Apocrypha, the vast and ever-expanding realm belonging to the enigmatic entity known as Hermaeus Mora, transcended mortal comprehension. It existed as a plane within the boundless expanse of Oblivion, an eerie reflection of its master's essence. Hermaeus Mora, often referred to as the Gardener of Man and the Knower of the Unknown, was the epitome of eldritch knowledge. A daedric prince, thirsting for the acquisition of all conceivable wisdom. He was a strange and alien being even by the standarts of the Daedra.
The fabric of Apocrypha pulsated with an unsettling combination of green and dark mist, coiling and undulating like sinister serpents. Sinister tentacles, slick and writhing, stretched across the ethereal landscape, obscuring and binding the realm together. These ominous appendages served as a visual representation of the ever-reaching grasp of knowledge, a tangible manifestation of Hermaeus Mora's insatiable hunger for all things hidden. In this shadowy realm, vast oceans of ink replaced conventional bodies of water, their depths teeming with boundless tomes devoid of titles. These books, each an enigma unto itself, held the entirety of knowledge both mundane and profound. Within their pages were the secrets of spells and technologies capable of toppling empires or preserving them, new fascinating ways of skinning a horker, as well as the most trivial of details like recipes for cooking ingredients. Even the elusive and scandalous secret "Lusty Argonian Maid" had its clandestine pages tucked away within this labyrinthine library, known only to a select few.
Among the sprawling shelves of books, elusive Seekers, daedric beings adorned with a seemingly insatiable thirst for knowledge, roamed ceaselessly. Their tireless quest for enlightenment pushed them ever onward, their minds tormented by the ever-elusive notion of satiating their unquenchable curiosity. Silent and ever-watchful Lurkers, monstrosities that resembled twisted amalgamations of flesh and ink, stood sentinel within the dark recesses of Apocrypha. Should an uninvited soul dare to venture into this realm without Hermaeus Mora's explicit invitation, these grotesque creatures would swiftly descend upon them, their wrath matched only by their master's unfathomable power. It is the Apocrypha where the boundaries of reality blurred, and mortal minds quivered in the face of the unknowable. It was a realm where the quest for knowledge became both an obsession and a terror, where the pursuit of wisdom merged with the unyielding madness that lurked within the shadows. Within this realm, Hermaeus Mora reigned supreme, a deity of forgotten secrets and forbidden truths, forever hungry for the acquisition of all that could be known.
Hermaeus Mora reveled in his triumph, relishing the acquisition of his newest champion, The Last Dragonborn. This mortal had proven to be a loyal servant, fulfilling the deity's desires by unraveling the mysteries of the Elder Scrolls and supplanting his previous wayward champion, Miraak. Like so many before him who had dared to defy their patrons, Miraak had forgotten his place and attempted to betray the Lord of Knowledge, the Architect of Fate. Such audacity demanded swift and severe punishment, and Hermaeus Mora ensured that it was duly delivered. Now, the Last Dragonborn stood poised to reap the rewards and unparalleled knowledge that only the Prince of Knowledge could offer. Of course, this bounty came with a condition: The unwavering servitude to his master.
And serve the Last Dragonborn did, fulfilling Hermaeus Mora's whims with utmost dedication. Yet, the daedric prince found himself not entirely satisfied. Despite the mortal's faithful service, the Last Dragonborn still retained remnants of freedom and the lingering influence of other Daedric Princes such as Molag Bal and Nocturnal. To rectify this, Hermaeus Mora embarked upon a process of purging these external influences from his chosen champion. Just as he had done with Miraak, the Last Dragonborn was reshaped in the image of his master. This transformation served a twofold purpose. It asserted Hermaeus Mora's absolute dominion over his servant and sent a resounding message to other Princes, even the Aedra themselves, particularly Akatosh. The Last Dragonborn, just like the First, belonged solely to the Lord of Knowledge. Any attempts to wrest his possession, his treasured puppet, relic and champion, would invite dire consequences upon the interloper. Furthermore, Hermaeus Mora bound the Last Dragonborn's soul to his own realm. Through this tether, he gained the ability to summon his puppet back to his realm at will, irrespective of the Last Dragonborn's whereabouts in Nirn or other realms of Oblivion. With each completed task and mission, Hermaeus Mora would exert his influence, drawing the Last Dragonborn back to his new home. A testament to the utter control and ownership he held over his chosen vessel.
