Extreme poles and isolated worlds

I translated to English.

Skyrim/Oblivion freemform. Not pg-13.

Vesper walked slowly through out the greenish-brown plantations filled in at the borders by rivers of monochromatic vegetation which surrounded all sides of the plantations like a floral envelope: low and wrinkled pines, by eucalyptus trees with their strong and massive trunks and by willows with their saddened leaves and fallen, snaking with the winds. Access to these lands was limited, and the roads leading to these fields were little known to outsiders, rather than to the owners themselves. Her gray eyes showed her constant worry and her doubts about what she, Vesper, thought about throughout the day and night. Walking slowly along the dirt road, their gazes, sealed like a tomb of death, are tired and icy, her black boots already worn out with time, hit the trail with hardness and in an inflexible firmness, cold rains from the day before which left the trails all consistent and pasty like freshly wet earth. Still observing the trees as which had abundant and living leaves; the bushes which bore in their branches white and yellow wild flowers, and the dense gray rocks was covered on their thick surfaces by vegetative layers of fungus and mosslike vegetation. Enigmatic, irritated and nervous, Vesper, seeing that she had no answers to her crazy and childish questions, wandered off to the house. As much as she spend hours and days thinking about useless and unimportant subjects, like the ones which ones wouldn't change anything in her life. She was halfway to their home that the fields stretched out to them continually until the wildflowers found their last breaths, dying out like tundras, low and slowly, blooming until they died near the rocky edges of the mountain ranges. Casting her gray eyes to the skies with the color of swimming pools, she saw that the whiteness of the clouds which painted those skies were immovable: it would rain again, but this time, harder as an ocean storm. She rubbed her hands on the rocky structures, trying to pull the wet and undergrowth with her fingers, however, she couldn't but instead, she plucked few small tufts of wet earth with a few traces of greenery mixed in them. She decided to run back, realizing that the darkness of the night was advancing in the course of the minutes, scaring her.

The house, marbled and stoned in light shades of dark gray, which reminded Vésper of a dull winter sky: neutral and indifferent. The palace's neutral tones only enhanced the sad feelings of its owners, the poor peasants who lived in the outskirts of the imperial city. The decayed peasant dwelling was extensive, long and wide, whose architectural structures, square and rocky, were composed of several rooms . The walls were white and moldy, however, the joints of the walls in which their frames and wooden railing had in their tonalities were of dark brown colors with light brushstrokes of scarlets shades and these wooden frames separated the white walls from one another. A small gray marble staircase which led the front of the house where stood two entrance doors. Upon entering the house, there were rooms and more rooms until at the back, the large and comfortable kitchen was located.On the second floor was were the owners' rooms were located and those rooms were comfortable and spacious. One had to cross a narrow, boring and shady corridor, which the sunlight did not illuminate because of the architecture of the manor. The corridor, narrow and icy, was located right in the middle of the second floor and on that, on both sides, there were extensive walls that extended far to the end. On the left side wall there were two doors far apart from each other, which gave access to the rooms and these were Timóteo and Vésper's rooms while Pierre's room was on the right side, and next to Pierre's door, there was another door that gave access to another room, which was a guest accommodation, and it was decorated with a bed, a closet and a nightstand next to the bed. The parents' room was right ahead where the poorly maintained and decaying door of the room faced the corridor, and when someone went up the stairs and finished stepping on the last step of the rocky and irregular stairs, the person would see it from afar. The parents, as per marital law and the natural hierarchy of a family, slept in that largest room, and this one was just the one the windows overlooking the gardens and fields blooming with wildflowers such as white daisies, angelonias to which they danced when the breezes passed by that, kissing them petals with their murmur. The last flowers that made up the floral fields, which were Joana's favorites, the lady of the house and matriarch of family, was the gypsophila flowers whose delicate envelopes looked like small flakes of ice that were framed in the dark roots of the earth. The double bed was long, built with light wood and the front of the bed was leaning against the white wall of the room, and in that same bed, Joana, Vésper's mother, was leaning against the white pillows. She wore a white nightgown of fine linen which on her bare shoulders ran the thin sleeves of the short nightgown, and these had floral designs on the shoulder pads and on the chest. She, the mother, had long reddish hair which flowed over her shoulders in locks of it, but on her right side of her head she had fastened it with silver clasps to match her white night-silver garment, and her eyebrows were beautiful and clean-lined, paled and simple. Her smoothed auburn hair which had faint strokes of ripples like the ocean tides of Lilac Bay was breathtaking. Her skin was white and her eyes were of a bluish-grey colors which reminded her husband of the crystalline waters of Atmora's glacial shores. She, sleepy, had her eyes half open and her hands were one on top of the other, resting on her thighs, her thin and long fingers of her left hand stirred her golden wedding ring, which was on her thin and slender finger, which her husband gave her when they got married. Seeing his daughter walk towards the house, Michael, with his tired and sad eyes, only slightly shook his gray, curly and hairy head to which the strands of locks, poorly maintained and disorganized, fell well in his face, square, long, slender and aged, giving him the air of a stoic philosopher, cold, distant, apathetic and sad. He, who was near the window watching the fields and plantations darkening as the the sun said goodnight to the day finished his post as the golden sphere left slowly the sky as the lady of the night rose from the darkness covering the day with her lunar coldness and serene darkness. With only his black pants, and wearing his dark boots, because his typical labor white button-up shirt was hanging on the wooden chair, near the door. After hearing the sound of the door slamming, that is, his daughter who had entered the house safe and sound, he decided to sit down next to his wife, whom he loved with all his might. Leaning his slender, triangular hips and his thin, strong legs against the edge of the bed with his back, broad and athletic, turned back against his sweet wife, mother of his children. Beneath his broad, athletic figure, he felt a warm but familiar touch. He turned on to his side in order to see her better. Watching her with his large light blue eyes, almost grayish, he smiled, showing his yellowed and unkempt teeth.

