I arrive at the foothills of the White Fall Mountain, the quickest way across it seems is a trail that leads all the way up to the summit. Unbeknownst to me the peak is the home of the giant Malvor, the king of the mountain; well in his mind anyway. I guess they do say that a Kingdom is not a place but a state of mind. As I reach the summit and survey the lands from his mountain home I can see why he might feel like a king.

Giants are not often seen in Cyrodiil nowadays, thy tend to stick to inhospitable mountains and the Northern wilderness. In Skyrim and Orsinium giants are said to be a common sight, often more nomadic and travelling in groups with herds of mammoths between seasonal camps across the lands. Giants in Cyrodiil however tend to be much more solitary, only gathering occasionally at ceremonial sites to trade, and mate, usually away from the prying eyes of man or mer.

The common perception is that they are harmless if left alone, but when disturbed become very territorial and aggressive to perceived intruders, be they man or beast. They seem more tolerant of Nords however, perhaps because of familiarity, or maybe that some Nords consider them but distant cousins. Certainly some Nord maids I have met have shared their grey skin and hairy feet. They seem particularly hostile to elves though. That may be because elvish alchemists in particular prize their toes as an ingredient for their potions, apparently having a positive affect upon ones good health, stamina, and oral hygiene.

Malvor clearly was not expecting any visitors today as he seemed most put out by my presence, greeting me with a swing of his massive club. As I entered the Ayleid entrance which led into a tunnel down though and eventually out of the mountain, I contemplated his demise. A solitary king is never safe, for whether in the own mind or worn atop the head, it takes but a sceptered blade to sever crown from pate.

S.K

The Quickwater Cave within the Cheydinhal Foothills is now but another camp for the bandit gand known as the Black Daggers, who are well known throughout the Heartlands having plagued the northern Colovian countryside for many, many years. Recently however, perhaps due to the fracturing of the Legions, or simply guile and knavery amidst the chaos of war, they have managed to expand their operations throughout Cyrodiil. The focus of this particular group seems to be the town of Cheydinhal. Perhaps the town’s Imperial garrison and armed militia might sombre their ambition, if only they could just stop fighting each other.

The cave itself seems much like any other, a dark and shadowy place that’s oddly warm when it’s cold out and cold when it’s warm. A place where you can find or lose yourself depending on your heart. And a place that can be filled with monsters, and yet is far more horrible to man when it is full of emptiness and nothingness. But this particular cave does have one unique feature. To reach its deepest caverns one must be willing to get a little wet, by diving through a whirlpool.

I have speculated before that the Black Daggers might have a nefarious contact or two rousing their efforts to undermine this province, and the presence of a rather large Daedroth within the deepest caverns certainly suggests that the bandits are either working for, or with, a Daedic prince. Alas for the Black Daggers, for even the most bladdered Nord scholar will teach that the only safe alliance is when each party is equally afraid of the other. Pity the skeever that befriends the hungry wolf to raid the sheep’s pen.

S.K

To the south of Cheydenhal lies Vahtacen, an Ayleid ruin reputedly swarming with skeletons and wraiths, the risen husks of its former inhabitants. These undead monsters have of late been seen wandering out of their ruins as far as the lake, searching for fishermen, travellers, or lost Bannermen to drag back into the depths of the catacombs to place upon the alter of their master, a powerful lich known only as The Faceless.

In everyday life most people seem content to be faceless in a sea of faceless people. In the Legions we were taught the philosophy of being faceless soldiers for the greater good of the empire. And the undead skeletons and wraiths that haunt these ruins are nowt but faceless creatures who fight with neither enmity nor anger, and without conscience. What really is the difference between any of us?

It was only when I regained my soul in The Colored Rooms that I realized that the reason I was faceless was because I had no hope. You see hope, like beauty is all around us but you have to learn to recognize it. Once you began to recognize hope, you began to find purpose and meaning, even when others argue that none exists. And hope breeds courage, the courage to challenge the beliefs and assumptions of yourself and others, and the courage to face the world with yours eyes and heart wide open. Only then can you start carving order out of the chaos and make your mark, becoming a face that people remember.

I’d love to say that I entered these ruins on some noble cause, searching for an ancient lost wisdom perhaps, or on a quest to find some relic to help the people of Cheydenhal survive this endless war, or even just to overcome the undead menace within. But no, this is purely a treasure hunt, a selfish enterprise in search for any ancient relics I can find to fulfil the greed of Vyctoria Girien, and thus fill my pockets with gold. My face is that of a mercenary, not a saint.

S.K

Whilst returning to Cheydinhal, I hear a shriek from a secluded cave beneath a waterfall. Not the call of a bird or beast, but an unnatural howl, both sorrowful and anguished. Warily I enter the black cavern and in the distance spy a pair of crimson eyes piercing through the darkness at me. For a brief moment they shine like rubies in moonlit pools before vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Whisperings and faint wails lure me ever deeper into the caverns, till finally I discover the figure of a man hunched over another.

Closer still, and I discern the famished stare of one accursed by their own slavery to life’s warm-blood; a vampire. It’s blazing eyes and scarlet lips glimmer in the torch light, in stark contrast to its ghoulishly pale cheeks. It’s unhallowed claws tearing at the bloody shrouds of a still breathing priest of Arkay. The vampire is cursed to only ever know peace when the blood of another fills its heart. And contrary to the fanciful bard songs, vampires don’t tend to nibble upon the necks of their victims, they tear and render the flesh, suckling the blood and gore from each chunk.

S.K