#Galmar Stone Fist

[hadvarandralof]

sorry i couldn’t help myself

[barvin0k]

is somebody gonna match his freak? 🥰💅🏻

[leander-was-here]

Safe return.

“You’re alive!”

“You made it back.

We both did.”

Thinking about Ulfric and Galmar as young legion soldiers both making it out of a bloody battle from which the legion had to eventually retreat (considering the Thalmor were probably kicking the empire’s ass) Only after the chaos has finally settled did they manage to find each other alive and well after.

Don’t think it was possible to ever separate them in battle after this one time. Alongside Rikke of course. Then you have yourself the coolest imperial trio. You’d wish you were them in highschool.

[thequeenofthewinter]

Skyrim Characters Send Text Messages

It's been a while since I have done one of these, so let's goooooo...

Elisif the Fair: *sends passive aggressive texts where she tries to get you to "unwittingly" compliment her* *favorite emoji is the heart with sparkles* Vilkas: *has a Nokia brick* *it's vintage, okay* *he bought it secondhand at Belethor's General Goods* *half the keys don't work* Farkas: *emoji king* *sends out those chain texts like "pass it forward to 10 friends you think are special"* *buys Vilkas a new phone and he refuses to use it* Galmar Stone-Fist: *sends one word texts* *half the time they are misspelled* *"What's an emoji? Why are you sending me smiling bears, Rikke? Bears don't smile"* Ulfric Stormcloak: *all of his texts are grammatically correct* *man would not deign to use abbreviations nor contractions* *long winded walls of text which wax poetic* *this is a 5 paragraph essay* Brynjolf: *sends out phishing messages about Falmer blood elixir* *gets scammed himself* *phone is full of texts about meeting the "sexy Argonian maid of your dreams for 29.99 per night"* Serana: *sends the politest texts or rants about her parents* *there is no in-between* *just come meet me okay* *200/10 will then get you into trouble but you'll have fun* Teldryn Sero: *prefers not to send text messages but rather call people* *no one picks up because who answers a phone in this day and age* *gives up and texts eggplant emojis to Neloth* *will talk to you on the phone for 3 hours* General Tullius: *loses his phone half the time so he gives it to Rikke* *Rikke sends all his text messages* *doesn't actually know how texting works* Lydia: *sends snarky texts about picking up your stuff from Breezehome* *seriously my house is not a storage shed* *drunk texts flirty messages* *LDB takes her phone* Uthgerd the Unbroken: *too little patience and too small keys* *accidentally smashes her finger through the screen* *doesn't bother getting a new one*

[silusvesuius]

ooc but whatever

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

This crackship was supposed to be FUNNY but then it got really serious instead?

At least it's sweet. Or at least @elder-dragon-reposes thinks so!

Yo @incorrectskyrimquotes do you want some Leara/Ralof romance/pining?

ao3 | masterlist

She's curled in the corner of the wagon when he first notices her. Dark red hair falls in a curtain over her face, but Ralof thinks he sees the tip of a leaflet ear poking between the fallen strands. An elf, then. He doesn't remember seeing her during the ambush and the skirmish that followed. He wonders how she got there. He wonders why. Was she at the border?

When she wakes, it's signaled by strained shoulders and a near-visible shrinking in on herself. Then Ralof is met with the most startling blue eyes he's ever seen, bright and cold and thick with ice. They sweep his face, then turn to the other occupants of their carriage. At the moment, Ralof swears those eyes hesitate and widen when the elf woman spots Jarl Ulfric, but later, he isn't sure.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She stares at him again and is quiet.

She is quiet when the Imperials corral them from the carriages to hear General Tullius's damning talk-down to Jarl Ulfric.

Then, they're in line for the chopping block. Hadvar, damn traitor that he is, is standing there prim as a princess with his quill and parchment, ready to take down the names of the convicted.

Ralof wants to curse him. He cannot.

Then the elf woman is in front of Hadvar..

"Who . . . are you?" "Leara Ormand. I, I'm from Daggerfall." "I'm sorry, miss. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

She hangs her head.

