Never refuse aid you are capable of providing. Go among the infirm and the wounded wherever you find them. Offer prayer to Stendarr every day. Do not hoard wealth or indulge physically. Above all, never forget Stendarr’s command: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.
The following is nailed to the doors of Daggerfall Cathedral by a woman in plain white robes of the priesthood and sent by letter to the cathedral churches of High Rock, Anvil, and Chorrol, as well as the University of Gwylim.
A Treatise Disproving the Claim that Archbishop Vinicius Imbrex of Chorrol’s “The Four Abominations,” is Canonical Scripture
Come to me, Stendarr, for without you, I might be dead to the manswarm murmurings of thy people, and forgetting their need for comfort and wisdom, I might indulge myself in vain scribblings.
Despite the most wondrous salvation of Camlorn in living memory, when its people were saved from the curse of lycanthropy and the doom of Oblivion by that morning star Alinon the Alchemist, there remain those hard of heart within this holy Church who steadfastly declare that all lycanthropes are abominable in the eyes of Stendarr and are to be exterminated without halt or mercy. Such was written by Archbishop Vinicius Imbrex of Chorrol, who served Stendarr in the eleventh century of the First Era during the persecutions of the Marukhati.
But let us look upon what is said of manbeasts, “those mortals who through traffic with the bestial Hircine do change their skins for those of animals, preying thence upon the innocent.”
Now, by the intercession of Saint Alessia, Queen-ut-Cyrod and Lady of Heaven, it was made known to us that the Eight are titled All-Wise and All-Knowing, being wholly omniscient, and that Akatosh in His wisdom gave us Nine Commands made manifest with powerful clarity and concise definition, that we might know truth from falsehood. Julianos commands that we know the truth, and knowing both of these things, must we not believe that the Eight tell us only, clearly, and concisely, the truth?
And yet we read that all manbeasts are cursed by traffic with Hircine; the tale of Camlorn in living memory makes nonsense of this. Never did the Camlornians deal or trade with the Father of Manbeasts, but they were made unwilling victims of Reachmen and dread Faolchu. What if the Righteous smote afflicted Camlorn from the earth? Let us thank Stendarr and his infinite mercies that such a dread moment was narrowly avoided.
If we in this Church were to accept the canonicity of “The Four Abominations,” we would force ourselves to profess that the Eight saw fit to mislead and deceive us in former days; but gladly do we know better, both by the sundry and authentic chronicles and histories pertaining to the Paravant and the clear intentions of the Divines as expressed in the Nine Commands, instructing us, their children, clearly and concisely.
I am asked, “Who are you to go against the generations of priests, bishops, and theologians?” To which I say that I must accept the Eight’s grace through the intercession of Al-Esh and speak in accordance with the scriptures as I am bidden by my conscience.
And more besides, is this Church not without error and disobedience towards gods? Does the Order of the Hour in Kvatch not throw heretics into the arena, as if it is better to kill the heretic than to cure him? And does Father Pitof not spew nonsense from the altar of Daggerfall, making heretics of the nation and turning them against Dibella? Is it not abhorrent that this man teaches that Zenithar is responsible for the beggar’s destitution? Truly I say to you, the Precepts of Stendarr bid us never to refuse aid we are capable of providing, and not to hoard wealth; the beggar’s plight is an indictment of his nation. Is it truly godly to blame the downtrodden for their suffering? Stendarr forbid it!
Did this Church not readily follow the arch-heretic Marukh and cease to profess Eight Divines in former days, because we loathed the very Mer whom Al-Esh forgave?
Whether salvation from eternal damnation can be purchased for the vampire, I know not, nor do I argue that the Righteous ought to spare any of the daedra or walking dead in the Mundus wherever they appear. We have no theological justification, however, to deny that Alinon and the Lion Guard were correct and righteous to cure and save the Camlornians.
If Cyrodiil wishes to invoke the primacy of the Archbishop of Chorrol in this matter, I remind them that High King Emeric of Bretony and the Forebears received of the Eight their divine sanction by the most public sign of the Halo of Gold upon his coronation, and the affairs of the Church by rights ought to be conducted and decided in the Court of Wayrest.
That should silence the critics. By the hand of Judith Reinette de Farendaire, Priestess of Stendarr. Gods save the High King.
