I enjoy this thread alot. Each new post is unique and interesting. Keep up the good work.

Thanks, I hate when fiction ignores established lore, so all the speech of characters is based on the in-game conventions. New book coming soon!

(A short recount about a house in Chorrol)

The House of Stendarr

By Lorcka of Summerset.

In past published works which discuss the beggars of Cyrodiil they are treated with at best, pity, and at worst outright distain and contempt. Many even treat them as spies or thieves. In the streets of Cyrodiil Imperial heartlanders do their best to ignore them. However, in all these past works none discuss how to solve this problem.

The skyline of the city of Chorrol, in the heart of Colovia, is dominated by the Great Chapel of Stendarr. However, in the city of mercy, as in cities across Cyrodiil, live the poorest of the poor, begging for food and money in all weather and all seasons. While these unfortunate citizens sleep in sodden bedrolls a grand house lay empty and unsold. I am sure the solution appears as obvious to the reader now as it did to me when I first conceived a solution for the personal protection of the beggar class of Cyrodiil.

The first step was to purchase the house, a grand abode known as Arborwatch. The Countess looked on with curiosity as I explained my plan to turn Arborwatch into a shelter for those without. She expressed concern that the city would become a magnet for those looking for handouts, that the Colovian West values hard work and self-respect over begging and leeching. I reminded her of Stendarr’s command to protect the weak. She retorted with Zenithar’s command to honour hard work. With assertions that the aim of my scheme was to give beggars meaningful purpose and the ability to support themselves the Countess agreed to sell Arborwatch.

Truthfully, I had no idea how to achieve this lofty goal. My new premises, although initially bereft of fittings, was well suited to accommodating a number of those who require charity; several bedrooms and a large area on the ground floor for serving much-needed meals. Seed-Neeus, for a modest fee, outfitted the house with a number of amenities suitable for my purpose.

In the cold of Frost Fall, I invited Kaslowyn and Nermus, beggars of Chorrol, into Arborwatch to share in my fortune. A lifetime of killing and loot had left me a wealthy mer, so handing over a newly purchased house to beggars was not, as some might imagine, insanity on my part. After casting a Cure Disease spell to alleviate their ailments and leaving them to enjoy the facilities, I endeavoured to keep my promise to the Countess and find them meaningful labour, by which means they could support themselves and leave Arborwatch.

Travelling to the Imperial City, I asked the merchants of the Market District if they had any work available for beggars attempting to better themselves. They scoffed at my request, showing the common bigotry. Coincidentally I was stopped by a beggar in the City. Giving a septim, I mentioned in passing that she should try and travel to Chorrol, where I had just set up a sanctuary for the homeless and destitute. Returning to Chorrol unsatisfied, I stopped at a farm on the way to ask if they had any work. Due to my help in defeating rampaging goblins attacking the farm, the Odiil family agreed to provide seasonal farm work for those willing. I found the former beggars already in good spirits, clad in warm and clean attire, the dirt washed from their faces. I informed them of a new line of work. Elated, they set off to Odiil Farm.

Days passed. Satisfied with the initial progress I attended to guild business. Returning to Chorrol by horse, I found the body of the beggar I had talked to in the Imperial City along the Black Road, ambushed by bandits. My charity had produced unintended and tragic consequences. Returning to Arborwatch, I found it thronged with beggars from across Cyrodiil, who swarmed around me asking for more food. I cast another Cure Disease spell to prevent the spread of their sickness, then cast a Calm spell to reduce the panic. Retreating, I realised that on my own I could not solve this problem. I could even make it worse. It was here I utilised my status as Fighters Guild Master. Although I delegate most of my functions to my second-in-command, the warrior Modryn Oreyn, I still take the Master’s cut. Instead, I asked Sabine Laul, the Guild smith and faithful of Stendarr to use the cut to provide food for Arborwatch. I also took out a personal contract with what remained of the Master’s cut, to patrol the Black Road and keep it clear of bandits and safe for those on their way to the House of Stendarr. Fighters Guild members, know you fight for Stendarr. Know you fight for the betterment of your fellow citizens. Fortunate citizens of the Empire, know that beggars were once like you and can be again.

Addendum.
3E435, First Seed.
I am indebted to my Fighters Guild brothers for not only patrolling the Black Road and beyond, but also wiping out the tenacious goblin tribe in Fort Ash.
Thanks to the work of those seeking to better themselves, under Zenithar’s gaze, Odiil farm has become one of the largest and most successful farms in Cyrodiil.
Thank you also to the Countess of Chorrol for having faith in my good intentions and making Chorrol truly a city of mercy.

Your books are wonderful reads, and every time a new one is posted I get excited. Keep up the good work and know you are quickly climbing my list of people I look up to as far as writing goes.

~Digz~

(Hot off the press!)

GRAND CHAMPION SPEAKS OUT!
Arena a “barbaric distraction”, says saviour of Cyrodiil.

