Keeper Nerhesu:

The first of Saraabi's missives reached Vivec a month after he and his companions had left the city. It had been a pain to deliver it – a faithful courier disguised as a wandering merchant, another to replace the one that had died from venomous snake bites, and a small altercation that allowed the spy to slip the note unnoticed into the courier's wagon – but even Almalexia had conceded to its necessity.

Vivec and Sotha Sil decoded the missive as soon as the pair had retreated to the Warrior Poet's private quarters. The picture it painted of the camp and its inhabitants unsettled them. In his mind, Vivec imagined a place in which the air appeared in a constant haze, the ash like rainfall around emaciated bodies, hobbling towards tribesmen still fit enough for purpose.

There are many here who would follow the Anguish into the fires of Red Mountain, if he commanded it. I have seen him stir them into a fervour with but a look, and when he speaks he does so as a master orator. More than one has been whipped up to a frenzy by listening to his speeches. If not for the repugnant nature of his words and his disfigurements, he would be inspiring, and more would flock under his banner the further his message spread.

The Anguish – who has fashioned himself a Lord and future Daedric Prince since he came here – has his followers excavating an old mine deep in the Red Mountain. I have heard tell of a 'Well of Ash', whispered in conversations that seem to die whenever I draw near. It is my belief that this is what the creature searches for, and while I have not heard of it, he has captured the souls of his dead and put them to work in the mines until it is uncovered. Though necromancy is to Daedra as breath is to mortals, the sheer amount I've witnessed since our arrival leads to me to two conclusions; the first, that the creature would cleave and hack his way through Vvardenfell if given the chance, and that his entire plan hinges on that well. It must be a powerful artefact of some sort; else, what need would the Anguish have for it?

I myself have noticed that the Ashlanders have become more comfortable with us, if still cautious of our intentions with their people. Sontel often eats her meals with the labourers and their families. She claims them to be a decent folk, but misguided, uncertain of their place and clinging to traditions rather than embracing true love and divinity. Despite their blasphemy and Milara's objections, I am inclined to agree with her. These Ashlanders must be desperate if they choose to turn to one so vile as the Anguish. Perhaps, if they do not throw themselves before their False Lord in battle, we might open a dialogue with them? I do not presume to advise you, Your Holiness, but merely to ponder.

There is more – little more, but this news is more terrifying for its strangeness. The Anguish has taken the children of his dead and sequestered them from the other tribespeople. He coos at them in the night; soft whispers that none of us can make sense of, spoken in a language profane and sickening to the ear. Milara has attempted to question the wise women about it, feigning a desire to be closer to the Anguish and understand his ways, but all of them are either ignorant or refuse to speak of it. Even Aphiese, wise woman to the Ulath tribe and close associate of the creature, will not offer answers. In fact, she has become rather morose as of late – but no less fanatical.

Forgive me that I do not offer more, Your Holiness. We will continue in our watch and will report all we find.

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

Vivec turned from the missive as though its words hurt him. Sotha Sil picked it up to analyse more closely while his companion floated aimlessly to the middle of the room, and after a brief moment of pause the Clockwork God let out a low and weary sigh.

"He seeks the Well," he said. "That is a device I wished never to touch sunlight again."

"What is it, Seht? This Well. I've heard no mention of it – not even in the deepest archives of my libraries."

"I cannot tell much," Sotha Sil admitted as he set down the parchment. His shoulders slumped as if he carried the weight of the world on them, and for a brief moment Vivec remembered him as a mortal, wise and venerable, but made of fragile flesh and bone. "Indeed, even I have heard only whispers. That the Anguish seeks it confirms that it is as terrible as it is powerful."

Vivec allowed him some quiet contemplation, though his mind itched for answers. That he had not heard of the Well unnerved him. There were few things that escaped his notice. The Warrior Poet let his feet touch the floor, for even he could feel the gravity of the situation before him.

After a few moments, Sotha Sil straightened his posture and turned to him, his arms behind his back and his face free of fear. It was replaced by something more knowledgeable, but no less ominous.

"The Well of Ash," he started, and Vivec felt like a child once more, listening to the words of a passing wiseman. "It was not meant for this world. At least, that is what is told. It taps into powers long forgotten – forces so ancient, no mortal nor Daedra could claim to know them in their entirety. It was sealed away long before you and I were even first born, and its history erased. That Anguish has found it, or, at least, searches for it, proves that it should remain buried in the past."

"But what does it do, Seht? Does it ruffle time, snap the bindings of our worlds? What power could it hold that makes it so necessary to his plans?"

