Lore:The Truth in Sequence

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The Truth in Sequence
Taken from the sermons of Deldrise Morvayn, Fourth Tourbillon of the Mainspring Ever-Wound

Volume 1

By the word, I wind the gears.

How does one come to know the Clockwork God and Father of Mysteries? Our Lord Vivec and the Lady of Mercy, Almalexia, are known to us. Their faces are known to us. Their words are known to us. But what of Sotha Sil? He who is distant in both position and intent. Ever watchful, but seldom seen. Ever worshiped, but seldom heard. He is the Mainspring Ever-Wound—the unmoved mover, hidden within His Clockwork City, whose voice is the Divine Metronome. As Tourbillon, I speak His truth as I know it. I say the words in sequence so they can be known by the people. The sequence is but a shadow of the truth, but minds such as ours cannot bear the ordered unsequence. Minds such as ours cannot truly know themselves. Not yet.

The First Truth of the Mainspring Ever-Wound is the truth of Nirn. The soul of Nirn has two faces. The first is known to us—the Nirn-Prior, or the Nirn of Many Parts. It is a Nirn in pieces, assembled by the unsteady hand that has yet to find itself. Its oscillations irregular, its going train disrupted by fear and delusion. Its faults are not in its parts, but in its assembly. Each gear is a god. Each spring is a thought. But a mechanism built by many hands cannot know the precision of the master craftsman. The et'Ada Gears cannot bring forth a true Nirn, because they know only its parts. They cannot see the whole. The Eye of Sotha Sil ignores such division. Where the broken gods see only pieces, our Father Sotha Sil sees the whole. He sees the Second Nirn.

The Second Nirn. The inchoate Nirn-Ensuing. The thought-form that anticipates the world to come: Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. Only Sotha Sil knows its shape. Its nature lies forgotten in the before-time when Anu broke itself for wisdom's sake. Our lessers know the Source as two forms: Anu and Padomay, but this binary is without merit. One of the Lorkhan's Great Lies, meant to sunder us from the truth of Anuic unity. Our father, Sotha Sil, would have us know the truth: there is no Padomay. Padomay is the absence of value. The lack. A ghost that vanishes at first light. A Nothing. There is only Anu, sundered and known by many names, possessing many faces. The one.

When Anu broke itself, it did so to understand its nature. In its sundering, the values that swam in its vastness thought to know themselves. The et'Ada Gears gave themselves many names and set their will to building. Alas, they heeded the counsel of Lorkhan and forgot the face of Anu. They thought themselves distinct and whole. And so, many hands assembled the world, each with separate intention and selfish purpose. The Nirn of Many Parts was the result. A broken and leaking steam-ship that lists ever wind-ward.

But rejoice, children of the Tribunal! In His wisdom, the Mainspring Ever-Wound seeks to reclaim our lost heritage. His heart is oiled and calibrated, pumping dark truth as blood. His mind is the God-Mortar where the fractured values of Anuic nature are ground and weighed—unified through His will alone. From this great labor, a new Nirn will be born. Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. I pray that we see the fruit of His labor—a perfect world, without et'Ada Gears. Without the illusion of change. Water-tight and everlasting.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 2

By the word, I wind the gears.

The will of Sotha Sil is the chrononymic will. The Nameless Will. For what is "Name?" The Divine Metronome tells us that "Name" is the wedge that pries gear from pinion. The residue of Lorkhan's Great Lie that loosens the wheel chain and corrodes the frame. The et'Ada Gears named each and each, in their way. Our lessers see this as a kindness, but the Mainspring Ever-Wound calls it a curse, rooted in selfish pride. To name is to cleave one from another. It is the death of Anuic convergence and the Nirn-Ensuing—the misassembled dragon that breathes dry falsehood and whose name is "Multitude."

There is only one name that is not Name. Seht, the convergent Clockwork God, whose will pumps like a piston into both "then" and "after." Sotha Sil, Father of Mystery, whose heart drives the Wheels Eternal and whose blood oils the All-Axle. Si, the Divine Engine, whose mind merges "they" and "we" and births the Nirn-Ensuing. Lesser wills are wisps of smoke, born and lost in a sea of endless sky. Lost children whose freedom is death.

