#ESO RP

[orfeoarte]

inspired by Sebastiane (1976) for @coyote-ralyn 's tesinktober, here's Ori bathed in Nature

[elerrah]

Among the details I really enjoy writing, when it comes to a character, is their spellcasting style. Ingame, out of character, the spells are relatively flashy, yes, make no mistake, but there's a certain level of capitulation to the limitations of how a game works, vs how RP works. Ingame in skyrim, for example, you might see your character holding a mote of flame, and when you hit the button, you just... fling a firebolt.

From a writing perspective, let's be honest, that can be... kinda boring! I love writing drama, and stuff like this can really build out a character, especially considering there's discussions in-character about spellcasting styles. To wit:

Are you absolutely certain Josajeh interfered with your research? "I am. Magic is an intensely personal exercise, initiate. No two mages weave their spells in exactly the same way. Like painting or sculpting, each artist has their own distinctive style. Josajeh's style is difficult to miss." - Loremaster Celarus, A Breach Beyond the Crags (taken from https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Online:Loremaster_Celarus )

I view a spellcasting style like a classic Mage: The Ascension take on a paradigm - it's an expression of how your character understands the world. A more learned spellcaster will probably use formulae and theorems to create a spell, whilst a reach witch will likely invoke spirits or similar.

When El was being taught spellwork, it started from a beginning perspective of the world as a weave of cloth - both made *of* magicka, and containing magicka. Everything is just a different sort of thread.

So, when she begins to cast, her spellwork manifests as literal threads of magicka she draws between her fingers, and she weaves them almost like a cat's cradle or similar. Complex, more difficult spellwork manifests as increasingly complex weaveworks, until she's ultimately built the spell she's working on. It's extremely heavy, in D&D terms, on somatic components, but very light on verbal cues.

When she's healing, for example, this manifests as golden threads woven between her fingers before being laid across the wounds of whoever she's working on. In effect, she's patching over the weavework of the magicka of someone's body, putting them back together like some sort of a ragdoll.

(That this lets me get away with RP dialogue whilst she's casting, which is useful for healing scenes and the like, certainly doesn't hurt.)

A fireball, though, manifests very differently - threads are woven loosely, ends frayed, as if she's just lashing magicka together in a hurry before flinging it out at someone. The flames are a manifestation of the structure's breakdown on its way to the target.

ICly, someone would be able to tell that this magicka work was hers - it's shockingly structured and orderly like a well-woven piece of cloth would be. It's relatively conservative, too, in terms of magicka usage, not being so much about brute force as a tailored (hah!) solution woven against whatever she's up against. It's a straight-up manifestation of her understanding of the world, put into glowing fingers and descriptive RP posts.

...I may also just enjoy writing details like this.

(Bonus: This is also why her practice is called The Healer's Weave. :D)

[system32sys-hub]

I'm super desperate for roleplay at the moment. Honestly anyone and any fandoms I'm in would be perfectly fine with me.

Is there any roleplayers - in game or over text - for Warframe, PSO2, The Elder Scrolls (mainly Skyrim and ESO), Halo, or Grim Dawn?

If not, does anyone know any places to look for them?

[eldritchborn]

HERMAEUS MORA AS PRAISED BY JACKALOPE

❝How does one convince a person that to stab the eye blind is the best of options, so the predator may lunge the throat freely?❞  The owl requests-

The hare responds- ❝Simple- convince them what is seen is more horrific then the realm of absence.❞

ITHELIA AS PRAISED BY GAIA

[choccy-zefirka]

I was thinking about the ESO roleplay @sky-scribbles and I did with our sad elves, Orsaermo and Nurindil, an Altmer and a Maormer both finding a second love in each other, and decided to repost the fic I wrote about them. And edit it a bit for less clunky prose, too!

Its past version was on my old deactivated blog, so the Read More link no longer leads anywhere. In the fic, the ghost of Orsaermo's wife, a Khajiit whom he outlived, reassures him that the vision of her he saw during some Coldharbor torture shenanigans was not, in fact, the real her. As part of said torture, Orsaermo was led to believe that his dead wife now hates him for falling in love with someone else... While in truth, she's happy for him!

(The years go by and my themes stay the same; ain't that right, my fellow Rogue Trader enjoyers?)

In a beam of moonlight, she comes down.

