Leif the Sage. Just a Preamble.

  My real name is not for your tongue to speak, nor for your ears to keep. In Whiterun, where I have tarried for some centuries, they call me Leif the Sage, for my true name—being Dunmer—proves troublesome to their northern mouths. I do not correct them. A sage, they say, though in truth I am but a seeker of what is hidden, a hunter of truths buried under metaphors and lies. If there is such a thing as an honest chronicler—though I admit I sometimes doubt the possibility—I strive to be one. My life is given over to words, to the pursuit of knowledge in its most obscure and perilous forms.

  For this cause, I have begun a great undertaking, which I have called "The Chronicles of Tamriel", wherein I strive to set down faithfully such matters as few dare even whisper. But it was my beloved daughter, Elsie—my daughter by choice, whom I call with fondness my brave Nightingale—who pressed me to write down this particular chapter. Because, truth be told, I fear Mephala. I dread Her!

  She, Elsie, serves dark powers, aye, and bears titles which would make most shudder: Nightingale by birthright or High Priestess of Sithis by vocation. Yet she remains my heart's child, and for her sake I have undertaken this labor. Through her intervention, I gained entry to the Great Library of Arcana in Bravil, that labyrinth of dust and parchment where secrets cling to every page like cobwebs. There, with her blessing, I held in my hands any tome I wished, and from those dim shelves I have pieced together what fragments I could concerning the one whom some dare call the Queen of Oblivion.

  This work, therefore, is not idle fancy nor fireside tale, but the fruit of long searching, of doubt and of reverence alike. Whether all I set forth here be true, the reader must judge. I merely write what I have found and what I believe, as near as one may approach truth in the shadow of Mephala.

  And here, gentle reader, I must put aside the plain tongue of our day, for such speech is too meagre to compass Her dread majesty. In the manner of the ancients, therefore, and with the gravest of words, I shall set forth what little can be said of Her, whom none may know entirely.

  The black grimmoire-short quote.

  Lo, behold Her whose name is whispered in shadow, and whose visage is never fully seen. Mephala, Sovereign of Web and Wile, is not as the Princes whom the vulgar mind may yet dimly conceive; nay, She is a Stranger even in Oblivion, a tapestry of riddles woven in the dark, where reason findeth no purchase. To call Her Queen is but to speak in mortal folly, for Her dominion is not as the diadems of earthbound monarchs, but as a secret tribunal enthroned amidst the Princes of Oblivion, holding sway by subtlety, deceit, and the ever-drifting veil of truth half-told.

  Mephala and Nocturnal. An explanation.

  Mephala is a close companion of the Ur-Dra, Nocturnal. They are such good friends that they are seldom apart, forever plotting, weaving schemes, and even indulging in mischief within the lands of Oblivion. As my daughter Elsie once remarked, the Daedra are very much like us. I quote from her own tome, The Story of a Nightingale, Chapter XIX:

  "... Playful. Petty sometimes. Divine occasionally. It happens that they even enjoy silly pranks and childish games... Well, most of them do. Some, however, are truly terrifying. But if you think about it, you'll realize there are just as many dreadful beings among mortals as well."

  Aye... But perchance it'd be easier if I began with an analogy. Nocturnal may be likened to the Trader and the Illuminated Ruler, while Mephala stands as the Sovereign and Fierce Keeper of Ancient Traditions. The comparison is weak, I grant you, but it may serve to reveal something of Mephala's divine essence.

  Nocturnal delights in appearing before mortals. She shows herself in many guises—as a woman of varied age, clad in different garments or not at all, yet almost always hooded and accompanied by a raven. Or more, She greatly loves them. Ah, She takes such joy in meddling with mortal lives! Mephala, by contrast, is far more reserved. She grants but few the grace of beholding Her presence. To some chosen ones, She truly reveals herself as the Unholy Mother of the Dark Brotherhood. Many more may claim to hear Her whispers. I will not deny them outright, yet I suspect She only toys with such mortals, for Her power of persuasion is a weapon as sharp as any blade. And the Daedra needs to hone it now and then.

  Thus, Mephala and Nocturnal are contraries made whole. How to explain it? Think of Water and Fire, both familiar in their gentler forms, sustaining the small world we dwell in. Now imagine them magnified upon a cosmic scale, and twisted: a Furious Water, ever striving to preserve, and a Soothing Fire, restless to change all things, perpetually discontented yet never grumbling. Such is the strange harmony between them.

  In this manner, their friendship becomes clear—if friendship is a word that may be used of Princes Daedric. And perhaps you begin to suspect, as I do, that both trespass the unwritten laws of their realm, intruding often into the mortal world, sometimes with a gentle touch, sometimes with ruthless force. Should they be accused, they would answer that they acted merely in sport, for experiment's sake. Yet no one dares accuse them, for they are both consorts of Sithis and, in truth, only exquisite instruments of the Master's will.