For what is freedom, child of the Tribunal? The counter-lever to slavery? No. Have you not heard the words in sequence? The chrononymic will is the pendulum that swings only once. It cannot do otherwise. To swing twice would break one intention from another and prove the blasphemy of two. As Padomay is illusion, so too is the named will. For what is "choice" if not chaos? What is "free will" if not the lack of order, vulgar and triumphant? The true wheels spin clockwise, ever clockwise. In the unity of Nirn-Ensuing, each belongs to all, and all belong to none—save Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. So lay down your cheap burdens, child. "Shall I do thus?" Such "choice" is delusion. Give yourself to the pursuit of unity, for in the end, you cannot do otherwise.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 3

By the word, I wind the gears.

The Third Truth of the Mainspring Ever-Wound is the truth of the Daedra. In the days before the First Ignition, the Chimer people bent their knees to the False Princes: The Webspinner, the Prince of Plots, and the Queen of Dawn and Dusk. I do not use their names, as Name cleaves one from another. You know them well, child of the Tribunal, for every time you bear false witness, or make foolish boasts, you do so in their name. Their words corrode and weaken the heart. Their threats loosen the fasteners and break the seals. They are the Anti-Gears that turn counter to the Nameless Will. Servants of the Padomaic untruth whose nature is void. Of the Daedra, only the Gray Prince of Order knew his nature, and he went mad in the knowing.

The Daedra fear wisdom and order, you see? And thus do they fear the Clockwork God above all others. Where others see dark crowns numbered ten and six, Sotha Sil sees shadows and nothing more. For the Daedra are the lie that creation tells itself. Like their father, Padomay, they are Nothing. And in the Tamriel Final, Nothing shall hold no sway. Anuvanna'si. Their black mountain called "Oblivion" shall sink into the Furnace of Forgotten Numbers, where all lies burn and brittle multitudes turn to slag.

I hear you ask: If the Daedra are of the Nothing, how do they lurk on our threshold? How do they lurk at all? Hear the words in sequence, child of the Tribunal! In the clumsily built Nirn-Prior, the et'Ada Gears left gaps and crevices where Nothing could take root. Imperfections born from Lorkhan's Great Lie and the selfishness of fractured creation. In the glorious Anuic convergence of the Nirn-Ensuing, all gaps will be sealed. All crevices will be welded. The creaking and rattling of the machine shall retreat to a whisper, and the reckless chaos born from the et'Ada Gears' folly shall shrivel and starve.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 4

By the word, I wind the gears.

Now I speak to you of Sotha Sil's silence. The children of ash sometimes ask, "Where is our Clockwork God? Why does only the Tourbillon speak His truth in mortal sequence?" They ask in hushed tones, with brows creased by fear. Do not flee from such questions, child of the Tribunal. These are the little blasphemies that lead to wisdom—the faultless flame that turns ignorance to steam. For the Mainspring Ever-Wound is the Father of Curiosity, and curiosity is the joyful destroyer. Only in sundering can things be made whole. Only the disassembled engine can be scrubbed and made clean. So, smash the old machines! Topple your mind's idols! And from the wreckage, assemble new truths—flawless and water-tight.

Do you see now, child of the Tribunal? It is the silence of Sotha Sil that gives birth to the intrepid mind. Knowledge must be found—and to find a thing, it must be hidden. It is not enough to be told. The whirr of the machine is as silence to the one who lives within it. A turbine ever-oiled does not know the lack of oil—does not know the purpose of oil. And so it is with truth.

Now, you must know that curiosity is not without cost. ALM forgive this heresy! VI forgive this heresy! I speak the words in sequence only. Pay heed to the laws of golden masks, but know also their limits. Pay heed to the songs of dancing glass, but know also the boundaries of their scale. Their truth is the truth of inertia. Of gravity. Their hearts are vessels filled with liquid brass—resistant to harm, but incapable of movement. The Mainspring Ever-Wound spurns that which does not move. In the Nirn-Ensuing, that which does not move shall be fed to the Kiln-Amaranthine where Seht's quiet wrath burns like the sun, and broken cogs are made whole. The Wheels Eternal must spin. The Tamriel Final must tick and tock. Anuvanna'si. Each and each must take its place in the whole. For if even one piece is missing, the whole is not whole.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 5

By the word, I wind the gears.

Speak not of Dwarves, child of the Tribunal. The simple clockworks of the Dwemer pale before the sublime machinery of Sotha Sil. Let Dumac's lament be a silent one. Let his hissing tombs stay buried. Let his automata rust and crumble. For his was the greatest failure—driven by Lorkhan's Great Lie and churlish pride. His is a tale of woe and terror, and those that pursue his ugly maths shall pay a great price in blood.

