Tonal Fasces of the Ancient Nords- & Others

Temple Didact [via moth-courier, for immediacy]: Tonal Fasces of the Ancient Nords

[Day of Barley]

I will, of a morrow, enter Windhelm- Kynholm- that time-weariéd city of glory- black, cyclopéan-massive, and whimpering with winds razor-lad’n with ice and ur-draconic rot- I hear their song from even here in Kynesgrove (behinde the shrieking of the woman who lodges me; I shall soon be glad to part from her animal-painted face). You shall amain know where lieth the truth anent oure theories upon the recitation of “The 500” for I have acquired assuréd entry into the annual ceremony- an old friend will purvey me shadow-wise so that my hue of skin shall not inconvenience me. It has been better for my people here, I am told, since the restoration of order- yet, still, ’twill be better not to take the chance of drawing ire, not at such a moment. There are various rumours of intrigue which I shall needs must investigate; I will inform you if aught comes of such.

I was there once before, I know I have told you. Yet that was long ago, and now, looking down from the mountainside upon an atrous pool, vaguely discernible at a distance as a decadent and corpulent collection of black towers and battlements- two centuries hence, or something more- I must wonder if my imagination has colour'd my memories across time. Funnily, I recall most of my youthful adventures with good clarity, yet Windhelm, I think, must be ever-distant to the minde, a place millenia-agéd no matter the proximity in time or space. It is a marvel, in all cases.

-SMR, Sun’s Dawn 3, 203

[Day of Marish-Phares]

It would be an easy thing to come into Windhelm unseen, unknown. Nigh abandoned is this ancient place, so that the Stormcloaks had to keep entry regulated via a singular prorupt causeway unto the centralized-population-zone (which has become the final remnant of the city’s past prominence). The new governance has relaxed this security measure as a show of good faith, but in either cases, it is a useless display, for the city is too vast to be maintained or sealed by such a meagre host whereunto the Nords have dwindled here. Outside the “civilized” area, the population- what population exists- is completely unchecked- or minimally provided for in such cases as the Harbour and Gray Quarter ghettos.

Of the shadow’d, unsurveyed zones, it is say’d all manner of fiend and ghoul do roam- a clan of Dremora who entertain themselves with torturing those who lose themselves unwisely among the labyrinthine alleys and highways, a cult of Boethians on the E.ern side, vagabonds and roving goblin bands- to say nothing of the vagrant-tribes who must suffer there, most often disenfranchised by some offense of their ancestors. Yet, by my arts, I might easily have avail’d therethro’ if such had been my wont. Yet then I’d not have been afforded such a view of the city as-is-proper.

Even with the small patrol, I must say, traversing that long, vestibular path into the central citadel- in whose shadows that meagre guard looked impressively array’d, for even to its dilapidated today, the city exudes might and steadfastness- was a marvelous experience, truly. To observe, rising threateningly like basaltic towers, or great fanes of ebony built by giants’-hands unto a swelling sky, is to remember the emperéan power of the old Nords. Of whom I should mention: I was watched by a few conservative old denizens with some consternation, but it is no matter for so very long as they cannot guess my purpose, and how could they?

-SMR, Sn’s Dwn 4, 203

[Day of Pantaloons]

I have investigated some of those matters as aforesaid, while awaiting the day of the proceedings.

Now, having tested those sable gulfs between habitated and untenable demesnes of Windhelm- terrible vistas of a tragic and a deathly beauty- I may speak unquestioningly of the power held even in the most tired corner of this place: Her dire steeples like volcanic-prisms wrought, here monumental minarets that pile and pile like ebon vaults, there colossol pylons- all ornamented with looming, phantasmal totems of devilish proportion and design- whose sharp encloséd angles create such paramount shadows as congeal into perennial nests of Night; Her prodigious crypts recollect the tenebrous necropoli of ancient Atmora; the sweeping lanes of cold air suspended between such colossi once were populated by gracile-shapen windcrafts of commerce and delight, now are singing only with the unadornéd breath of Kyne, save for about the olden abodes of forgotten Kings and their vassals, which were made after the way of flutes to attune Her Voice in the mode of their pleasance. Ominously the centermost Palace of the Kings of Old is a silent chief among them, yet in all places one must feel its presence, the air which emanates therefrom and singularly comes at once with a warmth and a searing phanom-chill.

