The Gift: Chapter Two: ApathyVicente often lent himself to endless hours of musing during the evenings.
He would sit in his study in his favorite set of robes, surrounded by books and drying herbs and warmed by a crackling fire. Sometimes he would read through scholarly letters from his friends and contemporaries in the mages guild. Sometimes he would indulge his smoking habit- one he swore to his wife he would one day quit. And sometimes he did absolutely nothing at all. He would simply stare out of his window and watch time pass in the fields beyond.
A hobby that his wife never quite understood.
Marelle was a woman of action. She liked lists, chores and activities. She was very different from the demure girl Vicente had met twelve years ago in his old master’s shop.
And he loved her all the more for it.
Even after twelve years she was still surprising him with her tenacity and willpower.
Her incessant nagging about his scholarly pursuits was a small price t
The Gift: Chapter One: WayrestThere was little in Tamriel that was more beautiful than spring in High Rock.
The countryside was blanketed with wildflowers that danced and swayed lazily in the gentle wind that would then carry the intoxicating scent of lavender and magnolia into gleaming cities that buzzed with magical energies and hummed with life. Shop owners opened their windows with merry smiles and the delicate wind chimes that hung from nearly every building sang a chorus that could not even be bested by the elven choirs of the Summerset Isles. The people milling through the city streets greeted each other with an infectious joyousness that bordered on unnatural euphoria. Even the sun seemed to grin with a stupid happiness as it watched the people below revel in its warmth.
Not everyone in High Rock was out enjoying the day, however. In the quaint shops the merchants toiled endlessly to meet the demands of their clients. This was especially true in a bustling apothecary’s sh
The Gift: PrologueMake it stop…
He was curled into a shivering ball, gritty ash sanding away at his cheek and temple with every tremor. His body twisted with convulsions that bordered on being true seizures.
Each spasm brought with it a fresh wave of pain that made him whimper. The aching of tight muscles that could not be relaxed, the pounding of steel waves that crashed against the insides of his skull, the searing pain of deep, dirt filled wounds reopening with every ragged breath. But the burning was by far the worse. The over eager flames of fever licked joyfully at his insides; dried him out and threatened to consume him completely.
The gray ash of Vvardenfell’s wastelands had, at one time, coated the linings of his throat, mouth, and nose. Now, however, there was no moisture left to adhere to. The sharp grit was free to tear at him from the inside like thousands of tiny razor blades, despite his efforts to cough up the offending particles.