They'd found the book after searching a local cave, looking for the foul atronachs that had burnt down a local village. Those who returned bore haunted expressions, and a leather tome wrapped in ragged linen cloths. The battered, scorched exterior of the journal contrasted with the neat flowing script that filled its pages...
I write this in the hopes that if I do not survive the coming year, I at least have left a record of what happened to me. Indeed I would have told others sooner, but my foolish pride and – I dare say – cowardice, have so far held my tongue.
Firstly, I warn you not to enter the cave before you, at least until this journal has educated you of what lies within.
The process began in the Winter of my 6th year, while I lived in Summerset Isles. Through circumstances I cannot recall, though I hypothesize some kind of charm, I awoke in the night to find myself somewhere in the wilderness. After hearing the approach of something behind me, I fell unconscious. I awoke dazed, but unbound in an small, old but solid cell, bleeding from a blow to my head. The room was approximately 50 feet in length, cells to the right and left of the central path. In the cell with me was the only food and water I was given during my stay. My cell held a small barred window with which to tell time. There were prisoners in the other cells, arranged from oldest to youngest, myself being the 11th and last prisoner.
They would come into the dungeon twice each day, sometimes three times, and take the eldest. This would occur regardless of time of day. Shortly after the removal of a prisoner, we would hear feral screams of pain, the voice of which always corresponded with the prisoner. The screams lasted for no more than two minutes before they ceased. The screams of the 4th and 9th prisoners were accompanied by an explosion of some kind.
When I was taken, they led me – blindfolded – down steps then up, and lay me on a stone altar.
They removed the blindfold and I beheld by candlelight a robed figure standing near the altar I lay upon, which was on a platform, surrounded by channeling, near naked mages of all races. I estimate that there were 20 in total. The man, of whom I could only see his bony white hands, placed a large crystal, which I now believe to be a soul gem. on my chest. I have looked into this subject extensively, and so far I have not found or heard of a single gem that gave of the same glow of myriad colours as the one I saw. However the dominant colour was by far the fiery red.
Soon after placing the Gem, the man circled the altar twice, and then began chanting in an unknown guttural language, which was echoed by the surrounding coven. After but a few words the gem began burning intensely hot, but my screams did not disturb the chanters, they in fact seemed to invigorate them. The man on the platform with me slowly began stepping closer, his hands and eyes reaching for the gem as his chant began approaching a crescendo.
Unfortunately at this point, the pain was so intense that I lost consciousness.
My parents had gathered as many people as they could find, and began searching for me the morning after my disappearance. They found me still on the altar, severe burns on my chest and stomach. Other than the corpses of prisoners, burnt to a crisp, no-one else was in the ruins, which was revealed to be an old fort. They treated my burns and I recovered averagely.
My parents (I should state now that I am Altmer) had been considering fleeing the isle, as the Thalmor had been bothering them for some time. This, for them, was the final decider, and a few months later we exchanged our residence for one in Cheydinhal, in Cyrodill.
The first symptoms started in the winter following our migration. After being settled into our new residence, I was of course schooled in the arcane arts, my mother having been a Master of Alteration, and very learned in the other schools.
My parents had gauged my magical ability as above average, though far from exceptional.
One day, my father began teaching me how to cast my first spells. Having tried, and failed, with spells like a Ward or a Magelight, he thought it might be more exciting to try something from destruction
He held in front of me a candle, and spoke:
“Focus your mind on the wick, see if you can set it alight”
Frustrated by my past attempts, I put all of my mind, body and soul into that attempt. Expecting a small puff of smoke, I instead managed to conjure a rather large bout of flame. My father described it as almost as large as ones he might create. Incidentally the candle didn't survive, nor the bookshelf behind it, but my father was only mildly burned.
It is especially curious, as up until that point the most magical effect my concentration had managed to cause was changing the colour of my face from golden to bright red.
