#Female Dragonborn/Miraak

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Four

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Four of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First Dragonborn and the Last Dragonborn meet. Miraak makes an offer.

Part Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

How many times have you slid down the side of a mountain or purposefully launched yourself over a wall you believed was much shorter than what it turned out to be?

Too many times to count, and every time it happened you believed you were falling. But those instances are nothing compared to this.

This is just air. A hover before the descent. Endless amounts of space with nothing to grab on to. You are falling. Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

What were you expecting when you tore at the fleshy wall of your cage? What did you think would happen when you dug your nails in, scratch scratch scratching until the gelatinous hole grew wide enough to fit through?

Before you, beyond your endless air, are towering spires and connecting bridges. There are arches made of books and so many eyes embedded into the wall of the tower you hurtle past. Are they Hermaeus Mora’s eyes? Is he watching you fall? Does he care or is this all amusing to him? A game?

Perhaps the eyes are not his. Perhaps they belong to no one in particular. Just empty pupils and empty irises that are simple decoration. Hermaeus Mora appears to create with purpose, but you don’t truly know him. How can a mortal, even one like you, hope to understand a Daedric Prince?

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

Those were not bars made of black metal. They shifted under your weight. Wiggled. Bent outwards. Unfurled. There is no victory of escape. No reward for tearing your nails into the wall or using your Thu’um to weaken it.

The Seekers knew, didn’t they? They knew that you were clawing toward your death. That is what this fall is. A precursor. A bridge. The height of the song that swells with the music before the Bard plays the final cord.

Your hands extend outward. Seeking. You put all your efforts into reaching for the monolith beside you. Distantly, you hear those Seekers shrieking. They’re likely signaling others, or maybe announcing your imminent death.

All this falling, that feels so incredibly fast, is also so terrifyingly dull. You’ve already accepted the outcome. You already know what awaits you in the dark water. There is no surprise. Your future—your fate—reaches toward you in eagerness.

Black tentacles burst from the water, completely extended in your direction, vibrating with the anticipation of your falling body. You should have listened to Teldryn. You should have never opened the book. You should have taken it to Master Neloth as you originally intended.

What a mess you’ve made.

The largest and longest of the tentacles greet you with a brush of their slimy appendages. You start to curl into a ball, turning your face away from them and upward toward the sickly green sky. Apocrypha’s illness of an atmosphere roils. Ripples.

But as you curl into yourself in an attempt to protect your head, a winged shadow passes above you.

There is a roar, and it is so loud it shakes your bones and teeth.

The shadow returns and with it comes a dragon’s claw.

The tentacles that pull at you, that tug on your limbs and hair fall away, surrendering to the massive silvery blue beast that catches you before you strike the water. Your waist is completely enclosed in its great fist, as are your arms which are crossed over your chest.

The dragon soars upward, turns sharply, trumpets one more time before threading through the massive towering spires that dot the landscape.

It is a beautiful creature. Unique. Its head is more like that of a snake’s than of the dragons you’re used to. There is also a clear underbite as if the dragon’s jaw is too large for its head. The dragon’s scales are smoother and finer. Its hide shimmers, nearly iridescent.

You twist a bit in the dragon’s grasp. There isn’t much room, but there is enough for you to look out upon the lands of Hermaeus Mora.

The realm of a Daedric Lord is vast, and truly you understand just how large Apocrypha is as the dragon carries you above the landscape. Heights have never bothered you, but your head is spinning, swirling with dizziness. How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Since you’ve rested properly?

Everything is starting to catch up. Everything is rushing forward, ready to slam into you like a giant’s club. You want to resist the tug of exhaustion. The dragon’s claw is a cocoon of safety, and it lulls you into sleepiness. You desperately fight it, but there is no denying what your body craves. It needs the nothingness of sleep absent of dreaming.

When you awaken, it is because the dragon shifts in the sky. It descends toward a towering structure amongst a maze of many. The largest of the bunch has a platform. It isn’t large enough to hold the dragon but it is big enough for the beast to gently lay your body down on its slightly rocky surface.

It takes flight yet again, circling overhead before retreating into the distance. You watch it go, not knowing if this place will be a refuge or a new hell.

Slowly, you push up from the platform, observing your surroundings. The tower is like that of any other across Apocrypha, and beyond it, the labyrinth is a swirling mass of buildings and stairways. It’s clearly a warning to keep away, but to keep away what? People don’t casually find themselves in Apocrypha. What’s the point of the maze?

Standing on shaky legs, you slowly stride from the platform to the interior space, passing under a low archway that leads into the tower.

It’s…a laboratory? No—not quite. A study? That doesn’t seem correct either. It is a home, but more like someone’s attempt at making something strange into something familiar. On the surface, it is a human space made within the horror of Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

Everything around you appears to have been touched by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. To your right is a massive cutout in the black stone of the tower. Within the cutout is a large bed covered in dark sheets that look exactly like the dark waters of Apocrypha. There are furs as well, and you’re not sure if they’re from creatures of the mortal realm, or from this one. The rest of the space consists of stacks and stacks of books, some of which appear beyond saving.

To the left is a stone desk covered in scrolls and loose pieces of parchment as well as quills and ink vials. There is an alchemist workbench as well as an enchantment area. All the soul gems are black, and all the vials on the shelves are full. There are many ingredients on the shelves that you recognize, and a good many you don’t.

Parts of the space remind you of your own home, but something about it feels…off, as if Mora’s influence is wrapped around every item. In your mind, you envision the large Daedric Lord hovering in the air, his mass of tentacles sliding over and around everything yet invisible to the human eye. You sense someone watching you, but as you observe the large space, you notice no one inspecting you from the shadows.

You touch nothing. You know better than to poke around with things you’re not familiar with. There could be any number of unwanted surprises hiding here, and the last thing you want to do is trigger something on accident. Instead, you peer at everything, keeping a safe distant between whoever this stuff belongs to and you.

Apocrypha wants to consume you. It wants to suck the flesh from your bones and then break them open to slurp up the marrow. This realm desires to keep you in its clutches, to possess you and your knowledge, to chew on your brain until you become one with the Daedric Lord. Even here, in this new environment, the tacky pull of Mora’s influence gnaws at the back of your mind. You shiver, wiggling your shoulders in response as if Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles lay against you like a cloak.

So far, Hermaeus Mora has been unsuccessful in drawing you in. And you plan on keeping it that way.

Glancing around the large interior space, there is no sign of the owner. It is entirely quiet. You observe the space uninterrupted. What you really need is a change of clothes. This…sack you were put in does nothing to protect you. It’s also entirely too revealing. You want it gone and to replace it with your armor.

But that might be impossible. Wherever you are, you’re likely far away from your gear. The next step is figuring out what is available to you in this moment. There has to be something useful in this place for you to take, especially a change of clothes. You’ll even take a blanket off the bed. It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing now.

A movement in one of the many vials catches your eye. You pause, and then turn toward the flickering movement. Something is wiggling around in the glass. Something dark and slimy and wet. Something with tentacles. Something with cloudy eyes.

“Does my collection interest you?”

You drop into a crouch, snagging a knife off the nearby table. You flip the handle around and brandish the knife like any blade. It’s dull, which is disappointing, but it’s better than having nothing. Anything can be a weapon in the right hands.

From the dark recesses of the room comes a specter. At first, it is just spots of color. Then those spots elongate, extending outward into points, glowing brightly and revealing a humanoid figure.

Whoever this is, they wear a mask. It’s golden. Shiny. The eyeholes are thin slits and the top of the mask curves upward at four separate points. The bottom half of the mask look like tentacles. It reminds you of the Seekers and their faces. Their robes are a deep greenish brown accented in gold embellishments around and down the arms, at the waist, and shoulders. The colorful glow comes from an aura around the upper half of the body. It’s dragon-like in appearance.

They take one powerful step forward and you sink closer to the floor. With the distance, there is still a thickness in the air, as if their mere presence is enough to change it. It sits heavy on your chest, pushing you down toward the floor.

The stranger takes another step toward you. Instinct ignites, tells you to strike first.

You throw the knife.

You’re good with blades, especially after spending time with some members of the Thieves Guild. But you’re tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Your aim is shit, and this intruder easily bats the knife to the side.

“In my own home.” The stranger is a man, and you are in his home. “How rude,” he croons. He doesn’t even sound upset, just slightly irritated as if the thrown knife is an inconvenience.

He takes another step in your direction. More and more of his form comes into clearer focus as he nears. He is bright and bold, and the power that radiates off him is like an unrelenting hand around the throat. It’s so concentrated in the air you could choke on it.

But you don’t plan on staying. You’ll make for the maze. That has to be better than being stuck in here with him.

You throw yourself out from behind the table and sprint for the platform. Your legs burn and your chest heaves, but you’re determined, eager to break free and go about this on your own terms.

As you approach the archway, the dragon from before lands on the platform. It starts to slide a bit, but it’s smart, using its massive claws to hook itself onto the wall of the tower. It’s serpentine head swivels toward you, and then it roars.

It is earth-shattering and you fall to your knees in pain. The world vibrates around you and everything spins. The floor is cold beneath your hands and is hard against your knees.

You are so tired, and you hate it. It makes you weak. It keeps you at the mercy of others.

The serpentine dragon shakes as if it were a dog removing water from its fur. Its giant head turns in the direction of the glowing man. “Miraak. Zu’u drun ek.”

