by Absolon Sorick

They lair in holes. They breed in huge numbers, and smell of rotted meat. I speak not of skeevers, gentle reader, but of Orcs. The threat on the horizon, the unrelenting horde. "But Sorick," I hear you saying, "are they not our allies now?" It’s good that you want to believe in the leadership of King Emeric. It’s good that you want to believe in this Covenant that now binds us to the beastmen of Orsinium.

But in truth, your belief is foolish. Your trust in the king is misplaced. For these subhumans have a cruel and vicious cunning. Like a hunting wolf pack, the Orcs lie still in the tall grass. They wait for us to let down our guard. Even great men like His Majesty can be misled by this simple tactic.

They now walk among us. They serve in the honored Lion Guard. They take work as sellswords, protecting our wealthiest merchants. They infiltrate our temples as bodyguards for holy men. Gentle reader, do you not see? Can’t you see how every luxury we give these animals only encourages them? Every opportunity is just another opening in our armor for their rough-hewn blades to pierce!

With their unnatural strength, they take up work that should be borne by Breton shoulders. The thickness of their stinking hides gives them a defense that no Redguard man can stand against. In cities across Covenant lands, stories grow of Orcs defiling our women and siring unnatural half-breeds!

How long will you let this stand, reader? How long will you bend a knee to these filthy animals? I say, no more! Join with like-minded people in your village today, and rise up against these beasts. These scum. These … Orcs.

By Abbot Durak

Those new to our order often ask me, "What does it mean to be a Spirit Warden?" This confusion is understandable. Azura offers guidance, but not always in the ways we expect. She has spoken to me but twice in my lifetime, and then only in silken whispers, barely audible in the night.

The Dream Shard is Azura’s gift, as is the Dreamless Potion we drink every night. Azura foresees a time when Vaermina, Mistress of Nightmares, will unleash a plague on our province: a plague of madness. Countless innocents will die unless we stop it.

The Dreamless Potion protects us from Vaermina’s madness only so we may protect others: those afflicted souls driven mad by their dreams, and their victims. When the time of plague comes, we must stand against it. This is our calling from Azura … and our pledge.

By Nellic Sterone

For several seasons I have been observing the Stonechewer Goblin tribe, recording their daily activities and becoming familiar with their customs and routines. Over time I have deliberately crept closer and closer to the limits of their tribal camp, occasionally showing myself briefly so the subjects would become used to my proximity. At one point a warrior out to relieve himself behind a tree stumbled upon my observation post, and when he grunted and drew his crude-but-serviceable short sword I thought my work had come to an untimely end. Luckily the tribal shaman was nearby, and he intervened on my behalf, speaking harshly to the warrior and knocking aside his sword. The shaman pointed at me and slowly rotated his hand near his head, which I assume is a Goblin gesture denoting acknowledgement of superior intellect. Who would have suspected these so-called primitives had such regard for scholarship?

After that there were no more incidents of hostility, and the Goblins tolerated my presence, so long as I kept a respectful distance from their females and offspring. Occasionally a warrior would bark at me, but I simply replied by making the hand-rotating "intelligence" gesture next to my head, and the warrior would shrug and go back to his business.

As so little is known about the religious practices of the Goblin race, I decided to make the shaman of the tribe my particular study. The symbol of his office was a bone rod, probably a femur, with a small skull affixed to the end—possibly an infant’s. This skull was ornamented with an assortment of feathers, spines, and animal claws, and filled with something like nut-hulls, for it rattled loudly when shaken. The shaman would shake this holy symbol forcefully when summoning his congregation to sacred rituals, or when the females were not bringing him food or drink rapidly enough.

At particularly important rituals the shaman would touch they symbol to his heart, then his head, then point it to the sky and call out, "Muluk!" At first I found this confusing, given the similarity of "muluk" to the Goblin words "muulk," which they use when chastising their durzogs or children, or "mluku," the term for fecal matter. But gradually I learned to differentiate, and one day I realized that by crying "Muluk!" the shaman must be invoking the god of the Goblins.

And then it struck me: "Muluk" is not really much different from "Mauloch." Could the god of the Goblins and the god of the Orcs be one and the same?

This is the kind of discovery that could win me tenure at the College of Wayrest! I must get independent confirmation of this revelation. But how?

By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

The Breton passion for feudal hierarchy pervades every aspect of High Rock society, from the lowliest peasant farmer to the High King in Wayrest. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the curious phenomenon of the Breton knightly orders.

Here in Hammerfell, we Redguards sensibly award equal citizenship to every man or woman who knows which end of the sword to grasp. Oh, we have our governing class, of course, as civilization must be ordered and maintained, but below this aristocracy there are few distinctions.

