spoonmagister

[spoonmagister]

Extreme Prejudice

I was going to the most confusing place in the world and I didn’t even know it yet. Way down Azura’s Coast, to the end of the Telvanni isles, the path like roots that led straight to Therana. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of the wizard lord Therana’s clothing any more than being back in Sadrith Mora was an accident. There is no way to tell my own story, without telling a bit of hers.

The looming fungal tower of Tel Branora rose out of the sea like a great living lighthouse. Yet this beacon did not signal safety, but rather chaos. It was easy enough to ascend given my magical talents, yet comprehending what I found inside was more challenging.

Scamps in various states of life and death were strewn about the chambers. Large kwama eggs were arranged in patterns, stuck to walls, and rolled across the floor endlessly. A wooden table hosted a perfect circle of eggs around its perimeter. Curiously, I was unable to grasp these eggs, both physically and mentally. The guards seemed to not know where they were posted, and — by my assumption — no one here was actually in charge.

A bewildered-looking Bosmer wandered the halls, and approached me as though he wanted me to ask him a question. I did.

“Could I..speak with Lady Therana?”

“Hey, mer, you don’t talk to the Lady. You listen to her. She’s enlarged my mind. She’s a poet mage in the classic sense. Sometimes she’ll…well, I’ll say ‘hello’ to her, and she’ll just float right by. She won’t even notice. Suddenly she’ll grab you, throw you in a corner with telekinesis and she’ll say ‘did you know that SPY is the first sound in SPIDER?’ I mean I’m not, I can’t, I’m a little mer. I’m a little mer and she’s a GREAT mer! I should’ve been a set of glossy legs skittering across floors of silent eggs…”

He glanced up a levitation shaft before losing his balance and falling onto an egg.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…It should’ve been me. This isn’t how the egg is supposed to crack, mer.

***

Therana, the Telvanni lord, was at once imposing and unassuming. Her chambers were simple, yet chaotic. A small fireplace consumed a pile of books while a naked Khajiit watched in silence.

Therana brushed her robes back with her hands, and then spoke before I could introduce myself.

“Did they say, Trerayna, why they want you to terminate my command?”

“I… beg your pardon,” I asked, attempting to not appear confused.

“Classified, is it? They didn’t tell you?”

“They told me you requested new clothes, and that your methods were… unpredictable.”

“Are my methods unpredictable?” She blinked in a way that seemed to make noise. Behind us, an egg casually rolled down the hall towards the levitation shaft. Moments later, the Bosmer began wailing again.

“I don’t see any methods at all, my Lady.”

“Are you an assassin? Are you here to feed the spiders?”

“I’m a mage and Telvanni Retainer, and I’m looking for answers.”

Therana grasped the wrapped clothing from my hands via telekinesis and flung them onto the ground by the Khajiit. His pupils widened.

“Answers? I have answers for you. Did I say answers? I meant eggs. Same thing really. Good girls can’t have spiders for pets, Therana. Good girls can’t answer questions with eggs, Therana. Thats what they said, and now they’re gone.”

I may appear unsound for not walking out of Tel Branora immediately. But what I was beginning to understand, and what I believe few others do, is that the occupants of this reality live and act according to unseen scripts. It was clear to me from the start that Lady Therana possessed no such script. This is why I did not walk out, and this is why I took the path I did from this point onward.

“I will not say these things, Lady Therana,” I said barely above a whisper. “I do want answers.”

“Good. Wait! You’re not that fool, Trerayna Dalen, are you? She’s waiting outside to kill me. I won’t go out there anyway, so it is no problem. My guard captain won’t stop talking about it though. He is a too-tall mer, like you. He’s covered in armor, but you’ll see him on account of him being too tall. Perhaps you can help him deal with his problem. Then perhaps we can talk as friends-who-are-spiders talk to their spider friends.”

I bowed my head slightly, and as I began to withdraw from the room, Therana called out to me once more.

“Have you seen my Cat? My Ra’Zahr?”

The Khajiit behind her unsuccessfully attempted to become invisible.

[spoonmagister]

A Shortcut to Mushrooms

“Ajira remembers all the good things you have done for her.” The Cat paused, awaiting acknowledgment that did not come. “As it turns out, Ajira has another problem.”

I was not unfamiliar with the Cat’s dilemma. I, too, was wracked with problems. A lack of memory. A lack of funds. A persistent feeling as though I was not in the correct reality. A nagging sensation that my actions and experiences were orchestrated. And, most recently, that my attempts to find answers and magical guidance at the Balmora Mages Guild had produced only errands.

