the light of day, when Suoibud must sleep. That would be the time the guards would least expect a thief to pounce.And so, when the noon sun was shining over the palace, Eslaf quickly scaled the wall near the front gate and waited, hidden in the crenelations. The interior courtyard was plain and desolate, with few places to hide, but he saw that there were two wells. One the guards used from time to time to draw up water and slake their thirst, but Eslaf noticed that guards would pass by the other well, never using it.He waited until the guards were distracted, just for a second, by the arrival of a merchant in a wagon, bearing goods for the palace. While they were searching his wagon, Eslaf leapt, elegantly, feet first, from the wall into the well.It was not a particularly soft landing for, as Eslaf had guessed, the well was not full of water, but gold. Still, he knew how to roll after a fall, and he didn’t hurt himself. In the dank subterranean storehouse, he stuffed his pockets with gold and was about to go to the door which he assumed would lead to the tower when he noticed a gem the size of an apple, worth more than all the gold that was left. Eslaf found room for it down his pants.The door did indeed lead to the tower, and Eslaf followed its curving stairwell up, walking quietly but quickly. At the top, he found the master of the palace’s private quarters, ornate and cold, with invaluable artwork and decorative swords and shields on the walls. Eslaf assumed the snoring lump under the sheets was Suoibud, but he didn’t investigate too closely. He crept to the windows and looked out.It was going to be a difficult fall, for certes. He needed to jump from the tower, past the walls, and hit the tree on the other side. The tree branches would hurt, but they would break his fall, and there was a pile of hay he had left under the tree to prevent further injury.Eslaf was about to leap when the occupant of the room woke up with a start, yelling, ‘My gem!’Eslaf and stared at him for a second, wide-eyed. They looked alike. Not surprising, since they were brothers.Eslaf Erol’s story is continued in the book ‘Warrior.’Eslaf Erol: WarriorThis is the third book in a four-book series. If you have not read the first two books, ‘Beggar’ and ‘Thief,’ you would be well advised to do so.Suoibud Erol did not know much of his past, nor did he care to.As a child, he had lived in Erolgard, but the kingdom was very poor and taxes were as a result very high. He was too young to manage his abundant inheritance, but his servants, fearing that their master would be ruined, moved him to Jallenheim. No one knew why that location was picked. Some old maid, long dead now, had thought it was a good place to raise a child. No one else had a better idea.There may have been children with a more pampered, more spoiled existance than young Suoibud, but that is doubtful. As he grew, he understood that he was rich, but he had nothing else. No family, no social position, no security at all. Loyalty, he found out on more than one occasion, cannot truly be bought. Knowing that he had but one asset, a vast fortune, he was determined to protect it, and, if possible, increase it.Some otherwise perfectly nice people are greedy, but Suoibud was that rare accident of nature or breeding who has no other interest but acquiring and hoarding gold. He was willing to do anything to increase his fortune. Most recently, he had begun secretly hiring mercenaries to attack desirable properties, and then buying them when no one wanted to live there any more. The attacks would then, of course, cease, and Suoibud would have profitable land which he had purchased for a song. It had begun small with a few farms, but recently he had begun a more ambitious campaign.In north-central Skyrim, there is an area called The Aalto, which is of unique geographical interest. It is a dormant volcanic valley surrounded on all sides by glaciers, so the earth is hot from the volcano, but the constant water drizzle and air is frigid. A grape called Jazbay grows there comfortably, and everywhere else in Tamriel it withers and dies. The strange vineyard is a privately owned, and the wine produced from it is thus rare and extremely expensive. It is said that the Emperor needs the permission of the Imperial Council to have a glass of it once a year.In order to harass the owner of The Aalto into selling his land cheap, Suoibud had to hire more than a few mercenaries. He had to hire the finest private army in Skyrim.Suoibud did not like spending money, but he had agreed to pay the general of the army, a woman called Laicifitra, a gem the size of an apple. He had not given it to her yet – payment was to be delivered on the success of the mission – but he had trouble sleeping knowing that he was going to giving up such a prize. He always slept during the day so he could watch his storehouse by night, when he knew thieves were about.That brings us up to this moment when, after a fitful sleep, Suoibud woke up at about noon, and surprised a thief in his bedroom. The thief was Eslaf.Eslaf had been contemplating a leap from the window, a hundred feet down, into the branches of a tree beyond the walls of the fortified palace, and a tumble into a stack of hay. Anyone who has ever attempted such a feat will testify that it takes some concentration and nerve to do such a thing. When he saw that the rich man sleeping in the room had awakened, both left him, and Eslaf slipped behind a tall ornamental shield on display to wait for Suoibud to go back to sleep.Suoibud did not go back to sleep. He had heard nothing, but could feel someone in the room with him. He stood up and began pacing the room.Suoibud paced and paced, and gradually decided that he was imagining things. No one was there. His fortune was safe and secure.He was returning to his bed when he heard a clunk. Turning around, he saw the gem, the one he was to give to Laicifitra on the floor by the Atmoran cavalry shield. A hand reached out from behind the shield and grabbed it up.‘Thief!’ Suoibud cried out, grabbing a jeweled Akaviri katana from the wall and lunging at the shield.The ‘fight’ between Eslaf and Suoibud will not go down in the annals of great duels. Suoibud did not know how to use a sword, and Eslaf was no expert at blocking with a shield. It was clumsy, it was awkward. Suoibud was furious, but was psychologically incapable of using the sword in any way that could damage its fine filligree, reducing its market value. Eslaf kept moving, dragging the shield with him, trying to keep it between him and the blade, which is, after all, the most essential part of any block.Suoibud screamed in frustration as he struck at the shield, bumping its way across the room. He even tried negotiating with the thief, explaining that the gem was promised to a great warrior named Laicifitra, and if he would give it back, Suoibud would happily give him something else in return. Eslaf was not a genius, but he did not believe that.By the time Suoibud’s guards came to the bedroom in response to their master’s calls, he had succeeded in backing the shield into a window.They fell on the shield, having considerable more expertise with their swords than Suoibud did, but they discovered that there was no one behind it. Eslaf had leapt out the window and escaped.As he ran heavily through the streets of Jallenheim, making jingling noises from the gold coins in his pockets, and feeling the huge gem chafe where he had hidden it, Eslaf did not know where he should go next. He knew only that he could never go back to that town, and he must avoid this warrior named Laicifitra who had claims on the jewel.Eslaf Erol’s story is continued in the book ‘King.’Eslaf Erol: KingGentle reader, you will not understand a word of what follows unless you have read and commited to memory the first three volumes in this series, ‘Beggar,’ ‘Thief,’ and ‘Warrior,’ which leads up to this, the conclusion. I encourage you to seek them out at your favorite bookseller.We last left Eslaf Erol fleeing for his life, which was a common enough occurance for him. He had stolen a lot of gold, and one particularly large gem, from a rich man in Jallenheim named Suoibud. The thief fled north, spending the gold wildly, as thieves generally do, for all sorts of illicit pleasures, which would no doubt disturb the gentleman or lady reading this, so I will not go into detail.The one thing he held onto was the gem.He didn’t keep it because of any particular attachment, but because he did not know anyone rich enough to buy it from him. And so he found himself in the ironic situation of being penniless and having in his possession a gem worth millions.‘Will you give me a room, some bread, and a flagon of beer in exchange for this?’ he asked a tavernkeep in the little village of Kravenswold, which was so far north, it was half situated on the Sea of Ghosts.The tavernkeep looked at it suspiciously.‘It’s just crystal,’ Eslaf said quickly. ‘But isn’t it pretty?’‘Let me see that,’ said a young armor-clad woman at the end of the bar. Without waiting permission, she picked up the gem, studied it, and smiled not very sweetly at Eslaf. ‘Would you join me at my table?’‘I’m actually in a bit of a hurry,’ replied Eslaf, holding out his hand for the stone. ‘Another time?’‘Out of respect for my friend, the tavernkeep here, my men and I leave our weapons behind when we come in here,’ the woman said casually, not handing the gem back, but picking up a broom that was sitting against the bar. ‘I can assure you, however, that I can use this quite effectively as a blunt instrument. Not a weapon, of course, but an instrument to stun, medicinally crush a bone or two, and then – once it is on the inside…’‘Which table?’ asked Eslaf quickly.The young woman led him to a large table in the back of the tavern where ten of the biggest Nord brutes Eslaf had ever seen were sitting. They looked at him with polite disinterest, as if he were a strange insect, worth briefly studying before crushing.‘My name is Laicifitra,’ she said, and Eslaf blinked. That was the name Suoibud had uttered before Eslaf had made his escape. ‘And these are my lieutenants. I am the commander of a very large independent army of noble knights. The very best in Skyrim. Most recently we were given a job to attack a vineyard in The Aalto to force its owner, a man named Laernu, to sell to our employer, a man named Suoibud. Our payment was to be a gem of surpassing size and quality, quite famous and unmistakable.‘We did as we were asked, and when we went to Suoibud to collect our fee, he told us he was unable to pay, due to a recent burglary. In the end, though, he saw things our way, and paid us an amount of gold almost equal to the worth of the prize jewel… It did not empty out his treasury entirely, but it meant he was unable to buy the land in the Aalto after all. So we were not paid enough, Suoibud has taken a heavy financial blow, and Laernu’s prize crop of Jazbay has been temporarily destroyed for naught,’ Laicifitra took a long, slow drink of her mead before continuing. ‘Now, I wonder, could you tell me, how came you in the possession of the gem we were promised?’Eslaf did not answer at once.Instead, he took a piece of bread from the plate of the savage bearded barbarian on his left and ate it.‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘May I? Of course, I couldn’t stop you from taking the gem even if I wanted to, and as a matter of fact, I don’t mind at all. It’s also useless to deny how it came into my possession. I stole it from your employer. I certainly didn’t mean you or your noble knights any harm by it, but I can understand why the word of a thief is not suitable for one such as yourself.’‘No,’ replied Laicifitra, frowning, but her eyes showing amusement. ‘Not suitable at all.’‘But before you kill me,’ Eslaf said, grabbing another piece of bread. ‘Tell me, how suitable is it for noble knights such as yourself to be paid twice for one job? I have no honor myself, but I would have thought that since Suoibud took a profit loss to pay you, and now you have the gem, your handsome profit is not entirely honorable.’Laicifitra picked up the broom and looked at Eslaf. Then she laughed, ‘What is your name, thief?’‘Eslaf,’ said the thief.‘We will take the gem, as it was promised to us. But you are right. We should not be paid twice for the same job. So,’ said the warrior woman, putting down the broomstick. ‘You are our new employer. What would you have your own army do for you?’Many people could find quite a few good uses for their own army, but Eslaf was not among them. He searched his brain, and finally it was decided that it was a debt to be paid later. For all her brutality, Laicifitra was an simple woman, raised, he learned, by the very army she commanded. Fighting and honor were the only things she knew.When Eslaf left Kravenswold, he had an army at his beck and call, but not a coin to his name. He knew he would have to steal something soon.As he wandered the woods, scrounging for food, he was beset with a strange feeling of familiarity. These were the very woods he had been in as a child, also starving, also scrounging. When he came out on the road, he found that he had come back on the kingdom where he had been raised by the dear, stupid, shy maid Drusba.He was in Erolgard.It had fallen even deeper into despair since his youth. The shops that had refused him food were boarded up, abandoned. The only people left were hollow, hopeless figures, so ravaged by taxation, despotism, and barbaric raids that they were too weak to flee. Eslaf realized how lucky he was to have gotten out in his youth.There was, however, a castle and a king. Eslaf immediately made plans to raid the treasury. As usual, he watched the place carefully, taking note of the security and the habits of the guards. This took some time. In the end, he realized there was no security and no guards.He walked in the front door, and down the empty corridors to the treasury. It was full of precisely nothing, except one man. He was Eslaf’s age, but looked much older.‘There’s nothing to steal,’ he said. ‘Would that there was.’King Ynohp, though prematurely aged, had the same white blond hair and blue eyes like broken glass that Eslaf had. In fact, he resembled Suoibud and Laicifitra as well. And though Eslaf had never met the ruined landlord of the Aalto, Laernu, he looked him too. Not surprisingly, since they were quintuplets.‘So, you have nothing?’ asked Eslaf, gently.‘Nothing except my poor kingdom, curse it,’ the King grumbled. ‘Before I came to the throne, it was powerful and rich, but I inherited none of that, only the title. For my entire life, I’ve had responsibility thrust on my shoulders, but never had the means to handle it properly. I look over the desolation which is my birthright, and I hate it. If it were possible to steal a kingdom, I would not lift a finger to stop you.’It was, it turned out, quite possible to steal a kingdom. Eslaf became known as Ynohp, a deception easily done given their physical similarities. The real Ynohp, taking the name of Ylekilnu, happily left his demesne, becoming eventually a simple worker in the vineyards of The Aalto. For the first time free of responsibility, he fell into his new life with gusto, the years melting off him.The new Ynohp called in his favor with Laicifitra, using her army to restore peace to the kingdom of Erolgard. Now that it was safe, business and commerce began to return to the land, and Eslaf reduced the tyrannical taxes to encourage it to grow. Upon hearing that, Suoibud, ever nervous about losing his money, elected to return to the land of his birth. When he died years later, out of greed, he had refused to name someone an heir, so the kingdom received its entire fortune.Eslaf used part of the gold to buy the vineyards of The Aalto, after hearing great things of it from Ynohp.And so it was that Erolgard was returned to its previous prosperity by the fifth born child of King Ytluaf – Eslaf Erol, beggar, thief, warrior (of sorts), and king. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Armorers’ Challenge | This story previously appeared inTES3: Morrowind. In this edition, the final paragraphs describing the duel have been segnificantly changed, but the rest of the book remains the same.Three hundred years ago, when Katariah became Empress, the first and only Dunmer to rule all of Tamriel, she faced opposition from the Imperial Council. Even after she convinced them that she would be the best regent to rule the Empire while her husband Pelagius sought treatment for his madness, there was still conflict. In particular from the Duke of Vengheto, Thane Minglumire, who took a particular delight in exposing all of the Empress’s lack of practical knowledge.In this particular instance, Katariah and the Council were discussing the unrest in Black Marsh and the massacre of Imperial troops outside the village of Armanias. The sodden swampland and the sweltering climate, particular in summertide, would endanger the troops if they wore their usual armor.“I know a very clever armorer,” said Katariah, “His name is Hazadir, an Argonian who knows the environments our army will be facing. I knew him in Vivec where he was a slave to the master armorer there, before he moved to the Imperial City as a freedman. We should have him design armor and weaponry for the campaign.”Minglumire gave a short, barking laugh: “She wants a slave to design the armor and weaponry for our troops! Sirollus Saccus is the finest armorer in the Imperial City. Everyone knows that.”After much debate, it was finally decided to have both armorers contend for the commission. The Council also elected two champions of equal power and prowess, Nandor Beraid and Raphalas Eul, to battle using the arms and armaments of the real competitors in the struggle. Whichever champion won, the armorer who supplied him would earn the Imperial commission. It was decided that Beraid would be outfitted by Hazadir, and Eul by Saccus.The fight was scheduled to commence in seven days.Sirollus Saccus began work immediately. He would have preferred more time, but he recognized the nature of the test. The situation in Armanias was urgent. The Empire had to select their armorer quickly, and once selected, the preferred armorer had to act swiftly and produce the finest armor and weaponry for the Imperial army in Black Marsh. It wasn’t just the best armorer they were looking for. It was the most efficient.Saccus had only begun steaming the half-inch strips of black virgin oak to bend into bands for the flanges of the armor joints when there was a knock at his door. His assistant Phandius ushered in the visitor. It was a tall reptilian of common markings, a dull, green-fringed hood, bright black eyes, and a dull brown cloak. It was Hazadir, Katariah’s preferred armorer.