I made contact with the the cult I mentioned previously at the hidden Sacellum of Boethiah within the E.ern, forgotten ruins. Their apparent leader (de facto, of course) was an exceeding-truculent female of my race, but I was able to sway them without physical conflict- wits, you know, are my better weapon- so swiftly, in truth, I half wondered whether the god had interceded on my behalf, but perhaps it was otherwise. Now, I remember that when last I was here, in my youth, the potency of mine oratory was quite a thing indeed, perhaps just the guile of a young elf, perhaps the intoxication of the momentous occasion, but if really that power has been deriv’d in some part from my surroundings, that would lend credence to oure theories and throw oure research into a new light, I think. In any case, I convinced them that they had cause, in Boet-hi-Ah, to put their strengths to better uses; I dazzled them with some of my usual magicks; I have set a quest before them, for those with the mettle to embark upon it for their Lord. They are, in truth, a quaint sortie, bearing some Templar-esque self-conception concurrent with an holy prerogative. Nonetheless, I will see of how much use they may yet be, and pray that this ensorcellment, where-ever-from it may originate, does last.

-SMR, Sn’s Dwn 7

[Day of Portcullis-West]

I have pay’d visit to the “Gray Quarter” of my people, and have brooded on their piteous state much. It was, if nothing else, illuminating- to see them thus. As I have been newly told, as I must believe, to see them thus: the condition of my people has not become so much better than before, as previously I had been informed, and- indeed- as is commonly put about as a fact of the recovery of Imperial authority. The issue, as I perceive, lies with this Jarl, Brunwulf Free-Winter. Having conversation with one mer by the name of Malthyr Elenil, the case seems thus-wise: there was, at first, much optimism, but that the Jarl is either rendered ineffectual by burden of his position, or- as Malthyr’s employer, one Ambarys Rendar, has warn’d me- disingenuous in his apparent sympathy for the plight of the Dunmer. It is likely the former, for you know the Empire shall employ these sorts- those honourable, level-headed men without political ability- to their wont for such cases as in Windhelm.

Now I might speak to you of this Lord Governor, Morsis Lex, (or Ap. Lux Morsis Zenobius, I am informed) who I hear has already acquired the appellation of “Duke North” in the Heartland. His is the true power in all of the E.ern Holds of Skyrim since the defeat of the Stormcloaks. Was it known to you that in all such places, the client Jarls are warranted no armies of their own, being serviced by Legionnaires, directly commanded by the Lord Gov. and his officers? I suppose Tullius was, even like Free-Winter, not the politician the Empire needed to restore order. It is a martial law, under an Imperial authority- simply. Yet this man has brought hope to some of mine; this Ambarys seems assured that with him a new day will come for the disenfranchised mer of the Gray Quarter.

Some had not been so patient it seems, nor so inclined to trust Imperial aid, for I am told also of a group of Dunmer- once denizens of the Gray Quarter- who formed a war-band to venture out into the dark-zones of Windhelm, where Daedra and cacodaemon dwell, electing a mer named Turon R’os-Maloris (you shall recognize the odd mode) their khan. None have been seen since, but may be sustaining themselves in any of the forgotten citadels of the dilapidated metropolis, if such a party could make their way. I must wonder at this R’os-Maloris. It is say’d he was an outsider, only recently come from the New Resdayn, and that- a rare thing- causes me to think he may be one of the Sul’s agents. I trust you shall make inquiries where you can.

I have pay’d visit, also, to the ancient Harbour, where the Saxhleel are made to work, and was stunn’d- truly transported- to have seen there a beauty alien to aught else I had found within the vast and corroded black-city.

Coming in upon it, I felt myselfe ushered by mine eyes into another world of serenity and pearl, and of music, tho’ it was silent saving for the dock workers.( A few of them eyed me villainously, but I described various sigils into the air and muttered to myselfe such incantations as they were made known what powers I invok’d, and turned away.) The ground beneath me jutted out upon the White River in opalescent and angular proportions of an undefinable substance- some variant of moonstone?- appearing at once natural and superbly unnatural, and lay so closely in places upon the water- which here turn’d itselfe to crystal for the beauty- that one could not without effort discern the separation betwixt them. That water yet babbled- barely an audible whisper- upon the artistically created protrusions of the Harbour. Yet more marvelous, were the crystal-reeds, which were formed of a similar, glitt'ring material- of a different, more icy nature, this- pocked like-wise unto a flute, or unto the palaces of the olden rulers of the city, altho’ some component is apparently missing which once gave these their harmony. Here, I was made to wonder of the lost knowledge of the Falmer, and again to ponder the tonal-art of the Deep Elves. Dwem-Falmer-Nord: all of them shared this land for a time, and in this place they seem somehow conglomerated- here, in a place of ebony and crystal, where water might once have chimed with wind, in a primeval past. And what may this place yet mean for our research? Increasingly I am convinced that the city itselfe is far more important to our theories than initially was supposed. I shall soon know.

-SMR, Sn’s Dwn 9

What is all this, then?- and what is this research to which he has referred?

Have you not read my papers?

I skimmed them- what I understood, leastwise.

Least wise, indeed- well, it shall be enough that I know presently. I only do you the courtesy of reading these aloud because otherwise you might be muddling something up in my laboratory, or my library.

He does go on, does he not?

It is his way- even more especially as he has gotten old, more entitled to ramble and indulge in adjectives he’s picked up over centuries. Ah well, ’tis some of his particular proclivities thus that incline him so perfectly to conduct this analysis.

So it was you who sent him, then?

Sent him? Why, no- he quite elected himself. I heartily approved the notion, however.

Well, is he simply on vacation, then, or gathering valued information? I cannot seem to recall whilst he lamely strives to ape the mode of Klarkash-ton and prattles anent “prodigious crypts” and, oh “terrible vistas.”

Ah, Klarkash-ton- I see you have perused my library; I shall have to send the scamps to see that you have not upset the order there. Nonetheless, hmmm… here he details an encounter with the storied Dremora-gang he had mentioned, their riddling competition and how he ends up drinking of a Moonshadow-wine with them beneath the stars- probably not scant of edits and embellishments, but if he comes back with an orichalc tray of scarlet twilight’s-peril fruits resting on his head I shall owe him an exorbitant sum. Hmmm, on the 12th his friend, whom he does not name, secrets him into one of the mid-floor suites at the Palace, which he promptly exchanges for a top-tier one with a bit of sneaking and hornswogglery. Ah, here he divulges something of the Palace library, a rather feckless, neglected place disappointingly, but he does give a few interesting notes and recommendations. Here, I must copy these on my notepad.

Does he at any point arrive at his purpose there, I wonder?

One moment… Poesy of Trollkin, 60 Sermons of Voryn-Sul, The Cadavre-Wives of Tstunal, there. Yes, the 13th:

[Day of Power]

Now, we may truly come to understand the art of the ancient Lords of Kynholm, with captious power of Voice over their nation- to annihilate races and burn histories with the spirit of Ald Atmora- indebted, I may now say with certainty, to this marvelous instrument they built. Or was it the conductor? I shall say that I must not return to you as momentarily as was originally planned, for I must now convene with several other students of the Dwemer to examine certain portions of their vault-like cosmopoli for features that may prove illuming to our further analysis, which shall follow from this moment, inexorably altered. But first, of course, I must clarify the meaning of my fervor and the haste for which I forego our scheduled reunion. Thus:

I was ushered, as I have say’d would be the case, by mine olden companion into the the proceedings at the Palace of Kings, occupying a comfortable and lofty position to the hinter-most and away from eyes, when the recitation began. Firstly but the single bardic orator, opening the procession of the names of “The 500 Mighty Companions of Ysgramor (or Thereabouts)” and the audience fell unto an utter hush- why, such a silence as resembled that aforementioned nexus of culture and sound and silence at the old Harbour. It was a low sound which birth’d from the stage, a repetitious drone which rose and fell in static intervals, charged with a sort of electric rhythm, and a lilt which rocked the inner-air so that it caught within one’s lungs, and perpetually I felt in the ecstasy at the verge of my next breath.

Hereupon, the others collated- a few at first, with a pattern to a sweet and lulling effect, then all in one dissolving Voice- and forthwith I detected the subtlest hum which encompass’d ev’ry sound. I summon’d my training to rework the tones around me and penetrate with an insight spider-like and snakéd. And I perceived at once, that I could feel the undercurrents of supernal air, from the Palace’s minutest wind-passages (which are all-pervasive), collecting and twisting, charging with energy that air which teemed with the music of Nature outside. This force I could feel being absorbed into the Speakers and released, tinged with that nationalist and deathly song- and to feel the Listeners, how enthralled by the dulcet breath of eras of a People’s Voice. They were dissolving into a puddle of collective yearning, collective suffering, collective conviction, and Will. To rebuff the allure of the somnolent sound, I had myselfe to issue a meagre hum, a tiny disparate trill. Yet, even this created a rippling disturbance- I could sense the congregation sensing me- and I fled, perhaps a little glad for a reason to remove myselfe from the entrancing scene. Tho’ even fleeing away, the sound persisted for great lengths afterward, and remained somewhat in the tuned air outside all day, as it became recycled

Then, wandering a-while about the city, as if for the first time, I saw again the grandeur of all that stood, sheer and ebon built around me. I perceived the great verdagris’d statues of heroes whose Time-shunned names became chipped away by wind long ago; they were one with the city, now and forever after. I saw again the fantastic theatres, and amphitheatres, and vast stadii of the distant aeons of before- and conjured in my deepest imaginings the might of the reverberations once cast therein for any public gathering. Gatherings there were of a population which dwarfs this present one, amass'd in vast assemblage to collude into a frenzy of elusive, yet ever potent tones, like the ritualized collectivism of the Dwemer (do you remember that Cacophonous celebration of yore-tradition at Kemel-Ze?) It is no thing to wonder at- the ancient power of the Nords- any longer. It is here.

I must leave this place, for I feel as if in a mighty Black Hand, imbued with the Pow’r which pours as winds of death thro' its fingers, moved by certain frequencies which might move it to kill a world-entire, if but its instruments were present. And- by all honest Vél- I feel truly Dwarf’d.

Lastly I shall speak of our Boethians. Those who have return’d, I gave another task, sending them up to Solitude, in order to act upon a few suspicions I’ve had. That survivor of The Katariah: they will find him.

-SMR, Sun’s Dawn, Feast of the Dead

There- was that quite what you were waiting for?

So, that’s what you two have been after- the Dwemer Architects’ secrets.

Well, that and other things, amongst which, you see, figures prominently the use of propaganda as a sort of “artistic violence” or a weaponized meta-reality harmonic. Our friend’s people would say: Embrace the art of the people and marry it, and by that I mean secretly have it murdered.

That sounds barbaric.

It is a way of life that has persisted for aeons. There are 1008 such weapons floating somewhere in the slipstream 'twixt Dreamsleeve and the Void. And the dear serjo thinks he can locate them.

To do what?- does he forget who we are?

Oh- and know you so well, without understanding the art of thy foe? Very well, then- who are we?