With the Remans fallen, the Potentate a fading memory, and the nations of men once more restored to their natural state of tumult, the city of Alinor fell, for a time, back into the melancholy inertia of triumph. The Sunbirds had won the war for the sky. No longer would the most brilliant minds of Summerset be forced to compete with Lorkhan's spawn directly; now was a time for reflection, for wistful serenity in the face of the unending curse of mortality. For so long as chaos swirled in the Arena, the Altmer - descendants of the true gods of the sky, not the corrupted idols of Creation - could thrive in peace, disturbed only by the occasional coastal raids from beyond the Veil of Mist.
But a vacuum can be filled. And when a Kreathi (or was he Atmoran?) general united the Colovian Estates, the Symbologicians, masters of arcana and numerological contemplation, were consulted. The Seneschals (speaking for their tranced charges), assured the High King that all was well. Like Pelinal before him, this new warlord would no doubt carve a bloody swathe across the Nibenay. He might charge wild and reckless into the Elden Grove, and therein meet his doom, or perhaps even contend with the Three Thieves for control of the East. Reman had attempted such, after all. No matter which of these fates came to pass, the Altmer could be assured security in their island utopia. The Symbologicians were certain.
It seemed only moments had passed before everything changed.
Somehow, somewhere, the Symbologicians missed a step. More likely - or so it is whispered - Tiber reached out into the logic-webs and slashed them with his ruby red sword. Either way, when Valenwood fell, and the fiction of the Dominion was exposed, the moons seemed very red indeed. Stories filtered east too late. The Brass Golem, some monstrous heresy wrapped in souls, was on its way. And without warning, on the very day before Landfall, the Symbologicians' placid pronouncements turned to dire omens.
It was entirely too late.
The titan's wake shattered Summerset. From the storm-wracked cliffs of Lan Sercene to the gently rolling terraces of Nilcestumir, the Numidium broke all. Where it passed, chaos, fire, death, and madness were all that remained. And when the day was done, so too was Alinor. Spared the direct wrath of the Warp storms, the capital only ever faced the humiliation of watching red dragon banners unfurled from its crystalline towers. But it was enough. The conquered city submitted to its fate.
Time passed. The conquerors' faces changed, but the conquest never did. With the Wake destined to wreak its havoc upon the very land of Summerset for eternity, Alinor and the other surviving cities did their best to restore what semblance of the old order they could. Some, like Firsthold, found a place for themselves in the new mannish order. But the proud mer of Alinor did not. Could not.
Today, they stew in silent resentment, watching as the greatest city in the world, the temple of the king of the gods, falls deeper into decay and ruin. Oh, the King attends to his duties, watched from his balconies by the Imperial Proconsul in the Symbologicians' former tower. The nobles from Lillandril and Sunhold and Skywatch still compare their lineages in the barrier villas and squabble over decisions of the Annalists. Citizens wander the Menagerie, attend sense-plays at the Theatre of the Mind, and gaze in awe at the rainbow-flecked towers and sprawling gardens. But the cracks are beginning to show. The manor districts, stripped of whole clans during the Tiber Wars, lay crumbling, inhabited by squatters and frauds. Alinor's foreign quarter, once a segregated and dismal place meant to keep foreigners out of the temple districts, has become the beating economic heart of the city. Faced with an uncontrolled population boom, wealthy estate-lords lease off segments of their terraced fields to become slums. The humiliated Navy now barely floats a dozen warships.
In another city, not far to the southeast, the very last Sunbird is dying.
