Category: Skill Books

Purloined Shadows

Chapter One

The candle was lit, and the thief was standing there, blinking, caught. She was young, rather dirty, wearing ragged black clothes that were surely quite smart and expensive weeks ago when she had stolen them from one of the city’s best tailors. The look of surprise slipped from her face, and she took on a blank expression as she put the gold back on the table.

“What are you doing here?” the man with the candle asked, stepping from the shadows.

“That’s a stupid question,” the girl replied, frowning. “I’m obviously robbing you.”

“Since nothing I have is missing,” the man smiled, glancing at the gold on the table. “I would have to say that you’re not robbing me. Attempting to rob me perhaps. The question I have is, why? You know who I am, I assume. You didn’t just come in through an unlocked door.”

“I’ve stolen from everyone else. I’ve taken soul gems from the Mages Guild, I’ve robbed the treasury of the most secure fortress, I cheated the Archbishop of Julianos … I even pickpocketed the Emperor Pelagius at his coronation. I thought it was your turn.”

“I’m flattered,” the man nodded. “Now that your ambition has been thwarted, what will you do? Flee? Perhaps retire?”

“Teach me,” the girl replied, a little grin finding its way unconsciously on her face. “I picked all your locks, I slipped past all your wards … You designed them, you know how difficult that was for someone without training. I didn’t come here for six gold pieces. I came here to prove myself. Make me your student.”

The Master of Stealth looked at the little girl burglar. “Your skill is not in need of training. Your planning is adequate, but I can help you with that. What is without hope is your ambition. You are past stealing for your livelihood, now you steal for the pleasure of it, for the challenge. That’s a personality trait which is incurable, and will lead you to an early grave.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to steal that which can’t be stolen?” the girl asked. “Something that would make your name known forever?”

The Master did not answer: he only frowned.

“Clearly I was fooled by your reputation,” she shrugged, and opened a window. “I thought you might want a willing accomplice on some great act of thievery which would go down in history. Like you said, my skill at planning is only adequate. I didn’t have in mind an escape route, but this will have to do.”

The burglar slipped down the sheer wall, dashed across the shadowy courtyard, and within a few minutes was back at her room in the run-down tavern. The Master was waiting for her there, in the dark.

“I didn’t see you go past me,” she gasped.

“You turned on the street when you heard the owl call,” he replied. “The most important tool in the thieves’ repertoire is distraction, either planned or improvised. I suppose your lessons have begun.”

“And what is the final test?” the girl smiled.

When he told her, she could only stare. She had, it seemed, not misunderstood his reputation for daring. Not at all.

Chapter Two

For the week leading up to the Eighth of Hearthfire, the skies above Rindale were dark and alive as clouds of crows blotted out the sun. Their guttural squawks and groans deafened all. The peasants wisely bolted their doors and windows, praying to survival that most unholy of days.

On the night of the summoning, the birds fell silent, their black unblinking eyes following the witches’ march into the glen. There were no moons to light the way, only the leader’s single torch in the gloom. Their white robes appeared as indistinct shapes, like the faintest of ghosts.

A single tall tree stood in the middle of the clearing, every branch thick with crows, watching the procession without moving. The lead witch placed the torch at the base of the tree, and her seventeen followers formed a circle and began their slow, strange, wailing chant.

As they sang, the glow of the torch began to change. It did not diminish at all, but its color became more and more grey, so it seemed a pulsating wave of ash had fallen on the witches. Then it grew darker still, so that for a moment, though the fire yet burned, it was darkest night in the forest. The penumbra continued until the torch was burning with a color without a name, emptiness beyond mere blackness. It cast a glow, but it was an unnatural scintillation falling on the witches. Their robes of white became black. The Dunmer among them had eyes of green, and ivory white flesh. The Nords appeared black as coal. The crows watching overhead were as pure white as the witches’ cloaks.

The Daedra Princess Nocturnal stepped out of the pit of uncolor.

She stood in the center of the circle, the tree of pallid crows her throne, aloof, as the witches continued their chanting, dropping their robes to prostrate themselves naked before their great mistress. Wrapping her night cloak around her, she smiled at their song. It spoke of her mystery, of veiled beauty, of eternal shadows and a divine future when the sun burns no more.

Nocturnal let her cloak slide from her shoulders and was naked. Her witches did not raise their head from the ground, but continued their hymn of darkness.

“Now,” said the girl to herself.

She had been up in the tree all day, dressed in a ridiculous suit of mock crows. It was uncomfortable, but when the witches had arrived, she forgot all her aches, and concentrated on being perfectly still, like the other crows in the tree. It had taken considerable planning and study between her and the Master of Stealth to find the glen, and to learn what to expect in the summoning of Nocturnal.

Gently, silently, the burglar eased herself down the branches of the tree, coming closer and closer to the Daedra Princess. She let herself break her concentration for just a moment, and wondered where the Master was. He had been confident in the plan. He said that when Nocturnal dropped her cloak, there would be a distraction, and it could be quickly taken in that instant provided the girl was in position at the precise right moment.

The girl climbed along the lowest of the branches, carefully pushing aside the crows that were, as the Master said, transfixed by the Princess in her naked beauty. The girl was now close enough, if she only reached out her arm, to touch Nocturnal’s back.

The song was rising to a crescendo, and the girl knew that the ceremony would soon be over. Nocturnal would clothe herself before the witches ended the chant, and the chance to take the cloak would be over. The girl gripped the tree branch tightly as her mind raced. Could it be that the Master was not here at all? Was this, was this conceivably the entire test? Was it only to show that it could be done, not to do it?

The girl was furious. She had done everything perfectly, but the so-called Master of Stealth had proven himself a coward. Perhaps he had taught her a little in the months that it took to plan this, but what was it worth? Only one thing made her smile. On that night when she had stolen into his stronghold, she had kept one single gold piece, and he had never suspected it. It was symbolic, as symbolic as stealing the cloak of Nocturnal in its way, proving that the Master Thief could be robbed.

