shivering isles

My Dearest Cousin,

Thank you for last month's shipment -- He was very pleased. I have found that when two are thrown in at the same time, the louder His response and the longer it lasts. How exciting!

Now, I understand how difficult it is for you to gather more volunteers, but I am in need of your services more than ever, cousin. You and I both know it will not be long until the day of Rebirth is upon us, so the more we can offer, the better. When He arrives, I will make sure you are duly rewarded for your services. Be sure to let our volunteers know how happy we all are with their commitment to the cause and what an enormous impact they are having on the coming of Rebirth. 

Praise of Gyub

[Kneel, face forward and raise hands above head]

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.
  Hear us, Warbling Redeemer.
  Hail the Rebirth approaching.
Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

[Lower hands and close eyes]

Please accept our offering, merciful one.
  Extend your tentacles and accept this gift.
  Bless us, Embryonic Prince.
May this offering satisfy your infinite maw.

[Stand, open eyes and wait for volunteer to be escorted to the precipice]

Please accept our offering oh merciful one.
  Feed and grow now, our Prince.
  Arise and devour Oblivion hence.
May this offering sate your growing bulk.

[Open floor and grasp volunteer by wrists and ankles. Gently swing with sideways motion]

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.
  Magg-a-rathala!
  Magg-a-Nutaggon!
Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

[Begin to rhythmically stomp feet all the while swinging volunteer faster and faster]

Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.

[When volunteer has reached maximum height, release wrists and ankles. Wait for screaming to stop. Face forward and raise hands above head]

Praise be to Gyub,
  Call to us, Prince!
  Sing your fell tune!
Praise be to Gyub.

[Wait for Gyub to respond. Get down on knees with hands still raised above head]

All hail Gyub, Lord of the Pit.
All hail rebirth, day of our death.
All hail Gyub, All hail Gyub. 

Second Seed, Tirdas
Traelius surprised me when he brought me to this place. It is quite beautiful here. This will be a much-needed vacation from the city.
I have found the cool water from the stream nearby to be quite refreshing. The spot above the waterfall is a great area to clear my thoughts; I shall bathe there frequently.

7th Mid Year, Turdas
His continual reference of this place as our 'home' is beginning to annoy me. How do I tell him that it is not my wish to spend the rest of my days here?

11th Mid Year, Morndas
Traelius informed me that he plans on making this dwelling our permanent home. I will try and convince him otherwise; I do not see us living here for the rest of our lives!

15th Mid Year, Fredas
This place is beginning to feel like a cage. I need to get out. I am in much need of fresh air, of sunlight, of life. I am going to try and find some way out of here so I might be able to grab a bit of freedom from time to time.

20th Mid Year, Middas
I have been spending more time at my daily baths scouting the area below, trying to find safe passage. I do not think he suspects anything, so I will continue my search.

22nd Mid Year, Fredas
I climbed down the cliff face today and into the cavern below to scout out a safe passage. I was careless in my steps and alerted a nearby creature. I quickly retreated up the walls and bruised my arms and legs in the process. I do not think Traelius has noticed the bruises, as he has not mentioned anything about them as of yet. I need to be more careful.

24th Mid Year, Sundas
I think I have found a way around the creatures! Yes, I am certain. Before I try to escape I will attempt to convince him to leave this place once and for all.

27th Mid Year, Middas
My confession of last night to Traelius worked -- he is letting me return to the city! In some ways I am sad. Sad that I will not see him for a while, for I know he loves me and I, he. I just cannot stay here for the rest of my days. I leave as soon as I am finished packing.

Turdas
Traelius!
Why do you not come for me?
I am hurt.
I am scared.
I scream your name, I beg of you to come for me, but I do not see you.
Why do you leave me here, alone and injured?
I am at your mercy.

Loredas
After three days of yelling for help near the waterfall with no response from Traelius, I have given up hope. With my fractured leg, I cannot possibly go on. I can neither go forward nor return. I can only suffer.

Morndas? Tirdas?
I managed to drag myself down the stream a bit, but cannot go on. It is not so bad. I have now what I have been craving for a long time -- freedom, although not as I had planned. Nonetheless, I am free. It is not so bad. The cool water from the stream is quite refreshing after all. 

The self-proclaimed Zealots of Sheogorath believe our liege lord to be not just a man of mysterious and wondrous powers, but a living god. They believe his will sustains the lands and his whim supports all things in it. They believe Arden-Sul, Who Reads the Winds in Our Entrails, was the mortal aspect of Lord Sheogorath, and will come again to cleanse the Realm. Since these claims are clearly ridiculous, it can be assumed that all Zealots are quite mad.