This was Imperial justice, Ralof thought. The innocent were condemned just as easily as those who fought for others' freedom. Anything that was inconvenient for the Empire must go.

They execute Snorri first, Talos guard him. Then they call the elf woman, Leara, forward. Her head no longer hangs. She walks forward with the same cool face and straight spine he's seen in other high elves.

Thunder rumbles, not for the first time since this circus began.

She kneels at the block.

All Oblivion breaks loose.

Smoke and screams resonate through the air as fire splits the skies. Visibility is lost. Ralof stumbles to the ground.

Amid the screaming, he hears a word echoing above the den and so penetrating that it chilled his soul.

Dragon.

He stumbles over something—someone. The woman, Leara.

Her hand snatches at his arm, shockingly cold amid the blistering heat.

They drag each other to the tower, making it just before Jarl Ulfric and the others close and bar the door. He turns to ask Jarl Ulfric—Could the legends be true?—and then she is gone like a dart up the stairs.

Ralof doesn't see Leara again until he stumbles into the Keep. She's on the floor, propped against the wall with her face flushed and her hands encrusted in frost. In her hands, she's clutching the hilt of a katana, but where she got it, Ralof doesn't know. Her eyes are closed, and she looks desperately like she's trying to catch her breath. But Ralof knows that soon this room will be swarming with Imperials fleeing the firestorm outside. They needed to go.

Their trip through the keep and its cave network is a blur of exhaustion and bloodshed. Her hands leave a trail of black frosted blood pools in their wake. The katana sings like hissing ice in her hands when they face the Torturer and sleeps just as easily when they agree to sneak past the bear.

He takes Leara to Gerdur. He needs to return to Windhelm as soon as possible, but it is clear as sunlight that Leara has been caught in a bad spot. When Gerdur hears about their escape from Helgen, she is only too willing to help out Ralof's new "friend."

Ralof waves Leara goodbye the morning after they stumble into Gerdur's yard. She is sitting on the porch, her katana beside her, but her face is clean from the ash of their near-death.

"Be well, Ralof!"

She says in farewell.

Ralof grins at her, not quite full, and leaves. And his mind wanders down other paths, away from his harried flight with Leara Ormand.

But he thinks of her again when he's faced with the white-blue ice of the White River biting at the ancient stones of Windhelm. When he returns to the field, he halfway remembers the song of her katana in the whistling of the wind through the pines.

But it is the dragon attack on Whiterun that eventually brings her back to the forefront of his mind. The attack is months after Helgen, but not long enough for the people of Skyrim to forget that a dragon leveled an entire village and stirred the embers of the Civil War into a full blaze with Ulfric Stormcloak's escape from the Imperials. The fighting has just picked up again after the winter lull when the news of the attack spreads like wild . . . dragon fire.

And with that news comes the murmur of Dragonborn. The Greybeards called her.

"Her?" "Some pointy ear. Not a Nord."

It is only when someone mentions that the Dragonborn carries a katana that Ralof knows that she and Leara are the same. It makes for a good story around the campfire when Ralof tells how he and the Dragonborn escaped that first dragon attack. Most don't believe him. Some do.

Then there are those who scoff at the idea of an elf woman being the Nords' hero. It's not long before Ralof finds himself in front of Commander Gonnar for brawling over it.

Commander Gonnar is . . . not impressed.

"Do you think we're out here to brawl like barflies?" "No sir." "No, because we have a job to do, leiutenant, and you can't perform your job when you're out there rolling in the dirt because someone insulted an elf to your face." "She's the Dragonborn, sir." "Well, then, she doesn't need you taking up for her, does she?" "Yes, sir."

Commander Gonnar sends him back to Windhelm soon after that. Less trouble in the camp.

Even in Windhelm, support for the Dragonborn is mixed, especially when Ralof hears about her plans to hold a peace talk at High Hrothgar. He volunteers for Ulfric Stormcloak's guard. The Jarl, at least, doesn't seem to care about What the Dragonborn is, so long as she takes care of Skyrim. That's fair enough, all things considered.

At High Hrothgar, Leara is happy to see him. Ralof is surprised when she catches his hand up in hers, a grin curving her white gold face. She seems happy . . . for someone who then proceeds to manipulate an entire table to agree to her terms while holding everyone else at their starting positions.

