The small group of archmagisters all wore expressions of concern as they
were ushered into the Wayrest Archmagister's study.  It was rare, almost
unprecedented, for such a convocation to be called, and this served to
further intensify their anxiety.  Their host, impassive and silent as
they filed in, motioned them to seats in the spacious, tapestry-hung
room.  His hawklike gaze caught each of theirs as they took seats, but
always returned to the great golden scrying bowl atop the carved
ironwood table in the center of the room.  A blue glow suffused the
quicksilver almost filling the bowl, waxing and waning in intensity in
time with the continual chanting of seven mages who sat frowning in
concentration in a darkened corner of the room.

As the last of the senior mages found a seat, the Wayrest Archmagister
rose and spoke.  "My thanks for answering my summons with such
alacrity.  I assure you that I would not have asked for this council
meeting except for a matter of the gravest import.  I have reason to
believe that all of Tamriel is threatened by a menace from the distant
past, and I have called you together to see what, if anything, we
leaders of the Mages' Guild can do about it.  Or *if* we should do
anything."

The white-haired Archmagister gestured, and goblets of wine appeared
before each of the visitors.  "My private stock, esteemed colleagues.
The goblets will refill themselves.  Refresh yourselves while I
explain.  First, you will have noticed the scrying bowl on the table.
Some of you may recognize it as one of the most famous magical devices
in Tamriel.  It is said to have been made by Shalidor himself, he of
Shalidor's Mirror, one of the greatest wizards in history.  It has no
peer in its ability to show views of what is taking place, anywhere at
all in this plane and many places on others."

Murmurs of assent and recognition passed among the assembled mages, and
then quieted as they waited for the Archmagister to continue.  He fixed
them with his sharp gaze, singly and as a group, before he continued.
"I am sure that all of you know of Balefire, the Dark Elf mercenary
Warmage, who has in recent years been based here in Wayrest of Wayrest.
Some of you have met him, I believe.  He is, not to put too fine a point
on it, somewhat...ah...notorious.  His methods are rather abrupt, and
some say he is more bloodthirsty than scholarly.  I, however, count him
as a friend, and can vouch for his ability in the Art.  Be that as it
may, I recently decided to check on his progress occasionally when he
announced his intention to assist in the defence of The Angry Porcupine,
the inn in Vanshire, Menevia.  I expect you have heard of *it*, too, and
its proprietor, Elfiran."

The Archmagister paused for a sip of wine, and waited for the assembled
mages' quiet comments to cease.  He continued, "I have been following
his activities using the scrying bowl there, with no trouble, until
recently.  What began as a commitment by Balefire and his...ah...partner
Twilight to defend the Porcupine has escalated through a veritable war
on the Dark Brotherhood, into something much worse, and much more
troubling."

He raised his voice over the astonished clamor of his colleagues'
reaction to this.  "Peace, I entreat you.  The Guild is not involved in
the war with the Brotherhood.  It is a personal undertaking of his, out
of friendship, and that was only the beginning.  The Angry Porcupine is
a highly popular tavern, and a small army of adventurers was drawn to
it.  Then, a young woman named J'layah appears to have been forced to
try to assassinate Balefire.  Failing in this, she has now enlisted him
and his companions in a quest to save her sister, whose soul has been
trapped in a gem while her body yet lives.  This seems to have been done
by a renegade Assassin, who has since died, in order to acquire
Balefire's signet ring.  I am not clear about the significance of the
ring, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to follow events."

The Archmagister of Dwynnen, Dwynnen interrupted.  "I know Twilight
well, and Balefire, too.  They recently performed a valuable service for
us.  It is a matter of some concern that they have decided to challenge
the Dark Brotherhood, but why should that, or this maiden-saving quest,
cause you such anxiety that you deemed it necessary to call us
together?"

The Wayrest Archmagister held up his hand -- long-fingered but strong --
for silence.  "See you the group of mages there in the corner, muttering
spells as if their lives depend on it?  They are barely -- *barely* I
say -- able to keep the scrying spell stable enough for me to catch an
occasional glimpse of Balefire and his companions.  What I *have* seen,
though, troubles me exceedingly.  This group includes several puissant
warriors, one of whom has been attacked by, and slain, a
dragon...*peace* I say, be silent if you would and allow me to
continue!  Aye, a dragon.  I know not the import of that, but there is
no doubt of what it was.  And the dying rogue Assassin who plotted to
get Balefire's ring spoke of not feeding the Heart.  What's more, the
Werre are involved; indeed, i fear the scrying works so badly because
the entire party is camped on an ancient Werre battlefield, where the
Art can be expected to work poorly, if at all."

He stopped to catch his breath and sip his wine, his fierce expression
forestalling his colleagues' obvious desire to ask questions.  "I
greatly fear that this party of adventurers is involved somehow with an
ancient evil we had thought long dead: the Horned Council.  I can catch
only glimpses of other happenings...a young boy in a dark citadel,
chased by evil mages; a Khajiit Assassin, tracking the party; a Werre
warrior and a scholar with whom he rides, part of the group, one
troubled and one eager; a vague impression of watchers on a nearby
hillside.  Most of all, though, and I would swear to this by my power in
the Art, I feel some fell and ancient evil in the citadel toward which
the party is heading.  I have the entire staff of this Guildhouse
researching everything that has been recorded about the Werres, and
about that battlefield, and about the Horned Council."

"But what would you have us do?" The Dwynnen Archmagister spoke up.
"Even if we could communicate with Balefire, I know he would not be
'suaded from his quest.  The Warmage has an Archmage's rank and more
power than any three of us, I'd swear.  He is implacable, relentless
when on a mission...as well try to dissuade the tide from coming in.
And there are the others.  What would you have us do?"

"I do not think that Balefire, or any of the heroes with whom he rides,
Mea Culpa, Elfiran, Tabanallis, and the rest, realize the extent of the
threat they are approaching.  Possibly the Werre suspects, or the
scholar, Alduin.  As you say, we cannot dissuade them, even if we were
able to communicate, which we are not. No, I have called you here
because I have grave doubts about that party of adventurers, dauntless
and powerful though they be.  I fear that they will fail, and in that
failure set loose on the world a scourge of evil such as has not been
seen in millennia. I want all of you to go back to your own areas and
muster the most puissant mages you know, to ready yourselves against an
assault on our very civilization."

The Archmagister of Daggerfall, Daggerfall spoke quietly. "I have a
suspicion about what lurks in that citadel, and I would like your
permission to join your scholars in their record-harrowing.  Meanwhile,
perhaps with our asembled power in the Art, working together, we can get
your scrying bowl to give us a clearer picture of what is going on."