An Excerpt

Written by the Esteemed Historian Homfrey at the University of Gwylim, 2E 455

Being a Survey of the Triumphant Settlement of the Heartland High Elves in the Southern Regions

…At this point, we should mention the remarkable cities of Ceyatatar, and the Ayleid settlement beneath what is now modern Bravil. These cities, along with the Valenwood cities of Haven, Woodhearth, and Silvenar, all flourished as a result of increased trade after the establishment of the great White-Gold Tower in what is now the heart of Cyrodiil.

Of note in particular is the university and libraries at nearby Elden Root. The Ayleids there built their city in and around what is called the Elden Tree or the First Tree, believed by many to be the tree that seeded all of Valenwood.

Both Haven and Woodhearth were destroyed utterly by the sieging Maormer, who cared little for the advanced and enlightened ways of the Valenwood Aldmer. Marching inland, they plundered not only the Elden Root enclave, but also the Great Tree itself. What villainous tribe would injure and pillage such magnificence?

It is possible that the Maormer had broken the Aldmer traditions of racial purity and intermingled with indigenous, bestial tribes of Pyandonea. This would explain their savagery and lack of regard for the greatness of mainland Elven culture.

The storm threw an unexpected twist in Captain Saraja’s plan. She eyed the pirate sloop’s torn sails and broken mast. Not only had their most recent haul washed overboard, but now they’d be becalmed until they could afford repairs.

"We’re as good as grounded," First Mate Huruz said grimly.

"If we see another ship, I’m sure we can talk them out of it," the captain replied with a throaty chuckle. "We’re disabled, but still afloat. You’re always thinking about disasters."

"Better safe than … is that another ship?"

Saraja turned and grinned. "Our future ship, you mean."

Huruz eyed the distance and said thoughtfully, "It’s not that far. Let’s lower the dinghy."

Within moments, the Khajiiti crew prepared themselves to row to the other vessel. It was anchored near a sandbar and appeared undamaged. As they approached, Saraja scanned the line between the ship and sky, looking for movement. All quiet. Ripe for the plunder.

Huruz climbed up, slowly digging into the ship’s dark hull. He had to overpower any guard on this side, enabling the rest of the crew to secure lines and board. Landing softly on the deck, Huruz glanced quickly fore and aft. No guards. He leaned over the rail and signaled the crew.

One by one, the pirates boarded, padding along the deck silently with weapons drawn until they were all aboard the silent ship.

"Too big a ship to be on a pleasure cruise," Huruz murmured to the captain. "And too quiet to be well-armed."

Saraja nodded, gesturing toward the cabin’s door. "They’re hiding in there," she whispered. "Time for them to get off my ship."

With a loud battle cry, Huruz kicked open the cabin door. The pirates, claws unsheathed and weapons high, pushed in after him before coming to a stop not ten paces into the quiet, dark space.

"What’s amiss?"

"Quick! Get me a light!"

One of the pirates slammed tinder and flint together. He raised the torch slowly, its warm glow reflecting across dozens of mirrors strewn throughout the cabin.

"By Jone and Jode, Kothringi!"

"Dead Kothringi!"

Saraja ordered everyone back to their crippled ship, though it was already too late. No one who’d seen the Crimson Ship ever lived to tell the tale, and her crew had done more than see it.

Collected by Telenger the Artificer

Vulkwasten, widely known for its fermented beverages, is home to some of the friendliest Bosmer I’ve ever met. Like most of their kind, they are industrious and get along well with most people. After completing research into their brewing methods, I stayed overnight with a local family.

As a historian, I realize one can learn much about a culture by studying its humor. Therefore, I copied down several of their witticisms for future examination. Perhaps by considering their amusements, we will gain further insight into the mind of the Bosmer.

A skeleton walks into the tavern and says, "I’d like some rotmeth. And a mop."

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: It was dead.

Q. What’s brown and sticky?
A. A stick.

Person One: Ask me if I’m a tree.
Person Two: Are you a tree?
Person One: No.

Q. Which side of a raven has the most feathers?
A. The outside.

Q. What has three heads, is ugly, and smells?
A. My mistake! You don’t have three heads!

Q. What’s light as a feather, but cannot be held for very long?
A. Breath.

Q. Imagine your boat’s sinking in slaughterfish-infested waters. How do you survive?
A. Stop imagining!

Q. Why do thunderbugs eat raw meat?
A. They never learned to cook.

Q. Why do bees buzz?
A. Because they can’t whistle.

"Mix it like this," said Rakhal. She ground wet clay and herbs beneath her pestle with rhythmic strokes. "The very act of creating the paint is a prayer."

Yashirr grasped her own stone pestle, pulled her bowl closer and imitated the priestess.

