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|| I just described haleth as 5' even of this and I think everyone should know. it's her Defining Trait tm

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|| veilguard got me hyped to drag runilaros into a dragon age verse

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Send “Rumor has it...” followed up by a rumor about my muse!

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|| Someday I'll write more about Cal... someday....

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|| I should make up a proper bio for Athreloth. Just got slapped in the face with muse for snelfs and now I want to write him

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THE ELDER SCROLLS V: SKYRIM 💭

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|| Amaneniel Sancrevar, Jephrine Paladin Squire

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Guilt and shame twisted her stomach into knots, and she finally broke the worried gaze she'd been leveling at her guest, unable to look at the unused shrine any longer. But Haleth looked up again as Moraelyn began to speak again— to himself? To nobody at all?— and inched closer. "That's right," she said carefully, folding her hands behind her back, rocking forward, and looking between the strange mer and the portrait of her grandfather. "His name was Eldras, and he was from Vvardenfell. I dunno how long he lived there, but he met my gah-alma when he got here after the eruption."

She moved quickly, scuttling over sheet-covered furniture, and grabbed a small, wooden box, emblazoned with the hand of the Tribunal. She opened it, poking at the dried blue pigment, still sitting in its silver pot. "This was his, too. When I was a kid— and before, I assume— he'd put this stuff on half his face in a weird pattern; kind of looked like a saber cat's stripes. He'd do it for me too. B-but it was just old ceremony-stuff."

As he spoke again, though, Haleth nearly dropped the box. "No one taught me what?" she asked, new worry in her eyes. But she shook her head quickly, and stepped back. "Those old rituals? I paid attention! I learned!" Her voice became small, shame surging anew. "Sort of. But why would you want to help? My ancestors, obviously, think I'm a lost cause. If they cared, they would have answered when I called. But…" The smaller Dunmer breathed a sharp sigh through her nose, and moved back toward the shrine. "Fine. It won't work, but you can try."

He cradled the portrait in his hands as tenderly as he might a newborn bird, his eyes wreathed in cloudy memory. He’d been young, then, so young, wearing the cream and blue of the Covenantal Vimeri priesthood, his long and unshorn hair strung with river-pearls and oiled glossy with bug musk. Chitin lanterns had hung overhead, and lush river blooms had piled the tables in fragrant abundance, counterpoints to the incense and liquor. And the poetry, the singing, the music of lyre and wheel-harp, and the laughing face of the Armiger at his side offering his hand to dance. A mer of his mother’s House. A Redoran…

Moraelyn started from his reverie with a quick inhale of breath, his eyes flicking back up as though just woken from deep dreaming. “Eldras Serandas,” he said, half under his breath, “of House Redoran… Sixth, four removed…”

…Was that true?

Was it the sugar softening his memory, letting these new images suggest themselves into the gaps in his threadbare recollections? Perhaps. After all, how direly unlikely would it be to run into not one familiar name after two centuries, but two in two days? Suspicion was more familiar a taste than the sting of hope laid low, more safe…

Faithless cur, to speak of coincidence and happenstance! Take the gift as it is given and shy no more from its hand.

He flinched from his own thoughts, raised his head to look again upon the face of the girl who watched him somewhat worriedly. The sorrow that struck him was sudden and deep, a heartstopping plunge into icy waters. Severance, to be without the Dunmeri birthright of the Ancestors, had been among the worst punishments the Temple could perform. But Haleth was barely more than a child… How could she possibly have done anything to warrant such a thing? No, this was something else, something… Worse.  

 “Oh, Haleth,” he said quietly, softly, not in pity but in something more like horror, “no one taught you…”

There simply wasn’t any Temple mer left to teach her, was there? None but him, and he so far from a true and well-skilled master of that discipline. But, for better or worse, he was not willing to leave this child to suffer– whether she recognised her suffering or not.

And of course… There was one way to test whether his memory was lying to him. Dangerous, certainly. Foolish, most definitely. But it would be certain… And perhaps, even useful…

“I could show you, you know,” he murmured. “How to wake the spirits.” He offered one long hand to the young mer. “Would you like to learn?”

