#and savor is a nord

[fivehundredsporks]

gonna use smn else to keep track of these bastards now!! but here they are anyway!

[rapturousrot]

Hôtel du Nord (1938) dir. Marcel Carné

[delemis]

That Lie, Cruelty

I was young, when I married him. Young and afraid, as is only traditional. But he was not the man I expected, not at first. He was beguiling, intoxicating, and I fell in love with him. His smile assuaged my every worry. How did he do it? I have wondered that time and time again. How could such a brazen lie be so utterly convincing? Was it Azura’s favor? A natural charm? Or was it because, like so many young girls, I was all too willing to believe it? And indeed, what else was there than to believe? Only a loveless marriage, wretched servitude to an ungrateful and uncaring husband. So I became his greatest accomplice, living in the lie of his smiles for as long as I could.

The illusion shattered eventually. I never stopped clinging to it, but the evidence continued to pile up until the day I knew the man I married was not the man I loved. And yet? I loved him still. Shared his bed, fought his battles, savored that intoxicating smile, all the while knowing what lurked beneath.

He was a cruel ruler. Cruel, and merciless. And yes, his charisma won him friends and allies, made him lord of all he surveyed, and for that he is still renowned. But there was no slight that my husband would not punish, no threshold he was not willing to cross if it meant that his power was secure. In private, he would confide in me that his actions were out of necessity. That, like a dutiful father, it was his duty to instill discipline in his children even if it meant resorting to harsh methods. Spare the rod, spoil the child. 

I resented him for it with my every breath, but his choice of metaphor was the object of my fascination for a long time. My father had never beaten me when I was a child, never mistreated or abused me. How could he, to the child he had loved so dearly? It was enough already that my fate was to be married off. Was I spoiled, for having been spared such misfortune? I mused that perhaps my husband had been set upon me as a punishment.

And what of our children? Would he treat them the same way he treated his beloved Resdayn? That thought terrified me more than anything else. That I never bore any by him was my greatest triumphs in those days.

What motivated him? A hunger for power, certainly. Faith, blind faith in our ancestors, in Azura especially. It was no secret that she favored him; the poet once jokingly inquired whether he would moan her name in bed. I had no love for them myself, our fickle ancestors who had never treated us as anything but objects of their will. His cruelty was a murky reflection of theirs, shrouded in his natural charisma so as to remain palatable to his subjects. The Daedra have no need for charisma; their cruelty is upheld up by fear and temptation, giving power in exchange for worship. Veloth freed us from the yolk of Aldmeris only to enslave us to a different master.

But I think the most potent motivator was fear. Of what? My husband was the man who unified Resdayn, who made a bloody war against the Nords and a prosperous peace with the Dwemer, heroic feats that would have taken lesser mer decades to accomplish each, let alone in succession. He risked his life and his fortune. But what he feared losing, what he fought so desperately to protect, was his legacy. When I looked into his eyes I could see it, that desperate need to keep what he’d built from unravelling. In my own way, I was afraid for it too; the Resdayn he’d built was prosperous, his children - our children - were safer now than they had ever been. 

But then I’d think back to what he’d said about fatherhood, and I would see the cruelties he inflicted upon his own people simply to protect that legacy which was so dear to him. The sacrifices alone, the intolerable rituals that he demanded of our people simply to keep the Daedra appeased, sickened me. Ultimately his children were nothing but another means to an end, fodder for his precious legend. Every drop of blood spilt was a sweet lie he told himself, each meeting with Azura a means of assuaging his fears the way he had assuaged mine.

He died as he had lived, afraid. I wept bitter tears for him, for the one who I had loved so dearly and who had done so much wrong on me and others. He was a cruel king, a deciever and a coward whose smile could move mountains. He taught me everything that I would need to succeed him.

I will be a merciful queen.

[late-nite-scholar]

TES Shiptober Days 1-3: First Kiss

Okay, I'm here! Sorry I'm late.

First entry up is a small scene from Orielle's Trial as part of joining the Companions (and yes, Vilkas did ask Besharat very nicely if he could go to observe, with a promise to be impartial). Prompts by @hombrediablo

Words- 720

Warnings- None

Vilkas x Breton OC

****

Still reeling from her spell, the brigand didn't even see her blade before it took him through the body. She turned, ready to see who was next. 

There was no one. The only ones left standing were her and Vilkas. He grinned at her. 

"We make a pretty good team!" 

Her heart sped up at the thought. Mara's mercy, not only was he handsome, but his stoic, grouchy facade had slipped away as they'd begun travelling together; from Riverwood to this barrow, and then the long fight through it. Underneath he was sweet and kind, perhaps even a little shy. It was so strange to think of him this way. He was a mighty warrior, Master at Arms to the Harbinger of the Companions. 

And now he was right in front of her, that wild grin still on his face. She found herself matching it. "Yeah, we do. Damn, you're good." 

"And you are a most skilled warrior," he replied. "And you have more grace, and speed." 

"I'm small. I can get in close," she teased, doing just that. Now she was right up against him, looking up through her lashes. 

"That you can…" 

Even up on her toes, she still had to pull him down. Damned Nords were so tall, and Vilkas wasn't even as tall as his brother! But he came willingly, and she made it worth his while. His lips were softer than she expected, even crushed against her own. She held onto him for as long as she could, savoring not only his lips but his big hands too, one on her lower back, the other cradling the back of her neck. 

When he eventually pulled away, they were both breathless. "By Ysmir, Orielle…" 

"Does that mean we can do that again, or that we can't?" 

"I certainly hope we can do that again." He chuckled. 

"I'd like that. I like you, too." 

"I…I like you, as well." 

"Good. We don't have to rush into anything, don't worry. Let's see where this goes, shall we?" 

"I'd like that a lot." 

Up ahead, on a table, sat the artifact. She could feel it pulsing, growing stronger as she got closer. It looked like a small statue of a woman, but not like the statues of any aedra or daedra she'd ever seen.

"Is that it?" He asked beside her. 

"Yeah." 

"What is it?"

"I don't know, to be honest. It's absolutely humming with magicka, but I'm not sure for what purpose. It doesn't seem dangerous, but I'm sure it could be." 

“Either way, I’ll be glad to get it out of here and back to where it belongs,” he agreed.

“It’s going back to the College. Hopefully the Archmage will keep better eye on their artifacts this time.”

This prompted a laugh from Vilkas. “Oh, I know she will. There’s a new Archmage up there now and I’ve met her a few times. She escaped Helgen with Besharat, and just judging from how she’s handling things at Saarthal, I don’t think we’ll have a problem. You should meet her sometime, I think you’d like her.”

“I'd like that. Perhaps we can take this back up to Winterhold and I’ll get the chance.”  

“Ah, perhaps. But for now, why don’t we just get it out of here and head back to Whiterun?”

“Sounds good. I just want to do one more thing, first.” She was up close again now, but this time they moved in unison. He wished suddenly that there weren’t so many layers of armor between them, but this… this was enough for now.

As she pulled her lips away, she smiled. “I hope you know I’m gonna try and do that as many times as possible between here and Whiterun.”

“Only until we get back to Whiterun? In that case, we better take the long way back. I know a route through Markarth that should work.”

“I didn’t say I was planning on stopping once we got back. But maybe by then you’ll be tired of them. Or you’ll want something more.”