“I wanted to wish you the best of luck on the — is that ebony?”It was indeed. Saccus had bought the finest quality ebony weave available in the Imperial City as soon as he heard of the competition and had begun the process of smelting it. Normally it was a six-month procedure refining the ore, but he hoped that a massive convection oven stoked by white flames born of magicka would shorten the operation to three days. Saccus proudly pointed out the other advancements in his armory. The acidic lime pools to sharpen the blade of the dai-katana to an unimaginable degree of sharpness. The Akaviri forge and tongs he would use to fold the ebony back and forth upon itself. Hazadir laughed.“Have you been to my armory? It’s two tiny smoke-filled rooms. The front is a shop. The back is filled with broken armor, some hammers, and a forge. That’s it. That’s your competition for the millions of gold pieces in Imperial commission.”“I’m sure the Empress has some reason to trust you to outfit her troops,” said Sirollus Saccus, kindly. He had, after all, seen the shop and knew that what Hazadir said was true. It was a pathetic workshop in the slums, fit only for the lowliest of adventurers to get their iron daggers and cuirasses repaired. Saccus had decided to make the best quality regardless of the inferiority of his rival. It was his way and how he became the best armorer in the Imperial City.Out of kindness, and more than a bit of pride, Saccus showed Hazadir how, by contrast, things should be done in a real professional armory. The Argonian acted as an apprentice to Saccus, helping him refine the ebony ore, and to pound it and fold it when it cooled. Over the next several days, they worked together to create a beautiful dai-katana with an edge honed sharp enough to trim a mosquito’s eyebrows, enchanted with flames along its length by one of the Imperial Battlemages, as well as a suit of armor of bound wood, leather, silver, and ebony to resist the winds of Oblivion.On the day of the battle, Saccus, Hazadir, and Phandius finished polishing the armor and brought in Raphalas Eul for the fitting. Hazadir left only then, realizing that Nandor Beraid would be at his shop shortly to be outfitted.The two warriors met before the Empress and Imperial Council in the arena, which had been flooded slightly to simulate the swampy conditions of Black Marsh. From the moment Saccus saw Eul in his suit of heavy ebony and blazing dai-katana and Beraid in his collection of dusty, rusted lizard-scales and spear from Hazadir’s shop, he knew who would win. And he was right.The first blow from the dai-katana lodged in Beraid’s soft shield, as there was no metal trim to deflect it. Before Eul could pull his sword back, Beraid let go of the now-flaming shield, still stuck on the sword, and poked at the joints of Eul’s ebony armor with his spear. Eul finally retrieved his sword from the ruined shield and slashed at Beraid, but his light armor was scaled and angled, and the attacks rolled off into the water, extinguishing the dai-katana’s flames. When Beraid struck at Eul’s feet, he fell into the churned mud and was unable to move. The Empress, out of mercy, called a victor.Hazadir received the commission and thanks to his knowledge of Argonian battle tactics and weaponry and how best to combat them, he designed implements of war that brought down the insurrection in Armanias. Katariah won the respect of Council, and even, grudgingly, that of Thane Minglumire. Sirollus Saccus went to Morrowind to learn what Hazadir learned there, and was never heard from again. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Axe Man | The Dragonborn version of this text features the subtitle “A surprising way to become proficient with an axe,” but is otherwise identical.Of all the members of the Morag Tong I’ve spoken with, none disturbed me as much as Minas Torik. A quiet and reserved man who never drank, never visited a brothel or even uttered a curse, he was famous for his ability to make people disappear. Once a person was targeted by the Brotherhood and Torik was sent to them, they would simply cease to be. I asked him once what his weapon of choice was, and was equally startled by his answer.“I only likes to use axes,” he said in his typical, quiet voice.The image of this silent, dour fellow attacking anyone with a weapon as inherently bloody and violent as an axe so frightened and intrigued me that I questioned him about it further. This is an inherently dangerous activity, for assassins are not typically keen to give out their stories. Torik did not mind the questions, though it took some time to get the full story out of him, as naturally shy and reserved as he was.It seemed that Torik had been orphaned as a very young age and sent to live with his uncle, a saltrice plantation owner in Sheogorad in northern Vvardenfell. The man promised to show his nephew the business and eventually make him a partner when he was old enough. In the meantime, the boy was put to work as his uncle’s house servant.It was a grueling life as the old man was very particular about how things should be done. The boy was first required to give all the floors in the house a thorough scouring, from the attic to the cellar. Whenever the floor was not cleaned to the uncle’s satisfaction, which was frequent, Torik was thrashed and forced to begin again.The boy’s second duty was to ring the bell that would bring the laborers into the house. This was done at least four times a day, once for each meal, but if his uncle had any news or additional instructions for the laborers — which he frequently did — the bell might need to be sounded a dozen times or more. It was a huge iron bell in the tower and the boy quickly discovered that he had to throw his entire body into the motion of pulling the chain in order to have it sound loud enough to bring everyone in from the field. If he was tired and did not pull the backbreaking chain hard enough, his uncle was soon at his side to beat him until he rang the bell loud and clear.Torik’s third task was dusting all the shelves in his uncle’s vast library. As deep and old as the shelves were, he was required to work with a long, heavy duster on a rod. The only way that he could reach to the back of the shelves was to hold the duster at his shoulder and then swing it out in a sweeping motion. Again, if the uncle saw any dust left over or felt that the boy was not working as hard as he ought to, the punishment was swift and severe.After several years, Minas Torik grew into a young man, but his job responsibilities were not increased. His uncle promised to teach him the business, once Torik had demonstrated his mastery of his servile assignments. Divorced from any knowledge of any work other than his own, Torik never knew how badly in debt his uncle was and how poorly the farm’s yield was.In his eighteenth year, Torik was called into the cellar by his uncle. He thought that he had not done a good enough job scouring the floor down there, and was frightened of the beating to come. What he found, however, was his uncle packing his goods into crates.“I’m leaving Morrowind,” he explained. “The business has gone sour, so I thought I’d try my luck running a caravan in Skyrim. I understand there’s good money to be made, trading fake Dwemer artifacts to the Nords and Cyrodiils. I wish I could take you with me, my lad, but there won’t be much need for scouring, bell pulling, and dusting where I’m going.”“But uncle,” said Torik. “I can’t read, I knows nothing of the business you promised to teach me. What wills I dos on my own?”“I’m certain you can find a job in some domestic capacity,” shrugged the uncle. “I’ve done my best with you.”Torik had never stood up to his uncle before, and felt no anger only a sort of coldness that gripped his heart. Among his uncle’s possessions being packed away was an old heavy iron axe, allegedly of Dwemer manufacture. He picked it up in his hands and was surprised to find that it was not much heavier than his dusting rod. In fact, it felt very comfortable as he pulled it over his shoulder and swung it out as he had done so many times before. In this instance, however, he swung it into his uncle’s right arm.The old man screamed with pain and rage, but for some reason, Torik didn’t feel frightened anymore. He propped the axe against his other shoulder, and swung it out again. It cut a swath across the old man’s chest and he fell to the floor.Torik hesitated before lifting the axe above his head. It was another natural position for him, like he was ringing a bell. Over and over again, he swung down as if he was calling the laborers in from the field. Except that this time, there was no sound except for a wet thump, and no laborers came in from the field. Of course, his uncle had sent them away hours before.After a time, there was nothing left of his uncle that couldn’t be washed down the cellar drain. The process of cleaning up came easily to Torik as well. Blood scrubbed up much quicker than the usual grime and saltrice flour that littered the cellar floor.It was well known that Torik’s uncle was planning to leave Morrowind, so his disappearance provoked no suspicion. The house and all the belongings were sold to the debt collectors, but Torik took the axe. It seemed that his uncle had given him some worthwhile business skills after all. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Black Arrow | The Black Arrow, v1I was young when the Duchess of Woda hired me as an assistant footman at her summer palace. My experience with the ways of the titled aristocracy was very limited before that day. There were wealthy merchants, traders, diplomats, and officials who had large operations in Eldenroot, and ostentatious palaces for entertaining, but my relatives were all far from those social circles.There was no family business for me to enter when I reached adulthood, but my cousin heard that an estate far from the city required servants. It was so remotely located that there were unlikely to be many applicants for the positions. I walked for five days into the jungles of Valenwood before I met a group of riders going my direction. They were three Bosmer men, one Bosmer woman, two Breton women, and a Dunmer man, adventurers from the look of them.“Are you also going to Moliva?” asked Prolyssa, one of the Breton women, after we had made our introductions.“I don’t know what that is,” I replied. “I’m seeking a domestic position with the Duchess of Woda.”“We’ll take you to her gate,” said the Dunmer Missun Akin, pulling me up to his horse. “But you would be wise not to tell Her Grace that students from Moliva escorted you. Not unless you don’t really want the position in her service.”Akin explained himself as we rode on. Moliva was the closest village to the Duchess’s estate, where a great and renowned archer had retired after a long life of military service. His name was Hiomaste, and though he was retired, he had begun to accept students who wished to learn the art of the bow. In time, when word spread of the great teacher, more and more students arrived to learn from the Master. The Breton women had come down all the way from the Western Reach of High Rock. Akin himself had journeyed across the continent from his home near the great volcano in Morrowind. He showed me the ebony arrows he had brought from his homeland. I had never seen anything so black.“From what we’ve heard,” said Kopale, one of the Bosmer men. “The Duchess is an Imperial whose family has been here even before the Empire was formed, so you might think that she was accustomed to the common people of Valenwood. Nothing could be further from the truth. She despises the village, and the school most of all.”“I suppose she wants to control all the traffic in her jungle,” laughed Prolyssa.I accepted the information with gratitude, and found myself dreading more and more my first meeting with the intolerant Duchess. My first sight of the palace through the trees did nothing to assuage my fears.It was nothing like any building I had ever seen in Valenwood. A vast edifice of stone and iron, with a jagged row of battlements like the jaws of a great beast. Most of the trees near the palace had been hewn away long ago: I could only imagine the scandal that must have caused, and what fear the Bosmer peasants must have had of the Duchy of Woda to have allowed it. In their stead was a wide gray-green moat circling in a ring around the palace, so it seemed to be on a perfect if artificial island. I had seen such sights in tapestries from High Rock and the Imperial Province, but never in my homeland.“There’ll be a guard at the gate, so we’ll leave you here,” said Akin, stopping his horse in the road. “It’d be best for you if you weren’t damned by association with us.”I thanked my companions, and wished them good luck with their schooling. They rode on and I followed on foot. In a few minutes’ time, I was at the front gate, which I noticed was linked to tall and ornate railings to keep the compound secure. When the gate-keeper understood that I was there to inquire about a domestic position, he allowed me past and signaled to another guard across the open lawn to extend the drawbridge and allow me to cross the moat.There was one last security measure: the front door. An iron monstrosity with the Woda Coat of Arms across the top, reinforced by more strips of iron, and a single golden keyhole. The man standing guard unlocked the door and gave me passage into the huge gloomy gray stone palace.Her Grace greeted me in her drawing room. She was thin and wrinkled like a reptile, cloaked in a simple red gown. It was obviously that she never smiled. Our interview consisted of a single question.“Do you know anything about being a junior footman in the employment of an Imperial noblewoman?” Her voice was like ancient leather.“No, Your Grace.”“Good. No servant ever understands what needs to be done, and I particularly dislike those who think they do. You’re engaged.”Life at the palace was joyless, but the position of junior footman was very undemanding. I had nothing to do on most days except to stay out of the Duchess’s sight. At such times, I usually walked two miles down the road to Moliva. In some ways, there was nothing special or unusual about the village – there are thousands of identical places in Valenwood. But on the hillside nearby was Master Hiomaste’s archery academy, and I would often take my luncheon and watch the practice.Prolyssa and Akin would sometimes meet me afterwards. With Akin, the subjects of conversation very seldom strayed far from archery. Though I was very fond of him, I found Prolyssa a more enchanting companion, not only because she was pretty for a Breton, but also because she seemed to have interests outside the realm of marksmanship.“There’s a circus in High Rock I saw when I was a little girl called the Quill Circus,” she said during one of our walks through the woods. “They’ve been around for as long as anyone can remember. You have to see them if you ever can. They have plays, and sideshows, and the most amazing acrobats and archers you’ve ever seen. That’s my dream, to join them some day when I’m good enough.”“How will you know when you’re a good enough archer?” I asked.She didn’t answer, and when I turned, I realized that she had disappeared. I looked around, bewildered, until I heard laughter from the tree above me. She was perched on a branch, grinning.“I may not join as an archer, maybe I’ll join as an acrobat,” she said. “Or maybe as both. I figured that Valenwood would be the place to go to see what I could learn. You’ve got all those great teachers to imitate in the trees here. Those ape men.”She coiled up, bracing her left leg before springing forward on her right. In a second, she had leapt across to a neighboring branch. I found it difficult to keep talking to her.“The Imga, you mean?” I stammered. “Aren’t you nervous up at that height?”“It’s a cliche, I know,” she said, jumping to an even higher branch, “But the secret is not to ever look down.”“Would you mind coming down?”“I probably should anyhow,” she said. She was a good thirty feet up now, balancing herself, arms outstretched, on a very narrow branch. She gestured toward the gate just barely visible on the other side of the road. “This tree is actually as close as I want to get to your Duchess’s palace.”I held back a gasp as she dove off the branch, somersaulting until she landed on the ground, knees slightly bent. That was the trick, she explained. Anticipating the blow before it happened. I expressed to her my confidence that she would be a great attraction at the Quill Circus. Of course, I know now that never was to be.On that day, as I recall, I had to return early. It was one of the rare occasions when I had work, of a sort, to do. Whenever the Duchess had guests, I was to be at the palace. That is not to say that I had any particular duties, except to be seen standing at attention in the dining room. The stewards and maids worked hard to bring in the food and clear the plates afterwards, but the footmen were purely decorative, a formality.But at least I was an audience for the drama to come.The Black Arrow, v2On the last dinner in my employ at the palace, the Duchess, quite surprisingly, had invited the mayor of Moliva and Master Hiomaste himself among her other guests. The servants’ gossip was manic. The mayor had been there before, albeit very irregularly, but Hiomaste’s presence was unthinkable. What could she mean by such a conciliatory gesture?The dinner itself progressed along with perfect if slightly cool civility among all parties. Hiomaste and the Duchess were both very quiet. The Mayor tried to engage the group in a discussion of the Emperor Pelagius IV’s new son and heir Uriel, but it failed to spark much interest. Lady Villea, elderly but much more vivacious than her sister the Duchess, led most of the talk about crime and scandal in Eldenroot.“I have been encouraging her to move out to the country, away from all that unpleasantness for years now,” the Duchess said, meeting the eyes of the Mayor. “We’ve been discussing more recently the possibility of her building a palace on Moliva Hill, but there’s so little space there as you know. Fortunately, we’ve come to a discovery. There is a wide field just a few days west, on the edge of the river, ideally suited.”“It sounds perfect,” the Mayor smiled and turned to Lady Villea: “When will your ladyship begin building?”“The very day you move your village to the site,” replied the Duchess of Woda.The Mayor turned to her to see if she was joking. She obviously was not.“Think of how much more commerce you could bring to your village if you were close to the river,” said Lady Villea jovially. “And Master Hiomaste’s students could have easier access to his fine school. Everyone would benefit. I know it would put my sister’s heart to ease if there was less trespassing and poaching on her lands.”