[because I'm bored, reminiscing, burning incense, and I have this fucking mess sitting in my google drive]

His father’s hair was always starkly white and fell behind his shoulders like linen sheet. When his father was stressed, the hair broke off into clumps matted together with oil and tangles tucked behind his impossibly pointed ears in complete devotion to whatever he was doing. As he aged, gold rimmed spectacles hung low on a gnarled nose. For a mage, his father had fought in most of the battles his wife instigated. A crooked scar on his collarbone faded with age, but the story of being nicked by Chrysamere on the Battlespire never failed to excite Ilya in his youth.

There was much he shared with his father. Ilya too had a stripe of white hair amidst a black mohawk that was poorly kept. Ilya too had a jagged scar running through a milky eye, another casualty of a battle his father’s wife instigated. Mother lingers in his thoughts, but much like his mother, is gone as soon as she flits through his mind.

The reminders of his mother were ever present, but never quite tangible. Her likeness towered over the colony, a fierce protector of the endless red sands and those who labored beneath her sacrifice, almost as they did in her life. Countless men and women that knew her in life would wistfully cup Ilya’s face and remind him ”you look so much like your mother”. Whenever he spoke boldly, they’d shake his hand, and congratulate him. ”You speak like your mother did” or ”Your mother would be proud”. His own bride was told, ”Your wedding cannot be worse than Mita and I’s” by his age spotted father wiping away tears from the thick smoke of incense.

Everything in his life was in relation to his mother when he did not know who his mother was.

What little Ilya can remember of his mother is between council meetings and the ramblings of a mad woman. He remembers the apparition when he was eight, causing his mother to wail and have him evacuated from the scene. Her bones jutted from her face and her eyes were wider than he had ever seen them. The last time he saw her, a man gave him a manonaut and his mother was speechless, only handing him a book and wrapping her arms around him for the longest time. A lump blocks Ilya’s throat, if not out of sadness, out of a distinct anger that he wore around his neck like a noose.

“The council is assembled,” an assistant fails to knock before she blurts out the information, as if its an order for Ilya to comply with. If I’m the leader, I may show up when I please he silently thinks to himself there is no benefit to accepting this responsibility of a failing colony if I can’t decide my own schedule.

“Thank you,” is all he managed. His lips form into a thin line as he rises from his desk, snuffing out the light stick beaming on the mantle.

~~

“The colony is dying, ash yam production is abysmal. Lunar worms and ethereal fungi have ravaged crops and stores,” Councilman Andrano’s voice rises, his face flushing red with the cling of his eyebrow rings only adding to his intensity. “And yet, the Grandmaster has nothing to say…”

“My words are not the demise of the lunar worms and the ethereal fungi,” Ilya retorts, the Grand House party thumps the council table in agreement with his statement. Yet, these thumps of approval are few and far between, and most embarrassingly from his father. “And the colony is not dying, we are failing to adapt to our circumstances.”

“We are failing to conquer our environment!” Loud vibrations shake the table supporting Andrano, “And how are we to conquer the new world that your mother created if we can’t conquer Masser?”

Angoril clears a gravelly throat, wiry eyebrows becoming his late father as they raise in enlightenment, “My son is not the sins of his mother.”

“Your son is his failings. A boy king led us to this colony and yet another boy king will lead us to our graves!”

The thumping resounds, reaching new heights, each echoing in the deepest pits of Ilya’s stomach. His eyes refuse to water, but he feels as if he is going to weep. “It’s a good thing you’re not a historian Andrano,” Angoril waves his finger, his voice wavering as he projects over the percussion. “Endrys was 105 when the prophecy materialized.”

“And your son is 43!”

“And your Grandmaster is 43. And my wife was merely 39 when she met her fate. You’re 78, if I recall correctly Andrano? I’m nearly 345 and I’ve known for a long time people have an age and expiration,” Angoril chuckles, the white haired members of his party joining him.

“I would like to introduce a vote of no confidence as laid out by the provisions of Article IV of the Grand Council of 4E 175,” Andrano interrupts the laughing old men and the unaffected, blank Ilya.

“Overruled,” Ilya clenches his teeth, folding his arms across his chest.

“You can’t overrule a vote of no confidence if you’re the party subject to it!”

Ilya nods his head, “And this was the way of land. Like you said, we are no longer on land and whatever land those rules were applicable for is now gone. There is no Grand Council. Whatever we borrow from our past history is a term of reverence only that manifests into a contextual understanding that this is our new world. We abide by the boarding charter.”

“The boarding charter is…”

“Go back to Nirn, then,” Ilya interjects clearly, Andrano holding his breath before laughing at the absurd thought.

“You’re mad! Absolutely mad!”

“You want to abide by the old ways, go to their source,” Ilya delivers in a serious manner, “Because the old world may have influenced this world, but by no means is it the manual for its administration. You will not do to this world what you did to the last.”

“Those of you who prefer solutions to petty insurrections may consult with me. I have managed to mitigate lunar worms by 78% in recent testing by the Agricultural Research Quadrant. I want to continue that instead of entertaining the misguided visions of the past. The council is dismissed,” Ilya follows up to the statement before Andrano could argue another point to nonsense.

~~

His father sought audience with him, but Ilya, in front of an empty desk, claimed he was busy. He watched the puddle of scented oil reflect the green glow of the lightstick that flickered with inconsistent magicka production. There was going to be an outage soon, so he had a memo delivered to the alchemical reserves to produce more magicka enhancement potions and replacement vials. Still, this was not enough of a reason to reject his father.

The overwhelming sense of dread from the proposition of no confidence was enough to reject his father’s presence. This ate away at his demeanor. Ilya paced the cold metal floors of his pod succumbing to his permeating inferiority. The son of a revered Saint couldn’t evoke the confidence of the council. His mother was the savior and the damning force all at once, and he realized how contentious he was merely by nature of his blood and history.

His fingers trace over a small canvas, his mother on her ascending day looked back at him with short, cropped hair and a great heaviness in her eyes. Many people did not like to speak of it, but she murdered her brothers. She murdered 73 people in Blacklight by mere forgetfulness. She murdered Redoran prisoners in her jails with no trial for no other reason than she could. She razed an entire city for mere political gain. And in the last stroke of a murderous, treasonous, selfish life, she murdered her King and then had the audacity to feel bad about it and make herself a martyr. If Ilya was all of his mistakes, his mother had to be all of hers. An absent, murdering, adulterous, politicking addict.

And yet again, Ilya cursed himself and slammed his pod door behind him. Even he defined himself in comparison to his mother.

~~

He lights the two incense sticks, and like his father, tears are brought to his eye. Ilya holds the impersonal knuckle bones of his wife that lay on the hearth, her fingers that once intertwined with his. They were never personal with one another, but he missed her support, he missed the future that centered around the family he would never have. His father had to bury his wife and children young, and so did the inheritance of blood curse him again.

His wife was a cold comfort to him, so very rarely did he come here to mourn, but he came here to think. It was no secret to the colony that Ilya was visiting his wife’s hearth frequently since the Agricultural Research Quadrant had collapsed along with the hope of replenishing the stores. Angoril waited around the corner, a constant sadness stemming from the collective suffering of their shared experience of burying a wife and child young. Angoril clears his throat, wandering to the fire burning low in the hearth to stand beside his son.

