HAIL TO HERMAEUS MORA, GOD OF KNOWLEDGE,
HAIL TO NOCTURNAL, GOD OF DARKNESS,
HAIL TO MOLAG BAL, GOD OF TYRANNY,
HAIL TO SHEOGORATH, GOD OF MADNESS,
HAIL TO MERIDIA, GOD OF LIGHT,
HAIL TO BOETHIAH, GOD OF ANARCHY,
HAIL TO AZURA, GOD OF TWILIGHT,
HAIL TO MEPHALA, GOD OF SECRETS,
HAIL TO NAMIRA, GOD OF VILENESS,
HAIL TO MEHRUNES DAGON, GOD OF DESTRUCTION,
HAIL TO SANGUINE, GOD OF PLEASURE,
HAIL TO MALACATH, GOD OF CURSES,
HAIL TO PERYITE, GOD OF TASKS,
HAIL TO HIRCINE, GOD OF BEASTS,
HAIL TO CLAVICUS VILE, GOD OF DEALS,
HAIL TO VAERMINA, GOD OF REST,
,REDRO FO DOG ,GALAGGYJ OT LIAH

If you have received this message, you are invited to the ruins of Ald Molag in Morrowind. There, you and the other recipents of this message shall discuss the recent upheaval in Oblivion. Jyggalag has returned, and a new Mad God has appeared. The 16 have become 17. The ramifications of this must be discovered. As such, I have sent this message to those wise in Daedric lore, that we may together discover truths about Jyggalag and the New Sheogorath. I trust I shall gain a response.

-Avrus Sul, Champion of Hermaeus Mora.

(OOC: Basically a roleplay similar to Protocollum Ecs Concillium Chorrolinium, but discussing the ending of Shivering Isles instead of the ending of Oblivion)

I hear. I come.

So do I speak, I whom some call Nu-Man.

We watch. We listen.

I represent the Sevententh-crossed Realm that js not a Realm.

.MIHC TE LABADA GGALAGYJ

Hello there, darlings. Just got off the dreamstream from Chorrol. Awful, awful drama over there. Divine types rather are prone to redefine stuffiness when they all get together, aren't they? I suppose it is their wont, the aedriatic prerogative and all of that. Delightfully slow, too. I'm not sure more but one of them even suspected who was in their midst.

Feona Barrowhart, Choicest Dominatrix, Concubine, Weaver, [NUMINIT], ...Mistress to s/he of the Black Hands at your service. Obscured and waiting.

Wretched am I who creeps from the shade of the Scuttling Void to this meeting, to shower Her gloom unto you all.

The shadows tell me my name is Wendy, once of Hammerfell, twice of the Void. I represent the Lady of Decay, Namira. See me, but do not look.

The most ancient of arcane shadows join us on this most repulsive of nights.

I stare at my candle, watch it burn away to nothing. My hands, my eyes, my whole being aches from the toil of my nights.

I can not sleep; I must not sleep. These nights, my dreams evade me. Instead, my mind is filled with ineffable horrors. I pray, but no respite comes.

I am afraid - I am afraid that the Gifter is with me when I sleep.

[From shaggy outhouse one can hear scroll being ripped and crushed, accompanied with faint grunts. Then as if clothes would rustle]

[As door of outhouse opens as less professional apprentice of archmage steps out] For once i had something to wipe my aperture! Now where did i leave that moonshine...

[Mean while in archmages quarters] Wait a moment, i had some message which i left into table. Where is it?

"Hello me darlin's, we of The Isles got your invite, weather's lovely this time of year, thanks for askin'." The priest took a chair, then sat on the floor where it had been. "New New Sheoth's been all a buzz with the glorious news and then your message arrived, cheese flowed like treacle through the streets and the people did rejoice, for a new MadGod had risen to the mantle. Wait, did I say treacle? I meant that swooshy liquid, the important stuff thinner than mud and all that. Blood! No, that other one, milk! Cheese was flowing like milk." The priest got distracted playing with a spinning top.

