Tear was the ancestral capital of the Great House Dres. Situated (un)comfortably close to the border with Black Marsh, it represented a perhaps prescient image of Dunmeri architecture constantly at threat of being overtaken by the surrounding marsh and jungle. The Argonians were the natives of such terrain, able to effortlessly blend as one with it - but the Dres had made themselves its masters in the way that a farmer yokes an ox to a plough. Tear was surrounded by lush, biodiverse marshland; swallowing wayward wanderers never to be seen again, yes, but also providing for lush fields of saltrice exported as far as Vvardenfell.

At the heart of Tear stood a large domed building, carved with channels and breezeways to allow the flow of air (such as there was in Tear) and natural light. In a courtyard st the building's centre stood a dais surrounded by a raised gallery, where an assortment of robed, bespectacled and tome-wielding Dunmer were taking their places.

'Let us begin proceedings.' spoke a particularly pompous character, with a ring of a bell dangling above his seat. 'Bring the first hearing.'

A guard marched swiftly out of the yard and soon back in. With him now was a young mer of his fourties or fifties and dragged alongside him a lithe Khajiit in chains.

The judge under the bell cleared his throat. 'Muthsera Galvor Tervayn, I believe you come here today to seek a judgement regarding the murder of your father, one Elethus Tervayn.'

'That is correct, your Wisdom.' The Dunmer on the dais nodded. 'My father, master of the Tervayn plantation, has been killed by this slave, Tesh.'

Heavy breathing. A closet. A whisper.

'Jo'Tesh, you have to come with me to Tear. If the men find you -- you'll end up like Sharp-Teeth.'

'This one will be sentenced to death in Tear anyway. Better to go by the sword with claws and teeth stained than by the rope.'

'Please, don't be stupid. I'll find a way. I will always protect you.'

There was a collective gasp from the Dunmer of the gallery. The judge nudged his spectacles up his face.

'I see. So then, first the formalities--' He reached up. DONG! 'This District Council is lawfully assembled and in session to pass judgement on the case of the Tervayn estate, who has accused the Khajiiti slave Tesh of foul murder. Judge presiding; Dres Elam Morvil. Do all councilmembers here assembled attest to the legitimacy of this council and swear to grant just and lawful verdict?'

Those in the circle surrounding the dais all thumped on the stone counter in front of them; save for one on the end, bearing a number of holy symbols and sashes.

'Good. Does the Temple Curate, herestanding representative of the Gods and Will of the Law, attest to the legitimacy of this council and swear to sanction its lawful verdict?'

The priest nodded.

The judge reached up -- DONG!

'Muthsera, please present your testimony.'

'My father was a reckless and cruel master to the slaves. He had an ever-shifting temperament which often led to flights of rage at minor infractions. I would say he doled out whippings and beatings with every food ration, but the slaves would be lucky if they received food every time they were beaten.

The slave standing here with us, Tesh, was long reputed as a physician among the slaves. Our plantation grows saltrice, so the S--, the Argonians work the ricemarsh, as their physiology is suited for, and the Khajiit are much fewer and work in the house. We originally purchased Tesh and put him.to work with garments and textiles, making clothes for the slaves and repairing ours - but soon we learned his steady hand with a needle was not only limited to cloth and he had a robust knowledge of medical sorcery and alchemy, and so he became the doctor for the slaves.

Tesh worked closely alongside us in the house, and so it was not uncommon for some of us to consult his expertise rather than travel all the way into town to consult with a Dunmer physician. I have always found Tesh's remedies to be perfectly adequate.

So, one day my father travelled across the border on a slavecatching expedition. He came back indeed with a party of --... Argonians, but he'd been injured by one of them. Only a small cut, but he fell horribly sick after with some sort of jungle illness. My father staunchly refused to be seen by Tesh, so at first my mother did her best, then after that we brought physicians in from town, but not one of them could break his fever. His wound festered and rotted even on his living flesh, and he slipped in and out of consciousness, which was troubled with waking nightmares. In a moment of lucidity I begged him to be seen by Tesh, to which at last he acquiesced.

When Tesh came into the bedroom he grumbled lowly to himself, he prayed and muttered in his tongue as he looked my father over. "Very sick. Too sick." He said. "Will die, certainly. Only the Argonians can help. A ritual."

Myself, Tesh, and a strong guard carried my father out into the marsh, to a slave shack where Sharp-Teeth lived. He was a wizard among the Argonians, too. He led them in secret songs and prayers beyond the eyes of my father and the guards. They laid my father out on a table in the shack and began to prepare mashes and salves of local plants; and even some smuggled from home. When Sharp-Teeth turned around to get some tool or ingredient at one point, we could all see the deep, gnarled scars from the whips of my father's orders. "Not him." My father gasped; "He'll poison me, surely."

"No poison." Tesh insisted, as he dipped a claw in the mix that Sharp-Teeth had made and tasted it. "None at all. Be still."

Sharp-Teeth and another stood over my father, hissing songs and pricking his body with a needle inoculated with these mixtures. Tesh watched with interest at my side. My father's constitution began to recover, even right then - he breathed deeper, and the cloud over his eyes seemed to fade just as Sharp-Teeth was getting up to his neck with the needle.

Before I knew what was happening, Tesh leapt on me. He pleaded for my silence and covered my mouth. I watched as Sharp-Teeth plunged the needle into my father's eye. He screamed and grabbed his arm, but his accomplice pinned it down and Sharp-Teeth took the other. I wailed. They rolled him over and clawed the flesh on his back open as he had done to so many of them - and at last they strangled him, and he was dead.

Tesh got off me and ran. I went too -- half to get after him and the other half to get away from.the Argonians. As I pursued Tesh into the jungle I saw that the guards had heard the screams and rushed to the hut. The two Argonians were taken into the jungle and killed. I caught Tesh and had him delivered here.'

There was a poignant silence until the judge finally spoke.

'The slave Tesh stands accused by trustworthy testimony of the foul murder of Elethus Tervayn. Written testimony from guards and slaves at the plantation confirm the account. It is my recommendation that the slave be lashed until nearly dead, and hanged to death thereafter. Does the council concur?'

A resounding thump on the marble. Galvor and Tesh share a glance. An apology. An 'I told you so.'

Galvor Tervayn remained in Tear to arrange the purchase of slaves to replace the stock lost from that event. This left him thankfully absent from the distinctly underguarded caravan transporting Jo'Tesh back to the plantation for his execution; a caravan which would be tragically attacked by ten Argonian bandits, leaving all those in the caravan dead as the eleven bandits escaped into the jungle never to be seen again.

Jo'Tesh was officially recorded dead with the rest of the caravan. His remains were never found.

One day, in the future, a hooded figure would be the only soul to escape the razing of the Tervayn Plantation. That day, House Dres recorded the loss of all slaves and the deaths of all inhabitants of the Tervayn Plantation including its master, Galvor Tervayn, whose remains were never found.

In a small village in Elsweyr there is a grave which stands grander than the rest. Its owner is entombed in a casket never to be spoiled by the sand. His headstone is an elaborate pedestal for holding an ebony-studded urn, filled with Red Mountain ash and containing a single finger bone. An inscription on the urn reads:

I will always protect you.

Never-Again hatched under a Hist tree. She licked its sap and basked in its warmth, learning its wisdom in the comfort of the nest. The tree was the tribe and the tribe was the tree. They were one family and it was good. Life was good. She grew into a healthy woman and with her mate, Hisum-Haj, she planned to lay a clutch of their own. The tree would embrace their children, when they would hatch near its roots.

But the time was not right. The Hist foretold a great danger. A threat… from Oblivion itself. The idyllic, simple tribal life would have to wait. Never-Again’s tribe would have to change in order to survive. They did not fear change, though. Shunatei was long overcome by the people of the root. Vastei was preferred. If the Hist believed in change, its tribe would follow suit.

And so they licked the sap of change. The males were the fastest to change in the correct way. Soon, Hisum-Haj towered over Never-Again, being a full Behemoth, while she still writhed in cramps.

When the first gates opened, these males were ready. Never-Again saw her Hisum-Haj, this hulking mass of muscle, charge into the daedric lines, squash scamps beneath his feet, trample dremora and wrestle daedroths into the dust. And when the daedric vanguard lay banished, the Hist whispered an order to the Behemoths. Never-Again heard it too, but couldn’t follow it, his transformation still incomplete. Invade them back.

Never-Again cried for his mate, when he disappeared into the gate, and cried yet more when the gate disconnected and crumbled on its own. He would never again see his beloved Hisum-Haj.

The Hist sent him to his death. All of them were left stranded in Oblivion. So far from the roots, from the water, from sap and soul of the tribe. They would never reincarnate, to find their loved ones in the next life. Who knew how many times did Never-Again and Hisum-Haj find each other, in their many hundreds of lives? They always believed they were destined to find each other in every life. Change would always be there - they would be of different tribes, appearances, ages, genders, but their love? That would never change. They always found themselves.

But never again.

The rest of the tribe, originally the women, finished their transformations when the threat from Oblivion was already over. What was the point of it, then? Never-Again hoped that a new campaign was being organized by their Hist. A rescue mission, to bring the boys home! Unfortunately, the Hist’s whispered command pointed elsewhere. March north. Take revenge. Raze plantations. Leave bare marshland in your wake. Plant more of me where their cities once stood. Reward their foolish shunatei with vastei.

Never-Again could not believe it. What was there for them in Morrowind? The slaves were already freed a decade prior. The daedra ravaged the land more than the Saxhleel ever could, and the fire-mountain finished the job. What the tribe truly needed was their family, the very souls of their men stranded in Oblivion! But to the Hist, they were already lost. Pawns, sacrificed in their game. But Never-Again was no pawn.

When the war party was leaving the nest, each member would come up to the tree and lick its sap, a last goodbye to the Hist. When Never-Again’s turn came up, he licked the sap, but it did not taste sweet anymore. To him, it tasted bitter, like death and ash and blood. Never-Again spat it out in disgust, staining the tree and shocking the crowd. “Never again shall I do this,” he hissed. “Never again shall I hear your commanding whispers and taste the sweetness of your lies. Never again shall I see the loved ones you forsook to Oblivion! I would rather be Lukiul than your slave!”

An agreement passed between the tree and the lizard. Never again would he see, hear or taste the tree. Or any tree of its kind.

And that is how Never-Again, a Lukiul by choice, earned his name.

#Or, The Saga of the Coming of the Shield-Keepers of Ysgramor

1 Lo! We, the war-feared Nord Men, have fought and won our glory on the shores since the days of the kings and princes of Atmora.

2 Ustamor, son of wolves, grew up tall under the vaulted skies of the North, and in him beat the heart of glory. All who came to raid his mead-hall ran back whence they came in terror, and those tribes unlucky to neighbour him brought vast tribute on the whale-roads.

3 Ysgramor was son of this mighty king and had the heart of his father but twice the strength; he was born to rule all Atmora and so he did, and lavished upon his vassals gifts and glory, earning their trust and loyalty in war and death.

4 The hour came for the death of old Ustamor, his glory left to live in the legacy of his son. The weeping vassals of Ald Mora honoured the last request of their king and bore him to the shores.

5 There they had prepared a long and regal raiding-vessel longstanding and glorious of Ustamor's fleet, they rigged it ready for sail, where salt waves beat against its eagle-prow.

6 They tied his glorious body at the mast to look out ahead, as stately and strong even then as in life. They filled the boat with treasure and trappings, men tossing therein rings given to them by their king, they draped him in his sword and shield and cloak.

7 Never before nor since have the seas carried such a great ship as that, the riches upon it as great as those Ustamor had earned in life. A flag woven with golden thread flew high above his head, and the waters bore him into the arms of eternity and away from his heavy-hearted vassals. No Clever Man nor king nor warrior can say where it was that at last he made land.

