Crimson eyes stared up to the darkening sky just as red veins strangled the light from the day. Magnus hung low in the firmament as the red of the setting sun bled into the coming darkness. Draping his black cloak over his shrouded armour Lyr took to sitting upon a tree stump in an empty grove. A small shudder crept out of his body as the frozen night-time wind breezed past. Lyr had thought that he would be used to the cold, but even after all of these years it still managed to surprise a shiver out of him.
Breathing in the cool air, he exhaled a deep sigh. Soon the snows would settle, and the cycle of Skyrim's frozen wastes would begin again. Delicate flakes of snow fell from the sky, as the shrouded figure turned his Ashen face towards the tiny flecks.
For a moment: that single, lonely moment, he remembered that distant ancient land. He hadn't wanted to remember. It was involuntary, an impulse, as if he'd touched a flame only to be burnt by the memories.
Images of a childhood he'd tried to forget: those of flames and ash, of the grey skies corrupted by the flames of the Red Mountain. Of Cries of dying Silt Striders. Of herds of fleeing Netches.
The mass exodus of his once proud people leaving their home along the Dunmeth Pass as the rich marched with the poor, for all were peerless refugees looking for a new home in the cold wilds of Skyrim. Morrowind had been lost to the fires of the Red Mountain.
Closing his dark eyes, Lyr felt the cold breeze against his face. He knew he should light a fire with his magicka, allow the flames to dance before him, but as he sat upon the tree stump feeling the weight of his dagger in his hand, he allowed himself a moment longer to remember that distant land he'd never call home.