eyeofapocrypha

[eyeofapocrypha]

The soldier waited with bated breath. His hand gripped the blade haft tightly, turning his knuckles ashen white. His sword arm shook nervously as he stood behind the others, waiting for his chance to strike. Any moment now, the Alessian patrol would pass by. He had to wonder, though, what exactly had he gotten himself into?

His name was Erric Deleyn, and even he didn't know where his part in all of this began. An innkeeper's son barely of age, his family tree was literally dripping with proud horse breeders, farm hands, and—like his father—cooks. He had as much warrior's blood flowing through his body as he did muscles in his arms and back. Which is to say, almost none. Yet here he stood, armor hanging loosely on his thin frame, holding a sword he barely knew how to use.

Erric wished he could say that he had joined the militia to gain revenge or honor. That his father and mother had been slain in an Alessian attack. Or that the love of his life was taken to the slave camps of the evil Alessians. By the Eight, he would have settled for any excuse in which the Alessians wronged his family.

But, no. Erric's family was safe and sound. His pleasantly plump parents happily ran an inn in one of the small towns that dotted High Rock. And the love of his life? Well, there was none. He had never felt the embrace of a damsel or tasted the kiss of serving wench. So why did he want to fight the Alessians? Well, he had heard bad things about them, but as far as he was concerned it was all rumors and innuendo. He had lived a sheltered life.

No, the reason Erric stood next to Kish'na the fierce Khajiiti maiden and Calinden the handsome Ayleid knight wasn't quite so lofty. It was more mere chance and accident that had led him to this time and place. He had been sneaking off into the woods at night to practice the same fighting techniques he'd seen the city guard practice. He wanted to learn how to fight, but he didn't want anyone to see him doing it. There was too much of a chance someone would make fun of him. After all, he was just a cook's son. So every night Erric would grab his rusty sword and mismatched armor and head into the woods to train.

But tonight would be different. There would be no more practice.

As Erric ran through back alleys to reach the hole in the wall he knew so well, he turned a corner and almost ran right into them. His breath caught in his throat when he saw them. A handful of men and women from different cultures all huddled together, whispering. They wore impressive uniforms and carried even more impressive weapons.

Cautiously he approached them, but Erric had little skill or grace. He tripped over his own feet and landed in a puddle with a loud splash. The warriors turned as one, weapons drawn and eyes hard. But they saw his armor and weapon and assumed he was there to meet them. Being too afraid to say otherwise, Erric was welcomed into their group.

It was simply a case of mistaken identity. Later, he might have called it fate. But tonight? Tonight was the night Erric Deleyn was going to die. And that event would change the world around him forever.

- The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born, V. 1

[eyeofapocrypha]

The Crystal Tower rises over northern Summerset, standing as a beacon and a symbol of everything the Altmer hold dear. Also known as the Crystal-Like-Law, the tower, contrary to the beliefs of those who live beyond our cherished borders, is not made of crystal. No, the tower is named for the crystal that resides at the utmost level, Transparent Law.

Transparent Law lends power and energy to the Crystal Tower, which allows the mystical structure to offer its protections to all of Summerset. The energy radiates from the tower, spreading across the land like an invisible awning to keep the island safe and secure.

Now, these protections are ancient and were set in place long ago when the crystal was imbedded within the tower by the Aldmer who erected it. In truth, for all our knowledge, the Sapiarchs do not fully understand the exact workings of the tower or the crystal. We know that the Aldmer constructed the Crystal Tower to preserve the graves of the early Aldmeri settlers and forever remember the spirit of the Elven people and mark that brief moment in history when we were fully unified.

As for the significance of Transparent Law, I should think that to be self evident. One only has to break down the meaning of the name and all becomes clear. To be transparent is to be easily recognized or detected, to be made manifest, to be open, obvious, and candid. Law, meanwhile, refers to the principles and regulations that govern some specific portion of reality. In this case, the crystal manifests the clear and unequivocal fundamental principles of our Aldmer heritage. Indeed, we suspect that the crystal may even be a fragment of divinity given physical substance.

Obviously, theories concerning the Transparent Law and its significance to the Crystal Tower abound within the College of Sapiarchs. I like to believe that the crystal absorbs the drive for perfection that marks the Altmer and reflects it back, driving away any imperfections that would weaken or endanger the island. Not everyone agrees with me, but I see a correlation between the pride and admiration our people feel for the Crystal Tower and the feeling of security and safety that it, in turn, projects across the land. It is a symbiotic relationship.

Or, it could just be ancient Aldmer magic. Who can really say?

- The Crystal of the Tower by Larnatille of Lillandril, Sapiarch of Arcanology

[eyeofapocrypha]

Misunderstanding and oppression have poisoned Black Marsh for centuries. My egg-siblings have endured subjugation by the Empire and slavery at the hands of the Dunmer. Armored boots tread on our traditions and culture. We are fortunate to have the Marsh. Without its perils to deter hapless dryskins, our ways might have already crumbled to dust. Despite our troubles, the Hist guides us still. And for the first time in memory, we have the chance to break the cycle.

I spent my young life as a slave. An angry one. It cannot have been easy to become recognized for cruelty among the tyrants of House Dres, but Councilman Glathis Dres managed it. After I was beaten to unconsciousness for seating the guests at a banquet out of order, I could take no more. When I was able to work the saltrice fields again, I waited for an opening, overwhelmed the drunken guards, and escaped with my fellow slaves.

