[i]In time, the name Molag Bal will be forgotten! In time, all of Tamriel will bow down before me! Soon, the God of Schemes will have a new name: Mannimarco![/i]

-The King of Worms 
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[i]They say in Highrock, the common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. The kings may play their game of thrones, their knights are stalwart, the very best in Tamriel, but it is not violence that wins the day. The province is a realm of merchants and diplomats, inclined to learning and negotiation. The pen is mightier than the sword, many Bretons say. 

These illusions burned, as all else did, when the Oblivion gates opened. 

Clad in black plate, Dremora and worse things streamed forth from the Deadlands at the bidding of Mehrunes Dagon's will. Once peaceful villages were reduced to ash, the farmlands of Wayrest and Westmark were scorched to nothing. Entire woodlands had disappeared overnight, and the verdant fields and quaint villages where children pretended their sticks were swords of steel, were assailed by the very legions of what the old Alessian order called hell. The Knightly Orders were summoned forth to defend the realm as peasant levies were assembled for the first time in centuries. The Hands of Balfiera were slaughtered to a knight, holding the Dremora and their imp servants off at Helmahlod Stepp. Daggerfall's Knights of the Dragon checked the horde at Chesterwark, Knight-Captain Gabriel d'Angeac gaining a feifdom after the crisis for daring and courage. The remnants of Alcaire's Knights of the Flame ran down a makeshift army of bandits that had marched of Baelorcroft Manor. The Knights of Pelin took heavy losses, but managed to route an army of daedric beasts near Forsdakar. All the while the common bretons defended their homes, and marched when they could be spared. What imperial legions had been stationed in Highrock acquitted themselves honorably, but many non-Bretons deserted, returning home to protect their own families.

When the gates were closed, and the flames were put out, the Frostfall plague swept in. Some whispered it was of daedric origin, a final gift from the prince of destruction. Others believed it was created by unseen, jealous hands; an evil craft made to topple what little civilization was left. It was likely just from the cold and lack of food. 

Still, Highrock had not suffered as hard as many provinces. Say what you will about the fuedal system, but it does well in a crisis of arms. Without a central chain of command, the kings, dukes, and barons sent their knights where they saw fit, and could operate independently without the crutch of a central bureaucracy. The hills and mountains that swathed the land were ideal chokepoints, and the once cordoned off kingdom, ideal for aristocratic feuds, was evidently purpose built to hold off invasions from every direction. It was Highrock's fractitious politics and geography that saved the day, but the province had been set back decades, if not centuries in terms of infrastructure. Only now, nine years after the last gate was closed, has the provincial imperial governor, Tidus Alonius, returned to find Highrock limping along, licking its wounds...[/i] 

"Alright, we get it!" Amal snapped, blinking his eyes in the sun. The cart lurched from a hole in the road, the horses knickering as they cantered through the idyllic spring landscape. He realized the incessant banging in his dreams had been the crashing wheels of the wagon, which meant the thrum that had lengthened his headache must have been this fool! 

"Oh, was I speaking aloud again? Apologies, it helps me write." The high elf said, having the decency to be mildly sheepish in countenance. They had been on the road together since Amal had landed at Steelheart Bay. Truth be told, he liked Aenarion, but the altmer did not know when to stop talking. Two years ago he might have simply slit his throat and be done with it. He might do it now. The mer had known Amal was hungover, and still he was trying to write the Pocket Guide to the Empire, V4. Aenarion gave a soft smile to him. "Well, at least you're finally awake. We should be there in a matter of minutes. The driver said as much."

The redguard pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a few moments to clear his senses before he massaged his forehead. Groaning gently, he sat up fully as the rickety wheels bounced beneath him. The straw had been itchy, but not a bad bed compared to the stone and dirt he was used to. All in all, they had been lucky. Two weeks on the road, and the worst they had come across was a sign of banditry Amal had recognized, cautioning them to take a different road, and a minotaur the driver, Maurice, had managed to outrun. It had helped the Breton was returning home, his cargo-laden wagon having been replaced with a small coin pouch. He had been happy to bring Amal along, one look at his callused hands and the iron saber he kept at his belt swathed about his slim waist had seen to that. The elf, he said, was welcome in case they ran into any magical problems. Aenarion had professed later he had very little training in arcane matters, but he was not going to announce that small fact.     

"Ah, you can smell Edeth's mulberry pies!" Maurice exclaimed, breathing in deeply. Amal's nose twitched. Now that the driver had mentioned it, he could too. It did smell nice. 

With the greenery enclosing the road and the sun high in the sky, and the most life-threatening beast in a week having been deer bounding across the road, this was hardly the hellscape Aenarion had called it. Hells, even if they found their destination was cooking people rather than pies, Amal would still find it a leg up from where he was in Hammerfell. Only in northern Hammerfell were there songbirds. Here? They sang a tune that seemed to infect the land with peace day by day. He half expect an arrow to fly out of the treeline, but none did. Instead, they rolled out of the Aned Thicket, right into Koegria. When the landscape opened up, the first they saw was a slim light house overlooking the bay, drawing their eyes to a handful of tradeships docked for the night. Their elevation was somewhat lofty, a few meter above sea level, they could not see the entirety of the town. The road winded past a motley assortment of townhouses and moss covered tors, flecked with healthy trees that stood vigilant over the trodden streets. As they rolled under the welcome sign, they passed a large statue of Dibella with various offerings beneath her feet. 

"The lady watches over us." Maurice joked, chuckling privately. 

Amal grinned, elbowing Aenarion. "I believe I will like it here. They worship the goddess of tits and love." 

For his part, the elf seemed too preoccupied with the emblems and the heraldry displayed on the doors and shops. Crossing their path, a man in plate armor Amal only assumed was a knight rode passed. He looked purposeful and ornate, good on the battlefield but lousy in the woods, off his steed. He gave Amal a look of disgust before corralling his horse away, and Amal only smirked. Past a seamstress shop and the local weaponsmith, Maurice pulled the cart over. He sighed from a trip safely traveled, but groaned getting out of his seat. "Alright you two louts, hop out. Enjoy Koegria, but keep out of trouble. There's been enough chaos in these parts to last an age..."