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

The man whose influence corrupted many minds on the island of Solstheim. The man whose power corrupted the stones, the same stones you purged upon request of Storn Crag-Strider. His followers attacked you in Riverwood, tried to slit your throat and claim your death in his name.

Mora called Miraak “Dragonborn”, and spoke of his desire to return to the mortal realm to conquer it, and in turn, Hermaeus Mora’s influence would spread. But the Daedric Prince also mentioned Miraak’s desire to break away from Mora’s control. That he was “restless” here.

This is the reason you are here in the first place. You and Teldryn didn’t venture into Miraak’s temple because it was too heavily guarded. The Black Book was the option you went with, and instead of finding direct answers, it has handed you over to the person you’re seeking information about.

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

“You serve me well, Sahrotaar.” Miraak’s glowing brilliance begins to fade, and then it slowly melts away from his body, disappearing into the air. “Go. When you hear your voice on the wind, know that it is me.”

Sahrotaar shifts, his massive head turning toward you one more time before he pushes off and disappears into the sky. Miraak watches him go, and then slowly twists in your direction. Now that the glowing aura around him is gone, you can see Miraak more clearly than before.

While his robes appear a bit aged, they’re in good repair. Miraak looks regal, almost kingly, which is so odd in a place like Apocrypha. Everything drips with Mora’s influence, and while you see that influence in Miraak’s mask, everything else about him seems detached from Hermaeus Mora’s touch.

Miraak fits right in, and yet is very much out of place.

“You are Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice almost echoes as if there are two of him speaking. “I can feel it.”

Exhaustion might be setting in, but you’re feeling sharp. Your tongue is a blade and your words are the sting of steel. “How perceptive,” you bite, trying your best to slowly put some greater distance between you and Miraak.

“And yet,” he pauses, masked head tilting slightly to the side, “you do not understand just how much power a Dragonborn can wield.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “And you do?”

“I know things that the Greybeards will never teach you.” Miraak starts to walk toward you again. It’s leisurely, as if he’s not scared of you at all.

And why would he be? You are disheveled. A mess.

“I’m not looking for a teacher,” you snap, slipping as you try to stand.

Miraak is so close, and you’re desperate to escape him. That is what your survival hinges on. Escape. You have no chance if you try to take him on like this. It will not be a fair fight. And you will lose.

Throwing yourself to the right, you reach for another knife. It’s just as dull as the other one, but you don’t care. You’ll use your nails and teeth if you must in your attempt to flee him.

Miraak dives toward you, and you swing at him. He leans back, the edge of the knife scraping against his mask as he moves out of the way. You try again, and this time, you know your exhaustion is truly sneaking up on you. Your reaction time is poor and Miraak grabs your wrist out of the air.

He twists and pain shoots up your arm. You release the blade with a strangled cry. Pinning your arm behind you, Miraak thrusts you toward the floor, your cheek smashing into the cold rock as he pushes you against it. When you kick out at him, Miraak sits on your legs, his weight concentrated on your upper thighs.

You try to buck him off, but only end up rubbing up against him. The sack you’re wearing rides up, dangerously close to exposing yourself to him.

Miraak laughs softly and bends forward, the mask incredibly close to your face. “An enticing offer. But you are…filthy.”

“I hope Mora chokes you with a tentacle,” you growl, wiggling some more.

“I suspect you’ve already choked on one.”

You throw your elbow back but Miraak pushes you right back down against the floor.

“Behave,” he purrs. “I don’t intent to harm you.”

“Liar,” you growl, the air from your lungs pushing some of the hair off your face as you speak.

Miraak shifts his weight on your legs. “What have I done to illicit such anger from you?”

Is he serious? Has he completely forgotten that he sent his worshipers after you?

“Your cultists attacked me,” you say through clenched teeth.

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

“They tried to kill me. One of them even had a note. It said that whoever struck the killing blow would earn your favor.”

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you laugh, bitterness in your tone.

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur.

Miraak is silent for a moment before he speaks. “If I release you, will you try to stab me?”

You pause, considering it until Miraak begins to fidget in irritation. “No promises,” you finally answer.

His chuckle is low and soft. “I value your honesty.” Miraak removes his weight from your legs and releases your wrists.

You push up onto your knees and glance up at him from your position on the floor. Miraak towers over you, the two of you observing each other in silence. His chest rises and then falls with each breath, but he makes no other move. It’s a bit unnerving, and you question what it is he’s thinking about behind that golden mask.

There is a break in the silence. A flash of movement. It is Miraak’s gloved hand. He offers it to you, palm upward.

You glance it. Then back at his mask. Then back to the hand.

What options do you have? Where will you be if you refuse him? It is unlikely that Miraak will so easily let you go. You don’t trust him, but you trust Hermaeus Mora even less.

With a deep frown, you slide your hand into his. Through the glove, you feel his warmth. That heat is human, and it is an oddly comforting thing after so much strangeness.

Miraak helps you to your feet. Your legs wobble, exhausting swinging its angry head again. Everything aches. It sits down in your bones, the weight of it like boulders. Your stomach growls loudly and you want to cringe from the volume.

Miraak still clutches your hand. You don’t hate it, but it does make you uncomfortable. Yanking your hand away, you drop your arm to the side, hiding the fingers as they curl to form a fist.

“You can bathe through there.” Miraak indicates the direction with a light tilt of his mask. “You need it.”

You snort. “Now you’re the one being rude.”

Miraak crosses his arms but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge you’ve said anything at all. Giving him your best scowl, you turn on your heel in the direction he indicated. There is a deep cut in the wall, one that cannot be seen straight on. You pause right at the opening, and turn back toward Miraak.

He’s walking away in the opposite direction. Your gaze darts to the arch and platform, to the maze beyond the tower. If you time it right, you might be able to slip away from him, to enter the maze and lose him.

As you take a single step toward freedom, and Miraak’s voice rings out around the room. “Don’t even consider it.” You freeze, one hand firmly planted on the wall, every muscle tense. “You cannot flee from me, Dragonborn. I would find you.”

“Bastard,” you whisper, and Miraak turns in your direction as if he heard you.

Slipping inside the opening in the wall, you enter a small, private washroom. In the middle is a tub made from the same black stone as the rest of the tower. There is a drain in the bottom but no indication of how to fill it.

More importantly, is there water on Apocrypha? There is the dark water you plummeted toward, but is there actual water? The kind you drink or bathe with? It seems impossible, and yet there are hundreds if not thousands of Hermaeus Mora’s most devoted followers who haunt his halls, preparing his Black Books.

Do they eat? Do they hydrate? Or are they sustained on Mora’s influence alone? The very idea makes your skin crawl.

You’re about to back out of the room when a Seeker floats in. Its mandibles flare in agitation, and you gasp, stumbling into the wall as you move out of the way. The Seeker doesn’t even give you a second glance. In its four hands the Seeker clutches four buckets of water. Slowly, it empties each one into the tub before disappearing out the way it came.

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

You follow it out and watch as it floats to a well-like structure. It’s not exactly a kitchen but there is a small fire pit near it. The Seeker begins filling the buckets and you take this time to glance at the rest of the room. Next to Miraak is another Seeker. A third floats near the bookshelves. A fourth slowly ascends the stairs that leads to another space out of sight.

“What is this?” You gesture at the Seeker fetching your water.

Miraak quickly turns in your direction, his back straightening. “Why are you still wearing those rags?”

You blink, stunned that he completely stepped around your question to ask one of his own. The Seekers floats toward you and you step to the side.

You wave your arm in the creature’s direction, and repeat your question. “What is this?”

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

“I know what it is,” you retort. “But what is it doing here?”

“It serves me.” Miraak’s arm extends to the rest of the room. “They all serve me.”

You shake your head. “They serve Hermaeus Mora.”

Miraak rolls up the scroll before him and tosses it onto a nearby pile. “They did serve him. And now they attend to my every command.”

The Seeker that floats next to Miraak trills. Miraak glances at it before returning his attention back to you. Even though his features are hidden behind the mask, you feel his gaze roaming up and down your body. You immediately cross your arms over your breasts.

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

You glance away from him and back at the opening in the wall. The Seeker emerges, carrying empty buckets. You’re too tired for this. Not liking his answer but accepting it nonetheless, you head back into the small washroom.

You stare into the water in the tub, and keep staring until the Seeker returns, emptying the buckets. The tub is full, and the Seeker gives a little nod of the head before it dismisses itself. Stepping up to the tub, you hesitantly dip your hand into the clear water.

It is cool, and the temperature sends a little shiver up your arm. While you’d prefer it warm, you’ll take anything at this point. You’re coated in grime and even a bit of slime. There are still some crusty bits on your face from when the Cipher removed the paste they slathered over your eyes.

Glancing over your shoulder, you check to make sure no one has entered uninvited. There is no one there. You are alone.

Slowly, you slide one arm and then the other out of the worn rags. It falls to the floor, pools at your feet. You take one step toward the tub. The moment you begin to lift your leg, an arm slides along your back and around your waist.

The touch is so surprising that you shriek and then lash out. The side of your fist hits Miraak in the middle of his mask. He makes a humph sound and draws backward from the blow.

With your hand still raised in alarm, you stare at him in disbelief. Then you realize how intimate the placement of his hand is. That disbelief quickly turns to anger.