In my 15th year, my progress in magical education had been fairly even, other than my savant level skill in flame-focused destruction. I was steadily increasing my knowledge and power in all schools of magic. However, by the time my 16th birth anniversary came around, my ability to cast spells in the schools not related to flames had actually decreased. My parents and I were perplexed, and somewhat concerned. Soon after, we discovered that my fire-casting abilities were improving at an accelerating rate.
Not long after this revelation, came the death of my parents. My dreams had never been very interesting; usually nonsense, but tame. However on one night after a normal day, I had the most disturbing and vivid nightmare I have ever experienced. It was a re-enactment of my display on the altar, but with every aspect terribly magnified. Shadows danced in menacing silhouettes all across the room. The cloaked man was now a rotten corpse, mangled and visibly falling apart. He was cloaked in the greying rags of his previously meticulous black cloak. The chanters were similarly transformed. They knelt, now completely naked but disfigured. One Breton had his head turned completely upside down, staring at me with a mouth oozing green bile. Another chanter resembled an enormous flesh coloured beetle, ravenously snapping in my direction. The ensemble of freaks continued in that manner, each member personifying a different kind of terror. The corpse-man placed the crystal once again on my bare chest, and began to chant with the hollow voice of something long dead.
This time, however, I did not pass out.
As the chant and my pain reached their pinnacle, the man's skeletal hands touched the gem, and it flared into life, fire of all colours exploding from it in every direction. The head chanter was unaffected by it, even as my flesh was incinerated to the bone. Again I screamed, now more intensely than ever. Just before I awoke, I saw a blazing silhouette begin to emerge from the flames.
I was awake only for a few minutes. I observed every wall of my wooden room raging with flames, yet I lay untouched. With the brief surge of life the shock had given me I simply ran outside, vomited on the cobblestones, and collapsed, exhausted.
My parents died in that fire, the flames were strong enough to bring our entire house down, as well as most of the connecting shop. I was not arrested, as my parents were known to experiment and they simply assumed the incident an unfortunately terrible accident. Once I was relocated to an orphanage to stay for the remainder of my childhood years, I continued my education as soon as I was able.
Soon after beginning my self learning, I found my progress was more even across the schools, my ability in fire only slightly ahead. In the years following, my fire-prowess improved, yet much slower and less erratically than before.
It was at this time I devised my best hypothesis as to the purpose of the ritual which began all of this.
Through combined research of conjuration, various daedra and soul gems, I was able to come to the conclusion that they were trying to summon, or possibly create, a Flame Monarch. The Monarch variation of elemental daedra has only been observed once, in a Frost Monarch, whose fate led to the creation of a legendary sword. They are thought to be the most powerful of elemental daedra, who are unaligned with any daedric prince.
I hypothesize that they had trapped a Flame Atronach within the soul gem, and aimed to somehow feed it souls, in order to increase its power, in the hopes that it would undergo a metamorphosis into a Flame Monarch. As to the purposes of the surrounding congregation of mages, or the altar, I do not know. This was clearly a very advanced ritual, well beyond anything I could hope to achieve in a mortal lifetime.
I shall now tell you what I believe happened after I lost consciousness, and reveal the crux of my ailment. I believe that rather than my sacrifice empowering the daedra inside the soul gem, through some unknown error, they sacrificed the daedra and empowered me. As with all soul gems, the daedra-gem broke after its use, signaling the failure of the experiment. They assumed my death and escaped.
I tell you these things because not only is this an incredible discovery for many fields of research, but because the perpetrators escaped, and presumably have tried, or will tried again. Similarly, the effects on myself are equally, if not more worthy of caution, the most drastic of which I have yet to account.
I had done my best to always keep my unusual magical ability to myself, out of shame of my part in the death of my parents, and my own vanity. I did not wish others to think of me as a monster, only as a powerful Altmeri mage. However, early into my 19th year, I began noticing what resembled red veins extending outwardly from the scar on my chest, followed by growing, incredible pain. Up until that point it had remained slowly fading, but now it seemed the epicenter of some unknown force exerting its influence upon me.
