Centuries of experimentation has demonstrated that there are black souls and white souls. Only the rare black soul gem can hold the soul of a higher creature, such as a man or an elf. While the souls of lesser creatures can be captured by gems of many colors, they are all categorized as white soul gems. Hence the division of souls into black and white.
White souls are far safer than black souls, although not as powerful. Beginning students of Mysticism should not dabble in black souls or black soul gems. Even if one were to ignore the guild strictures against the necromatic arts used to power black soul gems, it is dangerous to the caster to handle them for long. If the gem is not precisely the size of the encased soul, small bits of the caster's soul may leak into the gem when it is touched.
Sovngarde: A Reexamination
by Bereditte Jastal
Speculation regarding Sovngarde, the Nordic Hall of Valor
Death. It is something we all face. Or do we?
Just ask the nearest Nord what he thinks of the end of life, and you'll likely be treated to a horrific story of blood, bone and viscera, of courageous deeds and heartbreaking sorrow. Carnage notwithstanding, there may be even more to death than the average Nord warrior realizes. New evidence suggests a life beyond the battlefield, where a valiant Nord may live forever, downing mead and engaging in contests of strength and skill. But in order to fully understand the possibility of a Nord's eternal life after death, one must first reexamine the legends surrounding that most wondrous of warrior's retreats - Sovngarde.
According to the ancient writings and oral traditions of the Nords, going back as far as the Late Merethic Era, there exists a place so magnificent, so honored, that the entrance lies hidden from view. Sovngarde, it is called, built by the god Shor to honor those Nords who have proven their mettle in war. Within this "Hall of Valor" time as we know it has no meaning. The concepts of life and death are left on the doorstep, and those within exist in a sort of self-contained euphoria, free of pain, suffering and the worst malady a Nord could suffer - boredom.
But just how well hidden the entrance to Sovngarde is has been a matter of much scholarly debate, and there are those who believe Shor's great hall is just a myth, for there are no actual accounts from Nords who have experienced the wonders of Sovngarde then returned to tell the tale. Not that this has stopped anyone from looking. Some Nords spend a lifetime searching for the mysterious hidden entrance to Sovngarde. Most return home sad and broken, their hearts heavy with failure. They'll never know the pleasure of a mead flagon that never empties, or a wrestling tournament without end.
What, some may ask, does the entrance to Sovngarde have to do with death? Everything, according to a series of ancient parchments recently discovered in the attic of a deceased Nord's home in Cyrodiil. What at first seemed to be a series of love letters was later found to be a correspondence between one Felga Four-Fingers, a medium of some note, and the ghost of a Nord warrior named Rolf the Large.
According to the parchments, Rolf had spent his entire life searching for the entrance to Sovngarde, without success. He was returning home to his village of Skyrim when he was waylaid by a band of giants. Rolf fought bravely, but was quickly killed, and the giants proceeded to play catch with his head. Amazingly, all of this was seen by Rolf in ghostly form as he drifted away from the scene, soaring upwards into the heavens, where he finally arrived... in the magnificent hall of Sovngarde!
Rolf could not believe his good fortune, and his foolishness for not having realized the truth so many years before. For death was the entrance to Sovngarde. So he was told by Shor himself, who greeted Rolf the Large as a brother, and personally handed him a leg of roast mutton and the hand of a comely wench. Sovngarde, Shor told him, can be entered by any Nord who dies valiantly in honorable combat.
It is time for Nords to learn the truth. Eternal life can be theirs, without the need to spend an entire mortal life in vain pursuit of something completely unattainable. In the end, all valiant Nords can enter Sovngarde. Dismemberment, decapitation or evisceration seems a small price to pay for the chance to spend an eternity in Shor's wondrous hall.
Spirit of Nirn
Lorkhan is the Spirit of Nirn, the god of all mortals. This does not mean all mortals necessarily like him or even know him. Most elves hate him, thinking creation as that act which sundered them from the spirit realm. Most Humans revere him, or aspects of him, as the herald of existence. The creation of the Mortal Plane, the Mundus, Nirn, is a source of mental anguish to all living things; all souls know deep down they came originally from somewhere else, and that Nirn is a cruel and crucial step to what comes next. What is this next? Some wish to return to the original state, the spirit realm, and that Lorkhan is the Demon that hinders their way; to them Nirn is a prison, an illusion to escape. Others think that Lorkhan created the world as the testing ground for transcendence; to them the spirit realm was already a prison, that true escape is now finally possible.