The Bear clambers up the Tower, not long after descending another, his fur rife with hoarfrost, his eyes guided through the blizzard only by magelight. As he climbs he searches every cave and ponders on every false peak and crag, seeking its Stone. The world here swirls around like the Dawn, like it was never told about Convention. The Bear holds fast against the storm, keeping himself together by sheer will alone - as if there was any other glue strong enough in this raw place.
An argument roars down the side of the mountain, whipping up snow and dust to assault the Bear’s eyes. The Bear blinks away the debris and continues climbing, quickening his pace as he follows the sound. He can’t make out the subject, but the voices are familiar, primal and echoing as they are.
Finally the Bear arrives, topping the peak with one last upheaval of his shaggy coat. The storm here has cleared, but frothing at the edges. None of the six figures arranged here notice him, still caught in their bickering. The Stone, the Fox, sits silent on a throne of rough stone. The Moth and Wolf cling to their mistress, Mother Hawk. She and the Whale shout at each other and at Shor, who still betrays nothing in his stoic countenance.
It is a flickering face to the Bear’s eyes, a face that cannot sit still. Sometimes it is the sharp vulpine features of an old friend now betrayed, and other times it is painted by the snow a bearded stranger, tall and imposing. His chest is the only constant, a savage gaping hole, no heart to pump warmth throughout his icy body.
“There was no need to kill them! They were our own people!” cried Stuhn the Whale, his eyes bulging and arms wide open.
“They were traitors,” Kyne the Hawk said, her voice loud but calm, callous as an old scar. “They paid their price.”
“But we could have extracted useful information from them!” Stuhn stepped forward, shaking his fist at her. “They could have fetched a handsome ransom!”
“They are the enemy, Stuhn.” Kyne leans forward condescendingly, dripping the words like venom. “We’ll have none of your mercy upon them for what they’ve done, what they continue to do.”
Jhunal the Owl quietly transcribes the words spoken near Shor’s throne into a hefty tome, already half-filled. Stuhn catches him out of the corner of his eye and rushes to him, slapping the book out of his hands. “Don’t record these words! She doesn’t understand.”
“I don’t understand?” Kyne says, exposing her fierce talons. “You’re the one insistent on your foolish games, you insolent -”
She is cut off by a deep, booming voice issuing from the throne. “Enough,” Shor orders, “both of you. We have a guest.” He raises an arm to point to the Bear, who responds with a low roar.
Stuhn’s head whips back towards the visitor, and his eyes light up like stars. He dashes towards the Bear, tackling him with an immense hug, his arms wrapped tightly around the Bear’s neck.
“Brother!” Stuhn exclaims, laughing as he pulls back to look him in the eyes. “You made it!”
The Bear nods, but he is looking through Stuhn, straight at Shor. Stuhn realizes this, and, blushing, takes his hands off the Bear’s shoulders. “Yes,” Stuhn whispers, “He lives.”
Stuhn steps aside as the Bear begins to approach the throne. He kneels at Shor’s feet solemnly.
“Rise, Tsun,” orders Shor, and Tsun slowly complies. “Tell me, old friend. Who is right? Stuhn, or Kyne?”
Tsun turns back to face the two arguments, and ponders. Finally, he says, “The prisoners should have lived.” Stuhn beams at him.
Shor shakes his head. “Tsun. Answer according to your nature.”
Tsun ponders some more. Then he sighs, turning his head to look Stuhn in the eyes. “They were traitors.” Stuhn deflates and stares at his feet.
“Face me,” says Shor. Tsun turns back around. Shor stands from his throne, his body nude save for a fox-cloak wrapped around his shoulders. “Who are you, Tsun?”
“I don’t understand,” replies the Bear.
“Are you simply his guilt? His regret? I have no use for that. What piece of him stands before me?”
Tsun closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they are filled with fire. “His honor,” he declares.
Shor looks at the other gods. They each nod in agreement.
“Good,” Shor says. “Then we have much work to do. We have a war to win, after all.”
Stendarr is not a god of subterfuge, but still he remains hidden among the trees, unnoticed by the two dancers in the clearing. It is a dance of steel, a clash of blades, and in a flash of light, only one remains. He is a stranger in a strange land, a titan bathed in ebony, with a wicked sword to match.