“There is no poaching or trespassing on your lands now, Your Grace,” frowned Hiomaste. “You do not own the jungle, nor will you. The villagers may be persuaded to leave, that I don’t know. But my school will stay where it is.”The dinner party never really recovered happily. Hiomaste and the Mayor excused themselves, and my services, such as they were, were not needed in the drawing room where the group went to have their drinks. There was no laughter to be heard through the walls that evening.The next day, even though there was a dinner planned for the evening, I left on my usual walk to Moliva. Before I had even reached the drawbridge, the guard held me back: “Where are you going, Gorgic? Not to the village, are you?”“Why not?”He pointed to the plume of smoke in the distance: “A fire broke out very early this morning, and it’s still going. Apparently, it started at Master Hiomaste’s school. It looks like the work of some traveling brigands.”“Blessed Stendarr!” I cried. “Are the students alive?”“No one knows, but it’d be a miracle if any survived. It was late and most everyone was sleeping. I know they’ve already found the Master’s body, or what was left of it. And they also found that girl, your friend, Prolyssa.”I spent the day in a state of shock. It seemed inconceivable what my instinct told me: that the two noble old ladies, Lady Villea and the Duchess of Woda, had arranged for a village and school that irritated them to be reduced to ashes. At dinner, they mentioned the fire in Moliva only very briefly, as if it were not news at all. But I did see the Duchess smile for the first time ever. It was a smile I will never forget until the day I die.The next morning, I had resolved to go to the village and see if I could be of any assistance to the survivors. I was passing through the servants’ hall to the grand foyer when I heard the sound of a group of people ahead. The guards and most of the servants were there, pointing at the portrait of the Duchess that hung in the center of the hall.There was a single black bolt of ebony piercing the painting, right at the Duchess’s heart.I recognized it at once. It was one of Missun Akin’s arrows I had seen in his quiver, forged, he said, in the bowels of Dagoth-Ur itself. My first reaction was relief: the Dunmer who had been kind enough to give me a ride to the palace had survived the fire. My second reaction was echoed by all present in the hall. How had the vandal gotten past the guards, the gate, the moat, and the massive iron door?The Duchess, arriving shortly after I, was clearly furious, though she was too well bred to show it but by raising her web-thin eyebrows. She wasted no time in assigning all her servants to new duties to keep the palace grounds guarded at all times. We were given regular shifts and precise, narrow patrols.The next morning, despite all precautions, there was another black arrow piercing the Duchess’s portrait.So it continued for a week’s time. The Duchess saw to it that at least one person was always present in the foyer, but somehow the arrow always found its way to her painting whenever the guard’s eyes were momentarily averted.A complex series of signals were devised, so each patrol could report back any sounds or disturbances they encountered during their vigil. At first, the Duchess arranged them so her castellan would receive record of any disturbances during the day, and the chief of the guard during the night. But when she found that she could not sleep, she made certain that the information came to her directly.The atmosphere in the palace had shifted from gloomy to nightmarish. A snake would slither across the moat, and suddenly Her Grace would be tearing through the east wing to investigate. A strong gust of wind ruffling the leaves on one of the few trees in the lawn was a similar emergency. An unfortunate lone traveler on the road in front of the palace, a completely innocent man at it turned out, brought such a violent reaction that he must have thought that he had stumbled on a war. In a way, he had.And every morning, there was a new arrow in the front hall, mocking her.I was given the terrible assignment of guarding the portrait for a few hours in the early morning. Not wanting to be the one to discover the arrow, I seated myself in a chair opposite, never letting my eyes move away for even a second. I don’t know if you’ve had the experience of watching one object relentlessly, but it has a strange effect. All other senses vanish. That was why I was particularly startled when the Duchess rushed into the room, blurring the gulf for me between her portrait and herself.“There’s something moving behind the tree across the road from the gate!” she roared, pushing me aside, and fumbling with her key in the gold lock.She was shaking with madness and excitement, and the key did not seem to want to go in. I reached out to help her, but the Duchess was already kneeling, her eye to the keyhole, to be certain that the key went through.It was precisely in that second that the arrow arrived, but this one never made it as far as the portrait.I actually met Missun Akin years later, while I was in Morrowind to entertain some nobles. He was impressed that I had risen from being a humble domestic servant to being a bard of some renown. He himself had returned to the ashlands, and, like his old master Hiomaste, was retired to the simple life of teaching and hunting.I told him that I had heard that Lady Villea had decided not to leave the city, and that the village of Modiva had been rebuilt. He was happy to hear that, but I could not find a way to ask him what I really wanted to know. I felt like a fool just wondering if what I thought were true, that he had been behind Prolyssa’s tree across the road from the gate every morning that summer, firing an arrow through the gate, across the lawn, across the moat, through a keyhole, and into a portrait of the Duchess of Woda until he struck the Duchess herself. It was clearly an impossibility. I chose not to ask.As we left one another that day, and he was waving good-bye, he said, “I am pleased to see you doing so well, my friend. I am happy you moved that chair.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Cake and the Diamond | I was in the Rat and the Pot, a foreigner cornerclub in Ald’ruhn, talking to my fellow Rats when I first saw the woman. Now, Breton women are fairly common in the Rat and the Pot: as a breed, they seem inclined to wander far from their perches in High Rock. Old Breton women, however, are not so migratory, and the wizened old biddy drew attention to herself, wandering about the room, talking to everyone. Still, having noted her, I moved on to join my mates.Nimloth and Oediad were at their usual places, drinking their usual stuff. Oediad was showing off a prize he had picked up in some illicit manner — a colossal diamond, large as a baby’s hand, and clear as spring water. I was admiring it when I heard the creaking of old bones behind me.“Good day to you, friends,” said the old woman. “My name is Abelle Chriditte, and I am in need of financial assistance to facilitate my transportation to Ald Redaynia.”“You’ll want to see the Temple for charity,” said Nimloth curtly.“I am not looking for charity,” said Abelle. “I’m looking to barter services.”“Don’t make me sick, old woman,” laughed Oediad.“Did you say your name was Abelle Chriditte?” I asked, “Are you related to Abelle Chriditte, the High Rock alchemist?”“Extremely related,” she said, with a cackle. “We are the same person. Perhaps I could prepare you a potion in exchange for gold? I noticed that you have in your possession a very fine diamond. The magical qualities of diamonds are boundless.”“Sorry, old woman, I ain’t giving it up for magic. It was trouble enough stealing this one,” said Oediad. “I’ve got a fence who’ll trade it for gold.”“But your fence will demand a certain percentage, will he not? What if I could give you a potion of invisibility in exchange? In return for that diamond, you could have the means to steal many more. A very fair exchange of services, I would say.”“It would be, but I have no gold to give you,” said Oediad.“I’ll take what remains of the diamond after I’ve made the potion,” said Abelle. “If you took it to the Mages Guild, you’d have to supply all the other ingredients and pay for it as well. But I learned my craft in the wild, where no Potion-makers existed to dissolve diamonds into dust. When you must do it all by hand, by simple skill, you are blessed with remnants those fool potion-makers at the Guild simply swallow up.”“That sounds all very nice,” said Nimloth, “But how do we know your potion is going to work? If you make one potion, take the rest of Oediad’s diamond, and leave, we won’t know until you’ve gone whether the potion works or not.”“Ah, trust is so rare these days,” sighed Abelle. “I suppose I could make two potions for you, and there’d still be a little bit of the diamond left for me. Not a lot, but perhaps enough to get me to Ald Redaynia. Then you could try the first potion right here and now, and see if you’re satisfied or not.”“But,” I interjected. “You could make one potion that works and one that doesn’t, and take more of the diamond. She could even give you a slow-acting poison, and by the time she got to Ald Redaynia, you’d be dead.”“Bleedin’ Kynareth, you Dunmer are suspicious! I will hardly have any diamond left, but I could make two potions of two doses each, so you can satisfy yourself that the potion works and has no negative effects. If you still don’t trust me, come along with me to my table and witness my craft if you’d like.”So it was decided that I would accompany Abelle back to her table where she had all her traveling bags full of herbs and minerals, to make certain that she was not making two different potions. It took nearly an hour of preparation, but she kindly allowed me to finish her half-filled flagon of wine while I watched her work. Splintering the diamond and powdering the pieces required the bulk of the time; over and over again, she waved her gnarled hands over the gem, intoning ancient enchantments, breaking the facets of the stone into smaller and smaller pieces. Separately she made pastes of minced bittergreen, crushed red bulbs of dell’arco spae, and driblets of ciciliani oil. I finished the wine.“Old woman,” I finally said with a sigh. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m getting tired of watching you work.”“The Mages Guild has fooled the populace into thinking alchemy is a science,” she said. “But if you’re tired, rest your eyes.”My eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition. But there had been something in that wine. Something that made me do what she asked.“I think I’ll make up the potion as cakes. It’s much more potent that way. Now, tell me, young man, what will your friends do once I give them the potion?”“Mug you in the street afterwards to retrieve the rest of the diamond,” I said simply. I didn’t want to tell the truth, but there it was.“I thought so, but I wanted to be certain. You may open your eyes now.”I opened my eyes. Abelle had made a small presentation on a wooden platter: two small cakes and a silver cutting knife.“Pick up the cakes and bring them to the table,” said Abelle. “And don’t say anything, except to agree with whatever I say.”I did as I was told. It was a curious sensation. I didn’t really mind being her puppet. Of course, in retrospect, I resent it, but it seemed perfectly natural at the time to obey without question.Abelle handed the cakes to Oediad and I dutifully verified that both cakes were made the same way. She suggested that he cut one of the cakes in half, and she would take one piece and he’d take the other, just so he would know that they worked and weren’t poisoned. Oediad thought it was a good idea, and used Abelle’s knife to cut the cake. Abelle took the piece on the left and popped into her mouth. Oediad took the piece on the right and swallowed it more cautiously.Abelle and all the bags she was carrying vanished from sight almost instantly. Nothing happened to Oediad.“Why did it work for the witch and not for me?” cried Oediad.“Because the diamond dust was only on the left-hand side of the blade,” said the old alchemist through me. I felt her control lessening as the distance grew and she hurried invisibly down the dark Ald’ruhn street away from the Rat and the Pot.We never found Abelle Chriditte or the diamond. Whether she completed her pilgrimage to Ald Redaynia is anyone’s guess. The cakes had no effect, except to give Oediad a bad case of droops that lasted for nearly a week. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Death of a Wanderer | 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. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Exodus | Vralla was a little girl, beautiful and sweet-natured, beautiful and smart, beautiful and energetic. Everything that her parents had dreamed she would be. As perfect as she was, they could not help but have dreams for her. Her father, a bit of a social climber named Munthen, thought she would marry well, perhaps become a Princess of the Empire. Her mother, an insecure woman named Cinneta, thought she would reach greatness on her own, as a knight or a sorceress. As much as they wanted the very best for their daughter, they argued about what her fate would be, but both were wrong. Instead of growing up, she grew very ill.The Temples told them to give up hope, and The Mages Guild told them that what afflicted Vralla was so rare, so deadly, that there was no cure. She was doomed to die, and soon.When the great institutions of the Empire failed them, Munthen and Cinneta sought out the witches, the sorcerer hermits, and the other hidden, secret powers that lurk in the shadows of civilization.‘I can think of only one place you can go,’ said an old herbalist they found in the most remote peaks of the Wrothgarian Mountains. ‘The Mages Guild at Olenveld.’‘But we have already been to the Mages Guild,’ protested Munthen. ‘They couldn’t help us.’‘Go to Olenveld,” the herbalist insisted. “And tell no one that you’re going there.’It was not easy to find Olenveld, as it did not appear on any modern map. In a bookseller’s in Skyrim, however, they found it in a historic book of cartography from the 2nd Era. In the yellowed pages, there was Olenveld, a city on an island in the northern coast, a day’s sail in summertide from Winterhold.Bundling their pale daughter against the chill of the ocean wind, the couple set sail, using the old map as their only guide. For nearly two days, they were at sea, circling the same position, wondering if they were the victim of a cruel trick. And then they saw it.In the mist of crashing waves were twin crumbled statues framing the harbor, long forgotten Gods or heroes. The ships within were half-sunk, rotten shells along the docks. Munthen brought his ship in, and the three walked into the deserted island city.Taverns with broken windows, a plaza with a dried-up well, shattered palaces and fire-blackened tenements, barren shops and abandoned stables, all desolate, all still, but for the high keening ocean wind that whistled through the empty places. And gravestones. Every road and alley was lined, and crossed, and crossed again with memorials to the dead.Munthen and Cinneta looked at one another. The chill they felt had little to do with the wind. Then they looked at Vralla, and continued on to their goal – the Mages Guild of Olenveld.Candlelight glistened through the windows of the great dark building, but it brought them little relief to know that someone was alive in the island of death. They knocked on the door, and steeled themselves against whatever horror they might face within.The door was opened by a rather plump middle-aged Nord woman with frizzy blond hair. Standing behind her, a meek-looking bald Nord about her age, a shy teenage Breton couple, still very pimply and awkward, and a very old, apple-cheeked Breton man who grinned with delight at the visitors.‘Oh, my goodness,’ said the Nord woman, all afluster. ‘I thought my ears must be fooling me when I heard that door a-knockin’. Come in, come in, it’s so cold!’The three were ushered in the door, and they were relieved to find that the Guild did not look abandoned in the least. It was well swept, well lit, and cheerfully decorated. The group fell into introductions. The inhabitants of the Guildhouse in Olenveld were two families, the Nords Jalmar and Nette, and the Bretons Lywel, Rosalyn, and old Wynster. They were friendly and accommodating, immediately bringing some mulled wine and bread while Munthen and Cinneta explained to them what they were doing there, and what the healers and herbalists had said about Vralla.‘So, you see,’ said Cinneta, tearfully. ‘We didn’t think we’d find the Mages Guild in Olenveld, but now that we have, please, you’re our last hope.’The five strangers also had tears in their eyes. Nette wept particularly noisily.‘Oh, you’ve been through too, too much,’ the Nord woman bawled. ‘Of course, we’ll help. Your little girl will be right as rain.’‘It is fair to tell you,’ said Jalmar, more stoically, though he clearly was also touched by the tale. ‘This is a Guildhouse, but we are not Mages. We took this building because it was abandoned and it serves our purposes since the Exodus. We are Necromancers.’‘Necromancers?’ Cinneta quivered. How could these nice people be anything so horrible?‘Yes, dear,’ Nette smiled, patting her hand. ‘I know. We have a bad reputation, I’m afraid. Never was very good, and now that well-meaning but foolish Archmagister Hannibal Traven -‘‘May the Worm King eat his soul!’ cried the old man quite suddenly and very viciously.‘Now, now, Wynster,’ said the teenage girl Rosalyn, blushing and smiling at Cinneta apologetically. ‘I’m sorry about him. He’s usually very sweet-natured.’‘Well, of course, he’s right, Mannimarco will have the last say in the matter,’ Jalmar said. ‘But right now, it’s all very, well, awkward. When Traven officially banned the art, we had to go into hiding. The only other option was to abandon it altogether, and that’s just foolish, though there are many who have done it.’‘Not many people know about Olenveld anymore since Tiber Septim used it as his own personal graveyard,’ said Lywel. ‘Took us a week to find it again. But it’s perfect for us. Lots of dead bodies, you know… ‘‘Lywel!’ Rosalyn admonished him. ‘You’re going to scare them!’‘Sorry,’ Lywel grinned sheepishly.‘I don’t care what you do here,’ said Munthen sternly. ‘I just want to know what you can do for my daughter.’‘Well,’ said Jalmar with a shrug. ‘I guess we can make it so she doesn’t die and is never sick again.’Cinneta gasped, ‘Please! We’ll give you everything we have!’