The Black Horse Courier can exclusively reveal the views of the ‘Spellslinger’, Lorcka of Summerset. The Grand Champion made the stunning comments to an intrepid reporter in the Imperial City. When asked what he saw for the Arena’s future, the legendary High Elf replied. “I hope it has no future. Or, if it does, I hope it is vastly different from the bloodsport hosted there today. Let Altmer culture wash away the blood, use the building to host lectures and plays, not butcher each other.”
The Champion outlined the reasons for his distaste of the venue that made him rich and famous, stating that throwing lives away in the name of entertainment was an affront to the Nine, adding “…Arkay must weep, if the gods can weep.” When asked what inspired him to fight in the Arena to begin with, the Grand Champion replied “…the same as any poor fool who steps into the Arena. I needed gold, I needed to hone my skills. The glory wasn’t bad either. I killed desperate men, greedy men, brave men. All in the name of bloodlust and gold, not in service of the Nine.”
His advice for budding Arena combatants? “Go outside. Go into the true Arena, Tamriel. You will receive just as much gold and greater glory battling the evil that lurks in dark dungeons, threatening all good citizens of the Empire. Gaiden Shinji himself could be proud of such a service. As for me, I turned my back on a great many things after I completed my Pilgrimage. The Arena was one of them.” The Grand Champion made these comments in the wake of announcing his intention to auction the Heavy Raiment he used throughout his Arena career, in order to raise funds for reconstruction in the Temple District of the Imperial City. Bidding starts at one thousand Septims.

I can't say it any better than this! Awesome read !!

Yet another compelling read. I really like your style, and the freedom it presents to Lorcka. Keep them coming, and I wll continue to be here waiting for more.

I'm not gonna lie, but I felt as if I were really reading a Black Horse Courier for a moment, in-game.
:clap:

(A long piece, the origin of our hero's faithful updating journal and a load of backstory. I've split it up.)

The Beckon of Atmora, Part 1
By Lorcka of Summerset.

Foreword.
2nd First Seed, 3E435, Skingrad.
Recently, Imperial Watch Captain Servatius Quintilius contacted me regarding some property of mine which had been discovered in The Bastion of the Imperial City’s Prison district. Among the tattered rags, rusty longsword and spoiled potions was a small, leather clad journal. It is this journal which I transcribe to you now. Let it serve as a warning.

Start of transcription.

4th Sun's Dusk, 3E432, Stros M’Kai
I have decided to keep a journal of requests and discoveries I encounter in my time away from the Blessed Isle. In ages future perhaps academics can look upon it as a source for corroborating historical records. More practically, it’s a record of immediate concerns.

13th Sun's Dusk, 3E432, Stros M’Kai.
I read with interest the latest edition of the Pocket Guide to the Empire, recently added to the shelves of booksellers in the city. It is better than the usual Cyrodiil propaganda, but most disappointing from a scholarly viewpoint. On other lands, for example, it cites no sources or informed quotations. I am particularly fascinated by its description of Atmora. The author states that recent expeditions have been made, but when and by whom? Is the Cyrodiil who writes this simply making it up? It seems likely.

18th Sun's Dusk, 3E432, Stros M’Kai.
My mind is made up. The Redguard sailors who strut about town tell me that they have heard no concrete facts about any expeditions to Atmora. Where others have cast doubt and darkness, I shall shine the light of knowledge. Altmer blood is born with wisdom and experience, after all. A ship sails for Wayrest tonight. I shall head to Saintsport and purchase a place upon it.

19th Sun's Dusk, 3E432, at sea.
The voyage is so far without incident. I’ll have to travel to Skyrim under my own power. It seems the most logical place to launch an expedition to find the lost continent of men, being as the boatloads of Atmorans arrived there in the late Merithic. The fact that these primitive hunter-gatherers managed the crossing thousands of years ago also gives me confidence.

25th Evening Star, 3E432, Wayrest.
High Rock. Bretons, with their quaint customs. Today is the New Life Festival, which apparently involves giving gifts and great pointless parades through the streets. All the markets are shut for this nonsense. I’ll get a better price in Hammerfell, anyway.

30th Evening Star, 3E432, road to Azra’s Crossing.
Nearly in Hammerfell. The extra gold I procure there will be useful in funding the expedition and bribing greedy Nord seahands to come along for the voyage. Dragonstar is the next place of any significance.

9th Morning Star, 3E433, Dragonstar West.
New year, new city. This place is a mess. The indolent population can hardly be bothered to make their city presentable. Tensions run high between the Bretons of West and the Nords of East. I have no allegiance or quarrel in their pointless bickering, but was able to get a good price for my wares. Not surprising, considering how much beauty even a small amount of Altmer craftsmanship would bring to this slum. I ride to Skyrim at first light.

11th Morning Star, 3E433, The Reach.
I have reached Skyrim. Onwards, to Markarth Side. I will stop there to investigate the curious and, bar the occasional healer, only interesting use of magicka by Nords.

13th Morning Star, 3E433, Markarth Side.
This ‘Way of the Voice’ is a grand disappointment. It seems to be a unique form of applied Mysticism, particularly the telekinesis and telepathy aspects. None of the masters of this practice would deign to see me. It is of no great loss, when my homeland contains the masters of the Psijiic order, what use do I have for old Nords up a mountain? I continue on the long, cold, mountainous road to Solitude.

16th Morning Star, 3E433, Snowhawk.
I am deeper into the heart of Skyrim now. I can feel it. The locals look at me with a mix of contempt and suspicion; I can see it in their eyes. These superstitious fools blame misfortune on the slaughtered race of Falmer, a blame which carries over to their mer kinfolk. We all get labelled as wicked, not to be trusted, dangerous conjurers. Fie on them!

17th Morning Star, 3E433, road to Solitude.
Managed to purchase some fur armour. My steel armour may have protected me whilst I cast spells, but in this climate it is like being encased in ice. I wear my hood up, around my face, robes over the fur. Since I stand just taller than a Nord, hopefully the local peasantry think I am one in this guise.

