Practice of Magic: Conjuration, Lesson Three

  • Grulmar was bent over a piece of paper, scribbling something on it, the moves of the brush being hectic and almost furious. He was so focused on his drawing that he failed to notice Agni talking to him. He heard for the second time and blinked. “What?” he shook his head and turned around.

     

    She was sitting on the bed, in the room in front of the Atronach Forge, one of her books on her lap, but her puppy eyes were looking directly at him, annoyed. “I was asking what are you doing there. It sounds like you are trying to tear that paper.”

     

    “None of yer business,” he growled and turned back to his work. He heard her footsteps on the ground and then she tapped at his left shoulder. He shifted, so that she wouldn't see it, but the girl tricked him and went around from the right, snatching the paper from under his hands. “Hey! Give it back, ya little troll!”

     

    She ran to the other side of the room when he tried to take the paper of her hands, falling off the chair in the process. She laughed and looked at the paper. “Oh, that's Arch-Mage Broody. And you drew him a funny mustache,” she chuckled and then frowned. “Why is a knife sticking out of his forehead?”

     

    “None of yer business!” the Orc growled while he was clawing his way out back to his feet.

     

    “I’m gonna tell!”

     

    “The tusk ya are!” He reached her and extended his arm to snatch the paper, but then a wall of shimmering white-blue light stopped him. “Shit! Drop the Ward down, little witch!”

     

    “And I’m gonna tell you are cursing. You shouldn’t be,” she stuck her tongue at him, still maintaining the Ward.

     

    Grulmar bared his tusks at her. “Fine, keep it. I don’t give a horse shit about what ya are goin’ to tell.”

     

    She stomped after his words, her childish face wrinkled with determination. “I won’t tell if I get something.”

     

    The Orc snorted. Damn runts and their demands… “What could ya possibly want? If ya say my soul then that’s too bad ‘cause I already sold it.”

     

    “No,” she shook her head and frowned at him. “I want a honey nut treat. Everyday, forever.”

     

    Grulmar whistled as much as his tusks allowed him to. “I expected worse,” he murmured. “Deal.” Though I have no tuskin’ clue how I’m goin’ to do it. Ah, well...not the first time ya lied.

     

    The Ward disappeared and she handed him the paper back. “And now back to research!” she commanded. “You have books to read.”

     

    Grulmar sighed and sat back at the table. “Yes, Your Highness,” he sneered and took one of the books she brought him.

     

    It is improper, however customary, to refer to the denizens of the dimension of Oblivion as "demons." This practice probably dates to the Alessian Doctrines of the First Era prophet Marukh—which, rather amusingly, forbade "trafficke with daimons" and then neglected to explain what daimons were.

     

    It is most probable that "daimon" is a misspelling or etymological rendition of "Daedra," the old Elven word for those strange, powerful creatures of uncertain motivation who hail from the dimensions of Oblivion. ("Daedra" is actually the plural form; the singular is "Daedroth.") In a later tract by King Hale the Pious of Skyrim, almost a thousand years after the publication of the original Doctrines, the evil machinations of his political enemies are compared to "the wickedness of the demons of Oblivion... their depravity equals that of Sanguine itself, they are cruel as Boethiah, calculating as Molag Bal, and mad as Sheogorath." Hale the Pious thus long-windedly introduced four of the Daedra Lords to written record.

     

    But the written record is not, after all, the best way to research Oblivion and the Daedra who inhabit it. Those who "trafficke with daimons" seldom wish it to be a matter of public account. Nevertheless, scattered throughout the literature of the First Era are diaries, journals, notices for witch burnings, and guides for Daedra-slayers. These I have used as my primary source material. They are at least as trustworthy as the Daedra lords I have actually summoned and spoken with at length.

