South of the town of Bruma I discover the remains of a stone building in the centre of which stands a statue of a warrior with it’s head and sword arm removed. Whose monument this once was is now lost. What columns and arches that once decorated this area are now but piles of stone, what epitaphs etched now but dust and sand; the sum of this hero’s deeds, are now forever lost upon the winds. Such is the way for all heroes and martyrs, for a time they seemed invincible, their statues and monuments stand for an age or more. But in the end, they always fall.

As soldiers we are cultivated to carry the scars of war on our bodies with pride. Because though we live with the anger of those times when we were unsuccessful, grief of when we were too slow to help comrades, and guilt for when we were too rash. The pride in our own courage, and the joy in our victories helps to free us from those regrets. But what of the common man and woman who cannot wield a blade or cast a spell to paint over their anger, grief, and guilt. They carry their own scars of war deep inside of them. For those who survive such terrible times will oft live with the regret that they did not die, freeing them from the memories that kill them everyday. Nobody survives war, in the end, they always fall.

There is little more I can do here for the people of Cyrodiil. Though I have travelled the entire region and aided those that I can, I am but a single scale on the back of this perpetual Ouroboros. So what now? Do I return to my small home in Daggerfall and let the memories of my regrets kill me everyday? Or do I continue to search for ways to paint over my anger, grief, and guilt? As I sit here in rumination I notice a pamphlet lying beneath the beheaded statue to the unremembered hero. ‘Return to Orsinium’ is a passionate plea urging the Orsimer to return home and help reforge their great city. I recall back in Daggerfall there used to be an Orc recruiting adventures. She was a very persistent lady, chased me down the street yelling at me on more then one occasion. It has been a while since I last saw her, perhaps she has moved on, or perhaps just chased the wrong person. I’d like a chance to see those great stone walls of Orsinium before… well, in the end, they always fall.

S.K

The Echo cave, so named after the ‘echoes of the living’ that roam freely through it’s icy caverns and sunken ruins, has been the haunt of the undead for as long as any can remember. So what would possess a group of adventures to camp outside and attempt to explore these notorious caves in such times of turbulence and strife, when in all the years of peace the Legions themselves never deemed to clear them? The answer is always the same; fortune, fame, or power.

So what about me you may ask. Well I guess could easily claim some noble purpose. To cull the undead perhaps, making the roads safer for travellers and merchants to pass. To banish the unnatural from our land under the pretence of Arkay’s banner. Or simply just to test my skill and mettle against ones whose quietus is liberated from moral consequence.

The simple truth is however, that my time in the Heartlands is drawing to an end and I am simply in need of coin. Hardly a virtuous or worthy cause I realise, but it is the privilege of only the Eight Divines to want for nothing, and of the undead to want for little more then echoes.

S.K