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The Grey - XIIIEve was darkening the sky outside the Moorside Inn. Guillem sat slouched over a map, spilling out ink crosses carelessly as he dismissed various locations he had either cleared or found clean of vampires.
Beside him Polaris sighed. The daylight hours were ticking away, as were the hours of Guillem's curse. He had more restraint than most men the Breton had yet encountered in her short lifetime, though the hunger would grow. It seemed not to affect him now, though the passing of time was a fickle thing, the like to make fools of them all.
"Anything?" She asked the Imperial, her short, dark hair swaying as she craned a look over her shoulder.
"Nothing," he sighed back, accented voice full of tired worry.
The Breton rose from her creaking chair. "I should go and speak to the townsfolk. Perhaps they have some work for you."
"Then I should go," Guillem objected, knowing the people were used to confiding in him their knowledge of the darker things. Given that Polaris was a stranger, and a ma
The Grey - XIIIt was just past midday when Morthal came into view. Guillem had been anxious to return here ever since finding out that the place where he became infected was also the place that held his cure.
Tired hoofs rang gently on worn cobbles, and when Polaris dismounted, Guillem followed her example. His agitation and impatience was clear enough, but there was more to it than that. Even since his arrival at the College, the young Arch-Mage had picked up on the slow change overcoming his features. The bones of his jaw had slimmed and become gaunter, almost imperceptibly so, but the Breton had a keen and practised eye. The flesh that covered those bones had paled a fraction, the tan he had gained from long days on the road having gone. His eyes, one calm and grey and inviting, had been struck a harsh gold and were terribly bloodshot. It was no wonder he kept his hood up and his his face from view.
They left the horses on the edge of the city, walking with a purposeful gait through the wood hous
The Grey - XIThe courtyard was cold and silent. A heavy, printless snowfall muffled all sound and left a pocket of utter quiet. A young Breton woman stood with stoic posture, the thick fur lining of her robes blowing gently in the timid wind. Towards her walked a tall Imperial, clad in dark, worn leather, a thick blue cloak about his shoulders hiding the crossbow held to his back.
As he approached, the Cyrodiil cast a gold eye over the Arch-Mage's armoured extremities, matching glass gloves and boots glinting green in the half-light of morning. She nodded a silent greeting to him when he came near, and the two set off at a purposeful pace.
"There are horses waiting for us by the road," the Breton announced without looking up, preferring instead to keep her mind on the newborn journey. Guillem nodded to himself, grateful that at least they would not be hindered by their own pace of walking. "We will rest briefly in Dawnstar, and continue on tomorrow before sunrise." The Imperial took in her schedule
The Grey - XHe rode the horse almost to death, all through the night, stopping not once. The beast heaved and panted beneath him. By the time he reached Winterhold, the poor creature had almost collapsed from exhaustion. When Guillem dismounted her, he caught the first passer-by by the arm.
"Take care of this horse," he said as he dropped a small handful of coins into the man's palm without meeting his eye, before speeding off. Whether it was his strong accent of the strange, sudden manner of his request, the man stood and stared after him, absently thumbing the horse's reins in one hand and the coin in another.
The frosted bridge didn't faze him for a second, and he was at the great gate in moments. He strode across the white courtyard in broad, fast steps, cloak billowing in the snow behind him. Throwing his gloved hands against the high, thick doors, he heaved them open and rushed inside.
"I must speak with the Arch-Mage immediately," he announced as he burst in, his loud, accented voice reverb
Kestreth snuffled the covers with her tawny, straight nose. Light streamed in through the intertwined fingers of live wood and deep auburn foliage. The mer creased her lids against the bright morning kiss, thumbing the woven sheets between delicate hands. A small breath passed from her nose, warm with content.
And then something hard dropped down on top of her, across her middle, pressing the bone of her knees together. The dark brow pushed together and yet darker eyes opened against the light in tired protest.
Another sap-skinned elf smiled down at her affectionately from his bony, living perch, eyes bright, arms folded, legs crossed over effeminately. The pleased glint in his eyes irked the former sleeper.
Kestreth pushed on her brother's side with a false little glower. "Get off!" The male raised a mock-dignified eyebrow, continuing to smile at her from where he sat. "It's early, Anathran," Kestreth grumbled in a sweet, sleepy tenor, doing her best to roll back into her former somni
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