You have your orders, Alduril, and you’ll execute them as well as you always do, but I wanted to apologize again for this assignment. It would never have been necessary had the Canonreeves not dissolved my plans for a garrison at Tempest Island. I had drawn requisitions to bring a fleet of Swan Ships—enough to repel any force of long-range vessels from Pyandonea—to defend the island. The request was denied.

"We can deal with the Maormer after the Pact and the Covenant," they said, citing a lack of resources to devote to my "unfounded apprehension." So I reminded a few acquaintances of favors owed from conflicts long past and managed to send a few scout ships.

They reported unusual weather phenomena the first week, swift lightning storms off the coast that came and went in moments. The second week, the storms intensified, and under cover of inclement weather came a fleet of warships, chitinous hulls with opalescent sails, decks illuminated with the sparks of lightning staves and swords—Maormer war materiel, just as we remember them. My scouts estimated their force is small, not a full-scale invasion fleet, but the coast of Malabal Tor will be entirely at their mercy when they decide to attack.

Had the Canonreeves taken just a moment from their maps tracking the movements of Orcs and Men, they’d see that a dire threat was growing under their noses. Every week my scouts reported an increase in Maormer strength, a few ships every few days, appearing under the cover of some kind of weather magic. Months too late, the Canonreeves agree with me, now.

I know we ask much from you and your soldiers, but if you don’t stop them, Alduril, the Dominion will have yet another front to fight in this war. More than any Daedra, more than the Ebonheart Pact, more than the Daggerfall Covenant, the Maormer want the Altmer choked from existence. They always have.

Show them no quarter.

The Ransom of Zarek, Part 2

"Now thou wert just showing off," frowned Jalemmil. "Surely that would have been a good time to escape."

"Thou might think so," agreed Zarek. "But thou had to see the topography—a few large trees, and then nothing but shrubs. Ulin would have noticed my absence and caught up with me in no time, and I would have had a hard time explaining Mathais’s absence. However, the brief forage around the area allowed me to observe some of the trees close up, and I could formulate my final plan.

"When I got back to camp with a few twigs, I told Ulin that Mathais was slow coming along, dragging a large dead tree behind him. Ulin scoffed at his brother’s strength, saying it would take him time to pull up a live tree by the roots and drop it on the bonfire. I expressed reasonable doubt.

"’I’ll show thee,’ he said, ripping up a ten-foot-tall specimen effortlessly.

"’But that’s scarcely a sapling,’ I objected. ‘I thought thou couldst rip up a tree.’ His eyes followed mine to a magnificent, heavy-looking one at the edge of the clearing. Ulin grabbed it and began to shake it with a tremendous force to loosen its roots from the dirt. With that, he loosened the hive from the uppermost branches, dropping it down onto his head.

"That was when I made my escape, mother," said Zarek in conclusion, showing a little schoolboy pride. "While Mathais and Koorg were at the base of the cliff, and Ulin was flailing about, engulfed by a swarm."

Jalemmil embraced her son once again.

Publisher’s Note:

I was reluctant to publish Marobar Sul’s "Ancient Scrolls of the Dwemer," but when the University of Gwylim Press asked me to edit this edition, I decided to use this as an opportunity to set the record straight once and for all.

Scholars do not agree on the exact date of Marobar Sul’s work, but it is generally agreed that they were written by the playwright "Gor Felim," famous for popular comedies and romances during the Second Era after the fall of the Reman Empire. The current theory holds that Felim heard a few genuine Dwemer tales and adapted them to the stage in order to make money, along with rewritten versions of many of his own plays.

Gor Felim created the persona of "Marobar Sul" who could translate the Dwemer language in order to add some sort of validity to the work and make it even more valuable to the gullible. Note that while "Marobar Sul" and his works became the subject of heated controversy, there are no reliable records of anyone actually meeting "Marobar Sul," nor was there anyone of that name employed by the Mages Guild, the School of Julianos, or any other intellectual institution.

In any case, the Dwemer in most of the tales of "Marobar Sul" bear little resemblance to the fearsome, unfathomable race that frightened even the Dunmer, Nords, and Redguards into submission and built ruins that even now have yet to be understood.

The Snow Elf and the Variation-Lens

By Marobar Sul

Mzulchond the Tonal Architect had spent twenty years attuning the great animus geode he’d found in Inner Duathand, trying to synchronize it with the precession of the dual equinoxes in order to captivate the Nirnpith Essence. The geode’s vibratory affinities continued to elude him, however, so one day he threw down his attenuators, left his workshop and went to the kitchens for an infusion of chal.

As he approached the kitchen portal he heard sibilant music that cut off abruptly as he stepped over the threshold. His house-assistant, a Snow Elf maiden named Lilyarel, withdrew her hands from behind the steam-grill and looked up guiltily.

"I heard music, Lilyarel," Mzulchond said. "What did you just put behind the calorefactor?"

