#Vvardenfell my beloved

[skyrim-forever]

what's the reason you couldn't live in Tamriel? i wouldn't be able to live without ramen :(

[scales-like-ash]

Vvardenfell, my beloved

[trickstarbrave]

hi im insane still so i wrote smth up

its not rly proof read. sorry abt that.

this is from @mulberrycafe's fic fool's prayer. i just have evil!voryn on the brain REAL bad.

Nerevar blinked. He was no longer in his office, but outside in a courtyard. It was…. Peaceful. The rushing anxiety of being in his office was being washed away by fluffy white clouds passing by. It wasn’t cloudy or with an ash storm blowing, as it usually was in Morrowind, especially after Red Mountain’s eruption. A few birds could be heard in the distance too, adding to the soft, peaceful atmosphere. 

Nerevar wanted to relax. He was tired. So very, very tired. Tired of running the country and fighting the council every step of the way. Tired of trying to make life better for his people and being blocked. Every time he wanted to try and do something good, there was endless squabbling. Distractions came up instead, as the houses fought with each other, refusing to put aside old rivalries for everyone’s benefit. It was like pulling teeth trying to get anything done--and when he did lose his temper, the councilmen pointing at him and blaming him. 

“It’s your fault Red Mountain erupted, when you destroyed the tribunal’s rule.” Some would blame. “Why haven’t the Good Daedra resolved it then? If there is mercy from them, they would have solved the problem. We could go back to VVardenfell. We could be a great nation again. But instead we continue to beg for scraps at the altar of gods. The Good Three have made their point clear: we are to suffer the trials. Therefore, everyone suffers with us. It’s naivety to presume we can help them with stupid acts of charity.”

He had no energy anymore. His limbs felt too heavy to move. Vivec said he admired Nerevar’s ability to always be optimistic and hopeful, but Nerevar was beginning to run out of steam. 

Things were easier, in the days of Resdayn; they had a common enemy to unite against, after all. The Great Houses could set their squabbling and infighting aside long enough to drive the nords out, and then welcomed the prosperity Nerevar brought afterwards as they rebuilt the nation. 

“Neht,” Nerevar heard Voryn call for him, and he refused to turn. 

He knew what this was. Another attempt to win him over. Another attempt to crack his resolve. Nerevar didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He didn’t know how many times he could drive him away. Nerevar hated how Voryn was starting to, in some twisted way, make sense. And even more importantly, Nerevar hated having to hurt the man he loved over and over, even if it was for the good of everyone. 

Arms wrapped around him again, a cold chill, as always. “You won't even look at me now?” Voryn asked, nuzzling into his hair from behind. 

“I’m tired of these games, Voryn.” Nerevar tried desperately to keep his voice level and firm. “I’m not changing my answer.” Voryn gave a dark, deep chuckle, the type of tone Nerevar adored. 

He was afraid if he turned around, he would crack. He was terrified if he looked at the face of his beloved, his resolve would crumble and he’d throw his arms around Voryn, kissing him for all he was worth.

“I’m not playing a game.” Voryn whispered softly in his ear, breath tickling the sensitive skin and making his ear twitch. “I want to give you everything you have ever wanted, Nerevar.”

“No, you--”

“I want to give you a peaceful country.” Voryn cut him off, continuing with that slow, deep voice in his ear, rubbing circles on his stomach. “I want to stop those councilors from using you… Because I love you.”

“This isn’t love!” Nerevar stressed, his hands shaking fists at his side as he actively fought the desire to sink into the embrace. 

“Yes, it is.” Voryn whispered again, sharper in his ear. “The love I have had for you for thousands of years.” Nerevar shut his eyes tightly now. “And I know you love this country, Neht. I’ve known all this time. That’s why I love it too. That’s why I want to help you.”

“This isn’t helping me.” Nerevar grit, fighting the urge to scream or sob.

“I want to give you so much more than just a peaceful country too, Nerevar.” That soothing voice was trying to melt the tension off his body, but Nerevar refused to relax. If he did, it would be over, he reminded himself. He couldn’t be weak in front of Voryn with what Voryn was capable of. “I want to soothe all your worries, love and support you in the way you deserve…”

Nerevar refused to respond. He couldn’t find the words--not when Voryn sounded so soft and sweet in his ear, whispering like a gentle lover. It was the same tone of voice he used to soothe all of Nerevar’s injuries in the past, the same tone when he reassured and comforted Nerevar, and the same tone he used when they would make love. 

“Ayem hardly even took care of you back then,” Voryn continued, now bringing one hand up to rub his shoulder soothingly. “But she at least helped you govern. Helped keep people in line.” Nerevar shivered slightly as he felt teeth graze his ear ever so slightly. “I can help you with that. I can keep the council in line… All as you will it, my beloved.” 

He knew it was a lie. A sweet, sweet lie. If it was Nerevar’s will, he wouldn’t have hurt the Good Daedra. If it were his will, Voryn would have stopped by now. If it was his will…

“I can even give you what she refused.” Voryn smirked against his skin now. “Love, devotion…” Voryn pressed a kiss behind his ear, watching it twitch again. “... And even a family.” 

Nerevar’s eyes shot open at that, his heart racing in his chest, only to find himself no longer in the courtyard, but inside the temple. It was in a well decorated room, quite, a tranquil warmth radiating throughout the whole room that tugged on his heartstrings. 

In front of him was a traditional chimeri hammock for infants, a little bundle inside it. Nerevar found himself unable to blink, his body all but screaming at him to move. His whole body shook and his legs felt weak, his heart beating even faster in his chest. 

“Don’t you want this?” Voryn asked, his voice soft and pleading now, almost saddened. “I can give you the family you wanted, Neht…” Nerevar’s hands unclenched as his hands yearned to reach out. “A beautiful family, as large or as small as you wish… Raised with love and care, in a country that is finally full of peace and prosperity…” His eyes remained fixated on the small bundle, slowly beginning to move. 

“Why don’t you hold our son?” Voryn asked him, and Nerevar found himself unable to stop his feet from moving, bringing him closer and closer as the infant began wiggling around and fussing in earnest, having woken up from his nap. 

In his arms, they felt even more real: alive and the perfect weight in his arms, filling him with warmth. Soft black waves were on his head, as he blinked up at Nerevar with large, blue eyes and giggled, reaching for him. Tears rolled down Nerevar’s cheeks as he leaned down to nuzzle against the baby, overwhelmed.

Nerevar wanted this. He wanted it so badly it felt like his chest was being ripped out. He wanted a family with the man he loved. He wanted children of his own. He wanted to just be selfish for once, and have something all to himself. 

When he was king in the past, he was denied being a father, despite how much he had always wanted to be. His marriage with Ayem, while politically beneficial, was strained in most of the personal aspects. Almalexia had her own lovers and concubines to tend to her, and saw little purpose in sleeping with Nerevar, even to produce a child. Even the Indoril council said they didn’t want to bother with having a child, not when they could pick a better heir that suited their political goals. Instead he was always just told to find someone else to have a child with if he wanted to be a parent that badly.

But he knew that wasn’t possible. He was king, yes, but he wasn’t of noble blood; he lacked the political power to fully protect them. Nerevar refused to selfishly have a child he knew he couldn’t protect and let them get hurt or killed just to spite him by some political enemies. 

And yet… That wish never truly died. That desire never went away. It was always there, in the back of his mind, gnawing at his psyche. He was tired of being king only to create more problems and enemies for himself. He was tired of fighting off assassins and attackers. He was tired of going to bed alone. He was tired of giving everything he had for nothing in return. 

And then the weight in his arms was gone, as Nerevar found himself not in a nursery but instead in complete blackness instead.

“No…” Nerevar begged, tears still rolling down his cheeks. It felt like his heart was being ripped out and crushed. It had been so real--Nerevar could still feel the phantom warmth in his arms, hear the sound of laughter. “Voryn, please--!” His arms instead curled up around him, trying in vain to comfort himself and failing as he openly sobbed. 

“Shh…” Voryn whispered, stroking his hair from behind. “Why don’t I give you time to think about my offer instead?” Voryn asked. Typically, Voryn was pushy in these dreams, trying desperately to make Nerevar give in. Now that he was falling apart in front of him, he seemed to be taking a different approach. 

Nerevar didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. Not when he was still grieving. Not when he was crying and sobbing, wishing more than anything that such a sweet dream was real. 

“Nerevar!” Nerevar’s eyes shot open again, tears still running down his cheeks, to see a Vivec staring down at him rather than the piercing red eyes of Voryn as he half expected. “Nerevar,” Vivec, seeing as he had finally woken him up, wiped the tears from his face. “It’s alright…” He murmured, trying desperately to soothe him.

Nerevar, his emotions still raw, wrapped his arms around Vivec and sobbed once more. 

He didn’t know if Vivec knew why he was crying. Nerevar was too ashamed to say, and too hurt to give a coherent answer even if he wanted to. 

He didn’t know how much more he could take of this, even as Vivec held him close, rubbing his back in slow circles, trying to comfort him. 

His heart was breaking.

[morihaus]

Beloved

I am a Lover of the Rose. Yes, even still.

For 200 years, I have been her priestess. Since the turning of eras, I've committed my soul to her, and in return, she has lent me her guidance. Gracious Azura, she foretold of the disaster on Vvardenfell that would redden the skies and choke the sun; she led her faithful to safety, far from the troubles that enveloped our homeland. I was a novice in the cult then. I walked the pilgrimage to Skyrim with so many others who, like me, felt the warmth and compassion of our goddess in the coldest of nights.

I helped to raise that statue and establish that shrine. I tended to it, I heard her voice, and obeying her wishes I tended to my fellows and myself. Azura is a spirit of love, of true, beautiful, all-consuming love. No matter how lofty she may be, no matter where in the heavens she walks, her love is felt by her faithful. Not one of us would ever doubt it. She bade us fly to Skyrim to escape the dreadful fate of our homeland, but also, to make preparations for those who would follow in our footsteps. Those who her voice could not reach, the blind, the deceived, the lost, her soul swells with love for even them. Our people flocked to Skyrim to escape the chaos of the Red Year, of the Arnesian War, of the fall of the Tribunal and the dawn of a new era, and it was we, the Lovers of Azura, who welcomed them, who guided them as she had guided us to the embrace of her sanctuary.

It has been some time since I last visited that shrine. I spent centuries there in worship, in devoted service to the brilliant soul of my Lady. I worked with others to make a place for our people, to soothe their pain, to give them surety and guidance in those dark times, but little by little, they began to dwindle around me. Lady Azura is kind, but her prophecies are not always so. In those dark times, it was difficult to accept the fates of those around you, the horrible things foreseen. Tragedies like the collapse at Winterhold, the deaths of so many more Dunmer who had taken this place as their new home… not all were made to withstand these tests. In the end, only I remained.

And I remained because she had told me to. Because one day, her Champion would arrive in this land, to that very shrine, and defend her honor. She told me this long before her birth, over a hundred years in fact. And for all she had done, and still did for me, why would I refuse her request? Was it not the least I could do? Did I not do it out of love?

As I kneel before her image, I can feel the eyes of her Champion on my back. I am not atop that mountain, not at the feet of her statue, but instead at Windstrad Manor in Hjaalmarch, knelt before a traditional etching of Azura. The one who took me away from that place of sacred duty is standing on her porch, wrinkling her nose up at the goddess's portrait.

Azura's Champion is not fond of her. Who can say why? Why it is that she was destined to be her chosen, this I cannot surely know. I can no longer ask my goddess such things. Our tie has been severed, well and truly, with the completion of Vivynne's duty, and my own. But I can wonder-- stare up and wonder at the blending hues of twilight and attempt to decipher her scheme. Sometimes I do. Other times, I only lock my hand with hers and lean close.

Why it is that she dislikes her, she has told me herself. While it is true that she has never been fond of marching under the orders of her betters, whether her family, her house, or the gods themselves, she has quite adamantly argued that she begrudges the manner in which she has treated me. It took some time to understand what she meant. After all the wonderful things she's done for me, after saving my life and the lives of countless others, what have I to complain about? I would not have lived and loved in devotion to her for so long if there was even a shadow of doubt. Vivynne knows this and never means it to insult me, but in her eyes, it is unfair to have served her for so long only to receive nothing once my work is done.

And when she tells me this, time and time again, I smile so that the creases of well-loved centuries show around my lips, and I say this to her. "I did not receive nothing."

I said I wasn't sure why Viv was chosen, yet in my own time, I have reached some conclusion.

It had to be someone like her, ash of the earth, whose irreverence would shock me, unglue me from that stylite station of long-held duty. For so much of my life, that was all I knew. Serving the Queen of Dusk and Dawn, her intermediary, her follower, her Lover. It's who I became under her light, a mirror of her loving soul. Could anyone but Viv have coaxed me off that frigid perch? Could another devotee have roused me from that complacent pattern of true and tireless loyalty? Lady Azura knew my path- she has known it since the moment she first spoke to me, since the moment she foretold of her Champion's coming, she knew I would serve her well and never waiver, and one day, that I would be relieved of my service, and that she would need to relinquish me.

It seems cruel, I will admit. Viv said I was cast aside the moment my purpose was fulfilled. But how can we pretend to know better than the goddess whose sight extends across the twilight of time? To mortals, the actions of gods seem arbitrary, but we, their lovers, we can scarcely glimpse the depth of sentiment in each and every choice they make, and we know, I know, that she has not abandoned me. She has not let my love for her go unrewarded, unanswered. It was her who brought me a new love, a kind of love I could only grasp if I had left. If her champion convinced me to leave. If her champion was a jaded wizard without any heed for the gods or their worshipers.

So when Viv tells me I've been abandoned, overlooked, ignored by my goddess, I only laugh and press myself against her. When we lay together, our bodies so perfectly intertwine, as though they were always intended to. And here and now, when she wraps her arms around me and I bury myself in her embrace, I know, I am her most beloved.

[harrenhalyuri]

bruh i did recall that this movie was beautiful but not this gorgeous

like holy shit

rewatching Dinosaur (2000) the way God intended (pt-br dub)

[atypicalacademic]

Beloved

For @tes-summer-fest prompt for day 2, beloved

There was a cornerclub in Blacklight, hoisted on a hillside over a double-storied building they’d hastened to build for a flood of refugees. At first there was a single room, chairs huddled close and a ragged mat for the standing. The publican had a handsome, wicked smile, like a knife’s glint in the dark, a single, claw-shaped golden earring dangling from his ear. At first the curtains were drawn to shield the flood of blood-red ash.

 “My lady wife can’t take it.” He said. “Wasn’t built for Vvardenfell, this one.” Then, when the tally of the dead and the living began its slow, tortured ascent, the doors opened for the ailing, for the grieving, and the ill. They clung to his shoulder and clutched at the kerchief of his lady wife. 

If his eyes were rubies, hers were emeralds. His skin the deep grey of a rain-bearing cloud, and hers the rosy olive of a sunrise over fields of wheat. She pulled up the sleeves of an old gown worn to familiarity, and began to heal. 

“Time to break out the old tutoring, my love.” She said, her smile was strained and sad.  He stood by the bedside, and held down thrashing limbs, slipped numbing brandy into gasping mouths. Sometimes a bangle or a bronze key tempted him, and his lady wife’s tired eyes tempted him, the wanting to make her glow with silk and jewels and to keep his promises, keep some more tempted him, and knowing she was good enough for the two of them tempted him.  

Ancestors forgive him, but he was a mer made to desire. But he was fastened to a word, he joked, to his patrons when he took it on his shoulders to cheer them up. Fastened to a word as he was to her pretty skirts. 

Ancestors forgive him, but when lives slipped from beneath her palms, it wasn’t her that cried. 

*

There was a cornerclub in Blacklight, snow-frosted glass windows lit with two hefty lanterns alone. The matron wiped rust from their iron bottoms, oiled the creaking hinges when the endless ash blew in to settle in every nook and crevice. 

An old friend, an alchemist who wrapped her own heart in lace and parchment and sent it home, had left the lanterns behind. The matron found it among a thrifting treasure hunter's hoard, rusted beyond recognition. She'd gasped and put her palm on them, as if will alone could light a fire. 

Come home when you see reason, her parents had written, in their last missive.

Reason wore the face of old friends when the dusk rolled in and laid a carpet of shadows over the cracked tile floor. Reason was too many men and mer succumbing to the smoke closing their chest, rotting their labouring lungs, the whisper in her ear and the dreadful grating in her throat that promised she'd love her way to an early grave. Reason was a morning she rose with her bones aching of a hard bed, yearning a little more for the rosy dawn and the cinnamon-tinted coffee and a soft brush for her hair than for him. 

Reason was a fight without resolution, how he sharpened under fear and she turned brittle from sacrifice. He gave up nothing, a bitter voice snaked between sleep and waking. 

But come morning, and his hair that smelt of camphor nuzzled against her bare skin, it vanished like mist. She remembered that first graze of his hand, deft fingers at the clasp of her necklace without so much as brushing the fine golden baby hair at the back of her neck. Careful, if she were never meant to be broken and moulded like clay, but preserved without malice, without caveats.

Beneath Vvardenfells falling rain she'd thought of him and shivered. If his malice felt so tender, what of his love?

That other love was but a blade twisting in her gut. 

By the fog-lamps wrought in Aldcroft, she remembered cobblestones and girlhood. Not wanting to leave them with the last word, she scribbled a reply: I'm alive. 

The doorbell chimed as he swept in, and pulled her close to dance.

I'm alive. 

*

There was a cornerclub in Blacklight, and the windows inched open as the ash began to settle, and the first flowers opened their tentative buds. The air was still thick with Red Mountain’s dying breath, but enchantments hung from the rafters and the square balconies. The Imperial officer who lived across the street had left, quiet as he’d come, when the banner at his door came tattered, its red like a smear of blood in the snow. 

“Morrowind is ours again.” The publican said, to the feeble sunrise. 

His lady wife lifted her head from the book or from her sewing or from wiping down the countertop, threading a new flower into the curtains, mixing a potion. The look in her eyes wavered from soft to chiding. Morrowind is yours, you mean. 

The publican wondered what it means for a land to be his own. He hadn’t much to call his own until her and the cornerclub; Vvardenfell hadn’t been his, welcoming him to her shadows, tempting him to plunder, but he’d wept for it as she had, as he would for a lover, for a child. 

Kings and Empires rose and fell with the tides. His business, the lot of his life, was between them. He saw Rootspire’s new Council Hall rise in grandeur, another noble House take its seat at the high table. 

Morrowind is ours, he said, but what he meant was he knew now what it meant to build a life on legs that stand. Ours, he said, and what he meant was his and hers, and theirs. Morrowind is ours, he said, but what he meant was he’d learnt to belong without having to flee, with nothing at his back but his own shadow and hers. 

He meant a fresh crop of young mer now haunted the cornerclub, growing strong and sturdy and slow to die, and they would remember how he met her. Tried to rob her, and she gave me a glove and a note for the trouble. And hear this, do you know who played the courier? 

He meant a quiet hope, a steely personhood buried in him like a seed had flowered, and dear gods, the vein-flooding pleasure of it. 

There were wrinkles around her eyes now, when she smiled. New lines around her mouth. Mine. A dusting of freckles by the season, darkening to spots of sun and age. Ours, his unlined face and her hand that caught calluses. One morning he found the old glove, wedged between a book and a lockbox on the top shelf. The lace had come undone, the beading scattered where he touched it, but it fit her just fine still.

“What I mean is,” he told her, lacing his palms with hers and blushing when she kissed it, thinking with his chest caving in that he’d bury her here, as all Ancestors were. “You’ve given me my homeland long ago.” 

*

There is a cornerclub in Blacklight, and flowers grow in potted plants at the doorstep. A revolving door of tired Councillors and bright-eyed adventurers keep a near constant vigil to that tale, two-hundred years old now. 

The babies she’d brought into this world are old enough to bear swords and children of their own. They water the flowers and pull out the weeds. The neighbors leave an ash yam by the shrine as they pass by, joking if she still preferred the eclairs he’d learnt to bake for her.

She wants to smile back, and say she does, she does, she wants to touch the fabric of their robe and the metal of their armor and ask them to love him when he’s alone.

A bard from the West picked it up for a laugh and plucked a tune and fashioned a tale of it. The beauty and the bandit. The healer and the barman. Maurrie and Nelos.

She’s but a tapestry woven of words and the faint whiff of her perfume between refurbished rooms. She’d died an old lady, her body slowing and thinning when lines had barely begun to web across his skin, she’d died as all men do, and her fingerbones rest quietly in ash. 

Death is a thin veil when he still looks to the side and smiles at where her poultice shelf sits, and he leaves a coat of dust there for hopes she’d come back only to wipe it clean. 

Blacklight knows spring again. She slips into the wind and dances through the chimes. Invisible fingers card through his hair as he sleeps. The warmth of his breath alone can bring her to life, breathe a body into her. 

Nelos pulls the blinds down The Lady’s Glove. 

“Hear the birds, Maurrie?” He asks. 

I do, she says, in a small, laughing shower of rain. I do.

[vaultsixtynine]

tes (specifically morrowind) au my beloved. zari the fucked up dunmer art/artifact restorationist/forger and mage being big time blackmailed into acts of protagonizing and skalazar the reluctant argonian researcher (and priest in the style of ancient pre-duskfall tradition, which none of his fellow saxhleel understand nor really engage with) who doesn't wanna go home for unspecified reasons. normal boy. nothing wrong with him.

vvardenfell is a fuck and he Does Not like her at first (bc dunmer and too curious) but that nearly immediately thaws because he's artichoke-hearted soft in the middle and she's not only Deeply unlike other dunmer, she's also the only Normal person he's met in. a long time. social contract: they will research together and he will be free of annoying dunmer assuming he's an escaped slave because they're both very practical like that and the constant social commentary Totally doesn't deeply grate on both of them.

douglas & joyeuse are around too but the lore is not Concrete yet

[captain-of-silvenar]

"By Dawn and Dusk, evil creeps through the shadows of my beloved Vvardenfell. But an Outlander arrives to aid my people, just as I have foreseen."