22nd Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
Arrived at last, to the northern coast of Tamriel. I am glad to be off the roads, although my powers of Destruction seem more keen after using them on several dozen wolves and bears. It was here that the last boatload of dead and dying Atmorans begged for port in 1E68. With luck, the expedition I launch from here will prove more facts about their homeland than ever discovered.

23rd Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
No initial luck in procuring a vessel or crew. The docklands are packed with ships of all designs, as the ships stopover on the trip from Morrowind to High Rock and back. The town warehouses are well stocked with seaworthy provisions, though.

24th Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
This is becoming infuriating. None of the captains want anything to do with the idea, no matter how much gold is offered. The positive news is I have met a like-minded individual, an explorer and hunter. The Cyrodiil calls himself Vertius Goldwine, claims to be one of the sons of some count in old Colovia. He is a spirited and friendly sort, however.

25th Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
Inn beds seem get worse the further north you travel. Vertius, as eager as I to set forth on an expedition to Atmora (although I fear it is to claim glory and fame, rather than for academic reasons) thinks he has secured a captain for a voyage.

25th Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
The docklands of Solitude (or, as the locals keep calling it, Haafingar) are home to all manner of strange and exotic characters. The proposed captain for our voyage, one Fridtjof the Seeker, is no exception. A giant of a man, standing inches over even me, his face is decorated in tattoos and creviced with deep scars. The rest of his face he hides behind a great gray beard and long braids of windswept hair. Nothing but his keen eyes betrays what he is thinking. I explained my plan carefully. To my surprise, he did not laugh or insult my mer heritage, but replied tersely “…when do you sail?”

26th Morning Star, 3E433 Solitude.
I have inspected the ship and approved it for our purpose. Orkey’s Fall is an inauspicious name for a ship carrying a mer to Atmora, but the ship itself is sound. A combination of Nordic and Cyrodiil designs, it is three-masted, but with a bank of oars under deck. Sleeping and storage quarters are below deck, as in the design of the Cyodiils. The ship is small, cutting down on crew requirements, but fast and manoeuvrable. As for her crew, they are the typical Nordic fare. Fridtjof’s first mate, Urfin, a young, angry man seems to hold some prejudice against either mer or Cyrodiils, given the foul looks he was giving me and Vertius. Loading of provisions has begun.

27th Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
Why is this taking so long? Barrel after barrel of preserved fruit, meat and spring water are loaded on the ship, as well as spare materials for repairs. Fridtjof assures me the ship will glide through the waters even when she is fully laden. Although an experienced sailor, Fridtjof seems to look down on me as some absent-minded mage, with no practical seafaring knowledge. Little does he know that the navies of the Altmer have been at sea far longer than the cargo-boats of Skyrim. Indeed, my great-great-great-grandfather was the second mate aboard the sole ship to return to Alinor from Pyandonea. I am ready for this challenge.

31st Morning Star, 3E433, Solitude.
At last, all is set. The ship has been inspected, the provisions have been loaded and much gold has changed hands. This expedition is costing me a great deal financially, but it will be worth it. Vertius speaks in excitement of being the first to step foot on Atmoran soil. His is impetuous, but his enthusiasm is almost infectious. I cannot wait until we are out of this frozen port and sailing into history.

1st Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
The cobbles and warehouses of Solitude will soon be but a distant memory. We sail due north, with good cheer. Fridtjof invoked the blessing of Ysmir upon our ship before our voyage. Let us hope we do not need it.

2nd Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
The mountains and valleys of Skyrim are barely visible behind us, a jagged silhouette against the clear blue sky. Visible on the western and eastern horizon are trading ships from Morrowind and Greater Bretony. I keep an eye on them until they slide out of view. Fridtjof assures me the ship is fast enough to escape any pirate vessel. If it isn’t a few fireballs to an enemy bow will make them think twice. My own quarters below deck are somewhat cramped, but comfortable. The rest of the small crew, including Fridtjof, Vertius, Ulfin and myself numbers only eight. Fewer supplies needed. They sleep in shifts in the main galley. Vertius is already complaining of the smell...

5th Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
We are now some distance from the northern shores of Tamriel. Altmer navigators learned the secrets of travelling by starlight, so each night I track by eye the position of the Mage against the Lady to ensure we are heading due north. It is a relaxing pastime. Ulfin scoffs, claiming his sixtant far superior.

8th Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
This sea diet is disagreeing with me.

14th Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
We have not seen another ship in weeks. At first I thought I knew why they called they long expanse of water between Tamriel and Atmora the Sea of Ghosts, but now I am not so sure. Even a common spectre on the waters would liven up our journey somewhat.

17th Sun’s Dawn, 3E433, at sea.
I have settled into a routine on board the Orkey. Disgusting breakfast of preserved fruit, idle pvssyr, ship maintenance with foul-smelling tars, looks of contempt from Ulfin, teaching Vertius the basics of spellcraft, tying rigging and adjusting the sails to the wind, disgusting dinner, star readings and uncomfortable rocking sleep. Hard work I hope is worth it. No wonder Ulfin doesn’t take kindly to me. Being sent on a long, perilous voyage on the whim of some Altmer. Then again, he’s being paid and is used to this life, so my sympathy ends there.

1st First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
We have run completely dry of fresh water. Of greater concern to the Nordic members of the crew, mead and ale supplies are also running low. Like the Battlemages of Uriel V, I use Alteration to render the saltwater of the sea into something drinkable. The crew seem somewhat grateful, even if Ulfin described my first efforts as tasting like “Snow-elf piss”.

4th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
We’ve been at sea for just over a month now, with no sign of civilisation during that time. I encourage the crew by saying that nobody expected to find Atmora in just a month of sailing.

