theshadowedwolf

A barren wasteland devoid of life lay before him.  Spires that once rose as a testament to the ingenuity and perseverance of the human race now lay in ruin.  Corrupted by the elements and the hostile environment, they fell, gouging the desolate landscape.  A gust of wind drove the acrid air into his soft throat, carving its way down and bloodying the soft tissue that lay beneath.  Donning a respirator, he was immediately greeted by fresh, clean oxygen, free of impurities.  As the man looked on, a heavy rain began to descend.  The acidic torrent began to further devour the derelict machinery.  Gazing at the shattered remains of a broken horizo

 The sharp, black scales dug into his bare skin, the rough weathered, hide of the fell beast chaffed against his thin legs.  Feeling the wind in his long, flowing hair, the young man let out a cry of joy, expressing the complete and utter freedom that he controlled.  The black beast shared the same mind as the man, linked by though and emotion.  The creature, made of smoke and mirrors, ethereal, and also, of tearing claws, gnashing teeth, and a fetid, gaping maw, substantial.  Created by dark majiks, the feral representation of the young man's consciousness remained, fueled by the sorcerer's life force and given substance by his power.  But,

With the midday sun beating down, Grimr Half-Paw, and his band of Khajit trading caravans trekked across the lonely desert.  A groan here, a drop of sweat there, slowly, ever so slowly, the sparkling sunlit sea came closer and closer into view.  The caravans were on their way to the northern providence of Skyrim, across the northern ocean, to escape the poverty and instability of their homeland, Elswyr.  Grimr's iron-shod boots were heavy and caused his feet to sink into the warm sand.  The sensation of sand between his toes reminded him of times long past, playing in the dunes with his den-mates, many of whom he would never see again.  He re