Online:The Atmoran Cult Writings

Book Information The Atmoran Cult Writings
ID	8147
See Also	Lore version
Collection	Scholarium Scribblings
Locations
Found in the following locations: On a bench in the Main Hall of the Scholarium (map)

The Atmoran Cult Writings

by Archivist Oriane Pamarc

Fragmentary translations of esoteric Atmoran religious texts

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The echoes of Nirn's history reverberate deeply, harking back to bygone knowledge and secret traditions that have long since passed out of living memory. But while the men and mer who first sounded that call are gone, their echoes may help us shape some sense of their culture and beliefs.

One such enigma is the religious beliefs and objects of worship of the ancient Atmorans. Some of this knowledge has been preserved through historic documentation of the Dragon Cult, but accounts have recently been unearthed that suggest the existence of more esoteric groups.

These records are fragmentary, to say the least, written in an archaic runic alphabet. A great deal of effort has been made to translate these slivers of writing into something comprehensible, but even with many brilliant minds on the issue, scholars cannot agree if the transcriptions are about literal creatures and practices, or instead represent religious allegories.

The following passages have been gathered here for ease of reference. My colleagues and I collectively refer to them as the Atmoran Cult Writings.

THE CULT OF MOTHER MOTH
Wrapped in soft night, she sings to us. One flap of her great wings dusts the landscape in silver-powdered sleep. She bids us live well by day, but savor the shadows. For what would light be if there were no darkness to compare it to?

Mother Moth sees all. Her many-faceted eyes hold all of Atmora within them, thus is she able to see the faithful and the unfaithful. Only we few know her secrets, have heard her song, and pay her homage.

Our glorious, furred mother exudes patience, excellence, softness, and love. Her body is greater than the night sky, her many legs taller than the trees. And her hunger is fathomless.

This is why we must honor her nightly with burnings and bonfires. All moths crave the light, as do we, her faithful children. Her mysteries unveil themselves to us in the flickering of flames, the twinkling of stars, the light in the dark. We can never hope to curb her hunger, so measly are our offerings.

So instead, we must take on her desire as our own. We join the light with joy. Our pyres grow bigger, burn hotter. As the flames lick across our skin, we feel no pain, just the gentle nuzzling of Mother Moth's tongue, as we burn for her, lighting the darkness.

THE PEOPLE OF THE SERPENT
Speak not of the Serpent with those who have not tasted the briny depths themselves. Speak not of the Serpent with those whose feet have never left the land. Speak not of the Serpent unless you wish to meet its maw with courage and glory.

Speak not of the Serpent.

Praise not the Serpent unless you have helmed a ship through its scaly undulations. Praise not the Serpent unless you have heard its roar above the crashing sea. Praise not the Serpent until it has spared you from a watery grave.

Praise not the Serpent.

Seek not the Serpent until you have sailed for many seasons in many waters. Seek not the Serpent until your body grows heavy with age. Seek not the Serpent until you have no other voyages left.
Seek not the Serpent. The Serpent seeks you.

Embrace its wild, salt-brined fins, its vast body of sinew and scales, its teeth of sharp-edged bone. As your body will one day fill the Serpent, so too will you be filled in turn.

THE GOAT CULT
The Frostwood is not so barren as the village wants to believe. I have seen things there. Bigger than game, bigger than bears. There are monsters in that wood. They demand sacrifice.

I have brought many gifts to the Goat That Walks Upright. He has feasted by my side, blood dripping down his wiry beard as his strange, horizontal pupils narrow and his claws plunge into my offerings of meat and fish.

I have brought others to the Goat That Walks Upright. Some screamed and tried to run. Poor fools. The Goat That Walks Upright is always faster than they are, his cloven hooves and muscled legs covering the ground far faster than they ever could. That is his beauty, his mystery.

A few others have seen his glory. Their faces transform from terror to wonder to awe. Together, we will bring more offerings, more followers, to our great god. The Goat That Walks Upright must be fed. Must be honored. These are his woods. We live by his will alone.