The time has come for us to take the fight to Molag Bal. Armed with resolute defiance and shielded by our indomitable spirit, we begin our offensive with an assault upon the Chasm. Navigable only by the heavily guarded bridges and through fortified portals, it is the only passage for us between the southern regions and the north of Coldharbour.

It is whilst crossing these bridges that we are able to see just how close the the Prince of Brutalities daedric forces had come to the Hollow City. Could the Lights of Merida have forever held back the darkness, or was it but a matter of time? They were certainly close enough to spy our intent, but in truth, once the great shackle had fallen they must have known we would come… we had to come. For is it not a far better fate to die on our feet than to live on our knees?

So led by that Breton peacock, Darien Gaultier, and the Lizard hero Walks-in-Ash, we set upon our immortal adversaries with a savagery that can only be mustered by those who know what it is to fight for their lives. Eventually we are able to push our way through to the doors of the Gatehouse, inside which we find the leader of this host, Molag Grunda, rumoured to be a daughter of Molag Bal.

It is only a short while ago such a venture as this would have been beyond us. Though we are still few compared to the daedric host, our numbers have been significantly bolstered of late by those members of the guilds coming through the portals from Tamriel. And also by the many adventurers, who like myself, escaped from the Wailing Prison during the uprising, but have found themselves ineluctably drawn, seemingly by shared destiny, back to this accursed realm.

S.K

We arrive somewhat dispirited back in the Hollow City. How swiftly the sweet taste of victory had turned sour In the Black Forge with the revelation that we were too late to prevent the Planar Vortex. However, returning to see the rebirth of this ancient city, albeit in a different era, a different realm, and with a different people, is heartening to us all.

From all across this accursed realm, the lost, the forsaken, the captured, the foolish, and the betrayed have been drawn like moths to Merida’s lights, and to what is perhaps mortals last safe haven in all of Coldharbour. And with the mages guild now opening their portals, fresh supplies, traders, tradesmen, and the foolhardy seeking fame, fortune and adventure, have began to arrive from Tamriel.

A meeting is held in the opulent Chapel of Light to discuss how we are to proceed upon the morrow. It is the kind “officer’s tent” meeting on the eve of battles that the common soldiery would usually scoff at around our campfires. For at this too late an hour there is nothing new that can be learnt, and nothing more that can be resolved; we know too well our duty. Once more we must set our faces towards the danger, bulwark our spirits with courage, and buttress our hearts for sacrifice.

Yet what I discover is there really is little difference between the officers tent and the soldiers campfire. For none of us expect to see sunset on the morrow. Those who will aim to keep alive will find nowt but a wretched and dishonourable death, whilst those that accept the convicted fate of the mortal, will make it their endeavour to die with honour. This is all but a final chance to say our silent goodbyes.

S.K

The Moorings of the Great Shackle of Coldharbour. Never had I imagined such monstrous power, and much like its daedric laird, it is a power wholly without conscience or empathy. We must risk our all to stop it here and now whilst we have the opportunity. For mortals, whose whole life is but a flicker of a candle to a Daedric Prince, opportunity is the most precious of all things; and with every opportunity comes responsibility, not necessarily to achieve, but to try.

Responsibility to the next whom they send against this machine, who will likely be less capable then us. Responsibility to the many thousands who stood side by side, back to back with their Banner enemies under the shadows of the Dark Anchors to hold back the Planemeld. Responsibility to the lost members of the guilds whose bodies now litter the azure wastes of Coldharbour. And responsibility to all our family and friends who back in Tamriel know not what comes.

It is our responsibility to hold back the daedra whilst the great mage Vanus Galerion sets his mind to destroying the Shackle. Two portals open from which wave upon wave of hawkish creatures emerge. We fight and hold the line again and again, and eventually the machine begins to crumble. Finally with crash and blast it collapses, destroying the portals and our triumph is heralded by the most vociferous silence I have ever heard.

But alas we are too late… The Planar Vortex, the convergence of our two worlds, has already began. We have achieved the impossible, and yet we have achieved nothing.

S.K

There is no other way now but forward. Molag Bal’s vampires and daedra will be regrouping behind us, and it cannot be long before the vile prince sends reinforcements. So on, on, in the hope that we may achieve together what the great mage alone could not.

Fortunately we make some unlikely allies in the tunnels surrounding the Great Shackle. Sage Tirora and Treva are two Nords from the Rift who were victims of Reachmen and cultists. Together with the improbable knight Sir Cadwell, this most motley crew now stand the very doors of the Moorings of the Great Shackle.

An arrogant mage, two deceased Nords, a befuddled knight, and a soulless legionnaire, surely such a curious band as we cannot hope to bring down the Lord of Brutality’s most prized contrivance; yet here we stand together, perhaps Tamriel’s best, last chance. Maybe it is the fewer the better, for if we had arrived at the Black Forge with an army, we would no doubt have been met by an army in kind. Maybe we are exactly the few that are needed.

Some might call it destiny, others fate, others still serendipity. I would have happily gone along with any of those explanations for our unlikely circumstance… until Cadwell showed up. Now I strongly suspect providence. A Divine hand of one who would take much pleasure from the sabotaging of Molag Bal’s greatest machination. Even if we are somehow to survive this day, I do not believe we will ever know the why.

S.K

The three circling orbs of light lead me through the tunnels of the Black Forge towards their master, the essences of Vanus Galerion seemingly as desperate to reunite with their corporeal patriarch, as he is with them. However, I find standing between the literal heart-warming reunion is the feared dremoran leader Kothutuik and his pet Clannfear. Ever noble to his ignoble command, for a dremora to ascend to such a high position of responsibility in their martial society, is to climb over the bodies of those ahead.

It is the very pride and arrogance of the immortal dremora that makes them such formidable foes, but is also their greatest weakness. For their lack of mortal humility has led to an inability to learn from the failures and successes of themselves and others. It is perhaps too shallow a thing to say that once you have conquered one dremoran warlord you have conquered them all. Yet it is certainly true that all those I have faced in battle have been most akin in both strengths and weaknesses. Mortals only learn to survive by learning from from those who didn’t. I suspect if all dremora were made mortal for a day, they would be near extinct by sunset.

That Galerion survived capture and endured for so long is indeed impressive, but more so is that once made whole again, he is determined to push forward with his mission. Has he never heard of the old Redguard saying, ‘You don’t drown by falling in the water, you drown by staying there.’ It is here perhaps we find the starkest difference between mortal and dremora. For a mortal hero is one willing to sacrifice themselves so that others survive, the dremoran hero only survives by sacrificing others.

S.K