The Gods of West Reach

The Gods of the West Reach

While many travelers claim the Wrothgarian mountains to be impassable, mysterious Bretons known collectively as the Reachmen live among the treacherous mountains. Little is known about their culture, as the Reachmen shun outsiders, pass traditions orally, and leave few if any permanent structures.

The official kingdoms place a border upon the Wrothgarian mountains, dividing High Rock's West Reach from Skyrim's Reach Hold. However, the Reachmen care little for the political dealings of outsiders and recognize the cragged wasteland between Jehanna and Dragonstar, Evermor and Markarth, as one entity – The Reach.

In my travels, I met a man in Evermor claiming heritage and ostracization from one of the esoteric tribes of the western slopes. He was tall as any Altmer, and could pass as the High Elves in low light. With his face covered, perhaps even a thin Nord or lanky man of the Empire. His skin was weathered, bronzed and beaten by the sunlight and harsh winds of the mountains. His dark, wild hair covered all but the points of his ears and was filled with braids and feathers. In exchange for room, board, and drink, he told me many tales from his youth. The most interesting of them involved a ritual that signaled a boy's transition into manhood. Though he talked of the rituals with fondness, a gift for reaching “the twelfth year of his idiotic war”, what he recounted still haunts me in dreams. I fear I can still hear the Witchman whispering in the darkness. The details of the ritual are too shocking and bizarre to recount in mixed company, but I have written out the accompanying prayer (perhaps the first time these words have ever been scribed).

“Praise to the three-faced goddess, may we always act in her love. Praise be to Daebella the Lover, the woman of Spring. May she ever let our passions burn. Praise be to Mayra the Mother, the woman of Summer. May she ever warm us in her compassion. Praise be to Kynaerethi the Warrior, the woman of Winter, whose cold heart is vengeance. May she fell the weak to make way for the strong. Praise be to the Fury of the goddess, whose storms bring life and death.

Praise be to Auriel the Saviour. He waits outside the Prison's confines, ready to guide us to the heavens. His strength is in all men, so that we may resist the temptations of false permanence.

Beware Shoar, the Heartless King. His fear drives him to madness. It is the King who has trapped us in the inescapable prison. He carries the wheel to remind us that none may escape his cycles. Even the dead will awake in the Prison.

Praise be to Magnos, the First Mage, who gave us the magicks so we would rebel. We forgive him for building the prison. May the Mother grant him peace as he burns in the fires of the sun, eternally punished for his favor of mortals. Give reverence to his sons, the Priests, who teach his gifts. Highest praise to Eifrey, youngest of the brothers. He has taught us the Wild Magick. Praise as well to Heirmora, the oldest of the brothers. His Magick is the darkness in the forest. Beware Chuilinos, the middle brother, for his greed delivered him to the jailers. He has imprisoned his Magick behid walls and in scrolls, never allowing it to run free.

Beware the Jailers, Stindarr and Shenitharr, servants of the Heartless King. These brothers seek to enslave mortals with a lust for gold and silver. They drive men to the mines and convince them to scar the land with their cities. Desire is only a distraction. Know that all things are transitory, even flesh will betray. This is the goal of the Prison.

Beware the sons of the Heartless King, who enslave men and trap the Wild Magick:

Beware Mallack, who leads the southerners through the mountains. Beware Boeth, who leads the dark skinned of the east. She speaks only in lies. Beware Talos, who leads his armies from the plains. Beware of Reppgah, who leads his men from the southern deserts. Beware of Asurah, who leads the cat-men of the horizon.

Beware Paerite, who dresses as the gods of Northmen, his poison is the shameful death. Beware Sheggorath, who poisons the mind against itself.

Praise be to the War Chiefs, who lead us in rebellion:

Know Naemara, whose magick is the flesh. Know Heircine, whose magick is the skin. Know Songwain, whose magick is the blood. Know Moalagh, whose magick is the will.

Seek Daggon, he teaches us to destroy our enemies. Seek Maerda, she teaches us to heal and strengthen our brethren. It is she who taught us to tie the feathers in our hair. Seek Vaermine, she teaches us to alter the world. Seek Malfalla, who teaches us to walk in illusions.

Praise to all who stand in my favor, for the middle road leads to the Savior. As I wake, I know freedom, as I die to wake. This is the blood of the ancient and the new flesh of the prison. The Mother guide me.”

Sick from his vivid descriptions, I asked him how one man could lose so much blood and walk away, to which he replied,

“Magick.”