Well old purple nose is gone and the David Moyes era begun under the Wembley Arch and under the unknown future that lies ahead after 27 years of Fergie. The lack of signings, the Rooney saga, the inconsistent form during the pre season tour all hung over Moye’s head as he led Fergie’s team into the Wembley sunshine. Wilifired Zaha, a January transfer window signing from Crystal Palace was the only fresh face in a team that was largely comprised of last year’s champions. The game itslef was rather boring and low key. Wigan, FA Cup winners in a relegation season, understandably didn’t play at full pelt as they are already embroiled in a gruelling Championship season and have a UEFA CUp campaign to consider. They paid United too much respect and hardly made De Gea sweat. Yet it was interesting to note that at times Wigan’s midfield dominated United’s. The dire lack of reinforcement in this area in Fergie’s last years is being felt now and once again the evergreen Ryan Giggs proved the best United midfield player, why Geoff Hurst gave MoM to Carrick is beyond me. RVP carried on where he left off last season with two goals, a majestic header from an Evra Cross and a deflected second. Plus points, trophy won, Adnan Januzaj makes his debut. Negative points. Rafael out for 4 weeks, Zaha limped off, centre mid weakness made apparent for all to see and Danny Welbeck is still in a United shirt. Moyes said the victory was SAF’s but its time to make your own stamp on the team mate and sign us some players.
Manchester United Team
1 David De Gea
3 Patrice Evra
15 Nemanja Vidic
4 Phil Jones
2 Rafael Da Silva
11 Ryan Giggs
23 Tom Cleverly
16 Michael Carrick
29 Wilifired Zaha
19 Danny Welbeck
20 Robin van Persie (2 goals)
Chris Smalling on for Rafael Da Silva
Antonio Valencia on for Wilifired Zaha
Anderson on for Ryan Giggs
Shinji Kagawa on for Danny Welbeck
Adnan Januzaj on for Robin van Persie
Great travel blog.
Originally posted on Losing Sight of the Margin:
This morning I woke up unexpectedly early, with a bit of a headache which I’ve had since Friday. I decided to clear out the cobwebs with a run so off I went. It was just as good as the one I told you about a few days ago, if nothing else because it’s so cool at that time of the morning, in stark difference to the rest of the day and night. However, by the time I returned to Matchbox I really wasn’t feeling very well. My head felt like a hammer drill had taken up residence within it. As the day wore on I thought about going to the Uffizi for a while but I couldn’t face it. Instead I went out for tea in the Piazza della Republica. Civilised and relatively quiet which was about all I could handle today.
The headache made its explosive entrance on Friday after school finished. Let me explain. Lessons on Friday are not the same as Monday to Thursday. During the latter we do the traditional grammar, listening comprehensions, written exercises, tests and so forth. On Fridays classes change and we embrace some kind of “cultural” topic. For example, on the first Friday it was all about the make up and traditions of the Italian family and we visited buildings in Florence which linked in with this with the tutor speaking almost permanently in Italian and we being expected to follow suit.
This Friday we were introduced to the Certosa Monastery: its history, its artwork and its traditions. Our tutor gave us a short presentation on the Monastery and at about 10:15 a.m. we left the school building and made our way to the central bus station to begin our journey up to the monastery. This is just on the edge of Florence’s city limits, high up a hill, on the south side of the Arno. Unfortunately the bus doesn’t leave you at the monastery’s door. It deposits you in the town square of the nearest town and you walk up to it. We did just this. For a while we were walking in the narrow ditch on the side of a curving, filled with blind spots, main road with cars zooming past us and drivers waving their fists at us in reprimand. Reckless doesn’t even begin to cover it!
No sooner had the bear pelts been delivered, Deanathala was once off again on Guild business. It seemed that Great White, a stag of some legendary status had been spotted in the marshes to the North of Morthal. Several guild members based out in the wild had heard many rumours about is sighting. Rumoured to be over 3.5 meters tall, with large white antlers crowning its majestic head, its body was covered in pristine white fur. As white as the first winter snow, it is rumoured to have some magical property. Rumoured as no one has yet come close to it.
‘No one until now,’ thought Deana silently. She picked the bounty notice off the board in the guild, only to be met by cat whistles and derogatory remarks by the predominantly male fraternity. Taking the banter in good cheer she gave a theatrical bow and blew her audience a kiss from her rich mauve lips.
‘Please no more,’ pleaded an exhausted Vilja as she trudged through the mire North of Morthal, her immaculate blonde locks in a mess of sweat and sludge.
