#a half elf dunmer anyways.

[corvidexoskeleton]

I've succumbed to the dark urge to replay skyrim and have been doing a survival mode playthrough with my nerevarine

[moghedien]

I will be like "I want to try some of these fun, unique character options" in a fantasy game knowing that every single time I will eventually default back to playing elf. I'm just gonna end up playing an elf no matter what idk why I pretend otherwise

[3gremlins]

i foolishly started another playthrough of bg3 in the early access even tho the game comes out for realskies in like a week or so and i'll have get to make more characters/new pts anyway.

trying to make myself not be a pretty wood elf/half elf druid so rolled drow paladin (i'm def going to play a druid first once it's out for real tho b/c talk to animals is my favorite larian studios skill and i'm so sad without it. i just want to talk to all the animals and also wild shape!) and it's actually been pretty fun to just be tanky and whack things.

npcs are super rude to drow tho, it's real da elf and skyrim khajit/dunmer flashback hours (i don't love it? the fantasy race racism stand-in in rpg games always feels not terribly thoughtful? i realize it's b/c the source material has it but still idk there's got to be a better way and wotc/dnd is historically still not great at it)

i keep attempting to play a different type of character (i usually start to swing chaotic good no matter where i start lol), but it's difficult and also it's real hard not to flirt with astarion even if he disapproves of my kinda do-gooder paladin atm lol (i think b/c a character disproves sometimes my contrary nature takes the better of me b/c i'm like oh no but i want *them* to like me even tho everyone else approves or maybe b/c everyone else approves XD i've already romanced him & shadowheart tho, gotta try someone else's arc or proto arc as it were lol. BUT FLIRT WITH HOT KINDA STANDOFFISH ELF!!! i am weak T.T)

still wish you could set up the "what do you desire" character to be genderfluid and appear as both masc/femme forms. like my characters are all bi/pan! they're attracted to lots of people- idk if they've said anything about this? i haven't been watching *too* many dev videos b/c i don't want to spoil myself too much but i did some searching to see if it was mentioned anywhere yet and couldn't find anything (i did see that they'll have more body types for your tav at least in the final which is another small thing i dislike about the early access cc- even tho you can pick non binary as an id, you're still stuck w/ very binary body choices)

[subject00843]

Here comes the dude

Hello dude

Welcome

I may or may not have given up on shading and lighting like 3/4 through

Anyway. His name is Syden and he's my deeply troubled and traumatized little Dunmer half elf man.

[tervaneula]

”You look like you're in need of some company!”

There's a sudden, cheerful exclamation and Tilhi is startled out of his thoughts as a flower crown is deposited on his head. It's not like him to let anyone catch him off his guard like this but the dread he feels doesn't get a chance to grow when he's sandwiched between two smaller elves and the shorter of them (a Bosmer – how does that not surprise him?) immediately starts chatting him up. Bewildered, he looks to his left at the other one and the Dunmer smiles softly before signing, You really looked like you needed a distraction but if we're a bother, just say so.

Tilhi can't help but laugh at the sentiment and he shakes his head.

”It's alright. Thank you, uh–”

”Humus, a pleasure to meet you!” the Bosmer leans onto the table to get into the Altmer's field of view, looking only a little vexed that his first attempt at conversation was so blatantly ignored.

”My pretty partner here is Aamos,” he gestures towards the Dunmer and the pale elf smiles wider, although the reddening tips of his ears betray his embarrassment. Tilhi finds all of this slightly confusing yet endearing and he lets himself loosen up, taking a swig of his nearly forgotten mead. It's not very good manners but he figures it doesn’t matter – the atmosphere in Woodhearth is so different from that of Alinor and the ex-Commander rather likes the change.

”My name is Tilhi, pleased to make acquaintances.”

Likewise, Aamos signs over the table. Do you like the flowers?

Tilhi hems and looks up at his forehead, getting a glimpse of the plants. They're a beautiful light shade of pink and to his surprise, he can catch a whiff of their scent. It's sweet.

”I do, rather. Do you always give these to newcomers?”

”Just to the special ones who look like they need some beauty in their lives,” Humus breezily replies on behalf of Aamos but immediately contradicts himself as he reaches down and thumps a basket full of flower crowns onto the table. Tilhi briefly wonders if this is how interactions of these two go on the regular.

”Anyways! What brings you to Woodhearth? Business, pleasure, adveeeeenture?” Humus asks him, stretching the syllables of the last word in a way that makes Aamos chuckle. It's the first sound Tilhi has heard from the Dunmer and he's surprised by the softness in his voice. Granted, he doesn't look like most dark elves anyway, so it's fitting.

Strangely, Tilhi realises that he’s already growing fond of these two odd elves that so nonchalantly barged into his new life.

”Retirement, more like,” he tells Humus. ”So I guess a little bit of pleasure and a little bit of adventure?”

Humus visibly brightens at that and he grins wide.

”You sure look a bit young to be already retired from whatever it was you were doing, but that's great! I love adventures! And pleasure!”

Tilhi chokes on his drink at how the Bosmer made that sound like and he feels a hand pat him on his back, although it's a little too gentle to be of much help. Still, he offers a grateful nod to the Dunmer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Noticing the reaction his exclamation got from their new friend, Humus guffaws.

”You're quick to jump to conclusions, huh? That's fun,” he winks and bumps shoulders with him (or more accurately, his shoulder to Tilhi's arm. Even sitting down, their difference in height is considerable).

”Don't worry, you're very handsome but I don't have anything untoward in mind. Just, if you're finding yourself staying here for a while we're bound to see each other again, right? So if you feel like exploring the graht-oak forests or merely hope for a meal recommendation, we're your guys!”

The Altmer is quite sure the grin currently on Humus' face could well split his face in half. It's incredible how fast these smaller cousins of his warm up to strangers and he feels a distant ache in his chest, the easy-going friendliness warming him but at the same time it makes him realise very clearly how out of his depth he is.

He left everything he knew behind and came to Valenwood by request of none other than the High Queen of Alinor. He had also been told that the simple and down-to-earth lifestyle of Bosmeri and the calming presence of thousands of years old trees would do him good. He has yet to find out if that's true for him.

”You've earned your retirement, Commander Thiilthan,” Queen Ayrenn says softly and walks down the stairs of her throne, coming to a stop right in front of him. His head is bowed, gaze on the ground, as is proper, and he sucks in a sharp breath when he feels a hand touch his cheek, guiding his face upwards to look his Queen in the eye.

”Go, and heal your heart. Heal it well. Know that your efforts and dedication have made me and the Aldmeri Dominion proud. Although I wish I could grant this reprieve to all of my soldiers, I cannot, so it brings me solace to be able to do this for you.”

Tilhi feels the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes and he almost averts the Queen's gaze by reflex – almost. He wouldn't offend her like that so instead he swallows thickly and bows his head again, in reverence, the Queen's fingers slipping off his cheek as he does so.

”...or, just, you know. Hang out here in the city and read books, if that's more your speed for now.”

Tilhi is brought back to the present for the second time that day and he becomes aware of the curious amber eyes of the Bosmer watching him thoughtfully. He glances at Aamos and sees worry in his expression. Great.

”Ah, my apologies,” he grunts and rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he does. ”I am still... adjusting.”

”Oh, we get it,” Humus shrugs and smiles lopsidedly at Tilhi. Aamos touches his hand briefly and the Altmer shifts his gaze to him.

We all have our baggage, Aamos signs and offers another one of his soft smiles. No need to apologise.

Tilhi breaths in deep, letting his shoulders relax and he utters a small laugh.

”Thank you, both of you,” he says, sincerely. ”I feel fortunate to have crossed paths with you today. I would very much like to get to know the city and the woods with you, when you've got the time.”

Humus grins again and leans back onto his elbow to wink at him.

”And we'd love to get to know you! It's a deal!”

Aamos nods enthusiastically and smiles wide, a happy glint in his eyes. Tilhi finds himself smiling, too.

---

Eyyyyyy I’m still on my self-indulgent TES roll and this time it was my Altmer’s turn to be transported into the future– wait, uh, the past? Since this fic takes place in ESO timeline and Tilhi was made for Skyrim lmao ok moving on

Sadly he’s never been as important to me as Aamos and Humus are but I realised that I miss him a lot so here he is, finally. He’s always been a part of the Thalmor but his personality never really fit in with them and having him exist under Ayrenn’s rule gave me an easy way to get him out of that system. Now he gets to be the kindhearted, cat-loving himbo he was always meant to be u_u

[tastesoftamriel]

Hey, there! I'm looking for help that I think you can provide! I'm playing around writing a post-Skyrim campaign featuring an Altmer diplomat, who is actually trying to improve relations with other races. I wanted to add in a running gag about him constantly getting served traditional foods from other races that he is disgusted by but is forced to stomach anyway. I can't see him being fond of bugs, raw meat, or anything rotten, so Bosmer, Orc, and Dunmer food may prove a challenge for him. Thx!

I'm certainly the last person to pick on the cuisine of any race, but I know my tastebuds are a little more adventurous than others! There are without a doubt some relatively...unconventional (horrifying) dishes that every race has, but to indulge your curiosity, I will focus on Bosmeri, Orcish, and Dunmeri cuisine today.

The Bosmer make a sort of chewy, salty meat patty that's essentially a dehydrated meat soup that's been cut into pucks that can be brought along anywhere. It's very nutritious and really doesn't taste half bad, but chewing soup with bug legs and flakes of mystery meat is something many non-natives in Valenwood struggle to swallow (literally).

Orcish food truly uses every part of the animal, from the bones and hide to the...less desirable cuts. It is a customary stronghold custom to serve a whole roasted head of pig, sheep, goat, or beef, depending on what's available. Everything must be eaten, and guests get the first pick at the choicest parts of the head, especially the eyeballs and brain. I personally find the tongue and cheeks to be the most inoffensive, but it is absolutely awful to look at if I'm being honest.

I stopped considering Dark Elf cuisine foreign or strange after years of bumbling about the Grey Quarter of Windhelm, Solstheim, and even parts of Vvardenfell. However, I definitely remember the revulsion I felt when I was first served a scrib-and-scuttle pie. Aside from a delightfully normal buttery saltrice crust, the entire filling is made from kwama parts, particularly scrib, scuttle, and eggs. Think of a macaroni pie, so tender and cheesy...it's basically the same, only the inside is made from bugs. Nutritious and delicious! ~Talviel

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Alvivecia Sithola

Or as I like to call her, Alvivecia Moon-and-Star

Part I

Grew up an orphan in Kvatch. Because that's ✨original✨

She got her name from one of the younger women at the orphanage. The woman had a copy of 2920 and found the names "Almalexia" and "Vivec" and just . . . smashed them together

Alvi is a chill nickname, but she'll turn you into a necromantic experiment if you call her Viki or Al

She taught herself to use magic when she was like ten cos she's smart like that

But she also had no idea what she was doing cos she was ten so 🤷🏻‍♀️

But yes when she was older and left the orphanage she ended up falling in with necromancers

That's why she was in the Imperial Prison, you see: seventeen counts of necromancy, grave robbing, and desecration of the dead — and that's just what they KNEW about! 😁

Is totally unaware until she's visited the Tribunal Temples a few times that necromancy is super detested in Dunmer culture

But it's really hard to stop using necromancy, especially when you're good at it, and Alvivecia was a right puppet master

She may or may not have desecrated more than one Ancestral Tomb just to watch the bones dance. It's very escapist

But necromancy isn't the only kind of magic Alvi is good at. She's brilliant at the entire school of Conjuration, but is an adept hand at both mysticism and restoration

"No recall or intervention can work in this place" but if she'd wanted them to? Just saying

When Caius Cosades sends her off to adventure and suggests joining the fighters' or mages' guilds, Alvivecia takes that suggestion and runs in a entirely different direction, and joins House Telvanni

Before she fell in with necromancers, she was totally burnt out by the Mages' Guild, but once on Vvardenfell, she'd heard things about the Telvanni

All good things, all good things . . .