[bigmeandragonlady]

lol the thieves guild is my FAVORITE in eso, I hope you enjoy the quest line as much as I did

tbh I still haven’t finished the main quest 🙈 it took me so long to find what the actual main quest was because I started in vvardenfell (Dunmer my beloved <3) I remember when I first started playing and I was like

“huh… grumpy grey-skinned elves who usually don’t like outsiders….sounds familiar 🤔”

man ive had a soft spot for the thieves guild since oblivion. ill probably pick the questline back up once im done being salty about the current event

i.... also haven't finished the main quest. Molag Bal is my least favorite daedric prince so i have very little desire to do any questline with him in it lol. i think i got to getting abnar tharn back when i first played? idk

at least other grumpy grey-skinned elves didn't settle on an active volcano

[ohmyarda]

“By Dawn and Dusk, evil creeps through the shadows of my beloved Vvardenfell. But an Outlander arrives to aid my people, just as I have foreseen.” Azura

I had the pleasure of drawing @ohmyarda lovely ESO characters a while back. Her characters are always so wonderful to draw, and if you haven't already please do check out her lovely art!~

[sigil-stone]

an invitation

this letter was written on thick papyrus and found laying on a stone table in a daedric ruin in the province of vvardenfell in 4e 198 during a redoran expedition into the ash wastes. after analysis, the letter was believed to be drafted in the late merethic or very early first era. ezimar belongs to @mothermara !

Beloved Ezimar, Second Prince of Corruption,

Why fret, old friend? What is the past but a reflection of the eternal now, strange and shifting in its forms? Little Tels will miss you, most assuredly, but I will be quite glad to have you back. I will be quite glad to be back, in the ways that I can be; you know how things get. The chronographers are none too pleased with me, and neither are the Jills, or the Psijics, or Sil himself, for that matter… I need not waste ink on it.

How have you been? What misadventures have you gotten up to? I stopped by the planemeld in hopes of catching sight of you, but I was instead greeted by the putrid form of your predecessor. The First Prince's foul voice still echoes through the halls of Time, though I am happy to see its influence diminish. I try not to pass judgment on Daedra – it is a fruitless endeavor, as you no doubt know – but I won’t hide my joy in seeing you rise to take its place among the ranks of the Princes.

I have been well, slipping in and out of the Aether as it suits me. I stopped by White-Gold a few days ago to watch the young Emperor Belharza’s coronation, which was as Sanguatic as you may imagine. As it happens, Belharza is quite popular with the fair men and women of Cyrodiil.

Oh! That reminds me - just yesterday I took a stroll amidst the streets of the Mourning Hold, when I found my thoughts drifting to the city of Seht. I’ve been on the outskirts before - that’s where I met Llavados, remember? Have I told you about Llavados yet? It was not long before my grand escape from Akatosh’s chains, and it was Llavados and his foster-child who cemented my dedication to my craft - but I’ve yet to visit the city proper. As I was walking, the thought crossed my mind that the great city of clockwork is a marvel worthy of a god, and as such, I would like to know if you would visit it with me.

Only in the first few centuries after its construction, of course, when Sil roams the streets freely and has not yet resigned himself to his sorrow. He really let that place go, you know; it's a true shame that such beauty and genius was wasted because of one man’s grief. Sometimes I wonder if ALMSIVI’s apotheosis is what cemented the decline of the Resdayn of old. Perhaps I should visit the Red Tower, find a nice place to sit behind a rock or something, and watch the ascension for myself. Ah, but I don’t know, I’ve heard some versions of the tale that were quite bloody, and you know how squeamish I can be - and in addition, if the whispers of a Dragon Break around that time and area are true, I would likely just come out more resentful of Akatosh and more confused about ALMSIVI.

Regardless, the invitation stands. If you wish to wander the brass halls (and maybe take a peak at the Second Heart? I promise I won’t try to take a piece from it this time, and after all, how was I to know Dumalacath was standing behind me?) then meet me by the waterfall just outside of Mournhold, outside of the walls by the Temple of Almalexia. If a few artifacts happen to disappear from the city, or some notes, or some very pretty and complex machinations happen to find their way into our pockets - well, who’s to say? Apostles get bored, I’m sure, and it’s not unheard of for even the most faithful of Seht’s posse to become tempted by such powerful creations. It happens.

Change is a tricky thing, you know; at once exhilarating and terrifying, freeing and imprisoning. I am fascinated to see how you grow next, for every step you take is a testimony to your strength. It was not I who changed you, Ezimar; you opened your arms to me and extended your friendship, guiding me through the blind darkness of doubt when we first met. I may have been a singular catalyst, but you are made of potentiality, shrouded in starlight - a child of the Aedra, Daedra, and those of us who fall in between. You, beloved Ezimar, are the very concept of change, given shape, form, and thought. You are unique among Princes in that regard. Other princes - Sheogorath, for example, after the final Greymarch - may bear the markings of some degree of mortal influence, but even then, they either choose to forget mortality, or they never truly knew in the first place. You are above that.

What I’m trying to say is that I miss you deeply. Come to the Clockwork City with me, and let’s raise the hells together, shall we?

I hope to see you there, my Prince and my friend.

Yours in Time and Trust, Indoril Telsanvish

[kagrenacs]

Ok as a refresher, the main figures we know of from various accounts are the heads of Council, Indoril Nerevar and Dumac. Of the Chimer we know of Voryn Dagoth, Nerevar’s Tribunal and his Shield-Bearer Alandro Sul. Of the Dwemer we only know of Kagrenac.