“It’s been a long day,” Angoril frowns, orange highlights dramatizing an already sharp face.

Ilya shakes his head, “And there’s never enough time in the day to meet everyone’s needs.”

Angoril tucks his head, “It’s never easy to create a new world. Your Grandfather tried and failed. You mother tried and succeeded, if you can call it that.”

“And we’re just endlessly trying and failing.”

“Perhaps we’re just continuing an unfinished project,” Angoril shrugs his shoulders, “But we all try our best with what we have and what we are capable of.”

Angoril takes a deep breath, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, “These people don’t know who you are, and they didn’t know who your mother was. You get caught between a past and a present that never is or was.”

“Thank you for your wise words,” Ilya removes his father’s hand, still staring into the fire with his single intact eye, “But I’m tired of being relational to my lineage. I am my own person before I belong to anyone else.”

“Not when you lead,” Angoril cracks his knuckles, turning to face Ilya. “When you lead, you give your autonomy to others. You sacrifice your individuality and become a commodity, a manifestation of majoritarian wants with the duty of heeding to the minority and the vulnerable…”

“Perhaps we should eat the lunar worms,” Ilya ponders aloud, the idea striking him in his moment of connection with his father, finding that the impersonality of his service more comforting than the dwindling incense.

And it was under this mantle of impersonality that he finally found connection to his mother, his peace short lived as he was yet again plunged into internal turmoil by her casual residency in the forefront of his existence.

When I joined a handful of nerds and geeks on Reddit to let my own freak-flag fly, I admit I never expected the fun I've had or friends I've made to happen. Yet here we are, Alduin flying in to eat it all, and the world is over. Or is she?

It has been established that Alduin wins, and eats everything. But, whether the reset is boring or ends, or the next one ends, or whatever happens in the future; I have a post-Alduin world at the ready if my fellow moderators ask for it.

Otherwise, Endrys is dead. I enjoyed every minute of this mess, and look forward to the future of this team.

Short and lackluster, I imagine, but, it works.

I'll see you all in Bravil.

The last time Xarxes appeared, the world was on the brink of annihilation. Alduin the World Eater had decimated his way through the north; Dragons pouring into the rest of Nirn to deliver oblivion. Freezing rains had only just begun falling in Blacklight, and calm winds carried the echo of civilization's end.

Now, five days later, the first Dragons had appeared in Morrowind. Beckoning back to the days when cliffracers stormed the ashlands, now far larger beasts of far darker intent swarmed and pillaged; softening the meal that Tamriel would become, their master on the verge of his own destiny to destroy. Atherius was silent. Prayers and shrines went unanswered. Temples had grown grossly old in mere moments; and the whole of the world was afraid. Drying oceans, dead soil, and a world unraveling within was what now remained of the once proud, beautiful, and mystical realm that so many had called home.

And as such, perhaps as it always was meant to be, many turned south to the badlands that had become Topal Bay; partying and drinking as best they could. What word would have traveled, if word could still; shall have revealed Sanguine himself was only one of the many innumerable patrons of the festival of darkness that it was. Fanciful drugs and ghostly Khajiit a basic sight to the foolhardy who boarded a run-down galleon for access to ecstasy amidst a rugged ghost-fleet of tired souls and tired, dry seafloors.

But that was not the topic of the rest. In Morrowind, the sons of Aka had steered for parties of their own around the dancing flames of Red Mountain's constant eruptions. The only thing more frighting than that was the reminder of destiny that loomed among it all. Like a gigantic spit in the face to every hero in the Dunmer homeland; Dagoth Ur gleamed brightly in the night with the candlelight of a thousand souls trapped for power. The Ingenium.

Once a product of Dark-Elven intuition, and meant to save Vvardenfell from certain death beneath the absence of a god; was now again siphoning souls to power godless machinery. Those who wanted to travel and put and end to it all knew under the careful promise of the lonely divine who still tried, that there would be time.

And so, that time had come. Xarxes materialized beneath the Jill of Fate to call upon the two-thirds ending.

"Mita? Titus?" he called into the dim fog of an endless mid-evening. "Like I said it seems hopeless. And like I promised, its not!"

No answer prompted the booming thunder of Dezvorohahsaad.

"Lok Vah Koor!" she called to the world; the intense ashen mist fading into nothing to reveal the proud heroes Xarxes had waited on, all standing in the broken throne-room of Redoran Manor.

Dralsi, Warmaster of House Redoran, stood as stoic as her father, baring the tight stalhrim armor she always did; an orange Redoran Banner wrapped around her waste and hanging with its beetle off her hip, and leaning on the tasseled wooden spear melded together by ebony shafts in her hand. Her mother was on the floor above, the edge of the council table, a look of hope on her face, and no drink in her hands.

Titus materialized suddenly atop White-Gold Tower. Wind blew heavy, and he appeared to be solid and mortal again; no longer a mist within a body. Curious, he strode to the edge of the tower's roof and looked down; a visage of horror becoming his sight. The world below was on fire.

Dragons soared close to the ground, breathing energy of all forms down on shattered buildings and splayed forests. White marble rooftops gleamed in orange blazes, the oceans drained away to reveal deep crags from which poured blue equations and red symbols; purple fire all across the horizon of the east, and the whole of Nirn in turmoil. This, what he saw, was the end of the world. A colossal dragon then smashed down onto the roof above him; black scales and eyes of solid golden-white light squinting to peer out across the death of everything it knew.

Below it, across the roof from Titus, a being appeared. A grossly disfigured man, his skin appearing like bound leather covers of journals, snippets of paper poking out between stitches, ink draining down the sides of his cheeks like tears, leading up to bright yellow eyes like that of the dragon above him. The man's summoning echoed with the sound of an out-of-tune harp in the darkest melodies, like the brief lick of tension between the skies of Apocrypha that Titus remembered. At first, startling, but now, obviously calm.

"Good morning, Titus." he called to him, sauntering over to the edge beside him and looking out at the desolation.

Titus could feel this was...different. This was a Tamriel that wasn't his home, he believed. The Tamriel that held another him, the Tamriel he had questioned Syzygy on so much. He'd wanted to visit it...and here it was. Perhaps it would hold answers.

The strange man reminded him of Apocrypha where he had spent so much time. Titus hazarded a guess. "Hello, Xarxes." he said.

Xarxes only smiles back. "This is Dezvorohahsaad, the Jill of Fate. My companion for these... trying times."

He returned his gaze to the violence on the ground. Huge pits opening up to blast molten rock into the sky. "What do you think of this?" he then asked. "Would you want to see it come to be true?"

"Certainly not," Titus replies, to Xarxes' question. He gazes upon the Jill with interest.

"And what do you think of your friend Endrys's.... situation?" he responds.

The Jill looks back at Titus, a puff of smoke shooting out of it's snout, and returns to the spectacle.

"He was manipulated by the forces of Order," Titus replies, certain of this.

"Order." Xarxes laughs. "Yes, I suppose to you that's still what they are."