“In that case, maybe we should see if anyone in Riverwood has horses we could rent.” His arm slid around her waist. “Because I’m certainly not going to be tired of this, but the other option…”

“Then we’d better get going.”

[luggagelockerparis]

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[444names]

Names generated from English prepositions

Abaatt Abafta Abahn Abanigh Abarridst Abasid Abatwythrun Abeth Abetwn Aboad Aboarth Aboatime Aboong Aboor Abough Abound Abountiver Abover Abowarth Abowider Abownence Abrighst Abrins Absecusect Abunde Acconsider Accore Acept Acest Addlong Addlontin Adjax Advannin Affavorbye Afloveno Aflowif Aforeallace Aftake Aftanst Afted Aftrathruen Aftregayong Aftriong Aftuer Agaides Againcepint Againg Againstra Agard Agardindity Agarought Ageingsite Ageinste Agestrinst Agesynencen Agrer Alace Algreby Alinst Allong Alonen Aloppo Ameadds Amidding Amider Amidesynen Amido Amith Amoncl Amonsavout Amont Amore Amornind Amoue Amout Amouteept Amyddle Andest Andst Anets Apace Apast Aprega Apring Aprouthis Apudince Apuding Ardle Aromeast Arongst Ascron Ascrought Asenst Asidder Asider Aslanst Asoon Asoore Athownr Athrue Athruf Athruount Atter Atwith Atwithrue Atwixt Awaka Award Awards Awardstanst...

Baftuh Baftunt Barrisk Bartuh Beadowtest Beforbounde Beford Beforome Behin Behinsid Belont Belos Benence Bensaka Bestand Bestre Betue Betung Betwee Betwer Betwins Betwix Beyanetwn Beyne Beyonge Boundinus Boung Bouta Bouts Bridoue Btwer Btwesy Btwix Btwixt Ccamought Ccong Cconto Ccorevirce Cirte Cirthing Comearthis Consight Const Cornighst Cornin Coundinmid Coutsid Crown Cumbeamith Cundlont Cuspec Dahick Deard Derneart Derningsta Dinsavinst Doong Dowake Dowar Dowary Dowite Dowitenst Downd Dowter Dowthwards Duene Dulgre Dulong Dumbetes Eddest Emodur Emonce Emont Emontoppont Emonty Emount Emoute Eneare Eneatilt Erneascrout Excencludin Exclo Exclove Exclus Exeptilt Faing Faver Faviâ Favorounter Fbound Fbout Feentoppose Folly Fords Foreart Foregare Foregart Fores Forgaing Forneathout Fornin Foross Forounte Forow Forowart Fortes Forthst Fortuh Fromears Fross Frost Frougreby Frouneas Froung Froute Froutter Froutwixt Frowan Fulgre Furisk Gaide Gaile Gaind Gaing Gayeint Gaynst Gayongst Goinst Gongst Halonend Hance Hanst Horther Imbenigh Ingen Ingst Inmidess Inter Inwayen Isoot Ither Knorc Knore Knounds Lighst Limesub Lingst Lithrund Lonore Losst Lovering Lowite Lowixt Malone Malong Mansid Mathez Matta Maught Maull Mausensid Mearespene Mideadjace Midehing Midept Mides Miter Monear Monor Mount Neasid Nentime Nento Norce Nords Nothalf Nough Nownroside Nrompan Obset Ofavia Ofavoute Ongest Oregaye Orgard Orocend Ougrest Oundear Ountright Ovand Oveinmid Overenst Overine Overnetw Oward Owith Owtesy Paccd Plest Plong Ponacest Posect Pownesy Preards Prenst Print Qualla Quoughtwnr Quouring Quout Radde Rathez Rearthe Rebye Regai Reint Renin Rinceptiv Riorf Risid Romell Rongard Roundloot Rountilly Routside Sanst Saugen Saugh Savor Savoren Sebye Sectill Sects Seddesta Seeter Sequa Sequento Sethought Seyong Shount Showard Siddealf Sidesides Spris Sucher Suching Suchiz Sulon Teard Teddin Teregard Thafta Theetest Theneare Thorgaynete Thorte Thown Throute Throuth Thrunnene Thruoutern Thwake Touted Towith Townr Twite Umbed Undite Uneatherin Unene Unesid Uning Unlightwell Unneardstre Unnes Uposs Upposide Upposs Upsebye Upsequa Upseque Upsinst Uptin Uptinte Upwar Upward Upwardle Upwarhaft Uvvern Veinge Viewen Vircro Vithouer Vithwar Vityll Vnduregard Vntione Vorbover Vpont Vppoingst Vppoinmint Vppont Vroce Vrocenes Vrougest Vrouts Wareby Warhanind Weene Whang Wheence Whick Whind Whindle Whing Whinst Whisoong Whiti Widdest Witer Withanen Withardity Withe Wither Withince Withit Withrouta Withru Withrund Withrunlieu Witingth Wixept Wutta Wythor

[morihaus]

Campfire

The skies are mild and clear over the Ashlands of Vvardenfell, a blanket of brilliant stars splayed above the camp of two travelers, an aspirant priest and a wayward blade. A campfire burns before them as they sit upon mats, having eaten their fill of supper and now content to while away the night in dialogue.

A book lies open in the layman's lap, a thick tome embossed in gold and daedric lettering. He reads from it passively, as he knows the words by his own heart. "HOAGA, the Mouth of Mud, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers of Marshaling and breathing the earth." Their voice is low and mellifluous as he recants the sermon, scarlet eyes tracing carefully over every stroke of lettering, savoring the prose which sprung from the mind of a god. "On the battlefields, this demon would often be seen on the sidelines, eating the soil voraciously." They speak this in a deadpan, though a soft smile has not left their face since they began.

His companion, a foreigner to this land, restrains her laughter out of respect, chuckling only slightly. She does not mean to offend, but is calm in this interaction; this Dunmer has been the most accommodating of her presence out of nearly everyone on this ashy scab of an island, and over the weeks of their traveling together, she's come to see them as a friend.

"Were these real people?" She asks.

The priest-to-be, Ranso, smiles coyly. "Of course. Everything in these lessons is to be taken as fact."

Junah laughs softly, her grin is warm to him in the firelight. "Just thought I'd ask- I've never heard of a Nord eating dirt. I mean, not a general, at least."

They continue to read, Junah letting her eyes fall shut as she absorbs his words. Most nights they would spend like this, them reading their holy books, her listening, asking questions, having her questions turned back at her, the two of them discussing usages of imagery and metaphor, subtext hidden between the lines. It's not unlike her time at Anvil's College of the Arts, those poetry meetings that would stretch on for hours as they wound their way through pages and pages of purple prose, except these poems were much grander, they were scripture, holy texts, penned not by a devotee, by a preacher or a prophet, but by a god.

It's been fascinating to consider, and strange to the Redguard, who for all her life had been brought up on worship of the distant Divines of Cyrodiil, who spoke in winding ways to their followers. This god had winding ways of hir own, but hir words were plain to read on the paper. Theologians of Morrowind should be so lucky.

As Ranso utters the last few lines and reaches for his water skin, Junah remarks as such. "It's still so... strange to me," Her voice is hushed and bereft of judgement- this land is new and harsh to her Imperial sensibilities, but she's not so low as to insult its ways. "That your gods can communicate to you like that. Through published poetry no less!" She snickers to herself. "If only Akatosh were so thoughtful."