Alvivecia had been apprenticed to Aryon for like six months before she went "oh snap" and went back to Cosades' house

Immediately he starts doling out missions to her

Caius doesn't have high expectations for Alvivecia. Sure he told her to go get some experience on Morrowind, but she just spent a half year hauled up with the Telvanni 🤦🏻‍♀️

At first the missions are all very mechanical to Alvivecia, sneak in here, kill people there, steal this, be given that

But Alvivecia's greatest blessing and curse is curiosity, and this leads her to nosing about the stuff she brings back to Cosades before actually giving it to him

And she tries to absorb everything

Aside from innate curiosity, Alvivecia is a fast learner

She forms way too many ideas about the Nerevarine situation before Caius Cosades can even tell her the Emperor believes her to be the Nerevarine

Like you hear stuff when destiny is on the air and superstition is in the minds of everyone around you, and Alvi was always one to pick up on these things and yeet them into hysterics soup

But we're not there yet

When Cosades dismisses her again, she spends her timing scouring through books in Tel Vos and Tel Naga. She doesn't really find anything about the Nerevarine, though

Aryon doesn't answer her questions. Baladas Demnevanni won't. It's making her leery

Neither does Master Neloth. However, Alvi does make Neloth tea. And he actually likes it

He still complains over two centuries later how no one makes the tea right like Alvivecia. True story 😎☕

Cosades next sends her to Vivec City. Hitherto she hadn't actually been to Vivec City and so subsequently gets very lost on numerous occasions

She eventually encounters a High Elf from the Mages' Guild who's "from out of town, but knows a thing or two about navigating the cantons"

This is Oromis. He is the elder brother of the future Hero of Kvatch. He may or may not eventually become Sheogorath he does but right now he's just trying to get Alvivecia to loosen up

They're just so adorable together, okay? Okay

#moondust

ANYWAY

Alvivecia's on the fast track now. She's getting way more sketchy cult info than she ever expected to get into when she first came to Vvardenfell. But it's not the weirdest thing she's done. Trust me

Working on connections with an Ashlander informant might be pretty out there, but through a shared love of song and poetry, she and Hassaur hit it off. Does she get the info for Cosades? Yes. Does she agree to go find Hassaur's lost son? By Talos . . . y e s

And if the guy she finds locked up by the Sixth House is kinda hot? Well, that's no one's business but hers

Regardless, sons are saved and handlers are happy, and that's all that matters, right?

Wrong!

Because apparently? The Emperor?? Actually thinks Alvivecia??? Could fulfill the Nerevarine Prophecy???? And she's supposed to just continue following orders without any time to process this?????

Nope, no time! Because Alvivecia must stock up on her gear at the fort because she's going backpacking into the wilderness toward Maar Gan

And yes, she does need the trama root she uses for tea and the kwama eggs she likes for breakfast, but she doesn't know that, so there will be a backtracking backpack shopping trip when she finally — FINALLY — finds those Ashaldners

This whole Nerevarine business is almost as exhausting as being a member of House Telvanni where every mage lord and sundry loads her with their outlandish grocery lists

(It's okay, Alvivecia! It's about to get so much worse! 😁)

[leidensygdom]

Here comes Secret Satan 2020! A drow/dark elf themed art exchange! We're on the fourth edition already. It's worked really well other years (last time we had 27 participants, and everyone delivered their pic!), so I'm most proud to bring it again. So, here's the rules, as other years:

✨What is a Secret Satan?

Rebranded secret santa, really. It has other names in other languages (Amigo invisible in Spanish, for example). It consists on a group of people who exchange gifts secretly: Everyone is given a name at random on a chosen day, and they'll have to give them a gift on a specific date. In this case, the exchange is all about art featuring drow characters!

✨How will I randomize it?

I’ll be using one webpage that will randomize the list of participants and send everyone their chosen Secret Santa to the mail, without anybody knowing (including me). I've used the same webpage other years, and (while it is in Spanish) it works really well, as it allows me to re-send mails if something went wrong!

✨What is the process?

The inscriptions will be open until 30 of November. I note everyone who joins in a spreadsheet which you'll be able to check. That spreadsheet also includes the character references and social media links from each participant. After that the mails get sent (on 30 Nov), and I will ask everyone if they got it. After that, we’ll have time until 28 of December to draw the gift. Tag it as #drowsecretsatan2020 so I can see it, or PM it to me! Or just @’ me, if needed.

✨How will we know what to draw?

Each participant will need to give me a reference pic of their characters and the name of such character through PM/DM. You can also send it to me in Discord (I’m Sygdom #9379).  I will post the link on the spreadsheet, so their Secret Satan can easily access it. I’d recommend giving 2 or 3 options so there’s more of a choice for your Secret Satan to draw. The only exception to this would be if someone only has one drow OC.

✨What are the requirements?

To have a drow OC and draw! You’ll need to be able to provide a picture that can serve as a reference for your character. Text descriptions aren’t valid. And the sent drawings should be finished pictures, not sketches! (Fully colored). I’d recommend to keep it at one character per picture, but if someone feels like drawing two (if they have two submitted characters) that would also be ok!

The pictures should be posted on 28 of December, not before. If someone has an issue posting it said day, I’d recommend telling me beforehand and submitting it before. If someone doesn’t do their picture, they will be banned from future Secret Satans. (If someone is left without a picture, I will be their Surrogate Satan, and will make the picture for them instead). Finally, keep all references and gifts SFW!

✨What counts as a drow?

To make it as non-exclusive as possible, we’ll have a rather wide definition of what is a drow. Both drow and half drow count in, and they don't need to be restricted to D&D, as there's plenty of settings with dark elf equivalents (which includes dunmer, duskwights, etc). This also includes dark elves from original settings, ofc!

✨How do I join?

To join, just send me a Private Message on tumblr, twitter, Instagram or Discord. Reblogs are greatly appreciated! You will need to give me your mail (even if it’s a temporary one if you don’t feel comfortable giving your main mail, I will tell you when to check it), and 1, 2 or 3 character references (as a link) + their name to put in the spreadsheet. That’s it!

✨Across social media

While this event started on tumblr, nowadays I use Twitter and Instagram too. I'll do my best to ensure everyone has a way of communicating to deliver the gift. The spreadsheet will include people's social media links.

Anyways, I'm really excited to organize this event once more, I hope you enjoy it!

[caithyra]

Don’t think about it...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[kogo-dogo]

Layman’s Guide to the Sixth House

You know, it’s been a long time (literal years) since I’ve infodumped bullshit about Morrowind to people, and I feel the itch now and maybe this’ll inspire some people to actually play the damn game. If not, at least it’ll lay the groundwork for people when I inevitably angry-write some kind of twisted eldritch House Dagoth bullshit to provide myself the content I want (after I get done with all the HLVRAI/Half-Life shit I have on my plate).

OKAY COOL.

I present: “The Sixth House for Dummies: You’re Not Actually Dummies But I Will Explain This To You Anyway”

Dateline: Year 668 of the First Era

You are an elf named Voryn Dagoth. You are a very powerful elf in charge of a very powerful political house, House Dagoth, and the best friend of the war-king of your people, some asshole named Nerevar Indoril. Your people--the Chimer--are living in the shadow of a very technologically advanced, elitist, perpetually bitchy race of elves known as the Dwemer who, for a long while, were your enemies because... well, your people just stormed onto their land after an argument with their old neighbors and said, “We live here now.”

The Dwemer and Chimer only stopped fighting because other people tried to show up on your lawn and live there. And now your king, Nerevar, is trying to make that ceasefire last because it’s kind of nice to not be always beating the shit out of each other. 

But oh! There’s a problem! During some run-of-the-mill diplomatic visit with the higher-ups of the Dwemer, you discover that they’re building a goddamn, divinely inspired war machine in their basement. That... does not sound good. That actually sounds really fucking bad.

So, what do you do? You politely excuse yourself, run home at Mach II, throw open the king’s door, and yell, “Holy FUCK, you know those assholes we’ve been trying not to fight? Bitch, I think they’re going to nuke us.”

Because that is, admittedly, something a technologically advanced, elitist, perpetually bitchy race of elves would do.

So your king says, “Dude, I’m gonna go talk to them about it like a civilized adult, because me and their king are tight as fuck now that we ain’t bludgeoning each other to death. I’m sure it’s all a huge misunderstanding.”

A few hours later, though, your king comes back and says, “Okay, so. That didn’t work out how I hoped it would.”

Your name is Voryn Dagoth and you have accidentally started a war.

Dateline: Year 700 of the First Era

Okay, you are Voryn Dagoth and things were a lot worse than you expected. The Dwemer are building a literal war god out of dead god parts they found in a volcano, and now everyone is involved. Nerevar has an entire posse of people to act as advisors/generals--you; some dude named Vivec who wants to have sex with anything that moves; Nerevar’s wife, Almalexia; Sotha Sil, a mage who doesn’t know how to people very well; and this guy named Alandro Sul who nobody will remember, I promise. You are the oldest, and you do not like these other people very much, but you know what? They know what they’re doing, so we’ll let it slide.

The war has been terrible and, to be honest, considering the fact the Dwemer have goddamn robots on their side and your people are still fighting with spears, it’s impressive you’ve not been utterly destroyed. Again, these advisors seem to know what they’re doing. So much so, actually, that in a final, decisive battle, they help you and Nerevar bust straight into the citadel where they’re building this war god so you can just fight this war god yourself.

The Dwemer panic. The guy in charge of building the war god pulls out a fancy set of tools the second he sees you coming and does... some weird ritual that involves the heart of a dead god. Their entire race vanishes, bringing the war to a very anticlimactic end.

So here you are, confused, standing there with Nerevar and the Scooby-Doo Mystery Gang, holding these weird tools at arm’s length going, “What the hell are we going to do with these? The fuck is this? We should melt these down, right? This seems bad.”

Except most of the Mystery Gang (barring Alandro) is begging you not to destroy them, and Nerevar is flustered and dazed from having the ever-loving fuck knocked out of him, so he tells you, “Bro, I’m gonna go talk to god and see what she has to say about it.”

And you’re like, “... O... kay. I guess I’ll stay here.”

“Don’t let anyone touch this shit, though. Deal?”

“Yeah, cool. I won’t let anyone touch it. Go talk to god, I guess.”

And so Nerevar and the barnyard gang leave you there, alone, with these magical objects that just obliterated an entire race. And you sit there, kind of wondering how it works. So you play with them a bit--feels weird, man--but you’re still pretty thoroughly convinced these things need to be tossed in the volcano and bulldozed over. You hold this thought until the barnyard gang comes back, sans Nerevar and Alandro, covered in blood and demanding the tools.

“Where’s the boss?” you ask. Well, they tell you he’s busy or whatever and you know that’s bullshit. These motherfuckers just killed your best friend, and now they’re asking for these items that just obliterated an entire race. They don’t seem like the type of people who should have them, so you flippantly tell them that your goddamn king told you not to let anyone touch the fancy tools and if they want them so bad, they can go get Nerevar and have him come take them from you himself.

They do not like this answer.

Your name is Voryn Dagoth. Your best friend’s murderers have just killed the shit out of you and taken your impossibly dangerous tools away.

Dateline: Year 882 of the Second Era

Your name is Voryn Dagoth and you are somehow not dead. You wake up in the place you were “killed” and are incredibly pissed off by what happened. The world has changed significantly. Your people, the Chimer, are now called the Dunmer and look completely different. The guys who killed you have somehow obtained god-like powers and are worshiped as deities. Nerevar is now patronizingly considered a saint by his murderers, who also used his dead body as an undead servant and then fucking lost it somehow.

