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Journal of the King's Seneschal

Author: 
Anonymous

King Ranser wants a second fort built as a twin to the one on the tor overlooking Shornhelm. It is his feeling that two forts can support and aid each other, greatly increasing our hold over the region. After a quick examination of our options, I've decided that we can build this new fort on the foundation of the ancient ruins in the Lorkrata Hills.

Construction began today on the new fort. Nestled in the foothills below the mountains, the engineers are building the walls and towers to align with the area's natural stone. We are also expanding into the ancient network of tunnels and chambers beneath the hills, using the original construction as a basis. The work is slow, however, as we persevere not to collapse the entire mountainside atop us.

As work on the Hall of Heroes started, we uncovered a curious runestone. Nothing like it has turned up in any of the texts I've consulted, and it doesn't seem to have any innate powers that I can see. I will keep it with me, where it will remain safe and so that I can study it at my leisure. Perhaps it will reveal its purpose to me at the proper time.

As I walked with the engineer to examine the newly opened corridors, the runestone began to glow. The intensity of the glow seemed to respond to specific locations within the corridors. I need to investigate this phenomena more closely, but later. When the halls are empty and I can perform my studies away from prying eyes.

I discovered the source of the runestone's strange behavior—I think. An ancient relic. half-buried in the ancient soil, seems to be of Ayleid origin. When the runestone and the relic are in close proximty, the air itself seems to hum with intense energy. The discovery excites me and frightens me at the same time. I have sent for King Ranser. I'll let him decide what we should do with these ancient items.

King Ranser has decided that the best course of action is to hide the relic and the runestone. We've assembled a small trusted team of workers to build a secret room next to the Hall of Heros. We will hide the relic there. I have not yet decided on a place to hide the runestone, however.

Beware the Glenumbra Banks

Author: 
Garric the Pilot

What's that? You want to know about the Glenumbra Banks? I thought everyone knew about those shifting sand bars off the northwest coast of High Rock, the narrow islets that make seafaring there so dangerous close to shore. I myself have made a living for almost thirty years as a Daggerfall pilot, guiding merchant ships through the Banks in and out of the city's North Docks. And I'm well paid for the job, but the merchants don't complain — they see the rotting spars and twisted planks of the shipwrecks we pass as we wend our way through the channels.

Those channels are treacherous and ever-changing. When we go out in early Sun's Dawn to meet the first ship coming in to port after the winter storms, there are always numerous visible changes to the waterways—as well as invisible changes to their depths, which we must take care to map out by frequent use of the plumb-line.

But the fact is we must be ever on the lookout for changes in the Banks even in Mid Year and Sun's Height. Now, how is it that the sands shift the way they do, sometimes changing overnight even when there has been no storm? The Herne Current runs far offshore, and in summer the breeze the mariners call the Yokudan Zephyr blows steadily but gently from the west.

And yet, the sands shift, and the Banks change.

Well, stranger, I'll tell you the secret, so long as you're buying the drinks tonight in the Rosy Lion. It's Ithguleoir. Yes, you heard me right—the immortal leviathan of the Eltheric Ocean is no mere fable. Ithguleoir lives, and haunts the far depths of the sea … and sometimes the near shallows of the shore. He fills old channels in the Banks and dredges new ones. And when a ship runs aground on the sands, he rises from the waters and dines on its sailors, one by one.

I suppose you're entitled to look skeptical about that—so long as you buy another round, that is. But listen, I'm not just spinning an old salt's yarn. I've seen the thing. On nights when the moons are full and the sea is calm, you can sometimes glimpse the leviathan's oily back heaving above the surface as the old monstrosity digs his devious traps. Occasionally there's a geyser of sea-mist, like when a whale blows, but then the breeze wafts ashore a demonic stench that smells like it's blown from Oblivion.

So there: now you know. But let's just keep this between you, me, and the tavernkeeper's cat, shall we? The south harbor's too shallow for the big merchantmen, and Daggerfall depends on her sea-trade continuing to find its way in to the North Docks. As do I. And sailors are such a superstitious lot—no point in scaring them away. Eh?

Scholar Garrique's Journal

Author: 
Garrique

These old burial mounds should provide some inspiration for my writing. Ancient heroes of Glenumbra are entombed here. I'm sure they have some interesting exploits I can expand upon. Something that will get me the recognition I deserve. And finally get me a cushy position with a noble family.

A duke or duchess as a sponsor would be just the thing I need to advance my writing career. Regular meals, a nice roof over my head, conversation with people who know how to read.

