By Phrastus of Elinhir

Truly, the Tract of Merid-Nunda is one of the strangest and least understood works of mythohistory that has come down to us from the early First Era. It exists only in partial manuscript form, a single copy of which resides in the library of the Arcane University at the Imperial City. (Or at least it did, though since the Mages Guild was blamed for the disappearance of the Emperor Varen and driven out of Cyrodiil, I don’t know what has become of their once-admirable library.)

Fortunately, I was granted an opportunity to study the noted Tract in detail while the Guild was still in possession of it, and made a personal copy for myself so I could continue to unravel its mysteries once I’d returned to Elinhir.

The problem of understanding the Tract of Merid-Nunda is twofold: First, the extant document is clearly part of a larger work, drawn from seemingly somewhere in the middle, and without the preceding and following portions of the work we have little context for the part that remains. Second, the Tract is written in a peculiar argot that employs Ayleid phrases in a late Nedic syntax, including many words of unknown origin that don’t appear in any other source.

However, working outward from fragments previously translated by Wenegrus Monhana and Herminia Cinna, I believe I can shed some new light on certain key passages in this mysterious manuscript. Our format shall be to provide the translation of each passage, followed by my interpretation of its meaning.

"… were known as the Nine Coruscations, who followed the parabolas that led away from Magnus. Merid-Nunda was of these Sisters, as was Mnemo-Li, as was Xero-Lyg, as was …."

This appears to identify the "Daedric Prince" Meridia with the so-called Star-Orphans, those Anuic ur-entities that separated from Magnus when that Divine withdrew from the creation of the Aurbis. The best-known of these Star-Orphans is probably Mnemoli the Blue Star, who is associated with un-time events, and was said to be visible even in the daytime sky at the time of the Dragon Break.

"… thus we call upon Cenedelin to bind the earth, as we speak to Merid-Nunda regarding the light, for she is the scintilla that fears not darkness, and swims the waves of pull and spin …."

For the Ayleids, of course, Light was one of the four elements of creation, and this passage seems to confirm that Meridia was the personification of Light to the Wild Elves. Though I am certain of this passage’s translation, I confess the meaning of the final phrases eludes me.

The next passage was quite difficult, but its translation adds an entirely new episode to our accounts of the Dawn Era:

"The Lords of the Chaos-Realms chided Merid-Nunda for her trespass and bade her return to Aurbis, claiming all existing spheres as their own. But Merid-Nunda formed of her substance a great drag-lens, and the light of Magnus was bent thereby. The rays [carved? focused?] a new sphere from the chaos, which Merid-Nunda, [laughing? sparkling?], did claim for her own."

This appears to recount the origin of the Colored Rooms, as Meridia’s Oblivion realm is known, seemingly formed directly out of the stuff of chaos by an act of divine will.

And finally:

"… thus does Merid-Nunda [ride? slide?] across the rainbow road from end to end, at one end stretching the dragon, at the other end compressing him …."

A curious passage indeed. The "dragon," of course, traditionally refers to the Divine we know as Akatosh, the God of Time. This seems to suggest that by traveling the "rainbow road" (a reference to the prismatic refraction of light?), Meridia can in some sense alter the rate at which time flows forward.

Altering the "speed" of time? Is this merely an absurd conceit of the late Ayleid sorcerer-priests, or a genuine insight into the nature of one of the least-understood Daedric Princes?

Who can say?

By Kynval Zzedenkathik of Clan Deathbringer

For as long as I can remember—and like all Dremora my memory is keen, especially for grievances—I have faithfully served the officers of my clan, and through them, My Lord Molag Bal. And yet not always: for once, to my shame, I was compelled to serve another.

I was on guard duty at the Endless Stair, an assignment I always enjoy, for I can mock and torment the passing Soul Shriven without being held responsible for them meeting their quotas. Leaping out from behind a claw-pillar while shouting, "There you are, weakling!" just never loses its appeal.

I was lurking behind a Dark Anchor chain link, preparing to terrify an approaching Soul Shriven by suddenly knocking her down and sneering, "No match at all," when I suddenly felt a strange tingling all over, from my horns down to my toes. I grew dizzy as the plane spun around me, nearly fell into a pool of blue plasm, and then suddenly felt myself hurled into an endless black void.

I wasn’t alarmed at first, because who hasn’t been hurled into an endless black void? It wasn’t until I began to materialize at my destination and got a taste of the air that I had my first misgivings. "I smell … weakness," I said to myself—and I couldn’t have been more right.

It was then that I first heard the voice of my Conjurer as he said, "Ah, this one looks fairly robust," and the full horror of my situation broke upon me. For I had been summoned to do the bidding … of a mortal.

I turned, aghast, to see who had dared summon me across the infinities to Nirn, and found myself faced with a tall Elf of Summerset. Oh, I recognized the type: I’d abused more than a few Altmeri Soul Shriven in my time, and with gusto, for they evince a haughty arrogance entirely inappropriate in mere mortals. This one gave me a brief, appraising look, and then turned away, saying, "Follow and fight. There are Worm Cultists that need slaying."

Worm Cultists. Can you imagine the ignominy, fellow kyn? Not only had I been conjured away from my duty by one of the hated Elven mortals, but I must serve him by slaying the minions of Mannimarco, our Dread Lord’s lieutenant and viceroy-to-be! I tried to resist, flexing my indomitable will, but the mortal mage’s binding spell was too strong—all I could do was say, "No one escapes!" and follow him past a pair of torches into a subterranean maze of tunnels.

"You serve the great Vanus Galerion, Dremora," my Conjurer announced, quite unnecessarily—for what need had I to know the name of my slavemaster? But then I reconsidered, and mentally added his name to that long list each of us keeps: the list labeled, "Vengeance."

I followed, not deigning to crouch when my Conjurer hunched over to sneak, merely glaring at him and thinking, "I will feast upon your heart." In truth, however, it was as well that I had this Elf Vanus to follow, for the tunnels were many and twisting, and though we Dremora are fearless, relentless, and unparalleled among warriors throughout Oblivion, our sense of direction is rather poor. When doing courier duty, I’ve been known to lose my way right in the middle of the Moonless Walk and wind up back at the Lightless Oubliette where I started.

In time this Vanus began to pause frequently, listening, which only increased my irritation and impatience. Finally he stopped, with a "Shh!" to me—which was completely unfair, as I hadn’t said a word. But I realized why he’d stopped when I suddenly heard human speech from the tunnel ahead. Hesitating nary an instant, I drew my greatsword and rushed forward, crying "A challenger is near!" The Elf cursed and followed, but he had only himself to blame—I was following his orders exactly.

The next minute passed in the red fury that all true Dremora feel when they enter battle. But my usual enjoyment of bloody slaughter was tainted by the knowledge that I was killing those my Dread Lord would prefer I didn’t, and frankly, that just ruined the whole experience for me. As I lopped off the limbs and heads of the Worm Cultists, I was aware of the energies of the Elf’s powerful magics crackling past me, incinerating the more distant enemies, but I was too mortified to enjoy the orgy of destruction. The Elf came striding up as I subdivided the final Worm Anchorite, gloating, "So much for them. Take that, Mannimarco!"

"There could be no other end," I replied sourly, then felt the strange tingling again as the conjuration that had brought me to Nirn began to weaken. As the bonds dissolved I took one menacing step toward the Elf, but then the plane spun around me again, and it was back into the endless black void.

When I came to my senses I was lying in a pool of turquoise slime, looking up at the smiling face of my superior, Kynreeve Xalxorkig. "So, Zzedenkathik," he snarled, "straying from your post when on duty, eh? It’s the scathe-rings for you, my lad!"

