For the royal eyes of the High King Emeric only! (He so loves it when I start these reports this way.)

House Tamrith of Rivenspire has holdings primarily in the western half of that region, with numerous business interests that include agriculture, mercantiles, and commerce. Indeed, it was their thriving trade with the lands to the south that eventually led to strong ties with Stormhaven and the city of Wayrest.

In many ways, the rivalry that marks the interplay of the three most prominent noble houses of Rivenspire (Tamrith, Dorell, and Montclair) dates back to the late period of the First Era, as each house established its reputation and its fortune and helped the region prosper. Of the three, Tamrith has the strongest tradition of piety and religious commitment, and the house has often called upon Arkay as its personal and most favored deity.

As the High King is well aware, a good portion of his youth was spent in the company of two of Rivenspire’s nobles—Baron Esmark Tamrith and Count Verandis Ravenwatch. And so it was with a heavy heart that the military might of Wayrest and its allies had to be turned against Rivenspire more than a decade ago. At the time, King Ranser of Shornhelm declared war upon Wayrest and forced his nobles to join him in his losing effort. Whatever their true feelings toward Wayrest, the noble houses of Rivenspire obeyed the call of their king and fielded troops against the High King.

In short order, House Tamrith withdrew its support of King Ranser and petitioned for peace. House Dorell was quick to follow suit. Only House Ravenwatch, a relatively small concern compared to the other noble houses of Rivenspire, never took up arms. They remained neutral throughout the year-long conflict. House Montclair, meanwhile, supported King Ranser almost to the bitter end. They finally surrendered to the Wayrest alliance just before the battle that pushed Ranser’s remaining forces back to the place now known as Traitor’s Tor.

In the aftermath of the conflict, Baron Tamrith emerged as a powerful force for peace and cooperation. It was his idea to form a ruling triumvirate to govern the region in the High King’s name, and the leaders of all three noble houses pledged their loyalty to High King Emeric. The High King approved of the triumvirate, but also promised to select a new king of Shornhelm at the first opportunity. (This one reminds the High King that this promise has yet to be fulfilled.)

Baron Esmark Tamrith married the daughter of House Elde, Janece, thus combining their fortunes and creating an even stronger political entity. The couple was blessed with two daughters, the pragmatic and thoughtful Eselde, and the strong and somewhat wilder Janeve. Four years ago, Eselde left Rivenspire to broaden her education and religious studies in Stormhaven, where she was a guest of the High King’s court for the majority of that time. During the same period, young Janeve (against her father’s and sister’s wishes) joined the Shornhelm Guard.

Eselde excelled in her studies, taking a particular interest in history, politics, diplomatic studies, and theology. She demonstrated a deep conviction in the teachings of Arkay and the Way of the Light, while also surpassing her contemporaries as a healer and champion of riddle contests. It was clear that she fully intended to prepare herself to eventually take on the mantle of leader of House Tamrith.

Janeve likewise surpassed expectations. She quickly demonstrated amazing combat prowess, military strategy, and an ability to lead others in battle. She earned a number of rapid promotions, eventually becoming a Captain of the Guard. In addition to her role in the Shornhelm military, she also headed up the personal troops of House Tamrith. (For the record, in times of war or other emergencies, it is not uncommon for house troops to join with the city guard to form a single fighting force to defend the region.) If Janeve has a fault, it is her quick temper and love—some might say need—of constant action.

It is with sad tidings that I report of the death of Baron Esmark Tamrith. He passed away just a few short months ago of natural causes. Eselde immediately left Stormhaven to return to Rivenspire and take up the mantle of house leader. Now, as Countess Eselde, she has taken her father’s place as part of the ruling triumvirate of Rivenspire. So far, she has been performing admirably in the role, despite the constant disagreements with Baron Dorell. How she will interact with Baron Montclair has yet to be demonstrated, as the Baron has been absent from court these past few months, tending to the needs of his ailing wife.

Barring unforeseen circumstances, I see a bright future ahead for the newly appointed Countess of House Tamrith.

For the High King, Chancellor Regina Troivois, the Department of Interior Affairs

Unto the Doyen of Satakalaam:

It is with a heavy heart that this unworthy one must report a cessation of the Motalion Endeavor. Circumstances have eventuated that render its continuance inadvisable. Indeed, pursuing the Endeavor would doubtless lead to a loss of Guild lives, as well as being sacrilegious (even more than usual).

