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Morrowind: A portrait of Menta Na, the daedroth, with a daedric staff. Kora-Dur, Northern Vvardenfell. Year: unknown.

—I've mentioned the sudden departure of Trebonius Artorius left me with a dearth of paying clients. And since the new Archmage didn't prove to be a connoisseur of Arts—for a time I had little choice but to consider some uncanny commissions, whose source one'd do well not to mention around Temple district, lest one plans to take lodgings at Baar Dau.

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Telvanni "smart home" technology.

luke_penry.exr on TikTok

Credit if used!

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Good people of Vos! Let me assure you: nothing maleficent has been happening in Venim Ancestral Tomb. There's no "infestation", undead or otherwise.

Please remain indoors until further notice.

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Fate and the School of Gravity

It is no surprise that I have dedicated myself to the unraveling of the Reality Hallucination. In fact, nearly everything I do is in pursuit of this goal. The harder I press, the more cracks are revealed, but it has been my assumption that I was alone in my endeavors. This land’s residents seem, more or less, content to live within this false reality, awaiting a false savior, or communing with false gods (pests).

On the path from Seyda Neen, I experienced an intense vison. A curious wizard, brazenly participating in wacky and wild antics in opposition to the Reality Hallucination. This creature — appearing like a mer but significantly less impressive — shrieked and wailed as he plummeted to the ground directly on top of a curiously placed Tome. As the bones snapped and the flesh jiggled, I considered the possibility that I had witnessed another crack in the Hallucination.

Suddenly, the vision ends and I find myself several seconds in the past, a curious Tome at my feet and a screaming mer overhead. I swiftly cast Slowfall on the mer as he plummeted yet again, and saved the Gravity Wizard from the grisly fate I had witnessed. (Note: to be clear, this refers to a Wizard whose only trait is to be affected by gravity. It is not to imply he has gained mastery over the same).

…And then I detained him, and ported us both to the newly renovated prison beneath Tel Uvirith. It is my growing suspicion that this Wizard was an experiment. The Reality Hallucination has seen my work, seen my attempts to reveal and undo it, has seen that I receive extraterrestrial assistance by way of the CHIME, and now plots to mimic my methods so as to better combat me. It has crafted this bizarre, misshapen, unimpressive mer and foolishly sent it out into the field.

The Gravity Wizard presently does not wish to speak on the matter, but it is only a matter of CHIME.

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Makes total sense if you remember that you are playing through a first-hand account of someone who starts the game in an insane asylum (with amnesia to boot). That's right: in the era corresponding to the one of TES there did NOT exist prisons to spend one's punishment in—an arrestee was 'detained' for a brief time before being disposed in whatever fashion. I'm not going to rob anyone (yet) of a chance to research this particular topic for themselves. Point is: the Imperial City Prison is no *prison* at all, but an institution of another kind.

Oblivion has the weirdest aesthetic choices going on. Everything is super bright and saturated, the characters look silly and almost bordering on cartoonish, and the voice acting and delivery tends to be pretty silly. The whole things has such a strong classic fantasy vibe compared to the other tes games, but also there's a bunch of realistic gore and rotting corpses and really dark questlines with gross visuals (for the quality of those visuals). it's such a weird game.

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Portrait of Trebonius Artorius, Archmage of The Mages Guild on Vvardenfell. Vivec city. Year: 3E 425

—Alas, with his departure I've lost my best-paying client.

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Skyrim: True Storms

Mod by fadingsignal

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The Tall Tales of Umbra

It was clearly a very drunk Orc.

The unfortunate creature was unable to even remember his own name. I briefly sympathized with him, as I also have great difficulty differentiating between the various guttural sounds that Orcs choose in place of a name. But while most Orcs seem content enough to upend tankards of alcohol or endlessly hammer steel and anvils, this one seemed to struggle to support the weight of his own equipment and did not appear to understand how, when, or where he was.

