The Wolf and the Scribe

By Tilmoov Aedorin

Prologue: The Knight of the Nine

A girl of fourteen stood atop the hill. Her eight companions standing by her. It was a cool and early morning, late into the Great War of Tamriel. Her heart was racing as she gazed at the figures to the south.

As the sun began to rise to the east the host of her enemy became visible in the dawn's light. A small army of two hundred marched, intent on slaughtering the injured Northmen hiding within the temple. She could not let that happen -- she was a Knight of the Nine Divines, It was in her very nature to protect the realms of men from this elven oppression. The day prior a small army of Nords had crossed over the mountains from Skyrim though the hidden road of moths to join the Emperors main force attempting to retake the Imperial City. They were ambushed and those few who survived were forced to the Temple for safety.

Her order numbered nine. Each brandishing a sacred relic of the Fox Champion of Al-esh. Hers was the sword. It's ruby glistened in the morning's light as she reached to unsheathe it. The blade lit up in a gorgeous display. Legend says that the blade was forged in the breath of Akatosh and it's flame would never extinguish. "This weapon was made for killing elves. It will not fail at that task today" she told herself. The foe approached and drew their weapons in a cacophony of glass reflection. Then a tall thin man approached.

"Lay down your weapons brave knights. I am Tilmoov Aedorin, Arch Scribe of the Altmeri Province of Nibenay. Lord Naarafin has decreed that so long as the surviving Nords are disarmed no harm will come to them. He is a merciful man, please, I beg you hear reason, Do not waste anymore blood. Your lives are too short to throw away on such folly. Tidus Mede is no true emperor and his war is lost. Please, I beg you, I wish not to taint this holy ground."

"Who was this odd man?" - She pondered. "Yet another knife eared southerner intent on conquering the realms of men?" He spoke too kindly for some conqueror, but that tone of condescension -- it was deafening to any sense his statement made. Titus Mede was Emperor, they may not be of the pure blood of Dragons, but they were Cyrodiils ruling in Cyrodiil as Cyrodiils had for millennia. They had come here to protect the injured Nords, not debate the legitimacy of their side's claim to the Ruby Throne. Her lips began to part but before the words could come out another voice came out.

"You mock our Emperor and our very lifespan and believe us to be foolish enough to trust you with the lives of those men? Who are you "Arch Scribe"? Another Golden liar sent by the demon's Usurper to slaughter more innocent lives? I saw your "Lord's mercy" on the battle of the bride, I will not be made to believe that his heart has turned in these few months since. No, you will not gain entry to this temple, not while my heart still beats. Do you hear me "Arch Scribe"? In my hand is the Mace of the Crusader! It has killed six hundred and ten Million of you knife ears, it can kill a few hundred more!"

That was Valgus the Bold, "stupid stupid man you've killed us all," she thought. He had earned his title for delving into the poisoned fountains in the Kothringi ruins of Stormhold. His Argonian guides wrote him off as dead and began to search his remaining valuables when he emerged, unharmed and untainted, with the Mace in hand, "and now that same courage that gave him his name will have him put to an end," thought the knight.

"I will not stand by as you slit the throats of these brave men either," said Emilia the Pink. In truth she was almost useless in a fight but it was her Lord father's wealth that had allowed for their knighthood to seek out the relics in the first place. Her shield had been all that was left as they were passed down from her long family line.

"Nor I," said Audens the Rider, dawning his winged helmet for the last time, torn from the centaur's head outside Dragonstar.

"I am no coward, nor do I trust any elf," barked Draninus, Dog of Skingrad. The torn Ruby Insignia of his chestplate almost seemed to glow as it did the day he won it from the Kitten Prince in a game of dice.

"We are not one's to shy away from a fight either," said Augurius and Nebia, the Sibling Knights. They had won their boots and gauntlets betting themselves as dinner to the Fat Bosmer and wrestled him into submission using their coordinated team attack.

"Elves shall never again rule my homeland; that is a promise," said Bassianus Ashen Knight. He wore the mail gifted from an Ordinator in Necrom after he saved a village from a pack of Nix Hounds.

"I have run away from no battle, today will be no exception," boasted Janus The Grey Knight. His pauldrons shined against his legionnaire's attire. He was the oldest of their knighthood and the only of them to have served in a war before now. His artifacts were earned as a token of his position as he rose the ranks of the Imperial Legion.

The decision was settled and she could not back down now. She wanted to lay down her sword and say "No more I yield," to let the gods take their mercy on those men and allow everyone to live. But it was too late, she must commit to her brother's and sister's choice. It was not her place to sew discontent in their ranks now, she opened her mouth again and uttered the words. "As will I," and it was done.

The first to die was Draninus. His head was cleaved off with a winged axe by an unnaturally large warrior who's helmet was just barely enough to conceal the demon's horns beneath.

Then was Bassianus who was ripped limb from limb with dark magics.

Valgus died, impaled by eight spears.

Auden's was trapped beneath his horse, his head kicked in with a sharp boot of glass.

When the sibling knights were separated in the confusion of the battlefield, they too were taken out.

Janus fought bravely, but it was not enough. His charred corpse was unrecognizable now.

The last was Emilia the Pink. Her shield had protected her well and spells were especially effective against the enemy, but when her eyes met the knight's she was distracted and the Pink knight was skewered on a lance of ebony.

One hundred and sixty dead elves surrounded her in a field of corpses, she wondered if she had it in her to truly fend off his force. "If I won this battle I will avenge my fallen brethren, I will dawn their relics and become the Divine Crusader born, again in a field of Elven blood." The thought made her grin and she readied her blade, "but should I lose those men will be slaughtered, the blind priests too. My brother's and I will die with honor but only for a lost cause." The thought made her uneasy, "I could defeat any man in single combat and perhaps a dozen but these odds are too stacked against me. And all those lives I would be risking -- I only went along with this because the other's did. But now it's my decision and it's past time I take my stance." She lowered her blade and placed it into the ground to kneel.

"I yield!" She Shouted.

The scribe paused, taken aback for a moment. He signaled his soldiers to circle her, but to cease their attempts to kill her.

"I am a man of my word. I will not harm the men in the temple." He said.

He flourished the ebony spear in his hand and pointed it to her neck.

"But I promised nothing of yourself."
Under Construction: Subject to Change=

The Arch Scribe of Xarxes

Tilmoov Aedorin sat on his old oaken chair reading through an odd golden tome. He paged through, turning past various names till he found one that interested him.

"Solidalf Gaeaire XI The Valorus: The Last King of Alinor before Tiber Septim's conquest. Studied under the Psyijic Order for twenty Years. Crowned in the Second Era year two hundred. Ruled for ninety seven Years. Sired eleven children only one survived to sire more, his seventh Son Ganril Gaeaire. Slain in battle with the Brass God."

The scribe pondered for a moment. "Odd that this child of such low birth is related to such an important figure."

He placed the book down and began to write. From his quill it seemed anything was possible. The text simply wrote itself and the added garnishing paled in comparison to the words themselves. As he placed the qwill down he read over his long scroll on the lineage of his newest ward going back as far as time could go.

"Yes it makes sense why Xarxes placed him under my care, he is always vigilant to those hidden by the vale of class."

He rolled up the scroll and placed his seal to be sent to the Thalmor officials for bookkeeping. He placed the scroll in his bag and headed to his door.

He grabbed his tall pointed hat upon his head and looked back at the desk. He watched as the text on the golden tome faded and the book closed itself.

Tilmoov Aedorin was perhaps the most hated man on the continent of Tamriel. Ten years prior he was advisor to the Warlord Naarafin during the conquest of the Imperial Isles in the Great War. Upon Naarafin's defeat and the execution of most of his higher ups, Tilmoov Aedorin was left to make peace terms with Emperor Tidus Mede II. Being a well studied man Lord Aedorin assumed that the Colovian tendency to bargain in business translated to their terms of negotiation. He had never expected the Emperor to agree to the outlaw of Tiber Septim worship. He simply wished to bargain down to eliminating his emissaries in Aldmeri Lands. Now entire funds of his fellow elves were placed into inquisitors all throughout Tamriel. The Northern Provinces of Skyrim and High Rock that claimed Septim to be their native had proven increasingly challenging and were at constant risk of becoming a new enemy to content with internationally. A select few high members of the Thalmor were interested in the prospect however and had since allowed Aedorin to retire to Alinor and take his father's place as Arch Scribe to the Temple of Xarxes.

As Aedorin walked through the streets he gazed at the Neo-Altmeri architecture of stone and silver. "Once these streets were paved with insectoid magics that glowed with the glory of magnus's light. Now they are Imperial and no amount of independence will ever bring those magics back."

He weaved through the streets of the city towards a bland building embroidered with the banner of an eagle and a sign stating "Office of Thalmor Intelligence and Informational Gathering" He entered inside to find an older woman sitting at the desk and a waiting room of at least fifty occupants.

"Can I help you sir" - The woman blurted out in the most nasally and obnoxious tone.

"Hello, yes, I would like to submit some papers on the lineage of my estates new ward"

"What's your name and station?" - The Woman responded

"Tilmoov Aedorin, Arch Scribe to the Temple of Xarxes"

"Do you have an appointment sir" - She droned

"Yes if I could just see the High Keeper"

"I don't see your name on the list sir, are you certain you made the appointment?"

"Why yes I made the arrangements last night"

"Give me a moment..." She paged through a number of papers before looking back up

"I apologize sir I was looking in the wrong section. Please go take a seat over there the keeper will be with you shortly."

Tilmoov Aedorin took his seat next to an odd man with an oversized head and what appeared to be a shaved Imga wearing makeup to appear to be Altmer. For the next hour he waited as the sun seemed to grow lower and lower in the sky. Customers came and went to declare their linage before the High Keeper. Aedorin knew many of them would be deported for their insufficient proof of blood and sent likely to Elyswer to live on the outskirts of the Dominion.

As twilight was approaching a large portly man came out.

"Aedorin my old friend come in, come in. We have much to discuss I am sure and the hours grow late. I want to return home and enjoy some of my wife's cooking before curfew!"

They made their way into a cramped office and the portly man took a seat in a chair much to small for a man of his size.

"Let's take a look here." His eye's glazed over the scroll to make sure everything was in order

"This boy is quite low born but her certainly has higher blood going back far enough. I suppose we all were once kings in another time though. I will approve your request I trust it is all accurate according to the book and you are not the type to let someone enter the temple's service without reason."

"Thank you High Keeper" Aedorin began to shuffle to stand up and shake his hand

"Did you hear about Cyrelas?" The High Keeper looked over to him in a foreboding tone.

"Did he eliminate the threat in the Jerall mountains?" Aedorin relaxed back in his chair knowing the conversation was far from over.

