The sinuous roads of Northern Stormhaven are unsafe for the unwary and unarmed, this is especially true of the outskirts of Firebrand Keep, where a particularly audacious bandit gang are masquerading as the Knights of the Flame in order to rob unsuspecting travellers.

It is perhaps a measure of just how enervated this once much-lauded Order has become, that they seem unable to muster number enough to drive the imposters from outside their own gates without aid.

If I am to chase a wounded lion into his den, then I would do so without a pack of skeever at my back.

S.K

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.

S.K

I knew I was too late even before I reached her chamber… the heavy silence was enough to tell me so.

Silence is never truly silent; it is but a noiseless echo of what was before.  Like the silence that follows a storm, or the silence as dusk descends upon a forest.  The silence of the empty tavern as the innkeeper bolts shut the door at night, or the silence of the child taking in the vastness of the ocean for the very first time.  Then there is the silence deep inside each of us, that dread that accompanies our fears, doubts, and regrets.

None of these however echo quite so loudly as the silence of grief.  It is a silence full of sadness, of anger, and of a deafening melancholy that dulls our every sensibility.  That is the noisiest silence of them all, and through every hall and chamber of the Alcaire castle, the echoes of grief are a cacophony.

Sir Hughes has fled to Firebrand, I shall follow, and the wrath and ire of both Alcaire and the Alik’r shall ride with me.

S.K

Perhaps it is that I am too much a cynic.  Or perhaps that I am a foreign man, surrounded by a foreign people, in a foreign land.  Or perhaps it is that when I sleep at night, I dream of my former friends and comrades falling to the Oblivion onslaught on the streets of the Imperial city, only for them to rise again and draw their swords against us.

Whatever the reason, I am not in the least surprised to discover that the threat to the Duchess’s life comes not from without, but from within her own court.  You see, you cannot protect yourself from those who are closest to you, from the ones seemingly without motivation, or with motivation beyond your comprehending.

Trust is ever our enemy’s greatest tool, because betrayal can only happen if we trust.

S.K

Standing before the thrones of the Duke and Duchess of Alcaire is Sir Hughes, the present leader of the famed order of the Knights of the Flame.  Even growing up in Cyrodiil we heard the story of how 40 years prior, the then titled Alcaire Knights had held back a seemingly unstoppable invasion force from the Reach, by setting aflame the crops and fields surrounding the Alcaire keep.  I can still recall the bard’s enthusiastic chorus,

“They beat their swords upon their shields,
as the Reachman burnt upon the fields,
and that night they swore an oath as one, 
that the Knights of the Flame would never yield.”

The ballad went on to tell of how in honour of their success, the Alcaire Knights were renamed the Knights of the Flame and given Firebrand Keep as their garrison.  As a child who dreamt of honour, valour, and gallantry, I will profess to feeling more than a little childlike excitement at meeting the banneret heir of bold Sir Byric.  If I had suffered the misfortune of being born Breton, I am almost certain my sole boyhood ambition would have been to join the ranks of the Knights of the Flame.

Every Knight however is aware that one can’t live off the fame of their forebears, but rather one must forge their own renown through act and deed. This may explain a little of why at the gates of Alcaire, Dame Falhut sticks so vehemently to strict rule and duty, even at the expense of common sense, in refusing entry or audience to the Redguard envoy.

S.K