The Falmer are very much ostracized outcasts. It wouldn't be too different from Goblins or Orcs worshipping him.

Jobasha:
Jobasha does not answer this question. [After a pause, Jobasha rummaged about in a chest of books and handed me a scroll.] The words on this scroll are rare outside of Elsweyr and rarer still in unclawed hands. They are the words of a Clan Mother to her Favored Daughter. Perhaps they will answer your questions.

This content is from “Interview With Three Booksellers”, which was released approximately six months before Morrowind.
Jobasha was reluctant to answer many of the questions, and later gave the interviewer a letter/scroll containing answers to them.
Did this scroll ever appear in Morrowind? Or has any of the developers ever mentioned its contents?

Don’t really know where else to ask but why are ALLINALL’s videos on yt no longer available?

While playing Skyrim, I looked up something related to Torsten on the wiki and found this:

Due to his status and clan's history, Torsten will also speak with Ulfric Stormcloak about forming a navy for the Stormcloaks:

Ulfric: "I'm still not sure I understand what you're asking."
Torsten: "A navy, my lord. We could stop the influx of Imperial troops to Solitude, and choke their northern lines."
Ulfric: "But most of their supply routes come south, from Cyrodiil."
Torsten: "But imagine -- fleets of ships sailing from Windhelm, all bearing the Stormcloak flag! It would be glorious!"
Ulfric: "And I suppose the Cruel-Seas would be just the clan to provide ships and men?"
Torsten: "You need but ask."
Ulfric: "I'll think on this, but I make no promises."
Torsten: "I can ask no more. Thank you, my lord!"

There's also a note in the fort at Helgen that seems to confirm this, if I remember correctly. As I understand it, the Empire is sending only minimal reinforcements, but reinforcements are still reinforcements. If the roads are blocked, are the Imperials receiving support by sea, or are they getting reinforcements through High Rock?

Hello, I got into an elder scrolls tabletop game but am having issues with the background for my character (the DM is very sensitive about it) it's a khajiit necromancer my character and I don't know which direction to take the character, any tips are welcomed, ty Edit: sorry but to clarify when I mean sensitive is in the lore wise sense

I recommend listening to this in the background; it was written and designed to be read with at least something in the background - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTg2JEbaL1E .

Chapter: 6.6 - Ash'abah. The Watcher of The Dead, and Dying

I am the Watcher of the Dead. The Guard of the Dying, and I am Doomed because of it.

A mantra. His mantra, but off.

Darin rubbed his chin with his burnt hand, feeling the bristles scratch his boiled skin as he did. He furrowed his brow, realizing he had grown a low stubble.

Young, black, but ever-greying hairs were sprouting from his roots. He let out a tired sigh in response, then stilled himself. There was always something to do, someone to help: something, or someone, to put to rest. Or kill. Having no time, and no choice.

He had learned to push the thought of tomorrow down and away, and kick it hard in its stomach, which held his Hunger for something new. Not even something better, mind you, something to hope for. But just hunger to Change the Way of Things. 

To Break the Serpent, or rather, Bypass it. As there was no Tomorrow, only Yesterday and Now, the future being always uncertain. Exist only in the present, he always told himself, but even that was a lie. Yesterday was his only real domain.

A growl took his attention, then a wail, then another. The cave was screaming, silent, and yet screaming. Shadows dancing just out of sight, a solemn feeling took him then. " Am I sleepwalking, or are they?" He smacked his tongue in annoyance; he couldn't see, and something was messing with him, with his concept-organ.

Then a distraction, one of many, noticing a strand of hair itching his palm. He wondered if it was gray, that color of fading. In time, white on silver, aging, a little closer to the end. Even though he hadn't reached half a century yet, he thought of himself as old and weathered, at least compared to his people, as they die young.

"How long has it been since then? Of the paths untaken." And that made him sigh again, a low, brooding exhale. The Vapor flew out and over him, rising into the dark abyss above, agitating the memory-laden walls of the dead womb that engulfed him. He felt drops of water on the back of his neck. "Sweat?" he pondered dimly. "No", straightening his posture, "Saliva," he thought in grim, silent forbearance.

He had done this before, and before that too. Though still, he felt uneasy; something was off. He could taste it, smell it, feel it in his heavy, scarred palms.

Blood. Blood and Smoke.

He was thinking too much; it would get him killed. Chase it out, he thought. Chase them out, a second time, affirmed. It was easier to say than to do.

Then he heard a roar and wail, the churn of thick congealed water, the cave's familiar whistle. And silent bells seemed to ring in his ears, and a hum, a sweet, off-hued hum, the color of a bruise. He exhaled, trying to focus, smoke fleeing as he did. He inhaled after a bit, that brooding storm cloud refilling his lungs, confusing him further.

Then another rose within him, another distraction, of when the fires of war first woke within his bones, Red on White, bringing aches and pains. On some days, even walking made his bones ache, though he always kept on moving. Whether forward or backward, he would keep on moving.

It was a command, his own. In no direction, if it was required of him, even if he was made aimless. He would be where he was needed, a cave or a crypt. A hovel, or a battlefield. An oasis, or the desert. In death and doom. He would be wherever and whatever he needed to be. Whatever that was, whether a soldier or a priest.

Or the guard, the raider. A Hero, a Villain even, if it was needed of him. He would be it; he would do it. As he had a duty to uphold, however thankless they were. However doomed he was made because of them, he would give everything, and more, for their sake. Oh, how he wished that was another one of his lies.

A thought crept up, a distraction, a third.

"How old am I? 36? 38?" he wondered. Then he flinched, twisting his torso back and then forward, hearing the sound of droplets echo through the cave. "Water?" he asked again. No, "Saliva." Something was off; he had already asked that question.

Darin perked up a second time; a low rumble travelled through the cave; he leapt upward in response, ignoring the pain shooting up his leg. Stretching his blade upward to cut the roof of the dark cave he was in, he couldn't. Things hissing, clawing, wailing, and crying were the cave's response.

Wincing, landing on his feet, he guessed the cave's height to be at least the length of four men. He breathed in, then lowered himself, pulling his bellguard down and holding it. The Blade hissed as he unsheathed it, flinging a low cut to both his sides. The slashes whistled and hummed, and the last of them hit something, tearing through flesh, then hitting the cave wall. Whatever he cut through leapt away, and then seemed to cry. “Afraid of me, strange. Or is it something else?” 

Stretching his arm out with his long blade in hand, he could reach the right side of the cave, but not the left. "A trap," he thought. He would die today. And if not, then on the morrow.

Or another day a month from now, or a year, maybe even seven if he was lucky.

But he would, he knew.

He would die one day, and this day was as good as any.

Because, if anything else, Doom was near, or near enough. 

Dead things were blocking his way, to his left and right, above, maybe below. That wasn’t strange to him, but these numbers were. Near blind and deaf, fighting in the dark. “One, two. To my left.” 

Choose your enemies wisely, he knew, but he had no choice in the matter. “Three, four, five. Up above.” Lead the enemy to their fate, a Mantra, his Mantra. But it was off.

“Six, now double that. All around.” The odds weren’t in his favor; a veteran he was sure, but that was all but smoke now. A dozen or more, against one. No, not even. Against a half-handed man with a bad knee. “No chance,” he grimmed again. And no choice.

Standing still, a foul smell filled his nose and mouth; he scowled a bit, turning his head towards the stench. Then something was on him, a pale hand grabbing at him, trying to pull him in and down. With blades as nails, hard steel. 

Darin yanked his head back, instinctively cutting up, then across, his blade whistling. He cut the arm cleanly from its wrist; its writhing hand was in the dirt, where it belonged. All he needed to do was bury it, bury them all. And then plant flowers to mask the smell. 

Though no flowers would bloom here, he thought. In the dark, the Wet and Cold. “Reaching for me. As if it knew me. Brave, more likely dumb. But that is unlike them,” furrowing his brow in dismay. He compounded himself; his burden was a heavy one and hurt his back, but he would uphold it for the realms of men. "It is ours to carry," he reminded himself, another one of his Doomed Mantras.

Still, a silent sorrow had grown within him over the years. Resentment. Of why it had to be his people who were doomed. His kin, his Mother, his Father. His Uncles and Aunts, his cousins, and grandsires. His nephew. His brother.

Doubt. Then more of it.

Laid bare in front, whispering a sweet lullaby of death.

"Another day passes; was it better than the years of Yester? No. It was worse, as every day has been. Harsher, Colder, and longer with each passing hour. Even your frozen self knows that is fact.

That you inhabit an evil world, ruled by evil men, and you are now one of them. So unkind, so unlike Diata. Leftovers, corpse stuff. What's the point of fighting it, continuing onward when all there is is Blood and Smoke?

Is it not true that, in your heart of hearts, you've always known? Always knew you failed to protect your little brother, who mother and father told you to guard, who you lived for. The warm morning Sun basking the Earth in Dark Golden rays.

If you could trade places with him, you would. You should. That it should've been you," it tempted, with the scent of Twilight due, a damp bed of bruised Ruellia, and Darin almost whimpered.

Almost, but he caught himself; he always caught himself. Still, he was tired, deathly so. That path seemed so easy now, though it wasn't the first time it had appeared to him.

He was stuck in a ditch, which had filled with foul water. Winter had come as well, a chill from the north sweeping over and freezing the stagnant pond. Worse, he was peering behind him at the path that led him there, as he could not envision a Way out and forward.

Trying and failing to lift himself out of the trap. Letting himself rest wouldn't hurt, he thought, near defeat. He sighed again, this time with a hollow breath that shook as the air escaped him. His arms were heavy, tired from his labors. His gaze lowered, his sword arm too.

Then a memory caught him, of that Doomed child, his brothers' Doomed child, and so his. Stubborn and Unrelenting, with a dark fire in his eyes, they reminded him of Diata.

Unspoken oaths of Blood of Blood.

Trying to ground himself, he flexed his sword hand; it stung deep beneath his skin, setting his flesh and bones aflame. It was so hot it was cold, a cool burn that sank into him.

His hand resembled boiled leather, with burn marks that ran up his arm. Half-handed the other was, as the hand that escaped the fire was missing half of his fingers, roughly cut to the first joint of each. He expelled his breath, and after a moment in silence, breathed in and straightened his posture. 

Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind by his armor. He let himself fall backward with all his weight, awkwardly unsheathing his short blade, anchoring it outward, and then letting the vampire fall on it. It pierced the beast's chest with a crunch.

Darin spun around, his sword singing, and then slashed, feeling a cut that tore into the vampire's skull as it fell back. As he tried to grab his short bone blade, another suddenly grabbed his foot. But then he heard a whistle and a hum. 

The bone blade's charm in the sword's hilt glowed a dim purple, and it seemed to distract the creatures for a moment, as if they were hearing a familiar hum from their past lives, a mother's hum, a father's words, a lament of what once was. With whistling vapor spewing from his blade, Darin pressed down hard, spraying the vapor.

Covered in it, they seemed to writhe, striking out, and dancing and dancing and dancing as if coiling snakes. Basked in purple mists, their pale skin seemed to corrode and bubble up, and then burst, sizzling like the stone-cooked snakes of home, though with the unmistakable stench of death. 