     

    Apparently, Oblivion is a place composed of many lands—thus the many names for which Oblivion is synonymous: Coldharbour, Quagmire, Moonshadow, etc. It may be correctly supposed that each land of Oblivion is ruled over by one prince. The Daedric Princes whose names appear over and over in ancient records (though this is not an infallible test of their authenticity or explicit existence, to be sure) are the aforementioned Sanguine, Boethiah, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, and in addition, Azura, Mephala, Clavicus Vile, Vaermina, Malacath, Hoermius (or Hermaeus or Hormaius or Herma—there seems to be no one accepted spelling) Mora, Namira, Jyggalag, Nocturnal, Mehrunes Dagon, and Peryite.

     

    “Who in the name of Mara’s flapping tits is Jyggalag?” he frowned and then realized that he was speaking out loud.

     

    “Hey! Language!” Agni raised her voice, standing behind him. “And Jyggalag is the Daedric Prince of Order.”

     

    He looked at her with brows raised. “How do ya know that? And why have I never heard about him?”

     

    She grasped her chin in the pose of someone lost in their thoughts and then her eyes twinkled. “According to Falion, Jyggalag is Sheogorath. He said that he was a powerful Prince whose sphere spanned across the seas of Oblivion. Other Princes, being jealous of him and fearing his power, cursed him into something that he hated the most. Madness. Sheogorath. He also said that Jyggalag returns at the end of every Era, an event called The Greymarch, and takes back his realm, only to become Sheogorath again.”

     

    Grulmar just stared at her. “And how exactly does Falion know all this?”

     

    Agni shrugged with her little shoulders. “He says that he traveled through the planes of Oblivion, met Daedra and Dwemer.”

     

    “Dwemer, eh? Then he’s one big fat liar,” Grulmar snorted.

     

    “No, he’s not!” she snapped at him and Grulmar with amusement on his face raised his hands in surrender.

     

    “Alright. Ya are right. He’s not fat,” he chuckled.

     

    “I don’t like you,” Agni said with an outrageous frown on her face.

     

    “Likewise,” he murmured. “And now let me continue. Ya insisted I should read these books. So don’t interrupt me.”

     

    “But-” she opened her mouth, but Grulmar raised his hand and mimicked a clucking chicken. When she tried to continue he repeated the sound, then few more times until she finally got it and just kept her mouth shut, with sour face.

     

    Grulmar sighed and continued reading.

     

    From my experience, Daedra are a very mixed lot. It is almost impossible to categorize them as a whole except for their immense power and penchant for extremism. Be that as it may, I have here attempted to do so in a few cases, purely for the sake of scholastic expediency.

     

    Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Peryite, Boethiah, and Vaermina are among the most consistently "demonic" of the Daedra, in the sense that their spheres seem to be destructive in nature. The other Daedra can, of course, be equally dangerous, but seldom purely for the sake of destruction as these five can. Nor are these previous five identical in their destructiveness. Mehrunes Dagon seems to prefer natural disasters—earthquakes and volcanoes—for venting his anger. Molag Bal elects the employment of other Daedra, and Boethiah inspires the arms of mortal warriors. Peryite's sphere seems to be pestilence, and Vaermina's torture.

     

    In preparation for the next installment in this series, I will be investigating two matters that have intrigued me since I began my career as a Daedra researcher. The first is on one particular Daedra, perhaps yet another Daedric Prince, referred to in multiple articles of incunabula as Hircine. Hircine has been called "the Huntsman of the Princes" and "the Father of Man-beasts," but I have yet to find anyone who can summon him. The other, and perhaps more doubtful, goal I have is to find a practical means for mortal men to pass through to Oblivion. It has always been my philosophy that we need only fear that which we do not understand—and with that thought in mind, I ever pursue my objective.

     

    Right. Fear what we don’t understand. I don’t have to understand it to know it’s a bullshit that’s gettin’  people killed or worse, especially when I see it with my own eyes.

     

    It was an admirable effort to try paint the Daedra in brighter colors, but the fact was that mortals were nothing but toys to the immortal Daedra. Anyone saying otherwise was a blind fool, an ignorant eventually paying for the mistake in believing otherwise. Stay away from tuskin’ Daedra and even further from the Princes. That’s what Decimus always said and Grulmar agreed with him. But sometimes Daedra find you…

     

    He reached for another book before he would get all broody like the damn Arch-Mage.

