Invocation of Nocturnal

The following is copied from a letter, penned by an unknown party and found pinned in place by a dagger on the door of an unoccupied home in Markarth. It is unsigned, and since the home was apparently abandoned, the original was secured by the city guard, and a copy made for the Jarl's records. Shortly after, however, the Markarth guardhouse was broken into, and the letter stolen. An investigation is still ongoing.

My dearest daughter,

You brought my attention to a discrepancy you found in a number of texts denoting summoning days, particularly that of Our Lady of Night. Is it the 3rd of Heartfire, or the 8th? Is a gold sacrifice required, or one of blood? The answer, dear child, is both simple and convoluted, as are most matters pertaining to Our Lady.

You see, the debate about the actual summoning day has never been resolved. Numerous accounts discuss how rituals succeed or fail on either date, under any moon, with any weather. It seems that The Unfathomable prefers to maintain an air of mystery around even the day of Her veneration, and will speak or be silent only according to Her whims. As instruments of Her will, we adapt and submit to such little uncertainties, for the greatest certainty of all is Mystery and Unknowing.

As such, we do not abide by the solid forms and rote rituals of other Princes. Instead of one single summoning day, where the same rites and liturgies are performed, we host a display of divine opulence: the Feast of Dancing Shadows.

The Feast is a six-day revel, but no one has ever seen it. Our Deacons, who have long since put out their eyes in reverence to the Most Holy of Mysteries, set the tables with dishware that is kept from the eyes of the other members. Rumor has it that the silverware is wrought ebony, but any attempt to confirm this is met with swift and sudden rebuke from the High Priestess. Certain sympathetic parties outside of the cult provide food and drink, though we have never been privy to what their payment consists of.

When the day of the Feast arrives, we assemble in the antechamber, and the High Priestess blinds us with her magic, before doing the same to herself. We enter in single file; the neophytes often cling to their more confident superiors, but there is no shame in this. We are all as blind children before Our Lady of Night. When we are seated at the table, our High Priestess recites the invocation, and the Feast begins.

My daughter, you have not heard such revelry in all your life. The first minutes are silent, but the sacramental wine and hallowed food strips us of our selves, allows us to truly exist as equals before the Ebon Throne. It can be... overwhelming. Some sing, or shout, or are taken by fits of laughter. Some... some are given over to powerful, inexorable passions. We sleep where we fall, wake when we rouse ourselves, and see nothing. For six days, it is as if all is stripped away but sound and smell and touch and taste.

Our Lady Nocturnal walks among us. This much I know. Not always, but often. We are blinded, it is true, but even that blindness darkens when She glides through our raucous celebration. You asked me if She is cold, for being so dark, but my child, that could not be further from the truth. She is warm, and all-encompassing. Certain among our number carry memories that stand in stark contrast to the blur of the Feast: a caress around the shoulders, a light brush against the throat. A faint ghost of lips, or breath, or laughter. We know She has been. We know She will come again.

When the final night ends, the spell breaks with the noonday sun. The blind Deacons clear the tables, and we open our eyes to rejoin the cruel world of the morning, until the next Feast begins. Thus is our companionship like the night itself: breaking, only to return at its appointed time.

Walk only in the shadows, my child.

Your loving father