Soldiers by their very natures are as stoic as cattle stood in the rain.  So what we must ask of these Knights today is to go against their nature and disobey direct orders from their officers.  To follow their heads instead of their hearts, and to choose their Covenant over their commander.  That some may stubbornly choose to follow orders does not make them my enemy.  I shall harbour no less respect for those who draw swords against us today, as I shall for those who choose to fight with us.

The Khajiit have a proverb they like to call ‘the Baandari Fork’.  It is the story of a Baandari peddler travelling through Nordic lands who comes to a fork in the road.  Both paths of the fork will eventually end in the same destination, but whilst one road leads straight through a military encampment, the other is open and unguarded.  Choosing the encampment would most likely lead to a significant loss of stock and profit to overzealous taxation and bigoted extortion.  Following the unguarded road however would be to risk losing everything to the infamous highway robbers who were known to prowl those roads uncontested.  It is a choice between two very undesirables; a dilemma.

And it is just such a ‘Baandari Fork’ that faces each and every Knight of the Flame this day.  Their choice will be sure to shake the very foundations of Firebrand Keep, and possibly change the future of High Rock and Tamriel forever.

S.K

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Approached from the high road of Northern Stormhaven, Firebrand Keep looks little more than an atrophied ruin.  A crumbling monument of a once noble order whose reputation is as buckled as its battlements.

Yet when I arrive inside the stronghold, I find the inner keep fully functioning and intact.  The Knights follow their habitual duty whilst the keep’s retinue maintain property and order.  Despite its dilapidated outer walls, this home of the Knights of the Flame is built upon stoic foundation.

S.K

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Just outside of Firebrand Keep there stands the dilapidated ruin of an old watchtower.  Upon closer inspection I discover a trapdoor leading down to subterranean chambers perhaps once used as barracks or storage, although the presence of stocks and heavy iron gates suggest that it may also have served a more disquieting purpose.  I hear voices upon the dank and fusty air and remember that nothing abandoned in these lands will remain unoccupied for long.

It appears a group of bandits led by a Breton and a Khajiit have made occupation of the ruin, but to what intent?  Scraps of messages found on table and corpse intimate only that mutiny and unrest amongst their number undermines whatever insidious ambitions they might have.

S.K

The sinuous roads of Northern Stormhaven are unsafe for the unwary and unarmed, this is especially true of the outskirts of Firebrand Keep, where a particularly audacious bandit gang are masquerading as the Knights of the Flame in order to rob unsuspecting travellers.

It is perhaps a measure of just how enervated this once much-lauded Order has become, that they seem unable to muster number enough to drive the imposters from outside their own gates without aid.

If I am to chase a wounded lion into his den, then I would do so without a pack of skeever at my back.

S.K

To the east of Alcaire is a collapsed cave known as Windridge in which was buried a tragic tale of banditry and a vow unfulfilled.  The story of Sir Edain is not one sung by bards, or recorded by historians, because there was no heroic victory or glorious sacrifice.  Few locals now can recall why the entrance to the Windridge had even been deliberately collapsed.

But someone has recently reopened this grim mausoleum, and its former inhabitants have returned in spirit to wreck terror and death upon all who misadventure too close.  The spirit of Sir Edain, former Knight of the Flame, greets any who brave the cavern depths, pleading aid to fulfil his final vow, by putting the malevolent spirits of the Fallen Three and their vile followers to rest once and for all.

There seems not to be a single town, village, or hamlet in all High Rock that is not haunted by ghosts or spirits; but I guess in the end we are all but spirits given silhouette by Nirn.  This skin, these limbs, that warm crimson blood that sustains us, it lives, grows, and eventually, lest our fate be soul shriven, returns home to Nirn.  Our names are forgot, our likeness lost, and our deeds only the bards may recall.  Yet the air we breathed still stirs the grass, our shouts and cries still echo through mountain pass, our thoughts, ideas, arts, and passions are inherited by our kin.

This is a land full of ghosts, enduring and inextinguishable.  Most embrace whatever mortals destiny may be, but others linger or return, cursed by unfilled promises or vile desires to wreck jealous havoc and vengeance upon those living still.  Are we not duty bound to Nirn and to our kin to give rest to those who cannot, or will not sleep?  So in turn our children may be free to give rest to us.

S.K