7th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius is becoming quite proficient in Mysticism. With tutorship, he can move an empty barrel across the deck of the Orkey.

15th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Still nothing. Nothing but empty sea in all directions. Fridtjof comforts me my commenting on how smooth the sailing has been so far, good for this time of year.

18th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
The cold is really beginning to bite now. I became accustomed to it back in Skyrim, although my layers of fur armour and robes, which haven’t been changed since we set off, are beginning to be inadequate protection. On the bright side, we are getting tangibly closer to this frozen, lost continent.

25th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Choppy seas last night, the wind blows a gale today. With luck we can exploit this.

26th First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Even the Nords are beginning to comment on the temperature. I wear my bedding around me like a fur coat, still feeling daggers of ice all around. My race are masters of the sea, but the cold seems to effect us first. I suffer gladly, for it is in the name of exploration and progress.

31st First Seed, 3E433, at sea.
The cold is becoming intolerable. I cast flecks of fire about the place to warm my now rugged face, to little avail. Spells to resist the frost help, too. I’m trying to teach them to Vertius, who must suffer worse than the hardy Nords, but he shows little aptitude for Restoration.

5th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
The sky to the east is pitch black, the waters choppy. Fridtjof insists that we make a course adjustment to a more westerly heading. Hopefully we can dodge the storm and return to our original course in a few days.

6th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
I write in my shaking cabin, by flickering candlelight. By Fridtjof’s orders, all crew are consigned below deck. Clinging to the galley Nords say convoluted requests for protection to their old gods. Vertius prays to his ‘Mother Mara and Father Akatosh’. I put faith in Auri-El, but cast a water breathing spell in case the Dragon does not listen. Our vessel is like a child’s toy, cast into the Maelstrom of Bal.

7th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Will this storm never abate? Our prayers go unanswered. Ulfin says that he has never seen a storm like it. Vertius uses his newfound telekinetic ability to keep the cookware from flying across the ship.

? Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Hull breach! The cargo hold began taking on water a few hours ago. A shield spell stemmed the flow. Swift work plugged the gap with old barrel planks and copious amounts of tar. A makeshift job, but the best we can do for now.

? Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Ship life has slowed to a crawl. The storm is gradually abating, but we still hear torrential rain and the crash of waves against the hull. I’m starting to loose track of the days down here.

10th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
It ended as suddenly as it started. The Orkey is in disarray. We emerged in clear skies to find our deck sodden, our sails in tatters, every one of the spars broken. Our mizzen-mast was cracked in two, hanging on by splinters. Anything that had been left on deck was gone. Mercifully, the skiff remains attached to the bow. We are completely adrift.

11th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius, Fridtjof and Ulfri are making repairs to the spars of our main-mast, the first priority. We are still completely adrift, at the whims of the current. The rest of the crew and myself are on oar duty.

12th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
The deck looks slightly better after hours of work. We are still reliant on oar-power, with no land in sight.

13th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Our mizzen-mast is repaired. The ship is held together with our emergency provisions and magicka. If another storm like that hits, we are all dead. There is talk of returning to Tamriel among the crew, fortunately Fridtjof and myself are of the same opinion; we’ve already come this far. Star-readings put out position a good distance north-north-east of our previous position.

15th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
We are still missing spars. A life detect spell pointed to something most unusual…a large creature circling beneath the ship. Perhaps it smelt the strife. I informed Fridtjof immediately, who cried with relish “…we’ve got a live one, boys!” Instinctively the crew knew what to do, fetching harpoons and lines from the hold. I cast a shock spell at the turbulent water to disturb the beast and tempt it to the surface. Ulfir hurled his harpoon into the gray flank of the beast, leaving it thrashing on his rope. The rest of the crew followed, Vertius firing arrows at it and me renewing my shock attack. Eventually the beast relented. We hurled it on deck. It appeared like a smooth, gray slaughterfish, with a mouth full of white needles. The men got to work with cutting daggers on it’s skin, rending the flesh to expose the meat. The deck stunk.

17th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
We have crafted a fine sail from the skin of the beast, hanging the skin over the sides to dry, then cutting and stitching it into shape. We are back on course, at last. I suspect the storm has blown us far off course, as we have seen a respite from the bitter cold. Ulfin crafted the bones into spars, Vertius barrelled and salted the slimy meat.

28th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
Land ho! We make swift progress by sail and oar bank to this dot on the horizon. The cold is returning.

The story gets better with every writing. This was riveting!

That was, hands down, one of the most exciting pieces of fan-fiction I have ever had the pleasure of reading. I can't even put into words how it made me feel while I was reading it, but let us just leave it at this, "I can't wait to read the rest of this. You are amazing!"

~Digz~

(They say you should always leave them waiting, but you are too kind, I couldn't leave you hanging on. Now, the conclusion!)

The Beckon of Atmora, Part 2
By Lorcka of Summerset.

Foreword.
This is an immediate continuation of the account told by my journal in Part 1 of 'The Beckon of Atmora'. This book consists of a direct transcription from that journal. Readers are greater encouraged to read Part 1 before commencing.

Continuation of transcription.

29th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, at sea.
It appears to be an island chain, or some sort of archipelago. Fridtjof confirms that it is not on any map. Was this Atmora? What was left of Atmora? Outlying islands? I vowed to find out.

29th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, new-found islands.
We are close enough now to launch the skiff. Vertius, Ulfin and myself will make landfall. Archer, swordsman and mage reaching new lands as one. A vision of unity.