" Vésper?"

"Huh."

"Our sweet bravery." She said.

He gave a light laugh, which he only gave around his wife and no one else.

" When walking, the way she tramples the lawn is unparalleled, the sounds of her boots are unique, Timóteo knows very well when she is on her way to him." He said.

"Through the sounds of her walking, we know her moods." Joana answered him, smiling, scratching her thin nose with her white fingers.

"Huh." Her husband was a man of few words and she liked that because it brought security and stability to their family lives. He comforted her with his big, generous, long arms, but they were always gentle and loving. Both had a deep respect and admiration for each other.

"Michael."

"Hmm?" Her eyes, gritty with sleep, were closed. After a hard day's work in the fields and pastures, herding the oxen, goats and sheep, the patriarch wanted to fall into a deep sleep.

"Pierre, Vésper and Timóteo will have a little sister or brother!"

At the same time that she, smiling and friendly, told him this, he lost his senses as he was in a state of shock, as he did not expect Joana to be pregnant. He couldn't hold back the tears.

" Joana, Joana, my dear Joana. My girl." He pulled her, grabbing her in order to hug her tightly but cautiously.

"I've been thinking, if it's a girl, we'll name her after her mother…" She murmured.

He passed his rough, strong peasant hands over his own eyes, wiping away his tears, but his wife prevented him from wiping them all away.

"Gertrude."

"Or Jacques, if it's a boy." She said, smiling, her teary eyes like an oceanic pearl, showing her joys and hopes, because she would be a mother again: it was something she loved very much, being a mother lioness.

He didn't answer, he just shook his head, his curls, in the past had been shades of brown, now grayish brown with a frizzy, bushy and voluminous texture that moved every time he moved his robust body and his whitish face like a block of quartz. He rested his head on his wife's chest. He felt the air heavy but overloaded with happiness because nine months from now, he will hear baby sounds and giggles and his three favorite people , Pierre of 22 years old; 20-year-old Vesper and four-year-old Timothy spoiling and drooling over the new family member.

"Tomorrow, we will tell our pups." She said.

"Hmm."

"Now, let's go to sleep."

"Hmm." He pulled back the covers and they both lay down on the bed in a tight embrace.

