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Weird Cyrodiil Mod

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cpt.Od's picture
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The late, great Adam Adamowicz. Taken too soon.

Fiore1300's picture
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When you started back up I knew I had to re-read your main quest opus-in-progress and I just finished that. I am very happy you decided to update this HQ.

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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Thank you.

Anyway, as a weird aside, here's an actual game mechanic idea that I've been stewing on for a while. This thread is dedicated to weirdness, so to hellwiddit.

Anyway, here's G.U.C.C.E

G.U.C.C.E.

 

This my concept for a melee-combat system for use in a computer game, not necessarily Elder scrolls, that largely operates off of effective weapon ranges and mouse-acuity (let’s just forget that consoles exist for the time being), in a vein not dissimilar to first-person shooters. I call it G.U.C.C.E. /ˈɡuːs/

Granular

Up-Close

Combat

Experience.

Under this scheme, the player is presented with a reticule in combat. This reticule has two toggleable states, Attack and Defend, which are immediately distinguishable.  

In the attack state, the reticule represents the exact target of the attack by its placement on the X-Y axes, and represents the range of the attack by the length of the reticule.

For example:

<>  would represent that you out of range.

Whereas <=======>, when superimposed over an enemy would mean you’re close enough to smell their breath.

Ideally the line could be rotated to represent different strokes, while thrusts would be represented by an X of different sizes. This all varies with your present weapon selection, thus a dagger would remain at <> until very close while a Spear would present a very large X until your opponent gets too close and the reticule diminishes accordingly.

And to make clear, in Gucce, you aren’t aiming for the typical broad targets like head, arm, etc. Instead, you are actively trying to defeat enemy armor and shields, by targeting noticeable gaps or weakpoints. I believe that that his scheme presents a much more involved, and thus engaging simulation of cold-weapon combat.

In any case, the reticule can be switched over to defend, where it becomes a circle. If you are equipped with a large shield, large circle; Small shield, small circle; dagger, tiny pinprick. In defense mode your object is read the enemy’s movement and move your reticule over their attack.

And that’s the long and short of it. Obviously stamina would also be a factor, as well as skills and perks and levels and all that, but these are well established mechanics outside of my scope.

cpt.Od's picture
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But can I play it on a DDR mat?

cpt.Od's picture
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I want Weird Cyrodiil mod to be an Oblivion mod. I want oblivion radiant AI, it was perfect it was so bad.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHrwoGhtJMQ

Fiore1300's picture
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Speaking of radiant AI. I'm going to move this into my load order soon and see how it performs.

https://www.nexusmods.com/oblivion/mods/49610

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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The first 6 ancestors are uncomplicated and quite vanilla, although those Ayleid ruins that happen to fall within our expanded Imperial City are now totally subterranean and can only be accessed through the subterrene or the basements of certain residences or businesses. Although I've eliminated 2 ancestors to keep this short (Fanacas and Wendelbek), plus the numerology never made sense.

You may note that the statues are eerily similar to the weird armor that that Raven and his cronies wear.

You may also note some new artwork appearing in Ayleid ruins, murals and the like depicting an angelic figure in the midst of 8 suns, all further surrounded by 16 stars. In the seraph’s breast is there an unmistakable shape,

A diamond.

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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Ask Umbacano nicely and he may well explain,

“The figure is often identified with Aka, now called Akatosh, but this is wrong. Rather this is the Paravant, an immortal demi-god who served as the “high-king” of ancient Cyrodiil. You should know him as Umaril”

[I thought Alessia was the Paravant? {wisdom 75}✓]

“Oh my dear, you have much learn. And in due time, I shall instruct you. But for now, know that the so called ‘Slave Rebellion’  and the subsequent ‘Alessian Covenant’ are inventions of Manic history, little more than comfortable fairy stores. In truth, the ‘Slave-Queen’ took advantage of a civil war between the city-states of the Imperatum Saliache.”

That ends that conversation but once you get 4 ancestors deep, you’ll be able to inquire about the autograph in the notebook. Meanwhile, that damned moth will not leave you alone.

[Who is M.C. ?]

“Ah the signature, of course. Em See stands for Mankar Camoran. The mer is a genius. He actually solved Galerion’s Last Conjecture, as well as authoring many outstanding proofs on Tsirelsyn's Bound and Bal’s Theorem. Of late, he’s done some very beautiful work with the Mythic Dawn. It’s quickly becoming the most fashionable cult in all Nibenay.”

[Mythic Dawn? ✓]
[Tsirelsyn's Bound?]
[Bal’s Theorem?]

“Yes, typical mystery religion. Caves, incense, hierogamic rites; you know the sort. Seignior Camoran invited me to attend, though I’m not the ecclesiastic type.”

6 ancestors deep and you'll get to ask about some tower theory.

"Yes, Merish religion is quite different from Manic. Whereas the  the ancestors of men  gave themselves over to slavish superstitions concerning certain animals painted on the walls of particular caves; our ancestors followed the example of Our Ancestors - who in the dawn laid down Ada-mantia and Ur-mantia."

 "Taken together these towers are the axis-mundi, and the crux of their transcendence. Thus Mer built the towers, our physical religion, our attempt to rejoin the "gods" in an at least one set of infinity."

"Not all mer shared the same vision, though, and thus they built different towers. Crystal-Like-Law, Green-Sap, and perhaps most famously, White-Gold Tower. Beyond their appearance, the exact function of every tower differed as well, which accounts for the differents in merkind. And yet, all towers shared a singular locus alike Ada and Ur - the stone. The 'Amulet' that you seek is one such stone. Perhaps in the days to come I shall expand further your breadth on this topic. But for now, you have an ancestor to seek."

Very legal and very cool. But the real trouble starts when you manage lay hands on the 7th such statue. Shortly thereafter you’ll be confronted by a Colovian named Jonas Inian.

“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice that you happen to have in your possession an exceedingly rare Ayleid artifact. What were planning on doing with that, exactly?”

[I’m going to sell it to Umbacano ✓]
[Why, I’m an avid collector of Ayleid artifacts]
[I’m going to sell it to Nunya]

“Umbacano? UMBACANO?! That old Daedrist? Oh, you’re one of his rent-boys. Careful, they tend to enter that villa of his and never come out.”

“But truly friend, don’t be a grave-robber; that piece belongs in a museum!”

