Observations on the Mabrigash
from the journals of Bonorion the Wanderer, 2E 568

In Deshaan, I encountered a strange tribe of Dark Elf Ashlanders. They call themselves Mabrigash. Unlike their Vvardenfell brethren, this tribe is not nomadic and appears to have settled in an isolated region of Deshaan, a location they call the Vale of the Ghost Snake. I believe they have concocted the story of the perilous Ghost Snake to discourage outsiders from lingering too long in their village. Although, frankly, their rudeness, which rivals that of any of the more civilized Dark Elves I have ever met, is more than enough to drive outsiders away. However, my curiosity about this isolated tribe steeled me against their attitude. I remained nearby for a time, watching them and recording my observations. Forthwith, here are my findings on the Mabrigash:

The Mabrigash do not welcome visitors.

The Mabrigash appears to be a matriarchal society, and their females are definitely more dominant than males. They also seem to outnumber the males by a factor of three or four to one. I wouldn’t say this society hates males, but they certainly don’t trust them or like them very much. At least as far as I can tell.

They claim a Ghost Snake gives them advice and watches over the Vale. I believe they use this so-called "Ghost Snake" to scare visitors away and to keep the village population in line.

It appears they sacrifice their own tribe members to this mythical deity. The tribal elders encourage trials to honor this "Ghost Snake," and many of these end in the death of the participants.

Here is the legend of the Ghost Snake, as it was told to me by a charming little lady of some six or seven years of age. She approached me with absolutely no fear or hesitation. She asked me why I was being so creepy and watching them all the time. At least, that was the gist of it. My understanding of the Mabrigash dialect is rudimentary, at best. I deflected her question with one of my own. "What is this Ghost Snake I keep hearing about?" I asked her.

"Follow the Coiled Path and you’ll find out," she replied with a bat of her cute little eyelashes. "The Ghost Snake offers advice and protection, as long as we care for the Vale," she continued. "Everybody knows that." She went on to tell me that the Ghost Snake was the combined spiritual essence of the tribe’s female ancestors, given spectral form by the belief and respect of the living tribe members. Or that it was a creepy dead snake that liked to haunt the Vale and eat innocent Mabrigash children. She spoke very fast, and as I’ve said before, my mastery of the dialect was far from perfect.

From an economic perspective, the tribe crafts unique snakeskin leather. They use this leather for everything, from clothing to packs to a simple armor. They are, however, unwilling to sell or trade this wonderful material to outsiders—or even to the men of their own tribe. Everyone involved could make a fortune if the Mabrigash could be convinced to open trade with the outside world.

I met a Mabrigash scout on patrol. She threatened to "toss me to the ghosts and serpents on the Coiled Path." Fortunately, my speed and tree-climbing skills far exceeded hers, so I was able to avoid this savage ceremonial rite. Additional observation leads me to the conclusion that the tribe subsists on a diet primarily consisting of snake meat. This may contribute to their uncontrollably hostile demeanor.

After several days camping nearby and continuing my observations, a rather fearsome Mabrigash warrior visited me. He said he was the Gulakhan. He said the only reason they had not simply tossed me to the serpents within the Vale was that the Farseer labeled me a hapless idiot. I am sure I missed something in the translation of the message. When I asked to meet with the Farseer, this Gulakhan’s hand seemed to tighten on the hilt of the rather nasty-looking sword that hung at his side. It was then I decided that my time among the Mabrigash Tribe had come to an end.

***

Annotation from Nuros Raloro, Tribunal Scholar Priest, Mournhold 2E 576

This utterly ludicrous "observation" was found abandoned near the border to Stonefalls some years ago. The Bosmer chronicler Bonorion does not appear to have the wit of a five-year-old child when it comes to accurately recording unusual events or peoples. He resorts to making things up or taking wild leaps of illogic to come to his so-called "conclusions." This document has been preserved within the Tribunal library and copies have been distributed, as he did at least conduct some conversations with the Mabrigash, and information on this tribe remains scarce.

