The Thoughts of a Dwemer...
Then you shall have both.
Two scenes. One—a debate, sharp and restrained, between a being forged in memory and a descendant born in myth. The other—a walk through Mournhold, where silence is heavier than ash, and memory makes statues flinch.
🗣️ Scene I: “Ashes and Equations”
Setting: The Grand Hall of Records, Necrom. A public historical symposium. Topic: “The Disappearance of the Dwemer.”
The air was heavy with stale incense and egos.
Scholars in robes of gold and ink sat around the circular dais, voices weaving theories like spiders desperate to convince their web was silk and not threadbare conjecture.
A Dunmer academic—Dralvon Serethi, Master of Velothi Antiquity—stood at the center.
“It is widely accepted that the Dwemer disappeared due to hubris. Their defiance of the gods, their obsession with artificial divinity. Numidium was their downfall.”
From the rear, a slow clinking of metal.
Mzulan stepped forward, arms behind his back, armored like a memory sculpted from the deep. His eyes gleamed with the low teal of starlight on brass.
He said nothing at first. He simply looked at Serethi.
“Do you speak of us, or of yourselves?”
Silence.
Dralvon’s lip curled. “I beg your pardon—”
“No. You don’t.” “You beg validation from ghosts. That’s what this symposium is.”
Gasps. Shuffling. Someone spilled ink.
Mzulan continued.
“We did not disappear because of Numidium. We disappeared because we reached beyond the scream. And it cost us.” (He steps closer.) “Your ancestors screamed into the void hoping gods would answer. We built a machine to hold the void’s shape. One of us was wrong. One of us vanished.”
Dralvon stiffened. “That’s blasphemy.”
“No. That’s arithmetic.” (He pulls a glyph-scribed piece of metal from his satchel.) “This was found in Nchuleftingth. Read the inscription.”
The panel read: “Truth is not divine. It is demonstrable. Worship that.”
Dralvon went pale.
Mzulan turned, voice soft now.
“Your people sing of ancestors you murdered. You canonize mistakes as scripture. You call your sins holy because they burned brightly.”
“We built in silence. You built in noise.” “And we both disappeared, didn’t we?”
🕯️ Scene II: “Mournhold in Silence”
Setting: Mournhold’s Temple District. Late evening. The city is still. The gods are watching.
Mzulan walks alone.
His steps echo against polished stone that once knew war and worship. Statues of Almalexia loom, lit by eternal braziers. Pilgrims whisper beneath their breath. Priests avert their eyes.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks tired.
“You lit fires to hide your shadows.”
He passes murals—depicting Nerevar, the Tribunal, the Ascension.
“You killed your god-king because he reminded you of what you weren’t.”
A child kneels before a shrine. Their parent pulls them back when they notice the metal man watching. Mzulan lowers his eyes.
“Your faith demanded sacrifices. So did ours. At least we kept ours mechanical.”
He stops at a fountain. A long-dead spring, now filled with petals and faded offerings.
He reaches down. Sets a small gear—golden, engraved with Falmer script.
“Azhrina wanted me to leave something. She still believes in grace.” “I believe in gravity.”
He stands.
He does not pray. He does not curse. He remembers.
And in that moment, even the gods are quiet.