The Dunmer smiles against his drink before setting it aside and turning back towards her. "Perhaps he is not a good poet?"

Junah laughs at that; such an odd statement, too absurd to be profane, and yet there's an edge to their words that make him almost sound serious in this accusation. "What makes you say that?" She asks, curious and eager to hear him.

Ranso flips a page in the tome held in his lap, still looking at Junah. The dark painted spirals on his face, segmented like a carapace, seem alight as they reflect the fire. "Poetry is a personal art- and yet it taps into something much bigger, something felt by many. The microcosm, the words on pages or hanging in the air, shaded with impermanence, fighting to persist. It is a mortal expression. A god could not comprehend it as we do, nor could one communicate in a way we understand."

"But Vivec is a god, is ze not?" Junah asks.

"Yes, ze is. But ze has lived as a mortal, as all the tribunes have." Ranso explains patiently, their words coming easy for their passion for the temple. "This is why they can understand us, they have tasted mortality, they have felt the fleetingness of it all, and they remember this, even now as they are ascendant. Vivec writes with a twofold mind, one mortal, one immortal. Ze translates the experience of hir divinity in a way no other can, so that we might understand... 'the eyelid of the kingdom shall fill thirty and six folios, but the eye shall read the world. By this the Hortator needs me to understand.'"

Junah nods thoughtfully, carefully going over their words amidst a comfortable silence. With only the two of them, there is not much to do while they compose their thoughts, but they are content merely to lie beside one another.

"...I remember some theology, from my temple days in Cyrodiil." Junah begins, drawing Ranso's attention as she leans back and lays down against her mat. Her heavy armor had been discarded for the night, leaving her in a dark undershirt, buttons undone down to her breast, a few faint marks and bruises bared to the world along her collar. She raises her hands up to lay her head down upon them while she stares up at the stars. "I think- mortals can understand the gods, in little ways. The ways they manifest in our world. If you know hard work, farming, crafts, then you know Zenithar, at least a little bit. He is those things, that's how he makes himself known to us." She gestures one hand up as she speaks, laying it across her body, idly straightening her shirt. "Most of what I learned was Maran and Dibellan, though. They're... a little harder to quantify. Love, devotion, beauty, expression- I mean, people know these things, don't they? And how could these things not know us? If the artist understands their art, does the art understand the artist?"

Ranso listens quietly; they are less than familiar with the Imperial tradition, only knowing so much as the priests would tell the young to avoid their proselytizers. The Aedra, those he knew, cursed in the sermons, spoken of in distant pondering in the Vehkian circles he ran in as a youth. They find her words fascinating, their eyes are focused on her dark painted lips as she speaks these Imperial ideas- something, Ranso thinks, is best met with spiritual dialogue rather than ostracism. "It sounds more as though you know of things, and you liken them to the ideas of gods. A rather one-sided conversation." They tread lightly with their words out of respect for their friend, quickly honing in on another talking point. "Does the art understand the artist?... I like that." They chuckle softly, pleased to see Junah's flattered expression as they speak. "It's rather fitting, isn't it? Here we are, beings of a great work of the gods, marveling and wondering at those who created it, it which created us."

Looking up in the sky, Junah almost feels like she's searching for a face in the heavens now. Distant planets, the moons- waxing and waning- and a million tiny pinholes of light are all that she can see. "I hadn't thought of it like that... I meant the art as the god- as Dibella."

"Right," Ranso nods. "I'm not sure. It is more difficult looking up than down- even then, looking down, how does the artist communicate unto the art?"

"The art is communication." Junah says.

"So, the riddle is hidden away in itself?"

"I guess so... fat lot of good that does us though, huh?"

Ranso smiles at her. "It's not hopeless. There are always means of reflection."

She laughs softly, sitting back up and shifting closer to their side. "Ah, you're right. Let me get a closer look at you, maybe I'll figure it out." She leans in playfully and is met with a slight bump on her forehead as he moves to do the same. The two pull back with bashful grins and laughter.

After a few moments, Ranso finds his place slumped against Junah's chest, sermons still in hand, her heartbeat in his ear. Their eyes are closed as he recites the sermon from memory.

"Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Boet-hi-ah:" Junah smiles, leaning down to rest her chin against the fuzz of Ranso's close-cut hair.

"We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to love you in, a cloak of dirt to cherish." The winds of the ashlands blow softly behind the proud and dark voice he dons for the prince's speech. "Betrayed by your ancestors when you were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied." Junah wraps an arm around their chest as they attempt not to let her affections distract them. "A short season of towers, a rundown absolution... and what is this?"

Junah breathes a deep, contented sigh and opens her eyes. The campfire is still burning, bathing the two in its glow.

"What is this but fire under your eyelid?"

[sheirukitriesfandom]

What's a gift you want to give your partner but haven't yet?

>Rashkan x Savos

Savos:

"A while ago, when I was invited to that awful 'Thalmor brown nosing get-together'—that is, a party at the Thalmor embassy—I used the opportunity to stop by my dear friend Viarmo at the Bards College. You have no idea how welcome of a diversion that was after dealing with Elenwen... At any rate, he helped me pick a gift for Rashkan."

He holds up a folio bound in worn blue fabric. The title reads "Of Ancient Nord Courtship — Annotated Version".

"I'm sure Rashkan will love it; the descriptions are detailed and—oh my, you should see the illustrations," he winks, "I can't wait for our anniversary to savor the look on Rashkan's face."

Rashkan:

"I must admit I did not intend for this to become an anniversary gift, but seeing as I have not travelled much lately, finding something fitting for Savos was difficult. Thankfully, I had been waiting for the right moment to give him another gift, one that was never intended to be anything more than a sign of friendship; I bought it before he and I became a couple."

He pulls out a small beige amphora. The label depicts a comical scene of a netch emptying the contents of its stomach.

"Do not be fooled by the label, this is a delicacy famous far beyond my home island of Solstheim: Sujamma distilled at the Retching Netch Tavern. I acquired it during my brief visit shortly before Savos and I became a couple but, not wanting to put him on the spot about returning the gesture, I held onto it. Savos is—usually—not a heavy drinker but he appreciates liquid specialties. I am sure he will enjoy this."

[tastesoftamriel]

Okay, so we've heard the worst... what about the best (assuming you haven't stated this earlier and I've somehow overlooked it)? That food from each race which you could gladly imagine savoring for the rest of your life and never tire of it, your unquestioned favorite that you consider the most iconic example of each culture's style of cuisine.

I've written a list of my favourites before here, but I've got so many favourite foods that one list just simply is not enough. Here we go again! ~Talviel

Bosmer

Most people find wood elf cuisine to be rather bland, but for me there are a few standouts and traditional comfort food is one of them. My guilty pleasure is a good, old fashioned Valenwood-style stuffed meat roll, or "Y'ffre's roll". It's usually whatever the meat of the day is (often poultry or venison), which is then stuffed with cheese, wrapped in ham or bacon, and rolled in a buttery hoarvoar-carapace crust. Oh, it's also deep-fried in lard, and is normally about the size of a large skeever. Ingesting more than one of these annually is not recommended, especially for non-Bosmer.

Altmer

I'm going to get boxed for this back home in Skyrim, but I admit it. The Altmer are truly the pastry masters of Tamriel. My recent favourite has been an absolutely to-die-for sponge cake from Shimmerene. It's a wonderful tiered slice of soft sponge soaked in cherry blossom liqueur, delicate pistachio cream and fresh strawberries, and topped with a fresh, pitted lychee. I would swim all the way back to Summerset for another slice if I could.

Redguard

Could I ever get sick of Redguard cooking? No. My current obsession is braised goat-and-camel stew. I thought the camel thing was a little weird at the beginning too, but the meat is pulled to tender perfection, along with hearty boneless chunks of flame-roasted goat. It's served in a hot, garlic-based curry with okra, harissa and cumin, and is the perfect blend of fragrant and spicy. It's usually served with chickpea flatbread or couscous on the side, and is best washed down with a cold goat-milk lassi (or several).

Nord

Even though it's summer, I've been craving one of my favourite Nord winter dishes. I'm sorry to disappoint if you're expecting something fancy, but a big bowl of creamy rice porridge with a good dollop of butter, cinnamon, and sugar is one of the most satisfying foods on Nirn (doubly so if you have snowberry preserves). I'm not biased, you're biased!

Khajiit

Since I first went to Elsweyr, the people around me tend to comment that I eat a lot of pilau. It's not because it's the only food I like or anything, but just because it's so good. Pilau is a deliciously fluffy basmati rice dish, which is cooked with saffron, butter, moon sugar, and nuts. It's usually a side dish for the Khajiit, and while I'm happy to eat mine plain, it's customary to have with both meat and vegetable dishes.

Argonian

There are precisely two races on Nirn who consider frog to be a food: the Bretons and the Argonians. Why the other races don't want to join in is beyond me, because by Dibella's sweet milky melons, I think frog legs are delicious. In Black Marsh there are a few different ways of cooking them, my absolute favourite is stir-fried frog legs with swamp ginger, oyster sauce, fiery marsh peppercorns, and loads of garlic and onions. They're meant to be eaten with your hands in a group, with everyone sitting around a large bowl. The gravy at the bottom is served with hot steamed barley, and I absolutely recommend Argonian garlic frog legs to all non-picky eaters who aren't afraid of flavour!

Orc

Orcish cuisine is another of those off-putting areas even for Tamrielic food aficionados, but those who know where to look will find some true gems. While I'm not normally a fan of horker or chub loon, I have developed quite an appetite for Old Orsinium-style barbecue skewers. I don't even know what goes into most of these mystery skewers, but I've had stronghold chefs and Hearth-wives tell me that depending on what's available, any game is game from echatere to venison, horse and even wild mammoth. Meat chunks are stacked with peppers, turnips, potatoes, and other root vegetables. The entire skewer is basted with a secret frost mirriam-based barbecue sauce, which varies between clans and regions. The trick to getting these meat skewers so delicious lies in the sheer heat of the roasting fire, which is in this case actually in the forge!  Barbecue skewers are usually a staple when Hunt-, Forge-, and Hearthwives have a good relationship with each other and work together, and it's said that a stronghold with a good meat skewer is one that's ruled well.

Breton

I've been dreaming about the lovely pine-nut, cheese, and spinach giant tortelli from High Rock lately, and for good reason. Take your average tortellini, made with a fresh egg dough, and make it about the size of a palm. Stuff it with a fragrant blend of pine nuts, ricotta and pecorino cheeses, seasoned minced spinach, and serve with a rich browned butter sauce and more pine nuts. A timeless classic that's both simple yet satisfying.

Dunmer

It may be the influence of my friend @lisandrelovesyams , but I went from being rather skeptical to rather fanatical about ash yams. I have quite a fondness for the Grey Quarter staple: jacket ash yams. The biggest ash yams are baked to perfection, and filled with whatever the day's produce is. A typical jacket yam comes stuffed with stewed bantam guar or smoked seafood (usually salmon or crab), Eidar cheese, spicy saltrice mash, and if you're lucky, a good dollop of scuttle on top. It's a Skyrim-inspired take on Dunmeri cuisine and is an absolute delight on a cold day, washed down with a mug of shein.

Imperial

Ah, my beloved Cyrodiilic fare. Now that summer is here, I am very much enjoying cooking with all the lovely fresh vegetables currently in season! One of my absolute favourite dishes is a classic risotto with mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, rocket, and a good measure of Surilie Brothers pinot grigio. Top it with a good amount of cave-aged West Weald parmesan and crispy pancetta, and you have an instant winner that even vegetable-haters will love!

[smutty-skyrim]

Ralof || NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare

Ralof is more than happy to help you wipe up after sex. Him reaching down and cleaning you is likely to lead to his fingers wandering to your clit to rub out another, on occasion. He’ll lay beside you and run a hand up and down your side with a content sigh.

If it was a rough session his wandering hand will extend over your body, rubbing soft circles on the tender skin and kissing any bruises.

B = Body Part

Ralof likes his eyes. He’s been complimented on them his whole life. They’re prominent and blue as the sky, 

He finds himself fond of your hands. Just looking at them makes his mind wander to them roaming his body and stroking his cock.

C = Cum

There’s something about painting your face with hot strands of cum that does it for him. It’s best if you’re eagerly waiting with a smile, mouth wide to catch what it can.

D = Dirty Secret 

Ralof wants to watch you get fucked into the bed by somebody else. He imagines Ulfric Stormcloak, taking you as if you were his. He imagines the way you’d moan and writhe beneath the Jarl.

More confusingly, he also imagines you getting taken by Hadvar, the man he’s seen as competition for years. It makes him squirm, but it also makes him hard. He’s cum to the thought several times, and buries the memories with shame.

E = Experience

Ralof is very experienced. He’s been with plenty of women in his day, from the lass in Helgen to one night stands while traveling with the army. He acts with confidence, each move natural and purposeful. He reads you easily, but enjoys when you tell him what you like. 

F = Favorite Position

Ralof likes to take you from behind while you’re laying down. He likes feeling your ass against him as he thrusts and likes laying with his chest pressed to your back, breath hot on your ear. In the most intimate moments, he’ll lace his fingers with yours.

G = Goofy

It’s common for Ralof to crack a joke here and there. Conversation comes naturally to the man and he likes seeing you smile. He’ll also occasionally try to initiate with a cheesy pickup line just to hear the sound of your laugh.

H = Hair

Ralof doesn’t care much about the state of his pubic hair. Though always clean, and rather soft, it’s notably unruly. It’s blond, and a couple shades darker than the hair on his head.

I = Intimacy

Ralof is used to keeping some distance between himself and his partners, even if his gestures are romantic. With you, he finds himself softening. He likes making you swoon, and takes pride in each smile he paints on your lips. 

If you’d rather him be more rough, he’ll happily oblige. But there will never be any question that he needs you desperately. He’ll still work toward your pleasure, eager to feel you cum around his length.

J = Jack Off

Ralof masturbates frequently. He enjoys cumming and will do so whether or not he has a partner present. That being said, he prefers your assistance when he can have it.

K = Kink

Biting & Scratching - He enjoys feeling the sensations of your nails raking down his back and loves sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of your ass.