By Narsis Dren, Treasure Hunter

Dotting the landscape of Skyrim, the ancient Nord ruins are a testament to the ingenuity of the Nord people of the past. When constructing the final resting places for the noble class, our ancestors proved to be quite crafty, developing some of the most sophisticated and clever defenses I have ever encountered. Coupled with the presence of the fearsome draugr, these tombs have become quite a challenge for me.

The most often-overlooked obstacles are the abundance of traps spread throughout the tombs. Ranging from simple tripwire-activated rock falls to complex pressure plate-triggered dart traps, the ancient Nords utilized these devices abundantly. Most of the traps can be bypassed by simply looking for the trigger mechanism and avoiding them. Since they are most often placed in areas where distractions abound, remember to keep your eyes to the floor.

One of the keys to surviving in a Nord ruin is to use these traps to gain an upper hand against any denizens occupying the ruin. In many cases, it’s trivial to lure them across the triggering mechanism. Try this when you find an oil trap. Using a bow, lure your victim onto the oil and then loose an arrow at the fire pot hanging above. The moment the fire pot shatters, the entire pool of oil ignites and engulfs the enemy in hot death. Just be certain that you’re standing clear of the oil, or else this trick could end your expedition earlier than you planned.

Perhaps one of the most amazing engineering marvels of all has little to do with the traps designed to kill. Utilizing all manner of pull chains, levers, switches, and pressure plates, some of the most frustrating obstacles can occur in the form of puzzles that threaten to block your progress. Watch for the telltale signs of these barriers: groups of levers in a single place, rotating pillars with carvings on all faces, and even large arrays of pressure plates covering the floor of a room. In most cases, the puzzle requires experimentation to solve. In others, the solution might actually be found elsewhere in the complex. It’s recommended to keep a writing implement and a journal handy so that you can always take notes about whatever you find. You never know when you might need to refer to something from elsewhere in the complex.

Although Nord ruins are commonly infested with vermin, including skeevers and spiders, these creatures pale in comparison to the mighty draugr. These horrific, animated dead are commonly found as guardians in most of the tombs, and they defend them mercilessly. Since the draugr tend to lay dormant until someone happens upon their resting place, it’s advisable to keep an eye out for niches and sarcophagi. These undead animate rapidly and silently, so always watch your back. Any remains you pass could suddenly animate and set upon you without warning.

The perils of a Nord ruin are not without reward. The burial chambers in some of the larger complexes contain all manners of riches, from gold to the occasional enchanted weapon or armor. Never ignore the ceremonial urns that dot the ruins, as they are often filled with ancient offerings of great value.

I’ve tried to be comprehensive with what I know of Nord ruins, but I’m sure there are dangers lurking within that will prove to be unique and never before seen. Just be sure to always enter these tombs with plenty of equipment and a good, solid weapon by your side. With a bit of patience, a keen eye, and a light step, a Nord ruin can bring you great wealth. If you follow my advice. Otherwise, you risk becoming a permanent resident, like many of those who tried to loot the place before you.

By Thora Far-Wanderer

No pest has proven more resilient to the Nords of Skyrim than the common Orc. The tusked people claim occupancy of our fair realm, stretching back before the time Ysgamor crossed the Sea of Ghosts. Though few written accounts still exist of that time, there is mention in the histories of the Companions uprooting Orc strongholds even as they burned the Snow Elves from the land.

Orc strongholds are well defended outposts often situated around deposits of mineral wealth. Each contains the infrastructure to support a dozen or more families, surrounded by walls designed to repel anything but the strongest martial force. Many jarls are remembered in song for dying vainly while attempting to root a stronghold from their lands. Worse, destroyed strongholds often return within a generation of their destruction if not countered by a Nord fort that needs a constant supply of troops and provisions.

Few jarls can afford to defend piles of rock for more than a few years, and thus the Orc strongholds remain a pox upon our land. Some strongholds have persisted in this way for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It’s said that the ancient Orc stronghold of Cradlecrush in Eastmarch has never been taken by force or abandoned, despite the complete exhaustion of the mineral vein it sits upon.

