Chapter Text
Not two hours after Moira had accused the Dragonborn of breaking their days-old engagement, an arrow thudded into her door. Moira, thinking at once that the Dragonborn had returned with company to root Moira out of the sheltered embrace of Witchmist Grove, was furious. The Dragonborn had broken their promise first by chasing that hussy Esmerelda, and Moira had with spellfire and spite forced them to flee. As she would again if she had to! She slammed open the door, her hag-talons held ready and wickedly sharp.
There was no one there. Not even a shadow of movement among the thick treeline.
There was, however, a massive bouquet of local wildflowers luxuriating over Moira’s garden-gate that Moira was quite certain were not there when she was last at the door, coincidentally hurling fire in that very direction at the cheating, lying Dragonborn. Of all the gall, there was even, tucked apologetically around the fletching of the arrow, a note.
The note itself was brief and curt. It was written in a wobbly hand on a hastily-torn blank page. It was unsigned, but Moira didn’t doubt it was from the Dragonborn.
I don’t remember what happened after drinking Sanguine’s poison, the note read, but I don’t break my promises. I will come in seven days at dawn. Sorry about the arrow.
Moira blinked. She curled her claws around the generously-sized bouquet (Had the Dragonborn been out there picking for the whole two hours? Were there any wildflowers left nearby?) and breathed in its mingled scent of dragonstail and deathbell.
It was all so damnably romantic.
Sanguine’s meddling. Well, she had owed him something of a favour, and her memories from her lightning engagement were ruby-red and swollen around the edges, as if fed through the winking eye of warm grape-wine.
Still, Moira supposed there was not much harm in placing a few extra traps about the path to Witchmist Grove. The Dragonborn could have at least denied knowing Esmeralda.