     

    When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee.

     

    Nai Tyrol-Llar

     

    The greatest mage who ever lived was my master Morian Zenas. You have heard of him as the author of the book 'On Oblivion,' the standard text for all on matters Daedric. Despite many entreaties over the years, he refused to update his classic book with his new discoveries and theories because he found that the more one delves into these realms, the less certain one is. He did not want conjecture, he wanted facts.

     

    For decades before and after the publication of 'On Oblivion,' Zenas compiled a vast personal library on the subject of Oblivion, the home of the Daedra. He divided his time between this research and personal magickal growth, on the assumption that should he succeed in finding a way into the dangerous world beyond and behind ours, he would need much power to wander its dark paths.

     

    Twelve years before Zenas began the journey he had prepared his life to make, he hired me as his assistant. I possessed the three attributes he required for the position: I was young and eager to help without question; I could read any book once and memorize its contents; and, despite my youth, I was already a Master of Conjuration.

     

    Zenas too was a Master of Conjuration - indeed, a Master at all the known and unknown Schools - but he did not want to rely on his ability alone in the most perilous of his research. In an underground vault, he summoned Daedra to interview them on their native land, and for that he needed another Conjurer to make certain they came, were bound, and were sent away again without incident.

     

    I will never forget that vault, not for its look which was plain and unadorned, but for what you couldn't see. There were scents that lingered long after the summoned creatures had left, flowers and sulfur, sex and decay, power and madness. They haunt me still to this very day.

     

    Conjuration, for the layman unacquainted with its workings, connects the caster's mind with that of the summoned. It is a tenuous link, meant only to lure, hold, and dismiss, but in the hands of a Master, it can be much stronger. The Psijics and Dwemer can (in the Dwemer's case, perhaps I should say, could) connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a skill that is sometimes called telepathy.

     

    Tele-what? Link between two minds… What weird shit this is. I heard Broody talkin' about how these Psijics talked with him, through strange projections. So it is real. But this link, between conjurer and conjured, is meant to lure, hold and dismiss.

     

    So in theory...if one would manage to find a way to break that link...what would happen? Would the summoned creature return where it came from? Or turn on its summoner?

     

    Over the course of my employment, Zenas and I developed such a link between one another. It was accidental, a result of two powerful Conjurers working closely together, but we decided that it would be invaluable should he succeed in traveling to Oblivion. Since the denizens of that land could be touched even by the skills of an amateur Conjurer, it was possible we could continue to communicate while he was there, so I could record his discoveries.

     

    The 'Doors to Oblivion,' to use Morian Zenas's phrase, are not easily found, and we exhausted many possibilities before we found one where we held the key.

     

    The Psijics of Artaeum have a place they call The Dreaming Cave, where it is said one can enter into the Daedric realms and return. Iachesis, Sotha Sil, Nematigh, and many others have been recorded as using this means, but despite many entreaties to the Order, we were denied its use. Celarus, the leader of the Order, has told us it has been sealed off for the safety of all.

     

    We had hopes of using the ruins of the Battlespire to access Oblivion. The Weir Gate still stands, though the old proving grounds of the Imperial Battlemages itself was shattered some years ago in Jagar Tharn's time. Sadly, after an exhaustive search through the detritus, we had to conclude that when it was destroyed, all access to the realms beyond, the Soul Cairn, the Shade Perilous, and the Havoc Wellhead, had been broken. It was probably for the good, but it frustrated our goal.

     

    What the tusk is Shade Perilous and Havoc Wellhead? So there aren’t just big planes like Badlands but many small ones as well, bein’ some sort of sub-realms of the big ones. Am I right?

     

    The reader may have heard of other Doors, and he may be assured we attempted to find them all.

     

    Some are pure legend, or at any rate, not traceable based on the information left behind. There are references in lore to Marukh's Abyss, the Corryngton Mirror, the Mantellan Crux, the Crossroads, the Mouth, a riddle of an alchemical formula called Jacinth and Rising Sun, and many other places and objects that are said to be Doors, but we could not find these.

