#poisonedarrowhead

[whatdosendhelp]

poisonedarrowhead Happy Birthday! 

[beauty-debauchery-blog]

{{ poisonedarrowhead }}

Sam sat on the bar stool, bored until he sensed somewhat of a hedonistic soul enter the tavern. Her turned his head and opened his mouth to speak but saw no one until he glanced down, but that just caused a huge grin to break over his lips. “Gods, you’re short.” And plump. He added in his head, rather fondly. He watched her like a feline would a small mouse. “Care to drink with me?”

[nextsummersseeds]

poisonedarrowhead replied to your photo:[[I’m out.]]

what’s wrong with them?

[[I have no idea what causes it but the mannequins just decided to move and twitch and breath like real people. This is probably what I get for having so many mods ;A;

[skooma-smuggling-101-blog]

{Closed-poisonedarrowhead}

Camas breathed out a chill, he had been waiting for about fifteen minutes at the agreed spot in the woods north of Whiterun. He leaned on a pine cart filled with his ‘goods’ waiting for his next client.

Shagok drew pictures in the dirt and freshly fallen snow with a splintered stick, making a familiar looking Orc cut down five assailants at once grinning and smiling as he gave his imaginary opponents ridiculous moustaches and oversized heads. 

They had both been moving around The Pale dealing out their merchandise, to clients and to the odd traveller. This would be the last before they headed back to Hammerfell or another province to replenish their stock. They were meant to meet some alchemist who wanted some ingredients much cheaper than the current market allowed. 

[dakog]

Happy Hunting

There was always a certain sense of cold anticlimax that came with becoming Orsimer again.

Dakog stared down at the remains of the elk before him. The boar hadn’t left much, not that it ever did. He could still taste its flesh, still feel the warmth of its blood as it ran down his body like a red rain. But everything else, the pulsing adrenaline, the ecstasy of the kill, all of it had subsided and left him with a cavernous pit where the singular purpose of the hunt used to be.

He knew some fanatics who compared slipping into the beast with a state of drunkenness. Others likened it to sex. They weren’t necessarily wrong. Coming down from that high, it was easy to start asking yourself just how bad it would actually be to go feral, to stay in that skin and be driven by one thing and one thing only. 

The solitude he took with him whenever he wandered off to hunt was a welcome relief from the incessantly bustling, crowded keep, but the brief peace of isolation came with more than its fair share of dangers, his own uncertainties foremost among them. The Black Iron Bandit had a vendetta against the world, a war to wage; Dakog of the Wrothgarian Mountains would not have minded disappearing into the wilderness and never returning. But that would be letting Hircine win.

Shaking the trance from his head, he pushed himself up from his knees, warm blood and hair cold with sweat still clinging to his flesh. He’d left his clothes perhaps a few hundred yards west of here, near a small pond. He needed a wash. Taking a final moment to absorb the scent of his kill, now so dull compared to what the boar had experienced mere minutes ago, he turned and started back on his way through the forest.