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the-hoarse-bard · 4 years ago

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As I was prepping myself for the climb ahead with some meditation, I overheard some local villagers talking about a man named Klimmek. It seems he usually helps provide food to the Greybeards, but had been unable to do so lately due to a knee injury. Thinking it would probably be bad for me if my new instructors were to starve, I found Klimmek and offered to take the supplies up for him. He was very grateful, and told me to just leave the bag in the chest outside the door of the monastery.

I stood before the first step, Klimmek’s supplies in hand, paralyzed. Could I really do this? I took a few deep breaths and remembered the words of my mentor when I was leaving Elsweyr for Skyrim, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”. I could still feel the warmth of his fur as he embraced me, and the smell of the skooma on him. He was sober that day, but that smell doesn’t come out. I know that too well. With renewed resolve, I started the steep climb.

I noticed a small shrine at the top of the first set of stairs, and curious I decided to check it closer. Then I noticed writing on a small plaque set into the stone. These shrines seem to tell the tale of dragons and their relationship towards men. I decided to keep an eye out along the trail for any more. They seem like an interesting read at the very least.

As I came toward the second stone, I caught sight of a man. I asked what he was doing here, and he claimed he was a hunter. He liked to make the pilgrimage up the seven-thousand steps every now and then, as is the Nord tradition. I told him that I respected him for it. I was already beginning to get exhausted by the climb. We shared a laugh, and parted shortly after, headed in opposite directions.

The second emblem told of the beginnings of men on Mundus. The wording suggests that the dragons protected them at that time, because they were weak. What could that last part mean though? About having no voice. Hm.

The sky began to cloud and snow began to fall as I approached the third emblem. It told of men beginning to war with the dragons over land, and dragons being impossible for the men to beat without a voice, and so the dragons broke their hearts. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. The last part reminded me of my mother, and how she had given me up to the Two-Moons temple when I was young. Of course, how could a Senche-Tiger hope to raise a child? Had that been an example of not having a voice? I dried my eyes, and headed onward.

I encountered another Nord walking the steps at the next emblem, a woman this time. She seemed to be meditating in front of the emblem. I didn’t want to disturb her, but she spoke to me as I tried to walk by. She greeted me warmly, and introduced herself as Karita. I asked what she was doing up here. She said she preferred to leave it as being just another pilgrim, as she takes the trip up the mountain every few years. She asked me what I was up to, and I couldn’t help but lie that I was also on a pilgrimage. She gave me a wry smile. I could feel like she knew I was fibbing, but she didn’t pry and wished me luck on the trip, and went back to her meditation.

The fourth tablet told of Khenarthi seeing her people suffering and calling on the dragon Paarthunax, who pitied them, to give them a voice. This incited the first dragon war, as men could now hope to best their draconic masters. This time I was reminded of my time at the temple. The monks were as loving as their limited attachment would allow, they taught me most of what I know. They were like family to me. However, once I came of age, I realized I could never be one of them. I was too attached. They would die long before me, and that was a sorrow I could never bear. So I set off into the world alone. They did their best, but I was not prepared, and fell in with a bad crowd, where I learned to pickpocket and steal to fuel my new skooma habits. I became a shameful addict. Of course, that’s where I had met my master, an old sugar-tooth of Cathay-Raht furstock named Dro’Khrassa. Fate has strange ways of leading us. His sorry state made me give up the skooma out of pity, but also because he believed I could be better. The monks had refused to teach me their martial arts. Something about spoiling my innocence. A cold wind shook me from my reminiscence, and I hurried on before I fell back into it.

The snow stopped as I approached the next tablet. the clouds remained, and the wind was still biting, but not having it fling ice into my face made it less so.

I pulled my cloak tighter around me as I read the emblem. It told of how men triumphed over the dragons with their newfound voice, shouting Alduin out of the world, and of the many sacrifices it took to achieve this. I recalled the first lessons from my master. The way to recover from the skooma’s influence. A brew of moon sugar and luna moth wings to slowly ebb away from it. Almost as sickeningly sweet as the taste of skooma, but with much less damaging effects, as long as one doesn’t mind turning invisible with the inevitable hiccups it brings. He called it the Moon Dance tea, and claims he heard of it through the nomads of Elsweyr. Despite the constant skooma shakes, he was a great teacher. He may not have had his once-honed body any longer, but his mind remained sharp through all his years.

The next tablet was among a small stand of trees, providing much-needed shelter from the wind as I read.

This one told of men founding their first empire, and the dragons withdrawing from the world. It reminded me of why I had come to Skyrim. My master, amidst his skooma-fits had seen a vision. A great shadow threatening to swallow the world. He claimed that he had seen me in his vision too, fighting back the shadow alongside great heroes of the past. Heroes who had achieved great deeds. The Hero of Kvatch, the Nerevarine, and the one who had halted the Warp in the West. He said he had never had such a clear vision in his life. Of course, the both of us not having much money, and not being daring enough to steal enough money to travel, I had to go alone on the back of a stolen horse. I rode right through Cyrodiil, from Lleyawiin to Bruma. I was forced to kill the horse and use its body to keep me warm as I passed into Skyrim. I hope that old so and so was safe after my flight from Elsweyr. We were both known by the local law enforcement as accomplices, so I pray that they didn’t pin the horse theft on him.

The seventh tablet told of Jurgen Windcaller, who had been the one to defeat the dragons at Red Mountain, and how he meditated for seven years on how the strong voices of the dragons could fail to the fledgling voices of men. I suppose that’s why these are the seven thousand steps. One thousand for every year he meditated. I wonder if he ever found his answer?

The next emblem told of Jurgen choosing silence and returning to civilization. Seventeen men tried to shout him down, but none could. He then built his home upon the Throat of the World. I suppose this must be how High Hrothgar began. I’ve read in history books that the land of Skyrim was warmer then. I suppose these heights might have even been pleasant then. Reading of his isolation did remind me of my father though, I never knew him. My mother could never tell me anything about him, as the Senche cannot speak. I assume he must have been of a similar shape to her own. Then I had the rather unusual image of an Alfiq bedding a Senche enter my head, and I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Surely such a thing would be ridiculous.... But who can be afraid of looking ridiculous when they’re in love?

The monastery was in sight of the next shrine, which told of the Greybeards calling Tiber Septim, the first Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, as they had now with me. I felt anxiety enter my mind. What if I wasn’t what they had expected? What if I came all this way for nothing? I shook my head, I had to do this. If not for my master, then for myself.

The final emblem had but a short stanza upon it. “The voice is worship, follow the inner path, speak only in True Need.” Strange. It almost sounds like how the monks in Elsweyr had spoken to me about their claws. As well as being useful, they were dangerous. A great blessing, as well as a great responsibility. They had told me all of us Khajiit were creatures of duality. “Just as moon sugar brings us closer to the gods, it can debase us. As the moon chases the sun, as the deserts meet the jungles, we are always both the light and the dark, for our mother is Azurah. The spirit of the twilight between the dusk and dawn.” For a moment I regretted not heeding this advice when I was young, but then I had a revelation. They did not mean it as a negative. Just as my darkness had damned me to thievery in a skooma den, it had also led me to my master, who had given me purpose and given me a brighter light. With renewed resolve, I faced the monastery.

I dropped Klimmek’s package into the chest as he had asked. Clearly, the Greybeards are well provided for, but I was still glad to have a hand in this gift. I walked up the final steps to the door, and headed inside, eager to meet with my new teachers.

#skyrim #shirazzha #khajiit #high hrothgar #lore

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zsweber-studios · 5 years ago

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The Journal of Zan’taba Moonlightshadow: Part 1/?

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Sundas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

It has been...a while since my last journal entry. Much has happened in my life, and the records of my past have been lost due to some...unfortunate circumstances. So, as this is my first passage in this record, I suppose I should tell some of my story.

My name is Zan’taba Moonlightshadow. I was born in Elsweyr, but my family was that of caravaneers, and shortly after my birth I began traveling the roads of Tamriel, helping in the trading and selling of goods to the many peoples we met. I’ve been all over Tamriel in the few decades of my life--Hammerfell, Black Marsh, Cyrodiil. However, in my life, I had yet to come to Skyrim until just recently, when I decided to step away from my family’s business and travel myself.

And that, my friends, is where my story begins.

A week ago, I was arriving at the border of Skyrim from Cyrodiil, with not but my pack of belongings with me and eager anticipation for what was in store for me. As I was making my way, however, I stumbled upon a fight of some kind, between to groups of Nords. Before I could even utter a word of this surprising sight, the Imperials--those dressed in the red garb of the Imperial Legion--caught sight of me and assumed I was a threat as well and knocked me out.

When I next awoke, I was in a cart, sitting beside two of the other Nords in the fight--those dressed in blue--and a horse thief. One of the Nords was gagged, though for what reason I did not yet know--the other however spoke to me, almost kindly, as he spoke somberly of our sorry situation we found ourselves in.

We were to be executed...for reasons I know not.

The horse thief--a man from Rorikstead, I heard--was particularly anxious as we arrived at the town the executions would take place at--Helgen, I was later told. The very moment he had a chance, he leaped from the cart and made a mad dash for the town’s gates. He barely made it farther than fifty feet, though, before the Imperial archers shot him down, in plain view of all of us. The fate we’d soon face, though by blade rather than arrow.

They called each of us up, name by name, but surprisingly my name was not on the list. One of the Imperial Nords seemed a bit aggrieved by this--of which, I was thankful, it seemed he did not wish to send an innocent man to the gallows. The captain he spoke to, however, did not share his views, and I was sent on to the execution block anyways. “He’s a Khajiit,” I heard her say as I walked to my fate, “They’re always getting into trouble, so he’s guilty of something.”

What I’d give to claw out her tongue for such words...little did I know the chance I’d be given in just a few short moments.

As I walked to the place of the executions, I finally learned who the second Nord in the cart with me had been, as well the reason he was gagged. Apparently, he was Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, and the murderer of Skyrim’s High King. I heard from the Imperial general in attendance that he had shouted the high king to death...but how a simple man could do such a thing, I know not.

The executions began with a local priestess giving us our last rites--but one of the Nords in blue was a bit too impatient, and cut her off. It’s sad, I suppose he will not receive as warm a welcome into the next life as he would’ve otherwise. But after his hasty execution...it was my turn. That captain looked on in disdain as she practically dragged me to the block, forcing me to my knees for my head to be cut from my shoulders.

But before I could be killed...that was when I saw it. We’d heard it throughout the ceremony of the executions, of course...but now I could see it, clear as day, soaring up over the ridge of the mountains, into the clouds, and over the town of Helgen. It was black as night, covered in dark scales the size of imperial shields, and with blazing red eyes. There was no mistake of what it was.

It was a dragon.

The great winged monster landed on the roof of a nearby tower, and with its roar summoned a great lightning storm that darkened the sky overhead. Flames erupted from its maw, consuming the headsman who was to cut me down. I, luckily, avoided the blaze, and soon found the Nord who had shown kindness to me in the cart--a man named Ralof--helping me to my feet. Together, we hurried out of the fire storm and to another nearby tower.

From there...the day is a blur. Ralof, Ulfric, and the rest of their rebels were hid in the tower, and made to escape. The tower was attacked, though, by that same black dragon, whose fire consumed one other of the rebels. I ended up getting distanced from the rest of these Nords, and after falling through a nearby inn’s roof, I was found by the Imperial Nord from before--a man named Hadvar--whose attitude towards me was not nearly as friendly as before.

Still, I needed to get out of this town alive, and I would take any ally I could get. Sticking to this Nord’s side, I hurried through the town, avoiding the great black beast at every turn. The general from before told Hadvar that we should escape to the keep, but before too long we crossed paths with Ralof once more. Between the two of them, I would easily side with Ralof over the rude and overbearing Hadvar, and followed the Nord man into the keep.

We had a brief moment of respite then, interrupted by the sight of one of these Stormcloak rebels laying dead in the keep. My heart went out to my new companion, but he suggested I take the dead man’s gear so I could better protect myself--can’t argue there.

From there, we began making our way to safety, which was no easy task. The part of the keep we’d ended up in was locked on all sides--only one way in and out for us. That was, until the Imperials came through--including the captain from before. I took great pleasure in cutting her to ribbons and burning her where she stood, and in doing so found keys to continue down. With this, I and Ralof were able to make our way through the keep, and down into the deep dark underground.

After hours of wandering through the underground tunnels, facing more of the Imperials, a few giant spiders--Frostbite Spiders--and a slumbering cave bear, we finally made our way to freedom. We took a moment to hide as the dragon flew overhead--I was certain we’d just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, but no, it ignored us and continued on its way.

And so, too, did we. Ralof told me of his sister’s place in the nearby town of Riverwood, and so I stuck close to him as he led on. We passed by an interesting Nord structure--the Guardian Stones--and I was able to access a blessing from it. Though, I didn’t appreciate the look Ralof gave me when I accepted the gifts of the Thief Stone. Just because I’m a thief, my friend, doesn’t mean I have a heart of darkness, nor that I can’t do good with my theivery.

Another few hours later, we finally arrived at Ralof’s old home town of Riverwood. It was a small and quiet hamlet by a nearby river, and I could feel the tension of our hurried race from danger ebbing off of me. We soon met with Ralof’s sister, Gerdur, who was so thankful for me keeping Ralof safe she gave me a special pendant, a Necklace of Waterbreathing, as well as a key to her home so I could rest.

Though...she did give me a task. “Riverwood is defenseless,” she’d told me, “The Jarl needs to know there’s a dragon about.” I told her that, first thing tomorrow morning, I will head on to this Whiterun and meet with the Jarl there. But first, I must rest. It has been a long, long day for me, and only now as I sit here in her and her husband’s home have I had the chance to sit down and think over just all that has happened.

Dragons, a rebellion, a meeting with nobility...just what have I gotten myself into?

