Chronicles of the Five Companions 8

Author: Abnur Tharn

Abnur Tharn, once again.

If I'd had a drake for every petty king or would-be emperor that wanted to get their filthy mittens on the Amulet of Kings, I could purchase Akavir right out from under the scaly feet of those detestable snake-people.

The Amulet's loss after the fall of the Reman Dynasty and the dawning of the Second Era, centuries before my birth, was considered the greatest catastrophe of its time. Without a duly-ordained emperor sitting on the Ruby Throne, many prophesied the doom of the world. But like many such prognostications from provincial soothsayers, their predictions did not come to pass. Not yet.

Without the Amulet of Kings, Tamriel endured just as it did when the "divinely-chosen" wore it around their necks. The sun rose, people killed each other over greed and petty ambitions, powerful men dictated the fates of those beneath their stations, and they all woke up the next day to do it all again.

I'm not hopeful about our chances against the Daedric Prince. It is the most ridiculous of follies to believe that, even if the spell works, one might actually challenge such a powerful entity and emerge victorious. The Vestige is a formidable warrior, but still flawed. In truth, I'd rather send Titanborn on this fool's errand and save the Vestige for when we are better prepared. She, at least, is expendable.

I realize just how foolish such a sentiment is—and Titanborn, if you are reading this, try not to twist your ridiculous pigtails in a knot. I am a Tharn. Humility does not suit us. There can be no doubt. Our one chance is here and now. We take it, or perish forever.

Much of Tamriel has been spared the horrors of this engagement, and already the land recovers from the impact of the Anchors in the places where they fell. Common peasantry would accept this as providence and laud the efforts of those who ended the Daedric melding of worlds, but their ignorance is bliss. My knowledge of the Daedra affords me a terrible glimpse into the nightmare world that awaits us, should we not wholly dislodge Molag Bal's grasp on this world.

Consider, dear reader: Tamriel is a ripe apple, dangling precariously from the flowering branches of a great tree. For eons it has hung far above, well out of reach of the hungry teeth—the Daedra—who would feast upon it. But the rending of the cosmic veil caused by the Soulburst, Mannimarco's tainted coronation ritual, cracked the branch upon which our aforementioned apple grows.

Picture then, as we continue our quaint, agricultural metaphors, Molag Bal as the hog who grasps the nearest leaves of the stricken branch. His dung-stained trotters give him leverage as he pulls, hoping to tear the entire branch down so that he may feast upon the apple.

The efforts of those who stopped the Planemeld and shattered Molag Bal's anchors staggered the footing of the hog, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. Nevertheless, his fetid teeth still dig into the branch. If he is allowed to recover, he will begin his struggle yet again.

We must dislodge Molag Bal's teeth, as it were, through application of incredible force. Of course, we cannot use the Amulet a second time in the same fashion as we did at the Soulburst, but if I am correct—and I always am—a modification of the spell will allow a mortal to become a vessel of the Divines, an imbue him with the power of the Amulet.

The particulars of the magic itself could fill a book in and of itself, so I shall spare the reader the specifics, which are undoubtedly above the understanding of even learned scholars. It takes the formidable intellect of a Tharn—and there are none alive greater than I—to comprehend its complexities.

If we succeed, history shall record that it was the knowledge and ambition of Abnur Tharn that brought about the salvation of this world by guiding the hand of the Vestige. If we fail, then none will be the wiser, for we shall all become the lifeless, mindless servants of the Daedric Prince until the end of time.

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