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Tiki, The Night Dancer, Azura's Coast, North (7)
To the Guildmaster, Rahar,
I should have titled this letter "just about everywhere
except Azura's Coast.' I have been heading to Azura's
shrine for days, but on the way have ended up going
mostly in other directions, and never arrived anywhere
close.
I had thought to leave from the Telvanni town of Sadrith Mora,
head towards the Ashlander camp of Erabenimsun to take care
of a little Tong business, the move south along the coast.
But while executing a writ, I found some weathered pages from
a book, making a trail. Following the trail, I found an
escaped slave wanding lost in the middle of the Ashlands.
Freeing slaves is a cornerstone to building a land where
everyone can grow in their own way. So I decided to guide
him back to Ebonheart, by way of a seacoast town I had
heard of, Molag Mar. We spent days in a raging ashstorm,
wandering.
I had thought the rainstorms of the Bitter Coast were awesome.
Especially at night. When the lightning flashes, and the
thunder booms, and you see little but the blue reflections
of mushrooms off your bound daedric dagger as you fight.
But the ashstorms are....more awesome. Not more glorious.
But more awesome. Even in midday, the blowing red dust is
so thick that you cannot see the edge of the road--or the
few signs at the edge of the road that mark the way for
strangers. And at night, you cannot see your own feet.
When I finally got the Black Marsh to Ebonheart, I Recalled
back to follow the scattered pages. Sigh, it was more
witches ensnaring males for their power. Then I took a
different turn south than I'd taken with the slave, covering
steeper ground. And I found myself at a Dwemer ruin, where
some mages were investigating Dwemer artifacts. Now, the
reason I bother to mention this ruin--where I have not
mentioned others--is that in this ruin I found a book
written in both elf and dwemer. I took the book to one of
the spymaster's eyes who had a bent for Dwemer things. And
he told me he could use the book to translate Dwemer books.
My eyes opened wide with surprise, I am sure, as I realized
that there was an account of what happened at Red Mountain that
I have not yet read. The Dwemer, too, were there. Anyway,
I put the book in my library, Recalled back to the Dwemer ruins,
and once again tried to go south.
Somehow, I found myself back at the Ashlander camp. So I
headed back down the coast. Which is where another very
strange thing happened. I found a monastery where everyone
was most friendly. And where someone gave me two books that
I have been searching for, books on Nevevar. Not temple books,
either, these books on Nerevar. There was indeed dissention
on Red Mountain. And I am pretty certain that the Almsivi
murdered Nevevar so they could use something there to turn
themselves into gods.
By this, I do not mean just something to make them
powerful. But something that changed the peoplel around them
so that those people worshipped the Almsivi as if they were
gods. And with the change of belief, came other changes. The
people's skins and eyes and who knows what else changed, and they
ceased to be chimeri and became dumner.
If I read the tales right, such a change has happened many times.
Azura changed the altemeri, and they became the chimeri. Malac
changed something--maybe aedra--into the Orcs. Lorkhan/Shor changed
something into Nors. There is a power here that can change not
just the weilder, but everyone around them! I am certain of it.
And I am also certain that I find changing a whole people so that
they believe you are a god is evil. The Almsivi--at least Sotha
Sil--committed this racial genocide to become gods.
The webs spin wild and strong, from many sources, and they are
meeting again near the Red Mountain--a place where they have
met before. Someone must be the balancer. The Almsivi are
not the only weavers, for the threads reach back past Azura
to who knows how many changes by how many changer-gods.
They say you do not die in dreams. But I die in dreams, almost
every night. I am always in the dark--as in Oblivion or in the
night sky--and usually on a narrow, dimly lit bridge that falls
away forever on either side. Threads spin wildly about me. Sometimes
a large one whips through me and slices me in two. Sometimes
threads whip into me and knock me off the bridge. sometimes I grab
a thread and it pulls me high and away until I am flung off into
forever. But last night, I caught two threads, hard as steel and
so big around my fingers could not touch my thumbs as I grasped
them. Last night, somehow, I held onto the threads, and using
them both--one against the other--kept my footing on the bridge.
Last night, I did not die in my dreams.