The height of Orcish power in Skyrim came with the establishment of Yashnag’s Chiefdom in the early Second Era. With the destruction of Orsinium by the combined Breton and Redguard forces, the Orcs were scattered across the North in a great exodus. Yashnag and his people, exiled from High Rock, fled east to reclaim lands in Skyrim they felt were theirs by ancient right. The King of West Skyrim, Svartr, was ineffective in holding back the Orcs and the Reachmen that plagued the West Kingdom during his rule. The chiefdom was a bane upon Western Falkreath for more than thirty years, until it was burned out by Hakkvilld Yashnag-Slayer in the year 467 of the Second Era.

Hakkvild became Jarl of Falkreath when Yashnag killed his father on the field of battle. The young jarl inherited little more than a crumbling hold largely occupied by Orcish invaders from the west. It is said that Hakkvild challenged Yashnag and a host of Yashnag’s Orc champions to a ritual trial by combat. He defeated each in turn. How Hakkvild learned of this obscure Orcish ritual is not known, but with their leader’s defeat, Yashnag’s followers abandoned the chiefdom.

With the destruction of the chiefdom, the Orcs scattered further into Skyrim or back into the mountains of Wrothgar. Orc clans descended from Yashnag’s people have an intense hatred of the Kings of Skyrim. It’s ironic that this enmity for the Nords has grown, even as the Orcs themselves have re-established ties with the peoples of western Tamriel that burned their first home hundreds of years ago.

By Thora Far-Wanderer

The clans of the Nords spread across Skyrim like herds of mammoths, though their numbers and influence upon the land are far greater. Each clan, however, makes its mark in a different way. Some clans are known for their hunting skills, or their forestry, or their crafting. Some clans are large, others small. Some take a prominent role in government and community. And then there are the dark clans. The clans no one deals with or even speaks of. One such clan is the infamous Stormfists of Whiterun Tundra.

The clan traces its lineage to Ogra Stormfist, the powerful matriarch who founded the clan and ruled over it for almost fifty years. Highly regarded for their combat skills and armor crafting, the Stormfist clan played pivotal roles in numerous conflicts over the centuries, including the Battle of Whiterun Hold, the Massacre at Dialmarch, and the Siege of Windhelm. It was the last engagement, however, that led to the clan’s fall from favor and marked it as anathema.

Prior to the Second Akaviri Invasion, Fildgor Strong-Prince, son of Queen Mabjaarn of Eastern Skyrim, went on a pilgrimage to the west to see the land and meet the people. He fell in with young men and women from the Stormfist clan and forged friendships and bonds that would serve him well in the coming years. When Fildgor was ready to move on and perform his coming-of-age trials, an entourage of Stormfist clan members decided to go with him. They became known as the Stormfist Brigade, and even though he wasn’t a member of the clan by birth, Fildgor became their de facto leader.

If the Stormfist clan had a reputation prior to this, it paled in comparison to the legend that grew around the Stormfist Brigade. They were ferocious warriors, setting off for adventure in the most hostile and isolated areas of the kingdom. With Fildgor leading the way, they routed bandits, uncovered treasure, and slew monsters. When the Akaviri invaders arrived in force, Fildgor led the Brigade into the thick of battle. They eventually fought their way to Windhelm to join forces with Queen Mabjaarn and the main army.

Although they weren’t able to stop the fall of Windhelm or save the queen, the Stormfist Brigade was nonetheless instrumental in helping to route the invading army. They marched as part of the combined Nord forces that eventually joined with the Dark Elves and Argonians to defeat the Akaviri. But then the fateful decision was made. When Fildgor declared his intention to ascend the throne left empty by his sister Nurnhilde’s death, the Stormfist clan was among his most vocal backers. You know how that story ends. Jorunn and Fildgor met in single combat, and Jorunn won the throne. Fildgor was exiled, and he departed Skyrim with a promise to one day return.

The Stormfist clan, loyal to Fildgor to the end, refused to bow before Jorunn or acknowledge his authority over them. They returned to their holdings to the west, and King Jorunn, tired of all the fighting, let them go. To this day, the Stormfist clan remains isolated, rarely venturing out of its domain or taking part in the larger Nord community. What will happen if the clan ever decides to to leave its tundra-lands and reassert its place among the other clans is anyone’s guess. Especially if Fildgor ever makes good on his promise.

