In Memory of Volanaro, Evoker

he Late Volanaro, Evoker 
Late of Bruma 
Late of Molag Mar 
Late of Lillandril 
Beloved of Many

For all races, but especially for the Altmer, the death of kin is difficult to bear. I would not have bothered to write this, sitting here at my desk in Lillandril, if I meant it to be a stilted Alinor Tribute. Instead, permit me to dispense with formality. This is, after all, about my uncle.

I do not know how many of you knew Volanaro, or if you even heard the news of his passing amongst the chaotic deaths of so many others. I do not know if his absence has been felt, but I do know that if my ode serves to bring peace to the mind of a single magister, or order to a single house, I will have done my part to restore the Mages Guild. While not a member myself, we are all of us here kin to Volanaro, and after this debilitating war and in this uncertain, vengeful peace, I nigh count myself a member.

For my own part, I never knew my uncle until three years ago. I feel that my tongue is freed by his passing and I say without reservation that he was considered the black bird of the family, and that we never communicated with our lost relative. While staying at the capital, I was astonished to learn that he had taken a position at the Mages Guild Chapter in Bruma, of all places, and had been rated Evoker. A journey north to introduce myself to my newly emerged uncle was imperative, and I dropped my other business in the city.

Since this is written for the benefit of those who were aquatinted with Volanaro, I need not describe his sparkling humor and goodness, but I will say that his character was worthy of an emperor. If the world was just, he should have found himself the most respected man in his community. We spent the next few years in continual correspondence, though I rarely found opportunities to visit. During this period of communication a surprising number of my uncle's mannerisms traversed the oceans of Tamriel and took root in my memory. He spoke often of the customs and climes of the high Jeralls, saying "put a few hairs on a Nord and you've got bear." The smile that this simple humor evoked cannot be communicated by writing alone.

Only after his death did I learn how incongruous was that expression of Bruma's ruggedness. At his remembrance ceremony, when we were lighting the candles in his name (yes, lighting candles; the ways of the Lillandric Peninsula are quaint) I was approached by an unfamiliar man. He introduced himself as Telinturco, and explained that he had traveled with Volanaro for many years. Telinturco seemed expectant after that, and I had to explain that my uncle had never let slip one word about this. He was surprised, and promised to visit me and fill in the missing years of Volanaro's life.

Telinturco describes himself as the second son of second sons- the product of an exhausted bloodline long-since destitute. Rather than accept his fate, he left his ancestral home to search for a fortune using the martial skills of a noble youth. At this time, young Volanaro was well on his way to meeting the same end of poverty and ignominy, but more from his rebelliousness than from the failure of his clan. Telinturco and my uncle joined forces and signed onto an East Empire Company ship bound for Vvardenfell, where thousands of opportunists were thronging to exploit the new monopolies. Both young Altmer joined a mercenary company based in an outpost by the name of Molag Mar, performing contracts to protect pilgrimage and trade routes issued by the now-defunct Tribunal Temple. Telinturco became the disciple of a local scout who also hailed from Summerset and became an unmatched marksman. My uncle found Telvanni friends in unlikely places and began to practice the premier art of that House- he became a Nightblade. As such he finally embraced the arcane legacy of his heritage, but certainly not in the manner my grandfather would have wished.

It did not last. Through his Telvanni teachers Volanaro convinced his captain to accept a job from Mistress Therana of Tel Branora, settling a House feud. The battle did not go well. My uncle, Telinturco, and two survivors managed to escape. The four remaining sellswords could not find any work and were blacklisted by the Redoran at Molag Mar for their Telvanni affiliations. In desperation they accepted a dead-end contract to guard as isolated glass mine in the Ashlands southeast of Ghostgate. Telinturco describes dark, endless months huddled in the depths for shelter from the Blight storms, bickering with the Imperial legionaries who were there as punishment. It was the only time Volanaro's spirit failed him, and he spent his days in the lower levels arguing with a gloomy conjurer, his hair bound up in an Erabenimsun topknot.

When Corprus broke out among the miners, the Imperials fled or butchered the infected, and my uncle took the opportunity to flee with as much Glass as he could carry. Telinturco lost track of him when a transaction with the Camonna Tong went bad. Apparently Volanaro found some way to sell the contraband, however, for the money got him as far away from the volcanic wastes as possible- Bruma's frost.

I like to think that the remaining years of his life were happy ones, and I have to believe that his existence was not colored by the final tragedy. I hope that this memory of him will not fall on death ears; I hope that it will help set the stage of hope for the Guild's revival. May my kin and my audience forgive my impropriety, and when they read the words of Volanaro's niece, may they light another candle in his name.

-Canarya of Lillandril