by Gi’Nanth

"I stifled my gasp at the Mer’s impertinence, to even suggest that he would be worthy to fight with those of us who had trained so hard. To my surprise, the archpriest agreed, adding the name Taren Omathan to the roster at the beginners’ level. I was eager to whisper the news to my fellow elite students, but my first bout was scheduled to begin in a few minutes’ time.

"I fought eighteen competitions in a row, besting all. The crowd gathered in the arena knew of my prowess, and gave polite, unsurprised applause at the end of each fight. As much as I focused on my own battles, I could not help noticing that other competitions were receiving more and more attention in the arena. The spectators whispered among themselves, and more began drifting away to see something that was evidently more spectacular and unusual than my unbroken string of victories.

"One of the most important lessons we teach from the Two-Moons Dance is the lesson of rejecting one’s vanity. I understood then the importance of achieving a personal synchronicity with one’s body and mind, of rebuffing outside influences of no importance, but I admit I had not accepted the lesson in my heart. I knew I was good, but my pride was hurt.

"It came down to a contest of champions, and I was one of the two. When I saw who the other fighter would be, my mood turned from one of wounded dignity to complete disbelief. My adversary was the servant, Taren.

"It must be a joke, or some final philosophical test, I reasoned. Then I looked into the crowd, and saw anticipation of a great battle to come in every eye. We gave one another the sign of respect, I stiffly and he with great elegance and modesty. The fight began.

"Initially, I sought to end it quickly, still thinking that he was unworthy to be cleaning the arena, let alone fighting in it. In retrospect, I was being illogical, as I must have known he had bested as many students as I had to reach that final level. He offered simple counterblows to my attacks, and responded in kind. His style was expansive, encompassing sophisticated arcane foot play one moment and simple jabs and kicks the next. I tried assailments intended to dazzle, but his face never showed either fear or contempt of my abilities.

"The fight lasted a long time. I don’t recall when I realized I was destined to lose, but when it ended, I was not surprised by the outcome. With a sense of unusual and true modesty, I bowed to him. But I could not resist asking him as we left the arena to the sound of thunderous applause how he had so secretly grown to become a Master.

"’I never had a choice to rise in the Temple,’ Taren replied. ‘Every day, I cleaned the training chambers of the elite classes and then the beginners’. So you see, I never had the misfortune to forget those early mistakes, lessons, and techniques while observing and learning the ways of the Masters.’

"He left Torval early the next morning to return to his homeland, and I never saw him again, though I’ve heard people say that he’s become a priest and a teacher. I became a teacher as well, for children just beginning their training in the Two-Moons, as well as the elite. And I make certain to bring my best pupils to see the how the unlearned fight, so that they might never forget."

By Rathuni-la Dawnwhisker, Daughter of Azurah

This one brings you good news, my cats and kittens, tigers and tigresses—especially for everyone who loves moon-sugar! And that’s all of us, isn’t it, my lion-hearts, because admit it: nothing makes our tails twitch like a moon-sugar-glazed sweet roll!

If you’re like Rathuni, this one knows you were positively reeling last Sun’s Dawn at Abbess Mizzi’s song-paper, in which she reported that it’s not just the vile drug skooma that’s bad for you, but our beloved moon-sugar itself! She declared that over-consumption of the Queen of Sweets is responsible for anxiety, droop-ear, sudden weight gain, and even the panting quivers. Imagine!

Her song-paper spread panic across the kitchens of cat-kind, as we all tried to find substitutes for moon-sugar molasses and granule loaves. Prices of moon-sugar-cane plummeted, while sorghum and sweet-beets suddenly vanished from the markets! Personally, this one was beside herself when she was tapped to provide the sweetcake provender for the Riverhold Mid Year festival. Somehow, the petit-paws just weren’t the same. So mortifying!

But I promised you good news, didn’t I, litter-mates? And here it is: after simply months of alchemical research, generously sponsored by the Canefield Farmers’ Alliance, this one is here to tell you of her complete inability to duplicate Abbess Mizzi’s results. (One can only conclude that the abbess—who is getting on in her lives, poor dear—made an error in her calculations somewhere.) My research shows that consumption of moon-sugar in normal moderation does not generate any of the dire effects alleged in that scary Sun’s Dawn song-paper.

In fact—and here’s the best part, though I fear the title of my song-paper has spoiled the surprise, hasn’t it?—regular consumption of non-distilled moon-sugar derivatives is actually what gives a Khajiit the gloss in her fur! Yes, my lion-hearts: we can have the sweets we love, as well as shiny, split-end-free coats. (And no wonder my pelt was looking so dull lately!)

So there you have it, kitten darlings! Isn’t it Rathuni-la who always brings you the catnip? You know it is, leopard-loves. This one will just leave you with a quick recipe for my clan mother’s Moon-Sugar Biscuits. Here it is—and enjoy!