"No he is dead. Blasted apart. They are transporting the remains to his house. That makes twenty men who have attempted to clean up that mess." The keeper shifted uncomfortable in his unreasonably small chair

During the siege of the Imperial City Tilmoov Aedorin was sent to intercept a host of Nords heading over the mountains to join up with the main Imperial force. He succeeded in killing most of them but a small amount were taken in by the Moth Priests and protected by the Grey Knight and his followers. After killing the majority of the so called Knights of the Nine he made a bargain to spare the lives of the remaining Nords. That had lead to one of those Nords terrorizing the Pale Pass for the last decade not allowing any Altmer to come within seventy miles of the border. Each hunter the Thalmor sent to eliminate this threat was brutally killed by the so called Wolf of the Jerall Mountains.

Cyrelas only agreed because Aedorin covered for his daedric heritage that would normally have lead to a person's exile to the swamps of Black Marsh. And now he too was dead.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment as Aedorin contemplated the death of yet another old friend...

"I supposed I should pack some warm clothes as I'll be heading to Bruma soon. By Auriel I would have hoped Cyrelas would have it in him to capture that beast."

Tilmoov Aedorin gathered his belongings and walked out of the bland office. He gazed into the moons and pondered why his past chose now to haunt him.

The White Wolf

Yellow black... yellow black... yellow black. But inside they were always crimson. His teeth sank deep into their neck veins and drank from them in rage.

The one was young, his chin was smooth. As he chewed the flesh went down easy without the barbels catching in his neck.

The other still coughed though it would not be long now. The meat tasted best when it had time to fear.

The animal ate till his stomach was full.

Another invader kept from the land he now called home.

He called to the sky and the fury of the blizzard subsided into the clear night and to the north the lights danced to beacon him to the place he had been born. But now was not the time to answer that call. Not while the pointed made their way towards that same northern light.

So long it had been since he came to these mountains. Once there was a grove... maybe a pack. In those days his tongue twisted strange and only muffled whispers came out.

Now was different. His feet moved faster. His teeth felt sharper. A decade had pasted since he found his purpose. The steppe men called him white wolf and whispered silent prayers to the gods forgotten that he would be their savior. Their legends spoke of the totems of old and how each fit into their lives.

Long ago before the ages of elves or men a great battle was waged. In this, the fox and hawk fought dragon and snake for the rite of kings. The lesser spirits could not yet take form in those days and were split. Those who saw the dragon as king were given shape by the trees and swore their swords to him to become the elves. To those who followed the fox, the hawk breathed life into the clay and man was born. The battle was lost but the fox still cared for those who had fought by him and devised a plan to keep them safe. When the bear was broken, the fox gave himself to the snake so that those loyal would be spared. The hawk lead the men north to the green-lands and brought with her the wolf and the moth so that the man could know the love of nature, family and sex.

The wolf knew not how he had embodied family to these men. Perhaps it was that he was their protector and they his children. He could not say. A wolf in not one to understand the minds of man, only follow it.

He moved through the fresh snow on his path. Miles and miles he would move each day past the pale peaks. Solitude was his company, interrupted occasionally by a passerby or a soldier. Some would try to attack and so he would run but most simply paid him their nine prayers and moved on.

As the moons began to set he came across the cave of the stone and now knew he was home.

The wolf returned to his den, his coat stained with the blood of elves. The whales past overhead and sang their song. Now was not an age for mercy. Not for the knife eared ones. Never for them. He closed his eyes to sleep and the dream came to him again of the time long past. The girl on the hill and her eight companions. The demon in glass with his black steel pen. Over and over and over.

The Knife Eared One in the Halls of Kings

Tonight's dream was not one that came often. It was the war. It was always the war. But this time it was the war's end.

Tilmoov Aedorin returned to the Imperial City only to find his general defeated and a Cydrodiil on the Ruby Throne once more. Being the highest ranked Altmeri representative he was called to council with the Emperor Titus Mede II and discuss the terms of surrender. In the marble halls Aedorin walked through the mists of his memory. Shades of soldiers both elves and man walked alongside him. One perhaps he knew the faces of the men who had served with him all those years ago. But time made fools of the sturdiest mind and now they were a fog beyond his reach. As the doors opened a bright flash lit up the world around him. Emperor Titus Mede II shone through the veil of time like a beacon in the darkest mists of Allinor. This man was not of the dragon's blood, his very presence was divine in nature. A face obscured by a mask of gold and a crown of spikes protruding from his helmet. His blade was unsheathed and shone with the light of flames both crimson and aqua. He raised the sword above his head and let the fire dance through the room. It was Akaviri make, that much was clear, but another energy rang divine from not just the enchantment but the craftsmanship of the blade itself. Then his voice did boom with the pride of a nord tongue.

"I Titus Mede II, Emperor of Cyrod, Skyrim, High Rock and Morrowind, lay down my blade at your feet and ask from you what the Altmeri Dominion wishes in the terms of our surrender."

Around the room the blades knelt and sang,

"Hail to the Emperor!"

Tilmoov Aedorin had experienced much comfort it his years. He was born into a family well off enough and religiously significant in the church of his people. Never did he think it ever possible to meet the Emperor, let alone to be the vassal to negotiate the surrender of Cyrodiil. Even in a dream where the outcome was certain, the air was thick with tension. The scribe spoke:

"Hail to you Emperor. I have consulted with my superiors and offer to you these terms for the withdrawal of Altmeri Forces from the provinces still controlled by your rule..."

In truth there had been no plan laid out for him the Imperials regained control of the Imperial City. Originally the Elven province of Aedramalada was going to be reinstated after Mede's armies were eliminated. The royals from the old Aylied families would be reinstated under the new Lord Naarafin. But all that had been swiped away and the Aldmeri plan of domination was put on hold. There was no "superior" for Tilmoov to cite beyond, perhaps, the King thousands of miles away. And so he had to stitch together what greatest ambitions he had gathered from Naarafin's private conversations.

"First: we ask for the return of the elven Land of Volundrung to the Altmeri Dominion"

While the prize of the Niben may have been lost he would not let these negotiations go without some territory gain for the dominion. It seemed fair to ask for Southern Hammerfell given it's long history of uprising and anti Imperial Sentiment. It was a small consultation and not to be too contested.

"Done" boomed the Emperor.

He looked around and while there was no tangible truth to his words Tilmoov felt an echo of honor from this faceless King.

"Next, we ask for the dissolution of the blades from all of Tamriel"

This request was less likely to go over well. The blades had served the Emperors of Cydrodiil for millennia but their espionage was an offense to the sovereignty of the Dominion and it had to be answered for somehow.

"Done" the Emperor spoke again.

Around him the many blades unsheathed their tanos. At first it seemed as if an attack was coming and the elven soldiers readied their blades. Instead each of these royal guards undid their stomach armor and stabbed themselves. No fear emanated from their cold, masked faces. No words either. Each body around them fell and the blood filed the floor below.

Tilmoov Aedorin could not believe his eyes. A dozen men lie dead at the word of one man. The power of this emperor was terrifying and yet he seemed to comply with every request made to him. This god was bending the knee.

Shocked and in awe Tilmoov Aedorin asked one final request. One he had believed was a pipe dream that could never be fulfilled. He opened up his mouth without thinking and let it spill out though the memory was faint and the words themselves were not audible to the mists of time.

"Done" The Emperor spoke one last time.

And so the memory evaporated into the morning light as all dreams always do.

He woke to a young boy grasping a letter in his hand.

"Master Tilmoov wake up! You've been summoned to the council's high chambers!"

Racked by another night of terrors Tilmoov thanked the young ward and began his preparations He put on his robes and met his escort outside. On they went to the crystal chamber, to meet with the sin's of his past.

The palace that was once built to house the dark queen was now so much another sight. Twisted were the marble Hlaalu architectures by the the new hands of it's masters. Insect like patterns of ebony magics now shaped around the likes of which only possible by the most skilled of wizards in all the world. Above floated eight stones around a spire of white. As Tilmoov placed his hand upon the door the eagle tapestry glowed a bright yellow light. Rather than open on hinges his body was instantly moved to one of the many floating geodes above the structure. Within was a series of abnormally tall amethyst thrones holding the illustrious eight who oversee all the Aldmeri doings.

"We as eight speak as one." Spoke All of Eight.

It was their montra for even those elves who had lived a thousand lifetimes could never match the wisdom of so many.

"You come as one when in the past you came with others." Spoke Two of Eight.

Their names meant nothing now, for all eight were connected now.

"This is good. He has accepted his fate and choose to take responsibility." Spoke Four of Eight.

Tilmoov dared not speak, it would not matter. Such wise and great masters always knew what those who stood before them would say or do before they said it.

"But he wonders how he shall make such a long voyage to lands so distant" Spoke Five of Eight.

Tilmoov did wonder that now. When he returned to Alinor he was greeted by a sour look by most anyone who sailed elf or man. Teleportation at such a far distance might have been possible once when Tamriel was unified but to do so now would be impossible as magical barriers prevented most from moving between provinces.

"An old friend shall accompany you as he has just returned from his voyage to Thras. He will be good company to Lake Rumare. From there another guide shall take you to the steppes where your mission lies" Spoke Three of Eight.

There was only one sailor mad enough to sail to the necromancers isles though this was a mockery. "The King of the Abecean" he was named and was the only manish captain in the entire Aldmeri Armada's service. Distinguished for sure but a joke to most on Tamriel, considered more of a diversity play by the council than an actual ship captain.

"He thinks we mock him. Perhaps when we were apart that would be true. But we are beyond such emotion now. We are now one" Spoke Six of Eight.

It was true they were beyond emotion now. Beyond feeling. As a god and walked as one.

"You cannot name another who would do such a thing for you Tilmoov Andorin. He is your only option" Spoke Seven of Eight.

It was true as the eight always were. This captain was an old friend and a connection was made between the two that transcended the bigotry of Tilmoov's peers. The Abecean King would do.

"And now he knows and can do as we bid. Find the wolf Tilmoov Andorin Arch Mage of Xarxes." Said One of Eight.

"We as eight speak as one." Spoke Eight of Eight.

"We as eight speak as one." Spoke All of Eight.

It

It moved across the walls leaving a trail of brown behind it. It felt only cold on it's long misshapen limbs.

It had not seen outside. It did not know anymore what was beyond these stone halls. Sometimes the rats would speak to It through gnawing at It's flesh but it's teeth were sharper and larger so it ate the rats first.

One....Two....Three....One....Two.....Three...Four.... Was there always that many down there? It did not know. It never knew what once was.

It had dreams of darkness same as when it was awake. Darkness was all it knew.

It could smell and feel. The rats in the walls. The fleas in It's hair. It knew where those things were.

Once It was visited by others more like it. They were tall and lean and spoke though sound as well as pain. They taught It what It was through that pain.

It was born in this stone. Forged in it. It could not die for It was nothing. You cannot kill nothing. It knew that now. It knew it was It.

Maybe It was dead and this was hell for a lifetime unremembered. Maybe It died that day in the distant dream not even half remembered.

But It must not think of that. It must think of when the next rat would come by. It longed for liquid and blood was easiest to find. It spit out the hairs from between It's teeth and crawled around to smell and listen.

Another rat ran past and It slammed It's long limb upon the rodent's head. Maybe It knew the passion of killing once. But It must not think of that.

