#Why can’t I join the Forsworn?

[aliceaddsocks]

New book for local Haunt Hunting!

[alagaesia-headcanons]

you know, we have only Oromis words to tell how was Morzan when he was a kid, how can we be sure that he doesn't' exaggerate? Morzan was a rebellious kid, who could be rude and maybe cruel? A lot of kids can be cruels, it's doesn't mean they're fully bad from the start. I just think that Morzan had need of a parental figure who would correct his attitude and would CARE for him, because it what Oromis should have been: a teacher AND a parental figure since the kid was 10 when he took him.

YES THIS I 100% agree with you!! Forgive me for the very long rant I’m about to go on because I have many thoughts about Morzan that I’ve wanted to get down for a long while now. I find it super interesting to interpret that he wasn’t entirely malicious or irredeemable from the outset.

I really, REALLY don’t like the old order of Riders. From all the things we learn about them, they had a seriously objectionable system. The way they took human kids when they were 10 years old and then left them to the discretion of people like Oromis is brazen evidence of that. I’m really intrigued by the possibility that at least one of the Forsworn joined Galbatorix to dismantle the Riders out of a genuine aversion to their abuse and a desire to put an end to it and build something better, not just from a personal lust for power.

Given the way Galbatorix talks to Oromis and Nasuada, I think he would have presented his intentions that way to distract from his real deranged vengefulness. It would have fascinating implications for any of the Forsworn to have truly fallen for that, and then as the consequences of their actions fully unfold and Galbatorix becomes an even worse tyrant, for that Forsworn to burn with regret and resentment and hatred towards him. It would make for such an interesting dynamic during the Empire’s reign. I just want one disloyal Forsworn who hates Galbatorix because they feel tricked and used, it’d be cool!!!

Admittedly, Morzan is the only one of the Forsworn we have any background for at all, so it doesn’t mean much to say he’s the best fit, but the backstory we do have can potentially line up with that role very well. Morzan was very young when he met Galbatorix, and thus inexperienced and impressionable. He spent more time with him and would have been exposed to a lot more of his manipulation. And I think he would have reason to be predisposed against the Riders before they met, a resentment Galbatorix could have fueled for his own benefit.

I’ve made it no secret how much I loathe Oromis. Tbh the fact that Morzan spent years training under him is a huge reason why I’m able to sympathize with him lmao. I would also start killing people. That man could have never given the necessary care and tolerance and emotional support to a ten year old, but it seems like the new Riders were entrusted entirely to their mentors. We see how horribly Oromis mistreats Eragon and how that affects him even when he’s sixteen- his callous neglect inflicted on ten year old children is a disaster waiting to happen, especially if any of those kids weren’t well cared for to begin with.

Also, this is slightly pedantic, but when Oromis is talking about Morzan, he specifically says that he “grew so proud and cruel,” which implies that this issue was less significant or not there at all when he first took Morzan. His harmful behaviors apparently developed over time which should be addressed and cared for by whoever’s raising him. Oromis is the only one in a position to raise him and he still turns a blind eye to Morzan.

In my headcanons, Morzan grew up impoverished and neglected. He doesn’t know what fair and caring treatment looks like and so he also can’t identify Oromis’s abuse, but its impact is compounding on an already present wound. Morzan is starving to make something of himself because no one has acknowledged and loved him for who he already is, which makes for a horribly volatile mixture with Oromis’s penchant for demanding his students prove themselves against an arbitrary and merciless standard. Morzan’s susceptibility to Oromis’s pressure makes him viciously desperate to prove himself, intensely competitive, and highly reactive to disapproval. It creates a perception of inadequacy that bleeds into everything Morzan does.

When he’s unpressured and at ease, Morzan’s nature is actually quite reserved, slow, passive, and methodical, but he is so, so easily incensed. Because he’s so fixated on proving himself, he assumes everyone initially holds a very low opinion of him and that’s what necessitates he fight for approval. He just can’t fathom receiving acceptance, respect, or care without proving he deserves it, and so he’s perpetually clawing for more. And falling short feels so devastating because he’s never been shown his worth beyond people’s expectations.

To me, that’s why he ends up attached to someone like Brom, who idolizes and defers to him. For Morzan, it would feel like his endless efforts to prove himself have actually proven something. Because he thinks he has to earn love, Brom’s affection would also feed into Morzan’s ego, providing a long desired vindication. The fact that Oromis trains both of them makes their relationship so much worse. I feel like his relatively positive relationship with Brom could have balanced out and helped Morzan adjust with time, but there’s an unfortunate competitive aspect at play. As Morzan scrambles for Oromis’s approval, now Brom is also being trained and the differences between them present another metric that could make Morzan seem lesser. So he puts Brom down and fights against him for their master’s care and validation like they’re limited commodities.

I think, over time, Morzan comes to recognize elements of Oromis’s abuse. He simply doesn’t have the energy to constantly struggle for his approval forever, and as that starts to run dry, it reveals some things. He resents that Oromis belittles his struggles and only values efforts that yield the results he wants, so he stops putting in the effort. If Morzan still doesn’t matter to him after trying so hard, why should he keep trying? He hates that Oromis can never give a true justification for the standards he demands they reach, and he starts ignoring them. He despises how he lies when says he cares for him and wants the best for him, because he prioritized his utility to the Riders over his well being in every moment since they met.

So, when he meets Galbatorix, Morzan is bitterly resentful and disillusioned. He joins him out of desire for revenge on Oromis and to tear down the system that abandoned him to his abuse. I do believe Morzan genuinely loved Brom in a certain way, despite his mistreatment, and he starts trying to incite him against Oromis not solely because of his own vindictiveness but also out of concern for Brom. As Galbatorix’s plans start to move, Morzan balks and begins seriously doubting him, even more so as the scope of slaughter unfolds, but he swallows his misgivings and stays determined to recruit Brom to the winning side. When one of the Forsworn kills the first Saphira despite Morzan’s insistence they be spared, he’s vehemently outraged. I think of Galbatorix’s disinterest in his uproar as the turning point in Morzan’s loyalty to him. As the Empire takes form, that disloyalty solidifies and Morzan hates Galbatorix for being even more cruel, manipulative, and uncaring than the people he wanted revenge on. Galbatorix tolerates it because forcing his vengeful resentment into subservience gratifies his sadistic impulse.

Now all of this is well within the realm of extrapolation and interpretation- none of these details directly suggest this version of Morzan’s character and motivations. They give the potential, but not real support, and they can just as easily be seen in any number of different ways. However, there is one single thing that actually grounds this in canon, which is that Morzan was a name-slave from very early on. When Eragon is telling Murtagh about the chance to change his true name and challenges his hesitation, Murtagh says, “[Galbatorix] has been creating name-slaves for over a hundred years, ever since he recruited our father.”

This detail fascinates me. There is the possibility that it’s a lie, but I can’t imagine Murtagh would make it up considering how much distaste he expresses towards his father. And I don’t think it would make sense for Galbatorix to lie to Murtagh about it either. If he didn’t actually have control over Morzan’s name then, claiming he did would discredit that real loyalty Morzan would have had to feel for him and his cause to do everything of his own free will. I think it’s the truth. Galbatorix learned Morzan’s true name more than a hundred years ago, before the fall, when he recruited him- which, to me, feels like before Morzan even helped him steal Shruikan’s egg.

Morzan either knew his true name already or Galbatorix went through his mind to find out, and the latter seems far more likely. Given the way Morzan’s described: young, arrogant, weak minded- I highly doubt he knew and the way Murtagh brings this up implies Galbatorix’s skill at uncovering names. Morzan either felt so loyal to Galbatorix at that point that he willingly let him in his mind, he was coerced into agreeing to it, or Galbatorix did it by force.

This still doesn’t mean Morzan wanted to dismantle the broken parts of the Riders instead of fully destroying them and that Galbatorix manipulated him into starting a war he found appalling- but it makes that idea much more feasible. If Morzan did realize Galbatorix’s intentions weren’t what he said and that he didn’t want to take things so far, he couldn’t back out. Any reluctance or disagreement would have been overridden and things would unfold exactly how they did.

I think Morzan was wounded and angry and starving for true respect and care that lured him to Galbatorix, and the precarious pride he clung to made him look away from the severity of Galbatorix’s actions. Then he realized his desperation was preyed upon only when it was far too late.

[spirits-child]

Reasons to not do oaths we can’t complete (if it’s not obvious already)

“DELPHIC MAXIM #19 DO NOT USE AN OATH”

(english is not my main language so sorry for my bad grammar)

Kind regards to my dad for inspiring this post.

So today while my dad told me about his trips with my mom it slipped out that he did an oath to a deity, now I suffer. So what’s an oath? WHAT IS IT.

Here you have my dear Achilles doing it:

“…and swear it with a great oath- nay, by this my sceptre…”

It’s basically “ a statement of fact sworn upon, ‘the head of Zeus’ or upon the River Styx*.”

Now that you get the context of why this post exists and you are new into um hellenism or paganism or any religion, why don’t we do oaths we can’t complete? Or just in general? Well... WELL.

I read someone say that oaths was self-cursing and absolutely, yes, 10/10 right. 

WELL, WEEEEELL. Oath you do and you don’t complete is the highway to punishment, badly, so why would you do it? 

Reason 1 to not do it: There’s literally an entity (Horkos) in hellenism that is in charge of punishing people that don’t fulfill their oaths. He is also the companion of a deity (Dike) and he is described as an “avenger of perjury”... WHY WOULD YOU OMG.

Horkos "whom Eris bore, to be a plague on those who take false oath”, does that scream “lets make oaths” to you? I hope not. 

Want another reason? Well, reason 2 not do do it: here it is theoi.com helping my beautiful research. So here, have a Zeus epithet: HO′RCIUS (Horkios), the god who watches over oaths, or is invoked in oaths, and punishes their violation, occurs chiefly as a surname of Zeus, under which the god had a statue at Olympia. (Paus. v. 24. § 2; Eurip. Hippol. 1025.)

I love Zeus, he is one of my deities and I’m ready to defend him with my life but if you think getting in his bad side is a great idea... you’re wrong. So wrong. Please get some help.

MORE REASONS?! I’LL GET YOU MORE REASONS! Reason 3 to not do it: @arkefthos who has an amazing post on oaths (you can find it here, amazing) found this from Harvard and their hellenic center studies so read it if you’re not convinced yet:

Notably in Greek, thanks to the Homeric expression hórkon omnúnai, meaning “to swear an oath,” we can grasp its concrete origin: “to take hold of the hórkos,” an object charged with malevolent powers which will be unleashed in case the oath is broken. The old sacramental formula ístō Zeús is an appeal to the divinities as eyewitnesses and consequently as irrefutable judges (cf. Lat. iudex arbiter). Latin sacramentum ‘oath’, and perhaps Hittite lingāis (cf. Gr. élenkhos?), underline the potential malediction which specifically defines the binding declaration of the oath.

Let me highlight an specific part for the lazy to read: an object charged with malevolent powers which will be unleashed in case the oath is broken.

Is it not clear yet? AREN’T YOU HAPPY YET? Well, reason 4 not do it:  Here, have what happens to a deity if they break an oath described by Hesiod: 

“[When a god] is forsworn, [he] lies breathless until a full year is completed, and never comes near to taste ambrosia and nectar, but lies spiritless and voiceless on a strewn bed: and a heavy trance overshadows him. But when he has spent a long year in his sickness, another penance and an harder follows after the first. For nine years he is cut off from the eternal gods and never joins their councils of their feasts, nine full years. But in the tenth year he comes again to join the assemblies of the deathless gods who live in the house of Olympus.”

Hope it’s clear, don’t do it kids. 

 Hesiod, Theogony  Homer, The Iliad

[ginger-danica-snapps]

The Wolf Queen and Her Crow Prince

By Ginger D. Snapped

Written for @jonsaseasonalbash day 3 - 24 April: crow and little bird/king and queen/stone and snow.

I was out of town unexpectedly for Day Three, but here is my completion for the Jonsa Seasonal Bash, using the prompt King and Queen. This is written as snapshots of the time when the freefolk began to gather and the end of the long night. This is not betaed, so please be gentle. 

You can also read on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/30930386

Summary: Sansa knows she didn’t always live beyond the wall. Mance and his wife were not her parents, but she was freefolk to her bones and it didn’t matter who discovered her. She would save her people from the Night King and never kneel to a Southern King or Queen. 

 Sansa knew there was a time in her life that she didn’t live beyond the wall. She knew the same way that she knew what lemon tasted like and that somewhere there were people who were not always fighting the cold. Where people were fed when hungry and she was loved. The only thing she remembered from that life was her name being Sansa. 

Not that she was not loved by her people. Mance and his wife had been good to her. They had even told her some of the truth of how she came to be with the Freefolk. It was not a pretty story and she knew she had basically been stolen long before she was ready to be taken as a wife. Mance had killed the man that brought her beyond the wall, but worried about what would happen if he took her back across. 

So, she stayed with Mance and Dalla and learned the way of the freefolk. She became a sister to Val and while she did not have the fighting ability of many of the spearwives, she could hold her own well enough to dissuade any more men who came to steal her away. 

Still, she found her way across the great white to peer upon the wall several times in her growing years. She would stare upon the great monstrosity and wonder who beyond it would remember her. Was she missed? Was she loved? 

It made her melancholy in a way that was hard to explain, though Val tried to understand. 

Something else began to settle into the freefolk’s general attitude towards her in the latter year. She’d been one of them for so long that when she was happened upon by a shadowcat and thought herself dead that she was grateful to have lived free. It was not her day to die, however, as a gigantic beast flew from the rocks above them. 

She had scrambled backwards on her hands and bottom, boots scuffling against the ice and snow. Val, Mance, and Ygritte reaching her just as she stood and she leaned gratefully into Val’s own warmth. The cat was now had by the neck with what Sansa realized was a gigantic grey and white direwolf. 

They had seen only trackings of the great beasts before and often avoided the area they were found. 

When the cat was obviously dead, Sansa pushed Ygritte to the side when the girl went to draw back her bow string. 

“NO!” she cried out before she had formed a thought for what she was going to do. Then she was pulling away from Val and rushing forward to the wolf. 

She hit her knees as she reached forward, kneeling before the wolf, and realized for a moment she felt a savage joy at destroying the shadowcat and tasted blood in her own mouth, though there was none. The beast leant to her and rubbed it’s humongous face against hers. She let a giggle escape her before she was flinging her arms around the wolf. 

“Nothing to be said for it now. The rumours about the Stark girl going missing were true,” Val murmured and Sansa looked up to Mance. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the span of moments. As if he had already not been struggling over their people going missing by the tribes, clans, and societies. 

Sansa was not stupid. 

If a Stark child had gone missing some years before and now she had a direwolf in front of her who seemed to want to keep her, then by all rational thinking she was this Stark girl. 

Amazingly, for the first time in many years, Sansa saw a flash of something in her memory. A grey and white flag with a direwolf upon it. 

She wrinkled her nose as she realized what this meant. 

She had always known she was born to someone below the wall, but she was not just the child of a kneeler. She was a child of someone that the people kneeled to. 

“Child,” Mance’s voice reached her and she looked up with a tilted head. She huffed as she realized he was worried about her reaction. 

That was stupid and she told him so. If he, a deserter of the crows, toted her back to the wall they would have thanked him, taken her, and then promptly hung him for desertion. Then it was likely they would have drummed up the support of these Lords and Ladies she was apparently blood kin too and brought an army into their home to kill indiscriminately. 

“It is fine, stop being stupid. I understand that it was even more important to not return me if I was...am...this Stark girl,” she finally murmured. 

They made their way back to the camp Sansa kept her hand on the nape of the direwolf. 

“Whaddya gonna name her?” Ygritte asked eventually and Sansa looked over in surprise. She truly had not thought about it. 

She looked at the wolf and then thought about how she hit her knees in front of her. She grinned savagely and laughed. 

“Well, I kneeled before her, so I guess she must be a Lady,” Sansa answered and Mance barked out a laugh. 

“Lady it is,” he chuckled and they made their way back to their tents, the freefolk around them all giving them wide eyes. 

-------------

It was three moons later when the world went to shit.

Their people, those that called Mance King and those that did not, were being slaughtered by these dead creatures. Sansa had seen three of her milk siblings rise and attack the same as that which had killed them. 

She’d cut the head off of one herself with Val thrusting a lit torch against the creature and setting it aflame. They’d barely managed to hold Dalla between them before Lady had returned from wherever she had been hunting. They all clamoured on top of the direwolf, gripping hands into the fur, and Sansa murmured an order for Lady to run. 

They’d met with Vance and many of the others who had been hunting and Sansa had to shut her eyes at the cries of those who realized that they had lost all their elderly and the children too young to join the hunt. 

“No one is left?” Mance asked quietly as Sansa helped Dalla down. 

“No, it was slaughter. We need to be moving,” Sansa whispered back harshly, pushing aside all feelings for the time being. 

Mance nodded, “Aye, we make for Frostfangs.”

“This will be happening everywhere, Mance,” Val added as they began to lead their people away.

Mance grunted, “Maybe now they will listen.”

Sansa was sitting before the fire, Lady beside her, working her needle through the last of the seal skin that had come at the same time as the whale blubber that Val was stirring to render over the low flame. There was not much brought by the last traveler and Sansa knew this would be the last they would receive here. 

It would not be long until they’d made their bid to make it over the wall. There had been rumors of ill tidings in the kingdom of the kneelers. A king dead, rebellion, and only little Starks in Winterfell. 

Over the last moon, Mance had taught her all he could of the world below the wall. 

He said just in case, but Sansa could read his wishes between the words unspoken. 

In case all else fails, use her name to the best of her ability, and take care of their people. 

The tent flap few open and they all looked up, Sansa’s hand automatically reaching for the spear she kept beside her at all times now. Lady was up on her feet as well and lips already pulled back in a snarl. 

“Ygritte!” she exclaimed as the girl came in and eyes settled on Mance. Sansa settled back down into her chair when she realized there was no immediate danger. 

“What is it? Why are you back?” Mance gruffly asked. 

Ygritte hesitated only momentarily before stating, “I brought a crow. Says he has forsworn his vows and wishes to join our people.”

Sansa watched as Mance’s eyebrows raised, “Well, bring him in.”

Ygritte hesitated again, “He has a wolf like our girl. Big old white thing with red eyes. Says it's the companion of members of his family.”

Sansa stood again, her spear dropping to a clatter this time as she grabbed at the fabric of her tunic. 

“He’s a Stark?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

Ygritte grunted in agreement, “Said something about natural and true, but I couldn’t tell you what his lips were flappin’ about. Seemed to be important to him though.”

“He’s a natural born son of House Stark. The bastard brought back from the war against the Targaryen’s by the Warden of the North,” Mance mused before adding, “Your half brother. I don’t remember his name.”

“Jon,” Sansa murmured as Ygritte answered as well, “Snow, Jon Snow.”

Sansa looked up with wide-eyes. She remembered his name and suddenly a young boy was in front of her young self with dark curly hair and solemn eyes. The same spectral boy she dreamt of on a nightly basis. She had thought him nought but her imagination. 

“You should not climb that, Lady Sansa. Your mother would be quite cross.” 

Then before she could say another word, a man was coming through the tent flap. Sansa’s breath caught as she knew without a doubt that this was the man from her dreams. This was Jon Snow, her brother, and she realized without a doubt that he was her downfall. 

She felt her heart beat faster, her palms growing sweaty, and when his eyes met hers Sansa was lost in the darkness. 

“It...it can’t be,” her crow brother whispered as his eyes darted to Lady and back up, “Sansa?” 

“Hello Jon,” she responded without thinking and then she could think no more as she was swept into strong arms and she was inhaling deep the scent of her kin. 

