Can be found randomly in loot containers, and is randomly sold by general goods and books vendors.


To Provisional Governor of the Reach, Contested High Rock, Titus Alorius, Knight-Commander of the Estates, Duke of Esteem in unified Colovia, Blade-Seneschal of the Emperor Tiber Septim, etc., etc., etc.

Whereas the Master of the TEM Battlespire Honor Before Glory, Celeus Fallbright, Knight-Commander of the Ruby Armada, Admiral of the Dragon Banner at Void and Commander in Chief of His Majesty's Ships and Vessels employed and to be employed in the Lanes Aetherial & Mnemolic, etc., etc., etc.,

--is now dead without recourse to doctrined revivication, set out by the Elder Council, the Congress of the Eight, and the Chamberlains of the College of Imperial Magic--

You are now appointed as the new commander of the TEM Battlespire Utmost Triumph to secure in irons real and unreal, the vagrant Redguard terror Sura-do-Hega, 'Cyrus' in the Cyrodilic, 'The Maverick King of the Alk'r' in quarters vulgar, base, and tavern-fanciful--

--and all hands of his vessel the Carrick, for questioning by an appointed emissary of White-Gold, and to do so without delay.

Be advised, if reports are true, the Carrick and its captain have destroyed both the TEM Honor Before Glory and TEM Longbow, Sunbird of Alinor. While vox-enabled memospores seem to indicate that the TEM Longbow was taken unawares and easily bested, defeat of the TEM Honor Before Glory appears to have been the work of subterfuge. Proof-transmission follows:

Archimandrite-at-Ready: “Hailing the captain of the vessel flying the Imga cape. We can’t hear you. We see you cupping your hands. Please try to yell louder.”

Cyrus: “Get out of my way!”

Archimandrite-at-Ready: “Halt and present yourselves for inspection. We apologize for the Altmeri transgression. This is friendly void.”

Cyrus: “Last chance!”

Archimandrite-at-Ready: “Lanes to Imperial Masser are closed to the citizenry. Turn back or we will fire upon you in majestic ways.”

Cyrus (muffled): “Coyle, pull her up and over eight degrees moon-by-moon-north. Haekele, cut the lashes and launch our slug. Thorpe? On my mark, full spin to stop, and drop cargo. This is why I paid a ransom in salt.”

Visuals can verify that the Carrick was somehow sailing via sload-clusters, barnacled to its sides, but this is common for Abecean liners at mundrial sea. What is most asuredly not common is a fully-grown specimen of Thras held by ropes beneath the beam, and launched like some ad-hoc torpedo.

With the application of salt, the crew initiated hitherto unforeseen peristaltic vibrations within said specimen, propelling it forwards and into a landing bay of the TEM Honor Before Glory. Considerable Thrassian flatulence resulted, sending the incapacitated vessel spiraling towards the side of the moon.

Its impact into the Colony proper was ameliorated by orbital moth-mirage and screening flak, yet its bulk cratered itself nearby, no souls surviving.

P-G Titus Alorius, report to the nearest Weir Gate, show arms, take teleport, and make haste for Masser.

Given on board the TEM Warspore Tiberia,
at aetherial anchor, 26th Last Seed, 3E____
Praeceptor Superior Erramanwe


Fornower was in the ropes, using a trumpet from Pyandonea to sound the moonfall.

“Prepare for landing! Everyone in their suits and everyone watching the others. If one of us can’t remember how, another of us grabs their straps and buckles ‘em tight. We’re the Carrickers and none forget.”

Dust washed across the eyelets of their helmets and the keel made a sound that Cyrus frowned at, but his ship set even well enough, its crew pushing the sloadbags down by pole-struts to serve as landing bladders. Haekele grabbed at the glimmerwelts that rose up, and the captain had no heart to tell him that these things were a compost of a sort and nothing to make one rich.

“On my lead,” Cyrus said, jumping over the side, “I’ve been here before.”

Those in the reaving party jumped, too, no nations now in their tatter-suits, leaping in arcs for the youngest or the wild, or careful hops into the silver dust for those between both, and all of them looking around through the eyelets of their helmets which were bulging out now with breath, like speckled, half-dumb tubers taking the measure, and fat-fingered gloves pointing up from the south towards the Imperial walls of the Colony.

Cyrus started running. Coyle hit beside him already at full gait, saying “For you, cap! For Hayle!” before leaping again off a lip of a crater to disappear behind the small dust plume of his own making. The boy let go the flag-cape of the Imga which he had re-stolen just for this moment and it raised up to hang in the air and his shipmates saw the dare.

And Chemli remembered her nation then, shouting, “SPRINT!” and blowing off the front of her helmet off with power. She panicked for a second, but Fornower landed beside her, his hair tangled in glimmerwelt (he couldn’t figure out the pockets of his suit) and he had left his helmet long behind.

“It’s okay, we can breathe here! Just learn how!” Evidently, for some, it was by licorice straw; Fornower was using one as a reed. His hair, what was left of it, it still was left, and she could imagine it combed, but stop thinking about that and run.

“Quit being stupid,” Cyrus grunted, nearing the crater’s edge.

“Right,” barked a voice, which issued from the suit that was marked as Haekele’s, and was prancing, “Hearken to your captain! Here be dragons! Let no Devil--”

A tuber floated slow, then hit the surface with certitude. Cyrus sheathed his saber, having none of the strain the others did with the tatter bulk. When Haekele’s suit fell, it leaked gems. Then the scamp showed itself, its mouth sewn shut so that the voice just heard became a wonder, and Cyrus shook his head. An arrow found the scamp’s eye, and Jill, one of the cautious, refolded her bone bow eighteen paces back.

“What was that, Sura?” someone asked. Not many were running now.

The gems were Haekele’s favorite prize from Cold Harbour. The scamp was just a letter sent by its master. Cyrus wouldn’t take his helmet off to answer Jill. She just might see Borden in his eye. Hell, she might even see S’rathra.

“We’re being chased,” he said by way of explanation. “Enemies front and behind now. Don’t despair.”

“That’s no answer, Cap.”

“What did I miss?” This yelled from Coyle, on the other edge of the crater, the Colony barely framed behind him, its description changing as the moths remade it according to some Imperial command.


Dumb to let him keep those, if you don’t mind me saying. My boat, Borden, and they make him happy. Well, yeah, all shiny from the dwimmerdark makes ye happy, sir, but that’s the point. Just tell the boy to sell ‘em when next we make port. Let a merchant deal with, y’know, Him. No. They’re Haekele’s spoils, and he won them fair. He won them fair from Molag Bal! Shh. They can hear their names, Borden. Wait, yer lettin’ on to him that this is a raga thing, aren’t you? No. Not really. But you are! You are! And what a raga wins, a raga deals with, am I right? Just... just grab the maps, Borden, and plan with me the job. Hell no, yer makin’ us all bait! I’ll have none for it! Put the sword down and get serious. Not a chance. Put. The. Sword. Everybody get down here, they’re killing each other!

Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted.