エルダースクロール 同人小説 elder scrolls fan-fiction "Hymn to Ruhm-manaz-Malaak-Han / R(U)eman-Mag(N)na-Mala-ak(A)-(Kum)Han"

We A(Lyg)t(a-Ca)morans (Lyg-aka-Atmoran-Kamorans),

departed from our frozen tempestuously temporal, unprovident provisional land sound-proof,

from Northen wildly windy and snowy white self-bearing hollow, that were with light-forming-stone upright motley-mounded, and with light-cleaving stone inversely Onely-motted (dia-!-monde)

We search for the great Southern jungle-island, blessed by the idylloic Good-God Pa(d)mna. Under the sway of our fiery jungle-prophet Ruhm-manaz-Malaak-Han, who is the first in the line of divine priest-king Cor-Han (Khan).

we emerged from the hollow of the mountain

which was humming the echoing song of solid stone sorrow

sadly lost in chastity, we long travailed its windy and cool flowing grotto-paths,

meat-thirsty and wine-hungry in footless enervating exodus

a skyless beaming Hell cave rimmed by breathless earth-firmament upwards and downwards

through too that smoldering-moth-ember's black-soil-land enveloped by the self-feeding body-circle of darkling mud-recokonning-wyrm, abundant with rheum-scent, and humming with drum-dullness and doom-spell,

we ventured forth, hunting-less and herding-chary, that testing half-earth (demi-mond), and no Time to gather Padmas' Sun's purple manna-magna-magma-madma amongst the unglittering sands.

weathering the toil of Dreamless-Slithering-Solven-Slivery-Seam-Sleeve *upon the black Raiment of Rhu-aeight of Manaz' Ma(d)maz' Mama.

(sic, upon the black Raiment of Light of Manna's Ma(d)mas Mara (Mora))

Paled darkly by the twilight's golden bournes made of twice milky-wounded stars, under the unmannish yellow sign of madness. (For King clothed herself with the storm of yellow Aka-Tusk's (Akatosh's Day's) -Sandy-Moon)

trialed and tarried also ship-wise and chart-wrothy through the recollecting of blue tears of Ghost-of-sea-of-ghosts and

bleed and breed our sea-sickness and sea-drunkenness in ruddily red rede ink until we grow weary carapace of callous self-calumny (rueh-(Dee)-Man!) / Re(d)man! Man of Red Mud! * Ruddy-man, ready-man, room-doom.

(thus we cured all of our diseases called Reading Rifeness / thus we miss Leading Lifeness away from the Room-manas / Magicka (Manna)' s Void )

And arrived we finally, the promised vari-toned flower of Hypereos, with compass-cleaving-dagger-sword of Mala-ak(A)-(Kum)Han *(sic, the acum of malak-aka-Han-s) pointing southernmost of the south, south-west-west, where the Padma-Madma-Magna's Sun is risen, and the dawn is breaking in her radiant beauty. We are the people of D'Rhum-manaz-malacho-Han / D(R is forgotten)agon (Dragon is just Reman's Dagon), who is the fiery-jungle-prophet and journey's judge Han's Huns of sorrowful cavernous Humming sky (Han, Altmoran noun, masculine, cognate with dunmmeri (ash)khan, and cyrodic the word for height (Hahna-(et)-Aeightus). Hun, feminine, origin of the word "House" as in "Hunsen" the further pluralization of the plural of Hun as in "Huns" (thus with hands quadrupled and carrying shields in all of them to cover the shape of the earth-bone).

This is the promised the Land of Eternal Green Hunning (Hunting) under the beaming Rotos (sic, Lotos), summery in its culminated nadir, effulgent and self-redundant in Padme's Right (sic, Light).

Great Pa-(D is missing)-Ma (Papa-Mama) of the wooded jungle-valley in the south, Pa(d)mna (Pa-m-n), the readly drunken and gory glorious beast-daemoon dancing in wisdom-madness under the eternal waning white horny tusk-crown Sun of Pa-D-Ma, O great beast, thy sword-horns are sharp as ink-razors of mind training, have slain all our clothed cold north-heathen word-beads, and we have found the swords are thine and our horns, as we are thy children .

Thus spake our green-hearted prophet, wielding a Rotos wand entwined with long and winding double Dagons' flowing red wounds till the end that would enter the green earth, and which at the beginning was cleft with Time-Redeemer's compass-cleaving-sword-razor Tosh-Aka

(Vosh Rakh with Vehk changed to Talos, osh being orc, R being Reman is removed from his subterrain office and work above the ground again,Ha is an exclamation for the exaltedness of white-stained Time-Death achieved by Mono-Thought driving circularly the Rotos-Mono-Wand until it breaks into the spiritus of Universal Hunning itself)

O great horned God "Pa-(D)-mn", the one who awaits on his rotos-seat in the faintly glowing (growing) midnight-Sun for his earth- Panting-Pantasmic-Earth (Nirn) to wake up.

Thus we were exhorted under the guidance of our fiery-woodlanded prophet of numbers, 50 of us moth-hearted driven into cohorts in number of 6, and we cut off the ghost among us, and were told to mate under the Rotos-Pa(d)mna's waning Sun, which we did, and sowed seeds into our sandy grave-vessels. But we did not give birth, for Number is dead in the south, however we do find we have become a cohort of 52, and the two are missing. the veritable ghost form of the Pa-(D)-Ma does visit us though, in a guise of fire-breathing green jungle'd bull, full of the inky snot of wise-knowing and tongue-tides of love-foaming.

this great exodus borne to us upon our jungle-eyed green-hearted prophet in whom we prayed to then sung a song, which is impossible in the jungles, and we know immediately that he was but a daemoon-guise worn by the rotos-Thing upon his dichromatic-rotos seat, so he could become his own herald and messenger, and it was his goal to lure us here all along. from our cave's self-reflective grottal moon we departed for the jungle' self-consuming blind sun. the idylloic rotos-God dominates the jungle now with the beamsomely maddening Pa(d)-Ma's Sun beam from his golden eye that hung upon his fiery brow. the woodland Man. Ruhm-manaz-Malaak-Han / the one and only Reman-Magna-Malak-Khan.

and as our pale blood born from cavernous snow-stone dyed with the tones of white-gold turn into inky blackness, which is the overflowing in the weird river called Thann that flows through the never-ending jungles of Hyer-Eos with no promise for dawning evermore. and our innards of black rheumy sleep-scale shed by the moth-stars turn into most ephemeral white foamy things upon that black river, churned up by its ever moving Tides, that drift, burst and reform themselves and go with the river to an unknown black inky ocean where they grow (glow) stagnant and bore themselves to death with Pa(d)ma's bull-horns and we know this is called the churning of Morpho, which means the permanent sundering of Oneness' scales into irrevokable solitary moth-like Forms that shall find their reunion nevermore. As all children of Pa(D)ma shall find death at the end, for Dagon of the Mehr the brilliant solar Moon, Mehrunes Dagon of the House of D---(Diem Mundus), has yet set foot before the breaking of the dawn.

Cum sic dies die diem mundus.

As Reman is alive as the shining bright star above the jungle'd earth which is now the firmament, Dagon then is birthed by his shed foam-scales into D(R)agon, and could only sigh, as a prisoner fettered by its own gory foam instead of liberated by its sundering always now. And Pa-(D-less)-Ma in her misty pantasm, foregathered and consolidated all the foam-scales, and wove up for herself a circular string of prayer-beads of D(r)agon, then tried to restrain the cloud of horned nimbus-fire breathed out from dichromatic lotos-rotos-breathing-aperure but was tired of the heavenly mud-scent of half-earth's testing Mid-Demon, tossed it away. That was then caught by the hand of the burning jungle'd green man who was the prophet of Rhuman, Mannaz and Malaak.

These were called Trinimac, Molag Bal and Tiber Septim in Altmer's tongue; as the prophet of Man he foretold of the prophecy of the usurpery of the seat of gods' champion through the tonal magick of shifting forms, which drew what are in the north and eternal into the south to suffer and die as orsimer Maloch crucified by the black cross of fate erected under the might of the Golden Eye of Forest-Man Herma-Mora.

And thus he made A(L)tmorans submit to the voice of Malak, the dead D(R)agon. He taught them the way to chant the word-beads of Good God Pamn, its horned nuances and jungled ambiguities, and most of all, to breathe fire so to destroy oneself amongst the woods like a tyger. and he taught how to destroy the mounds and mottes by inviting the heat of the jungle to breathe fire into the cold face of death itself.

