Every library holds musty old tales
Carried through rain and snow
But a Nord skald gladly regales
What the poets all sang long ago

Every book has its title and name
But its pages soon turn to dust
A poem we sing will live on in fame
From a history all of us trust

Old tales come down from long ago
With inflection and meter and verse
Soon the skald’s audience will hap’ly know
"Yes, this life could be worse."

And the kings know that truth,
Is better than sword and shield
Taught from their distant youth
Skald Kings have wisdom to wield

So welcome me as a friend
For the poems I sing tonight
Will last for nights without end
From first mead to dawn’s early light!

Day 13: It has been discovered that strict reliance on the preserving salts, while undesirable for outward appearances, contains the highest rate of conversion success.

Day 17: Before the dark fluids are returned to the vessel it is necessary to purge all remaining blood, most especially from the primary organs.

Day 19: Though it pains the host enough to occasionally result in death, forcing water into the lungs may prevent future spasms of pus-coughs.

Day 23: Only under rare circumstances should the vessel exhibit symptoms of its former life. Should this become a problem during the initiation stage it is often best to discard the work.

Day 29: It was revealed today that the host can reject the vessel if not carefully prepared in the specific manner in which we have been instructed. This is a grave affront to the host and not something that will be taken lightly should your work on the vessel be sloppy enough to cause this.

Day 31: There are two recent shortcut practices which have been found to cause unreliable lifespans for the vessels. It is important to not take any shortcuts during preparation. Those responsible for the propagation of the false knowledge have been dealt with.

Day 37: The first shining example of our future has been created. The host and vessel are joined perfectly and the resulting power is breathtaking.

When I was a lad, I stood at the eastern edge of Skyrim and looked upon Morrowind. From Stendarr’s Beacon, I could see the Red Mountain of Vvardenfell, but I never ventured there. Like many Nords, I was content to leave foreign lands to the foreigners.

A scant ten years ago in 2E 572, my father took a different path. He fought with our Dunmeri allies to repel the Second Akaviri invasion. As a soldier of Skyrim, he was there when the Nords pursued the invaders into Stonefalls. He told me of an army on the brink of ruin, marching ever further into foreign territory, hungry and nearly broken, until the Dunmer brought in Argonian troops to aid the Nords.

No one expected this. I still cannot believe it. The Dunmer once held the Argonians as slaves, yet on that day, the Argonians’ arrival changed the course of history. From the jungles they came, adorned with blood and mud. Akaviri fell beneath their claws, as well as the swords and spells of their Nord and Dunmeri allies. An alliance was forged that day and has never faltered since.

Agreements were signed in Ebonheart, but these were formalities compared to the ties made on the battlefield. Our alliance was forged in the fires of adversity, a shield to protect us from all invaders. Our cultures differ but our aims bind us.

A few years ago, the Dunmeri Tribunal called for more troops from our alliance, insisting that we take up arms against a new enemy: an Empire growing in Cyrodiil. Our enemies in the Covenant and Dominion also sent troops to liberate this territory.

And now? War rages across Tamriel. Khajiit and Bosmer war against Dunmer and Argonians. Altmer strike against Skyrim. And from High Rock, the Daggerfall Covenant attacks us all.

In the midst of such chaos, what choice do we have? Our alliance with the Dunmer and Argonians has stood for a decade. I have fought beside our allies in battle. And when I return home, I tell my children proud tales of victory over our foes, fighting with Dunmer and Argonians beside me.

The Pact never ceases to surprise me. I have spoken at great length with Argonian mystics, marveling at their view of the world. I have walked into the caves of Dunmeri priests, staring at shadows as they tell me tales of their gods.

And someday, we will walk together into the heart of Cyrodiil—Dunmer, Argonians, and Nords. We will triumph under the banner of our Pact, steadfast allies who can never be defeated.

by Janise Muric, Third Warden of the Faithful Circle

Chapter One: Durak’s Early Years

Though Abbot Durak is our spiritual leader, he has never been comfortable with the title. Old Master Ugbak once said that relates to his upbringing in the ruins of Orsinium. Anyone can see that Durak is small for an Orc, and one could speculate that his brothers’ bullying led him to pursue a mystical path, one unusual for Orcs.

As Ugbak tells it, Durak’s story begins in Orsinium, where his lot was hard and lonely. Durak’s life changed when he first heard whispers in the night—whispers from the Daedric Prince Azura. Azura said Durak would accomplish a great task: he would come to Stormhaven and found an order of worshipers in her name. These "Spirit Wardens" would prepare for a time of chaos, when Stormhaven’s people would suffer from a madness of nightmares.