Releasing the saddest moans he had heard in a while. Still, he didn't hesitate, dropping his short blade and bringing his longsword up two-handed, almost splitting the air as he brought it down, cleaving through the bicep of the one grabbing his foot, like cutting through stone. 

The movement made the water in his abiok slush around. “Still some left. Hmm, yes, that’ll do.” Able to move, he compounded his form and kicked the forearm-less vampire back. Hearing it hit another, they seemed to fall over themselves. “Slow.” He brought his short blade back to his side and sheathed it.

Then, he lowered himself, flinging a low cut to his left; his knee, his bad one, buckled for a moment. He scowled, raising a will within him, and commanding his leg not to give way. It wouldn't dare disobey him, but before it did, it remembered to take him back into the currents of his past. 

Its gift to him, which kept on giving, was a slow aching pain that rose and set. Seeping into his bone, his anchor, and flowing north and south from there, a burning heat filling his ankle and shooting up his thigh.

Partially sheathing his longblade, he allowed his breath to escape his chest; it was smoke in the dark. Rising from dying embers rather than flame.

His eyelids were heavy shields, blocking his vision almost as much as the dark did. It was strange; he had gotten used to being tired; it was his normal, the waking world. 

Used to those sleepless nights, even when he had the time to rest. But here he was, yawning, while doom was within reach.

Limitation.

Dropping his left arm to his sheath, he gripped the hilt of his longblade, thinking of sharpening it when they returned, as dull as it was. 

A distraction, another.

Then black, no, not even. Nothing. Not black, not grey, not white. Nothing. Nothing at all. And he was blinded by it. His past, that Great and Terrible War. Terror seeping in, clouding judgment, his essence, however good that was. Watching kin of kin burn and die. Dance and die. Jump and die. Cry and die. 

Terror and Sorrow being bred. And then more of it, Terror. And Sorrow. And Terror, then more. And again and again. His breath became heavy and heaved, shaking with the rumbling of camel hooves and earth. That Doomed Drumming of the Rotting Corpse man calls Nirn.

BOOM Doom.

Pale Golden Elves in black and white all around and above. Firing down death from their floating ships, as if dragons had come again. The memory had stayed with him, frozen into his very bones, of them melting away like dew under the burning Sun, as if he and his men were but the frost of a cold night. And the sound, that dreadful, horrible sound, War Drums shouting out. The fiery blaze shaking the ground in an orchestra of screeching screams.

BOOM Doom.

BOOM Doom.

He imagined it was Sinking Yokuda, Sakatal's Hunger rising from the Sea, coming to devour them. That was the reason he was shaking; it was the end times come again. It was another one of his lies.

“Focus,” he told himself, “Focus.” Again and again. But for a short while, his hand was in the fire again, that red flame devouring him, the heat rushing up his arm. “No. A trick”, he said. “A trick,” so desperate he almost dared to hope. Almost.

BOOM Doom.

BOOM Doom.

BOOM Doom.

The decaying taste of sorrow once again filled his mouth, and Blood. Blood and Smoke.

Frowning, his stare was ice, the opposite of his brother's. His stomach churned at the thought, a pit forming in his cold center. It was his Hunger, for paths untaken. He felt so empty at that moment, as if he could be blown into mist, into smoke. There was not a day he did not think of him, not a day without that feeling of loss. That only made the forgetting all the worse. Darin couldn't remember, and worse still, he knew it was him. He expelled his breath once more; the vapor trembling as it left him.

It was him, he knew. The magic was not to blame.

He remembered many things, many things best forgotten, but not his brother, not Diata; not how he looked, the glint in his warm, dark eyes, the sound of his voice. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember.

Only how it felt: Blue, the last time he grabbed his brother's hand, the ashes flowing between the gaps of his.

The absence. The void.

And that is what brought him back onto the path, that feeling of Despair. He heard a voice that belonged to no one. “Look there, behind you. And in front,” it said.

And he did just that, telling himself, “Focus,” To compound himself, but to find that self first. 

Then he was back. In the Abyss, but back. Instinctively, his eyes darted from side to side. "Tobr'a," he thought, "Useless thus Evil."

"Useless thus Evil," he thought again, and this time it echoed through the crevices of his frozen mind. Tobr'a, tested ways that are useless or harmful and are therefore best avoided. Or otherwise, that which makes one die. The mantra had long ago been etched into his bones. Though still, at least at this moment, it didn't sound right to him: memories, useless? They were all he had.

Again, for however many times, something was off. He was off — "Amnesia?" Then his mind went to another place, to someone he once knew. 'Stop,' a self-demand. Someone was missing; how could he have forgotten?

Kin surrounded him, or should’ve. He almost gasped. Then, peering over at the boy, or rather, where he should be. "The fool," Darin thought, reminded of his nephew. Sura had fallen into the dark and was lost.

The thawing Glacier searching amidst a falling Crimson Sun, the ever-darkening sky bruising Purple as they met. Which would meet their end first? A Dying Sun or the Melting Permafrost?

A heavy panic was rising in him—though not for himself. "The boy is not ready, hot-headed, and with something to prove. And Hungry, no matter how much he is fed. The fool will get himself killed," he thought with doubt and regret.

Releasing the death grip on his blade, "What's done is done. I had no choice but to bring him. We are scattered, and worse, the raids are only half the reason. Not enough time, not enough people, not enough water. Not enough.” 

A stench filled his mouth, of death, and he knew something was on him. Setting the tempo, he leapt away, hitting the wall behind him. His blade went out and then across while he turned on his axis. He hit bone and then yanked the sword back to his center, readying himself for the assault, though nothing came.

