Back at the Harbourage and I find the former companions bickering like Orcish hearth-wives. Tharn and the old man believe they have located the final member of their companions, who is reputedly the only person who knows the location of the Amulet of Kings. The Redguard Sai Sahan is being held captive in the Halls of Torment, another of Molag Bal’s prisons in Coldharbour. The old man says he can get me inside the prison but I must choose one of the other companions to accompany me.

The choice I am offered is between brain or brawn, magic or muscle, knowledge or loyalty. However, the only choice I see that matters is between cynicism or sentimentality; and for one willingly walking into a torture chamber, I’ll take a cold-hearted staff over a maudlin sword every time.

S.K

In troubled times, seldom do we get to choose our confederates.  We make our stand with those who find themselves, by desiderata of fate and circumstance, as reluctantly allied to us as we are to them.

One needs only look towards the red and black banners of the Ebonheart Pact.  Hundreds of years of conflict and subjugation put aside to ensure their conjoint survival against the mighty invasions of the Akaviri.  It is an aberrant alliance, and like pallid dye treating swarthy leather, it cannot hope to conceal a thousand years of hostility and mistrust … yet that very same concord of necessity endures to this day.

Whilst I find the sharp-tongued cynicism of Tharn vexatious, at least he wears his motivations like a jerkin.  Lyris and the old man on the other hand treat with me only in veils and half-truths.  I care little for their reasons, yet I suspect their crusade to save Nirn is more an attempt to wipe away the biting stigma of past actions from their conscience.

Why matters not to me, just so long as our destination remains the same.

S.K

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Let this be the night I return to Coldharbour,
with fresh whetted blade and hawkish intent.
To weave carnage and slaughter, and sow such disorder,
that the very drape of my shadow fill daedra with dread.

Let this be the night that Mannimarco remembers,
the soldier he slew with ritual knife in cold-blood.
As my ire drinks deep upon the crour of Coldharbour,
my blade I’ll name vengeance, my arrows spite.

Let this be the night he let loose of his Clannfear,
stone headed, thick hide, sharp claw and barbed bite.
Full of brute, guile, and unburdened by conscience,
yet with soft underbelly that betrays them in fight.

Let this be the night his flesh Atronach stands picket,
putrid abominations, of stitched skin and meat.
As witless and slow as a mammoth of Eastmarch,
my sword shall dance nimble, cut swift, stab and smite.

Let this be the night for his Dremora to muster,
ever valiant in obedience, and in duty fierce pride.
Yet as I pull my blade deeply cross bare daedric gullet,
eyes turn swift-timid like a Breton maid on wedding night.

Let this be the night that my blood course the thickest,
to strengthen my arms toward bloody melee and fight.
To cleave fury and chaos throughout his black castle, 
and give Mannimarco cause to curse me this night.

S.K

As the fortunes of the three banners continue to pirouette round Cyrodiil like a spinners wheel, Tamriel’s leaders must not be allowed to sit silently and ignore the far greater threat from without.  For whilst we slash at each others branches, he hacks away at our roots.

Molag Bal does not discriminate between man nor mer.  No matter race or creed, it will be for the souls of Tamriel that the bloodiest, most arduous battles will be waged.

S.K

Word reaches the Redoubt that the Stormhaven border is under attack.  Whilst the Bloodthorn threat has been quelled, the undead still range unregulated across Glenumbra.  Werewolves still stalk the moorland roads, wretched vines still corrupt the spirits of nature, the Aldmeri pose a persistent coastal threat, and the dark anchors of Oblivion still fall from the sky.  Stormhaven can expect little aid from Glenumbra, save perhaps me.  First however I need return to Daggerfall for much needed supply and repair, and at least one night spent upon a supple bed under a dry roof.

Since my ‘return’ from Coldharbour I have been avoiding using the portals at wayshrines to travel, preferring to rely solely upon my steed to traverse the Breton landscape.  But alas, I fear I would be asking too much of my horse to make such a journey cross Glenumbra without first giving her time to rest; and time is not an ally to troubled lands.

As an inquisitive boy, I remember asking a member of the mages guild how the wayshrine portals worked.  I don’t recall much of the stodgy lecture that followed beyond one rather salient point.  At some moment during the transition process it is theorized that the traveller’s soul must become unanchored from the Mundas.  This may prove to be an issue.

It is said it that it would take but a single white crow to disprove the doctrine that all crows are black. I send a prayer to the Eight that today, I am that blanched crow. 

S.K