The Zealots cannot be reasoned with. They cannot be treatied with easily. They attack almost anyone on sight, assuming them to be heretics or non-believers. They fight to the death, reveling in the carnage.

The reader might ask, then how does one join the Zealots? After much research, I discovered that Zealots sneak into settled areas and leave sets of robes behind. Anyone inclined toward Zealotry can don these robes and approach the Zealots safely. It is said that Zealot leaders can see the true heart of a supplicant, even if he wears the robes, and will slay any false supplicants.

Even then, the Zealots have painful rituals meant to prove their fealty to Sheogorath. Only the most devout supplicants are accepted into their ranks. Those who fail these tests are put to death.

Once a supplicant is accepted as a Zealot, he is taught ceremonies and sorcerous secrets. The best known of these is summoning Flesh Atronachs to do their bidding. These powerful creatures are formidable foes. 

Volume II
The Sacellum

When one approaches the walls of New Sheoth, the eyes are unavoidably drawn to a magnificent sight: a mystical flame rises from a simple tower that juts from a circular building. To some, the flame is a beacon of strength and guidance, to others, a mockery of their beliefs. It is the epicenter of a most interesting conflict; two sides of the same coin vying for the favor of their God. It is an unremarkable building with a most remarkable past. It is the Sacellum Arden-Sul.

Although the Sacellum itself predates Arden-Sul's life, both the Manics and the Demented contest the history of the Sacellum heavily. The Manics believe that on that very spot before New Sheoth existed, Arden-Sul was first afflicted with the Grand Enlightenment and became blinded. The Demented postulate that the Sacellum was the location where Arden-Sul endured the Hundred Day Torture. However, it was not these purported events of Arden-Sul's life that aligned the Sacellum with the prophet's name... it was his death.

Here again, the Manics and the Demented are divided. The Manics story of Arden-Sul's death begins with a night of superlative revelry in the Sacellum. The event was replete with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Greenmote and spirits. Arden-Sul and his 213 followers engaged in a veritable orgy of merrymaking and overindulgence, a night fraught with a profusion of singing, dancing, and fornicating. As the celebration reached a crescendo and the event reached its whirlwind apex, one by one, Arden-Sul's followers began to drop to the ground--their lifeblood draining from their bodies until the ground was soaked a crimson red. The excesses of their hedonism had taken its toll and had caused their very hearts to explode. Although details are uncertain, it was said Arden-Sul was the last to die with the look of pure bliss upon his face.

The Demented have a radically different story of the events leading to Arden-Sul's demise. Fearing that one of his followers would one day turn traitor and bury a blade in his back, Arden-Sul sought a method to see deep into a man's soul and reveal his true feelings. After an exhaustive search, he uncovered the secrets of visceromancy, the science of divination through the observation of the entrails of others. Armed with this knowledge, he summoned his flock to the Sacellum. After imbibing the wine Arden-Sul gave them, his followers suddenly felt themselves paralyzed... aware of their surroundings but unable to move. Then, one by one, Arden-Sul cut out the still-beating hearts of his followers and read their lifeblood. After removing all 213 hearts, he still hadn't located the traitor. Furious, he reached into his chest and tore out his own heart. Before the light faded from his eyes, Arden-Sul was reported to have realized the ironic truth; he was the traitor, destined to kill himself.

Whether or not one chooses to take either of these stories seriously is of little import. The truth remains that the Sacellum is a significant location of a highly regarded prophet's death. To this day, the building is still shared among the Manics and the Demented, and depending on Lord Sheogorath's whim, the favored side becomes its ruling body. 

Being an Examination of the Curious Ruins of the Shivering Isles and Their Terrible Significance for our Future

The ancient ruins that dot the countryside are a familiar sight to the inhabitants of the Shivering Isles. So familiar that their true significance has escaped notice of most, until now. I have recently uncovered the terrible secret hidden in these ruins, and I will now share this secret with you. But be warned - this knowledge may be too much for some, as you will know the awful fate that lies in store for you, but will be powerless to do anything to prevent it. If you are strong enough of mind to withstand the psychic shock of having your grim future laid bare, read on.

My interest in the ruins began with a simple observation: all the ruins visible on the surface appear to be of roughly the same age and architectural style. Who created these once-mighty structures, and what happened to them?

