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Miniature of my addition of Stirk to Cyrodiil
[img]http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y41/haplo12345/th_f1f46244.jpg[/img]
Really bad quality lighthouse
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Slavedriver
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Beastie
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Cat & Branch
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Calligraphy
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Cheesy Ambigram
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Teh Frogz!!!
---
Bookz!
Betrayal of the Crown
by Horatio Gargonath
Volume I
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Ranguvar stumbled blindly along the dank, putrid corridor in hopes of escaping the darkness behind him. He was hardly able to suppress a scream as he slipped and fell in a pool of blood. He reached the end, only to find it blocked by a solid oak door. He turned in horror at the sound of scraping chains drawing closer, and he hurled himself bodily at the door, hoping beyond hope to break through into the sunlight. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen should the monstrosity reach him...
Months spent stretched on a table, with beady-eyed mages and hawk-nosed alchemists studying the effects of water slowly boring a hole through your entire body, drop by drop.
Ranguvar had already endured enough of this torture, and was not keen on enduring more. The door splintered and Ranguvar renewed his efforts. Maybe there is hope after all, maybe I won't die down here disgraced like those before me, a calf for the slaughter!
...Back in the corridor...
"You fool! I told you to catch one insignificant prisoner! A weakened one at that, and you failed! Can't you do anything right?"
Gerzae stormed around the spectral image she had just yelled at, throwing empty bottles and candles at it. She knew they would simply pass through and land in a large pile of old projectiles thrown in anger at the Spectre as he made his report.
Gerzae's temper was a fierce one to behold, and any living man or mer would have quailed at such a sight, but the Spectre took it calmly and stoically, as is it's nature. This did nothing to calm Gerzae.
"What are you standing there all silent for? Say something! Why didn't you catch the fool? Now he knows everything! Everything!"
When the Spectre spoke, his voice seemed hollow, yet resounded against the barren stone walls with a clarity one can only achieve in undeath: "He is...Magi."
Gerzae was beside herself with this statement. "Magi? You-are-a-spectre! You can kill with the blink of an eye, can't you?"
"You have seen my powers. You cannot dispute their reality. He has a lingering protection...of sorts. I cannot place it, yet I know it is from one far more powerful than myself. Since I am not of this plane, physical attempts would yield results just as poor. My apologies, Mistress," answered the Spectre, and with that, he was gone.
Gerzae's anger left with the Spectre. She sat for a while, pondering what the Spectre had said. I wonder what powerful ally a weakling like that could have. I must find out!
---
The sun was starting its decline in the evening sky as Ranguvar entered a roadside inn, exhausted and covered with dirt and grime from his escape. He stumbled through the door, laid down two drakes in front of the innkeeper, and gasped for food and ale. He chose a corner table smothered in shadow, dragged his aching body to it, slumped down, and promptly fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was to find himself face to face with several scrawny figures, huddled up against a bale of straw, looking at a dead rat, in what looked like a gaint cage.
Ranguvar stood up, trying to shake off the effects of too much sleep, when he noticed the people in the cage were all looking at him now.
Scared I'm gonna eat 'em, he thought to himself. He decided, however, that he was not going to get any answers from the dead rat, so he pointed to himself and said, "I am Ranguvar, Nord Hero! Who are you, and what place is this?"
One of the older figures looked up at him and regarded him with a lazy eye. "We are farmers all, now headed for the mines of Brunharrow, in Valenwood. You are in a caravan, and in your company are no strong warriors or great heroes of old, but slaves." He spat out this last word bitterly. They were obviously a recent addition to the caravan as well.
Name of the gods! I'm a slave!
Suddenly, Ranguvar was forced to forget his horror as he was hurled against the side of the cage by a mighty explosion coming from the far side of the cage. He looked about groggily at what used to be a wall of two-inch thick steel bars, which had turned instantly to a molten mass of red-hot liquid quickly burning its way through the solid wooden floorboards.
A charred crater of blasted and torn earth lay in the center of the remains of the old farmers and the beggar, now twitching corpses, left to smolder in the scorching midday sun.
Ranguvar whirled around, looking frantically for the source of the big explosion when his keen eyes spotted people - or things - darting between the trees and the underbrush of the woods on one side of the trail. Seeing as how these hidden figures were slaying his captors, Ranguvar decided to take his chances with the apparent enemies of his new enemies.
He leaned close to the ground and broke into a sprint, trying to reach the cover of the thick foliage before any of the remaining archers spotted him. He dared a backwards glance, and upon seeing a battlemage casting a spell in his general direction, he broke into a frantic scramble in an attempt to cover the last few yards as quickly as possible.
With only an arm's reach to go, Ranguvar tripped on a protruding rock and hit the ground with a loud thud.
Damn! I'm going to die!
He was about to start praying for safety when strong hands clasped his torso and arms, and half-dragged, half-pushed him into the brush.
After struggling for several minutes to escape the grasp of whatever it was that was dragging him so roughly across the ground, Ranguvar decided it was best to just relax. Almost instantly, the thing became more gentle in its... dragging.
By now Ranguvar had calmed down enough to realize he was weaponless, and that he had just left a very, very hostile area. He was trying to figure out where this had all gone wrong when he was dropped, not unkindly, on the ground.
Ranguvar sprang to his feet, whirled around, and immediately sat back down again as five Bosmer trained arrows on him.
"Alright, so I'm your captive now. What do you want from me?" He waited several moments for an answer, and when none came, he yawned, stood up, and made as if he were about to try and escape again.
Ranguvar had only gone a few paces when he realized no one was stopping him. He looked up in amazement and saw no one was even looking at him. They were all looking at the spot where he had been unceremoniously dropped only a few moments ago.
Realizing he wasn't going to get anywhere by trying to escape, Ranguvar let out a sigh and turned around, expecting to see some wrinkled elder leaning on a staff, demanding something from him. What he saw almost made him lose the contents of his stomach - which, thinking about it, were not much, he realized.
