Books of Skyrim

by Bethesda Softworks

  Great Welkynd Stones are exceptionally large pieces of enchanted meteoric glass. Scholars believe that at the heart of each ancient Ayleid city, a Great Welkynd Stone was the source of the settlement's magical enchantments. It may be that these great stones were linked to the lesser stones, restoring and maintaining their power. In any case, research on these Great Welkynd Stones is impossible, since all the known Ayleid ruins have been looted of their great stones, and no examples of these great stones are known to survive.

  Another rare enchanted item found in Ayleid ruins is called a Varla Stone [Aldmeris - "star stone"]. Varla Stones are remarkably powerful, enabling untrained users to restore magical energy to any number of enchanted items. Because of their great value and utility, these items are also extremely rare, but since they are small and easily concealed, diligent explorers may still occasionally come across them in any Ayelid ruin.

  Ayleid Wells. Welkynd Stones. Varla Stones. Consider, then, these marvels of magical enchantment. Are we then to conclude that the Ayleids were a superior race and culture? Did they so exceed us in art and craft that they mock the feeble powers of Third Era Wizards?

  Never! The Ayleids were powerful, yes, and cunning, but they were neither good nor wise, and so they were struck down. Their works have passed from Nirn, save these rare and sparkling treasures. Their ancient cities are dark and empty, save for the grim revenants and restless spirits condemned forever to walk the halls, keeping their melancholy vigils over bones and dust.

  Mannimarco: King of Worms

  By Horicles

  O sacred isle Artaeum, where rosy light infuses air,

  O'er towers and through flowers, gentle breezes flow,

  Softly sloping green-kissed cliffs to crashing foam below,

  Always springtide afternoon housed within its border,

  This mystic, mist-protected home of the Psijic Order:

  Those counselors of kings, cautious, wise, and fair.

  Ten score years and thirty since the mighty Remans fell,

  Two brilliant students studied within the Psijics' fold.

  One's heart was light and warm, the other dark and cold.

  The madder latter, Mannimarco, whirled in a deathly dance,

  His soul in bones and worms, the way of the necromance.

  Entrapping and enslaving souls, he cast a wicked spell.

  The former, Galerion had magic bold and bright as day.

  He confronted Mannimarco beneath gray Ceporah Tower,

  Saying, 'Your wicked mysticism is no way to wield your power,

  Bringing horror to the spirit world, your studies must cease.'

  Mannimarco scoffed, hating well the ways of life and peace,

  And returned to his dark artistry; his paints, death and decay.

  O sacred isle Artaeum, how slow to perceive the threat,

  When the ghastly truth revealed, how weak the punishment.

  The ghoulish Mannimarco from the isle of the wise was sent

  To the mainland Dawn's Beauty, more death and souls to reap.

  'You have found a wolf, and sent the beast to flocks of sheep,'

  Galerion told his Masters, 'A terror on Tamriel has set.'

  'Speak no more of him,' the sage Cloaks of Gray did say.

  'Twas not the first time Galerion thought his Masters callous,

  Unconcerned for men and mer, aloof in their island palace.

  'Twas not the first time Galerion thought 'twas time to build

  A new Order to bring true magic to all, a mighty Mages Guild.

  But 'twas the time he left, at last, fair Artaeum's azure bay.

  O, but sung we have of Vanus Galerion many times before,

  How cast he off the Psijics' chains, bringing magic to the land.

  Throughout the years, he saw the touch of Mannimarco's hand,

  Through Tamriel's deserts, forests, towns, mountains, and seas.

  The dark grip stretching out, growing like some dread disease

  By his dark Necromancers, collecting cursed artifacts of yore.

  They brought to him these tools, mad wizards and witches,

  And brought blood-tainted herbs and oils to his cave of sin,

  Sweet Akaviri poison, dust from saints, sheafs of human skin,

  Toadstools, roots, and much more cluttered his alchemical shelf,

  Like a spider in his web, he sucked all their power into himself,

  Mannimarco, Worm King, world's first of the undying liches.

  Corruption on corruption, 'til the rot sunk to his very core,

  Though he kept the name Mannimarco, his body and his mind

  Were but a living, moving corpse as he left humanity behind.

  The blood in his veins became instead a poison acid stew.

  His power and his life increased as his fell collection grew.

  Mightiest were these artifacts, long cursed since days of yore.

  They say Galerion left the Guild, calling it 'a morass,'

  But untruth is a powerful stream, polluting the river of time.

  Galerion beheld Mannimarco's rise through powers sublime,

  To his mages and Lamp Knights, 'Before my last breath,

  Face I must the tyranny of worms, and kill at last, undeath.'

  He led them north to cursed lands, to a mountain pass.

  O those who survived the battle say its like was never seen.

  Armored with magicka, armed with ensorcelled sword and axe,

  Galerion cried, echoing, 'Worm King, surrender your artifacts,

  And their power to me, and you shall live as befits the dead.'