[Aren’t you a grave-robber? ✓]
[I’m going to punch you in the mouth if you don’t move out of my way]
[Excuse me, but Daddy Umbacano is expecting me]

“No. No! I’m a member of the Imperial Antiquarian Society! It’s completely different!”

As this point you can give up, bash his head in, or intimidate him. We’re going with the latter option.

If you inquire about Inian, Umbacano will explain

“Old colleague. We’ve had, shall we say, professional disagreements in the past. The poor dear can’t help but confuse his old boyhood catechism with actual scholarship. More’s the pity. In any even my research has turned up the location of the final ancestor. Here’ I’ll mark on your map.”

However, once you delve the dungeon you notice all the creatures slain, doors unlocked, and treasure looted. In the place of the ancestor, Inian has left us a smug note. Report back to Umbacano and he’ll fume.

“Damn that horrid man! Damn his eyes! Damn him in 16 hells!”

“Well, without a doubt the ancestor will be on display in the society’s museum by now. Retrieving it under normal circumstances would totally impractical, if not impossible. But as luck would have it, the museum is having its annual gala two days from now.”

[Gala? ✓]
[I’ve got a bad feeling about this.]
 [Black cravat or white?]

“The most tedious fete in all Nibenay. Every year, the society wines and dines that dullard Ocato and all the other imperial mandarins in the hope that they won’t touch the already threadbare budget. Not to worry though, I’m technically still a member, so getting you in the door won’t be much of a fuss.”

As this point the game reads your major skills.

If your majors are majority warrior skills:

“Let’s see…hmm, yes, strapping full-harness chap, aren’t you? Well, the museum doors are glyph-warded. It would take an army to batter them down. Fortunately, there’s an alternate route. You see, there’s a fountain in the museum that drains immediately into the subterrene, or “Eyelid City” as the local degeneracy terms it. Quite accessible, really, only there’s a terrible mess of goblins living down there. Not to worry, you’ll have two of my Syffim for assistance”.

 If your majors are majority wizard skills:

“Let’s see…hmm, yes, you are a capable legerdemainist. As luck would have it, the society’s museum features an authentic Velothi propylon. Yours truly is responsible for that particular piece’s addition to the collection. In any event there is a less cosmetically-appealing propylon in storage, along with the index. If you can get to the basement, then locate and attenuate the index, you should be able to teleport in and out without raising any alarms. Do be careful, if the index is improperly attenuated, there will be pieces of you all over Vvardenfell.”

If your majors are majority thief skills:

““Let’s see…hmm, yes, you’re quite nimble and oh so slender. However the doors into the museum are glyph-warded, totally unpickable. I shall have to arraign for a good bit of rope with grappling hook to be placed in the kitchen supply closet. From there, you’ll need to get to the cupola of the museum’s dome. No easy task, but possible. Then you’ll simply need shimmy down to the display and claim the prize. “

If you’ve got speech for a major and it’s ~50ish you have an alternate 4th path that involves seducing the museum’s curator, but that’s initiated by your own volition.

We’ll be overviewing the path of the thief.

Umbacano gets you access by arraigning for you to be hired as wait-staff, complete with monkey-suit. As part of your cover, you assume the name Irlav (regardless of gender) and even report to the head-waiter, a snooty Breton named Choufleur. If you fail a speech-check he’ll actually make you serve canapes. I’m assuming such since that’s fucking hilarious.

You go out onto the floor with your tray of canapes, passing them out to very rude, very Mr. Howell attendees. Any attempt to scarper will get Choufleur on your case threatening you with termination.

Work the room though and you should come across Umbacano trying to conceal his boredom as  Chancellor Ocato talks his ear off about marginal tax rates.

Umbacano will be aghast and excuse himself to take us aside, ostensibly to upbraid us for serving foul-tasting canapes (which no one bats an eye at).

“Are you daft?” he rasps at us “I’m not paying you to amuse these douches!”

[The manager is watching me like a hawk! ✓]
 [You’re not paying me at all!]
[That was clever.]

“Leave him to me!”

After which Umbacano will karen Choufleur’s face off, again, ostensibly about the quality of the canapes. This gives you ample opportunity to get the rope and scarper off.

You sneak and lock-pick your way through a lightly-patrolled sequence of hallways and staircases leading to the roof. From there you’ve got to latch onto the dome’s cupola with the grappling hook then slowly but surely hoist yourself up by the rope. Then its just a simple matter of smashing the louvers open, tying off, and climbing down the rope 200 feet. You go to grab the 8th ancestor statues when a familiar voice shouts out:

“Stop right there!”

You spin. It’s Jonas.

“I knew you’d try something.”

[But how? ✓]
[Is this not the bathroom?]
[Yes, well, I knew that you’d know! Ha ha!]

“Your employer is not nearly as wise nor clever as he believes himself. Whatever he’s promised you, it’s not going to turn it well for anybody.”

[He has the amulet of kings✓]
[If you don’t stop talking, I will punch you in the mouth]
[He has the Lyg-Ma]

“Isn’t that just Jewelry? Wait, was Umbacano involved in the assassination?”

[Yes, and now you’re interfering in an official Blades investigation! Stand down or I’ll charge you with high treason! {speech 75}✓]
[Last chance before I punch you in the mouth]
[No, actually you’re thinking about the red dragon crown]

That scares him off, freeing you to collect the final ancestor and make your escape, just in reverse.

You make your final delivery the next day. Umbacano is really giddy. You are really insistent about getting the Amulet back, as promised. The Altmer assures you, of course, of course, right this way, leading you out of the room and down the hall, Buffo trailing after.

You come up upon a door. Umbacano tells you to wait just there while he unlocks it. Then he bids you come, only see that the door conceals a broom closet. You’d protest, but Buffo throws you in. The door latches tight behind you, amid a flurry of muffled laughter.

You try picking it, spelling it, hitting it, yelling at it, to no avail. You’re up shit creek with no paddle. Plenty of brooms though.

Here’s where things get Metal Gear Solidy. If you just wait two hours, eventually a Khajiiiti housekeeper will unlock the closet in search of a broom. She’s shocked, apparently they didn’t bother to tell her about the adventurer being held captive the broom closet.

You excuse yourself politely, or kill her, I don’t really care, and begin your sweep of the Palazzo. You encounter a handle of hostile house-guards, but you should be more than capable of taking them by now.

Eventually you’ll come across Jollring doing some paperwork. Under duress he’ll reveal that his master is enacting his master plan in the basement.

