The foul stench here is stomach curdling. Traipsing through putrid waters and piles of debris, and tripping over rotting corpses in varying states of decay, whilst trying not to get ourselves impaled on the lethal spear traps springing from the ground all around us.
This may well prove to be the most unpleasant place I’ve ever been to…. and I’ve been to Morrowind!
S.K
Cadwell doesn’t suffer from insanity; he rather seems to enjoy it.
Apparently destroying the Sentinel triggered a magical ward on the Prophet’s cell door… I guess this ‘Prophet’ was not the only one who saw us coming. The eccentric Sir Cadwell points us towards something called the ‘Undercroft’.
So… a conceited apparition, an undead swamp-eater, a Nord she-mountain, and now a long-time soulless knight who favours wearing a pot on his head. This…THIS is my salvation!? I’d ask Lyris to pinch me to prove this isn’t just a nightmare, but I think I’d probably lose an arm.
Pish-tosh and onto the Undercroft then.
S.K
As I shielded myself against the frenzied attack of the feral Soul-shriven, I became entirely transfixed by it’s empty eyes. No anger, no fear, no hunger, no desperation, no emotion whatsoever… just empty. And even when Lyris’s axe hewed the creatures head from its shoulders, there was still no look of shock, pain, or sorrow.
Even if we somehow manage to escape this place and make it back home to Tamriel, I’ll still be dead… and I’ll still be Soul-shriven.
Is this to be my fate?
Was I looking into a reflection of my own eyes?
S.K
It turns out that this fearsome woman is not only leading the uprising, but she is also the ‘Lyris’ the apparition told me to find. There is something of the Nord about her… and of the giant too judging by her formidable stature. And the way she wields that giant axe, from her stance, to her grip, to her balance in swing, this woman has been schooled well.
She refers to my phantom cell visitor as ‘The Prophet’, and appears to hold him in high regard. I am to help this half-giant set him free. It seems I am to play the tool for this “Prophet”… Whatever, just as long as it gets me out of this desolate pit.
Oh, and she also tells me I’m dead… I think I already knew. The emptiness in my ragged, dry, hollow, barren torso… I already knew I am empty.
It seems that I was sacrificed by a Elf named Mannimarco and his Worm Cult to the Daedric prince, Molag Bal. Well then, perhaps my carcass is not so empty after all; because I can feel vengeance stirring deep inside my abyss, and it comes duel-armed with fury and wrath.
S.K
Back home, I wouldn’t usually put much faith in the word of a reptile, but if you’re going to trust anyone during a prison break, it may as well be the one who unlocks your door. Besides, this sickly looking Argonian has led me straight thus far. I guess whether Human, Argonian, or Elf… we are all just wretches in Coldharbour.
S.K
The Tamriel Drifter 