1 There on the Hill-on-High the Shield-Lord Ysgramor spoke to his men. 'Lo! All that is beneath the sky is mine and ours! Nothing remains for us to take but that lying above it, or beyond its rim. The first of those is the realm of the gods, so our path is clear before us!'

2 Fifty boats nigh grand as that which had borne Dead Ustamor were assembled and rigged on the south shores of Atmora, carrying not the treasures of glory earned but the weapons of glory to be won.

3 There was Drumbeater and Nail-Knock, Bloodwood Tongue and Giant's Cup, Starwound and the Biter;

4 Their captains were Morgan the Red and Rebec the Red and Nhemakhela Stare-Breaker and all those elsewhere named., and all were themselves men of honour and repute.

5 None were so great as the Salt-King Ysgramor, who with rowers and pets and provisions stood at the prow of the Sea Prince, at the vanguard of the fleet bound south for the horizon. With drum and song and Tongue he led their sail, with not one of them ever to fatigue.

1 The Fleet of Ysgramor made land here on the rocky coast of the Sea of Ghosts, so named for those not fortunate enough to have made the journey, or to have dashed their ships on the rocks at their arrival.

2 Ysgramor called that land Sky-Rim, for it was that way they had boldly sailed, and there were those of them who thought the journey had been so long that they had reached the last land there was before the realm of the gods.

3 They spread themselves out along the coast and organised themselves in the manner of their custom; in mead-halls kept by Ring-Lords keeping gold and glory in the breasts of their vassals. In this way a great many settlements were formed, most often in the namesake of the ships that had brought their founders; hence Windhelm and Broad Eagle and Breakprow. Few of their names are still known to us, and fewer still stand,

4 But they were not alone there -- at last one day came an envoy of the Elves, who the Nord Men knew not at that time were of any kind different to themselves, and so they came to know them as Snaerskvir, the Snowy Men.

5 In time there came war with the Snowy Men, its reasons lost to time and conflicting account, but driven in the end by the lust of the Nord Men for land and gold and glory.

6 The broad arms of the Nord Men engulfed the whole coast of Skyrim. The Snowy Men had no recourse; they could not flee to the West or the South into lands of hostile foreigners, nor escape North or East for the children of Ysgramor seized all havens and bays.

7 Unbeknownst to the Nords, then, the Snowy Men retreated in the only direction that was left; into the bowels of Nirn, where the digging-elves kept their hidden citadels.

8 With this and the Nords' victories, the forces of the Snowy Men grew thin. Armies became warbands, warbands became parties, and at last parties became isolated bandits, those last few holdouts too stubborn to give up their history.

1 There at Ysgramor's Meadhall knelt one of the last of the Snowy Men to ever be seen by the Nords, the blade of Wuuthrad at his neck, the taste of blood in his mouth. 'Have you any last words?' asked the World-King Ysgramor.

!ACCURSÉD BE YOU AND YOUR KIN, YSGRAMOR OF ALT MORA. ACCURSÉD BE THOSE WHO TRAMPLE. IN STEALING OUR MEMORY YOU LOSE YOUR OWN. AEDRA ET'ADA AE. OUR BLOOD IS THE BONES OF THE EARTH, YOURS IS BUT THE WHISPER OF THE SEA. NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU BEAR LEGACY. THE GLORY DEAR TO YOU SLIPS FROM YOUR FINGERS. YSGRAMOR AE TALOS AE NIRN!<

1 Lo! We, the war-feared Nord Men, have fought and won our glory on the shores since the days of the kings and princes of Atmora.

2

Sulalsurrirat walked, though he knew not where. His senses came and went; at one moment the world would go dark, and at the next he would pull himself out of the ash, burning in the sun and choked by the ash, and continue. His mind was sundered between two realms, his eyes glazed over and flashing with visions of floating rocks in pale voids, of a marble hand reaching up to a mirror sky.

'Stand up,' said the stranger, who reached down and took him by the arm. He blinked as he was brought to his feet, coughing and groaning. He looked into a coiled mass of red scarves, from which peeked two pale eyes. The stranger brought Sul's arm around his shoulder and supported him as they limped along. When Sul fainted still he would awake to mouthfuls of water and words of encouragement, and so along they went. The stranger leaned in and whispered to him as they walked, words which echoed in the dual chambers of Sul's divided mind.

'You will come to them, their prodigal son.'

'Walk the paths, as I did.'

'Do you remember this place?'

'Does it remember you?'

Three men sit around a crackling fire. They have plates on their laps, they scoop up the pounded ash-yam in their fingers and dunk it in thick stew, as red as mountain-blood. They speak to each other between mouthfuls. One of them points away at a daytime moon.

Then there is a holler; one of them sets his plate aside and springs to his feet, grabbing a long chitin spear and bounding across the ash as if it were track. There, at the bottom of an ashen dune, is a limp and naked Dunmer with half-lidded eyes, speaking in tongues.

Sulalsurrirat awoke, though he knew not where. A felt dome stretched above him on insect-leg poles. Tea boiled in a blue pot suspended above a fire. His aching, sun-warmed body lay on a soft mat, dressed now in

Then to his ears came the cadence of words long since foreign to his mouth, and they went ignored as he wept too loudly to hear them. When his eyes at last opened he saw the Wise-Woman kneeling by his side, a look of patient concern upon her face.

'You are Urshilaku.' she said, gently brushing at his hair. 'But you are not known to us. Where did you come from? Who are you?'

'I am Sulalsurrirat.' He said. 'I will need time to explain.'

Stallion

The Stallion is a Spirit that represents the male strength and role in society. However, it is more complicated than just that. Like a father, he protects us, by teaching us how to protect ourselves. But he’s a ‘tough love’ kind of father. And, much like a living stallion, he is often… temperamental, let’s say. His anger leads to stomping, his hunger leads to chomping, and vast fields of grass are razed in his wake, leaving only dust behind. Sometimes, we depict him with a rider - a bad man, a heartless raider, who wields a scythe. And perhaps, the mount and the rider are one and the same.

It took a day of riding for the knights to sober up, and another one to recover from their hangover, which was enough time for Orryn to get into the lady’s good graces. Unfortunately, that old coot Harvey was always by her side, so Orryn could never overtly woo her. He had a feeling that Harvey didn’t like him. It was probably because he feared that he could replace him as Lucette’s right hand. Still, the three of them always managed to have a polite, cordial, yet reserved conversation while riding.

“I have too many older cousins with training in statecraft to pursue a claim to my grandparents’ titles,” Orryn explained. “Becoming a squire and then a knight was pretty much the only destiny that awaited me. Maybe it is sad, but I could do worse. Chivalry is a noble pursuit

“That it is, ser Orryn,” said Harvey. “And dedication to an ideal, be it service to the Divines, or a worthy noble, can give your life meaning.”

“But don’t you want more out of life?” Lucette asked. “To rise above the expectations? To risk betting everything on the hand you’ve been dealt, and claim the whole pot?”

“Sometimes,” Orryn mused. “In a way, we always do, when going into battle. A knight stands to win honor, acclaim and wealth, if he wins. But he might lose his life.”

“But there is honor in death as well,” said Harvey. “If it is for the right cause. Some knights cannot lose, even if luck is not on their side.”

“Lady Lucette, if you don’t mind me asking,” Orryn addressed her. “Is this quest also… what did you call it? Playing your hand?”

The lady shimmied in her saddle. “You could say that. I’ve been ‘dealt’ precious little from my dear Adelard, Arkay preserve him. When he fell sick, he started giving out all his property to his children from his first marriage. Anything that mattered went to them. By the time he died, this old place in the mountains we’re going to was the only thing left to his name that I could inherit.”

“I see.” Orryn understood her position. If she was left with nothing, she would be forced to marry again, just to get by. If she secured some land, at least, she could simply settle down, continue a quiet, peaceful life, and maybe, eventually, marry again, but this time for love. For her sake, and maybe a bit his own, Orryn hoped it would work out.

A few hours later, they crested a hill and from its summit, they saw far into a valley, with a little river running through it, against the backdrop of the dark Wrothgarian mountains. “There,” ser Harvey pointed somewhere at the slopes of the valley, and Orryn could see the silhouette of a ruined tower in the distance. “That is Redwall Tower. Once the seat of Clan Redwall, but by the late lord Adelard’s time, no longer in use. It was too close to the mountains. Too many savages roamed these lands when it was abandoned, and the clan could not defend it anymore.” Harvey looked around the knights who gathered around him. “Now, we are the Redwall retainers. And we will conquer it back, for Lady Lucette!”

“Yeah!” Orryn yelled, and the other knights joined him in the chanting. “Onward!”

They continued, now filled with new vigor. The sun was getting low in the sky, and it was beginning to look like they wouldn’t make it all the way there before nightfall. “But that is good,” Orryn explained to one of the other knights, ser Lanis, who was even younger than him. “We will be able to attack at dawn, to smite whatever beasts dwell there with the might of Magnus at our backs. And we’ll be fresh.”

Before the daylight died completely, the band arrived close enough to see the tower in more detail. It clearly used to be quite tall back in the day, but the top had collapsed. There was rubble all around the base of it.

“Wait, that’s not just rubble.” Orryn squinted in the dim light. “Are those… longhouses?”

Ser Harvey growled. “Indeed. Orcish ones.”

The knights all started cursing. Ser Lanis piped up. “Milady, didn’t your scout say there would be goblins? Those are much easier to deal with than…”

“It is what it is, ser Lanis,” Orryn told him off. “We came here to return this tower to its rightful hands, and Divines willing, that is what we are going to do. Now let’s go set up camp. We need some sleep.”

He turned around and trod off. He passed beside Lady Lucette, and saw a slight smirk on her face. Was it approval? Perhaps even affection? Or… did she already know that they would find Orcs there? Maybe her scout reported the truth, but she chose to withhold it from the knights until now, when it would be too late to back out.

Despite telling him off. Orryn shared Lanis’ disapproval. Goblins were small, stupid and disorganized. Orcs were strong, cunning and, well, people. Even if they were generally hated, and if they had no kingdom of their own, one could often meet a City Orc and call them a fellow citizen.

Of course, in High Rock, landowning nobles had the right to evict squatters from their land, and use force when necessary. Lady Lucette and her knights would stay well within the law. However, to some, the affair would leave a bad taste in their mouth.

Something that the old Horseman told him now echoed in Orryn’s mind. “We don’t swear by protecting the innocent on one day and then doing a noble lord’s dirty work the next, like the knights do.” He wouldn’t get as much sleep as he would like before the upcoming battle at dawn.

Orryn was among the first to get up. He saddled Jolly, his horse, and softly talked to him for a bit. This was always his ritual. Ever since he was a squire, he tried to reinforce the connection he had with his mount before a tourney, a battle, or a particularly dangerous journey. He told Jolly about the day ahead, that they need to be extra precise with their lance, and extra fearless before the savage warriors.

“I didn’t name you Jolly for nothing, old friend. I named you after King Joile, perhaps the most notorious Orc-killer of our history. Are you ready to live up to his legacy?” Jolly showed his teeth. “That’s right, buddy.”

The knights all helped each other put on their armor. Orryn himself had his old breastplate with the painted Clan Desant crest, depicting a horseshoe above an anvil. The rest of his body was covered by mail, save the head, on which he had an open-faced helmet. The rest in their unit of a dozen knights were similarly equipped. They were no glorious knights in shining armor like in stories, but reality was never so clean. Freelance knights like them were pragmatic rather than vain. They preferred to project the air of ‘we’re armed and armored, so beware’ instead of ‘we’re rich and beautiful, so love us’.

Ser Harvey agreed that Lady Lucette should tag along. It would be safer for her to stay near the knights. If she remained at camp, Orcs in flight from the battle could stumble upon her and seek revenge.

In the soft, greenish light of breaking dawn, the unit travelled through the thick forest to approach Redwall Tower from the east. From up close, they saw that there was a wooden palisade encircling the tower and the two crescent shaped longhouses built at its base. And when they approached, they saw that the sentry towers were already manned, waiting for them.

The Orcs looked determined, but didn’t look very well-equipped. This was not the heart of Wrothgar, where their preferred metals could be found, so they wore furs and iron.

“Bretons!” One of them barked. “You are not welcome. Say what you want and scram.”

“We are here for that tower,” yelled ser Harvey back. “It belongs to clan Redwall and our lady Lucette. You are here illegally. Leave in peace, or we’ll be forced to…”

“Take your law and shove it.” The Orcs burst into laughter.

Ser Harvey shrugged and looked over at Lady Lucette. “They’re resisting eviction.” He smiled deviously. “Magic up, boys.”

Orryn cast his go-to Shield spell on himself. His comrades either did the same, or drank potions that would give them the same effect. Not everyone could cast.

The sun had finally risen behind them, and shone right into the Orcs’ eyes. Lucette rode up to the front of the unit. “Magnus shows the way,” she said, and pulled out several scrolls from the sleeves of her black dress. “Prepare to charge.”

Orryn was taken aback by the display. This waif of a woman, a widow in black, played the hand she was dealt. Specifically, the cards she hid in her sleeve. The fireballs she launched blew the wooden gate of the stronghold apart, with sawdust, ash and debris spraying everywhere. “Charge!” Harvey ordered, and Orryn followed him into the fray.

Orryn could sense that Jolly was spooked by the explosion, but he had enough magicka left to cast Calm on the mount, and they were good to go. Before he knew it, they cleared the opening in the wall, and his lance pinned down the first Orc in sight.

The Bretons had the advantage of surprise and high ground, from the backs of their mounts. The Orcs had the advantage of home turf, numbers and fortification, although the last one was overcome by Lucette. Still, Orryn liked those odds.

Orryn’s lance broke after the first few thrusts, but that was expected. He switched over to his longsword. Even Jolly landed a hit or two with his hooves. They were a good team. The armor he had on combined with the Shield spell protected Orryn from Orcish arrows, while he cleaved down melee warriors from his saddle.

But all was not good. Orryn saw ser Lanis being pulled down from horseback by a billhook, and then beheaded. Luckily, ser Harvey was right there to avenge him, but Orryn did not linger to watch it unfold. He had his own battle to fight with two shieldwives with axes.

He thought he was handling them well, but when he finally stabbed one of them through the neck, he opened himself up from the other side. Suddenly, Orryn found himself on the ground, his face in the blooded mud. His ankle was caught in the stirrup. Jolly was galloping away and dragging Orryn across the ground. He was too shocked and his mouth was too full of dirt to shout a command at Jolly, who apparently had enough of all this commotion and spooked. Or perhaps the spell just wore off. Orryn tried to grab for something and kick his legs to get out of the knot, but it was all in vain. He hit his head on a stone protruding from the ground and his helmet flew off. The next hit knocked him out.

Sulalsurrirat gasped.

This, in itself, was strange. Sul had spent an uncountable age as a creature of marble and glass, neither needing nor able to breathe. He had wondered, sometimes, what it would be like to breathe again. To feel the air in one's lungs. The answer, as it turns out, was hot, and dry, and altogether unpleasant.

He lurched up into a sitting position and coughed,plumes of ash and dust issuing forth from his mouth. He spat, and then coughed some more. Doubled over on all fours, now, he reached up to wipe a crust from his wet and all-too-fleshy eyes.

His brain was alight with foreign sensations, feelings the likes of which he had not known for many lifetimes of men and mer. His joints seared with pain, the sun beat down on his skin, the hot ash warmed his hands. He breathed, and blinked. Many words have been written about how peering into other realms and the minds of gods will drive a man mad - very few have been written about how when such realms and gods have become a daily affair, the feeling of beginning to sweat is very likely to do the same.

Miscarcath! He called, or at least he thought he did. He thought the word very hard, and in that great star-wound at the end of everything, that was typically enough. "Miscarcath!" He shouted hoarsely as he released that the telepathy had failed him. "What is going--"

At last it all seemed to click. "--on...?" he finished softly. Like a man thrown about by the waves who suddenly finds calm water, his desperate flailing and confusion gave way to an attempt to find his bearings. He stood and found himself not in a plane of half-thoughts and memories, but a dune of ash surrounded by rock, rolling away into the distance, a familiar haze in the air.

It can't be. I must be dreaming. I don't sleep, but I must be dreaming.

He looked own at himself. Grey skin, not white marble. He had no way to check, but his eyes felt red, no doubt on account of all the ash in the air.

Then he realised what that sound was. His heart. He gasped as he tentatively reached up and placed a hand on his bony, mortal chest, and found within the drum of life. Doom-doom. Doom-doom.

He fell to his knees there and wept. His mind raced with half-thoughts and memories. He remembered it - he remembered the pain as he pulled his own heart from his body and offered it as votive sacrifice to the Lord of Order. He remembered the stillness as the new heart took root inside of him. He remembered how Miscarcath warned him that one day, that Heart would take him, and there would be nothing left of his mind.

And now it was as if it had never happened. He had been reborn here, somewhere in the Ashlands - with heart and flesh and blood and bone and untold lifetimes of memories and ponderances. He looked up at a two-moon sky and wept again for his friend Miscarcath, who now once more must have been so, very lonely.

He began to walk, though he knew not where.

Secrets

Kemarick sat at his desk. His office, empty. He allowed no one in at this time of the day. He pulled a smaller sliding desk out from underneath his main one. The hidden desk was covered in countless sheets of paper and wires and trinkets. By school hours he was Kemarick, the paper pushing fool of a dean of the Synod. But now, he was the Ivory Scholar - the greatest and most vocal critic of the Synod slandering his own name and the names of his fellows.

He regretted it somewhat, especially in the case of Valifire. But his rouse as the Ivory Scholar had brought him closer than ever since that day to Laniel. He wasn't even sure why he so furiously pursued this obsession anymore. It had been well over four centuries.

I should be old- no...I should be dead by now...

Redguards were not known for their impressive lifespans. And yet it seemed as if he had stopped aging the day he sat in that chair. And the more he thought, the more his mind spiraled even more. Obsession be damned, he could not stop now.

He had one last link to tie them all together. One he knew was close to Laniel themself. Decenian. Yet somehow, even after staring down Laniel, Decenian still managed to give him the creeps.

​

Masquerade

Decenian walked the halls of the Synod. He hated this place. He hated its people. He hated the halls of sycophants who turned from scholars to pirates so Lusis and Kemarick could horde trinkets. Although, it was unfortunately the great mother who started that trend.

No matter. They would have their retribution sooner than they thought.

Decenian was of average height by imperial standards. An old man with grey hair and a grey mustache wearing white robes and a white hood. Despite that, he was even older than he looked. Over 200. He had been sent here to do the great mothers bidding, and that was what he would do.

He made his way to his office, where he found two of his students waiting for him. He groaned internally as he sat at his desk.

The female student spoke first.

He didn't even pay the slightest bit of attention. His attention was stolen. Some new. Something urgent.

He was starving.

Fuck he thought.

His head burned. His feet trembled. His hand crushed the arm of his chair so hard he heard it squeal. A sound he desperately wished to hear now.

"Sir? Are you okay sir?" the female student asked.

Decenian was snapped into reality momentarily, "oh yes what? I'm fine. Please, continue."

Shut up and LEAVE he thought before I -...no...no you don't deserve that...

He felt momentary shame at the thought of violating the laws of the great mother. What would she think of such a lapse in judgement? No. His hunger would not control him. Tonight would be another hunt.

​

Hunter of monsters

Saroman stared at his reports. It had happened again. Another criminal found mutilated, disfigured, and butchered into more pieces than they could count. This was the fourth incident this month.

This is getting out of hand.

It had been happening all over southern Eastmarch for years now in increasing numbers each one. Some had even happened in Bravil and Leyawiin. He had made countless requests for more resources and funding in this case. He had ruled out all the logical possibilities of course.

Too brazen and violent for vampires.

Too conspicuous for a lich.

Too organized and targeted for a werewolf.

A daedric cult perhaps? That didn't make sense either. Few daedric cults cannibalized their victims, and those that did always did so in secret. And they certainly never made a show of it. He was stuck. He had been stuck.

His requests for funding however had all been denied. Whoever these people were only targeted criminals. And the empire had little to no resources to expend on hunting down cannibalistic vigilantes.

Makes me wonder what they're even paying me for if they let these psychopaths do the job of the Penitus Oculatus...

He quickly dismissed that thought. He would find whoever this was. Be the one or many people. He had established a somewhat detailed yet completely worthless profile of who he was looking for. Based on the things done to the bodies, whoever had done this was a skilled mage. He had ruled out them being a necromancer a long time ago, as necromancers typically don't destroy their subjects bodies beyond repair. They likely didn't work alone. They likely resided in Eastmarch-

Suddenly the thought came to him.

Yes...yes why hadn't I thought of that before-

He knew now where to look next.

​

In the House of madmen

Aldrim wandered, trapped in the stone halls of the hellish labyrinth. He had been trapped here for weeks now in the archives below the Synod that seemed to be larger than cities. The halls were impossible to follow, as if they veered off into different dimensions imperceptible to those of this plain.

The sheer length going beneath the ground had to be taller than the white gold tower itself.

He heard them again. They were watching. They had been following him for days.

Quickly Aldrim turned to see what was behind him. Nothing. But he knew they were there. Watching. Ensuring he did not die in this place as to not anger his masters. He knew his masters no longer cared though. That is why they sent him here. They send people here to die.

The Synod is not a prison. It is an execution. And the axe is madness.

Soon he would die. And soon another agent the Thalmor would rather do away with quietly would come in his place.

No.

I will not go quietly. I will make it. I will leave this wretched place.

Suddenly, it returned. The crow. His only friend in this strange place. But it was a strange little creature with that purple gem in its chest and neck that clicked every time it moved. He had not named it yet. Maybe he would soon. After they left this place.

The crow called to him as it flew ahead. And somehow, he understood. It was guiding him.

He followed. Archivist watchers be damned.

​

The Fog

Decenian walked down the roads. A thick fog followed with him, rolling in from seemingly no where - no where but a creation by his hand. He was in the Nibenay Valley now, far south enough from the Synod to conduct his "business".

That fool Kemarick was digging where he shouldn't be now, into him.

He is digging his own grave.

But he had been instructed never to act out against him. And Decenian would never disobey. Hunger tampered with is thoughts.

Soon.

He still had a ways to walk. He was getting close. Close. Closer.

His prey would be in sight soon.

​

Prey

Torbik locked up the shed. He would have to leave here soon. His kind of business here in this part of Cyrodiil was becoming dangerous. Skooma mules like him had been going missing in southern eastmarch for months now and found in...horrifying states. He couldn't sleep. And every small noise sent him reeling.

Today in particular was quiet. The sun was hidden in grey clouds. The wind did not blow. The animals and insects seemed to be missing,

It's nothing. Surely he was being paranoid.

Suddenly, he heard wings and a cry. Her heard another. And another. And another.

And above his head, crows were flowing about and circling. He walked faster. Surely they had just been attracted by something here, this was a farm after all.

Suddenly, one swooped down towards him. He narrowly dodged it.