The basement door is kept by Buffo though. He’s a tough fight, but manageable.

After he’s dead, you rush to the basement to find Umbacano surrounded by the ancestors, proudly wearing the amulet of kings on his chest.

“You’re too late!” he’ll cackle like a Saturday-morning cartoon villain “The ritual has already begun. Fear not, for before your gruesome end, you shall bear sacred witness to the advent of the First Emissary of the Stars!”

Then the fucking chanting starts.

Varla Ageil Remer Liega Alrav! Alrav Liega Remer Ageil Varla!

The Amulet is a red sun. The ancestors are blue moons. You’re pretty sure it’s not safe to be in the same room as all this glowing shit.

“Yes! Yes! I can feel the power of the gods flowing through me! How it burns! Ha ha! Look upon me, mortal clod! Worship me, you unmade clay! Ha ha!”

The room has started shaking violently, the ancestors sprout tendrils, no, “tongues”. This is definitely not safe.

“After I have ascended I shall individually pluck every blood vessel from that race-traitor Ocato’s wretched body! Ha ha! I see all! I hear all! I am all!”

Before your eyes Umbacano shifts into a buxom-young female Nord. Then an elderly Khajiit, hunched and hairless with age, then 20 more races you can’t be sure of, all different genders and builds. Every second another possipoint is realized and obliterated in a foam of memory that is swiftly devoured by the “tongue” of an ancestor.  Then the abhorrent, rapidly collapsing false-vacuum that was Umbacano starts to scream in every voice.

“I am all! I am He! WE…ARE…" there's struggle before the last bit, "ALL...”

Then he isn’t. The ancestors finish their soul-cappuccino. The lights die. The Amulet clatters lifelessly to the ground. You collect it and quietly show yourself out, not daring to touch the ancestors.

anti-crocodile's picture
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Hyacintho Quietus wrote:

snip

Righteously cool. I hope the brooms in this closet are uniquely equippable as weaponry.

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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They are, but their effectiveness is governed by the new broom skill.

...

So after a stiff drink and a very long shower, you head back down to the St. Orsede Quai only to find that the door to the safe-house above the Knight and Snail has been smashed in, the furniture absolutely ransacked.

You fumble about the mess for a bit before Laughing-Through-Your-Fingers comes in after.  He explains that you were right, Martin living above a bar was a terrible idea since it wasn’t long before he started blabbing to all the alewives that he was the Emperor’s heir.

Well, word got around and some hooded types came round one night and bought Marty a few bottles of the top-shelf stuff, getting him good and stumbling drunk. Then when he went out to use the Niben as his privy, they easily black-bagged and stuffed him into unmarked gondola and made off – according to the more intelligible barflies.

Some good news though, The Stringfellow finally came in. He’ll take you too it.

Once embarked on the Stringfellow, you’re taken below deck to take council with Kohl, Starkweather, and Cosades.  You spend the first few rounds of the skull session explaining the business with Umbacano.

“Captain Starkweather will safeguard the amulet for now. Good work, all things considered. Don’t blame yourself about Martin, though, we should have been here much, much sooner. Terrible squall around Haven, nearly ran us aground. But this is no time to be lamenting cruel fate. We’ve got to get the heir back, assuming they haven’t already done the despicable.”

[How do we know they already haven’t? ✓]

“Your tongue, Knight-brother. We live and die by the eminent grace of the Dragonborn. We shall find him.”

[What’s the plan? ✓]

“First we need to know our enemy’s shape.  And the most likely shapes, I must imagine, are quite Imperial.”

[What are you getting at?✓]

“I’ve received some troubling intelligence while in Haven that the pretenders were already amassing their partisans before the assassins struck. Thus I believe that the likely culprits are among those who are currently vying for the throne.”

[Where do we start?✓]

“I’ll give you the first pick: Reistr War-Haft, Juliano Parnum, or Caulus Voria.”

[Reistr War-Haft, ✓]
[Juliano Parnum]
[Caulus Voria]

“Ah yes, His Excellency, Elder-Councilor for Western Skyrim, Chair of the Undercouncil For The Defense of The Imperium, formerly a Legion commander of prodigious rank. He’s long claimed to be a scion of the blood through the Mantiarco line. In recent years he’s consolidated Cyrodiil’s various Tiberian heresies, molding them in a singular sect that is quite scandalous even for Nibenay: They call themselves the Red Templars.”

[Tiberian Heresies ✓]
[Sounds spooky]
[Right, let’s take ‘em on.]

“We Blades are but the martial edge of the Order of Talos, the True Faith of the Dragonborn. But Nibenese frivolity being as it is, has produced a litany of false histories and fever dreams. Most are harmless parlor-fancies of the bored and well-heeled, thus ignored like any casual Daedrism; Some, however required the application of several of our edges. I believe these Templars to be the latter.”

[Right, let’s take ‘em on. ✓]
[Nibenese frivolity?]
[Order of Talos?]

“Your enthusiasm is admirable, but enthusiasm is in no small surplus these days. Recall that outside of this room, no one is to be trusted fully, not even the other seneschals of this vessel. In happier days, it would be a small matter to send a good retinue of picked-men to deal with the problem. Yet now we have no such luxury. We shall have to proceed slowly and with caution: sheathed is the word to mind.”

[Meaning? ✓]

“I will have you infiltrate the Red Templars. Seek them out, pass whatever trials you must to earn your way in, and learn as much as you can. At the same time, Kohl, you are to do the same with Voria’s group. I will pursue Parnum's operation. “

[And if I find Martin✓]

“For Aether’s sake, keep him out of this accursed city. You’ll do best to go north, following the silver road. At Bruma, take the northern fork – the sign should still read ‘Hestra Stone Road’. It’s steep and rough, enough that you’d swear it’s nothing but a goat path, but keep at it and soon the crags will open on a small valley with a fast fort. Martin will be safe there until we can argue his claim to the Elder Council.”

You’re swiftly dismissed, though no sooner do your feet touch the docks does that little moth Vani return to pester you to listen to her. You swat her away again and proceed on your mission.

You start by asking around about the Red Templars. Eventually you’ll be directed to the Basilica of Horns, in Sardevere. It’s an imposing thing, like a fully pagan Castel Sant’Angelo patrolled by extras from one those shitty 70s gladiator movies.

You’ve got options here, of course, but we’re going for the infiltrator approach, which starts with you being challenged at the gate by a Nord who is a rip of He-man with the serial numbers filed off.

