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Note: This book first appeared in Elder Scrolls Online with the title "Crafting Motif 10: Imperial Style". However, in the later real world publication, Tales of Tamriel Book II, the title of this book was changed to "Imperial Cyrods".
(Dr. Lupus was Imperial Ethnographer for Potentate Savirien-Chorak from 2E 418 to 431)
The Imperial City. I used to love it here. When I was young my native town of Skingrad seemed hopelessly provincial to me, and I looked forward all year long to going along with mother on her annual trip to the Heartland. For me, the capital was the epitome of learning, of culture, of everything I held dear.
I walk the avenues now, from district to district. And I look. Skingrad seemed provincial, yes, but it was Colovian: direct, forthright, with clean lines and a certain spare, ascetic look to it. And its people are much the same way.
The Imperial City, except for the walls and the Tower, which are Ayleid, is … Nibenese. Refined. Decorative. Subtle. Nuanced.
Decadent. Corrupt.
Like its people. And the people it attracts.
I was too late.
Morian is gone. With the help of Divayth, cursed Divayth, he fulfilled his dream and traveled to Oblivion. According to Seif-ij, he went to Moonshadow as planned, but he didn't stay there. He went on, to Ashpit, to Coldharbour, to Quagmire. To Apocrypha.
And there, in Apocrypha, he stayed.
Seif-ij told me, emotion quivering even in his flat reptilian voice, of how once he entered Oblivion Morian seemed to become more reckless, more enraptured, with each portal to a new plane. How he ignored his assistant's pleas to return. How Apocrypha … entranced him.
Seif-ij Hidja was beside himself, holding his head with its drooping spines, clearly at his wit's-end. It was up to me. I ran to Divayth's room, though Seif-ij said he was gone, hoping he'd left some way to get in touch with him, hoping he would respond to my appeals for help.
I found only a book, open on his desk, a book titled "Fragmentae Abyssum Hermaeus Morus." It was open to what seemed to be a summoning ritual for the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora, specifying that "whatever price is named shall be met."
A ritual to Hermaeus Mora. The Lord of Apocrypha.
I ran to Morian's laboratory. It was looted, ransacked. The only thing of interest was a crumpled note. It read, "When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee."
Morian is gone. Gone to Apocrypha. Where he stays.
And so I walk, from district to district. Wondering. What price had the Lord of Apocrypha named to Divayth Fyr? What price for the entrancement, the captivity of Morian Zenas?
I walk the streets, the avenues and alleys. Wondering.
Wondering when I, too, will be ready to pay the price.