Nenada: The Mystery of the Marshes

Deep in the marshes of the Cyrodiilic East lies an ancient temple, submerged in swampy water and lost to memory. Its form is of Ayleid design as indicated by the pillars found alongside the temple proper. It must be Nenada, a mysterious lost Ayleid temple-city which archaeologists and mytho-historians have long suspected to be a fable, but I have found proof not far from a small village called Gaejhdu's Rest [Castus' Keep]. Here there is a path made of some kind of stone (mer-made by the looks of it) which matches the sample quality and magicka resonance of other confirmed Ayleid structures.

The residents of Kaishturest are a strange folk, ranting about some marsh-god who was betrayed in days long gone and telling stories of were-lights gathering around the god's shrines (no more than crude cairns) to protect his sacred form. Obviously, these Nibenese are crazy; everyone knows that the lights are nothing more than swamp-gas agitated by winds from the rivers and from the mountains which lead into mainland Morrowind (heathens all).

Nevertheless, 'Kashtu's Clan', as they called themselves, told stories about a profane site deep in the wilds which, though sunken in salt-water, continued to stand as a blasphemy against the tribulations of their saint-god. Religious fervour aside, I believe these people (through no intellect of their own) have identified the lost site of Nenada.

If the tales have any truth I should find a largely water-based cult and society dedicated perhaps to some obscure Ayleid deity (some scholars think this deity could be Molag Bal in some strange form or Hermaeus Mora, but that is just ludicrous). It is commonly known that the people of the Niben see the divine in rather trivial things. And the ancient elves must not have differed much in their rites. Clearly, this is a shrine to the life-giving water and its power and, not a deity, but a symbol of reverence for natural phenomena.

I hope to set off from this ramshackle village and find the temple soon, I cannot stand one more night of listening to the warblings of the liturgies of the Marsh Ceremony. That such deluded people still exist is a testament to the backwards and inferior constitution and character of the Cyrodiil and their cognates, especially these savages of the rancid East. Anyway, it is approaching dawn now, and it seems a good time to set off from this dreadful place, hopefully, it shouldn't take too long to find the ruins.

Finally, I'm off. I've just left the village behind me and am making my way down the 'Saint's Road' as the villagers called it. As I progress deeper into the marsh and further into the unknown I wonder at what awaits me when I find the temple. I can see a number of were-lights along the road which dart ahead of me, sometimes lighting the way, and zooming off at great speed as I get closer to them. It must have been several hours ago since I set out as the sun is higher and brighter in the sky now. I am hardly reckless but even I fear that if I were lost in these marshes at night that these were-lights would prove a much more terrifying challenge. As it is, in the day's sunshine, what I see allays any fear that would be brought about by night's obscurity, having seen similar sights on my adventures in other lands. But in the dark of night, when Nocturnal's cloak covers Magnus' gift, even rational minds are turned towards superstition and heathen explanations.

Success! I think I'm getting close to the temple as I can feel a tingling in the magickal aura surrounding my Nirnic lodestone- consistent with high levels of magicka saturation from Ayleid wells which would indicate a nexus potentiae is nearby. What we Altmer call Balatwyll. Also, Kaeshtu's road has become a bit smoother and the tree cover seems to be thinning. What a joy if I should be the first to rediscover Nenada after its long slumber! I have paused now to write down my thoughts and my progress, I'll need a thorough account of my travails for when they publish my autobiography, need to make them know how great I am. Soon everyone shall praise the name Caramil of Firsthold, pre-eminent scholar of all things Ayleidoon. Alas, it is a shame that there are not enough books on Nirn to do justice to my intellect and talent!

Enough of this, I think. I need to set off again, those damn were-lights are ahead of me now, don't want to have to face them when I claim the ultimate prize. The road is smoother here, though still wet and slippery, and I can definitely see where the old Ayleid cobbles have subsided into the earth. It must mean that I am close to my goal- not far to go now to seize my destiny! Yes! I think I've found the clearing; columns are scattered everywhere and the ground bears the unmistakable sign of intelligent meri masonry (as though there could be any other kind!). Nature does not deal in perfect geometry however wondrous its delights may be. That is the realm of the Deep Folk and their numeric rites. In my eagerness to find the lost jewel of Ayleid archaeology I must be vigilant and see to it that I do not allow myself to be led astray by the labyrinthine nature of this marsh. What I hope to be Nenada could be nothing more than some other Ayleid's construction (Woe upon me if I should stumble upon that oh-so-fabled Ayleid farmstead. What an embarrassment that would be for such an esteemed Mer as myself!).