“What the hell are you—”

Miraak lifts his hand and flames erupt above his palm. The sudden fire snaps your mouth shut. He hasn’t released your waist, and with the mask, you’re not sure if he’s staring at your face or the rest of you.

His attention shifts to the tub and you take this opportunity to hook your toes under the sack and bring it up enough to snag it. You immediately hold it against your body, clutching it like a shield as the flames in Miraak’s hand vibrate and shift, swirling and then extending as he begins to heat the water in the tub.

You watch in fasciation as the water ripples and then starts to steam. Before it comes to a simmer, Miraak abruptly cuts the flame. He reaches into his robes with his free hand, and from it he retrieves several bundles of lavender.

Miraak tosses them into the tub, and only then does he step away from you.

The gesture of heating the water and throwing in the lavender is…odd. You hate that you like it. But it’s too human. Too kind. Too intimate. Isn’t this man supposed to be your enemy? Isn’t he trying to take over Solstheim and the rest of Tamriel? Does he not see you as a threat to all his carefully laid plans?

“Are you going to join me, too?” you ask, irritating slipping in your tone.

Miraak pauses at the opening in the wall. “Your stink is nauseating.” He disappears, leaving you open-mouthed. Shocked. Fuming.

Growling, you throw your poor excuse for clothes on the ground and step into the tub. The water is perfectly warm and you instantly melt into it, sinking down down down until your head is under the water. When you come up for air, your eyes are closed and you’re smiling. You push your hair back out of your face and breathe deep, reveling in the comforting warmth of the water.

As you open your eyes, a shadow takes form in front of you. At first, you’re confused, and then you quickly realize that it’s Miraak. The entire upper half of your body is on full display, laid bare before his gaze.

You cover your chest and sink into the water until only your head bobs on the surface. Frowning, you stare him down as a he places a chair in front of the tub. He sinks into it, reclining casually, and then tosses a bar of soap at you from one of his pockets.

Snatching it out of the air, you bring it to eye-level. You sniff it, and smell nothing.

“I didn’t poison the soap,” Miraak deadpans. “If I wanted you dead—”

“If you want on my good side, I prefer compliments. Not an insult to my intelligence,” you interrupt, wetting the bar of soap and lathering it between your hands.

Miraak doesn’t finish his sentence. He leans back in his chair, watching as you start to move the suds over your arms.

“Please leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you say. Miraak doesn’t move. He just sits there. You drop your arm into the water to rinse it off. “Think I’ll run? Is that why you’re sitting there watching a naked woman bathe herself?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, starting to work on your other arm.

“You’ve consumed dragon souls,” states Miraak, completely changing the subject.

You pause in your lathering and glance at him. “You’re just like Hermaeus Mora. All this knowledge and yet everything that comes out of your mouth is incredibly dull.”

Miraak moves as if in a silent laugh. You roll your eyes and return to scrubbing your arms.

“Do I amuse you?” you ask, inspecting the undersides of your nails.

“You bite,” replies Miraak. “And teeth are useful.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or a threat.

He takes a deep, audible breath and shifts in the chair, lifting his hips as he adjusts. You keep your gaze firmly on your nails as if that one subtle movement didn’t stir something in your belly.

“Do you ever wonder if it hurts?” he asks, almost absently, like he’s not really expecting you to answer the question.

“Do I ever wonder if what hurts?” you hesitantly reply.

“To have one’s soul ripped out. Do you think the dragon’s feel it? Do you think they understand what’s happening to them?”

The soap almost slips from your hand. Miraak sounds pensive, almost sad. “We are not dragons,” you answer softly.

Miraak nods. “You’re right. We’re not. Because we’re better than them.”

There it is. Arrogance. Now you feel it. Now you understand a bit of what Hermaeus Mora hinted at. That overwhelming heaviness is back. Miraak’s power is potent. It crackles in the air. Sizzles on your tongue.

His gloved hand taps against the arm of the chair. “When the dragons ruled over mortals, I served as a dragon priest on Solstheim. That was my purpose for many years.” Miraak’s golden mask is turned away from you as if he’s recalling an old memory. “During that time, I came to possess one of Hermaeus Mora’s Black Books.”

Miraak stops tapping the arm of the chair. His hand forms a fist. “He taught me many things. A great many powerful things. One of these things was a dragon shout capable of bending dragons to my will.”

The pause afterward stretches, and you decide to fill the gap, to play along. He is revealing information. Pieces of his history. Why he’s doing so is a bit of a mystery, but you also know that if you play this right, you might gain something that will give you an upper hand on him.

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

Miraak’s mask swivels in your direction. “Knowledge like that was forbidden. I was a dragon priest serving my dragon masters. To use power like that against them was unthinkable.”

You know where this is heading. “Yet you did it anyway?”

“I betrayed them,” states Miraak. “I used that shout and my power as Dragonborn to devour their souls. With each soul I consumed, I became more powerful. I terrified our dragon overlords. I threatened the power the dragon priests possessed.”

You move to the edge of the tub. Placing the soap on the ledge, you cross your arms over the lip of the tub, you give Miraak your full attention. Men are all the same in the end, and it is clear that Miraak is just that. A man.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “During the Dragon War, I was…propositioned. Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old all pleaded with me to use my power as Dragonborn to assist them in defeating Aludin. But I refused them. I attempted my own rebellion against the dragons instead.”

“I suspect that did not go well for you?”

“No,” he admits. “I was unsuccessful. And because of my betrayal, the dragons razed my temple on Solstheim.”

“I’ve seen your temple,” you say. “It’s something to behold.” That much is true. Those words are not lies. You and Teldryn were both impressed with how large the structure was on the outside, and the two of you discussed at length just how massive the temple must be on the inside.

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, sinking into the tub a bit. “I did.” He stares at you a long moment before you decide to bridge the gap. “You didn’t tell me what happened. After your temple was razed.”

Miraak glances away again. “There are two stories that are told. The first is that a fellow dragon priest named Vahlok became my jailor. Restraining me to Solstheim. The other story is that when Vahlok was about to kill me, Hermaeus Mora stepped in and saved me, transporting me here, to the realm of Apocrypha.”

You laugh and Miraak’s head snaps in your direction. “What?” he asks, clearly flustered.

“It’s obvious that the correct story is the second one.”

“Is it?” replies Miraak, a bit of amusement leaking into his tone.

“Is it not?”

He shrugs and you only shake your head, returning to your soap, this time lathering it into your hair.

“So if Hermaeus Mora stepped in to save you, what have you done all this time?”

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

Miraak sighs. “I’ve devoured many dragons. Far more than you have I suspect.”

“And that makes you better than me?”

“It makes me more powerful. But you are Dragonborn. You are the only one who I can consider my equal.”

The pieces are falling into place. What was it that the Greybeards told you all that time ago when you first ventured up the mountain? They told you that there is only ever one Dragonborn at a time.

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

You swallow, and your salvia sticks in your throat. “You crave power. Why would you ever see me as an equal?”

“It is foretold that the Last Dragonborn will be my freedom. For so many years I believed it involved your death. But I was wrong.” He leans forward in the chair. “Hermaeus Mora does not lie, but he does twist the truth until you believe that up is down and down is up. He likes control, and I am a thing to collect. It’s what he wants from you, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what Hermaeus Mora wants from me.”

“Beware, Dragonborn. Hermaeus Mora will betray you as he has me.”

“I am not Mora’s puppet. Nor will I be yours.”

“We are the First and the Last. We are the beginning and the end. I am the first blood drawn and you are the killing blow. We are bound by fate. We are inevitable.”

You don’t like where this is going. All this talk of fate is pulling at your nerves. Hermaeus Mora said fate you brought you to him, and now Miraak says the same. But Teldryn told you different before you opened the Black Book. He insisted that the woes of Tamriel are not yours to fix. That your life is your own.

You grip the bar of soap hard enough that your nails begin to sink in. “And yet, you did not slay Alduin.”

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

“Alduin would not face me because he knew I would defeat him. But the two of us? Together? We could do it. Easily.”

You’re beyond clean now, but Miraak goes too far. He wanted you brought to him so that he can manipulate you into serving with me? To help him…what? Conquer Solstheim? Skyrim? All of Tamriel? Would that even be enough for him, or will Miraak demand more, dragging you along with him in his lust for power?

“You presume much, Miraak. What makes you think I’ll join you?”

Miraak stands from the chair and walks to the edge of the tub. He grabs the back of your neck, and lifts you slightly out of the water. Leaning in, the golden mask is all you can see.

“Do you not feel this? We are tethered. Either we fight it and end up fighting each other. Or you join me.”

As quickly as he grabs you, Miraak releases you, and you fall back into the water, your arms wrapping around your torso protectively. He stares at you behind the mask, and then turns, disappearing from view.

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

You sink further into the water, watching as a lavender stem floats by. The purple petals are dark. Almost black.

You’re not in a physical cage. There are no bars. No restraints. But you are not free with Miraak. He demands an answer, and there is only one he is expecting.

But it’s not the one you want to give.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

[jasper-the-menace]

The third Thane of Solitude, the Dragonborn Areia Camael, had gone to Solstheim for an extended period of time. To the great alarm of Solitude's court, her return is heralded by Jordis rushing in to ask for Sybille's help, as Areia has mysteriously fallen ill with no clear cause. Sybille is fascinated and determined to get to the bottom of this.

