An Artifact From Bab

>######An Artifact from Bab

Things lost to the abysses of memory churned as the brass-tablet turned in my hands, inscribed with runes devised by visionary phantoms in the eldest aeon of Mundrial record, those phantoms with which powerful wizards had scarcely held conference in languages estranged from the tongues of mortals of the present. I myself had held intercourse with certain spirits of a long-forgotten race birthed out of the Aldmeris which had dissolved into the infant throes of time and myth, whereby had I acquired this relic of the possipoint of un-time altar unto primeval propitiation of ineffable Cosmic Princes. Who might decode the pre-Alinori sigils of that tablet which twisted in the caress of my fingers- so enamored was I of the prospect of discovery- might comprehend such ancient mysteries that would create that one a mighty one, unassailable on the face of Münd as are the darkest masters of the deathless Black Hands of Mphaal. The key to this understanding yet elluded, although I felt I was nigh upon the ultimate breach.

Aye, my travail had nearly undone me numerously in the quest, for those daemons which impede the way of mortals with their diabolism were nowise pleased at how I’d made away with their treasured stock of secrets in the past, and among these enemies I had sidereally collected numbered the arch-fiends Mora and Arctus, either content with half my extremities to despoil inventively for the ensuing centuries. But my own sorcery and enterprise has never faltered where the evasion of those entities malignant and trans-Mundane has been concerned. Thus it was that I dared the inscriptions of that brass-writ record of an elder-truth, which was plundered from the Beast Hermaia’s own store.

Learning of a conjuror of vast necromantic prowess on the isle of Roscrè, from whose lips had passed the incantations to call forth the horrors which betid Elder Woods, or indenture the decrepit dervishes of doomed-Yokuda, and as could benignly cast the missive of a moment backwards through the rippling of the ages, and realign the threads of destiny thus- or so it was told in the courts of Glenpointe. Thus, I sallied forth upon the waves- ah, folly- purchasing the service of a Khajiit Captain called “Purr-cy”(!) to make my way to this necromancer of Roscrè. This was my first mistake, to dare the demesne of that Lord who despised me more than nights do Magnë. Secondly, as I would soon find, I was sloppy in my spells of concealment, for the mirror-logic had faltered in a key argument where it defended my bodily presence from the incursion of evils from the stars. Thirdly, I was over-bold to brandish the brass-tablet in such a way which I knew might rouse the minions of the eldritch deep (and perhaps I had even hoped for it, in the fitful lust for utter realization of the artifact’s potential, zealously).

In any case, it was not any of these which did ultimately cause my present misfortune. Instead it was the mistimed revelation by Purr-cy’s first mate, Nigel, that I was not in possession, per se, of the funds with which to pay the Captain for my voyage, resulting in my being thrown overboard. That is about when all things went (you’ll forgive the brief indulgence of the colloquial) tits-up. Yet, never one to miss a beat to the offense of circumstance, I rescued the tablet swiftly and utilized my considerable talents in the Alteration School until I could locate a tribe of dreugh with whom I might parley, for I have some of their dialects fluently which I have garnered from magickal rapport. While the particular cadences of their speech were not immediately graspable to me, I was nonetheless able to establish myself temporarily in their household. They have treated me hospitably, though I think this is because they intend to feed me to their pagan deity which is said to exist in a nearby trench.

Fortuitously, which I extricate myself from this peril, I shall not have to make the journey to Roscrè, for the dreugh shaman next-door is familiar with the language of the inscriptions (of course the dreugh would know- why I did not think of it before is inconceivable!), however I was disappointed to be informed it was never a device of insuperable ancient lore, save for information regarding the luncheon-menu of a Merethic restaurant-chain, now defunct for immediately obvious reasons, and of no great utility thus. This is piteous, indeed, but I am a man of unquavering conviction, and will not be set back by such minor inconveniences. It is however, readily apparent presently that the hour of my death in the gullet of an Emperor Crab (that is what I postulate is the identity of this dreugh-god) is nigh. This itself would not be so bad, were I not certain the Woodland Man and the Underking shall divide my soul between them if I perish neglecting the proper rites, for which I have no resources. Even that should not be an impossible issue, but I am inordinately concerned with which bits of me shall go to whom, and the fate of my antique pocket watch, which they may also deem meet to disassemble (and it will never work quite right after that, I know it).

So, should any capable person receive this letter, tucked neatly in a bottle of 3E144 vintage Morshoni-Daei wine (you may take no more than a sip of the wine, for I have been saving that for a 700 year anniversary), I would enjoin you to come assist me if at all conveniencing. If you are feeling especially magnanimous or have no great love of continued mortal existence, I might ask that you take my place in the Devouring Ceremony of the dreugh, for it does sound like a lovely occasion, which I would like to stay for, provided I am not the main course. I do understand completely, however, if that is too much to be bothered for, and therefore request but the scantest of aid in returning to the surface. I must now desist, for I am being told that the time has come to fit me for my ceremonial garnishments (though whether these are vestments or comestible in nature, I do not have the time to divulge, regrettably).

Best Regards-

Sir Archibald Sarth of Anvil