#skyrim #the elder scrolls V #the elder scrolls #playthrough #writing

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vosh-rakh · 5 years ago

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After the fall of Nova Orsinium under its last king, the coward Shorab gro-Goreg, the people who found refuge and prosperity there were scattered to the wilds. The usual suspects, in the usual places, of course: orcs, goblins, ogres, various beast races, returning to subsistence nomadism, afraid to try to reintegrate into the Empire that allowed this to happen. Their hopes for a homeland crushed yet again, another sacking punctuating another era. Though the spirit of the orcs is strong, often after such downfalls it requires a generation or two to recuperate and replenish its courage.

And so halfway through the second century of the fourth era, Malacath’s people grew sick of their suffering and sought to restore the pride of their people. Naturally the Trinimac cult, still prevalent even after the days of Gortwog gro-Nagorm, used this opportunity to reinsert their ideas into the popular consciousness. They were weakened after their loss, and would likely never again rule as they did, for the people learned from their elders that all the pride of Trinimac means nothing without the survival of Malacath. But the old mer god would forever remain relevant in the eyes of the orcish people.

Orsinium today is not just a city, but a kingdom. Its heart is hidden. Since this iteration’s inception, the policy was that the world outside the Dragontail and southern Wrothgarian mountain ranges could not be trusted, and should be interacted with minimally. We produce ourselves most of our needs, and whatever else is acquired via the proxy of Orsinium-allied khajiit caravans. But not even they are trusted with the capital city’s true location: they are met at strongholds near the border, and our people take it from there.

In fact, there are few citizens of the lands of Orsinium who know where the city lies. Even the city’s residents, who likely travel little, could probably not tell you. Those who are trusted by the king, Gortwog gro-Torug (a pseudonym held by every king of Orsinium; his true identity is a well-kept secret) to be the interface between the city and the rest of the kingdom are sworn to secrecy upon fear of death and a blood price only Malacath himself can exact.

The strongholds of Orsinium are legally all named after the city itself, to further confuse potential invaders. But as this is not conducive to travel or administration, many have colloquial names, either as derivatives of “Orsinium,” the names of local legend figures, or the name of the dominant tribe of the stronghold.

Further, due to the heightened diversity of races in the Nova Orsinium, the races left in its wake were likewise varied, and developed their own tribes before the reunification in the late 150s. As both a strategic effort to concentrate the population into more easily defensible positions, as well as encourage integration of every race of Orsinium, tribes of orcs, goblins, ogres, argonians, dunmer, etc. were forced to coalesce into singular, larger strongholds. This policy has not been without criticism, as the years between the Nova Orsinium and ours has given each surviving tribe to develop very specific cultures, which leads to conflict within these amalgamated strongholds.

Take for example the Tergut-Molg Stronghold, so named after the Tergut tribe of orcs and the Molg tribe of goblins, located in the eastern tail of the Dragontail mountains, near the Imperial border between Hammerfell and Skyrim. In the early days there was much conflict between the tribes, which was difficult to resolve due to the fact that their populations were roughly equal, and both cultures were fairly competitive. Initially, the Tergut chieftain Surga gra-Mokhra assumed she would be the chieftain of the stronghold, which quickly led to unrest among the Molg goblins, led by their chieftain Giknirh.

It was not until the shamans of Tergut met with the shaman of Molg, following visions of peace both parties witnessed in dreams, that they convinced Surga and Giknirh to cease their fighting and work together. United as one stronghold, one tribe, under two chieftains, the tension lessened and the fighting stopped. Among the older generation there is still underlying enmity, but the current generation is accustomed to the harmony brought by integrating the tribes as one.

In fact, by working together for the good of both of their peoples, Surga and Giknirh grew fond of each other, and Surga bore his child: a goblin-orc, the first of many. That child would be called Ogash gor-Giknirh. That child is me.

It was early in my life that it was made evident that I was ill-suited to the typical work of the stronghold, and especially what was expected of me as the child of not one but two chieftains. I was meant to represent the best of both tribes, Tergut and Molg, but I felt an affinity for neither. My height found me lacking among my orcish peers, while my bulk found me mocked by the goblins. I lacked the strength of character and leadership of my parents. So I was trapped in a world that did not value me. Or trapped in a person that was not valuable.

I had almost come of age the night I left. Earlier my mother Surga came to me and told me of what was expected: I should forge myself a weapon befitting a chieftain, and that creation would mark me as an adult, an orc, a leader.

But I felt I was none of those things. Even as I grew and was nearly finished being a child, I was scolded always by both my mother and father, never quite adequate, always lacking in the skills they wanted me to have. I was not quite welcome as orc nor goblin. And I was certainly far from a leader. I sheepishly did as I was told, I took scorn in obedient silence, I withdrew from conflict like a mouse.

And so I left. That night I packed my few personal possessions and left in secret, fleeing from duties I could not uphold with the Skyrim-bound khajiit caravan.

The caravansary tried to strike up polite small talk in orsimeris, but soon discovered my generally reticent muteness and proceeded to joke amongst themselves in their own tongue. I could not be sure, but by their occasional glances my way, it seemed that their topics occasionally involved me. It seemed as though they would deride me too, just like the orcs and the goblins of Tergut-Molg. But perhaps this was just my fate in life.

Several days later we arrived in the nord city of Markarth. As the khajiit went about their business trading outside the walls, I decided to explore within. It was a strange, ancient place, made of stone and brass. But the populace seemed much newer, as if they had simply moved into this convenient locale and called it home.

The air was filled with their voices, speaking a language I didn’t know. The khajiit seemed to know it, as they spoke it well enough to trade. But these humans and elves spoke it like they were born with it on their tongues. To me, it was meaningless noise, accented by children shouting, doors slamming, women laughing, and the familiar sound of hammer-on-anvil.

I avoided that sound due to the circumstances of my recent self-imposed exile. So I wandered the rather vertical layout of the city, marveling at the apparent age of its structures juxtaposed upon the bustling modernity of its culture. But slowly I began to notice something, words that occasionally interrupted the hammer’s rhythm. Words I knew.

Most of them were words my mother would have preferred I didn’t know. Words I picked up from the other children, often used when whispering to themselves about me. But some of them were normal words, albeit frequently punctuated by the curses. The exact...phrasing I won’t write here, but things to the effect of “Worthless! Thinks me a fool,” “Damn Imperial layabout apprentice, can’t forge a bloody nail,” “Waste of my time.”

This sparse information in a sea of static must have overwritten my fear of the forge, for I found myself there, watching the orc smith shaping metal into a sword. I stood there, looking in for a moment, following the hammer with each blow, as it forced the steel into shape. Despite myself, I was mesmerized. Something meaningless, a raw chunk of metal from a mountain, was being given meaning, heated and beaten into something with purpose.

I kept watching until the man, presumably the aforementioned apprentice, looked up from shoveling coal into the forge at me. He said something in that nonsense language to the orc, who looked up from her work to see me. But I was already gone, running in the direction I hoped was towards the gate.

I couldn’t find it. I ran around and around, up and down, but every time all I found were more nords looking at me like I was a dog let loose. Eventually I saw someone come out of a huge pair of stone doors, a guard perhaps, and I squeezed past them to get inside.

The interior was enormous, the stonework intricate. I kept running, hoping to find somewhere to hide, somewhere I could fall apart in peace. I ran left through another set of doors and I stopped in my tracks in awe. It was an enormous chamber, with domed towers reaching to the vaulted roof inlaid with that strange brass-like metal in intricate angular patterns. They glowed like lighthouses, illuminating armed brass statues keeping eternal watch from atop stone pillars. The colossal brass doors further ahead leered at me from across the bridge, daring my cowardice to challenge their impossible weight. Even the air was ancient, reeking from the dust of the past. I was absolutely enthralled by the size of everything - the structures and the time since they were constructed.

But I was pulled from my reverie by the shoulder. It was an elf, tall and sharp, his features cloaked under a hood. He asked me something with the static words that buzzed all around this city. I pulled away, staring at him in fear. He seemed to take note of my race and change tack. “Speak orcish?” Old word for the language, not used by the people of Orsinium anymore. But I nodded, terrified of what he would say.

“Not be here,” he said, almost sounding like the lower orsimeris of the goblins, and his throat struggling with the consonants. “I do careful study in here. You stop careful study. Okay?”

But the levee finally burst, and I wasn’t able to hide away, and that made it worse. I was crying, begging and apologizing in rapid-fire orsimeris choked by tears and snot and sobs. The elf tried to console me, then chastise me, but threw up his hands in capitulation, saying some swear in what seemed like yet another language I couldn’t understand, and looking away from my crumpled body on the floor, rubbing his pointed chin in either thought or frustration.

Not long after, two nord guards ran in. I couldn’t see them through my tears, but I heard the jingling of their armor and their hurried panting. I looked up and wiped away my tears, but the world was still blurry. They shouted something at me, then said something to the elf, pointing my way. The elf was still in what seemed now certainly like contemplation. Finally, he said something, and I registered only one thing, a name: “Moth gro-Bagol.” The two guards shook their heads and left.

They returned a moment later with an orc in a smith’s apron. Moth, presumably. He spoke with the elf for a moment, before shaking his head and pointing behind himself. The guards seemed to complain before hurrying off again, but Moth stayed behind.

As they waited, Moth looked at a table in what looked like some kind of magical workstation of the elf’s. He delicately picked up a yellow-petaled flower, then came to me, squatted down, and held it out. The elf protested, but Moth payed him no mind. I was in the death throes of my breakdown, the tears and screaming subsided into numb weakness. I stared blankly at the extended offering, and then shakily reached out to accept it. Moth smiled and stood as I began to fiddle with the flower, sniffing it (it smelled minty, I recall) and gently manipulating the stem and petals.

Several minutes later the guards returned, with another orc in two. It was the woman who ran the smith outside. My eyes widened and my fear crushed the flower in my fist. (This evoked another exasperated exclamation from the elf.) As soon as she laid eyes on me, the woman said, in good (albeit distinctly colloquial) orsimeris, “Oh, it’s you.” She walked up to where I sat and grabbed me under the arms and pulled me to my feet roughly. “Idiot brother didn’t bother to learn to speak orcish,” she said as she grabbed me under the chin, tilting my head this way and that. I sorely wished it was Moth who spoke orsimeris.

His sister shook her head and began the process of roughly patting me down. “Steal something, did you, little goblin?”

It was only after she came up empty from the search and took her hands off me that I was able to mutter, “I’m not a goblin.”

“It’s a joke. They have those where you’re from?” But she was not smiling. She sized me up, towering over me as she considered me. She said something in the other language to the elf, Moth, and the guards.

“What did you say,” I asked, what little confidence that urged I speak fading with every word.

“That you’re not a thief, far as I can tell. You do anything else wrong, boy?” She leaned in, grabbed me by the shoulders with her calloused hands, and stared me dead in the eyes.

“I’m not a boy,” I objected, with a bit more heart.

“Oh. What’s your name, little goblin?”

“I’m not a... My name’s Ogash. gor-Giknirh.”

“gor-Giknirh? What kinda tribe is that? ... You from Dragontail?”

“Yes.” This interrogation had completely worn me meek at this point.

“Thought so. You may not be a goblin but you got a goblin name.” She let go of me and stood up again with a grunt. She said something to the others. The guards seemed to argue something, but Moth spoke up with a counter. Slowly the others agreed to whatever he said.

The woman began to walk away, yelling back to me, “My brother Moth is going to escort you out of the city, you waste-of-my-time.”

I nodded, although she wasn’t there to see it. I was shaking from the encounter, but I was relieved it was over, and that Moth was the one who would see me out. He beckoned me closer with a wave of his hand and nodded towards the door. I slowly followed on shaky feet, the guards keeping a close eye on me until I left their sight.

I followed Moth through the city, the traversal of which he made look easy in comparison to my mindless wandering and frantic running. He stopped me at one point, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and stuffed something into my hands. It was a dagger wrapped in a simple leather sheath. I looked up at him, eyes wide. He held a finger to his lips, and gestured putting something inside his apron. I understood and stuffed the gift in my pants.

He waved goodbye at me after he saw me through the gate. When I turned away from him and the city, I saw one of the khajiit caravaners prick her ears and tilt her head at me. It was late then, and after spending the day haggling with the local traders, the khajiit were sitting around a fire and telling stories.

When I got close enough, the curious woman called out to me in orsimeris: “Where have you been?” Of course, I did not answer. After some more prodding by the others, they again realized the futility of talking to me and gave up, returning to their own company.

That night, as I lay on my bedroll in my tent, the fire extinguished at the khajiit purring in their sleep, I quietly removed the dagger from my pants and slowly unsheathed it. It was made of that beautiful brassy metal from the ruins. I gazed at its glory in awe, reminiscing on the greater things I had seen inside the keep. Then I began to wonder if it was real, if what happened today was real. I ran my fingertip along the blade before pain pulled it away, slowly beading with blood. I dropped the dagger on the bedroll and sucked on my finger and fanned it in the air.

Content that it was real, that the things I saw were real, that there were truly things in this world more ancient than my father’s father’s father many times over, and larger and grander than anything in our simple Tergut-Molg stronghold, I sheathed the dagger, returned it to its hiding spot, and fell asleep.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #oc: ogash gor-giknirh #orc #orsimer #orsinium #wrothgar #hammerfell #skyrim #markarth #khajiit #goblin #trinimac #malacath #gortwog gro-nagorm #torug gro-igron

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us-smash-archive · 6 years ago

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Skyrim AU

Born in the city of whiterun Toshinori Yagi, a redguard, had a simple childhood. He didn't have much with his parents but he did have a good sense of justice and what was right or wrong at a young age. He wanted to be a pillar that the people could depend on and shine a light through the darkness. He knew a few basic spells such as fire, a shield and healing before the loss of his parents at the age of 5. He wasn't even home when it happened but from what he could hear from the guards was that a small group of bandits had broken into the home for anything they could loot and when Yagi's parents wouldn't hand the items over to them they had been what could be best described as slaughtered before the house was set ablaze to try and destroy the evidence. Two bodies were recovered from the rubble but they were unrecognizable, the young redguard feeling his whole world being shattered.

