Silgrad Tower from the Ashes

Any book that I write for Vvardenfell will be posted here.

(This book is about the torture pits of falasmaryon. It is told by a former ordinator, who was interigatted by the 6th house.Note that this is before the rise of Dagoth Ur, and the sixth house is much more chaotic)

The Dark City

Originally penned by Gellus Indoril, former ordinator, proclaimed heretic. Publishing and Forward by Derratle Horunt.

FOREWARD- To readers. Note that this book was orriginally written by Gellus Indoril, who was a former ordinator. He was also claimed to be a heretic. He was found almost 97 years ago, near Ghost Gate, delerious. He was immediately indetified, and was taken to the temple, where for 3 years he would scream during nights, and thrash in his sleep. It was not until he wrote The dark city he was proclaimed a heretic by the Tribunal. Some 3 hours after it was written, he killed himself. Now that the temple holds considerably less power, I bleieve it is my duty to publish this poor mans story, so we may all the know the horrors he had to endure. Also note that this story is very disturbing, read at your own risk.

What can I say of Falasmaryon? The cursed city of the sixth house? It is the embodiment of anarchy and terror. It is fear hatred and desperation Incarnate. How long I was enslaved in that timeless city, I cannot say. There is no sun, no day, no light, just an itternal darkness, broken only by the red glow of the ash statues. The air is filled with screams and laughter. When they cut out my eyes, my ears alone still conveyed that ominipresent aura of dread and loathing. They took great delight in telling us about the tortures and agonies they preparred, useing terrible means of anticipation to increase our suffering. When they wished to speak, which was almost never, they spoke in dull monotone voices, absent of emotions. Most of my fellow slaves fell before the cruely barbed blades of house dagoth, dieing not from the wounds, but the cruel festering poisins that coated them. They continuosly questioned us, not seeking awnsers, for in that terrible pain, I could not speak. they tortured us not for information, but for the sheer enjoyment of our agony.

No one dies quickly in the Dark City.

They prey amoung eachother as much as there prisoners. The Dagoths may hold power, but in the winding corridors of the Dark City, allegiance is second to martial prowess. To stray into the wrong territory is tantamount to suicide, conflicts occur everyday, blood is spilt constantly. The 6th house may be organized in a sense, but they kill eachother all the same. We were never truly imprisoned in our cells, but it was clear that if we left, we would be at the mercy of Falasmaryon, a barrier more powerfull then any wall, keep, or fortress.

They made no attempt to hide there ways, glorifying in treatchery and betrayel. Assassination, murder, and upheavle was common, as different Dagoths vie for power. Ownership of myself changed so many times I was unsure who were my masters and who were his enimies. Sometimes I was stolen, sometimes I was traded for ash statues, given as a gift, or simply taken as a right of conquest.

Life is worthless in the Dark city, as is any information I could have given them, I was merely a toy to them. Life is worthless, only death, misery, and pain have value.Others among them, humans I saw who did dealings with them. They worshipped the dagoths as gods, smuggled ash statues, and even acted as enforcers for the 6th house, in exchange for favors.

My escape was miraculous, the Tribunal must have rewarded me for my undying faith in thoes times. However, although I am phsically free, my body bears the scars, the many, many scars. Every breath takes me to a new plane of agony, every heartbeat sends my nerves writhing in pain. I cannot see. I cannot speak. Most horrid of all, I cannot forget. Nightmares plauge me, the drips of blood, the cries of anguish haunt me.

No one escapes the Dark City.

THE END.

(This is a book about a man who stumbles upon that abandoned shack near gnar Mok with all the neat stuff.Specifically the two pearls that are under the upturned bowl on the table.)

The Up turned Bowl

Written By Gildron Fytharthin


It was summer. The flowers had begun to bloom, and even in the relatively cold area of the bitter coast it was swealtering hot.

Today is a good day, Nevilin Thought to himself. He had recently moved to the swampy reigon of the bitter coast, and was strolling along its marsh-like scenery. He sighed, breathing in the unique beauty of this strange and awe inspiring world. So much better then the boring lands of Cyrodiil, with plain, endlessly rolling fields he had grown up in. I made the right decision Nevilin decided, after he had watched a betty netch float onwards towards the sunset. Which reminded him. It was growing late.

Although Vvardenfells land was wonderful and refreshing, it was also littered with bandits, daedra cults, and smugglers. He had been particularily warned about wandering about at night. A shiver went down Nevilins spine, as he realised that he could not make it back to Gnar'Mok by the time the sun had set. He quickly tried to remember what the locals had told him about being stranded at night.

"There are many, many abandoned houses that dot this land, for farmers often go out of buissness and have to move, leaveing there home behind them. If you are caught in the dead of night with nowhere to go, seek refuge in one of these places."

And, as fate would have it, Nevilin had just walked over a hill, and was staring at a small clearing, where there was a small shack. It was mossy, and the once refined fields where the farmer undoutably grew crops was now barren. The windows were smashed and it looked uncomfortably damp. But that the 9 had sent him this place out of kindness he was certain, and he was determined not to end up dead so soon after his arrival in Morrowind. He strode up to the hut, politely knocked, and when there was no awnser he walked in.

It was a supriseingly cosey dwelling, a few crates stacked here and there, a table in the corner, and a hammock in another. Nevilin made himself at home. He took out his drums and his lute, and played some music to pass the time, afterwards he read his book Nohs Picture Book of Wood, a hilarious book of jokes. Then at long last, he decided to get some sleep.

But as he lay down on the hammock, a bowl, upturned on the table, caught his eye. There was something odd about it. Bah it is a mere bowl, why does it interest me so? He thought, shifting on the hammock. Eventualy he went to sleep, but in his dreams, he drempt about the bowl, and the two silvery tresure that comprised it.

In the morning he awoke, full of life. Despite the peculiar dreams, he had slept supriseingly well, and he felt like a million septims. He was about to leave, before he remembered the bowl. He sighed. Might as well see whats under this thing, he grumbled. He walked over to the table, and lifted the bowl. Nothing! Bah I knew it was nothing! Why do I bother? Nevilin yelled. He was in an angry mood now, and he stormed out of the house leaveing all of his possesions behind.

Had Nevilin not been so angry, If he had looked closer, perhaps he would have noticed the two pearls, that when he had lifted up the bowl, had rolled off the table. And, perhaps if he hadnt been so foolish as to play loud music in the middle of the night, If he had been more cautious, perhaps he wouldn't have attracted that pack of Nix hounds, Patiently waiting for him to leave the shack. But it is as the dunmer say. The Outlanders may invade our lands, But only we will ever know how to survive in them.

THE END.

This is a typical story book, with no specific meaning other than to be cautious, and have a keen eye. If the character had had a keen eye, he would have found the two pearls and become wealthy. If he had been cautios, he wouldn't have wound up as Nix Meat.

An untitled poem, perhaps it will be put into a large collection of poetry.


Many were slain. Many were lost.
Many who were once great,
Have now met there fait,
And paid the ultimate cost.

As battles rage onward,
And men live and die,
And as the years fly,
The soldiers hearts will grow hard.

As the bodys pile high,
New soldiers fill the ranks,
To protect empty flanks,
And replace thoes who die.

War will always be,
And men will die for naught,
And there wives will wonder why they faught,
And the blood that has been spilt could fill a sea.

And still these soldiers fight,
For generals and kings,
Whos only wish is to crush the bad things,
And see not a shed of light.

Perhaps one day the men,
Who would fill an armys ranks,
Will turn to enemy and give there thanks,
And make peace and then;

They will head back home,
And father sons,
And realize that they are the only ones,
who can end war; And stop putting names in a graveyard tome.

But as long as man and mer,
Live upon this earth,
We will fight after mere 16 years after our birth,
And accept deaths lure.

That so many are now dead,
Even now that I right,
It makes me turn white,
And shake my head.

My thoughts.

(1) "The Dark City" is disappointingly short - and tantalising. It could be so much better if you had developed the theme deeper into how prisoners were caught, who they were, and glimpses of the rivalries and hatreds in the city.

(2) There appears to be an incongruity between Nevilin's fear of bandits and his playing loud music in the middle of the night!

(3) You poem...hmmm. Let me put it this way. Why don't you try reading a collection of War Poetry from the First World War? Wilifred Owen, Seigfried Sasson, etc..you may then gain new insights on how to write.

Have no time to read now, but seen, will get back to you asap. :goodjob:

Yea the peom I wrote pretty quick, Im not to pleased with it either..

Don't be too hard on your poem, there is plenty of space there fo rreworking and lots in it that is unique and refreshing. After all tables do not shine until the French Polisher has done his job...

I will save your original to Editor's corner, and hope that you will work on it.

Could you edit the "Dark City" please Focalpoint? In addition to checking on your spelling, I think this story has quite some potential if only it were polished and expanded.

Actually I like your style, it is very Morrowindy. In your premeable to the Dark City you give a 'fesh' and genuine feel to the history, and the second tale is topical without being ostentatious. You seem to have the third person feel.

If you have the time, would you and Foxy (separately) take a look at the 'Mara's View' Thread to see what you can individually make of it or add to it? It is meant to be a co-operative effort. Then maybe we can get together and finish it off? Too bad none of the young ladies that write was attracted by the idea of adding the 'womanly touch.' to that piece. I am a terrible 'Mara.' It's the beard I think.

Oh, and by the way, Foxy, if I need a 'Dibella,' I will think of you first!

Done with only a few minor alterations.