The largest of all the insidious Dark Anchors to fall upon Tamriel during the Planemeld still holds the Imperial City enslaved beneath its repugnant shadow. That most grim night still lives on in my nightmares. That first dread horn echoing across the capitol’s six districts, followed by the crash and grind of iron grapnels that shock the very walls of the city. I could not tell in which district the first fell, but it mattered not for soon a second and third horn bellowed; crash, grind, and then more, from which endless demons poured forth. We tried to fight them back of course, be as the daedric horde kept growing, we were losing the battle for the streets inch by inch. And then our own comrades turned against us and all was lost. Next thing I remember is awakening upon a cold stone slab and the wicked worm king standing over me with impious bodkin in hand… and then emptiness.

Talk amongst the soldiers at the High Rock Gates is that whilst many of the legionaries in the city suffered the same fate as I, some fought on, sacrificing themselves so many citizens could escape the horror. And what’s more, it is rumoured that although the battle was inevitably lost, there are some still within the city who fight on even now. I must know, I must see for myself. The bridges into the city however are buckled by daedric spells, and that same outlandish magic has so riled the waters of Lake Rumare that it is now impossible to cross. Yet I hear from a Breton captain that their sappers managed to establish a forward base within the city’s sewers before the access tunnels were collapsed. So it appears that the only road to the ruby throne is through the sewers… wasn’t it ever thus?

So I am to rely upon Covenant portals to gain access to the Imperial City. As much as I feel at home in Daggerfall, and whilst Emeric’s intentions to restore the Remen empire might be the most tolerable of the three alliance’s ambitions, I hold no loyalty for this Covenant. In truth I do not believe that the High King, who without Wrothgar would hold no crown at all, can win this Three Banners War. Finding Emeric drowning in a mire of self-pity at the mercy of Vaermina’s nightmares, left me feeling that what is cracked is sure to shatter. Yet it is better to share a banner of convenience with a cracked King then to be under the yoke of a drunken Nord, or worse. I do not consider myself a bigot, for many years I served to protect the most cosmopolitan city in all Tamriel, but I’d rather be damned to Oblivion then live under the boots of Elves.

As soon one enters the sewers, the malodorous air begins to weigh heavily upon your lungs. The torches lining the dripping stone walls of the dank tunnels battle against an onerous gloom. But most unsettling of all are the unseen sounds. The footsteps of boot, hoof, and claw from above, the muffled howling, shrieking, and groaning from behind the walls. The scuttling of rats and spiders, the clank and grind of chains. And then there are the sudden winds that chill your bones. Yet the alliances have managed to create bastions of sorts within these sewers. I lived for years in this once great city without ever knowing just how extensive the sewers beneath the streets were; I can’t imagine many did outside bureaucratic or builders circles. And not even they could have predicted that these sewers would become mortals last refuge in the grandest city of them all.

S.K