#His little lie with all that dragonborn look still works

[lingrimmart]

L: Don't ask me how Tilazis distorts his face like that, let's just praise the wondrous makeup he uses. It's not easy to wash away such a hard mask.

[an-angel-in-the-garden]

If you’re familiar with the games and their lore; if not I’ll happily settle with Fem!Siren or Fem!Dragon Reader; could I have some headcanons for Fem!Dovahkiin Reader x Aizen, Dottore, and Pantalone?

So I don't really know about skyrim but I did a little research to get to this, I hope you enjoy some dragon born reader!

Aizen

As with most things involving Aizen this started as scientific fascination He saw a use in you, a weapon to bend to his will but it only takes a few months for it to become something more

Your fighting spirit, your will that commands respect and your ability to communicate with not only hollows but those of dragon kind is simply stunning

He takes his time with courting you, gifts and sweet words in hopes of having you willing fall to his side

Aizen would wants to help you cultivate that power, let it grow and burn bright so you both may rule together

Nothing but praise once you start dating, he needs the world, all three worlds to know just how powerful you are

Any draconic features you might have must always be on display and he'll make sure the outfits for you proudly help show you off

By the end everyone will see how powerful you are and how much he's willing to do just to keep you around

Dottore

Dottore in a very similar way sees a scientific value in you but for him its becomes obsession quickly

There's no doubt that he wants to take you apart at first and he fully tries more then once

All the segments know to keep an eye on you and make sure you can't stray very far

He wants to tie you up and keep you forever close to him but he knows that wouldn't be very fun for either of you

That won't change how possessive he gets, Dottore wants to keep your background a secret, something only he knows

Of course that doesn't mean he won't help you control it but it does mean freedom is limited

More than anything Dottore's love is hard to bear but he knows you can handle him that you're willing to fight him on things and that only makes him more in love with you

Pantalone

He had no interest in what you were, ones background matters not to him but your strong will has always stood out

Pantalone is more interested in your work then you but business deals soon tip into lunches then friendship and finally real affection and love

The strength you show, the skills he sees you work hard to better, it all matters to him and leads him to trusting you over time

Truly being a dragonborn person really doesn't mean much to him it what's you do with said skills that matter, are you ashamed? Proud? No matter, he's here to support you and remind you blood means nothing

The most independent partner, his work and you will be kept separate and he prefers it that way once you start dating but if you ever need his help he's willing to lend it

A power couple in the sense that people fear you but Pantalone still takes the time to show you off, lots of public dates to remind both you and the public that nothing will stop him from loving you

Though he doesn't care much about your background he won't deny when he wants to learn more. If you know things, how you learn them, if you're interested in it then he also wishes to join you in finding out more

You will always just be yourself. No matter your looks, history or skills in his those things change nothing what matters is the here and now and for that he loves you

Not gonna lie this isn't really a dragonborn reader and I am sorry about that. It was really hard to make it work since I didn't know how far I wanted to take it and that led to it being very vague. I hope you still enjoyed this and thank you very much for requesting and reading. Have a good night or day~ Lilly

[thedorkurge]

i wish you would expand on the idea of Gale and Gortash being very similar+durgetash. Would love some angst!

Of course! Got a little carried away with it, hope you enjoy<3

You can read it under the cut or on Ao3

Only Human (1,9k)

The dragonborn poked at the campfire absentmindedly, carefully observing his companions.

They were all very capable, fine warriors, decent company. Handsome, certainly, but none of them interesting enough to hold his full attention.

Until today.

Today his attention was focused entirely on the wizard.

Gale had shared the truth about the orb with a heavy heart, convinced that this would be the end of his time with the party. In reality, he had just ensured that Durge would keep him as close as possible.

Now Durge was finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the markings peeking out of the wizard’s collar. So much destruction, just waiting to be unleashed. The deaths of thousands, if not tens of thousands, kept at bay only by occasional offerings to the beast within.

He could still recall the feeling of roiling power underneath his hand. He wanted it for himself, wanted to have such an exquisite potential for destruction. He wanted to feel it again. He wondered just how much of Gale’s body had been invaded by the blight. If he could feel the thrum of power in his fingertips, if it would echo into his body if Gale wrapped his legs around him. 

The more he thought about it, the more appealing it was. Gale wasn’t unattractive by any means, and there was something… familiar about him. As if looking at him reminded Durge of something that had been carved from his mind. Soft human features, dark eyes, brilliant god-defying ambitions.

He wanted.

Whether he wanted Gale, the orb, or whoever haunted his memories was yet to be decided, but for now he didn’t have to choose. He’d simply take all of it. There was a long road ahead of them after all, he’d have time to make the wizard his.

-

Saving the tieflings went against everything in his body, making him grit his teeth as waves of disappointment crashed over his chest. He wanted them dead. He wanted them impaled on the splinters of the gate they’d cowered behind. 

But his companions didn’t. And for now, it was still in his best interest to play along. Even as the visions from the Goblin camp lingered in the edge of his vision, taunting him with their vague familiarity. 

A handsome younger man, with a quick easy smile.

He could practically feel the man’s skin under his fingertips. But that part of his past was out of reach.

So for now, he would take his reward for being so disgustingly good.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that Gale’s touch felt the same.

-

It wasn’t until they reached the Shadow-Cursed lands that his hard work finally paid off. Gale was wrapped around his finger, drunk on the illusion he had created. So desperate to find purpose in his lover again, that he never realized that he wasn’t the only one seeking a replacement.

Gale had always worn his heart on his sleeve, but in moments like this, Durge almost pitied him.

“I’m in love with you.”

5 little words, filled with hope. So much hope, in fact, that anything but outright denial could not extinguish it.

Durge wouldn’t even have to lie. He merely pressed his lips to Gale’s and let the wizard craft the lie for him. Stoked the fires of his imagination just enough to keep him where Durge wanted him. Let him believe that the dragonborn wanted him for the same reasons. 

In moments like this one, he could pretend.

Gale’s body felt right in some ways, but jarringly wrong in others. He could fall into his embrace, imagine the smell of engine oil instead of incense, imagine shorter hair between his fingers and more fat around the torso that was flush with his. 

He had gotten quite good at that, pretending. Pretending that he was sane, pretending that he didn’t want to hurt anyone, that he didn’t want his past.

Pretending that his feelings for Gale were genuine.

Making the wizard fall for him was easy, his trusting nature making him believe every carefully crafted move. And he had gone along with it, because even if Gale wasn’t quite right, he was the closest he was going to get. Human, dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp intellect behind them.

Not quite old enough, hair not quite short enough, eyes not quite dark enough. 

It wouldn’t be hard to love Gale, if he wanted to. The wizard was smart, kind and strong, all qualities that should draw a person in.

But frankly, he wasn’t interesting enough. Durge valued him the way one might value a beautiful weapon, but he did not consider him an equal. He could feel the thrum of power under Gale’s skin, the destructive power that had earned his attention in the first place.

He wanted to possess him, to use him, to sharpen him to a perfect knife’s edge to turn against his enemies. One that would need guidance from the hands of a skilled killer.

Gale was so kind, eyes alight with righteous fire at every injustice. How Durge wished for even a hint of cruelty. For Gale’s fingers to dig into his skin, for his teeth to pierce flesh. For him to burn their enemies, heedless of civilian casualties. For him to show any hint of darkness that Durge could grab onto and drag to the forefront.

But no. Even his ambition was shrouded in layers of good intentions. He could ruin him, sure, take him from Mystra and make him forget his ideals for a moment, but he couldn’t change his nature.

And yet, there was something about him that made Durge keep coming back. Just enough of a similarity to what he lost. Even an imperfect replacement was better than the gaping hole his amnesia had left behind.

-

The gory tunnels under Moonrise twisted in labyrinthine patterns, yet Durge followed the path with confident steps, like a man navigating his own house in the dark. This had been a kind of home to him once, he was certain of it. He welcomed the feeling, even as his companions recoiled from the viscera and dismembered limbs

And then, the Chosen.

The favored of the dead three, united to form the absolute. So very familiar. And one in particular made his breath hitch.

Human. Dark hair. Dark eyes.

He almost killed Gale himself as the wizard drew his attention away.

“This is it. I must do as Mystra commands.”

In any other circumstance, he might have gone for it. The thought of a brilliant explosion, destroying the towers and bringing a second tragedy upon the already cursed lands… It was almost irresistible. He had entered this place fully expecting Gale’s death to bring a glorious end to their journey.

Only, he didn’t feel the gleeful anticipation of death in his gut. He felt the briefest stab of panic.

Because his lover would die.

Not the man beside him, but the man above. Enver Gortash.

So when he turned to Gale, he gave his most convincing performance yet. A hand on his cheek, sweet words of love, promises of a future for them, together. And Gale believed him. After all, why wouldn’t he? The kind of sincerity on Durge’s face couldn’t be faked. How was the wizard to know that it wasn’t Gale he saw when he said those things?

-

Their journey to Baldur’s Gate was long, but the time passed quickly. There were no quests, no people to save or kill, only a single-minded drive to reach the city. 

Durge still shared Gale’s tent at night, holding him in a well practiced lover’s embrace. But putting a face to his past had made it all too easy for his mind to wander. He didn’t need a replacement if he could reclaim the original.

He pushed some hair out of the sleeping wizard’s face pensively. It really was far too long.

He wasn’t supposed to do this. To lie, to manipulate, to use people. He knew that much, but he didn’t really care. What was the point of taking his companions’ thoughts into account if there was no benefit to him? He was the leader, after all. That’s what he was meant to be. Those weak enough to let themselves be manipulated brought it upon themselves. 

And that was the biggest problem with Gale. Kind, soft-hearted, frustratingly moral Gale. He was weak in the ways that mattered. Meant to follow, to be wielded by greater powers.

The dragonborn tightened his grip possessively, like a child with their favorite toy.

He was doing the man a favor.

-

The dream that revealed his heritage to him did not come as a surprise. There was hardly another explanation for his place among the chosen and the gifts from his father.

A bhaalspawn.

Mere months earlier such a revelation would have alienated Gale completely. But now the besotted fool showed no fear on anyone’s behalf but Durge’s own.

