A giant snake emerges from behind a rock in the highlands of central Rivenspire.  It is unclear how such a creature could have made it so far from its more natural habitat of swamp and coastal waters, but judging by its size it appears to have thrived.

Nature has no rules.  I believe it was the famed Dark Elf naturalist Duldar Salodras who wrote “Just when we thought we had nature all figured out, a colleague visiting the Hew’s Bane region of Hammerfell sent us a live specimen of a snake with wings that can’t fly… why! why! why!”

S.K

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The ferocity of the Orc bandit’s initial attack threatened to overwhelm me.  As strong and fierce as a bear, yet untamed and ill-disciplined, she soon overextended herself and I was able to take advantage.  I will never know her name or the tale of what led her to this end, but I shall lament her spirit in the next tavern I come to, because I must never forget that there but by the grace of the Divines go I.

For generations now the lawless wilds of Rivenspire have proved ungovernable for the regions rulers.  Home to the desperate and destitute, to those who would seek profit from discontent, to those disenchanted with Rivenspire’s fractured-society, to those who would undermine its rule, and those who feel injustice, or simply tire of living every day in fear.  But now also home to the many former soldiers of the brittle alliances in a far away war, who choose a life in exile rather than go to battle with allies they trust as little as the enemy they face.

This is Bandit Country.

S.K

We have been a step behind the Montclairs throughout Rivenspire, and here again in the ruined halls beneath the abandoned fortress in the Lorkrata hills, it appears they have been and gone even before we arrived.  But Count Verandis Ravenwatch is certain that in the deepest chambers we will find information that will prove crucial if we are to stop the Montclairs from turning Rivenspire into a country of wandering dead.

Lleraya Montclair, aided by the corrupted Lightless Remnant, has cast a series of illusion spells upon the ruins, but small tears in the veil of her mirages give hope that we may make it through her traps safely.  The Skeletal warriors however are very real indeed, but my sanguisuge companion proves himself to be a more then capable ally in confrontation.

S.K

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The abandoned ruins in the Lorkrata Hills in Rivenspire had originally been a stronghold built in the first era by the Bretons soon after the Aldmer Clan Direnni’s rule over High Rock had come to an end.  The foundations for the fort had itself been built upon an old Ayleid ruin, and it is said that during his reign, King Ranser had ordered the rebuilding of the once-towering ramparts to compliment the fortifications he already controlled at the Tor, hoping to thus secure his hold over the entire region.

Now just another crumbling edifice on the Rivenspire landscape, garrisoned only by skeevers; yet like so many of the ruins scattered across High Rock, it is not the fallen walls or spiring towers that are of interest to the modern explorer, but what lies beneath.

S.K

A Breton priest, Alvaren Garoutte, waits patiently beside the Westmark Moor road for the return of three of Arkay’s Knights, who were sent out across the region to retrieve holy relics with which the order hopes to hold back the tide of undead threatening to flood over Rivenspire.

As a child I dreamed and played at being an honourable Knight of Arkay, or some such deity.  Riding off in the morning in a suit of shining armour on a heroic mission to retrieve sacred artefacts, punish plundering bandits, and do battle with legendary beasts, before rescuing ravaged yet still modest maidens with conveniently long hair, before returning triumphantly home to blaring trumpets and streaming banners, just in time for dinner.

Of course a Knight’s armour doesn’t stay shiny very long, especially when slogging through the muddy marshes, filthy bogs, and rancid delves the bard’s neglect to recite; whilst fighting off the hordes of rambling, rotting dead, rabid skeevers, goblins, hags, and the putrid drudges of Oblivion.  It is no wonder that the chivalry and vows of even Arkay’s famed Knights are soon forgot.

In reality it takes not the honourable, chivalrous, and gallant knight to carry Arkay’s beacon into the darkness, it takes a man or woman like me, suited in mismatched sullied armour, notched blade, and with morals as soiled as Swineherd Wickton’s boots.

S.K