-----------

Sansa stared at Mance with a gaping mouth. 

“Absolutely not,” she bit out. 

Mance did not look impressed, “Absolutely so. Every leader, chieftain, and speaker has decided. I have stepped back and you are the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall.” 

Sansa shook her head fiercely. 

She’d spent the last three days just getting to know her brother. She’d already decided to steal him for her own as soon as the chance arose. After all, he was only her half-brother, and it was not unheard of among the Freefolk. 

Menfolk were sometimes in low commodity and surviving had been more important than the sharing of a parent. 

Still, Jon was sweet, if a bit naive. 

Ygritte had told her of her advances on Jon on the way to Frostfangs and she didn’t quite believe the man was truthful in his defection. This surprised Sansa not one bit. She had already come to that opinion in the three days she’d spent with him. 

It was only the wildness in his eyes and the obvious wish for the freedom of her people that burned in him brightly that kept Sansa from truly speaking out about his duplicity. Brother or not, she had an entire people to protect from the crows and those below the wall. 

“This is a mistake,” Sansa finally muttered. 

Mance shook his head, “No. This is the only way to get most of us past the wall with little to no bloodshed.” 

Sansa snorted in derision, “Whether the slaughter happens this side of the wall or once we’ve settled in some nice little field and are betrayed, the kneelers will betray us,” then she sat on a stool and lowered her face into her hands. 

“Are we even positive that Jon can help? That he will be listened to?” she asked quietly, at almost a whisper. 

Mance made an encouraging noise and sat down in front of her, “They say his brother became a king before dying and that the entirety of the kingdom is at war. We will take back proof of the dead and show the watch. I am hopeful your presence will encourage less hostility. If they decide to be fuckers all around, then I’ll take the people over the wall the way we planned and take the castle.” 

Sansa sighed and stood again, “Then I suppose I should explain the truth of things to Jon. I get the feeling he expects to return me to the stone houses to wear pretty dresses and sew little pieces of cloth with no purpose all day.” 

Mance chuckled and leaned in and kissed her forehead. She turned and went to join her brother in the tent they’d been keeping him in. 

She could not help but laugh when she entered and found Tormund and Ygritte keeping guard. Jon had apparently said or done something they didn’ t appreciate, because he was trussed up like one of the wild boars they hadn’t seen in years. 

She pulled her knife from her belt and slipped it through the ropes at his wrist. She gave him a leering smile and watched, pleased, as he turned the same color as her hair. 

“Leave us,” she demanded and didn’t bother to look and see if they obeyed. The soft falls of feet and the fabric flapping closed gave her all the answer she needed. 

“Will your crows listen?” she demanded and Jon looked at her confused. 

She huffed in response, “Your crow people and the southerner’s, will they listen when we tell them of the dead and allow us to give proof. The wall holds for now, but that will not be forever. It will fall and when it does then this is all of our problems. If you leave my people to fall behind the wall then the force that rises will be unstoppable.” 

“Sansa, you are a Stark. The last living Stark as far as I know and the Lady of Winterfell,” her crow kin told her and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I am the Queen-Beyond-the-Wall, chosen by my people here, and I will not forsake them for stone walls and kneeling sycophants,” she muttered. 

“You're the Queen? I thought Mance…,” Jon began but Sansa held up a hand to stop him. 

This time he glared at her and Sansa resisted the urge to snarl back at him. 

“I am now the Queen. The people decided just this morning and I will be the one to deal with your people. Now, answer my question and none of this manure about you supporting the freefolk. We are not stupid and you might have the heart to be free, but your mind is terribly chained up,” Sansa demanded. 

Then Jon motioned for her to sit. Sansa moved to sit and crossed her legs underneath her and they began to hammer out an accord. 

--------

Four moons later,  Sansa found herself sitting across from a man with a sterner face than any she’d ever seen. 

“You are a Stark and I am your rightful King,” the man said gruffly. 

Sansa sniffed, “I choose to be Freefolk and I am their chosen Queen. I cannot be this Stark you want to put in that stone cage and you cannot be my King. We are not married and your wife is unlikely to take kindly to the idea of you taking another one.” 

The man called Stannis, who she had taken to just calling the Southern King in her head, was now resembling one of the fish with whiskers that she’d been served since coming through the wall. 

“Put my brother in it. He seems to be fond of stone cages,” she added. 

“He’s a bastard,” the wannabe king growled. 

Sansa barked out a laugh, “You think these Northern people will accept a Stark raised as Freefolk over a bastard raised as a Stark? You must be stupider than you look. Make my brother this Lord Stark and offer my people the right to live below the wall if they fight for you and this chair you want so badly without kneeling. They’ll agree to follow the law of these lands while we are here and will allow Jon to be the direct voice to yourself. I speak for my people to Jon and he speaks for me to you. Problem solved.” 

She stated her demands and leaned back in the chair, folding her hands in her lap, and just stared at the man.  

“Your father…,” he began again, but she didn’t even let him make another excuse. 

Sansa stood and turned to walk out. She looked back over her shoulder before she exited. 

“I do not remember my father, nor my mother, nor most of my siblings. Apparently there were two I never even met. Appealing to my sense of familial ties will do nothing but frustrate me. Give me what my people need and we have a deal. Otherwise, there is no reason to send for me again.”

With that Sansa exited the room as calmly as she could. She stopped briefly on the outside and listed as the fire witch spoke to Stannis. 

“I believe she is correct. We now know where the war truly is,” the woman said. 

Stannis made a noise of derision, “Her brother already turned down my pardon of his vows, legitimisation, and being the Warden of the North. I need to place a Stark back in Winterfell or I will never draw enough support to take the throne. We need the kingdom to fight this damn war you are speaking of.”

“Then do as the fire commanded,” the woman responded. 

“Now see here,” the man that Stannis called his Hand, though Sansa did not understand why he needed someone’s else’s when he had two himself that worked just fine, “You can’t just marry a man to his sister, half or prophesied, regardless.” 

Sansa wanted to choke. What had her idiot kin done now? 

Swallowing hard, she marched off to find Jon. 

------------

“I made a vow,” Jon was now glaring at her and Sansa was getting rather tired of people glaring at her and speaking to her of words that were someone more important than doing what was necessary to survive. 

She gave him an unimpressed look, “So, did the majority of the men in this stone cage currently, but they sure seem to enjoy getting their cock wet with my spearwives.” 

“Do you know the whole of what is being asked, Sansa? Or are you going to stand there and lecture me? Marriage, Sansa, he wants us to marry,” Jon growled out and Sansa stood to meet him when he began to move away. 

She pressed her hands into his chest and pushed back with all his strength, “You will listen to me, Jon Snow. You made a vow to protect the realm of men. Staying on this stupid wall, freezing, with a bunch of other stupid men is not going to keep this realm safe. You all already apparently forgot who the actual enemy the wall was built to stop was, nevertheless leaving my people as fodder to build an army the likes of which you’ve never seen. Taking Winterfell and Stannis’s offer, regardless of what it is, will protect the realm of men.”

Jon gaped at her, speechless, and Sansa took it as a sign to do something. She stepped closer, not letting him escape her gaze, and pressed her lips against his. He made a sound that reminded her of a dying man’s last breath, before suddenly kissing her back with a fury. Sansa gasped as he lifted her and sat her upon the table. 

She had just managed to get her fingers under his leathers and was about to yank at laces when he stepped back with a panicked look on his face. Sansa wanted to scream at his ridiculous morals. 

He turned to run from the room, but she stood swiftly and passed him, sweeping her leg under his to send him sprawling down. She slammed the door closed and bolted it. Looking around, Sansa made herself not grumble at the lack of furs or a bed. 

Beds were the thing she could grow used to the most. Although Jon had said the beds here were nothing like in this Winterfell. Sansa could not imagine anything softer. 

She looked down at Jon and reached behind her to undo her laces. 

“Sansa…” he said hoarsely, staring up at her. Sansa ignored the plea in his eyes and let her dress fall from her shoulders. 

The dress had been a juxtaposition of painful and enjoyable of being below the wall instead of behind it. She’d run her fingers over the soft material when it had been gifted to her to wear instead of her leather breeches and fur jerkins. She thought Val would have liked it, for all the girl would have argued. 

She’d have liked the monstrosity they called a bathtub too.

It all made Sansa incredibly uncomfortable at the reminders of what she had been born into and sometimes, in the darkest part of night, she could see the sweet, innocent, stupid thing she would have been. She both was grateful to not be her and mournful of what could have been. 

“Now, if you can truly say you do not want me, then I will redress and walk out of this room. If you cannot honestly admit that, though, then I’m taking you for my husband, you’re taking the offer of this Stannis, and we’re going to let my people behind the wall,” She murmured as she knelt in front of him, her braid falling over her shoulder and brushing against the top of her breast. 

She watched his eyes track the movement and grinned at the heat in his eyes. She knew without a doubt that Ygritte had been correct. Jon was definitely a pure man and Sansa ignored the heat that flooded her core, causing her to grow quickly wet, at the thought that he was going to be her man to have. 

No one else would have him again, unless she was dead and buried. She’d had lovers before, occasionally a spearwife and at times a man from another clan, but never one she wanted to keep. 

Jon was staring at her still, this time with some sort of worshipful awe, when her fingers reached to his breaches and unlaced him. 

“Sansa,” he whispered, this time more like whispered words of love. 

She pulled him free and pulled herself over him to straddle. Lowering herself slowly, Sansa sat on his cock and groaned at the stretch of his girth. She wondered if these Southern boys compared cocks the way the youth of the freefolk did and if Jon realized how blessed the gods had been to him. 

She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was helping him break his vows as it would be a travesty to waste such a cock. She began to move her hips in a languid, smooth motion, rocking against him hard on the downfall to press her button into his groin. She added a longer roll as she grew hotter and hotter. 

Then without warning, Jon decided to be an active participant. He surged up, hand cupping the back of her head, as he moved them over. Sansa was pleased to find he had unclipped his cloak and she was now laid out against it. She moaned in pleasure as he immediately set to fucking into her. 

Then his mouth was against hers and she was shoving her own hips up to meet his furious pace. Sansa chased the feeling that was building inside of her and she refused to allow his control to stop her pleasure. She grabbed one of his hands and pulled it down to her button and pressed against his palm as she felt his cock inside of her as she ground upwards. 

“Sansa,” Jon groaned as she felt herself begin falling. 

“Jon!” she screamed as pleasure ripped through her body and she felt him respond to her own cry with wetness flooding inside of her. 

She prepared for him to collapse on top of her as most men she’d taken her pleasure from were apt to do. She found herself moved and cradled against him as he laid back on the floor. 

“I don’t know if Ygritte explained how this works, but I took you for my husband,” she said succinctly and dared him to argue with her stare. 

He sighed and looked over at her, “Our father and your mother will probably crawl out of their graves to kill me, but aye, I accept you as my wife. The North will not love this, but they will accept it to get a Stark back in Winterfell. Now, I can take my wife’s name instead of legitimation from Stannis. That will make them even more accepting. We have to take Winterfell first, though. Without Winterfell we will not be seen as legitimate. They might balk a southern king releasing me from my vows.”

Sansa sighed against him. The man knew nothing of bed talk. Sitting up she pulled him after her. If he wanted to talk business then they should get to it. 

Cutting her eyes back over to view his backside before she slid her dress over her head, Sansa also thought that the sooner they finished the business then they could get back to the fucking. 

A voice inside her head added, and baby making. 

------------

They meet with Stannis...it’s about as enjoyable as Sansa had imagined. They reach an accord. 

They go beyond the wall and speak to her people about the agreement to help take back the Northern key that was supposed to be her birthright and then the truly southern city where Stannis has his stupid chair. Then Stannis will bring the full force of the kingdom North to handle the enemy beyond the wall. That discussion is even less enjoyable with much yelling and even one clan defecting completely and leaving. 

Sansa says a prayer to the old gods that they find their way to somehow burn in one of the red witch’s fires before they join the army of the dead. Stupid fools. 

Stannis and Jon both choke when she tells them that there are at least 85,000 fighting men and women. The rest are too old to be an asset or too young to understand how to tell the difference between two living enemies. 

They both insist the women don’t fight and Sansa plans to ignore them. If the enemy doesn’t care about killing women, why should they care about fighting them? 

Finally, they send ravens. So many ravens and Sansa is astounded how the birds manage to find the people and return with a warg to guide and control them. Jon is astounded to learn that wargs exist and that he has the ability. He does it regularly with Ghost but had thought it was a dream. Sansa and he both begin to learn together with a freefolk skinchanger. 

Jon and her marry before the red witch in part of their agreement with Stannis and Jon is released from his vows to the watch and officially becomes Jon Stark. Then they wed again before the heart tree beyond the wall and Sansa imagines for a moment that her forgotten parents are watching. 

Mance, Dalla, Val, and Ygritte are there in the flesh though and Mance tells her later, when they are all huddled around a fire, that he is proud of the free woman she is. Dalla and he both ask if something happens to them that she takes care of Val and the baby Dalla has yet to birth. 

She drags him back to the heart tree alone and vows before it that she will save as many as she can, but she will watch for Val and the unborn babe with every breath she has. 

He is the only father she can remember. 

Her people agree, as long as they are allowed to have the truth north back as soon as the final war is over and it not be a part of the southern kingdom. They will not kneel. 

Sansa will not give her crown until the war is over and her people are safe. 

By then it would not be necessary as her people would have no need for one when they are free in their home and not in danger of the dead. 

Jon and she share a bed every night and Sansa is pleased to learn that her husband is a quick study. She also thinks her men are sharing ways to please a woman, because he attacks her center with fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth that is clumsy, but not knowledgeable in the fundamentals. 

If she was the type of woman she was born to be, she’d demure her eyes and shyly thank the wives of the men. She’s not that woman though and she makes sure her own clan of people receive three casts of the shit ale the night watch’s call a drink and leads the toast herself. Ygritte claims the majority of the thanks. 

She will never tire of Jon’s blush. 

Two men and a boy try to kill her husband by tricking him into an ambush, claiming his uncle has survived. 

She calls bullshit and when the idiot tries to go rushing down, she draws her blade and motions for the ten men and women she’d chosen to guard her and her husband follow. She’d thought it ridiculous when Stannis told her that she should have an honor guard of some sort since he was recognizing her as a queen and it was only proper. 

Her own clan had sent ten forward without hesitancy. Ygritte and Tormund among them. 

Ygritte is the one who shoots the boy, her husband’s steward, when Jon cannot do it. He cries into her breast that night and Sansa runs her fingers through his hair and comforts him the best she can. 

Tormund somehow decides that her husband should be brought closer to her people after this and begins to heckle him at every opportunity. Sansa finds them fighting in the yard most mornings now. 

Jon fits her people more than he wishes to admit. Sansa tries not to think of the day they will send them back beyond the wall. 

They begin the march to Winterfell. A winter storm takes them by surprise, but the Freefolk laugh at the southern men in Stannis’s army. Very few Northmen answered their call, but Sansa is not particularly surprised. Jon is only half Stark and she was raised among the Freefolk. Even together they won’t draw the North to them until they sit in Winterfell and the dead is more known. 

The freefolk begin to teach the southerners how to best pad their armor and they stop before dusk every night and her people train them how to move on snow and ice. Stannis, his hand, and witch take dinner every night with Jon, Sansa, and Mance. 

It’s an odd group, but they make it work. 

Melisandre is oddly good at helping keep everyone focused on the real war. She watches Jon in a way that Sansa is not happy about, however. It was on one of the later nights that Melisandre finally addressed whatever it was she had been pondering. Stannis and the others were already abed in their tents and it was only her guard, Jon, and Melisandre left around the fire. 

“Your mother, do you know who your mother was?” the witch asked and Sansa resisted the urge to scratch her eyes out when her husband almost immediately became sullen. It was a particular talent of his. 

“No, My Lady, Lord Stark never deemed it the time. He promised he would the next I saw him, but you know what happened with that,” Jon said quietly. 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed as Melisandre stood and asked for his hand. Jon, the stupid fool, didn’t hesitate and then yelped when Melisandre obviously pierced him in the palm. She was sopping the blood up with a scrap of fabric before he could move back and Sansa stood angrily. 

The witch just held up her hand and walked to the fire with the fabric before anyone could say anything. 

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the witch murmured and tossed the cloth in. 

Sansa could not help but find herself intrigued as the fire almost doubled in size and suddenly there were images. Jon and a short, blond woman standing before huge beast’s that could only be dragons. Jon wearing black and red and flying on the dragon. Then nothing. 

She looked to Melisandre, who looked back at both of them before sighing. 

“I fear that I might have misinterpreted the flames in regards to Stannis,” the woman said as if announcing what she wanted for breakfast, “It’s you who is our prince or the girl.” 

“Who was that woman?” Sansa asked. 

Melisandre sat and began to draw in the sand a rudimentary symbol of three creatures wrapped around one another. 

Jon whispered, “House Targaryen. That is their sigil.”

“Yes, Jon, and the only interpretation left to us is that you are a member of said house, or atleast of their blood. That woman was Daenerys Targaryen, the lost Targaryen Princess, who swears to return to Westeros with fire and blood to reclaim what she says is hers.” Melisandre finished. 

Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Well, don’t be telling Stannis that. You’ve told him that he was the promised one or some other rot. Best to let him keep thinking that.” 

“Lyanna Stark is my mother,” Jon whispered and Sansa looked at him in confusion. 

Jon swallowed hard, “Lyanna was your father’s sister. They say Rhaegar Targaryen took her away and our Uncle Brandon and Grandfather went to King’s Landing to demand her back. Aerys...oh gods, he was my grandfather...burned them alive before demanding that Jon Arryn bring him the heads of your father and Robert Baratheon. It’s why they went to war and deposed him...deposed House Targaryen.” 

“Deposed or not, you are Targaryen and Stark, the culmination of the song of ice and fire,” Melisandre said, “Your blood is the blood of kings, the blood of the dragon.” 

“I am not a dragon,” Jon snarled and stood with such a quickness and fury that Sansa found herself preparing for battle, “I am the bastard of a deposed house that holds no right to anything in Westeros unless this Daenerys Targaryen returns to conquer it again. It will not be me.” 

Melisandre hummed under her breath and Sansa watched the witch consider his words with a sense of trepidation. Sansa reached into her skirts to put her fingers on her knife. If the witch made to do something that would expose her husband, then Sansa would slit her throat before she could speak it. 

“Yes,  My Lord Stark. You have married into the house of wolves and therefore, I suppose, you are not a dragon any longer. There would be no reason to discourage King Stannis from battle and if Daenerys Targaryen returns, R’hllor will bless the one who is supposed to sit the Iron Throne,” Melisandre finally said and with a quick dip of her own skirts, she moved to head back to her tent. 

Sansa let her fingers fall from the hilt and went to stand before her husband and cousin. This made her think of something and so she reached up to cup his head. 

“Now you don’t have to worry the Gods will strike you down for fucking your sister, cousin. Do these southerner’s marry cousins?” she said with a smile and grinned when he choked in surprise and met her eyes. 

“You do realize your still in the north beneath the wall?” he asked incredulously. 

Sansa snorted, “The North is not a place, it’s a people, and those people are the Freefolk. There might be some among the kneeler’s whose heart is Northern and for that they are more my people, than Stannis’s or this Dragon Aunt Lady.”

Sansa tartly turned and made way back to their tents.

-----------

They were crossing beside a large lake when Sansa thought to ask. 

“How did this Theon Greyjoy take Winterfell if it is as large a fortress as you say it is?” 

She was sandwiched in between Stannis and Jon, riding a grey garron that was older, but sturdy. Melisandre, Mance, and Davos behind them. 

“Trickery,” Jon muttered, “He had a force attack a nearby vassal and when Winterfell sent the majority of their fighting men to stop it, Theon led a small group over the wall and took the keep.” 