He ponders the response another moment, before "Have you given thought to trying to fix him? Do you believe there's hope left? Even with the apocalypse nearing?"

"I do," he replies. "I just do not know what to do." What he doesn't admit is, he fears his own power. He's only taken baby steps. Transportations, manifestations. This was all he has done.

"That is good. Mita believes the only course of action is killing him."

"That's Mita for ya," he replies. "Always so violent. But given what she's been through, it's understandable how she would resort to that."

"You fill a role I'm not sure you want to." Xarxes seems to grow bitter, worried for Titus, but able to live past it if he must. "Do you know of the Enantiomorph?"

"Of course," he replies. "Rebel, King, and Observer. Let me guess--I'm the Observer."

"Only if you willingly travel to help her." Xarxes admits, before looking out at the destruction. "In one hand, fate is sealed; should you deny placement someone else will fill it. In the other hand, if you take part in it, the aftermath may be different from... this."

As he says so, the ground thunders as colossal crystal spires begin to protrude from the flooring of Nirn; Obelisks of immense size, the Dragons all across the world suddenly in a frenzy to destroy them, to stop the immense armies of knights that pour out ignoring the conditions of their environment. First oblivion, and now, Oblivion.

"One life to save many from...Order." Titus' lip curls as he speaks of it, gazing out at the Obelisks. "What must I do?"

Xarxes seems to ignore the question, pacing over to another view. "Syzygy has told you of your other self, has he not?" he gestures to below, fingers perched together save for his pointing index. "Ever wonder what made him so?"

"I do," Titus replies, tilting his head, a frown upon his lips. His other self...that poor amalgamation of Titus, Endrys, and Mita.

"If you do this, it will be a fate sealed. And from the look on your face, not one you wish for." He admitted sorrowfully.

"An ultimate act of Love," Titus replies. "Perhaps this is why I am as I am." Though there was more to it. He has CHIM--perhaps this time, it will be different.

Xarxes' face twists in pain, but he nods. "You are a good Friend to them. You will do..." His gaze is drawn, a thudding battle and a blood-curdling roar commanding across the sky.

Titus turns in the direction of the flames on Morrowind's border, the purple storms blocking much of his vision, save for a sudden blast of a black wing poking out from within.

"We cannot stay any longer. Your decision is made. Your help certified. Titus, I release you to where you are needed. To Blacklight."

Titus starts to dematerialize as Xarxes frantically gets beneath the Jill; both morphing away.

Before he completely disappears, Titus looks back out over the border again; a gargantuan fist punching the beast beyond, glinting familiar golden metal in the firelight of a world's end.

It had been three weeks since Endrys was last sighted. Activity all across Morrowind had quieted, the world on the verge of violent war as Dragons swept the nations of the north. Skyrim was ablaze with attacks, spilling into northern Cyrodiil and now reaching the dunes of Hammerfell and the cities of Highrock. Without the means to contain them, many were at the feet of every altar and chapel they could find, praying in masses, filled with barely any hope left, and only their gods to turn to.

Drama among the friendships of the Dunmeri Leaderships had caused them to turn a blind eye to the mess that approached them. Heroes hellbent on recovering the King had taken refuge in Blacklight, hoping for their spies to show them a sign. And that's when it happened.

A fearsome roar blew out every candle in the streets, the huddled citizens waking from their trances of faith to flee for fear of death and all it encompassed. Starlight was the only solace to sight that any living man or woman could cling to in that moment; the faint flash of a wing or a maw caught in the glimpses of dashing Dunmer denizens.

Dezvorohahsaad, a horrid beast of another realm, had come to collect the bounty of the Enantiomorph.

"Saint!" it rang across the torrential crowds, hammering her claws into the spires of Redoran Manor. "The earthbones quake that you do not show yourself! Saint!"

No answer came fast enough to sooth her mind, and Dezvorohahsaad slammed a thunderous claw down into the black-chitin castle, stonework flying in every direction to shine twin-moons upon an empty throneroom; four floors of ancient bug-bone gone; a Jill awaiting the call of her master's means.

"Find her!" she roared to the shaken Queen Soraya standing wide-eyed, glass in hand, unable to speak.

The Queen's voice cracked trying to call for Mita, and only stood there meek and fearful.

On one end of the now-roofless throne room, Dralsi appeared. On the other end, the door swung open, and the Jill eyed it with all her being.

Little Atherius. The name was outlandishly childish for something of Dwemer-make, amplified tenfold by the sheer scale and usefulness of the area. Powered by the magically-encapsulated molten core of Red Mountain, which lay shining bright on the far end of the cavern, Little Atherius was to this world a forgotten, mid-war wasteland of dreams folded into reality and left behind by elves with a better mission.

Though the lore had been lost to the dust; and now two pivotal beings traipsed the trap-laden walls of this ancient site, looking for their long-lost Tyrant. One entourage of soldiers and their Saint followed a path of broken machines, while the lone Friend followed his own adventure of slaying the robots that plagued him. The intricacies of these two tales were many, and much could be imagined and explored down here; but the Saint and her Friend were certain in their goals; and now they'd found the sign.

Silent on the mountainside of the cities outskirts, a large metal door of Sotha Sil's design sat unburdened. Beyond it was uncertainty, though a great many guesses would stir in the minds of all comers; the important part of this visual were the electrified, black-goo chains that seemed to keep the gate shut. It was unlike anything either party could find in the rest of Little Atherius.

And so, in the lonely foothill, following the trail of dead robots, Titus and Mita met face to face, tracking monsters of frighteningly similar intent.

Tyren had been checking in on the temple at Maar Gan for some time. He and a handful of soldiers, both Hlaalu and Redoran in origin, camped on the very outskirts of town. For days, nothing came out; only muffled yelling and technical jargon ever seemed to come through, and the amount of guards with him grew smaller each day.

In the middle of the night, some fourteen days after their arrival, Tyren and the others woke to a startling clatter. Grabbing their gear and readying themselves in less than ten minutes; the scouting party drifted down the slopes of ash and into Maar Gan's streets. They weaved through the alleyways until finding vantage on the Temple.

Three black-cloaked Dunmer, red eyes shining through the slits in their crystal masks, were escorting a fourth one between them; holding a small metallic box. The clatter revealed itself to be the now-open door of the Temple, where once had been interlocking crystals fused to the chitin construction.

A faint shift in the dust behind them brought Tyren to swirl around, daggers ready; meeting the face of an Ajeyan Guard.

"Good to see you, Tyren." said Ildiah, the Redoran Spymaster. "I'd thought you left."

"No," he replied, "Almost everyone else, but not me. Why did you come?"

"A soldier can't look for her King?" she chided. "We tracked those shadowed men here, all the way from Balmora."

"Any idea what it was they brought?"

"No, but they rummaged through an old Daedric Ruin to get it, so I doubt we want them to keep it."

The two and their small teams formed a circle around the courtyard of the Temple. Roughly six minutes following Tyren's original vantage, they'd cut off the exits with new allies, and the shadowed soldiers in front of them had been ushered in. The door stood open, unguarded, and Tyren made his move.

