Shivering:Notes

Proselytizer admitted guilt of thieving bread from pantry. No punishment given.

Two Missionaries conspired to incriminate a suspected heretic -- commendation issued

A neophyte accidentally fell into the pit sweeping our chambers the other day. Besides nearly snapping her leg, she had to wait the better part of the morning for the patrolman to discover and release her. Speak with courier about having duplicate key forged by smithy in Crucible.

Neophyte mistakenly summoned an atronach during evening meal. Two days in the pit.

They don't know I'm up here, watching. Not much longer, though. At least they won't find me or my stash. I've put all my favorite things in an urn, and sunken it in the sewage near the back of Bernice's dive.
I think I'll drink that last bottle to celebrate.

[Kneel, face forward and raise hands above head]

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

Hear us, Warbling Redeemer.

Hail the Rebirth approaching.

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

[Lower hands and close eyes]

Please accept our offering, merciful one.

Extend your tentacles and accept this gift.

Bless us, Embryonic Prince.

May this offering satisfy your infinite maw.

[Stand, open eyes and wait for volunteer to be escorted to the precipice]

Please accept our offering oh merciful one.

Feed and grow now, our Prince.

Arise and devour Oblivion hence.

May this offering sate your growing bulk.

[Open floor and grasp volunteer by wrists and ankles. Gently swing with sideways motion]

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

Magg-a-rathala!

Magg-a-Nutaggon!

Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.

[Begin to rhythmically stomp feet all the while swinging volunteer faster and faster]

Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.

[When volunteer has reached maximum height, release wrists and ankles. Wait for screaming to stop. Face forward and raise hands above head]

Praise be to Gyub,

Call to us, Prince!

Sing your fell tune!

Praise be to Gyub.

[Wait for Gyub to respond. Get down on knees with hands still raised above head]

All hail Gyub, Lord of the Pit.
All hail rebirth, day of our death.
All hail Gyub, All hail Gyub.

If they do it means that I've been granted my greatest wish! To be released from this mortal coil. This isn't a suicide note, no. That would mean I've taken my own life, and we all know what that means. Who wants that kind of existence, to be reborn on a hill every day, reset as if nothing ever happened? That's even worse than the life I'm living. Life I've lived! Yes, yes, yes! I'm sure I'm happy now. The dead me. The me writing this note isn't happy at all. Never have been happy, really.

Anyway, the purpose of this note is to say to the man or woman who has killed me: "Thank you!"

All I really have is this queer little ring. A wizard gave it to me once, said I reminded him of his dead son. I guess I resemble his dead son even more now. Anyway, he said it would make me happy. Lift the weight of the world off my shoulders or some such thing. Come to think of it, it's the only time anyone has ever given me anything. Personally, I think the thing is worthless. Just like me.

I tried it for a while, the "Happiness Ring," but eventually I couldn't wear it anymore. It made me feel odd -- not myself. I didn't like feeling that way so I locked it away. It's pretty enough, though. It might fetch a few gold coins at the merchant. Sorry not to leave much more behind. But, my life never really amounted to much anyway, did it?

Yours very truly,

Hirrus Clutumnus, deceased

Forgive me, it's been so long I can't remember the last time I've written.

I can only hope these letters reach you. I know your duties keep you busy, but any message from you would be welcome, even if it is given through that fool, Haskill. If it is not possible, fear not, my love is constant. I can remember the day you brought me to your realm as if it were yesterday. But I miss you terribly.

You should see the supplicants mucking about in the Fringe these days. A few I think will be ready soon -- the rest, who can say? If it weren't blasphemous, I might venture to say that the world has been slowly going sane. I can almost feel in my bones a chilling presence approaching, like a devouring emptiness. That does not bode well, but I trust in my Lord's power to keep our spirits well nourished from his bounteous showers of inspiration.

Our child continues to destroy those pesky adventurers who come seeking treasure and glory.

I have been sojourning here in Passwall, tutoring Nanette Don as an apprentice. She is one of the hopefuls that I believe will bloom soon. In the meanwhile, I can visit our child -- I go see him every night around midnight, when the world is quiet, when it belongs to memory and imagination. He is strong and powerful like his father. Would that you visited us some time. It's almost cruel, the way you keep aloof from me. Sometimes I can't even bear to look at him, because I can remember when we created him, your glistening body in the pool, lovingly blending the components of flesh that would become our child -- and afterward you tortured me in your sweet embrace. But now when I visit him, I can't help but weep like a little girl. I know how unlike me it seems... I just can't help it.