— 3 mugs moon-sugar
— mug of water
— 1 pat suet
— shifted flour
— red wheat flour

Mix the dry ingredients together. Next slowly add the dry mix to the moon-sugar, mixing constantly. Scoop out dough with a spoon and place on a hot rock or in a cooling oven until golden brown. Serves three (… or maybe just you!).

By Lord Gharesh-ri, Speaker for the Mane

A wife. A husband. A son or daughter. Mother or father, aunt or uncle: each of us has lost one or more of these. It has touched every family in Elsweyr, the dreadful epidemic, the terrible plague—the Knahaten Flu.

It started in Senchal, on Sweet Street in the Black Keirgo slums, among the skooma-struck. At first the city elders dismissed it as a toxin in the goods, but then it spread to Dagi’s Pride and Squint-Eye, and was reported from the docks in Alabaster as well.

And suddenly, it was everywhere: Torval, Orcrest, Dune, Corinthe, and all points in between. The Winds of Khenarthi bore the coughing and retching to every ear. We seemed to be witnessing the Death of Cats on Nirn.

Slowly, Elsweyr began to fight back against its doom. Clan Mother Mizaba-ko of Corinthe first identified how the flu spread from Khajiit to Khajiit. Rathuni-la Dawnwhisker, a Daughter of Azurah from Riverhold, distilled a sorghum-tea that mitigated the worst of the symptoms. Even I contributed, organizing the remnants of the Mane’s Legion to maintain order and put this new knowledge to use.

But it was not enough. Everywhere, Khajiit were dying, by the litter, by the pride, by the entire tribe. The Moon Bishops read the portents, and they were dire indeed.

Then, past all expectation, help arrived from an unforeseen direction: over the western waves came the Elves of Summerset, bringing physicians, healers, desperately needed supplies.

And one more thing: hope. Hope that Elsweyr would survive.

At first, many Cats were suspicious. Never before had the haughty High Elves helped the Khajiiti—why now? But their canonreeves passed among us, as if unafraid of the flu, and explained: the Altmer did it not from friendship, but from policy. We needed their help now, and they would need our help later. Invaders were coming to southwest Tamriel, they said, and the High Elves could not repulse them without Khajiiti claws at their side.

To fight against mutual enemies—ah, that was a logic we Cat-Folk could understand. So we accepted the aid of the High Elves, and their sly cousins the Wood Elves, and gradually the Knahaten Flu began to recede. And when Queen Ayrenn of Alinor proposed the alliance treaty of the Aldmeri Dominion, we took plume in claw and signed it.

Now, fellow Khajiiti, we have been through the forges of torment, and with our new allies, we emerge stronger than ever. We welcome the chance to test blade and edge against these invaders, to spill their blood and take their bright objects.

For now is the time of the Dominion.

Attributed to Clan Mother Ahnissi

A hairless scholar came from his desert to ours and said, "I want to know the truth about the Khajiit."

And the Clan Mother said, "Only one? You are not very curious, hairless scholar."

The hairless scholar peered at the Clan Mother through little windows on his nose and said, "I want to know about your different breeds. Is it true that what phase of the moons you are born under determines your physical morphology?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed, hairless scholar. I was born as Jode was waxing and Jone was new, so I am an Omhes-raht. My daughter here was born when Jode was waxing and Jone was full, so she is a Senche-raht. Thus we are nothing alike."

The scholar peered at mother and daughter and said, "You look very much the same to me."

And the Clan Mother said, "I have heard that those with round pupils have poor vision. It is a sadness."

The hairless scholar tapped his chin and said, "I want to know about your so-called Lunar Lattice. Is it true that the phases of the moons regulate every aspect of your lives?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed, hairless scholar. Today is Suthay, when Jode is new and Jone is new, and we never stir the stew winter-shines."

The hairless scholar blinked and said, "You mean withershins, or retrograde? But that is exactly the way you’re stirring your soup."

And the Clan Mother said, "But only from above. Perhaps your eyes only let you see things from one direction? That is a sadness."

The hairless scholar adjusted his nose-windows and said, "All right. Fine. Tell me of the Two Moons Dance. Is it true you Khajiit dance at the midnight hour to the light of the moons?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Indeed not. We dance the Two Moons Dance in every hour. It is our delight."

The hairless scholar said, "You’re not dancing. You’re sitting by the fire. Tell me when you’re going to dance, so I can join you."

And the Clan Mother said, "My daughter and I dance to the moons at this moment, but you cannot join us, for you do not have a tail. It is a sadness."

The hairless scholar gnawed his knuckle and said, "Very well then. I hear that you have curious beliefs about the moons. Tell me of them."

