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Table of Contents

⟶ On Survival, Eloise Motierre...

⟶ Memoir, Valyrie Honey-Glade...

⟶ First-Person Accounts on the Middle Dawn, Akamai and Satamai Woebrooke-Caria...

⟶ A Necromancer and Her Dog...

⟶ A Moment's Peace...

⟶ The Legend of Barrowost Crypt...

⟶ The Eldest Daughter, the Second Scheme...

⟶ The Four Princes' Pact...

⟶ The Massacre of the Priory of the Nine, Sir Lathon...

⟶ Always Forward...

⟶ First Lessons in a Frigid Expanse...

⟶ Meeting Aldra...

⟶ The Tale of a Thief from Kragenmoor...

⟶ Torn Pages of a Singed Journal...

Welcome to the library. Stay as long as you'd like, wayward traveller... But beware.

On Survival

I was taken by Nords as a child. Perhaps for cruelty’s sake, as I served no use to them. In any case, they left me with the priestesses in Markarth and I began my so-called rehabilitation.

It was overwhelmingly clear that if I wanted to make it out of that godforsaken city alive, I would have to obey. Just this once—just for a little while—then never again.

Oh, I was a lovely girl. I learned to speak, read and write in their tongue, and never again spoke the heathen language of my mother. Years went by. I was nearly a young lady by the time I made my escape. I went to Solitude, to Whiterun and Riften…

But I never did go home. Didn’t want to, I suppose.

No, it’s safer to be a Breton noble than some mangy Forsworn.

Let me tell you how I see it. Everyone thinks they’ve got to champion a cause: The Stormcloaks, for freedom. The Imperials, for security. Madanach, for revenge.

What does it get them, in the end?

Dead.

Memoir, Valyrie Honey-Glade, 4E 65

Five winters had passed since Volk’s disappearance when he came knocking. At first, I was overjoyed but those feelings quickly turned when I looked at him, proper. By Shor, he still looked a boy of nineteen! And his eyes, which I reckon always had a sort of mischievous gleam, well they were cold and wild as a wolf.

Where’s Ma? He kept asking, over and over. He always did favor Ma. Volk, I said, I’m sorry but she passed quite some time ago.

He got quiet for a moment, then turned back to the woods. I called for him to come back, but he just kept on until the brush swallowed him up.

That was the last I saw of him.

Wasn’t long after that all those folks started going missing. Fanged Stag, survivors said.

It was the Fanged Stag.

First-Person Accounts on the Middle Dawn

Many say they tracked the fall of eight stars to count their days. Well, it was often cloudy where we lived. Though, I suppose our lot had an easier go of it, given it was all we’d ever known. Satamai were born and raised under the “Aurbical Now” as Argonians call it. I find this state of mind to be incredibly difficult to describe when you’re not actively utilizing it. Have you ever read a “choose your own adventure” book by reading the pages in order? It’s a bit like that.

- AK

I don’t really know what to say about my past. Things happened or they didn’t happen, though sometimes you lived the version of happenings that never were. It’s a bit beyond our comprehension, don’t you think? And my rule on those sorts of things is that they’re not my problem. I remember things, though. I remember being sad and scared and angry. I remember fatal betrayals and the bad people who orchestrated them. Most of all, I remember that which I cannot seem to forget.

- Satamai Woebrooke-Caria, 3E 418

A Necromancer and Her Dog

“Zephyr, emerovoy.” Lidora commanded.

The dog led her through the cavern at a slow, cautious pace. He gently swerved to avoid an outcrop, then paused to sniff something between the rocks.

“What have you got?”

Crouching, she inspected the area. It smelled like fresh dew and grass; the warmth of sunlight fell across her face. Her amulet sent a wave of energy across the space, revealing the outline of a skeleton. She touched the skull, then traced her fingers over the rest of the body. A few bones were fractured or broken, though the rest was wonderfully intact. The poor sod must’ve fallen through the roof of the cave, she figured. In any case, he’d be a fine addition to her roster.

Lidora ran her hand through Zephyr’s thick fur, “Good find, boy.”

She could hear his tail happily swishing through the grass.

The rest of the cave was perfectly vacant, save for the bodies of a spriggan and two bears. Everything of value had been taken prior to Lidora’s arrival, of course, though she didn’t mind it. There was something invigorating about having a blank slate to work with.

“What should we name him?” She asked Zephyr, as she laid out the adventurer’s remains. “How about… Rattlebones? Sound good?”

Zephyr barked softly, then nudged the broken femur with his nose.

