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Worm Saga

Anonymous (presumably Mannimarco)

Mage from infancy, blood-selected for magicka, descended from isles of Artaeum forever! Destined was I from long before birth to exceed all mortals.

Altmer? Nay, Aldmer: scion of et'Ada by direct descent, summoned to Ceporah, and there was I sent: to Iachesis, to tutor, to test and ferment.

No magicka handler Iachesis Ritemaster, sage of the Elder Way, gentle spellcaster! To warp not the wind, unlike guild of the latter day, courting disaster.

Necromancy, death art, chose me stern and fast. To change not the present ,but call up the past, obverse of Elder Way, forbidden without cause, deep-delved in death's way, against Gray Cloak laws.

Ill-timed then arrived one, Trechtus by name: ambitious, obstreperous, blind and deaf to shame, talented, reckless, thought himself my equal, his arrogance and envy determined our sequel.

Magic he practiced: open, raw power, flouted the Elder Way, endangered the tower, then with lowborn cunning cast me as the villain, engineered exile, made me Tamrielan.

All undervalued my will and resolution, my knowledge formidable, my wit and acumen. Thus found I new allies to study the death-rites, the sacrifice rituals, the summons of ghost-wights.

Robed all in black goes the Order of Black Worm, bringing wisdom to seekers who see beyond death-term, but Trechtus-now-Vanus pursues us to continent, to persecute worm-wrights his evil intent.

Come, all necrotics, defend practice and life, against Mages who wield magicka like a knife, heedless of heresy and ignorant of Elder Way, hating necromancy yet heralding doomsday.

Anchorite's Log


With the arrival of the Chancellor, a crusty Nibenese politician named Abnur Tharn, the atmosphere at the Castle of the King of Worms has taken a decidedly more amusing turn. He barks his pathetic orders and expects us to pander to his every whim. When we ignore him he storms about like an infant, shouting "Do you know who I am?" and "Mannimarco will hear of this!" The King of Worms thinks him a ineffectual buffoon. I have heard him say as much, myself.

But Tharn is no idiot. I feel certain he suspects that he has outlived his usefulness. With his daughter on the Ruby Throne and Lord Mannimarco filling her head with delusions of grandeur, Tharn's power isn't worth the breath it takes to declare it. The Empress Regent is easily manipulated with trinkets, silks, and rare delicacies. She has little fondness for her father and, to my knowledge, hasn't even expressed curiousity regarding his absence. And despite his years of political experience in the Imperial Court, the old man isn't half the manipulator that Mannimarco has proven to be.

Tharn's greatest miscalculation is that he believes he still has value here. In the grand scheme of things, we are all expendable, he most of all. All of the power in Cyrodiil means nothing to the Lord of Brutality and Domination.

But Tharn's impotent tantrums remain a source of great mirth. I imagine I will tire of them eventually. On that day, I will pour a glass of fine wine and take enjoyment watching him thrash about, as his soul is torn from his body, like so many thousands before him.

Our Budding Alliance


Your Veiled Majesty,

Civility at last. I am pleased with our new agreement. Your serice to Molag Bal, despite your tawdry oath to Lord Dagon, will ensure you victory in your conflict. Across the face of Tamriel, there can be only one victor in this war.

My minions will carry orders to you when the time is right. Do not fail me. Loyal service is rewarded, but betrayal—well. The punishment would be unimaginable.

Do as I command, in the name of Molag Bal.

(And under your breath you can quietly pray to any Prince you choose.)

The King of Worms,