At the Fallen Grotto in western Bangkorai, The Glenmoril Wyrd’s temple has been lost to the Reachmen, and with it the favour of their Daedric Lord Hircine. The Wyress Nyronie surrendered her still beating heart in a self-forgetting act, and now it is my turn. Though not my life, I am sacrificing my pride as I dance around this grotto to the Huntsman’s flute.

People talk of pride like it is a bad thing, but ever since my soul was stolen it is all I have had to grasp onto. It is my only reason for waking, the impetus for every step I take, and the motive for every battle I fight. It is also the one thing I have in common with this Daedric Prince.

Through his statue Hircine’s pompous baritone demands that I chase this, and hunt that. I grow weary of playing the puppet to the conceit of these Daedric Lords. This Hircine is proving about as onerous as the mad God Sheogorath, only without the smile.

My one solace in this vexing hunt is that I shall eventually get to face the insidious Reachman Brinarch one on one. To achieve him I must rip the Briar Heart from his chest and return it to the Huntsman’s statue… Again with the hearts, what is this obsession?

I had never considered it before, but perhaps it is that these Princes of Oblivion lack a heart, metaphysically speaking. Mayhap for all their divinity, power, and immortality, they are jealous of our mortal hearts, for without fear of death they cannot feel as mortals do.

They may display affection as an Argonian would to a pet guar, but they have never felt love, or felt loved. They are prone to displays of irritation and anger with mortals, but they know not passion. And of course they know not heart-ache either, nor sorrow, anguish or dismay. Our mortal hearts punish us equally for living too bold, and not boldly enough; and in the end we make measure of our lives by the wounds of our hearts.

Oh, see how swiftly doth my mortal heart turn mine anger to pity for this Daedric Lord. What say your pride to that Huntsman?

S.K

The road west of Bangkorai Garrison’s High Rock gate comes to an end at a secluded grove which some locals have nicknamed, The Bear’s Dale. 

Few know it’s real name or why so many of the usually solitary beasts are drawn here, but all know that it belongs to the Glenmoril Wyrd, and as such no hunter, fisher, or rambler will dare set foot. This Dale however is not simply home to a large sleuth of bears, it is in fact the Wyrd’s temple to their daedric lord Hircine; or at least it was. For the dale has fallen to the Reachmen from the north, and the bears that once guarded the grotto on the Wyrd’s behalf have now turned against them. It seems Hircine’s favour has been lost, and I have been asked by the Wyrd to aid them in performing a task which goes against my every sentiment and morality.

And though I stand with bodkin in hand, I wont do it.

The path to regaining Hircine’s favour begins with a sacrifice, it always begins with a sacrifice. Wyress Nyronie, who was responsible for the grotto when it was lost to the Reachmen, has offered her life in penance. They wish me to play a part in their barbaric ceremony, by cutting her still beating heart from her chest and offering it up to the Huntsman.

And though I stand with bodkin in hand, I wont do it.

These wyrd value not individual life as a mortal should; no-ones, not even their own. I have witnessed their zealotry throughout the Viridian Woods, they are as much a cult as the Worms or the Bloodthorns. They believe we exist only to serve nature and whilst it is indeed a noble thing to dedicate ones life to a cause, there is nothing honourable in forcing your beliefs upon others. The Wyrd mindlessly adhere to a dogma that nature itself does not follow. The bears attack to protect their territory and to feed, not to defend an ideology, and yet the Wyrd do not hesitate to take a life to defend theirs, and expect me to do the same.

And though I stand with bodkin in hand, I wont do it.

If I sacrifice this girl to Hircine I will be condoning the deed. These daedrac Lords deserve not a single sacrifice from mortals, for they gave nothing of themselves for us. If I do this, if I do as this girl begs and take her life to appease the bloodlust of a daedric prince, then I am no better then damned Hircine.

And though I stand with bodkin in hand, I do it.

There are those who write that the means by which we achieve are equally as important as our achievements themselves. But I’ll wager they have never had to make a such a choice as this. Sometimes we must sacrifice our sentiment and morality, for a thousand more.

If I do not the Reachman would win the Briar Heart they lust for, becoming almost invincible, and Bangkorai would be at their savage mercy. Their brethren to the North would muster once more, and with the garrison already lost to the Seventh Legion, the Reachmen would quickly swallow up the North, and Evermore and all her people would fall.

Perhaps there are similarities between the sacrifice made by Saint Pelin atop the battlements of the Garrison, and Wyress Nyronie’s at this Fallen Grotto; only the difference being that Nyronie’s will not be remembered. She will not be made a saint, bards will not sing of her honourable deed, scholars will not pen her name in their histories, and the priests will not dedicate a chapel in her name or a royal graveyard in her honour. And yet her sacrifice today may save as many, if not more lives then St Pelin’s did thousands of years ago.

S.K

I arrive at the crumbling ruins of Arlimahera’s Grip to find my theory, that it was from here that the Seventh Legion had been launching their raids upon the outpost at Martyr’s Crossing, quickly dispelled. The ruins of the fortress have been completely overrun by Xivilai and Banekin, so many in fact, that I think even Imperial necromancers would baulk at the prospect of crossing these grounds.

As I climb a tower to better survey the ruined fortress, I spy a group of hooded figures approaching a remote stone dolmen in the southern-most courtyard; the insidious Worm Cult are preparing another sacrifice. Perhaps Arlimahera’s Grip is just another example of what happens when the Dark Anchors of Coldharbour go unanswered for too long.