I had been operating out of Suran for the past three days, gathering intelligence in my attempts to root out agents of House Hlaalu. Aside from the copious amount of Cat drugs and mysterious gyrations found within the House of Earthly Delights, I found very little of note. There was talk, however, of an insane and dangerous individual lurking in the hills outside the town. What I found instead was an Orc who instructed me to call him Umbra, after the sword he lazily carried with its point dragging in the dirt. The blade appeared to have traced a meandering and circular path.

The orc spoke as though he were reading lines from a script.

“I have traveled from one end of the land to the other. I have the blood of man and mer uncountable on my hands. I have seen the atrocities of war and the hideous excess of peace. There is nothing left for me in this world.”

“I have also traveled this land, though there is nothing truly in this world for anyone,” I replied. “It is but a figment of a collective imagination which I intend to shatter.”

Umbra slowly rocked backwards, as though he had been hit by a gentle wave. He did not appear to process my words, but rather seemed to be struggling against some sort of internal force. He adjusted his sword grip and clumsily planted it into the ground.

The orc continued on.

“…I have seen the wholesale slaughter of men, women, entire races of people. Here I still… stand.”

As he concluded his delusions, he gestured with his free hand at the dirt beneath him.

“Here? Right here?” I glanced back towards the town of Suran which, to my knowledge, still stood relatively unscathed. Nearly everyone I had met here has shared the mistaken belief that their actions within the Reality Hallucination are of any consequence. This particular orc seemed to be living a vice-fueled fantasy in which he remained undefeated in combat, and sought a way to end his cycle of self-proclaimed victories.

“The only things you have seen here are ash and the occasional cliff-racer. From where have you come? Why do you wander these hills like some sort of bewitched Nord?”

“I…I…have no more to do in this life.” Umbra began to struggle with his words. “All that is left for me is my own death. I have found no one that can best me in combat. Are you the one who can, altmer?”

As inebriated as this orc was, it did not surprise me he was unable to find anyone capable of dispatching him, as the only candidates for such a contest were sugar-addled Earthly Delights patrons, or the aforementioned wandering cliff-racer. Even a well-armed drunkard may find great difficulty in piercing his admittedly impressive armor.

“I have virtually no doubt of my capabilities to defeat you,” I posited from behind several magick barriers and protections. “But I have a great many doubts regarding the authenticity of your exploits. It seems to me that this province would have been reduced to an even greater smoldering ruin should even a fraction of what you have told me been the truth.”

Umbra was now fully leaning on his sword and gestured once again to the barren and empty hills around him. “You…you come into my house, into my domain, with such foolish disrespect? These hills are littered with the countless bones of challengers. The very grass hesitates to grow in my presence. The blight follows in my footsteps. The…Matze ceases to flow. The elves…the elves…remain hidden from sight…and you come to face me with robes and…and spoons?”

“I am merely investigating a supposed threat, and instead have found yet another destitute and confused orc.”

“Come then,” he suddenly shouted. “Lift me from these shackles of life! Become the new wielder of Umbra!” He took a step towards me as the sword, still planted in the ground, blocked his path and tangled beneath his feet. He tumbled towards me with a cry of war, and perhaps also surprise.

***

Days later, I entered the dingy and dilapidated House of Destitute Orcs and Trade Emporium within Caldera. This was to be my last attempt to uncover the origins of Umbra, having already visited countless daedric shrines, taverns, and armories throughout the island. Despite my magick-assisted questioning, the orcs here seemed incapable of confirming or denying the existence of such an individual, though the empty bottles and bones which littered the floor of the manor did not inspire confidence that this was a reliable source of information. In fact, it was entirely believable that any of these orcs could have passed for Umbra, had they only donned the appropriate armor.

I spoke briefly with the curious yet financially-reliable scamp who lived among the filth and orcs.

“Ah! Umbra! I know this! The sword is choosy when it comes to new owners! I heard it was cursed by a witch! It normally remains hidden until it finds a new owner! Why do you ask?”

I retrieved the blade from the portal within my Bag of Holding and telekinetically placed it onto the pile of other priceless and apparently legendary artifacts I had come across in my travels.

