Nirn, Tamriel, Alinor; 5E654

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Taltheron tried his best to ignore the voices spouting in his ears, focusing on the text before him. It was First Era at least, he could tell by the yellowing of the pages, and the mytho-phraseology. Clearly it had been redacted from a far older form but the elegance of Nordic poetry had not been lessened by the scribe’s tampering. For not the first time he remembered the biting cold of Skyrim and felt a twinge of nostalgia in his heart. Thoughtlessly he touched his beard. But Alduwae was speaking.

“The real issue,” he said. “Is the complete lack of verisimilitude in their argument. What sort of half-wit goes around praising the Great Deceiver for a world of rotting, half-formed ideologies?”

“You’re giving them far too much credit,” Vultarion said. The Altmer frowned while considering his perfectly polished nails. “You expect an iota of intelligence from a race whose Aad semblio impera is just a bunch of monkey-talk!”

The two of them laughed loudly at that. Taltheron could not help wondering how two well-educated Altmer did not know to be quiet in a library. In their defense there weren’t many people there and the Librarian was busy with the latest propaganda sheet from the Terminex. He supposed if the Librarian took no offense then he should not either. Still…

“Oh come, its not all their fault,” Alduwae rejoined with mock sympathy. “Their breeding is against them. It’s that damnable Tal(OS) virus of theirs, infecting everything from their musculature to their very sub-noumenal thought-registry. But you have to admit that sometimes, despite it all, they come up with

some very nearly almost thoroughly worthless rubbish.”

“I’ll admit no such thing!” Vultarion declared. “That Third Empire of Men has produced nothing even coming close to worthless rubbish – that at least could be burned to make way for something better.”

“Like what they tried in Black Marsh last Age.”

“Just so. Instead all that TEM has produced is a festering maggot-slime that not even those…Argonians…” he said this with a shiver. “…could make any use of.”

Taltheron looked up from his book for a moment as if considering this argument. He said, “Of the below they speak, they are confused by it; for under us is only a prologue, and under that still is only a scribe that hasn't written anything yet. As always they forget the above, and condemn themselves and any other who would believe them into this cycle.”

“Well said, brother,” Vultarion spoke, full of gravitas. Taltheron tried not to imply his mirth at the Altmer’s complete lack of comprehension.

“It’s really too bad they can’t be educated,” Alduwae offered.

“Let me tell you something,” Vultarion said. “These humans are just the errata of the Vile Deceiver; moreso, they are his mythopoetic affirmation. They are so inured, so utterly corrupted that it’s barely worth the effort to stomp them for the work it will require to clean our boots.” A sly smile cut his face. “Not that will have need of boots at that point.”

Taltheron turned the page.

“Still,” Alduwae regretted. “Genocide is a long and dirty business.”

“That’s what the Khajiit are for!” Vultarion laughed.

It was a few minutes before either of them could regain their composure.

*

Magnus was deep in the horizon by the time they left the library and purple night was falling fast. Taltheron tucked the tome in his satchel and stretched his arms; the only problem with long periods of reading was the stiffness. He’d need a good walk tonight to feel himself again.

“So where from here, brothers?” Alduwae asked. “I hear there’s a Khajiit troupe at Suthender’s that is not to miss.”

“Gods’ preserve us!” Vultarion swore, looking into the night sky. “I can’t stand their too-sweet stench. I could use something of Old Alinor tonight, maybe Fulfestra’s?”

“I hear there’s a reading of the Master’s Prolix at Netisandra’s.”

Vultarion turned to Taltheron. “What of you, old man? Anything for you?”

“I think a walk on the docks would be lovely,” he replied. “After that I’m not too picky.”

It was too early to part over disagreement, so they made their way through the streets.

*

Both moons were at half and offering silvery light on the waves by the time they reached the docks.

Alduwae and Vultarion continued to speak as Taltheron walked briskly up and down the quays. There was a fine wind tonight, and it tickled the new growth on his shaved head. “How many nights,” he wondered quietly to himself. “Did I stand beneath the stars of Solitude thinking of my fair Alinor, and longing for her warm winds? And now how many nights do I stand beneath the stars of my home, thinking of Skyrim, and longing for its cold, cold winds?” He laughed despite himself. For not the last time he remembered the biting cold of Skyrim and felt a twinge of nostalgia in his heart. He tugged at his beard.

“Why in the name of Dibella do you still wear that gods’-awful thing?” Alduwae asked him, coming up behind. “You’re as like to be taken for a bear…or a Nord!...as for an Altmer. I mean, it’s been…how many centuries?”

Taltheron’s mind spanned the years to the early 4^th Era and beheld the Solitude windmill. “Too many,” he said quietly.

“There ought to be a Writ,” Vultarion said. “Against facial hair. It’s too…human.”

Taltheron shrugged non-committaly .

Vultarion stared out into the blackness of the Eltheric Sea. “Just think brothers. Soon our armies will be out there…tens of thousands of us achieving glory, bringing the New World to light. Let us hope we will be fit for the task.” Though he did not know it – could not know it – he was standing in the same spot as Vaaj-na would, more than a century later. In six hundred and fifty-three timelines Vaaj-na would die there, a victim of simulated Void Magnifications. But in more than a million Vultarion would never meet the Khajiit.

Alduwae proudly breathed in the air of Alinor. “Well then, who’s for Netisandra’s?”

“Aye,” agreed Vultarion. “Maybe we can rouse a debate over the Prolix’s fifth Canto: ‘Hoc tempore obsequium amicos, veritas odium parit!’”

“You two go ahead,” Taltheron said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

As they walked away the Altmer stared at the rising moons and considered their light on the undulating waves. He could not help the tempest of emotions within him; Vultarion would have called it a weakness. Closing his eyes he let the warm winds of the Isles wash over him.

“Of the above we speak,” he whispered. “And we are confused by it, for above us is only an ending, and above that still is only a scribe that hasn't written anything yet. As always we forget the ground below us, and condemn ourselves and any other who would believe us into this cycle.

“As for the war we crave…a spear will be thrown soon. Both sides will call for vengeance…and the awful fighting will begin again.”

Taltheron opened his eyes and cast a last glance at the moons before turning, and following his friends.