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.