Oh, and your political house? You, your family, everyone? Have been branded “evil” and responsible for every calamity that has befallen your homeland (now named “Morrowind”, apparently, which is also different) since you’ve been out cold. They won’t even speak your name out loud. “House Dagoth” is now “The Sixth House” and “The House Unmourned” because everyone hates you. You know, for doing what you were told and not murdering your king.

Fine. Fine! Two can play at this game, can’t they? In the words of a great scholar, “I was supposed to be good, but you forced me to be bad. So I’m going to be BAD.”

You decide that you’re going to finish the war god. You’re going to take over Morrowind. Fuck, you’re going to take over the whole fucking continent. You’re going to restore order, you’re going to fuck shit up. If they’re gonna fuck with you, you’re going to fuck right back.

You plot. You scheme. When your murderers, thinking you are very dead, come back to use their fancy tools on the Heart (now with a capital H) to restore their stolen divine essence, you mug the shit out of them. You take the tools, you chase them off, you bring back your kin who were executed for just being a part of House Dagoth and you say, “Rise and shine, bitches! We’re starting a religion! Who wants to be immortal?”

And everyone raises their hands because, like, come on. Wouldn’t you?

Now you and all of your brothers and sisters are back and angry, construction on the war god resumes, and you start hardcore studying these magical tools to figure out how the fuck to use them properly. Because you are going to cram your foot so far up the asses of the people who killed you that they are going to be choking on your toenails.

Your name is Voryn Dagoth, and you are feelin’ fine as fuck.

Dateline: Year 427 of the Third Era

You are Voryn Dagoth, and things are going pretty okay. You can do a lot of weird shit with the heart of a dead god, you find, though it’s not the prettiest way to make things happen. You’ve always prized yourself on being a diplomatic and poised guy so, you know, the fact you’re having to stoop to some rough, not-very-aesthetically pleasing lows is not ideal, but it works, and that’s what counts.

Like, you can control disease. The people call it Divine Disease, and it’s got about a 50% success rate on people afflicted, with half of them becoming weird masses of tumorous growths who just drool and eat people and the other half decaying and regrowing parts until they look like weird elephant squids who are still all-there in the head but look really weird. They’re loyal and they’re good company, though, and for some reason everything the disease touches is immortal and insanely strong so. You know. It works out.

You can also mind control people, and infiltrate dreams. It’s good for recruiting people without a plague, and it’s good for issuing orders, and it’s good for freaking people out. That last one is proving to be the most useful, because all of these idiot mortals are now pointing fingers and arresting each other whenever they have a nightmare because, “Oh my GOD, Becky! You’re a DEVIL WORSHIPER.”

So, that’s fun.

The war god is almost constructed and even though it’s taken over four-hundred years (which has given an invading Empire time to take over your home; sucks to suck, huh?), you’re getting a good foothold. Stealing your fancy tools from your murderers means they’re garbage at being gods now, and you’ve managed to expand your enterprise to all sorts of caves and strongholds where your followers butcher non-believers and dance around naked by candlelight. You have assassins in major holy cities that are tearing shit up. You got operatives selling cursed idols right outside of temples in borderline plain sight.

But, lo, there is something on the horizon and it’s vaguely familiar. It’s some scraggly motherfucker that gets dumped off of a boat in the middle of a swamp, and you can’t help but feel as though you’ve seen them before. Or, well, felt somebody like them before. It’s a vibe thing, really, since they don’t look anything like anyone you know, and you don’t really know anyone because you’ve been living in a volcano for hundreds of years.

You take a special interest in this one because of the familiarity. You send them dreams, and you send them personalized invitations to come join your cult. You send your followers to watch them sleep and, like, try to kill them because you’re not sure if this is a good familiar or a bad familiar. They never really take you up on your offer or, you know, die, though.

And the longer you watch them go on, the longer you watch them do things, the more you realize... holy shit it’s Nerevar, bro.

Sure, some superstitious tribals have been chanting about how Nerevar Indoril will come back from the dead for revenge someday (as claimed by Alandro Sul, that guy that nobody remembers), but that was so far beneath your gaze that you kind of let it slide. And now here he is, amnesiac and wearing a new face but checking all the boxes, and he’s being specifically led on a path to come meet you. You know, to kill you.

So, you disease that motherfucker. Incurable god plague, baby! Except he somehow... cures the incurable god plague and he’s still coming. Jesus Christ, he’s persistent.

And... oh no, he’s siding with Vivec, the slutty guy who fucking killed him. You’re raking your claws down your face grumbling under your breath because, you dumb sack of shit, that man murdered you. Don’t listen to him, listen to me. I’m the one in the right, bro, I’m the one who was loyal to you.

And now god herself has endorsed him and he’s walking into your citadels and stealing your stolen tools back and, dude no. Stop. We were friends, bro, what the fuck is wrong with you?

And now he has the tools and he’s coming into your actual house and you’re just sighing in exasperation and trying to explain to him that, you know, you guys are friends. You will totally still let him join your side if he stops cracking open your followers’ skulls. Except he’s still skull-cracking and he’s still coming and...

... Great, now he’s right in front of you. Fantastic.

Okay, so you want to offer him amnesty one more time, but it isn’t going to work. You’re tired, you’re pissed off, Nerevar has somehow grown to believe that you are somehow in the wrong (which you are obviously not; taking over the world with a manufactured war god and a horrific plague seems perfectly justified to you), and worst of all? He has so many questions. He’s just blathering, demanding to know why you are the way you are and it’s just like.

Bro, this is kind of your fault. You left me alone with dangerous, desirable objects while you went to go talk to god. If you’d just let me destroy them in the first place, this never would have happened. Fuck it, offer rescinded. You can’t join my club anymore, Nerevar. Now throw hands or get out of my house.

So, Nerevar throws hands.

You and the reincarnation of your former best friend and king are now having a hair-pulling, spell-slinging, bloody fucking knock-down-drag-out in the middle of a volcano in the shadow of a war god. Your cultists are idiots who keep falling into lava trying to intervene. Nerevar keeps attempting to bypass you to get to the creamy, god-heart nougat at the center of your war god because you know he knows how to undo all the magical shit it’s capable of.

Somehow. Probably because Vivec figured it out and told him.

And if he gets to the Heart and he does that ritual, then your war god is done for. So are your falsely-divine murderers. And, unfortunately, seeing as those divine powers are the only thing keeping you alive after your murder, so are you.

And he’s getting so fucking close and he’s actually got there and you’re trying to burn him alive or claw his face off or literally anything you can do as your powers weaken the longer this ritual goes on until, finally, you look up and see that your war god is collapsing. Nerevar has won. The world is going black. It’s like somebody flipped an “off” switch in your brain.

Your name is Voryn Dagoth. You accidentally started a war, did all the right things, and were murdered. You tried to enact your revenge, you thought you were restoring order, and now your best friend has come back from the dead and killed you.

The last thing you see before you hit the ground is all of your hard work literally falling on top of you. You still don’t understand how any of this was your fault.

[yffresbeard]

Bittersweet

The unlikely trio of Esralene, Razum-dar and Naryu Virian cornered the Sweetroll Killer – but what happens when Esra is forced to make a decision about the fate of the fate-bearer?

The ruined farmhouse grew still upon Razum-dar’s departure, and the dust that was kicked up began to settle, leaving only the two assassins in the dim firelight.

“I’m sorry Naryu, but I couldn’t endanger Raz’s apprentice. He’d never forgive me.”

“She’s still in danger! And what makes you think I will? Now they’ll come for me!” Naryu yelled back. Esra flinched at her friend’s words. She could hardly bear the thought of Naryu hating her, but the thought of Raz hating her was even more intolerable.

“Naryu, I – “

“That’s enough, Hero.” She spat the word with such venom Esra swore she could feel it’s burn. “Just go. I’ve had my fill of this tarnished coast anyway.” The Dunmer turned away from Esra toward the blank wall and said nothing more.

Honoring her friend’s wish, Esra made for the door, but paused as her hand hit wood. “Naryu, I would never allow anything to happen to you. You are a dear friend to me, much as I try to avoid having too many close relationships. I only just got Raz back. I… I can’t lose him a third time. I’m sorry.”

-----

Kvatch busied itself with the usual pleasantries – the market was a cacophony of customer complaints, hawkers making every effort to sell their latest product, and a couple of very obvious (in Esra’s practiced opinion) pickpockets. Eventually, the Sweetroll Killer would fade from their collective memory – hardly a memorable event considering the average goings-on of Cyrodiil lately. Another task Esra would never hear any thanks for.

The hooded Bosmer made for the enchanter’s shop at a brisk pace, anxious to see Raz again. The two had only just reunited, and the relationship they were trying to piece back together was still a tender, fragile thing. It would need work. Communication. Time. Things Esra was less scared of, now. She bounded up the steps two at a time and turned the corner, where Raz and Yarmia were gathering their things together.

Well, where Yarmia was gathering their things together. Raz was standing. “Supervising”, he would probably call it.

“Do not forget Raz’s brush, little Elf. It would be a shame if this one’s beautiful coat were to get tangled.”

Despite the weight in her heart from Naryu’s harsh words, Esra felt herself smile under the cowl, which she removed before she spoke. “Wouldn’t it just?”

Raz turned and smiled, decidedly roguish, beckoning Esra forward and catching her in a embrace that bordered on too-tight – not that she was complaining.

“This is not what I signed up for,” Yarmia muttered as she packed everything up.

Esra smiled from her place in Raz’s arms. “I’m afraid this is just how Raz treats his underlings, Yarmia.” Disentangling herself from the Khajiit, she helped pack up some documents and books. “I paid my dues with this lazy Khajiit a long time ago.”

“You were the Commander’s apprentice? You’re an Eye of the Queen?” Yarmia looked shocked by the revelation.

“But of course! Raz taught little Esra everything she knows; used his charms and good looks to persuade her to join the Queen’s service!”

“Don’t believe him for a minute. It’s more like I fell from the sky and Raz put me to work the minute he dragged me out of the ocean because he didn’t want to do it himself.”

Incredulous, Raz sputtered out a denial. “This is not true! Raz simply saw your potential and encouraged you to use it for good!”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

-----

When the trio walked into the inn next door, Esra had been half-hoping to see Naryu there in the corner, sipping from a mug of something exotic. But the corner table was unoccupied.

Taking the seats for themselves, Esra and her companions paid for two rooms for the night and ordered their drinks. A water, the sweetest wine available, and a strong ginger beer.

“So… when are you headed back to Auridon?” Esra almost didn’t want to know the answer. She had obligations to fulfill in the Gold Coast yet and would be unable to join Raz.

“Ah… this one has secured passage for two tomorrow morning,” he replied. Esra watched his whiskers twitch as his face fell a bit.

“So soon? Surely nothing terribly pressing is happening in Auridon right this minute,” Esra said as their order arrived. “There’s no way you could stay even just a bit longer?”

“I, eh, think I’ll take my drink outside,” Yarmia said, perhaps sensing the tone of the conversation, and excused herself from the table.

At the absence of his apprentice, Raz reached across the table for Esra’s hands and said nothing for one brief, bittersweet moment.

“This one wishes you were coming back with us. Raz does not like the idea of you being surrounded by murderers all the time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t explain more, but please believe me. I’ll be okay here.” Esra wished she felt as confident as she sounded. “And as soon as I’ve finished what I have to do here, I’m going to Vvardenfell. I want to look into these fate-bearers myself, and… I want to make sure Naryu is alright.” Her eyes fell downcast at this, a mixture of worry and fear roaring in her gut.

“Of course you do,” Raz said with a sad smile. He squeezed her hands gently. “This one is sure Naryu will understand eventually. Besides, you are very hard to dislike – Raz has tried.”

In spite of herself, the Bosmer managed a brief chuckle and wiped the wetness from her eyes with her fists. “Oh, but look at us, talking as if you’re leaving right now. We have the whole night, still.”

“More than we’ve had in a long time.”

The pair made their way upstairs to their room and Yarmia did not see them again until they were almost late for their boarding.

[distantcowboysounds]

Current TES Oc Masterlist

No one asked but here it is anyways, a bit about each of my TES OC’s, not a lot of them but I really like all of them a lot

Name: Malko Dathos

Era: Oblivion - Skyrim

Title (what they do): Hero of Kvatch, Dark Brotherhood Silencer, Sheogorath (Eventually)

Race: Dunmer

Pronouns: He/Him

Archetype: Acrobat/assassin

Tiny summary: Born into slavery Malko winds up in a circus after running away from Morrowind. Kills the ring leader and is arrested two years after in Cyrodiil. He helps Martian stop the Oblivion crisis. After he joins the Dark Brotherhood, falls in love with Lucien Lachance, and during this time he leaves for a few months to join the thieves guild. After Lucien dies and the purification he goes to the Shivering Isles and becomes Sheogorath. Returning to Nirn in the Skyrim era to travel with the LDB (Mayumi)

Vibes: Timid but pretty cool ngl. Hes got big ‘i look soft but i will gut you if you cross me the wrong way’ energy. Pretzel man lives tragic life and loses his mind then gets to fucking party as a daedra. Knows nothing bout alchemy like at all.

----

Name: Nivinor Taharondre

Era: Morrowind

Title (what they do): Nerevarine, Telvanni Mage, Political Advisor

Race: Dunmer/Altmeri mix

Pronouns: She/Her

Archetype: Battlemage & alchemist

Tiny summary: Niv was born in Summerset the younger sister to Estlina. Spending most of her life very sheltered because of being a mixed race elf in a very close-minded area she left to join Cyrodiil’s mages college fairly young. She was caught for stealing rare ingredients on the border of Blackmarsh and Cyrodiil and promptly hauled off to Morrowind. Here she finds out she’s the reincarnation of Nerevar and fulfills her destiny though with some reservations. She travels Morrowind for some time, joining the ranks of House Telvanni (Specifically Tel Mora). When visiting her family back in Summerset her sister tries to hire the Dark Brotherhood to kill her and because of this Nivinor had to leave Tamriel all together and travel to Akaviri for her family’s sake.

Vibes: Sad pretty lady. Very strong mage and loves experimenting and making things explode. Choas but wrapped in a cover of elegance and beauty.

----

Name: Mayumi Raka

Era: Skyrim

Title (what they do): Dragonborn, Dark Brotherhood Listener/leader, head of the blades, eventually a dutchess of Sheogorath

Race: Akaviri

Pronouns: She/Her

Archetype: Rouge

Tiny summary: Joining the Skyrim sect of the thieves guild to see why the guild was failing and ideally getting it back on track with Cryodiil’s guilds was Mayumi’s initial goal when she came to Skyrim. Though after becoming and Nightengale she left the guild, letting Karlana take the position of guild master. Mayumi joined the Dark Brotherhood and after killing Astrid became the leader, working on reforming the guild to its former glory. But before this she was given the title of Dragonborn and went through the trials and immense distress to save the world from Alduin. Wanting to focus her efforts on rebuilding the guild and learning about its past she travels to Cyrodiil in search of the ruined sanctuaries with a particular Dunmer named Malko at her side.

Vibes: ‘Im going to cause problems on purpose’ and ‘fuck it. If i die, i die’ put together. She really just wants to live and have fun without worrying about responsibilities. Simmers down after becoming the lbd but still. Shes here for a good time, not a long time

----

Name: Sulura Dathos

Era: ESO

Title (what they do): Vestige, assorted hero for whatever quests Im doing, Eventual patron deity to assassins

Race: Dunmer

Pronouns: She/Her

Archetype: Assassin & healer

Tiny summary: Pretty Dunmer lady go stab stab. Becomes mega assassin and gets blessed by Sitihs to be a patron deity

Vibes: man idk she aint got none yet

----

Name: Viaiss Spellel

Era: Skyrim

Title (what they do): Head Dawnguard member, Champion of Meridia, Meridia’s protective light

Race: Altmer

Pronouns: He/Him

Archetype: Warrior

Tiny summary: In his early life Via was a high ranking Thalmor Commander from a prestigious family. His whole life was planned for him but after losing the love of his life and all of his soldiers in the night of green fire he ran. Traveling with no purpose for several years before joining the Skaal and living with the before once again setting out to become a monster slayer. He joins the fighters guild for a short while to help make some coin before finding out about the Dawngaurd and immediately joining. Sometime after this he became the champion of Meridia and some years past. He eventually winds up in love with three mages but not many years after meeting the men he passes away, slain by a vampire. Meridia takes his soul to the Coloured Rooms and he becomes a demi prince to her.

Vibes: Sexy scary tough man im in love with u. Old and tired let him rest please hes been through a lot. Can and will sleep for 100 years if u let him.

----

Ocs that are just kinda ocs for my ocs:

Lazarron: Nivinors Husband. A young Breton mage from a high-class family. Very nice and friendly man. Hes got bottom vibes but also he loves his wives v much and will cook nice meals for them.

Batraza: Nivinors Wife. A half-orc half nord bodyguard. Very strong but also very loving and beautiful. Likes to show off her muscles to Niv, also likes when niv shows off her muscles to her.

Estlina: Nivinor’s older sister. Also a Dunmer/Altmer mix. Awful women 0/10 do not like her. Rancid vibes. She tried to kill niv cause shes a big ol meanie

Arina: Via’s fiancee. Shes pretty cool ngl, big crush on Via but he never felt the same way tho he did think she was pretty and nice which she is. Pretty stong illusion mage.

Lekecia: Malko’s friend and mother figure. A Imperial merc that took up the blade for hire job after losing her husband. Lovely women i want her to tell me everythings gonna be okay.

Neren: Viaiss’s best friend and first love. He’s an Altmer mage/archer that grew up along side Via. Basically hes the only reason Via even exists in the first place. Chaotic ‘im going to commit a mild crime’ kinda guy. He would steal from walmart.

[vosh-rakh]

ogash’s fire and faith, p1

NOTE: i’ve edited the ending of this fic slightly bc i’m going to be continuing it in a slightly different direction soon. i’ll leave the original cut material struck-through for posterity’s sake.

- - - - -

The researchers were guided to the ruins by a Redoran they had hired, not only for his knowledge of the landscape, but also for protection from the wildlife of Vvardenfell. They were three rather scrawny individuals who had devoted their lives to academia rather than any practical pursuits: Ogash, who despite being an orc was short and frail; Caromascius, a portly imperial whose sagging arm betrayed his innocence with the sword they’d been given as protection (but the grip on his flask of Daggerfall wine betrayed anything but innocence); and Falion, their Aldmeri “friend,” which actually meant “supervisor,” whose mastery of magic was mostly limited to spells of convenience and comfort rather than defense. 

The Redoran’s name was Samhreth. Falion had immediately whispered to his two companions once out of the dunmer’s earshot, “What a horrid dunmeri name.” 

“I’ve heard worse,” said Caromascius, after a swift swig from his flask. “I’m just going to call him Sam. You know, like from Samuel. You elf fellas have ‘Samuel,’ right?”

“No,” Falion said, his voice dripping with the usual contempt, “us ‘elf fellows’ do not use such a hideous half-mer name.” He paused for a moment, then conceded, “But it is preferable to ‘Sanhereth,’ or whatever the savage called himself.”

Ogash did not need bother wonder what Falion and Caromascius thought of his own orcish name. Falion had remarked upon it as soon as they were introduced. Caromascius had feigned sympathy for Ogash, but laughed at Falion’s comment regardless, saying with a pat on the orc’s back, “He’s not wrong, you know.”

Ogash did not know, but had learned long ago to not bother arguing the point.

- - - - -

They had almost arrived at the tunnel entrance supposedly leading to the ancient dwemeri citadel Kherakah. According to the first era maps, it was once located here, in the shadow of Red Mountain, but in the years since the eruption of 1E668 it could not be found. But it was Ogash who suggested that the more recent eruptions of Red Mountain may have revealed a network of old flow tubes in the volcanic stone that could lead to the fabled city. He supported these claims with evidence from recent geological surveys as well as explorations of the subterranean networks by returning dunmer exiled by the Red Year, and took them to the Board of the Imperial Historical Society. It had taken some convincing, supported by his colleague Caromascius, as well as his own slowly developing powers of persuasion, but the Board eventually granted his request to send an exploratory mission to the site.

On one condition: Ogash and Caromascius will be the ones to go, overseen by one of the Society’s Dominion watchdogs.

On the trip from the mainland to Vvardenfell, Caromascius whispered to Ogash between heaving over the side of the ship, that the Board likely thought it a suicide mission. “They’re probably just tired of us - you - asking for all this dwarf nonsense. They expect us to find nothing and die while we’re here.”

“But why send Falion with us?” Ogash tried to look away from Caromascius, himself fairly seasick. “They must have some faith in us, to send us with a Dominion agent.” 

“They probably expect me to die, too,” groaned the altmer from behind them. “I think they want to replace me, anyway. They refuse to admit my value.” He pushed Caromascius out of the way and leaned over the edge of the ship himself. Ogash sat down with his back against the railing and shut his eyes tightly, trying to drown out the commotion of the ship and its crew, as well as the anxiety - and eager anticipation - that grew as they drew closer to Red Mountain on the horizon.

- - - - -

“Here,” growls Samhreth in his ash-choked voice, typical of the dunmer of the island. He points his three charges towards a slightly sunken part of a nearby ashmound. “Wizard. Blow away the ash.”

Falion, obviously miffed at being bossed around, steps forward to cast a spell. He stiffly recites some incantation and gestures with his hand, directing the wind to pick up the intrusive ash and uncover the hole beneath. It works, but then the wind returns to its natural direction, throwing all the ash on Samhreth, Ogash, and Caromascius. Samhreth merely covers his eyes with his forearm, not unfamiliar with ashstorms. Ogash and Caromascius, on the other hand, both had their mouths open, panting from the long journey uphill through the uneven footing of the ashlands. They both set to hacking and coughing. Falion turns back and for a moment almost looks like he might apologize. But he simply says to everyone, “There.”

Once the orc and imperial have mostly evacuated the ash from their throats, they step forward to appraise the unearthed opening. “Looks tight,” Caromascius remarks. He glances down at his rotundity. “I don’t think I could make it.”

“I refuse to crawl through a dirty hole in the ground,” Falion says, covering his face with his ornate Summerset silk scarf.

“Fine,” Samhreth says. He turns to Ogash. “Orc. You will fit. I will lead the way through the tunnels, and you follow.” He reaches into his pack to retrieve something. “Altmer. Human. Come.”

Falion and Caromascius approach Samhreth. “Hold out your hands,” he says, something hidden in his palms. The two comply, but yank back their hands after Samhreth quickly pricks their fingers. 

“‘Talos, Sam!” cries Caromascius. “What in Oblivion was that for?”

Falion casts Caromascius a scathing look. The imperial realizes his mistake and shrugs, smiling meekly. “A joke, of course, I was caught off guard is all.” But Falion has already forgotten in favor of sucking on his bleeding finger.

Samhreth slaps Falion’s hand from his face. “Stop. Need that.” He produces a stack of sixteen scrolls. “This is why I charge so much. Telvanni charge a fortune for these.”

Falion squints his eyes to divine what the daedric on the scrolls implies. But Ogash has already figured it out. “Mark and Recall?” Samhreth nods.

Falion’s face contorts in shock again. “Those magics are outlawed, by the Levitation Act -”

“- by the Mage’s Guild,” Ogash interrupts, “over two hundred years ago. They’re not around to enforce it anymore.”

The Redoran has already begun to stamp scrolls with blood, taking drops from himself and Ogash as well. “There,” Samhreth says after he’s done distributing them appropriately. “We use the first Mark now.” The three oblige, Falion begrudgingly so. 

To Caromascius and Falion, the dunmer continues, “Use the second - not the first - Recall after about ten minutes, once we get inside and use your second Marks. The scroll won’t work at all if we haven’t used the Mark yet, so just try again a few minutes later.” Samhreth gets down to begin crawling inside the tunnel. “We’ll use the first Recall to leave when you are all done. Understood?” The three nod, and Ogash matches Samhreth’s movement, ready to follow him. “Good. See you on the other side.”

- - - - -

The tunnel is dark, but the two manage it well enough, most mer having eyes that adjust well to darkness. Yet another reason Caromascius likely could not have followed, even if he could have fit in the hole to begin with.

After what Ogash feels must have been hours, but knew was only a few minutes, of scraping his knees and elbows on the rough porous rocks that line these veins of the mountain, he sees a faint light peeking from in front of Samhreth, growing as they continue forward. Finally they climb out of a wall into an ancient room.

It is dimly lit by the strange tubes of light the dwemer used for illumination. The walls are carved from stone, banded with brass braces decorated with what Ogash recognized as the dwemeris script. The room hums with the strange steam power of the dwarves, singing from the pipes and machines that litter the room. Not all seem to be functioning, and some pipes look burst, but whatever system they see seems to have been cleverly designed with redundancies and failsafes, keeping parts of the mechanism running even despite these flaws.

As soon as they plant their feet on the plate metal floor, both Ogash and Samhreth set to coughing from the dust kicked up. 

“Worse than the” - cough - “Three-damned” - cough - “ash,” Samhreth says.

Once they compose themselves, Ogash responds, “This dust hasn’t been disturbed in thousands of years - likely not since the dwemer vanished.” He slowly approaches and places a hand on some thrumming floor-to-ceiling machine, before jerking his head back towards Samhreth. “That means there’s no automatons here.”

“That’s a relief,” the dunmer responds, having just finished using Farion and Caromascius’s other Marks and stepping away. “Tell the truth, not sure I could have protected you from a centurion or spider.” He gestures at his sword. “Useless on a metal beast, you know.”

Before Ogash could properly express his dissatisfaction with the comment, Caromascius appeared in the room with a pop. He immediately empties his stomach on the floor.

“Oh, for the love of …” Ogash looks away from the mess but gestures vaguely at Caromascius. “All over everything?”

Caromascius pants as he wipes his mouth. “Wait until it’s your turn. You’ll do the same. Damn teleportation.”

“Wait, where’s Falion?”

“Oh, haha. The idiot.” Caromascius takes a big glug from his flask. “Used the wrong Recall. Just teleported a few feet away.”

“Stupid n’wah. Good thing he didn’t use the other one, then,” Samhreth says. “Would’ve been stuck down here.”

Caromascius comes up for air from another pull of wine and tugs at his shirt. “Just me, Sam, or is it real hot in here?”

“We’re pretty deep in the volcano, Caro,” Ogash says.

“Yeah, I guess.” He wipes some sweat from his forehead. “Well, let’s get this over with. Lead the way, Oggy.”

- - - - - 

After about an hour of exploring, they enter the next room in their exploration, but by the time Ogash reaches up to cover his eyes, it was too late. “Shit.” One of those tubes of dim yellow light was flickering fast and rhythmically, casting the room into darkness and then light over and over again every second. He could feel it in his head, sucking the weight from his bones and placing it all behind his eyes. Even in the darkness behind his eyelids the world spins like a top.

He knows it’s too late, but he tries to run away from it and this damn room anyway. 

“Ogg! Where you going?” Caromascius calls after him.

“Gotta … go,” Ogash says, but his lips feel so soft he’s sure nobody heard him.

He’s out of the room now, so he opens his eyes. But the darkness lingers a moment before evaporating too slowly to the edges of his vision, not quite going completely away. The open-eyed blackness scares him and he screams. He hears the footsteps behind him, the Redoran and Caromascius, he supposes. 

It’s coming and he’s running through this ancient maze of pipes and machines but there’s nothing he can do, and he is afraid. He tries to hold his eyes open as wide as he can, but the darkness is closing in and not stopping. He trips on something he can’t see, and on his way down he catches a glimpse of something coming alive in the corner. But then his head hits the floor with a thunk and he is gone.

- - - - -

He opens his eyes and he sees a corpse.

He stares, unknowing, for a moment. But then he becomes Someone again, and he recoils from the sight. It is Samhreth, covered in blood, his sword in his hand, useless in the end.

He sits up and backs away from the body. Every muscle in his body screams to him but he is too shocked to listen. His chest rises and falls erratically, and a forbidden thought reminds him that breathing is a luxury not afforded to all, and he wishes he didn’t have it.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches his head. He feels warm wetness and pulls his hand down to peek. It is shiny with blood, blood like Samhreth’s, but his own. He gently probes his own head and finds the wound near the back. His eyes accidentally catch the small patch of blood on the metal floor near where he woke, and he begins to remember.

Ogash’s body groans with pain, and forces his throat to do the same. But the moan becomes a whimper as his eyes catch a glimpse of Samhreth again. Suddenly he can barely see again and almost panics before realizing it is not the blackness - it is tears. 

Then he hears the clacking of metal on metal in a six-footed gait and covers his mouth, smearing blood on his face. The tears roll down his cheeks and mingle with the blood as he tries so hard to still his breathing, even his heartbeat. The bloodstained brass spider strolls through the room, neatly stepping over Samhreth’s corpse, and moving on without noticing Ogash.

When he feels safe, he finally inhales a broken sob. He weeps for a moment, his entire body shaking, before the ache suffusing his bones brings him back to his mind. 

Why didn’t it kill me earlier, when it killed Samhreth? he thinks. The only answer he can come up with is that it didn’t see a need to kill such a frail thing convulsing on the floor.

It was the best answer he could come up with, so his mind shifted to the task at hand. I need to get out of here. He forces himself to crawl over to Samhreth and search for the Recall scrolls. He tries to not look at the killing wounds, but he sees them anyway and nearly loses his fortitude again. 

He finds the scrolls, but they are soaked in blood. Unusable. Useless, just like that sword. 

He didn’t fancy his odds trying to find his way back through the tunnels by himself. Without the scroll, he was trapped here, with that murderous mechanical spider. He collapses over top of the dead dunmer, sobbing.

Then he remembers: Caromascius. Where is he?

Ogash pushes himself away from Samhreth and tries to stand. He almost falls over in his first attempt, but manages to rise to his feet, despite his sore, shaky legs. He starts to shamble towards the door opposite where the spider went, which he recognizes now as the way he came in during his mad dash to escape his seizure. Caromascius has to be that way. Maybe he made it out.

(Ogash wanted to believe that was possible, but he knew it couldn’t be.)

He slowly makes his way from chamber to chamber, clutching his throbbing head, and wanting to clutch his entire body to make the extensive pain go away. On the bright side, his head has finally finished clearing up. On the dark side, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Caromascius.

He is lying there, his head propped up against the wall, his hands clamped over his stomach. Ogash thinks he is dead, but as he approaches Caromascius opens his eyes. “Ogash,” he sputters, “you’re … alive. How? Where is …” He goes into a coughing fit. Ogash kneels down next to his friend. “The elf?”

Ogash tries to speak but his throat is tight and dry, his tongue fluttering in vain. Instead he just shakes his head at Caromascius.

“I … told you. Suicide ... mission.” He smiles faintly, but blood drips from his lips and sets him to coughing again. 

Ogash shuts his eyes for a moment. He massages his throat as he tries to speak. “Pack?” he rasps.

“What?” Caromascius manages to get the word out before continuing to cough. He answers by shifting his eyes to his left. Ogash looks in that direction and spots it, unbloodied, sitting next to the sword Caromascius had brought with them. He crawls towards it and rummages through it. All the notes and recovered dwemer documents are here, right where they should be. 

Caromascius says, “We didn’t bring any … potions. Remember?”

Ogash looks back to Caromascius. “Yes. I know.” He stands, his weakened body buckling under the weight of the bag. In one hand he grasps a scroll. In the other, the sword.

“Oggy?” Caromascius says, his eyes closed. “The scrolls. Falion could … maybe heal us.”

Ogash stands over Caromascius. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You couldn’t have made it.”

The imperial opens his eyes and only sees the sword as it slides into his throat. His hands reach up, grasping for air, letting blood from his stomach gush up. He convulses for a minute before falling still, his eyes empty.

- - - - -

Ogash returns to the surface with a pop, his knees and stomach giving out, the latter emptying into the ash. Whether it was because of the seizure, a reaction to the gore he had seen, or simply from teleporting, he did not know, or think important to know.

“Ogash! Ogash?” It occurred to Ogash, once he finished, that Falion must have been speaking to him the entire time. “What happened? You’re covered in blood! Where’s Caromascius and the dunmer?”

“Dead,” Ogash says after wiping his mouth. “Automaton killed them. I barely got out with my life.”

“By Auri-el’s beard …” Falion tentatively reaches out to Ogash to help him up, but Ogash waves him off. 

“Just. Give me a minute.” He tries to erase the sight of Samhreth’s body and all of Caromascius’ blood from his mind, but he can’t make it go away.

Eventually Ogash lets Falion carry the pack as they make their way in the direction of the closest settlement. Falion even has the decency to not ask too many prying questions about what happened under the mountain.

Ogash knows he will have to explain everything to the Board once they get back to the Imperial City. But he will have time to come up with the story while they travel home. 

The sailing from Vvardenfell to the mainland is so quiet. Despite himself, Ogash appreciates it.

[jotun-appologist]

Okay so I had like four posts blow up and am kinda popular ball of a sudden so some get to know me info you won't really get from this blog:

Storm, Tempeste, and Viktoria are all online pseudonyms and my real name is secret and likely to change in a year or two anyway when I get married. Like I intend to drop my family name. Chances are I will stick to Viktoria.

I'm into cryptozoology and folkloristics and am in the boat of people who would sleep with mothman given a chance.

I may or may not be a vampire. I can't have garlic. Or onion. Or any aliums for that matter. Am anemic. And the sun physically hurts me to the point I wear a big hat and get dark transition lenses, and own 3 bottles of spf 100 (lotion style because spray does nothing.)

I'm on the lower end of obese. About 250lbs. A lot of it is muscle but I'm still in the process for getting bariatric surgery because the Cherokee side of my family kinda survived the trail of tears and well, the Irish is all potato famine... And when you go through hard ship like that it fucks with dna so your ancestors can survive on less. Which makes me have a metabolic issue. If you go back really long ago I used to be slim and muscular because I had very good self control and was 3+ hours of exercise a day level active. I only ate about 1800 cal even then.

The black hair in my rare selfies is dye. I'm a flaming red ginger cause (mostly)Irish american. Okay no I'm mostly German and dutch but have almost equal amount irish. And somewhere between 1/8 and 1/32 Cherokee but we don't know because my grandmother didn't ever really get along with her mom and doesn't know wether great grandma was full or half :/ but it's enough that my brother got dark eyes and medium tone skin when I got such little melanin I have a fucking light sensitive disorder in my eyes as a result. At least I have the high cheek bones 🤷🏻‍♀️

My mental and physical health are debilitating and I'm fighting to get disability but it's an uphill battle for chronic and mental health disabilities. Especially in my conservative and rural home town.

I'm mostly pescetarian.

My back story made all my therapists cry.

I'm a horror fan and if you follow my weeb/Yan blog you'll find I'm a junji ito fan.

When I first started on tumblr I was all mbti and visual kei. Now I'm cottage/viking core and goth meshed into a barely cohesive pagan witch blog.

My favorite bands and singers are: The Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus, Christian Death, Amon Amarth, Helheim, Gorgoroth, Wardruna, Heilung, Aurelio Voltaire, and Celtic Women + Heather Dale. Cruachan, Eivør, Danheim, and Tuatha de Danann are up there too. And Garmarna.

Literally that eclectic.

I'm an elder scrolls, DND, and lotr+ Hobbit+silm (Tolkien in general) type of high fantasy nerd. I'm obsessed. OBSESSED. with elves. Especially dark elves. Folklore dakkalfur, drow, dunmer, moriquendi, I'm not picky. I just. Love. Dark Elf.

[dovakhiindrabbles]

Story relating to photo above underneath!

“It’s almost dark, are you sure you don’t want me to join you?” Adnan kneeled down to reach Rosalie’s small size, his brow knotted with worry and lips sewn into a frown.

“Addy, the house is in seeing distance, and it’s not like Eldrims is some frightful beast,” Emeline ran a calming hand through his curls of untied hair and smiled. “If she’s not back when we’d like we’ll come by and get her ourselves.”  

She glanced down at Rosie and raised her brows amusedly. “You hear that missy?”  

The little girl nodded fervently, clutching the small basket of treats they’d bought in Solitude in her tiny fists. It was full of sweet rolls, braided bread, and even a lavender dumpling that Rosalie had resorted to giving up despite it being her absolute favorite.  

“Yes mama!”  

She softened like a sap at her daughter’s high little voice. “Then no dawdling, we don’t want those sweet rolls going cold now, do we?”  

Emeline didn’t have the heart to admit that, living in the mountains, it wouldn’t surprise her if the desserts were already icicles. But the elf could warm it up anyways with that magic of his if he really wanted to.  

“Mm!” Rosie shook her head and whipped around, the sound of crunching snow fading a tad more with each step she made away – both Emeline and Adnan keeping their eyes plastered onto their little girl until she vanished behind Eldrims’s heavy wooden door.  

The inside of Eldrims’s cabin was dimly lit with candles that’d been free to flitter away to mere smoke but it was enough to see the cabinets, shelves, and books scattered about – only helped by the evening lights that spilled in through the windows.  

A wolfskin rug brushed against her boots as Rosalie stepped further inside, finding Eldrims hunkered over in the room ahead, the craggy stone fireplace sending both warmth and light to encircle around him.  

“Mr. Bedaleth!” She bounced to life and hurried forward to greet him, the heat of the fire welcoming her as she came closer. “We went to Solitude! I brought you some desserts from the market!”  

Nothing.  

Eldrims continued staring forward into the crackling flames, an eerie haziness in his gaze and a small puddle of bottles collecting at his feet, a nearly empty one was still cradled in his grasp in fact. He was utterly devoid of any and all feeling on the outside – something dreadful and horrifying brewing within.

Rosie wrinkled her nose in confusion, speaking slower. “Mr. Bedaleth...?”  

He inched his gaze to her and took in a sharp breath. With a sting in his voice sharper and missing that playful hint, he spoke – slurred and unsteady. “What do you want Rosalie?”  

“I just told you! I brought you some things-”  

“No, no, I heard that part,” Eldrims scoffed, pointing at her and inadvertently dropping the bottle with a thankful ‘thud’ rather than a shatter. “I mean, what do you want? Why do you keep coming here? Why do you keep pestering me?”  

Rosie didn’t entirely know what ‘pestering’ meant, but the coldness in his words told her it didn’t mean well. Nonetheless, she swallowed hard, refusing to relent. “W-We’re friends!”  

“Friends? You are a child and I’m damn near as old as dust!” He shook his head. “Overblown nanny is more like it.”  

Rosie puffed out her cheeks, reddening in frustration. “Don’t be so mean! Just tell me to go!”  

But he didn’t. He simply stared at her, perhaps debating in his mind but not able to bring himself to send her off.  

Did he want her to leave? No. Would he ever willingly admit that? Also no.  

“It’s not like you’d listen anyway.” Eldrims cursed beneath his breath. “You’re just as bull-headed as her.”  

He rose to his feet and staggered forward, catching his unsteady legs with arms wrangling for the dining table. If he stepped out into the snow he’d surely fall and freeze to death, he was so unaware.  

“Who’s her?” Rosie set down the basket and followed after him – she was at least partially sure they wouldn’t be enjoying desserts tonight.  

“Her? What do you-” Eldrims groaned, his back turned to little Rosie. “Oh. Her.”  

He twisted around to face Rosie, snarling like a rabid but utterly confused animal. “Why do you care? It’s none of your concern!”  

“You said her.”  

“No, I didn’t!”  

“Yes you did!”  

“No, I-”  

He paused. “I did... I said her...” He bit the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes, squeezing them tight like he’d wake up to reveal this all to be some terrible nightmare. “Anese... I can never rest, can I?”  

His eyes opened and for a moment, he gawked at her like she weren’t the pesky little child that constantly knocked on his door but someone precious, someone lost in a life from long before but treasured all the same – like a memory one could only grasp for.  

“Why won’t you leave me be...?” The question was asked weakly, barely above a whisper. “Aren’t I suffering enough as it is?”  

Rosie didn’t quite know what to say.  

With a laugh and pinch of his nose, Eldrims gave a miserable smile. “Of course a selfish ass like me would say that.”  

“E-Eldrims...?”  

He glanced back at her and his expression changed, understanding who it really was standing just a little way away.  

She couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved.  

“Who... Who is Anese?”  

Eldrims hesitated, but whether it was because of the drunkenness or exhaustion it slipped through the cracks of his ever-growing wall.  

“She was my niece. I helped my sister raise her.” His shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. “She was around your age.”  

Rosie lit up at the idea of someone her age being around. She could only imagine the fun the two could have together and all the places they could explore together! She thought she might burst with excitement! “You have family my age? Where is she? Can I meet her-”  

“No. You can’t.”  

He collapsed into one of the dining chairs and hid his face in his aged, weathered palms. “She’s dead.”  

Rosalie gawked with wide eyes, her expression falling and head aiming low sheepishly. She shuffled her feet against the floor, the sudden weight of his words leaving the world feeling like it was dragged by cinderblocks. “O-Oh... I’m sorry...”  

“A-Apologizing to me...?” Eldrims drew his fingers from his gaze and stared ahead coldly, lost in thought. “That’s awfully strange... it is my fault after all...”  

“Her mother too – oh gods, Erisa – oh fuck.” His expression contorted and grimaced in every possible way imaginable, like he may shatter into a million pieces right there and then. “I killed them. I may as well have done it myself! I-I'm sorry, I’m so, so sorry...!” He crumbled against himself, his shoulders shaking with the sudden onslaught of sobbing.  

Rosalie had never seen him cry before. She’d barely seen anyone cry before – she was fortunate enough to say it wasn’t a frequent sight, but it left her frozen, shell-shocked even. Her mind was both caught in whirl-wind and standstill.  

But, for what it was worth, she did try something.  

One step after the next, she came closer to the Dunmer elf until she stood not even an inch away. Rosie tugged at his sleeve, offering him a smile as he warily lifted his head.  

“My mama says... accidents happen – everyone makes them. It’s... it’s not anyone’s fault...”  

Eldrims gave something like a smile even though every other inch of him portrayed the exact opposite – he was full of contempt, and indignation and it oozed out as he spoke, lifting up her head as he pinched her chin.

“It must be wonderful to live in such blissful ignorance...” He scowled. “You know nothing.”  

He tore himself away from her, yanking away her chin as he staggered to his feet, the light of the fire reflecting in his crimson eyes in a way that somehow left him appearing even more remote than before. 

“You didn’t see the flames... how the people rioted against us – for what, some puny fucking thief that wasn’t even an elf. Some would’ve spouted about their tradition – others rambled about how the land was for Nords not-”  

He glanced at her and then himself, biting the inside of his cheek. “not anybody else...”  

Eldrims, even in his drunken state, prayed she’d never understand his words.  

“They barreled into the slums like wild dogs – they had so many torches you could actually see for once in the night...”  

He could still recall the fluttering flames peeking into his sight from the supposed safety of his home, how Erisa had joined him by the windowsill with wide, befuddled eyes at the sight of the approaching crowd.  

“What have those bastards got twisting up their knickers this time?” She had muttered, more so with exasperation than true concern. Ulfric’s band of Stormcloaks always did find something to complain about amongst their privilege – like petulant children they misplaced their anger and were never satisfied, grappling for more than their little hands could ever carry. So instead, they’d simply placed all their burdens into the hands of the ones they crowded into slums – exploiting them for personal gain while staining the air with complaints of their very existence.  

“Ranging from slightly cold stew to a major battle lost, the possibilities are endless,” He had mused, nudging his sibling, drawing her attention back. “Is Anese asleep?”  

“I just put her to bed.”  

“Good, it’s better she didn’t see this-”

“Didn’t see what?”  

That child’s voice was just as bright and curious as the one who stood just a little way before him now. Her usually brushed and kempt hair was strewn about in drowsy curls that fell about her cheeks and dashed just above her groggy gaze.  

“Anese, you little rogue, what’re you doing out of bed?” Erisa questioned, her words surely meaning to scold but inadvertently pouring with a sweet softness at the sight of her child, only half-awake and still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  

“I was thirsty...” She mumbled, yawning.  

“You were...” Erisa laughed. “you were thirsty... by the nine,” She glanced to Eldrims. “She’ll wake up again in a few hours needing to piss too.”  

“It’s almost like she’s a kid or something,” Eldrims nudged her side playfully. “Imagine that, huh? I’ll take her downstairs – I might still have some river-water in my flask.”  

“Take a whiff before you pass it to my kid -- I know how you like your mead.”  

Eldrims gave a dramatic clasp upon his chest in offense, beginning to back away. “Oh! You just had to hit it where it hurts, didn’t you? You act like I’m a bad influence!”  

Erisa grinned with a glimmer of mischief only she could ever conjure – the only thing sharper than her wit, being her tongue. “I act like you’re a bad influence, cause ya’ are.”  

“What slander!” He simpered, settling a gentle hand upon his niece’s shoulder, leading her to the stairwell where the floorboards creaked and were stained with age. “I’d be offended if it weren’t true. But lucky for you, I kind of like the little mouse.”  

“I’m no mouse!” Anese had blurted, her tiny little hands coiling into indignant fists. At the time, it made Eldrims smile like an utter fool.  

“Ah, of course. Aren’t I just a silly old man?” He ruffled her hair and swore his heart melted at the sound of her laughter, so sweet and gentle it out-rang any bile those outside could sputter. “Come on then little one.”  

He had scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the steps that moaned beneath his weight but nonetheless, they made it, Eldrims speaking up as the sound of Nordic protests grew in their volume. She didn’t need to hear them. 

“Oh, it’s slipped my mind... where did I put that damn canteen...?”  

It was quite ovbiously on the dinner table, but he avoided it purposefully, his eyes teasingly scanning just about every other corner in his vision. Anese groaned in exasperation, grappling at her uncle’s cheeks in a desperate attempt to show him.  

“It’s right over there! Right in front of you! L-Look!”  

She let out a huff as he finally relented, gasping perhaps a little grandly than necessary, but her little face lit up with such pride, he couldn’t not do it. It would’ve been criminal!

“Oh, by the gods! You’ve found it! Anese, you’re a genius!” He peppered her face in kisses and she squealed in surprise, the two of them smiling so wide it should’ve hurt -- but it didn’t matter then. 