"But, was Dumac not a creator?" you ask? "Were the brass-child's hands not covered in oil? Did they not speak the words of Making, and set wheel to axle?" Hear the words in sequence, followers of Seht. Intention dictates the worth of a machine. Where the Mainspring Ever-Wound seeks the convergence of the Nirn-Ensuing, the ghosts of the Dwemer cry out: "Multitudes! Multitudes!" Mer and machine, parted. Wisdom and ambition, parted. Made and Unmade, parted. And from those sunderings, a thousand thousand skittering machines are made—left to wander forgotten halls, aimless and profligate. One may twist a knob left in preparation for another to twist the same knob right. One may loosen a pipe so that another may tighten it. They exist only to maintain the brass-childrens' folly, and so they are redundant and profane in the Eye of Sotha Sil.

But most profane is this: the walking horror that bears the Name, NM. The Brass Tower of Vanity. The mindless guardian of the Nirn-Prior. The Antipodal-God-Thing that reigns on the darkest pole of the sacred Nirn-Sphere. Of all the threats to Tamriel Final, NM is the greatest. Anuvanna'si. The Daedra can be banished in thought, but NM must be sundered on Nirn. It is the welded knot at the center of Anu that must be untied. The God-Puzzle. The Mainspring Ever-Wound remains silent on this point. And where there is silence, there is great wisdom.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 6

By the word, I wind the gears.

Behold, the Clockwork City! The Throne Aligned! The Omni-Axle! The Brass-Throat Herald of Joyful Destruction! The Oil-Slick Tower of Seamless Assembly! Rejoice! Rejoice!

Listen, child of the Tribunal! Do you not hear the whirr of the gears? The hiss of the pistons? It is the voice of Sotha Sil, calling you to the Nirn-Ensuing. To the Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. Cast down your worldly maths. Loosen the chains of your selfish pursuits. Shall I describe it to you? Shall I guide your eyes to the future of Nirn? Hear the words in sequence, dark child. Close your eyes and awaken!

Gaze up to behold a crystal sky, girded and bound by Seht's bright bands. Look down to behold the black stone of His will, and His imagination made clay. Drink His truth, thick as blood, from the broad black rivers. Feel His breath on your skin—let its dreamy redolence fill your nostrils and sting your eyes. You stand at the center of the wheel. The home of the Mainspring Ever-Wound.

Obsidian towers stretch ever skyward, festooned with polished brass and godly filigrees. Great turbines drive memory through a thousand thousand pipes that stretch out like tangled veins, or the golden roots of an ageless tree. And wandering amidst the humming and hissing paradise are His second-children. The Fabri'siraynosim. The merged-ones. Birthed of the unsequence, and bound to the Nirn-Ensuing. They cry out in one voice: "Death to Multitudes! Woe and terror! Let the fragments melt in the Boiler of Unknown Angles! Let the falsehoods burn in the Furnace of Forgotten Numbers! Disassemble and cleanse! Dismantle and make whole!" They are the guardians—the ever-wound key-lords. Only the Nameless heart avoids their wrath. Their hatred of discord knows no limits. For the road to Tamriel Final is not a bloodless one, child of the Tribunal. Anuvanna'si. Contemplate this with a pious heart. Seek a clean and well-oiled soul. It shall serve you well in His truth-to-come.

So you see the Clockwork City is like Sotha Sil Himself—rich in beauty for the faithful, and alight with sublime terror for the servants of chaos. In which Clockwork City would you reside? Commit your small blasphemies and think on this.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 7

By the word, I wind the gears.

Think now on the wheel. To all things it appertains.

Is there anything so sacred as the wheel? Like Tamriel Final, the wheel both moves and does not move. Anuvanna'si. The axle sleeps, while the spokes make haste—round and round in reflective circles. Now, here dwells a Nameless secret, child of the Tribunal: does a thing move when it moves in circles?

Motion lies at the heart of the Nirn Ensuing, but not all motion is Nameless. Not all movement earns His blessing.

The Divine Metronome calls the first motion "The Motion of Lines." Line-motion is the motion of simple minds—the motion of weak wills and scholars' vanity. "Forward!" it cries! Forward to the fruits of cheap ambition. Forward to the promise of everlasting kingdoms. Forward to the mirage that the sages call "progress." These misguided pioneers venture out into their wild tomorrows, and the tomorrows after that, certain of their worth—their virtue. But what profits a man or mer to gaze deep into a single future? The aims of mortals are narrow, far too narrow! To move forward is to ignore infinite angles in favor of one. It is the act of a beast or a child. The Clockwork God spurns vanity in the guise of courage. These explorers' travels only lead them farther from Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si.

