At a Yokudan ruins on the beaches of the Alik’r, where in the first era the Ra Gada made landing in their invasion of mainland Hammerfell, an Imperial scholar searches for the weapon of the legendary Sword-Singer Navid.  Scholars travel the length and breadth of the land collecting relics of Tamrielic history that they display like works of art to be savoured by only the few in private collections, but this cursed relic would not sit safely in some wooden cabinet in a Colovian manor, and is perhaps better lost to antiquity.

Sword-singers were an order of Yokudan blade-masters who, it is claimed, became so dedicated to their martial philosophy that they could manifest a sword in their hand by sheer force of his or her will.  This sounds fanciful, although it is accepted that they were masters at tempering the blades they forged with powerful magics.

However Navid’s blade was initially formed it is clear that the weapon he left behind became tainted by the invidious and injurious fate of its creator.  In an impetuous act birthed of jealousy and spite, Navid slew his good friend and life-long ally Ihlqub over his love of the beautiful Sayeedeh.  When Sayeedah heard the news she took her own life, and Navid drowned in his guilt.

Yet after his death, others sought to claim his prized weapon, only to fall victim to the ethereal blade of Ihlqub himself.  Now they are cursed to covert the weapon from beyond the veil, and they will never stop chasing it, for they cannot be killed, only put to rest again, and again.

Even the ghost of Nevid now fears his own blade, and when even the dead are afraid, then you know you have a problem.

S.K

Hiding amongst the rocks of the wild Hammerfell coastline, the ever hostile Lamia can prove too much of a challenge for even well-armoured adventurers.  Whilst these serpentine beasts are mostly water-dwelling, they will often come ashore to prey upon unwitting men and mer.  Carnivorous and avaricious, they waste not a morsel of their victims, making feast upon flesh, organ, and bone.

With the appearance of a serpent in head and muscled tail, their torso inexplicitly resembles that of a woman; including breasts which surely have little purpose for a reptilian.  It is suggested by some however that their female form is but illusive, and together with their sweet, soporific song, is but a lure to males of all species, coaxing them towards the shallows and into their clutch.

Indeed, the Lamia are reputed to be a semi-intelligent species, even capable of speaking Tamrielic with their forked tongues.  Certainly they are capable of the language of magic, which they utilize effectively in combat, together with cacophonous shrieking that can debilitate and disorientate, and powerful claws that can shred leather and bone.

S.K

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The Northern shores of the Alik’r are littered with the shipwrecks of mariners, smugglers and pirates who foolhardily risked the rocky jawline of Iliac Bay.  Amidst all the deadwood and debris Salmaran, a necromancer of the Withered Hand cult, performs vile ritual to raise the drowned from the seafloor and direct their carnivorous voracity against the Redguard of Sentinel.

Salmaren is grotesque, his body so twisted and corrupted by the magics he attempts to manipulate, he now resembles the very wretches he raises from the depths of the bay.  His ash-mottled skin is stretched taut across his ghoulish face, his lips as blue as the waters, set firm in rigid snarl.  This is the price mortals must pay for swimming in such dark waters as necromancy.  One only need look Northwards to the Hags of the Reach for further evidence of such a toll.

In much the same way that the gladiator is weakened by every small cut, bruise, and swelling he suffers in the arena, so it is with the necromancer.  Some have hypothesised that it is the Gods way of preventing mortals from becoming too powerful, though I think the dark elves might have cause for issue with that theory.

It is not by chance that the first lesson taught to every Battle-Mage and Spell-Sword of the Imperial Legion is equilibrium.  That sorcerer who can keep prime balance between strength of arm and strength of mind becomes much feared by both enemy and ally alike.

Alas for poor Salmaren, who it turns out knew as much about balance as a Khajiit whose lost its tail.

S.K

In a remote warehouse at the west end of Sentinel Docks, a necromancer levitates above his illuminated circle as he performs repugnant ritual upon two corpses lying at his feet.  So lost is he in the threads of the spell he weaves, that he notices not my approach until I am upon him, and my sardonic blade lays his corpse next to those he toiled so ardently to raise.

S.K

The Undead have overrun Sentinel’s harbour and the guards are either fled, dead, or in hiding.  It seems the valiant Redguard whom in times past forced out the ancient tribes of Nede and Mer, and beat back invasions by Orcs and Goblins to establish their home in Hammerfall, are now powerless, or unwilling to make a stand against this irruption of voracious Ra-Netu.

Superstition can turn even the stoutest heart to scrib jelly.  The Redguards refuse to defend themselves against the risen dead because they believe it dishonourable to fight their ancestors, and yet, they are quite willing to entreat others to do it for them.  Surely if I were to solicit another to kill my brother, I would be just as guilty of his murder as the one who struck the mortal blow.

This is no time to debate frail dogma however, for more and more corpses that were lost to the seas are crawling to shore; soon the city of Sentinel itself will be under threat.  Someone must be responsible for this foul sorcery.

S.K