sage in all fields

>>13986792
butthurt.
/tg/ can't discuss morrowind anymore?

>>13986767
>Don't stop me now.

Because I'm having a good time, HAVING A GOOD TIME!

>>13986813
I was unaware the image was from morrowind. I have never played the game but have head good things. He hadn't put much in the comment section and didn't have a title so I assumed it was just a piece of character art with a tag-line attached.

>>13986855
so you sage character art threads as well?

>>13986855
>don't stop me now
>I'm having such a good time
>I'M HAVING A BALL

>>13986855
>doesn't know who that is in pic

Why are you even on /tg/?

>>13986855
Technically that is exactly what it was. But character art threads are also on topic with the board.

So are sing alongs, that is what I thought he was doing because the line matches one from a song.

>>13986884
OP here
yes, it is from Don't Stop Me Now
I fucking love queen

Because I'm havin a good time HAVIN A GOOD TIME

>>13986871
>so you sage character art threads as well?
then post more images
>>13986813
>/tg/ can't discuss morrowind anymore?
Then discuss morrowind!

>>13986837
I'm a shootin' star leaping through the skies

how does it feel to know that morrowind was simply the remnants of a better age?
now we have to hope indie devs can come up with something to compare

I DON'T WANNA STOP AT ALL

I wanna make a supersonic man out of you.

THAT'S WHY THEY CALL ME MR.FAHRENHEIT

>>13987122

Don't by so quick to judge, faggotmouth. There's word that Michael Kirkbridge himself praised Skyrim. He was basically the creative force behind Morrowind.

>>13987444
[citation needed]

>install Morrowind
>spend an hour finding and installing textures, plugins, patches, etc.

God dammit I'm too picky about the textures I use. I find someone I like, download their stuff, and find out that they ONLY updated the redware containers. I have textures from 20 different people right now.

>>13987469
hey, bro, just download connary's textures
his are whole levels above everyone elses
of course, he took them down a long time ago
but anon's got your back, I'll upload them.
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=TPJBSJ9S

>>13987444
>>I remember being excited for oblivion
why would you do that to me again?

>>13987549
I'll try them again, but the last time I used them I got a terrible headache.

>>13987469

http://planetelderscrolls.gamespy.com/View.php?view=Mods.Detail&id=2915

This replaces nearly every texture in the game. It's a convenient download as opposed to download from 50 different sources to replace every texture in the game. Quality is pretty decent.

I hated Dagoth Ur's design

After everything I went through to get there he was just a tall, bulkier dunmer with long fingernails and a mask (admittedly a pretty cool mask) running around in a loincloth

>>13987549
http://forums.bethsoft.com/index.php?/topic/1162557-no-more-connarys-threads%C2%A1%C2%A1%C2%A1%C2%A1
/
download these because ^

>>13987691
I think that was part of the point
he wasn't some big daddy
not an absolute evil that must be defeated at all cost
not just an sword sponge whose only purpose is to walk around at the end of a dungeon
he's Dagoth Ur, betrayed by the tribunal and hero of dunmer!

>>13987461

I have no source; it's just rumors. That's why I wrote "there's word."

Anyone got a piratebay they think is safe?

The steam version does not work with half the mods

So I needs to steal one.

>thread having a serious discussion about Elder Scrolls
>random capslock bursts of Queen lyrics
>lol

don't ever change /tg/

>>13987782

>not an absolute evil that must be defeated at any cost

Well I concede the 'absolute bit'.. but the rest?

You crazy?

or....

You Sleeper?

>>13987836
trust me. I know what I'm talking about.

>>13987809
Use the one from /rs/. They have all 3 cd .iso's there. It's where I got mine, so it is safe.

anyone have the morrowind creepy pasta?

>>13987809
http://thepiratebay.org/torrent/3843282/Morrowind_Game_of_the_Year_Edition
I still seed :)

Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia
My Lord, Friend, and Companion

Once we were friends and brothers, Lord Nerevar, in peace and in war. No houseman ever served you better, or more faithfully. Much that I did was at your command, at great cost to myself, and my honor.

Yet beneath Red Mountain, you struck me down as I guarded the treasure you bound me by oath to defend. It was a cruel blow, a bitter betrayal, to be felled by your hand.

But, remembering our old friendship, I would forgive you, and raise you high in my service. The Sixth House was not dead, but only sleeping. Now we wake from our long dream, coming forth to free Morrowind of foreign rulers and divine pretenders. When the land is swept clean of false friends and greedy thieves, the children of Veloth will build anew a garden of plenty in this blighted wasteland.

Come to Red Mountain, old friend. For the fellowship and honor that once we shared, I would grant you counsel and power, if only you would pledge that friendship anew. The path to Red Mountain is long, and filled with danger, but if you are worthy, you will find there wisdom, a firm friend, and all the power you need to set the world aright.

As ever, your respectful servant and loyal friend,
Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur

>>13987997
I honestly didn't want to fight him at the end, but it's obvious you have to because, ya know, Blight n shit.
Dayum shame given that he was Nerevar's only bro who stood by him when Tribunal turned on him.

>>13988021

Get the Sixth House Mod.

Join him.

>>13987997

You know, I always wished I could side with Dagoth Ur.

>>13987997

>>13987997
>The Sixth House was not dead, but only sleeping.

I always wondered whether House Dagoth could've been restored to it's proper state. Not the blight infected followers, but actually restored to it's former place.

Hey, I had a theory about the Elderscrolls and its Lore. I was thinking about what Alpharius said about Mantling and how the metaphysics work: Walk like Them until They walk like you.

Well, I was thinking about Morrowind and considering that perhaps the main character was mantling Nerevar, until they became the Nerevarine. That is why you don't start out as the Nerevarine as they say, but have to act as Nerevar until you eventually become it. Seems simple enough.

But then I was thinking about the main character of Oblivion. And I thought: Perhaps the main character of Oblivion was mantling Lorkhan as has happened so many times before? Your actions in the game seem to fit the "Walk like them until they walk like you," bit of mantling for Lorkhan. What, with how you reseperate Mundus from Oblivion and fight for the Empire of Man. I only know so much though, although the idea that you were mantling Lorkhan seemed very cool. I was posting it here to see what you guys, or if I'm lucky Alpharius, think of this idea.

And I know that you Mantle Sheogorath in the expansion, but I was just talking about the main quest part of the game.

>>13987997
still amazed how much thought and effort was put into fleshing out morrowind's story and lore as a result

>>13988033

That dude's not even an indian.

>>13987800

There's actually a post on the Imperial Library forum or something by him that is the source of this. I'll see if I can't find it for you guys.

In the mean-time, a bit more of MK's work - he came up with the idea, someone else helpfully illustrated it.

>>13988159

OK, this was easier than I thought. Behold!

http://imperial-library.info/content/elder-scrolls-v?page=8

Post #3236 is what you're looking for.

These were the days of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived under the wise and benevolent rule of the AMLSIVI and their champion the Hortator. When the gods of Veloth would retreat unto their own, to mold the cosmos and other matters, the Hortator would at times become confused. Vivec would always be there to advise him, and this is the third of the three lessons of ruling kings:

'The ruling king will remove me, his maker. This is the way of all children. His greatest enemy is the Sharmat, who is the false dreamer. You or he is the shingle, Hortator. Beware the wrong walking path. Beware the crime of benevolence. Behold him by his words.'

I AM THE SHARMAT
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA
WHEN YOU SLEEP YOU SEE ME
DANCING AT THE CORE
IT IS NOT A BLIGHT
IT IS MY HOUSE
I PUT A STAR
INTO THE WORLD'S MOUTH
TO MURDER IT
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY BLIND FISH
SWIM IN THE NEW
PHLOGISTON
TEAR DOWN THE PYLONS
MY DEAF MOONS
SING AND BURN
AND ORBIT ME
I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC
WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT
WHAT I BRING IS A STAR
WHAT I BRING IS
AN ANCIENT SEA

'You alone, though you come again and again, can unmake him. Whether I allow it is within my wisdom. Go unarmed into his den with these words of power: AE GHARTOK PADHOME [CHIM] AE ALTADOON. Or do not. The temporal myth is man. Reach heaven by violence. This magic I give to you: the world you will rule is only an intermittent hope and you must be the letter written in uncertainty.'

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

like someone said

>Every TES property other than Oblivion: Batshit insane ramblings of someone who knows a lot about Mesopotamian gods and Gnosticism

>Oblivion: The same person on anti-psychotics

>>13988254
Thankfully, Kirkbride is back on Skyrim. He only wrote partially for Oblivion, but that's not the reason it sucked so much dick (there are far too many reasons to talk about here).

I think Skyrim will have a very ancient, powerful feel to it, a lot like Morrowind did. It felt like such an old conflict that extended thousands of years into the history of an entire nation, culture, and people. I have a feeling that Skyrim will feel much like that, at least based off of the artwork that we've seen so far.

>>13988304
I can't wait to kill smaug 60 times over
them fucking tolkein dragons
lore rape.

>>13988304

Nigga, we got DWEMER BATTLE BUDDIES back. This game is already better than Oblivion.

>>13988361
I shat my pants when I was allowed to summon those. So epic. And being Telvanni used them as guards for your tower. Shit was SO cash.

>>13988254
>>Oblivion: The same person on anti-psychotics

I HATED Oblivion because it was such a "lets play it safe" take on what should've been an interesting game from a lore-point (fucking jungle with legionaries and magnificent imperial city). They toned it all down for technical reasons and because they didn't want to confuse the non-RPG gamers. Shit sucked.

>>13988406
Refayj's famous declaration, "There is but one city in the Imperial Province,--" may strike the citizens of the Colovian west as mildly insulting, until perhaps they hear the rest of the remark, which continues, "--but one city in Tamriel, but one city in the World; that, my brothers, is the city of the Cyrodiils." From the shore it is hard to tell what is city and what is Palace, for it all rises from the islands of the lake towards the sky in a stretch of gold. Whole neighborhoods rest on the jeweled bridges that connect the islands together. Gondolas and river-ships sail along the watery avenues of its flooded lower dwellings. Moth-priests walk by in a cloud of ancestors; House Guards hold exceptionally long daikatanas crossed at intersections, adorned with ribbons and dragon-flags; and the newly arrived Western legionnaires sweat in the humid air. The river mouth is tainted red from the tinmi soil of the shore, and river dragons rust their hides in its waters. Across the lake the Imperial City continues, merging into the villages of the southern red river and ruins left from the Interregnum.

The Emperor's Palace is a crown of sun rays, surrounded by his magical gardens. One garden path is known as Green Emperor Road-here, topiaries of the heads of past Emperors have been shaped by sorcery and can speak. When one must advise Tiber Septim, birds are drawn to the hedgery head, using their songs as its voice and moving its branches for the needed expressions.

>>13988427
and then we got this instead

>>13988427
>When one must advise Tiber Septim, birds are drawn to the hedgery head, using their songs as its voice and moving its branches for the needed expressions.

Ah, now I get the psychotics part.

>>13988254
>Every TES property other than Oblivion: Batshit insane ramblings of someone who knows a lot about Mesopotamian gods and Gnosticism

>Oblivion: The same person on anti-psychotics

>Shivering Isles: That guy's meds have run out and he hasn't gotten the prescription refilled yet. He'll make a little something while coming off of them.

>>13988580
true

>>13988580
>Every TES property other than Oblivion: Batshit insane ramblings of someone who knows a lot about Mesopotamian gods and Gnosticism

>Oblivion: The same person on anti-psychotics

>Shivering Isles: That guy's meds have run out and he hasn't gotten the prescription refilled yet. He'll make a little something while coming off of them.

>Skyrim: Alright guys, we messed up with Oblivion, we need to get back to our roots, so le-SPLIT YOUR LUNGS WITH BLOOD AND THUNDER

>>13988427
I still dont understand why they changed it all so much for Oblivion into generic land #52.

Necrom

"The City of the Dead", Necrom perpetuates a religious tradition that predates the Tribunal cult. From across Morrowind, Dark Elves of every clan bring their dead in solemn processions that can last for months. From the mainland, Necrom, with its lofty walls and white towers, appears to be an immense necropolis, an impression that is strengthened by the constant traffic of corpses across the causeway into the city, a traffic which never ceases, day or night. In fact, the city teems with life: a vast and complex heirarchy of priests and attendants whose sole duty is to prepare the dead for the afterlife and deposit their bodies with the appropriate ritual into the catacombs which honeycomb the rock beneath the city.

>>13988820
Maybe it is easier to make a medieval England simulator with fifty people per 'city' than it is to make a tropical jungle with huge metropolises.
Plain ol' laziness could be the reason. That and generic English fantasy game is a safer bet than an "oh my god, I've taken too much LSD" game.

>>13988859
Many on the TES forums currently believe part of the reason that Oblivion was so fucked up, both lore wise and mechanically, was that it was rushed. They claimed that they didn't know the specs of the 360 until 6 months before Oblivion came out. They were working in the dark, and it bit them in the ass. That's why they had to cut dynamic shadows, in addition to a few other things, like the Radiant AI we saw in the demo.

Although that doesn't quite explain why the lore was so gay. I think that one had to do with a lack of interaction with their writers, in addition to dropping people like Kirkbride, who only freelanced on Oblivion. He is confirmed to be back on as a hired writer for Skyrim, so lets cross our fingers for a kick ass world.

>>13988915
>they claim
As clarification, "they" are the developers.

>>13988915
this... actually makes sense, especially when you take into account that what is now considered "lies that bethesda said" could've actually been "shit we can't put in because of 360". although, it's plainly clear that the reason why races share va is because they had to fit it all on 1 dvd.

>Oh, Haha, it's a Queen Reference. I wonder if anyone will get the joke...

Never change /tg/

>>13988968
Which reminds me. They better get that fucking Dunmer VA from MW again.

>>13988968

Oh definitely. Voice files eat up a huge portion of the game disc; there's a balance that needs to be achieved.

>>13988968
I think a lot of that also has to do with optimization. Skyrim looks a fuck ton better than Oblivion, and all the screenshots so far have been on a 360 (emulator). I mean, shit, look at RAGE. All of that shown so far has been on the 360. Bethesda just needs to optimize like mother fuckers.

>>13988968
It is, you can clearly see how they had to cull down visuals in the game (especially those horrible LoD textures that look like something from early 3D PS1 era).

>>13988992

Looks like he still does a lot of the VA work for Bethseda, if IMDB is to be believed.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1198561/

Also Lynda "Wonder Woman" Carter did the voices for female Nords. How odd.

>eresit return
HE SHALL RETURN! CAPTCHA HAS SPOKEN!

>>13988992
Same VA was in Morrowind and Oblivion. Vvardenfell Dunmer literally gargle rocks.

>>13988968
Will Skyrim be more than one disc?

>>13988120

To answer your question a bit late, the true nature of the Champion of Cyrodiil is a bit of an enigma. As he goes through the Knights of the Nine questline, he becomes the Divine Crusader, taking on Pelinal Whitestrake's duty and mantling Lorkhan, the subsoul of Sithis. However, in the Shivering Isles, he mantles Sheogorath, a creature who isn't quite Anuic or Padomaic, but is something else altogether; he is known as the Sithis-shaped hole in the world. He was created by the removal of Lorkhan's divine spark.

The Champion, in essence, mantles with both halves of sundered Lorkhan, the divine spark and the spirit of man. I have no idea what this bodes, though, or what it even means. It seems like the Champion is the closest thing to a resurrected Lorkhan that's ever happened before, although I don't know whether his duties as the Lord of Madness and as a Shezzarine will conflict. It may consume him.

>>13988992
But Morrowind had very little voice acting.
That guy will ruin his throat if he voice acts scratchy-throated Dunmer for a whole game or talking out all dialogue.

>>13988992
even if they do get him back, isn't it just the morrowind dunmer who sound like chain smokers? because of living close to the volcano?

>>13989081
Sheogorath is the Sithis-shaped hole that Jyggalag fell into. Now that Lorkhan once again fills that hole, Jyggalag is free.

>>13989104
Isn't he the same guy who does the male ghouls from FO3/NV? Think his voice is permafucked

>>13989081
Wow... and I thought he was just dude who was being an errand boy for the Emperor's son. Really gotta check that TES lore.

>>13989104
>>13989115
see
>>13989067

>>13989134

Just like Pelinal Whitestrake. He was, in short, Alessia's genocidal errand-boy. He went around doing all the hard work and fighting the tough battles, probably killing more people than strictly necessary along the way, and put his lord on the throne. Sound familiar? Walk like him until he walks like you.

>>13989134
>Really gotta check that TES lore.

you should. you'll see it's pretty awesome and full of subtleties.

>>13989081
>he is known as the Sithis-shaped hole in the world
Hmm. I pretended my character was a devotee of Sithis and worshiped him. How appropriate.
Praise the Night Mother and our Dread Father.

>>13989127

What implications this holds for Skyrim are interesting, to say the least. I have no idea what'll happen next, and I won't offer any guesses, educated or otherwise, because that would require getting into the mind of a drunken edda-writing Gnostic.

>>13989134
http://imperial-library.info/content/elder-scrolls-v?page=8

>>13989220

Except that the Sithis worshiped by the Dark Brotherhood is completely different from what Sithis really is. Or is not, rather. Sithis is the first subsoul of Padomay, one of the two forces that define existence, the other being Anu. Sithis does not interact with Nirn or the Mundus and may not even be sentient. It is but one half of the cosmic dichotomy, not some death-god to placate. I find it far more likely that the Dark Brotherhood is yet another of Mephala's pawns.

>morrowind threads

>>13989582
I don't think the strangelove war table is an accurate representation of this thread.

>>13989081
Thank you! I Hadn't realised the Sheogorath part of the Lorkhan equation... I remember hearing about him being the Sithis shaped hole (always loved that description) that was torn in the world from when Lorkhan was sundered from his Heart.

I remembered something about Pelinal having mantled Lorkhan as well, but I wasn't sure enough to write it up. Something I remember reading on /tg/ about Pelinal being a time traveler from the future made me think I was wrong. It also didn't occur to me how pelinals errands for Alessa and your errands for Martin were linked... Wow, my theory was better than I thought!

A shame they didn't really include any more of that line of thinking into the actual game itself though. Would have made Oblivion have a depth rivaling even morrowind!

>>13989081
Lord of Madness and Champion of a race aren't really mutually exclusive. He could become an all powerful trickster figure, similar to Vivec.

The Vivec of Man!

>>13989425
>I find it far more likely that the Dark Brotherhood is yet another of Mephala's pawns
Extremely likely, seeing how (at least in morrowind) they were a section of the morag tong gone rogue.

>>13989867
Pelinal is AnuLor. He has a hole in his chest with a screaming red jewel in it (Lorkhan), and in his rage he destroys large swaths of Mundus (Alduin). He's from the future, after the Fifth Age breaks the kalpas.

>>13989582
'ere you go.

>>13989867
pelinal is immortal, not a time traveler
it gets confusing because he has half a dozen names

>>13988859
A medieval England simulator would have been a lot more interesting than Oblivion.

>>13990121
yea, if they just completely forgot every piece of previously established lore, rather than making it some shitty diluted fps wannabe, it would have fared much better (though the fans would still hate it)

>>13990146

If that were the case, why even call it "Elder Scrolls"?

>>13990164
exactly
just make it a stand alone game
continue with TES IV: skyrim
like that was going to happen anyway, though

>>13990177
But you would need to have had Oblivion. The games were building up to the Oblivion crisis, with the destruction of the towers that hold down the world in each of the games.

>>13990223
Too bad the crisis itself had to suck so hard.

>>13990223
I just think the concept of what oblivion was would have done much better if it was separate from the TES series

>>13989081
I bet that for Skyrim, they don't address this Lorkhan thing at all, and instead just have him as Sheogorath. Or don't have that even, have sheogorath be gone and Jyg be the guy in his place, with barely any word what happened to the main character of the last game.

It is a shame, especially in a place like Skyrim that venerates Shor to such a degree, there is so much they could do with that line of the Lore for the backround.

>>13990496

How could you have possibly arrived at that conclusion? Todd Howard himself said that he regretted Oblivion's generic feel in a recent podcast, and MK is back. There are a lot of valid reasons to worry that Skyrim might suck, but I don't think that particular worry is among them.

>>13990515
Still, vikings and dragons are some pretty well-trodden fantasy themes there...

>>13990533
They're releasing promotional material on the Lore Forums right now explaining the Nords' mythology and view of Lorkhan, for goodness sake! Brand new lore! This is not yet a valid concern, I don't feel. The base game might feel well-trodden, but the delicious nuggets of backstory will be where they always are, hidden in plain sight, in the text, in the books, and in the world itself.

>>13990515
Well, look how they treated the past Main characters of the other games. A sentence here or there about them being missing or dead, and that's it. I don't think Skyrim is gonna suck (confused turtle style erryday), I just don't think they will bring up that line of the lore with Lorkhan. The whole thing was barely even addressed across the main quest and both mods, if they were to try to reference it few would know what was being talked about.

I'm expecting many improvements from Skyrim, but a cop out for what happened with the Champion seems all too likely.

>>13990589

That's a good point. They never like releasing much information on former main characters. However, it doesn't really matter what you were back in Oblivion because the Champion is now Sheogorath, so they have a built-in excuse on what happened to him and can now explore the cosmological ramifications of said. I'm not saying they will, but they could fairly easily.

>>13990533
>>13990533
>>13990533
http://forums.bethsoft.com/index.php?/topic/1164564-the-five-hundred-mighty-companions-or-thereabout
s-of-ysgramor-the-returned/
http://forums.bethsoft.com/index.php?/topic/1160383-shor-son-of-shor/
http://imperial-library.info/content/seven-fights-aldudagga

>>13990589
The protagonist of Daggerfall got squished by Anumidium, and the Nerevarine headed to Akavir. The only one we don't know about is the Arena guy.

>>13990801
>and the Nerevarine headed to Akavir

Again? He loves pissing them off in any of his lifetimes, doesn't he?

>>13990815
In Oblivion NPCs chat about how the Nerevarine has left Morrowind and gone off to Akavir.

And maybe Tel Fyr is the protagonist from Battlespire.

>>13990815

Well, he'd finished his theocidal rampage through Morrowind and, having collected all the most valuable artifacts and piled them in a great big heap, he decided to go kill more stuff for the hell of it. Just like Nerevar! I mean, you have to do something to occupy yourself once you're basically invulnerable and immortal, and exploring/looting/committing genocide on an unknown foreign continent is sure to take at least a few months.

>This is moving slowly, so I'm posting some lore MK posted for Skyrim.

These were the days of Hoag the Greater, born in a boot...[Long after] the two bells [of the All-Maker's Goat] rang out their clamouring, calling the end of days again in Sarthaal and the world, and Alduin's shadow was cast like carpetflame on east, west, south, and north...[he was] epoch eater. For as far as any man's eyes, only High Hrothgaar remained above the churning coils of dragon stop.

And Alduin said, "Ho ha ho."

But, look! Seven more mountains remained through Mereth like Hrothgaar and the Leaper Devil King (a kindly leaper demon, to be sure, but their king) jumped across the nilphony swirl. He came to Alduin (who always eats Nords first) and said, "Wait, wait, wait! Wait! It is not time to destroy the world yet!"

To which Alduin roared and laughed and said, "King of Leapers, you always bounce up to me around this time (for you are one of the only spirits that can last til my last bite) and shout, 'Wait!', but I never do and I will not now. Leap up to Hrothgaar's top and wait awhile longer in little dignity. The two bells have went 'Gong! Gong!' and that means the kalpa has turned."

The Leaper Demon King knew all this was true but still he said, "Wait, first and last of spirits, the kalpa-turning is brought too soon and I can prove it! Look over there on top of Red Mountain. See the Greedy Man waving his arms?"

>>13990875
>implying that museum in Mournhold isn't Nerevarine's god and benefactor

Alduin swallowed more of Mereth (this was the destruction of Njorvela and Teed County) and looked over. Indeed the Greedy Man was waving his arms as if to tell the time-eating dragon to stop. Alduin snorted gruffly (a few farms shot out of his nose but he caught them with his tongue and pulled them back into his mouth, for he eats it all) and said, "And the Greedy Man always waves his arms about around this time as if to stop me just like you. It is almost as if you two work together to delay me. Is that what this is? Is some other low spirit hiding portions of the world while you two do this thing? Is this why the kalpa-feast always takes a little longer than it did the previous time?"

And then Alduin looked hard into the eyes of both the Greedy Man (far away) and the Leaper Demon King (close up), one of them for each eye of his own, and he knew it was so. These two spirits gulped big, and were caught.

"Oh crap," the Greedy Man said, "He knows my bargain with the king of leapers, I'd better hide under my mountain!" but he thought and said all this too fast and, without thinking, hid under his mountain even though its base had already been eaten and so it wasn't all still there. (This is how the Greedy Man became trapped both in and outside of kalpas.)

"Oh crap," said the Leaper Demon King, "You have found us out, World-Eater! Yes, just after the two bells of the All-Maker's Goat sound the Greedy Man and I and our servants hoard bits and bobs of the world so you can't eat it all. And when the world comes back we sort of just stick these portions back on and so that's why it is all bigger and bigger for you to eat each time. But it wasn't my idea! The Greedy Man hates you so much and it was his idea to finally trap you one kalpa when it was all much too big and so you would explode out from your belly and die so that the world would never have to die again!"