29th Rain’s Hand, 3E433, new-found islands.
We headed to the largest island, the main feature of which was a large, central black monolith of jagged rock, set among a shore of gray shingle. I felt uneasy as soon as I set foot on the shingle beach, as a cool mist descended. Vertius and Ulfin also looked around uncomfortably. We walked up the beach in the shadow of the central rock, finding no signs of life whatsoever, not even seaweed or mudcrab in sight. We came across a bleached white ribcage sticking out of the shingle, larger than any known race of men or mer. My apprehension about this place came to the forefront, as I mumbled “…I cannot know it…but I feel as if something evil happened here, long ago.” My shipmates nodded in silent agreement. I attempted to cast a Detect Life spell, but could not. Although I felt the magicka in my body, I could not manifest it. Ulfin attempted to draw his sword, but found it frozen in his scabbard. Vertius tried to draw an arrow, but they would not budge from the quiver. Call us cowards, but we beat a hasty retreat to the skiff, then back to the Orkey. Mercifully we found our means of defence returned. We headed north, unsettled, dubbing the small juts of land the “Islands of Silence”.

6th Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
The cold is back. The cold is back. The cold is back. I sometimes wonder if Sheogorath is speaking to me.

14th, Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
All around is clouded in mist, icy breezes blowing straight through our bodies. Everyone wears their blankets for ship duty. Frost shields and fire have no effect. The cold is everywhere.

17th Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius is bedbound, unable to feel his hands. We peeled away the layers of clothes amid his screams to find his hands black and swollen. Ulfin calls it the “Mountain Bane,” a disorder that effects unprepared southerners in Skyrim, but says he has never seen a case as severe as this. I cast Restore Health spells, but the effected parts of his body hold no magical effect. Ulfin mixes foul-smelling ingredients in a useless traditional remedy.

18th Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius is getting worse. Mountain Bane has spread up his arms and from his feet to his legs. He moans in constant agony. Nothing seems to get rid of it. Cure Disease has no effect. Restore Health is useless on dead flesh. Ulfin’s remedies have failed. We wrap him in dry blankets, but the weight on his skin makes him scream. I fear greatly for my friend.

19th Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius is silent, just barely breathing.

20th Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
Vertius Goldwine has died. The son of one of the masters of old Colovia met his end in agony, thousands of miles from home. I did not drive in a dagger, but might as well have. There is no time for mourning given the urgency of work on ship. We give him a solemn farewell at sea, among the freezing mists.

22nd Second Seed, 3E433, at sea?
The sea has changed. No longer a featureless expanse of water, we see not simply distinct sea or air, but a mix of the two…a plane on which one can neither walk nor sail. A Nord crewman, Engar, now has Mountain Bane.

24th Second Seed, 3E433, the wastes.
We call this place ‘the wastes’. Sailing is slow through this freezing mush. We see more and more solid patches of ice floating past the Orkey with each passing hour.

25th Second Seed, 3E433, the wastes.
Vertius’ ailment is claiming me. The tips of my fingers are turning black. Restoration does nothing. I create as much fresh water as possible, for I fear I will be unable to cast for much longer. Engar is getting worse. It is becoming painful to write.

26th Second Seed, 3E433, the wastes.
The sea is becoming a solid mass of ice stretched before us, like some great mage has cast a most powerful frost spell on all the sea. We struggle on, but against hope. Another one of the Nord crewmen now has Mountain Bane.

27th Second Seed, 3E433, the wastes.
Dead water. That’s what Fridtjof calls it. We proceed at a mudcrab’s pace. It is as if some invisible hand was pressing against the bow, barring our progress. The fog is almost impenetrable. If I stand at the bow, I cannot see someone at the stern without Detect Life. This is how I imagine the Ashpits of Malacath.

28th Second Seed, 3E433, the wastes.
Engar has died. The Nord crewmen bid him welcome to Sovngard. I paid my solemn respects. I can no longer cast spells, nor walk without pain. Fridtjof has called a crew meeting. We have failed. We unanimously decide to turn the Orkey around and make haste to the south, before this cursed freezing fog claims us all.

31st Second Seed, 3E433, at sea.
The freezing wind from the north has carried us far to the south. The crewmen and I summon the last of our strength on the bank of oars, powering our battered vessel south. A sodden crate of Restore Fatigue potions is now my best friend.

2nd Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
We are down to the salted remains of the beast we killed and rat meat from the frozen corpses we found down in the hold. I cannot cast fire to cook it, so grimly force down the disgusting filth with the other crewmen.

9th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
Ulfin is ill. He shies from work and bleeds from the mouth. We give him rations of purified water to help him with his illness, but to no avail.

11th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
Ulfin’s teeth have fallen out. Fridtjof and I agree that it is the Sailor’s Curse, the well known phenomenon that plagued Uriel V’s fleet. With no food other than preserved meat and rock-hard bread, there was nothing we could do but pray for a hasty return to Tamriel.

14th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
The weather seems to be picking up. My fingers and feet are no better, though. I’ve just noticed the tips of my ears are black, too. The winds remain on our side.

16th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
I’m worried about Ulfin. He languishes on the deck all day, slurring his words and bleeding from the slightest wound.

19th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
Nothing but sea…all around…sea…water…

22nd Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
Ulfin has died, a quiet death in the midst of unconsciousness. He was a good man. We survive on rationed water and what Fridtjof can procure through fishing.

27th Midyear, 3E433, at sea.
Getting too weak to write…bedbound… Fridtjof brings me my meals. He tells me that his fish-scale sails are making good speed, especially with a largely unladen ship.