This is Jassi The Body.

“Who dare treads to the gate of the Red Temple?” he booms.

[I would join the Red Templars✓]
[A True Templar of Crimson Creed! I was robbed of my personal effects, hence why I should lack the proper raiment {Speech 100}]
[How ‘bout I punch your teeth down your throat? That answer your question? {Strength 100}]

“As would many, but so few are worthy. Prove your metal, best me in honorable combat, and you shall be started along the red road.”

So just the retread of the Tsun fight from Skyrim, whittle his health until he’s satisfied, then he’ll stop combat and let you inside.

From there a sweaty-Hercules will direct you to Ornald Sword-Edger, the Warpriest. You find him in the great hall of the Temple, which is basically an arena with lots of minotaur statues, and boy is he the sweatiest and Herculesiest of the bunch.

As you approach you get to bare witness as he’s just finishing his daily performance of the Sacrament of the Ruby Host, whereby he dips a chalice into a literal tauroctonic blood-fountain and feeds the red drink to a succession of faithful musclemen, their already bulging muscles bulging to even more ludicrous degrees before your very eyes. Once finished and the recipients are all amped up, hooting and head-butting each other, you’re allowed to approach.

“Ah, fresh blood. Welcome, my son, to the house that shall never fall. Accept these and wear them proudly” he awards us our own ludicrous 70s gladiator armor and weapons and refused to continue until you don them.

“Alas, though you have proven yourself worthy to enter the Red Temple, you have not yet proven yourself worthy of the holy draught.”

[Holy draught?✓]

“All in good time. For now, I would have you do a service for our Lord Reistr.”

[What kind of service? ✓]

“A pretender has emerged from under some damp rock. They would lay claim to the sunder-seat, which is properly the Tiberson’s. End their blasphemes; bring me the head of Martin The Septim.”

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Hyacintho Quietus wrote:
 snip 

Would you like to know more?
Yes 
No

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Sword-Edger dispatches us to Bravil Parish, where Martin has supposedly set himself up with a nice bevy of followers flocking to the renown of the hero of Kvatch.  Along the way you’ll come across the occasional mob of citizens angry over food-shortages, refugees, racial-justice, the rising Niben, the price of tea, foreign wars, the simulacrum, syndicates of Wizards, the lowering Niben, the Numidium, and public decency.  Careful if they should corner you, you’ll need to profess your love for that particular crowd’s chosen candidate or you face a thrashing.

Anyway, poke around Bravil enough and you’ll be directed to a dilapidated Palazzo right on the edge of the red river, so much that’s it actually in the process of sinking into it. At the mossy gates you’ll be challenged by some underfed, unwashed guards fitted with thin newt-scale and fish-gutter knives. They’re an easy fight but even cheaper to bribe.

Inside, it’s mostly mudcrabs and sugarteeth coming down off a bad trip, but after wading through heavily-graffitoed squatter’s digs and brakish water, you’ll find yourself in the 30-degree sloping former master suite of the Palazzo, face to face with Martin Septim.

And he’s a Khajiit.

Under the duress of you holding a sharp object to his throat, he’ll reveal that he’s just your everyday crime boss exploiting the breakdown of society for his own benefit. The new renown of Martin Septim was too tempting for him to not utilize.

So do with him what thou wilt. We’re taking his head.

Returning it to Ornald earns you praise and a chalice of red drink, which boosts your stats and makes people look like goblins. No, this is a completely original idea, thank you very much.

Then you’re given a short series of go-here and kill-that missions, each one earning you another draught of the red stuff and higher esteem from the Sword-Edger. Though you would note that over the course of your duties, you might note your comrades are becoming more, shall, we say bullish, with every tipple.

Then finally Sword-Edger tasks you along with Jassi, a Redguard named Lazavard, and a Colovian named of Hirtav - to delve to the depths of the Basilica and recover the Lord’s Mail, which is supposedly buried in the ancient crypt of Morihaus.

Yes, that Morihaus.

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It’s a standard dungeon crawl in the catacombs of the Basilica, hacking away at draugr-like mummified saints that grow more and more bull-like as you progress through the root-strangled depths.

You may also note that your companions are likewise progressing, though they aren’t like to comment on it.

You do pass some interesting if crumbling frescos that seem to depict a man with a sun for his left hand killing a mer with horns and wing by a stroke to the neck, and some sort of goddess emerging fully-formed from the wound.  This doesn’t receive commentary either.

Then finally, you reach the bottom, the tomb of the demi-god Morihaus. You hack away the roots the ceiling the stone door to that holy sepulcher, revealing the often referenced, little seen, Reistr Warhaft, in the flesh, which happens to have a parasitic hist tree attached to it, draining him of his blood.

Ornald Sword-Edger emerges now, slow clapping.

“Behold the true lord’s mail – the head waters of the holy draught, new blood, which it is your honor to restore.”

[Restore?✓]
[Oh god, I drank so much of that.]
[Is he gonna be alright?]

“Indeed. Holy Reistr has served his purpose and is all but drained, so it is only right that this Tiberson should be released and allowed to rejoin the Stormcrown in Atmora. You, Martin, who fools would call Septim, shall be our new Tiberson.”

[I’m not Martin ✓]
[You’re looking for Martin? Me too?]
[Forsooth! The Tiberson commands you to stop being creepy blood-drinking creeps!]

“There is little use in denying you true fate, come now, allow the vampire-tree to embrace your neck veins, new blood. Don’t dishonor yourself, not now.”

But dishonor yourself you do, and all four of these mofos burst their skins and transform into full blown minotaurs which you’ve got to fight/magic/stealth at once.

Once they’re all dead your free to move about the chamber, touch stuff, steal urns, mess with Reistr (who only groans in response), or see what’s up with the super creepy bull-shaped sarcophagus.

Then you return to the Stringfellow. Or at least you attempt to, since once you turn the corner on the Quai, you’ve got a front row seat to watch some more alien-foreskin-goons kill Captain Starkweather, steal the amulet, then set the ship on fire.

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 Now the little moth will not let up.

“Hey! Listen!” she screams in your ear until you stop swatting at her and relent to the conversation prompt. 

At which point, she insists you follow her to the Temple of the Ancestor Moth, Vengheto Parish, ducking suspicious Imperial horsehairs the whole way. Swirling rumors and freshly plastered propaganda suggest that there’s been change in administration.

