“It is only when we fall that we learn if we can fly.”

Non-Alcoholic cool potion recipe:

1 bottle of ur fav Gatorade or Juice of your choice

A splash of ur fav energy drink (optional)

Luster dust (cake decorating kind) to preferred shimmer

A cool bottle

Combine to become a wizard instantly

The ride into the lands stretching out from Castle Forsair was for the most part uneventful, save for the odd troop of guards on the road that would stop them now and again and ask for their identities and proof of authorized passage (Shadowmere had a disguise, too, so the men did not falter at sighting him– that had been a very simple thing to acquire from another enchanter, a horseshoe that altered the color and extinguished the hazy glow of his eyes). The new Laird had granted that on the grounds of Rowan being of strong Gaelic heritage– MacQuarrie, or so his name was. Being a noble had its advantages. All Rowan had to do was pique his interest via letter and courier and he and his wife had a place to stay in the Gael lands.

There was just the matter of the small but undoubtedly aristocratic meeting with the Laird that he would need to attend… with Evela. He’d purposefully neglected to tell her that for the sake of keeping the trip something for her to look forward to. Besides, they’d not need to meet him right away. So long as they did before their departure for Skyrim… Rowan wanted to have the chance to come back, and he’d do his best to stay in the Laird’s good graces.

“The tavern is different,” noted Rowan as they rode into the town below the castle. It wasn’t surprising; the original building had been reduced nearly to rubble in wartime, so it had probably been replaced for the most part. He read the sign displaying its new name, slowly. “Ah… òir drama. The Golden Dram. Fitting,” he laughed.

The village square was mostly unoccupied, being so late as it was, but the lights from the drinking house were glowing in its windows, beckoning night owls to come in for a pint. There were other buildings in clusters around the area, but even with the torchlight flickering over their entrances, it was hard to tell what they were.

“Are you hungry? We can stop for a wee bite before we see our lodging. I need to see the Innkeeper about that anyway,” he said, wisely choosing the word “we” over “you” when speaking of dining. He needed to at least pretend to eat around company that did not know him. Gaels were hardy, ravenous eaters, and it would look strange if he didn’t touch a morsel of food.

He looked back at her in the saddle.

“Come,” he bid, dismounting near the tavern and tying Shadowmere to the post. The beast would not flee, but the people here needed to know he had a good hold of his animal.

“A little,” Evela said lightly, trying to downplay the fact that she could probably eat an entire elk on her own if given the opportunity, but then a loud rumbling in her stomach belied her answer. She flashed a sheepish grin, opening her mouth to make a snarky remark about the appetites of werewolves, but she caught herself at the last moment; they weren’t exactly alone, so their usual humor would have to wait until they were out of the earshot of people who wouldn’t understand the quality of a monster joke if it clamped its jaws on them. “Ravenous,” she amended instead, and then let her gaze wander the town square as her husband tied Shadowmere at the post.

She half-expected to find herself submerged in a world completely alien to what she was used to, but instead she encountered the opposite. There were obvious differences between Skyrim and the Highlands, which was something to be expected, yet there were some similarities that made her feel less like she had taken only a few steps from her doorstep rather than ride hundreds of miles on horseback. She liked the familiarity of it, and how Rowan’s earlier words—we’re home—seemed more accurate as she took in the scenery around her. It occurred to her that if she wanted to investigate the strange lands, people, and customs that more seasoned travelers warned her about, she would have to venture a little farther than High Rock.

When Rowan finally returned to her, she took the liberty of looping her arm through his and letting her head rest his shoulder. As they crossed through the doorway of the tavern and her attention became immediately drawn to a group of rambunctious young men gathered in one part of the building, she tried to picture Rowan among them, minus ten or fifteen years and maybe without the short fiery beard on his face.

Rowan felt sorry for her. Riding a horse was difficult work, hardly able to be enjoyed for someone of novice training. He should’ve helped her practice more, before all this. If it were safe, he’d have told her to take on her animal form when crossing the miles that would lead them to the Highland forests, but he wouldn’t risk her getting shot.

“Not too soon,” he chuckled at her, staring ahead with Shadowmere’s reigns held loosely in his grasp.

His hair was beginning to plaster to him, but the rain didn’t bother him. If anything, he welcomed it. It was another facet of home.

“Part of me questions whether I am truly here at last. I know it isn’t possible, but… I feel my heart. It stirs.” He turned, his glance subtle as his smile softened. His hand was on his chest where the dead organ lay. “A phantom beat, maybe.”

It was all the more thrilling that he was experiencing his return with her. He couldn’t think up a better way to revisit the place where he was born.

Evela’s awe-stricken proclamation filled him with amusement. She thought the land was green now. Bless her.

