» Sat Aug 15, 2009 11:23 pm It was shaping up to be somewhat of a tragic day in the Molag Amar region of Vvardenfell, but that didn’t matter much to him, his birth was a tragic day and every moment there after – all equally tragic. His mother was a tragic site, or at least she was when she was still around. That’s tragic too. His grandfather’s final stand at the battle of whatever it was, was really, really tragic. His father’s copious plights could also amount to much tragedy, but that’s only because he felt like he had to live up to something so maybe that didn’t count so much.
“Does tragedy count when it makes a person feel better?” he wondered as he meandered down the old dust road. There was a lot of dust in these parts actually. Dust in your hair, dust in the air, dust in your…well, that doesn’t matter, he thought adjusting his pants slightly; stupid blight storms. After some careful thought he concluded that it wasn’t actually tragedy, after all, that’s just silly obviously. “How can tragedy be tragic when it makes you feel like you’ve inherited something? Was there a god of drama?”
“Ho, there traveler.” a weary old Breton resounded as he jostled himself uncomfortably toward the wandering Wood Elf, who stood stupidly, and empty eyed.
“Ah, you’re stupid ain’t ya?” his voice suddenly soaring at first and then baking, almost like the bodies…or maybe ash…he was kind of old…can you bake ash?
“I was heading to Gnisi. That must be where you’re going seeing as ya following this here trail.” The old man motioned with his finger rather doggedly attempting to plot a straight line. “Well I just suppose I’ll follow ya. Wife says I ain’t got a lick of sense anyhow…or she did at least say that before she died.”
“Ho there, outlander.” A few voices echoed in unison as they came out from behind a few skinny trees.
“Where did they come from?” the Woodelf, finally speaking up remarked.
“Over there.”pointed the old man, tracing imaginary semi circles.
“No, we came from over there.” They armed strangers signaled towards the trees.
“That’s what I said.” The old man argued tenaciously, tracing triangles.
“It doesn’t even matter where we came from, it’s where we are going, and that’s to the Dren Plantation. You owe a lot of money.” The leader of the men barked.
“Where is it at?” the woodelf rejoined the conversation weakly.
“It’s that-a-way.” Sighed the old man, drawing Daedric
“No, you fool, it’s down there!” the Dark elf leader argued furiously
“That’s what I said! It’s over there!” once again the old man quarreled indignantly discovering twelve different math theorems before accidentally launching an incendiary blast, which rocketed the charred bodies of the gang members a hundred feet backwards.
“How on earth did you do that?”
“Eh, I uhm…I don’t know.” The old man shrugged entirely unaware
“I guess that was magic.” Mused the wood elf carefully for a few moments to himself. “Is that really how mages do it, uncontrollable hand motions?” He wondered. The blight storm stopping momentarily saw the woodelf adjust his pants for the final time.
“Say, what’s your name?” The Breton remarked in a sour tone.
“Oak.” Casually responded the woodelf.
“Ermet.” He responded quickly.
The two continued on the trail, quietly for the next few hours.
CONTINUED.
The patterns in the mountain wall seemed to irk Ermet, reminding him of his wife’s decorating abilities which he disparaged a good deal of the Journey.
“She decorated like a horny Kagouti.” He remarked at one point lending a stern veracity to the aging picture of a stubborn old man, and at that moment Oak began to wander just how female Kagouti would decorate, “Were any designers of the west gash region, Kagouti?” he asked himself searchingly. Perhaps some of the little deities nobody pays attention to were actually Kagouti.
“We need to stop for a while before it gets dark.” Oak remarked suddenly and in convulsing tone, setting his belongings at the base of a large rock.
“I thought I was old.” Grumbled Ermet, as he let the sack he carried curve down and around his hunched over posture before carelessly landing on the ground. He wore tattered clothes that looked like they had spent weeks in the marshes. They hung from him in strings at some places and his washed out facial color exasperated the homeless look, bringing it to entirely new heights. “If Kagouti decorate mud crabs must design clothes.” Oak finalized with himself before sitting down and leaning against a rock. The over hangings which littered the cliffs were unnaturally dark and managed to introduce themselves avidly as gravestones, weathered religiously by blight and rain. It was enough to imagine covens of necromancers or lairs of ancient vampires to keep him from sleep, stories his mother told him to entertain and scare. For Ermet, it was enough to remember the draqes.
“You know, the draqes matched her personality; stone-ass ugly.” He blurted out loud into a silent night, Oak turning his head to acknowledge the strange and out of place statement, but before he was able to do so, Ermet, shifting his posture slightly - bones cracking - fell asleep on the dust ridden ground.
When the morning came, he rose spryly, dirt caked face and all. Finally his skin tone went perfectly with the stained clothes he tottered around in.
“Where’s my pack?” inquiring nonchalantly, almost unnerved as he sat shifting his gaze to each side of him; oak shrugging in the hang time between each motion.
“Nobody gon’ noticed the damn door in the rock huh?” he finally growled getting up to inspect before cursing under his breath. The door rebuked his foot, as he kicked it in anger, expecting it to buckle. Instead it simply shuddered dust, laughing. It must have only ticked he thought, getting angrier at the insolent door. Suddenly he was beating the door wildly in a rage as cliff racers soaring away in fear, groaned. “It must be too early in the morning even for them.” the young Oak surmised as he examined the door handles for a few moments in between the spasmodic foot movement of Ermet, who cursing, besieged the now frowning door, which in his mind was extremely unhappy. Giving a little tug the door opened graciously, relieved at being delivered from the vengeful feet of the Breton. Ermet regarded Oak coldly for a few moments, and they both proceeded through the doorway, into the darkness which seemed to engulf the hollow, Oak sneezing from the dust which flowed through.
I felt stupid to say the least. 