Part of him would have admired the backbone it took to face one of his kind without fear, but a much larger part of him rallied against the thought of it being replaced by pity.

Because Gale did pity him. That much was clear. He didn’t see the glory of Durge’s birthright, only a terrible curse for them to deal with. It was disappointing to know that a man gifted with as much potential for destruction as Gale could not appreciate the pure power a bhaalspawn held.

Luckily, the city held someone who would.

Phantom sounds from lost memories mixed with the sounds of moving metal as they entered Wyrm’s Rock, coming face to face with one of Gortash’ infamous Steel Watchers. The result of a brilliant mind put to proper use.

And yet they were nothing compared to the sight of the Lord himself, on the verge of becoming Archduke, thanks to years of planning and near-flawless execution. 

For the first time since waking up, Durge felt no indignation as he was greeted as an equal. His companions were swiftly forgotten. Whatever their input, he had no intention of taking it into account. Instead he reforged their alliance, finally taking steps towards filling the gaps in his mind. 

Durge was almost happy when Gale’s pity turned to disdain, even anger, upon hearing Enver’s explanation. Like he was finally seeing through the facade Durge had made for him. Maybe this would be what it took to make Gale fight. To make him work to preserve the version of Durge he wanted. He would fail regardless, but Durge so wanted to see him try, to see him struggle. For the wizard to sink his claws in as deep as they would go and know that it wasn’t enough.

When he left to see Gortash that night he felt no shame, as he finally found the feelings he’d been chasing. 

Soft skin, messy hair, claws that dragged and pinched and held on in ways that Gale never could. There was no hesitation, no need to limit himself to fit a fantasy. No doubt that his lover could handle his clawed caresses, even welcome them.

When he crawled into Gale’s bed in the early hours of the morning, he still had the Archduke's blood stuck under his fingernails.

[acidic-eye]

Whumptober day 24: Bury the sun, and I will Shine as bright as the Stars

Whumptober day 24 alt prompt: used as bait -

Taishen wasn't usually one for violence. 

He had come from the peaceful jadeshell village, where things such as fighting of any sort was limited to all of verbal, if even that. He had never been the starter of those fights, nor was he ever involved in them in any sort of way besides being a mediator at times depending on the situation. He was often the person dealing with the downfall of the fights, having those come into his shop to relax after a terrible argument with their lover or friend– he usually was more of a comfort to those around him.

Today he would be no such comfort.

Taishen glared upon the dragonborn clan in front of him, their icy scales reflecting against the sun, solemn hymns escaping from their mouths as each approached them, trudging through snow and ice to get to the circle, now splattered with fresh blood once again. Taishen could feel the child's blood dripping down his chest, the red stained his clothes, but he paid little mind to that. All he could focus on was the child he clutched tightly in his arms, the small body that didn't deserve to be as cold and still as it was in this moment. He huddled the child closer to his chest as the newcomers finally arrived at the circle, all holding solemn expressions as they gazed upon the circle the group stood within.

He listened to their words, yet couldn't care for their explanations. Each word dripping from their mouth another lie told upon the next, each sounding like claws scratching at metal, grading upon his ears as he backed further from this cult that was around him, looking at him with greedy eyes as they looked over his golden scales. Their icy cold eyes seemed to follow him with each word he said, with each movement he made whether in defense of the child or of himself–

The group decided to go with them, He felt anger well up in his chest each step they made alongside the murderers, they held such a friendly demeanor, one reminiscent of Jadeshell villages residents, one he had been far too familiar with all his life. He had to remind himself often that they weren't the same as those he grew up with, these were monsters who killed children. All in the name of bringing spring back?

He couldn't imagine doing such a thing, he would much rather throw himself off of a cliff then let a child be sacrificed. 

Then let his niece be sacrificed. 

- or: Reimagined episode 10 and 11 from Icebound told from Taishens perspective.

[editoress]

Sunburn healing salve | heatstroke | “if my pain will stretch that far”

Puts @soartfullydone's Scottish/Irish elves in the fantasy desert

*

The shade had moved. Riven wasn’t sure how long ago the outcropping’s shadow had passed her by, but she had spent that long trying to convince herself to get up and follow it. It wasn’t working. Her mouth was full of cotton and her eyes were full of sand. Worst of all, she felt feverish all over, like she’d gone from being an elf to being a baked chicken.

Tielese had been right. Jorst was awful.

When a new shadow fell over her, she could have cried, except of course for not having any energy or water to spare. The shadow said, “Fucking hell. Riv—”

A hand touched her raw, chafed face. She pried her eyes open and whined, “Ow.”

Erry jerked his hand back. She recognized even the blurry sight of him, which she blinked clear. After cursing quietly, he told her, “Sit up a minute.” He helped her upright, which she didn’t care for until he pressed a canteen to her lips. She gulped down lukewarm water. It ran out after only a few swallows.

Eravin scanned the area around them. Riven knew there wasn’t much to see: just sand, rocks, and more sand, with the blazing sun above them. “Can ye walk?”

Riven, limply sagging against him, considered that very hard. “Eh… no,” she was forced to admit when she couldn’t convince her legs to move.

“Alright.” He laid her back down; not much she could do about that. From the sand, she watched Erry pull his shirt over his head. She didn’t have the wherewithal to wonder what for, because there was only room in her cooked brain for the realization that she’d never seen him shirtless before. She’d joked about him being built, but he was really built. Huh. Wow.

Nooo, she shouldn’t be thinking about that. Riven tried to reorient her mind around how little she should be ogling her friend and why he would be stripping in the first place. Eravin helped by throwing his shirt over her, veiling everything with slightly damp white cloth.

Riven tried to pull it off. “I donnae want more clothes,” she said, muffled. “‘S too hot. I want less clothes!”

Eravin mercilessly pulled it back over her face. “You’re already burned to a crisp.” He helped her up again, wedged an arm under her knees, and lifted her with a grunt. “It’s a long walk back.”

Eravin was warm to the touch, but Riven reluctantly decided it was better than hot sand. Besides, she was moving. Someone else was here with her and she was leaving this fucking desert. “I wanna go home,” she muttered.

“Aye,” Erry rumbled. She could hear it in his chest from here. “Fuckin’ worst, this place.”

She smiled faintly. Her eyes were closed; no point in trying to look at anything. “Don’t hold back, Erry. Tell me how ya feel.”

He snorted. There was a steady rhythm to his heavy footsteps and deep breaths. “Hot as hell. No shade, no plants, no nothin’. And the dragonborn are arses. Gods, I cannae wait tae get back.” It was strangely soothing. His motions rocked her back and forth a bit. She was still in pain and radiating heat, but there was nothing she could do about it except lie there and listen to his heartbeat. “Riv, ye with me? Riv?”

[critter-in-skyrim]

A Near Miss

“Erandur!”

Erandur jumped slightly, not having expected the sudden shout from his companion. He turned to look at the Dragonborn, to see what had gotten them so worked up, only to come face to face with a cave bear. The shock of seeing a bear so close, combined with the shock of not having sensed the bear, froze Erandur in place, hands hanging limply at his side. The bear roared, rearing up, ready to strike Erandur down with its massive claws…but then an explosion of blood that wasn’t his own, slapped Erandur across the face.

It took another moment for Erandur to look up to see the arrow sticking directly out of the bear’s eye. Then the bear collapsed over, dead.

Suddenly, callused hands were gripping the side of Erandur’s face, turning his head so he could face his wide-eyed companion.

“Erandur!” the dragonborn said a bit too loudly, causing Erandur to wince. Everything felt too loud, too much in the moment. The dragonborn seemed to realize this, as they lowered their volume a bit. “Erandur, are you alright? That was really close, that bear almost got you! It didn’t get you, did it?” The dragonborn proceeded to manhandle Erandur a bit, turning his face from side to side in concern, scanning over his entire body for injuries.

“I…I-I’m fine,” Erandur said, though his voice came out strained. “I…I’m sorry, usually I’m more…observant than that,” he managed to say. His throat felt dry, his lungs felt heavy, speaking was a chore.

The dragonborn hummed, their face skeptical. Their thumb made a gentle stroking motion across his cheek, likely clearing away some of the bear blood that had gotten on him. Still, it made Erandur flush, at such a tender touch. The dragonborn made that motion a few times, before pausing, thumb resting on Erandur’s cheekbone.

“You look tired…have you been sleeping well…?” the dragonborn asked suddenly, their eyes narrowing.

“I…I have been getting an adequate amount of sleep,” Erandur said. He nearly winced, at how much of an obvious lie that sounded, even to his own ears.

Sure enough, the Dragonborn’s frown deepened and a bit of irritation entered their expression. “You’re lying to me Erandur, you know I hate it when you do that!” they exclaimed. This time, Erandur did wince, remembering their rather rocky first mission together, where he had lied to the Dragonborn several times. He truly was lucky to have a companion like them, who was so willing to forgive him…

The Dragonborn’s expression softened slightly. “Now, now, don’t go getting all mopey on me. The past is the past, right?”

When Erandur did not respond right away, the Dragonborn butted their head against his, raising their eyebrows. Erandur had to give a little smile at that. “Right,” he responded.

“I just hate when you lie to me, especially about your health. We’re partners, we need to know how each other is doing, or it could put us both in danger.”

Erandur sighed, but nodded. The Dragonborn had a valid point, and the situation that had just happened with the bear, proved that.

“Besides, you’re my friend, too,” the Dragonborn added on. They began acting a bit shy, their eyes refusing to meet Erandur’s red ones. “I care about you, you know?”

Heat returned to Erandur’s face. He had to swallow before speaking again. “I know. I…care about you too,” he said softly.

“Oh.” The Dragonborn blinked a couple times, almost as though they hadn’t expected Erandur to return their sentiments. They licked their lips, and suddenly, Erandur realized how close they were standing, how the Dragonborn was still holding onto him in that protective way…they were so close…

Until the Dragonborn stepped away abruptly, slapping their thigh. “Well! We better get you cleaned up, don’t want to attract any vampires or werewolves or…anything.” With that, they turned, marching towards a stream, waving for Erandur to follow them.

