Apparently. I’ll admit I was more than a little disappointed to hear that there are no firm plans yet for a new Elder Scrolls game. But there was, of course, a silver lining. I don’t blame people for being ambivalent or downright disappointed that all we have to look forward to in this franchise is a shinier Skyrim. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about the prospect of being able to play with mods. And, I feel like Todd Howard just gave me an extension on my writing deadline, which I’ll admit has been immensely motivating. In the last couple of weeks I’ve worked out a bunch of plot holes. I can’t seem to stop falling into the trap of writing more exciting and inspiring things ahead of myself. In the spirit of this, and as a continued promise that I will update this story some day, I offer you a brief snipped of something to come. Please note that is rough and the finished product may not reflect the work here.
Trygve was on the bed when she returned to the room. Hoping the bath had helped him unwind, she frowned as she watched him pull on his boots.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He looked up, a little startled though he had heard her enter. He was so tired, every sound, every movement, no matter how well anticipated, made him twitch. “You take the room. I’m going out to sit, I guess.”
“Trygve…” She was so worried. In Windhelm they had separate rooms, so it wasn’t until they camped between Eastmarch and Riverwood that she began to understand just how exhausted he was. He wasn’t sleeping and he seemed to be subsisting on nothing but dried venison and elixirs. If he didn’t get some sleep tonight, he wouldn’t survive Ilinalta’s Deep tomorrow. It was as infuriating as it was worrisome. As a healer he knew better; but he was pushing himself anyway.
He looked up as she strode over to the bed, but didn’t respond. Standing over him, she took his face in his hands and moved his hair out of his eyes, which were bloodshot and watery. He was pale—more so than usual—and his lips were cracked and trembling.
There was no part of Trygve’s body that wasn’t aching, but the light touch of her fingers in his hair made his heart flutter and for a moment, he felt light. He brought his arms up, as if he was going to clutch her hips and pull her in for a hug, but he stopped, letting his fingers run lightly along her robe. “I’m fine,” he said, letting his hands down and gripping the end of the bed to push himself up, though he waited until she was done touching his face.
“You aren’t,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She had no intention of pleading or begging, for fear that would simply make him defensive or angry. Instead, she simply observed him as she ran a hand down his pale cheek, watched as he closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly.
“I can’t,” he said, looking back up. “I can’t sleep.”
“Why not?” she whispered. She started playing with his hair again, weaving her fingers through his curls, lightly stroking his scalp.
He shook his head and tried to look down, but she cupped and held his chin so that he had to look at her. There was no denying the depth of her concern, but she had that severity so characteristic of her race. If he were to confide, it would be not only because he desperately needed to but also because he was a little scared not to.