I guess I never believed that a daedra could be capable of feeling love. In fact I never considered them capable of any mortal like emotion whatsoever. Even their remarkable capacity for cruelty is not born from emotions like hatred or jealousy, but from antipathy and necessity.

And yet here atop the tower at the Spurned Peak in western Coldharbour I find Stibbins, the bungling servant of the renowned archaeologist Lady Clarisse Laurent, held captive by a Winged Twilight who appears to have become somewhat infatuated with him.

As with everything in Coldharbour, daedric love seems to be but a debauched reflection of what mortals experience upon Nirn. It is raw and elemental, callow, relentless and obdurate. Nothing else seems to matter to this besotted daedra, not even whether her captive requites her love or not, just so long as she can possess him.

Yet as with mortal love, it will inevitably end in heartbreak… only in a rather more literal sense.

S.K

From the sludgy pit to the claw-like craggy pinnacle, I battle though the hateful Ogrim, Watchers and Dremora of the Tower of Lies, and make good my escape to the nearby Hollow City. With me I bring a handful of Fighter’s Guild members, who themselves bring with them hope. For though we are still too few, it is not how many, but who. For both the Fighters and Mages guilds are represented on this most dismal realm by the many races of Tamriel. And it is in their diversity, both in contrast and harmony, that our best hope rests.

For our hope is the hymn sung by Tamriels heart. It is in the first buds of spring on a Wrothgar bluff, and in a cradle shaped bough of Hist deep in the marsh. It is in the rain clouds brewing on the horizon of Hammerfell, and in a verdant meadows beyond the mountains of ash. It is in the Elf maidens aria sung in an Alinor court, and in the sweet morning dew beneath the shade of Grahtwood. It is in the many hued rainbow after a Glenumbra storm, and in the campfires of Colovia burning dusk to dawn. It is in the purr upon your pillow under an Elsweyr tent, and in Kynareth lights dancing across a Skyrim night.

S.K

I found her contradictions compelling. Like every Dremora I’ve had the misfortune to encounter, her countenance was hard, sharp, and cruel, yet she was feminine and alluring still. She was charmingly acerbic, indelicately graceful, and playfully pernicious. Overbearing, patronizing, and contemptuous throughout, yet from her first guttural word till her last I found myself  prisoner, bound and fettered by my own fascination. I could perhaps grasp at a hundred painted adjectives, yet still fail to express just how she captivated me so, or why for days after her smallest gestures still haunts my every moment of contemplation. It is enough to say, I found her hideously compelling.

S.K

Just to the west of the Hollow city can be found the Tower of Lies, only there is no tower to be seen, just a huge gaping hole in the ground. I could not tell you whether there was ever a tower, for no evidence can be found, but the daedra are not generally famed for their wit or irony; although I hear tell that dremora can be savagely mordant on occasion. Whatever was here in the past, it is now but another deep Coldharbour prison, that its captives are forced to mine, and in the process bury themselves ever deeper into their own confinement. Perhaps the daedra know of irony after all.

All but one captive however, for an Orc stands apart, and the daedra seem to be making no attempt to force him to moil. As I come closer I recognise him as Skordo the Knife whom I freed from a Montclair cage back in Shornhelm, and who later proved his worth in the liberation of Northpoint.

I remember Skordo well, but he does not seem to remember me, or what I did for him. I guess that is just the Orsimer way. If you save the life of an Orc, once he has grunted his appreciation do not expect a pledge of a debt of honour or lifelong bond, or even warm greetings or recognition thereafter. For he has moved on, and so should you.

S.K

I arrive at the Lightless Oubiette, a Daedric mockery of the White-Gold Tower that’s only purpose seems to be for the eternal imprisonment of servants of Meridia; or ‘the Shining Bitch’ as she is affectionately known around these parts.

The sole detainee I find turns out to be none other then the legendary Ayleid King Laloriaran Dynar, who has been held captive by the darkness for almost three thousand years. And yet I met him not so long ago on the ancient battle-torn moors of Glenumbra, when the Mages Guild took me a step back in time to discover how to overcome the murderous Camlorn Were-beast Faolchu. I wrote of him that ‘I do not believe I have ever met man nor mer possessed of such dignity and equanimity.’ Three thousand years hence, and I stand by that statement still.

And so I make my return to the Hollow City together with the Last King of the Ayleids, and armed with the knowledge that however much we may be afraid of the dark, these creatures of darkness have far more reason to fear the light.

S.K