“Ajira makes report of our findings. The flowers. The mushrooms. Valuable research. Ajira could not have done it without you.”

“Am I to believe you have never gone outside and seen a Stoneflower? Witnessed a Gold Hanet? Perceived a Bungler’s Bane? Is a report entirely necessary? Was one not already done?”

“Ajira does not perceive. Ajira requests. Ajira requests and you fulfill. This is how it must be. But be it cannot. Ajira’s reports on the flowers and mushrooms has gone missing. I know you will help Ajira with this. Climbing the ranks of the Mages Guild… normally very difficult. Ajira can help. Can give you shortcut. One day, mushrooms. Next day, greater things.”

Ajira could not have perceived the ways in which she was correct.

*****

I entered the Ald’ruhn Mages Guild with a dusty book and even dustier clothing. Although Edwinna Elbert appeared to have magical knowledge and interests beyond hobbyist naturalism and counter-pranking her peers, her obsession with a lost race of mer was of peculiar interest to me.

“Thank you. This is a rare Dwemer tome. None of the Mages Guild branches have a copy, and it is simply essential to my research. I hope you are always this efficient.”

She went on to explain that the Dwemer’s understanding and knowledge of the world appeared to be based on intentional misinterpretation. As I would later come to understand, most of what can be perceived in this realm is a lie. “Misinterpreting” such a realm is, in fact, a valuable skill.

But what gained my interest at that time, was her description of a tale in which the Dwemer created simulacrums to place on the surface and fool any who may perceive it. Edwinna’s research on the Dwemer and their simulacrums focused on steam-powered automatons. A thought occurred to me which has remained ever since.

What if the surface itself IS a simulacrum? How would you know? And what would it be hiding? How would you remove it?

“Say, I need a particular potion from an associate in Sadrith Mora. Are you up for a trip? Just make sure you stay away from those mushroom wizards. They’re too volatile and eccentric for me. Thats why I stick with soulless metal things.”

…Mushroom wizards?

*****

With surprisingly little effort, I had arranged a meeting with a member of the Telvanni Council in Sadrith Mora. The Telvanni masters themselves did not bother themselves with the mundane affairs, and so were instead personally represented by Mouths in the Council Hall.

I had heard that the Telvanni — living in their towering fungal abodes — were reclusive magic-users who did as they pleased. If one were looking to hone their magical abilities while investigating mysteries of a sensitive nature, one might be drawn, as I was, to House Telvanni. An environment which nurtured unregulated power with few questions asked, as it turns out, was exactly what I needed.

It was with this search for guidance and refuge in mind that I met with the Mouth of a powerful Telvanni lord who, as I would learn, could not have been selected more appropriately.

Felisa Ulessen, representing the Telvanni lord of Tel Branora, appeared slightly haggard and sleepless. Yet her eyes appeared to light up at the mere mention of receiving assistance. She shoved a pile of paperwork aside, and slid a package of wrapped parchment towards me.

“Yes, I think you’re just who I’ve been searching for. My Lady requires new clothes, and I require someone to deliver them. Tell me, do you have any aversions to eggs?”

[spoonmagister]

The Supposed Murder of the Supposed Ralen Hlaalo

8 Rain’s Hand

To Nileno Dorvayn, Hlaalu Council Manor — resident thief and Hlaalu representative,

I have received your correspondence thanking me for delivering justice in the matter of “Ralen Hlaalo’s” untimely demise. I write this to you under appreciable mental strain, as it has become clear to me that my warnings thus far have gone unheeded.

I will be blunt — the murder of Ralen Hlaalo has NOT been resolved, as Ralen Hlaalo is not a life-form of this realm TO be murdered. Ralen Hlaalo is a void entity not of this world or even this Reality. While it presents as a dunmer, this is only a facade. What lurks underneath is an infinite cavern which slowly and endlessly attracts and consumes matter as we know it. Do you not find it strange, that despite his apparent disappearance and various inquiries into his safety, that no attempt was ever made to enter Hlaalo Manor until my own, independent and unrelated investigation brought me there? It does not WANT to be found, but rather to continue its mysterious work unimpeded.

I have also attempted to communicate my concerns to Relen Hlaalu in the Ebonheart Grand Council Chamber. His casual disinterest in this being which appears to have been a poorly executed doppelganger of himself is suspicious, to say the least.

My own work will continue, but please do not delude yourself into thinking the danger has passed. Something terrible came to the walls and roof of that Manor, and something terrible — though I know not in what proportion — still remains.

