The Numidiad, Vol. V

Fifth Era

Skyrim

Whiterun, 5E11.

This cursed war has gone on for more than twenty years, now. I can remember its beginning, as clearly as yesterday. It may as well have been yesterday, given Numidium’s ruin of Time. I remember taking my men north out of Cyrodiil. I remember Karl and Jormund wanting to go home, only to find out that their homes were in ruin. And I remember the vise that has gripped Skyrim since then, the Bretons and then the hill-savages in the western holds and the bloody-handed Dragon Cultists in the eastern. Superstitious nonsense, we thought. We knew the “Harbingers of the Return” were just cliffracers chased out of Morrowind, but to have the Dragons return in force shortly afterwards? I would never have believed it had I not seen with my own eyes Tiber Septim atop his colossus, he and the drakes Shouting back and forth. He bent about half to his will, but the other half remain wild. They now govern Windhelm, Riften, and Winterhold. What’s left of it, anyway. The Tongues of Hrothgar came down from their summit to try and counter the menace of the Cult, but we have heard nothing save the awful roars since their departure. I pray that Shor and Kyne watch over them, and bring them to halls of valor in this life or the next.

It seems that Tamriel is spending all the disasters she has saved up for millennia in one short burst. As if Numidium, civil war, and Dragons weren’t enough, the city of Winterhold was destroyed by a tsun-ahm. Everyone thinks it was from the Dunmer slamming their “tame” sky-rock into the volcano. The Red Mountain has been erupting continuously since, and the ground around it shakes with a fury. I certainly can’t think of anything else that would cause such a wave. Dawnstar and even Solitude were hit as well, but the distance preserved them.

I wish I could say I hoped for Whiterun’s victory, or even survival, but the only surety left in the world is death. Tomorrow I lead an army south to the Fell. The mission is to destroy the hill-savages’ grip on it and open the passes to Cyrodiil, then bring southern legions north to our aid. But in my heart, I don’t believe we will succeed.

Sovngarde saraan.

Veloth

It has come down from the mountains, the gleaming shards of its skin freshly polished in Reason. The sun shines overhead, burning silently in the stillness of the day. The barrens before it stretch onwards, smoking and jagged from the eruption and the footsteps of the twinned towering constructs. The blur of their heat ripples as its massive legs stride through the wastelands, and the massive gearings of its waist grind and groan as the stone in its chest blazes as a second sun. It takes another step—

Summurset

It still seems impossible that the Starry Heart has seen not merely one, but three events of such incredible potency that each has caused a calendar reset in a single lifetime, even of the men. Perhaps the haste to change Eras is caused by a hope that a new Era will bring with it actual change (a child’s wish and folly), or perhaps the concept of time-keeping is as weakened as broken as Time itself. Still, one cannot deny that the usurpation of divinity by three men, the first new God since the hubris of the Deep Ones and seizing power from its shoulders no less, is a world-shaking event. And the destruction wrought afterwards… we cannot even lay blame at the feet of the Princes of Discord as during the early days of the Dominion. The chaos, fighting, and death of late is all on us. Perhaps this is what the lying Snake wanted us to become when he formed his trap.

The Khajiit departure still mystifies our scholars. We’d hoped that we might be able to use remnants of the Dawn Incana to bring about a lunar shift to coerce their return, but efforts have been so far unsuccessful, and our energy was best spent on immediate defence. As for the third moon of the Mane, it seems to have no effect on the tides and is only a reminder of the impossible bitterness of the southern sands. And our feral cousins in Valenwood, well, they’ve truly gone beyond any semblance of civilization. Not even the Sea Folk will sail near those hauntingly silent shores. Our only neighbors have been the Yokudan desert-folks to the north, who have always been oddly educated and civilized for men. This is fortunate, as ever since the Activation, they have provided us with some aid. And now this has come to fruit, in their means of destroying the Numidium. It will not be a clean victory, but then, what cleanliness remains in the Arena?

Upon Numidium’s latest arrival to the Tower, to lay siege yet again to our home, we sprung the trap. Our strongest Aethe-wrights formed the Great Seal as soon as it reached our walls, creating a massive dome of solidified light. The monster is trapped with us, and with a fleet of the Sea Folk who volunteered to harry it to the end. This is our death, but it shall be the death of the Machine as well. I regret only that the monster who calls himself Talos was not sealed here as well.

The Seal shrinks ever closer by the hour, and Numidium alternates between assaulting the spellform in hopes to escape it, and the Crystal Tower in hopes of shattering us and ending the trap. It will not take long, however, to pin the Golem and allow the Final Strike.

The elf shuts his journal and looks outside. He turns and screams, “Boraccag! Now!” The Yoku man stands and joins him at the sill. A massive bronze limb streaks past and slams into the tower’s structure beyond them. The building shudders, and cracks race through the crystalline walls. Dust drifts through the air. Boraccag nods silently, his eyes empty and face dead, and turns away. He walks down the hall, slowly shifting to a lope, then a run. He descends the myriad staircases, passing huddled elves and men who look at him with haunted, despairing eyes. On the outside walls, gaping holes are surrounded by the broken bodies of those who were either killed directly by the metal mountain, or who drew too strongly on the sun’s fire and destroyed themselves. The blinding light of the dome shines through each flaw in the edifice, illuminating those within with a baleful glare.

Metal screams and crystal snaps as the titanic monuments to engineering and poetry are pinned fast together. The hiss of molten metal is loud in Boraccag’s ears as golden drops plummet to the ground like rocks. Through the gaps in the Big Walker’s leg-struts, he can see the Seal fracturing against its alien skin. It will not hold forever, or even for long.

As he silently pulls his scimitar from its catch, he closes his eyes. Thirty years of life, all that he can remember living in fear and hiding and desolation, drift through his mind. His parents. His friends. Growing up in the deepest halls of those who made the monstrous construction before him. Learning only one thing for all of his remembered life: the Song of the world; the Song of his blade. His people knew only rumors of myths at the Awakening, but thirty years of sole focus work wonders for those who know how to Make their Way. And all of it led to this. And none of it would lead away.

Another crash boomed through the elven tower. Boraccag gazed in eerie quiet at the scimitar in his hands. It is a work of art, a masterpiece of metal-craft.

Casually, carelessly, he drops it.

A gargantuan brass foot crashes through the door, coming to a creaking stop a few yards before him. He sets his feet just so. Breathes in the metallic, tangy, dusty air. Closes his eyes against the shimmering, blinding light. Though the gentle glow of the form in his hands is seen only by a dying maga, he knows that it is there, as surely as he knows his hands without seeing. It is his Shehai.

Tears stream freely down Boraccag’s angular, dark face as he stands in place, momentarily frozen. His lips move in a small prayer heard by none, perhaps not even the gods.

And he swings.