This wasn't fair why did this have to happen?! Surely the guard would do something about it right?! Unfortunately since there wasn't any evidence left to pin the crime on anyone the case had to be dropped and it left the young boy all alone with an aching hole in his chest. He vowed to one day bring those criminals to justice for what they had done before he was found by the are and sent to the local orphanage to live there. In his time there he would practice his simple spells of fire, shield and healing to make them better and stronger then ever,feeling anger and resentment bubble up inside him. He knew this wasn't good for a future hero to be holding onto these feelings so he did his best to try and let them go and with time the anger and resentment faded from his heart but the urge to bring them to justice remained.

He ran away from the local orphanage when he had just turned 8 yrs old,wanting to see the world and start his journey onto becoming the pillar that people needed. The young boy knew it wouldn't be easy but this was something he was determined to do and nothing would change his mind about it. Being able to pull together enough money for a simple sword and shield along with a bag of provisions Yagi had left the town of whiterun and started his journey into becoming a symbol of hope.

The years had quickly passed by and soon the young boy grew into a young adolescent, going by the alias All Might. People were already talking about him and his small heroic acts in smaller towns when he met his future master, a Nord woman by the name of Nana shimura. He had rushed into a fiery blaze to save the people trapped inside when he had ran into her after he himself got stuck inside the burning building trying to save the people inside. When he was asked why he was doing these heroic acts across skyrim this is what he told her.

"I want to be the symbol of hope and be able to make this land a place where people can smile without worry. I want to be able to give them somebody to look up to and know that everything is going to be ok when they hear my name All Might. I want to help those in need that are unable to help themselves and give them the justice they deserve when bad things happen to them."

A small smile spread across the nord woman's face at the teenage redguards answer before she simply held out her hand and said "then come with me young one and I will help you make your dream a reality."

Toshinori quickly grew to view Nana and her friend that went by the alias 'Torino' as his new family and it brought him comfort. He didn't think he would be able to have a family again after the death of his parents but life has a funny way of working for you. He often asked about the nature of nana's sword she wielded but she never gave him a straight answer, only telling him "when the time comes I will tell you" whenever he brought the subject up after training sessions. A few years passed by and before he knew it Toshinori was all grown up, his hair swept back into a bunny like hairstyle as he looked out upon the world with confidence and strength. Like he could take on anything and would come out on top. "Toshinori I think you are ready for this.." Nana spoke one day and turned her sword over to the redguard. "I.. I don't understand mo- master.." Toshi whispers softly as he grips the sword in his hands,feeling the energy that was stored up inside it tingling his hands.

"I know you don't. It's finally time for me to tell you the story behind this sword and how I came to carry it. The sword that has been dubbed by its holders as 'one for all'..."

And that is when toshinori learned the secret behind his master's might and the truth behind this powerful sword. There were two brothers and one of them was a powerful wizard while the younger brother was a simple blacksmith that made weaponry. The older brother robbed and took advantage of others under the illusion that he was helping them. In reality he was just simply taking what he wanted when he wanted,trying to mold the world into his image. When the younger brother saw the dark path his brother was going down he knew he had to do something to stop him so he forged a sword from ebony and grabbed a simple shield and armor before he went to challenge his brother. To stop him from wreaking havoc upon the world. The two brothers fought with the older one emerging victorious and leaving his brother for dead,the younger sibling slowly bleeding out on the ground but smiled softly as he saw the blade he had created had become charged with some of his brothers magic. Thinking that one day the sword would become powerful enough to stop his brother he poured the little magic he had left into the blade before handing the blade off to the person that found him then told them this with his final breath

"Make this blade stronger and as powerful as it can be before challenging my brother. A monster like that can't be allowed to roam free in this world. If you are unable to complete this task then pass it along to the next person you deem worthy and tell them these words as well. One day this sword, 'one for all', will be powerful enough to challenge and defeat my brother, All For One. When the task is done I will finally be able to rest in peace..."

And with those final words the younger brother left the world,leaving the fate of the newly forged sword and his brother to the future generations.

"And that is the story behind the blade and how it was created. I do not need to tell you the fates of the previous holders of this legendary blade as they all met their end by this man. I want you to know this toshinori. If anything should happen to me when I go to challenge All For One I want you to become the next bearer of One For All and become that symbol of hope that everyone needs. I know you can do it and you'll be a amazing successor to this sword's might!"

Another year passed by to train toshinori with his new blade before he, nana and Torino went off to challenge All For One. That was the last time the redguard ever saw his master, the woman he grew to love like a mother.

The sorcerer proved to be too much for the nord woman to defeat so with a smile and her final strength, the woman shoved the sword 'one for all' into Toshinori's arms before shoving him to Torino and telling her friend to get him to safety, hearing the boy screaming out for her. "I leave it all to you All Might!!" she called out,pulling out a second sword and with a smile charged at the sorcerer while the two fled the scene,not having to look back to know what had happened to Nana shimura.

When they eventually returned to the scene all that remained of her was the purple cape she always wore, slightly torn and under some rubble as the redguard screamed out in pain and agony at the loss of his master. That feeling of anger and resentment bloomed inside his heart again but also a new feeling joined them this time at this new loss for the redguard. RAGE. He did not want these new feelings to go away anytime soon, he used this feelings to push himself harder then before and get stronger like she had wanted him to be and to become that symbol of hope for everyone. Along the way to his goal of being that symbol he had made many connections and friendships, one of them being his best friend that was a wood elf by the name of David Shield. A young and very strong wizard himself the two had met when the young elf had been cornered by thugs wanting to use him for his knowledge and power. Toshinori didn't trust David at first since he didn't have good experiences with wizards but the wood elf was patient and showed the redguard so many new things and new spells to learn in their time together. When it was time to part ways the young wizard gave his new friend a set of ebony armor he had enchanted himself to protect him in his journey. Toshinori waves goodbye to his new friend before putting on the armor and continued his journey, the two promising to keep in touch.

Time continued to move forward for toshinori and soon everyone knew the name All Might. They knew that name meant that there would be justice for those who did wrong and he would protect the innocent. It brought a smile to his face as after all these years he had finally achieved his dream of becoming the symbol of hope.He had a shield made for him with a black rim,red wood,and two dragons etched into its wood. A yellow Dragon and a purple Dragon in honor of his late master while he had her old cape tied around his waist as a part of his outfit. He looked down at his sword one day and that dormant rage he had locked away over the years started to come back to the surface. He knew in his heart that it was his turn now. It was his turn to take on the sorcerer All For One.

He knew that All For One was powerful so he didn't face him head on at first. Instead he searched and took down the empire he had built over the years. Slowly but surely the evil sorcerer's empire fell to his might, the redguard being determined to avenge his master and end this sorcerer’s madness. Soon the time came when the symbol of hope stood before All For One with his blade gripped tightly in his hands, his knuckles white and teeth clenched tight as blue eyes stared down the sorcerer.

“so you're the new bearer of the sword that was created by me and my younger brother? I do indeed remember you All Might. I remember seeing you there as I destroyed the last holder of that sword. She was a pathe-”

“she was a true hero don't you DARE taint her name you monster!! I have come to avenge her and finally bring you to justice!!” The redguard roared out, his rage consuming him whole as he charged at the sorcerer who only sighed before getting ready to fight.

“I really thought we could have talked more All Might. Oh well if you're in such a hurry to fight me and meet your demise I will gladly grant that wish..”

And so All Might and All For One clashed in a battle that truly was fit for legend. The two of them fought for what seemed like an eternity until All Might slowly emerged from the rubble of the battlefield, beaten and bloody but what he thought to be victorious. Using the blade as a crutch the redguard limped away from the battlefield to seek aid for his wounds as he was too weak to use his own healing spells, not noticing that the evil sorcerers fingers started to twitch. It would seem that this great evil would not be defeated so easily…

Toshinori smiled softly at his victory and felt he had avenged his master and she could rest in peace as he had stumbled onto Torino's doorstep before passing out, the mentor helping the symbol inside and start to nurse him back to health. The days turned to weeks which then turned to months, the hero having suffered numerous injuries but thankfully was still alive. Torino was furious at him for going alone to fight All For One but simply shook his head and told him

“toshinori someone like All For One cannot be defeated so easily. You may be the first bearer of One For All that's been able to go against him head on but it doesn't mean that this war is over. It just means we won this battle for now. He will come back one day. In this time of peace now that he has been stopped for now it would be best to search for a successor to the blade in case the worst comes to pass when he does return…”

5 years had passed since that fight and since he had heeded his mentor's words. He could feel the change in the air as he was on the hunt for a new bearer of the sword One For All. A change that meant that new challenges would come and need to be faced head on. Gripping the blade tight in a scarried hand, blue eyes looked down on the city of Riften as it was his new home now, determined to find a worthy successor to the blade ‘One For All’ before time ran out and the sorcerer All For One would rise again to try and take back what was once his..

Ooc: wooooohhhh I finally finished the skyrim Au! Hope that you all like this backstory cause I'm really proud of this one!👍❤😊

#ooc #skyrim au #verse:Skyrim #backstory

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eeveevie · 6 years ago

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Returned Goods (2/3)

“Do you know how rare it is for a thief to return stolen goods?”

A game, a secret, and the return: a story of fate told in three parts.

Brynjolf x F! Dovahkiin

previous | next

1423 (chapter) | Teen+ | Ao3

PART TWO: THE SECRET

Cyrodiil, 4E 198

He was down to his last lockpick.

Brynjolf cursed under his breath and paused in what had to be his eighth attempt to unlock the door. Even if he did manage to break the lock and secure a few valuable items, he swore he would never set foot in the damned city again. He had been there for too long, and out of the twelve jobs he had managed to find, only two were successful.

If you can count a handful of septims and worthless junk successful, he thought.

He came too close to being caught on the last attempted burglary, and was stopped by more than a few guards for looking suspicious. Brynjolf wondered how the Cyrodiil thieves and their Gray Fox accomplished anything under such scrutiny. With the bad luck he was having, maybe there was something to Delvin’s theory about a curse plaguing the Riften Guild.

Brynjolf should’ve left when he had the chance, but he was stubborn. He couldn’t admit defeat and found himself trying to turn his luck around. He found the castle by happenstance, the large building hard to miss on his way to the Skyrim border. It wasn’t until he slipped onto the grounds that he learned it was filled with rich nobles attending a wedding, their gold and valuables ripe for the taking.

His lockpick nearly snapped as he tested the lock once more. He was damn close to smashing it open with his dagger in frustration, but gave that a second thought when he heard a patrol of guards heading his way. He quickly slipped into a dark corner of the hall, hiding his body behind a few barrels and spider webs.

“Groom’s chambers,” one of the guards stated, and motioned for the other to stand against the wall next to the locked door. “Do not leave this post until dawn.”

“Aye,” the grunt replied.

Even though it was only one guard, Brynjolf knew it was unwise to try and subdue him. The thought of being arrested and spending even one night in a tiny prison cell was… less than appealing. Whatever was behind that door wasn’t worth it.

Well, shit—his mind raced with a thousand more curses as he switched his focus to getting out of the castle unnoticed. He’d deal with the embarrassment of returning to the Cistern with no spoils. He was used to Delivn’s teasing and Mercer’s ire. It wouldn’t take him long to make up the cost of this trip.

Brynjolf carefully made his way down the hall in the opposite direction of the guard, keeping low to the ground and in the shadows. At the end of the hall there was a solitary locked door. With nowhere else to go, he crouched down and rolled his last lockpick between his fingers, as if offering a small prayer to whichever God would listen. It only took a few seconds for the lock to click open, and Brynjolf felt a wave of relief hit him. He slipped through the doorway with a grin, locking it behind him for good measure.

The room he found himself in was large; fitting for a castle and a fancy noble wedding. He scanned for another exit but only found a balcony, the large window-doors propped open to a view of the Imperial City in the distance. A summer breeze floated in, the fine linen curtains hypnotizing as he continued surveying the room for valuables. Brynjolf wasn’t leaving this place empty handed. He froze when his eyes landed on a figure laying in the large canopy bed—a woman. The bride?

He found himself momentarily distracted as he tried to see her face through the drapery and darkness. For a brief moment he contemplated taking her for ransom. A noble bride abducted on the eve of her wedding day could fetch him a considerable amount of gold—if he wasn’t caught. If his already questionable morals were any worse, he would’ve already thrown her over his shoulder. Brynjolf was a thief through and through, but he was no bandit.

Something glimmered out of the corner of his eye and he turned away from the bed and woman.

Jackpot.

Brynjolf nearly laughed aloud as he saw the pile of gems and gold filling the nearby strongbox. Who would leave this in plain view? He had to hesitate, wondering if it was all a trick. But there were no traps, only treasure. There were other valuables strewn about the table with a pile of opened letters in the center. His smile grew larger as he realized he would be stealing from the wedding gifts. These people seemed rich enough—they surely wouldn’t miss a few material possessions.

He fit as much as he could into a sack, ensuring it wasn’t too heavy or suspicious looking for him to transport on the long journey home. He entertained himself again with the thought of the woman sleeping only a few steps away. Nothing too impure, but he would be remised if he didn’t attempt to see her for himself. Brynjolf placed his pack of stolen goods on the table before quietly sneaking towards the bed. Behind the lace drapes he found a young lass, no older than twenty years. One arm outstretched across the empty side of the bed, the other cresting across her chest.

She was pretty, as far as Brynjolf could tell. With light hair and fair skin, he had to wonder if she was even an Imperial. Everybody else in the castle was. This woman certainly seemed out-of-place amongst the other inhabitants of the castle he had come across. The idea of taking her with him back to Skyrim floated through his mind again and he smirked. Rescuing a fellow Nord from an arranged marriage and a life of boredom in Cyrodiil. She would have much more fun with the Guild—with him.

