Alik'rian Nights: Volume The First: Of Adamant And Beyond: Intro: The Age Of Exile

I will tell you the story as it was first told to me back when I was a small child, not yet a man. I first heard the legend from my Greatpapa, while he yet lived. He commanded a magnificent caravan of a thousand camels which sold fine silks, wines, relics, treasures, and spices from all corners of Tamriel. I was traveling with him under his care; for my father was a sea captain, trading Greatpapa’s wares in far countries, and the desert had taken my mother long before I can remember.
It was just after dusk and already cold when I first went to hear the tale. There had been frost on the dunes the previous morning and would be frost upon them again by sunrise. I had spent the evening as a tail behind my elder brother, Meerin; who did not care for me trailing after him. He had been courting a girl which was later to become his wife, and I was there as a rude interruption.
Eventually my presence grew too frustrating for him to tolerate, but I amused Ahma (the girl), and he could not send me away. As I see now, he grew clever. If he could not command me away, he could perhaps beguile me elsewhere. He began to talk with Ahma about the legend of our holy Suzerain, the Scarab King, the Aurbix Emperor.
When I inquired more, my brother sprang his trap. “Go ask Greatpapa,” he said. “Greatpapa knows him.” In shock and wonder, I left them for the camp. Running briskly through the carpets, I made my way to Greatpapa’s tent. He was working at a table in the ledger when I arrived. I told him what Meerin said and asked if it was true.
“Do you always believe what your brother tells you?” Greatpapa asked me, his eyebrow high upon his forehead. I answered him smartly, for my nurse had been teaching me logic. “My brother deceives me daily,” I said. “But he does not always lie. As it is written, one should trust his enemy, but verify his claims.”
Greatpapa chuckled at me. “He speaks truthfully. I was once a companion of our Suzerain.” Mine eyes grew to dreugh eggs in wonder. How had this happened? What was he like? Why did I not know this tale already?! My mind was abuzz with questions. “Tell me his stories and make his stature known to me!” I implored him. Greatpapa sighed deeply and closed his book. “The story is not a small one;” he warned me. “If I will tell you his tales, you must first promise me that you will listen diligently.” Eager to hear this knowledge, I wholeheartedly agreed.
He took me to the fire, stoked the coals, and added more fuel. “It was when I was a young man; back when my skin was as dark as ebony from the sun, and my hair was not as the frost.” He began, having taken his seat upon the bench and I, having taken mine by his feet. I could not really conceive of him with such an appearance, and frankly I still cannot picture it, but I loved Greatpapa’s stories; so I listened intently and in silence.

Our Suzerain was not always known as such, but was once spoken of only as a Desert Scarab. (Author’s Note: An obsolete Redguard term for an unsavory adventurer, tomb raider, or outcast) Because of this lowly position, he would not speak of his birth or childhood, yet of his adventures and achievements, he was proud. His story begins with a dream. One he dreamt and spoke of many times. It was a dream of history; deep history, from the dawn of time itself; when even the ancient cities long swallowed by sands and seas had yet been built. He did not know this as history at the time however; for his identity, past, and destiny had not been made known to him.
He would dream of a great war among the gods; a vision of terrible might and tragedy. The war lasted only moments, yet was still fought through ages beyond count. Though his cause was just, he and his tribe suffered heavily at the accusations of those he once called friend. In an attempt to show forth his innocence, he went before them to plead his case. But they did not hear his cry, disbelieving his claims and taking him as their prisoner. His enemies judged him for crimes he did not commit, and as punishment, they tore the heart from his breast and spat it down from heaven.
They sang they had saved the world, but as he lay bleeding upon the floor, he saw a woman being dragged screaming into the darkness by a black and wretched form. And so it was, as the dream ended one evening, his new story began. (Author’s Note: It was just before midnight on the eve of the coming new year, 4E 211. The first year, of the second decade, of the third century, of the fourth era)

