An account of the final days of Tel Diem, meant to help fill in the history gap of "From The Void," between Morrowind and Skyrim. This thread will be updated with Rokanys' accounts, as well as other literature of note.
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12 Rain's Hand, 3E 428
The Vindaeus Gate has opened. Several of the Void Wardens assigned to its watch were slain, but Hasson was able to report back. The attackers wear pale green armor, fashioned in daedric style, and stand a head taller than an Altmer. There can be no doubt - these are Ixylian Dragoons. I have dispatched a company of our best to halt the attack and seal the catacombs where the Gate resides, but I cannot escape the dread gnawing at my heart. If the sorcerer was able to open a dormant Void Gate, it speaks a great deal more about his power than I wish to contemplate.



13 Rain's Hand, 3E 428
The catacombs are lost. Dragoons pour through the gate in endless measure. The tunnels are choked with ash and burned flesh - the Dragoons incinerate the dead with fire spells to keep them from blocking the way. We collapsed several passages, but they blasted and crushed the rocks to dust, and kept coming. We may lose the entire mine if we cannot seal or destroy the Vindaeus Gate.

Fighting continues into nightfall. Our warriors grow weary, while Dragoons are seemingly possessed of a tireless berserker strength. At every choke point they push us back, forcing their way through with brute strength and noxious poison spells. None of them seem to notice the toxic fumes they cast. The Void Council has agreed to withdraw from the tunnels completely and collapse the silver mine, in the hope it will crush this flood of Dragoons and seal off the catacombs and Gate beneath.

14 Rain's Hand, 3E 428

No light of dawn breaks over the hills of Tel Diem this morning - a murky rain washes our island, scrubbing the plume of dust and smoke from the sky. The Vindaeus Silver Mine, the lifeblood of our forges and armories, has been sealed. The island's center is a sunken crater - the tunnels extended further than we knew, and a large section of wall and cliff side is now missing from Azirile's Watch.

After breakfast, I sit with Hasson, who fortunately survived the last two days of battle. He does not recall much from the catacombs, but is able to relate his glimpse of the Void Gate as it opened.

"[There was] a flash of green light on the walls, so I turned 'round. Water was pouring down the front of the Gate, 'tween the pillars - sick green stuff, like sewer water - but it wasn't. No splashing, no gushing noises, just a low hum that sets your teeth to grinding and makes your neck hair stand. Then a clap like thunder, and the stone... 'door' I guess you could say? between the pillars, it goes black, disappears, and we're staring at this hulk of a Dragoon as he steps through. Cleaved Lavius through with that claymore before the man could move. J'Dasha was faster, got his blade out and jumped the Dragoon's back. All this, I only managed two steps closer. Had a better look at the Gate than they, could see all the Dragoons crowded up beyond it. Three more Dragoons in the room before I got another step done...

Never much liked Khajiit, but that J'Dasha fought like ten beasts, 'nuff to do even a Nord proud. Hate to run from a fight like that, but I know my duty better than some, had to warn you all first."

I give Hasson a minute to collect his thoughts before asking more of the Gate, but it is the best insight we have into the realm Ixyliar has carved for himself out in Oblivion. The Void Council has been seeking allies in the coming war for many months, most notably the rumored Dunmer hero, their "Nerevarine," but our Consolate is heavy with Khajiit, and the aberrant White Senches in particular, making it difficult to gain the support of local Dunmer. After this attack, it is likely the Council will push for a retaliatory assault on Ixyliar's realm and put an end to his predations. Hasson's description however, gives me pause.

"Hard to see anything past all the Dragoons piled up behind. Ash waste, it looked like, gray and bleak. Poison-green clouds lit up with lightning, with islands of rock floating under it. Just floating there in the air, like great stone netches. Some were tied together with rope bridges, most just left to float. Somewhere way off in the distance it looked like, this black castle or tower or temple - hard to tell with the distance and looking through that sewer-water stuff, and of course had the Dragoons on my mind at the time. Almost nothing there, just lots of empty rock and emptier space between."

Open ground with no cover, and little time to plan. If this attack was meant to be a full-scale assault, it is apparent Ixyliar will not rest long before throwing more Dragoons at us.



16 Rain's Hand, 3E 428
Dragoons have descended on Tel Diem once more. Without the Vindaeus Gate, their numbers are not as overwhelming as before, but their ferocity more than compensates. Our forces from Azirile's Watch have consolidated here, behind the thick walls of the Main Plaza - the docks, homes, and manors outside it have all been lost. From the council tower here, I can see the residences burning. Our guards have sealed the gates, but they will not shut out Ixyliar's forces indefinitely.

A scout, Lleros, informs me that a summoned portal appeared at noon, outside the city walls. Unless it is closed quickly, Ixyliar will continue to send his Dragoons against us, or perhaps even worse. The Void Council is meeting now to discuss a course of action. As they entered the chambers, I caught sight of Councilor Svetnikov's face - his home on the sandbars off the coastline can still be seen to burn. The Wardens say his love Rianna was slain there. I have little doubt he will push hard to mount an offensive attack from what remains of our forces, but the dread in my veins has not abated these last four days. We took this island from Ixyliar nearly forty years ago and it seems he is now determined to reclaim it, and wipe us all from Tamriel in the process. Our thoughts should focus on surviving this assault - retreat, if necessary, but most importantly we must survive. I do not fear to give my own life in service, if it is required, but should the Void Consolate shatter, the loss of so much knowledge would be as devastating as the loss of life - in the long term, perhaps even more so.

21 Rain's Hand, 3E 428
It is difficult to write in this bitter cold - my ink threatens to freeze solid with each dab of the quill. Nevertheless, I must write. Though I cannot see them from my bunk in the Vostok's prow, the icy glacial bluffs of NorthHeart are visible on the horizon. If there is any sanctuary left to us, we are nearly upon it. It pains me to say, "we" are a very small contingent. The last broken remains of the Void Consolate of Tel Diem.

I was not part of the assault on the Ixylian Gate, a week previous. I watch from the Plaza walls as Dro'Shirr lead his company of Void Assassins into that ashen void, the bulk of our surviving Wardens, Warriors, and Mages following and providing support. Only a bare few were left with us in the Plaza, mostly those too old, too young, or too injured to be fit for more than garrison work. Only enough to hold the walls, and pray.

Hour after hour into the night, we did both. Once our fighters entered the Gate, the Dragoons ceased coming. We fought off those that remained, holding the Plaza against the stragglers, but even this action was not without loss. And while the Dragoons were tireless abominations, the siege wore heavily on even the best of us. Worse still, the Gate continued to blaze its poison green fires well into the night.

There was one other light that night, however. The lanterns on the Vostok's mast and stern, warm and inviting - one ship to escape the destruction of our port, still holding in the waters offshore. With help from one of the remaining Councilors, we quickly worked out a plan. In the dead of night, the Vostok anchored its lanterns with rope and levitation enchantments, leaving them to float in empty space above the water. From the wall, we redoubled our efforts against the few Dragoons that were left, drawing their attention - thus, none realized the points of light out on the waves no longer belonged to a ship. Aided by her natural night-eye ability, the Vostok's captain Ahnaka sailed it around the west tip of Tel Diem, anchoring on the south side in complete darkness.

I still have not decided if fortune favored us that night, or turned utterly against us.

We had planned to usher out what survivors we could under cover of darkness, while drawing the Dragoons on the east side of the Plaza where the Ixylian Gate still blazed. Yet as the west doors were opened, the Ixylian Gate erupted in viridian flames and collapsed.

Not one of our fighters returned to us.

The Gate's collapse bought us mere moments - believing themselves stranded, the remaining Dragoons were driven to a berserker frenzy. Even the Plaza gates, made of solid stone, could not withstand their combined fury for long. They shattered their claymores against it and when their steel failed, resorted to sustained bursts of destructive magick. Our plan for a quiet stealth retreat became a panicked dash for the anchored Vostok. There was no point to a vanguard then, no holding action would delay those last few Dragoons. The screams of the men who tried... who were torn apart with bare Dragoon hands...

[There is a blotch of ink and slightly torn paper, where it seems the quill may have frozen to the journal]

I believe these memories shall haunt me until my death. Let us instead focus on those who survived. Of the Councilors, the Breton Quisartis Valtyre still lives, as does the scarred White Senche, Phedreus. I cannot recall which of the Councilors were residing in NorthHeart at this time, but if it still stands, then I must reason they have also survived. A handful of the Voidguard remain, mostly Wardens like myself, and a few of the Plaza's civilians as well. I can only hope it is enough for us to rebuild.



