[center] [i]At the heart of THE WAY OF THE SWORD, young students, lies one simple precept: The warrior who knows himself perfectly cannot be defeated. You cannot predict where you will fight or what weapons you will find close at hand, or how your enemies will strike at you. But you can prepare yourself for that moment through constant practice, study, and reflection. Conquer your own body, mind, and spirit, and you cannot help but be victorious over your enemies. From this basic premise stem three distinct roads. She who embarks on the path of physical mastery becomes a warblade—one of the most skillful and dedicated warriors in Nirn. Fierce and uncompromising, the warblade knows no fear. The Sword Saint is a warrior who seeks victory through the discipline of the spirit, the path that ultimately seeks to master Shehai Shen She Ru. Devotion, piety, and zeal are her weapons. A Sword Saint becomes a living vessel of the unnamed god of wars will—an instrument of justice or vengeance who can overcome the most insuperable of obstacles with only the sheer power of her faith and the strength of her arm. The third road is the path of the swordsage—the road I have followed for most of my life. The swordsage, or spellswords as many call them, seeks to know his own mind, and to perceive and act with perfect clarity, and are the most attuned to the magicka that runs through our world. It is clearly the best of the three approaches—but then, I am a swordsage. What else would you expect me to say? —Knight Marshal Saffara, Sword Sage [/center][/i] [center]Sentinel 10th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205[/center] Harika approached the tower with equal parts anticipation and trepidation. The anticipation part was straightforward: She’d suffered through countless tests, examinations, and demonstrations to earn a place at the Sentinel Academy of war, Uhi-Tuktu, a dojo outdone in fame only by the The Hall of the Virtues of War. As the firstborn daughter of Knight Commander Vorelus “Horseshoe” Kraal, Harika was taking an important step in her family’s destiny by enrolling in the junior knight regiment today. But the trepidation wouldn't go away. What if she washed out of the academy? A third of first-year knights don’t come back to Sentinel for the second year. Eight years ago, Harika’s uncle Wultram volunteered to fight on the eastern front in Temijen’s expansions to retake Dragonstar and Elinhir after his first year at the academy—and the family always whispered that he volunteered because he was on the verge of flunking out. [i]Well, he proved himself in Nimbel Moor,[/i] Harika thought. [i]The family could use more Uncle Wultrams.[/i] Harika spent the hot summers morning standing at attention, waiting for Lance Defender clerks to inspect her entrance papers. Figuring that the long wait was just another test, Harika concentrated on maintaining her posture and breathing, trying to keep her anticipation and trepidation from showing. If the morning was devoted to standing at attention, the afternoon was an exercise in line-waiting: lines for uniforms (the plain tan of Sentinel warriors), lines for books (chief among them an annotated Book of Circles by Frandar Hunding himself), and lines for armor and weapons. It was at the end of the last line that Harika’s trepidation went away, completely overwhelmed by anticipation. Harika took the sheathed scimitar from the supply sergeant, suppressing a gasp when she saw the Lance Defender insignia, an “H” scripted in filigree, on the pommel. [i]Just like Father has, and just like Uncle Wultram had. Soon I’ll show everyone how well Knight Blade Harika wields this sword[/i], she thought. [center]Sentinel 7th of Sun’s Height, 4E 205[/center] Temijen marched a slow path through the seemingly evergreen and flush flora that made up most of the Palaces garden. He found it was an excellent place to think on matters of import, and also granted him some freedom from nagging lords and arse kissing officials that so plagued his everyday. The cool air held the faint scent of salt form the harbour even this far away. Something Temijen always noted immediately whenever he walked the perimeter of the gardens just adjacent to the Courtyard. Aside from the stables this was among his favored spots in Sentinels inner keep. At times like these, finding peace in seclusion, Temijen often wondered why he felt ever driven to claim a greater throne, a heavier crown. With the strong aroma of flowers in the air, the peaceful artwork of the garden around him, and the sweet refreshing breeze upon his skin to take his sweat away, finding an answer to such questions seemed difficult at best. His fingers found the answer for him, in the form of a pendant he wore always. He pulled the jeweled babble from under his tunic and marveled for a moment at its artistic beauty. The pendent was more then a simple work of silver and metal, it was a promise. A promise he had made almost twenty-five years ago to the only man he could have called a father. [i]"Temijen my son, stand before the old gods and swear...from this day until your last..You will always be an enemy of the Thalmor."[/i] Breathing in a steady breath Temijen took that moment to affirm to himself his true goals. His true purpose. Even here in his most peaceful of sanctuaries, his uncles words still found him. Those words still stroked a fire in his heart like no other, a fire that would only be quenched in death or victory. He told himself ultimately that should he succeed, it would be a truly new beginning for his people. Never again would they face the uncertainty of defeat and shame. Yet, though he knew his duty, he still felt as though he was running still from his true course, for what man could easily call his people to war without at least some hesitance? If you must run however, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice. And if you must run to something, why not make it an empires throne? Something suitably distant and perhaps utterly unattainable. After all, getting everything you wish for is nearly as dire a curse as having all your dreams come to fruition. Still, it seemed that his oath was not something that would allow itself to so easily be abandoned. War had come to him even as he would seek to avoid it. In a way, perhaps he should thank the altmer for reminding him of his path. Though he doubted they would like what they had brought upon themselves. The sounds of footsteps alerted him that he was no longer alone, and he calmly stowed his uncles pendent back under his tunic and turned to greet his unwelcome guest. It was Khasta, wearing his usually easy smile and demeanour, though it seemed more measured now as if he carried something uneasy. “Temijen - I thought I'd find you out here,” He said as he neared, stopped beside him and placing his hands on his hips as he cast a gaze over the orchards of the garden. Temijen nodded as he too turned back to the garden, saying nothing for now as his thoughts had left him in a rather somber mood. Perhaps sensing this Khasta enjoyed a moment of serenity with him before jumping into the topic that had brought him there. “Would seem our friends in the east are steering up trouble.” Temijen raised an eyebrow at that. “The Nords?” He wondered out loud, it seemed unlikely though perhaps not unprecedented. The northmen had descended into eastern Hammerfell many times in the past such as the conflict known as The War of the Bend'r-mahk. Khasta however merely shook his head. “A fear it's a littler closer to home.” “The orcs? Odd timing,” Temijen mused crossing his arms across his chest in thought. “Perhaps their working with the Dominion?” Khasta offered. “Not impossible, though such vast distances between their nations would make coordination almost impossible.” Scratching his beard in contemplation Temijen sighed. “We shall send them an envoy, perhaps learn the meaning behind their actions.” “Assuming Orc's are capable of reason you mean.” [hider= Events] Recruitment and mobilization of Hammerfell forces still underway Valenfell has begun construction. [/hider]