I hasten to point out that no taint of fault should be inferred as to the perfection of your peerless plans, O my Doyen. Following your instructions, our subversion of Motalion Funerary Overseer Parvizh al-Tigonus went flawlessly—indeed, he was willing to accept only 15 percent of the pillaging proceeds when we were willing to go as high as 20 percent. In the weeks since he agreed to our proposal, the looting of the crypts and mausoleums in the southern quadrant of the necropolis was accomplished according to Your Doyenhood’s admirably aggressive schedule, despite the back injury suffered by Footpad Quyen in the Crypt of Virtuous Maidens.

The harvesting and sale of the Sacred Welkynds was likewise a complete success, and your idea of substituting imitation stones of turquoise glass treated with glow-spells has left none the wiser. The cost of paying Affab the Illuminary to renew the glow-spells once every ten-day is scarab-feed compared to what we were able to realize from the welkynd stones on the thaumaturgical after-market.

In hindsight, your advice that we start with the quadrant wherein were interred the most affluent of our ancestors fully justifies the eminent position in which you find yourself. Though we refrained, of course, from irreverent treatment of the sarcophagi, the valuable trappings and regalia of the outer tombs were stripped during those periods when Overseer Parvizh had the watchmen patrolling elsewhere. It is unlikely that the eastern and western quadrants, where the less prosperous of our brethren are buried, would even together equal the take brought in from the southern.

But now I must reluctantly turn to the reason for our regrettable abandonment of Your Doyenhood’s supremely excellent Motalion Endeavor. The northern quadrant, where the authorities have seen fit to bury the corpses of those who were impious or criminal in life, has been afflicted by a horrific rising of undead. Ra-Netu in numbers have crawled from their crypts, and are now a profane presence across the entire necropolis. This may be due, as I believe, to Overseer Parvizh sending the watchmen too often into the unclean quadrant, or it may be the result of some other desecration. If it was the fault of the Overseer, he has certainly paid the price, as he was one of the first victims of these risen dead.

I also regret to report the death of Footpad Quyen, whose back went out in an untimely manner while fleeing from a Ra-Netu at the base of the Ninety-Nine Stairs. His surviving family will receive the usual stipend.

With the Utmost Esteem,

Operative Maffud

Frandar do Hunding Hel Ansei No Shira or, as he is commonly known, Frandar Hunding, was born in the far desert marches in the province of High Desert. "Hunding" is the name of the High Desert region near where he was born. "No Shira" means "noble person" or "person of noble birth" and "Hel Ansei" is his title of Sword Sainthood.

Hunding’s ancestors reach back to the beginning of recorded time in the high desert, living as artisans and mystics. His grandfather was a retainer of the Elden Yokeda, Mansel Sesnit, and led many of the battles of unification prior to Sesnit’s assassination.

When he was 14, Hunding’s father died in the one of the many insurrections, and he was left to support his mother and four brothers. His prowess with the sword, however, made his life both difficult and easy. It was easy in that his services came in great demand as a guardian and escort. It was hard in that his reputation preceded him, and many awaited their turn to face him in battle, hoping to gain instant fame through his defeat.

By the time Hunding was thirty, he had fought and won more than ninety duels, killing all his opponents. He became virtually invincible with the sword, gaining such skill and mastery that he finally stopped using the real swords created through the artistry of his people and began using the Shehai or "way of the spirit sword."

All sword-singers learn through their intense training and devotion to the gods of war and way of the sword, the forms of discipline that allow the creation of the spirit sword. This is a simple form of magic or mind mastery whereby an image of a sword is formed from pure thought. The sword singer forms the sword by concentrating, and it takes shape in his hand. It is usually a pale thing of light, misty and insubstantial, a thing of beauty perhaps, or a symbol of devotion to the Way and the gods, but no weapon. However, those Ansei of the highest level and sensitivity and those with talent in magic can in times of stress form a spirit sword: a Shehai that is far more than light and air. It is an unstoppable weapon of great might, a weapon that can never be taken from the owner without also taking his mind.

The Shehai became Hunding’s weapon, and with this, he killed bands of brigands and wandering monsters infesting the land. Finally upon finishing his ninetieth duel, defeating the evil Lord Janic and his seven lich followers, he was satisfied that he was indeed invincible. Hunding then turned to formulating his philosophy of "the Way of the Sword." He wrote his learnings down in the Book of Circles while living as a hermit in a cave in the mountains of the high desert in his sixtieth year.