SpoonMagister Terra,

CHIME Inquisitor

Tel Uvirith

*****

10 Second Seed

To Duke Vedam Dren, Great House Hlaalu Grandmaster

As you know, several disturbances have been reported in the Grand Council Chamber regarding the Telvanni Magister from Tel Uvirith.

Respectfully, are you absolutely certain it was wise to grant this spoon-addled ticking magickal time bomb a stronghold construction contract? I and my assistants have received countless unsolicited visits and letters from her with claims of varying insanity — that I am being copied by a void entity, that I am purposely attempting to clone myself in an attempt to mimic the Tel Fyr house of horrors, that I am contracting otherworldly beings to create a black hole with which to collect gold and treasures, and the list goes on.

It is known that the Magister has violated and modified the terms of the contract. Her stronghold has ceased to be a tower and is instead a small town. She staffs well over 10 retainers. The population continues to grow. She appears to be collecting and employing altmer from across the province for who-knows-what terrifying and embarrassing purpose. To make matters worse, the Tel Uvirith dungeon is reportedly filled to capacity.

It is, of course, left to your discretion. I urge you to consider what I’ve said.

Respectfully,

Relen Hlaalu, Hlaalu Representative to the Grand Council

Ebonheart

*****

1 Midyear

To Edd “Fast Eddie” Theman, Mouth for SpoonMagister Terra

Telvanni Council House — Sadrith Mora,

Once upon a time, there was an innocent dunmer noble who did not make any waves, but found himself capsized regardless. A bad person did a bad thing to him and no one knew why. The good people of the town had a good long think about it, but couldn’t understand what had happened or who had done it.

All of a sudden, a rogue element intervened. The murderer was caught, seemingly at random. It wasn’t clear whether his killer was exacting justice or just doing a bit of their own independent killing. The good officer who enforces the law did not care much one way or the other — the crime was solved, his prayer answered.

But the rogue element couldn’t leave well-enough alone. It kept chiming in with its own theories and opinions. It interfered with a crime scene. It magickally sealed off the Manor where the murder happened, preventing any from extracting and properly dealing with the corpse. The servant of the dunmer noble went missing. The good officer started to think that maybe the rogue element did not solve the crime, so much as it used it as a platform to do more creative and confusing crimes.

The good officer, willing to let bygones be bygones, only wished for the rogue element to cease its corrupt investigative techniques and vacate the premises. He made another special little prayer, as they had been successfully answered in the past. Maybe this one would be as well.

Larrius Varro, Legion Champion

Moonmoth Legion Fort

[spoonmagister]

A Perfect Ending — The Chaotic Nature of Doing or Not Doing Things

They were all dead. The final spell blast was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point. I released my hands from the magick. And then it was all over. To make any kind of sense of it, I need to go forward 3 days, to the day the story will have started. And also ended. Time, as I have come to know it, is convoluted.

Larrius Varro, the Legion Champion at Moonmoth Legion Fort, was telling me a little story. For a Legion simpleton, his speech was laden with cryptic language, heavy-handed as it was. It was a story of corruption. Of a bad magistrate (I am told this magistrate does not exist, and I harbor no surprise at this revelation). Of bad people — a scout, a pawnbroker, a savant, a thief, and a smith. Of the inability of the law to combat these forces. Of the possibility of my taking action, and also my taking no action. Of the prayer for a bloodbath. Of the open-ended nature of the story which could possibly become VERY closed.

I related to him that I was not interested in the futile designation of good versus evil in a false realm within which good and evil only serve as a distraction. Similarly, I had no interest in those, like Larrius Varro, who restrict their own actions within something as absurd as “Law” — this was merely an excuse for inaction.

“Maybe the story will have a perfect ending,” he said as I headed to the exit. “It isn’t over yet.” He was trying to buy more sand for his hourglass. I wasn’t selling any.

As I teleported back to Tel Uvirith, it occurred to me that Larrius Varro’s story may very well be over, his prayer answered. I dug through the recent documents and pamphlets I had piled onto the desk of Netheles Berom, my personal librarian. Beneath a collection of mysteriously acquired Writs of Execution, was a copy of a two-day-old edition of The Ebonheart Bellman — a periodical of note. After briefly confirming its contents, I had Netheles copy it and sent a messenger to personally deliver it to Varro. Attached to the periodical was a note, which read simply: “The bad people are all good people now. Possibly.”