Brynjolf couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. He should’ve never read that sappy romance novel Vex had left in the Flaggon. He was no storybook hero—he was one of Skyrim’s best thieves and he had a job to finish. Just as he was about to leave her he noticed the shimmer of blue on her outstretched hand. Sapphires set on a silver band—a wedding ring. Brynjolf instinctively reached for it but hesitated, and didn’t know why.

He looked at her face again, blonde hair obscuring most of her features as she slept. The bustle of footsteps in the hall snapped Brynjolf out of his daze. There was a guard at the door he had broken through, loudly commanding for a key so they could enter. The bride began to stir, and Brynjolf grabbed her hand. He slipped the ring off as she pulled away from him, her eyes fluttering open at the noise of the guards. He secured the ring in his chest pocket before rushing back to the table, throwing the sack of loot over his shoulder. The threat of imminent danger made his adrenaline run—he loved the thrill.

He dashed to the balcony, taking one moment to calculate his escape. It wasn’t too far of a jump to the ground, and the nearby lake would be a perfect place to hide and slow down any pursuers. The door finally burst open and guards began to fill the room, startling the woman from her bed. Brynjolf gripped the curtain tight in his hand as he jumped onto the railing, turning back to laugh at the guards as they rushed after him, the startled bride in tow. He winked at her, not caring if she didn’t even see his face, and jumped.

The curtain slowed his decent enough that when he landed on the ground, he wouldn’t lose his footing. He zig-zagged towards the water, blessing the Divines as he found an unoccupied rowboat. Brynjolf didn’t waste any time pushing it into the water. The current was strong, and he nearly missed as he threw the pack and himself into the boat. He could hear the sound of guards scrambling, but as he glanced back, they were running in the opposite direction. He was safe.

Brynjolf abandoned the boat further downstream, pleased he had been carried closer to the border than he could’ve asked for. There was a spring in his step as he headed towards the snowy mountains, and he reached for the ring in his pocket. The sapphire stones gleamed in the moonlight, and he smiled contently to himself.

His luck had been restored.

#crab cakes #elder scrolls: skyrim #brynjolf #brynjolf x f!dovahkiin #brynjolf x fiona #female dovahkiin #short story #a crab writes

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valtheimm · 6 years ago

Note

Eris - 3, 18, 23, 43; Rhea - 15, 17, 28, 37; Thalion, if you like - 29, 34;

💗💖💝💟💓💕💞 i lov you, thank you for asking about them all!!! Sorry i can’t put this under read-more from mobile, rhis is long.

ERIS:

3. What kind of things is your OC allergic to?

People's bullshit.

18. What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths?

The fear of loosing control over herself, over her mind, soul and fate. The fear of screwing up relationships because she is not good with them. Really dark nights and fire.

Relationships with people probably. She’s afraid people will slip through her fingers if she doesn’t tell them Important Things They Want to Hear (she still struggles with what are those?). She’s used to be alone but now that she has Rhea she’s afraid to lose her (not in a physical sense even) and it drives her insane. She is too straightforward and it may irk people too. All in all, if she’s not thoroughly monitoring her conversation (which she has to usually do), she’s afraid to screw up.

She doesn’t like the role of the leader which everyone sees her in. She likes to be important, but do it from the shadow, but with everyone knowing that in fact it’s her who’s doing all the work anyway. She is not arrogant, she is very carreful about that, but she likes to be appreciated. She is constantly improving her mind and body. She likes learning. She looks cold but is compationate and kind inside.

23. What is a random fact about your OC?

She is in a poly relationship with Rhea and Miraak, but she is asexual to like 90%. But she does like to dom 👀

43. What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said?

She lives on Lake Ilinalta not far from Bleak Falls barrow. So there was a moment when she finally brought Miraak home from Apocrypha and Solstheim. He was in no state to fight but being an arrogant twat he is he still went ‘exploring’. She warned him about that and told him to wear some armor. He didn’t.So after being whooped by some bandits at the barrow a dragon landed there and whooped his ass even more. Eris showed up by that time and politely got rid of said dragon. So that’s the context.

*after slapping Miraak across the face with her armored glove* 'Listen to me carefully, you idiot. I know it’s hard for you to understand that you are not an all-powerful being after what Mora did to you, but please *try*. You don’t get to kill yourself. The bandits don’t get to kill you. A dragon doesn’t get to kill you. Only i get to kill you. But after what i went through to bring you back i’m not going to. I’ll just make your life miserable. Believe me, i can do that. So it’s either you heed my advices or we are doing this the hard way. I am giving you a choice’.

RHEA:

15. If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why?

Oooh, Rhea had a skrib, Sir Screamsalot, but he died valiantly fighting DB assassins. There was a more than proper ammount of mourning and she was afraid of getting attached to another pet, because it’s too painfull. But after she met durzogs in Mournhold sewers she fell in love instantly and eventually found an abandonned puppy who she tamed and raised. I need to know how long durzogs live to properly insert him in my timeline.

Also she has two skeletons living in the cave she appropriated. She calls them Fibus and Tibus, prefers not to fight them and if she does, resurrects them. They are her guardians.

17. How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job?

In Morrowind she is a part-time adventurer, which includes scavenging, looting and trading. Also she’s a pearl-diver, dreugh-fighter, and a shitty alchemist. And she fights for House Redoran.

In Cyrodiil she lived in Skingrad, worked as a baker and adored that job. It’s still her dream job. In Mournhold she saw a bakery she fell in love with instantly and cried bitter tears because she couldn’t abandon it all and just enroll as an apprentice (although she’s far from an apprentice, her shit is Good).

But now in Skyrim she lives a quite life, tending to a small garden and making less shitty potions, plus trading various goods with caravans. A lot of those goods are illegal, expencive or both. That is before Eris comes in. Now Rhea built an entire network using her previous connections and sells all those incredible items Eris brings all over Skyrim, plus gets her hands on Cyrodiil. People fight for her stuff. She meets her sister. It’s all very dramatic.

28. What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions?

Just a shaky leggy like her sis. No addictions.

37. What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do?

Kills gods.

THALION:

29. If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose?

'Do i look like a woman who dies?’

34. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually?

Answered before, i can’t copy it here, sorry 💓

#thank you so much this was amazing!!! #asks #/er/ #/rhe/ #/thal/

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kingcullywully · 7 years ago

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Always the Hero

You were always the hero.

Doing adventurous and dangerous quests to the most simplest and menial tasks. From traveling to a realm filled with spirits in different shapes and beings alike to finding an amulet for a citizen’s one love.

Always acting for others, always wanting to please and to calm. Never relaxing, never sleeping, always tired and wanting to act the sloth and just lay in your bed all day.

Yet always filled with energy, wanting to find new ruins or quests to do. Always fighting, adrenaline singing in your veins, eyes wide and lips curved in a rare grin when you find something new and unknown, thinking in your mind on why you would want to rest when there is so much more to explore.

You were Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn.

The Honoured Thane of all Skyrim, Harbinger of the Companions, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Listener and Leader of the Dark Brotherhood, Guild-Master of the Thieves Guild, Member of the Bards College, Beloved Apprentice of the Greybeards, Vampire Lord of the Volkihar Clan, Savior of Solstheim, The Victorious Conqueror of Solitude, Peacemaker, Stormblade, Champion of the Nine Divines and Champion of some Daedric Princes, Dragon Priest Slayer, Honorary Member of the Moth Priests, Dwemer Expert, Bounty and Treasure Hunter, Master of the Thu'um, and Vanquisher of the World-Eater Alduin.

So many titles, so many burdens upon your shoulders. Everyone looks to you with hope or fear in their gazes, because of how much power you bear and the many ways you can use it. The responsibilities were endless, always stressed, always tense, always trying to stay two steps ahead of the enemy;whether real or in your mind.

Always rescuing. Yet always killing. Always giving. Yet always stealing. Always finding friends. Yet always being betrayed. A constant cycle, a cycle that has long been in the spectrum of different shades of grey. No longer are actions and choices black and white. Some days you find yourself choosing a light grey, always soothing for your heart that is always being cracked. Always warm.

Other days your choices are too dark, too dirty. Your silence was the strongest those days, for you were screaming in your mind at this madness. Surely you will become mad! The thought of joining Sheogorath in his realm scared you those days. But then you calmed yourself, remembering how the Daedric Prince was, and how you couldn’t help but smile when you were temporarily in his realm for that quest. The Prince was odd and certainly mad, but he was fun and interesting. With this, the darkness soon washes away, but it never gets rid of the stain in your mind and heart.

All these actions, all these choices, all these titles and groups that were yours for you were their trusted and valuable leader.

And yet, at the end of the day, you were just (Y/N). Friends with your once superiors now followers. Even friends with at least two Daedric Princes and friends of dragons. That’s all you wished to be, yet you were so much more.

So much more then you wanted. You never wanted this, never wanted to be the fated hero and savior of the world like something out of a story or legend.

But you were. You’re a hero. A legend.

The day you defeated Alduin you knew Sovngarde would be where you would rest once you die, if not Alduin, then surely all the other tasks you have accomplished. Regardless of race, you knew this.

You’re so much. Yet you did not want to be such.

The day came where you had enough of Skyrim. Where you already explored every ruin, every cave, every rune for a new Shout, every village, every city, every island, every possible realm you can enter, and even every crevice no matter how small.

You were here for so long, surely you would miss your now and only home? The place that held so many comrades, young and old, from Khajit to Nord, mortal or immortal, would you leave them?

Your answer that was before just long and hesistant consideration is now a strong yes in your mind.

You wish to see something new. Not the same land filled with so much sadness and pain, yet happy times and victory. You seek new adventures that would make your blood sing, for it has been long since a quest made you feel such. For menial tasks always made your eyes dead, gait sluggish for you were bored. The gratitude though from the person who asked, made you feel better. The reward of money was now just a plus, a plus that you are growing to believe is unneeded for there is not much of anything you wish to buy in this land. Not anymore.

So you went to the best port of Skyrim, which is in the coast of Solitude. Thankfully the Dainty Sload was still there, for it was the ship you have chosen to carry you in this unique adventure. You climbed aboard, familiarizing yourself once more about the vessel that used to be home of the Corsairs. You knew how to control a ship, and you are sure you will be able to handle it by yourself. Once you were ready, you gazed at Skyrim for one final time. As well as Tamriel.

You do not want to be in this country, believing the other provinces would just be filled with nothing but the same like Skyrim. You want something completely new, completely strange.

You want something unknown.

For even though you deny it, you are an adventurer, therefore a hero. Always excited at new lands, new people, and new quests. It’s just you did not enjoy how others looked at you afterwords. Their awefilled gazes, with hope shining in their pupils as they asked for more favors always expecting for you to succeed because you are the legend, the Dragonborn.

Your gaze was sad as you looked at Solitude, the only city that will see you off. If you had a choice, you would rather see off Whiterun. But alas, Whiterun is near no ocean nor rivers that will eventually lead to one. You gazed at the architecture, your well trained and farseeing eyes taking everything in. You turned, quickly.

Not wanting your mind to think of the prisoners of the Civil War under the Blue Palace, nor of Viarmo the Headmaster of the Bard’s College, or the children who enjoyed playing tag and hide and seek with you.

You prepared the sails to distract yourself from your memories, when your ear twitched.

“Wait!”

Your eyes widened, recognizing the voice, and turned. There was your friend, Serana staring at you with those yellow orange eyes of hers with confused betrayal underneath her pulled up hood to protect her from the sun as she stood at the wooden pier. You stared, not expecting her to be here. You told her to go back home and stay at her castle. Why is she here? That is what you asked, and it caused her fists to clench.

“Why am I here?! You’re leaving! You were going to leave and just leave me here alone. How could you do that?!” The vampire’s voice cracked, eyes filled with tears refused to fall. It made your cracked heart break a little more.

“You weren’t going to be alone, Garen is there as well as the others even though their company can be rather sour—“

She interrupted with a fierce glare and snarl.

“You know that is not what I meant! And at this point, I know you more then I know them. You are my only family left (Y/N). The only one I can fully trust and not use me, who truly cares for me.” You knew she was talking about her mother, Valerica who put Serana to sleep for thousands of years without explaining. The statement only made your brows furrow with emotion. “But then you left me. I know you, how you are. Just like you know me and how I hate being alone. You…” the woman looked down to the ground, pausing, there was a pained silence between the two of you. When she looked up, you tried to not jump off the ship and hug her tight.

“You…you were going to leave me. And never come back.”

She was crying. And your will of leaving this land wavered for a moment.

Only for the littlest of moments.

“You know there is nothing left for me to do here. You say you know me, then you know why I’m doing this.”

‘To escape. To learn. For freedom. For adventure. To forget.’

You continued.

“Skyrim…I have done what I could here. And with what I did with Alduin, I have done enough for Tamriel as well. There’s more to this world then this country, I know there is.” You turned your eyes to the sea, (e/c) eyes distant. Mind in a whirl on just how much different other places are from Tamriel. “I wish to leave this place.” You turned your head back, noticing that Serana was quickly climbing up to the ship. You rose your brow with a disapproving frown.

“What are you doing?” She looked at you with blazing orange eyes, pausing on her movement up the rope ladder on the side of the ship.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No. You are not. It’s too dangerous—“

“And it isn’t dangerous for you?!” She was now on the ship, getting close to your body with her finger waving at your chest. “You think just cause you’ve done all these things that you cannot die? You don’t even know much about the other continents of this world. Of Akavir, Thras, Pyandonea, and Atmora. As well as the destroyed Yokuda and Aldmeris. I can take care of myself, and we have plenty of Bloodcursed Elven Arrows if things become too much. Do you not have faith in my capabilities?”

