In the Eastern region of Coldharbour known as Black Garrison, I discover what appears to be a Nordic barrow set into the Eastern hills. I begin exploring the close, dusty corridors, wondering just who keeps the candles and braziers alight, when a draugr stumbles out from a nearby sarcophagus and raises it’s ancient sword against me.

As I delve deeper, more and more draugr rise to challenge me at every turn. I was led by the songs of bards to believe the draugr to be ineffectual, slow-witted, and capable of staggering about at barely the pace of a drunken Nord. They are certainly as hideous as the tales describe, their corpse-pale skin stretched taut over their skeletal remains, and they reek of decay; and they do indeed shamble like a merry Nord. But they are also quick to attack, unhindered by fear or qualm, and fierce in both blade and spell.

What possible use could Molag Bal have for a Nordic Barrow in Coldharbour? The draugr that roam the corridors are already undead, so they have no souls to harvest. And they are pledged in death only to the master of the Barrow itself, usually a Dragon Priest, so what use could they be as slaves? Eventually I find the answers in a book which tells the tragic tale of Haman Forgefire, a famed blacksmith who was murdered by a rival whose jealousy of his success led her to making a foolish bargain with the God of Schemes.

Jealousy, that worst of all emotions that blinds the mind and strikens the heart to believe everything it fears to be true. It is the mother of tragedies, murders, and wars, and it poisons victim and malefactor both. Thus now the legendary blacksmith is condemned to spend forevermore wandering this barrow in Coldharbour, and his jealous rival is just another of harvested soul.

S.K