First, the threads of metallic white and of warm, gentle pink weave together like a spinner's yarn, creating a ghostly pattern. An intricate net of unearthly glow; a tiny copy of the mystical lattice that, as the people of Elsweyr believe, separates the living and the dead, the solid ground of Nirni and the yawning abysses of Oblivion. At first, the net undulates in place, rippling and shimmering, as though the cool, humid nocturnal air were water, and these threads of light were seaweed. But eventually, it takes a more condensed, more discernible shape. Two legs for walking upright, as men and mer do; two arms, reaching out into the watery dark; two large furry ears, pricked up to catch the restless whispers of the night; a tail, lashing at the air in intense concentration. The moons, the mighty Jone and Jode, guardians and protectors of the Khajiiti people, have allowed the ghost of one of their children to return to Nirni for this one fleeting night, crafting her from the yarn ball of their bright, generous glow.

In a beam of moonlight, she comes down. And along a trail of dazzling sparkles, scattered across the water, she walks forth. Cutting, like a garnet-adorned blade of silver, through the mists that rise above the sleeping bay. Probing the gloom with her ears and whiskers. Peering ahead with two enormous glowing eyes, just like she did when she was still alive.

And, indeed, she almost feels alive when she finally glides towards the water's edge and steps onto the sand, with her see-through padded soles barely disturbing the sea foam. Right ahead of her, beneath a rocky outcrop, bearded with barnacles that must have clung onto it when the sea rose, there is a tiny campsite.

Two bedrolls: one occupied by a curled-up, sleeping figure, with the glint of pallid, fish-like skin between the blankets betraying a Maormer. But no campfire. They probably do not wish to reveal themselves to whichever creatures might lurk around the stone well that looms within the camp’s view: in the center of a cracked paved circle, overgrown with fuzzy clumps of grass and coil of ivy, but still pulsing with a vague, nebulous darkness.

And there will be creatures lurking; there always are. First, a procession of cultists in dark robes will bathe the dormant circle in the blood of some desperately, fruitlessly struggling sacrifice. The old stones will awaken, and a colossal surge of purple light will rip the sky apart, with a scream of pain that will be felt even by the spirits resting in the farthest reaches of Aetherius. Then, a set of three chains will plummet down, coiling like oily black serpents, inserting a gigantic grappling hook into the well; trying to smash the Lattice, and make Nirni and Oblivion one.

They are all over Tamriel, these moorings for Molag Bal's terrible Dark Anchors. Dolmens, the mortals call them. But all over Tamriel, there also are brave adventurers, ready to confront the cultists as soon as they begin their grizzly ritual, and stop their summoned horrors from ripping their rotting teeth into poor, long-suffering Nirni. At this campsite, too, two adventurers wait. The Maormer may be at rest, for now, but his companion is alert. It is his turn to observe the approach to the dolmen, and he takes the task very seriously.

Of course he does.

This is what makes the long-forgotten pulse of life course briefly through the ghostly Khajiiti, as she draws closer and closer to the little camp. Recognition.

She may have spent decades upon decades sleeping and stretching and playing lazily in the sugary Sands Behind the Stars — but she knows him.

She still knows him.

The strong, loyal, beautiful elf whose heart is bigger than most of his kin's egos. He defied his family, who would have him crossed with the most thoroughbred Altmer family tree there was, as if he were an apple sapling rather than a person. And after he disrupted their plans, after he chose her, a humble Khajiit, over all those trees laden with perfect golden apples, she spent all her life beside him… Until her fur got speckled with white, and her eyes grew dim, and her thoughts slowed down and jumbled like puzzle pieces, dislodged by the Skooma Cat’s paw swipe, and the Sands called out to her. And he, with both his face and his love unchanged even as she aged and died, stayed behind to grieve. Until now.

She drifts up to him noiselessly, unnoticeably, with the stealth of a cat and ghost combined. Then, she takes a moment to study his profile, turned towards the dolmen and sculpted in bold angular lines by the moons.

He is just as she remembers, from their days walking side by side as mortals, with the froth of cherry blossoms sighing blissfully overhead. Except, perhaps, for a few streaks of grey, almost indistinguishable from his blonde hair, and a few lines she has not seen before. Added by aging, much slower than hers, or perhaps by worrying too much and locking all those worries behind a stoic face, as is his way... Who can tell?

After she is done admiring him, she taps him lightly on the shoulder, like her four-legged cousin would tap a glass before swatting it off the kitchen table. And like a glass, he nearly shatters.

Alerted by her touch, he turns around abruptly, with his fingers tightening around his sword hilt — ready to defend the sleeping Maormer from the mysterious ghost... But the glowing eyes that meet his gaze are the same ones he’d once get lost in, several Khajiiti generations ago.

“Hush,” she purrs gently, before he can cry out. “This one just came to visit.”

His throat contracts, and his gauntlet-clad hand releases the sword, wandering instead to his breastplate.

