At this point, it’s hard not to believe that we have been manipulated from one end of this damned desert to the other. Whether by Shiri, the necromancer’s daughter, who studied the Ansei Wards under the deceived scholar Zohreh before playing us for fate’s fools to bring the Wards to her here, where she now attempts to raise her father Suturah. Or by Tu’whacca, the God of the Far Shores, who by whisper and murmur upon the desert winds has steered these four most unlikely companions to be all that now stand between life and death for the people of the Alik’r.
So here we stand, four desert wretches. A hapless son of a King who battles to hold his kingdom together as one. An old man of the sands who claims that the Gods talk through him. A leader of an outcast tribe eternally dishonoured by the people for their most honourable sacrifice. And me, a former Legionnaire turned mercenary, a drifter without a soul.
In Tamriel, it is upon such ironies that Kingdoms endure… or fall.