As It drank the blood It curled up again to sleep. Darkness came and soon darkness would wake It. It always knew what to expect.

When It woke to the gnawing of the rats It sprang to get It's next meal.

A guttural moan came from It's mouth at the taste. Orgasmic was the fresh blood upon opening It's eyes. It continued It's routine to stalk around the stone halls in search of fresh food. It's chain rattling across the ground where It crawled.

It knew not time. Things simply occurred. That god was not here.

It knew not mercy. The rats would not taste as good with mercy in It's heart. That god was not here.

It knew not death. It could not die for It was nothing. That god was not here.

It knew not sex. It had no sex for It was It. That god was not here.

It knew not nature. The halls were stone, It felt no nature here. That god was not here.

It knew not trade. The concept never existed, not in this place. That god was not here.

It knew not war. It was food to the rats and the rats food to It, nothing more. That god was not here.

It knew not wisdom. It lived on instinct and knew no wisdom for It was It and It could know nothing. That god was not here.

It knew not love. It loved not itself, nor the rats. That god was...

It dreamed the dream that was not darkness tonight. The one with the snow and the yellow face with the black spear. It saw through the mists of time when It was no longer It. It was... But that man took It away and made It nothing.

A cold air, the likes of which It had never felt, blew through the halls. It woke in and instant, shocked to It's core. Blinding was the first light It had seen in years. The flames danced around and It saw what made them. A white wolf stood before It, mouth stained with blood. The wolf moved inside and It hid in the darkness. But the wolf moved closer and howled the bars apart in a speech It knew not. It let water rain between It's legs and the wolf moved closer. It could see the smoke off the wolf's nose and the beast bowed. And then It saw that this was not a wolf. It knew what it was. What It was.

The warmth of the fur burned with comfort. This was love if primal.

And when she saw the sky and was birthed anew, she smiled for now she knew she could die.

Mara's Unlikely Champion

Bormir Son of Ergnir was once a keeper of the Dragon's Wood in Eastern Skyrim. It was a small village, outside the troubles of the city dwellers. While the faith of the Nords was tested inside the walls of their Kingdoms, beyond the old gods were still held above Imperial gentrification.

Within the Grove of Kyne the Oracle of the Hawk taught the devote in the ancient voice of the Sky's Rim, an art all but lost to the Nords but for the Greybeards atop Snow Tower, and this small village at the end of the world.

Bormir was a tongue who used his voice to defend Skyrim from invaders, as was the Nord tradition. He grew up alongside a princeling, Ulfric Stormcloak, and though the boy was pompous and gave off the aura that all city Nords did, he had a certain ambition Bormir Son of Ergnir admired. In those days Ulfric was Third in Line to the Palace of Kings and his greatest dream was to serve as advisor to the Young High Prince Torygg and to one day have all of Skyrim forgo the magic men of the West and embrace true Nordic tradition. It was a lofty, yet realistic goal, the most respectable kind to a village yokel such as Bormir Son of Ergnir.

Though when Ulfric's brother fell in battle against a Dunmer cult in the mountains, Ulfric was taken from his studies in the grove, his father not wishing to bear the loss of another son. The princeling would disappear up the Seven Thousand Steps and Ulfric Stormcloak would turn into a very different man.

In the years after, Bormir grew in interest for the world outside that his friend had faded into. Rumors had come into the village from the caravans passing through that a great pack of wolves was amassing in the Velothi, but none in the village would dare go so far into those demon mountains. But Bormir was young and foolish, seeking glory he was not yet ready to earn. He ventured forth far beyond the world known to him.

The mountain passes were dangerous and the ash of Red Tower choked him even so far away. Signs of Wolves were obvious, their dung and footprints were everywhere. Bormir readied himself for the pack and soon he found some. He wielded no steel and made his way to throw his voice but the ash held back his tongue and he could only cough.

The beast leaped up and attacked. The bite of it's fangs dug into his shoulder-bone and the end seemed near for Bormir Son of Ergnir.

"Mercy!"

The boy screamed but the wolf did not speak in such a way and could not understand his plea. Another heard, and leaped from the glare of Magnus, a Gold faced Eastern Devil who's morning star smashed in the skull of the wolf. She had robes of aqua and hair of Scarlet and looked down at the injured boy.

"What are you doing here Outlander, that pup almost had you killed? You are walking the wrong way too, Skyrim is behind you and an unarmed boy like yourself isn't safe so close to the Dire Wolf's den."

Her voice was old and full of wisdom that came with the years Dunmer would endure, but her mouth did not move when she talked. And when the boy looked back at the wolf who had attacked he saw that it had odd proportions that were juvenile but the size of a rather large wolf already. He spoke to the Golden Stranger

"I came to slay the wolves and bring honor to my name."

The boy's eager voice cut through his pain, optimistic and doomed to death. The Ordinator knew he could not be reasoned with.

"If you truly seek death I can lead you to the wolf's den, but I beg you boy turn back to where you came. Nord lives are so short already and it would pain me to see one end so young."

The words of this woman cut deep and the boy knew it would spell certain doom if he was to try to fight the wolf, even if he had his Nordic Shouts. He reflected on his mission and considered the pleas of the leaping demon. But to return unsuccessful would bring him dishonor and that would be as good as death to a Nord. Either way he walked he would be in the shadow of death, at least forward it would be a death with honor.

"Take me to the wolf's den, I won't die a coward!"

And so the devil took the boy to the den and they parted ways, her golden visage evaporating in the evening sun. The boy walked into the pit and readied himself for the end. Through a passage of bones of beast, men and elves he came upon the beast. It was the size of a Long House with teeth like spears. It's white fur shone like snow in the evening sun. The great eyes started at him and the boy looked away only to see that the beast was bleeding. The unmistakable blows from the mace of the warrior he had encountered before. He looked back into the wolf's eyes and saw not hunger, nor anger, nor fear. Only pain.

The wolf looked away and the boy knew he could not kill this beast. There was no honor in killing an injured creature. He put his hand on the wolf's fur and opened his mouth. From it came not shouts, nor words, nor screams. Only song.

The Lullaby of the Shield-Maiden was an old Nord healing magic passed down to the mother's of Kyne's Grove to heal their sick children. It was in the tongue but never needed to be shouted with the pride of a Nord, only a soft voice. And as the wounds of the wolf healed it bowed it's head and licked clean the shoulder of the boy. The wolf got down as to offer itself for the boy to ride.

Peace would come to the Velothi mountains, not through blood, but kindness. And that boy would find honor too, not through blood, but kindness. The day would come where the man who spoke fire and mounted a dire wolf would ride in the name of the Southern Emperor's honor never to be seen in his small village again. Fading into his wolf and into the mountains of the South. Mara's unlikely champion: Bormir Son of Ergnir The White Wolf of the Jerall Mountains.

Xrib

Tilmoov sat at his window in the morning sun of his final day in Alinor, recalling a more peaceful memory of his forgone friend.

Early on in the campaign of Cyrodiil Tilmoov Aedorin was called to the council of Lord Naarifin. When the elf entered his tent he found a wise and pale elf pondering a totem carved from bone. The man glowed with a long and storied knowledge only rivaled in those times by the Eight who were One and those like them.

"My Lord Naarafin you asked to speak with me" Tilmoov said somewhat taken aback by his grace's beauty.

"Yes my child of glass. Come and sit. We have much to discuss. You intrigue me ever so much more than you may know." Spoke the White Lord in a tone of fatherly familiarity.

The phrase "Child of Glass" was not familiar to Tilmoov Aedorin. It was strange and implied a knowledge as of yet unknown about the scribe. The two sat across from one another at the Lord Commander's War Table, separated by dozens of trinkets of unknown origin all of glass and bone.

"Has your father told you why the text twists into incomprehension in the Archive of Ancestors when it queries our blood?" Spoke the White Lord in reference to an artifact he should have no place in knowledge of.

"He said it was the trickery of an old Daedric Demi-prince who stole our ancestors' memory when his father's father was out drinking." Tilmoov said in confidence, forgetting the breach of sacred knowledge of the Archive, interested in what the Lord Commander knew of this servant of roses.

"No. Ganril was no man to gamble with demons in that way. Let me tell you the truth that your father came to me for with the same question. These gods of this world are good, fine and numerous. If eight or nine is not enough there are sixteen more perfectly generous in their own ways. But when I was born there were only three and I am no Aldmer. The Brass King walked and Alinor bleed. For a thousand years the gods were lost and new ones took their place:
First was the Brass god who was death and sang only it's song. We all went to his side in time, by choice or not.

Second was the Bone god who was evil but nourishing and to those who stood at his side. We do not want to speak any more on him, for it is distasteful.

Last was the Glass god who was cruel but gave life and protected the caverns from death above. We all had him to curse for our short lives, and to thank.

Ganril was a Child of the Glass who wandered the caverns in search of food and treasure to help his tribe. My father followed him for a time but he would not pretend to have known him personally. Ganril went deep into the caverns of bones, evading their capture through his small size and cunning. Eventually he slipped between two rocks and fell deeper than most elves dared to venture.

In these depths the green glow was all but lost and the only light was a faint red further down. The boy walked deeper and found the source of the light. A twisted spire of of ebony that glowed with red hate. On the walls behind was written the words "Be Not Afraid". But the art of literacy was long since lost and the boy ran. The spear dislodged itself and flew at him trying to crawl back the way he had come. When it came at him he grasped the handle and heard an in-elven whisper:

"I am a friend... my name is Fey... twisted and forgotten... will you be my scribe?.. There is so much I can teach you..."

There are many Legends of Ganril the Xrib now forgotten by so many. He came to the Lord of Bones and united the living tribes. He used used the light of Brass to call the King below. We will speak more on this lore before the war is done as I would not have it forgotten with my passing. But for now I have for you a gift."

Lord Naarafin stood up and pulled off his shelf a small ebony lockbox. He took a dagger and cut the palm of his hand, placing the wound upon the Sigil of Auriel.

"When your father came to me with the same story I wondered what had become of Ganril Aedorin and his magic spear. I traveled to runestones, wayshrines, and through Imperial tombs to find this..."

The lockbox opened and inside was a black writing quill.

The memory faded when a knock was heard at the door.

Tilmoov went to answer and found the bowl cut hair of the Grand Inquisitor and his piercing blue eyes.

"I have come to see you off Arch Scribe. Let us not keep the ape waiting."

The men walked down the marble streets of Alinor in a deafening silence. Tilmoov could not help but gaze into the youthful eyes of someone so unmistakably malicious. Rumors were told of his acts in whispers unheard. That he was truly born in the blood of his brethren. How he could break any man given enough time. Tilmoov feared what may come on this short walk to the piers.

Passing through the faces by the docks Tilmoov ignored the diverse display of Orc and Manmeri ship-fares in anticipation for what was to come. Would his death be endless in a cell of magics keeping his corpses walking to be beaten down more? Would he retain his fingers and toes? Would he even remember his name when this was all over? So many questions and those evil eyes, so ambitious and so very evil. When the Inquisitor opened his mouth Tilmoov was certain the assassin would drive a dagger straight through his back.