14th Sun’s Height, 3E433, at sea.
Fridtjof says he sees land. Please let it be Tamriel…even let it be Yokuda, or Akavir...or…

16th Sun’s Height, 3E433, at sea.
Auri-El be praised. We approach The Chain of Hammerfell. Provided we don’t come under attack from pirates, or the Sload, we should make landfall within days.

19th Suns Height, 3E433, at sea.
The rudder of the ship has taken damage from shallow coral reefs off The Chain. We are sailing without a heading.

21st Sun’s Height, 3E433, Stirk.
Land! Never Have I been so glad to set foot upon land. The pompous denizens of this island look down their noses at bedraggled sailors and the beaten ship, but for the first time in months I am happy. I join the crew in gorging at the local Inn under the disapproving looks of an Imperial matron, who curses our stench.

23rd Sun’s Height, 3E433, Stirk.
The crew have mostly returned to the Orkey to carry out basic refits and repairs, whilst I rent a room at the local Inn. It is nice to sleep without feeling that familiar rocking.

24th Sun’s Height, 3E433, Stirk.
We have spent long enough on this island. The opinion of both the crew and the local guard captain.

25th Sun’s Height, 3E433, at sea.
We sail to Anvil. Fridtjof tells me he will make full repairs there, as much as the facilities allow, then resupply for the long journey back to Skyrim. Although it hurts, I shake his hand and offer him my thanks and condolences. The stoic old Nord betrays nothing.

26th Sun’s Height, 3E433, Anvil, The Count’s Arms.
The Orkey is being refitted. I am resting and regretting.

29th Sun’s Height, 3E433, Anvil.
It’s all over. I bade the Orkey farewell, watching it disappear in search of dry-dock. I failed in my quest to find Atmora. All I found is freezing death. Perhaps we would have found Atmora had the storm not blown us off course. Perhaps it lay beyond the frozen wastes, where sea was not sea. It is still out there.

1st Last Seed, 3E433, Anvil.
In the sun of the Gold Coast the sensation is returning to my fingers. The tips of my ears, fingers and toes are a painful, swollen deep red colour.

5th Last Seed, 3E433, Anvil.
In my delirium aboard ship I have forgotten a great deal of spells and lost a great deal of skill. Not being able to cast has had a terrible effect on my skill with magicka, as I am practically an apprentice again. I can cast only the most basic of spells.

7th Last Seed, 3E433, Anvil.
I’m not sure what is next, apart from trying to regain my magicka skills. I cannot return to Summerset Isle after this. Perhaps I will stay in Cyrodiil for a time. Anvil has been pleasant enough to me, although I am fast running out of gold. Trading alchemy ingredients for gold is no way to live.

13th Last Seed, 3E433, Anvil.
Word travels fast. Wilbur, the publican, asks if it is my expedition that doomed the son of a Colovian Count to a death. I nodded. I will have to live with the failure, the disgrace, the blood on my hands. The price of folly.

17th Last Seed, 3E433, Anvil.
Last night Imperial Guardsmen burst in my room with a warrant for my arrest. The Count of Kvatch apparently seeks vengeance for his lost son. I went peacefully. Rather than throwing me in the city dungeons, they are transporting me to the Imperial City. I have no gold to pay any fine. I will have to serve prison time or become a fugitive. Perhaps just punishment for my arrogance, arrogance which ended with the deaths of three people. I will have plenty of time to spend regretting, pondering how I can possibly redeem myself. They say the journey to the Imperial City, bound in chains under armed escort, will take about ten days. The 27th will be an eventful day.

Ok, this is your best work yet. It is amazing in so many ways. I really love what you did with this, and I am a die hard Lorcka fan now and forever. Keep up the great work.

Thank you very much, I tried to do quite a lot with this last book (provide a bit of backstory, what Lorcka did before the Oblivion crisis rather than after it, give some perspective on his character and how he became the person he did, the strengths, weaknesses and flaws in his character beyond the 'dark past' made during the course of the game and of course the old question - how'd he end up in the Imperial City prison?), so I'm glad it worked.

I would say you did everything that you set out to, and managed to write a refreshing, fun, and unique story at the same time. I congratulate you, and give you my best wishes on your future work.

Riveting stuff Lorca, I wouldn't mind seeing a real FanFic involving him.

This is a real fan-fic. Fan-fic means fan fiction which is exactly what this is.

This is Riveting Lorcka, you have captured every mood and every action so realistically!!

(Thanks all! What do you mean 'real' fanfic, ShadowStrike? Abandoning my premise? But that's my USP! Anyway, here's something to put you all on.)

Decoded Message to High Chancellor Ocato.
From Arch-Mage Lorcka.
To be sent by Imperial Battlemage courier.

High Chancellor,
It is my honour to do further service to the Empire. I admit to sharing your concerns about external influences which may seek to exploit the current situation. On potential Akaviri threats, I’m afraid I can be of no great help, but I will share with you my knowledge of the Maormer and Sload.