We fled into the Thornmarsh. When we crossed paths with a troop of Argonians, we realized too late they were traitors, Archein tribe scum in the employ of House Dres. Hungry and exhausted, we were easy to capture. The sun abandoned my sky. Looking back, though, I see the subtle work of the Hist’s will. In the Archein village, a vision came to me. Their Hist tree spoke, showing me blood and horror—the Akaviri invasion, Nords and Dunmer falling like dead leaves.

This was an opportunity. A turning point. But how could I take advantage? We were taken back to Thorn, now nearly empty as the Dunmer answered Almalexia’s call to battle. For my transgression, I was to be whipped by Glathis himself. In the courtyard, Glathis struck his first lash. I grabbed his whip and strangled him with it. I’ll never forget the look he gave me as the light drained from his eyes.

Wasting no time, I challenged the centurion of the Archein guards for her position by right-of-combat. She could not refuse and maintain any respect from her cohort. The duel was brief. I assumed command and advanced on Stormhold to do the same there. I am thankful that I did not need to shed any further Saxhleel blood. Walks-in-Ash, who met us as we approached, was able to convince Stormhold’s Shellbacks to join our command.

I revealed my plan. We would march to Morrowind, into Stonefalls, and engage in battle—with the Akaviri. We would defend the Dunmer and turn the tide. To say some disagreed with my strategy would be quite an understatement. I told of my vision from the Hist, and let any who wished to return to the Marsh do so. Still strong in numbers, we marched.

When we arrived in the chaos of battle, there was fear on the faces of the Dunmer, who saw armed slaves charging towards them. The fear turned to shock as we joined their ranks, our Shellbacks providing enough muscle to overpower the invaders and force them to flee.

And now, we are recognized. We have allies, not overlords, for the first time in memory. We are free under the law, and we are taking back our villages and strengthening our traditions. There is still bitter blood flowing between many Saxhleel and our new allies, and not every tribe has joined us—only those of Thornmarsh, Shadowfen, and Murkmire. This is not a surprise. I hope that they will, in time, and realize that this opportunity we have been given to cultivate the understanding will allow us to preserve our way of life.

- From Argonian to Saxhleel by Vicecanon Heita-Meen

[eyeofapocrypha]

For millennia we Altmer have safeguarded a divine legacy. We are all that remains of Old Ehlnofey. We were entrusted by the et'Ada to preserve what they sacrificed so much to create. Those who have remained true to our traditions have kept their heritage pure and our civilization unspoiled. Those who have strayed from the path the Aldmer laid out for us, on the other hand, have been debased. They have become degenerates, unrecognizable from the Divines that created them.

Those who would call themselves Mer beyond these sacred Isles are nothing but the twisted remains of the Aldmer. When you look into the ruddy eyes of a Dark Elf, do you see anything of yourself there? Of course not. All you see are the ashes of something greater, utterly destroyed by the False Prophet Veloth and shaped into repugnant shadows by the Daedra he served. When you see the hideous, malformed Orcs, do you see a creation of the Aedra? No! What you see is only the feculence of Boethiah. Leavings so loathsome that they had to sculpt their own dung-god from filth to give their existence any meaning.

But it is not just these pitiable wretches we must learn from, for it is not only those who are foolish enough to be seduced by the Daedra who threaten to warp our way of life. Look upon the Wood Elf and see how even the misguided worship of the Divines can pervert our lineage. There is a difference between appreciating the forest and becoming a beast. Now these wayward cousins are barely more than savage barbarians who devour their own kin. I am grateful none of the First Folk remain to see how corrupted their perfection has become.

The lesson is clear. To stray, even slightly, from the ways of our ancestors will have dire consequences. Knowing that, can you acquiesce to throwing open the gates and welcoming corruption into these holy lands with a smile? The Unforeseen Queen is the harbinger of our destruction. We must resist her heresy!

- Corruption of the Blood by A True Son of Aldmeris

[eyeofapocrypha]

Do not tempt the Daedra Lords with restlessness. Give to them freely as our ancestors did so that their dire gazes do not fall upon our tribe. It is best to offer the Princes their rightful due when the seasons show us their brief favor, lest they call upon us in the lean times. You will know the portents by the fatness of the guar, you will know it by the stench of the sea on the inland, and you will know it by the wanderings of the lost peoples along their false gods' paths.

Lead the tribe to great Almurbalarammi, for that is where the ancestors made their pact and so it will be there that the pact is renewed. Upon arrival, alight a pyre of grain. It must be fed until the ritual has concluded. There will be no full bellies until the Princes have had their fill.

Each day, as the sun crests the distant waves, gather the living sacrifice at our ancient altar in Almurbalarammi. Split their throats over the stone with the black glass blade and invoke the Daedra Lords while the blood is still fresh. Spurn not one, or our suffering will be assured and terrible.

Spread the sacrificial entrails to the far corners of the altar before the sun reaches its true height and leave the offering to the Princes' mercy. When the host of Namira and touch of Peryite have befouled the corpse, you will know the day's feast is concluded.

Attendants may remove the offering and wash the altar with the oils of anointment. On the day of longest dusk, Azura signals that our offerings are satisfactory to the Daedra Lords. Only then may we break our fast and cease our supplication. Do not tarry in Almurbalarammi, for it is their place.

- The Ritual of Appeasement

[eyeofapocrypha]

Young Iori spent her nights listening to her grandfather's stories about the ancient dragons and her days searching the nearby swamps for signs of the legendary creatures. Once she bought back a bright, shiny scale she was convinced belong to a dragon. Her grandfather said it was nothing but a piece of wamasu hide and cuffed her for going too far away from the house.

