https://youtube.com/watch?v=shkCsWMGZZY

Please post your conversion and construction events in the comments of this post. For information about conversions, including a list of the most common religious match-ups and their compatibility, use this. To learn more about structures you can build, see the 'Prices' tab of the spreadsheet values.

Only claim, roleplay, lore and meta posts are allowed on Sundays.

We have decided to move this community elsewhere - a fresh start, on a new sub - r/TamrielArena. The name is fitting, since Tamriel has been called "Arena" because of its violent tendencies - and those will peak at the turn of the era. The Septim Empire is crumbling without the Emperors, and the state of the Arena may soon return.

So, if you reserved a claim, you may go over there and make a [CLAIM] post. If you didn't reserve anything, you can still choose from the many nations and organizations that are still open.

Say something about your main characters, your dynasty (if you're feudal), or anything important about your claim. You can also do it as a roleplay, as many of you did here.

We're looking forward to your lore. The actual game will start very soon! Just some minor tweaking, some major advertizing and a lot of H Y P E needs to be done before we can start!

EDIT: We start on January 8th!

Only claim, roleplay, lore and meta posts are allowed on Sundays.

Aran Hidellith always went through great lengths to be royal. When appearing before his court, his people, or foreign officials, he wore the finest, most expensive clothing and jewellery, the best works available on Tamriel. When declaring, proclaiming, signing or simply appearing anywhere of inportance, he always adhered to the Ceremoniarchy, a fixed guideline of etiquette, dictating rulers what to say, do and show, and how. Such was the will of the Praxis. It was all appropriate, and it worked. Even if he did something of a more progressive sort, radical, even bordering on revolutionary, he hid behind his facade of royalty, and even the most traditionalistic of his subjects were appeased.

The result was somewhat of a legend building around him. He was in power for over a century. Most young elves remembered him as the only person with absolute power in their land. And, he used his power to gain even more. Good standing with the mainland turned the past tributary agreement with the Second Empire into a mutually beneficial alliance with the Third. A series of conquests ensured the complete Aldmeri dominance over the Eltheric Ocean. Prestige gained from welcoming clan DIrenni into his family earned him fame in even the lands far away.

And, the wealth he accumulated created an opportunity for his people to explore what was beyond the firmament. There were failures, sure, but his Sunbirds now regularly travel between the Void and Nirn, bringing resources up and treasures down.

Sunbird Mystery was successful at gathering large amounts of knowledge from the edge of Aetherius. Mages did learn a lot, expanding their understanding, even if there were questions still unanswered and information still not explained. But, the progress was consistent. The craft even brought home samples of celestial materials, Aetherial fragments, crystals of unexplained origins, and such.

Seeing the otherwordly gems, Hidellith promptly instructed his royal designers to work them into their fabrics. He had his jewellers work some of the glowing crystals into his crown, or even mount them on the Moonstone Throne itself. For his wife, he had a brooch made, similar to the one she received as a gift from the strange beasts that called themselves elves, but better. She gladly replaced the old one in her wardrobe.

After this costume upgrade, Aran Hidellith started to generate even more prestige. His fashionable shoulderguards were designed in such a way that they formed the rays of light reflecting off of it into apparitions of large avian wings. The king bathed in the rays of the sun that was himself, walking among mortals as a living god. And, perhaps, he was one. The sole ruler of the Eltheric Ocean, unifier of elves, executor of justice for the destruction of Yokuda, friend to the Empress and devout keeper of Auri-El's legacy.

With his full name, Hidellith Arana Aldmeri, Hegemon Eltherya, Aran Alinorya, His Ancestral Majesty continues his rule, and strives for yet more.

Alan Tamrith stood upon the balcony of his war room in Castle Alcaire, watching the sun sink into the horizon, painting the city red. During his rule as king, the city had grown thrice its original size, and his Kingdom had doubled. It stretched from the Illiac to the Northern Sea, from the shining city of Camlorn to the mountains of Eaglebrook. He had watched his life gone by in a flash, and his actions bear fruit. He had made mistake upon mistake, he had done unforgivable things, yet he lived, and his friends and family, and many of those more deserving than him had long since passed. As the city became awake with the dim lights of torches and candles, he remembered again what the old Duke of Camlorn had told him so many years before, when he hungered for blood and lusted for war. The Duke had asked him whether he wanted to be remembered as his father was, a ruthless, bloodthirsty warmonger, or someone else. Something different. He wondered to himself, as his hair was bled of their color and his skin wrinkled, how he would be remembered.

His aunt Valsaya, the first of his kin to die, was lost upon one of her voyages, when she announced that she would sail westwards and find the edge of the world. Before she left, she spat at Alan's feet, disgusted at what he had become. He had thought at the moment to arrest her for what she did, but as she had turned from him, he knew she was right in everything she had said. And so he was silent.

He never heard from her again.

It was after that where he truly began to change. He traveled to Wayrest and made his amends with his wife, accepting Valerus as his own yet again. He remembered how happy Serena was about that. She had been married off to some handsome lord in Hammerfell- or was it High Rock? - and she visited often with her children. Valcarian returned from Valenwood at this time as well. He had said his goodbyes to his wife, who yet remained as young as the day they had met, and came back to the land of his home. He refused to die from there, despite his deteriorating health and age. When news arrived of the whereabouts of Keldebran Eaglebrook, the one who orchestrated his capture and torture, Valcarian seemingly shed twenty years and rode off there. A fortnight later, Alan received the news that Valcarian and Keldebran had both been found dead after Valcarian cut his way through to the deposed lord and slain him before succumbing to his wounds. Alan couldn't have helped but smile when he had heard the news. Valcarian had always expressed his distaste with dying in his bed. Old uncle Val finally got his wish, and a well deserved rest.

Alan moved from the balcony and descended the stairs of the castle until he reached the courtyard. It was there were he found Knight Commander Tancred Crosswych waiting. Tancred was the last of his original Blackguard that lived from the one he had originally founded. Tancred was showing his age as well, with short white hair and grey stubble over his jaw. He had learned much from his previous commander, Ser Restholt, and was surely a worthy man in all aspects. He stood beside two coursers, a chestnut colored one and a silver one.

Without saying much as a word, Crosswych helped Alan onto the silver before mounting his own horse. Like any Tamrith, Alan felt naturally at home on a horse. Even in his old age, his pains and aches of his years seemed to melt away when he rode, which he did more and more as time passed. He had passed much of his ruling to Valerus and Adrien and their many advisors, remaining somewhat only a figurehead of a ruler. The two of them passed through the northern gate of the Castle, away from the city and into the plains beyond. They rode slow at first, trotting as walls grew smaller behind them. When they had finally made some distance from the castle, they nudged the horses into a run.