The girl was so lost on her mind that she thought she imagined it for a moment when a man’s voice yelled out from the darkness, “Mistress!”

The next words she knew she didn’t imagine: “Mistress! A thief! Behind you!”

The witches raised their heads, and screamed, ruining the sanctity of the ceremony, as they charged forward. The crows awoke and burst from the tree in an explosion of feathers and toad-like cries. Nocturnal herself whirled around, affixing the girl with her black eyes.

“Who art thee who dares profane?” The Princess hissed, as the pitch shadows flew from her body enveloping the girl in their lethal chill.

In the last instant before she was swallowed alive by darkness, the girl looked to the ground and saw that the cloak was gone, and she answered, as she understood, “Oh, who am I? I’m the distraction.”

Proper Lock Design

I have encountered many thieves whose sole interest in locks is how to open them and thereby pilfer the protected contents of the room or chest. I have taken it upon myself to devise a system of locks that can defeat such villianous [sic] intent.

The materials used to create a lock are of utmost importance. Shoddy brass or copper will give way to a well placed kick, thereby rendering the lock itself useless. I recommend steel over iron when choosing a material. More robust materials tend to be prohibitively expensive and necessitate the door being made of similar metals. I have been chagrined to stumble across the shattered shell of a wooden chest, it’s [sic] dwarven lock intact and still locked.

Once these basics are settled, pay particular attention to the offset of the tumblers. A seven degree offset to the keyhole will allow a torque style key to work smoothly, while at the same time causing numerous headaches for the thief attempting to insert non-torque lockpicks.

In similar fashion, the springs of the tumblers should be made by different smiths. Each smith will unknowingly create a spring with different tension than his fellow smiths. This variance will also create difficulties for anyone attempting to pick the lock.

How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs

The year was 3E 399 and standing on a mountainside overlooking a vast tract of land between the lands of Menevia and Wayrest was a great and learned judge, an arbitrator and magistrate, impartial in his submission to the law. “You have a very strong claim to the land, my lad,” said the judge. “I won’t lie to you about that. But your competition has an equal claim. This is what makes my particular profession difficult at times.”

“You would call it my competition?” sneered Lord Bowyn, gesturing to the Orc. The creature, called Gortwog gro-Nagorm, looked up with baleful eyes.

“He has ample documentation to make a claim on the land,” the magistrate shrugged. “And the particular laws of our land do not discriminate between particular races. We had a Bosmer regency once, many generations ago.”

“But what if a pig or a slaughterfish turned up demanding the property? Would they have the same legal rights as I?”

“If they had the proper papers, I’m afraid so,” smiled the judge. “The law is very clear that if two claimants with equal titles to the property are set in deadlock, a duel must be held. Now, the rules are fairly archaic, but I’ve had opportunity to look them over, and I think they’re still valid. The Imperial council agrees.”

“What must we do?” asked the Orc, his voice low and harsh, unused to the tongue of the Cyrodiils.

“The first claimant, that’s you, Lord Gortwog, may choose the armor and weapon of the duelists. The second claimant, that’s you, Lord Bowyn, may choose the location. If you would prefer, either or both you may choose a champion or you may duel yourself.”

The Breton and the Orc looked at one another, evaluating. Finally, Gortwog spoke, “The armor will be Orcish and the weapons will be common steel long swords. No enchantments. No wizardry allowed.”

“The arena will be the central courtyard of my cousin Lord Berylth’s palace in Wayrest,” said Bowyn, looking Gortwog in the eye scornfully. “None of your kind will be allowed in to witness.”

So it was agreed. Gortwog declared that he would fight the duel himself, and Bowyn, who was a fairly young man and in better than average condition, felt that he could not keep his honor without competing himself as well. Still, upon arriving at his cousin’s palace a week before the duel was scheduled, he felt the need to practice. A suit of Orcish armor was purchased and for the first time in his life, Bowyn wore something of tremendous weight and limited facility.

Bowyn and Berylth sparred in the courtyard. In ten minutes times, Bowyn had to stop. He was red-faced and out of breath from trying to move in the armor: to add to his exasperation, he had not scored one blow on his cousin, and had dozens of feinted strikes scored on him.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Bowyn over dinner. “Even if I knew someone who could fight properly in that beastly steel, I couldn’t possibly send in a champion to battle Gortwog.”

Berylth commiserated. As the servants cleared the plates, Bowyn stood up in his seat and pointed at one of them: “You didn’t tell me you had an Orc in your household!”

“Sir?” whined the elderly specimen, turning to Lord Berylth, certain that he caused offense somehow.

“You mean Old Tunner?” laughed Berylith. “He’s been with my house for ages. Would you like him to give you training on how to move in Orcish armor?”

“Would you like me to?” asked Tunner obsequiously.

Unknown to Berylith but known to him now, his servant had once ridden with the legendary Cursed Legion of High Rock. He not only knew how to fight in Orcish armor himself, but he had acted as trainer to other Orcs before retiring into domestic service. Desperate, Bowyn immediately engaged him as his full-time trainer.

“Your [sic] try too hard, sir,” said the Orc on their first day in the arena. “It is easy to strain yourself in heavy mail. The joints are just so to let you to bend with only a little effort. If you fight against the joints, you won’t have any strength to fight your foe.”

Bowyn tried to follow Tunner’s instructions, but he quickly grew frustrated. And the more frustrated he got, the more intensity he put into his work, which tired him out even quicker. While he took a break to drink some water, Berylith spoke to his servant. If they were optimistic about Bowyn’s chances, their faces did not show it.

Tunner trained Bowyn hard the next two days, but her Ladyship Elysora’s birthday followed hard upon them, and Bowyn enjoyed the feast thoroughly. A liquor of poppies and goose fat, and cock tinsh with buttered hyssop for a first course; roasted pike, combwort, and balls of rabbit meat for a second; sliced fox tongues, ballom pudding with oyster gravy, battaglir weed and beans for the main course; collequiva ice and sugar fritters for dessert. As Bowyn was settling back afterwards, his eyes weary, he suddenly spied Gortwog and the judge entering the room.

“What are you doing here?” he cried. “The duel’s not for another two days!”

“Lord Gortwog asked that we move it to tonight,” said the judge. “You were training when my emisary [sic] arrived two days ago, but his lordship your cousin spoke for you, agreeing to the change of date.”

“But there’s no time to assemble my supporters,” complained Bowyn. “And I’ve just devoured a feast that would kill a lesser man. Cousin, how could you neglect to tell me?”

“I spoke to Tunner about it,” said Berylith, blushing, unused to deception. “We decided that you would be best served under these conditions.”

The battle in the arena was sparsely attended. Saturated with food, Bowyn found himself unable to move very quickly. To his surprise, the armor responded to his lethargy, rotating smoothly and elegantly to each stagger. The more he successfully maneuvered, the more he allowed his mind and not his body to control his defensive and offensive actions. For the first time in his life, Bowyn saw what it was to look through the helmet of an Orc.

Of course, he lost, and rather badly if scores had been tabulated. Gortwog was a master of such battle. But Bowyn fought on for more than three hours before the judge reluctantly called a winner.

“I will name the land Orsinium after the land of my fathers,” said the victor.

Bowyn’s first thought was that if he must lose to an Orc, it was best that the battle was largely unwatched by his friends and family. As he left the courtyard to go to the bed he had longed for earlier in the evening, he saw Gortwog speaking to Tunner. Though he did not understand the language, he could see that they knew each other. When the Breton was in bed, he had a servant bring the old Orc to him.

“Tunner,” he said kindly. “Speak frankly to me. You wanted Lord Gortwog to win.”

“That is true,” said Tunner. “But I did not fail you. You fought better than you would have fought two days hence, sir. I did not want Orsinium to be won by its king without a fight.”

Night Falls on Sentinel

No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft pad of the barmaid’s feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all. If anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman in a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise. Even suspicion. As it were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest it had no sign, blended into the shadows.

“Are you Jomic?”

The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and nodded. He returned to his drink. The young woman took the seat next to him.

“My name is Haballa,” she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it next to his mug.

“Sure it be,” snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. “Who d’you want dead?”

She did not turn away, but merely asked, “Is it safe to talk here?”

“No one cares about nobody else’s problems but their own here. You could take off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one’d even spit,” the man smiled. “So who d’you want dead?”

“No one, actually,” said Haballa. “The truth is, I only want someone … removed, for a while. Not harmed, you understand, and that’s why I need a professional. You come highly recommended.”

“Who you been talking to?” asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink.

“A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.”

“One of them friends don’t know what he’s talking about,” grumbled the man. “I don’t do that any more.”

Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them at the man’s elbow. He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold out and began counting. As he did, he asked, “Who d’you want removed?”

“Just a moment,” smiled Haballa, shaking her head. “Before we talk details, I want to know that you’re a professional, and you won’t harm this person very much. And that you’ll be discreet.”

“You want discreet?” the man paused in his counting. “Awright, I’ll tell you about an old job of mine. It’s been – by Arkay, I can hardly believe it – more ‘n twenty years, and no one but me’s alive who had anything to do with the job. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?”

“I was just a baby.”

“‘Course you was,” Jomic smiled. “Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an older brother Greklith what died, right? And then he’s got his older sister Aubki, what married that King fella in Daggerfall. But the truth’s that he had two elder brothers.”

“Really?” Haballa’s eyes glistened with interest.

“No lie,” he chuckled. “Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and Queen’s first born. Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his parents wasn’t too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two more princes who looked a lot more fit. That’s when me and my boys got hired on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or some such story.”

“I had no idea!” the young woman whispered.

“Of course you didn’t, that’s the point,” Jomic shook his head. “Discretion, like you said. We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and that was that. No fuss. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club.”

“That’s what I’m interested in,” said Haballa. “Technique. My… friend who needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. What is the club for?”

“It’s a tool. So many things what was better in the past ain’t around no more, just ’cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. Let me explain: there’re seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella’s body. Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four more respectively. Argonians and Sloads, almost as many at fifty-two and sixty-seven,” Jomic used his short stubby finger to point out each region on Haballa’s body. “Six in your forehead, two in your brow, two on your nose, seven in your throat, ten in your chest, nine in your abdomen, three on each arm, twelve in your groin, four in your favored leg, five in the other.”

“That’s sixty-three,” replied Haballa.

“No, it’s not,” growled Jomic.

“Yes, it is,” the young lady cried back, indignant that her mathematical skills were being question: “Six plus two plus two plus seven plus ten plus nine plus three for one arm and three for the other plus twelve plus four plus five. Sixty-three.”

“I must’ve left some out,” shrugged Jomic. “The important thing is that to become skilled with a staff or club, you gotta be a master of these pain centers. Done right, a light tap could kill, or knock out without so much as a bruise.”

“Fascinating,” smiled Haballa. “And no one ever found out?”

“Why would they? The boy’s parents, the King and Queen, they’re both dead now. The other children always thought their brother got carried off by the Underking. That’s what everyone thinks. And all my partners are dead.”

“Of natural causes?”

“Ain’t nothing natural that ever happens in the Bay, you know that. One fella got sucked up by one of them Selenu. Another died a that same plague that took the Queen and Prince Greklith. ‘Nother fella got hisself beat up to death by a burglar. You gotta keep low, outta sight, like me, if you wanna stay alive.” Jomic finished counting the coins. “You must want this fella out of the way bad. Who is it?”

“It’s better if I show you,” said Haballa, standing up. Without a look back, she strode out of the Nameless Tavern.

