madam-whim

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the two dumbasses feat. one very unlucky member of the mythic dawn :)

based on this:

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i learned that actor Danny Trejo has the most on-screen deaths of anyone in Hollywood history, with 65. Followed by Christopher Lee (60), Lance Henriksen (51), Vincent Price (41), Dennis Hopper (41), Boris Karloff (41), and John Hurt (39). (x)

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I painted the Imperial City from Oblivion!

Original and prints available: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SarahVittle

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Cunk on Nirn Part 10: Alduin's diet thanks to @absentia-misere for the idea, I tweaked it slightly.

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WIP Wednesday

tagged by @sulphuricgrin and @pocket-vvardvark

tagging @captain-of-silvenar @varlaisvea @madam-whim and whoever wants to!

I haven't worked on much since this last week I mostly just got lost playing Valheim due to back injury reasons, but I did manage to actually write some of the next chapter of Drals' fic :)

I think some of my favourite chapters to write are when it's just Drals alone with his thoughts lol. like yessss wallow in self-loathing and try to deny yourself joy but accidentally come to the conclusion that it's not that bad, actually

-

Drals awoke to the sound of a door shutting. Groggily, he rolled over in bed, finding himself alone. Part of him was grateful for that; he couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed about the night before. His skin prickled with heat as he recalled the warmth of Azandar’s embrace, the soothing pressure of his arms around him.

There was another part of him that yearned to feel that again. But with the yearning came shame; it was a tangled web of feelings he was far too tired to begin to unravel. It burned like a hole in his chest, a hunger he did not want to allow himself to satisfy.

For a moment, he simply laid there. Paralysed by his feelings, he took in the surrounding space from the angle of Azandar’s bed. It wasn't a large chamber, and he got the sense that Azandar didn't live there full-time. There wasn't much in the way of decor or personal affects; only a worn travelling chest open atop the dresser, filled with clothing and smaller cases and pouches. Azandar’s blue jacket hung from a hook next to the archway leading into the workshop, his gloves and satchel resting neatly on a table beneath it. The tidy minimalism of the room almost made Drals feel guilty for the way he had unceremoniously tossed the pieces of his armour into a pile in the corner.

Would that he could just stay right where he was. He watched the faint, ever-present vestigial wisps of magicka float around the room like incense smoke, the slow movement calming his racing mind. His eyes fell shut, beginning to drift off once more, before he heard voices in the next room. 

With a sigh, he forced himself to get up. His cursed eye uncovered, catching his reflection in the nearby mirror caused him to wince and quickly avert his gaze. 

He simply glowered at the floor for a moment, haunted by the brief glimpse of what Mora’s eye showed him. Perhaps it was with a bit of self-destructive intent, but he eventually raised his eyes to the mirror once more, facing his reflection.

What he saw was similar to what he saw in others marked by Hermaeus Mora, to some extent. But it was so much stronger. Roiling darkness, like a fog, moving and shifting. His cursed eye reflected back at him, like the flash from a lighthouse on a dark night, green and bright and blinding. 

Somewhere underneath, he recognised himself. He raised a shaking hand, smoothing his hair back behind his ears, feeling blurred at the edges. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all. It was just… different. He just had to learn to live with it. He cursed under his breath, fighting the compulsion to look away, to cover it up and pretend everything was fine. To pretend nothing had changed, when everything had changed.

His thoughts went back to Azandar. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Everything had changed. Everything had changed and there was no going back, no matter how desperately he wanted to. 

Wanted to? He thought about the night before, his train of thought coming full circle. He held onto the memory of feeling safe. Cared for. For just one small moment, the dark clouds of his mind had been parted. Forcefully, like a knife tearing flesh, perhaps.

The whistling of a kettle in the next room pulled him from his thoughts, but not before he recalled Azandar’s words during their fight in Necrom. 

“Have you ever asked yourself what it is that you want? When you chip away at all the societal expectations, what is it that you truly desire?”

He ventured out of the room, leaving his eyepatch on the nightstand.

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💅 WIP WEDNESDAY 💅

Ty for the tag @skyrim-forever @hircines-hunter @sulphuricgrin @dirty-bosmer <33 smooches

I'd like to tag @fangsandsoftgrass @red-mountain-flower @scholarlyhermit @aviel-the-trans-bucket @yansurnummu @sanza-17 @yewphoric @friend-of-giants @thequeenofthewinter @varlaisvea @madamefluffnstuff @sunsettemplar @wrenbirdie @firefly-factory u guys rock, I love y'all! Hope this week is a good one, pookies (if it's not, I'm sending hugs 😍)

OK FIRST UP we got, ✨Xavier✨ from love and deepspace 🥴

I swear to fucking God, I'll get better at drawing men bc I need him carnally 😌

Then, I've got some more Alethia :D made a headshot bc I want to make a ref sheet, andddd also wanted to draw what she's wearing on her moon

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i might have an idea for a tesblr community event thing we could all do. For artists, writers, moodboards, etc!