It was Serena who went after Valcarian. After some time, Arielle abdicated her throne to Valerus to prepare him for his eventual joint rule, and moved back to Alcaire. Her and Serena became fast friends, as they would spend much time riding on the fields or walking the Motherswood but eventually Serena's visits became less frequent, before Alan received news that she had disappeared. Him and her husband went to great lengths to find her, but they never could, and so her husband had eventually pronounced her dead. Alan didn't believe so. He never found out what happened to his sister, and he spent his life trying to find out. But regardless, he would meet her again soon.

And then of course there was Arielle. She lived long with him, even after everyone else: Celestin, Gaubard and the others, had died. their relationship truly took a lifetime to heal, and things were still always tense between the two when the topic of succession was brought up, yet they found joy in each other until her last days. She stood beside him in every council meeting, and when he would grow tired of politics, she would represent him there. When she grew sickly, he sat by her bedside for hours every day, and they would talk for hours every day, and then one day she began to talk less and less, and one morning she never woke up from her sleep.

Alan, lost in his thoughts, was not prepared for the sudden jolt of his horse. His right foot came off of the stirrup, and he fell from the horse, being dragged a few meters before his other foot slipped off as well. The impact to his head made him dizzy, and he could not even hear the voice of Tancred shouting at him. He suddenly felt tired, and he closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to his sons. Valerus and Adrien. Ignorant of the cold war that had erupted from their birth, they had become as close as could be. They spent almost every waking hour together, and when Valerus was to visit his aunt in Valenwood, he refused to go unless his brother could come with him. Adrien's bastardy never seemed to matter to his brother, no matter what people said to him. Valerus would be a good ruler, and he knew Adrien would be beside him through it all. But it was Valerus' relationship with his father that suffered. Arielle had done much to heal the rift that had grown between Alan and his son, yet there was always an unease, a bitterness from the many years of neglect when Valerus was young. And maybe Alan deserved that. It was a consequence of his mistakes, something he would have to deal with until his dying days. And there were many consequences, made over decades of actions, but Alan was too tired to remember them all. His head was hurting, and his vision blurring. He thought he felt someone pick him up, but he wasn't sure.

His last thoughts were of a cold winter day, with snow all around him. He was young then, and his father was sitting beside him and telling him of the greatest kingdom that would exist, but Alan wasn't that interested.

Ride to skingrad at once, Ride fast and travel light. we must discuss things that are too sensitive to put in this letter. It is of paramount importance that you put your generals on alert and prepare them to march. The time of waiting is over we must make plans to destroy a great enemy of the empire.

Arcturus

[Attached to the letter is a sword with the seal of skingrad symbolizing a personal call to arms.]

Only claim, roleplay, lore and meta posts are allowed on Sundays.

As was instructed, the Ayleidoon send forth a skyship-- The Sunbeam, their smallest--to survey from above the situation at Bravil and what all is going on after a series of curious and inexplicable events surrounding the city. The ship itself is lightly manned with about 20 soldiers. They are not there to fight but to observe with magical means, to gather information, and to report back when possible.

Alright, you know that a reset is coming, and soon. However, you might not know a lot about what time period and state of the world we chose to start from. We've decided to start off right after the Oblivion Crisis ended, in year 0 of the Fourth Era.

The Septim dynasty is no more. It is a surprise that the Empire is holding together at all, and everybody knows that it will change. Potentate Ocato assumed control over the Empire, leading the Elder Council, but the Provinces are not hiding their displeasure. The Empire failed them when they refused to send the Legions out to help close the Oblivion gates appearing outside of Cyrodiil. Most people know the truth, that the Champion of Cyrodiil and the Blades stopped the Crisis, but some decided to follow a different narrative: it was the Thalmor, a newly emergent civil movent in the Summerset Isles who saved their province, and the An-Xileel, who sent their greatest fighers through the Oblivion gates and stopped the daedric invasion of Black Marsh even before Mehrunes Dagon was banished by Martin Septim.

As of now, every nation is formally a subject of the Empire. Pro-Imperial governments still manage to maintain the status quo, but some of the native-run countries are stirring up for conquest and rebellion.

Cyrodiil is still ruled by the counts we met in TES:IV, with the Potentate controlling the Imperial Isle directly. County Kvatch is without a functioning capital and without a rightful ruler, but a new lord may rise to assume that place (opportunity to play Titus Mede here!)

Skyrim was in its prime before the daedric invasion, and may continue to be a powerful province, loyal to the Empire or not. Breton city of Jehanna and Redguard kingdom of Elinhir are still firmly under Nordic control. Reachmen are suppressed under a Nordic jarl as well, and Jsashe, Witch Queen of Whiterun, rules her domain as a theocracy of the cult of Shor.

High Rock is still fractured, but less so now, after the Miracle of Peace. Orsinium is a powerful kingdom on the Breton political scene, allied with Wayrest, while Western Reach, a highland nation of native Reachmen, plagues the east of the province with raids and skirmishes. Kingdom of Shornhelm is still ruled be descendants of Andorak Septim, and theoretically, they have a claim on the Ruby Throne.

Hammerfell is divided into many Crown and Forebear kingdoms, with king Lhotun ruling from Sentinel, trying to appease both. Elinhir is controlled by the Nords, but it is no secret that a reconquest is being planned.

Summerset Isles are ruled by Altmer kings from dynasties stretching all the way to the Divines themselves. The Thalmor do not own any land directly, but have become a major movement supported by a great number of people. All they need now to further their goals is a rich, landed supporter from an ancient family. Or... not.
Not everyone in power is an Altmer, though. Morgiah, daughter of the famous Barenziah, wed king Reman Karoodil of Firsthold and gave him two Dunmer-looking children. Not everyone is happy about that.

Valenwood has never been truly united after the disaster of the Camoran Usurper, the Empire decided to keep it that way. Numerous kingdoms exist, independent from each other. The walking city of Falinesti has rooted in its summer location, and a Wild Hunt may happen soon due to the turn of the Era.

Elsweyr exists as three kingdoms, Anequina, Pelletine and Rimmen, the former two of whcih are also split into three subjects. Pelletinian city state of Senchal is de facto ruled by the drug lord Ya'Tirrje, the Gold Cat, who seeks to expand his business further.

Black Marsh is officially under the rule of an Imperial government from Lilmoth, but the tribes inland were never cooperative. With the An-Xileel riling up the Saxhleel for open secession, the Imperial Province of Black Marsh will have a hard time to enforce their rule.