By Elgad the Scribe

Some call them a cult. Others say worse things. But the Ternion Monks carry on a tradition that honors the Three Old Gods and the totems associated with them. While the religion is ancient, its followers are few. In many respects, the Ternion movement is slowly dying, as very little proselytizing takes place by the current contingent of monks. Fewer and fewer converts take up the worship of the Three Old Gods, and soon the religion may become nothing but a vague memory.

Known for their healing magic, the Ternion Monks can call forth aspects of the Three Old Gods. With the help of these aspects, the monks can perform tasks beyond the scope of mere mortal limitations. The aspects take the forms of the Three Old Gods: the Fox, the Bear, and the Wolf.

The Fox is crafty and quick, and its aspect enhances the speed and agility of the monks who call upon him.

The Bear is strong, mighty. A protector. The aspect of the Bear enhances strength and shields those who call upon him from harm.

The Wolf is sly and observant, ferocious and deadly. She watches and waits, looking for the best opportunity to make her move. The aspect of the Wolf enhances vision and perception, allowing those who call upon her to see more clearly, to notice the hidden and the obscure.

The Ternion Monks prefer nigh-inaccessible spots as places to meditate and worship. Often, the only way to get to these holy retreats is to use the magic of the monks. A guardian is always appointed to open the way to the retreat, but will only do so for other monks or if the need is great and the requester is worthy.

I have spent time with the monks, learned something of their ways and seen their healing magic in action. I believe that they are good people, following a worthy tradition. But I fear that when this generation comes to an end, the Ternion Monks and the Three Old Gods they worship will fade away.

And that will be a sad day, indeed.

By Ehcelmo

If one has the opportunity—or misfortune—to deal with the wild clansmen of the Reach, you should know who you’re dealing with. There are a number of clans who trade calmly and peaceably with the cities of the North. Then, there are those who view travelers as threats. Or as targets.

In my studies, I’ve identified three clans in particular that should be avoided at all costs.

Boneshaper Clan:

The Boneshapers have developed an unusual number of rituals involving thorny vines and plants. The clan’s name stems from their tradition of lacing or growing these vines through the skeletons of their ritual sacrifices. This plant does not appear to be native to the Reach, but they cultivate it well.

When going on a raid or into battle they use these vines to create effigies, shaping the plants into rough mockeries of life. Some of these rituals also make use of the dead, though necromancy appears to be forbidden in the clan. It’s unclear how these bodies are used, but travelers who see their crude clan symbol should stay well clear.

Rageclaw Clan:

The Rageclaws have domesticated a breed of stout, battle-ready ursines. These bears are trained from an early age, bound to a specific clansman or clan family. A matriarchal society, this clan imitates their animal companions in many ways. The protection of young clan members is paramount, and I’ve seen whole Rageclaw families go into battle over the slightest threat to their children.

A particular habit of the clan causes them friction with other Reach clans: Rageclaws are known to overtake and absorb other smaller clans, converting them to the way of the claw. Women new to the clan find they have tremendous control and freedom, and often enjoy the transition. Male warriors are pitted against grown bears in one-on-one combat, earning a place in the clan by forcing an ursine to submit. It usually goes poorly for clansmen unfamiliar with these massive beasts.

Stonetalon Clan:

Finally the Stonetalon clan, while not as outwardly aggressive as the other two clans above, exhibit a number of particular and combative behaviors. As with the Rageclaws, Stonetalon clans are matriarchies. However, women of the tribe seem to be rare. When they’re seen, their women seem to be covered in heavy cloaks made of bird feathers, as if they’ve all taken ill. I believe they’re struggling through a series of trials for an unknown purpose.

In any case, every cloaked female I’ve encountered has been a powerful spellcaster. Stonetalon clans, as a result, may be the most dangerous groups to meet far afield.

The town of Riften offers intriguing opportunities for the enterprising rogue, though hidden quicksands lurk as well. The Rift has little fertile ground for our endeavors and Riften is the only locale I can recommend for even a brief visit.

Once in town, a base of operations can be established at the Withered Tree or Shadehome Inn; both cater to the discerning traveler. A casual perusal of the town will yield several prospects, but I erect the spine of warning. All scouting must be circumspect, with purchase of an item from one of the town’s many merchants. For the town guard are active and unusually suspicious of strangers, especially those not of the Nord race. A meandering walk, without a local purchase in hand, will quickly land one in a cell.

The island that forms the heart of town, surrounded by the invigorating waters of the nearby lake, contains several merchant stalls. A quick purchase there will soothe the guards’ suspicions. And it affords a glance at the merchants’ goods. These vary greatly in quality and selection, so the stalls of greatest interest I leave to each to determine for himself.

To the north are two buildings of note. Two merchant families of long standing sell wares not generally available in the island stalls. The Rothalens sell crafting materials, including a few very specialized and rare items. This Dunmer family is tolerated in Riften for the glamor their wares add to the otherwise mundane town. The Rothalens, like all Dunmer, are grasping and suspicious, employing an unfortunate number of guards and more-esoteric security measures. The claw of greed should be tempered with the hiss of caution here.

Next to the Rothalens is the establishment of Guram Ironarm. This retired blacksmith and his family cater to the weaponsmithing and armorer crafts. Virtually all materials needed for these endeavors can be found here, making this shop a destination for crafters from across the Rift. Security here is handled by the Ironarm clan, and a dozen severed hands nailed above the entrance attest to the family zeal.

On the Guard Captain’s quarters and the Fighters Guild we need not dwell, for only the foolish dive into waters so deep and swift-running with no reward in sight.

Ah, but the Mages Guildhall, the most impressive edifice in Riften! My claws quiver in remembrance of the treasures contained therein. Spell components, rare scrolls, and powerful magical items—a trove unique in the Rift. Alas, the safeguards upon them are both subtle and deadly. Venture into this building with all senses alert.

Along the water’s edge are the town’s docks. While the simple-minded fish from them or gaze into the murky waters, for the acquisitive among us they hold greater delights. Merchants who prefer the shadows can be found along the lower level of the docks, conducting business in the delightfully damp warehouses at the waterline. A purchaser for goods of any sort can usually be found here. The town guard avoids the underdocks or patrols only in large, easily avoided groups.

A grating at one end of the docks leads into a small sewer system. Now used only as a rat pathway, perhaps as Riften grows this will eventually be extended underneath the entire town, rendering it more useful for clandestine operations.

In the hopes that I may contribute to the expansion of our guild’s knowledge, I offer this record of my experiences in the town of Riften. Stay moist, comrades.

Respectfully submitted,
Eyes-With-Intent

At last Sinmur was brought to bay. Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, boldly led the remaining Companions into the final battle. Many a brave Companion had already fallen to the giants. Stalwart Valdur and Sly Hakra, long may their spirits be honored, fell assaulting the wily half-giant. Many others now trod the blessed pathways to Sovngarde. With all his kin slain, only Sinmur still defied the greatest among us.

The axe Wuuthrad, dripping with the gore of a hundred dead giants, gleamed in the darkness of Sinmur’s barrow. Ysgramor strode forward, halting his followers with a gesture. With another he dared Sinmur to face him in mortal combat. The giant-kin proved willing, roaring his defiance and leaping to battle. His massive, iron-bound club swung forward to crush. Our Lord Ysgramor stepped aside and the club shattered the stone a pace from his side. Wuuthrad sang a blood song as it chopped into the club, breaking it asunder as if made from straw.

Sinmur howled his rage and hurled the stub of his once-fearsome weapon at Our Lord Ysgramor’s head. He grappled Ysgramor, seeking to squeeze life away. A roar of laughter was the answer the monster received. Ysgramor’s forehead and knee delivered two mighty blows. Sinmur screeched and fell to his knees before our lord.

A song of death and delight keened from Wuuthrad as Ysgramor buried it deep in the giant-kin’s skull. A splatter of gore and a death rattle came from Sinmur as Ysgramor gave a victory yell. The Companions cheered mightily as Wuuthrad waved overhead. The depredations of the giant and his vile kin were at last ended. And the legend of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, grew mightily that day.

