Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-10197675-20170202101117/@comment-10197675-20170420222437

Motoa’s great fury grew, thusly the desolation compounded as the old northern lands of Skyrim, Morrowind, High Rock, and Cyrodill were ripped up from the bed of Nirn and dispatched into the wild skies above. All terrains, be it grassland, desert, coniferous or mountainous terrain of which any other were taken by the greed of the wind, for its wrath spread across the continent, scaring Tamreil’s face forevermore, removing it from its plain pillow as mountain ranges were plundered and plains were moved. Tamreils history and future was taken away by Motoa, as thousands of acres of land were taken in seconds, removed as if a bed sheet, Motoa’s rage maxed. All remnants of life that had still been lingering were gone, the spirit of the wolf had appeared and shown, sleepless, witnessing its last embark as its past was ended by the torment of time. Change had been too much for the wolf, and Motoa was its changer, taking up and ending all of what it had known. The black wolf was a symbol of that what had passed.

Arjoir opened his eyes for one last time as a spark lit within him giving him enough strength to witness life once again. And he found himself uncontrollably flying in a rapid yet lazy state. The Khajiit was being propelled through the skies above, after the end had struck, a gliding death it seemed. Stone, soil, vegetation and other pieces of Tamreil shot passed him in whirls and spins as he drifted with the winds of fury. Arjoir felt a lapse of consciousness for his time was coming, and with his last few seconds of life the Khajiit honed his sight as his vision strayed across the skies looking upon a colossal divine golden figure, Motoa, sleep, in its full sheen of glory. A transparent golden silhouette expanding from the torn land from below to the high skies above. Tears fled from the Khajiit’s eyes, death, spreading through his fur and across his face, as blood swirled around his torn torso and into the air. The Khajiit began to realise his insignificance in this plain and how pathetic he was compared to the bigger picture. He realised as the wind brushed through his fur that there was no point to any of this, he was just being tricked into a false hope… dream. He knew from the mysterious days of struggle and agony within his cave that he would not survive and that death would come, so the Khajiit concluded; what was the point of any of this? Living in a world of destruction… destruction not of a powerful being creating an unstoppable force, not an immortal enemy blending a devious yet eventually flawed plan, but a world of corruption within simplicity. The basic tendencies of communication and friendship failed and crushed, for the khajiit and in all that led to this sexual dilemma of Motoa’s wrath, a wind within a troubled yet bent and lonely mind of a crazy yet hopeful Khajiit. An ever crumbling stone trapped upon a well tread path that is forever to be tread in hell… nwod… howl .