Durak knew better than to share these whispers with his brothers. He already faced ridicule for his study of magic and lack of physical prowess. Soon after, he left his home in Orsinium and struck out on the long journey to Stormhaven, carrying nothing more than his staff and the clothes on his back.

Durak found his way to Stormhaven, but he had no idea how he was to found this order of "spirit wardens" or where they would live. Soon he despaired. One night, as he took shelter beneath the Weeping Giant, the whispers came again. The silken voice of Azura spoke of a path hidden in the hills west of Moonlit Maw. At its top, Durak found an ancient abbey, abandoned and overgrown. This, he knew, would be the home of the spirit wardens—and so it became our temple to Azura.

Under Durak’s leadership, we are prepared for Vaermina’s plague of dreams. We were founded to protect Stormhaven from its nightmares, and we will do so to our dying breaths.

By Beredalmo the Signifier

Once, we were great.

Once, our battlereeves were masters of warfare, and our sapiarchs were wise and learned. Once, we ruled all High Rock from the Eltheric Ocean to the mountains of Wrothgar, and the Nedes were our thralls and concubines.

Once, Direnni Cygnus, the Swan of Tyrigel, discovered Balfiera and its Tower and claimed it for her own, decreeing that all of her clan who came after would bear her name.

Once, the art of Alchemy was all but undefined, until Asliel Direnni compiled his "Compendious Almanac of Reagents," and was invited to join the first Psijics on Artaeum.

Once, before Raven Direnni and her "Rules of Eldritch Binding," all Enchanting was unique, and enchantments failed nineteen times out of twenty.

Once, during the Alessian Reforms, Ryan Direnni stood up to the entire Empire. His Breton Legions, armed and commanded by Direnni Elves, controlled all the land as far east as Markarth and Elinhir. The Orc-hold of Orsinium has been sacked many times, but we Direnni sacked it first.

Once, at the Battle of Glenumbria Moors, Aiden Direnni’s vastly outnumbered troops routed the entire Alessian Horde, then chased them back to Cyrodiil.

Once, before Corvus Direnni codified the rules of Conjuration, every summoning of even a minor Daedra was an act to be feared and avoided.

Once, Peregrine Direnni drove an entire Ra Gada flotilla back to Sentinel by merging her very will with the waves of the Iliac Bay.

Once, in a single day, Pelladil Direnni built Blackrose Prison from the scattered rubble of Lilmothiit ruins by summoning an army of Stone Atronachs.

Yes, we were great once. But no matter what our individual achievements, every Direnni since Cygnus has been eaten from within by failure.

Because we cannot solve the mystery of the Zero Stone, and use it to open the Argent Aperture which it wards.

At maturity, every Direnni of high blood is brought into the Tower, conducted to the Foundation Vault, and shown the Zero Stone. We are allowed to touch it—once—so as to feel the transcendent mystical power that courses through it, a power we have never been able to tap. And we are shown the Argent Aperture in the adjacent metallic wall, that door with its lock of thirteen slowly counter-rotating rings, a portal we have never been able to open.

And we console ourselves that if we Direnni have never been able to siphon the Stone or unlock the Aperture, well then certainly, neither could anyone else. We return to the world above, and we do something spectacular—so we will not have to face our failure.

But once, as our lives near their ends, each of us gathers together all our knowledge, the fruits of all our achievements, and once more makes that descent to the Foundation Vault. To try it. Just once.

Most are found within a day or two, dead and horribly distorted. Some, like my darling Heron, live on though terribly disfigured, too brain-blasted to understand what has happened to them.

Me? I keep to our chambers in the Tourmaline Steeple, caring for Heron by day, and translating Ayleid tomes in the library by night. And it’s a good enough life, too.

Though sometimes, when working on an ancient grimoire or librus magus I question whether the arcane writings of our long-lost cousins are not better left a mystery.

But then I think, is not all knowledge useful for something? And I think, what might this knowledge be useful for?

And I think I might take that long walk downstairs.

Just once.

By Phrastus of Elinhir

That Men and Mer can interbreed has been known since the first humans began arriving on the shores of Tamriel in the middle of the Merethic Era. However, broad intermingling of Elves and humans only occurred in the far northwest of the continent, giving rise to the race of Men known as the Bretons. Given the history of conflict between humans and the children of Aldmeris elsewhere in Tamriel, how and why did this intermingling occur in High Rock?

