The main problem with using Finger of the Mountain at full power is that the magicka requirements are ungodly high. I've often fortified my magicka to dangerous levels and found myself just under the minimum needed to cast it.

Enter the Welkynd Stone. These glowing Ayleid rocks were irreplaceable. "Were," not "are," because Meridia still knows how to make them and the more expensive Varlas. Her Aurorans certainly carry a lot of them whenever I raid Garlas Malatar.

The trick to casting any powerful spell without sufficient magicka reserves is to strap one of those mothers to your back, siphon power directly from the rock, and bleed off the energy by casting like there's no tomorrow. Oh, and pray your ass is still around when you're done. According to Hermes, there's a ten percent chance of a "catastrophic failure." And I care…why? What does that bookworm know, anyway?

The bastards down there have no idea what I'm up to. I extend my right arm parallel to the ground with my palm facing down, giving them an Imperial salute. I don't know if any of them are fellow honorably discharged Legion vets, but if any are, I pray to the Nine that they die well.

I slowly clench my right hand into a fist, giving them a rough countdown until their doom. It's my last warning to them before I start blasting, and once I hit them a rude gesture, it'll be too late.

Before I launch a powerful lightning bolt at the main cluster, I point my middle finger at my victims and prepare to launch. There's no going back now. I'm not dying because of a damned magicka overcharge.

Action begins with a massive energy blast annihilating most of the enemy. They intuitively scatter, proving that while they may be too stupid to live, they would pass the Legion's minimum intelligence requirements for line grunts.

To my shame, I didn't expect them to rally immediately. Either they'd planned this, or they belong to one of those suicide cults. Bad news for me in either case.

A squad of archers attempting to organize a volley meets my follow-up Finger of the Mountain. I'm still gagging on the ozone when a battering ram impacts against the Spire's doors in a vain breaching effort. Four more fanatics must want to die.

They were dumb enough to wear Daedric armor. Several shots of Enemies Explode later, the ebony and metal protection suits become self-contained ovens as the wearers burn alive. Only the regular infantry are left, and they're making a run for it.

They break so easily, the little cowards. Isn't being missing from the pile of dead heroes supposed to be shameful to these young'uns? Times sure have changed. I should let them go, because there used to be no worse dishonor in combat than not standing and taking it like soldiers, but I won't.

Even if the coalition of Aedra and Daedra hadn't hired me to take on these extremists, I love seeing stuff blow up. It's even sweeter when I don't have to clean up. I use the rest of the Welkynd's charge to signal one of the gods, and as I feel the all-too-familiar chilling and electrifying sterilization of the air, I realize exactly what he's planning.

It's a field clearing tactic used by Order at the end of the Greymarch. If I hadn't worn every magicka shield I had that day, I'd be a pile of ashes in the courtyard of the Madhouse today. Thankfully, Order stands with me this time.

I do what any sensible soldier would do: take cover under the biggest damn rock I can find. In my case, this means legging it to the Spire's underground vault. I barely have time to activate the teleporter before Ol' Jyggy's beam sanitizes the battlefield.

All shall crumble before Jyggalag indeed. Good thing the Spire's built to withstand a Daedric prince's attacks.


Damn Jyggalag. Why couldn't he leave a single piece of their armor intact? Absolutely nothing is salvageable!

I'm being greedy, I suppose. In my travels, I have never once paid for my equipment. How could I, when a good steel sword costs more than what most people earn in a month? In the old days, I made do with looted goblin and undead equipment. What I didn't want, I sold to the mills as scrap. Apparently, so did these folks; otherwise, they wouldn't be wearing the finest armor in existence.

It's true that courage and heroism carried us through the Oblivion Crisis, but behind those virtues were the instinct to survive and the desire to prosper. When the Crisis escalated after I swiped the Mysterium Xarxes, I went around Cyrodiil closing every Oblivion Gate I could find. I tallied sixty gates before the end, but I wasn't the only out there swiping Sigil Stones. Of the hundred or so gates opened by Dagon and the Mythic Dawn, no less than thirty were shut by other adventurers before I could reach them.

Bands of broke and desperate beggars often walked into the Deadlands with nothing but clubs and ran out chasing Daedra for their goods. I once came upon a young Bosmer named Gooey who had attacked three heavily-armed Xivilai with his bare hands—and won!

This must sound crazy, but I swear it isn't: Hunger and poverty are excellent motivators. Daedra carry expensive equipment, and the risk of being flattened by a Daedric war hammer is little compared to the possibility of being set for life (or never going hungry again). Each Dremora Valkynaz carries over ten thousand septims in equipment, and that's not including the weapons, gems, scrolls, and other valuables.

I don't need what little money this salvaging job might net me, but I'll admit that I'm a bit of a kleptomaniac and a packrat. Deepscorn Hollow down in Topal Bay used to be a vampiric shrine to Sithis. Dunbarrow Cove is the resting place of the dread pirate, Captain Torradan ap Dugal. These vile lairs used to be hideouts for criminal scum. Today, they—well, they still shelter criminals, but—are monuments to greed.

The armor's a total loss, but the loot bags are intact. Figures that the indestructible little canvas and hemp sacks of holding would survive the Smite of Order. Let's see…soul gems, some gold, a few prayer books, some moonshine, and a bunch of crystallized biscuits—hardtack, looks like. Nothing useful. Oh, there is a receipt from the new liquor wholesaler from the Imperial City, but those people are loyal only to money.

Wait, crystallized hardtack? Those worm castles are still being issued?


During the defense of Bruma, I had two platoons of Daedra standing by for deployment to the front lines if Martin's plan got shot to Oblivion. But how were they to get to the front in time? A foot march was obviously out of the question.

The answer came to me when I remembered Frostcrag Spire's teleporters. The pads my distant cousin installed let anyone to warp to places such as Anvil and Leyawiin in a jiffy. Just because they weren't meant to be rapid deployment mechanisms for Daedra doesn't mean they can't be used like that. If we'd needed their help, Staada and Dylora's forces were to warp to the ruins of the Mages Guild and hold the town while the civilians evacuated.

I have no idea which portal I should use. Should I hop over to Leyawiin to do a little border patrolling with Mazoga and the Knights of the White Stallion? Would it be better to warp to Anvil and fight my way through Colovia? Do I dare to take on the Orums in Cheydinhal? Or should I start in Bruma, the Little Skyrim of Cyrodiil?

Forget it. It would be faster and easier to check in with my informants in the Imperial City, including the Arena's newest Champion. Arcane University it is.