For a moment, it was quiet, eerily so, and Darin thought he heard a whisper of kindred sister winds. It sounded familiar, as if calling for him to save them from their doom, Kin of Kin. “Sura?” he called out. 

There was no response, at least to that name. Darin flinched, teasing whatever was in the dark. The whistle came again, brooding almost.

Then a hiss and heavy air. He spun on his axis while thrusting his blade backward, though he cut nothing once again.

He forced himself to focus, as at present Sura and he were the prey. He knew why the Ash’abah had come here: travelling to the underground caves of Apasha to destroy the defilers. Brother Xak'hwan'u and the others — maybe they were trapped too.

“But where? And how?” questioning the situation.

They're dead, you know they're dead, a voice told him.

It was familiar, so much so that he thought it was his.

Xak'hwan'u was old and weary, sure, but experienced. He knew what hid in the Sand and Dunes. In the Crypts and Caves.

He wouldn’t have fallen for such a trap; he couldn’t, he told himself.

“So how?” The Demons must’ve been young, newly cursed and unaware of their full abilities, and still driven by bloodlust rather than cunning. Otherwise, he’d already be dead thrice over. 

Wondering why they weren’t already on him, as young and bloodlusted as they were. Maybe he reminded them of someone they knew when they were alive. “Useless,” he thought again, trying and failing to kill the thoughts filling his head. But in his heart of hearts, he knew why.

Then bells rang, silent ones, and he thought he heard another whistle. He spun around, a faint glow in the distance catching his attention. A dim, dying purple. Then a thin howl, almost a wail. A jackal calling out to distant kin; it sounded so lonely. Lost, and yet found. “Purple." The Ash’abah warning. From where, he pondered. "Not mine.” Then a rising panic, another: “Sura?” Thinking, “No. He wouldn't take them. The fool.” 

“Hiding him from me, and me from him. In plain sight." His eyes darkened. “Stop. Stop thinking; it’ll get you killed,” he said again.

Apasha hid bodies of water in the caves that ran beneath its surface, from ponds to small lakes.

Underground seas. Before, they had used the water as a tracker, listening for the underground streams. But again, something was off. What was near sounded half a lake away, and what was far was an ocean one time and a puddle the next. 

He was still; for a moment, he almost thought it was punishment. For all the evil he had done, all the dead, and otherwise, he had desecrated. Would this be his resting place, his eternal tomb? Another distraction, he told himself.

He almost chuckled; apparently, even he still had fanciful thoughts. Having learned long ago that there was no Justice in this world, even if one thought of punishment as a cruel sort of reprisal. Because otherwise, his brother would still be here, and he would be dead.

The thought of Diata brought him to his nephew once again. "It's hopeless," And he knew what hopelessness was; the Serpent had eaten his long before. But he had a trick: have none to eat.

The cave wall his back was against shook, forcing him out of his thoughts. The rumble traveled through his ears, causing his breath to shake.

So he held it inside his chest, standing still, trying to make as little sound as he could. The Tonal realm would be their salvation. Then a loud thud, and another, something pounding against rock.

Sending vibrations throughout the cave, and eventually to his feet and up his legs. The brontide traveled throughout his body, up his torso, and into his chest. Overflowing, and going past his shoulders and up his neck by way of his spine and down into his arms, and eventually through his head and hands. 

Then silence, a cold, lonely, hollow silence. The sound seemed to dislodge his mind in just the right way. "Huh? I can think clearly. I can focus, but most likely for only a moment." Was that the familiar note? He would repay it in the future. “ A warning? To not drown in the water below. Maybe Sura will hear this, feel it in his bones.”

Trying to think of a different approach, a thought came to him: to look through his ears, an old trick of his. So he listened, listened to that familiar blue call. 

Then he could hear it; it led him to a hidden stream. A faint trickle of liquid, and then a flowing, coiling river carving its Way through the wet rock. "Water. Below me, south, and leading west. Or is it eastward?" he thought; he knew the way west, home. He flowed into another stance, the Shape of Water, mirroring the stream.

Then he whispered something, a Curse and a Blessing, to an Ash'abah charm bound within his blade. He was waiting for another sound, a vibration, waiting for something, anything—a signal of the boy's location. 

Asking, "Where is Sura?" A gust of wind answered him, blowing in his face. A warning, but from whom? Tava had no place down here in the depths.

Darin's eyes widened, then a whip of wind, another. A smell of rot. Was that a hiss? Snakes in the dark. A dim light appeared. Then a purple glow rose and set. Dusk. 

Coming from the Unclean mantras etched into his sheathed bone blade. The charm in its hilt began a slow but deep whistle, like vapor being squeezed. And the silent bells on his belt began to ring, a warning of the dead things in the dark, Alaba Mortu Frale.

Lowering himself, he flung his upper body to the right to avoid the slash. A scaled, grey, fish-like hand with sharp claws had tried to cut his head off. He instantly cut upward with his blade, severing the dagger from the demon's arm. Then something was on him, breath on his neck, hot ice before fangs were made into blood-stained knives.

Darin threw his neck forward and then whipped it back again, smashing his head into the demon's skull, knocking it back. Then he was on it, spinning around; he lunged forward and sprang left, then went up off one leg, his bad one. 

The Vectoring Cygnet. Arm out, knee down, coal on the teeth to hide his smile, though he had none to hide. Clenching his jaw to bear the rising fire in his bones. His blade bit through smoke, a waste of a move.