Yes, Leara is perfectly fine. Or so Ralof convinces himself, until he finds her in an alcove, sometime after dinner, with her katana in her hands and her face too pale. Her breathing is shallow and she's not seeing.

Ralof is crouched beside her in a moment.

"Leara—" "Elenwen. Elenwen."

Her skin is clammy. Oh.

Ralof holds Leara's hand through the panic attack beating on her. The best he can do is talk to her and rub her shoulder. Eventually, he manages to pry the katana from her death grip. Her hands soon fist in his hauberk. She falls asleep not long after that.

She is apologetic but still thankful afterward. For the first time, Ralof sees the layer of ice in her eyes give way to glimpses of spring waters.

Ralof might not know what happened to Leara, but he knows being a hero hasn't suddenly made her invincible. If anything, it's exacerbated a deeper problem. Problems he doesn't dare to tease out when General Stone-Fist sits down to talk about the Dragonborn as the Stormcloaks make their descent from the Throat of the World.

Months pass before he sees her again, and then it's on the wings of her victory over the World-Eater. She sweeps into WIndhelm and soon Ralof finds himself at the bar with her at Candlehearth Hall. He looks forward to speaking to her again but is nonetheless surprised by her turn in conversation.

"What do you know about the Butcher murders?" "Well . . ."

Ralof can't say he's kept up with the whole drawn-out tragedy, but Leara seems intent on investigating, and he commits to helping her—as much as his duties allow, that is. Later, when she brings the amulet to him with whispered descriptions of a room bathed in sinew and blood, he suggests the court wizard. Ulfric trusts the man, and from what Ralof has heard, Wuunferth seems pretty knowledgeable.

Directing Leara to speak to Wuunferth does not prevent her from being stabbed by the Butcher days later. She takes Calivto Corrium out with her own bloodied ice before collapsing in a shivering heap. She is taken to her room at Candlehearth before Ralof can check in on her. Before he can see that she's okay.

Leara will be okay. Ralof will not.

When Ralof accompanies the guards to clear out the House of Curiosities, he finds the Dibella statue modeled in Leara's likeness: White gold, small, naked, and frigid.

Rage bursts in his chest. He throws it into the wall. On impact, it shatters in a rain of pottery shards, painted and false.

From there, Ralof hurries to Candlehearth. There, he finds Leara propped in a chair; when he enters, she's half-heartedly nibbling an apple tart but, at the sight of him, sets it aside.

"Ralof! Would you like some pastry?"

Her smile is bright, if strained by the lingering pain. She half-raises the plate toward him.

Ralof takes it from her, and setting it on the table, kneels beside her chair. As he does so, he takes the cold hand in his, clasping it between both palms. He bows over her hand in his, his forearms braced against the chair arms.

"Ralof? Are you okay? What's happened?"

But Ralof can't speak. How can he? How can he speak into existence the truth his spirit has been seeking this whole time? He must tell her. He's not a coward, but a brave son of Skyrim! But the words stick in Ralof's throat, even when Leara's other hand comes to card through his hair.

When he leaves, the words are still lodged in his throat. The whole time he doesn't speak, Leara simply strokes his hair, and when he leaves, she offers another smile. Confused, certainly, but soft. Kind.

Ralof is tempted to ask Generals Stone-Fist or Thrice-Pierced to deploy him to a camp in Hjaalmarch or the Reach, but every time, he's driven to stay. All the while, Leara is recovering. Soon, she's back on her feet, and when she mentions leaving Windhelm, Ralof feels as if he'll be sick.

What will she do once she's out there, alone?

She's capable, he reminds himself. Yes, she defeated the World Eater. But then she was nearly murdered by a serial killer. All it took was one mistake. One. And Leara would be, Leara . . .

Leara would be dead.

t's that thought that drives him to Candlehearth again. He's hurrying down the hall toward Leara's room before he realizes Elda is calling him.

"She's gone." "What?" "The Dragonborn, she checked out this morning."

Bile churns in Ralof's gut. She's gone.