Further investigation revealed an even stranger truth: although the ruins superficially all appear to derive from the same era, they are in fact of wildly differing ages. Many thousands of years separate the ruins of Cylarne (by far the oldest extant on the surface, despite its relatively well-maintained state) from the ruins of Ebrocca, which at almost 1,000 years old is one of the youngest sites in the Isles. For those who would dismiss this conclusion, I invite you to visit the ruins and examine the evidence for yourselves: the depth of strata covering the buried portions of the structures; the weathering of the exposed stone; the growth of vegetation on and around the structures; etc. (I have compiled the evidence in a separate monograph, "Dating the Predecessor Ruins: Shocking New Evidence Comprehensively Explained," which is presently unpublished, though I will gladly make it available for those scholars wishing to delve further into the minutiae of this subject.)

Once I began to accurately establish the dates of the various ruins, a disturbing pattern emerged. The ruins fell into distinct periods, each period separated by exactly 1,000 years from the other (although Cylarne remains the exception, being many thousands of years older than the next oldest extant ruin - suggesting only that the ruins from many earlier eras lie waiting to be discovered, or have been lost to the ravages of time).

What could account for this process of destruction, repeating itself every 1,000 years without fail? The legend of the Greymarch sprang immediately to mind, that ancient tale of a vengeful god venting his wrath upon the land. What if it were more than a legend? What if it were the dimly-remembered account of a real event?

I suddenly realized the significance of the dating of the most recent ruin that I had discovered: Ebrocca, which my tests proved to be about 1,000 years old. Yes, Dear Reader, we come to it at last. The Cataclysm is upon us again. I have dated the ruins of Ebrocca to great accuracy; I know the very year of our Doom. I refrain from publishing the exact date, as this knowledge is a terrible burden that I would not inflict on others.

For a long time I hesitated from issuing even this general warning, fearful of inciting panic or despair. But I have concluded that it is better to have time to prepare for the End in whatever way one sees fit than to have it thrust upon them unawares. I no longer doubt that the legend of the Greymarch is based on historical events, and that the last days of our civilization will be terrible - the blasted and tumbled stones of the mighty cities of bygone eras are testament enough to that. But I find it strangely comforting to know that our end is already written in the stones of our Predecessors, and that struggling against our Doom is as pointless as shouting against the incoming tide. I hope that at least a few of my readers will find equal solace in this bleak foreknowledge. 

The Gnarl is a creature of the forest like no other. Away from the walls of New Sheoth, they are called the Walking Trees. Gnarl are known for their affinity with the elements. If a Gnarl is struck by elemental forces of fire, frost, or shock, it uses that energy to grow stronger and larger. Fortunately, this effect only lasts for a short time.

It is the will of Sheogorath that the Gnarl confuse and bewilder the unwary mage. To that end, it gains resistance to the element it is struck with, but becomes weaker to the other two. The wily mage will quickly switch between elemental spells to take advantage of this. Lesser wizards will suffer if they continue to use the same spell over and over.

In recent years there have been rumors of smiths that are able to use the amber sap extracted from Gnarl to make sturdy armor and weapons. As of yet, this gossip has not been confirmed.

More is not known about the Gnarl than is known. No-one has been able to determine the gender of Gnarl, or if they even have them. Young or immature Gnarl have never been seen. One academic suggested that Gnarl are born full-formed from trees that are struck by lightning. This absurd suggestion has not been confirmed.

Similarly, we have no knowledge of their diet or social habits. Presumably they feed directly from the sun and earth, like trees do. There are no reported cases of them communicating, even among each other. However, they do seem to have a truce of sorts with other woodland creatures such as the Baliwog and Elytra. 

A Collection Of The Writings Of Vexis Velruan

Transcribed by Anias Gael

Dearest reader, the tome that you hold in your hand is a chronicle of pain, of torment, and of discovery. In these memoirs, I shall impart to you an autobiography of a foolish and failed attempt to achieve a great power. Walk with me as I break the bonds of propriety, throw off the restraints of the ancient laws of the arcane, and cast aside the bonds of magical ethics. For contained herein, you shall find the dying words of Vexis Velruan.

Let it be known to you, loyal reader, that I remain until my dying moment, a student of Magicka. But no typical apprentice, am I. I am one who has forged a unique path to the deeper understanding of the mechanics of Magicka. Through the infliction of destruction magic upon my own flesh, I have accomplished more than any student before me has.

It is by that folly that I come to you now, lucid as ever, fully alert in my faculties, and acutely cognizant of the sacrifices that I have made in my quest. I have long since lost the capacity to feel any physical sensation beyond absolute agony. I've become so accustomed to it, so detached from the feeling, that to me, pain is simply always there. You do not think of the air around you as a sensation, do you?

How is it, you ask, that I came to be what I am? It began innocently enough. I was once a healer, one of the most promising students of the temple. Which one? It doesn't matter. I was eventually expelled. Fools. You see, we had a number of patients interred in our humble sanctuary who had been infected with the Red Fever. My attempts to use the magical arts to turn the disease on itself were less than successful in their early stages. For trying to find a cure, I was cast out.