The Maormer.
Following the total destruction of the Maormer invasion fleet 325 years ago by the Order, our homeland has heard nothing from our brother-enemy. In the past, the Maormer have assaulted Summerset innumerable times, but defeat at our hands has been no deterrent to their efforts. However, one thing has changed which may alter this violent pattern; the loss of Orgnum’s Coffer. This magical device provides seemingly endless amounts of gold from nothing. There is no doubt that the great resources provided by this device were used by the Maormer to fund their attacks. Perhaps the loss of the artifact has lead to a chaotic change in Maormer society, where Orgnum has found himself with internal strife. Research by my guildmates places the last confirmed sighting of the artifact in the hands of the Eternal Champion, approximately 40 years ago. I have been unable to determine its current location. I urge the High Chancellor to make the recovery and safe keeping of this artifact a priority for agents of the Empire, so that we may exploit it. If it is determined that the device does indeed have some form of will, as many artifacts do, it is my opinion that we should destroy it. It is too dangerous to be allowed to fall back into the hands of the enemy. I have no doubt that the Maormer, by means of stealth and espionage, have made its recovery their primary war aim. Their current status cannot be precisely ascertained, although rumoured sightings of Maormer in Valenwood can easily be attributed to mistaking the Imga. I caution against expeditions to Pyandonea, less the sea-serpents and grasping tendrils of the enemy’s homeland lead to more death.

Conclusion: The Maormer lack the capability, but not the will, to attack the Empire. As soon as they are able I believe they will formulate new plans of attack. They will fail, but we must be ready to stain the coasts red with their blood regardless.

The Sload.
Our other ancient enemy, not as mindlessly aggressive as our brother-enemy, but no less insidious. In the popular consciousness, their homeland has been conclusively destroyed millennia ago, the All-Flags Navy sinking their accursed coral kingdom into the sea. The nature of Thras, an ever changing land, speaks against this dangerous naivety. Our kinsmen are still kidnapped and dragged to their lands, never to be seen again. Sightings in coastal Hammerfell are commonplace, particularly in Redguard burial grounds. While Necromancy is legal in Cyrodiil, it poses a great threat – Necromancers are lawless thugs, seeking refuge in abandoned forts to pray on helpless citizens. The recent return of Mannimarco is also unlikely to be completely unconnected with the masters of his evil art. I have a disturbing report of a possibly Sload presence here in Cyrodiil well into the Third Era. In the Great Forest lay the village of Hackdirt. Beneath it, residents found a series of caverns beneath the town, where they discovered ‘Deep Ones’, who demanded blood sacrifice in return for wealth. When I encountered the town, the residents had kidnapped a citizen of Chorrol for sacrifice. Many of the residents were killed in my rescue of this citizen, and I have not been back since. Before I abandoned the town to the forest, I took a book called the ‘Bible of the Deep Ones’. It is written in the Daedric alphabet. Translating it, I found the incomprehensible language of the Sload, also seen in the Necromancer text ‘N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!’ Who can doubt that these ‘Deep Ones’ were in fact Sload, mistaken by ignorant miners to be supernatural gods? They are proficient in magicka, their amphibious nature would favour an underground habitat, blood sacrifice is useful for their Necromancy. Sadly, despite thoroughly searching the caves, I found no ‘Deep Ones’ still present. Perhaps they took all they needed from the village and cast a Recall spell. I enclose this ‘Bible of the Deep Ones’, in the event that you have the resources to properly translate it.

Conclusion: Who knows what infernal plans these wicked creatures are still planning, for the murder and mutilation of good citizens of the Empire? The Sload are famously cautious, so it is of no surprise that they have been quiet in recent years. However, as soon as the Empire is able I would recommend a campaign of total extermination and destruction against Thras, crushing every evil Sload grub under Legion boot so that their kingdom can never rise again. If the Empire becomes complacent we risk allowing the fruition of their long-considered plans of attack. Let us attack them before they enact their schemes to attack us.

Long live the Empire!

Great work yet again my friend. I enjoyed the read, and look forward to more in the near future.

I found this fascinating:



You really researched that one out! Awesome write!

Thank you for sharing. Your writing is skilful and the stories seem unique (mods?).

I especially like the pre-prison story. It reminded me of recently reading a similar true-life adventure by Tristen Jones; 'Ice'.

Add me to the list of devoted fans.

Thanks very much. I use a number of mods, although I don't usually base the stories specifically on mods, rather complete fiction (although the Oblivion portal in Destruction and Madness comes straight from Midas Magicka).

The pre-prison story is inspired by real life voyages of Pytheas, Shackleton and Nansen (the name of my Nord captain is a nod to the great Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen), in order to keep it as realistic as possible, since willing suspension of disbelief is crucial to engaging fiction.

New book coming soon...ish!

:D

Dreams of Futures Faint: If We Had Failed.
By Lorcka of Summerset.

Preface.
"Each Event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event." - Zurin Arctus.

This text is written in response to to a question I am occasionally asked by fellow citizens; what if I had had failed? As most scholars know, divination of the Elder Scrolls may yield clues about the future, including the success of a champion. Once this hero has fulfilled the prophecy, the information in the Scroll becomes locked, forever. The Dragonblood of the penultimate Emperor saw in my face a special fate. As such, the destinies of heroes are inclined to success. What this book presupposes is; what if they weren't? In this volume I shall discuss the four most famous heroes of the third age.

Part 1: The Eternal Champion.
Background: The Eternal Champion is known to history as the individual who collected all eight pieces of the legendary Staff of Chaos from dungeons across Tamriel. Using them, the Champion travels to the Imperial Palace to defeat the insane traitor Jagar Tharn and rescue the Emperor from his extra-dimensional prison. Beyond this, and despite the importance of the events of 3E399, we have no information on the background of the Eternal Champion, their gender, name, race, what they went on to do. In my opinion, considering the large amount of speculation regarding their fate, it is most likely that the individual went onto service in the Blades due to their skill, requiring the utmost secrecy regarding their identity. Whether the Eternal Champion was then killed, retired, or simple left the Arena of Tamriel for other shores is unknown.