Jomic drained his beer and went out. The night was cool with an unrestrained wind surging off the water of the Iliac Bay, sending leaves flying like whirling shards. Haballa stepped out of the alleyway next to the tavern, and gestured to him. As he approached her, the breeze blew open her cape, revealing the armor beneath and the crest of the King of Sentinel.

The fat man stepped back to flee, but she was too fast. In a blur, he found himself in the alley on his back, the woman’s knee pressed firmly against his throat.

“The King has spent years since he took the throne looking for you and your collaborators, Jomic. His instructions to me what to do when I found you were not specific, but you’ve given me an idea.”

From her belt, Haballa removed a small sturdy cudgel.

A drunk stumbling out of the bar heard a whimpered moan accompanied by a soft whisper coming from the darkness of the alley: “Let’s keep better count this time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”

Mystery of Talara, Book IV

Gyna never saw the Emperor’s agent Lady Brisienna again, but she kept her promise. Proseccus, a nightblade in the service of the Empire, arrived at Lord Strale’s house in disguise. She was an apt pupil, and within days, he had taught what she needed to know.

“It is a simple charm, not the sort of spell that could turn a raging daedroth into a love-struck puppy,” said Proseccus. “If you do or say anything that would normally anger or offend your target, the power will weaken. It will alter temporarily his perception of you, as spells of the school of illusion do, but his feelings of respect and admiration for you must be supported by means of a charm of a less magickal nature.”

“I understand,” smiled Gyna, thanking her tutor for the two spells of illusion he had taught her. The time had come to use her new-found skill.

The Prostitutes Guildhouse of Camlorn was a great palace in an affluent northern quarter of the city. Prince Sylon could have found his way there blindfolded, or blind drunk as he often was. Tonight, however, he was only lightly inebriated and he resolved to drink no more. Tonight he was in the mood for pleasure. His kind of pleasure.

“Where is my favorite, Grigia?” he demanded of the Guildmistress upon entering.

“She is still healing from your appointment with her last week,” she smiled serenely. “Most of the other women are in with clients as well, but I saved a special treat for you. A new girl. One you will certainly enjoy.”

The Prince was guided to a sumptuously decorated suite of velvet and silk. As he entered, Gyna stepped from behind a screen and cast her spell quickly, with her mind open to belief as Proseccus had instructed. It was hard to tell if it worked at first. The Prince looked at her with a cruel smile and then, like sun breaking through clouds, the cruelty left. She could tell he was hers. He asked her her name.

“I am between names right now,” she teased. “I’ve never made love to a real prince before. I’ve never even been inside a palace. Is yours very … big?”

“It’s not mine yet,” he shrugged. “But someday I’ll be king.”

“It would be wonderful to live in such a place,” Gyna cooed. “A thousand years of history. Everything must be so old and beautiful. The paintings and books and statues and tapestries. Does your family hold onto all their old treasures?”

“Yes, hoarded away with a lot of boring old junk in the archive rooms in the vaults. Please, may I see you naked now?”

“First a little conversation, though you may feel free to disrobe whenever you like,” said Gyna. “I had heard there was an archive room, but it’s quite hidden away.”

“There’s a false wall behind the family crypt,” said the Prince, gripping her wrist and pulling her towards him for a kiss. Something in his eyes had changed.

“Your Highness, you’re hurting my arm,” Gyna cried.

“Enough talk, you bewitching whore,” he snarled. Holding back a sharp jab of fear, Gyna let her mind cool and perceptions whirl. As his angry mouth touched her lips, she cast the second spell she had learned her illusionist mentor.

The Prince felt his flesh turn to stone. He remained frozen, watching Gyna pull together her clothing and leave the room. The paralysis would only last for a few more minutes, but it was all the time she needed.

The Guildmistress had already left with all her girls, just as Gyna and Lord Strale had told her to. They would tell her when it was safe to return. She had not even accepted any gold for her part in the trap. She said it was enough that her girls would not be tortured anymore by that most perverse and cruel Prince.

“What a terrible boy,” thought Gyna as she raised the hood on her cloak and raced through the streets toward Lord Strale’s house. “It is good that he will never be king.”

The following morning, the King and Queen of Camlorn held their daily audience with various nobles and diplomats, a sparse gathering. The throne room was largely empty. It was a terribly dull way to begin the day. In between petitions, they yawned regally.

“What has happened to all the interesting people?” the Queen murmured. “Where’s our precious boy?”

“I’ve heard he was raging through the north quarter in search of some harlot who robbed him,” the King chuckled fondly. “What a fine lad.”

“And what of the Royal Battlemage?”

“I’ve sent him to take care of a delicate matter,” the King knit his brow. “But that was nearly a week ago, and I haven’t heard one word from him. It’s somewhat troubling.”

“Indeed it is, Lord Eryl should not be gone so long,” the Queen frowned. “What if a rogue sorcerer came and threatened us? Husband, don’t laugh at me, that is why all the royal houses of High Rock keep their mage retainers close to their side. To protect their court from evil enchantments, like the one that our poor Emperor suffered so recently.”

“At the hand of his own battlemage,” chuckled the King

“Lord Eryl would never betray you like that, and you well know it. He has been in your employ since you were Duke of Oloine. To even make that comparison between he and Jagar Tharn, really,” the Queen waved her hands dismissively. “It is that sort of lack of trust that is ruining kingdoms all over Tamriel. Now, Lord Strale tells me -”

“There’s another man that’s gone missing,” mused the King.

“The ambassador?” the Queen shook her head. “No, he’s here. He was desirous to visit the crypts and pay homage to your noble ancestors, so I directed him there. I can’t think what’s keeping him so long. He must be more pious than I thought.”