Pound! Lift! Scatter a handful of herbs into the bowl, and pound again! The Orcs sat close together, knee to knee, bowls held in curve of their bent knees.

Rakhal chanted softly, swaying with her movements. Gradually, as the group’s rhythm strengthened, her voice gained matching volume.

"Mauloch!" Pound!

"Witness …" Lift!

"… our deeds!" Scatter!

The honor of preparing tribal paint went to a handful of the Chief’s daughters. Yashiir had never sat in the circle before. In prior years, she’d gathered the herbs and clay, but nothing more. Now she sat at Rakhal’s right hand in a place of honor. Pride washed through the young Wood Orc. Clearly, she had been chosen as an apprentice!

"Mauloch!" Pound!

"Give us …" Lift!

"… blood!" "Scatter!

At that final word, the women threw back their heads and released Mauloch’s Call, a throaty howl that echoed through the trees and nearby cliffs. Rakhal signaled their work’s completion.

The tribe lined up to be painted with the fresh battle-red clay. Rakhal waved those she deemed unworthy or unfit for the battle aside. They weren’t allowed to partake in the painting ritual.

When Rakhal motioned to Yashirr to step from the line, Yashirr parted her lips to protest, then pursed them tightly. To question Rakhal’s judgment would bring dishonor. Bowing her head in confused anger, Yashirr joined the handful of the unselected Orcs.

Rakhal looked over the unselected, and pulled Yashirr to her side. "Mauloch chose you to perform the next ritual, child. Take the blade and remember: Mauloch watches you."

Guiding Yashirr’s hand, Rakhal leaned over the empty vessel and slid the young Orc’s blade across her outstretched neck. Rakhal’s hand did not falter even as she slipped from consciousness in order to provide the next paint with the sacred blood of a true warrior.

Changes in the wind. The leaves. The flow of water. Even the animals seemed to sense a difference. The Voice of the People silenced.

The Silvenar had died. Not unexpected, but an event often attended by varying degrees of turmoil.

Had the city come first, or the Silvenar? No one seemed to know, nor care. There once was chaos, and then came generations of structure. Well, something like structure. Organized mayhem, more like it.

The next Silvenar, a young lad, poised to take up the mantle.

"They’re waiting," the attendant said. She held out an alabaster goblet filled with fermented broth.

"I know. Give me a moment." Indaenir closed his eyes and took a deep breath before accepting the ceremonial cup.

The Silvenar. The title wasn’t officially his until the wedding, but he could already feel the changes. Like the beat of a moth’s wings near his ear, Indaenir felt his new identity whispering to him in quick pulses. It tickled.

The Silvenar represented the Wood Elves. He or she would feel the will of the people and act upon it. The connection went both ways, as his or her influence could also sway the Wood Elves.

And his people were nervous.

Willowleg rubbed his ankle. Not broken, just twisted. He stood, putting weight on it very carefully. Good. It would hold. He’d fallen while on a journey through Valenwood. One of his legs was thinner than the other. Sometimes he forgot.

"Now to figure out where I am," Willowleg said. He looked at the swaying leaves high above, the hint of blue sky occasionally peeking through. To anyone but a Wood Elf, those brief glimpses would convey nothing, but Willowleg immediately turned to continue on his way.

Soon, he realized he wasn’t alone. A little to his left walked another Wood Elf, dark green hair hanging unkempt about his face. Willowleg, used to traveling alone, noticed that his silent companion adjusted his pace to remain close without overtaking him.

"Going to Falinesti, too?" Willowleg asked.

"Yes."

Willowleg said congenially, "I hope I reach the summer site before it’s too late."

The green-haired Wood Elf said, "You’ll be fine." His tone indicated he didn’t wish to speak further, so Willowleg simply nodded and kept walking.

They traveled together, silently, for the rest of the day. When Willowleg stopped to rest, the stranger also stopped. Willowleg shared water and dried meat. Then they began the last part of their journey. The trees thinned out, leaving a clearing into which Falinesti fit perfectly.

At the clearing’s edge, the stranger stopped and put a hand on Willowleg’s arm. Surprised, Willowleg realized the green-haired Elf’s skin was rough and thick, like bark.

"Stay here," the stranger said, murmuring an incantation.

Willowleg, unable to move or speak, watched his companion walk to Falinesti’s base and touch its bark with his forehead. The tree-city shuddered and began to move slowly, lifting its roots from the earth.

As the green-haired Elf walked off, leading Falinesti away, Willowleg felt the strange spell over him break, and movement returned with a tingling force through his limbs. He glanced down and saw that not only had his thin leg healed, but his shoes were missing.

