There is a place,
where Reavers crawl.
They wield a mace,
where all shall fall.
There is a temple.
Atop a cliff,
where I mingle,
near the riff.
There is a place
where an evil man lives.
He moves without a trace as
he hides through dives,
slipping between deathly books.
In the land of Solstiem,
where werewolves sell rings
of power,
I awake, only to find myself working
for an unknown labor.
Solstiem is the place,
where Reavers crawl.
Solstiem leaves the trace,
of death and malice, in its wake.