22 Rain's Hand, 3E 428
To our great relief, NorthHeart remains untouched. We cannot say the same of the Vostok, however. Its wooden hull scraqed pack-ice as it neared the dock, and will be completely submerged before nightfall. All goods have been offloaded, everything we could salvage as the frozen water leaked in. The ship itself is beyond saving - a sad fate for the vessel that was our own salvation. Ahnaka in particular is heartbroken at its loss.

In a short while, I meet with the remnants of the Council. There are so few left, and through my actions on Tel Diem they have decided my voice should be heard as well. I know what must be done, but I am not certain how. The Voidguard must be restored - our forces number barely two dozen now, out of the two hundred we once were - but with no ship and no silver, we have no means to restock or reforge our armories, let alone our ranks. NorthHeart lacks trees and timber, so saluaging the Vostok's wood to craft a smaller vessel may be our only viable action at present. Though hidden from Ixyliar here, we are completely cut off from the rest of Tamriel as well. I pray the Council does not think us safe because of it. The sorcerer needs no ship or sail to send his Dragoons down upon us.

I suppose only time will tell.
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The following tale follows the Breton scholar Christophe Hawkston as he tries to complete his research in eastern Cyrodiil...

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Any Price To Pay, Volume 1
15th Last Seed, 3E 432
Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil

On an ordinary day, the multicolored sunlight streaming through the chapel would have brightened Christophe Hawkston's spirit as much as it did the pews around him. On this particular morning however, it only served to worsen the pounding inside his head. "This," he reminded himself sourly, "is why you don't drink the cheap stuff."

Sadly, "the cheap stuff" was all Dervera had left to offer when he stumbled into the Newlands Lodge the night before. He couldn't recall most of it - proving the alcohol had done its work as he'd intended - but vague images still assaulted him from the subconscious shadows, where even two-septim ales with all the flavor of fermented kagouti piss hadn't been able to reach.

An Ayleid ruin. High Elves in dark robes. Daedra - by the Nine, so many daedra. A big Nord, bloodied from combat. "It was only supposed to be a quick research expedition," Christophe mumbled, his words still slurred by ale. Or perhaps it was actual kagouti piss - you never could tell with these Dunmer migrants.

Slowly, Hawkston pushed himself up from the pew, dumping several books from his lap to the floor. Mumbling more oaths to himself, he knelt between the benches to retrieve the scattered tomes. Belda was a mistake. A terrible, traumatizing mistake that had cost him weeks of valuable research, and the even more valuable life of his guide Sanderson. His thoughts were interrupted as a tall, slender shadow came between him and the too-bright rays of sunlight. For a heartbeat, relief and terror fought for control - by the second beat, Christophe recognized the shadow to be another High Elf, and terror won out. He fell backwards into the chapel aisle with a startled yelp.

"Oh dear, are you alright?" the elf asked, bending to help lift him up. Hawkston's cheeks flushed pink - it was only Ohtesse, the chapel healer. No murderous conjurers lurked within Cheydinhal's walls. At least, none he knew of.

"Thank you," he murmured, then more coherrently, "I'm sorry, my nerves are rather frayed today."

Ohtesse nodded, handing him one of the journals he'd dropped. "From the amount of liquor you had last night, I'm amazed your nerves work at all. Hil and Gruiand were taking bets on whether you'd pickled yourself into a coma." She gave the Breton a thin smile. "I'm pleased to see they were both wrong."

"I wish I could say the same." He chuckled wryly, then winced. "Passing on while in the Chapel of Arkay does have a certain poetic elegance to it."

The elf's smile became a little more genuine. "True, true. Even so, we prefer our patrons not drop dead under our roof. Are you a follower of the Nine?" She looked hopeful.

Christophe thought as quickly as his hangover would allow. "They... um... have their uses, certainly." A hard wooden chapel pew was still preferable to sleeping outside on the ground, after all. "I appreciate those who dedicate themselves to such noble causes." That much at least was simple honesty. Before the healer could engage him in a lengthy discussion about the Divines, he gathered the last of his books from the floor and bade her thanks for the hospitality of the chapel's roof.