Knock!Knock!Knock!

Someone was knocking on the door.

"Ma?"

It was Vesper.

"What is it, honey?" Joan answered.

"Timóteo is having attacks. He doesn't want to sleep."

Timóteo was dramatic, he loved to perform a theatrical performance before going to sleep.

"Read him, The Nightingales: Fact or Fiction. By reading it to him he will ends up falling asleep quickly. Please, my treasure, do this for your mother."

She snorted, taking a deep breath and said, okay, and then left, stomping her boots on the wooden floors covered by dark gray stones, running in the narrow and gloomy corridor, flying to Timóteo's room, her little adored brother with blond hair of the color of wheat almost white as if the were kissed by the sun and his orbs were a clear, vivid blue, lighter and deeper than cerulean. Clearer than the celestial skies of the Aedra. Michael thought of want wickedness and evilness could unbalance the loving peace and serenity of his family and home? He prayed, asked, begged and implored, internally, to the pantheons of nine, for protection and guidance.

She kicked at the wooden door of Timóteo's room, the sound was thunderous which echoed throughout the house, even so, Pierre and her parents did not wake up with the unpleasant noise of their daughter. Timoteo was curled up in the white sheets like a ham and cheese wrap, actually he was more like a human cheese ball than the first. Laughing softly after seeing the big clear eyes of her little brother scared to see her come in as he grabbed the sheets himself with his chubby little white hands trembling with fear and fright. Vésper thought they looked like a baby's bottom, as it appeared soft but firm. His bed was close to the wall, next to his moldy shelves that was stacked with a thousand thick books with gilded finishes. Timóteo, was a little prodigy, because he was ahead of his age, an precocious in the intellectual world and in the world of letters, as he had been an avid reader since the he was born. From an early age, he was delighted in reading the epic and historical books that told the stories of the heroes and princes of Tamriel from long gone ages who fought the elves and the evil Daedric forces. Vésper noticed outside, the night was quiet but one could hear the lullabies of the wolves and owls. The windows were closed, protecting Timothy from the gale. The only light that gave life to the room was a lamp that was on top of four Atlases, on the third bookshelf of Timóteo's bookshelves , but the candle was already dripping, the light was going to go out, so, Vésper, went to the desk, opening the drawer, taking a match, lighting another candle, and carefully, she crouched down, crawling on Timóteo's bed, getting on her knees, leaning her body close to the dusty, wide, long and massive shelf, removing the old candle and putting this one on onto the the lamp . Afterwards, she sat on the thin armchair with the blue blanket that covered jt. She played with her long hair, frizzy and dry, she thought about cutting it but her mother wouldn't let her because, according to her mother, long hair suited Vésper well, because it made her more beautiful and less swollen, although Vésper appreciated the shorts locks. She had to read Nightingales: Fact or Fiction? for the tenth time, and she couldn't bear reading this damn book to him anymore. But she did it anyway out of love, and out of obedience to her parents.

"Timothy, now that you've calmed down, let me read to you the book of the Nightingales."

" YAY YAY YAY!!" He jumped up and down with glee, clapping his plump white hands. He was the joy of the family.

He gave her the book which he kept under his long yellow pillow, but soft as a goose feather.

She crossed her legs after taking off her slick boots in the air, which landed on the floor like bricks in free fall style.

Vésper began to read: "Mention the word "Nightingale" to any self-respecting thief and they will laugh in your face. He will tell you that the supposed avengers of the Deadric Princess Nocturnal and are nothing more than fictional characters who live nowhere else but in tales designed to frighten young runaways into doing what they are told. But are they fictional or simply misunderstood?"

"The Nightingales, the protectors of Daedric Princess Nocturnal's Lunar and twilight realms!!" He said, dying of sleep, and after his intellectual analysis, he continued; " continue, please."

"So, here we go again: while it is true that most scholars would scoff at the notion of a holy sect arising within the normally unethical and disorganized rabble that is the Thieves' Guild, the evidence suggests that such a group existed at the time in from the borders of Skyrim."