In that year Hunding, having enlisted in the many battles of the empire, and having defeated all opponents, had thought himself ready for death. He retired to his cave to capture his strategy and mystical visions to share with other sword-singers. It was after his completion of the scroll of the Circle that the singers found him composing his death poem and preparing to join the gods of war in final rest.

At sixty, he was a vigorous man who thought himself through with life, but his people, the sword-singers, needed him. They needed him as never before.

By Arthenice Belloq

Chapter One: Abducted by the Reachmen

I was born in Murcien’s Hamlet, just north across the Bjoulsae from Evermore. My mother was a weaver, and my father was a boat-builder who made small fishing smacks and coracles for the river trade. I remember my youth as a happy one, playing around the docks where Father worked, or hunting through the near woods for entoloma caps and hickory nuts.

It was while doing the latter one day that I strayed a bit farther from the hamlet than usual, pushed my way through a briar thicket … and suddenly found myself staring at a pair of human skulls. Startled, I shrieked and dropped my basket of nuts. By the time I realized that what I’d seen was a skull on a staff next to a woman’s face painted like a skull, I’d been knocked down, bound, and thrown over her shoulder.

I was being borne away to the north, away from my home and into the mountains. I began to kick and scream, at which the woman threw me down, bound me tighter, and gagged me into the bargain. Then she resumed carrying me off into the wild. Eventually I passed out from sheer exhaustion.

When I awoke it was dark, but I could see forms in the dance of firelight, silhouettes sporting horns, bones, spikes, feathers. Reachmen. I closed my eyes and tried to wake up, but it was no nightmare: when I opened my eyes they were still there.

My gag was gone, so I cried out for water. The skull-faced woman, whom I later learned was named Voanche, brought me a cup. She checked my bonds, and where I winced in pain, she actually loosened them a little. This surprised me, as I’d always heard that the Reach Clans were barbarians, wicked Daedra-worshipers who reveled in cruelty. Maybe, once they realized how distressed I was, they would set me free and send me home.

It was a false hope: I was to be the captive of the Crow-Wife Clan for the next eight years. The Reachmen were far more complex than I had been led to believe in my Breton home, but in one thing we were right: barbarism and cruelty are everyday facts of life in the Reach. Voanche was a horse-breeder who had abducted me because she needed a slave to tend to her livestock, since her former thrall had died of a kick to the head. She had given me water and loosened my bonds solely out of concern for the condition of her new possession.

Voanche’s clan was ruled by a hagraven named Kloavdra, a claw-fingered crone who was a witch-shaman of considerable power. She was a priestess of Namira the Spirit Daedra, the lady of ancient darkness who commands repulsive vermin such as spiders, insects, slugs, and serpents. Because Namira is the mistress of small pests, the Reachmen call her "the Children’s God" (they are not without humor, though their jests are always malicious). At every two-moons’-dark Kloavdra would draw lots at random from the children of the clan, both Reach and slave, to select a sacrifice to the Goddess of the Dark. The chosen child would end up on the Ever-Oozing Altar where Kloavdra would cut out its heart as an offering to Namira. Every time I was sure it would be me, but the name-feather drawn was always of another.

Kloavdra’s hag-husband was a crude and vicious man named Cointthac. He was a gravesinger, a witchman shaman who could command the dead—in our land we’d call him a necromancer. He was always looking sidewise at Voanche and licking his lips, as at a savory roast fowl. Though he had power in the clan and was feared by all, Voanche treated him with disdain, which would sometimes provoke him into sending hoot-haunts into her tent at night, or hexing the horses’ oats with writheworm. Voanche never turned a hair, just threatened to complain about Cointthac to his hag-wife Kloavdra, which always sent him packing.

Life was hard in the Reach. Crow-Wife was a hunting clan, so our life was following the herds across the wastes. It was a rugged and perilous existence, where life could be snuffed out in a heartbeat by the antlers of an elk buck or the fangs of a sabre cat. But what I feared most were the semi-annual crossings of the Karth River in the wake of the tundra herds. It was my job to help Voanche and her useless daughter swim the horses across the ice-cold, swirling current, and every time I was certain would be my last. How I wished I had learned to swim in the Bjoulsae, like my two brothers, whenever the Karth had me in its grip!

Occasionally during a crossing one of the horses would panic and break free of us, which usually meant drowning and death for it. Then Voanche and I would search far downstream until we found where its body had washed up, so we could skin and unmake the dead horse for its valuable fat, flesh, and bones. Nothing was wasted among the Reachmen.