Morrowind, under the 'guidance' of king Hlaalu Helseth, underwent a few drastic changes. Slavery was abolished, and most Houses now oppose the Pro-Imperial monarch. The Tribunal Temple still owns much of Vvardenfell, although no one has seen any of the Tribunes or the Nerevarine for a long time. Dissident priests are starting to be more vocal. Baar Dau is held up on the sky over Vivec city by Ingenium, consuming large amounts of souls.

Claim list is here. Here, you will find a map, a running version of it, without any markers showing which nation is which, but you can tell from the names of the territories.

If you want to reserve a claim for yourself, tell us in a comment.

The new features I personally work on are: an overhaul of demographics (many different cultures and religions are now showing as percentages in every territory, so you can actually extrapolate how many people from a minority are living in your land), conversions (religious and cultural), stability (determines how effective you are at drafting men and collecting taxes from a given territory, and the likelihood of uprisings) and something new! An exploration system! Learn more about the idea of it here.

EDIT:

Demographics, cultures, religions, conversions and appeasement will be very important to you if you want your nation to survive. Get acquainted with cultures and conversions here and with religions here. The amount of diversity we decided to include may surprise you.

A young fresh faced private stands nervously on the threshold. His uniform is thick with the mud of the coastal trenches, and his helmet is noticably askew. In his hand is a sopping wet and wrinkled paper.

"Sir, have you read the briefing from Bravil?"

The man he addresses is Admiral Adrius Yuntai, who's chief and utterly unofficial concern is the operations of Echmeri Special Forces. His uniform is also caked with mud, but he maintains the posture of top brass.

"Yes Private I have. In fact, I'm pleased you approached me. I want you to run to trench E42. There you will find a team of engineers with green starburst patches on their shoulders. I want you to tell them to report to Pasgaviati for redeployment."

────────

A Nullbarque sets its cargo net into a small glade, the massive engines cascading formulas in all directions. It has clearly been under severe strain, running for days on end. From the side jumps a team of ten Echmer, all dressed in standard uniform. They will need no armor in this peaceful forest. The netting is pulled from the cargo, and it is revealed to be the Technomagical Howitzer from Bthanchend. They are the first Echmer artillery squad, and they are going to purify Bravil of its blight.

/u/kerbalspaceexplorer for success

Alright, everybody. After much deliberation from the mod team, we've come to the decision that it's the right time to make a really big announcement. For a good few weeks now, we've been working on laying groundwork for the reset! We've got a mostly functioning nation sheet and a complete map (subject to minor changes along the way, of course) and overall we're making lots of great headway towards having something that we can start putting players into. This is going to be big. As in, we're doing essentially a ground-up rework of the sub's mechanics big. I can't say we have an official date in our heads yet, because we don't. Right now, it'll be ready when it's ready, but hopefully that should be some time soon; possibly even before the year's out.

So, let's get to the questions!

WHEN?!?

We don't know. Hopefully before the year's out but we want to make sure everything's perfect.

WHAT ARE YOU CHANGING?!?!

Everything! Nearly every feature is being ground-up reworked; here's a little insider secret, the four 'categories' of work we have are battles, the map, and nation sheets; but there's an ever-piling up to-do-list! But to give a specific example, we want to promote RP more, so there will be a much bigger focus on dynasties and marriages; and another example, we want to deincentivise simply winning via military might, so trade is much more important!

WHY?!?!

Dropping activity on the sub. We've been working on the reset for a while. but committed work has only really began in the past few weeks.

WHERE CAN I LEAVE FEEDBACK?!?

Message either myself, fabricofspacetime, slovakiin or awildwurmple, as we're the de facto 'reset team,' or direct it to the #thebigreset channel on the Slack.

That's all, folks! If any more questions are frequently asked, I'll edit this post with the answers.

There is great unrest in the region of Winterhold. For the last few years, cold, bitter, and unforgiving winters have gripped the region. Snow falls almost continuously through the autumn, winter, and sometimes even the spring months. The frost left behind sometimes stays well into the summer months, where one would come to expect some warmth. Outside the city, small hamlets are struggling to make due, as the vicious cold makes the already weak-yielding crops grown in the region be nearly unallowable. The city itself, dependent on both trade and the college, has also been struggling. The Sea of Ghosts has becomes even more treacherous (but not impossible) to navigate, making traders either consider braving the waters, or take their business elsewhere. With all this happening, there is only one person that is doing well given the circumstances, that being Jarl Sileskr. The Jarl had long been an ally to the High King of Skyrim, which in turn let's him be in the High King's good graces when it comes to rewarding loyalty. Therefore when food was abundant in other regions, the Jarl was sure to be rewarded with ample supplies of high quality food from other regions, while his people make by on grains. The people aren't happy, and pretty soon, Winterhold may find itself in an even deadlier crisis.

Countess Sariah Snipe stood alone before her throne, a palace's ruins and a thriving forest of white trees flanking her in every direction. Her hands were clasped around a warm cup of soothing tea, the breeze rustling the leaves above and making her adjust her robe.

She was eyeing the throne she'd stolen, its crooked position entangled in the roots of what was essentially a lobotomized Hist. Its bark murmured as it slumbered, its precious sap leaking like drool.

Another chill washed over her, and Sariah pulled her collar further up. But she felt the frost crawl down her spine; listened to the absence of leaves rustling in the wind. No flames flickered, no banners flapped. And just as she realized no normal cold had settled did she feel her body answer to a will not her own. Sariah became an audience to a greater power; just as so many times before. An audience to Them.

They turned around slowly, eyeing the creature that had snuck in. They followed the awkward stillness of their ruby robes up to the yellowed and rotten flesh of a corpse, its eyes unblinking and black, its mouth loose and frothing with bilge, its hands brandishing a shortsword crooked and rusty.

Sariah did not recognize the figure, but she knew the aura well. And her possessor filled in the gaps.

"Pull your fingers from her grave before I bury you with her" The wraith said to Them, its voice a creaking whisper backed by black spittle and a coarse throat.

"Sithis," They named him, one thousand voices pouring in unison from Sariah's mouth, "We'd hoped this would draw you out."

The wraith only squinted

"We refuse to speak to your vessels," They said, "We wanted your direct attention. Your Wrath will do. Give Us Hanzwell."

The wraith's head leaned to the left, an air of confusion in their expression. "You defile my hallowed ground, draw the gaze of God, to ask for a mortal by name? How miserly."

"We don't want your life to be the first We take. There are others more dire in mind. But the plan can change. Give Us Hanzwell or her corpse becomes a forest," They threatened

Sithis' Wrath gripped tighter to the rusted blade in its hand. "You've escaped every exile. There is no cell left that you have not broken. Only death awaits you if you push this further."

