Lore:The Improved Emperor's Guide to Tamriel/Morrowind

''Note: Flaccus Terentius' notes appear in bracketed italics. Inserts appear in separate boxes. Captions for unreleased images are denoted by  .
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File:ON-concept-Stonefalls.jpg|right|thumb|350px|[Part of Stonefalls, in Morrowind]''

I was jostled awake by the clattering of caravan wheels on cobblestone road. My vague memories of last night's debauchery in   would have made   himself wince. Peering out of the mead wagon, vision bleary and head aching, I saw we were traveling on a road to the southwest, away from the autumnal forest.

"Ah, the milk-drinker is up!" Fenrig flashed a toothy grin, while Roggvir launched into yet another   verse about  , hunting elk, and the consumption of mead. I offered a feeble wave back.

When we reached customs at  , two sour-faced   stopped the caravan for inspection. This was to be our first encounter in the   region known as  . These Dark Elves took their time; I mean, did we look like we were part of the  ? After Fenrig agreed on a two-crate "tariff," we trundled off to the south, headed for the city of  .

right|thumb|600px|[A Morrowind Panoply]

 

center|thumb|600px|[The Lurid Glow of Ash Mountain Illuminates the Ashlands]
right|thumb|400px|[Fungal growths twist up through the ashen earth, and some survive all year round.]

[The Nix-Hound, a Vicious Bloodsucking Giant Bug] 

Our initial trip through Stonefalls was uneventful (aside from the intermittent but always atrocious Nord singing), until we were ambushed by a pack of three odd-looking predators. After slaying these nix-hounds, Roggvir explained the danger of the bloodsucking animal's bite: "I was lucky; I only caught   the last time I got bit. Watch these critters when you're out on your own. You've enough elixirs to cure poison, right?" By  , does everything in this grim realm carry diseases?

''[Clinging to the basalt and pumice of the Ashlands are these strange growths of land coral. The locals refer to them as Vivec's Antlers.] 

[I thought I'd seen every shade of gray in Tamriel until I ventured through the Ashlands. Gnarled desolation as far as the eye can see.] ''

 

Having read the above, I was ready to sneer at the lackluster security and downtrodden masses of "wretched Kragenmoor," but my experiences were in stark contrast to what I'd read: Once again and to my dismay, my   texts fail me. I witnessed mile after mile of   plantations stretching across this fertile valley. As Roggvir slowed the caravan, steering it around to the watchtower's guardhouse, I saw the Nord stow his hammer and bring out a journal. He nodded at the imposing specimen of Dunmer, clad in equally impressive armor: "These are the Dres House Guards," he murmured to me. "Best not draw their ire."

I noticed further watchtowers, defenses, and contingents of guards in heavy armor, moving at an almost graceful pace.

Fenrig beckoned me over. "We're showing the Dres overseer our   paperwork." As I nodded, Fenrig pointed out an imposing structure a little farther along the main thoroughfare. "That's our stop, the manor of House Dres. Go explore and don't worry, we'll protect you."

I snorted and hiked off past the saltrice fields. Having eaten saltrice almost constantly since leaving  , I find the foodstuff bland. It also plays havoc with my digestion and leaves me with terrible bouts of flatulence. In my usual social circles this would be cause for embarrassment, but the Nords find my emissions the height of hilarity.

center|frameless|600px

In the Manor library I found a copy of a recent painting ready to be hung: "Leaders of the Ebonheart Pact," a work depicting Vicecanon  ,   the Skald-King, and   at the forging of the Ebonheart Pact. The city of the same name is beyond them, with Ash Mountain belching its smoke in the distance. I rolled it up and appropriated it.

 

[Studies of Dark Elven items from Dres Manor] 

left|thumb|400px|[The Dragon Banner and Sigil of the Ebonheart Pact]
left|borderless|250px
[The imposing Kragenmoor manor of House Dres] 

I swallowed a sleeping-philtre and missed most of our trip into the region of  . At dawn, I woke just as we reached the majestic city of  . The long shadows of night withdrew, revealing the city's graceful green spires, soaring basalt archways, and golden finery along even the most modest buildings. Guards clad in the richest ebony and glass armor strode the streets and patrolled the battlements with grace and an ever-watchful gaze. After the horses stopped for water near the already-bustling Great Bazaar, I seized the opportunity to gather my belongings and step off the mead cart for the last time. I left these red-haired and red-faced Nord idiots for good.