Sotha Sil rolled his shoulders. "I could not tell you, Vehk, much as I desire it. As I said, I have heard only whispers, dead murmurs of ancient places."

He watched as his fellow divine's face fell. It was not often that he saw Vivec's emotions, but when he did, it always struck him how strong they could be. He felt the sudden pulse of sadness, and he found himself with his own questions.

"Perhaps it is time to discuss a topic we have so far avoided," he said, to which his companion's brow furrowed. The Clockwork God drew closer to him. "Tell me about the Anguish."

Vivec turned his face from him and moved to a nearby table. "I know no more than you."

"That is a lie, Vehk," Sotha Sil said as he followed him. "He lived for a time under your feet, did he not?"

"He and thousands of others."

"And if you refuse to cooperate, those thousands could return and wash Vvardenfell's shores with blood." His friend replied. He pulled at Vivec's arm, and when the Poet turned to face him he was struck by how human the scene before him was. Perhaps divinity had not freed him of all mortal follies.

There was a moment of quiet between them. The air crackled hot and dangerous. Then Sotha Sil sighed and rolled his shoulders again, collecting himself after his brief outburst of emotion.

"The Anguish is a threat," he said. "If we know nothing about him, that threat becomes all the more unpredictable. Perhaps you were not his mother for long – perhaps he should be dead – but you were and he is not. So, tell me. The more we know, the better our outcomes."

Vivec wished he would feel the effects of a drink as he conceded to his companion's argument.

"Very well," he said. "Then sit."

He did as he was commanded. The benches felt strange underneath him, not mechanical nor made of stone, but he soon adjusted to their infuriating softness and turned his attention to the Poet. Vivec stood in front of him, shook his head as though to clear the memories from it, and started.

"His name was Aem'uvus," he said. "The Beauty of the Pomegranate Banquet. He was a creature no mortal would have been able to resist – he had a face that one could believe was carved from the very stones of Aetherius. But there was a darkness in him; a wickedness planted by Bal that needed only time to develop. He danced with his brothers and sisters, feasted with them, and yet still revelled in their envy. Then there came the cull."

Vivec paused to steel himself. The memory did not quite upset him – it was more of a visceral reaction he felt, not disgust but closer to pity.

"I deliberated allowing him to live. It was…a difficult choice, that he should join his siblings in death. He was near his father when I threw him into the fires, and he fell in with him. I remember that he called out to me. I grappled with that for a while; that beautiful Aem'uvus was meant to die the same death as Ul'acius, the runt of the litter. But it was so. Until it wasn't.

"Now he is returned, disfigured and blackened with hate. There are no more beautiful sons of Vehk and Bal. The Pomegranate Banquet hid its fruit under mould."

The Poet hung his head in shame.


Saraabi was near a tent that sat closest to the river of lava, reading a small novel one of the more welcoming Ashlanders had given him. He was so engrossed that he did not even notice the hushed murmurs of the people around him, nor when several stood from their chores and turned their attentions elsewhere.

"Tavik."

That hoarse voice made him start. Saraabi looked up to see the Anguish in front of him, cloaked from the sunlight, and quickly scrambled to his feet.

"My Lord!" He said, and the words were bile in his throat. "Forgive me, I—"

"Mortal men's minds are easily distracted," the creature said dismissively. "Come. I require you."


The Anguish led him to his tent, and when he ushered him inside the spy felt a sense of impending doom rise in his chest. Saraabi saw in front of him a curious sight; small children tucked in dark corners, fiddling with old toys fashioned from the land, and a host of cribs that held sleeping infants, all of them at peace. It seemed that none of them reacted to the Anguish's presence with more than a polite smile.

"My Lord?" He said, but prompted no further.

"These," said the creature, "are my children – the next generation of worshippers for the Prince of Fear and Regret. But I am not a lone Prince, and nor shall I pretend to be so. I have learnt from the failings of my father."

He came to stand in the middle of the tent. The shelves of ingredients towered and made him seem almost small, and his eyes shone in the darkness.

"I need them blessed," he said. "Tavik, priest of Azura – bless these children in Her name, and help me to forge an alliance that will last for eternity."


I hear him now, even when I sleep. He calls out to me – promises me to ease the pain, to offer me redemption, to soothe my pride into power. His voice is terrible, but, but like a mother's love, I feel him enclosing around me as a warm and imprisoning vice. Is this the love of the Prince? Is it I who must bear it now, forever, as did those children?

Please, Vivec, forgive my foolish pride.