The answer lies in the peculiar (for Elves) culture of Clan Direnni, the once-dominant Mer of northwest Tamriel. In contrast to the Ayleids of Cyrodiil, who brutally enslaved any humans they came into contact with, the Direnni simply conquered their local Nedes and then ruled them as a caste of nobility. The aristocratic Elves established a system of feudal vassalage over their human subjects, with rights and privileges that included the "Perquisite of Coition" with any human they desired. Sex with attractive Nedes was considered casual recreation, and Direnni nobles competed to have stables of the most desirable human subjects.

The inevitable Half-Elven offspring from these liaisons were not adopted into the families of their Direnni parents, being considered sub-Mer, but were nonetheless often given privileged positions among the subject Nedes. Over time, this led to the establishment of a recognized caste of mixed-blood humans, who were given the name "Bretons" (from the Ehlnofex "beratu," or "half"). The Breton caste was only allowed to marry humans, so over time their Elven blood became more diluted, and the Nedic appearance predominated.

Though they wielded great power for a time in the First Era, even then the Elves of Clan Direnni were never numerous, and as their geographical hegemony expanded administration and rulership was increasingly handed off to the Breton caste. After defeating the invading Alessian Horde in 1E 482 Clan Direnni was scattered and effectively exhausted. As the Elves retreated to central High Rock, then finally Balfiera Isle, the Bretons stepped easily into their shoes, assuming the feudal hierarchy established by the Direnni and simply replacing them with their own noble families.

The Breton nobles, who had been forced to differentiate themselves from the Direnni part of their heritage, justified their new ascension by distancing themselves from Elves and everything Elven—ironically so, as the Elven blood ran strongest in the older noble families. The Direnni were increasingly vilified by their former vassals, and the island clan became ever more insular and isolationist. However, they were still known as powerful magicians, and they were strong enough to repel an attempted Redguard invasion in 1E 907.

The Bretons continued redefining themselves, inventing a myth of a history of noble resistance to Direnni rule, and developing a thriving merchant class that began trading around the coasts of Tamriel. By the time the Empress Hestra and her legions arrived at Bangkorai Pass in 1E 1029, they were ready to join the Empire of Men and embrace the Eight Divines. Under the Remans, High Rock was possibly the most stable and prosperous province in the Second Empire.

Which brings us back to the (deliberately provocative) question of our title: are the Bretons then mongrels, or paragons? The answer, of course, is both (though if you call a Breton a mongrel, he is liable to feed you an inch or two of steel). The passionate race of Bretons embodies the strengths of both Men and Mer—as well as their flaws.

by Sil Rothril

Argonians are scaled and of limited intelligence, and they are part of our everyday lives. In Morrowind and its surrounding regions, they’re seen in every city and every town. They bring us our meals, they dress our children … but who are they, really?

Argonians originate from the region known as the Black Marsh. A water-soaked and depressing land, it reeks of swamp gas and teems with insects. In their native land, the Argonians squat in fetid pools and worship primitive tribal gods. Their folk magics and simple tribal armies have never proven an adequate defense against men or mer of stout heart.

The swamp was first pacified by the Cyrodilic army in 1E 2811. Those cruel and capricious men only entered the region to end the rule of a human bandit king. After the gauntleted hand of civilization came to the Argonians, their home served primarily as a prison state. The unthinking brutes of Cyrodiil callously released their most violent and unhinged criminals into the marsh.

Almost six hundred years ago, Dark Elves entered the lives of this scaly servant race. As the Second Era dawned, we began working with the Argonians in earnest. Whole tribes were evacuated to the safety and dry climates of Vvardenfell, Stonefalls, and Deshaan. We offered them appropriate foodstuffs and taught them the ways of civilized culture. We fashioned garments to hide their more shameful features and sent them into the world, so they could learn and serve in new environs. In return for the Dark Elves’ generosity, we’ve asked so little of the Argonians in return! And yet, not all denizens of that fetid place feel true appreciation.

Indeed, our time of close collaboration came to an end just a few years ago. A horrific disease known as the Knahaten Flu, brewed in the steamy depths of the marsh, spread across the region. Rumored to be the product of an Argonian tribal shaman, the plague struck all without reptilian ancestry, slaying uncounted numbers. Most tragically, other races began to fear the Argonians as spreaders of the plague. Our efforts to send Argonians on journeys of discovery were rebuffed at every turn.

Today, of course, Argonians stand side-by-side with us in the Ebonheart Pact. Once they were merely our servants, but now, we have elevated this simple reptilian stock. They are strong, proud contributors to our military alliance and cared-for members of our households.

The Argonians among us enrich our lives.