"May Kyne guide you!" Roggvir hollered as the cart clattered down an alley.

"May Lady   feast on your children!" I mouthed back in a voiceless curse.

I'd just been served a   in the gloomy antechamber of a cornerclub when a voice interrupted my doze. "Pssst! You, there. Over here!" I spotted an angular face peering from behind a heavy door under the stairs.

"What?" I whispered back, a little flummoxed. This Dark Elf looked shifty, even more so than most.

"Answer me now," he hissed, "'Decmitius.' 'Epimachus.' 'Gennadius.' Which name did I leave out?"

"Er... 'Flaccus'?"

"Close enough."

The cellar door swung open, and the Dunmer ushered me down the steps. I followed, hand gripping my dagger pommel tightly. Down in the basement, the Dunmeri merchant stooped to push and indented button. A bookcase swung outward on a well-hidden hinge, revealing a den with three cloaked men huddling around a map with various pins stuck into it. I noticed the wolf of Kvatch on one of their tunics: these were Imperials. I stopped fidgeting with my dagger.

[Dunmeri weapons and a shield - note the extensive use of the metal they call "Glass"] 

"Welcome back, Brother Festus," one of them said without turning around. "I trust your information on Vox has been corroborated?"

"Er, hello," I replied nervously. "My name is Flaccus Terentius. I hail from  , and I'm Envoy-Scholar to--"

One of the Imperials jumped as I started to speak. They all spun around, hands on their hilts.

The speaker turned to the merchant. "By  's beard, does he even look like Festus Silius?"

"You Imperials all look the same to me, Decmitius."

Another Imperial burst in. "Decmitius! The den has been compromised. Take refuge...." Suddenly the door was wrenched from its frame, and four powerful Dunmer clad in heavy ebony armor charged into the den.

As I cowered, a robed Dunmer turned to me and flicked his fingers. I felt blackness racing in from all sides. I woke on a soft bed in a grand bedchamber, with a glass-armored guard frowning down at me. "Come with me. Lady   will see you now."

Still dazed, I was led into an ornate and immense circular chamber where a statuesque figure of shining gold waited, her hair and armor glinting in the sun: the Goddess Almalexia.

 

"Flaccus Terentius: my apologies. There are times when my Hands work with more speed than care. You are in the  ."

"I," I stammered, "I'm..."

"Envoy-Scholar to the  ? Yes, we know. We know everything: your encounters with the  . Your meeting with King  . Your rescue by  ."

"But... but how? Agents? Scrying stones? Informers?"

center|frameless|600px
left|thumb|400px|[The armor of the Ordinators, law enforcers such as the Hands of Almalexia (who manhandled me throughout my stay).]
right|frameless|400px

Almalexia smiled. "Oh, no. We read your journal." She indicated a strong-jawed female clad in Temple robes. "This is  , Magistrix of Morals. She will guide you safely through our land, and toward a better understanding of our culture."

"But, Mother Morrowind...," Vox began.

I saw Almalexia flash her a glare. "Consider this penance, Urili Vox," Almalexia said. "Think about the regrettable actions of your son."

"Yes, Mother Morrowind," Vox responded with a bow.

Almalexia turned to me for the last time. "The Three favor you," she said sweetly, her voice echoing from inside my head. "You may leave."

It's not every day you meet a living goddess. Even one I still didn't believe in.

[This was the first painting I completed entirely from memory. The image of the Goddess Almalexia is forever burned into my mind. I also saw her ceremonial War Mask.] 

center|thumb|600px|[The Tribunal Temple]

 

[A fungal forest near Mournhold - note the pilgrim on the road] 

Vox's squad of   escorted me out of the gates of Mournhold at dawn. The Magistrix wanted me to "see the views, hear the sounds, and smell the air" of her province. We rode east until the lush plant life near Mournhold grew small and sparse. I asked Vox what our itinerary was, and she confirmed a visit to a local tribe of Ashlanders. When I said I'd rather visit a military installation, she replied, "I am here to ensure you aren't bored or distressed by such matters" -- and her hand lightly tapped the pommel of her sword. I received the message loud and clear.