‘Nonsense,’ said Nette, picking up Vralla in her big, beefy arms. ‘Oh, what a beautiful girl. Would you like to feel better, little sweetheart?’Vralla nodded, wearily.‘You stay here,’ Jalmar said. ‘Rosalyn, I’m sure we have something better than bread to offer these nice folks.’Nette started to carry Vralla away, but Cinneta ran after her. ‘Wait, I’m coming too.’‘Oh, I’m sure you would, but it’d ruin the spell, dear,’ Nette said. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. We’ve done this dozens of times.’Munthen puts his arms around his wife, and she relented. Rosalyn hurried off to the kitchen and brought some roast fowl and more mulled wine for them. They sat in silence and ate.Wynster shuddered suddenly. ‘The little girl has died.’‘Oh!’ Cinneta gasped.‘What in Oblivion do you mean?!’ Munthen cried.‘Wynster, was that really necessary?’ Lywel scowled at the old man, before turning to Munthen and Cinneta. ‘She had to die. Necromancy is not about curing a disease, it’s about resurrection, total regeneration, transforming the whole body, not just the parts that aren’t working now.’Munthen stood up, angrily. ‘If those maniacs killed her -‘‘They didn’t,’ Rosalyn snapped, her shy eyes now showing fire. ‘Your daughter was on her last breath when she came in here, anyone could see that. I know that this is hard, horrible even, but I won’t have you call that sweet couple who are only trying to help you, ‘maniacs.”Cinneta burst into tears, ‘But she’s going to live now? Isn’t she?’‘Oh yes,’ Lywel said, smiling broadly.‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ Cinneta burst into tears. ‘I don’t know what we would have done -‘‘I know how you feel,’ said Rosalyn, patting Wynster’s hand fondly. ‘When I thought we were going to lose him, I was willing to do anything, just like you.’Cinneta smiled. ‘How old is your father?’‘My son,’ Rosalyn corrected her. ‘He’s six.’From the other room came the sound of tiny footsteps.‘Vralla, go give your parents a big hug,’ said Jalmar.Munthen and Cinneta turned, and the screaming began. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Gold Ribbon of Merrit | In that early springtime morning, pale sunlight flickered behind the morning mist floating through the trees as Templer and Stryngpool made their way to the clearing. Neither had been back in High Rock, let alone in their favorite woods for four years. The trees had changed little even if they had. Stryngpool had a handsome blond moustache now, stiffened and spiked with wax, and Templer seemed to be a completely alien creature to the young lad who searched for adventure in the ancient grove. He was much quieter, as if scarred within as well as without.They each carried their bows and quivers with extra care as they maneuvered their way through the clusters of vine and branch.“This is the path that used to lead to your house, isn’t it, old boy?” asked Stryngpool.Templer glanced at the overgrowth and nodded, before continuing on.“I thought so,” said Stryngpool and laughed: “I remember it because you used to run down it every time you got a bloody nose. I know I can’t offend you, but I have to say, it’s hard to believe that you ended up a soldier.”“How’s your family?” asked Templer.“The same. A bit more pompous, if that’s possible. It’s obvious they wish I’d come back from the academy, but there’s nothing much for me here. At least not until I collect my inheritance. Did I you see I got a gold ribbon of merit in archery?”“How could I miss it?” said Templer.“Oh yes, I nearly forgot that the family’s put it in the Great Hall. Very ostentatiously. I suppose you can actually see it through the picture window. Silly, but I hope the peasants are impressed.”The clearing opened up before them, where the mist settled on the grass, enveloping it in an opaque, chilly vapor. Burlap targets were arranged around in a semi-circle, several meters apart, like sentinels.“You’ve been practicing,” observed Templer.“Well, a bit. I’ve only been back in town for a few days.” said Stryngpool with a smile. “My parents said you got here a week ago?”“That’s right. My unit’s camped a few miles east, and I thought I’d visit the old haunts. A lot’s changed, I could hardly recognize anything at all.” Templer looked down at the valley below, to the vast empty tilled ground, stretching out for miles around. “It looks like a good planting.”“My family’s rather spread out since yours left. There was some discussion I think about keeping your old house up, but it seemed a little sentimental. Especially as there was fertile ground beneath.”Stryngpool strung his bow carefully. It was a beautiful piece of art, darkest ebony and spun silver filigrees, hand-crafted for him in Wayrest. He looked over at Templer stringing his bow, and felt a twinge of pity. It was a sad, weathered utensil, bound together with strips of fabric.“If that’s how they taught you to string your bow, you need some advisors from the academy in that army of yours,” said Stryngpool as gently as he could. “The untightened loop is supposed to look like an X in an O. Yours looks like a Z in a Y.”“It works for me,” said Templer. “I should tell you, I won’t be able to make an afternoon of this. I’m supposed to join my unit this evening.”Stryngpool began to feel annoyed by his old friend. If he was angry about his family losing their land, why couldn’t he just say it? Why did he come back to the valley at all? He watched Templer nock his first arrow, taking aim at a target, and coughed.“I’m sorry, but I can’t in good faith send you back to the army without a little new wisdom. There are three types of draw, three-fingers, thumb and index, thumb and two fingers. Then there’s the thumb draw which I like, but you see,” Stryngpool showed Templer the small leather loop fastened on the cord of his bow, “You need to have one of these thingies or you’ll tear your thumb right off.”“I think I like my stupid method best.”“Don’t be pigheaded, Templer. They didn’t give me the gold ribbon of merit for nothing. I had demonstrated shooting from under a shield, standing, sitting, squatting, kneeling, and sitting on horseback. This is practical information I’m imparting for the sake of our friendship which I, at least, haven’t completely forgotten. Sweet Kynareth, I remember when you were just an oily little squirt, begging for this kind of honest guidance.”Templer looked at Stryngpool for a moment, and lowered his bow. “Show me.”Stryngpool relaxed, shook away the tensions that had been building. He did his exercise, drawing the bow back to his eyebrow, his moustache, his chest, his earlobe.“There are three ways of shooting: snatching and releasing in one continuous motion, like the Bosmer do; holding with a short draw and a pause before releasing like the Khajiit; and partial draw, pause, final draw,” Stryngpool fired the arrow into the center of the target with cool precision, “And release. Which I prefer.”“Very nice,” said Templer.“Now you,” said Stryngpool. He helped Templer select a grip, nock his arrow correctly, and take aim. A smile grew on Templer’s face — the first time Stryngpool had seen such a childlike expression on the war-etched visage all afternoon. When Templer released the arrow, it rocketed high over the top of the target and into the valley below where it disappeared from sight.“Not bad,” said Templer.“No, not bad,” said Stryngpool, feeling friendly once again. “If you practice, you should be able to focus your aim a little bit.”The two shot a few more practice bolts before parting ways. Templer began the long trek east to his unit’s camp, and Stryngpool wound his way down through the woods to the valley and his family’s mansion. He hummed a little tune he learned at the academy as he passed the great lawn and walked up to the front door, pleased with himself for helping his old friend. It entirely escaped his attention that the large picture window was broken.But he noticed right away when he came into the Great Hall, and saw Templer’s wild-shot bolt sticking in his gold ribbon of merit. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Hope of the Redoran | Author:Turiul Nirith One of the few magical arts the Psijics of Artaeum have kept to themselves, away from the common spells and schools of the Mages Guild, is the gift of divination. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, omens and prophesies abound in Tamriel, some of substance, others of pure folly, and still others so ambiguous as to be unverifiable. There are still other prophesies kept secret, from the prophesies of Dro’Jizad in Elsweyr and the Nerevarine in Morrowind, to the Elder Scrolls themselves.The Nord nobility have a tradition of having omens read for their children. In general, these readings are of the obscure variety. One of my acquaintances told me that her parents were told, for example, that their daughter would have her life rescued by a snake, and so gave her the name Serpentkin in a special ceremony. And this young lady, Eria Valkor Serpentkin, was indeed saved by a snake many years later, when an assassin creeping on her stepped on a danswyrm viper.Occasionally, omens seem to be almost purposefully misleading, as if Boethiah had crafted them as traps. I recall one particularly. Many, many years ago, a male child was born into House Redoran. It was a very difficult birth, and the mother was delirious and near death by the time it was over. She chanted just as her son came into the world and she passed from it.Fortune has smiled this day not frownedMy child will be mighty in mind and in armHe shall bring hope to House RedoranNeither spell nor blade shall hurt the manNor illness nor poison cause any harmHis blood shall never drop on the groundThe boy, named Andas, was indeed extraordinary. He never was ill and never suffered so much as a scratch all through his childhood. He was also quite intelligent and strong, which, combined with his invulnerability, caused many to call him, after his mother’s omen, the Hope of the Redoran. Of course, any one who is called the Hope of the Redoran will eventually develop some taint of impertinence, and it wasn’t long before he had enemies.His worst enemy was his cousin Athyn, who had borne much abuse at the hands of Andas. Primary among the grudges was that Athyn had been sent to Rihad to complete his education at Andas’s insistence. When Athyn returned from Hammerfell, it was because of the death of his father, who had also been a councilor of the House. Athyn was old enough to take his seat in the Council, but Andas claimed the seat as well, saying that his cousin had been gone too long from Morrowind and didn’t understand politics as he did. The majority of the House agreed with Andas, wanting to see the Hope of Redoran rise quickly.Athyn exercised his right to combat his cousin for the seat. No one thought he had any chance of winning, of course, but the battle was scheduled to commence the following morn. Andas whored and dined and drank with the councilors that night, confident that his place in the House was secured and the hopeful new dawn of House Redoran was rising. Athyn retired to his castle with his friends, Andas’s enemies, and his servants he had brought from Hammerfell.Athyn and his friends were discussing the duel morosely when one of his old teachers, a warrior called Shardie, came into the hall. She had grown quite proud of her student over the years in Hammerfell, proud enough to accompany him across the Empire to his family’s lands, and wanted to know why they had so little confidence in his odds in the battle. They explained to her Andas’s uncommon blessings and the nature of his mother’s omen.“If he can’t be harmed by disease, poison, magicka, and his blood can never be spilled, what hope have I of ever besting him?” cried Athyn.“Have you remembered nothing I taught you?” replied Shardie. “Is there no weapon you can think of that will slay without blood? Are swords and spears and arrows the only items in your arsenal?”Athyn quickly realized the weapon Shardie was speaking of, but it seemed absurd. Not only absurd, but pathetic and primitive. Still, it was the only hope he had. All that night, Shardie trained him in the art and techniques, showing him the various swings and stances her people had developed in Albion-Gora; counter-attacks, feints, and blocks imported from Yokuda; the classic one and two-handed grips for the most ancient weapon in history.The cousins faced one another the next morning, and never have two combatants looked so unevenly matched. Andas’s entrance brought a great cheer, for not only was he much beloved as the Hope of the Redoran, but as his victory was a foregone conclusion, most wanted to be in good standing with him. His shining mail and blade drew admiration and awe. By contrast, Athyn drew a gasp of surprise and only a smattering of polite applause. He appeared costumed and armed like a barbarian.As Shardie had suggested, Athyn allowed Andas to attack first. The Hope of the Redoran was eager to finish the battle and take the power he deserved quickly. The blade pushed by Andas’s mighty arm slashed across Athyn’s chest, but shallowly, and before it could be counterswung, Athyn knocked it back with his own weapon. When Athyn attacked and wounded Andas, the Hope of the Redoran was so surprised by being hurt for the first time in his life, he dropped his sword.The less said about the end of the battle, the better. Suffice it to say that Athyn, wielding a simple club, battered Andas to death without spilling a drop of blood.Athyn took his father’s seat as councilor, and it was then said that the hope in the omen referred to Athyn, not Andas. After all, had Andas not tried to take the councilor seat away from his cousin, Athyn, being not very ambitious, might have never tried to get it. It can certainly be argued that way, I suppose. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Locked Room | This book appears in two parts in Elder Scrolls Online.Yana was precisely the kind of student her mentor Arthcamu despised: the professional amateur. He enjoyed all the criminal types who were his usual pupils at the stronghold, from the common burglar to the more sophisticated blackmailers, children and young people with strong career ambitions which the art and science of lockpicking could facilitate. They were always interested in simple solutions, the easy way, but people like Yana were always looking for exceptions, possibilities, exotica. For pragmatists like Arthcamu, it was intensely vexing.The Redguard maiden would spend hours in front of a lock, prodding at it with her wires and picks, flirting with the key pins and driver pins, exploring the hull with a sort of casual fascination that no delinquent possesses. Long after her fellow students had opened their test locks and moved on, Yana was still playing with hers. The fact that she always opened it eventually, no matter how advanced a lock it was, irked Arthcamu even further.“You are making things much too difficult,” he would roar, boxing her ears. “Speed is of the essence, not merely technical know-how. I swear that if I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you’d still never get around to opening it.”Yana would bear Arthcamu’s abuse philosophically. She had, after all, paid him in advance. Speed was doubtless an important factor for the picker trying to get somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go with the city guard on patrol behind him, but Yana knew it wouldn’t apply to her. She merely wanted the knowledge.Arthcamu did everything he could think of to encourage Yana to move faster. She seemed to perversely thrive on his physical and verbal blows, spending more and more time on each lock, learning its idiosyncrasies and personality. Finally, he could bear it no longer. Very late one afternoon after Yana had dawdled over a perfectly ordinary lock, he grabbed the girl by her ear and dragged her to a room in the stronghold far from the other students, an area they had always been forbidden to visit.The room was completely barren, except for one large crate in the center. There were no windows and no other door except for the one leading in. Arthcamu slammed his student against the crate and closed the door behind her. There was a distinct click of the lock.“This is the test for my advanced students,” he laughed behind the door. “See if you can escape.”Yana smiled and began her usual slow process of massaging the lock, gaining information. After a few minutes had gone by, she heard Arthcamu’s voice again call out from behind the door.“Perhaps I should mention that this is a test of speed. You see the crate behind you? It contains a vampire ancient who has been locked in here for many months. It is absolutely ravenous. In a few minutes’ time, the sun will have completely set, and if you have not opened the door, you will be nothing but a bloodless husk.”Yana considered only for a moment whether Arthcamu was joking or not. She knew he was an evil, horrible man, but to resort to murder to teach his pupil? The moment she heard a rustling in the crate, any doubts she had were erased. Ignoring all her usual explorations, she jammed her wire into the lock, thrust the pegs against the pressure plate, and shoved open the door.Arthcamu stood in the hallway beyond, laughing cruelly, “So, now you’ve learned the value of fast work.”Yana fled from Arthcamu’s stronghold, fighting back her tears. He was certain that she would never return to his tutelage, but he considered that he had taught her at last a very valuable lesson. When she did return the next morning, Arthcamu registered no surprise, but inside he was seething.“I’ll be leaving shortly,” she explained, quietly. “But I believe I’ve developed a new type of lock, and I’d be grateful if you’d give me your opinion of it.”Arthcamu shrugged and asked her to present her design.“I was wondering if I might use the vampire room and install the lock. I think it would be better if I demonstrated it.”Arthcamu was dubious, but the prospect of the tiresome girl leaving at last put him in an excellent and even indulgent mood. He agreed to give her access to the room. For all morning and most of the afternoon, she worked near the slumbering vampire, removing the old lock and adding her new prototype. Finally, she asked her old master to take a look.He studied the lock with an expert eye, and found little to be impressed with.“This is the first and only pick-proof lock,” Yana explained. “The only way to open it is to have the right key.”Arthcamu scoffed and let Yana close the door, shutting him in the room. The door clicked and he began to go to work. To his dismay, the lock was much more difficult than he thought it would be. He tried all his methods to force it, and found that he had to resort to his hated student’s method of careful and thorough exploration.“I need to leave now,” called Yana from the other side of the door. “I’m going to bring the city guard to the stronghold. I know that it’s against the rules, but I really think it’s for the welfare of the villagers not to have a hungry vampire on the loose. It’s getting dark, and even though you aren’t able to unlock the door, the vampire might be less proud about using the key to escape. Remember when you said ‘If I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you’d still never get around to opening it’?”“Wait!” Arthcamu yelled back. “I’ll use the key! Where is it? You forgot to give it to me!”But there was no reply, only the sound of footfall disappearing down the corridor beyond the door. Arthcamu began to work harder on the lock, but his hands were shaking with fear. With no windows, it was impossible to tell how late it was getting to be. Were minutes that were flying by or hours? He only knew that the vampire ancient would know.The tools could not stand very much twisting and tapping from Arthcamu’s hysterical hands. The wire snapped in the keyhole. Just like a student. Arthcamu screamed and pounded on the door, but he knew that no one could possibly hear him. It was while sucking in his breath to scream again, he heard the distinct creak of the crate opening behind him.The vampire ancient regarded the master locksmith with insane, hungry eyes, and flew at him in a frenzy. Before Arthcamu died, he saw it: on a chain that had been placed around the vampire’s neck while it had been sleeping was a key. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Marksmanship Lesson | Kelmeril Brin had very definite opinions on how things should be done. Every slave he bought on the day he bought him or her was soundly whipped in the courtyard for a period of one to three hours, depending on the individual degree of independent spirit. The whip he used — or had his castellan use — was of wet, knotted cloth, which regularly drew blood but very seldom maimed. To his great satisfaction and personal pride, few slaves ever needed to be whipped more than once. The memory of their first day, and the sight and sound of every subsequent slave’s first day, stayed with them throughout their lives.When Brin bought his first Bosmer slave, he ordered his castellan to whip him only for an hour. The creature, which Brin had named Dob, seemed so much more delicate than the Argonians and Khajiiti and Orcs who made up the bulk of his slaves. Dob was clearly ill suited for work in the mines or in the fields, but he seemed presentable enough for domestic service.Dob did his work quietly and tolerably well. Brin occasionally had to correct him by refusing him food, but the punishment never needed to go further. Whenever guests arrived at the plantation, the sight of the exotic and elegant addition to Brin’s household staff always impressed them.“Here, you,” said Genethah Illoc, a minor but still noble member of the House Indoriil, as Dob presented her with a glass of wine. “Were you born a slave?”“No, sedura,” Dob answered with a bow. “I used to rob nice ladies like you on the road.”The company all laughed with delight, but Kelmeril Brin checked with the slave trader from whom he had bought Dob, and found that the story was true. The Bosmer had been a highwayman, though not one of any great notoriety, before he had been caught and sold into slavery as punishment. It seemed so extraordinary that a quiet fellow like Dob, who always looked respectfully downward at the sight of his superiors, could have been a criminal. Brin made up his mind to question him about it.“You must have used some sort of weapon when you were robbing all those pilgrims and merchants,” Brin grinned as he watched Dob mop.“Yes, sedura,” Dob replied humbly. “A bow.”“Of course. You Bosmeri are supposed to be very handy with those,” Brin thought a moment and then asked: “A bit of a marksman, were you?”Dob nodded humbly.“You will tutor my son Wodilic in archery,” the master said after another moment’s pause. Wodilic was twelve years of age and had been rather sadly spoiled by his mother, Brin’s late wife. The boy was useless at swordplay, fearful of being cut. He embarrassed his father’s pride, but the personality defect seemed ideally suited to the bow.Brin had his castellan purchase a finely wrought bow, several quivers of arrows, and ordered targets to be set up in the wildflower field next to the plantation house. In a few days time, the lessons began.For the first few days, the master watched Wodilic and Dob to be certain that the slave knew how to teach. He was pleased to see the boy learn the grips and the different stances. Business concerns, however, had to take precedence. Brin only had time to see to it that the lessons were continuing, but not how well they were progressing.It was a month’s time before the issue was reexamined. Brin and his castellan were reviewing the plantation’s earnings and expenses, and they had come to the area of miscellaneous household costs.“You might also check to see how many targets in the field need to be repaired.”“I have already anticipated that, sedura,” said the castellan. “They are in pristine condition.”“How is that possible?” Brin shook his head. “I’ve seen targets fall apart after only a few good shots. There shouldn’t be anything left after a month’s worth of lessons.”“There are no holes of any kind in the targets, sedura. See for yourself.”As it happened at that hour, the marksmanship lesson was underway. Brin walked across the field, watching Dob guide Wodilic’s arm as the boy took aim at the sky. The arrow flew up into an arc, over the top of the target, burying itself in the ground. Brin examined the target and found it to be, as his castellan said, in pristine condition. No arrow had touched it.“Master Wodilic, you must pull your right arm down further,” Dob was saying. “And the follow-through is essential if you expect your arrow to gain any height.”“Height?” Brin snarled. “What about accuracy? Unless he’s been secretly racking up a high kill ratio on birds, you haven’t taught my son a thing about marksmanship.”Dob bowed humbly. “Sedura, first Master Wodilic must become comfortable with the weapon before he need worry about accuracy. In Valenwood, we learn by watching the bolt arc at different levels, in different winds, before we try very hard to strike targets.”Brin’s face turned purple with fury: “I’m not a fool! I should have known not to trust a slave with my boy’s education!”The master grabbed Dob and shoved him toward the plantation house. Dob, head down, began the humble, shuffling walk he had learned in his domestic duties. Wodilic, tears streaming down his face, tried to follow.“You stay and practice!” roared his father. “Try aiming at the target itself, not at the sky! You are not coming back into the house until there is one hole in that damned bullseye!”The boy tearfully returned to practice, while Brin brought Dob into the courtyard and called for his whip. Dob suddenly broke away and scrambled to hide between some barrels in the center of the yard.“Take your punishment, slave! I should have never shown you mercy the day I bought you!” Brin bellowed, bringing the whip down on Dob’s exposed back again and again. “I have to toughen you up! There’ll be no more soft jobs as tutor and valet in your future!”Wodilic’s plaintive yell drifted in from the meadow: “I can’t! Father, I can’t hit it!”“Master Wodilic!” Dob cried back as loud as he could, his voice shaking with pain. “Keep your left arm straight and aim slightly east! The wind has changed!”“Stop confusing my son!” Brin screamed. “You’ll be in the saltrice fields if I don’t beat you to death first! Like you deserve!”“Dob!” the boy wailed, far away. “I still can’t hit it!”“Master Wodilic! Take four steps back, aim east, and don’t be afraid of the height!” Dob tore away from the barrels, hiding under a cart near the wall. Brin pursued him, raining down blows.The boy’s arrow sailed high over the target and kept climbing, reaching a pinnacle at the edge of the plantation house before coming down in a magnificent arc. Brin tasted the blood before he realized he’d been hit. Gingerly, he raised his hands and felt the arrowhead protruding out of the back of his neck. He looked at Dob crouching under the wagon, and thought he saw a thin smile cross the slave’s lips. Just for an instant before he died, Brin saw the face of the rogue highwayman on Dob.“Bullseye, Master Wodilic!” Dob crowed. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Mirror | The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green turban approached the army and gave his chieftain’s terms for peace to the commander. He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Ain-Kolur.So the chief Iymbez had decreed his open defiance and his horsemen were at war once again. Many times the tribe had moved into territory that was not theirs to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had come to this, at long last. It was just as well with Mindothrax. His allies may win or lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally been on the losing side of a war, never once in all his thirty-four years had he lost in hand-to-hand combat.The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when they met a clamor rang out, echoing into the hills. Blood, the first liquor the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low battle cries of the rival tribes met in harmony as the armies dug into one another’s flesh. Mindothrax was in the element he loved.After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.The camp was positioned in a high-walled garden of an old burial ground, adorned by springtide blossoms. As Mindothrax toured the grounds, he was reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors and was found days later, her throat slit open by her own hand.The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half hour’s time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by instinct. As the medics looked to the wounded, someone remarked, with a measure of admiration and astonishment, “Look at Mindothrax. His hair isn’t even out of place.”“He is a mighty swordsman,” said the attending physician.“The sword is a greatly overvalued article,” said Mindothrax, nevertheless pleased with the attention. “Warriors pay too much attention to striking and not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into battle is to defend yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises.”“I prefer a more straight-forward approach,” smiled one of the wounded. “It is the way of the horse men.”“If it is the way of the Bjoulsae tribes to fail, then I renounce my heritage,” said Mindothrax, making a quick sign to the spirits that he was being expressive not blasphemous. “Remember what the great blademaster Gaiden Shinji said, ‘The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.’ I have been in thirty-six battles, and I haven’t a scar to show for them. That is because I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order.”“What is your secret?”“Think of melee as a mirror. I look to my opponent’s left arm when I am striking with my right. If he is prepared to block my blow, I blow not. Why exert undue force?” Mindothrax cocked an eyebrow, “But when I see his right arm tense, my left arm goes to my shield. You see, it takes twice as much power to send force than it does to deflect it. When your eye can recognize whether your opponent is striking from above, or at angle, or in an uppercut from below, you learn to pivot and place your shield just so to protect yourself. I could block for hours if need be, but it only takes a few minutes, or even seconds, for your opponent, used to battering, to leave a space open for your own strike.”“What was the longest you’ve ever had to defend yourself?” asked the wounded man.“I fought a man once for an hour’s time,” said Mindothrax. “He was tireless with his bludgeoning, never giving me a moment to do aught but block his strikes. But finally, he took a moment too long in raising his cudgel and I found my mark in his chest. He struck my shield a thousand times, and I struck his heart but once. But that was enough.”“So he was your greatest opponent?” asked the medico.“Oh, indeed not,” said Mindothrax, turning his great shield so the silvery metal reflected his own face. “There is he.”The next day, the battle recommenced. Chief Iymbez had brought in reinforcements from the islands to the south. To the horror and disgrace of the tribe, mercenaries, renegade horsemen and even some Reachmen witches were included in the war. As Mindothrax stared across the field at the armies assembling, putting on his helmet and readying his shield and blade, he thought again of his poor mother. What had tortured her so? Why had she never been able to look at her son without grief?Between sunrise and sundown, the battle raged. A bright blue-sky overhead burned down on the combatants as they rushed against one another over and over again. In every melee, Mindothrax prevailed. A foe with an ax rained a series of strokes against his shield, but every one was deflected until at last Mindothrax could best the warrior. A spear maiden nearly pierced the shield with her first strike, but Mindothrax knew how to give with the blow, throwing her off balance and leaving her open for his counterstrike. Finally, he met a mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a helm of golden bronze. For an hour and a half they battled.Mindothrax tried every trick he knew. When the mercenary tensed his left arm, he held back his strike. When his opponent rose his sword, his shield rose too and expertly blocked. For the first time in his life, he was battling another defensive fighter. Stationary, reflective, with energy to battle for days if need be. Occasionally, another warrior would enter into the fray, sometimes from Mindothrax’s army, sometimes from his opponent’s. These distractions were swiftly dispatched, and the champions returned to their fight.As they fought, circling one another, matching block for blow and blow for block, it dawned on Mindothrax that here at last he was fighting the perfect mirror.It became more a game, almost a dance, than a battle of blood. It was not until Mindothrax missed his own step, striking too soon, throwing himself off balance, that the promenade was ended. He saw, rather than felt, the mercenary’s blade rip across him from throat to chest. A good strike. The sort he himself might have delivered.Mindothrax fell to the ground, feeling his life passing. The mercenary stood over him, prepared to give his worthy adversary the killing blow. It was a strange, honorable deed for an outsider to do, and Mindothrax was greatly moved. Across the battlefield, he heard someone call a name, similar to his own.“Jurrifax!”The mercenary removed his helmet to answer the call. As he did so, Mindothrax saw through the slits of his helmet his own reflection in the man. It was his own close-set eyes, red and brown hair, thin and wide mouth, and blunt chin. For a moment he marveled at the mirror, before the stranger turned back to him and delivered the death stroke.Jurrifax returned to his commander and was well paid for his part in the day’s victory. They retired for a hot meal under the stars in a garden by an old cairn that had previously been occupied by their foes. The mercenary was strangely quiet as he observed the land.“Have you been here before, Jurrifax?” asked one of the tribesmen who had hired him.“I was born a horseman just like you. My mother sold me when I was just a babe. I have always wondered how my life might have been different had I not been bartered away. I might never have been a mercenary.”“There are many things that decide our fate,” said the witch. “It is madness to try to see how you might have taken this turn or that in the world. There are none exactly like yourself, so it is foolish to compare.”“But there is one,” said Jurrifax, looking to the stars. “My master, before he set me free, said that my mother had twin sons when I was born. She could only afford to raise but one child, but somewhere out there, there is a man just like me. My brother. I hope to meet him.”The witch saw the spirits before her and knew the truth that the twins had met already. She remained silent and stared into the fire, banishing the thoughts from her head, too wise to tell all. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Rear Guard | The castle would hold. No matter the forces, the walls of Cascabel Hall would never fail, but that was small consolation for Menegur. He was hungry. In fact, he had never been so hungry. The well in the atrium of the fortress supplied him with enough water to hold there until the Fourth Era, but his stomach reminded Menegur minute to minute that he needed food.The wagonload of supplies mocked him. When his army, the forces of the King of Solitude, had left Cascabel Hall, and he had manned the battlements as the rear-guard to protect their retreat, they had left a wagon behind to supply him with enough food for months. It was not until the night after they left that he inspected the larder and found that nothing edible was in the wagon. Trunk after trunk was filled with netch armor from the army’s incursion into Morrowind. Apparently his Nord confederates had assumed that the lightly opaque material was hard tack in aspic. If the Dunmer whose caravan had been raided knew about this, they would never be able to stop laughing.Menegur thought that his fellow mercenary and kinswoman Aerin would have found this amusing as well. She had spoken with great authority about netch leather, being an expert of sorts on light armor, but she had made a point to mention that it could not be eaten like other leather in occasions of hardship. It was a pity she couldn’t be there to enjoy the irony, Menegur thought savagely. She had returned to Morrowind even before the king’s army had left, preferring a life as a wanted fugitive to a free existence in the cold of Skyrim.All the weeds in the courtyard had been devoured by the rear-guard’s sixteenth day manning Cascabel Hall. The entire castle had been scoured: rotten tubers in the mulch pile found and consumed, a dusty bouquet in the countess’s bedchamber eaten, almost every rat and insect but the most cunning infesting the castle walls had been tracked down and gobbled up. The castellan’s chambers, filled with acrid, inedible law books, had yielded up a couple crumbs of bread. Menegur had even scraped moss from the stones. There was no denying it: he would be dead from starvation before his army returned to break the ranks of the enemies who surrounded the fortress.