North of Stormhaven, the forested fringes of Wrothgar rise to scrublands and tundra. Here, the swell
North of Stormhaven, the forested fringes of Wrothgar rise to scrublands and tundra. Here, the swell of the wind is a muffled roar, lifting cloud in whorls and waves. It sighs through seas of undulating olive grasses, stirring up pollen into a blue-skied haze where feathers flutter like the thumbed pages of a book. Low warbling calls throb from the throats of ocean-cloaked crows, punctuated by the insistent staccato of hidden birds. There is the thrum of insect wings and lazy buzz of nectar thieves loop-the-looping in dappled patches. A woodpecker drums in the west.Mushrooms, wreathed in the breath of beasts, nestle in rocky folds amidst dew-soaked turf where the watery sun fails to smile. Echatere grunt gratefully, scratching their tough-haired hide on boulders and splintered tree trunks. Squirrels squeak and pip, bounce and scrabble amidst the rustling of long grass and the rasp of meadow flowers, petals combed by rough-fingered, circling air.Further east, the breeze twists and eddies with ice on its tongue: it brings the rush, rise and fall of distant ocean and the burble of furtive streams. In shaded creeks, nirnroot clangs its metallic song. Bronzed, dry wilds stretch to horizons, spattered with bright, hardy blossoms: rashes of crimson, flame-orange and yellow. A hawk’s knife-like screech rends the flimsy fabric of sky – a wound then sutured by the plaintive, curling mewl of a buzzard. Further on thunders the laboured footfalls of mammoth: a hollow brass howl echoes as one falls heavily to a hunter.Crickets pulse. The sun climbs. -- source link
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