Leaving Marks - His favorite thing is seeing the marks of your escapades the next day. He’ll suck the tender spot on your neck until it bruises and you’re left to cover it up the next day. If you’re into impact play, he’ll happily spank you until you’re black and blue.

L = Location

Ralof likes to fuck at your house. Though, anywhere in your house is fine by his standards. Too often he’s forced to fuck you in silence and secret on the road with the Rebellion. When he can take you wherever he wants behind those closed doors? It’s freeing.

M = Motivation

Just about anything gets Ralof going. His mind is quick to wander. But your touch is one thing that can set him alight the fastest. The feeling of your fingertips ghosting down the back of his neck, or your hand running up his thigh will drive him out of his mind.

N = NO

Ralof is a little put off by the idea of anal. He loves asses, but he’s just not sure how he feels about being in one. If you suggest ass play at all, he might be willing to stick a finger in yours. That’s probably the furthest he’ll be willing to go.

O = Oral

He loves when you suck his dick. He encourages it with a gentle hand on your head guiding you downward. He’ll lead you through the motions and buck into your mouth. He grunts and sighs, curling his fingers in your hair.

He doesn’t mind giving oral, but it’s not his first choice. He considers himself more skilled with his hands and cock. 

P = Pace

Ralof fucks with passion, and often hard and fast. His hips snap roughly against yours. He won’t relent, savoring each moment of you coming undone.

Q = Quickie

Ralof usually likes to get right into the action, so he’s not opposed to quickies. He likes seeing if he can get you to cum in a short span of time. Often you going over the edge is enough to send him along with you.

R = Risk

While he wouldn’t classify himself as a risk taker, Ralof is willing to do some edgier things in bed. He likes public sex and will actively try and get you to make noise around others. He likes power exchanges and rough sex, and is almost always willing to try something new on that front. That being said, he’s perfectly content with vanilla sex and enjoys it just as much.

S = Stamina

Ralof lasts a decent amount of time in bed and tries to make sure you finish before he does. He takes a little bit to build up to another round but he can usually manage one or two more before the day is over. 

T = Toy

Ralof prefers to use his hands to make you cum, but if you want toys he’s happy to oblige. 

If you’re interested in anal, he’s more than happy to get you some plugs and a dildo to play around with. Just because he doesn’t want to fuck you in the ass doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to enjoy it.

U = Unfair

Ralof is a tease, but you always know it’s going to pay off in the end. He likes to drag things out and see if he can make you take the initiative. His favorite is when you’re the one who pulls him aside to fuck.

V = Volume

Ralof is on the quieter side, though prone to grunts and groans of pleasure. He’s learned to keep it down over time but is more than happy to let you know exactly how good you feel. He’s also not half bad at dirty talk, and you’ll find some slipping out in the heat of the moment.

W = Wild Card

Ralof loves having his balls played with, but they’re very sensitive. Your hands have to be gentle as they fondle them, and your licks light and tender. Enough teasing, and he’ll be trembling beneath your touch.

X = X-Ray

Ralof is muscular, with scars streaking his fair skin. He’s got thicker body hair - something common among Nords. 

His cock is a little over 7” and is of average girth.

Y = Yearning

Ralof has a very high sex drive. If he has it his way, he’ll cum at least once a day. More is preferred, though sometimes he just can’t manage more than one or two. If you aren’t interested, he’s more than willing to slip off and take care of the deed himself.

Z = ZZZ

Ralof doesn’t doze off afterwards often. He may lay there in a sleepy haze, but he won’t fall asleep. Some of your best conversations happen in these intimate little moments.

[dovakini-chan]

"Such a good girl~" Ryuko purred as she watched the Nord girl ready herself, licking her lips as she saw her so eager to swallow Ryuko's meat. After lightly patting her cock against Dovakini's tongue, the hybrid held the back of her head before sliding her thick cock down her throat; groaning from her hot throat hugging around her meat.

With a pleased moan, the redhead began to bob her head along Ryuko's length as she savored the taste of the leftover cum from her recent orgasms; it tasted a little bitter and salty, but it left her with a craving for more as the musk of Ryuko's cock assaulted her nostrils. By the Nine, she loved being used like this. She continued to lick and suck the hybrid's cock as she moved her head back and forth in eagerness.

[fivehundredsporks]

hmmm, how about I don't fucking pick any of these?

[bigfootfamilyfilmvostfr]

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5 août 2020 / 1h 28min / Animation, Comédie

De Ben Stassen, Jérémie Degruson

Avec Kylian Trouillard, Kyle Hebert, Pappy Faulkner

Nationalité Belge

#Bigfoot Family

Depuis son retour en ville, Bigfoot est devenu la star des médias. Au grand dam de son fils Adam qui rêvait d'une vie de famille paisible. L'adolescent essaye de dompter les incroyables pouvoirs hérités de son père et trouve réconfort auprès de la folle ménagerie abritée sous son toit. Lorsque Bigfoot est alerté par des militants écolos, il s'envole pour l'Alaska, bien décidé à combattre les méfaits de la société pétrolière X-Trakt. Quelques jours plus tard, le monde entier est sous le choc : l'aventurier velu a disparu. Le sang d'Adam ne fait qu'un tour. Cap sur le Grand Nord avec sa mère Shelly, Trapper un raton-laveur intrépide et Wilbur l'ours maladroit, pour retrouver son super-papa...

BON VISIONNAGE & SAVOR

Retrouvez toutes les séries télévisées et films que vous pouvez diffuser en ligne, y compris les séries diffusées aujourd'hui. Si vous vous demandez ce que vous pouvez regarder sur ce site Web, sachez que cela implique des genres qui incluent des séries Crime, Drame, Mystère, Action et Aventure, des spectacles. Merci beaucoup. Nous disons à tous ceux qui sont heureux de nous accepter comme nouvelles ou informations sur le programme de la saison, les épisodes et comment vous regardez vos émissions de télévision préférées. J'espère que nous pourrons devenir le meilleur partenaire pour vous dans la recherche de recommandations pour une émission de télévision de divers pays du monde. C'est tout de nous, salutations!

[eeveevie]

revelations (2/2)

Just as Brynjolf is coming to terms with his true feelings for Fiona, he learns about her true identity thanks to a dragon attack on Riften. She is the Dragonborn. Emotions run high, and he questions if anything they ever shared was real.

x-x

With Mercer’s news that Fiona is dead, Brynjolf must deal with the guilt of their last conversation and the regret of words unspoken for the rest of his life. 

*Spoilers for the Thieves Guild questline, specifically the events after “Speaking With Silence.” Bridges the gap to another one-shot, “Betrayal and Forgiveness” which I’ve linked here. 

[previous] | [next]

Brynjolf x f!Dragonborn (Fiona)

1704 words (under a cut) | Ao3

Part Two: To Mourn a Beloved

Fiona was dead.

Nearly a month after she and Mercer first departed from Riften, the Guildmaster finally returned to the Cistern, explaining in horrid detail Karliah’s continued deception and betrayal. She had trapped them in the Sanctum, paralyzed Mercer, and killed Fiona without hesitation or mercy—just as she had murdered Gallus twenty years prior.

“I want you to know, she called out for you,” he said. “It seems that in her last moments, she was thinking of you.”  

Mercer spared no detail in explaining his survival and Fiona’s demise, much to Brynjolf’s agony. But there was something sinister in the way he spoke the words, like he was enjoying his Second’s despair over the news. But Brynjolf hardly had time to speculate on Mercer’s intentions—with the news of Fiona’s death, he was inconsolable with anger, grief, and guilt.

His last words to her hadn’t been kind. His emotions had never been so overwhelming or raw and he had reacted to her revelation without thinking. Then again, Brynjolf had no way of knowing that their conversation in the Cistern would be their last. That his last memory of her would be a fleeting, desperate look in her dark blue eyes.

Now as he sat in the Ragged Flaggon, drowning himself in every alcoholic beverage available, he found himself desperately willing for Fiona to appear across from him so he could take it all back. Beg for her forgiveness, and finally confess that he had been hopelessly in love with her for months but too stubborn and stupid to act on it. Brynjolf’s chest ached with a hollow sort of pain when he realized no amount of wishing or praying was going to make her appear out of thin air. He had lost his chance, made a fool of himself and now he would have to live out his days with the regret of his mistake, alone.

With another bottle empty he rested his head against the table, closing his eyes in frustration. Before Fiona entered his life, he had managed to get by just fine—he was a master thief, a notable ladies’ man and had no problem distancing himself from his emotions. He was perfectly content to spend the rest of his life in the Guild, but without Fiona there it was like a part of himself was missing. Nothing would ever be the same.

A body slid into the chair opposite Brynjolf, and for a moment his heart raced as he thought it could be Fiona before reality sunk in. “My condolences, mate.” Delvin’s voice was quiet and uncharacteristically sincere. “She was somethin’ special, wasn’t she?”

Brynjolf didn’t bother lifting his head, lacking the energy to speak with his friend. Couldn’t Delvin see that he wanted to be left alone?

“Come on Bryn,” he encouraged. “Do you think this is what she would’ve—”

Brynjolf snapped up at that, wincing at the pain that throbbed through his head at the motion. He reached across the table to shove a finger in the Breton’s face. “Don’t pretend to know what she—”

“Oi!” Delvin smacked Brynjolf’s arm away, interrupting him. “I think you better stop drinkin’ before you say something you regret.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened in realization and he quickly swallowed his words. Shame washed over him as he relived that last conversation with Fiona again and again. Delvin watched him with curious eyes before switching to one of worry as Brynjolf stood up, swaying slightly as he moved away from the Flaggon towards the Cistern. This was the last place he wanted to be. Where he wanted to be was with Fiona, but that was impossible—he’d have to settle for the next best thing.

It took Brynjolf four more picklocks than usual to break into Honeyside, for which he blamed on his intoxication. Luckily for him the guards hadn’t seen him struggling by the eastern door, the heavy lakeside fog and night sky obscuring his movements. As soon as he was inside, he locked the door behind him, pausing momentarily to gather his bearings. He held steady to the doorframe, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the room. It was dark, save for whatever moonlight spilled in from the windows on the western wall. The fireplace had long burned out—it was clear that even her housecarl had been dismissed.

Brynjolf slowly wandered through the small space and despite the fact he had been there several times before, it felt foreign to him now. Suddenly there were items and trinkets he had never noticed before—never bothered to pay attention to at least. When he was in Honeyside, it was usually for less than reputable reasons, usually looking for some excuse to share her bed or to sneak a peek of her undressing—another regret. Now that he had the space to himself, he took the time, carefully inspecting the contents of the place she called home.  

The first thing he spotted on a nearby table was a bottle of brandy, clearly imported and very expensive. It came with a note, Brynjolf’s heart lunging into his throat when he noticed Fiona’s clearly inscribed handwriting.

Sources say this is your favorite brand. We should share it and see where the evening takes us.

-Fiona

A completely new sense of anguish settled in his chest and gut, nearly crippling him as he collapsed into the chair. Tears prickled his field of vision and he quickly pressed his palm to his eyes, desperately trying to stem the flow, but it was useless. When was the last time he had a reason to cry? It was unlikely that he had since he was a young lad, still unruly with his emotions and throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. But this was different, this was mourning, his tears full of sorrow as they streamed down his cheeks, dropping to the parchment below.

It was no use letting it go to waste, Brynjolf thought as he uncorked the bottle, pausing to lament Fiona was not there to share it with him as she had wanted. He didn’t bother with fetching a cup as he took a swig, savoring the rich taste, but it all felt bittersweet without her. He stood up again, taking the bottle with him as he continued pacing through her home, admiring all the little treasures she had saved in her travels. He knew Fiona was a sentimental person, but it was only then that he was faced with how truly heartfelt she was.

On her desk there was a journal, and before Brynjolf’s mind could reprimand him for snooping where he didn’t belong, he had started flipping through the pages, softly smiling at her recorded words. It was mostly a day-to-day retelling of her time in the Guild, omitting her more criminal offenses, but leaving in her thoughts and feelings, especially when it came to him.

…despite my better judgement, I believe I have found myself carried away by that ‘dreamboat’ (Delvin’s phrase)…All I can think about are those damned flowers and that stupid grin and Divines, does he know how badly I want to kiss that smirk off his face?

Brynjolf couldn’t help but laugh, despite the pain that lingered. At least he had some small confirmation that the lass had felt the same as he did. It wasn’t a full-blown admission of love, but it was a start…and now something he’d never be able to follow through on as he planned. As he turned the page, he found the flowers—the yellow mountain ones he had given her months ago in some thinly-veiled attempt at expressing his feelings. They had been pressed and preserved as to not lose their color or shape and looked as fresh as the day he picked them. Next to the flora was a small notation—remember, he remembered.

Brynjolf continued to sit at her desk and drink the brandy until it was nearly empty, staring off at nothing, just listening to the muffled sounds of the river right outside the western door. The moonlight shined in brighter now, casting an eerie glow across the bed. He stood, his steps careful as he approached as if Fiona was curled up under the covers and would sit up at any moment to catch him sneaking up on her as she had done so many times before. But she wasn’t—the bed was empty, pillows and furs piled neatly where she had last left them.

He sat down on the edge, glancing over his shoulder and willing once more with all his might that she could appear, if only to chastise him for breaking in—or maybe, for once, invite him to stay. Brynjolf placed the bottle of brandy on the nightstand before leaning down, tugging off his boots and letting them fall to the floor. He wasn’t about to undress any further—he had enough to feel guilty about, and dead or not, wasn’t going to defile Fiona’s bed with his nudity.

As he stretched out across the blankets and furs, he was overcome with her scent—honey and vanilla and flowers—her hands always smelled of pollen and grass. Brynjolf quickly turned his head to bury his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply as the memory of her became clearer in his mind, as if she was beside him. With some focus, he could feel her warmth, her spirit so strongly—for a moment he was convinced she was truly there to haunt him—but even Brynjolf knew it was his inebriated mind playing tricks. A calmer thought washed over him when he thought about her soul, knowing it was at peace in Sovngarde. He wasn’t the most devout of Nords, but even then, he felt some comfort in knowing they would be reunited when his time came.  