-
Varieties of Heresy
by Julina Morocorus
[Editor’s Note: At the age of seventeen Julina Morocorus was the victim of the charismatic Curolinus Lusarino’s cult. She was later found and rescued by the Imperial Cult. Since this time she has spent her life helping and protecting others from the dangers of such groups.]
In my years of service to the Imperial Cult, I have had the misfortune to encounter all manner of strange and downright unwholesome cults. As any servant of the Nine Divines would do, I have tried to correct these misguided sects. For the most part I have been successful.
This work focuses upon those whose faith in their heresy rarely falters, those who seek to deny the very existence of any divinity or those who worship powers who demand such bloody sacrifice that they must surely be the products of some maddened mortal mind. Those, in short, whom the typical layman should avoid at all cost.
I. Worshippers of Beastmen
There are, typically amongst some of the more primitive peoples, groups dedicated to the worship of what we refer to as beastmen. These foolish groups center their worship around the veneration of some manner of beastman, be it the werebear of Skyrim or the werelion of Elsweyr. Often these groups appear normal by day, seeming to be a typical village or tribe, but by night they reveal a far more sinister nature.
At sundown, the leader, or icon, of their cult (rarely the leader of their daytime community) is placed within some manner of strong cage or deep pit, where he or she will spend the night. Once their cult leader or icon transforms into a beast, the cult begins whatever manner of ritual they have developed. Often, these rituals involve the donning of the skin of some beast or the re-enactment of a symbolic hunt. No matter what form these rituals take, they invariably culminate in the sacrifice of some hapless victim, typically livestock, to their beastly leader.
I am uncertain as to what these cultists seek to achieve with this, but the theories my colleagues have put forth may offer the layman at least a general sense of the purpose behind these strange cults.
A popular theory holds that such groups do not so much worship the beastmen as hold them in trust for use in war against neighboring peoples. Indeed these cults are typically found in groups that are inferior to their neighbors in either numbers or weaponry. However, these cults are also often found in regions that were pacified long ago and nothing more than common highwaymen pose a threat anymore.
A second theory holds that these groups attempt to gain the power of the beasts in hunting. The existence of such cults among settled, farming peoples seems to discredit this theory.
Yet a third theory suggests that cults such as these attempt to placate the fearsome beasts that roam near their communities. This, again, is only somewhat plausible as a number of these groups live in areas where most hostile animal life have been nearly eliminated.
Whatever the motivations of these groups, they should be avoided by the layman at all costs.
The Wulfserk Cult of southern Skyrim legend is one of the best known examples of such beastmen worshippers.
II. Worshippers of Destruction
Amongst those born into a chaotic world, there are always a few who find solace in the belief that Tamriel will soon cease to be and that the end is near. Often times these cults are harmless, simply a group of misguided peasants perfectly content to spend their days preparing for their perceived end. However, there are other cults that pose just enough danger for the laymen that they should be wary when rumors of such cults are heard.
These cults center on an apocryphal prophecy focusing on some catastrophe or a particularly charismatic leader who claims that the end will soon come. Typically, cult members fanatically devote themselves to a code of conduct which they believe will save them from this end. In the more benign cults, these codes dictate little more than a humble life in contemplation. In the more malignant cults, these codes can dictate suicide and even murder.
It is difficult to fathom why these cults arise, but a fair number of theologians suggest that they may arise during times of crisis as a manifestation of peoples’ fear of the unknown and uncertain future. Another group of theologians suggest that it may be the influence of one of the Daedra.
Recently a colleague of mine discovered rumors of such a group in Mournhold, calling themselves the End of Times Cult. Whether these cultists are a danger to others remains to be seen.
III. Worshippers of Mortals
Of all the heretical faiths I have described, the most insidious by far are those that center upon a mortal mer or man who has, through deception or delusion, placed himself on equal footing with the gods. Rather than lead by virtue and strength as our lord, Tiber Septim, did, these lowly mortals lead by fear and intimidation. These heresies are insidious in the extreme, and a layman must be careful to avoid them lest she fall victim to one of their leaders’ charismatic contenance and his silver tongue.
It begins simply enough. A strange and alluring man wanders into a small village on the edge of Cyrodiil or Skyrim and offers the promise of a better life for all if only they will place their faith in him. He targets the young, those who are not yet wise to the ways of the world, those naive enough to place their trust in a total stranger. He targets the mourning, those who have lost someone and have not yet come to terms with it. He targets drunkards and the skooma clouded, those who make friends quickly so long as their new friend has a few septims to spare. He targets those who are in some way weak, and through his strength of personality, he slowly forces them to follow him - to serve him.
Eventually he will move on, his willing slaves in tow, bound to him by chains of ignorance and false hope. He will continue in this manner until he is stopped by the hand of the righteous, or until he feels he has a sufficient number subjects. If he is allowed to stop of his own will, he will settle somewhere with his piteous slaves and create a dark stronghold for himself. He will make such a stronghold wherever the righteous cannot threaten to expose him, unseen amongst the warrens which lie below decadent cities or far beyond the roads of the countryside.
Once his stronghold is made, this despicable leader will select his chosen. His chosen’s heart will swell with pride at their selection, for they feel as though they have been called by some great power for some high and holy purpose, and they will gladly obey his command, no matter what it may be. Commonly, those chosen from amongst his male followers act as his guard, protecting their master and dispensing his punishment upon the others with great zeal. Those chosen from his female followers will share his bed.
As time goes on the deceitful leader grows more and more tyrannical, first ceasing to allow followers to leave. Then sending forth his guard to suppress those who he believes are undermining his rule. Finally he imposes himself upon his chosen. His tyranny continues, month after month, until at last he submerges into the madness that has ineexoraly been consuming his mind.