Erandur paused for a moment, trying to understand what had just occurred between them. As usual, the Dragonborn did not give him very much time to analyze their strange behavior. “Erandur, you coming?”

“Yes,” he called, before following after the Dragonborn.

[kagedbird]

TESSDE AU (+ Lucia :]) (Allora part 9)

Eventually the group is shown their rooms- all lavish and nicely put together- Allora and Kaidan taking Lucia for a quick walk before a nap.

Allora: *sighs, reaching out tiredly to his hand and holding it tightly* I don't know how long I can do this.

Kaidan: Yer doin' just fine lass. He was right, they adore you.

Allora: *glances down at Lucia, who's a little ways ahead, looking at things* ...Not in the way I expected though.

Kaidan: Oh?

Allora: *lets out a heavy breath, rubbing her temples* It's- it's fine. I shouldn't get so worked up about it, really.

Kaidan: *pulls her to a stop, keeping an eye on Lucia* What's on yer mind? You've been quiet, but I thought it was just nerves.

Allora: *also keeping an eye on Lucia, frowning heavily* I just... I wanted to make a good impression on them. As his partner- not as the Dragonborn. It... hurt that he forgot to mention me- mention Lucia- our relationship to his parents. Like... we weren't worth mentioning past our heroism. And it's dumb, I don't want to think that. I know he cares... but it still hurts.

Kaidan: Won't lie, was confused about it as well. Thought he enjoyed yer company as more than a friend- what with the whole kissing thing I caught you two doing.

Allora: *throws him a light, flustered glare* Shut.

Kaidan: *chuckles, pulling her close and gives her a squeeze* It'll be a'right, Trouble. Just breathe. Maybe it really did just slip his mind in all the excitement. We'll be out of here before long. *sighs, allowing himself to be seen looking uncomfortable* Gods know I want to... he really is a rich bastard, ain't he?

Allora: No. He's just rich. Bastard implies he was born out of wedlock, and we know he wasn't. *hugs him back closely* Hang in there, though. I'm not really comfortable with the whole... rich thing either. I feel so poor. I used to live in tents for Christ's sake.

Kaidan: We both did. *chuckles* We're outta our element here, but we're here together. I've got your back, Allora.

Allora: *pulls him down for a kiss, pulling away at Lucia's giggle* Oh, you think it's funny that I'm kissing your papa, huh?

Lucia: *runs back over to them, hugging their legs* I'm happy that mama loves papa so much! Hehe!

Kaidan: *heart melting as he picks her up and kisses her forehead* We love you too, sprout.

Allora: *kisses her cheek and knuckles* My little ray of sunshine. Come on, I think it's time for a nap. Mama's tired.

Lucia: Yay, nap! I wanna sleep in the middle!

Kaidan: *chuckles as they walk back* Aye, sprout, you can take the middle...

[weirdlet]

Whooo, tonight was a rollercoaster!  On our way to the manse with the other anchorite cultists, the lot of us got sidetracked by screaming and fire and it turned out a logging camp had been set upon by a vampiress demanding the lumber for fixing a dreadnought in the name of her master, Evendeath (who, according to our history checks, is a dracolich.  god we need to go back to that barrow and get that legendary sword of dragon-slaying!)  This is after we had to nudge around an ‘evangelist of Cryovain’ who was blocking the road and telling us to rejoice.

Our elfin ranger was off with the chief of the orc-tribe, commiserating and selling the lie about the death of his wife and the one anchorite priest (who went off together to start a new life, first loves versus political marriages and all that).  Our dragonborn warlock and tortle barbarian each had a lovely wedding night on the trail with their orcish trossfrau, who are turning out to be pretty badass in a fight.  Glory stood watch for them and occasionally heckled from his perch in the trees.

After all that, we finally got to The Manse.  Scouted about, scooted past the rootling wereboards, found a hole in the roof that Glory flew up to explore while the rest snuck in to the first floor via the windows.

Glory looks down upon the barracks full of about twenty orcs on the second floor, all of whom are arming up and staring down through the hole in their floor at the rest of the party sneakily sneaking in.  Glory downs a potion of fire-breath.  Drops down through the hole in the ceiling.  Sprays Orc #1 full in the face and lands neatly down below to point out to the rest of the party that We Have Company up above. Shit gets real from there.

Our warlock Shatters the ceiling, dropping all the orcs down fifteen feet in a shower of plaster and woodrot and blood and- get this- they all die of falling damage.  The vineblights and the twigblights are rapidly set on fire between Glory’s firebreath, once-daily Burning Hands, and our tortle soldier’s magical barbarian whirlwind of FIYAH.  Everything- the walls, the fall of more twigblights, the billowing clouds of plaster dust and rotten wood, is on fire. We skedaddle and someone gets off a lucky shot that pops the Guardian Tree that I never even saw because of the s;lkjdfq34 fog of war settings that block line of sight everyfuckingwhere in this online tabletop program- but I digress.  The priestess casts Augury and decides all is lost, books it- out the back door where we have all gathered, and FOR ONCE, Glory gets right up and personal with a sneak attack because IN CASE ANYONE HAD FORGOTTEN- WE *STILL* DO NOT HAVE ANY SILVER WEAPONS IN THIS PARTY.  And in this edition you may be able to sneak attack undead, but werecritters are flat-out IMMUNE TO EVERYTHING if you don’t have silver. Oh yeah- there was a wereboar in the room with the fire and the collapsed ceiling.  We’d left him mostly-dead and whack-a-moling in the flames, but he came around the back way too and we finally did him in- and buried him with every silver coin we had because that’s the best option we could come up with since fire, apparently, does not work as a permanent solution.

So- we have successfully fulfilled the requests of the orcs and survived, we should be able to, next session, get back into some level of civilization, get paid, and figure out our next steps with the damn white dragon.  Maybe look a little more into that Evendeath guy.  Home for tea and medals.

[sunspire-knight]

I translated my old short fanfic from Russian to English (all by myself, without any translator, so I'm a little bit anxious to post it, but I really want to. Idk how to tag it, but, am–)

❗️cw/tw: smoking, alcohol, internal homophobia, self-hatred❗️

short description: USSR 90s AU with my special interest, characters from Skyrim, my Dragonborn Zendar (Zakhar for this AU) and Marcurio (Mark for this AU), his husband. I wrote this fanfiction on his behalf. Men who love men in the post-soviet space very often face internal homophobia and hate themselves for their feelings towards men. That's why Mark is struggling here, but probably that's just because I enjoy writing painful stuff about queer people–😭

━────────────━

collage by me!

and the song which I was listening to while writing — for the atmosphere✨️

━────────────━

I wrap myself in my cheap coat, my feet freezing in autumn boots while I stand in the snow and wait for a marshrutka. It is going to take a while for it to arrive in this snowfall, but I will wait. I will freeze, but I will wait.

Somewhere on the other side of the road, among the rows of Khrushchevkas and panel houses, there is a light in the window of Zakhar's apartment. He is probably drinking his favorite tea with three tablespoons of sugar as usual, and watching the Spartak vs. Dynamo game on TV. I wish I could be with him now, not to watch football, not to drink tea with him, but to lie with my head on his lap and finally relax. I have not been able to relax for a long time.

I am lying in the bath without water, right in my clothes, looking at the ceiling. I turn on the water. I do not adjust it — it pours a little warm, a little yellow from rust in the pipes. The plaid shirt sticks to my body, the trousers too. I throw my legs up on the wall and lie there until my back starts to hurt. I do not want to think about Zakhar, but he gets into my head. I hate him. I hate him so much.

I drink 'forty percent' from a faceted glass. I wince — I hate vodka, as I hate Zakhar. I drink to muffle my thoughts. I smoke until my eyes are blurred, get drunk and fall to the floor. I vomit and crawl to the toilet. While I am throwing up, I feel like I am spitting out my own lungs along with my guts. Bile and vodka are bursting out of me. I feel very sick.

Muska is running around, meowing anxiously. Your owner is an idiot, Muska.

Exhausted, I lie down on the bed and light up again. How angry Zakhar would be at me right now... I smoke a whole pack, cough and feel how my chest aches. I understand that I can not do this anymore.

And so I live week after week, distracted by forced trips to the university, to work, trips to the store. I am indifferent to the world. And disgusted with myself.

Zakhar will not leave me alone in any way. He calls me at home, tells me something for hours, and I sit with my legs tucked up on a dusty armchair, listening to him. His kind voice on the phone, and it is so hard for me to remain calmly silent. It is hard not to shout anything superfluous into the phone. In Zakhar's voice, they tell me something about sports, about the district news, about what the old ladies in the entrance of his house are talking about, what is happening in our country. I do not care. My lips are trembling treacherously, and I clench my teeth tightly so that if I start talking, Zakhar will not hear weakness in my voice.

But now I am still standing at the snow-covered stop. My marshrutka drives up, I jump into it like into a black abyss, grab the handrails and shake off the snow. Behind my back, again, "Pass the fare, comrade" — I pass it on. I am not sitting down, I am going out soon anyway. It is not that far from Pervomaiskaya to my stop.

Here I go. The snow hits my face again in large flakes. Damn December. But the New Year is coming soon, right? I see colored lights in people's windows. Everyone is scurrying through the streets, happily chattering like jackdaws. Every year I manage to miss the moment when the general commotion begins. Zakhar will probably call me soon, as usual, and invite me to celebrate. I will agree. I will sit in his kitchen, drink coffee, stare absently at the television interference, and listen to the chimes, wondering what will happen next, in the coming year. There is fun in the next room, and Zakhar will invite me to join them. I will submit, I will enter the living room. Some guy, recognizing my face and remembering my last name, will jokingly call me some slurs, and I will not care. Zakhar will pour something for me. I get drunk easily and quickly, so soon, after half an hour of uncontrollable laughter at stupid jokes and attempts to joke back, I will fall asleep in the corner of the room like a hopeless alcoholic. Every year it happens somehow like this. The same movies on TV, the same holiday.

Probably, this New Year will be about the same. That is just it... with Zakhar, everything will be more difficult.

