Chronicles of Blackmarsh

My Beloved Assassin

She is shadow made flesh, death given form and purpose. Her scales shimmer with an otherworldly beauty—each one a tiny mirror reflecting the darkness of her soul and the light of her love. Born under the sign of the Shadow, blessed by Sithis himself, she moves through the world like a whispered prayer to forgotten gods.

When she kills, it is art—brutal, precise, beautiful. Her victims die with expressions of wonder, as if in their final moments they glimpsed something transcendent. I have watched her work from the shadows, seen how she makes death into dance, murder into music.

But in our private moments, when the masks fall away and the darkness recedes, she is vulnerable—soft scales against softer skin, whispered endearments in ancient Jel, promises made in blood and starlight.

Forbidden Arts & Dark Sciences

In my journeys between dimensions, I have learned magicks that would make the College of Winterhold weep with envy and terror. Arts that bend reality like heated metal, spells that unravel the very fabric of existence, enchantments that bind souls across infinite planes.

The Realm of Blackmarsh

Blackmarsh—or Argonia, as the natives call it—is a realm where nature itself seems to dream dark dreams. The very air thrums with ancient magicks, where Hist trees older than civilization whisper secrets in languages that predate speech itself.

This is no ordinary swampland. Here, the boundaries between the physical and spiritual worlds grow thin as morning mist. Ghosts walk openly among the living, spirits of long-dead Argonians seeking vengeance or redemption. The water itself pulses with otherworldly energy, capable of healing wounds or driving men mad with visions of cosmic truth.

Notable Locations