Interlude 4 – The Tides of Fate

A sea of dismal green lies shrouded in darkness, an unending expanse of roiling water beneath a sunless chartreuse sky. Towering dark spires faintly emerge in the shadowy distance, dispersed haphazardly across the horizon.

Hundred-page tomes clad in black bindings are soaring through the air with the remarkable grace of birds in flock, suspended from invisible strings in heedless violation of multiple natural laws.

This realm is home to many such tomes. They are innumerable, stacked high to form walls and impossible archways in convoluted mazes, embedded into the glossy pulsating surfaces of the dark spires like bricks in cement, shifting from one bookshelf to another under their own power with dizzying swiftness. They each bear the same featureless black covers, but the lore contained within their faded pages varies wildly. Some are harmless. Most are not.

Wisp-lanterns float buoyantly upon unfelt winds to provide scattered pinpricks of citrine illumination. They're both globular and spindly, their design far removed from that of any mortal magelight conjured with magic or Dwarven technology. Whether they're organic, mechanical, or phantasmal existences has never been determined.

Terrible beasts stalk through green-tinted corridors and forgotten libraries, perpetually fulfilling the commands of their creator to organize and reorganize his word-hoards, and to dispose of any unwanted intruders. They're malformed creatures of leathery grey skin and vaguely aquatic features, fish-headed monstrosities with far too many tentacles and grasping limbs. Their misshapen maws are festooned with countless needle-pointed teeth and ooze oil-black ichor. Doubtlessly to the joy of many of Nirn's denizens, these are a genera of daedra rarely seen in the Mundus – for their master is a deeply jealous god. He does not permit frivolous summonings as do his younger brethren.

Clusters of tentacles stretch down from the clouds and up from the depths of the putrid waters, some miniscule and others unimaginably massive, all writhing blindly as they grasp for prey unknown. Perhaps they belong to long-lost leviathans and legendary krakens, beasts not seen in the oceans of Nirn in many lifetimes of the lesser races – if they ever existed at all.

The uncomfortable alternative is that they belong to something else entirely. And the longer one looks upon this garish landscape, the more likely that alternative may seem.

This place is not a constituency of Nirn, nor does it lie within the Mundus at all.

This is Apocrypha, the domain of secret knowledge most venomous to the eyes of Man and Mer. The laws of the temporal plane hold no sway here.

And yet there are some Men and Mer who dare to call this place home. They are those whose minds and souls have been lost to the overwhelming thirst for knowledge everlasting, now imprisoned forevermore within this realm to wander dark pathways and browse an uncountable number of books for what remains of eternity. To some this may sound like a pleasurable existence – and there are those who willingly offer their souls to the Gardener of Men for that very reason.

But they are all of them deceived. Knowledge is a dangerous thing, most of all to those who lack wisdom. The Daedric Prince of this plane of Oblivion, Hermaeus Mora – he who is called the Keeper of the Forbidden – does not ever discriminate in the knowledge he offers. He offers all. And there are some pages that are better left unturned.

When one gazes deeply into the wretched abyss, that selfsame abyss will assuredly gaze back. Precious few are they among the mortal races who can withstand the mind-flaying severity of that gaze.

Those who can bear the weight of his scrutiny are named his champions, the greatest of sages and Clever Men who yearn for insight with an avaricious fervor to match his own. They are unwilling to lay aside their desires for any other, be they man or god.

Champions of Mora are few and far between, but there is one who has dwelled in Apocrypha since the dawn of history, taking refuge here against the ravages of time and the depredations of his enemies.

And he is not alone. Other corresponding beings may be found here as well, his devoted servants who followed him willingly into the bleak environment of Apocrypha.

The clouded sky isn't only the domain of animated books and cephalopodan tendrils. Three dragons soar overhead upon batlike wings, extremely out of place in this chthonic landscape.

Their scales glitter with refractions of fell light. Their Voices report across the virulent waters as they seek tinvaak with one another or receive council from their lord, one who is blessed with the dovahsil and thus worthy of their allegiance.

Atop one of the dark spires protruding from the waves – the one circled by the dragons, uncoincidentally – is seated a single humanoid figure with his features hidden behind a mask, poring intently over an open black tome. Dozens of others are discarded around him, stacked upon the table serving as his lectern and strewn across the not-quite-stone floor. The area is illuminated by indigenous orange wisp-lights.

