I’m not against Necromancers. At least not by profession. You could call a it a courtesy, harnessing Magick isn’t easy and I’m not about to frown on someone’s approach.
Mind you, it’s a little creepy, working with the dead. Often dabbling in ritual behavior and raising the recently deceased. Nope, not against it, just not a fan.
I had delved into the crypt with a strange itch at the back of my neck. This fellow clued me in. But it wasn’t the Necromancers.. it was the Daedra around the corner.
I venture to some dreadful places in search of knowledge and mystical secrets. I was nestled under a small town what had been decimated by daedric influence.
Piracy of a sort is always around. Factions vying for power or jostling for position while trying to ensure their opponents own failure.
BPM 87242 was rife with general mayhem and villainy as I was offered a lucrative sum to get involved. The ‘Thunder pulled her own weight well until a pair of Federal Attack Ships locked onto me. I had eked out victory but at significant cost. Suspicions started to arise as I analyzed the data.
I lost the Vigilant Bard to a short but intense fight with a wing of FAS before. Were these the same aggressors?
She called herself Leramil the Wise. A warning sign for sure. Few who call themselves Wise, are. She professed to be a follower of Hermaeus Mora, one of the least-violent of the Daedric Princes.
The libraries of Hermaeus Mora are legendary, the stuff of tangible speculation among any practitioner. Books from aeons past, scrolls and missives unseen by mortal eyes. The literal stuff of legends.
And all you have to do is curry favor with a Daedric Prince.
I was too many days into Vvardenfell, learning a new kind of loathing for the Great Houses, collectively learning who I could trust and finding myself devoid of rational allies.
It was one thing to owe a favor and help the Morag Tong. Being their drinking buddy for when life got tough wasn’t my idea. So I gave one mug of mead and then quietly departed for the road, Wendel in tow. The first boat was just down the path and I had a feeling I’d be off this cursed island before long.
I’d barely made it into town when a merchant had the look of trouble and my curious nature got the better of me. Seems his business partner had quietly closed the doors on the local mine without giving much detail. I recommended sending in guards but some half-arguments suggested it would be more prudent if “I” took a look. In exchange for some coin, of course. I should have kept walking..
The monsters should have been my first warning to leave. The sick alchemist should have been the second. Sadly I’m a glutton for my own curiosity and it took a Daedric shrine to Clavicus Vile to settle my curiosity.
I wonder at times if I’ll ever learn to stop poking my nose into obscure corners. Wendel usually just snickers when I do, he and I both know that my curiosity will be the end of me.
Regardless how I felt there was work to be done. Sorcery does not idly sit around accomplishing itself.
I’d been tasked, as usual, to find some ingredients for a spell whose function wasn’t of my personal concern. The opportunity to see distant lands and avoid the usual politicking that happens was more than enough incentive.
I don’t favor caves but some do have such wondrous vistas that on occasion I remind myself the value of adventure.
I had awoken with a headache the size of Mournhold what screamed like harpies. My mind raced at the sources while visions cleared and wafted away like fog on the morning sun.
All I could recall brief images of a realm I’d never seen before and hopefully would never see again.
There are scarcely few realms one would call “welcoming” outside Nirn. Most were prisons to fiendish beasts and writhing madness.
..the bottle was talking to me. Why me? Uncertain. Why was it talking? Supposedly it was an illusion. But I know a thing or two about Daedric trickery so I was keeping a cautious distance.