I have heard that some sink so deeply into this madness that they order the deaths of their followers and at last bring an end to the terror themselves. I have also heard that such events are often caused by the arrival of an outsider, usually someone who accidentally stumbles upon them. Because of this, any layman who encounters such a group should quietly leave and seek out the nearest Imperial Cult shrine. The Imperial Cult has a long history of putting an end to such terrible heresies relatively bloodlessly and helping the victims of these madmen.
My colleagues and I have great difficulty understanding how these madmen begin down such a path. Many suggest that if such madmen could be found early on, they could be treated and possibly prevented from ever engaging in such practices. I am certain this is impossible. There is only one cure for their madness.
The infamous Bedabi who led his followers into the wastes of the Alik’r to die is perhaps the most notorious of such madmen.
IV. Worshippers of Science
There are those among you men and mer who believe that all gods are false. They would have you believe that we can surpass the realms of magicka by putting our faith in science. Now, science in itself is not an evil thing. Indeed, it is a great aid to our lives; one need only look at the local windmill or watermill to understand that! But when men or mer worship it as a god - their only god - they endanger us all. The layman would be wise to distance himself or herself from the science worshiper’s peculiar faith.
In their cluttered workshops, these worshippers - scientists they call themselves - have lost their senses. Unlike their brethren, the gods-fearing natural philosophers, these scientists rarely leave their cog-strewn dens to look at the world the gods have made for them. Because of this, they seek to unravel the mysteries they see around them.
When others see the clear power of the gods in lightning, these scientists see some great natural phenomena and babble about unseen forces traveling along invisible paths. Where we see the gift of Magnus, magicka, they see some great force that can be explained not through careful meditation but instead through measurements and yet more unseen forces.
This search for mysteries to unravel where there are none eventually drives them quite mad. One need only hear their inane theories to understand this. One scientist went so far as to propose that one day machines like those of the Dwemer would enable travel in carriages faster than any horse or perhaps even flight. I will trust the unfathomable mysticism of the gods rather than place my faith in some rusting, steam-powered monster.
All of this may sound quite harmless, but the layman should keep this in mind when discussing the faith of the scientists: they seek to make us like the Dwemer. Can they not see that the gods condemn those who would turn their backs upon them and embrace the faith of science? Can they not look upon the empty fortresses of their ancient predecessors and comprehend that such a fate awaits all those that would dare travel down that path? Do they not realize that the gods condemn an entire race of people who would tread that path?
This is why you must not allow the scientists to continue with their work, for if it reaches fruition, it will surely doom us all. Do not, of course, harm them physically for they do not pose a physical threat to you. Instead, dismiss them, disbelieve their foolishness and ignore them. Turn your back upon them as they would turn their backs upon their gods. After all, they surely cannot last long prodding at lightning, can they?
It is advised that the layman avoid Cordanus Krauserus’s work and his associates as they are amongst the worst of these scientists.
-
The Seasons
by Horatio Gargonath
Spring’s Blossom
As the honey bee buzzes laz'ly by,
and the swallow-tail hovers in blue sky.
The flow'ring blossom blooming in the shrouds,
Against the cool covering of the clouds.
Where all beetles seemeth lazy, and weak,
And the fragrant wind bloweth on thy cheek.
The vivid colors showing in thine eyes,
Appearing 'gainst a rainbow that ne'er dies.
Here in the midst of these wonderful things,
It is nature's grand welcoming to spring.
Here at Last
Here at Last
A shift in the winds,
Brought an ever needed breeze.
The honeysuckle vines send the smells of summer,
To tickle my nose.
As I lay beneath the trees,
I hear birds calling to me.
As I drift into a daze,
I am reminded of lazy ways.
The sounds of summer,
Here at last.
Autumn’s Welcome
Autumn's lofty sky
descended, covering the valleys
with fluttering reds and yellows.
The glitter and ivory of snow
sparkle from the high mountain pinnacle.
The dawn of crimson and gold
reverberated songs of migrating birds,
dazzled unseen above the painted leaves.
Melodies of autumn reflect the serenity
that lies in the approach of the frigid winter.
Autumn sinks down
and blue hues flatter the icy mountaintops.
Crows and blue-jays sound a trumpeting,
as squirrels play
within the color crested treetops.
From the windless meadows
many bees hum towards their home,
and songbirds fashion musical tunes
more enchanting than the colors of autumn.
Winter's Solace
The snow gently fell on the mountain pass
All things were covered and shimmered like glass
In the distance, stood but a single young doe
As the forest revealed its icy show
Fir trees were bent - in reverence - they bowed
Rabbits remained hidden beneath the tree's shroud
Icicles hanging, a lustrous cascade
A light wind blowing a melodious serenade
The mountain streams were now covered in ice
It was winter's welcome to paradise.
-
Directions to Telvanni Councillors:
To reach the Archmagister, travel to his dwelling here in Port Telvannis.
To reach Master Mithras' home, journey to Tel-Aranyon and ask the townsfolk for the location of his home.
To reach Mistress Rathra, travel to the tower in Tel Ouada.
To reach Mistress Faruna, visit Tel Oren, but be careful; she is very hot-tempered.
To reach Master Vaerin, walk or ride to the tower located in Alt Bosara.
Finally, to reach Mistress Eldale, travel to Gah Sadrith. If you can't find her residence, ask around.
Once you have confirmed that these prominent citizens will answer our call or deny it, return to me promptly for further instruction.
-
Come, brethren!
Let us wrest back our ancient rights from the avarice of greedy Hlaalu hands.
Too long have they annexed our territories, stolen our powers and mocked us in our trials.
We must unite - we must drive these foul usurpers from our most sacred lands and restore sanctity to our temples, shrines and tombs.
For too long they have haunted us on our very doorstep! Come, let us rid ourselves of this pestilence once and for all!
We rally tonight. The Hlaalu will pay for their insolence!