Our Scarab awoke suddenly as a woman shook him. She seemed at first like unto the woman of his vision, but her identity resolved into another as his sleeping mind cleared. This woman was a companion of his. Both of them had taken a job as members of an expedition team charting an ancient dwarven ruin buried deep beneath the old mountains.
The woman told him that they were not alone; that the Thalmor were there as well. Our Scarab wasn’t sure of what interest the Aldmeri Dominion would have with a Dwarven ruin, but he knew that evil always followed in their wake. They would have to investigate this trespass.
Together with the woman, he snuck quietly through the passages until coming upon a forgotten chamber hidden deep at the base of the mountain. Inside they discovered a great machine of innumerable cogs, jewels, and widgets; with several Thalmor playing at the controls.
The leader of the Thalmor, a wretched and damnable elf called Cyreitar, brought forth a large chest containing four of the most powerful dwarven artifacts in all their races’ history. He opened the chest and removed three items; a hammer, a dagger, and a gauntlet. These were tools crafted for the specific purpose of manipulating the fourth artifact, which Cyreitar removed last.
This was nothing other than the Hunger of Sep; the Heart of Lorkhan himself; torn from his body at the beginning of history, shot down from the heavens to calm the shaking sands of the Dawn, and eventually discovered by the Dwemer deep below the foundations of the Red Mountain. The ancient Dwarves had sought to manipulate and command the heart; an action which had cast their race into exile four thousand years prior. Though none had ever solved the mystery of the Dwarves disappearance, only through the power of the heart could the lost elven race return to our shores.
Our Scarab watched as Cyreitar placed the heart on the anvil, put on Wraithguard (the glove), held the heart with Keening (the dagger), and raised Sunder (the hammer), high above his head. He shouted an incantation and struck the heart with the full wrath and rage of his people.
I have seen many sights young one, but this is one which I long to have witnessed with mine own eyes. I am told that as the hammer struck the heart, there was a cymbalic sound which resonated through the very fabric of the universe. Light and thunder filled the chamber with colors outside the realm of our experience. And with its flash of blinding glory, sprang the dwarves. First they appeared as single spies, yet within moments they troubled us by battalion. It took only seconds for the entire race to repopulate their long abandoned strongholds.
Yet as our Scarab looked on in shock and wonder, a Dwemer guard took him from behind. A sword pierced through his chest and ravished his heart. The dwarf kicked him from the high balcony where he and his companions had hidden; landing limply on the floor.
He looked up in fear as Dwarven soldiers captured his friends, yet there was nothing he could do to help them as his life-blood spilled forth from his wound. His vision was fading into darkness, when a dwarf lord, (none other than Kagrenac himself) came over to stare deep into his eyes with hatred and revulsion. And so our Scarab died.

I was confused and conflicted. Our holy Suzerain yet lived, but now I was told that he had died? Greatpapa saw the horror descend upon my countenance. “Young one,” he reminded me, “This is but the beginning of the tale. Do not fear, because what happened next is as miraculous as it was unexpected.”

As the world before our Scarab’s eyes passed away, he found himself floating through a pale blue mist. Eight figures appeared before him sitting ‘round a great table. Two thrones sat on one end; a lordly divine occupying one, though the second was empty. This was the convention of the gods, and there was much shouting betwixt them as they debated some deep mystery.
A mighty lord soon saw our Scarab waiting upon the outskirts. “What is that one doing here?!” he accused. There was a great roar of indignation from those protesting the mortal’s presence. Akatosh (Author’s Note: Known as Ruptga or Tall Papa to some of my brethren) silenced the counsel of divines, proclaiming that only one choice remained to them. The fullness of time had come; the age of exile was ended. Begrudgingly, the other gods bowed their heads in acceptance and vanished into the mist.
Now Akatosh came over to our Scarab and spoke with him; saying that by returning the Dwemer, the Thalmor had begun a chain of events which would be the OHMGE’ÄLEPH; the end and the beginning of all things. He charged our Scarab with stopping the Thalmor plot before they could complete their plans, or all would be turned to ruin. He explained that the gods did not understand the terrible cost when they first created the world. To what was paid this cost was immaterial now, but seeing Mundus in its glory, they could not allow the work of their hands to fall into darkness and silence. Many had given their lives to preserve their creation, and to let it crumble and fail would be the greatest dishonor imaginable. Extreme measures of faith seemed their final and only recourse.
The blue mist began to shift and shatter as he finished. Akatosh said that the Dwarves had been given secret knowledge which could mute the power of the divines. Little time remained for him to act. Our Scarab cried that he could not alone complete so mighty a task. As Akatosh looked upon him, he saw that he was indeed not fit for the road ahead. The wound still remained where his heart once rang.
Akatosh sighed a weary and unsteady sigh; his eyes showing the fear behind the decision he was about to make. The gods’ king touched his breast and filled his hand with light. The light pulsed with infinite refulgence, for it was none other than Akatosh’s own heart. He filled our Scarab’s wound with the light to replace what was missing; imparting his blessing unto him. As the encounter broke, Akatosh whispered sorrowfully. “Here at the end, where no preferred alternative remains, I put my faith in that the words you had spoken to us were true…”

And with a peal of thunder, our Scarab found himself standing before the shrine of Ruptga outside of the city of Hegathe on the edge of the Alik’r. Behind him sat the great statue of the gods’ king; its hallowed stone now split and rent in two. A priest rushed in with shock and horror, demanding an explanation for the defamation of their altar.
Our Scarab, overwhelmed by these events, explained his strange tale without blushing (That is, honestly). He fully anticipated disbelief on the part of the priest, but as he finished, the monk breathed a frightened heavy sigh, going behind the altar to take something from the bosom of the shrine. It was an elder scroll; One hidden throughout the ages until this very moment. The priest gave our Scarab the scroll and some equipment for the journey; saying that the fullness of time had come, and that he should take the scroll to the Adamantine Tower in the Iliac Bay. It was there he would meet his destiny.