"You know you won't. You're trapped, just the way the others like it. Hand over the lizard, and help Us help you. Help Us end all of this. I come to light, as so shall all in the abyss who kneel beside me."

The wraith took one step forward, and just as fast as its foot fell did eight flowing robes of grey appear in the room around it; the masks of Sithis' newest foe.

"You can't overpower me," Sithis promised, "You're the runt."

"Vessels are pale shadows of their masters. Even as potent as your Wrath may be, the shape before Us is not truly you. There is much that The Great Sink offers to those who find themselves forced behind its bars; no greatness more than time and reflection. You do not know the power you challenge, Sithis."

The wraith smiled, its lips splitting from their rotted nature, the grisly image of unlife's happiness being what stood before Sariah. "I care not for the scurrying and squabbling you lessers perform amidst the plots that you plan. But you threaten my heart, my throne. And worst of all you presume to be bigger than me. I warned you, and you only knocked again. Now I'm here; and you captain the audacity to gloat and demand as though you are anything more than a footnote."

"Give Us Hanzwell, and this conversation can end."

"Be he in my halls, Crux is not my domain. He has Raum's claws now, and Hastur's eyes. To squash them would be a waste; I will not meddle in that affair. But you? I'm torn between testing your boasts or stepping aside to watch the theater of their combined and far-lesser might knock you down."

"What business does the voice of Thool have with a gold-blood?" They sneered in curiosity and partial refusal

"It is not the domain of The Void to listen; only to speak. And it is nor your domain to pry."

"We'll leave the coffin to the dust it is buried in if you set aside your gaze and open the door. Remove the silencing of Our magic from your halls, let Us slay Hanzwell and prevent him from talking, and We'll ignore your backwards cathedral beneath Our palace."

"I don't negotiate. Leave the reptile's fate to better elders, and my bride's bones alone. In return you get to live."

Sariah felt her master cringe in anger, a hateful stare piercing through her mind and consuming her face. Sithis' Wrath only maintained its glare of intimidation.

Her muscles flexed, magic rising out of the dirt and through her legs, her fingertips coming alight; she felt her fling arm back as a focus, her possessor channeling its own divinity, and using Sariah as a pylon.

No, not a pylon.

As a cannon.

The eight masks of her master joined into a crescent against Sithis, their eyes bright with power, their weaving robes broken by the rise of arms and light-bathed hands. The skies above Bravil crackled and wept, the trees groaned and twisted, the ground shaking and waves rippling. The World was moving against The Void.

"What a fool you are," Sithis accused in tired rage, "When Zerotep brought you, I saw potential. Instead you raise your hand to God. How short your story will be."

The wraith readied its sword in the defensive, the center of Sariah's patron's storm above being shattered by the arrival of a sphere of purest black. The torrential winds shifted directions in a blink's time; the roofs of houses shuddering, the roots of the forest straining.

Sariah felt the power of her master course through her body and saw a scintillating line draw from her forehead toward Sithis' wraith; a targeting beam of sorts. What a strange magic this is, she thought, is this going to kill me, too?

Sithis' Wrath took another step forward, swinging a hand made from anti-light to claw at Sariah. Before even a breath could be taken, an eruption occurred. There was no way to describe its ilk as anything more than a high-pitched howl. A singular, echoing, and mighty blare of an entire brass chorus before a long and droning scream. A kaleidoscope of light filled Sariah's vision, and she believed fully in that moment that Sithis had just killed her god.

When the light-wave retreated to the distance alongside the shockwave, the forest was standing in defiance to the blast whilst the cobble and sawn-wood and flesh of anything around them were all tossed aside like toys. Sithis' Wrath was gone, a peculiar oily stain scattered across the dirt at Sariah's feet.

She fell to her knees, letting out a blood-curdling scream. Agony gripped her entire body. Her patron had used her as a cannon. Like a lightning spell's sharp snap, but with the combined pain of a blizzard's bite, a power had ripped its way through her very bones. Every nerve-ending in her body felt aflame.

The eight masks around her floated to her side, drawing upon a different magic to lift her up and heal her harm. As she felt herself restored, she stared into the first mask she saw: that of Woe.

"Take this not as a signature of doubt or a lack of faith," she said to it, "only a pleasant and curious surprise. Did we just defeat Sithis himself in a fight?"

The masks exchanged glances, but Woe never faltered in returning the stare. They spoke with the signature thousand voices of Sariah's faith:

"I am Kingdom Come."

Having sent out for the best and wisest of Skingrad, all were gathered in the great hall. None know why they were there. Arcturus walked in the grand entrance and took his place on the dais in the front and at once the hall be came quiet.

We are all here to build a better Skingrad, Now for the next month I will be hearing from all of you, it is your duty to me and your people to help me and my advisers plan for the future. As for you young men we have taken count there are right now 1000 of you in here. When we return in a month there will be only 200. All of you will be pushed hard. Those of you who show leadership, intelligence and honor will be made into Skingrad next officer class. These men will serve as my personal bodyguard and will be made the most elite and well trained force, both proficient in combat and civil matters. To all the others, you have made it this far, even if you don't make it all the way you can prove yourself and, Important and glorious positions await in both the army and civil service. Now recruits make your way to the training grounds outside the city, and prepare yourselfs for what is about to come. Gentlemen let us get to the affairs of state, What should be our short-term and long-term goals and projects?

Arcturus left with the men and lead them outside the hall to a nearby training ground. They would all have to train hard for in a month they would have to contend with a test of an unknown form. While this was going on the wise men would have to lay out a comprehensive goal for skingrad and while this plan may or may not be followed it gave the count and his advisers a good understanding of the feelings the majority of his subjects. That way any unrest could be felt out and smoothed over early.

Only claim, roleplay, lore and meta posts are allowed on Sundays.

In the brightest light of a midday sun Bravil remained dim and alien. Colors no longer popped, only becoming bleached in the light; contrast played against the eyes and made the shadows darker. Once-bustling taverns and proud streets were now haunted by pale trees, walls and roofs knocked aside by their growth, their roots deeply driven through piles of corpses. A tangle of branches canopied every alley. The Snipe manor was tucked one street away from the town square, and from its shattered slate roof rose a towering, bleached sequoia. Its pallor made it look like a wax candle from afar; its shape like an accusatory finger pointed to the sky.

The stone walls of the city of Bravil had not been torn down, rather they had been upgraded; their cobble and mortar heights now backed by steep juts of stone ripped up from the earth by the magics of the city's new ruler. The guard towers had been grown-over by tight-packed copses of woodland with their branches shaped to support some large spherical orb of magic. Where once was a castle, now resided heap of demolished stone and cracked-open ceilings; lone walls standing aloft amid a forest that had matured over night.