To make matters worse, it seems my tears burn my poor creature. It agitates that Daedric soul bound in his body, threatening to sever the warding magic weaved into him. I didn't realize how badly that soul would seek release from the shell I grew in my gardens. But the flesh is pure. Perfect! Perhaps it is my own tears that hold the imperfection...

But I shouldn't be bothering you with these petty concerns. Our child, your Gatekeeper, stands guard over the Gates of Madness, mighty and powerful. No harm shall come to him.

Yours truly and forever,

Relmyna

We purge ourselves in the duel.
Sheogorath will mend us.
We purge our friends in duel.
Sheogorath will mend them.
We purge our enemies in war.
Sheogorath will abandon them.

Speak not of the Duelists
Speak only of the Duel
Speak not of the combatant
Speak only of the combat

Nelrene asked me to hold on to this sword. Said I should give it to Anya and have her do the deed, but Anya wouldn't. Now maybe it can find a better use as evidence. Syl will recognize it.

Muurine is in charge. She's the one telling Nelrene what to do. If I'm not around, I hope this is enough evidence to bring her in.

I hope I'm alive to see it.

Alocasia Fruit
Aster Bloom Core
Black Tar
Blister Pod Cap
Congealed Putrescence
Digestive Slime
Elytra Ichor
Flame Stalk
Fungus Stalk
Gas Bladder
Gnarl Bark
Grummite Eggs
Hound Tooth
Hunger Tongue
Hydnum Azure Giant Spore
Pod Pit
Rot Scale
Scalon Fin
Screaming Maw
Shambles Marrow
Swamp Tentacle
Thorn Hook
Void Essence
Watcher's Eye
Withering Moon
Worm's Head Cap

Thank you for last month's shipment -- He was very pleased. I have found that when two are thrown in at the same time, the louder His response and the longer it lasts. How exciting!
Now, I understand how difficult it is for you to gather more volunteers, but I am in need of your services more than ever, cousin. You and I both know it will not be long until the day of Rebirth is upon us, so the more we can offer, the better. When He arrives, I will make sure you are duly rewarded for your services. Be sure to let our volunteers know how happy we all are with their commitment to the cause and what an enormous impact they are having on the coming of Rebirth.

Removing an arm from the young wood elf female made her fight all the harder for her life, despite being clearly outmatched. In previous battles, she fought much less bravely and to lesser effect. She lasted a full minute against my most angry of hounds before her throat was ripped out and I had to revive her.

However, removing just the feet of the middle-aged Nord male made him despondent and without any will to defend himself, even against a lesser foe. So pitiful was the look on the face of his corpse, that I decide to leave him be, rather than resurrect him. After so many years of scientific study, I still cannot abide apathy. I'm sure that my aversion to pity has colored my findings, as I only make use of strong-willed test subjects. Though I suppose, flawed as my research may be, it is still more revealing and faithful than any other has done before me.

Summary Conclusions
After studying the various combats between the test subjects in this project, I have concluded that, much as the pain threshold is inconsistent within a given species, so too is the effect of dismemberment. Whether beast or man, the removal of a limb, be it functional as a hand, or peripheral as a tail, has varying effects on the subject, having to do more with individual temperament than any biological or cultural endowment. Whatever the particular effect, it is substantial. Whether it enhances a subject's tendency toward aggressiveness or passivity, or swings them to the other extreme, removing a limb has a profound effect on behavior.

After reviewing my notes, I will attempt to catalogue all the similarities and differences between the subjects and their responses. I may be able to offer Lord Sheogorath a guidebook detailing how to craft a better kingdom by removing various appendages from the bodies of its people.

"Blending the most recent concoction of hound blood with that from a headless zombie will result in a beast with greater fury and resistance to pain."

Test 1

Subject 1 has the current concoction, and Subject 2 has the new mixture.

Battle 1:
Subject 1 lasted approximately one minute before expiring, having done average amount of injury to Subject 2. Subject 2 seemed not to notice most of the injuries it received.

Battle 2:
After a drawn out combat, Subject 1 killed Subject 2, but suffered near fatal wounds. Subject 2 fought to the bitter end with the same energy it started with.

Battle 3:
Subject 1 went out very quickly.

Battle 4:
Subject 1 lasted less that^{[sic, not than]} a minute. Subject 2 took little injury.


Test 2

Subject A and B both have the standard blood. Subject C and D both have the new blood.

Battle 1 (A vs. B):
Lasted just over a minute, both hounds suffering grievous injury, and somewhat bothered by their wounds.

Battle 2 (A vs. B):
Nearly identical results.

