Skip navigation
Library

peryite

Research of Nathien Mortieu

Author: 
Nathien Mortieu

What a delight this temple has turned out to be. Yes, these colder conditions are positively wondrous for my mixtures. And there's no nasty guards to question us. No eyes that look upon our blessing with ignorant distaste. Many questioned my decision, but oh, they simply saw what was ahead. Not beyond, not as I do.

My research with the ogres in the caverns has produced ... admittedly mixed results. They were easy enough to infect. Predictable patterns and slow wits make for lovely test subjects. We saw early signs of the physical manifestations of the disease, yes, oh yes. Lovely, absolutely lovely. These disgusting creatures became beautiful under my guidance. Oh, how lucky they were, to be the first embraced by such a loving illness.

But then it turned all wrong! They turned out all wrong, all wrong! The way they've begun to act, you wouldn't even think they were sick. Nasty, stupid creatures won't even die! They just became ... angry. Stronger. Downright mean! They started attacking my researchers. I'm afraid we lost quite a few just last night. Hopefully we can still remain on schedule, but I can see quite a delay already.

Though it pains me to leave such research behind, I simply must conclude that these ogres are too beast like. We'll need more human subjects if we wish to continue our research. We simply have no time for our usual procedures, given how isolated this mountain is. Many have proposed the giants may prove to be useful. Dangerous, dangerous, but what is discovery without a few deaths?

On a personal note, my other ear has finally rotted off. There's still a bit more to go, but the current state shows promise. Everyday I become more beautiful, more perfect. More blessed.

I'm simply atwitter with excitement at our latest developments. Our lovely plague has come together nicely, so nicely. Yes, I dare say at this point it's nigh incurable! We had some initial troubles with creating a delay in symptoms. Burn out the subject too quickly, and, well, there's no time for it to spread. No, we want to keep them up and about, spreading our blessing to as many as possible. How ... reverent.

And when the symptoms do come, oh, well—it goes beyond description. I could wax poetic about the succulent pus, those all-spreading rashes. Boils, nearly translucent, they become so overfilled. The mere sight of that lovely, sickening shade of green sends pleasant shivers throughout my body. Have you ever seen something so beautiful? I've always had pride in my work, but this borders on adoration.

The giants have proved useful, just as the ogres, but still their reaction is just ... wrong! They've turned my poor creation into something different, something unexpected. The heathens! Just like the ogres, it's turned them stronger, even more aggressive. They simply aren't human enough. Not right! The majority of them should be dead by now, but here they are, sturdier than ever. It makes me sick, and not in the good way!

We've lost a handful of researchers already, and I simply can't afford to lose more. The giant's matriarch has become particularly aggressive. And she just started to look so lovely, too. What a shame. I had hoped to sketch her in my spare time. Well, the path to discovery always tends to be tricky terrain. A few deaths are just unavoidable if we ever hope to reach our goal.

Speaking of our goal ... oh, yes, yes, yes! She's begun to wake up. I feel it in my bones. Such a sleepy head, that one is. I hear her though. Oh, I hear her! She whispers to me of our glorious plans, how we will usher in a new age. I know we will. We must keep her safe, for the time being. And then she will become the shepherd.

I'm hoping to look my best when we finally meet. My nose has begun to rot, but the progress is slow. I'm half tempted to chop it off myself! But no. No, no, it would just look all wrong. I must be patient, in all things. My blessed beauty will come in time.

They laughed at us. Mocked us. Even my own mother never understood me. She wanted me to follow the family tradition. "Join a respectable cult," she told me, but Vaermina was but a chaotic lie. My Lord is the perfect truth of order. Why don't they learn to listen? They never listen! But they will have to hear us now. They shall all learn to heed the name of Peryite.

Our blessing is now ready. It shall spread, an all-consuming plague which will bury this world in corpses. This nasty, imperfect world, with no order, no respect. All will belong to my Lord, to his order. Their laughing will be drowned out by coughs, their impertinent words choking in their throat as bile builds. I'll make them beautiful, perfect. And then they shall die, lying in their own filth. My heart flutters just imagining the sight.

I've begun to allow my fellow researchers to gain the blessing we have created. Oh, how they craved it, as do I, but we must be careful. Should we follow the whims of our hearts, our entire operation may fall apart. I simply cannot let that happen, not when we are so close to true natural order.

We'll start small. There's a village nearby, tiny, perfectly suited for our needs. We'll wipe them out first, let the rumors spread. Let the fear fester in their hearts. My creation will be on the tongue of every citizen of Tamriel. And then, well, I'll make sure those tongues rot off.

But as for her .... Oh, what a grumpy, nasty woman. She cares nothing for our experiment, for our plans. She merely stares at me. What is she thinking? I cannot see her face, for she refuses to remove that unsightly mask. I fear she still holds an attachment for her former master. Nasty, nasty!