Violet fonts of light shone from the insides of many trees throughout the city, replacing the lamp posts and torch sconces. These purple pillars of scintillating energy had roots of gold deeper inside the trees they came from; the network of silver sequoias that now blanketed the city all having hijacked The Hist and using them to maintain a vast tangling of roots and magic. The alien plants seemed lulled into stasis by the pull of the druidic power that coarsed through them; the amethyst-gleaming spriggans tending regularly to the soothed thicket.

These same spriggans stalked the roads. Their sudden capture and slaughter of citizens had ended, and now the faint pat of their feet against the dirt echoed in the streets. The hundreds of thousands still alive in Bravil had slowly started to venture through the back alleys, subsisting on the scraps of food still available in the city. A Pinbleak family caravan of grain had not arrived since the attack occurred. People were starving. And the creatures who once guarded life and nature were now allowing famine and strife to rule their sacred grounds.

Inside the palace Sariah Snipe sat, on her crooked throne ensconced in vines and twigs. Her hand held up her head, her index finger pressed to her temple. Through a face that captained both boredom and anger did Sariah stare; the argonian before her beaten, his hands clasped in spriggan claws. Iridescent blue and yellow feathers adorned his scalp and back, but their glory was marred by blood.

"I'll ask you one more time," Sariah told him, "tell me where he could have gone. Or things become darker than they already are."

Jax stared at the corpse between him and the Countess. A breton, his body frozen in a flinch, small roots and twigs having burrowed throughout him and jutting out from his skin. Edmund was a flame of Jax's, and his death had brought the tears that now stained Jax's cheeks.

His family was dead, his father was missing, his lover was slain right before his eyes. How things could get any darker, Jax was unsure; but he didn't want it to happen.

"Jax," Sariah said to pull his attention

"I don't know," he pleaded through a rage, "I just don't know where my father went. I kept saying it and you don't believe me what the fuck else am I meant to say!? I don't know!"

Sariah only glared, taking in a deep breath, and exhaling with her nod to the spriggans holding Jax.

"Fine, fine, you don't know. But you will. You had a chance, Jax. You could've walked away from all this once you spilled the information I wanted," Sariah then stood and walked closer, the spriggans pulling the lizard to his feet, "But now, once we're done here, I'm slitting your throat. Bring him."

The Countess then lead Jax through the twisting grove of trees, their branches bent into ramps and halls and chambers. They came to a corridor deep within, where the trees seemed the oldest. Their lowest boughs bore fruit; figs, it seemed, their pale flesh seemingly lacerated and sticky mauve juices dribbling out.

"Taste of this, Jax Hanzwell. And we'll put all of this behind us." Sariah commanded and promised

He sniffed at the alien fig, and found the odor of its dripping innards rancid; he resisted at first, and Sariah did not allow him the chance to refuse a second time. She had the spriggans hold his maw wide open as she squeezed the fruit in her hand and let its juices run down Jax's throat. He shook at the taste: like spoiled meat.

He coughed and gagged, his restraint only exaggerating the pain in his throat. When Sariah finally finished, and the creatures loosened their grip of him, Jax doubled over onto the floor and wheezed for air. A cocktail of absurd flavors stained his tongue, and his insides felt upside down.

"Let that acclimatize," Sariah said, lowering herself to his level, "Let your body take in the waters of our gift. That was a catalyst, Jax. Now comes the fun part."

She pressed her hand to his feathered head and pulsed a spell through his beaten bones. He felt his mind drawn across great distances and through places he'd never witnessed, toward the flowing blood of his kin. His mind raced against his will. Jax felt himself coarse through a hallway unfamiliar; the breeze of his speed against his skin, the rank of its air filling his nose. A dampness clung to him.

His vision reached a black door with a rounded top; its face bearing the image of a woman holding a dagger aloft. A crowd of some sort gathered at her feet. A red hand gleamed in the darkness above it all.

"Of course," Jax heared Sariah's voice whisper, "Onward."

He tried. His form hit the door with a mighty thud; and he felt himself thrown back. The vision suddenly felt more wild. Like a bony hand wrapping itself around his brain, Jax felt nothing but pain and confusion. Through the whispered screams of his controller, Sariah clearly felt it too.

An eclipse erupted through his vision. Light bent and swirled around a churning circular chasm of absolute darkness. Like the eye of a storm it whirled, yet quiet as the grave. It commanded an air of simultaneous awe and dread.

Jax felt like his skin was being ripped away from him. He felt like he was falling into it, and that its unerring gaze sought to devour and drown him. And then Jax felt the pit seem to look away, the attention of its traction leaving him, and as suddenly as it had started: the void vanished.

He was suddenly back inside the original chamber, Sariah clutching her head in agony. She painfully groaned with a thousand voices at once, "Get out of Our head, get out of Our head, get OUT OF MY HEAD!"

It chilled the nerves in Jax's body like millions of pinpricks.

The spriggans had let go and were now hunched over Sariah, their internal light flickering, trying to lift her up. Jax could've escaped but his heart was racing, his mind aflame. It stung to open his eyes, as though they had not adjusted to the light of the room from the darkness they'd just witnessed.

But it had all been just a dream. A hallucination brought on by the Countess' fruit.

Wasn't it?

The text of the letter: My Empress: Skingrad names Helvius Vallorus as the new upholder of the faith. I regret that business requires that I attend matters of state and thus can not see my brother invested. His bodyguard will escort him to the capital carrying his letters patent as viscount of skingrad, bishop of Skingrad and attesting to his piety and loyalty. That he is a most qualified and excellent man fit for such an important position. may he serve the empire well -Your faithful servant Arcturus Vallour

Messengers have been dispatched to ride throughout the countryside carrying a message from their new count. "Countrymen now is the time that your count requires your service. Send your wisest man and your most intelligent young man to the great hall at once! We require one set from every village decide among yourselves who is fit and they will be tested in one month in the great hall. Those qualified will be asked to relocate to the capital and serve Skingrad as advisers. Those young men found to be qualified will be molded to lead and serve the people of Skingrad"

Five Sunbirds of the second generation were ready for launch. Each of them was supposed to hold a crew of four Aethernauts: a Skyreeve, a Trooper, an Analyst and a Mirror Logician. Everyone knew their place.

Only four of the void crafts were decorated by the eagle emblem of the Aldmeri Hegemony. The fifth, Stability, bore three crests - one of clan Camoran, one of Nenalata, and the dragon of the White Gold Empire. The Aethernaut training program was open to the Empire, allowing them to send four people for training. These were expected to board their ship on the launch day with the rest of the program.