And the Clan Mother said, "As you wish. When Lorkhaj made a place for Nirni’s children, the darkness in his heart made it also a prison. So his heart was cut out and buried deep in Nirni, and his body was hurled to the moons but could not pass them, for it did not know the First Secret. Thus is his body the Dead Moon in the Lunar Lattice. See it, just there?"

The hairless scholar peered at the sky and said, "I see no moons at all—Masser and Secunda are both new. What do you mean?"

And the Clan Mother said, "Hairless scholar, this one forgot again about your eyes." And she sighed, and her tail danced, and she shrugged. And she said, "It is a sadness."

By Catonius Libo, Aide-de-Camp to General Lavinia Axius

Freeborn Colovians! You are hereby called to Serve your Homeland—and in the process, serve Yourself, your Family and Heirs.

EXTRAORDINARY NEWS

Be It Known that the region south of the River Strid, formerly known as Arenthia Vale of Valenwood, has been re-designated the South Weald of the Colovian Estates, as Decreed by the Count of Skingrad and Ratified by the Elder Council of the Empire of Cyrodiil. The Legion of the West Weald, under command of General Lavinia Axius, has been given the Honor of Annexing the South Weald and Securing its new Borders.

OPPORTUNITIES IN THE WEST WEALD LEGION

Be It Further Known that, upon Cessation of Hostilities in the South Weald, members of the Occupying Legion will be Mustered Out and Granted Land—Farms for Soldiers, Estates for Officers. Previous Ownership of all said Lands has been declared Null and Void by the Elder Council. Current Squatters will be Deported or Indentured and put to Useful Labor on behalf of the New Owners.

GLORY, ADVENTURE, AND PRIZE MONEY

Serve in the South Weald and earn the Plaudits of a Grateful Colovia! Consider also that after Previous Conflicts, many freeborn Colovians were able to enter the Lower Nobility by virtue of the Copious Ransoms elicited from the Families of Important Prisoners. This may be the Best Chance for Advancement in this generation—don’t miss out due to Fretting, Timidity, or Trivial Entanglements.

(Marching songs of the Alessian Order)

The Archimonk’s Dream

To sleep, to dream, of Tamriel
Unsullied by Anui-El.
Man-ape, tell us.
Maruhk, guide us.

What child of Man could fail to be
In bliss if Nirn were Elven-free?
Man-ape, tell us.
Maruhk, guide us.

We willing march to heed your call,
Devoted, pious, one and all.
Man-ape, tell us.
Maruhk, guide us.

Your mandates we embrace.

The Song-Never-Sung-at-Twilight

That is not cruel which cures,
O faith, charity, rigor.
By faith true heart endures,
O hope, clarity, vigor.
Seventy-Seven shall guide us,
O praise, honor, and duty.
Alessia lives inside us,
And truth is one with beauty.

The Forty-Third Praise-Song of Alessia

My very inner organs swell
When I am called upon to tell
Of glory in expunging Taint
In honor of our blessed Saint
Alessia, all praise to her
Who freed Men from the hated Mer.
Thrice-bless’d are those who emulate
Her sanctified, uplifting hate.

This, this, never that.
This, this, never that.

Fifty Nights from home I last awoke
Upon a sky-flung cliff in Hjaalmarch Hold

Though my flesh had died and gone to ground
My Vision went on, from body unbound

Winking there in the vale whence I came
This dead man’s eyes saw pale flame

Where men the same who took life away
Sung high their battle-glory and praise

Wafting went I, a shade or a wight
Through stoic pines, pitched ink of night

Ere I came upon the pyre-burning throng
I heard carried on wind’s wing their song

"Sing high and clear, bandsmen born of sky
Let Sovngarde hear and join our cry"

"These honored dead shed blood upon the fen
Ending Orc and Elf and traitor Men."

"Your spirit went unto and filled their heart
You sped them to glory, Hail Spirit Wulfharth"

Then oil from urns fed greedy flames
Burning what few my legion and I slayed

Wordlessy they chanted then until dawn
Every flake of ash gathered ere they marched on

Swept along unseen, so too went I
Meekly haunting these Children of the Sky

Tireless they went, over hearth and hill
Exhaustion seemed only to spur them still

Unflagging they went, a whorl of rage
Soon finding our camp, bloated with prey

My dead heart ached for I knew men within
Doomed, never knowing how close was their end

Again the Nord chests swelled up in refrain
I screamed unheard. I wept with horror plain

"Hear us, our ancestor, Ash King, Ysmir
Honor this warband as we to glory repair"

"Those dead to whom you spoke and heard
We bear them upon us, Your valor conferred"

And so it was, to the man each was smeared
With ash of a Brother’s bone, blood and beard

These ashen brutes, the Askelde Men
Set to a gruesome task, each bowstring bent

I bellowed then, a cry of desperate rage
A futile howl among those men, an empty page