 

Once at the temple though, you worm your way past frenzied, dai-katana licking sisters of the Ancestor Moth until you reach the very heart of the pagan fane, the pale and lurid Sphinxmoth Inquiry Tree, it’s thick, corded branches heavy with musty, magenta saps and with many millions of ancestors feeding upon that same phloem.

As you approach, a wave of moths rise and break, their fluttering forming the ghostly, interlaced outline of  a former monk.

 “Welcome, child” The apparition greets you in a pulsing, staccato cadence, the moth’s best approximation of human speech. “Excuse my lack of proper form; I was Nu-Hatta.”

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I want more!!!

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[What happened to you?✓]

[Bad day?]

[Gotta lay off the skoom…]

“Murdered, cruelly, while I prevailed upon your agnate-brother, Worshipful Geldall, to act against the Dagonites. The Assassin came as a cupbearer; She opened me from the wrist up to my elbow when I offered my glass for the wine..”

 

[Geldall? Prince Geldall? He wasn’t my brother✓]

[Uh, tough brake.]

[It’s always the cupbearers]

The Moth-cloud squints at you.

“Are you not the lost princeling, Fertor, now called Martin?”

 

[No✓]

[No. I’m not even a Cyrodil!]<if char is not imperial>

[No. I'm, not even a man!]<if char is not male-identifying]

[Yes, I am, sorry. Geldall was just such a useless jerk.]

“Surely you do not think that the pretender that the putrid toad Parnum is parading around is the true prince of the blood?”

 

[Pretender?✓]

Nu-Hatta disperses and covers us in a moths. Their fluttering becomes lines, analog lines which interlace and becomes a VHS-quality memospore of Martin,  yes, our Martin, quite drunk during his formal coronation with the red dragon crown by Ocato. Notably, Cosades and Jauffre flank his side, in full Blades kit.

 

The spore fast-forwards. Now we're at the summit of White-Gold Tower. Martin lights the Dragonfires. He does not have the Amulet in his possession, however.

 

The moths leave us and reform into Nu-Hatta.

 

[That’s no pretender, that’s Martin! The real Martin!✓]

“A false distinction. It may that he is dragon-blooded, though I am not convinced, but certainly that creature is not dragon-born. He lights the supreme votive, the act itself a lie, yet he does not hold even a hint of the supreme hecatomb; Meanwhile,The shadow of the king’s heart is still upon you. Recall, my prince: Aad semblio impera, dela can carpio semblex!” 

[What?✓]

[Yes. This makes sense.]

[Maybe you should lay off the skoom.]

“As in the image of the kings, become the hearts of their shadows? Hmm? Bah! The benefits of a Colovian education. I shall attempt to tutor you to the best of my fleeting memory as we go. But time is of the essence - every mislaid minute brings us closer to an Elfin triumph. To that end we must recover the amulet.”

[Where do I start?✓]

[I’m having doubts about all of this.]

[How do I know this isn’t just a moth-plot to eat all my good woolen clothes?]

“You will have to infiltrate Nibenay’s main Dagonite cult, the Mythic Dawn. You know of them and their lot; Umbacano saw to that. Seek them in the Market of St. Huna in Leiaviin, where all foul things have their start.”

“But be awares my prince, for as  I proclaim you, you denounced amongst former allies. So until we can contend otherwise, you should do well to avoid His Majesty's Finest.”

 

“And before I forget: Your first lesson, liege: Aad semblio impera, dela can carpio semblex.”

[The king’s image...turns into...the hearts of the shadows, right?✓]

[Not this again.]

[Shneed shnodd crom lapew. Yes. Very good.]

“The shadows in kingly hearts are images of as. That is to say, as I have show you Them, I have also shown Them, You. Do not return here. I shall contact by appropriate means once you have the amulet. Until then, we must be less than shadows.”

Nu-Hatta disperses. Time to get to work. 

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This bittersweet satyr play in nibenese river-baroque and realism-magic is exactly what the preceding tragedy of Cyrod deserved.

[A cupbearer wispered to me that the Grand Vizier greatly enjoyed this work so far and now calls for continuations. Is that true? ✓]

 

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The Market of St. Huna is famous for two things: fish and affordable prostitutes. Our investigation will get us involved in the later, as all our sleuthing amounts to one result:“Ask forThe Madman at the Badabi-Ng Cornerclub”

 

Located at the end of a particularly low-rent fisherman's wharf, the Club's staff of Hlaalu-sworn gangsters caters to the whims of low-lifes of means. Their stock of sugarstuck ingenues comes in from all over the Empire, trafficked in Nordic fishing trawlers to avoid the dues and rules of the Harlot's Guild. That lot has quite a bit of pull with Census and Excise, so the custom is to ask the publican about the seafood menu.

“Lean pickin’s ” the fat Moreech laments in a Balmoral accent “ only got a Toothfish, Flounder, or Mackerel left.”

 

Quite the riddle, but quick dip into an Ichthyology skill-book will reveal the correct answer:

 

[Mackerel✓] 

[Toothfish]
[Flounder]

 

“A discerning connoisseur. 2 hunnert Seppies. No, and I repeat, No refunds.”

Pay or speech, you’re instructed to go to a certain door. Past that boundary, you’ll find a small room, appointed in cheap silk and way too many pillows. Oh, and Ruma Camoran.

 

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“I know who you are,” Ruma scolds, hefting up a jagged morningstar “offer me none of your wormish excuses, vile, pathetic, cretin. Because I know you. I know your game.” She pops her Dawnie armor.

You try for the door but it's locked. 

She’s inches from you. You’re pinned. A moth has wandered in. It’s particularly concerned with the art-nouveau vanity mirror on the farside of the room.

Her armor’s biomechanical cowl rectracts.

“You’re just a dirty, little whore.” she kisses us. 

 

Whew.

“Alright, buddy, before we get serious: What’s your safeword? Something simple. I’ve brained more dumb, old bastards than I can remember because they chose some ridiculous personal mantra.”

[Actually I’m here about the Mythic Dawn...✓]

[Muatra]

[Amalur]

Her eyes narrow.

“You are no worm then, eh? Your tail has venom in it? Yes. You would destroy the worms and vermin of this world?”

[Yes✓]

[What is it with everyone and their fucking tortured metaphors in this goddamn city?]

[Just the vermin. Worms are actually quite beneficial symbiotic organisms!]

