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Diese Seite enthält den Text von Der Heldenführer zu The Elder Scrolls Online aus The Elder Scrolls Online (Originaltitel: The Hero's Guides to The Elder Scrolls Online).
Inhalt
Arms and Armor of Tamriel
Authored by Hall Steward Longinus Attius
Rimmen Fighters Guildhall
[Bild einer Flagge]
[Bild von Longinus Attius]
Longinus Attius
First pressing: Last Seed, 2E 578
Promulgated under the Authority of the Imperial Geographical Society
Green Emperor Way, Imperial City, Cyrodiil
PRAISE BE TO AKATOSH AND ALL THE DIVINES
Table of Contents
Introduction: A Show of Force ..... 4
CHAPTER 1
BATTLE EQUIPMENT OF THE ALDMERI DOMINION
Altmeri Champion ..... 5
Bosmeri Champion ..... 8
Khajiiti Champion ..... 11
CHAPTER 2
BATTLE EQUIPMENT OF THE DAGGERFALL COVENANT
Bretonian Champion ..... 14
Orcish Champion ..... 17
Redguard Champion ..... 20
CHAPTER 3
BATTLE EQUIPMENT OF THE EBONHEART PACT
Argonian Champion ..... 23
Dunmeri Champion ..... 26
Nord Champion ..... 29
CHAPTER 4
BATTLE EQUIPMENT OF THE IMPERIAL CHAMPION ..... 32
CHAPTER 5
GUILD ARMOR AND LESSER HABILIMENTS
Fighters Guild ..... 35
Mages Guild ..... 38
Ashlander ..... 41
Dwemer ..... 43
Goblin ..... 46
Reachman ..... 49
The Daedra and the Worm Cultist ..... 52
While the villages of my youth are burned, and the revolting hordes of the dead bring their
filth to my homeland, I, Longinus Attius, vow a most blood-soaked vengeance. I join with
the other champions of Tamriel, briefly ignoring the shortfalls of our own animosity, in a
broad pact to chase down every unnatural and foul spawn of Molag Bal. Gil-Var-Delle has
been consumed. The fetid breath of corruption threatens to smother us. We must strike at
this present moment, instantly and with an unabashed fury not to be contained! Rise, my
fellow warriors, and fight for your homes and your livelihood! The purity of your very
soul depends on your actions of valor!
Those of the Fighters Guild know of me. They have heard whispers of my unrelenting dedication to the gathering and classifying of every dagger, bow, and helm from across our lands; every mace, hammer, and breastplate from Daggerfall to Archon, from Sunhold to Necrom. Some have become concerned about my dwindling personal fortune, spent not in the frivolous activities of the brandy drinker or the wench despoiler, but in the search for a complete knowledge of arms and armor. I stoke the fires of my forge, and my implements are impressive. I barter fiercely with merchants for their finest battle equipment. And now, as the great and the mighty gather on the charred soils of Cyrodiil, I appeal to my brethren and present my findings.
This book is the triumphant conclusion to my months of research. Proud and battle- scarred champions pay visit to my Rimmen Guildhall and reveal the favored arms and armor of their people. They gladly butcher an adversary for my sharpened charcoal. They bring sharp and violent gifts from their finest blacksmiths. But most importantly, they share with you, adept or veteran of the Fighters Guild, their sentiments on war. Such beliefs, not widely shared until these frightening and bloody days, are the crux of my exhaustive research. Now I may fight by my Dunmeri sister and my Argonian brother in the cataclysm to come. But I know I shall lie in wait for Arkay’s judgment with a smile and the knowledge I could do no more to help my fellow man or mer.
As Zenithar teaches us: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. But we also swear to Akatosh, sharing his embodiment of endurance, seeking his invincibility, and we shall rid the constellation of the Serpent to keep our everlasting legitimacy.
Stendarr protect us all.
Falandamil, whose full name is apparently too complicated for my quill hand to write, hails from a kinship with a proud—some might say pompous—lineage of artisans. He wears his family’s heaviest armor, which has not only bulk, but a form most elegant.