Alduin (whose stomach was hurting because it was a little too stretched, which had never happened before, and now he knew why) grew furiously angry and boomed out, "You stupid little f*cker, do you even know what would HAPPEN if that happened, my dying and being unable to eat and the kalpa left to run forever? Why do I even ask, you who are a little low spirit whose only real power is jumping around? It is the Greedy Man I should really be mad at!"

And the Leaper Demon King saw a possible way out of this mess for himself but he nodded too eagerly, saying "Yes, yes, yes! Yes!" and the dragon knew that any mercy he might give to this little demon would not result in any true learning. So he cursed the king of the leapers, calling him Dagon, saying:

"The Greedy Man has already f*cked himself up good, hiding inside something that didn't exist anymore, but you: you I curse right here and right now! I take away your ability to jump and jump and jump and doom you to [the void] where you will not be able to leave except for auspicious days long between one and another and even so only through hard, hard work. And it will be this way, my little corner cutter, until you have destroyed all that in the world which you have stolen from earlier kalpas, which is to say probably never at all!"

Dagon (no longer a Leaper Demon King) screamed, "Please no! We have stolen from you so much and crammed it all back on in the craziest of places that it will take forever for me to regain my jumping kind of happiness! Especially if I can only come back to this world through auspicious days long between one and another that also require rituals! I beg you not to do this, O Aka! I beg you one hundred thousand and eight times!"

Dagon did as he said, begging Alduin Time-Eater to reverse his decision one hundred thousand and eight times, and halfway through this number Dagon shut his eyes tight to really mean it and then three-quarters through this number he began to shout his beggings to really, really, really mean it, but when he was done begging Alduin was not near the mountaintop he stood on.

In fact, after many looks east, west, south, and north, and seeing only the churning dragon stop around him, Dagon realied that at some point when he was begging with his eyes closed that Alduin had eaten him, mountaintop and all, and he had not heard the big chomp because he had been begging too loud. And he knew that the last world had been eaten entirely, except for its stolen portions, and that when the new kalpa began to form The Greedy Man (who never stayed trapped for long) would begin sticking these stolen portions back on in the craziest of places, and that he himself could never jump again until all was put back right.

He also knew that the name of "Dagon" would no longer be that of a kindly leaper demon but one who would destroy and destroy and destroy whenever he could find some small escape [from his home in the oblivion]....

These were the days of Ysgrim... [whose] breath was weighted with power sounds....

...[after] many nights, the destruction of Sarthaal finally saw fit to stop in its burning and the snows were happier. [Ysgrim] shook his head, saying to his thanes and war-wives, "And once it is buried again, who will remember its halls and mighty sights, like the fountain of voices or the tusk-house where Jarl the Tongue shot from his mother's womb yelling profanities that only adults should know? Who would stop the snows?" (For no one can stop the snows.)

And so his Host moved east and north and east again, a long traveling, and passing Hrol'Dan (the first one) there was an idea that came to Herkel the Shield-Fed. "Lord, I have thought of an idea that might keep our memory of Sarthaal and its mighty sights alive, and not only in song. Would it suit your purpose, though we can never rebuild it, that if a Nord could say a small prayer then the gods would reveal the city in its former glory?"

Now Herkel [had] never been a Clever Man, so Ysgrim looked at him cockeyed. What Herkel was saying was magic talk but sometimes ideas grow where there has never been soil before. (This is a gift of Kyne called [inspiration].)

Finally, Ysgrim said, "You may speak, Herkel, and we shall listen."

And now all the shield-thanes and war-wives were looking at Herkel, for all of them would indeed like to see lost Sarthaal again and its mighty sights, if only by an illusion brought by prayer. So Herkel began:

"Well, Sarthaal was destroyed all right, the elves made sure of that!" (Here everyone present made the customary curses.) "And even though I threw up ancient shields from my gut like hurling discs that killed their first rank and Eriksdotter here danced the icicle-curtain dance and killed their second rank and Broga here mountain-farted and killed their third and fourth ranks (that was funny) and Vjevaka here rolled auspicious numbers on rune bones and killed their fifth rank and Haljor here... [at this point Herkel recites a deed for each of the "six hundred and some odd" Nordic warriors that were assembled]... and you, my king, even though you killed by yourself the five-thousandth rank with Olendrung, even after all of these things, the elves still kept coming! And, yes, we lost in the end and that losing cost of our dearest of cities and this is how come we are freezing our asses off on this long traveling...."

Now at this point, Herkel the Shield-Fed had talked so long that he needed to stop. It was a [great thing] that he had talked so long at all in all the cold, but his belly was on fire [from even just reciting all their deeds], and so he was able to almost complete his thought. But look! The other Nords had frozen to death while he was talking. (This is why it is now polite to interrupt whenever you are cold.)

"Oh crap!" Herkel said, "I have talked so long I have killed all of my fighting friends and even my king! [They were] bound by oaths to hear me out and now the destruction of Sarthaal is truly complete! Oh, I am a fool to think myself a Clever Man full of magic talk! See what talking too much does?"

>>13990909

Man, fuck the Museum. That many artifacts shouldn't be stored in that public a place. What if little Timvaul were to accidentally touch Umbra? Boom, soul is gone and we have a new bloodthirsty mercenary on our hands. Hell, that's probably how Umbra wound its way to Cyrodiil. No, I kept them all nice and safe in a vault deep underground behind a tower full of guards, daedric minions, and centurions.

Bless you, Building Up Uvirith's Legacy.

But sure enough Dagon (who had heard his name) showed up and that old Lord of Misrule laughed and said, "What a grand, grand f**k up you are, Herkel Shield-Fed! See now, you have done what whole endless legions of elves could not, and by that I mean to destroy utterly the Host of Hoary King Ysgrim!"

And Herkel began to weep and supplicated himself before Lord Dagon, saying, "O Ruler of the Firestorm and the Howling Winds, O Gigantic Prince of All Things Harmful, O Dagon the Wicked One Who...hey, wait a minute! How are you even here? This is not one of your summoning days!"

And Dagon laughed again, saying, "No sh*t, Herkel, but all that bloodletting and fire at Sarthaal was enough for me [to pierce the veil of the oblivion]! All that whispering into elvish ears sure did the trick!"

Herkel Shield-Fed now looked at Dagon cockeyed and said, "Wait, it was you who sent that horde of elves who, though pierced to their five-thousandth rank, would not be stopped?" to which Dagon responded, "Of course! Though it was easy, as they hated you anyway, but yes, yes, it was I who stoked the fire in grim dreams and mirrors, which has only now saw fit to stop burning! Oh well, now I'm off to enjoy my stay! Who knows how long I have before Alduin notices that I've escaped his trap again?"

But while Dagon had been saying all this, Herkel had broken [the hammer] Olendrung off of frozen Ysgrim's belt. And filled with renewed anger he struck the Lord of Misrule upside the head. Dagon fell over into the snow with a great flumph, unconscious. And Herkel was about to bash the devil's brains out when he thought: "Wait a minute! Killing the kings of [the void] never really lasts forever and I'm not sure if even Olendrung could do more than knock him out! Oh, Dagon will be so mad when he wakes up and destroy even more now! I must find a way to get out of this mess! What can I, a fool as can be determined by recent events, do now to put two and two together?"

Herkel then had an idea and began to drag the frozen bodies of his king and his fighting friends back to the ruins of Sarthaal west and south and west again. He had to carry them in twos for they were stiff as ice and would not bend for easy lifting, so everytime he came back for another pair of them Herkel hefted Olendrung and smacked Dagon back to sleep. Finally, after all of these labors (three hundred and some trips back to Sarthaal), Herkel dragged Dagon to the edge of the ruins. Dagon was still out like a light, so Herkel had time to complete his plan.

He prayed to Alduin the dragon of time, who was the greatest enemy of men, for he ate the world everytime he woke up. But Herkel knew that Dagon was a greater enemy to the dragon, so he put that in his prayer, saying, "Mighty time-eater, I am Herkel the Fool, and I am truly a fool. But I fought bravely at the fall of Sarthaal which lay now at my feet, as does the one responsible for its destruction. I do not ask you to wake up, Alduin, for that would ruin more than Dagon will (and that's a lot now that I keep hitting his head)! And I do not ask you to bring my fighting friends and king back to life, for that is the province of your brother and even I'm not foolish enough to ask all that! And I do not ask you to turn back time, for that is against the laws of all the gods! But I do ask you for a little help, even though...." (And here he kept praying.)

And Dagon woke up with a hideous headache to look down on Sarthaal and look! It was not destroyed at all! There were its mighty sights, its halls, its fountain of voices, and the tusk-house of Jarl the Tongue! And arrayed before it was the Host of Hoary Ysgrim all lined up for war!

"Oh crap!" Dagon said, shaking his hurt, hurt head, "I have come too early, for the destruction of Sarthaal has not occured, for I see the army of King Ysgrim waiting for the elves that I am sending. What could I be thinking, to come before the veils are pierced? Even the laws of trickery would not help me if I did that!"

So Dagon vanished back to his prison [in the void]. And, with him, so did the glamour of old Sarthaal vanish, for it had been brought only by a prayer of Herkel the Fool, who stood among the frozen warriors lined up as if for battle. His plan had worked, though it did little to comfort him, and he said goodbye to his fighting friends and his king and as the snow came in to bury Sarthaal forever, Herkel climbed the steps of High Hrothgaar, where he became at last a Clever Man.

(And this is why sometimes if you pray hard enough, you can still see Sarthaal outside of only memory and in its fullest glory.)

>only four of the seven fights are revealed to us

These were the days of Reddotter, who surpassed her father in shield-biting...

[And it came to pass that] a strange thing happened: Alduin the World-Eater, who sleeps between the [kalpas], had a disturbing dream, and he roused slightly, but not enough to bring ruin, and, heavy-lidded, he went back to the [age-wait]. But he yawned just slightly beforeso, which he had never done. And thus was born the Dirt Patch Which Does Not Gather Snow.

Now this place cannot be found on any map of Skyrim, and not because we Nords are shoddy in our cartography (we crossed the Cape of Tears, after all, and marked the passages, which even the Devils in the east use still)…for you see, it is a thing that should not be, a small world-destruction that is more hiccup than intent, and so the Dirt Patch moves about, which caused all manner of trouble (and everyone knows that story) until Fjork Beard-to-Toes of Throat Mountain used a [voice spell] to contain its jumping around mainly to the west.

(Which still sometimes causes trouble for the farmers of the Reachmen, ha ha ha.)

Anyway, after many years, and like all things, some animal life decided that they liked to live best of all in a particular place at the expense of all other places, and some chose the Dirt Patch, and these were birds. (Who can tell why birds do anything?) We do not know where they came from, but came they did, and always, always they managed to find the Dirt Patch and make their homes in it, burrowing down deep in its soft earth, where they made their nests…. (This is not normal bird behavior, I know, but who can tell why birds do anything?) [Only] to get up and out and fly again when the Dirt Patch vanished to go find it once more. (This is why when you see a dirtbird flying north you turn south.)

Now one day one of the Dumbest Things Ever happened: the Dirt Patch ended up in the sky! Right over a mountain range! (No one can remember exactly where, but it happened.) And the dirtbirds made for it anyway, and began to dig their nests down into the hovering earth, only to fall out with consternation before flying up and around the Dirt Patch [to try again]. Pretty soon they found that they just could not build their nests (and one would think that something that makes no sense, like a big stretch of dirt in the sky, would even be recognized as nonsensical by animals that really make no sense, like birds, but there you have it) and they began a’chirping away all as one in a terrible and irritating lament.

So of course they attracted the snow whales.

Snow whales have been in Skyrim since [the return of Man], living at the tops of the highest mountains, singing in magic tones, jumping from peak to cloud and back again, spreading their joy-snow in horn-like triumph from blowholes. We used to hunt them, our best climbers braving the rocks and ice-sheets, carrying rope and hooked spears. They had much meat, these whales, and blubber, and fluids that made paint and rosewater for our women. The earliest hunters had no luck; spouts of joy-snow [from the whales above] would drift down from the clouds and turn the men goofy. They would laugh like happy babes, some getting so tickled that they’d roll back down the mountainside in big flumphs—which only begat more guffaws-- or begin to pat each other on the back or hug in the masculine style to reaffirm their affections and camaraderie; in essence, the joy-snow got in their heads and they just forgot what they were doing. Eventually, Huggert the Wrinkled Unto Unreadable, one of our Clever Men, made sure that the hunters remembered to occasionally hit one another out of the blue, or make lewd jokes of their respective wives or mothers or sons that had not yet shown promise, and steal and hide the shoes of their fellows, and to line the rims of their shields with wasabi so that, when they bit them, that they might ignore all happiness in fits of burning nose and choked throat. All of these measures availed them not, for the potency of the joy of the snow whales remained [unhindered by any attempt at anger], and its powder would inevitably reduce our hunters again to snickering children, who, when they saw themselves so war-laden in this state, made them chortle and jest all the more.

Lesson learned. We left the snow whales alone.

The dirtbirds, though, in their present bothersome sorrow, all trilling and chak chak chak, brought a herd of snow whales up and out of the mountain peaks, looking to see what the fuss was about. They were as surprised as anyone to find a plain of earth suspended in the sky, and soil–breasted birds flitting amok in hysterical despair all around it.

"Holy crap," one said, "I have never seen something this dumb." And thus the snow whales crooned to each another in their way, and some, driven to pity, spat great gales of joy at the dirtbirds to remove their dirge. But just as the Dirt Patch had been misenchanted to gather no snow, so were the fowl that had inherited it similarly immune. The feathered raucous went unabated.

One of the snow whales, a young bull that had only recently grown his mottles, jumped from summit to cloud and back again, twirling so that both of his eyes might see this unholy mess of things. And he snorted, and he remarked, "What we see here, my kin, is no doubt the insalubrious work of the Dagon."

Now one of the dirtbirds, a young maiden, heard this declaration and took pause from her horrible wailing and flew to the great eye of the bull and said, "What now is this about the Lord of Tumult and Foul Tempers, who is known far and wide as the mucker-upper of all things in this world, and whose treachery runs even unto the sons and daughters of the Tava?" (Tava is a heathen god. Of birds, no less.) But the bull whale splashed into the ice-covered precipice of the nearest mountain, ignoring her. However, since ice is harder than snow, the wide fan of his tail stuck out for a second longer than normal, and, unanswered, the dirtbird dived down and grabbed it with her beak. And this is how she followed the snow whale into [the oblivion].

The Clever Men say the realms of [the oblivion] are many, though some [limit] this number to sixteen. And there is not one that can count the endless avenues that run from one realm to another, for they change, and often, for they are as capricious in their natures as the demons that run through or rule them. Nevertheless, there is a strand to Coldharbour, which is the province of Molag Bal, and most icy beasts have touched or traveled it once, if only in nightmare, and it is perhaps by this and the will of the Gods that the snow whale navigated himself through the void that lay beyond the real world, the dirtbird behind him clamping her beak down hard and her shutting her eyes tight to the visions of evil around her.

[Thus it was that] the young bull made his way to the frozen court of the King of Rape, crushing up through the very fountain of Bal's courtyard, shattering the lewd ice sculptures that crowned it in the coldest of lusts. And before the soldiers could [muster a defense against] the snow whale, a brassy sound regaled through the court and covered it all in a fog of joy, which set them all to laughing, and it was hideous to hear. And by this sound did Molag Bal deign to rise from his throne and enter the courtyard, to confront the audacity of the bull of the northern clouds. "And just what the **** do you want?" he asked.

The bull eyed the Prince, and gave a bow as the older cows taught him, and started to say, "Mighty Lion of Evening, Vulgar and Low, Keeper of Coldharbour since the fall of Lyg, Destroyer of the Hearts of Men, I have come to--" but he was interrupted by the chirping and relentless admonishment of his stowaway, who had left his tail and flown directly into the Prince’s face. The dirtbird maiden’s angry diatribe is [too heinous and nasty] to even repeat here, but more or less she said, “"ne of your **** kin evidently **** our **** Dirt Patch, which is the only **** place where my people can build their **** nests and since it’s floating in the **** sky that’s **** impossible now, see, and so we cannot lay our **** eggs this season because of such an unnatural **** calamity and so we’ve been forced to wail and **** wail, you ****!"

To which the snow whale assented was the truth, adding only, "Which is, of course, annoying as hell to the rest of us up there."

The King of Rape took pause. It had been eons since anyone had spoken to him this way, and it had never, ever been a bird of all things. Bal thought for a second, and finally frowned, shrugging. "Well, first of all, what the **** is a Dirt Patch?"

And by turns the snow whale and the dirtbird told the story, and its details, and in his magnificence did Molag Bal know that this was indeed the dream-work of Mehrunes Dagon, his brother of razors, the only Prince who dared trouble the sleep of the dragon-eater, Alduin. But while loyalty between the rulers of [the oblivion] is tenuous, Bal saw no profit in upsetting the ways of his brother, and told his visitors so, adding a threat of terrible censure on them if they did not turn back immediately and without further insult. The dirtbird remained unsatisfied and (remember that birds make no sense) began to peck furiously at the Prince’s head, rebuking him and all his kind and the mischief they wrought.

Perhaps the snow whale misinterpreted this foolishness for bravery, or perhaps he admired that the dirtbird had come unbidden into the realms of the damned, or maybe it was an admixture of the two with a smidgen of the fondness that all flying things share for one another, but the bull knew that, at this point, he loved the foul-mouthed, unclean, imprudent dirtbird with all of his considerable heart. Before the King of Rape could swat her dead, he trumpeted the courtyard again with joy powder, hoping to send Molag Bal into a handicap of bliss so that they both might escape.

"Ho ho ho," Molag Bal roared, smiling, though none of it with joy. His aspect became so fierce that even the dirtbird maiden stopped pecking at his head, and she flew behind the bulk of the snow whale in sudden fright. The Prince of Coldharbour spoke: "You silly little snow whale, do you not know that there can be no joy for me? That long ago I gave up such things to the betterment of my rage? And while I recognize love between creatures that are unalike, I have built a bulwark against its joy and--"

"Wait wait wait," the dirtbird interrupted. "What’s all this about love between creatures unalike?" And if a snow whale could blush, [that is surely what] the bull did now. Even Molag Bal was taken aback, for he was sure in his heart that any maiden that would follow a man into hell did so only by token of love. For her part, the dirtbird left her hiding place and flew back into the demon prince’s face.

"Huh?" he said, blinking. "You two aren’t an item?"

"I’m a DIRTBIRD, genius," she answered, "And he’s a **** SNOW WHALE, get it? This isn’t above love, it’s about not being able to lay eggs in a floating stretch of earth, and it’s about your brother being a complete **** who needs to make things right. Or else."

To which the King of Rape merely raised an opulent eyebrow.

The snow whale cleared his throat [in earnest]. "Or else..." he started, unsure of himself. "... or else I will gather all of my kin," and at this he found his courage, "All of them, down to the last newborn cow, from all the mountaintops of Skyrim, and the clouds above it, and from every opening of snow there is in that land, and we will leave it. Forever."

Which was a confusing thing to Molag Bal, a Prince of Misrule, whose hatred was as bellows in his belly, and who had long since kept his delight of any form of joy under lock and key. And even the dirtbird turned from him to look on the bull, and she, too, simply did not get it.

Bal spoke, "And what would that matter to me?"

Now the soldiers of the Prince of Coldharbour had shaken off their fits of laughter, and took up their pikes again, and remembered their stations and their vileness, and they surrounded the fountain that the bull used as his threshold. And the snow whale’s blowhole was empty, leaving him defenseless to their approach, and maybe one could read this in his eyes, for Molag Bal began to smile wickedly, and the dirtbird gulped with fear.

"It matters to you," the bull said, "Mighty Lion of Evening, Vulgar and Low, Keeper of Coldharbour since the fall of Lyg, Destroyer of the Hearts of Men... it matters to you because my kin bring joy to the upper world, who have not yet given up such a thing for the betterment of their rage, and who welcome love and happiness and good cheer… as much as they fear the coming of ruin, or the color of betrayal, or the visitations of demons. These last are the tools of [the oblivion], and your lifeblood, and it is only through joy that the devices of your dubious employ are the more sweeter to you, yet which are nothing if visited upon those who know nothing but despair in the first place. It matters to you, Lord Bal, for how can you destroy the hearts of men when those hearts are already empty?"

And, with that, the snow whale sank back into the fountain from whence he came, but he left the wide fin of his tail up out of it for a second longer than normal. And the dirtbird took it within her beak.

When they returned to Skyrim, bursting out of the zenith snow, the snow whale and the dirtbird were met with only silence. Their kin were gone, both kinds, and with them, the noise of crooning and the cacophony of bird-lament. But the maiden felt the tug of the Dirt Patch in her senses, and she sensed that it was southward, and low, and she knew that things had been more or less put back right. She let go of the bull’s tail and flew up to his eye. "It has worked," she said, "Bal has talked sense into his brother, the Dagon. I can feel it in my breast."

"I suppose so," the bull said, "And I can hear my herd jumping this way through mountaintop and blue." And perhaps when she knew that the snow whale would soon be gone, having rejoined his kin, and perhaps because he had shown her a courage that was unalike as hers but as powerful, or maybe it was an admixture of the two with a smidgen of the fondness that all flying things share for one another, but the dirbird knew that, at this point, she loved the noble, unwieldy, ridiculous snow whale with all of her tiny heart.

"Where I live the snow cannot gather," she said in the lowest of voices. To which the bull nodded, and said, "And there is, of course, the difference in size." And, at that they smiled, and flew away from one another, and were welcomed back by their kin in songs of praise.

(And this is why when you see a dirtbird heading north that you stop... and look up at the sky before turning south. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can see him, the bull of the northern clouds, looking for her, the maiden beloved of Tava, a heathen god that we begrudgingly admit is all right from time to time.)

>last one guys

These [were the days] of Anna Kuhlsdotter, who once led her cloud-sisters into victorious war against the Skald of Broken Books....

And of the Giants we speak little, even less to strangers, for their history is hidden in long loud power-shouts. At home, it is a pain in the ass to tell their stories and then clean all the things knocked down in the telling... and in a foreign hearth it is [just plain rude]. So we speak of them (for we must-- who does not honor their parents?) under the rim of the sky or, here, written on sheafs of pelt, for such is the mettle of their threat. This is [a song (or dirge, manuscript unclear)], then, of the threat of Giants and, like most, it involves painted cows.

[First, though] let us put two Powers in place, the Dragon and the Dagon, for this is also and foremost a Fight of Theirs Story [so such is proper]... [text lost]... the only one to have occurred on the Demon King's birthday. (No, that inglorious day-month will not be revealed here for it is dangerous and, yes, once, a very long time ago-- ONCE-- we were all tricked into celebrating it in a very big sissy-fuss where we were made to wear special hats.)

Dagon [it can be surmised] found some indefatigable lady-man wizard from the west to love him from [topside(?)] and thus-by work very, very hard in his witch-craft... [the demon lord] making warlock promises and whispering rewards of the unspeakable and mighty... appearing through shade or familiar in guises too small for the Dragon to notice that he was not in his entirety in [the oblivion] where he had been banished beforetimes... and perhaps happy (because birthdays ARE happy) and infectious with it enough to engender great industry, yet profane still in aspect to retain his stature among the eyes of the wicked from whence his followers always come (when they do not come from fools instead).

[And the warlock-in-love]... [text lost]... made a mad dance of it all as in the manner of the magic arts of the west [and] summoned his infernal master on this very auspicious day through crazed and love-wrought wizardry [that went beyond the mandate] of right summonings... whereupon the Dagon popped out of a blueberry pie.

"I didn't think that would work AT ALL!" he said, that old Lord of Misrule, and he began to praise the baker's craft in such great cackle and length that [the warlock he had taken as paramour] became jealous in the way of wolf-headed women (you know the ones).

"Pssh," Dagon said, "I, the Lord of Razors and Red-drink, King of Terrible Intent, Mehrunes the Prince of Four Dooms and One Paradise, I Who Commandeth 88 Legions Daedric... I just came out of a PIE, you swooning harpy! That is totally bat-*** insane!"

Whereafter he bit out the neck of the spurned warlock and played in the blood.

(This is why all bakeries in our village make "Shake the Dagon Out" part of their flour-whistling.)

Now the Dragon's role here is more subtle, and existed really only in the fear of a little farm girl in the highlands of Newkreath. For who does not fear Alduin the World Eater, and especially children, who always think they are the last to come for they are the newest to be? (And children, BEING special, perhaps are right and maybe it is only through their fears that [this kalpa] still survives, so we will not question it.)

Anyhow, her name was Aless (her father was fond of the South, and Ald Cyrod, and knew the stories of their famous and ancient Queen), and she had such a fear that any day now the Dragon would awake to eat up everything she ever knew that she became determined to do all she could [to protect it]. Naturally, she began to paint many, many cows.

Here is why: the Giants came from Old Atmora, up there across the Northern Ice back in the gone-to-twilight-now age of myth... and settled here in the Skyrim, and all along the mountain ranges of our coasts. (Yes, they are our true ancestors-- do not believe your aunt from the university-- and, yes, we were once as big as them-- as tall as THIS-- but that is another story)... [text lost]... and after [the Great Calamity] happened [the clan-things (peoples? tribes? Text seems to indicate mankind as a whole, though that is debateable)]... we were of a kind disrupted... and we Nords fell into fighting and drove our Giant-kin up unto the mountaintops [and we were a wicked-folk for many years]... [until all] things had changed forever. Once the Moot resumed [(unspecified) years later] things got back to a new semblance of normalcy and borders were redrawn and agreed with in beer-talk, and raidings of the merethlands took everyone's mind off old feuds, and pretty soon (well, not pretty soon but whatever) the Giants began to come down from the mountains again. And they were a bit different than we Nords remembered, or perhaps we had forgotten much, but they would not speak to us anymore-- they would only smile in their lazy way, stomp over, and take our stuff.

