Today I found myself in the moss-soaked village of Seyda Neen, that old, creaky port at the southern edge of Vvardenfell. I came with Isobel, my ever-watchful companion, in pursuit of a thief who fled this way carrying something he should not have. A ring, small enough to lose between the floorboards, but dangerous in the wrong hands, especially for Isobel’s family. We tracked him as far as the docks, but the trail went cold beneath the rain and noise of the harbor.
While we were asking around, we met a woman named Placidia just before the bridge, near one of the old carts. She was tossing chopped scrib jelly to a flock of Bantam Guars. Lively, featherless little things that chirped and darted about like overgrown lizard-hens. One of them scurried behind the cart and peeked out like it was playing sentry. I think it fancied itself stealthy.
Placidia called them her “lizard chickens” with a grin, the kind that tells you someone has said that same phrase a dozen times already and found comfort in it. She came down from Cyrodiil, said the war made her pack up and go wherever the roads were still quiet. “Too much fire and steel,” she muttered, “but these ones just want sun and fruit.” She smiled as she spoke of the Guars, how they follow her around and sleep near the warm stones of her little hut.
She seems to be doing alright. A simple life, but with company. The Guars follow her around like ducklings. One even tried to nibble Isobel’s bootlace. I think she took a liking to them more than she’ll admit. Isobel and I are moving on in the morning. The ring is still out there, and so is the man who took it.
