A Series of Literary Analyses by Sakiran Maesa Options

[Zalphon]

My name is Sakiran Maesa. I know that name probably does not mean much to you and I would not expect it to, but if you are familiar with the Ashlander Tribes of Vvardenfell, then you would likely be able to tell that my name is not of orthodox Dunmer descent, but rather of the more traditional descent.

None of this may mean much to you; I would actually go so far as to wager that it means nothing to you, but I would like to share with you that for the foreseeable future, I will be writing a series of literary analyses of both the literary and scientific texts native to my home and those foreign to it in hopes of demonstrating my scholastic ability and earning the privilege of studying at the Imperial City's world-renowned Arcane University.

I would greatly appreciate any feedback and review you could give on the analyses I write so that I may better my chances of impressing Archmage Travern and earning my place within the university. It is my dream to study under the great wizards of the West, for I find those native to my homeland--the Telvanni--to be most--detestable, a word I use only for purposes of civility.

I look forward to our scholastic acquaintanceship and I hope that our relationship proves to be mutually beneficial.

Always Yours,

Sakiran Maesa, Arcane University Applicant (Eventually)

[Zalphon]

An Analysis of Sermon Four of the Thirty-Six Sermons of Vivec

This sermon begins with the simulacrum of the netchman' wife looking for the lands of Indoril. Now I would perhaps criticize this as being lazy writing, but there comes a point when the guar is dead and no amount of beating it will make it any more dead so I will simply overlook it for the fact that the Not-Son, Not-Daughter mentions that many spirits came to see it and give instructions to this 'glorious, invisible warrior-poet of Vvardenfell.'

Let it be said that there was once a glorious warrior-poet of Vvardenfell. His name was Nerevar. Not Not-Son, Not-Daughter. Perhaps Not-Son, Not-Daughter should quit lying to itself and to its followers about what really transpired at the Red Mountain.

The sermon continues with 'a troupe of spirits called the Lobbyists for the Coincidence Guild'. One can only question why spirits would lobby and if they would, why for the idea of coincidence, but again, the lazy writing rampant throughout these sermons shows that even if the Not-Man, Not-Woman is a famous warrior, it is by no means a poet.

The sermon continues that the Not-Man, Not-Woman initiated conversation with an aggressive attack, "The popular notion of God kills happenstance."

Apparently the leader of this troupe of spirits who coincidentally happen to be defending coincidence responded to this aggression with a simple statement: "Saying something at the same time can be magical."

For some reason, the Not-Man, Not-Woman felt its divinity hinged upon this one argument. I am left wondering if one's divinity is more fragile than the carapace of a freshly-hatched scrib before thier first molting, if it is divinity at all or perhaps the wild imaginings of a bloated ego, but who am I to say? I am a simple woman in the awe of the 'great Warrior-Poet of Vvardenfell'.

He said to this, "Is not the sudden revelation of corresponding conditions and disparate elements that gel at the moment of the coincidence one of the prerequisites to being, in fact, coincidental? Synchronicity comes out of repeated coincidences at the lowest level. Further examination shows it is the utter power of the sheer number of coincidences that leads one to the idea that synchronicity is guided by something more than chance. Therefore, synchronicity ends up invalidating the concept of the coincidental, even though they are the symptomatic signs that bring it to the surface."

Let us break this argument down to its most logical building blocks to illustrate just how flawed it is.

P1: The sudden revelation of corresponding conditions and disparate elements that gel at the moment of the coincidence is one of the prerequisites to being coincidental.

P2: Synchronicity comes out of repeated coincidences at the lowest level.

P3: It is the utter power of the sheer number of coincidences that leads one to the idea that synchronicity is guided by something more than chance.

C1: Therefore, synchronicity ends up invalidating the concept of the coincidental, even though they are the symptomatic signs that bring it to the surface.