* * *

There's so little information on the people buried here. Donel Deleyn? A King of Glenumbra? Never heard of the fellow. But I can make him interesting. Heroic. Maybe give him a band of loyal warriors, fending off whoever would be attacking them. (Note to Self: Look up significant battles of the First Era that took place in Glenumbra for reference.)

* * *

I think I can spin an entire series around this! Each hero gets their own tale. I haven't seen anything in old history texts about this Deleyn fellow. Or someone called the "Golden Prince" or the "Ivory Lord," for that matter. Their stories are lost to time.

* * *

Lots of heroic battles, maybe a little romance. I did spot a tomb for "The Emerald Princess." Of course, she must be beautiful, with eyes the color of purest emeralds. And a brave warrior. She and the King can be star-crossed lovers. I just need to flesh this out a bit. I don't want to write some sort of silly romance, after all. This has to be real history. Just enhanced a little. This is bound to get me published!

Best of all, it will put that hack Felari-ko off his drink. "Scholar of Intriguing Mysteries." Bah. Pretentious cat scribbles, I say. All he does is make up nonsense about his adventures and shill for his next so-called mystery. I can do so much better than that!

 

Triumphs of a Monarch

Author: 
King Emeric

Chapter 3: At the Gates of Daggerfall!

For a dozen years after the Battle of Granden Tor, the kingdoms of High Rock were at peace, and the merchant ships of Wayrest, Daggerfall, and Sentinel traded near and far to all the ports of Tamriel. In my father's hall of business in Wayrest I learned of the tracking of shipments, the balancing of accounts, and the fluctuation of currencies, but Pierric of Cumberland knew the nature of the world, and he was not content to have his son learn only of the ways of peace and trade. Every morning I sparred with the Cumberland Master of Arms, and every afternoon the weather permitted I rode a warhorse, exercising with the Menevia Heavy Dragoons. It wasn't just practice: for two months every summer, I traveled as lieutenant of the mounted escort of the Evermore Caravan, and a half-dozen times we fought off hill bandits, Goblin raiders, and Reachman war bands.

I was fortunate to have spent so much time with a hilt in my hand, for in 2E 541, when I was but twenty, Durcorach the Black Drake spread his wings in the Reach and mustered his feral tribesmen to war. Erupting from their mountain lairs like ants from a kicked anthill, the Reachmen howled down into Bangkorai, burning and looting. After only three days' siege, Evermore fell to this horde. The land was pillaged and its people massacred. Hallin's Stand held out longer, but eventually it was also overrun by the heathen swarm. Within days, they were across the Bjoulsae and bearing down upon Wayrest.

Then all were grateful that King Gardner had built new walls and battlements around Wayrest, for the town had grown so that it had burst the bounds of the old walls. Throngs of people swarmed in from the countryside, and soon it seemed that all Menevia, Gavaudon, and Alcaire were within the city walls. But when the Reachman storm burst upon Wayrest, the crowded conditions seemed a small price to pay for protection from the fury of those Daedra-loving heathens.

Thus began the epic Siege of Wayrest, when for fifty-seven days and nights the Bretons of Stormhaven manned the walls and repulsed the savage assaults of our terrible opponents. The Reachmen, lacking siege engines, were unable to breach our new walls and take the city by storm, and lacking ships they were unable to blockade our harbor and reduce the city by starvation. Stalemate: was Durcorach's invasion of High Rock at an end?

Indeed, no: your Reachman warrior, though fearless and fierce, is not as a rule very patient. The Black Drake left enough troops in the revetments around our walls to keep us bottled up inside and simply marched off west into Glenumbra. Taken by surprise, the newly-independent city-state of Camlorn fell and was sacked. And then Durcorach turned his eyes south, toward Daggerfall.

Fortunately, King Gardner heeded my advice to use our merchant ships as transports for the Heavy Dragoons. That was how I found myself at the head of the lances of Wayrest's finest as we charged into the rear of the Reachmen massed before Daggerfall's city gates. All Bretons know how the Black Drake's warriors were caught completely by surprise, how I smote Durcorach and tore down his Unholy Banner. They know of the sortie of the Knights of Daggerfall in which King Bergamot finished the work we'd begun, scattering the broken army of heathens like autumn leaves before a gale.

Only one fortnight after that I watched, head bowed, as the kings of Daggerfall, Camlorn, Shornhelm, Evermore, and Wayrest signed the first Daggerfall Covenant.