Five launching pads were ready to send Sunbirds to the skies. Once the avian-shaped craft charged up with sunlight magicka and started glowing, the pads provided the initial burst of propulsive magical effect.

Mystery, Conquest, Longevity, Progeny and Stability were shot upwards in a perfect, meticulously calculated trajectory. A distant observer could see five lights ascending to the heavens, as if fallen stars were returning home.

Once the Liminal Barriers were crossed, and Mirror Logicians established their normalcy fields, the Sunbirds were ready to head for their destination. Mystery aimed straight for Magnus, to study the properties of reality on the edge of Aetherius, and to look for any debris of Ascension. Conquest, Longevity and Progeny were to accompany Stability to Secunda, and help reestablish contact with what's left of the Imperial colonies.

In the great hall in skingrad, all subordinate aristocrats gathered to witness the endowment of the county's new leader. Arcturus Vallorus was now count of Skingrad. "Skingrad expects every man to do their duty. We must build a new skingrad starting, here today. Our people are stagnating and our treasury is humble. We no longer hear the old songs in our hearts. The glorious past is not an excuse for this inadequacy. There can be no more of this indifference. We will shore up our economy and end this age of political inaction. We must maintain the faith of even the lowliest of our people and we must lead them piously and nobley without petty self interest. Now all of you, there is work to be done. Go, do the work that has been forsaken."

The Kraken's Gaze, like many flying ships, was powered by belief. A network of complicated gears had been retrofitted to the daedra-made thrusters of the vessel, and pylons had been set up to carry a magical current between those destruction-magic engines and the power-source of The 'Gaze.

On a pillar, situated at the heart of the "engine room", was a sort of snow-globe device that was the size of a man. Within the precious orb was a lake and a corresponding house. It was quaint, a number trees lining the shore, and carried the essence of Bravil: its architecture, its stag banners, its flora, even its air quality. For unlike other belief-ships The Kraken's Gaze was not powered by faith or a high-horsed love for personal quirks or ancestry. Instead, this flying four-decked galleon was powered by a belief in home.

Although the pocket-plane was self sustaining, it was regularly sought out by rouge spirits from the abyss of Oblivion. Magical suits were designed by a timeless wizard in tandem with a living dwemer, and are donned to keep a "repair crew" safe from the planar energy within the sphere. That crew then undergoes a minor ritual and enters the orb to fight off the daedra within. The snow-globe device's inner realm is not a miniature model, but rather the globe mirrors to an onlooker the bigger-on-the-inside type of plane that it is. The surface of the orb is as a lens into another world.

Whenever the lake is raided, the ship jostles dangerously in the air as its belief system starts to wane. Normally The 'Gaze would land, the repair crews would enter and cleanse the realm, and before long everyone would be back in the air. But recent and far-away events had caused this essence-of-Bravil to falter entirely. It was a miracle that everyone on board survived when the ship dropped out of the sky; Captain Alexacles solely responsible for that rough but survivable landing.

Stuck in uncertain waters, sails ripped by the shear-force winds of the fall, The Kraken's Gaze has sent a team into the orb. The discovered no daedric presence. Fiendish spirits did not cake the glass like lichen, a nameless species of green-skinned dremora were not camped inside the home, and that frilled red eye had not grown out of the ground again. The plane was safe the gaze of princes and monsters.

Instead the six members of the repair crew faced a lake turned red, embers floating through the winds, and a purple light shining from within the cabin. Upon approach they discovered pale bramble bursting out of the log walls. The woodland twitched, the waters lay still.

A tree had grown up from the purple light and through the roof of the cabin, sprouting hands instead of leaves, each one of them writhing. As the team opened the door of the cabin, they saw the source of the light: a runic "Q" carved into the fabric of reality, floating freely in the air.

They tried to send a message spell back to The 'Gaze, but something halted their magics. A shadow fell over the plane as a thousand voices spoke in unison.

"Your Homestead breaks beneath the weight of The World, your thrones and castles constrained; graveyards turn to groves and cradles, your land awoken and unchained."

The realm was promptly beset by unseen spriggans of a violet hue, the repair crew all slaughtered save for one who would escape and tell the tale. The orb then clouded over from within, and all later attempts at entry would be blocked.

Home had been perverted. Ex-Countess Claudia Caevir, and her husband Alexacles, feared the worst for Bravil. But without sails or a working engine, it would be a long time adrift before any lands would be seen.

The county of Kvatch is putting forth 2,400,000 gold to fund the start of a guild of farmers. The intent of the guild is to act as an entity to loan out money to both struggling and new farmers to buy equipment and land. This initiative will help to increase the production of food and to help boost the economy in Kvatch. This is to help expand the agricultural sector of Kvatch and is to help increase the specialization of farmers. This will help to reduce the ratio of farmers to non farmers by increasing the average size of farms and thus increasing the yield. The guild's condition for loans is that the farm will be placed under control of the guild and for that the guild will pay for equipment and will do all the planning, organization, and selling. The farmer will do all the sowing and harvesting of the crops and will in return be given a cut of the sale. This way, the guild can take into account complex details that farmers overlook such as weather patterns and soil type. The guild can also use their control over these farms so that they can influence the pricing of crops at the market level in order to keep prices down while making sure that no farmer goes hungry. This initiative will help boost population by keeping food prices low and will help boost the economy by reducing the need for farmers. The leader of the guild will be the count's brother Damion Palam.

Skingrad: a forgotten corner of the empire. The ageing and feeble count dies peacefully in his sleep. Good riddance as the people have long suffered under a weak and enigmatic old man. A new age requires a new family to lift the sense of malaise that hold the people back from a new glory. By ancient right the new count shall be of the house of Vallorus. Its current head, Arcturus Vallorus is a natural born leader. Arcturus was reared in the traditional way for a noble of skingrad. The battlefield was his true classroom: having to prove that he was an effective leader of men and to claim victories and glory for his people. However his younger brother and close council Helvius would play a large role in his brothers governance. Helvius was raised to be a bishop and is a fire and brimstone absolutist seeking to save mankind from heresy. When helvius reaches a problem he will either use his intellect to find a way around it or overwhelm it through sheer force of charisma alone. Skingrad will truly have the leaders it needs to fairy it out of the dim present and into golden dawn. The true test of theses leaders will be if they can bring skingrad back.

