#psijics

In The Wolf Queen, Waughin Jarth expands on this story with a tale of skullduggery in which Potema manipulates the Psijics into accepting her brother’s payment to destroy the Maormer, while overcharging her brotherto fund her own cause. The Psijics in this story work for cash – the only important thing is the amount of cash. And while a money-grubbing turn of the Psijic Order is amusing to contemplate, the novels’ details are likely fictional license on Jarth’s part. In his defence, it’s mentioned in Father of the Niben that

Waughin Jarth, I have been told, in writing his well-regarded series on the Wolf Queen of Solitude used over a hundred contemporary narratives.

and in Ted Peterson’s Interview with Three Writers, Jarth mentions interviewing survivors of the War of the Isle. But it does not seem that the Psijics gave him their version, so he was working with an incomplete story. Most famously, he has Iachesis of the Psijics alive some centuries after his death.

However, there’s one detail from The Wolf Queen: Volume 4 worth quoting for building up the picture of what happened.

Three months later, Potema heard that the fleet of the Pyandoneans had been utterly destroyed by a storm that had appeared suddenly off the Isle of Artaeum. The home port of the Psijic Order. King Orgnum and all of his ships had been utterly annihilated.

I think we can trust Jarth for the location of the storm. It’d be attested in lots of other sources, not a state or Psijic Secret.

At this point, I have to give some credit to /u/www-Jason-com, whose post: The Wolf Queen v4 is a hidden GOLD MINE for Maormer theories I read at the time but didn’t think further on. He wrote

But we also learn during ESO that the Maormer have powerful storm magics, and assuming from the Maormer's title as the greatest ship captains in Tamriel we can assume that they'd know how to handle a bad storm. So they could have just sunk their ships for whatever reason, but that would be a pretty dumb thing to do. But who knows

ANYWAYS that's it

Sorry I got kinda lazy with the last one. The more I thought about it the more it seemed dumb so I didn't try very hard (maybe you guys have some more to add to it though?),

I’d completely forgotten your post, but it may have been at the back of my mind when I came up with this idea. Found it again looking for previous discussion on the topic. So yes, I have something to add to it.

The coincidence of the Maormer, the pre-eminent storm magicians, being destroyed in an epic freak storm absolutely needs attention. In ESO, we see that the Maormer whip up sudden storms like this not only to sink the Dominion navy (the Dominion’s opening quest is about this), but to assault the coastline. Battlereeve Alduril says of one of your opponents:

That was Stormreeve Neidir. If the Maormer wanted to hurl a tidal wave at the Malabal Tor mainland, it would have taken power like hers to do it.

My theory is that it was not the Psijics who brewed the freak storm. It was the Maormer, as part of their usual attack pattern. But I still think it was the Psijics’ victory. I’m proposing the Psijics did the magical equivalent of stepping back and using your enemies' force against them.

I think that would fit the way the Psijics work, by understanding the forces of the universe, much better than a brutal solution like whipping up a storm.

They’d been traveling for hours. The temperature had dropped unexpectedly, and the cold steel of their power armor rigs had cut straight through their uniforms. They’d agreed to stop for the night.

The recent rain had left everything they could burn sopping, but at least the power armor had kept them dry. They’d camped out inside one of the military bunkers that lay hidden throughout the Commonwealth.

Dollie had managed to hack into the terminal on one of the desks, and gotten the turrets running. They could both rest. But it didn’t do anything for the cold.

Danse had a suggestion, but he didn’t think she’d be receptive to the idea. She’d declined such in the past in the winter when that flash blizzard had hit. He’d found himself in close quarters quite often as a soldier, and the prospect didn’t phase him. He understood her modesty, what with her pre-war life, but she wouldn’t always have that luxury in the Wasteland.

They had to be practical and he cleared his throat, tired of not having a solution to the problem at hand. “We can zip our sleeping bags together, huddle to keep warm.”

