I found her contradictions compelling. Like every Dremora I’ve had the misfortune to encounter, her countenance was hard, sharp, and cruel, yet she was feminine and alluring still. She was charmingly acerbic, indelicately graceful, and playfully pernicious. Overbearing, patronizing, and contemptuous throughout, yet from her first guttural word till her last I found myself  prisoner, bound and fettered by my own fascination. I could perhaps grasp at a hundred painted adjectives, yet still fail to express just how she captivated me so, or why for days after her smallest gestures still haunts my every moment of contemplation. It is enough to say, I found her hideously compelling.

S.K

Just to the west of the Hollow city can be found the Tower of Lies, only there is no tower to be seen, just a huge gaping hole in the ground. I could not tell you whether there was ever a tower, for no evidence can be found, but the daedra are not generally famed for their wit or irony; although I hear tell that dremora can be savagely mordant on occasion. Whatever was here in the past, it is now but another deep Coldharbour prison, that its captives are forced to mine, and in the process bury themselves ever deeper into their own confinement. Perhaps the daedra know of irony after all.

All but one captive however, for an Orc stands apart, and the daedra seem to be making no attempt to force him to moil. As I come closer I recognise him as Skordo the Knife whom I freed from a Montclair cage back in Shornhelm, and who later proved his worth in the liberation of Northpoint.

I remember Skordo well, but he does not seem to remember me, or what I did for him. I guess that is just the Orsimer way. If you save the life of an Orc, once he has grunted his appreciation do not expect a pledge of a debt of honour or lifelong bond, or even warm greetings or recognition thereafter. For he has moved on, and so should you.

S.K

I arrive at the Lightless Oubiette, a Daedric mockery of the White-Gold Tower that’s only purpose seems to be for the eternal imprisonment of servants of Meridia; or ‘the Shining Bitch’ as she is affectionately known around these parts.

The sole detainee I find turns out to be none other then the legendary Ayleid King Laloriaran Dynar, who has been held captive by the darkness for almost three thousand years. And yet I met him not so long ago on the ancient battle-torn moors of Glenumbra, when the Mages Guild took me a step back in time to discover how to overcome the murderous Camlorn Were-beast Faolchu. I wrote of him that ‘I do not believe I have ever met man nor mer possessed of such dignity and equanimity.’ Three thousand years hence, and I stand by that statement still.

And so I make my return to the Hollow City together with the Last King of the Ayleids, and armed with the knowledge that however much we may be afraid of the dark, these creatures of darkness have far more reason to fear the light.

S.K

Sometimes on our journey we are forced to choose a side in order to get what we need. There are times like at Haj Uxith where one must choose the side which feels the least wrong, and there are other times like here in the Moonless Walk where one must choose between two sides who both feel wrong. Perhaps neither the Shadow Walkers or the Lamia are the monsters they seem, maybe they are but two sides of the same coin, either way it is as well to look at both, before one commits to either.

The Bosmer girl seems sincere in her desire, and her people would certainly prove strong allies in our battles ahead. But Captain Alphaury was hunted through these woods and killed in cold blood by these Shadow Walkers. How many other of our guild members have they slaughtered in the same manner? And yet they have proven their faithfulness in blindly honouring their age old pact with the Lord of Brutality; and honour, faithfulness and sincerity are qualities I hold above all else.

The Lamia speak truths, and in many ways they are but victims. They did not ask to come to this accursed realm, nor did they make pacts with daedric princes. And they did not hunt my people through these woods like animals. Yet can I truly trust their motives, for they are but beasts, and have no concept of honour, faithfulness and sincerity.

Throughout these woods I have tried to keep my blade clean and attempt not to become a tool for either side in their conflict, yet destiny has a way of folding the corners so you become implicit, and even though there is no blood on my blade, the final actions of the Lamia has soaked my conscience crimson.

To Oblivion with all of them, may they all rot in these damnable woods together.

S.K

It is said of Coldharbour, that it is but a perversion of Nirn; like a reflection in a broken mirror, or an echo in a spiralling cavern. If this be so then perhaps this debauched cave is the Dremora’s impression of a High Rock tavern, or a Morrowind Corner Club.

Whatever its true purpose, the Dremora here seem to gain most pleasure from making the Soul Shriven dance and play music till they drop from exhaustion. Without question a most repugnant form of entertainment, especially when you hear how badly the Soul Shriven play.

S.K