"We will not meet again Scribe, make certain of that. Should you happen on the one I am looking for, drive a lance through him. I would be most gracious. Glory to Merkind."

The Grand Inquisitor walked away and disappeared into a cacophony of light. Tilmoov Aedorin was still alive. The nausia was proof of that.

He bent over and the contents of what little he could convince himself to eat came rushing out of his stomach and onto the docks bellow.

I have not even started on my voyage and I am already throwing up, the sickly old man thought to himself. He gazed up and saw the unmistakable sight of the Dawn Treader before him.

It was a glorious ship of colors unmatched in beauty on the seas of the world. Built by Cirdan in the early days of the Dominion when the Eight wished to send men out to the far east, Beyond the snake Waters of Akavir and into the edge of the world where the sun rises. The stories they spoke were incredible.

Nirnroot that flowered on the calm waters.

Mists that spoke in musical visions of past and present.

Kings and Queens of old who danced on the pure waters as if they were stepping on the shining ballroom floor.

The hum of music in the ripples that lulled the men on ship into complete comfort.

At the edge were gears of man shapes and sizes all interlocking and keeping the waters of the Nirn from flowing into the nothing of Sithis.

And when Magnus Rose he was so great and terrifying and mighty and good that the men coward in his magnificence and could not help but to bow in his divine presence.

Through the great light of Aetherius they could see his face and it was a Khajiit who looked back in pensive disappointment.

Not one person believed Cirdan's tales. The Dawn Treader was considered a vessel of thieves and no port or elf would ever serve it. It sailed the shores of the Abecean for many years and Cirdan grew more and more close to the liquor and more and more distant from the wealth he once knew. In a haze he bet the whole ship on an Imga in a game of dice. He lost and so did the crown come to Gru'ke the King of the Abecean Sea and Cirdan would come to the bottom of the sea by the grace of his legs.

He was regal with a crown of Driftwood and a cape of luxurious red with the unmistakable sight of a diaper around he legs. His hair was spotted with grey that gave away that this man was old for his kind though Tilmoov knew him to only be soon to reach forty, a year not so old even for a man such as this. He was bowing at Tilmoov. A swollen faced woman and a boy next to him and all his crew bowing with smirks hidden behind a thin veil of "honor".

Tilmoov hated to see such a good soul disrespected in such a way but he knew the ape was not so stupid as to not see through their farce.

"Tilmoov my fren, Shor'ath has retun'd you tu me. Ut hats been so lon an I was nut shore to see your face once more. Come abor pleased, so mush hath happun an I mus tell you alls."

Tilmoov smiled at the sight of his old friend and stepped aboard. This may be a long journey but in company such as this it would be a good one.

The Lamb

Brother Aiden was a pious man as all Moth Priests were to be. His vision was hazed now with the conjunctive circles of his magic scrolls, he could barley make out the porridge that lay before him on the dinner table. He sat that morning and said the Saint's Prayer:

"Glory unto time. You give meaning to happenings. Akatosh you are here."

"Glory unto mercy. You remind us to do what is right when faced with those who were wronged. Stendarr you are here."

"Glory unto life. You bring us to this world from the shapeless dream so that we might find meaning before our return. Arkay you are here."

"Glory unto beauty. You give to us something to appreciate in this world and a creation to strive for. Dibella you are here."

"Glory unto nature. You brought us this world and all the things within it. Kynareth you are here."

"Glory unto trade. You give us common ground so that we might specialize where our skills are best. Zenithar you are here."

"Glory unto wisdom. You guide us in our decisions and teach us of the world beyond and the world within. Julianos you are here."

"Glory unto war. Without you we could not have all that is now ours. Tiber Septim you are here."

"Glory unto love. You give us the greatest of emotion and let us feel for one another so that evil does not corrupt our hearts. Mara you are here."

The Crone Wife sat silently as she always did but the glow of her skin at these words let Brother Aiden know his voice was heard by the gods. He ate his porridge with snowberries and recalled a simpler time when he could still see the swirls of red in his meal. But now he knew far more than the boy who stepped into those hallowed halls could have ever known.

Many years ago before the war and solidarity the Initiate Aiden was taken to the valley by his old feeble master. Blindfolded, he placed his hand on the runestone covered in blood and stepped into the Halls of White. There the voices judged him and he awoke in the grove where he could remove his blindfold. It was a garden of beauty where the flora, fauna and fungi danced with the moths and butterflies around the stone walls. He could hear the cries of birds so long extinct and felt a familiar wetness of the old Cyrodiil in myth. He passed by the Blind Men making sure to not disturb them or face the wrath of the Children of Mor. The temple was of exquisit marble not tainted by time as all other Aylied ruins are today. The doors opened and inside he saw the holy Lamp that would make it's judgement upon him.

All Moth Priests would study for the Trials of the Lamp and when their time came Dibella would make her judgement. None knew what lie within the lamp nor what material it was made of. The blue glow simply was. That it could speak with Dibella simply was. All that was known was from scrolls so rare the only copies that exist were in the Moth Priest Temple itself.

These scrolls spoke of The Elf King Celebrimbor in old Cyrodiil, before the rule of man. His father was the Aylied Priest of Lorkhan Uulernil and his Mother the Chimeri Estalenya, they both came to the border mountains of their nations in search of the Blood Star that had fallen in creation. It would be the boy Celebrimbor who would find the stone and would become obsessed. He would pour himself deep into the will of his father's god and learn to shape ebony such as the Aldmer of Crystal Tower once did. Lorkhan spoke of Celebrimbor and asked for much sacrifice in his name.

The servants of his God would come to Celebrimbor in the valley and he would treat them well but for a price. The Lamp would take their eyes and so they might never know the beauty of their moth god by the most superficial of means. These were the Blind Men who could not see the glory of the Kingdom of their Liege. It was a great price but in those days to be man was to suffer and to be Celebrimbor's man was to suffer the least.

Though secrets of the Golden Scrolls and the guidance of the heart stone Celebrimbor would use the blood of mother and father to craft the Silver Ebony Jewel that would cement his rule. Many names was it known by in those late days of dawn: Hans the Fox, Harrald Hairy Breeks, Pelinal the Third, Ysmir Kingmaker, Jyg the Unworth. The King of the North was a scourge to all Elf King but Celebrimbor, his greatest creation.

When the day came that the Ape Men of the South turned on the beast liberators it was Celebrimbor who offered his sanctuary. Alessia's children were too strong willed by Dragon's Blood to be corrupted by the Lamp's blinding power. But they were loyal to the men who served the Black King and helped to protect the valley. But the Southern Emperors grew more and more hateful and more and more powerful under the guidance of the Ape so Celebrimbor devised a plan.

The King of the Giants still ruled in those days and knew still where to speak to the wives of time. In ancient tongue the valley was sealed so that none could enter but for once by the blood of man.

There the Giants sleep in their stone tombs.

There the Minotaurs are still Princes.

There the Blind Men stand vigilant.

There the Black King sits on his Black Throne.

Celebrimbor the Smith.

Brother Aiden was deemed worthy by the Lamp and his sight was granted to him for a time. Never again would the circles fade from his peripheri though.

When Brother Aiden stepped outside he looked onto the blurly hill that had once been the sight of a battle. That day as with every other he saw the Shade of the Knight that now haunted those grounds but another blur came into sight.

It was a pelted King with a specter on his back. He knew this man but knew him better as a wolf.

"So you have returned? Who's blood did you spill now sinner! What is that THING that clings to your back WOLF!"

The man placed the delicate skeleton down on the furs from his back. Brother Aiden could not believe it, but he knew those eyes.

"The Little Knight?" Brother Aiden had met her once when she swore her sword to protect his temple. She had fought and all her companions had died but she bent her knee to protect the Nords within. Brother Aiden was sure she had been burned with all the other Heretics when the elves withdrew but here she was barley clinging to life.

Inside the temple the Old Nord sat in the corner and glared at the healing magics Brother Aiden attempted to perform. His hands moved in sacred circles and he spoke the nine prayers.

"Glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory."

The Crone stood fearful and reached into her skirt to draw a cross upon the Knight's head in sacred shape.

For hours they did pour and speak in prayer and ritual to the Gods and Saints.

From Saint Reman they did the ancient art of the cycle, but the seed was not enough when so old. "Glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory." Saint Reman could not hear.

From Saint Alessia eight stones were placed around the girl's stomach, but their luster had faded. "Glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory." Saint Alessia could not hear.

From Saint Tiber the Dance of Swords was performed around the girl, but feeble feet could not make such movements. "Glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory." Saint Tiber could not hear.

From Saint Martin the golden rite was performed and her body was covered in golden circles, but the sun was not visible in the clouds of winter. "Glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory, glory." Saint Martin could not hear.

Last, they asked to the first Saint who was without name. Brother Aiden knew the cost would be great but that he would answer her prayers. He kissed the Crone who he had loved so very much. "GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY,GLORY!" Brother Aiden screamed as the knife dug deep into his soft flesh. The blood spilled from his stomach and into the grail the Crone wife held. Her eyes stared into his and Brother Aiden's life faded to the dream with Shezzar by his side as the girls eyes opened.

Feyfolken

It could never be said by even the most bigoted of mer that King Gru'ke was not good to his subjects. Each man was given a share of the spoils as is the custom of Pirates. In the west this was the greatest any lawful sailor could ask and his men loved him for it, even if he was hard to take seriously.

Tilmoov Andorin left his cabin to go join his old friend for the festivities the sailors would hold each night.

Each race was gathered around, drinking and merrymaking. Not just the "civil" races but other Imga, Minotaurs, Fauns and even a Centaur. A more diverse cast of characters could never exist, even in the armada of the Cyrodiils. The voices began to hush as a young Nord boy of no older than ten walked to the center of the ship, lute in hand.

"De boi ez wundirful, yuo shell sea!" Said the Sea King

The boy looked dead into Tilmoov's eyes and began to sing:

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Blue of hat and robes, seeks the champions of the common man.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Green of hat and robes, seeks the songs that nature sings.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Red of hat and robes, seeks the soldiers greatest of all.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Yellow of hat and robes, seeks the wisdom of the stars.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Orange of hat and robes, seeks the trade of sacred flame.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Purple of hat and robes, seeks the company of kings and queens.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Brown of hat and robes, seeks the mysteries of the earth.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

Black of hat and robes, seeks the path of darkest roads.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

Though mountains high and valley low the nine lorekeepers roam.

White of hat and robes, seeks ruby blood in the gardens of old.

Follow their wisdom and sing their song,

Lorekeeper dance for me!

The boy bowed and men of the ship all clapped, Minotaurs and Cyrodiils most of all!

"Wunderful Jullius! Simpl wunderful!" Said the Ape King.

The boy walked towards his king and kneed

"Thank you my liege!" The boy said with an aura of respect not often given to the Imga. He looked back up and Tilmoov the Scribe.

"Strange" He whispered.

