Alas that the time has come for me to make the grievous choice. How does one weigh the life of one companion ‘gainst another? I thought I was ready, I thought I knew, but… but this isn’t a choice  between good or bad, it is all wrong choices and not one right. I can but choose which wrong choice feels the least wrong.

And as I watch the repercussion of my choice in fretful anguish, my heart beating in my chest like wooden thunder, a voice whispers to my stained conscience… ‘You must rescue me.  And I, in turn, must rescue you.’

S.K

The Vestibule of Heart’s Grief, Molag Bal’s palatial fortress; there are few places in all the realms of Oblivion more feared. It is in this stately antechamber where the Lord of Brutality reaps cruel vengeance upon those who have displeased him the most. Some consider it wisdom that the enemy of your enemy is your friend, of that I am not so sure.

Conscience does however make it difficult for me to abandon his prisoners to an eternity of daedric penance. Even in weighting their collective atrocities against the peoples of Tamriel, I find myself questioning my own path, and whether it is only by fortune, fate or providence that I am not chained next to them. Is that empty alcove there not reserved for me?

We all make wrong choices; do wrong things, things that have bad consequences. Does mean we are all evil, that there is no way back, that we cannot be trusted again thereafter? By abandoning these transgressors for their mistakes am I not abandoning us all?

And yet Mannimarco…

Only the naive forgive and forget; only the foolish neither forgive nor forget; and considered wise are those who can forgive but do not forget; for so brief is life there is not time enough to hold grudges. And yet here lieth Mannimarco, the King of Worms whom I can never forgive, but I shall forget.

S.K

Despite our destruction of the Planemeld, Molag Bal’s threat to Tamriel is not yet finished; not whilst he still holds thousands upon thousands of mortal souls captive, ready to fuel some future malevolence. With the Amulet of Kings in hand we five companions step out from judicious shadow to confront the Lord of Brutality.

Whilst my soul may be captive, my heart beats freely still. And though now we fly into the maw of the beast, we do so without angst of death, for we are stoically resolved that the price of freedom may be our lives.

S.K

After a battle it is often impossible to distinguish the victorious camp from the defeated one, for the torches of victory are overcast by the shadows of loss. It is in this most sorrowful aftermath when the soldier questions the price of companionship, for when we lose our friends, the hurt is oft far worse than the emptiness before they came.

Darien never made it back to the light. Throughout my journey, from the low streets of Camlorn to the crest of the Doomcrag, from the liberation of Northpoint, to the conquest of the The Endless Stair, Darien has proved a most staunch and trustworthy companion; his loss will forever be felt as a knot in my heart.

And now Dynar, a true, true champion who sacrificed his final breath for the future generations of Tamriel whose words of thanks he never will hear, for history already chronicles his people as tyrants. Yet I shall forever remember him as noble Laloriaran Dynar, the last Ayleid king, perhaps the last Ayleid, perhaps even the last noble King in all Tamriel.

S.K

For centuries scholars and mages have been brusquely picking apart anything that people of faith once claimed were miracles. They preach that the more they understand of the fixed laws of the Mundas, the more they can prove that what we once called miracles are no longer contrary to those laws, but only contrary to what they know about those laws.

And yet they live in a world where simple grass can be a million shades of green. Where the sun rises every day and moons every night. Where flowers that are sustained by the sun and rain turn into fruit that in-turn sustains each and everyone of us. Yet it impresses them not, for they claim they can recreate these elements with ritual and spell.

But for those of us that fought at the battle for the Planar Vortex, just to be alive at all is proof of miracle enough. For what truly is a miracle but a spark of light when you are expecting only darkness.

S.K