@}----
The chest was empty. Rahna spat a muted curse, peering into it again. The chest was empty. She lightly tapped a claw on its bottom, each side panel, hoping to find some secret nook. There was none - the chest was gods-damned empty! After the long and treacherous course she'd weaved, sneaking into Belda's depths without notice, slipping past the daedra-conjurers and their summoned watch-scamps, and finally into Nalur's private "quarters" in the basin of the old ruins -

THE. CHEST. WAS. EMPTY.
It took every ounce of her self-control not to topple the offending furniture into one of the smoldering braziers. Ra'qanar was not going to like this news.

Ra'qanar. The thought of him gave Rahna pause. She hated the way men and mer treated her kind, hated how even in the heartland of the Empire people could still keep Khajiit as servants. Not "slaves" in the traditional sense but Rahna was no fool. It pained her to see Ra'qanar's sparse arrangements, on those rare moments she could visit him - Cheydinhal guards were annoyingly vigilant. But when she could...

She noticed her tailtip twitching, and held it still. Thoughts of Ra'qanar could wait. If Nalur's desk did not have the book, it was likely Nalur himself did. Gods-damned Dunmer thug. He may have escaped Morrowind, but he was still in the Empire. The long arm of Imperial Law would find him, find him and choke the miserable life from his corpse. Rahna would see to that. She just needed the right evidence. She needed-

"My journal!" Nalur's rasping voice echoed from the cold Ayleid stone. "That wretched s'wit took my journal!"

Rahna's eartips pricked. Wretched s'wit? He couldn't mean...

"What are you yammering on about, Dunmer?" The deeper, melodic tones of an Altmer. Most of the conjurers in this place were Altmer.

"That Breton man we found snooping around yesterday - here! 'Christophe Hawkston.' The one you let escape!" Nalur fumed from the corridor, growing closer with each word. Rahna's eyes darted around the room, seeking a better hiding spot. She couldn't put the fire out, the sudden darkness would alert them. After a moment, the Khajiit settled on one of the nearby pillars, its ornate metal bracket long bare of Welkynd crystal. She slipped behind it just as Nalur and his Altmer companion entered.

"His Nord fellow was rather resistant to the idea of dying," the Altmer intoned dryly. "He took a significant amount of convincing and by then your Hawkston was quite gone. Would you have chased him to Cheydinhal's gates yourself?"

"Do not mock me, Yashil. This was no mere diary he's taken. My life's work - which I might remind you is also your work - and equally important, how to reach my contacts here in Cyrodiil." Rahna held her breath as Nalur paced around the brazier, an arm's length from her pillar.

"Your 'contacts' being more Cammona Tong rabble I assume." Yashil sniffed in disdain. "But I take your point. The book does represent a significant investment in our mutual interests. I have... friends, in Cheydinhal. I shall speak with them at nightfall." He paused. "They will, of course, require some compensation for their services."

Nalur cursed violently. "If your 'friends' can recover the journal, they'll be rewarded properly, but they'll not see a single drake from my hand until then."

"Have it your way then. By this time tomorrow, the book will be back in your possession. Be sure you have the gold on hand, Nalur," he added ominously. "These people are not to be crossed."

"Noted," the Dunmer spat. "Now get out of my sight."

By sheer good fortune, Yashil's annoyed huff completely masked Rahna's air-starved gasp. She waited until Nalur's attention was focused on the altar, facing away from her, before making her own much quieter exit.

@}----

The day just kept getting worse. In addition to his hangover, Christophe had developed a case of hiccoughs, and each one brought the bitter tang of last night's ale back to his mouth. Also, he was missing a book. Of course, so was someone else. A "Nalur Vimyn" - probably Dark Elf by the name - and heavily involved in some research of his own. Utterly useless for a Breton of significant scholarly talent, but sorely lacking in the magickal variety.

Hawkston sat at a table in the corner of the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, his books and research spread out across the tabletop. Vimyn's journal was interesting, but he'd have preferred his own volume of notes instead. His observations on Belda had been lost when he and Sanderson were attacked, incinerated in a campfire during the initial scuffle. Christophe focused harder, trying to remember the details of that moment. There was so much confusion, sudden panic. Had one of the conjurers been a Dark Elf?

"God's Blood," he sighed, banging his forehead against the table. Sudden agony reminded him that the morning's hangover had not yet faded. Dimly, the Breton wondered if his presence in Cyrodiil was somehow offensive to their resident pantheon and were making him suffer for it.

"Rough night?"

