Report on A Performance by A Valenwood Spinner

The Spinner closed his eyes, and the features of his face seemed to melt away save for his brilliant smile: impossibly straight teeth, velvet lips that were both plump and thin, and the only tongue I have ever seen in my entire life which I would be compelled to describe as "beautiful." His head rolled in circles about his shoulders, matching the beat which he tapped with his foot. Each "pat," while almost silent, carried a palpable weight. It felt as though through each tap he were planting a seed, and from that seed thick roots grew in every direction for miles and miles, and from that seed rose a towering, immortal Graht-Oak which was none other than the Spinner himself, and which sired thousands and thousands of branches and mosses and leaves and fruit in a blooming verdant inferno. And as the Oak lifted his tapping foot, the roots and the tree faded away and left behind the form of an unassuming Bosmeri priest.

After fifteen minutes or so (I lost track of time in pondering the scene) of this sacred rhythmic dance, the Spinner suddenly ceased his ritual and gave a laugh that sounded like a manifestation of pure joy--joy like that of a child discovering a metropolis of many-legged insects beneath a garden stone. The sound commandeered my pragmatic Cyrodiilic contemplation not by entering my ears, but by gripping the hairs on the nape of my neck and commanding them to stand at attention. It was then that the priest gazed directly into my eyes, and the look of profound sadness which, without warning, overtook his countenance was so powerful that I thought even the sea itself might begin to weep. He either spoke or sang or whispered or screamed, but the words were as follows:

"Creation flows as no mortal knows, The Wheel ever-turning erects the Rose.

And the song of the forest echoes through crypts, Silently flying from dead Worlds' lips."