“We shall see. Hmm...The time has come I suppose” she drops the morningstar on the bed and takes a seat at the vanity, which is fully stocked with bottom-shelf flin.She bats the moth to the floor before pouring herself a tipple 

“I was Ruma, Daughter of the Prophet, Mankar,” she explains while looking back at us from the mirror “Now I am Pelagia, princeling’s quim. Yet soon I will be Ruma, Mother of the Prophet.”

Ruma drops her poison. The burn seethes through her whole body. Then she death-glares us.

“Destroy this one. Ruin this corrupted flesh; Set me free, and I shall free you in kind .”

[This feels, um, wrong, somehow✓]

[This is shamefully exploitative, and worse, hacky]

[Kinky]

“The Mythic Dawn is not some idle parlor-cult! Dagon does not dwell in ciphers, the first letters of paragraphs. He is the knives and stones of the mob; He is the wave that rips the shore; He is the quaking that cracks the Earth!” She sucks several fingers directly from the flin bottle now. She is a mean drunk. “So fucking kill me or get the fuck out!”

Without any other recourse, we’ve just to pick up the mace and give Ruma’s skull some good yeoman’s work.

However, after the first strike, she hits us with another curve-ball: “Help! Help! This maniac is trying to kill me!”

 Instantly, there’s pounding on the door. “Pelagia! Pelagia!” The bouncers call “We’re coming in!” 

Ruma smashes her bottle into a nord-knife on the vanity mirror and thrusts for your neck. You’ve no choice but to finish the job.

The pounding gives way to battering. The door starts to splinter. The dawnie armor dissipates, leaving you alone with a dead-girl, no alibi, and nothing to show for it.

Then the moth resumes with bothering the mirror.

The bouncers are nearly through.

Pulling away shards of silvered glass reveals a small bundle that was concealed in the mirror.

No time to open it now. The lock cracks free from the doorframe and the throng of Hlaalu thugs gives a shout “They’ve killed Pelagia! Get ‘em!” There’s too many. You’ve got to pitch yourself out the window, landing in a conveniently placed chum-barrel just below. From there, it’s easy enough to scarper to safety before you can be caught. 

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Once you're a safe distance away, you open bundle to reveal a set of four keys and strip of paper with a stone rubbing of an Ayleidoon inscription on in.  You cannot read Ayleidoon, so this constitutes a problem.

Asking around the bookshops of the city will get you pointed to The Imperial Library, yes The Imperial Library, in Artemon. Your wanted posters are everywhere in the stacks, so you've got to be sly, or wear a cloak, whatever, but poke around enough and you'll be directed to the tiny corner office of Enh, a tiny Nord specialist in extinct languages.

"That appears to be a funerary inscription" she squints at the rubbing "Prince...hmm...Camarril. The name is unfamiliar, though that script is terminus ante quem the third century of the first era, without a doubt."

You press her further, but she insists her specialty is dead tongues, not people, so you'll have to inquire elsewhere for more clues.

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Dig deep enough and you'll get to mucking about in the heavily guarded 'Obscure Texts' section, where you'll locate Imperial Survey of Ayleid Cenotaphy by Sherene of Baw-Gher. This text will map the seriations of Ayleid funerary monuments in the Imperial city by location, allowing us to peg the location of Prince Camarril's tomb in Green Emperor Way.

Once located, we've got to do a bit of the ol' graverobbing, though as you approach the slab-bound Prince, he suddenly sits upright and greets you with his rictal grin.

"Dawn is breaking!" Camarril rasps.

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“The Mythic Dawn is not some idle parlor-cult! Dagon does not dwell in ciphers, the first letters of paragraphs."

Sick burn!!!

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Best mod I've ever played.

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This is excellent. I want more!

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[Prince Camarril, I presume? ✓]

The Lich's milky eyes scan you with confusion.

"Indeed, my sweet Perrif, have you spent so much time amongst the Kreath? Certainly your speech has suffered; What a dreadful accent you have acquired."

[{Speech 50} A thousand pardons, my Prince, yes, the Kreathmen have such strange tongue-custom. I shall endeavor to speak our rightsome idiom henceforth. I pray you suffer such a career.✓]
[This mistaken identity shit is getting old, fast.]
[Yeah well, at least I got lips, pal!]

"With becoming grace and enormous patience, my Perrif. Yet we mustn't tarry, as I've said, Dawn is Breaking and I fear to great the new day."

[I ken not your meaning, fair prince.]
[Which means?]
[Spit it out already, bone-bag!]

"These Kreathmen must keep current if their colony is to survive! I shall have to send them better council than splitmer trobairitz when this revolting chore is ended. But lo, Morihame-El, Sardavar Leed's blooded own has betrayed the Imperatum. Long has that Pseudo-Xarxes preached heresy,  and too long have we tolerated such violence against The Covenant. It is my own failure I fear, too long did I let him languish in the Savage Garden. But now he has at last raised his hand against us."

[And this relates to sunrise, how?]
[Mori...hame...El?]
[Savage Garden?]

Camarril would smile if his mummified face wasn't permanently set in a desiccated rigor.

"Better that you should remain ignorant of his hateful dwimmers, my child. Or do you jest? It matters not but surfeits to say, Prince Sardavar and his school of idiots would destroy us and all that we have wrought. To that end, they have doutered the Aka, stolen The Paravant, and made for Gaiar Alata, where the last and, indeed first, sunrise will commence unless we swiftly intercede."

[Gaiar Alata? ]
[The Aka? Wait...They snuffed out Akatosh?]
[He stole the Paravant? Don't you mean...er...kidnapped?]

"Paradise. A void meridian. A locus, at least. Well, a palimpsest, really, where the Nefarivigum once stood, but no matter; Morihame-El has his school with him, protecting him in his mad errand. Therefore go with blessed Umaril and his janissaries, all good and star-made knights, and put these heretics to the sword. Then return the Paravant to the Aldmeri Canosel. I shall await you there to complete the Coven rites."

[I have sooo many questions. ]
[I'm not going anywhere with Umaril!]
[Uh, why is it necessary for you to translate only plot-relevant words? Are we speaking Ayleid or not?]

"They shall have to wait, my Perrif. Umaril and his band presently await you in my fastest triremes, at the Fanacas Jetty. Go with The Light and Tread Lightly."

You'd question him further, but Camarril's lichification was apparently cheaply done, so he'll just loop back  around and repeat this conversation until his magicka runs out. Lesson here is to never skimp on necromantic procedures.

