#yes even Colovian generals

[sbeep]

Colvus, a farmer

[dwellerinroots]

Musings on a Prince of Dreams

Since I am now mercifully unburdened by obligations, but way too tired to do anything - plotted, for lack of a better word, I thought I'd finally get around to writing a bit about Daedra, Dreams, and meaning. CW; dark themes, nothing in particular, but 'generally dark.' And remember, we shall not abandon the dream...

I. A brief overview of Daedra and their role; Daedra are often crudely interpreted as 'bad gods.' Part of this is through authorial intent, but a great portion is through reader intent, and reader interpretation. I want to state of course that the latter is entirely valid, it's one of the reasons we're all here, but authorial intent matters as do the tools given to us to interpret. From a modern perspective, the Daedra offer very little. No matter how much power and how good the terms are, it often seems a difficult proposition to approach the Daedra for a bargain, even if you are fundamentally amoral. The cost for entry is high; you will be asked to do something that is either abhorrent, or difficult, and often both. In return, you get - something, perhaps powerful, but in a setting where it is possible for a farmer to trip over tools of great power; perhaps beyond their understanding, yes, but still present. So, why not turn to active gods who are actively good or at least benign, instead? Understanding this means understanding Tamrielic theology. That would be a post several novels in the making, and one I do feel qualified to write, but over time. What we can boil it down to here is this: * Daedra offer extraordinary power for those who take the greatest devotionals, but offer subtler gifts to those of more common bent and desire. * We rarely see these common gifts, but they are described and implied in every game the Daedra are present in. * In-universe, the Daedra are not universally viewed as 'bad gods' or even demons. It is important to remember that the structured pantheism of most Nedic religions, the ancestor cults + gods that are found among some Mer and Beasts, and the very funky Hist are entirely apart from how we understand religion, not just in our present, but in our past. * Though comparisons can be made, suffice to say that it is unlikely that pocket dimensional entities will offer you a cool stick that zorches your enemies into pecan pie right now. If they do, you probably voted for Ted Peterson in the sexyman contest, and it's a proper reward for devotion granted. * Even in areas where Daedric worship - any/all - is soundly rejected, there are regions that, either philosophically or openly, do not denounce them entirely. In Cyrodiil itself, traditionalist Colovian and Niben Valley philosophers will come to very different conclusions on what should or should not be worshipped - or propitiated - and that is right in the Empire. Now know that people like this are scattered everywhere, and so even where Daedric worship is stamped out, it is only done so on a very surface level.

So why do people worship Daedra if they aren't interested in a skull that is arguably one of the most useless artifacts of the game? Daedra grant relief from life. II. Daedra and their teachings; People see Molag Bal, look at his* divine profile, and immediately retreat. People see Mehrunes Dagon, see through his clear bluster, and immediately retreat. You can repeat this for almost all the Daedra without exception, but to a lesser extent to the more 'harmless' ones. But there is no harmlessness in life. Molag Bal's cruelties may effect a fraction of Dagon's chaos; does that make the one worse then the other? If Namira sends a pestilence that kills all of their followers, but many innocents as well, who is 'good' here? Who is 'least vile?' (If you immediately went 'Clavicus,' you can pause here for a brief chuckle. You've earned it.) What the Daedra offer is relief. And you might roll your eyes and think that few would be tempted to petty cruelty to scratch an itch on existence, but think about how many people use words like kill with - obviously hyperbolic intent. Hyperbolic. They'd never. But let's pretend that they really wouldn't; the Daedra are not monoliths. They are Princes, whose demesnes are vast, as the names of the gods have epithets. Namira's domain of pestilence and decay also feeds into rebirth. Canny farmers might look to their gods or ancestors for good harvests, but observe the worms in their gardens, and know. Sanguine's hedonism leads to decadence, sloth, pride, and loss; there are always dark undersides to his revelries. But those who endure them become more disciplined, more aware of the self, and more worldly in turn. The blood-hunts of Hircine are violent and primal; but that is life, a constant struggle for existence where vitality and skill are rarely enough to make it another day. Hircine teaches honour and a degree of understanding, not just of the natural world - but of the shunned, and those that cannot make it. At the end of the hunt, it is their blood that stains the spear; and that is of value, too. None of these are 'good' nor are they 'easy,' but they happen. In a world where gods and spirits, mages and planar powers regularly interact with the world, accepting them is almost as important as our own. So, what then of Vaermina? III. VAERMINA Widely considered to be one of the most undesirable Princes for a follower, Vaermina has almost-total control over the realm of Dreams. This demesne is unfathomably wide; all creatures, perhaps, dream. And even if you view that only 'sentient' souls dream, craving a dividing line between things that think and things to eat, how many souls does that remain? Countless. Countless souls who feed into the power of the Prince, herself. Yet Vaermina often comes across as simultaneously impetuous and shortsighted, authoritarian - even for a Daedra - and almost weak-willed, which seems peculiar. Surely, with such a wide net to draw from, she should be considered one of the most powerful and terrible of the Daedra, and treated accordingly..? We must backtrack, for a moment. Daedra are not wholly evil, nor or are they particularly acknowledged by the known gods. If it were a contest, any of the Aedra could probably one-versus-one them; but the Daedra to the Aedra are as we are to the Daedra.

Unworthy of notice.

Each, despite having unfathomable power to us, is limited by how cunningly they can interpret their domain, and the rules within. This is dangerous; Sheogorath famously 'cursed' himself and Jyggalag, or perhaps the inverse. It hardly matters; if Jyggalag truly saw and understood the situation, I think you will find that relevant as we discuss Vaermina.

'Safe' Princes attempt to hew to their boxes of sky, or merge them into our known material world. Both of these are less risky then expanding too quickly, and being struck down by powerful gods - or Men, or Mer, or Beasts - for there are heroes who might challenge even Daedra and win. (Also, the Argonians. Dagon, you absolute clown. Get fucked throughout all kalpas.)**

'Aggressive' Princes dream of how they might use their powers to greatest advantage.

But Vaermina rarely dreams; they are for others. Her actions see her most often acting like a petty-tyrant. I don't think I need to detail her quests, here.

And yet...

People continue to seek her out. Why?

Life is hard; life is often terrible. There are countless people who might dream of horrible tortures, alien skies, cruel and unknowable creatures and think -

ah this gentleness is a relief

and i would stay here, forever, if i might.

Is it so strange to think that - if your dreams are demon-haunted realms, but they are a momentary reprise from things you do not, cannot bear - That even the faces of imagined tormentors might one day be thought of as friends..? The gentleness of nightgaunts is not something everyone would understand. Vaermina does not need this; after all, she has a near-monopoly on dreams - though that is not enough, of course. For there is one last thing to mention. This is entirely my personal thought, and though I'd strongly defend the above as - at the very least - canon-adjacent, this next bit is guesswork. A dream, if you will. IV. the death of dreams Dreams have special significance in Elder Scrolls. All of the world is a dream, or perhaps the dream that is all of the world. The edges of the world are a dream, and when you forget what they look like, you forget what you look like in turn. Some think that the Dwemer understood the dream, and were destroyed by it; or destroyed themselves. What matters is that Vaermina, as master of all dreams, must surely be aware that no matter how great and powerful she is, it is in fact just another dream inside a dream. What is the most infuriating thing you could imagine? How would it feel to be aware that reality is fake, lack the words to articulate, lack the creativity to depict it in anyway, and be bound to holding up the corners of the illusion, forever? Might you grow cruel, and vicious, especially to those followers who worshipped the fake reality, their idealised and painful dream, over the dreams you might even wish to grant them..? This maze of dreams goes incredibly far; farther than I could do credit. Blessed as I am by the Prince, I notice these things. How could I not? After all, when you first start a certain journey, born under a certain star, one of the first things you hear, is... As all Princes can be aspects of - if not good things, things that inspire growth - I think it is worth taking a look at just how fittingly ironic the shackles that hold the Daedra back are; self-inflicted flaws in their plans or schemes, or perhaps Vaermina being stuck in a quagmire she cannot quite escape from. Her frustrations leading to her relying on the quick fix of nightmares, of terror without purpose, ends up closing the door on followers who seek anything BUT nightmares, even if just as a balm. These are the least likely to understand her own frustrations and limits, leading to further frustrations - a fittingly Sisyphean punishment, one ensuring that the end of the dream will ever be out of reach. But to those few whose affections reach her, Vaermina can be generous, even kind - and perhaps even the cruel and mercurial Prince wishes, at times, that she might grant sweet dreams - or even just the peace of a night without thought, adrift in a starless sea. * Obviously, Daedra are sex/gender agnostic. I use the pronouns they are most known by; but they're Daedra. ** I just love the canonical lore of the Hist being like 'hey little lizard buddies/pollinators/friends/serfs (interpretation may vary), could you go fuck the ever-loving shit out of the weak planar parasite bothering me i'll give you buffs owo' and then it does. I'm not saying the Hist is the best true divine/intercosmic entity, but......... *** Here's the punchline. I have a diagnosed sleeping disorder, it's quite manageable, but my eyes are dark portals into the void and my (likely former) roomie pointed out I was clearly in with Vaermina. So that's it. That's why I'm here to talk to you about Our Prince of Nightmares.

[kob131]

thoughts on this vid https://www . youtube . com/watch?v=0hKlqrSCk_Y

That these guys probably didn't look very deeply into Elder Scrolls lore and history.

"The Thalmor, and the High Elves in general, abadoning the worship of Talos-"

The High Elves never worshipped Talos in the first place. Why the fuck would they worship the guy who forcibly took over their country and humiliated them? Even ignoring that- The High Elves and the Thalmor are not the same. The High Elves do believe in racial supremacy (spoiler: ALL Tameril races believe their race is superior) but the Thalmor push that to it's most extreme element, believing creation to be a prison for the elves and that humans maintain the prison thus they must genocide all the 'impures' to escape Nirn and ascend to Aethurius. It should also be noted that the 'Thalmor' existed before the Fourth Era and were at least capable of mutually beneficial actions even as they were utterly selfish.

The 4th Era Thalmor are Elder Scrolls Nazis.

"Talos is Uriel Septim who ascended to Godhood through his heroic deeds-"

Ha!

A. I know they acknowledge but- Talos was TIBER septim, a name that gets repeated very fucking often in Skyrim AND Oblivion so it should just be second nature to refer to Talos as such.

And B. There is no clear consensus on exactly how Tiber Septim ascended. Yes, the Imperial and Nord myths say he ascended through his noble deeds but those two tend to glorify Tiber Septim a lot. Tiber Septim also had a tendency to backstab and betray people, of particular note he betrayed Wulfharth and Soul Trapped him to power the Numidium. This was a serious dick move on his part as Wulfharth was nothing but a noble warrior king among the Nords and Tiber Septim basically stabbed him in the back for power.

A theory as to how Tiber actually ascended was that during the whole Numidium incident the soul gem containing Wulfharth and another's soul, Zurin Artcus, basically broke open through their sheer rage at Tiber and the incident mushed all three souls together. This is important because it's believed that Wulfharth was something known as a Shezzarine, an avatar of Lorkhan/Shezzar/Shor born to basically fuck over the elves. This also applies to Tiber Septim as well so his ascension was less 'ascending as a pinnacle of man' and more 'the fragments of Lorkhan reconfigured into a new god that became Talos'. Now why am I bringing up a theory?

The Elder Scrolls' lore is intentionally vague and muddied. You can never know what actually happened because it's immeasurably weird and warped. So trying to say this is the definitive version of Talos' ascension is stupid. Yes, Talos is a god. That's all that's confirmed.

"The emperors have divine power like how they are Dragonborn-"

Yeah, the emperors were Dragonborn. Emphasis on were.

The guy quoting the Knights of the Nine DLC and says he's immersed in Elder Scrolls lore is somehow forgetting that the line of emperors sitting on the throne now AREN'T descended from Tiber Septim at all. They're descended from a Colovian warlord named Titus Mede I. So no- divine right is not an argument for the Empire. The fucking Last Dragonborn has more divine right to the throne.

"Well, the Stormcloaks are giving the Thalmor what they want by weakening the Empire-"

That's a misreading of Skyrim's story. What actually happened is when inflitrating the Thalmor Embassy, you can find dossier on Ulfric calling him a 'Thalmor asset' and that they want the Civil War to keep going to weaken both sides so the Thalmor can roll in after they rebuild their forces. Note that I said 'keep going' because the dossier explicitly says "A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed" and Ulfric is an 'uncooperative asset'.

Winning the Civil War either way fucks over the Thalmor.

"Turning on your fellow man after a war is rather cowardly-"

The Nords did not turn away from the Empire because of opportunism or cowardice- they turned away because they bent the knee to the Thalmor. Ignoring this does not strengthen your argument.

"The best bet is to have all of the men against all of the Elves-"

I would like to take this time to point out that in all of ES history, the Summerset Isles were only ever conquered once. By Tiber Septim using the Numidium, a Dwemer weapon, given by the Dunmer.

Man did not win that fight alone.

"National Sovereignty is less important than worshipping a proven God."

And this is why I say these people didn't look very deeply into the history.

The Empire signed the White Gold Concordat, which banned the worship of the god he's talking about, for their Sovereignty. The Nords' entire reason for rebelling, by his own admission, is that they cannot worship the god they know is real just to support the Empire.

If he actually understood the conflict, he would not be defending the Empire using the argument AGAINST the Empire.

"The Old Ways are the Right Ways-"

The reason why the Forsworn are not treated as a valid faction is because their entire culture is based on human sacrifice and Daedra worship. Like, at best the worship Hiricine, a somewhat neutral Daedra. At worst, given his shrine is located in Markarth- they may worship MOLAG BAL.

"Your player character is basically a god, the direct descentdant of Tiber Septim and an unkillable warrior god Jesus-"

No, no, no, NO.

The Last Dragonborn has no relation to Tiber Septim. They are the child of AKATOSH, the chief Divine of the Nine and Dragonborns are not invincible. They are exceptionally powerful but they have been historically beaten by ordinary men. Miraak got his ass handed to him by Valhok.

WHat's next?

"Ulfric racist.

Ambarys is an Imperial spy and Ulfric is right to distrust outsiders-"

I'm out.

[druidx]

Broken Promises (pt3)

Context: Modryn Oryen (or 'Figher's Guild dad', as I think of him) needs more love. Set way after the game has been “completed”, and the HoK runs nearly every corner of Cyrodiil. Inspired by a bunch of Whump prompts that I didn’t save and now can’t find :( For more context, see my whine about this fic.

Warnings: Torture, slavery mentions, grief, self-hate, moderate swearing (cannon curses; no f-bombs), disassociation, general fantasy violence

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5

The sun was setting over the Colovian Highlands, as I approached Broken Promises Cave on foot. Burz had sent some of our best scouts to find the place, discovering it not far from Chorrol. They'd reported that there was a camp just outside the cave, so I'd left all my gear at Battlehorn Castle, and told Shadowmere to go back to Fort Farragut. The last honey-gold rays were sinking behind the Highlands as I walked carefully forward, stomping on anything that looked like it might make noise. I was clad in the Spellturn robes and Bladeturn Hood, a set of rich-looking red and gold robes designed to disarm my would-be captors, while still protecting me. Nestled in the small of my back, hidden in the folds of the robe, was the Blade of Woe. I was trying my hardest to look like some rich fop who didn't deserve their reputation. Small and weak. The more they underestimated me, the better for the plan to work. I walked forward, trying my hardest to make noise, and not sneak. After years of training, a habit like that is hard to break. I thought back to my last meeting, after Burz's scouts had found this place. He hadn't been on board with the plan. Even Maelona had thought I was crazy. It was hard to dismiss their criticisms – this was a bad plan. Burz had wanted to charge in with a group, take Modryn by force and leave the way we'd come. I'd argued my way was better because we had no idea what was waiting on the inside. I didn't want them to hear us coming and kill the grumpy Dunmer before we'd gotten to him. I thought if I could convince them I was alone and unarmed, they'd let Modryn go. Burz was waiting with a team to collect him. Then I'd wreak havoc and leave their heads on spikes on my way out. If I made it, then great. If not, Maelona had my Will, and Modryn was Guildhead. Modryn would be angry at me, sure, but I'd be too dead to hear him.

"Who's there?" I heard a rough Nord voice call out. I took a few breaths before I replied, quelling the urge to slink back into the shadows and put the Blade in his back. "I'm the Fighter's Guildmaster," I called, walking up to the camp, my hands raised. "I heard you were looking for me. Seems you found a friend of mine, and I'm here to collect him." "Yeah, well. We'll see about that, won't we?" The blond approached me, his blade out. Behind him, a Bosmer sniggered. "Doesn't look like much," the Bosmer commented. "You sure you're the one who defeated Mehrunes Dagon?" "Yes." Gods, but I still hated it when people brought that up. Even after the catharsis of the Dark Brotherhood's missions. I took a breath. "I've come for Modryn Oreyn. You can see I'm alone and unarmed. I'd very much appreciate it if you could bring him out for me." "Yeah, that ain't happening just yet," the Nord said. "You'll come in with us first. Otherwise, how do we know your fighter buddies ain't just hanging around the corner there?" "Alright," I agreed, "That's fair." "Elandril," the Nord said, "you stay out here. I'll take the Guildmaster to see the Boss." He turned to me, the tattoos on his face looking like dark wells in the lowering light. "And you, get to walking." He gestured with his sword that I was to go first. I gave him a curt nod, walking into the cave.

I saw the pressure switch a mile off, even given the low light and guttering torches creating moving shadows. The Nord made me walk ahead, which was just as well for me. I stepped to one side, deliberately catching the edge of the plate as he fumbled to light a torch. A chain rattled past me as I pushed back into the cold rock wall. The Nord gave a surprised grunt. In the fallen torchlight I saw the Nord on his back, rivulets of fluid flowing down the tunnel as the spiked log swung back past me. Normally I would feel a twinge of remorse, looking at his broken body. But these people had stolen someone dear to me. They brought this catastrophe down on themselves. I turned away, resuming my walk down the tunnel.

