A Breton priest, Alvaren Garoutte, waits patiently beside the Westmark Moor road for the return of three of Arkay’s Knights, who were sent out across the region to retrieve holy relics with which the order hopes to hold back the tide of undead threatening to flood over Rivenspire.

As a child I dreamed and played at being an honourable Knight of Arkay, or some such deity.  Riding off in the morning in a suit of shining armour on a heroic mission to retrieve sacred artefacts, punish plundering bandits, and do battle with legendary beasts, before rescuing ravaged yet still modest maidens with conveniently long hair, before returning triumphantly home to blaring trumpets and streaming banners, just in time for dinner.

Of course a Knight’s armour doesn’t stay shiny very long, especially when slogging through the muddy marshes, filthy bogs, and rancid delves the bard’s neglect to recite; whilst fighting off the hordes of rambling, rotting dead, rabid skeevers, goblins, hags, and the putrid drudges of Oblivion.  It is no wonder that the chivalry and vows of even Arkay’s famed Knights are soon forgot.

In reality it takes not the honourable, chivalrous, and gallant knight to carry Arkay’s beacon into the darkness, it takes a man or woman like me, suited in mismatched sullied armour, notched blade, and with morals as soiled as Swineherd Wickton’s boots.

S.K