Bootheels sifted tufts of ash up into the air behind quick-willed blades, Ildiah's hand just grabbing onto the Temple doors when brilliant blinding lights flashed on all around them. When the initial flare subsided, a warcry sounded from behind; an ambush of assassins charging the team.

Three fell in seconds, Tyren blocking a hit to kill the first of the enemies. Ildiah brought her hammer through the cracking chests of two others; and now the score was even. The lights, which had been well-timed spells, flickered off leaving the glint of steel and stalhrim alone in the mist of red eyes and puddles.

When it was all said and done, swords half-plunged into the nearest enemy; tentacles of lightning writhed around the crystal-spiked doors of the Temple and brought behind them a breathing, luminous ball of light; one solitary core of orange burning through an eye of red lights.

"Would you relax, please?" the eye flickered, a tone of friendliness and eager smiles radiating through the slightly annoyed question. "I- oh!"

It halted suddenly, following the fall of the last assassin.

"I thought they were sparing... I'm sorry."

"Who are you?" Ildiah poised.

"I am Overseer-Heart Grey-Maybe Utility System, or OHGMU-S for short. You spell it differently in this time line it seems, which I saw to apologize in advance for the confusing nature of my name."

Tyren only stood wide-mouthed and brow-piqued.

"And what are you doing here?"

"Well now that your, um, friends brought me what I need, I'm doing nothing. All of the nothing. Nope, not a thing."

Ildiah exchanged a glance with Tyren, and the two charged.

"Wait wait wait no I've got so much to live for!" cried OHGMU-S, hastily floating backward down the hall and around the corner. A handful of assassins poured in between him and the heroes, clashing swords and cracking leather.

By the time the assassins were dead, Tyren, Ildiah, and their compatriots followed around the corner to the main chamber; meeting a portal of bubbling bronze liquid splayed into the walls; plates and crystals of gears hard-molded into the chitin wall.

Though the orb OHGMU-S was gone, Tyren had no doubt he'd been more Endrys oriented than expected.

"Get Mita." orders Ildiah to Tyren. "I'll make sure this stays open."

[Originally finished on Slack for Mew's convenience, hence the re-issue.]

The magic beneath the surface shuddered, as if attacked by a sudden chilled air. The wishful and vibrant stuff that held the world together, the Earth-Bones; rattled. To mortals, the rain got heavier, the dragons got stronger, and everyone just turned up their hoods and kept walking. But to the immortal, to the CHIM-biased, this effect was felt throughout Nirn.

Familiarity, a song of violence, wailed through the downpour atop the ruins of Vivec. Nestled at the heart, far from the scouting-camps of House Hlaalu, was what remained of Baar Dau. The ancient prison had melted down, now a sad shadow of what it once was, albeit still just an out-of-place rock. What remained peculiar in this moment was it's having not been alone.

Long silver gauntlet-claws drug through the wet stone, clawing up a woman with deep gashes down her armor, revealing painfully long cuts of dried blood and fragmented crystal shrapnel. She threw her leg over, and dug her heel into Baar Dau's hide to lift herself to fuller view.

She stared into the sky, the mask paneling behind her head to reveal the face of a certain-minded Redguard girl. The sky was black, the Scathing Bay boiling furiously, and lighting cracked beyond.

It was in this spot the overwhelming and dreadful ooze was at it's most fervent. Deep violet violence churned in the howling rift that now replaced the once-proud Obelisk which stood here in ages prior; and a warcry sounded from within as a faint bubbling goo began to fade through.

The woman stared down into it, back up at the sky, and squinted out into the darkness to ensure she was alone. Seemingly normal, if heavy on the surface, this event was of great strain to the minds and hearts of the immortals who walked Nirn; and she knew, for she was one of them.

The Dream was sick. It was sicker than sick. Few could see it—the change was subtle. Whereas he could not feel the rain, he could sense this.

The Dawn Era had been the time of the Ooze, which the bosmer spoke of Y’ffre reshaping, becoming the first of the Earthbones and teaching his chosen people to keep their form. He wasn’t sure if this ooze was the same…but he couldn’t dismiss the possible connection.

Vivec City—or what remained of it—seemed to draw him. It was something…something strong within its surface. Either way…he knew he had to investigate. He had to find out what was going on.

He suspected Order. He suspected Syzygy or his machinations. And he tried not to be sentimental…but he knew that he would make Order pay. Order had no place here—not this kind of order.

The form of his elven avatar floated over the rubble. He would have probably ripped all his clothes off, it was so hot, but he couldn’t feel a thing in this form. He knew the risks, he remembered what Mita had done in her fit of rage, and was prepared to get himself out of there or speed himself up as necessary. It was a Dream, and he was Lucid.

The pitch-black sky shuddered with thunder again, as from the pool of purple putrescence a long, black, and accusing finger came through; pointing directly at Titus; dredging up from depths unseen the rest of it's malice-minded form.

Lyctara, at the sight of it, only furrowed her brow beneath the battering warm rain. Crossing her arms she shifted her weight and looked out over the immense clouds that bellowed with light. Whatever this thing was, she seemed eager to get out of the rain, despite the importance.

"What is it?"Titus queried, perhaps to the Redguard; perhaps to himself. He stood a distance from it, staring, his weapons of choice--the tuning fork and the mallet--at the ready.

The thunder and rain kept her from hearing Titus's question, but she could feel she wasn't alone. As the hand rose from the portal, she could see it's fist loosen, clench again, and shake in a direction behind her; as if to point to something. Lyctara glanced over her shoulder, but nothing stood visible, and she continued to wait on the creature beneath.

The thrashing of the clouds above them seemed ​too powerful​ to be natural. Arcing white-hot light smashed against the ruins of the city in what Titus would soon come to notice was a distinct oval; it's heart the spot of Baar Dau. The hand below him made the portal around it shudder, until it became an arm, a shoulder, and a head. It was black, made of a primordial ooze difficult to recognize, and arced with blue lighting. A faint crystallized frame captained a familiar silhouette of frighting origin; the thoughts and intrigue of Titus's mind set aflame at the sound of it's voice.

"There!" it shouted, pointing again into the darkness for Lyctara. "He's right there!"

She followed the gaze and accusation to meet Titus, her eye's shooting wide, and dropping to a defensive stance. The worry for Titus was not in her noticing him, but in her new companion. Syzygy.

"You," Titus said, frowning. ​"Why couldn't you just die?" His tone was neutral, curious, but he intended to face down Order, just as Mita had.

"Run, Titus." Lyctara called up to him. "You don't belong here."

Syzygy yanked his other arm free, a grunt of pain escaping him, and he tried pushing down to pull the rest of himself out.

"I don't want to fight." she admitted.

"First I want to know." he shouted over the rain, "What is going on? How did he survive?"

"Chroncules!" Syzygy yelled the vague reasoning up to him. "Imagine the power, Titus, of achieving near to CHIM without lifting a single finger!"

Lyctara only flickered her eyes in his direction, before back at Titus. "It's not your concern, Friend."

"But at the expense of the whole world?" Titus asked.

"I admit," he said, "this was an unforeseen side effect." Syzygy was now to his knees in the portal. "And the world is not without her bones, only lacking in the power to keep them for long. Hence, of course, the ​clean up crew​." Syzygy laughed, the hauntingly happy cackle shivering the spine of the very rain around him with bloodied memories.