He ignored the flush in her face, the way it showed pink through the scars that creeped across her left cheek, but showed a rosey red through the unblemished skin of the right where the scars didn’t reach as far. It was the cold, it had been there before he spoke... even if he hadn’t noticed it.

“It isn’t that cold—“ she started to protest, but a harsh wind pitched through the bunker and she shuddered. She nodded, hugging herself tightly against the chill. “You’re right.”

Brotherhood standard issue sleeping bags were designed to zip together in case of the cold. Danse put himself to work, unrolling his sleeping bag and then Dollie’s when she handed it to him. He laid them out side-by-side, coaxing the cold metal of the zippers to cooperate through his leather gloves.

Once the sleeping bags were connected Danse maneuvered himself inside. He considered the broad width of his own shoulders and thought he understood Dollie’s concern. But being close was the point of huddling for warmth. It was the best option to avoid frost bite. She wouldn’t be the first soldier he’d had to share a sleeping bag with.

She hesitated on the other side of the sleeping bag and he felt a moment of discomfort, recalling involuntarily the scent of her hair the last time he’d been near enough to notice it- the smoothness of her hands when she’d last touched his skin. Inappropriate thoughts to consider, and likely the reason she was apprehensive.

He made a quick decision to roll onto his side, hopefully giving her more room. He had a clear view of the bunker door. If anything got past the turrets without them hearing, he’d know about it.

After another moment of hesitation he felt the sleeping bag move as she slid down into it. He felt her arm press into his back through his bomber jacket, and felt one of her boots as it bumped against the heel of his. The sleeping bags shifted as she wriggled herself into place.

For a long time they said nothing. For once he didn’t know what he should say. Asking after her comfort could be misconstrued as inappropriate, and he wanted to avoid that. Staying warm was a necessity, and he didn’t mean to take advantage of the situation in any way, regardless of how he’d found himself feeling for her. He hoped she knew that.

The polyester of the sleeping bags was still cold, not yet warmed from their body heat. Skin-on-skin contact would have warmed them sooner. He knew this, but it was completely out of the question. He felt himself flushing at the thought. It lingered in his ears unlike the flush that persisted in his nose from the cold.

Danse risked a glance over his shoulder, noting her back to him, her black hair filling some of the space between them. If her K9 companion had been along, the mutt could have fit between them, could have provided extra warmth.

He returned his gaze to the doorway, trying to allow himself to sleep. And sleep he did, the way he always slept in the field. It was more like he’d closed his eyes in a meditative state, hesitating on the edge of consciousness. He contemplated their journey and whether it’d be warm enough for them to continue when the sun rose. The ideas were vague, almost dreamlike.

Despite his light sleep he awoke some time later feeling well rested. There was a tickling feeling against his ear that drew him back to consciousness and he blinked his eyes open. The sweet smell of melon blossom filled his nose.

He still faced the door. He wasn’t one to shift in his sleep. The pre-glow of daylight had begun to lighten the sky beyond the bunker.

He felt the tickling against his ear again and it drew his eyes tiredly from the doorway toward his shoulder. The tickling was accompanied by a movement against his back.

The frizzy waves of Wallace’s hair met his eye, and she shifted where she’d moved closer in her sleep. He was too tired to restrain the amused smile that tugged at his lips.

She murmured something he couldn’t decipher and he felt the vibration of it in his back. Something shifted beneath his hand and it took him a moment to understand the sensation.

Her fingers were threaded through his, her arms curled around his middle, and one of her legs tangled through his own. He was surprised how incredibly comfortable he felt wrapped in her arms.

His mouth went dry and his chest ached. He was blindsided with an overwhelming wave of fondness for the woman holding him. He’d never been held, not to his memory. If she woke, he knew she’d be mortified, and his smile turned sad.

Carefully, the Paladin disentangled himself from her arms, rising from the sleeping bags. He gave himself one last moment of leniency, brushing the hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear.