As I reached the last standing rampart at the Old Fell’s Fort in Rivenspire, the rains began to fall heavily upon the bloody remnants of the bandit camp below, and Leonce Gavendien emerged from the tower to face his prosecutor.

They say that when you confront a bully, they will back down in fear; rarely is this true.  Earlier this day the bandit leader had callously cut the throat of a helpless shop owner and left her to bleed to death upon the streets of Fell’s Run, he is a most wicked creature, but no coward.  He didn’t run or try to hide from the man who was cleaving his way through his entire bandit entourage in order to claim baneful retribution.

Instead he charged straight at me with hubristic dare… no, with indignant fury… no again, with desperate defiance… yes that was it.  Never is a man more dangerous than when he is desperate, yet never is a man more vulnerable than when he loses self-control.

Growing up in rural Cyrodiil, I remember the priests of Stendarr teaching that ‘strength is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent’.  By the time I arrived at gates of the Imperial city as a young man eager to join the ranks of the Imperial Legions, those same priests were now teaching ‘strength is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to punish the guilty’.  That was the first time I realised that in Tamriel, the Divines are as much subjects to the Empire as are its people.

S.K

The Bitterhand Bandits have set up camps in abandoned delves and old Breton ruins throughout Rivenspire, just like this one at the Old Fell’s Fort.  Much like the Red Rooks in Northern Glenumbra, the cut-throat gang have been able to operate on the highways and rural lands of the region without fear of interference or reprisal from local authorities, whose capability to defend their people has been hamstrung by the Montclair’s treachery, and their ongoing commitments to the Three Banners War.

Unlike the Red Rooks however, who overran the remote town of Crosswych, and sought alliance with Angof and his Bloodthorn Cult, the Bitterhands have shown little ambition beyond preying upon unwary travellers, and under-protected small towns.  I wonder if they even know the threat the Montclair’s nefarious intentions poses to all life in Rivenspire.  Surely even they have had to fight back the bloodfiend scourge; and what protection are crumbling fort walls against the blood-curse that so swiftly devoured the once secure and sheltered town of Crestshade?

S.K

It took just a little borrowed magic to discover why the people of Fell’s Run were living in such fear of their new Constable and bailiff.  But it was to take a lot of muscle to overcome their confederate Bulzog, a brute Orc who was holding town’s people’s relatives hostage at an old mill to the south of town.

Alas, by the time I returned Constable Gavendien had already gotten away with what he had come for, a large shipment of amethysts that were bound for the jewellery store.  But whist he made his escape had also took something far, far more valuable.  Simply to deter the locals from giving chase, the bandit thief mercilessly cut the throat of the jeweller and left her to bleed to death on the street.

This was a repugnant act of a coward, and I swear by the blessed Hammer of Stendarr, that if I have to cut my way through an entire Bitterhand encampment to bring him to justice, I shall.

S.K

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Between the grim ruins atop the Lorkrata hills in Eastern Rivenspire, and the Dorell’s besieged city of Northpoint lies the picturesque vale town of Fell’s Run.  Whilst only a small community, the town is yet served by a large roadside tavern, a general goods store, a Fighters guild, and a Mages guild; which somewhat curiously doubles as a jewellery store.

Stone chimney-smoking cottages are built upon land which could almost be described as verdant when compared with the dry barons to the south.  Giant windmill sails turn non-stop in the High-Rock winds, grinding grist to flour to feed and trade.  Cattle graze in pastures watered by a nearby brook in which silver fish glide by, and birds fly with whistle and chirp overhead from rocky hillside to bottle-green trees which offer residents both shade in summer, and fire in winter.

A man could wish for little more in a rural refuge… yet why then is there fear and disquiet behind every eye I greet?

The people here are deathly afraid, visibly so, and yet no one is willing to openly talk about it.  Perhaps it comes from the constant threat of the Bitterhand bandits who have taken residence in the hills close-by, or the brash and boorish new constable who only recently took office in town, or perhaps it is the unearthly sounds coming from the nearby Edrald estate at night.

This idyllic town is screaming silently for help.

S.K

As I arrive at the pastoral hamlet of Fell’s Run, I look back with disquietude towards the Lorkrata Hills and across the rugged mountains beyond at the curious storm raging high above the Doomcrag.  Dark and dread clouds spread like a black flag from its summit, mustering malice with booming thunder, whilst bolts of crimson lightening cleft the gloom sky and cast a bloody flush across the firmament.

S.K