Chapter 6: Ranser's War—Wayrest Besieged

Ever since my accession to the throne of Wayrest in that momentous year of 2E 563, the question of who should become my queen consort was ever on my—and my advisors'—minds. King Ranser of Shornhelm had a goodly daughter, Princess Rayelle, and her hand was offered to me by my brother of Shornhelm both early and often. Indeed, my mind was almost made up to accept the Princess of Shornhelm when, on a visit to Sentinel, my eyes first beheld the Princess Maraya, daughter of King Fahara'jad. From that moment, I swore that Wayrest would have no queen but Maraya. Of course, there was another unexpected benefit: as her dowry, she brought a trade agreement between our two states that resulted in great prosperity for all.

King Ranser, alas, was wroth that I had not accepted the hand of his daughter, and he withdrew his ambassador from the court of Wayrest. Although Ranser was invited to my wedding to Maraya in the spring of 566, like the other kings of the Covenant, he stayed, seething, in Shornhelm.

I should perhaps have paid more attention to Ranser's choler, but I was so taken with my new bride and trade issues around the Iliac Bay that mountainous Shornhelm seemed distant and irrelevant. That mistake almost cost me my throne.

For over a year, Ranser had been quietly mustering his troops and emptying his treasury to hire mercenaries. In Last Seed of 2E 566, he led his army out of Shornhelm in a lightning strike to the south. Ranser had marched through Alcaire and Menevia almost before we were aware of his approach. The Shornhelm advance guard reached the gates of Wayrest while the local militias we had quickly mustered were still filing through them. This was a moment when history trembled upon a cusp: if the attacking Oldgate Lancers scattered our militia and took the gate, Wayrest could fall to her attackers within the hour.

Fortunately, I was personally present at the gate, along with my Cumberland Guard. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, I had my bannerman sound the charge. I led the gate guards and my household troops out against the Oldgate Lancers. My men wore full armor, and I, though unarmored, bore at my side the mighty Orichalc Scalpel, an enchanted broadsword of many virtues. The Scalpel, drawn for the first time in anger, flashed and hummed like a blade in a sawmill as we hurled ourselves upon the Lancers. Our enemies, who suddenly found themselves opposed by armored veterans rather than panicky irregulars, were further confounded by the sudden onset of a thunderstorm. Lashed by hail, their horses terrified by lightning, faced with the Orichalc Scalpel scything through their necks and limbs, the vaunted Oldgate Lancers hesitated, then broke and ran, pell-mell, from the gate.

By the time Ranser's main forces arrived on the scene, our troops were all within the walls. The gates were shut up tight, but the King of Shornhelm was undeterred. The city of Wayrest found itself once more under siege, and Ranser, with more craft and foresight than the Reachman Durcorach, had come with siege engines in his train.

 

Chapter 10: The Summons of Destiny

And that, dear reader, is my story. You have read now of my carefree youth in Cumberland House, how my father Lord Pierric saw to my training in the crafts of trade, of war, and of state, of my first great victory over Durcorach at the gates of Daggerfall, and of the vast Orichalcum lode our family struck in the Cumberland Mine. You have heard of the tragic coming of the Knahaten Flu, how it took both my father and the entire royal family of Wayrest, leaving our kingdom leaderless in a time of chaos. You now know with what reluctance I was persuaded to assume the throne of Wayrest. You know of the Halo of Gold that outlined the Sun on the day of my coronation. That omen of approval by the Divines dispelled all my doubts and converted even my most envious rivals into heartfelt allies.

You have now learned the true history of Ranser's War, and how it led to the Second, or Greater, Daggerfall Covenant, embracing the Redguards of Hammerfell as well as the Orcs of Orsinium, who came to our aid in our hour of direst need. The free peoples of northwest Tamriel vowed to stand together against all threats, be they from within or without.

We were soon tested: in 2E 578 the Emperor Varen, with whom I had concluded a treaty, disappeared from the Imperial City, and Cyrodiil once again fell under the pall of the Daedric Cabal. In Varen's unexplained absence the "Empress" Clivia—a descendant of the savage Reachmen—assumed the Ruby Throne. Since then, the heart of the Empire has fallen into madness, murder, and decay. It is fortunate for our peoples—indeed, for all the peoples of Tamriel—that the true flame of the Empire of Man still burns in the Daggerfall Covenant. These are terrible times, but our destiny lies before us as straight and true as the Reman roads: we must march on Cyrodiil, overthrow the false empress and all her brood, and restore the Empire of Tamriel. Then once more peace and justice will rule the provinces, rather than blood and fire.

Witch Cults of Northern High Rock

Author: 
Wafimeles Masteret (Lorekeeper)

One of the dozen or so known Wyrd covens scattered across Tamriel, the Beldama Wyrd is of especial interest to Imperial researchers. The Beldama are found within the thick forests of central Glenumbra, which are problematic to the explorer due to the broken terrain and heavy vegetation. Precious few have encountered the Beldama Wyresses (another name for a group of ward-sisters, or witches), but those who have speak of dark encampments under the canopy of ancient oak trees and cavorting rituals to honor Jephre, an aspect of Y'ffre, the most venerated god of the Bosmeri deities.

