Vaermina’s Supernal cultists continue their ignoble attempts to undermine the Covenant from within, whilst Dark Elven slave ships menace Stormhaven’s southern coastline. In Wayrest, whispers and bruit unsettle tavern and court alike that the wretched of the Reach are gathering in numbers once more and have fixed their ravening eyes upon both Wrothgar and Bangkorai. All the while the strength of High Rock continues to battle bloody stalemate on the fields of Cyrodill… and still the anchors fall.
It is beneath these foul grapnels, forged under Dremoran whip in Coldharbour’s infernal foundries, that the night seems darkest. When the hooded cultists gather, and sacrifice is raised, hatred riles the air about; sudden winds, swirling mists, and the grind of chain heralds the arrival of the Daedric swarm to the outer darkness.
Tamriel is a land of banners, a continent of disparate peoples united only in our fear of one another. That fear is everywhere, we see it in our minds, feel it in our hearts, it whispers to our dreams, and it sits upon us like a virus. It is this fear that makes us stay silent in the face of dark deed and greater evil.
Yet it is here under the shadow of the anchors that I find hope. I have come to realize that I am not as singular as the old man would have me believe. I am but one of a thousand, and together we stand beneath the Worm cults rifts, to greet the Lord of Brutalities horde with resolve sharpened, and weapons drawn.
Let these cursed monsters come, let them drink deep agony; let them feel the fear that has for too long tormented our families. Let us show this Molag Bal that though we continue to quarrel one amongst another, we will willingly stand back to back with our most feared enemies when our quarrel is with him.