I was puzzled as to where his battalions were. Travelling through the bitter southern reaches of Coldharbour I have encountered only small groups of Dremora, packs of roaming wild daedra here and there, and even the odd elemental creature; but not the armies of demons that we had been expecting to face.

I had begun to fear what might be lying in wait for us to the north, or if whilst we were scattered across these azure wastes, Molag Bal may have already directed his forces in renewed assault upon Tamriel. Perhaps it might be that the Lord of Brutality holds our incursion in such contempt that he simply expects the wilds of Coldharbour to devour us before we have the chance to muster.

But finally in this border-realm of the Village of the Lost, I find the daedra amassed in number. A legion of the fiends consigned to rout these stolen townships. I wonder just how many of these border-realms there actually are, and how much of Molag Bal’s hellion forces has he committed to subjugating them.

The Village of the Lost is indeed a nightmare vision of what awaits Tamriel should the Planemeld succeed, and yet strangely it is also a place from which Tamriel can educe hope. Because if the daedra are here in number, then they cannot be elsewhere, for whilst these daedra are indeed eternal, they are not infinite. It is ironic perhaps that our best opportunity of defeating this enemy may well be provided by the enemy himself.

S.K

During my search for the Black Forge I discover a secluded portal which led to what appears to be a sub-realm of Coldharbour. Floating all about in the opaque skies above and the Azure Plasm below, are pieces of what were once Tamriel. I chance upon Mezha-dro, a Khajiit follower of Meridia, and learn the stolen archipelago is actually made up of what were once three villages; a Dunmer town named Silver Run, a Khajitti hamlet called Khaj’yahai, and the Orc stronghold of Dushnikh’s Shadow.

Together we attempt to seal several tears in the fabric of Oblivion to prevent any further townships from being dragged into this rapacious realm. As we journey from breach to breach we discover that betrayal and treason lie behind the demise of each of the villages.

It is an all too familiar ballad, an orchestration of treachery playing upon the ambitions of men, mer and beast-folk alike, who will willingly sell out their own kind for what turns out to be worth little more then a Baandari bargain. It is the weakness of mortals that is Molag Bal’s greatest strength.

S.K

There was an old Cyrodilic saying back home that went, ‘you have not witnessed true desperation and helplessness till you have seen a Nord in love with a barmaid’. Well as it turns out in Coldharbour, a Nord too much in love with their mead is a far worse thing.

But there is something wicked behind this seemingly bottomless thirst of the patrons of the Everfull Flagon, and it comes as no surprise to discover that it all began with a foolish bargain made with a daedra.

S.K

In the Eastern region of Coldharbour known as Black Garrison, I discover what appears to be a Nordic barrow set into the Eastern hills. I begin exploring the close, dusty corridors, wondering just who keeps the candles and braziers alight, when a draugr stumbles out from a nearby sarcophagus and raises it’s ancient sword against me.

As I delve deeper, more and more draugr rise to challenge me at every turn. I was led by the songs of bards to believe the draugr to be ineffectual, slow-witted, and capable of staggering about at barely the pace of a drunken Nord. They are certainly as hideous as the tales describe, their corpse-pale skin stretched taut over their skeletal remains, and they reek of decay; and they do indeed shamble like a merry Nord. But they are also quick to attack, unhindered by fear or qualm, and fierce in both blade and spell.

What possible use could Molag Bal have for a Nordic Barrow in Coldharbour? The draugr that roam the corridors are already undead, so they have no souls to harvest. And they are pledged in death only to the master of the Barrow itself, usually a Dragon Priest, so what use could they be as slaves? Eventually I find the answers in a book which tells the tragic tale of Haman Forgefire, a famed blacksmith who was murdered by a rival whose jealousy of his success led her to making a foolish bargain with the God of Schemes.

Jealousy, that worst of all emotions that blinds the mind and strikens the heart to believe everything it fears to be true. It is the mother of tragedies, murders, and wars, and it poisons victim and malefactor both. Thus now the legendary blacksmith is condemned to spend forevermore wandering this barrow in Coldharbour, and his jealous rival is just another of harvested soul.

S.K

I’m not sure that the Dremora have quite grasped the concept of games, for what is the point of playing a game you cannot win, and where is the challenge if you cannot lose.

At the Cliffs of Failure when things began to look like they were going against the Observer, he simply changed the rules mid-game. If I am going to lose everything, then I’d rather do so whilst drunk on wine and at the mercy of a pretty elf maiden’s smile.

Yet if there is one thing I’ve learnt since I first meet that blind old man in the prison is that in a life where there exists fate, luck, and Daedric Princes, there are no certainties… well, apart from the roll of Baandari dice of course… and whilst fate can be a bitch no doubt, she does seem to favour the fearless.

S.K