Again the Palace of the Kings, Ralof seeks the training yard. Hack. Slash. Stab. Leara left. Slash. Hack. Stab. Leara was alone. Slash. Swipe. Turn. Leara might not come back. Stab. Hack. What if she . . .

No. He was being dramatic.

Ralof is not given long to wallow. General Stone-Fist promotes him to captain and deploys him to the Reach, clear across Skyrim. In the Reach, there's more to worry about than the abstract until proven idea of Leara's present safety. Ralof's, for one thing, and the state of the Stormcloaks campaign in the region, for the greater.

He is in the Reach a month before reports filter out of Markarth about heightened Forsworn activity in the city. The Forsworn were already a pain in the rear out in the hills and crags. Ralof did not look forward to weeding out a potential secondary force when the Stormcloaks marched on Markarth.

Then, a report comes saying there's been a breakout from Cidhna Mine. And that Madanach is alive. Ralof has a bad feeling about this. He's pretty sure Jarl Ulfric will have plenty to say about the situation.

Whatever Ulfric would say is driven from Ralof's mind when a thin figure stumbles into camp. Her hair is wild, her eyes are wild, and in her hands is that same katana.

Ralof is running to Leara to catch her in his arms before her knees even threaten to buckle.

"It's my fault." "Shhh." "Ralof, Ralof, Markarth . . ." "We'll take care of it. Don't worry, Leara."

Soon, she's asleep in the medical tent. Ralof is sitting beside her when Commander Kottir pokes his head in.

"So, that's the one stirring up the fuss in camp." "The Dragonborn, Commander." "That's what I hear."

Commander Kottir nods, grim.

"See that she doesn't die on our hands. We can't afford the talk."

Jaw clenched, Ralof just nods. Leara's hand is in his. Over the cot, he catches the commander's eye. Kottir's eyes linger on the joined hands before slipping from the tent.

When Leara wakes, Ralof learns all the dark details of Leara's ill-fated investigation iin Markarth that turned into her incarceration and eventual jailbreak with the King in Rags and his court.

"I had no idea what I was getting into. It was like a completely different playing field from what I'm used to."

Ralof can't offer much advice, except that when the Stormcloaks take over Markarth, they'd weed out the Forsworn support. Leara's face is drawn, but she squeezes his hand.

When she leaves, she says she's heading for Solitude. Ralof wishes her well, but a feeling of foreboding seeps into his bones. She doesn't say why she's going to Solitude, but there's a particular gleam in her eye that piques him in a certain way.

Without Leara in camp, Ralof's focus goes back to the war. General Stone-Fist comes out west, and Ralof is asked to accompany him to Hjaalmarch. They have their eyes on Fort Snowhawk, but before they get there, an anonymous tip comes in that the Dragonborn is being held by the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep.

When he reads the note, Galmar's face is hard. Ralof is cold.

"We can't leave her there, General." "We might have no choice."

But Ralof can't accept that. He'll go after her by himself. His knapsack is packed and his sword is sharpened when he heads for the edge of camp. Galmar stops him.

"You're not going to Northwatch alone." "Respectfully, General, but I am. I can't just leave Leara with the Thalmor when I can do something about it." "No, Captain, you're not going alone." "But sir—" "We'll be leading a raid on the fortress."

The Stormcloak attack on Northwatch is swift and pointed. The Thalmor wizards are difficult, but they're no contest when met in the tight melee range of the halls. General Stone-Fist's battlecry rings off the stonework, rallying the rebels. This is not like their plans for Snowhawk. They weren't trying to hold the fort. Raid, disrupt, and devastate, however? Doable.

Throughout the raid, Ralof felt at turns cold and furious. Leara is here somewhere, he thinks as he leads a group down into the dungeons.

The scent of blood and bile burns his nose. Ralof pushes forward until, rounding a corner, he runs headlong into a tall golden-haired Altmer. Lightning sizzles on her fingers, burning the air and setting Ralof's teeth on edge even as he thrusts his sword deep into her stomach.

Blood curdles out of her mouth as Ralof pushes passed her into the cell beyond. There.

