Sermon 33

For this was the dusk of Resdaynia, when Chimer and Dwemer lived beneath the wise and benevolent rule of ALMSIVI, and Her champion, the Hortator.

Jubilation! Oh jubilation! The Lord of Razors was struck down, and from his husk was made a home for all Vvanderfall! ALMSIVI decreed 66 days of joy, and the corners of the land came together in love and adoration.

There was a procession upon Dagon's Spine. Musicians played the seven-stringed drone-gourd, banged bell-strung drums. Beautiful boys danced in imitation of thousand-armed ALMSIVI, and sweet-voiced girls chanted mantras to Her glory.

First came Seht, in the form of 33 bronze wheels, fire-eyed, rotating within each other. He was held aloft by his war-servitors, newly-polished, pearl-enamelled. Their footfalls struck sparks, and the air turned to water around them.

Then came Vivec, rainbow-painted, smiling at all. He was carried on a thought-born palanquin of daedra bone. He had fed the dust of his Buyount Armigers to war orphans, and they had become his new honour guard. They praised Vivec's beauty, and their song summoned a storm.

Last came Ayem, driving an emerald-spoked chariot, Nerevar, her student, beside her. Nerevar had selected from the pious 999 good men, resurrecting the Golden Legion. They marched behind Ayem and Nerevar, and their hymns were an earthquake.

ALMSIVI arrived at the plaza where heretics were corrected, commencing the festivities.

Among the people of Almalexia did Seht send out his servitors. They bowed before the poorest, collapsing into heaps of broken gold, and there was much rejoicing. Thus did the denizens of Ayem's city become the richest in the world.

Then Vivec danced among the people, telling pointless jokes which grew longer with each telling. Some thought the end was a spear, others a chalice. Vivec said everyone was correct, and there was much rejoicing. Thus did the denizens of Ayem's city become the happiest in the world.

Last, Ayem raised a pillar, setting Kalabhaksa upon it. The Holy Generation leapt through it, shining with gladsome light. The people did gasp at this spectacle, revealing the death of limitation. And there was much rejoicing. Thus did the denizens of Ayem's city become the most faithful in the world.

Nerevar declared a contest of skill next. He cast off his garments, calling his Legion to a wrestling match. They came at him, but none could claim the advantage. The Hortator was a golden-bodied river, muscles ebbing and flowing, sinews streaming. He cast down opponent after opponent, and they touched his spear in submission. This mating of sweat-stained limbs was terrible to behold in its unmasked carnality. As the 999th challenger knelt, kissing Nerevar's lotus feet, a great cry went up from the assembled Chimer, for Nerevar was ALMSIVI's champion in truth.

But Nerevar, whose Mother is Mercy, pitied his humbled Legion. Even while he panted out his exertions, servant-boys scraping him down, adoring his sculpted-strength, he vowed to please them.

Thus did he go to each of his sword-brothers and take hold of their spears. Then he placed their fingers around his own, so they might know the difference. His strokes were the back-forth of a master, and his students mirrored his motions. Soon their necks and arms were tension-veined, teeth grit in distraction. Their heaven-raised weapons were slick in their grasps. And sunlight touched spear tips, exploded, scattered across faces and chests.

Nerevar went thus to his men, teaching them his secret arts. In steam-wreathed baths, desolate training-grounds, in night-dimmed barracks did he lead his students in spear-shaping. This is how the Golden Legion became perfect in their combat technique.

But even as Almalexia knew many-coloured delights, others plotted bitterness. In the hidden places of the Dwemer, the First Under-Inventor tugged on his braided beard, gleeful. "Thus is god thrown down so man might become God." And he marked his victory upon the Theory-Rack; his academic opponents slit their throats in failure.

For the First Under-Inventor had witnessed the fall of Mehrunes Dagon, and took it as a sign. If the Lord of Razors was undone through doctrine, then the Under-Inventor would craft a better paradox.

And there it rose, at the centre. The Brass God, the New Deity. It was a living star, breathing nightmares, bleeding night. Ringing it were Dwemer, thousands of them, crying out with one throat the eternal resonance, the solid syllable from which existence sprang.

This was life, this was love. The First Under-Inventor danced and clapped his hands. He had his oil-blooded servitors play music upon their ribs. Thus going, he went to the Temple of Pure Reason, kissed the transcendent tools on the High Altar.

"With these instruments of alteration," he said. "I shall build our metamorphosis, and lead my people from reality's bondage."

So saying he struck the tools together, and their clarion cry was so pure all Dwemer could hear it, for they loved such things. They came to the hidden place to worship at the feet of the Brass God, the Ark of their unmaking.

Thus did the Dwemer reject ALMSIVI, bowing to the five directions, sealing their fate.

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.