The fortress itself however was but a ruin long before these daedra arrived. Almost 200 years ago Arlimahera, the ‘Blood Queen’ of Hegathe, lead an army north across the vast wastelands to conquer the province of Bangkorai. That the border between High Rock and Hammerfell now stands just south at the Bangkorai Pass perhaps points to the fate of her venture.

As for the Xivilai now prowling the ruins, their intentions are far less perceptible then the Blood Queen’s. Tall and burly with two horns, piercing yellow eyes full of contempt, and blue skin that shimmers under the light of Masser and Secunda. Whilst far less coordinated then their more militaristic cousins, the Dremora, it is their self-serving, unpredictability that makes them just as fearsome an adversary. Traditionally wielding huge battleaxes, they are also believed to be very adept in all schools of magic, and many of the vile Banekin that now scamper wildly between the fallen stones were probably summoned by the Xivilai themselves.

It is unclear what the Xivilai’s intentions are here, but in a deep sanctum within the ruins I, and a small band of like-minded delvers, discover a particularly large and powerful Xivilai performing dark ritual. Maybe she is a champion of the Xivilai, perhaps a leader, or mayhap just a puppet for another with far darker schemes. The only thing clear at Arlimahera’s Grip, is that she must be stopped.

S.K

Just south from the Breton outpost at Martyr’s Crossing I stumble across a small camp where an Imperial Mage has successfully summoned a large daedric watcher from the realms of Oblivion. The tentacled creature with many eyes appears to float docile before the summoner as she attempts by binding spell to impose her will upon it.  

Growing up in rural Cyrodiil my parents raised me to have an almost Nordic distrust of mages and their magicka. Yet as I grew older and began to travel throughout the province, I quickly learnt that my parents attitude was rather parochial and that, especially in larger towns where magicka was an everyday source used by healers, becoming a mage was considered about as honourable an occupation as a scholar or a banker. And of course later, whilst serving in the Legion, I began training to control magicka myself, in the ancient Akaviri martial arts tradition.

Battle Mages of the Imperial army were among the most feared people in all Cyrodiil, and yet also perhaps the most fascinating. When the Legions would pass through our town on their way to campaign in some far flung lands, every child would line the streets, not to cheer the legionnaire’s march, but in hope of catching a glimpse of those almost mythical, enigmatic figures. Only we would be left feeling disappointed when instead of seeing some effervescent figure, riding on a back of huge daedric clanfear or elemental beast, full of pomp and grandiosity, we would instead see but a rather unvarnished, solemn looking hooded figure riding upon a dull bay horse, looking utterly disinterested in the world about.

Despite my recent experiences working closely with the Mages Guild, I still retain a distrust for any who dabble in the school of conjuration, that arcane art of summoning creatures from Oblivion into Nirn. Why would one invite such horrors into your homelands? Is it solely to satisfy a lust of power, or a comfort to the wretched to have a companion in their misery? For me, the act of turning a barbaric daedra into an obedient dog, is but a small step away from vile necromancy.

Some say that once the doorway to Oblivion has been opened within you, it remains forever ajar. Summoners argue that men who fear Oblivion see Oblivion everywhere, and that conjuration is little more dangerous then attempting to control the elements of Nirn. To them I say this, be sure your daedric thrall dies before you do; because the moment you exhale your last breath, your thrall returns home to Oblivion, and who knows what part of you it will take with it.

S.K

The Breton outpost at Martyr’s Crossing in Bangkorai has been raided 3 times in recent days by Imperial pillagers. The Knights that protect the camp are but the remnants of the Order of Saint Pelin, who were forced to retreat from the Bangkorai Garrison when it fell to the Septima Tharn’s infamous Seventh Legion. They have more wounded now then capable and are relying upon support from a band of Baandari merchants to defend their camp. But their supplies are almost gone and soon they will be forced into retreat once again.

The raiders are coming across the lake in boats at night, which means the Imperials have outflanked the Breton knights, either coming from the Viridian Woods to the North, or they have found a clandestine path through the ruins of Arlimahera’s Grip to the east. Either way the Bretons have once again been out-manoeuvred by the superior strategists of the Legion.

There are few that can match the tactical acumen of the Imperial strategist, even a maverick legion like the Seventh takes most pride in a battle won in the measure. Whilst in training for the Legion in Cyrodiil, I remember a plaque on the wall of the barracks which read; ‘To win a war one needs a strong arm to fight it, a strong mind to plan it, and a strong heart that will neither seek death nor flee from it.’

The Baandari people meanwhile are not famed for their benevolence, so it is a wonder that they have stayed so long within a camp that is almost certainly lost. Especially given that this is not their fight, and they’re own losses to the raids are going uncompensated.

But the Baandari are nothing if not pragmatic, for the outpost at Martyr’s Crossing protects the main trade route between High Rock and all of Hammerfell. Not only that, there are rumours that the Orcs of Wrothgar are rebuilding grand Orsinium once again. That would mean an influx of craftsman, labourers, artisans, and merchants from all over Tamriel heading north towards the Merchants Gate; and all will need to pass through the outpost at Martyr’s crossing.

If together they can last the night then there is hope yet, for word has reached the camp that the Lions of Stormhaven have crossed the Bjoulsae.

S.K