>>13986767

http://dontstopapocnow.ytmnd.com/

If we fought them, they roared louder than the Tongues of High Hrothgar, and brave steads would be blasted whole into so much paste, [chickens and all (?)]... [and] eventually we learned that if we left stuff out for the Giants, and painted this stuff brightly and with swirls (they love swirls) and stuck big signs up pointing to it all, they would simply take THAT stuff and not anything else and no fighting would be have to be done (not that what I have described was really fighting-- no one fights the Giants is the point). And that explains the Painting The Cows tradition, for as lazily-smiled as they are, so much that they seem that they wouldn't hurt a soul (ha!), the Giants eat meat and lots of it. Aless (remember her still?) thought to herself, "I am so, so afraid the Dragon will awake and eat the world-- ANY DAY NOW-- that I will paint every cow I see so as to summon all the Giants I can to beat up old Scaly Face, and beat him up really, really hard-- hard enough to knock him out and back to sleep!" (Aless had heard, as you have now, that "no one fights the Giants" and took it a little bit too much to heart.)

She began with her stead's herd, some four-dozens strong [with] two bulls (the old one broken off in a separate cattle-gate to stomp out his last days in complaint-- and Aless made her father swear not to kill this old bull for she loved him in the way children love the things others see as useless or spent) ...and yet by the seventh cow Aless had run out of paint. "I shouldn't have done so many swirls," she said, sighing. And that is when he appeared, the Dagon, drawn up in the stolen Nordskin of a Clever Man, come from the west by side-stepping [through the real].

"No," he said through his impressive bead-knit beard, "You did well. If I were a giant, these would be mighty fine looking cows to take. But why paint so many? [One a season per stead] is the norm."

Aless frowned up at Dagon-turned-Clever, and with no suspicion, for she was a child and they are taught to respect our [magic-men]. "Because I hate the Dragon," she admitted, immediately fearing admonishment. (It is not very wise to talk ill of Alduin at any time, especially in the presence of the Very, Very Wise.) She corrected herself: "Well, more like I hate the fear of him. I'm sorry for saying the thing before."

"Hmm," Dagon said, "Your fear is well-founded. The Time Eater comes soon."

"WHAT I SO KNEW IT" Aless said, grabbing her paint buckets and brushes [in a scramble], intent on going back to her hearth to get her play-dolls and kid-shields to sell them for more supplies. "I gotta go, mister, I need to summon the Giants REAL FAST and A BUNCH."

"Child," Dagon laughed, "You will never paint so many as that, given your little power. But, aye, your plan is a good one. Many Giants, really fast. Yes. That's smart. Now come with me. Kyne--" and at this name of the Sacred, the demon almost choked, "--she lends me the winds and I can walk us from one to another. And Tsun--" and at this Name Dagon finally did choke, coughing harshly but hiding it as age, "--he grants my craft-wit with provisions from the aether. You will have all the paint you need, and be swift enough to swirl every cow from here to Windhelm."

"That is SO cool!" Aless said, jumping. But by speaking of so many Gods [and the Heavenly Halls in which they live], Dagon had brought a horrible scratch to his throat. He coughed again, and at length, finally doubling over. Aless frowned again, this time with what looked like pity, and put her hand on his back. "You okay, mister? I believe you about all your magic, but maybe you should just rest. I can sell my play-dolls and get paint and just, like, run fast--"

"I'm fine, dear," Dagon said, waving her off, too harshly, and then [realizing he was frightful] found a composure, "And I am sorry myself for scaring you just then. It is only because I can feel the Age turning, and so am sick with the impending death of the World."

"Um," Aless said. "You're still being scary."

"Then paint the rest of these and let us move. You are brave, and worthy, but cannot run so fast as we need. We have cows to swirl and Giants to bring down from the mountains. Through their might only can we make the Dragon retreat back into slumber and thereby save all that we know." And soon then did the Dagon and the girl step into a wind [and disappear].

[Now] it can be guessed that Dagon was a lying sack of ****-- the Dragon wasn't coming at all and would be asleep til...[text lost]...which is far from now. But the Lord of Razors has ever hated the North, for it was here that he was born (after a fashion), and it was here he was cursed, and so on this, his birthday, he had determined that he would destroy all of the Skyrim and all the Nords in it. He indeed needed his little cow-painter to draw down the Giants (or maybe it only amused him to use one of our own, we cannot say), and so he [played her fear] for a fouler purpose: he knew that so many Giants come down from the mountains would cause the High King to think it war, and muster. And any war with the Old Fathers would undo us.

Now Dagon-as-Clever did as he said, wind'ng Aless from stead to stead, watching over her as she painted the cows at each, summoning [snow-fogs to hide her quickened labors], from Newkreath to Gant and the Uttering Hills of Jarlmung County, filling her buckets [in fast conjurations] and even blessing each cow in Kyne's name alongside her, coughing each time. By the 400th cow, his beard was hack-stuck [with sickness]. By the 650th cow, he would speak no more names wrought by the Gods. And it was by the 700th cow that the Dagon noticed that Aless was painting the swirls [in a different fashion], to which she explained, "Each county has a different Lookit Me Stamp," and frowning at him she asked, "But you know that, right?"

"Oh, right, right, indeed," he said, "Blame my ailment and our hasty mission. It has left me with a perplextion of the brain. Stamp away!" to which Aless smiled, "No problem, I'm getting tired, too. There, seven hundred and fifty-two! How many do you think we'll need?"

"At least nine hundred and ten," Dagon said, "That is a lucky number." (This is true.) And then they vanished [into the wind] again, coming out into Windhelm, fortress-lands of the High King. "We'd better hurry here," Dagon advised.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why hurry here? You mean more than seven hundred and fifty-two cows in five hours hurry?"

"Um," Dagon said, feigning more sickness, "Because these are the king's cows and we have not the Special Royal Cow Painting Permits, nor the time to explain [the turning of the Age]. The Dragon is coming too soon for parley such as that."

And just as she started swirling these new cows (under cover of snow-curtains and in the shadow of the Thaneswall) Aless asked, "But why doesn't the High King know this already? Doesn't he have Clevermen advisors and Witching Wives to tell him? And the Queen, doesn't she have that six-pair of Scrying Eyestalks of Old Man Mora?"

"Who knows the way of kings and queens, little farm girl," Dagon countered, beginning to lose his temper and seeing now this always-questioning Aless as a turkey-leg in his stomach. But no, he thought, I can wait. [I can wait.]

Aless shrugged, painting the cows in what Dagon assumed was [the manner] of Windhelm now, and saying only, "I guess you're right, mister. But I'm named after a queen, a really pretty one, the books say." And [at this] Aless spoke of South Cyrod and its tales of mereth-kill by Men and heroes sent by the Gods, and Dagon's head began to swim with it, wind to wind and herd to herd in the Windhelmlands with the girl always talking and talking, for the demon hated the [lands of the Aleshut-tribes] nearly as much as our own but for different reasons, and just as he was about to let loose his rage (for that was his Base Nature), Aless spoke up, giggling with victory, "Nine hundred and ten with paint to spare!"

At which point, Dagon thought the deed to be done, and he began to grow fangs behind his beard.

"Holy crap!" Aless said, looking at her paint-covered dress. "We totally forgot the signs!"

"Huh?"

"In all of this crazy fast painting, mister, we forgot to stick up the Look Over Here signs! The Giants won't know to come! We really screwed this up!"

Dagon slid his fangs back in, for what she spoke was [true]. He sighed, "Yes. The signs. Totally forgot them. Crap."

"Tell you what," Aless said, "Take me back home. We can grab the signs I've made there and you can Tsun-them-up and make more and zip everywhere we've been to everywhere ELSE we've been putting them all up. And meanwhile I'll paint ONE MORE COW to make it nine hundred and ELEVEN. That's gotta be luckier than lucky, right?"

Dagon-as-Clever now frowned, for he wanted war soon, and said, "I suppose so. Really, what's one more cow going to hurt?" And [they stepped back] through the wind to Aless' own stead, whereupon she ran to the sign-sheds and retrieved as many as she could carry, dumping them nearly on Dagon's foot. Oh by the sixteen hells I'm going to eat this dumb girl, he thought, with WASABI! But he picked up the Look Over Heres and multiplied them unto a bigger bundle, shouldering them all.

"Night is falling fast, mister, you better hurry!"

And Dagon faded into the winds, dizzy with his plannings and smirkings and thinkings, stamping sign after sign at each herd of cows from Newkreath to Windhelm and all the places between, wishing himself another warlock-bite for all this trouble, finally growing out his four arms to make the goings-on faster, wind-step to sign-post, dreaming of [a tide] of Giants come down from the peaks of Skyrim to blast the Northmen away for all time, and time it was he lost track of, until he finally arrived back at the stead of Aless the Dragon Hater.

"Hi," she said, seeing Dagon's true form, "You totally forgot we painted every cow here at the beginning of all of this, you big dummy. So I painted this old bull instead."

And it was true, Aless had taken from its cattle-gate the bull she had begged her father not to kill and to which her father had agreed, and instead of swirls, she had painted [wings on it]. Before the Dagon's eyes this bull [transformed itself as in the manner of god-guiser magic] into Mor, the Bull of the South, Son-of-Kyne, and demiprince of All Winds.

Mor snorted through the hoop of his nose-ring and greeted the [King of Razors]. "Hello, Dagon. The prayers of children very seldom go unnoticed."

Aless said, "That means me."

Mor continued: "You are trespassing outside your mandated day of summoning, Lord Daedroth. Heaven is not happy of it."

Aless smiled and lifted up one finger, "One, you're NEVER supposed to badmouth Alduin in front of a Clever Man. And YOU didn't berate me." She lifted up a second. "Two, you can't even speak the names of the Gods without choking, and every Clever Man has wind enough in his throat to revere them without censure, involuntary or not." Three fingers, now four; five, and six with a second hand. "Then of course the swirls, which we Nords paint the same no matter whichever clan we belong to, because the Giants speak only ONE language and it's in our best interest to talk straight with them. I could mention several others, but you've guessed them all: the spell you suffered at the mention of my ancient namesake, whose story I peppered with sayings that are supposed to be repeated by any that are near as in the hymnal halls, and the Eyestalks of Say What Huh? that don't even EXIST which you just nodded your fake Clever head to, and--"

"I think, little namesake," Mor bellowed, "That he gets the point."

Dagon was fuming now, snow melting around his new-wrought hooves, stretching up and out into demon-skin, red like terror, ebon-armed and frothing. Aless stood her ground. Mor stamped twice, an [approval and a threat].

"You would have made my beloved proud with your courage," the Bull said to Aless, and to Dagon: "Stand down, Demon King, and go down. You will not win this day, even though it is crowned with the power of your first coming."

"WHAT NOW," Dagon roared, sending them both back with a [bellows-fire], "YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME, MORIHAUS HALF-SPIRIT! THE DAGON FIGHTS NOT THE SONS OF HEAVEN'S CONCUBINES BUT HEAVEN'S KING ITSELF."

"Yeah, sure," Aless giggled, "And how does that work out for you? Every single fight you have with the Dragon ends up with you losing, King Chump. And it will always be like that. Here, there, then, now, or in the future: the Dragon wins over you, as he wins over us all. I'm not afraid of that anymore. More importantly, I'm not afraid of YOU."

Dagon stepped forward, crackling now [with flame and old woe]. Mor bent his horns to the ready. Aless stayed where she was.

"I wouldn't do that, mister" she said. "Those swirls that I started painting as soon as we went a-wind'ng? They weren't Giant-Come-Shiny Swirls but hearth-warnings... that YOU were here. In the language of each clan, on all the cows they're looking at RIGHT NOW since you put all those signs up. That you're here-- right here, right where I asked you to return. I think pretty soon you'll start to hear the horns. And even you can't take on all the Sons and Daughters of Kyne, you *******."

And that's when they did hear [the horns of all clans], and the closest was as like a stormsong of thundernachs, for Mor was near, and he [was the issue of the Greater Sky]. And Dagon knew that where the horn soundings landed, the Tongues of High Hrothgar could step, and, when together, the greybeards could breathe unto being the ghost of Shor, which lay all Powers low [even in half-death].

"A curse on the house of Alessia," Dagon muttered before summoning himself a Gate to [the oblivion], for he knew his works were all undone, "And eight more on the Men of the Dragon. There will be an hour when--"

Aless leaned against her bull.

"Hey, Coughy," she said, "Shut up and go already. It's way past my bedtime."

