To the south of Cheydenhal lies Vahtacen, an Ayleid ruin reputedly swarming with skeletons and wraiths, the risen husks of its former inhabitants. These undead monsters have of late been seen wandering out of their ruins as far as the lake, searching for fishermen, travellers, or lost Bannermen to drag back into the depths of the catacombs to place upon the alter of their master, a powerful lich known only as The Faceless.

In everyday life most people seem content to be faceless in a sea of faceless people. In the Legions we were taught the philosophy of being faceless soldiers for the greater good of the empire. And the undead skeletons and wraiths that haunt these ruins are nowt but faceless creatures who fight with neither enmity nor anger, and without conscience. What really is the difference between any of us?

It was only when I regained my soul in The Colored Rooms that I realized that the reason I was faceless was because I had no hope. You see hope, like beauty is all around us but you have to learn to recognize it. Once you began to recognize hope, you began to find purpose and meaning, even when others argue that none exists. And hope breeds courage, the courage to challenge the beliefs and assumptions of yourself and others, and the courage to face the world with yours eyes and heart wide open. Only then can you start carving order out of the chaos and make your mark, becoming a face that people remember.

I’d love to say that I entered these ruins on some noble cause, searching for an ancient lost wisdom perhaps, or on a quest to find some relic to help the people of Cheydenhal survive this endless war, or even just to overcome the undead menace within. But no, this is purely a treasure hunt, a selfish enterprise in search for any ancient relics I can find to fulfil the greed of Vyctoria Girien, and thus fill my pockets with gold. My face is that of a mercenary, not a saint.

S.K

Whilst returning to Cheydinhal, I hear a shriek from a secluded cave beneath a waterfall. Not the call of a bird or beast, but an unnatural howl, both sorrowful and anguished. Warily I enter the black cavern and in the distance spy a pair of crimson eyes piercing through the darkness at me. For a brief moment they shine like rubies in moonlit pools before vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Whisperings and faint wails lure me ever deeper into the caverns, till finally I discover the figure of a man hunched over another.

Closer still, and I discern the famished stare of one accursed by their own slavery to life’s warm-blood; a vampire. It’s blazing eyes and scarlet lips glimmer in the torch light, in stark contrast to its ghoulishly pale cheeks. It’s unhallowed claws tearing at the bloody shrouds of a still breathing priest of Arkay. The vampire is cursed to only ever know peace when the blood of another fills its heart. And contrary to the fanciful bard songs, vampires don’t tend to nibble upon the necks of their victims, they tear and render the flesh, suckling the blood and gore from each chunk.

S.K

Atop a hill to the Southwest of Cheydinhal once sat the Juncus estate, now it is but the carcass of a family home, burnt to the ground by flame atronachs. I am told it is the Shadowed Path cult who are responsible for this atrocity, laying their Daedric stones about the estate to summon deadly atronachs with which to waylay travellers and even soldiers foolish enough to traverse the Nibenay Basin alone.

This is the farthest east I have seen the Shadowed Path Cult operating. To the West they attempted to raise a Lich in Lindai, and to the south they searched caves, mines and delves for a mystery artefact they believed would will help them in conquering the Capitol and all of Cyrodiil for their brutal patron. What they lack in talent, they make up for in ambition and numbers. For they have managed to overrun sites all over Southern Cyrodiil, and now there may well be more Shadowed Path Cultists operating in Cyrodiil then there are legionnaires.

They have proven a well organized group capable of focusing many hands upon on a single purpose, but their activities here seem somewhat vagrant from their labours to the west and south. What is the purpose of their wicked endeavours here at the burned estate? Could it be just to establish a foothold in the region, or do they have larger ambitions yet to come? Perhaps the summoning and gathering of an atronach army much like that of the Celestial Serpent?

Only one thing is clear, the leaders of Cheydenhal will need to pay many more adventures to climb this hill in the future to smash their daedric stones, else the verdant green Nibenay Basin may be turned into the grey wastes of Eastern Craglorn.

S.K

Perhaps because of the garrison, and certainly because of the armed militia, the people of Cheydinhal have suffered less from attacks by bandits, cultists and the roaming dead then other towns. They have not been wholly unaffected though. Many of the once affluent estates that lie outside of the city’s high walls have been overrun or destroyed since the Banner’s first invaded the Heartlands.

When the first troubles erupted in Cheydinhal between the garrison and it’s citizens, a bandit gang calling themselves the Thorns took advantage and descended upon the city from a local estate they had overrun. Amidst the desperation and chaos of the people the bandits pillaged most of their valuables before retreating back to Thorn Lodge. It is unclear whether the bandits took their name from the estate, or the estate was renamed by the bandits, but I guess that matters little. What does matter however is that the people need their valuables back, so that they may trade them for desperately needed supplies.

I pray the people of Cheydinhal do indeed make use of the valuables I return to them. Too many people in troubled times hoard away their gold and valuables, whilst their neighbours are forced to beg for food and dry cloths. There was a time when our neighbours were as close as our kin, a time when neighbour helped neighbour, sharing what little we had out of necessity, as well as decency. Hoarded food is not all that rots.

S.K

The legionnaires at Cheydinhal will not speak with me, treating me as the outsider I am, and a potential threat; I cannot blame them. In these troubling times for the scattered Legions I too find it difficult to tell friend from foe, ally from enemy. I guess the paranoia of the garrison’s leaders is what has kept them alive whilst most others have fallen. The leaders of the rebellion on the west side of the river however are far more accommodating to a fellow Cyrodil, and upon inspecting my weapons and armour, are eager to enlist my aid. Alas that many of their requests require direct confrontation with the legionnaires across the river, asking that I attack their archers and lieutenants, and even poison their food supply.

Not for the first time I am forced to ask myself where my loyalties lie? In Hammerfell when faced with Septima Tharn’s Seventh Legion, it was their disloyalty to the people of Tamriel that forced me to take up arms against them. And again within the Imperial City itself, out of greed, fear or simply despair, the members of Legion Zero turned traitors for Molag Bal and the Worm Cult. Whilst riding through the Heartlands I have tried to avoid many of the small camps of Legionaries dotted about for lack of trust to whom they now serve. And now, here in Cheydinhal I find a garrison still loyal to the Empire, yet disloyal to their own people, forcing me to ask once more, am I loyal to my country, my former comrades, or to my people?

The strength of an army lies in the soldiers loyalties to each other, whilst the strength of the soldier lies in his loyalties to his own principles of faithfulness and sincerity. Despite my empathy for the plight of the people of Cheydinhal, I cannot, and will not raise arms against another legionnaire if they seek not conflict with me first. I cannot shake the sentiment that ‘there by the grace of the Divines go I’. For were it not for the carnivorous dagger of the worm king that forever changed my destiny, I may well have found myself walking in their boots right now.

Even so, I agree to aid the people of Cheydinhal where my honour allows. Fate though can be a spiteful prince, and inevitably I cannot avoid all contact with the Legionaries. For example, as they no longer have access to the city’s Chapel of Arkay, I am asked by Sylvian Herius to deliver written petitions from his militia to a shine outside the city’s walls to boost their morale. As I reach the relic I am ambushed by two Imperial soldiers. Thus I have been deemed a traitor; this does not mean I will act as one.

I can only hope that in time the Garrison and the rebels will come to realize that they are all in the same boat upon a stormy sea, and they owe their loyalties to each other.

S.K