Where Were You When the Dragon Broke, Extended
Setachari, Hammerfell, Guardian of the Orichalc Passage
The Dragon Break? You mean when you foolish nudri tricked the Unserpent into biting the stars of Tuwakka and saw your carefully built little eggshell homes come crashing down around you? Our archives mention it -- in passing. We have done it before: stronger, faster, better, and with such precision that you didn't even notice. We did it again too, to your Emperor, if you've been paying any attention. You brutes know nothing of how to fight, you just flail about in slow motion until you have won your pyrrhic victories. Why don't you watch Hammerfell, nudriman? Maybe you'll learn something before you reach the Far Shores.
Eramandeva and twelve ancestral selves, Artaeum, Tender of the Second Ghost Garden
Let it first be said that we cannot but condemn the crude methods and shameless hubris of the Selectives, who border on blasphemy. It pains me to think that we may have indirectly suggested the very possibility to them, gestated though it was through centuries of Marukhati scholastics. Let there be no doubt, however, that the Everywhen itself is a splendorous and unbridled ontological wellspring, and it was over this point that we broke with Alinor. Where others would weep or hide in hermeneutic anguish, we cherish and venerate it. Without the burden of sequentiality, genealogical reversal becomes a malleable phenomenon, and we forego the need for infinite identity-chains; entire degenerate genealogies can be folded into the self-in-excelsis, beings that straddle the line between the material and the divine. So you ask, where were we? We were everywhere, on Artaeum in solemn jubilation, in your palace, watching your bewilderment, and on the highest perch of the Starry Heart, meditating in the blue light on the matters that then were, but afterwards had been or would be.
Urakwei, Argonia, Chieftain of On-Wanal
I was not there, of course, that would be impossible. But we were there. It is difficult to explain, though perhaps I will try: the Hist are contemplative, and must always be. The rootfolk lick the sap, and become. But that is too simple and not the point: you softskins are spoiled by the leisure of your drylands, and are lost when things become as water - shapeless and without beginning or end. This is why you are not welcome in the Marsh. But the Hist laid their earliest tubers in the murky waters before the first light, and their roots run deep into all things. They can see clearly while you are blinded by your own existence, and so we followed their whispers deep into the nest, where all things are reflected in the fenwater. It is in this darkness that we are hatchlings, born anew.
Carwynel, Alinor, Minor Official of the Outer Mosaic Court
In the Isles, Time is circular, referential, self-supporting. In the cities and certain towns, one can enter an inn or tavern, their gemmed floors turned soft and smooth as marble from polished eons of business, and, for a not inconsiderable sum, one can drink from the same great crystal chalices as once touched the lips of Trinimac, Syrabane and others. Such vessels are tall and wide, yet delicate as a tulip, but more, to drink from them is an affirmation of the past, and a reinstatement of the fatality of the present, for such a thing is not merely a draught but a symbolically charged ritual. When a strange wind blew from Cyrodiil, it upset not merely the scrolls on the history scribe’s desk, but the very meaning of things. We looked upon our relics and symbols with a hopeless consternation, not recognizing the reality of them and what they signified. They became strangers to us. In the face of this tragic loss, some of us gave over to our despair, and became worse than inconsolable; they became irretrievable in a way it would be disrespectful to illuminate. But the most powerful formed new associations, locked in abstract reveries for small eternities, regarding such prosaic items and ephemera as a muslin curtain tugged endlessly by a breeze, and associating it with such self-affirming images as the sweep of a mother’s dress, though her face might have long since been forgotten in the turmoil.
Tendris, Dagonite, Left-Hand Keeper of the Red Sight
You speak of one of the biggest victories against Auriel ever recorded, the most recent being Lord Dagon's victory over the pretender king of the Empire of Men. Lord Dagon was ordained to overthrow the tyrants of this world. First was Lyg, you know him as Shezzar, who met the Bloody Razor first hand and whose fate is well written but ignored. Now Lord Dagon's blade turns to the first born serpent, the Other. While many of your written accounts tend to favor your precious Aedra, my Lord's victories are becoming more and more frequent. You see, where I was does not matter, the better question is; Where is Akatosh? For each victory bends the dragon's spine ever so slightly, it is only a matter of time before it snaps for good.
Aengoth, Bosmer, Theurgist of Falinesti
Where were the Bosmer? That is a tricky business, perhaps it would be better to ask where was Falinesti, though each root would tell you a different story. An even better question to ask is what were we, for Y'ffre followed the dragon in kind, but only we saw him go. While your sorcerers sought truth in the numbering of stars the Wildest of Hunts delivered justice for the Bosmer against your folly, a retribution in which even the sun bore red for the sins of your Selectives - and many fight still, though to you they're nothing but bones in the earth. Some say the gods walked Nirn, but we saw only ourselves, which the Annals of the Hunt tell us were one and the same. You find solace with your towers so deeply entrenched, unwavering as they are, but the Bosmer saw it best, hidden beneath the boughs of the Walking Tree which sheltered all at once. The Dwemer might have disappeared but even they knew that trick.
At last let us turn to the opinion of a true scholar, steeped in learning, who will, of course, distill the event to its most essential aspects. But we jest, it is just the words of a tenured professor of the Imperial College.
Picmonius Auriphron, Imperial College, Historian
When one considers the ancient accounts it is imperative to see them for what they are: the products of an unstructured and unenlightened society prone to metaphor and poetry. This is not to denude our ancestors of their credibility, but rather that of the many interpreters who cannot understand this. It is unfortunate that in the minds of many so-called mythographers, the Dragon Break has become an amalgam of numerous events whose only common denominator is their inexplicability. Fortunately, due to our recent collaboration with Alinor, major advances in paleonumerology are beginning to make clear this contentious issue, and it will not be inexplicable for much longer.
When the Society asked Carwynel about this alleged collaboration, she found it difficult to express herself. Bewilderment is not an emotion taught in the Sumursettes.