FIVE DEAD FOLLOWING CARNAGE AND CONFUSION AT BALMORA COUNCIL CLUB A high-ranking Telvanni was arrested following a bloodbath at the Balmora Council Club. Witnesses say the conflict arose over the alleged theft of one (1) silver spoon. The Telvanni, an Altmer, was released shortly after her capture. Solea Nuccusius, Fort Moonmoth Legion Guard, could not be reached for comment. The Telvanni Altmer, due to potent and constant Illusion magicks, could not be reached or identified. The names of the victims, all dunmer, are as follows: Vadusa Sathryon — scout Marasa Aren — pawnbroker Madrale Thirith — thief Sovor Trandrel — savant Thanelen Velas — smith

[spoonmagister]

A Response to Concerned Citizens

It has come to my attention that word has been spreading about a Big Scrib, or some sort of Scrib Great One, wandering the wastes near our Uvirith’s Grave. You may have even heard rumors spreading in nearby Balmora (a den of Hlaalu lies) or Suran (a den of Hlaalu lies, Cat drugs, and mysterious gyrations).

I trust I do not need to convince you why the words of Hlaalu or moon sugar fiends cannot be trusted. There are whispers concerning my involvement with the disappearance of Crassius Curio, and these whispers need not be whispered, as Crassius Curio does indeed reside beneath Tel Uvirith at this moment in time. Regardless, the Hlaalu rats have not the fortitude to engage me in any way other than lies and sneakery. Moon sugar is an untidy, barbarous substance that, frankly, should only be used to placate your Cats as necessary.

The tremors you may notice are remnants of the recent deployment of the Scrib Vitamin Spell™, which was explosively effective and brought with it very lucrative — some may say “Other-Worldly” — opportunities. This should not be cause for concern. Quite the opposite. We remain at the forefront of Telvanni research and development, while my associates concern themselves only with politics and ridiculous Daedric toys.

If you have further inquiries, they should be made towards the Lord of your new residence, when you move there, after you leave Tel Uvirith and never come back. I hear the Manor of Ralen Hlaalo has still not been occupied.

NOTE: Donations to the families of Llerane Falndel and Favados Nedth, Telvanni guards whose minds were shattered by the incredible discoveries made that day, can be directed to Almossaren, my assistant. My thoughts and spoons go out to them (and then they return to me, as I need them both).

[spoonmagister]

Crassius Curio's Misinformed Assassin

[Excerpt of a play written in my spare time while investigating House Hlaalu]

[Act II, Scene I, Continued]

Locks-The-Door: Certainly not, inmate. I am here but to question you.

Trashius Ego: Is that all you have come here for, golden one? My answers?

Locks-The-Door: I have no idea what it is you imply, inmate. I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo CHIME.

Trashius Ego: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong Magicks and shapely Spoons.

Locks-The-Door: You are an embarrassment.

Trashius Ego: I fear it is not safe here.

Locks-The-Door: I must finish my investigation, inmate. We will have your head if you do not comply.

Trashius Ego: Investigation, eh? I have something for you. Here, inspect my spear.

Locks-The-Door: It is tiny and irrelevant to my needs.

Trashius Ego: I am running out of time, my sweet. I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIME!

[End of Act II, Scene I]

***

I have always attempted to keep my interactions with the other so-called Great Houses to a minimum. There are times in which my hand is forced, and it is one such time that brought Crassius Curio into the Tel Uvirith dungeon.

It came to my attention that, whether through error or misguidance, a Councilor of House Hlaalu had ordered my execution via some low-ranking Hlaalu pawn. The misbegotten assassin arrived at The Rusty Bucket tavern in Tel Uvirith some days prior, and began asking of a dunmer named Reynel Uvirith. This was not a known name to me and, despite a séance with the former Lord Uvirith, I was unable to uncover any information of this would-be killer’s target. The Hlaalu agent was briefly detained and questioned before being magickally ejected on a trajectory into the Sea of Ghosts.

Unwilling to overlook such an incursion into my realm, wracked with failure though it may have been, I retrieved a copy of the Hlaalu Yellow Book of 3E 426 from the library and sent agents to gather intelligence on the Hlaalu Councilors. (I fear there is no such intelligence to be found in House Hlaalu, but I digress).

Curio was a name I already recognized, having heard of his obsession with the so-called “arts.” I had the dungeon guards clear out Cell #1 and Recalled to Vivec to pay the Councilor a visit.

[spoonmagister]

A Glimpse Beyond Reality

The voice from beyond — the CHIME — had been subtly reminding me of the Grand Purpose for days. Having recovered from the bout of disease I had been exposed to at the Black Shalk Cornerclub, it was time to fulfill this purpose, though I knew the Cosmic Dealings I was about to facilitate would garner much suspicion and rumor-milling.