IT TOOK SOME gentle, purring persuasion on
the part of the Khajiiti champion, Zadabal-ra,
to convince the aloof, golden-skinned inhabitant
of Summerset Isles to arrive at our fighters’ feast. But
arrive he did, bringing a caravan of gleaming shields,
winged helms, and spears dedicated to Phynaster the
Guardian. Though we uncultured barbarians of the
mainland had to sit through copious waffle regarding
our shortfalls in battle, which almost brought the Nord
champion to a seething, violent outburst, tempers were
soothed with mead and some ferocious combat training,
where the soaring and fluid designs of the Altmeri
weapons of war—thin and swan necked like their ships—
were finally tested.
Altmeri armor and weaponry has a sturdy elegance that many others have attempted and failed to achieve. Even the lowliest Altmer has a disdain for iron, steel, or other materials of the common mainlander, so more exotic ores and minerals are part of the forging process, which can be as convoluted as their patterns of speech. While fanciful materials are common, glass is perhaps the most impressive when swords or axes are formed from this collection of resins and volcanic deposits. The results are surprisingly robust, but always alluring in form. Such weaponry is well weighted, a milky green in color, but the blades require constant and careful sharpening.
The bounty of rare (and mostly crystalline) minerals that Summerset Isles hides beneath its rich soils is used to enhance a variety of beautifully crafted arms. One may swing a lengthy blade embedded with glass details, golden pommel, and stylized eagle wings and heads. One might draw the winged bow of a High Elf, while comparing its supple curvature to a maiden’s thigh. The Altmer does not hunt wild animals for his grip or trim work, preferring the slaughter of specially bred guar to provide the most pliable of leather for an axe’s grip. The result is an astonishing balance of ornate delicateness and sinister sharpness.
High Elves favor weapons that match their own countenance: elongated, barbed, and often adorned in gold.
Property of
Gargrell Sorick
Second Apprentice to defessus Lector
Wayrest, High Rock
[Bild von Gargrell Sorick]
Self-Portrait of the author (me)
Agents and Reagents:
The Bounty of Mundus
[Bild von Zutaten]
Notes on Alchemical
and Enchanting Ingredients
By Gargrell Sorick
Remove unflattering
ranting about
the master!
The Ingredients
For Knowledge
My employment at the apothecary in Wayrest is one of dedication through tireless and thankless
servitude. though my knowledge of ingredients from mountain to meadow is formidable, and
my handiness with a blade is revered by the rivals i have scarred or slain, the trickle of debt to the
master and shop owner, magister and alchemist defessus Lector, continues to be paid. i have been in
the master’s service (and put up with his eccentricities and bouts of verbal abuse) for nigh on fifteen
years, but my devotion is still unwavering.
My upbringing was inadequate, my father an unknown member of the Lion Guard and my mother a primitive from the reach. Saved from sacrifice by the master before my fealty to Hircine was sworn, my curse of birth extends to my reachman name of Gargrell. the master is always quick to point out the inadequacies of these primitives (though he is less circumspect when i approach the subject of my ravaging father’s loins). my youthful anger, which was once channeled into assassinations, thanks (according to the master) to “my barbarian blood,” is now behind me, and i seek wisdom from behind the bowls, jars, and potions as second apprentice of the Wayrest Apothecary.
Recently, the death of first Apprentice evangeline Beanique (Arkay carry her soul to peace) has allowed my station at this shop to marginally improve: i no longer am employed in slopping out the latrines, carrying the burdensome raw ingredients from trader’s caravan to storage chamber shelf, and other menial tasks. now i am left to run the Wayrest Apothecary, usually with the simpleton Bardus, a work-shy nincompoop seemingly conjured at this shop with the single purpose of providing foreign traders with stories about Breton inbreeding.
But acting as apothecary shepherd is but one of two important tasks: the master requires a further undertaking. i am to create a journal, of which these are the preliminary scribbles. A book useful to the apothecary servant and master alike: a formidable list of ingredients revealed in both drawing and description, recollections of where each is found, and the state they must be presented in for bartering, as well as the usefulness of each component to the alchemist and enchanter. our shelves brim over with gathered materials from the corners of tamriel; a bounty of mundus within the four walls (and numerous outhouses) of the apothecary at Wayrest.
