Like the other Pilgrims that day, Thris took his un-tipped arrow and headed toward the cave as instructed. He wore lightly lined leathers in blues and whites that matched his eyes and contrasted heavily with his copper colored hair. Yet he did not seem to struggle as much with cold as others seemed to be, even with the lighter gear. With Wren stealing all his body heat in the night he had been sleeping in linens, even. So walking in the cold wind and snow, even as it nipped at his skin wasn't too much of a disturbance.
Two of us watched, hunkered down over the edge of the ridge. The incessant sleet and frozen rain seemed to soak into every fiber of our heavy furs and winter cloaks. Every fogging breath brought more agonizing frozen air into our lungs. Once again I quietly cursed Lady Ashford for this garrison assignment in the frozen wasteland known as deep winter in northern Cyrodiil.
Evening set in hues of dappled purple and gold. Upon the drifting breeze of salt and sea could be heard the gulls. Here, the seaside felt so very different from High Rock. There was always an oppressive dampness to the air, the hint of a chill in the morn and eve. Yet, here, upon the Gold Coast, the sea breeze was always warm.
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