     

    Some exist, but cannot be entered safely. The whirlpool in the Abecean called the Maelstrom of Bal can make ships disappear, and may be a portal into Oblivion, but the trauma of riding its waters would surely slay any who tried. Likewise, we did not consider it worth the risk to leap from the Pillar of Thras, a thousand foot tall spiral of coral, though we witnessed the sacrifices the Sload made there. Some victims were killed by the fall, but some, indeed, seemed to vanish before being dashed on the rocks. Since the Sload did not seem certain why some were taken and some died, we did not favor the odds of the plunge.

     

    Just readin' all this makes me quite certain where this all is headin' and I think that ya should have taken the leap. Ya would save yerself a big load of misery and sufferin'...

     

    The simplest and most maddeningly complex way to go to Oblivion was simply to cease to be here, and begin to be there. Throughout history, there are examples of mages who seemed to travel to the realms beyond ours seemingly at will. Many of these voyagers are long dead, if they ever existed, but we were able to find one still living. In a tower off Zafirbel Bay on the island of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind, there exists a very old, very reclusive wizard named Divayth Fyr.

     

    He was not easy to reach, and he was reluctant to share with Morian Zenas the secret Door to Oblivion. Fortunately, my master's knowledge of lore impressed Fyr, and he taught him the way. I would be breaking my promise to Zenas and Fyr to explain the procedure here, and I would not divulge it even if I could. If there is dangerous knowledge to be had, that is it. But I do not reveal too much to say that Fyr's scheme relied on exploiting a series of portals to various realms created by a Telvanni wizard long missing and presumed dead. Against the disadvantage of this limited number of access points, we weighed the relative reliability and security of passage, and considered ourselves fortunate in our informant.

     

    Morian Zenas then left this world to begin his exploration. I stayed at the library to transcribe his information and help him with any research he needed.

     

    'Dust,' he whispered to me on the first day of his voyage. Despite the inherent dreariness of the word, I could hear his excitement in his voice, echoing in my mind. 'I can see from one end of the world to the other in a million shades of gray. There is no sky or ground or air, only particles, floating, falling, whirling about me. I must levitate and breathe by magickal means …'

     

    Sounds lovely.

     

    Zenas explored the nebulous land for some time, encountering vaporous creatures and palaces of smoke. Though he never met the Prince, we concluded that he was in Ashpit, said to be the home of Malacath, where anguish, betrayal, and broken promises filled the bitter air like ash.

     

    Oh. Ashpit. Be glad ya haven't run into a damn garden with a green eyed bitch in there. Then ya would be tusked...

     

    'The sky is on fire,' I heard him say as he moved on to the next realm. 'The ground is sludge, but traversable. I see blackened ruins all around me, like a war was fought here in the distant past. The air is freezing. I cast blooms of warmth all around me, but it still feels like daggers of ice stabbing me in all directions.'

     

    This was Coldharbour, where Molag Bal was Prince. It appeared to Zenas as if it were a future Nirn, under the King of Rape, desolate and barren, filled with suffering. I could hear Morian Zenas weep at the images he saw, and shiver at the sight of the Imperial Palace, spattered with blood and excrement.

     

    'Too much beauty,' Zenas gasped when he went to the next realm. 'I am half blind. I see flowers and waterfalls, majestic trees, a city of silver, but it is all a blur. The colors run like water. It's raining now, and the wind smells like perfume. This surely is Moonshadow, where Azura dwells.'

     

    Zenas was right, and astonishingly, he even had audience with the Queen of Dusk and Dawn in her rose palace. She listened to his tale with a smile and foretold to him the coming of the Nerevarine. My master found Moonshadow so lovely, he wished to stay there, half-blind, forever, but he knew he must move on and complete his journey of discovery.