What the fuck-

Another swooped down. And another. They all seemed to have some strange purple gems in their chest, and they made strange clicking sounds as they came upon him. He desperately swatted them away.

They did not stop.

First, one ripped his tunic. Another drew blood. And another. No matter how many he punched they came right back up.

He ran. He ran for his life. He ran as fast as he could, not even realizing he was screaming.

The crows came. They drew more blood with their talons. He ran to his warehouse, stopping desperately to unlock it. They crows continued their assault. As he scrambled to unlock the warehouse, one impaled its beak into his eye.

He screamed as he forced the shed open, holding his hand over his brutalized eye as he shoved it closed. He fell to the floor clutching his face.

And he remained in that fetal position for what felt like hours but was really probably minutes as the birds made their awful sound outside.

Then suddenly, silence.

As if the birds had been there then vanished completely in a matter of instantaneously.

Fog rolled in. Thick and suffocating fog.

What? Fog? At this time of day in this part of Cyrodiil?

​

Laniel

Name: [BURNED OUT] Kalaniel

Date of Enrollment: Morning Star, 2E 574

Rank at discharge: Archmagister

Date of Discharge: Evening Star, 2E 811

Discipline: Alteration & Mysticism

Notes:

[BURNED OUT] Kalaniel,

As we are all sad to see you retire from your position on our esteemed council, please allow us to extend our deepest gratitude towards you for your dedication towards the guild and the immense knowledge in the fields of mysticism and alteration which you brought to us upon your joining of the guild. As is ceremonial with all who retire from our council, we would like to bestow upon you the title of Archmagister Emeritus and the position of Archmage of the Institute of Archivists. We thank you for your two centuries of dedicated service to us.

River

We are born as little streams in the mountains, brought into this world alone. Throughout our lives, we make connections with others, forming friendships, families, clans and tribes, uniting into larger tributaries. When we are finally mature, we realize that our people are one, as the River itself, flowing together and powerfully, full of life and with a deep tradition. As we age and weaken, we watch our loved ones pass, much like Bjoulsae itself widens and spills out, separating into the flows of the delta. Eventually, we all end up the same. All the flows end up in the same sea. And then we return. Our stories become vapor that rains down over the mountains, to begin the cycle anew. We change forms, being many different people, or even other creatures, but we get to experience life again. To find our loved ones again. To try to do better next time. The River is our life, and our lives are the River.

The Evermore market was flooded with smells and sounds, the experience changing from one stall to the next. For Orryn, each had something interesting on display. Silver jewelry from the Reach here, spices from Hammerfell there. But it wasn’t the time for mindless indulgement. The money he got was supposed to be for supplies. Orryn wasn’t like the other so-called knights, who immediately spent their money on drinks and games. He was honorable. He would not let the lady down.

While he was not in his armor, the crowds still gave him the right of way. The clan crest on his livery wasn’t well known, but people knew what it meant - status. And Orryn wore it well. The jovial strut of a true knight was unmistakable.

He bought a few potions from a guild stall, some jerky and crackers for the road from a farmer, and went looking for a new straight razor - he’d like to look his best for the lady. However, something else caught his attention. A large space on the market was allocated to a performing troupe of sorts. They looked strange, yet at the same time, familiar. There was an old, bearded man, reciting some sort of epic poem in Old Bretic, which Orryn didn’t understand, but it had a nice rhythm. Next to him, there was a young woman, juggling two handaxes. A small boy, perhaps her brother, tossed another one at her, and she caught it, working it into her motions, making it three axes. The crowd cheered. There were more of these troupers behind them, setting up their musical instruments for the next act. All of them looked Breton, but they wore strange outfits - a combination of flowing linens, good for drylands, and thick leather straps. Some of them had bronze bracers, but all of them had turbans - colorful ones, some with pins or chains decorating them, jangling as they moved.

The axe girl finished her performance by throwing all her axes at a wooden barrel nearby, and all of them sticking to the wood. She bowed, and the crowd applauded.

The old man orated. “Thank you, Ynndre, for showing off the warrior skills of the Horsemen! Next up, after a quick break, our troupe will sing and play the ballad of The Ill-Fated Twins.”

Horsemen? Orryn smirked and came up to the old man, as he sat down to rest before the performance of the musicians. “Good tidings, grandfather,” he addressed him. “Or, how should one greet a Horseman? Good ridings?” He laughed.

The man smiled dryly. “Good one. How can I help you, boy?”

“If you are Horsemen, where are your horses? I was looking to perhaps buy one. If they’re any good.”

“Our herd is safely contained outside the city gates. But we don’t give our prized Bjoulsae Coursers to just anyone. They are noble creatures.”

“As am I. I am a knight, ser Orryn of clan Desant, from the hills of Ephesus. Would you deny me your best steed?”

“Oh, my bad, ser knight.” He crossed his arms. “Yes.”

Orryn was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You are a knight. A warrior. You are looking for a warhorse, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Our herd is our family. We would not send our steeds to battle, to be thrown into danger, mistreated and killed. Would you give your child into the care of a man of violence?”

Orryn chuckled. “Every knight I know was such a child, Horseman. Squires to elder knights, eager to earn our clan honor with our service. Don’t give me weak excuses. Just admit that you don’t know how to train warhorses. If your stock doesn’t have the training, I’m not buying. So, we’re done.”

“It appears so.” The old man sat back. “Good ridings.”

Orryn turned to leave, but stopped to give these so-called Horsemen his piece of mind. “Is this what’s left of our ancient heritage? Weren’t the Horsemen mighty warriors, who were able to beat back hordes of Nords and Reachmen? You lot are homeless vagabonds who sing and dance to shake loose drakes out of peasants. Shame on you!”

The old man stood up. “You know nothing, boy. We are what we are because we stuck to our principles. We don’t swear by protecting the innocent on one day and then doing a noble lord’s dirty work the next, like the knights do. Shame on you!”

Instinctively, Orryn’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but before he could reach it, he heard another voice, from the side. “I wouldn’t,” growled the juggler girl. She had one axe raised, ready to be thrown and find purchase in Orryn’s ribcage. “One move and you’ll be floating belly up down the Bjoulsae.”

The collective gasp from all around him reminded Orryn that the crowds of people were still there, watching the exchange. The girl wouldn’t do anything. There would be witnesses. But people could claim that he was the one threatening the Horsemen. It would be best to just leave. So he did. As he was burrowing through the crowd, he heard the old man explain that this was just a planned performance, nothing to worry about. And those absolute dimwits clapped.

Orryn already had a horse, but Jolly was getting quite old and weathered. He wanted to look his best on the journey that awaited him, and a fresh horse with a story attached to him would be great. But these Horsemen were no good. For all he knew, that herd they claimed to have could be made up from stolen beasts. Best to stay away.

He finished up with his purchases, and went to pick up Jolly from the stables. He arrived to the meeting place ahorse, all packed and ready.

The other knights hired for this quest gathered on the street corner slowly, some in better condition than others. Many were clearly intoxicated. Some clung to a semblance of dignity by putting on their helmets to hide their red cheeks and glassy eyes. Orryn felt ashamed for them. There was a time for celebration and merriment, but that was after the quest was done, not when the employer gives you some money upfront for supplies. Booze was not supplies.

Eventually, Lady Lucette showed up around the corner, riding an impeccable chestnut gelding. She was a widow, still wearing all black, but she cut a great figure. She might have been a bit older than Orryn, but he didn’t care. He was going to help win her land back, which was worthy enough. If he also won her heart in the process, that would just be an added benefit.

Lady Lucette had one household knight with her, flanking her on his black steed. Ser Harvey was quite old, so Orryn didn’t expect him to do any real fighting himself, but he would no doubt be their commander.

“Good sers!” The lady’s voice woke up the ambling knights and made them appear to sober up real quick. “We are about to embark on our journey! I need you at your best. Vigilant and honorable. My late husband’s lands in the mountains of Mournoth lie in ruins. From what we’ve heard, there’s a nest of savage goblins where a noble’s mansion once stood. You will need to clear them out. I expect you to obey my and ser Harvey’s every word, until the task is done. Do I have your loyalty?”

Orryn was first to draw his sword and raise it to the heavens. “Ser Orryn Desant, at your service!”

Others followed suit shortly after, but she must’ve noticed him first. He smirked, satisfied with himself.

“We ride!” Ser Harvey ordered. And they rode.

I don't know how it started. I was never a mage of many or really any accolades. One might even say my greatest achievement was graduating in the first place. No, my skills lay elsewhere. In numbers, in pragmatism, in middle management as one might call it. And I suppose that's where it began. I was appointed as the institutes book keeper and accountant. I had the same questions most did, of course - about the Archmage. Every student who passes through here wonders at least once. And back in my day no one and I mean no one had seen anyone pass through the great gates to Laniel's tower office.

Yes, that's where it started I suppose...but for me it went further. Everyone's heard the theories of course, that Laniel doesn't exist and is a pseudonym used by the administration, or even that Laniel died centuries ago and the council never chose a new Archmage. Most were satisfied with one or even more of the theories. Not me though. I saw the evidence of Laniel's existence in the records and accounts. First was the signature. That....ungodly signature. It's text and form read like no dialect I had ever seen before, not even remotely close to anything I had seen. And those letters came frequently. Withdrawing funds ands artifacts, always mailed both ways by couriers wearing strange white robes. I didn't just want to know. I NEEDED to know.

I dug and dug, through imperial, through guild, through Synod, and through all other records I could find. I found a paper trail a continent long, yet told me nothing. A paper trail dated back to as early as 2E 574. At that point it was only a few years before the hordes of Dagon, which would have made Laniel nearly a thousand years old at least, older than even the oldest living altmer on Summerset. After that, the trail went cold. Utterly dead. Like Laniel never even existed before joining the mages guild. I tried other means of getting information of course. I tried contacting the blades but they seemed to have no interest in the matter.

I was trapped in a circle. Until that day, when the gates to oblivion opened on Tamriel. The college was abandoned, not a soul but me to tend its ground. Oddly, the daedra went out of their way to avoid the colleges grounds. I hadn't thought about it at the time, I was too caught up in seizing my only chance to learn the truth.

I forced my way into the Archmages office. And what I saw there...I will never forget. A figure hooded head to toe in purple robes and taller than anyone I had ever seen staring out their window and watching the world below burn. I called, and I called, trying to get Laniels attention. And they only turned to face me after I lost my patience and began to approach. And that....those eyes....I could not see even the smallest detail of their face as it was utterly shrouded in black. But those eyes shined through. Purple eyes that beamed with hatred the likes of which I could never imagine. Eyes that had seen a hundred lifetimes of malice and a million nights of rage. I suspect that even a vampire lord would run in terror of what I saw. But I only froze. I froze and could not move, despite my every instinct telling me to run.

And then Laniel was gone.

As if they had never been there to begin with. And then I sat in the chair. And I started to sign the papers. I don't know why I did it. I just did. And suddenly more and more were brought to my desk. People entered the office as if it had always been open. People called me "dean" and acted as if I had always been there behind that desk and only acted confused when I questioned them. And I simply fell into that role. As if I always had been that role. I oversaw our reopening and our restructuring following our independence from the mages guild. I brokered our agreement with the Mede empire. I saw the first days of our rivalry with Winterhold. And nobody questioned it.

Now....how about you?

Let's look back at some memorable moments and interesting insights from last year.

Your top 2 posts:

• "Happy Cakeday, r/TamrielArena! Today you're 4" by u/AutoModerator
• "[MODPOST] Weekly Project Post" by u/slovakiin

Let's look back at some memorable moments and interesting insights from last year.