She was surprised to see the King rise up, alarmed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Before she had a chance to reply, the subject of their conversation was coming through the open door to the throne room. At on his arm was a beautiful fair-haired woman in a stately gown of scarlet and gold, worthy of the highest nobility. The queen followed her startled husband’s gaze, and was likewise amazed.

“I had heard he was taken with one of the harlots from the Flower Festival, not a lady,” she whispered. “Why, she looks remarkably like your daughter, the Lady Jyllia.”

“That she does,” the King gasped. “Or her cousin, the Princess Talara.”

The nobles in the room also whispered amongst themselves. Though few had been at court twenty years ago when the Princess had disappeared, presumed murdered like the rest of the royal family, there were still a few elder statesmen who remembered. It was not only on throne that the word “Talara” passed through the air like an enchantment.

“Lord Strale, will you introduce us to your lady?” the Queen asked with a polite smile.

“In a moment, your highness, but I’m afraid I must first discuss pressing matters,” Lord Strale replied with a bow. “Might I request a private audience?”

The King looked at the Imperial ambassador, trying to read into the man’s expression. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the assembled and had the doors shut behind them. No one remained in the audience room but the King, the Queen, the ambassador, a dozen royal guards, and the mysterious woman.

The ambassador pulled from his pocket a sheaf of old yellowed parchment. “Your Highness, when you ascended the throne after your brother and his family were murdered, anything that seemed important, deeds and wills, were of course kept with the clerks and ministers. His entire incidental, unimportant personal correspondence was sent to archive which is standard protocol. This letter was among them.”

“What is this all about, sir?” the King boomed. “What does it say?”

“Nothing about you, your majesty. In truth, at the time of your majesty’s ascension, no one reading it could have understood its significance. It was a letter to the Emperor the late king your brother was penning at the time of his assassination, concerning a thief who had once been a mage-priest at the Temple of Sethiete here in Camlorn. His name was Jagar Tharn.”

“Jagar Tharn?” the Queen laughed nervously. “Why, we were just talking about him.”

“Tharn had stolen many books of powerful and forgotten spells, and lore about such artifacts as the Staff of Chaos, where it was hidden and how it could be used. News travels slowly to westernmost High Rock, and by the time the King your brother had heard that the Emperor’s new battlemage was a man named Jagar Tharn, many years had passed. The king had been writing a letter to warn the Emperor of the treachery of his Imperial Battlemage, but it was never completed.” Lord Strale held up the letter. “It is dated on the day of his assassination in the year 385. Four years before Jagar Tharn betrayed his master, and began the ten years of tyranny of the Imperial Simulacrum.”

“This is all very interesting,” the King barked. “But what has it to do with me?”

“The late King’s assassination is now a matter of Imperial concern. And I have a confession from your Royal Battlemage Lord Eryl.”

The King’s face lost all color: “You miserable worm, no man may threaten me. Neither you, nor that whore, nor that letter will ever see the light of day again. Guards!”

The royal guards unsheathed their blades and pressed forward. As they did so, there was a sudden shimmering of light and the room was filled with Imperial nightblades, led by Proseccus. They had been there for hours, lurking invisibly in the shadows.

“In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, I arrest you,” said Strale.

The doors were opened, and the King and Queen were led out, heads bowed. Gyna told Proseccus where he would most likely find their son, Prince Sylon. The courtiers and nobles who had been in the audience chamber stared at the strange, solemn procession of their King and Queen to their own royal prison. No one said a word.

When at last a voice was heard, it startled all. The Lady Jyllia had arrived at court. “What is happening? Who dares to usurp the authority of the King and Queen?”

Lord Strale turned to Proseccus: “We would speak with the Lady Jyllia alone. You know what needs to be done.”

Proseccus nodded and had the doors to the throne room closed once again. The courtiers pressed against the wood, straining to hear everything. Though they could not say it, they wanted an explanation almost as much as her Ladyship did.

Mystery of Talara, Book III

Gnorbooth was leaving his favorite pub in Camlorn, The Breaking Branch, when he heard someone calling his name. His was not the sort of a name that could be mistaken for another. He turned and saw Lord Eryl, the Royal Battlemage from the palace, emerge from the darkness of the alley.

“Milord,” said Gnorbooth with a pleasant smile.

“I’m surprised to see you out this evening, Gnorbooth,” grinned Lord Eryl with a most unpleasant smile. “I have not seen you and your master very much since the millennial celebration, but I understand you’ve been very busy. What I’ve been wondering is what you’ve been busy doing.”

“Protecting the Imperial interests in Camlorn is busy work, milord. But I cannot imagine you would be interested in the minutiae of the ambassador’s appointments.”

“But I am,” said the battlemage. “Especially as the ambassador has begun acting most mysteriously, most undiplomatically lately. And I understand that he has taken one of the whores from the Flower Festival into his house. I believe her name is Gyna?”

Gnorbooth shrugged: “He’s in love, I would imagine, milord. It can make men act very strangely, as I’m sure you’ve heard before.”

“She is a most comely wench,” laughed Lord Eryl. “Have you noticed how much she resembles the late Princess Talara?”

“I have only been in Camlorn for fifteen years, milord. I never saw her late majesty.”

“Now I could understand it if he had taken to writing poetry, but what man in love spends his days in the kitchens of the palace, talking to old servants? That hardly sounds like molten passion to me, even based on my limited experience.” Lord Eryl rolled his eyes. “And what is this business he has now in – oh, what is the name of that village?”

“Umbington?” replied Gnorbooth, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Lord Eryl was too canny an actor to reveal it, but Gnorbooth knew at the pit of his stomach that the battlemage did not even know Lord Strale had left the capitol. He had to get away to let the ambassador know, but there was still a game to be carefully played. “He’s not leaving for there until tomorrow. I believe it’s just to put a stamp on some deed that needs the Imperial Seal.”

“Is that all? How tedious for the poor fellow. I suppose I’ll see him when he returns then,” Lord Eryl bowed. “Thank you for being so informative. Farewell.”