  Thus have I spoken of Nocturnal's ways beneath the will of Sithis, as is fitting in Her own chapter of this Codex Daedricus. Of Sithis and His secret bond with Mephala I must now discourse; and here plain words shall not suffice, for we draw nigh unto the deepest of mysteries. Therefore, must I again set aside the common tongue and take up the elder speech, that the matter be uttered with the reverence it demands.

  The Black Grimoire-Mephala. The Triune Avatars.

  Behold, for She is not One but Thrice-made, a mystery unto gods and mortals alike. First ariseth the Spider Eternal, primal Weaver whose threads are older than dawn, whose web no blade may sever. Then enthroned amidst the Daedric Princes, abideth the Sovereign of the Oblivion, arbiter and mediator, who ruleth not by crown nor sceptre, but by guile, subtle as shadow, steadfast as silk. Last cometh the Unholly Mother, who bendeth low to touch the mortal dust, veiled in whispers, blood, and covenant. Thus is She a Trinity indivisible: Weaver, Sovereign, Mother—threefold avatars of one unfathomable Majesty.

  The Eternal Spider. An assumption.

  At first glance—and most especially for the young scholars—the Eternal Spider is elusive, perhaps even impossible, for mortals to comprehend. Some would argue that It is not an avatar at all, but rather Her very essence, flowing ever between the Sovereign and the Mother. My daughter once told me she beheld the Spider in the company of Mephala's other two forms. Yet Elsie, though she possesses eyes most rare and enchanted, is still bound by mortal sight—too frail to pierce the veil divine.

  What little we know of the Spider comes from fragments and whispers. It is said to weave webs of surpassing beauty within Mephala's Daedric realm. I have read of such marvels in the diary of Ser Lucien Lachance, and Elsie herself—who twice has ventured into the lands illumined by the Black Sun—speaks of them with awe.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  When I was young, before ever I bore arms in Indoril Nerevar's great army, I studied for a time at the great university of Vivec and spent a brief, somehow wasted, season in the class of natural philosophy, presided over by none other than Divayth Fyr. He was a genius, aye, but a mentor of two coppers' worth; the ancient geezer was far more interested in his uncanny experiments—which shocked even the most liberal minds of our day—than in teaching his pupils. Yet when pressed, he would always guide the earnest seeker with unerring precision to the truest sources. The Great Library of Vivec held hundreds of thousands of volumes, and I sometimes thought Divayth Fyr had read them all.

  It was by such dismissive guidance ("Read that, and you'll know enough," he said) that I stumbled upon a tome of weight: Threads of Eternity, attributed to the arch-mage Shalidor. Therein was set forth a vision of a metaphysical web, spanning all the spheres of existence, woven by every living thing, and in turn governing the fates of those who wove it. So perhaps the Eternal Spider is merely Mephala's will embodied in a vessel, akin to a vile creature —a spider given shape for a season, being replaced by another every time She needs a new work done.

  In theory, such a lattice should grant the Daedra perfect dominion. Every thought, every motion, every secret whisper would flow into the web, and by the web back to Her. Nothing could stir without Mephala's knowing, and no hand could move save as part of Her tapestry.

  But ah, gentle reader, theory is a fair and tidy thing, while practice is always a tangle. Mortals are unruly spinners. Though guided by the Spider's unseen threads, they weave their own fears, longings, and follies into the fabric. The result is never the flawless design Mephala envisioned, but a patchwork both marvelous and maddening. Thus, She must make endless adjustments, sending forth cults and brotherhoods as the fine-tuned fingers of correction. And still, the web frays.

  Once in an age, a single soul arises who unravels more than a hundred Spiders could mend. Such a one was Elsie, my daughter, who, with her own bright stubbornness, has undone patterns spun across centuries. But here I risk speaking too fondly, and the tale belongs to her tome, not mine. For now, let it suffice: the Eternal Spider is not the end, but the beginning of Mephala's design—a design forever woven, forever spoiled, and forever begun anew.

  The Sovereign. Quite a certainty.

  Mayhap, of Mephala's three avatars, the Sovereign is the most comprehensible—or at least, the least impossible to understand—for mortal minds.

  Oblivion itself is a curious, amazing realm. It is united, it has no enemies beyond its own borders, and it hungers not for bread or water. The Daedra need nothing, yet crave everything. And there, dear reader, lies the trick. Because of that, they, the Daedric Princes, can still dig up "casus belli" whenever they desire.

  In ages long past, the Princes of Oblivion made war upon one another in a chaos without end. It raged across eternity—heroes and villains intermingled, slain and reborn, in battles that were grand in sound but empty in sense. No one triumphed, no one lost; it was a theater of vanity, destructive and absurd. Some whisper it was Nocturnal who first stirred this conflict, but no mortal can say with certainty. What we know is that Mephala brought the discord to heel. And thus, in strange unanimity, the Princes named Her Sovereign—monarch of monarchs.

  "How," you may ask, "can such a one as She rule over that squabbling host of swollen egos?" The answer is simple: She is the greatest liar and schemer in all the spheres. She stirs one hand while soothing another, spins lies today and truths tomorrow, weaves one delicate snare with a glimmer of false benevolence while binding another with poisonous silk. Her artistry lies not in strength, but in the web itself—so fragile it seems, yet stronger than any steel.