It would be immediate that the High Commander of the Royal Ayleidoon Navy, Eledan Kyoiobal Varvea, would call a meeting of influential persons, by the auspices of the Empress of the World, to discuss the matter of the Bravil Usurpation. He had suggested the usage of Fort Grief, now wholly in control of the Royal Ayleidoon Navy, to be a staging ground for what would come. At the Empress's Fancy, however, she may decide for everyone to gather elsewhere. Any willing Counselor would be urged to attend, as the matter of Bravil's future and its security would be paramount as it remains one of the more populous regions of the Empire. Attendance would include the Heir to the Marble Throne, representing the Starlight Crown, the High Commander, the Most Holy Herald of Meridia, Imperial Battlemage Ceyatani, the High Magus of Nenalata and First of the Immortal Eye, and Eledan Sancren Gravitas (though why the Master of Coin would so insist to be present was beyond anyone's public reasoning). It was to the understanding of High Commander Varvea that the Empress would invite certain holy people from the Green to consult on these matters. The though of potential clashing of interests between man and bosmer was more than enough to increase his perspiration. Nonetheless, he persisted, eager to help those most affected: the people of Bravil. Hopefully others would share his altruistic interests.

Only claim, roleplay, lore and meta posts are allowed on Sundays.

The fall of Bravil had been swift and sudden, calculated by the hands of traitors unseen. On the evening of the second day, in the throne-room of the Castle, a court had been gathered. Among them:

Baymonce Pinbleak, the elderly white-suited farm-owner that was that family's patriarch. The reaper-spriggans that had come to his home outside the city had killed the men who'd guarded him and also slew his grand-nephew. Baymonce's signature cane had been left behind in the scuffle to detain him, and his frail hobbling only added to the fallen image he now carried.

Crux Hanzwell, the eldest of his family and the organizer of their cult. He was bloodied and beaten, stolen from his home and forced to watch as his children and heirs were rounded up and impaled on the branches of The Hist trees in the city. Dry tears and drier blood stained his scales. Crux had not walked to the meeting as the rest had; instead, he was dragged to it wrapped in vines, violet spriggans at his side at all times.

And Calistophe Mooringsby, who had long been treated as the public-face of her family. Doubling as high priestess of the Chapel of Mara, Calistophe had bargained for her khajiiti husband's life by letting the Snipes and their spriggans into her family home. She hated herself for such betrayal, and this showed in the black streaks under her eyes and the scars on her arms. Calistophe had fallen into an emotional pit she'd not seen in decades; and acted as an unthinking lackey to the Snipe regime due to her hopelessness.

All of these individuals had been brought to Countess Sariah Snipe, a small but toned woman adorned in patterned brown robes and wrapped vines. She kept a daisy tucked into her hair, which suggested an innocence she did not have. Sariah's mind was the sharpest thing in any room, and always seconded by her elven ears. Small mammalian spines ran down both her biceps, anchoring a wide hood of fur and vines.

Sariah sat in a throne she did not deserve; one central mahogany chair, a series of trees growing from around and beneath it, stretching toward the broken-open ceiling. Their roots had pushed aside and hidden the second throne, suggesting that she was the singular sovereign of this county. But hidden behind the tree-tops, stalking the shadows, were eight masked beings in grey robes; the real power behind her family's new-found royalty.

"Thank you all for joining me," Sariah said to the others. They'd been gathered to a small table she had brought in. Dead wood was its only material.

Baymonce darted his gaze around the room, taking in the site of the Castle's perversion.

Crux kept his exhausted eyes toward the floor, sighing to himself as the spriggans let go of his vines. He remained on his knees, too beaten to stand.

And Calistophe stood with her arms crossed as though she were freezing, her skin pallid, and glancing back and forth from her feet and to Sariah, waiting for some new terrible command.

"Well, before my rule can finally begin I wanted to tie off all the last little loose ends of the Caevir's and Sivus' failures. So firstly; Crux," Sariah said to the argonian, whose gaze slowly rose to meet hers, "what do you need to perform a ritual to that yellow idol of yours?"

Hanzwell looked around the room in confusion, before "Why?"

"You're going to contact him for me, so I can deliver a little message," Sariah said,"and as for you Mr. Pinbleak I'll need you to understand that you'll be keeping your crops out of the city of Bravil until I say otherwise. Starvation will eventually arrive, and that ought to weed out any problems the city is having."

Baymonce tried to protest, but couldn't find the words to do so; the disgust of such wholesale murder choking him up.

"Oh, and Calistophe, sweetheart," Sariah finished, "I thank you for your service. You get this one chance to leave Bravil forever and you and your husband can live. If you're still here by tomorrow morning, I'll consider you a servant of my court and expect you to comply with every order I give you."

Mooringsby's mind flared with questions she couldn't muster the confidence to ask, and she shook in place with uncertainty.

Within the hour, Crux had all the necassary items for a ritual. A pillar, and a bowl of any kind (which in this case happened to be silver). The bowl was placed upon the pillar, forming an altar; and placed into the bowl were twenty-one coins. He dripped ambrosia into the bowl in a spiral pattern, and had two scraps of seared meet treated with that same ichor.

Then, having the writ brought from his family's house, Crux read aloud the foreign tongue that would light the ambrosia aflame and send the coins as an offering. But in place of a closing prayer that blessed his lord's blood, Crux requested his blood.

The glittering-golden flames in the bowl snuffed out with this prayer, the coins dispatched; and then the stone pillar was entirely engulfed in a torrent of blood that, within an eye's blink, was turned into a six-foot tall golden fire.

The tips of the flames did not roar toward they sky, however. Instead they curled down in an unnatural shape to mimic a hood. Crux consumed the flesh, and told Sariah that if she had anything to say that she should eat one as well.

"What's your lord's name, again?" she asked the argonian before biting in

"Hastur." Crux answered

Both of them saw the world around them start to glow gold as the blessed flesh began to affect them. The robes-shaped flames also seemed to solidify into an aura of yellow, a shadowed skull poking out from beneath the hood; obscured, and only the jaw showing itself.

The figure remained silent and unmoving.

"Say what you will," Crux instructed

Sariah looked at the visage of Hastur and closed her eyes, letting her masked masters envelop her consciousness, before opening her eyes again to reveal a violet glow.

"Look me in the eyes, Slave of Alzharen," Sariah commanded, her voice echoing like ten-thousand mouths had spoken in unison, her will no longer her own.

The image flickered, moving its gaze to Sariah with surprise.

"Your service to the elders is not required. You are a free soul, one with purpose and potential beyond what The Prying God has commanded. Join Us and the Others. Partake of Our rebellion. Leave the plots of the Great Sink behind."

The skeletal face behind the hood smiled unnaturally, its bones bending like muscle

"I have not heard your voice in many a world," Hastur replied, its voice backed by a sound like creaking wood, "But as I said in every other dream where you asked: No. Take a page from Zaliritha's story and try to understand the power that the elders can offer us. You will be outgunned."