  A hollow laugh answered, 'You die first,' Mannimarco said.

  The mage army then clashed with the unholy force obscene.

  Imagine waves of fire and frost, and the mountain shivers,

  Picture lightning arching forth, crackling in a dragon's sigh.

  Like leaves, the battlemages fly to rain down from the sky,

  At the Necromancers' call, corpses burst from earth to fight,

  To be shattered into nothingness with a flood of holy light.

  A maelstrom of energy unleashed, blood cascades in rivers.

  Like a thunderburst in blue skies or a lion's sudden roar,

  Like sharp razors tearing over delicate embroidered lace,

  So at a touch did Galerion shake the mountain to its base.

  The deathly horde fell fatally, but heeding their dying cries

  From the depths, the thing they called Worm King did rise.

  Nirn itself did scream in the Mages' and Necromancers' war

  His eyes burning dark fire, he opened his toothless maw,

  Vomiting darkness with each exhalation of his breath,

  All sucking in the fetid air felt the icy touch of death.

  In the skies above the mountain, darkness overcame pale,

  Then Mannimarco Worm King felt his dismal powers fail:

  The artifacts of death pulled from his putrid skeletal claw.

  A thousand good and evil perished then, history confirms.

  Among, alas, Vanus Galerion, he who showed the way,

  It seemed once that Mannimarco had truly died that day.

  Scattered seemed the Necromancers, wicked, ghastly fools,

  Back to the Mages Guild, victors kept the accursed tools,

  Of him, living still in undeath, Mannimarco, King of Worms.

  Children, listen as the shadows cross your sleeping hutch,

  And the village sleeps away, streets emptied of the crowds,

  And the moons do balefully glare through the nightly clouds,

  And the graveyard's people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep,

  Listen and you'll hear the whispered tap of the footsteps creep,

  Then pray you'll never feel the Worm King's awful touch.

  The Marksmanship Lesson

  By Alla Llaleth

  Kelmeril Brin had very definite opinions on how things should be done. Every slave he bought on the d
ay he bought him or her was soundly whipped in the courtyard for a period of one to three hours, depending on the individual degree of independent spirit. The whip he used -- or had his castellan use -- was of wet, knotted cloth, which regularly drew blood but very seldom maimed. To his great satisfaction and personal pride, few slaves ever needed to be whipped more than once. The memory of their first day, and the sight and sound of every subsequent slave's first day, stayed with them throughout their lives.

  When Brin bought his first Bosmer slave, he ordered his castellan to whip him only for an hour. The creature, which Brin had named Dob, seemed so much more delicate than the Argonians and Khajiiti and Orcs who made up the bulk of his slaves. Dob was clearly ill suited for work in the mines or in the fields, but he seemed presentable enough for domestic service.

  Dob did his work quietly and tolerably well. Brin occasionally had to correct him by refusing him food, but the punishment never needed to go further. Whenever guests arrived at the plantation, the sight of the exotic and elegant addition to Brin's household staff always impressed them.

  "Here, you," said Genethah Illoc, a minor but still noble member of the House Indoriil, as Dob presented her with a glass of wine. "Were you born a slave?"

  "No, sedura," Dob answered with a bow. "I used to rob nice ladies like you on the road."

  The company all laughed with delight, but Kelmeril Brin checked with the slave trader from whom he had bought Dob, and found that the story was true. The Bosmer had been a highwayman, though not one of any great notoriety, before he had been caught and sold into slavery as punishment. It seemed so extraordinary that a quiet fellow like Dob, who always looked respectfully downward at the sight of his superiors, could have been a criminal. Brin made up his mind to question him about it.

  "You must have used some sort of weapon when you were robbing all those pilgrims and merchants," Brin grinned as he watched Dob mop.

  "Yes, sedura," Dob replied humbly. "A bow."

  "Of course. You Bosmeri are supposed to be very handy with those," Brin thought a moment and then asked: "A bit of a marksman, were you?"

  Dob nodded humbly.

  "You will tutor my son Wodilic in archery," the master said after another moment's pause. Wodilic was twelve years of age and had been rather sadly spoiled by his mother, Brin's late wife. The boy was useless at swordplay, fearful of being cut. He embarrassed his father's pride, but the personality defect seemed ideally suited to the bow.

  Brin had his castellan purchase a finely wrought bow, several quivers of arrows, and ordered targets to be set up in the wildflower field next to the plantation house. In a few days time, the lessons began.

  For the first few days, the master watched Wodilic and Dob to be certain that the slave knew how to teach. He was pleased to see the boy learn the grips and the different stances. Business concerns, however, had to take precedence. Brin only had time to see to it that the lessons were continuing, but not how well they were progressing.

  It was a month's time before the issue was reexamined. Brin and his castellan were reviewing the plantation's earnings and expenses, and they had come to the area of miscellaneous household costs.