  Thus, the Princes come to Her for counsel and reconciliation, and always She has the answer—for it was She who stirred the strife in the first place. To alter a single thread of Her weaving may be to change the whole pattern, and so peace and harmony endure... but only as long as She wills it.

  One exception must be named: Nocturnal. Lady Luck's kingdom is apart, its gates opening freely into mortal twilight. Anyone—aye, even you, gentle reader—may stumble upon that portal and step across, unopposed. What awaits you there, I shall not attempt to foretell. Yet though Her realm is sovereign, Nocturnal and Mephala share a strange concord. Lady Luck calls Her "Queen" in public, yet never bends to the Spider's will. They quarrel, they jest, they rage, they embrace; they are forever at odds, forever entwined. Two divine wasps, stinging and laughing, each one too cunning ever to yield, and too bound ever to part.

  So let it be understood: Mephala is no Queen as mortals reckon the word. She is, rather, a Judge, an Arbiter, a Sovereign not of thrones and crowns, but of balance itself—balance maintained not by truth, but by the exquisite tension of lies.

  The Unholy Mother for the chosen ones. Just the Lucky Old Lady for the people of Bravil.

  To portray this avatar of Mephala, I did not need to rummage through the dust-veiled vaults of Bravil’s Great Library of Arcana. No, I merely waited for my ever-busy daughter, Elsie, to spare a sliver of her costly time upon an old coot like me. She knows, I daresay, more of the Mother than any mortal has right to know. But she is a mendacious little witch, my girl, and so I did what any honest chronicler ought not to confess: I searched her secret drawer in the attic of my home (secret, so she believes).

  For this trespass, I was punished at once. What I found there—writings on the rites of initiation into Mephala’s cult within the Dark Brotherhood—was more than I could bear. Let it suffice to say: I shall not put to page what I read. Too perilous, and of no profit to those who wish to understand the Mother as She manifests to mortals.

  So let us speak instead of Bravil, for the Mother is bound there more closely than anywhere else in Tamriel. And here I yield the floor to my daughter, quoting from her own tome, The Story of a Nightingale, Chapter XII:

  "Bravil! Oh, Bravil is the most beloved city of my youth and also the place where the powers of my mind blossomed swiftly, just as my eminent teacher Elena once foretold! I love Bravil and I need Bravil! I yearn to return to it and live there—and who knows? Perhaps someday this dream will become reality!

  The Holy City, Bravil, is the only place in the mortal realm where, under the full light of Secunda, I can commune with our Mother in a way that feels nearly physical—her essence flowing through the statue of the Lucky Old Lady and wrapping me in its dark, warm, divine embrace. Ah, it is so good to lie prostrated at the feet of that magnificent statue, and I wish to pray, meditate, and draw in every sacred teaching there, to devour them like a restless, starving soul!

  Or perhaps to light black candles in our Mother's not-so-holy temple that rises above the town, and listen to Her voice—so soft, so sweet—whispering the truest and most beautiful words ever spoken in this world!

  Ah, if only the vigilantes knew what truly takes place in Bravil's Temple of Mara! But I rest easy in the knowledge that, should some of them, the lower ranks ones maybe, ever stumble upon the truth... it would be the last discovery of their wretched little lives!"

  Now, what temple in Bravil does she mean? In that stinking town, there is but one grand cathedral, and it is dedicated to the goddess Mara. And the “vigilantes” of whom she writes are, of course, none other than the honored Vigilants of Stendarr, those stern hounds of our state church.

  But mark well: this is the astonishing and dreadful revelation—that Elsie speaks of the Temple of Mara in Bravil as none other than the House of Mephala!

  Moreover, my daughter told me plainly that what the people call the Lucky Old Lady is to the chosen ones the Unholy Mother. To the many, a sainted matron dispensing small blessings and mercy. To the initiates, a whispering spider-goddess, cloaked in maternal guise, binding her children with silken threads of blood and secrecy.

  The Black Grimoire-Wherein is writ of Mephala, our Moder, Wyfe, Syster and Doghter—an Enygma beyond te wytte of Menne.

  Lo, the Mother Unhallowed, whose bosom is both cradle and grave. She broodeth over Her children with tender hands, yet those same hands draw forth the blade in their defence. Her house is a web, cunningly ordered, where every thread is numbered and each strand answereth to Her will.

  She feedeth Her brood with honeyed words, yet poison lieth beneath; She comforteth with whispers, yet bindeth with lies. So is She at once the Nurturer and the Slayer, the midwife of secrets and the widowmaker of truth.

  Think not to call Her false, for falsity in Her is a higher verity. Neither deem Her cruel, for cruelty in Her is but another face of care. All opposites are reconciled within Her weaving, and none may tell where mercy endeth and murder beginneth.

  Thus is She terrible in Her beauty and adorable in Her peril; the snare of kings, the solace of orphans, the Widow, the Mother, the Ever-Beguiling. To love Her is to perish, and yet none can turn away.