He isn't among the ranks of the lore-seekers ensnared hopelessly in the dusky archives below, witless wretches as they are. No, he has long resided in this place of his own volition, though like them has spent many years delving for the primordial truths of Apocrypha. The key difference is that he never sacrificed his sanity or his ambitions to do so.

His ambitions are much, much greater than theirs.

Like the trio of dragons overhead, his appearance isn't quite what would be expected from an inhabitant of Apocrypha. His is a strange countenance.

He wears the voluminous robes and hood of a scholar, sewn of plain cloth in black, grey, and navy blue with little in the way of embellishment. That is mundane enough. But he is far more than a mere scholar, though he sometimes claims otherwise with a false veneer of humility.

Gauntlets of dragonscale encase his forearms, lithe and light but utterly impenetrable. A buckle of unblemished gold adorns his belt.

His mask is metal, but the precise denomination is unclear. It may also be gold, or bronze, or perhaps some as-of-yet undiscovered Dwarven alloy. If he knows its nature, he has never seen fit to divulged it.

The mask is his most distinct possession by far. It fully covers his face, throat, and crown, leaving no bare skin exposed. Wrought tentacular appendages flare outwards from the sides and below, drooping down to his sternum like a braided beard and stretching above his shoulders like grotesque horns. By his silhouette alone, one might assume an octopus has draped itself across his head.

He peers through slitted eyeholes set into spherical protrusions, giving the artistic impression of orbular eyes while wholly concealing his own. With none of his physical form exposed to the world, he very well might not be a scion of mortalkind at all.

Next to him is a staff crafted from entwining fibrous material, clearly in emulation of the tentacles so ubiquitous in this murky realm. It's crowned with the head of a twisted creature, a monster of the deep sea with narrow elongated jaws and bulbous milky eyes. It resembles an eel, though unlike any species that could occur naturally in Kyne's creation.

In short, these things are what it means for him to live as a champion of Hermaeus Mora – to carry his hideous artifacts, to be made dependent on what limited power he chooses to invest, and to dwell in the indefinable center of Apocrypha until such a time as his usefulness has run its course. To adhere to his wishes and abide by his schemes, which are often so convoluted that even the champion himself cannot fathom their true depths. To be a good little slave, inevitably squeezed dry of everything he's worth and then thrown aside. This he knows to be true, though he doesn't meekly accept it.

It seems a fool's errand to proliferate his own schemes right beneath the nose of the Tenth Eye, and yet that's exactly what this masked champion has done. He remains in Apocrypha and continues to draw from Mora's wellspring of magic only because he must.

But the day will come when that is no longer the case.

He sets down his current book – a text on the nature of True Enquiry that he's expended much time and effort in deciphering, though only with partial success – and runs his gloved fingers across the gnarled surface of his staff leaning against his chair. Once his scepter of office as a dragon priest, it was imbued with Mora's agony and twisted into something otherworldly upon his arrival in Apocrypha long ago, as were the rest of his arcane possessions. A blessing at the time, but a curse in disguise also. It will pass away when his designs reach fruition, as will many other things. But for now it remains a useful tool.

"As do I to him in much the same manner." The irony isn't lost on him. It never has been.

With a disgruntled sigh, he takes up his staff and rises from his seat. The pursuit of knowledge is never dull, but he has grown restive as of late. He has been giving more thought than usual to the designs of his lord Hermaeus Mora, his own plans for the future, and their strained pact as master and servant.

The inborn nature of the dov is to hold dominion over the world, and that extends to the Dragonborn as well. He is not content to be ruled – rather, it is he who must rule. But for that desire to be made reality, he must consent to serving another for the time being. So he's told himself for his uncountable number of years in Apocrypha.

There are many more ahead of him unless something can draw the interest of his lord for an adequate amount of time. Many opportunities have passed him by, but none were precisely what he needed to be able to set his schemes into motion. There have been numerous Prisoners who lived and died over the course of Nirn's history – heroes, villains, and everything in between – but he always stayed his hand during their lifetimes. Even the magnificent Ysmir Talos could not provide a sufficient distraction, as shocking as that might seem.

But now… something has changed. The attentions of his lord are finally elsewhere, and rightly so. Events in Nirn are moving apace with the recent reemergence of the World-Eater. This act is drawing to a close. It will not be long now. He feels it deep down.

