Not content with invading my country, nor liquidating my friends and loved ones in their Purges, agents of the Thalmor and their dominion spend the best part of the past two months chasing me out of Silvenar, Valenwood altogether, and north through Cyrodiil. Talent in the art of Witchhunting is happily coefficient with the art of Mage slaying, especially shrill and garrulous Altmer ones, but it can only take one so far. Crossing over into Skyrim seems like a good move, it's chaos up there, easier to hide, surely, touch base with other dissidents and regroup. When you're a Bosmer these days, https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/r__OK3R9VdBuRi2LO_Af96fI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink.

Well played, Elenwen, well played. Wretched, foul-smelling Cliffracer, but well played. I die for my peopl - https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/5KGyklkVeL3rgLsMQUJTkKfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink

Ears ringing, blood bellowing in my ears, I stagger hazily along with that chatty Nord from before, he's trying to lead me away, but https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jgkMMQBCiyRNtvA5EUVGz6fI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink Struggling onwards, my senses slowly coming back, I recognise the other Nord as he's hauling me through the mayhem; he's the soldier who tried to save me before! But why is he https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/g45A9UmxOTH_fjLg8oSpEKfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink, this isn't really the time, we need to get inside! https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wPt5H3XJmg_ye-pfD5qC8qfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink

Going with my instincts, my new Nordic friend battles alongside me through the desperate survivors who will not listen to reason, until we escape the bedlam. Injured but intact, we step out into the light once more, but https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/bK6BRYpGPIBA8QDwRdfm5KfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink Hadvar and I make it to Riverwood, where his uncle Alvor, a portly and cautious man but welcoming nonetheless, https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0Rt1RPJ7lN063vT8a1futKfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink.

As we calm ourselves, Hadvar and I trade stories. Our battle-bond sees me divulging that which I seldom discuss, the Altmer necromancers - the bodies of my friends, and my training in the art of the Witchhunter - first the censorship, the collaboration, then the betrayals, the hooded figures bursting into safehouses. He tells me of what the danger of this 'Stormcloak' rebellion truly is, and it is indeed a compelling argument: if the Cyrodiil's are broken here, the Thalmor will have no rival on Nirn.

https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/JzLN94TegSnt1skkhbdSbKfI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlink, there are those who will say it isn't my fight, but they're wrong. I will never allow them to win. Of course, while I'm here, might as well burn out a few Liches, Zombies or whatever it is these Nord's become after death. Plenty of https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ZWV1K9avDNhmGaucbjnOJafI2O1lyJMgSqhmjT7xrHU?feat=directlinkin this land.

Greetings, my name is 'Creidhne', and I shall be your Exorcist today.