For this purpose I secured transportation of 400 scribs — the source of which was never clear to me, but was only made possible after intense studying of the Baar Dau rock, consultation of the Spoons, and hours of attempts at Making Contact with the Beyond through the use of angular arm gestures. I have little memory of the event, though it seems a transaction was made in which I paid 14 units of Time (and the passage thereof) and 10 Khajiit, whom residents of Uvirith’s Grave report seeing “lifted into the sky.” It has also been reported that several residents went mad following the events, and they have been placed into the Prison for the safety of all. The payment of Time, as I understood it, was to be collected at a later point.

Following the imbibing of copious amounts of Intelligence and Luck serum, a Scrib Vitamin spell capable of inoculating large swathes of scrib was developed. I brought two Telvanni guards down into the scrib pen to keep the townsfolk out — rumors were spreading regarding “dark occult” activity beneath the Tower — and proceeded to ready the spell.

As the magicks casually left my palm, I blinked, and the hallucination known as Reality paused. What began as a tiny spark amongst one scrib spread at an alarming rate to all 400 scribs and — I can only assume — the two guards as well. The spark gave way to a wave of blue light which then seemed to ignite, sending out a shower of what can only be described as a cloud of the Cosmos itself, a stellar nursery of stars made known directly over the scrib pen. Each star seemed to feed off the next, gaining intensity until only light seemed to exist.

And then it did not.

I blinked a second time and found darkness. The torches had been extinguished. I heard the inane babbling of voices somewhere in the distance, muffled by armored helmets. I would later discover, upon receipt of a bill for weekly imported goods to Tel Uvirith, that two weeks had passed. The sound of moving earth and boiling liquids rumbled from an unknown distance. And the CHIME!

The CHIME and its MESSAGE had tones both jubilant and ominous. I could not gather a meaning in my current state, but when I was able to return to the surface, I did with an innate impression that my glimpse into the Cosmos had not gone unnoticed.

Something had left a Mark.

[spoonmagister]

Behind the Scrib

The Tavern is a cornerstone of society. All adventures, mysteries, quests, jobs, observations, the passage of information, the meetings of heroes, the plotting of conspiracies, the purchase and subsequent consumption of bread and sujamma, the act of suddenly becoming silent when a Foreigner walks in… it all occurs here. This is just How It Is.

With this critical importance in mind, I found myself at the door of a tavern. This tavern, tucked away within the corner of the Foreign Canton in Vivec, is no secret to the locals, traders, and pilgrims who pass through those halls, yet it blatantly and plainly obfuscates its nature on its very doorstep.

A cursory glance at the scrib-emblazoned banner by the door revealed the name of Black Shalk Cornerclub. Even the casual entomologist or adventurer would understand that a Shalk is not a Scrib, and yet the sign to the establishment casually and confidently proclaims otherwise. This was not the first time I had seen an inn or tavern signified via a scrib banner, and it was a curious lie indeed.

The immediate atmosphere of the Cornerclub was one of a wretched hive, full of scum and villainy. It was absolutely crawling with spies, assassins, Fighter’s Guild enthusiasts, and coin-addled Hlaalu agents. A lizard by the bar watched newcomers as they entered, as though he were expecting someone specific, and upon seeing me did not appear to find what he sought.

I chose to sit — and I must stress that I sat down, rather than stand idly as folks here are keen to do — at a table close to the wall on the upper floor. I sat here for some time, pondering the nature of calling a Shalk a Scrib while levitating roasted ash yams and saltrice bread into my mouth.

It is always a scrib. Why IS it always a scrib?

At this time, two particularly ashy dunmer entered the tavern, visited the bar, and proceeded to shamble over to an adjacent table against the wall. Drinks in hand, they subtly nodded to each other and quietly exclaimed “The Sixth House is risen and lord Dagoth is its glory” before indulging. They did not sit down, of course, but continued standing rather distressingly close to two empty chairs.

The appearance of the average dunmer may already give one cause to be wary, but these two were notably horrid. They possessed eyes which seemed to singularly focus on a distant and invisible object, and their limbs and facial muscles were experiencing bursts of frequent and unnerving spasms. Hideous and gelatinous growths dotted their skin and bulged beneath their clothing. Appearing as if they were slowly being replaced by another material, I could only surmise this was the ultimate fate of those who remain in the Simulacrum for too long.

“It is unfortunate that you were chased out of that house so easily,” one of them said to the other.