     

    'I am in a storm,' he told me as he entered the next realm. He described the landscape of dark twisted trees, howling spirits, and billowing mist, and I thought he might have entered the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon. But then he said quickly, 'No, I am no longer in a forest. There was a flash of lightning, and now I am on a ship. The mast is tattered. The crew is slaughtered. Something is coming through the waves … oh, gods … Wait, now, I am in a dank dungeon, in a cell …'

     

    He was not in the Deadlands, but Quagmire, the nightmare realm of Vaernima. Every few minutes, there was a flash of lightning and reality shifted, always to something more horrible and horrifying. A dark castle one moment, a den of ravening beasts the next, a moonlit swamp, a coffin where he was buried alive. Fear got the better of my master, and he quickly passed to the next realm.

     

    I heard him laugh, 'I feel like I'm home now.'

     

    Morian Zenas described to me an endless library, shelves stretching on in every direction, stacks on top of stacks. Pages floated on a mystical wind that he could not feel. Every book had a black cover with no title. He could see no one, but felt the presence of ghosts moving through the stacks, rifling through books, ever searching.

     

    It was Apocrypha. The home of Hermaeus-Mora, where all forbidden knowledge can be found. I felt a shudder in my mind, but I could not tell if it was my master's or mine.

     

    Morian Zenas never traveled to another realm that I know of.

     

    Throughout his visits to the first four realms, my master spoke to me constantly. Upon entering the Apocrypha, he became quieter, as he was lured into the world of research and study, the passions that had controlled his heart while on Nirn. I would frantically try to call to him, but he closed his mind to me.

     

    Then he would whisper, 'This cannot be …'

     

    'No one would ever guess the truth …'

     

    'I must learn more …'

     

    'I see the world, a last illusion's shimmer, it is crumbling all around us …'

     

    Oh boy.

     

    I would cry back to him, begging him to tell me what was happening, what he was seeing, what he was learning. I even tried using Conjuration to summon him as if he were a Daedra himself, but he refused to leave. Morian Zenas was lost.

     

    I last received a whisper from him six months ago. Before then, it had been five years, and three before that. His thoughts are no longer intelligible in any language. Perhaps he is still in Apocrypha, lost but happy, in a trap he refuses to escape.

     

    Perhaps he slipped between the stacks and passed into the Madhouse of Sheogorath, losing his sanity forever.

     

    I would save him if I could.

     

    I would silence his whispers if I could.

     

    What other proof ya want? Conjuration is bad!

     

    He turned around to Agni and then he noticed a figure emerging from the corridor, stepping into the torch light, revealing the broad shoulders and big green frown of the Arch-Mage. His eyes looked at Agni sitting on the bed, then at Grulmar at his table and then at all the furniture in the room.

     

    Well...shit.

     

    “What in the Oblivion is going on here?” Urag growled and Agni straightened and then quickly jumped off the bed.

     

    “Nothing, Arch-Mage,” she peeped. Grulmar could sense her fear, because she believed she was in trouble. But she wasn't, not really. Not her.

     

    “Falion is looking for you, Agni. You had better go see him,” the Arch-Mage murmured. “Besides, this is not a place for a young lady like you.” His eyes then fell on Grulmar and the frown became even more prominent. “I will catch up with you in a minute. Just have something to discuss with Grulmar here.”

     

    She looked at Arch-Mage and then at Grulmar. She wasn't stupid, she understood what was going on there. She wasn't in trouble, Grulmar was, he clearly saw the understanding on her face. She pulled Urag's sleeve, getting his attention. “Grulmar didn't do anything,” she said, suppressing a cry. “It was my idea to go down here and-”

     

    Urag frowned even more and his gaze fell on Grulmar, like if the smaller Orc had cast a spell on the girl. Grulmar was pretty sure he didn't, and he could deny it, but what was the point? He'll believe what he wants to believe anyway. Urag's hand stroked Agni's hair and he then crouched next to her. “Don't worry, sweetheart. Nobody's in trouble. Go find Falion, alright? I'll be there soon.”

     

    “Alright,” she sobbed and turned to Grulmar, waving at him. He had to suppress his smile, his face remaining like an unreadable face of a statue. He didn't wave back. When Agni finally left, Grulmar saw how Urag's shoulders tensed, the big Orc trying to suppress his anger.