It was during my sixth summer as a slave of the Crow-Wives—I had crossed the hated Karth eleven times!—that I began to attract the unwanted attentions of Aiocnuall, the loutish son of Kloavdra and Cointthach. He expressed his attraction by pushing me into mud puddles or putting dead voles in my stew. He was a year younger than me, but soon I knew he would want me to the object of more than just practical jokes. As the son of the hagraven he could do pretty much whatever he wanted with impunity, and Voanche couldn’t protect me by complaining to Kloavdra—the old virago would just cackle and wave her away.

So at night, when I should have been sleeping in my pile of furs, I started making a spear.

(King Eamond’s Final Address to His Troops)

"Knights of Saint Pelin; Evermore Guard; freeborn militia of Mournoth and Ephesus: soldiers of Bangkorai! Ever have we been the shield of High Rock, the first line of defense for the Breton Kingdoms against invaders from the east. Time and again the Bretons of Evermore and her surrounding regions have taken up arms to garrison Bangkorai Pass and turn away those who would pillage and plunder our homeland. In the year 874 of the First Era, when Warlord Thulgeg’s army of Orcs and Goblins was driven from Hammerfell by the Redguards, we denied them passage through the Pass and forced them to flee northeast, trudging all the way through the Dragontail Mountains before they finally reached Orsinium. Not a single Goblin made its way through our pickets into our homeland.

"Then, in 1029, when the legions of Empress Hestra deposed King Styriche, the Vampire of Verkarth, he fled west at the head of his dreaded Gray Host, burning and killing as they came. But when his army of bat-men and wolves reached the Bangkorai Garrison, they broke like a wave on a rock. Hestra’s legions caught and killed the survivors, and the Empress was so impressed that she honored High Rock with admission into the First Empire.

"When, after almost a thousand years under the Ruby Throne, the excesses of the Alessian Order forced High Rock to secede from the First Empire, the Monks of Cyrodiil decided not to let us go peaceably. In 2305, under Abbot-General Priscus Mactator, the Legions of Piety and Grace were sent to bring the Bretons back into the fold. Mactator’s fanatics filled the Fallen Wastes from end to end, but they could not pass the Bangkorai Garrison, and after a five-month siege, with the pious turning on the graceful, the Abbot-General was forced to admit defeat and plod back to Cyrodiil in disgrace.

"Only once has the Garrison failed to protect High Rock: when Durcorach’s Reachmen Horde poured down the south shore of the Bjoulsae, filtering through the Northwest Spine that had always protected us before. Then, Evermore was sacked, and the Garrison was taken from behind. But even then, we bought High Rock enough time that the Breton Kingdoms were able to muster their troops and eventually repulse Durcorach at Daggerfall.

"Today, invaders from the east threaten us once again, in the form of an Imperial Legion from Cyrodiil. But these are not the legendary warriors of an Empress Hestra, or the disciplined soldiers of an Emperor Reman: these are the degraded mercenaries of the Tharn usurpers. Indeed, this legion is even led by a cousin of that decadent and faithless family!

"And who is this Magus-General Septima Tharn? What battles has she won, beyond bullying freeholders for their back taxes? What barrel-scrapings are these so-called ‘legionaries’ she brings to pollute our homeland with their heretical, Daedra-worshiping ways?

"I say they are scum, a desecration of the once-noble name ‘Imperial Legion.’ I say they are a rabble. And I say that, with us manning the walls, they shall not pass the Bangkorai Garrison!

"What say you, Knights of Saint Pelin; Evermore Guard; freeborn militia of Mournoth and Ephesus—soldiers of Bangkorai! Will we betray the blood of our ancestors and allow enemies through the Pass? Never, I say! Not today, not tomorrow, not ever!"

Throughout the ages, whenever one heard the word "werewolf," it was a cry of fear and revulsion. This need not be the case any longer. We shall prove to Tamriel that it is indeed possible to live a productive, peaceful life while afflicted with Sanies Lupinus.

Our Rule: Resist the Urge to Commit Violence

By withdrawing from society, one can learn how to apply this simple rule to everyday life. Do not give in to a feral desire to retaliate against those who cannot understand our plight. We are not meant to destroy others simply for sport. Hircine blessed us with the ability to fight well, with strength beyond that of an ordinary person. We must not take advantage of this blessing to hurt anyone, but rather use it in ways that benefit others like ourselves. Hunting can be a rewarding pastime, and a way of worshiping our patron. It should not be a way to torment others, whether man or beast.

