Lore:The Improved Emperor's Guide to Tamriel/High Rock

''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-11.jpg|left|thumb|350px|[A Dreugh Warrior, looming out of the mist - I nearly soiled myself]''
I don't remember much of the voyage from the   to  , as I was learning for the first time that ocean travel makes me woefully seasick. It was a relief when the ship finally entered the waters of the   and we left the great ocean rollers behind. The captain sent me ashore in the ship's longboat. Disembarking, I heaved my belongings onto the jetty and beckoned over an untidy child. With a shiny coin as inducement, the urchin eagerly furnished me with directions into Wayrest. I headed down his "shortcut." The path soon turned from cobbles to mud, and the structures became more precarious and shoddy. Gaunt faces stared out from shadowy slums.

I pressed on to the west, cursing that youngster's lies. As the city walls faded into the sea mist, I stumbled into the  's spawning grounds. "Away from the billies!" a man caked in mud yelled from his nearby shack. I scrambled back to safety. "Not too close! Avoid the broodmothers and you'll be safe!"

I curbed my temper and sketched these crablike creatures. Retracing my steps, I found the lying rascal and taught him a sharp lesson about misleading travelers.

center|thumb|600px|[Landscape of Stormhaven, as seen from the gates of Wayrest]
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I spent some time studying and painting in the Stormhaven countryside -- a charming realm of rolling hills, lush flood plains, rocky outcrops, and copses of ancient woodland. The place would be idyllic were it not for the perpetually unsettled gloom, occasional crackles of thunder, and bolts of  's rage that arc across the skies.

[Dreugh Eggs in Protective Jelly] 

After my unplanned exploration of the slums, I gathered my resolve for my meeting with High King  . Collecting my various credentials, I made my way through the throngs of Wayrest to the palace.

My audience with the king -- and request for exploration throughout his province -- was upon me. "Emeric the first, Earl of Cumberland, King of Wayrest, and by the Grace of the Divines, High King of the Daggerfall Covenant. Please step forward and kneel." A hefty-looking bannerman beckoned me forward. Emeric glanced at my letters of introduction and writ of transit and peered down at my prostrate form through eyes edged with crow's feet. He was still a young man, but the wars of his land had left their marks.

center|thumb|600px|[Emeric of Cumberland, High King of the Daggerfall Covenant]

"So... Flaccus Terentius, is it? You're one of Chancellor Tharn's envoys, are you? Although I find the man... distasteful, he is a powerful force for  . For the moment, at least." He gestured to a   in the regalia of the  . "See that no harm comes to this guest. Terentius, you can claim your stipend from the Wayrest Bank. Now, to other matters..."

I was ushered out like a common house servant. Kings!

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right|thumb|200px|[The Lion Banner and Sigil of the Daggerfall Covenant]
left|thumb|350px|[A Breton Square-Rigged Merchant Ship]
 
 

File:ON-concept-Lion Guard banner.png|left|thumb|250px|[Banner of the Lion Guard]''
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As I wander in wonder through the great city of Wayrest, it is obvious the grip King Emeric has over his mostly faithful subjects. My Lion Guard chaperones were polite but looked down their pointed noses at me. I drew their standard armor and favored weapons as they goaded me with questions such as "Are you really a traveling writer, or just the least subtle spy we've ever seen?" I smiled at their taunts, but beneath my deferential exterior, I was seething.

 

 

[Breton Arms, Ornate but Practical] 

''[I painted the symbols of the Eight Divines that appear on the Cathedral's rood screen.] 

[Wayrest Cathedral - despite its glories, most Bretons are in the marketplace, worshiping money.] ''

 

After the bravado and backslapping of the Lion Guard, it was a relief to gain entrance into the Wayrest Cathedral and be at peace for a while.

Priestess Gidric informed me that the city's elite worship here, and Emeric's coronation was held under these arched buttresses. I can see why: Although the stone arcade could never be described as breathtaking -- it lacks the overwhelming grandeur of the Imperial City's great cathedral -- it is nevertheless a feat of engineering to be commended. The Bretons really did try their best.