Titus frowned. Their idea of cleaning up did not suit his own. Order... it wasn't the kind that brought comfort. Their notion of Order was like his need to keep everything a certain way, magnified tenfold, and damned if it be incorrect. "And this portal? What is it?" Titus is stepping back as he eyes Syzygy, but is ready to depart if he must. He does not know what to do. Always indecisive, as he used to be.

"Merely a rift." Syzygy explained. "The veil between dimensions of thinking, giving me a way home. I admit it took me quite some time to master this... ​power​, yet here I stand; just as alive as before."

Lyctara slowly readied a crystal key-dagger in her hand, but refused to attack first.

Unsure of what to do, Titus gives them a pained look. "Dimensions..." he muttered, "This isn't over."

He whisked his avatar away, but kept watching with other means; with a similarly different dimension of thinking.

Syzygy stands up, heels dug into the crystal basin below him; the portal closing with a faint, drippy smack. He throws his arms back, stretching, letting out a sigh, and eagerly looks up to Lyctara.

"What do we do about him?" she asks.

"Nothing for now. The perspective of the Earth Bones drives a new agenda, and with or without Jyggalag I'll see it to an end."

She considers this, and looks to the sky; warm droplets battering against her face, and smiles.

"We have a purpose, then?"

"There were holes in our reasoning before. I see them clearly now, and the Bones have granted a pathway."

"Best be reaching the others then. Any idea where they are?"

Syzygy, carrying the same appearance as he always had apart from a now far darker form, looks out over the crashing waves of the Bay. He hones in, eyes locked with where Titus saw from, and smiles. "Sotha Norai." Syzygy elaborates. Whether invitation or mockery, or simple misjudgement of loneliness, Titus could not tell. "The trick," he says looking back up at Lyctara, "is finding a door."

As Under-Helstrom is halfway finished Verid has decided to bring his general, Schir, to the construction site to give her a tour of the site, however on the way they overhear a group of Saxhleehl talking about plans referring to dissidence with King Zesh, however, they dismiss as they presume they could not effectively combat the might of the Saxhleehl armies & proceed on their tour.

Mita meets with the crews of each ship in the harbor of Blacklight, wishing she could watch them in full formation, sailing mightily through the Redoran waters. She imparts what she knows of the situation to each captain, telling them to use their best judgement or face her wrath. There is a certain urgency about her. For once, she isn’t seen in her fine silks, but rather, a set of armor that appeared as if it was from another lifetime entirely. The common people bustle about-- women went to market, men cursed, and children chased each other, weaving in between the legs of adults. People no longer consider her a strange sight in Blacklight, and they no longer flock to her when she leaves the confines of her home in the city.

”Dralsi, you think we can fit more on those ships? I don’t think there are enough men... I don’t hear them. Certainly you have some soldiers that would feel… led to do so?” She gestures to the ships docking, the men aboard sparse and few between. The Warmaster stands near her. Mita cannot sense where. A stiff Angoril is all she feels, her stoic keeper wrapping an arm around the low of her back, his lips but a thin line.

Hlaalu scouts aboard both the Hortator first arrive at Gnisis, the smell of death rancid in the ashen air. Many young Hlaalu grit their teeth and grip their blades, what with their Redoran cousins that they traveled here with and the utter travesty that was committed here, tensions were high. Yet, Captain Felindis held the ship in a firm fist, red eyes flickering with industrialism, a certain cruel efficiency that promised misfortune to anyone who tested his authority, and a warm laugh to juxtapose. He requests the presence of the military governor on behalf of Her Holiness.

Meanwhile, the scouts set up camp, some search parties already taking to scouring the ashen wastelands in the dark. The sooner they find the fat bastard King, the sooner they go home.

Meanwhile, Veloth decides to take a stop in Ald Velothi. Their ship is captained by a young Dunmeri woman who stands proudly in the crow’s nest and orders the soldiers about in a defiant pose. Ambition consumes her presence as wild and as destructive as fire in a dry field and she always has a smart comment on the tip of her tongue. Her name is Calypso, an odd name, but no one ever heard it, for whenever she passes in her erect pose, everyone jolts to acknowledge her with a hasty madam.

She doles out a lengthy list of orders, which the entire regiment carries out without complaint. When she is satisfied, she finds this Tyren she has heard about. ”You,” She points to the daggers the man dons, Nirnroot hanging from their handles, ”Mita sends her regards,” a smile twitches on her lips as she peers over a map spread out on a table. ”Thorough, aren’t you. Well, I brought you an army, and most importantly, I came, so tell me what you know and how I can help before I decide this is a waste of my time,” she speaks with a daring grin, the words pompous but the intonation suggested she was poking fun at herself. The captain heaves herself upon the table, sitting and letting her legs swing as she awaits a response.

Balmora bursts with life and commerce. All are educated, most are well off, and thieving is at a record low. The city is a stark contrast with white buildings against a gray ashen background and ebon clad hills of obsidian. Silt Strider ports are constantly being unloaded, the purring of the massive beasts bested by only the roar of vitality below.

And, yet, as the sun sets on the metropolis, a darkness whispered about in the daytime emerges. Strange shadows that clamber through trash, with armor blacker than the hills, with a step silent as they vanish into night.

[SECRET]

The ships bound for Tear send reports back to Mita about an amassing of slaves. Khajiit and Dunmer alike are lined up in small cages, creating aisles of moans and suffering. They know it is not a good time, but he Queen ordered them to report anything heinous, especially slavery.

As you can pretty obviously see, the game is slowing down. This decline is mostly due to disinterest in the setting, and a number of people have expressed interest in a reset. Thusly, we have created /r/nirnpowers. It will be set in the Second Era, specifically starting in 2e 432. The game on that subreddit will begin on January 4th, 2016. So go ahead and make a claim post there before we start advertising it, so you can snag the good spots.

Our current sub will go on break on December 20th, 2015, with an end-of-the-world post that will be the finale of a long story arc by /u/jocundxarxes. Due to changes required for the new sub, spreadsheets on the current subreddit will stop working as of today, so moderators can begin testing of the new spreadsheets.

A thousand voices all at once humming metallically ring from either bronze handle. Mita it drones.

When she sees the palace off in the distance, they chant louder. "Shhh shhh," she coos to the ream of paper strapped to her back. "In due time, my loves," she continues, eliciting a worried reaction from Titus. When she stopped to rest on the road, she nestle the scroll like a lover, nuzzling her chin against a cold, brass knob, whispering back to the choir that sings a melisma of Mi-tas.

Her husband walks beside her, tense. He bites the inside of a single cheek. They walk in sync, she hanging meekly off of his arm, her eyes doe-like, worried as they train inward and she takes a deep breath.

"I need to speak with Soraya," Angoril tells the guards posted, his own eyes scanning over the palace as Mita increases her grip on her husband. Her ears ring with a thousand horrors unsung and her name being screamed by a familiar voice.

