From the notebooks of Flaccus Terentius, Scholar

Author: Flaccus Terentius
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I haven’t slept a full night in weeks. Every time I drift off, the vision returns. The screeching of metal and wails of the damned, the darkened sky opening like a wound, the feeling of my innards squirming as if to escape … the voice in my head … and the Daedra tumbling out, eager to spoil and ruin Cyrodiil with their filth.

I’ve written reams and reams in my sleepless nights trying to capture the horror, but every line I scrawl is pitiful, inadequate. If we have words that can describe this nightmare, I do not know them. They have the words, though. I hear them calling, coming to claim us for their lord. How can we hope to stand against such power, such relentless and wanton hate? Is it already too late—has Molag Bal torn Nirn beyond repair?

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