     

    “Seriously?” the Arch-Mage growled. “You brought her here?”

     

    Grulmar jumped on his feet, the chair falling down on the floor with loud creaking of the wood, and pointed his forefinger on Urag. “So that's how it is? Ya just come here and start blamin' me? What would ya like to hear? That I raped her? Oh, or that I wanted to sacrifice her to some tuskin' Daedra?”

     

    “She isn't supposed to be down here,” the big Orc bared his tusks at Grulmar. “Certainly not with you. Not in your condition.”

     

    “My condi-” Grulmar opened his mouth and then shut it again. The shakes, the addiction. “Am I contagious now?”

     

    Urag growled and took a step closer. “You're dangerous. To yourself and people around you. What would happen if you got another of your seizures with her being here? I know how it works, runt. You lash out at everyone around yourself in that moment-”

     

    “Ya know shit-”

     

    “No!” Urag shouted and took another step, grabbing Grulmar by his collar. “You know shit! I've been where you are, but you don't listen! You piss off Aelberon, you keep pissing off me, everyone else. And now you are hiding in a basement doing Malacath knows what-”

     

    Grulmar twisted in his hips, freeing himself from Urag's grasp and then shoved him with both his hands, making the big Orc take a step back. “What I'm doin' here is none of yer tuskin' business!” He wanted to scream, to shout, to release that anger he had been suppressing for days since he saw Urag with Borgakh.

     

    “That's where you are tusking wrong, boy!” Urag snapped back at him, his voice trembling with the same anger Grulmar felt in himself. Urag hectically looked around, took several steps forth and back and then looked at the smaller Orc. “You just don't get it, do you? It is my tusking business, I'm the Arch-Mage. I'm running this College now and I'm trying to do something with this place.” Grulmar opened his mouth to speak, but Urag's eyes flashed. “Shut up and listen! Do you know what this place turned into under Aren? Tusking students selling their souls to Daedra in a basement or trying spells beyond their capabilities and getting themselves killed in the process. Teachers were leaving because of that. Students running from this place, stealing books from us and joining necromancers or conjurers. No more!”

     

    Grulmar snorted. “Oh, so ya are tryin' to make this place better. Good for ya, ya have my eternal gratitude. So tuskin' leave me alone!”

     

    Urag's head snapped to a side and then to another, stretching his muscles on the neck. “I can't. Because you are the tusking problem. You drink potions like they are Skooma, suffering withdrawals and side effects, and all that for what? You want to gain more power, is that right? It doesn't work that way, you idiot!”

     

    Grulmar felt his blood boiling, the anger at Urag finally reaching its peak. How he always put him into his place, humiliating him with how little Grulmar knew in comparison to him and everyone else. How he was just a weak Orc, with the mark of an exile on his face. Holding things from him. Touchin' Borgakh… “Ya pushed me there!” he shouted back and he saw Urag's surprise in his eyes. Didn't expect I would call ya on that, did ya? “Ya are holdin' me back, on purpose! Keepin' things from me. Knowledge, spells.”

     

    “Are you crazy?” Urag shook his head in disbelief. “It must be those potions because you can't be tusking serious.”

     

    “Can't I?” Grulmar sneered. “Then show me the book we found in Labyrinthian, the one from Shalidor himself. Show it to me and I'll get out of yer teeth.”

     

    “I…” Urag started but let the rest of the sentence trail off. “I can't do that. That knowledge is dangerous. You are crazy if you think I would let you read it. It is dangerous.”

     

    “Then I would just get myself killed, not yer problem.”

     

    “It is my problem! You tusking idiot!” Urag roared in frustration. “You are my responsibility. If you tusk up, it falls on my head. If you get yourself killed or anyone else, it falls on my head. It is my responsibility.”

     

    “And hittin' on Borgakh is yer responsibility too?” Grulmar smirked. It was like if he punched Urag into face, the bigger Orc stiffened, his eyes nearly popping out. And Grulmar wasn’t done. “How’s that goin’, eh? She’s expectin’ a child. With me. Ya want to raise a child that is not yers? That’s one damn responsibility. But ya know what? Take her, she’s all yers.”