Of course, I do not question Lord Peryite's will! I do not! He knows I have been loyal. Faithful. I see the vision of his ordered world, and I revel in it. A land filled with corpses, rotting, resplendent. A new age shall come, a new order will come! All under my Lord's banner. Mother will regret the day she spurned me.\n\nI wish to keep recording, of course, but it's getting a bit trickier to write since my third finger fell off. I fear this may be my last entry, but what shall it matter? I can see no way our plan can fail. No one can overcome the will of the Prince of Pestilence! And all shall know his blessing.

The Book of Daedra

Author: 
Anonymous

Azura, whose sphere is dusk and dawn, the magic in-between realms of twilight, known as Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night Sky.

Boethiah, whose sphere is deceit and conspiracy, and the secret plots of murder, assassination, treason, and unlawful overthrow of authority.

Clavicus Vile, whose sphere is the granting of power and wishes through ritual invocations and pact.

Hermaeus Mora, whose sphere is scrying of the tides of Fate, of the past and future as read in the stars and heavens, and in whose dominion are the treasures of knowledge and memory.

Hircine, whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, the Chase, known as the Huntsman and the Father of Manbeasts.

Malacath, whose sphere is the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the keeper of the Sworn Oath, and the Bloody Curse.

Mehrunes Dagon, whose sphere is Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and Ambition.

Mephala, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; known by the names Webspinner, Spinner, and Spider; whose only consistent theme seems to be interference in the affairs of mortals for her amusement.

Meridia, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; who is associated with the energies of living things.

Molag Bal, whose sphere is the domination and enslavement of mortals; whose desire is to harvest the souls of mortals and to bring mortal souls within his sway by spreading seeds of strife and discord in the mortal realms.

Namira, whose sphere is the ancient Darkness; known as the Spirit Daedra, ruler of sundry dark and shadowy spirits; associated with spiders, insects, slugs, and other repulsive creatures which inspire mortals with an instinctive revulsion.

Nocturnal, whose sphere is the night and darkness; who is known as the Night Mistress.

Peryite, whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest orders of Oblivion, known as the Taskmaster.

Sanguine, whose sphere is hedonistic revelry and debauchery, and passionate indulgences of darker natures.

Sheogorath, whose sphere is Madness, and whose motives are unknowable.

Vaernima, whose sphere is the realm of dreams and nightmares, and from whose realm issues forth evil omens.

[Especially marked for special interest under the heading "Malacath" you find a reference to SCOURGE, blessed by Malacath, and dedicated to the use of mortals. In short, the reference suggests that any Daedra attempting to invoke the weapon's powers will be expelled into the voidstreams of Oblivion.]

"Of the legendary artifacts of the Daedra, many are well known, like Azura's Star, and Sheogorath's Wabbajack. Others are less well known, like Scourge, Mackkan's Hammer, Bane of Daedra...."

"...yet though Malacath blessed Scourge to be potent against his Daedra kin, he thought not that it should fall into Daedric hands, then to serve as a tool for private war among caitiff and forsaken. Thus did Malacath curse the device such that, should any dark kin seek to invoke its powers, that a void should open and swallow that Daedra, and purge him into Oblivion's voidstreams, from thence to pathfind back to the Real and Unreal Worlds in the full order of time."  

Unsent Afflicted Letter

Author: 
Anonymous

Beloved Duphraime - I know you thought me a fool not to leave Cul Aloue with you and the others, but I couldn't abandon our children to the wasting sickness. Whatever horrible fates you may have guessed for us, however, are probably far from the truth of what has happened.

I send this letter in hopes that it will sooth a worried mind.

Maybe a week after you left with the rest of the healthy folk, I was patrolling the low wall by foot. Even our poor Kelter had taken the illness and was unfit to ride. I was praying that no bandits would be foolish enough to risk infection for our trifling goods. Then, outlined against the pyre-light of the day's lost, I saw a long figure marching towards the village.

The stranger was a Sumerset elf who introduced himself as Orchendor, and with him came a change in destiny for the folk of Cul Aloue.

Orchendor walked among our people without fear of the wasting sickness that had taken root in the marrow of every remaining villager, myself included by now. For days he ate and spoke with us, learning each name. He calmed the folk in a way my lying prayers could not. Spirits became cheerful that days before awaited bleakly in the death's parlor.

Orchendor assembled us then, crowding the villagers into Cullete's barn, she being the most badly stricken at that time, and unable to move without being carried by Orchendor himself.

The good elf then gave us tidings that none could have guessed. He claimed that the sickness was not a curse on our village, as we were sure it had been. Rather, Orchendor insisted, it was a boon, a beacon which drew him to us. He told us that he served the Daedric Prince Peryite.