This blessing, for it is a blessing and not a curse, allows us to carry heavy loads, and to cover vast distances without tiring. We make excellent traveling merchants for this reason, as well as laborers of all kinds. By showing continued restraint, by not lifting our hand against others, by proving that hunger does not drive us to kill, we honor ourselves and our families.

It is our duty to demonstrate that werewolves can be peaceful through our continued faith in Hircine’s blessings.

By Lady Cinnabar of Taneth

No folk in Tamriel have been more misunderstood than the witches of the Glenmoril Wyrd—primarily, I believe, because all the scholars who have previously written about them have been men. This is not to say that the groundbreaking work of the Venerable Kigyo of Lilmoth and Professor Barst of Shad Astula are to be entirely discounted, merely that their objectivity has been colored and undermined by their cultural assumptions of male superiority.

To be clear, it is not the fact that I am a woman that makes me somehow emotionally better suited to understand the sisterhood of the Glenmoril Wyrd. On the contrary, it is my proven ability to be objective in the context of traditional gender roles, as shown in my celebrated tract, "Saint and Slave-Queen: Alessia and the Lens of Gender," that makes me uniquely qualified to address the subject of a single-sex society like that of the Wyrd Sisters.

The Glenmoril Wyrd are a loose association of female witch covens who revere nature and the natural world and incline toward Daedra-worship. Racially they are almost entirely human, though some covens include human hybrids such as hagravens and lamias, who usually rule the covens they live in. Their preference for life in the wilderness means their covens are usually located far from the agricultural or pastoral enclaves of "civilized" people, which contributes to the lack of understanding of their true natures. This has led to the Glenmoril covens nearly always being described in terms such as uncanny, reclusive, dangerous, inimical, and evil.

In fact, the Glenmoril Wyrd are all of these things—except, I would argue, evil. It is true that they are unswervingly committed to a rejection of civilization and civilized ways; it is true they admit no male members to their covens; it is true they regard themselves as enforcers of certain "laws of nature" which only they recognize. This does not make them evil, just strict adherents to moral codes that are different from our own.

The fact that the Glenmoril covens seem able to maintain their populations without admitting men into their number is also an object of suspicion for those who live in their vicinities. There is an age-old libel that the Wyrd Sisters replenish themselves by stealing girl-children from neighboring farms, but such a practice has never been documented (except in the case of the notorious Fen Witches of Hjaalmarch—but they worship Molag Bal, and child-abduction is the least of their objectionable habits). My inquiries, which have been extensive, lead me to the conclusion that in most cases covens gain new members when unwanted girl-children are brought to them by distressed parents. (What happens to unwanted boy-children in the northern regions is probably a question best left unasked.)

Though the Glenmoril Wyrd are numerically few, geographically they are widespread, from the easternmost Greenspring Coven in central Skyrim to the westernmost coven in the Ilessan Hills of High Rock. Most of the eight or so known covens are adherents of Hircine, but the Hagfeather Coven of western Falkreath reveres Namira, the Markarth Sisters (the only urban coven) worships Mehrunes Dagon, and the aforementioned Fen Witches of Hjaalmarch are followers of Molag Bal.

Relationships with the Reachmen, the other main Daedra-worshipers of the northern wilds, vary from coven to coven and from Reach Clan to Reach Clan. The Hagfeather Coven, the Rimerock Wyrd, and the Markarth Sisters all have cordial relations with the Reachmen, but the western covens of the Ilessan Hills and Viridian Woods have a history of conflict with the Reach Clans that dates back thousands of years. This may be accounted for by the fact that the Ilessan and Viridian Wyrd venerate the less-feral aspects of Hircine, and have even been known to provide cures for lycanthropy, whereas the Reachmen prefer Hircine’s more vicious side, celebrating lycanthropy as a gift rather than a curse.

This, then, is a summary of what is known about the widespread but elusive sisters of the Glenmoril Wyrd. Many questions, certainly, remain unanswered, and much research remains to be done. To address these issues properly, it might even be necessary to leave Taneth and mount a personal expedition into the northern wilds—assuming a generous patron steps forward to finance such a worthwhile scholarly effort.