Spirit of the Daedra
HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US
DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR
We do not die. We do not fear death.
Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness. But the Animus returns.
But we are not all brave.
We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.
The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.
The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.
The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.
THE CLAN BOND
We are not born; we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.
The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.
In the clan-form is strength and purpose.
THE OATH BOND
We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.
Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.
Dremora have long served Dagon but not always so.
Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.
When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.
HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN
Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.
How then do you imagine we view you humans?
You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.
The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.
Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.
As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.
But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.
Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore. Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.
MAN'S MYSTERY
Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?
Surfeit of Thieves
by Aniis Noru
"This looks interesting," said Indyk, his eyes narrowing to observe the black caravan making its way to the spires of the secluded castle. A gaudy, alien coat of arms marked each carriage, the lacquer glistening in the light of the moons. "Who do you suppose they are?"
"They're obviously well-off," smiled his partner, Heriah. "Perhaps some new Imperial Cult dedicated to the acquisition of wealth?"
"Go into town and find out what you can about the castle," said Indyk. "I'll see if I can learn anything about who these strangers are. We meet on this hill tomorrow night."
Heriah had two great skills: picking locks and picking information. By dusk of the follo
wing day, she had returned to the hill. Indyk joined her an hour later.
"The place is called Ald Olyra," she explained. "It dates back to the second era when a collection of nobles built it to protect themselves during one of the epidemics. They didn't want any of the diseased masses to get into their midst and spread the plague, so they built up quite a sophisticated security system for the time. Of course, it's mostly fallen into ruin, but I have a good idea about what kind of locks and traps might still be operational. What did you find out?"
"I wasn't nearly so successful," frowned Indyk. "No one seemed to have any idea about the group, even that that there were here. I was about to give up, but at the charterhouse, I met a monk who said that his masters were a hermetic group called the Order of St. Eadnua. I talked to him for some time, this fellow name of Parathion, and it seems they're having some sort of ritual feast tonight."
"Are they wealthy?" asked Heriah impatiently.
"Embarrassingly so according to the fellow. But they're only at the castle for tonight."
"I have my picks on me," winked Heriah. "Opportunity has smiled on us."
She drew a diagram of the castle in the dirt: the main hall and kitchen were near the front gate, and the stables and secured armory were in the back. The thieves had a system that never failed. Heriah would find a way into the castle and collect as much loot as possible, while Indyk provided the distraction. He waited until his partner had scaled the wall before rapping on the gate. Perhaps this time he would be a bard, or a lost adventurer. The details were most fun to improvise.
Heriah heard Indyk talking to the woman who came to the gate, but she was too far away to hear the words exchanged. He was evidently successful: a moment later, she heard the door shut. The man had charm, she would give him that.
Only a few of the traps and locks to the armory had been set. Undoubtedly, many of the keys had been lost in time. Whatever servants had been in charge of securing the Order's treasures had brought a few new locks to affix. It took extra time to maneuver the intricate hasps and bolts of the new traps before proceeding to the old but still working systems, but Heriah found her heart beating with anticipation. Whatever lay beyond the door, she thought, must be of sufficient value to merit such protection.
When at last the door swung quietly open, the thief found her avaricious dreams paled to reality. A mountain of golden treasure, ancient relics glimmering with untapped magicka, weaponry of matchless quality, gemstones the size of her fist, row after row of strange potions, and stacks of valuable documents and scrolls. She was so enthralled by the sight, she did not hear the man behind her approach.
"You must be Lady Tressed," said the voice and she jumped.
It was a monk in a black, hooded robe, intricately woven with silver and gold threads. For a moment, she could not speak. This was the sort of encounter that Indyk loved, but she could think to do nothing but nod her head with what she hoped looked like certainty.
"I'm afraid I'm a little lost," she stammered.
"I can see that," the man laughed. "That's the armory. I'll show you the way to the dining hall. We were afraid you weren't going to arrive. The feast is nearly over."
Heriah followed the monk across the courtyard, to the double doors leading to the dining hall. A robe identical to the one he was wearing hung on a hook outside, and he handed it to her with a knowing smile. She slipped it on. She mimicked him as she lowered the hood over her head and entered the hall.
