#'oh i have a modest manse in valenwood' fascinating. face the wall please

[wispstalk]

wip wednesday

been tagged in a few of these so here's a snippet i wrote last night. Gil's College of Winterhold story is pretty much an outline at this point but every so often I accidentally spit out some prose that I'm fairly sure will make it to the finished product tagging: @throughtrialbyfire @dirty-bosmer @yansurnummu @avantegarda @jiubilant @ehlnofay

text below the cut

The night before the carriage team is set to leave, Gil is drunk and wandering, contemplating the broken husks of houses and the towering presence at the far end of town. It’s a clear night, it has just finished snowing, the moon is full, the land around him glows like polished quartz. Bands of green light snap through the sky and the air hisses at their passing, as if whipped.

Just to the left of that fuck-ugly fortress, there is an archway, and a path that leads down to the rocky shore. He picks his way down with his staff. The Sea of Ghosts is calm, an endless expanse of glittering wave crests. The mountains hem him in at his back.

Now he has crossed Skyrim from one end to the other and it occurs to him how massive it is. The city isle in Cyrodiil is collared by its walls, cramped and reeking, new structures built ramshackle in between the old. Summerset is a wave-locked prison, each of his countrymen turnkey and prisoner alike. His sister’s modest manse in the humid shade of Southpoint. Everywhere he goes he is enclosed. A long tunnel, a tomb. He is not frightened of tombs, but he is unsettled by this enormous crackling sky.

He’s drunk as a lord, he knows, being self-indulgent. Dagur makes a damn fine mead. The publican was proud to show off his operation— probably hasn’t had an interested patron in years— and poured off some of his private reserve just for Gil. Flavored with Druadach juniper and dried orange blossoms shipped up from Cyrodiil. Good and dry and mellow.

He knocks back the last swallow. Thinks about dashing the empty jug against the rocks; that would be nice and symbolic. But he’s not very good at throwing, and he hates the sound of shattering. Besides, if he brings it back intact, Dagur might just fill it for him again.

He wakes with an outstanding hangover. One for the records. The sun is well up and— as Dagur informs him when he goes to settle up for the empty room he crashed in— the caravan has gone south with it.