From "The History of Histories, As Told to Young Prince Fahara’jad"

Know then, O Prince, that after the Ra Gada had swept across Hammerfell, driving all the tusk-folk before it, a time of peace befell whereupon the people who were once Yokudans were able to lay down the sword and take up the shovel and trowel. And for three spans of a person’s life all the Redguards did delve and build, and many were the Great Works that were erected above the sands. And few did study the Way of the Sword, for all were constructing monuments to the greatness of our people.

Now east of the Alik’r and south of the Pass of Bangkorai the ever-laudable Queen Ojwa did cause to have built a city of splendor, all white stone and fluted columns, and the city was named Ojwambu, after its thrice-eminent monarch. And its streets and broad avenues were replete with houses and halls devoted to all the arts, both mercantile and inspirational. The people strolled the streets bedecked in fine garments and bedizened with bright jewels, and partaking of delicate viands and hearkening to tunes both rousing and restful. And all was pleasing thereby.

In an unconsidered corner in the shadow of the walls stood the city’s Hall of the Virtues of War, and there did the worthy Hallin, being the Last of the Ansei, teach such of Ojwambu’s youth as were yet so inclined the Way of the Sword. Now these youths were few, and though they suffered raillery and unkind badinage from their peers, they found the aging Hallin an inspiration nonetheless, and learned the Way of the Sword until they became true Redguard warriors. And this was well, as you shall see.

For in the mountain range called Dragon’s-Tail the tusk-folk still lurked, beating their breasts and rending their ragged garments in rage and grievance against the Redguards. And among them was a great Goblin Warlord who had escaped the Curse of Divad through a chicanery, and thus had not been diminished. This giant Goblin was possessed of both slyness and sinew, and long he worked among the tribes of Dragon’s-Tail, until one day he awoke to find himself Warlord of all the tusk-folk therein. And his name was Mahgzoor Rockhand. So Mahgzoor raised his great blade Bone-Hewer, and roared in a mighty voice like an earthquake, and declared that the day of vengeance at last was at hand.

Then Mahgzoor led his Endwise Army down from the Dragon’s-Tail, and it swept into Hammerfell like a great sandstorm, and none could stand before it. The people of the Fallen Waste fled before the fury of the tusk-folk, and many and many were those who sought refuge behind the walls of Ojwambu, until the city was overfilled thereby. The citizens cried out in distress and apprehension, saying, "Who will fight for us, O Queen Ojwa? For we have become artisans and pleasance-wrights, and have forgotten the Way of the Sword."

And Queen Ojwa spake, saying, "Are there none among us who remember the Way of the Sword?" Then venerable Hallin stepped forward and bowed before his monarch, saying, "I remember the Way of the Sword, O My Queen, or at least as much as I may, for I am the Last Ansei. What I can do, I shall."

Hallin’s students then stepped forward as well, and laid their swords at the feet of their queen. But the thrice-eminent Ojwa was dismayed by their fewness, and spake distraught, saying, "How shall we repel the Endwise Army with so few blades? For the tusk-folk are as numberless as the sand in the dunes."

But Hallin was nowise deterred, and said boldly, "Take heart, O Illustrious Majesty. For your people are Redguards, which means they come easily to the Way of the Sword, and once they have their hands once again on the hilts of blades, and learn to quote once more from the Book of Circles, they will be a match for any folk in all the round world, be they ever so numberless."

"Be that as it may, venerable Ansei," replied Queen Ojwa, "but even Redguards need time to learn the Way of the Sword, and of time we have but little."

"Then you must have more. Finding you a store of time shall be my task, the culmination of the work of my life, and I swear upon Onsi’s bright blade you shall have it." And he drew his blade, yea, even in the presence of the queen, and swore an oath upon the Brotherhood and Sisterhood of the Blade. And behold, Hallin seemed to grow to the stature of a giant, and a light shone from his blade’s sharp edge, and all were obliged to avert their gaze.

Yet when they were able to look once more, they saw naught but the venerable Hallin, smiling and sheathing his blade. And the Last Ansei raised his hands, as if to embrace all the people of Ojwambu, and said, "Fellow Redguards, to you I bequeath the knowledge of the Book of Circles, which we have guarded long and well, that you may be equal to all threats whatsoever. These my students shall teach you their learning, and in good time you will all know once more the Way of the Sword."

He turned then to Queen Ojwa and said, "Now lead your people, O Mighty Monarch, for that is what you do best. Take them to the west, and spread the word of the Way of the Sword, that Hammerfell might make itself ready for the Endwise Army. I shall abide here in your city, which I and the other Ansei shall defend so long as we may, until our people are ready to fight for themselves."