Signed
- Barys Hrothmalen
-
True Introspection of Indoril Fidelity
Unknown
If there is a single kernel of truth which can encompass all one must know of Indoril’s illustrious house, it is simply this: ours is the house most fervently dedicated to the preservation of the ideal of the Dunmer. When the children of Veloth wandered orphaned in the Ashland wastes, it was the Indoril knights that founded Mournhold and brought the itinerant Chimer into civilized Houses; when the Nords came from Skyrim with axes and storms, it was our warriors under Mother Ayem that staved off their assaults; when the Deep Elves wrought a god of blasphemy, it was the army of Serjo Indoril Nerevar Mora that spearheaded the crusade; when the Temple called for men-at-arms, Indoril pledged itself so fully that behind nigh-on every Ordinator’s helm there is the keen face of one of our own. An Outlander asks what a Dunmer is, and learned men point to House Indoril.
We have not swerved from this path in the slightest. Now, we protect our people with the authority of the Tribunal, blessed ALMSIVI; we are the spiritual power of Morrowind. The Ordinators in all their Orders never fail to hunt out necromancers, destroy creatures of the blight, keep the Ghostfence intact, and most importantly of all, protect the right of every Dunmer to worship and receive the blessings of the Holy Tribunal, the gods who walk among us. It was made clear from the instant an Imperial sandal touched the grass of our lands: in spite of all that may come, Indoril will see to it that no Dunmer must bow to an alien god, nor surrender his honor to the whims of invaders.
When Tiber Septim made himself manifest in Morrowind, the warriors of Indoril sent his armies into Oblivion; we slew them like netch of the Wastes, reaped them like wickwheat crop. They came to bend us, and in turn our gods bent them: no deity may withstand the Tribunal, the gods who walk among us. We had faith, and we had victory. For nigh on a century, Indoril steel spilt Imperial blood; their redness ran like wine in the fields of Morrowind, and flowed to the borders of the Inner Sea. And then Vivec, the warrior-poet, master of all things, wrought peace. Even then, the vigil of Indoril did not cease; wherever an Imperial hand deigned to hold back a Dunmer, we were there to stop the heinous deed. Even now we wear our colors into their midst; we let them pray to their divines while we see the very faces of our gods. Let them do as they will; Indoril will not forget what it is to be Dunmer. Indoril will never be anything but the truest of Dunmer.
With us stand the Redoran, our brothers-in-arms, keepers of the Ghostgate, and warrior kin. With honor the line of Retherein held the western marches, and still does in Vvardenfell. They were Redoran mercenaries that stiffened the militias mustered in defiance of the Emperor; they are never lax in their devotion to the Tribunal. Neither will Dres forget the ways of old, nor the hours in which together we repelled the barbarian invaders, felling them by rank and file; they have the blessings of the Tribunal, their worship so strong.
The Temple gives us life, protects us from harm; and it is Indoril that gifts the Temple life, protects it from harm. Cleave always to your heritage and the Tribunal will bless you, and Indoril will keep you. Remember the Seven Graces, and be filled with righteousness. The Imperials cannot touch he in whom Veloth dwells; that is the core of our being. That is the truth of being Dunmer.
-
True Introspection of Hlaalu Enterprise
Unknown
The Lord Vivec himself has been noted for remarking that in House Hlaalu lies the future of the Dunmer race. House Hlaalu is strong, widespread, wealthy, and noted for its ambitious proliferation into Vvardenfell; we are a house of peacemakers, if anything, and we are a house of Mer who seek above all to raise the quality of life for all the denizens of Morrowind. Our nobles lead all of houses in bringing the benefits of Imperial trade from the Cyrodiilic coffers to the hands of the common people: in our lands, no man is want of food or gold. By virtue of faith in the emperors, we can raise the Dunmer out of the darkness of their bloody, ash-swept past and into the light of catholic civilization, to the betterment of all.
It is no mystery that the men of House Hlaalu are not warriors in their hearts; we pride ourselves on our tact and grace, speechcraft and politesse. War is a costly thing, in money and Mer, and House Hlaalu has always been firmly opposed to it. Why make war, ask we, when one can make money? War taxes and tears at our economy, starving the people of both food in their stomachs and faith in their leaders. War is a crude and brutal thing of a time now past; let us embrace the future with daring, trading goods instead of evils.
The Imperial forces mustered for a grand assault upon the lands of Dunmereth, and House Hlaalu, foreseeing the wisdom of the Tribunal, insisted upon a peaceful integration, seeing no good to come of a prolonged and violent conflict that could destroy our beloved realm by cruel attrition. We welcomed the Empire and all the good that came with it: in a word, freedom, and more than we have ever had before. With Cyrodiil’s ships in our quays, the world was open to us a clam yielding a pearl, and that pearl was the bounty of all of Tamriel; not only had we our lives and our worship, but now all the goods of a thousand lands and peoples, enriching every aspect of our day-to-day subsistence.
Unfortunately, not all have seen this, but the Hlaalu mind is proliferating with its people as trade routes dig deeper through Morrowind and into the Empire. We hope that the other houses may find it meet to put down their weapons and pick up the tools of fine craftsmanship, that their common folk may finally know a life of comfort and grace, rather than ceaseless toil and arduous miseries. Until then, Hlaalu opens its shops and lands to any who wish to partake of its bounty.
Do not let opportunity pass by; do not cleave to the wretchedness of the past in the name of tradition. Veloth the Prophet did not bring us to Morrowind to suffer; he brought us that we might know a better way of life. A better way of life is calling, friends. Are we not the Chimer, the changed folk? Then know that the winds of change blow once again, and he who refuses them refuses to be a part of the vision of his ancestors. Remember Veloth, and remember Vivec: Hlaalu is the future of the Dunmer.