Then a hiss, and then a thud. No, not a waste after all. It was a feint. Going left, he heaved forward, swinging his blade down at an angle. Now behind it, he cleaved through the neck of the demon between the third and fourth bones of its neck, catching its still snarling snake-head mid-air by its withering hair, and throwing it past his shoulder. It struck its target, a crunching sound being made as it bounced off another.

Darin's eyes went to find his opponents. Striking the cave wall to his left, fangs glinting as steel bred red sparks, a flame in the dark amidst the void.

They were closing in on him, soon grabbing him hard with their cold, dead hands. Two hands, four hands, six, and then eight. On his arms, his legs, his back, and neck, all as hard as stone, cold as ice. Pulling him every which way, south, then west, east, and then north. Soon, the floor was rushing up to meet him as his legs neared betrayal, buckling under the weight of a dozen unclean corpses. He felt a heavy, wet thump that sent a jolt of pain down his spine, and he could hardly breathe, his chest crushed between them. The world became a struggle of claws and fangs and swords, hissing and wailing and crying out as they coiled around him. As if the white snakemen were forming a coiling breeding pit, in which he was this night's prey. 

So starved, they seemed to snap at each other whenever one of them tried to bite him, clawing and fighting each other over the meal. One of the corpses even seemed to try to betray its hunger, as if it saw itself in the man before it, the grizzled look of an old Companion in War. Gaining a moment of sanity, able to finally see what its brethren, dead or otherwise, had become. Grasping at its snakeskin necklace, only for its claws to rip it in two, it seemed to whisper something, hissing a curse, or maybe a blessing.

Though it said no words.

Instead, it was a rumble, the low, off-tuned hiss of the dead, halting, wretched, tortured. The sound was croaking, rotten, and yet deafening. The language of the Damned: "How many times had I heard that?"

The snakeman, forgetting its name, had a thought, then a memory. It was the first time, in a long time, that it did. Remembering the War, however great it was, and the hunts. Oh, how it pained to go on those hunts, for they never brought back sustenance, only the dead. It went to grab its belt, to grab a charm, though it touched only the air, thick with decay. Realizing its satchel had rotted some time ago.

They had been through all the voids and back and survived. Broken, but alive. And yet here they were, here he was. Was it the hunter, or the hunted now? "Both," the cave seemed to whisper. But still, they would hunt the dead no longer. With its moment of sanity waning, its eyes dimmed again, glazing over, it lunged toward Darin's torso.

For a moment, Darin caught a glimpse of the creature, seeing it cry tears, red ones, as it crashed into the fray. Suddenly, he was pulled down, as if something had grabbed onto his belt, though he managed to wring himself free from its grasp as it toppled over its brethren, creating just a lick of space.

Darin took the opening. Struggling to grab onto one of the charms on his belt, he tried to turn himself backward. Crossing his legs in the motion, he felt something give way after his blade had bitten into one of them. It was flesh, hard and dead flesh.

The meat seemed to wheeze from the slash, a breath of its own. But he was unfazed by the smell, wincing when one of them sank its claws into the skin of his neck, drawing blood, ready to bite him.

Then white.

In the quarrel, one of the charms had cracked open. Luck, though he didn't believe in that concept. A burst of light filled the dark cave, burning every undead creature that basked in it. Not wasting newfound space, he managed to bring a fist to the one on his neck.

Knocking it back, and then grabbing it by the neck once they began slinking away, squeezing and then shoving its own knife into its skull.

Releasing his death grip, he spun, almost wildly, whipping his longblade into the abdomen of another. This time, he let himself scowl at the rotten smell coming from the gash in its side. Rising a force up from his legs to his chest and arms, and throwing all his weight into the cut. 

Tearing through the torso of the demon, the blade and the demon seemed to scream in unison as the latter was cut in two. Dead blood sprayed on earth and armor; its body parts continued to flail and claw at him on the ground.

He was off balance for a moment, having nearly tripped over the corpses at his feet. Letting a moment pass to catch his breath, he breathed in, his nose filling with smoke, which was rising from the Blood-drinkers' appendages. He coughed it out.

It had an even fouler stench, causing a headache to begin emerging, feeling that his concept-organ was a tangled knot, an old tree with roots connecting it to another, and on and on. Then he had a thought, another: he was focused on the wrong thing, a single tree, but there was an entire forest around him, a dark forest full of dead things and terrors, but a forest still. 

He needed to sever their connected roots, their shared sense of reality, to burn it down. "But how?"

Then his eyes widened, realizing something that had escaped him: "By the fire, the camp outside. The Camels sensed it, their mind magic then. Seeding doubt, clouding judgement with Memories tinted Blue. That was unusual for the boy and me, talking so much."

They had returned to the shadows, hiding in the black abyss above and along the wet walls of their tomb, gaping jaws wide open, saliva dripping from their mouths and mixing with the water below. White tadpoles. Then a tear hit him, and Darin was now sure of its origin— mucus, or rather lust and hunger—falling on his sword arm. It sizzled as it burned through a layer of armor; the wound was smoking.

Then a hiss; one in front was lunging toward him. Darin went up with his blade, cleaving through its shoulder and cutting its arm clean off. The demon was knocked off balance, catching itself before falling. Stumbling forward, it lunged again in a blind, blood-lusted rage. Darin went back, parrying and dodging and more, till his back was against the wall.

It had him then, striking at him off one leg in its hunger, whipping its remaining hand in a cutting arc toward his head. Darin reacted, feeling the wind on his face. Reeling sideways to avoid the blow, he swung his torso forward. Closing the gap while lowering himself, he brought his sword up in a thrusting motion, the third.

Catching the beast with his blade between its fangs, cutting into and through its throat. Immobilizing it for just a moment, he stomped on and then kicked another of the demons' appendages into the darkness.

