As I approach the town of Westtry, I spy an apparition on the bridge ahead, and it looks as if it’s got something to say… but then don’t they all.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe…’ Nope, it’s not doing any good, it’s still there, looking all baleful and forlorn, haunting a bloody bridge. Typical Breton.
I gave up the pretence long ago that ghosts haunt the living, that’s just not how it works, they haunt themselves. Or rather, they haunt what they were, and what they were never able to accomplish in life. When all is done, all that remains are ventures unfinished.
But by this measure, what am I but a ghost, gallivanting about without a soul, seeking to fulfil my own ambitions before I die again… and you know somethings gone very awry when you find yourself needing phrases like that!
Best go see what I can do to lay this fellow to rest then.
Morning in Tamriel, and the waking sun stretches her rays wide to embrace all of the land, sea, and sky. Night’s dew still clings to the land and makes plants glisten, whilst birds call overhead one to another in choral salutation. Everything is afresh and new, and the dawn, ever beloved of the muse, is a blank page spreading out before me, and I am it’s quill to breathe, think, and create.
I pray to the Divines that I might live this day with my eyes wide open, so I may not miss a moment of its beauty, joy, and wonder.
This I have prayed every dawn since Coldharbour.
The Hag Fens, a quagmire most foul, ruled over by a repugnant Hagraven named Mother Murk. A stench of decay burdens the air as the earth rots underfoot. Filth sodden rodents scurry its muddy causeways, whilst the ever-vigilant crocodiles skulk its stagnant waters.
A loathsome accord born of the Reach, has been struck between the hag fen coven and the Bloodthorn cult, which sees the cultists waylaying fleeing refugees from Camlorn, and stealing their women folk away for grisly purpose.
Thankfully the Beldama Wyrd stands against them, and help from an unexpected source may yet prove decisive.
On the eastern shores of the moor, the infamous Breton sorceress Lilou leads the Bloodthorn cult in their occupation of the gemstone mines of Khuras. Whether to fund nefarious enterprise, or some other foul intendment, they have managed to force a group of locals into working the veins for their profit.
I recall an old adage which said, “your reputation is the richest jewel you can possibly possess.” Let me then test the reputation of this sorceress, and discover whether it be gemstone, or just coloured glass.
It’s hard to feel sorry for one who has died trying to pry teeth from a crocodile’s mouth. Did nobody ever warn him that the crocodile smiles widest just before he eats you?