The night continued and the wine flowed. The Imga were never great at holding their liquor and Gru'ke King of the Abecean was no exception.

"Hav ei evr tuld yew hou de Imga caem tu be? Ther was two whu lead de men wen Shur deid. Kynar de mutha whu wen North width de Dragonz and Shorath de mad whu wen South tu de treez. Wee followd he and was curzd width our small heds."

Tilmoov had heard this story a thousand times though it was not exactly common knowledge among most. Imga were a race of men who worshiped elves and that they were born from Sheogorath gave a sense of logic to that. For a long time Tilmoov had meant to publish such findings in a collection of Tamriel's wonders but time had slipped him by and such an endeavor seemed impossible with all the traveling it would require. A lost dream of a younger man.

When the festival was concluded Tilmoov laid down in his hammock and fell asleep to the songs of the waves. And with water comes memory so Tilmoov Aedorin dreamed.

That night was a patchwork of the past, none of it particularly meaningful. When Tilmoov awoke it was to a loud thud at the base of the ship. He walked outside to investigate the commotion

A great Dreugh had been crashed into and was attacking. The pathetic steel the sailors used was no match for the mighty crab king. Tilmoov used his magics but this too was worthless against such a mighty foe. Tilmoov Aedorin knew what had to be done but feared the consequences that it would entail. As he reached into his back pocket he saw out of the corner of his fading vision the boy step on deck.

"STAND DOWN PRINCE OF RAPE!" The boy shouted with a familiar boom!

The crab looked down at the boy and began to smile with it's toothy mouth.

Suddenly, the crustacean slapped the boy away and continued it's rampage!

Tilmoov ended his pause and grasped the quill in his back pocket. As darkness enveloped him the quill became a spear in his hand and Feyfolken made his debut.

Son of a Shepard

There the White Wolf stood as the light left the priest's eyes. He was witness to a suicide of gruesome detail that made no sense to any wisdom of Nord magic that he could know. If he could speak softly again he would sing the song of his mother to heal the girl, but his heart could not bear for such silent words.

Magic was beyond the Wolf. Nords were rarely gifted in the traditional Arcane Art and even fewer would pursuit such a field, for that is the realm of giants and owls, not of man.

He knew not the art of poultices either for the wise men of his village would not heal with herbs and roots.

This girl was destined to die and he could not save her. Perhaps the priest took his own life so that he might shepherd her soul to the wherever it is that Cyrodiils go when they meet their end.

A grail of blood now held in the hands of the crone wife. She could not speak either for it was forbidden for the wives of Reman to say anything.

The Crone Wives were an order began in the time of the Shonni-etta in the First Era though they were not yet Crones. The women who camped on the Hillock one day found the child who bore the Lost Amulet of Kings already on his head. The sister Shonni road by steed, though endless jungle, to Aedramalada which lie in ruin. When the infant sat on the marble of the Ruby Throne he spoke "I am Cyrodiil Cum" and at that moment the son of Hroll and the land which was Alessia, for the first time in living memory, was able to bring his people to climax. Flocking were the sister wives to their husband become nine and they would take his seed vigorously, feeling a pleasure in their service that was unmatched by all the debauchery of Sanguine. They could only speak to the Cyrodiil because at that moment no other mortal was on their level.

To keep their husband immortal they would bake his seed into his bread in secret [there is scholarly debate as to whether or not bread was literal or a metaphor for the numerous children Reman would father]. And on the day that Reman Cyrodiil was no more all the people would weap.

From then on when a woman would lose her husband and be so young that she still longed for his embrace she would take a pilgrimage to Sancre Tor. Upon the top of the great mountain was a great sarcophagus belonging to the God Emperor Reman Cyrodiil that the woman in mourning would copulate with. In doing so she would once again embrace the love of her husband again. She would become a priestess like Shonni-God's-Sister and served the men and women of the gods so they would not be tempted by those of un-devout flesh.

This Crone was old and had seen many men in her time, but it was clear that this man, Aiden, did mean much to her. As her tears fell to the blood soaked floor she stood and walked towards the body of the girl once more. The Wolf looked in confusion wondering what secret magics were about to be performed yet instead she picked up the body with the hand she had free not holding the chalice. She walked out of the temple and Bormir followed.

Though the snow of the mountain passes she walked. Hours and hours yet she never seemed to show any sign of tiring. The walls were covered in the markings of the Giants and it was clear that something lie ahead that was important to them. Foliage diminished and the stone began to blacken until before the Crone, Knight and Wolf was a pitch black Obsidian wall with a central Runestone of White held by the ephagy of an Owl. Mammoth bones littered the clearing around the wall and reflected in the glass surface. The girl was placed on the runestone by the Crone and a blindfold was placed on her eyes.

The Crone then turned to the White Wolf and handed him a blindfold too. Bormir placed it on his eyes and heard the water of life flow but could see nothing.

From the darkness the sound of familiar wings were heard and an angelic, motherly voice.

"Bormir Son of Ergnir the Shepard"

" White Wolf of the Jerall Mountains"

"You are worthy to enter the valley."

"The blind men and the beasts will help you when you are in need."

"We will be watching but have our own Obligations beyond you."

"We offer asylum, not guardianship."

"The king has given you asylum and will not bother you."

"He is kind to your people, do not distrust him."

"Welcome!"

And then his feet felt the touch of grass and a unfamiliar humidity. He took off the blindfold and saw the little Knight sitting on a stone table, now awake and not quite so sickly. Around them was a vineyard of unfamiliar plants with leaves the size of men that towered to the heights of the mountains surrounding them. The apparition of a fox stood watch and the Wolf and Knight were now safe.

The Scribe Prince

The darkness enveloped him. Tilmoov could not know for how long he had been gone from the mortal plane. He was in some realm of Oblivion shrouded in total darkness. A corner dug out by a vengeful and powerful daedra. The Novel Feyfolken goes into detail about the forging of the legendary quill and how it drove it's original owner to suicide though a mind of its own. Most assume the story to be a cautionary fiction about the dangers of enchanting and dealing with powerful Daedric Demi-Lords but the truth is far more tragic.

Feyfolken was forged in the second era by the Mage's Guild for a scribe of Auriel. The quill would turn up in the hands of many aspiring scribes throughout the rest of the era, trading hands and driving more and more unsuspecting characters to their end. Eventually the quill ended up in a magical auction back in Allinor when Tiber Septim began his assault on the city. When time itself was cut off and the Brass Tower walked the quill fell deep underground. It stewed in the hatred and obscurity, unable to perform it's goal to make others suffer. As literacy faded over the thousand year siege used it's anger and hatred to forge itself into a spear that could be used to hunt down and murder more and more people. It would be used by many over hundreds of years to slaughter elves and drive more users to their untimely end. Like the similar corrupted daedric blade Umbra, Feyfolken takes control of it's host and seeks only to slaughter, but it does not seek for souls and it's power is far more potent. Only those of extremely powerful will can resist it's urge and most only enough to stow away the quill for it's next unplanned use. That was what Tilmoov had done through the Great War, winning many battles and gaining the nickname: "The Scribe Prince".

When Tilmoov open his eyes he saw standing over him the bard boy, holding his spear and staring at him with that cold gaze.

"I knew I felt something about you. You killed the crab. Are you alright?" The boy said, seemingly disinterested in the daedric artifact that he held in his hand.

"Yes, I am quite fine. Might I have back my quill?" Tilmoov said as the pulsating daedric spear shifted back into an unsuspecting black quill in the boy's hand.

Later that night, the Imga King held yet another banquet for the defeat of the Dreugh.

"He drov hes eboney lanse entu the crus-tace-ian's arm-or an slew the bast!" Screamed the King, as if the whole ship had not been present for the ordeal itself.

Tilmoov sank quietly into his chair and drank his wine. Feyfolken took a lot out of him and he was thankful the voyage was only half way through so that he would have some time to rest.

"My hero! My hero! Might I interest you in some of my carnal arts?" Asked the Breton woman Tilmoov had taken to be Gru'ke's wife and queen.

"I'm sorry my lady but I took you to be the Queen of these oceans. Would the King not be unhappy should I bed his fair wife?" Tilmoov asked as politely and couritiously as he could given the odd circumstance.

"I am a ship's wife dear hero! I am for the pleasure of the whole crew, not just my King. He treats me well; better than any other captain on these know seas of Nirn. He is sweet and treats me truely as his Queen. But you see, Imga are not so monogamous as the other races of Tamriel!" She said and winked as her large breasts bounced with the ship's tide.

Ships wives were most certainly whores. They did not last long on any ship as they were often taken by the various sexually transmitted diseases tamriel's sailors have to spread around. Gru'ke was likely not privy to this knowledge and took a woman offering to be his ship wife to be offering to become his actual wife. It would explain her luxerious attire and older age (for a ship wife).

"I am quite alright. These bones are old and have no more patience for what you offer and my heart was taken long ago." Tilmoov said and took another swig of his wine.

"Whatever you say my hero! The offer is always out there should you wish!" The Breton girl said and walked away from Tilmoov's seat.

As the night closed and the party died down. Tilmoov could feel sleep itching ever closer. The boy Julius played his lute but for a simple melody and Tilmoov felt a dream of a bygone love drift by his fading consciousness.

"Goodnight my sweet prince" He could almost hear in her voice...

Lady Sibella the Broken Knight

The years were younger when Sibella took to the Arena of Alcaire. Her Colovian father had taken the family to the Stormcrown King's Isle where a great tourniment of Swordmaster's was held.

Sibella had grown up in County Sutch, where the Redguard's would often travel through her father's estate. One such was a Sword Singer from the distant West who acted as Sibella's dance instructor when she was young. He taught her of the Dance of Leki, Goddess Daughter of Ruptga, and her struggle against the Sinister Elves and their obcession Satakal. He said he had no name, for his Sword was enough to recognize him by. It was a pure Orcalcum that was called the Sun Splitter, Shard of the Western Tower.

In the tourniment she swept through pety Knight, after pety Knight. None had true training for their ospicious father's had paid fortunes for Greater Knights to give them unfit titles such as "The Strong" , "The Brave" and "The Undefeated". But the Knight who lie before her in the brackets was not one of these unworthy princelings.

Sir Janus the Grey Knight was a Imperial Legionaire who's prowess at battle gave him his title and Legendary Armor of Star-make. The duel was greatly anticipated by the crowds of Breton onlookers, many having never seen any warriors of worth fight one-on-one. But the result would shock the whole island.

The two traded blows at a pace only master's know. But when Sibella's stance was broken by an unforseen trip of the Grey Knight's leg, she braced herself for a swift end. Instead he spoke and placed his sword to her shoulder,

"You fought bravely but your stance is now broken, but I will not waste the life of one so skilled such as yourself. Rise now Sister Broken Knight, I give to you unearned victory so that we might fight as comrades! Should you accept I ask that you take the thing that is our Right as children of Shezzar!"

His voice was booming with the Aura of Sundered Kings. Now with victory thrust into her undeserving hands she felt obligated to carry out his quest. She responded,

"Stormking, bring to me the Sword of Umaril's Bane!"