-
Dwemer Burial Customs
Nedlir Andrethi
As many would know, the Dwemer were an atheistic and highly advanced race. Hence, their burial customs were quite different from Chimeri customs. The Dwemer didn't bury common folk in tombs. Instead they cremated them in lava, which gave them energy in a practice that can be described as sacred, if I can use this word to describe the feelings of non-religious people. Only aristocratic, important, or well-known Dwemer were buried in tombs, and every Dwemeri tomb was a masterpiece of stonework and masonry. Most Dwemeri tombs were quite inaccessible, with the entrances sealed so that only Dwemeri officials and the deceased's relatives could gain access to them. Most tombs were built to the same layout. When one first entered the tomb, he found himself facing a long passage leading downward. The actual entrance to the tomb was at the end of the long tunnel, closed off by another, more powerful door.
The main tomb itself was a long, wide great hall. The ceilings were supported by enormous columns, and sometimes even giant animunculi. All walls were covered by frescoes showing the great deeds of deceased Dwemeri. In the great hall, multiple statues of the buried Dwemer adorned the side walls of the tomb. Finally, at the far end of the burial hall was a raised dais, upon which the sarcophagus laid. If the Dwemer was of a very high significance, then its sarcophagus was guarded by a golem. The sarcophagi had different forms, dependant upon the trade of the deceased person. If the Dwemer was a warrior, it was in a form of warrior holding a sword. If they were a Tonal Architect, it was in the form of a god-like character that represented the science inherent between the mind and the body; only these architects could fathom the arcane secrets of the long fabled Heart of Lorkhan. However, if he or she was a monarch, they did not have a sarcophagus at all. Tales say that the monarchs' souls were infused into the golem, symbolizing eternal life.
Body Storage and Preservation of the Deceased -
Before being placed into the sarcophagus, the body was raised over a heated stream or lava pit so that all moisture would evaporate from the body. The body was then frozen and carefully placed into the sarcophagus. It is unknown if the bodies still remain after the War of The First Council, as it has proven impossible to open the sarcophagi.
Author's note: I present this text to the kind reader's judgment. In it, I tried to compile all my knowledge and thoughts on the topic. It is based mostly on what I've read and heard, not on what I've seen with my own eyes.
-
True Sapience of Dres Nobility
Unknown
A member from the House of Dres can be only of Dunmer descent. Or, as the festering outlander population calls us, Dark Elf. We of House Dres are noble and true to the land of Morrowind. Dres is one of the few houses that have kept the old traditions alive and preserved that which would otherwise be lost. This book is dedicated to the true people of Morrowind; those who have the will to stand up to the ruthlessness and misguidance of the invading Imperials. For the others who read this, you are not welcome to continue.
After the rise of the Imperial Empire, the outlander armies invaded Morrowind. They came into our homes, made cities of their own, and corrupted natives with their treachery and falsehood. They literally infected us with a form of contagious disease. Many of the innocent Dunmer eventually contracted it from other traitorous Dunmer.
Such fraternization is utterly disgusting.
There is a phrase to sum it up. Considering the circumstances, Dres can be considered a cure for this malediction. Dres and its allies, that is. And I must also congratulate all those who have seen the truth of House Dres and have decided to join our ranks against the pools of deceit that the unbearable outlanders are continuously brewing. To those who have chosen their path faultily, I say this with all sympathy: I can only offer you my shortest prayer.
House Dres has several strong allies with equally truthful insight on the condition our nation is in, and what must be done to halt this malediction. The Great House Hlaalu has many good-willed minds that share some of the same intuitions as their brothers’ in House Dres. There is even a more-than-decent, or rather, a truly noble, family that has stayed ever true to the Dunmer race; the family of Dren. Orvas Dren at this point is our greatest supporter. There are even rumors floating around that the family name Dren derives from the name of our great house, Dres. However, there is a traitor among the family. His name is Duke Venim Dren, and he openly betrayed his family name for the sake of joining the ranks of the Imperials.
Many have questioned me as to why the Imperials and other outlanders are so horrible in our eyes, and I am pleased to answer. The Imperials came into our streets, stole our land, and above all, attempted to put down our traditions. This is the factor that makes me despise them as I do. And for that, I do not, and will never respect them. The Imperials are a low-classed race of corrupt roots.
However, it is not simply the Imperials who ravage our traditions, but outlanders in general. I can supply a great many examples of their blasphemy, but I will only mention one, and a major blasphemy at that. Since I could remember, House Dres, true House of the Dunmer, has always been fond of slaves. Our territory lies on the edge of the Black Marsh. A country filled with the murky and savage race of Argonians. This supplies us with a fresh amount of slaves. The creatures are intelligent enough to take caution near our borders, in fear of being captured by our slave hunters and being sold at the market. While I personally prefer slaves of higher intelligence and hygiene, such as Altmer, Breton and some Imperials, they serve well harvesting in the fields. I guess, to be truthful, I rather enjoy any slave, regardless of their gender or race.
In recent years, however, many slave outbreaks have made more uprisings imminent. Another group of outlanders, the Twin Lamps, have been steadily making their way up from the earth. This group is formed by ex-slaves and foolish outlanders. I have even seen many Dunmer serve it. These are the people who have become the constant thorn in our side that they are. They operate secretively, as well as illegally. That is why many bounty hunters have been hired to hunt them down and re-claim any lost slaves. But the group still persists. Despite our efforts, they seem to always manage to escape from our grasp. I myself have witnessed their crimes. I once owned twenty slaves, seven for my manor and another thirteen for my saltrice fields. One dreary night, a cluster of Twin Lamp convicts infiltrated the slave pens and took from me fifteen of my own slaves. I was furious! I can call their work nothing more than larceny.