Based on ‘What my Beloved Taught me’ it seems that Nerevar did not have any sort of political sway during the Nordic occupation, not at the time Vivec met him anyways. Vivec indicates Almalexia is the queen of Mournhold already, and Nerevar will make her his enemy if a marriage is not arranged.

From Sotha Sil’s memories, and Vivec’s account, they were councillors to Nerevar (Vivec being a junior councillor). The 36 lessons frame Nerevar as ALMSIVI’s champion, indicating they at least believed themselves to be pulling some strings behind the scenes. I think Nerevar had the idea of a council, but not the means of fulfilling it, ALMSIVI helped guide him towards it, their level of influence dependant on your interpretation of things.

Besides Voryn Dagoth, there’s definitely other councillors we don’t know of, the Grand Council consisting of the Tribunal + the Great Houses, being formed from the shards of the First Council. Like Nerevar, I believe they probably had their own set of advisors, I think Voryn’s were his brothers :). The Ashlander tribes as well would have been on this council, Nerevar having rallied them previously. This is a personal headcanon but I think that’s where Alandro Sul comes in, being Urshilaku (however not Ashkhan yet) and a staunch supporter of Nerevar. The Dwemer are also indicated to have clans, so they may have a similar system to the Chimer, with Tonal Architects heeded by Kagrenac as another faction.

House Indoril probably held a great deal of power during this time, the Hortator being adopted into the house via marriage of Almalexia of Mournhold, one of the larger city-states of the time. House Dagoth I also think would have been prosperous considering the ebony mines on Vvardenfell and the trade that could be done with the Dwemer there.   

During it’s infancy, I think Nerevar and Dumac did hold most the power and there wasn’t much desire for overthrow until the Nords were thrown out. Infighting probably began after the war as it does, but considering how it may have lasted up to ~200 years, it was probably kept well in check by them. Only when Voryn Dagoth discovered Kagrenac’s manipulation of the heart did the cracks begin to show.

[esoscreenshots]

!!!! thank you all for your advice on this! i’m very excited now to keep scrying i want All Of The Things

have finally tried the antiquarian skills....... obsessed

[foulserpent]

ned has the most fleshed out history of any of my OCs. i typed it out over the past couple of days, theres some stufff missing but its over 2000 words as is.

here is neds life story prior to the oblviion crisis

ned was born in a village near falinesti’s summer rooting site. his father died before ned was born, and ned was raised by his mother and various farmhands in the community.

his mother was a farmer (though she had a shady past he was always peripherally aware of but never privy to), and they raised hogs and chickens for milk/meat/eggs and would be part of falenesti’s supply chain every year. niviiran also lived nearby, and the two were close friends throughout their childhood and adolescence.

“nasty ned” was in fact his birth name and a name he continued to use, though going by the latter part. he was never able to find out why his mother named him that. the name came in handy, given that ned is transgender and already had a fairly “masculine” name. he was recognized as a boy since he was around 10, but his mother was unable to afford the hormone replacement potions until his later teens.

when ned was 16, he started taking jobs at falenesti, mostly as a bouncer at its taverns. he had been a bit of a nervous child before that and to this day isnt sure why he chose that line of work, but it toughened him up considerably.

when he was about 20, his friend niviiran was being heavily pressured into marrying off to secure her family’s inherited silk business. niviiran saw this as the only chance to escape her emotionally abusive parents, and proposed the notion of entering into a (false) marriage with ned until she could get away. he agreed, both desiring to help his friend and hoping to benefit from niviiran’s far wealthier parents.

during this time, he had his first Actual intimate relationship, but it only lasted about a week. he had picked up a girlfriend at his job, but being emotionally immature and a bit of a dick, he thought that he did not need to inform her that he was TECHNICALLY married, since the marriage was fake and him and niv both did not mind. she left when he found out.

this marriage fell apart within a year, largely as a result of ned panicking and letting it slip while drunk at a gathering with niv’s family. this caused a huge commotion mostly directed at him (and was worsened by his continued panicking), and culminated in niviiran’s brother beating him and attempting to run him over with a horse as he fled. his leg was badly crushed and was saved by his mother.

though their marriage was fake, niviiran and ned had a real falling out as a result of this. both obviously felt bad for the harm to the other, but niv was very angry at ned for having let it slip and putting her in the position of having to run away from her controlling parents rather than leave freely. ned at the time was surprised and hurt that she was so mad, having taken her friendship for granted, and responded in kind. they separated angrily and did not see each other again after that point, and the way he treated niv is one of his first and biggest regrets.

after his leg was mostly healed, he decided he wanted to leave valenwood, at least for a while. he had developed some skill as a bodyguard, and managed to get himself hired to guard a merchant caravan that looped through valenwood, elsweyr, and cyrodiil. this was the time where he really came into his own in mercenary type fields, learning to use swords/shields/armor and how to hold his own against much larger foes. he also learned how to cook at this time, and had his first boyfriend. this relationship was not serious and did not last past ned’s contract with the caravan, but was significant and fondly remembered.

he chose not to continue as a caravan guard, and became interested in mercenary work instead. he joined up with cyrodiil’s fighters guild, and spent the next decade or so working for them. late in this period, he was subcontracted out to mainland morrowind on a longterm job as a hired guard. during this time, he met and began a relationship with yaksha gra-dralas, a morag tong agent. their relationship lasted about three years until ned’s contract ended. it was somewhat serious, but neither felt it was working out well enough to continue (and neds ass was too small). they went their separate ways, and ned returned to cyrodiil.