But I don't know if it's a good idea or if I'm biting off more than I can chew. If any moots wanna hear me out, bounce ideas off, I'd love to chat. I've already made the side blog just to get the name, just in case.

Dm here or discord :D

(It's based off a recent headcanon I shared like a week or so ago.)

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WIP Wednesday

tagged by @labskeever and @elavoria - thank you both!

Today I'm going to pick up where I left off last week and share the next bit of the Drake of Blades thingy :)

It took her far too long for her liking to find something edible this time, not that there had been plenty to begin with. It was a mudcrab again, and even though she was a creature of habit, always had been, this was something she would never get used to. Nor would she even have the chance to, if things went on like this. She was quickly running out of things to burn after all, both for warmth and light, and raw meat was rarely a good idea, either. She’d soon be left with no choice, however. At first, when she’d stepped outside the Dragonfire Cathedral for the first time after all those years, she’d only noticed how eerily quiet it was, with only the soft burbling of the water echoing off the walls. Back when she had, to be quite honest, practically lived down here, there had always been almost too many sounds for her liking. There had been the Daedra, of course, and those were rarely quiet. And with the soldiers of the Daggerfall Covenant and their nearby base, which, on occasion, had rather resembled a bustling underground market instead of a hidden military outpost, there had almost always been soldiers passing through on their way up into the city above. And even if one dared venture deeper into the sewer network, towards the Barathrum Centrata, there had always been traces of activity – mortal and Daedric alike – to be found, of one knew where to look, and how to listen. But now, there was nothing aside from a handful of animals, and it had taken her a mere few hours to learn the reason why: She was trapped, even more so than she’d assumed. With her ability to leave the Cathedral restored, she had found out very soon that the area she could move around in was fairly small, and within an hour of exploration she had discovered that all tunnels leading away from the Cathedral were collapsed. Perhaps it was the Vestige’s work – if the woman had kept her promise of making sure the Cathedral was forgotten, this would have been the easiest way to go about it. Or perhaps she had finally defeated Molag Bal for good, and the Three Banners War had come to an end, and this part of the sewers had simply fallen into disrepair. Whatever the reason, though, it meant that returning to the surface was made incredibly difficult for her, who had no tools except her two swords, and those were hardly meant for digging. She’d still tried, though, after she’d settled on one of the blocked passages. She’d needed to try her luck with one of them, after all, if she wanted to get out of this place alive.

I'm no-pressure-tagging @pinessydr, @illumiera and @bostoniangirl21, as well as anyone else who might want to share something (feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged)

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WIP Whenever/Wednesday

Tagged by @hircines-hunter this week and by a lot last week (sorry had nothing to show!)

no pressure taggin: @changelingsandothernonsense @skyrim-forever @sanza-17 @pocket-vvardvark @dirty-bosmer @yansurnummu @lathez @thescrolls-haveforetold @sunlightpassingthroughthewater @scholarlyhermit @gamevoidartblog @firefly-factory

sharing this tired and before bed. possibly mistakes, oh well. it is a wip. have the girlfriends! :D

Thankfully, like clockwork, she soon begins to hear movement from the direction of the bedroom. A yawn, the soft movement of fabric, a pause, and then a sigh. She doesn’t bother opening her eyes, or even move, when she hears the quiet shuffle of covered feet on stone. She always looks forward to this routine they’ve built. Lilliandra always does the same things, to replicate the same environment because Cinnara has shown she follows the same actions.  She hears her approach from behind before gentle hands come to her face. Thumbs caress her cheeks and red hair tickles her skin as Cinnara tenderly kisses her forehead. “You shouldn’t be sleeping here.” She always thought she had fallen back asleep at her desk. "Your neck must ache terribly." Lilliandra relishes in the softness of her touch. Her own hands come up and over Cinnara’s. She finally opens her eyes and looks up at pretty blues. “I didn’t.” Her voice betrays her, her exhaustion leaving it tired and a little hoarse, making it sound if she had woken up.  Hands slip away from under hers and Cinnara disappears from sight as she pads away. “When did you wake up?”  Her answer is a quiet “I dunno.” She closes her eyes again, and rests, and listens. She admits she enjoys the easy, calm mornings, of simply listening to her rummage around their room, getting ready for the day. She jolts when clothes are unceremoniously dropped onto her face. Grumbling, she moves the pile into her lap and looks over them.  “Please, get ready. We’ve got a full day today with everyone!” Her voice is vibrant with excitement (and perhaps a little louder than necessary this early). Everyone. This group of artisan friends Cinnara had been a part of for the last couple years, though she supposes she was too, despite not falling into the artisan category herself. She more considered them Cinnara’s friends, and not hers, but she plays along because it makes Cinnara smile, it makes her happy.  Though she takes her time, it doesn’t take long before the both of them are ready for the day and walking through the Academy’s stone halls. Their chambers were located underground. So while they lacked windows ― something Cinnara occasionally complained about ― their rooms stayed cool during Summerset’s worse summer days. They hold hands as they take the spiraling stairs up and eventually out of the students boarding building. The gentle warmth of the morning sun hits them as they walk through the lush gardens towards the refectory, where most students and staff were likely trickling in on this lazy Loredas morning.  