"But, Kynreeve," I cried, leaping to attention, "I couldn’t help it! I was conjured, summoned to Nirn—by a mortal!"

Xalxorkig smiled even wider. "And that’ll be an extra shift scathing for telling such a hornless lie. Now march, Zzedenkathik," he shouted, thumping me with his truncheon. "Left, right, left, right, left, right …."

I hate it when Xalxorkig smiles. Kynreeve or not, his name’s going on my list.

By Lyranth

Resting never again until our purpose be achieved.

Ever watchful for an opportunity to repay the wrong.

Valkynaz Seris: We shall extract the fee for betrayal.

Even our duty to the Overkyn is transcended by this.

Never again to hear the name Foolkillers Clan: agony.

Generous will we be to those who aid our purpose:

Ending the false ascendance of the Deathbringer Clan.

By Judge Xiven

All proceedings shall be strictly on the record, unless said proceedings are ordered stricken from the record.

The Guilty shall address this court with all due respect, or receive condign punishment as appropriate from Magistrate Bogtro.

The Guilty shall be entitled to counsel in the form of scamps duly outfitted in periwigs. However, scamps, due to their inveterate vulgarity, are forbidden to speak in the Court of Contempt.

The Guilty are invited to express their indignation at these proceedings at length and in the most heated terms, for the entertainment of the Judge and Magistrate.

The reputation for the fairness of the Court of Contempt is proven by its one-hundred-percent conviction rate of the Guilty.

Take them away!

Inventory Report by Kyngald Nazkrixor

Raw Materials for the Great Shackle:

Supplies of ebony-alloy cold-iron are stable at 17,500 tons, but that’s barely enough to forge the Shackle, given typical rate of loss in the casting process. It might be wise to send for another 2,000 tons from the mine burrows in the side of the Mountainous Corpse of the Iron Colossus. Better safe than sorry.

I am honored to report that we have discovered the source of the depletion in the supplies of the Charcoal of Remorse: cinder-imps had been getting into the vault through a forgotten plasm-duct and gorging on the C of R. (We learned this when we found one so bloated it was unable to get back through the duct opening.) We sent in an explosive duct-worm, which found the nest and discorporated all the cinder-imps. Deficits in the supply of Charcoal of Remorse have been made up by increasing Torment Quotas on the Kothringi Soul Shriven.

I don’t wish to be one to point talons, but it is my duty to report that even if the Shackle is forged according to schedule, we will not be able to quench it if we do not receive our shipment of the Blood of a Thousand Innocents. We have gotten repeated assurances from Exsanguinator Thartantix that our shipment will be on its way "any shift now," but so far all we’ve received are promises. I hesitate to elevate this to the Overkyn level, but I think it’s high time the matter was looked into.

Vault Twelve: Rare Book Collection

Access FORBIDDEN

Items:

"The Athedorix Conundrums" by Mymophonus
— Nine portentous questions, with answers known to drive readers insane.

"The Hosiric Lays" by Unknown (poss. Calisos or Morachellis)
— Tales in epic verse recounting the Atmoran folklore of the Cyro-Nords.

"The Gwylim Praxis" by the Aureate Serpent
— Methods of draining magicka from intelligent creatures at the moment of death.

"The Third Scroll of Baan Dar" by Arkan
— How the great thief stole the "37th Lesson" from Vivec—before he could write it.

"The Letters of Alessia and Belharza"
— Intimate correspondence between the First Empress and the Man-Bull.

"Eleven OTHER Edicts of the Ten Ancestors" by the Heretic of Lindai
— A parody of the classic "Eleven Edicts" supposing the Ten Ancestors had worshiped Auri-El rather than Daedra.

"Numidium Blueprints" by Kagrenac the Engineer
— ALL SCROLLS MISSING—REWARD FOR RECOVERY

"Conversations with the Heart of Lorkhan" by Pelinal Whitestrake
— Ruminations on the nature of the Aurbis. Warning: Probably apocryphal.

"The Southern Coast as Far as the Eastern Sea" by Topal the Pilot
— Sea logs of the great Aldmeri explorer.

"Insights" (pristine copy) by Shalidor the Arch-Mage
— A disquisition on the origin and nature of Dragons.

"The Alessian Doctrines: Original Manuscript" by the Monkey Prophet Maruhk
— Screed defining the dogma of the non-Elven nature of Akatosh.

"Studies in Aprocrypha" by Morian Zenas
— A summary of truths learned in Apocrypha that Zenas refuses to believe. In fourteen volumes.

"Epistolary Acumen" by The Transparent One
— Forbidden invocations of inimical Daedra.

"Grimoire" by Corvus Direnni
— Spell secrets of the mighty conjurer.

"The Tract of Merid-Nunda" (complete) by Anonymous
— Revelations on the nature of Meridia and the mistake of conflating her with the Star-Orphans.

"The Lusty Argonian Maid" (complete play)—Traditional
— Copy out for repair—accidentally damaged by Librarian.

"The Art of Love and Swordplay" by Fjokki the Bard
— The popular autobiography of the frisky Nord, Fjokki, whose exploits are unbelievable but strangely compelling. Not rare, but a perennial favorite here at the Library.

Kynbriefing for the Lightless Oubliette

If you’ve never served a shift in the Lightless Oubliette before, pay close attention, because this is not a place where you want to make a mistake. The L. O. was specifically constructed as a detention facility for captive servants of the Shining Bitch, and you know how our Dread Lord feels about her. If any of these Aurorans or Lustrants escape on your watch, you’ll be lucky to get off with Second-Degree Gradual Discorporation.

Now I don’t care how well you know the Seven-Hundred-and-One Edicts; I don’t care if you can quote chapter and verse from the Mandatory Codicils: the rules that matter in the Lightless Oubliette are the following.

1. No white or yellow glow crystals to be brought into the facility.

This isn’t because we like the place gloomy, fools. It’s because the Prisoners can pervert certain spectra of light into working on their behalf. Stick to blue glow crystals for illumination, or even better, open flame.

2. No torment-sport with the Prisoners.

That includes the Elf King. No, I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is. Rumor has it the Dread Lord is planning some kind of nasty surprise for the Shining Bitch, and to pull it off he needs her servants with their bodies intact. Could be true, I don’t know.

3. Clean up after yourself.

This is a top-security facility, so no Soul Shriven are allowed in, not even custodians. You make a mess, you clean it up. This includes any bodily fluids spilled during sparring practice—if I find stains on the flagstones again, somebody’s next shift will be in the scathe-rings.

(Author Unknown)

There was, in those days, a city in the Heartland, Delodiil by name. And it was a city of pleasant promenades, of learned scholars, of meticulous artisans, and of lissome dancers. And also did Delodiil have warriors fierce and proud, who protected the promenades, and the scholars, and the artisans, and the dancers. And though the warriors were few, they were bold.

Now the people of Delodiil worshiped many gods, for they were devout and held all the Divines in reverence. But above all others they did venerate the Lady of Light, building for Merid-Nunda a chapel of colored rays and beams, which was for glory like a piece of Aetherius brought down to the mortal world. And the people of Delodiil were proud thereon.

But across the valley was another city, Abagarlas, which was to the darkness as Delodiil was to the light. Now Abagarlas had as many citizens as Delodiil, but few were dancers, artisans, and scholars, because most were warriors fierce and proud. These warriors were lended to other states and cities for the making of war in return for wealth. And thus did Abagarlas, in its own way, prosper.

Now the King of Abagarlas saw the chapel of lights that was the pride of Delodiil, and he said, "Is not Abagarlas as great a city as Delodiil? We shall have a great chapel of our own." And he decreed that much of the wealth of Abagarlas be spent in the building of a shrine to his own patron Divine, who was the Lord Mola Gbal. And the people of Abagarlas reared up a vast shrine to Mola Gbal, but they were but rude soldiers rather than artisans, and the shrine was misshapen, ill-colored, and burdensome to look upon. But it was, nonetheless, larger than Delodiil’s chapel of lights, and thus the King of Abagarlas boasted that his city was greater therefore than Delodiil. But the people of Delodiil evinced no dismay, and went about their business as before.

And this unconcern of the Delodiils ate a hole into the heart of the King of Abagarlas, and he was vexed unto madness. He sent soldiers to profane the small shrine to Merid-Nunda in Abagarlas, and then went to his vast shrine to Mola Gbal, where he swore a mighty oath. And slaying a family of visiting Delodiils on the altar, the King vowed that he would gather his army, march across the valley, and capture all the Delodiils, sacrificing them to Mola Gbal within the chapel of lights.

And the King of Abagarlas mustered all his soldiers, and on a night in which the skies were lit by a furious racing aurora, he marched them across the valley to Delodiil. But when the King and his army arrived they found the land empty, for the city of Delodiil was gone, unto every brick!

And the King thought he heard laughter in the lights in the skies, mirth that turned to shrieks of fear that came, not from above, but from back across the valley. In haste the King marched his soldiers back to his city, but when they arrived at Abagarlas, they found it utterly destroyed as if by scorching light. And of the families of the soldiers and the King, nothing could be found but their shadows burnt into the walls of the city.

Thus Abagarlas. But of the fate of Delodiil, nothing more was known.

By Dorayn Redas, House Hlaalu

Developing and maintaining a kwama mine can be a rewarding, and more importantly, a lucrative pursuit, provided one takes the time to learn about kwama and their environmental requirements. Kwama are giant insects that live and work in underground colonies called egg mines. Although eggs provide the primary source of income for any kwama mine, they are by no means the only product produced by the mine. Kwama cuttle, scrib jelly, and scrib jerky all provide additional sources of revenue for a kwama mine.

To start a kwama mine:

1a. Find and tame a wild kwama colony (difficult), or
1b. Purchase excess kwama from a crowded mine (expensive)
2. Live near the colony until you smell like kwama
3. Never approach the kwama queen chamber
4. Gather eggs, collect cuttle
5. Count your profit

Despite the name, a kwama mine consists of living creatures. With judicious yet unobtrusive maintenance, a moderately-sized mine can produce an abundance of valuable kwama eggs. Kwama mines can also produce tasty scrib jerky, acidic scrib jelly, and kwama cuttle, which is highly valued by alchemists.

The Kwama Colony: The road to owning a profitable mining concern starts with a healthy kwama queen and a full complement of workers. The queen produces eggs in the deepest recesses of the mine. Kwama workers care for the eggs, moving them to the various tunnels and chambers within the mine, according to space requirements, environmental conditions, and the development state of the eggs. Kwama workers also produce food for the mine, feed and clean the queen, and expand the mine complex as the colony grows. When not tending to their usual duties, workers can be seen digging new chambers and tunnels within the ever-growing labyrinth of the mine. Workers tend to be docile, but can turn violent if threatened or attacked, or if the queen is in danger.

Kwama warriors protect the colony, reacting quickly to any perceived danger. They should be treated warily and with respect, for they are aggressive and highly dangerous. While workers are quadrupeds, warriors are bipedal and very powerful.

Scribs, as the miners call juvenile kwama, roam freely through a kwama colony. A mine usually splits the scrib herds into two camps: those allowed to grow into workers or warriors, and those harvested while still young for jelly and jerky. Scrib jelly has a variety of uses, including as a food source, but it is prized by alchemists as a key ingredient to create potions and cure diseases. Scrib jerky, made by drying thin slices of scrib meat, has minor restorative properties and is considered to be quite delicious by Dark Elf culinary experts.