With the Circle of Captains’ decree that each ship’s crew should go forth of its own accord, making its own legend, the crew of the Fallowfire rejoiced. They yearned to bring the fear of Men to new lands of the Mer that had not yet been put to the sword. They took to heart their Lord Ysgramor’s words to "Give no quarter. Show no kindness."

A pyre upon the shore was raised for the Fallowfire. The ashes of their beloved vessel fell upon the waters and drifted toward Atmora, cutting all ties with their homeland. Led by Captain Gurilda Sharktooth, the crew of the Fallowfire turned their backs to the sea and strode inland.

South they traveled, seeking lands untrammeled by others of Ysgramor’s crews. South and south they went, sowing the blood vengeance demanded by Ysgramor. No Mer escaped their axes once seen, no settlement remained unburnt in their path. Truly the Fallowfires brought their lord’s wrath to bear upon the treacherous Elves. As they journeyed, so the terror of them grew among the Mer.

Gurilda led her crew to the foothills of a lofty range of mountains. These they named Ysgramor’s Teeth and long they sought a pass through them. When finally a way was found, the crew crossed over and into a new land. "The Rift" they called this region, for it was riven by deep canyons and swift-flowing rivers. In the name of Fallowfire, their lost Companions, and Yngol, they scoured the land, burning Mer villages and putting all they encountered to the axe.

Finally, the Mer offered battle. The cowardly Elves gathered in great numbers high atop a rocky hill, daring Gurilda’s Companions to attack. And so they did. Challenges were offered, brave deeds were done, and heroes made. Battle raged through the day and as the sun touched the peaks of the western mountains, the Mer broke and fled. Gurilda lay dying, pierced by a multitude of weapons, but lived until sunset. Her spirit ascended to Sovngarde knowing her crew was victorious.

That day, the dominion of Elves over the Rift was ended. The Companions claimed the land in the name of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, and made it free to all Nords. To honor their dead, the Companions labored long, delving into the hillside to craft a tomb. Gurilda was buried there, with all her weapons and armor. There too were placed the remains of Bergitte the Toothless and Kajord Eagle-Eye, laid alongside Gurilda as they had fallen in battle, defending their captain. Others of the honored dead were entombed as well. A mighty cairn of stone was erected around the tomb entrance, to forever mark the grave.

Vikord One-Ear, long Gurilda’s first mate but now captain, gazed long upon the hills rising about them and the valleys at their feet. This was a land he could love, where his people could prosper and grow. He decreed the crew’s wandering at an end and caused a great hall to be built on the battle site. Thus was Fallowstone Hall created, in homage to the ship that carried them to these shores. From this time, the days of the Companions of the Rift are counted. Never may their glory fade!

Loremasters hear tales of heroes who claim to have traveled to Sovngarde and back, but their truth is uncertain. The greatest warriors stride the road to Sovngarde upon their deaths, but if the living can walk there and return, it has not yet been shown.

Yet loremasters know this: Sovngarde exists. So our gods promise, so we believe. Sovngarde lies in the heart of Aetherius, awaiting the souls of departed warriors. Nords who prove themselves in battle awaken in the realm after death. Pain and illness vanish within the Hall of Valor. Revelry is never-ending, mead flows freely, and the greatest Nords of all time compete in tests of strength and prowess.

Spirits trapped in this world know torment, emptiness, and endless suffering, obsessing over lost battles, fallen kingdoms, and unresolved lives. Not so in Sovngarde! Even the tedium of immortality is unknown, for spectral foes wait in the surrounding shadows, waiting to do battle with those who would test their mettle.

Shor created the realm of Sovngarde with his clever magic long ago, but the trickster god has faded from our world. Others have attempted to part the veil of his deceit, practicing forsaken arts and seeking hidden paths into the afterlife. All such attempts end in tragedy. None can out-trick the trickster. For all we know, Shor retreated to that realm and laughs at all who would outwit him. He may even rule the realm, choosing heroes to honor according to his whims.

All this is speculation. Only those who are worthy know the truth, and they speak no more to the living. Through all the suffering and adversity in this world, true Nord warriors endure, for Sovngarde awaits.