Even as sleep overcame him, his thoughts were less clouded with guilt and regret. Brynjolf knew the path to healing would not be easy, and it would not happen overnight. He would need to immerse himself in the Guild, find distractions that took him out of this misery. Yet, deep down he knew somehow, eventually he would be alright. One day, he would be complete again.

leave a tumblr kudos? 💙

[sigil-stone]

mercenaries at the vilemyr

(a tiny drabble featuring @skyrimlesbian‘s mercenary group! i’m Tired and In Pain, please forgive any typos!)

Y’ffre have mercy on her, Armel was fucking tired. She’d left in the early hours of the morning to scale the mountain, the sun just beginning to rise - and, she noted dully as she pushed open the door to the Vilemyr inn, it was already late into the night. Stupid High Hrothgar. Stupid Greybeards. Stupid Dragonborn.

The Breton took a moment to savor the warmth emanating from the hearth in the middle of the inn. Lively conversations filled the air and she was fairly sure there was some sort of contest going on between a Bosmer, Orc and Argonian at a table near the inn’s bar. A general air of comfort and leisure after a long day overtook her, especially as her nose was met with the smell of roasting venison... Venison? Really? Had Skyrim lowered her standards that much?

She made her way towards the bar, wincing a bit as she sat down on the worn barstool. That damned frost troll had gotten her pretty good. Fuck it all to Oblivion, she figured, she’d deal with that later.

“I’ll take the strongest stuff you’ve got,” She said, exhaustion dripping from her voice.

The barkeep raised a brow at her, placing down the flagon he was cleaning to grab a new on and pour some mead - Or, at least Armel assumed it was mead - out of a keg. He damn near slammed the frothing flagon in front of her.

She muttered her thanks as she counted out and pushed a few septims towards the keep. She took a long swig, “It’s been a long week, friend.”

“I can tell.” Wilhelm always had a sort of laughter in his voice, she noticed. Except when he was talking about - 

“That barrow outside of town. What can you tell me about it?”

“Oh, that?” Wilhelm shot her a sheepish smile. “It was taken care of. We were made fools of, all of us.”

“Truly?” Armel’s brows shot up. “Who took care of it?”

“That’d be them, right over there.” Wilhelm pointed over towards the table where the Bosmer, Orc, and Argonian were sat. Armel could see now they were playing some sort of card game. “The ‘Beast Folk’, I think they call themselves. Mercenaries, and good ones, at that.”

The Bosmer seemed to notice - hear, maybe? - that their conversation had turned to the unlikely-seeming friends. He glanced at them, suspicion written on his features. Armel made a note not to cross him. The bow on his back looked well enough to take down a giant.

“Do you know their names?”

“Uh, let’s see, there’s... Weedum, I think. Argonian one, with the fancy robes.” Armel could hear Wilhelm mutter ‘an Argonian mage, imagine that’ under his breath. “Rindolin, the short elf over there. And... Uh, the Orc lass over there. Name starts with a B, I think.”

Armel glanced over at the group again, awkwardly meeting the Bosmer, Rindolin’s, eyes. She quickly lowered her eyes, trying again a moment later. That Orc... She looked familiar. Uncannily similar to -- 

“Badbr?”

“Yeah! That’s the Orc’s name.” The Nord grinned at her rather brightly. “How’d you know?”

Armel had already abandoned her flagon, making her way to the mercenaries.

[theabyssaldrake]

Pipistrella

A soft breeze carried the smell of fish and the cold from Lake Honrich through Riften’s streets. While The Rift was the warmest of Skyrim’s holds, being the furthest south, and therefore boasting the mildest climate in the region, the lake liked to remind the citizens of Riften where exactly they were. The sound of fishermen coming in for the night echoed in the distance as their boats docked in the harbor, but was quickly drowned out as the sounds of music and laughter picked up. 

Pipistrella, or Pip as she liked,  wove her way through the congested Riften marketplace, picking her way through the crowds. The local temple to Mara, the goddess of love, had deigned to throw a festival, providing food and drink to sate some appetites and whet others. When Pip first heard about the festival, she thought the timing odd, but as she watched, the chill of the wind accompanied by the rapidly cooling evening brought people closer together, and she understood. More than a few revelers cast lascivious looks in her direction, only for the look to wither in the face of her scowl as her would-be companion averted their gaze and locked eyes with another, hopefully more willing, partner. 

Pip was no stranger to such advances. She was an impressive woman, taller than most men back in Cyrodil and broader than more than a few as well. Her dark brown hair fell to the left side of her face or tucked coyly behind her right ear. Muscles rolled beneath her skin and her leathers hugged her frame, simultaneously revealing and not. While she was at a party, a pair of daggers hung at her hips, in easy reach. These were her more impressive blades, the others were secreted away in her boots, at the small of her back and even a couple up her sleeves. Were she feeling any better, she may have even taken some of them up on their propositions. 

She’d been feeling under the weather for the last few days. Between the fatigue she felt in her limbs, the splitting headache behind her eyes and the rash of nightmares these last few nights, making it hard to sleep at all, she was hardly in the mood for love, much less the roll in the hay most of the party-goers were likely after. Besides, the inn was growing tired of her swiftly evaporating excuses for not having the money for her room. There was a party, which meant there was gold to be made. She flexed her fingers experimentally, palming the small knife with which she plied her trade, looking out for over-ripe purses, ready to fall from their branches. If she wanted to stay in town, much less procure a remedy from the temple, she’d have to work for it.

Music pounded in the marketplace, accompanying the smell of roasted meat and fresh fish that hung over everything in the bustling fishing town. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west, splashing the evening skies with dazzling crimson light that only caused her eyes to flare in pain. She dropped her knife and heard the sharp metallic clatter of the blade as it fell, as though all around her were silent save for the knife. In fact, every noise around her felt much the same, each one jockeying for position in her ears, temples and behind her eyes. Her eyes felt for a moment as though they would explode from her skull and she squeezed them shut pressing the heels of her palms against them, trying vainly to rub the pain away. Even with her eyes covered, she could feel the sun’s rays on her, seeming to sap the life right out of her. She fell to her knees in the midst of the crowd, and she heard people stand clear, murmuring in concern.

And then it was gone. The pain behind Pip’s eyes, the weakness in her body, all of it fell away in the lengthening shadows. She looked up and around in surprise and no small amount of joy as her strength flooded her limbs once more, and for a moment, she felt better than she ever had in her life as a new sensation began to creep in. She frowned as she got to her feet, quickly palmed her knife and placed it in a small sheath on her belt. Something was still wrong.

She looked over the crowd with the realization that, while the sun had dipped below the peaks to the west, she could see clear as day. The smells of cooking meat, while still present, were surpassed by the increasingly enticing aroma of sweat and flesh, now sweeter than any baked pastry she’d had as a little girl back home in the Imperial City. Pip reeled at the intensity of the scent, wondering if it had been that long since she’d been with someone.

And then she heard the music shift. The drums became more and more pronounced and complex. The rhythm was quick and beat heavily to the point that Pip wondered how many musicians had moved over to a drum before she could no longer hear any discernable rhythm, just countless drums pounding in her ears. She covered them and closed her eyes trying to find some peace, some way to shut out the thump-thump that blocked out all other sounds. Unable to bear it anymore, she pushed her way out of the crowd, away from the festivities and the incessant drums. 

