Emperor's Guide

Submitted by Lady N on Thu, 04/10/2014 - 19:54

Author:
Flaccus Torentius, Various
Librarian Comment:
This book shipped with the Elder Scrolls Online Imperial Edition. The Flaccus' main body text appears
in regular text, inserts (usually pages from the Emperor's Guide) appear in separate boxes, and Flaccus'
notes appear in bracketed italics.

The [Improved] Emperor's Guide to

Tamriel
Being a description in both art and prose of the Provinces of Tamriel -their people, customs, features of their histories, and other pertinent matter
Promulgated under the Authority of Chancellor Abnur Tharn and the Imperial Geographic Society

Dedicated to Honoria Lucasta

You played your lute and sang laments
On Rain's Hand I gave my intent
Bewitching me with blue eyes
Our love soars across the skies
Amid the lavender and flowers
Mara's glow and warmth are ours
You have the rosiest of cheeks
I'll miss them most in the coming
weeks

Our Houses are now intertwined

The marriage parchment to be signed
A Bravil noble and a fertile wife?
I pledge to you my fealty and life
More divine than all the eight
Soon to return: I pledge you wait?

[Dibella wept, if this sappy triteness won't cause Honoria to flee willingly into another suitor's arms.
Torch this dedication and begin anew.]

Author Foreword
Cyrodiil
High Rock
Hammerfell
Northern Bangkorai and the Mountains
Skyrim
Stonefalls and Deshaan

Black Marsh
Elsweyr
The Summerset Isles: Auridon
Valenwood
Dreams of Cyrodiil
Afterword

Author Foreword
Submitted by Lady N on Fri, 04/11/2014 - 11:20
Author:
Anonymous
(Rough draft of my Foreword for the Improved Guide - not sure if I'll get this much space in the final,
however.)
Tamriel is embroiled in turmoil and insurrection. Catastrophe and war may be inevitable. The
inhabitants [I'll call them savages and foreigners] of the Provinces merge into great packs and seek to
undermine Cyrodiil, to grab the great bastion of power for their own illegitimate causes. The Empire is
in need of heroes and bravery, as well as cartographers, unimpeachable journeymen swift of foot and
with wit at the tip of their quills...
Venestinius Perquitienus. Fronto Maecilius. Helgreir Lute-Voice. All seasoned travelers, scribes, and
emissaries with multitudinous volumes in the Imperial Library. And now Flaccus Torentius :seeks to
join their: is added to their elite ranks.
It is with great pride and honor that I was chosen by His Excellency Chancellor Abnur Tharn to provide
our leaders with accurate verbal and pictorial evidence of the upheaval across Tamriel. Chancellor
Tharn is wise and just, placing his trust in such an unworthy untested academic and granting me the
power and title of Envoy-Scholar to the Empress Regent. This is testament to his incorruptible nature.
[Perhaps a little to unctuous?]
It is my intention to create a guide both thorough and comprehensive in nature, while at the same time
grief and compact so as to be easily accessible, yet also colorful and personalized, but offering critical
and accurate observations.
The Emperor's Guide to Tamriel was a sterling effort for its time, and young Emperor Leovic was justly
proud of this first to his flitting power. Such an undertaking is reflected in this revised and illustrated
tome, as the many accurate parts of the original book are placed within their new contemporary
context. However, since Leovic's time, Imperial lore keepers have been frustrated by the more
egregious inaccuracies, just as many historians have winced at the outdated anachronisms, demanding a
complete revision. Lament no more, all men of learning!
As Stendarr witnesses the tempest of my enthusiasm, my exploration shall gather accurate and recent
evidence, written in an unbiased and meticulous manner to surprise and delight. Revelations about
Tamriel's denizens and inhabitants will change your entire outlook on Tamriel - that I guarantee you!
The rolling pastures and inferior fortresses of High Rock. The strange customs and seething deserts of
Hammerfell. The primitive Orc strongholds and rock screes of Wrothgar and the Reach. The incessant

chill and bleak mountains of Skyrim. The choking gray ash and fungal delights of Morrowind. The
fetid swamps and deviant lizard-folk of Black Marsh. Re plague-ridden savannas of Elsweyr. The
ancient audacity and graceful loftiness of Summerset's Altmer. And the fickle forest-dwellers of
Valenwood. All the lands of men, mer, and more!
Any cobblestone, upturned rock, of gnarled tree not mentioned on these divinely inspired pages is of
worth knowing about. [These are all inaccurate but educated guesses. I've never been farther from
home than Bruma.] The result is a guidebook so superior that previous publications of this nature have
but two new uses: to fill the heaths or line the windows of an improperly isolated hovel.
:It is my heartfelt desire that: I dare hope that you, gentle reader, may enjoy this interminable drudgery
humble offering and, furthermore, may wish to convey your pleasant satisfaction to the publisher, so
that the author's subsequent works may continue to grace the bookshelves of every library center of
learning, and perhaps even tavern of Tamriel.
Assuming you peasants can read and aren't content to dribble on the pages while stabbing an excitable
but dirty finger at my pristine paintings.
I am but one nobleman and envoy, but I work for the edification of many.
Flaccus Torentius
6th of Rain's Hand, 2E 578, Bravil

Cyrodiil
Submitted by Lady N on Tue, 04/15/2014 - 00:36
Author:
Anonymous

Cyrodiil
Near Bravil
Ah, the lovely Nibenay Valley, bucolic background of my long-lost youth. I could happily have spent
my life painting landscapes of the region south of Lake Rumare, and indeed, I tried to - but it turned out
there was little marked for pleasant landscape paintings in the vulgar, down-at-heel port town of Bravil.
The best-paying work I could get there was painting suggestive watercolors for the local bawdy house,
labor that was beneath me and not to my taste. So, like many another young artist, I packed up my art
supplies and went off to find my fortune in the Imperial City, where my genius was sure to be
recognized.
So far, however, my genius has been sadly overlooked, and I have barely been able to scrape by
painting portraits of miserly merchants and minor nobles. The only one who truly appreciated me is my
beloved Honoria Lucasta. It is my boundless determination to win her hand that is sending me on this
geographical odyssey...

Old Vergil's Mill, with Bravil in the background. I never did manage to sell this one.
The Heartland of Cyrodiil, by Phrastus of Elinhir
The fertile farmlands of central Cyrodiil, around Lake Rumare and the Nibenay Valley, the region
commonly known as "The Heartland," are temperate in climate, supporting the crops and livestock that
feed all of central Tamriel. Rain and thunderstorms are frequent, but the region is free from the
sandstorms of Hammerfell to the west or the monsoons of Black Marsh to the southeast.
Much has been made of Heimskr's classical description of Cyrodiil as a jungle or rainforest. My studies
indicate that the use of the phrase "endless jungle" to describe Cyrodiil appears to be an error in
transcription. Close study to the original, badly faded manuscript reveals that the phrase was
miscopied, and should be more accurately rendered as "extensive uplands." The adjectives "an
equatorial rain" as applied to the Nibenese forest to not appear in the original manuscript at all, and I
would posit were added by the scribe in support of his previous erroneous use of "jungle." Lady
Cinebar of Taneth of course takes issue with this exegesis, but the flaws in her methods of scholarship
have been well-documented elsewhere.

Imperial City
A Meeting with The Chancellor
It was high noon in the Imperial City when I entered the base of the White-Gold Tower. A pair of
Knight Paladins uncrossed their swords and allowed me to pass. Hmph - I had expected a little more
fanfare. Where were my trumpeters? But the Elder Council Chambers were empty, save for Chancellor
Abnur Tharn and his attendants. Tharn had been old when I'd met him as a child, and Tharn seemed no
more wizened now. There were whispers about Tharn's pacts with Daedra and dark magic to extend his
lifespan, but these were libelous and unfair; the man was clearly of fine breeding and intellect. I shall
strike this comment from my journal. My meeting with the most powerful man in Cyrodiil was about to
begin.
I showed the chancellor my portrait of him, resplendent in his Imperial Battlemage armor. My chest
puffed out a little when he called my work "Reasonably adept." We talked about my move to the
Imperial City after my family's fortunes dwindled, my life as a portrait painter, my love for Honoria
Lucasta (may she walk in Mara's glow), and my lack of steady income, which displeases her father Councilor Pheomus Lucasta - greatly.
"My friend Pheumus has a role suited to your bookish talents," Tharn stated. "You are to be Curator of
Art in The Imperial Library. Our current curator, Dame Agrippa Gallus, is almost, but not quite, ready
to retire. So, in the meantime..." Tharn beckoned an assistant forward, who carried a heavy book.
"That is the Emperor's Guide to Tamriel," I observed." Leovic had it prepared in 573."
"Most perceptive," Tharn replied, then tore a leaf from its binding and set the page alight with a snap of
his fingers. "But it is badly outdated. You are to create a revised, concise, and illustrated update of this
guide for the Imperial Library. Use your own observations for this book's entries to aid you. You are up
to the task, as you not?"
I nodded eagerly, without realizing the lie I'd perpetrated.
"Good. I hereby appoint you as Envoy-Scholar to the Empress Regent. Do not fail, Flaccus Terentius.
Councilor Lucasta will speak of wedding rituals with his daughter upon your return."

Abnur Tharn's assistant ushered me from the great chamber. As I departed, I thought I saw a dark
shadow pass behind the perimeter columns. Not a good portent, but I was too flustered to worry. The
forward-thinking chancellor had already sent letters of credit to banks across Tamriel. A Gold Coast
Trading Company ship was departing for High Rock the next morn.
I decided I would create a scrapbook of my notes, sketches, and suitable excerpts from the previous
Imperial Guide as a rough draft for my new Great Work. I was determined to bring honor and
prosperity back to the family Terentius.

High Rock
Submitted by Lady N on Tue, 05/13/2014 - 01:06
Author:
Anonymous

The Bretons of the Daggerfall Covenant

I don't remember much of the voyage from the Imperial City to Wayrest, as I was learning for the first
time that ocean travel makes me woefully seasick. It was a relief when the ship finally entered the
waters of the Iliac Bay and we left the great ocean rollers behind. The captain sent me ashore in the
ships longboat. Disembarking, I heaved my belongings onto the jetty and beckoned over an untidy
child. With a shiny coin as inducement, the urchin eagerly furnished me with directions into Wayrest. I
headed down his shortcut. The path soon turned from cobbles to mud, and the structures became
more precarious and shoddy. Gaunt faces stared out from the shadowy slums.
I pressed on to the west, cursing that youngster's lies. As the city walls faded into the sea mist, I
stumbled into the dreughs spawning grounds. Away from the billies! a man caked in mud yelled
from his nearby shack. I scrambled back to safety. Not too close! Avoid the broodmothers and youll
be safe!
I curbed my temper and sketched these crablike creatures. Retracing my steps, I found the lying rascal
and taught him a sharp lesson about misleading travelers.
The Revolting Life Cycle of the Land Dreugh (Abridged) - Field Notes by Fronto Maecilius
Contrary to local myths about the origins of this base species, the dreugh migrate from the Abecean Sea
into the lakes and inlets that feed into the Iliac Bay. In addition to their mass of clawlike limbs, pincers,
and scuttling feet protruding from a human-torso-sized skeletal frame, the dreugh wear armored hides
and secrete shell wax that are prized in some quarters. They are aquatic scavengers, spending much of
their time in deep ocean water. Local fishermen tell of altercations with this species (such as when the
dreugh cut fishermens nets to steal fish), but dreugh are mostly mild-mannered, except during
karvinasim, their period of transformation.
During karvinasim, dreugh walk upon the land, favoring shoreline marshes and rivers close to the open
water. Hatchlings are closely guarded, and broodmothers are extremely territorial, reacting to invaders
with both speed and hostility. This lends credence to the notion that karvinasim heightens the dreughs
martial instincts. Indeed, after witnessing the evisceration of our lead geographer Pulcherius
Pomptinus, our raiding party thought twice before capturing and culling further specimens.

After a year of land walking, the dreugh return to the water. As they submerge, they undergo a final
transformation known as meff, where they devour their land skin and air organs -- the body parts
they no longer need -- and then vomit the congealed remains as small fibrous balls that are
approximately a foot in diameter. These disgusting and foul-smelling spheres are known as grom and
are found in clusters around lakes. So far, our apothecaries have discovered no virtues in grom, aside
from inducing queasiness in some of the more weak-stomached members of the contingent.
The Province of Stormhaven is comprised of three main regions: Alcaire, Menevia, and Gavaudon.
Alcaire lies to the west, where farmers and fishing villages depend upon the favorable weather and
bountiful harvests to eke out an existence. Some locals give thanks to Zenithar, but our geographers
credit the clement conditions of the Iliac Bay. These western hamlets all swear fealty to the legendary
Knights of the Flame of Alcaire Castle, and fables speak of a future ruler born within the castles
ramparts.
Menevia is the central region of Stormhaven and is dominated by the sprawling merchant port of
Wayrest. This is the seat of the Cumberland merchant clan, whose mining of orichalcum has recently
resulted in both great wealth and regional envy. After the largest lode in recorded history was
discovered in mines close to Wayrest, the production of orichalcum ore increased to over two tons per
month, Emeric Cumberland was thrust into prominence, and he was catapulted to the throne of Wayrest
in 2E 563. The second Wayrest dynasty had begun!
To the east is the fiefdom of Gavaudon, which offers rich alluvial soil along the flood plains around the
mouth of the Bjoulsae River. This attracts a hardy class of frontier farmers who can withstand the more
inclement climate. Reports of attackers from intemperate Orc raiders descending from the Wrothgarian
Mountains and the occasional disappearances of livestock and laborers (mostly blamed on vampires)
have recently subsided, now that the signing of the Daggerfall Covenant has been concluded.
[No mention of Ransers war against Emeric, or the latters sacking of Shornhelm.]
I spent some time studying and painting in the Stormhaven countryside -- a charming realm of rolling
hills, lush flood plains, rocky outcrops, and copses of ancient woodland. The place would be idyllic
were it not for the perpetual unsettled gloom, occasional crackles of thunder, and bolts of Kynareths
rage that arc across the skies.
After my unplanned exploration of the slums, I gathered my resolve for my meeting with High King
Emeric. Collecting my various credentials, I made my way through the throngs of Wayrest to the
palace.
My audience with the king -- and request for exploration throughout his province -- was upon me.
Emeric the first, Earl of Cumberland, King of Wayrest, and by the Grace of the Divines, High King of
the Daggerfall Covenant. Please step forward and kneel. A hefty-looking bannerman beckoned me
forward. Emeric glanced at my letters of introduction and writ of transit and peered down at my
prostrate form through eyes edged with crows feet. He was still a young man, but the wars of his land
had left their marks.
So Flaccus Terentius, is it? Youre of the Chancellor Tharns envoys, are you? Although I find the
man distasteful, he is a powerful force for Cyrodiil. For the moment, at least. He gestured to a
Redguard in the regalia of the Lion Guard. See that no harm comes to this guest. Terentius, you can
claim your stipend from the Wayrest Bank. Now, to other matters
I was ushered out like a common house servant. Kings!
King Emeric of Cumberland can be rightly described as the pinnacle of Breton achievement. His youth
wasnt misspent idling in a palace and abusing his servants; he learned his fathers trading business,

counterbalanced by a regiment of sparring with the Menevia Heavy Dragoons. During the summers,
Emeric rode with the Evermore Caravan, testing his mettle against goblins and the hated Reachmen. He
was twenty when Durcorachs invaders forced him to retreat behind the sturdy walls of Wayrest with
other warrior-merchants.
As the heathen Reachmen laid siege, Emeric displayed an aptitude for guile and patience. Convincing
King Gardner to utilize Wayrests merchant ships to carry the elite dragoons along the coast, he led a
rear-guard attack on the raiders investing Daggerfall. Charging into the bewildered Reachmen, Emeric
sought out Durcorach and cut him down, along with his banner, leaving King Bergamot to complete the
rout.
A fortnight later, the first Daggerfall Covenant was drawn up, with Wayrest as the capital (a fact the
citizens of Daggerfall resent). In the eastern Iliac Bay, Wayrest was a burgeoning trading and fishing
village in the First Era, where travelers rested between the threat of Orcs to the north and Abecean
pirates in the west.
It was only after the Orc stronghold of Orsinium was razed in 1E 980 that Wayrest catapulted into
prosperity. With the formation of the Masconian Trade Way and more stringent policies against pirates,
the Gardner merchant family constructed a walled palace, and granted protection to financial barterers
and other traders within the settlement. By 1E 1100, Farangel Gardner declared himself ruler and
claimed the immediate lands as his kingdoms. Under his rule, lesser merchants thrived and were
welcomed with open arms and forceful protection: This ensured Wayrests eternal wealth.
[Now, of course, Wayrest is the capital of the new, broader, Daggerfall Covenant that includes the Orcs
and Redguards. I imagine that makes Daggerfall City even less happy.]
The recent trade conflicts in the Iliac Bay created a powerful alliance, birthed from recent periods of
strife. In 2E 541, a powerful Reachman name Durchorach, the Black Drake, united the tribes of the
Reach and led an invasion that plundered much of High Rock. In fact, it was only at Daggerfall that his
advance was finally blunted and turned back toward Skyrim. Realizing how weak their individual
realms were, the kinds of Daggerfall, Wayrest, Camlorn, Evermore, and Shornhelm swore fealty to the
Daggerfall Covenant, promising to act together with swift and brutal might should foreign raiders seek
their fertile lands again.
At first, Daggerfall was poised to claim a dominant position, but all the while Wayrest was rebuilding
stronger than ever, backed by a young and charismatic merchant prince named Emeric Cumberland. In
2E 561, when the largest orichalcum reserves ever seen were struck in the Cumberland mines, close to
Wayrests walls, Daggerfall lost more ground. The canny Emeric used this new wealth wisely, and
when the horrific plague of Knahaten Flu slew the entire royal household of the Gardeners, Emeric was
the natural choice to assume the throne. The Cumberland dynasty was born.
Proficient craftsmen -- second only to the talented artisans of Cyrodiil -- were commissioned to add
embellishments to Wayrests finest buildings. The ongoing strife in Tamriel ensured a continuing
demand for armor and blades strengthened by orichalcum. Wayrests prosperity ensured it would take
the lead among the Breton city-states.
[Is is irritating that the authors of this rather myopic Imperial Guide make virtually no mention of the
Covenants maritime merchant prowess, which Emeric built to bind his fellow kings to him with trade.
Even today, there are ships sailing hourly from the great ports of Wayrest, Daggerfall, Evermore, and
Sentinel. This merchant marine could be turned into a naval force within hours. By Arkay, these writers
are idiots.]
As I wandered in wonder through the great city of Wayrest, it is obvious the grip of King Emeric has
over his mostly faithful subjects. My Lion Guard chaperones were polite but looked down their pointed

noses at me. I drew their standard armor and favored weapons as they goaded me with questions such
as Are you really a traveling writer, or just the least subtle spy we've ever seen? I smiled at their
taunts, but beneath my deferential exterior, I was seething.
The Bretons are fractious, martial, and quarrelsome, but multifaceted and potentially dangerous to the
Empire. The Bretons are of Nedic stock with a splash of High Elven blood, and this has granted many
of them an affinity for magic. The Mages Guild is a formidable force within these parts. Bretons may
not stand as proudly as a Nord or Redguard, but they are wiry and resilient. They honor the religion of
the Eight Divines, and are nearly as devout as Colovian Imperials.
Every Breton has been touched by warfare and violence; is it etched into their buildings and the faces
of their elders. Function is valued over refinement, and this can be observed in their earthy, quant, and
hand-crafted structures and in their dowdy, utilitarian attire. The Bretons feudal government, which
segments High Rock into city-states, encourages petty nationalism and cross-border violence, which
takes a toll on the regions prosperity. Individuals are lumped into specific social strata: the poor
peasantry, then a middle class of merchants and artisans, with a confused jumble of nobility and ruling
families above them all. Add in autonomous knightly orders, and a small magical elite that considers
itself above this general squalor, and you've encapsulated Breton society. But heed this warning:
internal quarrels vanish when outside forces threaten their way of life.
There have been orders of militant knights in High Rock ever since the Bretons threw off the yoke of
the Direnni. Before the founding of the Daggerfall Covenant, the Lion Guard was one of these
autonomous orders, pledging loyalty to all Bretons but governed by none. The orders tenets are simple
and unwavering: to fight for the good of all High Rock and every Breton. Although initially these elite
guards sought the impossible goal to administer justice and impose peace, they adjusted their role to
that of at-need guardians, ready to repel threats whether monstrous, magical, or foreign in nature. Any
of the kings could call upon the Lion Guard to bolster their ranks with exceptional fighters.
The Lion Guard is extremely popular throughout the land, and though some lords resent their lack of
control over the knights and the inferiority of their own troops, they either remain silent or are
positively enthusiastic when confronting catastrophe and requesting reinforcements. Most of the Lion
Guard approved when the Covenant fused together the regions of High Rock. Many felt this
development succeeded in the knight's original mission to reunify the Breton people. So it was not
surprising when the Lord General of the Lion Guard pledged fealty to the new alliance. Since then, the
Lion Guard has served as the rulers elite and personal guardians, and has been unwavering in its
devotion.
The First Empire made the Bretons fall into line and convert to the Eight Divines. And yet, even under
the yoke of Imperial rule, lesser deities still hold significant sway over the more superstitious Bretons:
Magnus, the Magus: This god of sorcery withdrew from the creation of the world at the last moment,
leaving ethereal remains that mortals control in the form of magic. It is said he lends mages his power.
Yffre: This God of the Forest is still revered by some Breton huntsmen and farmers. Yffre
transformed himself into the first of the Ehlnofey, known as the Earth Bones or laws of nature,
ending the uncontrolled transmutations of mortals who then took human-shaped form and understood
their role in the world.
Sheor, the Bad Man: Many Bretons fear this god, who is the source of all strife. He is a demonized
version of the Nordic Shor or Aldmeri Lorkhan and was born during the dark years after the fall of
Saarthal.
Phynaster: Many Breton mages who emphasize their tainted Elven blood are proud to worship this
hero-god, who taught the Altmer the secrets of naturally elongating their lifespan by shortening their

walking stride.
Veneration of these entities is expressly forbidden to Imperials, although study of these heretical idols
is encouraged, there is a line between analysis and adoration: a line that shall not be crossed.
After the bravado and backslapping of the Lion Guard, it was a relief to gain entrance into the Wayrest
Cathedral and be at peace for a while.
Priestess Gidric informed me that the citys elite worship here, and Emerics coronation was held under
these arched buttresses. I can see why: Although the stone arcade could never be describes as
breathtaking -- it lacks the overwhelming grandeur of the Imperial Citys great cathedral -- it is
nevertheless a feat of engineering to be commended. The Bretons really did try their best.
As the light from Aetherius poured through the sanctuary glass, I felt the warmth of Mara for the first
time since coming to Wayrest and relaxed my weary bones. My final time of rest in Wayrest.
It was time to leave Wayrest behind and head north, into deepest High Rock. The Lion Guard offered
me a mount, but large animals make me nervous, so I declined. I gathered my provisions and set off
afoot, heading up the road towards the city of Shornhelm in the region of Rivenspire.
Aside from farms, which gradually gave way to craggy scars and fells, I encountered few dwellings,
until I came across the aptly-named Pariah Abbey. Here was a monastery openly devoted to the
worship of Azura! Sister Jerique, one of their so-called Spirit Wardens, invited me to a communion
with Moonshadow. I politely refused her advances, although I supped from the sweet beverage she
offered. Azuras presence felt strangely comforting, albeit heretical.
In need of proper sustenance, I took to the road and found a roadside inn with a roaring hearth and a
friendly barkeep. After a goblet of barley wine, I felt a little light-headed, so I embarked on an evening
stroll to clear my head.
These blasted rural pathways lacked proper signage and lighting. The ground turned steep and wooded.
Twisted branches brushed my breeches as I found myself in a deep ravine. A buttress of rocks
surrounded a glade of gnarled bushes. Dominating this space was an effigy of Vaernima that seemed to
have risen out of a nightmare.
My mind churning with horrific thoughts of sacrifice and cultists, I tentatively inspected with
monument to the Weaver of Dreams. The flames of lit candles stood straight: The wind has stopped.
This was not a place for loitering. Then I heard a voice:
Beware, Flaccus Terentius. You trespass in Moonlit Maw.
I let out a yelp. But the voice was familiar, soothing. I remembered Jeriques words mentioning the
Supernal Dreamers of Vaernima, dangerous cultists active in these parts. Nervous, I asked her for
assistance, and she guided me back to the inn.
I woke the next morning with the barkeep banging on my door holding breakfast. A black rose was on
the table next to me.
A detachment of Breton guards joined me on the road to Shornhelm, and offered me their protection as
we marched (rather too quickly for my constitution) nord from Newgate, leaving Stormhaven behind.
The bloody history of haunted Rivenspire may be of interest here:
King Ransers War by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)
In the year 563, after the formation of the second Wayrest dynasty, young King Emeric began a search
for his bride. His first choice was Rayelle, daughter of King Ranser of Shornhelm, but before the

marriage contracts were wrought, Emeric instead married Maraya, Redguard princes of Sentinel. This
stunned courtiers across the land, and prompted bards to sing songs of Marayas bewitching beauty.
However, strategists saw the move as strengthening the trade between High Rock and Hammerfell.
After Emerics wedding in 566, High Rock readied itself for a golden age of commerce. Three moons
later, it was bracing for a bloody civil war.
Rivenspire was known as the backwater of High Rock. Ranser was one of these surly hillmen, a child
of the north, known for his bitter tempter and brutal rule. Emerics slight was too much for him to bear.
With an army of Northern Tamriels surliest mercenaries and a host of his own people, he descended
from the mountains to cut a bloody swath to the Iliac Bay. Emeric was caught unprepared. It was only
the spirited defence of his Lion Guard that saved Wayrest from being razed. Ranser had hoped for a
swift victory. Instead, he was forced into a protracted siege.
The long siege dragged on into spring, when the Daggerfall Covenant -- a mutual defence pact, sworn
by the Breton kingdoms at the conclusion of the Reachmen Invasion -- finally paid dividends, drawing
Camlorn, Evermore, and Daggerfall into the fray. Some counseled letting Wayrest fall, but trade with
the richest city in the region was too important to allow that. Attacked from the city and surrounding
countryside, Ransers army stood firm; his mercenaries were well paid and prepared for bloodshed. But
the crimson sail and battalions of elite Redguard warriors from across the bay turned the tide. Ransers
forces were routed, and Shornhelm was already ablaze when Ranser returned. This was the work of
Orcs under the blood-rule of Kurog gro-Bagrakh.
Caught between the Breton hammer and the Orcish anvil, Ransers troops were utterly annihilated in
the Battle of Markwasten Moor. Ranser hadn't counted on Emerics canniness; the King of Wayrest had
sent emissaries into the Wrothgar Mountains with a pledge to return Orsinium to the Orcs if they
attacked their hated enemy in Shornhelm. Rivenspire was despoiled, and some Orcs remembered how
the Bretons of Shronhelm had led the assault that toppled Orsinium some 135 years before. These debts
were paid to Shornhelm in full. Ransers War built the Daggerfall Covenant as it is today: Stormhaven,
Rivenspire, and Wrothgar are all indelibly marked by these events.
[I found this report in the Imperial archives while researching High Rock - it was written later than the
Imperial Guide, and has information Ill want to include in my update.]
[The tortured landscape of Rivenspire is afflicted with a species of feral vampire called Bloodfiends.
Fortunately their plague isn't very contagious, or the land would be overrun with them.]
[I unfolded the painting of Ravenspire I purchased at Wayrest. The artist responsible should be fired preferably from a catapult - for this wildly inaccurate piece of fantasy. This was obviously painted by
someone who never set foot north of Oldgate.]
The barren fells of southern Rivenspire, the jagged and abrupt plateaus and bluffs, and the impassible
mountains around Doomcrag (that peak of ill repute) would be difficult terrain for Imperial troops or
resupply lines. To the north, these erratic fissures flatten somewhat as they reach the Moors, where
hostile beasts lurk behind many a dark and abandoned ruin.
Their chaotic landscape seems to have affected the spirits of the local Bretons. Gloomy and laconic,
they have little to say to strangers, though they do whisper about the so-called Bloodfiends, a local
species of vampire. Wary and elusive, they are rarely seen. These savage creatures are said to lurk in
the shadows of the countryside looking for living creatures from which to siphon blood, slashing
victims until lacerations are severe enough to incapacitate their prey and feed from them.
[Wary and elusive? From what I heard in Rivenspire, appearance of these Bloodfiends is on the rise.]
An army might find provisions in the river valley of the Ruined Steppes and Fells Run, where the

ground is more fertile and conducive to farming. Strange rock formations still pierce the landscape, but
lakes and rivers are no longer an unusual sight. Along the northern coast the part of Northpoint appears
ill-defended, the the eerie heights of Doomcrag to the west should be avoided.
Though the landscape of Rivenspire is dramatic, I found the city of Shornhelm gloomy and dull; after
only one night at the inn, I decided to head south for Glenumbra and the city of Daggerfall.
A Lion Guard named Mannick Noellaume was detailed to protect me. I feigned interest as he
explained he was traveling to the great cemetery of Cath Bedraud. Mannick keeps quite a pace, but he
soon informed me that wed crossed the pass into Glenumbra. Suddenly, Mannick dropped to his
haunches. The wolves of Glenumbra prowl these parts, Mannick whispered, drawing his sword and
dropping his satchels. Weve already been seen.
The first wolf padded out into the path, its hackles standing along the ridge of its back, and jumped for
Mannick in a blur of fur. Mannick pivoted, bringing his entire weight behind a massive, two-handed
swing, cleaving the wolf in twain. Another wolf leaped from the woods, receiving one of my arrows to
its hindquarters before it, too, was cloven apart. Ha-ha! I yelled at Mannick. Two warriors claim
sovereignty of this glade!
To me! he replied.
Puzzled, I spun around as a huge claw whistled past my year. It was attached to a giant wooden arm,
part of a strange, lumbering construct made from bark, moss, and evil magic. I stumbled over to
Mannick, who caught another of this wooden golems swings, parried and swung back, biting into the
beasts forearm. It took him several minutes to defeat the thing. I did my part, shouting encouragement.
That was a Lurcher, Mannick informed me, panting as I painted the corpse of the strange lumber
construct. These Lurchers started appearing recently in northern and central forests. No one knows
why.
Our paths part here. Mannick Noellaume had led me to one of the most venerated sites of his people,
and now bade me farewell. I spend the evening putting charcoal to parchment among the mausoleums
here, before making camp along the ancient remains of nobles of High Rock.
Wergital the Wolf-Boy
Attributed to Edouard Longtemps
Kynareth watched from the rain, clouds, and skies
A Breton child cloaked in a furry disguise
Nurtured by wolves of the Glenumbra glen
A wolf-boy would scamper through woods, hills, and fen
Cutting his teeth on the flesh of the hunt
He grew brawn and bone, no longer the runt
Night hunts for prey in the light of Secunda
The pack grew more daring to forage and plunder
Fell's Run farmers, their hairs stood on end
Flitting dark shapes, t'was a violent portend
Bringing down cattle with ravenous snarl
A predator child with the wolves in his thrall
Hunters dispatched, with pelts their desire
The wolves they did flee, all safe in the briar
More daring the wolf raids, encroaching the town

So elders did plan to bring the pack down

A goat tied and bleating, intended as bait
Lured wolf-boy and pack to a terrible fate
The pack leapt at prey, intending a meal
But the archers of Fell's Run soon brought them to heel
Arrows flew fast as the boy dropped his cowl
Bloodied and pierced, he fell with a howl
Wergital Wolf-Boy was burned on the moor
Return unto Kynarethyour soul is now pure
My next trek - an exhausting slow slow - took me across the gloomy marshes of Hag Fen, fortunately
without incident. The Guide account is mostly accurate and includes a precise depiction of a Hags
home, as well as a frightening depiction of how these warty hermits look. But how could our leading
Imperial explorers have traipsed across this Fen and failed to mention the smell?
The ancient cemetery of Cath Bedraud is a series of concentric circular bands clustered around a central
hill. The reason for its exact location is a mystery to Imperial scholars, but many have been designed to
provide direct sunlight onto certain graves on specific high holy days of the Breton calendar. The
nobility and royal dynasties of High Rock have buried their dead in ornate mausoleums since time
immemorial; the eldest and most prestigious graves are located in the high center. Expect to find
members of the Cumberland and Gardner families, as well as many courtiers from King Joiles court.
Also beware of the thick and thorny vines that invade this graveyard; chosen members of the Order of
Arkay periodically prune these.
The central marsh of Glenumbra, known as Hag Fen, is a primal swamp characterized by several
unique reeds and mosses as well as gnarled and stunted trees and thick, low foliage. The Fen is
inhospitable and difficult to map accurately; Imperial cartographers have complained of the shrouding
mists and noxious miasma that emanates from the Fens stagnant pools. The abundance of interesting
plant life and the inaccessible nature of the environment is perhaps why the eponymous Hags reside in
such dismal living conditions.
The Hags of the Fen are insular, shy creatures and are rarely seen by travelers. Local tavern owners tell
stories of hags being the first followers of Yffre or feeding off the bones of naughty children, but these
old wives tales are intent to keep unruly kith and kin in line. Legion explorer Amphion Gargilius
survived an encounter with a Hag, describing her as a tall and gaunt wild woman, clad in tattered
cloth, with a predisposition for hoarding and tending to the marsh like a farmer might his crops. Hags
are powerful and unpleasant to behold. They think nothing of chopping limbs from unwary adventurers
(as evidenced by Amphions missing arm) or burning them with fiery magic. Though their nature is
clearly vile and obscene, their origins remain unknown.
After almost losing a boot in the fens, I managed to scramble away from the mists and mud into
Glenumbras gargantuan forests. I was busy attempting to light a campfire when I was startled by a
woman, clad in green and brown, who admonished, no fires, outsider. Now follow me.
I was escorted into the vale of the Beldama Wyresses. The glade was dominated by the immense Wyrd Tree, a colossal
specimen of oak with a branch canopy that covered the firmament. I noticed fires, small wooden huts draped with hanging
moss, and tents throughout the vale. The lissome witch spoke softly. Have some broth. Stay among the watchers of the Green,
and mind your manners.

