Prologue

There was a definite beauty in the canvas of Skyrim, splashed with the vibrant colors of nature and mankind. Ranging from the desolate tundral holds of the North, studded with pearlescent beauties of ice, to the mystical forests of the south, liquidizing the imagination with every ruin and cave. To the craggy quarries of the West, speckled with veins of resilient iron and silver, and to the muggy marshes of the East, frozen in an eternal state of Hearthfire.

One could have stated that Skyrim was the icing on the Tamrielic sweet roll – with its perfect blend of the sweet of nature and savory of man. For many an age, Nord and nature had coexisted with near perfect harmony. Nature caressed mankind. Mankind caressed nature. Nature fed man. Man fed nature. But the ages of old have since blown away; blown away only to exist in the faded ink of books and the songs of minstrels, leaving mankind and nature in peril…

They came from the sea… They came from the unrelenting waves…

They came with newfound power… They came with devastating spells…

They came with crushing snow demons… with rushing cat tigers…

With fanged serpentine men, spewing torrents of venom.

Marching, marching over the sea.

Marching, marching over the plains, over the grass.

Burning life with every stride.

Their plates of mail, blazoned with one.

The sigil of dragons, a metallic monster…