The all-female Beldama Wyrd trace their origin to the time Y'ffre transformed himself into the first Ehlnofey (or "Earth Bones") and established the laws of nature. While this is obviously nere myth, the Beldama Wyrd all fiercely believe they are descendants of the Ehlnofey. It is uncertain whether the Wyresses should be considered beneficial or malefic, but all agree they are uncanny and forceful: They see themselves as wardens of the forests with an unwavering reverence for nature. Most Bretons consider them dangerous witches, to be placated rather than revered. It is no wonder, then, that the Beldama Wyrd dwells in the least populated region of High Rock.

The Beldama tend to congregate around a mysterious and reputedly gigantic Wyrd Tree, which glows with an unnatural light and looks unlike any other tree in the northern forests of Tamriel. Should the Empire consider an invasion, threats of deforestation might be a way to cow the local population, although the Beldama Wyrd may have unknown magic capable of forestalling incursions.

A Plea for Vengeance

Author: 
Anonymous

I write this to record the fall of Camlorn and ask for our city to be avenged.

I need to write this quickly, as I can hear the foul creatures howling outside my door. I don't know how long the barricade will hold and I want to finish this and hide it before they find me.

So, how did this all begin? As with most falls, we were betrayed. It was Jonathan Telwin, my one-time friend and companion, who had sworn himself to the service of Angof and the undead monster called Faolchu.

Jonathan confided in me. He asked me to join his cause. I dismissed him, thinking this was just another of his many pranks. I was wrong.

Faolchu made Jonathan a shifter, and the first wolf to breach our gates strolled in as though he belonged here. And we let him in, because he did. Once inside, Jonathan spread Faolchu's curse (he called it a gift) throughout the city. The cursed would meet at night, while the city slept, and we mistook the howls in the dark for wild dogs.

As the numbers of the cursed grew, they opened the gates and let Faolchu and the rest of his mad pack into the city. That was a few hours ago, just after night fell. They ripped apart anyone who tried to oppose them. The blood—there was so much blood! Those they didn't kill they … changed. I watched as my friends and neighbors transformed into wolves. Their screams were a mix of agony and ecstasy, and some dark part of me longed to join them. But I put such thoughts aside and got my family to safety.

We never would have made it if not for the Camlorn Guard. Captain Darien and a small number of guards attacked the werewolves and defended us as we made our escape. I must say, Captain Darien was magnificent. He seemed immune to each attack, dodging and blocking and laughing as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He cleared a path to a house and shouted for a group of civilians to get inside and barricade the doors and windows. We were one of those groups.

I don't know what happened to the Captain and his guards, but I thank them for helping us. I can smell fires now. I think the wolves intend to burn us out.

Let me end this letter by saying that Jonathan Telwin is a coward. He took the easy way out and convinced a certain number of people to join him. I can't forgive the massacre that he took part in. If you're reading this, please, avenge Camlorn. Put an end to Faolchu and his foul creatures. Don't let this injustice go unanswered.

The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born

Author: 
Anonymous

The soldier waited with bated breath. His hand gripped the blade haft tightly, turning his knuckles ashen white. His sword arm shook nervously as he stood behind the others, waiting for his chance to strike. Any moment now, the Alessian patrol would pass by. He had to wonder, though, what exactly had he gotten himself into?

His name was Erric Deleyn, and even he didn't know where his part in all of this began. An innkeeper's son barely of age, his family tree was literally dripping with proud horse breeders, farm hands, and—like his father—cooks. He had as much warrior's blood flowing through his body as he did muscles in his arms and back. Which is to say, almost none. Yet here he stood, armor hanging loosely on his thin frame, holding a sword he barely knew how to use.

Erric wished he could say that he had joined the militia to gain revenge or honor. That his father and mother had been slain in an Alessian attack. Or that the love of his life was taken to the slave camps of the evil Alessians. By the Eight, he would have settled for any excuse in which the Alessians wronged his family.

But, no. Erric's family was safe and sound. His pleasantly plump parents happily ran an inn in one of the small towns that dotted High Rock. And the love of his life? Well, there was none. He had never felt the embrace of a damsel or tasted the kiss of serving wench. So why did he want to fight the Alessians? Well, he had heard bad things about them, but as far as he was concerned it was all rumors and innuendo. He had lived a sheltered life.

No, the reason Erric stood next to Kish'na the fierce Khajiiti maiden and Calinden the handsome Ayleid knight wasn't quite so lofty. It was more mere chance and accident that had led him to this time and place. He had been sneaking off into the woods at night to practice the same fighting techniques he'd seen the city guard practice. He wanted to learn how to fight, but he didn't want anyone to see him doing it. There was too much of a chance someone would make fun of him. After all, he was just a cook's son. So every night Erric would grab his rusty sword and mismatched armor and head into the woods to train.

But tonight would be different. There would be no more practice.

As Erric ran through back alleys to reach the hole in the wall he knew so well, he turned a corner and almost ran right into them. His breath caught in his throat when he saw them. A handful of men and women from different cultures all huddled together, whispering. They wore impressive uniforms and carried even more impressive weapons.

Cautiously he approached them, but Erric had little skill or grace. He tripped over his own feet and landed in a puddle with a loud splash. The warriors turned as one, weapons drawn and eyes hard. But they saw his armor and weapon and assumed he was there to meet them. Being too afraid to say otherwise, Erric was welcomed into their group.

It was simply a case of mistaken identity. Later, he might have called it fate.
But tonight? Tonight was the night Erric Deleyn was going to die. And that event would change the world around him forever.

The sound of clanking armor and approaching footsteps echoed through the dark streets. It was obvious that the marchers didn't care if they were heard. In fact, it sounded like they were trying to make more noise than was necessary.

Erric Deleyn closed his eyes and listened. He tried to count how many armor-clad boots were pounding toward them. Not that the numbers mattered. If there were two Alessians or ten, Erric knew it would how this was going to end. "Someone's going to stick a blade right through my head," he thought.

Erric felt a hand touch his shoulder and he opened his eyes. Calinden, the mercenary Ayleid knight with the long-flowing golden hair squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Stick close to me," Calinden said.

A sense of calm came over Erric as he nodded in response. It was as if the Ayleid knight knew exactly what Erric was thinking. Erric would have taken more comfort in that thought if the sounds of the footsteps weren't getting closer and louder.

Kish'na, a Khajiiti warrior on Erric's other side, pulled two blades from their sheaths and held one up. She wanted them to hold for her signal. The other mercenaries in the alley shifted back and forth, excitement and fear shining in their eyes as they waited for the order to attack.
More steps. Louder. Louder. And then silence.

Erric looked around in surprise. Why had the unseen marchers stopped? The rest of the mercenary band seemed as confused as he was. Except for Kish'na and Calinden. Kish'na's raised blade did not move.

Erric would later learn that what happened next is what usually happens when you hire people willing to stab other people with swords and daggers. The mercenaries grow impatient and become eager to spill blood so they can collect their gold. Usually, this break in discipline brings such hired soldiers to their end that much quicker. And, unfortunately, it was Erric's group that broke first.

"Kill those bastards!"

The yell rang out from someone behind and to the left of where Erric was standing. Suddenly they were rushing forward, more a tangled mass than a fighting formation. Erric was pushed to the side as weapon waving mercenaries shoved past him.

"What are those idiots doing?" Kish'na demanded as the mercenaries left the cover of the alley. She shook her head in frustration but run out after them, her twin blades drawn and ready.

Calinden turned to Erric. "Remember what I said." And with that, the Elf pulled the large blade from the sheath on his back and ran to join the fray.

Erric felt panic overwhelm him and he stood frozen in place. The clang of weapons and shield. The roars of battle. The screams of pain. Everything sounded muffled to Erric's ears. His feet felt stuck to the cobbled street. The war had arrived, and Erric could only watch it unfold before him.

After an eternity that really only lasted a few seconds, Erric was finally able to move. He lifted one foot and placed in front of the other. Slowly, deliberately, he repeated this action until he reached the edge of the alley wall. Erric took a steadying breath. Then he peered around the wall.

Everywhere Erric looked, he saw white armor and Alessian banners. It wasn't a scouting party that the mercenaries attacked—it was an entire cohort of Alessian soldiers.

The mercenaries fought hard, but they were undisciplined. They lunged at the wall of armored soldiers like drunks in a tavern brawl. They were cut down, one after another, with relative ease. The Alessians simply blocked and parried each attack, taunting their foolish foes before cutting them down.

The only members of the mercenary band that appeared to be having anything close to success were Calinden and Kish'na. The Ayleid knight Calinden's massive two-handed sword sliced through armor, flesh, and bone with equal ease, while the Khajiit Kish'na's twin blades twirled around her in an exotic dance of death.