The moment the royal battlemage turned the corner, Gnorbooth leapt onto his horse. He had drunk one or two ales too many, but he knew he must find his way to Umbington before Lord Eryl’s agents did. He galloped east out of the capitol, hoping there were signs along the road.

Seated in a tavern that smelled of mildew and sour beer, Lord Strale marveled at how the Emperor’s agent Lady Brisienna always found the most public of places for her most private of conferences. It was harvest time in Umbington, and all of the field hands were drinking away their meager wages in the noisiest of fashions. He was dressed appropriately for the venue, rough trousers and a simple peasant’s vest, but he still felt conspicuous. In comparison to his two female companions, he certainly was. The woman to his right was used to frequenting the low places of Daggerfall as a common prostitute. Lady Brisienna to his left was even more clearly in her element.

“By what name would you prefer I call you?” Lady Brisienna asked solicitously.

“I am used to the name Gyna, though that may have to change,” was her reply. “Of course, it may not. Gyna the Whore may be the name writ on my grave.”

“I will see to it that there is no attempt on your life like that the Flower Festival,” Lord Strale frowned. “But without the Emperor’s help, I won’t be able to protect you forever. The only permanent solution is to capture those who would do you harm and then to raise you to your proper station.”

“Do you believe my story?” Gyna turned to Lady Brisienna.

“I have been the Emperor’s chief agent in High Rock for many years now, and I have heard few stranger tales. If your friend the ambassador hadn’t investigated and discovered what he has, I would have dismissed you outright as a madwoman,” Brisienna laughed, forcing a smile onto Gyna’s face to match. “But now, yes, I do believe you. Perhaps that makes me the madwoman.”

“Will you help us?” asked Lord Strale simply.

“It is a tricky business interfering in the affairs of the provincial kingdoms,” Lady Brisienna looked into the depths of her mug thoughtfully. “Unless there is a threat to the Empire itself, we find it is best not to meddle. What we have in your case is a very messy assassination that happened twenty years ago, and its aftermath. If His Imperial Majesty involved itself in every bloody hiccup in the succession in each of his thousand vassal kingdoms, he would never accomplish anything for the greater good of Tamriel.”

“I understand,” murmured Gyna. “When I remembered everything, who I was and what happened to me, I resolved to do nothing about it. In fact, I was leaving Camlorn and going back home to Daggerfall when I saw Lord Strale again. He was the one who began this quest to resolve this, not me. And when he brought me back, I only wanted to see my cousin to tell her who I was, but he forbade me.”

“It would have been too dangerous,” growled Strale. “We still don’t know yet the depths of the conspiracy. Perhaps we never will.”

“I’m sorry, I always find myself giving long explanations to short questions. When Lord Strale asked if I would help, I should have begun by saying ‘yes,'” Lady Brisienna laughed at the change in Lord Strale and Gyna’s expressions. “I will help you, of course. But for this to turn out well, you must accomplish two things to the Emperor’s satisfaction. First, you must prove with absolute certainty who is the power behind this plot you’ve uncovered. You must get someone to confess.”

“And secondly,” said Lord Strale, nodding. “We must prove that this is a matter worthy of His Imperial Majesty’s consideration, and not merely a minor local concern.”

Lord Strale, Lady Brisienna, and the woman who called herself Gyna discussed how to accomplish their goals for a few hours more. When it was agreed what had to be done, Lady Brisienna took her leave to find her ally Proseccus. Strale and Gyna set off to the west, toward Camlorn. It was not long after beginning their ride through the woods that they heard the sound of galloping hoof beats far up ahead. Lord Strale unsheathed his sword and signaled for Gyna to position her horse behind him.

At that moment, they were attacked on all sides. It was an ambush. Eight men, armed with axes, had been lying in wait.

Lord Strale quickly yanked Gyna from her horse, pulling her behind him. He made a brief, deft motion with his hands. A ring of flame materialized around them, and rushed outward, striking their assailants. The men roared in pain and dropped to their knees. Lord Strale jumped the horse over the closest one, and galloped at full speed westward.

“I thought you were an ambassador not a mage!” laughed Gyna.

“I still believe there are times for diplomacy,” replied Lord Strale.

The horse and rider they had heard before met them on the road. It was Gnorbooth. “Milord, it’s the royal battlemage! He found out you two were in Umbington!”

“With considerable ease, I might add,” Lord Eryl’s voice boomed out of the woods. Gnorbooth, Gyna, and Lord Strale scanned the dark trees, but they showed nothing. The battlemage’s voice seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere.

“I’m sorry, milord,” groaned Gnorbooth. “I tried to warn you as soon as I could.”

“In your next life, perhaps you’ll remember not to trust your plans to a drunkard!” laughed Lord Eryl. He had them in his sight, and the spell was unleashed.

Gnorbooth saw him first, by the light of the ball of fire that leapt from his fingertips. Later, Lord Eryl was to wonder to himself what the fool had intended to do. Perhaps he was rushing forward to pull Lord Strale out of the path. Perhaps he was trying to flee the path of destruction, and had simply moved left when he should have moved right. Perhaps, as unlikely as it seemed, he was willing to sacrifice himself to save his master. Whatever the reason, the result was the same.

He got in the way.

There was an explosion of energy that filled the night, and an echoing boom that shook birds from the trees for a mile around. On the few square feet where Gnorbooth and his horse had stood was nothing but black glass. They had been reduced to less than vapor. Gyna and Lord Strale were thrown back. Their horse, when it recovered its senses, galloped away as fast as it could. In the lingering glowing aura of the spell’s detonation, Lord Strale looked straight into the woods and into the wide eyes of the battlemage.

“Damn,” said Lord Eryl and began to run. The ambassador jumped to his feet and pursued.

“That was an expensive use of magicka, even for you,” said Lord Strale as he ran. “Don’t you know well enough not to use ranged spells unless you are certain your target won’t be blocked?”

