A letter: From Me, into the ocean of you.

> I felt like having some fun with unknown cults in Cyrodiil. Maybe you'll enjoy it a bit, too.

Dearest Nalcarsewen,

I send this to you in good faith that you possess the insight to make sense of it. My humble self was not blessed with such aptitude. It is a transcript of a most peculiar mnemonic solution, which found its way into my hands through several apostates sympathetic to our cause – assuring me it was taken during the Great War some ways south of Cheydinhal. In my adventurous spirit I took a mere sip of it, and received these words that I transcribed for you.

…

My name is Afer, a child of Cyr, last of the Mnem-men. I claim no title or tribe, as those were long gone even in my time. I leave this tell to you, for fear of my people being forgotten by the living. Like one river into the next, our memory shall flow through time into the ocean of you.

I was a mere rice farmer on the fields of Chey. The drought had persisted for years, and I lost all hope when only shortly after my wife my youngest daughter passed away, leaving me with nothing but a gnarly shack on cracked dust. Most men in the village had already left, either looking for work in the city or, blessed with youth and cursed with high hopes, trying their luck on the salt rice fields of the dark elves over the mountains. Having no trade but that of a farmer, I took to the east, knowing full well of the elves' Daedric hospitality that awaited me.

Two days into my journey, I chanced upon an old man, a pilgrim. As both our ways led into the mountaints, we agreed to travel together for a while, and I inquired about the purpose of his voyage. He showed me a small, scaley water flask, and said he intended to refill it. Claims of an enchanted pond up in the Valus' left me doubtful, but I did not want to upset my companion. After three more days and not a drop to drink for two, we finally reached the pilgrim's destination – a narrow crevice in the rock, barely a cave, the clear pond shimmering at its bottom. The old man hastily refilled his flask, and when I stepped forward to quench my thirst, he shoved me quite rudely. That water was not for mere men to drink, he said, and insisted we should find some other refreshment. After days of thirst led me to commit a terrible crime on this man's life, I disrobed, and submerged myself in the First Spring. And as it took root in my lungs, it found within me an invincible jungle.

No one remembers the first god of this land – back when ancestral traitors left a tower-shaped hole in the world, the sun rose over Ur-Cyr for the first time, and the winds had no name. Long before the not-yet-men set their hearts on the jungle of the heart, the rains were here, and with their own hands carved this arena from the mountains. And once men were men and had the tongues to know His glory, they knelt and became as a Walking river.

No one remembers the first ways of this land – back when we welcomed the shy-sun to soothe our toil in the fields, and we coaxed its visit by erecting the colours of consummation upon our temples, bones and all. When our women knew to read the tributaries of the Mnem-Orrery, stretching from the Highlands to the Histlords. When each season brought a new school of spell-spitters, donning the scented silt-crests of their masters. When every child knew to gargle the reed-songs of their tribe.

No one remembers, but He is remembrance. And under His mantle, I wept, and re-membered the name of the Wet Bone, NI BENE.

And when the world shall listen,

Who knows the land in then and now,

shaping it

in spite of masonry.

And when the world shall see,

Who touches all the bones of Nirn,

in the skies,

the hills, and the deep.

And when the world remembers,

Who endures all gradients;

Dragons break,

the Niben remains.

That world will drown in Me.