Erric watched in awe as the battle played out in front of him. He knew that if he charged in to help the mercenaries, he would be cut down before he could so much as scratch an Alessian shield with his rusted sword. But if he turned and ran, and if any of the mercenaries survived, he would be remembered as a coward and a fake. They might even come after him, looking for revenge. All these thoughts and more bounced around and collided inside his head, leaving him frozen with indecision and fear.

But nothing brings clarity of mind like a sharp blade cutting through the air in front of you and rushing toward your face. Erric barely dodged out of the way, just as an Alessian soldier backed into him and knocked him to the ground. The rusty blade that Erric had been holding so tightly flew from his hand as he landed on his back. His helmet slammed into the wall he had been standing next to, and for a moment everything went black.
The next thing Erric knew, Calinden was standing beside him and lifting him to his feet. The street around him was littered with Alessian corpses. The Ayleid knight said nothing. He simply turned and walked back into battle.

Erric had seen enough. He couldn't take it anymore. With growing frenzy, he looked for a path of escape. He could count the number of remaining mercenaries on one hand, but the sea of Alessians seemed as wide and deep as the waves that crashed along the Daggerfall coast. At that moment, Erric knew that he didn't want to die. He picked a direction and started to run—right past the most frantic and bloody fighting.

As Erric's legs carried him past the combatants, he reached down and grabbed a sword lying near one of the many corpses. Drawing on reserves he didn't know he had, he increased his speed. He focused on reaching the nearest open doorway or getting around the next corner. He knew that he could lose himself in the back streets if he could just get away from the fighting. He was close. He was going to make it.

As Erric turned the corner to make his escape, the sword he carried before him slid into something soft and wet. He was staring into the face of an Alessian officer who looked as surprised as he was. The officer wore multiple badges of honor, but not one of them had been enough to save him. Erric's blade had slid into the space between where the officer's armor connected front to back, slicing between ribs and puncturing a lung. The officer gasped as his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled.

As the officer dropped to the ground, he let go of the ivory horn he had been holding. It rolled to a stop next to Erric's right foot. Erric stared at the horn for a moment, then he picked it up and stowed it in his belt. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That's when the arrow buried itself in Erric's back. He stumbled forward as pain radiated from the point of impact. Already, his vision was starting to blur. He saw the Khajiit and the Elf run toward him. He saw an army of Alessians chasing after them. He tried to breathe but that made everything hurt even more.

And then everything faded and Erric saw nothing at all.

The Ivory Lord: A Hero Born, V. 1

Author: 
Anonymous

The soldier waited with bated breath. His hand gripped the blade haft tightly, turning his knuckles ashen white. His sword arm shook nervously as he stood behind the others, waiting for his chance to strike. Any moment now, the Alessian patrol would pass by. He had to wonder, though, what exactly had he gotten himself into?

His name was Erric Deleyn, and even he didn't know where his part in all of this began. An innkeeper's son barely of age, his family tree was literally dripping with proud horse breeders, farm hands, and—like his father—cooks. He had as much warrior's blood flowing through his body as he did muscles in his arms and back. Which is to say, almost none. Yet here he stood, armor hanging loosely on his thin frame, holding a sword he barely knew how to use.

Erric wished he could say that he had joined the militia to gain revenge or honor. That his father and mother had been slain in an Alessian attack. Or that the love of his life was taken to the slave camps of the evil Alessians. By the Eight, he would have settled for any excuse in which the Alessians wronged his family.

But, no. Erric's family was safe and sound. His pleasantly plump parents happily ran an inn in one of the small towns that dotted High Rock. And the love of his life? Well, there was none. He had never felt the embrace of a damsel or tasted the kiss of serving wench. So why did he want to fight the Alessians? Well, he had heard bad things about them, but as far as he was concerned it was all rumors and innuendo. He had lived a sheltered life.

No, the reason Erric stood next to Kish'na the fierce Khajiiti maiden and Calinden the handsome Ayleid knight wasn't quite so lofty. It was more mere chance and accident that had led him to this time and place. He had been sneaking off into the woods at night to practice the same fighting techniques he'd seen the city guard practice. He wanted to learn how to fight, but he didn't want anyone to see him doing it. There was too much of a chance someone would make fun of him. After all, he was just a cook's son. So every night Erric would grab his rusty sword and mismatched armor and head into the woods to train.

But tonight would be different. There would be no more practice.

As Erric ran through back alleys to reach the hole in the wall he knew so well, he turned a corner and almost ran right into them. His breath caught in his throat when he saw them. A handful of men and women from different cultures all huddled together, whispering. They wore impressive uniforms and carried even more impressive weapons.

Cautiously he approached them, but Erric had little skill or grace. He tripped over his own feet and landed in a puddle with a loud splash. The warriors turned as one, weapons drawn and eyes hard. But they saw his armor and weapon and assumed he was there to meet them. Being too afraid to say otherwise, Erric was welcomed into their group.

