For centuries scholars and mages have been brusquely picking apart anything that people of faith once claimed were miracles. They preach that the more they understand of the fixed laws of the Mundas, the more they can prove that what we once called miracles are no longer contrary to those laws, but only contrary to what they know about those laws.
And yet they live in a world where simple grass can be a million shades of green. Where the sun rises every day and moons every night. Where flowers that are sustained by the sun and rain turn into fruit that in-turn sustains each and everyone of us. Yet it impresses them not, for they claim they can recreate these elements with ritual and spell.
But for those of us that fought at the battle for the Planar Vortex, just to be alive at all is proof of miracle enough. For what truly is a miracle but a spark of light when you are expecting only darkness.
If we are to put a final nail in the coffin of Molag Bal’s Planemeld then it must be hammered from the inside out; we must enter into the Planar Vortex itself.
Stepping through the portal we enter into a world between two realms, that hovers betwixt night and morn upon the edge of the horizon. In this addled realm forlorn hope weighs most heavily upon our weary spirits, for we know that even if we are to achieve this most improbable undertaking we are sure to lose our freedom here, for there is no place to escape to. And if you do not believe the sun will rise, it is hard to stand and greet the coming night. And that is not even the rub of it, for Molag Bal itself has come to crush the last best hope of mortal Nirn.
Nirn, that world of so many banners, many more then just the three that dance the wheel of Cyrodill. It is a world of disparate peoples, that even when faced with horrors invading from Oblivion choose to fight each other rather then stand together as one country against the outer darkness. If it were that the stars should appear but one night every hundred years, mortals would be justified in cowering. Yet the stars do appear every night, just as the Dark Anchors fall upon our homes every day, and the daedric princes have plotted our demise ever since mortals took their very first breaths.
So like our ancestors before, and our kin yet to come, we here shall stand in resolute defiance. For hope is the mortals chief strength, it is in every breath we take, and it lights up the entire Mundas and for that the daedra hate us. Every mortal knows hope, because every mortal knows that after winter comes the spring, after night comes the dawn, and after every storm, there comes clear, fresh skies.
The stars do appear every night, and the sun does rise every morn. Hope is the trait that makes heroes of ordinary people. And the measure of a hero is to stand and say no to the tyrants and accept with calmness the consequences of our resistance. Because it is far better for us to die today on our feet than to live the rest of our lives on our knees.