It was only after the battle that I had time to look at the night sky where Masser and Secunda were, ensconced in their starry embrace. The smell of sea salt mingled with the blood of the Dreugh as their broodmother lay slain. I hadn’t noticed that the corals glowed.
In a somewhat remote spot of Cyrodiil, a mage has arranged a family of skeletons around a campfire. He has made sure all of them have their heads and are suitably warm. I wonder what tales are being told.
The two statues always seem to me that they are giving high-fives to one another. But that wasn’t what caught my eye this time. The purple-blue shades of the sky was so strangely incongruent with the sun shining down at me. I had to remind myself where I was – they didn’t call it Far Shores for nothing!
Every time I go to Stirk, and I’ve been there at least ten times, I almost always arrive at nearly but not always the same time – the magic hour just reaching its last tendrils over before the evening ends and night begins. The sun nears the horizon; night gathers above, bejeweled and waiting. I imagine that the sea breeze is balmy, and perhaps I can taste sorrow in the air – the Crimson Ship carried its burden hopeless into that endless Abecean Sea and were lost. Who mourns them?
I might have noticed this before but I cannot remember if I did. Walking down towards the wayshrine, I noticed these rocks in this formation. The closer image shows more clearly their countenances. Fascinating.
Something about the sun shining through the foliage does it for me every single time. Reaper’s March feels warm. The empty deserts of the Alik’r are dead. But Reaper’s March feels alive, a poignant thought since it was littered, once upon a time, with the remains of yesterday’s dead.
Eastmarch is a warm surprise after having explored Coldharbour. You can almost smell the grass and the life that’s here. Coldharbour in contrast was… dead. There was no life, only a semblance of it. It chills the heart to go there.