To the east of Alcaire is a collapsed cave known as Windridge in which was buried a tragic tale of banditry and a vow unfulfilled. The story of Sir Edain is not one sung by bards, or recorded by historians, because there was no heroic victory or glorious sacrifice. Few locals now can recall why the entrance to the Windridge had even been deliberately collapsed.
But someone has recently reopened this grim mausoleum, and its former inhabitants have returned in spirit to wreck terror and death upon all who misadventure too close. The spirit of Sir Edain, former Knight of the Flame, greets any who brave the cavern depths, pleading aid to fulfil his final vow, by putting the malevolent spirits of the Fallen Three and their vile followers to rest once and for all.
There seems not to be a single town, village, or hamlet in all High Rock that is not haunted by ghosts or spirits; but I guess in the end we are all but spirits given silhouette by Nirn. This skin, these limbs, that warm crimson blood that sustains us, it lives, grows, and eventually, lest our fate be soul shriven, returns home to Nirn. Our names are forgot, our likeness lost, and our deeds only the bards may recall. Yet the air we breathed still stirs the grass, our shouts and cries still echo through mountain pass, our thoughts, ideas, arts, and passions are inherited by our kin.
This is a land full of ghosts, enduring and inextinguishable. Most embrace whatever mortals destiny may be, but others linger or return, cursed by unfilled promises or vile desires to wreck jealous havoc and vengeance upon those living still. Are we not duty bound to Nirn and to our kin to give rest to those who cannot, or will not sleep? So in turn our children may be free to give rest to us.