Her head lulled to the side and eyes heavy, Leara is strapped to the wrack, her thin arms stretched skeletal over her head. In her mouth is a heavy gag, tied tight to prevent her from using the Thu'um. Ralof is at her side in an instant, making quick work of the bindings. He pulls the gag from her mouth, tossing it to the side. Behind him, one of the battlemaidens drops to her knees, checking Leara's throat and wrists.

"Captain." "How is she, Tilda?" "Sir, I don't think—"

But Ralof has Leara in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. She's not heavy at all. They were starving her. Feeding meant removing the gag, risking the Voice. She wasn't this light in the Reach. They starved her.

He hugs her tighter to his chest, and hurries from the keep, Tilda and another soldier on his heels.

That night, after setting fire to the keep, Galmar meets him in the field healer's tent. It's even less equipped than what they have at one of their permanent campsites, and Ralof fears it won't be enough.

Leara is incredibly small and broken under the blankets. New golden scars peak from under the collar of her waif-thin shirt, tracing the path of her veins. Sitting by her bedside, Ralof has held her hand since Tilda finished examing her, the battlemaiden's face grey. The chill in Leara's hand is different now. Unsettling. He can feel the weight of Galmar's eyes on him.

"Tilda told me." "Oh." "If she wakes, she may not be the same."

Galmar cut himself off, but Ralof didn't pay attention. His focus was centered on the slight rise and fall of Leara's chest as she breathed. Every breath was shallow, and none of them restful.

"Listen, Ralof. When the time comes, if you need to take some time and go back home for a few weeks, not a man amung us would begrudge you that."

His throat thick, Ralof only nods.

With Leara in the condition she was in, it was risky to move her, but staying meant her death. The Stormcloaks were caught in a delicate situation, especially considering that they were still in Imperial territory.

"I can give you two days."

Ralof heard Galmar say to Tilda. The battlemaiden nodded. She worked diligently with Leara, praying to Talos, Mara, and Kyne for healing while attempting to work her own arts. Ralof prayed too, though his prayers beseeched Akatosh second only to Talos. But he also prayed to Arkay, begging for the tenuous thread of Leara's life to be strengthened.

One day elapsed. The second one drew toward its close.

There was no change. Within the last hours, Ralof sat on his knees, her hand in his and clasped against his forehead as he leaned into her cot. Ralof's chest ached.

One of the soldiers appeared at the tent flap, but Ralof didn't look up.

"Captain, General's ordered the camp to pack up and head out." "Thank you, Jorvar."

Then it was Tilda's hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Ralof. We must wrap her up and get her on a horse. We've given her as much rest as we can." "She's not strong enough." "Perhaps not, but we have to trust in the Divines that she may be."

His mouth in a line, Ralof simply nodded. Sighing, Tilda turned to finish packing the medical supplies they'd brought from the Haafingar camp.

A tear stung his eyes, followed by another. They weren't the first he'd shed over her, but the fear and despair were beginning to gnaw deeper into his spirit. With trembling lips, Ralof dotted a kiss on Leara's palm, then her knuckles, and the pads of each finger. At last, he drew the thin hand to lay flat on his heart.

Please.

Leara remains stable on the trip to the Haafingar camp, wrapped in blankets and nestled in the bottom of their one wagon. Tilda keeps vigil at her head. Beside the wagon, Ralof rides on horseback, his sword and Leara's katana sheathed at his side.

They make it to the camp, and Tilda is able to administer different medicines that she did not have before. Some color returns to Leara's face, but she still breathes shallowly. Soon, Tilda grows adamant that they must take her to Whiterun, to the Temple of Kynareth. Galmar, while seeing reason in some of Tilda's arguments, is quick to remind the battlemaiden that Whiterun is not their ally. The Stormcloaks cannot step foot in the city. Tilda insists that they can under certain terms.

In the midst of them, Ralof keeps praying that perhaps Leara would at least open her eyes. One last time. During these times, he often falls asleep, his head by her arm on the cot.

It is one of these times that Ralof fell asleep that he thought he woke up. Really, he was sure in the moment that he had, but afterward could never be totally sure. As he lay in half-sleep, he watched a man with golden skin and blue-fire eyes slip into the tent. As he approached, his feet made no noise.

