Journeys through Sybandis, the Nirn That Never Was, as related by Imperial Mage Cocius Ratori

My father used to work as a shipwright for the Imperial Navy. It was his pride and joy, the latent engineer in him cherished every draft and every hammer swing, and each enormous galleon he built held his love within.

When support for the Navy was cut off, so were my father's projects. There wasn't enough manpower to disable the things, so they just dragged them to a nearby shore and left them there. My father still walked among those ships some nights, chasing off vandals and crabs. He'd bring me along, showing off the things he'd built. For a young boy, it was an unnerving experience. Here were these massive warships, hundreds of feet of wood and gold and magic, never to be finished, a loveletter of craftsmenship not fully penned. The ships always felt just on the brink of something, not dead, but never alive. I always felt like I was being watched by something unformed. My father must have felt it too, and though he delighted in being guardian of his fleet, there were some nights when he'd sit by a window, and look out over the Anvil bay at the ships. He called them "stillborn", and only now do I fully understand.

For now, I walk through a world unfinished, where color, sound, and motion are unwritten. This is the World That Never Was, this was the practice session, the prototype plane that the gods built just to see if it would work. This is Sybandis, the Stillborn Nirn.

It is simple to understand, as I said, it's simply a proof of concept, a testbed of cosmic idea. But no spirits died to make this world real, there is no law, no physics. It is a world half-built, even now as I speak I weave through unmoving flocks of skinless birds, scale mountains that have fallen away to reveal the gearwork underneath, and weave between giant scaffolding caught in mid-fall. I am the only thing real here, and even that might falter. It is no wonder that the Psjiics have put mystic locks on the entire realm, and even the Daedra avoid this silent place, fearful that its Wheels might hunger, and new Earth Bones might be formed. To even navigate this not-world, to even breathe, I must carry pieces of existence with me. A rock from a Tamriel shore, a bottle of water, not for drinking. All to remind this world that I exist. But one must take care, a foot out of place, a stumble, and you may turn an errant wheel or push down a rogue piston. And when you do, the world chugs to life, your motion and heat giving it a brief stop. The birds fly, the scaffold falls, and for a moment, you might believe this world could live, should live.

But it won't. You can't turn these wheels without great cost. You see there is no sun in Sybandis, the only thing that hangs in its bleak sky is the Eye. A great lidless pupil that sits there, unmoving, unblinking, the only proof that Sybandis has a spirit.

But it flares to life, even for a brief instant, the eye, that horrible eye, slowly moves it gaze towards you.

I don't know want to know what happens if that eye finishes its search. I have theories, but none of which I want to test. Sybandis is a unliving world, and it is best if it stays that way.