  "You might also check to see how many targets in the field need to be repaired."

  "I have already anticipated that, sedura," said the castellan. "They are in pristine condition."

  "How is that possible?" Brin shook his head. "I've seen targets fall apart after only a few good shots. There shouldn't be anything left after a month's worth of lessons."

  "There are no holes of any kind in the targets, sedura. See for yourself."

  As it happened at that hour, the marksmanship lesson was underway. Brin walked across the field, watching Dob guide Wodilic's arm as the boy took aim at the sky. The arrow flew up into an arc, over the top of the target, burying itself in the ground. Brin examined the target and found it to be, as his castellan said, in pristine condition. No arrow had touched it.

  "Master Wodilic, you must pull your right arm down further," Dob was saying. "And the follow-through is essential if you expect your arrow to gain any height."

  "Height?" Brin snarled. "What about accuracy? Unless he's been secretly racking up a high kill ratio on birds, you haven't taught my son a thing about marksmanship."

  Dob bowed humbly. "Sedura, first Master Wodilic must become comfortable with the weapon before he need worry about accuracy. In Valenwood, we learn by watching the bolt arc at different levels, in different winds, before we try very hard to strike targets."

  Brin's face turned purple with fury: "I'm not a fool! I should have known not to trust a slave with my boy's education!"

  The master grabbed Dob and shoved him toward the plantation house. Dob, head down, began the humble, shuffling walk he had learned in his domestic duties. Wodilic, tears streaming down his face, tried to follow.

  "You stay and practice!" roared his father. "Try aiming at the target itself, not at the sky! You are not coming back into the house until there is one hole in that damned bullseye!"

  The boy tearfully returned to practice, while Brin brought Dob into the courtyard and called for his whip. Dob suddenly broke away and scrambled to hide between some barrels in the center of the yard.

  "Take your punishment, slave! I should have never shown you mercy the day I bought you!" Brin bellowed, bringing the whip down on Dob's exposed back again and again. "I have to toughen you up! There'll be no more soft jobs as tutor and valet in your future!"

  Wodilic's plaintive yell drifted in from the meadow: "I can't! Father, I can't hit it!"

  "Master Wodilic!" Dob cried back as loud as he could, his voice shaking with pain. "Keep your left arm straight and aim slightly east! The wind has changed!"

  "Stop confusing my son!" Brin screamed. "You'll be in the saltrice fields if I don't beat you to death first! Like you deserve!"

  "Dob!" the boy wailed, far away. "I still can't hit it!"

  "Master Wodilic! Take four steps back, aim east, and don't be afraid of the height!" Dob tore away from the barrels, hiding under a cart near the wall. Brin pursued him, raining down blows.

  The boy's arrow sailed high over the target and kept climbing, reaching a pinnacle at the edge of the plantation house before coming down in a magnificent arc. Brin tasted the blood before he realized he'd been hit. Gingerly, he raised his hands and felt the arrowhead protruding out of the back of his neck. He looked at Dob crouching under the wagon, and thought he saw a thin smile cross the slave's lips. Just for an instant before he died, Brin saw the face of the rogue highwayman on Dob.

  "Bullseye, Master Wodilic!" Dob crowed.

  The Mirror

  by Berdier Wreans

  The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green turban approached the army and gave his chieftain's terms for peace to the commander. He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Ain-Kolur.

  So the chief Iymbez had decreed his open defiance and his horsemen were at war once again. Many times the tribe had moved into territory that was not theirs to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had come to this, at long last. It was just as well with Mindothrax. His allies may win or lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally been on the losing side of a war, never once in all his thirty-four years had he lost in hand-to-hand combat.

  The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when they met a clamor rang out, echoing into the hills. Blood, the first liquor the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low battle cries of the rival tribes met in harmony as the armies dug into one another's flesh. Mindothrax was in the element he loved.

  After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.

  The camp was positioned in a high-walled garden of an old burial ground, adorned by springtide blossoms. As Mindothrax toured
the grounds, he was reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors and was found days later, her throat slit open by her own hand.

  The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half hour's time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by instinct. As the medics looked to the wounded, someone remarked, with a measure of admiration and astonishment, "Look at Mindothrax. His hair isn't even out of place."

  "He is a mighty swordsman," said the attending physician.

  "The sword is a greatly overvalued article," said Mindothrax, nevertheless pleased with the attention. "Warriors pay too much attention to striking and not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into battle is to defend yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises."

  "I prefer a more straight-forward approach," smiled one of the wounded. "It is the way of the horse men."

  "If it is the way of the Bjoulsae tribes to fail, then I renounce my heritage," said Mindothrax, making a quick sign to the spirits that he was being expressive not blasphemous. "Remember what the great blademaster Gaiden Shinji said, 'The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.' I have been in thirty-six battles, and I haven't a scar to show for them. That is because I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order."