And when the timing is right, he will return to the world of Men and Mer with vengeance upon his fist and the wisdom of a righteous king upon his brow. He will take control of the material plane even as it threatens to falter and spill into the ocean between worlds. He will throw down the powers-that-be and raise himself up in their place as a conquering hero the likes of which has never before been seen, to surpass even the well-earned divinity of Ysmir the Dragon-King. The World-Eater will be crushed beneath his feet, a mighty triumph that even the greatest heroes of Old Atmora could not hope to accomplish.

His will be the glory. His will be the authority of the heavens. There will be none among gods or the mortal races who could dare stand against him, so sagacious is he in the matters of magic and war.

...And yet, even this champion of all-seeing Prince is sometimes caught unawares.

There is something amiss in the Mundus. No, not the World-Eater's return, but something...

He cocks his head, causing the metal protrusions of his mask to brush against his garments. An ever-present reminder of who, and more to the point what, he serves. But in this moment, he pays that no mind.

An unseen force ripples through the pungent seas and shrouded sky, indiscernible and unknowable by any except himself and his draconian subordinates. The distant echo of a great and terrible Thu'um, resounding with such raw intensity that even in this realm of Oblivion, a ghost of its potency still manifests.

A chuckle threatens to escape him, but he clamps down mercilessly on the wayward amusement. Instead his toxic green eyes widen with delight through the slits in his mask, the sole outward expression of his burgeoning glee.

This is something he hasn't felt in an age, though it never seemed quite so long to him. Time passes strangely in this place, not at all in concurrence with that of the Mundus. The Time Dragon's influence does not extend into this Plane of Oblivion in any recognizable form. Hermaeus Mora isn't called 'the Lord of the Tides of Fate' without just cause.

Even so, this phenomenon is intimately familiar to him. He's sensed something similar many times across the span of many eras, though its source lies in another plane entirely. He's particularly attuned to these things, much more so than any lesser man could hope to be. Such is the extent of his knowledge – and with knowledge comes power. He knows this better than most.

But perhaps, if he is fortunate, this iteration will be different from the rest.

Unseen beneath his mask, a satisfied smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "So another has come. The gods have seen fit to bestow their blessings once again, making a queen out of a pawn and unleashing them upon the board. For them to believe that the consummation of fate can be postponed any further by their meddling…" He shakes his head. "They delude themselves. Against my better judgement, I must confess to pitying the poor fool. Empathy is a strange thing."

The trio of dragons orbit restlessly in the sulfuric clouds above, having also sensed this development and now awaiting his next command. One of them grumbles throatily, a harsh sound that carries to his ears even so far below, overtaking the repetitious crashing of distant waves.

"Peace, Sahrotaar. Peace. I too have felt it."

He clenches a gloved fist. Arcane energy crackles effortlessly between his fingers.

"The time for our advent is fast approaching. Soon we will be free of this place. Soon… but not yet. First, we must wait a little while."

He strides purposefully to the center of the spire, his ever other step accentuated by the clacking of his staff against the ground. Before him stands a tiered circular platform holding aloft an altar of black tomes and cracked parchment, gabled by an arch comprised of thousands more books seemingly fused together. The altar shimmers with a ghostly blue light.

The masked man ascends the steps and halts beneath the bizarre archway. "But though it is not yet time for direct action, I admit that we would do wrong by ourselves to stand idly while Nirn is embroiled in the throes of armageddon. The requisite preparations must be made."

Without further ceremony, he raises his hands.

A pulse of magicka turns the altar's blue glow to an aura of sickly green. Raw energy radiates from the man in waves. His robes flap violently. His eyes shine with all the ferocity of the frozen northern seas.

So great is the power at his disposal that his influence extends even beyond the confines of his master's realm. This is no mean feat for a mere man, even one with the soul of a dovah. The bodies of most mortals would be instantaneously vaporized if they attempted to perform a spell of this magnitude.

Far away, across a timeless and spaceless expanse that cannot be measured by mundane means, his will takes physical form. Stones begin to tremble. Pages flutter under their own volition. His many thralls fall still, acceding to his inescapable control.

And thus heralded by the Voice of the Greybeards thundering across the mountains of Skyrim and into the lands beyond, his machinations are at last put into motion.

On a frigid island in the Sea of Ghosts, hundreds of mouths open against their owners' wishes, chanting as one in unholy unison.

"Here in his shrine, that they have forgotten. Here do we toil, that we might remember. By night we reclaim, what by day was stolen. Far from ourselves, he grows ever near to us. Our eyes once were blinded, now through him do we see. Our hands once were idle, now through them does he speak. And when the world shall listen, and when the world shall see, and when the world remembers… that world will cease to be."