" How I wanted to know the lands of the north!! Dad went to the lands of Atmora and Skyrim. Oh, how I wanted to go! One day, I will!!"

"Only if it's in your dreams."

"No, in life."

"Even if the earth stops you will NEVER step foot in Skyrim."

" I am going, sister."

" Are not."

" I will, one day."

"Only after I pass on to the other side."

"Oh, that is not fair."

"Skyrim is a frozen wasteland, full of barbarians and violent Nordic people."

He didn't respond, though he beckoned her with a glare to continue reading.

"One hundred and twenty years before the publication of this book, a corpse was discovered wearing strange armor that was described as 'midnight forged'. The tattered armor sported some sort of crest, the symbol of a bird embracing a featureless circle of darkness. The remains and armor were taken for study at the college of Winterhold, but mysteriously disappeared just a day after their arrival."

" Oh my God! Alas for the love of Stendarr! Where did the body go?

"Shhh!" She put her slender fingers to her rosy lips, she continued; "The crest of this armor circulated around Skyrim for years, but identification proved nearly impossible. Then the most unlikely of sources, an incarcerated prisoner in the mines of Markarth, claimed it was the mark of a group of thieves who called themselves Nightingales. When pressed for more information, the prisoner stated that the Nightingales were Nightcrawler's warriors and did her bidding without question." Vésper, glanced at Timóteo from the pages, and he was already asleep. She closed the book slowly, so as not to make any noise, and placed it on top of the armchair. She heard a babbling: Vesper, do you think the Dwemer will return?"

"No one knows, not even the experts." She replied as she tucked him in more, pulling light blue sheets from the chest next to the bed, covering him lovingly.

"I think they will, one day."

" Perhaps."

"Vésper?"

"Hmm?"

"Are we going to town tomorrow? I want to go to the square, could we buy festival tickets afterwards? I want to go The the festival of Mara."

"We will have to see if father will give us permission to go." She answered, her mouth yawning with drowsiness and weariness.

"Daddy always did."

"Even so, we'll have to ask him."

Like any snotty little six-year-old brat, he huffed and groaned, and poking his little nose into the covers so Vesper wouldn't see him huffing. He blew out the candle, and the domains of night invaded the room with its darkness, only being illuminated by the moonlight and the starry skies by sparkling stars, thus, the day closed. Vésper went to her room. She was the last to sleep and the first to wake up, along with the chickens and herds of sheeps and cows.

Her room was very simple and impoverished, as it had a very old bed, but made of solid wood, and she owned a desk, however, Vesper did not have a closet for clothes, because as her parents were poor, she could not afford one. neither her nor her brothers, Pierre and Timóteo, even so, they didn't own many clothes, so they didn't make a point. For lack of customs, the family did not light candles, so the house was as cold as the tomb of the Angel of Death and empty as a castle built with solid stones, abandoned. The floors were a pale champagne color and the walls, reminiscent of a saber-toothed tiger's ivory-white colors. Vesper, staring at the door, her gray eyes almost pale blue, those gray-blue eyes pale and pasteurized with tinges of sadness and pain. Her eyes, teary, wept tears like a waterfall on the rocky precipices of Markarth. She fell asleep. The next day, at 5:30 a.m., when the sun, golden and hot, which had already dethroned the cold and melancholy moon, Vésper went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, walking along the passages that lead to the back, she felt in her nostrils the herbal and wild smells of eucalyptus trees, lavender, roses, aromas of Sicilian lemons, because, in the countryside of her Family's manor, her father had planted seedlings of Sicilian lemons around the house, like a garden-wall which protected the house main. Arriving at her destination, she started baking bread, slicing cheese and washing and cutting vegetables such as zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, leeks, basil, chives and parsley, as well as other types of herbs and spices.

"Hello, my daughter."

Vésper got scared because she didn't expect to see her so soon, she smiled and hugged her:

" Mama."