"It’s nothing, Sir Dwarf," the maiden replied. "Just something I cobbled together to pass the time."

"What? Have you been in my device-closet again? Show me what you have there."

Reluctantly, the Snow Elf reached behind the steam-grill and drew out a fist-sized object of golden metal, crystal knobs glinting on its flange-hood. Mzulchond held out his hand, open, and Lilyarel carefully placed the object in it. "Don’t drop it," she said. "It’ll get de-tuned."

"Well, well," the engineer said. "So you’ve built yourself a crude tonal variation-lens. Is this what was playing the music I heard?"

"Yes, Sir Dwarf," the maiden said, gazing at the floor. "I hope I didn’t do anything wrong."

"What, with this device? There’s nothing dangerous in a melodic repeater bauble, so long as it doesn’t leak bthun-waves from its volumizer. Can’t have that—might interfere with the static condensers."

"Oh, don’t worry, I used arkoid shielding—not very much!" she said anxiously. "But it’s not a melodic repeater, Sir, it harmonizes with my mental melodies."

"Nonsense," Mzulchond scoffed. "No one knows how to synchronize a variation-lens with mental concept-cycles. It’s never been done."

"I wouldn’t know anything about that, Sir Dwarf," Lilyarel said, wringing her hands nervously. "I just flipped the duum-emitter so it canceled the demi-ektar-waves, and it worked just fine. Can I have it back now?"

"Hold on a dzum," the engineer said, raising a hand while he looked more closely at the gleaming device. "Flipping the duum-emitter cancels the demi-ektars? Yes … yes, I can see how that might work. This may be just the thing I need to attune my animus geode to the Nirnpith Essence!"

As Mzulchond turned in excitement to take the variation-lens back to his workshop, the Elf maiden picked up a flipper-strut with both hands and struck him across the back of the head. The tonal architect fell dead to the ground, as Lilyarel picked up her shiny device. "Never liked him," she hissed to herself. "Always smelled like Dwemer oil."

Then she opened the brazen louvers of a vent-tube, crawled in, and began lowering herself down through the inwards of the Dwarven city. "Guess I’m going down to join the Undermer, and not coming back." And with that, she turned on her variation-lens, which immediately began harmonizing with her mental melodies.

Azura and the Box

By Marobar Sul

Nchylbar had enjoyed an adventurous youth, but he had grown to be a very wise, very old Dwemer who spent his life searching for truth and dispelling superstitions. He invented much and created many theorems and logic structures that bore his name, but much of the world still puzzled him. Nothing was a greater enigma to him that the nature of the Aedra and Daedra. Over the course of his research, he came to the conclusion that many of the gods were entirely fabricated by man and mer.

Nothing, however, was a greater question to Nchylbar than the limits of divine power. Were the Greater Beings the masters of the entire world, or did the humbler creatures have the strength to forge their own destinies? As Nchylbar found himself nearing the end of his life, he felt he must understand this last basic truth.

Among the sage’s acquaintances was a holy Chimer priest named Athynic. When the priest was visiting Bthalag-Zturamz, Nchylbar told him what he intended to do to find the nature of divine power. Athynic was terrified. He pleaded with his friend not to break this great mystery, but Nchylbar was resolute. Finally, the priest agreed to assist out of love for his friend, though he feared the results of this blasphemy.

Athynic summoned Azura. After the usual rituals by which the priest declared his faith in her powers and Azura agreed to do no harm to him, Nchylbar and a dozen of his students entered the summoning chamber, carrying with them a large box.

"As we see you in our land, Azura, you are the Goddess of the Dusk and Dawn and all the mysteries therein," said Nchylbar, trying to appear as kindly and obsequious as he could be. "It is said that your knowledge is absolute."

"So it is," smiled the Daedra.

"You would know, for example, what is in this wooden box," said Nchylbar.

Azura turned to Athynic, her brow furrowed. The priest was quick to explain, "Goddess, this Dwemer is a very wise and respected man. Please believe me: his intention is not to mock your greatness, but to demonstrate it to this scientist and to the rest of his skeptical race. I tried to explain your power to him, but his philosophy is such that he must see it demonstrated."

"If I am to demonstrate my might in a way to bring the Dwemer race to understanding, it might have been a more impressive feat you would have me do," growled Azura, who turned to look Nchylbar in the eyes. "There is a red-petaled flower in the box."

Nchylbar did not smile or frown. He simply opened the box and revealed to all that it was empty.

When the students turned to look to Azura, she was gone. Only Athynic had seen the Goddess’ expression before she vanished, and he could not speak, for he was trembling so. He knew a curse had fallen on him, but even crueler was the knowledge of divine power that had been demonstrated. Nchylbar also looked pale, uncertain on his feet, but his face shone with bliss instead of fear: the smile of a Dwemer finding evidence for a truth only suspected.

