As I reached the last standing rampart at the Old Fell’s Fort in Rivenspire, the rains began to fall heavily upon the bloody remnants of the bandit camp below, and Leonce Gavendien emerged from the tower to face his prosecutor.
They say that when you confront a bully, they will back down in fear; rarely is this true. Earlier this day the bandit leader had callously cut the throat of a helpless shop owner and left her to bleed to death upon the streets of Fell’s Run, he is a most wicked creature, but no coward. He didn’t run or try to hide from the man who was cleaving his way through his entire bandit entourage in order to claim baneful retribution.
Instead he charged straight at me with hubristic dare… no, with indignant fury… no again, with desperate defiance… yes that was it. Never is a man more dangerous than when he is desperate, yet never is a man more vulnerable than when he loses self-control.
Growing up in rural Cyrodiil, I remember the priests of Stendarr teaching that ‘strength is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent’. By the time I arrived at gates of the Imperial city as a young man eager to join the ranks of the Imperial Legions, those same priests were now teaching ‘strength is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to punish the guilty’. That was the first time I realised that in Tamriel, the Divines are as much subjects to the Empire as are its people.