Sansa hummed, “And this Dreadfort, the Bolton’s own keep is not but a bit over 100 leagues from here?” 

“Yes…” Jon said cautiously and Sansa could see that he recognized something in her face, “What are you thinking?”

Sansa thought of her men and the number they said were at Winterfell. There could not be many left at the Bolton’s keep, but these southerner’s seemed very attached to their stone houses. 

“Could we not do something similar? Surely this Roose and Ramsey have heard of our army marching, but they might not know it is made up mainly of my people. They probably assume it to be your own army and one not used to fighting battle in this terrain. Send a group of my own to take this Dreadfort and draw these pretenders from Winterfell. They would easily be taken care of by ambush on the journey between Winterfell and their own ancestral stones. Then we take a smaller contingent and take back Winterfell,” she said aloud and tried to ignore the way Jon was staring at her. 

“You would have us be as dishonorable as a filthy ironborn?” Stannis said incredulously. 

Sansa could not help but roll her eyes, ”I’d see as few of our combined men and women die as possible so that we may better survive the long night, but call it what you will. I care not for your southern ideals of morals beyond a night’s enjoyment of listening to pretty songs and fables.”

“Lord Stark was honorable, Robb was honorable and it got their heads cut from their body and practically destroyed the North. I say we go with Sansa. Roose Bolton broke guestright and his own oath to his King, he has no honor to be dishonored,” Jon quietly said. 

Stannis was quiet for a bit and Sansa wondered what demons of his own he was fighting in his head. Then he turned and looked at Jon, before sighing. 

“Select your men that will go to the Dreadfort, Queen Sansa. I will do the same among mine. You know Winterfell best, Lord Stark, so you select the contingency that will take the keep once the men are gone,” Stannis gritted out as if being forced to say the words. Then he turned and galloped back. 

----------

It was nearly a moon more when a large number of the Bolton forces left Winterfell and marched towards the Dreadfort. There were forty of her people with her and several men Jon had chosen hiding among the thickness of the recent snow. They made way carefully at the hour of the wolf.

It took no time at all to catch the walls with their hooks and scale the wall. 

Sansa took great amusement in the idea that they were taking back her ancestral home the same way they had originally planned to scale the wall itself. She watched amused as Jon kept her behind him and they made their way further in. 

Her people made quick work of all watchmen that came near before they began to move into the keep that Jon pointed out. It was when they were in what appeared to be the living quarters of the family that Sansa had her first moment of recognition. A woman with hair a similar shade as her own was standing in front of Sansa and curly haired boy and waving her finger. Sansa knew it was her mother and she could almost hear a soft, singing voice in the back of her head. 

Shaking herself out of her memory, Sansa stopped at the end of a hall and motioned for two of her people to go forward and kill the men standing guard in front of a specific set of chambers. They made quick work and the men did not even have a chance to raise an alarm of any type of sound. 

She stood by Jon, who had drawn his sword, as their people busted through the double doors. 

A rather pretty, but thick woman jumped from the bed as an older man did the same. His hand went immediately to a crossbow, but Tormund threw a blade to pierce at the palm of the man. 

“Who the…” the man began but was pressed into the floor onto his knees. 

“Take the woman and find a place to secure her until this is over,” Jon ordered as he stepped forward with Longclaw. He looked at the man on his knees and then around the room. His hand reaching out to caress the wooden bed frame. Sansa realized it was a carved wolf and she wondered if this had been her parent’s chambers. 

“Do you know who I am?” her husband asked as he stepped forward into the light of the moon shining through a window. The man glared and took him in from head to toe. 

“You must be the bastard. You're too old to be any of the others if they had been still alive. Did you break your vows to the wall to be here?” he said in a low voice. 

Sansa finally just laughed, the dramatics of everything was too much. 

“He is Lord Stark, but you should be more worried about me,” she said with a light voice as she stepped forward.

“Stannis named you Lord and legitimized you. The north will never follow a bastard,” the man ignored her and continued to stare at Jon. Sansa narrowed her own eyes as responded again, not giving Jon a chance to speak. 

“My name is Sansa Stark, Lord Bolton, I presume?” she icily demanded and when the man’s eyes widened. 

“Good,” she answered at his obvious identity when the man refused to speak, “I was planning to let Jon just cut off your head since he thinks that's the way to do this, but I think we might see how you’ve been treating the people here that served the Starks. Let’s see if your House has lived up to its words. You see, even my people, go around your lands when escaping the land of always winter. I think after we discover the worst of what you have done here, then we will do the same.”

With that Sansa stepped forward one more time and brought her foot down hard against his face. Roose Bolton fell to the ground in a heap. 

“Secure him until we finish sweeping the keep and clearing it out of Bolton men,” Jon ordered, “And open the gates to the rest of our people.” 

Hours later, Sansa and Jon stood facing one another in the rooms that had been her parents. Staring into her eyes,  Jon pulled her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers in a fevered kiss. 

“Winterfell is yours, Lord Stark,” Sansa whispered against them. 

Jon made a noise of discouragement, “No, My Queen, Winterfell is yours as is my heart, now and always.”

-----------

It was almost three years later when Sansa stood before her father's statue in the Stark Crypts. It would not be long now till her husband and herself would return to their people beyond the wall. They still called her queen and Sansa would honor their choice everyday of her life. Jon's responsibility to the North would soon be over and they could be free. Between bringing the North the heel in time to prepare for the dead, Jon and her people attempting to help Stannis take the throne only for him and many of his people to be blown up on ships, and reminding a dragon queen that it really did not matter if the North knelt or not since the dead were coming for them all. Sansa grinned as she remembered Jon standing before the black glass throne and telling it to the woman's face that she was welcome to take her people back across the sea if she wanted to wait to die where it was warmer. 

Then the green dragon slamming in front of Jon and putting his wing down and the secret being blown. Thankfully the dragon queen had played nice till after the long night and when Sansa refused to kneel to her, Jon took to the skies with Rhaegal. By the time the fight was over, both Drogon and the dragon queen were dead and Jon encouraged Daenerys's people to leave with Rhaegal. They were not happy, but they did as they were bid, except for the Dothraki left. They seemed to think that Jon's battle meant that he was their new Khal. Jon and Sansa just combined them with their own people and sent them beyond the wall. 

Then the great rebuilding began and continued until the day a raven came that announced that Cersei Lannister was dead, along with the remaining Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, and several other members of the small council. 

A crunching noise drew her attention back to the present. 

“When the snows fall and white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

The girl that spoke to Sansa was a brunette with short cropped hair and she held a small sword and wore breeches. There was a familiar look in her grey eyes and Sansa tilted her head as she considered the strange girl who had come upon her in the crypts of her bloodkin. 

Ygritte stood back in the shadows and Sansa knew she had her bow out with an arrow knocked, but Sansa held her hand out to stay any sudden shots. 

The girl laughed. 

“I will not hurt your freefolk guard, although this place is for Starks and Stark blood alone. You are the lost Stark daughter, arrived home as the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall. Do you know who I am?” 

Sansa felt herself smile, probably showing a little too much teeth, “Grey eyes as serious as a widow made five-times-over having her sixth husband die mysteriously, what appears to be more brashness than commonsense, and a wild look about you that reminds me of my husband’s fury when his aunt tried to kill us after the long night?”

She paused and stepped closer, “That would make you my supposedly dead sister, Arya.”

The girl tilted her head and considered Sansa, “You are not what I expected. The septa always said I was never enough of a lady and it was a shame that you had disappeared as you were nothing but a lady.” 

Sansa barked out a laugh, “There’s not room for ladies beyond the wall. Welcome home, Arya. My husband, your cousin, will be glad of your survival. Bran came home before the long night and Rickon was brought home by a fat lord from the sea.” 

“Lord Manderly, I heard. I’m sorry I didn’t make it home before the battle that happened. I did not hear of it until it was over and I was in King’s Landing,” Arya murmured as they turned and made way from the crypts. 

Sansa’s eyebrow raised, “What were you doing in King’s Landing?” 

“Killing a queen. That last name on my final list before coming home,” Arya said as they climbed out and into the coolness of the spring night, “Is it true that Jon and you are going back beyond the wall once Rickon is settled in as King in the North with Bran as his regent?”

Sansa startled at her sister’s knowledge, “Aye, Jon and I will be returning North to settle our people now that the threat is gone. It seems that enough of the old guard died that we will perhaps be able to establish some sort of relations beyond the wall and North Westeros.”

“Can I come with you?” Arya said as they entered the keep. 

Sansa smiled as a shout came from the head table and her husband began rushing forward. 

“I think I would like that. Who better to help the bond between the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall and the King in the North than a sister of them both,” Sansa managed to answer as Arya was immediately swept away from her side and into her husband's arms. 

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Breaking and unmaking

I’m stretching my Druids -> Assassins headcanon a little further today. 

So far, I’m enjoying the epic angst that comes with assassins being blood-promise-bound to their duty for the last 1000 years, because the Oath of Féanor is one of my favorite disasters from the Silmarillion. But that means that even if Runaan is freed from his coin prison, he’s still bound to his duty. He’s not free enough yet.

S4 and S5 were hinted to contain some history to help give us a better look at exactly how everyone got to where they are in the present day. I know I’ve posted about hoping that Janai and Amaya work together to find out the Orphan Queen’s/Queen Aditi’s/Harrow’s ancestor’s secrets. I don’t have a strong opinion on how that all plays out, but I would love to watch them work together and learn stuff!

So, what if we get something like this for teaching us Moonshadow history: Rayla does find Runaan’s coin, but with his arm still bound, and him bound to his blood promise (maybe the same thing, maybe not), if he’s released, he’ll die. She can free Lain and Tiadrin--if she and Callum can learn how to--because her parents are not bound by a failed mission the way Runaan is, even if they are/were assassins and did give the Dragon Queen a blood promise, too. This will leave Runaan as the only elf trapped beyond reach.

Gosh, that seems familiar....

Okay, so this is Rayla we’re talking about. She just crossed half the continent to return a baby dragon during an actual war. If she realizes that Runaan is either going to 1) be trapped forever or 2) die if he’s freed, which will she want to pick?

Door #3. Runaan might be fatalistic enough to accept freedom just so he can die in Ethari’s arms, but Ethari wouldn’t want that if there were another way, and neither would Rayla. So: Rayla’s gonna rip up the 1000-year-old blood promise. And that means first learning the full history of the Moonshadow elves because someone didn’t pay attention in history class! which might be partly classified, partly lost, and partly hidden. Moonshadows be like. She’d quest as far as she needed to in order to save Runaan, but see... this quest isn’t just for him anymore. If all the assassins in the Moonshadow Forest are bound to this blood promise the way that he is, then none of them have ever truly been free. Maybe this is how Rayla saves her people, in a way Runaan never could.

She’s a hero, and that’s what heroes do. They save people. People.

But maybe she won’t be breaking that promise, exactly... maybe she can just unwrite it somehow. Balance it out. I’m not sure what that would look like, but it could take three very special components that were present during the initial oathmaking: 1) the blood of a Moonshadow assassin: Rayla. She keeps calling herself an assassin. Might be a clan thing, not a matter of actually taking a life?

2) the Moon Archdragon Luna Tenebris. Please let Rayla go on a dragon quest! lhfksdfhihfis That would be the coolest thing ever! Why haven’t we heard a peep out of Luna Tenebris, or even learned if she’s still alive or not? She’s definitely important somehow. Her reign lasted from the division of Xadia--aka the Merciful Compromise that split the land--until the Fallen Star. Those are some serious bookends.

3) a Moon primal stone. You’ve noticed that there are two different Moon primal staffs. The gathering from 1000 years ago, before the Border was carved, shows a Moonshadow elf holding a staff shaped like a shillelagh--a traditional druidic weapon.

But 300 years ago the leading Moonshadow elf has a different staff. Taller, more commanding, bearing a big stylized Moon rune, and looking a lot like Runaan’s chest marking, handle and all. Instead of a shillelagh, this staff resembles a sickle--another druidic handheld. Its larger cousin is a scythe.

Did they rework the staff? Possibly. If so, it’s probably to reflect the Moonshadow elves’ change in status, moving eastward and joining the Sunfire elves in active defense of Right Xadia,

But maybe that first primal stone is busy spinning some very big spells. I have two guesses what they might be, and there’s no reason they can’t both be going at the same time. ahaha Moonshadow duality Maybe it’s running the blood promise that binds all of the assassins to their word on pain of death. Maybe it’s running Aaravos’s ghost program on a dedicated primal server.

Maybe breaking the blood promise will break the mirror spell on Aaravos’s prison. Wouldn’t that be interesting! Rayla having to choose to free everyone, or no one.

tl;dr: Maybe the Moonshadow elves we see today aren’t quite the heartless monsters we’ve kinda been suspecting, insta-ghosting each other and hating humans and all. Maybe they’re victims of their ancestors’ oath, just in a different way than the humans the assassins take. And if the blood promise can be undone, then they can all be free again. No more assassins, no more killings.

And now for the angsty side:

Ir Rayla’s questing to make it safe for Runaan to return to the world of the living, that means Runaan’s gotta stay in the coin until it’s safe to come out. 

Ughhhh. If something like this has to happen, and if it does mean Runaan and Ethari can’t kiss and reunite properly, then I really hope they can talk somehow, and that Runaan can at least tell everyone what he knows and all his thoughts and anything important he wants to say. In fact, I would like it if he couldn’t shut up for a while. He can’t use his Moonshadow stealth language and just touch people from inside the coin, so he’s gotta use that lovely voice. Aww. Can you imagine Ethari curled up with his precious coin in his fingers and Runaan’s just spilling his heart to him? Fifteen or twenty years of words that he’s saved up, spilling out in case things don’t work out and they don’t get another chance? God. 

And some further angst that I realized had to go along with this headcanon: if Lain and Tiadrin swore the blood promise too, it makes a little more sense why they’d go to the Storm Spire to guard Zym’s egg. Devon said in the Deluxe Elf Interview that little Rayla couldn’t understand how parents would have a bigger priority than her, and yeah, that’s rough. But if it’s a sacred blood promise that’s holding them... they kinda can’t say no. And if the blood promise takes you out if you fail in your duty... well. That explains Runaan’s emotional lockdown, yeah?

He thought Lain and Tiadrin had run... and then perished. He thought they were dead. His dearest friends. Their honor and their lives, gone in one fell swoop. It caught him completely off guard because he trusted them so much. No wonder he got all eyeshimmery when he saw them in the coin. They were alive! Yay! And they were trapped! Boo! And they never broke their promise! Yay! And the village ghosted them for no reason! Boo!

Speaking of the village... if the assassins uphold the honor of the whole Moonshadow race by serving the dragons according to their oath--if the whole Moonshadow identity of stoic service is tied up in that blood promise--then of course the village ghosted Lain and Tiadrin. The sacred oath guides their entire culture, their values, it dominates their history. They’d yeet themselves as far away from such a breach of the ancient trust as they could. They all wanna be the Sworn, never the Forsworn.

They’d ghost Rayla too, not because she’d sworn the oath and then failed it--since she probably hasn’t made any blood oaths yet--but because not breaking the blood promise is so vital to who Moonshadows are, and Rayla ran away on a mission to take a dangerous human. That’s the entire purpose of the assassins according to the blood promise: Spare the humans’ lives, and then be responsible to correct every misstep they make from that point forward. An endless oath of guardianship that can outlive its usefulness and become downright dangerous and chaotic with changing times.

Dude, I’d really like to see Rayla unmake that promise somehow, save Runaan, and save her entire people from a good faith vow they made for the very best of reasons, far too long ago. And I’m loving the idea that she’d kill Viren, and then free Aaravos. Such a chaos child, I love her.

[reachfolk]

1, 6, 13, and 16 for Alexi and Ursula and shoot anyone else you wanna answer for

💛 from @korvanjund

thank you sm for the ask darlin!! i decided to also include my little haglet ophelia since i've been adding more to her storyline today, and it's about time i start talking more about my other character lol.

who are they closest to? how did they meet and what do they like to do together?

i already answered this for alexi here!

ursula: she's obviously very close with her wife, bothela. like i said in her chara sheet, the two met when markarth was under reach control and they worked together as healers. they spend most of their day running the hag's cure together and training their apprentice. when they aren't doing that, they mostly focus on their own little projects and research; bothela seems to somehow never tire of alchemy even long after the shop closes, and ursula likes to tinker around with dwemer texts and tech to see what she can find out. then they get back together and discuss whatever interesting things they learned. she's also super close to her niece and nephew! isobel doesn't love having the kids spend time with her, but the few times they are together, they love hearing all her stories from when she was in the uprising and just stories of the reach in general.

ophelia: she'd literally lay down her life for every single person in her coven dklfjskdj, she's very dedicated to them!! but of course, she's closest to her mother, helle. helle was in the forsworn uprising, and she had ophelia not long after markarth was secured. after it all fell apart, she raised filly to continue fighting for the reach, but the rebellion was never the same after madanach was imprisoned. eventually, the two (along with some of ophelia's closest friends from the forsworn) disbanded and formed an independent coven. ophelia supported her mother through the ritual to become a hagraven matriarch, and she's gladly willing to take on the same burden should anything happen to helle. helle taught ophelia a LOT about everything she knows about magic, and she's working on honing her skills as a seer to better guide the coven. although helle is the matriarch, her daughter is her right hand man of sorts and is just as responsible for everything they do. she runs around the coven doing just about anything that needs doing to help the members, whether it's hunting with hypatia, babysitting honey while beatrice is busy, or assisting esmeralda in her expeditions to old ruins.

on an average day, what can they be found doing after dinner?

alexandria: the short answer is: way too much !! the long answer: girlie has the worst case of insomnia ever and she compensates for that by using Way Too Many stamina potions, so it's usually her companions that even have to remind her to stop for dinner at all. even after dinner, she knows she wouldn't be able to sleep unless she majorly tires herself out, so she likes to run around doing more and more stuff. if her companions are too worn out from the day to do that, she likes to restock their potion supply or practice her spells. if after that she still can't quite fall asleep, she'll usually go on a late night hunting trip. there have been a few times when the local blacksmith tries to open shop and just finds her tanning leather at their station lol

ursula: she's quite the scholar, especially when it comes to the history of the reach! this goes beyond just the reachfolk; she also studies the history of the dwarves in the reach, the dragon cult, etc. she's published a few books covering the subjects, and is considered a leading expert on the matter. if she's not having a chill evening with her wife, she likes to continue working on those books, whether she's writing for them or just doing some research. she makes occasional visits to isobel's family, as the kids absolutely adore her, but those are few and far between.

ophelia: she's a little like alexi in that she does way more than anyone has any business doing kdsjfhd. she doesn't have the same ailment of course, but she wants to take off the pressures of managing the coven from her mother's shoulds, at least as best as she can. by the time they finish dinner, she's already thinking about where to go hunting for the next day's meal. she prays at the shrines to the old gods, who often send her visions to guide her. she checks in on each of the members and their individual duties and their work. she'll sometimes read honey a story before bed or sing her to sleep when her mother is away. she takes care of helle when she's in pain (i hc that the hagraven transformation can be pretty painful and draining, not unlike the briarheart transformation). when she does have a moment to relax, she likes to spend it by the river, soaking her feet and watching the stars.

what special abilities or talents do they possess? did they develop through training or were they born with them?

alexandria: she's always had a knack for alchemy, like i said in the other post! it was why her tutor encouraged her to apprentice at the hag's cure, where she built on that natural talent with a lot of hard work. despite her young age (around 22-27 depending on her point in the story), she's practically a master alchemist already. she'll insist she's not a master—"well i don't think anyone could ever know everything there is to know about alchemy. it's an evolving discipline and—" she's the worst lol. but the point is, she's one of the best ones you'll find around!! she's not an expert in things like sword fighting or marksmanship, but she makes up for it with her potions and poisons, making her a formidable foe.

ursula: she's pretty well rounded i think, having been a fighter and a healer for much of her life. she's also fairly good at alchemy herself. a lot of those things weren't really inborn, but she had a lot of great guidance from the other people that were part of the uprising. since it was in the works for many years, and ursula joined in during the early stages of its planning, she had a lot of time to hone her skills. by the time of the main story with lex, she's pretty much a master at restoration magic in particular, as that's the one she's used most in the 30 years since the city was reconquered by the nords. when the temple of dibella is closed, she's looked to as the town's primary healer.

ophelia: like i said before, she's a seer. it was always an inborn gift she's had, but her training with her mother as well as her devout worship of the old gods give her visions a significant boost. she's most devout to vaermina, who shows her visions of omens and looming threats to both her and her people in her dreams. she's actually the one that told alexandria to go to helgen, because she got a vision of what was going to happen and knew alexi was central to it. her visions can sometimes come in the form of metaphors rather than exact tellings of what'll happen, so she thought that alexi being personified as a dragon in these visions was some odd metaphor, as was helgen being burnt to the ground. needless to say, she later realized those visions were more literal than initially thought lol

how do they like their baths/showers? hot/cold, long/short?

alexandria: like absolutely scorching lol. when she bathes, she often uses a flames spell to get the water damn near boiling before she hops in. when it's revealed that she's the dragonborn, she makes a lot of jokes that it's because of her dragon blood, but tbh she's just Like That.

ursula: warm, but not as much as lex. she's still spry and healthy, but she is Old (tm), so she finds a warm bath nice and soothing, yk? especially since most of her work is on her feet.

ophelia: cold or lukewarm at best. she loves bathing in the karth river, and she appreciates it regardless of the weather. the karth is practically sacred to the reachfolk, and she finds the embrace of the cold water bracing and energizing! lord knows she needs that considering how much is on her plate.