“So then, let’s get you your water. You must be parched by now, aren’t you?” He set her down and she hung onto the end of his ragged shirt, full of patches and mismatched sewing -- for all the talents Erisa had, needlework wasn’t quite one of them. 

“What does ‘parched’ mean?” 

“Like thirsty -- you spend all those time reading books and you don’t know what parched means?” He shook his head. “Simply shameful!” 

“Sounds like a dumb word.” 

“Now you’re just being spiteful.” 

He undid the canteen’s cap and did, albeit sneakily, sniff the inside warily. Fortunately, it was just water. He didn’t exactly want to admit his immediate reluctance. 

“There we go! A whole canteen of water for the little rebel who should be asleep.” He pinched Erisa’s nose, snorting at how she wrinkled it in apparent protest. 

“Not sleepy...” She mumbled incoherently as she took the flask as raised it to her lips, her ramblings surely bouncing off the metal insides but he nodded anyways like he could hear her crystal clear. 

“Yes, yes, very interesting...” He muttered, raising his voice. Maybe her incredibly loud gulping drowned out the rest of the world, but Eldrims hadn’t exactly been willing to take that chance. 

Since they’d come downstairs the yells had become louder and more enraged -- each spouted insult entwined with that much more hatred than the last. It was rare that they broke into the slums themselves, but now, he swore he felt the ground beneath him rattle against their heavy, vexed stomps. Even the sight of their flames grew nearer and nearer by the-

“They’re inside...” Eldrims murmured, only a chill managing to run down his spine -- his body could barely muster anything else in its petrified state. “T-They’re coming in...” 

What could they want? What more could their hearts truly desire at this point?

 He swore it couldn’t get any worse. That was at least until Erisa came stumbling down the stairs, nearly losing her footing had she not had a wall to tumble into. 

“E-Eldrims!” She had cried, sweat beading down her forehead and matting her hair. “They’re... they’re coming...!” 

“Who’s coming...?”  Anese asked, lifting her lips from the canteen with eyes so bereft of the knowledge that weighed down the two before her. 

“No one, no one but old dust bunnies!” Eldrims panicked and gave a smile a little too wide to be trusted as he smacked a hand over her mouth. “But you... you have to be quiet, okay? Not a peep!” 

She attempted to make up some sort of sound beneath his palm. Eldrims couldn’t help but huff with his patience so quickly shortened. “There’s no time for your silly questions. Just let your mother take you to the cellar! You’ll stay there for a bit!” 

Anese tore his hand away and pouted. “I hate it down there! It’s so dark and scary...” 

“It won’t be for long. I swear on it,” He tapped the tip of her nose. “Besides, isn’t this whole place dark and scary?” 

Anese didn’t laugh, but she smiled, and that was enough. 

Eldrims rose to his feet and he and Erisa exchanged a knowing look. Whatever words she might’ve yearned to say became caught in her throat, instead falling to her fingertips as she pulled her brother into a hug, gripping him ever so tightly. 

“Don’t get so fussy. I’ll be there to get you in a minute.” 

“Please do.” She murmured. “Please.” 

Eldrims chuckled. “If I promised, would that help?” 

“No, you never keep them.” 

Thinking back on her words, Eldrims despised how truthful she had been. 

“I thought it’d only be a minute...” Eldrims muttered, glancing up at Rosie and seeing not a child but a mere shape -- he saw the entirety of the world around him as just that -- a mindless blending of colors to form something so utterly unfamiliar he could’ve ripped it all to shreds. 

He could’ve ripped himself to shreds. 

“I-I went outside to t-talk them out of it... that’s... that’s all I wanted to do...” 

Eldrims had watched his family disappear beneath that horrid old door underneath the even more atrocious kitchen rug. Anyone searching for them would be far more disgusted by the poor interior design than anything else. 

Gods, he had been trying far too hard to distract himself. 

He raced to the crowd of angry Nords, the flame of their torches nearly blinding him in the process. Eldrims laughed sheepishly, having stopped the horde in a mix of pure confusion and curiosity. 

“Oh goodness gracious! What on earth is going on here?” He cleared his throat, standing upright. “S-Surely there’s no reason for all this?” 

The man who spoke to him had a surly voice Eldrims could only akin to rumbling gravel, his beard was thick and skin etched with the hints of oncoming age. He sold fruits. Eldrims knew of him for a nerve that left something to be desired. His name was Berid. 

“Of course you’d say that. One of you elves has been stealing from us! They’ve taken my weekly earnings and many others!” 

“W-Why couldn’t just send a guard for them? S-Surely you’ve got a description of some sorts?” 

“If we knew what the thief looked like, they would be in prison! Not on your streets!” 

Eldrims frowned, his brow becoming tight in a befuddled knot. “T-Then... how do you even know they’re one of us?” 

Another man stepped forward, towering over Eldrims with an expression more grizzly than stone. He sneered at the very sight of Eldrims. “Only a Dunmer would ever stoop so low as to steal. You can’t even make something of yourself in your own quarter so you’ve got to take even more from us!” 

Whatever temper Eldrims had been trying to simmer down broke through with the cost of his patience. His frown deepened to a scowl. “Don’t say my name like it’s an insult! And if you hadn’t noticed, it’s difficult to build anything worthwhile when you’re thrown to the scrapyard! We’re not even allowed in your markets!” 

“Are you defending a criminal?” 

“A criminal you can’t even describe! Don’t you know what they say about assuming? You’ve got no proof that they’re one of us!” 

“All you grey-skins are petty little beggars anyways! You should be groveling on your knees in thanks for all we’ve given for you and those lizards!” 

“Would you like a sacrificial lamb too? I mean sure, we’re treated like less than your mutts but I do suppose you could’ve just slaughtered us!” 

“How fucking dare you! I bet you’re housing the rat!” The man leaned over Eldrims like a stature just a mere tug from crashing. He pointed out to Eldrim’s house with a piercing glare. “There! Search the place!” 

Eldrims couldn’t even begin to describe the panic that soared through him then. Striking like electricity it coursed through every vein, every drop of blood that lived inside of him. He threw himself in front of the door with splayed arms and ragged breath. 

“Wait! Wait just a second! P-Please!” He yelled, lifting his voice with that sense of curtness he’d lost so earlier before. He didn’t care how fake or forced it sounded, he was desperate. “Surely there’s another way we can resolve this! I’ve only got my sister and niece! No criminals -- I swear on my very life!” 

The Nords stared at him coldly, the leader speaking up. 

“And who's to say they aren’t guilty?” 

Eldrims’s mind squirmed in a battle against his anger and desire to live to see the sunlight. 

“My niece is a fucking child and my sister is a crafts potions! They’ve never stolen a crumb!” He swallowed hard. “Please, surely we can handle this as it should be!” 

Eldrims wrinkled his nose, scrambling for any possible way to deter them. “They’re not even here now! T-They’re out! Visiting family! Far away from here!” 

Berid eyed him carefully, pausing in thought. “... Is that so?” 

“Yes! Yes, it is!” 

“Then they ought to stay there.” 

Berid took his torch and hoised it to the old wooden walls of Eldrim’s home and in mere seconds it lit up in viciously scalding flames. Eldrims’s whole chest crashed in on itself and he let out a wicked scream, hurling his fist into Berid’s stomach. 

“How fucking dare you! T-That’s my home! My family-” 

Blood trickled upon the edges of Berid’s lips, the man wiping away with a wound fist as he spoke. 

“Aren’t here, isn’t that right?” He scoffed. “Do I look like an idiot? One thing you should know about Nords, elf, is that we’re damn good hunters. And if you can’t get the fox out of its den, you snuff it out -- it’ll come to you.” 

Berid grinned. “Or die trying.” 

In an instant Eldrims did all that he could to barge back inside his home, to rip off that dreadful rug and reach Anese and Erisa. He would’ve taken them anywhere, would’ve done anything just to have made it out of those walls. 

But they grabbed him first. 

The Nords wrapped their heavy fists around Eldrims and hauled him in the midst of the crowd like derelicts upon a fresh meal. They yelled insults like hymnals rained fists and kicks onto him relentlessly. All the while, the fire crawled further and further into his home -- into the bedrooms, the stairwell, the kitchen, and the cellar, eventually. 

And despite all the other sounds pouring down from every which angle, Eldrims still managed to hear Erisa’s wails and Anese’s shrieks -- even above his own sobs. The only sounds he would’ve given everything to drown out, he heard the most clearly. 

Eldrims fought until his heart gave out and his body was caked in soot and blood but it was of no use. 

“It didn’t change a f-fucking thing...” He whispered. “T-They still died! They still fucking died!” 

Eldrims’s legs trembled and gave out under him, he hit the floor with a ‘thud’ and scarcely missed his head slamming to the wood had it not been for his arms, shielding his tear-stained face. He cried like a child, uncontrollable and unrelenting he wept and howled even as his throat became dry like sandpaper -- hurting almost. 

He deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved every ounce of pain the world could throw at him. 

And yet, Rosalie still remained. 

Eldrims threw up his head and scowled with more venom than any poison. His yell made the poor child’s blood run cold. 

“What more do you goddamn want? Why’re you still even here huh? Get out! Get the fuck out before I burn you to ash too!” He curled his lip, digging his nails into the floor. “Before I kill you!” 

Hurt rushed Rosalie’s expression for a moment before she swallowed hard, huffing with indignantly puffed out cheeks. 

She made her way towards Eldrims with short, heavy steps and stared at him for a moment. There was more pain in those eyes of his than Rosie had known in her whole life -- like a story one could understand before they even opened the cover. 

And without a word, Rosalie wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. 

“Don’t be so mean to yourself. It’s not right.” 

Eldrims froze at the gesture as if he’d forgotten just what exactly a hug was. Yet all in a few seconds it rushed back -- all the warm embraces he’d shared when reuniting with his little niece in the evening or the small hugs he’d greet Erisa within the mornings when both were far too tired to say a word. 

All at once he remembered what a hug was, and how fervently he missed it. 

Eldrims flung his arms around her, pulling her close. He nearly squeezed the air out of her lungs but it was perhaps the most sincere and truest kindness he’d ever shown anyone in a long time. 

He set her down delicately, and Rosie took his weathered old hand in his, squeezing it just like her mother would. She offered him a smile.

“I... I don’t think you’re so bad.” 

Eldrims’s shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. “How can you know that...?” 

“Bad things happen to good people,” She murmured. “I-I fell and scraped my knee while exploring and it hurt so bad but it’s not ‘cause I deserved it! It... It just happened. I can’t change it, and I can’t get mad at myself for it.” 

Eldrims smirked. “That’s a very different example.” 

“I... I know. But I mean the same thing. What... what happened wasn’t your fault -- it was those bad people! And... and if I ever meet them I’ll knock their teeth out!” 

He chuckled just barely and very softly. “I don’t doubt it. You’re a bit special that way...” 

“What do you mean?” 

Eldrims ruffled her hair and rose to his feet, the last few tears cascading from his chin and falling to the floor. Strange, he felt almost lighter, like a burden was released from him. He looked down at her, softening. 

“You’re a good person, I mean. That’s rare, Rosie. Don’t let that change as you grow up.” He grinned. “Stay a little skeever, would you?” 

“I won’t become some big boring adult!” She wrinkled her nose in exasperation. “I’m gonna do something great! Something huge!” 

“Yeah? I’m sure you will.” He bent down for the wicker basket of treats and sat down beside her. Eldrims dug through the desserts to pull out her favorite: a lavender dumpling. “But would you first have a snack with a dreadful old man?” 

Her eyes widened like saucers and she tapped her feet in anticipation, nearly hurrying to sit down, crossing her legs. She nodded. “Mm!” 