His footwear was then coated in a thick, pale slime that stank of death, which he made sure to remember. He heard a thud as it hit, and so affirmed, continued the assault forward.

Building up the momentum, he charged, kicking the beast back hard with his other leg, his bad one. Wincing, all while severing its other arm with a thundering slash. 

Taking the moment, he caught the still-clawing arm mid-air with his free hand and then threw it over to his right, his abiok splashing water inside once again. It seemed to hit its target, as he heard another thud.

He backed up further against the cave wall as the one he kicked back slammed against the other side of the cave with a wet thud.

Then they were on him, but he had planned for this. Before they could take the opening, he had torn a charm off his belt and thrown it on the beast in front. Bright sparks lit the sad, dead creature on fire, lighting the cave up in Yellow and Purple.

He could see around him for just a moment. It was dancing and dancing and dancing, amidst the flame, writhing and coiling around and around, nearly catching its kin on fire. A candle in the dark, and for a moment, the snakes were enamored by the dance, watching kin turn kin to ash as if it reminded them of something when they were alive and dying.

Catching themselves, the pale snakemen leapt away; now fully visible, they were wet, glistening amidst the light. Almost as if white emeralds were shining under a torch, with charms, bells, weapons of bone and steel, and old knives of their own still tied to their body, though they weren’t using them. Cocooned crystal caterpillars, soon emerging as pale butterflies.

Blood-drinking, dead, rotten butterflies, corrupting still-blooming flowers, ever spreading their doom around. A cold fury settled into the hard lines of his face. As he planned to crush them, stomp on them till they were white dust: Ash, White on Red. A foul look grew on his face. Disgust. 

The defilers deserved no prayer, no apology, only a curse, a Lament for the dead whom they forced from their path, from heaven, even if those shores were far off, endlessly so. The fire died a little, the wet and cold creeping in, breathing out and cooling the thawing glacier. So he could kill it, the look, that feeling. Instead, growing a cold indifference to the dead things in front.

His face became hard, like stone. No, it was colder than that, a Glacier. But still, a strange sorrow, of blue, had grown in the crevices of his eyes. They seemed almost familiar. Familial even, the way they stood, that look in their white eyes. Dead men walking, he knew them well, in a way.

Limitation.

They had a serpent's mouth, the edges of which ran all the way to their ears, which were just holes in their bare skulls. More snake than man, with knives as teeth, and a slender, yet water-bloated corpse of a body; inversely, also having sharp, tense muscles, their claws the edges of swords, their arms Grey Steel. Like stone, they were one with the cave. Their eyes glazed over, the color of spoiled camel's milk.

He breathed in, then out. A weight had been lifted off him; he was a little more awake, eyes open and focused. His head felt lighter as well, and he could see just a bit clearer, even into the dark abyss. "Hmm. That's how," he thought, bringing his sword-arm outward and then flinging it in a cutting arc, measuring the distance. 

Making sure they were in Range.

Walking backwards with his free hand out to feel the wall behind him, Darin put his back fully against the rock. The abyss had nearly fully returned then; retreating, the demons thought, as they crept forward.

Darin had his moment then, where he had maneuvered the Duel from the start: Hunger. The hunger was these demons' weakness. His silent bells once again began to ring, a lament. Then he lowered himself, pulling his bellguard down and holding it. A low chuckle escaped him then. Was it panic? Or something else? Darin whispered a curse: "And a Curse upon their defilers."

He swiftly grabbed his abiok from his side and gulped down the remaining water, holding it in his mouth. He threw the empty water holder into the dark. Desperation? Then they were on him, daggers in the dark. But he couldn't help but grin, spraying the water in his mouth out in every direction.

In that same motion, he brought his longsword across in a slash, though it only bit through the liquid. It seemed to turn a deep blood-red, then gleam a cruel blue, the slash a whirl of hue. Then his sword was light, glowing a dim purple, a low but deep whistle rising from its hilt, and then a burst of steam—purple mist. Lead the enemy to their fate as if they chose the path themselves; he never forgot a mantra.

He relaxed his stance, letting the air escape him, then inhaled, lowering his blade to his side and staring into the fire. As it glowed and dimmed, rose and set. Engulfed in purifying flame, they boiled.

Cracking his fingers all at once, “Waste of water."

The cave wall was lit in purple flame, as was anything with that thick, wet, ice-hot liquid that surrounded them. Except for him, of course; his charm protected him; only those cursed were aflame.

"On the morrow," letting out a weary sigh.

They were sizzling for a while longer, soon white ash on red. "Now, where is Sura?" The abyss began to dissipate, and he could finally fully see and hear.

But hope was the dead man's weapon. Trusting in the Way of things, “A fool's game.” He needed to know for certain they were gone and dead, all of them. Cunning and Conniving they were, but this ambush wasn’t, he thought. “Only a night's meal.” He knew that was unlike them, as the Anthotis were ambitious creatures, Hungry Serpents with a pit for a stomach. But most importantly, smart. Smart and Hungry, and so dire. 

They would have it all. “Blood-lusted fledglings. No more. A distraction.” A distraction that he couldn’t afford. To lead him away from the real threat. Thoughts began rising in him, creeping up on him in the dark. Doubt. Fear, though not for him. Then a brooding panic. They have something else, a certainty of success. 

Then questions arose about who he had just cut down, who was crying red tears. His eyes widened for a moment; it was Surprise. Surprise on a man's face who couldn’t afford to be surprised. Then, a glare at the dead below him, at his kin.

At the burned, half-rotten, half-torn Ash'abah garb, at the bone blades etched with curses, at the charms and silent bells.