The man's hand passed unfelt (and yet felt) over Ralof's head before landing on Leara's arm. As if entranced, Ralof watched the man remove Leara's hand from his grip and tuck it over her stomach.

"Oh, little one."

For the rest of his life, Ralof could never remember what happened afterward. One minute he was half watching the stranger pass the backs of his fingers over and over Leara's sallow cheek, and then the next, well. The next moment Ralof knew on waking was Leara's fingers carding through his hair. He stirred, and then stared.

From her pillow, Leara was smiling at him. It was a slight smile, still touched with pain, but it was alive because she was awake and she was here.

Ralof met the summer lake warmth of Leara's eyes. And he knew. He clasped her hand in his, and once more began to kiss it. Leara laughed, small and tired, but awake and alive. So very much alive!

He grinned at her.

"I love you." "I know."

Her voice was worn, tired, and fracturing, but so soft and relieved. Hopeful. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Leara's wrist. Yes, he loved her very much, and he would tell her so every day for the rest of their lives.

fin

[omegatheimmortaldragonborn]

Imagine if Balgruuf was sat next to the Dragonborn during season unending, how fucking chaotic that'd be 😭

Sat there giggling like fucking kids taking the piss out of Ulfric, Elenwen, and Tullius bickering under their breaths

Legate and Galmar side-eyeing them constantly

The witty come backs they'd conjure up too omgg

Why didn't we get this 😭😭🙏🙏🙏

[ehlnofay]

The Dragonborn does not speak at the council, for all the trouble she went to arranging it.

She sits in a straight-backed chair at the head of the table, her sword in its scabbard resting against the stone. (She was the only one permitted to carry a weapon into the assembly.) Lydia, her sharp-faced housecarl, is seated to her left.

It’s the Dragonborn’s council, for all intents and purposes – it may not have been her idea, but it was she who petitioned for it, persuading Arngeir and then the war-leaders and the dignitaries they dragged with them. It was for her sake alone (Dragonborn, Ysmir, legend come to life) that some agreed to attend at all.

But when the council finally begins, kings and warriors crowded around the long stone table, she is silent. An argument begins immediately, Ulfric objecting to Thalmor presence within the negotiations and Tullius objecting to his objection, and it splinters off into something thorny and onerous. It takes half an hour for discussion to begin properly – and then someone says something and they’re off again, everyone around the table coiled tight and wary, and the Dragonborn stares into the middle distance and offers no thoughts.

It doesn’t stop, the talk of trading holds like game pieces and demands that the armies’ leaders be compensated for massacres that never touched them. Arngeir tries to quiet them, and Esbern’s desperate passion riles them up, and when half of the room has leapt to its feet and voices echo off High Hrothgar’s sacred, watching stones, the Dragonborn finally speaks –

Which is to say, she claps her hands over her ears and spits a Word that rips the voices from their lips and the room is finally, mercifully silent.

Her housecarl, the only one who does not seem startled by this, places a hand on the back of her chair and says, “Thane?”

The Dragonborn uncurls, removes her hands from her head, lays them flat on the table.

“I don’t understand,” she says, slow, as though the words are weighed down. She isn’t looking into the middle distance; her eyes shift from face to face like she is trying to meet everyone’s gaze at once.

Galmar Stone-fist, standing by a chair to her right, claws at his fur-lined collar. “We have –”

“Let the Dragonborn speak,” Lydia interrupts, voice and eyes steely. Galmar’s face twists, but he falls silent.

The Dragonborn presses her hands into the stone tabletop.

“Do you believe,” she says, “that the dragons will leave your side alone?”

On the other side of the table, General Tullius raises a sceptical brow. He leans back into his chair. “If you have a point, then make it. We don’t have time for more nonsense.”

Her eyes snap to him. Lydia repeats, “Let her speak.”

The Dragonborn holds up a hand.

“Do you believe,” she enunciates carefully, “that the dragons care anything for your war? None of this matters.”

“On the contrary –”

“Alduin will tear your cities down,” she tells them. Her eyes are eerie dark as holes too deep to track, and even her housecarl is staring at her now. “Only I can stop it. Until you get out of my way, you are fighting over rubble.”

