Lore:Traitor's Vault Temporal Tome
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Someday, surely, someone will find this. I don't know how, but the Old Ways guide me in this as in all things.
The few of us that still live, if you can call this living, are huddled in the crypt. The dead that walk the world have some difficulty finding us down here. We're all a fair hand at necromancy, now. We have to be, to have survived this long.
Artaeum is a charnel house. The world is a sepulcher. That bastard, that butcher, Mannimarco. He rules Nirn from atop a throne carved of bone and souls, an abomination stitched into the sky over Imperial City. I've seen it myself.
I still don't know what happened. I was providing relief to the folk of Weye, constantly caught in the turmoil of the Three Banners War. When the sky opened up, I saw Coldharbour beyond. I heard some stories later, in the long mad dash through Valenwood to the sea, that some adventurers tried to stop the Planemeld. Went up against Molag Bal himself. Yet somehow, the King of Worms emerged the victor.
Now the mage I used to sharpen quill nibs for is a Divines-damned Daedric Prince. If Auri-El is still out there somewhere, he must be laughing. We gathered all the supplies we can find on the island and we're going to try to do a smaller-scale version of the ritual to remove the isle from Nirn. We don't know if it will work, as we are so few. The Loremaster is dead. And part of me feels as though we're running.
Oh, Cas. I wish you were still here. I had so much I didn't say to you. But maybe someday you'll read this. And you'll know.
Old Ways Guide You In Dark Places,
Rullinalion