‘Perhaps we should rest for the night Deana,’ added Lydia. Her steel armour covered in swampy grime. It has long lost its sheen. ‘The sun is almost down and the chill in the air strengthens.’
They had been travelling the mire for two days without a glimpse of the elusive white. Yes, they had seen many elks and stags, hell they had even feasted on one rather large specimen, but of Great White not whisper.
Ghostly mist was starting to rise from the almost stagnant water. It eerily settled near the surface and seemed possessed of some eldritch life, moving with no pattern or logic. The marsh, nocturnal insect life was starting to stir as the drone of mosquitoes and the light of torchbugs began to fill the air. Creatures scuttled in the reeds, while keening calls from larger animals punctuated the darkening sky.
Deana herself, her fur armour wet and not smelling too well, was also exhausted and Lydia’s suggestion seemed the best idea. Fruitless searching, especially at night, would only fray already short tempers. Zora had to be put on point, as far from Vilja as possible. She didnt take to lightly to the Nord’s laughing after Lydia fished her out from one particularly smelly sinkhole!
Venturing until last light, they camped on a relatively dry hump of land. The only fire they could manage from the damp kindling around them was a small one, more smoke than heat. Yet they were grateful for small mercies as they once again feasted on the rich venison of yesterdays kill.
The night itself was as crisp and clear as it was cold. The constellations seemed to dance across the dark canopy above them. As the night deepened so did the nocturnal stirring of the marsh’s denizens. The clatter and clinking of the chitin exoskeletons of mud crabs joined the howling of distant wolves, yet our companions were left largely undisturbed until an hour before dawn when two over curious skeevers decided to nibble on the snoring Zora’s toes!!!
Day 3 of their search was wet. The heavens opened with a vengeance and even Deana was starting to lose hope, its flame waning as the soddenness of her clothing increased. It was at her lowest ebb that Zora signalled to the party to lay low, she also motioned Deana to the front.
They crouched behind a cluster of red topped reeds, common to the area. Zora indicated for silence by pressing a gauntleted finger to her pursed lips. With her eyes she invited Deana to look beyond the reeds and, as her violet eyes locked on what was before her, her breath left her.
There it was, The Great White. It grazed gracefully on a small island surrounded by leaf less gnarled trees. The stories in the Huntsman did not do the majesty of the beast justice. Its white, muscled flanks moved in perfect harmony as it nuzzled its way through the grass. Its proud antlered head seemed to roar defiance to the pouring rain. Its legs looked strong and powerful, clearly capable off leaving a Dunmer behind after a few powerful thrusts.
Without daring to breathe, and keeping one eye at all times on Great White, Deana unlimbered her yew wood longbow. She carefully reached around her back to grab at one specific arrow she had in her quiver. An arrow she herself had manufactured out of the branch of an ash tree. It was fletched with the black feathers gathered from one of the Hagravens from Orphan Rock. Furthermore Deana had taken the arrow to be blessed by Danica before she left Whiterun, she wanted the kill to have the nobility the great beast deserved. She tensed her hand on the bowstring as she nocked the arrow, its barbed tip dripping with rain. The creaking of the taut bowstring as she pulled seemed to sound like a peal of thunder to her ears.
Watching Great White to see if it had registered anything, Deana was grateful for the pouring rain. It was masking any noise the pulling bow was making. With a prayer to Hircine on her lips she slowly released her breath at the same time as she released the string…
(Apologies for eye. Forgot to take off HUD before capture)
The arrow sped away through the pouring rain. What in reality was a simple heartbeat, seemed an age to Deana. As the arrow neared its target, Great White seemed to look towards Deana, its brown orbs locking onto the dark elf’s violet ones. What majesty in that look she thought. What strength, waht pride… Her reverie was cut short by the death knell of the great beast as the arrows barbed point tore through skin and sinew. Great White, its flawless coat now marred by an ugly red rivulet of blood, took one unsteady step backwards before throwing its head back and letting out a last, defiant keen. It then buckled onto its front legs, struggling valiantly to stand as its lifeblood mingled with the rain. Its antlered head slowly drooped and to Deana’s eyes it looked like a crown slipping off the head of a long reigning King, and gradually came to rest on the wet earth.
Deana’s eyes were moist with tears, moved by the majesty with which the beast had met its end.
Talk at the Huntsman was also of the rumours of dragons. The older hunters quaffed at such a notion, claiming that should dragons exist they should be classed as monsters not animals and as such The Companions should deal with them. The younger drinkers were all full of bluster, all vowing to be the first to donate a dragon’s head to the Hunstman to adorn its walls. Elrindir took all the boasts in good cheer but did seem somewhat sceptical about all this dragon’s buisness.