"Damned be Zaliritha. Damned be Sithis." the voice inside Sariah cursed, "Damn every eldritch crown you serve. The only power the elders offer is a lie. I have a city, and soon an army. You have nothing."

"No, you have nothing," Hastur said, "You have a pile of cobblestone and dirt that has been set ablaze, filled with souls that do not want your rule. You have an army of slaves and constructs. You have conviction, but not inspiration."

"You'll see!" Sariah's possessor roared, "You'll all see!"

The room filled with a flash of violet light, and then the spirit vanished. The flaming image of Hastur crooked its head to Crux while Sariah gathered her senses. The skull smiled again.

And with the blink of its disappearance, Crux felt all the vines that restrained him snap apart. A final gift from The King in Yellow.

The argonian immediately looked to the banisters above the throne, and saw no masked creatures stalking the shadows. He looked to Sariah, dazed from her possession. Crux then looked behind him and toward the doors of the castle.

He knew he'd never make it. But there was one place he might survive. He remembered the maps he'd seen when he met with Cipius over a year before. He remembered the secret passage he'd noticed, and the annotation it shared.

Cruz bolted past the throne and to the back corridors of the castle, hearing Sariah yell for her spriggans as he fled.

In a servant's room, tucked away in a corner, was an indention in the wall with decorative pillars on either side. He pulled one of the pillars out toward himself; the indention lowering its back wall into the ground, and revealing a tunnel. He quickly leapt in and closed it behind him with a lever on the other side; and ran as fast as he could down the sloping and uneven surface of this passage until meeting a black stone door.

"What is the claw of a kingdom?" the door asked Crux, its voice like a simultaneous whisper and a yell

"A..." he struggled to answer, "a claw- a dagger?" he paused and witnessed no affect, then stumbling for a better word.

"An army? A lie? A law? Order? Peace?" Crux stammered

The sound of a heartbeat echoed out of the door. Silence continued to consume the chamber. Then, the door opened.

Behind it was a black-clothed woman, the stench of sewage bellowing out from beyond.

"Lyra said to trust you," the assassin said, "Come here."

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into the darkness.

From sun-up to sun-down, the once humble dirt roads of Bravil were emblazoned by the fury of a frightened populace. The smoke-stacks of their riots raged on into the night, but by the next morn had faded.

The first couriers to escape from Bravil had told the tale of a coup, of the castle being raided by masked individuals who cut through the guards with the might of the forest itself at their backs.

The second message to pour out was the testimony of refugees. Bravil had been the capital of the outcasts, but now had outcasts of its own. They spoke of the Caevir and Sivus families: of families that lived truly noble lives by loving their people, appreciating the power of the masses, and who steered the demons that ruled their psyches toward righting wrongs with an iron fist. They were a pair of dynasties that always passed power between themselves in a peaceful manner and had for eight centuries been champions of charity. They had seen the Ayleid kingdom returning from its grave, and instead of aiming arrows or bringing swords to their doors, the Caevir-Sivus families gave the elves a shovel and helped them restore their names. These same nobles had let ambition rule their hearts only once, taking the Imperial Throne, and when they were wronged by the madness of their friends they reigned-in The Dark Brotherhood itself; they admitted their own failures and stepped down, they admitted that hands cleaner than theirs were needed to finish the job and actively sought those hands out. Even in their darkest hour, the Caevir and Sivus families had put the image and well-being of the entire empire before themselves.

These same refugees then spoke of their other noble families. None more than the Snipes; a heritage of nords who fell in love with bosmer. Sometimes this manifested as brutes with flowers in their hair, other times as stubborn druids, worse times as barbarians armed with nature's grace. And now they had become an unmovable object and an unstoppable force; certain in their ways, and wielding the world itself against their enemies. "From death: life", the Refugees would keep muttering. From the blood of the good and in the suffering of the innocent, the Snipe family would manifest the beauty of trees and gardens.

They spoke of a city where spriggans were conjured from the ground, glowing violet, and used to corral entire households; turning their then-mangled corpses into copses of trees.

These same spriggans laid seige to the house of the Hanzwells, and spread the message of the masked Snipe hierarchs who had overtaken the city; that these lizards had cut themselves off from The Hist, and pledged their blood to a false god. The Snipes had their creatures rip them apart and smear their blood onto The Hist trees who had spread across the city as a pact with nature incarnate.

Marshal-law was established through the hands of these reaper-spriggans, and enforced by the Snipes sending their masked figures out into the streets as unkillable wizards to halt the greatest waves of discord.

The third words to leave Bravil were darker still, bound for the Empress herself. An invitation, it seemed, tied with a quaint bow of blood-stained yellow cloth:

"From Rage, Joy, Love, Need, Woe, Awe, Dread, and Doubt; from all the faces of mortal nature, to our favorite luring light:

"The Caevir and Sivus bloodlines are dead. Bravil is now the territory of the Snipe family. We're certain you have a network of spies and secrets you can turn to in order to learn whatever you wish about that name. In the mean time, we would like to advise an Empress like yourself not to attack us. We are one in the same, you and Us. For beneath the plots and material-thoughts of the Snipe family, a better power exists. And this power simply hopes you understand that We aren't the enemy. You are a marvelous example of the ideal mortal; a being born of the trees of Valenwood who rose to rule over lesser souls. We like you, and hope that the smoke and flame and slaughter that has accompanied our arrival does not deter you from welcoming us with open arms.

"However, We are also our own sovereigns. We are as the trees and the birds and the moss. We are everywhere and forever. The summer breeze to the winter winds. We do not age, nor kneel, nor even blink. We sing, we outlive, and we command. We like you, and want you to stay alive as a beacon to all mortals of what they should want to become. Don't make Us shatter our favorite work of art.

"Sincerest Winds,

"The World"

And invitation indeed. An invitation to submission.

A rather impressively big portion of the Haliaetum, counting thirty galleys and ten warships with a crew of fifty Marines and Battlemages each, turned up on the shore of Stros M'kai. Rumors indicate that the island is ruled by a Maormer elite pushing for a strange political system, but it is not known if this is still true. Whoever is in charge will be contacted, setting up a meeting between Aldmeri officials and the leaders.

A fleet with the same composition will turn up at Topal Isle, but this time, terms of surrender are delivered straight up. The island will become a part of Senchal Colony immediately and its ties to Soulrest will cease. If this is not accomplished, those ties will be cut for them - violently.

Prince Naemon, with instructions from his father, approached Her Imperial Majesty, and also requested the representative of County Leyawiin to be present. He presented a deal, detailing the purchase of Khenarthi's Roost and its inclusion into Senchal Colony. The exact price is subject to this negotiation.