ned continued working for the fighters guild for an indeterminite amount of years, culminating in the events of oblivions fighters guild questline occurring. when ned was demoted for the death of the guildmaster’s son that he had nothing to do with, he decided that the guild was going to shit and that he was leaving. he resigned, and spent a few years hiring himself out independently as a mercenary or whatever else was paying.

eternally bad at settling, he became unsatisfied and decided to move again. he moved to vvardenfell, where he would live for the next 30 years or so. during this time, he joined their chapter of the fighters guild, took many odd jobs, and became more radicalized against the empire than he had already been (which was a lot).

notably, in the latter half of his time there, he met the disowned son of a hlaalu nobleman named ondryn. he and ondryn were assigned together on a longterm fighters guild job out in the wilderness, and began a relationship that would last a decade. it was ned’s longest relationship, and also the first one that he seriously considered the possibility of being permanent and settling with. he had loved all his partners before this, but ondryn was very special to him and brought out something much more serious in him.

it was this relationship that would also lead to ned’s involvement with daedric cults. ondryn was dissident against the tribunal and a follower of azura, boethiah, and mephala. this was just casual everyday worship, but the two joined an active sect of boethiah worshippers (at least partially trying to impress each other). ned had never been religiously motivated and believed that gods were not owed worship any more than anyone else, but was drawn to the “good daedra” for their seemingly mutually beneficial relationship with mortals.

ned was never the most devoted of boethiah’s sect, but through skill and luck he continuously proved himself worthy, and eventually was challenged to and won a tournament of 10 bloods. he was granted a title as champion of boethiah, and bestowed with the artifact goldbrand.

for a while, he proved himself worthy by continuing to maintain his position and defeat any challenger who came his way. but at one point, he was successfully kidnapped along with a fellow boethiah worshipper to be sacrificed to molag bal. he managed to free himself of his binds and escape, and came back with reinforcements to slaughter the rest of molag bal’s faithful, but it was too late for his friend.

this was the first decidedly traumatic incident of his life, and marked the beginning of a slow downturn of his life and his mental health. he was wracked with guilt at having left his friend to die, and was beginning to realize he wasnt really cut out for the whole champion of boethiah thing, rightfully fearing that he had lost favor for this weakness. in a stupid move (that would turn out smart in the long run in bargaining for his soul back), he kept goldbrand but fled with ondryn from the cult, ghosting boethiah and just hoping it wouldnt come back to bite him.

the blight was also worsening in vvardenfell at this point, with things beginning to get pretty scary. ned had repeatedly expressed desire for him and ondryn to flee vvardenfell, but the latter saw all this as just another crisis that would pass with time, and ned accepted this. around the time of the beginning of morrowind’s events, ondryn fell sick after an encounter with one of the ash creatures from red mountain. when it became obvious and undeniable that it was corprus, ondryn resigned himself to dying and asked of ned to help him be properly cremated and interred in his family tomb. all of ondryn’s living relatives had disowned him, but he still desired to be buried in his rightful place.

agreeing to this was the hardest thing ned had ever done. ondryn said goodbye and took poison, and ned was left alone to burn and lay his body to rest. he almost couldnt bring himself to do it, but eventually succeeded. after it was done, ned remained in the tomb for a few days, catatonic and just waiting to see if he would show symptoms himself. when it became clear that he had not contracted corprus, he considered suicide but became disgusted with himself and decided against it.

he remained in vvardenfell for a short while after this, but when his beloved guar (“jelly”) passed away of old age (mercifully peacefully), he decided enough was enough, and returned to cyrodiil. he had a couple of brief encounters with a person who he would later learn was the nerevarine, and left only weeks before the defeat of dagoth ur.

upon returning to cyrodiil, he was in a rut. he had become near-broke, had newly acquired mental health issues, had a constant fear of boethiah sending prospective champions after him, and had nothing to do with himself. he settled into the imperial city waterfront as a squatter, and attempted to join the thieves guild, but failed the initiation. desperate, he began thieving on his own, sometimes doing jobs for others and sometimes just to have money to get by.

he took a very large risk in agreeing to steal and imperial watch captain’s heirloom sword, and was captured in the act. he resisted arrest and injured the captain, and the captain personally intervened to get him a much steeper sentence than he otherwise would have. he was put into the imperial city prison for a few weeks, before being transferred to the arena and being put to work as a gladiator.

this was essentially a death sentence, with no determined ending besides dying in the arena. he met shap-mota here, a bard who had been blamed for a string of brutal assaults in spite of being pretty unquestionably Not the culprit. the two of them had an intimate relationship throughout this time, and struck up a friendship, but they were under a painful and unusual situation and it could not really be called a romantic relationship.

for a time, ned was managing well. he managed to get some serious dirt on one of the guard captains and effectively blackmail him. he wasnt able to secure his freedom, but was able to force his hand into giving him his sword (goldbrand) back and giving him and shap a bit more leeway as prisoners. having goldbrand is likely the only reason he survived and won all his death matches, but his uncooperativeness and humiliation of a few of the guards gave them a massive grudge.

after about 5 months, shap narrowly won a match, but had been gravely injured in the process and collapsed. ned last saw him being dragged out from the arena, and never saw anything that would indicate shap being alive, and had to assume he died. things got really bad after that, with ned having no buffer against the ire of the guards and other prisoners. he lost his blackmailing opportunity (though was allowed to keep goldbrand, due to the crowd loving his signature flaming sword) and was given absolutely terrible treatment from his captors.

he became incredibly disgusted with being forced to kill other prisoners and enraged at challengers who fought willingly. as he rose in the ranks, he was kept going by not knowing what else to do and by a grim satisfaction at murdering people who willingly chose to be combatants. this was very traumatizing.