‘Tall tales if you ask me,’ he remarked to Deanthala as he handed over another ale. ‘Many people pass through that gate everyday, and not one from Helgen, or to have been at Helgen. Yet that’s the only thing people talk about today; Dragons!’
‘I’ll agree with you for now Elrindir,’ replied the Dunmer. ‘Yet, if you pardon the pun, there is rarely smoke without fire. What I can tell you is, I’ve yet to see any flying lizards so until I see one I’ll keep my own counsel.’
‘On another note, the Guild needs a consignment of bear pelts, Elrindir, not seen that many around here,’ she continued.
‘Bears. No not around here, giants and mammoths scare them off. Its the Rift you want. Bears thick on the ground but be wary as there’s some big buggers out there. Matter of fact if you’re going to head out there I can recommend the Bee and Bard in Riften. Keerava’s a friend, tell her I sent you…’
Three days later, after following the White River East and tracking the Darkwater south until reaching Lake Geir, our friends reach the Rift. The dark greens of the pines gave way to warmer oranges and browns as the temperature improves. Vilja’s mood also greatly improved with the warmer clime, unfortunately her singing did not and the sun seemed to make her burst into song more often! Zora’s constant threats to ‘rip that damn tongue out of her mouth,’ a constant accompaniment!!!!
Elrindir was correct, however, about the number of bears in The Rift. They were all over the woods. Large, heavily built and tough to bring down. Fortunately for Deana, the warm air made them somewhat lethargic and several of her kills were literally caught napping in the warm sunshine. Yet, there were several hairy instances. A rather old, and large grizzly entered into some sort of blood lust, despite the three shafts buried in its torso, and almost tore Vilja limb from limb. Its powerful claws shredding her hide armour like paper. She was tossed aside like a rag doll and was only saved by Zora as she dove her two hander deep, almost upto the hilt, into the bear’s back. Rich, red blood flowed from the mortal wound, but the beast did not die until one last defiant roar. Its massive maw open to reveal large, yellow fangs. One could not help but gain a very healthy respect for the power of nature!
Those 10 pelts that Elberond was asking for at the Guild were quickly gathered. Deana could not help but be amazed by the breathtaking beauty of The Rift. Its woods were punctuated by glens and clears. Small ponds and pools abounded, places teeming with animal life. Dragonflies buzzed peacefully across the still waters while Elks brought their fawns to water here. The perfect picture of serene beauty. Deana’s heart soared, feeling somewhat at home for the first time since alighting from the ship that brought her to Skyrim.
A very familiar cry from the skies made her feel even more at home…
With their valuable cargo securely stored in Deana’s backup the party starts the journey back to Whiterun. Glaring sunshine greets them as they march across the sulphur pools that abound around the Eldergleam Sanctuary.
‘By the Nine, that is a powerful, pungent smell’ complained Zora colourfully. Hot geysers bubbled angrily as the burst the surface of the green tinged pools. Undaunted the trio carried on and Vilja even piped up, a very out of tune, version of the Dragonborn Comes in an attempt to lift spirits. It somewhat worked!
They took a northern route, keeping the Darkwater River to their right before hitting the road near the Darkwater Mill. They then turned to the West, fording another river before once ascending the lower slopes of High Hrothgar, as they skirted the large mountain. The climb proved steep, but luckily the weather held and a majestic view of the rear of the Dragonreach towering over the tundra greeted them as they crested the last hill before Whiterun itself.
Though the journey proved largely uneventful, the party did come upon an unsavoury scene near the ancient Nordic tower at Valtheim. Several dead bodies were strewn across the road as it passed under the shadow of the towers. They had obviously been ransacked as clothes and other items of low value were all thrown across the cobbles. A Kahjit had been beheaded and its head set upon a spike about halfway up the tower, a small puddle of blood collecting at the base of it.
Zora explained that bandit bands would often base themselves in these old Nordic towers and lay claim to roads and thoroughfares that passed by them. The more ‘cultured’ bandit leaders resorted to charging a toll, whereas the more savage ones (clearly the ones in Valtheim) just engage in wanton pillage and slaughter. Perhaps something could be done to make this road safer at a later date.
