My definition of a competent soldier is a professional who follows orders and knows how to adapt when needed. Even better are the ones who don't fear death. The only people I can think of who are like that, besides Gooey and the Nerevarine, are two of the most insane women I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Staada and Dylora. I keep having to deal with those two, no matter how much I try not to. Promoting them in exchange for defending Bruma was a costly decision, one that nearly triggered a revolution in New Sheoth. The citizens of the Isles will tolerate a lot, but a military dictatorship? Hell no!

Staada was the old Sheogorath's favorite Aureal and one of the few allowed to wear His signet ring. She was stationed on an island west of Dagon Fel during the Blight as a reward for her millennia of service to Him. It was supposed to be an extended leave of sorts, which abruptly ended when the Nerevarine landed and sent her back to Oblivion in Azura's name.

Not as much to say about Dylora. From what the Mazken have told me, she was attached to Dagon's forces in the Battlespire operation. Other than that, her service record is mostly unspectacular. My predecessor used the Mazken almost exclusively as a home guard, and other than Cylarne or the palace informally known as the Madhouse, commendations were rare. It was just as well; their armor is next to useless.

I didn't know it at the time, but promoting Daedric soldiers to rule over the Shivering Isles is taboo. Because they can't be killed permanently, there is no hope of performing the Rituals of Accession to remove unpopular rulers. They don't follow the customs of the people, either, and even the insane frown upon outsiders.

It probably goes without saying that I'm not particularly welcome in Bliss or Crucible these days. Until the rebels are crushed, I'm not passing through the gates, no siree. The damned heretics and zealots before the Greymarch were bad enough. Rebels? Well, just because I stood against Jyggalag and lived doesn't mean I can fight all of them at the same time. This is the realm of madness, not stupidity.

There's only one way I can send messages to the duchesses, and that's through messengers. Here goes nothing…


A dozen squads, each with an attached Daedric advisor, filtered through the gates of Passwall hours later. These troops were the Isles' auxiliaries, the forces established to fend off attacks on the Isles' towns. Most were Nord men who'd immigrated after the Greymarch, seeking Sovngarde or fortune. I understand how the battles between Aureals and Mazken might be fun to watch—I've even considered earmarking funds to build a coliseum outside New Sheoth for just that purpose—but those men enjoy watching Daedric beatdowns a little too much for some strange reason. What appeal could there possibly be in watching half-nak—never mind.

Behind them came the commanders and their bodyguards. I was somewhat surprised to see the duchesses; if I'd been in their place, I would've sent Adeo and Issmi to lead instead. Good to know they're taking this seriously, unlike a certain Orc and his crew in the Imperial City.

"My lips to your ears and all that," I addressed the gathering. "Listen up: We're headed for Cyrodiil. Now, thanks to Lord Dagon's recent failed invasion, the good folks are likely to soil trou and run. The bad folks, and believe me, there are a damned lot of them these days, will be after your goods. You better kill them or you die."

"At the same time," I reminded them, "you are not to destroy everything you see. You—we—are the Army of Madness, not Dagon's band of nuts, not a bunch of thugs, and definitely not the Blackwood Company. We do not need to end up candidates for damnatio memoriae."

Damnatio memoriae. Damnation of memory. It's a rare punishment these days, but one still carried out for certain offenses. The Eternal Champion, Josian Kaid, Vatasha Trenelle, the hero of the Daggerfall—the towns of Hackdirt and Sutch, even—were condemned to this fate. It seems that the true reward for heroism in the line of service to the Empire is the same as the punishment for treason against it: to have your deeds wiped from history. Considering how so many of our heroes began as criminals, I can understand the Empire's reasoning, but I still think the side effect of erasing lessons capable of saving others in the future isn't worth it.

That is why I write these scrolls. I don't care how I'll be remembered by future generations, or even if I'll be remembered at all, but I won't let the Fourth Era be our last. I have seen the price of failure, and it ain't good.

"See you on the other side," I finished, not bothering to ask questions or wait for a response. With that, I headed for the portal and Nirn.


As I write this, my army is massing on the east bank of the Niben. I'm sitting in the relative comfort of Frostcrag, taste-testing my bloodgrass tea and waiting for my vault guardians to bring me my recording stone. Tea's damned bitter and salty, no matter how much honey I add to it.

I shudder at the thought of the world can expect to hear if we should let Cyrodiil fall to the depravations of fanaticism. For the Emperor. My life for the Brotherhood. Blood for Dagon, skulls for Malacath. Burn, purge, clean. Willfully blind madmen, all of them, even worse than Olin and Mede.

I've come to the conclusion that I should turn over command to someone else. Fighting alone is easy; the only rules are to survive and kick ass. Fighting in a group requires more brainpower than I'm capable of, and ain't no amount of intelligence fortifying will change that. If I were to lead my army, I'd have the blood of dozens on my hands, and it would all be for nothing. Unless it's all mercenary or pirate blood, I don't want that to happen.

Part of being a good leader is knowing your own limits. I have little command experience; in the Legion, I stayed in the back most of the time. The only times I remember being deployed to the front were when our troops needed emergency resupply and when we needed extra forces for the anti-Shadowscale operations every Second Seed, and even then, I commanded nine or ten others at most. I never made it past sergeant and earned little glory except from the units I supplied, but at least I'm still breathing.

Let the lackeys do the work, I say. I'm better in a support role, and I can't afford to reveal our secret weapons yet.