Seht speaks of the second motion only in whispers. "The Pendulum" or "Named Oscillation" is the tic-tock motion—the motion of entropy and false hope. None but the Clockwork God may claim its dark power. With each wide swing it shouts Lorkhan's lie. "Hail, intentions divided! Hail, cursed multitudes!" Do not stand in the Pendulum's path, ash-child. Only the Mainspring Ever-Wound may bear its weight.

Last is the reciprocating motion. "The Sublime Piston." The lover's embrace. Like the Father of Mystery, it gives and takes in equal measure. As the bow upon the strings, it calls forth the sublime. As the carpenter's saw, it wrenches back and forth, sundering the Named pursuits of lesser mer. Only a Nameless heart may harness its strength. The artist, the star-counter, and the engineer call it "muse." The truth-blind multitudes call it "destroyer."

Do you see now, child of the Tribunal? Every movement hides intent. To stray from the wheel is to abandon the Clockwork God. In the Tamriel Final, all shall spin, and only spin. Anuvanna'si.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 8

By the word, I wind the gears.

Blessed Father of Mystery, place your oil upon my tongue that I might tell the true tale of Mournhold. Behold the strength of untold calculation! Behold the power of the Mainspring Ever-Wound!

Every Nameless soul must confess the truth of Mournhold, for many lessons hide in its ashes. Sing now the hymn of anguish and horror, child of Seht! Behold, Mehrunes Dagon, Sovereign of Destruction! Mehrunes Dagon, the Flame Tyrant! Mehrunes Dagon, Father of Cataclysm! Recall how he marched upon Almalexia's jewel! Do you remember how his Will burned like kiln-fire, and hot pitch fell from his lips? Aloft, he held four great razors. Each sang a screeching paean to glorify him. Torrents of flame fell upon the innocent and wicked alike, shearing flesh from bone; belching forth widows and orphans in gouts of frothing screams.

"Who dares to face me, draped as I am in fire and blood?" roared Dagon. The dark Prince beat his breast and howled long-forgotten curses. The dead burst forth from their tombs, shrieking for mercy. Geysers of black liquid-sin erupted from below, flooding ruined homes with torrid lies and conspiracy. And everywhere, flames—an inferno that turned all souls to ash.

Almalexia, Mother of Mercy, cast her eyes upon the ruins of her gemmed city and wept. To see such love burned and squandered turned her heart to molten brass. Our Clockwork God took note of her fury, sealing the memory away in his great mnemonic planisphere—a reminder of her love's high price.

Rising from the ground like foundry-smoke, the Tribunes confronted the Prince of Disasters. Ayem's voice like a screeching steam-whistle, and Sotha Sil's like a lurching engine.

"ERAM VAR AE ALTADOON!" they cried, rending their garments and donning their killing masks. Ayem drew her bright Hopesfire and skipped over the flames like a river-stone. With a mighty scream, she plunged the blade deep into Dagon's breast and turned it like a jailer's key. Scorching blood spewed out of the wound, scalding her hands and face. As she fell, the Divine Metronome chiseled a thought-rune of infinite angles. Do you remember how the veins of tin, copper, and orichalc erupted from the depths to break our mother's Fall? Through His will alone, Mighty Seht wound the veins into god-bronze whips, and lashed the Prince pitilessly. Dagon hissed and tumbled backward. His otherworldly flesh fell like chaff before the scythe. Alas, a Sarmissonays'um ghoul-thing emerged from every chunk.

A multitude of the creatures gathered around Ayem, fiery tar oozing from their mouths and open sores. They groaned and retched, speaking only Dagon's name as they fell upon her. The Warden hissed thrice, took up her blessed sword, and smote the beasts by the score. She severed head from neck and arm from shoulder, cleaving sin from virtue and shouting old-oaths of banishing. Do you remember how the beasts fell To [sic] her on that red day?

You must recall the howls of Madness! How Dagon foamed and snarled beneath the lash of Sotha Sil! "Behold!" cried the Divine Metronome as He smashed the Prince to splinters. "Behold the wrath of lost Ald Sotha! Know death at my hands, false-son of a false-father! KAER PADHOME VIE ALTADOON!"

Even then, at the end, the Prince of Destruction did not relent. With the last of his four great arms, Dagon dragged the last of his four great razors across the Watchmaker's jaw. Tasting the blood on His tongue, our Father of Mysteries whispered a final chrononymic death-word, and Dagon exploded throughout all time. The earthbones quaked and the All-Axle shook. From this word of sundering, Truth took root.