“Alright! Rattlebones, it is.”

A Moment's Peace

Rasara leaned against the doorframe, gazing out across the steps of the temple. The night was bright and clear, silhouetting Martin in moonlight. He peered across the courtyard, unmoving, as if keeping a vigil of utmost importance- as if his presence on those steps was the sole bulwark between Tamriel and Oblivion itself.

“Marty…” Rasara singsonged, jostling the man from his deep contemplation. “Surely you can stand and brood by the fire, eh? It’s freezing out here.”

Martin turned, smiling half-heartedly at her remark, “… Yes, I suppose I can.”

The two ventured, wordlessly, to Martin’s chambers, which still felt a touch too lavish for the comfort of either one; Rasara took the lead by hanging up her sword and rooting through the dresser for an appropriately soft nightgown.

Martin shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat as she began to undress.

“What? You’ve never seen a woman?” Rasara scowled with faux contempt as she kicked her breeches to the corner and slipped on her nightgown.

“Not since I swore myself to the Divines.” he huffed and began to disrobe, himself.

Rasara’s eyebrows shot up and she cocked her head towards him, “Is that to say you were not always such a righteous man?”

“Yes, though it feels like a lifetime ago… I spent my youth under the seduction of Daedric magic.” Martin replied, grimly.

“I see. Well, no matter. Tonight I will share your bed as a… A brother!”

“A brother?”

“Yes, a brother. Or a sister. Or more appropriately, a weary knight who tires of sleeping on the floor in some shoddy bedroll amidst the rest of the Blades!”

Martin smiled- this time with warmth and sincerity and most importantly amusement, which only grew as Rasara balled up a thick cotton tunic and threw it at him from across the bed.

“Your sleeping garment, milord.”

“Fortune smiles upon me to be attended to by such a thoughtful companion.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know, I know.”

The Legend of Barrowost Crypt

Deep within the Druadach Mountains and guarded by an ancient, sprawling crypt, there is a secluded farming village by the name of Strath. It’s said that those who settled in this village had come from many places; they were children of the Reach, Atmora, Bangkorai and even the ill-fated Orsinium. It mattered little, as all were united as the loving parents of Strath.

The village itself is composed of humble stone cottages and woven pens of juniper, where animals are kept for most of the temperate seasons. The most common livestock are cows, chickens and goats, which are often guarded by stout, thick-furred hounds. However, there is special cultural importance placed upon the cows and goats. From their udders comes Strath’s sole export, and reason for her great renown: cheese.

The story goes that generations ago, Strath was hit by a particularly wet winter that stretched long into spring. Because of the floods, many crops had been ruined, and those who had survived were of poor condition. When it came to harvest season, it was dreadfully apparent that there wouldn’t be enough to sustain the village. Obtaining aid would be a long and fruitless endeavor, for she held no favor amidst the kings of Skyrim nor of High Rock.

And so, a great famine was upon her.

Amidst the desperation and despair, there was Kurog gro-Strath. Though merely a boy, he was strong and smart and most importantly very, very hungry. One morning, as he and his dog, Snapping-Jaws (who had grown very much tired of being hungry, as well) tended to the calves, he caught sight of the distant crypt. He knew in better times, mother had journeyed up to leave offerings of milk, dried fruit and grain.

“It’s a matter of honor, tradition and respect, my love. The crypt and her denizens, whoever or whatever they might be, have protected us for generations. It’s only fair to repay them.” she said as she packed her baskets. “This is the way of Strath.”

Hunger pains seized Kurog and pulled him from his thoughts; he began to devise a plan. Snapping-Jaws followed him eagerly as he took his father’s sword from its rack. Before setting off, he and the hound split a piece of dried meat he’d been saving, in the event that he could bear the hunger no longer. If all went well, he wouldn’t need it, anyway.

The journey was long and arduous but as the sun began to set, he finally came to the great, arched entrance of the crypt. To his disappointment, the chest of offerings was empty- he would have to journey inside.

Snapping-Jaws whimpered in apprehension as the boy opened the heavy doors, but followed faithfully with his head bowed and tail low. Within the silent crypt was a small stone room, hung with aged tapestries and cracked, empty urns. He continued down the staircase on the opposite side of the room, cautiously. What he saw, almost caused him to cry out in astonishment-

Across the cavern, there were wheels upon wheels of cheese on shelves, and of every imaginable sort. Kurog quickly scanned the area for danger, then snatched up the closest wheel, which appeared to be a sort of Eider. As soon as he did, a clunk echoed across the space and Snapping-Jaws, who had been sniffing at the cheeses, began to growl.

“Who goes there?” a hoarse voice boomed.

From a platform on the far side of the cavern appeared a tall, thin figure shrouded in dark cloth.

Kurog froze, then stammered with all the courage he could muster, “I am Kurog of Strath, and I wish to feed my people. Who… Who are you?”

“My name is Neufchatel and I am the eternal lord of this crypt…” She seemed almost amused by his ignorance. “You say famine has descended on your people?”

He nodded, eyes wide.

“Then tonight, they will be fed.” Neufchatel seemed to float down the steps with supernatural grace.

With a snap of her bony fingers, a herd of spectral cattle emerged from the darkness, each holding silvery bags across their backs.

That night, Kurog, Snapping-Jaws and Neufchatel delivered food amidst the hungry townsfolk, and true to the lich’s word, each and every man, woman and child was sated.

Though ages have come and gone since this miraculous night and the people of Strath have long since recovered from the famine, they continue to work under the tutelage of the mysterious Neufchatel as farmers and cheesemongers.

She is the warden of Strath, and the mother of Barrowost Crypt.

The Eldest Daughter, the Second Scheme

Hands grasp at Lamae’s white skirt from below, as if trying to claw their way out of the bloody pool beneath her. They writhe in futility, leaving crimson smears across the snow-pale fabric. Her gaze, set fiercely upon me, does not waver. She bows and places her hand on a grasper, muttering softly. She holds it with a melancholy smile. The hands slowly sink back into the pool, pawing at the hem of her skirt as she walks towards me, then slipping away. She wipes her hand, though the blood remains upon her skin like a stain.

As she steps from the shadow, the blue of her gaunt cheeks becomes warm and pink. In this dawning light, her being flickers between dead and alive; Arkay himself cannot say which.

I am sick with shame, and still her gaze meets mine.

Time and time again, I held her. I watched her lungs heave against shattered ribs as the wyrd-women prayed. I thrashed against the inexorable end with fury and wrath. My will was a tower unto itself, and I was the sole survivor of its collapse.

Oh, tentatively some wayward thing in the rubble weeps. Her ghost, her gods, me and mine.

Onward still, the dragon marches and without us.

Always without us.

The Four Princes' Pact

Deep in Evergloam, for the first time in recorded history, the shroud of perpetual darkness was split by a small ray of light. The ray of light slipped, a golden droplet, from the sky and pooled in a velvet loveseat within the dome of a glass-arched garden.

“A greenhouse in a realm of eternal twilight.” Meridia’s gilded fingers caressed a vine of creeping ivy, “It’s a touch frivolous, I fear. That is, unless your architects were more often expecting me for tea.”

On the opposite side of the garden, the shadows sighed.

“I’m afraid there will be no time for small talk.” Nocturnal spoke, low and soft. The darkness clung to her like a gown as she emerged.

Boethiah strode in and took a seat, “Who do I owe my thanks for that?”

“I suppose the little one.” Mephala absently plucked at silver threads of cobweb. “An ambitious thing, you are.”

They all turned their gaze on the smallest daedroth, who stiffly stood in the corner.

“Come hither, child.” Nocturnal beckoned, and they obeyed.

The Princes watched expectantly.

“I’m Ezimar, and I want to destroy the God of Schemes.” The daedroth stated, plainly.

Meridia scoffed, then leaned closer.

“Oh… You speak in earnesty, do you?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She glanced around at her fellow princes, then smiled.

“Then let’s begin negotiations, shall we?”

The Massacre of the Priory of the Nine, Sir Lathon

Not long after we had interred the Crusader in the undercroft, there came a murmuring and the shifting of stone— Sir Thedret was the first to investigate, quickly hurrying down. I cautiously followed him. Thedret sounded overjoyed, “A miracle, ser knight! You live!” he cried.

Their companion, who even in death refused to leave their side, quietly eased them from the sarcophagus. I watched in awe as they stepped from their tomb, still adorned in wilted laurel wreaths and Arkayn charms.

The Crusader rasped her name, once weakly, then louder. Their gaze set on Sir Thedret, and wickedly proclaimed:

Upon us is the hour of my coming, Ezimar, Second Prince of Corruption. My darling, I command thee to feast!

My awe quickly morphed into horror as the Crusader’s companion changed her very shape, her arms splintering into four clawed limbs of dark sinew and horns bursting from her skin. Her face seemed to split at the jaw, and I turned and fled as quickly as I could.