I walk further along the road covered with soft snow, winding along courtyards and entrances. A cold wind blows between the concrete boxes. The snow wipes away my shame like washing powder. I take a cigarette out of my pocket again, take a drag and smoke for a long time, looking at the fragment of the moon in the black sky.

There is a hard and bloody war going on in my heart. It does not seem so crazy out here in the cold, but when I am alone in the apartment, I know what it is like. I know what it is like to forbid yourself to feel. My dear Zakhar Demidov, you have always been so kind to me and always called me your best friend, and I... I destroyed it all. I am sorry, Zakhar. Sorry. I did not know that I could love too.

I throw my cigarette into a snowdrift and hide in the entrance, walk up the stairs to my apartment on the second floor, rush in, throw off my coat, take off my heavy boots, sink to the floor and remain silent, burying my shaking hands in my snow-soaked black hair. I do not understand how I allowed myself to do this. I do not understand. I do not want anything. I do not want to live, think, eat, or sleep. I do not want to realize that I am alive. From the feelings inside, everything hurts and is torn to pieces. I clearly know that love and I are incompatible things.

Realization rolls in slowly, incrementally, like an avalanche descending from a mountain. Me, who lives in the gangster nineties, on the edge of a cliff, where the Soviet Union ends and nothing begins, blackening with a terrible abyss. Me, who was born after the war. Me, raised with forced ideas of family values. Me, who never found the meaning of life, which, in fact, does not exist at all, and never did... It is all me. I am Mark Hoffman, born nineteen fifty-seven, educated and, it seems, not a stupid person, but in fact a complete idiot. Because I fell in love with someone who I was not allowed to fall in love with.

Zakhar will come to me again. He often comes in just to chat and play with the cat. He says he likes my company. I am going to pretend like nothing happened again. To look at him, hating myself and my stupid heart. To lie to his face that I quit smoking. To discuss newspaper clippings with articles about the decaying West, where for two men to love each other is no longer something shameful. I will laugh about it and say, "It is hard to believe." But, it is interesting... What will Zakhar think?

And I do not hate him after all. I love him. I love him too much to forgive myself for that.

━────────────━

It was definitely MUCH better in Russian, but I hope at least someone will like it–

[argisthebulwark]

Thinking abt the Miraak x Mara priest TLD where Mara priest is very devoted (catholic undertones) and is sworn to the purest form of love (catholic undertones) and is completely celibate as to appease their lady (catholic undertones) idk how aedra worship works much, but I’m assuming since Erandur gives off heavy priest vibes it works.

They spare Miraak, and are determined redeem him, however uh oh looks like the chosen one is touch starved and uh oh! Looks like Miraak is a very handsome nord under that mask and…uh oh! Looks like they have to share a tent with him! And uh oh! Looks like somebody is well read and charming………….

 heya this is the first thing i’ve written in so, so long. sorry it’s a little rough lol.

minors dni, it isn’t explicit but like. it’s almost there. it’s nsfwish. they/them used for the dragonborn because that’s what anon used

Their muscles screamed but they forced one foot in front of the other. The Dragonborn gritted their teeth together and took another tortuous step through the gathering snow. Miraak’s dead weight threatened to drag them down, tempting them to give in to the urge to simply lie down and wait for the elements to finish the job. His arms were locked around their neck and the points of that damned mask were doing a number on their armor.

 “Lady Mara, protect me.” The Dragonborn found comfort in the weight of an amulet resting heavily in their pocket. The implications of wearing it were enough to make their cheeks flush - they could not wear it as worshippers of the other Divines were permitted to without drawing unwanted attention. The traditional robes worn by those who cared for her shrines and temple weren’t suited for the Dragonborn’s adventurous lifestyle. 

Miraak’s fingers brushed over their solution - the worn thread of Mara’s symbol long ago embroidered onto their cloak by an old friend. The Dragonborn wasn’t sure where his mind was but his body was becoming more restless with each moment. Their trek was almost complete. 

It was by pure chance they’d stumbled across the shallow cave. Miraak’s palace was intimidating and they’d made countless circles around it, surveilling it, searching for its weakest point. The former inhabitants of the cave were a small band of werewolves that had unfortunately fallen to the Dragonborn’s blade. Their guilt lingered but some small part of their brain recognized that it had to be a small miracle, somewhere safe to place Miraak while they attempted to heal him. Perhaps Mara had been keeping a close eye on them. 

It was unbearable, hauling him across Solstheim’s tundra. His boots dragged and his mask stabbed them with every step. It was the only touch the Dragonborn recalled receiving in years - they shook hands and often placed their hand on a shoulder or forehead during blessings but it had been far longer since they felt the touch of another person. Their love was reserved entirely for Lady Mara, finding her instructions to live soberly and respectfully fit into all aspects of their life. It was easy to keep distance from others when you became the embodiment of an ancient prophecy. 

He was warm. The Dragonborn could feel each breath he took, his large chest pressed to their back and somehow it felt like breaking their chastity being so close to him. With his arm around their shoulders and hand bumping against the front of their armor was far too intimate.

That dark, oily power granted by Hermaeus Mora radiated from him. The Dragonborn knew they should’ve left him to Mora. Miraak had been nothing short of an antagonist in their life for months - stealing Dragon Souls they desperately needed to help those still struggling in the wake of the Civil War, enslaving the people of the island for his own selfish purposes, and taking every opportunity to insult them. 

But they couldn’t shake the feeling there was something in him worth saving. 

Perhaps it was Lady Mara’s light shining through the Dragonborn, she saw something that was far deeper than mortal eyes could see. There was something within Miraak, some scrap of the First Dragonborn that could bring light to Nirn after all of the damage he’d inflicted upon its people. If Lady Mara felt strongly enough about Miraak to guide the Dragonborn they would not refuse. 

It was either luck or Mara’s grace that Miraak remained unconscious as long as he did. The Dragonborn dumped his body onto the hard ground once they were safely hidden within Frostmoon Crag, walls of chilly stone serving as their shelter. He grunted once before lapsing back into silence. The Dragonborn kept a careful gaze on him while they set up the tent that had housed them countless times. It was only intended for one person and they still hadn’t decided if letting Miraak out of their sight was a good idea. He could wake at any point of the night and disappear - or do far worse to them. 

Once the meager fire was built, they heard him stirring. Miraak’s deep groan rumbled through his chest and the Dragonborn felt something akin to excitement shoot up their spine. A gloved hand rose to his face, easily knocking the mask out of its way before rubbing at his forehead. The Dragonborn watched in silent awe through the shivering flames as Miraak propped his arms up, eyes closed and sucking in a deep breath. Was he unaware of their presence? It felt odd watching him, the vulnerability of seeing his face.

“You’re staring.” 

His voice shocked them. The Dragonborn felt a terrible fluttering in their chest when his eyes cracked open, sliding over the little campsite before glowering at them. His lower lip was cut and bloodied but still he smirked at them, his eyes a dark green they’d never seen before. They felt their cheeks heat up and realized what they were doing - who they were looking at and reigned themself in. Clutching at the amulet in their pocket the Dragonborn stared into the fire and forced their thoughts to return to the mental recitation of a familiar prayer. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” His voice was just quiet enough to make the Dragonborn wish they could move closer. It was enticing to hear him speak so softly after hearing his booming Shouts for so long. 

“Disappoint?” They cleared their throat and shoved away thoughts that threatened to turn indecent when he tossed his cloak aside. 

“I’ve been told that people expect some horrid mass of tentacles behind the mask.” Was he joking? “My face has been known to cause disappointment.” 

The Dragonborn didn’t have a response that didn’t directly contradict their wholehearted dedication to Lady Mara. They chose to instead gather their knees close to their chest and center themself, remembering the purpose in saving him. They knew some of Mora’s filthy power remained within him and could only pray that Mara’s loving embrace would be enough to save him. 

“You are not what I expected.” The Dragonborn finally stated. It was rare for Miraak to be so quiet, so docile. They feared the only chance at a calm conversation was slipping away. 

They could feel his gaze. His eyes were on them, sharper than last time. The Dragonborn reminded themself that they were more powerful than him. They had defeated him multiple times. They were going to salvage the part of his soul that remained intact. They could hold a simple conversation with him. 

“What did you expect?” 

“I expected you to start another fight as soon as you awoke.”

“Is that what you want, Little Dragon?” 

His voice was directly in their ear. When had he moved closer? They’d been so focused on staring into the fire and avoiding the impure thoughts about him tickling at the back of their mind, they’d allowed Miraak to get within striking range. They would not tolerate any more distractions. Lady Mara had blessed them with the power to heal and they refused to let it go to waste. 

“I do not want to fight you.” Turning their stare on him, the Dragonborn found Miraak’s face within inches of theirs. Heat flashed across their face when they remembered the warmth of his body pressed to theirs, the calming rhythm of his breathing against their back. 

“We are good at fighting each other.” Miraak’s sinful lips broke out in a smile, teeth that looked just a bit too sharp reminding the Dragonborn of how dangerous he was. “It was the only contact I got over these past few eons.”

“I do not wish to fight you anymore.” The Dragonborn insisted, the amulet clutched in their clammy hand. Why were they so nervous? They’d done this countless times before. Citizens all over Skyrim had been healed or blessed by their scarred hands. Miraak should be no different. “I am a disciple of Lady Mara. I received her blessings and accepted her into my heart.”

“And you wish for me to do the same?” He leaned closer, that devious smirk still on his face. He knew he was getting under their skin and enjoyed it. A light danced in the depths of his eyes when they refused to back down. “How is it that you perform these blessings, Dovahkiin? Last I heard, Mara’s only purpose these days is when some farmers decide to marry.” 

“Lady Mara is the Divine of love. She is not some simple signature on a license of marriage.” Rage burned away any of their nervousness and the Dragonborn found one of their fingers stabbing into Miraak’s unarmored chest. The tunic he wore was torn and stained, though they couldn’t be sure if the blood was his own or from one of his many victims. “How long have you lived without love in your heart? Without being comforted or healed?” 