[jaegertango]

Writing the Rite (for Right)

Remember that time I used to write things? I sure don’t. I just found this laying on the ground outside, so I’m gonna post it.

He couldn't sleep.

Vykaenai had been awake for some time now, blearily staring out over the vast sea of clouds that surrounded the realm of Bastion. As was his wont, he was seated on the very edge of the world, his feet hanging perilously above the endless dirge that was the Maw so far below. Yet, he hardly seemed worried that one unbalanced push would send him to his demise – maybe because he was too tired to care. His fiery eyes were focused on some unfixed point on the horizon, and even if his face was calm, his mind was racing. The Rite of Purity had occurred several hours earlier, but it was still fresh in the dragon's mind. Not because Helteon had failed, not because the Forsworn had attacked, but because the images he had seen during the Vesper's ringing were far too realistic.

He closed his eyes – and once more, he did not see the reassuring calm of black, but the flames burning all around him.

The Grandmaster let loose a growling sigh, a furl of smoke puffing from his nostrils as he flexed his knuckles. Even though he understood the importance of sleep, he didn't want to close his eyes longer than he needed to.

“Do all of you dragons do that?”

Another tired, albeit commanding voice spoke out to Vykaenai, and he lazily turned to look up at Lady Firehawk approaching him. She was still wearing her armor, complete with her helm hiding her eyes, and the dragon mused if she had taken it off since they had arrived in the Shadowlands. It was ironic. When he had first met her, she was clad in farmer's garb, in a comfortable atmosphere, and she looked well-rested. She did not want to return to the life she had given up, and yet. Here the Blood Elf stood, looking far more comfortable in layers of platemail, in a death realm that knew not sun or moon, in a voice that sounded as exhausted as the Grandmaster felt. And despite that, it seemed to suit her.

“Do what, Lady Firehawk?” Vykaenai replied gruffly, staring her down.

“Find some dramatic perch to roost yourselves upon,” she continued, shaking her head at the very edge that the Grandmaster sat upon. “First the bow of the airship, now here. And I heard that when Deathwing attacked Stormwind, he made sure to land upon the towers of the gate.”

“'Tis a black dragon sentiment, surely,” Vykaenai grumbled with such a dry tone that even Lady Firehawk smirked at it. “What brings you up at this hour?”

At first, the Sin'dorei did not respond. She walked up towards the dragon, her boots crunching onto the golden grass that seemed to crackle with resplendent life unlike anything the woods in Azeroth had ever gotten to enjoy. When she stood behind Vykaenai, he returned his eyes forward, keeping relaxed as silence fluttered between the two, leaving only a melodic wind to hum between them. Despite that, it was not awkward, the quiet almost relaxing as the two stared into the clouds beyond.

“Helteon is healing quickly,” Lady Firehawk finally stated, crossing her arms over her chest. “He had few wounds worth noting, but he is resting at the least.”

“Mm. Very good. His Rite was not what I expected,” Vykaenai grunted brusquely, but the corner of his mouth pulled upward slightly. “A shame the Forsworn attacking failed his Rite.”

“I don't think so,” Lady Firehawk spoke, and the Grandmaster turned his head up curiously at her.

“Oh? These creatures happened up as his Rite started to go wrong, and you do not believe them culprits? I may owe their leader his wings back.”

“The Forsworn didn't help Helteon, no. But his Rite was failing before their arrival,” the Blood Elf replied, pursing her lips. “They saw opportunity, and leaped at the chance.”

“Attacking a single Aspirant's Rite at a moment's notice. Harumph,” Vykaenai snorted, looking somewhat annoyed at the explanation. “Their desperation reeks of hypocrisy.”

“Is it hypocrisy though?” Lady Firehawk replied, leering down at the back of the Grandmaster's neck. “To give up one's memories for this 'greater good.'”

“Not all of their memories, Lady Firehawk,” Vykaenai answered back smoothly. “Just the ones holding their true nature back.”

The Sin'dorei made an exasperated noise, much like a groan and a sigh combined. The dragon believed the conversation over, so he turned around so he could stand up and get some quiet – only for Lady Firehawk to instead grip him by the shoulder and force him back down.

“Memories are what define us, Vykaenai. What would we be without them?”

“Probably a lot happier without those bad memories plaguing us.”

“Don't give me that horseshit,” the Blood Elf hissed, and for a fleeting second, her armor seemed to radiate with fire and smoke not unlike the fury that occasionally roiled from the dragon. “All your blustering about being so old, knowing so much, but I know you'd never give those memories up.”

The dragon glared back at Lady Firehawk, his teeth gritting together as he did so. He didn't want to admit it, but she had a point. When he first joined the Kaldorei in their stand against the Legion so long ago, it was their memory of standing against their immortal enemy, and his own memory of standing against his father, that gave him strength. But that wasn't to say it was pleasant. The Night Elves, even in their eternal vigil, still had its singular Illidans big enough to damn the entire race. They still hated the black dragons, even as he, Hakurion, sought to uphold their legacy as stewards of the Earth. And his kin, the very beings that shared his blood and pride, wished for all life – including the other Dragonflights, to be buried under magma and soil. They were not happy memories – but they were the very sources he needed to remember why he continued to walk Azeroth.

His eyes closed again. Fire. Smoke. Screams. Murder. Mortals could not be trusted. They were greedy and violent. The dragonflights had never been wrong about mortals as a whole. Everything was burning. Everything was dying. Everything was under the purge of a tyrant. So much pain. So much heartache. It had happened seven-thousand years ago, and yet flashes of that nightmare still found themselves plaguing the dragon at random. This was the worst it had ever been in a very long time, and Vykaenai found that seven-thousand years had done little to heal the wound. The Vesper only made him realize just how much he still hurt inside. When he finally opened his eyes again, there was a resonating wrath blazing in his gaze.

“I would never,” Vykaenai started, an ominous snarl booming in the back of his throat. “I share your pain, Lady Firehawk. I know the power of memories, and I stand strong in them. But do not mistake my resolution to honor them as not wanting to be rid of their pain either.”

“If you can't handle their pain, then you're not doing them good,” Lady Firehawk growled icily, clearly not amused.

“Do not test me, Sin'dorei!” Vykaenai abruptly snarled, very suddenly standing up despite her grip and looming dangerously over the woman. “You, who have been here a fraction of my time, who know nothing of my pain, claim that I should not be allowed to be free of it!”

Lady Firehawk said nothing, but she did not back down a single inch even as the dragon towered over her, flames crackling at his shoulders.

“You...,” Vykaenai hissed, only to sigh, pinching at his brow and allowing the primal heat resonating around him to simmer away lightly. When he returned his gaze to the Blood Elf, he gave her a long gaze – not that of a young Kaldorei, but that of millennia-old man.

“I know not of your pain either. Nor do I deny its worth. Use your pain as a focus for now, while you can,” the dragon rumbled, keeping his eyes stoically on Lady Firehawk. “But you know as well as I do: a temperance to pain does not make greater torment any easier. It merely makes you numb to everything else.”

The Blood Elf kept quiet, her impassive features having not changed no matter what the dragon did. Her arms merely kept crossed, not even being enough of a threat for her to attempt reaching for her lance. Vykaenai continued to gaze at her, as if waiting for a reply, but she gave none. He finally sighed, shaking his head and turning back around to sit on the edge of the world once again.

“Keep an eye on him, Liniadel,” he murmured, continuing his sight towards the clouds ahead.

“I already am,” the woman answered, but as she waited for him to give a snarky reply back, he said nothing. The silence returned, and this time it was quite awkward. Several heavy seconds passed as the Grandmaster sat upon the edge, and Lady Firehawk leered at the back of his head. Finally, she gave up waiting for a response, turning on her heel to instead go elsewhere, where a dragon wouldn't be condescending towards her. As the footsteps faded, Vykaenai held a hand up to his eyes, rubbing the itchy orbs gently.

He couldn't sleep. But it was a nightmare regardless.

[daedriclorde]

About: Aerisif

Thanks so much for the tag, @curiousartemis! Loved learning more about Imryn-- a half drow half aasimar??? awesome!!!

Name: Aerisif

Alias: Kjolti Stone-Vein

Gender: Female

Age: My fics jump around and follow her through many stages of her life. She was born 4E 176, making her 25 in 4E 201, when Helgen fell.

Species: Nord (?)

Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio (Born under The Tower) / taurus / virgo / unknown 

Abilities/Talents: Stealth is her main strength! As a thief, lock picking has always been a struggle for her, but nobody sneaks better than she does. Once she joins The Companions, she becomes talented with a greatsword, but she was a thief first and those skills don’t fade. 

{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}

Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

Religion: None. Though she does end up collecting titles as Champion of various daedric princes.

Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath

Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages: Whatever the common tongue of Tamriel is. She learns draconic once she finds out she's dragonborn, slowly. Since she grew up in the Reach and Markarth, she’s pretty good at pronouncing Dwemer words, and knows a handful of them, but she can’t speak the language.

Family: Her mother was Kjolti, and her father was Gardimor. They loved the land and all that came from it, and took up the daunting profession of farming in the hospitable soils of The Reach. Both died in a strange Forsworn attack on the family farm when Aerisif was a child. Aerisif was spared since she was out foraging in the mountains at the time. 

Friends: Yngvar, Brynjolf, Vex (its a very tense friendship), Delvin (he’s always had a soft spot for her), Aela, Farkas (though THAT shit got complicated), Lydia, Serana. She doesn’t do a great job of staying in touch, as she doesn’t really trust couriers. But when she chooses to build a friendship with someone, its the kind where they can go years without hearing from each other but when they meet its like no time has passed.

Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other

Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated - she and Brynjolf are committed to one another, 100%. But they don’t feel the need to get married, it wouldn’t change anything about their relationship. 

Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent

{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}

Build: twig / bony / slender / average - as a thief she was rather slender, but joining the Companions built her up a bit, sort of averaging out slender and athletic / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese

Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other

Eyes: brown / blue-gray / green / black / other - silver/gray

Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other 

Height: 5′10″

Weight: ehhh...let’s say between 130-150?

Scars: Plenty. She has a prominent one across her torso from when Mercer Frey tried to kill her. There are numerous scars and burns from fighting dragons.

Facial Features: She has a striking complexion with her black hair and silver eyes. Her jawline and cheekbones are fairly average, giving structure to her face, but she isn’t bony and they aren’t prominent. Round human ears, fair skin. Doesn’t really wear make up unless its for a disguise. 

Tattoos: You know, I hadn’t really thought about this until now but now that I am thinking about it she would absolutely get a dragon tattoo, a big one across her back or something. 

{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}

Dogs or Cats? Both!

Birds or Nugs? Birds

Snakes or Spiders? She isn’t afraid of either, but she has a distaste for snakes.

Red or Blue? Red! Its her favorite color.

Yellow or Green? Indifferent 

Black or White? Black, she wears it a lot!

Coffee or Tea? Both?

Ice Cream or Cake? Sweetrolls?

Fruits or Vegetables? Both! She helped grow them on the farm as a kid.

Sandwich or Soup? Both, you dip the bread from the sandwich in the soup.

Magic or Melee? Melee

Sword or Bow? Sword

Summer or Winter? Summer. She tries to hide it, but for some reason the cold bothers her more than other Nords.

Spring or Autumn? Autumn! Its why she loves the Rift so much. 

The Past or The Future? Definitely the past. Aerisif views the future dimly, sees only battles and heavy responsibility (the world is at stake, after all) ahead of her. The past hurts, Aerisif hasn’t had it easy, and sometimes the memories are too much for her and she makes some bad choices. But she would rather relive parts of the past than look ahead to her lonely future. 

Thanks so much for tagging me!! Always love talking about my girl. I’m not sure who has OCs-- @cinderthemechanics? @rouge601? @wildfire337? @potatocrab, are you back? Consider this an open tag, if you’ve got an OC you wanna gush about, go for it!!

[allisondraste]

Temperance (1/?)

I am pleased to introduce something that I have been plotting for weeks now!  Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/Female, Non-HoF Cousland Story Summary:  Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden's Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary: Nathaniel’s return to Vigil’s Keep is more than a rude awakening.   

[AO3 LINK]

Vigil's Keep, 9:31 Dragon

The stone floor was cold and hard, unforgiving as the heavy iron bars that held him captive.  Grey Warden guards paced about, armored boots clanking against the floor, metal plates scraping together, as the men and women occasionally paused to glare at him judgmentally.  They talked about him as if he were not there, calling him a wide array of offensive names. What a lucky bastard he was for being safe and sound in his prison cell while better men than he fell to darkspawn blades and bows outside!  He should be thankful for his imprisonment, and for the fact that he was not strung up the moment he was caught. How wonderful his captors were for allowing him to freeze his arse off in his own family’s dungeons for “stealing” things that were his by right! It was so ironic it was painful.

The son of the late Arl Howe, and squire under a trained chevalier in Starkhaven, Nathaniel was not accustomed to being treated as common rabble and especially not a criminal.  When word of his father’s death at the hands of the Grey Wardens had reached him in the Free Marches, it had not occurred to him that he would return home to find his father’s murderers rewarded by Queen Anora herself.  He had spent an entire month in hiding, plotting the assassination of the Warden-Commander, who he held entirely responsible for his current misery.

Nathaniel tugged at the collar of his shirt, reaching in to pull out a small golden ring that he wore on a chain around his neck.  It had been a gift from his sister when they were children, and even then the band had been too tiny for his fingers. It was the only thing he had left of his family, and the only reason he had failed to follow through with his plan.  When he arrived in Amaranthine to lay his trap, he remembered Delilah and how she would never approve of such violent and brash behavior. He resigned himself to retrieving a few of his family’s things: heirlooms, letters, small sentimental things that the Wardens would have no use for at all.  Unfortunately, he was caught and slammed in the dungeon where he sat as Vigil’s Keep was ambushed by darkspawn.

There was a small commotion as the sound of a door opening at the top of the stairs echoed through the dungeon.  Nathaniel’s guards clambered to stand at attention, backs straight and arms at their sides. This was obviously not a routine change of guards or visit from their captain.  No, Nathaniel assumed that it was time for his sentencing. At last, he would get to meet the person who murdered his father and destroyed his family face to face.

The woman who appeared in the doorway before him and to whom the guards saluted was not what he had pictured.  For as grand a title as “Warden-Commander” and “Hero of Ferelden,” she was small, unimposing, and incredibly young.  She could have been more than nineteen or twenty, with piercing blue eyes that appeared much kinder than the dark brows furrowed above them suggested.  

“Good thing you’re here, Commander,”  one of the guards said before explaining the situation, repeating the same things he had been saying every time a new one of the Warden officers came to gawk at and interrogate him.  Nathaniel had refused to give his name or any other information to anyone other than the Warden-Commander. With his family’s reputation as it was, the notion that he may be subjected to further scrutiny was unappealing.  He thought it better to wait until closer to his execution to tell anyone who he was.

“Leave me to speak with him, please,” she commanded, her voice gentle yet decisive.  The guards saluted again and exited the dungeon, leaving Nathaniel alone with her.

“I can’t say you are what I expected in the great ‘Hero of Ferelden’” he remarked snidely, not caring to feign respect.

“I am not what anyone expected, but I am what they got,” she answered matter-of-factly “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“It does.” He paused briefly. “Though I care little for your titles.  I know you as the one who murdered my father.”

“Your father?” Her brows pressed together more deeply as a concerned expression crossed her face.

“Of course you wouldn’t remember my father. It was a war after all, and he was just another casualty.”  Nathaniel’s fists balled at his sides as he felt the anger tighten like a vice in his chest. “But why should my whole family have to suffer?”

“I - Um..,” the Warden-Commander shifted uncomfortably where she stood, bringing her arms up to her chest and crossing them, “Who are you?”

“I am Nathaniel Howe, and these are my family’s lands -  or at least they were until you showed up.”

“You are Rendon Howe’s son, then.”  She seemed to think for a moment before opening her mouth to speak again.  “Your father was a traitor.”

“My father,” he spat, ”Served the Hero of River Dane and fought against the Orlesian occupation.  He was a hero, and now because of a horde of darkspawn, a petty civil war, and you my family has nothing.”

Nathaniel quieted, looking down at the stone floor that had been his constant companion for the past three days.  He knew that his father was an ill-tempered, difficult man for whom many in the arling and even the landsmeet held no love.  He knew his father was capable of rashness and poor choices. He may have been a traitor, but Nathaniel was certain that he did so because he believed it was the right thing to do. He always did what he thought was best, even if it was painful.

Nathaniel looked up to meet the Warden-Commander’s gaze again.  “I came here to - I thought I was going to kill you, but then I realized all I wanted was to reclaim some of my family’s things.  It is all I have left.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth

“I’m sorry,” the Warden-Commander said softly, “You do not belong in this cell.”

“I- What? ” Her words caught him off guard.  He was prepared for a public hanging, not an apology. “I just told you that I want you dead.”

“I heard you.”  She moved to unlock the door to his cell.  “I think I would want someone to blame, too.  I’m not that person, but I understand why you would think so.”

“You’re just letting me go?”  Nathaniel remained in the cell despite the door being open.

“Not quite.  I understand you were difficult to apprehend.”

“I am not without skills,” Nathaniel answered, uncertain where this conversation could possibly lead, “My time spent abroad was not chasing skirts and drinking wine.”

“Then it is lucky for you that the Wardens are not currently in need of a skirt-chaser.” “Pardon?” “I am conscripting you.”  It was another matter-of-fact answer from the woman, as if her reasoning was clear as day, despite the fact that it made no sense.

“No. I refuse,”  Nathaniel protested, indignant, “I would rather die.”

“You might die, anyway.  The Joining often claims the lives of our recruits,” she explained, “But I am not foolish enough to believe that every Howe is the same, and I do not wish you hanged for no reason.  Don’t you want a chance to start over? To bring some honor back to your family?” “I.. don’t know.” For a brief moment he allowed the anger and bitterness to fizzle away, truly considering the offer before he spoke  “I might try to kill you again. Do you like having Wardens who want you dead?”

The Warden-Commander smirked, dropping her hands to her sides. “We have been alone in this dungeon for a while now.  I am unarmed and I just let you out of your cell.” She motioned to the door with her hand. “If you really wanted to kill me, and if you are as skilled as my men tell me you are, you would have done so already.”

“A bold assumption,” Nathaniel remarked dryly, though he knew that she was right.  It was easy to fantasize about getting revenge on the big bad Grey Warden who killed his father and invaded his home.  It was much harder to stand across from a young woman who offered him mercy and feel the same. She was a person just as he was and just as his father was.  It was possible that she, too, could have done no more than what she believed was necessary. The Warden-Commander offered him the benefit of the doubt, and he felt obliged to give her the same courtesy, as much as he resented it.

“I’ll do it,” he asserted, with a nod of the head, even as his stomach churned.  

“Good, I’ll get Seneschal Varel, and we can start the ritual as soon as he is able.”

It was not long before the Warden-Commander returned and escorted Nathaniel to the throne room, where the Seneschal  stood by the fire pit holding a large silver chalice. Several other wardens who he had not seen yet lined the hall as well, eyeing him with what appeared to be a mixture of suspicion and concern.  It was more than a little unnerving.

Nathaniel walked forward to stand by one other recruit, his features sharpened by the light of the shadows. The Seneschal began by explaining the purpose of the Joining.  The ritual was held to induct new members into the ranks of the Warden Order, and it required that recruits drink of darkspawn and archdemon blood enchanted with lyrium. It was the source of the Wardens’ power and immunity to the Taint, but it was also their demise if they were not strong enough to withstand the corruption.  In the end, it would kill him anyway.

The Wardens in the hall began to speak in unison. “Join us brothers and sisters.  Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry our duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we will join you.”

“Ser Brendon, please step forward,” the Seneschal said and a young Templar approached, taking the chalice into his hands, “From this day forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

The Templar drank from the chalice and returned it to the Seneschal.  For a moment, the hall stood in silence, watching and waiting to see if the man would survive.  Suddenly, he fell forward clutching at his throat and gasping for air. The Wardens in the hall watched on, some of them bowing their heads sorrowfully as Ser Brendon stilled, lifeless on the floor.  The Warden-Commander offered her apologies to the now-dead Templar and turned her gaze to Nathaniel.

“Nathaniel Howe, please step forward,” The Seneschal announced, his voice hoarse at the loss of the other recruit.  Nathaniel inhaled sharply, attempting to calm his nerves, and took hold of the chalice. It was the moment of truth - would he die as the other recruit, his punishment for theft finalized?  Or would he live, and have the chance to be a Howe that history may be proud of once again? He did not realize how badly he wished for the latter until he drew the chalice to his lips, taking a small drink of the thick, dark liquid.

The last thing Nathaniel heard before his consciousness faded, were the Seneschal’s words, sounding if they were shouted across a great distance.

“From this day forth, Nathaniel, you are a Grey Warden.”

[stabbyapologist]

Bosmer Playthrough

~Only my opinion~

Bosmer Playthrough consists of:::

~The bow/crossbow should be the most lethal weapon in your inventory. My Bosmer keeps a bow and arrows and a crossbow and bolts to switch back and forth to fight enemies. All perks are selected for mine, but necessary perks are: steady hand (2/2), Eagle Eye, Ranger and Quick Shot.

~Secondary Weapon or the "All Else Fails" combo is a shield and preferable one-handed weapon. (My preference is an axe with the bleeding damage perk, due to the fact it hards harder than a sword or dagger and swings faster than a mace). Perks selected for Block are the ones along the left side of the branch, blocking elements and arrows.

~Magic? I don't use magic, really; but as far usefulness goes, I'd use ice (since Bosmer canonically do not like to use fire since it's destructive). And maybe healing. Also, the Conjure Familiar spell sits well with me since the aspect is a wolf, and my Bosmer is a werewolf (later discussed).

~Alchemy. Instead of relying on magic or enchanting, my Bosmer habitually collects ingredients and has most perks regarding poisons. And it helps make money. Easy ingredients to obtain, easy to sell.

~Smithing. If only to make light armor or enhance the Shields and weapons and make arrows from the considered material, my Bosmer learns smithing.

~Lockpicking, Pickpocketing, Sneak seem necessary for my Bosmer only due to the idea that they make such great thieves.

~My Bosmer joins the Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood for the great money she makes in the factions, but also because both guilds apply very well to her skills as a one-shot assassin and thief scout.

~Fast Travel. I try not to fast travel, lest I lose out on the vast amount of ingredients I could gather or the treasure I could find. My Bosmer is a Treasure Hunter and an alchemist. And it makes the playthrough very quaint. Truuuudge.

~Does the story fit? Bosmer makes sense to me to be Dragonborn as she would have the soul of a dragon and body of a mortal because of the whole Animal lover thing Bosmer have. Simply, Dragons are animals; and her ability to understand them seems to make sense.

~Werewolf. My Bosmer adores Hircine and despite the fact that Bosmer frown upon the Wild Hunt, it makes sense why my Bosmer travels solo, isolated by her kin who do not approve. The ability to shapeshift into an animal makes sense to me.

~Dawnguard story. Werewolves vs. Vampire put simply. Also, kudos if you kill Harkon as a Werewolf. Did it before. Very pleasing watching it all.

~God Worship: Obviously Hircine and Nocturnal due to the Wild Hunt and the Thieves Guild's patron. Add in Sithis for the Dark Brotherhood, which my Bosmer kills a lot of people before she joins the dark Brotherhood, sooo...Dibella for speechcraft. My Bosmer is a Treasure Hunter, so speech is kind of important. Julianos for Blocking. Namira—Bosmer are, if not for a better word, cannibals. They eat the people they kill for ritualistic reasons, so that kind of works for me. Yay, meat pies.

~Interesting Stuff? My Bosmer habitually collects ingredients anywhere she goes. Can't help it. Need that Namira's Rot. Cooking is nice, some people underestimate the benefits of the cooking pot. Steals stuff. Lots and lots of stuff if not for the addiction of the thrill of taking what isn't hers. Marriageable followers to consider might be Faendal, Aela the Huntress (or any fellow werewolf), any one person of the Dawnguard. But she pines after Elrindir. Is Anoriath marriageable?? My favorite armor is Forsworn because the whole Wild Bosmer in the Forest concept appeals to me!! Thieves Guild Armor (especially blackguard armor in the Dragonborn DLC) is excellent for my thief.

[kathrinehastings]

Skyrim - Teldryn Sero (part 1)

I had just gotten off the boat and I hired a carriage to take me from Windhelm to Markarth. I was to see my Brother, Endon and his wife, Kerah. They needed my help with something but wouldn’t say what, said that they didn’t want to put it in the letter and that I should just get to Skyrim as soon as I could. Apparently, it was a task that required my special skills and that they could not afford to hire someone. Never mind the fact that my sister-in-law would probably not trust anyone else to take on the task, no matter how much my brother paid them. This favour better be worth my time. I arrived at Markarth stables a few days later. As I made my way to my brother’s house, I past a guard who commented on my armour. “Ebony armor, by Ysmir, tis a wondrous sight...” I must admit, I am very proud of my Ebony armour. It was specially made for me by a legendary blacksmith from Hammerfell after I had rescued his daughter from a group of bandits. He also made matching weapons, along with a shield. It really helped, getting those weapons and armour free of charge. I make a fair amount of money but nowhere near enough to be able to pay for gear this good. A full set of legendary ebony armour also helps to intimidate my foes, and the fact that I’m a woman means that they under estimate me, which is a big mistake. I am one of the best swordsmen, or rather swordswomen, to come out of Hammerfell and I’ve found that mercenary work suits me well. I knocked on my brother’s door and waited. After a while, he opened up. “Sister! I‘m glad you got here safely. You didn’t run into any Forsworn did you?” He opened his arms to give me a hug. “Surprisingly, no. How are you brother?” I asked as we parted. “Good. You must be tired and hungry. Inside, quickly. The streets of Markarth aren’t safe at night.” He ushered me inside before closing the door and locking it. I walked further into the house and was greeted by Kerah.  “Hello, Amira. Nice to see you again. How are you?” She got up from her seat and gave me a quick hug. “Tired. Hungry. But otherwise well.” I pulled off my helmet and ran my hands through my hair as I took a seat at the table. “So what have you all been doing?” I rested my forearms on the table. “Well, Adara has become quite the silversmith. She helps me make jewelry for her mother sell.” He put a tankard full of mead and a plate of food down in front of me. We spoke while I ate, catching up on each others lives. I heard small footsteps coming from the bedrooms. A tired looking girl wobbled into the room, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Sorry, sweetie. Did I wake you?” I said across the table. She saw me and her face lit up. “Amira!” She ran and hopped onto my lap. “Hello Adara, my sweet.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a good squeeze. “I hear you’ve become quite the silversmith.” “Yeah. It’s lots of fun, I get to hit things with a hammer.” I laughed. “And I’m really good at making rings.” “Well, then. I have a job for you.” I dug into my knapsack and pulled out a flawless diamond. “Here.”I handed her the small gem.  “I want you to make a ring and put this in the center.”  She hopped off my lap. “I’ll do it right now.” “Excuse me young lady.” Adara stopped in her tracks as her mother put her hands on her hips. “It’s late. You need to get to bed.”  “Yes mama.” She trotted over to me and gave me one last hug. “Good night, sweetie.” I patted her head. She disappeared into one of the rooms and her mother then turned to me. “You must be tired too. You can have the extra room.” She led me to one of the empty rooms. “Thank you. For the food as well.”  “It’s the least we can do.” I started to make my way into the room. “Amira.” My brother stopped me. “We’ll talk about the job tomorrow.” I nodded and yawned. “Good night sister. Sleep well.” I closed the bedroom door behind me and threw my knapsack down. I stripped off my armour, placing it neatly on the chair at the end of the bed. I put on my nightgown and crawled into bed. I got a good night’s sleep that night, the first in a while. I woke up to a very excited Adara outside my room. “Your aunt is sleeping. She’s had a very long journey and she is probably still tired.” I recognized this to be Kerah. I got out of bed. “I know mama. I’m just so excited!” Adara said. I could practically hear her grinning. “Excited about what?” I said as I opened the door to my room to reveal a bubbly Adara and a frustrated Kerah. “Look! Look! I made your ring! Just like you wanted. I got up extra early this morning to make it!” She handed me the ring.  “Wow! Thank you Adara. It’s beautiful!” I admired the shiny object in my hand. “Put it on! Put it on!” “Okay! Okay! Calm down! “I slipped the ring onto my finger.  She grabbed my hand and inspected the ring. “It fits perfectly!” she beamed proudly. “You are so pretty Aunt Amira.” She hugged me tightly. “Thanks sweetie. You are too.” She trotted out of the room and I got ready for breakfast. I washed my face and put on regular clothes before heading inside to join them. Once we had finished breakfast, my brother and I took a walk to Understone Keep.  “So what’s this job about.” I asked my brother as we walked. “The Jarl has made a very strange request that his own personal blacksmith has to fulfill and he’s asked me for my help.” I was a little confused. “He asked you to help? Then why am I here?” “Err, well, he asked for my help because he heard that my sister is one of the best mercenaries in the business.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “So you brag about me in the local taverns?” “Something like that… Anyway, he hasn’t told me much yet. Said that he wanted to tell you about the job personally.” I nodded and we continued our walk to Understone Keep in comfortable silence. We walked up the many steps and the guards allowed us in without any problems. Endon led me through the great Dwemer building to the blacksmith’s forge.  I stepped into the room after Endon and saw a Orc working the forge. He stood up straight and turned to me. He examined me and then turned to Endon. "This is the mercenary?" He said, slightly amused. I decided to stay silent. I'm not much of a talker and I've realised that sometimes staying silent can be intimidating, especially to my weaker, more cowardly foes. So I crossed my arms over my chest and allowed my brother to do all the talking. "Yes. This is my sister, Amira. She's the best mercenary you'll find." My brother placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick smile. "She doesn't look like much." The green skinned orc said to my brother. "Looks can be deceiving." I defended myself. "Fine. Lets get this over with. I am Moth Gro-Bagol. The Jarl has requested a special sword. An legendary sword that once belonged to Red Eagle. The blacksmithing tecniques have improved since then so I will have to temper it. I've decided that the best thing to use would be Ebony. I usually get ebony from a mine in Solstheim, an island off the coast of Morrowind. The mine is in Raven Rock, but for some reason the mine has been closed down. I need you to go there and find out why. Fix it if you can." He walked over to a table, picked up a large coin purse and tossed it to me. "You'll get the rest once you have come back and have completed the job. Once you have reopened the mine, bring back some ore, not ingots. I need it to be in its raw state." I nodded. "And how does one get to Solstheim?" "There is a boat in Windhelm called 'The Northern Maiden'. It can take you to Solstheim." The orc got back to work. I sighed. "I just came from Windhelm." "I thought you were from Hammerfell?" The orc asked. "Yes, but I had been visiting a friend in Vvardenfell when I got my brother's message and left from there." I sighed again. "I should go. I need to prepare." I walked out with my brother in tow. "I'll help you get ready. What will you need?" He asked as he trailed behind me. "Not much. Just supplies, really." "That should be easy enough." We walked out into Markarth and I turned to my brother, handing him a small coin purse, I pointed in the direction of the inn. "I need you to buy food. Only essentials! No ale, mead or wine. I don't need that." I started walking away. "I'm going to the general store. I'll meet you back at your house." We went our separate ways. --------------- I walked into my brother's house and was greeted by a distraught Adara. "Mama said that you leaving!" She whined as she hugged my waist. "Yes sweetie, I have to leave as soon as possible." I stroked her hair. "But you can't leave, you just got here." "I'll be back before you know it." I kissed the top of her head and she let go of me. I walked to my bedroom and removed my clothes, replacing them with my Ebony armour. I packed the rest of my things, including the supplies that I had just bought. It was late morning by the time I was ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and gave Adara an extra long hug. I left my brother's house and walked down to the Markarth city gates. I took a carriage to Windhelm and from there, took a boat to Solstheim. --------------- The journey was long. Sitting and doing nothing for all that time made me feel lazy. As soon as I got to Solstheim, I immediately hopped off the boat and went straight through Raven Rock, looking for a fight. I stumbled across a dark elf in combat for his life with strange, ashen beings at the Attius Farm outside of Raven Rock. He appeared to be outnumbered, and requested that I lend him a helping hand. I jumped at the chance to take on something new. I pulled out my ebony swords and slashed at them. They were tough and difficult to defeat, but eventually they fell, turning into large piles of ash. I approached the Dunmer and he told me his name was Modyn Veleth, Captain of the Redoran Guard. He explained that the ash spawn have been attacking Raven Rock for some time now, and he's been trying to locate their source. His lack of manpower and reluctance to leave the town without a commander are keeping him from finding out more, so he asked for my help. He said that I could help by searching the Attius Farm for clues that might lead me to the ash spawn's source. I searched the ruin of a farm house but found nothing. I saw something glint in the corner of my eye and noticed that it come from the pile of ash left behind by the ash spawn. I sifted through the ash and found numerous gems and ores, along with a note, titled Deceleration of war. I handed my find to Captain Veleth and he read it, a worried expression painted his face as his eyes scanned the words. He said that the note mentions Fort Frostmoth, the ruins of an Imperial fort located southeast of Raven Rock. According to him, the fort's been abandoned ever since the eruption of Red Mountain. He sent me to Fort Frostmoth to kill the author of the note, General Falx Carius, before the town falls prey to his threats. --------------- I've slain General Falx Carius in the ruins of Fort Frostmoth and put an end to any further ash spawn attacking Raven Rock. Captain Veleth was very pleased with my results, and awarded me a bounty in gold. Now it's time to take care of the mine. I needed something to eat, I had no food left after the journey from Skyrim, so I needed more supplies. I found the local tavern/inn and went inside. I walked down the steps to talk to the innkeeper about food and supplies. He sold me what I needed and wished me luck with the mine. I was very unfamiliar with Solstheim and figured that I should probably hire someone as a guide. I asked the innkeeper about any mercenaries in the area. "There's one right upstairs. He hasn't had a patron in a while. I'm sure he would love to help. He's in full chitin armour, you can't miss him." I thanked him and headed upstairs. I looked over my left shoulder to see a figure, in full chitin armour, sitting on a chair near the fire. I walked up to him and stopped in front of him, resting my hand on my hip, I examined him. He looked up and me and leaned back in his chair. "Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. If you have the coin, I'm at your service." He said in a silky voice. I stayed silent and thought for a while. He must've taken my silence as uncertainty because he spoke again. "I've got swords, spells and a few other tricks up my sleeve. You'll find I'm full of surprises. Don't pass up on this opportunity, outlander. I'm worth every coin." I smiled to myself, which he couldn't see because of my helmet, and dropped a coin purse in his lap. He tucked it away and stood up. "Then let's be off!" He said enthusiastically before following me out of the door.

[alagaesia-headcanons]

Morzan AU

Listen, I know that my inbox is full of unanswered asks but I got this au in my head a couple days ago and I can’t get it out of my head.  I have a lot of thoughts.  Thus this nearly 4000 word post.  Don’t worry I put a read more.

but seriously i slaved over this please reblog

Basically the premise of this AU is that, due to some slight changes in Morzan’s circumstances and character, he’s able to develop and gain depth as a character.

Here we go!!

-Morzan isn’t the first Rider to join Galbatorix, but instead starts to follow him after Shruikan has already hatched and Galbatorix has started his war on the Riders.

-As a result, he spends a lot less time with Galbatorix who doesn’t get the chance to fan the flames of his arrogance and bitterness nearly as much as he does in canon.

-He’s the youngest Forsworn by quite a margin and more inexperienced than the rest.

-Morzan still fights with the Forsworn in the battle on Vroengard, but with less success.  Morzan is grievously wounded in the fighting and his dragon is even worse.  After the Forsworn win the battle, he begs Galbatorix to help heal his dragon.

-Morzan gave the help he could in the battle, and then fell to one of the older Riders, which is all that Galbatorix really expected of such a green, untried Rider.  Upon seeing the sorry state they’re in, he leaves them for dead, considering it more effort than it’s worth to heal them.

-Morzan’s dragon dies and but Oromis manages to heal Morzan when he arrives to try to find Brom.

-It’s not stated by the book which Forsworn killed the first Saphira, but for the sake of this AU, I’ll specify that it wasn’t Morzan.

-Oromis brings both Morzan and Brom back to Ellesmera.  He keeps them both separate, a decision he’s grateful for after Brom wakes up.  The death of Saphira drives him mad, and he sets himself against Galbatorix and the Forsworn with a manic fervor.  He leaves Ellesmera as soon as he can without ever realizing that Morzan was there.

-In contrast, the death of his dragon steals all of the fight from Morzan who falls into a major depression.  He virtually never leaves his bed, much less his room.  He eats little and sleeps less.  He ignores all of Oromis’s and Glaedr’s attempts to talk to him.

-He often wonders why he doesn’t just die like so many Riders do after losing there partners, but whenever he considers it, something stays his hand.  He can’t figure out why.

-One day, as he half listens to Oromis talking to him through his door, he hears him say “Galbatorix”.  He abruptly remembers watching him stare down at him and his dragon bleeding on the ground with contempt in his eyes and turning around and walking away.  A hot flash of anger and vindictiveness runs through him.

-It’s the first thing he’s truly felt in so long and he clings to it.