Assuming Bardus can read, this text should also serve as a teaching tool so the half-wit learns to provide our customers with accurate ingredients, and not violently dangerous powders that only seem similar to one another: Hall Steward Longinus Attius still launches furious verbal tirades about our incompetence while he visited here (his vampire dust and frost salts were mislabeled, resulting in a concoction that induced violent uprisings from the bowels and actually worsened his case of ticklebritch). Personally, i would have murdered Bardus where he stood, but the master knows best. instead, i work like an Argonian slave to keep this trading post in good standing.
Aside from scouring our shelves, what better repository of knowledge is there than the traders that frequent this establishment? the master’s powerful standing, our web of merchants from across the provinces, and our system of nimble couriers all conspire to provide a wealth of knowledge, a plentiful supply of even the rarest items, and a worn welcome mat. my master’s fondness for moon sugar allows khajiiti caravans preferential treatment during their bartering. elven Justiciars come here to gather for their powerful mage masters. nord hunters arrive to seek kyne’s blessing and a cure for yellow tick. And a redguard merchant burdened with exotic ingredients is always welcomed with open arms (although one i encountered recently had clumsy arms, scratching me about the face with his gauntlet finger while dusting me off after we piled sacks of bone meal into our backroom shelves, then profusely apologizing).
All the awareness of visiting alchemists, merchants, and enchanters shall be imparted! i jot it all down in this journal, add graceful illustrations, and alter my writings to remove personal feelings. this book is the last chance i have to make my master proud.
the Wayrest Apothecary
2nd of Sun’s Height, 2E 578
Inside the Wayrest Apothecary
A Hunter's Companion
PART I: NORTHERN TAMRIEL
[Bild des Schreins]
Hear me, goddess of storms, and the bringer of rain,
The Mother of Men and Shor’s Warrior-Wife,
Your Sons and your Daughters implore you again,
Protect those that hunt, for they savor their life.
Your wind at our backs, we seek the faintest of tracks,
Your blessings alone exalt our fury in attacks.
We watch for the Hawk, on the grayest of days,
Your servants and advocates, trained in the Old Ways.
Moon Sugar Press
Embarkation INVOCATION AND MERRIMENT
OUR TIME OF STRIFE and troubles blankets the land in fear.
They say the dead rise to claim Cyrodiil. That Daedra intrusions
grow common. Within a year, Molag Bal will be baying at the gates of
Whiterun. But there is much merriment and tradition to be had in Tamriel.
Nords fear no trespasser into the nine holds. Our mead is envied by all men
and mer. And our wilderness is abundant with life to hunt for amusement or
necessity. But what of the loathsome and the monstrous far from our fields
of heather, away from the White? I am astonished when a recruit from Elden
Root hasn’t the knowledge to proficiently hunt a snow bear. And I worry our
Nord cubs would face a wamasu of Black Marsh without proper guidance of
its more dangerous defenses. Our libraries are filled with histories, but what
of tomes less musty, and more beneficial to our current predicament?
Naturally, Kyne provided the answers. A challenge to test the finest huntsmen: A volume of parchment to attest to the ferociousness of our prey, and the capabilities of our company. We seek one example of every beast that roams through Mundus, whether imbecilic or guileful, tracked to their lair, and brought down by our cunning. Artistry most fine shall accompany the depictions of our actions and the ferocity of our quarry. The gift of fine hides or warm innards will be gathered and offered for sale to trade elder Zagun-ra (our benefactor), who pays for the printing and distribution of this knowledge. What if we encounter creatures unnatural or cursed? They too shall be dismissed with a similar vigor, as if Kyne herself had summoned them.
Our journey may be fraught. The armies of revenants seek to choke and turn our livelihoods to darkness. The politics of the three great alliances may threaten our freedom. But Kyne’s light shines on. Let us teach you preparedness, and the skills of survival. And the benefits of a mug of Frost River mead.
