Bring this to Neidir’s attention immediately. It’s a transcript of an old text, but she needs to see this. Beg her pardon the conjecture on Nordic legends and Psijic nonsense, but this text contains the angle of attack she was looking for:
Weather magic has never been an exact science, perhaps because of the temperamental nature of what it seeks to control.
Minor spells to conjure gusts of wind or forks of lightning are common, but manipulation of a region’s climate is much more difficult to achieve. I imagine that our war wizards have dreamed of lowering catastrophic hailstorms onto enemy borders as a preamble to invasion, or halting a blizzard to make an unexpected march through inclement weather.
There are claims to such spells originating in foreign lands and beyond.
Legend has it that a sect of Nords in faraway Skyrim command the spell-like language of dragons, which allowed them some mastery over the weather. Accounts of these Nords’ abilities during the Merethic Era Dragon War include the power to diminish fogs, mists, and clouds with the sheer bravado of their shouts. Negil’s "Dragons at Windhelm" notes that an army of these bellowing Nords foiled an airborne sneak attack by dragons who sought to strike under a cover of storm clouds. Negil writes, "We desired the heavy clouds parted, and when we spoke our Words of Power, the clouds thought so, too. But even with their passing, the sun remained hidden. A now-apparent wing of dragons stretched across the heavens for miles, and the curse that escaped Vofodor’s mouth brought a hearty guffaw to mine. Our Words of Power did not spare us the battle, but they told us battle was coming. And we joined it gladly."
Far to the south of Skyrim, members of the Psijic Order have been long-rumored to possess spells cast in the Old Way of magic that can bend the elements to the user’s desire. Our scouts have reported sudden storms and flash rain off the coast of Artaeum for years. Unfortunately, the Psijics never left instructional texts to find.
Arresea’s "The Daedric Primer" describes a spell devised by Sheogorath, Daedric Prince, called Manipulate Weather. She writes, "Sheogorath’s spell folio includes an incantation to match the weather with his mood. The Lord of the Madhouse has been known to teach the spell to mortals in his favor, allowing them to alter the climate of an entire region. Unfortunately, the spell functions at Sheogorath’s whim, no matter who casts it—meaning it functions entirely randomly. There are stories of his followers trying to stymie flashfloods but summoning torrential rain instead, or trying to put out brush fires and feeding them with unwanted lightning storms, to Sheogorath’s delight—and theirs.
I include the above examples to say that large-scale weather control has been noted across the ages, and that weaponizing such an ability would be an incredible asset to the Maormer military. I set out to prove as much this past winter, with the help of twenty journeyman mages. We cleared an open plain in the jungle and prepared to create a lightning storm by manipulating the charge of a passing cloud with our own skeins of lightning. For a moment, we succeeded, unfortunately losing a member of our group in the sudden storm and wayward lightning. It’s possible we would all have perished—entirely regrettable—had our storm not consumed itself. We tried sseveral more times, managing to lengthen the duration of the storm each time, even learned to direct it out over the water. But the storm duration remained our enemy, and we eventually had to admit that the exercise would be futile in a battle. If, however, we had had some way to physically suspend our spell at a high altitude—perhaps a device? A series of devices—would eliminate the need for continued expenditure of magicka and free the casters to direct a storm across a great distance.

Volume 1

By Hilaire Beanique

The city of Wayrest owes much to its merchants for its ever-flourishing economy. The abundance of money has done the city wonders, earning Wayrest the moniker "Jewel of the Bay": the wealth of its citizens have paid for the shimmering stone used in the city’s construction, the bright armor worn by the local law enforcement agents, and most significantly, the modern marvel of western Tamriel—the Wayrest Sewers.

Written accounts dating back to the city’s foundation hint that, until the Wayrest Sewers were finished, the city was a jewel mired in muck and mud. Vile, foul-smelling mud. Writes Silvia Cato, an Imperial sailor in 1E 801, "The Bjoulsae River is a watercourse of refuse, of pungent tang, of disease, and the Iliac Bay is equally revolting where the Bjoulsae feeds into it. It’s that damned Breton city."

Today, the Bjoulsae River shines as brilliantly as Wayrest itself, thanks entirely to the sewers, which are a feat of engineering rivaling anything created by the Dwemer of old. The artisans ensured that the sewers’ modular design permit travel across the city below ground as easily as above, as well as allow construction to continue to this day. The sewers, like the city itself, are regularly expanded. However, in its size lies the one drawback of the entire system: the sewers have become so large that Wayrest law enforcement has difficulty patrolling it all, and thus, crime finds its way even to the Jewel of the Bay. Like the city itself, most of these illicit activities can only be afforded by the rich, including skooma trade and necromancy (skooma is a narcotic that’s widely banned across Tamriel, and necromancy, the magical art of raising the dead, is also forbidden in many regions).

See Volume II for a list of noble families that donated most heavily to the sewer construction. The original designers who imagined the sewers just prior to the fall of Orsinium remain lost to time, though Volume III contains a list of artisans and engineers who have worked to expand development since the end of the First Era.

By Gurour

Volendrung is one of the most notorious mythological artifacts in history. It has cultural ties to the Dwemer as well as the Daedra, though scholars fail to agree on just about every detail that has ever been written about it—including whether or not different accounts are referencing the same object.

Academics recognize one such artifact, called Volendrung, as a Dwemer relic forged by Clan Rourken. It was carried into battle as a family symbol as much as it was the chieftain’s weapon, and was made famous when the Rourkens refused to join the First Council of Chimer and Dwemer. The other Dwemer forsook them for the slight, and the Rourkens refused to stay with their people if it meant an alliance with the Chimer—their sworn enemies.

So the Rourken chieftain hurled Volendrung into the sky, declaring that their people would find a home wherever it landed. Volendrung thus served as a guiding light for Clan Rourken in exile as the Hammer roared, beastlike, across the sky. It shone like a second sun during the day, mirrored the moons at night, and led the Rourken to the other side of the continent. There, they supposedly founded the fabled city of Volenfell—which has yet to be discovered in the modern era, if it ever truly existed.

But how did the unidentified Rourken chieftain manage such a tremendous throw? Dwemer armies were known for their engines of war, and their mechanical infantry. If the Dwemer had the capability to project a weapon cross-continent by hand, why did they never utilize such long-range assaults in warfare? Even a modern Arch-Mage would have difficulty concocting a spell to launch an object over such a distance. Unless Volendrung was actually a flying engine, powered by lost Dwemer mechanics, the whole story reeks of a Bosmer tale.

Some skeptics, including this one, believe the Dwemer Volendrung’s flight is simply poetic imagery representing the wandering exile of Clan Rourken.

A second hammer called Volendrung, this time a Daedric artifact belonging to the Daedric Prince Malacath, exists in records nearly as old as the Dwemer version. Malacath’s relic echoes the Dwemer name, and for this reason, many assume that it is the same legendary weapon. But why would the God of Curses associate himself with an object forged by enemies? To make a mockery of Dwemer work? To take something the Dwemer treasured and use it as an instrument against them? A rather subversive and indirect action—unbecoming of Malacath’s historically straightforward mentality.

Angarin’s "The Daedric Armory" speculates on the Hammer’s magical features: the text cites several Mages Guild papers, claiming the Hammer empowers its wielder, and drains the strength of struck foes—very much in line with a Malacathan design. There is little doubt that the relic described could be tied to the God of Curses. What is in doubt is whether it was named by mortals or by Malacath himself—and whether the Rourken Clan wielded the same Hammer in centuries past.

What is Volendrung? Tamriel may never know.

It came to pass that our great lord Ysgramor, the Harbinger of us all, sat before an encampment fire. The crews of the Jorrvaskr, the Fallowfire, and the Kaal Kaaz bade him eat, and boast, and drink. For the boon members of the Five Hundred Companions were abroad in the land. Stories were told, hearts won and lost, and always the smell of roasting meat hung in the air. The greatest of us all beckoned every warrior to his side, and spoke the tale of Wuuthrad’s forging.

Every Mer the Harbinger slew died at Wuuthrad’s bite. All through the long campaign, the only weapon that would fit in the Harbinger’s hand was the mighty Wuuthrad. As he told it, the most legendary of axes was forged in the darkest of nights.

It was the Night of Tears. Ysgramor sat staring out across the waters. He rode upon the last ship in his fleet, fleeing Tamriel for the shores of Atmora. From that vantage point, he watched as Saarthal—the first city—burned. A swollen sky poured rain upon the flames and upon the sea. And the greatest of us all wept bitter tears.

So great was the grief of the Harbinger that, instead of salty sorrow, Ysgramor wept tears of purest ebony. His eldest, Yngol, collected the tears in a stein and held his father in a warm embrace. He poured mead down the Harbinger’s great throat, wrapped furs around the Harbinger’s great shoulders, and slung the Harbinger into a great hammock below decks.

