Scribes of Fate

Online:Crafting Motif 120: Scribes of Mora Style

The UESPWiki – Your source for The Elder Scrolls since 1995
Jump to: navigation, search
ON-icon-book-Generic 421.png
Book Information
Crafting Motif 120: Scribes of Mora Style
ID 7319
See Also Lore version
Up Crafting Motifs
Prev. Blessed Inheritor Next Clan Dreamcarver
Collection Scribes of Mora Style
Crafting Style Scribes of Mora Style
Found in the following locations:
Crafting Motif 120: Scribes of Mora Style
by The Ink-Stained Watchlings of the Abyssal Anvil
A guide to crafting armor and weapons in the Scribes of Mora style

From mire rose us Watchlings three, from ink and soot and fevered tree. With contract signed, we are bound, to share the secrets we have found. Under veiled moon and churning tide, Calx pens schematics on twisted hide. Linen spun from pent up rage, our dear Orpim inks this page. And metal hammered, iron wrought, Algar scrawls whispers they have caught. Mutter, sisters, in their ears, our fragile, little mortal peers. Armor shields, and blades do arm, protect them from untoward harm.


An axe, dear mortal, is shaped with rage, from plans written on blood-soaked page. An edge that writhes under lantern's light, begging to spread its vicious blight. Keep a grip, a leash, upon this beast, or, perhaps, let it feast.


A simple thing a belt may seem, but it too is part of his scheme. He holds you close, his grip is tight, but do not succumb to mortal fright. His love is deep and without end, this belt a hug from dear friend.


Boots of iron and cloven hoof, magically tempered and water proof. Made to scale mountains of knowledge and bone, and up to the foot of master's eternal throne. Stand ready, stand firm, and hear his word, a song sung sweet by abyssal bird.


Fetid grip and focused stare, arrows fletched with indrik hair. Seeker's hands did string this bow, and gave it voice from dark below. Let loose a whisper, a lover's lie, a tainted truth, or sad goodbye.


Fated words sewn into apocryphal silk, then soaked in a brew of spriggan's milk. Knowledge and nature make for a powerful bond, all the more potent with a kiss from beyond. To some it's a song, a whisper, or shout, but I assure you dear knight, you won't last long without.


Lurker's teeth, Hagraven spit, born from night's unending wit. A dagger, dear mortal, is more than its edge, it's the care that is taken to honor your pledge. Oil the blade with dark lantern's light and strike with the force of a hellhound's bite.


Twisted fingers and puckered grip, the rotting stench of cursed partnership. As you join his stygian clutch, he too will feel all you touch. Notice now this glove's tight fit? Or whispers that urge you to submit.


Creatia spun into a thread, woven into cowl upon your head. Listen close and you may hear, whispers from realms both far and near. Ancient songs in tongues long forgotten, echoes of realms held in well-sewn cotton.


Greaves charmed with stolen Seeker's gift, their ability to move silent and swift. You'll run like a whisper, an ink-stain in the night, with dagger blade ready and just out of sight. Enjoy this new power, drink deep from its cup, just know that this Seeker will one day catch up.


Listen close dear mortal and shed your fright, as you too will crash with wave's thundering might. Like anchor's plunge that sinks and sinks, your strike will land before foe blinks. The seas churn, and mountains crack, no fated army will hold you back.


An eye, an eye, your target will see, their focus will wander to an indescribable sea. Dark sea birds above, ink tides below, all while you deal deadly final blow. Adrift, adrift, on boiling dark sea, as eyes slowly shut and mind is set free.


Burnished lurker chitin, light as a feather, strapped to your shoulder with oil-slicked leather. Tighten and tighten, secure and behold, a dark fated armor just as foretold. Mind not the eyes that watch and don't blink, if you stare for too long you might start to sink.


A tree, a tree, grown in an apocryphal maze, fed by intention of vicious malaise. From bough carved came this great fated stave, that could channel the tides and break towering wave. Is it cursed you may ask, but let me remind, you shouldn't ask questions per the contract you signed.


A blade thrice dipped in apocryphal ink; an edge so sharp in stone it sinks. Even shadows will split with your every swing, but there is a cost that this will bring. Whispers, whispers, you may hear, ever present and drawing near.