For primitives, these witches seem polite and respectful. At least, until I asked to share one of their
huts, which resulted in a scowl and a swift refusal. And the elder wyresses seem to look straight
through me. But the soup was good, and I propped my head against a wyresss tent and settled down

for the night.

Sometime later, I woke with a start. The woodland chatter was drowned out by the sounds of rhythmic
chanting. The only illumination was from the glow of the Wyrd tree. Id cricked my neck and felt damp
and chilled. So when I noticed the hut door was ajar, I took the open door as an invitation to enter. The
Wyrd womans bed looked comfortable, with its skins and rough linen, but I chose caution over
comfort and curled up near the still-warm embers of the hearth.
My dreams were fitful. I only remember a rasping voice: The candle inside your head is lit.
Witch Cults of Northern High Rock by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)
One of the dozen or so known Wyrd covens scattered across Tamriel, the Beldama Wyrd is of especial
interest to Imperial researchers. The Beldama are found within the thick forests of central Glenumbra,
which are problematic to the explorer due to the broken terrain and heavy vegetation. Precious few
have encountered the Beldama Wyresses (another name for a group of wyrd-sisters, or witches), but
those who have speak of dark encampments under the canopy of ancient oak trees and cavorting rituals
to honor Jephre, an aspect of Y'ffre, the most venerated god of the Bosmeri deities.
The all-female Beldama Wyrd trace their origin to the time Y'ffre transformed himself into the first
Ehlnofey (or "Earth Bones") and established the laws of nature. While this is obviously mere myth, the
Beldama Wyrd all fiercely believe they are descendants of the Ehlnofey. It is uncertain whether the
Wyresses should be considered beneficial or malefic, but all agree they are uncanny and forceful: They
see themselves as wardens of the forests with an unwavering reverence for nature. Most Bretons
consider them dangerous witches, to be placated rather than revered. It is no wonder, then, that the
Beldama Wyrd dwells in the least populated region of High Rock.
The Beldama tend to congregate around a mysterious and reputedly gigantic Wyrd Tree, which glows
with an unnatural light and looks unlike any other tree in the northern forests of Tamriel. Should the
Empire consider an invasion, threats of deforestation might be a way to cow the local population,
although the Beldama Wyrd may have unknown magic capable of forestalling incursions.
At the edge of the woods, I discovered a turnpike and a weathered sign to Deleys Mill. The path
wound through the low hills as the suns heat warmed my bones. With the hamlet in sight, I had
stopped to remove a pebble from my boot when I was greeted by a little old man struggling with an
enormous haversack. Buy my wares? he inquired.
I studied the clanking collection of tin pots, dented drinking cups, and other paraphernalia, and stifled a chuckle. These
trinkets are worthless, you old coot! I exclaimed, perhaps a little too maliciously. Id find fancier wares in a paupers grave!
Be off with you! The peddler stopped his clanging and stood dumbfounded. I hopped past.

My boot was half on when I heard a great rattling. I thought the elderly fool had fallen over but turned
to see his eyes flash red. He fixed his gaze on mine, stood impossibly tall, and began snarling and
thrashing like a madman. It took a moment to realize that he was growing both up and out. Hair
sprouted from his form and his rags fell away. As his nose lengthened into a black muzzle and his
bones cracked and twisted, I finally started to run. Id offended a werewolf.
I fled in a lung-bursting sprint, abandoning my untied boot in a ditch as I felt hot breath scorching my
neck. I dared to glance behind and saw the beast stop, pick up a fallen flagon, and continue. I thanked
all Eight Divines (in order) as I neared Deleys Mill guard and the werewolf came within archery range.
He roared and bolted for the fields - still carrying his haversack - as I collapsed by a member of the
town watch. Had that tinker not been so attached to his wares well, the outcome doesn't bear thinking
about.

Dealing with Werewolves by Venustinius Perquitienus

Whether you're stationed at a garrison at Camlorn or suffering Nord inhospitality in Skyrim, an
Imperial subject must know the signs of the terrible affliction of Lycanthropy. With attacks by creatures
infected with Sanies Lupinus on the rise, it is your duty to learn the following and behave accordingly.
Is there an overabundance of canis root in casks and market stalls? Have you witnessed the locals
rubbing this root on neighboring trees and fences? Have you followed strange animal tracks, only to
find them disappear? Do the village temples house beggars with vivid nightmares or with deep claw
wounds to their faces or bodies? Does the wolf howl when there are none to be found? Then
werewolves (or worse still, werebears) may be active in your jurisdiction.
Werewolves are sturdy hybrids with powerful jaws and claws on both hands and feet. They stand three
hands taller than an Orc and exhibit severe bloodlust. If you encounter one, attempt to flee at all costs
unless you feel supremely confident in your arms and armor. If possible, thrust the indigenous
population into the path of the lycanthrope, so it states its appetite on them while you retreat to cover or
your mount.
If you must fight a werewolf, arm yourself with any silver weapon, as these have proven extremely
effective. However, prepare for severe gash wounds and the possibility of becoming infected. Should
this occur, report to your superior for final rites to Arkay and immediate execution.
I retrieved my boot and retired to the local tavern. A freckle-faced wench had only just served my
sausages when she gasped and pointed at my writing quill and grinned a toothy smile. Thats a harpy
feather! she shrilled.
Yes, I responded. The nib is particularly durable and enables prolonged writing between ink dips.
You must have got it at Shrieking Scar! she said, and began asking questions about a harpy queen
named Foulwing. So the next morning I decided to detour from the direct route to Daggerfall to
observe these fanciful creatures. I followed the wenchs directions, and an hour later I was among the
nests in Shrieking scar.
Harpies there were, in plenty. I hid in a bush and quickly sketched a vigorous specimen in all her
immodesty. Do not let their humanlike form fool you: These creatures lack even the rudiments of
civilization. I watched them vomit up gruel to feed their young, and quarrel with each other with loud
shrieks and razor talons. I returned with three feathers Id picked up, and a newfound respect for my
quill merchant.
While the harpys origins and mating habits are not well understood (and indeed, are the subject of
hotly disputed debates among the sages of the Imperial City), these base creatures seem to be related to
birds. Just what originally spawned these violent, ill-tempered abominations is open for debate,
although the festival of Riglametha (celebrated across Hammerfell) portrays harpies as women who
had ancient unions with crows.
Harpies are quite dangerous to the unwary traveler. Their nests have been spotted all across western
Tamriel, wherever there are cliffs and crags. When disturbed, mating, or challenged, they communicate
using a series of warning shrieks and warbles. Indeed, they seem intelligent enough to speak a
rudimentary language, sometimes loudly amplified by small wattles beneath their chins.
In terms of biological functions, harpies mirror those of common birds; they craft nests (a cluster of
rocks, arranged branches, moss, leaves, and regurgitated spittle), lay eggs, and bring back food for their
young. They huddle together in simple matriarchal societies, crowding around and venerating the
oldest or most powerful of the fold. They feast off flesh and care not about the type or quality, whether
it be a freshly slain deer or traveling merchant or week-old carrion. They are fiercely territorial, and

attack using infected claws, favoring scraping attacks to the face. Elder harpies have been known to
employ magic.
The royal house of Deleyn is central to the recent history of the city of Daggerfall. The royal line of
Deleyns traces its lineage back to King Donel, who ruled the city-state from 2E 342 to 401. His sister
Genevieve married Serge, who was of Northmoors Adlam Mining Conglomerate, and King Donel wed
Lady Sylvie Garclay of Aldcroft in Glenumbra. These two unions strengthened the House. The title was
passed down from son (Anton I) to daughter (Donella) to son (Anton II) before King Bergamot (Anton
IIs nephew and only surviving heir) took the throne in 2E 515.
Bergamot played a pivotal role with Emeric in clearing Daggerfall of Reachmen during Durcorachs
uprising, after which he signed the first Daggerfall Covenant. He died in the subsequent Knahaten Flu
epidemic. King Folbert the Wide was next in line, aiding Wayrest during Ransers War and becoming
instrumental to the wider Daggerfall Covenant of 567. Folbert believes Wayrests current pre-eminence
a matter of mere luck. Should Wayrest overextend itself, Folbert is certain to seize the opportunity to
return Daggerfall to the forefront in High Rock.
After perusing the nearby Fighters Guild, sketching a Breton fountain ,and being refused entry into
Castle Daggerfall, I spent an afternoon painting the impressive mosaic of the Mages Guildhall from the
second floor of the structure. I must admit to some degree of wonderment; this Guildhall is nearly as
elegant and refined as those of the Imperial City! My admiration was tempered by an argument with
the Incunabulist, who failed to acknowledge my Imperial scholarship put me in better standing than his
somewhat parochial education. That arrogant little librarian should know his place!
The hearth was aglow and crackling. Tavernkeeper Gregoire Lafont had expedited my roasted ox
haunch and all the trimmings just as Id dabbed the final paint on my tableaus of the Rosy Lion inn. As
I tucked into this succulent feast and ordered another mead, a broad-shouldered Redguard sat down
next to me. What a splendid picture, he remarked with a smile, then added, Whats your poison?
Mead, thank you, I replied. I didn't catch your name.
Uwafa. From Sentinel. My master is looking for a decorator. Youre perfect for his needs. I was still
chewing. One thousand apologies! Where are my manners. Eat your dinner. Ill be over by the fire.
I was intrigued. Many of these Redguards were merchants with gold to spare, and Id need every last
coin for my upcoming nuptials. After cleaning my plate, I left out a healthy belch, joined Uwafa and
asked about the possible employment. I could spare a few days from my travels. My, this mead is
bitter. So why not use local craftsmen?
Uwafa grinned. Because my master wants an Imperial Uwafa was watching me intently and suddenly
leaned forward. Flaccus, can you follow my finger for a moment?
I felt a little dazed. Sparkles of strange light blurred my vision. I nodded as Uwafa waved his clawed
gauntlet before me. Good, I remembered him saying. Follow me outside.
My next memories are a blur of dark shapes and colors - muddy black alleys, the seedy underbelly of
Daggerfall. I was swaying as I walked, and rather talkative. That beastly Uwafa had obviously
administered some dark narcotic. I think I heard him say something like Prepare for the Mark of the
Worm. Yes, that was it. He wasn't friendly anymore. I was being bundled onto a cart? Yes, I was, and I
remembered tripping over a dog. I bent down to pet him; I must have been completely befuddled. The
hound growled at Uwafa and lunged at him. I sat down and watched the dog bite the cutlist, while the
commotion attracted the Daggerfall Watch. I heard shouts of Heel! as the treacherous Uwafa ran off.
I owe that dog my life.

Necromancy in Modern Tamriel by Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)

Eternal slumber was once taken for granted. But now, necromancy has appeared in numerous locations
across Tamriel. Anonymous spies have pinpointed the Cult of the Black Worm as the insidious force
responsible. This sect, once hidden from view, is spreading, and offers the weak-willed what seems a
guaranteed rise to power. Its chief opposition is the Mages Guild, but with the Guild in disgrace in
Cyrodiil and banished from the Imperial City, the Order of the Black Worm seems ascendant.
Hidden cells of these necromancers are called Worm Nests, led by a priest of undeath who takes the
mantle of Worm Anchorite. Such priests may even have converted to undead form, after which they're
called Worm Eremites. They are never apart from undead protectors, either summoned or reanimated.
The leader of this cult is the Altmer mage Mannimarco, whose name is never spoken aloud by the
cultists; he is instead invoked (with a whisper) as the King of Worms. No more must be written about
him; his tendrils of power and influence snake far and wide.

Hammerfell
Submitted by Lady N on Tue, 06/10/2014 - 13:17
Author:
Anonymous

Redguards of the Daggerfall Covenant

The sea crossing of Iliac Bay gave me a chance to read up on Yokudan history. Violence, hubris, and
cunning seem to be recurring themes here.
The arid wasteland west of Colovia and south of Iliac Bay was an abandoned realm. During the First
Era, the Aldmer referred to this desolate places as Hegathe and the Nedic people called it
Deathland. Stifling, sandy winds clogged explorers lungs, while baking rocks branded their feet. The
only footprints to be discovered were made with the scale hooves or claws of terrible monsters that
stalked this land. So it is to the credit of the Redguards that their banishment to these shores paid
dividends, and their adept adaptation to this new homeland resulted in a powerful province and a new
mandate. This is Deathland no longer: This is Hammerfell.
During the First Era, the city of Sentinel was a simple outpost, a show of force and protection against
Orc marauders, Goblin raiders, roaming trolls, cattle-sized scorpions, and other more terrifying spirits
that dared enter High Rock. But the Redguards were not the first to settle this desert; a Dwemer faction
known as the Rourken disagreed with the Chimer and Dwemer alliances in Morrowind and moved into
the Deathlands, trading with the southern Elves and northern Bretons alike. They sanctified their capital
as Volenfell, or City of the Hammer. Despite their attempts to distance themselves from the War of
the First Council, they paid the price of all Dwemer, and the Rourken disappeared. Almost overnight,
the Dwemer capital was among Deathlands empty cities. Only ghosts and creatures from the inland
desert roamed the old alleyways and empty buildings, interrupted by the looting of Abecean and Nord
pirates. To this day, Volenfell lies buried and silent under the Alikrs boiling sands.
As I havent been chased or abducted, and the only embarrassment Im causing is the seasick vomiting
of half-digested horse meat into the Iliac Bay, Im claiming my first real contact with the Redguards as

tantamount to a success. Aboard the Sentinel-bound ship, Im immediately struck by how martial this
culture is. From the captain to the rigging boy, all wear their weapons constantly. The marines who
guard this vessel are even dressed in heavy armor!
What if they fell overboard?
Compared to the temperamental Bretons, the Redguard race seems positively dignified. Standing
broad-shouldered and tall, with dark skin and wiry hair, they are seemingly born with a sword in their
hand. I spoke with a few of them and found them formal, obsessed with personal honor, and quite
aloof. While Breton culture had felt almost familiar to an Imperial like me, seeing the glinting domes of
the city-port of Sentinel on the horizon gave me no such comfort. The Redguards were people from
another continent, and it seemed theyd brought as much of Yokuda as they could manage.
Like swarms of slaughterfish, the Ra Gada armada tore along Tamriels shores as the Yokudan invasion
began. Furious fighters with nothing to lose - their own archipelago was lost to western seas - they
brought swift death to coastal colonies of unprepared Breton and rampageous Orc folk. No
compromises were made. The province of Hammerfell and the Na-Totambu government of the Yokuda
-- who became known as the Redguards -- thrived. Customary farming practices and religions
flourished, even in the arid climate. These swift victories and the quick construction of Sentinel, with
its numerous high-domed structures (resplendent with mosaic adumbrations) on the shore of the deep
desert, startled Elf and Man alike. While the Bretons nursed their wounds and pride, the Redguards
defied their hard desert surroundings. It took more than 100 years and the rise of Orsinium for the
Bretons to suppress the Redguards violent arrogance; this galvanized and uneasy truce and began
economic relations.
Time heals even the deepest wounds. The recent Daggerfall Covenant is holding, and although outer
regions of Hammerfell remain distrusting, the city-states of Sentinel and Hallins Stand are committed
to fight with King Emeric of Cumberland. The social hierarchy of Sentinel (the Forebears) is well
versed in diplomacy with High Rock. But standing shoulder to shoulder with the Orcs tests the
Redguards commitment and honor to the snapping point. So far, both factions have kept their word
(although interracial tasks are undertaken with gritted teeth and stringent oversight). Although the
Redguards are fewer in number, the Covenant seems obliged to prosper from their influence, from the
tactical expansionism of the Forebear king Faharajad to the calculated war-planning of his generals
and maritime adeptness of this sailors.
Faharajad may have more than simple alliances in mind. His daughter is married to King Emeric. He
garnered support and played upon religious fervor after a starry comet skirted the northern heavens, and
Faharajad believed it was a sign from HoonDing, the Yokudan Make Way God. A ruler with such guile
must either be befriended or utterly crushed.
When the ship's guards aren't talking about the veneration of some chap called "Frandar" and his "Way
of the Sword," they're practicing thrusts, cuts, and parrying with their swords. Or they're sharing advice
on the care and polish of their swords: I sense a pattern emerging. While the Redguard soldier carries a
variety of other killing implements -- which I sketched between bouts of seasickness -- a marine named
Wisr-al-Maeen explained that a Redguard's sword is an extension of his soul and a symbol of honor.
Their consorts have more care for their blades than a Nord does for his mead.
[Superstitious nonsense. "Swords of light?" Please.]
The history of the sword-saint, or "Ansei," tradition can be traced back to the time of Lord Frandar
Hunding, the first warrior prince. Previously, civil war had run rampant across Yokuda. Those married
to the arts of poetry and learning were forced to join their uncouth brothers and sisters, and all were to
learn the song of the blade. When the commoner Randic Torn tried to unify the Yokudan Empire, he

decreed that only warriors -- known as sword-singers -- could carry such weapons.
Frandar's ilk were artisans who valued beauty in the smithing of magnificent blades tempered with
magic. But even more intense devotion to the gods of war allowed them to use their minds to conjure
swords of insubstantial light. Those Ansei with otherworldly piety took this further, changing light into
substantial, bone-cleaving reality. Disarming such an Ansei now required severing their head.
Hunding's Shehai slew entities both wondrous and monstrous. After the defeat of Lord Janie and his
seven lich guardians, Hunding retreated to the Hattu Mountains. Now invincible, he spent the next 30
years crafting his learnings into the Book of Circles. As Hunding readied for death, his hermitage was
finally interrupted when his people called upon him.
A new and final emperor was crowned: Hira. His thirst for power could be quenched only by
wrenching control from the people and slaying all the sword-singers. And the Singers prevailed. Hira's
empire was routed and scattered after seven terrible battles, but the commoners with little regard for the
Way cared not about the reasons for their own salvation. So the Singers set sail across a vast ocean,
vowing to honor their past but adopt a new name: Redguard. Now, every household in the province has
an alcove above the hearth: a place where Hunding is honored and the Book of Circles is cherished.
Fahara'jad inherited a kingdom of uncertainty. His predecessor King Ramzi the Distrait was a selfserving and weak-willed ruler, failing utterly to protect his subjects as man and child succumbed to the
Knahaten Flu. Ramzi regarded the plague as divine punishment from Ruptga for his personal failings.
As the creeping death spread to his courtiers, Ramzi sealed himself within the palace and slowly
starved to death, so great was his fear of contracting the virus. As the Flu turned the realm to chaos,
Forebear noble Fahara'jad took command of Sentinel's throne.
Hushed whispers spoke of a plot by the Forebears. Sentinel's citizens grew paranoid. The absence of a
firm ruler proved almost cataclysmic for the once-prosperous settlement, until the brash young
Fahara'jad completed his journey from Bergama, stepped into Sentinel, and declared himself king. The
rulers of the southern provinces acted with vehement repudiation, but the Forebear viziers and northern
chieftains ratified the action. Perhaps sensing an uprising from the south, Fahara'jad proved himself
most cunning, allying himself with the Daggerfall Covenant to pronounce himself High King of all
Hammerfell. Seething silence from the south boiled over into vexation at the sheer effrontery, but the
foes of Fahara'jad found his claims too difficult to challenge.
Many considered Fahara'jad to be a usurper, a false ruler waiting for comeuppance at the many hands
of the god Satakal the Worldskin. But being thrice blessed (courtesy of his ties to the Forebears, his
daughter's marriage to High King Emeric, and his power as part of the Daggerfall Covenant) had its
privileges.
I was half expecting King Fahara'jad to be carried in on a palanquin, but I left my prejudices at the
mosaic-filled palace entrance doors. I was kept waiting in the audience chamber for over two hours, but
after witnessing the king's personal involvement in governing his realm, I began to warm to him. He
solved a dispute about drinking water that was contaminated by cattle dung by ordering the beasts slain
or moved to pasture. He confiscated the harp from a musician who was accused of strumming before
dawn. Then he signaled for me to approach.
"Be welcome to Hammerfell and at our hearth, Flaccus Terentius." Fahara'jad returned my credentials.
"You're a pathfinder? You need waterskins, perhaps? The Alik'r Desert is unforgiving. Tell you what,
my friend: Hand any merchant this note, and take what you need."
What a kind fellow! We continued to talk as equals, the king rightly focusing on my title as EnvoyScholar, and he invited me to witness the following day's handfasting ceremony. His youngest
daughter, Princess Lakana, was betrothed to High Rock's Duke Nathanial of Alcaire Castle. I duly

accepted. It appears this wily ruler seeks to further strengthen his alliances.
Instability is a watchword for Imperial operatives across Tamriel. Undermining the Empire's enemies
can only lead to greater triumphs. So our field agents report with gratification that the Redguard social
strata is so fractured, only the Daggerfall Covenant seems to be holding back a civil war in
Hammerfell. The battle lines are drawn from east to west: To the north lie the coastal habitats, ruled
over by a collection of nefarious seafaring merchants who tend to accept outsider influence: These are
the Forebears. Roaming nomads, perhaps because of their trading traditions, are also more willing to
act with foreigners. These groups are loyal to King Fahara'jad and the Daggerfall Covenant. Should the
Empire act, it is recommended that it attempt diplomatic relations with this faction.
To the south lie the filthy sand-ridden desert towns of the Hammerfell interior. The most recent
immigrants from lost Yokuda have settled here and call themselves the Crowns. They abide by archaic
Yokudan observances with a zeal that would impress a priest of Arkay. They are as stubborn as a case
of Black-Heart Blight. They believe the Forebears to be tainted by "Tamrielic affectations" and are
suspicious of the Daggerfall Covenant.
For all their acrimony, both the Forebears and the Crowns do share an antipathy for magic, especially
necromancy. The idea of raising Redguard ancestors as undead fills them with panic and revulsion.
Imperial conjurers are most welcome to gather as many Summon Skeleton scrolls as they can muster,
should a march on Hammerfell ever be ordered.
After the handfasting ceremony, an impressive display of conjured swordplay by an elder sword-adept,
the serving of dried fruit, and the arrival of luxuriant pillows to lounge upon before the Thunder Herb
was introduced, I did spy a few ruffled feathers. One of Fahara'jad's guests was a crown vizier from
Rihad, who -- after a goblet or two of a potent pomegranate wine -- described the Daggerfall Covenant
as "a pact of servitude, with our conniving king lying prostrate at the feet of his Wayrest inferiors." The
fellow was quickly removed from proceedings, but it seems not everyone is keen on the king's new
alliances.
As the handfasting festivities drew to a close, I spotted a familiar face. An Imperial trader -- who I'd
waved at during the ceremonies -- was approaching. He gestured to the business ledger he carried
under his arm and pointed to a side door. He was probably here to deliver the waterskins. I followed
him outside, where we could speak without eavesdroppers.
He pointed to the sign of Akatosh under his cloak and whispered, "I am Knight Agent Maximian
Memmius. Why did you miss your meeting in Daggerfall?"
I stood before him, befuddled and sweltering under the midday sun. "Er, my waterskins?" I inquired.
"To Coldharbour with your waterskins!" he snapped. "We've been tracking you since Deleyn's Mill.
Did our meeting simply slip your mind?"
"Listen, friend" -- I lowered my voice and pointed an accusatory finger -- "you're speaking to the
Envoy-Scholar of the Empress Regent! I demand you pay me at least a modicum of respect!"
He threw me up against the palace wall and held me by the throat. One of the Argonian gardeners
looked up, then quickly back down to his planting. "No, you listen to me, you prancing nymph! My
captain wants to know why you haven't filed an intelligence brief on High Rock. Having too merry a
time in the taverns and palaces of the mighty?" He unhanded me, sensing my confusion. He stole my
journal and then thumbed through it, scowling and pawing at the vellum. I demanded he take more
care.
"Ah, let the scorpions take you." With that, my Imperial "friend" threw the guide at me, turned tail, and
bolted for the harbor. I'd have given chase, but I remembered the previous time I'd been led down a

back alley. What was this man's mission? And more importantly, what was his problem? Intelligence
briefs? I thought I was compiling a traveler's guide!
The Palace of Sentinel, or Samuruik as the citizens call it, is a looming presence within the capital of
Hammerfell. The castle is sprawling but eminently defendable, and the parkland that surrounds it
occupies much of the city's footprint. It is home to the royal family, their retainers and courtiers, and
the many diplomatic envoys that travel between the major settlements within the Daggerfall Covenant.
This citadel's central golden dome and ornate towers guard against outside invaders, but it is within the
cool stone walls and hidden inner chambers that the most blood has been shed. Centuries of violent
usurping have coated these mural- and tapestry-filled walls. The underclasses joke that there's a staff
member whose everlasting occupation is rinsing blood out of the castle's many fine rugs. They quip,
"I'd rather be a rug washer in Samuruik!" to describe thankless or never-ending tasks. The actual humor
seems somewhat lost in translation.
Being roughed up by a crazed cultist is grounds for annoyance, but being browbeaten by one of my
own kind is tantamount to reason! I'll be sure to inform Chancellor Tharn of his transgression. But for
now, I won't let one rotting larva spoil my scrib pie, especially as there's so much to see, and paint, in
the bustling streets of Sentinel. The architecture is breathtaking! I was expecting cracked and crumbling
huts, but the Fighters Guild is majestic and it features cleverly-designed flumes for ventilation and
insulation against the baking heat and cloudless nights. Masons of some considerable skill erected these
monuments to an otherworldly kingdom. I hate to write this, but our architects could stand to learn the
ways to move air around our homes: My bedroom in Bravil is a tad close to the guardhouse latrines for
my liking.
The Forebears, with ties to the Second Empire and longevity among the indigenous peoples of Tamriel,
worship a similar pantheon to the Imperials and Bretons. Their rivals, the Crowns, are more rigid in the
reverence of ancient Yokudan deities.
Eight Divines of the Forebears
Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time: The chief deity, and first of the pantheon to establish the Beginning
Place. He is the embodiment of endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy. The Crowns know
him by the name Tall Papa.
Tava, the Bird God: The Yokudan spirit of the air led her people to the isle of Herne after their
homeland sank. She is an aspect of Kynareth and a popular deity in Hammerfell, worshiped by sailors
in port city shrines.
Julianos, God of Wisdom and Logic: Seen as an aspect of Jhunal, this is the god of literature, law,
history, and contradiction. He is the patron of magistrates and the few wizards who exist in
Hammerfell.
Dibella, Goddess of Beauty: The goddess devoted to artists, aesthetics, and others in the the shaping of
erotic instruction. She is popular among Redguard women, as well as nearly a dozen disparate cults
across the lands.
Tu'whacca, Tricky God: An aspect of Arkay to some, the Yokudan god of souls found his purpose as
the caretaker of the Far Shores after Tall Papa created the Walkabout. He aids Redguards seeking the
afterlife.
Zeht, God of Farms: An aspect of Zenithar and sometimes worshiped by Forebears using that name, the
Yokudan god of agriculture renounced his father after the world was created; this is why Akatosh has
dried the lands of Hammerfell.
Morwha, Teat God: Analogous to Mara, this four-armed fertility goddess (her many limbs allow her to

"grab more husbands") and the favorite of Tall Papa's wives is a fundamental deity. She has a strong
following in Stros M'kai.
Stendarr, God of Mercy: When Redguard "gallants" (their appropriated name for knights) pray for
compassion, charity, justice, or righteous rule, it is Stendarr who hears them.
Eight Gods of the Crowns
Tava, Tu'whacca, Zeht, and Morwha are all worshiped by Forebears and Crowns with few differences
to their origin stories. But the Crowns have little devotion to the other Divines, preferring to pray to
these heretical and distasteful idols:
Satakal, the Worldskin: The God of Everything shares aspects of the Nord Alduin, devouring one world
to begin the next. Satakal does this many times over, birthing spirits to survive each transition and form
the Crowns' pantheon.
Ruptga, Tall Papa: The chief deity and the first to learn to survive Satakal's hunger via the "Walkabout,"
a way to persist beyond a single lifetime. He set the stars to reveal his way. As the spirits grew, Ruptga
created a helper named Sep.
Onsi, War God and Boneshaver: The notable warrior god of the Yokudan Ra Gada, Onsi taught the
fighting men and women to temper steel and grow their knives into swords that combined strength of
metal and purpose.
Diagna, Orichalc God of the Sideways Blade: On the cusp of being a cult-worshiped deity, Diagna was
an avatar of HoonDing that achieved permanence. He brought orichalc weapons to the Yokudans when
they fought the Lefthanded Elves. In ancient Tamriel, he is said to have lead a small band of followers
against the Orcs of Orsinium.
Divine service at the temple was just concluding as I finished my painting of the altar and structure.
Many of the women were dressed in armor, but a few were clad in flowing dresses blowing lightly in
the afternoon sea breeze. I tried my best to talk to one. "My, my, what an enchanting day. Does your
skill with a blade match your beauty?" I inquired. The woman stopped, and our eyes met. "May you
come safely to your journey's end, my perspiring friend," she replied, and walked off.
Down toward the harbor, where great shipping vessels were unloading their crates and cargo from
Wayrest and beyond, I saw him: as bold as the whiskers on a Nord woman's face. The absconder from
Daggerfall, that damnable cultist Uwafa, was here, in the streets of Sentinel! I felt my bile rise and
cheeks flush as I stopped to watch and confirm his hated presence. This was no mirage. I instinctively
grasped the pommel of my dagger. Uwafa was to pay for crossing my path twice.
"Kidnapper!" Merchants and townspeople turned to look at me as I frantically jabbed my finger in the
direction of the fleeing black cloak and set off at a sprint I usually reserved for outrunning trolls. Uwafa
had already seen me and was dashing away quite quickly, weaving between market stalls with the grace
of a sabre cat. He bolted down a narrow alleyway, and I ran for him, cursing his odious name under my
labored breath.
"Thief!" I yelled for good measure. Flagstones turned to effluent channels beneath my feet as I
scrambled to find my quarry while keeping dry. I emerged into a small courtyard, surrounded by solid
walls and high window slits. There was no sign of Uwafa anywhere. This was an unfamiliar area of
Sentinel, away from the bustling temples and visitors. I felt uneasy now, standing in this secluded gap
away from the life of the city.
I felt a sharp pain on the back of my head and fell forward, into darkness.
For the Redguards, the curious practice of mummification takes place after the spirit departs to search

for Tu'whacca. The body is laid on a table and washed in oils and leaves. Before the head and torso are
carefully cut open, the body is drained of blood, and the brain, heart, and other organs are placed into
ceremonial jars. A week of chanting prayers, mourning, and swathing the corpse with long ceremonial
bandages finalizes this deeply religious rite. The body is then interested in a painted sarcophagus within
a subterranean tomb, along with the deceased's favorite weapons, servants, and pets.
[Revolting practice. No wonder the Dead walk.]
I looked around but could see nothing. I tried to shout but could not speak. I struggled in my bonds but
could not free myself. I was feeling pain and tasting the blood trickling down from my head. My body
felt cool against the stone slab to which I was bound. I gazed around, my eyes finally focusing. Two
black roses were on either side of my body. Ritual torches were lit. Odd shapes flickered at me from
behind the lights. Uwafa stepped forward.
"This was meant to take place in a cave outside Daggerfall," Uwafa said, mostly to himself. I
responded with a muffled grunt. "Ah, you're awake at last? Good. The branding sears with more vigor
if the victim is struggling." I retaliated with a muffled curse. "Calm down, Flaccus Terentius," Uwafa
replied. "Your time for petulance has passed."
Something stirred behind Uwafa. A flapping corpse -- with linen bindings so tight they looked to be a
second skin -- had climbed down from its crypt alcove and stood watching without eyes to see. Uwafa
nodded to his minion before addressing me: "Didn't you hear? Necromancy is legal in the Empire..."
Uwafa's voice trailed off, as if he were listening to a voice that wasn't there. In a flash, I had a vision: a
great and hated necromancer named Mannimarco.
Uwafa ripped open my undertunic and produced a branding poker. It glowed with a blue light. "First,
you shall wear the Mark of the Worm," he said softly, stroking my hair. "An appetizer before the blood
sacrifice." He plunged the brand into my chest. My skin froze and cracked as I writhed on the altar,
marked forever with the sign of the Black Worm.
My sacrifice was to be witnessed by dead eyes: Rotting corpses, clad only in fetid bandages, rose from
their sarcophagi at the command of the Worm cultist.
There was to be no escape this time. Long-dead skeletal warriors wearing ancient Yokudan arms and
armor joined the throng. The chanting and bone-clattering drew to a shrieking zenith...
Blood filled my eyes. I half saw the cultist's dagger rise, then fall from his grasp. I watched Uwafa's
face contort in anguish. An arrow protruded from the wrist he was clutching. And then he was gone. I
heard shouting and saw bandaged shapes thrash and moan, stumbling and burning. Light streamed into
the crypt. Swords thumped against dusty shields and sliced through rattling bones. Redguard swords
cut through my bonds. I was helped from the altar. I was struck on the arm by a skull, the teeth still
chattering. It fell to the floor near its decapitated body.
A whirl of blades and fire magic tore through the undead. Mummies flew apart like training dummies.
Swords were striking skeletal foes faster than my eyes could follow. The daylight blinded me as I
staggered from the Redguard cemetery and into Ancestors' Landing. Herbs were administered to my
wounds, and my belongings were gathered. I'd never seen a display of fighting as masterful as my
rescue by the Ash'abah.
The Alik'r Desert is truly inhospitable, from the frequent sandstorms to the boiling heat. If the
confounding landscapes don't drain your hope and energy, encounters with dunerippers or scorpions
most certainly will. On this forsaken terrain roams an ancient and secretive tribe: the Ash'abah. Cast out
from normal Redguard society, they are led by the formidable and battle-scarred warrior Marimah.
These pariahs answer to no regional ruler, and shift their whereabouts like the sand itself. It is said the

Ash'abah are finishing the work first set out by the three great Ansei who formed the Ansei Wards. As
with these ancient heroes, the Ash'abah cast aside their own devotions to serve the lives of the
Redguard people. For when the dead, whether blighted or honored, rise to strike at the Redguards, the
Ash'abah strike back when their brethren cannot.
[Thought this was exaggerated when I first read it, but it's all true. Of course, it'll read better after I
revise it.]
My brand still burned. I thanked my rescuers profusely and hoped they might put up with my misery, as
returning to Sentinel without a personal guard was now unthinkable. They accepted my plea and
offered me water, and we set off into the deep desert. But as the hours passed and the sun beat down
mercilessly, I was beginning to rethink my plan of wandering with dangerous exiles from Redguard
culture. Would they abandon me the instant I waned? My skin itched in the insufferable heat, my boots
had become unwanted sand vessels, and I began to dawdle.
I called out for water as the sand started to ripple and sway. This was no desert malaise. I emitted a
shriek as the ground began to seethe heavily, and a white fin pierced the dune. Suddenly, I stared into a
huge black throat. I remember stumbling to the side, just as an Ash'abah spear was thrust into the maw.
The giant armor-plated snake, which I was informed later was a "duneripper," let out a bellow and was
swarmed upon from all sides. Swords cut up and under the ripper's armor plates, and it let out a
deflated whine as it expired. We set up a makeshift camp, and I painted the corpse, which was already
stinking. I made sure to stay well protected and deep within the Ash'abah throng from this point on.
Denizens of the Alik'r Desert
Compiled by Brother Fabricius
Just as Argonian hunters scouting the waters of Black Marsh speak of a monstrous sea-drake -- a giant
fish with a reptilian snout and tough, scaly hide -- there are similar tales from the migrant trappers of
the Alik'r Desert. The duneripper shares many aspects of that aquatic monster but has adapted to live
within the roasting sands of the western Alik'r. Ambush hunters like the duneripper are well suited to
this arid, unforgiving landscape. This beast is immensely proportioned -- it can reach the length of three
horses -- and its armored tail is covered in chitinous scales. Unlike the sea-drake, the duneripper has
learned the primal art of patience. With a digestion system that requires only a modicum of food to
sustain the large beast, the duneripper burrows beneath the sand, sometimes lying motionless for days,
waiting to strike its victim.
The first sign of a duneripper is the dorsal crest piercing the sand just before an attack, as the nearby
sand churns like a whirlpool. The quarry is unaware until the very last moment that a sharp-toothed,
salivating mouth is closing on it. Should a bite not incapacitate its prey, the duneripper will try to clamp
down on it, roll onto it, constrict it, or burrow back into the sand to suffocate it.
The duneripper will also sweep its tail around to upend its prey, and it exhibits shorts bursts of
impressive speed. Beware the shifting sands, for they may be a prelude to a swift and bloody death.
[Fabricius is a blowhard, but this is largely true.]
Farther into the indescribable heat we go. I kept the the middle of the procession, and with good reason.
From over a dune, I spotted an immense scuttling creature race down to the desert floor. An old man of
the Ash'abah who was wandering away from the group parried valiantly but was seized by the fiend's
giant claws before a horrible skewering took place. The Ash'abah huntsmen immediately tracked the
colossal scorpion and surrounded it with shields aloft, and one brave soul leaped for the tail,
incapacitating the beast before they set upon it with a flurry of blades. I sketched the fight for posterity.
The old man may have died of his wounds, but we ate a palatable stew of scorpion meat that night.

