The Improved Emperor's Guide to Tamriel/Valenwood
Original media : The Elder Scrolls Online Imperial Edition
By Flaccus Terentius, of the Imperial Geographic Society, 2E 581
Wood Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion
I was bundled onto the first ship out of Firsthold like a common cutpurse, and it was only by good fortune that the Night Heron was sailing to Malabal Tor. My companions were surly merchants, and my writ of passage might as well have been written in the ancient tongue of the dragons for all the good it did me. A fellow absconder named Borongothlor shared my destination: Velyn Harbor, an Altmeri port on the Strident Coast of Valenwood. We arrived without fanfare. Some puffed-up dockside administrator was reading over my deportation order when Borongothlor yelled to the deckhands, «By Hircine’s pelt! Maormer squadron!» This was no ruse; the port was surprised by Sea Elves, some lithely leaping aboard the ship and many swarming the harbor. Bows were notched with haste, and fierce fighting commenced. The blank-eyed raiders fought under the sign of the sea serpent with their colorless skin and snake conjurations, overwhelming the ship’s crew in mere moments. My paperwork fell from the administrator’s hands as he clutched his face and toppled from the jetty, an arrow protruding from his eye. High Elf harbor guards crouched behind firm barricades as the air filled with arrows. During a brief lull, I saw shapes flit from the forest.
The Wood Elves appeared, helping their Altmeri brethren repel the raiders and send them back to their boats. Mer of the sea and woods make an interesting contrast; the Maormer resemble the High Elves in the relative sophistication of their equipment, and the discipline of their medium-armored marines is impressive. But facing the cheerful ferocity and superior marksmanship of Bosmeri bowmen, the Sea Elves lost heart and withdrew.
During the preceding assault, I had prudently jumped down and hid under a tarp in a bumboat. Peeking out to take in the conflict, I shrank back as I watched a ferocious fight along the quayside. A Maormeri commander was waylaid from his progress by a Bosmeri Treethane’s bone-handled blade meeting his finely polished sword. The Sea Elf parried strongly, forcing the Treethane back on her haunches. Laughing, she bounded around his heavier armor, shouting «Y’ffre’s bones!» and thrusting a sharp horn stiletto up through the Maormer’s arm. She spun with brutal dexterity, slashing her main blade deep into the commander’s neck and out the other side. The head flew past mine as the commander’s corpse sagged, then fell into the deep mooring water below the Night Heron. I was surprised at a second splash; the Wood Elf lost her balance and followed the corpse into the reddening harbor, where she floundered with none of her previous grace. Instinctively, I offered a hand and pulled her out, saving her life. I was more surprised at my act of valor than she was. With the battle over, I rambled on about my tale of woe to my gracious new friend. As my paperwork was lost with the customs officer in Velyn Bay, the High Elf watch seemed thankful when Serenarth offered me safe passage to Elden Root.
Serenarth introduced me to a pair of imposing guardians (I refrained from asking where they were when they were needed), a tracker, a cook, porters, her dogs, and various hangers-on in her ragtag gang. This caravan travels to Elden Root with «assets for the Aldmeri Delegation», but no more information was imparted (or needed). Any cheer I mustered was stifled, as I expected a road but was greeted by dense thickets and swamp water. I felt a sense of reflective melancholy as my boots soaked through; the paintings of Black Marsh could be pasted here with my idiot superiors none the wiser. Valenwood is dark, soggy, and filled with awful creatures. Not the Bosmer of Serenarth’s lot, although they seemed to jaunty I contemplated strangling one. No, I witnessed huge hoarvor ticks scuttling out from a leafy deen to meet a deflated end on a Wood Elf’s spear tip before they could suck my blood. Grim spriggans -- plant creatures with inexplicable breasts -- reared at us from what Serenarth told us were their sacred glades.