Knowing that the Last Dragonborn was not merely a pawn but an extension of his will. Through their bound destinies, the daedric prince sought to manipulate the tides of fate, ensuring that his servant remained forever tethered to his divine designs.
Within the realm of the Daedric Princes, the presence of Hermaeus Mora's rivals, particularly the vexatious Vaermina, necessitated a reminder of his power. The incessant meddling of these entities had become increasingly irksome. The politics among the Daedric Princes were as convoluted as they were treacherous. The more power one acquired, the more they were feared and despised by their peers. Should a Prince amass too much power, the others would unite in opposition, collaborating to bring about their defeat, much like they had done to Jyggalag. It was the intricate dance of power that maintained the precarious status quo among the Princes. Yet, Hermaeus Mora, a being of great magnitude, regarded such pettiness as beneath him. He chose to dismiss the squabbles of his counterparts, for his neutrality was both a boon and a burden. On one hand, it left him bereft of true allies among the Princes. However, it also meant that he had no real enemies expect Vaermina. The Princes remained blissfully unaware of the true extent of Hermaeus Mora's might, thus choosing to overlook him. Especially now he had a powerful Dragonborn in his service. In return, the eldritch Prince maintained a similar indifference, refraining from interfering in their affairs, content in his own domain. Even when he boldly claimed the Last Dragonborn as his own, the other Princes dared not declare war against him. The prospect of such a conflict would potentially ignite a devastating conflagration, plunging the realms into utter chaos(at least more than the usual for some princes). Thus, they begrudgingly accepted his acquisition, cognizant of the catastrophic consequences that might unfold should they challenge the Lord of Knowledge.
Hermaeus Mora, driven by a mischievous desire, devised a wicked plan to unleash his champion, the Last Dragonborn, and his daedric army upon Vaermina's realm of Dreamstride once again. The chaos and havoc they would sow would serve as a potent message, an unmistakable declaration of Hermaeus Mora's power. He had done it before, and it would work once more, forcing Vaermina to retreat and leave him in peace for an extended period. His foresight assured him of this outcome. However, when he reached out to sense the familiar presence of the Last Dragonborn within his realm, a sense of surprise washed over him. He failed to find any trace of his champion.
Mora's tentacles twitched with unease as he initiated another frantic search throughout his realm, trying to locate the missing champion. Yet, amidst his futile efforts, he detected a distinct presence, a peculiar anomaly that diverted his attention. His gaze fixated on the source, revealing a simple piece of paper gracefully floating upon the inky ocean. Astonishingly, this paper, the knowledge it contained did not belonged to him, despite its presence within his domain. The audacity of such a trespass was utterly unacceptable, striking a nerve within Hermaeus Mora. In that moment, the offense of the intrusion overshadowed his concerns for the absent Last Dragonborn. Succumbing to his insatiable hunger for knowledge, he eagerly consumed the written contents of the paper.
"Hello, my slow-talking, tentacled friend! It's been eons, hasn't it? Or maybe it's only been a few measly seconds in the mortal realm. Time in oblivion, you know, is about as useful as a rubber sword. Anyway, by the time you stumble upon this letter, you'll find out that your newest champion/toy/puppet/friend has gone and left you. Bet that stings, huh? Or whatever you tentacle creatures feel as an equivalent to a broken heart. Well, truth be told, he didn't really leave you. I just relocated him... somewhere else."
"I can almost hear you asking, 'Where did you put him?' Well, let's just say the place I sent him could use a hefty dose of chaos and change. It's as dull as a rusty spoon over there! Just a bunch of mundane mortal politics and wars. In Nirn, on the other hand, crazy shit happens all the time. The mortals there have come to accept it as part of daily life and just shrug it off. So that's precisely what that world needs! And your new buddy will be doing just that for me, entertaining me to no end. He'll be doing things like saving kittens, murdering kings and nobles, slaying unkillable monsters, stealing and looting everything in sight, you get the picture!"
"In fact, we can watch the whole spectacle together if you're up for it. Now, I know you can easily retrieve him with a snap of your tentacles, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't. Because if you do, it'll make me really, really sad. And trust me, you wouldn't want to see me sad. Bad things tend to happen when I'm upset. Like declaring war and ruining everyone's peace and quiet. And let's not forget, the other princes would join in the fun too. Especially since you stole their champion as well, I have a feeling there are many people dislikes you now. So please, pretty please, don't spoil my good time. It will be just twenty minute, in-and-out quick adventure you see! "
"Yours mischievously,
-Cheese
As soon as Hermaeus Mora absorbed the contents of the letter, an absolute fury engulfed him. It was a fury that surpassed mortal comprehension, shaking his realm to its very core. His poor deadric servants futiely tried to hide, if mortals witnessed this fury they would gladly throw themselves into the abyss to avoid such a sight.
"SHEOGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH!"Mora let out a scream that echoed through the planes of existence, the sheer force of his rage causing tremors that made even the bravest dremora tremble in their boots.
The sun rose gently over the simple village of White Orchard, casting a warm glow upon the quaint cottages and verdant fields. This once idyllic hamlet, nestled amidst rolling hills, had always exuded an air of tranquility. However, the recent occupation by the Nilfgaardian forces had cast a dark shadow over the villagers' daily lives, altering the rhythm of their existence.
Amidst the morning haze, simple peasants could be seen toiling diligently in the fields, their weathered hands tending to crops with care. The rhythmic sound of scythes cutting through golden wheat filled the air, as the farmers labored under the watchful eyes of Nilfgaardian overseers. A sense of unease permeated the atmosphere, as the villagers silently carried out their tasks, their faces etched with weariness and resignation, the melodic lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep harmonized with the laughter of children. The youngsters, oblivious to the weight of the occupation, frolicked and played games amidst the village square. Their innocent voices intertwined with the gentle breeze, as they sang a haunting tune passed down through generations, their carefree spirits temporarily shielding them from the realities of their changing world.
In White Orchard, life just unfolded in a tapestry of simple routines. Homemakers just bustled about their daily chores, diligently cooking meals over crackling hearths, the aroma of hearty stews wafting through the air. Women gathered at the river's edge, diligently scrubbing clothes against worn stones, their conversations filled with hushed whispers and hidden worries.
The village now existed under the watchful eyes of Nilfgaardian soldiers who patrolled its streets. The inhabitants navigated their once familiar surroundings with caution, casting furtive glances at the armed men stationed at strategic points throughout the village. Some of them felt fear had seeping into their hearts, whispering tales of uncertainty and apprehension about the future. Despite the pervasive tension however, the villagers clung to their indomitable spirit. They found solace in the beauty of their surroundings, seeking refuge amidst the blossoming orchards and meandering streams. Moments of respite were cherished, as families gathered beneath the ancient oak tree at the heart of the village, sharing stories and laughter that echoed through the ages. Everyday was pretty much same in here. Despite everything.
Unbeknownst to the villagers however life in their village was about to change...
Bram, a weathered merchant with a perpetual smile etched on his face, meticulously counted the gleaming coins he had acquired that day. His wares consisted of an assortment of fruits, vegetables, and occasional cuts of meat sourced from his cousin's inn. In simpler times, these transactions would have been conducted with crowns, the customary currency. However, with Nilfgaard's occupation looming over their village, the inhabitants were coerced into adopting Nilfgaardian florens.
Satisfied with his earnings, Bram briskly cleared the remnants of his trade from the sturdy wooden table that doubled as his makeshift stall. As the day began to fade into dusk, a sense of trepidation settled over the village. Evening brought with it a palpable danger, for even the presence of battle-hardened soldiers couldn't guarantee safety. Beyond the borders of the civilized lands, the Continent harbored a plethora of menacing creatures, capable of snuffing out life with ease. It was a cruel reality that those who dwelled in these parts had come to accept. With the shadows lengthening and the air thick with unease, Bram made his way back to the sanctuary of his humble abode. Each step carried a sense of urgency, for the perils of the night were not to be taken lightly. The familiar warmth and familiarity of his home offered solace amidst the harshness of their existence, but Bram knew that their respite was fleeting. Life in this unforgiving land demanded constant vigilance and the willingness to confront the perils that lurked in every corner.
Bram stood on the front steps of his home, his heart skipped a beat as his eyes locked onto a figure emerging on the road. A surge of primal instinct urged him to escape, to flee as far away as possible from this terrifying presence that now loomed before him.
Despite his fear, Bram couldn't help but study the figure, transfixed by its otherworldly nature. The man...though it was hard to tell if he truly was human, radiated an undeniable sense of intimidation. Yet, amidst the terror, there was something undeniably captivating about how alien the man appeared. It was as if he possessed an enchantment, an arcane charm that defied explanation.