To translate this into common-language Aldmeri, I will rewrite the premises so that even those of you lacking the rigorous background in systematic reasoning that I possess can keep up.

P1: Conditions and things that work at the moment of coincidence mean something is coincidental.

P2: Things that appear related, but actually have no causal relationship (meaning it's not caused by the same thing), are a result of a series of coincidences.

P3: The high volume of coincidences could be the result of something causing it.

C1: Therefore, because there might be something causing it, coincidences don't exist, even though they appear to.

This wonderful reasoning from the False God makes it far too easy to pick apart. It argues that because there could be something causing coincidence-like events, that there are no coincidences, but if you notice, it was hidden in esoteric and philosophical language that makes it impossible to decipher to the average child of Morrowind. This is how the Temple remains in power. By dressing up their egregious lies in exquisite robes and calling them dogma. Tell me, my brothers, my sisters, even the outlanders who call my home their own, do you wish to suckle from the poisoned teet of the Temple's lies, or are you brave enough to stand on your own? I ask you this, not as a judgment, but as a question of your values.

Regardless, I must continue with my reading of the sermon and my remarks upon it.

It continues with the line: "Thus was coincidence destroyed in the land of the Velothi." But we know this not to be true. We know it only to be true to those who accept the lies of the Temple.

The Sermon then continues that an Old Bone of the earth rose up before the simulacrum and said, "If you are to be born a ruling king of the world you must confuse it with new words. Set me into pondering."

"Very well," the False God said. "Let me talk to you of the world, which I share with mystery and love. Who is her capital? Have you taken the scenic route of her cameo? I have-- lightly, in secret, missing candles because they're on the untrue side and run my hand along the edge of a shadow made from one hundred and three divisions of warmth, and left no proof."

Apparently this bold claim by an egg made the Old Bone fold itself up twenty times until it became like milk, which apparently the False God drank and thus became the ruling king of the world. Stories like these make me think I should go harass grave yard residents until they do the same. Maybe then I'll be the ruling queen of the world? Imagine that--Sakiran, Queen of Morrowind, Successor to Helseth the Traitor. I could turn my home back into what it should be, not the cesspool it has become, but enough idle fantasies.

Following the Not-Man, Not-Woman drinking, the Chancellor of Exactitude appeared, and he was perfect to look upon from every angle. Apparently the Egg understood what he was up against and said, "Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour who harbor it on their own time. I am a letter written in uncertainty." Most definitely you are, Not-Man, Not-Woman. You are the iconic rebel without a cause. You're so brave, fighting for the world you don't care to save.

The Chancellor allegedly bowed his head and smiled fifty different and perfect ways all at once. He pulled forth from his robe an astrolabe of the universe and broke it in two, handing both halves to the egg.

The Egg laughed, "Yes, I know. The slave labor of the senses is as selfish as polar ice, and worsens when energies are spent on a life others regard as fortunate. To be a ruling king, I will have to suffer much that cannot be suffered, and to weigh matters that no astrolabe or compass can measure."

You speak beautiful words, 'poet, but the tongue that speaks them is not your own. You steal such words from Nerevar and pass them off for your own. Truly, your lies are so many and so grand that I wonder if Vivec is truly your name or if you simply took it from another to replace a name you did not fancy.

The final line of the sermon is:

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

To say that I find this sermon to be absurd is to grossly understate my feelings. I would argue it's founded upon shoddy reasoning (not that Temple worshipers are known to be strong in that department anyways) and gross lies. Even these words he speaks are stolen from the lips of Nerevar and credited as his own. I must ask, can the 'great Warrior-Poet' create beauty of his own or must he parrot that of his peers? These are questions that leave me awake at night. What if by some chance, the Not-Man, Not-Woman, wasn't a complete fraud? Utterly preposterous, I know, but wouldn't that be interesting? Of course, we all know it's absolutely impossible, but it doesn't change the fact that it would make things more interesting.

Always Yours,

Sakiran Maesa