My People, My Pride

By Hrothmund Wolf-Heart

Respected reader. My name is Hrothmund Wolf-Heart, and I am a Nord. But, more importantly, I am a Nord born and raised in the land of Skyrim.

I write this volume in the desperate hope that the rest of Tamriel can come to know my people as they deserve to be known, and understand this province for what it truly is—a place of uncontested beauty and culture.

Some of what you know is undoubtedly true. Physically, we Nords are an impressive, often imposing sight—tall of stature, strong of bone, and thick of muscle. Our hair is often fair, and worn braided, as has been the custom for generations. Often we are swathed in the hides of beasts, for such creatures are abundant in Skyrim, and we would be foolish not to take advantage of such an available resource.

Having read this far, you may be shocked at the strength of my words, and the literacy of a northern "savage." Aye, many Nords can both read and write. My father began my instruction in the way of letters when I was but a bairn, as did his father, and his father before him.

But the accomplishments of the children of Skyrim are multitude, and go beyond mere wordcraft. For we are artisans as well, and through the ages have learned to manipulate steel the way a sculptor would clay.

Indeed, I have seen with mine own eyes, visitors from High Rock and Cyrodiil weep in disbelief as they beheld the blades wrought in the fires of the Skyforge, and honed to beautiful deadliness by the gods-touched hands of Clan Gray-Mane.

But how can this be true, you ask? How are such achievements possible from a people who have yet to emerge from the muck and snow? Again, provincial bias clouds the truth.

The cities of Skyrim are a testament to Nord ingenuity and craftsmanship. Chief among them are Solitude, seat of the High King and capital of the province; Windhelm, ancient and honored, a jewel in the snow; Markarth, carved into the living rock itself, in ages long since past; Riften, nestled in the golden shadows of the Fall Forest, whence comes delicious fish and mead; and Whiterun, built around the hall of Jorrvaskr, home of the most noble Companions and revered Skyforge.

And now, respected reader, you have the full measure of it. We Nords are everything you imagined—and so much more.

But let not this work be your only gateway to the truth. Book passage on carriage or vessel, and make the journey north. See Skyrim with thine own eyes. See Skyrim as have the Nords, since the gods first shaped the world.

By Nili Omavel

My fellow scholars would have you believe the Elves of the Ashlands are unstoppable. They point to Red Mountain and other triumphant, if hard-fought, battles against the Dwemer as proof. But once long ago, our people were as fair as a mountainside in Skyrim. In that distant time, we were driven to the edge of defeat.

In the time before Red Mountain, we were known as the Chimer. We were just another race of mer eking out a living on the edge of the Inner Sea.

Then came the Nedes. Though the Nords of today are allies, the Nedes were adversaries of the darkest nature. They sought only land, conquest, and spoils. We extended open hands of diplomacy, which they lopped off. Any Elf in the horde’s path was fair game—man, woman, or child.

The greatest generals of the age were brothers. Balreth and Sadal led armies of willing warriors against the horde. At first, this was an attempt to drive them from the ash. As the war went on, their actions turned purely to defense and redirection. If a force of Chimer could spend their blood allowing a village to evacuate, then that was blood well spent.

The Nedes, after a few short years, controlled most of what we now call Stonefalls. The Chimer armies were cut off from the Inner Sea and reinforcements from Vvardenfell. The brothers retreated again and again until finally, they were left with a small elite force of sorcerers and troops. This force then took shelter in an ancient Daedric ruin.

What happened at that ruin has been lost to time, but the massive statues that now mark the site endure as a mute testament. The death of the Chimer generals ended the war, but at what cost?

At this ruin, the so-called Brothers of Strife were born. My research shows that Chimer mages from Vvardenfell eventually bound the beasts, but not before the Brothers ended the lives of hundreds of men and mer. One of the darkest chapters in our people’s history followed. The unstoppable beasts made the ash run red with blood, Chimer and Nede alike.

We can only speculate what brought the Brothers to Nirn. Perhaps a Daedric Prince summoned them to that ruin. Maybe it was Sheogorath having a laugh or a grim survival test from Boethiah.

When the two beasts were finally bound into the twin spires of Stonefalls, they went to their rest with the blood of history staining their claws. We must hope and pray to the Three that their like will never be seen in the Ashlands again.

By Tel Verano

Living in the Ashlands, you get used to life being hard. Angry kwama, poisonous fungus, tribal raiders—everything wants to kill you. Don’t let them.

I’ve compiled some notes on the Great Houses of the Dark Elves. Use them or don’t. It’s your decision. Just don’t come crawling to Tel Verano if you find yourself in a Dres slave caravan.