And he did, missing the arrival of the hosts of Hrothgar and Newkreath, and the runners of nearby [Hjaalmarch], and, of course, the thanes of Aless' own stead, which included her father, all of which saw the farm girl in her messy dress leaning against the [Bull of Heaven], glorified in story and song since the days of our first dawn, and all afit for battle and confused [that it would not be met] and more still overcome with the blessings of the Skyrim by the Gods we hold aloft.

To which Aless could only answer: "It's a really long story, guys."

>To which Aless could only answer: "It's a really long story, guys."

Damn it, I lol'd.

>>13990958
It takes prolonged contact to lose your soul to Umbra.

Skyrim fluff is hilarious, Morrowind fluff is sexy, and Oblivion fluff is empty.

>>13991446
The Remanada was kind of cool, but that's about it.

>>13991446
>>13991488
Lots of the fluff was just in the books. Many were recycled, but some of the new ones were great. The Doors of Oblivion for instance was full of insights into the different realms.

Oh wow, these are hilarious. Especially the third one.

Just finished the third one.
...so the Snow-Whales breath cocaine.

>>13987890
That download is not no-disked, how the hell do I use it?

The Doors of Oblivion
by Seif-ij Hidja
The chronicles of Morian Zenas' journey through the realms of Oblivion, penned by his apprentice

'When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee.' -- Nai Tyrol-Llar

The greatest mage who ever lived was my master Morian Zenas. You have heard of him as the author of the book On Oblivion, the standard text for all on matters Daedric. Despite many entreaties over the years, he refused to update his classic book with his new discoveries and theories because he found that the more one delves into these realms, the less certain one is. He did not want conjecture, he wanted facts.

For decades before and after the publication of 'On Oblivion,' Zenas compiled a vast personal library on the subject of Oblivion, the home of the Daedra. He divided his time between this research and personal magickal growth, on the assumption that should he succeed in finding a way into the dangerous world beyond and behind ours, he would need much power to wander its dark paths.

Twelve years before Zenas began the journey he had prepared his life to make, he hired me as his assistant. I possessed the three attributes he required for the position: I was young and eager to help without question; I could read any book once and memorize its contents; and, despite my youth, I was already a Master of Conjuration.

Zenas too was a Master of Conjuration - indeed, a Master at all the known and unknown Schools - but he did not want to rely on his ability alone in the most perilous of his research. In an underground vault, he summoned Daedra to interview them on their native land, and for that he needed another Conjurer to make certain they came, were bound, and were sent away again without incident.

I will never forget that vault, not for its look which was plain and unadorned, but for what you couldn't see. There were scents that lingered long after the summoned creatures had left, flowers and sulfur, sex and decay, power and madness. They haunt me still to this very day.

>>13992504
Just keep it mounted in the virtual cd, like daemon. Then run the game, that should work, no?

>>13992549
Guess I need to find the Daemon program now...

Conjuration, for the layman unacquainted with its workings, connects the caster's mind with that of the summoned. It is a tenuous link, meant only to lure, hold, and dismiss, but in the hands of a Master, it can be much stronger. The Psijics and Dwemer can (in the Dwemer's case, perhaps I should say, could) connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a skill that is sometimes called telepathy. Over the course of my employment, Zenas and I developed such a link between one another. It was accidental, a result of two powerful Conjurers working closely together, but we decided that it would be invaluable should he succeed in traveling to Oblivion. Since the denizens of that land could be touched even by the skills of an amateur Conjurer, it was possible we could continue to communicate while he was there, so I could record his discoveries.

The 'Doors to Oblivion,' to use Morian Zenas's phrase, are not easily found, and we exhausted many possibilities before we found one where we held the key.

The Psijics of Artaeum have a place they call The Dreaming Cave, where it is said one can enter into the Daedric realms and return. Iachesis, Sotha Sil, Nematigh, and many others have been recorded as using this means, but despite many entreaties to the Order, we were denied its use. Celarus, the leader of the Order, has told us it has been sealed off for the safety of all.

>>13992564
It's an iso mounter, Lopharius.

>>13992573
The torrent didn't seem to have any .iso files, But I guess I should check again.

We had hopes of using the ruins of the Battlespire to access Oblivion. The Weir Gate still stands, though the old proving grounds of the Imperial Battlemages itself was shattered some years ago in Jagar Tharn's time. Sadly, after an exhaustive search through the detritus, we had to conclude that when it was destroyed, all access to the realms beyond, the Soul Cairn, the Shade Perilous, and the Havoc Wellhead, had been broken. It was probably for the good, but it frustrated our goal.

The reader may have heard of other Doors, and he may be assured we attempted to find them all.

Some are pure legend, or at any rate, not traceable based on the information left behind. There are references in lore to Marukh's Abyss, the Corryngton Mirror, the Mantellan Crux, the Crossroads, the Mouth, a riddle of an alchemical formula called Jacinth and Rising Sun, and many other places and objects that are said to be Doors, but we could not find.

Some exist, but cannot be entered safely. The whirlpool in the Abecean called the Maelstrom of Bal can make ships disappear, and may be a portal into Oblivion, but the trauma of riding its waters would surely slay any who tried. Likewise, we did not consider it worth the risk to leap from the Pillar of Thras, a thousand foot tall spiral of coral, though we witnessed the sacrifices the sloads made there. Some victims were killed by the fall, but some, indeed, seemed to vanish before being dashed on the rocks. Since the sload did not seem certain why some were taken and some died, we did not favor the odds of the plunge.

The simplest and most maddeningly complex way to go to Oblivion was simply to cease to be here, and begin to be there. Throughout history, there are examples of mages who seemed to travel to the realms beyond ours seemingly at will. Many of these voyagers are long dead, if they ever existed, but we were able to find one still living. In a tower off Zafirbel Bay on the island of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind there exists a very old, very reclusive wizard named Divayth Fyr.

He was not easy to reach, and he was reluctant to share with Morian Zenas the secret Door to Oblivion. Fortunately, my master's knowledge of lore impressed Fyr, and he taught him the way. I would be breaking my promise to Zenas and Fyr to explain the procedure here, and I would not divulge it even if I could. If there is dangerous knowledge to be had, that is it. But I do not reveal too much to say that Fyr's scheme relied on exploiting a series of portals to various realms created by a Telvanni wizard long missing and presumed dead. Against the disadvantage of this limited number of access points, we weighed the relative reliability and security of passage, and considered ourselves fortunate in our informant.

Morian Zenas then left this world to begin his exploration. I stayed at the library to transcribe his information and help him with any research he needed.

>>13992573
>>13992593
Yeah, no .iso file to run at all.

>>13992693
Just download the iso's from /rs/. Morrowind, Tribunal, and Bloodmoon are all there and small enough to fit in one download each.

>>13992722
So should I delete the other download?

And how does the mod .iso thing work?

Do I just need the Bloodmoon one after I install the core?

'Dust,' he whispered to me on the first day of his voyage. Despite the inherent dreariness of the word, I could hear his excitement in his voice, echoing in my mind. 'I can see from one end of the world to the other in a million shades of gray. There is no sky or ground or air, only particles, floating, falling, whirling about me. I must levitate and breathe by magickal means …'

Zenas explored the nebulous land for some time, encountering vaporous creatures and palaces of smoke. Though he never met the Prince, we concluded that he was in Ashpit, said to be the home of Malacath, where anguish, betrayal, and broken promises like ash filled the bitter air.

'The sky is on fire,' I heard him say as he moved on to the next realm. 'The ground is sludge, but traversable. I see blackened ruins all around me, like a war was fought here in the distant past. The air is freezing. I cast blooms of warmth all around me, but it still feels like daggers of ice stabbing me in all directions.'

This was Coldharbour, where Molag Bal was Prince. It appeared to Zenas as if it were a future Nirn, under the King of Rape, desolate and barren, filled with suffering. I could hear Morian Zenas weep at the images he saw, and shiver at the sight of the Imperial Palace, spattered with blood and excrement.

'Too much beauty,' Zenas gasped when he went to the next realm. 'I am half blind. I see flowers and waterfalls, majestic trees, a city of silver, but it is all a blur. The colors run like water. It's raining now, and the wind smells like perfume. This surely is Moonshadow, where Azura dwells.'

Zenas was right, and astonishingly, he even had audience with the Queen of Dusk and Dawn in her rose palace. She listened to his tale with a smile, and told him of the coming of the Nevevarine [sic]. My master found Moonshadow so lovely, he wished to stay there, half-blind, forever, but he knew he must move on and complete his journey of discovery.
'I am in a storm,' he told me as he entered the next realm. He described the landscape of dark twisted trees, howling spirits, and billowing mist, and I thought he might have entered the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon. But then he said quickly, 'No, I am no longer in a forest. There was a flash of lightning, and now I am on a ship. The mast is tattered. The crew is slaughtered. Something is coming through the waves … oh, gods … Wait, now, I am in a dank dungeon, in a cell …'

He was not in the Deadlands, but Quagmire, the nightmare realm of Vaernima. Every few minutes, there was a flash of lightning and reality shifted, always to something more horrible and horrifying. A dark castle one moment, a den of ravening beasts the next, a moonlit swamp, a coffin where he was buried alive. Fear got the better of my master, and he quickly passed to the next realm

>>13992753
Download all 3 Iso's. Install the Morrowind first, then tribunal, then bloodmoon, mounting each one in daemon in turn. Then, after all 3 are installed, mount the morrowind ISO and start it up. It should work.

That's how I did it anyways. Pic related, it's Alpharius.

>>13992753
1)Probably, to keep the computer from getting confused. You're not the usual Morrowind Alpharius, are you?
2)Download the iso, run it through Daemontools and install it. It should now run as normal, except instead of inserting the disc you run the iso through the aforementioned program. Then download the mods and follow the readme's.
3)Download the core, then tribunal, then bloodmoon. Install them in that order also.

I heard him laugh, 'I feel like I'm home now.'

Morian Zenas described to me an endless library, shelves stretching on in every direction, stacks on top of stacks. Pages floated on a mystical wind that he could not feel. Every book had a black cover with no title. He could see no one, but felt the presence of ghosts moving through the stacks, rifling through books, ever searching.

It was Apocrypha. The home of Hermaeus-Mora, where all forbidden knowledge can be found. I felt a shudder in my mind, but I could not tell if it was my master's or mine.

Morian Zenas never traveled to another realm that I know of.

Throughout his visits to the first four realms, my master spoke to me constantly. Upon entering the Apocrypha, he became quieter, as he was lured into the world of research and study, the passions that had controlled his heart while on Nirn. I would frantically try to call to him, but he closed his mind to me.

Then he would whisper, 'This cannot be …'

'No one would ever guess the truth …'

'I must learn more …'

'I see the world, a last illusion's shimmer, it is crumbling all around us …'

I would cry back to him, begging him to tell me what was happening, what he was seeing, what he was learning. I even tried using Conjuration to summon him as if he were a Daedra himself, but he refused to leave. Morian Zenas was lost.

I last received a whisper from him six months ago. Before then, it had been five years, and three before that. His thoughts are no longer intelligible in any language. Perhaps he is still in Apocrypha, lost but happy, in a trap he refuses to escape.

Perhaps he slipped between the stacks and passed into the Madhouse of Sheogorath, losing his sanity forever.

I would save him if I could.

I would silence his whispers if I could.

>>13992848
awesome!

>>13992848
post The True Barenziah for epic win.

>>13992848
Interesting thing is that this book doesn't agree with what Mankar Cameron says about the different realms of Oblivion in his paradise. He mixes up the owners with different realms. Makes me wonder which is right. I assume that Mankar is wrong, and this book is correct.

Kind of make you question other aspects of his speech.

>>13992992
Most official sources disagree with Camaron. If you really listen, most of his speeches are factually incorrect (where facts are involved).

>The True Barenziah
All 5 volumes? I think not.
Let's have some religious Dunmer morality tales.

The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia
by Almalexia
A series of children's fables, each with its own moral

This book is always found laying open, never closed on shelves.
Sotha Sil and the Scribs

Young Sotha Sil, while playing in the egg mines, saw a number of scribs in a deep shaft, and he began to cast stones upon them, snickering as they skittered and scattered, until one of the scribs, lifting its head up in agony, cried out to Sotha Sil: "Please, please, have mercy, little boy, for what is sport to you is suffering and death to us."

And so Sotha Sil discovered that the idle of amusements of one may be the solemn tortures of another.
Lord Vivec and the Contentious Beasts

A shalk and a kagouti were strutting back and forth in a foyada, casting aspersions of one another's looks. "You are the ugliest creature alive," the shalk told the kagouti. "No, YOU are the ugliest creature alive," the kagouti told the shalk. For each thought himself most handsome, and the other most ugly.

Then Lord Vivec chanced by, and settled their dispute. "No, you BOTH are the ugliest creatures alive, and I will not have my pleasant sojourn spoiled by your unseemly squabbling." So he dealt them both mighty blows, shattering their skulls, and silencing their argument, and went merrily upon his way.

