The flame has gone out at the Crown Point watchtower overlooking the town of Cropsford. The townsfolk see the flame as a sign of good luck, and to lift their spirits I have been asked to relight it. But to what point? The flame will not stop the war, the undead, the goblins or the bandits. The watchtower is no longer manned, and so the flame will just go out again when the weather turns. It is but a superstition born of fear that matters not. What is to be, will be, and no flame will change that. The people would do better concentrating on themselves and staying alive.

I ride on past the watchtower down to the Hedoran Estate. The family who once lived here were killed by bandits and their estate burnt to the ground. Reportedly the bandits have set up camp in the remains of the estate and the Prefect has asked that I recover any valuables I can find in the remains, preferring that the townspeople should profit from ‘What the dead don’t need‘ rather then the bandits. The burnt out estate is a stark reminder that whilst we may blame the current suffering of the Cyrodils on the malevolence of the Daedra, the corruption of nobility, and the greed of the invading Banners. There are just as many villainous citizens of these lands who have turned against their own people.

‘What the dead don’t need’ is a rather pragmatic attitude to hold as a town Prefect. I guess pragmatism is something that grows within us all the longer we suffer war. Perhaps before this Banners war the Prefect might have been aghast at the idea of profiteering from the possessions of their dead neighbours. Maybe now they think that where death was once a shock, one has become accustomed to it, almost to the point where it has become mundane. But death is not something one ever gets used to it. A soldier will tell you they never get used to losing comrades, just like a person who grows old and watches their friends and family die one by one all about them. Each time we lose someone, something dies within us too, sentiment. Whether comrades, friends, family, or neighbours, sentiment withers with each lose, till all that is left is cold, hard, pragmatism… and yet.

And yet the people cling to a superstition, the last remnants of a normal life, a life before this war, before the bandits, the risen dead, and the goblins. The last flicker of light in the darkness all about.

I return to the tower and relight the flame.

S.K