‘I am the answer to all questions and the question behind every answer.’

Whether mere mortal or Daedric Prince, it is just plain hubris to believe that what we see is everything there is to see.

Perhaps Hermaeus Mora did foresee my coming today, and perhaps my name is already recorded in my realms of Apocrypha as it claims it to be. As to why I am here, well you do not have to be a Daedric Prince of Fate and Forbidden Knowledge to figure that it has to do with the Celestial invasion of Craglorn.

Hermaeus Mora does not give knowledge without a fee, luckily mine has been paid this day by returning its servant Ibrula back to the Prince. The voice from the shrine tells me that if the Celestial Warrior has risen the mighty Anka-Ra from the sands, then their great general Tarish-Zi has risen also; for they are bound to him through an oath of eternal loyalty. The only way to defeat them, is to defeat him.

I had wondered what deal Hermaeus Mora offered to the Yokudans all those years ago to build such a grand temple atop the site of its shine. The same deal Hermaeus Mora offers all its servants… knowledge without wisdom, ethic, or morality.

S.K

A Daedric Watcher stands before Hermaeus Mora’s shrine; the giant guardian acting as a final test of our worth.

To the Lord of Knowledge our worth is only ever what we can provided it in service, and to be fair that is the exact same worth it places upon it’s Daedra. Take the Glaring Eye for example. It’s only worth to Hermaeus Mora is as a guardian to it’s shrine, so when I drive my sword through it’s black pupil, it becomes worthless.

Yet we mortals too are guilty of behaving as if there are things of higher value than life, whether it be wealth, belongings, titles, or even honour. It is not until someone is lost that we finally appreciate their worth. The question is, what is the value of a life if nobody mourns its loss? Indeed, if there is none to mourn me when I shall fall, am I worth anything at all?

S.K

I could smell them as soon as I entered through the ornate stone doors… Daedra. Their unworldly briny blood stench is one you do not quickly forget. The Shadow Walkers of the Moonless Walk in Coldharbour claimed they can tell Clannfear from Scamp, Twilight from Daedroth, just by smell alone. I don’t doubt them, yet such woodland skills are beyond my capabilities. I am most certain however that these halls stink of Daedra.

Ibrula must have sensed my demeanour change for she was swift to offer explanation. The Seeker’s Archive is a Daedric shrine she tells me, built centuries before the Ra Gada had even landed upon the western shores. She has been visiting here for many years, offering up relic and curio to the Lord of Secrets, Hermaeus Mora, in exchange for esoteric knowledge. And she believes the Daedric Prince can provide the knowledge we need to defeat the fallen Celestials.

Ibrula deceived me because she wasn’t certain that I would help if I knew the whole truth; she was perhaps right. I had vowed never again to rush foolishly into another deal with a Daedric Prince after the devious scheming of Sheogorath. Yet now I think I might be equally foolish if I were not to at least listen to the offer.

Even if the Keeper of Forbidden Knowledge is not as ill-famed for his duplicity or treachery as the Mad God, we mustn’t forget the Anka-Ra crawling out from the sands and standing guard over the ruins of the temple above as if… how did Ibrula put it? “as if they were just picking up where they left off when they died”. Forever bound beyond their ruin to duty bear.

One has to wonder what sort of deal was offered to the Yokudans for them to build their great temple upon the site of his shine. And indeed, what ill-providence led to its downfall, yet left the Seeker’s Archive beneath curiously untouched.

S.K

I set out on the west road out of Belkarth with the intention of scouting for any information as to the fate of the fallen Celestial Warrior. Soon I come across what appears to be the ruins of a vast Yokudan temple.

The size of the ruins alone stands testament to the achievements of the mighty Yokudan exiles, but that this site is now but rubble and brash shows that even the Redguards are fated to eventually be worn down by the abrading sands of Hammerfell. Just look about these harsh wastes and you can see the remnants of the humbled. Ayleid, Dwemer, Yokudan, Nedes, these rugged lands acquiesce to the hubris of neither Man nor Mer; and mayhap not even the Celestials.

Just outside the ruins I am approached by a Redguard lady claiming to be a ‘friend’ to the Star-Gazers of Belkarth. She tells me that she is attempting to reach the underground libraries of the ruined temple that she refers to as the Seeker’s Archive. She believes there is hidden within information that might help us overcome the Celestial threat. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the secret to defeating the Celestials from the sky was to be found so deep under the sands?

The temple ruins however have recently become overrun by the Anka–Ra, warrior undead who have crawled out of the very grounds of the ruined temple, multiplying the evils wandering this accursed land. Worse still the only known door to the underground library can only be opened by activating devices in the surrounding ruins which are now guarded by a trio of particularly powerful Anka–Ra.

There are no Ansei Wards or Ash’abah tribes in Craglorn to quell these risen Yokuda. Pity the ill-fated Redguard; for a people whose religion and customs are set so firmly ‘gainst any sort of interaction with their ancestral dead, their ancestral dead are seemingly the most resurrected in all of Tamriel.

S.K

The Iron Orcs of the Dragontail Mountains are thought to be the most barbaric and savage of the Orsimer tribes. Even their kin to the north who claim to fear aught, maintain a leery distance and have little communion with their most brutish cousins. In Belkarth I had been warned about barbarous clans coming down from the mountains to attack travellers and caravans on the northern roads. But it wasn’t until I stumbled across the Iron Orc camp of Inazzur’s Hold that I was to learn first-hand that their fearsome reputation was indeed well earned.

If I were a prudent man I would have bypassed this camp on my journey and headed straight for the near-by wayshrine. But uncertain as to the impetus of the Orc’s recent incursions into Craglorn, I wanted to discover whether they are acting as agents of the Celestial Serpent, or merely reacting to the region’s conflict, picking at the weak and wounded like packs of Hammerfell Jackals. My enquiries was soon answered when I found damning correspondence between The Scaled Court and the chief of this stronghold, Inazzur the Mighty. Becoming a chief of an Iron Orc tribe has nothing to do with inheritance, political acumen or who is the wisest; you must simple prove yourself the strongest and most brutal of all your clan.

I could still walk away from this dangerous camp and none would question my mettle, and in truth if I were the prudent soldier I was before the insidious Mannimarco ripped my soul out with his bodkin, I would have. Yet neither am I still the shriven-man that strode into Heart’s Grief to challenge the Prince of Brutality in his own palace. I am but the sum of my past, somewhere betwixt and between.

Would I make that same walk into Molag Bal’s palace today knowing the price of almost inevitable failure would be an eternity of torture in his Vestibule? Probably not. Yet it is also true that my convalescence back in Daggerfall was hindered by an unrelenting restlessness in the very pith of my soul. I choose to walk into this stronghold and challenge the mighty Inazzur because having fought so hard to retrieve my soul, I cannot now let it wither in acedia.

S.K