At the Qharroa ruins in Southern Bangkorai, the esteemed archaeologist Lady Clarisse Laurent conducts important research into the ancient Yokudan culture. Unfortunately for the brilliant Breton vile goblins have overrun one of her camps and monstrous gargoyles roam the rubble strewn grounds. But the Lady has worse news, her hapless assistant Sibbons has somehow managed to get himself solidified into solid rock during one of the Lady’s ingenious alchemical experiments.

The ever magnanimous Lady however appears to be blaming herself for his utterly inconsiderate condition, this is of course ridiculous and totally unacceptable. It does go to show once more however that there seems to be no limits to this Lady’s compassion. She is truly a cut above and no mistake.

I shall endeavour, under the Lady’s instructions, to return her dimwit to flesh and blood, though I don’t understand why she would want him back when she could have me attend her instead.

S.K

The southern Bangkorai city of Hallin’s Stand glows aureately under the morning Hammerfell sun, or some might say the High Rock sun, for this glorious city has long been betwixt and between. Coveted not only for her beauty, but also the essential position she holds on the trade route between High Rock, Cyrodiil and the lands to the south.

But now all claims between Evermore and Sentinel upon the sandstone city are but nugatory, for a new suitor from the south has intruded under treacherous veil and now occupies her nub. Tharn’s Seventh Legion have taken the city, but the Imperial’s hold upon her is unsteady, for her civilians suffer, especially their purses, and Hallin’s Stand seems but a whisper away from insurrection.

For this city was made golden not only by the sun, nor by the taxes extracted from the caravans that stopped for essential water and rest, but also by it’s famed marketplace. Indeed, the very first thing you see when you arrive through the giant gates from the barren world without, is the huge market square filled with stalls covered in opulent bright cloths.

Before the arrival of the Imperials this was a thriving, bustling market where travellers would stock up before attempting to cross the desert north towards High Rock, or the barren lands east though Craglorn. Stalls selling everything from hard breads, shimmering jewels, shining armour, dried meats, pristine linens, and juicy figs all vied for the travellers coin. It is no wonder the city’s markets earned her the nickname, the Golden Oasis.

Now however only Imperial soldiers and beggars can be found wandering the empty stalls, and as the colours of the bright cloths slowly fades into the desert darkness, the oppressive silence that hangs heavy over the city like a thick blanket is finally broken… by a whisper.

S.K

In the underground halls of Rubble Butte deep under the Nilata Ruins in southern Bangkorai a coven of Breton witches are attempting to recreate the Dragon Break. Whilst not wholly successful, they do seem somehow to have created a strange localised time anomaly.

I never put much stock in stories of the Dragon Break, they always seemed to me to be rather too convenient conceptions for scholars to fill in holes in their theories, or to cover up paradoxes or acts of the Divines that they cannot explain. What I witness here in these ruins has still not convinced me of their credibility, but that doesn’t stop me from putting an end to the witch’s rituals.

Mages and sorcerers are always trying to claim their magics can achieve far more then it actually can, just as they flaunt themselves to appear more powerful then they actually are. All those bright lights and elaborate arm waving is mostly just for window dressing; even the famed Imperial Battlemages do it. That of course does not mean that mages aren’t fearsome opponents, but just as to overcome the warrior you must look beyond their shiny armour and polished blade, one must see behind their illusions to overcome the mage.

S.K

At the ancient Aylied Nilata Ruins in South Western Bangkorai, Seventh Legion soldiers from the nearby occupied town of Hallin’s Stand are falling victim to attacks by a plague of giant spiders. Whilst I am vexed by their continued corruption and allegiance to the Worm Cult, they are still my landsmen and I cannot leave them to a fate such as this.

As I battle against the giant arachnids and at the webbing that traps the still breathing legionaries, an unsettling thought occurs to me; what if these soldiers were not Cyrodilic? What if instead they were invading from Ebonheart or Aldmeri? What if they were not men at all but mer, or worse still Nords? Would I be so quick then to risk my own mission and my life to save them, or would I leave them to their fate?

That question seemed to grow ever more pertinent when I discovered the reasons for the spider infestation. A despondent goat herder wanders the ruins and recounts a sorrowful tale that is all too familiar; human weakness played upon by daedra. This wretch has not only lost his goats to the spiders, but also his marriage, and his family for the entertainment of the Webspinner.

Having watched Sheogorath torment one of the greatest mages in all Tamriel, witnessed Vaermina almost bring down a High King and his Covenant, and Molag Bal set his sights upon conquering the whole of Nirn, one would have thought that the daedric prince Mephala would have bigger Snappers to fry then the life of a simple goat herder.

Yet to these daedric princes it matters not whether you are a king or a pauper, an emperor or a herder. They see beyond the wealth and status of mortals, they see beneath our cloths, race, and fidelities. They see only our mortality, and discriminate against none. For the eternal Princes we are all but brief flesh and bone, and the same worm that will dine upon the corpse of an emperor, will the very next night dine upon a beggar.

To the daedra all men and mer are born, live and die equally, and in this respect they prove far more righteous then I.

S.K

I delve ever deeper into the Dwarven city of Klathzgar as I follow in the footsteps of the dead Altmer Pelorrah. He himself was following the fate of Princess Urenenya who life ended a thousand years ago in this very city, but her story did not.

The fates of people shift like the desert sands, and it has ever been the fate of some to uncover lost treasures, and others to become buried alive. But for Princess Urenenya, her fate was for her life and beyond to be conducted by others doing what that they thought best for her. What played out was a most sorrowful concerto where the virtuoso never got to play her own melody.

Perhaps it was the winds of providence that did lead both Pelorrah and myself through the sands to this lost city of Klathzgar, so that the Princess’s soul may finally be laid to rest, and all Aetherius may finally hear her song.

S.K