“I never thought – that idiot -” Lord Eryl was struck from behind and knocked to the wet forest floor before he had a chance to finish his lamentation.

“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” said Lord Strale calmly, flipping the battlemage around and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. “I’m not a battlemage, but I knew enough not to use my entire reserve on your little ambush. Perhaps it’s a matter of philosophy, as a government agent, I feel inclined toward conservatism.”

“What are you going to do?” whimpered Lord Eryl.

“Gnorbooth was a good man, one of the best, and so I’m going to hurt you quite a lot,” the ambassador made a slight movement and his hands began to glow brightly. “That’s a certainty. How much more I’m going to hurt you after that depends on what you tell me. I want to hear about the former Duke of Oloine.”

“What do you want to know?” Lord Eryl screamed.

“Let’s start with everything,” replied Lord Strale with perfect patience.

Mystery of Talara, Book II

She felt nothing, darkness enveloping her body and mind. Pain surged through her leg and with that sensation, a great feeling of cold washed over her. She opened her eyes and saw that she was drowning.

Her left leg would not move at all, but using her right one and her arms, she pulled herself up toward the moons above. It was long way through the swirling currents that wrenched back at her. At last she broke the surface and sucked in the cold night air. She was still close to the rocky shoreline of the capitol city of the kingdom of Camlorn, but the water had carried her quite a ways from the point where she fell at Cavilstyr Rock.

Not fell, she thought, correcting herself. She had been pushed.

Further down current, she allowed herself to drift. There the steep cliff walls sloped lower until they were close to the water’s edge. The silhouette of a large house on the shore loomed ahead, and as she neared it, she could see smoke rising from the chimney and the flicker of firelight within. The pain in her leg was great, but greater still was the chill of the water. The thought of a warm hearth fire was all the motivation she needed to begin swimming again.

At the shore’s edge, she tried to stand but found she couldn’t. Her tears mixed with the sea water as she began to crawl across the sand and rock. The simple white sheet which had been her costume at the Flower Festival was tattered and felt like a weight of lead across her back. Beyond the point of exhaustion, she fell forward and began to sob.

“Please!” she cried. “If you can hear me, please help!”

A moment later, the door to the house opened and a woman stepped out. It was Ramke, the old lady she had met at the Flower Festival. The one who had started and cried “It’s her!” even before she herself knew who she was. By contrast, when the old woman came to her, this time there was no glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

“By Sethiete, are you hurt?” Ramke whispered, and helped her up, acting as her crutch. “I’ve seen that gown before. Were you one of the dancers at the Flower Festival tonight? I was there with Lady Jyllia Raze, the daughter of the King.”

“I know, she introduced us,” she groaned. “I called myself Gyna of Daggerfall?”

“Of course, I knew you looked familiar somehow,” the old woman chuckled, and led her hop by hop across the beach and into the front door. “My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Lets get you warm and have a look at that leg.”

Ramke took Gyna’s soaking rags and covered her with a blanket as she sat at the fire. As the numbness of the chill water began to leave her, it cruelly abandoned her to the intense agony of her leg. Until then, she had not dared to look at it. When she did, she felt vomit rise at the sight of the deep gash, fish-white dead flesh, plump and swollen. Thick arterial blood bubbled up, splashing on the floor in streams.

“Oh dear,” said the old woman, returning to the fire. “That must rather sting. You’re lucky that I still remember a little of the old healing spells.”

Ramke seated herself on the floor and pressed her hands on either side of the wound. Gyna felt a flare of pain, and then a cool soft pinching and prickle. When she looked down, Ramke was slowly sliding her wrinkled hands towards one another. At their approach, the lesion began to mend before her eyes, flesh binding and bruises fading.

“Sweet Kynareth,” Gyna gasped. “You’ve saved my life.”

“Not only that, you won’t have an ugly scar on your pretty leg,” Ramke chuckled. “I had to use that spell so many times when Lady Jyllia was little. You know, I was her nursemaid.”

“I know,” Gyna smiled. “But that was a long time ago, and you still remember the spell.”

“Oh, when you’re learning anything, even the School of Restoration, there’s always a lot of study and mistakes, but once you’re as old as I am, there’s no longer any need to remember things. You just know. After all, I’ve probably cast it a thousand times before. Little Lady Jyllia and the little Princess Talara was always getting cut and bruised. Small wonder, the way they was always climbing all over the palace.”

Gyna sighed. “You must have loved Lady Jyllia very much.”

“I still do,” Ramke beamed. “But now she’s all grown and things are different. You know, I didn’t notice it before because you were all wet from the sea, but you look very much like my lady. Did I mention that before when we met at the Festival?”

“You did,” said Gyna. “Or rather I think you thought I looked like Princess Talara.”

“Oh, it would be so wonderful if you were the Princess returned,” the old woman gasped. “You know, when the former royal family was killed, and everyone said the Princess was killed though we never found the body, I think the real victim was Lady Jyllia. Her little heart just broke, and for a while, it looked like her mind did too.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gyna. “What happened?”

“I don’t know if I should tell a stranger this, but it’s fairly well-known in Camlorn, and I really feel like I know you,” Ramke struggled with her conscience and then released. “Jyllia saw the assassination, you see. I found her afterwards, hiding in that terrible blood-stained throne room, and she was like a little broken doll. She wouldn’t speak, she wouldn’t eat. I tried all my healing spells, but it was quite beyond my power. So much more than a scraped knee. Her father who was then Duke of Oloine sent her to a sanitarium in the country to get well.”

“That poor little girl,” cried Gyna.

“It took her years to be herself again,” said Ramke, nodding. “And, in truth, she never really returned altogether. You wonder why her father when he was made king didn’t make her his heir? He thought that she was still not exactly right, and in a way, as much as I would deny it, he’s correct to think so. She remembered nothing, nothing at all.”

