The battle for Bangkorai Garrison rages on in the main courtyard between the forces of High King Emeric and those of the corrupt Seventh Legion. Though we seem to be securing an advantage, every yard we gain is earned by bloody deed. For these legionnaires honourably bequest their last breath to their cause, even though their cause be a dishonourable one. During battle raged is when the loyalty of the legionnaire is proven best.

The question is to whom are the soldiers of the Seventh Legion loyal? Is it to their leader Clivia Tharn, or to their country, forever their heartland no mater it’s leader or state? Or is it to the Seventh itself and their comrades, or to themselves, and their own innate sense of honour?

The detractors of the Legions have always accused them of being enslaved by their own loyalties, but is that such a bad thing? Is nobly dying for ones cause, even an ignoble one, not better then living for no cause at all?

And is this inherent Cyrodilic ambition to expand and conquer not in the very spirit of the most noble St Alessia herself, so that all the peoples of Tamriel may benefit from the protection and shared prosperity of the empire?

Were it not for the claws of Coldharbour dug deep into the spine of the Seventh Legion, I may well have been questioning my own loyalties today.

S.K

King Emeric’s grand plan to retake the Bangkorai Garrison from the Seventh Legion is to have me crawl through the rancid sludge of the fort sewers like a rat to reach the gatehouse. Once there I am to open the front gates where upon he will stroll triumphantly through them in his clean, shiny Breton armour to glorious fanfare; because they won’t be expecting that.

Only, judging by the amount of soldiers I encounter paroling these putrid tunnels, they were expecting just that.

So thank you Emeric, thank you for this most uniquely foul experience, and thank you for sending me to do a job that any sneak thief could have done.

S.K

The gates and high walls of the Bangkorai Garrison are an imposing sight. Near-by I find that High King Emeric and his retinue of Lions guards and Evermore soldiers have arrived before me. Despite our combined forces however, we do not have enough numbers to enact a full assault or siege upon the mighty stone battlements of the garrison.

King Emeric though has earned renown for his tactical acumen in past battles, so I will put my trust in his plan today. It is good to see the High King leading on the front. Quick-witted, silver-tongued and sardonic, this is Emeric at his best; troubled times calls for a more visible and bold leadership.

However, I still remember vividly Emeric’s weaknesses cruelly exposed by Vaermina’s consort. I witnessed what truly lies beneath his breast plate, and I cannot forget.

I know next to nothing of the little elf girl, or the drunken minstrel that lead the other alliances who war over the tarnished throne and the ashes of an empire, whilst tearing my homeland apart. They may be no better, they may be no worse, the only time I’ve ever encountered them was in some twisted fancy of Sheogorath’s imagining. All I know is I cannot in good conscience back Emeric’s claim to be emperor, and thus I cannot fight under the Lion’s banner.

So if I do not fight for Bangkorai, for Emeric, or his Covenant, then as I stand here on the morn of another battle which I may or may not survive, who or what am I fighting for?

I am about to raise my sword against an Imperial Legion, my once comrades, my landsman, my kin. Some of the soldiers on the other side of these stone walls I may know, some I may have trained with, served with even. We may have grown up as neighbours, played in the same streets and fields. Many of them were born my countrymen, but not today.

Today, I fight against this corrupted legion and those that have corrupted them. I fight against the Tharns, the cultists, the daedra worshippers, and that thief Mannimarco.

Today I fight for Cyrodiil. Today and everyday, I fight for Stendarr’s Legions.

S.K

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