Cult of the Malformed Fork Posts

My efforts were not in vain and while the town was saved I was personally thanked for my work. A rarity given my preoccupation with being as far from prying eyes and idealistic leaders.

It was a welcome break from trends. I quietly endured as I gazed on as several ancestral spirits took up their place guarding ancestral relics. Necromancy is weird.

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The trail of corpses and strange disappearances led me to the sea. There, nestled amid the mast of expertly crafted ships and the dunes of an unforgiving desert I found them. Brazenly harassing the local townsfolk. Some chance encounters with Daedra had encouraged me to find stronger armor and I was thankful, spectral claws raked across the plating and put a shiver down my spine.

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I’m not against Necromancers. At least not by profession. You could call a it a courtesy, harnessing Magick isn’t easy and I’m not about to frown on someone’s approach.

Mind you, it’s a little creepy, working with the dead. Often dabbling in ritual behavior and raising the recently deceased. Nope, not against it, just not a fan.

I had delved into the crypt with a strange itch at the back of my neck. This fellow clued me in. But it wasn’t the Necromancers.. it was the Daedra around the corner.

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I venture to some dreadful places in search of knowledge and mystical secrets. I was nestled under a small town what had been decimated by daedric influence.

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Yearning for things they cannot have, for loves lost or foes vanquished too soon.

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I was too many days into Vvardenfell, learning a new kind of loathing for the Great Houses, collectively learning who I could trust and finding myself devoid of rational allies.

It was one thing to owe a favor and help the Morag Tong. Being their drinking buddy for when life got tough wasn’t my idea. So I gave one mug of mead and then quietly departed for the road, Wendel in tow. The first boat was just down the path and I had a feeling I’d be off this cursed island before long.

I’d barely made it into town when a merchant had the look of trouble and my curious nature got the better of me. Seems his business partner had quietly closed the doors on the local mine without giving much detail. I recommended sending in guards but some half-arguments suggested it would be more prudent if “I” took a look. In exchange for some coin, of course. I should have kept walking..

The monsters should have been my first warning to leave. The sick alchemist should have been the second. Sadly I’m a glutton for my own curiosity and it took a Daedric shrine to Clavicus Vile to settle my curiosity.

I wonder at times if I’ll ever learn to stop poking my nose into obscure corners. Wendel usually just snickers when I do, he and I both know that my curiosity will be the end of me.

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Regardless how I felt there was work to be done. Sorcery does not idly sit around accomplishing itself.

I’d been tasked, as usual, to find some ingredients for a spell whose function wasn’t of my personal concern. The opportunity to see distant lands and avoid the usual politicking that happens was more than enough incentive.

I don’t favor caves but some do have such wondrous vistas that on occasion I remind myself the value of adventure.

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