There is, again, silence. Arngeir is visibly thankful for the reprieve; High Hrothgar’s walls, unused as they are to such uproar, can once again, if briefly, know peace.

Ulfric stood up sometime in the yelling; he has not sat back down. He is leaning a little on the stone back of his chair as he says, “You called us here in hopes of a ceasefire, Dragonborn. Truces aren’t made of empty air. Terms have to be negotiated.”

The Dragonborn stares him down. Her palms remain flat on the table; her sword stays resting against her chair.

“But you aren’t negotiating with him,” she says, the words still heavy, still slow. “You’re negotiating terms with me.”

There is a pause. The watchful stones soak in the silence.

“With you,” the Legate replies.

The Dragonborn’s face is blank. “If you truce, I will fight Alduin.” She speaks the weighed-down words as though they are the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I won’t. Your cities will fall as Helgen, and you will die afraid. Those are my terms.”

Lydia places a hand, palm up, on the table. The Dragonborn covers it with her own, mimicking the pose of the wrist, the splay of the fingers.

“Now,” the Dragonborn announces, her voice a laggard echo of Arngeir’s opening speech, “who would like to begin the negotiations?”

(There is no shouting during the rest of the peace council.)

[nauteno]

"show me what you've got, Dragonborn"/The guys of skyrim who give the quest(TES:V)

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by wonderful @umbracirrus I know I tagged a bunch of people yesterday. I’ll tag a few of yall!

@mavariel @madamefluffnstuff @vivifriend @thequeenofthewinter @oblivions-dawn

Anyone else feel free to tag me

Have some Thea and Galmar brainrot

“I was Harbinger for six years. All I did was bring honor. And for what!? You wouldn’t let me join something that meant honor to me! So I left! I left cordially. Ysgramor would be rolling in his grave right now….” Thea spat again. Divines, her jaw hurt.

Galmar looked back. He’d never heard her raise her voice. In fact, he’d never heard her speak more than pleasantries to anyone else but him.

Galmar could see the anger that pooled in her eyes. Her clenched jaw. Her knuckles went white. She was ready to pounce.

“People still see you as Harbinger, despite you passing the mantle to me.” Vilkas growled.

Thea narrowed her eyes. “That’s your fault then.” She whispered. She turned away.

Galmar walked over to Thea. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” He leaned close as he whispered. He put his hand on her cheek where a large bruise started to form. He saw the swelling already. By Talos.

She nodded. “Aye.” She moved away and turned her back. “Just, get them out without harm. They were once family.” She looked over her shoulder at Aela and Farkas. Both looked considerably less angry. Farkas grabbed Vilkas’ shoulder.

Galmar turned and faced the Companions. “You best return to Jorrvaskr before we remove you by force, boy.” He grabbed the waraxe off his back.

Vilkas scoffed. “Gladly. Can’t stand the filth in here anyways. Can’t believe you would let them put Vignar on the throne. I know you hate him.” Vilkas whispered as he turned. The Companions followed after him.

Thea’s shoulders shook. Galmar couldn’t tell if it was from anger or…. He heard a sniff. She was crying. He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go. Somewhere without people.” He directed her up the stairs and to the Great Porch. She nodded.

Thea walked around the area and made her way to the open end. She looked out onto the plains below. The mountains in the distance. She looked up and saw the first stars twinkling. The auroras started their dance when she finally spoke. “You can go back down. I’ll be okay.” She wiped her face.

“How’s your jaw?” He walked over and put his knuckle under her chin, moving her face to get a look at it. His eyes wandered to her lips when they parted for a moment and then up to her eyes.

Thea listened to Galmar’s heart before answering. “It does hurt. But, I’ll be fine. Vilkas doesn’t hit that hard.” She smiled a bit. “His brother now….” She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. “Ah. They were my family for fifteen years. At least away from home. Sorry.” She tried to move her face, but Galmar placed his thumb on her chin, keeping her face in spot.

Galmar watched the auroras swirled in her eyes. The moons illuminated her face. Her lips. By Talos. He leaned forward. He needed to kiss her.

Thea watched. She felt her world stop. It also felt like she was spinning. She…. She had wanted to kiss him since they retrieved the Jagged Crown and…. Here she was. She leaned forward, her eyes half closed.

The doors burst open. “General!”

Galmar moved away. He thanked the Divines that there was a great distance from the door to where they were. He cleared his throat. He straightened out his armor and walked towards the soldier.

Thea watched him walk away. She was disappointed in the interruption. But, he had tried to kiss her. She smiled and leaned against the wall. She looked up and watched the sky.

[crysdrawsthings]

@incorrectskyrimquotes I heard your call about meme redraw and hey, do I love them memes! I also love Eryn Skyrim, so it was a natural choice.

[leander-was-here]

Bathhouse of the palace.

There’s an obvious lack of such facilities in Skyrim. But I think the palace of kings has a beautiful spring fed bathhouse fit for a jarl. Ulfric gets to spend time relaxing with an old “friend”.

Details:

[gutztism]

"id follow you into the depths of oblivion, you know that" AND PEOPLE STILL DON'T THINK THEY'VE AT LEAST FUCKED???

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

I'm not going to give this an introduction. You're just going to find out. I will say though that I am feeling generous and here are 500 something words. *cough* All of the words which I wrote about an hour and a half ago. *cough*

Tagging: @oblivions-dawn @dirty-bosmer @bostoniangirl21 @hircines-hunter @umbracirrus

@bougainvillea-and-saltwater @skyrim-forever @vivifriend @theoneandonlysemla

@throughtrialbyfire @ladytanithia

“This place is a death trap.” Galmar mutters under his breath.

As he follows his King and Queen back to their camp across the roaring waters of the Karth, he contemplates how exactly it is that he will eventually come to his end. Forsworn arrow in the back? Elven sword? Or even perhaps a brain hemorrhage from how severe the throbbing in his head has gotten since his Queen has started testing what little faith he has left.

Talos guide him and may Kyne be merciful to him because he does not know if he will make it to the end of this war.

Even his boots seem to hammer home that point as every step he makes seems to increase the pounding behind his skull. How does Ulfric deal with it? Or maybe the better question is how is it that Ulfric digs himself into these situations?

He sighs, rubbing the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes.

“You would probably be more comfortable if you took off your helm, Galmar.” Dahlia turns to speak to him, a well-meaning smile on her face, as she walks hand-in-hand next to her husband.

Peace is a fragile thing. One breath, one word, one wrong move, and it all can shatter. All of them understand this, perhaps even better than most.

Galmar snaps. “We wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with if it weren’t for your almost childlike naïvety, or even if you had done your fucking job and killed Madanach when you had the chance.”

Dahlia’s eyes widen, and she stops abruptly. “I—excuse me?” Her voice warbles slightly as her brain tries to process what exactly it is he said to her.

“You heard me!” He takes another step closer to her, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You brought this all upon us. How do you even know it is going to work?”

“Galmar, that’s enough.” Ulfric steps in front of his wife and holds a hand up in attempts to placate his frustrated housecarl. “Tempers and tensions are running high, and we are all stressed. We’ve been on the road for two weeks now, and we are all tired.” 

“Maybe the Old Man in Rags is right. You let her—a novice, who has had little experience in these matters—do this when you have over a decade more of experience with this than she does. She has no idea what she is doing, and she is way over her head. I don’t know why you don’t see this…or perhaps I do.”

“That is enough, Galmar.” Ulfric inches his way closer until he is within spitting distance of his housecarl. “Go back to bring up the rear of our party, and cool off. That’s an order!”

Galmar chuckles, dryly and without humor. “So, this is how it’s going to be. After all the years we have spent together and all that we have been through, you side with your second head.”

The air vibrates, giving way to a sickening crunch, and Dahlia gasps as Ulfric’s fist connects with Galmar’s nose, blood immediately starting to pour from under his hand.

Everything comes to a standstill. In all the years they had been friends—brothers even—not once did one of them hit the other until now.

[hadvarandralof]

i assume that galmar’s bear hat is supposed to look intimidating but this is what he looks like to me