Our bid to halt the Scaled Court’s foul alchemical breeding of the Mantikora ends in the aptly named northern delve of Serpent’s Nest. Through its cheerless caves and murky passages, beyond the lurking serpents, lamia, trolls and cultists, lies the Spawning Pools of Hruzizolk. A progenitor Mantikora created by the alchemists to breed without need of further alchemical infusion.

Here in the liquid pools of crimson nirncrux we also find the third of the deadly predators bred into the creation of these abominations, man and mer. Some might argue, including the Regent Cassipia, that we are in fact the most dangerous predators of them all. Perhaps because like all predators we hunt for meat, be we alone also hunt for fur and bones, pests that damage our crops/livestock, to eliminate potential or perceived threats, and also simply for profit and sport. More likely what the alchemists of the Scaled Court sought to add to the Mantikora however, was our intellect. Our capacity to reason, to problem solve, and to utilize tools in overcoming anatomical disadvantages to dominate over beasts.

But the Mantikora we face is a huge, powerful, four-legged beast with two brawny arms, the segmented tail of a scorpion, and intelligent enough to wield a monumental spear as a weapon. To fight this behemoth as one would fight against normal beasts would most certainly end in disaster. Whilst to duel with it as one would against a man or mer would end equally calamitously. To win this battle perhaps we need remember that ultimately we are but beasts, just another expression of nature, and we must fight with all the feral instincts and savage impulse that we can rouse in our blood.

S.K

The eagle is a noble bird that hunts for its food, whilst the vulture cravenly scavenges the already dead for its meat. So what could turn a soldier from eagle to vulture?

To the east of Dragonstar in Upper Craglorn there is an encampment on the crossroads run by a most motley group of Banner War deserters who have turned to scavenging weapons and armour from the battlefield of the heartlands. Their leader is a Nord who seems to have very little regard for her present comrades. One should not be surprised however, for Isrudde Crows-Watch obviously had little care or regard for her Pact comrades either before she deserted them, returning only to pillage their corpses.

Also part of the Crossroads Encampment can be found an Imperial selling scavenged armour from a stall she calls The Crow’s Pickings. She propounds that all the armour and weapons they stock have stories, yet she cares not enough to know them; Imagination being the torturer of conscience.

There is also an Argonian who discovered too late that he was just not cut out for army life, and a High Elf who was dissatisfied with the serviceman’s stipend. An overly aggressive Redguard who has dreams of retiring to Sentinal, if only he manages to survive Isrudde’s command. Whilst a Breton speaks a dubious tale of having to flee the Covenant ranks after facing execution for killing an officer, is joined by a Dark Elf and a Khajiit who both decline to share their tales at all.

One member of the group who stands apart from the rest is the polite Wood Elf Adandora. An aspiring writer with worthy ambition, if only she could find a publisher for her work. She earns her keep by writing and singing about the Crossroads Profiteers exploits. It is somewhat strange to find Adandora’s hopes tied to the fortunes of this group of renegades.

But oft it is that the road built in hope, and the road built in despair, meet at the same crossroads. It is curious that you may not find a more diverse group working together, for different reasons, for shared purpose, in all of Tamriel? So mayst desertion sometimes be a fine thing, a brave thing indeed? Perhaps… but not here, not at this crossroads encampment.

For this is a vulture’s roost, and the crimson fields of Cyrodiil is their banquet table. The manner of their victims death does not concern them, nor whether the corpse be man or mer; fought under red, blue or yellow banner. The hard work of others is their fodder; another’s most noble sacrifice, their most ignoble nourishment.

S.K