Nevertheless, once you've been charged with this millennia-old mission, what jerky-flesh remains on Camarril's actual chest will retract. revealing a smaller treasure-chest within the sternum. Using one of the keys provided by Ruma will open it, providing you with 1/4 of the now infamous Mythic Dawn Giger-armor, whether you want it or not. Whatever. Now you've got a Gaiar Alata to find.

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This gets weirder and weirder.

Keep up the good work!

(Am I supposed to be able to understand any of this?)

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How close can we get? I know there are a bunch of jungle mods, and Mir Corrup's in The Stranded Light, IIRC. For a start.

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Unhappily, not a single cartomonger or geomancer in the City can offer so much as an old napkin that betrays a hint toward the location of Gaiar Alata.

Try the Imperial Library again and you'll find it absolutely crawling with horsehairs, the Watch having been tipped off by a certain tiny Nord linguist. Steal inside anyway and you'll discover all the relevant materials having  seemingly been deliberately expunged - pages ripped from bindings, maps stained with strange new continents of ink.

Palazzo Nornali is another dead end. The new owner, an Orcish avant-garde sculptor of some reknown, had all of Umbacano's research materials thrown into the Niben. The Ancestor statutes were apparently gone when he moved in.

The Imperial Antiquarian Society is your last hope. At the Society's Museum atrium, you're barely greeted by a barely extant Nibenese receptionist, so shrunken by more than a century in red-river heat that she’s mostly perfumed boned wrapped in silks at this point.  

“The society is closed.” She grumbles as she applies a fresh spritz of perfume, on account of your dreadful odor.

[But sign says you’re open ‘til 5.]
[Lady, you don’t know the half of it!]
[Look tutz, we can do this the easy way, or the hardway.]

She’s nonplussed. Meanwhile you’re starting to draw a crowd, mostly guild-condottiere, in fact, totally guild boys. Seems after that high-profile heist a month or so ago, the Society’s invested itself with some tougher security.

“That sign,” she croaks on “pertains to our membership and good citizenry of the gentle class; The Society does not entertain the whims of every pool of gutter scum that gurgles up over the threshold. Now I shall thank you to quit without, or I shall I have our Syffim accompany you?”

You can fight, but speech is always an option.

[{Speech 50} But my dear Seigniora, I am the right emissary of  Umbacano of Holdfast. Presently, Seignior Holdfast has dispatched me to fetch some personal papers from his office. Which way to your Ayleid department?]
[That won’t be necessary; I’ll just kill them all here.]
[Look, I just wanted to check out the giftshop.]

That cinches it. Unsurprisingly, the old battleaxe isn’t up on current events. From here, you’re directed to the Malada Cloister, which purports to be an 1:1 authentic recreation of the High Fane around the time of the Alessian Revolt. 

You find it to be impressive, given to the contrast to lifelessness of current-day Ayleid structures, but unfortunately it contains to information on Gaiar Alata. The youthful docents posted nearby have never heard of the place either, but they suggest asking The Curator, who as luck would have it, is one of the world’s leading experts on Ayleid civilization.

Knock on his door and you’ll be beckoned in. And he’s Jonas Inian. 

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“Oh, it’s you.” Jonas will grumble.

[Don’t look so excited.]
[I still owe you that punch in the mouth.]
[Have you yet discovered the Ancient Treasure of Jhoe?]

Inian produces a Handcandle from his desk. If you imagine the lovechild of a matchlock pistol and a thurible, you won’t be far off the mark. He aims the quite large barrel of the weapon at you. 

“Excited? No, I’m absolutely ecstatic to see you again. Your burglary cost the previous curator her job. Never got the chance to thank you.”

[Then why are you pointing that thing at me?]
[I’m pretty sure I can punch you in the mouth before you get a shot off.]
[Always glad to burgle for a good cause.]

“Because after your little affair with Umbacano, I was the prime suspect! The Watch stuck me in a crab-cage for a month trying to force a confession. It wasn’t until the Palace released your arrest warrant that they let me out.”

[Arrest warrant?]
[Umbacano murdered his own damn self. I did kill his goons, though.]
[Feh, only a month? I’ve done 12 or so just for stealing, and the cage had a live crab still in it.]

Inian gestures to the wall, where your formal wanted poster hangs. Underneath an unflattering portrait, listed crimes include (but are not limited to) conspiring to usurp His Imperial Reign, regicide-most-inglorious of Holy Uriel, and failure to pay a guild-registered harlot for services rendered.  The reward offered for your capture or corpse is 10 million septims. 

“As you can see, I’m well within my rights to shoot you, have our guild-lackeys kick in your teeth, then hand you over for a hefty payday. Why, it’s even my civic duty.”

[Well, what’s stopping you?]
[That’s it, I’m punching you in the mouth!]
[Yeah, but you’d probably waste the money on something stupid, like research or charity.]

“Because, despite how much I personally resent you,” Jonas explains as he sets the handcandle down “this has got to be the dumbest plot I’ve ever been expected to swallow! Seriously. This makes the Simulacrum look credible.”

[That’s a relief.]
[It’s not that dumb…]
[Wait, are you a Simulacrum-denier?]

“I don’t know what those two Blades thought they were fooling” he laughs “I mean, it’s obvious that you’re just a dope-lackey being led around by the nose.”

[What two Blades?]
[Thanks for the vote of confidence.]
[Hey now, I may be a dope, but I’m nobody’s lackey!]

“Frequent visitors during my stay in The Bastion. An Altmer and a Nord. Hogwallis and Richton, I think. Very eager to find you.”

[So will you help me?]
[I’ve heard those names before.]
[This is starting to sound like a joke.]

“Hmm. Maybe. I’m still not really sure how trustworthy you are. So ask, and you might receive.”

[I need to find Gaiar Alata.]
[You are a cagey-ass fuck, you know that?]
[I need to find the lost city of Dyz.]

Inian laughs deeply.

[What?]
[I haven’t ruled out punching you in the mouth, buddy.]
[I don’t think I pronounced it that badly…]

“It’s all starting to make sense now. Did you know that over the past century, the main inquiry of our department has been exactly that? The location of Paradise. Fascinating. Truly fascinating.”

[Well, do you know where it is?]
[Who’s been inquiring?]
[How would I have known that?]

“Of course. It’s at the bottom of Niben Bay. It sank before Alessia’s time.”