Battle 3 (C vs. D):
Lasted over two minutes, both hounds suffering grievous injury. Neither seemed very winded or bothered by their wounds.

Battle 4 (C vs. D):
Lasted under 1 minute, both suffering grievous injury. Neither seemed very bothered by their wounds.

It seems my original theory was correct. In future trials I will try watering down the headless zombie blood before adding it to the mixture, to gain some insight into the actual potency of the blood itself and determine how much of the additional effect is coming from its combination with the existing ingredients.

In this case I have confined a Hunger to his cage, while leaving an unspoiled high elf female in viewing distance. Hungers seem to have a particular thirst for elf maiden blood. And this one, on the verge of flowering, should be a particularly irresistible morsel.

I hypothesize that the hunger will fight with greater force and precision in the up coming battle, after I let the creature and elf maiden stew awhile in each other's proximity.

I shall return in a few days to run the experiment.

For the last month, I have been starving them in separate cages, allowing them occasionally to eat, but only tiny amounts of reptilian flesh.

I have procured a fatty Breton of previously luxurious lifestyle. There is not an ounce of muscle on him. He should be a most tempting snack, indeed. But we shall see!

I shall return soon to run the experiment. There is still some time left to starve the reptiles until they are most desperate.

Rather than the usual precision of observation, my faculties seemed possessed of a peculiar poetic sensibility. So that, rather than dutifully logging each scream and twitch of agony, I seem transported by her cries to some other place.

I became sheltered within a tapestry of tranquility, woven from the screams of the Breton's anguish warped against the grunts and clacking of the beasts and shambles that toyed with her.

It was there, in that spot, my soul naked and clean, that I came to a sense of clarity. And like all - dare I say - religious experiences, returning to my mundane senses, I am left with little more than a faded memory of supernal knowledge, like a burned parchment on which once were written words of wisdom and understanding, of which now only torn and blurred fragments remain.

The harder I try to remember that innate knowledge, the more it seems to recede from me. The essence that remains is this:

Pain is a force that purifies, ennobles, and uplifts. It is the Fire that burns away impurities, that melts away imperfections.

Death is not the sign of weakness, nor bodily constitution the sign of strength. It is what happens to soul when brought into the Fire that determines the mettle of men.

Those with inner strength are forged into weapons of devastating keenness by Pain's Fire. Those who are undeserving and weak turn to dark and lifeless ash in Its heat.

And there it stands in all its inscrutability - so much for an unproductive day. Perhaps tomorrow will lead to more fruitful experiments.

The concept is as simple as it was when we first discussed it. Use a few of the standard statuary we've installed but modify the enchantment. A low-grade shock and some strong restoration should do the trick. There may be a few days between charges on an enchantment like that, but do you honestly think any more will be needed?

I'd like to think that we've grown to be friends through the restoration of this place. If nothing else, build this last construct as a favor to me. Ebrocca will be around for ages to come, and it needs a caretaker. Who else will fill that role, if not me?

I know that you're not terribly excited about the summons you've received from your grandfather, so I decided to write this letter for you, since I won't be able to see you off in the morning. You had better not lose it! Whenever you're gloomy, just read this letter and think of me!
Better yet, think of what color dress you'd like me to wear at our commitment ceremony. I'm going to speak with Dervenin about having the ceremony when you return. He worries too much about the torch not being lit -- all that matters is that we're in love, does it not? Arden-Sul himself would condone it, I'm sure.
When you return, you'll have to let me know why your grandfather summoned you. You mentioned something about the family mausoleum, but I don't understand what possible need he would have of you there. He really shouldn't coop himself up in those old ruins all by himself. Highcross is near enough that he could still visit as often as he'd like, and be much more comfortable as well. You should mention it to him while you're there.
And that's all I shall write, my love. You'll be back soon enough; we can talk more when you return. Sheogorath guard you.

Are you absolutely certain that such extreme precautions are necessary? I understand your interest in safeguarding the remains of grandmother -- and indeed, all of our eventual resting places -- against unscrupulous grave robbers, but I doubt that even the most stalwart crusader would survive the gauntlets you have built in the mausoleums of Ebrocca, much less a petty thief.

I've seen some of the sketches your architect has drafted, and it seems that some of these traps are without safety mechanisms of any kind; what chance have our future generations of visiting our graves, if they should honor us with such a pilgrimage?

Again, Clanfather -- I do not doubt your motives. In truth, I am glad you have taken such responsibility for this monument to our clan-family; I merely want to be sure that you are keeping your usual level of rationality about you when making decisions as to the construction and expansion of Ebrocca. I hope this letter finds you well.