Finally, she found refuge on the docks, on the lower levels of the city. The pounding was replaced with the gentle lapping of the waves rolling against the wooden supports. Pip leaned against the stonework behind her, taking a moment to catch her breath. A solitary drum-beat began picking up, moving towards her. “I’m just looking for some peace and quiet, keep the drumming to the party, for Mara’s sake…”

A Nord man rounded the corner, and to Pip’s surprise, there was no drum to be found in his hand. All he bore was a quizzical expression. “What drumming? I just came to make sure you were alright,” he said. 

She recognized his face. One of her would-be partners, likely trying his luck in a one on one situation. He was handsome enough, she thought, her eyes falling from his defined features to his neck and chest, then back to his face. She still heard the drumbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was incessant and it came from the man somehow, and all she wanted was for it to stop. He said something to her, but she couldn’t hear him. The drums continued, mocking her powerlessness as she tried to shut it out. 

She stared at him, confused by his apparent silence for only a split second before a wild thought came to her, if she could call it a thought. More of a feeling. He was the source of the sound, and if he went, so too would the drums. She looked at him, a hungry look settling onto her face and she stepped toward the man. With every step, the sound grew louder, but she was determined now. This was a small price to pay for an end to the maddening beat pounding in her ears. She felt something twist in her gut, a gnawing hunger roiling in the pit of her stomach. 

She grabbed the man by his shirt and spun him around so that his back was to the wall and pressed him against it. A confused look crossed his face, but it was replaced with anticipation as he misread the situation. She felt the hunger coil up, like a caged viper. Sharp canines slid down from her gums, and she drew her lips back to reveal perfectly white teeth, glinting in the meager light. At the last moment, the man saw the glittering fangs and began to try and pull free, but her grip was like iron. Her lips lingered at his throat as a guttural snarl like a beast’s escaped her own, savoring the kill before she struck. Her bite pierced the man’s skin and buried themselves in his throat. She felt a hot rush of his thick lifeblood rush into her mouth and she reflexively gulped it down. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the feeding, chasing away the drums and the hunger. 

Lucidity rushed back as the last dregs of life left the man, and she found herself sucking on a dry artery. His skin was too pale, and he wore a mask of terror on his face. She looked down at the corpse in horror, realizing what had happened, what she had done. As the implications of her deeds set in, she heard a voice in the distance. “Hey, is ev’rything alright back there?” 

Pip’s head flipped over in the direction of the voice, another inhuman growl came unbidden as the woman rounded the corner. Pipistrella launched herself at the newest source of blood, the sound of the woman’s heartbeat driving her hunger back to the surface, as though she hadn’t just fed. Any sense of reason that broke the surface was once again drowned out by the drum and she was entirely subsumed by the hunger once more.Instinct drove her, and only the slightest hint of a question posed itself in the back of her head as she discorporated into a swarm of bats, crossing the distance and carrying her prey to a nearby rooftop. She reformed, her hands clawing at the woman’s jawline and shoulder, forcing them apart as she tore savagely at the screaming woman’s throat like an animal. She closed her eyes in relief as the blood sated her hunger once more, however temporarily, only for it to be replaced after a while when, once more, she stood over a lifeless body.

Harald barely heard the scream over the din of the music and festival attendees. He’d wanted a greater guard presence at the festival, knowing full well that celebrations such as this attracted pickpockets and worse. He grit his teeth in frustration and made his way over towards the sound, near the harbor. Once he’d cleared the market area and the bulk of the revelry, he pulled his axe from the ring on his belt. He hefted the familiar weight in his hand, and adjusted his grip on the leather strap of his shield. Slowly, he made his way down the dock. 

“Hello,” he called out when he got to the docks. “Are you alright? I’m with the Watch.”

He heard movement to his left, whether it was the scuff of a boot or the flapping of many wings, he couldn’t be sure. Harald slowly made his way down the walkway, turning as he went to watch his back as best he could and keeping his head on a swivel. He rounded a corner and his eyes fell on the body of a nord man, white as the Morthal snow with a look of pure terror on his face, eyes forever staring at whatever killed him. “Shor’s Bones,” he swore softly as he got to one knee. He set down his axe to look over the body. He knew this man, not well, but by sight. He was a regular at The Withered Tree, a fisherman, he thought. Harald gently closed the man’s eyes. “Go on, brother,” he said sadly. “Sovngarde waits for you.” 

Harald knelt there a moment longer in silence, then lifted his axe once more and got to his feet. He looked around once again as he walked, then nearly leaped out of his skin when something heavy hit the wood behind him with a resounding thunk. He spun to see yet another corpse lying next to the first. Her arms and legs were bent at odd angles. Blood covered her dress and her arms were covered in tiny, bloodless scratches. 

Harald spun around again and snarled defiantly. “Come out, you milk-drinking coward! Face me face a true Nord! I’ll send you back to whatever pit spawned you!”

“Can you,” came a woman’s question from behind him. 

He whirled again to see a woman, big like a nord but a face that was distinctly not. She looked at him quizzically, and for a moment, the hint of fear on her face stopped him cold and even almost caused him to miss the still drying blood around the woman’s lips. 

He lifted his axe and shield, but he was too slow. The fear that had touched her face was replaced with a beast’s snarl. She swung at him with a lightning-fast haymaker, catching his shield and tearing it from his grasp. He lashed at her with his axe, but fear made his swing wild and the monster easily rolled back and away from his blow. He felt a heavy slap catch him in the jaw and it sent him spinning, but before he could turn back around to face her, he felt himself freeze in place. Arms like iron bands looped under his arm and around his chest. Ice cold hands gripped his head and shoulder and wrenched them apart. 

He felt her hot breath on his neck and the points of her teeth scraping lightly against his skin. He swallowed and closed his eyes, denying the fear cloying at his breathing. “Oblivion take you, vampire,” he said. 

In that moment, the fangs plunged home, driving themselves deep into his flesh. He felt his blood well at the punctures and quickly be pulled away as the monster drew blood from his neck. His limbs began to grow cold and heavy, but she held him upright. He became dimly aware of a growing tightness in his flesh as his blood was drained out. She began to gnaw at his throat, trying to get at the last drops of his blood. Then everything went dark. He never felt himself hit the floor.

Pipistrella Licinius dropped her latest victim. Her breathing was heavy, her nerves buzzed. It was a high like nothing she’d ever felt. No drug, drink or one night stand had ever set her senses alight like they were now. Just as she thought it, though, she felt the high fading. As she came down, reason took its place. She looked at the bodies on the floor. Instinctively she licked her lips and tasted the sweet blood, sending tingles up her tongue. She couldn’t stay here or keep feeding like this. Someone was bound to notice and then she’d be in in worse trouble than she was in High Rock. 

Pip took one last look around, eyed a rooftop and sprang into the air, dissolving into a swarm of bats and reforming on the rooftop. She felt her world spin as she went from one set of eyes to dozens and back to one. Shaking it off, she repeated the trick, she hopped across multiple buildings until she was over the wall and running into the woods outside the city. She didn’t stop until she had left Riften far behind her. Only when she saw the lights of Riften glimmering behind her through the treeline did she stop to consider her situation. 

“Good party,” asked the voice from behind her, cold and smooth like forged steel.

She spun to see a pair of red eyes glinting against the shadows and a humorless smile sliding across an unfamiliar face. She scowled into his face.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” he said in his steely voice, and the smile grew wider still, pronounced canines glistening in the meager light.