Not so in High Rock, where everyone is aware of their degree of nobility, which is invariably traced back to those Breton families who led the region’s liberation from the overlordship of the Direnni Elves. High Rock cultural history is founded on tales of the noble and chivalrous "Breton Knights" who flung off the yoke of their Elven masters. After these knights drove the Direnni back to Balfiera Island, they founded the knightly orders to carry on the tradition of nobles-in-arms, and to ensure that High Rock would have able and ready defenders in times of trouble.

So the stories go, at least. Today, every petty kingdom and duchy in High Rock has its own knightly order, with traditions that supposedly date back to the glory days of the Breton Liberation. The Knights of the Dragon in Daggerfall, the Knights of the Flame in Alcaire, the Order of Saint Pelin in Evermore—the list goes on and on.

And what, nowadays, do these knightly orders do to justify their gleaming greatswords and shining mail? If we look beyond the banners and pageantry, we find that the chivalric orders fulfill two main purposes in High Rock society.

First, they provide an acceptably "noble" calling for the excess sons and daughters of the aristocracy. Over time, as trade has made High Rock prosperous, the profession of merchant has become an accepted alternative to feudal lordship for the children of the nobility, but frankly, not every baron’s son has a head for numbers and negotiation. For these spare heirs, there’s always a membership available in the local knightly order.

Second, the bestowal of a knighthood on a lower-class man or woman is a convenient way to reward outstanding contributions to society (or to the elevating lord), and confers a measure of that nobility so prized in Breton society. Where the commoner is rewarded for achievements other than in conflict—and this is the case in the majority of knighthoods—the membership in the local knightly order is only nominal, and the new sir or dame is not expected to take up sword and shield. However, if their achievements were in the all-important realm of trade, the new "merchant knight" is expected to contribute heavily and regularly to the order’s financial maintenance.

So if you’re visiting Wayrest or Evermore on a mission of diplomacy or trade, don’t be surprised if the head of a shipping company is introduced as Sir Doric, or the owner of a string of hostels is called Dame Lizabette. You’re simply meeting one of the fabled Breton Knights of High Rock.

By the Omen of a Hundred Prophecies

‘Twas in Menevia, dear, green Menevia, there dwelt a young Breton of family and name. He had inherited a patrimony, and thus needed to do nothing, as others were paid to do for him. And so he sat at his mullioned window and gazed out the diamond panes at the colors of the countryside as they changed with the light. And he dreamed away the day, until the colors darkened and he betook himself to bed, where he slumbered and dreamed in truth.

Of what did he dream? He dreamed of his own land, but in colors more intense, more true, and more pure than in day. His Menevia of Dreams was more real than his Menevia of Waking, and he felt more alive when asleep than awake. Each day at his mullions, he looked and longed for a way to dream beyond dreams—a way to live in his Reverie-Menevia forever and forever.

"Reverie-Menevia," he said, and it was a prayer. "Reverie-Menevia. Reverie-Menevia." A thousand, thousand times he uttered this prayer, and it changed like a dream to " ‘Ver’-Menevia, ‘ver’-Menevia," and more and more it became less and less, until at last, "Vaermina," he said, and "Vaermina," and "Vaermina" again.

And to him she came in Dream-Form, Vaermina Herself, and called him Supernal Dreamer, and First Nightcaller, and named him Omen of a Hundred Prophecies. And when he awoke, he yet did dream, and spoke as in a dream, and called other dreamers to him, and to Reverie-Menevia.

And soon you shall join him. The Nightcaller has dreamed it. One night you shall dream, and in your dream you will say the Name. And She will come.

By Hrerm House-builder, Bard’s College, Solitude

There is nothing like the Direnni Tower anywhere in Skyrim, save for High Hrothgar itself. Unlike the great mountain, which is a thing of nature, the tower is a structure—but one not constructed by Men or Mer, if the legends speak true, but by the Aedra themselves.

It rises, stark and sheer, from the high center of Balfiera Island in the Iliac Bay, where it has stood since the dawn of time itself. Adamantine Tower, it is called, for the unknown, ageless material from which it is built, and Tower Zero, as the edifice that predates all other buildings on Mundus.

The Direnni High Elves have ruled Balfiera since the beginning of the First Era. In common parlance the tower bears their name, though they can claim only the construction of the more recent keep that clusters around the tower’s base. (Who is responsible for delving the catacombs beneath the keep is a matter of debate with no definitive consensus.)

I have not consulted with the High Elves of Alinor (who has?), but the noble Croiden, Elden Antiquariat of the Direnni, deigned to answer a few questions. According to him, the tower was erected in the Dawn Era when the gods met to decide the fate of Mundus. At its apex, Auri-El, the great god of the Aldmeri, slew the trickster Lorkhan, impaled his heart on an arrow and launched it across the world. The heart merely laughed and lived on.