Guildmaster of the Fighters Guild of Sentinel,
The revelry in Riften began at sun’s fade on Fredas, and continues deep into Loredas morn.
If our assembled hunters can track as well as they drink, Kyne’s bounty is assured.
GRUNDVIK COLD-FIST
I hail from Windhelm, but currently oversee the Fighters Guildhall in Sentinel, in the baking sun of Hammerfell. I am fortunate, then, to have been given this grand challenge, where I can return to the lands of my youth, where I am closer to Kyne. My bestiary is to serve the Guild, as our methods of hunting may help my brothers and sisters facing the monstrous of Tamriel. I hunt with my trusted Ingjard, and select brethren, chosen to further our forays across Mundus. My paths are well traveled, and I tolerate Orcs, Elves, and other beast-men. I prefer finesse over force, the company of bards, and enjoy both hand-drawn art as well as hand-forged axes. But my artistry and wordsmithing does not diminish my ferociousness with a blade, as my foes have found, to their cost.
FENRIG THE UNSTEADY
I have knowledge of Fenrig’s brother Roggvir the Ready (the protector of Rorikstead). But I was surprised to learn of his twin, Fenrig. My trusted companion Ingjard remarked on the considerable talents of both siblings, when tracking or violently performing with an axe. Alas, Roggvir is indisposed, but Ingjard’s recommendation convinced me to bring Fenrig and his war dogs into our fold. The fellow seems strangely gloomy and reserved, keen to speak only about how he tracks wild animals through swamp and snow. During these festivities in Riften, his actions perplex me; he declines to partake in mead. Is he ill?
FANG AND MAULER
Fenrig brings with him two feisty familiars: his war dogs. They are fiercely loyal and usually by his feet. Judging by their coats and faces, these are more wolf than dog. Mauler’s temperament seems relatively docile; he is oblivious to the festivities and content to slobber on a large bone of marrow. Fang, however, seems skittish; she stays by her master flashing a distrusting look and sharp teeth, growling at the Argonian.
INGJARD STONE-HAND
My trusted friend and an exceptional tracker, Ingjard has recently returned from a month of hunting across the Velothi Mountains with the formidable Holgunn One-Eye. Not only are her arrows true and her axes sharp, but her paintings of Skyrim are most pleasing to the eye. These skills are all the more impressive as she is beset with only one good hand (the other hidden inside a gauntlet, mangled after defending herself from a werewolf). Clad in furs, with a row of daggers across her chest, Ingjard clanks mead mugs with Skald kings, murders trolls before breakfast, and has her art hanging from the rafters of Dragonsreach. I am proud to call her my friend.
FOOTFALLS-IN-SNOW
This Argonian Boot professes to be a spells- word of some repute, and comes with a letter of reference from Armory Sergeant Belderi Llenim of the Mournhold Guildhall, but I have little reason to trust this lizard. He rasps in a singsong voice, speaks in nature allegories, and sips his mead like an Imperial. He swears he is here to learn the ways of the Nord hunter, and has promised to provide safe passage through Black Marsh and much of southern Tamriel. The Orc and Fenrig’s dogs have already taken a dislike to him. I have reserved my judgment, as his skill with a skinning knife is ruthlessly competent.
BASHNAG GRO-GORZOTH
A fellow member of the Fighters Guild, he is an impressively bulky Orc, favoring a cladding of the heaviest armor even on the most sweltering of days. He takes to hammering mead down his gullet like a slaughterfish to water. Although one would favor a slobbering troll over this specimen when attempting delicate diplomacy with a Dunmer, if you wish something to be struck so hard the crack can be heard in Oblivion, using a mace that a giant would have trouble wielding, seek out this Orc. Usually the picture of jocularity, Bashnag is no simpleton, and boasts blood kinship to the blacksmiths of King Kurog of Orsinium. He certainly hits harder than any man or mer I’ve met before.