The tunnel opened out into a sunken cavern, where three more goons awaited me. Two of them sat on rough stools around a campfire, while another lay on a bedroll against the wall. I stopped in the doorway. They didn't look like an elite fighting squad – morals or no – just a regular group of bandits. Their equipment was nothing to write home about, and I saw none of the Blackwood Company's custom cuirasses. They also hadn't noticed me, at all. Once again, I fought down the urge to saunter over and introduce the sharp edge of the Blade of Woe to their soft jugulars. It would have been easy, sure, but I wanted to make sure they had a compelling reason to let Oryen out of here in one piece once they had me. Murdering my way inside wasn't going to help that. The Nord had been an accident. I walked to the edge of the dip and kicked a stone over the edge. It rattled down, causing the two at the fire to jump up. Weapons were drawn, the Dunmer woman training an arrow on me as her Redguard mate slowly approached. "Excuse me? Yes, hi," I said, "I'm looking for Modryn Oryen. I got a note telling me he was down here." "How did you get in here?" the Dunmer archer asked. "Your Nord friend was kind enough to bring me in." "Yeah, and where is he?" "Seems he forgot about that little mace trap," I told her. She swore at me in the Dunmer tongue but quieted when her companion waved at her to hush. "You're the Champion of Cyrodill?" the Redguard asked. "Yep, that's me." He seemed to do a double-take. "Right, sure," he said, and glanced over his shoulder, addressing the Dunmer woman. "Tabelle, wake up Fa'nir. Send him to tell the Boss our prize has arrived." He turned back to me. "Alright then, Champion," he sneered at the title, "why don't you come down here nice and slow, and we'll take you to see the boss." I gave him a tight smile, walking slowly down the incline. The Dunmer woman, Tabelle kicked the sleeping Khajiit, never taking her eyes – or her arrow – off me. "Hey, pussy-cat. Wake up. Go tell the Boss we got company," she said. The Khajiit hissed. "Tell him yourself-" he began. "Fa'nir," the Redguard snapped over his shoulder, "go do it now." "Pah," Fa'nir spat, "this one is a warrior, not messenger boy. This one is a mighty hunter, above you petty prey." He continued to grumble, his tail lashing side-to-side even as he climbed out of the dip and vanished into another tunnel. "I should just put an arrow in this n'wah," Tabelle said, venom in her eyes. "Save us all some time." "No," the Redguard said. "this n'wah has crimes to answer for." He walked around behind me, placing his blade tip between my shoulder blades. "Get moving, cur," he said, jabbing me. I nodded and began to follow after the Khajiit.