[Is there any way to access it?]
[This revised time-line makes no fetching sense.]
[I've got like five different spells for this exact problem, bruh.]

"Maybe. Supposedly, Varsa Baalim had some sort of back-door or secret bridge or something that linked to it."

[Varsa Baalim? ✓]
[How can a bridge be secret?]
[Betting the door's underwater too, bub.]

"Ayleid necropolis. I think. The surviving texts aren't really clear. And the back-door is only a legend. It may not even exist. It might remain, but only serve as a death-trap. I don't know. Nobody we've sent that way has even reported back."

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Inian’s directions take you south, to Vengheto parish. In transit (because there is no free fast-travel in my fake mod) the rumor mill inundates you with the usual chaff of impending societal collapse. Apparently, Martin’s coronation has done little to quell the ongoing crisis. Minor towers across Tamriel continue to fall into Oblivion, ceding greater vastnesses of Tamriel to the Deadlands. 

Not even the Capitol is safe, as one of the lesser spires of White-Gold succumbed to Dagon’s reach.. After a bloody struggle, the Imperial Battlemage and the Palace Guard managed to beat the Daedra back to the tower and corden them within, stitching the immediate wound to the actual empire. But the damage that had been done to Empire Actual’s reputation would prove harder to staunch. 

Shaken by Martin’s inability to ward his seat, the Battlemages assigned to Caulus Voria’s execution detail stayed their hands, even unfettering his and allowing him to escape. Some days later, Uriel’s former brother-in-law surfaced aboard the Akatosh Battlespire, where he crowned himself as Emperor Geldall Septim Voria I. He now enjoys the confidence the Battlemage College, though most of the spires have not yet openly declared for him.

After Chorrol was destroyed by Daedra, the Colovian Estates declared for Janus Hassildor at Sancre Tor. He takes the name Reman IV. Martin would move against him, but the threat of rampant Hellportals and Rogue wizard spacestations forces him to consolidate his forces.

Orsinium is able to repel the Daedra, albeit  at great cost, while Hammerfell and High Rock are ravaged. Incensed, the two launch a campaign that destroys the weakened Orc homeland. But before they can celebrate, Dagon’s forces return and wipe out the crusaders, leaving their homelands vulnerable to further incursion and in-fighting, as the survivors seek to shirk their blame for the disaster. 

Syndicates of wizards in Summurset are boycotting Tamriel entirely, sequestering large portions of the isles in their Dracochrysalids to wait out the invasion. Meanwhile, the lower phyle are left to fend for themselves in the numantial wastes.

After Silvenar is engulfed in Dremora, several pseudo-Mankar Camorans emerge in Valenwood, each claiming more loudly than the last to be the heir of the Hart-King and the liberator of the Bosmer. They’re all killed violently when a new Wild Hunt sweeps the country.

King Helseth was killed in the defense of Mournhold (which Dagon supposedly led himself), prompting House Hlaalu to invite the newly declared High-King Ysashe of Skyrim to invade in support of his heir, Hlaalu Pelagius Hlaalu, against the Redoran-Dres-Indoril coalition under the Hortatorship of the Nerevarine. The fighting is unnecessarily cruel and bloody, with the winner often ambushed by Dremora anyway. 

The Telvanni, as usual, prefer to remain uninvolved and just shack up with Sanguine in one of The Myriad.  The Reach secedes from Skyrim entirely under  the Nightshade Sisters while Haafingar declares for Reman IV. Rohlstain, King of Falkreath, declares himself to be Emperor, but he is roundly ignored until the daedra destroyed his fledgling empire. 

The major Imperial settlements of Black Marsh are all overrun with daedra. No other news emerges from Argonia.

Anyway, you find yourself in Vengheto parish, not far off the shore of the red-river, in a complex of warehouses. Winding through the narrow gray canyons of brick and concrete, eventually you'll emerge into a piazza long-since forgotten to all but the warehouse porters, who take their meager lunches there. At  its center is the ominous temple of an extinct cult, falling to ruin from what was obviously centuries of neglect.

Inside, you'll find a vast yet crumbling dome, all done in elaborately carved stone now cracked by the advance of gnarly roots, which has allowed the pooling of stagnant water where grows all manner of fetid things. At the center of the ruin, in the stream of the light that the great dome's oculus admits, is the mostly-intact fane prominently featuring the likeness of a four-headed goddess in once-elegant statuary. Empty sockets and  glittering edges indicate extensive looting. The smashed noses on all four of her faces evinces an iconoclastic period or two.

Surrounding the divine effigy are 19 stone sarcophaguses. Their slabs are carved with the supine figures of martyrs, lesser gods even. It’s hard to tell, since they evidently weren’t spared the iconoclasm either. The full inventory for those who like a a challenge:

Figure 1 is an old man, almost cocooned in fibrous strands.

Figure 2 is a beetle with a mostly intact human face and mason’s tools.

Figure 3 is a troubadour, feathered with many arrows while his lyre lies broken at his feet.

Figure 4 is a very large woman, we’re talking willendorf proportions here, bearing an amphora under each arm.

Figure 5 is an armored figure, gripping a spear in a humorously incorrect manner.

Figure 6 is a man belching up another man belching up another man.

Figure 7 is a reverse mermaid, that is, a fish the legs of a woman.

Figure 8 is a woman with her arm and legs inverted. Her feet-hands grasp an astrolobe.

Figure 9 is a motley fool, his body a motley of different faces. Most have been smashed.

Figure 10 is a young man, dressed and bearded with fire.

Figure 11 is a woman lying prone.

Figure 12 is a young and old woman lying side-by-side.

Figure 13 is a blind woman, carrying her own eyes in an incense brazier.

Figure 14 is a tiger with the (smashed) face of a man.

Figure 15 is an infant seated on a crescent moon.

Figure 16 is a bearded philosopher type, one hand actually a foot, the other, of course, made of eyes.

Figure 17 is a hunter. In one hand, his bow and some arrows. In the other, he holds his own dismembered deer-head.

Figure 18 is a young, sword-grasping man. His torso is a skeletal rib-cage, imprisoning a star.

Figure 19 is an old woman, draped in the flayed skin of her younger self. 

If you know, you know. Otherwise, you’ll have to brute force it. Most of the sarcophaguses contain brown water and bones. One or two may contain a live lich. But eventually you’ll find a ladder concealed in Figure 16’s box. It takes you to Varsa Baalim.