You do. She’s quite a fighter. It’s just what you seek is something even more outrageous then Serana believes.

“Don’t misunderstand Serana. I know how strong you are, it’s just…I wish for the unknown, my friend. This world, it’s grand isn’t it?” You began walking around, motioning your hands to your sides, your voice slowly getting more animated. “So much mystery, so many places lost as well as races like the Dwemer and Snow Elves who sadly became Falmer. The majority of races came to Tamriel from somewhere else, somewhere beyond. And we don’t even know where some of these lands are! Or if there’s more areas then we think with their own inhabitants!” You looked at her, eyes sparkling with an excited grin. Serana was gazing at you oddly, for seeing you so cheerful about subjects or other these days did not happen often. Her eyes then slowly widened in realization.

“You want to discover a new continent…go to Aldmeris or Yokuda?!” At your silence, lips staying in a smile, she grabbed your shoulders. “That is madness, who knows how long we will be out in the sea with no food and constantly in the sun with no water? Or if we even land somewhere? The inhabitants might be dangerous or more bloodthirsty then my father.” You held back your tongue that you are just as dangerous or even more so with how much you’ve accomplished. As well as say that you may have a touch of madness. “There’s so much risk in this, you really think you cannot die?”

You paused, tilting your head as you gazed at your close female friend that was once the daughter of Harkon. You thought on her words.

Can you die? You’ve been so close numerous times, but that was during your early days of your arrival to Skyrim. You remember the fear, the confusion of this new region and the number of dragons and people wanting your head. It’s been a long time though, you’ve matured and very much experienced with all sorts of enemies.

So, can you die?

“…I don’t know. I do know that this is possible and there’s more to this world then three continents. And,” you grinned slightly, “risks make things fun.”

You stunned Serana into silence, whether from how you aren’t sure if you can die or how you seem to want to find out if you can with this adventure. You thought the danger would make her walk away and leave this ship. And she did walk away. Only towards the main sail and prepare it. You sighed, seeing that she’s determined to follow although you disapprove and are positive you will only worry for her.

But a part of your shattered heart grew warm that you will have someone here with you in this journey. Even though you are positive the woman will complain about the environment till your ears will fall off. What can you say? People who were stubborn and determined always captured your respect and interest, especially if they look at you sadly and ask for favors.

You were always the hero. Always wanting to please and to soothe.

When you made sure there were enough supplies for the both of you, whether food that was salted or items to help purify water as well as good and your precious weapons, the both of you were off.

You did not look back, even when Serana made a comment as she looked at the now faraway city of Solitude.

“Skyrim always was beautiful and had amazing weather…I’m going to miss it.”

‘Me too.’

22 notes · View notes

the-writing-kestrel-blog · 8 years ago

Text

An Argonian Adoption

This is a series of vignettes about the life of an Argonian warrior and his unlikely adoption of a small human child. I wrote this as a reaction to the bizarre way Skyrim’s children approach the Dragonborn in the game. It started out as a one-off gag and evolved into a 7500 words story, because I suck at brevity. If you like Skyrim, stories about culture shock, or bipedal talking lizards, read on! Warning: some violence and gore, but mostly humor and fluff. 1. In Which Our Hero Encounters a Most Strange Creature

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian stopped abruptly at those words. Turning slowly, not willing to believe what he was hearing, he brought his baleful, reptilian gaze to bear upon a small, grimy, wretched human girl-hatchling.

She had the usual human features – bizarrely flat face, protruding nose, gigantic flaps for ears (not unlike the mammoths he encountered out on the plain). Her hair was long, and it was obvious some attempt had been made to keep it in check, but to an Argonian all hair looked strange and slightly repugnant.

“What did you ask me, human child?” The Argonian hissed, incredulous.

“Will you be my father?” The question was more plaintive this time. The little thing dug the toe of her ragged shoe in the dirt as she averted her eyes. “Please?”

The Argonian had a name that could not be pronounced without a prehensile tongue and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, but in the common Imperial tongue it was roughly translated as “Runs-On-Water”. Even among his own people he was considered to be independent and aloof, and here in Skyrim among the tiresome Nords he was ever more so.

His answer was as could be expected.

“No.”

He turned abruptly and walked away. A few steps later, he looked back over his shoulder, his gill-slits itching slightly as they did when he was being followed. To his shock, the little girl was following him!

“What do you want, human child?”

“Why are you wearing that armour in town?” The girl asked.

The Argonian stared at her. The mismatch of steel plate and chainmail he currently wore was spattered generously with dried blood and gore, the leather straps dried and brittle from the heat of dragon-fire. “What?”

“Your armour! Why do you wear it in town? Do you not have any clothes?”

The Argonian shrugged (a human movement he had grudgingly grown to like for its expressiveness). “No point in going anywhere without armour in this vile country.” Runs-on-Water muttered.

“...Ok,” the girl replied. “Can I have a septim? I want to buy some bread. I haven't eaten in days. Please?”

The Argonian hissed in annoyance and reached for his purse with a clawed hand. “If I give you five septims, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“Yes, sir!”

Runs-on-Water counted out the septims, placed them in the girl's hand, and leaned his reptilian head towards her until he was inches from her face. “Now. Leave.”

The girl squealed and scampered off. Runs-on-Water snorted and turned away. One of the guards was scowling at him. He made a gesture with his claw that implied the Nord's entire clutch were honourless bastards, but the cultureless human didn't understand.

Runs-on-Water stalked away, in a fouler mood than usual, heading to the armourer to get his armour cleaned and repaired.

* * *

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian whirled on the small human child. It was the second time she had snuck up on him in three days. This time, he'd just arrived back in town, hauling a huge bag of charred dragon bones over one shoulder. He was in a foul mood again – lugging hundreds of pounds of dragon bone down from the mountains did that to a lizard – and was in no mood for the child's games.

“Listen, tiny human hatchling. Look at me! What do you see?”

The girl looked up at him – Runs-on-Water knew what filled her gaze. A mottled green and brown reptilian face, eyes the colour of old blood, a half open maw filled with teeth, and a frill of spines protruding from the back of his head and neck.

The girl smiled sunnily at him. “The nice Argonian that gives me money for food every time he comes to town, and fights dragons and bandits and trolls to keep us all safe!”

Runs-on-Water was speechless. He fought dragons because the Hist-forsaken things seemed to stalk him wherever he went these days, and he killed bandits mostly for loot and because they were an inconvenience to him as he went from town to town. He didn't remember killing any trolls lately, but he killed a lot of things and it was possible he was just forgetting.

This impudent hatchling seemed to think he was doing this for her benefit!

“I am an Argonian warrior of Black Marsh. I am descended from Wades-through-Blood, who delved into the Oblivion Gates to fight the Daedra in their own lands. He was descended from Steps-In-Excrement, who defeated Dagoth Ur at the heart of Red Mountain in Morrowind. Why do you think I am your father?”

The little girl laughed! She laughed right in his face!

“I don't think you ARE my father, I want you to BE my father!” She said. “That's why I like you. You're so silly.”

Runs-on-Water, smelling strongly of fire, dragon's blood, and the reek of the road, was at a loss.

“My parents are dead,” The girl went on, oblivious. She went on tearfully. “My mama died not too long ago... My uncle and aunt took over our farm, but they said I wasn't good for anything, so they threw me out. So I have nowhere to go. I was able to beg for a while to get by but...people have stopped giving me money, or even food. You're the only one who helps anymore...so I thought....maybe, since you're the only one that cared...”

The girl looked up at him. She'd deflated during her story, going from a sunny child stating her fate matter-of-factly to a desperate, despairing orphan. Her thin, fragile mask had crumpled right in front of his eyes. Even for Runs-on-Water, who had trouble reading human expressions, it was obvious that the girl was barely keeping things together.

“Your Aunt and Uncle...” The Argonian warrior said.

“Yes?”

“They are honourless scum. To turn away a clutch-mate's spawn in need is a vile sin. In Black Marsh we would have gutted them and hung them from the highest branches of the Hist Trees, as atonement for their dishonour.”

The girl shuffled uncomfortably. “That's...nice?”

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water said. “It is an appropriate fate for those of that ilk. You backwards savages do nothing about such behaviour. It makes me want to vent my poison gland.” The Argonian shook his head. “I must deal with some merchants. When I have sold my goods, I will give you some money for food.” “Oh, would you? Thank you so much!”

Runs-on-Water showed his teeth. “Do not thank me. I do only what is just. Perhaps you barbarians can learn how to be truly civilized, if I but set the example.”

Later that evening, he sent the girl on her way with a coin purse filled with 20 septims. He watched the girl go. Her name was Lucia (what strange names these humans had!) and she told him she was nine years old. He thought back to when he was her age. Climbing trees with his brothers and sisters in the Hist swamp, hunting alligators with spears and poison, taunting slaughterfish. Good, clean Argonian fun, watched over by the dozens of Argonians that lived in his village. No Argonian hatchling ever begged, or went hungry. Not while the Hist spoke their guidance in every reptilian ear. Not when the bonds of clutch and nest held strong.

Skyrim was truly a wretched place. He would have to do something about it.

* * *

2. In which Severio Pelagio Receives Many Compliments on his Fine Property

Severio Pelagio awoke to the sound of someone rummaging around downstairs. A thrill of fear went through him – he grabbed the cudgel he kept by his bedside, scrambled out of bed, and crept downstairs to confront the thief. He might get murdered, or worse, robbed, but he couldn't just sleep upstairs while he let some scummy criminal (probably a Khaajit!) take all his hard-won gold!

When he reached the main floor, he shouted into the darkness. “Who's there? I'll have you know I'm armed, and I have no problems killing a man if I need to! Show yourself, thief!”

A deeper shadow loomed out of the darkness. Severio could just make out the gleam of steel armour, and the red glow of demonic eyes.

Severio whimpered.

“This is a lovely house,” hissed a reptilian voice.

“What?” Severio stammered. “...what?”

“This house is lovely,” the voice repeated, with an odd emphasis on the s. “And you also have a lovely farm, yes? Inherited from your sister, who died tragically not so long ago?”

“Uh...” Severio had expected the thief to flee, or strike him, not compliment him on his real estate investments. “Uh, yes. Both...lovely.”

“It would be a great shame if this house were to burn to the ground. It would be a great shame if the farm were to burn to the ground as well. It would be a great shame if the fields were sown with powdered dragon bone so nothing would ever grow there again. Is this not so?”

“Are you threatening me?” Severio asked, incredulous.

“A great shame,” the reptilian continued, looming even closer, “If someone were to break into your house in the middle of the night, gut you, and hang you from a tree to atone for your dishonour. Yes?”

“Yes! No!” Severio gasped. “What do you want?”

“Your niece. When she comes of age, this farm will be hers. You will make writings that tell everyone it will be so, witnessed by the Jarl. You will care for this farm until such time as she takes it over. Then, when she does, you will leave Whiterun and never return. If you do not do this, I believe a great many shameful things will happen here. Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Then we are understanding each other.”

The reptilian shadow seemed to simply melt into the darkness, and Severio was alone.

He wondered if he could rouse a scribe and a lawyer at this time of night.

* * *

3. In Which Whiterun Learns a Lesson in Argonian Manners

A week later, Runs-on-Water wandered into Whiterun. As usual, the residents gave him a wide, respectful berth. He had done a great many odd jobs, bounties, and other tasks involving violence-for-gold around the city, and so while he wasn't loved, he was granted an amount of honour that most Argonians in Skyrim couldn't dream of.

Runs-on-Water was sure that the armour and the massive two-handed sword helped somewhat.

Lucia, as usual, wove her way through the crowds and towards him. “Hello! Kill any dragons today?”

“No, not today. Only a pack of wolves, four bandits, and a troll.” Runs-on-Water hefted the sack over his shoulder, full of bloody trophies.

“Awesome!” She chirped. The girl had lost the waifish, hungry look in just the past week. Runs-on-Water suppressed an uncharacteristic warm feeling at that knowledge – his septims were feeding the girl well, it seemed.

“You are eating well?” He asked.

“Yes, sir! And I still have plenty hidden away, just in case. I think I have enough to eat for a week!”

Runs-on-Water felt a pang of sadness. The poor girl looked on such a meagre existence as a gift. It was not right.

He made a snap decision.

“Come with me,” He said.

“Okay!”

After selling the wolf pelts (for half price – the massive sword-cuts into the hides hadn't helped in that regard) and the weapons and armour of the unfortunate bandits, he turned towards Dragonsreach, occupying the highest pinnacle of Whiterun.

“Are you going to see the Jarl?” Lucia asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water replied.

“Can I come?”

“Yes. It is necessary.”

The girl squealed in excitement. “I've never been in Dragonsreach before!”

When the Argonian stalked into the main hall at Dragonsreach, the men and women seated at the heavy wooden tables in the torchlit lower hall looked up. It was a diverse group – men and women in armour, some in rich clothes, and a few in the thick robes of mages and wizards. They quickly lost interest, returning to their rich meals and plentiful mead. The dimly-lit stone keep saw it's fair share of the armoured lizard in his comings and goings – he worked often for the Jarl and others in Dragonsreach, and he was nearly a fixture there.

For his part, Runs-on-Water ignored the humans (for the most part, they all looked the same to him) and headed up the steps to the throne to speak to the Jarl.

Jarl Balgruuf was sprawled in his throne, bored, while two of his pin-headed advisors jousted verbally in front of him, as if for his amusement. His head of security, Irileth. fully armoured and hand on her sword, glowered from nearby. She and the Argonian exchanged nods: Runs-on-Water respected the Dunmer woman, but had no use for the rest of Balgruuf's sycophants. For her part, Irileth did not seem to have the usual prejudice Dark Elves had for Argonians. Runs-on-Water returned the favour.

Runs-on-Water stepped unceremoniously between the two arguing advisors and stared down at the idle Jarl.