"The Woodsmer," Willowleg whispered in awe. The Woodsmer, the mythic one who led the unwary astray in the woods, was also known to bestow favors on those who knew their way.

As Falinesti moved southward, Willowleg wondered which the city was.

By Archivist Endaranande

Life for many in the Aldmeri Dominion begins in Valenwood. Green, forested, filled with a wide variety of plant and animal life, and home to some of the first Elves from Old Ehlnofey.

Over time and through generations, these early settlers adapted to the woods. They learned stealth and cunning by studying their new prey. Eventually, they became Wood Elves, or Bosmer. Slighter than the Altmer, intense and agile, the Bosmer are renowned archers and scouts.

Fierce combatants, the Bosmer have an unusual advantage: the Green Pact. According to Bosmer legend, Y’ffre the Forest God offered them a way to defeat their enemies, providing they did not consume, harm, or harvest any of Valenwood’s plants.

Many have heard of the Wild Hunt, one result of the Green Pact. Of this ritual, I will say no more.

The Bosmer welcome those who come to Valenwood seeking refuge from other lands. In this regard, they are quite unlike their pure Altmer cousins. While we seek to retain our dignity, the Bosmer are quite willing to bend like saplings to the will of others.

Though they are unruly and naive, these Wood Elves are an integral part of the Dominion, and must be retained in order for our alliance to flourish.

(a fragment)

– Act VII, Scene II, Continued –

Lifts-Her-Tail: My goodness, that’s quite a loaf! But how ever shall it fit my oven?

Crantius Colto: This loaf isn’t ready for baking, my sweet. It has yet to rise.

Lifts-Her-Tail: If only we could hurry that along. How would I accomplish such a task?

Crantius Colto: Oh, my foolish little Argonian maid, you must use your hands.

Lifts-Her-Tail: You wish me to knead the loaf? Here?

Crantius Colto: Of course.

Lifts-Her-Tail: But what if the mistress catches me? Your loaf was meant to satisfy her appetite.

Crantius Colto: Don’t fret, my delicate flower. I’ll satisfy the mistress’ cravings later.

Lifts-Her-Tail: Very well, but I’m afraid my oven isn’t hot enough. It could take hours!

Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.

– End of Act VII, Scene II –

By Quintus Nerevelus
Former Imperial Librarian

After the supposed theft of an Elder Scroll from our Imperial Library, I endeavored to find any sort of index or catalogue of the Scrolls in our possession so that such situations may be avoided (or at least properly verified) in the future. To my dismay, I discovered that the Moth Priests are notoriously inexact when it comes to the actual physical manifestations of the Scrolls, and had no idea how many they held, or how they were organized. Merely asking the question evoked chuckles, as if a child was asking why dogs cannot talk.

I will confess, my jealousy of the ones who can read the Scrolls grows, but I am not yet willing to sacrifice my sight to alleged knowledge. The older Moth Priests I attempt to engage in conversation seem as batty as any other elder who has lost their mind, so I fail to see what wisdom is imparted from the reading.

In any case, I set out to create my own index of the Elder Scrolls, in cooperation with the monks. Day by day, we went through the tower halls, with them telling me the general nature of each Elder Scroll so that I might record its location. Always careful never to glimpse the writings myself, I had only their word to go on. I meticulously drew out a map of the chambers, where Scrolls relating to various specific prophecies were located, where particular periods of history were housed. In all, it took nearly a year of plodding, but at last I had rough notes on the entirety of the library to begin my collation.

It was here that things began to go amiss. In studying my notes, I found many areas of overlap and outright contradiction. In some cases different monks would claim the same scroll to be at opposite ends of the tower. I know they have no taste for jesting, or else I would suspect I was being made the fool in some game of theirs.

I spoke to one of the older monks to relate my concerns, and he hung his head in sorrow for my wasted time. "Did I not tell you," he coughed, "when you started this that all efforts would be futile? The Scrolls do not exist in countable form."

"I had thought you meant there were too many to be counted."

"There are, but that is not the least of their complexities. Turn to the repository behind you, and tell me how many Scrolls are locked therein."

I ran my fingers over the metal casings, tallying each rounded edge that they encountered. I turned back — "Fourteen," I said.

"Hand me the eighth one," he said, reaching out his hand.

I guided the cylinder into his palm, and he gave a slight nod to acknowledge it. "Now, count again."

Humoring him, I again passed my hands over the Scrolls, but could not believe what I was feeling.

"Now … now there are eighteen!" I gasped.

The old monk chuckled, his cheeks pushing up his blindfold until it folded over itself. "And in fact," he said, "there always were."

It was then that I enrolled as the oldest novice ever accepted into the Cult of the Ancestor Moth.

