Bleakrock

Bleakrock is bleak, but strangely vibrant. It's strange, but in the hectic nature of even quiet Davon's Watch and the busy square, the vibrancy of Bleakrock is even more evident. People know you, they greet you, they speak to you warmly even through their thick jackets and heavy gloves. When they greet you they embrace you and speak to you of their children, even though the island has little to speak of for education. A fishing village, some craftsmen and some traders, with the Pact's soldiers having occupied the territory (much to the chagrin of the locals).

Today I encountered a young woman in the wilds of Bleakrock who asked me to help find her friends, who had somehow been turned into oversized rats. I don't remember the details, but she had been very embarrassed about the whole situation, given me a strange wand, and told me if I found them to help her. For some reason, she assumed I wouldn't just waltz off with her magic wand - but on the other hand, I think she was oddly glad she didn't have to worry about carrying the cursed thing with her. There are so few visitors to the island, fewer still that venture into the bear and wolf-infested woods, and fewer still who make it into the ice-tipped lakes searching for themselves.

I admit, were it me and were my friends transformed by dark magic into rodents, I'd hand the thing off as soon as I found someone eager to take it off my hand. I can't say I was eager, more interested perhaps.

I found one of them on the other side of the island, after a particularly cold afternoon of wandering around the northern part of the island in search of iron ore (I've got a contract with a local Davon's Watch guildhouse for supplying them with iron). Turns out the rat was an Argonian. Perhaps I should have just left him a rat.