The Broken Knight would travel Tamriel from then on along her eight companions, the Knights of the Nine.

-

Now she lie in a field of white flowers and the grasses of old Cyrod. Near a year had past since her and the Nord wolf had come to this strange place.

It was a lost Elven Kingdom of old, deep in the mountains where few men ever dared to venture. In old days these were the Kingdoms of Giants they called “The Wall” for it protected their Dragon Overlords from the Elven Kingdoms of the South. Some of the old fairy tales even claimed the Giants built The Wall themselves, but few believe such legends. Even stranger still was that this Valley, while inhabited by the clever giants of old, was littered with Aylied architexture far more prestine than even that which had stood the test of time in the Imperial City.

Lady Sibella the Broken Knight and the Wolf lived in a small cave in what the Blind Men called “The God’s Wood” in the south of the Valley near the Stone Table where they had first arrived. Each day the Nord would hunt for food and supplies to trade or eat while Sibella stayed isolated. Often she would come out to the fields of the White Flowers to see if she had yet healed enough to frolic as she had in her youth.

At first when the Nord man watched her it left her in a feeling of unease. Not of him, but of what he was watching for. That man was always vigilant and it was never a good omen should he be watching with such concentration. But this valley was a safe place and never would there be any harm to come to either of them. When she took the time to look at the old Nord’s face she saw a smile and knew all would be good.

Time passed peacefully in the valley. The purple skies circled above and the old magics would slowly heal the Lady Sibella. A new life was formed and the two mute companions would grow in a kind of closeness we only truly know an non-comunicable infants. He would sit with her by the fire and speak in his Old Tounge, none of which she could truly understand. Whatever these Legends of the Frost were it always made him happy to share them with her.

When frolicing in the field as best her weak limbs could the Nord came to watch as he always did. But when his smile faded and he raced towards her, a confusion of what could be wrong swept through her mind. She looked down and saw the trail of red beneath her and started to laugh. When the Nord looked at her in confusion she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a look of pure bliss. The Blood of Secunda had returned to her, Shezzar’s blood of life.

Dibella would guide the two from that day on, weaving her moth magics until the Knight’s stomach was bloated with the life of another in the holy number’s time [Nine]. And under the light of the Steed she would give birth to a daughter in her own image.

That Elf

Tilmoov Aedorin waved to the shipmates of the Dawntreader. King Gru'ke standing proud, his cape blowing in the wind, his Breton wife beside him giving a seductive glare, the Centaur slamming his feet upon the deck, the Minotaur letting out a bellowing scream, and all the other men waving back to their nautical hero.

They had made their way to a port in Northern Lake Rumare so to not offend any Cyrodiils who might remember Tilmoov's brief rule unfavorably. Unfortuantly, Tilmoov was still not liked in this country and despite his best efforts to be fair to the races of men during his rule, he would never be remembered well.

"Let us hope this time in Cyrodiil is short." Tilmoov said to the Raven upon the roadsign.

Tilmoov began on his solitary walk down the well paved Imperial stone when a high pitched child's voice came from behind him.

"You're going the wrong way. If you're heading to the steppe lands it's faster to walk the other direction. This is why I was sent to guide you?" Said the Young Nord Bard, Jullius.

"I was not told I'd be sent a guide. Who sent you boy? Who ARE you?" Said Tilmoov, befuddled.

"I was sent by the black cloaks. And I am Jullius, like King Gru'ke told you." Responded the boy, nervously.

If the Thalmor sent this boy they must surely want him dead, same as Tilmoov... he thought and twisted his beard.

"Jullius is an odd name for a Nord. Most of your kind follow up such a name with their father's or their clan." Tilmoov said as he continued to walk in the direction the boy had sent him.

"Well I don't know who my father was and their's not clans in the steppelands. So I am only Jullius." Jullius responded, indignantly.

"I was raised in the steppelands and raised on stories of the White Wolf. The black cloaks have sent me to take you there and so I will, they're scary anyways and I don't want to make them angry. Now it's my turn to ask questions: Why do you carry that demon spear?" Jullius said with a mocking pride.

"That was Feyfolken. I try not to use him but where I'm going I might have to. He's not like other demons, he has a bad tendency to latch on to people." Tilmoov said, glaring down at his satchel that held the daedric qwill.

The two walked on for a few miles longer in silence. The boy had seemed to be spooked by the implications Feyfolken's story gave and he was unsure if he would have been better off taking his chances with the Inquisitor who had sent him on this journy. After some time the boy took out his lute and began to strum.

"This song is about the White Wolf. I am sorry if it makes you angry."

"Sleep tight oh sweet children, the White Wolf is here."

"He came from on the mountain, but now is close and near"

"His mother wolf was dire. Her size was oh so great."

"But when the elves came up, she fell upon a stake."

"And he took her into himself, revenge was what he spoke."

"Now he prowls the mountain tops, avenging the mother's yoke."

"So sleep tight on sweet children, the White Wolf is here."

"He comes from on the mountains, you need not lie in fear."

"The White Wolf is coming. The White Wolf is here."

As the song ended they came across a quaint tavern and entered inside. The tavern was empty but for a half drunk owner, who quickly shot up as the door closed.

"Welcome to the Snowstone Rest. You'll be renting a room?" he said in a slur.

Tilmoov and Jullius took to their beds. As Tilmoov dozed off he wondered where his enemy was now, and what he would do when they came face to face.

The Father

Nine months had flown by like a breeze in the magical valley. The Blind Men were egar for the outsider's child to be born. Their sister wives had thrown a great ceremony for the Little Knight and picked her wreaths of Yellow and White flowers to fashion into a crown. It was the most excited and innocent time Bormir Son of Ergnir had know in all his manhood.

The child would be born any day now and the White Wolf was extactic at such a though. He had never bore a child of his own despite his favor by Mara. He knew the gods would favor this child for he prayed to the wolf each night for her safe delivery.

The king had sent word too from up-top his palace of marble. He would perform a great rite for Shor's glory!

The wise women on the villiage has said that a daughter would be born and that she would be a Cyrodiil with the pride and strength of a Nord.

The White Wolf did not know how to take such news. It was not uncommon for a child to be born of the mother's race but it sad poorly with him that he'd never get to see his daughter in the Halls of Valor and drink with her next to Shor's Throne. In truth he did not even know what the afterlife of a Southerner looked like.

Perhaps it was fields of grass as far as the eye could see like the Colovian Highlands...

Or a realm of fantastical marble that stretched on endlessly through a Garden of a Thousand Cults...

His wife was little help in answering such specific questions, not that Bormir White Wolf could ever ask them. Their shared muteness had brought them together through mutual understanding. A love story for the bards for sure, but not an easy relationship to get to know one another's specifities.

She would nod and shake her head at guestures. She would even giggle when he would sing in the Old Nord Tounge and little flames would dance through the air. So sad that she did not know the words he spoke, for the dragon's tounge was that of action and he sang of the firey love he bore her and the flames themselves were the manifestation for the warmth in his chest each time he saw her face.

She would craddle him as he lie there after, hearing the soft heartbeats her body gave off and the soft kicks of his child to be.

He cared no longer for revenge against the elves, nor loyalty to a southern emperor. Often he missed his dire wolf who had fallen so many years ago now, but she lived on in his heart and would one day meet him at the whale bone bridge.

He cared now only for the family he would build in this valley. And as he entered the wise woman's tent on the day of his child's birth, he walked in with the confidence that came for he was ready to be the father of their child.

His wife screamed and looked into his eyes through the pain with the joy that only motherhood could bring. He held her hand and craddled her as she continued to push.

Through all the screaming and blood a lesser man would have run. It was clear that the birth would not be easy on the fragile former knight but yet she would endure.

The child began to crown on her womanhood and her screams echoed even past the walls of the hut and all through the valley. Her gritted her teeth and looked deeply into the White Wolf's eyes as if to silently say goodbye. He held her close and sang silently into her ear as he had to the mother wolf so long ago. She squeezed his hand greater and gave one last push which was quickly followed by the cries of their newborn's voice.

The wise woman brought the child to them and for the first time he looked upon his daughter's face. She had cubby cheeks, common for Imperials of Sutch where his wife was likely from. And her skys are blue as the azure sky reflected the Nordic pride the girl was to carry.

He kissed his wife on the head and took the baby from her arms as she fell asleep.

They walked outside the hut and watched the dancing magical display the King had put on. Dancing flames in the sky relfected in his daughter's eyes as her first moments of life in this world. He gazed at her and called her by her name, not in the tounge of dragons... but the Tounge of men...

Bane of Order

Tilmoov continued down the road as it grew ever colder. The snow fell on the night sky and the flakes blended in with the stars above. The young Jullius played his lute as they walked and sand a myriad of songs from his mountainous homeland. Above circled a Raven who had followed the two for some time; his piercing blue eyes following their path northward.

"Oh Sir Janus, bravest of knights

How you follow the northern star.

Guiding you to treasures near and far.

Winning all the fearsome fights!" Sang the young bard.

This particular song was clearly important to the boy so Tilmoov tried to hold in his distaste for it, but he couldn't bear to hear how it would end and had to cut the boy off.

"I am sorry Jullius, I just can't listen to it anymore." He said in a calm but firm voice.

The boy stopped his singing and looked up to the old man.

"Why did you kill Janus and his Knights? I loved their stories so much and would have loved to hear more!"

"Janus was my enemy, I offered to let him go but he chose otherwise."

"Well that's stupid! You're a good guy and he's a good guy! You two should have been on the same side!"

"War is never that simple Jullius. If it was then they would seldom happen. Not every conflict can be Mancar Camoran against Martin Septim and the Thalmor."

"But wasn't the war like that? All the songs say Naarifin was a demon and it was the valor of Emperor Titus Mede who saved the Heartland from his wicked spells."

"Naarifin was no demon. He was a complex man who wanted to create a homeland for all the wandering elven peoples who had lost their homes in the wars of the past. He was a good friend of mine you know."

"You were friends with the bad guy? But I know you're good! I can tell these things about people! It just doesn't make any sense!"

"It is hard to understand when you're young and when you're old too. Even Elves who live so long to see so much history have a hard time grasping things so complex. In the end it is people who must record the histories for Xarxes and it is hard for people to stay detached from their own biases..."

The two neared a mountain pass covered in thick winds from a howling blizzard.

"Come now Jullius, we're not far from the temple..."

As the two marched uphill into the storm a faint echo could be heard...

"V...eng..eance..."

The wind grew stronger and the snow grew thicker as a faint image could be seen in the wall of cold.

"Veng...eance..."

Tilmoov watched as his young companion disappeared into the gale of snow around him.

"Vengeance..."

From the winds came a Knight of ice who was as a lightning bolt!

"Vengeance!"

Instinctively Tilmoov grabbed onto the devil's quill as it took shape as a spear in his hand!

"VENGEANCE!"

The knight was inhumanly fast, as if the spirit of this man had been corrupted by some force unknown!

"VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE!"

Rather than be consumed by the darkness that Feyfolken had always brought before, the scribe instead was consumed by a shroud of white!

"Come to me, Knight Of a Worthy Heart!"

In the whiteness Tilmoov witnessed a knight in shining white armor, encrusted with a red diamond.

"I can give you what you seek! Vengeance! It is right here grey knight! Come and grasp it!"

And out of Tilmoov's mouth came a voice and words that were not his own!

"Yes give me vengeance! Yes Saint Pelinal! Give me the vengeance I seek on the knight eared one!"

And as his words finished he saw his hand turn a crystalline blue as the figure of the white knight's red diamond faded and his form shifted into a towering, inhuman and orderly figure.

Tilmoov's vision faded once more and was restored as he felt a piercing pain on his left shoulder.

The knight's blade had slashed through him and cut quite deep but stopped as it reached the bone of his collar.

However, on the tip of Feyfolken was a pulsating crystalline heart! As the heartbeat slowed the figure of the knight faded, along with the storm.

Tilmoov lost consciousness again with his own blood loss...

-

When he awoke an elderly woman stood over him with hands glowing with healing aura.

"A... Crone..."

His vision faded again and he was outside and blindfolded.

"Where... am... I..."

He felt a pinch on his forehead as the raven snatched the blindfold him his eyes. Before Tilmoov was a valley of black stone with a white altar in the center. The Crone wife stood over the altar, dagger in hand.

"Is this... the... end?"

The Crone trust the dagger into her abdomen and her blood covered the altar.

A bright light flashed with the silhouette of the raven and everything became white

The Mother

Her dreams were of two burning torches with Nine golden spikes. They were his eyes: the father of man, the Red Patriarch. Every Cyrodiil knows the meaning of such dreams. They come first when one is first born, the earliest memory reaching back so distant that the mists of time cloud most from it's recall. That is the doing of Akatosh, for he does not wish for his children to be anxious of their return. But when Arkay relays the second dream, it allows the dreamer to subconsciously prepare themselves for what is to come.

The days had stretched far longer than the Knight had ever dreamed. A decade to raise her daughter in this misty valley somewhere in the East of Tamriel. All her girl knew was the mushrooms and white flowers that peppered the forests her and her husband had made home.

Her husband too had become quiet talkative since the birth of their daughter. His name was Bormir Son of Ergnir, a laughably common name for her White Wolf who saved her so long ago. He was one of the Nords she and her companions had given their lives to protect at the end of the war. And for a decade after he continued that war in solidarity while his and her countrymen laid down their swords to make bread with the knife eared ones. He said it was a spirit of Stendarr who came to him in the form of a Great Snow Whale, a beast hunted so close to extinction that most believe they are only myth. That whale had lead him to the prison where she was kept and then lead them further to the temple where her life was saved.

Now they raised their daughter, constantly arguing over the semantics of faith that would be taught to the girl. Nord religion was far more than the long shadows over the Jeralls that Sibella was taught by the Imperial Cult. Oh yes there were many similarities:

They had Mara, Goddess of Love.

"Mara is the Wolf Mother! She has guided me in the form of a great Dire Wolf! The people of the mountains call me her champion!"

And Dibella Goddess of Beauty.

"Dibella is the Moth Goddess of Beauty and sex! Those moth priests in your country were her cult once! The Scrolls are a thing of beauty, that's why the ancestor moths can read them!"

And Kynareth Goddess of Wind.

"Kyne is the Goddess of the Winds, the Hawk! She shaped us from the clays after the Great Battle at the Dawn of Time and she gave us the voice of dragons to combat against them! Your Kynareth is her yes, though you don't give her the respect she deserves!"

And Stendarr God of Mercy.

"Stuun is the God of the Mercy and the Whale. He was shield brother to Shor and tried to make peace with the elves before blood could be spilled."

And Jullianos God of Wisdom.

"Junal is the Owl. His knowledge is helpful, but always be cautious for his black feathers are never far from the gaze of a hare..."

The Nords even venerated Shezzar as the head of their pantheon, a notion the Broken Knight found quite respectable.

"He is Shor son of Shor! Greatest of all and father to us all! He is the enemy of the knife eared ones! Your Emperor Talos was one of his mortal forms!

The root of their religous arguments stemmed from Akatosh and Arkay.

"Orkey the Snake is a demon who brought life to it's end and should be avoided by the Nords." He had said

This would not do as death is not something that a young Heartlander should be taught to fear. And then there was Akatosh.

"Hold you tongue Imperial! The Dark Dragon Alduin is not to be spoke of so lightly! He was the tormenting king of my people until the greatest of nord heroes slew him in a climatic battle atop the Throat of the World!"

She argued that Akatosh was the one who had lead Saint Alessia in her rebellion against the elves.

"Alessia was lead by the Nord King Pelinal who was the champion of Shor! All this dragon non-sense was added by elves to cover their tracks!"

What made it worse still was that Lady Sibella was still a mute so all her arguments were based on gestures and in the end her husband would be the one to teach her daughter all the lessons of faith.

The breaking point came when the girl was six and came to her mother spouting non-sense in tears:

"Mother, father says that the Nords get to stand by Shezzar's side when they go to die, but that as Imperials we will never get to go there! Mother why was I born like this? Why could I not be born a Nord?"

The next Moth Priest who came to the valley she demanded to find tutorage for their daughter. She needed to learn from Cyrodiils directly and not though her husband's well meaning northern filter. The deal was struck and the girl was inducted as an initiate to the moth priests. On her ninth birthday she would be initiated and taken to the Monistary of Morihaus deep in the valley. There she would learn from each priest who passed though the lessons of their faith in order to become the ultimate in piety.

Her daughter would visit every so often, mostly to spend time with her bombastic father, but she would always make time to walk in the white fields with her mother. On the eve of her tenth birthday her daughter was uncharacteristically insistent on their walk happening as soon as she arrived.

"Tomorrow I will go through my Trial of the Lamp. Mother I am afraid."

Sibella nodded her head in understanding of her daughter's fear. The Trails of the Lamp were only ever spoken of in hushed whispers and none but the moth priests knew what exactly they initialed. It made sense that even one such as her daughter who had knowledge of these Trials would be nervous.

"None of my teachers were true masters and I do not know which of them passed their trials or not. How do I know which of the lessons I was taught were most important. They say that "fear is the mind killer" and will "guarantee my failure", but there is nothing left to teach me and tomorrow I must undergo my trial."

Moth Priests were known to study for only a year exactly before these trials. The magics of that year of study is meant to have a significance involving a tower or wheel and the royal number one, but the truth was that no matter how many times her daughter explained it, none of it made any sense. But she knew her daughter was afraid and so she held the girl in her arms and kissed her head to let her know that the feeling was understood.

"I love you mother, I can't wait to see you when I return from the trials!"

The mother squeezed her daughter tighter and kissed her once more before releasing her grip to look into her daughter's ice blue eyes.

"I have something for you mother. Brother Aiden wrote it before his passing!"

The little girl pulled out a tome with the title: The Song of The Grey Knight - The Ordinator of Necrom. She knew the story of her old companions well and it put a smile to the Broken Knight's face.

"He never finished all of your stories. I think when I am a Priestess in the temple I will finish them for him. I may not write the Elder Scrolls but I can write my own scrolls to tell the stories of you and your old friends!"

Their walk ended there and her daughter would return to the Monistary. Lady Sibella the Broken Knight was content with her role as the mother of a fine girl who would one day turn into a beautiful and devout woman of faith. That night her husband was still out hunting. He wanted to cook a great roast of venison for her daughter's departure from the valley and so was hunting the greatest Elk in the land! She slept there alone, but warmed by the embers of warmth from her daughter's love.

In her rest she did not notice the growing flame, as the fires engulfed her sleeping body... Taking her life...

The Guest of Celebrimbor

Tilmoov stared into the white abyss. Nothing lie before him but the whitest of whites stretching on forever. Whiter than snow, or cloud, or stars in the sky. This white was pure, nearly blinding in it's potency.

Was this the end, the Aetherius of Mastery that all Elves strive for?

Was it some daedric realm of Meridia, twisting her light into endless light?

From above a small black dot grew and fell down to reveal itself. The black crow who had followed Tilmoov now stood before him and in a twist of it's feathers it transformed.

Now the crow was an elf with golden skin and bright azure blue eyes. He was clad in ebony armor and gave off an aura of near divinity that Tilmoov had only ever felt when reading through the Archive of Ancestry. The elf then spoke:

"Welcome honored Scribe of Xarxes, to the end of your journey."

"I am Celebrimbor, Priest of Lorkhan and King of this place."

"Do not speak any words, the Jills know why you have come here to my valley."

"The wolf is here and here your judgement awaits."

"Beyond these White Halls is my Kingdom, we will speak again before you leave..."

As the elf walked away and began to fade a great feathered beast of rainbow feathers descended from the sky. Followed by another, and another... Until nine feathered dragon like creatures encircled Tilmoov. They spoke in unison in a calming motherly voice.

"He has journeyed far to this place."

"Yes, the dragonborn brought him here and thinks him trustworthy."

"But he comes to bring violence to this land."

"He has paid the toll to enter. If it is violence he brings then there must be a purpose at hand that the scrolls sees fit."

"He is no child of destiny. Nor is his adversary. The end to this story matters little to the scrolls."

"Then why do we bother to judge him? His existence is meaningless to the cosmos."

"Because the King finds his fued interesting. He is so attached to his fellow mortals and their meaninglessness."

"But it is those mortals that give things meaning. That is what makes them unique."

"Then let us make this interesting since Celebrimbor is so set on him coming. Let him see what he seeks to destroy."

Tilmoov was then set through a rainbow of liquid memory:

He saw the White Wolf slaying his companions in the snows of the Jerral Mountains...

He saw the Knight he had spared at the Temple of the Moth Priests living a tortured existence created by his cruel subserviants ...

He saw the White Wolf rescue her and their escape to the Priest Aiden...

He saw Aiden's ritualistic suicide, use to open the gate and allow the couple into the valley...

He saw the Knight heal and learn to live her life after tragedy...

He saw the conception of a child and the Wolf's anxiety over his fatherhood...

He saw the child grow the couple learn to work together as parents to do what was best for their daughter...

He saw the mother hold her child closely and give her the confidence to go through with her trials...

He saw the child look back at him. Her blue eyes fading to white...

When the vision was over, Tilmoov returned to the whiteness as it began to fade. In his hand was a White Flower, stained with blood.

Now he stood on a cracked stone table. He looked at the flower and took out the Archive of Ancestry, placing it inside. The pages lit up with a golden glow and an apparition came forth and walked into the woods...

The Wolf

The elk was that of such impressive might that it was no wonder why Bormir was so proud. It's fur was pale and spotted with glowing markings that were common in the valley.

Before the beast could have registered what was happening, the White Wolf had came like a wind rushing in from the brush of the trees. He was bare handed and slew the beast with the great strength of his grip around the creature's neck.

Now the elk lie across his back as he made his way back to his quaint home.

