Online:Der Heldenführer zu The Elder Scrolls Online

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.

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.

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.