Your top 10 posts:

• "[CLAIM] College of Whispers" by u/NivNightshade
• "[MODPOST] Not In Kansas Alinor" by u/KerbalSpaceExplorer
• "[LORE] On the Cult of Satakaal" by u/Talkman12
• "[LORE] Battle for Hegathe: Before the Storm" by u/Talkman12
• "[CLAIM] Once, I claimed Balfiera." by u/dm_me_ur_timbits
• "[ROLEPLAY] Sabina the Adolescent Enchantress" by u/dm_me_ur_timbits
• "[CLAIM] The Synod" by u/Zajekk
• "[DIPLOMACY] All Quiet on the Thalmor front (officially)" by u/Talkman12
• "[LORE] Rise from Shadow" by u/dm_me_ur_timbits
• "[CLAIM] The Totally Not Fascist Regime of Alinor" by u/Lukas_Fehrwight

Comment on this post, if you wish to do any mechanical changes to your nation or organization, from spending money or tech points, to your previous projects being finished, to changing any laws (autonomy, tax rate, levy rate). Rolls for various weekly events (explorations, conversions, etc.) can likewise be done here. This post is here so you don't have to make separate posts for your projects, and so moderators would have all the changes together in one place and nothing would be forgotten.

The forward-planning leaders of Balfiera have assessed that the crumbling power of the Empire, exacerbated by the Stormcloak insurgency and the assassination of Titus Mede II, will result in growing threats to the stability of the Iliac Bay region. Already pirates made a daring sack of Wayrest, and although humans may not remember an event so long in the past, for elves a quarter century is like the blink of an eye.

The Dominion Navy possesses expertise in countering pirate attacks, honed by millennia of fighting Maormer. Thus the Castellan considers a renewed use for the island fortress, which Ryain Direnni purchased over four thousand years ago for use as a military base. The Direnni have invited their Alinor cousins to survey their island for potential use by their navy. Balfiera's location would enable the Dominion to support their Imperial allies in securing vital trade routes, as well as responding to the Stormcloak insurgency.

The Castellan has made no announcements about building a Dominion naval base, and perhaps nothing will come out of the Direnni's talks with the mer in black. Still Balfiera's community, which includes many Thalmor refugees as well as Great War veterans, has begun to whisper about the potential dangers of growing Dominion influence on their Isle.

Some month, 4EWhatever

Several years passed since Sabina's aunts revealed to her that she was a witch. Under their guidance and with S'zalem's snarky tutelage, Sabina quickly mastered alchemy and enchanting, spells and rituals. She assisted her aunts with ever more complex tasks at Château Chessler, and Sabina developed a reputation as the third of the Sisters L'Enchantées. Rivervale received a steady stream of travelers seeking cures to strange ailments, so the young woman kept busy making potions and salves, whenever she wasn't tending to the transformations of the local were-boar population. Male were-boars in particular struggled with managing a bodily cycle aligned with the phases of the moons, and they always needed extra help.

Sabina loved her town, her aunts and her dear friend S'zalem. Still, she wondered though about the world beyond Rivervale, and she wondered about who she was.

One evening, as Sabina searched her cluttered drawers for a spare soul gem, she found a pale crystal shaped like a cat's eye. Sabina took the cool crystal in her hand and lay down on her bed, holding it up in front of her. She blew the dust off of it and lit a magelight. It projected a ghostly map of Tamriel.

She panned across the world on her ceiling, zooming in to the Iliac Bay, following the coast to the Isle of Balfiera, to the Direnni Tower, and to Rivervale. She wondered where her parents were. Were they far away, or were they in her own town without her knowing?

She extinguished the magelight and thoughtfully placed her fingertip on a point of the crystal. Her own blood could allow her to scry for the answer, but did she want to know?

She heard a meow at the entrance to her room. "Whatcha doin', Sabeeny?"

She sighed. "Just trying to enjoy my personal time."

The Alfiq padded up to the foot of her bed. "About time you try out that crystal."

Sabina ignored him and went back to her messy drawer to search for a knife or a pin or something that could draw blood.

S'zalem meowed, "If you're going to cut yourself, I can help you with that."

Sabina groaned and extended a finger out to S'zalem, who bit it. She placed her finger on the crystal and relit her magelight. This time it projected a red-hued map of Tamriel, peppered with pale red dots concentrated in Balfiera, with a few in the rest of High Rock, and some in Alinor as well. She noticed a single deep red dot off the coast of Wayrest. What caught Sabina's attention though was a cluster of bold red dots in a remote part of High Rock. She zoomed into the location, which was far from any settlement. The dots slowly moved about the area, and some seemed to venture out by themselves, away from the others.

S'zalem meowed. "Witches. Only a ritual bond can make everyone as close as blood kin."

Sabina murmured, "You think my mother was a witch? And she's with her sisters?"

S'zalem flicked his tail impatiently. "There's only one way to find out."

Sabina observed the cluster of dots, and she wondered if her mother could really be a witch. What Wyrd did she belong to? Why would she abandon her daughter? Could she really be found?

Sabina scryed past the paler dots to focus her attention on the other bright dot, which had moved closer to Wayrest now. She wondered if that represented her father.

If her mother was a witch, what was her father? A drunk good for nothing sailor? She wasn't likely to find him in any case if he was a seaman, in a port full of them. Strangely it seemed like she was more likely to find a coven of witches, but she wondered again if she really wanted to discover anything.

Sabina spent many days reflecting. She talked to her aunts, and she talked to S'zalem, who both encouraged her. One night, she scryed the crystal again.

S'zalem told her "You know you should just write down what you saw. So you don't have to keep bleeding yourself. Not that I mind biting you."

Sabina rolled her eyes.

The next day, Sabina L'Enchantée and S'zalem the Storm-Bringer set out on the journey to find Sabina's parents.

Kem,

​

Hello again, dear student, I have long waited for a time like this to come. I cannot say that I hold very much more than disdain for the mer, however their impacts swing towards our favor and for that I am forever grateful. With our inconvenience in northern Skyrim now gone forever, I have taken the initiative to begin our long-sought endeavors and I am well aware that a certain other colleague of yours has done the same without so much as a warning.

As you well know I have grown quite distasteful, and now uncomfortable, of his pathetic conniving attitudes. While I do appreciate the furthering of our stance as it is, I do not appreciate it when our achievements are suddenly bought and sold like collectors items to display in the next nobles household. Since you have so far failed to deal with this issue on your own accord, I have sent a detailed list of your orders of which I expect to be executed flawlessly.

With that out of the way, I am also sending you my own detailed research papers and journals on the province of Skyrim. I expect that you will utilize these fully to our advantage and that they will not fall into the wrong hands, lest you face the repercussions. The good doctor shall tell you more when he arrives with them as there is no one I trust more with such delicate information.

Onto the third matter at hand; I have also heard of our own thalmor friends foolish initiatives. I truly do feel that they are cursed by their own unwavering and unearned ego's, doomed to perpetually repeat the mistakes of their comrades. While I do find it amusing to say the least, it is urgent that you see to his own safety while he falls victim to his stupidity and his folley. He will die before he reaches the receptacle and I do not want a Thalmor to perish on my sacred grounds.

Now, as I stated previously, I have sent two letters along with this one. One, instructions on how to deal with our mutual pest, and another, instructions with my attached journals that you and your comrades are to pour over. Use everything at your disposal to carry these out.

​

~ A.L., 4E 207

​

​

3E, 433;

​

The eight mages stood in the courtyard, some staring into the blazing sky outside of the college while most stared upwards at the tower where the archmage's office beckoned them onward. They hadn't seen the sun in days, just smoke and endless dreary and oppressive clouds. Everyone else in the college had gone out to assist with the crisis in some form or another, yet they stayed behind waiting for the college to be empty. Everyone else who might have been there was underground in the archives, no threat to them

"Kemarick?" a voice called out from the void.

Hm? Oh...my apologies" the redguard said as he was pulled back into reality.

Kemarick, the leader of the group, was at least a decade older than the students who were on board with his scheme. He was quite meek for a redguard, thin and frail with uncertainly always plaguing his expression. Today was no different, especially today.

He took another longing gaze at the sky, taken aback once more by the havoc that surrounded them outside of the college. It puzzled him even more-so as to why that same ruin had not yet come here to the college. Even the great holds of the counts had not been immune to the destruction and yet the inner sanctum of the Synod remained untouched and ungrazed.

He turned his head yet again, this time to the black cathedral-esque gate that forebodingly stood over them as if a beast ready to devour. There were carvings on it that he could not hope to decipher and depictions he could not hope to understand even in his vetted scholarly wisdom. Usually only archivists were allowed past these gates. But the archivists were all underground today.

He took a step forward before the gate began to slowly and monstrously creek open. Its echoes and moans seeming to share the same sentiment that the clueless group did. Kemarick took another step ahead before he felt something grab at his sleeve.

"There's no going back if we do this" one of his accomplices said to him. Kemarick turned his head, answering her please with a look of disappointment. Ayla, his student of six years continued hesitantly, "you told me before that some things are best left unknown. Maybe it's better if we don't know."

Kemarick shot her another look of disposition as he lifted his arm and pointed into the sky where the archmage's office rested on its tower, "that's exactly what he would tell us." Ayla's face distorted into a clearly uncomfortable expression before Kemarick sighed and continued, "I understand if you want no part in this. But I need to know. I've needed to know for sixteen years."

The solemn mage turned his head from his student, looking into the forbidden inner sanctum that laid beyond the accursed gates before he continued through.

Harvest's End, 4E207

The festival of Harvest's End marked the day that the gryphoniers reaped four years of hard labor. They had put their hands in fire to hatch their eggs, groomed and fed feathery fledglings, and trained nearly every day on their gigantic winged beasts. Lord Aiden Direnni worked hard to mold the gryphonières into a team to rival Cloudrest's Welkynars, influencing even the middle-aged Breton royal to walk the Path to Alaxon. Each gryphon and rider developed a mystic bond unlike any they had for humanoids. Although the riders' training wouldn't be complete until they had found and embarked on a worthy quest, they would demonstrate what they had learned today in order to honour their gryphons.

A crowd gathered below the battlements of Castle Wayrest, where the Queen Maeve and her Notorgo took their first flights. The riders stood on top of the walls, far apart from each other. Astanya Direnni stood in the center, dressed in shining ceremonial riding garb. Aiden and Maeve stood to each side of her. The gryphons waited in the courtyard, hidden from the crowd by the walls.

The clock began to strike the evening's 9th hour. As the last toll of the bell reverberated into the dusk, it merged with a song of the gryphoniers. The song rose in intensity until the gryphons burst out over the battlements, their powerful wings launching them into the sky. The two white gryphons and single black one flew around each other, criss crossing paths, before coming to hover over their riders. The black Ceymaire flapped her wings slowly over her rider, and the smaller snowy Falirion and Notorgo hovered on each side of her. The riders lifted their arms to the cheering crowd. Then they leapt off the battlements.

The riders' rapid plummet to the ground seemed to slow in midair, as they lightened their own weight to float like feathers in the wind. They landed in their diving gryphons' saddles, and the gryphons' claws scraped the ground as they righted themselves at the last second to swoop over the awed crowd. The beasts rose back up into the sky, turned and banked steeply over the castle, so that their riders sat nearly parallel to the ground. Falirion and Notorgo started circling each other in an upwards corkscrew while Ceymaire shot up between them. Astanya opened a portal in the sky and Ceymaire sped in, just before it closed after her. Aiden and Maeve split off, circling back over the heads of the stunned crowd.

To be continued...

In the small Wayrest suburb of Aubouche, a strange problem is plaguing the townsfolk, rendering them anxious and concerned for their safety.

