There was a fell taste to the air, the way it sometimes did when the wind came off Illiac Bay. It made Graunille an odd combination of twitchy and nostalgic. It swirled around Graunille's feet as she tread the flagstones towards the Dancing Donkey, reminding her again of the dark gray seas of her youth. She thought of the murders in the city and was momentarily excited by the thought of a killer stalking through the mists, knife in hand. Her fingers flexed invoulntarily, tingling with magicka held in check by the narrowest margin. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grin that would not have been out of place Lamia, partaking of nothing so begnin as humor or good cheer. Wild light flickered in her eyes as her breath swirled the rising mist. Just for a moment she felt like Merceda again, wild, reckless and intoxicated by the night.

The moment crumbled as the door of the Dancing Donkey banged open. A nord stood there, muscle bound and square jawed like most of his race. Graunille's nostrils flared involuntarily with memories of the old smell of burned pork. She shivered slightly and forced the magicka down. Suddenly chilled, she pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Judging by the old burn scars and the overdeveloped musculature, this one was a smith. She had seen him before she thought, Haskin?

"Something is wrong out here," she agreed, turning to watch the fog rather than moving through the door.

"Something unnatural about the fog... like Baliera," she elaborated. Thinking of the wind blowing the scent of the island onto the rocky shores of Wayrest.
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