“The worst part,” said Menegur, who had taken to talking to himself on only the second day alone in the castle. “Is how close sustenance is.”A vast arbor of golden apples stretched acre after acre near the castle walls. The sunlight cast a seductive gleam on the fruit, and the cruel wind carried sweet smells into Cascabel to torture him.Like most Bosmer, Menegur was an archer. He was a master of long and medium distance fighting, but in close quarters, as he would be if he dared to leave the castle and enter the enemy camp in the arbor, he knew he would not last long. At some point, he knew he would have to try, but he had been dreading the day. It was upon him now.Menegur put on the netch armor for the first time, feeling the powdery, almost velvet texture of the rendered leather against his skin. There was also a barely perceptible throb, which he recognized as the remnant nematocysts of the netch’s venomous flesh, still tingling months after its death with domesticated poison. The combination made him feel energized. Aerin had described the sensation perfectly, just as she had explained how to defend himself while wearing netch leather armor.Under cover of night, Menegur crept out of the back gate of the castle, locking it behind him with a rather cumbersome key. He made for the arbor as quietly as he could, but a passing sentry, coming behind a tree, saw him. Remaining calm, Menegur did as he remembered Aerin had instructed, only moving after the attack had been launched. The sentry’s blade glided against the armor and knocked to the left, throwing the young man off balance. That was the trick, as he understood it: you had to be prepared to be hit, and merely move with the blow, allowing the membranous armor to divert the injury away.Use your enemy’s momentum against him, as Aerin used to say.There were several more close encounters in the arbor, but each swing of an ax and each thrust of a sword found purchase elsewhere. With handfuls of apples, Menegur ran the gauntlet back to the castle. He locked the back gate door behind him and fell into an orgy of eating.For week after week, the Bosmer stole out to gather his food. The guards began anticipating his raids, but he kept his schedule irregular and always remembered when attacked to wait for the blow, accept it, and then turn. In such a way, he lived and survived his lonely vigil in Cascabel Hall.Four months later, as he was preparing for another seizure of apples, Menegur heard a loud clamor at the front gate. Surveying the group from a safe distance on the battlements, he saw the shields of the King of Solitude, his ally the Count of Cascabel, and their enemy the King of Farrun. Evidently, a truce had been called.Menegur opened the gates and the combined armies flooded the courtyard. Many of the knights of Farrun sought to shake the hand of the man they had named the Shadow of the Arbor, expressing their admiration at his defensive skills and apologizing good-naturedly for their attempts to slay him. Only doing their job, you know.“There’s hardly a apple left on the vines,” said the King of Solitude.“Well, I started on the edges and worked my way in,” explained Menegur. “I brought back extra fruit to tempt the rats of out of walls so I could have a little meat as well.”“We’ve spent the last several months working out the details of the truce,” said the King. “Really quite exhausting. In any rate, the Count will be taking back possession of his castle now, but there is a small detail we need to work out. You’re a mercenary, and as such responsible for your own expenses. If you had been a subject of mine, things might be different, but there are certain old rules of law that must be respected.”Menegur anticipated the strike.“The problem is,” the King continued. “You’ve taken a good deal of the Count’s crops while here. By any reasonable computation, you’ve eaten an amount equal to and likely exceeding your mercenary’s wages. Obviously, I would not want to penalize you for the excellent job you’ve done defending the castle in uncomfortable circumstances, but you agree that it’s important that we observe the old rules of law, don’t you?”“Of course,” replied Menegur, accepting the blow.“I’m delighted to hear that,” said the King. “Our estimation is that you owe the Count of Cascabel thirty-seven Imperial gold.”“Which I will gladly pay to myself, with interest, after the autumntide harvest,” said Menegur. “There is more left on the vine than you suggest.”The Kings of Solitude and Farrun, and the Count of Cascabel stared at the Bosmer.“We agreed to abide to the strictest old rules of law, and I’ve had time to read a great many books over the time you were making your truce. In 3E 246, during the reign of Uriel IV, the Imperial Council, in an attempt to clear up some questions of property rights in Skyrim during those chaotic days, decreed that any man without a liege who occupied a castle for more than three months would be granted the rights and titles of that estate. It’s a good law, of course, meant to discourage absent and foreign landlords.” Menegur smiled, feeling the now familiar sensation of a glancing strike diverting. “By the rule of law, I am the Count of Cascabel.”The rear-guard’s son still hold the title of Count of Cascabel. And he grows the finest, most delectable apples in the Empire. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Woodcutter’s Wife | The Woodcutter’s WifeVolume 1As Told ByMogen Son of MolagLegend tells of a woodcutter who built a shack deep within the pine forest. There, he hoped to live in peace with his family.The woodcutter’s family lived well for a time, but without warning, the weather turned bitterly cold and spoiled the harvest. Before long, with their meager supply of food all but gone, the family was starving.Late one snowy night, a traveler knocked on the cabin door seeking shelter from the biting cold. Always generous of heart, the woodcutter welcomed the stranger into his home, apologizing that he had no food to offer.With a smile, the traveler cast off his cloak to reveal the garments of a mage. As the woodcutter and his family looked on, the mysterious visitor reached into his satchel and withdrew a scroll tied with a silver ribbon. No sooner had the wizard unfurled the scroll and read the words aloud, when a great feast appeared from out of thin air. That night, nobody in the woodcutter’s cabin went hungry.Day by day, the snow piled up. Every night, the mage produced another scroll from his bag and read the words, each time summoning a new feast. On the fifth night, the woodcutter’s wife awoke her husband to confess her mistrust of their magical guest. Surely, she argued, there was some price to pay for the magical feasts that everyone enjoyed night after night.The woodcutter would have none of it. After nearly dying from the lack of food, his family was eating well. The divines had sent them a gift, he explained, and it was foolish to question their wisdom.But the woodcutter’s wife would not be persuaded. Every night, she grew more fearful and more desperate. She was certain that the family had entered into a devil’s bargain, and the time would soon come when the mage would ask for something unspeakable in return for his gifts.While everyone in the cabin slept, the woodcutter’s wife snuck out of bed and took her husband’s axe in hand. She crept into the traveler’s room and with one swing, lopped off his head.Suddenly, the wizard’s disembodied head awoke. His eyes opened wide and when he beheld his maimed body, he let forth a terrible cry.Awakened by the horrified scream, the woodcutter and his children rushed into the room and gasped at the terrible sight of the decapitated mage.With his last gasp of breath, the traveler laid a fearful curse on the woodcutter’s wife. After her mortal death, she was damned to rise once again and walk the woods alone only to burn at the rising of the sun.To this day, those who walk the pine forest late at night tell tales of a weeping woman glimpsed between the trees. She carries a bloody axe, the stories say, and is terrifying to behold. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | The Wraith’s Wedding Dowry | By Voltha gra-Yamwort (translated by Apthorne)“The poets are right. There is something life-changing about being in love,” said Kepkajna gra-Minfang, sometimes called the Wraith. “I haven’t wanted to rob anyone or anything in weeks. Why, the other day, I saw the door wide open at a wealthy merchant’s house, but my mind was fully occupied with what I should wear on my wedding day.”“You have been out of the right society for very long now,” frowned her friend Khargol approvingly. “You never told me what happened to your first husband, you know, the one the shaman gave you?”“Torn apart by ash ghouls,” smiled Kepkajna dreamily. “It was rather saddish. But I know nothing like that would happen to Wodworg. No life of adventure for him. He’s practically an Imperial. In fact, he is one. Did I tell you how we met?”“Hundreds of times,” grumbled Khargol, reaching for his flagon. “He was your jailer, and he refused you food until you promised to marry him.”“Have you ever heard of anything so madly romantic in all your life?” sighed Kepkajna, and then grew serious. “I was going to say that I hope my old friends will wish me well, but as Old Bosriel used to say, there’s no point in hoping for what cannot be. We’ll leave with the Imperial Knights for Balmora immediately after the wedding, but as long as we’re in Dagon Fel, the gang will find some way of disrupting my love life and bring me back to the light. I know it.”As the days approached towards the Wraith’s wedding day, there was certainly something sinister in the air that Kepkajna could smell when she was not transported by heady bliss. Dark figures seemed to shift in the shadows and disappear when approached. She recognized the clothing of some beggars near Wodworg’s cottage as costumes, but the mendicants hurried away before she could recognize which of her old gang was stalking her.But these moments of apprehension were few. Kepkajna was truly happy, making arrangements for the ceremony to be performed at the very dungeon where Wodworg had imprisoned her. Her father was long since dead — another victim of the ash ghouls — but her fiance’s commander volunteered to act in his behalf. Of course, Kepkajna had to supply her own dowry. She spent every last mark of her savings of ill-gotten gain to buy her beloved a truly wonderful present.The wedding was set for the stroke of midnight, as is Orc tradition. The handmaidens, wives of Imperial officers, were busily sewing her into her gown of red velvet and fine gold filigree in the mid-morning. Dolcetta, one of the handmaidens, remarked that she had heard that Kepkajna had bought Wodworg a truly beautiful gift for her dowry.“Let me show it to you,” Kepkajna giggled, dashing from the room half-dressed to her hidden alcove. The present had been stolen.The women were horrified, but the Wraith found herself merely irritated, not surprised. This was truly the old gang’s style. They knew that a wedding ceremony without a dowry was marked as unlucky. She asked her handmaidens to finish dressing her quickly while she pondered what the burglars would have done with her treasure.The whole region was honeycombed with secret lairs and abandoned sites thieves used to store their loot. There were obvious places, of course, but after much reflection, she thought of where she would have put it under similar circumstances. Once the handmaids had finished, Kepkajna bade them to make certain that the ceremony went on as scheduled, and not to fret as she might be a little late. She wrapped herself in a shawl to protect her gown from dungeon dust and set off for the Shrine of Malacath.The Wraith had never before attempted to rob her own friends, and though she was peeved at them for trying to ruin her happiness, she had no interest in hurting them physically. Her style was to avoid conflict, though she knew it would be inevitable. The lessons her mentor Khargol had given her had helped her avoid the lances and blades of guards and Imperial Knights over the years: now she would see if they would allow her to survive a den of thieves and the unknown dangers of the Shrine. Without, most importantly, ruining her dress.The desolate place was so empty as she delved into it that she feared she might have made a miscalculation. It was not until she found the small room hidden down a long corridor that she knew she was at the right place, and that it was well suited for an ambush. She grabbed the chest with her treasure within, and turned to face the assault.Two of her old gang, Yorum and Yohr-i the Redguard twin brother and sister, were outside the door as she came from the room. They knew the Wraith better than to taunt her and immediately attacked. Yorum struck out with a left thrust of his blade while Yohr-i sought to rush her. The Wraith neatly sidestepped Yohr-i, while dropping her weight to her rear left leg, shifting her right shoulder to the left to slip past Yorum’s strike. The twins crashed into one another and Kepkajna passed swiftly on.Almost immediately, she was set on by the Argonian Binyaar, his mace whistling through the air at her head. They had never much liked one another. The Wraith snapped into a duck, so the mace whacked with a tremendous clamor against the stone wall. Binyaar was thrown off balance, giving her a few seconds lead hurrying up the passage. Ahead she could smell the fresh night air.The last of her dowry’s defenders was Sorogth, an Orc with whom she had shared a brief romance. It was he who Kepkajna knew had masterminded the theft. In a way and in context, she thought, his devotion to her misery was rather sweet. At the moment, though, she was most concerned with avoiding his barbed ax that seemed ideal for breaking her dress’s fine stitchwork and the flesh beneath.Bending her knees slightly, bobbing to avoid strikes to the head, weaving her head to confuse Sorogth of her next move, shuffling her feet arrhythmically, the Wraith made an impossible target. She ducked inside his thrusts, sidestepped his swings, and then sidestepped his thrusts, and ducked his swings. As erratic as she tried to make her defensive moves, Sorogth still kept pace with her, refusing to budge from his position at the dungeon outlet.Midnight was coming, and the Wraith finally decided that she must end the confrontation. When Sorogth swung out next, she sidestepped to her left, swayed down, and ducked her head, so the ax whistled over her right shoulder. In that instant, his right side was exposed, and she reluctantly smashed the chest hard into his torso. There was not enough time for Kepkajna to see if she had killed him or merely knocked him unconscious. In truth, she thought of nothing else but rushing to her wedding ceremony.At precisely midnight, Wodworg and Kepkajna were united together. He was delighted with her dowry gift, a fine suit of armor that would make him the envy of other Imperial jailers. Even more, he was enchanted by his wife’s tale of retrieving it from the Shrine of Malacath.“Did it occur to you to put on the armor when you knew that it was an ambush?” he asked.“I didn’t want to dent your present,” she replied, between kisses. “And I certainly didn’t want to wrinkle my gown.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | 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.“Doest thou come to plunder my virtue?” asked the lady, all a tremble.“Nay, fair lady,” Ravius said, thinking quickly. “Plunder be a harsh term to ply upon such a delicate flower as your virtue.”“I see thou hast made off with mine husbands precious coins.”Ravius looked deeply into her eyes and saw the only path by which he would escape this night with his life. It would require a double sacrifice.“Though these coins are of rarest value, I have now found a treasure that is beyond all value,” Ravius said smoothly. “Tell me, oh beauteous one, why doest thy husband set seven deadly traps around these tawdry coins, but only a simple lock upon the door of his virtuous wife?”“Ignace protects those things that are dearest to him,” Veronique replied with ire.“I would give all the gold in my possession to spend but a moment basking in your radiance.”With that Ravius set down the coins he had worked so hard to steal. The Baroness swooned into his arms. When the captain of the guard asked to search her quarters, she hid Ravius most skillfully. She turned over the coins, claiming the thief dropped them when he fled out the window.With that sacrifice made, Ravius steeled himself for the second. He robbed the lady Veronique of her virtue that night. He robbed her of it several times, lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. Exhausted, yet sated, he stole away in the pre-dawn hours. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Three Thieves | Known as “Unnamed Book” in TES3: Morrowind. In Elder Scrolls Online, this book is split into two volumes.“The problem with thieves today,” said Lledos, “Is the lack of technique. I know there’s no honor among thieves, and there never was, but there used to be some pride, some skill, some basic creativity. It really makes those of us with a sense of history despair.”Imalyn sneered, slamming down his flagon of greef violently on the rough-hewn table. “B’vek, what do you want us to say? You asks us ‘What do you do when you see a guard?’ and I says, ‘Stab the fetcher in the back.’ What d’you prefer? We challenge ’em to a game of chits?”“So much ambition, so little education,” said Lledos with a sigh. “My dear friends, we aren’t mugging some Nord tourist fresh off the ferry. The Cobblers Guildhall may not sound intimidating but tonight, when the dues collection is housed there before being sent to the bank, the security’s going to be tighter than a kwama’s ass. You can’t just stab at every back you encounter and expect to make it into the vaults.”“Why don’t you explain specifically what you’d like us to do?” asked Galsiah calmly, trying to keep the tone of the group down. Most locals at the Plot and Plaster cornerclub in Tel Aruhn knew enough not to listen in, but she knew better than to take any chances.“The common thief,” said Lledos, pouring himself more greef, warming to his subject. “Sticks his dagger in his opponent’s back. This may slay the target, but more often gives him time to scream and drenches the attacker with blood. Not good. Now a good throat-slashing, properly executed, can both slay and silence a guard and leave the thief relatively bloodfree. And after all, after the robbery, we don’t want people seeing a bunch of blood-soaked butchers running through the streets. Even in Tel Aruhn, that’s likely to warrant suspicion.”“If you can catch your victim lying down asleep or resting, you are in an excellent position. You place one hand over the mouth with your thumb under the chin, then you use your other hand to slit the throat, and quickly turn the head to one side so the body bleeds out away from you. There is a risk here of becoming blood stained if you don’t move the head quickly enough. If you’re unsure, strangle the victim first to avoid the blood that tends to spurt out in three foot jets when someone is stabbed while alive.”