I hope that this document can help to convince the unconvinced of what the outlanders truly are. House Dres will continue its pursuit of ridding the great nation of Morrowind of the putrid Imperials and other rancid outlanders. They’ve slaughtered our families and humiliated our culture. Such acts will be forever unforgivable. Any true Dunmer would realize this in a heartbeat. Hopefully I am even able to awaken sleeping Dunmer that are fogged by the deceiving lies the Imperials portray. I can assure you that I will never give up the fight. Neither will House Dres ever lay down arms and give up the fight. We shall continue with our allies to save Morrowind and return it to its proper glory!
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A More Truthful Guide to the Empire and its Environs
(Being the bringing to account of the propaganda and endless lies of the Imperial Regime)
Preface to the reader: it is the writer’s fond hope that this tome will in some small part assist in providing a more truthful account of the new empire in Cyrodiil and those lands that still claim their independence with pride. It is hoped, also, that this will aid in the correction of the more grievous untruths and errors contained within that most ill-informed pamphlet ‘A Pocket Guide to the Empire and its Environs;’ perhaps the most blatant collection of lies yet to be produced by human hands.
I would recommend to the reader that they should have studied the Pocket Guide and its falsities prior to reading this document, if only to provide some perspective on how devious our neighbors and oppressors in Cyrodiil truly are.
Ariyael – scholar of his majesty’s royal court in Alinor, loyal servant of the Summerset Isle Kingdom of Alinor.
2E-870
A note on racial names: it is the intention of the Empire to destroy individual culture wherever it is found in Tamriel. Thus, no ‘common’ names for places or people shall be used; the ‘elven’ races will be referred to by their proper names. Following is a short reference list of all known meri races:
Aldmer – the ‘Elder Folk;’ common ancestors of all mer except the Ayleids.
Altmer – the ‘High Folk’ of the Summerset Isle.
Ayleid – the ‘Hidden Folk’ of Nibenay, who preserve the ancient language and culture of our Ehlnofey forebears.
Bosmer – the ‘Wood Folk’ of Valenwood.
Dunmer – the ‘Dark Folk’ of Morrowind.
Dwemer – the ‘Deep Folk’ of Vvardenfell who are now widely believed to be extinct in their entirety. Note: the Dwemer were NOT dwarves – they were exiled mer.
Ehlnofey – the ‘Earth Bones’; ancestors of all mer and the purity to which (we? might need to look into this) aspire.
Falmer – the ‘Snow Folk’ of Skyrim. Their actual existence is a matter of some debate, though there were once Aldmer who inhabited the northern wastes of Tamriel.
Maormer – the ‘Tropical Folk’ of Pyandonea.
Orsimer – the ‘Pariah Folk’ – commonly called ‘Orcs,’ these were once Aldmer who were corrupted due to the destruction of Trinimac by the Daedra Prince Boethiah – proof indisputable of the vile influence of the Daedra Lords.
Part I – The Aldmeri Dominion
While it is true that the Aldmeri Dominion as it currently exists in political terms is an exceedingly recent creation, having existed less than a single Altmeri generation, it must be pointed out that ever since the middle merethic era when Valenwood was first settled by our Bosmeri cousins, the Kingdom of Alinor was acknowledged by the Kings of Valenwood, the Direnni of Balfiera and High Rock and even the Ayleids of the White Gold Tower as suzerain of all Meri lands then existing. The current so-called ‘Dominion’ is merely a reaffirmation of the political, cultural and racial bond that has always existed between the Altmer and Bosmer. The humans in their tawdry courts in Cyrodiil, in their lust for power, concoct these falsities to foment tension among the Bosmer, implying that they come as saviors from the Altmeri ‘yoke,’ when in fact they seek only the enslavement of all Tamriel under their heavy-handed and illegal rule. The Altmeri legions did not have to invade Valenwood; we were welcomed by our cousins wherever we went. ’Twas not an invasion by any means; more a triumphant march north to meet the armies of the Colovian Estate who sought not territorial concessions, but to annex to themselves the entire Bosmeri Kingdom.
The Altmer did not even insist on the inheritance of Valenwood. We merely accepted the fealty of Camoran Anaxemes, which he gave gladly. The Bosmer are freer under our suzerainty than they ever would have been under the rule of Colovia.
The Pocket Guide takes an opportunity in its version of this historical account to present our soldiers as effete, useless and lacking in military skill. Quite the opposite is in fact true, and while I make no claim that we have been always victorious on the field as the evidence attributes, certainly the Colovians and now the Imperial Legions have had to fight with much tenacity to maintain their borders. Our border patrols only return ‘in tatters’ due to the immense numerical superiority of the Legions – something to be expected from this barbarous empire, hell-bent on conquest.
I will now describe our most elegant culture, speaking not from scraps of scribbling by an old fool, but from my own experience; having been blessed by the gods to have spent many of my years there. While it is the common belief of many Altmer that we are the only perfect race, a number of Altmer acknowledge our bond of kinship with the Bosmer, Dunmer and even the reclusive Ayleids as granting them some right in the inheritance of Tamriel. It is an outright lie that we have bred ourselves into racial purity - we have always been perfect and have had no need to alter our appearance in any way. There is much diversity in our individual attributes and the thought of infanticide of one of our kind is horrifying to many Altmer.
Our culture is a vibrant one. Much art, architecture and high magicka is ours to claim - certainly we appreciate it far more than any human could and while many Altmer are exceedingly formal in attitude to the human eye, we in fact convey much by gestures and physical languages of a more subtle nature than humans could appreciate.
Having put right the wrongs done to my own kind in the Imperial propaganda, I feel I might now extend this service to our cousins in Valenwood. The Bosmer are a product of the machinations of Y’ffre, the earthbones who sought to rescue them from the cruelties of Azura, who would make beasts of them - they did not choose their damnation as did the Dunmer or the extinct Dwemer. They are however, no longer pure and so live as close as is permitted, in the forests of Valenwood. They have their own customs and culture, dissimilar to ours but still superior to any that could be found in human lands. They have ultimate respect for the land and all that it provides. We do not carry this respect as far as they do, for the Altmer are tied to Auri-El while the Bosmer are the servants of Y’ffre, who would have them not harm any of his creations. The Bosmer make fine archers and light infantry and are loyal so long as they believe in the cause of their leaders. Most would never willingly serve the Empire and despise the Imperial intrusion into their sacred forests, for they come to destroy the plant life and to erect their rather pathetic attempts at buildings.
