Ghost Lion Crag The blood is the life... and it shall be mine.

Between the Crag and the Mountain that hid the lake, there was entrance into the rest of Teekon Wilds. Miraak, finally crossing from one side of the Hinterlands to the other, leaned against a spruce — lonely in the crag's lower regions — sighing.

He was finally realizing how old he was getting. He was far from being infirm and elderly, but far from sprinting for miles on end with hardly a care in the world. His muzzle had grayed prematurely, giving him the added appearance of age. Most women (and some men) liked it — "silver fox" they called him — but now his body was catching up to his vistage.

The shade huffed, curling his feet underneath his weight. He wasn't done just yet. The assassin's spirit was still in him, and would remain until his death. He would prefer to die in battle than of a disease, or in his sleep, but Mephala would decide for him. For now, he rested, wondering where his sister was and how she was doing. He hoped she was well.