We walked through yet another tunnel, coming into another cave. I took the view in with a sweeping glance. A crevasse stretched through the middle of the cave. On the near side, standing at the head of a bridge over the crevasse, was a Breton woman, decked out in a Blackwood Company cuirass. On the far side was a mining crane, the jib swung out over the crevasse. From it hung a slate-grey form. Fear welled in the back of my throat, bitter and bilious. The Redguard prodded me forward and I complied, as the orange Khajiit stepped up next to the boom, his claws teasing at the rope holding Modryn aloft. "Hi," I said, as the Redguard pulled me to a stop a half-dozen feet away from the Breton. "So," said the woman, "you're the hero of Kvatch?" Her lips turned up in a sneer as she looked me up and down. "Yep, that would be me," I said. I glanced over to Oryen. He hadn't stirred at all. "You mind if I check my man's still alive?" I asked. "Wouldn't want to give myself up for a corpse, you know?" "By all means," the Blackwood woman said, giving me an allowing gesture. "Hey," I yelled. "Bearclaw. You still with me, you rotten fetcher?" "Master?" Was his surprised response. I saw his head lift, too far to make out any other detail. I waved to him, and I can only assume he glared. "You stupid, ancestor-less s'wit!" he yelled out, his voice strained and breaking. "By the Nine, I will thrash you for having come here! You imbecilic gutter trash-" Fa'nir shook the jib and Modryn cut himself off. I turned back to the Blackwood woman. "Yeah, okay," I said. "He's fine." I held my hands up. "You can see I've come here alone and unarmed. I've told no one of my whereabouts. So how about we keep this civil? Me for him, like the note said. You've got me, you don't need him anymore. Let my man walk out of here under his own steam and I will happily stay here in his place." The slow, poisonous grin should have clued me in, but I was somehow still surprised by her words. "Was that the deal?" she asked. "I don't recall saying anything about letting either of you go. Although, if you're so sure you don't need him..." She waved a hand, and the Khajiit plucked at the rope holding Modryn aloft with his claws. Panic spiked through me. "Wait!" I yelled, lurching forward. The Redguard grabbed the back of my robes, yanking me back. Tabelle aimed an arrow at me. "Just say the word, muthsera," she hissed. "And I will drop this n'wah in a heartbeat." The Breton held a hand up. "No, this murderous cretin is to remain alive for the time being." "Let him go," I growled. "You have me. I demand you allow him to leave-!" "You demand?" The Breton laughed at me. "You are in no position to demand anything." I could feel the situation slipping quickly away from me. I reached back, as the Breton continued her tirade, my fingers closing around the hilt of the black dagger. "No," she said, her eyes alive with hatred, "I think I will keep both of you. Bleed you in front of each other, so you can share my pain-" I took my moment then, yanking out the Blade of Woe and twisting to plunge it deep into the redguard's neck. He backed away with a cry, and I crouched, following up with a fireball to his face as an arrow went whistling overhead. The Dunmer archer would keep taking potshots, but I trusted the robe's enchantments to protect against them. Instead, I spun and ran at the Breton woman. She ducked to the side, slashing at my back as I passed. I felt the sting as the robe and my skin parted under the blade, heard her cry out as some of the damage was returned to her, kept running over the rickety bridge towards the far side. The Khajiit was waiting for me, a sword in his hand, as I reached the other end of the bridge. I sent a frost bolt his way, forcing him to duck aside and let me pass by. I turned, dancing backwards as he thrust his sword at me, then dove in to press a wounding spell to his chest. He howled as cuts opened up around my palm-print, and I grinned, feeling the life transference close up the wound on my back. Two arrows hit me as I danced backwards again. I yanked them out and the Khajiit's life-force closed the wounds. "Fetcher!" I heard the Dunmer archer curse at me. "Why won't you die!" I turned, sprinting over to the mining crane. Modryn was cursing at me in the Dunmer tongue, as I heaved at the lever, the gears grinding and sticking. He was almost around, I could almost pull him over, when his eyes went wide. "Behind you," he yelled, a fraction too late. I felt something hit me in the shoulder. I faintly remember screaming, as whatever it was cut through sinew and bone, to bury itself deep in the wooden boom, pinning me there. The pain made my vision white out, just for a moment, then the adrenaline surged and I heard Mordryn yelling my name. I turned my head to find an elven bade curving from my shoulder. I reached back, fingers grasping uselessly as I failed to find purchase on the blasted thing. Modryn was calling my name again. I looked up at him, distantly noting how battered he was. "Heal me," he said. I whimpered, and reached out, channelling a healing spell through the faint touch. It wasn't as much as I'd like, but he was prettier at least. Footsteps and a mocking laugh sounded behind me. I craned my head the other way to see the Breton woman approaching us slowly. I grappled again desperately with her sword. Blood-slicked fingers slipped from the blade again and again, as I started to panic. "Now, now, my pet," she crooned. She was close enough that I could feel her heat on my back. She reached around and stroked my cheek. "I think that's quite enough playtime, don't you." I took a breath, lowered my hand, moving it backwards. "Good, good," she murmured. "Isn't that better, pet?" "No," I growled, and released my Wizard's Fury into her. The roar and snap of the spell took up my whole world for an instant, black spots dancing in my vision, as her scream sounded behind me. The scream turned from pained to anger in an instant. I knew it wouldn't do much – maybe if I got out of this, I'd practice my destruction spells a bit more – but it was enough to piss her off. I shared an apologetic grin with Modryn. The Dunmer rolled his eyes as footsteps rang behind me. Something hard hit the back of my head, and the lights went out.

[breadknight-likes-things]

Game Journal 05/04/20: Through The Realms Of Oblivion: The Colovian Highlands

There’s roughly three mountain regions in Cyrodiil, and while they tend to be my least favorite sub-zones in the game (too much verticality!), but The Colovian Highlands are easily my favorite among them.  Serving as the eastern border for most of the map (not counting the Gold Coast) there’s not a whole ton to The Colovian Highlands, but they have a great vibe that I think the frigid wastes of the Jerall Mountains and the uh....definite existence of The Vallus mountains lack. In a lot of ways I think The Colovian Highlands are something of an extension of The Gold Coast, which is more than a little odd.  While the highlands do border the Gold Coast, they border quite a bit more of The Great Forest, but lack any of the traits of that region.  Instead of the packed together green trees and lush grasses of the great forest, there’s the upright pine trees and golden grass that gives the Gold Coast it’s namesake. 

Battlehorn Castle is just about the one piece of civilization left in The Colovian Highlands.....assuming you have that DLC!  I’d be surprised if they sold Oblivion without the DLC at this point though!

