In the wilds of Coldharbour freedom is nowt but the distance between hunter and prey. For when the Soul Shriven become too tired to work, or their minds weaken till they turn into feral brute, they are released into the wilds to become no more then sport for the Dremora. It is here in the Cave of Trophies that the hunters return to boast of their ‘heroic exploits’.

It is little more sport then hunting skeevers through the crags of Rivenspire, but it enough to feed the Dremora’s atavistic conceit that there is nothing more lethal in this realm but them.

What better way to remedy vainglory then by a hunt through these very caverns and then perhaps display some trophies of my own.

S.K

‘Judgement delivered in anger is almost always unjust’. Few exemplify that saying more then the ever irascible Judge Xiven at the daedric Court of Contempt, who condemned a group mortal mages captured by his daedra even before their trial commenced. Yet as fraudulent as this daedric trial is, even an honest court would have difficulty in raising a defence for the mages, for they did indeed invade this realm with pernicious intent.

We are however at war and with the aid of the Dunmer conjurer Malkur Valos, who himself is no stranger to the daedric brand of justice having been raised on the Shivering Isles, we must attempt to free the mortal prisoners.

People generally have two reactions to guilt, it either drowns them in self pity and regret, or it ignites their spirit with fiery indignation and purpose. I pray the guilty mages react with the latter, for if they are to escape their convictions, then they are going to have to fight for their lives.

And in our escape, to prevent further injustice we should tear this mockery of a court down, for one day the innocent may be held guilty for the good they did not do.

S.K

The Dremoran clans of Coldharbour are just as proud and arrogant as their Deadland’s kin. Their barbed blades are sharpened just as finely, their destructive spells studied just as keenly, and their blackened armour is polished with just as much hubris. They are just as dutiful in their ignoble cause, and yet just as fettered by the chains of their own taut dogma.

Dremora see their daedric allies as lessor races, and mortals as lessor still. This is perhaps why this warlike people, who exist only to serve the purpose of their Daedric overlords, seem not to be treating our incursion into their realm as a serious threat. Indeed, once they spot a mortal warriors approach, they invariably charge upon a guttural war cry, raising their great blades above their horned heads, or crackling staves before their uncomely faces, with little to no regard as to what threat the mortal might bring.

Perhaps it is because they are unburdened by fear of death or the constricts of mortal compunction. Indeed they cannot possibly comprehend just how precious we hold our lives, or how valuable we hold the lives of our comrades. But perhaps they are right to be unconcerned, for surely even with the aid of those mortal denizens of Coldharbour we have met along the way, we have not the numbers to overcome even a single clan. And yet there is still reason to believe in ourselves.

Whilst it is true that nobody understands better then the clans of Oblivion, who are uniform in both attitude and ability, that in unity is strength. What they cannot possibly comprehend is what our history has taught us, that unity of the discordant is far more powerful still. No matter how diverse are the philosophies of Men, Mer, Feline, and Reptile, or how disparate our talents may be, by standing together in purpose and heart, the solitary weak can become the collectively strong.

So stand together mortal warriors, stand next to me, stand as one Tamriel, and o’er Oblivion shall we achieve.

S.K

Every time I leave the safety of the Hollow City for the blighted azure wastes of Coldharbour, I find I am forced into making a choice between one life or another. First there was the fate of the lost Argonian tribe at Haj Uxith. Then the exiles war between the Lamias and the Shadow Walkers at The Moonless Walk. But now here at this Vile Laboratory I find myself faced with the most onerous choice of them all; who is to live or die between two equally worthy souls. The one rationale I have to guide me is perhaps the most uncivilized of all; whom benefits my cause the most.

When they arrived in Coldharbour, the Dark Elf mage Gadris, and the Khajiit alchemist Zur were captured by Dremora. In insidious procedure at this Vile Laboratory, their souls were melded together in one body. This soul-meld has weakened them such that If they are not soon separated then they will both surely die. But only one can survive the separation.

If you have ever witnessed the majesty of the sunrise over the forests of Southern Elsweyr, then one could surely never choose against the Khajiit. Yet if you have seen the wondrous ashen skies above Vardenfell in twilight, then how could you choose any above the Dunmer.

I cannot see the future, I have no scroll or spell to predict or judge who will better serve the kismet of Tamriel. Conscience and compassion are all I have to guide me, but alas that they are both tainted by my own experience and prejudice. I resent the Dremora for their cruel experiment, I resent Zur and Gadris for becoming their victims, but most of all… most of all I resent myself for this bigot’s choice.

S.K

To the east of the Hollow City lies the bleakest of land, haunted by sombre mists from morn till eventide. The sun, such as it is, appears only beamless and pale. The earth beneath is as contrary as an Altmer’s heart, either a quaggy sludge, or as hard as iron. Life is sparse. Occasionally the coarse chatter of a scamp, or the guttural bellow of a dremora may be heard upon the the chill winds that blow invisible without leaf or bush to see. But there are no timid critters in these dead forests, crouching, hiding under grassy lair. No doe that startles at passer-by, caught betwixt instinct, to bolt or stand and stare. No dogs that bark at foreboding unseen. No moody Guar foraging, oblivious to anything but sating greed. Yet this is no land of quiet and peace, for the uproar of nefarious Industry hums deep beneath the blackened arches, into which no entrance can be found. This is an unpromised land of winter’s twilight, from where all hope ebbs, and wishes flee in disbelief.

S.K