It was simply a case of mistaken identity. Later, he might have called it fate.
But tonight? Tonight was the night Erric Deleyn was going to die. And that event would change the world around him forever.

Picnic at Pelin (A Horror Story)

Author: 
DeWitte Bourbois

"Come on, Falinne," I said. "It'll be fun."

"I don't know, Jacques," Falinne replied, her gamine's face betraying embarrassment, unusual for her. "I just don't think—it doesn't sound like a good idea to me."

"What, going for a picnic? It's Sovereignty Day, celebrating High Rock's independence from the First Empire. Everybody goes for a picnic on Sovereignty Day!"

"Yes, but not to Pelin Graveyard. And the weather isn't looking very good for a picnic—it's so gloomy." She shivered.

"Not to worry," I said, leading the way past through the wrought-iron fences and into the great cemetery. "We'll have a roof over our heads. We're going to eat inside this old mausoleum here."

"Wh-what?" Falinne said. "But this is the crypt of …."

"Of your namesake, Baroness Falinne Guimard, who commanded the troops of Bangkorai on Sovereignty Day? The very same." I smiled, bowed, and waved her in to the dark mausoleum.

Falinne looked inside and gulped, then said, "All right, Jacques. You can't scare me." And, hunching her head a bit into her shoulders, she ducked into the Baroness' last resting place.

I followed, unfolding the picnic blanket with a flourish. "Here we are! No need to sit directly on the clammy, strangely-stained flagstones of the dark and dismal charnel vault. Comfort and elegance are my watchwords!"

"Very funny, Jacques." She smiled gamely and folded her legs beneath her as I put the picnic basket in the center of the blanket. "So what did you bring?"

"Chef Artoine's deluxe picnic collation from the Anchor's Point inn! A brace of rock pigeons, grilled and deboned, with combwort chutney, ballom pudding, and a jug of syllabub. Unless for pigeon…."

"…Less … egion…" a voice whispered from the back of the vault.

"Er… an echo, by Mara! Did—did you hear that, Falinne?"

"…Falinne … Aless … Legion …!" came the whisper, louder this time.

"I certainly heard that!" Falinne said, leaping up. "Jacques, what kind of trick are you playing here?"

"Alessian Legion! Where?" said the voice, quite distinctly. And before our widening eyes, a blue phantasm came drifting up from a steep and narrow stairwell.

With a shriek, Falinne backed flat against the far wall and froze, seemingly paralyzed. I felt cold stones at my own back and realized I'd done the same.

The translucent blue phantasm, clad in armor of antique design, drifted between us, halted at the entrance, and turned. "This is the day, isn't it?" she demanded in hollow tones. "The day of the attack!"

"Y-yes, Countess," I said, surprised at my ability to speak. "Right d-day, but wrong century."

"What?" She flew at me, spectral hands raised like claws. Somehow, I shrank even further into the wall. "What? Not … again."

"That's right!" Falinne piped up. "Wrong century, wrong year! Go back to sleep, Grandmother."

"Wrong … year," the spectre said slowly. "Back … to sleep."

And to our immense relief, the Countess' ghost began drifting back down the stairs, fading as it went.
"Gales of Kynareth!" Falinne said, sinking to the floor. "I need a drink. You?"

"Oh, yes. At least one," I said, as she poured the syllabub. "What's taking so long?"

"My hands are shaking. Here."

I drained the milk-and-cider to the dregs and passed the mug back for more. Then I took a deep breath and began, "Falinne, I'm really, really sorry. I never thought…."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Here, have some more. Think what a great story it'll make back at the Anchor's Point."

"You're not angry? Really?"

"No, Jacques. Not angry."

"Well then, let me carve the … huh, that's funny." As I reached for the plate of pigeons, I felt a wave of cold pass over my body, and my hand fell short. "By Arkay, what …?" I tried to stand, got as far as my knees and then fell over onto the blanket. "Falinne, something's … something's wrong."

"It's nothing, dearest," she said, smiling sweetly. "I just drugged your syllabub with a paralyzing potion."
"D-drugged?" I mumbled. "Why?"

"Because there's this really exclusive club I want to join. Namira's Forgotten? But to be admitted, you have to consume human flesh. It's quite thrilling, Jacques!" She drew a slender, razor-sharp blade from her bodice.

"Now, let's see—where shall I begin?"

 

The Martyrdom of Saint Pelin

Author: 
Priestess Adie Rodeau

Welcome, young ones! As the subject of my annual children's sermon, I have chosen "The Martyrdom of Saint Pelin." Now I know you have probably heard this story already, but in this time of trouble I think it is good to revisit the tales of our ancestors so we may draw strength and lessons from them.

