If anything, the Wyrd sisters I meet outside an old Ayleid ruin in Bangkorai are even more brusque and boorish then the Beldama Wyrd of Glenumbra. They care little for the affairs of men and mer so long as it doesn’t encroach upon their forests. For them, Evermore is as an unwelcome and untrustworthy a neighbour as the Orcs of Wrothgar, or the Witchmen of High Rock.

Yet even they now see the threat posed to their lands by the vile Reach magics being practised in the fields of the Northglen Farm, as their own ancient Wyrd magics fail to repel it. The insatiable hunger of the Bloodthorn zombies being raised by these Dark Witnesses would soon gorge upon all life in their Viridian Woods like a pack of starved skeevers in a Bosmer’s pantry.

S.K

To the northeast of Evermore, a tribe of Reachmen have overrun the Northglen farmstead and are almost at the very gates of the city. For now Captain Eugien Gaercroft and his guard are valiantly holding the Northern road against them.

They came under the cover of darkness catching the guards unprepared. One would have expected at least one or two of the civilians to have survived the attack and fled to the city, but none came. Scouts were sent into the night including the Captain’s own daughter to rescue any survivors and discover what foul acts the Reachmen were performing in the fields, but by morning they have not returned either.

Without relief I fear how much longer the guard can stand against the the squall of the Reach and an ever increasing army of Bloodthorn zombies gathering in such numbers that I’ve not seen since the blight at Eagle’s Brook.

S.K

Upon the bulwarks of Evermore,
on the banks of the Bjoulsae;
where Pelin’s noble sacrifice,
is remembered to this day.
The dark clouds are now gathering,
like a black flag cross the moons;
and all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

The Queen mourns in her chapel,
black spirited from cap-a-pe;
whilst her people pray through the night,
for the dawning of the day.
And the blind faith of a handmaiden,
leads us towards the deepening gloom;
and all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

The Enemy of my adversary,
and a truce that tastes most foul;
yet peck and claw of murdering crows,
lays bare the spies of Cyrodiil.
A queen roused now to vengeance,
a city rallies to her bloody plume;
yet still all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

S.K