-Oromis is shocked when Morzan comes out of his room the next day and asks him if there’s a way he can help defeat Galbatorix.

-He looks at least 20 pounds lighter than he was before the battle and his voice is a ragged whisper from lack of use, but his black and blue eyes are more intense than they had ever been.

-After many long conversations with Oromis, Glaedr, and Islanzadi, several oaths in the ancient language, and a search of his mind, it’s decided that Morzan should go back to Galbatorix in Uru’baen and play the double agent, pledging himself to his cause while collecting information for the elves.

-And he does.

-He throws himself at Galbatorix’s feet and begs for forgiveness for his failure on Vroengard and for a second chance to prove himself.  Pleased as ever to receive subservience and control over another, Galbatorix accepts.

-With nothing else to live for, Morzan throws everything he has into his task.  He spares no effort and leaves no chance unexploited.  He acts his role flawlessly and collects no small amount of very valuable information.

-For a while, Morzan just reports back to Ellesmera, but as the war starts to settle and Brom forms the Varden, they decide that he should report to them as well.

-Brom is furious when he learns about Morzan.  More than anything, he can’t comprehend why they would trust him again after everything.  He betrayed them to Galbatorix and the Forsworn; how could they know that he wouldn’t do it again?!  They were the ones who killed Saphira!  He had adored Morzan, always been his friend, trusted him more than anything, and he threw that in his face!  Damn it, he had even loved him!  How could they trust him now?!

-In the end, Oromis convinces him that Morzan won’t betray them, if only because of the oaths he swore.  Brom doesn’t have to forgive him, or even interact with him, but he should take the intel all the same.

-The Varden makes much better use of it than the elves ever did.

-This continues for 40 some odd years during which Brom lets go of some of his animosity and distrust after Morzan’s information checks out time after time after time.

-These years are less kind to Morzan, still living in Uru’baen underneath the thumb of Galbatorix.  The king never cares for his servants and underlings more than a soldier cares for their spear; they’re simple tools for him to get what he wants.  Morzan isn’t spared any of the king’s bountiful cruelty.

-Combined with the stress of walking the razor thin line of a spy, Morzan wears down harshly.

-He figures that this is the way it will be until eventually something goes wrong and he dies.  The thought doesn’t bother him.

-Until, one day, through a stroke of pure luck, he learns the location of the three stolen dragon eggs within Uru’baen.

-A month of extremely frantic and dangerous planning later, Morzan has his things prepared for a flight to Farthen Dur and heads down to the vault with the eggs.

-The spells around the eggs are even more complicated than he was worried they’d be and undoing them takes much longer than he was counting on.  He only manages to free two of the eggs before he’s alerted to someone coming near and has to get out.

-Brom gets the news that Morzan was seen entering the valley leading to Farthen Dur with a dragon and Rider hot on his tail.

-Brom intercepts Morzan in the valley and brings him to a side entrance to Farthen Dur, a tunnel so small that Morzan’s horse barely fits, heavily disguised by both magic and the environment.  They didn’t want one of the Forsworn to discover their front entrance after all.

-But Brom is shocked by his appearance.  He always remembered his eyes shining with energy and force.  Now they’re dull, so dull.  Despite exhaustion, his whole body is tense, and the way he moves speaks of deep seated pain.

-The fact that he just spent the last two weeks running from the most powerful people in Alagaesia with virtually no sleep doesn’t help either.

-They finally make their way to the Varden leader.  When Morzan opens his pack to reveal two gorgeous dragon eggs, one blue and one red, Brom sees a spark of that energy he remembers in his eyes.

-When Morzan tries to stand up to get to a bed a minute later, he collapses.

-There’s no open room close to them, so Brom drags him, with much complaining and swearing, to his own room and drops him on the bed.  Morzan manages to say half of a thank you before he falls asleep.

-They give him a day before waking him up to give a report.  For the first time, Morzan meets the people he’s been reporting to all these years.  The meeting goes on for hours and he gives everything he learned since his last messages before he stole the eggs.  He notices the hostile glances the Varden members send him when they think he’s not looking.  Part of him’s angry; for all these years he’s risked life and limb to help them and they still don’t trust him?  Another part of him thinks that he deserves nothing less.

-The meeting ends and Brom watches Morzan stumble into the hallways of Tronjheim.  He has to shake himself to get his focus back on the notes of Morzan’s report.

-A couple hours later he goes back to his room with his arms full of parchment wanting to get some work done from the comfort of his own desk.  But when he opens the door, he sees Morzan asleep on his bed.

-Suddenly irate, Brom throws the parchment down on his desk and marches over to the bed.  He vigorously shakes Morzan who wakes up with a jolt.  Brom’s ready, iching, for a fight; the Morzan he knew would be furious at him for waking him up like that.  But this Morzan just blinks up at him with a frown.  His anger abandons him but he still says “You’re in my bed.”

-Muttering, he explains that, since he woke up here, he figured this was where he was supposed to stay and that if he told him where he could find a free room, he would leave.

-But Brom can see just how much trouble he is having keeping his eyes open and tells him he can stay until Brom finishes his work.  Then he’s getting woken up and kicked out and he’s getting his bed back.

-Turns out Brom doesn’t need to wake him up.

-An hour later, he hears Morzan shifting on the bed behind him.  He turns around and sees him with a mask of pain, tense as a bowstring and twitching sporadically.  “Please” and “Don’t” fall from his tongue.  After a moment's hesitation, Brom is shaking Morzan awake again, much more carefully than the first time.

-He wakes violently and shoves Brom away from him, crashing into the headboard while trying to scramble back.  He recognizes him a moment later and covers his face, breathing harshly.

-After a minute, Brom tells him where he can find an open room and Morzan leaves.  They don’t talk about it but they don’t need to.  It said a lot on its own.  Brom is left feeling uncomfortably aware of what this man who he’s hated so much has suffered in order to help him.

-Brom resolves then to not avoid Morzan.  He still insists that he doesn’t actually like him, but he knows that he’s the only person in Tronjheim that Morzan knows, and the least he can do is be civil.

-The chilly formality between them in the beginning slowly warms up as they start to get reacquainted with each other.  Though somewhat darker than it once was, they find themselves bantering like they did when they were students together.  Morzan maintained his pride but he let go of his arrogance and Brom found himself thinking that, despite going through strenuous, distressing things, he’s changed for the better.

-He shakes his head.  He loved this man once, and look at where it got him.  He’s not doing it again.

-Morzan starts smiling from time to time and Brom’s heart skips and he curses himself.

-Tensions start building between the elves and the Varden on the subject of the dragon eggs.  Brom believes they should be split up, perhaps switched on occasion.  Morzan knows that’s the wisest thing to do, but when he was running from the Empire, he grew fiercely protective over the eggs and he hates the thought of giving them up.

-They’re in Brom’s room, hunched over some papers on his desk when it comes to a head.  They start shouting at each other about the problem and then about each other and then they’re just screaming insults at the other.

-They wake up in bed together the next morning  (Decidedly naked.)

-Morzan promises that he will support Brom’s plan for the eggs if he can get just one last kiss.  Brom thanks whatever God is listening for his good luck; he’d pay that price in a heartbeat.

-And he does.

-The three elven ambassadors take one of the eggs to Du Weldenvarden and the other stays with the Varden.  Every year, the two would be swapped.

-With all of the immediate problems solved, Brom and Morzan start to get antsy.  There’s not enough work to keep them both occupied and they start to get paranoid about the glances from other people, worried that they might find out.

-It’s Brom that finally brings up what they’d both been thinking: that they should pack up and leave Farthen Dur and the Varden and start to fight the Empire more directly.  Morzan gives him a grin filled with wicked mischief.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

-They strike out across Alagaesia wreaking havoc on the Empire like no one ever had before. They hunt down the Forsworn as no one had dared do, they steal, assassinate, and sabotage.  The action, as well as each other, drives away the listlessness that had been building up in them both for years.

-While in bed together, Morzan confesses that for decades the only reason he had to live was spite.  Damn him if he doesn’t survive to see Galbatorix destroyed.  But Brom had changed everything.  He hadn’t felt alive like this since his dragon died.  He had forgotten what it felt like to have something else to live for.  To love and be loved.

-In turn Brom tells him that rage was the only thing that fueled him for so long.  And once he was with the Varden, his immediate responsibilities was the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning.  Whenever he thought about the future ahead of him, he couldn’t bear the thought of living through it all.  He says that it’s much easier to get up in the morning when you wake up with someone at your side.

-Morzan’s surprised; Brom always seemed so committed and zealous to him.  He has to remind himself that Brom had the other half of his life torn away, just like he did.

-Once, Morzan idly mentions that he thinks it’d be nice to have a kid.  Brom agress.  The don’t say it aloud, but they know it’s not something they can do.  Their lives are too dangerous.

-They talk about it occasionally though, mostly just coming up with and laughing about ridiculous baby names.

-They move around a lot, but they will sometimes settle in one place for a while so that they can focus on longer jobs.

-They’ve settled close to Gil’ead when, one day in the city, Morzan’s distracted by the reek of blood coming from an alleyway.

-This isn’t all that unusually, all of the larger cities suffer a lot of crime, but his heart stops when he looks around the corner and sees a child lying in a pool of blood.

-He rushes in and examines the child, only a toddler, and the horrific gash across his back.  Brom gapes when he sees.  As Morzan raises his hands to start healing him, Brom insisted that he do just enough to ensure his safety and then they could take him back with them and finish then.  Getting caught using magic here could mean the death of them both.

-Brom keeps watch as Morzan works.

-They both work to heal him after they get him home, but the wound is harsh and neither of them are as strong a magician as they were with their dragons.  They can’t fix the awful scar the wound leaves behind.

-They both agree that they need to take the boy back to his family as soon as he’s strong enough.  He deserves to be home.

-But when he wakes up the next day, they learn his family was responsible for this, a drunken soldier too fond of his sword.

-And when the little boy looks up at them and whispers with a voice full of fear and pain if they were going to send him back, Brom and Morzan say “Of course not” at the exact same time.

-His name is Murtagh.

-Murtagh is extremely timid and quiet but Brom and Morzan do their best to coax him out of his shell.  The explain that they don’t mind at all the things that his old family would hurt him for.  It breaks their hearts when Murtagh confesses that he covers his mouth when he smiles in case his father would see him and hit him for making fun.  Brom is barely able to stop Morzan from tracking down the one responsible that night.

-But slowly he starts to warm up to his self appointed parents.  He starts to smile and laugh and play outside.  He starts to sleep better and looks less pale and tired.  Brom and Morzan love him more than they thought they could love anything.  It reminds them of the bond they once shared with their dragons.

-Five months later, Brom answers the door to find and heavily pregnant woman standing in the cool night air, pleading for a place to sleep.  He lets her in and asks as courteously as he can why she’s travelling in her condition.  She admits that she’s trying to find a home for her child; she’s been trying for months but no one is willing to take them in.

-When Brom asks, she insists that if she takes the child back to where she must return, they won’t survive.  She refuses to say anymore.  She meets Brom’s eye and asks him if his has room for a child in his home, if he can raise the child she cannot.  He shares a glance with Morzan.

-Two weeks later she gives birth to a little baby boy and names him Eragon.  She leaves as soon as she’s strong enough.  They never see her again.

-Raising an infant proves much much more difficult than a three year old.  They both have to drop all of their rebellions against the Empire in order to take care of Eragon as well as Murtagh.  It doesn’t bother them though.  This somehow feels more important than that ever was.

-Although, once Murtagh and Eragon get a bit older, sometimes one of their fathers will leave for a couple of weeks, promising that they’ll be back as soon as they can.  They always keep those promises, and smother their children with kisses as soon as the return, but they never really say what they were doing while they were gone.

-Brom and Morzan start to train them with swords and bows when they get old enough.  They know that there’s always a chance that they could be discovered and Murtagh and Eragon need to be able to defend themselves.  They’re immensely proud of the exceptional swordsmen that they grow to be.

-The thing that Brom and Morzan disagree about the most when it comes to their sons is if/when to tell them about their pasts.  Brom insists that they as long as nothing happens, they never need to know, and that if they knew everything about their conflict with the Empire and their relations with the Varden, it would only put them in more danger.

-Morzan feels that they have a right to know the truth about them and once they’re old enough to understand, they should tell them everything they can about themselves.

-During one of several fights over this, Brom mentions that if they tell them, they could end up hating them.  Morzan snaps and demands “What difference would it make, if the only thing stopping them from hating us are our lies?”  He says they should have the right to hate them, to make that judgement, and that Brom is a coward for letting that stop him.

-There’s a truth to that that Brom isn’t willing to admit yet.

-So they leave the issue, but Brom knows that Morzan wants to tell them after they both reach manhood.  One way or another, they both know that there’s going one hell of an argument after Eragon turns 16.

-But a handful of months before that can happen, the family is woken up in the night by a loud bang.

-In a smoldering crater outside their doorstep is the blue dragon egg.

-For about a month, Brom and Morzan debate about the egg, how it got there, who might know about it, and most importantly, what they were going to do with it now that they had it.  But before they can come to a decision, the egg breaks open and the gedwey ignasia is seared onto Eragon’s palm.

-They steal as much time as they can to let the dragon hatchling grow before fleeing to the Varden, which is the only way they can keep Eragon and Murtagh safe now.

-The hatchling takes the name Saphira and Morzan holds Brom as he cries that night.

-About a month after the hatching, Murtagh spies two black cloaked figure in the distance, oddly contorted and staring right back at him.

-They all flee with their home burning in the distance.

-As Brom and Morzan start to properly teach Eragon to become a Rider, he confronts them angrily, insisting they tell him how they know all this and what is really going on.  Brom starts to dodge the question but Morzan cuts him off, saying that they should know.  They glare at each other and he says that he’s going to tell them.  When Brom doesn’t reply, Morzan starts talking.

-Brom keeps his back turned the whole time, too scared to see how his sons will react to the truth of his past.  Really, the first thing is shock.  There’s so much to process and Eragon and Murtagh aren’t sure how to feel at first.

-Neither of them reject them though.  Their love for their parents runs to deep.  Brom’s more relieved than he can put into words.

-I’ll skip most of the first book, just assume the major plot beats are the same, except neither Brom or Morzan die.

-When they reach the Varden in Farthen Dur, they learn from Ajihad about how Arya was ambushed while taking the blue egg from Du Weldenvarden.  They also learn that the red egg is still here in Tronjheim.

-When Morzan mentions his intention to test Murtagh with the other egg, he’s prepared to fight with Brom.  Brom has always wanted to shelter their children from this conflict and he figures that he’ll object to their other son being embroiled in it as well.  So Morzan’s shocked when he agrees.

-Brom explains that seeing Eragon with Saphira reminded him of how extraordinary the bond between a dragon and their Rider truly is.  And if Murtagh has the chance to be part of a bond like that as well, then he has no right to deprive him of that.

-Barely a heartbeat after Murtagh first lays his hand on the egg, the first crack appears.

-Morzan’s smile is so wide and full of pride.

-The Varden celebrates and rejoices in their luck.  Suddenly they’re in a better position than they’ve ever been in before to fight Galbatorix and the two remaining Forsworn, Formora and Kialandi.

And I’ll stop there.  This post is super long already and I’m not sure what changes I would make to the remaining books.  This AU is mostly pre Inheritance Cycle anyway.  But if anyone has any thoughts or ideas you should reblog or reply! seriously please reblog

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

From the Outside

Rating: T, no warnings except angst.

Summary: When Naeva Surana made Alistair King of Ferelden, she didn't expect that to mean what they had between them would end. Or never thought of it, perhaps. And she makes it nearly ten years trying to think of it as little as possible, until every Warden in Vigil's Keep begins to hear the Calling and she can't ignore the possibility that the King of Ferelden might be, too.

Alistair, on the other hand, has always been one to wallow in his mistakes, and sending away the love of his life is certainly no exception. When he begins to hear the Calling nearly a decade before he expected to, he assumes it's his penance for what he's done to Naeva and the dark ritual that spared their lives. But before he goes to the Deep Roads, there's one last apology he has to make.

AKA my version of why King Alistair isn't even remotely worried about the darkspawn magister singing in his head in Inquisition.

Read it on AO3 here!

I must have sat down and tried to write to him a thousand times.

Normally, I’m good enough with words. I managed to marshal an army to end the Blight, after all; I can’t be too awful at speaking. But every time I tried to write, the quill hovered over the paper and dripped ink blots until I crumpled it up and threw it into the campfire, defeated.

Apparently saving the world just isn’t in the same league as telling the man you fell in love with that even after you made him king and he said you couldn’t be together anymore, you still love the bastard.

After a while, I gave up on trying to write. I almost visited a few times, thinking perhaps my brand of eloquence only worked in person. I made it all the way to Denerim once before I found my courage lacking and turned in to see the smith that had made us dragonscale armor instead. He was disappointed I had no more dragon scales. I was just disappointed in myself.

Maybe I hid my struggle from the Grey Wardens I led, but I can’t say for sure. Certainly, none of them ever called me on it. I missed nights in camp with Leliana and Zevran, who had always had such talents for reading me and saying precisely the right thing—or in Zevran’s case, just the wrong thing phrased so that it would make me laugh instead of cry. I refused to admit it wasn’t really Leliana or Zevran I wanted to talk to about everything.

I tried simply putting Alistair Theirin out of my mind. Sometimes it almost worked, when no one happened to be discussing the king. Much more often, it did not. In one particularly dark fit of drunken anger, I had even spent a night with Zevran before he left for Antiva. I think he knew why I’d done it; afterward, he stroked my hair softly while I cried, but was gone by the time I awoke.

It was over a year after the Archdemon fell before I finally saw Alistair again. My new comrades and I had put an end to the machinations of the Mother and the Architect alike, and the king was attending a ceremony to officially dedicate the arling of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens. For a while, I avoided his gaze. When I finally looked at him, I met his eyes and had never before seen regret so thick in them.

The anger I had so carefully fought down flared again, and I made a snide and rather loud comment to Anders. It gave me a savage sort of pleasure when Alistair’s neck and ears turned bright red.

My fury lasted until I found an empty room at the new Warden headquarters, slammed the door, and collapsed against it, sobbing.

I wished I had died slaying the Archdemon.

But I couldn’t—duty that cannot be forsworn, I reminded myself, the words ringing bitterly in my mind in a voice I could never hope to forget. And there was a long list of duties. A keep and a city to reinforce and defend. Missives and visitors from Weisshaupt to evade. Fereldan and Orlesian nobles to placate. An entire fortress of Grey Wardens to convince an elven mage really could lead them. And the exhausting task of coordinating it all, every day, for years.

On the worst days, I missed the Blight—roaming the country with friends instead of subordinates, before the Landsmeet and the choices that had changed the world forever. On the best, I lost myself in the routine and forgot I had ever existed outside of the Wardens.

I was almost relieved when I began to hear the song. It seemed years too early, from what I had been told after my Joining, but had I not already cheated a Warden’s death once? Perhaps death was simply tired of waiting for me. Then I summoned my constables to deliver the news and realized the entire order was hearing it, too. I nearly broke down when a frightened mage who had only taken her Joining the month before asked me if she was just too weak to be a Warden after all.

And yet for some damned reason, even before letters to Weisshaupt went unanswered and we realized we were alone, I thought of Alistair Theirin. In the palace in Denerim, was he hearing the Calling too? Was he getting his affairs in order, deciding who to support in the Landsmeet as the next king, preparing a trek into the Deep Roads, not knowing?

Andraste’s flaming ass, I would have to finally, actually write him.

It was no easier than it had been any of the previous attempts, but I did it because I had to. Not because I still cared about him. Not that, at all. Only because I couldn’t remember how to talk to the bastard without a lot of emotions in that air that I didn’t have time to waste dealing with. Somehow they crept in at the end anyway, but with dawn and my departure looming, I gave it to the runner as it was and tried not to imagine how it might sound read aloud.

I chose one of the senior Wardens, Stroud, to defend the keep and the Grey in my absence. If word arrived from Weisshaupt while I was gone, I told him, defer to the message. If not, keep the men calm and the city unaware, and I would return with a cure or I would not return.

I didn’t expect the royal messenger waiting for me at the city gates, but I accepted the missive with shaking hands. My title and name were written on the outside, clear and without room for misinterpretation, but still I hesitated before breaking the seal. There hadn’t been time yet for him to have received my letter, never mind to have responded; if this was a letter saying he was leaving for his Calling, it would mean mine was too late.

Naeva,  

Ignore the official messenger; this isn’t a letter from the King of Ferelden to the Commander of the Grey. It’s a letter from me to you, and long since overdue. I began hearing something a couple of weeks ago, a humming so quiet I thought it was just some song stuck in my head, but it’s only grown louder the harder I try to ignore it. I know it should be too soon for my Calling, but I know that’s what it is as surely as I know a hurlock from a genlock at ninety yards. It’s no less than I deserve, and after all the rules we broke during the Blight, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised the horde takes offense that I haven’t bothered trying to murder them for so long.

I’ve only spoken with Eamon so far, but we’ll work something out shortly. Once we have a plan, we’ll tell the people, but I didn’t want you to find out from some generic announcement. That just felt wrong. But I’m sure everyone else will hear soon, and Anora can feel all smug in her tower, knowing she was right and there was no point having me on the throne at all. I guess that’s just another thing we got wrong.  

But the only thing I regret is how I left things between us. Naeva, I’m so sorry for what I said to you. I’m sorry I panicked and called it off in front of everyone just when you needed me as much as I needed you. I’m sorry I listened to Eamon and was too afraid to fight for you. I’m sorry I didn’t just tell the nobles to stow it, that I loved you and will always love you, and that they would be lucky to have an elven mage for a queen if that woman was you. Most of all, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long and my own death looming over my head to make me stop being such an idiot. You are and always will be the only woman I’ve ever loved, but here I am, only brave enough to say it when I have nothing left to lose.  

I know it’s far too late to say any of this, and I know you’ll probably never forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me either. But if I’m only going to have one more chance to say it, I wanted to tell you again what a rare and beautiful thing you are amidst the darkness, and that when the time comes, my last thoughts will be of you.  

—Alistair  

My eyes and heart burned as I read, but I folded it again carefully and tucked it away out of sight. On the voyage across the Waking Sea, I lost count of the number of times I opened it to read it again, trying to number and quantify all of the things it made me feel.

And now, staring up at the mountains of the Anderfels spreading out snowy and foreboding before me, it’s still the first thought in my mind. I pat the pouch under my breastplate, checking that the letter bearing the royal seal is still there. It’s like a warmth against my chest from the biting cold, the only thing keeping the song in my head from driving me mad.

Perhaps, when this is over and my mission is complete and the Wardens are saved, I will finally return to Denerim to deliver the cure to the king of Ferelden in person. But only that.

Perhaps.

I must have written her a thousand letters.

At first, I was convinced I would find the right combination of words to say what I needed to tell her, so I kept trying. The stack of finished but unsendable missives grew but I kept them, copying parts from this version or that into a fresh message, so sure that eventually I would stumble on the right combination of words to apologize.

Apparently I have more talent now in dealing with whining lords than writing to the woman I spent hours talking and laughing with every night.

Eventually, I admitted to myself I would never send any of these letters and they turned into something more akin to a journal. I would write to her, carefully script her name at the top of the page, and then recount a particularly frustrating day or go over exactly when I first knew I loved her. I told myself it helped a little. It really, really didn’t.

The papers began to pile up, but like a child, I continued to hide them from the maids and Eamon. I stashed them under the drawers of my desk, beneath loose floorboards, one even inside a crack in the oaken headboard of my bed. I wished I had one she had written me to place there instead.

I tried to just not think of Naeva Surana, I really did. Eamon and Teagan avoided mentioning the new Warden Commander, and even went so far as trying to tempt my heart away with various pretty, empty-headed noble ladies. I tried to make small talk for their benefit, but found I failed even at that. After one girl was stupid enough to lunge in and kiss me and it took Eamon a solid hour to talk me down, they gave up on that particular line of attack.

It had been a year before I finally saw Naeva again. She had worked another miracle, defending Amaranthine from some kind of darkspawn conflict, this time without me by her side. She had let her hair grow again, and I remembered with a flash the ogre that had picked her up by the long white mane she had worn loose since the Circle, the flash of black blood as I drove my sword through its heart for daring to touch her, and how she had cut her hair to short braids in camp that night. It was loose and down to her shoulders again; I despaired that perhaps she had come to trust someone else to keep her safe from ogre attacks.

She caught me staring and made a pointed aside to the blond mage standing by her about the untrustworthiness of templars. He snorted and she smirked and I left rather quickly after that.

I retreated to my chambers in the castle and ripped all the letters I had written from their hiding places in a rage, but then found myself just staring at them when I went to hurl them into the fire.

I smoothed them back out carefully and wished I had died with the Archdemon.

But that would have been too easy—a slow death by paperwork and an even slower descent into madness from dealing with bureaucracy was, after all, a much more fitting end for someone that had betrayed every oath he ever made. The vows to the Chantry that I never took, the ones to the Wardens that I threw away, and the ones to Naeva that I cast aside in a moment of stupidity I could never correct because kings cannot be selfish, Alistair, mocked Eamon’s voice from the shadows of my mind every time I thought of her.

On my best days, I could completely lose myself in the mundane…ity of it all, becoming that boring shell of good king Alistair that everyone—or at least Eamon—so wanted me to be. On my worst, I couldn’t tear my mind from the Blight and friends and love and freedom and all the other things I would never have again, and no amount of clever puns or witty one-liners could disguise it.

Then one day, I woke with a song in my ears that I had thought not to hear for another decade. It was the price for the ritual, I thought immediately, for whatever dark magic that had saved Naeva from the archdemon’s soul. I found a strange peace in the idea. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, that the Calling might have come for me early, if that was the price for her life. I certainly owed it to her a dozen times over.

And even through the task of meeting with Eamon, of explaining to him that he was going to have to find a new king because the old one had to go die in the Deep Roads, Naeva was really all I thought of. The years I’d gone without speaking to her, of writing to her like a diary to keep me sane but never actually giving her the apology she deserved for how childish and thoughtless I was—even when she still found a way to save us both—it was all much too heavy a weight to carry into that last fight with the darkspawn.

So while Eamon panicked and tried to work out what to do for Ferelden, I finally wrote a letter I intended to send.

It was so much easier this time. Maybe it was the years of practice, making it feel like I still knew how to talk to her, or maybe it was just knowing that I had literally nothing left to lose. I hoped she would understand when she read it that it wasn’t some pathetic attempt to redeem myself. I hoped she would know she deserved an apology long ago, and I was just too afraid of how much it would hurt me to give it to her.

I wrote that I loved her, wrote it for her to actually read, for the first time in ten years. I knew she wouldn’t feel the same, but it didn’t matter. I simply wanted her to know how special she was, and how much of a coward and a fool I was for sending her away. Dying men are allowed to be sentimental.

Imagine my surprise when, the very next day after I sent a messenger to Vigil’s Keep, a runner with a letter bearing griffon heraldry appeared in my study. My runner would certainly have had time to make it to Amaranthine, but definitely not back, and this was a very different man. Did Naeva know, somehow? Was there a way for the Commander of the Grey to tell which Wardens were nearing their Callings? When I ripped open the letter, I was met with my full and glaringly ostentatious title, and only became more confused as I read.

His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin—  

This letter is to inform you that, if you are currently experiencing any adverse effects from your association with the Grey Wardens, to immediately disregard it for the time being. Consider this a direct order from the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, if you must.  

This is not your Calling, and you are not the only one hearing it. I thought the same when I woke with the song in my mind, but every Warden save the very newest recruits have begun to hear it at once. It is unnatural, perhaps a deliberate play by the horde hive mind to trick us. And if it isn’t, it’s likely in response to something that happened during the Blight. In either case, there will be a way to reverse it, and that is what I plan to do.

I say “plan,” as if I have one, but those for me have always been the loosest of things, as I’m sure you remember. All word from Weisshaupt has come to a halt, and if the brass will not save us, I will find a way. The work Avernus did on extracting power from the taint, the Wilds flower that kennelmaster at Ostagar used to save Firion, whatever it was that removed the taint from the Orlesian First Enchanter Fiona—the ingredients for a cure are out there, just as the way to survive slaying an Archdemon was, and I will not rest until I find them. For all of our sakes. And if this is my fault for a poor decision made trying to save Ferelden, well, I will accept the consequences of that, but I will do whatever I can to keep you the rest of the Wardens from paying that price.

I did not mean to imply that my reasoning for this has to do with you specifically, though of course, curing this affliction would benefit Ferelden if it no longer has to fear losing its king. That is why I’ve written, after all, to ensure you don’t do anything rash while I find a solution. There is no personal reason, as you made abundantly clear many years ago. I only wish to see to your safety as my former comrade at arms and as my the king.

It is far too late to make amends, but if I don’t return from this task, know that I never meant what I said that day in Amaranthine. I felt angry and betrayed when the entire situation was of my own making, and in most things, I would still trust you above all others. That is, in the end, why I made you king and created this mess. I am sorry, and should have told you ten years ago, for making that decision for you. Perhaps if there is a cure to be found, I will yet find a way to make it up to you.

Until then, 

Warden-Commander Naeva Surana

To say that the letter worried me would be an understatement. It left me terrified for her, for the Wardens, for what this could mean if and when another archdemon arose. It made my heart ache in a fresh way, to read between the lines and know that my ill thought out words all those years ago still hurt her, and it made me hope my letter had reached her before she left, because if she was going to risk her life for a hopeless cause again, she deserved to do it knowing none of what she was trying to blame herself for was her own fault.

I watch the Amaranthine ocean every morning now, praying for a ship with a griffon on its sails. Praying for Naeva, wherever she is, to be safe and whole and dealing better with this song in her head than I am. Sometimes it’s almost enough to drive me mad, and when it nearly does, I pull the letter with her signature from the crack in the headboard of my bed and read it over again.

It reminds me she’s alive, and she’s searching, and even though it’s an impossible task, she’s worked the impossible before. I don’t have faith in much anymore, but I have to believe she can do the impossible again.

And maybe when she’s done, she’ll even find a way to forgive me.

[soulstealer1987]

Arc 5, Chapter 11

Ziist Grozein

Everyone escapes from Cidhna Mine. Also, let's be honest, Gallus couldn't put off the Dragonborn thing forever.

Crossposted from AO3. Masterpost is here.

Arc 5: Shadows of the Past

Arc 5, Chapter 10 ~ Arc 5, Chapter 12

When Madanach sends someone to wake them, it’s nearly dusk. Or at least, Gallus is pretty sure of that—it’s impossible to tell for certain in the depths of Cidhna Mine, where the only light comes from lanterns or, occasionally, the faint glow of magic.

(Gallus would think that, considering that the Forsworn are primarily made up of Bretons and Bretons are generally very, very good at magic of all kinds, that the guards would have been a little smarter about preventing magic use. Perhaps they were, initially. But after decades without a breakout, perhaps security became more and more lax.)

Uraccen takes one look at the two of them, casually states that it’s getting late and anytime they’re not busy, they should head out to the main area, and leaves with the ghost of a knowing smile on his face. Evidently, he thinks he knows something about what’s going on here. To be fair, there’s one very obvious reason why a couple of people would fall asleep on each other, and if that’s what Uraccen’s thinking of, it’s not entirely wrong.

“I guess we’d better head out,” Karliah says eventually. “No point in keeping them waiting any longer.”

“Yeah,” Gallus agrees. Even so, neither of them move. In his case, it’s because even after everything, there’s still a tiny seed of doubt within him. He could have dreamed it. He probably dreamed it—after all, he can’t possibly live up to who he was. Not without his memories.

And he has no idea how he can even begin to get those back.

“You’re not getting up,” she notes. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, I just…”

“Gallus. Look at me,” Karliah puts a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

He takes a deep breath and turns towards her. Their eyes meet, and he holds her gaze. There’s something in her eyes, some deep sadness that finally makes the words come spilling out.

“I’m not the same as I was. I should be, but I’m not. Maybe if I could actually remember something, but I can’t. I can’t—gods, everything’s so familiar, you’re so familiar… I’ve known the whole time that you mean so much to me, and I just can’t remember anything I know I should. But I’m… I’m not the same.”

Gallus is only dimly aware of it at this point, but he’s full on sobbing. He doesn’t know how Karliah’s reacted, and in all honesty, he’s not sure he wants to know.

“No, you’re not,” she says finally. Her arms wrap around him. “But neither am I. And that’s alright. It’s been so long, I’d be worried if either of uswere the same as we were back then. We’ve both changed a lot—shadows, I know I have. Everything’s gone to Oblivion and then some. But there’s one thing I know for sure, and it’s that you’re the same Gallus I fell in love with, memories or no memories.”

Gallus tries to wipe away his tears, but more come. He’s at a loss for words.

“Listen,” she continues, and her grip tightens some. “I love you, Gallus. I love you so, so much. Whatever’s going on, we’ll get through it together, like we always have. I’ve lost you once already—I’m not losing you again.”

His eyes water, although the tears aren’t so much from sadness this time.

“You mean it?” He manages.

“Everything.”

“...you still love me?”

She actually laughs. “Of course I do, you idiot. I know you can’t remember this, but… shadows, it took you a long time to finally tell me what was up the first time. I’m glad it didn’t take you any longer this time.”

It’s almost like a weight’s been lifted off his chest, like he can finally breathe again, except he hadn’t been quite aware that he couldn’t until now. Being close to Karliah has a rightness to it, the kind that makes him feel like things are normal, or at the very least not as screwed up as they were.

Gallus smiles, and says, “Me too.”

“Glad you could join us,” Madanach says as the pair walk out. Much to Gallus’ embarrassment, every denizen of the mine turns to see them: Uraccen, the orc, the lad with the skooma…

Actually, no. There’s someone missing, come to think of it, and that someone’s the someone he’d gotten the shiv from. Gallus suspects he doesn’t want to know what happened to him, so he doesn’t ask.

“Had to work out something,” Gallus offers in way of explanation, without any intention of explaining what that something is. “What did we miss?”

“Only the entire plan, lad. We’re about to head out. Just stay close and stay alive—and this goes for all of you lads. Remember, we’re not here to fight, we’re here to get out as fast as possible and regroup at Druadach.”

The group, sans Gallus, Karliah, and the orc, all nod.

“Borkul,” Madanach continues, addressing the orc, “stay with me or one of the others for now, the sentries won’t know you’re with us otherwise.”

The orc—Borkul, apparently—grumbles, but bobs his head in agreement.

“Gallus, Karliah. Stay with us until we’re out of the city, and from there? Old Gods be with you.”

“And with you,” Karliah says softly. Gallus isn’t entirely sure what or who the ‘Old Gods’ entail, but he nods regardless.

“Let’s go. Moonlight’s a-wasting.”

Getting out of Markarth, as it happens, is simple—almost deceptively so, looking back. The group meets no significant resistance once they’re out of the mine itself, and as for the escape tunnel… well… nobody died, everyone was still able to run, the Dwemer as usual had to make everyone’s lives more difficult millennia after their disappearance. Overall, it went fine, although there were a couple close calls.

From there, it’s on the road to Winterhold. There’s still some awkwardness between them, but much less silence. Karliah can’t seem to stop talking, and whether it’s about the past, the present, or the future, Gallus finds he much prefers anything to the hopeless silence.

Gallus shares some stories of his own, too. He doesn’t exactly have much, but he can guess at what Karliah was around for, what she wasn’t, and what she could only assume. He tells her of the kids at the College, Aranea and Erandur, the Companions…

Eventually, the subject turns to the Thieves Guild, which… is rather inevitable, actually.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go back?” Gallus finds himself asking.

“Once we get your journal translated. Or, once you remember enough that we can prove it’s you. Seeing as… you didn’t go by your name in Riften, did you?”

“No, I came up with something that… may not have worked as well as I’d have liked,” he winces. “I panicked. When we go back… I’m never living that one down, that’s for sure.”

“There’s no way it could possibly be that bad.”

Gallus laughs, “Trust me, it is.”

“What is it, then?”

“Bad,” he says. “Let’s save it for when we get back. What do you miss about the Guild?”

She shrugs. “A lot of things, but honestly… I miss being able to just walk into places and not have to worry about who’s there, who’s seeing me, who’s going to get word back to Mercer that I was there. It’ll be nice, to not have to constantly have my guard up. I guess… I miss a lot of things about Riften, too. Is Vekel still running the Flagon?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t look like he’s that old.”

“He had the best home-brewed mead. Stopped making it near the end, though—times were getting tough. Maybe we can get him to make it again once we’re back.”

Gallus cracks a grin, and says, “I do still owe you a drink from Helgen.”

He can almost ignore how, despite having just gotten quite a lot of sleep, his head hurts far too much, he can’t focus, he can’t concentrate. Even looking at something for too long makes things difficult, unless he’s distracted. It’s probably a good thing that Karliah’s very distracting.

Even so, he has a bad feeling that something wrong’s here, and it’s not a lack of sleep. There has to be some reason that sleep isn’t helping, because he’s been getting a lot lately. Or, at the very least, he’s been getting a lot more than usual. As the pair trudge on, the College barely visible in the distance, his unfocused stare finds the night sky.

Stars glimmer above them, and for whatever reason, a particular constellation catches his eye. He can’t think of the name. Briefly, he considers asking Karliah about it. He glances her way. She catches his gaze, and smiles.

Naturally, it’s then, and only then, that an earth-shaking roar splits the air, and something big and dark-colored flies overhead. It blots out the stars as it passes, and keeps on in the direction of Winterhold.

“Oh no,” Gallus says unnecessarily.

[dumbfinntales]

With the Dark Brotherhood questline cleared I can finally say that I’m done with Skyrim. I’ve done all the worthwhile content in the game, and hoo boy is this game something else. Of course I got some locations that I haven’t discovered and perhaps I’ve missed some side quests. Not completely sure.

Here’s some thoughts. Going from Oblivion to Skyrim I noticed a certain exchange of qualities. What I mean, in Oblivion the quests were amazing but the world itself was boring. In Skyrim the quests are boring (not all of them) but the world is amazing. And man is the world of Skyrim amazing, exploring this harsh cold region of Tamriel was a joy. Every cave, ruin, dungeon etc. felt unique and not a complete copy paste that was the dungeons in Oblivion. Of course almost every dungeon and Draugr filled ruin had a similar look, but there’s variety to how you approach these places, the design of the dungeons themselves. Almost every dungeon told a small story of it’s own and you’d never know what you’d run into.

You go to a ruin and you find a side quest with a spirit who’s trying to stop the resurrection of a powerful lich. Or you got to yet another ruin, but there’s some guy camping in front of the ruin who asks you for a favor and in the end it turns out he’s not all that he seems. Sometimes dungeons have no stories attached to them and they’re just neat. Like one cave I went to and found a bunch of bandits locked up in cages. One of them asks me to free him and when I do he joins me, and together we kill the hagravens that imprisoned him. But then the dumb bastard turns on me and tries to rob me. He had to be stupidest fucking person in all of Tamriel, so I killed him of course. But neat little things like that what made Skyrims world FUN and an absolute blast to explore.

