[code]It's Such a Wonderful Thing to Love[/code][hr]
[i]Anvil, Cyrodiil 21st of Second Seed, Midday[/i]

Calen considered himself well traveled for the most part. Was this the first time out of Skyrim? Yes and no, he had occasionally brought his cart to High Rock's border halfway to Jehanna to drop people off, but he barely considered that an abroad experience as he always turned back to serve the people of Skyrim. Cyrodiil was his first experience truly traveling the international flight, and the Gold Road between Skingrad and Anvil was a long and arduous one, even with what little respite Kvatch provided for the weary travelers. Though most of the group fared rather well, Calen was suffering from a unique experience among the company.

“Oh Gods – oh Stendarr! It's so [i]hot![/i]”

The home-grown Nord was having a lick of trouble adjusting to the warmer southern temperatures as they steadily inched closer towards the tropical line. He had long since shed his outer layer of clothing, and the white and blue shirt underneath helped to at least reflect some of the harsh sunlight, but his acclimation to the heat left much to be desired. Even his pony seemed especially spooky and more sluggish than usual, and trying to tend to Danish had put a strain on managing his own supplies. It put a bit of a damper on the mood of the trip as the one who was usually the sole bard responsible for the morale of his compatriots was too distracted by his own misery, however, even in his wallowing was he not entirely oblivious.

It was possible that said misery had tinted his perspective a bit, for he couldn't help but notice that the one friend he actually got to know on a personal level – and that was not to say he wasn't friendly with the others, but lacked the same kind of intimate understanding – was avoiding him. Out of sight, she was, and he was no stranger to casual affairs or one-night flings, but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had overestimated the significance of their time together. It made an already uncomfortable man distracted and subdued, but he put his best smile up when questioned. Passed it off as hot and sweaty, not used to the climate – no one was none the wiser.

It was good they were going to Anvil. There were questions he wanted answered.

Like how its lighthouse was a beacon of hope and refuge to weary sailors, it's front gates were beacons to weary caravans. He was one of the few without the luxury to immediately rush into the safety of its walls, for he had to pay the stables and string Danish up himself, who was welcomed with cool water and plentiful hay. He helped the people he carried off of his wagon and collect their belongings, before pulling it into a neighboring storehouse.

When he was able to join the others inside the walls, however, he was met with a marvelous sight. The paved cities, the architecture of the buildings, fountains, the hustle and bustle of countless people – it nearly rivaled Soltiude in the culture and beauty it exuded, and he was very much tempted into setting a box down in the middle of the square and playing his music. But as the hot sun beat down on his head and shoulders, his mind turned towards visiting the local tavern for some shade and drink, as well as friends and music – but the thoughts of such revelry would've been the antithesis of what he intended to accomplish upon coming here. He wasn't much a man of resolve, but it had been too long since he gave a visit to a proper temple to his lady. 

He laughed and smiled with acquaintances along the way, other refugees, familiar faces, members of the company, and gave a cheery hello to new faces as he circled around the city looking for where this temple would be. 

“You mean the Chapel? It's over east. It's a big, tall building, you can't miss it.”

Making a beeline towards the Great Chapel of Dibella, he wondered how he ever could've missed it. It was like the size of a castle, towering high and proud into the blue sky with ornate windows and brickwork decorating it all along the way. It's size and beauty of its outward appearance had put the Temple of Dibella in Markarth to shame, and his mouth hung open and speechless in awe. It was fitting that the Goddess of Beauty had a chapel so encapsulating. As he pushed open one of the doors, he was greeted with a dimly candlelit interior, wide and spacious, with a long walkway leading up to a large altar before a tall statue of Dibella herself looking over her worshipers. Though the chapel was rather empty of patrons aside from one or two, there was a priest and priestess dressed in red, leading their followers in dance and song.

Calen smiled at them. Though it was clear that this was not the same kind of temple as the one in Markarth, they still practiced the arts.

Though as he walked on towards the altar, the rhythm of their Cyrodilic melody was tuned out from his ears as he thought carefully about what he was to say. There has been a lot on his mind lately, so perhaps... just to start from there, then? He sighed heavily and fell to his knees, then leaned forward as he pressed his head against the altar. The was weird. Strange. Usually he just prayed the usual prayers, be all happy and the like – they were usually laced with flowery words like poetry, it only seemed right given the Goddess he was praying to – he wasn't terribly used to being so... open and vulnerable with his feelings. He figured that's where he should start. Shame on him for breaking one of her rules.

“Blessed Lady... I ask for your forgiveness for not living and feeling honestly.” He muttered.

[i]'No'[/i], he thought to himself, [I]'That's not it. I'm here now. I'm talking. Confronting this... I've been honest. Honesty isn't the issue. Oh, Dibella, why am I here now?'[/i]

Calen hesitated for a minute, then continued, “No matter the seed, if the shoot is nurtured with love, will not the flower be beautiful? Illia has told me you've said this, and I've done what I can to live true by your sentiments... but I've grown doubtful, not of you, but of myself. Past and present friends and lovers alike, I still hold them in great esteem, but I... the fire of my ardor remains stoked, but... I'm afraid. That of my fellows, their own would sizzle down to smoke and embers.”

An image of Rhona appeared in his mind, wrapped in blankets, but was quickly replaced by a moment of eye contact with her on the open road before she quickly moved deeper into the crowd and out of his sight. A twang in his chest made him wonder if this is what it felt like to be the lute he plucked at so often, but he quickly focused back on his prayer.

“This one was not the first time, nor I fear her to be the last, and it reminds me that I've often wondered if I left others feeling the same way. I wonder now if the path I walk is true – no, it's true – I just wonder if it's for me.”

The smoky smell of incense filled his nose in that moment, like rose and lotus. He looked up at the statue, and in the midst of his somber face did the corners of his mouth curl upwards slightly. He was faithful, yes, but not much of a holy man. He couldn't interpret the signs of the divine very well, or tell if they were signs at all, but he wanted to have faith that it was a message. He knew the smell well, and looking up at the statue took him back to the days in Markarth, in the days of the wagon, learning all he could of her doctrine. This was simply the way of love. Love sometimes hurts. That's part of what made it beautiful. He remembered what he told Rhona a few nights ago, [i]"When I think about past loves, I don't think about what I lost. I think about what I gained. The love I felt in those moments were real, and those moments are valuable to me. So the memories don't hurt me that much. More than anything, they feel... fulfilling."[/i]

He chuckled to himself a bit, thinking, [i]'I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.'[/i]

The young bard stood up, smiling. He wasn't really sure about how much he has accomplished here, but he knew this place would comfort him. The sight and smell of his Lady, the other worshipers – despite it's differences, the chapel had the same atmosphere. It brought on memories which helped to remind him why he was here and why he decided to become a follower. Regardless of whatever misfortunes that were behind him and those that lie ahead, there was beauty and wisdom to be found in each of them. Besides...

He had history to record. The dwemer wouldn't likely return again for a while after Tamriel figures out how to send them back down to their skeever hole.

Though the walk back to the front gates of the city of Anvil was a bit of a hike, he made good pace in finding that spring in his step. The warm sun and beat down on his skin and the humidity in the air clung to his clothes, he was able to begin appreciating the difference in weather between southern Cyrodiil and Skyrim. As he circled around the stables to get to the storehouse where he kept his wagon, intending to procure some of his instruments and his journals, he was barked at by one of the refugees that had followed their caravan earlier. Apparently they still had problems with getting in.

“'Ey, Calen!” They said. “Where you been? Frolicking about in the tavern and the local girls, I reckon!”

Calen just laughed in response, yelling back, “Yeah, I guess you could say that!”