“A very good friend of mine, a thief in Gnisis whose name I won’t mention, swears by the strangle-and-slash technique. Simply put, you grab your victim’s throat from behind and while throttling him, you batter his face against the opposite wall. When the victim is thus rendered unconscious, you slash his throat while still holding him from behind, and the risk of staining one’s clothes with blood is practically nonexistant.”“The classic technique, which requires less grappling than my friend’s variation, is to place one hand over the victim’s mouth, and then saw through the throat in three or four stroke rather like playing a violin. It requires little effort, and while there’s quite a bit of blood, it all jets forward away from you.”“There’s no reason when one knows one is going to be slitting some throats not to take some precautions and bring some extra equipment. The best neck-hackers I know generally carry a bit of wadded cloth on the aft-side of their knives to keep blood from getting on their cuffs. It’s impractical for this sort of assignment, but when you’re only anticipating one or two victims, nothing beats throwing a sack over the targets head, drawing the string tight, and then supplying the killing blow or blows.”Imalyn laughed loudly, “Can I see a demonstration sometime?”“Very soon,” said Lledos. “If Galsiah has done her job.”Galsiah brought out the map of the guildhouse, freshly stolen, and they began to detail out the strategy.The last several hours had been a whirlwind to all. In less than a day, the three had met, formulated a plan, bought or stolen the necessary ingredients, and were about to execute it. Not one of the three were sure whether confidence or stupidity were driving the other two, but the fates were aligned. The guildhouse was going to be robbed.When the sun set, Lledos, Galsiah, and Imalyn approached the Cobblers Guildhouse on the east end of town. Galsiah used her cachous of stoneflower to mask their scent from the guard wolves as the three passed over the parapets. She also acted as lead scout, and Lledos was impressed. For someone of relative inexperience, she knew her way through shadows.Lledos’s expertise was demonstrated a dozen times, and the guards were of such a diverse variety, he was able to demonstrate all the means of silent assassination he had developed over the years.Imalyn opened the vault in his unique and systematic method. As the tumblers fell beneath his fingers, he softly sang an old dirty tavern song about the Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah. He said it helped him focus and organize difficult combinations. Within seconds, the vault was open and the gold was in hand.They left the guildhouse an hour after they entered. No alarm had been raised, the gold was gone, and corpses lay pooling blood on the stone floors within.“Well done, my friends, well done. You learned well.” Lledos said as he poured the gold pieces into the specially designed compartments in his tunic’s sleeves, where they held fast with no jingling or unusual bulges. “We’ll meet back at the Plot and Plaster tomorrow morning and split up the bounty.”The group parted ways. The only person who knew the most covert route through the city’s sewer system, Lledos, slipped in through a duct and vanished below. Galsiah threw on her shawl, muddied her face to resemble an old f’lah fortune-teller, and headed north. Imalyn headed east into the park, trusting his unnatural senses to keep him away from the citywatch.Now I teach them the greatest lesson of all, thought Lledos as he sloshed through the labyrinthine tunnels of sludge. His guar was waiting where he left it at the city gates, making a laconic lunch of the chokeweed shrub to which it had been leashed.On the road to Vivec, he thought of Galsiah and Imalyn. Perhaps they had been caught and brought in for questioning already. It was a pity he couldn’t see them undergoing interrogation. Who would break under pressure first? Imalyn was certainly the tougher of the two, but Galsiah doubtless had hidden reserves. It was merely intellectual curiousity: they thought his name was Lledos and he was meeting them at the Plot and Plaster. The authorities wouldn’t therefore be looking for a Dunmer named Sathis celebrating his wealth miles and miles away in Vivec.As he prodded his mount forward and the sun began rising, Sathis pictured Galsiah and Imalyn not undergoing interrogation, but sleeping the good deep sleep of the wicked, dreaming of how they would spend their share of the gold. Both would wake up early and rush to the Plot and Plaster. He could see them now, Imalyn laughing and carrying on, Galsiah hushing him to avoid bringing undue attention. They would take a couple flagons of greef, perhaps order a meal — a big one — and wait. Hours would pass, and so would their moods. The chain of reactions that every betrayed person exhibits: nervousness, doubt, bewilderment, anger.The sun was fully risen when Sathis reached the stables of his house on the outskirts of Vivec. He reigned in his guar and filled its feed. The rest of the stalls were empty. It wouldn’t be until that afternoon when his servants returned from the feast of St Rilms in Gnisis. They were good people, and he treated them well, but from past experience he knew that servants talked. If they began to connect his absences with thefts in other towns, it was only a matter of time before they would go to the authorities or blackmail him. After all, they were human. It was best in the long run to give them a week off with pay whenever he was out of town on business.He slipped the gold into the vault in his study, and went upstairs. The schedule had been tight, but Sathis had given himself a few hours to rest before his household returned. His own bed was wonderfully soft and warm compared to the dreadful mattress he had to use at the canton in Tel Aruhn.Sathis woke up some time later from a nightmare. For a second after he opened his eyes, he thought he could still hear Imalyn’s voice nearby, singing The Ninety-Nine Loves of Boethiah. He lay still in his bed, waiting, but there was no sound except the usual creaks and groans of his old house. Afternoon sunlight came through his bedroom window in ribbons, catching dust. He closed his eyes.The song returned, and Sathis heard the vault door in his study swing open. The smell of stoneflower filled his nose and he opened his eyes. Only a little of the afternoon sunlight could pierce the inside of the burlap sack.A strong, feminine hand clamped over the mouth and a thumb jabbed under his chin. Just as his throat opened and his head was shoved to the side, he heard Galsiah in her typical calm voice, “Thank you for the lesson, Sathis.” |
Write a book about Skyrim. | To Raise the Living | Book added by Staff of Hasedoki from the Creation Club.“Why live in a tomb?”The child latched onto the Orc’s cloak with a gentle tug, doing all he could to charm a response.“Just as the Emperor has the Blades at his side, so must we have the dead.”“And the staff? What is that for? Is it powerful?”“It’s powerful,” the Orc replied, “In fact, it once belonged to the wizard Hasedoki, a great mage who is said to have no equal.”“If he had no equal, then what killed him?”The Orc glanced briefly at the staff’s head, as if waiting for Hasedoki himself to speak. Yet its countenance remained stuck in that playful stare, halfway between laughter and mockery. She would have to respond in his place.Ufkul Gilgar had spent the last ten years contemplating the same question before settling on her answer. Throughout much of that time, her life had mirrored Hasedoki’s, traveling the world in search of one who could challenge her. It was custom that bequeathed her the staff, and destiny that made her wield it. But even with fate beside her, the staff provided little comfort, knowing the ending it designed.“There’s only one thing that could kill a wizard as powerful as Hasedoki,” she replied.“Is it a cliff racer? A magic sword? The undead?”“Time.”She spoke from experience. Time grew the day with emptiness and yet made all things seem fleeting. So long as it passed, contentment would morph into boredom, and love would fade into loneliness.As a necromancer, she had the tools to defy death. She had no similar solution for life.Perhaps the mortals had already divined an answer. For them it was not magic, but children who allowed them to delay time’s inexorable march. Now that she was a mother, the loneliness no longer consumed her, even though that too was temporary. And just as the staff was passed on to her by her father, when the time came, she would do the same for her son. It may have been why Hasedoki bound his soul to the staff, so that his spirit would be one with whoever wielded it.Ukful placed the staff in the child’s hands and watched as he scuttled through the tomb, swinging it around like a blunt instrument. It’s possible the boy would be free of the same curse, the boredom that plagued his ancestors and Hasedoki before them. Morrowind was home to a great many wizards. Somewhere in that group was a worthy challenger.And if not, there would still be time for the next child. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Vernaccus and Bourlor | Hallgerd walked into the King’s Ham that Loredas evening, his face clouded with sadness. While he ordered a mug of greef, his mates Garaz and Xiomara joined him with moderately sincere concern.“What’s wrong with you, Hallgerd?” asked Xiomara. “You’re later than usual, and there’s a certain air of tragedy you’ve dragged in with you. Have you lost money, or a nearest and dearest?”“I haven’t lost any money,” Hallgerd grimaced. “But I’ve just received word from my nephew than my cousin Allioch has died. Perfectly natural, he says, just old age. Allioch was ten years younger than me.”“Aw, that’s terrible. But it goes to show that it’s important to savor all of life’s possibilities, ’cause you never know when your time is coming,” said Garaz, who had been sitting at the same stool at the smoky cornerclub for the last several hours. He was not one cursed with self-awareness.“Life’s short all right,” agreed Xiomara. “But if you’ll pardon a sentimental thought, few of us are aware of the influence we’ll have after our deaths. Perhaps there’s comfort there. For example, have I told you the story about Vernaccus and Bourlor?”“I don’t believe so,” said Hallgerd.Vernaccus was a daedra (said Xiomara, throwing a few dribbles on flin on the hearth to cast the proper mood), and though our tale took place many, many years ago, it would be fair to say that Vernaccus still is one. For what after all is time to the immortal daedra?“Actually,” Garaz interrupted. “I understand that the notion of immortality–”“I am trying to offer our friend an inspirational tale in his hour of need,” Xiomara growled. “I don’t have all bloody night to tell it, if you don’t mind.”You wouldn’t have heard of Vernaccus (said Xiomara, abandoning the theme of immortality for the time being) for even at the height of his power and fame, he was considered feeble by the admittedly high standards of the day. Of course, this lack of respect infuriated him, and his reaction was typical of lesser daedra. He went on a murderous rampage.Soon word spread through all the villages in the Colovian West of the unholy terror. Whole families had been butchered, castles destroyed, orchards and fields torched and cursed so nothing would ever grow there again.To make things even worse for the villagers, Vernaccus began getting visitations from an old rival of his from Oblivion. She was a daedra seducer named Horavatha, and she delighted in taunting him to see how angry she could make him become.“You’ve flooded a village and that’s supposed to be impressive?” she would sneer.“Try collapsing a continent, and maybe you’ll get a little attention.”Vernaccus could become pretty angry. He didn’t come very close to collapsing the continent of Tamriel, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.A hero was needed to face the mad daedra, and fortunately, one was available.His name was Bourlor, and it was said that he had been blessed by the goddess Kynareth. That was the only explanation for his inhuman accuracy with his bow and arrow, for he never missed a target. As a child he had driven his marksmanship tutors wild with frustration. They would tell him how to plant his feet, how to nock a bolt, the proper grip for the cord, the best method of release. He ignored all the rules, and somehow, every time, the arrow would catch a breath of wind and sail directly to his target. It did not matter if the quarry was moving or still, at very close range or miles away. Whatever he wanted to strike with his arrow would be struck.Bourlor answered the call when one of the village mayors begged him for help. Unfortunately, he was not as great a horseman as he was an archer. As he rode through the forest toward the mayor’s town, a place called Evensacon, Vernaccus was already murdering everyone there. Horavatha watched, and stifled back a yawn.“Murdering a small town mayor isn’t going to put you in famous company, you know. What you need is a great champion to defeat. Someone like Ysgramor or Pelinal Whitestrake or–” she stared at the figure emerging from the forest. “That fellow!”“Who’s he?” growled Vernaccus between bites of the mayor’s quivering body.“The greatest archer in Tamriel. He’s never missed.”Bourlor had his bow strung and was pointing it at the daedra. For a moment, Vernaccus felt like laughing — the fellow was not even aiming straight — but he had a well-honed sense of self-preservation. There was something about the man’s look of confidence that convinced the daedra that Horavatha wasn’t lying. As the bolt left the bow, Vernaccus vanished in a sheet of flame.The arrow impaled a tree. Bourlor stood and stared. He had missed a target.In Oblivion, Vernaccus raged. Fleeing before a mortal man like that — not even the basest scamp would have been so craven. He had exposed himself for the weak, cowardly creature he was. As he considered what steps to take to salvage the situation, he found himself face-to-knee with the most fearsome of the Daedra Princes, Molag Bal.“I never thought anything much of you, Vernaccus,” the giant boomed. “But you have more than proven your worth. You have shown the creatures of Mundus that the daedra are more powerful than the blessings of the Gods.”The other denizens of Oblivion quickly agreed (as they always did) with the view of Molag Bal. The daedra are, after all, always very sensitive about their various defeats at the hands of mortal champions. Vernaccus was proclaimed The Elusive Beast, The Unpursuable One, He Who Cannot Be Touched, The Bane of Kynareth. Shrines devoted to him began to be built in remote corners of Morrowind and Skyrim.Bourlor meanwhile, now found flawed, was never again called to rescue a village. He was so heartbroken over his failure to strike his target that he became a hermit, and never restrung his bow again. Some months later, he died, unmourned and unremembered.“Is this really the tale you thought would cheer me?” asked Hallgerd incredulously. “I’ve heard the King of Worms told more inspirational stories.”“Wait,” smiled Xiomara. “I’m not finished yet.”For a year’s time, Vernaccus was content to watch his legend grow and his fledging worship spread from his home in Oblivion. He was, in addition to being cowardly and inclined toward murderous rages, also a very lazy creature. His worshippers told tales of their Master avoiding the bolts of a thousand archers, of moving through oceans without getting wet, and other feats of avoidance that he would rather not have to demonstrate in person. The real story of his ignominious retreat from Bourlor was thankfully forgotten.The bad news, when it came, was delivered to him with some relish by Horavatha. He had delighted in her jealousy at his growing reputation, so it was with a cruel smile she told him, “Your shrines are being assaulted.”“Who dares?” he roared.“Everyone who passes them in the wilderness feels the need to throw a stone,” Horavatha purred. “You can hardly blame them. After all, they represent He Who Cannot Be Touched. How could anyone be expected to resist such a target?”Vernaccus peered through the veil into the world of Mundus and saw that it was true. One of his shrines in Colovian West country was surrounded by a large platoon of mercenary soldiers, who delighted in pelting it with rocks. His worshippers huddled inside, praying for a miracle.In an instant, he appeared before the mercenaries and his rage was terrifying to behold. They fled into the woods before he even had a chance to murder one of them. His worshippers threw open the wooden door to the shrine and dropped to their knees in joy and fear. His anger melted. Then a stone struck him.Then another. He turned to face his assailants, but the air was suddenly filled with rocks.Vernaccus could not see them, but he heard mercenaries in the woods laugh, “It’s not even trying to move out of the way!”“It’s impossible not to hit him!” guffawed another.With a roar of humiliation, the daedra bounded into the shrine, chased by the onslaught. One of the stones knocked the door closed behind him, striking him in the back. His face broke, anger and embarrassment disappearing, replaced by pain. He turned, shaking, to his worshippers who huddled in the shadows of the shrine, their faith shattered.“Where did you get the wood to build this shrine?” Vernaccus groaned.“Mostly from a copse of trees near the village of Evensacon,” his high-priest shrugged.Vernaccus nodded. He dropped forward, revealing the deep wound in his back. A rusted arrowhead buried in a whorl in the wood of the door had jolted loose in the assault and impaled him. The daedra vanished in a whirlwind of dust.The shrines were abandoned shortly thereafter, though Vernaccus did have a brief resurgence as the Patron Spirit of Limitations and Impotence before fading from memory altogether. The legend of Bourlor himself never became very well known either, but there are still some who tell the tale, like myself. And we have the advantage of knowing what the Great Archer himself didn’t know on his deathbed — his final arrow found its target after all. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Trap | I saw the gold, and I took it. A different man might not have, I know that, and from time to time, I think back on the hour when I saw the gold and took it. You see, I was hungry. Isn’t it ironic.I don’t remember much else about that night but the gold and the hunger. I don’t remember the name of the tavern, or even the village, but I believe it was somewhere in southern Vvardenfell. I can’t really be certain. For some time, I sat dumbly in my chair, my mind occupied with nothing but the pain in my stomach. If you’ve never been truly hungry from days of no food, you can’t know what it’s like. You can’t concentrate on anything. It wasn’t until a figure to my left got up from the table to get a drink and left a stack of gold marks behind that I snapped to awareness.From this moment on, my memory is crystalline.My eyes to the gold. My eyes to the stranger’s back, walking calmly toward the barmaid. My hand to the gold. The gold in my pocket. I’m up from the table, and out the door. For just a moment, I look back. The stranger has turned to look my way. He wears a hood, but I can feel his eyes meet mine. I swear, I can scent a smile.Out into the street, and behind some barrels I crouched down, waiting for my pursuer. One benefit of a lifetime running from guards, I know how to disappear. For nearly an hour, I waited there, suffering even more from hunger. You see, I was awake now and I had the means to buy myself a feast. This knowledge tortured me. When I finally got to my feet, I very nearly fainted. I had only enough energy to walk to the other edge of the village to a run-down tavern before collapsing at a table. I think I must have fallen unconscious for a moment before I heard the barmaid’s voice.“Can I get you something to eat, sera?”I gorged myself on roasts and pies and huge frothing mugs of greef. As the fog of near fatal starvation began to lift, I looked up from my plate to see a gold-masked stranger looking at me, his vizard glowing by the blinding light of the moon through the window. He wore black leather armor and was a different physique and size from the man I had burgled, but I could tell he knew. I paid for my meal quickly and left.I skirted the edge of the village, through a tiled central courtyard surrounded by the squalid peasant’s cottages. There was not a light shining from any window or door. No one was on the streets. I could find no place to hide, so I took the road out of town, heading for the wilderness. Hunger had pushed me on in the days before, but now I felt what I imagined to be the whip of guilt. Or perhaps, even then, it was fear.I fell twice, rushing down the dark path, unused to the slopes and pebbled texture. The sounds of animal life, which I had numbed to, were suddenly very loud in my ears. And there was something else out there in the night, something chasing me.On the side of the road, there was a low wall, and I scrambled over it and hid. I knew enough about concealment to pick a spot where the bulwark sunk slightly so even if someone saw the outline of my figure, he would assume it to be part of the wall. It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of running footsteps from more than one person pass me by and then stop. There was a moment of whispered conversation, and one of the people ran back on the path toward the village. Then, silence.After a few more minutes, I peered out from behind the wall. A female figure in a dun gown, wimple, and veil stood in the road. On the other end of the road, blocking the way back to town, was a knight, coated in dark mail. I could see neither of their faces. For a moment, I froze, unsure whether either or both had seen me.“Run,” said the woman in a dead voice.The hill behind me was too steep, so I leapt over the wall and across the road in two bounds. Into the night forest I ran, the maddening jingle of the accursed gold in my pocket. I knew I was making so much noise my pursuers could not help but hear me, but now I cared more for putting distance between us than in stealth. Clouds of ash filtered through the moonlight, but I still knew it was too bright to hide. I ran and ran until I felt all my blood pumping in my head and heart, begging me to stop.I was at the edge of the wood, on the other side of a shallow stream from a vast, crumbling house encircled by a rail fence. Behind me, running footfall in the broken, dusty earth. To the south, downstream, a distinct sodden splashing of someone moving nearer.There was no choice. I half jumped and half fell into the mud and dragged myself up the bank on the other side. I rolled under the fence and ran through the open field toward the house. Jerking my head around, I saw seven shadowy figures by the fence posts. The cloaked man I had robbed. The man in the gold mask. The veiled woman. The dark knight. Three others too who had pursued me, but I had never seen. And I thought I was the stealthy one.The moon was entirely hidden in a swarm of ash. Only the stars offered their meager illumination as I reached the open door of the ruin. I slammed and bolted the door behind me, but I knew there could be no protection for very long. As I looked about the ravaged interior of broken furniture, I searched for someone to hide. A corner, a niche where if I stayed very still, no one would see me.A splintered table lying against the wall looked perfect for my purposes. I crawled under it, and jumped when something moved and I heard a frightened old man’s voice.“Who’s there?”“It’s all right,” I whispered. “I’m not one of them.”His puckered, gnarled hand reached out from the shadow and gripped my arm. Instantly, I felt sleep fall upon me, resist it as I might. The old man’s horrible face, the face of the hungry dead, emerged as the moon came out and shone through the broken window. His talon still gripping me, I fell back, smelling his death surround me.The table was thrown back. There stood the seven hunters and a dozen more. No, hunters they weren’t. They were harriers who had chased me out of every hiding place, expertly pushing me to the lair of the real predator. He was weak with age, the old man was, not as good at the chase as once he was. A blunt, killing machine.“Please,” I said. It was all I could muster.Having enjoyed the sport I offered, he granted me mercy, of sorts. I was not bled dry. I was not cursed by being made one of them, the Berne. I was kept with others, most of us mad with fear, to be aged and tasted at the vampires’ whim. We are called cattle.I lost all hope months ago of ever leaving the dank cellar where they keep us. Even if this note finds its way to the outside world, I cannot give enough information about my whereabouts to be rescued, even if some champion were able to defeat the bloodsuckers. I only write this to keep my own sanity, and to warn others.There is something worse than being hungry.Being food. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | 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. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Fall From Glory | The Thieves Guild of Skyrim is something of an enigma. Within the last few decades, their order has gone from one of the largest, most influential criminal organizations in all of Tamriel to a small group of stragglers barely able to wreak havoc in their home city of Riften. Although evidence that could explain this rapid decline has never surfaced, speculation has run rampant.One theory holds that the Guild suffered a loss – it’s strongly believed that their Guild Master was slain by one of their own. This Guild Master, known only as “Gallus,” maintained strong ties with many of the influential families in Skyrim. When he perished, those bonds perished with him. Without these bonds, the Guild could no longer safely operate within Skyrim’s holds.A second theory suggests that the Guild is experiencing some sort of mystical “curse” causing normal activities for its members to become exceedingly difficult. While there is no solid evidence to support this theory, the last two decades have seen an unusual rise in failed attempts by the Guild to execute highly lucrative heists. Reasons for the presence of this supposed curse is being attributed to everything from the aforementioned murder to divine interference.In order to solve this mystery once and for all, I’ve spent the last two years infiltrating the Thieves Guild. Initially making contact with them in Riften proved difficult, as they’re quite wary of outsiders, but through repeated efforts I was able to gain their confidence. It’s my hope that once I’ve gained access to some of the Guild leadership, I can learn more about their decline and publish a second volume of my work.Although helping the Guild perform their petty crimes brands me as a criminal, I feel that it’s a burden worth bearing. The mystery of the Thieves Guild’s fall from power needs to be solved once and for all as a matter of record and as a footnote to Skyrim’s history. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Crypt of the Heart – Draft | Book added by Spell Knight Armor from the Creation Club.When it comes to tales of bravery and valor, few have a greater claim than the Knightly Orders of High Rock. Like the Knights of the Rose in Wayrest, many serve as royal guardians and protectors of the realm. It is through their defense of king and country that their fame resounds.Yet others swear an oath of a different kind. Not bound by the walls of their kingdom, they scour the hills in search of Reachmen, witches, and Forsworn, pledging to deliver justice where savagery and chaos rule.One such group refers to themselves as the Order of the Crypt. At first glance, the name might seem ironic, but the Crypt of Hearts they swore to protect went beyond the underground chamber in Shornhelm. The knights pledged to protect the hearts entombed in all of us, lest they be replaced with the briars of the unholy.Yet despite the air of nobility they carried, in the Reach these knights were known by a different name; The War Mages of Shornhelm. For they gave no mercy to the wicked, and the land they tread was riven with scars made of fire and sword.Why the knights chose to extend beyond the kingdom is a matter of debate. Much of it can be traced to a blood feud, and the death of a knight named Simon Rodayne. Tricked by the witch Daenalla, a Sister of the Beldama Coven, his heart was stolen and replaced with a briarheart. In retaliation, his acolytes drove the coven further and further east, killing any Reachmen who would dare give them quarter.Yet in huts small and muddy with smoke, the oral histories tell a different story. They say Simon gave his heart willingly to the witch, and together they fled the wrath of both their clans, knowing they would receive neither understanding nor forgiveness.When Simon died, Daenalla returned his heart to him, and buried him at the altar where they wed. Such was the pain of her loss that she wept from the Morning to the Evening Star, until her tears flooded the canyon below and became one with the river Karth.To this day, Simon’s ghost is said to haunt the pass below his grave, watching over the river which bears his beloved’s tears.Whether any of that is true or simply the embellishments of history, none can say with certainty. However, it is worth noting that the grave itself exists. Whether the heart inside belongs to Simon or another, is a question for its keeper. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Fire and Darkness | In Elder Scrolls Online, this book was split into two sections. It also featured minor gramatical differences.“Brother, I still call you brother for we share our bonds of blood, tested but unbroken by hatred. Even if I am murdered, which seems inevitable now, know that, brother. You and I are not innocents, so our benedictions of mutual enmity is not tragedy, but horror. This state of silent, shadowed war, of secret poisons and sleeping men strangled in their beds, of the sudden arrow and the artful dagger, has no end that I can see. No possibility for peace. I see the shadows in the room move though the flame of my candle is steady. I know the signs that I… ” This note was found where it had fallen beneath the floorboards of an abandoned house in the Nordic village of Jallenheim in the 358th year of the second era. It was said that a quiet cobbler lived in the house, whispered by some to be a member of the dread Morag Tong, the assassin’s guild outlawed throughout Tamriel thirty-four years previously. The house itself was perfectly in order, as if the cobbler had simply vanished. There was a single drop of blood on the note.The Dark Brotherhood had paid a call.This note and others like it are rare. Both the Morag Tong and its hated child, the Dark Brotherhood, are scrupulous about leaving no evidence behind – their members know that to divulge secrets of their orders is a lethal infraction. This obviously makes the job of the historian seeking to trace their histories very difficult.The Morag Tong, according to most scholars, had been a facet of the culture of Morrowind almost since its beginning. After all, the history of Resdayn, the ancient name of Morrowind, is rife with assassination, blood sacrifice, and religious zealotry, hallmarks of the order. It is commonly said that the Morag Tong then as now murdered for the glory of the Daedra Prince Mephala, but common assumptions are rarely completely accurate. It is my contention that the earliest form of the Tong additionally worshipped an even older and more malevolent deity than Mephala. As terrifying as that Prince of Oblivion is, they had and have reverence for a far greater evil.Writs of assassination from the first era offer rare glimpses into the Morag Tong’s earliest philosophy. They are as matter of fact as current day writs, but many contain snatches of poetry which have perplexed our scholars for hundreds of years. “Lisping sibilant hisses,’ ‘Ether’s sweet sway,’ ‘Rancid kiss of passing sin,’ and other strange, almost insane insertions into the writs were codes for the name of the person to be assassinated, his or her location, and the time at which death was to come. They were also direct references to the divine spirit called Sithis.Evidence of the Morag Tong’s expertise in assassination seems scarcely necessary. The few instances of someone escaping a murder attempt by them are always remarkable and rare, proving that they were and are patient, capable murderers who use their tools well. A fragment of a letter found among the effects of a well-known armorer has been sealed in our vaults for some time. It was likely penned by an unknown Tong assassin ordering weapons for his order, and offers some illumination into what they looked for in their blades, as well the mention of Vounoura, the island where the Tong sent its agents in retirement —‘I congratulate you on your artistry, and the balance and heft of your daggers. The knife blade is whisper thin, elegantly wrought, but inpractical. It must have a bolder edge, for arteries, when cut, have a tendencies to self seal, preventing adequate blood loss. I will be leaving Vounoura in two weeks time to inspect your new tools, hoping they will be more satisfactory.’The Morag Tong spread quietly throughout Tamriel in the early years of the second era, worshipping Mephala and Sithis with blood, as they had always done. When the Morag Tong assassinated the Emperor Reman in the year 2920 of the first era, and his successor, Potentate Versidae-Shae in the 324th year of the second era, the assassins so long in the shadows were suddenly thrust into the light. They had become brazen, drunk with murder, literally painting the words ‘MORAG TONG’ on the wall in the Potentate’s blood.The Morag Tong was instantly and unanimously outlawed in all corners of Tamriel, with the exception of its home province of Morrowind. There they continued to operate with the blessings of the Houses, apparently cutting off all contact with their satellite brothers to the west. There they continue their quasi-legal existence, accepting black writs and murdering with impunity.Most scholars believe that the birth of the Dark Brotherhood, the secular, murder-for- profit order of assassins, was as a result of a religious schism in the Morag Tong. Given the secrecy of both cults, it is difficult to divine the exact nature of it, but certain logical assumptions can be made.In order to exist, the Morag Tong must have appealed to the highest power in Morrowind, which at that time, the Second Era, could only have been the Tribunal of Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Mephala, whom the Tong worshipped with Sithis, was said to have been the Anticipation of Vivec. Is it not logical to assume that in exchange for toleration of their continued existence, the Tong would have ceased their worship of Mephala in exchange for the worship of Vivec?The Morag Tong continues, as we know, to worship Sithis. The Dark Brotherhood is not considered a religious order by most, merely a secular organization, offering murder for gold. I have seen, however, proof positive in the form of writs to the Brotherhood that Sithis is still revered above all.So where, the reader, asks, is the cause for the schism? How could a silent war have begun, when both groups are so close? Both assassin’s guilds, after all, worship Sithis. And yet, a figure emerges from history who should give those with this assumption pause.The Night Mother.Who the Night Mother is, where she came from, what her functions are, no one knows. Carlovac Townway in his generally well-researched historical fiction 2920: The Last Year of the First Era tries to make her the leader of the Morag Tong. But she is never historically associated with the Tong, only the Dark Brotherhood.The Night Mother, my dear friend, is Mephala. The Dark Brotherhood of the west, unfettered by the orders of the Tribunal, continue to worship Mephala. They may not call her by her name, but the daedra of murder, sex, and secrets is their leader still. And they did not, and still do not, to this day, forgive their brethren for casting her aside.The cobbler who met his end in the second era, who saw no end in the war between the Brotherhood and the Tong, was correct. In the shadows of the Empire, the Brothers of Death remain locked in combat, and they will likely remain that way forever. |
Write a book about Skyrim. | Pension of the Ancestor Moth | In Elder Scrolls Online, this book is called The Order of the Ancestor Moth. It has a few minor capitalization differences, and omits the last two paragraphs completely.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.At one time, we also provided protection. Many generations ago, Gudrun came to our temple. Newly blinded by visions of what was to be, she brought with her new teachings. The visions of the ancestors foresaw the need of the monks to defend themselves. They train and practice the teachings of Gudrun constantly. They are masters of the sword of no sword, the axes of no axe.As a novitiate, you will learn the teachings of Gudrun. You will learn the way of the peaceful fist. You will learn to serve the blind monks. You will learn to provide. In time, you may attain the peace and insight of the Ancestor Moths. |
Subsets and Splits