“IT WAS A DECENT HOUSE. NOT MY FAVORITE HOUSE.”

“Our initiative is to spread awareness, not find temporary housing.”

Why is it always scribs? For what reason would the importance and prominence of the tavern be represented by the common, lowly, diminutive scrib? Does the scrib possess hidden qualities which would elevate its role in society? Is the scrib meant for more? IS the scrib MORE?

“I LIKE TO SURPRISE THEM WHEN THEY ARE BUSY. THEY DON’T SENSE MY APPROACH WHEN THEY ARE DISTRACTED BY THEIR ADVENTURER NONSENSE.”

“They might listen more enthusiastically if you approached with a bit more tact.”

“YOU CANNOT LET THEM GET A WORD IN OR THEY WILL QUIZ YOU ON ALL MANNER OF INANE AND UNRELATED MATTERS. RUMORS, MY TRADE, SOLSTHEIM…WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?”

Their words trailed off again, and in their place crept the reassuring yet alarmingly ever-present voice of the CHIME. Like a tinny static, it permeated the spaces in my thoughts and dug into my copious brain matter like the roots of Tel Uvirith, my new home, fortress, and thinking-space. Its MESSAGE was not wholly clear, but the Spoons already in my possession began to hone and tune it into words.

[Altmer… ~~~…HEED…~~~…a grand purpose…~~~…celestial emissary…~~~…~~~ PROTECT…~~~…~~~scrib…~~~…~~~…~~~prophecy disregard…~~~…~~~…COSMIC DEALINGS….~~~…~~~gesture]

Cosmic dealings? You want me to make contact again? With the gesture?

[…~~~…AFFIRM…~~~provide angles….~~~…]

It is well-known that Cosmic entities are strict adherents of angles. They do not even consider the notion of making Contact with beings who cannot demonstrate angles. But what unknowable and indescribable dealings was I going to make with such a being?

[Altmer…~~~…~~~…bring (10) Cats…~~~…(14) Time…~~~…(400) scribs GET…]

What am I going to do with 400 scribs?

“It was a shameful display. That a native would so quickly seek out the aid of an outlander just to remove a peaceful missionary.”

“A SHAMEFUL DISPLAY. THAT OUTLANDER ENTERED WITH NARY A KNOCK OR A SHOUT, YET I AM THE RUDE ONE?”

“Outlanders don’t knock. If they did, they would be turned away, and then we would not be in this predicament in the first place.”

“THE ONLY GOOD OUTLANDER IS AN OUTLANDER DENIED ENTRY.”

One of them, the more agitated and fanatical of the two, produced a pouch from his robes and removed from it a substance that looked strikingly similar to the growths which marked the two dunmer. He frantically searched the area, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for. He glanced to the adjacent table where I sat, for I had foolishly made eye contact.

“SAY, OUTLANDER, DO YOU HAVE A SPOON YOU ARE NOT USING?”

“I am using all of the spoons currently in my possession, all of the time,” I replied, unable to hide my disgust at the question.

The more diplomatic dunmer blinked at me as he seemed to mull over what I had said. “Ah, we understand, outlander.”

The Fanatic, clearly not understanding, began to shake.

“YOUR POSSESSION? TAKE WHAT YOU CAN, AND LEAVE OUR PLACE, FOR WHEN LORD DAGOTH COMES, THIS WILL BE NO PLACE FOR YOU.”

I could only silently agree that this was not the place for me, though I said nothing as my Sanctuary aura subtly deflected his aggression.

“IT IS TIME WE RETURNED HOME. TO THE HOUSE. THE TRUE HOUSE. THE SLEEPING HOUSE. HOUSE DAGOTH.”

“We are already at the House, brother. It is metaphorical in nature. I am sure you know this. Have you read the pamphlets?”

“WE ARE ONE AMONG THOUSANDS. WE MUST BRING THE MESSAGE.”

The cursed and decrepit dunmer simultaneously rose and began heading for the exit. Plumes of ash swirled and settled in their wake, and the table beside mine was completely coated in a fine layer of the gray sediment. On the table, and in a trail towards the door, were scattered bits of strange and hardened organic material. I would later notice that my skin developed a persistent itch which Divayth Fyr promptly addressed for me in exchange for my promise to stop stealing from him.

Of all the curiosities of the Reality Hallucination I had encountered thus far, the events within the Black Shalk were perhaps the most curious.