But that didn't discourage Iori. She wanted to find a dragon, so she kept searching. Iori strayed further and further from her grandparents' hut until, one day, she got caught in a rainstorm. She took cover in a nearby cave but found the floor full of brackish water. Picking her way around the pool, Iori made it to the back of the cave and came upon something she'd never expected to see—a large, green egg!

The egg, half-buried in warm mud, pulsed with life. Iori knew it had to be a dragon egg. All her grandpa's stories said dragon eggs were big, and hard, and warm. This egg was very, very warm.

And it was alone. There was no sign of the mother dragon, or anyone else. Iori knew if the egg hatched now, there would be no one to take care of the baby dragon and it would die.

"I can't bring it back home," she said. "Gram'll want to smash it, or cook it!" Her gram didn't believe in dragons and eggs, in her world, were food.

"I can't stay here, either," she thought about the hiding she'd get if she came back after dark. "What am I going to do?"

Iori sat and thought while the rain poured down. "The storm's getting worse," she thought. "I can't go back now—I'll just get lost or sick. Gram'll understand." And, so, Iori convinced herself she should stay overnight. And she did.

The next morning, Iori woke to the sun shining in the cave mouth. She was famished, as hungry as she'd ever been, but her first thoughts were of the egg. Iori dug it out of its warm, mud nest and examined it. The egg was hot!

"It must be just ready to hatch!" she exclaimed. But almost as if in answer, she heard a growl from outside the cave. "Maybe that's the mother dragon?" she thought. But the thought of being trapped in a dragon cave didn't make her feel good at all.

Iori heard the growl again, followed by sniffing. It wasn't a dragon outside! It was a guar! Picking up the egg with one hand and a stone with the other, Iori crept out of the cave. There, she saw a wild guar, nose to the ground. It saw her and sniffed.

"You can't have it!" Iori exclaimed, throwing the rock at the guar. It hit the creature right in the nose, hard enough to make it yelp. But this guar wasn't like the tame ones back home. She'd never heard a tame one snarl, and this one started pawing at the ground angrily.

Iori ran. The guar chased her a little way and the young girl grew frightened. She clutched the egg to her chest, protecting it from the tree branches and the occasional fall. She ran long after the guar gave up chasing her, she was so frightened. Eventually, when Iori was too tired to run anymore, she fell to her knees.

"I think we're safe, little dragon," she said—but then gasped in horror. She looked down at the egg and there was a crack! "Oh, no!" Iori wailed. She must have held it too tight, or let a branch hit it. Or—

Another crack appeared, and then another. The shell started to fall away, being pushed from the inside.

"You're hatching!" Iori said. She looked around wildly, not sure what to do. She stooped to put the egg down but then hesitated—what if the dragon ran away? But she didn't want to hurt it, either, so she sat cross-legged and made a hammock out of her dirty apron. Iori put the egg in her lap.

It continued to shake and break and, soon, a dragon's nose poked out of the hole! It was bright green and a bit slimy-looking, but the eyes opened and looked up at her. A forked tongue licked out of the wedge-shaped head and Iori felt a rush of excitement. The dragon was hatching!

The rest of the egg broke away, but Iori was surprised to see the "dragon" had no claws—no feet or legs of any kind. It was a snake, but a snake with tiny wings. Most of her friends would've been horrified, holding a baby snake in their laps, but Iori was amazed. She'd heard stories of dragons, but never a snake with wings!

After the creature struggled free of its shell, Iori carefully discarded the shards and put her hands around the winged snake. It was a bit cold, but she felt it grow warmer as it snuggled up in her hands. With sleeping, serpent's eyes, the creature looked up at Iori. It blinked twice, then fell asleep.

"Well, you're almost a dragon, aren't you?"

- The Elf, the Egg, and the Almost Dragon

[eyeofapocrypha]

As the sky falls white on Elsweyr When the frost forms on the lake When the fires blaze in brightness When old bones begin to ache Then cats cast off their budis And fur keeps out the cold And small moon chases big moon And tells him secrets old But then blue skies o'er Elsweyr When rivers stream with light When fires die in ashes When youth again takes flight Then cats rewrap their budis And comb out rich, thick manes And big moon chases small moon And frees her from her chains

- “Tale of Two Moons”

[eyeofapocrypha]

Evening Star 7th, 4E 201

Well, so much for Thorina and her Cutters. They talk a big game, but an entire band in an underground fort could hardly do anything against one clever Khajiit with some magical knowhow.

And Arniel, I guess. Arniel helped too.

Either I’m getting better (which is most likely) or Captain Vilius really had nothing to worry about. Even after sneaking through the Fort Cutpurse, making the brigands fly into mad rages with my Illusions, I was able to handle Thorina with just Arniel. Big dumb Nord thought her warhammer could smash him, a shade. It passed through him as he shocked her and yet she kept swinging until she fell. It’s almost laughable.

Anyway, it’ll be a bit of a hike to get back up the mountain to Bruma, as the cave and its fort are tucked away down in the foothills. Luckily, Thorina has a nice enough room for me to rest in, and once I shove her and her accomplices out into the other room, it should feel just cozy and un-morbid enough for me to get some sleep. It’s been a long day, but a successful one.

Oh! And on the plus side, this one also found a new lute! It’s been far too long since there’s been a new Linjii ballad. I’ll come up with something to sing at the Jerall View on the way back.

[eyeofapocrypha]

Setting sail from Hammerfell, On one bright and shining morn', We took the wind o' a bonny craft, And bore away from shore. And bore away from shore.

Their captain swore a bloody oath, His eyes all dark and fell. "Be ye pirate or privateer?" I swear we'll never tell. I swear we'll never tell.