A young boy has gone missing, by the name of Roland. As the explorers of Sunseeker and Rosethorn would discover, he was last seen along the banks of one of the area's lakes, where he often used to play in hopes of catching glimpses of the "mer-folk" beneath the waters. The locals point the explorers to a cave alongside the lake, the Naidiac Cave, into which the boy could have easily wandered and become lost.

Comment on this post, if you wish to do any mechanical changes to your nation or organization, from spending money or tech points, to your previous projects being finished, to changing any laws (autonomy, tax rate, levy rate). Rolls for various weekly events (explorations, conversions, etc.) can likewise be done here. This post is here so you don't have to make separate posts for your projects, and so moderators would have all the changes together in one place and nothing would be forgotten.

The halls of the archives were vast, confusing, and nigh unmappable by the untrained. They extended deep underground, far larger than the campus itself containing innumerable artifacts and forbidden or forgotten tomes. It took months or even years of apprenticeship for new archivists to learn how to navigate the confusing halls of the archives. It was by Laniel's design that the archives were constructed in such a way, the Synod was a popular place for would be thieves.

None knew this labyrinth of an archive better than Valifire, the head archivist. Tall and gaunt like most high elves, but unlike those of such high standing she wreaked of filth from spending weeks at a time down in the archives. This time in particular was turning out to be more strenuous than any other. Students, employed mages, and instructors alike were rushing to skyrim attempting to return with nordic and draconic tomes or artifacts in hopes of gaining some favor with the choir.

The absurdity of what most of them had brought back was becoming infuriating to Valifire. Many of these "artifacts" had been blatantly forged or their importance greatly exaggerated. Such things as cups with random draconic letters chiseled into the rims, rings with colored gems claimed to be worn by dragon priests, and most of all "dragon" teeth.

She considered many times just throwing out all the things they'd brought back, though was reluctant to as she could never forgive herself if she threw out something of scholarly value. Instead she debated whether to direct her anger at Kemarick, Lusis, or Laniel. Nor could she help thinking back to a century and a half ago, when things weren't like this.

Such thoughts ate away at her until she turned to her assistant archivist, "I am needed elsewhere, you know what to do."

"Of course, ma'am," her assistant said with a slight bow before Valifire turned around and departed.

Valifire made her journey through winding halls and spiraled staircases, returning to a place deep underground that only herself and the archmage knew of. Somewhere yet untouched by Kemarick's insanity and Lusis's politicians.

A sick respite but a respite none the less, the last time she'd been down here was 26 years ago when the aldmeri armies marched in Cyrodiil. She continued checking behind her shoulder, making sure that none of her less than trustworthy assistants had trailed her down.

After long, Valifire came before a massive stone door rich with engraving and wards pinned onto it's massive bulwark. At last, she'd made it.

Travel Photos

1 Mid Year, 2E582

Dear Friend,

Please excuse my hasty scribbling, because I just can't wait to tell you about my trip to Balfiéra! I was selected for a summer exchange program in martial studies, run by the famous Direnni. Unfortunately when I portaled over to Balfiéra, a nasty Daedra portaled over with me and trashed the whole place, because she obviously hadn't paid attention in etiquette classes.

My newest friend Norianwë found me. She's a member of Clan Direnni, and she's descended from the great Ryain Direnni. Or was it Aiden Direnni? Who cares, they're all great, and she's great too. To help me improve my language skills, she agreed to speak to me in Breton (Bretonnic?)

The daedric invasion really messed with our schedule, but we still had lots of fun. Norianwë trained me to fight the way she trained Queen Ayrenn a few years ago. Then she took me to get a makeover - in the armory. I got a new outfit which is very durable and I didn't have to pay for anything. Look at me in my new armor, I'm standing next to Norianwë and she's so much taller than me! 

Anyways Balfiera is absolutely beautiful. The Isle is home to a wide variety of birds, butterflies, and sabre cats (the people of High Rock call them smilodons). The Direnni also have an entire force of golems or stone guardians, which protect them and their really tall tower. Unfortunately the animated guardians were corrupted by daedra, so they didn't like to take pictures with me and they attacked me. Too bad.

While we were saving the isle from daedra, Norianwë taught me about the Direnni's eco-friendly power source: skyshards. Skyshards are a great source of power, but they tend to fall in inconvenient places and they are really hard to repair. So the Direnni keep replacements around for emergencies.

Norianwë sent me to retrieve a skyshard but she didn't warn me before I touched it, so I got quite a shock. It was like drowning in a waterfall of pure magicka. She claimed I must be special to absorb all its power, and she didn't even mind that I drained it of all its energy. I guess it made me a sort of living magical generator or something, because after that I was able to activate a magical skyshard lock, which got us into the Keywright's gallery.

So this gallery was sealed a long time and there were lots of books that looked ancient. Guess what was the first book I found? A book on cheese!

I also found the crazy snake daedra here. I wonder how she got in and managed to lock the door for us. Anyways I sent her back to Oblivion and then I got to look around the gallery. They have portals to every corner of Tamriel. It must be so convenient for the Direnni to travel!

Norianwë says I seem to be someone special, that I was chosen by the stars, the Gallery or maybe even the Adamantine Tower. It must be because I got a massive shock from touching a skyshard, and that's not common. She says she will stay here and study this Keywright Gallery for the next hundred years or so (imagine, not even a Direnni knows all the secrets of their isle). She says I ought to go claim my destiny. It's true I have to find my destiny, because I'm not sure what it is - except I definitely won't be repairing skyshards!

Well, this summer exchange program was a lot more than I bargained for, but I made a great new friend, and memories for a lifetime.

I have to leave this island soon, and I think I'll take Norianwe's advice to travel all of Tamriel. Someday, though, I would like to return to High Rock, and I would like to visit L'île de Balfiéra again.

I hope you also doing well. I hope you enjoy this letter, and we can meet again. As they say in Balfiéra, "Que les étoiles vous protègent." May the stars protect you.

Your friend,

F

ooc: I haven't traveled in a while and I'm so happy I got to go to Balfiera and take pictures like I'm actually travelling. Now that we know what Balfiera is really like, please forgive my lore ignorance; I'll try to incorporate what I learned wherever I can.

His aspiration was greatness. His present was boredom.

Aryndor couldn't believe he had trained for years in Alinor, only to be sent back to Balfiera, the Rock Island. His employer said he had an important job and promised him many assignments. He heard close to nothing. He wondered if he ought to break some rule just to see what happened. However, he had seen the punishment for those who broke rules. So he hoped that the Aldmeri bureaucracy forgot him. He accepted that the Altmer, who never forgot anything, had a plan for him down the road.

He passed time in his own way. It wasn't long before the Direnni lordling and his great black gryphon became a common sight around the villages of the Iliac Bay. It also didn't take many unexplained disappearances from Balfiera before he had seen all he wanted to see, and people knew him too well. Then he was bored again.

He was so bored he was starting to plan a trip back to Alinor, when his 25th birthday came around. Pleased to have something to do for a day, he started drinking in the morning and he was in the drawing room recounting bawdy stories with his pals, when Lysandor burst into their room, shouting at him "Get dressed now, ye bugger!"

Aiden indicated he was fully dressed, at least at this moment.

"Ye cain't be wearin' those shite rags on ye, scut. Dress like it's ye Vincalian Day!"

Then Aiden remembered that his day wasn't all fun and games. There was to be a special ceremony.

Lysandor rushed him back to his room, where Aiden threw on the finest clothing he could find, and the old man harried him down the stairs to the lower levels of the Adamantine Tower. The Castellan led him around a circular platform over the glowing Zero Stone, into a hall filled with statues of ancestors. Mage lights illuminated sculptures of great mages and warriors: Peregrine and Pelladil, Corvus and Calani, Ryain, Raven, Aiden, as well as their distinguished guests Lalorarian Dynar and Ayrenn Arana Aldmeri. The young man felt all their eyes upon his as he stumbled down the incense-filled hallway that ended with a huge statue of the explorer Cygnus Direnni. The clan founder posed before a large adamantine block, for nobody had yet earned the right to be cast in adamantine. She offered a hand outstretched. In her hand had been placed two small metallic spheres.

In front of Cygnus' statue stood the living matriarch Medora Direnni. Bedecked in gold-threaded robes, she bore a stole of swan feathers interwoven with red mountain flowers. On her brow shimmered a crown of adamantium.

Under his relatives' scornful gaze, Aiden took his place beside his twin, before the stern matriarch.

Medora took a sphere into her own hand, and bid Astanya to kneel. The elder held the sphere aloft above the younger. The lustrous metal glimmered in the magelight.

The matriarch recited the Kemen Vialen, ancient rites of the Earth-Bones, ancestors of the Direnni. Lysandor, who stood behind the scions, recited the names of the the deceased who once held the first Calian. Some were obscure but quite a few had achieved great renown, including the twins' grandmother's grandfather, the Imperial Battlemage Jovron. All had followed the Praxic Way.

Medora placed the Calian into the Astanya's hand. Astanya swore an oath to always treasure and protect her inheritance, forged of adamantine, until the day she joined her ancestors. She cradled the sphere like a rare butterfly; its beauty filled her eyes with tears. Medora bid Astanya rise.

Medora took the second sphere into her hand. She came to Aiden, and she bid him kneel. She held the sphere aloft above his head. She recited the Kemen Vialen, and Lysandor recited the names of the ancestors who once carried the stone, including "Croiden Direnni, who once strayed, but presented the Calian reforged before our greatest ancestors..."

She placed the sphere into Aiden's hand. He felt a slight divot in his sphere; it seemed that it was not perfect after all. Aiden swore an oath to treasure his metal sphere, to protect it until he died. He tried to seem as honored as Astanya. In truth he questioned the significance this metallic sphere. He questioned why his younger twin preceded him. Why had she received the Calian passed down a perfect line, while he didn't even receive the Calian of his namesake. Instead, he received one with a tangible flaw. All his life it seemed like he could never measure up to his ancestors, never even measure up to his twin. She got attention for her talent, and he only got attention for his troubles. What difference would a sphere make.

Finally Medora bid Aiden rise. The Direnni together recited the manifold deeds of their ancestral line, and the youngest Direnni scions vowed to live by the Praxis, or they may see their Calian thrust into hot flames, hammered five times, this process repeated eight fold. Then they would have to earn through multiple trials the right to reforge their Caliane.

There was a little more to the ceremony, but it eventually concluded. Aiden spent the rest of the day drinking and partying. He woke up in the middle of the night to use the latrine, and as he returned to his room, he slipped on the floor, falling on his stomach, the sphere in his pocket jamming into his kidney. He howled in pain.

Aiden had forgotten about his Calian. He took out the sphere and gazed at the lustrous adamantine, rotating it around in his hand. He wondered what his ancestors found so special about this little ball.

He found himself levitating to the top of the tower, where he stood surrounded by sea, under a dome of stars. He held his Calian aloft, and he wondered how far he could throw it. What would it be like to take all the accomplishments of his ancestors, and simply throw them away? How would his family punish this sort of Apraxis, if they could no longer destroy his Praxic talisman?

He figured if his family ever found out that he cast his inheritance away, he was sure to be banished. Exile wasn't a death sentence in High Rock, where there were no Apraxics nor Hulkynds. He could still make a great name for himself. If he lived in a previous era, he could have even become a king, just as his ancestors formed an empire. However, his own name would never be as great as the name of the Direnni.

Aiden realized he was comfortable in Balfiera. He even enjoyed his home and his family sometimes. He wasn't sure how he would care for his gryphon if he was sent away.

Besides, he felt some sort of power emanating from his sphere. Perhaps it was the magic from the stars, the light of Lorkhan's lunar remains, or the raw power emanating from the Zero Stone, radiating out of an apex of the world, that made his Calian seem to feel warm to the touch, and glow.