AKA

Sybille Stentor, looking at a family unit made of the Last Dragonborn-with-the-First Dragonborn-riding-shotgun, an only slightly hinged Khajiit mage, a Daughter of Coldharbour, the LDB's Jarl-assigned housecarl, and an orphan that the LDB stole:

[strigital]

the face of a man enjoying his early retirement

[gaqalesqua]

Miraak propositions the Dragonborn. She needs convincing. 

[skyrim-forever]

In the Arms of Gods

A/N: Omg new fic from Eve??? It's only been 6 MONTHS... oopsies, but I've been really inspired lately and finally wanted to try my hand at a series. This story will take place during the events of the Dragonborn questline and have Dragonborn/Teldryn Sero. Let me know your thoughts!

Prologue (753 words) by dovah_queen Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Teldryn Sero Characters: Geldis Sadri Additional Tags: Nerevarine Teldryn Sero, Dragonborn DLC (Elder Scrolls), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crisis of Faith, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Series: Part 1 of In the Arms of Gods Summary: Anya Warstorm was a true daughter a Skyrim. Defeating Alduin, leading the Stormcloaks to victory, and a bard to boot; she was set to go down in history. Though the fight with Alduin may not have taken her life -permanently, but after being dead for a few minutes and faced with an eternity of nothingness; her faith in the Divines is shaken. Fresh off assassinating her High King, Anya runs away to Solstheim. Eager to find out who this Miraak is and hopeful for answers on what it means to be Dovahkiin; she ends up finding the answers she really needs in unlikely ally…

[gortrash]

Been working on a basic height chart for all my TES characters, so here are my dysfunctional babies (and here’s to hoping tumblr doesn’t kill the image quality, but if it does, just click on it to see it better.)

From left to right, we have Ilyavanthra, Evelynn, Morganne, Delilah, Taka-Xil and Jacken.

More info on these guys under the cut!

Ilyavanthra Atyreni is my resident villain, a Thalmor superior who thinks she’s god and refuses to acknowledge the Divines out of spite— which won’t go down well with the rest of the Thalmor, but that’s fine, she’s got big plans for them along with the rest of the world. The pivotal point for her was when she went missing, lost her legs under mysterious circumstances, came back wrong, refused to elaborate. After that she began frantically planning some kind of ultimate design and built new legs as proof of her efficiency. She’s positively obsessed with the Dwemer, their ideologies and methods and studied them for a large part of her life. At some point she was married to Evelynn, but their relationship is… difficult. All in all, giant scary lesbian Altmer with religious trauma and one hell of a god complex about to make it everyone else’s problem.

Evelynn is my favourite child, she’s my Bosmer Vestige and has lived for a very long time after the events of ESO, in which she has spent the years going from outright saving the day to falling into the background and preferring to work on the preservation of Tamriel from behind the scenes, as she knows no other purpose. Super complicated bisexual disaster love life, let me tell you about it, sheesh. She’s been around to help put down Mannimarco whenever he pops up, but has been running from Molag Bal and the looming feeling of impending doom he carries— little does she know she’s in a rat trap. Because of her extended life, her mind has far outgrown her body and by the time the fourth era rolls around, she’s less than all there, susceptible to any forced that would wish to control her (she’s also the character I put through the Vicn Trilogy, because putting her back in Coldharbour sounded like the worlds sickest joke.) I love female characters who have been put through extreme tribulations and come out of it little bit off the rails RAHHH!!

Morganne is my Imperial Dragonborn who remembers absolutely nothing prior to the carriage ride except her name. She fulfils her destiny in not only slaying Alduin but also taking up the role of Konahrik, which only strengthens her power as Dovahkiin. But what does it mean about you if you managed to destroy the destroyer of worlds? Does that not make you just as, if not more, dangerous? Perhaps. She’s still young and pretty naive but by god, is she as stubborn as a dragon should be, and keeps doing impulsive dumb shit she gets in trouble with everyone for. She refuses to kill Paarthurnax, who she ends up considering her father figure, refuses to kill any more dragons considering it ‘kinslaying’, as well as arguing that she believes Odahviing and Durnehviir to be her most loyal brothers, and instead of killing him at the summit of Apocrypha, releases Miraak and keeps him on a leash. They hate each other’s guts (code for they are deeply in love and cannot resist one another but both won’t make the first move out of pride)

That tiny lass is Delilah, a Breton with big dreams of being a sorceress but unfortunately also sucks at magic. See that staff she’s holding? She doesn’t know how to use it aside from thwacking people. She does however have a mass aptitude for Restoration locked away, she just has to figure out how to harness it, because without control, her emotions dictate her powers in miraculous ways, even resulting in resurrecting the dead. See that big fella beside her? He’s proof of that. Also, don’t let her baby face fool you. She’ll bite your ankles and she has a thing for monster boys.

The big fella in question is named Taka-Xil, and oh boy, does he run on pure spite. He’s not had a very good start to life, despite being born under the Hist, he seemingly had no connection to it whatsoever and couldn’t properly read the social cues of his kin or fully understand them. For that reason, he was deemed soulless, and no matter how much sap he consumed he couldn’t connect to the Hist— the amount he drank only made his scales much tougher, his tongue golden and his height drastically taller than by Argonian standards. So he runs off to join the Dark Brotherhood and developed a great deal of reverence for Sithis. He becomes Listener and lets out all that steam on contracts, until he meets Delilah, who teaches him that being soft is just as important as being strong. She’s the only one he sees any light in and he adores her. Big gruff guy soft for sunshine girl plus dramatic height difference trope here.

Lastly, we have my most experimental OC, the wonderfully unhinged Jacken Archanymia, the very last Cyrodiilic bird person. He’s been alive all these years due to a curse bestowed upon him by Peryite, and has since dedicated his life to creating the cure to everything. Yes, everything. Beginning with his own terrible affliction. He’s a brilliant alchemist and doctor, and regardless of how spooky his attire is and how… rotten he is beneath it, he’s very charming and animated, and does his very best to act gentlemanly. Just don’t get too close or you might get sick. That mask is more for your protection than his.

[silver-dragonborn]

how would rhaenyra in skyrim work???

Hmm, lemme explain it to you in a detailed list

( - Rhaenyra would take to the skies to get some air during the wedding feast of her father and her best friend. She cannot take one more minute watching every Lord and Lady congratulate the new couple so she saddles Syrax and takes off. It'll only be a short ride until she's calm enough to return to the Red Keep and face her father.

( - She does not return home. Influenced by some unknown entity ( most likely a Daedra or Akatosh ), Syrax disobeys Rhaenyra's commands to land and keeps flying, drifting further and further away from Westeros. They end up in Skyrim and the rest is history. Syrax flies away, called upon by some higher power to High Hrothgar, and Rhaenyra is left alone to fend for herself to complete the trials ahead of her...without Syrax.

( - The usual cart ride to Helgen happens. No matter what Rhaenyra says these armoured soldiers refuse to listen to her and even go so far as to have her head cut off when Alduin lands from the sky and interrupts her execution. For the first time ever, Rhaenyra is witness to the true destruction of a dragon, watching in horror as Helgen is destroyed by a dragon that rivals Balerion the Black Dread. She unable to look away even when the soldier who calls himself Hadvar pulls her away to safety.

( - Stranded in a strange land without her dragon and without a coin to her name, Rhaenyra has no choice but to rely on the charity of complete strangers and learn how to fend for herself. The spoiled princess who once dreamed of becoming a knight and flying away on dragonback to eat cake is now thrust into the harsh reality of life without the perks of her royal blood.

( - All I can say is that through blood sweat and tears she does eventually gain her footing in Skyrim, specializing in the blade and magic. In a way, she gets her wish. Rhaenyra is happily enjoying the freedom she longed for, can fight with a blade and has even taken to dabbling in magic and learning how to become a fire mage.

( - She does eventually reunite with Syrax after climbing the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar and gaining access to Paarthanax after proving her mark as Dragonborn. All this time, her beloved Syrax was under the tutelage of the old dragon. Syrax is much bigger than she was back in Westeros, is much more agile and stronger and, to the shock of Rhaenyra, can even speak the Common Tongue and the Dragon Language.

( - I don't think Rhaenyra would take to being the Dragonborn. She would no doubt be horrified by her ability to kill dragons, the symbol of her house, and devouring their souls. For the longest time, she ignores her destiny in favor of crawling through every dungeon and becoming a Thane of almost every Hold, but with Alduin's strength growing and the number of dragons he revives from the dragon mounds increasing rapidly, Rhaenyra can no longer run.

( - She's more likely to join the Imperials because being a female heir to the Iron Throne she'd be sympathetic to Queen Elisif and would most likely piece together that the Thalmor would conquer a divided Skyrim. So, yeah, she's not exactly an Ulfric enthusiast.

( - Long story short, Rhaenyra fucking thrives in Skyrim. She matures and is surrounded by people who actually take her seriously and don't brush her off. I can even see her becoming High Queen of Skyrim because Elisif decided to abdicate.

( - Now, just imagine Rhaenyra returning to Westeros a walking God with the power to swallow a dragon's soul and with a crown on her head, happily married to a man who appreciates her, and has three precious brown-haired boys (husband could be vilkas or farkas or miraak) and a gaggle of other children that she adopted during her adventures. Her return sets in motion a chain of events that shape Westeros forever and ushers it into a new age of magic, dragons, etc with Rhaenyra at the helm.

( - Anyways, the idea of Dragonborn!Rhaenyra is appealing and fun and makes a lot of sense. P

[rabbittwinrithings]

My new Dragonborn, Yakov (Not really his name...)