Tauriel of Minos, Seventh son of Lathaniel, Seventh son of Nathranas, Seventh son of Ulanor, Seventh son of Calcenon, Seventh son of Otholor, Seventh son of Voladril, Seventh Son of Xarxes, sworn vassal of Herma-Mora, who is the demon of Men and Ally of the Altmer, answers your call, oh Champion of our Lord.

Though young in the eyes of the dragon, Tauriel's old blood pumped through an old heart, and the weight of his heritage sat heavy upon him. He was begat by a god, and he knew that it was his duty to deal with matters of eternal concern. He took this duty seriously. A new god had risen, and an old god had adopted a new face. If Avrus, the mortal Champion of Hermaeus Mora, requested Tauriel's council, Tauriel would provide only the best council he could. As such, Tauriel waited to teleport to the old shrine until he had finished collecting all the relevant books in the great library of Minos.

There were very many relevant tomes in that great depository.

*Suddenly there is a bright flash and a hollow WHOOSH echoes through the chamber*

Bzzzz...

Bzzzzzzzz...

Clickety-clack-clack clickety-clack-clack

Bzzz...

Thump! Creak.

Clickety-clack-clack

* A small brass and crystal mechanical construct appears from the flash's possipoint, circles the room for a moment, and lands in the center of the room *

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-clickety-clack-clack-tick-tick-tick-tick-clickity-clack-clack-clack...DING!

*The small insect-like automoton's hindquarters dart about beneath the center of it's mass for a moment before folding into it's body. Small gears and mechanical bits rotate and contort, re-configuring the automotons shape. It's head folds backward as a small chime or bell from within sounds a loud *DING!* as a small glowing crystalline cube blossoms from what was formerly it's mandibles. The crystal resonates with a soft whirring hum and shifts in a million different rainbow-pearlescent colors.*

Tick-tick-tick-whoosh!

* A dim flash emits from the cube held up by the small mechanoid, and a shimmering ghostly form is projected hovering above it. The non-corporial form focuses a bit to reveal a humanoid shape, donning a nearly featureless brass mask with green glass eyes, a chest guard which seems to be constructed of glowing crystal or soul-gems, and nothing else. The rest of his form is composed entirely of etheral wisps that slowly shift to maintain it's person-like shape. *

*The being stares at the crowd as it hovers above the crystal-bearing construct*

Greetings from the Halls of Aborted-Infinity. Do not be frightened by our transeltheric sleeve-breach. We have come to advise and observe. You may address me as Scion Zin'Ash Aka-bal.

I see the harbinger of the Diviner, and recognize his name.
I see the servant of the Lost Prince, and recognize his name.
I see the servant of the Webspinner, and recognize its name.
I see the servant of the Vile One, and recognize her name.
I see the servant of the Dreamer, and recognize his name.
I see the servant of the Hunter, and recognize his name.
I see the servant of the New God, and recognize his name.
I see the progeny of the Diviner, and recognize his name.
I see an Aurbical anomaly, but I do not recognize it's name.

We speak.

From whence do you come, Scion Zin'Ash Aka-bal, that we do not recognize your name? What manner of being can you be, that we do not know your face?

We are the many who have fallen by the wayside by his Silence-As-The-Aboritive. A house of twelve-hundred, if you would remember us still as those in Necrom have forgotten their oaths and do no longer. No matter, they run to find their bones. We have Nu-bones, and run free.

Long have we investigated our murderer Mehrunes Dagon, and his peers - if one might so boldly misinterpret such a concept. Do you think it not odd that such Incursion ratio's should be so skewed within such a small frame? That not just Mundex-Prime, but all realms were so Padomaicly retro-charged as to allow a marching greyness,or a slow impenetrible chrysalis of YOU-MAY-NOT?

I'll answer my own question, with a challenge. Visit a shrine to Jyggalag - If you can find one, and pray to summon a response. There you will have your revalation. Then those who truly know will know.

* The shimmering visage contorts a long wispy ghost-arm to point toward the speaker proclaiming their representation of order*

Realm that is not. Indeed.

We are satisfied with this response.

I see you, and recognize your face.

We await the the words of Master Avrus Sul, that this council may begin properly.

An elderly Dunmer man in black robes walks into the ruins, and takes a seat.

"I am Avrus Sul, servant of Hermaeus. I decree this meeting officially begun."

We have received many rumors of recent events in the Isles, each more apparently touched by the Madgod than the last.

Whispers have been heard that the Prophet Arden Sul walks again, and that he has cast Jyggalag into the Void beyond the Aurbis.

Murmurs have reached our ears of a mortal champion who has stolen Sheogorath's throne.

Some say that the Greymarch has succeeded at long last. Others say that it has failed for the first time. Some have seen the Lost Prince walking the Wastes once again. Others swear that they saw him die in battle above the palace of the Madgod.

We have remained silent, but I, Nu-Man who is our Solemn Face, have come for an answer to this riddle. What say you, Harbinger and Servants of the Royalty?

An apparition appears in the centre of the room.

MORTALS! I am not dead! I merely disengaged to strengthen myself. Do you truly attempt to comprehend the thought process of a god? FOOLS!

Oh Hush, you forgotten pile of silicates. Your rigid lattice is no match for the addled mortal mind in comprehending your repetitive patterns.

I apologize for my tardiness, Arvus Sul, but the common role of murder victim in the lands of Mehrunes the Razor is one that cannot easily be escaped, even for a second. I am Agrard the victimized, plaything of the higher servants of Dagon.

PhwawPhwawPhwawPhwawPhwawPhwawPhwawPhwawPhwaw....

...And Like the whispered wishes for bed-a-bye dulcet dreams, a flock of brilliant white denouemoths flutter into sight and mind. Faffing about the chamber in a seeming meanderlust for light, their thousandfold wingbeats actually the initiatory prayers. Then, to whim, they engage in the swirl-helix holding pattern of Cocoon Council, one by one with waveform grace, their metathoraxes open wide, and issue forth resolution threads according to the matrix:

PROTOCOLLUM ULTIMATICANS ECS CONCILLIUM CHORROLINIUM:

"Hailandhearty Greetings, Citizens Actual, WE bring good tidings from Cyrod Ventricula:

The Ecumundrial Council of Chorrol is a success!

Despite the rocky start - where fierce deliberation (Mannimarcicean Anchorite Drenim was actually shouted to pieces by Archbishop Spearshanks over a doctrinal dispute) and woeful acts of god and else threatened to mire us in ambiguity and slip the very fetters of the Imperial Knot itself - The astounding eyewitness testimony of the Blade-Errants Starkweather-and-All, swiftly interpreted by the most eminent and julianeutically-limber Doctors of The Cult, led to the Turrifical College of Nine to vote 7-2 in favor of the following:

PROTOCANON: The Mysterium Tremendum et Draconans is, rightly, a Divine Mystery beyond our mundrial reckoning and ken. Our Aetherial Father, Akatosh, appeared dragonshins at Oneth Temple to smite the Dagon in our hour of need. Crown Prince Martin Septim is still missing, but assumed perished.

DEUTEROCANON: [APOCALYPSE DENIED - LIAR NOBILITY IS INSUFFICENT, PLEASE REFER TO PROTOCANONICAL ACCOUNT]

CANON OBSCURA: [APOCALYPSE DENIED - LIAR NOBILITY IS INSUFFICENT, PLEASE REFER TO PROTOCANONICAL ACCOUNT]

The Dagonites in custody were submitted to Lyremoth chrysalis implantation, which rendered back confessions of culpability of:

Grand Theft Regalia

Regicide-Most-Foul,

High Treason against the Empires Actual and Spiritual,

Heinous Crimes against All Spectrae of Humanity,

Destruction of Property Imperial and Private,

Despoiling of Preserved Wilderness,

Simony,

Criminal Abuse of Imperial Liminal Pontificature,

and Unexceptable Blasphemes.


All the accused were summarily found guilty and sentenced to be thrown to the Minotaurs in the Rumare Arena. Tickets are on sale now, please contact the Imperial Bureau for Light Entertainments and Whimsy for more details."