Light drizzle began to fall from the sky as the trio made the gates of Whiterun. The guards pestered them with questions about dragons and dragon sightings. Dragons?!?!?!?!? Were these guards on the mead? Deana assured them that no dragons had been seen, and that no dragons had followed them, and that she had no idea of what had happened at Helgen. Yet there was something in the urgency with which they spoke that made Deana very, very wary. Entry into the city was forbidden to them until the Gilgergreen sapling was produced and even then it was a very reluctant permission!
It was a very grateful Danica Well Spring that received the sapling. She showered blessings of Kynareth upon our friends and rambled on about a ceremonial replanting and rebirth. Deana respectfully bade goodbye and headed to the Guild at the Huntsman for a well deserved ale!
Heading back to Whiterun the party was set upon by a pack of feral wolves which provided Zora and opportunity for redemption after being knocked out by the Forsworn beast and allowed Deana to gather sufficient pelts for the guild back in The Drunken Huntsmen. These she duly handed in to Elberond, the Steward of the Guild with the promise of bear pelts to come.
Work was also going on ahead apace in the guild building. A basic structure was now in place and a couple of bedrolls allowed members to rest between forays into the Wild. Elberond assured Deanthala that work would soon be completed and that the Guild would be a fully functional asset in Whiterun that would serve as a source of trade and income and as a means to keep the wildlife around the city in check.
The party spent a day in Whiterun, Lydia having to attend to several duties up at the Dragonreach. Vilja took this opportunity to visit the Temple of Kynareth and came back distraught. A priestess there by the name of Danica had unburdened a story on Vilja about a tree that was dying in Whiterun, the Gildergreen. Apparently the only way to revive the tree was by getting a sapling from the parent tree in a place called the Eldergleam Sanctuary far to the East. Just as Deana was about to ask why the priestess needed their help Vilja continued by saying a magic dagger was needed to part the gnarled, overgrown roots that the tree had extended to protect itself. This ‘Nettlebane’ was apparently in the hands of a coven of witches and Hagravens known to prey on the travllers on the road to Ivarstead that cuts through the mountains. Vilja pleaded with Deana to help Danica. Such was the passion with which the Nord pleaded her case that Deana could not reject. After all they had a few days to spare, Lydia had informed them that her duties with the Jarl would keep her for at least 3 days. Enough time for the others to embark on the quest.
Orphan Rock proved a tough nut to crack as these Hagravens were ruthless with claw and fire. Furthermore a brace of human witches worked in tandem with them. Vilja was knocked to the brink of death while Zora clearly revelled in the berserk rage of combat. Our heroes prevailed to recover a wickedly jagged dagger that reeked of malevolent magic. The nature loving Vilja even refused to touch the thing, trusting it to Deana’s keeping. A cold road through the mountain passes below High Hrothgar awaited.
Arrival at the Eldergleam Sanctuary was uneventful, other than the bone chilling air that cut like a finely honed blade as they moved through the mountains. The Sanctuary was a true sight of woodland beauty. Two large waterfalls emptied from above into a natural cavern of exquisite beauty. Trees, floral and woodland creatures of all shapes and sizes dotted the cavern floor and atop a large hill stood the parent Gildergreen Tree. It shone with a glow of its own bathing all the cavern in its warm light.
Drawing the dagger Deana approached the think roots blocking the way to the tree. As if the Gildergreen was possessed of some sentient power, the roots parted of their own accord sensing the dark magic contained within Nettlebane. The trio wound their way to the top of the hillock to find a woodsman, who announced himself as Maurice Druid of the Elder (not that the title meant anything to Deanthala). His eyes opened in horror as he saw what the Dunmer was holding. He dropped to a fighting stance unclasping a large Quarterstaff strapped to his back.
‘Oh goody the tree hugger wants to play,’ spat Zora unleashing the two hander from its holster.
‘Hold,’ cried Deana. She opened her palms wide and said, ‘we wish the tree no harm but rather wish some of its sap to restore its sibling in Whiterun.’
Maurice seemed to lessen his aggressive stance and abandoned it completely when Vilja told him what Dancia had spoken about.
‘The spirits of the wood indicate your pure intentions child of Morrowind,’ he said suddenly. The party instantly readied weapons when a number of Spriggans materialised from within the Gildergreen itself.
‘Put those down as they mean you no harm. On the contrary they bare a most wondrous gift…’
Indeed as the Spriggans morphed back into the tree they left a young sapling identical to the mother tree, just as brilliant and majestic as its parent but smaller.
‘Take this to the priestess of Kynareth and tell her that from death must come life. This sapling will grow in the earth of the old and provide new life and flower once again.’ With that he bade the party farewell and resumed his praying before the Gildergreen once again.