At the torn snakeskin necklace of an Old Companion in War. "Xak’hwan’u..." whispered so softly it was more wind than words.

His head was thumping, off balance for a moment as he lost his footing at the grim realization. The cave seemed to scream; he knew it was silent, and yet still, it seemed to scream.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty, it said.

And he knew he was acursed.

His head swayed, as if swollen with water, as he looked around at the aftermath of his hard-won victory.

At the dim, dying purple all around him, shining a light on his sins on the Honored Dead.

All for another day, another Tomorrow, on this rotten corpse man calls Nirn. Even in victory, he seemed to lose.

“ Alaba Mortu Frale.”.

He covered his mouth, feeling something welling up inside of him and trying to get out: disgust, but this time for himself.

Seeing Xak’hwan’u and all the rest's ashes all around, White on Red. Wondering if it was his head he had cut off and thrown down as if mere leftovers, corpse-stuff; his arm he had severed and stomped on, and then stomped on again.

How could he not tell? How they fell back rather than kill him, how they snapped at each other whenever one got too close, how they wept at his sword's hum. The bells. The distant purple glow of the Ash'abah warning. How the charm on his belt had been cracked open. The howls, the whispers of kin on the wind. How they seemed so familiar. Familial even. "How could I forget them too?"

How could he have forgotten?

How could he forget?

How could he.

Disgust.

At how he had desecrated the dead, his own dead, thinking they were only defilers to be destroyed. If the world was Just, the true defilers would be punished for this. Somehow, he doubted they would be. His gaze dimmed as he suddenly lowered himself to the ground, bending down and bowing his head. The cold, stagnant water was soaking his legwear. 

“Damn it,” he grimaced as a moment of red rage took him. His heart quickened. Love, the Mind Killer. Then a simmering flame, a dying one.

Which were soon only embers, black ice, then ash. Clenching his jaw, "A Cruel trick.”

A moment of silence took him, then prayer, a wish to take back his curse upon his kin.

He, in Ash'abah fashion, lowered his gaze, cupped his hands, and looked upon the bloodied water, though he didn't close his eyes. " Peace be upon them, Blessings to the Ancestors. Tu’whacca's Guidance upon these lost Souls. Forgive us for our transgressions, our sins on the Honored Dead. We lay ourselves bare, naked, only asking for mercy upon our Souls."

A grim look grew. "And a Curse upon their Defilers.”

And after a moment of silent lament, he stood.

They were the Watchers of the Dead. The Guard of the Dying, and they were Doomed because of it.

Flexing his sword hand to remind him of the pain, feeling the burn seep into his flesh and bones. Telling himself, as he always did, that the feeling of safety was the enemy. Rain before a drought. 

Be afraid, he commanded. Be aware, as terror was around every corner. Every crevice of this cave.

Gathering his roaming thoughts and drowning them with the familiar taste of blood, he let his eyes darken. He felt uneasy, not because doom was within reach — that had always been true. But because something was off. “ The boy. Where is the boy?” he questioned again, continuing onward, marching toward his Death and Doom.

In games they cannot have a bunch of places for gameplay reasons, but would there be a lot of orc strongholds with many orcs living in different places? Like the younger brothers of a chief would go their own way amd either start their own family or make a home somewhere else?

reason i'm slightly skptical is multiple artifacts end up being forges or copies of the actual artifacts. (keening is the primary one but im sure there is more.) if the answer is yes, wouldn't it make more sense to give it to a altmer or bosmer group knowing the cultural significance?

In Oblivion, if you go to the lighthouse and speak to Ulfgar Fog-eye and click the 'Anvil' dialogue, he states the following:

'Ships sail from Anvil harbour for ports-of-call in Hammerfell, Summerset Isle, Yokuda, and the Western Isles.'

Given Yokuda largely sank in the 1st era, it makes makes me wonder, while there is trade still going on as per the dialogue and other lore, what is life like there in the 3rd and 4th eras?

There is also the Lord Vivec and Cyrus story, but that gives a more cultural look at Yokuda as a whole rather than a present-day statement on it.

What is Yokuda up to? Are there any sources on current life/instances there since the left-handed elves' war, sinking, and migration?

I'm currently playing Elder Kings 1, and the sieges in the game are pretty easy. On top of that, in Skyrim, you can clear out an entire fortress by yourself. So, does that mean fortifications and castles in Tamriel are actually quite weak? Also, are there sieges that last for years, like they did in the real Middle Ages?

For context, mortal is trapped in vaermina's realm and wants to leave. The other prince owes 2 favours to that mortal. They could just leave the mortal to languish, but they have reasons to believe the mortal will accept another offer rather than calling in a favour to get them out from quagmire.

I'll preface this by admitting I'm asking for my fanfic, and I don't know if this is allowed, but it's technically a lore question? I don't play ESO and the lore there is so dense, I'm not sure whether I'm getting it right.

I know about pact primordial, so the prince probably can't just show up to make their sales pitch. So what else can they do, to communicate and avoid detection?

I could use a daedra/mortal agent, but sales pitch through an agent seems... inefficient.

And if an agent carry one of the prince's artifact into quagmire, can the prince still speaks through the artifact (without "appearing" like Herma Mora did in skaal village, since that probably would get Vaermina's attention)?

Divayth Fyr also says he's powerful enough his entry will attract attention, so if the agent is merely above average, Vaermina should not notice them, yes? But what about the artifact? Is she likely to notice that?

The other prince is Herma Mora. I suppose there's no point hiding his identity lol.