And thus Lord Vivec proved that ugliness is as much in one's manner as in one's appearance.

The Boiled Kagouti
It is said that if a kagouti steps into a boiling pool, he will leap out immediately to avoid harm.
But if the kagouti is standing in a pool, and a wizard slowly raises the temperature, measure by measure, to boiling, the kagouti will calmly stand in place until he is boiled.
Thus we see that we must be alert not only to the obvious danger, but also to the subtle degrees by which change may result in danger.

The Dubious Healer
Once upon a time, a Telvanni issued forth from his tower and proclaimed to all the world that he was a mighty and learned healer, master of all alchemy and potions, and able to cure all diseases.
Lord Vivec looked upon this wizard, and listened to his boasting, then asked him, "How can you pretend to prescribe for others the cure to all diseases, when you are unable to cure yourself of your own manifest arrogance and foolishness?"

The Guar and the Mudcrabs
The Guar were so tormented by the other creatures they did not know where to go. As soon as they saw a single beast approach them, off they dashed in terror.
One day they saw a pack of Nix-hounds ranging about, and in a desperate panic all the Guar scuttled off towards the sea, determined to drown themselves rather than live in such a continual state of fear. But just as they got near the shoreline, a colony of Mudcrabs, frightened in their turn by the approach of the Guar, scuttled off, and threw themselves into the water.
'Truly,' said one of the Guar, “things are not so bad as they seem. For there is always someone worse off than you."

The Wounded Netch
A wounded Netch lay himself down in a quiet corner of its feeding-ground. His healthy companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, yet each one helped himself to a share of the fodder which had been placed there for his use; so that the poor Netch died, not from his wounds, but from the greed and carelessness of his erstwhile friends.
And so it is clear that thoughtless companions may bring more harm than help.

>This thread

Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part III: The Importance of Where
by Marobar Sul
Book 3 of an incomplete series of fictional stories about the Dwemer.


The chieftain of Othrobar gathered his wise men together and said, “Every morning a tenfold of my flock are found butchered. What is the cause?”

Fangbith the Warleader said, “A Monster may be coming down from the Mountain and devouring your flock.”

Ghorick the Healer said, “A strange new disease perhaps is to blame.”

Beran the Priest said, “We must sacrifice to the Goddess for her to save us.”

The wise men made sacrifices, and while they waited for their answers from the Goddess, Fangbith went to Mentor Joltereg and said, “You taught me well how to forge the cudgel of Zolia, and how to wield it in combat, but I must know now when it is wise to use my skill. Do I wait for the Goddess to reply, or the medicine to work, or do I hunt the Monster which I know is in the Mountain?”

“When is not important,” said Joltereg. “Where is all that is important.”

So Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand and walked far through the dark forest until he came to the base of the Great Mountain. There he met two Monsters. One bloodied with the flesh of the chieftain of Othrobar's flock fought him while its mate fled. Fangbith remembered what his master had taught him, that “where” was all that was important.

>>13992992
Thing is, Kirkbride himself has this to say on the subject:

>Also in all fairness, there's enough evidence to support the Mankar's claims that I was happy that it went in. The idea really flips the idea of Tamriel on its head.

>Imagine the Oblivion realm of Attribution's Share, for example, with eight powerful daedra (one of which is Boethiah) wielding divine power over their realm, and all their subjects bound to the whims of that power; now imagine it under an ur-theology and creation myth(s) as complicated as anything on Tamriel, where the myriad mortals of Nirn were, to the denizens of the Eight Divines of Attribution's Share, in fact, "daedra".

>This realm would be surrounded by the Void, just like Tamriel, in turn surrounded by Aetherius, and who's to say that the big hole known as the Sun doesn't hit their shores, as well?

>Lorkhan the Padomaic could be exactly what the Mankar says he is: the dead Lord of a lost daedric realm whose "gods" are powerful Liars.

>>13993135
It is like a Canadian CGI cartoon about anthropomorphic programs?

>>13993135
What does Morrowind discussion have to due with reboot?

Other than both being awesome/

He struck the Monster on each of its five vital points: head, groin, throat, back, and chest. Five blows to the five points and the Monster was slain. It was too heavy to carry with him, but still triumphant, Fangbith returned to Othrobar.

“I say I have slain the Monster that ate your flock,” he cried.

“What proof have you that you have slain any Monster?” asked the chieftain.

“I say I have saved the flock with my medicine,” said Ghorick the Healer.

“I say The Goddess has saved the flock by my sacrifices,” said Beran the Priest.

Two mornings went by and the flocks were safe, but on the morning of the third day, another tenfold of the chieftain's flock was found butchered. Ghorick the Healer went to his study to find a new medicine. Beran the Priest prepared more sacrifices. Fangbith took his Zolic cudgel in hand, again, and walked far through the dark forest until he came to the base of the Great Mountain. There he met the other Monster, bloodied with the flesh of the chieftain of Othrobar's flock. They did battle, and again Fangbith remembered what his master had taught him, that “where” was all that was important.

He struck the Monster five times on the head and it fled. Chasing it along the mountain, he struck it five times in the groin and it fled. Running through the forest, Fangbith overtook the Monster and struck it five times in the throat and it fled. Entering into the fields of Othrobar, Fangbith overtook the Monster and struck it five times in the back and it fled. At the foot of the stronghold, the chieftain and his wise men emerged to the sound of the Monster wailing. There they beheld the Monster that had slain the chieftain's flock. Fangbith struck the Monster five times in the chest and it was slain.

A great feast was held in Fangbith's honor, and the flock of Othrobar was never again slain. Joltereg embraced his student and said, “You have at last learned the importance of where you strike your blows.”

Publisher's Note:

This tale is another, which has an obvious origin among the Ashlander tribes of Vvardenfell and is one of their oldest tales. "Marobar Sul" merely changed the names of the character to sound more "Dwarven" and resold it as part of his collection. The Great Mountain in the tale is clearly "Red Mountain," despite its description of being forested. The Star-Fall and later eruptions destroyed the vegetation on Red Mountain, giving it the wasted appearance it has today.

This tale does have some scholarly interest, as it suggests a primitive Ashlander culture, but it talks of living in "strongholds" much like the ruined strongholds on Vvardenfell today. There are even references to a stronghold of "Othrobar" somewhere between Vvardenfell and Skyrim, but few strongholds outside of sparsely-settled Vvardenfell have survived to the present. Scholars do not agree on who built these strongholds or when, but I believe it is clear from this story and other evidence that the Ashlander tribes used these strongholds in the ancient past instead of making camps of wickwheat huts as they do today.

The play on words that forms the lesson of the fable -- that it is as important to know where the monster should be slain, at the stronghold, as it is to know where the monster must be struck on its body to be slain -- is typical of many Ashlander tales. Riddles, even ones as simple as this one, are loved by both the Ashlanders and the vanished Dwemer. Although the Dwemer are usually portrayed as presenting the riddles, rather than being the ones who solve it as in Ashlander tales.

Still no ISO in the Iso download, it's just a .rar with all the other junk inside.

>>13993194
Oh wait, finally got it working

>>13993194
convert it

Last Scabbard of Akrash
by Tabar Vunqidh
Story of a slaver's daughter and her Khajiit lover

For several warm summer days in the year 3E 407, a young, pretty Dunmer woman in a veil regularly visited one of the master armorers in the city of Tear. The locals decided that she was young and pretty by her figure and her poise, though no one ever saw her face. She and the armorer would retire to the back of his shop, and he would close down his business and dismiss his apprentices for a few hours. Then, at mid-afternoon, she would leave, only to return at precisely the same time the next day. As gossip goes, it was fairly meager stuff, though what the old man was doing with such a well dressed and attractively proportioned woman was the source of several crude jokes. After several weeks, the visits stopped, and life returned to normal in the slums of Tear.

It was not until a month or two after the visits had stopped, that in one of the many taverns in the neighborhood, a young local tailor, having imbibed too much sauce, asked the armorer, “So whatever happened to your lady friend? You break her heart?”

The armorer, well aware of the rumors, simply replied, “She is a proper young lady of quality. There was nothing between her and the likes of me.”

“What was she doing at your shop every day for?” asked the tavern wench, who had been dying to get the subject open.

“If you must know,” said the armorer. “I was teaching her the craft.”

“You're putting us on,” laughed the tailor.

“No, the young lady had a particular fascination with my particular kind of artistry,” the armorer said, with a hint of pride before getting lost in the reverie. “I taught her how to mend swords specifically, from all kinds of nicks and breaks, hairline fissures, cracked pommels, quillons, and grips. When she first started, she had no idea how to secure the grips to the tang of the blade... Well, of course she was green to start off with, why wouldn't she be? But she weren't afraid to get her hands dirty. I taught her how to patch the little inlaid silver and gold filigree you find on really fine blades, and how to polish it all to a mirror sheen so the sword looks like the gods just pulled it from their celestial anvil.”

The tavern wench and the tailor laughed out loud. No matter what he alleged, the armorer was speaking of the young lady's training as another man speaks of a long lost love.

More of the locals in the tavern would have listened to the armorer's pathetic tale, but more important gossip had taken precedence. There was another murdered slave-trader found in the center of town, gutted from fore to aft. That made six of them total in barely a fortnight. Some called the killer “The Liberator,” but that sort of anti-slavery zeal was rare among the common folk. They preferred calling him “The Lopper,” as several of the earlier victims had been completely beheaded. Others had been simply perforated, sliced, or gutted, but “The Lopper” still kept his original sobriquet.

While the enthusiastic hooligans made bets about the condition of the next slave-trader's corpse, several dozen of the surviving members of that trade were meeting at the manor house of Serjo Dres Minegaur. Minegaur was a minor houseman of House Dres, but a major member of the slave-trading fraternity. Perhaps his best years were behind him, but his associates still counted on him for wisdom.

“We need to take what we know of this Lopper and search accordingly,” said Minegaur, seated in front of his opulent hearth. “We know he has an unreasonable hatred of slavery and slave-traders. We know he is skilled with a blade. We know he has the stealth and finesse to execute our most well-secured brethren in their most secure abodes. It sounds to me to be an adventurer, an Outlander. Surely no citizen of Morrowind would strike at us like this.”

The slave-traders nodded in agreement. An Outlander seemed most likely for their troubles. It was always true.

“Were I fifty years younger, I would take down my blade Akrash from the hearth,” Minegaur made an expansive gesture to the shimmering weapon. “And join you in seeking out this terror. Search him out where adventurers meet -- taverns and guildhalls. Then show him a little lopping of my own.”

The slave-traders laughed politely.

“You wouldn't let us borrow your blade for the execution, I suppose, would you, Serjo?” asked Soron Jeles, a young toadying slaver enthusiastically.

“It would be an excellent use for Akrash,” sighed Minegaur. “But I vowed to retire her when I retired.”

Minegaur called for his daughter Peliah to bring the slavers more flin, but they waved the girl away. It was to be a night for hunting the Lopper, not drinking away their troubles. Minegaur heartily approved of their devotion, particular as expensive as the liquor was getting to be.

When the last of the slavers had left, the old man kissed his daughter on the head, took one last admiring look at Akrash, and toddled off to his bed. No sooner had he done so then Peliah had the blade off the mantle, and was flying with it across the field behind the manor house. She knew Kazagh had been waiting for her for hours in the stables.

He sprung out at her from the shadows, and wrapping his strong, furry arms around her, kissed her long and sweet. Holding him as long as she dared to, she finally broke away and handed him the blade. He tested its edge.

“The finest Khajiiti swordsmith couldn't hone an edge this keen,” he said, looking at his beloved with pride. “And I know I nicked it up good last night.”

“That you did,” said Peliah. “You must have cut through an iron cuirass.”

“The slavers are taking precautions now,” he replied. “What did they say during their meeting?”

“They think it's an Outlander adventurer,” she laughed. “It didn't occur to any of them that a Khajiiti slave would possess the skill to commit all these 'loppings.'”

“And your father doesn't suspect that it's his dear Akrash that is striking into the heart of oppression?”

“Why would he, when every day he finds it fresh as the day before? Now I must go before anyone notices I'm gone. My nurse sometimes comes in to ask me some detail about the wedding, as if I had any choice in the matter at all.”

“I promise you,” said Kazagh very seriously. “You will not be forced into any marriage to cement your family's slave-dealing dynasty. The last scabbard Akrash will be sheathed into will be your father's heart. And when you are an orphan, you can free the slaves, move to a more enlightened province, and marry who you like.”

“I wonder who that will be,” Peliah teased, and raced out of the stables.

Just before dawn, Peliah awoke and crept out to the garden, where she found Akrash hidden in the bittergreen vines. The edge was still relatively keen, but there were scratches vertically across the blade's surface. Another beheading, she thought, as she took pumice stone and patiently rubbed out the marks, finally polishing it with a solution of salt and vinegar. It was up on the mantle in pristine condition when her father came into the sitting room for his breakfast.