We raid the ships out of Daggerfall, And plunder Bleakrock good. But we've friends enough in Haven, And throughout all Grahtwood. And throughout all Grahtwood.

Our Captain is an honest soul, She runs our ship so well. When asked if we are honest, I swear she'll never tell. I swear she'll never tell.

We've gathered plunder along the coasts, Yet we've sworn that we'll be good. Queen Ayrenn she never complains, As if she ever would. As if she ever would.

But where's our treasure you may ask? Buried deep or hidden well? Locked up tight in a treasure chest? I swear I'll never tell. I swear I'll never tell.

- Song of the Prowler

[eyeofapocrypha]

"This looks interesting," said Indyk, his eyes narrowing to observe the black caravan making its way to the spires of the secluded castle. A gaudy, alien coat of arms marked each carriage, the lacquer glistening in the light of the moons. "Who do you suppose they are?"

"They're obviously well-off," smiled his partner, Heriah. "Perhaps some new Imperial Cult dedicated to the acquisition of wealth?"

"Go into town and find out what you can about the castle," said Indyk. "I'll see if I can learn anything about who these strangers are. We meet on this hill tomorrow night."

Heriah had two great skills: picking locks and picking information. By dusk of the following day, she had returned to the hill. Indyk joined her an hour later.

"The place is called Ald Olyra," she explained. "It dates back to the second era when a collection of nobles built it to protect themselves during one of the epidemics. They didn't want any of the diseased masses to get into their midst and spread the plague, so they built up quite a sophisticated security system for the time. Of course, it's mostly fallen into ruin, but I have a good idea about what kind of locks and traps might still be operational. What did you find out?"

"I wasn't nearly so successful," frowned Indyk. "No one seemed to have any idea about the group, even that that there were here. I was about to give up, but at the charterhouse, I met a monk who said that his masters were a hermetic group called the Order of St. Eadnua. I talked to him for some time, this fellow name of Parathion, and it seems they're having some sort of ritual feast tonight."

"Are they wealthy?" asked Heriah impatiently.

"Embarrassingly so according to the fellow. But they're only at the castle for tonight."

"I have my picks on me," winked Heriah. "Opportunity has smiled on us."

She drew a diagram of the castle in the dirt: the main hall and kitchen were near the front gate, and the stables and secured armory were in the back. The thieves had a system that never failed. Heriah would find a way into the castle and collect as much loot as possible, while Indyk provided the distraction. He waited until his partner had scaled the wall before rapping on the gate. Perhaps this time he would be a bard, or a lost adventurer. The details were most fun to improvise.

Heriah heard Indyk talking to the woman who came to the gate, but she was too far away to hear the words exchanged. He was evidently successful: a moment later, she heard the door shut. The man had charm, she would give him that.

Only a few of the traps and locks to the armory had been set. Undoubtedly, many of the keys had been lost in time. Whatever servants had been in charge of securing the Order's treasures had brought a few new locks to affix. It took extra time to maneuver the intricate hasps and bolts of the new traps before proceeding to the old but still working systems, but Heriah found her heart beating with anticipation. Whatever lay beyond the door, she thought, must be of sufficient value to merit such protection.

When at last the door swung quietly open, the thief found her avaricious dreams paled to reality. A mountain of golden treasure, ancient relics glimmering with untapped magicka, weaponry of matchless quality, gemstones the size of her fist, row after row of strange potions, and stacks of valuable documents and scrolls. She was so enthralled by the sight, she did not hear the man behind her approach.

"You must be Lady Tressed," said the voice and she jumped.

It was a monk in a black, hooded robe, intricately woven with silver and gold threads. For a moment, she could not speak. This was the sort of encounter that Indyk loved, but she could think to do nothing but nod her head with what she hoped looked like certainty.

"I'm afraid I'm a little lost," she stammered.

"I can see that," the man laughed. "That's the armory. I'll show you the way to the dining hall. We were afraid you weren't going to arrive. The feast is nearly over."

Heriah followed the monk across the courtyard, to the double doors leading to the dining hall. A robe identical to the one he was wearing hung on a hook outside, and he handed it to her with a knowing smile. She slipped it on. She mimicked him as she lowered the hood over her head and entered the hall.

Torches illuminated the figures within around the large table. Each wore the uniform black robe that covered all features, and from the look of things, the feast was over. Empty plates, platters, and glasses filled every inch of the wood with only the faintest spots and dribbles of the food remaining. It was a breaking of a fast it seemed. For a moment, Heriah stopped to think about poor, lost Lady Tressed who had missed her opportunity for gluttony.

The only unusual item on the table was its centerpiece: a huge golden hourglass which was on its last minute's worth of sand.

Though each person looked alike, some were sleeping, some were chatting merrily to one another, and one was playing a lute. Indyk's lute, she noticed, and then noticed Indyk's ring on the man's finger. Heriah was suddenly grateful for the anonymity of the hood. Perhaps Indyk would not realize that it was she, and that she had blundered.

"Tressed," said the young man to the assembled, who turned as one to her and burst into applause.

The conscious members of the Order arose to kiss her hand, and introduce themselves.

"Nirdla."

"Suelec."

"Kyler."

The names got stranger.

"Toniop."

"Htillyts."

"Noihtarap."

She could not help laughing: "I understand. It's all backwards. Your real names are Aldrin, Celeus, Relyk, Poinot, Styllith, Parathion."

"Of course," said the young man. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Sey," giggled Heriah, getting into the spirit of the masque and taking an empty chair. "I suppose that when the hourglass runs out, the backwards names go back to normal?"

