A collection of mini-stories: Tales from the Quagmire.

I was so young when I was sold to a wealthy family. I had been raised by my Mother and Aunt and I had never known anything about my Father. I stayed with them until I was aged nine on that dreadful day. When I dream, I still see their faces, screaming out to me. I can smell the flowers combined with the potions that were being used for the ceremony; that horrid melding of toad skin, tree bark and sea water. Even now, the ocean makes me nauseous.


*Image by  Elder Scrolls Online (screenshot of Grahtwood zone with filter).

Both my Mother and Aunt were dedicated witches, experts of their craft. They worshiped the Daedric Prince, Vaermina the Dreamweaver. This was in part due to their heritage of being born in the Quagmire, but also they were determined that their worship and ongoing sacrifices would give them the key to immortality when Vaermina found them worthy. They dedicated their lives to this pursuit and it became, ultimately, more important than I. I think they also actually enjoyed the methods that Vaermina ‘instructed’ them, psychologically torturing their adversaries in the hopes of practicing their craft. They considered the screams of their victims had currency within the veil and if they collected enough screams they would be sufficiently rewarded.

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