“Will you bless me, then?” Miraak’s voice deepened, a strand of his hair falling into his face. The Dragonborn took a calming breath, reminding themself that Lady Mara had led them to Miraak’s palace and must have a reason for doing so. She must know that his soul was worth saving and their connection was important to his redemption. 

“I will.” 

Miraak remained quiet while the Dragonborn worked. They spread wrinkled blankets over the floor of the tent, the one pillow squashed from its life at the bottom of their pack would have to work. Ceremonies honoring Mara were usually held within her temple with plenty of pews or near one of her shrines, cushions provided for those performing prayers in her name. The Dragonborn maneuvered Miraak until he sat squarely in the center of their tent, eyes closed and hands resting in his lap. That damned smirk was still on his face as if he doubted they would be able to cleanse him of Mora’s influence. 

A couple busted sticks of incense smoldered near the entrance of the tent and their amulet of Mara sat nearby. It was a comforting sight, something to ground them in Miraak’s distracting presence. 

“We pray to you, Mara, Mother of Love.” The Dragonborn recited the words Maramal had long ago drilled into their brain. He remained earnest in his belief even after so many years while the Dragonborn had become used to their faith, a quiet companion. “Mother Mara, turn your gaze upon this pure soul. Bless us with your gaze.” 

Surprisingly, his only response was a short bark of laughter. No condescending commentary on their faith. The Dragonborn repeated their appeal for Mara’s attention and love while they kneeled before Miraak. Placing the amulet of Mara on him felt strange but he didn’t fight it. His eyes remained shut as if truly absorbing the words the Dragonborn recited over him. 

Clasping hands with Miraak, the Dragonborn channeled their faith and love of Mother Mara into the touch as they had so many times before. The soft golden glow of Mara’s restorative magic lit the small tent, unfortunately highlighting his handsome features. His touch was warmer than expected despite the nervous chilliness of the Dragonborn. His thumb ran over the back of their hand, a gesture far too intimate for people who had fought to the death. He must be trying to unnerve them. 

“How has Mara blessed you, Little Dragon?” He murmured, not bothering to open his eyes. He somehow knew just how to fluster them. His hands left their grasp, skimming up their shoulders to play with the clasp of their cloak. They had to blame the shivers and goosebumps on the sheer length of time since they’d last felt someone’s touch. Miraak simply could not be affecting them in such a way. 

“The Lady has brought light and purpose into my life.” The Dragonborn gulped, ignoring the need pulsing through their body. 

“Has she brought you love?” 

“I hold love for all children of the Divines.” The answer was automatic, something they’d stated many times before. 

“She is the Goddess of Love though, correct? Has she not brought love to a devout follower like you?” His fingers were wandering freely over their armor and the Dragonborn tried to summon the will to tell him to stop. It felt like he left a trail of fire in his wake, leaving their body alight. 

“My lifestyle is not compatible with a spouse.” 

“I don’t recall mentioning a spouse.” Miraak’s tone was teasing. He knew exactly what he was doing. The Dragonborn cleared their throat and continued with their prayer, hoping that Miraak would fall back into his silence. 

“By your grace Mother Mara, allow us to live peaceful and sober lives. To honor our families and homes in your stead.” 

“You should’ve been a follower of Dibella instead of Mara.” Miraak’s hands wandered over the Dragonborn’s waist and settled on their hips, drawing them in closer. The stumbled over their words, intending to reprimand him but he felt so fucking good. “This would be much more fun.” 

“I honor a pure love in Mother Mara’s honor.”

“And you deny yourself pleasure in her name, too?” Miraak murmured, a thumb tracing their lower lip. The Dragonborn heard themself moaning and was startled that such a wanton sound could come from them. “Surely she wouldn’t want such a pious follower to miss out on pleasure simply because it is impure.” 

“I worship Mara because she saved me when I was nothing, she gave my life purpose.” 

“I wish you would worship me, Little Dragon.” Miraak’s lips brushed over theirs for a fleeting moment and the Dragonborn felt their control falter. The years spent honoring Mara in all of their actions, shoving down their wants and needs in the name of honor disappeared the moment Miraak’s warm breath tickled the overheated skin of their throat. 

It was so wrong to be vulnerable with him like this. It was dangerous and against everything Maramal and Dinya had preached for so many years but it felt right. Miraak’s strong grasp on their waist when they twisted fingers into his unruly hair, his teeth scraping skin sensitive from being untouched for too long. 

“I would give you pleasure you can’t even imagine.” He mumbled against their skin and the Dragonborn forgot about the vows they’d made so long ago. His touch was everywhere, mouth leaving kisses in its wake until the Dragonborn couldn’t think about anything other than him. “Or perhaps it is your turn to be worshiped.”

[basically-i-write-shit]

PLEASE tell me about the hq dnd au. I’m intrigued

I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE

ok but like genuinely I wrote a little oneshot of how I think it would go for tskym week like...three years ago and I'm disappointed it didn't get as much interest as i thought it would. I got really into D&D when I started listening to The Adventure Zone in 2018 (which, I think it's absolutely crazy that was 4 years ago btw) and I've been obsessed with the idea of the hq gang playing dnd for a while.

The premise of the fic is that the reader is experiencing the campaign, not the process of making it, but through a unique lens: we're watching the PCs instead of the characters playing at the table. Each character's PC is of course created with a class, race, and backstory that is different than their own with unique names- but, because it's still a Haikyuu fic, we're still watching the characters go through these situations.

So like, in my example fic, we read and comprehend that "Tsukishima" and "Yamaguchi" are the ones controlling the narrative, but their characters are the ones experiencing the sensations.

Ex:

The way I would work this is by essentially writing a fantasy Haikyuu fic that loosely follows D&D 5e rules/my small knowledge of how D&D works, and include cut scenes like provided in the example to show the "playing" D&D aspect of the fic. This would also be able to excuse any acts that the "Characters" (PCs with their names changed to reflect the person playing them) do that may seem OOC or weird choices for them to make by blaming it on a "bad roll" or "failed check." Essentially bailing the author out if people complain about a character's actions being "totally OOC for him" lol.

"But 12 people is a lot of people for a D&D party, isn't it?" The answer to that is yes. Having all of one team or multiple teams in one campaign together would be near impossible for an IRL game. Like, not gonna lie there. I would probably have the team split into two separate campaigns that occasionally overlap, with other characters from other teams simply being NPCs that the audience, looking at the story from an outsider's perspective, could potentially identify as another character. Great example would be, if the campaign follows Karasuno, seeing a childhood friend duo could imply either Kuroo and Kenma or Oikawa and Iwaizumi or one of the Miya twins and Aran, depending on the relationship of the duo.

I have a lot of feelings about potentially writing this one day, and the ideas are probably confusing if you haven't read the oneshot I did with the concept, but year. D&D AU.

Additionally:

In a Karasuno-centric version of this, Ennoshita is of course the DM.

They host at Tanaka or Daichi or Yamaguchi's houses the most, because they have a lot of space and their parents aren't home often enough for such a large group meet in.

Another way to shrink the group is to just have Narita and Kinoshita have their own separate campaign that Enno DMs on the side, but I like the idea of an even split for players.

Tanaka has played a dragonborn in every campaign he's ever played and has a custom dice set that looks like a dragon's hoard.

Akiteru DMed a mini campaign for Yamaguchi and Tsukki when they were in middle school, and Enno discovering their minis while studying at Yamaguchi's house is how they get their team campaign going.

Hinata, like everything else, is a complete newbie but somehow manages to rock everyone's shit still. Like, everyone's convinced his dice are loaded even after doing multiple float tests, but he just had great rolls. That is, until he needs to have a good roll in the middle of some important combat and he gets a 3 with a -2 add on and nearly beefs it.

Tsukki has healing spells, which he absolutely should not be allowed to have bc he refuses to use them on anyone anyway.

Tsukki and Daichi are very anti-roleplay. Meanwhile, Suga, Tanaka, and Hinata absolutely love it. Everyone else is neutral with a positive lean.

Yamaguchi is surprisingly the one that romances everyone he sees- surprising because of his general demeanor, but also because I genuinely think he either plays paladin, cleric, or monk. Very non-flirtatious beings, usually.

Yachi and Kiyoko are definitely in this somewhere. I can't decide if I want them actually playing or as NPCs somewhere in the story, but they're definitely there.

I like to think that the other teams also have their own campaigns going on, and sometimes they run into one another at a post-session dinner or something.

This could honestly fit into the highschool canon or in like a college AU.

[kettlequills]

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

[thegrunkiest]

Not gonna lie, returning to Skyrim over the past few days has reminded me of just how much I hope TES VI does factions like they did in Oblivion.

!Some critical ranting of Skyrim/positive rambling of Oblivion ahead!

I’m saying this after I started trying to immerse myself in the College of Winterhold, at last, after installing some good magic mods. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t really care less about this Eye of Magnus or why the Psijic Order wants to talk with me specifically. I couldn’t care about stopping Ancano I can hardly remember what even happens in the questline aside from go into ruin, find orb, go into basement, talk to an aura, go to a ruin, beat up a skeleton dragon and something after that.

This is the same issue I’ve personally had with the Companions, and to a lesser extent, the Thieves Guild. I legit only remember the Companions as “the guild that gives you lycanthropy”. Thieves Guild is a little better, as I do distinctly remember a few of the characters and their quests could get quite creative. I never felt particularly invested however.

So why exactly do I (and possibly some of you) think Skyrim’s factions don’t work, and that they should look back on Oblivion when creating questlines for the next games? For me personally, it boils down to two components: the state of affairs, and sense of progression.

Sense of Progression

I’ll start with the simplest one first. Let’s use the College as an example again, comparing it to the Mage’s Guild of Oblivion. What do you do to gain entry to the College? Cast the requested novice/apprentice level spell (or alternatively, shout if you’re a Dragonborn or just schmooze if you, for some reason, already have 100 in speech). In Oblivion? You have to gain a recommendation from each of the individual chapters by completing a quest unique to each quild hall, which involve a little more work than simply casting a spell.