“Yes, Dragonborn? What do you need?” He asked. This was what Runs-on-Water liked about the Jarl – he didn't stand on ceremony when things needed to be done.

“I wish to buy a house,” he said.

The Jarl frowned. “Oh? I suppose something can be arranged. Speak with my steward-”

“I wish to buy a house now,” Runs-on-Water said, and dropped a heavy sack of gold at the Jarl's feet. “Your steward is a weasel, and I do not like him. He may handle the money, but we will not have words together.”

“Dragonborn, you have done much for Whiterun, but I must demand courtesy-”

“I would also like to make a statement. I would like your scribes to make words that repeat my statement, so that all in Whiterun may read the words of the Dragonborn. Honourable Jarl, you know I do not make many requests, so I ask that you grant this to me.”

The Jarl narrowed his eyes, then summoned a scribe with a flick of his hand. “I will grant this to you, Dragonborn, as a token of my respect. But do not push me further.”

“Thank you, but I promise nothing,” Runs-on-Water said, then turned to the scribe. “Do you speak Argonian?”

“No,” the skinny, robed man squeaked, quaking under the Dragonborn's gaze.

“This will make things difficult. So much lost in translation. No matter. I will get the point across. Make my words here on that paper. I, Runs-on-Water, Dragonborn, descendent of Wades-through-Blood, descendent of Steps-in-Excrement, lay a charge on the people of Whiterun: You are all honourless scum, of the lowest kind imaginable. You reek of vile sin.”

The hall fell silent. The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock.

“You live in plenty while hatchlings roam the street, hungry and without shelter. You break the covenant of the Clutch and the Nest and do not even have the decency to feel shame. Not even the most wretched of my people, in the depths of skooma addiction, would fall to such a level.

“I, Runs-on-Water, must teach you decency. With Jarl Balgruuf as my witness, let it be known that from this day, the young orphan Lucia of Whiterun, who was left to beg and starve on the streets, is my hatchling. She is blood of my blood, clutch of my clutch, and whoever speaks against this will face my wrath. Any harm that comes to her will be repaid tenfold. Any who gainsay me on this will be gutted and hung on the nearest tree in atonement for their dishonour.”

Somewhere in the hall, a spoon fell with a dull thunk. All else was silence.

“Read that back, scribe,”

In a quivering voice, the scribe repeated the proclamation back, word for word. Runs-on-Water nodded. “Thank you, Jarl, for indulging me.”

The Jarl just nodded dumbly.

Runs-on-Water turned to Lucia, who stood stock still, her eyes wide. “Well, hatchling?”

The girl broke into a wide smile and jumped into the air, throwing her arms around the Argonian's neck. “Papa!” She yelled, then, muffled in his shoulder. “Ow. You're spikier than I thought you'd be.”

Runs-on-Water patted her gingerly on the back. “I am sorry, Hatchling. It is my nature.”

Finally, in the silence of the hall, the steward spoke up. “As to the house you wish to purchase...did you, by any chance, want some furnishings with that?”

Runs-on-Water glared at the steward. “I shall furnish it myself, weasel.”

Perhaps predictably, no-one gainsayed him.

4.In Which The Dragonborn Dabbles in Crafting

“Can I come see yet, Papa?”

“Patience, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water hissed in exasperation. “I am nearly done.”

Runs-on-Water found himself seized with a strange giddiness. The house he had purchased was dusty, drafty, and filled with cobwebs and insects. With minimal prodding and a few veiled threats, he had extracted some work from some of the locals, and the place was much cleaner now, if a bit empty of furnishings. In his many years on the road, he had slept in ditches, caves, tents and ruins. Now he had a house, and some deep part of his reptilian soul was nudging him to make it a home.

His hatchling's voice, muffled through the door, was continually pulling him from his reverie.

Finally, he was done. It had been exhausting work – he would sun himself on the roof this afternoon and try and regain his energy. He beamed down at the results of his labours. He felt a welling of surprising feelings – a familial warmth, love, and pride, so different from his usual inveterate grouchiness.

It was disturbingly pleasant.

“Come, hatchling! You may see your room now!”

“Hooray!” she said, and rushed through the door, a wide smile on her face that quickly shifted and turned to confusion. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

The walls of the room were covered in vines, and long, snaking branches covered in moss and old-man's-beard. The earthen floor had been covered with almost a full inch of leaf litter and loam, and squished noticeably. Through a window partially obscured by vines, dim yellow sunlight filtered through to splash against a large flat stone in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner was what looked like a massive tangle of branches, grasses and vines, but on closer inspection it was more like a woven mattress, with a large depression in the middle.

Lucia looked up at her Argonian Papa. He was grinning down at her, his forked tongue flickering with pride. “I know it is not a proper nest,” he said, “There are no Hist trees outside of Black Marsh, and the soil here is thin, with no clay, so I could not construct a pond. But the nest is woven in the traditional manner, very comfortable. And the stone soaks up the sun well – you need not worry that your blood will cool with this stone in the room!” He leaned closer. “What do you think?”

Lucia looked around the room, back her Papa, then walked slowly over to sit on the edge of the nest. The intricate weaving was deceiving. What looked thorny and frightening was actually a soft, warm place of safety, a refuge from the world.

She looked back up at her new Papa. He was beginning to look anxious, twiddling his claws nervously.

She sighed and sank back into the nest with a smile. “It's perfect.”

Runs-on-Water's gills flared and the scales around his eyes flushed red. He was suffused with a warm glow. “I am glad you like it, Hatchling!”

5. In Which Lucia Learns to Always Read the Label

Runs-on-Water returned from the smith with a spring in his step. It had been a long day – two dragons had attacked him at once earlier in the day, and while the first one died with an arrow in it's eye, the second had taken much tedious hacking with his greatsword before expiring. He was looking forward to getting home, and seeing the Hatchling.

Much had changed in the past weeks. His nesting instincts had kicked in with a vengeance, and while he still wandered far and wide, he was now anxious to return to Whiterun in a way that he hadn't been before. He felt like he should be worried about going soft, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He opened the door to Breezehome and set his burden down next to the door. “Hatchling, I am back!”

Usually Lucia came running as soon as he was through the door. But today all he could hear was an out of tune humming from the hatchling's nest. “Hatchling? Is something wrong?”

Runs-on-Water approached the door, opening it slowly, and put his head in.

“Hatchling, are you- BY THE HIST!”

Lucia was curled up in her nest, grinning manically with wide eyes, arms wrapped tight around a ball of squirming, hissing brown fur. The giant brown rat – a skeever, the locals called them – was obviously nearly exhausted, but it wasn't giving up anytime soon.

“Papa, you're home!” giggled Lucia. “I caught a Unicorn! It tried to sneak in through the back door but I lassoed it with twisty words and some vines and I caught it and now it's mine! It's mane smells like rainbows!”

Runs-on-Water took one look at her dilated pupils the manic grin, and began casting about the room. His fears were confirmed a moment later – an empty vial lay on the floor. The Argonian picked it up gingerly – it was completely empty, not a drop left.

He rushed over to Lucia, yanked the raging skeever from her grip, and grabbed her face gently in a clawed hand. The skeever, hissing madly, scurried from the room.

“My unicorn!” Lucia shouted.

“Silence, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water snapped. “What have you done?”

Lucia went from laughing one moment to weeping inconsolably the next. “I slipped on the stairs and hurt myself, so I got a healing potion from the cupboard. I was only going to take a sip, but it tasted so nice, and i felt like I was flying...I'm sorry Papa!”

“Hatchling, that was not a healing potion. That was sap of the Hist! It is for Argonians, so that we may hear the whispers of the the Hist trees when we are far from the Old Country. It is very dangerous for humans! Tell, me quickly, am I your enemy?”

“No! You're my Papa!” she shouted tearfully.

“Good, good. Now, do you feel an overwhelming desire to murder anyone?”

“Of course not! Well, except for Braith. I hate her guts.” Lucia mused.

“Ah, yes. The bully. Those feelings are normal and healthy. But do not murder her. That would bring the attention of the guards.” Runs-on-Water leaned back with a sigh. It appeared the Hist sap was not having a bad effect on the child, though the Argonian couldn't understand why. Hist sap usually drove humans into a blind, murderous, hallucinogenic rage. In Lucia's case, it simply made her wish to cuddle giant rats.

“The effects of the sap will wear off soon,” Runs-on-Water told Lucia. “Until then, I will stay with you. Do not trust your senses. For example, you did not catch a unicorn, that was a skeever.”

“A skeever?”

“Yes. It is now somewhere in the house.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The Argonian and the human child sat in the nest for some time. After a while, her racing heart calmed, her eyes returned to normal, and her manic smile faded.

“Ugh. Papa, I feel awful,” Lucia moaned.

“This is an important lesson: do not drink your Papa's Hist-sap. It will do strange things to your mind. Humans cannot hear the whispers of the Hist, so there is no point.”

“But I did hear the whispers, Papa!” Lucia insisted from his lap.

Runs-on-Water's breath caught in his throat. His gills slammed shut. This was impossible! “What?” he whispered.

“The whispers! I heard them! At first it just sounded like branches moving in the wind, but later there were words! They spoke to me!” She insisted.

“...what did they say?” Runs-on-Water whispered urgently. He had to know if this was a true Hist-Sending.

“They said to tell you that you had done the right thing coming to Skyrim. That you were fulfilling the will of the Hist, and that your ancestors would be proud of you.”

Runs-on-Water swallowed painfully. “...and?”

“And they said not to be sad, but that you would never see Black Marsh again.”

Runs-on-Water bowed his head, taking deep breaths. He had known it, had felt it from his gills to the tip of his tail, on the day that he left, but he had not allowed himself to believe it. He would never see the marshes of Argonia again. He would never feel the caress of the humid air of the deep swamps. He swallowed a harsh sob, deep in his chest.

“They said that you would have to carry the Marsh with you, in your heart,” Lucia continued. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Runs-on-Water looked down at his hatchling, his blood-red eyes meeting her deep brown ones. This should not be possible. Only an Argonian should be able to hear the whispers. Only an Argonian should be able to drink of the Hist and keep their sanity.

But then, what had he said? Blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch. Was she not his hatchling now? Did that not make her an Argonian in all but flesh?

“I will teach you what it means to carry the Marsh with you, as it was taught to me when I was a hatchling. It will take...many years. A lifetime. It will be very difficult,” he said. “But we will do it together, hatchling, and that will make all the difference.

6. In Which Runs-on-Water Has the Talk with his Hatchling

The question came one night at dinner time, during a simple feast of venison stew and fresh bread (found in a nearby cave, as was usual).

“Papa, what were your parents like?” Runs-on-Water’s chest swelled, and the gill slits on his neck flared with pride. “My mother was a mighty warrior, with scales like steel, teeth like daggers and eyes that burned in the night-swamp. All three of my fathers were near to her equal in combat, and caught her eye with their skill with the spear and their cunning in battle, as well as the iridescence of their neck scales, aha! Their clutch was a bold one, and they are in my mind often.”

“Papa, did you say you have THREE fathers?” The human hatchling’s brow was furrowed – Runs-on-Water had learned that this meant that her brain was overheating. “How…how does that even work?”

Runs-on-Water chuckled. “Aha, I am always forgetting that your human females take only one mate! It is different in the Old Country, of course. In Argonia, our females prove their worthiness to spawn by deeds of might and cunning, and earn the right to choose mates from among the males. When the spawning season is nigh, the female and her males go into the Hist-swamps together…” The small child listened, eyes slowly widening, as Runs-on-Water explained, in unrelenting, graphic detail the breeding rites of the people of Argonia.

When he was done, Runs-on-Water beamed down at his adopted daughter. “It is a process both beautiful and majestic, yes?”

The child had a pale look about her – Runs-on-Water suspected her throat sacs were malfunctioning – he hoped she would grow out of it. “So…that’s where baby Argonians come from?”

“Hatchlings, yes!”

The girl blinked. “Do…do humans, um… make babies in the same way?”

Runs-on-Water waved a clawed hand absently. “I know little of human mating rituals- It is all so dramatic and strange. How can a worthy female be satisfied with a single drake, or worse yet, produce an acceptable brood of eggs if she has not tested his strength in open combat? But I assume that the ‘making babies’ itself is similar. Except that humans do it in the bedroom, under the covers, and they are obliged to feel shame after the fact.” The Argonian hissed his disapproval.

The girl-child took some time to digest this before speaking.

“Papa?”

“Yes, hatchling?”

“I think I want to be a nun.”

The Argonian was puzzled. Human children were strange creatures with strange minds. Runs-on-Water reached down and patted her on the shoulder. “I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to, hatchling.”

7. In Which Some Stormcloaks Are Exposed to Argonian Culture

Runs-on-Water stared down at the crudely-scrawled note in his claws, his heart cold with rage, his tail flicking violently in agitation. He read the note again.

The note was as brief as it was infuriating.

DRAGONBORN – WE HAVE RESCUED THE CHILD LUCIA FROM YOUR IMPRISONMENT. NO MORE WILL YOU CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY ARGONIAN WAYS. WHEN THE STORMCLOAKS ARE VICTORIOUS ALL YOUR KIND WILL BE CAST OUT FROM SKYRIM OR PUT TO THE SWORD. IF YOU WISH YOUR END TO COME MORE QUICKLY, COME TO BROKENFANG CAVE AND FIND US. LONG LIVE ULFRIC STORMCLOAK, TRUE KING OF SKYRIM!

He crumpled the note viciously in a clawed hand. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his tail thrashed. He turned to his Housecarl where she sat on a chair, breathing raggedly.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Lydia muttered. Her black hair was matted with blood, and her severe features were strained in agony. “There were at least six of them.”

“You did well, Housecarl, to slay two of them” Runs-on-Water said, suppressing his anger. “No one could have done better.”

“You could have,” she whispered. “I should have died before I let them take her.”