Always in full armor, this one. Always ready for battle. But cutting down the spawn of Oblivion is so much easier than defeating the monsters inside your own head — banishing them, ensuring that their lingering shadows, clingy like black goo, fully melt away.

This is what she is here for.

“Even in the Sands Behind the Stars, Mirazi felt that an image of her was used by the vile Molag Bal to torment you,” she goes on, sitting cross-legged by his side and trying to stroke his arm with her glowing, fleshless fingers.

Her clawed hand passes right through the steel and flesh — but her spirit does reach out to him, cloaking him in a silvery shimmer. It spreads all over him, starting from where the ghost's fingertips rest, and condensing the brightest over his heart.

Air trapped in his tightened throat, he watches wordlessly as the magic overtakes him, soft like an embrace. And she, in turn, watches his eyes grow almost as large and reflective as hers. The tears that well up over his widened pupils splinter the moonlight and her own aura into many, many shards… They are harsh, cutting like glass at first, but the magic does its soothing work; and eventually, he blinks, shoulders relaxing, his stifled breath escaping in a sigh. It is then that the tears escape as well: brilliant droplets rolling down his angular cheeks.

“This foul, twisted shade of Mirazi hissed to you that you were never allowed to love anyone again. That by finding a new companion...”

The ghost's gaze drifts to the Maormer, and she cannot help but smile indulgently when the Altmer's cheeks turn from gold to crimson.

“...You were betraying Mirazi. That was a foul lie! So this one travelled through the Lunar Lattice to make certain that you know that Molag Bal was tricking you.”

“I...”

His voice comes out hoarse. Scratchy. It sounds like the pain he’s caged within him, deep, deep beneath his armor, is clawing its way to the surface.

“I... For years, I thought... I was afraid that... If I let go my grief for you, I would have nothing left to hold on to. Nothing left to make myself, myself.”

“And then you met him,” the ghost of Mirazi inclines her head.

The Maormer stirs in his bedroll.

He is small for one of his kind, which must have earned him much disdain from some of his more ruthless pirate brethren; and as the covers slip down, they reveal that he is wearing a shirt that is much too baggy, much too big for him. An Altmer's shirt. A shirt that he could only have borrowed if he was close to its wearer; close enough to see him out of his armor. Soft and vulnerable and full of tentative hope for a loving touch, like he was with Mirazi.

This is good, she decides, her mouth curling approvingly into an overturned number three. Very good indeed.

“He... He was lost and lonely, like me,” the Altmer says. His eyes, still glinting wet, mellow with fondness as he takes in the sleeping silhouette.

“Even lonelier, perhaps. I still have our grandchildren, and great grandchildren — and he had no-one. His ship sank; his family was gone; even the precious clutch of sea serpent eggs he’d been caring for was smashed to pieces. He spent his days meandering as a blade for hire, and his nights, staggering in a haze of rum and moonsugar. Anything to drown out his longing for a home, he said. But we... we found a home in each other. Going on adventures with him, hearing his stories, letting him hold me... It makes me at peace.”

“Ah, this one worried that you would never know peace again,” Mirazi says, nuzzling against his chest, where the magic is strongest.

The point of light swells briefly, like a third, tiny moon descended from the heavens — but in a blink, it melts away into a mundane, decidedly un-magical, streak of highlight on the metal surface. Just a reflection of the moons.

And with it, the ghost melts away as well, unravelling back into threads of glow, which dance a couple of farewell circles around the stunned Altmer, trailing along the contours of his face and caressing his now dry cheeks — before being swallowed up by night.

In a beam of moonlight, she came down; and in a beam of moonlight, she returns to the waiting Sands. And the last remnant of her is a whisper murmured by the sea foam,

Be good to each other. Love each other bravely. Carry each other to the stars.

“We will try,” the Altmer whispers, before getting up and walking over to the bedroll, the sand crunching under his armored boots.

He lowers himself down again and carefully, with a honed precision, removes his gauntlets. With his hands bare, he lightly traces the black ink on the Maormer's torso: countless serpents peeking through the open collar of the oversized shirt.

He had these images etched into his skin back when he was trying to make his body as different as possible from the one his loved ones had once embraced. They were born of darkness, these serpents, oily and coiling like the chains of Molag Bal's Anchors; symbols of grief and loneliness and devastation… But now they are something to marvel at, to stroke lovingly, to take in with eyes alight with awe.

“Mhm… Orsaermo?” the Maormer slurs, forcing his bleary eyes into half-lidded pearly slits. “Is it time? Is the dolmen active?”

“No, my love; not yet,” the Altmer mouths, with his hand still hovering across the Maormer's chest.