The figure's golden mask concealed his entire visage, from the apex of his forehead down to his chin, boasting intricate engravings and captivating details. The mask itself bore a resemblance to a dragon(?) countenance, featuring an elongated snout-like extension that jutted forth from the lower part of the face. The eyes, set deep within the mask, emitted a haunting glow, casting an eerie, fiery light into the surrounding darkness. The sharp, raised eyebrows of the mask only added to the figure's intimidating presence. Simply put, the mask alone exuded an aura of unfathomable menace and unrestrained power.
The man's robes, primarily adorned in a shade of mesmerizing green, boasted ornate golden patterns that wove their way along the edges and throughout the fabric. The design seemed to incorporate a fusion of elaborate symbols and enigmatic, tentacle-like motifs, enhancing the figure's enigmatic allure. The robes themselves possessed a flowing, ethereal quality, their long, billowing sleeves swaying with an otherworldly grace. The loose-fitting hood partially veiled the wearer's face, its delicate golden trim lending an air of regality to the ensemble. Strapped to the figure's back was a staff, emanating a pulsating blue glow, hinting at its arcane power. And though Bram was relieved to see the man's sword sheathed, it too bore an unsettling quality, defying convention and appearing unnaturally askew.
Bram soon realized that he was not the only one captivated by the presence of the figure. Others within the village had become acutely aware of his presence as well. The once bustling hamlet fell into a hushed silence, as if nature itself had held its breath in anticipation. Villagers stood frozen in their tracks, their eyes fixed upon the enigmatic figure. Even the animals seemed to sense the weight of his arrival, their usual sounds replaced by an eerie silence. Children mirrored their parents' reactions, their innocent play abruptly halted as they too stood transfixed by the figure's unsettling presence. The village now bore an ominous aura, as if an invisible shroud of foreboding had descended upon its very soul.
Mysterios Figure then started to walk like a hunter well-versed in the arts of patience and calculation. Each step he took was a whisper against the earth, an ethereal dance that left no trace behind. As he neared the village, a chilling presence emanated from his very being, casting a pall of unease over the once serene hamlet. Bram, overwhelmed by terror, yearned to flee from this abominable figure, to escape the clutches of a being that seemed to command the very essence of fear itself. Yet, a malevolent force held him in place, freezing his limbs in a vice grip of dread, rendering him incapable of retreating.
With widened eyes, Bram watched in helpless horror as the enigmatic figure drew closer, his breaths shallow and rapid, mirroring the quickening of his heart. He dared not make a sound, for the slightest offense might bring about a fate more dreadful than he could fathom. Silently, he stood there, a mere mortal caught in the gaze of an otherworldly entity, praying fervently that he would escape its notice.
But fate, cruel and unforgiving, conspired against Bram on this ill-fated day. The figure's piercing gaze fixated upon a humble cart near Bram's dwelling, a sudden realization dawning upon its inscrutable countenance. A frigid shiver cascaded down Bram's spine as the figure's masked eyes locked onto his own, as if peering into the depths of his very soul. The weight of its gaze became unbearable, its aura suffocating, and Bram averted his gaze, unable to withstand its eldritch power.
Slowly, with purposeful steps, the figure closed the distance, its approach a harbinger of doom. Bram's senses were heightened to a state of hyper-vigilance as he realized the inescapable truth: his fate now rested solely within the hands of this enigmatic entity. Panic consumed him, his every instinct screaming for survival, yet he knew deep down that resistance was futile. In his desperation, Bram pleaded silently to the gods, grasping at the fragile remnants of his willpower, desperately hoping for salvation from any source, even the treacherous embrace of Nilfgaard.
The abomination loomed over Bram, its presence suffocating and intimidating. Bram couldn't bear to meet its gaze, knowing the horrors that surely awaited him if he did. The villagers trembled in fear, frozen in place, like statues afraid to draw attention. The tension in the air was palpable, as if the entire atmosphere held its breath, awaiting the momentous words about to be spoken.
Finally, the figure's voice broke the silence, resonating with an ethereal, otherworldly darkness and commanding authority. Each word seemed to carry the weight of the universe, capable of altering the course of the land and perhaps even the world. Bram couldn't fathom the magnitude of the encounter, but he knew that these words would shape the destiny of their village.
And then, with a voice dripping with mystery, the figure posed a simple question:
"What have you got for sale?"
The weight of the moment proved too much for poor Bram. Overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of the situation, he promptly fainted, collapsing to the ground in a comical fashion.