Mehrunes's ruin slithered between the cracks of Nirn and Oblivion, shrieking curses like a petulant child. The Mainspring Ever-Wound tightened His brass-wrought fist and slammed the gap shut—another small step toward Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. So ends the true account of Mournhold's fall. Remember this tale always.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 9

By the word, I wind the gears.

The Mainspring Ever-Wound values craft above all things. She who shapes and assembles, he who conceives and creates—these are the true children of the Clockwork God.

Your labors need not whirr and hiss like the sublime clockworks of Sotha Sil. The brush, the auger, the tongs, the needle—each and each may honor the Father of Mysteries, so long as they speak His truth. And what is His truth, child of Seht? Perfection only? No. Hear the words in sequence! Simple precision is naught but the shadow of virtue. Even a faithless smith may fashion the blade with the keenest edge. The perfect sphere, the clearest glass, the truest angle—all fall short of His favor. Only through the purest incongruities and greatest doubts do we earn His blessing. You must think with the thrice-folded mind. You must gaze upon the unsequence.

No mortal may grasp the unsequence fully. We see the edges only—the liminal truths. For some, the unsequence brings despair. Others look upon it with a child's bewilderment. But for the precious few, the Nameless explorers, this thin ray of understanding may serve as the Bridge of Infinite Curve. The Walking Wheel.

Know this, ash-child: only the intrepid mind may walk this path. For you see, the Nameless soul is the tightrope walker that strides in circles only. Below and aside, waits the gaping maw of Sheogorath's lie. Ahead and above, waits Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si.

I hear your cries, child of Seht! "How does one walk the wheel?" you ask. Here lies a Nameless truth. Just as no wrench fits all bolts, no walk fits all souls. For the sculptor, it may mean an angle inverted, or a form transposed—an abandonment of the Named resemblance and an embrace of the abstract. For the scholar of maths, it could require half-mad theorems—rooms of cubic numbers and functions only imagined. For the inventor, it may demand a tool without any known use, or an answer-machine that prints only questions.

Craft perfected, and use obscure: this is the surest path to Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 10

By the word, I wind the gears.

Beware blind reverence for The Old, child of Seht. The oil of antiquity often fuels the future. Those who ignore the counsel of our blessed ancestors do so at their peril. But not all ruins hide wisdom within their shattered halls. Some ruins are dark and barren places—unsteady graves for lies and curses. Resting places for bent axles, stripped bolts, and the bitter silence of inertia.

In the time before our Father's rise, old and feeble knowledge ruled the hearts of Mer. The children of ash entered their ancestral tombs not in search of truth, but in search of truth's corpse. They saw their forebears not as proud and vigorous guides, but as wheezing, toothless ghosts—guardians of the musty and derelict engines that fools call deep wisdom. You must smash these old machines, child of Seht! The past does not rust upon the scrap pile. It hurtles toward the Mainspring Ever-Wound's glorious and multi-angled future, whipped by the scorching tongues of our honored forebears! Ever do their words and deeds grease the wheels of the Nirn-Ensuing! Ever do they weld the seams of Tamriel Final! Anuvanna'si.

But alas! Even now, stewards of The Old feed aged truth to those who would listen. They are the daughters and sons of PSJJJJ who crouch like gargoyles over musty tomes, faces hidden beneath frayed and graying robes. They counsel caution, temperance, and equanimity—ancient virtues of the fading Nirn-prior. Even so, the Father of Curiosity calls them friends. With a god's patience, He teaches them. With a father's love, He guides them; all in the hopes that one day they may see the deepest truth of The Old: that we must banish our feeble ghosts and give their memory new life through the thrice-folded mind. Toothless gears cannot be repaired—they must be melted and reforged. So it is with our people's truth.

None will deny that the daughters and sons of PSJJJJ wield great power. Like our Clockwork City, their isle of Artaeum glides between what is and what may be. Like our Clockwork Apostles, they study, strive, and create. But power without an infinite future's courage is like an empty boiler—infused with fierce heat but producing no steam. Woe upon those who recoil from Tamriel Final! Anuvanna'si. The will of the Clockwork God turns such cowardice to slag. But rejoice! The Father of Mysteries' affection proves the PSJJJ's worth. One day these lost spellweavers will heed the words of the Divine Metronome and seek the true and noble change—the aratagnithir. On that day we shall embrace them not as friends, but as brothers and sisters.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 11

By the word, I wind the gears.