It was not long after my exile that I discovered the means to eradicate infection using the destructive energies of magicka. In my explorations of the school of Destruction I discovered that by pulling the elemental energies through my own body, I was able to increase the raw output of energy. From the experience of a lighting bolt surging through my own body, I was able to deepen my understanding of the raw forces of magicka.

At first, the pain was bearable. I directed only a minor amount of the energy back in towards myself. I learned to couple the destruction with restorative energies. It helped to abate the damage done to my body, but did nothing to stop the pain itself.

As my tolerance for the pain increased, I began to channel more and more through my own body. My understanding of Destruction outgrew my knowledge of Restoration. While it could still lessen the damage, it could not stop it. My skin became charred and blackened; it dried, flaked off, and cracked. I stunk of cooked meat. But I could not resist the draw of more and more energy.

I became like a skooma fiend of the worst sort. I no longer used magic for any practical purpose. I simply sought out more and more energy -- I relished the pain. Anticipated the moment when the energy and the pain would wash over me as one, freezing my flesh, burning it beyond recognition. My skin became a network of scars, sores, lesions, and burns. But it was never enough. Never. I needed more. More pain. More power.

I lost my sight. My eyes melted into boiling pools of vitreous humor so hot that they left streaks of blistered skin as they ran down my face like burning tears. My right hand froze solid and shattered into a thousand pieces, when I carelessly bashed it against a doorjamb in terror, once I realized what had happened. The bones of both my legs shattered outward like broken glass, shredding the flesh and muscle surrounding them.

While this may sound like a fate of terrible consequence, my dearest reader, I can assure you that you will never know what it is to be a creature of flesh and bone like I have. You will never have the degree of knowledge of frailty of the flesh that I have grown to know. I achieved a level of understanding of Magicka beyond that of the grand masters of the guild, but that accomplishment pales in comparison to the grander discoveries that this experience has bestowed upon me.

People like you think that pain is to be avoided. Hidden from. Feared. Through my suffering and the numbness that now robs me of the ability to feel it, I can say this to you: Pain is a simple factor of human existence. It affords us the opportunity to feel -- to appreciate the temporary shell that our spirits occupy. Pain is the greatest gift that the gods have ever given mortal man.

And now, as I tell you this story by way of a scribe, I am a stump of a man, wrapped in seeping bandages, never to know pleasure again. Even still, I have but one message to impart to you: Embrace what you are.

Glory to lord Sheogorath, for he has opened my eyes. 

Any visitor to the Shivering Isles will soon come across the dreadful shape of a tall, crystalline stone looming over them like an accusing finger. Variously known as standing stones or obelisks, they cannot be avoided in traveling the Shivering Isles, no matter how hard you might try.

There are many theories on the origin and purpose of these stones. (Purpose? Can a stone have a purpose? Is it a sentient being, or an inanimate object? Is it listening to you - watching you - whispering to you?). Some claim they are simply interesting geological formations. Not so. Not so. They cannot be chipped or cracked or even scorched. Believe me, I've tried. Nothing harms them. (Although perhaps they still feel the blows. They seemed angry for a while. I sang to them and that seemed to soothe them. I can't say why.) And if you've tried to dig one up, as I have, you know that they go down forever. (Months I spent, digging down. No matter how deep, there it was, still gleaming in the secret darkness beneath the earth. They know the secrets, even those that are buried deep.)

I have spent many years trying to understand these stones. (Avoiding doesn't work. As I said, they're everywhere. So try for understanding, as I have. What is the humming? What do the whispers mean?) I can't say that I know everything about them, but I have learned many things, some of which I can share with you. (But I don't know what they want. Not yet. Perhaps if I knew what they wanted, I wouldn't be so afraid. They whisper secrets to me, but I promised not to tell. They know many secrets. They're always watching. They never sleep. Not even at night, in the dark of the moon.)

I know they are old, older perhaps than the world itself. They have seen civilizations rise and fall. And they hate us. They are waiting for their master to return. (They won't tell me who, or when. If they hate me so, why do they tell me their secrets? Is it because they know my secrets already?)

You may not believe me. Most don't, but most have not spent the time that I have in trying to learn about these stones. I have spent days listening to their secret whispers and learning their language. (They talk, you know. To each other, mostly. But now to me.) At first it was just a humming, which you can hear if you lean against a stone and listen very closely. It may take hours, or days, but you will hear them. And once you hear the voice of the standing stones, you will never be able to shut it out.