“Doom has come to Craglorn!” yelled the Star-gazer, “Doom!”

If ever there were a city founded upon a bedrock of foreboding, then it is Belkarth. For was not Belkarth built as a waypoint for the wayward, a shelter for the fugitives and outlaws fleeing from Cyrodiil and High Rock? And indeed, has the city not prospered ever since upon the purses of unscrupulous merchants, thieves, and smugglers?

Even today as I took my first steps from the cart, dodging the numerous charging horses, guar and senche, looking about the streets all I see are mercenaries and soldiers of fortune. Blades and staves for hire for whom violence is usually the first resort.

Sand blown in by the strong winds from the surrounding rocky crags rage through the streets like a drunk Nord screaming in a tavern, and my clothes, hair and throat are soon covered in dust. I cross the open bazaar in the middle of town but do not tarry to browse or barter, for the traders stalls here are strictly for the caravans and travellers. The true trade of Belkarth takes place at the notorious City’s Edge Stalls on the outskirts, away from the prying eyes of Belkarth’s guards and bailiffs.

And beyond the bazaar sits the infamous Crossroads Tavern where I hope to find myself board and lodgings. My chances though are slim, for Belkarth is a fugitive place, the kind of place where everybody is from somewhere else. Full of people who are either chasing dreams, or running from nightmares; and everybody keeps their bags packed, just in case.

S.K