There have been tales of these giant, crablike beasts before the Redguards first explored the vast dunes
of the Alik'r Desert. With only the duneripper to fear, the giant scorpion has been left alone to grow to
enormous proportions. Its girth is comparable to a large bull, and it has two horrific front pincers, six
smaller legs that end in sharp claws, and an immense and segmented prehensile tail, which would be a
marvel to watch were it not the most feared natural weapon in Hammerfell. After one these
monstrosities spots its prey, it moves with great speed across the sand, leaving only the shallowest of
imprints.
It usually attacks with its claws, catching its meal before the tail lashes out, usually killing the poor
victim quickly but unpleasantly: If the barbed stinger doesn't slay the victim outright, the deadly venom
pumped into the open wound immobilizes it. The corpse or paralyzed victim is then slowly eaten and
digested externally. To prevent this most heinous of deaths, it is recommended that you attack from
behind, concentrating on incapacitating the tail, as the hardened carapace is extremely difficult to
breach. Native shamans of the Ash'abah prize giant scorpion stingers, but they prefer to harvest these
themselves, rather than pay for ones slain by others.
["Prehensile tail"? "Digested externally"? Fabricius is an idiot.]
Excitable children are subdued by talk of a Lamia visiting them in the night. Many variations of the tale
exists where a charmed traveler surrenders to a terrible and painful death at the talons and bite of a
Lamia. This beast is a well-known underwater menace to the fishermen of Daggerfall. Recent Imperial
research, and evidence from local viziers in the Alik'r Desert region of Hammerfell, has discovered
aggressive and untamed desert kin with a similar skeletal structure and vicious attack patterns.
The Lamia is an amalgam of snake and woman, although it is assumed they are hermaphroditic and lay
eggs like a reptile (which are then abandoned and the immature Lamiae are left to fend for themselves).
The less enlightened see this creature as a cursed people, but there is no evidence for this. Lamiae stand
as tall as a full-grown Breton male when fully reared up, and they use their long tails to steady
themselves while on land. Their sharp poison fangs, ophidian heads, and scaled tails have led to an
aversion of this chimera cross Tamriel.
They have a lust for gold, jewels, and trinkets, and are known to loot and wear such treasure from the
corpses of those they've slain. They understand language but have a rasping hiss rather than anything
intelligible. However, they have developed an eerie, almost mesmerizing song that can entrance and
entrap the credulous. They lack the intelligence to craft or make art, they never venture far from their
lair, and they live independently unless they need to congregate for safety or are under the command of
a more powerful Lamia or other entity. Their mastery of electrical magic is innate, not learned. But
their appetite is voracious; they devour the flesh, meat, and bone of any living creature.
Beware the song of the Lamia. It may be the last lullaby you ever hear. [Awful. That last line has got to
go.]
[Oh, Fabricius. If they lay eggs, why do they have breasts? Fool.]
Not wishing to use the rudimentary latrines in the makeshift Ash'abah camp, which would require me
to squat over a recently dug hole in the ground, I ventured into a nearby cave to relieve myself and
apply some powder to my desert chafing. I found a suitable spot, finished my business, and felt the cool
air on my cheeks. Buttoning up, I spotted the glow of torchlight deeper into the cave. Strange shadows
darted about. Then I hear a wistful song. A lament in a language unknown to my ears. It was enchanting
I edged forward, drawn like an ancestor moth to a Canticle tree.
I was forcefully halted by an Ash'abah named Barahar. She knew of the dangers of the Lamia and
manhandled me away from that beautiful wail. Inserting dreugh wax into our ears, we returned to the
cave, moving to an opening above the grotto below. Here, we watched, and I sketched, a Lamia on the

prowl. I also drew speculative art of Lamiae that may lurk in jungles and swamps. I returned to the
camp. Barahar emerged from the cave a while later, carrying the Lamia's skin over her shoulder and a
vial of milked venom.
The dread mausoleums in the wastes near Bergama hold more than their fair share of the dead. Grave
robbers tell of a terrible spectre, a hooded shape of fear, tattered and floating in the cool, stale air.
Unlike a ghost, this wraith is a spirit without memory, raised from the dead or summoned by
necromancy. They float, silent and thoughtless. But once you cross the threshold they are guarding, the
magic that binds them quickens them into inflicting a savage, uncompromising attack.
In the silent dusk, we halted at the mausoleum on the outskirts of Bergama. The Ash'abah sat crosslegged, chanting in a circle while a warrior was washed with oils. "This is a purification ritual,"
Barahar whispered to me, "before our sword-adept banishes the angry ancestor-spirit." I began to
understand: This was the Ash'abah's societal function -- dispatching the undead, as the majority of
Redguards found it blasphemous to slay their own departed kin.
"Blade's edge!" The warrior took a long spear and walked into the mausoleum. A vast shape of cloaked
air coalesced into a hooded form of skull and claw that tapered into nothing. Suddenly it let out an
earsplitting howl, and frost magic danced toward the Redguards. The warrior adeptly evaded and spoke
incomprehensible incantations. His spear glowed and he thrust it through the wraith's face.
An abrupt windstorm followed this departing phantom, but there would soon be a great deal more work
for the Ash'abah.
A Nightmare Land
By Knight Gallant Titianus Iulus, Watcher of Ska'vyn
Flat salt pans devoid of nourishment. Drifting wastes of sand. Sharp-clawed creatures and skeletal
carcasses. Terrible horrors lurking above and below the sand. Sudden dust storms that choke and
confuse. Water poisoned by the leaching salt. Knee-deep sand to slog through or impassable cliffs from
which to plummet. Gorges that take days to circumvent. The deep desert of Alik'r is a nightmare land. It
is this researcher's opinion that very few Redguards could survive for more than a few days out here.
Surely people could live only in the coastal regions of Hammerfell, as the occupation of its interior has
occurred through bluff, bluster, and the lack of any other race wanting this cursed and shriveled shell, a
carbuncle on Tamriel's backside.
[Titianus Iulus should be watching more than the community of Ska'vyn; his opinion is wildly
inaccurate.]
How the Imperial scouts failed to find the thriving Redguard settlements within the desert interior
boggles the mind. We've passed a surprising number of Redguards living in rudimentary villages.
Naturally, the Ash'abah haven't been made welcome, but I did spent time sketching scenes from the
primitive ways of life here, such as the inverted tentlike rain-catchers and the buried aqueducts for
water collection. I sampled some cultivated succulents and passed a few goat herders. This place is
teeming with life if you know where to look.
At last Ive had my fill of terrifying desert creatures, and Ive been assured that the only jeopardy Ill
face in the settlement of Bergama is the plundering of my coin purse. Apparently, the bartering of the
market traders borders on extortion. In an almost comical display of social animosity, the Ashabah
have camped outside the towns walls behind a dune. This is so the residents of Bergama can pretend
they arent there. Ludicrous! Fortunately, Im not seen as a pariah, so Ive agreed to roam the town and
purchase some supplies.

The stately architecture of the Hammerfell interior varies from simple nomadic tents to the splendor of
the sturdy domed structures within the city of Bergama. It is the latter we shall focus on in this chapter.
Ask any Redguard worth his salt about the dwellings he retires to after a days toil, and hell proudly
boast about their rigidity, flexibility, heat transference, and general ornate beauty. Hes mostly right too;
these foreigners have brought to Tamriel many interesting Yokudan advancements in construction that
we should seek to imitate and perfect.
Speak to the Imperial stonemason who has rebuilt naves, walls, and crenelations after a raid on a
Cyrodilic building, and hell lament the difficulty in repairing such heavy and ornate stone. While
much Imperial construction requires demolition and rebuilding after conflict, many of the Yokudan
accent pieces, such as the flying staircases or ornamental domes, are designed to crumble after an
attack or an earthquake; this allows them to be easily replaced in sections afterward. However, these
structures are solid; they stand tall and firm despite the sweltering heat. But it doesnt take an architect
to realize these structures reflect the original home of the Redguards.
[Designed to crumble, eh? I dont believe a word of it.]
The many outer fortifications to this settlement are a sight to behold. The wall the defends Bergama is
both ornate and substantial, with numerous foreign flourishes Ive never witnessed before. While a
Nord stable might be little more than a sturdy wooden barn, the Redguard stables are positively opulent
but practical. The pavilion tent roofs can be retracted during a sandstorm and draped again to protect
animals from the sun. All without compromising ventilation. Ingenious!
Before the bartering begins, my first priority is to locate an inn. The Ashabah may abhor liquids more
potent than tea, but I have no such qualms. In fact, I demand a sturdy cockle-warming after the frights
of the last few days. I soon spotted an appropriate venue and chose an upper balcony. As I gazed
through the slits in the tent roof at the night sky and the familiar glow of Masser and Secunda, I was
brought an ewer of pomegranate wine. Sweet Mara, this is a sensational treat! In fact, I shall order
another.
After my wine, I placed a talisman to improve bartering around my neck and strode confidently into
Bergama Market, still bustling after dark. Amid the bleats of goats, the shouts of robed outcriers, and
the smell of meats and incense, I stopped first at a small blacksmiths stall to purchase additional
weapons. Try as I might, I couldnt secure a bargain. I fared little better at the herbalist; the dried herbs,
other roots, and reagent powder I gathered were twice the price compared to Wayrest! Even a deal on
waterskins eluded me.
I didnt mind; not all my stipend was spent. So I wandered farther and enjoyed a furious barter session
for a set of genuine Lamia-skin Tuwhacca prayer wheels (these arent some Argonian imitations, I was
told). I also had to have a set of magic duneripper spine dowsing sticks. The trader made me a watertight guarantee! Oh, how we laughed at his joke. Then I noticed a lady selling large skins of
pomegranate wine. Still jovial from my last supping, I became eager for this, the most delicious of
beverages. I may, perhaps, have overpaid.
Oh, what an impetuous fool I am. I corked the wine the moment I realized Id actually been wearing an
amulet that aided in seawalking. This had improved my posture but weakened my bartering
considerably. That, and my tipsiness, meant Id been nefariously plucked of all my coin by the time I
stumbled into some genuine cultured treasures. All I could do was sit and sketch, passing up the
intricately knotted goat-hair rugs, inlaid and gilded urns and lanterns, and the exquisite furniture. I
regretted frittering away all the Ashabahs funds too. Then one of the dowsing sticks punctured my
wineskin, staining a costly bolt of silk. I quietly made my exit before the silk merchant noticed the
damage.

Reverence of the Dead: Tuwhacca and Burial Rites in Contemporary Redguard Culture by
Brother Opilio Congonius
The Redguards revere their departed ancestors so fervidly that it rivals the devotion many other races
have for their gods. While a Breton may place a casket in ornately arched consecrated ground, or a
Nord may place a wind-dried body on a shelf in a burial vault, the Redguards design and erect vast
funerary structures for their dead that are as awe-inspiring as they are extensive. The thread of honor
that binds the Redguards from before birth to beyond death is strong. These soaring and massive
mausoleums are the purest representations of the undiluted Yokudan architecture, built to propel spirits
to a meeting with their putative gods.
Perhaps the finest example of this type of burial site is Tu'whacca's Throne, set atop a vast plateau in
the Alik'r Desert of Hammerfell. This huge temple is dedicated to the Tricky God, the Shepherd of
Souls, and the Caretaker of the Far Shores. After ascending from the desert grazing fields, up the stone
stairs carved into the plateau's side, one is first struck by the incredible views from atop this flat
expanse of rock and sand. After passing the Throne Keepers, who are ever vigilant and maintain
Tu'whacca's Throne, the eyes meet the true majesty of this sacred place.
This necropolis is both a sprawling burial ground and a sacred ruin. Aside from Tu'whacca's presence
watching from dark corners of this sanctuary, the temple also serves as a monument to the untold
number of Yokudans who perished when the continent sank beneath the waves. Pilgrims travel across
the stinging sands to pay their respects to these victims and to the historical Redguard kings who are
also interred in this labyrinthine necropolis.
I explained away my drunken bartering to the Ashabah, telling them the recent turmoil in Tamriel
caused prices to soar, and we set off at dawn to make for Tuwhaccas Throne. Barahar informed me
the tribe was duty-bound to visit there to perform the annual Rite of Royal Rest, which seals the
Redguard kings and queens into their tombs and keeps them happy in the afterlife so they arent
tempted to return and rule from beyond death. At least, that was the theory.
Tuwhaccas Throne is more than a simple sepulcher; it is a terrifyingly vast monument to the dead. No
wonder the ritual is important-there are enough buried dead to summon a citys population of undead!
As the Throne Keepers retired from the ruins for the 36 hours the rite took, I was stopped at the
entrance, a sack was placed over my head, and I was left to meditate in a goat pen. Apparently such
rituals are not for the eyes of an outsider. Despite the smell of dung, I was content to wait. Id been
having flashes of memories from the last time I was in a mausoleum, and my chest brand itched in
unison.
A couple of hours into my introspection, after pondering on the superstitions of these provincials, I
broke open the pomegranate wine. This, it turned out, was a mistake.
I must admit the wine made me emboldened enough to remove my blindfold. Blinking at the necropolis
entrance, I noticed the area was empty, so I stepped through and began sketching the columns and
crenelations. After filling my page with fine art, I took a stroll and found myself gazing up at a
mausoleum. It was guarded by the statues of two kings with their arms raised in warning. But the
doorway was slightly open. Inquisitiveness won the day, and I crept over the threshold. I was
immediately met by a void of blackness.
I tiptoed forward, my nostrils twitching in the stagnant air. Then I stopped, feeling a sudden chill
through my bones. A great, cold hand fell onto my shoulder and began to squeeze. I let out a silent
shout of terror, rummaged through my satchel, grabbed my genuine Tuwhacca prayer wheel, and
walloped this unseen assailant. Fleeing in abject terror, I made for the slit of daylight, past the two
kings, and back to the goat pen. A swift look over my shoulder magnified my fears. Something had

followed me out. Something wreathed in darkness. An indistinct figure that refused to be seen properly.
I had made an error in judgment.
The Ashabah raced from the temple, their trackers following the rage of dark chaos that had stalked off
at some speed and seemed intent on heading toward the nearby settlement of Lekis Blade. Chief
Marimah turned to me. You are a walking disaster, arent you? Have you been sent here to test us? I
started an apology but trailed off as a blade was pointed my way. You have roused the spirit of Ra
Boshek, the evil usurper-king. Killing you would only add to my anger. Follow me. Sheogorath was
smiling on us today.
The only comfort in this maelstrom of fury and confusion was that the liberated mummy was using an
ancient traders trail, and the Ashabah knew a shorter path to the township. After a lung-bursting
march over dunes, with the blowing wind the only sound over faint muttering (I heard my name
associated with some very improper guttural language), we spotted the sword statue for which the
settlement was named. The Ashabah were already herding the local Redguards into a defensible hilltop
tower.
Marimah was being prepared by his priests for combat with the revenant. Barahar pushed past the
huddled villagers and fired barbed words at me: This ritual requires the sacrifice of four white sheep.
She held out her hand for payment. I offered her one of my genuine prayer wheels and she spat on the
ground at my feet. I gave her a gold ring and waited for the skirmish to commence. My guilt was
immeasurable.
The desert outpost of Lekis Blade was built in the First Era around the shrine of the same name. Hewn
from local materials, the huge statue of the gripped sword still serves as a navigational point, an idol
and marker for the Redguards to witness on the pilgrimage to this place. Local scholars may argue over
certain details, but it is certain that Lekis Shrine was established by the last of the Ansei as a training
temple, where their sword knowledge could be passed down to later generations. Today, Redguards
travel from the four corners of Hammerfell to study under the broken blade.
From the young child who learns focus with a blade, to the adult warrior who seeks further prowess
and meditation, to the master who yearns for final instructions, all seek tutelage here. Local myth
claims that the spirits of the departed Ansei watch over the hearts and desires of those training in this
temple. The Ansei, known as sword-singers, recruited members to their order at age 11, and males
became known as Brothers of the Blade while females earned the title Maidens of the Spirit
Sword. The most famous Ansei is Frandar Hunding (whose life and tribulations can be found in
Appendix 13).
Marimah triumphed over the revenant. Priests rushed to assess his wounds. He waved them off and
stepped over the steaming husks of linen, still twitching and strewn across the sand. I honestly though I
was joining Ra Boshek in a cursed afterlife, but Marimah beckoned me over to Lekis Shrine and rinsed
his sweating face. Wiping his brow, he calmly remarked, You have had unsanctified contact with Ra
Boshek. You are unfit to consort further with us. Moments later, the Ashabah gathered the remains of
the revenant and disappeared from Lekis Blade.
I halfheartedly drew some ceremonial plaques and the shrines altar before sheepishly hiring a guide to
take me to the coast and from there a ferry to Evermore. A pariah from the pariah tribe! An exile from
the exiles! I half smiled at Jad, the coachman, and requested no further conversation from his mouth.
Later, my brand turned hot as I shrieked myself awake from a nightmare. I saw a vision of worms,
writhing from the eye sockets in a corpses head. They chewed through the mouth as the corpse shook
violently and burst apart, and Mannimarco himself stepped into view. He thrust his arm through my
brand, into my chest, and squeezed. I writhed in agony.

After a shourt bout of weeping, I found myself at the port and pulled myself together. I invested in one
last skin of pomegranate wine, boarded the ferry gangplank, and vowed never to return here.

Northern Bangkorai and the Mountains

Submitted by Lady N on Fri, 06/27/2014 - 14:45
Author:
Anonymous
Orcs of the Daggerfall Covenant
The air was fresh and the soil firm. Although a little more rugged than the gentle hills and ells of High
Rock, northern Bangkhorai and the road to Evermore were gradually turning from orange to green, and
the climate changed from a beating heat to a more temperate drizzle. Although northern Bangkorai is
south of the Bjoulsae River, with a border segmented only on a cartographers maps, the Redguards
dont seem to venture up here; this is still the realm of Bretons. Id disembarked from the ferry early to
clear my head and apply ointment to my brand in private. The relative lushness is of great relief after
the arid Alikr Desert.
I thought I spied a figure in the woods outside Evermore, but on closer inspection, it turned out to be a
strange old statue. I cleaned off a little of the moss and started to paint. This Viridian Sentinel seems to
represent a guardian of the forest. Id been double-checking my Imperial Guide on these parts; the
statue is revered by the Glenmoril Wyrd. Im certain they are some distant sisterhood to the Beldama
witches I saw cavorting in Glenumbra. But aside from the statue, I found no sign of their presence.
[Fairy tales. Did Masteret even leave the Imperial City?]
Witch Cults of Northern High Rock By Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)
Deep in the Ilessan Hills, within the ancient forests and away from even the most rudimentary of goat
trails, lies the Gloomy Cave, where the Glenmoril Coven holds court and dances for Hircine. Since
before written records were first scribed, there have been rumors of witches in these woods and
throughout neighboring provinces and in realms as distant as Solstheim, Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Hunters
speak of strange and factious women with vast powers of transformation who may take the form of a
raven. Others speak of echoing voices as the women are cavorting, heard in the still air and mists.
However, it is the secondhand account of the villager Lea Frockael that holds the most sway over the
skeptical. Young Lea, an herbalists apprentice, was out in the far woods searching for stalk caps when
she stumbled upon a cave. Venturing within, she followed the sounds reverberating from the inner
chambers and came upon a strange sight. A group of witches, prancing with glee around a shimmering
fire that flickered with the form of a spectral stag, was anointing a warrior with mysterious elixirs. The
warrior was from unknown lands. said Miss Frockael, but wore the garb of a Nord mercenary. She
heard one of the wild-haired crones shriek, The dance of the silver hand is over! You may never stalk
Sovngarde! As Lea fled in a terrified stupor, the warrior struggled at the cage, hair and claws ripping
through his skin, as a weevil would burst from an apple.
The tale is thought to be local superstition to ward off unwanted foragers in these parts. But other

myths persist that these dark women of the woods hold the secrets to Porphyric Hemophilia and Canis
Hysteria in their jealous grasp.
Striding through the robustly unsubtle but impressive Evermore Palace, with its crenelations cleaned
from the granite mined from nearby Markarth and hauled here centuries ago, I felt safe and puffed up
my chest a little (even though my brand still stung), these buffoons, and servants of their ilk had
welcomed me to their city with a deference I certainly wasnt shown after leaving Sentinel. When
presenting my letters of introduction and Writ of Transit to King Eamond, I found him friendly but soft
of voice and timid of countenance - not at all the ruler of the wildlands I was expecting. Of course, the
kings mumbling welcome, and his weak and colorless demeanor, may have been exacerbated by his
thunderous savage of a guest.
Sitting by Eamonds side was King Kurog of Orsinium, an Orc who radiated strength from every
unwashed pore. Approach me, Imperial, for you are the most welcome in this court! he shouted
(though I later found this to be his normal speaking voice). I stepped forward, Kurog clapped me on the
shoulder, and I felt my knees buckle. Stumbling, I almost fell buttocks over pride but steadied myself
just in time. The court erupted with laughter as I accidentally became Kurogs jester - the Bretons and
Orcs found my slightness of frame deliriously comical. These are typically crude and boisterous
provincials.
If King Kurog was a mountain of an Orc with a face like a giants slapped arse, Eamonds wife, Queen
Archela, was the very definition of a blooming beauty of Breton womanhood. She dotes on Prince
Edrien like a mother hen. The prince is a dashing young man, but one without exploration in his blood.
He is set to join the guards on the caravan leaving Evermore for Orsinium this evening, his first adult
journey into the wild. Perhaps to make amends for my previous embarrassment, Kurog first showed me
almost all of his missing teeth with a grin that would curdle milk, then granted me a writ of passage
through Wrothgar with the caravan. I found this to be most acceptable, as it is far safer to travel with
strong forces in this green wilderness.
Before the journey, I made some preliminary sketches and paintings of the heavy armor and weapons
from King Kurogs escort. Though the Orcs wore such regalia without any apparent effort (either
physically or magically), I was barely able to lift one of the breastplates. Stendarr, protect my bones if
one of those brutes takes a tumble in my general direction.
Weaponsmiths across Tamriel have much to learn from the armorers and metalworkers of Orsinium.
But to speak to a Breton, a Dunmer, or even an Imperial blacksmith from High Rock to Black Marsh,
and the chances are high that some derision or backhanded compliment may be uttered on the subject
of Orcish metal. The other races ignore the Orcs forgecraft for many reasons perhaps they have a
particularly vehement pride for their work, a fanaticism for their own people, or a lack of curiosity
about new techniques. This attitude must change, as the Orcish craftsmen continue to fabricate some of
the very best armaments in all the land.
While the Orc appears to be an uncivilized and brutish creature, the same cannot be said about their
forges. As the trade routes from Orsinium have unlocked a wealth of local goods, outsiders can finally
see and use the armaments and armor fabricated up in the mountains. The quality of the goods may
lack the finesse and may require strength to carry or wield, but they are supremely durable and sought
after by warriors of all races.
An Orc smithys skill is matched only by Orc tanners. Those inspecting the leather straps, armor, and
tunics crafted from this region are amazed at their flexibility and sturdiness. This is the result of secret
methods used in the curing of the thick hides from the beasts that roam these northern crags and hills.
Perhaps a more inquisitive Imperial diplomat may uncover these secrets for the benefit of the Empire.

[I read some of the following text aloud to Loghorz gro-Murtag. A low rumbling laugh escaped his
mouth as he described this as bigoted Imperial prattle.]
Below are postulations on the subject of Orcish forging methods practiced throughout Orsinium. The
Orcs furnaces must be infernally hot for metal of such thickness to be tempered, so many Orcs must
work in unison to open and close their giant bellows. Theres a ring of truth to the rumor that they
engrave curses from Malacath into the raw steel of their blades before they fold and pound the hot
metal. It is believed that newly forged swords are quenched in buckets of fresh human blood.
[Ridiculous!] And Orcish tanners beat the leather across the backs of their kin to strengthen their hides
and make the material more malleable.
After fording the trickling Bjoulsae, the caravan rolled northeast following the Jehanna road into the
wild Wrothgar mountains. The Orcs, despite their clumsiness, are not fearful of any drop or fissure. I
was content to ride with Loghorz gro-Murtag, one of the kings guardsmen and blacksmiths. He
promised a feast that would fill a giant to the bursting point. It was the evening of the second night
when we reached Murtag.
We were welcomed by Chief Godrun and offered a plate of elk offal Im still trying to digest and mead
from goblets the size of my head. Our mix of Bretons and Orc folk helped dispel any distrust among
the clans. I stopped to draw the Chieftains Hall and Murtags old forge. Godrun handed me a finely
crafted sword and shield. Despite their weight, I accepted these gifts in the spirit to which they were
intended. If they stay in the caravan after my departure, I may make it to Skyrim without tearing my
guts of breaking my back trying to lift them.
As dawn broke over the stronghold of Murtag, I climbed the trail back to the Jehanna road, perched
myself on a rocky outcrop overlooking the encampments, and drew Orcish architecture that was as
staunch and sturdy as the crags and peaks of the Orcs homeland. Eminently defensible, with the
mountains shrouding the settlements, these roughly sliced stone and thick wood pilings serve as
effective parapets against marauding giants and Reachmen. Wrothgar and northern Hammerfell are
dotted with these fortified towns.
We climbed east until the trees and air thinned. As I gazed at the clouds below, I realized the grandeur
of Akatoshs plans for us mites, scuttling on the shell of the world. I was speaking to my Breton
companion, Edgard Thenephan, when the lead caravan stopped and guards approached the stillsmoldering frame of a huntsmans refuge.
Reachmen raiders are active in these parts. Edgard leaned in to tell me. He pointed past the
wreckage, which was collapsed with only the stone hearth still standing. Notice the totems? Theyre
here to strike fear into the unwary or feeble-minded. A guard had hauled two charred corpses-one
decapitated-from one of the structures. I grimaced at the totems, sticks and trees covered with primitive
carvings, skulls, bones and the head of one of the hunters. Dont worry, Flaccus. Edgard shouted,
tapping his sword to his helm. Were well armed. Those mongrels only just learned how to light
fires!
While the caravan started its journey once more, I breathed deeply to stifle my growing panic. With
only two hefty Orc protectors and a narrow rugged path across rifts and ridges, we really should have
been more wary.
The sharp rocks and deep fells of the Reach are indelibly stained with the bloody waxing and waning of
empires and attempts to control and subdue these wild mountains. The first invaders were the earliest
Atmoran tribes to settle Tamriel. Their lineage can be found in almost all the human races of the world.
After the elimination of the Aldmeri overseers, and the first freedom of the Western Reach, the mark of
the Elf was left coursing through the veins of the indigenous Reachmen. The traits of the Elves - their

secretive, haughty demeanor and arrogance - are often apparent. But the same can be said of the
Bretons; it was the other infiltrators who infected Reachman blood with the mongrel - Breton, Elf,
Daedric, Imperial, Nedic, Nord, and even Orcish blood pumps through the uncaring hearts and
degenerate minds of these brutal clansmen of the Karth canyons.
These raiders and hunters strike terror into the hearts of explorers of this realm. Base creatures, driven
by the desire to spill blood and tear flesh, they have existed here for countless centuries. Denizens of
High Rock and Skyrim rightly fear an uprising as their trade routes and dwellings encroach on this
land. Reachmen have learned to control beastfolk magic, a wild hedge-wizardry outlawed by the Mages
Guild. With rabid fighters who care for nothing except the approval of Hircine and Witchmen with
primitive but effective Reach-magic at their fingertips, the mountains will inevitably run red with the
impure blood of these fiends and those who come to underestimate their mettle.
Edgard was the first to die. A ragged blade, wielded by a ragged man covered in animal skins and
wearing an antler headdress, cleaved the poor Bretons head off his shoulders. It took the savage two
ghastly attempts. When the Reachman eventually fell to an Orcs battleaxe, our camp was flanked on
either side by dozens of dirty despoilers, swarming from the rocks like maggots over a decaying fox.
Tents were set ablaze and sleeping guards awoken in the night, only to be slain by the infected swords
of the briar-hearted. Prince Edrien, with a look of grim conviction under his helm, was determined to
prove his merit. He sallied forth with two lumbering Orcs on either side, and they crashed head-on into
the northern wing of the Witchmen. I stayed in my tent, donning my breastplate.
Confusion reigned. The cries of falling foes echoed through the valley. Most of the caravan had
followed their prince, battling their way to an escape toward Orsinium. To my woe, Stendarr was
unmerciful to my own plight, and I was caught with a few other stragglers by the southern flankers. I
drew my dagger, fearing the end. A wild-eyed man, with a knot of poisoned briars nestled on his bloody
head and a prayer to Hircine spewing forth from his mouth, conjured fire from his hands. We quickly
surrendered.
I was thrown into a cramped wooden cage with the other captives and was then jostled off at a hurried
pace into the wooded peaks to the east: I wondered aloud whether our slaughtered brethren were the
lucky ones.
I swallowed corkbulb root to lessen my fretfulness and tried not to watch Edgards severed head staring
back at my cage from its totem spike. His tongue lolled from side to side, spittle and blood dribbling
into my wooden prison. I was astonished to be alive and further flabbergasted to keep both my head
and my sketchbook intact. This allowed me plenty of time to nervously sketch the Reachmen in their
pelts and primitive horned armor, and the crude weaponry that my captors had proved so horrifyingly
proficient in wielding. I was bounced and battered around for two more days, privy to their babbling,
singing, and in fighting. Our fates were to be decided closer to Markarth.
I am one of four surviving captives, but Im kept apart and am unsure who is alive and who has prayed
for - and received- a swift death. Another day of bruised jostling within a prison small enough to drive
a skeever mad. More chanting. At evening camp, temporary tents of wood, bone, and hide were put up
in a seemingly haphazard way, but these structures are solid and watertight. This is when Im released
from my animal cage, forced into a noisome tent with the other prisoners - two Bretons and an Orc and a pack of the Reachmens wolflike hounds. Id stretch my legs if they weren't shackled. The smell
is appalling. The dogs turn their noses up at the food. Truly, I am forsaken.
Once the Akaviri threat was removed in 1E 2704, Emperor Reman became focused on the madmen of
the Reach. The emperor sliced the Reach into Imperial-controlled High Rock and Skyrim, limiting the
spirit of the clan chieftains to form pacts against him and stopping ore excavations from falling into the
hands of a single beneficiary. As the second Empire grew, forays to control the Reach - usually by the

armies of the armies of Evermore and Solitude - were attempted on numerous occasions. But there was
never a decade when troops weren't sent - usually to their deaths - in the hope of taming the wilderness
and introducing the primitives to the virtues of a proper economy.
Though the Reachmen suffered terrible losses, their pride and vengeance would never be conquered
and lasts to this very day, well after the Second Empire crumbled. For you see, the Reachmen value the
past. The rocks, rushing water, towering peaks, and stunted thickets of juniper are a gift from Hircine
and are to be fiercely defended. Though invaders seek to dominate, these Reachmen have sworn to
defend their rocky barrens to the last: They have a burning fury for independence and the extremes of
inclement weather on their side, which makes life for conquering forces most pitiful indeed.
[Clearly written by a scribe toadying up to Leovic, who had Reach blood in his veins. That will change
in my edition of the Guide!]
[Thats more like it -- this contributor writes about the Reachmen with a proper outrage and
indignation]
In the abandonment of the Eight Divines, the outright mockery of the Aedra, and their obvious devotion
to the Daedra are reasons enough to thwart these wretched wild men. Chronicling their debased heresy
is difficult, as these savages communicate with spear and sword, but their worship structure seems to
revolve around a chaotic praise of the Daedric Prince Hircine. Additionally, many clans have deviant
ceremonies to venerate Malacath, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, or Namira.
Violent rites and self-flagellation have scarred the Reachmen physically and mentally: Woad war paint,
deep ritualistic scars, and primitive tattoo strike fear into those facing down the Reachmen berserker in
combat. The Reachmen thirst for blood. The absolute pinnacle of warriorhood among these crossbreeds
are the Briarhearts; communion with Hircine has allowed their own hearts to be cut from their chests
and a ligament of poisoned briars sewn in their place. Legend states these atrocities are invincible.
Feign no surprise if wereboars and werewolves are among the ranks of a Reachman battle nest; these
Blessings of Hircine are seen as highly prized, not a woeful curse.
Raw power arcs through the Reachman shamans, who are the Witchmen. These shamans converse with
hated Hagravens though ecstatic ceremonial heresy. Sacrifices are made, and flesh is the feast. This
communion allows the Witchmen to acquire nature magic, and the very worst of these diabolists -called Gravesingers -- have a puppeteers power to command the loathsome dead.
Today we honor Hircine! Shackles were broken and the cage doors opened. Sharp rocks and a sheer
drop to the south. Impassible boulders to the north. Baying dogs and frothing Reach-clan worshipers
eyed us with wide stares. My captive friends were freed and prodded toward some strewn weapons. I
started out for them, but a shaman held me back. We spare you their fate, outsider. Guilt and relief
consumed me. The Despot of Markarth wishes his portrait painted. Your hands are safe, but youll be
hobbled if you run.
As I painted the Reach-clans banner and their altar to Hircine in his most malevolent form, the hunt
began. One Breton bolted and was brought down and set on by dogs. The other ran for the ravine, fell
and was hacked apart by blood-crazed wild men. Fragments of his corpse tumbled toward the river
below as the feasting began. The Orc simply laughed, yelling, Blood for Mauloch! as he snatched up
two maces and charged headlong into a cluster of Reachmen. The hair was filled with shrieks of men,
the cracking of bones, and the spillage of blood. I saw four mongrels hammered into the earth, their
heads misshapen and mangled. When a Briarheart was raised to quell the rampage, the Orc was brought

to his knees and his head cut away.