Tiki, The Night Dancer
The Hidden Hand that Balances
Godkiller
Tiki, The Night Dancer, Azura's Coast, North (7)
To the Guildmaster, Rahar,
I should have titled this letter "just about everywhere
except Azura's Coast.' I have been heading to Azura's
shrine for days, but on the way have ended up going
mostly in other directions, and never arrived anywhere
close.
I had thought to leave from the Telvanni town of Sadrith Mora,
head towards the Ashlander camp of Erabenimsun to take care
of a little Tong business, the move south along the coast.
But while executing a writ, I found some weathered pages from
a book, making a trail. Following the trail, I found an
escaped slave wanding lost in the middle of the Ashlands.
Freeing slaves is a cornerstone to building a land where
everyone can grow in their own way. So I decided to guide
him back to Ebonheart, by way of a seacoast town I had
heard of, Molag Mar. We spent days in a raging ashstorm,
wandering.
I had thought the rainstorms of the Bitter Coast were awesome.
Especially at night. When the lightning flashes, and the
thunder booms, and you see little but the blue reflections
of mushrooms off your bound daedric dagger as you fight.
But the ashstorms are....more awesome. Not more glorious.
But more awesome. Even in midday, the blowing red dust is
so thick that you cannot see the edge of the road--or the
few signs at the edge of the road that mark the way for
strangers. And at night, you cannot see your own feet.
When I finally got the Black Marsh to Ebonheart, I Recalled
back to follow the scattered pages. Sigh, it was more
witches ensnaring males for their power. Then I took a
different turn south than I'd taken with the slave, covering
steeper ground. And I found myself at a Dwemer ruin, where
some mages were investigating Dwemer artifacts. Now, the
reason I bother to mention this ruin--where I have not
mentioned others--is that in this ruin I found a book
written in both elf and dwemer. I took the book to one of
the spymaster's eyes who had a bent for Dwemer things. And
he told me he could use the book to translate Dwemer books.
My eyes opened wide with surprise, I am sure, as I realized
that there was an account of what happened at Red Mountain that
I have not yet read. The Dwemer, too, were there. Anyway,
I put the book in my library, Recalled back to the Dwemer ruins,
and once again tried to go south.
Somehow, I found myself back at the Ashlander camp. So I
headed back down the coast. Which is where another very
strange thing happened. I found a monastery where everyone
was most friendly. And where someone gave me two books that
I have been searching for, books on Nevevar. Not temple books,
either, these books on Nerevar. There was indeed dissention
on Red Mountain. And I am pretty certain that the Almsivi
murdered Nevevar so they could use something there to turn
themselves into gods.
By this, I do not mean just something to make them
powerful. But something that changed the peoplel around them
so that those people worshipped the Almsivi as if they were
gods. And with the change of belief, came other changes. The
people's skins and eyes and who knows what else changed, and they
ceased to be chimeri and became dumner.
If I read the tales right, such a change has happened many times.
Azura changed the altemeri, and they became the chimeri. Malac
changed something--maybe aedra--into the Orcs. Lorkhan/Shor changed
something into Nors. There is a power here that can change not
just the weilder, but everyone around them! I am certain of it.
And I am also certain that I find changing a whole people so that
they believe you are a god is evil. The Almsivi--at least Sotha
Sil--committed this racial genocide to become gods.
The webs spin wild and strong, from many sources, and they are
meeting again near the Red Mountain--a place where they have
met before. Someone must be the balancer. The Almsivi are
not the only weavers, for the threads reach back past Azura
to who knows how many changes by how many changer-gods.
They say you do not die in dreams. But I die in dreams, almost
every night. I am always in the dark--as in Oblivion or in the
night sky--and usually on a narrow, dimly lit bridge that falls
away forever on either side. Threads spin wildly about me. Sometimes
a large one whips through me and slices me in two. Sometimes
threads whip into me and knock me off the bridge. sometimes I grab
a thread and it pulls me high and away until I am flung off into
forever. But last night, I caught two threads, hard as steel and
so big around my fingers could not touch my thumbs as I grasped
them. Last night, somehow, I held onto the threads, and using
them both--one against the other--kept my footing on the bridge.
Last night, I did not die in my dreams.
Tiki, The Night Dancer
The Hidden Hand that Balances
Godkiller
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