ned achieved champion rank, though he almost lost his final match. his opponent disarmed him and instead of killing him, gloated and slashed at him with goldbrand, ripping his abdomen open and giving him his biggest scars. ned managed to take him by surprise and kill his opponent before passing out from shock and blood loss.

he woke up a day later to find he had been released. evidently, no one expected him to live that long and it was decided he might as well be let go. ned already had trauma to deal with, but was suddenly experiencing very unusual and new symptoms (which was ptsd and an anxiety disorder) that he had no idea what to do with. he was also convinced that his challenger was there on boethiah’s behalf, though he cant be sure of that, and the fear of being killed and left to the daedra who probably owned his soul took hold of him again.

he had been given some prize money, and he collected himself and left. he moved into kvatch, and rented an attic from some dunmer in exchange for proofreading his stupid “opus” about him killing all the cliff racers or whatever.

ned spent a few years in a haze, kind of just drifting through life, getting into shit here and there. there was an “incident” involving the towns blacksmith at the general store, and he was not arrested but was considered to owe a favor to the town’s watch captain due to the chaotic results that few dare to speak of.

this favor was finally cashed in when kvatch was burnt down by mehrune’s dagons invasion force and they needed someone to try and close the gate, and lo and behold here comes ned “owes a favor” nasty and some argonian from out of town who just kind of wandered in.

[sassaetcie]

Summary of a Travel in the Heart of the Red Land, called Morrowind

(some random thoughts I had while playing TESO, yes i am obssessed with the elder scrolls)

??? Fail’rir, Skingrad

         This is one of the first thing I will probably share to any kind of audience, for I have been writing for a certain number of years. Actually, the title may be misunderstood, for I am myself a Dunmer, although not from Vvardenfell itself, or should I maybe say, herself ? Now, fellow Argonian or Khajit, do not fear. I do not share this distorted belief of my « brethren ». This is, of course, political, maybe historical for both are often entangled, theory, so pray, if any Telvanni comes across this paper, I hereby declare that : I do not care. Try to sue me. I shall speak some funny truth and you shall not hinder me from doing so.

As a child of Solstheim, I was used to… let us be fair, few political noise. The Houses were scarce, no matter the years. So I was fairly surprised when I arrived in the red land of my « ancestors ». I had heard of the Great Houses, their shining past and well, upon some digging, their stupid tendency to kill each other for more power or finding more ways to keep on their vain love for slavery than eternal life, but I had not seen how much power and beautiful clothing they had, apart from a few local Telvannis.

However, as I am a foreigner, no matter my skin and knowledge, I shall have no pity upon speculating their past. Who ever had ? The Telvanni House, especially. Although the Telvanni and Dres House both make me crawl of disgust and fascination alike, I shall here focus on the Telvanni House.

As one may know, Telvannis tend to brag, a lot, about their knowledge and supposed superiority. Of course, compared to the poor and useless Hlaluu House, until some… decades or centuries ago, the Telvanni House cannot be worse when it comes to political power. Telvannis also live in these huge mushroom houses (which, I must say, both fills me with intense rage as if I had seen Molag Bal, and admiration, for this is quite the impressive furniture), and let us be fair, the smell probably has a much more important part than you can expect. As the Telvanni take pride in their lonely mages reputation, it is to be expected they would like to push everyone away, aside from these dear and poor souls they call their slaves upon superiority sophism, with such despicable quality even the worst dremora would not have dared to utter. I cannot exactly describe the toxic scent which the towers reek of, for disgust and its shapes tend to change according to cultural and social backgrounds, but well, a rotten deathbell soaked in stagnated water should do the trick. An unbelievably awful smell which Apocrypha certainly does not reach.

Upon their superiority, or inferiority, complexes, Telvanni definitely and adamantly disagree when it comes to letting go of slaves. Upon spending so much time in a tower to work on magic and the numerous mysteries of our existence, it is to be expected one cannot both do the dishes and sing a magic spell. Well, actually, one can, but Telvannis are truly something else, the likes of which I have never seen again, even in deep Skyrim. Therefore, as they are already quite the lost nix-hound, let us think for a bit what would happen if they were to « lose » their precious slaves, which help them having both enough money to keep on with their luxurious lives and enough time to focus on their beloved studies. Indeed, the power of the Telvanni House would suddenly drop. The House made of Mages would no longer be made of Mages. What use could you make of them, then ?

You could have bet on a Hlaluu trick or whatever they can pull out of their beautiful architecture to hinder Telvanni’s pro-slavery politic. The Hlaluu would not only earn the support of Argonians and Khajits, most of the victims of my « brethren »’s superior enlightnement, but also gain significant power over Telvannis’ falling economy, for not only Telvanni eat away slaves’ lives, but also make money out of it, thanks to huge ebony deposits. If the Telvanni House loses all of this, then the Hlaluu could buy their lands, or at least weaken the Telvanni House. I should learn more about the Hlaluu House. Don’t you think so, too ? Let us learn more to have fun with all of the things that go in our minds.

[nerimaha]

A little doodle of my Moran ^^

I wanted to reflect the last time he was... young, I think? He lost his beloved, he was forced to kill people who were really important to Nerevar - but  damn it, he was young. A bit naive, maybe. When he returned from Mournhold, he took up some charity work in Vvardenfell, helping the Twin Lamps and trying to make Morrowind a better place  than he had find it.

But the Empire was not pleased with the activity of the Nerevarine. The Nerevarine was supposed to be their agent, to strengthen Morrowind's dependence on the Empire...

He's in huge trouble, you see, but not right now. Now he is thinking about how to help free the slaves. Now he is thinking about a little house in Bravil, where he may still be able to return...

But he never will.

[patreon || commissions || ko-fi]