“No. You are both still alive, and that is good. And the Stormcloaks are as good as dead,” Runs-on-Water hissed.

“My lord, it is a trap! You cannot go alone! Go to the Jarl, take some guards with you!” Lydia insisted, trying to rise before collapsing back into the chair in agony, her face gone suddenly white as a sheet.

“Yes, it is a trap,” Runs-on-Water agreed. “One that I look forward to springing...on them.”

* * *

“My Papa's going to kiiiillll you, my Papa's going to kiiiilll you!”

Agarmir, the Stormcloak leader growled. “Vilhelm, shut her up!” He snapped to one of his men.

The bearded brute he had spoken to threw up his hands. “Every time I try and gag her, she bites my fingers! I think I might be getting an infection.”

Agarmir spun to where the girl sat, tied securely to a chair. She smiled up at him in an unsettling way. “My father is going to gut you, and hang you from the highest branch of the tallest tree to atone for your dishonour,” She said matter-of-factly.

“You better shut your mouth, girl, or I will do it for you!” He shouted. “When that filthy lizard you call 'Papa' comes here, like the idiot he is, we're going to butcher him like an animal. One day, you'll understand. We're doing this for your own good. For Skyrim's own good!”

Lucia made a show of looking around. “YOU GUYS are going to butcher MY Papa? Have you met him? He's the Dragonborn! He kills dragons and eats their souls! For fun!”

“Even a mighty warrior can be overcome by ambush,” Agarmir said, but he could see Villhelm shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “And what are you fidgeting about?”

“Well...the girl has a point, boss.”

Agarmir turned away from the infuriating moron and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Villhelm, relax. The entire cave is a web of interconnected traps. We have sharpened stakes, rock falls, flamethrowers, pressure plates that shoot little darts. And there are four of us, all with enchanted weapons, waiting in ambush!”

“But boss...*sklrch gurgle gurgle*”

“Don't interrupt me Villhelm! This 'Dragonborn' is just a filthy Argonian, and no match for a true Nord, much less four of them!” Agarmir pounded his fist into his open hand. “We will kill the Dragonborn. You'll see. He's not so tough.”

Agarmir braced himself for more of Villhelm's stupidity. But to his surprise, none was forthcoming. “Villhelm?” Slowly, Agarmir turned, a feeling of dread overcoming him.

Two things were immediately clear to Agarmir upon turning around. One: Villhelm would never say anything stupid ever again. A man had to have an intact throat to speak, after all. And two: The Dragonborn was a sneaky bastard, and was apparently a master at evading traps.

He knew this because Runs-on-Water was standing over Villhelm's slowly-cooling corpse, covered in the blood of the other Stormcloaks, holding an Ebony Greatsword in his hands.

His eyes burned with rage.

“I don't suppose you'd be open to negotiating the girl's release?” Agarmir asked hopefully.

To Agarmir's shock, the Argonian appeared to think about it. “I think...no. I have a reputation to uphold. I must show Whiterun that I am a lizard of my word.”

Agarmir raised his battle-axe. In the end, he supposed, the Argonian was being very reasonable. A man's word was his bond, after all.

* * *

When Runs-on-Water climbed down from the Gildergreen Tree at the centre of Whiterun, the Jarl and his entourage were waiting for him. The Jarl was tapping his foot impatiently, and had a thunderous look on his face.

“Yes, Jarl?” Runs-on-Water asked innocently.

“Is this all really necessary?” Balgruuf ground out.

“I did warn everyone,” Runs-on-Water pointed out. “We even wrote it down. There was a decree.”

The Jarl sputtered. “Yes...but...we're in the middle of town!”

“Yes. Very visible. Now everyone can see that I mean what I say.”

The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock. “The children will see!”

“I had not thought of that,” Runs-on-Water acknowledged. “You are right. It will be very educational.”

Indeed, a small crowd of children had gathered around the Gildergreen tree already. They were starting to throw rocks and rotten fruit at what was hanging from the highest branches.

“This is the Gildergreen! This tree is sacred!”

Runs-on-Water nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! It is very convenient that such a sacred tree was ready to claw. It will have to stand in for the Hist trees of my homeland. The Priestess of Kynareth was very understanding.” The Dragonborn leaned closer to the Jarl. “She owed me a little favour, if you must know.”

The Jarl looked at the blood-spattered Dragonborn, and then up at the hanging bodies of the Stormcloaks that had kidnapped his daughter. One of them was wearing a sign around his neck, written in blood:

I TOLD YOU SO

The Jarl sighed. “Just...take them down before they start to smell, alright?”

Runs-on-Water beamed at the Jarl. “You are a most wise and just ruler, Jarl! Thank you!”

The Jarl turned away, saying nothing, and headed back up to Dragonsreach. When he got there, he was going to drink a whole barrel of mead.

8. In Which Hatchlings Grow Up Too Quickly

Runs-on-Water stood on the hilltop, looking out over the small crowd of people gathered in the small glade below. There were not many people here...it was a mix of mostly Nords and Bretons, with a salting of other humans, khaajit, argonians and elves scattered throughout. There had been much grumbling when Runs-on-Water had insisted that the wedding of his adopted daughter would be a small affair. He had flatly refused to invite the Jarls of Skyrim, with the exception of the long-suffering Jarl Balgruuf, and even his entourage had been limited to a few people.

Runs-on-Water had been in Skyrim for nearly a decade, and at last, a kind of peace had settled over the land. The land was still lousy with bandits, but the civil war was over, the dragons were gone, and people were getting back to their everyday lives. He was famous throughout the province, throughout the Empire, even, and though it had been years since his most well-known deeds, he was still a popular figure. If his scales had dulled slightly, and his eyes were not so sharp, none of the multitude who knew his face were the wiser.

It would be a strange human ceremony. Lucia had desired a traditional Breton wedding, and Runs-on-Water had yielded gracefully to her request. It was her day, after all, and he had looked at it with a sense of excitement and growing dread.

And now, Runs-on-Water was feeling reflective.

“I have killed many men and mer,” Runs-on-Water spoke into the cool evening.

“Errr...” Lars Battleborn, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his fine, imported silk clothing, stood just behind the Dragonborn. Almost everyone was a little nervous around Runs-on-Water, except Lucia. And if you were summoned to a dark hilltop, an hour before you were to marry his cherished daughter, you would be very nervous indeed.

“Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. Who can keep track?” Runs-on-Water continued.

Lars decided that silence was the best course.

Runs-on-Water spun abruptly, causing Lars to startle and make a distressingly unmanly squeaking sound. “I'm sorry, sir!”

“For what?” Runs-on-Water asked, then waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. I was just trying to explain....I am not...perhaps...a good person.”

Lars found himself nodding before he managed to stop himself.

“I have done my best to raise Lucia. But I have taught her the ways of Black Marsh, and perhaps...perhaps in that, I failed her. This is not Black Marsh...this is Skyrim,” Runs-on-Water shook his head. “If I have done wrong, it is too late to undo. The Hist will judge me, as they judge all Argonians.”

“Lucia is...well, she is very fond of you,” Lars ventured carefully. “I...well I think she's quite happy with how she was raised.”

Runs-on-Water nodded absently.

“And...well, to be quite frank with you, sir, I don't think I've ever seen a Breton woman handle a battle-axe like she can. Why, she puts every Nord woman I know to shame!” He continued. “You should be very proud.”

Runs-on-Water glanced over at Lars. He'd lost the soft cheeks of his youth, and had taken after his father in terms of his height and broad shoulders, but he'd retained his lank brown hair and the eyes of a kicked puppy. No one would guess that the man was a terror on the battlefield. Runs-on-Water wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen Lucia sparring with the boy.

That, at least, had been somewhat in the Argonian tradition. She had challenged (and defeated) Lars in battle, and then immediately afterwords had helped him to his feet and 'asked him out', as the humans called it. She had been mortified when Runs-on-Water had urged her to simply drag the boy out into the nearest swamp and get started on some grandlizards, and insisted on a more conventional courtship.

“I am very proud,” Runs-on-Water said. “Lucia is the only clutch I will ever have. She is no less my daughter than if I had hatched her myself.”

“Yes sir,” Lars answered. “No one doubts that.”

“I have seen to that,” Runs-on-Water said wryly.

“Papa! Papa, are you up here!” Lucia's voice echoed up the hill.

“Here, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water called back. Lars, he noted, looked very relieved to hear his fiance's voice.

Lucia trudged up the hill, holding the green and gold skirt of her wedding dress out of the way as she ascended. The dress was traditional, for the most part, but the pattern had required some modification. For one, Lucia was a little more well-muscled than many young brides, and for another thing, she had needed to be sure she could strap her battle-axe to her back without causing unsightly ruffles. She had grown tall, and strong, but she had kept her sunny smile and laughing eyes.

To Runs-on-Water, she would always be his hatchling.

“Has father been threatening you, Lars my love?” Lucia asked, laughter in her voice.

“No. No! We've just been talking...” Lars replied. “It's been...something.”

“Well, if you're getting along so well, perhaps you would like to marry each other? Or can Lars come down this hill and get married to me after all?”

Lars turned red, and tried to stammer out an apology. Lucia shooed him away. “Go on down, you lump! You have to wait for me at the altar, remember! I'll be down in a moment.”

Lars stuttered out his goodbyes, and headed down the hill at speed, relief evident in every step.

“Humans are strange,” Runs-on-Water mused, when he was out of earshot.

“Yes, they are. We are, I mean,” Lucia replied.

The Dragonborn was silent for a moment, before speaking. “Hatchling, I know things have not been easy for you...”

“Oh, hush, Papa!” Lucia said. “Because of you, I had an unconventional childhood. I was raised by a lizard-man from the darkest swamps on the continent who killed dragons and trolls and Hist knows what else for fun and profit. I've been swinging a battle-axe since I was thirteen. I'm the only human alive who can get by in Argonian, the only one that can hear the whispers of the Hist, and the only daughter of the Dragonborn. I'm not saying it hasn't been...hard, at times. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Would you?”

“No. Well, I could have done with a few less dragons. That became tedious after a while.”

Lucia clapped her father on the shoulder, and then was surprised when he lurched forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. She settled in and hugged him back.

“I worry that I will lose you now,” Runs-on-Water, the Scourge of stormcloaks, Dragon-killer, master of a hundred Shouts, whispered his wretchedness to his only daughter. “You are all that is good in me.”

“Papa,” she whispered back. “No matter what happens, I am blood of your blood, clutch of your clutch, and I will carry the Marsh in my heart.” At this she paused, as if debating whether to continue. “As will my children.” She said meaningfully.

Runs-on-Water drew back, a toothy smile touching his muzzle. “Are you preparing to spawn already?”

Lucia nearly choked at that. “What? No. Well...not immediately. But, maybe...a little sooner than planned. We may have, er, a little bit of a surprise in eight months or so.”

Runs-on-Water beamed. The look on his face reminded Lucia of the day he had built her the little nest in her room. “This is wonderful news!”

“Don't tell anyone else!” she implored, flushing slightly. “The Battle-Borns are a little...traditional about that sort of thing.”

“I will say nothing,” Runs-on-Water agreed.

There was a small, awkward silence. Lucia broke it. “Well, are you ready to escort me down into the glade?”

“It would be my honour, hatchling,” Runs-on-Water said.

As he escorted his daughter, blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch, down to her future husband, Runs-on-Water at last felt at peace. The will of the Hist had been made clear to him at last. He could never return to Black Marsh. But here, with Lucia, he had managed to create a little Black Marsh of his own.

And together, they would carry the Marsh with them in their hearts.

#skyrim #fanfic #fantasy #thewritingkestrel fiction #argonian #humor #i'm sorry #not really sorry #argonians4lyfe

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visenyatargaryn · 8 years ago

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Tell us about your skyrim oc's!!

alsjdfkfsj i didn’t think anyone was going to ask about them tbh!! i will warn you though that these might be a tad bit long…and sorry this is late!! D:

Aleithia | Bosmer | Rogue/Archer

Appearance: Red hair, blue eyes, light toned skin.

Personality: Kind-hearted, cheerful, bashful, quick-witted

Background: Aleithia’s parents moved to skyrim before she was born so she knows nothing of her homeland. She lived in Riften all her life since it resembled their homeland the most. Her father taught her archery at a young age while her mother taught her about Y’ffre as well as their homeland which her father chimed in from time to time about as well. Aleithia was always told to keep her ‘bestial’ form at bay though she never understood why until later under unfortunate circumstances. When she was old enough to hunt on her own Aleithia always hunted in her ‘bestial’ form because it made her feel connected with Y’ffre himself. One day when she was out hunting she got her ankle caught in a bears trap, unfortunately for her the hunters who set the trap were not so kind towards her at all and showed nothing but cruelty to her. Unexpectedly she was saved by a member of the thieves guild, Byrnjolf in which he fought off the hunters for their inhumane manners. Aleithia, who was afraid that she would meet the same fate was caught by surprise when he showed nothing but kindness toward her as he always did when she was in the marketplace buying fruits, vegetables, and occasionally arrows. He told her that she would always have a place within the guild if she ever felt lost or alone. Relieved by his words Aleithia let him help her walk back home where she vowed that she would never she would never be at the mercy of a man once more. Once Aleithia was healed enough to walk, she left her sheltered home behind while wearing her ‘bestial’ form with pride as she walked out the gates of Riften to start her new journey.

Morrigan | Nord | Mage

Appearance: Raven black hair, green eyes, skin as white as snow.

