Elkwel ran a hand across the stubble on his head. The barber who had shaved the remnants of his hair had not owned a looking glass. Not that Elkwell needed one. The reactions of passersby told him more than he wanted to know. He was long since used to the occasional joke about his pig-snout, freckles, red hair or bosmer-like height. The pointing and sniggering was unusual though.
There are names of people that come into one's life that are banished into that dark place where they are forgotten. At least, for a long, long time. Tonight she pulls these faces from those depths and into the realm of her thoughts and stares out toward the Highlands as though she could see the damned estate and the accursed dark cloud that hung over it. It was then that it all came together - he wasn't dead, and it made no sense. He put the pillow in her hand and made her suffocate an already slowly dying man in a brutal act of patricide, yet his own could be spit from the cold prison he was sent to and she found herself... afraid of that thought.
Hammerfell. This one hates traveling through Hammerfell, Rhemirr thought as he rode through the Alik’r Desert. It was just past midday as the sun glared relentlessly upon the Khajiit; sweat pouring out of his fur and seeping through his clothes. The only reprieve he had was through the cloak around his back which covered his face, and even that could scarcely be called comfort as the heat was absorbed in the garment, making him breathe and exhale hot, dry air that was trapped near his face. He’d dare not take it off though, for while it was uncomforting, to remove the garb altogether would make the climate downright unbearable on him.