“Aye, you’ve the rain to thank for that,” he remarked in turn. “You’ll feel more at home when we reach the wooded territories, I think. The fortress of my upbringing is there, deep within.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes, then, as he started to grow more concerned for her health. His sash could only protect her so much. She seemed well, but he wanted that to last. Resolutely, he led his new wife and Shadowmere both to the closest outcropping of brown weathered stone, a tooth-like structure that jutted out from a mountain, just far enough over the ground for the two of them to take shelter beneath. He bid her there with a “come love, please,” and they were off again come the breaking of the storm.

They rode past some of the smaller Breton settlements on their way, leaving the frore, snowy mountains of Skyrim far behind them. Before it was too late, Rowan took care to don his complex disguise – the wedding gift of enchanted jewelry labored over for him, by Caesa, to deceive others into thinking he was as mortal as them – so as not to draw any suspicion before entering the clan lands.

It was as shadow and fog fell upon High Rock that the land grew most familiar to him, once the elevation increased dramatically. It wasn’t as simple as a stark dividing line separating Breton land from the Gaels; the trees dotting the landscape began to thicken, gradually, until the hills were covered in them. They were not coniferous like many in Skyrim were known to be, not yet. These were Elms, Elders, and Blackthorns. Rowan was partial to the third for their white blossoms in the Spring time.

There was a large sign pointing two ways, up a slope at the fork in the road they traveled. Rowan saw it and a breath caught in his throat.

Foremost, one had been painted in the language of the Eastern Gaels, with the common translation of the place the road headed. On the other, there lay a description in Rowan’s own tongue, the meaning “West Gael territories - enter at your own risk” below.

Rowan dismounted Shadowmere, sliding slowly to the ground. His eyes never left the sign post. His footsteps gravitated towards it, as did his hand, which came to lay flat upon the one pointing West. It was worn – more than he remembered, very worn – but it was still standing. The wars were over now, or so the messenger he’d sent here had informed him, but no one had bothered to paint over the warning note.

His mossy green eyes were wide.

“I didn’t…”

His tongue could not form the words while he struggled to get a hold of his excitement. His jaw gave way to open, realization hitting him dead on.

“I suppose I didn’t understand fully, until now,” he said. A hum of light laughter bubbled up into a pronouncement positively ridden with glee. “Evela… I’m home!”

Rowan’s enthusiasm faded barely, if for a moment.

Back to her he went, his smile returning, full with all the warmth he was capable of. He took her hand from below the saddle, clasping it between his two.

“We’re home.”

She was of his clan, after all. This place was hers as much as it was his, though she’d yet to truly see it for its glory. He would have to remedy that come the following days.

He waited no longer to rejoin her atop his steed. Whistling, he nudged Shadowmere into gear, and they were gone again into the wilds. It was only a matter of time before Castle Forsair would be on the horizon.

“You belong here as much as I do, mo chridhe,” he murmured back to her as they rode. As the hour drew on, he permitted Shadowmere to walk. The path at the beast’s hooves was beginning to seem more constituted of leaf litter and damp dirt than stone. The moons’ lighting split through the trees like arrows heaven-sent, illuminating their way in brief but frequent flickers. “You may not think that yet… But I mean to have you feel at home before our time here is through. This, I promise you.”

It was ridiculous how his happiness and excitement alone was enough to make Evela feel the same. Her smile seemed to mirror his own when he returned to her, and when he took her hand in his own, she gave it a small encouraging squeeze. His entire face seemed to light up now that they had arrived—no, his entire soul. She could see it in his face, and in the way he moved as he quickly climbed onto the saddle to press forward. Her arms wound around his torso again and she rested her head on his back, smiling to herself.

Ashe Juniper, Post Cedar, Mountain Cedar, Blueberry Juniper Berries Juniperus ashei

“A house I pass on the way to work has this sculpture in its yard. Its about 8 feet tall.”

“NEIGHBOR STEVE, DO YOU NOT WISH TO PARTAKE OF THE UNCLEAN FLESH-MEATS OF PIGS AND THE POLLUTED ESSENCES OF TOMATO?  PERHAPS YOU ARE A CAROLINA STYLE MAN, NEIGHBOR STEVE?”

“PUT THE GUN AWAY NEIGHBOR STEVE, YOU KNOW I SHALL ONLY RISE AGAIN WITH THE DAWNING OF THE MOON.  WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH THIS MANY TIMES.”

“LOOK AT THIS PICTURE MY SON DREW OF YOU AND CHILD TIMMY, YOUR SON.  ARE THEY NOT THE PICTURE OF PACT-MATES?  THIS COULD BE YOU AND ME, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”

One time Steve tries throwing holy water but all Antler Guy does is thank him, saying that no, Antler Guy isn’t Catholic but it’s the thought that counts, he is so kind to water his creeping deathshade vines regardless.

For Christmas Antler Guy gives Steve a case of ammunition. To be funny/sarcastically mean Steve gets Antler Guy the world’s most hideous Christmas sweater, singing light-up reindeer included. He immediately regrets it because not only does Antler Guy love it and wears it for several months, it will never need batteries because Antler Guy powers it with his own eldritch aura.