By Horace P. Dunwoody, Developer and Industrialist

My good citizens,

We all know our country’s proud history of attempting to build Utopian societies in exclusive, or as some would say, dangerous and ridiculous, locations. We all know that each of the twenty-two previous attempts to do so have failed, and failed horribly. But that is no reason not to make a twenty-third attempt! And I have every faith that this time, we shall succeed!

It will certainly not be easy. We can recall the failure of the gleaming, floating city of Columbia, built in the clouds in the early 20th Century, and how it quickly and shockingly came to ruin. I need not go into the details: we all remember them clearly.

We also remember Andrew Ryan’s bold dream for Rapture in the 1940’s, his proud city built beneath the sea, and how, despite an entirely logical plan involving the torture of little girls and the sale of affordable proximity mines, it still somehow fell into chaos.

We remember another attempt at Utopia in the 1950’s, with the great city of Metro-Hyperion, which was suspended from a cliff by a mighty rope, and how it swung and spun and turned to-and-fro so beautifully in the gusty winds, and how citizens eventually became tired of constantly falling over and vomiting on themselves. And so, it was abandoned.

Horace Dunwoody, circa 2007

And Isla De Lunar, built on the moon by hundreds of the patriotic monkeys from the early days of our space program, though sadly, when the time came for the city to be populated by our human astronauts, no amount of scrubbing would get that disgusting monkey smell out of the walls.

And of course, there was the massive city of Oakstone, built of gleaming, solid marble in the branches of a mighty oak tree, which, as it turns out, was not remotely mighty enough to support the weight of a city built of gleaming, solid marble. Not even close. Hoo boy, no.

And always shall we remember Evermoss! The inspiring Utopia of Evermoss, built entirely on a patch of peat moss. It succeeded brilliantly from the start and remains intact, though as the patch of moss is only eleven inches wide, the city is far too small for anyone besides a few insects and one hungry bird to enter.

Following those failures came the city of Centuria, a metropolis built half-underground and half in ice, producing the blissful Utopia we all had dreamed of, or at least that one of us had dreamed of, that one being architect Robert Whipple, who dreamed of constantly being very, very cold and very, very dirty. He lives there still. Please stop by and see him. He is quite lonely and needs groceries.

So many, many triumphs! Followed immediately by so many, many failures. The exact same number of each, in fact.

There were others, of course, all built with the inspiring ideals of Utopia we continue to strive for. The city of New Magma, built inside an active volcano. The city of Many Points, built on a pile of needles. The upside-down city of Falling Falls. Oakland, California. Failures, all.

But we must not dwell on our previous, repeated failures! We must forge ahead and build anew! While the first twenty-two attempts at building Utopian cities resulted in misery, destruction, human-rights violations, billions of lost dollars, countless deaths, and the overpowering stench of monkey filth, I am certain our twenty-third will succeed!

We merely need to find the proper location. And with your courage, we will!

By Andrew Ryan, founder of Rapture

Is man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? To the fruits of his labors? To the stinging swarms of his army of personal attack bees?

No, says the man in Washington, they belong to the poor, who have no deadly clouds of insects to call their own. No, says the Vatican, only God can choose who will die from thousands of incredibly painful bee-stings. No, says the man in Moscow, every person should have an equal number of personal attack bees as every other person.

The government would dictate that you cannot sell dangerous super powers like electric bolts, scorching fireballs, and immobilizing ice blasts out of vending machines for a few dollars. The government would have you believe it is wrong to implant sea slugs into the bellies of little girls to turn them into ghastly, giggling vampires. The government would tell you, no, you cannot possess swarms of killer bees and direct them to kill people you do not like.

I came to Rapture to build the impossible, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, where the right to possess swarms of incredibly deadly personal attack bees would not be constrained by those who feel that swarms of incredibly deadly personal attack bees are too dangerous for anyone to own! And with the sweat of your brow, and the barbs of your insects, Rapture can become your city, as well.

The parasite expects the doctor to heal their bee-stings for free. The parasite expects the bee owners to lend them some spare bees out of charity. On the surface, the bee-keeper manages the hive, trading the strength of his hands and the soothing balm of his calamine lotion for bees of his own. But the parasites say ‘No! What was yours is ours! We are the state! We are God! We want a bunch of your deadly bees!’

A bee. (Inset: another bee.)

How little they differ from the pervert who prowls the streets, looking for a victim he can ravish for his grotesque amusement. Also: bees.

It is only when we struggle in our own interest that the chain pulls society in the right direction. The chain is too powerful and too mysterious for any government to guide. Any man who tells you different either has his hand in your pocket, or a pistol to your neck, or a bee pointed at you.

On the surface, the government will try to control your swarms of attack bees. In Rapture, who you sting with your bees is your choice.

Remember, a man chooses. A vicious swarm of personal attack bees obeys.

As innkeeper of The Lonely Suitor Lodge in Bravil, in Southern Cyrodiil, I’m faced with a number of challenges. Keeping my lodge nice and tidy, my guests happy, and my rooms affordable is tough in this day and age while still managing to turn a profit. It definitely doesn’t help that I keep buying used sets of armor from any hero who walks in the front door.

I don’t know why I do it. I don’t need three pairs of rough leather boots, or two sets of fur gauntlets, or seven chainmail cuirasses. I don’t even go outside the lodge, let alone into the wild where I would need armor, but the moment a hero sprints in after a dungeon raid or a cavern crawl and dumps off some rusty iron greaves, there I am, handing over the hard-earned cash that I could have spent buying new mattresses for the guest rooms or improving my wine collection. I don’t know what my problem is. I just don’t know.

And it’s not just armor, either. Swords, shields, arrows, clothing, repair hammers, wolf pelts… whatever he’s got, I’ll buy it without hesitation. I draw the line at stolen items, sure, but if it’s a set of bloody fur gauntlets he’s yanked off some dead Khajiit bandit or a flawed pearl he found in a Altmer Conjurer’s cave, I’m more than happy to plunk down top dollar for them. I wish I knew why.

And don’t get me started on the so-called “potions” he sells me. He’ll buy me out of all my bread and vegetables, then stand there mashing them up with his mortar and pestle, right in front of me, and sell me back the resulting glop. Fifty-seven Restore Fatigue potions that taste like pumpkins and cheese? I don’t need my fatigue restored that badly. My patience, sure, but not my fatigue. And yet, I buy them all.

I’ll admit, sometimes he’ll sell me something nice. I like Soul Gems: I just think they’re pretty, even without souls in them. I’m halfway through reading the four volumes of The Argonian Account books he sold me, and I’m enjoying the story so far. The Dwarven helmet I purchased is certainly nice to look at: it’s wonderfully crafted and ornate, but I’ll honestly never wear it. I don’t even know where it comes from. We don’t have any Dwarves around here.

What is my problem? Am I too nice? Can’t I say no? I’ve spent my entire life savings purchasing the stuff he brings in here, and I’ve had to use two of my spare rooms just to store it all. Any more of this, and I’ll wind up living in the street, sharing a bedroll with Penniless Olvus. At least I know he won’t try to sell me anything.