The Aedra then withdrew from the affairs of Mundus, leaving behind the tower for the Direnni to discover and take for their own. What secrets did they find there? What have they concealed to this day? Whatever the secrets may be, the Direnni didn’t reveal them to this humble Nord architect.

However, secrets there must be, for I took sight-and-angle measurements of the Direnni Tower from the eight points of the compass. According to my calculations, and given the known characteristics of all available materials, building an edifice of its proportions should not be possible.

(Cumberland Edition)

by Sathyr Longleat the Elder

Wayrest is one of the most glorious cities of western Tamriel—sparkling in her contemporary beauty, lustrous by her past. She is prized above all cities in High Rock. No other city has contributed so much to the culture of the Bretons. The spirits of her genius children continue to haunt the streets. You can see them in the gabled roofs, grand boulevards, and aromatic marketplaces. The people of Wayrest have an instinctive appreciation of their past, but are not obsessed by it, as the people of Daggerfall seem to be. One feels that one is in a modern city when one visits Wayrest, but there is a magic in the air that could only come from centuries of civilization.

It is difficult for historians to declare a certain date for the foundation of Wayrest. Where the Bjoulsae River feeds the Iliac Bay, a settlement of some variety has existed since at least 1E 800. The traders and fishermen of Wayrest were surrounded by hostile parties. The Orc capital Orsinium had grown like a weed to the north, and pirates and raiders crowded the islands to the west. There is no mystery to Wayrest’s name. After what most travelers had to endure at the eastern end of the Iliac Bay, the little fishing village on the Bjoulsae was a welcome rest.

Nowhere in the much-vaunted censuses of the Skyrim Occupation is Wayrest mentioned. In the Annals of Daggerfall, King Joile’s letter to Gaiden Shinji of 1E 948 contains the following reference: "The Orcs have been plaguing the Wayresters and impeding traffic to the heart of the land."

Wayrest only truly bloomed after the razing of Orsinium in 1E 980. Hard-working traders and merchants were instrumental in forming a trade alliance, thus reducing pirate activity on the bay. A successful mercantile family, the Gardners, built a walled palace in town and, over time, allowed banks and other businesses within its walls. A Gardner, Farangel, was proclaimed king when Wayrest was granted the right to call itself a kingdom in 1E 1100.

Although Wayrest was ruled by one family, the merchants continued to wield incredible power. Many economists have alleged that Wayrest’s eternal wealth, despite her hardships, comes from this rare relationship between merchants and crown. The Gardner Dynasty was followed by the Cumberland Dynasty, but never has a king of Wayrest been deposed by revolution or assassination. Every king of Wayrest can trace his line back to a merchant prince of Wayrest. The merchants and king respect one another, and this relationship strengthens both.

Wayrest has survived blights, droughts, plagues, piracy, invasions, and war with good humor and practicality. In 1E 2702, the entire population of the city was forced to move into the walled estate of the Gardners as protection against pirates, raiders, and the Thrassian plague. A less resourceful community would have withered, but the Wayresters have survived to enrich Tamriel generation after generation.

by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College

Except for a few of the most assimilated, Argonians worship neither Aedra nor Daedra. They do not have "religion" as it is known elsewhere in Tamriel. They are known to venerate the Hist Trees of Black Marsh, but they do not appear to have prayers, priests, or temples.

Argonians also venerate Sithis, the primordial Shadow/Chaos that existed before the gods were born. Unlike most citizens of Tamriel, they do not regard Sithis as "evil." In fact, Argonians born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood, which in Black Marsh is considered an integral part of society.

All she saw was the glint of moonlight in a straight, sharp line flashing into the man beside her. He groaned and slipped to his knees, falling sideways onto the ground.

"By the Eight," Lormingga whispered in horror. A scaled hand clamped across her mouth, preventing her from saying anything more.

"It’s over," a voice rasped softly. A soft cloud of ash filled the air and she coughed, wondering why the assassin hadn’t killed her, too.

When the dust settled, Lormingga realized she was alone. Only the smear of blood on the floor beside her indicated where her companion had fallen. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Lormingga looked around carefully. Alone. She lifted her unbound hands to her face and prayed.

"Kyne, my goddess and guide, I thank you for saving me from the lizard-folk," she said softly. "We must return them to their masters."

"And for that, you must pay."

Lormingga felt the blade slipping through her flesh before she saw the Argonian rise beside her. Her mouth moved soundlessly and her hands clutched at where the weapon had pierced her throat.

"I had no proof you were involved, woman," the Argonian said, wiping her blade on Lormingga’s shirt before sheathing it. "Thanks for admitting your guilt before I left. This journey would’ve been inconvenient for another Shadowscale to take so soon."

As Lormingga sank to the floor, the Shadowscale assassin added, "We are all part of the Pact now … except for traitors like you."

And then the assassin, like Lormingga’s life, was gone.