She ignores it, meditating while they continue up the steps, trying to retain what Titus and the books told her all while anxiety plagued her. She turned around when they reach the top of the steps, gazing over Blacklight for what was most certainly her last time, her husband, and then, to the towering doors of ebony that open before her and display a single word, chitin amongst the soot.

Syzygy.

tl;dr mita has an elder scroll and thinks a cute thought that she can read it and influence all possible futures and all possible pasts. crazy as a bedbug.

It has been three weeks since anybody has heard from Jofi, a goat-farmer in the mountains east of the Rift, or any of his family. They have not come to town to purchase supplies, but with the insanity of the dragon attacks, few have paid attention.

All it takes, however, is for one person to notice that another is missing and then rumors will spread like wildfire. When a group finally sets out to examine Jofi's property, they find his house burned. Jofi and his wife's corpses are within, fused partially together with the massive heat. There is, however, no sign of his daughter's body.

[Some things have happened character-growth wise that I haven't posted about. Seeing as they could easily spoil where I want this to go, I'm going to hold off for the moment. Suffice to say- this is a Children of the Harvester post, not a Dawnstar post.]

Desmond and Sarys, retainers of House Telvanni, had met a series of unfortunate events while on the way to Orsinium. First, they'd been beset upon by trolls, then bandits. A dragon had attacked, and while the bandits were distracted, the two escaped.

Finally, however, they make it to the edge of Orsinium. Their clothes are but rags, their armour scavenged, and they smell worse than they look. They're thin, somewhat sickly due to lack of nourishment. And even then, the orc is still complaining about being unable to get his equipment--dragonfire had destroyed it.

[ Meta -- sorry about totally forgetting about those people I sent to Orsinium! Hard for me to keep up with things on Reddit D: ]

It started simple enough. Leon's complaints of chronic headaches to the Court Chaplain were on deaf ears. After all, this city was beginning to ascend to new heights in Cyrodiil. Who cared about a 16 year old's common cold? He was a man, he needed to act like one, many said. His brother eventually gave too much warrant to the counsel of his Chaplain and sent Leon away after his latest complaint. However, in the night, while many were in taverns getting drunk, or his brother was awake working on new edicts for his stewards, Leon began a spiral downwards.

The morning light brought vision to many, showing just how bad Leon truly had felt due to this mysterious illness. His room smelled horrid, his skin was ghostly pale, and the source of the smell was blood soaked vomit, covering the floor near his bed. Flavian called apothecaries for weeks trying to cure the illness to no avail. Eventually, all realized behind closed doors that his situation was hopeless. All except for Flavian.

Flavian had always stayed up late into the night. However, during what we now know as the last week of Leon's life, Flavian never slept. He stayed all through the day by his brother, and in the night, discussed with apothecaries treatment, read of ancient potion mixes, or prayed to the gods.

Rumors surfaced he delved deeper than the gods in his prayers however, some rumoring he tried to communicate with Daedra to cure his brother. Though, these have yet to be based on truth.

Eventually. On the 18th of Frostfall, Leon Galeric, heir apparent to the House of Galeric's title as Count of the Gold Coast, died at the tender age of 16. Two weeks from his birthday.

His funeral procession happened a week later. And the main source of gossip, was Flavian. His demeanor was no longer a charming and gallant soldier, he had no essence of chivalry around him, he no longer wore the red robes and tunic that had made him apparent, and instead wore all black. Bags were under his eyes, a ragged beard across his face, his hair unkept and unruly, and he walked with a hunch. He spoke no eulogy, and shed no tear. He spoke to nobody. And as soon as the procession closed, instead of meeting and talking as he usually had during dark times, he and the Household Guard stormed off to the Palace with the Council, locking the Palace doors and posting guards to make sure nobody could speak to him.

It was as if the death of Leon signaled the death of Flavian as well.

Even more talks of the realm surfaced days after the funeral, discussing the fate of succession. Flavian needed a wife, for children to succeed him, and for the proper respect of a ruling Count. And the way he looked and acted now, nobody was certain he would get a wife in the near future.

In light of the recent dragon attacks, and until the time comes that the dragon-hunting focus group being gathered in Solitude comes to fruition, Dawnstar will begin to train her own forces to protect the town. They are to be trained primarily in the use of bows and ranged weapons, but also with long spears for ground-combat, and equipped with the finest fire-resistant enchanted gear.

Skald wishes to ensure this program succeeds, and as such will be investing a sum of 2,000,000 septims in the training and outfitting of these soldiers, who will be selected from among the best of Dawnstar's standing armed forces.

A retching cough sounded through the void-space, and Titus stopped in his tracks. Physically his location did not matter; for about his subconscious was forever a link to the magics of the mythopoetic mess that all gods and princes could feel. The breath of the universe, the sound of the souls flying about to their paradises and prisons; and alongside it all, the grid-complex of the earth bones, of the white-noise filler that made up the in-between of the certain and the elsewhere.

Titus could not see the origin of the cough; indeed where ever it had reported was far from his current position, but he could feel it. Never before had something stirred on this plane of thought, never before had much sound even been made, and here was the feeling on the back of his neck, this indescribable shudder on the wind he didn't even breath; and yet for him it was still most assuredly there.

This thing was crawling it's way up. Talons digging into an invisible cliff face, heaving up an anchored soul that no divine could seem to keep from scheming. To Titus, the familiarity of it's oozing horror was enough to prompt a fear, evermoreso upon the sensation of it's home; Bthanchend, near the Ghost Fence.

Morrowind. Ooze. Familiarity. It spelled a reckoning; one Titus simply could not ignore.

Redoran Manor was quiet. Twas the night after Hlaalu-Queen Mita Savihari made her exit in search of the house's own leader; leaving Warmaster Dralsi and Redoran-Queen Soraya to keep the nation intact.

It was in the long hours of that night that Queen Soraya stirred from her slumber. She found two men, shadowed, featureless; standing at the foot of her bed.

Clutching the crown of her husband, which lay upon a tear-soaked pillow next to her own, Queen Soraya leapt from her state and stood on the bed, waving the headpiece at the two figures.

"Out of my house!" she screamed through anxious trembles. "Guards!" she called. "Guards!"

No answer came, and a force knocked her onto her back; the two figures looking to one another, and back to her.

"Manifestation and Manners, Queen Soraya." they called to her, eerie voiced and almost as if whispering in two hundred tones at once.

She stared back at them both, before long a blank expression asking "And what in The Pits do you mean by that." her tone now angry and inquisitive; something of the aura in her room erasing the feeling of dread in her heart.

"Destiny is a double-sided coin, Daughter. While one might wish it upon a King, one must also ensure it is not interrupted by the observers."

"What are you saying..." she poised shakily. "My Endrys. What have you done with him."

"We have done nothing, Daughter, Queen. We have predicted, only."

Soraya only continued to stare, her grip on the crown of her husband tightening. "Are you here to kill me."

"No." the creatures whispered, their edges turning to mist and combining into a single being. They leaned in, light of the windows bringing to pass a sudden horror in the queen before them. "Only to command that you do not follow."

It bore the face of King Endrys himself, and just in that moment, as the nightmare's demands completed; she jolted awake screaming.