Now Saint Pelin lived back in the early part of the First Era, when the world was stranger than today. At that time Tamriel was largely untamed and our ancestors had to be strong and brave, for the woods and hills were home to things like bull-men, and centaurs, and fire serpents.

Saint Pelin wasn't a saint at first, of course: he was a humble man, a beadle at the Chapel of Stendarr at the Bangkorai Garrison, where he tended to the spiritual needs of the soldiers guarding the walls. He had other tasks as well, such as bringing the sentries water when the sun was high. One day as he carried around his bucket dipper he noticed there were more guards than usual. He stopped at the main gate and asked his friend, Sergeant Clancie, why that was. "It is because the Gray Host is coming," said Clancie, "which is a terrible army of vampires from Verkarth, and I'm more than a little worried about it."

"Oh, my!" said Pelin. "Is there anything I can do to help you and the other soldiers?"

"Pray for us, Pelin," said Clancie. "For a great trial is upon us."

Sergeant Clancie's words made Pelin anxious, so when he was done with his chores he climbed a tall tower and looked south. And there he saw the Gray Host coming out of the desert, a whole army of bat-men, wolves, and even worse things!

So Pelin went back to the chapel to pray, and as he heard the sounds of battle, he prayed to Stendarr, to Akatosh, to Julianos, to Kynareth, and to all their saints for help.

But then folk began to come into the chapel, setting up cots and tables and bringing in wounded soldiers for aid and surgery. "Come and help us, Beadle," called the Doctor. "It's your strong arms we need now, not your prayers."

So Pelin came and looked at the wounded soldiers, and found them wondrous pale. "What has happened to them, Doctor?" he asked. "These soldiers are as white as the sheets on my bed."

"It is the bat-men, Beadle," the Doctor said. "When they bite our soldiers, they drain the blood from them in great draughts, leaving them pale and empty."

"Horror!" cried Pelin. "You're right, Doctor, this is time for more than prayers. For Stendarr says, 'He who fights hardest prays loudest.' I know nothing of fighting or of doctoring, but I will go to the battle and trust Stendarr to show me what to do."

So Pelin ran to the fighting at the top of the great gate, where he found his friend, Sergeant Clancie, fighting a bat-man. The vampire beat at the sergeant with its wings and tried to grip him so as to bite, but Pelin grasped the bat-man by the legs so Clancie was able to kill it with his sword.

"This is no place for you!" the sergeant cried. "The bat-men are at the gate, and soon they will burst it open and take the garrison!"

Pelin looked down and saw that what the sergeant said was true: a great press of bat-men was ramming against the gates, and the doors were bulging inward. Pelin cried, "Is there nothing we can do?"

"The stone wall here has been loosened by flying stones," said the sergeant. "I had hoped to gather enough soldiers to push it down upon the bat-men—see, reinforcements are coming!—but the Gray Host will be through the gates before they can get here."

"Then I must delay them," said Pelin. And he flung himself from the battlements and upon the horde of vampires.

The wings of the bat-men broke Pelin's fall, and he landed among them hale and alive. "Vampires!" cried Pelin. "Push not upon the gate, for what you want is here: a strong, healthy body full of fresh, warm blood. Take! Drink!"

And the Gray Host turned as one and fell upon Pelin, fastening upon his veins. Then Pelin felt himself collapsing like a wine-sack at the harvest-festival, and knew that before the sergeant could gather enough soldiers he would be drained dry. So he prayed a mighty prayer, saying, "O Stendarr, God of Justice, fill me with an ocean of blood that I might beguile these daemons away from the gate but a few minutes more!"
And then Pelin felt himself filled anew with blood, flowing from him in a very fountain, and the divine geyser of gore drew every bat-man within sight into a great feeding mound before the gate.

Meanwhile Sergeant Clancie and his friends pushed against the wall above, until all of a sudden the great stones went crashing down. The bat-men were nearly all slain, and by the time the ones who weren't had gathered their wits, they saw that the pursuing legions of Empress Hestra were almost upon them. And that was the end of the Gray Host.

So that is how a beadle from Bangkorai Garrison became a saint. Now I ask you, children—does not our time resemble that of Saint Pelin? Is there not once again an army at our gates? Yes, indeed. And that's why our leaders ask each and every one of us to do as much as we can to help defend our homeland. Some of us may even have to give our lives.

So when the time comes, tell yourself that you, too, have the strength to do what's needed. For I think, if we have to, we can all be as strong as a humble man like Pelin. Don't you?