Failure: The success of the Champion was by no means guaranteed. The Champion faced powerful adversaries throughout their quest for the Staff of Chaos, as well as Tharn himself, a man of great power. We can conjecture that had the Champion been killed at any stage of their quest then Jagar Tharn's Simulacrum may never have been exposed. The failure of the Champion may also have put Queen Barenziah and King Eadwyre at risk, lessening the chance that any other could take up the fight.

Conclusion: The death of the Eternal Champion before he had defeated Tharn would have dire consequences for Tamriel. In the ten years in which Tharn usurped the Dragonthrone, Tamriel had been thrown into bitter provincial wars - The War of the Blue Divide between Summerset and Valenwood, the War of the Bend'r-mahk which saw many Breton and Redguard women widowed, chaos in Mournhold and savage fighting between Khajiit and Bosmer. Although he had seemingly had no grand plan for his reign, his sheer incompetence in governance was dangerous enough. Given his plotting with Mehrunes Dagon to destroy the Battlespire, it's possible his ultimate aim was to destroy other users of magicka. The destruction of the Arcane University would be the next logical step, surely a disaster for all practitioners of magic throughout the Empire. Battlemages in particular should be most grateful that their insane colleague Tharn found defeat at the hands of a hero.

Part 2: The Blades Agent.
On the mysterious events and consequences surrounding the activities of an anonymous Blades agent in High Rock, particularly in Daggerfall, I can only direct you to the report made by Ulvius Tero, "The Warp in the West", in order to better know the simultaneous success and failure of this hero.

Part 3: The Nerevarine.
Background: The various Ashlander prophecies of Vvardenfell, long suppressed by the Tribunal Temple, came to fruition in 3E427 with the arrival of an individual who was to become known as the Nerevarine. Again, the late Emperor's Dragonsight allowed him to see the fate of the Nerevarine, sending the prisoner to Morrowind in the first place. The actions of the Nerevarine are well known, but none are more important than the defeat of Dagoth Ur at Red Mountain.

Failure: The Nerevarine faced countless trials replete with opportunities for failure and death. As an outlander, the very alien terrain and creatures of Morrowind itself could have proved fatal if the Nerevarine had lost their way. In the opinion of most scholars of the period, failure was most likely after the Nerevarine had left Vivec to battle the Ash Vampires, recovering Kagrenac's tools to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan and Dagoth Ur. As a living god, more powerful than even the Tribunal, Dagoth Ur was a foe well beyond the capacity of all but the Incarnate.

Conclusion: The sinister agenda of Dagoth Ur is well known, thanks to the efforts of the Tribunal Temple in understanding his objectives and the utterances of his 'sleepers'. If the Nerevarine had fallen in the final battle against Dagoth Ur we can be sure that Sixth House, the 'Tribe Unmourned', would grow exponentially in power. The Dwemer tools would be lost in the heart of Red Mountain, all in the hands of the enemy. The gauntlet Wraithguard in particular, which had been lost to Dagoth Ur, would have been a massive boon for the enemy in exploiting the Heart of Lorkhan. The immediate consequences would be the destruction of Imperial forts and the genocide of all non-Dunmer races in Vvardenfell. After driving the Empire from Morrowind, the second Numidium could have been used to assault Argonia and Skyrim, the ancient enemies of the Dunmer. Eventually, the Empire itself would have been destroyed, replaced by a grotesque equivalent, with Dagoth Ur himself acting as Emperor and his Sixth House cohorts constituting the only power in Tamriel. The mighty Aldmeri Dominion was brought to heel by the Numidium under Tiber Septim. There is no reason to think that Akulakhan would be any less successful against the Imperium.

Part 4: The Champion of Cyrodiil.
Background: It may be imprudent for me to write about myself in the same terms of the champions of fate in the past, but who else is better qualified to discuss the horrific alternatives? The Oblivion Invasion is painfully fresh in the minds of many, but for scholars of the future - The Champion of Cyrodiil rescued the last heir to the Dragonthrone, Martin Septim, recovered the Amulet of Kings from the villainous 'Mythic Dawn' cult and escorted Martin to Temple of the One, where the Amulet of Kings was shattered, transforming Martin into the avatar of Akatosh, banishing Mehrunes Dagon in the moment of his victory.

Failure: A fatal injury to my person could have come at any stage of Dagon's invasion from Oblivion, although the most catastrophic defeat would have come in the realm of 'Paradise', created by Mankar Cameron, the leader of the Mythic Dawn and Dagon's lieutenant. Having destroyed the only means to access this realm, the fate of the Amulet of Kings, shortly needed to banish Dagon and seal the gates was in my hands alone. Had I been slain, the means to recover the Amulet would have been forever lost. Mankar Cameron himself was a dangerous foe, hundreds of years old with royal blood in his veins. He was also, at the time, my better in the arts magicka.

Conclusion: Without the Amulet of Kings, Martin Septim could not have made his great sacrifice to banish Mehrunes Dagon. The last time the Prince of Destruction walked on Tamriel Mournhold was razed to the ground. This time, however, we had no demigods to fall back on. The Amulet of Kings combined with the Dragonblood flowing through Martin's veins was our last line of defence against the physical incarnation of Mehrunes Dagon. Without it, Dagon's invasion would have succeeded. Cameron hailed his paradise, a countryside with traces of Ayleid architecture where slain cultists were eternally tortured, as a "...vision of the past, and the future.". I do not believe that the Prince of Destruction would have tolerated any form of tranquillity under his reign, however grotesque the undercurrent. Instead, the Deadlands would be visited upon Tamriel as told in his book, the Mysterium Xarxes; "...the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.”