Thedret hardly had time to cry out before his flesh and bones were sundered by the daedroth’s teeth.

Every candle and torch in the Priory danced in gouts of blue flame as I ran, so much as to scorch my face as I burst from the doors. The screams of my fellow knights filled the air as their very souls were devoured in the cold pyre.

The Prince of Corruption emerged from the flames and the relics they were buried in were nowhere to be seen. They seemed to float towards me, leaving a trail of embers in their wake.

As I cowered, I heard them say, “Rise, Sir Lathon. Listen and obey.”

The terror that gripped me somehow softened and I stood.

They continued, “You will tell anyone who will listen what happened here tonight. You will tell them the Second Prince has risen again.”

The Prince held my face, and pressed a stinging kiss to my brow. Darkness overcame my vision and I awoke at dawn in the ashes of the Priory.

Though Ezimar was nowhere to be seen, an unholy shadow was cast across Tamriel on that day. I pray the Nine will keep and guide us through the coming quagmire, though I fear it may not be enough.

Always Forward

Lyra sighed, whisking through Whiterun’s dusky streets like a minnow through river reeds. The wind played with the hem of her cloak as she went down towards the less crowded of the two taverns. She floundered for a moment at the bottom of the steps, questioning herself on what exactly she planned to do.

We’ll see, she thought, I’ll order a flagon of ale and we’ll see where that takes me.

Although she planned for a more clandestine entrance, a gust flushed into the tavern as she opened the door and she stumbled to keep hold of the handle. The candle light flickered in the breeze, then steadied itself as she shut the door behind her.

There was a moment of thick silence across the tavern. Lyra brushed off her skirt and straightened her cloak, then strode over to the counter.

“I'd… Like a drink, if you will.” She murmured, taking a seat.

Elrinder smiled, “Of course, milady. What shall it be?”

She felt comforted by the warmth in the bosmer’s voice.

“Just an ale, thank you.”

Her thoughts began to flow as she drank. The Battle-Borns were a bunch of hard-headed oafs with all the insight of a mudcrab that had been blind since birth, and they had surely proved that time and time again. She pondered where else, exactly, she could go. The roads were too dangerous to travel alone, and there was only one place she knew of where a bard of her ilk could make a living…

Beside Lyra was a mercenary, drinking imported sujamma, by the looks of it. She seemed to be a keenly discerning sort by the wariness of which she regarded her— that was good. Perfect, even.

“What’s your name?”

“Jenassa. And yours?”

“Lyra. You’re for hire, yes?”

“I am, sera. Five hundred drakes.”

Lyra grinned, “Escort me to Solitude and I’ll gladly pay you twice that and more. Do we have an agreement?”

Jenassa raised an eyebrow, then shook her hand.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

First Lessons in a Frigid Expanse

"Well, here we are, miss." The coachman announced as the cart slowly halted.

Lidora heard him jump to the ground and circle to the back. She gathered her bags, then let him help her off the back of the cart.

"You'll be alright, I trust?"

Lidora placed an additional couple of coins in his calloused hand, "I will. Thank you for all your assistance."

Cautiously, she made her way through the cold cobbled streets and towards the college, using her cane to weave around the frequent patches of ice. The snow brought a disorienting dampness to the sound of things, she noticed. With her free hand tucked halfway under her cloak, she discreetly cast detect life, though it wasn’t for another few steps that anyone shimmered into view. The figure was ahead of her quite a ways, and situated slightly above ground level, lest they were very tall.

In a sharp Altmeris accent, the figure called, “Can you wait until morning to split your head on the bridge, or is it quite imperative that you bother us now?”

“My apologies. I didn’t realize the hour.” Lidora’s face felt hot with embarrassment.

The figure paused for a moment, “Ah, pardon my manners. I am Faralda, one of the College of Winterhold’s senior wizards. Is there some way I can assist you? Well, assuming you’re not simply here to complain…”

“Shalidora Silinbinder. I’m here to enroll.”

“Silinbinder, you say? Then I’d really ought to apologize, now.” Faralda murmured. “You’re Syrabane’s sister, aren’t you? Come on in, then.”

“Just like that? I wasn’t aware our name had such gravity.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” she chided, “Colette would throw a fit if I turned away an apprentice with so much as half your sister’s talent in restoration.”

“Colette is quite out of luck, then. I never had the knack for it.”

Faralda began guiding her up the bridge.

“... Then what do you have the knack for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Illusion, conjuration, destruction, and on occasion… Tomfoolery.”

Faralda laughed, “Humor is often in short supply here, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’ll have something new to offer after all.”

Meeting Aldra

Volkmir didn't know what time it was—it seemed to be either dusk or dawn, the pale red moon drifting low above the treeline amidst a cold silken sky. It was an odd thing to feel so restless in that rare moment of peace. He stretched his shoulders, one at a time, trying to release the growing ache within them. One made a startling pop and he tensed, waiting for the transformative reflex to subside.

Learning his beastform had proved easy, almost instinctive, and honing it had been even easier; it was being a man that was vexing as ever.

A man? A boy? He asked himself this as he ducked under the trunk of a fallen tree. Ma said, "You'll always be little to me, Mirya. Nothing to do with how tall you get."

It'd been some time since he came to the Hunting Grounds. Perhaps he'd gotten taller.

There was the sound of running water somewhere nearby, and the smell of blood met Volkmir's senses soon after. He trailed it through the undergrowth, looking out for signs of another hunter in pursuit of their quarry. It would be nice to finally meet another person, even if they weren't the most agreeable company. The solitude was starting to gnaw at him.

In a stream, a white horse with a curved horn jutting from its head laid. Its sides heaved with slow, wheezing breaths that sent bloody bubbles foaming from a deep wound in its neck.

"Oh! Hello, love," a voice pressed into his mind with a curious lilt, "... What sort of creature are you?"

Cautiously, he met the gaze of the dying beast, who had lifted its head slightly to look at him.

Volkmir replied, voice weak and raspy from disuse, "I'm... I don't know, really- what do you mean?"

"Nevermind that. Darling, would you sit with me? Just for what time I've left. I don't think it'll be very long, but it's quite lonely out here, is all..."

He nodded and settled down beside them.

"... My father is the Huntsman Prince. I'm not sure what title that would give me... Bastard son among bastard sons, I guess?"

They laughed at this, and their voice was the hush of seafoam across a rocky shore. He glanced at the horse, which had rested her nose on his knee. The blood had slowed, but not stopped— still, she clung to these last breaths.

"You smell like a- like those younger deer, with the two-spiked antlers. Did you know this?" The voice asked.

So he even smelled of naivete. The thought made him feel a bit flustered, somehow. He studied the flow of the creek, trying to not think too hard about being entirely unclothed.

"... Ah, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. You're going to die, soon, so it won't matter."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Do you have a name, little one?" the voice felt as though it was waning, now.

He thought about the question for a moment, suddenly unsure if there was still a name that felt like his own.

"... It's Mirya. What's yours?"

"Aldra... Would you say it for me? I'll know if it's right, then."

"Well, Aldra, that better not be some kind of fae trick or I’ll truly be a complete fool."

"This host is far too late for tricks, beloved Mirya. But yes, that'll do wonderfully, I think. Thank you."

The two fell silent, for a while. He realized the horse no longer sighed, and her eyes had grown glassy and sightless. A breeze tousled through the canopy of leaves above. The sky was brighter now, for dawn had broken at last.

Again, Mirya's heart ached to go home.

The Tale of a Thief from Kragenmoor

Gorvas Verethi was the most talentless thief in Kragenmoor. So talentless, in fact, that the guards could not find reason to lock him away; every crime he tried to commit had failed so incredibly that he'd never managed to do anything illegal in the first place, save for wasting the time of the watch.

"Gorvas," a fellow thief said one afternoon, "I've got a job for you, so simple a guar couldn't muck it up."

"What's in it for me?" Gorvas postured, as though he had many other lucrative means of paying his tab at the cornerclub.

"Ten drakes."

"Netch-shit. Fifteen or I'm not lifting a finger on your behalf, you big fat grub."

"Five."

Gorvas glowered for a moment, then settled for ten. The job seemed easy enough, he thought, as the cutpurse explained the plan. He was to cause a diversion in the temple by picking the lock to the priestesses quarters in the far corner while his companion procured a certain urn for a client in Blacklight.

"What's special about the urn?"

The other thief shrugged, "Not my business. It's not enchanted, nor a relic of value as far as I know. My client said she'd pay good for it, nonetheless. And if all goes well, maybe I'll pay you good, too. Alright?"

Gorvas agreed, eagerly thinking of all the drinks, jewels and wenches he could buy with such hypothetical wealth.

The next day, he went to the temple and crept to the locked door to the living quarters. He kneeled by the lock, and began to probe around with his pick, which snapped no sooner than he put it in. No matter, Gorvas thought, for he'd brought all five of his picks for the job. He inserted another into the lock.