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Immensity.

The Lore-accurate scale of Imperial City. Recreated by L.Torres (Lion Towers3d) in Unreal Engine 5. Full Imperial City video (which I wholeheartedly recommend) here.

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it's WIP Wednesday, my dudes

Tagged by @skyrim-forever (thank you!!)

this is from the Young Martin AU, but it's actually a flashback featuring an even younger teenage Martin

EDIT: I can’t believe I forgot to give context. this is Corella singing. Martin doesn’t learn that until later on, though.

Martin rose with the sun—always had. As a boy still living on his parents' farm, this had never stood out as unusual. When he was sent off to the university, a place where classes did not often begin before mid-morning, where students stayed out until the barkeeps sent them away, he had discovered the strange joys of waking up alone in a quiet world. More often than not, he would sneak a bit of bread in the evening to be eaten when he rose, and he would take his bread and a book and set out to find a place to read.

One day in his second year of study, with a heel of sourdough in one hand and a novel in the other, he wandered in a direction he did not often go: towards the university hospital. There were more people awake here than there were anywhere else, as healers and nurses trickled into work. Martin found it comforting. Eventually, he settled on a bench in a small courtyard, took a large bite of bread, and cracked open his book.

Not more than ten minutes passed before he was disturbed. Well, disturbed was probably not the right word. A bell had rung through the courtyard. With a start, he remembered that he was sitting behind the small Chapel of Arkay. He turned around and looked up to see the largest bell swinging back and forth in the steeple. Two more interjected with their harmonies. Then a woman's voice joined them.

The City of the Cyrodiils was host to innumerable beautiful voices. Martin didn't count his own among them, but he had enough of a musical ear to tell when he heard one. The opera often featured powerful, shimmering sopranos that soared like birds through the clouds, audible even across the street from the music hall. His favorite tavern bards were mezzos so rich that the very sound became sultry. Every third street corner, it seemed, was manned by a musician with a hat to collect coins and a voice that felt like a friend, effortlessly warm and bright like the sun.

This voice was…none of those things, really. It was clear and dulcet and perhaps a little plain, but there was a beauty to its plainness, offering up the words and notes of the prayer with unadorned reverence. Martin sat like a statue, his book still open in his hand, until she finished the verse. He found himself disappointed by how quickly the congregation answered, cutting off the last echo of the woman's sweet voice.

But it came back, again and again, because that's how the prayers of Arkay always happened: a call, and a response; a plea, and another plea. Perfectly mirrored, as the God of Cycles was.

Time seemed to disappear. Martin usually brought his petitions to Julianos, or perhaps Akatosh, but he was quick to learn, and he found himself humming along with the congregation, though never with the woman. He wouldn't sully it like that. Her voice seemed to ring clear up to Aetherius in a way that the others did not, her delicate vibrato like the glimmer left behind by a well-cast spell.

Then it ended, and the bells sounded once more, and a small voice in Martin's head urged him to go around the chapel to its front doors and ask who had been singing. But he was nineteen years old and awkward, so he sat on the bench, took a bite of his bread, and stared up at the brightening sky.

NPTs: @mavariel @friend-of-giants @madam-whim @heavy-metal-dick @redmountain @vehksfingerguns @edeathran @graveofcalaxes and anyone else who wants to do it because I have trouble keeping track of all the moots lol (please tag me if you do!)

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WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @skyrim-forever and tagging @dirty-bosmer @labskeever @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @falmerbrook as well as @lucien-lachance and @theoneandonlysemla although you guys have said you can’t participate atm. I didn’t want to leave you out and am sending hugs instead for the meantime! 🫂

I am one-upping myself from last week. Last Week!me broke 30k, but I broke 40k in word count lol. It astonishes me every time just how much I can write when I’m inspired and obsessed. I think I have a title? It’s one that’s been rattling around in my head for over a decade, waiting for a project that fits it: The House of Equations. It works here as a play on The House of Troubles, and equations are all about moving things around while balance is maintained, etc etc. That sounds like a character arc to me! Haha

Some context for today! This excerpt is another result of probing back into ancient Resdayn. In mapping out the political landscape of Vvardenfell (though even that name isn’t official at this point, since the Chimer and Dwemer aren’t friends yet) I needed to consider what other Chimer Houses are around. Long story short based on House capital locations and the propylon index map, the answer seems pretty obvious to me: House Dagoth! So, Sil gets to meet some of its members. 😁

(Can you tell I love foreshadowing?)

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screaming into the void bc my non-trading guilds have all died by now, almost all my friends have stopped playing and I wanna play the new dungeons so badly but I will not be caught dead on normal with pugs

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Current WIP 🐺🗡

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Before the inevitable

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Skyrim fanart time ! I hadn’t played that game for a long time, and had nearly forgotten how enjoyable it was.

Aela the Huntress and Skjor, members of the Companions.

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hm they could’ve picked a better screenshot for the thumbnail cause this just looks like our home boy here is about to get rawed by a werewolf