“Do you think,” Gyna considered her words carefully. “That she would be better if she knew that her cousin the Princess Talara was alive and well?”

Ramke considered it. “I think so. But maybe not. Sometimes it’s best not to hope.”

Gyna stood up, finding her leg to be as strong as it looked to be. Her gown had dried, and Ramke gave her a cloak, insisting she protect herself against the cold night air. At the door, Gyna kissed the old woman’s cheek and thanked her. Not only for the healing spell and for the cloak, but for everything else of kindness she had ever done.

The road close to the house went north and south. To the left was the way back to Camlorn, where secrets lay to which she alone held the key. To the south was Daggerfall, her home for more than twenty years. She could return there, back to her profession on the streets, very easily. For a few seconds, she considered her options, and then made her choice.

She had not been walking for very long, when a black carriage drawn by three horses bearing the Imperial Seal, together with eight mounted horses, passed her. Before it rounded the wooded pass ahead, it stopped suddenly. She recognized one of the soldiers as Gnorbooth, Lord Strale’s manservant. The door opened and Lord Strale himself, the Emperor’s ambassador, the man who had hired her and all the other women to entertain at court, stepped out.

“You!’ he frowned. “You’re one of the prostitutes, aren’t you? You’re the one who disappeared during the Flower Festival? Gyna, am I right?”

“All that is true,” she smiled sourly. “Except my name I’ve discovered is not Gyna.”

“I don’t care what it is,” said Lord Strale. “What are you doing on the south road? I paid for you to stay and make the kingdom merry.”

“If I went back to Camlorn, there are a great many who wouldn’t be merry at all.”

“Explain yourself,” said Lord Strale.

So she did. And he listened.

Mannimarco, King of Worms

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.

Mace Etiquette

Warriors sometimes make the mistake of thinking that there are no tactics with a mace. They assume that the sword is all about skill and the mace is only about strength and stamina. As a veteran instructor of mace tactics, I can tell you they are wrong.

Wielding a mace properly is all about timing and momentum. Once the swing of the mace has begun, stopping it or slowing it down is difficult. The fighter is committed to not just the blow, but also the recoil. Begin your strike when the opponent is leaning forward, hopefully off balance. It is completely predictable that he will lean backward, so aim for a point behind his head. By the time the mace gets there, his head will be in its path.

The mace should be held at the ready, shoulder high. The windup should not extend past the shoulders by more than a hand’s width. When swinging, lead with the elbow. As the elbow passes the height of your collarbone, extend the forearm like a whip. The extra momentum will drive the mace faster and harder, causing far more damage.

At the moment of impact, let the wrist loosen. The mace will bounce and hurt a stiff wrist. Allow the recoil of the blow to drive the mace back into the ready position, thereby preparing the warrior for a quicker second strike.

Liminal Bridges

Transliminal passage of quickened objects or entities without the persistent agency of hyperagonal media is not possible, and even if possible, would result in instantaneous retromission of the transported referents. Only a transpontine circumpenetration of the limen will result in transits of greater than infinitessimal duration.

Though other hyperagonal media may exist in theory, the only known transliminal artifact capable of sustained transpontine circumpenetration is the Sigil stone. A sigil stone is a specimen of pre-Mythic quasi-crystalline morpholith that has been transformed into an extra-dimensional artifact through the arcane inscription of a daedric sigil. Though some common morpholiths like soul gems may be found in nature, the exotic morpoliths used to make sigil stones occur only in pocket voids of Oblivion, and cannot be prospected or harvested without daedric assistance.

Therefore, since both the morpholiths and the daedric sigils required for hyperagonal media cannot be obtained without traffic and commerce with Daedra Lords, it is necessary that a transliminal mechanic cultivate a working knowledge of conjuration—though purpose-built enchantments may be substituted if the mechanic has sufficient invocatory skill. Traffic and commerce with Daedra Lords is an esoteric but well-established practice, and lies outside the compass of this treatise. [1]

Presuming a sigil stone has been acquired, the transliminal mechanic must first prepare the morpholith to receive the daedric sigil.

Let the mechanic prepare a chamber, sealed against all daylight and disturbances of the outer air, roofed and walled with white stone and floored with black tiles. All surfaces of this chamber must be ritually purified with a solution of void salts in ether solvent.

A foursquare table shall be placed in the center of the room, with a dish to receive the morpholith. Four censers shall be prepared with incense compounded from gorvix and harrada. On the equinox, the mechanic shall then place the morpolith in the dish and intone the rites of the Book of Law, beginning at dawn and continuing without cease until the sunset of the same day.

The mechanic may then present the purified morpholith to the Daedra Lord for his inscription. Once inscribed with the Daedra Lord’s sigil, the morpholith becomes a true sigil stone, a powerful artifact that collects and stores arcane power—similar in many respects to a charged soul gem, but of a much greater magnitude. And it is this sigil stone that is required to provide the tremendous arcane power necessary to sustain the enchantment that supports the transpontine circumpenetration of the limen.

To open a gate to Oblivion, the mechanic must communicate directly, by spell or enchantment, with the Daedra Lord who inscribed the sigil stone in question. The Daedra Lord and the mechanic jointly invoke the conjurational charter [2], and the mechanic activates the charged sigil stone, which is immediately transported through the liminal barrier to the spot where its sigil was inscribed, thus opening a temporary portal between Mundus and Oblivion. This portal may only remain open for a brief period of time, depending on the strength of the liminal barrier at the chosen spots, several minutes being the longest ever reported, so the usefulness of such a gate is quite limited.

[1] Interested students are invited to consult the works of Albrecht Theophannes Bombidius and Galerion The Mystic for the fundaments of this discipline.
[2] Recommended examples of the conjurational charter may be found in Therion’s Book of Most Arcane Covenants or Ralliballah’s Eleven Ritual Forms.