Splendid, more singsong rubbish about «Y’ffre’s bones» and a damp camp. I’m beginning to suspect Mannimarco has bought my fate and toys with me here, in the mangroves with the Tree-Sap folk. The food they cooked had all the savor and flavor of an Orc raider’s boot; squirrel preserves won’t be brought back to Bravil as a taste sensation. And the slouchbear surprise? The «surprise» was that my gullet opened wide enough to digest such tough and highly salted meat. Our encounters with the local wildlife didn't fill me with joy either: One of the pack dogs ventured too close to a shrub, which came alive, its tendrils dragging the animal into a black maw. The Green Pact was suspended temporarily to cut the dog free.But at least this strangler plant wasn't able to give chase. At every swamp or stream we forded, we were met by mudcrabs. The incessant clacking of pincers and cracking of shells further irritates me. Oh, for a spell of swift transport to Elden Root. The Valenwood creatures continued to cause bother, but it wasn't until we reached a jungle waterfall that my guide slowed me to a quiet creep. The water was cascading down on a wondrous bathing nymph, glistening and laughing in the humid air. I was later informed this was a nereid, unrelated to the spirits of High Rock. As I attempted a closer investigation, a sinewy arm barred my path. One of the Treethane’s heavily armed bodyguards urged me to make my sketches from afar.
The Wood Elves claim to revere the trees, but then coerce them into forming homes and bridges.
At night, this is a very different place (at least to my eyes). Dark shapes dart away from the corner of my eye. Other appear all too real and frequently. The ghost of Falarel the jester creeps from the shadows to whisper jokes bereft of humor: «Master Terentius, it looks like you've taken ‘root’ here!» I cannot rid myself of this shade. My one escape has been the drink. Intoxication among the Bosmer is not only tolerated, but also encouraged. I began a heavy session with the various Wood Elf liquors. I found rotmeth rancid, Sun’s Dusk Ale too gamey, and by the time I discovered jagga was actually fermented pig’s milk, I was too far gone to care.
I sit here, perplexed and sorry for myself. My stay in Elden Root is extended as I wait (impatiently) for an Imperial courier from Haven. I’ve known Mactator Caprenius since his service with our family, and his timekeeping was never this tardy. But I pin my hopes on him extricating me from Valenwood and bundling me back into Cyrodiil as my guide nears completion. In the meantime, I sketch obsessively, lose sleep, and put up with Falarel’s verbal torture: «My master, all your chickens have been killed. ‘Twas murder most fowl!»
Falarel’s jokes are now laced with threats, many violent and threatening specific parts of my person. I am close to despair. I have not slept for many nights; the dark jester sees to that. There shall be no further Imperial snippets. I threw the remaining pages of the Emperor’s Guide to Tamriel into a fat-fire. Stendarr grant me mercy, for I cannot tell night from day. During one of Falarel’s brief disappearances, I sought out the priest, a Spinner, and pleaded for his help.
My Spinner friend Thorongil thought it best we see a tree sacred to Y’ffre. «Aren’t they all?» I asked, quite seriously, and was met with a chortle. His comedic nature continued when he asked me to carry him to our destination. I dismissed this as a lark until he told me his kind never move unless borne on the backs of others. Fortunately, my delicate vertebrae were saved as his servants maneuvered him to the foot of a towering, thickly branched specimen of oak, planted before the First Era.
There we sat, him talking the day away while I sat listening and sketching Thorongil with his many belongings. He revealed his inner thoughts and his communications with Y’ffre, which he recalls to the Treethanes of his tribe. «I’ve told you the story of my mind and its changes in perception,» he explained, untying a pouch and producing a bone smoking pipe. «Now, we alter our understanding of the physical realm by inhaling dried insects.» If it meant missing out on a dead jester for a few hours, I was game. I breathed deeply. The experience was simultaneously repulsive and strangely soothing.
I woke alone in the Spinner’s tent, feeling more relaxed and carefree than I had in weeks. But as my haze cleared and the dusk of long shadows fell over the glades, my spirits started to sag once more. As the torchbugs began flickering in their jars, I felt that familiar pain. I opened my tunic and watched the bran on my chest begin to crawl, as if worms burrowed beneath the scars. One of the Spinner’s trophies -- a skull thing hung on a post -- started to clack its jaws at me. The tent seemed to spin and close in. Then blackness.
