There is a strange, haunting beauty to these subterranean ruins, once the thriving colonies of a great empire, now left abandoned by the sigh of history. The Mages Guild requested that I recover a lost tome from this ancient Ayleid settlement just north of Daggerfall. But I soon discover these ruins are not quite as forsaken as I was led to believe.
Does it ever stop raining in Daggerfall? When it isn’t raining, it’s about to rain, or it has just rained. I swear that rainstorms travel hundreds of miles against prevailing winds just for the opportunity to rain upon Daggerfall.
I shall seek swift shelter and resupply upon the morrow. It is only the poet who stands in the rain waiting for the rainbow… or hoping to be struck by lightning, I know not which.
Both the Wyress and the Guardians accuse a Reachmage by the name of Angof the Gravesinger for the dark magics and spirits that afflict the Wyrd tree both inside and out. This necromancer and leader of the Bloodthorn cult is also said to be the one culpable for the thorny roots that are corrupting the nature all around Glenumbra.
Whilst certainly a powerful and unscrupulous adversary, perhaps thwarting the dark schemes of this Angof offers me my best opportunity at striking back against Molag Bal, indirectly at least, whilst I await the Prophet’s next move.
The Bloodthorn cultists seem to have had little problem muscling the Beldama Wyrd out from under the protective roots of the huge ancient tree. Getting them back inside again with so many cultists about is going to require a little luck, a touch of magic, and a whole lot of sword swinging.
Who’d have thought working with tree-dwellers could be so much fun?
The elemental spirits bound by the cultists call themselves the Ehlnofey; our ancient ancestors and remnants of a time long past, yet still chaperoning a contemporary world.
As a boy growing up in Cyrodiil I had my heart set on joining the Imperial infantry, so I paid little heed and held sceptical anything that didn’t seem relevant to my ambition. The chronicles, the histories, and theology were all but mythos and fables to me; doubtful stories of misinterpreted events, written by liars, and retold by fools.
It is only now, as I begin to travel this world and witness first-hand the suffering and hardships borne by so many in the name of deities long forgot, that I begin to realise that history is very much alive, ubiquitous, relevant, and terribly affecting. And furthermore, that the whole course of history can be dependent upon a sword swing by one solitary individual.