 

Lagging behind Vox and her guards, I was almost eaten by this ugly predator, a  . Fortunately, it subsists largely as a carrion and chose the carcass of a   to devour instead of my entrails. Arkay preserve me!

 

left|thumb|400px|[Ashlander garb and paraphernalia]

It was late afternoon when we neared a rocky outcrop overlooking the Grazeland plains on the edge of Deshaan. Vox slowed to a stroll and beckoned me over. Pointing at a cluster of tents in the valley below, she told me to watch myself in the forthcoming encounter. "Your behavior in Mournhold didn't instill me with confidence," she said, catching me in her piercing red gaze. "Take a modicum of care in your dealings with these simple nomads."

left|thumb|400px|[The Kagouti - a vicious brute]

[The tiny Scuttler] 

Vox arranged for me to meet the tribe's Farseer. I was ushered into a darkened tent for a spiritual cleansing and welcoming as a Clanfriend. The air was sweet with incense. A wizened crone appeared and whispered as drums sounded softly. "We venerate   -- the Prince of Plots!   -- Hail the Webspinner! And   -- the Cosmic Severer! Here, drink."

I swallowed a broth of bitter herbs. My head was swimming with colors and voices, but I could have sworn I heard the Farseer mutter, "The black worms feast on this one."

The Ashlander tents, known as yurts, range in size and shape, but all have a single entrance flap over which hangs a lantern of vivid blue. They may be constructed with wood, hides, and sinew, but they are remarkably sturdy and can be collapsed within moments. I spent some time sketching their structures and the hackle-lo and trama root the Ashlanders had been harvesting.

[Ashlander structures, all portable] 

Deshaan is the fertile, central plain of Morrowind and the triumphant fruition of Dunmeri agriculture -- as Magistrix Vox reminds me on a seemingly hourly basis. But there's more to this land than incredibly fertile soil, slave labor, and almost inedible beetle cheese: Vox is intent on proudly showing me every farm. Surely there's more to this toilsome trek than watching yet another morose primitive tending to a saltrice field? Even the novelty of the exotic flora is wearing off: if you've seen one  , you've seen them all. At least I haven't spotted any of those unsavory Worm Cult fellows in my time here.

 

left|thumb|400px|[Nothing can prepare one for the strange sight of the floating livestock called Netches.]

[leathery Material] 

[Semi-Transparent] 

[Abdomen Opening] 

[veins] 

At a   ranch, a netch-herd named Rolves Romoran took a few moments from his lunch to point out the main differences between these cow-sized herd creatures. He waved a herding stick in the general direction of his floating cattle, telling me the blue-headed female is called a "betty" netch, while the larger brown one is the bull. I wondered aloud how such a large creature keeps itself afloat, and Vox noted that their buoyancy is due to internal sacs of magical vapors.

The female netch is fiercely territorial, the male emits poison from its feelers, and a netch's skin contains a toxin that makes the meat inedible. I also learned that netch hide is made into particularly strong and supple armor. Indeed, some of the soldiers I encountered in Mournhold were wearing such attire.

At a   corral, I watched an intrepid shalk-herd coerce some of the giant insects into a pen, using protective magic to ward off the beetles' fire strikes. She told me shalks are prized for their meat, resin, and carapaces. She then asked me if I was willing to seek a vision of the Fore Times, as it "would help cleanse you before the coming plague," and muttered something about " ." Another day dampened by superstitious nonsense. I declined and waited for Vox under a nearby mushroom, finishing up some other pieces of art and eating some savory shalk stew with boiled  s. I watched as a brief thunderstorm crackled overhead and dissipated. Vox's company returned at sundown: It was the first time I'd been pleased to see a Dark Elf.

[I must confess to a general dislike for giant insects. Morrowind teems with the things, which is unsettling, to say the least.] 

[On the other hand, the smallest of the guar, the so-called bantam guar, are just about as endearing as a cold-blooded reptile can be. I may have one sent to Cyrodiil as a gift for my beloved Honoria.] 

left|thumb|400px|[The ubiquitous Pack Guar of Morrowind. They are as stubborn and obstreperous as they look.]