The next day, Aiden woke up with a headache. He wandered over to the library and demanded a librarian bring him everything about Caliane. The librarian brought him numerous scrolls that made up the Direnni Praxis, documenting his ancestors' traditions, lives and deeds. Aiden spent the day poring over them.

Most Aldmer of Summerset received Caliane forged of aetherquartz and glass, but the agrarian Direnni could afford neither celestial metals nor calium glass. So the Direnni forged their inheritance of metals from the earth, and they passed the Caliane of the deceased to the new generation. In Balfiera, the Direnni still retained this tradition, and they cast Caliane from molten Adamantine. The metal would retains some of its impurities, but in the rare event a Calian had to be reforged, then it was further purified.

Aiden also read about his ancestors' code of honor. Whenever they landed on distant shores, they found the locals to be savages and treated them with with little regard. They plundered Nedic treasures and filled stables full with chattel.

However, they valued their Calan. Since their earliest days in the Summerset Isles, the family worked the impoverished earth together. Whatever they harvested, they shared with all of the Calan. When they had little, they made the best of what they had. When they had much, they stored for the future. They venerated their ancestors, and they made all decisions as a Calan.

Aiden had studied the Altmeri Praxis in Alinor. He had memorized the obligations to distant gods, the Path to Alaxon, and the need to conform to the social hierarchy. When he studied Direnni traditions, he learned about his family. He realized why they punished him for his misdeeds, but they gave him chances for redemption. He realized that they cared for him, as filial piety was an important part of their Praxic Way.

The following day, he flew east to Hallin's Stand. He strolled into a tavern in a seedy part of town, ordered several drinks, and started a fight with some locals. He knocked out a Redguard, blasted away a Breton, and fled from the city guard. The young elf ended up in a border town, settling into a cheap inn. As he lay in a dirty bed, listening to sounds from a rowdy bar, soaking in moonlight, he realized he forgot his Calian.

Aiden rushed out of the inn, and all night he flew home. As the first slivers of dawn crept over the horizon, he found the sphere where he had left it under his pillow. It seemed dull, and cold. He had already strayed from the Praxic Way.

When he woke up in the afternoon, he joined his family for tea. They were surprised to find him at home for a change. Aiden asked his great-aunt about her favorite topics: the gossip around the Iliac Bay, some drama with her latest admirer, the mystery novel she was reading. He helped his sister decipher the enchanted margins of a magical tome.

He began to assist his guardian Lysandor at court. He spent the day listening to the common folks' grievances, and he became as bored as a temperant Breton, until he started analyzing the petitioners. He dug into about their views, their biases, and what brought them to their woes. When he asked questions without judgment, in a way that showed interest and sympathy, the petitioners opened up, even revealing very personal aspects of themselves.

Aiden made his recommendations to the Castellan, and they differed from the other councillors' for he was rarely swayed by sympathies. However Lysandor appreciated his perspective, and Aiden gained respect for his guardian's intuition as well.

In the evenings, Aiden began to study law. Just as the Earth-Bones established the laws of nature, the Direnni established laws for their Hegemony. The extensive Direnni Code formed the legal framework of the new Breton kingdoms, and many tenets survived to this day. Aiden analyzed its core concepts, different class' status under the law, the precedents set by his ancestors, and the law's loopholes.

As Aiden advised those who came to resolve disputes, he himself began to put effort into right action, right speech, and right thought. He realized he would never be like his family members, who radiated kindness and naturally behaved with honor. He had to expend effort not to cause others pain. He took comfort in the fact that it was his ancestors' deeds that went down in history, not their personalities. Still, he tried not to hurt his family members at least. It became easier for him to recognize when they felt joy, and whenever they were slighted, he got ready to protect them. For his family, their happiness was worth his effort.

Aiden kept his Calian close to him. He took it with him whenever he traveled, and he showed it to nobody. It was his personal reminder to follow the path that guided his ancestors.

He hoped he could stay on the Praxic Way. He hoped if he strayed, he would have a chance to redeem and reforge himself.

A Royal Notice

Of Her Imperial Majesty

MAEVE THE FIRST, OF HOUSE BARYNIA,
Queen of Wayrest,
Baroness of Menevia and Gauvadon, Lady of Aphren’s Hold, Suzerain of Crosswych,
Liege of Southern Wrothgar and all of Stormhaven,
Loyal Subject of the Empire

Addressed to all her faithful citizens

Noble and Common
Knight and Peasant
Landed and Landless
Magus and Wyress

A CALL!

Every county within the Queen’s domain shall hold two ELECTIONS, where every adult over the age of twenty has equal say. One election will be of the untitled people, without ownership of land - the working class. From amongst themselves, they shall elect the wisest and most fair representatives to become Druids and join the Galen in Wayrest. The second election will be of the titled people, the landowners - the noble class. From amongst themselves, they shall elect the wisest and most fair representatives to become Knights-Peer and join the Galen in Wayrest. Every county will receive further instructions on how many Druids and Knights-Peer they are to send.

The GALEN, once filled, shall become the new governing body of all land and people in our Queen’s domain. It shall have two chambers, or HILLS. The Hill of Druids will handle the matters of the common people, such as workers’ rights, healthcare and education, and settle their grievances with the kingdom. The Hill of Knights will handle the matters of the nobility, which include, but are not limited to, the deployment of the armed forces, international relations and trade, and maintenance of infrastructure. In the Galen, all issues of all the people will be heard, and conclusions will be arrived at. Druids and Knights-Peer shall find common ground and establish laws that shall stabilize their relationship, settle rebellions before they happen, and establish a safety net in case of a localized emergency. Any law which passes the Galen shall be brought to the Queen to be signed, and the Queen will retain her right to veto.

It will take time until all the necessary legislature is settled upon, but the Queen is firm in her belief that the Divines and gods outside shall guide the formation of the Galen into a bastion of PROGRESS. Being the first in High Rock to reject her claim to lawful tyranny, she hopes to lead our kingdom and province to a new era of freedom and prosperity.

Royal missives detailing the election process shall follow.

Seal of House Barynia

15 Morning Star, 4E205

The first month of the year brought cold wind from the mountains of Wrothgar, blowing icy rain across the Iliac Bay. The winter mist that had settled in during the month of Frost Fall hung heavy over the Isle of Balfiera, where it would rest until Second Seed.

The gryphon riders continued training. Even their wool riding jackets could only offer so much protection from the elements, so they had to acclimate to the outdoors. Aiden had his students practice solo and long distance flying on his gryphon. Their own gryphons would be ready to fly in about a year.

More importantly, the riders practiced falling. The mark of an experienced rider wasn't avoiding falls, but falling gracefully. The students practiced jumping without any spells from lower heights. They learned to tumble on the ground and roll on impact so they wouldn't shatter their knees. They practiced jumping from ledges onto wet sand, and from cliffs into cold sea water. As they jumped from increasing heights, they began to integrate spellwork.

Alteration spells required the caster's mind to be open to infinite possibilities, to understand the rules of Aurbis, and to break them. On casting a spell, the caster would feel a surge of magicka, as they defied reality. Though their concentration could only keep reality at bay for so long. When the spell broke before the rider landed, when they felt Nirn pulling them with her full force towards her core, then the caster would have to resort to an enchanted object. These objects were pricy and usually destroyed upon use, but without any means to slow their fall, the rider was sure to land hard.

Aiden summoned his students to Balfiera for a test. The students had to climb to the top of the Adamantine Tower, jump off, and slow their fall in midair. They had to control their fall, avoiding the rocks and landing softly on the ground. As self-levitation was outlawed, and hard to perform anyways after slow falling's demands on magicka, the students had no alternative to the dreaded climb back up to the top of the tower.

This exercise in falling was just practice for the test. Aiden wouldn't say what the test was, only that the students had to be ready to take it after sundown.

Aiden stood tall on the Adamantine Tower; his will and magicka made him almost impervious to wind and rain. The gryphons flew about, training to tolerate the weather conditions, and to answer their riders' calls. Aiden watched his students make their jumps.

Captain Roget gazed down at the slick rocks at the bottom of the tower. "I've always been afraid of heights."

Astanya, miserable in her wet clothing, let out a chuckle. "But you ride gryphons."

"I don't look down."

Aiden shouted, "Stop dawdling, Cap."

The man leapt off the edge of the Adamantine Tower, plunging towards the rocks, before suddenly slowing down and guiding himself to a large patch of sand. He tumbled softly onto the ground. Covered with wet sand, he got up, waved at his observers, and headed back towards the top of the tower. It was the next student's turn.

Comment on this post, if you wish to do any mechanical changes to your nation or organization, from spending money or tech points, to your previous projects being finished, to changing any laws (autonomy, tax rate, levy rate). Rolls for various weekly events (explorations, conversions, etc.) can likewise be done here. This post is here so you don't have to make separate posts for your projects, and so moderators would have all the changes together in one place and nothing would be forgotten.

Sabina always wondered what was her aunts' recipe for perfect pumpkin pie. Somehow they combined pumpkins fresh from their garden, sweet cream, a secret mixture of spices, a few other ingredients, and culinary magic, into a delicious treat served piping hot from the witches' oven. Even with her stomach full from a huge dinner, she still couldn't resist starting a slice of pie.

S'zalem enjoyed the pie even more. He scarfed down his servings, licking his paws between swipes of his face covered with pumpkin. He meowed. "Pass me another slice, Zelde."

Aunt Zelde replied, "I think three slices is more than enough for you."

"Aww come on, it's Sabina's birthday. Can't I treat myself once a year?"

Aunt Hilde said, "You treat yourself at least twice a week, stealing food from that tavern."

He moaned. "I just want to have my pie, and eat it too."

Sabina laughed. "Here. you can have the rest of my pie." She was stuffed.

As S'zalem happily finished the remainder of Sabina's pie, her Aunt Hilde went into the enchanting room. She returned with a tiny wooden box inscribed with runes.

Aunt Hilde set the box in front of Sabina. "This is your birthday gift, cherie."

Sabina opened the box to reveal a large and clouded white gem. Shaped like a cat's eye, its round surface converged at two opposite points. Sabina admired the gem.

Aunt Hilde said, "Let me show you what it does."

Aunt Hilde held the gem in front of her, and lit a magelight. It projected through the gem and onto the wall a map of High Rock, like one on parchment magnified. As Aunt Hilde moved her magelight about, the map shifted, revealing Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, Skyrim, Elsweyr, and other parts of Tamriel.

Sabina exclaimed, "I can't believe it. Where did you find this?"

Aunt Zelde said, "We bought it from an Imperial cartographer a century ago. It's a special gem, enchanted to help travellers."

Aunt Hilde quietly added, "We put another enchantment on it too."

She extended her pointer finger out to S'zalem who bit it, drawing blood. She placed her finger on a point of the gem. The stone seemed to absorb the blood, tinting red.

Aunt Hilde relit the magelight, and the map appeared with dozens of red dots scattered about.

Aunt Zelde said, "These points are one's blood relations. The closer the relation, the more vivid the mark."

Aunt Hilde brought into focus the Isle of Balfiera, where there was a vivid red dot over the location of Rivervale. She said, "Here's Zelde. We weren't actually born from the same parents, but we're blood sisters with everyone in our coven."

Aunt Zelde gazed at Sabina. "For you it can show you where your true parents are."

S'zalem said, "If you want to know."

Aunt Hilde said, "We really hope you stay in Rivervale and that you're happy here. But you've probably wondered about them, and we didn't want to stop you from meeting them."

Aunt Hilde extinguished her magelight, so only candles illuminated the simple dining room. She handed the gem back to Sabina. Sabina found the gem as cool and smooth as when she first touched it, not a drop of blood on its surface. The color seemed to fade back to white. She lit her own magelight and it projected a plain map without any dots onto the wall.