As the light from   poured through the sanctuary glass, I felt the warmth of Mara for the first time since coming to Wayrest and relaxed my weary bones. My final time of rest in Wayrest.

[The statue of Azura in the chapel at Pariah Abbey. Strange to find such Daedra worship among the devout Bretons.] 

File:ON-concept-Vaermina statue.png|right|thumb|250px|''[The statue of Azura's opponent Vaermina, the Daedric Prince of Nightmares. Fortunately, I didn't meet the cultists who lit all the candles.]''

It was time to leave Wayrest behind and head north, into deepest High Rock. The Lion Guard offered me a mount, but large animals make me nervous, so I declined. I gathered my provisions and set off afoot, heading up the road towards the city of Shornhelm in the region of  .

Aside from farms, which gradually gave way to craggy scars and fells, I encountered few dwellings, until I came across the aptly-named Pariah Abbey. Here was a monastery openly devoted to the worship of  ! Sister Jerique, one of their so-called  , invited me to a "communion with  ." I politely refused her advances, although I supped from the sweet beverage she offered. Azura's presence felt strangely comforting, albeit heretical.

In need of proper sustenance, I took to the road and found a roadside inn with a roaring hearth and a friendly barkeep. After a goblet of barley wine, I felt a little light-headed, so I embarked on an evening stroll to clear my head.

These blasted rural pathways lack proper signage and lighting. The ground turned steep and wooded. Twisted branches brushed my breeches as I found myself in a deep ravine. A buttress of rocks surrounded a glade of gnarled bushes. Dominating this space was an effigy of   that seemed to have risen out of a nightmare.

My mind churning with horrific thoughts of sacrifice and cultists, I tentatively inspected with monument to the Weaver of Dreams. The flames of lit candles stood straight: The wind had stopped. This was not a place for loitering. Then I heard a voice:

"Beware, Flaccus Terentius. You trespass in Moonlit Maw."

I let out a yelp. But the voice was familiar, soothing. I remembered Jerique's words mentioning the Supernal Dreamers of Vaermina, dangerous cultists active in these parts. Nervous, I asked her for assistance, and she guided me back to the inn.

I woke the next morning with the barkeep banging on my door holding breakfast. A black rose was on the table next to me.

A detachment of Breton guards joined me on the road to Shornhelm, and offered me their protection as we marched (rather too quickly for my constitution) north from Newgate, leaving Stormhaven behind. The bloody history of haunted Rivenspire may be of interest here:

 

File:ON-concept-Bloodfiend.png|right|thumb|250px|[The hideous visage of a Bloodfiend]''
The tortured landscape of Rivenspire is afflicted with a species of feral vampire called  . Fortunately their plague isn't very contagious, or the land would be overrun with them.

center|thumb|600px|[I unfolded the painting of Rivenspire I purchased at Wayrest. The artist responsible should be fired - preferably from a catapult - for this wildly inaccurate piece of fantasy. This was obviously painted by someone who never set foot north of  .]

 

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Though the landscape of Rivenspire is dramatic, I found the city of Shornhelm gloomy and dull; after only one night at the inn, I decided to head south for   and the city of Daggerfall.

A Lion Guard named Mannick Noellaume was detailed to "protect" me. I feigned interest as he explained he was traveling to the great cemetery of  . Mannick keeps quite a pace, but he soon informed me that we'd crossed the pass into Glenumbra. Suddenly, Mannick dropped to his haunches. "The wolves of Glenumbra prowl these parts," Mannick whispered, drawing his sword and dropping his satchels. "We've already been seen."

The first wolf padded out into the path, its hackles standing along the ridge of its back, and jumped for Mannick in a blur of fur. Mannick pivoted, bringing his entire weight behind a massive, two-handed swing, cleaving the wolf in twain. Another wolf leaped from the woods, receiving one of my arrows to its hindquarters before it, too, was cloven apart. "Ha-ha!" I yelled at Mannick. "Two warriors claim sovereignty of this glade!"

"To me!" he replied.

Puzzled, I spun around as a huge claw whistled past my ear. It was attached to a giant wooden arm, part of a strange, lumbering construct made from bark, moss, and evil magic. I stumbled over to Mannick, who caught another of this wooden golem's swings, parried and swung back, biting into the beast's forearm. It took him several minutes to defeat the thing. I did my part, shouting encouragement.

