To the east of the Hollow City lies the bleakest of land, haunted by sombre mists from morn till eventide. The sun, such as it is, appears only beamless and pale. The earth beneath is as contrary as an Altmer’s heart, either a quaggy sludge, or as hard as iron. Life is sparse. Occasionally the coarse chatter of a scamp, or the guttural bellow of a dremora may be heard upon the the chill winds that blow invisible without leaf or bush to see. But there are no timid critters in these dead forests, crouching, hiding under grassy lair. No doe that startles at passer-by, caught betwixt instinct, to bolt or stand and stare. No dogs that bark at foreboding unseen. No moody Guar foraging, oblivious to anything but sating greed. Yet this is no land of quiet and peace, for the uproar of nefarious Industry hums deep beneath the blackened arches, into which no entrance can be found. This is an unpromised land of winter’s twilight, from where all hope ebbs, and wishes flee in disbelief.

S.K