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The Personal Journal of Vigilant Merandin Biencel Edited by Vigilant Oriella     Sinding is dead, as is every Daedra-worshipping Scum that came to kill him. As I pried the cursed ring from the Beast's Finger, Hircine, the foul Lord of the Hunt, spoke to me – congratulating me on my Trophy. I told him that this was an Act of Mercy – ending Sinding's Misery. The Demon did not understand, as expected. He replaced the Ring with a Breastplate wrought from Sinding's wretched Pelt and called it a Prize.     The Demon fools himself if he thinks that I am his, just like all his Brethren. The stinking Skin of the Werewolf will be kept

The Personal Journal of Vigilant Merandin Biencel Edited by Vigilant Oriella     As Serana and I entered Dawnstar, I was handed a Pamphlet advertising a new Museum that has recently opened up in Town – a Museum dedicated to the Mythic Dawn, a Cult of Daedra Worshipers who assassinated the last Septim Emperor two hundred Years ago in the Name of Mehrunes Dagon, the Lord of Destruction and Change. They started the Oblivion Crisis, an unprecedented Calamity that saw Daedra pour into our World and cause untold Destruction. Preventing such an Atrocity from ever happening again was one of the primary Motivations for the Founding of the Vig

The Personal Journal of Vigilant Merandin Biencel Edited by Vigilant Oriella     Finally, we have arrived at Stendarr's Beacon. A rag-tag Group of Brothers met us, confirming what we had been told by the Dawnguard Recruiter. The Hall is destroyed; Keeper Carcette is dead. Luckily, not many Vigilants were at the Hall when it happened; most were out patrolling the Roads of Skyrim. Many have not yet reached the Beacon. The Order might yet survive. But to ensure that, the Vampires must be destroyed. Tolan, a senior Vigilant, has gone to seek the Aid of this Dawnguard, which has apparently recently been reformed from an older Organization by a

The Personal Journal of Vigilant Merandin Biencel Edited by Vigilant Oriella I have found this Notebook in Gerdur's House, and when asked she proved willing to part with it. I have never kept a Journal before, but I feel the Urge to do so now. Perhaps I am just looking for a Way to sort my Thoughts. So much has happened, and the Road ahead is shrouded in Darkness.    My name is Merandin Biencel, second Son of Duke Fillipe Biencel of Duskmote, a small Duchy in the High Rock Kingdom of Wayrest. But such Titles matter little now. I have fled the Fires of Duskmote Castle, and I am but an ashen Husk of who I was.    When the Imperial Legion

Edited for publication by Vigilant Oriella It is worse than I feared. Not only is Sinding a werewolf – an abominable plague that must be burned from the world – but he is also in possession of a ring given to him by the Daedric Lord Hircine. This artifact makes the beasts transformations violent and unpredictable – even more so than they would ordinarily have been.     What is worse, as I was questioning Sinding, he transformed – and managed to break through the window of his cell. Erandur and I were unable to stop him, and now the monster is at large. We must find him. We must hunt him down like the animal that he

Edited for publication by Vigilant Oriella Hidden among the snowy peaks west of Winterhold we have found it at last: Alftand. I realize that I have been here before, during my misadventure with Erandur years ago. This was where we found the bodies of an ill-fated expedition to the ruin. They are still here. There can be no hope of finding them alive now, however – not after all this time.     *     We have clawed our way through Alftand – through the primitive, blind Falmer as well as through old dwarven machines still bent on deterring intruders – and we have made it down into Blackreach.       It is a wondrous place &

Edited for publication by Vigilant Oriella Caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty water of the canal on our way to the temple this morning. Hardly recognized the face. I am not the same young man who escaped the burning castle in High Rock. He was little more than a boy with hardly a hair on his chin. My own beard has become peppered with gray, of late. And the crow's feet are new. Would Sibastion even recognize me, were he alive? No, I guess not. Not because of my face, but because of who I am. The young rebel cared for little else than gaining his big brother's approval. And here I am, in the service of a Divine. Well, he always di