GOLD FLOWS AS HONEY OVER PETAL AND BONE. it so looks pretty, heavy drops licking stem and wound, but often do many forget that the flower will die and the cut is all too macabre. gold, they say, is the metal of kings — of gods and goddesses, the color of their ichor. how come, some ask, it hurts when spilled ? how come, some ask, that where gold follows, so does death ?
skyrim is slate grey where morrowind is carrion red; the clockwork city is of steam and brass and automatons in every shape and shade, just as every keep and hold the northern reaches has to boast are made of wood and fur and stone stronger than even the toughest foe. the ground is easily bathed in snow and yalean treks through it slowly, lifting legs with heaves and grunts that makes it sound like a task more difficult than it truly is.
“ can you— ” dark grey fingers clutch at make - shift cloak and wraps it tighter around shoulders, soon after lifting shoulders to burrow neck in the comfort of poorly offered warmth; he still shivers, still prays to whatever deity will listen, almsivi and daedric both, and fumbles forth once more, “ can you please tell paya to slow down ? i don’t think i can do much more of this ! ”
poor little clockwork apostle, the true - world outside of a man - made one is much harder than one would think. nature grasps and clings and the air is crisp and rich — yalean whines, and he shivers again. he has decided that skyrim isn’t quite for him.
“ nectë— we’ve been walking for hours ! ”
hours and hours — it has only been a little more than two.
@meallifluus / starter call.