"That's correct, Tressed," said the woman next to her. "It's just one of our Order's little amusements. This castle seemed like the appropriately ironic venue for our feast, devised as it was to shun the plague victims who were, in their way, a walking dead."

Heriah felt herself light-headed from the odor of the torches, and bumped into the sleeping man next to her. He fell face forward onto the table.

"Poor Esruoc Tsrif," said a neighboring man, helping to prop the body up. "He's given us so much."

Heriah stumbled to her feet and began walking uncertainly for the front gate.

"Where are you going, Tressed?" asked one of the figures, his voice taking on an unpleasant mocking quality.

"My name isn't Tressed," she mumbled, gripping Indyk's arm. "I'm sorry, partner. We need to go."

The last crumb of sand fell in the hour glass as the man pulled back his hood. It was not Indyk. It was not even human, but a stretched grotesquerie of a man with hungry eyes and a wide mouth filled with tusk-like fangs.

Heriah fell back into the chair of the figure they called Esruoc Tsrif. His hood fell open, revealing the pallid, bloodless face of Indyk. As she began to scream, they fell on her.

In her last living moment, Heriah finally spelled "Tressed" backwards.

- Surfeit of Thieves by Aniis Noru

[eyeofapocrypha]

Daedra worship is not prohibited by law in Cyrodiil. Primarily this is a result of the Imperial Charter granted the Mages Guild permitting the summoning of Daedra. Nonetheless, chapel and public opinion is so strongly against Daedra worship that those who practice Daedric rituals do so in secret.

However, opinions about Daedra worship differ widely in other provinces. Even in Cyrodiil, traditional opinions have changed greatly over the years, and some communities survive which worship Daedra. Some more traditional Daedra-worshippers are motivated by piety and personal conviction; many modern Daedra-worshippers are motivated by a lust for arcane power. In particular, questing heroes of all stripes seek after the fabled Daedric artifacts for their potent combat and magical benefits.

I personally have discovered one community worshipping the Daedra Lord Azura, Queen of Dawn and Dusk. A researcher curious about Daedra worship might research in several ways: through a study of the literature, through exploration and discovery of ancient daedric shrines, through questioning local informants, and through questioning worshippers themselves. I used all these means to discover the shrine of Azura.

First I read books. References like this one may provide a helpful general background concerning Daedric shrines. For example, my researches led me to understand that, in Cyrodiil, Daedric shrines are generally represented by statues of Daedra Lords, are generally situated in wilderness locations far from settlements, that each shrine generally has associated with it a community of worshippers, often referred to as a 'coven', that shrines have associated with them a particular time -- often a day of the week -- when a Daedra lord might be solicited, that Daedra Lord often will not deign to respond unless they regard a petitioner of sufficient prowess or strength of character, that they will only respond if given the proper offering [the secret of which offering often known only to the community of worshippers], and that, in return for the completion of some task or service, the Daedra Lords will often undertake to offer an artifact of power to a successful quester.

Then I questioned locals with an intimate knowledge of the wilderness. Two classes of informants I found especially useful -- well-traveled hunters and adventurers [who might come across shrines in their travels], and scholars of the Mages Guild. In the case of the Shrine of Azura, both sources were profitable. I discovered a Cheydinhal hunter who had chanced across a strange epic statue in his travels. The statue was of a woman with outstretched arms; in one hand she held a star; in the other hand, she held a crescent moon. He had shunned the statue out of superstitious fear, but had marked the location in memory --far north of Cheydinhal, northwest of Lake Arrius, high in the Jerall Mountains. Then, proceeding to the local Mages Guild with a description of the statue, I was able to confirm from its description the identity of the Daedra Lord worshipped.

Having discovered the location of the shrine, I visited it, and discovered there the community of worshippers. Because of the strength of opinion against Daedra worship, the worshippers were, at first, reluctant to admit their identity. But once I had won their trust, they were willing to divulge to me the secrets of the times when Azura would hear petitions [from dusk to dawn], and that the offering required by Azura was glow dust, a substance obtained from the will-o-the-wisp.

I am, of course, nothing more than a chapelman and scholar, so it did not lie within my power to find a will-o-the-wisp to obtain glow dust; nor am I certain that Azura would have found me worthy to make such an offering, even had I proffered it. But I was assured that if I had been able to make such an offering, and if it had been accepted, Azura would have given me some sort of quest, which, if completed, might have earned me the reward of Azura's Star, a Daedric artifact of legendary magical powers.

I have since heard rumors of the existence in Cyrodiil of several other Daedric shrines, of the Daedric Lords to which they are dedicated, and the Daedric artifacts that might be won by questing heroes. Hircine the Huntsman, for example, is linked in legend to the Savior's Hide, a powerful enchanted armor. The sword Volendrung is associated with Malacath, Lord of Monsters, and the eponymously named Mace of Molag Bal is also thought to be the object of Daedra worship. Other Daedra Lords, their shrines and worshippers, remain to be discovered in Cyrodiil by earnest and persistent researchers.

- Modern Heretics: a Study of Daedra Worship in the Empire by Haderus of Gottlesfont

[eyeofapocrypha]

Evening Star 6th, 4E 201

Someday, an older and wiser Linjii will look back on these entries and probably chuckle at how easily sidetracked his younger self was. But somehow this one doubts much will have changed in that respect.

I did grant myself a grace period of giving Bruma my proper farewells this afternoon. Paid a visit to a little farming village to the east called Applewatch, and gave the locals a hand eliminating a vicious pack of wolves stalking the town. I was still resolved to leave first thing in the morning for Serpent’s Trail.