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Her battle with the dragon had lasted far, far longer than she'd hoped— and tired her out far more than she expected. It was, after all, the first time one of the beasts had caught her alone in the wilds, rather than on the road near a guard-tower, or at the College, or on the Greybeards' mountain. Haleth stared down at the beast's corpse, already growing cold, and pressed a hand to where its fire had singed through her College robes. (In this chill, she'd have to find something to cover it quickly.) She should have felt pride, joy… even, perhaps, a little thrill; but all the Dragonborn could feel was exhaustion. She willed herself to stay strong, though— strong enough to collect the dragon's soul, and find herself a warm bed. And as many potatoes with butter as whatever innkeeper would have her could give.

As the dragon's corpse began to glow and flake away, Haleth's eyes closed, and she waited… and waited… and waited. The young Dunmer frowned, nose wrinkling. She could certainly hear the soul rushing out of the dissipating corpse— she could even feel its aura. What she could not feel was the sudden warmth in her chest. "What in Azura's name—" she began slowly, opening her eyes— then, she heard the voice. Haleth turned slowly to face the man, eyes drifting up to meet the mask's inscrutable gaze.

He stole her rightly-won soul! The power she was supposed to be gaining, he'd taken! Rage boiled in her gut, and she did all she could think of in the moment— she Shouted. Puffs of ice, fire, and force flew hopelessly at the man; she had, after all, only learned a few Words. "Those were mine!" she cried, once she'd spent every last bit of energy she'd had trying to incinerate and freeze him. "You already know everything there is to know about… Shouting! Give it back!" Exhausted, she fell to the snow, glaring up at the First. "You're a fetching alit-faced, scrib-brained coward!"

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“Don't worry; I'll put them to good use.”

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As much as he detested the new Thalmor, and all they stood for, there was no denying that they spared no expense when putting on a soirée; wines he hadn't seen for centuries, at least, all manner of delicacies from the Isles… if Seldo ignored his age, and the biting cold, he might've thought he was in Alinor again. (Or, perhaps that was too generous— Firsthold was, if he was honest, more accurate.) The Vestige hadn't bothered to disguise himself— not much. He'd gone to the trouble of shaving, and dragged out his least moth-eaten robes from the bottom of his wardrobe; but the guards were far too young to even know who he was, much less what he looked like.

It was a truly harebrained scheme, one he'd been reluctant to help the Blade-master with when he'd heard it: a Dragonborn and a scorned servant, infiltrating the Embassy together. And yet, he certainly couldn't afford for the newest Hero of the era to end up locked away for a clumsy scheme-gone-wrong… so here he stood, taking a glass of wine from the little Bosmer waitress, eyeing those who attended the party. Finally, his one-eyed gaze landed upon the massive Altmer close to the First Emissary, and his lips pulled into a small, rueful smile.

Urnarseldo moved toward Manarion, managing to catch his gaze as he walked toward the grand door to the snowed-over gardens, giving the older mer a wink, before passing out of his line of sight. An invitation to join him outside— or, rather, a challenge.

Diplomatic Immunity

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Manarion had never really been one for parties, but he couldn't deny that he did rather enjoy the ones that his Ambassador held at the Embassy. Of course, the old General was in charge of the security, and it was a duty he took very seriously.

Currently, he was hovering in Elenwen's vicinity, keeping a watchful eye as servants bustled to and fro, serving the guests and bringing out food and drinks from the kitchen. While he knew his First Emissary was a capable womer and more then able to fend for herself with her magic, he couldn't help but feel a bit overprotective at times.

And a little uncomfortable, since formality dictated that he had to forego his usual armor for some robes instead, which left him feeling a tad bit exposed. He settled about two meters from where Elenwen was greeting her guests and sipped at his wine, between glances around.

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|| Myndilon Sancrevar, knight-paladin of Meridia

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|| directions unclear, please try again

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|| these were fun to make, I might have to do more. sorry for the delay on threads ;~;

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|| camp at the shrine of meridia

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|| seldo getting scruffed by meridia, yoinked into the sky and told he needs to go kill a necromancer for her (at mount kilkreath)

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|| Belthan Sarandas, Redoran exile

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I am so sorry for the silence lately-- I haven't forgotten threads, or owes, my brain's just been really hard to corral in the last few weeks. Definitely going to try to get to replies after work, though.