She watched excitedly as Eldrims tore it in in half and promptly gave it to her, shocked at the speed in which she snatched it. The little child wolfing down the dumpling in an instant. 

Rosie took one last bite and licked the last few crumbs clinging to her fingers before a thought came to her head. “Oh! Mr. Bedaleth?” 

“Hm?” 

She smiled. “You’re not dreadful.” 

Eldrims cocked his head to the side with a snort. “But I’m old?” 

“You said it first!” 

“Touche.” 

“But... you’re nice -- a nice, not super young man.” 

That brought a laugh out of Eldrims. He leaned forward and pinched her nose in a fond little way he once did to his niece long ago -- the same sort of care still ever-present. The light of the evening fading away to bring forth the night in all its purples, blues, and starlight. For once, Eldrims didn’t dread it. 

“You aren’t so bad yourself Rosie.” He grinned, truly earnest. “You aren’t so bad at all.” 

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Eldrims just became president of the ‘adopted an annoying but well-meaning kid that won’t leave me alone’ club fdasfkldjafkjd

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this prompt! I worked super hard on it and I LOVE Eldrims and Rosie’s relationship! They’re one of my favorites! 

Anyhow, I’ll be continuing on with Adnan’s side of Rosie’s family but any other questions about Rosie’s life -- past or present, or just about anyone in the Rosieverse -- I’d be more than happy to answer! Thanks a bunch, and have an absolutely wonderful day! <3

Rosie Bio

Rosie’s Parents (Emeline and Adnan)

Eldrims Bio

[shinglescat]

Previous or all stories at once.

- So, did you catch your murderer? 

- Yep, a bunch of them actually. Your payment is on the table, by the way, - Mark answered, lying on the floor with eyes closed, pointing somewhere in the air with his leg, continuing in small voice, - My guess about body explosives was right; if we haven't brought the body to you, there would be mayhem in this very city, - he frowned, - We barely managed to get to their lair in time, - his tone dark, - They already placed a few corpses behind the keep; one actually went off ahead of its time, making a giant hole in the city wall, - he took a deep breath, - I don't want to admit it, my mater is a legionnaire, but... 

- The Legion has a hand in this? What jarl is going to do with them? - Aspen took a sit near the table.

- Well, yeah, - elf let out a shaky sigh, - I'm afraid how rebels will respond to this. What a fucking mess. Wonder what mater would say, - he thought aloud, imagining her in front of her. She’d probably say the Legion has no connection with this attack… but she’s a war hero just as much as war criminal with blood on innocents on her hands, she’d try to justify their action, - Anyways. The jarl has them interrogated them at this very moment. They will probably either be thrown in jail or executed, not that anyone would care. The jarl also thanks you for your contribution and wants you to become the coroner for the city, - the elf fell silent for a moment before continuing his speech, - I have another matter to discuss. My sister.

- They want me to gut bodies for them, don't they? - the man shook his head, chuckling, - Sister? I've seen her an hour ago running around that dark elf she've met: she really liked that elf, probably a new idol of hers.

- Not that sister, - he sounded annoyed, - I meant my blood related sister, cousin. She's in trouble I think.

- How many sisters do you actually have? - the ashen haired man raised his brow in question. 

- Two, but I'm adopted, you know, - the elf raised from the floor, stretching his arms to the ceiling, moving towards the table. He glanced at the fireplace near him before speaking again, Livaen's voice echoing in his head, - You remember when we had a sleepover back in the Void?

He heard a snicker.

- That's what you call it now?

- Ugh, - he grumbled something under his nose, getting his ass on the table, - I had a dream with her involved, she sounded distressed. Said she's cold, alone, broken; somewhere in a place where fire burns with ice, something along those lines, and then there's a monster that watches her, I dunno. Not much of a help. Any thoughts? 

The man leaned closer.

- That dream, when you told me, - his voice thoughtful, low, - you couldn't sleep because I was snoring?

Mark groaned.

- Yes, you do snore.

- I wouldn’t be snoring if someone...

- Can you shove it up your ass? - Mark cut him mid sentence, pain on his face, - This isn't really the time for jokes.

- You really need to do something about that stick up your ass instead, - was heard in return, as he was dragged down in the lap.

- Don't start a fight you cannot win.

- Because you're not so witty? Boo-hoo. You have no idea how funny you are to mess with, have you? - elf groaned ever louder, rolling the eyes, - So what was that about your cousin?

The door creaked open.

- Get a room! - someone hollered, - You are the disgrace! 

Visenya, her new found friend and Meltem have entered the building. The girl glanced at men disapprovingly, before moving to the bedroom nearby, crashing on the bed. The new guy followed her sheepishly, possibly afraid to offend the kid with rejection.

- What's with the long faces? - Meltem asked, getting into the vacant chair near the table, - Did we interrupt something?

Mark sighed.

- What a fucking circus. No, you're the person I wanted to talk to, - he adjusted himself, getting comfortable in other man's lap, - There's a problem I need to solve that involves my cousin. She might be in danger, but I have no idea where to find her. Our grandmother would know about her whereabouts, but I haven't seen her in ages and I have no intention on seeing her any time soon.

- Don't think we can ask Narandil to help us out? - Meltem suggested, thinking about the possibilities, - He could help us, he used to date your grandmother after all.

- I thought you're suggesting whether or not he knows where to find Livaen, - Mark snickered, - That'd be a very dumb suggestion of you, definitely worthy of Visenya. But that old witch is on Summerset, I don't see her roaming Skyrim for any reason.

Meltem looked at the window, ideas running around her head like cockroaches, none’s the right one.

- You know, - a moment of silence later, - we should ask those Thalmor agents, - Aspen chimed in, - If your cousin is in trouble, they must have a file on her, especially if she's a noble. 

Mark glanced at the man, astonishment in his eyes. 

- You are actually right, - he spoke, nearly whispering, looking back at Meltem, - They must have a file regarding her whether she disappeared or not in that embassy. Esmir won't leave her precious granddaughter behind, especially her only heir.

- But there is a problem, you know, - the woman said, - You can't go in there, you're on their most wanted list. I can't go in there either, I'm not exactly a low-profile person after the old man. Narandil can't go too, they have bounty on him that worth a fortune. Visenya is not that smart in the field, - Meltem was interrupted with girl’s “HEY!”, - You could go, - she addressed Aspen, - but with ear prosthetics and makeup.

The trio went silent, thinking about their chances of getting into the embassy unnoticed and safely getting out of there. Mark definitely wasn't an option to go there, he would be captured on sight, put down and sent back to Summerset to his eagerly awaiting grandmother. Meltem could go, but they don't like redguards much, and she definitely doesn't look like a wench or a dancer. Narandil would blow up their entire mission regardless, he's not the one to hold back. Visenya would be better in a support position, because should she fail during the infiltration, she'd be another captive at best that would be successfully exchanged on Mark. Aspen would work fine with a decent amount of yellow paint on top, but that requires a master artisan.

- I'm sorry, I happened to overhear your conversation, - the dark elf snatched them out of their thoughts, - I might know how to help you, - Maurice smiled, getting close to them, - There is going be a masquerade at the embassy soon, that would be your best chance to get in and get out unnoticed. 

The woman looked at him dumbfounded.

- How do you know that? - Meltem asked.

- I'm on the guest list! - he smiled charmingly, - And I know a way for you to get on the guest list too. I'm willing to sell two invitations for the evening. The rest you'd need is a costume and a mask.

Mark didn't think long before reaching to his pockets.

- How much?

- A thousand for each, - the elf pulled the invitations from somewhere, waving them in front of the trio.

- Sure, - it was definitely a lot more that he would pay under normal circumstances, but he had no other safe choice to get there. He climbed off the lap, marching down to the cellar. Meltem half expected him to return with a sword to threaten Maurice into giving the invitations for free, but he instead brought two pouches of gold with him, - Are you going to count this? - he handed the pouches to the dunmer, getting the invitations in exchange.

- Let's say it's not good for a long-term friendship, - to that Meltem grunted: Mark is a bad negotiator, he does what's expected of him without trying to get a better deal for himself, and the dunmer could've easily gifted said invitations without any payment if it was the friendship he wanted, - I understand that you're unhappy with the deal, - Maurice said in an apologizing tone, noticing discontent in Meltem’s eyes, - It was difficult to get these. I appreciate that you didn't take them by force.

The woman’s facial expression changed, bitterness leaving her as she felt ashamed instead, allowing herself to be so obvious in her grudges. The elf seemed genuine, she would do exactly the same if she was in his shoes. Now that he put her to shame, she was actually glad Mark didn't resort to violence, for once happy with his straightforward approach when dealing with problems. 

- So whom are you going to take to the party, Marki-Mark? - Visenya suddenly yelled from the bedroom.

- Mark, you are not going anywhere, - Meltem interjected, knowing damn well he's not going to listen to her nagging.

- I... don't actually know, - he answered, sounding lost, - Anyone who's got something to wear I guess.

- Can I go? - the girl in the back jumped at the thought, getting from the bed, - Can I go, pretty please? 

The woman glanced at the elf.

- No, you can't, - Mark answered, - I... actually need some time to think, - with that he exited the house through the balcony.

...

Mark was sitting  on the wooden floor, his back leaning on the railing, looking at the ships in the distance, thoughts racing in his mind, papers lying on the wooden floor with schematics for the Thalmor Embassy he purchased not so long ago from Thieves Guild. The route he has already planned seemed like a real deal: get in through the main entrance, blend in with the crowd, dance and drink to seem like a normal person, then sneak behind everyone's back into the secondary building. The emissary should keep all her files somewhere on the upper floor, probably in the archives. Though Meltem would certainly be against this plan.

There was another thing: he has to pick his companions. It's not a hard deal, since Visenya's essentially going to stay out of this affair. The girl is unpredictable and unstable, most suitable to stay away from this. She would be distracted inside, and that'd be enough to blow up the entire mission; she is a liability most of the times. And he can't just risk her.

His current plan consisted of two getting inside with invitations he bought from Maurice, third getting on their own: there is a cavern under the embassy, but he needs to do some reconnaissance before going in blind when the date's due.

Who'd go inside with invitations - Mark had no idea. And there was another matter of getting Aspen into this whole mess, because he ultimately didn't hear his agreement for this mission; Meltem is going to get her hands dirty anyways.

The woman has good knowledge of nobles and etiquette, so it shouldn't be a problem for her to navigate through the crowd inside. But she's quite peculiar, and getting her blended in would require a lot of work. On the other side he could just send her on her own, she's a master thief after all, but he had a doubt about sending her alone. It's not that she'd blow up this whole mission or anything, he just had a bad feeling about this. And should the trouble begin, she can't change her clothes and pretend to be an elf. She can fight well though and can definitely defend herself, however that will make the break in obvious for the emissary, and she would surely send a squad after them.

Aspen was a dark horse out of all three, Mark had no idea what the man's capable of. Sending him on his own would be a mistake at best, though he had a feeling the man'd be in place among the nobles. It also would probably be the best to use him as a distraction, to have him monitor the party on the inside. Yeah, they need to get him a proper dress for the masquerade... and actually ask if he wants to take part in this affair.

Mark himself could do it both ways, with and without invitation, though sneaking is not entirely his virtue when compared to Meltem. In the end would be just a matter of staying incognito during the party. He could probably go in together with Aspen, then leave the man to observe the situation in the main building, while he himself stays in the courtyard. Or the other way around. Should things go south, he could always use Aspen as a distraction, make him talk to the woman in charge and keep her from doing anything for as long as possible. Elf can't do this himself, he's too high profile for such interactions, he'd have to run to Meltem. There also will be the dark elf, Maurice, but they can't use him in any way.

Something like that? He has to ask his companions for their thoughts before committing to anything.