Torches illuminated the figures within around the large table. Each wore the uniform black robe that covered all features, and from the look of things, the feast was over. Empty plates, platters, and glasses filled every inch of the wood with only the faintest spots and dribbles of the food remaining. It was a breaking of a fast it seemed. For a moment, Heriah stopped to think about poor, lost Lady Tressed who had missed her opportunity for gluttony.
The only unusual item on the table was its centerpiece: a huge golden hourglass which was on its last minute's worth of sand.
Though each person looked alike, some were sleeping, some were chatting merrily to one another, and one was playing a lute. Indyk's lute, she noticed, and then noticed Indyk's ring on the man's finger. Heriah was suddenly grateful for the anonymity of the hood. Perhaps Indyk would not realize that it was she, and that she had blundered.
"Tressed," said the young man to the assembled, who turned as one to her and burst into applause.
The conscious members of the Order arose to kiss her hand, and introduce themselves.
"Nirdla."
"Suelec."
"Kyler."
The names got stranger.
"Toniop."
"Htillyts."
"Noihtarap."
She could not help laughing: "I understand. It's all backwards. Your real names are Aldrin, Celeus, Relyk, Poinot, Styllith, Parathion."
"Of course," said the young man. "Won't you have a seat?"
"Sey," giggled Heriah, getting into the spirit of the masque and taking an empty chair. "I suppose that when the hourglass runs out, the backwards names go back to normal?"
"That's correct, Tressed," said the woman next to her. "It's just one of our Order's little amusements. This castle seemed like the appropriately ironic venue for our feast, devised as it was to shun the plague victims who were, in their way, a walking dead."
Heriah felt herself light-headed from the odor of the torches, and bumped into the sleeping man next to her. He fell face forward onto the table.
"Poor Esruoc Tsrif," said a neighboring man, helping to prop the body up. "He's given us so much."
Heriah stumbled to her feet and began walking uncertainly for the front gate.
"Where are you going, Tressed?" asked one of the figures, his voice taking on an unpleasant mocking quality.
"My name isn't Tressed," she mumbled, gripping Indyk's arm. "I'm sorry, partner. We need to go."
The last crumb of sand fell in the hour glass as the man pulled back his hood. It was not Indyk. It was not even human, but a stretched grotesquerie of a man with hungry eyes and a wide mouth filled with tusk-like fangs.
Heriah fell back into the chair of the figure they called Esruoc Tsrif. His hood fell open, revealing the pallid, bloodless face of Indyk. As she began to scream, they fell on her.
In her last living moment, Heriah finally spelled "Tressed" backwards.
Surviving A Horker Attack
by Heidmir Starkad
On my travels through Skyrim I have run into many northern fisherman and hunters with intriguing tales of their encounters with horkers. The stories are varied, ranging from deadly attacks to a girl who claims she was saved from drowning.
I have taken it upon myself to compile some of these for those who journey along the frozen coast.
Our first tale is of a hunter named Gromm. He claims that one night while turning in after a long day of trapping, he saw a great shadow cast on the wall of his tent. Did he get the horker or did the horker get him?
Gromm was a great trapper working in the frozen tundra collecting fox pelts but as he was about to fall asleep one night, he heard some noises coming from outside of his tent.
His first instinct was to remain calm and see if the beast would pass, but after some threatening roars, Gromm slowly made for his axe. The creature detected his movement and began to thrash around using its great tusks to shred the hunter's tent and knocking the hunter off balance.
As he stumbled Gromm was able to use a frost spell scroll but the ice magic seemed to have diminished effect on the horker. That tidbit may be of use to someone out there.
After recovering from the stagger, Gromm was able to steady himself and with a few great cleaves killed the horker. Though his camp was in ruins, Gromm was lucky to walk away with only a slight goring to his left thigh.
Gromm's parting comment was that if you do encounter a horker, remain calm and remember that if you survive, the meat and tusks will fetch a nice bit of gold at market.
The Tale of Dro'Zira
Transcription and Commentary
by Sonia Vette
The following is a tale overheard, as told by a Khajiit father to his cub, while making camp with one of their caravans. I have attempted to transcribe it as he told it, for the Khajiit do not often speak of their history to outsiders. In truth I do not believe he would have spoken at all, but for the vast helping of Moonsugar he had consumed that night.
Books of Skyrim Page 89