I know what you're thinking - we burned Dina and Lucas not three years before, after all. Cul Aloue would never suffer the heresies of a Daedra Worshipper in our midst. Yet, we did. Not only that, but we raptly heard what he had to say. Maybe you think we were too sick, too weak, but we weren't.

Orchendor apologized for our dead, saying he came with all haste to Cul Aloue. None had perished since his arrival, though several seemed on the brink in the hours before. He wanted to take us to a new home, a place where we could live out our days in worship of Peryite as his chosen. As his Afflicted.

Nobody refused. Some were carried in carts and litters, but all made the trek with Orchendor across the border into Skyrim, leaving Cul Aloue an empty, haunted place.

We have since lived in refuge, the ruins of an ancient Dwarven city. Other Afflicted live with us, many with similar tales to that of Cul Aloue, bound together by our divine infection. Though you could say we are all sick, the effects of the sickness no longer diminish us, but give us strength. We heal ourselves with liquors and tinctures that other men would call poison.

Orchendor keeps us safe here, by the blessing of our Prince Peryite. I am now an Apostle of the Afflicted, tasked to disseminate the teachings of Peryite to our Afflicted.

And so, sweet Duphraime, the spirit of Cul Aloue lives on. I will never blame you for abandoning us that day, now long past. In truth, I am saddened that you were not likewise chosen by Peryite to awake with these oozing lungs. Peryite preserve you, dear husband, and know your children are well.

Peryite

Author: 
Xan

Peryite, whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest order of The Oblivion; who is known as Taskmaster.

The summoning date of Peryite is 9th of Rain's Hand.

Peryite in DaggerfallPeryite's statue in Oblivion

During the Oblivion Crisis, the Taskmaster asked the Champion of Cyrodiil to rescue the trapped souls of his followers. They were trying to reach the realm of Peryite, but instead their souls were transported to another realm, most likely Mehrunes Dagon's as it was time when Mehrunes Dagon launched his attack to Tamriel with lots of small fiery realms as bases. The Champion of Cyrodiil was finally succeeded to rescue all of them and returned their souls to their body. Peryite rewarded the champion with the Dwarven shield of Spellbreaker. Detail conversation of the event can be read here.

Also worth noted, that the shield was also rewarded by Peryite to the Hero of Daggerfall some decades earlier after some contract well done. It is unknown to us how Peryite managed to retrieve the Spellbreaker from time to time. The Eternal Champion was also one of the wielders of the Dwarven shield. He found the shield somewhere in Hammerfell - perhaps the original place of the shield? The legend says:

Spell Breaker, superficially a Dwarven tower shield, is one of the most ancient relics of Tamriel. Aside from its historic importance dating from the Battle of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spell Breaker protects its wielder almost completely from any spellcaster, either by dispelling magicks or silencing any mage about to cast a spell. It is said that the Breaker still searches for its original owner, and will not remain the property of any one else for long. For most, possessing Spell Breaker for any time is power enough.

According to the text above, the tower shield has some connection with Dwemer clan of Rourken and Hammerfell was the home of the Rourken clan. So it is highly possible for the Hammerfell to be the original home of the tower shield, but the connection of Rourken and Peryite? That is unknown.

 

Imperial Census of Daedra Lords

Author: 
Michael Kirkbride

Hey kids,

Still working on the sword-meeting, so in lieu of its presence and in honor of Propitiation Day, I give you "The Imperial Census of Daedra Lords" by the Imperial Geographic Survey. This version of the Census was written before Uriel VII's demise, and is contemporary with the current Pocketguide.

Enjoy.

-MK

***
The Imperial Census of Daedra Lords
Azura, Lord of Dusk and Dawn, maintains the domain of Moonshadow, a twilight country of shades and half-thoughts. Visitors to this isle have historically come mainly from the Dunmer of eastern Morrowind and the catfolk of Elsweyr, whose people both hold a great affection for the mother of immanence, though by separate roads. At the time of this writing, regular gateways to Moonshadow have been inaccessible for the last several years. Whether this has to do with the unlawful incidents at Hogithum Hall in the Capital City or mere whim of Azura herself, no one can say. Of course, Azura’s most famous acts of recent times is the Incarnation of the Nerevarine, a subject that while far beyond the scope of this pamphlet has been felt to the present day.

Boethiah, the so-called Prince of Plots, has renamed his country of labyrinthine policy and betrayals yet again. Formerly “Snake Mount”, Prince Boethiah’s maze gardens and twisted towers is called “Attribution’s Share”, a realm best avoided by those that live outside the arcano-politic. Boethiah, like his cohort Azura, is much revered by the followers of the former Tribunal Temple, but sub-cults of his are entrenched in nearly every terrestrial seat of governance. His traditional festival date is the 2nd of Sun’s Dusk, when many contracts are writ between kings and commoners alike.

Clavicus Vile, child-god of the Morningstar, bestows a strange tranquility to his lands that seem concordant to his spheres of mockery and oath breaking, though what shape such concepts might take is admittedly unfathomable. Perhaps by rendering his domains as idyllic countryside the Prince exemplifies his greatest aspect, and that which ingratiates him to his many followers, the power of serenity through wish fulfillment. Only the strongest of the Emperor’s servants are advised to make covenant with Prince Clavicus, and even then are warned against sipping from the Bitter Cup.

Hermaeus Mora, “the Gardener of Men”, claims that he is one of the oldest Princes, born of thrown-away ideas used during the creation of mortality in the Mundus. Imperial Mananauts have verified that his influence on fate and time is real and unfeigned, implications of which tie this Prince directly with Akatosh, chief of the Nine Divines. Since Akatosh is the prime temporal spirit whose appearance led to the formation of the world, perhaps Hermaeus Mora speaks the truth. Nevertheless, it is the will of His Majesty Uriel VII that only on the official holiday of 5th First Seed should any propitiation to this Daedric Prince be delivered. “All else is mutation.”

Hircine’s Hunting Grounds have been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Malacath holds the hardest to access of Oblivion’s extant lands, the Ashpit. As Prince Patron of the disenfranchised and cast out, it is only reasonable that the pathways to his domain take on a characteristic level of concealment. Orsinium, kingdom of the Orcs, gives Malacath its highest esteem, which is surprising when one considers the normal Orcish revilement of Daedric spirits. One might conjecture then that the rumors of Malacath not being a true Daedroth but an imprisoned aetherial spirit are true. It would certainly fit the Prince of Exile that he be one himself.

Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Razors, has proven himself time and again the enemy of the Empire. Of terrible aspect and crowned in beaten copper, the four-armed Prince of Destruction has troubled the borders of the Mundus with warfare, foul rumor, and force of arms. Banished to dissolution during the Weir Gate massacre and again at Kvatch by battlemages of the 33rd, Mehrunes Dagon is returned to Oblivion once more, and the stars have foretold that his tenacity has known no forfeiture. All heroes of Cyrodiil are called upon to stand vigil against his hidden agencies.

Mephala’s domains in Oblivion are numerous and obscured, collected together by vast strands of magical ghostweb. All of them are devoted to her spheres of sex and secret murder. Echoing this same structure are the various esoteric cults devoted to her across Tamriel, many of which are forbidden by Imperial law. Her aspect is shrouded and manifold, even when she appears in the crowds that gather within her temples during Frost Fall.

Meridia’s holdings in Oblivion are collectively known as “The Colored Rooms”. Another Prince whose origins may not entirely be outside of the aetherial, Meridia has at several times been linked to Magnus the Sun. The most famous account of this association is the Tract of Merid-nunda, which overtly casts Meridia in the role of a wayward solar daughter, cast from the heavens for consorting with illicit spectra.

Molag Bal, King of Strife, is second only to his brother Prince Mehrunes Dagon in the enmity of our Emperor. His lands are the charnel houses the slave pens of Coldharbour, which hold no contrition for those travelers that visit them in error or purpose. That Molag Bal is allowed his holiday at all hearkens back to a treaty of ancient times, when he reputedly lent his infernal power to the creation of the first soulgems.

Namira’s Scuttling Void has been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Nocturnal is accorded the title Ur-dra by nearly all the Royalty of Oblivion. As the mother of night, she claims to be an aspect of the original Void itself, and it is generally deemed best to fortify this declaration in one’s evening prayers.

Peryite’s pits have always been inaccessible to mortals. Our only real knowledge of them comes from reports of the other diabolical Princes. It is said that Peryite guards the lowest orders of Oblivion and that his summoners are to regard his likeness to Akatosh as some primordial and curious jest.

Sanguine, Prince of Hedonism, lords over no less than ten times ten thousand pleasure pockets of the Void. As revelry and drunken stupor fall under this Prince’s influence, he has been a favorite of many Emperors since the first foundation. Records even indicate that he resided in White-Gold Tower during the reign of Reman Cyrodiil and helped in the somewhat dubious draftsmanship of the Crendali Festivals, whose vulgarities did little to help Imperial expansion into Alinor and the other Summersets.

Sheogorath’s Asylums have been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Vaernima, Prince of Omen and Dream, shares a special mageographic connection with the Mundus, since mortal sleepers often slip into her realm without any help at all. Traditional sacrifice to Vaernima is held on the 10th of Suns Height, but as with most luck spirits, prayers to this Daedric Prince occur quite frequently, and not always before bedtime.