Her mother was still wearing her night clothes, but over it she had put on a gray-white wolfskin robe. And both continued, happy and serene. Her father and older brother arrived in the kitchen, and sat down at the long old solid table. Michael sat at the head because he was the patriarch and Pierre sat on his left, as the right seat was his wife, Joana. Her mother always let Timóteo sleep till later because he was in the growth phase and was practically a baby. After frying the eggs, baking the bread and heating the herbal teas, Joana sat down at the table and said to her husband: "Yes?"

"Huh?"

" We need to tell them."

" Oh yes. Hmm." He always appeared to be distant from his children, but he had an unconditional love for them. He supported his chin on his hands, resting on them, which his hands clasped together as if in prayer but were bent like a block of ice. His pale gray-blue eyes, low and his voice, a cold, dead murmur.

Pierre, the most cheerful, charismatic and endearing of the family, was smiling, his turquoise blue-green eyes were like subterranean waters, clear, clean and virginal from caves and his hair, black as night, was breathtaking. His skin, porcelain, white and oval, not and sensuous and square like his father's and Vesper's. His father and sister had hard, icy, striking, sensual faces, while his mother and he were thin, delicate, and gentle faces. Slender, very thin, tall but not very strong. His smile melted a thousand hearts and ignited the flames of passion and love in a bunch of girls and women in the bloom of age or even in very old hags of Cyrodill's high society, however, Pierre had a dream of being a priest of Talos. He would start his studies and a scholarly life in three summers, he already had the books, parchments and handouts which the old and wise priests gave to the newbies. Everyone at home was proud and happy for Pierre, a kind and pure soul that he was, to pure in the harsh, violent and cold world of Tamriel.

"My dear ones, we have something to tell you."

Pierre was already eating his egg and bread because he couldn't wait to finish his tasks in the fields and stables as soon as possible in order to study more.

"What, ma?" I told him, watching his mother and father. His gaze went from one to the other.

"Well, you will have a brother."

" Or a sister." Said the father.

" Or both." Said Vesper, with its pale gray orbs deep and impenetrable and incompressible, like the distant ice capped mountains of the winter province of Skyrim, hidden, deserted by humans only inhabited by the undead and dotted with the abysmal catimbas of ancient Norse warriors and the dovahkiins of the past. She, seriously contemplating the odds of her parents having twins, saw that it was very unlikely. She smiled, her pearly and crystalline gray light blue orbs cried even more now than in her room, in the dead of night, before resting, her eyes already quickly appeared that crimson and violet countenance, and her throat, hiccuping. She looked like a nervous baby crying from pain and love and her brother Pierre, were also bathed in tears. Both jumped with joy and sadness, because they would have a brother to take care of and spoil. Both embraced their mother, showering her with kisses and strong hugs. Her father just watched the whole scene, without saying a word and syllables. He found it erratic to show emotions and feelings, although he would loved to cry but he didn't, as he, an old-school man and an ancient swordsman, could not cry. He had the tough soul of a musketeer that guarded kings and queens.

Pierre and Vésper jumped on the neck of their father, Michael who had a stoic bravura, taking him by surprise and like that, the whole family hugged each other.

" Ma, Timóteo wants to go to the imperial city to buy tickets to the festival of Maia."

" Let him go. Why do you and Pierre accompany him? That would be fun."

Vésper cried and cried and said in the midst of solutions and tears, her nose was running:"Hmm."

" Today?" Pierre spoke.

"Huh." Vésper replied to her charming brother.

"Go with the baby. Take shadowmere and the wagon. We will all go to the festival, aren't we, Joana." Said the patriarch.

" Yes."

"Timothy will jump in joy." Said Vesper.

Joana just smiled amid the strong hugs of her much loved family.

"Pierre, get ready to go to town." Said the father.

"But, pa, I can't leave you here and Ma, you have to take care of yourself twice as much. Vésper and I can work harder for you to preserve yourself and the baby."

"Yes, I know, but now, go to town. Wake Timóteo up."

"But, mother-"

Joanna cut her daughter.

" Hmm." Vésper replied, nodding, eyes wet from crying.

"When is the festival?"

"In three weeks from now as I am told."

Vésper overheard some girls in the Inn say.

"Well, well."

"Hmm." The father answered.

" Off you go, you two." Said their mama.

