Just below the west cliff of the imposing Tu’whacca’s Throne temple, I spy a solitary figure guarding what looks to be a Daedric summoning circle. So intent was the crouched figure upon her duty that she failed to notice my approach. As I rode closer I soon recognized the unmistakable golden armour of one of Sheogorath’s Golden Saints.

If ever there was a misnomer, it is in the name ‘Saint’, for there is nothing in the nature of these creatures of virtue or benevolence. Even for Daedra they are infamous for their cruelty to all those they consider inferior, including other Daedra. Their pride and arrogance is perhaps matched only by the martial Dremora of the Deadlands.

I have little idea what mischief the Mad God has planed so deep in the desert, but after the way he has toyed with me in my dealings with the Mages Guild, little would give me more pleasure then to gain a whit of payback and spoil whatever game he plays.

Too late I learn however that this is no ordinary guard, but turns out to be a General of sorts, and you don’t get to be a Daedric General without bloody deed and viscous achievement on the battlefield; and more often than not, the brutal supplantation of the titles previous owner.

She proves to be a most formidable opponent, but then, so do I.

S.K

Come closer, closer, come closer to me, and let me look upon him so bold, who breaks my seal and dare set foot in my sallow-stone sanctuary.  Do you Know me not, know not my name, know not me by my legacy?  Know not how my father 20 years to this day, raised the Yokudan dead from the Iliac Bay.

Curse upon the Ash’abah, Tu’whacca’s thrice-doomed fools, who dared resist noble Suturah’s scheme, to drown these sands in Redguard blood to be brought upon them by ancestors’ beloved.  For what is their life but a worthless stroll along an endless road of fear and toil.  For all it bears them is closer to me, the necromancer, exposer of the Far Shores fallacy.

To me, to me, oh so bold man, to me thy fate has steered thee straight.  No god can save thee from my hand, thy spirit is now mine to freely take.  But wait, hold, one moment still, I sense… no, it cannot be.  An empty shell, an unfilled husk, I sense there is no soul in thee.

So this is what they send against my contrive, a soul-shriven freak, Coldharbour flotsam.  A creature as piteous as my risen helotry, what joy, what thrill, oh what irony!  Come, come my brother, come my new friend, for thee shall serve as general to my risen army.  And together we’ll stride the roads of death and fill thy void with the hunger of the undead.

Is it not now our fate to tread this road together, across broiling desert into shadowed lands? For the waters of thy life flows too fleet, too fast, between the shores of too few years.  But I am the power behind thy fears, beyond the darkness of thy empty tears.

Come witness my work, meet the priest of Tu’whacca, see how I turn their blood to embalming cruor.  Come watch how I work the Ansei’s relics, to raise an army to flood this cursed desert. Observe the flickering of their hearts candle, burning ever more dim into frail shadow.  Listen as I chant in lissome undertone, stirring necrotic pools of quietus song.

Come look between the vaporous mists, into those vainglorious realms of death.  For together we could summon those creatures unboned, to serve under our duress.  See the star that sheds its dust upon the even skies, let it guide thee into bold service else unto a timid death.  Come closer, closer, come closer to me.

S.K

Throne Keeper Farvad has asked that I aid him in taking back Tu’whacca’s Throne from the Withered Hand cultists.  To achieve this, we must relight the sacred braziers around the site to trigger the temples defences; he claims this will unleash the ‘Breath of Tu’whacca’ to cleanse the temple and return the dead to the sands.  The Withered Hand however won’t give up the vast necropolis without a fight and direct their undead thralls to stop us.

The temple sits high atop a plateau overlooking the only road linking Sentinel in the west, to Bergama and the rest of the Alik’r to the east.  If their necromancers succeed in their nefarious undertaking to raise an army from the temples abundant burial grounds, then the Withered Hand could soon lay mortifying siege upon both cities.

S.K

The Ash’abah maintain a constant vigil over the temple at Tu’whacca’s Throne, for here lies buried some of the Redguard’s greatest heroes.  Yet their watch could not prevent the Withered Hand necromancers from awakening the corpses of those heroes from their consecrated tombs.  As I am now also Ash’abah, the duty falls upon my swordarm to return them to the ground. 

In life they were great warriors, leaders, and champions.  They were driven to make a difference by something they had deep inside of them, whether it be a desire, a dream, an ambition, or an indomitable will.  That is what made them strong, and that is what made their enemies flee from their charging banners.

But I wonder, how could these undead husks of the former heroes be a danger still?  They have no desire, no will; from where do they draw their mettle?  In the end what are we but the sum of our dreams and ambitions.

In truth, I have forgotten what my dreams and ambitions were before I was made soul-shriven.  Perhaps it was to find a companion and start a family, or perhaps I wanted none.  Maybe instead I dreamed of travel and adventure, of dying the hero with sword in hand, or possibly I just wished to grow old and watch the sun go down in peace in my own garden.  I can no longer recall.

Now however, now my sole ambition is revenge.  Revenge against that wretch Mannimarco who brutally tore out my soul with ritual and bodkin.  Revenge against Molag Bal for commissioning that vile deed to feed his malevolent schemes.  Revenge against the cultists who stole from me my former life and liberty.

But these undead who do not dream, and have no ambition, are also liberated from the chains of mortal conscience, the fetters of morality, and the shackles of pity and regret.  And that is what makes these undead husks of the former heroes a danger still.

S.K

Built atop one of the highest plateaus in the Alik’r Desert, Tu’whacca’s Throne is a vast Redguard pantheon that serves as both a sacred burial ground and a temple dedicated to the Caretaker of the Far Shores, who escorts the souls of their dead safely into the afterlife.

To the outsider, the Redguard may appear to hold their honour to the dead above their duty to the living, but the Redguard believe that we are more than just this frame of bones.  To them, suffering is but a silhouette that shadows our every step, and though each footfall is stalked by sickness, age, and frailty, we must keep walking on, for at the end of the road lies the promise of deliverance to the Far Shores.

It is ironic then that the bodies of their consecrated dead have been risen by the insidious magics of the Withered Hand necromancers, and now hold the walls of this great sanctum against the living.

S.K