A vile and bitter potion was forced down my gullet. I spent the journey trapped in a helpless delirium.
Humble apologies for my inadequate investigation of the great walled city of Markarth. I was
unconscious upon arrival and saw only vague shapes (and the inside of a vomit bucket) until my vision
and mind finally cleared. I twas then that I wished to be returned to my stupor.
I was staring into the gaze of a thin and terrible face. An Altmer clad in fine armor, his cloak brushing
against a staff of crawling worms. Still light-headed, I inquired whether he was the Despot and if I
should retrieve my oil paints (wherever they were). The High Elf laughed, and my memories returned. I
had seen these piercing sallow eyes once before on my travels. I felt fear, as if this despoiler were
writing within my mind. I was in the presence of evil.
I am Mannimarco, he proclaimed. My chest throbbed as he gestured with his staff, my under-tunic
unbuttoning on its own to reveal my scar. You bear my mark, Flaccus Terentius. He smirked. Fate
brings you to my feet. You are briefly entwined with my affairs. My meeting with the gracious Despot
has concluded He paused and pointed his staff in my face, the worms crawling through the eyes of
the skull pommel. I have claimed you for my own.
Mannimarco leaned in. I shivered as his spittle hit my brow. You are my vassal. His clawed gauntlets
stroked my cheeks. I have prepared a fate worse than death for you.
Some have called him a fallen wizard. Other worry that he seeks the power of a god. But no one can
doubt the political acumen of the Altmer wizard Mannimarco. Seen at the courts of empires through
their rise and demise and falling in and out of favor for the last century, he is now a trusted advisor to
Chancellor Tharn and the Elder Council. To this end, a more measured view is in order here.
The following facts are undeniable: Mannimarco was expelled from the Psijic Order several hundred
years ago. Agents have revealed he may have spent many of the intervening decades reestablishing the
lost dark arts of summoning the dead, now known as necromancy. He was expelled from Artaeum to
roam Tamriel; rumor and speculation abound that his desire for power resulted in a treaty with the
Daedric Prince Molag Bal.
What is known for certain is his link to the Order of the Black Worm. This cult has been quiet for
decades, but reports of sacrifices and doomed citizens carrying the branded mark of the worm have
been whispered in taverns from anvil to Blackwood: These cannot be denied and require more research.
Mannimarco had left the stone cell I was kept in, telling me Id be meeting someone who was friends
with both of us. Uwafa! I knew it. But I was instead greeted by a most familiar dialect. Flaccus! How
have you survived?
For a moment, I felt safe. What was Javad Tharn doing in these parts? Perhaps he had journeyed to
hasten my freedom under his uncles banner. He was, afterall, one of the most talented of our
diplomats.
My appeals to the younger Tharn seemed to hold water. He called my conditions deplorable. He
promised swift action against Mannimarco and my first proper meal for days. And transportation form
this place.
But first, take this brew. For your strength.
As I pressed my lips to the bottle of fluid, I knew that he lied. My senses swimming, I heard Javad
Tharn sneer, Take him down to Nchuand-Zel. Let the Daedra drag him to Molag Bal. I woke to warm
breath in my face and a stabbing pain in my side. As I looked around a huge cathedral chamber, filled
with ancient golden machinery, a wingless imp, the cruel and inquisitive Banekin, was prodding my

guts with the end of a Daedric staff.

The Hierarchical Structure of the Greater Dremora
Royal Imperial Mananaut Secundius of the Elder Council
From the scrying chambers beneath the Imperial Palace have come the most complete works on the
Dremora domains yet transcribed. Peering into their realm of murmuring shadows has revealed a caste
society that observes a perverse loyalty to its hierarchical structure. There is no end to the varieties of
relationships between Daedra Lords and their dominions, and the structure is both complex and
contradictory: Their realm is filled with obfuscations and enigmas. But numerous rules have been
observed.
To wit: the Daedras chief servants, the Dremora, have been ordered into clans and castes, and these
clans were well regimented. To claw up from a specific rank, a complicated (and often damning) oath is
sworn, and only then shall the will of the Daedra Lord allow it. Dremora believe themselves to be of
greater importance than other, more base and unthinking Daedra. They have taken to calling themselves
the Kyn; a member of their race is a Kynaz, or he of the Kyn.
Through means of further divination, the segregation of the castes becomes a little less clouded. Among
the warrior caste are the following clans. mentioned from least to most esteemed: First are the Varlets,
the spume under the feet of the downtrodden. Next are the Churls, a pathetic brood of baying neer-dowells, quick to torment humans and other Daedra but positively sycophantic to their betters. Above
them are the Caitiffs, zealous but unreliable. The highest caste of warriors are the Kynvals. These may
be Caitiffs who have proven themselves in battle. They are self-sufficient, need no cajoling, and are
steadfast in their violence and pursuit of leadership.
Standing on the necks of the warrior castes are the officer clans. At the foot of them all are the
Kynreeves, who administer rewards and violent penalties to the clan of warriors they are charged with
maintaining. They are as much a cattle-herder as a leader. Next are the Kynmarchers, the first Dremora
to be given the honorific lord. Whether commanding from an outpost, gate, or citadel, this fiend has
the additional responsibility of overseeing a (usually larger) fighting force and the fief he is in charge
of.
Ranking above is the Markynaz, roughly translated as grand duke. A fearsome and intelligent
soulless force, he forms a grand council with other Dremora of his standing, known as the Markyn.
Watching over all are the warrior princes, or Valkyinaz. They care not for the well-being of their
underlings and are never seen in Tamriel, as they remain by the side of the Daedric ruler - such as
Mehrunes Dagon of the Deadlands plane of Oblivion - serving to command grand forces that have
caught the rulers attention.
[Meeting a Dremora Caitiff was quite sufficient, thank you very much. I have no desire to meet any of
these Kynaz, or whatever they call themselves.]
The pack of Banekin had pulled my hair, set fire to my scrolls, and emptied my belongings and were breaking them, one by
one. They fled to the shadows after a braying echoed through the room. I was thrown and bound to a stone table, near an old
Dwarven forge (its embers glowed with immense heat). A tall and powerful figure was working the bellows. To her side lay
several horribly sharp weapons, all recent creations of this Dremora.

Memories of my torture at the claws of the Caitiff are hazy and incomplete. She snatched a blade and
wielded it expertly in the air for a few moments. Then she stepped to my side, fixing what appeared to
be a bridle around my face and across my mouth.
Then she spoke to me: The candle inside your head is slowly going out.

She opened my jerkin, cut through my shirt, and twisted her sharp blade into my side. I bit down on the
iron rod as the cutting continued across my stomach. I classed down at myself and passed out.
I didn't expect to wake again, but I did. The forge was out, and the Dremora was away, probably
presenting her work to an unknown master. I was freed, but my midriff was torn and still bleeding. I
staunched the flow with my clothing. Then I heard the baying. I watched the Banekin and Clannfear
approach. They nudged my legs before one snapped its jaws onto my boot. I shook it off and stumbled
into the dark, harried by my pursuers. I was pushed, bitten, and thrown between these low minions. Id
have finished myself if Id had a blade to hand.
The Clannfear is a Daedric cohort of low status in the service of a Daedric Prince or Lord. They are
sometimes branded to reveal their loyalty, and they have a tough body clad in scales and a beaked head
with an elongated crest. They usually take on the appearance of a lizard and vary in size and strength.
Though they attack with a feral ferocity, they have not mastered even rudimentary tool use. Instead
they rely on gashing their foes through biting, clawing, and lashing with their tail spikes. They are
dreadful demons but by now means clever.
[They dont need brains - look at those claws and fangs]
I had crawled over fallen pillars to a high corner. But I misjudged my escape, and the Clannfear were
nipping at my heels. Hope seemed to vanish. But then...an immense flash of magical power filled the
room.
Clannfear and Banekin cowered, sensing the presence of fearsome power. A short incantation later, and
all my beastly pursuers were caught in a maelstrom around the flowing robes of a wizard. Runes
flashed and arc lightning escaped from his fingers, searing through Daedric flesh. The Mage split into
three forms, each focusing their powerful shock bolts on the reeling Banekin. They were instantly
reduced to dust. A strange, snaking magic beast rose around the magicians bright-white form, then
swept the chamber in a roar of wind and terror. No Daedra was left standing. Then came more thunder,
and a small black cloud of vivid energy sparked and rumbled. At this point, the ancient Dwemer walls
themselves were in danger of collapse.
Mannimarco you snake! the robed Altmer yelled. How have you escaped me again? How long must
Vanus Galerion pursue you?
Moments later, my physical wounds were all but healed. As I drank from a potion Galerion provided, I
felt well enough to speak. Your thanks and admiration for me are the most kind, he interrupted,
incorrectly guessing my silenced words. He spied my journal, floated the book in front of his face, and
turned the pages in the air, Oh, how wonderful. A portrait painter of some skill! he exclaimed, I
desperately needed rest. Instead, I was obliged to gather and unpack what was left of my art equipment.
For the next few hours I toiled in discomfort, sketching Galerions incantations rather than fully
recuperating my wracked bones.
Did you paint all my most mighty of attacks in your little scrapbook?
Before I could respond, Galerion took my journal and stared intensely at the last pages for a moment.
No, the Summoning Storm looks too feeble. Here. With that, he sealed the pages I had sketched and
spent the next hour diagraming his spell casting talents, consuming the mauve and black charcoal with
little regard to my supplies. The results lie across these pages. Meanwhile, I drew his portrait. He
pondered my results for a moment, distorted my art so his face appeared more majestic, and handed the
parchment back. Then he unwrapped and tucked into a goat leg.
My gratitude for a welcome rescue had been tempered by his tampering of my prized book. Whatever
defacements he had made, they were coated with a substance erasers could not rub through.

Dabbing meat grease from his top lip with an embroidered handkerchief, Vanus Galerion threw the
half-eaten meal to the floor and retrieved his staff. Further work awaits us in Skyrim, he cried, to
Windhelm!

Skyrim
Submitted by Lady N on Tue, 07/08/2014 - 15:58
Author:
Anonymous
Nords of the Ebonheart Pact
When my betrothed, Honoria Lucasta, had cautioned me about Skyrim, she wasn't concerned about the
Nords. It went without saying that the hulking brutes with the social sophistication -- and hygiene -- of
a tamed troll were to be treated with gentle condescension and alcohol. No, her main worry was the
unrelenting cold. In fact, she had demanded I pack additional furs for this part of the journey (which
were recently looted by the Reachmen). It is little wonder the Nords invade everywhere; they're
obviously attempting to flee somewhere -- anywhere -- warmer than here. While the sweeping pine
barrens and the ruggedness of the Velothi Mountains are captivating, it is difficult to enjoy these views
when your eyeballs have frozen. Did I mention there were Nords here too?
We materialized with a frightening thump across the bridge from the great gates of Windhelm. For all
his bluster and hubris, I had expected Vanus Galerion to land us in the city itself. I was puzzled at our
trek across the long, icy bridge. The cutting winds that howled off the Sea of Ghosts billowed through
my tunic; I required a meal, fine wine, a change of bandages, and some proper sleep -- not the roaring
of a constant gale in my face.
I had other concerns as well: I must complete this guide and present my evidence to the Chancellor
Tharn forthwith. He must learn of the treachery of his nephew Javad and the evil of his advisor
Mannimarco. With Vanus Galerion by my side, we were an unstoppable force! With renewed purpose,
we advanced into the city (the guards escorted us to the Mages Guild). Galerion abruptly abandoned
me as he went off for a private talk with the Hall Magister, vanishing without so much as a farewell
wave. Typical Altmer behavior.
Standing proud at the confluence of the White and Yorgrim Rivers, the oldest human settlement in
Tamriel is a scarred and walled fortification with a queen concerned mainly with maintaining crude
power and fiercely protecting the settlement's trade -- especially the Dunmeth Pass that leads to
Morrowind. To understand the queen's firm grip on power is to understand this city's history: On every
Thirteenth of the Sun's Dawn, the Feast of the Dead is held here, commemorating Ysgramor's historic
sack of Saarthal, the gathering of the legendary Five Hundred Companions, and the routing of the Elves
from Skyrim that led the First Empire of humankind. The palace of Ysgramor still dominates the center
of the old city, now known as the Palace of the Kings. Today, Windhelm remains the only sizable city
in the otherwise rural hold of Eastmarch.
[Note that the above was written before the recent Akaviri invasion. Also, it badly needs editing by
yours truly.]
While Vanus Galerion tended to matters apparently more pressing than mine, I acquired some painting
supplies and asked where I could find the local Jarl (or Snowthane, Pine Baron, or whatever bucolic

title Nord rulers go by in these parts). It seems King Jorunn rules these parts -- not from the ruined
Palace of the Kings (which the invading Akaviri burned and looted) but from Stone-Fist Hall.
[I hadn't realized my rescuer single-handedly instigated the rise of the Mages Guild across Tamriel:
little wonder he's so insufferable.]
Almost 300 years have passed since Vanus Galerion, the contrarian Psijic, founded the Mages Guild on
Summerset. His idea was to bring together the usually solitary individuals who studied magic, and
while he felt this was for the public good, other saw it almost as an insurgency. The Psijic Order
originally served the rulers of Summerset and included ancestral worship as part of its secretive,
ritualized methodology. Galerion felt these rites were needlessly antiquated and raised suspicion among
the laypeople. He brought the experimentation of magic to populated settlements and had the brashness
to introduce potions, magical charms, and even spell scrolls and book to anyone -- from peon to
monarch -- with the funds to buy them.
As expected, this caused an uproar among the intelligentsia, who demanded he state these intentions
more clearly (as some suspected a fractious group of renegades would usurp long-held power
structures). Whatever charm Galerion exhibited in this meeting with the King of Firsthold, Rilis XII,
worked, as the charter was approved. His impassioned pleas may have been laced with fears about the
spread of necromancy across the lands, and to this day, this dark art is forbidden within the Guild. By
initially remaining neutral in political affairs, the power of the Mages Guild only grew.
But Vanus Galerion began to distance himself from the organization and is rumored to have stated that
"the Guild has become nothing more than an intricate morass of political infighting."
Forcing my way through the courtiers in Stone-Fist Hall, I saw a particularly large bard, with lute in
hand and a beard you could hide a baliwog in, serenading the court with an old favorite ditty of the
Nords, "Ragnar the Red." He was really quite good. Stepping up to him, I interrupted his song: "Jester!
While we wait for the Skald-King, have you any Imperial songs?" The room fell silent.
A wizened and uncouth merchant manhandled me by the cloak, dragging me to my knees. "Has
Sheogorath taken your mind, stranger? Jorunn Skald-King is no mere buffoon!"
"Dear Mara... My humble apologies, Your Majesty!" I held up my hands, realizing my terrible error and
feeling my face turn as red as a chokeberry. "No disrespect was intended."
Jorunn erupted into laughter. "Eggvard, leave him be! But seriously, Imperial." His eyes narrowed.
"You have insulted me. A price must be paid. Jester! Make me a limerick about Eggvard here."
I gulped, thought for a moment, then nervously recited the following:
A trader named Eggvard the Old,
Hired Nords with a promise of gold,
But the crew in their greed,
Consumed all his mead,
To forget the perpetual cold.
To my surprise, I wasn't run out of town: the hall echoed with roars of approval. I don't think I've ever
endured so many bear hugs.
Born in 2E 546 to Queen Mabjaarn Flame-Hair, Jorunn was a singing talent of rare repute -- a blessing
from Kyne some say -- and was trained at Skald's Retreat outside Riften. This sensitive princeling,
taught by the eastern kingdom's most prominent bards, soon became the "Skald-Prince" thereafter. He
stated no political aspirations, but his natural charisma always seemed to propel him to the forefront of
his associates. Unlike many others of his ilk, his schooling in the arts of combat was minimal for a

Nord prince. But it was put to test when the Akaviri of Dir-Kamal assaulted Windhelm.
Jorunn's Pack of Bards was in Riften when the news broke: They fought north to the gates of Windhelm
and fought admirably with blade and skill, from street to street. But the city fell, as did his mother and
older sister, Princess Nurnhilde, both slain with much Akaviri blood on their swords. Devastated,
Jorunn fled to High Hrothgar and pleaded for aid. The Greybeards replied in king, conjuring the great
shade of Wulfharth the Ash-King, a formidable ally. The Ash-King and newly titled Skald-King were
enraged and raised an army of Nords furious to fight. So strong was this presence that the Akaviri
circumvented Riften, intent on marching on Mournhold.
Into Morrowind the Akaviri spread, caught by surprise as the two kings' army followed them. Running
up against Almalexia's Dunmeri legions in Stonefalls, the Akaviri were outmaneuvered and hardpressed. Everyone was fighting ferociously, and it was only then that two regiments of Argonian
shellbacks and their trio of Hist's finest battlemages arrived and turned the tide that the Akaviri line was
fragmented. Thousands of their kind were routed into the Inner Sea to drown. With the invasion
quashed, Wulfharth departed for Sovngarde, and Jorunn returned to claim the crown as King of eastern
Skyrim.
The pressing matters of the day seemed to be consuming meat and slapping thighs in time to some
particularly bawdy rhyme. Resting between verses of "Nera the Naughty Nymph," Jorunn signaled me
over the his throne. Standing to one side was a striking Nord woman, clean shaven with weather-beaten
skin and deep blue eyes. "Flaccus Terentius of Bravil, meet Mera Stormcloak, Lawthane of Windhelm."
She offered a smile. "You seem a little out of your element, friend." I grinned back. "No matter. Why
not walk with me? Jorunn needs a head count of the local troops." When I hesitated, she said, "Don't
worry, there will be plenty of mead." Moments later, she'd donned a thick pelt cloak, and we were
walking the streets of snow-filled Windhelm. Ahead of the bustling markets and rowdy shouts from the
townsfolk was an imposing military structure. Mera opened the door, and I counted seven Nords, who
quickly stood from their table to bow at her. She drew two mugs of brew from a barrel and handed me
one. "The Fighters Guild aren't part of the local peacekeepers," she said, downing the drink, then
removing a ledger from her satchel, "but the king wants an accounting of them anyway."
The mead was dense, exceptionally rich, and lit a fire in my belly the moment I followed Mera's lead
and tried to down the mug. There were traces of fermented berry and a great dollop of honey. I instantly
felt more clumsy. I remember leaving the Fighters Guild with Mera and have a vague recollection of
entering the Windhelm Barracks. I sketched the building but am not sure when this occurred. I saw the
Third Eastmarch Skirmish Company, who invited us in for a drink. Mera was leading the cheers in time
to the pounding of a Nord smith repairing some armor.
A Nord blacksmith feels a particular affinity with his anvil, bellows, hammer, and tongs. For the Nord,
the creation of fine (if inelegant) weapons and armor is as important as proficiency with a blade, axe, or
hammer. Such skills are learned from youth and are almost mandatory. As the Nord armorer and
weaponsmith perfect their techniques, the forge becomes a second home. Close by is the tanning rack,
where the hides of every beast in the north have been measured for their levels of durability and
flexibility. The smith starts a weapon on the anvil with forged iron, then layered on top are iron, steel
and corundum alloys. The result is a steel that holds tighter and bites sharper than weapons from other
realms. When Nords refer to their blades as "stinging," they mean more than their cutting power:
Superstitious Nord smiths are said to add a drop of wild bee honey into everything they create. The
whys and wherefores are misplaced in long-forgotten lore, but the practice is widespread. To this day,
no Nord armorer would work a forge without first crumbling honeycomb into his quenching tub.
I couldn't tell you exactly what happened for the remainder of the day. We somehow escaped the
clamor of the barracks. I'd had two more mugs of mead and felt bilious. At the expense of my dexterity,

I'd worked out the berry taste was juniper. Mera helped me outside. Stendarr's beard, I was acting the
fool. I remember being most put out by the disgraceful amount of dirty snow in the streets. I trod in
some. That boot will have to be burned. I was placed by a Nord statue, which somehow struck me as
hilarious. Crude and vigorous, like my hosts. More mead. No idea when I drew these.
The Nord hero Ysgramor came to Tamriel from the northern realm of Atmora. Scholars vary in
crediting Ysgramor with deeds of early Nord kings or battles with the trickster Herma Mora. Some
Elven lorekeepers accuse Ysgramor of instigating the so-called Night of Tears through unknown
blasphemies, while human scholars believe the Elf attack was unjustified. Elves razed the human
settlement of Saarthal, with Ysgramor and his two sons, Yngol and Ylgar, the only survivors. While the
Elves celebrated, Ysgramor retreated to Atmora, gathered a mighty force known as the Five Hundred
Companions, and returned to rampage throughout Skyrim, driving his foes from their ill-gotten lands.
Prior to routing the Elves, Ysgramor lost Yngol to the "sea-ghosts" (which may refer to phantasms or
the maritime dangerous within the treacherous Sea of Ghosts). It was his order to erect a "great and
wonderful fortification" on the north shore of the White River so he could personally watch over
Yngol's resting place. That fortification became the fortress city of Windhelm, where his progeny ruled
until 1E 369 and the demise of King Borgas. Despite no evidence to support this myth, Nords believe
all their kings share Ysgramor's bloodline, no matter how diluted.
[It's true; with the Nords everything is Ysgramor this and Ysgramor that. You'd think he'd founded the
Empire.]
I woke, shaking. Not from the cold, as I'd somehow found my way back to the barracks, but from a foul
and fetid dream. Sweat had soaked the bedding, and my brand was burning. I remembered being
hounded along the nighttime pathways of Windhelm, a pack of baying Daedra nipping at my heels.
They were led by Mannimarco, who seemed to walk without footfalls. It was the mead giving me
nightmares. Yes, that must be it.
My head felt like it had been partially cleaved in two. I took some deep breaths, wrapped myself up in
my moist attire, and stepped out into a blizzard. I needed and apothecarist to sell me potions to cure my
head of my ails. As the abated slightly, I recognized many of the structures from my dream. I felt
compelled to sketch them here, in case they meant something.
Nord architects are masters of crafting structures that last for generations, and (except in the cases of
pillaging from invaders) even straddle eras of Tamriel's history. Examples of their habitats are seen
across Skyrim and reflected in Solstheim and the Bruma region of northern Cyrodiil. Like it or not, we
owe our northern neighbors a debt of gratitude in the construction techniques we Imperials have taken
and perfected.
Soon after the reign of Ysgramor, Nord stonesmiths created a method of erecting igneous rock.
Initially, these blocks were hewed from porphyry deposits, although by the Second Era, they were
somewhat supplanted by hard-wearing granite and volcanic stone from the eastern side of the province.
Each block was slotted together without the need for seams or mortar, enabling huge towering walls to
be constructed relatively quickly, even with irregularly-shaped stone. These proved difficult for
marauders to dismantle, as evidenced by the Old Fort, a royal bastion on Skyrim's northern frontier,
still standing after being built in the First Empire.
Just how Nedic settlers colonized Tamriel has ignited fierce debate among scholars ever since the first
Atmoran ships were launched to escape civil wars in far-off lands. Although many Nords believe
Ysgramor -- who established a force both battle-ready and cunning -- to be the first Nord of note, there
is evidence of human footprints in centuries prior, mainly those discontent with life in the "Old World."

Finding themselves foraging across lands already held by the Elven people, these immigrants found
harmonious coexistence, and the Provinces of High Rock, Hammerfell and Cyrodiil began to flourish.
Only the proto-Nords, with their antagonistic nature, held the notion that the land they stepped upon
was theirs and theirs alone. And so the expansion of Skyrim continues, a fierce retort against the
intermingling of the species.
I'd have had better luck finding a hairless Khajiit than a potion merchant in this maze of filthy snowladen avenues and thick granite walls. With good fortune, Mother Mara had tended to my splitting
headache, and I remembered Mera Stormcloak telling me I was actually a guest at the Cold-Moon Inn.
I made my way there and found her sitting by a long hearth with my belongings. What a relief! She
waved me over with a smile and introduced me to Garthar Three-Fingers, the cook.
I was offered various indeterminable lumps of pig, along with bread and six eggs, all fried in a large
pan of goose fat. As I stifled my bile from rising, Mera looked offended, so I agreed to tackle this
unplanned feast. It duly arrived on a piled plate requiring two hands to lift. Aside from some heart
palpitations afterward (which Mera explained were quite normal), the meal was rudimentary but
absolutely delicious. I declined her offer of another mug of mead. Mera laughed and said, "If you really
want to drink, you must meet my battle brother Holgunn One-Eye."
The whistling winds and thick pelting snow showed no signs of letting up as we slogged our way to the
thick oak door of the Sober Nord Inn, the ironically named tavern where alcohol flowed only slightly
more freely than the other locations I'd visited. A blast of heat from the hearth and the warm Nord
bodies struck us as we entered. Mera was received with a cheer. Holgunn -- as large and burly as any
Nord I'd seen -- stood up to greet us and enveloped me in a hug that almost crushed my windpipe. He
was armed with a giant hammer, various daggers, and a hand axe, and he wore thick steel armor, even
in town.
"We drink to honor the dead, Imperial!" Holgunn's voice boomed through my skull.
"I'll try a weak ale, please," I answered.
Holgunn's left eye twitched noticeably. "Ha! It'd mead you'll have in these parts, you milk-drinker!"
I resigned myself to another night's festivities and watched Holgunn gulping down brew as if it were
ice water, and apparently to the same effect. He told stories of his actions during the recent Akaviri
invasion: trekking with the Pack of Bards to a pitched battle within the walls of Windhelm, conquering
the Seven Thousand Steps to reach the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, expelling the Akaviri despoilers
from Riften, and fighting in the great battle at Stonefalls where the inland seas turned red with Akaviri
blood.
I meticulously wrote this history down, from Holgunn saving Skald-King Jorunn from an enemy's
arrow to his epic account of fighting alongside Wulfharth, the mythical Ash-King, and his diplomacy
with the Dunmeri leaders (which included a drinking competition with General Tanval Indoril that
lasted almost a week). I corroborated it all with Mera Stormcloak and then mislaid my secondary
parchments as the merry throng turned into rowdy debauchery.
despite this, Fjori expired from her exhaustion. So distraught was Holgeir that he had the great tomb
Ansilvund excavated and his love interred. Soon after, he allowed the snake to bite him a second time
and joined her at the eternal hunt in Sovngarde.
[Reminder: Trim]
Notable Nords: Appendix H
Holgunn One-Eye

Holgunn One-Eye was a Nord commander known for his wolfish grin and the ability to overcome
hostile adversaries with his rough charm (and if that failed, his skill with a variety of bludgeoning
weapons). He played a pivotal role in sewing together the blanket of trust between Nord and Dunmeri
forces, which ended their hostility towards each other and allowed them to come together against the
Akaviri. Holgunn has strong bonds with General Tanval Indoril of the Tribunal Army. The two of them
are thick as thieves.
I emerged from my room the next morning in Holgunn's guest quarters with an empty bladder and a full chamber pot.

"Ready for the hunt, my friend?" Holgunn asked with a wink. "Kyne offers us calm weather, and
Ingjard has already seen sabre cat tracks. We run within the hour."
As I chewed on fresh meat and herbs, Mera introduced me to Thorbjolf the Red and Ingjard StoneHand, two ferocious-looking Windhelm firebrands who completed our hunting party.
"What hunting party?" I inquired.
"The one you insisted we organize. We agreed to make matters more interesting, as you demanded."
"More interesting?" I had a void where these memories should have been.
"Yes! We hunt with bows, short swords and knives. No long weapons. We agreed to your challenge!"
While the foursome affixed their satchels and strung their bows, I sank down in my seat a little. Mead
had once more possessed my brain and clouded my judgment.
Nestled close to the clouds on a peak overlooking Eastmarch is the sky temple of the Greybeards, a
monastery of silence known as High Hrothgar. To find the ancient and honored Greybeards, one must
navigate the treacherous Seven Thousand Steps up the Throat of the World mountain and risk
encounters with the monstrous hosts that lurk between praying posts along this path. Rarely interacting
with visitors (who leave offerings before braving the descent), these solitary monks are almost utterly
without speech -- quite a juxtaposition to the region's rowdy drunkards -- preferring instead to attune
themselves to the "Voice of the Sky." Such strange and powerful yells are known as "Thu'ums," first
meditated on and discovered by First Era Nord hero Jurgen Windcaller, if the stories told to wide-eyed
visitors have a shred of truth to them.
What I initially pictured as a terrible prospect -- traveling into the Skyrim wilds with four unruly idiots -- was actually rather
exhilarating. My more unpleasant preconceptions of the Nords were without merit: If course they were loud and boorish. Yes,
their streets were streaked with yellow and brown snow. But they exhibited a strength of character and friendliness to my
presence that I have rarely encountered.

Holgunn persuaded me to abandon my Imperial clothing. To my surprise, the bear-skin overshirt,

leather breeches and snow-wolf boots were both pliable and well fitting. Once I got used to the smell,
the fur cloak was both comfortable and cozy. With my hunting attire sealing in the warmth, we left
Windhelm for the snowy hills of Eastmarch.
Up by the tree line, close to a high cave, Ingjard quickly crouched down, drew her bow, and fired
before I'd even seen the beast she targeted. I stayed behind her with my own arrow at the ready as the
three other Nords spread out. Mera charged and plunged a dagger into the neck of the cat, wrestling it
as blood spurted onto the snow. It soon died, and I sketched its carcass for posterity.
This was a violent interruption to a long hike and stories around the fire. Ingjard had lost part of her
right hand fighting a werebear, but her wound hadn't diminished her painting ability. Mounted on this
page is a piece she gladly gave me. It shows the valley leading to High Hrothgar, although Holgunn
informed me the buildings were positioned in a most fanciful fashion. No matter; the depiction of the
aurora, or "Kyne's lights," is both accurate and exquisite. As I rested below the glow of greens and
purples, I felt at peace in Tamriel's grand wilderness for the first time.

By the evening of the second day, we were well above the tree line, in the windswept crags of the
Velothi Mountains. After erecting our spacious tents, with pitched and oiled roofs that allowed the
snow to slide right off, I inspected the kills -- two snow foxes, a wolf, and a bear. I then sat by the
roaring fire, sipping my mead and secretly spilling some behind my log seat; just to keep the pretense
up that I was matching others' consumption.
Holgunn told us a gripping story of a ghostly giant who haunts these mountains. Returning to this
world after a pact with Hircine, he clambers the hills and valleys in fretful search for his lost giant wife.
Woe betide those who cross his path; the forlorn spirit possesses an icy ghost club with which he
freezes Nords solid before devouring their immobile bodies. Retiring to my blankets, I felt a chill wind
whistle through the tent, and shivered as if something were wrapping its vague form around my soul.
Are giants the true "ancestors" of the Nord people? Of course not, but this hasn't stopped the more
backwards residents of Skyrim -- those hunters or small band of villagers living in rural hamlets -- from
believing they are related to the huge human-shaped creatures that are occasionally found lurching
across the more desolate landscapes of Skyrim, tending to their mammoth herds. This belief thrived in
the First Era, when Nords would select a prized cow for neighboring giants to eat, painting it with
bright runes so the giants would know which of the herd to gnaw on.
Nowadays, this superstition is less prevalent, with more forward-thinking Nords realizing that giants
are an annoyance and their mammoths a threat to their grazing lands. Giants keep to themselves, rarely
interacting with each other, and seem to feast on many types of meat (except human flesh), as well as
cheese and curds they get from mammoth milk. They cook their food in huge fire pits, where they keep
the hides they've skinned warm and dry.
[I tried from of this Mammoth cheese. Once was enough.]
Our third day of the hunt was fruitful. We descended into the high forests, Nord horns blowing after bagging a lunch of rabbit
meat and a dinner of wild mushrooms and venison. As Thorbjolf fried up the meat, Mera Stormcloak entertained us with a tale
of an ancient Snow Elf wizard named Serenarth. As I sketched, she spoke of an encounter the Elf had had with Ysgramor's
companions during the Night of Tears, as both sides fought with fury over the razing of Saarthal, the first Nord settlement.
Ysgramor's bow aim was swift and accurate; he felled the mage with an arrow from his bow, Long-Launcher.

As the Nords pressed on to reclaim their city, Serenarth lay cold and dying. With his last strength, he
summoned a mighty frost atronach, and through a bargain with unknown but malevolent forces, he
traded the Daedra's spirit with his own. To this day, Serenarth's host form waits, encased in ice within a
glacier close to where his frozen corpse still lies, destined to thaw out and seek vengeance on
Ysgramor's heirs.
After formidable conjurations by battlemage Quiricus Vidacilius during recent skirmishes in the
northern wastes, we can present unusually accurate evidence regarding this powerful Daedric
elemental. The frost atronach was summoned with expediency. It stood tall and imposing but was
devoid of culture and personality -- not like a Reachmen, but as a troll or base creature would be. They
are aggressive only when provoked, and they lack the nimbleness of their fiery cousins. However, the
frost atronachs' attacks against their Nord victims were effective, slowing them down and pulverizing
bone and brain. Resistant to magic originating from ice and cold, they crumble and finally yield to
sustained attacks. Their remains include frost salts, a sought-after ingredient in various concoctions. I
have no hesitation in recommending their use as sentinels or shock troops.

Mysterious Temples of the Dragon Cult

In the distant reaches of Skyrim, beyond the remote farming communities and hunter shacks, you may

stumble over a broken stone, half buried and covered in moss and ivy. Look closer, in case these are
effigies to animal gods, worshiped by Ysgramor's primitives. The deification of the bear, dragon, fox,
moth, owl, snake, whale, and wolf have all been recorded by our field agents, and many believe these
totems stand as sentinels over lost ruins. These tumbledown temples, guarded by half-woken draugr
and worse, are from a time when the Dragon Cult supposedly ruled this province.
While no modern Tamrielan need believe these hopelessly fanciful fables, the Nords' simple-minded
veneration for these places betokens their fear of the return of the Dragon Priests. During the worship
of Akatosh (the dragon) as god-kings over men, these priests were the conduit through which dragons
spoke, made laws, and were honored with grand and elaborate temples. When Alduin, Akatosh's
firstborn, was defeated atop the Throat of the World during the mythical Dragon War, the cult that
sprang up around these dragon guardians soon receded into the soil, buried among dragon mounds with
the remains of these beasts. They were finally vanquished in the Rift mountains by High King Harald
in 1E 140. The veneration of animal gods was soon replaced by the Eight Divines.
Ingjard spotted movement between the flurries where I saw only walls of snow. Scrambling up high into the mountains, I
finally spied and old female sabre cat hunting rabbits. Too far for our bows, we pursued our quarry up into low clouds and
between rocks of various slipperiness. We finally halted at a set of ruins draped across an upper escarpment: a great monument
to resting bones. I inquired about this strange place. "This is Skuldafn," Mera replied.

Thorbjolf watched the cat disappear into the ruins. The Nord returned without crossing the threshold;
the snow-covered arches seemed to forbid his advancing, while stone totems to ancient animals stared
back at us with silent malevolence. It was a most eerie sight. Holgunn beckoned our party back and
away from the place. All he said was, "Don't enter the Dragon Temple." I continued to pry reasoning
from him until Mera grabbed me by the shoulder.
"Do not pester Holgunn about this," she whispered. "These Dragon Priests stood at the right hand of
Alduin."
While Morrowind is renowned for its geothermal anomalies -- a cracked and rumbling domain with
scars and fissures that belch vapors from Nirn's crust -- this volcanic activity bleeds over into the
eastern regions of Skyrim. The host springs and sulfur pools of Eastmarch are a hive of bubbling
activity, and despite the sometimes pungent smell and disorienting mists, these ponds and lakes are
reputed to have therapeutic properties. Unfortunately, the area is the favored haunt of giants, making
proper investigation of these claims a low priority.
My weather-beaten face finally warmed up as we took our first steps into an eerie terrain of burbling
hot springs and steaming fumaroles. I ventured down to a collection of vast green ponds, almost
luminescent in color. In the mid-distance, Mera saw a large figure plodding through the sparse
landscape, and the party set off to meet the giant.
I dipped my toes in the roasting water of the hot springs and felt a shiver of warmth. This joy was
lessened somewhat by the smell. I first thought Thorbjolf was cooking eggs, but this was a strange gas
that left a bitter taste in my throat. The steam grew thicker as it mingled with fog rolling down into the
plains, and I lost sight of my friends. I tried without luck to find the hunting party before nightfall. The
best I could manage was hearing their horns, echoing faintly in the distance.
Skirmish units within the northern wastes report encounters with a three-eyed, shaggy creature standing
on hind legs but with two powerful forearms that stretch to the ground. These forelimbs allow vicious
pummeling strikes that have been known to rip through tent cloth and bend still armor. Much like a
minotaur, it possesses only rudimentary intelligence and usually resides in caves and overhangs filled
with the carcasses of kills. Frost trolls tend to have base cunning, as they can circumvent traps before
attacking. In addition to arm strikes, they can leap and maul and pound the ground, but they tend to
shrug off attacks instead of fully defending them. Instead, they rely on innate regenerative powers to

heal themselves. Such abilities are of great interest to our battlemages, so attempt to capture live
specimens if possible. In all other cases, burn their carcasses after death.
Lost! I scrambled up a scree of loose rubble, the horns and mists both fading as I navigated back to
more frigid temperatures. I found myself wandering into wood of fir and pine. Picking my way through
the trees, I suddenly heard wild grunting and was thrown to the ground.
An ugly thing blinked thrice. It snarled, revealed rows of pointed teeth, and prepared to pounce when
three armored shapes flew past me and tore into it. "Eat my horse, would you?" the beefiest of the three
yelled as his two-headed axe cut deeply into the troll's arm. The appendage dangled grotesquely from
its remaining muscle before the beast was dispatched, its body staggered by arrows driven into it by a
second warrior.
The broad-shouldered Nord with the axe smiled. "Well met, stranger. I am Vigrod Wraithbone the
Harbinger. These are my Shield Brothers Uli and Rargal. We are of the Companions." Making camp in
the rough, Vigrod explained that his Companions traveled with little equipment to slow them down,
spending their nights in caves and dells instead of under tents. Sitting around the fire, Uli and Rargal
were guarded, focusing on the care of their weapons, but Vigrod was more sociable and spoke of his
friendly rivalry with Holgunn One-Eye. I asked of his loyalty to the Skald-King, and he proudly told
me of swearing fealty to this throne, in spite of his clan's tradition as mercenary sellswords.
The next morning Vigrod agreed to take me with them as they hiked south, to their home at
Fallowstone Hall in the Rift hold. As the alternative was to become troll fodder, I agreed. We marched
past more hot springs, and as my boots became thoroughly worn in, I watched the snows slowly recede,
and as we topped a pass, a broad deciduous woodland spread below us.
In the cold wastelands of the Nords, the chaotic misrule of their High King is further undermined by
the forces of the Companions, a group of sellswords whose loyalty lies only in bettering themselves.
But these are not Orcs; these is some semblance of a hierarchy. A band of soldiers, thugs, or bandits
with a longing for more structure in their miserable existence is brought together by a Harbinger, a
leader who professes to teach honor and resolve disputes but without reigning over the Companions
directly. His word is sacrosanct throughout all holds, as is the veneration of Ysgramor the Invader. But
what of the Harbingers past and their rule?
After Ysgramor came Jeek of the River, the founder of Whiterun, Jorrvaskr and the Skyforge within its
walls. He favored glory not in conquest but in helping those without the skill or will to wield a weapon.
Under the rule of Mryfwiil the Withdrawn, the ludicrous practice of Companions actually fighting each
other was finally outlawed. When Cirroc the Lofty rose to power, rifts within this guild of thugs
widened still further: This Redguard was not of Atmoran stock. As expected, his reign was brief,
although it did instill a martial prowess in the bladework of those he taught.
An Elven Harbinger would have been unthinkable until Henantier the Outsider claimed power. His rise
was as tedious as a Breton ballad; he was made to toil in mundane servitude until he outlasted all the
others better suited to the role. Next came Macke of the Piercing Eyes. Her story is preposterous; it is
said she routed half an advancing army with only her gaze and slaughtered the rest with her blades
alone. Her unexplained disappearance ushered in the Second Era, a dark time for these pretend
paladins. It was only when Kyrnil Long-Nose fought to restore Jorrvaskr from this corruption that the
old ways of venerating honor through blood returned.
Your interaction with these warmongers should be polite but curt. Beware of their skill in battle, and
trust them with nothing more valuable than your time.
I was made most welcome at Fallowstone Hall. For a start, I was able to refuse the offer of mead without offending my hosts. I
was surprised to see other races -- even a Khajiit -- among the warriors within. As for the structure itself? It was a building so

secure its foundations seemed to sprout from the foothills of the Velothi Mountains. The timber and woodwork were of
surprising quality, with firm trestles and good use of fir and pine. My only gripe was the abundance of carved dragons affixed
to every gable end; such carvings border on idolatry.

During the evening's drinking, I felt uneasy. Vigrod was not the cause; his stories and legends of the
Companions would fill three volumes of yore, although I was instructed not to transcribe them (many
were from the time of Ysgramor, and the use of his fabled axe Wuuthrad, which is apparently kept in
one of the many vaults under this hall). No, I suspected forces more fiendish were at work, so I excused
myself for the night, took to the guest quarters, and prayed for a restful interlude.
Mara did not listen. Despite a bedding of dry, recently washed skins and rough linen, my night terrors
returned. And grew worse: Mannimarco pursues me. He takes the form a ghost giant, glowing blue in
the dim glow of Masser. He cracks his club against my head before picking me up and pressing his
thumb deep into my throbbing brand. The sooner I flee this north country, the better.
The next morning I woke to find myself abandoned at the gates of Riften, with no memory of my flight
there. I left for Mournhold aboard a mead caravan both perplexed and unwell.

Stonefalls and Deshaan

Submitted by Lady N on Tue, 07/15/2014 - 15:48
Author:
Anonymous
The Dark Elves of Morrowind
I was jostled awake by the clattering of caravan wheels on cobblestone road. My vague memories of
last night's debauchery in Riften would have made Sanguine himself wince. Peering out of the mead
wagon, vision bleary and head aching, I saw we were traveling on a road to the southwest, away from
the autumnal forest.
"Ah, the milk-drinker is up!" Fenrig flashed a toothy grin, while Roggvir launched into yet another
Nord verse about Kyne, hunting elk, and the consumption of mead. I offered a feeble wave back.
When we reached customs at Fort Virak, two sour-faced Dunmer stopped the caravan for inspection.
This was to be our first encounter in the Stonefalls region known as Daen Seth. These Dark Elves took
their time; I mean, did we look like we were part of the Daggerfall Covenant? After Fenrig agreed on a
two-crate "tariff," we trundled off to the south, headed for the city of Kragenmoor.
A realm made unstable by volcanic activity, Morrowind is a bizarre, desolate landscape with people as
ill-tempered as the rumbling Red Mountain -- the realm's most prominent feature. Great gouts of ash
constantly belch from this volcano, coating much of the land in blackness, while the craters and
fumaroles that dot the Velothi Mountains leave the skies gloomy and grim. The soil is mostly black, but
where lava flows have receded, odd rocky outcrops have been birthed, resplendent with spurting
geysers and hot springs and pools of choking sulfur. These bright scars contrast greatly with the
obsidian earth or friable ash coating most of the land.
Our initial trip through Stonefalls was uneventful (aside from the intermittent but always atrocious
Nord singing), until we were ambushed by a pack of three odd-looking predators. After slaying these
nix-hounds, Roggvir explained the danger of the bloodsucking animal's bite: "I was lucky; I only

caught Rockjoint the last time I got bit. Watch these critters when you're out on your own. You've
enough elixirs to cure poison, right?" By Arkay, does everything in this grim realm carry diseases?
Wretched Kragenmoor is the seat of power for the pitiable and disorganized House Dres, long the
leaders of the slavery industry in Morrowind. More than a mere center of Khajiiti and Argonian
exploitation, the town is also the main farming hub for the entire Stonefalls region, feeding settlements
as far away as Davon's Watch and Ebonheart. These earth-faced Elves seem oblivious to the fact that
severing such arteries of foodstuffs would wreak havoc upon their realm. Kragenmoor is vulnerable -let the market economy be cut off at the yoke of oppression. Let the Dark Elves starve and the Dunmer
Houses fall once more. How quick they are to forget the Four-Score War!
Having read the above, I was ready to sneer at the lackluster security and downtrodden masses of
"wretched Kragenmoor," but my experiences were in stark contrast to what I'd read: Once again and to
my dismay, my Imperial texts fail me. I witnessed mile after mile of saltrice plantations stretching
across this fertile valley. As Roggvir slowed the caravan, steering it around the watchtower's
guardhouse, I saw the Nord stow his hammer and bring out a journal. He nodded at the imposing
specimen of Dunmer, clad in equally impressive armor: "These are the Dres House Guards," he
murmured to me. "Best not draw their ire."
I noticed further watchtowers, defenses, and contingents of guards in heavy armor, moving at an almost
graceful pace.
Fenrig beckoned me over. "We're showing the Dres overseer our Ebonheart Pact paperwork." As I
nodded, Fenrig pointed out an imposing structure a little farther along the main thoroughfare. "That's
our stop, the manor of House Dres. Go explore and don't worry, we'll protect you."
I snorted and hiked off past the saltrice fields. Having eaten saltrice almost constantly since leaving
Skyrim, I find the foodstuff bland. It also plays havoc with my digestion and leaves me with terrible
bouts of flatulence. In my usual social circles this would be cause for embarrassment, but the Nords
find my emissions the height of hilarity.
In the Manor library I found a copy of a recent painting ready to be hung: "Leaders of the Ebonheart
Pact," a work depicting Vicecanon Heita-Meen, Jorunn the Skald-King, and Tanval Indoril at the
forging of the Ebonheart Pact. The city of the same name is beyond them, with Ash Mountain belching
its smoke in the distance. I rolled it up and appropriated it.
The Second Akaviri Invasion of 572 proved such a disaster that the panicked Dunmer resorted to
alliance with their own slaves, freeing their Argonians while simultaneously placating the barbaric
hairy men of the north. Somehow, the Nords of eastern Skyrim, Dunmer of Morrowind, and Free
Argonians of northern Black Marsh proved to be cooperative and effective in repelling their invaders.
This alliance became known as the Ebonheart Pact. The expected discord never occurred; this may be
due in part to the far-flung geography of each alliance race's homeland.
However, the most recent military intelligence suggests this disparate collection of desperate lesser
races is in danger of fracturing. With the help of Akatosh, let us hope this crack becomes a gaping
fissure.
[Wishful thinking. These allies may not like each other, but there does seem to be mutual respect.]
I swallowed a sleeping-philtre and missed most of our trip into the region of Deshaan. At dawn, I woke
just as we reached the majestic city of Mournhold. The long shadow of night withdrew, revealing the
city's graceful green spires, soaring basalt archways, and golden finery along even the most modest
buildings. Guards clad in the richest ebony and glass armor strode the streets and patrolled the
battlements with grace and an ever-watchful gaze. After the horses stopped for water near the already-

bustling Great Bazaar, I seized the opportunity to gather my belongings and step off the mead cart for
the last time. I left these red-haired and red-faced Nord idiots for good.
"May Kyne guide you!" Roggvir hollered as the cart clattered down an alley.
"May Lady Namira feast on your children!" I mouthed back in a voiceless curse.
I'd just been served a Cyrodilic Brandy in the gloomy antechamber of a cornerclub when a voice
interrupted my doze. "Pssst! You, there. Over here!" I spotted an angular face peering from behind a
heavy door under the stairs.
"What?" I whispered back, a little flummoxed. This Dark Elf looked shifty, even more so than most.
"Answer me now," he hissed, "'Decmitius.' 'Epimachus.' 'Gennadius.' Which name did I leave out?"
"Er... 'Flaccus'?"
"Close enough."
The cellar door swung open, and the Dunmer ushered me down the steps. I followed, hand gripping my
dagger pommel tightly. Down in the basement, the Dunmeri merchant stooped to push and indented
button. A bookcase swung outward on a well-hidden hinge, revealing a den with three cloaked men
huddling around a map with various pins stuck into it. I noticed the wolf of Kvatch on one of their
tunics: these were Imperials. I stopped fidgeting with my dagger.
"Welcome back, Brother Festus," one of them said without turning around. "I trust your information on
Vox Las has been corroborated?"
"Er, hello," I replied nervously. "My name is Flaccus Terentius. I hail from Bravil, and I'm EnvoyScholar to--"
One of the Imperials jumped as I started to speak. They all spun around, hands on their hilts.
The speaker turned to the merchant. "By Stendarr's beard, does he even look like Festus Silius?"
"You Imperials all look the same to me, Decmitius."
Another Imperial burst in. "Decmitius! The den has been compromised. Take refuge...." Suddenly the
door was wrenched from its frame, and four powerful Dunmer clad in heavy ebony armor charged into
the den.
As I cowered, a robed Dunmer turned to me and flicked his fingers. I felt blackness racing in from all
sides. I woke on a soft bed in a grand bedchamber, with a glass-armored guard frowning down at me.
"Come with me. Lady Almalexia will see you now."
Still dazed, I was led into an ornate and immense circular chamber where a statuesque figure of shining
gold waited, her hair and armor glinting in the sun: the Goddess Almalexia.
Dark Elves favor glass for its light weight and ebony for its greater heft and protection. Glass items are
made from the raw material malachite, a crystal green in color and miscible with metal. This is not the
kind of glass blown into the shape of a fancy goblet; this is a smith's dream metal! Ebony gear is forged
from the durable, heavier substance of the same name, reputed to be the crystallized blood of ancient
gods. Both elements are mined from areas of volcanic activity.
"Flaccus Terentius: my apologies. There are times when my Hands work with more speed than care.
You are in the Tribunal Temple."
"I," I stammered, "I'm..."
"Envoy-Scholar to the Empress Regent? Yes, we know. We know everything: your encounters with the

Worm Cult. Your meeting with King Kurog. Your rescue by Galerion."
"But... but how? Agents? Scrying stones? Informers?"
Almalexia smiled. "Oh, no. We read your journal." She indicated a strong-jawed female clad in Temple
robes. "This is Urili Vox, Magistrix of Morals. She will guide you safely through our land, and toward a
better understanding of our culture."
"But, Mother Morrowind...," Vox began.
I saw Almalexia flash her a glare. "Consider this penance, Urili Vox," Almalexia said. "Think about the
regrettable actions of your son."
"Yes, Mother Morrowind," Vox responded with a bow.
Almalexia turned to me for the last time. "The Three favor you," she said sweetly, her voice echoing
from inside my head. "You may leave."
It's not every day you meet a living goddess. Even one I still didn't believe in.
The Dunmer are split between the House Dunmer (those who follow the three living gods of the
Tribunal) and the Ashlanders (those primitives who participate in ancestral and Daedric worship).
Religion is at the forefront of Dark Elf culture, and Mournhold is the epicenter of it all; the Tribunal
Temple situated close by is the main seat of power of the provincial government. Priests hold ranks as
bureaucrats and civil servants, but despite the primacy of living gods, forefather offerings are still an
important part of Dunmeri tradition.
Vox's squad of Ordinators escorted me out of the gates of Mournhold at dawn. The Magistrix wanted
me to "see the views, hear the sounds, and smell the air" of her province. We rode east until the lush
plant life near Mournhold grew small and sparse. I asked Vox what our itinerary was, and she
confirmed a visit to a local tribe of Ashlanders. When I said I'd rather visit a military installation, she
replied, "I am here to ensure you aren't bored or distressed by such matters" -- and her hand lightly
tapped the pommel of her sword. I received the message loud and clear.
The Ashlanders are the direct descendants of the Aldmeri peoples who followed the Prophet Veloth into
the lands we now call Morrowind. The Ashlanders retain the modest nomadic life and simple ancestor
worship of their forebears, in contrast to the soft lives and decadent religion of the settled Great House
Dunmer. The Wastes are harsh and unforgiving, and they are a hard people. But there is a beauty and
honor in their simple lives, and the snobs of the Temple and
Great Houses are fools to dismiss them as crude savages.
[No, actually they are crude savages.]
The Ashlanders are nomadic primitives who dwell in small tribal groups throughout the deserts and
scorched plains of the Ashlands, though some have also migrated into the Grazeland plains. Their
adherence to ancient traditions is dictated by an Ashkhan (tribal chief), wisewoman, or seer. As the
Imperial adventurer Panthera Helvetius put it, the Ashlanders are "a tight-knit band of indigenes, sewn
together by unknown magic and ruled over by a mother crone and a set of venerations that were out of
date when the White-Gold Tower was built."
Lagging behind Vox and her guards, I was almost eaten by this ugly predator, a kagouti. Fortunately, it subsists largely as a
carrion and chose the carcass of a guar to devour instead of my entrails. Arkay preserve me!

It was late afternoon that we neared a rocky outcrop overlooking the Grazeland plains on the edge of
Deshaan. Vox slowed to a stroll and beckoned me over. Pointing at a cluster of tents in the valley
below, she told me to watch myself in the forthcoming encounter. "Your behavior in Mournhold didn't
instill me with confidence," she said, catching me in her piercing red gaze. "Take a modicum of care in

your dealings with these simple nomads."

Vox arranged for me to meet the tribe's Farseer. I was ushered into a darkened tent for a spiritual
cleansing and welcoming as a Clanfriend. The air was sweet with incense. A wizened crone appeared
and whispered as drums sounded softly. "We venerate Boethiah -- the Prince of Plots! Mephala -- Hail
the Webspinner! And Azura -- the Cosmic Severer! Here, drink."
I swallowed a broth of bitter herbs. My head was swimming with colors and voices, but I could have
sworn the Farseer mutter, "The black worms feast on this one."
The Ashlander tents, known as yurts, range in size and shape, but all have a single entrance flap over
which hangs a lantern of vivid blue. They may be constructed with wood, hides, and sinew, but they are
remarkably sturdy and can be collapsed within moments. I spent some time sketching their structures
and the hackle-lo and trama root the Ashlanders had been harvesting.
Deshaan is the fertile, central plain of Morrowind and the triumphant fruition of Dunmeri agriculture -as Magistrix Vox reminds me on a seemingly hourly basis. But there's more to this land than incredibly
fertile soil, slave labor, and almost inedible beetle cheese: Vox is intent on proudly showing me every
farm. Surely there's more to this toilsome trek than watching yet another morose primitive tending to a
saltrice field? Even the novelty of the exotic flora is wearing off: if you've seen one giant mushroom,
you've seen them all. At least I haven't spotted any of those unsavory Worm Cult fellows in my time
here.
The southern reaches of Deshaan, where ancient tribes vie for plots of the fertile black soil on which to
grow marketable crops, support a variety of crops and livestock. Primitive irrigation along low-lying
lands around the Lake Amaya basin provide all the water needed to sustain both plants and animals,
although the tribes seem more concerned with rituals than recompense. None more than the Mabrigash
tribe, who follow the visions of an (obviously apocryphal) bizarre totem spirit called the Ghost Snake.
Be way of the tribe's witches and their idiotic obsession with newcomers passing "the Trials of the
Ghost Snake," as one of our scouts found to his cost.
At a netch ranch, a netch-herd names Rolves Ramoran took a few moments from his lunch to point out
the main differences between these cow-sized herd creatures. He waved a herding stick in the general
direction of his floating cattle, telling me the blue-headed female is called a "betty" netch, while the
larger brown one is the bull. I wondered aloud how such a large creature keeps itself afloat, and Vox
noted that their buoyancy is due to internal sacs of magical vapors.
The female netch is fiercely territorial, the male emits poison from its feelers, and a netch's skin
contains a toxin that makes the meat inedible. I also learned that netch hide is made into particularly
strong and supple armor. Indeed, some of the soldiers I encountered in Mournhold were wearing such
attire.
At a shalk corral, I watched an intrepid shalk-herd coerce some of the giant insects into a pen, using
protective magic to ward off the beetles' fire strikes. She told me shalks are prized for their meat, resin,
and carapaces. She then asked me if I was willing to seek a vision of the Fore Times, as it "would help
cleanse you before the coming plague," and muttered something about "Veloth's Judgment." Another
day dampened by superstitious nonsense. I declined and waited for Vox under a nearby mushroom,
finishing up some other pieces of art and eating some savory shalk stew with boiled bittergreens. I
watched as a brief thunderstorm crackled overhead and dissipated. Vox's company returned at
sundown: It was the first time I'd been pleased to see a Dark Elf.
A guar-herd named Llynth told me that, unlike the ferocious wild guar, the domestic pack guar are
docile and easily trained. He introduced me to a pack guar he called Sweetroll, who took one look at
me and promptly ate my hat right off my head -- the new one I'd just bought in Mournhold!

Llynth said the other varieties of guar are the pony guar, which is about the size of a goat, and the
bantam guar, the size of a chicken. Both seemed to be only slightly less intelligent than my host. In his
kitchen, I was given some guar meat to try. Bantam guar looks and tastes like chicken; pony guar looks
and tastes like leather. It was only after the tasting that Llynth told me pony guar aren't meant to be
eaten. Yet another trick pulled on the hapless foreigner.
"Come, serjo, to the kwama mines." Vox was insistent, and I managed to feign interest despite now
being heartily sick of her need to show me Dunmeri advancements in farming. Naturally, I hid my true
feelings, as I feared for my life and secretly wished for this "hospitality" to end. Bloodlessly, if
possible.
Secunda was waning tonight, but it still loomed over Ash Mountain as we reached Darkshade Cavern, a
kwama mine owned by House Redoran. The House workers stepped back to let us through, one
shouting, "Greetings, mehra! Are you here to help with cultists?" As always, Vox had appointments
with the locals, but one of her entourage -- a particularly striking guard named Bathrone Rendo -offered to guide me through the mine. This handmaiden could have snapped me in two with her bare
hands, a fate almost preferable to watching a kwama mine at work.
Though kwama are considered wild, the Dunmer seem to manage them with ease in their "egg mines,"
harvesting these as a valuable commodity sold throughout Morrowind. A kwama egg is said to have
fatigue-removing properties, although Sabidius reported a brief period of paralysis when trying one.
The kwama begin life as larvae hatched from eggs produced by a huge, bloated queen. Queens are too
weighed down with eggs to move, and workers attend all their needs. A larva is called a "scrib" and
transforms into one of three forms: a Forager, Worker, or Warrior.
Foragers scour the surface of Morrowind, locating suitable subterranean dwellings for new colonies to
move into. They also hunt for prey to bring back to their queen. Foragers are aggressive, but all but the
most incompetent soldier can defeat them. Workers are confined to the colony and spend their lives
excavating tunnels and tending to their queen and eggs. They are placid but not helpless. Warriors are
as tall as a man and are belligerent and hostile, attacking with claws and poisonous spittle. They guard
the colony tunnels.
We'd skirted Silmindel and were heading into another mountain meander. "We now enter sacred
ground," Vox said. "You may once have thought of us as aloof or mirthless. But we are simply guarded
against outsiders. You have proven yourself worthy. It is time to witness my personal veneration of the
past." Painting on an enthusiastic smile, I followed her to a grassy knoll topped by the ruins of giant
obsidian arches. The scope of the place was impressively vast. "The Shrine of Saint Veloth," Vox
intoned.
I cautiously followed Vox into an underground chamber, half expecting to feel a sacrificial dagger thrust between my ribs. As
Bathrone lit candles and braziers, I gaped in amazement at this cathedral of flying buttresses, side chambers, and banners to
entities I'd only seen in my nightmares. This was a marvel of Chimer architecture, hidden from time! Vox knelt down beside
me. "We pray to the Good Daedra here."

Saint Veloth, also known as Veloth the Pilgrim, is arguably the most famous, and certainly the most
venerated, among the Dunmeri pantheon of saints. Rising to prominence in the Late-Middle Merethic
Era on Summerset Isle, Veloth supposedly sought a more ascetic and pure way of life for his followers
and gathered them into a grand pilgrimage from the southwest regions of Tamriel to the northeast.
According to the contemporary texts, he "spared not a boat, ration, or strong-armed soul among his
people in this exodus and toiled to reach the land of Resdayn."
His mass pilgrimage to a new land, where stoic values were established, was successful. The race

enjoyed a period of high culture, known to many as the Golden Age, where Veloth's guidance shaped
generations of stonemasons and architects, as well as priests and common folk. Although he wielded a
mighty warhammerVeloth's JudgmentVeloth is thought of mainly as a peaceful and scholarly soul,
to which the Dunmer's healing enchantments that bear his name attest.
Veloth's power as a prophet was in no doubt, but his mossback teachings on the worship of Dunmer
forebears are worthy of consideration, as he almost single-handedly began the god-cult worship of the
"Good Daedra" prior to the coming of the Tribunal. Veloth's people honored him so much, his influence
can be felt generations later. Those trekking over the Velothi Mountains southeast of Skyrim or hearing
a Dunmer elder refer to their race as the "Velothi" still feel the presence of this world-shaping mentor
of Mer.
It was Veloth the Prophet who first negotiated the original arrangements with three Daedric Princes,
forever defining the differences between "Good" and "Bad" Daedra (as the Chimer viewed them):
Boethiah, the Prince of Plots, Anticipation of Almalexia:
Heralded by the Prophet Veloth, Boethiah is the original god-ancestor of the Dark Elves. Through
his/her illuminations, the Chimer renounced all ties to the Aldmer and founded a new nation based on
Daedric principles. All manner of Dark Elven cultural "advances" are attributed to Boethiah, from
philosophy to magic to "responsible" architecture.
Mephala, Androgyne, the Spider God, Anticipation of Vivec:
This was the ancestor who taught the Chimer the skills they would need to evade their enemies or to
slay them with secret murder. Enemies were numerous in those times, since the Chimer were but a
small faction. He/she, along with Boethiah, organized the clan systems that eventually became the basis
for the Great Houses.
Azura, Goddess of Dusk and Dawn, Anticipation of Sotha Sil:
The god-ancestor who taught the Chimer the mysteries needed to differentiate themselves from the
Aldmer, although some of her more conventional teachings are sometimes attributed to Boethiah. After
the War of the First Council (1E 688) when the living gods of the Tribunal were established, Azura put
a curse on the Chimer, transforming their skin to an ashen hue and conjuring the fire of lava behind
their eyes. Thereafter they were the Dunmer.
[I think it was a shrine to Boethiah Vox took me to.]
Vox and her troop left me to paint in peace. But the vision of the Black Rose hovered before me again,
petals falling from a withering vine. My brand pulsed with a pain I had not felt since Skyrim. A low,
deep voice penetrated my mind, murmuring, "The candle inside your head is slowly going out." I
thought my wretchedness was behind me. Bathrone helped me back to the surface and fed me some
boiled muckspunge, and I felt a little better.
"Magistrix Vox seeks judgment to the west," Bathrone said cryptically. "I have been assigned to escort
you. Your journey to Black Marsh shall be without incident."
She was correct -- our only stop was an enforced one near the Silent Mire: Bathrone pushed me into a
ditch, dropped a prowling kagouti with a single whirl of her blade, and beckoned me onward.
We were slightly early for our rendezvous at Stormhold. As a thin reptilian figure approached, I turned
to thank Bathrone Rendo for her help and protection, but she had already departed my company, armor
glinting in the afternoon sun as she strode away. I would never see her like again.
"Welcome to the mire!" Meeleeh-Een cheerfully rasped. My brand itched.

Black Marsh
Submitted by Lady N on Sat, 08/02/2014 - 13:40
Author:
Anonymous
Argonians of the Ebonheart Pact
Meeleeh-Een is a thing, cheerful reptile whose demeanor soured only when I referred to him as an
"Argonian." Apparently, in these parts, they prefer the term "Saxhleel," but I'm going with the Imperial
term anyway. He's been temporarily assigned to my protection as I head to Stormhold and a meeting
with Vicecanon Heita-Meen. I might as well burn the guide chapter on this province, as Imperial
geographers seem to have circumvented this entire swamp and used imagination instead. Little truth is
really known about this place.
During the Second Empire, the vast swamplands encompassing Black Marsh were claimed as Imperial
territory. Naturally, the obtuse Elves (and other admirers of this seeping pustule on the buttocks of
Tamriel) favor the name Argonia, an ancient battleground where their forebears were put to death.
Perhaps because of this, it was deemed appropriate to give the primordial tribes of lizard-folk the name
"Argonian" in our common tongue. What cannot be argued is the pitiful state of this province; it
positively oozes with the devastated and fetid: The scars of battles past and plunderers present
permanently disfigure these already-inhospitable borderlands. Wade inward, though, and the dark heart
of Black Marsh will elude you; its elements combine to infect explorers with poxes both real and
imagined.
The inhabitants of this province enjoy an anonymity not seen elsewhere. The early Aldmeri explorer
and poet Topal the Pilot described "manlike reptiles, fleet of foot and running the length of this great
mire," and gave the impression of an abandoned place, unlivable to settlers. However, primitive Men
such as the Kothringi, primal Mer like the Barsaebic Ayleids, and relatives of the Khajiit like the
vulpine Lilmothiit all fought for their own pieces of this noisome refuge.
Imperial scholars note the Battle of Argonia and conquest of Black Marsh in 1E 2811 -- the first time a
race of Man properly held power in these parts -- but fail to mention the impassable denseness of the
geography. Imperial Scout Tutor Acilius describes the swampland as "a soup of suffering and disease,
where a drop of ingested ground water can set off a torrent in the bowels." Given the difficulties of the
interior, the Empire was content to incorporate the northern and western borderland regions. Indeed, it
was these coastal tracts, where Tamriel's delinquents once freely roamed, that were changed into barely
habitable prison settlements. It is not surprising, then, that a separate but comparable history of
indenture exists elsewhere in this great morass: Stormhold.
Founded by the Barsaebic Ayleids before parchment records were kept, Stormhold holds the infamous
history of the Dark Elf. Primal wealth is still evident on the intricate stonework of the Ayleid ruins, and
the more recent Dunmeri stone structures show what venomous and uncaring rule can build. Abutting
these monuments to greed and cruelty are the more modest huts of the Argonian contingent, once the
homes of the collaborators -- who worked with the Dunmer to raze primitive villages and gather
suitable captives for plantation work across Morrowind -- and now home to the reptilian race only now
finding their way out of the mire of oppression.

As thuggery encroached on Stormhold during the upheavals of the Second Era, and the dark Dunmeri
chains of bondage -- as well as irregular Imperial warlords driven to distraction with thoughts of bounty
and easily exploitable labor -- threatened to wipe every last tribe of Argonian from the province, there
was little the exploited reptilians could do. Until, that is, the rise of the Argonian Vicecanons, who seem
to fulfill the administrative functions that councilors and tribal leaders do in other realms.
The instant I spotted Vicecanon Heita-Meen in her administrative office, I recognized her pointed snout
and the concentric patterns of the clasps of her battle armor. Her likeness was present in the painting of
the Ebonheart Pact I appropriated from Kragenmoor Manor library, back in Morrowind. Although her
quarter in the rather shambolic Stormhold lacks the immense fortifications and wondrous architecture
of other capitals of Tamriel, this is forgivable due to the recent circumstances.
Heita-Meen, under her magistrate title of Vicecanon, was occupied with judgments against two bitterlooking Dunmeri from the recently suppressed House Dres. To think, less than a generation ago, I could
have selected an Argonian for my own whims. No more; the Dark Elves were convicted of slavetrading and sentenced to be hung in cages attached to the Ayleid arches for a year. Should they
somehow survive this fate, they face exile from Black Marsh. My Argonian friend, Meeleeh-Een,
referred to them as "dryskin fools and withered roots," not a term of endearment, I'm sure.
"Stay moist," Meeleeh-Een said in farewell.
"An Imperial presence here is approved," Heita-Meen stated as she beckoned me with a flick of her
spindly wrist, a gesture that belied her combat adeptness with a staff. For a few moments, I felt she
spoke disdainfully with me, until I realized this wasn't simple rudeness; all of her race addressed me
with a detachment that was antithetical to my formal upbringing where manners mattered.
"Lonely-Spines, an egg-brother to assist you with your progress." She gestured to a young Argonian
who was to escort me around Stormhold. He explained he was a former slave (or as he put it, "a
choking vine rootbound in the soil of our homeland, now free to bloom"). His lilting tone was both
annoying and strangely comforting, although he spoke no Jel -- the lizard-tongue of his progenitors -as he was a product of an unpleasant upbringing on a Morrowind saltrice plantation. He explained he
was a Lukiul Argonian and already assimilated in the ways of Tamrielic matters. He warned me of the
Saxhleel, who were traditional Black Marsh inhabitants and rightly suspicious of visitors. I hoped we'd
encounter more of the Lukiul as we set off toward the town barracks.
We watched a Nord sergeant -- thickly built and dripping with perspiration from the head -- drilled a set
of fluid and impressive combat maneuvers with a recently formed company of Shellbacks, the infantry
troops of the Argonians. Lonely-Spines motioned for a reptilian fellow watching from the barracks
wall, an Argonian captain and veteran of the Akaviri campaign, overseeing the melding of battle tactics.
He had a furrowed brow and a deep scar where one of his eyes had been. As the maneuvers became
more coordinated, Lonely-Spines explained the Shellbacks were being trained to stand firm next to
Nord and Dunmeri heavy infantry units. Up until this point, I'd thought Argonians excelled at scouting
and light skirmishing in Pact matters and hated fighting in formation. These lizard-folk are more
adaptable than I expected.
[Ha! Some bigoted and outdated nonsense from an Imperial armsman. And to think I used to believe
this foolishness!]
You might as well believe a Dark Elf will worship Mara as to think an Argonian blacksmith could
create arms and armor without an intrinsic and primitive crudeness. Uncomfortable to wear and
difficult to hold, their armor and shields seem to be a sewn collection of natural materials -- reptilian
hides (hopefully not a cousin of the smith), strange green-tinted stones called jadeflint and obverdian,
bog iron, and steel with a rough copper alloy edge. It is a wonder these don't collapse at first impact.

Perhaps the sweltering climate prevents more intricate designs from being forged? These primitive
trinkets pale in comparison to the advanced forging techniques of the Empire. Even a Nord would look
down his frostbitten nose as such armaments. Little wonder these swamp creatures languished in bonds
for centuries.
[Much of this is partisan piffle: Having held a shield, it fits together with precise -- albeit thick -tamarack wood and expertly draped wamasu hide. I'm told this is thanks to ancient techniques that
involve hardening or enhancing the flexibility as the need arises. Apparently, our artisans know little of
this innate cleverness.]
Our disdain for Argonian battle equipment is most misguided. As I watched the Nord and Argonian
officers square off to show their recruits a dull-bladed duel, I was impressed at the dexterity and lithe
skill of the supposed primitive. But it was his crocodile armor that was easily a match for the Nord's
best thrusting attempts.
I was far less enamored with Argonian architecture. While other cultures have gleaming temples that
celebrate the grandeur and aspirations of Man or Elf and are built to last the centuries, the atrocious
mud huts I had the displeasure of staying in seemed to be actively disintegrating into the oozing
swampland. These are wattle-and-daub in construction.
But even a Breton knows a foundation of stone is superior to this wet loam. Lonely-Spines pointed out
that Argonians really like this "sun-blessed" mud. And also feathers: Not a step can be taken before
another tribal totem of wood, mud, and plumage rears up at me like a malformed golem.
I might be the first outsider to sketch the heavy armor and weapons of the Argonians in such detail.
Perhaps this might persuade disbelievers of the reasonable sophistication of this equipment. The
melding of reptile hide, metal, shell, and bone is both tough and lighter than steel armor. The
advantages are numerous, but all the proof I required was displayed as I watched lizard-folk swimming,
seemingly unencumbered, in this attire. Lonely-Spines offered "an oozeworthy opportunity" to try
splashing around myself, but I politely declined. I'm already coming down with an unsettled gut and a
phlegmy cough.
After a night in Lonely-Spines' mud hut, I can safely report that Argonian hut architecture is just as
disgusting as it appears in these sketches. The walls tend to sweat in high humidity (which is, naturally,
all the time) and that incredible odor! It makes one wonder what these lizard-folk use for a binding
material. I'm never one for idle speculation, but I'm reasonably certain I spotted dry excreta mixed into
the sealing at the edges of windows.
My remit requires a thorough exploration of every locale I deem important to future Imperial affairs. I
was to venture into the deep marsh, where the Knahaten Flu still lurked. Lonely-Spines was reluctant:
"Beware, for you swim in Trouble River." After a protracted negotiation, my powers of persuasion (and
the bartering of coin and a genuine Tu'whacca prayer wheel) won him over. Tomorrow we venture to
the Argonian hatching pools, where I am determined to inspect one of the legendary Xanmeers -strange pyramids built by the Saxhleel in unknown times past -- and sketch the big Hist tree.
In other Imperial territories, a multitude of settlements and indigenous artisans are ripe for exploitation.
Not so the Argonians. This province differs considerably, as the lizard-people seem to have no desire
the construct sprawling cities. Oddly, every populated area, from the simple township to the sprawling
city, was built by foreign conquerors on the scaly backs of Argonian serfs. Visit Gideon and Blackrose
perchance, and gaze at the Imperial architectural influences, whereas in Stormhold, Dunmeri structures
form the foundation of this capital.
Why don't the Argonians build their own permanent structures? From expeditions of the Second
Company of Knight Paladin Reconnoiters, it seems their forebears did just that. Rumors abound of

ruined Argonian cities, great walls, and pyramids. Stone statues both small and grand dotted across the
backwaters of Black Marsh, their grandeur left to fester and slowly sink. Current Argonian dwellings
are unrefined dollops of muck with none of the primitive intrigue. This is made all the more jarring by
the fact that lizard-folk still live among these older stone ruins, maintaining them from complete
disintegration. It is discordant to see the degraded modern lizard-man slithering among the ruined
debris of a more civilized time.
[Well said! I'll be keeping this description -- possibly using even stronger terms. Disgusting?
Repugnant?]
Our soggy sojourn shall commence by dawn: Lonely-Spines has just spent the day gathering the
necessary equipment for the trek into the Deep Marshes while I attempted to waterproof my Nord boots
and tended to the blighted patches of my toe fungus. Draining those pustules was a simple affair. Then,
I quickly cracked open my paints to sketch some of the collected baggage of our small caravan. A depth
stick was most welcome; we could now fathom which fetid pond was in a fact a small puddle and
which would swallow us to our necks. Dried flower buds would serve as water purifiers, as the swamp
effluent I'd been wading through wasn't fit to stand in, never mind ingest. Lonely-Spines also returned
with a Lukiul tent. He explained "a dryskin like you probably doesn't want to burrow into the mud at
night." What a perceptive fellow he is.
The earliest explorers of Black Marsh spoke of proto-lizards with a humanlike gait, although no records
show the origins of this species. Certainly, there was none of the disdain or pity that many of the
Empire's subjects hold for the modern Argonian. Myths persist that paint them as fearsome savages,
raiding small communities for trinkets and meat. Others speak of them almost as a curiosity, slipping
from their miasmic bayous for brief, mostly nonviolent incursions.
The early First Era scholar Brendan the Persistent noted a range of differing views, "from deep
suspicion and confusion through breathless veneration to abject horror." He continues: "The Argonian
people have, throughout Tamrielic history, been perhaps the most misunderstood, vilified, and reviled
of all the sentient races. Yet, those who have taken the time to experience Argonian culture have gained
a greater appreciation for this noble and beautiful people." It should be noted that the historian
disappeared during his final expedition into the deeper swamps of Black Marsh.
Until the latter part of the First Era, Argonians were a quiet people, content to step into a subservient
role and lose their identity amid the larger cultures of Tamriel. This was until the infamous Raid of
"Red" Bramman in 1E 1033, when Empress Hestra dispatched the Imperial Navy to pursue and capture
the crimson-haired pirate. Traveling up the winding river east of Topal Bay, braving thickets, poxcarrying insects, and humidity, the skirmishers tracked and beheaded Bramman within his brigand
kingdom, close to the settlement of Blackrose. On their return to the empress, crew members spoke of
the true culture of Black Marsh for the first time.
The Argonians distrusted men after witnessing Bramman's antics of pillaging and slavery. They resisted
the Empire's efforts to encroach into their land along the old pirate routes, and exploration halted as the
First Empire waned. Black Marsh was finally claimed in 1E 2811 after the Battle of Argonia, and the
reptiles were routed to Helstrom. Coastal towns and the safer parts of the interior swore fealty to the
emperor, and the native lizard-men were pulled deeper into the swamps. Black Marsh flourished and
gained a rightful reputation as a jettison for criminal elements, and the land's most famous convicts
were sentenced to sweat and toil in these mangrove swamps. Little wonder, then, that the indigenous
locals express a lack of trust and enthusiasm for their neighbors.
[The feeling is mutual!]
Argonians spent much of the Second Era under the tightening bonds of Morrowind's slave traders and

wayward Imperial warlords, as the instability of Tamriel furthered exploitative practices and banditry.
Although turmoil affected both Man and Mer, none were more downtrodden than those of reptilian
form. Then came the Knahaten Flu.
We may never know the origin of this plague, but the aftermath is not in question. Originating in
Stormhold in 2E 560, it soon spread to every damp nook of Black Marsh, and for years it held this
province in its diseased grasp. Foreigners fled or faced a death most bloated and painful. Entire cultures
were wiped out, most notably the Kothringi. But it is said not one of reptilian stock was infected.
I waterproofed my best Nord boots for this? My initial meandering away from Stormhold (toward the delightfully named
Bogmother) was on ground firmer than a Breton thoroughfare, a stone-flagged road, or causeway, between the unrelenting
wetness I've been assured was ready to swallow us soon. Lonely-Spines has gifted me with a vile-smelling emollient to apply
to my forearms, face, and other exposed extremities. It apparently has properties to keep the fleshflies away. While this is
indeed true, now only the larger insects dare to bite me. Something winged and iridescent found me delicious already.

We made good time despite the bites and humidity, and the smell of fleshfly repellent was finally
beginning to fade as we approached Bogmother. The moss-draped trees and grassy knolls were alive
with a thousand unseen insect musicians. Masser lit the crumbling ruins of this fallen temple village,
which once seemed a more mighty and proud place. There were unexpected intricacies in these ancient
towers. Strange figures. Unknown gods? Lonely-Spines had no learning to impart. My painting shall be
guesswork.
My anger and anxiety have risen now that my favorite easel rests halfway down a crocodile's gullet. I
had set to paint at the edge of Bogmother -- clearly well within the town's threshold -- and was
finishing some preliminary sketches (now lost) when something lurched up from the stagnant water at
me: As long as two men are tall, this sharp-fanged fiend immediately went for me with amazing speed.
A lengthy snout and thick teeth clamped the air where my leg had been. Paints, brushes, and
parchments went flying. Lonely-Spines was indisposed as the latrines, so I fended off the two snapping
attacks with a hodgepodge of dexterity and panicked screaming. Than I force-fed the beast my art stand
until it slithered off. How can the lizard-folk put up with such attacks, practically in a citified area?
Why are there no town guards?
I refocused my sketching efforts and wasted no time inspecting the ruins of Bogmother still further. The
ruins are both immense and rambling, and I can almost hear the rasping cries of Lonely-Spines'
ancestors echoing off the cenotaphs and barbicans. As Lonely-Spines puts it, "My forebears still
whisper here, like the swaying marsh reeds at Last Seed." Most glorious of all this carved stone i the
dominating stepped pyramid, or "Xanmeer." The entire area is "Xal," or "sacred" in the rasping tongue.
After studying texts and illustrations and the encounters in Blackrose, Second Company lorekeeper
Coventina Helvetia went on to explore the intricacies of Argonian architecture. She postulates that the
feebleminded, shackle-wearing vassals currently infecting this land with the flu could not possibly have
invented and sculpted the squat but highly ornamented stone monuments. It strains credulity to agree
that such edifices were works of Argonians at all. Current speculation is that an indigenous human tribe
known to be active in this region -- such as the Kothringi or Yerpest -- was responsible. This tribe, in
turn, took inspiration from the architecture of Barsaebic Ayleids. Then, via disease or strife, the scaly
men of Black Marsh salvaged these earlier settlements and claimed ownership. Yes, here, perhaps, lies
the truth in the matter.
[Imperial Second Company's knowledge regarding Hist trees: A collection of half-remembered myths
and rampant speculation, although there may be something in those Dunmeri translations.]
Those willing to risk rust chancre, greenspore, and a host of other more debiliating diseases may
venture into parts of Black Marsh unmapped by the higher races. The few who can cope with swamp

rot, fleshfly bites, and the constant palaver or unseen entities whooping, clicking, or simply lying in the
murk waiting to slice teeth across their limbs may reach the innermost swamps. And the hardiest of
Imperial explorers, who have no further need to prove their mettle after the following discovery, gaze
upon the Hist tree.
Rumors abound that the Hist tree is the main object of worship among the scaled peoples of these dark
swales. Others have hypothesized that the trees are apperceptive, with a deep knowledge and
unfathomable secrets from the times before all races of Man and Mer. Loose translations of recently
uncovered Dunmeri texts seem to indicate a ritual among the Argonians, although this may be legend
rather than fact.
It is said that when a Saxhleel emerges from juvenescence, it finds a nearby Hist tree to lick sap from
its bole. The elements in the sap quicken the hormonal glands, which sprout appropriate organs from
which the Argonian's gender can be determined. Immediately afterward, an appropriate mate is found
and reproduction occurs. The female soon lays one or more eggs, which are moved to a hatching pool
where gestation and spawning takes place.
With recent Imperial expeditions into central Black Marsh ending inconclusively (burial sites were
marked on the map Cornix Ceaparius provided), and the locals reticent to speak of the mysteries of this
fabled tree despite our cajoling, we remain alarmingly ungifted in the realm of Hist tree knowledge.
Head horticulturist Titullinia Petillia of the Imperial Palace Gardens has requested careful handling and
collection of sap or seeds from this tree, should one be discovered. It may prove to be a considerable
boon to our apothecaries.
We were now deep in the mucky wilderness of Shadowfen. As I applied ointment to lessen my chafing,
I remembered reading about the legendary Argonian hatching pools. I inquired further.
"We are quite close. One is only as far as the territory of a crocodile. But Lonely-Spines thinks you
may return with despoilers. There is no moisture in this choice." The help, it seemed, was acting up
again.
"Look, I've already traded a Tu'whacca prayer wheel -- a genuine one, mind you -- for services beyond
your remit. You've had my coin and companionship. I've even endured your nature allegories. We
journey to the Hist tree at once."
"I am dry with vexation about your choice," came the reply through a curled-up snout.
"Then wet your feet as we wade to our destination," I replied, tossing him a few more coins. We were
soon splashing our way to the most sacred glade of Black Marsh.
"Xuth. Intruder." An Argonian Keeper guarding the perimeter of the pools raised his voice and his
spines at me. He made invocations to the mire, and it began to churn beneath his feet. Out of the marsh
came a cloud of what looked to be strange spores that circled around the Keeper's head. I hastened a
necessary retreat. Thankfully the Keeper turned his attention to Lonely-Spines and said, "Eventually we
all feed the roots of the Tree. Is it your turn?"
Moments later, my Argonian escort had fallen to his knees, writhing in a storm of spores.
Again, you must pardon my recollection at this point. I was confused, worried for my own skin, and
blundering in the dark. As Lonely-Spines was dragged away, I panicked and made for our previous
camp. Failing to find the way, I staggered, bewildered in the dark.
Next I saw a bluish, flickering light. I yelled for help and stumbled toward it. As I viewed the origin of
the illumination, I leapt for drier land. This was no lantern, but an intermittent electrical discharge from
the spine of a huge and gnarled lizard the size of a fallen tree. Luckily, Arkay failed to summon me.

The dragon-thing was thrashing and gnashing at three of the largest wasps I'd ever seen.
The wamasu -- a giant, lumbering "swamp dragon" or a dubious myth from the snapping mouths of
lizard-kin to further dissuade visitors to Black Marsh? Secondhand evidence is questionable. Sotild
Blood-Rood's expedition from Skyrim is our best resource, and she writes of her unfortunate encounter
with such a beast:
"It reared from a thick black pool, and our champion sought it. Its face. Shaped like the skull in
Dragonsreach. We thought Alduin himself had spawned! But no wings and no intelligence; this is a low
beast. Large and hungry, it flailed and sparred with Heidmund for a few moments as we roared with
blithe approval. Then, in an instant, Heidmund fell, flashes and sparks of energy consuming him and
our party and cursing all the water to deadly convulsions. All were lost, and for the first time in my life,
I entertained the thought of retreating from combat."
Another legend of the dark swamps of Argonia concerns wisps. Imperial scouting parties stationed in
Blackwood have numerous reports involving strange orbs of light that slowly meander the marshlands.
Warnings were posted across the realm after Captain Vlastarus Flantus was lured to his death by their
mesmerizing glow, strange illusions, and his inadequate swimming skills.
Witnesses claim these wisps are no mere congregation of swamp vapors, but something intelligent and
altogether more frightening, a minion controlled by an uncanny and powerful anchor: the wispmother.
She may be a ghost or a wraith or a nature spirit. Aside from a tendency to appear close to areas of
great magic, little else is known of her, including the nature of the wisps she seems to summon.
Beware.
Panic. Lost in the endless marshes. I felt the branding mark throb.
The wasps halted their pursuit as I reached a strange and forlorn glade. I instinctively shivered as the
moisture seeped into my bones. Bereft of warmth, I gazed at three dancing lights, strange wisps that
flickered and darted about my quivering body. Then a figure. A wonderful, graceful female form,
coalescing from these indistinct vapors. I reached out to her. She beckoned me to her. I obliged in my
befuddlement, seeking an embrace. Her kind eyes...
I clutched my chest as freezing pain seared through it. I watched the woman grimace, contort, and fall
away into a twisted vision of snarling hate. Was I to die here? No. A high cackle vibrated between my
ears. I half turned around to look for the source but knew the culprit already. Mannimarco was
tormenting me even here. I shook my head but could not dull the dark puppeteer's laughter within my
skull. I splashed deeper into the mire and despaired.
There was silence, then a rush of blood to my temples. I took a few unsteady but purposeful paces
toward an embankment. I had found a strange shrine... to a serpent god? I had just begun to sketch
when the biggest snake in Black Marsh darted toward me. I instinctively fled and, by Stendarr's mercy,
scrambled to a pathway.
I was catching my breath when two thin, cowled figures approached from out of the low mists. A scaly
hand was held to my face.
"Imperial slaver scout, you seek to tarnish our foliage with your mildew." This rasp was menacing. Red
and black garb, and blades glinting off their torches in the early twilight. I half hoped the snake might
arrive to aid me.
"A simple mistake. I am Envoy-Scholar to the--"
The hooded Argonian beckoned me to within a whisper's distance: "We know."
"Then I demand you unhand me and--" An ebony blade appeared at my throat, and a second pointed

decidedly lover. The Shadowscale responded with a hiss: "I have heard that if an Imperial loses an
appendage, it does not grow back. Shall I test this?"
[Unfounded Imperial evidence regarding the serpents frequenting these marshes.]
Many seething terrors share Black Marsh's waterlogged inlet bogs with the half-breed two-footed
reptiles. Infiltrators of the swamps must be at the ready to encounter the giant ophidians of Argonia.
The abundance of prey and lack of competent predators -- aside from the snakes' use in the armor of the
lizard-folk -- have led to colossal specimens. When elongated, some have grown as a dozen cattle laid
end to end. Servants' notes of the late Imperial botanist Angelus Hortensius indicate he was caught in
the gaze of such a slithering fiend and suffered the mortification of being swallowed whole. He
endured numerous puncture wounds and the loss of an arm and had to extricate himself by using
dagger thrusts from within the snake's belly, but he expertly tended to his wounds due to his personal
herb collection. Unfortunately he was too weak to move and soon expired after being swarmed by
fleshflies.
Be on ever vigilant guard, Soldier! See the lizard who stands on his hindquarters, laboring in the tavern,
the field, or the fen of his homeland? Spot the meek and lowly Argonian with a simpering guise and a
lilting tone of appeasement? He may not be as he seems, friend! After recent incursions close to Black
Marsh, and the death of Captain Turpilinus Baibius under circumstances most vexing, we have reason
to believe Shadowscales are active in this region. But what of this clandestine group and its dark
purpose?
Shadowscales are reptilian kith born under the sign of the Shadow. Plucked at birth and offered to the
detestable Dark Brotherhood, these hatchlings are a boon to their cause and are expertly trained in the
arts of furtiveness and subtle bloodshed. When fully formed, they are embraced by these Sithis cultists
and accept warrants for assassinations, just as their higher race kin have infamously done. Now that
Shadowscales are incorporated into Argonian society, their targets benefit only the lizard-folk. How
such targets are determined is still unclear.
It is believed the Shadowscales follow the identical five tenets of the hated Brotherhood (your Lore
Master has the necessary texts to further your education on these matters). Through capture and torture
of suspected members, we know that an order is never disobeyed or refused if given by a superior. A
fellow Shadowscale is never a target of these cutthroats, and Shadowscales deserting the Brotherhood
are hunted and slain. As our dealings with the Morag Tong have taught us, an assassin's guild
functioning as an adjunct to an official government is a powerful threat: Now the Argonians have
organized such a force, which must be watched, infiltrated, and utterly confounded until broken.
[I was held inside this Shadowscale enclave, where my protests fell on deaf ears. Or the holes in the
sides of my captors' heads where their ears should be.]
I was traipsed back to Stormhold to answer for my supposed crimes. I should be thankful I wasn't
murdered before the Shadowscales sought to substantiate my story. But Vicecanon Heita-Meen
vouched for my good nature, and I was reluctantly given up, although there were no proper apologies
and admonishments. Akatosh smite me if I've the inclination to visit further sodden sights in this dark
and odorous sewage pit. I abandon Black Marsh with elation, for tomorrow I set out for Blackwood and
across Cyrodiil.

Elsweyr

Submitted by Lady N on Sat, 08/16/2014 - 20:35

Author:
Anonymous
Khajiit of the Aldmeri Dominion
I wept as the ferry passed my home of Bravil, but I could not risk returning there and bringing my curse
to the ones I love. Now ensconced in the realm of the cat, my thoughts turned not to their wiles and
ways but to the minions of Mannimarco who flit along the periphery of my vision each and every day.
Riverhold's market was particularly crowded. Overladen caravans were readying for Rimmen and
Dune, filled with spices, weapons, and drapery. Khajiiti nomads had their herds of guar and goats for
trade. Shouts and whistles and the smells of sweetmeats would have coaxed me farther into this bustle,
but all I saw were the shaded alleys and shadowy recesses where the black-robed thugs could plan my
long and drawn-out death.
Was that one of them? There, by the gemsmith? I hastily searched out a suitably robust Khajiiti
specimen who ran the caravan to Dune. I explained my predicament and my finer qualities to him.
"I, Ma'rashirr, welcome such a dignitary to our humble traveling cavalcade."
"Thank--" I started to say.
"Your unclawed nature, ruddy cheeks, and profuse sweaty fragrance is an attraction to the caravan I
hadn't bargained for. What a treat to greet the walkers when we arrive at Dune."
As my father told me, "a blow to your pride is easier to take than a blow to your head."
Between the Imperial Niben Valley and Valenwood, the southern sands of Elsweyr are the burial sites
for many ancient civilizations, or so the whispered myths would have you believe. Just as the deep red
soil relentlessly shifts, so, too, do the transient beastfolk who claim this land as their own -- the
wandering Khajiit. It seems they have more of a right than most, as stories tell of cat people dwelling
here even before the time of Man and Mer; however, others think of the Khajiit as being simply another
descendant of the original Aldmeri settlers. Still others believe the Khajiit's ancestors once walked on
four paws but were raised to stand on two feet and become the leading predator of Tamriel's wastes.
The Khajiit homeland was subdivided into a fractious collection of sixteen realms specializing in
farming, trade, or fighting; all were interwoven with the waxing and waning of the moons. Passing
Alessian and Bosmeri invaders chose to further increase the animosity between these realms, but the
Thrassian Plague in 1E 2260 ravaged the cat-folk more than any intruder. Consternation turned to
distrust and violence as the wealthy southern state of Pellitine clashed with northern warrior clans of
Anequina. The ruin this brought continued until 2E 309, when the marriage of the two states' rulers -Eshita of Pellitine and Kiergo of Anequina -- finally brought peace to the land, now named Elsweyr
after the sardonic Khajiiti proverb "A perfect society is always found elsewhere." [This "joke" has got
to go.]
For a race living in the oppressively hot climate of Elsweyr, it is impractical in most cases for them to
wear heavy clothing and armor, and the Khajiit's naturally lithe frames and dexterity favor more
lightweight protection. The Khajiit abhor restraint and encumbrance, and their craftsfolk are diligent
about providing armor to augment their prowling forms. At its lightest, Khajiiti armor is often mistaken
for well-appointed (but flamboyant) clothing. Quilted or padded cloth adorns the midriff and vital
areas. This is augmented with vivid patterns of color and accented with a loose shawl, ribbons, or
trinkets -- an outfit that would result in mocking insults if worn by a race less decadent and hedonistic.

For battles where the Khajiit expect punishment, they favor cloth and leather greaves, gauntlets, and a
light helmet; this allows for supremely agile movement without sacrificing speed (or fashion). For this
race of acrobats, even the heaviest Khajiiti armor is loose-fitting but actually has lacquered metal plates
laced together with leather, under which is an embroidered tunic, completed with a helmet of fluted
silver and durable linen. It is only under the most harrowing of conditions that the Khajiit will don full
battle armor.
As for weaponry, curved scimitars, sabers and knives, or punch daggers serve as an elongation of the
Khajiit's own slashing, clawed hands. Occasionally these claw shapes extend to ritual tridents and the
savage points on their longbow arrows or javelins.
I attempted to prove my merit to Ma'rashirr by showing him this sketch of the savanna-land here in northern Elsweyr. The trees
are speckled far apart from one another, their branches fanning out wide to capture every drop of moisture. Watering holes, low
rock outcrops, and laconic Cat-Men herders are also infrequent sights. The caravan clattered across the most rudimentary of
roads. When Ma'rashirr and his kin do meet another Khajiiti traveler or tent, they are greeted with quick throaty shouts in their
own tongue, and yapping laughter is directed in my general direction.