I have since then sought hard for a cure for my affliction, but there seems to be none in our world.
Years later, once the veins had reached from my lower stomach to my middle neck, I noticed that at its center, the flesh of the wound began to turn dark. This observation unsettled me, and fearing ostracization and perhaps assault, I deemed it needed that I escaped Cheydinhal and seek sanctuary in solitude.
I began wandering, and began noting the changes that were upon me. I wandered through Morrowind for a year, then moved North to Skyrim. During this time I stayed away from towns and cities as much as possible, and the transformations of my flesh began to accelerate.
Spreading from the center of my former wound, the veins spread across my body, and then began to crack. Within the crack was at first, nothing. No blood or raw flesh, simply more darkened flesh.
Approximately 7 months after the area had reached this stage, there would slowly appear a fiery underlayer between the cracks. The surrounding flesh, the amount of which diminishes as the cracks expand, turns blackened and burnt. If you've ever seen a Flame Atronach, my flesh began to resemble the slithers of armor they wear.
Similarly my magical prowess in other schools was nearing none existent whereas my ability to conjure flames became incredible. During a test, I managed to collapse a tunnel with a flamebolt I meant to be no bigger than my fist. Additionally, reccurences of my nightmare, though less impacting on me, have found me awakening to a scorched surrounding, although luckily my residence in caves left little to be burnt down.
Finally, the occurence which had lead me to fear my fate more than any other occurred near the end of my 24th year, nearly 5 years after the beginning of my transformation. I was searching for a place to stay around Riften, when I happened upon a cave. Searching deep into it, I found it was occupied with a group of conjurers. Not the same group I met as a child, I would describe this group as mere amateurs. However, during my encounter with them, I beheld before me a Flame Atronach that a Breton had summoned. However the daedra did not attack me, as the Breton was commanding it. It only stared at me, seemingly confused. It then raised its hand in welcome and beckoned me to step forward. I did not accept, and fled.
I began to fear that the daedra that ended on that night, was not dead. Perhaps it still exists within me, or perhaps it was powerful enough that, even dead, its essence was overwhelming my own. Either way, I fear what I might become.
Please allow me to describe my current condition.
It is now 8 years since it began, and the transformation of my chest appears to be complete, as, for the past few months I have noted no change. My arms and legs are approaching completion, the most painful part. Cracks opened but not yet fiery, unlike my entire torso. Hands and feet are left with only angry red veins.
The transformation seems to be slowed as it approaches my face. My flesh of my neck begins to separate and darken, however, the flesh of my face remains only lightly veined. My once golden hair however, vanished as soon as the veins reached my skull. Moreover, the past year has seen my metamorphosis quicken.
My physical condition, however, has become a secondary concern. Three fire atronachs wandered into my cave two days ago, and like before, did not attack and appeared welcoming. I tried to force them out, but as they are immune to my only strength, and will not leave my presence, I have been forced to suffer their presence.
An unsettling occurence took place yesterday. Even considering the implications causes me to shake in fear.
I had been eating a small part of my supplies by the fire, the three atronachs surrounding me, silent.
I then thought I heard one speak. Not having heard what it said, and fearing that it spoke at all, I asked “What?”
I heard its voice in my mind. A grating yet soothing feminine voice spoke:
“We wish only to help, we wish only to serve.”
Not only was it shocking to hear this being speak, as they have never been recorded to communicate in any way, but I realized that I had been hearing it since they arrived, a whisper in the back of my mind. Only now, for whatever reason, the communications came to the fore-front of my consciousness.
I know now that I am becoming not only a danger to myself, but quite possibly the world. Yet to my shame, I have been unable to end my life. I simply don't have the strength.
If this journal is at the entrance of the cave, it means I dwell within I implore you, find help. End me.
Forgive me.
Seridur
Winter of 4E 253
The date in the journal was 3 years old. And the forests were glowing in the night.
P.S Please do comment any thoughts or ideas, Terrible or Masterpiece, I'd like to know
Thank you for reading :)
