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3 Era's ago, a great kingdom of Ice and Glory was thrown down and fractured into a hundred thousand pieces.
The night of tears is long past, and Ysmir of Atmora had come through this empire with the furious resolve of a grieving brother, blood drunk and backed by many more of the same. Men they were and men alone they stayed but for the rippling voice of the Tongues, driving the snow born Mer before them from the Reach to Winterhold and beyond to Solsthiem.
While the last and greatest of the Ancient Falmer war host stood upon the slopes of the red-slick snow capped Moesring mountains, locked in deathly dance of the doomed with their nordic pursuers', yet more claimed refuge with their cousins the Dwemer and their restrictions.
As the last hope of the Ancient Falmer fell from his horse, impaled by a child's blade, his people drank of poison and feasted on foul mushrooms. Their eyes of pure and brilliant sapphire clouded with cataracts and shrunk into worthlessness, their backs bent crooked under the weight of the cruel hospitality that served both shield and lash.
The last to feast was a Seer of no particular renown, who in his horror of what had befallen so great a people, tore away his own eyes and cast a prayer of salvation to Great Auri-El to the indifferent apathy of his Dwemer 'hosts'. The tang of bile replaced desperate worship, and so too was the Seer made Feral.
It has been 3 era's since.
The Dwemer are gone, the Nords rule as descendants of old Atmora, There is nothing beautiful of the Ancients left in the degenerated beasts of the new Falmer.
But the prayer still echos, amidst the eternal and atemporal river that flows in on itself, and the wheels of Prophecy begin to turn anew. A blazing eye that lights the world turns towards the north, to the genesis of this great undoing, and so it is that in Sarthaal's halls, A body drops to the floor in a burst of sunlight.
>Please select one [1] Boon
>He rises with a spear in hand, gleaming with unearthly white light. The spear of Encroaching Frost, a relic of bygone days that bites with the chill of winter and renders those it strikes more vulnerable to the cold.
>He rises again shrouded in a mantle of sunlight, the ancient halls having not seen it's like since their construction. Undead, the unclean, deadric, all that which is contrary to great Auri-el will fear the reproach of solar flame.
>He rises again, the first breath of royalty breathing out makes the world tremble, the blessings of the soul of The Fixed Center weave and flow through this new body and with understanding comes the understanding of the power of the Tongues.
Casting his sight around, the great eye blazes with approval, and the air ripples in the dank tomb with a name:
>Athring
>Nilibor
>Vythis
>Pitch your own, just make it elfy
The night of tears is long past, and Ysmir of Atmora had come through this empire with the furious resolve of a grieving brother, blood drunk and backed by many more of the same. Men they were and men alone they stayed but for the rippling voice of the Tongues, driving the snow born Mer before them from the Reach to Winterhold and beyond to Solsthiem.
While the last and greatest of the Ancient Falmer war host stood upon the slopes of the red-slick snow capped Moesring mountains, locked in deathly dance of the doomed with their nordic pursuers', yet more claimed refuge with their cousins the Dwemer and their restrictions.
As the last hope of the Ancient Falmer fell from his horse, impaled by a child's blade, his people drank of poison and feasted on foul mushrooms. Their eyes of pure and brilliant sapphire clouded with cataracts and shrunk into worthlessness, their backs bent crooked under the weight of the cruel hospitality that served both shield and lash.
The last to feast was a Seer of no particular renown, who in his horror of what had befallen so great a people, tore away his own eyes and cast a prayer of salvation to Great Auri-El to the indifferent apathy of his Dwemer 'hosts'. The tang of bile replaced desperate worship, and so too was the Seer made Feral.
It has been 3 era's since.
The Dwemer are gone, the Nords rule as descendants of old Atmora, There is nothing beautiful of the Ancients left in the degenerated beasts of the new Falmer.
But the prayer still echos, amidst the eternal and atemporal river that flows in on itself, and the wheels of Prophecy begin to turn anew. A blazing eye that lights the world turns towards the north, to the genesis of this great undoing, and so it is that in Sarthaal's halls, A body drops to the floor in a burst of sunlight.
>Please select one [1] Boon
>He rises with a spear in hand, gleaming with unearthly white light. The spear of Encroaching Frost, a relic of bygone days that bites with the chill of winter and renders those it strikes more vulnerable to the cold.
>He rises again shrouded in a mantle of sunlight, the ancient halls having not seen it's like since their construction. Undead, the unclean, deadric, all that which is contrary to great Auri-el will fear the reproach of solar flame.
>He rises again, the first breath of royalty breathing out makes the world tremble, the blessings of the soul of The Fixed Center weave and flow through this new body and with understanding comes the understanding of the power of the Tongues.
Casting his sight around, the great eye blazes with approval, and the air ripples in the dank tomb with a name:
>Athring
>Nilibor
>Vythis
>Pitch your own, just make it elfy