I could go on and on about the world because there are so many things I discovered that vary from cool to tragic. And like I said, the quests can’t really stand up to the quality of Oblivion quests. Some of them tell neat stories but they follow a very basic structure where you end up exploring some ruin or cave where you get the thingamajig and you’re done. Sometimes they change things around, but they never really step out of the comfort zone and get creative. But there are some really good quests. My favorite being The Forsworn Conspiracy. Now that quest in itself is a rollercoaster and the jail escape at the end was so good. The Daedric quests were really fun too with A Night to Remember being one of the best. But like I said, many sidequests were just alright.

The guilds in the game were pretty enjoyable too. I didn’t really care for the Thieves Guild or the college of Winterhold. I liked the start to the College, but I was already arch mage in a couple days. The one I liked the most was the Dark Brotherhood. I thought it was really good actually, with many twists and turns and fun assassinations. They’re not as creative with some of these jobs as they were in Oblivion, but t’was aight.

Could I think of some negatives? Well the AI can be pretty dumb and the game is pretty buggy at times. My game crashed several times during my playthrough. The main story of the game felt grandiose, but it was very anticlimactic and disappointingly short. I feel like some of the DLC was longer than the main story. The DLC by the way, are pretty damn good. Especially the Dragonborn one. There were not that many interesting characters in the world, even in the main story I didn’t really connect with anyone I met. Except Paarthurnax he’s a lovely fellow. I told the blades to fuck off after they asked me to kill him, haven’t talked to them since. Oh and one last thing, the civil war questline was pretty disappointing too. It could have been done a lot better. You just kinda run around doing the same things over and over when you have your “final battle” that ends up feeling like you didn’t really accomplish anything. You get some imperial soldiers in some cities and some Stormcloak supporting Jarls lose their place. But I still see some guards making remarks about the war despite it being over.

Overall, I can see why Skyrim has it’s reputation. It’s the most “normie” RPG imaginable, and even grandmas play it! Literally. Shirley Curry is adorable, you should watch her lets play. The game was huge with loads of things to do in it and I enjoyed my time with it despite feeling a little bit fatigued towards the end. But I don’t regret the time I spent in Skyrim, it was magical. I played as an Argonian and made it to level 53. My build focused on conjuring and close range combat with a mace. So HAH I didn’t fall for the stealth archer meme, get fucked kiddos I play the superior way. Summon spoopy skellingtons to fight for you and join in on the action! Seriously, playing as a summoner was a blast. I’m glad I finally got into these games and the TES franchise as a whole. Skyrim is a wholesome game and gets a sweetroll/10. I recommend this game to everyone because Todd Howard is holding my family hostage.

[dalekofchaos]

Reasons to side with The Stormcloaks

So I made a post on why I believe The Imperials is the right choice in The Skyrim Civil War. An anon requested I do some suggestions for why The Stormcloaks are right. To be fair. I believe that both The Imperials and Stormcloaks are right and wrong in their own way. I just think it’s smarter to side with the Imperials. With that out of the way, let’s start with the pros and cons of the Stormcloaks

Pros

The Stormcloaks are right to rebel. When The Great War ended and The White-Gold Concordat was signed and The Empire and The Aldmeri Dominion made peace. Not only was the worship of Talos banned, The Blades were disbanded, the cession by the Empire of a large portion of southern Hammerfell to the Aldmeri Dominion and the right for the Thalmor to move throughout the Empire after the Empire didn't enforce the White-Gold Concordat, to hunt down both worshipers of Talos. So not only was the worship of Talos banned. But The Blades who guarded The Emperors for generations were forcefully disbanded, The Empire allowed The Thalmor to take a limited control over a portion of Hammerfell, showing Hammerfell how weak the Empire became and causing resentment to the Empire and The Thalmor Justiciars kidnaps and rounds up anyone who dares to worship Talos in secret or openly. When you allow the very force that you were fighting  in The Great war to kidnap innocent civilians in the dead of night from their own homes and for them to be tortured for their right to worship, you have shown Skyrim that you have failed her. The Stormcloaks are right to rebel

When The Empire made peace with The Aldmeri Dominion, the province of Hammerfell had to withdraw/be kicked out of The Empire and continue fighting on it’s own. The Thalmor has not managed to achieve their goals in Hammerfell, and the resistance is very much alive and well there. If they can do it, so can Skyrim.

Ralof is the first friend the Dragonborn makes regardless of what race you choose if you choose to go with him. 

Yes The Stormcloaks and mostly the population of Windhelm are racist. But it’s not as black and white as it may seem. The Gray Quarter. The assumption is that Ulfric forces The Dunmer to live in The Gray Quarter.  But with some research you would realize this to be quite untrue. The Dunmer are not forced to live anywhere. The live in nanny for the Cruel-Seas, and the owner of the Hlaalu farm do not. If Ulfric truly wanted to segregate them why do two Dunmer not live there? Consider this, the Dunmer probably moved to Windhelm right after the eruption of the Red Mountain or the Argonian invasion. Both of which happened before Ulfric was Jarl. So they must've lived in the Gray Quarter before Ulfric was in power. For whatever reason it must've fallen apart and became what it is today. You might be thinking, "Why doesn't Ulfric fix it?" He's in the middle of a war, it's a rebellion fighting an Empire, it's not going to be easy. Another reason is if they did ruin it on their own, it's not Ulfric's responsibility to fix it. If they destroyed it on their own, why would the Jarl have to spend tax payers dollers to fix something that's not even city property? The next is the Argonians, I actually don't think they are completely forbidden from entering the city. It's never said they can't go in at all? It's just said they can't live in it. Maybe they can't live in it because their is no room. Do you know four empty houses in Windhelm they could move into? Also, Shahvee bought an amulet of Zenithar. Where would she have gotten that from? Inside the city perhaps? Finallly, the Khajiit Caravans aren't allowed in any cities, Stormcloak or Imperial. So you can't just blame the Stormcloaks for that. Brunwulf Free-Winter says Ulfric only helps Nords who are in trouble as opposed to the other races. You can get a bounty form Jorleif to kill a giant that is attacking travelers. Which shows that Ulfric did do something for the non-Nords (I assume travelers are people foriegn to Skyrim). Also, even if he did do this he fails to consider something. That their are obviously more Nords in Skyrim then the other races. Meaning if a Nord village gets attacked a lot of innocent people will be hurt or die. While if a couple of Dunmer or Argonians are wondering around Skyrim less people would be hurt or killed. It's a needs of the many outweight the needs of the few sort of mentality.  

There has not been a true High King Of Skyrim for several generations. Generally when the High King Of Skyrim dies, The Emperor picks somebody to be his pawn King Of Skyrim in order to ensure that the people of the province is under Imperial control. In other words, The High King is sure to be somebody who foremost looks after the interest of The Emperor instead of the interests of his own people.

The Markarth Incident is a pro-Stormcloak argument. The book written in the game was propaganda. The Markarth incident was started by the Empire, not Ulfric. They were the ones who promised free worship to the Nord militia led by Ulfric due to being desperate. Ulfric did not do this because he was asked by the Thalmor, or as a plot to start the civil war. He simply wanted Nords to be able to freely worship and not hide like daedra worshippers. Igmund himself. They made the deal, Ulfric did his part of the deal, and then when the elves find out about it, what did the Empire do? They went through this short checklist. Is the province in question Cyrodiil? (Y/N) Since it's not. they threw Ulfric under the bus and reneged on the deal that THEY themselves made. So the Markarth incident was actually another pro-Stormcloak argument showing how exactly the Empire treats any province that isnt Cyrodiil (sacrificial lambs).And, the funny thing is, the entire reason the Forsworn Uprising even happened is because, yet again in Igmund's(A Empire supporter) own words : "When the Aldmeri Dominion invaded the Imperial City, the Legion all but turned a blind eye to the other provinces. Many of the disgruntled natives of the Reach used the opportunity to depose the Empire, and founded what they called an independent kingdom. It was little more than a chaotic uprising, but the Reach was removed from Imperial authority for two years before we reclaimed it." So from the start until the end, everything was the Empire's fault yet again.

A unified Skyrim with all its fierce warriors will be a match for the Dominion. And with a probable alliance between Skyrim and the weak but still standing province of Hammerfell, The Aldmeri Dominion will have a real fight on their hands. The other provinces(Cyrodiil and High Rock) will have to either stand by and watch the war, or join this new “Alliance Of Tamriel” against The Dominion. Since everyone more or less knows that the war between Mer and Men could and will start any day now, these provinces will probably have to join in pretty soon in order to in longterm protect/save themselves. Cyrodiil will have to go back to being a kingdom when Skyrim becomes independent, since High Rock probably doesn’t want to be part of a two province only empire.

With The Stormcloaks in charge of Skyrim, the disbanded and scattered Blades now have a safehaven where they once again can gather and regrow, protected by the people and armies of Skyrim from The Thalmor who have been hunting them for decades within the very borders of The Empire.  The Blades might play a big part in uniting the various armies against The Aldmeri Dominion.

You might be thinking that Skyrim and the Stormcloaks aren’t strong enough to fight The Thalmor, well no. First of all, the Nords have been fighting Elves for years. Why would the Dominion be any different? Most would say, “the whole Empire couldn’t beat them, how would only the Nords do it?”. Actually, though the Empire was wounded, the Dominion was also very weakened. Their main general was killed and every soldier in Cyordiil. That was one of the largest armies ever assmbled in Elven history. And since Elves reproduce slower, they would probably have a much harder time recovering. Hammerfell alone was able to beat them, and they were just as hurt as Cyordiil from the Great War, they also had a civil war between the Crowns and the Forbears before that. So Hammerfell was not in a good position and yet they still beat the Dominion. Why can’t Skyrim? Also, they could make an alliance with Hammerfell and the two of them could work together. Also, the Stormcloaks offered High Rock an allaince, they didn’t instantly reject them which shows that they might be thinking about it. These three nations would put up one hell of a fight for the Dominion.

Despite what the dossier of Ulfric said. Ulfric is not an agent of The Thalmor. The reason the Thalmor would consider him an asset is because he might help start a war in Skyrim. That's what the Thalmor want, a long drawn bloody war. They actually say in the Dossier "A Stormcloak victory is to be avoided". If the war is ended quickly the Thalmor won't get the benefit because little lives and resources will have been lost.

If The Dragonborn aids The Stormcloaks. We have a likely chance of the story of Tiber Septim being paralleled with The Last Dragonborn. Right hand man to the High King Of Skyrim. Master Of The Voice eventually becoming Emperor. In Morrowind The Nerevarine unites the five houses of Morrowind and the Ashlanders, brings an end to The Tribunal, stops Dagoth Ur thus completing the Nerevarine Prophecy, completes the Bloodmoon Prophecy(in which he fucking fights The Daderic Prince Hircine!), kills the god Almalexia, gains the corpus disease and becomes immortal and goes on a expedition to Akavir. In Oblivion The Hero Of Kvatch/Champion Of Cyrodiil finds the heir to the Emperor, helps Martin Septim become Emperor, shuts down the Oblivion gates stopping the Dadera horde, Martin Septim sacrifices himself and becomes the avatar of Akatosh to stop Mehrunes Dagon and ends the Oblivion Crisis. The Hero Of Kvatch becomes The Champion Of Cyrodiil  and is known and celebrated throughout Cyrodiil for what we did to stop the Oblivion Crisis. then finds the relics of the crusader, becomes the divine crusader and defeats Umaril the Unfeathered. And lastly The Hero Of Kvatch goes to The Shivering Isles, does the bidding of Sheogorath, ends The Greymarch, stops Jyggalag and becomes the new Sheogorath. As for Skyrim, The Last Dragonborn fulfills the prophecy as Dragonborn and stops Alduin from ending the world, stops Harkon from plunging the world in eternal darkness and travels to Solstheim to stop Miraak, The First Dragonborn. I feel that Miraak is the true climax of the story. The First Dragonborn fighting The Last Dragonborn. Fight to the death between Dragonborns. That for me is basically the ultimate culmination of the game.  But I find it dissatisfying because it just doesn’t feel like anywhere near the level to The Shivering Isles or Tribunal. We don’t become a Daedric Prince or immortal. If anything I feel a new story DLC should be given where The Last Dragonborn becomes the new Emperor of Tamriel. Not High King, Emperor. Tidus Mede II is dead, we know nothing of heirs of The Meade Dynasty and it shouldn’t be unthinkable to assume that the Last Dragonborn can’t become The Emperor. Talos was Dragonborn and it was the Dragonblood that made the Septim Dynasty and a dragonborn who made Tamriel united. Skyrim was on the verge of seceding like Hammerfell did, most likely The Imperial side won canonically(which is for the best, Ulfric did exactly what The Thalmor wanted to divide and conquer so the Empire can fall easy in the next war) as for The Blades, the next duty of The Blades would be to guide The Dragonborn on the path of becoming Emperor because what else are they meant to do? What else can they do? Alduin is dead and it is the duty of The Blades to guide The Dragonborn and to protect The Emperor. The Dragonborn as Emperor can make the Empire stronger reunite Tamriel and unite a strong Tamriel against The Thalmor. Here’s why with The Dragonborn The Stormcloaks has a chance at stopping The Thalmor. Dragons. Depending if you choose to kill or spare Paarthurnax. You either gain Paarthurnax as an ally who spreads the way of the voice to the other Dovah or The Dragons recognize your Thu’um as the strongest and Alduin’s lordship is passed on to you.  Either way after Miraak’s defeat, The Last Dragonborrn becomes the most powerful being in all of Tamriel. He is the Harbinger Of The Companions, so The Companions can aid The Stormcloaks with their most strongest warriors, The Dragonborn restores The Bllades to their former glory. Guildmaster of The Thieve’s Guild, so Thieves can steal powerful artifacts that benefit The Thalmor, Archmage Of The College Of Winterhold, while Nords do not trust Mages, they will trust their Archmage and The Mages’ power of the arcane can rival that of the High Elves. Listener Of The Dark Brotherhood. As The Listener The Dark Brotherhood, he can arrange the deaths of important and high up Thalmor in power. He is the new Lord of the Volkihar Clan(let’s face it, absolutely no one chose to side with the Dawnguard) The Dragonborn is Champion to the Daedra. And with The Dragonborn being in service to  Hermaeus Mora, we have a chance to obtain Thalmor knowledge for our Daedric Prince of knowledge. Skyrim’s leadership needs to change. The current leadership of Skyrim needs to be destroyed. And that’s because Jarl Balgruuf can’t even maintain his own hold. It’s a crumbling piece of ruins, even before the dragons came back. Whiterun was a shadow of it’s former self. It used to be this massive trade hub, under Balgruuf, it’s garbage. Riften is a den of corruption and Jarl Lalia who has a carriage ready in case Riften falls to Imperials. It’s fitting that at least Riften’s leader survives but leaves it’s people to the mercy of Maven Black-Briar or the dragons. Each Jarl in Skyrim is equally incompetent. If Skyrim becomes independent, they will all be incompetent together meaning the province will fall that much faster. The only potential that Skyrim has to endure for a good period of time is get better leadership. The Thalmor do not want to conquer  men. The Thalmor want to deactivate the towers, destroy the race of men and remake Nirn so that they can be gods again. And it is our duty to stop this. With the Civil War over, Aludin, Harkon and Miraak defeated, what is there for the Dragonborn to do? Become Emperor and bring an end to The Thalmor. In almost ever Elder Scrolls games, the guild questlines are canon, so The Dragonborn kills Emperor Titus Mede II. The Dragonborn would lead the Stormcloaks to victory and The Dragonborn declares himself the new Dragonborn Emperor of the true Empire of Tamriel. He began a war with the old Empire of Tamriel and conquered it. Let’s say The Dragonborn walks into the Elder Council chambers and declares he killed Titus Mede II and declares himself Emperor. And pretty much everyone is calling for the Dragonborn’s death. But guess what the Dragonborn does next? BEND WILL! The Dragonborn uses the Bend Will shout on the Elder Council and the Elder Council declares you the Emperor of Tamriel. Now not only do we get a new Dragonborn Emperor, but we also have an army of dragons to join us. Paarthurnax could be convinced to join and lead the dragons on the path to the way of the voice to fight for The Dragonborn or if you do kill Paarthurnax, you gain Alduin’s lordship and the dragons will follow you. So you have an army of dragons and Paarthurnax as your ally. Where Tiber Septim had his personal dragon Nafaalilargus, The Dragonborn has Odahving. So with the combined might of  The Last Dragonborn, Dragons, the guilds and the Stormcloaks, The Thalmor will be stopped and The Summerset Isles will  be burned to ashes.  

Cons

Ulfric is power hungry and his bigoted nature and making Skyrim independent and isolationists will be a disaster. Ulfric does not care about Nords or Skyrim, all Ulfric cares about is Ulfric. and in his Thalmor Dossier, it is said that the war benefits the Thalmor, dragging it on bleeds the empire, divide and conquer.

The Stormcloak Jarls are either just dicks or generally incompetent. Skald is so dumb and arrogant to believe that Dragons have returned because of the Talos ban.  Laila-Law Giver is so blind to the corruption and crime that Maven is behind it all and she turns a blind eye to it. The Silverbloods gain power in Markarth. The bastards who jailed us for asking questions become Jarl. They are responsible for the majority of deaths in the city and used the Forsworn as slaves. Korir is blinded by his hatred of the mages to see they weren’t responsible for the great collapse. Vignar may be an asshole but he is willing to fight for Whiterun. As far as I’m concerned, the only Stormcloak Jarls worth keeping in power are  Sorli, and  Dengeir

The mistreatment of non-Nords in Windhelm is bad enough(not even Imperial smith in Whiterun is allowed to do anything in a Stormcloak Whiterun), but for all the holds, that will just bite Ulfric on his ass.

A free and independent Skyrim sounds good on paper but not so convincing in practice. It would only last so long before some spin-off of the Empire got pissed at the Stormcloaks. Probably people who aren’t Nords who are sick of being treated as second-rate crap, so there’d likely be yet another Civil War that would further destabalize the northern province.

The fight between High King Torygg was not Traditional Nordic Duel, it was not the old way. Yes Ulfric did challenge Torygg to the old way. But The Voice was not a just and fair combat. The Greybeards forbid the use of the voice in combat and it is not The Nords’ way.  Given what Torygg tells the player in Sovrnguard, he did have a chance to defend himself.    "When Ulfric Stormcloak, with savage Shout, sent me here, my sole regret was fair Elisif, left forlorn and weeping."   "I faced him fearlessly - my fate inescapable, yet my honor is unstained - can Ulfric say the same?" Now, with dialogue from Sybille Stentor, We can start to see the Duel/Murder of High King Torygg was unnecessary, and Ulfric was more into taking the throne than succeeding from the Empire. She states that Torygg, if asked by Ulfric, Torygg may have stood up against the Empire. Skyrim could have seceded peacefully, like Hammerfell did long ago. Instead, with the killing of Torygg, war sparked. The civil war began.

Skyrim seceding from the Empire would be bad. From Sybille Stentor you ask about Torygg and said he respected Ulfric and that why he killed him is because Ulfric needed a symbol and if Ulfric asked him to declare Skyrim’s independece he might have done so. But Torygg knew that would be a bad idea. Why didn't Torygg ever declare independence? "Because the Dominion is a sleeping beast that Skyrim cannot slay alone. Because many Nords are part of the Imperial army even now. Because the food and resources we get from the Empire are important to our people. Because even if we can't openly worship him, Talos the god was once Tiber Septim the man, and this is his Empire. And Torygg wasn't ready to let it fall apart."

A Stormcloak victory is pretty bad.  Skyrim will no longer be part of the Empire. You now have a weak Empire and a weak Stormcloak rebellion. The Thalmor/Aldmeri Diminion will war with them, defeating the weakened Empire with ease. Though, unlike the Empire, the Stormcloaks have more of a chance to make allies, the Thalmor is large enough to defeat the singe-Provence rebellion.