Christophe glanced up, his face still solidly planted against the table. A tall Imperial man with sandy-brown hair gazed down on him with mild concern. He wore the dark leather and chain of a Cheydinhal guard.

"Not my best, no." Hawkston lifted his head, offering the guard a seat. "Something I can do for you, sir?"

"Garrus Darelliun. I just have a few questions I'd like to ask you." Darelliun took the offered chair. "You were the man the evening watch let in last night, correct? Burz gro-Khash tells me you left with one of his guild, a Nord by the name of Bjorik Sanderson."

Christophe winced. "Sanderson was slain protecting me while we explored the Belda ruins west of the city. Gro-Khash has my apologies, though Bjorik fought well enough to do any Nord proud."

The guard nodded. "And what exactly did you find in those ruins?"

"A few High Elves, and far too many summoned daedra. Possibly others - once we were attacked, both Sanderson and I ran." Despite doing his best to drown the incident in an alcoholic haze the previous night, Hawkston related what he could remember to the guard. Darelliun listened intently, asking for clarification when it was necessary. Though Sanderson's demise was unfortunate, he conceded that Christophe was blameless in the matter - or at least in so far as Imperial Law was concerned.

As for the conjurers in Belda, a task force of the Imperial Legion would clean them out, once the appropriate report was filed. "Regrettably, the Cheydinhal Guard sees only to the affairs within our walls," Darelliun added apologetically as he stood up. "Well Mr. Hawkston, I must get back to my patrol. I hope the rest of your time in Cheydinhal is less eventful."

"As do I," the Breton agreed.

Neither noticed the golden-furred Khajiit as she slipped away from the window sill outside.

@}----
Rahna knew it was a risk, but wasn't everything in her profession risky? Besides, Ra'qanar had to know. A brief spell of invisibility let her slip past the guards at the castle gate and into the courtyard - she could never allow them to see her come or go, lest they begin asking themselves what business a Khajiit woman had in Cheydinhal Castle. Even at night, it was difficult to remain unseen. Sneaking in under broad daylight was nearly impossible. By the way Ra'qanar jumped in surprise, it was clear he'd thought the same. Quickly, he shut his door and locked it.

"Has she gone mad?" he hissed. "Rahna knows we cannot be seen like this!"

"She is quite sane," Rahna assured him dryly. "Do you think I would have come in daylight if it weren't important?"

Ra'qanar sighed. "This one would be happier if you bring him good news. But of course, it isn't, is it?" He tried pacing but his quarters were far too small to vent his agitation properly.

"Vimyn's book was stolen. I followed him into the Ayleid ruins west of town, but by then it was gone. A Breton man, Hawkston, has it now." Her tail lashed in frustration. "I saw him talking to a guard - the Captain's second, no less - over lunch in the Bridge Inn."

"And did he give Garrus the journal?"

Rahna shook her head. "I couldn't hear what they were saying. He may have been negotiating a price, but Hawkston still has it, for now."

"For now," Ra'qanar emphasized, shooting her a meaningful glance. "Nothing has changed, except who you must steal from. Ra'qanar knows this Captain, he is a good man. If the book is given to him, some good may happen. But it will be a small thing."

"And the Tong bypass Cheydinhal, or shift south into Bravil. Don't worry Ra'qanar, I know the stakes." Rahna flexed her claws, staring at their pointed tips. "I don't want to see the scum of Vvardenfell sneaking through here any more than you." She turned to leave, then paused as she remembered something. "Planning to let me go, or do I need to pick your door's lock first?"

The other Khajiit laughed. "Ra'qanar will open it for you, though he is sure the lock would give you no trouble. That is," he added as he drew the key, "if you are so eager to leave this one's company." Rahna noted the mischevious edge to his grin and her eartips grew warm.

"First you berate me for coming and now you don't want me to go? You're sending mixed messages, ahziss'dar." She leaned back as he reached for the lock, a pose more suggestive than she'd intended. "Business before pleasure," she reminded him teasingly as the door clicked open. "Besides, I've pressed my luck enough as it is. Any longer and they'll start wondering where their humble porter has gone to."

Ra'qanar snorted. "Sky'ell ahn trajiir, ja'khajiit. Just be sure you do not harm Hawkston when you take Vimyn's book from him."

"I know our code, Bandit," she assured him, delivering a quick kiss to the thief's cheek for emphasis. "Hawkston will be safe, I promise."