When the news came that Kemillith Torom, Peliah's husband-to-be, had been found outside of a canton, his head on a spike some feet away, she did not have to pretend to grieve. Her father knew she did not want to marry him.

“It is a shame,” he said. “The lad was a good slaver. But there are plenty of other young men who would appreciate an alliance with our family. What about young Soron Jeles?”

Two days nights later, Soron Jeles was visited by the Lopper. The struggle did not take long, but Soron had had armed himself with one small defense -- a needle dipped in the ichor of poisonplant, hidden up his sleeve. After the mortal blow, he collapsed forward and stuck Kazagh in the calf with the pin. By the time he made it back to the Minegaur manorhouse, he was dying.

Vision blurring, he climbed up to the eaves of the house to Peliah's window and rapped. Peliah did not answer immediately, as she was in a deep, wonderful sleep, dreaming about her future with her Khajiiti lover. He rapped louder, which woke up not only Peliah, but also her father in the next room.

>>13993194
You put an ISO in the ISO?

“Kazagh!” she cried, opening up the window. The next person in the bedroom was Minegaur himself.

As he saw it, this slave, his property, was about to lop off the head of his daughter, his property, with his sword, his property. Suddenly, with the energy of a young man, Minegaur rushed at the dying Khajiit, knocking the sword out of his hand. Before Peliah could stop him, her father had thrust the blade into her lover's heart.

The excitement over, the old man dropped the sword and turned to the door to call the Guard. As an after thought, it occurred to him to make certain that his daughter hadn't been injured and might require a Healer. Minegaur turned to her. For a moment, he felt simply disoriented, feeling the force of the blow, but not the blade itself. Then he saw the blood and then felt the pain. Before he fully realized that his daughter had stabbed him with Akrash, he was dead. The blade, at last, found its scabbard.

A week later, after the official investigations, the slave was buried in an unmarked grave in the manor field, and Serjo Dres Minegaur found his resting place in a modest corner of the family's opulent mausoleum. A larger crowd of curious onlookers came to view the funeral of the noble slaver whose secret life was as the savage Lopper of his competitors. The audience was respectfully quiet, though there was not a person there not imagining the final moments of the man's life. Attacking his own daughter in his madness, luckily defended by the loyal, hapless slave, before turning the blade on himself.

Among the viewers was an old armorer who saw for one last time the veiled young lady before she disappeared forever from Tear.

The Lusty Argonian Maid
by Crassius Curio
A (mercifully short) excerpt from Crassius Curio's bawdy play

Act IV, Scene III, continued

Lifts-Her-Tail: Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers.

Crantius Colto: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?

Lifts-Her-Tail: I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor Argonian maid.

Crantius Colto: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong legs and shapely tail.

Lifts-Her-Tail: You embarrass me, sir!

Crantius Colto: Fear not. You are safe here with me.

Lifts-Her-Tail: I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my head if I do not!

Crantius Colto: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear.

Lifts-Her-Tail: But it is huge! It could take me all night!

Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.

END OF ACT IV, SCENE III

There are some more cool ones I can post if anyone is interested.

>>13993438
The Real Barenziah, all twelve volumes.

Notes on Racial Phylogeny
by Council of Healers, Imperial University
About the similarities and differences between the races of Tamriel

This book is always found laying open, never closed on shelves.

After much analysis of living specimens, the Council long ago determined that all "races" of elves and humans may mate with each other and bear fertile offspring. Generally the offspring bear the racial traits of the mother, though some traces of the father's race may also be present. It is less clear whether the Argonians and Khajiit are interfertile with both humans and elves. Though there have been many reports throughout the Eras of children from these unions, as well as stories of unions with daedra, there have been no well documented offspring. Khajiit differ from humans and elves not only their skeletal and dermal physiology -- the “fur” that covers their bodies -- but their metabolism and digestion as well. Argonians, like the dreugh, appear to be a semi-aquatic troglophile form of humans, though it is by no means clear whether the Argonians should be classified with dreugh, men, mer, or (in this author's opinion), certain tree-dwelling lizards in Black Marsh.

The reproductive biology of orcs is at present not well understood, and the same is true of goblins, trolls, harpies, dreugh, tsaesci, imga, various daedra and many others. Certainly, there have been cases of intercourse between these "races," generally in the nature of rape or magickal seduction, but there have been no documented cases of pregnancy. Still the interfertility of these creatures and the civilized hominids has yet to be empirically established or refuted, likely due to the deep cultural differences. Surely any normal Bosmer or Breton impregnated by an orc would keep that shame to herself, and there's no reason to suppose that an orc maiden impregnated by a human would not be likewise ostracized by her society. Regrettably, our oaths as healers keep us from forcing a coupling to satisfy our scientific knowledge. We do know, however, that the sload of Thras are hermaphrodites in their youth and later reabsorb their reproductive organs once they are old enough to move about on land. It can be safely assumed that they are not interfertile with men or mer.

One might further wonder whether the proper classification of these same “races,” to use the imprecise but useful term, should be made from the assumption of a common heritage and the differences between them have arisen from magickal experimentation, the manipulations of the so-called "Earth Bones," or from gradual changes from one generation to the next.

So, could someone explain to me what this "mantling" stuff is and where it comes from?
Every time I think I'm decently versed in TES lore, I hear a term I've never heard before and it reminds me that there's so much more I don't understand...

Sithis
Text detailing an apparent connection between Sithis and Lorkhan

This book is always found laying open, never closed on shelves.

Sithis is the start of the house. Before him was nothing, but the foolish Altmer have names for and revere this nothing. That is because they are lazy slaves. Indeed, from the Sermons, 'stasis asks merely for itself, which is nothing.'

Sithis sundered the nothing and mutated the parts, fashioning from them a myriad of possibilities. These ideas ebbed and flowed and faded away and this is how it should have been.

One idea, however, became jealous and did not want to die; like the stasis, he wanted to last. This was the demon Anui-El, who made friends, and they called themselves the Aedra. They enslaved everything that Sithis had made and created realms of everlasting imperfection. Thus are the Aedra the false gods, that is, illusion.

So Sithis begat Lorkhan and sent him to destroy the universe. Lorkhan! Unstable mutant!

Lorkhan had found the Aedric weakness. While each rebel was, by their nature, immeasurable, they were, through jealously and vanity, also separate from each other. They were also unwilling to go back to the nothing of before. So while they ruled their false dominions, Lorkhan filled the void with a myriad of new ideas. These ideas were legion. Soon it seemed that Lorkhan had a dominion of his own, with slaves and everlasting imperfections, and he seemed, for all the world, like an Aedra. Thus did he present himself as such to the demon Anui-El and the Eight Givers: as a friend.

Go unto the Sharmat Dagoth Ur as a friend.

AE HERMA MORA ALTADOON PADHOME LKHAN AE AI.

Ancient Tales of the Dwemer, Part V: The Song of the Alchemists
by Marobar Sul
Book 5 of an incomplete series of fictional stories about the Dwemer.

When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station
After a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation,
The word went out that the King did want
A new savant
To mix his potions and brews.
But he declared he would only choose
A fellow who knew the tricks and the tools.
The King refused to hire on more fools.


After much deliberation, discussions, and debates,
The King picked two well-learned candidates.
Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer,
An ambitious pair,
Vied to prove which one was the best.
Said the King, "There will be a test."
They went to a large chamber with herbs, gems, tomes,
Pots, measuring cups, all under high crystalline domes.

>>13993750
Mimic a god until you become a god. Tiber Septim mantled Lorkhan by conquering Tamriel through trickery, lies, and deception. The Champion of Cyrodiil mantled Sheogorath by being the head of every guild good and bad. The Morrowind protagonist mantle Nerevar by killing things and looting dungeons for the hell of it.

"Make me a tonic that will make me invisible,"
Laughed the King in a tone some would call risible.
So Umphatic Faer and Ianthippus Minthurk
Began to work,
Mincing herbs, mashing metal, refining strange oils,
Cautiously setting their cauldrons to burbling boils,
Each on his own, sending mixing bowls mixing,
Sometimes peeking to see what the other was fixing.


After they had worked for nearly three-quarters an hour,
Both Ianthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer
Winked at the other, certain he won.
Said King Maraneon,
"Now you must taste the potions you've wrought,
Take a spoon and sample it right from your pot."
Minthurk vanished as his lips touched his brew,
But Faer tasted his and remained apparent in view.

>what this "mantling" stuff is and where it comes from?
Walk like Them, until They walk like you.
Mimic a god enough, and it becomes you.

"You think you mixed silver, blue diamonds, and yellow grass!"
The King laughed, "Look up, Faer, up to the ceiling glass.
The light falling makes the ingredients you choose
Quite different hues."
"What do you get," asked the floating voice, bold,
"Of a potion of red diamonds, blue grass, and gold?"
"By [Dwemer God]," said Faer, his face in a wince,
"I've made a potion to fortify my own intelligence."

>>13986874
Guys! Oh my god, we need to get to the hospital now, it's Freddie!

And in those days the empire of the Cyrodiils was dead, save in memory only, for through war and slug famine and iniquitous rulers, the west split from the east and Colovia's estrangment lasted some four hundreds of years. And the earth was sick with this sundering. Once-worthy western kings, of Anvil and Sarchal, of Falkreath and Delodiil, became through pride and habit as like thief-barons and forgot covenant. In the heartland things were no better, as arcanists and false moth-princes lay in drugged stupor or the studies of vileness and no one sat on the Throne in dusted generations. Snakes and the warnings of snakes went unheeded and the land bled with ghosts and deepset holes unto cold harbors. It is said that even the Chim-el Adabal, the amulet of the kings of glory, had been lost and its people saw no reason to find it.

And it was in this darkness that King Hrol set out from the lands beyond lost Twil with a sortie of questing knights numbered eighteen less one, all of them western sons and daughters. For Hrol had seen in his visions the snakes to come and sought to heal all the borders of his forebears. And to this host appeared at last a spirit who resembled none other than El-Estia, queen of ancienttimes, who bore in her left hand the dragonfire of the aka-tosh and in her right hand the jewels of the covenant and on her breast a wound that spilt void onto her mangled feet. And seeing El-Estia and Chim-el Adabal, Hrol and his knights wailed and set to their knees and prayed for all things to become as right. Unto them the spirit said, I am the healer of all men and the mother of dragons, but as you have run so many times from me so shall I run until you learn my pain, which renders you and all this land dead.

And the spirit fled from them, and they split among hills and forests to find her, all grieving that they had become a villainous people. Hrol and his shieldthane were the only ones to find her, and the king spoke to her, saying, I love you sweet Aless, sweet wife of Shor and of Auri-el and the Sacred Bull, and would render this land alive again, not through pain but through a return to the dragon-fires of covenant, to join east and west and throw off all ruin. And the shieldthane bore witness to the spirit opening naked to his king, carving on a nearby rock the words AND HROL DID LOVE UNTO A HILLOCK before dying in the sight of their union.

When the fifteen other knights found King Hrol, they saw him dead after his labors against a mound of mud. And they parted each in their way, and some went mad, and the two that returned to their homeland beyond Twil would say nothing of Hrol, and acted ashamed for him.

But after nine months that mound of mud became as a small mountain, and there were whispers among the shepherds and bulls. A small community of believers gathered around that growing hill during the days of its first churning, and they were the first to name it the Golden Hill, Sancre Tor. And it was the shepherdess Sed-Yenna who dared climb the hill when she heard his first cry, and at its peak she saw what it had yielded, an infant she named Reman, which is "Light of Man."

And in the child's forehead was the Chim-el Adabal, alive with the dragon-fires of yore and divine promise, and none dared obstruct Sed-Yenna when she climbed the steps of White-Gold Tower to place the babe Reman on his Throne, where he spoke as an adult, saying I AM CYRODIIL COME.

What do you fine folks think of this?
http://fallingawkwardly.wordpress.com/2010/08/29/the-metaphysics-of-morrowind-part-1/

It is a bit long for the normal internet attention span but it is a fun read
I normally scoff at these types of fourth wall breaking theories but...
It fits so perfectly i don't even
I certainly have a new-found respect for Vivec.
I still think he is an arrogant traitorous bastard, but perhaps that was Vehk and not Vehk, hm?

>>13994327
>fourth wall breaking
Tamriel lore is fourth wall breaking.
CHIM

Holy shit this is still alive. Good job, /tg/.

>>13994557
/tg/ loves Morrowind almost as much as many fatguys hate Skyrim.
Of course the thread is alive.

>>13994618
No, fa/tg/uys hate Oblivion. Skyrim has the approval of MK, the guy who writes all that really crazy shit that we love, so we're cautiously optimistic about it.
see >>13988174
>>13988174
>>13988174

>Problem, Nerevar?

>>13994983
Problem, Voryn?