Alright, alright, so what do we do once we’re in? At the College, we engage in a little lesson with our many (see: three) fellow students. Cool (it’s also our only magic lesson from what I recall - great education system!). Then we’re immediately thrust into the questline, with no real or necessary deviations from the main subject regarding the Eye of Magnus. Then guess what - you’ve become Arch Mage!... wait what? I thought I just joined not too long ago?...

I find it hard to feel good about gaining the leadership role, despite me having just stopped a potentially devastating crisis to earn it, because I never felt more than a junior beforehand. This is how Oblivion does it right with its ranking system in my opinion. While I admit I might have chosen a bad example to draw from, as the Mage’s Guild quests also heavily concerns the main threat in at least some way, but what personally makes it more immersive for me is the fact you’re promoted whilst you’re playing - even to the point you’re being passed onto a different superior for more daring assignments! This is where the little things really count.

Then there’s the Thieves Guild. Unless there’s some backstory I’m glancing over, I don’t see why the Thieves Guild of Skyrim couldn’t have shared the same ranking system as the Oblivion branch, if no one else. In Oblivion, you can only initiate the quests after you’ve passed a certain threshold of fencing stolen goods, something that encourages you to actually be a thief to progress as a thief. I’m not just going from Pickpocket to Gray Fox, as I feel I am from an initiate to Nightingale/Guildmaster in Skyrim; you have various titles you earn in between.

If I had to summarize the point I’m trying to make - I’ll use Oblivion’s Dark Brotherhood. Arguably one of the most popular questlines in TES. Now, could you imagine an Oblivion Dark Brotherhood without Whodunit?, The Assassinated Man, Permanent Retirement, etc. - just axe those unrelated quests in favor of focusing on rooting out the Traitor. No promotions, just primarily finding ways to stop a person who, probably, has killed assassins much more seasoned than you! A deadly threat! Why? Because you’re you! And you obviously deserve to become the Listener after being a Murderer the whole questline.

Which leads me into my next point....

State of Affairs

Skyrim’s questlines seem to have a fixation on factions that are destitute and/or are on the brink of extinction. Business is dry with the Thieves Guild; in the Dark Brotherhood, all but the Falkreath sanctuary is destroyed and the Old Ways are abandoned; the Companions are struggling with the lycanthropy that plagues its strongest members; the College of Winterhold have little reputation in quite an anti-magic province; hell, even the Blades, who were previously slaughtered and run into hiding. The Dawnguard factions I feel are an exception (a reason I like that DLC so much), as the Dawnguard can excuse its low wealth and reputation with the fact that it was just reformed, and the Volkihar Clan have, for all I know, have just been... existing, in the shadows.

Admittedly, Oblivion also has a bit of a running theme among its faction - stable and well-organized factions plagued by a specific threat. The Blades have their Oblivion Crisis, the DB with their traitor ordeal, the Mage’s Guild with the necromancers/Mannimarco, the Fighter’s Guild with the Blackwood Company, Court of Madness with Jyggalag.

The reason why I prefer Oblivion’s guilds over Skyrim, I suppose, is related to my personal problem of power fantasy. Skyrim is a big old power fantasy. You’re the Dragonborn, the chosen one, the Hero of prophecy. So obviously you need to be the savior of each guild, right? You have to be the one the Night Mother deems Listener; the one the Psijics talk to; the one Nocturnal makes a Nightingale.

One might say it’s more realistic that way though, as it adds to Skyrim’s aesthetic of a darker, more unstable time with the Civil War and return of dragons. That’s a fair point. But did 90% of the guilds have to be restricted to poor little groups? Surely the Companions could’ve had other bases in some of the cities somehow, or the Thieves Guild have another hideout in, say Solitude?

You could argue you’re also chosen in Oblivion, sure. But while Uriel saw you in his dreams, you’re place as HoK wasn’t in part due to a superpower, either. I felt I was closing the Oblivion gates because my characters were who they were. You aren’t the only one who can enter Oblivion gates, but you were determined and skilled enough to make it through to the end. While in the factions, you were, for the most part, a newbie working through the ranks until eventually, you’re trusted to confront the threat. In Skyrim it feels less like organizations, and more like ragtag groups that were waiting for you to come in and fix them.

Coupled with the sense progression, this makes experiencing Oblivion’s factions much more organic and satisfying - in my opinion. That’s what’s most important. I’m not ragging on anyone who likes Skyrim’s factions, and I still love Skyrim despite my endless complaints. I understand I may have missed a few points (like the Civil War and Arena), and the ones I made could be disputed.

TL;DR: Skyrim’s fondness for power fantasy and the lack of ranks makes its faction questlines less immersive and more forced, whereas in Oblivion climbing ranks as a sort-of average joe feels organic and more rewarding. This is just my opinion. I don’t hate Skyrim. You’re free to agree or disagree and add to the discussion.

[stephobrien]

New Skyrim Fanfiction - Your Truth Cannot Stand

Hey, guys, I just dropped my new Skyrim fanfic on my website and AO3! Here's the synopsis:

Ondolemar had spent his whole life believing that hunting down heretics and enemies of the Thalmor was a service to the gods. He never imagined that one strange Khajiit could throw everything he thought he knew into question, and send him on a quest for truth that would end with him trapped in a torture chamber.

You can read it on my website here.

Go here to read it on AO3.

This story ended up being a very personal piece with a lot of timely themes. If you want to know more about what inspired me to write it, the behind-the-scenes info is under the cut. :)

Of all the characters I would've expected to latch onto my mind and not let go until I wrote his story, Ondolemar from Skyrim was NEVER on the list. Erandur, sure - he's friendly, interesting, and complex, with an intriguing backstory and a lot of dialogue. There's a reason I have a partly-finished story about him in my WIPs. But Ondolemar? The leader of the Thalmor Justiciars, whose job is to arrest people for their faith? The arrogant religious fanatic Elven supremacist with just a handful of spoken lines and NO backstory beyond what we can guess from his rank? WTF? It's Tumblr and YouTube's fault. They introduced me to a few voice lines I'd never heard before, because I'd never helped him arrest a guy for worshiping Talos.

After the hostility, condescension, insults and murder attempts I'd gotten from pretty much every other Thalmor I'd ever encountered, I was surprised to find out that: 1. If you've helped him, Ondolemar greets you as "my friend," no matter what race you're playing as. 2. If you've helped him AND you have a high enough speech skill, you can get him to cause a distraction for you during a party. In the Thalmor Embassy, no less. He'll even lie to Elenwen for you. 3. When his distraction gets an innocent human in trouble, he'll immediately take the blame for the incident rather than get said human thrown out of the party, despite his belief in Elven superiority and his moon-sized ego. This, and the fact that he seeks proof before arresting a "heretic", is a surprising contrast to the Justiciars who label you a heretic and try to kill you just because they don't like you. (Sure, you could argue that he isn't legally ALLOWED to arrest Ogmund without proof, but the Thalmor have no problem trying to have the Dragonborn illegally assassinated, so clearly extralegal options aren't off the table for the people Ondolemar works for.) 4. Sometimes he'll comment, "There are so few pleasures in life as fine as your company" - once again, regardless of what race you are. And if you think it's because he's a skilled manipulator, clearly you haven't heard his other voice lines. If you want a brutally honest opinion from a Thalmor officer about the Empire or the political situation, he's the place to find it. This dumbass has precious little filter between his mouth and brain. 5. Whether you've helped him or not, he is happy to chat with you, both in Markarth and at the party. He also seems very sincerely focused on the religious aspects of the Talos ban and the civil war, whereas the other Thalmor make me suspect that it's more of a means to a political end. Combine all of that with my observation that Talos' shrines and amulets follow the same game mechanics as the implements of the divines that the Thalmor recognize, and it made me wonder what would happen if this unusually friendly Justiciar were to be told - VERY tactfully - about the evidence that his faction might be lying to him about a matter of religion. Over a century of indoctrination, his whole self-flattering worldview, and the risk of being killed for questioning his totalitarian government, vs. the evidence. FIGHT. When I first started writing, I'd expected it to be one quick conversation that I just wanted to get out of my head and onto the screen. But then it grew. And grew. I saw a picture of Ondolemar being captured, and I felt that would bring a great new level of emotional tension to the story. So I added it in. While I was writing a scene in which Ondolemar tried to defend his point of view, I realized I was knocking down a strawman. So I looked deeper into the lore about the Thalmor and their rationale and goals. And the story grew some more. Next thing I knew, I'd written almost 35,000 words about a character I never thought I'd give a crap about, and gotten into his head far deeper and more effortlessly than I'd ever thought I would. And the story was still growing. I never would have guessed that he would be a character who practically wrote himself, but he is, and I thoroughly enjoyed writing him.

[caithyra]

Don’t think about it...

...Because when you do, the Thieves’ Guild/Nightingale questline just becomes more and more disturbing, and you might just end up feeling sympathy for the guy you have no choice but to kill.

Basically, I am trying to create an abbreviated timeline of Skyrim’s characters’ history just in case I get off my butt and write fanfic, and I ran into this:

Mercer Frey is at most, around 50 years old in 4E 201. I guess this because he lives in the sewers (illnesses flow down with the dung and trash+no sunlight is aging and bad for the health, so if he was older he would probably be sick) and crouches (ages the joints) all his life, yet was spry enough to climb a giant statue and pry jewels that had been in the rock for millennia loose. If he was in his 60s with his lifestyle he likely couldn’t have done that, Skeleton Key or no Skeleton Key (also, not a single gray hair that I could see, so...).

Subtracting 25 years after Gallus’ death, gives us around 25 years old. subtracting at least 3 years of Karliah being a regular Nightingale not on the lamb, because she seems pretty comfortable with the role and the Skyrim locations (and was also the lover of an adult, we get perilously close to underage the further back we push this, and she’d been his “little nightingale” for so long she was obsessed with killing Mercer 25 years later), he would be around 22 years old when she was inducted.

And he was a senior Nightingale, I would guess at least 5 years her senior as a Nightingale.

So when Gallus and Karliah’s mother sold his soul to Nocturnal, he would have been around 17 years old at the oldest. And given how small a margin I’ve given these years, I would guess the more likely age for Mercer’s selling of soul would have been 15 years old.