The sun had risen ever so slightly above the horizon, pouring pale golden light into the room; revealing a peculiar difference. Dralsi burst in not long afterward, looking to her mother with relief to see she is only waking.

"Mother..." she begins. "I... I don't know what happened."

The walls of the palace were now a solid, foreboding black. Irremovable soot blanketed the stone and chitin foundations and floors of the entire mansion; yet strangely leaving all the persons and items in tact and in color. It was as if the castle had been burned in the middle of the night, and that something else had come to save them.

It was later discovered, much to the horror of the Venim Family, that the throne room bore a message of uncharred chitin, the soot and ash falling around the rather hastily carved letters that spelled, simply: "SYZYGY"

A ship of relatively regular size docks in Blacklight, a handful of Ajeyan Guard making their way off and towards the palace. They are completely ignored by the citizens, as much of House Redoran's capital was engrossed in its daily life.

Children ran through the roads, carts and carriages made their way through the township, and general bustling masses paraded throughout. Rich purple banners swung from the highest towers, embroidered with intricate tan scarabs, alongside the tattered ice and rust flags of the long-gone Intransigent Assembly.

On the surface, Morrowind's capital could not have been livelier. But beneath it all, hidden away inside Redoran Manor, the Resdayn's open casket felt imminent.

The Redoran Warmaster, Dralsi, accompanied the Ajeyan's up into the Manor's old council room which sat in a windowless chamber above the throne room. It acted mostly as living space after Endrys had orchestrated the new council spot, now decorated elegantly with fine red-silk tapestries and softened bonemold chairs. All around a pleasant locale, Dralsi took a seat on the couch that rested between two opposing seats of matching mahogany/cushion builds; gifts from the Mede family during Titus III's time here.

All but one of the Ajeyan Guard left, leaving only a mage and his Saint standing just inside the door way. Opposite them sat Dralsi's mother, Soraya Venim, the Queen of Morrowind; shakily holding a glass of firebrand wine.

In order to know more about his Friends & Foes, Verid decides to send out letters containing a Census to all other leaders of Tamriel.

Her ship brushed against the ash-laden dockyard of Hla Oad, and Dralsi shuffled off the boat.

Her Ajeyan Guards remained aboard, and she made her way alone to the palace. Luckily for her the Guard had not fallen under the same scrutiny that her family did, thanks to the fact that Ajeyans throw off banners and bloodlines and devoted service to the Assembly. Though most don't realize that with the Intransigent Assembly dissolved, they serve Dralsi and by technical extension, House Redoran.

Nonetheless, her stalhrim armor remained untarnished by the crowd's food or eyes, and Dralsi found the steps of Mita's home. She asked the guards to send word that she was here, and let herself into one of the back rooms to find replacement bandages. Her arm and leg remained deeply cut and impeded her movement, as well as her torn shoulder keeping her from doing much fighting.

Dralsi set her armor down, and was now in under-armor rags, relaxing in a chair while she rested her wrist before replacing the bandages on her arm. The news she had for Mita was dire, and in light of working on few hours of sleep and the anxiety of the aforementioned news, Dralsi was in the very shortest phrase possible, tired.

Her eyes dart beneath the fabric as she groans in pain. The Earth buzzes around her bare feet and she feels his feet tread towards her. Mita blocks, colliding against her opponent’s spear as a grin curls up her features. She’s found her edge again as she maneuvers about her target as if she wasn’t blinded, though she takes more hits than she normally would and is far more precise with her strikes. Nothing can interrupt her focus.

A curse echoes up the tower, gracing whoever lurks above as the spell fails once again. Mita, out of impatience, takes to scaling a vine. “Titus!” She calls, threatening in her tone though she attempts to be nice. Her foot slips, but she catches herself as she continues climbing and ordering, “Fyr?” She calls. She pulls herself onto the level, looking about for anyone present. “Titus!” She screams, “I know you’re here! I feel you here!” Mita continues, stomping about the tower in a worried frenzy. “Goddamnit!” She mutters. A fur boot impatiently taps as she readjusts a fur lined hunter’s cowl that wraps around her body.

[there's not a lot happening at the moment so I'm just gunna do a little bandit storyline]

The small band of smugglers dragged their barrels up and over the mudded ground of the Colovian Highlands, their horses killed for meat, their carts burnt for warmth, but they were nearing the rendezvous point now and survival seemed to be in their grasp. Gralp, their sour-faced leader crested the ridge after the first couple of men and stared down into the valley, straining his eyes through the dawn and fog for any sign of the next step. And there it was- a solitary light and, if the wind picked up a little, the gentle murmur of a large camp.

"There it is boys, we're here!"

The gruff man showed more emotion to see signs of his own saviour that when he saw many of his men butchered by Colovian cavalry. It always was his style.

The smugglers felt safe in the valley, with several dozen bandits escorting them, and more horses and carts, and plenty of food and drink. They finally rested. But eyes had never left their side, and a lone horsemen snaked his way from the bandits, making their doom more and more certain with each pounding hoof strike of the ground.

Half an hour later, the sun had risen over the high walls of the valley, and was finally starting to rout the mist from its powerful grip on the land. The bandits prepared to go about their day in a lazy manner, never ones for military discipline, and were unaware of the formation building above them, hiding in the open and bright path of the sun, obscured by their blindness. A wing of Colovian Cavalry formed several charging lines, bright lances soon to sweep their bloody way through the camp, and at the give of a horn, they charged down the hill like a tumbling stone, trading their element of surprise for the element of shock.

Trooper Traiko was in the first charge line, as one of the more experienced members of the squadron, still bearing the battered helm and Nordic sword he had used in campaign throughout Skyrim and Morrowind, and the Ald'ruhn medallion on his dull mail shirt, the repaired sections shining a defiant contrast to the old rings.

A cheer erupted from the ranks but Traiko, never one for a battle cry, calmly selected his target and made for him with speed. As he reached him, the panicking bandit raised a mace in an attempt to block the lance, but the tip caught him in the sternum, cracking the bone and sending shards into the lungs, rupturing most of the chest cavity. Traiko expertly absorbed the impact with his arm, and let the momentum rip the lance out of the stricken man, as he was pushed to the ground lifeless.

Traiko looked up, but there was nothing more to do. The small bandit contingent had been completely overwhelmed by the 120 man squadron, and from one brutal charge there were no survivors, not even the one who had drunkenly passed out on a haystack.

"Traiko! With me." Prefect Spurnius was obviously making towards the command tent of the smuggling operation, which left Traiko with little opportunity to reap the rich pickings before the greener squaddies of the later charges arrived to take all the goods.

"Sir." Complied Traiko, somewhat bitterly.

Once inside the tent, Spurnius began to upturn chests of papers and finger through them, looking for anything of value.

"Good thing you can read Traiko, we're going to need intelligence now that we've killed the only guys we could track easily enough"

"Like this sir?"

Traiko held up a piece of paper with the heading WESTERN GOODS, followed by a hand written letter signed off by a man called Rello.

"Huh...yes, exactly like that." said Spurnius, surprised at the speed of this find.

Suddenly a trooper burst into the tent, an almost fearful expression on his face.

"Sir! Sir! We've found their cargo. It's soul gems, black ones, ya know, necromancer shit!"