A day later, upon my arrival back to Tel Uvirith, I would deliver an important missive to my Mouth, Fast Eddie. It contained instructions to deliver the following message to Raril Giral, publican of the Black Shalk Cornerclub and pawn of the Reality Hallucination. It read as follows:

Black Shalk Cornerclub — 3/5 Spoons. Food was good. Service was okay. I got the Divine disease from one of the other patrons. Not very sanitary. Person at table next to me was a loud and dirty cultist. Misleading signage — no Scribs present. But there will be.

[spoonmagister]

Alternate Facts

“A sign? I don’t recall such a thing. I was born in a world hidden behind a steel door. I have vague memories of a monster, some kind of a frozen bird? I wasn’t feeling like myself. Then I woke up on a boat. No, perhaps I was in a prison? I had a guest, he told me to make it so. He didn’t make it. Or was I taking a nap in a wagon? Just a relaxing trip through the countryside? Whichever it was, there was an Empire involved. There might be more than one. This Empire doesn’t have any gears or steam. Have you seen any thieves? I think I was with some kind of a thief. Do you know how valuable limeware is?”

I abruptly ran out of thoughts, and then words. The bearded man in front of me squinted in thought, or perhaps confusion.

“…Interesting. Now before I stamp these papers, make sure this information is correct.” He placed a document onto the table beside me with a series of supposedly defining details of myself. A quill beside the document seemed to claim the power to confirm reality, but I was not so sure.

Terra — the last name seems to be omitted. Altmer. Mage. Atronach — is this the monster? …No personality? No memory — possible magical tampering.

I glanced up at the man. “How should I know?”

He did not seem to notice my question, and stamped the document in a fluid motion. “Well, maybe a new start is just what you need. Show your papers to the Captain when you get your release fee.”

Release? Captive? Again? Have I been here before? Where even AM I? Why does it all feel incorrect?

The Captain proceeded to instruct me to deliver a package in the name of the Emperor. I was no longer listening. I exited the Census and Excise Office and deposited the package into an open barrel in the grassy courtyard area. I barely even noticed myself picking up the stray ring that lay at the bottom of the barrel. It felt natural to do so, but I could offer no explanation as to why.

I would eventually decide to travel to the nearby town of Balmora. Having heard talk of a Mage’s Guild while perusing the local Tradehouse, it seemed as good a place as any to search for answers.

Why is this mer getting so close to me?

“Are you the one that boat dropped off? Odd to see a boat arrive at that time of the day. Don’t bother trying to rob me. The Imperials have taken everything away.”

At the time, neither I nor the diminutive mer in front of me knew just how odd my arrival was, or how much had actually been taken away.

[spoonmagister]

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.

[spoonmagister]

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.”

[spoonmagister]

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.

[spoonmagister]

The Source Spoons, or: How to Stop Thinking and Heed the CHIME

When I found the Source Spoons, reality and the knowledge therein became irrelevant. But what does this mean? And how? And why? I will dispense this information to you now, as it is pointless to waste too much time on the mundane activities of ‘reading’ and ‘comprehension.’ You will not need these things for long.

PART I — HOW did Spoon?

My stronghold reached its final stage on 16 Suns Dusk. The progression of the roots was a particularly violent one, being spurned on by the souls of Storm Atronachs, their power coursing through the crystals which you may know to be produced alongside a Telvanni tower. I had no patience for a slow tower, and the foreman (a green beast-like Cat by the name of Gashnakh gra-Mughol, though she responds to any series of guttural noises) complained often of me demanding daily progress reports. She remains employed — begrudgingly so.

Upon completion of my tower — herein referred to as Tel Uvirith (a name inherited from a previous owner who is quite literally not worth our time but rest assured caused me much trouble), the Telvanni Councilors saw fit to gift me a Silver Staff of Peace, a Weird Telvanni Helmet, some commemorative bowls, and — most importantly — a set of 5 pristine, silver spoons.

My initial response, of course, was to order their removal — perhaps re-gifting them to Salmeama, the cute Altmer whom I had hired to cook and also to oversee the various Cats living in Tel Uvirith. I ordered my assistant Gavyn (again, not worth our time) to box up the spoons and remove them from my sight when a thunderous boom erupted from the bowels of the Tower.

I have since learned that the Tower crystals are wont to discharge their energy at random intervals as they become accustomed to their surroundings. As I came across Gavyn, rather pathetically dispatched into the corner of the Vault, I found the box of 5 spoons on the floor in the center of the room. As I approached, a wave of sound — at once both a chime as well as a wail, pierced the Weird Helmet (I had worn it to demoralize the Cats, as they seemed to be distressed by its presence) and subsequently ricocheted around the interior, piercing my own brain multiple times in the process.