"For the green Horde of Hunning, Hunsenskinnen, rest not till the earth is all green. I have made the tundra into a jungle, for I love you, or rather D -> M, from 500 companions I have mated them twice so all I have is a thousand swords, millie gladios, Ita Di-em carpsi "

and what were dwelling in the south, a barbaric people illiterate of Tides of their own fate, they were on ships always and are eternally searching for the that promised island formed with foam-scales shed by dead creativity of dibella-moths upon a sea of black ink which holds nothing but ignorance. Yet now through the magick of mirror-shfiting went to the north, and secured its place eternally among the black dreaming soil-pavilion which is also the sky papilon pavilion that holds the mortal ichor-wine, the pale solid stone sorrow of divines which is described through the spotlessly glistening jagged maw of the milky and iridiscent tyger, and forms into immortal flesh-host, and the red ready ink which is life blood dropping into things below mixed with the blueness of the dead-mountain, which they call ocean now. and the billows of alchemical purple mist acts as signal fire guiding them from the sleep of the tomb to their right place upon the throne made of the aetherial rocks. And thus the Orcs were ruined.

and so the black bull-God of the woods hid itself again in the moon and its sacred influence upon the black tides of the river Thann that flows in the jungle down below, turning its back against human affairs and leaving only a Golden Eye that is the shining moon itself open, glancing sideways lest the ruined green-skined and green-hearted people of the jungle forget their duty to gather the foam-scales shed by the sacred ancestor pavilions who are their forgotten dead.

and the missing twin ghost born from the union of the Cohort of Fifty could finally assume its ante-temporal onesome form again as a weak-bodied battling priest-chieftain of the southern tribe. he took up and bore upon himself the Wand of Rotos again, but found it to have undone itself, and with Dagon gone along with Man to the North, his people's ties to the green earth are dissevered, and the Bough is where his own green corpse hangs, suffering from brush-fire and ink-thirst. And trying to reach up above, what he could fetch is only the compass-cleaving-sword, now losing all its brilliance of the night, has become obstructed in the shouting of vowels, and prophecised a great deal of difficulty of walking and exploring afar like men of their race, and constantly spreading out their arms as if eagles to fetch something that heals the pain of dragon-slain opposed to the northmen who were dragon-borne, in green brush-fire and inky razor-words.

And the sword penitent, Vosh Rakh, which is called "Fetcher", for the ghost of trinimac stole it from his missing brother, malacath, whose name is Tiber Septim, D(R)agon of the North.

Yet always failing to reach the sword hanging from the higher branches of his Bough

"and now [the Ghost] looked intently at a little [imga] in a tree that grew in the crumbling courtyard of [stone-hewn elven city-states of yore], [in the heart of the jungle of Cyrodiil.]"*1


the imga has shed the flowing mantle that was his wild fiery jungle and its green leaves, tossed away too the prayer-beads taught by dagon-slain el-remanada and the dead thu'um, and returned by swinging himself through trees to a wilderness beyond even the jungle, the antecedence before dawn's conception that are beyond the scope of trees', the fire's ken, and even beyond the definable boundaries of the sacred-language of Gods itself. A place no one but his master Woodland Hermaphrodite Herma-Mora-Pa(d)Ma who misses nothing that could be known in the world save for a razor-sharp definition of itself.

And the black river of Thann thus still runs in the dense woods of the south where green-armored folk called orcs burn their bonfire upon the land. And too idylloic imgas who mate under the evening's sunlight upon the trees, the imgas one of whom was orcish people's prophets still dwell.

the prophet who spake of the horned lotos-beast-upon-the-moon and the doom it shall bring upon the a(L)tmorans, and the taking or retaking of the stone-mounds and stone-mottes of the hollowed-field, and of the struggling of love within the sweetly scented lunar sleep, where the yellow glowing dead-moths would rest upon the sleepers' brows and mouths so to seal forever their shameful secrets,

and too of the endless journey of self-recollection to become shiny moths themselves, for the rights and height of power of the race of star-royalty, and their ability to shout as dragons or master of dragons as in the emperor, come from their merish lineage in the jungles from the last kalpa, where they breed and bleed like tygers of the land, though now they would see themselves as they were dreughs of the sea in Lyg from last kalpa as their A(L)tmora is submerged under the black river of Thann.


the prophet Marukh hid its own name in Ruhm-manaz-Malaak-Han, who was conspiring with Tiber Septim in a scheme for him to overthrow the subterrain grasp of muddy Reman or dead Trinimac as the walking God Malacath again.

now the prophet has once more transformed into an imga by skin-shifting magick, and is to know things he does not know no more, as the woodland herma-aphrodite-mora observes sideways under the interwoven wreath of sinistrally wan moonbeam and would not trouble the little ape's brain and tongue in daydream anymore. and so he wanders freely among the moist and verdant primordial trees and slippery, crumbled Ayelid stone along the thither impalpable reedy bank of Thann.

Marukh, The prophet of Mann.


*1 borrowed from this

https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/m.aspx