|Veja também||Versão da Lore|
|Coleção||Words of the Poets|
No magicka handler Iachesis Ritemaster, sage of the Elder Way, gentle spellcaster! To warp not the wind, unlike guild of the latter day, courting disaster.
Necromancy, death art, chose me stern and fast. To change not the present, but call up the past, obverse of Elder Way, forbidden without cause, deep-delved in death's way, against Gray Cloak laws.
Ill-timed then arrived one, Trechtus by name: ambitious, obstreperous, blind and deaf to shame, talented, reckless, thought himself my equal, his arrogance and envy determined our sequel.
Magic he practiced: open, raw power, flouted the Elder Way, endangered the tower, then with lowborn cunning cast me as the villain, engineered exile, made me Tamrielan.
All undervalued my will and resolution, my knowledge formidable, my wit and acumen. Thus found I new allies to study the death-rites, the sacrifice rituals, the summons of ghost-wights.
Robed all in black goes the Order of Black Worm, bringing wisdom to seekers who see beyond death-term, but Trechtus-now-Vanus pursues us to continent, to persecute worm-wrights his evil intent.
Come, all necrotics, defend practice and life, against Mages who wield magicka like a knife, heedless of heresy and ignorant of Elder Way, hating necromancy yet heralding doomsday.
Child of Nirn ponder, which would you choose: tyranny of mages, restricting spell use, or necromancy, communion with thy dead, ancestors returned, generations reunited?