The thing that defines it though?  Much in the same way all the other mountain regions are defined: up as a direction.  I don’t have any real problem with any zones in Elder Scrolls Oblivion, but generally when a zone is defined by it’s hills and upward landscape in a game where you can bizarrely run sideways up a 90* angle, it makes exploring a certain kind of strange.  That’s a minor nag though, because The Colovian Highlands do have a powerful presence.  They feel like a wild place, free of civilization (Except, I guess, Battlehorn castle assuming you have that DLC).  Even the few locations you can find here are notably cut off from the rest of the civilized world at large.  Forts are on the sides of hills with no easy way to get there, hell, even the road that leads up to the highlands just stops at a certain point and doesn’t even become a footpath. 

Look upon my downward slopes ye mighty and despair- Ozymandius, probably

I really do love The Colovian Highlands, and I saved the mountain regions (and one bonus post about a very certain sub-sub zone full of some unique trees!  Yes that’s something I get excited about!) for last because I often struggle to articulate why I like them.  Hopefully it got through in this post though!  Because otherwise what am I even doing here!

Random Screenshot Of The Day:

I’m moving up the naval ranks, and by naval ranks I mean I’m doing Boat Poses a lot in Ring Fit.

Stray Game Notes: 

- Got curious tonight and looked up to see where I was in Gears Tactics and I am.....way closer to the end of that games campaign than I thought I was?  I guess a final thoughts post on that game may be coming sooner rather than later?

- I should really just start calling this section “Stray Notes” given how often I break out of games in them, on that note...

- That Clone Wars finale?  Very good, very solid ending to that particular chapter of Star Wars.  Helps that I’m in the middle of binging Star Wars Rebels, which takes a little while to get going, but is really quite good!

[dand3n]

The Phoenix and The Dragon

Durram Avci was born in 2E 836 to a Dunmer father and an Avci mother. He grew up in the port city of Taneth growing up in the royal court with his many cousins. His father, Vedran Tharys was a former House Brother of House Redoran and an accomplished warrior in the city of Blacklight. 

Durram was taught Dunmer and Redguard swordplay which allowed him to fight with powerful and precise strikes. Battle strategy became apart of his teachings when rumors of the Colovian Warlord gaining large amounts of power became common in the docks of Taneth.

By the time Durram was sixteen the Tiber Wars has begun and Taneth was preparing itself. Durram fought with Taneth’s forces that served under the High King Thassad II against the Imperial Legions. They found many victories until the King died and the old arguments between Crowns and Forebears began again.

When Durram heard of arguing in the capital while he and his men were fighting on the front lines against the Nords and Bretons he grew disgusted with politics of his countrymen. Records state that he sent a letter to both Crown and Forebear leaders that showed his disgust and contempt for them.

To the Lords and Ladies of Hammerfell,

I, Durram Avci, find your bickering to be the most stupid and foolish thing to have happened to our great people since whoever believed it a good idea to trust the Bretons to not betray us during the siege of Orsinium.

While you argue in Sentinel and in Stros M’kai my soldiers are fighting against a foreign enemy that threatens us as no other has before. I have seen men being trampled by horses and shot full of arrows until they looked like a pincushion. 

I don't care if the new King were a Crown, a Forebear, hell they could be a sand roach for all I care. But I refuse to have my homeland to fall to Tiber Septim and his Red Legions. The mute bastard will have to face me himself before I kneel.

When the letter reached both parties it is said that Prince A’tor laughed for the first time since his father died while the Forebears dismissed the letter.

Durram did get his wish to meet the Cyrodiilic Emperor when Tiber Septim’s army pushed them back from their camps in the mountains all the way back to Skaven. Durram stood on the city walls alongside his men one night when suddenly two men levivated up onto the walls. 

“We come here seeking Durram Avci would any of you men know him.” The smaller of the two men said.

“I am the man you seek, now speak quickly or lose your heads.”

The second man let out a dry laugh and whispered something to his companion.

“My lord is happy to see that man who has been tormenting his armies is just like the stories.”

“So the Voiceless Dragon has come himself. Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down here and now ?” 

Tiber snapped his fingers and his companion shot two fire bolts at Durram’s soldiers killing them instantly.

“Because you are now all alone here boy, Zurin could kill you before you could call for help. Now is there somewhere we could speak civilly?”

Durram glared at the two before gesturing to one of the nearby watchtowers. The three men entered and sat around a table within the tower.

It is was Tiber who broke the silence with a smile, “It took my spies months before they had any real information on you my friend. For the son of a noble house, you are a recluse.”

“Aye my family prefers it that way.” 

“A wise family you have there. It seems my future subjects will be a hassle. Your cousin’s ships have been harrassing my fleets for weeks but thankfully my friends in Hammerfall have been helpful as of late.”

“The Forebears if I’m correct.”

“Yes, your countrymen have given me more progress than all of my legions put together.”