The thing is, he and Karliah would have been about the same age (as an elf, she looks younger, heck, her grandmother, Barenziah, was pretty spry and popping out her mother at the age of 379, and if Karliah is only as young as Mercer, then Karliah’s mother popped Karliah out when she was around 170+ years old) and as a Breton, he probably matures slower than a regular mannish race without half-elven ancestry (a half-elven Emperor, Cassynder, is remarked upon to have aged “like a Breton” suggesting slower maturity, as he died of ill health and so certainly did not have the lifespan of a Breton).

And on top of it all, the way Karliah’s life plays out in Gallus’ book (Nightingales Vol.2), it seems like her lover and her mother waited until she was an adult before inducting her to give her a better choice, unlike Mercer (who was likely inducted because Karliah’s grandfather died, or because Lorthus, who may or may not have been Karliah’s father, died in Whiterun’s dungeons, and because it needs to be a Trinity and they didn’t think Karliah would have been ready), who was put in the position of selling his soul as a child while pressured by authority figures that it was a great honor.

Not only that, but Frey is not a Breton name. In fact, as a surname, it seems very Nordic, and given that there is no trace of Mercer’s background or parentage and that the highest population of Bretons and Reachmen lives under the thumb of Nords as serfs (and children take the race of the mother) in the Reach and that he picks a second-in-command with a Reach accent...

Yeah, so it seems more like Mercer’s conception may or may not have been consensual. That he somehow ended up in Gallus’ path when he was a very young child (at best, his mother died when he was very young and his father either also died or there was no relationship so he didn’t recognize Mercer, or Gallus kidnapped him), and Mercer grows into his midteens in the guild when the guildmaster and a legendary figure (Nightingale, Karliah’s mother) either convinces him to sell his soul to Nocturnal, or tricks him like Karliah tricked the Dragonborn and Brynjolf.

And then he grows into adulthood and realizes what they’ve done to him (eternal slavery even beyond death, even worse than the Reachmen in the Reach).

Is it really any wonder he “desecrates” Nocturnal’s shrine to live large while he can? Why he kills Gallus when Gallus starts trying to be all moral about it? (Oh, and given the sticky timeline, if Karliah is any younger than Mercer and not the same age or older, her and Gallus’ relationship likely started when she was barely legal after he watched her from her mid-teenage years as her guildmaster and superior; isn’t Gallus a swell, moral guy? Totally a honorable thief!) because he now hates Gallus? Is it any wonder that Karliah is framed when Mercer’s entire life and death has revolved around her and her family/lover?

Notice that for 25 years, he was content taking care of the Thieves’ Guild and only skimming the top of the (dwindling) profits and practically did everything to keep it running (again, I do not believe the Guild fell on hard times because of Mercer, given that their luck is sooo bad that they randomly recruit the Last Dragonborn when it is at its worse. Given how little the other leaders seems to do, it seems more self-inflicted, also given that the Last Dragonborn can fix it all up by doing a bunch of regular quests any thief in the guild, but most especially senior members like Brynjolf, Vex and Delvin, could have done).

Also I would like to point out that Karliah lies or is paranoid when she says that she’s been hunted for 25 years by Mercer’s contacts, given that there is only evidence of him having 3 contacts who would do such a thing, and the Black-Briars knew nothing, the Dark Brotherhood certainly wasn’t wasting their dwindling resources (they were hunted to near extinction 13 years ago and were losing Sanctuaries even before that) on her and the Thieves’ Guild were all surprised she still existed.

Given that Karliah constantly lies about things like this (even Gallus, in his book, contradicts her attributing everything to him, by pointing out that her mother and Mercer were there in the same capacity), she’s likely lying. But then again, Gallus had the gall to lie to my face as a ghost (stating he wasn’t in the Sepulcher when the sealing happened and then stating with certainty what happened during the sealing, even though only Daedric Princes would know enough to make an accurate guess, and even then might be wrong unless they’re Nocturnal herself), so maybe he lied in his book?

But anyway, back to Mercer. So for 25 years he’s been content being guildmaster.

And it is only when Karliah shows up again and escapes his attempt at killing her that he empties the vault and leaves (and again, Karliah was trying to destroy the guild in a more permanent way by angering Maven Black-Briar. At least you can refill an empty vault, you cannot refill the ranks of killed master thieves so easily. Then, when the Dragonborn gives Karliah the option of an in with the guild, she just skates right on in and no one points this out. Either that or her plan was so stupid, she planned, as the known killer of the previous guildmaster, to walk into the guild with the current guildmaster paralyzed over her shoulder waving her boyfriend’s supposed diary in an unreadable language and claim innocence? Also, a thief’s diary that only mentions what she needs us to know but not his great love for his “little nightingale”? Or even just “we danced the horizontal tango yesterday, her mother is angry because she thinks I’m too old for her, fortunately she was killed by mercenaries finding our super secret hideout that only I and Mercer knew about~Time to turn little Karliah into my little nightingale~”).

Like imagine if Karliah moved on from her (creepy) boyfriend and made a life for herself outside Skyrim? The only thing the guild to complain about when it comes to Mercer would be his admin fees (skimming) because no one else have done the accounting for 25 years (looking at you, Bryn and Del, oh and notice how long it took for Gallus to notice? He was guildmaster but did he foist the admin work on Mercer too? On top of selling Mercer’s soul?) and doesn’t want to step up in any capacity to do any of his work (See Guildmaster Dragonborn despite there being three senior leaders left in the Thieves Guild; at the least Companions killed off Kodlak [who dreamed about you] and Skjor and caused a schism on the lycanthropy topic between Aela and the twins before you became the Harbinger who is just a mediator and advisor, and you just arbitrarily becomes the Listener because “Sweet Mother” is a fucking troll who played deadbeat to her “children” for 13 years, and I cannot really justify the Archmage thing, but I can do it much better than the Guildmaster thing).

And there wouldn’t have been any selling of souls to a demonic goddess Karliah calls a “scolding mother” who is more deadbeat than the Night Mother and who, like the Night Mother, keeps you in servitude beyond your death.

But like I said, don’t think about it.

Oh and I’m not the only one who is kind of put off by Karliah’s “specialness” what with being the secret granddaughter of THE Nightingale and Queen Barenziah, and the only Dunmer I can think of without ash-red eyes (even Vivec’s Dunmer half had a red eye, and he was considered as powerful as a god, just to show how all-encompassing Azura’s curse was) and instead have violet eyes, and how everyone praises how smart and skilled she is while everything she does is stupid and failing?

Oh right. I need to stop thinking about this quest-line and the fact that my only choice was killing the child victim of a demonic cult after he grew up and tried to escape for the crime of taking some going-away-money I could replace in five minutes, just to avenge some dude who sells children’s soul into slavery after his girlfriend tricks me into selling mine and... Okay, not thinking about it!

[real-jaune-isms]

RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 8 Review/Remix

RWBY finally comes back from a 2 month break, and what does it do? It scares us all half to death and then obliterates the other half with insane new story concepts and body horror imagery. Gods I missed this show~...

We return to this chaotic mess with the scene you might be expecting the least, Qrow and Robyn in their prison cells. Qrow is awoken by the sound of ships and explosions outside, and find that his three block mates are similarly left sleepless. Jacques is particularly nervous, probably because he assumed Whitley would be here to bail him out by now. Qrow picks up on an incoming sound that sounds... different, and indeed a wall is blown down in a fiery explosions that starts sending down rubble. One section of the Hard Light cell walls have been taken down, but before anyone has time to act Robyn notices a crow vehemently cawing at her before some rubble comes down above her. And... that’s the last we see of Robyn or Qrow this episode. He transformed to be a smaller target for debris and she might not have made it out quickly enough even with his disguised possible warnings.

Back to more pressing matters, we take the perspective of... the Dragonborn in the opening of Skyrim?? Wait, no, it’s just Nora regaining consciousness to see Klein has given her an IV and is saying she’ll be on the mend real quick. So that’s some good news after a few months of worry, and hey! The fan theory was wrong, she didn’t go blind from the lightning! Before we can even dwell on her wellbeing for too long, Blake opens the door for Ruby Weiss and Whitley to carry in Penny’s unconscious body. As Blake points out, Penny is leaking a green fluid most likely comparable to blood. They set her down on a cot near Nora, and Whitley is pissed about getting his clothes stained again in the span of 48 hours. But I think robot fuel/blood is at least easier to wash out than red wine. Ruby of course wants to know if Klein can help Penny as well as he has Nora, but his wheelhouse of expertise does not cover advanced robotics. The saving grace is that Pietro made her so close to human so Klein has some idea what can actually be fixed, starting with sewing up the gash in her abdomen. A thunderous rumble is heard in the distance, and suddenly the lights go out. Whitely complains about this too, but it is rather valid. Nothing quite seems to be going right, even Atlas’ power grid is against them... Ruby gets a call from May, and we learn they parted ways so May could go regroup with the Happy Huntresses and save her city. They compare notes and it’s made clear a bombing run took out part of the city’s power, though less clear is who was doing that bombing, Atlas or the Grimm? Ruby apologizes for their current inaction while they tend to Penny, but May reassures her that this may end up being more productive than trying to find something worth doing outside the city. Great googly moogly, it’s all gone to shit, and there’s very little difference a few more huntresses can make to the Mantle efforts. Ruby is left in overwhelmed despair, there’s so many problems and she doesn’t know how to solve all of them. Klein butts in with a sneeze to say she should take it one problem at a time, focus on the most immediate and possible to achieve and work outwards. For one thing, it’d help a lot of they had lights and power. 

