Climbing the steps I struggle for breath as an unnaturally chill wind howls about the crumbling ruins, and the stench of damp moss rises from the ancient stonework. Then I spy him, the ghost of Lakewatch Tower floating between the trees whose twisted branches seem to reach out for comfort like contorted bones in some terrible silent torment. Beside him are his only companions for so many centuries, the spirits of his wolf-children who died by his own hands.

Garach Wolf-Father stopped before the tower. A luminous cloud-like figure, yet it’s eyes and mouth are as black as the night sky. I watch his lips curl upwards at my wary approach in something akin to a smile. The desolate figure beckons me on.

Cursed to know only eternal anger, loathing, and hatred; this is one ghost that cannot be saved.

S.K

The spell over Kerbol’s Hollow is breaking and the longer Draven remains wild and free, the weaker it will become. A hero is expected to make tough judgements, weighing the freedoms of a few against that of others, or the life of one, against that of many. But I am no hero, I am just a hypocrite with a double-edged blade.

For it is deeply uncomfortable to admit, but I think if I were Draven I would do just as he. I’d sacrifice this whole damned village and fight to my very last breath rather then live out my days incarcerated like a chained animal in this binding spell of Kerbol’s.

So with every compunctious hack and slash of my blade that cleaves and sunders at the werewolf’s skin and sinew, I hew away more of my own too frayed conscience. And with my final thrust that pierces the werewolves heart, Draven falls lifeless at my feet and I whisper upon the winds to my lost soul, ‘there by the grace of the Eight lay I’.

S.K

Nobody asks to be a monster. Nobody asks to look others in the eye and see only revulsion, loathing, and fear. Nobody asks to be unwanted, outcast, ostracised because they will never be more in the eyes of others but the monsters others think them to be. Nobody here asked for lycanthropy, it was something inflicted upon them.

I wander how people would act towards me if they knew I had no soul; would they fear me, hate me, shun me? Would I end up in a prison like Kerbol’s Hollow? For this village is a prison, but it is also a sanctuary; built to keep the innocent people safe from the monsters within, and the innocent monsters safe from the people without.

S.K

Kerbol’s Hollow lies hidden in a valley east of the Silaseli ruins in Northern Bangkorai, and is only accessible through a small cave in the hills. I’ve listened to many camp-fire tales about this secluded village, the most intriguing being that it holds the secret to curing all sorts of ailments. Of course these tales are rarely more then bruit and fable, but usually there is pith of truth to be found at their heart.

As I carefully traverse the wending path down into the rustic village below, I am warned not to stray into the woods beyond, with little more explanation offered then it is for my own safety.

The village square itself is far busier then one might expect for such a small hamlet. The villagers however are wary of my arrival and the mayor offers little more then crisp hospitality and breviloquent responses to my inquiries. The whole village is reticent to outsiders and their questions, yet makes little effort to hide that it has secrets to be kept.

The thing I’ve noticed about secrets is, people rarely want to keep beauty hidden, only ugliness and immorality.

S.K

The Voice of the Forest, an aged and wise Spriggan whose power and influence over the beasts of the Viridian Woods should not be underestimated. Yet she is bound by a pact older then even herself, so when the Viridian Sentinel requests a bud freely given from her branches to save the life of a princess, she, albeit grudgingly, accedes.

The Wyrd Sisters too, despite believing the pact broken by the Sentinel’s misuse of the forests powers, play their part in the ritual. And finally the Sentinel himself gives up the last of his power, his final essence, and passes from Nirn forevermore. Yet it is still not enough, and I must help the princess become the new Sentinel, lest she too will die.

Yet both the Voice of the Forest and the Wyrd appeal to my conscience to destroy the enchanted Spriggan’s bud. For they say man was never meant to have rule over the wilds, for he cannot know the will or the needs of nature. To them the pact is unnatural, a centuries old abomination of nature’s true spirit, that I could end here and now. For they argue the princess was destined to die anyhow, and what is one life weighed against the subjugation of so many.

Perhaps a week ago I might have agreed, but what is our conscience but the the fruit of our perception. Having seen what the Wyrd sister did to the Sergeant’s daughter in front of him, and their willingness to let this innocent die without compassion… nature by its very nature knows not pity, knows not remorse, knows not empathy and knows not the value of a life.

Perhaps these wilds are in need of a gardener after-all.

S.K