     

    “People are not things you can just give someone,” Urag growled dangerously, baring his tusks at Grulmar and he wondered if the Arch-Mage was really about to lose it and kill him right on the spot. But once Grulmar started...he couldn’t stop.

     

    “People are meant to be used,” he responded with venom dripping from his voice. “Ya know that very well.”

     

    Urag took a deep breath and turned his back to Grulmar. “Last warning, boy. Pull your shit together. Otherwise there’s no place for you here.”

     

    “Worried about competition?” the smaller Orc chuckled. “Don’t worry. Ya can keep her along with the runt. Call it a bonus.”

     

    Urag just gave him one last look, pity in his eyes and that made Grulmar even angrier. But Urag already left, leaving Grulmar alone in the room, with nothing but dark thoughts and his breath freezing in front of his mouth.

     

    This ain’t over.



    Sources used in this Lesson: On Oblivion, The Doors of Oblivion

     

Comments

14 Comments   |   Meli and 7 others like this.
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  January 6, 2018
    Damn! I knew this would happen, Urag coming down there and boom! I hope everything turns alright, but I guess not.
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  January 28, 2017
    I didn't know 'Honey nut treats' were so valuable.
  • Teineeva
    Teineeva   ·  January 23, 2017
    Grulmar, Grulmar, Grulmar... One of these days you're going to do something you're really going to regret. Don't walk into the shadows you stupid little orc!
  • The Sunflower Manual
    The Sunflower Manual   ·  January 23, 2017
    Grulmar needs a good thrashing.

    Although now that I think about it, he's gotten them before and it's only made things worse.
    • A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      Grulmar needs a good thrashing.

      Although now that I think about it, he's gotten them before and it's only made things worse.
        ·  January 23, 2017
      He's the Vice-troll of TES. All hail Vice-troll! (h5)
      • Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        He's the Vice-troll of TES. All hail Vice-troll! (h5)
          ·  January 23, 2017
        <:o)
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      Grulmar needs a good thrashing.

      Although now that I think about it, he's gotten them before and it's only made things worse.
        ·  January 23, 2017
      The bugger basicaly begs people to beat him so that he could hold it against them. It's like: "Hit me and you prove I'm right." Grulmar's real dick when it comes to this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 23, 2017
    Gru just keeps shutting doors doesn't he? Oh, one teeeny, tiny error. I don't think Urag would call Aelberon "Ronnie" in Grulmar's presence. Aelberon never let him in. 
    • A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      Gru just keeps shutting doors doesn't he? Oh, one teeeny, tiny error. I don't think Urag would call Aelberon "Ronnie" in Grulmar's presence. Aelberon never let him in. 
        ·  January 23, 2017
      Wow, strict Altmeri familial names must be strict.
      • The Long-Chapper
        The Long-Chapper
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        Wow, strict Altmeri familial names must be strict.
          ·  January 23, 2017
        In Straag, it is extremely private and I devised this so that you see the extent that Altmer take their family seriously. Albee even breaks protocol in CA 9 when he calls Serana by his name for her "Ana", in Erik's presence. Granted, he was under the effe...  more
  • A-Pocky-Hah!
    A-Pocky-Hah!   ·  January 23, 2017
    So you want knowledge eh, Gru? I know someone who might help you with that...
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      So you want knowledge eh, Gru? I know someone who might help you with that...
        ·  January 23, 2017
      Ol' Mora on your mind?
      • A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Ol' Mora on your mind?
          ·  January 23, 2017
        Who else but Ol' Pervy Mora.
        • Karver the Lorc
          Karver the Lorc
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          Who else but Ol' Pervy Mora.
            ·  January 23, 2017
          Hehehe, yeah. But at what price? I doubt Grulmar would like to become a Seeker like that guy from the book. I think it's pretty clear that to Grulmar Conjuration, Necromancy and Daedra are bad. Period. But you know how it is? Nothing's set in stone, espec...  more