The strange man plants his blade in the earth and runs his hands through his reddish blonde hair and beard, relishing his existence. It’s enough to make Stendarr’s stomach churn. Mercy is one thing - this foul union is another entirely. He retches involuntarily, and the sound calls attention to himself.
The stranger reclaims his sword and, examining the treeline, calls out, “Who goes there?”
Stendarr is forced to reveal his presence. He steps out from behind the trees and replies, “I.”
A smile stretches the stranger’s face as he lowers his weapon. “It is a mighty pleasure to see you again, old friend.”
“Who are you? What are you?” asks Stendarr, displeasure clear in his tone.
“You may call me Reymon. I should have expected some confusion!” He laughs deeply, seemingly ignorant of his visitor’s disposition. “I am glad you have come to see me be born, old Stendarr. We have much work to do.”
“Work?” Stendarr stands as still as a tombstone.
“Of course! To eradicate the daedra from these lands.”
“But,” begins Stendarr, choking on his words, “you are daedra.”
“Not anymore, friend. I am something new entirely.” Reymon leans against his sword buried in the soil.
“The daedric influence can only be diminished by its demise.” Stendarr draws his own sword, but Reymon seems not to notice.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” says Reymon. “I have died and been born again.”
Stendarr, nearly weeping, confirms, “Yes, you have died. Forgive me, Lord Trinimac.”
In a flash Stendarr rushes forward and swipes viciously at Reymon. Reymon’s right arm falls limply to the forest floor.
Reymon grasps at the wound, wincing. “Ah! Aha. Haha.” He falls back, only kept from hitting the ground by his grip on his weapon. “I suppose I shall never let my guard down, even around friends. Thou hast bested me.”
Reymon’s face flickers briefly, showing the visages of Boethiah and Trinimac. At this latter Stendarr hesitates, his sword pointed at Reymon’s neck.
“Renounce this heresy,” Stendarr quivers, tears streaming down his face, “and I may grant you my mercy.”
Reymon seems to hesitate as well. But then he grabs the blade, turning it aside as he rams his shoulder into Stendarr, knocking him off balance. “I do not need your mercy,” Reymon says as he quickly takes up his blade in his offhand. He seems to struggle with its weight, awkwardly waving it around. He frowns, and instead jams the hilt into what is left of his right arm, fusing the blade to his wound.
Stendarr is dumbstruck at the savagery of the act, almost leaving himself open for the ensuing strike. But he manages to sidestep it, relying on the training he received from this old knight himself. He wipes away his tears and prepares for a battle.
Reymon swings again, a vicious horizontal attack that Stendarr barely manages to duck beneath. He takes this opportunity to launch a thrust at Reymon’s waist, hoping to find a chink in the armor. He does not, and the blade bounces off the ebony harmlessly. Reymon uses his spare hand to grab Stendarr’s sword-wrist, pulling his entire body up and over the towering god, sending him crashing into the earth behind him.
The wind flees from Stendarr’s chest upon collision, and for a moment he flails like a fish out of water. Then he remembers his composure and quickly climbs to his feet.
Reymon laughs, but it is not Reymon’s voice; it is his old master’s. “I could have easily killed you just then, Stendarr. You live only because of my mercy.”
“What did you ever know of mercy, Trinimac?” cries Stendarr, scrambling to find his proper stance. “You were always as ruthless as Kynareth and the others.”
“Perhaps so,” Reymon says, in his own voice, “but I am not Trinimac. I am more. So perhaps I shall try on mercy.” He raises his black bladed arm skyward. “Alongside my ebon arm, I shall grow a shield, a rose to abate battle and spare bloodshed. But I shall not be afraid to wage war when necessary.” He extends his remaining hand towards Stendarr. “Won’t you join me?”
Stendarr does not hesitate this time. He immediately lunges forward to strike at the exposed arm, but Reymon immediately retracts it, having learned his lesson.
“Very well,” says Reymon, shaking his head. “Then I take my leave of you. I hope that you will one day remember our bond.”
“I will never stop hunting you, traitor,” Stendarr spits.
“Then to you I say: Good luck!” Reymon brings his fingers to his lips to whistle, and calls forth from nothing a massive steed, befitting of the god’s stature. Without another word, he is off, galloping through the forest away from Stendarr.
Now that he is alone, Stendarr weeps in earnest for his lost friend and master, knowing that there is no turning back for Trinimac, and that his fate is sealed.
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