“Hurry up Septim I wish to be rid of you soon.”

Tiber rubbed his throat before tapping Zurin on his shoulder.  The Imperial battlemage reached into his cloak to take out a red vial handing it off to Tiber. The Nord drank the entire vile before rubbing his throat revealing a red scar. 

“Know this my friend, I am Talos of Atmora. Emperor of Tamriel, Chosen of Akatosh, and Dragonborn. By tomorrow morning your Prince will be dead and the rest of his Crown loyalists will know a dragon’s fury. Kneel before me now and I will name you High King of Hammerfell and General of one of my legions.” 

Durram stared at the two men. Zurin’s eyes watched him carefully as if calculating his every movement. 

Durram rose from his seat and stared into the Emperor’s eyes. Flames danced in their eyes, one belonged to a dragon and the other to a phoenix.

“I will kneel the day the old Yokuda rises from the sea, I will become your puppet king the day the Ansei of old return, and I will become general the Left-handed Elves come to our shores. Until that day leave my sight Tiber Septim.” 

Tiber and Zurin looked at each other before the battlemage sighed while the emperor grinned.

“You refuse one of the most powerful men on Nirn and act as if it wasn’t that big of a deal. Normally I would have a man’s head removed from his shoulders for a such a thing but you my friend reminded me of myself during my days under Cuhlecain. We speak again until then goodbye Durram Avci.” 

That would be the last time Durram would see Tiber until many years after the war. 

Tiber was correct the next day Skaven was hit with the news of the Battle at Stros M’kai. Within a month Hammerfell was under Imperial control. Durram headed for Stros M’kai where he stayed hidden working alongside the Restless League killing Imperial soldiers and dignitaries that came to the island. When the Treaty was signed between the Empire and the Redguards, Durram returned to Taneth before leaving for Morrowind. He joined as a mercenary fighting in skirmishes against the legion. 

When the Armistice came to the public he stayed in Blacklight for a year working as the city’s guard captain. In Blacklight he fought alongside the Redorans against wild Nords that came from the Velothi mountains and daedra that wander the countryside.

It wasn’t until the Queen Barenziah came to Blacklight did Durram finally leave the Redoran capital. The General Symmanchus and The Queen offered the veteran soldier a place amongst her personal guard. Durram at first refused but after some coaxing and a meeting between Durram and Tiber Septim for the twentieth anniversary of the Tamelieric Empire.

When the Mournhold procession arrived in the Imperial City they were greeted by the royal family. Tiber Septim was in his seventies while Durram was in his late fifties. Durram stayed within the crowd of servants and acted as if he was a normal servant. When night came Symmanchus brought him to the upper levels of the White Gold Tower where three Blades members waited.

“The Emperor will see you now. Hand over all weapons and please put on this bracelet while in his presence.” Durram compiled and handed over his ebony sword and placed the bracelet on which caused him to feel suddenly drained.

“A Silence enchantment incase you try anything.” The four left Symmanchus at the entrance to the upper level before stopping in the Imperial Library. As they entered the sprawling room there in the center sat the Emperor with two blades standing behind him.

Tiber’s hair was pure white a stark contrast to the golden mane he had on the night they met.

“It has been a long time hasn’t boy.”

“Aye it has.”

“I hear you were a key part in the Stros M’kai Uprising all those years ago.”

“I just killed a couple of your men. It was Cyrus who killed your Dunmer assassin and Richton.”

“Ashame truly both were valuable assists during the war.”

Durram grunted as a servant came from the shadows with a pitcher of wine and two goblets. The Redguard and the Emperor spoke on length about their time apart like old friends. Tiber confirmed some rumors that Durram had heard in the past few years.

When they finally finished the sun was creeping up on them. 

“I have a gift for you.” Tiber clapped your hands and a Blade came forward with a Akaviri katana in hand.

“Its slightly different from the other swords my Blades wield.”

Durram removed the katana from its scabbard to reveal a ebony blade with red daedric runes inscribed on it.

“The Phoenix rises against all.” Durram whispered as he put the sword. 

“Why ?” Tiber smiled and rose from his seat. The Blades in the room all gathered around him and escorted him towards the exit.

“A dragon needs a challenge less they become complacent. You refuse to kneel even now you have my respect. Goodbye Durram Avci.”

Durram left shortly after him and met with Symmanchus who walked with him in silence back to their rooms.

Tiber would die a few years later and would be succeeded by his grandson Pelagius. With the Dragon dead and his heirs now ruling Tamriel, Durram married a Crown woman who he settled down with in his home city of Taneth.

The bloodlines of Tiber and Durram would work closely together during the later years of the Third Era in the form of Uriel Septim VII and his many champions.