The Denouemoths cross-weave and hem the tapestries' end with the deafening refrain "THE EMPIRE IS LAW; THE LAW IS SACRED" and wilt mid-flight into wind-scattered possipoints, the only trace left some ellipses, which trail down to the floor silent as ghosts like dainty strings of thin dark pearls...

We stir. We speak.

This is unacceptable. Our mundacular koordinates have clearly been misaligned. I humbly request that Master Avrus Sul readjust this communion's strandforms to obscure external interference. With all of this Akshezzeral static in play, the appearance of the Lost Prince merely confuses the issue. This apparition may be he who was called Jyggalag, or he may simply be a fluctuation in the fabric. Similarly, this most irregular appearance of heralds from previous, simultaneous or subsequent councils is entirely unnecessary. We must inform you that unless something is done and you begin to take this matter rather more seriously, we shall withdraw Nu-Man from this council altogether.

Welllll naw, I may be a simple 'Gonian living in the swampland inbetween ol' Cyrod and Black Marsh, farmin' all manner of aquatical animalia, including yer over-sized, corn fed histcarp, feathery-gilled wrigglers, and yer run-o'-the-mill silicate crustay-see-uhns (although I am known to partake in a lil' Hist sap and swamphooch border-runnin' by the light of the two moons to make a little spare Septim, heh heh!), but myself and my kin and our neighbors noticed that the will-o'-the-wisps have been actin' right peculiar these past months. Then the wrigglers, bless their two lil' hearts, started eatin' at each other, and by the Branches if them damn mudcrabs din't try a mutiny or two! So I packed up my best Niben-knitted overalls, my lucky straw hat, and a few extra jugs of dat swamphooch, and came here to Morr'wind to endure yall's wonderful hospitalitee, as every lizard up and down the bayou knows that the Madgod's got a stake in every creature, even the slimy, scuttlin' ones like me and my pvssyl. Meetin' all yall here at this powwow in this cold rewin - there musta been somethin' happenin' with ol' Sheogorath to cause such a disturbance. As my livelihood is as stake, fine gentlemen and gentlemer, I'd like to sit in on this and lissen, if'n you don't mind.

Dearest Arvus Sul,

While I, like yourself, am a follower of the Many-Tentacled-Knowledge-God (blessed be and may his unpronounceable name find mercy upon the words of our mortal tongues), I am a worshiper first and foremost of the great Disowned-Sun-Daughter (may her will to destroy all the undead linger in the Mundus for ever and ever and ever). I appreciate you sending a memospore to me with this invitation regarding the discussion of Jyg/Lyg, but at the very least if you didn't have the permission of the Elder Council to utilize these channels within the dreamsleeve, you could have encrypted it better. A wayward recycle/digital popped up with the spore, which I had to put down.

All of that said, my good friend Arvus, I will join in on your discussion. I do not see the significance of the 16 becoming 17. After all, the notion of the number of ancestors being tied to the number of not-ancestors is irrelevant. Aedra and daedra fluctuate constantly. My lord Merid didn't exist in Oblivion at the creation, but after. I hear (Nordic in tradition, no less) stories that Mehrunes Dagon did not either, until he was devoured by their heathen version of Auriel! People see the correlation of 8 aedra to the 16 daedric princes, which is stupid. The 9 (sorry, 8; I don't see the hubbabaloo that the Thalmor raise about Talos; the difference between men and mer is very, very, very thin at best) Divines are only the aedra we give reverence to; there are plenty more than those 9. Same with daedra. Dremora are an entire race of daedra, and yet we do not count them among the 16 (now 17 allegedly) Princes. The number of gods changes every day.

My 4 septims; your esteemed college and friend,

Alkenolion, esteemed altmeri witchhunter

P.S.: Yes I know that you know that I'm an altmer and a witchhunter. I just simply stamped it with my stamp to save time (also, force of habit; feed me to a werecroc). And yes, you know how much I hate dreamsleeve coding, which is why this is a physical letter.