''[The awful, screeching Cliff Darter. At least there's no song about them.] 

[Dunmeri Guar Tack] ''

A guar-herd named Llynth told me that, unlike the ferocious wild guar, the domestic pack guar are docile and easily trained. He introduced me to a pack guar he called  , who took one look at me and promptly ate my hat right off my head -- the new one I'd just bought in Mournhold!

Llynth said the other varieties of guar are the pony guar, which is about the size of a goat, and the bantam guar, the size of a chicken. Both seemed to be only slightly less intelligent than my host. In his kitchen, I was given some guar meat to try. Bantam guar looks and tastes like chicken; pony guar looks and tastes like leather. It was only after the tasting that Llynth told me pony guar aren't meant to be eaten. Yet another trick pulled on the hapless foreigner.

"Come, serjo, to the   mines." Vox was insistent, and I managed to feign interest despite now being heartily sick of her need to show me Dunmeri advancements in farming. Naturally, I hid my true feelings, as I feared for my life and secretly wished for this "hospitality" to end. Bloodlessly, if possible.

Secunda was waning tonight, but it still loomed over Ash Mountain as we reached  , a kwama mine owned by  . The House workers stepped back to let us through, one shouting, "Greetings, mehra! Are you here to help with cultists?" As always, Vox had appointments with the locals, but one of her entourage -- a particularly striking guard named Bathrone Rendo -- offered to guide me through the mine. This handmaiden could have snapped me in two with her bare hands, a fate almost preferable to watching a kwama mine at work.

 

File:ON-concept-Kwama.jpg|center|thumb|600px|''[More giant insects; the Kwama. I'd have drawn the Queen, but I didn't get to see one.]''

We'd skirted Silmindel and were heading into another mountain meander. "We now enter sacred ground," Vox said. "You may once have thought of us as aloof or mirthless. But we are simply guarded against outsiders. You have proven yourself worthy. It is time to witness my personal veneration of the past." Painting on an enthusiastic smile, I followed her to a grassy knoll topped by the ruins of giant obsidian arches. The scope of the place was impressively vast. "The  ," Vox intoned.

[Daedric letters. I have no idea what they say, but felt compelled to copy them exactly.] 

 

[Fascinating architectural details, including a grand arched vault and vault pillar, as well as symbols carved into the pillars themselves.] 

[What the shrine must have looked like in its heyday] 

[There were many tattered banners to unruly gods both unfurled and stored in cobwebbed chests. This one bears the Symbol of Boethiah.] 

I cautiously followed Vox into an underground chamber, half expecting to feel a sacrificial dagger thrust between my ribs. As Bathrone lit candles and braziers, I gaped in amazement at this cathedral of flying buttresses, side chambers, and banners to entities I'd only seen in my nightmares. This was a marvel of   architecture, hidden from time! Vox knelt down beside me. "We pray to the   here."

 

Vox and her troop left me to paint in peace. But the vision of the Black Rose hovered before me again, petals falling from a withering vine. My brand pulsed with a pain I had not felt since Skyrim. A low, deep voice penetrated my mind, murmuring, "The candle inside your head is slowly going out." I thought my wretchedness was behind me. Bathrone helped me back to the surface and fed me some boiled  , and I felt a little better.

[The Shrine of St. Veloth, where my misery returned.] 

"Magistrix Vox seeks judgment to the west," Bathrone said cryptically. "I have been assigned to escort you. Your journey to Black Marsh shall be without incident."

She was correct -- our only stop was an enforced one near the Silent Mire: Bathrone pushed me into a ditch, dropped a prowling kagouti with a single whirl of her blade, and beckoned me onward.

We were slightly early for our rendezvous at  . As a thin reptilian figure approached, I turned to thank Bathrone Rendo for her help and protection, but she had already departed my company, armor glinting in the afternoon sun as she strode away. I would never see her like again.

"Welcome to the mire!" Meeleeh-Een cheerfully rasped. My brand itched.

[Pillars and arches built by the ancient Chimer, nearly untouched by time.]