"That was a Lurcher," Mannick informed me, panting as I painted the corpse of the strange lumber construct. "These Lurchers started appearing recently in northern and central forests. No one knows why."

  

center|thumb|600px|[The grim Breton cemetery of Cath Bedraud - Mannick says the thorn vines are recent growths]

"Our paths part here." Mannick Noellaume had led me to one of the most venerated sites of his people, and now bade me farewell. I spent the evening putting charcoal to parchment among the mausoleums here, before making camp along the remains of the ancient nobles of High Rock.

My next trek - an exhausting slow slog - took me across the gloomy marshes of  , fortunately without incident. The Guide's account is mostly accurate and includes a precise depiction of a Hag's home, as well as a frightening depiction of how these warty hermits look. But how could our leading Imperial explorers have traipsed across this Fen and failed to mention the smell?

 

''[A Hag's Den] 

[A hideous Hag of Hag Fen] ''

 

[The Guide gives a decent account of Hag Fen, but how could they have failed to mention the smell?]

After almost losing a boot in the fens, I managed to scramble away from the mists and mud into Glenumbra's gargantuan forests. I was busy attempting to light a campfire when I was startled by a woman, clad in green and brown, who admonished, "No fires, outsider. Now follow me."

center|thumb|600px|[The Towering and Mystical Wyrd Tree of the Beldama Wyresses]

I was escorted into the vale of the Beldama Wyresses. The glade was dominated by the immense Wyrd Tree, a colossal specimen of oak with a branch canopy that covered the firmament. I noticed fires, small wooden huts draped with hanging moss, and tents throughout the vale. The lissome witch spoke softly: "Have some broth. Stay among the watchers of the Green, and mind your manners."

For primitives, these witches seem polite and respectful. At least, until I asked to share one of their huts, which resulted in a scowl and a swift refusal. And the elder wyresses seem to look straight through me. But the soup was good, and I propped my head against a wyress's tent and settled down for the night.

Sometime later, I woke with a start. The woodland chatter was drowned out by the sounds of rhythmic chanting. The only illumination was from the glow of the Wyrd tree. I'd cricked my neck and felt damp and chilled, so when I noticed the hut door was ajar, I took the open door as an invitation to enter. The Wyrd woman's bed looked comfortable, with its skins and rough linen, but I chose caution over comfort and curled up near the still-warm embers of the hearth.

My dreams were fitful. I only remember a rasping voice: "The candle inside your head is lit." 

 

left|thumb|275px|[The Savage Werewolf of the Breton Wilds]
At the edge of the woods, I discovered a turnpike and a weathered sign to Deleyn's Mill. The path wound through the low hills as the sun's heat warmed my bones. With the hamlet in sight, I had stopped to remove a pebble from my boot when I was greeted by a little old man struggling with an enormous haversack. "Buy my wares?" he inquired.

I studied the clanking collection of tin pots, dented drinking cups, and other paraphernalia, and stifled a chuckle. "These trinkets are worthless, you old coot!" I exclaimed, perhaps a little too maliciously. "I'd find fancier wares in a pauper's grave! Be off with you!" The peddler stopped his clanging and stood dumbfounded. I hopped past.

My boot was half on when I heard a great rattling. I thought the elderly fool had fallen over but turned to see his eyes flash red. He fixed his gaze on mine, stood impossibly tall, and began snarling and thrashing like a madman. It took a moment to realize that he was growing both up and out. Hair sprouted from his form and his rags fell away. As his nose lengthened into a black muzzle and his bones cracked and twisted, I finally started to run. I'd offended a werewolf.

I fled in a lung-bursting sprint, abandoning my untied boot in a ditch as I felt hot breath scorching my neck. I dared to glance behind and saw the beast stop, pick up a fallen flagon, and continue. I thanked all Eight Divines (in order) as I neared the Deleyn's Mill guards and the werewolf came within archery range. He roared and bolted for the fields - still carrying his haversack - as I collapsed by a member of the town watch. Had that tinker not been so attached to his wares… well, the outcome doesn't bear thinking about.