The wild hunt is that part of their history that the Bosmer are ashamed of and rightly so. It is a reminder of the times when there were no natural laws, no order and only the chaos that the Dunmer so worship. Mer would become beast and then mer again, until Y’ffre fixed us all in our forms by his sacrifice to make the earthbones. The Bosmer were evidently not as secured in their new bodies as they would have thought and can by extreme force of will, become a pack of ravenous demons that will exact vengeance on any who cross them or defile their sacred forests.
Valenwood itself is a land of dense forests and jungles, with little in the way of actual buildings, the Bosmer are careful not to interfere with their environment and as much as this annoys the King in Alinor, he will not force our civilization upon the Bosmer, as now is a time for unity among the mer; if we are to overthrow the tyrannous human government in Cyrodiil we must be united,
or all will eventually fall to the Imperial armies. Those most hideous forts and settlements that the last Empire constructed have fallen into decay and disrepair since the collapse of the Potentate and there are now virtually no humans in the entire Kingdom.
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True Introspection of Telvanni Nobility
Unknown
The majority of Telvanni nobles are born and bred in Morrowind. We, the Great House of Nobles and Wizards, care little for the matters of outlanders. I have lived for hundreds of years, yet never have I seen a creature as putrid as an Imperial. I felt expressing this in a written document would be more appropriate.
I myself have spent years on my research and experiments, confined to my laboratory. We as Telvanni are obligated to continue our studies for the sake of knowledge itself, no matter the cost. We will not be bound to rules and limits, for, as I have said, we are driven in our constant search for knowledge. If others are harmed by our experiments, so be it. We need to have expendable material to continue our work. This is anything but selfish. And I say this with all modesty when I state that we are far more knowledgeable of things and intelligent then meddlesome Imperials.
Imperials, however, are very meddlesome. Any true Telvanni noble would dismiss them and could care less about there existence. However, their recent slanderous accusations of necromancy and their vain perceptions on slavery have annoyed me to the point of writing this book.
Another factor to bring up is the other houses. While House Dres seems to be in somewhat good order, Hlaalu is actually in an alliance with the Imperials. It simply shows they have nothing in their lives that is worth anything, so they live through lies and carefully rehearsed truths. House Redoran might as well join the Imperials, considering they are openly accusing and attacking our supposed 'necromancers'. That shows how barbaric they are, not to mention incompetent for not understanding the truth and knowledge that Telvanni uncovers. House Indoril is somewhat better then Redoran, but so many Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers that have come from the Temple and Indoril are no amelioration to their barbarous brothers of Redoran. Telvanni appear to be the only House with intellect guiding their actions, or rather, our actions.
As this book closes to its end, I can honestly state that I, as a true Telvanni, will continue to pursue my legacy as a highborn wizard of an equally highborn House. I can also safely state that our House and all that are under it will continue its legacy; a legacy that does not need others, but a legacy that concerns knowledge; a true introspection of Telvanni nobility.
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Partially Mine:
The Slave Trade
by Tilera Orgos
S’Vala's parents were very poor while its mother seemed attached to it, S'Vala's father was only interested in money. He didn’t think he could cope with a child and a wife to feed and care for, being a miner living in poverty. S’Vala was sold into slavery when it was just a small child. It was raised in a cell by a Khajiiti female called Melbaka.
Melbaka cared for it as though S'Vala was its own and S’Vala never thought otherwise. It lived a relatively good life for a slave but when it was a little older, it was sold for the second time, to a man who bought slaves in the dozens and forced them to wait on him in his manor or work in the fields as all slaves should. S’Vala tried its best to please him but he had expected things it was simply incapable of doing.
In the end he decided it was best to sell S'Vala to a woman called Nimpha Orgos who owned a plantation, where she already kept eleven slaves. S’Vala went to the plantation hoping to befriend the slaves already there; however, when it arrived, it found life very difficult.
The slaves were not by Lady Orgos herself, but by the slave driver whom they called Erga. Erga was lenient on those slaves that did their jobs obediently but brutal with those that disobeyed. The rules on the Orgos plantation were strict and the slaves had to be in their huts at dusk, and out again at dawn. Those who were late or slow were beaten.
During harvest S’Vala collected crops each day by obediently checking every plant for crops, and when it had finished, S’Vala would report directly to Erga who would check through the day’s work. If S'Vala had worked sufficiently hard, the crops would be taken away from and it would be given rations for the day. If S’Vala did not produce enough, the crops would still be taken away, and it would go to its shack with no food for the evening; sometimes when this happened, the others slaves would share food with it.
After a few years of working well on the plantation, S’Vala began to earn the trust of Erga and was allowed to take the crops down to the town for sale. It would be given the crops ready for sale and set off down the path over the bridge and out of the plantation. S'Vala would return with the money to Erga, who would take it in exchange for rations. S’Vala would do this on the last day of the week during harvest.
After some time S’Vala began to get bored of its life, so it asked Erga if it would be ok for it to go for a walk on the days it went into town. Erga, who was unjustifiably kind to slaves, said this was fine as long as S’Vala returned by the time when Lady Orgos came out to ensure none of her slaves were misbehaving. She didn’t do this every day, but now and then she would so they had to be prepared.
On one of its walks, S’Vala came across a Khajiit male in need of help. He was suffering at the side of the road and sounded hoarse, as though it had been lying there for hours before being found. The male Khajiit called to it as S'Vala approached and it was clear to S'Vala that the male was in desperate need of assistance.