Two of his students supported him, and two more supported the priest as they left the chamber.

"I have studied much over the years, performed countless experiments, taught myself a thousand languages, and yet the skill that has taught me the final truth is one I learned when I was but a poor, young man, struggling to earn enough gold so I could eat," whispered the sage.

As he was escorted up the stairs to his bed, a red flower petal fell from the sleeve of his voluminous robe. Nchylbar died that night, a portrait of peace that could only have come from contented knowledge.

(This book is a historical account of the development of Dwemer law and custom from its roots in High Elven culture.)

In short, so far as I am able to trace the order of development in the customs of the Bosmeri tribes, I believe it to have been in all ways comparable to the growth of Altmeri law. The earlier liability for slaves and animals was mainly confined to surrender. As in the Sumerset Isles, this later became compensation.

What does this matter for a study of our laws today? So far as concerns the influence of the Altmeri law upon our own, especially the Altmeri law of master and servant, the evidence of this is to be found in every judgment which has been recorded for the last five hundred years. It has been stated already that we still repeat the reasoning of the Altmeri magistrates, empty as it is, to the present day. I will quickly show how Altmeri custom can be followed into the courts of the Dwemer.

In the laws of Karndar Watch (P.D. 1180) it is said, "If one who is owned by another slays one who owns himself, the first owner must pay the associates of the slain three fine instruments and the body of the one who his owned." There are many other similar citations. The same principle is extended even to the case of a centurion by which a man is killed. "If at the common workbench, one is slain by an Animunculi, the associates of the slain may disassemble the Animunculi and take its parts within thirty days."

Consider what Dhark has mentioned concerning the rude beasts of the Tenmar forests. "If a marsh cat was killed by an Argonian, his family were in disgrace till they retaliated by killing the Argonian or another like it. Furthermore, if a marsh cat was killed by a fall from a tree, his relatives would take their revenge by toppling the tree, shattering its branches, and casting them to every part of the forest."

By Herebane, Nord

The Dwarves have been extinct for many an age, and perhaps that’s for the best. To see men and women the size of large children, all with beards, would be a most disturbing sight. Still, whatever wrath the Dwarves brought from the gods that consumed an entire civilization surely must have been an awe-inspiring thing to witness.

The remnants of their civilization lie buried in the hearts of mountains. Scholars and thieves the world over descend on the skeletal remains of Dwarven cities like vultures to scrape clean the bones of the past, old knowledge waiting to be exhumed, and treasures to be discovered. But many men lie murdered in those halls of the damned, because those Dwarven ruins do not release their treasures without a fight.

My kin would tell stories long ago, when I was just a child, about how adept the Dwarves were at building machines. They would say that before our time, Dwarves harnessed the power of the earth. They wielded fire and hammers to reshape steel and bronze with a mechanical brilliance that breathed life into these now ancient constructs of metal and magic. In their dark halls and chambers, amid the ceaseless droning of grinding gears and venting steam, they lie in wait to confound or destroy would-be plunderers of the Dwarven sanctums, as the grim watchmen of the last vestiges of culture from a dead race.

I descended into the humid darkness of Mzulft. The slow hiss of steam, creaking of metal, and rattle of old gears powering an empty city would unnerve most men. I could hear things in the darkness, skittering across the floor just out of sight as I stepped over the bodies of plunderers or scholars who had not made it far. I knew it was not rats wandering these halls.

Small mechanical spiders set upon me with rapid movements. Machines sprouted from the walls and uncurled from spheres into contraptions that rolled on top of gears for legs and crossbows for arms. I could not help but marvel at these single purpose machines built for the murder of men. My sword and my shield are my strength, and I am undeterred by such things. I had heard of greater things roaming these depths, and indeed, something else in these chambers stirred, and it echoed with massive weight. As it lumbered closer, its feet struck the ground as if walking on massive pistons. As it loomed out of darkness, I could see it clear for the first time, axe for one hand, hammer for the other, as tall as five men, made of dull bronze with a face molded in the image of its masters. A Steam Centurion. The stories were true. These were the guardians of the greatest Dwarven treasures.

We fought, and the Dwarves must truly be extinct, because our battle was surely booming enough to wake the dead. It came at me with hammer and axe, inhuman strength, great fortitude, and a purpose of nothing but murder. I dodged as it crushed the stone around me with futile strikes. I thrust and slashed at it with my blade and took every opening afforded as we shook the halls with violence. I refuse to be undone by a machine.

Where the average man would be long dead, I stood over the husk of this dead automaton, its steam escaping like a final gasp. I could have taken the Dwarven artifacts and metal, but I left them there for others, for I would not hex my journey with the possessions of dead men. Maybe that is where countless others go wrong.

I will continue on my journey across the lands. Perhaps one day Herebane will meet a worthy challenge, for I have yet to see what would make me tremble.