Sabina extinguished her magelight. "I think this gift is beautiful. But I don't want to know where my birth parents are. They abandoned me, and you took me in. Aunt Hilde, Aunt Zelde, you're all the family I could ask for. I don't know how I can ever repay everything you've done for me."

Her aunts smiled as Sabina embraced them and told them, "I love you."

Then she embraced S'zalem. "I love you too. Even though you got in trouble at the Temple of Dibella, and I had to go all the way to Wayrest to fetch you."

S'zalem purred. "You're so sweet, Sabina." He patted her on the back with a soft paw. "It makes listening to your teen problems so much better. Now can you pass me another slice of that sweet pumpkin pie?"

Comment on this post, if you wish to do any mechanical changes to your nation or organization, from spending money or tech points, to your previous projects being finished, to changing any laws (autonomy, tax rate, levy rate). Rolls for various weekly events (explorations, conversions, etc.) can likewise be done here. This post is here so you don't have to make separate posts for your projects, and so moderators would have all the changes together in one place and nothing would be forgotten.

After weeks of rain and storms in the late spring, the weather has finally turned, as Midyear brought with it summer. Clear skies became a fixture in Wayrest and beyond, and the Barynia Estate in Menevia became ready for its most important event in the last couple of years.

The naming ritual of the Queen's gryphon was quite low profile, so only a few people came, but they were all quite important. Queen Maeve herself, of course, and her gryphon, were the center of attention. Her husband was there too, even though he didn't look like he approved. Rosethorn and Sunseeker were also there, the latter carrying a little notebook, ready to scribble down any details of the Aldmeri ritual taking place. The skeleton staff maintaining the Estate was bolstered by a couple new servants to make all the preparations, and a dozen new guards came in to maintain security - Bad Men and Queen's Knights both.

And of course, there were the foreign guests, from Balfiera. There was Medora Direnni, coming from her tomb sweeping tradition, and then Maeve's fellow gryphon riders, along with their mounts - Aiden, Astanya and Etienne.

A wide open space was prepared, where the gryphons could be left undisturbed by servants and guards, and where the ceremony would take place. A little way away from the field, closer to the manor house, there were tables and tents set up, with refreshments for the guests.

Twilight came, and Queen Maeve and her gryphon made themselves ready for their big event.

It must have been a tense few weeks for Indatha, sharing a ship with a group of people with whom she has no communication. Summerset had soon disappeared off the horizon behind them - and they passed Pyandonea just as quickly, soon in the great blue void of nothing - or at least, what was thought to be nothing.

With the Chimeri-Quey frantically checking their maps, and the ship and its crew having been in the great blue nothing for days, the excitement aboard would indicate that they had finally arrived at their destination; they threw a heavy anchor overboard to keep the chitin vessel in place, and set a rain tarp over the masts for the long haul.

Once the ship was prepared to be moored here for some time, the Quey seemed to decide amongst themselves who would be diving and staying behind - with one of them sitting back onto the ship's benches to hold the fort while the others approached the edge of the water. Nodding at Indatha, they threw themselves into the sea one after another, quickly disappearing below as they swam deep.

1 Rain's Hand, 4E204

Nearly 9 moon cycles passed since the hatching of the gryphon eggs. The gryphons had already grown about as tall as Aiden, and they gave him no rest. He lost many nights' sleep teaching his three students and training his own gryphon. The numerous nights he once spent flying aimlessly around the Iliac Bay, in search of entertainment in village taverns, were but a distant memory.

Lysandor praised Aiden for helping out his sister, who seemed to have regained joie de vivre. Medora said he had done something truly noble for Queen Maeve. He had to take her word for it. Noble was just a title for him, never a goal.

Aiden flew to Wayrest frequently though, and he was a fixture at the court now. He was sure the courtiers had something to gossip about all the time he spent in the palace. Perhaps he would ask the queen what people said about them someday; he was usually too busy to care. Training gryphons and training gryphon riders were both extremely time-consuming tasks. He split his time between Wayrest and Balfiera. Being away from either for more than a few days made him worry about the gryphons.

The Balfieran gryphons already had their ritual first flight, which involved their riders pushing them off a high place. After the gryphons' naming ritual, he gave their riders Astanya and Étienne a break. He was however pleased to see them in the aerie with their gryphons before dawn. He greeted his young white gryphon Falirion as well. The gryphon snapped at his arm which Aiden hardened with Stoneflesh just in time, before smiling and scratching Falirion behind his ears.

Ceyelda looked up sleepily from her roost. She had put in countless hours carrying all the students for the flight lessons, and Aiden wished he could give her more rest. As soon as the young gryphons were grown, he planned to retire his aging companion. Now they had to fly to Wayrest. He had a feeling it was time for Maeve's gryphon's first flight.

The short and scrawny Étienne helped Aiden saddle Ceyelda up. He mounted her, and they emerged out into Balfiera's cliffs at dawn. The pair launched to flight over the waves.

Aiden could fly blind to Wayrest now, as he sensed the warmth of the morning sun to the east, the gusts of prevailing winds, and the bumps from the usual thermals. However he liked to keep his eyes open to watch the meandering fishing boats and trade ships. They glided over Tamarilyn Point; Aiden lowered Ceyelda's altitude to take a closer look at a setup for some sort of festival. He wondered which festival it was, as Flower Day had already passed.

Soon they reached Wayrest. He was surprised to see the city decorated with even more flowers. Was Flower Day now a week long here? Ceyelda slowed down over the temple where he get a closer look at the priestesses. She circled over the palace, and he observed the Bad Men at their training. They slowly glided down to the landing zone. Aiden dismounted to seek out the queen and her gryphon.

The morning was only pleasantly chilly, and the opening buds of flowers gave it the signature smell of spring. Today was the day of Gardtide, after all. The day of flowers, life and beauty.

Rosethorn strode through the streets of Wayrest, dressed simply in a clean white shirt and a loose skirt, which billowed in the breeze. She was smiling, enjoying the atmosphere, the anticipation of a festival. A few townspeople waved her or offered a word of greeting to her, wearing smiles of their own. She was relatively well known, after all. A member of the Queen’s court, a respected Bad Woman, a patient instructor of self defense, an occasional performer of arts… and yet, no political power of her own to speak of. This made the people at ease around her, without the usual greed and suspicion one has of the nobility.

However, the attitudes changed completely once she entered the Temple District, where the preparations for Gardtide were underway. When Rosethorn passed Sister Iselde on the street, the Wyress turned around, huffing in exasperation, exaggerated enough for all people to notice. The greetings stopped, and most passers-by started pointedly ignoring her for the most part. Closer to the Temple, the elderly Sister Lorine saw Rosethorn across the street and spat in her direction. Rosethorn soured, but she didn’t want to sully her good mood by a bunch of old women.

Eventually, the Temple emerged before her. Tall and old, it would’ve been an oppressive sight, were it not for the recent changes. From roof to foundation, the church was overgrown with vines and shoots, and, given the day of the year, it was covered by flowers in full bloom. Yellow, blue, red, and all colours in between seemed to reflect off of the petals in the morning sun. Seeing it, Rosethorn smiled widely, and her heart sincerely warmed from the sight. She stood herself before the entrance, taking in that simple beauty for a moment. She was so enamored by the flowers that she didn’t notice the crowd of people which gathered all around her, making almost a wall of bodies between her and the temple.

“Ah, our former Sister came,” said a voice, and the crowd of people made way for a woman. When Rosethorn saw her, she winced. It was a middle-aged woman, wearing a simple homespun robe, with its hem embroidered with a motive of flowers. She also carried her staff - a staff of living wood, from which more flowers were sprouting. “What have you come to defile today, Rosethorn?”

“Sibyl Florinna,” Rosethorn acknowledged her, and almost made a curtsy - but stopped herself in time. That would’ve been seen as terribly rude. “I merely wish to come to the temple to pray. It is an important holiday. And even though I am no longer of the Wyrd, I still have the faith.”

“Why do you feel the need to pray here, of all places? Your bent version of our faith surely lets you pray somewhere you wouldn’t… disturb people. You are an oathbreaker and an apostate. You cannot blame us for feeling a bit uneasy around you.”

“I didn't come here to discuss whose faith is bent and whose oath was broken,” Rosethorn said bitterly. “Only to pray in peace, where the presence of my goddesses is strongest.” She gently stressed the plural, which made a few of the people around her gasp. Sybil Florinna did not react, but Rosethorn could see a flash of anger in her eyes.

“Very well,” Florinna said, after a moment of silence. “Tamarilyn Wyrd and House of Dibella are nothing if not tolerant… Even of sinners.” The Sibyl turned, and marched off. A few people were still as if trying to keep Rosethorn out of the temple, but she was quick on her feet and deftly wove through the crowd. She slipped through the gate, and found herself inside.

The temple was well lit, from both the rays of the sun streaming through the eastern windows, and a generous amount of braziers, which filled the air with the smell of incense and flower oil. Ahead, Rosethorn saw the two stained glass images she sought. In the giant windows, there were two familiar forms of one goddess. Or, if you were a “heretic” like Rosethorn, two distinct goddesses. Similar, yes, but different.

On the left, there was Dibella. She was depicted young and nude, with only floating lily petals covering the important parts. She stood in a sensual pose, as if dancing. Goddess of beauty indeed.

On the right, there was Druagaa. Rosethorn was fairly sure this was the only stained glass artwork of her, as she was only a local goddess of Menevia, and there were no great churches dedicated to her, save this one. She was depicted older than Dibella, with a certain wisdom in her face, but not old. Rosethorn, in her early thirties, actually looked a lot like her, with her braided black hair and simple, functional clothing. Druagaa held a staff, on top of which there was a massive flower in full bloom. She stood on a field of flowers - her domain.

It was so long since Rosethorn saw these images. Long enough to make her weep at seeing them again, but she steeled herself, and her eyes merely watered a bit. This was why she wanted to pray here this Gardtide. She felt closest to her goddesses when she could see them.

Rosethorn went to sit at one of the benches from which she could see both windows, and started praying, quietly, in barely a whisper. “O sweet Dibella, lady of beauty, of art and song and youth, I come before you. I know this is not your holiday - even though the rest of the people here don’t - but I feel the need to speak to you nonetheless. Please, lady, forgive these poor souls their impropriety towards you. That they were fooled by Wyrd and House. That they confuse you with another. Turn your passion only onto Wyrd and House. They lie to people for power. I will continue to work to untangle their schemes. If it is your will, fan the flames of my passion.” She turned to the other window. “O great Druagaa, lady of flowers, of life and spring and colour, I come before you on your holiday. For untold eras we have honoured Gardtide as your own, and while more people celebrate it now, they confuse it as also Diballa’s holiday, overshadowing you. Please, lady, forgive them. They mean well. They are simple people, who rely on your blessings in their work, in the orchards, gardens and fields. Look not on how they were misled by Wyrd and House, but on their needs. I will tend to the flowers of my life as well, in your honour. As you know, I attribute all fruits of my labour to you. If I deserve it, bless my harvests as well.”

Rosethorn sat there, in the temple, in quiet contemplation, for a good few moments. She sat there long enough to see the sun travel behind the stained glass image of Druagaa, moving from the top of her flower staff and hide behind the stone ceiling of the temple. At that point, she decided to leave. She had some work to do still, before the festival in the streets. She had to rehearse for her kata of Breathless Embrace, which she would be performing, as well as for the singing of “To Fly from the Garden and Keep”, a song she and Sunseeker wrote and composed, and would sing together in the evening before the crowd.

The two parts of her. The beauty of music and the practicality of martial arts. Much like the two goddesses she worshipped.