It was the quaint hours before the morning of the day where his daughter would complete her training as a Moth Priest. The thick excitement was enough to make Bormir Son of Ergnir feel as a young man when he first takes bed with another!

"This feast shall bring me near as much pride as a hunter as I am a father!"

The White Wolf had become completely content in his life for the last decade.

He had a beautiful wife who's honor was enough to match his own.

He had a daughter who's accomplishments would surely rival his own one day.

He had a home that he had built with his own hands, far away from the troubles that befell Tamriel.

He had happiness, and it was good!

"Shor has been good to me in these years. Though I am old now I know that my life is accomplished!"

As he made his way back, a black owl passed overhead. It landed in a branch and took his attention from the path ahead to the smoke raising in the distance near his home. Dropping the corpse he made his way through the trees to the inferno in the distance.

Before the Wolf was a red tower of flame, engulfing the home where he knew his wife slept. He watched as everything he loved turned to ash in the night of his celebration.

"no... No... NO!" Bormir shouted his last words as man!

By the fire was a tall and slender elf with a pointed cap. The arsonist turned to look and his eyes widened and hands lit up in heretical light.

"Please this doesn't need to happen... I didn't want it to happen like this... Your lives are too short to throw away on such folly... I beg you, I wish not to taint this holy ground..." The Elf spoke with an air of remorse.

The Wolf shouted and the trees of the forest did turn to dust in a circular pattern of his vocal vibration!

Then sudden in that moment that culprit dodged himself from the attack!

Lightning and fire came crashing two and fro through the trees!

Bormir stood strong as he shifted shape into his beast of Mara!

The chain of manhood had snapped from his spirit and he was beast!

He lunged and went for the elf's neck veins to bite them out in vengeance!

But all the magic and might of this knife earned mer was equal to match the wolf's own study of the Thu'um!

All of Sovngarde sat in silence as they watched the battle take place!

Tsun's own glory flowed through this man's spirit and gave it the drive to keep going!

Backwards and forwards swayed their song!

Reeling foundering, as ever more strong!

The chanting swelled, Bormir fought!

And all the honor and might he brought!

Of Dragon's tounge into his words!

Thundering and booming the flames were heard!

Singing afar in Sovngarde,

The creaking of Shor's throne beyond!

But when his spear did come upon,

the wolf's strength no longer was greater than the elf!

Clashing did the spear come as the movements of the Wolf move back and forth!

He stood against the mer's power, his strength like a Tower!

The Scribe

Between the mountains the trees the battle raged forth. Tilmoov did use his magic to dodge and attack his formidable foe. The two were at the peak of mortal ability, the kind of accomplished masters of their craft in warfare that comes not from the blessings of a divine's destiny, but the hard work and determination that common day men are all capable of but seldom attain.

This Wolf was no dragonborn but his thunderous voice could rival Talos Stormcrown. His study of the voice and skill of it's use was his earned right and created a force of legendary strength all it's own.

This Scribe was no thrice blessed Champion of Trinimac but his skills with spell and spear could rival the Snow Prince. His study of magics and skill of it's use was his earned right and created a force of legendary strength all it's own.

But the truth was that while Tilmoov was surely powerful, his heart was not in this fight. He had laid witness to the last decade of this man's life. His redemption of humanity. His divine guided romance. His daughter's birth. It was the scribe in Tilmoov that was his greatest enemy in this fight. For he knows greater than anyone the value of a great story.

In the story Tilmoov would have wrote the Wolf and the Knight would have lived the rest of their lives, happy and content in the Valley of Jills. Their daughter would grow up to be the Head Maester of the Moth Priests and lead her people through a spiritual awakening through the Elder Scrolls! Bards would sing of their romance in every tavern and Bormir would go down as a Saint in all the Chapels of Mara on Tamriel! It would be a happy story, with a happy ending, but this was reality and reality was cruel.

They do not get their happy ending. For this is not the story of the Wolf and the Knight, but the Wolf and the Scribe. Tilmoov was as much part of this story as them and though no party was cruel hearted in nature they were opposed. They would not even be blessed with a silent death together in flames. And Tilmoov would not be blessed with deniability.

When Feyfolkein was used this time, Tilmoov retained his consciousness. While the strength still flowed through him and gave him the in-elven ability to race around the battlefield, he could not allow the demon to take hold. Fey was like a distant voice in the back of Tilmoov's head.

"It was that Priest in black, it must have been!" The demon said

"Listen to me Tilmoov, I will guide you in putting down this dog!"

"Left... Right... Right... No Left... Damnit, he's good!" The demon barked directions in Tilmoov's ear!

"ENOUGH!" Tilmoov shouted!

The spear returned to his side once more as a black quill. Tilmoov stood to face his opponent through the smoke and flames.

"I am sorry! Sorry I have come to this place! Sorry I have done so much to worsen your life! They showed it to me! Everything you've gone through!"

Tilmoov out stretched his arms towards the Wolf.

"I have taken your friend's lives and you have taken mine! But I am the aggressor and so shall ask you to come and put and end to this!"

The Wolf looked straight and focused into Tilmoov's eyes in a purest hatred reserved only for those who have committed crimes so horrific they are deemed utterly less than any form of pity.

"Come at me!" Tilmoov shouted, and the Wolf came to pounce!

And as the White Wolf came upon Tilmoov and took his neck into his grip to crush out the life of the Elf who had so ruined his life, Feyfolken took shape once more and pierced through the man's chest. Tilmoov held him there and cradled him in his arms.

"I love you, you know. You showed me what such a short lifetime can accomplish." Tilmoov said as the tears came to his eyes.

"Do not fear, I came only for you and will never let harm come to your daughter. Not from me or any other of my kind. She is safe."

Tilmoov waited until the life left the man's eyes and carried his body to the fire so that he may burn alongside his wife.

"Jullius would have hated this song, I can't even stomach such tragedy."

"Go now wolf, go to Sovngarde. Shor is waiting..."

The End

Epilogue I: Sovngarde

[The first page of the book is marked with a large red inscription]
The following has been eldercare heresy by the Council of the Eight. Possession of such material is punishable by death if not reported. This work is fiction.

Through the mists he wandered. Yellow flowers at his side and a sky of swirling purple in infinite creative beauty. The realm where Nords go to die is one of honor and mystic, carved in purple through the valley at the end of life.

Bormir Son of Ergnir walked solemnly through to the Whale Bone bridge. Beyond was the Hall of Shor where the greatest of Nord spirits drank together in solidarity and shared the stories of their battles and accomplishments.

At the edge of the Bridge was Tsun, God of Trials.

"Champion of Mara, I have awaited your arrival! For I have watched your battle against the scribe myself and seen first hand your final trial of life. Many have entered the Hall of Shor famous for their final deeds in life but know that at least in death your Song is Sang by all the bards within!"

Bormir looked down, unshaken by his fame in post mortem.

"You look sad Bormir, a sadness I so rarely see even here consoling the spirits of the dead. What is it that haunts you even at the end? Do you die with regret for not having won your battle? You must tell me!"

Bormir looked into the divines eyes.

"My wife who died at the hands of the scribe. She was a Cyrodiil and will not be in the halls when I enter. I cannot find any comfort in a heaven without her by my side. My daughter too is her race and will never drink by my side till eternity. Tell me Shield-Thane how I could ever be happy without them?"

Tsun was taken aback. It was rare for a Nord to take a non-Nord wife and even those few who did would find afterlife is another deity more often than not. Tsun's gaze could never see into the lives of Cyrodiils so he thought very rarely of them.

"It has been so long since I met one with a plight such as yours. The diaspora between the races of man has grown much since I last walked Tamriel as mortal. The men of the South do not know me any longer and I cannot see where your wife has gone..."

Tsun paused and stroked his beard as he thought.

"Go to the Throne of Shor and plead your case. Your wife knew his divinity and can still hear you both though his Throne appears empty!"

And so Bormir Son of Ergnir walked across the bridge and pleaded his case to the empty throne within.

Epilogue II: Realm of the Blind God

[The first page of the book is marked with a large red inscription]
The following has been eldercare heresy by the Council of the Eight. Possession of such material is punishable by death if not reported. This work is fiction.

The Broken Knight walked an endless spiral, surrounded by flame.

The spirits through the inferno spoke to her.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE TO BETRAYED US! HE WOULD BE HERE IF NOT FOR YOU!"

The Knight of the Nine walked onward. Whatever became of Janus's Spirit was not her fault.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE TO SURRENDER!"

It walked onward. The battle was lost and she had already atoned for surrender a thousand times in prison.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE, YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED WITH HONOR!"

The Little Knight walked onward. If she had died on the hill she never would have lived all the great memories with her family.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE TO LIVE!"

The Broken Knight walked onward. Proud of the life she had lived after battle.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE TO DIE PEACEFULLY!"

The Mother walked onward. She would never mourn a peaceful death.

"IT WAS NOT YOUR PLACE TO LEAVE THEM TO BURY US!"

Lady Sybella walked onward. She did not choose to leave the Moth Priests to bury her companions.

"It is not my place to judge you."

She paused. Not expecting to hear a voice not filled with hatred. Then kept moving.

"It would be my honor give my life again for you to live a little longer."

Sybella walked onward, she was not perfect but could not allow herself to be consumed. Heaven awaited her and she would be there for her daughter and husband once more, with all her strength and all her love.

In the Realm of the Blind God one must never let the flames hatred consume ones self. Those who walk forward and forgive the spirits of wrath will reach Shezzar's summit and have their heaven crafted. Those that fall to regret join the inferno as another demon of fire to drag down the next wandering soul.

And so came the summit, and atop, Shezzar! His face was black stone and pure within his eyes were torches that burned through nine spokes.

"Oh great an mighty Shezzar, I have braved the Trials of the Inferno and come to ask my parting gift of mortality!"

Shezzar's floating head angeled itself towards the Shade of Sybella and grinned.

"I ask for an eternal autumn where the crops never wither but the harvests are great!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask for the shores of endless seas to grace this small isle of creation so that I might smell the Sea Breeze once more and remember Sutch!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask for a modest house no greater than that we had in the vally!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask for great books and plays to be plentiful in my homestead so that I might find comfort in their fantasies and histories!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask that my companions who's spirits had come to haunt me be given reprive and a place in my heaven!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask that my mother and father be given welcome in my heaven, it has been so long since I last saw them!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask that the priest who gave his life to me be welcome too so that his spirit no longer is consumed by the flame!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask to stay there beside my daughter when her time does come so that I may hear all of the great accomplishments she saw in her life after mine had ended!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

"I ask... that my husband leave his Sovngarde and come to my side in heaven for it cannot be my heaven without his love!"

"Done" boomed Shezzar!

The black stone face opened and within shone the light of her heaven. It was just as she had pictured it and with all she had asked, even her husband who looked back at her with love as if all his prayers had been answered as well...

Edit
Pub: 09 Sep 2021 06:36 UTC
Edit: 12 Oct 2022 05:28 UTC
Views: 374