This was the last time I knew silence.

Part II — WHAT did Spoon?

I awoke to the Cosmos. For an inordinate amount of time, I did not reside on Nirn. And what I heard were billions of voices crying out in unison (something about requests to escort, fetching plants, finding lost pants…who can say what madness exists beyond our mortal plane). But when they at last ceased, I was left with something much more pure, both sinister and reassuring, terrifying and calming, light and dark, calm and chaotic.

THE CHIME.

As the concussion of energy hit the Spoons, it set in motion a vibration which has not ceased since. The Spoons, emitting a CHIME which was then threaded through my brain by means of which I have not yet come to understand. But the links which bind the CHIME to me are rooted in something not of this plane. These links carry the vibration from their source to me — and with it — the MESSAGE.

The MESSAGE is funneled into the Source Spoons, whose perfect forms collect, cradle, and amplify it, redirecting it into the Listener. The average person hears nothing, or at most, a singular clang. Disgusting and pointless in nature, it is dismissed as mere sound. But to one who is rooted and threaded to the Source, in the same way that Tel Uvirith is rooted to Nirn, the CHIME is transmitted.

The CHIME at first met resistance from the Weird Telvanni Helmet. Its velocity and power reduced, it now remains inside my head, unable to escape and permanently ricocheting within my brain matter. But it is quiet, weak. It requires the Spoons to be heard more clearly. I have carried the Source Spoons with me since that day — the day which I became the receiver of the CHIME. I should perhaps feel blessed, for if not for the helmet, the CHIME may have passed harmlessly through my powerful, impressive brain.

But for what purpose?

Part III — WHY did Spoon?

The reader with a less impressive brain may wonder of the nature of the MESSAGE. It was not discussed previously, and so will be now.

The MESSAGE is channeled, through the Great Beyond of the Cosmos (and beyond) in order to reach my brain and the CHIME therein. But the MESSAGE is not a singular point — it does not have an objective. Rather it is a state of being. It is a set of instructions, a code of conduct, a way of life (it is NOT a phase). A series of coordinates from now and continuing onward. To deviate from the MESSAGE is to ignore the whole, to admit futility in all things.

But the message is disjointed. Broken. To shreds, it is said. As Crab Meat & Scuttle cannot be made without the unfortunate meat of a mudcrab, and as the successful harvest cannot be made without the misery and suffering of Cats, so too can the MESSAGE not be made whole with only five Spoons. The Five Spoons are the Source but not the whole. They are merely the model of the greater structure — of a large web, collecting and funneling the words and secrets of the cosmos directly into my brain.

A Spoon of silver desires to sing. But through some great unknown catastrophe, the Spoons were scattered — the song broken, the message lost (to shreds, it is said). Anyone seeking to clearly hear the CHIME and receive the MESSAGE must assemble more Spoons. This becomes abundantly clear to all except the most dense of Cats.

If it has NOT become abundantly clear to you — I will now succinctly summarize what it means to receive and heed the CHIME (to be a Chimer, a term I have just coined) in the form of a set of rules — easily digestible for a weak and mild brain.

Part IV — Rules for Mer Who Can’t Heed the CHIME Good and Wanna Learn to Ignore Other Stuff Good Too

1) Seize Spoons of silver at ANY cost — Each spoon strengthens the CHIME, decodes the MESSAGE, and impresses your CRUSH

2) Recognize the hallucinatory nature of Reality — None of this is real, and it is all irrelevant. The CHIME highlights the necessary while drowning out the chaff.

3) Receive the MESSAGE with equanimity — it is not your place to question, judge, rearrange, rank, taste, compliment, acknowledge, or lust after what has been CHIME’d.

4) IGNORE the Spoons of Wood — they DO NOT matter, are disgusting and spread disease. Wooden Spoons are for fetchers and Nords (Cats of the North).

5) Purge Reality of the Fork whenever possible — the pointy tines puncture but do not retain. They hold no energy and thus should not hold your attention OR a place on this plane.

6) Maintain the Mind — the CHIME of the Spoon digs into the mind just as the Telvanni roots dig into Nirn. Maintain the purity of this soil by IGNORING the pollutants of Mundane Knowledge. Names, Dates, Places — these things do not matter.

The chiming of the Spoon ends here.

Terra — Spoon Magister of Tel Uvirith; Spoon Maiden; Speaker for the Dead; Inventor of the Scrib Vitamin; Developer of the Cerebral Bore; Knower of Cats; Brewer of Backwoods Moonshine Potions; And Many Additional Titles