House Indoril

If you’re anywhere near the southern shore of the Inner Sea, House Indoril probably runs the show. The dogs of Almalexia control the most powerful house in Stonefalls and Deshaan. The Dres have money, and House Redoran has troops, but don’t be fooled. The blue hats control the spiritual heart of the Ashlands.

Have you seen their crest? It has wings, to let them fly far above us. That’s how they see us: beneath them. Far beneath them. The military in Stonefalls is one of the most powerful in the region, and Indoril’s war hero Tanval is right at the top.

Loose Coins: Bribe Indoril troops before any others. They have the most clout. Don’t try cracking temples. They’re like fortresses. Anyone in Indoril robes has serious clout in Stonefalls and Deshaan. Look for easier targets.

House Redoran

Duty. Honor. Idiocy. Redoran has the common-folk thinking their house is the strong arm of the Pact. Whenever you seen a group of Pact military officers in the field, they want you to think the most impressive hats belong to their noble house.

The reality is somewhat different. Red hat troops do drive the Pact armies, but from the ground, not the top. Argonian scouts and Nord berserkers also command a lot of troops. The reason they try to slip this coin under the cup? Redoran nobles are still upset the Pact was formed in the first place. Their martial prowess looks a little thinner compared to Argonian stealth and Nord courage.

To quote from one of their proverbs: "Life is hard. Judge, endure, and reflect. A careless life is not worth living." That’s all well and good until different-looking folks come along. Then it’s time to lie and strut for the commoners.

Loose Coins: Redoran troops are humorless, but greedy. Offer one enough, and he’d sell you his own mother. Never insult a Redoran to his face. In fact, never insult a Redoran. They have a tendency to hear things in the training yard. If you’re going to pick a pocket, a Redoran is a good target. Just make good your escape, or you’ll be meeting with the Three sooner than you planned.

House Hlaalu

You have to hand it to the Hlaalu. They actually walk the talk when it comes to Pact togetherness. It’s not because they suddenly love our ancient enemies and slaves, though. No, Hlaalu’s grandmaster is just smarter than most of the rest. An open hand makes it harder to notice the dagger behind your back. Am I right?

While Indoril holds claim to the most powerful positions, Hlaalu has a snake’s grip on Deshaan. Narsis is one of their greatest cities, and even in Mournhold, they have a lot of clout. Hlaalu public houses and plantations are everywhere south of Stonefalls. Learn their layouts well. A lot of the builders use the same plans over and over. When you learn the hiding places in one Hlaalu public house, you’ve learned them all.

Loose Coins: Hlaalu troops are like kwama queens in Deshaan. Use that against them. Outside Deshaan, Hlaalu housemembers are likely to feel like they’re standing in an ashstorm. No matter where you see them, yellow hats make good marks. Take them for all they’re worth.

House Dres

You probably think you know the Dres, right? Heartless slavers with rigid class roles. Arrogant nobles who’d just as soon sell you as look at you.

You’re pretty much right. "Don’t cross Dres" is a good bit of coin you can roll around in your head. I can hear you now, though. "Tel, they have more money than they know what to do with." You’re right again. Your average Dres noble has enough jewelry on display to tempt even the most seasoned cutpurse.

Restrain your nimble fingers, friend. Dres justice doesn’t bother with Ordinators or local guardsmen. You cross the Dres, you disappear. You’re dead or a slave on some noble’s plantation.

Loose Coins: The coins are all tied up in a slavemaster’s purse. Don’t cross the Dres.

House Telvanni

There’s only one good thing about this house of mages: they don’t give a guar about the Pact. They only care about their sanctuary on the Telvanni coast. When the Pact formed, they got their robes in a twist and tossed out every other house trooper they could find. They’re no friends of the lizards or the Nords. They wouldn’t walk to the other side of the road to save another house’s grandmaster. In short, they’re the classic ivory tower wizards.

Everything else about the brown hats is bad news. They move almost as many slaves as House Dres. To become a noble in House Telvanni, you need serious power. Look at a well-dressed brown hat the wrong way, and they’ll melt your face off. They value fabulous magical treasures just as much as books you couldn’t trade for a stale loaf of bread.

Loose Coins: Rampaging Daedra couldn’t make me assault a mage’s tower, but if you’re desperate to leave Nirn, I suggest buying armor enchanted against fire and frost. Then observe the tower as long as you can. If the mark has any magical defenses in place, he’ll probably have to come outside to restore them. You might have better luck on the street, but examine your new loot carefully. Some treasures have their own defenses built in.