I reach the foundry to find Galerion’s Magicka being siphoned directly into the forge, where it is being used to fuel the numerous daedric machines that creak and heave with steam and oil, the breath and blood of Molag Bal’s industrial war.
Just like the dremora that work them however, these machines exist solely to serve a purpose, to make difficult into routine. They feel neither love nor hate as we do, and despite what damage they inflict upon our lands, and their own, they are incapable of pity or remorse. They are neither “good” nor “evil”, they simply are.
The machines are not our enemy, and neither are the daedra; for all their power and size they are but tools for the God of Schemes. Yet the only way to stop the industrial onslaught is to break them, and this is my purpose, and it too is neither “good” nor “evil”, it simply is.