S’Vala knew that Erga wouldn’t mind if it was late as a result of helping a dying man, but Lady Orgos was another matter. It made the decision to help to the male, and guided him slowly along the road to town. It only took them about 20 minutes to arrive and others were willing to help when they did.
As soon as the man was in safe hands, S’Vala went back to the plantation as fast as it could only to find the slaves standing in a line, with Erga and Lady Orgos examining them. As it came running into the plantation, Lady Orgos looked up, her brow furrowed and she looked furious. One of the other slaves turned around to see what Lady Orgos was looking at and Erga hit it quickly with her rod. S’Vala froze for a moment; as all unsure beasts are want to do. It looked to Erga for support but Erga merely glared back with angry eyes. Eventually Lady Orgos turned around and walked back towards the manor. Erga stared at S’Vala for a moment before turning and following Lady Orgos into the manor.
S’Vala waited outside the hut by the fire for hours for Erga to come. It knew that its death was all but assured, as Lady Orgos would surely not tolerate such behavior from a slave. For a moment S’Vala took its gaze from the manor on the hill and stared deep into the fire with sorrowful, but pitiful, eyes and could feel the heat from the fire and smell the smoke.
The moon had risen for several hours when Erga emerged from the manor. S’Vala watched as she came down the hill towards the hut where S’Vala had waited. Erga stopped in front of it, stared into S’Vala’s eyes for a moment, then shook her head and walked slowly into her own hut. S’Vala looked at the ground, feeling the fear welling up inside. S'Vala felt its legs moving, its feet pounding the ground and the wind in its fur as it ran as fast as it could over the hills and out of the plantation. It didn’t know where it was going; it just let its feet carry it along and thus didn’t follow the path; it just ran through the soft grass, past the trees until, suddenly, it stopped. S’Vala stood at the brink of a high cliff, looking down onto the town where it had left the man earlier that day.
S'Vala was unsure of what to do but used its Khajiit like reflexes to move down the cliff and into town. It stopped on a large rock, jutting out of the cliff face and jumped onto a balcony of a building. It carefully opened the unlocked door and crept inside. There was no one in the room S'Vala entered, but it could see a dresser presumably full of clothes in the dark. As it searched through the dresser for something suitable to conceal its slave bracer, it stumbled across a key that S'Vala took. Eventually, it decided on a lovely robe which fit perfectly. S'Vala decided that if it really was going to do this, and stay hidden, it would have to look like a free beast. It knew that the people looking for it would be looking for a slave, not a wealthy Khajiit.
S'Vala left through the door it had come in, climbed over the balcony and down to the ground, trying not to get its new robe dirty. It then stood up tall, something which as a slave it had never been able to do before, and walked through the town to the inn where it had left the injured man earlier that day.
S'Vala hoped that no one would recognize it, having changed its hair as best it could, before leaving the house. It rented a room with some money it had stolen, and bought some bread and a bottle of Mazte. It looked around the room for somewhere to sit and noticed the male it had saved sitting alone at a table, eating. S'Vala walked over to him and joined it at the table. They talked late into the night about many things, though they were of small importance. The male said its name was Codus. S'Vala asked him if he was married and he replied that he was not, but there was one with whom he would consider marriage. He referred to a Khajiit female, a slave, who had saved his life just that day and whom he had never had a chance to thank. S’Vala knew it could not tell him who it was for fear of someone overhearing but was touched by the man.
It slept until well into the following morning and when it woke it felt strange. It had slept on a proper bed for the first time, drank its first bottle of alcohol, eaten dinner with a respectable free Khajiit male with whom it normally would not have spoken, and was wearing proper clothing. S'Vala never had felt better in its whole life, but such a life would not last for a runaway slave and S’Vala knew that.
S'Vala left its room and went down the stairs to eat breakfast and spoke to the woman at the bar about Codus. The Bartender told S'Vala that Codus had left early that morning to go to the Orgos plantation to find the slave that had saved his life. S’Vala gasped, dropped its breakfast, and ran out of the inn. It ran as fast as its legs would carry its back to the plantation. The robe was hot and was slowing S'Vala's progress so S'Vala tore it off. It ran through the fields, past all the other slaves who looked up astonishingly at it. It slid to a stop in front of Erga, who looked even more surprised than the other slaves to see S'Vala and asked Erga if a Khajiiti man had come into the plantation. Erga said that such a Khajiit had gone into the house only a moment before. S’Vala looked horrified at the house just as Lady Orgos was walking out with Codus following her. Erga pushed S’Vala back as Lady Orgos approached. Lady Orgos ordered Erga to line the slaves up.
S’Vala stood in the line among the other slaves and Lady Orgos stepped up to it and pointed to the hut. S’Vala began to walk away, looking to Codus for some sort of recognition but he did not respond. Lady Orgos was well aware of S’Vala’s attempt to escape and gave Erga special orders once Codus had left with what he thought was his slave savior.
In the middle of the night S’Vala was awoken by Erga grabbing it by the scruff of its neck and dragging it from the shack. The other slaves stood in a circle around something which S’Vala had never seen before. It was a block of wood stained by the blood of the slaves that had died upon it. S’Vala shrieked when it saw and struggled to get away. It pushed through the other slaves and started to run but Erga jumped on it from behind and dragged it back to the circle by its feet. S’Vala knew at this point that struggling would only serve to lengthen its misery. It was going to die this day and it knew that the more it struggled, the more Lady Orgos would enjoy the show. The second time Erga approached the block with it; S’Vala did not resist, and knelt down, placed its head across the block and embraced its fate as all slaves must. Erga raised the axe high above S'Vala's neck and that is the story of S'Vala.
The night’s events were over and the rebel slave had been dealt with. Erga never trusted another slave with any privileges again. S’Vala was gone; its bad blood drained out into the soil and peace was restored on the Orgos plantation.
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Modz!