The following are notes gathered, over the past centuries, of items of unimaginable significance. All have been seen, owned, and lost, again and again throughout Tamriel. Some may be myth, others may be hoax, but regardless, many have lost their lives attempting to find or protect these very coveted items.

Boots of the Apostle

The Boots of the Apostle are a true mystery. The wearer of the boots is rumored to be able to levitate, though nobody has ever seen them used.

Bow of Shadows

Legend has it that the Bow of Shadows was forged by the Daedra Nocturnal. The legendary ranger, Raerlas Ghile, was granted the Bow for a secret mission that failed, and the Bow was lost. Raerlas did not go down without a hearty fight and is said to have, with the aid of the Bow, taken scores of his foes with him. The Bow grants the user the ability of invisibility and increased speed. Many sightings of the Bow of Shadows have been reported, and it is even said that the sinister Dark Elf assassin, Dram, once wielded this bow.

Chrysamere

The Paladin’s Blade is an ancient claymore with offensive capabilities surpassed only by its own defenses. It lends the wielder health, protects him or her from fire, and reflects any spells cast against the wielder back to the caster. Seldom has Chrysamere been wielded by any bladesman for any length of time, for it chooses not to favor one champion.

Cuirass of the Savior’s Hide

Another of Hircine’s artifacts was the Cuirass of the Savior’s Hide. The Cuirass has the special ability to resist magicka. Legend has it that Hircine awarded his peeled hide to the first and only mortal to have ever escaped his hunting grounds. This unknown mortal had the hide tailored into this magical Cuirass for his future adventures. The Savior’s Hide has a tendency to travel from hero to hero as though it has a mind of its own.

Daedric Scourge

The Daedric Scourge is a mighty mace forged from sacred ebony in the Fires of Fickledire. The legendary weapon of Mackkan, it was once a fierce weapon used to send spirits of darkness back into Oblivion. The weapon has the ability to summon creatures from Oblivion.

Denstagmer’s Ring

All that is known of this Ring is that it may grant the user protection from certain elements. Even the name Denstagmer is a mystery.

Ebony Mail

The Ebony Mail is a breastplate created before recorded history by the Dark Elven goddess Boethiah. It is she who determines who should possess the Ebony Mail and for how long a time. If judged worthy, its power grants the wearer added resistance of fire, magicka, and grants a magical shield. It is Boethiah alone who determines when a person is ineligible to bear the Ebony Mail any longer, and the goddess can be very capricious.

Eleidon’s Ward

Eleidon was a holy knight of legend in Breton history. He was a sought after man for his courage and determination to set all wrongs right. In one story, it is said that he rescued a Baron’s daughter from sure death at the hands of an evil warlord. For his reward, the Baron spent all of his riches to have an enchanted shield built for Eleidon. The Shield granted Eleidon the opportunity to heal his wounds.

Fang of Haynekhtnamet

Black Marsh was once known to be inhabited with what the Argonians called the Wamasus. Northern men considered them to be intelligent dragons with lightning for blood. One such mighty beast, Haynekhtnamet, was slain by the Northern men, though it took seven days and nights, and a score of men. One of the surviving men took a fang home as a trophy. The fang was carved down into a blade and fashioned into a small dagger. The dagger mysteriously houses some of the beast’s magical properties and grants the user the ability to do shock damage on an opponent. This unique dagger is seen occasionally by traveling heroes.

Fists of Randagulf

Randagulf of Clan Begalin goes down in Tamrielic history as one of the mightiest warriors from Skyrim. He was known for his courage and ferocity in battle and was a factor in many battles. He finally met his fate when King Harald conquered Skyrim. King Harald respected this great hero and took Randagulf’s gauntlets for his own. After King Harald died, the gauntlets disappeared. The King claimed that the Fists granted the bearer added strength.

Goldbrand

This magical Sword is almost a complete mystery. Thieves tell tales about its golden make and how it was actually forged by ancient dragons of the North. Their tales claim that it was given to a great knight who was sworn to protect the dragons. The Sword lends its wielder the ability to do fire damage on an enemy. Goldbrand has not been sighted in recent history and is said to be awaiting a worthy hero.

Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw

One of Valenwood’s legendary heroes is Oreyn Bearclaw. Son of King Faume Toad-Eye, he was a respected clan hunter and a future leader. Wood Elven legend claims Oreyn single handedly defeated Glenhwyfaunva, the witch-serpent of the Elven wood, forever bringing peace to his clan. Oreyn would go on to accomplish numerous other deeds, eventually losing his life to the Knahaten Flu. His Helm stood as a monument of his stature for future generations to remember. The Helm was lost eventually, as the Clan split, and is now a treasured artifact for adventurers. The Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw is rumored to improve the wearer’s agility and endurance.