The merchants continued plodding across the western savanna, with Dune at least two days away. My
attempts to cultivate the caravan's guards (so I may mingle with veteran warriors who may protect me
from my fears) had been a middling success. Ra'tassa, a particularly well-built Khajiit, seemed to be in
charge of this crew. Early on the second morning, I asked to walk with him.
"You're the beet-faced Imperial Ma'rashirr the Five-Clawed saddled us with, yes?" His brethren
smirked as I prepared to test my wits.
"I prefer to think of my complexion as sanguine, as is my disposition," I replied.
Ra'tassa's striped ears perked up and he smiled. "Ra'tassa wonders why you perspire when the sun has
hardly crept out of bed. Your Nord clothing pelts smell like a Dungman's hindquarters."
"Ah, but I can take off my fur when the heat becomes uncomfortable. Can you? Although I'd pay good
coin to see you shaved."
Had my wordplay become a tad too mocking? Not according to the whoops of approval and derisive
laughter of Ra'tassa's gang.
We heard an odd, wheezing horn, along with grim shouts in a primal language. Khajiiti fur rose as a
small force of Goblin raiders harried the caravan, charging out from a cluster of red rocks. I counted at
least ten of the green-skinned marauders -- and a warchief the size of a Nord -- from my shrewd
position behind the guards.
"Muskarse! Ra'tassa will make kebabs of your liver!" His gang was already engaging the Goblins,
effortlessly cutting them down with ferocious double-slicing from frighteningly sharp sabers. Ra'tassa
had deftly catapulted past enemy bowmen, leaped onto the leader, and drove his twin punch-daggers
deep into the warchief's neck. The fellow gurgled and fell to the ground, spurting blood and yellow
bile.
Ma'rashirr sat back on his haunches, grinning. His cat-folk had received only minor nicks to their fur
while their foes lay lacerated, many in multiple pieces. Ra'tassa took the last Goblin by the nape of the
neck and picked it up, shaking it violently. He threw it to a fellow Khajiit, who scraped his claws across
the Goblin's sagging form before throwing it back to Ra'tassa. "Spotless!" he shouted, beating it about
the face before snapping the Goblin's neck.
I didn't care for this toying spectacle of cruelty.
Imagine the loathsome aspects of the Orc (and there are many). Now believe a scrawny and devious

subspecies shares these traits, but with even more base desires and dense stupidity. Little wonder, then,
that the Goblin has no aspiration other than barbaric tribal territory squabbles with others of its lot. As
they're incapable of mastering the Tamrielic tongue, there is little to say to a Goblin, save to yell in
violent joy as you cleave one with your blade. The finest of their pathetic accomplishments is mastery
of shamanistic magic and the domestication of their hunting pet, the durzog.
While Ra'tassa and the gang picked through the spoils and clutter, I chose three of the most intact
Goblin corpses to paint and inspect (I did not show their numerous savage wounds). Of greater interest
is the equipment they carry: It is primarily constructed of wood, bronze, and wrought iron. More
fascinating still are the swords, shields, and cleaving weapons stolen from other cultures and remade
roughly but effectively.
Ma'rashirr was tucking into a serving of dried sugarmeat with his cohorts. I declined and instead
studied the heavy armor a few of the Goblin troops were wearing. I noted scraps of chain mail and iron
plates bolted in, with accents of bone, horns, and skulls. The leather was efficiently tanned, but crude.
Impressive craftsmanship for such a low and worthless creature.
I accompanied Ra'tassa and a couple of his ilk as they tracked the Goblins back to a small camp in a
rocky dell several hundred paces away. The Khajiiti stalkers were expecting trouble but were greeted
by pathetic moans and slumped bodies gasping and shriveled in pain. Many green-skins had turned an
unhealthy shade of yellow, with buboes blistering around the mouth. I made some quick sketches of
this wretched camp and totem, as the Khajiit retreated with haste, leaving the Goblins to succumb to
the sun and what was undoubtedly the Knahaten Flu.
I suggested to Ra'tassa that perhaps the Goblin raiding party that was so conclusively defeated was also
beginning to succumb to the Knahaten Flu.
"This explains why the raiders were such pushovers," I said, watching Ra'tassa's brow furrow.
"The unclawed one speaks!" he proclaimed, hissing back at me. "But of matters he hasn't the
competency to lecture about, yes?"
Undeterred, I continued: "I studied the discharge from the warchief's wounds and mouth. It looked like
the flu to me."
Ra'tassa stopped me, placing a muscular claw on my shoulder. "Ra'tassa believes in our own prowess.
Flaccus should hold his tongue, lest a Cat get it."
As the Redguard scribes have noted (in sometimes mind-withering detail), when the first of their kind
came to claim Hammerfell, they were confronted by an immense Goblin horde, baying and praying to
Malooc the Horde King. It is currently felt that this lesser deity may be entwined somehow with the
similarly boorish Mauloch (also known as Malacath) of the Orcs. Malooc certainly shares the more
graceless aspects, but further research if requested to confirm such speculation.
I seemed to have rubbed Ra'tassa's fur the wrong way and spent the remaining hours in silence until our
arrival in Dune, entrenched in the northwestern grasslands where the Baandari Pedlars roam. While the
merchants paid their tariffs and excises, I bade a swift farewell and sketched two samples of the faintly
exotic Khajiiti architecture. Being in northern Elsweyr, I wasn't expecting the imposing structures of
marble or stone found in the south, where Khajiiti culture builds with more permanence. Here in Dune,
buildings are less substantial, made from wood, and many have fallen into disrepair. Perhaps this is due
to the northern Khajiit favoring a nomadic life, where only tents are necessary.
Expect chaos to greet the Imperial soldier who ventures into the disorderly scrublands of northern
Elsweyr. No domain has been ravaged so ruthlessly by the Knahaten Flu, and the downtrodden CatMan must seek favor with the superior races to escape the terror that has befallen them.

Even though the Elsweyr Confederacy has been ratified, the gambits of the Nibenese of Rimmen and
the Colovians of Skingrad and Arenthia are still unchanged, as the Khajiiti territories continue to
squabble. However, it has done some good; the factions have fallen into line under the leadership of the
Mane, who holds spiritual sway over the common beasts.
The Khajiit are no strangers to vexation, and from the taint of disease and strife there has emerged a
valiant leader, Gharesh-ri, Lord of Torval. He professes to speak for the Mane, with quick wits and
quicker claws. He seeks council with the Higher Elves of Summerset, determined to tame the
insurrection within his homeland. This is troubling, as a downtrodden Cat on our doorstep is preferable
to a dominion with Elvenkind in your back garden.
[What an appalling mixture of metaphors. I shall have to rewrite this section.]
My nerves calmed, I inspected a gift Ma'rashirr handed me as we parted company -- a Zwinthodurrarr,
or yellow writing stick. I used it to sketch the bright, elegant entrance, and the decorative doors of
Dune, finding my new implement -- and Khajiiti architecture -- most pleasing. While Cat-Men are
certainly partial to bright colors, it borders on tasteful rather than garish, with flourishes of creative
artisanship.
I walked the streets of Dune in the early afternoon. The painted pavilions and sculptures were
intertwined with carvings of glinting golds, reds, and blacks, all beckoning you to take in their beauty
and touch. The sandy thoroughfare I strolled upon was mostly dung-free, despite drovers passing,
expertly wrangling their herds of cattle and horses.
I slowed as I passed hawkers sweetmeats and stopped to barter for a bag of caramelized goat nibbles.
Delicious! There were no menacing shadows lurking at doorways. Instead, the heady aromas of
freshly-made nectar bread loafs and honey pudding made my nostrils twitch. I gladly partook of a
sample of Tenmar apricot liqueur. Delectable!
Amid the rabble of scurrying couriers, shouting peddlers, and well-to-do robed beast-men reclining in
shaded tents and gazing out at the rumpus (the first time I'd witnessed a Khajiit without a task or
purpose), I heard the skirling music pipes from the taverns. Intriguing... The Khajiit are sensualists and
live to enjoy themselves.
The ambrosial aroma of the Sweet Plethora teahouse drew me in. Amid the finery, intricately woven
tapestries of the moons' paths, and the cross-legged Khajiit, I sat down to paint and sample the various
syrupy infusions being brewed. The pot of treacle tea was a little too sickly sweet for my palate, so I
nibbled on a candied beet and waited for my jar of sorghum sweetmilk. That left a metallic taste in my
mouth. I ordered a cup of myrrh-tansy and was enjoying it immensely when I noticed I was being
watched.
Across the room, an Imperial woman was staring intently at me. Perhaps and agent wanting the
preliminary sketches for my guide? No, she bore no insignia. She dipped her hand below the table and
made a gesture I found most unnerving. The clasp of the fingers and spreading of the palm. This was a
signal I am certain the Worm Cult used. But she hadn't the robed attire. What, now I couldn't trust
anyone? I gulped down my tea and left by the rear door.
She followed. I panicked and ran.
I felt a foot blister burst as I sprinted down exactly the type of alley I'd sworn never to run down again.
I turned several corners, weaving away from my pursuer, until I heard the faint sounds of a crowd
chattering in the distance. Rushing through a double gate toward the throng, I stumbled and fell
headlong into the arms of a tall and angular Khajiit with scars across his arms and face. I looked up,
gasping for the breath to let him now my quandary.

"I, Jobasha-do, welcome you to your death."

Handled inappropriately by large paws, I was thrust into a large, sand-covered area where I stumbled
about in a tizzy. Circled on all sides by high walls and a baying crowd and stripped of all possessions
save a strewn scimitar I'd been thrown, I realized my predicament. A young female Khajiit was running
at me. Instinctively, I dropped my weapon to surrender and backed up.
"Zara thinks you may be outmatched in the Thizzrini Arena, Imperial!" she shouted, tossing me back
my blade.
The backwoods of Cyrodiil, and indeed any stretch of rarely-traversed common land across Tamriel,
may be home to one of Tamriel's basest aberrations, the Ogre. Peek into a den of sticks or the shallow
cave of a rocky hillock, and you may not meet a troll or a wolf but a small community of these
primitive creatures. Often it is best to leave their hunting land fallow, as they tend to shy away from our
thresholds and keep other marauders in check. If an Ogre is presenting you with some difficulty, you
are obliged to contact the nearest town guard. For a nominal fee, a raiding party can easily dispatch
such a foe.
Ogres have not the intelligence to argue a point and take a primal enjoyment when mashing den
intruders into malformed corpses. The hunt for food and gather necessities, and enjoy life on Nirn no
more than that, with the exception of when employing their considerable strength to wrench apart foes
or lob large rocks at them. Fortunately, the Ogres' ponderous nature enables nimble opponents to avoid
such attacks. AS for their coloration, Phrastus of Elinhir's speculation that their blue-gray skin
camouflages their tall silhouetted forms against the sky has been conclusively controverted by Lady
Cinnabar of Taneth, so we are no closer to solving that riddle: one cannot simply walk up to an Ogre
and ask.
"I'm not a pit fighter!" I yelled back, catching the weapon by the correct end.
"Try to pretend, yes?" she replied, motioning to an open gate, out of which bounded a young senchetiger. I scrabbled in the dirt for a crescent-shaped shield and stood my ground.
The tiger leapt for me. Clutching the handle, I braced as the animal clanged off the shield and onto
Zara's impaling spear.
"Flaccus may have some combative boldness, like his brother!" I yelled at Zara with a manic grin. Then
I wondered why I'd started to mimic Khajiiti verbal mannerisms.
"Ogre!" Zara shouted, pointing to a second gate. Something huge and blue-gray lumbered out of the
cages, tore a section of masonry from the gate arch, and lobbed it across the arena. It thudded inches
away from me. I babbled a prayer to Arkay as my bravery left me.
I recall being slightly annoyed at the crowd pelting me with spoiled fruit as I abstained completely
from combat. My chest-brand and heart were both burning as I slowed. My vigor spent, I could run no
more. With the cobalt beast bearing down on me, I cowered as it raised a massive first for a deathly
pummel.
The Ogre bellowed as both its hamstrings were severed by Zara's swift cuts. Blood flew from its knees
as it swayed and lurched. Then a Cat was on the Ogre's hunched back, cutting its throat with an expert
dissection. The Ogre was dead before it crashed to the ground.
What a team we made.
Stride through any Khajiiti settlement, whether a ramshackle northern encampment or an austere
southern town, and you will notice the Two-Moons Temple -- always the most expansive structure.
Built to last and utilizing the finest local materials, this place of worship is central to Khajiiti society.

Although the Cat-Men deem the Divines as preeminent (and their sanctuary offers prayers to
bastardizations of our own Eight), they believe in the Lunar Lattice -- or the movement of Masser and
Secunda -- influences all matters of luck, destiny, and happenstance, a belief Venustinius Perquitienus
has termed a "hybrid heresy."
Khajiiti dogma reveres the moons as divine, furnishing life into the bodies of the Cat-Men by ingestion
of moon-sugar, a sacred ingredient that can also be refined into a hallucinatory contraband. [[Why be
coy? Everyone knows it's called Skooma.]] Although used both for culinary and ritualistic purposes, it
can be easily blended to form a wretched and illegal narcotic. Such wanton delirium seems to be kept
in check by a hierarchy of Moon-Bishops who regulate these ingestions, which play a small part in
Khajiiti ceremonies. The clergy mainly concerns itself with conducting services, rounding up fallen
followers, and ruling on theological matters. If an impasse is reached, the issue isresolved by the Mane
himself.
The absolute rulers of the Lunar Lattice, Manes are the most powerful of the Khajiit outside the clanchiefs and kings of Elsweyr. They may be a key official to bribe, corrupt, or remove should
forthcoming hostilities occur on our southern border. Of further interest is the succession ritual for the
Mane; when one expires, a sacred ritual determines his successor. A Moon Herald is appointed to
shepherd the potential aspirants on what Khajiiti texts describes as an epic and dangerous quest to the
Two Moons themselves, with the sole returning candidate declared the new Mane.
The assumption that the lay Cat travels astrally to our moons is preposterous; Venustinius Perquitienus
has termed it "nauseous balderdash," and rightly so.
After profuse apologies by the arena attendant for my panic and inadvertent exposure to the deadlier
side of Khajiiti culture, I limped out of the Thizzrini Arena and waited for Zara to collect her winnings.
She offered me some coin, which I thought inappropriately gracious of her. I refused, but confessed to
my jeopardy and the relentlessness of my enemies, the Daedric cultists. Mercifully, Zara suggested she
accompany me.
Being quite devout, Zara was determined to visit the Two-Moons Temple to make an offering. Anxious
to see evidence of Khajiiti culture that didn't involve slaughter, I agreed and we made our way to an
impressive sanctuary which I was delighted to sketch. Zara donned a ceremonial budi -- or shirt -fastened with braids down the right side, which does not permit the torso fur to be uncovered, for such
is believed to be highly indecorous. She told me she always heads here after a fight to give thanks to
Jone, Jode, and Alkosh.
Soon, the hallways echoed with her oaths to partly heretical deities: "Roar of Alkosh!"
I wish I had the fur and whiskers to fully appreciate such a cathedral of the Cat. Although the outer
chambers had sustained damage over the centuries (most recently from skirmishes with marauding
Khajiiti refugees from the corrupt Senchal region), the inner basilica held a wealth of meticulously
carved masonry, including stone idols to minor deities I had no previous knowledge of.
Zara was deep in purring prayer to Alkosh, and I was seated in the cloisters outlining a drawing of an
inner pulpit, when I was approached by an older Cat-Man in a ceremonial budi. I got up to leave but
was quietly motioned to stay by Moon-Bishop Hunal.
"You run with some speed and dexterity, Shaveskin. You would be formidable if your play with blade
matched your genius at evasion. Still, your display in the arena was spotless, I think."
By now, the sly disparagement was starting to grate slightly. But this was no caravan roustabout I was
speaking with: I offered a fawning reply and unrolled my Imperial credentials. He waved them back
into my satchel.

"We recognize your bona fides, Flaccus Terentius. Judging by your paunch, you enjoy eating? To make
amends over your recent discomfort in our arena, you are to dine with myself and Telenger the
Artificer, a High Elf envoy from Summerset. You would be honored to accept, I'm sure. We would be
accepting of you and your warrior friend's agreement, yes?"
Zara had arrived by my side. It was odd to see her so circumspect -- I'd never seen a Khajiit blush
before -- but I took her to one side, mentioned my worries about the Worm Anchorites, and prevailed
on her to join me.
Dried sugarmeat for the visitors and jumping rodent morsels for the Khajiit at the table. I requested a
dram of two-moon cordial. Than the introductions were made. I was particularly delighted to make the
acquaintance of the High Elf Telenger, who, despite his stretched and pinched frame and a
predisposition to talk down to everyone at the feast, was my connection to visiting the insular
Summerset. After chitchat about the ongoing concord with the Cats, I plucked up the effrontery to ask
for an escort to the Isles.
He pulled back his draped hood to reveal a pair of piercing blue eyes and looked me up and down.
"My Swan Ship sails to the Isles on the morrow, Imperial. Leave your protector with her own people. I
can guarantee you safe passage."
I accepted most gracefully, although Zara seemed to stare sorrowfully into her plum brandy for a while.
Deities venerated by the Khajiit are almost as numerous as the Eight Divines. Rajhin the Purring Liar is
a favorite among storytellers. Magrus the Sun God and Azurah the Goddess of Dusk and Dawn appeal
to magicians. Sheggorath the Mad Skooma Cat appears to those soft in the head. Hircine the
Skinchanger is worshiped by hunters. Sangiin the God of Death and Secret Murder is prayed to in
hushed tones and in forbidden shrines. Namiira the Great Darkness is appeased by
the jealous, angered, and maligned. Lorkhaj the Missing God is reviled, as he trapped them in mortal
form; his image is spat upon, not revered.
Perceptive scholars of the Daedra may recognize that these lower spirits have easily identifiable aspects
or counterparts in the realms of man, though even the most pious Khajiiti spiritualist would have only a
vague notion of the difference between Aedra and Daedra. To a Khajiit, it is only after they seek the
power of the Moons that they placate or implore other entities, almost on a whim.
[This agrees with what I saw of the worshipers at Two-Moons Temple.]

The Summerset Isles: Auridon

Submitted by Lady N on Mon, 08/25/2014 - 12:42
Author:
Anonymous
High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion
Auridon is but one of fourteen islands of varying sizes that form Summerset, which was settled directly
from Aldmeris, the origin of magic and civilization upon Mundus, whether one cares to admit it or not.
Many see this enclave as idyllic (especially the High Elf, who never tires informing you of these facts)
but also as insular. It received visitors from Old Ehlnofey (or Aldmeris) well before our first records or

maps. Over thousands of years, these immigrants became the Altmer, creating a robust civilization and
extinguishing indigenous species they could not subjugate. Ask the many-eyed forest giant, the Ilyadi,
how bucolic life became after sharing the land with the early Aldmer and you'll get no answer, for they
are as extinct as the Gheatus or Welwa.
[Bah, mere Elven legends of the heroic deeds of their ancestors.]
Extermination wasn't the Aldmer's only pursuit: They farmed the land, had limited hierarchical political
aspirations, and worshipped the ancestors they believed descended directly from the Divines. As the
first polished stones were laid at the foot of what became the Crystal Tower, a unified people toiled
together and honored their dead. Inevitably, this affinity faded as cracks in the societal structure formed
(now the fissures of rank the modern High Elf is fixated on to this day). The High Nobles carved out
and ruled territories. The Wise, or middle, nobility was comprised of learned persons, such as teachers
and priests, who'd studied the ancient lore and applied their knowledge to society. Next were artisans -artists, farm holders, merchants, and soldiers. Finally there were workers -- peasants, laborers,
foreigners, and Goblin slaves.
After this, Tamriel was settled in the second Aldmeri exodus, and the Chimer, Bosmer, and Ayleid
staked claim to different regions. No mention is made of the Dwemer, who already resided in the
northeastern lands. By the First Era, there was certainly animosity between the city-states of
Summerset, but outside intruders were also spilling High Elven blood. The waddling Sload of Thras,
with their undead hordes and infernal machines, meted out great horror to the isles. The relentless,
pallid-skinned Maormer of Pyandonea wrecked even greater havoc from the seas, but the coastal
carnage resulted in advancements in naval warfare as the High Elves vowed to defend their adopted
home.
The trip to Summerset was by far my favorite of all crossings to a new province. My High Elf
companion couldn't quite hide the haughty nature of his upbringing, but his presence was certainly a
vast improvement on past escorts. We discussed many highbrow topics, disagreeing on much but never
coming to blows: Little wonder Telenger is regarded as a fine diplomat, or "canonreeve." In Arenthia,
we boarded his tall ship -- with its extensive sails billowing like the washing lines of linen in my
servants' garden back in Bravil -- sallied down the Strid River, and then cut across the Abecean Sea.
This elegant Altmeri Swan Ship, flying the eagle banners of Aldmeri ascendancy over the "lesser races"
of Tamriel, bore us toward the city of Firsthold. It was only after gazing from this boat's prow at the
glistening shores of Auridon that I truly felt I'd entered the Aldmeri Dominion, a strange and beautiful
new land.
While aboard the Swan Ship, I discovered Telenger "the Artificer" was more than a mere emissary.
According to his own boasts (but witnessed by my own eyes), he is something of a conjurer and
magical engineer.
"As you would call a dog, I have command of the Daedra at my beck and call." With the ship's crew
watching with furrowed brows, Telenger formed a rather gassy cloud, out of which stepped an evillooking devilkin. This imp scattered quickly to Telenger's shoulder and snapped its fingers, setting my
breeches alight and cackling hysterically. Before I attempted to throttle it, Telenger dismissed the
annoyance.
Imperial mages have arguably advanced the study of Conjuration magic far more than most, but it first
fell to Elven wizards to crack open the door to Oblivion without its screaming horrors spilling
uncontrollably into Mundus. Corvus and Calani Direnni and their clan first lit the torch and peered into
this unholy darkness, lighting the path for the magical school of Conjuration. Their precise binding
chants are still used to this day when summoning lesser Daedra.

Nonbelligerent atronachs offered something of a boon to Clan Direnni, acting as protectors and
occasionally servants or familiars. Even the naturally mischievous imp was easily coerced into
behaving. But one can always count on the natural curiosity, and almost calamitous pomposity, of the
Elves, who swung the door open still farther -- a door to the Daedric planes that became impossibly
difficult to shut.
Late into the First Era, Direnni acolytes first attempted to cajole enthrallment from the Greater Daedra.
Although the most skillful of conjurers succeeded reasonably against these chaotic agents, some Elves
were weak, and the portal to Oblivion can now never be completely sealed. Subsequent catastrophic
confrontations with Daedric Princes turned our lands to turmoil. Thus, it falls to every mage in Cyrodiil
to actively dissuade traffic with the Greater Daedra in the strongest possible manner. Communion with
them is strictly forbidden. [How I wish this was true. My nightmares say otherwise.]
Hmmm. More flames on a wooden boat. Telenger challenged maritime safety practices by invoking a
flame atronach onto the ship's deck, a minion far taller and more lambent than my feeble scroll-reading
had achieved. As the crew's consternation grew (and water buckets were made ready), Telenger twirled
and paraded the elemental as if it were attached by invisible strings. The atronach flipped and tumbled,
and Telenger laughed away the singeing of the mainsail until a fuming first mate strode up, spoke
Elvish into the air, and launched a heavy bolt of frost magic that dismissed the spirit, leaving behind a
small pile of fire salts.
By the mighty winds of Aldmeris, storm atronach, appear! This utterance and a small whipping
maelstrom announced the arrival of another powerful elemental force, one held together by chains and
electrical magic. A polite ripple of applause echoed around the ship as more crew members arrived to
watch the spectacle. Enthusiasm soon waned as a bolt of lightning shot from the atronach's fist,
narrowly missing the cabin boy. As the deck boards began to strain under the shock Daedras weight,
Telenger dismissed his plaything.
Telengers next action confirmed the whispers Id heard that he was something of a loose catapult: in
an excess of enthusiasm for Conjuration, he summoned a flesh atronach. Moans built to a crescendo of
disapproval as the revolting flesh atronach shambled toward the bridge, spinning rusted blades fused to
its miserable skin. Telenger chased after it as it ambled into the captains cabin. Get that abomination
off my ship! a generously proportioned High Elf (with highly polished captains armor) instructed in
no uncertain terms. As the golem deflated, I glimpsed the undead of the Worm Cult in my memory
again, rising in the crypts of Hammerfell. I shuddered as the fear came flooding back.
Auridon is the eastern bulwark of the Summerset Isle archipelago. The island is well defended by the
veteran warriors of its Elven clans; invaders can expect no respite even if they breach shore defenses.
Auridons oldest city of Firsthold, for example, sits behind a vast wall of immense and craggy cliffs
along the northern coast, impassible from below except for a single, well-guarded hollow large enough
for a ship to enter into the lagoon where the port town was built: The attrition of ocean waves if likely
to topple this settlement before any marauder.
[Overstated: the port seems quite open to me.]
Exotic and paradisical, the jagged promontories to the north soften and rise still further to form the
white granite mountains in the islands middle. Vast deciduous forests of laurel, maple, and larch trees
grant the land a lush but unkempt appearance. Venture along the boundless tracts of unspoiled
wilderness, but bring a weapon with you; wild bears and wolves hunt here, along with gemlike
arachnids and odd, unmentionable entities summoned and left to forage by Altmeri mages.
This lush and verdant realm has towering escarpments, emerald woodland, and pale off-white sand
dunes. The High Elves (or Altmer as they insist on being called) prune and dig at their near

surroundings in an effort to tame the rugged but beautiful countryside. However, away from this
cultivation, much of Auridon is wild, untouched forest that shrouds ruins from another era. Dwell here
for long, and expect enduring traditions unchanged for centuries and stunning architecture or similar
age.
As we strode down the gangplank and onto the pristine Firsthold docks, the Swan Ship captain gave us
a look that could curdle Maras milk. Ignoring this, Telenger dismissed his attendants and bodyguards
as we headed out from beneath North Beacon. The exquisitely tied bunting, lavender, and ceremonial
petal bowls -- these couldnt be for us? No, that was laughable. Telenger informed me that Ayrenn -known to the High Elves as the Unforeseen Princess -- returns to the isles.
Her ascent to the throne was a surprise, as she had been long missing and presumed lost, but apparently
the death of her father, King Hidellith, was responsible for her unexpected return. We turned to see
rows of glass-plated guards lining up to welcome her shining Swan Ship, which headed into view
behind Telengers own, now-diminutive boat.
Telenger nudged me in the rubs and told me of Ayrenns exploits. Apparently, she had sparred with a
Redguard Ansei from Hegathe and was made a honorary sword-adept, had bested a Briarheart of the
Reach by ripping its essence from its rib cage in mid-fight, and even outdrank Queen Mabjorn of
Windhelm in a mead-quaffing competition. Either Telenger had sources of gossip unknown to me, or
his stories were as preposterous as his own audacity.
But Ayrenn had a sense of theater. Attired in gleaming Altmeri battle armor and flanked by heralds with
streaming banners, she forwent a stately walk and leapt from her Swan Ship the moment it docked,
eliciting gasps and cheers from the assembled crowds (muted, of course, as these High Elves expect
decorum under every circumstance). She marched up the docks, past two heavily armored guardians,
and through to the tent where the collected nobility were waiting. After offering a small curtsy to her
mother, Kinlady Tuinden, she began to take command of the festivities as if the crown already rested
upon her flaxen-haired head. Her striking form and exotic beauty are marred only by her excessive
tallness.
Fivefold venerations, Princess Ayrenn! Telenger exclaimed with a simpering bow, both long and low,
in front his soon-to-be queen. As Ayrenn passed me by without so much as a downward glance,
Telenger leaned in again. I granted him an ear: If you thought this stuffy glad-handing was a trifle
awkward, my foreign friend, linger until the greetings from the Sapiarchs of the Crystal Tower are over.
The power in Summerset is about to change hands.
It seemed four of the hands Telenger spoke of belonged to Prince Naemon and his fiance, Kinlady
Estre of Skywatch, and it was power they had gripped most tightly. As the presumed (and now former)
heir, Naemon had not anticipated his older sisters return. Now Ayrenn was to be formally welcomed
back to the isles to take the throne, and judging from the pair of them, this reception was simmering
with acrimony: You could almost see Naemon steaming under his exquisite robe, and after Ayrenn
passed her by, Estre gritted a grimace that could frighten a werewolf.
One of my legs had gone to sleep by the time the procession into Firsthold began to snake its way up
the paved and astonishingly clean streets to the royal castle. Despite their loftiness, the Altmers
cavalcade was dawdling and rather stiff. Still, this afforded me time to gaze at the various well-built
structures along the parade route.
Hail to thee, dignitaries, guests, and children of Ehlnofey! The sacrament of the feast shall begin after
the strumming of the ancestral lutes. Stepping into the great hall to sit at an immense long table hewn
from a single (and ancient) tree, we were both delighted to find it groaning with Elven delights and
drinks. As a call of gatherers and the strings of lutes echoed through the grand chamber, we gorged on

peacock confit and kippered silvertrout washed down with golden pear ale. Exceptional gorging!
Soaring and graceful, or static and repetitive: High Elven architecture divides Imperial critics much like
a painted cow at a Reachman feast. Their curved gables and strong, pointed steeples emphasize height,
with ceilings a giant would have trouble scraping his head on and rooftops stretching proudly up
toward the firmament. Their structures provide a visual echo to the High Elves appearance, as they
try to contrast their structures with the abodes of other races.
The more perceptive of historians (such as Cantaber Congonius of Skingrad) have discerned clear
similarities when comparing settlements of the Altmer and Ayleid, unmistakably because they share the
same ancestors. Where the Ayleids departed Summerset Isle, the Altmer remained; yet their structures
share many common elements. One only need walk the ruins near Bravil and then compare paintings of
Skywatch for corroboration. Subtle changes are less obvious: While the Altmer are snobbish, they
never sank to Ayleid levels of perniciousness, and the more refined buildings of Auridon reflect this.
Such structural design stem from ancient roots, using methods tried and tested, but not to the point of
becoming obsolete. The Altmer seek refinement rather than innovation, and they are conceitedly
resistant to large-scale changes but are content to tinker. The results reveal highly sophisticated
precision, harmony, and the selection and repetition of orthodox compositions.
[Pretty good, except for that one lousy simile.]
Echoing the High Elves physical forms, their architecture is elongated and finely chiseled. But Id
rather spent time gazing at the soaring arches, skyward buttresses, and other graceful framework of an
Altmeri home than conversing with its inhabitants (being as they are, by and large, acid of tongue and
disdainful of countenance, with Telenger a conspicuous exception). Such structural flamboyance
always seems to draw the viewers eyes up to the skies, to which my sketch-work from my time in
Firsthold attests. One simply needs to inspect the decorations carved into a boundary post to see how
the lowliest palisade is made with the same care as a grand ceremonial altar.
I had considered depicting a few of the banquet guests Telenger and I were staring at, but as the feast
continued and we mopped up the remains of a sumptuous century soup with an ever-fresh loaf of bread,
I ordered an ewer of metheglin, belched quietly, and observed the chamber: It seemed to me, with a
creeping sense of alarm, that all the assembled guests were starting to look like the Altmer
Mannimarco. Whether this was my own anxiety or the fermented grapes, I couldnt bring myself to
paint these faces. Telenger beckoned me toward the kitchens; he had acquired a double carafe of Old
Epiphany, and we immediately started toasting the return of Princess Ayrenn. My tipsiness temporarily
quelled the fretting.
After a number of drinks away from the throng, Telenger received a tap upon his shoulder. He turned
and gave a surprisingly robust hug to an aged fellow clad in faded trappings that were rather garish for
a High Elf. This is Falarel. He was jester to the late Rilis XII. Falarel extended a gnarled hand
attached to a jingling arm, small bells accompanying his handshake. Telenger told me Falarel was also
a bard of some repute, and I was presented with a small scroll with a lament he had composed for me.
Falarel whispered, Telenger, I know how you love secrets. Follow me!
Falarel led us down staircase after staircase. As my liqueur-soaked mind took in new and musty
surroundings, I realized we were descending into the vaults beneath the old castle. Falarel told us hed
recently taken up residence here and had started receiving nocturnal visits from Falarels former (and
deceased) master. We were stepping into haunted ruins, under-prepared and under the influence.
Just as I realized we were among the wall-set tombs of the long-dead, our candles snuffed out. A
whimper of fear from the elderly buffoon. An eerie glow from betwixt the rows of stone coffins. Then it

was upon us. Rilis XII, now a shrieking ghost of hate and mania. In a haze, I blundered into a column,
which was much less stable than I expected. It crumbled and collapsed, the largest of the masonry
landing squarely on Falarels head, crushing it into a pulpy ooze.
Escaping the dungeons, we both felt the clamp of cold glass gauntlets on our shoulders. Our arrest was
swift, and although I hid my culpability with the aplomb of a Bravilian actor, my inner mind was
wracked with contrition. By Altmeri tradition, those burial vaults were out of bounds, so we waited for
sentencing below the blossomed steps of the castle terraces.
Away with you. This was the extent of my conversation with Rilis XIII, current Kinlord of Firsthold,
who frowned upon my disheveled form as if I were dung staining his royal carpet. I was guilty of
sacrilegious trespass and taken back to the docks for immediate deportation to Valenwood. Telengers
whereabouts were unknown.
[My scarce time in Auridon prevented copious artistic impressions regarding the many varieties of
Elven arms and armor. But the following guide text provides agreeable descriptions for my superiors to
mull over.]
Exotic and ornate. Perplexing in its strength and rigidity. Comfortable and functional despite all the
conventional understanding to the contrary. The glass armor of the Altmer has baffled even the most
consummate Imperial craftsmen since the First Era. Our inability to replicate its durability and
flexibility has induced apoplexy in previously levelheaded artisans. Somehow, Altmeri armorers are
able to forge light and flexible bands of metal studded with glass. The resulting protection is
interwoven at great expense but is preferable to steel due to its enhanced strength and ability to
distribute and absorb impact damage. Such fine ligaments of protection show the great lengths to which
the scornful Altmer will go to separate themselves from the much-belittled races of the mainland and
their uncouth iron and steel suits.
Distinctive and prized longswords, sparkling hand axes, dainty Elven daggers, and even intricately
carved bows of glass have been collected for study. The High Elf weaponsmith is nothing if not
extravagant in his use of rare materials. It seems elegance is as important as sharpness with an Altmeri
blade, with every slicing edge fashioned from rare crystalline components harvested from volcanic
sites. This raw glass has a partly translucent greenish tinge to it and is lighter and more flexible than
even ebony. Such edges are almost unparalleled in their ability to draw blood and their lack of heft. The
rogue or duelist favors such sinister sharpness. Magnificent workmanship is certain.
[A but too effusive, I think.]
I knew my actions, although accidental, required penance. But I was not prepared to have Falarel pick
the punishment for me. For now, each and every time I close my eyes to sleep, that withered specter
haunts my dreams; small bells tinkling, always he sings a lament about me with maudlin lute and reedy
voice. I am a troll-hairbreadth away from mental cracking.

Valenwood
Submitted by Lady N on Wed, 09/17/2014 - 13:49
valenwood
Author:
Anonymous

Wood Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion

Unlike their Altmeri and Dunmeri brethren, the Bosmer have an attitude that is almost affable in
particular respects. Certain Imperial diplomats have likened this breezy amiableness to the mellow
intoxication a greenmote addict might first experience. But hasten not to categorize those as you would
an Argonian skooma fiend; these tree-folk are vicious, adept at banditry, and worthy of your concern
and attention, if not your respect.
The Bosmeri race is governed -- if only can describe this loose hegemony as such -- by the aristocratic
Camoran Dynasty. There seems little rigidity or exertion of jurisdiction among the disorganized tribes
of the Bosmer. Only slightly more stringent are the clan lines, which are matrilineal in nature. Ruled by
the Treethane, or head tribesman, these serve little purpose other than providing protection during times
of war. The real power is wielded by the priests of the forest deity Yffre, known as Spinners, who
enforce the Green Pact, a bizarre rule of conduct forcing the Bosmer to feed carnivorously and never
use living vegetation of any kind, for any means.
These are no woodland nymphs. Wood Elves go to war not to conquer lands or covet precious
resources; they do it for sport. Unless a threat to Valenwood presents itself, Bosmer consider the
slaying of others to be simply unnecessary, and wagers are even made prior to raids regarding the theft
of prized possessions without a drop of blood spilled. But when called upon, they excel at the bow.
Youngsters are trained to a formidable degree to snipe using both range and speed to their advantage.
When you walk the woods near Arenthia, hold your purse or satchel close, and report Bosmeri brigands
to your local town watch.
I was bundled onto the first ship out of Firsthold like a common cutpurse, and it was only by good
fortune that the Night Heron was sailing to Malabal Tor. My companions were surly merchants, and my
writ of passage might as well have been written in the ancient tongue of the dragons for all the good it
did me. A fellow absconder named Borongothlor shared my destination: Velyn Harbor, an Altmeri port
on the Strident Coast of Valenwood.
We arrived without fanfare. Some puffed-up dockside administrator was reading over my deportation
order when Borongothlor yelled to the deckhands, By Hircines pelt! Maormer squadron! This was
no ruse; the port was surprised by Sea Elves, some lithely leaping aboard the ship and many swarming
the harbor. Bows were notched with haste, and fierce fighting commenced.
The blank-eyed raiders fought under the sign of the sea serpent with their colorless skin and snake
conjurations, overwhelming the ships crew in mere moments. My paperwork fell from the
administrators hands as he clutched his face and toppled from the jetty, an arrow protruding from his
eye. High Elf harbor guards crouched behind firm barricades as the air filled with arrows. During a
brief lull, I saw shapes flit from the forest.
The Wood Elves appeared, helping their Altmeri brethren repel the raiders and send them back to their
boats. Mer of the sea and woods make an interesting contrast; the Maormer resemble the High Elves in
the relative sophistication of their equipment, and the discipline of their medium-armored marines is
impressive. But facing the cheerful ferocity and superior marksmanship of Bosmeri bowmen, the Sea
Elves lost heart and withdrew.
During the preceding assault, I had prudently jumped down and hid under a tarp in a bumboat. Peeking
out to take in the conflict, I shrank back as I watched a ferocious fight along the quayside. A Maormeri
commander was waylaid from his progress by a Bosmeri Treethanes bone-handled blade meeting his
finely polished sword.
The Sea Elf parried strongly, forcing the Treethane back on her haunches. Laughing, she bounded
around his heavier armor, shouting Yffres bones! and thrusting a sharp horn stiletto up through the

Maormers arm. She spun with brutal dexterity, slashing her main blade deep into the commanders
neck and out the other side.
The head flew past mine as the commanders corpse sagged, then fell into the deep mooring water
below the Night Heron. I was surprised at a second splash; the Wood Elf lost her balance and followed
the corpse into the reddening harbor, where she floundered with none of her previous grace.
Instinctively, I offered a hand and pulled her out, saving her life. I was more surprised at my act of
valor than she was.
With the battle over, I rambled on about my tale of woe to my gracious new friend. As my paperwork
was lost with the customs officer in Velyn Bay, the High Elf watch seemed thankful when Serenarth
offered me safe passage to Elden Root.
Serenarth introduced me to a pair of imposing guardians (I refrained from asking where they were
when they were needed), a tracker, a cook, porters, her dogs, and various hangers-on in her ragtag
gang. This caravan travels to Elden Root with assets for the Aldmeri Delegation, but no more
information was imparted (or needed). Any cheer I mustered was stifled, as I expected a road but was
greeted by dense thickets and swamp water. I felt a sense of reflective melancholy as my boots soaked
through; the paintings of Black Marsh could be pasted here with my idiot superiors none the wiser.
Valenwood is dark, soggy, and filled with awful creatures. Not the Bosmer of Serenarths lot, although
they seemed to jaunty I contemplated strangling one. No, I witnessed huge hoarvor ticks scuttling out
from a leafy deen to meet a deflated end on a Wood Elfs spear tip before they could suck my blood.
Grim spriggans -- plant creatures with inexplicable breasts -- reared at us from what Serenarth told us
were their sacred glades.
Splendid, more singsong rubbish about Yffres bones and a damp camp. Im beginning to suspect
Mannimarco has bought my fate and toys with me here, in the mangroves with the Tree-Sap folk. The
food they cooked had all the savor and flavor of an Orc raiders boot; squirrel preserves wont be
brought back to Bravil as a taste sensation. And the slouchbear surprise? The surprise was that my
gullet opened wide enough to digest such tough and highly salted meat.
Our encounters with the local wildlife didn't fill me with joy either: One of the pack dogs ventured too
close to a shrub, which came alive, its tendrils dragging the animal into a black maw. The Green Pact
was suspended temporarily to cut the dog free.But at least this strangler plant wasn't able to give chase.
At every swamp or stream we forded, we were met by mudcrabs. The incessant clacking of pincers and
cracking of shells further irritates me. Oh, for a spell of swift transport to Elden Root.
Scouts attempting to navigate the overgrown and infested forests of Valenwood must learn that sharp
knives and undergrowth-cutting instruments are frowned upon by the backward cousins of the Altmer;
any pruning of Bosmeri territories is likely to result in hostilities. But the Wood Elf isnt the only
concern for the Imperial tracker or gallivant. There are dangerous denizens of the low forests to
concern yourself with. These three are the most foul: the hoarvor, strangler, and spriggan.
Usually hiding among the dense foliage in the lowest and dampest recesses of the forest floor is the
hoarvor. This giant tick would dwarf a large dog and inserts its filthy mandible into sleeping mammals,
guzzling the blood from a helpless form before scuttling away. Even Valenwoods plant life has a taste
for flesh. Be on your guard for the strangler, a vine that waits for its warm prey to brush by. It attracts
its victim with the promise of a sweet, sickly nectar called stranglesap. This paralyzes the small animal,
which the plant then devours slowly and unpleasantly. Picking wild toadstools in the woods? Then be
watchful for the spriggan, guardian spirits and protectors that whip up forceful blasts of magic and
inflict terrible injuries with hardened, limblike branches. Their affinity with the more base beings of the
forest allows them to set wild animals on intruders like trained guard dogs.

The Valenwood creatures continued to cause bother, but it wasn't until we reached a jungle waterfall that my guide slowed me
to a quiet creep. The water was cascading down on a wondrous bathing nymph, glistening and laughing in the humid air. I was
later informed this was a nereid, unrelated to the spirits of High Rock. As I attempted a closer investigation, a sinewy arm
barred my path. One of the Treethanes heavily armed bodyguards urged me to make my sketches from afar.

With the Green Pact stringently adhered to, many Wood Elves choose arms and armor imported from
lands without ludicrous covenants. With only coal or peat to feed a forge, metal implements are hard to
come by. What remains are minerals and animal matter harvester from the creatures of the forest before
the mold or insects get them. Alchemy is employed to stiffen specific insect resins that are sculpted in a
similar manner to the ways the Altmer use glass. Bones for axe handles, shells for shields,and leather
all offer crafting and decorative options.
[They also boil hides in various solutions to shape and stiffen them.]
Besides the lesser spirits the wilder Wood Elves believe in, the Bosmer have eight major deities to
worship, many of which share aspects of our own Eight Divines.
Yffre is the god of the forest and spirit of the present. If a Wood Elf begins speaking of the Storyteller,
steer the conversation away unless you have hours to spend. A vital part of the pantheon, Yffres
Ehlnofey, or Earthbones, were created from his corporeal form to establish safety and the laws of
nature. These laws took the shape of stories, and there is great debate (and occasional uprising)
between tribes competing to interpret Yffres ways and knowledge of the times of chaos, before Yffre
arrived on the mortal plane.
Auri-El is the Elven aspect of Akatosh. Although Wood Elves believe themselves descended from the
soul of Anu the Everything and occasionally offer venerations (mainly at the beginning of each year)
which take the form of charitable work ignored from previous months, they have little affection for
him. Arkay appears in an untarnished form and is invoked when solving transgressions of the Green
Pact. Mara appears as the goddess of love and fertility, as in other cultures. Stendarr is known for his
compassion and judicial qualities, but also as an Apologist of Man.
It is Z'en, the god of toil, that is invoked when a Treethane wishes to dispense justice or nullify a
vendetta. Xarxes offers the Bosmeri mage opportunities to learn the magical arts that are not naturally
occurring and influences each Wood Elf's being. Finally, Baan Dar is an aspect of the Khajiiti trickster
idol. Despite being linked to acts of kindness and cleverness, every Wood Elf usually seeks his
guidance, as he is also the god of archery.
Sunshine at last! I basked awhile as we stepped out of the dark jungle, our clothes steaming and our backs warming in the
blessed heat. The city of Elden Root rose up from the woods to greet us. Wildflower meadows swayed in gentle breeze. Lush
greenery and wandering paths (some with oddly strewn bones, dropped from the trees above), along with a perfect union of
Bosmeri and Altmeri architecture, proved this to be a magnificent settlement, its people in proud ascendancy.

I felt almost energetic, too, filled with a mystical happiness for the first time since my arrival in this
province. I spent the afternoon capturing the serene nature of this place and its immense and inhabited
graht-oak, which towered over the Mer-made structures below its shrouding canopy.
At night, this is a very different place (at least to my eyes). Dark shapes dart away from the corner of
my eye. Other appear all too real and frequently. The ghost of Falarel the jester creeps from the
shadows to whisper jokes bereft of humor: Master Terentius, it looks like you've taken root here!
I cannot rid myself of this shade.
My one escape has been the drink. Intoxication among the Bosmer is not only tolerated, but also
encouraged. I began a heavy session with the various Wood Elf liquors. I found rotmeth rancid, Suns
Dusk Ale too gamey, and by the time I discovered jagga was actually fermented pigs milk, I was too
far gone to care.

An entire province of timber, but no tree must be harmed: One would suspect the Treaty of Frond and
Leaf would incapacitate a Wood Elven architect to the point of ruin, but working within these
nonsensical rules has strengthened the quality of workmanship of the Bosmer and their
settlements.Although hide stretched and tied over frames of bone may appear temporary, they are
usually cocooned within sacred tree hollows and range dramatically in size. Wander the rivers and
coast, where traders can provide quality imported lumber without breaking the Green Pact, and you
will find more traditional wooden abodes.
Journey deeper into the forest if you dare, and you may stumble across the city of Elden Root or
Silvenar. [Place or person? Confusing] Both have dwelling on the forest floor (typically built by other
races, usually the Altmer), but many homes are both concealed and cradled within the canopy of grahtoak trees. Citified tree-folk favor a life among the branches and have woven them together to form
limbed pathways without contravening the law of the land. Trails of thick, living vines anchor dozens
of platforms that carry goods and people among the graht-oak. These platforms are hoisted by strong,
often foreign, laborers.
Bone, resin, and sinew are employed in Bosmeri bridge design. A secondary market in such scraps
allows the tree-dweller to tip their animal waste to the ground below, where it is scavenged and
reworked into a variety of items -- certainly better than the refuse-strewn thoroughfares of Skyrim. As
the moons rise, additional light is provided by luminous lichen, molds, and fungal growths living at the
perpetually shadowed base of the oaks. Higher up, nocturnal flowers feed from the graht-oak, attracting
torchbugs, whose hives light the branch platforms without the aid of fire. Adaptation to overcome selfimposed and crippling shortcomings has allowed the Wood Elves to survive, even thrive, despite their
rigorous restrictions.
I sit here, perplexed and sorry for myself. My stay in Elden Root is extended as I wait (impatiently) for an Imperial courier
from Haven. Ive known Mactator Caprenius since his service with our family, and his timekeeping was never this tardy. But I
pin my hopes on him extricating me from Valenwood and bundling me back into Cyrodiil as my guide nears completion. In the
meantime, I sketch obsessively, lose sleep, and put up with Falarels verbal torture: My master, all your chickens have been
killed. Twas murder most fowl!

Falarels jokes are now laced with threats, many violent and threatening specific parts of my person. I
am close to despair. I have not slept for many nights; the dark jester sees to that. There shall be no
further Imperial snippets. I threw the remaining pages of the Emperors Guide to Tamriel into a fat-fire.
Stendarr grant me mercy, for I cannot tell night from day. During one of Falarels brief disappearances,
I sought out the priest, a Spinner, and pleaded for his help.
My Spinner friend Thorongil thought it best we see a tree sacred to Yffre. Arent they all? I asked,
quite seriously, and was met with a chortle. His comedic nature continued when he asked me to carry
him to our destination. I dismissed this as a lark until he told me his kind never move unless borne on
the backs of others. Fortunately, my delicate vertebrae were saved as his servants maneuvered him to
the foot of a towering, thickly branched specimen of oak, planted before the First Era.
There we sat, him talking the day away while I sat listening and sketching Thorongil with his many
belongings. He revealed his inner thoughts and his communications with Yffre, which he recalls to the
Treethanes of his tribe. Ive told you the story of my mind and its changes in perception, he
explained, untying a pouch and producing a bone smoking pipe. Now, we alter our understanding of
the physical realm by inhaling dried insects. If it meant missing out on a dead jester for a few hours, I
was game. I breathed deeply. The experience was simultaneously repulsive and strangely soothing.
I woke alone in the Spinners tent, feeling more relaxed and carefree than I had in weeks. But as my
haze cleared and the dusk of long shadows fell over the glades, my spirits started to sag once more. As
the torchbugs began flickering in their jars, I felt that familiar pain. I opened my tunic and watched the
bran on my chest begin to crawl, as if worms burrowed beneath the scars. One of the Spinners trophies

-- a skull thing hung on a post -- started to clack its jaws at me. The tent seemed to spin and close in.
Then blackness.
Tired. Alone and deep in the woods at night. I must have been sleepwalking for quite some time. Shafts
of light from Masser and Secunda filtered down through the canopy above. I was surrounded by
gnarled trees and indistinct shapes, quicker at darting than my eyes. There is a fog within me, as if Im
a long way away.
Odd clicking noises and chirruping of insects. The faint rustling of forest animals. These sounds dont
unnerve me anymore. Grim and terrible images remain behind my eyes, waiting to scream their way
out of my head. I have the strange sense that Ive been following somebody. I dont want to think about
who that is. So I distracted myself and sat down to paint the midnight jungle.
My painting hand seems less arthritic and almost bewitched. I completed the image of the night jungle
and turned the page. I began another picture, rapidly and obsessively scattering blues and grays over
the parchment. A different view began to form beneath my pen and brush. How in the name of Akatosh
do I know this place?
It was the cold, dead nightmare land from my dreams that Id been drinking to forget. Cracked, frozen
earth with black shapes lurking just below the surface. Was I doomed to wander this forgotten realm?
No, Im still in Valenwood. More jagga and bloodfroth to blot out the half-remembered horrors.
They came back with a jolt. Hulking, reptilian Daedric brutes that had chased me through that
landscape. I feel compelled to sketch them too.
Eerie animal-faced people, or people wearing animal heads, creep from the shadows to sit and watch
me while I work. They seem to stare intently, muttering short and unclear whispers and nodding to each
other. Occasionally, I catch the bird skulls adorning their armor also turning to gaze at me from eyeless
sockets. I dare not look upon them. Are they even really there?
The deep void of sleep caught me and I dreamed of my home in Cyrodiil. But this was not the place I
left months ago. No, Cyrodiil had become a war-torn, anguished realm. The Bravil castle bailey was
under heavy bombardment by the siege machines of an invading army. Councilor Lucasta's chambers
were smashed to rubble, and the castle walls breached. Enemy foot soldiers rushed in like a river.
Innocents and city watchmen were slain indiscriminately. My house was ablaze. I saw my brother,
sword in hand, stumble through smoke and falling timbers, dragging a charred body. He headed back
into the inferno. No, brother. Run!
Wake up, you fool.
An evil face carved on black stone leers at me and grimaces in approval.
The world of my nightmares converges with Tamriel, melding into a great and lamentable darkness. I
must still be asleep; such horrors cannot exist on Nirn. Yet here I sit, rooted to the spot, and paint this as
if it is real for all to see. I witness a terrible vision of Valenwood in ashes. Wood Elf corpses burn next
to the black bark of their leveled homes. Thousand-year-old graht-oaks are steaming, monumental
husks. All have suffered.
Figures wearing black cloaks and red helms are those Worm Cultists patrolling these ashen lands? A
robed figure stands and watches, a worm twisting on his staff. Then he strides over the embers of the
world.
Mannimarco?
Wake up! Wake up!
The evil face sneers in wicked glee.

Awake?
Im aware of my sleepwalking again. I now find myself in the realm of the nightmare I fought to
enclose within the walls of my slumber. A Bosmeri village has been defiled and destroyed. It is now
festooned with the skin, bones, and other regalia of Daedra worshipers and necromancers. The smell of
burning wood and flesh was not present before and forces me to retch in disgust and tie a cloth across
my face. To complete my misery, that damnable ghost appears to taunt once more.
Good news, my master. Ive set fire to the forests and burned alive all your enemies in Valenwood.
But, Falarel, I manage to say, I have no enemies in Valenwood.
You do now!
The flesh beneath my chest mark begins to crawl. I clutch it tightly, fearing it might burst.
Welcome, Flaccus Terentius, says Falarel, now speaking with Mannimarcos voice.
Welcome to Gil-Var-Delle.

Dreams of Cyrodiil
Submitted by Lady N on Sun, 09/21/2014 - 18:05
Author:
Anonymous
Nightmares of Coldharbour
Hallucinations plague me. I see flashes at intervals while I am awake. I crave rest but cannot sleep, for
sleep kidnaps me; I am banished to a terrible place where confusion, terror, and loneliness eat into my
mind as the worms writhe in my chest. Sharp, floating rocks. Blasted promontories. Impossible islands
shrouded in crackling storms. I believe now that I am ruined.
Asleep now?
These objects are dream-memories. I must have thought them important enough to sketch, but what are
they? Infernal devices? Ive drawn the blind man in the cloud of moths. I keep seeing him out of the
corner of my eye, but he isnt there when I turn to look for him. Can he help me from this damned
predicament? Or does he only exist on these pages and in my head?
This nightmare realm extends its slowly strangling tendrils deeper into my waking moments and has
taken over my dreams completely. I seem to be here, even when awake. Is this Tamriel, under a foul
and powerful spell? I spent my time moping and traipsing about this terrible land of death and the
dying. Even the ground and the ragged rocks that thrust up from it seem to have felt the mark of torture.
My boots, covered in oozing blue-black sludge. The wind howls and stabs about my cloak, more
piercing and icy than a Nord blizzard. My eyes are read and bleary from soot and dust, but there is
nothing of pleasure to see. Wind-wrenched skeletal trees, long-destroyed ruins, everything blackened
and slowly crumbling. Inhospitable wasteland. Faint cries from the charnel houses and slave pits. Loud
metallic knocks and ripping sounds.
I look down at the acris water: Soft-skinned critters scamper in the reeds or slither in the filth. I gaze

across at the blackened island I have reached but have no memory of arriving. The remains of an old
inn I visited in Stormhaven. Charred skeletons, sitting up to clatter their teeth at me. I sniff the air. The
faint waft of lavender. Then the foul stench of rancid meat. I look up and the sky is cold with fire.
Last night a Dark Elven wizard appeared to me within this dream. He seemed just as surprised to see
me as I was to encounter him. He mentioned his name -- Malkur Valos -- and told me we were in a
place called Coldharbour, the Oblivion plane of Molag Bal. And its no place for the likes of you.
However you came here, I advise you to leave, and do not return. I pleaded for him to help. But he
was gone.
Over the wind, I heard distant, cackling echoes of mocking laughter.
My Coldharbour nightmare is never ending. The fetid wind chills and weakens my bones. The nacreous
fluid meanders and masquerades as a river, but with a repellent bluish glow and dark, indistinct snaking
shapes flowing in its depths. The gray ashen soil reminds me of the dead gray eyes staring from the
corpse of a raven I discovered in the manors undercroft when I was four years old. The dead bird
haunted me for years afterward.
I wander alone and afraid, and seemingly ignored. I paint the menacing walls and gates of my
confinement. Yes, that is it! My terrible revelation: The whole world or plane or land of Coldharbour is
an immense prison -- even for its master! But why? What is the point of small cells (high-bricked and
barren) or sealed chambers with unbreakable locks? Why are there prisons within prisons? Jails within
jails?
I think I remember my prison guide: an inmate trapped within these walls of waking sleep. His
name. what did he call himself? Soul-shriven? My mind is provoking trickery, though, so these
words could be the ravings of a simpleton. I remember the prisoners voice now but not his appearance.
My memories are becoming murky, slowly covered in creeping darkness. Did I even see my guide?
I did. I did! My guides showed themselves to me! The soul-shriven are many. Empty bodies, dried
husks, driven only by false purpose instilled by the masters. They speak slowly and with timid
whispers; their tongues are partially cut. Skeevers scurry and nip at their feet. Helpless forms. Moving
statuary. But with the flicker of a living soul. Pitiful shells. Sad, afraid, lost.
The gaunt faces of the guides peel away from my sight. I peer into a cell with a big Nord woman, vital
and different from the withered servants of the Daedra. Titanborn, the soul-shriven call her. Lyris
Titanborn. She cannot see me -- my being is indistinct and malformed -- but I watch her pray to her
gods. Her communion is unsuccessful: The Eight Divines cannot hear our screams from in here.
The Nord was put to work. She toiled with the others who were caught, tormented, and forced into
bondage. They make everybody work: Argonians and Altmer chipping away at great mountains of
rock. Dunmer and Redguards stripped of their fineries and forced to carry stones to one of a thousand
walls. Breton and Imperial stonesmiths, reduced to ragged and hunched wretches, carving indentations,
runes and the face that leers from every edifice.
There was to be no toil for me: I was beyond and could not be commanded. Not for long, though, they
assured me not for long. Soon I would be there. Be one of them. Joining the forlorn and hopeless in
the pointless labor for the whims of the depraved. In the blasted, stolen landscape. Stolen? From
Tamriel? Yes!
The hated Dremora, accursed Daedra: Servants of the Masters. Whether in guise of a Worm Cultist or a
Grand Duke commanding the weary downtrodden, they exist to mock and torment. Look at their arms
and armor. Thievery! They stole it, like they steal everything. They cannot invent, only copy. Their
objects are stolen forms born from mortal mind, crudely cobbled together, copied and exaggerated.

A plundering of the uplifting qualities possessed by Man and Mer. Advancements in warfare and
culture. Learned ideas and pooled wisdom. Venerated customs and current evolution. Held up against a
black mirror for me to peer into, I watch the perverse mimicry of the Markynaz. I note the baying
groveling of the Clannfear. And the wounds of Markarth open up again, flesh flayed and bubbling.
Spider Daedra. Hateful. Loathsome. But what if youre lost in their terrible realm? What if you dont
know what to do? Then you need them. I expected to be trussed up and slowly dissolved. But a
befriending? Conversation? Joviality? Only if you believe these scuttling hellions can feel compassion.
They spin the web for Molag Bal. Their imagined aid only serrates my sanity. I am to be coaxed off this
cliff, not pushed. The Daedra. The cursed Daedra.
I remain in my island hut, a house but never a home. A knock on the door at midnight. Khefletak
saunters in -- another Daedra, a Xiviliai: not so kind. The feral demon pried open my mouth so words
spilled out, and I told him everything. Everything about Honoria. Her favorite sweet roll recipe. The
soaps she uses when she bathes. The smell of her pillow and her ointments. While I wept, he laughed,
said he would find her, visit her, and.
Must not think of that. Mustnt. Banish those thoughts from my head What am I doing? Compiling a
guide of what Im forced to see. Yes, yes, yes. What I see are Daedra. A field guide to Daedra! Perhaps
it will help. Who? The Imperial scryers? Painting staves off the darkness closing in on the corners of
my mind. Writing everything down. A filled scrapbook before a scholars funeral.
Ogrims, theyre Daedra. What do they look like? I shall draw them, back and front. Spiked. Scaled.
Pawlike hands. Unkempt toenails like a giants. Spines and warts, chins, and squinting, glinting eyes.
What do they do? I shall write. Ogrims: they guard. Simple, but strong. Torment their underlings.
Grunt, dont talk. Heal, dont bleed. Hmmm. What would they bleed if they bled?
Focus. Drawing Daedra, doing it right. Right, details, mustnt forget. Claws sinking into pale flesh.
Ripping out the briarheart? Soft and pliable, like roasted piglet. Alcove in the corner for the compass.
Savagery. Can you hear the shallow breaths? Faintly? No, listen. Mustnt remember. No, no, no, my
first love was Iris. Remember her spiked armor? She paraded around like she owned most of Bravil!
She died in the war.
I awoke again in my hut, still confined to Gil-Var-Delle. I am weak and alone. My previous notes, the
scribbling of a man unhinged. Somebody stole my mind; I have no recollection of those words. But I
do remember last nights dream: ghastly and vivid. Molag Bal consumed the Bosmer town of
Gilverdale in a single, dreadful night.The brutality displayed was incomparable. I could not resist
watching the feasting. Oh, the slaughter! But these were echoes of the distant past; it had happened in
the First Era.
The God of Schemes grows in power and influence; his corruption is vast and his desires more wanton.
The harvesting of souls. The tormenting of Tamriel. Mundus and his Oblivion plane grow more
entwined with every soul he snatches. And now Molag Bal had some to Cyrodiil. An army of Daedra
and a legion of the undead raze Bravil and destroy my homeland.
I spend the day (night? permanent dusk?) painting more horrors from the dream. Cyrodiil was overrun
by war, and my beloved Bravil was in flames. Straggling survivors gazed dumbfounded at the ruins of
A Warlocks Luck in the northern square, now facades of cinders of ruin. My cousins in the Fourth
Legion, they were so proud of their Imperial uniforms. I heard the news that Postumianus had made
Centurion: What will become of them if this is a true vision?
I wish I were as skilled with a blade as my brother: My execution after I murdered the overly ambitious
Emeric, the whinnying Jorunn, or that pompous Ayrenn would have meant a worthy afterlife at the
right hand of Reman. The dream told me what I had long suspected: That no one builds like the

Empire. No artisan can match Imperial artisans. So is it envy, then? Must the Provincials destroy that
which they cannot match? To think I drank and I simpered in the company of these fiends. To Oblivion
with the lot of them.
No, wait second thoughts. Although the various Alliances attack my beloved Cyrodiil, they do not
bear the burden of blame. Once again, the foul Daedric Prince Molag Bal, his champion Mannimarco,
and all his cavorting little puppets are the cause of this strife. The Stonefire Cult is on the rampage. All
of Tamriel is in chaos. Cracks in diplomacy between the provinces become deep fissures.
A brief composition before my imminent decomposition. The nightmare began with muffled trumpets.
Then silence. The toll of a bell. Even the wind died down. Then it came. First the grinding, shrieking
metal scraping and unraveling. Chains descended from the skies, giant claws drew Daedra to Nirn and
sent more souls to Him. Molag Bals Dark Anchors, forged in the Slave Pits of Coldharbour. I saw
them! I see them now!
Dont they know? They must realize! The Dark Anchors now fall on Cyrodiil. Sweet Mara, they cut
and gouge through our sacred stone, our wondrous battlements, gorging on the Imperial City. The sky
will open, and the Daedra will come. First those that scurry. Then those that seek to feast. But Molag
Bal shall unleash the Titans. The Daedric Titans! Vast and winged and punishing. Our Divines forsake
us.
Indiscriminate death. Set upon by the gnawing and the rabid. Cyrodiils candle flickers and is snuffed.
Servants and superiors -- no one is spared the sharp tooth, ridged blade, or diseased hook, barb, or
beak. And Molag Bal will watch from his palace in Coldharbour where everything stares back at him
with his own face, and he will gloat, and mock, and gorge on the souls of mortals.
The Lord of Brutality has a most insatiable appetite. The more souls he consumes, the more he wants.
As his grip tightens and all of Tamriel chokes, his power cannot be kept in check. Sacrificial altars will
not be enough. Clandestine plots to devour the few champions of hope will not be enough. So he will
summon them, them -- the Harvesters. They reap more and more and more souls.
And how do they harvest? With a kindly cavort? A flute and a drum, with a singsong to coax your soul
out? No! They siphon, they suck, they drain. They funnel the very magic of the void along their many
fingers. They force you to face the blank nothingness. They snare you in, burrowing into your
weaknesses, picking at these scabs until they bloom into terror and compliance. They hate with love
and love to hate
Molag Bal reigns triumphant. Every mortal of Mundus is consumed. We crawl in his filthy effluent,
slaves to his grotesque whims for ever, and ever, and ever, and ever. The invisible house has
disappeared. The body on the island cliff in a cross-legged slump. Corpse eyes rolled back, tears all
wept, jaw unhooked with laughter. Buboes swell and seep. Pustules and abscesses with thick, green
purulence. Hands severed, dancing in spasmodic rhythm, pulled by hidden strings. The body dragged
forward, lifted by unseen compliances. Then dropped in a crumpled heap, swaying at the edge of the
precipice.
[[Librarian Note: The following section is written in blood.]]
I fall into Honorias arms. I frolic with her in the meadows of my youth. I wake in our matrimonial bed,
linen fresh, and crisp, warm and comforted as my love nestles close to me. I peer forward ten years or
twenty. I shall retell these tales to my children. And someday to my grandchildren.
No, no, no. The great quivering of black worms opens up to swallow me.
No. no, no

A scribe of the empire, planning paths from Bravil

Flaccus pranced across Nirn at the Chancellors will
Lied his thought to a book bound in leather and hide
Filled with musing and art, twas a real sense of pride
But his welcome was worn as he traveled the land
Many knew he was spying, feckless, and fanned
When flummoxed by evil, the scholar did squirm
Skin seared, fate decided; the mark of the Worm
Foes on every corner, sleep terrors at night
Dark hunters surround; his mind in permanent fight
Still he staggered as wretched sickness sapped morale
fore Flaccus, life departed, bound to Molag Bal

Afterword
Submitted by Lady N on Sun, 09/21/2014 - 18:06
Author:
Anonymous
For the attention of Zonara Antistia, Scout Centurion of the Fourth Legion
My journey was delayed due to recent Bosmeri coastal skirmishes with the Maormeri, and the poor
repair of Wood Elf roadways. Upon the arrival in Elden Root, scholar Terentius was nowhere to be
found. Concerned for his safety and puzzled at the lack of notification normally left under these
circumstances, I made inquiries with the local Wood Elf population. I was directed to a priest -- known
locally as a Spinner -- who had played host to Flaccus for several days. I made a thorough search of the
Spinners camp, where I uncovered charred parchment edges of The Emperors Guide to Tamriel, with
handwritten margin notes that matched examples of Flaccus script. Suspecting foul play, I interrogated
the Spinner. Though I found his answers to be meandering and evasive, I knew this was to be expected
of a Bosmer.
Ultimately, I was satisfied that the Spinner was innocent of foul deeds; indeed, I was grateful for the
accompaniment of two Jaqspur hunters who helped me track Flaccus deeper into the great Valenwood
wilderness, where he had fled one night without adequate provisions. The trail ended at the haunted
Gil-Var-Delle, where the hunters refused to enter, and we parted company. I encountered no one else
(not even animal life) in this ruined village and made a thorough inspection of all remaining structures.
I found this journal after searching an abandoned hut along the northern threshold but saw no other sign
of my missing friend. Although the notebook was damp, its bindings and contents were intact;
however, a few unattached pages and some loose rose petals escaped and were lost to the breeze.
The book is hereby forwarded to His Excellency Abnur Tharn in the Imperial City, who will know what
best to do with it.
I fear we must assume my oldest friend is dead or lost.
Mactator Caprenius,
Courier of the Fourth Legion

19th of Last Seed, 2E 581