Spurnius looked up from the letter, having just completed reading it, and spoke.

"And it looks like we know where they came from. I think we'll need to visit Anvil, find a man called Rello."

Cylenn had rested for days. Her light reading had revealed much about this world, and between that and swinging conjured blades she resorted to extened periods of meditation.

Meditating as the Arch-Amnesiad of Jygglag meant listening to voices of untold secrets and destinies, all while focusing the energy of the Order God's nexus toward a common goal; most often a telepathic communication path for the leadership. As an ex-Engram of the Lyceum, however, there was now a nagging silence. A constant ping in the wake of vanished voices, a ping the likes of which she despised with every fiber.

Hence her immense applause upon the breaking of that silent song; when a distant and harrowing meditation ushered simply "Chaos, Freedom, War, and Folly."

The latch to her prison snapped off, the creak of the grated magic echoing in the empty halls of the Battlespire; drowned out by the few Redoran and Indoril work forces below.

Peering into the corridor, no footfalls sounded, and she ran. Making her way down the hall to her left, around the corner to the stairs, and down the handrail as fast as she could; Cylenn's heels smacked against the marble floors, two guards spitting out the shein in their mouths at the sight of actual action aboard this otherwise forgotten vessel.

She rolled forward, catching their heads with her hands, and issued forth a pale blue mist around their minds. Amnesia. They would forget her.

Further into the Battlespire she grabbed hold of another stray guard, providing the same memory block, and continuing her jaunt to the main level.

Coming around a bend she stopped suddenly and skidded on her feet. In front of her was the door outside and across the vibrant bridge to the Weir Gate's base. And as all good villains must, she spun around and eyed the display case. Looming, embedded in the wall of the chamber, surrounded by an effigy of the heroes who faced the mad vampire Leontius, lay against deep purple silk a single silver sword.

She wrung her fingers around air, pulling towards herself with every muscle to pry the weapon from it's fastening; finally bursting a golden handle through the glass and catching the greatsword with both hands. She'd read about it, studied it to the best of her ability whilst she bid her time, and new that this was part of the next step.

On the horizon, the Weir Gate flickered on with bright purple energies, and Cylenn looked down to the sword in her hands. "Chrysamere," she spoke to it, "You're ours now."

Dralsi had set sail for Hla Oad two days ago, and the venture was meant to take another few. The Inner Sea was in view already, and Blacklight's distant Redoran Manor Spires hung in the horizon like upturned chandeliers. All had been quiet aboard the vessel; and that was in no way to her liking.

Something was stirring. Between rumors of Dragons in the north, dissidence among the Great Houses, and now the past coming back to haunt them? The Venim Family was in grave danger. Moreso given the sudden shudder of the ship, and Dralsi's nearly having been thrown overboard.

The ship stopped, and she looked out around her. The captain could see nothing, and the 4 Ajeyan Guard who'd joined her from the company on Solstheim had drawn their blades. The one naga, Ciiridixid, quoted "Niether anchor nor stone. What stopped us?"

"Captain," called Dralsi, "the waters here are still poisoned with ash, no?"

"Aye, warmaster!" he called.

Indeed no monster could harbor in the water beneath them; yet now the ship began to shake. Thud's reported from below, against the hull, and moving for the surface. All blades and spears were at the ready when several figures leapt up from the ocean and onto the ship.

Donned in opaque crystal hastily painted black and accented by heavy cloaks of the same leviathan skin Dralsi had seen on them before; were Order Priests. The difference in these were their more oriental and dunmeri-styled layout, likewise the turban-esque head wrappings that masked all save for their eyes. Their blood-red eyes.

"Assassins!" yelled Ciiridixid, bashing a hammer into one's head and sending him flying overboard.

Dralsi ducked and rolled, her worn stalhrim armor clanking against the wood as an old wooden spear covered in tassels made it's way into the heart of another.

To her left, one of the Ajeyans was sliced right in half as one of the shadowed Priests seemed to teleport forward at blinding speed.

The captain pulled his own weapon out, lashing a heavy whip into the Priest who attempted to throw him from the wheel; sending the man crashing down the stairs of the deck and towards Dralsi who finished him.

Three more remained, all suddenly eyeing Dralsi and leaving their other targets be as in unison they chanted "Kill". The three Priests flashed forward, Dralsi throwing out her spear against them. One blade found purchase in her leg, another in her arm, and the last blocked at the expense of a dent in her breastplate.

With the two still breathing now behind her, Captain Cormelion lashed the sword from one's hand, following through his weapon's momentum to the main deck and driving the blade into the face of the assassin.

Dralsi pinned the last to the cabin door with her spear; doing so tearing an exposed muscle in her shoulder. With a scream she fell, fists pounding into the wood, but alive.

On board investigation would reveal nothing as to their identities, motives, or origin. They had been Dunmer men and women of the alteration schools, armed with bladed weapons and the armor types of Jyggalag's best; and it was certain now if not before that Order was still alive.

All across Hammerfell, young men and old, womenfolk or all ages, children and elders are abuzz with strange and unforeseen - but certainly welcome - news from Sentinel.

Following King Tamir's return from his still largely-ambiguous leave of absence, the king has declared his intention to reestablish one of the oldest and most renowned of Yokudan institutions: the Temple of the Virtues of War.

Gone for hundreds of years, the Ansei formed a strange and powerful art all their own within Yokudan society. The school of the Sword-Singers was powerful, influential, revered and - at times - divisive within Yokudan society. None can deny the power that the most adept of these warriors - known as the Saints of the Sword - possessed. Names like Frandar Hunding, household in Hammerfell, come to mind when one envisions such amazing feats of bladesmanship as those practiced by the ancient Ansei.

Traditionally, Yokudan boys and girls were inducted into the order at age 11, beginning their training immediately. For hundreds of years now, young Yokudan boys have trained since they were old enough to wield a blade. Now, in addition to the reestablishment of the Temple, King Tamir has also declared that all women who wish to be brought up in the same ways of war as their male counterparts be allowed to do the same.

The Temple will be headed by three men and two women who have been taken under the wing of King Tamir. As the only living Yokudan to have ever created and made use of a Shehai, he will dedicate as much time as necessary to teaching these five pupils the ways of the Sword-Singers. Once they have shown a level of aptitude that the king deems acceptable, they will be released to bring forth and instruct their own charges in these ancient arts.

The prison escapades of House Redoran, which brought about the death of over 50,000 individuals, have remained bashed upon and disapproved of by the populace. Despite this, the royal family has issued that all remaining prisoners, or any prisoners who come about in the future, are to be sent directly to the recently established dungeons in Gnisis.

The underground is meant to act as a refuge for the dastardly, and will be shared among all houses who participate. Those prisons that now lie empty are planned to be transformed into medicinal wards, kitchens, and other such locales of public assistance.

The Venim Family themselves have also stopped most contact with the outside world, shutting away visitors, and leaving many parties unattended. The cause is publicly assumed to be House Hlaalu's slander of their policies, though Representative Aryn Venim has promised that to be only a portion of what has gone wrong within the otherwise illustrious towers of Redoran Manor.