I hear your whispers—your puerile laments. Even here in the Clockwork City, bathed in the oil of His divine wisdom, you cry out, "Where are the soft grasses and babbling creeks? Where are the heady wines and rich fruits? Where are the gentle rains, and sighing boughs, and swaying mushrooms?" Like hungry babes you weep, "Where is the Real?" Ease your bellows and steady your gears. You must gaze now upon the brass-wrought truth. See the Real of Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si.

What makes a thing real? Is it the blood, or the sap, or the beating heart? Is it the shrieking trauma of an infant's birth? The low roar of the tides? The root's thirst for water or the lazy drift of distant clouds? No, child of Seht! Hear the words in sequence! Can you not see that your fears spring from Lorkhan's lie? Those soft forms and gentle comforts you covet are naught but corroded lies—fractured creation's panacea that deadens the soul's forgotten pain.

"But is Sotha Sil's sacred city not a replication?" you ask, "A Nirn in miniature?" Hear this, ash-child: the Clockwork City is no mere simulacrum. The copper leaves and sculpted hills are not Nirn's resemblance, but Nirn's refinement—worldly forms made whole by the steady hand of the Mainspring Ever-Wound. The glorious unity of Tamriel Final demands convergence. Anuvanna'si. Mer and machine made whole. Nature and engineering made whole. The past and the future made whole. In time, all of Nirn shall be pressed and fired in this forge of Seht's blessed imaginings—weighed and measured upon the Nameless Scales! Is this not the Real? Is this not the redemption of the et'Ada's sins? Do you see now the impoverished forms of the Nirn-Prior? The cheap and hollow falsehoods that masquerade as nature's splendor?

Seek out the dry, hard places, child of Seht. Anoint your tongue with His oil. Fill your stomach with His nourishing grain. Cast out what was and fix your eyes upon the Nirn-to-come—upon Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si.

By the word, I wind the gears.

Volume 12

By the word, I wind the gears.

I have spoken the words in sequence, child of Seht. I have guided your eyes to the glorious Nirn-Ensuing—to the inevitable grandeur of Tamriel Final. Anuvanna'si. I have shouted my grave admonitions and whispered the secrets of the infinite curve. Now, as my engine fails, I bestow upon you my final blessing. You who sing the song of making and set your wheels to axles—you intrepid star-counters who shatter the old machines and smelt new truths from the crude and forgotten ores of the Aurbis—you must hear this ultimate lesson.

Tamriel Final shall change you in ways both grand and terrifying. Anuvanna'si. Just as molten brass cools in its mold, so too will your body take on a new and hardened shape. Just as water changes from liquid to steam, so too will the cheap preoccupations of your mind disperse and fade. Just as oil ignites and powers the engine, so too will your soul glow bright and drive the Wheels Eternal. The unity of Tamriel Final must wash away our selfish pursuits and jealous will, ash-child. Anuvanna'si. In the glorious Nirn-Ensuing, we must exorcise that grinning apparition we call "I." Only then can we know the sublime truth of the Mainspring Ever-Wound. We must walk change's road if we seek the end of disorder—and like all roads worth walking, it fills our hearts with joy and terror.

How like the et'Ada gears we are—content to live our lives in vain and sequestered sorrow, all the while oblivious to the anguished cries of our fractured souls! Look upon the lonely shore of Nirn. What do you see, with your broken eyes? One beach? One sea? Deceit and vanity! The Named illusion! For what is a "beach" if not a desperate agglomeration of isolated grains? What is a "sea" if not a churning mass of solitary tears? Separate! Broken! Arrogant and futile!

Even after meditating upon these sermons, there are some among you who cling to the Nirn-Prior. You fear the loss of your thin and impoverished "self." You must cast aside these childish fears! What good is a "self" if it burns away at the threshold of what waits beyond time? Do you not see that the Father of Mysteries seeks to usher our world through the End? To protect us from the lies-made-flesh who seek to destroy us? If you remember only one thing, let it be this: our blessed Clockwork God loves you with a fierce and awesome heart. What he does, he does for you and for all who would follow his divine example.

Lasting joy. The peace of unity. The sublime satisfaction of perfect rhythm; these are the product of our honest labors—the spokes of our blessed wheel that spins eternal. The Mainspring Ever-Wound offers perfection, child of Seht. You have but to gaze within. Stoke your coals. Add fresh water to your boilers. Tighten your bolts, and believe. Tamriel Final awaits. Anuvanna'si.

By the word, I wind the gears.