Willow surprises everyone by showing up in the doorway to let them know about a backup generator on the edge of the estate property. She’s still the lady of this house, and she has enough self respect to not lie around getting drunk in the dark. Whitley greets her with a mix of disinterest and distain, and she notices Klein has returned to the manor and offers an off guard greeting. Weiss backs up her mom’s info drop with the fact that SDC executive members indeed have access to backup power sources if the city ever suffered a power outage like this. She doesn’t like that they have that kind of privilege while other folks suffer, but it’s for the greater good this time. This gets Whitley thinking, and my boy has a full Jimmy Neutron BRAIN BLAST! Since Jacques made him heir to the company, and the man himself is possibly dead under rubble, Whitely has full access to the Schnee Dust Company and all its resources. Since Ironwood put down the Dust embargo in Volume 4, their fleet of cargo ships are sitting empty and ready for use in a hangar. As we saw earlier this very chapter, there are automated drones that answer to the SDC rather than the Atlas military. They can use those ships and drone soldiers to give all the people stuck in Mantle a way out to fly away safely. Fantastic work, young man! You make your family proud... well, the family members who don’t commit war crimes for profit. But to do that they need the power back on so he can use Jacques’ computer, so that’s what Ruby and Blake set out to do. Getting inside the small building outside of the mansion is easy enough, and its just the flip of a switch to get the generator booting back up. In the meantime, the two share a genuinely sweet conversation. Blake reassures Ruby that the fact she’s trying to make things happen is all the world could ask of her, and an optimistic attitude like that is hard to stick with for long in this harsh world. Life in the White Fang and with Adam robbed Blake of her own similar mindset, but she truly admires and looks up to Ruby for how great a woman she is. Sadly, like most things, this moment is ruined by a Grimm. While all the lights are coming back on and Whitley gets to work, a bolt of lightning reveals that the Hound is just outside the window behind Ruby... Willow and Klein are casually sitting around waiting I guess, when they hear the loud crash of glass breaking and Willow reflexively reaches for her bottle of vodka. Weiss checks in on her teammates over comms and they tell her they need some help so she makes sure Whitley will have the business handled before she rushes out to save her friends. Ruby is getting tossed through a fresh hole in the wall, and Blake’s attempt to attack it while she regains her footing is just batted away. Blake assures Ruby that it’s just a Grimm, they can handle it as long as she can stay focused. Blake goes on the offensive again while Ruby tries to get her Silver Eyes going, but the Hound swats the Faunus girl away and tackles Ruby before sprouting its wings again with her in its clutches Blake uses the ribbon on her weapon to do what Ren had earlier in the Volume, though she anchors the other end in the ground as a tether rather than ride along as it leaves.

Weiss finally arrives at the scene of this chaos and reports the Grimm sighting back to Klein. Hearing the news of this beastly intruder leaves Willow so shaken she drops the bottle and glass she was pouring herself. Klein tries to reassure and calm her, but she’s too overwhelmed and runs out of the room... just as Penny reactivates with red eyes. Full on hacked now, and  Klein gets shoved to the floor for all his concerns about her being on her feet again. But she barely takes two steps before the real Penny resurfaces and tries to fight back for control of her own body. The struggle is deep enough to summon a whirling wind around her much like Fria had last Volume, but this one is green because Penny. Back outside, Weiss is about to summon something when a couple Centinels burrow up behind her and tear through it. From the looks of it, I think it was going to be the Nevermore from all the way back in Volume 1, so that’s a pretty cool callback to how important that fight was, and the imagery of glowing wings behind her was beautiful while it lasted. The Hound breaks free of Blake’s tether and is about to soar away, much to her dismay, when it sees a bright green glow coming from in the manor, clearly Penny going through her identity crisis. Ruby puts two and two together and realizes why the Hound has been saying “Take the Girl.” The girl is Penny, whose blood is still on Ruby’s clothes so it got a little confused while tracking. She warns her teammates, but the Hound chooses that time to drop her like a sack of potatoes and there goes the last of her Aura. Blake tells Weiss to go back inside and stop the Hound while she handles the Centinels out here, and they split up, but before Blake can reach her leader a new creature erupts from the ground and it’s bigger and more gross than the last bugs. It spits acid that comes up through a tube along its belly, and I’m confident in calling it an Alpha Centinel. Back in the eye of the storm, Klein tries to reassure Penny that she’s okay, which is phrased a little but I assume he means as “you’re in a safe place and your injuries have been treated, you don’t need to defend yourself like this”. The man is just a butler, he doesn’t know what we do about her internal struggle against antagonistic programming and her wrestling with her sense of self. Whatever new orders Watts has given her, she really doesn’t want to follow them. Luckily, there’s someone at her side to comfort her and hold her hand, and that’s Nora. Passing along the comforting words she got from Blake earlier this Volume, she tells Penny she doesn’t have to just be and do what other people expect of her. She may feel like a part of her is making her do what she doesn’t want to, but don’t forget about the rest. She’s more than just that one part of her mind or persona. It’s nowhere near the same situation as Nora’s own identity crisis earlier, but the words have the same positive effect. Penny gains control again and the wind barrier subsides. Weiss reports in that the Hound is heading inside and she’s on her way to intercept, and gets the bad news that Willow fled the room to go who knows where. Well, we know now cuz we see it, she went to what I assume is her own bedroom (god forbid she and Jacques still share a bed after 8 years of the most sour their marriage has been). On her vanity there’s another bottle or two of booze, and her Scroll. She wants to retreat to what she knows best, but hesitates and then gets spooked by the shattering sound of the Hound breaking in through the window above the front door.

It picks up on Penny’s scent from the blood stained on the floor, but by the time Weiss charges in through the front door it’s gone. The next five minutes of the episode have major horror movie vibes, and I love it. Weiss slowly looks around the foyer for any sign of the beast, when Willow screams over her Scroll to look out above her and indeed the Hound drops down to backhand her into a piano. Instead of staying to attack her, it goes to follow Penny’s scent again and leaves Weiss to check in with her mom after that sudden warning. Biggest triumph thus far, Willow threw her bottle against a wall and instead pulled up the feed from her series of surveillance cameras around the manor on her Scroll to track the Hound. It’s near Winter’s old bedroom, and Willow doesn’t seem to understand that it’s tracking a scent like a bloodhound. Maybe she just doesn’t encounter Grimm a lot or they’re just usually not this competent and singularly focused. She recognizes the direction it’s heading next with great horror, and what we see next gives us that same dread. Whitley still has blood on his clothes, and he dismisses Willow’s warning cuz he probably doesn’t think she has anything to say worth hearing after his years of dealing with her drunken state. He’s almost done setting up the automated orders, when he hears the door starting to open and angrily snaps at what he assumes is Willow coming to check on him since he didn’t answer the call. But he is dead wrong and hides behind the desk immediately, because it is indeed the Hound come to potentially kill him. He’s doing his best to hide, but it expands its vocabulary to tell him it knows he’s here. Just as it’s about to round the corner, an Alpha Boarbatusk charges in and pins it to the wall. Weiss isn’t the only Schnee in the house who can summon, and Willow will not let her son die this day. He’s about to bolt out of the room while it’s preoccupied with the summon, but turns back to hit Yes on the computer and get the evacuation plans started. Good job kid, you did more to save Mantle than your father and Ironwood combined. The two sprint down the hall with the Hound in hot pursuit, but get some respite from an ice wall forming between them and the Grimm thanks to Weiss arriving from the opposite direction. She’s out of breath, but assures them she didn’t forget about either of them, most likely as a callback to the conversation she and Willow had last Volume about Whitley being left behind when Weiss and Winter sought independence. The unarmed Schnees express their gratitude and retreat from that wing of the house, and Weiss prepares her summons for combat with the beast breaking through the ice.

Back outside, Blake is struggling with the Alpha Centinel and complains about how gross it is. She avoids its scythe blade-like arms with some clever use of elementally charged shadow clones and begs for Ruby to wake up and give her some backup. But that can’t last forever and eventually it holds her by the neck ready to slice. Before it can, though, Ruby wakes up and bisects it first. She laughs weakly and tells Blake she heard what she was saying. They hear a scream coming from inside the mansion and head inside to meet up with the others. Weiss and the Hound hear it too, and the Hound stops doing its best “Here’s Johnny” impression through the hole in the ice to go chase down this new sound. We see the source of it, and it is in fact Penny losing control of herself again to the new programming. The red eyes stay this time, and she shoves Klein aside once again to stiffly and mechanically walk out to the foyer. As fate would have it, Willow and Whitely are there too, and they naturally question the fact that she’s emotionlessly walking past them when last they saw she was bleeding and unconscious. She responds that she’s going to open the vault, and then apparently self destruct. Not to state the obvious, but we really can’t let that happen so lets hope the power of love will break through to her. Before Penny can even get down the stairs, the Hound arrives to try and grab her and she catches his hand effortlessly, and then the other, so they’re stuck in a shoving match stalemate. The Hound solves this problem by growing a new arm out of its back and using it to grab Penny by the head. It slams her around like a ragdoll, still repeating “Take the Girl”, and holds a claw up to her throat when RWB arrive at the bottom of the stairs. Blake and Weiss are unsure how to intervene, but Ruby goes stone cold serious telling it that’s enough. In the literal blink of her eye, a Silver Eyed blast blinds it and sends it falling out the window behind it leaving Penny to tumble down the stairs unconscious again. They hope and pray the threat is over as they check her body, but the real horror starts now. 

The Hound claws his way back up through the window, and part of his head has been blasted away to reveal a dog faunus with one intact silver eye. In a voice likely not used in a long time, he continues to repeat his orders to “Take the Girl...” Ruby is mortified and shell shocked to see a living person within the frame of this beast unlike any she’s known prior, and I’m sure the wheels in her mind are turning to wonder if Summer Rose suffered a similar undying fate at Salem’s hands... and if that’s what will happen to her if she is captured? He begins shambling towards them and they try to carry Penny away from him but end up cornered. Whitley gets an idea and he and Willow start pushing on the knight statue nearest to them. Just as the Hound, whose human portion I have been inspired by a podcast to call Johnny, is about to grab the girls the statue falls down and crushes him to death. A choir chants in Latin as the Grimm fades away... and for the first time leaves behind a skeleton. Ruby seems shaken to her core as she confirms to the others that that was in fact a person they saw in there.

Ending that side of the story entirely for the week, we go back to the rubble in the jail cell to see Cinder has found Watts and the two make a flying get away. So that’s fun, we’ll have to see if they make it back in time to intercept JRY trying to sneak through Monstra. Until then, I’m gonna sleep like the dead. Ciao!