Tired. Alone and deep in the woods at night. I must have been sleepwalking for quite some time. Shafts of light from Masser and Secunda filtered down through the canopy above. I was surrounded by gnarled trees and indistinct shapes, quicker at darting than my eyes. There is a fog within me, as if I’m a long way away. Odd clicking noises and chirruping of insects. The faint rustling of forest animals. These sounds don’t unnerve me anymore. Grim and terrible images remain behind my eyes, waiting to scream their way out of my head. I have the strange sense that I’ve been following somebody. I don’t want to think about who that is. So I distracted myself and sat down to paint the midnight jungle.
My painting hand seems less arthritic and almost bewitched. I completed the image of the night jungle and turned the page. I began another picture, rapidly and obsessively scattering blues and grays over the parchment. A different view began to form beneath my pen and brush. How in the name of Akatosh do I know this place? It was the cold, dead nightmare land from my dreams that I’d been drinking to forget. Cracked, frozen earth with black shapes lurking just below the surface. Was I doomed to wander this forgotten realm? No, I’m still in Valenwood. More jagga and bloodfroth to blot out the half-remembered horrors. They came back with a jolt. Hulking, reptilian Daedric brutes that had chased me through that landscape. I feel compelled to sketch them too.
Eerie animal-faced people, or people wearing animal heads, creep from the shadows to sit and watch me while I work. They seem to stare intently, muttering short and unclear whispers and nodding to each other. Occasionally, I catch the bird skulls adorning their armor also turning to gaze at me from eyeless sockets. I dare not look upon them. Are they even really there?
The deep void of sleep caught me and I dreamed of my home in Cyrodiil. But this was not the place I left months ago. No, Cyrodiil had become a war-torn, anguished realm. The Bravil castle bailey was under heavy bombardment by the siege machines of an invading army. Councilor Lucasta's chambers were smashed to rubble, and the castle walls breached. Enemy foot soldiers rushed in like a river. Innocents and city watchmen were slain indiscriminately. My house was ablaze. I saw my brother, sword in hand, stumble through smoke and falling timbers, dragging a charred body. He headed back into the inferno. No, brother. Run! Wake up, you fool. An evil face carved on black stone leers at me and grimaces in approval.
The world of my nightmares converges with Tamriel, melding into a great and lamentable darkness. I must still be asleep; such horrors cannot exist on Nirn. Yet here I sit, rooted to the spot, and paint this as if it is real for all to see. I witness a terrible vision of Valenwood in ashes. Wood Elf corpses burn next to the black bark of their leveled homes. Thousand-year-old graht-oaks are steaming, monumental husks. All have suffered. Figures wearing black cloaks and red helms … are those Worm Cultists patrolling these ashen lands? A robed figure stands and watches, a worm twisting on his staff. Then he strides over the embers of the world. Mannimarco? Wake up! Wake up! The evil face sneers in wicked glee.
Awake?
I’m aware of my sleepwalking again. I now find myself in the realm of the nightmare I fought to enclose within the walls of my slumber. A Bosmeri village has been defiled and destroyed. It is now festooned with the skin, bones, and other regalia of Daedra worshipers and necromancers. The smell of burning wood and flesh was not present before and forces me to retch in disgust and tie a cloth across my face. To complete my misery, that damnable ghost appears to taunt once more. «Good news, my master. I’ve set fire to the forests and burned alive all your enemies in Valenwood.» «But, Falarel,» I manage to say, «I have no enemies in Valenwood.» «You do now!» The flesh beneath my chest mark begins to crawl. I clutch it tightly, fearing it might burst. «Welcome, Flaccus Terentius,» says Falarel, now speaking with Mannimarco’s voice. «Welcome to Gil-Var-Delle.»
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