When Uela’s Dark Witnesses invaded Northern Bankorai they sought to overrun every piece of land from the Wrothgar mountains down to the Bjoulsae Bridge; apart that is from one small mine at the foot of the mountains. A wide birth was given to this former iron mine known locally as Torog’s Spite, likely because they’d heard that the Breton’s long ago gave it up to raiders from Wrothgar, and even the most barbaric of Reachmen tribes know better then to enter a dark hole full of Orcs.
In fact there are two Orsimer clans that have taken this mine, and whilst you may not guess it from the shouts, snarls, clash and clangs that echo throughout the close tunnels, these clans are allies with a common enemy. In spite of the signing of the Daggerfall Covenant, the bandits set out to pillage a notable Breton estate in retaliation for one of the countless times that men from High Rock had inflicted outrages upon Wrothgar. Now that the raid is done however, both clans want to take the credit for it, and this it seems has led to tension and brunt which is gradually spilling over into brawl and bloodshed.
It is unwise to get betwixt an Orc and his enemy, and it is twice as foolish still when that enemy is their own kin. Yet I figured with imprudent wisdom that I might be able to sneak through much of the mine unchallenged whilst the bandits were preoccupied with each other. As it turns out the Orc’s hatred for man supersedes even their dislike for one-another, and I soon found myself having to fight through every tunnel and cavern just to make it out alive.
For a generation the residents of Mucien’s Hamlet have been peaceable fished from the northern shores of the Halcyon and crossed the lake to sell their catch in Evermore. This despite other nearby villages suffering many Reachmen raids over the years, stealing away their produce, livestock and even children.
But now the Hamlet burns under the Reachman’s torch, and despite all efforts from the Evermore guard to take the village back, the barbarians hold it still, and there are few villagers now left alive.
It has been almost 40 years since the Black Drake’s dread army ravaged and pillaged it’s way across High Rock. When his bloody incursion was to eventually brake upon the gates of Daggerfall, not all the barbarians retreated back to their mountains. There is some evidence that in both Glenumbra and Northern Bangkorai many stayed, either laying roots in the wild fens, or settling amongst the Bretons in community.
But Reach blood runs thick in the veins, and when the Witchmen rode upon the south in number once again, some it seems donned barbaric leathers and furs and joined with their ancestors against their friends and neighbours.
In the feudal society of the Bretons displays of loyalty to ones heritage is oft celebrated, but this, this is nowt but treachery; for whilst treachery aimed at tyranny can be noble, when aimed at friends it is only a cowardice.
The men and women who rode from Evermore to Mucien’s Hamlet were ready to die for their neighbours, but they never realized that it would be those very same neighbours who would be waiting to kill them.
I discover the Water Spirit of the Halcyon Lake is stealing her disciples memories in order to create her water stone. The memories will be lost to them forever, making her followers, both free-willing and forced, little more then the automatons of the Dwemer. Hermaeus Mora is little better. He claims not to care for the individual yarns of mortals, only the tapestry that they weave. To both the nereid and the daedric prince their followers are but sheep, cattle and guar.
Lorelia holds self-preservation above all else, even nature, she possesses neither compassion nor comprehension. Knowledge and wisdom are two separate things; anyone can gain knowledge, but one needs to gain an understanding of it. This nereid can see only what her mind is prepared to comprehend and that is why she must be stopped.
As for Hermaeus Mora, today he may get to keep his precious knowledge hidden, but it is always present. It is only a mater of time before it is found by thirsty mortals minds, or perhaps one day the insatiable desert that Lorelia is trying to stop will devour these ruins and his forbidden knowledge will be lost forever; what need then will Tamriel have for Hermaeus Mora.
It is with glorious irony that I entered the halls of Bisnelsel on a fine sunny day, and yet emerge just as the rains of a storm began to fall.
This once majestic city was thought to have been built equal parts above and below the Halcyon Lake by an Ayleid clan who fled north from the great slave uprisings of Cyrodiil early in the first era. Their ruler at that time was one Laloriaran Dynar, who would later become known as the Last King of the Ayleids; that very same ‘Ayleid king’ I met on the haunted battlefields of the Glenumbria Moors.
Some time after the city’s founding however, cultists worshipping the daedric lord of fate and knowledge, Hermaeus Mora, would rise up against Dynar’s ruling family and drive them from their own city. Thousands of years later, and now the spiritual successors to those cultists, the Primal Seekers, have themselves been driven from the crumbling subterranean halls of Bisnensel, by a water spirit and her disciples, seeking knowledge forbidden to mortals.
This spirit, an ancient nereid the Rain Makers call Lorelia, endeavours to create a water stone, a powerful relic that could help foster life here in Mournoth for many thousands of years to come; surely a noble cause?! For the desert to the south is inexorably expanding, and someday it will consume this life sustaining lake along with the verdant forests of Northern Bangkorai and all that live here.
Yet is it not the natural progression for this land to evolve into a desert? Is this spirit of the Halcyon Lake fighting for nature, or against it?
That night another of Molag Bal’s iniquitous anchors fell upon Tamriel at the Mornouth Dolmen in Bangkorai; and that night another group of strangers set aside their colours to unite under a single banner in the defence of Tamriel. It is vital that even up here in the wilds of Northern High Rock, where the Reachmen forge base havoc, and the agents of the Seventh Legion provoke and incite, that no Daedric horn goes unchallenged.
Why do those treacherous worms continue to sacrifice themselves to the dread horns of Coldharbour? Is it fear? Greed? Or perhaps they see the Prince’s wings but not its tail? Whatever the reason for their betrayal of their families and kin, they are as much monsters as the Daedra they summon forth. And as for these Daedric monsters that cannot die, that fight unencumbered by remorse or compassion, we shall fight them all the same, because here on Nirn they are but all flesh and blood.
We must cede not an inch more of Tamriel to Oblivion. For I have witnessed first hand the surrender of the Imperial City to the Daedric cults, and beheld the desolation of the Aswala Stables in the Alik’r. I have walked amongst the Shiven of Coldhabour, I have delved into those most hidden depths where monsters from all parts of Oblivion plot and ploy in the darkest corners of this land. And I have come face to face with an aspect of the Lord of Brutality and the hate I saw reflected in his eyes is most dreadfully remembered.
Not one inch more…