KISHRA-DO
A somewhat aloof Khajiit, hailing from the trading settlement of Dune in distant Elsweyr. She is the House Cat of trade elder Zagun-ra, a powerful merchant (and our benefactor) who also resides there. A formidable assassin by all accounts, Kishra-do seems to have an air of irritation about us Nords: Perhaps it is the weather? She carries a variety of satchels and daggers, and wears leathers to accentuate her natural feline litheness. I have witnessed her slit a giant from ear to toe; the lumberer was dead before he realized his attacker had pounced. She now acts as a courier and collector of ingredients, returning intermittently to gather the spoils of our hunt.
Morrowind
Morrowind A LAND OF GRAY ASH AND FOUL PESTILENCE
SKEEVER | At the edge of the
Autumnal Forest with the
Velothi Mountains at our backs,
our previous night’s joviality had
lessened considerably. Kishra-do
joined us before departing for
Mournhold, away from our hunt.
Fenrig sat apart from us, bathed in
a shaft of light from Secunda,
keeping his dogs away from the
Argonian and the Khajiit. Ingjard
sat pensively, quietly murmuring
prayers to Kyne. Bashnag was out
collecting firewood, his nighttime
foraging exhibiting all the silent
cunning of a mammoth in an
apothecary. Kishra-do stopped
chatting to Footfalls-in-Snow, and
leaned in to my ear.
Perhaps Kyne had others to watch over; our hunt begins with squabbling I would not normally tolerate, and a kill that reveals not the skill of the hunter, but the boot speed of an Orc.
“Your dungmer attracts noise
as well as fleshflies,” she noted with her barbed tongue, eliciting a
rasping chuckle from the lizard. “Perhaps Kishra-do will offer
him a chiming bell to wear so he might alert all the woodland
beasts?” I was about to explain we’d face no dangers in this neck
of the woods, when a hissing squeal interrupted her insults.
Kishra-do leapt up, swiftly reaching for her staff, and brought it
down with considerable force, piercing straight through the head
of a huge rodent. Its tiny red eyes glared up at us for a moment,
before Kyne gathered up the skeever’s spirit to give to Peryite.
I narrowly missed receiving a furry face of jagged yellow teeth and disease, as a skeever leapt out into our clearing. Three, perhaps four, encroached on the camp, probably attracted by the fire. Or the lumbering nocturnal noises of our Orc friend. He attended to a skeever by bringing his hefty armored foot down, driving both boot and beast into the soggy soil. Ingjard’s arrows finished the rest of the vermin. Fenrig barely looked up. A brief and rowdy lull between conversation.
Before we slept, Bashnag offered Kishra-do some skewered skeever he’d been roasting. “This must be fortuitous, Khajiit!” he shouted (although we found out subsequently this was his speaking voice).
“How so, idiot?” Kishra-do responded. A little harshly, I felt.
“Ha! I’d wear your coat as a winter cloak if I thought you serious,” Bashnag continued.
Ingjard looked up from her painting as I rose from my seat. Ingjard flashed me a look of concern, but I shook my head; these were the teething troubles usually present when others are brought to the hunt.
The Orc waved the hindquarters of a charred skeever skewer in Kishra-do’s face. “You didn’t think you’d be eating your principal diet? How many different ways do you cat folk eat rat?”
“None, you feeble-minded mongrel. We refrain from playing with balls of yarn, and mark our territory with flags, not secretions. Though I’m happy to make an exception with you, yes?”
“Fellow hunters!” I stood to my full height. “Your bickering, though amusing, offends Kyne.” I produced a bottle of Ashfire mead (it seemed apt, based on our first destination), and handed it to the Orc. For the Khajiit, a skin of Moon Sugar double rum.
“A spot of Nord diplomacy?” I offered.
A skeever, skewered and skinned, sizzling merrily on the campfire. Not a taste i personally crave; I would eat the weevil from an old apple before i forced this down my throat.
Anmerkungen (Tamriel-Almanach)
- ↑ Auszug aus dem Buch, nur die Teile die auf der offiziellen ESO-Seite veröffentlicht wurden.