Then he set to work. For Yngol, eldest son to the Harbinger of us all, was the greatest smith our people have ever known. There, on the sea, Yngol set to work with his tools. He used lightning to heat the Night’s Tears, the ocean’s swell to cool them, and always his hammer-blows rang in concert with the rising wind.

When Ysgramor awoke the next morning, Yngol presented him with a mighty axe, hewn from the sorrow that had laid him low just the night before. And the Harbinger of us all embraced his son. He cried out in joy, sadness, and rage. And there on the deck of the last ship from Saarthal, Ysgramor named his axe Wuuthrad, which means "Storm’s Tears" in the language of Atmora.

It was then, in telling the tale, that Ysgramor paused. The Harbinger of us all called out to lost Yngol, who had been with the crew of the Harakk in the Storm of Seperation. For his son, his eldest and greatest joy, was with him always. He who had bound the storm’s tears, he said, rode with him always in the days of the noble and honored Five Hundred.

This report on the city of Northpoint and its primary noble house, Dorell, was ordered directly by His Majesty High King Emeric and has been painstakingly researched. I, Chancellor Regina Troivois of the Department of Interior Affairs, personally oversaw this effort and verify the accuracy of the information contained herein.

First, some history for context. Captain Yric Flowdys, an enterprising Breton trader operating the summer route of shipping from Daggerfall to Solitude, established Northpoint during the 9th century of the First Era. Though the shores here do not form an ideal harbor, Yric knew the deep waters approaching them could easily accommodate large vessels, and that the location along the trade route made for a perfect way station where traders could resupply, make repairs, or shelter through storms. He constructed the first docks at Northpoint, the best anchorage, and named the port after it.

Soon after building the docks, Captain Flowdys oversaw the addition of a small walled keep and warehouse in the heights of Dore Elard, to the east of the growing port-of-call. Before long, the town bustled with activity, and Flowdys, realizing the success of his venture, took the name of the mountain as his new family name. He and his relatives continued to grow their maritime endeavors, as well as develop and invest in the port and surrounding lands, eventually leasing plots to farmers and establishing new sources of income.

For most of the First Era, the family exemplified the type of active, entrepreneurial merchant princes that brought great prosperity to High Rock. In 1E 1029, the Dorells were granted a barony when the Empress Hestra joined High Rock to the First Empire. The fortunes of House Dorell, and of Northpoint, have waxed and waned with the flow of the northwest coastal trade ever since.

In the 24th century the Dorells, having continued their rise in wealth and power, held the monarchy of Shornhelm for several generations. This distinction has colored the family’s image of itself through subsequent centuries, and the Dorells regard themselves among Rivenspire’s true elite even today. It also gave them a taste for political intrigue which, combined with their already-ambitious spirit, has made the house impossible to ignore. The current Baron of the House, Alard, wields significant power as one of the triumvirate of nobles who have ruled Rivenspire since the fall of Ranser. Along with the leaders of House Montclair and House Tamrith, Alard Dorell has pledged himself to the High King and hopes to one day earn the right to rule as the sole King of Shornhelm.

In recent times, House Dorell excels as a maritime and mercantile power. They maintain a mansion in Shornhelm for the Baron and Baroness, keeping the house closely involved in the happenings of the court. The estate in Northpoint is left to other relatives, though oversight of its lands remains integral to the family’s operations. At present the young but very capable Lord Ellic, son of Baron Alard, manages the family’s holdings around Northpoint when his father is at court and serving on the triumverate.

The Dorells are militaristic and politically savvy, and their mercantile traditions have forged a level of wealth rarely seen in Rivenspire circles. House Dorell has generated extensive ties with merchants in Solitude. This, they are quick to point out, has nothing to do with the sword rattling of politics. To Dorell, this is simply good business.

From my study of the three noble houses of Rivenspire that form the ruling triumvirate, I recommend that you place little trust in House Montclair, and to be cautious in any interaction with them—their true loyalties are only to their own aspirations. House Dorell, on the other hand, while also ambitious, seems to possess a degree of honor and a love of country rarely exhibited by the Montclairs (who seem to be overly proud of their heritage to Ranser). House Tamrith, meanwhile, has always been loyal and a friend to Wayrest. However, the Countess is relatively new to her role as house leader and may not be ready to assume any greater responsibilities