And in a flash, a spark of light passes between his palm and the Maormer's exposed skin.

A wisp of magic, just over his heart.

[aerwindale]

Painting of a Breton lady, from ESO game. Commission.

[necrosouls]

closing her PAINTED eyes, sever the BINDING ties. holding a gun within, ETERNAL, we'll meet again.

DOC. (in progress)

[simmearly]

Lady Lysuedette Renoault

[thecuriouskitsune]

Rosedale magic academy is looking for students and teachers!

Are you a fan of Harry Potter? What about kikis delivery service? Dnd? Elder scrolls online? Do you like mythology and folklore? Do you want a place you roleplay characters along those lines in a slice of life like place?

Welcome to our rp discord server - Magic Academy -

Rosedale. A beautiful portside town whis population is just under 3,000 people is next up and coming city. With a forest to one side, and the ocean on the other, beauty is covers every inch of this wonderland of a place. However, that's not even the most *magical* part.

For centuries, Rosedale had been a hot spot for those on the magical side of things. From dragon born sorcerers to witch's with black cat Familiars, Rosedale has attracted them all.

So it came to no surprise when the founding members of a magic society build the building blocks of the academy.

The Academy has been a gathering place for all creatures since the early years. Everyone is welcome. Student. And teacher.

What we offer:

- 18+ server. We are mostly in our early to 20s so those with the same age range are welcome.

- Slice of Life magic rpg

- we hold events with plenty of notice and encourage activity.

- We offer student and teacher roles. However if you want your character to be a shop owner or someone that lives in Rosedale, thats welcomed too!

( we don't have a dice system but offer roleplay )

We have a team of friendly staff members ready to help and assist in any way!

( https://discord.com/invite/wUE8yZTGeP )

[travelsthroughtamriel]

DISCLAIMER

This is an RP/Fanfiction blog for The Elder Scrolls Online. Certain artistic liberties may be taken with established canon, though I do my best to adhere to source material.

THIS BLOG IS INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS OVER THE AGE OF 18. SOME SUBJECTS WRITTEN ABOUT/DISCUSSED MAY BE TRIGGERING TO CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS. PROCEED WITH CAUTION, BE AWARE OF LISTED TRIGGER WARNINGS.

OOC Information (IMPORTANT! CLICK! READ!)

Character Profiles

[orfeoarte]

Devotion...

This one was soo nice to work on too! thank you to @tes-summer-fest for hosting, and to @drowsy-fantasy for being the most amazing writing partner ever! Go read our RP fic!

Beast — Teeth — Drowsy's post

[demonhimbo]

you know you’re deep in the eso RP bucket when one of your tabs open at all times is a ta’agra primer

this one wishes to consume all there is about khajiit lore, yes.

[dxrkhexrtmuses]

"Well there was a miiinor setback." The dark elf briefly glanced up the Daedric Prince, face concealed by a mask. Why couldn’t someone else deliver the news? "An intruder was spotted today. Vampire by the scent, but unfortunately they managed to get away." (For Molag!)

Molag Bal’s pale icy blue eyes turned to the masked mortal, but other than that, he didn’t do much else. He did hear what the masked one said, but he wanted to make sure that was actually the news he was receiving. He could feel the anger swelling inside him, but as far as anyone knew, he was calm and collected, and that by far was what scared his servants. The silence before the storm. The calm before the fury. Molag Bal was scary when he wanted to be, and it was also impossible to know when you were in trouble with the prince or on his good side.

A good few minutes passed before his voice broke it, the calm in his voice showed none of what he was feeling inside his chest, “Minor setback?”

This was all he asked, giving no indication of what he was going to do, except maybe clenching his clawed hand on the arm of his throne he was currently sitting in. That thing towered above everything just like it’s owner, and then his massive head finally turned to the masked mortal, his tail swatting the air away from them.

He took in a breath, his chest moved with it and asked again in the same calm voice, “A minor setback?”

[dragxnsfire]

|| Dragxnsfire || Indie Multi-muse TES RP, featuring the Dragonborn, the Vestige, and Morrowind-era RP || 21+ || D & D, Baldur's Gate, LOTR, and Dragon Age AU blog

Rules || Muses || Ask || Memes and Starters

[suncertain]

Indie & semi-selective Elder Scrolls Online OC! A traveling Breton knight making her way through a challenging and often unkind world.

As written by Arden (25+, they/them, Pacific time). 18+ only to interact.

Multiple WIP verses! Preference given to other Elder Scrolls characters (especially OCs... hand them over).

[hbeeez]

Here's the last quick-ish painting I did. Just a sketch I painted over.