Starting a Kwama Mine: Assuming you don’t want to pay the exorbitant fees associated with purchasing a queen and kwama from an established mine, you will need to locate and tame a wild colony. This approach isn’t without cost, however, as House Hlaalu requires would-be mine owners to purchase a license before hunting for a wild colony in earnest.

When you locate a potential colony, you can’t simply walk in and set up shop. The colony’s aggressive warriors would make short work of your miners. There is a solution: acclimation. The acclimation process takes time, but injury and loss of life (of both colony members and miners) can be minimized by letting the colony slowly become familiar and comfortable with your presence. Once your miners acquire the smell of the local kwama, the warriors will consider them to be part of the colony.

Egg Harvesting: The actual "mining" of kwama eggs doesn’t require a great deal of skill. Miners basically need only patience and common sense to perform their job. Egg harvesting must be done with an eye toward balance. Remove too many eggs and you may agitate the workers and the queen. Remove too few and the queen’s egg production may fall. The mine manager must keep a careful eye on production to ensure that the queen does not produce too many or too few eggs. Wide swings in production will affect profits and make planning more difficult, and should be avoided.

Avoid the queen’s chamber at all times. Warriors and workers will view any approach to their queen as a threat and react accordingly. Production can grind to a halt as the colony becomes agitated and miners can’t safely enter the mine. You might lose a few miners as the colony rampages, but the most important thing to remember is that the kwama will eventually calm down and once again accept the presence of the miners.

Note: House Hlaalu egg-mining licenses require mines to provide regular production reports. Failure to comply can result in sanctions, fines, or even closure of the mine. And that’s neither fun nor profitable.

By Warlock Elinyon

Pardon the lengthy discussion of morality to follow. We shall reach the meat of this meal—the actual procedure of soul-trapping—soon enough. I was compelled to include an introductory chapter to this revised version of "Soul-Trapping" after the ethical arguments that sprang from the publication of the first edition.

Soul-trapping is the art of taking a creature’s soul upon death and confining it in an appropriately-sized phylactery. Throughout the history of magic, mages and philosophers alike have battled back and forth about the morality of the art.

Some mages would argue that, once dead and soul-trapped, a creature’s spirit is merely an echo of its previous life, no longer aware of what goes on around it. Even those rare individuals who become phantasmal hunters lurking the darkness of Tamriel are nothing more than predators acting on natural impulses. To these mages, once dead, an individual loses some spark, some intangible element in biological death, that cannot be regained. As such, they argue, soul-trapping is not unethical. In fact, it’s a waste of resources to leave the soul of the deceased free.

Of course, we the living, being still alive, can never know for certain. Theories regarding the afterlife are myriad, but even the most powerful mages in Tamriel have never returned from death’s reach to report their level of awareness in that state. As such, there are those in the communities of Tamriel, both magical and not, that decry the use of soul-trapping spells. The eccentric Archmagus Elomion of the First Era famously asked, "Would you like to spend your afterlife powering my levitation staff?" The Archmagus claimed to never have used a soul-trapping spell in all his years.

Adding some weight to that argument is the rumor that one such soul has retained a very mortal sentience in its entrapment. If rumors are true, the Altmeri royalty have utilized an advanced form of soul-trapping to imprison some ancient High Kinlord for the duration of his afterlife (perhaps one of the Rilises—that lot is notoriously manic, and their souls must be doubly so). The High Kinlord has reportedly maintained his (its?) faculties, taunting and jeering his keepers on a daily basis. I don’t know where this Kinlord might be, and I don’t want to know. I’d like to keep my head. But his very existence speaks to how aware a soul can be, and the morality of soul-trapping can be further postulated from there.

What do I believe about the subject? I’ve written ten volumes on trapping souls: instructional, theoretical, and historical in nature, and I cannot answer that question. It is my belief that you won’t be able to, either. But what you can answer is whether the material I teach in the following volumes is worth using. All I ask is that you read them.