That was before Captain Vilius asked me for a drink and a chat at the Jerall View tonight. I thought it was merely a social call, but as the evening wore on and the captain got deeper into his cups, he started lamenting how he had once made a mistake that led to a comrade dying at the hands of a group called Thorina’s Cutters, which are the bandits that I’ve been running into around the Jeralls. He feels that, with my expertise, I might be the one to finally take down Thorina herself, and Vilius knows where she’s hiding.

I was going to tell him I had delayed my return to Skyrim long enough, but the part of me that wants to do good won out. So it looks like I’ll be delaying my return trip YET AGAIN to help out a friend.

Honestly, if I just used the tactics I’ve been using so far, turning the bandits against each other with well-timed Illusions, this should be easy. One more day dealing with them, then back on task. Really.

[eyeofapocrypha]

The wedding of Indaenir and Gwaering, the new Silvenar and Green Lady, is an important occasion for the Bosmer, and as such is important to the Aldmeri Dominion.

With the unrest currently rampant throughout Malabal Tor, it is important the Queen's representatives understand how to interact with the Bosmer.

The following information is based upon "Bosmer Traditions and Manners," by the highly respected Altmer author Cirantille.

According to their legends, the Bosmer were once wild and savage (not at all like they are now) and able to change shape at will. Wishing to become more civilized, they made a bargain with Y'ffre, giving up shapeshifting in exchange for (what they think is) a more civilized demeanor.

This Green Pact affected every aspect of their lives. They became very ritualistic and, while these rituals may seem odd to … differently civilized … peoples, they do keep the Wood Elves from becoming fully savage again. One of their most important rituals is the Handfasting. It happens once a generation and is responsible for both anointing and marrying two of their three most important leaders (the third being the Camoran King or Queen of the Wood Elves).

No one but the Bosmer know how these two leaders are chosen, but they are, and the Handfast is the ritual that binds the Green Lady and the Silvenar together.

The Silvenar is the spiritual leader of the Bosmer, and a truly civilizing force on the entire race. Some say he is the embodiment of the Green Pact, others that he's simply a powerful mystic.

When a Bosmer becomes the Silvenar, he or she gains a great understanding of the land they inhabit as well as its people.

The Green Lady, on the other hand, is a pure force of nature. She is the physicality of the Bosmer: a hunter, warrior, and nearly-unstoppable fist of her people.

Do not confuse her passion for savagery, however! The Green Lady inherits the tactical poise of all those who've gone before her. The only thing that can turn her into a true beast is the death of her Silvenar … an occurrence some of us had the misfortune to witness on Khenarthi Island. It is a wonder anyone survived.

Take the Handfast as seriously as the Bosmer do and you should be fine. Eat what is offered (don't ask what it is), but drink sparingly—their ritual drink "rotmeth" will sicken the most powerful non-Bosmer stomach if consumed with abandon.

Avoid conflict when you can, but participating in a few non-lethal brawls during the celebration may not be avoidable. Indeed, it may be expected.

- Diplomacy during the Handfasting

[eyeofapocrypha]

Chapter One: Of His Laudable Youth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- The All-Beneficent King Fahara’jad

[eyeofapocrypha]

Crackle, snap, hiss ... Flicker, bright, dim ... The fire in the hearth provides light and heat. Neither seem to affect the old man. His reclining figure stares into the flames and flames reflect back from his deep dark eyes. Indigo blue robes reflect and yet absorb the firelight and highlights of golden threads twinkle as the flames flicker. His beard and hair are long and snowy white; in the firelight they almost appear to be ethereal like that of a godling. At his side is a tall pointed hat which is the same color as his robe and also twinkles with highlights of gold. The face is lined with age, yet almost appears youthful; wisdom and intellect exude from his personage. This is the Sage who is known in all of Tamriel as the champion and counselor to all users of magic. His thoughts wander, and he remembers ...

* * *

Gyron Vardengroet was born to a poor and humble Breton family in the village of Moonguard. The only child of Frieda and Horstle Vardengroet entered life during a rare eclipse of Tamriel's moons. It was soon apparent that he was unusually gifted in the magical arts. He was found levitating the family dog when he was only a year old. Most Bretons have a great talent for magic, but as he grew Gyron displayed a talent far greater than that of his peers. The village wizard began to take an interest in young Gyron and soon took him under his wing. In spite of the young man's proclivities for being rowdy, the old Wizard Grungdingler liked him and worked hard to teach him the magical arts to the extent of his own skills.

Finally the day came when Grungdingler could teach Gyron no more. The young mage had surpassed his master, and he was somewhat unsettled with the apprentice mage's questions about life, death and immortality. Grundingler called Gyron to him and gave him a letter addressed to Morkledder, the Guildmagister of the Mages Guild in Shornhelm. The young mage told his parents of his fortune, packed his meager belongings, and set out for the journey to Shornhelm. After many months of travel through the foothills of the Kurallian Mountains, Gyron arrived at the gates to the great City-State of Shornhelm high in the mountainous terrain of High Rock.

After the life of a quiet Breton village, Shornhelm was a wonder to Gyron. He explored the city from one end to the other, and eventually found the Mages Guild. Presenting Grungdingler's letter to Morkledder, Gyron was received warmly. Morkledder explained to Gyron that he would need to be tested before any commitment to further training could be made. After a night of rest and meditation, Gyron was shown into the main hall of the Mages Guild which was now filled with magic users of all kinds. It was very quiet. The young mage felt as if his heart was in his throat as he approached the Council of Three, the leaders of the mages in this City-State. Morkledder rose and explained to Gyron the various tests he would be subjected to to prove his worth as a mage. The youth then turned and left the Council Chamber, the eyes of the many mages on him, and went forth to complete the tasks that had been defined for him.