 

[The Fearsome Harpies of Shrieking Scar] 

I retrieved my boot and retired to the local tavern. A freckle-faced wench had only just served my sausages when she gasped and pointed at my writing quill and grinned a toothy smile. "That's a harpy feather!" she shrilled.

"Yes," I responded. "The nib is particularly durable and enables prolonged writing between ink dips."

"You must have got it at Shrieking Scar!" she said, and began asking questions about a   queen named  . So the next morning I decided to detour from the direct route to Daggerfall to observe these fanciful creatures. I followed the wench's directions, and an hour later I was among the nests in Shrieking Scar.

[Mist Agate] 

Harpies there were, in plenty. I hid in a bush and quickly sketched a vigorous specimen in all her immodesty. Do not let their humanlike form fool you: These creatures lack even the rudiments of civilization. I watched them vomit up gruel to feed their young, and quarrel with each other with loud shrieks and razor talons. I returned with three feathers I'd picked up, and a newfound respect for my quill merchant.

 
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center|thumb|600px|''[Daggerfall: the actual streets are busier than depicted here, but I didn't want to obscure the quaint architecture.]

File:ON-map-Daggerfall.jpg|right|thumb|350px|[The City of Daggerfall]''

My trek to Daggerfall was instigated because the Imperial entry was supposedly inaccurate. How strange; this history seems spot-on.

 

[Interior of the Daggerfall Mages Guildhall] 

After perusing the nearby Fighter's Guild, sketching a Breton fountain, and being refused entry into Castle Daggerfall, I spent an afternoon painting the impressive mosaic of the Mages Guildhall from the second floor of the structure. I must admit to some degree of wonderment; this Guildhall is nearly as elegant and refined as those of the Imperial City! My admiration was tempered by an argument with the Incunabulist, who failed to acknowledge my Imperial scholarship put me in better standing than his somewhat parochial education. That arrogant little librarian should know his place!

[A Breton Inn in Daggerfall, the jolly Rosy Lion] 

The hearth was aglow and crackling. Tavernkeeper Gregoire Lafont had expedited my roasted ox haunch and all the trimmings just as I'd dabbed the final paint on my tableaus of the Rosy Lion inn. As I tucked into this succulent feast and ordered another mead, a broad-shouldered Redguard sat down next to me. "What a splendid picture," he remarked with a smile, then added, "What's your poison?"

"Mead, thank you," I replied. "I didn't catch your name."

"Uwafa. From Sentinel. My master is looking for a decorator. You're perfect for his needs." I was still chewing. "One thousand apologies! Where are my manners. Eat your dinner. I'll be over by the fire."

I was intrigued. Many of these Redguards were merchants with gold to spare, and I'd need every last coin for my upcoming nuptials. After cleaning my plate, I left out a healthy belch, joined Uwafa and asked about the possible employment. "I could spare a few days from my travels... My, this mead is bitter. So why not use local craftsmen?"

Uwafa grinned. "Because my master wants an Imperial." Uwafa was watching me intently and suddenly leaned forward. "Flaccus, can you follow my finger for a moment?"

I felt a little dazed. Sparkles of strange light blurred my vision. I nodded as Uwafa waved his clawed gauntlet before me. "Good," I remembered him saying. "Follow me outside."

[A steadfast Breton canine] 

My next memories are a blur of dark shapes and colors - muddy black alleys, the seedy underbelly of Daggerfall. I was swaying as I walked, and rather talkative. That beastly Uwafa had obviously administered some dark narcotic. I think I heard him say something like "Prepare for the Mark of the Worm." Yes, that was it. He wasn't friendly anymore. I was being bundled onto a cart? Yes, I was, and I remembered tripping over a dog. I bent down to pet him; I must have been completely befuddled. The hound growled at Uwafa and lunged at him. I sat down and watched the dog bite the cutlist, while the commotion attracted the Daggerfall Watch. I heard shouts of "Heel!" as the treacherous Uwafa ran off.

I owe that dog my life.

[The despicable Uwafa, whom I now realize was an incognito Worm Cultist]