So Queen Ojwa took the venerable Hallin at his word and forthwith ordered her people to march west toward Alik’r, while daily drilling from the Book of Circles. But Queen Ojwa did more: as she was a wise queen she was an Owl-Friend, and had decreed that all owls were to be honored and none slain. And in return the owls did many a favor for her. So the queen did call the Father of Owls, and asked him to bide in Ojwambu and observe Hallin’s defense. "For I would learn," she said, "how one man shall defend a city entire."

Even as the last of the people of Ojwambu departed from her gates to take the secret ways to Alik’r, the scouts of the tusk-folk appeared in the east, where they were noted by Hallin, for though he was old, his eyes were keen.

Then Hallin spake, though there was none to hear but the Father of Owls, saying, "As the snake sheds its skin, so shall the Ansei rise anew from the husks of the past." He raised his sword and cried, "Sisters! Brothers! I summon you to the succor of your people, for time folds upon itself, and then-time is now."

And he gestured with his blade to the left, and all along the battlements to the north there was a rustling as of snakeskins, and lo: there arose along the parapets the shadows of a legion. And there stood the semblances of all the female Ansei who ever were, and they turned to Hallin and saluted. So Hallin gestured likewise to the right, and along the battlements to the south there was a rustling, and lo: there arose the semblances of all the male Ansei who ever were. And they likewise saluted Hallin, and then all, north and south, drew their bright blades, and stood on the battlements awaiting.

The scouts of the tusk-folk stopped forthwith to observe the defenses of Ojwambu. Surprised were they to see the battlements lined with goodly warriors, for they had been told that the folk of the city had forgot the Way of the Sword. So they did consult among themselves as to who would carry this news to Warlord Mahzgoor, and quarrel and quibble, for they feared the bearer of such news would have his head struck off. But finally the smallest, with many blows, was made to carry the report back to the Warlord.

So the scout reported to Mahzgoor that, unaccountably, the walls of Ojwambu were lined with many goodly defenders. Of an instant the Rockhand struck off the scout’s head, but then he took thought, for he was possessed of both slyness and sinew. And his thoughts were, "What matter? We are as numberless as the sand in the dunes. We shall surround this Ojwambu, leaving neither entry nor egress. We shall despoil their fields of its provender, and stop up the streams of their flow, until no one within shall have to eat or to drink. And thus the city shall fall."

So Mahzgoor ordered, and so it came to pass. The tusk-folk took their leisure among the spoils of the outworks, casting jeers and taunts at the defenders on the walls. But the defenders replied naught. So Mahzgoor and his army waited, amusing themselves most abominably at the expense of their prisoners, secure that in time the defenders of Ojwambu must wither and dwindle.

But it was not so. Even long after when the Warlord’s bone-counters calculated there must be no more to eat or to drink within the city, the defenders stood still stalwart and saying naught. So Mahzgoor summoned his shamans, saying, "Shamans! Have we been befooled by the perfidious Redguards? Are these goodly warriors we see lining the battlements, or are they but shadows?"

So the shamans cast the portents, and sacrificed twin infants, and sent a scullion to the East Gate whom Hallin did spear from above. And they returned and said, "Nay, mighty Mahzgoor, we are not befooled, for these are goodly warriors we see lining the battlements. But how they may stand when they have not to eat or to drink, this we cannot tell."

Of an instant Mahzgoor struck off the shamans’ heads, then raised bloody Bone-Hewer and cried, "To arms! Form ranks! For tonight we drink the blood of the defenders of Ojwambu!"

Of that battle, no living Redguard survived to tell the tale. But nonetheless did wise Queen Ojwa hear of it in full, for the Father of Owls did bear the tale to her ear. He told of how Hallin and his Ansei withstood the assault, yea, for seventeen days. But though they were goodly warriors, over time the Ansei did dwindle, though each left behind only a husk like unto a snakeskin. Finally only Hallin stood at the East Gate, which was burst open by Warlord Mahzgoor with Bone-Hewer held high. And Hallin did seem to grow to match him in size, and the two met sword to sword.

Long and long their blades clashed, until finally as the moons rose the Rockhand smote Hallin such a blow that he was struck to the ground. But even as he fell Hallin, who knew the cuts and thrusts of the Book of Circles, yea, each and every one, swung his sword and struck off the head of the Warlord Mahzgoor. Then both were dead, but in death only one was smiling and serene.