“It isn’t that choosy.”

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Portrait of Uriel Septim VII at the age of 87. Imperial City. Year: Winter—Spring 3E 433.

On 27th Last Seed (August) the Emperor was assassinated by (supposedly) Daedric Cultists.

P.S: Cyrodiil is a jungle.

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Morrowind Modder Interview - The Dungeon Master: Seelof

After six years, Morrowind Modding Interviews is back with a new host and a new slate of the community's legendary modders with new stories to tell, experiences to share, and advice to give! And what better way to ring in the return of Morrowind Modding Interviews than with the legendary Dungeon Daddy of Morrowind, the keeper of the crypt, the pinnacle of verticality, the master of deadly perils, the one, the only, Seelof! Without question the best dungeon modder in the Morrowind Modding Community, Seelof has built some of the biggest dungeons that Morrowind has ever seen, each beautifully rich in atmospheric detail. From the terrifying corprus pits of New Ilunibi to the dramatic underground vistas of Drethos Ancestral Tomb, to the perils of the Skeleton King's realm in Caldera Priory, and the turbulent halls of Bethamez in Of Eggs and Dwarves, Seelof has created some of the most memorable dungeon-delving experiences in the last few years, and that's not even counting his contributions to Morrowind Modding Madness! During this interview, hosted by Hurdrax Custos, Seelof will cover his experiences with modding Morrowind, how he came to the community, his inspirations, and more! Here's a full list of Seelof's mods:

A Walk in the Park - Mournhold Temple Courtyard Overhaul By Seelof

Berandas Overhaul By Seelof

ReadMe - Library of Vivec Overhaul By Seelof

New Ilunibi By Seelof

Of Eggs and Dwarves - Gnisis Eggmine and Bethamez Overhaul By Seelof and Greatness7

Caldera Priory and the Depths of Blood and Bone By Seelof and his Minions

Drethos Ancestral Tomb By Seelof and Melchior Dahrk

Madness Team Mods Featuring Seelof's Dungeons:

Secrets of the Crystal City By The Ancestral Ashkhans

Lord of Rebirth By The Twinkling Twilights

Seelof's Dungeons Also Appear In:

Rishajiit - A Companion Quest Mod By Danae and Friends

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Converting Mer into Secrets - An Outing with the Buoyant Armigers

The complete collection of the 36 Lessons of Vivec found its way into my possession via Netheles Berom, my personal librarian in Tel Uvirith. No longer wishing to see it upon his shelves, he suggested I deposit it into the trash once I had finished gawking at it. Almost immediately upon reading its words, however, I was met with a curiosity.

Lesson One appeared to detail the process of extracting hidden knowledge and telling one’s fortune via tossing mer into the sea. Seeing the value in such water-soluble wisdom, I decided to pursue this endeavor. Rather than blindly searching for participants, I chose to visit the Stronghold of the Armigers in Molag Mar. This group boasts of its martial prowess, sense of exploration, ways with words, and, apparently, their buoyancy, which is an altogether separate and bold claim — but one which happened to align with my goals.

I propositioned them to join me by fabricating a rumor of a Cult of the Sea-Pest, a secretive cult of necromancers dead-set (ha) on resurrecting an army of slaughterfish. It took very little convincing, and there was an appreciable amount of enthusiasm from these “knights-errant” who would now have something to do. They spent the evening before our departure flexing at each other, polishing their ridiculous glass armor, and crafting subtle-yet-complex verse with which to verbally combat and confound the sea scourge.

I noted that not a single one of them inquired about a boat — a good sign.

We spent four days dredging and wading through the shallows of the Inner Sea, searching for aquatic signs of Cult activity. For four days, the Armigers orated various verses and poems reflecting on the nature of water, animals, Mages, Warriors, Thieves, prophecies, and eggs. They brandished their weapons the entire time, akin to something one might call a warrior-poet, if one were attempting to be insufferable.

