I find more of the Wyrd Sisters on the northern roads, who have offered shelter to the refugees of Deleyn’s Mill but appear to have lost much themselves.  The strange vines grow larger and more numerous here, like weeds they choke and smother life all about, whilst cultists and their foul corruptions prowl the surrounding countryside.

Witches, rituals, abominations of nature, and elemental guardians… if I were back in Cyrodiil I might have branded such stories as nowt but the brew of superstitions and outlandish beliefs of the bumpkins that populate such rural provinces.

But then, I never truly believed in Oblivion… until the anchors began to fall.

S.K