The sun crept across the Alik'r desert, bathing the ruins of a Dwemer fortress in light. Submerged in the sands and forgotten by time, what was once a bastion of dwarven ingenuity lay in shambles; watch towers once adorned with bronze domes lay toppled, pillars broken after centuries of disrepair. Fountains once filled with water lay empty, tiles cracked from the years of drought. Any hope of excavating the site were foiled by sudden sandstorms, burying the structure faster than human hands could uncover. With no visible means of entrance left unsullied by the wastes, any scholar or would be treasure hunter abandoned their search before their water flasks dried up like the ruins around them. No one has stepped foot inside those hallowed halls for centuries...

Except of course, for the Alarios.

"Rowan."

An elderly man, beard grey with age and robes of black, eyes shielded by a dark cowl covering his head, walked into a stone room lit by a single crystal. This crystal channeled light from the sun through a small crack, amplifying its rays into a warm glow to reveal a lone figure meditating in silence. He wore a white coat, his right shoulder adorned with scales of a fell beast, his left, a single metal pauldron etched with silver. A red cloak fell from the pauldron and a red sash wrapped around his waist. His eyes were closed, ashen hair falling comfortably down his neck, parted neatly to show a furrowed brow. A short beard adorned his face, offsetting his otherwise young complexion.

"Rowan." The elderly man called out once more. He placed his hand on the other's shoulder, rousing him from his thoughts. The man turned to face his elder.

"Mentor, forgive me, I did not feel your presence."

"While I admire your devotion to our rituals, one does not simply ignore the world around him unless his heart is troubled..." He gripped his pupil's shoulder in concern. "What troubles you child."

Rowan's mind pondered the question, hesitating at first, then mustering a reply.

"Am I ready?"

"I have trained you myself nigh twenty years, from the time when you were a simple boy picking pockets off the street. In those years, you have done more than some in our Order have done in their lifetime. Your wits are sharp, your heart true, and you have the gift of sight that few have mastered outside the arcane arts." His words were those filled with a pride only a father could have for his child. "You are ready."

Steeling his heart, Rowan rose to his feet and faced the man who spared his life many years ago. Krevan had brought him under his tutelage, teaching him the ways of stealth, cunning, and most importantly, inner peace. Rowan was grateful for his teachings and even more for his care. He tilted his head and brought a hand to his heart in respect. A small smile crept along the elder's face, though it shared a hint of sadness with his eyes.

"Go my son. May the light shine in your favor."

With a somber nod, Rowan left the room and climbed the ancient Dwemer staircase, his steps echoing in the darkness. As he reached a dead-end, he traced his fingers along the wall, feeling the worn rune of the Order etched finely, undetectable by the naked eye. With a press of a switch, the fortress rumbles, sand trickling down the stairs as the hidden door opens, the Alik'r desert laid before him, bathing him in light. After giving a short whistle, a horse trotting briskly towards its master, Rowan mounts the steed and rides towards the coast, leaving his home behind.

After securing passage on a ship, by less than reputable means, Rowan recounts the words of his master.

Rowan. While Hammerfell experiences stability after pushing back the Dominion during the Great War, turmoil has risen in the province of Skyrim. Those of our Order would never let such actions go unnoticed, yet I believe there are other powers at work.

I have given you the tools needed for such a task. A family heirloom, I entrust you with the sword of our forefather, bearing the eagle's beak and winged hilt. A dagger, forged by the best folded steel in Hammerfell. And finally, our signature weapon, a blade of dwarven make worn on the wrist, concealed and drawn by a mere flick.

Contact our brothers, join their cause and bring balance to Skyrim.

The journey begins...