The door suddenly wrenched open, revealing a beautiful young priestess. She demanded he explain himself, to which he simply smiled and got to his feet.

"I was merely taking a look inside, sweet nightingale. Ah, what treasure you are, indeed! Now-"

Her hands seized his throat, and one poisoned nail sank into his skin.

"Don't speak." The priestess cooed, "A maggot like you would do well to listen when addressed by your Lady."

Gorvas felt paralysis grip his body as she guided him to the ground.

"Now open your throat." The priestess said.

Several days had passed before Gorvas fully came to his senses. The air was cold. He found himself in a wagon clutching a large, ornately painted clay urn. A terrible cough rattled through his body each time he drew breath.

"You're not making it to Blacklight sick as you are, sera. Tell you what, I'll take you through the pass to the Rift and you can get fixed up by an alchemist, eh? I oughta stop for supplies, anyway." The wagon driver called back.

Gorvas took a wheezing breath and didn't argue. Another bout of coughing shook through him. It felt as though there were cobwebs in his lungs.

He wondered, briefly, what had happened to his fellow thief and the temple priestess. It mattered not, for now he had the urn and could claim the full cut for himself. Still, the girl's dark eyes swam in his mind, watching him from within as he succumbed to feverish sleep.

Gorvas Verethi wondered if the urn had grown heavier, somehow, as he carried it towards the city of Riften. At first, he thought it was merely an illusion caused by his weariness. He set down the urn and hacked pale, blood-streaked strings of sputum into his hankerchief. He was worse for wear now that he was travelling on foot.

A small dark spot on the cloth seemed to twitch, slightly. It unfolded its legs from the clotted blood and scuttled into his sleeve.

Get up, a whispered voice urged, you must bring her to the city.

The thief wheezed and panted, trying to catch his breath as he got to his feet and hoisted the urn into his arms.

"Bring who..." He could scarcely rasp.

Your daughter, the Whispering Lady replied. The urn's weight shifted from within. Gorvas trudged on.

"... Ransacked wagon over at Dayspring Pass, word is. Must've been a troll, for both horse and rider had been torn asunder. Poor courier said she hadn't seen anything like it before." The gate guards were chattering amongst themselves when the thief had arrived.

"Hail, Serjo!" Verethi greeted, voice rough and breathy from disease. He looked at his arms, which cradled his newborn daughter. His veins branched darkly across his bony hands. He staggered to the city gate, every fiber of his being burning with exhaustion. It would feel very nice to sleep, he mused to himself.

The guards looked startled as he approached, almost afraid. Gorvas extended the child before him as though he was bestowing them a precious relic. One guard drew closer and let his hand fall from the hilt of his sword. He caught her as Gorvas fell to his knees.

"Her name is Vaynith, serjo... I pray you see to her needs at once."

Sleep, now. You've done well, my dear.

Gorvas Verethi agreed and let his eyes fall shut for the last time.

Torn Pages of a Singed Journal

... The ritual was to reveal who among us was worthy of the secrets of the Daedric Lord Ezimar. Ysmi explained this as she prepared the chamber for use, lighting candles and the likes. I asked what would happen if we were not worthy; she admitted she wasn't sure, but that we should be prepared. She didn't say what to prepare for. She didn't have to. We were going to die.

A pain shot through me like the agony of a thousand stars as the ritual completed. I distantly remember the sensation of falling to the ground. Some time later, I awoke. It was then I saw everyone else had perished, though there was no indication of physical injury.

That's interesting, something stated, silently as though I had not heard it but rather interpreted it from beyond. What's your name? Martin? I was sure if any of you were marked, it would've been that dunmer girl.

I lifted myself from the floor, feeling as if I had suddenly become lucid within a dream, although still within it. The candle flames no longer flickered and danced.

This means you're important to fate's weave, it said...

...I was told one would know when the hero arrived. That all of a sudden, fate's champion, in all of their many faces, would stalk onto the Arena grounds and everything would burst into motion.

You realize that all your life you have been coasting along as if you were in a dream. This is the 27th of Last Seed; the Year of Akatosh 433. The dawn bleeds bright, arterial crimson as it opens upon the city of Kvatch. At the corner of the ruined temple, I see a man cry out and think of a newborn's first breath. He just as soon crumples, dead, to the ground.

I am left to ruminate on the machinations of the Eight-and-One as I wait for the hero to arrive—

If she is a hero, at all. There are only so many paths to follow, and so the winding, shadowed ways will be at least half-trodden in time. I pray she is a hero. I plead.