They stood in line, all of them, in their modest ashen colored robes. Among them were two small boys holding a box. They stood among the silent, unwavering Moth Priests, holding the box in their pale, small fingers. It had been a time of silence for more than a week, and the preparations for the ritual had begun not long after the young, new Emperor was crowned. It was, undoubtedly, a time of change.
Among the elder priests was a younger, fifty-six to be exact. Durlus was his name but he had not spoken it since he had come to the priesthood. When he approached the young boys they bowed as they lowered the box. The eldest priest approached as well from the opposite direction, blinded by his years of reading, but the moths guided him as the ritual continued under the shade of a great sturdy tree that towered over the cliff it was rooted to. Once the intricate box was lowered the elder Moth priest took from it the glistening and godly Elder Scroll. A moth crawled along the back of his hand as he raised it and gave it over to Durlus. The moth's wings fluttered as Durlus took the scroll in his hand.
With careful hands he opened the scroll and gazed into it. His mind rushed and as he journeyed through divine consciousness he felt his mind expand and constrict, pain enveloped him and the weight of his own mortality was upon him when suddenly he felt stillness, and the breath of Kynareth was upon his neck. A gentle whisper in a trial of suffering, but the peace was not long lasting. The image of gossamer and green shattered and he was drawn away to a place where he saw before him a sea shore.
On the beach stood three figures, their skin bore the marvelous blues and greens of the sea, pale was it and nearly translucent in his image. They seemed to glisten as he watched through the lens of the scroll. One was svelte with wry lips and black, empty eyes. Her shimmering armor hugged her lean figure and in her hand was a staff of glistening gold and ivory. Opposite to her was another woman, glistening too, and in her arms was a hammer made of bone. Her eyes were black as well, and colder still. Between them stood a mighty figure, his height nearly dwarfed the others. His beard was long and flowed like waves; it was the color of ocean spray. Upon his head was a crown, and he wore it with pride. He was Orgnum, the Moarmer wizard king.
As they stood on the shore Durlus saw through the scroll two boats approaching, one rugged and squat, the other long and elegant. The first rested at the shore and from it came an Argonian, spikes lined his head and he looked around before stepping onto the shore. Following him was a pitiable, fat little Sload, with slimy black skin that shone like oil, and she was wheeling a box on a carriage down from the ship. From the fairer boat came two tanned skinned humans wearing intricate armor.
The wizard king approached, his colossal form was dangerous but elegant, "You've come to my invitation," he said in a voice as strong as a sea's current, "all for one reason." He paused a moment, eying the cart before speaking again, "Finally, I have found a way to reclaim our honor, and take what is ours."
He approached the Sload and looked down at the saddening creature. He pointed an electrified finger at the lock and blasted it off, then stood before the coffin with the Sload. The accompanying figures looked on as the Sload and the wizard king began the incantation.
Ancient Gilded Lord in slumber
Awaken from thy shameful tomb
Reborn now, call forth the seas
And bring forth the tides of doom
Golden light burst from the shabby coffin and splintered the woods. The Sload shielded her pathetic, watery eyes, but Orgnum stood strong. The gilded corpse shuddered as air filled his dusty lungs for the first time in eras. His beard had grown down to his chest and his eyes had turned to dust, but now his sockets were filled with a golden glow.
The immortal wizard king spoke in a proud voice, "Old friend Ragaz, tell us, how is it that we can reclaim Tamriel?" The corpse rose slow, creaking and popping of leathery flesh and weathered bone was heard, and the ancient corpse spoke in his near forgotten language. Orgnum smiled a sinister smile and turned to the Argonian and the armor-clad Akaviri, "my friends, now we have the means. Master Ragaz will point the way to the schematics to the powerful pump we will use to flood the Summerset Isles, and whoever else stands in our way of rule! Tamriel shall be ours!"
For a moment there was an air of silence, and then the Argonian and the Akaviri gave cheers. The low, airy voice of the Argonian was cocky, "We stand with you, and Argonia will be strong again." The Akaviri nodded, "You have our allegiance."
Bright light filled Durlus's eyes and he dropped the scroll. Into the grass it fell softly and the light went out like that of a candle's flame blown away, "By the Nine."
We have watch for so long, my brethren and me, but as we watch I have come to question it. I, brother Durlus of the Moth priests, sit wondering how our empire has come to such ruin; an Empire that held eight glorious lands and many brilliant and intriguing peoples. Despite my love of these places and their people, I still feel doubt and confusion. My vision has left me desolate and fearing. Is mortal life doomed to always fail, are we nothing but the divine's pawns and the Daedra's play toys? Could the elves be right in their standing of how pathetic and brief the life of mortal man is? And why then is it so?
No, I refuse to believe it and I never will, but still what I have seen in that scroll can never be unseen. We are losing. Not just the Empire, but Tamriel itself is on the verge of collapse. I sit in my corridor as my vision fails, wondering of the events forming. The Empire and The Aldmeri Dominion both sticking claims to Elsweyr and its populace. I pray to Kynareth they will survive that onslaught. What of the Nords of Skyrim, now in yet another civil war for the seat of High King? The third to come, still these people have no claims to peace, and they only hang onto the Empire by a thin thread.
To the east it is still unease as Morrowind must take up arms against Black Marsh, though Black Marsh itself is facing its own unjust rebellion. The people there are torn, fuelled by a maddening rage instilled in them by a tyrant; their only other option is their weak and dying ruler. I pray no war will come, but their peaceful leader is at the end of his life.
To the west, High Rock has become a fuming pot of hierarchies fight for dominance. The Orcs are facing small skirmishes and even famine in the mountains. The small peace treaty between Hammerfell and the Aldmeri is doomed to fail. Now the treaty of the White Gold Concordat is slowly burning away. The elves are losing power and they know it as they cause open wars now.
Akatosh, I question this land and its future, but now… after what I've have seen in that scroll all those months ago I can't help but feel how pointless all this fighting is now. The Empire is weak and it needs to strengthen. Is this new Emperor the ruler we need on the Ruby Throne, or do the Aedra have better plans for us? Or perhaps the Daedra and Oblivion are what awaits Tamriel. I feel ashamed of myself for not telling the elder, but my time is soon approaching, I know it. Still, what I have not told him is... I saw a vision... I saw a face... no! Many faces, nine faces, all of them, and they stood over Tamriel and the lands beyond as the fires that these two lands are blazing begin to be extinguished.
Are these the nine divines, are the Aedra going to save us all? Or maybe the Knights of the Nine, cryptically symbolized in my vision, returning to defend Tamriel. No… they feel close, much closer. As I am sitting in my dark chambers I see now that my body is trembling. Darkness takes my vision yet again. I know whoever these people are... they are our only hope... or our death sentence.