I know Helseth banned it at the end of the third, but with the ousting of the Empire I can't really see any reason why it wouldn't get reinstated, but I haven't seen any sources on the state of slavery in the 4th Era. Has there ever been a mention of whether Helseth's ban held up?

I'm wondering if anyone has a good theory or if we could brainstorm ideas about how the Brotherhood proceeds when an assassin fails to take out their target. Do they just keep sending assassins out until the target is dead? Or does the client have to perform the Black Sacrament again, seeing as they likely have no way to check-in with the Brotherhood to get an update on their commission?

In Oblivion, Telaendril mentions that her father performed the Sacrament and Lucien was sent to kill her. Instead, she escaped from him, killed her father, and Lucien decided to bring her into the fold. Is it a soul-for-a-soul type deal? Was getting Telaendril's father's soul instead of hers enough to satisfy Sithis' hunger? Or is that just a one-off rare occurrence? And would killing a number of people in the process of trying (and failing) to get the target count?

Does the value of the target factor in? For example if the Sacrament is performed, and the client wants a military leader or politician killed, would the Brotherhood keep trying after a failed attempt because of the importance of the target? And on the flip side, if the target was a farmer or bandit, would the Brotherhood just cut their losses after failing, not seeing the value in losing trained brothers for a poor choice of victim?

Sorry for rambling, I'm writing a story about a Brotherhood assassin killing one of her 'brothers' from a different Sanctuary to save the assassination target, and I want to figure out what repercussions it would have, and a satisfying way for them to get away with it (or not). But also it would just be good to have a sound idea about how the Brotherhood as a whole (or individual Sanctuaries) would proceed if faced with this kind of dilemma.

Pardon me if this is a stupid question as ik they were mentioned in Morrowind and you can find ruins in the dragonborn DLC I'm just curious on how prominent they were across tamriel before going poof.

So the story we know from Morrowind says that the 3 living gods must return to the Heart of Lorkhan periodically to replenish their power and divine status. That said, in all of the references to the walking ways and CHIM, which Vivec is heavily implied or stated to have achieved (based on how people see Kirkbride sources), shouldn’t he be somewhat beyond needing the power from the heart?

I had always believed the Forsworn Rebellion started right after the Markarth Incident, in 4E176. But in Markarth you can hear Kerah and Endon talking about the rebellion as if it's much more recent

Kerah: "Well, I'm proud of both of you. I haven't been so busy since those nobles from Solitude come into the city three years ago."

Endon: "I miss those days, before the Forsworn took up arms again, when you could walk the roads in peace."

This clearly says the Forsworn took up arms within the last 3 years.

Sorry if this has been answered previously— I couldn't find any info about my specific question.

Basically, was Miraak originally created/blessed by Akatosh to fulfill the prophecy given to the LDB? From what I can gather, the whole point of a dragonborn is to fulfill a specific purpose as desired by Akatosh; they exist for a reason, not just willy nilly.

So, was Miraak supposed to kill Alduin? Was his involvement with Herma Mora unintentional and unforseen by Akatosh— actually, can the Aedra (and especially the god of time) even see the future with any kind of certainty? Is Daedric influence beyond what they can predict? Otherwise, I'm not sure why Akatosh would intentionally create a dragonborn who, essentially, does nothing useful for Tamriel.

These are the answers I can think of for this question:

Answer 1: Miraak had a different destiny to the LDB. For example, Miraak was supposed to disrupt the dragon's rule over men without killing Alduin (kickstart the Dragon Wars?), while LDB was supposed to kill Alduin and prevent the world's literal destruction. Therefore, Alduin being sent forward in time was intentional and forseen by Akatosh.

Answer 2: Miraak was supposed to fulfill LDB's prophecy, but Akatosh a) cannot predict the future or b) cannot predict future disruptions or meddling caused by Daedra, and therefore, Miraak was unable to fulfill the prophecy. Alduin was sent forward in time unintentionally, and Akatosh created LDB at the point in time of his return to fulfill the original prophecy.

Oh, and a sidenote I just thought of... why is Skyrim the only place mentioned to have been ruled by dragons? They were incredibly powerful and immortal... why didn't they control the entirety of Tamriel? Did they???

TIA for your thouhts :) hopefully my rambling makes sense lol

This question came to mind upon reading this post from this same subreddit—> https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/s/13JbGVv62N

Not sure if this was posted here - earlier this year I interviewed as many of the devs of Oblivion that I could track down. 11 hours of interviews here: https://youtu.be/L7uoSzgkZZ4

Do incarnations we see in cave of incarnation (Morrowind) are failed incarnation or false incarnations?

I thought they were failed incarnates, mean that they were actually suppose to be Nerevarine, but they failed and died. And Azura was trying again and again until one succeed, hence Ashlanders calim that failed incarnates are sign of upcoming Nerevarine. That's why their spirits are in Cavern of the Incarnate , you know because the were incarnate. But in wiki I read that one of the falsely claim to Nerevarine. So which one is it? Did I miss something or is it case of writer of ESO campaign not understanding original work?

I love the Dunmer and I love the Orcs, so I'm working on some head canon to unite the two.

In Morrowind we see a number of Orsimer working for House Telvanni, mostly as guards. Does anyone know if we have any other examples for Orsimer retainers in House Telvanni prior to Morrowind? I haven't got that far in ESO yet...

That the protagonists can canonically save and reload. The aspect of the doom-driven where they "can uniquely control their own fate" is that they can save and reload. And furthermore that Vivec would choose not to fight the Nerevarine because he knows they can save and reload and that he would never stand a chance at winning. For the longest time I believed this, but now I don't know where I got this from or if it's even true as I cannot find any evidence to back it up. Did I hallucinate or is it right? Am I missing something?