Returning to Shornhelm several years later, Gyron was admitted to the Mages Guild and shown to the Council Chamber where he was met by Morkledder. The ancient mage reviewed the journal entries, the artifacts gathered, and most especially the spellbook entries presented to him by Gyron. An expression of amazement spread across the old wizard's face; there had never been a novice to accomplish what Gyron had during the testing. Morkledder then called a full session of the Guild presenting Gyron as a full Wizard.

Gyron remained with Morkledder for several years and studied hard. In private session several years after the testing, Morkledder admitted to Gyron that the Guild at Shornhelm could teach him no more and that he should seek further enlightenment at the Crystal Tower on Sumurset Isle.

After packing his possessions once again, Gyron set off on another long journey. He arrived at the Crystal Tower several years later after having traversed the province of Hammerfell where he had many adventures, met many other mages and shared his experiences and knowledge with them. He heard stories of wonderful plants that when combined with other elements could restore life to those dead, prolong life to those yet living, and in the proper combination bestow immortality on the user. Gyron was always quick to advise and guide mages who were less experienced than himself. He loved being able to help. He made many friends and stories began to spread across the land about this exceptional user of magic.

When he entered the Crystal Tower, he was greeted by several mages all clamoring for his attention. His reputation had preceded him. However, the crowd hushed and parted at the arrival of a very imposing figure dressed all in indigo blue robes trimmed in gold, wearing a high pointed hat and carrying the most beautifully carved staff Gyron had ever seen. The Elder of the Council of Wizards, Esthlainder, looked closely at the young wizard, nodded and turned to walk back into the tower. Without delay, Gyron followed him. The audience that followed stunned the young mage.

Esthlainder explained to him that Gyron's coming had been foretold for many years, and he had been expected. The mages had been told by the Gods that one of their own would come along to provide guidance, knowledge and aid. Gyron was that promised champion and leader. Gyron was confused and uncertain. How could he be such an extraordinary person? What must he do to fulfill his destiny? Many questions spilled from him to which Esthlainder could not provide the answers. The Elder suggested that Gyron stay with them in the Crystal Tower for a while and study. This he did.

The day finally came when The Elder admitted to Gyron that the Crystal Tower could no longer provide anything new and that he needed to travel the lands of Tamriel and seek the wisdom and knowledge. The Elder sighed and told Gyron how sad he was that the Crystal Tower was losing him, but that his destiny must be fulfilled. With this, the Elder presented Gyron with a package wrapped in the same beautiful indigo blue as the Elder's Robes. Gyron was told to take the package with him but open it only when he was at least a day's travel from the Crystal Tower.

After a long day's walk, Gyron set up camp in a beautiful glade next to a brook of crystal clear water. Finally, he thought, I can open the Elder's package. As he untied the golden cord that had bound the package, he found that the wrapping was not wrapping at all but an exquisitely tailored robe identical to the one worn by the Elder. As he opened the robe, a high pointed wizard's hat popped out of the package, and with a "whoosh" and "pop," the same intricately carved staff that the Elder had carried appeared. A note from the Elder advised that the garments were indestructible and that the staff had many magical properties for Gyron to discover. It went on further to explain that from this day forward Gyron would be known as The Sage.

Tired from his walking and with an inner glow of accomplishment, The Sage settled down for the first night of his long pilgrimage across the lands.

After many months of further travels and adventures, The Sage returned to Moonguard and was warmly welcomed by the villagers and most especially by his parents, Frieda and Horstle. News of his coming had preceded him and the whole village had worked hard to build and furnish a cottage for the mage in the pleasant forest just outside the town. After a festive banquet that evening, Gyron retired to his new home.

The Sage settled into his life outside Moonguard. He received many visitors who have traveled from near and far to seek his guidance, help, and training. The years passed. It was not long before first Horstle and then Frieda died. The Sage was devastated by his loss. In his grief he swore to dedicate the rest of his life to defeating death so that grief like his could be avoided by others.

He returned to the Great Library at the Crystal Tower and researched the many flowers, herbs and plants that he had heard about and seen during his travels. In his cottage, he labored tirelessly over the spellbooks, vials and collection of flora from all over the lands. He tested the potions on himself. The years went by, but The Sage seemed not to age anymore. At some point he had found the right combination in his experiments, but could not determine which combination it had been as the change had been most subtle. He had secured a life without end. And the years continued to pass.

Mages came to him for help which he freely gave. The Sage settled into his life of advising and guiding and the years continued to pass. Unfortunately, his fame became so great that the call for his help was unmanageable. He reluctantly packed his possessions for the last time, and moved far into the Kurallian Mountains and built a magical fortress. Only the most worthy magic user could gain access and help from The Sage.

However, following his heart, even today The Sage often leaves his mountain abode and travels the land helping young mages gain experience and to grow.

* * *

Snap, crackle ... The firelight flickers... The old mage stirs as the memories fade and flicker like the firelight. Bang, bang, bang... echoes from the pounding knocker on the great oaken doors of the fortress... The Sage rises and heads for the doors knowing that yet another mage in need has found him and is worthy of help.

- The Sage by Aegrothius Goth

[eyeofapocrypha]

If you believed what that old goat Phrastus of Elinhir writes in what he's pleased to call his "Histories," you'd think that modern society's bias against reverence for the Daedric Princes was rooted in some kind of instinctive revulsion against the Lords of Oblivion, an abhorrence based on events of unspeakable cruelty that took place thousands of years ago.