Yet one elder turned and unblinking, stared
Into the vapor-soul of me, his nostrils flared

He bellowed ancient words, his beard aflame
And my vision fell away, Peace at last came

And the star sung far-flung tales
Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,
Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails
His charges through the serpent’s snare

And the Lord of runes, so bored so soon,
Leaves the ship for an evening’s dare,
Perchance to wake, the coiled snake,
To take its shirt of scales to wear

And the Lady East, who e’ery beast,
Asleep or a’prowl can rouse a scare,
Screams as her eye, alight in the sky
A worm no goodly sight can bear

And the mailed Steed, ajoins the deed
Not to be undone from his worthy share,
Rides the night, towards scale bright,
Leaving the seasoned Warrior’s care

Then the serpent rose, and made stead to close,
The targets lay plain and there,
But the Warrior’s blade the Snake unmade,
And the charges wander no more, they swear

HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US

DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR

We do not die. We do not fear death.

Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness. But the Animus returns.

But we are not all brave.

We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.

The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.

The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.

THE CLAN BOND

We are not born; we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.

The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.

In the clan-form is strength and purpose.

THE OATH BOND

We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.

Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.

Dremora have long served Dagon but not always so.

Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.

When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.

HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.

How then do you imagine we view you humans?

You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.

The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.

Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.

As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.

But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.

Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore. Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.

MAN’S MYSTERY

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.

This lies beyond our comprehension—why do you not despair?

(Varennian Edition)

by Zeroli Jarol

The ancient Ayleids believed that Nirn was composed of four basic elements—earth, water, air, and light—and of these four elements, they believed the most sublime form of light was starlight. The stars are our links to the plane of Aetherius, the source of all magical power, and therefore, light from the stars is the most potent and exalted of all magical powers.

From time to time, fragments of Aetherius fall from the heavens. The people know these fragments as "shooting stars," and from time to time, such Aetherial fragments are found on Nirn. The most common varieties are known as "meteoric iron"; this metal is prized by armorers and enchanters for its properties in the forging of enchanted weapons and armors. This meteoric iron is also the primary component in "Ayleid Wells," ancient enchanted artifacts found throughout Cyrodiil.

Another, rarer form of Aetherial fragment is called "meteroic glass." It is from such fragments that other rare Ayleid enchanted artifacts are crafted; namely, Welkynd Stones and Varla Stones.

Ayleid Wells are scattered across Cyrodiil’s landscape. They remain a mystery, as they are not associated with any known Ayleid cities or settlements. It is presumed that in some manner, they harvest magical power from starlight. It is also suggested without evidence or support that they are located at the meeting points of ancient lines of magical power; however, modern arcane arts have discovered no perceptible evidence of such lines of power.

Those with magical talents can draw magicka from Ayleid Wells to restore their own reservoirs of magical power. No ritual or arcane knowledge is necessary, suggesting that these wells were designed to serve persons not skilled in the magical arts. Once drained, the wells replenish again only at magical midnight. Once recharged, they appear to radiate magical power back into the sky, which prompts some to theorize they are also objects with religious or magical ritual significance, perhaps a means of offering magic back to the heavens.

Welkynd Stones (in Aldmeris: "sky stone," "heaven stone," or literally, "sky child") are pieces of cut and enchanted meteoric glass which apparently act as storage devices for magical power. A magical talent can restore his reservoirs of magicka from such stones. Alas, the means of restoring power to these stones may have been lost with the Ayleids. Currently, these objects simply crumble to dust after they have been used.

Great Welkynd Stones are exceptionally large pieces of enchanted meteoric glass. Scholars believe that at the heart of each ancient Ayleid city, a Great Welkynd Stone was the source of the settlement’s magical enchantments. It may be that these great stones were linked to the lesser stones, restoring and maintaining their power. In any case, research on these Great Welkynd Stones is impossible, since all the known Ayleid ruins have been looted of their great stones, and no examples of these great stones are known to survive.

Another rare enchanted item found in Ayleid ruins is called a Varla Stone (in Aldmeris: "star stone"). Varla Stones are remarkably powerful, enabling untrained users to restore magical energy to any number of enchanted items. Because of their great value and utility, these items are also extremely rare, but since they are small and easily concealed, diligent explorers may still occasionally come across them in any Ayleid ruin.

Ayleid Wells, Welkynd Stones, and Varla Stones—consider these marvels of magical enchantment. Are we then to conclude that the Ayleids were a superior race and culture? Did they so exceed us in art and craft that they mock the feeble powers of Second Era Wizards?

Never! The Ayleids were powerful, yes, and cunning, but they were neither good nor wise, and so they were struck down. Their works have passed from Nirn, save these rare and sparkling treasures. Their ancient cities are dark and empty, save for the grim revenants and restless spirits condemned forever to walk the halls, keeping their melancholy vigils over bones and dust.