|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
A wood elf in Skyrim PT6
"Master, please! Don't do this! Let's just stay here, we don't need to open the door!"
"Ruthalia," he said her name softly, with a smile that spread over his face. Despite his age, Ruthalia still found his face handsome, its features daring, courageous it spoke of everything about him. But the master had aged, indeed. They had been on the run for quite a while now. For longer than either of them would have liked.
The master had grown quieter ever since they had received a strange letter, many months ago now. Ruthalia held it in her hands, staring at the door, her legs wary from travel.
All the letter showed was the mark of a black hand, fingers spread, and a single message underneath We know.
"The Dark Brotherhood," she heard her master whisper when he had first looked at it, the same night they had left their little cottage up in the mountains.
Ruthalia didn't understand and the master avoided her every question. No matter how much she begged, he would not tell her what
A wood elf in Skyrim PT1
On the back of her armored mount Ruthalia thought it was time to finally do what she had been told to do ever since she first entered Whiterun.
Go and see the Greybeards.
This gave her not only an opportunity to find out more about the Dragonborn legend, but also the chance to discover more of this unknown country. Supposedly, there was someone in Ivarstead who knew about the Greybeards.
Ruthalia pulled out a map, trying to figure out how to get there, scanning the drawing of Skyrim with her wood elf eyes. She was from Valenwood but had been pulled into this strange land when she had joined a fight against a group of soldiers that attacked a party of hunters just outside of Skyrim. The soldiers had captured her and taken her with them, along with many others.
Staring at the map, the soft rhythm of the riding mount beneath her caused memories of that day to float to the surface.
Ruthalia remembered the cold stone under her cheek, as she placed her head on the filthy block, wa
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
Keep in Touch!