Long post, heads up!

So, a bit of context... I think Naarifin is neat! I found a lot of interest in his backstory.

Basically, if you don’t know who this pathetic man is, he was a commander during the Great War who lead the battle at the Imperial City. He’s a Boethiah worshipper who wanted to conduct a ritual called “The Culling,” which would unleash daedra into the city. He was defeated and from the city’s tower he hanged for 33 days, and on the 34th day a winged daedra took his body away. 

So, i decided, since I have a weird facination with this horrible man (and feel bad about it,) and I want to redeem him. Introducing Naarifin (Pathetic Meow Meow Edition!)

(I don’t have a pic of him before he got all nice and somewhat presentable...)

But my twist on his story is that all this time he’s been in Boethiah’s realm facing punishment for failing in the battle. Though it’s felts like centuries for him, it’s really only been around 30-40 years. Now, he’s escaped the realm and has returned to Nirn. Having to discover things are completely different, he’s seen as a failure by the Thalmor, and having to find his new place in the world as Dragonborn; all the while finding connections with others who help him become a better person. During this time he comes up with the name Yakov to stay hidden.

His main party is Khash, Varrick, Lucien, and Miraak.

I’m still exploring the order of quests I want to do, but coming up with a bunch of neat ideas for him. 

(My favorite is I’m making that Lucien’s mother was the one who fought him in battle so he absolutley freaks out when he learns this boy he’s picked up is the son of the one who bested him in battle.) 

He also starts off as a bit of a Karen. When someone says something wrong to him (before he learns that everything is different,) his catchphrase is “Do you not know who I am?! Me? Me?!” 

But after he softens up he takes Lucien and Khash in as if they were his own kids. Kinda co-parents Lucien with Varrick (who I’ve decided teaches Lucien how to fight instead of Naarifin.)

(Khash also hugs his leg is she’s upset. Look how short she is!)

And due to his name being a female Bosmer name, I’ve decided one of his mothers was a Bosmer. And due to this he wanted to prove himself extra harder in the ranks of the Aldmeri Dominion. 

He also wears glasses to try and hide his identity.

I totally wanna make more posts about him. But I’ll leave it here for now. 

[average-crazy-fangirl]

Hello there! Some stars for the meme, as I was throwing those around c:

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Woop!

So for my Dragonborn OC Regan, I wanted to have a unique way to explain the difference between a dragon soul, a dragon soul in a mortal body, and a mortal body with a black soul.

Keep in mind all of this is headcannon based on research I did when TES dragons became a hyperfixation for a little while, and most of it only happens in a fic I'm working on:

Dragons as they appear on Mundus aren't proper flesh and blood. They aren't born, they can't be created, and even through using their corpses for smithing or (in Miraak's case) decor cannot be destroyed fully.

Because in a similar way to Daedra, Aedra are made with some form of Aedric material.

In the case of dragons, this is pieces of Akatosh through both their soul and their body, made with a substance known as the Sands of Akatosh, the main material found on Planet Akatosh.

It's also why Alduin can 'unwind' a dragon's decaying flesh, he's not undoing the process in a necromantic sense, he's jus flipping over the metaphorical hour glass that is a dovah.

For dragonborns though, this manifests in a really bizarre way, one most people won't ever notice;

The skeleton.

The skeleton of a Dragonborn isn't like that of a mortal's, the bones are stronger and repair much quicker, rarely breaking.

The bones themselves will not be the right shape for their body, as any necromancer (or follower unfortunate enough to see a Dragonborn's soul be taken by another dragon) will quickly realise the skeleton is a very misshapen dragon skeleton, as though Akatosh overused a squatch and stretch tool.

This can lead to issues, one being dislocated jaw, as most dragons have an extra strip of muscle that holds the snake-like jaw correctly, allowing for more easily performed shouts, and unfortunately Akatosh sometimes forgets to add the muscle, such as the case of a dragonboen in Sovengarde, who died after his jaw didn't reattach after he used a Shout during a battle, leading to an arrow piercing both his jaw and neck.

Thankfully, this effects can be negated, either through luck with having all the pieces in Akatosh's brand new shove-a-dragon-in-a-tiny-body toy set, or through having the First Dragonborn create a shout that forcibly adds missing parts (wings, tail, horns, entire sections of muscle, etc.) to the unfortunate dragonborn.

Unfortunately however, no shout fixes the issues of being a dragon in a tiny flesh cage.

One is the need for flight. Dragons, like Akatosh, need to be close to both the sun and the sky, as well as having a clear view of the nearby area, or they will go numb, leading to them being far easier to kill. In dragonborns who can't fly, this will quickly manifest in depression and possibly dangerous stunts like climbing to the top of mountains, or the edges of cliffs.

Another is the very way a Dragonborn is created; soul first.

The way it works is Akatosh has a mental breakdown (a dragonbreak) and creates two new dragons, twins. One is a Jill (the 'females') and the other is the Wyrm (te 'male'). From here Akatosh chooses which one gets dropped from Aetherius like a baby bird to become a Dragonborn, and which one stays for a little while before being brought to Mundus to explore as a dragon.

Normally the Jill is kept, as they have a job to do, fix the dragonbreak, and the Wyrm has only a need to dominate and destroy (and create hoards, but Jill's do the same thing so really it doesn't matter)

Now, sometimes both go down to Mundus as regular dragons, such as the twins you can find in the Forgotten Vale, who are a Wyrm and Jill, but most of the time you'll only see Wyrm.

For dragonborns they tend to be an even split of Wyrm and Jill, however the 'sex' of the dragon doesn't impact either sex or gender of the dragonborn, just their personality.

Jill are far more prone to repairing problems, such as St Alessia and Khunzar-ri (who was also a strange mix of Sands, moonlight, and Waters of Oblivion, being a child of four gods), and Wyrm are for more prone to tyranny and destruction, most famously with Miraak and Potemma.

Adding to Akatosh having to decide if he wants to risk another Summerset Incident (caused by a Wyrm in a mortal body), he then needs to try and either aim for a decent spot for the Dragonborn to appear (one landed in Thras and died fairly quickly), or (in the case of my Last Dragonborn) learn days later that Uriel Septim VII went behind his back and just threw the thing towards Cyrodiil and hoped for the best.

From here the soul lands in a vacant vessel, usually either an unhatched egg or unborn child, and usually closer to the end of the incubation/pregnancy, so that it has time to change the body to suit it's needs without risking all the earlier complications, such as the mortal body realising something has very much changed within itself.

The change effects not only soul (effectively blocking Arkay from placing a black soul in the body forever) but on the blood, as any blood from the people who created the body are essentially eaten by the blood of Akatosh, in a way that would inspire Molag's vampire disease.

The BRT (Blood Replacement Therapy) can lead to some very alarming problems, such as any tests the birth parents may do on their child will effectively say the kid has no flesh or blood relation to them, such as when Cassynder Septim (child of Pelagius III and Empress Katriah) showed as having no relations to Katriah when he was born (until she took the Ruby Throne, at which point Akatosh shrugged and gave her dragon blood, but no soul, since he had previously gotten into an argument about Arkay about switching souls out of someone who's already alive without their permission)

To make a long story short, dragons are walking sand creatures, all dragonborn have an average of three parents, with only one being proven in a court of mages, and dragon bones do not belong in a mortal body under any circumstances, even if it makes it easier for your toddlers to say Bormah.

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

20, 39 and 58 from the writers ask meme ☺️

Also hope you’re doing good 💙🌸

🖊️ask game🖊️

Aaaah, thank you so much for these, Blossom! Admittedly, I'm not on my best days, however, these asks did lighten my mood, and it was a joy answering them! 🥰💖

20: Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Oh yes! As I was revising some chapters of TPATD a while ago, I noticed I used the word 'brim', quite frequently. I guess I like the expressions it can be combined with, e.g. "her eyes brim with tears" or "he fills the jug to the brim" or "the table is brimmed with hearty food". You get the picture! My fic is also brimmed (see what I did there?) with the hurt/comfort theme, which is my absolute favorite theme, and I believe that if I ever write for another fandom, hurt/comfort will be predominant in the respective story too. In almost every chapter, I do have a foreshadowing pattern for those who are willing to read behind the lines—this is also something I love catching in other stories! Hm, what else? Ah! I love descriptive prose in everything I write, and mostly when the descriptions make me feel what is being described, e.g. I like describing Jia when she's working with her alchemy or when she's cooking her food—I want to grab and munch whatever she's eating there...👀

39: Share a snippet from a WIP.

I updated my fic just two days ago (after 4 months of absence...🥲) so I haven't got any WIP to share yet, but! I'm going to put a snippet of the freshly baked chapter 19 instead:

I had never expected the Last Dragonborn to be a female, in all his dread not to be pinned down and discovered shred by shred by her luminous, sun-rivaled gaze, Miraak pretended to sound as scathing and condescending as he could during their first encounter in Apocrypha, when all he could think about was, she came to me at last, the favorite jill of Akatosh. I have read about you, in old-worn books hoarded in Seekers’ hands, piled in endless ever-shifting pillars, sometimes in the feminine shape of a human, others as an elusive firey-crimson specter of a dragon, and Oblivion has heard me humming tunes written and sang in your name. Indeed, your deeds are tremendous, strider of Sovngarde, deicide of Alduin.  But your soul’s sorrow is bigger. Miraak feels himself shrinking at his thoughts. Her very breath humbles him.

58: What part of the writing process do you enjoy the most? (Brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, etc).

Translating! I love this feeling when I know a part of my draft is finished in my native language, and now I have to translate it into English, build it, make it wholesome, perfect it, before proceeding on to the next. I know it sounds like a lot of work, but it isn't so much, not really. I've heard contrastive opinions on whether translating is really helpful or not, but it works for me. 😊 Another part of the writing process I enjoy is reading my lines out loud and acting them on the respective character's voice—actually, I have brainstormed major plot points and ideas while acting out my characters, and I guess this is my ultimate sign that I must become an actor one day. 😂

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Oh lord it's horny and embarrassed about it anon time? I'll bite.

First time I played the Dragonborn DLC, I was REALLY into Herma-Mora and Miraak. I ended up getting my hands on the first smuts I ever read, Miraak/LDB/Herma-Mora and Herma-Mora/LDB fics. I must shamefully admit that they were amazing and I still have them saved in my bookmarks. I'm not down bad for them anymore but sometimes?? Miraak still gets me a bit.

God, and don't even get me started on ESO and Daggerfall Mannimarco!! I was down bad even worse for those two and sometimes I still am.

Now excuse me while I act as if I never sent this anon and leave no connections to who I am behind the anon mask.

This reminds me of a fanart I saw once. It may be reblogged on my main. It was rather cute, actually! Hermaeous Mora was happily hugging a little picture frame with the female Last Dragonborn's picture in it. Then she finally comes to Apocrypha and he's so happy! And then I think Miraak kills her? And Hermaeous Mora is Very Sad. 😆

Dude, ESO Mannimarco looks like Glorfindel's younger emo brother. The LotR/TES crossover no one wanted! He is hot though. ❤️‍🔥

You're excused. 👋🏻

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Six

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, tentacles, horror elements

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: Part Six (Finale) of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

Mora wants to make a deal. Storn makes a choice. Two are betrayed.

Part Five

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

If there is anything in all of Tamriel that you can rely on, it is the continuance of pain. Of terror. Of all the horror you’ve lived and now must live again.

Endless. Always.

And why you? Why? Are the gods having a laugh? Do they find this amusing? Or is this some sick test between them and Hermaeus Mora? Are their hands pressed into the gore or do they simply watch on as Mora has his fun?

“What is it?” you ask Teldryn just before the world starts tipping. It is always tipping it seems. Slipping. Falling away from under your feet.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness. You know it. It is an understanding. Taking shape around you is a familiar dread that simply exists. It festers. Desires to consume you whole.

Like before, in that creeping dungeon with the whispering Black Book, you lift your hand to your face, and brush your knuckles under your nose. Pulling your hand back, you see bright red.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

“No. No. No.”

Within your chest and head, Mora’s voice blooms and grows, shoving you down into an abyss. The dark is endless and it is everywhere. A darkness that has no up, that has no down, that has no side to side.

Rage. You must rage against this, return to the light and the hearth and the warmth of the familiar.

“Be gone, demon. I am not your servant.”

Hermaeus Mora chuckles in the darkness. “Your fiery spirit is such a bright thing. What potential there is inside of you, Dragonborn.”

From the endless darkness comes a soft green glow. It expands enough that you see inside Apocrypha. It isn’t like the places you’ve been before. There is actual land here, and a massive structure that looks more like a horrific cathedral than the towers you dwelled in.

And Hermaeus Mora is not here. At least, not physically. But you sense his presence, and that is enough to swirl your stomach into knots until you’re close to puking all over your feet in this odd dark.

“Well done, my champion,” croons Mora in a surprisingly soft timbre. “Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here. To this moment. With me.”

Games. Conquest. That is all this is to Hermaeus Mora. A Daedric Lord only wants to be obeyed and worshipped. Something you will not bend to.

“What do you want from me this time?” The exhaustion in your voice is evident, like you’re too tired to hide it from him. Maybe Hermaeus Mora is blocking your ability to keep things secret. Is his influence here, too? Has a bit of him broken off and festered in your body, waiting for the moment when the two of you would reunite?

“You entered my realm. Sought out the forbidden knowledge,” replies Hermaeus Mora calmly. “Only one other has obtained it. But you already know of whom I speak.”

Miraak.

The man who ushered you from his tower, sent you back to the realm of the living to prevent you from falling into Hermaeus Mora’s grasp. It worked, for a moment, but you’re not sure if this is Apocrypha or you are simply dreaming.

Awake. And dreaming. Or elsewhere. In the creeping dark.

“What is it you want from me, Mora? Speak plainly.” You’re tired of being dragged about. This needs to end quickly.

“You came to Apocrypha to learn Miraak’s secrets,” he says, slowly.

“You already know this. I know this. That isn’t new information,” you snap, growing impatient.

Hermaeus Mora still has not appeared before you. It is just a portal, perhaps a window, a glimpse into his realm.

“Miraak knows what he does because of me. If you wish to defeat him, or even prevent his return to Tamriel, all you need to do is serve me.”

Hermaeus Mora makes it sound so easy. That simple worship will give you all the answers. That basking in his presence and reveling in his praise will end all your ills and suffering.

That is a lie.

“After the way you treated me, I’m not eager for your help. I can learn Miraak’s secrets as well as yours on my own. I do not need you.”

“No!” Hermaeus Mora’s voice is fierce, a sharp slap of sludge against the face. “Look around. You have done nothing here on your own. You could spend a hundred lifetimes searching my realm and wandering the stacks of my library. And still, you will never find what you seek. All you have done, all that you are, and all that you have learned happened because I allowed it to.”

Everything you’ve done, everything you are, and everything you know happened because you made it happen. Not he. Never him. He is not the master of Fate but simply the keeper. Hubris and arrogance are his errors. Just like Miraak. The champion has learned it from his teacher.

“Spit it out, Mora,” you growl. “I’m tired of this.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly. “You need the final Word of Power. Miraak knows all three but you only know two. One of which I gave you for that delicious bit of knowledge about the secret the Greybeards have dwelling atop their mountain.”

You sigh heavily, staring at that odd building through the circular portal. The sky above it is still greenish, and the land is almost blackened as if it has been dead for centuries.

“What is your price for the final Word of Power?” you ask, keeping your tone flat.

“The Skaal have withheld their secrets from me for many long years. The time has come for this knowledge to be added to my library.”

The Skaal? He seeks knowledge from them?

“And why do you think I need this Word of Power to defeat Miraak? You think I cannot do so without it?”

“Even dragons submit to Miraak's Voice. Without that power, you cannot face him. You’ve seen this power used before. One of his dragons saved you from an imminent death, only to bring you to Miraak upon his command.”

This is true. A great, serpentine dragon snatched you up right before you plunged into the water. It brought you to Miraak without question, almost seeming prideful when it presented you. But Miraak is Hermaeus Mora’s champion. They have dwelled together for years.

“So, you reward loyalty this way? This is how you treat an ally? I thought you were above that. Your words make it difficult for me to want to join your side.” You shake your head. “I am disappointed.”

Through the opening, you notice one lone tentacle drop into frame, swinging slowly as if caught in a breeze. But there is no breeze in Apocrypha. There is only dead air. Silence.

“Miraak no longer serves me in the way that I should be. I need a champion who will flourish and thrive beneath my careful mind.”

With Hermaeus Mora’s words come influence. It slithers in again like it did before when you stood in front of the Black Book and opened it. Voices appear, whispering, distant, but you ignore them. You know what it is you need to look out for. You understand how Mora operates. Falling to him, bending the knee, is not an option.

“And you want Skall knowledge for this? Why?” you ask. Another tentacle drops into frame, this one much smaller than the first.

“Indeed. If you bring me their secrets, you will be richly rewarded.”

Hermaeus Mora is stepping around the specifics, purposefully avoiding exactly what it is he wishes you to fetch. You’re not all that interested in turning over Skaal knowledge just to defeat Miraak. You’ve been successful in others ways without any help from Hermaeus Mora. Why seek his help now? Why give him anything?

“I will speak with the Skaal. Maybe bring you their secrets. But I will not force them.” The words leaving your mouth are false. You will talk with them, but not to help Mora. Merely to warn them of his intentions.

“Of course,” purrs Mora. “I know that you will do all that you can to provide me what I ask for. Then Miraak’s power will also be yours. And I will have a new champion.”

You straighten your shoulders, deciding to push a bit. “And what if the Skaal refuse? What if they do not wish to give up their secrets?”

You hear the displeasure in Hermaeus Mora’s voice. “My servant Miraak would have found a way to bring me what I want. So will you if you wish to surpass him.”

You wish for no such thing. While you and Miraak ended up in bed together, you did so out of survival. Men are weak, even ones like him when it comes to something they want. And he wanted you, and you gave it to him. Doing so provided you a chance to escape.

“After everything you’ve done, you still believe I trust you? That is bold to assume.”

“My word is as true as fate. As inevitable as destiny. Bring me what I want, and I will give you what you seek. Send the Skaal shaman to me. He holds the secrets that will be mine.”

Several more tentacles fall into the frame, as does a few small eyes that watch you greedily, blinking slowly.

“Prince of Fate,” you call out, gaze still locked on the building before you. “What is this place?”

Hermaeus Mora sighs with pleasure. “That is my most treasured place in all of Apocrypha. The Endless Library. All knowledge is hoarded there. It is my purpose. It is my work.”

A weakness is what that is, Hermaeus Mora.

“And if I help you, will you show me its halls?”

“Yes,” he croons. “It will be your home as much as it is mine.”

The next words are easy to stay, even though their meaning is sticky. “Then I will help you.”

“Good,” murmurs Hermaeus Mora. “Good.”

The portal begins to close. The darkness and sickly green of the sky recedes until the only thing you see is the ceiling of Storn Crag-Strider’s home.

At first, there is no breath in your lungs. And then you inhale, sharp and loud and so gasping big that it startles Teldryn who peers down at you.

“Hells. You need to stop doing this to me,” he mutters, grabbing your upper arms.

“Sorry,” you wince, his voice seemingly too boisterous for such a small space.

“What happened?” he asks, and you wince slightly in pain. “What did you see?”

You blink slowly, and then inhale again, this time with more calmness. “I talked with Hermaeus Mora.” Teldryn frowns and proceeds to grabs the sides of your face with both hands. “What are you doing?” you ask, voice slightly muffled by his warm hands against your cheeks.

Teldryn squints and turns your face back and forth, his gaze darting everywhere.

“Teldryn—”

“Hush. I’m checking for insanity.”

“Right,” you mutter, allowing Teldryn this one thing.

“You’re normal,” he says after a few moments.

“I don’t feel normal,” you murmur, staring up at the ceiling.

Teldryn shifts, adjusting his position on the floor next to the bed you rest in. “What did Hermaeus Mora have to say? He must have wanted something.”

You shake your head, avoiding the question. “How did I end up here and not back in that dungeon?”

Teldryn sighs. “Because I carried you and the Black Book here.”

You sit up abruptly and nearly faint. Teldryn reaches out and catches you. “What?”

“I didn’t take it to Master Neloth. Instead, I brought it here, to the Skaal. They’re not happy with me, but when I told them why, Storn calmed the villagers’ fears.”

“I was in the book, and not…here.”

Teldryn shakes his head. “No. You were here. At least in body. The rest of you was gone. A limp dish rag.”

You briefly close your eyes. When they open again, the middle of Teldryn’s brow is creased. “Hermaeus Mora wants ‘the secrets of the Skaal’ in exchange for teaching me a final word that will help me defeat Miraak.”

Teldryn rolls his eyes. “What will he learn from them? How to skin a horker? No. You’re not doing it.”

You arch a single eyebrow. “Are you bossing me around?”

“You might pay me to be loyal but I’m going to tell you when I think something is a bad idea. I haven’t lived this long by making stupid decisions.”

“You should listen to your friend.” You and Teldryn turn at the sound of Storn Crag-Strider’s voice. “You spoke to Hermaeus Mora?”

You nod and Storn frowns slightly.

“Hermaeus Mora. It seems he is the source of Miraak's power. Of course. I should have foreseen that. We have many tales of Herma-Mora trying to trick us into giving up our secrets to him. And now he comes again for what we have long kept from him.”

“I told him I’d help him but I lied. You do not need to help him gain anything for a simple advantage,” you say quickly, not wishing for Storn to try and wiggle his way into helping you.

Storn looks at you with pity, as if he knows something you don’t.

“So, it falls to me to be the one to give up the secrets to our ancient enemy. I do not know if I have the strength to face him.” Storn’s gaze grows sad. “The Tree Stone is still corrupted and the land is still out of balance. But with the other five restored it may be enough. It will have to be.”

“Storn,” you say, trying to push up from the small bed you’re in.

Teldryn tuts and attempts to push you to your back. “You need rest,” he says.

“Get off me,” you growl, surprising Teldryn with a quick pull on his pointy ear.

“Damn the gods! That hurt,” he snaps as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and successfully stand.

Storn is already turning his back on you, walking toward the Black Book.

“I don’t need Hermaeus Mora’s help,” you say to Storn’s back, trying to get the man to turn around and face you.

Teldryn rubs at his ear as he follows you and Storn out into the small communal area of his home. He is completely bundled up for the weather, and you’re in nothing but thin robes. Teldryn begrudgingly holds out a worn blanket to you.

You murmur a ‘thanks’ and take it from him, draping it over your shoulders.

“Don’t give Mora what he wants, Storn,” you murmur, stepping into his line of sight.

“The Skaal tell of the day when we must finally give up our secrets. When Herma-Mora finally wins.” Storn glances down at his feet. “As shaman, it is my duty to guard these secrets, but also to decide when it is necessary to give them up.” He glances up, features grim yet determined. “I believe that time is now. If I am wrong, may my ancestors forgive me. I will take the book. I will read it and speak to old Herma-Mora himself. I will make sure he lives up to his part of the bargain.”

Storn should not do this. He should not give Hermaeus Mora what he wants. Not for you. There is always another way. There is always a different path that can be taken. You just need to find it. You need to figure it out and then Storn can keep his secrets. Mora does not need them.

As you step forward, it is clear that there is little energy within you. You almost topple forward, your left leg giving out. Teldryn is right there, wrapping his arms around your waist, hoisting you back to your feet.

“Let the old man do what he feels is best,” murmurs Teldryn.

You shake your head. “He should not do this for me. It’s not worth it.”

“People are allowed to make their own decisions. I keep telling you that about yourself and you always fail to listen.”

“Teldryn—”

“Put on some boots and let the old man sacrifice himself. You can’t save everyone.”

You and Teldryn stare each other down while Storn lingers near the ominously smoking Black Book. Your hand curls into a fist, ready to fight if necessary.

“All choices have consequences. Even yours, Dragonborn. I will do this, and you will have to accept it.”

You glance away from Teldryn and find Storn holding the Black Book with both hands. Seeing him with it is an ominous sight. A warning. An ending. A new beginning. All of it wrapped up into one.

Frea stands nearby, her face stained with tears. The Skaal are not your people, but it doesn’t mean Storn should have to sacrifice all he cares about in order to help you. He may see it as a way to stop Miraak, and while that is important, you’re not sure what to do about the First Dragonborn.

Frea and Storn’s voices are distant. You only hear pieces. Fragments. The door to the small home is opening, cold air rushing in to lick at your bare legs. You tighten the blanket around your shoulders, following them out, Teldryn right next to you.

It is a horror. As all things that involve Hermaeus Mora are.

With you, Mora was almost tender in the way his tentacles roamed and explored your body. When he dived inside your mind, he took care to make it pleasurable enough that any pain was forgotten or absent. The shuffling within your head was uncomfortable, but it is not this.

Hermaeus Mora is cruel just because he can be.

Blood sprays. Tentacles pierce. Frea screams, sharp and loud and gore-drenched. Curses fall from Storn’s lips. There is outrage. Terror. And sweet, sweet triumphant victory dripping from the Daedric Prince of Fate to pool beneath the floating Black Book.

“At last,” breathes Hermaeus Mora as if he’s awoken from a long sleep. “The Skaal yield up their secrets to me.”

Storn coughs and up comes bright red. “Liar—you—not for you.”

Frea shrieks, her mouth moving, but you’re unable to hear her. You’re focused on the growing puddle underneath Storn’s hovering body. Hermaeus Mora becomes larger, his form expanding as if he is feeding off of Storn’s soul.

“You please me, Dragonborn. You have delivered me the gift I requested. In return, I keep my promise to you.” Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slowly shifts in your direction even as Storn clings to the last vestiges of life. “I give you the Word of Power that you need to challenge Miraak. You will be either a worthy opponent or his successor, as the tides of fate decree.”

As the tides of fate decree.

You are not a pawn. Not a chess piece. Even if Hermaeus Mora thinks so.

The Word of Power flares to life in your head. It pounds like a drum, beating over and over again until your brain is close to bursting. The Thu’um thrums and vibrates, connecting with your blood and bone to find its own familiar place to dwell within you.

It is bright and bold and unrelenting.

Until it isn’t.

Until all is peace inside your head.

The Black Book belches more dark mist before Mora’s massive tentacles retreat, slipping from Storn’s body, returning to their horrid home. The Black Book shuts abruptly and promptly drops into the snow.

Storn’s body hovers in the air a second longer before he descends with a horrible crunch.

“Father!” Frea bolts, dropping to her knees.

Teldryn stands beside you in the cold, his head swiveled in your direction. You do not look at him as you speak. “I saw something while I was away.”

“What did you see?”

“The Endless Library. Hermaeus Mora’s most precious pride and joy.” You glance at Teldryn. “Do you trust me?”

Teldryn’s lips form a thin line. “What do you have in mind?”

“Gol Hah Dov!”

Your voice rings out and the great dragon above you trumpets, circling back to land upon the platform.

“Hail,” rumbles Sahrotaar. The great beast shakes like a dog. “Your Thu’um is stronger than Miraak’s. And you wish to seek an audience with him.”

“Will you take me to your master?”

Sahrotaar makes a series of rumbles and rolling clicks. “Climb aboard my back. I will carry you to him.”

You take a deep breath, forcing your nerves to steel. There is no turning back. There is no retreating to the moment before Teldryn agreed to this. If everything falls into place as it should, two will lose, and everything will be set to right.

With slow steps, you stride toward Sahrotaar. You place your hand against the dragon’s smooth scales as it dips its massive head for you to slide onto its massive back. Your original gear you entered into Apocrypha with is gone, but Teldryn brought you a few items from the horde you keep in Raven Rock.

It will do even if it’s not your preferred attire.

Finding a small dip in Sahrotaar’s scales, you hoist yourself onto the dragon’s massive back. Once seated, the giant beast pushes off from the platform, soaring high above Apocrypha. You know Hermaeus Mora watches. You know he waits in secret for the moment that he deems it appropriate to make an appearance.

That is something you can rely on. For Hermaeus Mora to flaunt his knowledge and attunement to time and the threads of fate. Perhaps he won’t see what you and Teldryn have planned. Maybe he will. Maybe he is taking care of it right now.

Stay strong, Teldryn. Please, don’t fail me.

Sahrotaar soars, trumpets, flying toward a massive tower. It’s the same one in which you dwelled. The same tower that Miraak and you came together. But that meant nothing, even if the tethered power pulsing between you is too great a thing to completely ignore.

Even as you get closer, you sense that pull. That connection that cannot seem to quiet when the First and Last Dragonborn are within distance of the other.

Sahrotaar circles above the top of the tower before landing with a massive thud. As you slide off the dragon’s back, a familiar figure strolls forward. You don’t have to see who it is to know. The tether pulls taut, close to snapping.

“You return to me.” Miraak sounds pleased if a bit hesitant. “The Last Dragonborn returns to the First Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended. His tentacles are always wiggling around where they are unwanted.” Miraak’s voice is as much a comfort as it is a curse.

You still stand close to Sahrotaar, unsure if you should step away from the great beast or use it as a shield.

“I’ve returned,” you reply cooly.

“But not to join me,” says Miraak, already knowing your mind.

That is the truth of it. You are not going to join him. Miraak manipulates. Hermaeus Mora manipulates. As Teldryn has said countless times, you are not beholden to anyone but yourself. When it comes to your life, and your choices, only you can make them.

Miraak sighs heavily. “Hermaeus Mora is a fickle master. But I shall be free of him. My time here in Apocrypha will soon be over.” Miraak removes a gnarled weapon from beneath his robes. It looks more like a sickly, broken off tree branch than a weapon.

“I will return to Solstheim and be master of my own fate.”

You stand tall and take a step forward. Sahrotaar shifts and takes flight. Miraak does not watch the dragon go.

“You said we would fight,” you say, lifting your arms slightly from your sides.

“Indeed,” replies Miraak. “But there is still hope that you will see the error of your ways. And you will join me.” He glances up into the sky. “Kruziikrel! Relonikiv! To me!”

What did you expect in coming here? A battle of wits? A bit of blood?

No. Not that.

You expect Miraak to want to kill you, to annihilate you. And yet that is far from the truth.

While Miraak fights with a ferocity that is unmatched, not a single stroke of his blade is meant to kill. His strikes are only to disable or disarm, to incapacitate. Miraak is not trying to kill you, which means he believes he can make you see reason. That he can convince you to come back to him and join his cause.

It is too late for that. With every second that continues, for every dragon felled and soul consumed, Miraak becomes weary and uncertain. You cannot see his eyes, but each time he retreats from his position you notice the way his shoulders sag. You are not making this easy.

But that is the point.

Miraak is a distraction. You are a distraction. This is not for either of you, but for something much greater.

Please, don’t fail me, Teldryn.

Miraak’s blade comes crashing down, and you step to the side, narrowly missing it. That swing held anger. It whistled with it.

“Cease this,” growls Miraak. “You are acting foolish.”

“Foolish? You hurt me,” you chide, poking at his anger.

You swing with your own and Miraak lurches backward, the edge of the blade ringing loudly against his mask. It leaves no mark, just a faint ringing.

Men are all the same, even ones as old as Miraak. He is a manipulator. Hermaeus Mora is a manipulator. They will break your arms and legs only to carry you to safety to tend to your wounds after. They will say sweet things and expect you to be grateful for showing you mercy.

That is who they are. That is their spirit.

That is a cycle you need to break. A Daedric Price cannot be felled, but he can be weakened. Miraak is simply a man, and death will one day claim him.

Another swing and you strike true, slicing Miraak across the chest in a wide arc. He howls, rears back, teleports to the other side of the tower. The moment he reappears, a mass of tentacles pops into existence above the platform.

The Daedric Prince of Fate is here. He has finally made an appearance. You knew he would. You knew it, anticipated it. Mora loves a good show. He loves the drama of it all, and this fight is exactly that. You are playing into his entertainment, and Hermaeus Mora is eating it up.

With ethereal speed, Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles shoot out and wrap around Miraak, lifting him into the air. Miraak growls like a caged wolf, swinging his weight around to try and free himself.

“Did you think to escape me, Miraak? You can hide nothing from me here.” Mora’s voice is a low hiss. “You are my champion. You are my servant. I do not take kindly to those that seek to usurp me.”

“You have found a new Dragonborn to serve you.” Miraak’s golden mask shifts, facing you as he says the next words. “May she be rewarded for her service.”

Miraak’s back bends sharply as three of Mora’s tentacles pierce his chest. It’s just like Storn all over again, but so much worse. The power within you, the tether, flares white hot. A blinding pain that nearly rips your soul from your body to ship off to Sovngarde before extinguishing entirely.

Slowly, Hermaeus Mora sets Miraak’s body on the platform. There is something tender in the way he does it, like a father putting their child to sleep. His tentacles retreat, and he shifts closer to Miraak’s body, inspecting it. The large eye in the center of his massive form squints, almost confused.

Is Teldryn where he is supposed to be? Hopefully he is done, and far form Apocrypha.

You smell it before you see it. And Hermaeus Mora senses it just as you do.

Smoke. Acrid. Dark. Drifting into the air far in the distance. You notice it just above a line of mismatched spiraling towers.

Hermaeus Mora makes a piercing shriek. It is an eldritch pitch of noise that pushes you onto your knees and forces you to slap your hands over your ears. Your brain and tongue and teeth and muscles and eyes and ears are melting. Bleeding. Morphing.

The pain within Mora is a pain you experience just as profoundly.

Hermaeus Mora’s shriek turns into groans, his tentacles coiling back in on himself as if cradling his sorrow. His form heaves like he cannot catch his breath. The Daedric Prince of Fate is in pain, and his pain is sweet. It is good.

His large eye pivots in your direction, grows wide with accusation. He says nothing, only simmers for seconds before growling low and receding into a small black dot until that too is gone.

Teldryn did it. The Endless Library, Hermaeus Mora’s beloved treasure, is on fire.

Miraak’s body is quickly fading. You rush to him, remove the mask, and cradle it to your chest. You glimpse him briefly as you knew him before he melts away, only leaving his clothes and skeleton behind.

The mask you will keep. You will hold it close.

Rushing toward the stairs at the far side of the platform, you descend into the room where the Black Book is held. It is still there, a living horror for anyone unlucky enough to come across it. Keeping the mask tucked close to your chest, you open it up, seeking and eventually receiving that familiar descent.

When you return, Teldryn is right there, smelling of smoke.

“You did it,” you breathe, throwing yourself into his arms.

He laughs, holding you tight. “You owe me a drink. And that house in Falkreath.”

“You can have the damn house,” you smile. “I have two others.”

Teldryn draws back slightly, his hand resting on your forearms. “Do you think Mora will seek vengeance?”

“We will likely be long dead before he manages it.”

“Maybe for you,” chuckles Teldryn. “Not me.”

“You’re already very old, Teldryn. Or have you forgotten in your old age?”

“Very funny, Dragonborn.” He releases your arms and then crosses his over his chest. “We should make ourselves scarce.”

“Back to Skyrim then?”

“You say where, and I shall follow.”

taglist:

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[jasper-the-menace]

I need to do more with Areia Camael, the Dragonborn I made up for The Mind of Dragons. She has so much weird shit going on that wasn't even brought up in the fic itself.

She has an Imperial stepfather who helped her during her transition and was the one to offer her a new name. They were very close before all of the Dragonborn nonsense kicked off.

Her two best friends are J'zargo and Serana, which is an unfortunate combination. They appeared in the fic, but the trio's dynamics didn't really appear since Areia spent most of that fic borderline comatose.

In addition to being the Thane of Haafingar, she's also the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold and the Thane of Winterhold.

And now Areia and Miraak are in the same body and co-parenting Lucia in addition to being an absolute menace on the battlefield.

[sar3nka]

I need to draw. Female Miraak. It's canon because I said so. I can even give an excuse for the male voice... dragons despite being sexless all have male voices. So if she's such a powerful dragonborn maybe she started speaking like a dragon too. Case closed.

[bravelittlescrib]

Title: The Parable of the Wyvern and the Moon

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Pairings: Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Miraak (Elder Scrolls) & Original Character(s), Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls)/Original Male Character(s) - minor

Characters: Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Sanguine (Elder Scrolls), Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls), Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls), Borkul the Beast, Madanach (Elder Scrolls), Argis the Bulwark, Neloth (Elder Scrolls), Frea (Elder Scrolls), Hermaeus Mora

Summary: The Dragonborn is haunted by a mysterious spirit. It follows him as he throws off the would-be oppressors of his homeland, and leads him into the path of a very strange, very enchanting elf.

[ferrrghal]

the first time the last dragonborn meet the first dragonborn in Apocrypha (in my imagination -> and also the hair style and appearance of miraak lol) (plz ignore my fake dragon language 🆘 anyway it means: well met, my brother