This was for naught, of course, (I had already declared these waters Cult-Free weeks prior, the fools) but as it turns out, the Buoyant Armigers behave no differently when left in water, nor did they become endowed with any secret knowledge from their long exposure to the sea.

We eventually left the water and parted ways, each of us dejected and dampened, in our own ways. It is a small comfort, and perhaps a newly-learned secret in its own right, that in the midst of the deluge of falseness, mystery, and deceit that is the Reality Hallucination, I may consider myself exceptionally Buoyant in my ability to remain above it all.

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Morrowind: Taren Omothan, dissident priest and master pugilist.

Digital painting. Photoshop. Year 2016.

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It was I had some hours left before embarking, so having bade the captain of Elf-Skerring my greetings, I took the cobbled road into the city proper. The years I've been away, caught up with me in fit of stupefaction at the city's verdant transformation—for it now towered around Tel Naga like a bristling hedge. And though at a ground level the road still girdled the tower in a circle, it now did so under canopy of pods above—which made navigating it somewhat more difficult. How does one go about collecting taxes—I wondered—in this ever-growing maze? Unless, there is a way to arrest the growth? Block it off, perhaps, with moats of salinated water or kill the mushroom and resurrect it as undead. Would it vex them at Tel Naga much to let the people live rent-free, or should one ill-expect the wizards to develop a spell for detecting tax declarations? On this disturbing note I (ever on a hunt for new additions to my colour palette) ascended spiral staircase to the shop of Lady Anis Seloth to browse her (famously ample) stocks of alchemical ingredients. There's no shortage of rambunctious tall tales about artists extracting pigments from unorthodox, disgusting and dangerous sources. Such as: supposedly a local practice of using Bittergreen leaves to mix a paint of some otherworldly colour. Do not—repeat—do not try this, lest you plan on becoming not-of-this-world yourself, for this plant is deadly poisonous. One such other tale—at first glance no more credible—I, as an artist, can aver: the colour "mummy brown" (or Caput Mortuum, as it's called in Cyrodiil) is indeed produced from ground-up draugr and is illicitly imported from Skyrim. You can imagine therefore how pernicious the quarantine has been to ohre-centric dunmer arts.

p.s: "Detect tax" spell is no more absurd then "detect key" spell for what is "a key" spell-wise?

Morrowind - Sadrith Mora - City of Roots and Magic

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Morrowind: Praying at the Shrine of Pride. Ghost Gate, vicinity of Red Mountain.. Year: early 3E 400s.

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A word of dunmer wisdom on the situation at Arkngthand.

They're at a standstill with fort Moonmoth, the bandits. They would've already left for Suran, if the loot warranted such a journey through the Ashlands. As it stands, their treasure—if split—would amount to each one maybe getting 100 gold pieces in antique coins, a set of dwemer tableware and a freaking cog. They can't just call it quits and return to Balmora, for, having already exposed themselves as smugglers, the gang will surely be arrested for plethora of minor crimes: one of which, I assume, is forging false identities—for how else could the bandits cart the boxfuls of mining gear past the fort if not under an alias of mineral prospectors. Most of them have biographies that won't stand under full scrutiny of the Law, anyway. If anyone were to have some bright idea to grab the loot and bounce—Granius alone can let them out and that he wouldn't do that without Crito's say-so. Ironic how the excavation the bandits have surmounted is in many ways not unlike that of Imperial Archaeological Society. Maybe you see where I'm going with this? If an agent were dispatched to Mages Guild in Ald'ruhn he could convince Edwinna Elbert to furnish the dig with a permit. The ploy so shrewd and yet so simple—I'm half-tempted to walk up the mountain to suggest it to that hoary cretin myself.

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Just put out a review on the great Indie Dungeon Crawler Devil Spire. A King's Field inspired game with infinite potential and a roleplayer's paradise! One-part review, one-part roleplaying storytime about my original character Chesh, (inspired by the Cheshire Cat), and his time in the Devil Spire. So join me to learn about the game and/or experience a nice tale told by me! :D

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Fallout: Dust