This is absurd on the face of it. Ask the peasant in his field, the cobbler in his shop, or the solicitor in his office if he fears the Daedra Lords because of the ancient practices of the Wild Elves, and all you'll get will be a blank look. The peasant, cobbler, and solicitor only fear Daedra and Daedra-worship because they've been told to by established religion and academia, and because their neighbors believe the same thing.

So, Phrastus, Daedra worship survives in Tamriel only at the level of forbidden cults? On the contrary, it's easy to show that veneration for Daedra is widespread and widely accepted among the folk of Tamriel, despite the desires and opinions of priests and professors. Ask the hunter why he mutters a prayer to Hircine as he draws his bow. Ask the gardener why she asks Mephala to spare her vines from slugs and worms. Ask the guardsman why he invokes the valor of Boethiah as he draws his sword. And one doesn't have to look hard to find worshipers of Sanguine during Carnaval, or Hermaeus Mora among scholars at any time.

What of the Ashlanders of Morrowind, who still venerate the so-called Good Daedra? What of the Spirit Wardens of Menevia, who follow Azura? What of the Jovial Lambasters of Rimmen, who celebrate Clavicus Vile?

What, indeed, of the Khajiit of the southern realms? Rather than abjure the Oblivion Lords, the Cat-folk of Elsweyr venerate them openly, scarcely drawing a distinction between Aedra and Daedra. The Khajiit recognize the benevolent aspects of the Princes, offering them respect at a minimum, and often admiration. Azurah is a popular object of worship for Khajiiti magicians, Sheggorath appeals to the feline taste for wild mischief, and the souls of the dead are placed in the charge of Namiira.

Yet Phrastus would have you believe every mortal in Tamriel cringes in horror at the mention of Daedra, and mocks my own work when I show him up for the charlatan he is. Or can we explain his petty hostility in another way? Wasn't it Phrastus himself who approached me at the Dragonstar Conclave of Antiquarian Scholars, Phrastus who pointed out it was the 16th of Sun's Dawn, Phrastus who suggested we meet later that evening to "appropriately celebrate Sanguine's summoning day"? I believe he took it rather personally when I refused his smarmy advances, for it was shortly thereafter that his unwarranted criticism of my work began to appear in the journals. Hmm. Yes, perhaps therein lies the explanation.

- Persistence of Daedric Veneration by Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

[eyeofapocrypha]

We know almost nothing about them, except that they left behind the most interesting and exciting ruins. You know who I'm talking about. That's right! The Dwarves—or the Dwemer, for the scholars among you who might be reading this. (My brother Raynor insists I call them Dwemer, but I like the name Dwarves better. It rolls off the tongue, in my opinion.) Now, dungeon-delving is serious work (no matter how much fun it might be), and can be pretty dangerous besides. Just finding a Dwarven ruin is no small accomplishment, but getting into one and back out again in one piece can be next to impossible. But before I get to that, let's talk about the ruins themselves.

Dwarves created a vast network of underground complexes and cities. Why they preferred to build beneath rock and soil, I couldn't say, but that's where they built them. So that's where you'll have to go if you want to visit a Dwarven ruin. Once you do find one, you'll know it. Dwarven architecture has a distinctive look and feel, from the surface entryways to the subterranean structures. They utilized natural openings in the rock wherever possible, tending to decorate and carve existing rock and natural pillars. They only built new structures when it was absolutely necessary, usually to support other structures or to install fortifications. In addition to carving and shaping the natural rock, Dwarves used stone as their primary building material. Some metal appears within their ruins, primarily brass, used as accents and in mechanical construction. And here's the really exciting part: Dwarves loved their gadgets, and their ruins are full of them! I don't mean just traps, though some of the most devious were designed and built by the long-gone Dwarves. I mean heating and cooling systems made up of steam pistons and great gears, glowing lights that shine from the walls, giant wheels that turn as water cascades over them, multifaceted gems that fire beams of light, and many other wonders too numerous to mention.

It's eerie to walk through a Dwarven ruin. It's supposed to be empty, deserted, but the lights continue to glow and the pipes continue to steam. It's like the place is waiting for someone to return, as though the Dwarves just stepped out for a moment and haven't been gone for hundreds of years.

Then there are the inhabitants of the ruins, for a Dwarven complex isn't as devoid of life as you might think. In fact, some of the ruins virtually teem with the stuff. But it isn't life as you or I know it. It's mechanical life. Constructs. They wander the chambers and corridors of these dungeons, performing tasks assigned to them in ages past. But make no mistake, if a construct spots you, it will attack you. With whirring blades and piston-powered swords, the Dwarven constructs pose a significant threat to any would-be dungeon-delver. Worse, the constructs know how to repair each other, so the ruins seem to contain an endless supply of the mechanical creatures.

So, to successfully enter and exit a Dwarven ruin, you need to spot and disarm (or otherwise bypass) devious traps, avoid or defeat an army of increasingly more powerful wandering constructs, and figure out how to open strange locks that might or might not require something that looks like a key. It can be a bit maddening, but personally I find the challenge to be remarkably fun.

Of course, everything I've written thus far has been theory and conjecture. My brother and I have yet to enter a Dwarven ruin, and all of our practice has been within the mundane dungeons that dot the land. But I've read all the books! We've finally acquired the funding we need to tackle the Dwarven ruin known as Bthanual, and I plan to write about that adventure in the very near future.

In the meantime, let's all be careful out there. Remember that a dungeon isn't all fun and games. Survival is serious business, and we're in this line of work to not only thrive—but to survive!

- Dwemer Dungeons: What I Know by Kireth Vanos, Dungeon-Delver Extraordinaire