Pierre smiled and both of them kissed their father and mother.

The two left, but Vésper came back and said:

"When will you tell Timothy?"

"As soon as he wakes up."

She smiled and left. Joanna and Michael looked at each other, exchanging husband and wife stared before eating their breakfasts.

A young man, 22 years of age, was running through the wild forests of Cyrodill through the fields loaded with trees, stingers and wild flowers, bumping past the thorny rose bushes, begonias and gardenias. After miles of running, he dropped himself onto the soft ground of wild greenish ferns which predominated in that forested terrain. The young man didn't have a pretty face, but it was one of those faces that was hard to forget. The forests, humid and mossy, were covered by dense fog on all sides, amidst the trees whose trunks and branches were twisted, making it difficult for people to circulate. The young man walked along the passages, slowly, among the thick bushes and mossy trees that interrupted the traveling. The humidity was such that the young man shivered with the icy cold temperature. He placed his rough, agile hands on his ebony dagger, gripping it tight as he listened to the symphonies of the wolves and orchestras of the birds that dwell in the thick, black ancient forests of Cyrodiil. They were forests brushed by ancient ruins and walls of castles and temples of the Ayleids elves, now extinct. It was ruins made up of massive, titanic marble blocks, which had that musty, old-fashioned smell. So far, the rogue was in no danger, except for the black wolves and giant rats that could attack him out of nowhere. But they were easy opponents for him. The mossy, rocky terrain he was lying on was sloping and uneven. He looked further ahead, noting that the forest meandered, extending its verdant, misty domains to a mountain range. He decided to climb the hills of land surrounded by trees and bushes and walk to the top of the ranges and reach their summits, in order to analyze the land below on the other side of the terrain in order to see if he was in any kind of danger and to see if he was setting in uncharted waters and dangerous territories. He rose from his slumber, his mossy green eyes, slightly gray like the colors of a fog that covered a rainforest. He buried his face in his dry and ugly hands, his nails were dirty and unkempt, and he breathed quickly, trying to remain calm, but still, tears of hatred and anger, which slid down his pale face, brushed his cheeks covered with layers of scars he received throughout his life when sword blades and dagger points licked his white Breton skin, piercing his face and his lean, muscular, stocky body. His eyes were like the waterfalls of Skyrim, the drops rolled down, sliding down soaking the garments he wore, in fact, the only clothes he was taking with him to Cyrodiil were these: a double-breasted light brown leather lab coat, and underneath of this one, he wore a light gray waistcoat and his smoky pants hid his shoes, already worn with the marks of time, from view. Mercer clenched his hands, rubbing his eyes. He had dark red circles under his green eyes. Feeling like shit, he fussed with his dark brown hair, pulling at the strands and scratching his face with his fingernails, leaving red scratches and scratches on his pale face. His migraine intensified, throbbing in his skull, pushing his head into a more intense muscle contraction. He felt that his head was about to explode, as if something from within was pushing on his brain, bursting it, squeezing it tightly. His blood rose. He picked up his ebony dagger with great difficulty because his hands were shaking a lot and his whole body was shaking and sweating, stiffening. Suddenly, he felt a shiver of cold down his spine to the soles of his feet, as if a strong songs of winds froze his bones. He frowned as he picked up his dagger, running long fingers through his dirty hair. The oiliness of his hair and stubble irritated him. Mercer hadn't trimmed his beard in weeks and hadn't washed his hair in months, not because he didn't have the time, but because he really didn't want to. With a desperate grip and a terrible and frightening agony, the young thief pulled the collar of his shirt because he felt suffocated by the clothes and their rotten smell. His hands moved, squirming between themselves, tugging at the collar of his shirt, which loosened it so much that the vest he wore over the shirt was messy and puckered. He pressed his lips together to hold back the sobs, like a lump in his throat. He went ahead, going up the sloping land, covered in mist, and we walked among the trunks of pines, eucalyptus, dark firs, imbaúbas, cedars and fig trees. He prayed to nocturnal that he would find nothing but a safe place, an safe heaven forgotten by the world and lost to men.