Queen Ojwa nodded to hear this news, and said, "It is well." And she turned to her mighty army of Redguard warriors, each of which knew the cuts and thrusts of the Book of Circles, yea, each and every one, and said, "Redguards! March we now to retake our lands from the tusk-folk. And when we have regained our splendid city once more, we shall rename it Hallin’s Stand. And so it shall be."

And so it has been, ever after.

Hush, my dear. Go back to sleep. The trolls can’t get you here—not so long as there is a Viridian Sentinel.

What’s that? You want to hear about the Viridian Sentinel again? Of course, my dear. Just lie back on your pillow and listen.

Everyone in northern Bangkorai knows about the Viridian Sentinel. The Sentinel is the guardian who makes all the wild things stay in the woods. The trolls, the bears, the witches and their wolves—none may come into the vanquished lands from the Wild so long as the Sentinel keeps watch. And the Sentinel will always keep watch.

Did you know there was a time when there was no Viridian Sentinel? It was long, long ago in the before-times. We Bretons had just won our freedom from the Direnni Elves, and the Elves were still spiteful about it. "Go ahead, take these lands you call High Rock," they said. "You will not have them long. We will retreat to our towered island. We will renounce our covenant with the Earth Bones. We will give these lands back to the Wild."

As is often the way when Elves speak, we did not understand what they meant, so we merely shrugged and set about the hard work of making the land our own. We plowed fields and sowed crops. We fenced meadows and made pastures for our livestock. We built roads and market towns so our people could sell each other their produce and wares. And all seemed well.

But then bad things began to happen on the farms nearest the woods. Witches lurked under the eaves, and Bretons who got too close to the forest began to disappear into its shadows, never to be seen again. Soon the farmers had to abandon the fields that were next to the woods.

It got worse. Things began to come out of the woods, fell creatures and beasts, mostly at night but sometimes even in the day. And they roamed across the farmlands, menacing the farm families and slaying them when they could. Many farmers said, "We cannot stand before these creatures from the Wild. Come, we shall leave our farms and go to the towns."

But when they got to the towns they found there was no work for farmers—and even worse there was little or nothing to eat, because the farmers were no longer sending food to the towns. The townspeople blamed the farmers for abandoning their farms, and the farmers blamed the townspeople for not sending their armed watch to guard them. No one could agree on what to do.

One of the farmboys, a lad named Greenward, was very worried. He went into the chapel and prayed earnestly to Stendarr, saying, "O righteous lord of mercy and protection, we are in sore plight and in need of your aid. For the beasts of the Wild are no longer contained, and our lands are reverting to wilderness. Soon there will be no place for mortals who love order and harmony. I fear we will become beasts, forget our names, and turn our back on the Divines. Show us, O lord, how this may be prevented."

Then a kingfisher flew into the chapel and landed on the altar before Greenward. It was a very large kingfisher, larger than any the lad had ever seen. It cocked its head, and then began to whistle and clack its beak. And Greenward seemed to hear speech among the whistles and clacks, words that said, "The beasts come out of the Wild because they have forgotten your names, and believe you to be beasts like themselves, whom it is lawful to slay. Someone must go to the Wild and tell the beasts that he has a name, and the vanquished lands are forfeit to his claim." Then the kingfisher made a small mess, as birds will, and flew away.

The lad bowed and said, "I shall do this for my family, and the other families of the vanquished lands." He hugged his father, he kissed his mother, and he left the town and went back to the edge of the Wild. There he met a savage tiger, who made as if to pounce upon him, but the lad said, "It is not lawful to pounce upon me, for I have a name, and am no beast. My name is Greenward, and I claim this land as vanquished. Return to the Wild and come here no more."

And do you know what? The savage tiger did exactly that. And so did the ravening wolves, and the shambling bears, and the fierce trolls, and the wicked spriggans: all returned to the Wild and came to the vanquished lands no more.

When this was done the lad hoped his work was over and he could return to his family, but it was not so. For always new beasts came from the Wild who had to be taught the boundaries. So the lad lived thereafter under the eaves of the wood and walked the edge of the wild, telling the beasts his name and turning them back. And our people called him the Viridian Sentinel.

Eventually the Sentinel grew very old and felt that soon he might walk the borders no more. He began to worry. But a girl came to him and said she had been spoken to by a bird, and thereafter the two walked the border together. And when the Sentinel finally passed on and his name went with his soul to Aetherius, the girl became the new Viridian Sentinel, and the vanquished lands were still safe.

So it has been ever after. And so it will always be.