Despite my doubts for the site, I have made a camp near what I presume is the temple plaza (a large rectangular formation commonly serving as both atrium and sacrificial altar, stained red with the blood of its human victims.) I am relying once again upon my lodestone. It can indicate where the magicka is strongest and it appears to originate from the columns which adorn the plaza at each of the four corners. Each column is composed of eight sections of expertly shaped stone. I am going to investigate these columns further as theory must give way to practical experience at this time. A hands-on approach is never unwarranted and poses little disadvantage to the dutiful scholar. The inscription on the most well-preserved column, still having faded somewhat with age, yields some of the temple's grisly secrets. One such secret is the name of the place: Nenada.

At last! Confirmation of all my research, it seems that those ignorant marsh-savages had some inkling of the truth of this place. Macabre frescoes depict mass drownings of what I can only assume are Cyro-Nordic slaves and chattel. Having tired myself with translating the columns' contents, I move now from them to assess other points of interest around the plaza. Before me, I see square formations, covered with earth so as to bury their purpose, and as I dig (even lightly scraping the topsoil with my fingers and my more delicate instruments) I seem to find an entire cache, an ossuary dedicated to the memorialisation of long-dead sacrificial victims. Digging even further, I uncover a pool of water which oozes a black, viscous, tar-like liquid from its awful depths. This is consistent with the imagery of so-called 'drowning pools' which have been found at other riverine sites in Cyrodiil. Amongst the pile of bones and human remains, there are things which resemble metallic hoops. Are they the slave-collars which were used to lower their victims to a watery death? Only time or further research can confirm my suspicions. Other bones, too small to be human, indicate that slaughterfish were once present. Indeed, the presence of chitin suggests mudcrabs too played some part in the ritual.

Deriving all the information and samples I can from the pits I make my way once again up the sunken steps to the plaza. As I move into the middle of the structure a fifth column rises from the centre. I am reaching out to touch it now and will record the results of my investigations shortly. What new secrets could this previously unknown column hold? And how much will this change my already considerable work on this topic?

[Editor's Note: From this point onwards, the text is fragmentary, the writing hurried, smudged, and in some places worn away by water damage and the ravages of marsh conditions. It is clear that whatever the author was writing was of great import, enough for him to still be writing in such a frenzied manner.]

It is night now. Whatever that pillar did to me, if indeed it has done anything at all, I feel forever changed. Add to that the fact that my limbs feel like they have been put under a great burden and my vital energies feel somewhat diminished. Whether it is a consequence of touching the pillar or of my arduous trek through this swamp for knowledge (horses are incapable of navigating this terrain forcing me to plod onward by strength of foot and leg), I unhelpfully cannot divine. Those damned lights are back again, circling the camp like wolves hunting their quarry. They never seem to cross the threshold between light and dark, preferring the stasis of the grey, but I think this is a temporary reprieve. As I watch them move, they pulsate with more than swamp-gas, emitting an eerie glow that fluctuates and shifts through all the colours of the spectrum. A mournful tune emanates from every direction, vibrating the air and my bones, causing even my eyes to shake in my head. My eyes are streaming from the discomfort and I can barely see what I am scribbling. It is not very dignified calligraphy now. What would my tutors think of my penmership if they were here to observe such disgraceful workings? Surely they would think that I had 'gone native' in my zeal for the ancients' glory, reduced to the crude signs of the North.

The lights, slowly but surely, are moving closer. As they draw nearer to me in their swarm, a whirlwind of blinding colours approaching my head, they ring about me like a halo and I can only wonder at their intent. I know now, as I write these final thoughts that I was grievously wrong. There will be no escape for me for I have clearly been cursed by those wicked villagers, setting my downfall in motion by blaspheming their marsh and their god. These lights are their servants, much like the imga are to my own people. But in Alinor we have never seen such awful creatures since the days of the faeries, Illyadi, and Gheatus. Never would we suffer at the hands of goblins or imga as I am now at these fluorescent terrors. Life and will have abandoned me and I have but one last thing to relate: I know now what these lights truly are. They are the [..part.d spi.it. of .he ..ng-.e.d vil..gers who .nce ...ship.e. C.stu. in life.]

[Editor's Note: I, Timophanidas of Cheydinhal, having recently come upon Marius Certionis' research regarding the lost text which concerns the Life of St. Castus Citiorus, have in my possession the only confirmation that a cult to Castus once thrived and that it knew the location of an ancient Ayleid temple. It seems that the intense downpours common to the Cyrodiilic East were responsible for returning the frankly bloated corpse of the late scholar, Caramil, to the shores of the Imperial City. I can only imagine the look of horror on the faces of the mage apprentices who recovered the unsightly body from the Rumare's watery grasp. Finally, let this story stand as a testament to a scholar's need to be conscientious of both proper procedure and local custom.]

[Note 2: It seems the late Caramil had great difficulty both in transcribing the local god's name and deciding on a preferred spelling. Thus, I have preserved all forms of Castus' name as they are written in the original document. It may be that they indicate dialectical variations amongst these marsh peoples.] 4E 180