Thank you for contacting me. I know it must be an unpleasant task to alert anyone to the death of a loved one, but your frank and professional manner did nothing to further aggravate the distress caused by Mother's passing. That is all one can ask from such a thing, I believe.

I understand the difficulty in storing cadavers, and will be arriving soon after this message reaches you with a carriage to bear her away in. There is one other matter I'd like your counsel on, if it isn't too much trouble.

Mother's wish was always to be buried in a family vault, and so it falls to me to restore a site to this purpose. I feel it's a macabre thing to ask, but considering your occupation, could provide me a recommendation of any architect experienced in such a task? I would greatly appreciate any help you have to offer.

If I hadn't been paralyzed while they carried me away, they probably knew I'd have called my army of flying scamps to chew their eyes out.

But here I am, and I have to be honest; I was beginning to worry that the world didn't appreciate me until now. These guys get it. They've brought me all the cured meats I can eat, and I can scarcely empty a cask of wine before another is rolled into my room. Oh, they don't get too close. They know. A wayward glance from me could break their spines.

They needn't worry, of course. I know why I'm here. I saw all the other combatants. They heard of me, Beldring - the Grand Champion of the Felgourad Arena and favored bodyguard to Emperor Kinpo and his thousand-feathered cap. Of course they'd want to see me become the Champion of the Shivering Isles as well. So I train, and they bring me all the equipment I need to do it.

I don't think it will be much longer, now. No, I'll peel the skin off my enemies for the glory of Palgania, and the entertainment of these servants who have been so dutiful in their desire to witness my grandeur.

What am I going to do? I've never raised a sword or axe in my life.

Just after I was captured, a well-mannered abductor came and asked if there was anything I wanted. I asked for some food and was brought fine pickled baliwog and wine. How was I to know that I should have asked for a weapon? Since then, they've only brought wine, cheese, and silken clothes too tight for my body.

They'll kill me - not first, though. No, they'll want to eliminate the more immediate threats, and then come to me. Tear me apart, screaming.

What's worse is that I think we might have this whole thing wrong. Our captors no longer speak to us; indeed they seem afraid of us. We're fed well, and they seem more easily able to provide us ink, paper, and delicacies than the iron-shod armor the others have put in such high demand.

I hope they don't pit us one against one. Surely I'd be tortured before the mercy of a killing blow. Craven heathens. Save me, Sheogorath.

I just don't understand it. We always dreamed of a place to host the Elaborate Spectacle, and I finally found it. These ruins feature a grand, tiered room suited to a great display, and I promptly persuaded our brothers and sisters to migrate here. Yet, the Elaborate Spectacle has never gone as planned. Perhaps you can tell me where I've gone wrong. Permit me to walk you through the process step by step.

First, we acquire our lucky participants. Truly, I would give anything to be in their place, but I can understand their frenzied protests and struggles in the excitement of the moment. We have to stray to the swamps to find them, though some are more easily obtained from the nearby roads.

Once we've returned to Cann with our participants, they're each given private quarters in which to be prepared for the event. Each room is lined with the finest wines and cheeses, and comfortable bedding in the peasant-chic roll style. My personal steward visits each of them soon after arrival and asks what they would like tailored for the Spectacle, but they invariably ask for suits of armor. Our stores are stocked to the ceiling with the finest velvets, silks, and furs - how am I supposed to provide them with chain mail?

Each participant is provided with ink and pen to practice their prose, but again their behavior escapes me. You should see some of the horrid things they've written! Lengthy letters to loved ones, saying goodbye as though they were dying of a plague, or horribly bloodthirsty curses against their fellow participants. Oh, and I will not offend you with descriptions of the ones who think themselves artists! I suppose that their writings could have clued me into what would happen next, brother -- for that is when things get truly bizarre.

Each time, on the day of the Elaborate Spectacle, after we've all gorged on suckling meats and pungent cheeses, the participants are escorted from their quarters into the viewing chamber where we all eagerly await what we're sure will be a thrilling show, but that never happens. After the first time, we removed the decorative weapons from the walls, but they just bludgeoned and gored each other with whatever they could get their hands on -- loose stones, wine bottles, and in one case a bone the participant must have filed to a point in his quarters. Why would men given a week alone to write and feed on wine instantly set murderously upon each other, rather than share a loving embrace?

I simply don't understand it, brother -- we always believed that the Elaborate Spectacle would be the greatest public display of shared pleasure and it has each time ended a blood-soaked mess. Perhaps the time has finally come to move back to Bliss and abandon our dream.