Personality: Unkind, full of spite, intelligent, hates most people, enjoys isolation

Background: At a young age, Mor always felt like a disappointment towards her parents and as well as to her people. She always preferred knowledge over steel and thus wanted to learn the arts of magika because she was so fascinated by it ever since that mage came through Windhelm that one year. Though her parents thought it was ‘just a phase’ since being a warrior runs in their blood since they were both stormcloak soldiers. After years passed, Morrigan, who is now a bright young woman had finally convinced her parents to join the college of winterhold after years of her begging them to do so. After being at the college for five years she received a letter from jarl ulfric stormcloaks’ steward, jorlief, saying that her parents had been murdered by a group of angry drunkards for not being ‘true nords’ for having raised a ‘witch’ instead of a ‘warrior’. Heartbroken by the news, she left the college out of despair and rage. Angry at herself for choosing this life thus leaving her parents to this fate and not being there to defend her parents from attackers. Though she was also angry at the world for seeing those like herself as nothing else but an evil to rid themselves of and at the gods for failing to protect her parents. Afterwards she promised herself to do one thing before she lets death claim her; to see the world burn.

Rh’asha | Khajiit | Rogue/Duelist

Appearance: Black fur, bright green eyes, white tiger markings.

Personality: Friendly, sharp-tongued, quick to anger, overprotective

Background: Rh’asha is the daughter of the well known caravan merchant, Ri’saad. Having left Elsweyr at a young age shortly after the passing of her mother, Rh’asha remembers very little of her homeland as well as her own mother. With her father always busy with his business Rh’asha found company elsewhere within her fathers caravan. She often trained with Khayla to learn the skill of a duelist and mastered it quite efficiently. It is said she is one of the deadliest duelists in the land of skyrim and often feared for it as well. Through the years, Rh’asha grew weary of traveling the harsh lands of skyrim with little food as well as warmth and decided to become a mercenary instead. Note: the rest of this is part of a mod. While working as a mercenary she and another merc named Inigo were hired by a man named Dupan to kill his two brothers because he believes he is more deserving of their fathers inheritance than they are. The next day Rh’asha and Inigo set off to fulfill their contract though during their journey Rh’asha and Inigo have become quite good friends though after the first contract was accomplished she noticed he has been acting quite strange with mood swings, sweats, and weakness. Though she knew these signs of course as they were the symptoms of someone with a skooma addiction and has not had their fill for quite some time. Ignoring her partner, they continued their journey ahead to fulfill the second contract. While walking ahead, Rh’asha felt a sharp pain in her chest and looked down to see that she had been shot with an arrow. Looking around to see where it came from and seeing her partner is nowhere in site, she collapses and is embraced by darkness… Later, she awakens still in pain with her father by her side telling her that a caravan found her and by recognizing the ring she wore bearing his insignia they nursed her wound and brought her to him as quickly as possible. He also told her that the arrow that struck her was an inch away from her heart and that she was lucky to have survived. Though her father asked for details on what happened she couldn’t recall anything after she left the caravan. Once Rh’asha was fully healed she headed for Riften because she knew what better place to search for answers rather than the home of the infamous thieves guild? Upon arriving she heard rumors about a ‘crazy’ khajiit that paid the guards to be locked up. Rh’asha finding this rumor to be incredulous she investigated further and upon searching she found that the rumors to be true. The ‘crazy’ khajiit goes by the name of Inigo and knew her at first site though she couldn’t recall who he was. He told her who he was and about the ‘incident’ that had happened between them. He also told her that he was ready to die by her hand for what he had done. She knew she should have kill him but she could see the desperation in his eyes so Rh’asha decided to let him live. Inigo, confused by her decision she said for him to fulfill his debt to her had to be her partner once more, to watch her back, and to not let anymore ‘arrows’ hit her. (sorry this is so long!!)

#long post #anon #answered #i've been playing rh'asha lately which is why hers is so long right now aljdfskfjk

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nebbychan · 8 years ago

Text

For @victorluvsalice

Skyrim AU

Synopsis:

Skyrim’s literally gone to shit; with the return of Alduin the World-Eater and Harbringer of the End Times, a civil war between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks divides the land in two, once proud factions now in ruins, and sweetrolls stolen; there is only one who can restore the honor and peace to Skyrim. Legends foretold of a being with the soul of a dragon, the only being capable of ending the madness; they are known as Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn. For centuries, the people of Skyrim thought the Dragonborn could never resurface, until now.

Characters:

Victor Van Dort

Race: Nord Class: Mage (Expert Necromancer and Illusionist) Faction(s): None Weapons: Fork, Dagger, Ancient Nord Bow Daedric Artifacts: None Follower: Emily, Barbas Likes: Dwemer ruins, Conjuration, Alchemy, Enchanting, Dogs Dislikes: Thalmor, Fish, the Blades, Smithing, Stormcloaks Favorite Capital(s): Markarth, Whiterun, Winterhold Least Favorite Capital(s): Solitude, Windhelm Favorite Quest: A Daedra’s Best Friend (he left it incomplete on purpose because hey, free immortal talking dog!) Least Favorite Quest: Diplomatic Immunity (Ugh, fancy parties…) Bio: Victor was born in Windhelm, his father was a wealthy merchant working with the Argonians and Dark Elves by the docks. They moved to Solitude when he was still a child, mainly due to the fact that his mother did not get along with them and loved to start up conflict. She worried that one of her enemies would send a Dark Brotherhood assassin after her, plus she wanted to be close to the other upper-crust families in said capital. Victor had a bit of trouble adjusting, especially when he one day started showing interest in magic, begging his parents to let him attend the Magic College in Winterhold. While disappointed that he shared no interest in the family business and was hesitant about sending him away, his father agreed and sent him off once he became of age. There, he learned conjuration, restoration, illusion, and destruction spells. His favorite spell in particular was the Candlelight spell, which provided some light whenever he was alone in dark places. Despite this, Victor hadn’t actually been in combat before. Once he graduated at the top of his class, he was brought back to Solitude for an arranged marriage- which he chickened out of and attempted to flee Skyrim by crossing the borders, unaware that the party he was travelling with was Stormcloak soldiers, led by none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself. This misunderstanding led to his capture by the Imperials and nearly had him decapitated in Helgen. Only reason why he narrowly dodged execution was because of a dragon flying in and destroying the place, from there, Victor escaped with an Imperial soldier. With the return of the dragons, Victor also finds out he’s Dragonborn- great, MORE things he didn’t ask for. Being Dragonborn has it perks, but it’s also brought unwanted attention from everyone, especially the Blades, whom he deliberately ignores because he knows they want to use him. (Also they wanted him to kill Paarthurnax, didn’t help with the fact that he had come to like that old dragon.)

Alice Liddell

Race: Imperial Class: Assassin Faction(s): The Dark Brotherhood Weapons: Knife, Glass dagger, iron Warhammer, crossbow (laced with frostbite venom) Daedric Artifacts: Mace of Molag Bal, Mehrune’s Razor, the Wabbajack Follower: Cicero Likes: Justice, quiet places, Sweetrolls Dislikes: Thalmor, Draugr, Vampires, Frostbite Spiders Favorite Capital(s): Whiterun, Falkreath, Morthal Least Favorite Capital(s): Markarth, Windhelm, Solitude Favorite Quest: Innocence Lost Least Favorite Quest: Any quest that makes her the errand girl Bio: Alice was born in Winterhold; living in a cozy little home with her older sister, mother, and her father- who was the archmage at the College of Winterhold. She lived there happily for years, as a child she’d sneak into the College’s library to read and learn about magic. Life seemed promising for her when she conjured up her first Flame Atronach and used a series of Fear spells at her entry exam…at eight years old. No doubt Alice was a gifted mage, and her family couldn’t be any more proud of her. She even got to be roommates at the College with her older sister, Lizzie, who was already attending to learn about restoration. But one evening while the family slept, Alice woke up to the smell of smoke; the house was on fire! While she managed to escape, the same couldn’t be said for her parents. Lizzie was nowhere to be found, guards assume she had died in the fire too and that Alice’s Flame Atronach was to blame for the incident. Alice was sent to the Honorhall Orphanage in Riften shortly afterwards, there she endured years of mental and physical abuse from the Headmistress, Grelod the Kind. When she came of age, Alice was thrown out and left to wander Skyrim as a street urchin, she’d go to inns and taverns just to ask for work, but her mental state made it difficult for her to get by. A year of wandering Skyrim led to her hearing a rumor about a boy named Aventus Aretino, who ran away from Honorhall Orphanage and went back to his home in Windhelm to perform the Black Sacrament. Alice went forth to investigate, though when she arrived the boy mistook her for an assassin and gave her a contract too good to pass up; she had to kill Grelod the Kind. Without hesitating, Alice bought a ride straight to Riften with what little money she had left, and her trusty Flame Atronach and years of bottled up rage were finally unleashed as Alice watched Grelod burn to death, just hearing her screams brought immense satisfaction. Thankfully, Alice hadn’t suffered repercussions for her little stunt, but it did lead to her initiation into the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid liked Alice from the start, seeing great potential within her, and welcomed her into the family with open arms. With Alice working as an assassin, everyone now had a reason to fear the Dark Brotherhood. Some are too scared to confront her or her follower, Cicero.

Victoria Everglot

Race: High Elf Class: Thief Faction(s): Thieves Guild Weapons: Iron mace, Nightingale Blade, Nightingale bow Daedric Artifacts: Dawnbreaker, Sanguine Rose, the Skeleton Key Likes: Fine clothes, Pickpocketing, Lock-picking, Honey-nut treats, Long Taffy Dislikes: Chaurus, Dwemer ruins, Falmer, Red Ninroots Favorite Capital(s): Dawnstar, Riften, Whiterun Least Favorite Capital(s): Windhelm Favorite Quest: Blindsighted Least Favorite Quest: A Return to Your Roots (She HATES Blackreach, seriously, fuck that place.) Bio: A quiet child born into an aristocratic family in Solitude, Victoria mostly kept to herself, not that her parents really cared. Victoria had the heart of a thief, she’d steal things right under people’s noses and no one would suspect her of any wrongdoing. So when her family fell under hard times, Victoria would sneak out the house as her parents slept or went out on business to rob unsuspecting citizens of their gold, gems, jewelry, any valuable item she could get her hands on would do! Her parents eventually began to question where all this gold came from and why their neighbors were becoming poor, but never suspected Victoria. Once she became of age to wed, her parents set her up with Victor Van Dort, a college graduate from Winterhold. They got along nicely at first, having a bit of small talk and while they didn’t exactly fall for each other, it was apparent that they became instant friends. However it wasn’t until the wedding rehearsal did things go downhill; not only did he screw up the vows, but Victor somehow managed to trash the chapel and nearly set her mother on fire. Victor fled Solitude in embarrassment, but before Victoria could get a chance to pursue him she was then engaged to another man, an aristocratic high elf from the Thalmor Embassy named Barkis Bittern. Not wanting to deal with that noise, Victoria grabbed whatever money she could along with some essentials, got on her horse, and fled Solitude. She was about halfway towards Whiterun when she heard that Victor was captured, likely on accident during an ambush on the Stormcloaks led by the Imperials. This was now a race against time- as Victoria heard those that were taken hostage would be taken to Helgen for execution. Victor was innocent; she knew he didn’t deserve such a fate, and she wanted to prevent any injustice. Once arriving in Riverwood for a quick restock on her supplies, Victoria could almost feel the ground beneath her shake and the roar of a dragon from the skies. She thought it was only her imagination and her lack of sleep getting to her, at least until she arrived in Helgen- only to find it in ruins. She would’ve entered had it not been for an Imperial soldier stopping her, letting her know that a dragon attack took place and finding survivors would be near impossible. Still, Victoria refused to believe that Victor had died during the attack. Going back to Solitude wasn’t an option either, fearing her parents’ wrath and possible jail time for all the theft she’s committed. Instead, Victoria rode all the way towards Riften. While staying at the Bee and Barb, Victoria met Brynjolf; the two sat together at the bar and chatted over mead and apple pie, she reveals to him her thieving behavior- which in turn catches his attention. A successful initiation that following morning led to her joining the Thieves Guild, and while she’s more content with the life of a thief, Victoria hopes to find Victor safe and sound during her travels.

Lizzie Liddell

Race: Imperial (also a Werewolf) Class: Warrior Faction(s): The Companions Weapons: Daedric greatsword, Daedric Battle axe, Forsworn bow (laced with poison) Daedric Artifacts: Ring of Hircine, the Black Star Follower: Bonejangles Likes: Sweetrolls, restoration spells, swords, sneaking Dislikes: Thalmor, Vampires, the Silver Hand, politics Favorite Capital(s): Whiterun, Falkreath, Winterhold Least Favorite Capital(s): Markarth, Solitude Favorite Quest: Purity of Revenge Least Favorite Quest: The Black Star Bio: Born and raised in Winterhold, her father, the late archmage at the College gave her the best rooms, best tutors, and good classes. Lizzie specialized in restoration, mainly due to her little sister Alice and her misadventures always getting her scratched up. Still, it did hone her skills, and gave extra credit for her classes. That was until a new student named Angus Bumby came along; something about him seemed off, and Lizzie did her best to ignore him and continue her studies, but it didn’t take long for him to begin taking interest in her. She continuously told him to sod off but her commands fell on deaf ears, when one day he and a student from her class suddenly disappear. Lizzie discovers her classmate’s body lying in a pool of blood that evening, two holes punctured into his neck and wrists. The discovery sent chills down her spine, realizing there was a vampire staying within these walls. It was no secret who the vampire was, and she promised herself she’d tell her father before Bumby could claim more victims. Sadly, she’d never get the chance, as Bumby had infiltrated the residence and after draining the blood of the Archmage and his wife, attempted to turn Lizzie into a vampire to claim her as his bride. Still, Lizzie wasn’t about to go down without a fight, and while she managed to scare him off, it set the house on fire in the process. Her escape was successful, but was convinced Alice had died in the fire. It was already enough for her to swear revenge on the vampire; however she could never take him on in this state, she was lucky to have made it out unscathed during their encounter. Lizzie moved out to Whiterun to seek training as a warrior, only to run into the Companions near Honningbrew Meadery and help them take down a giant. Her participation made it much easier for her to become a Companion, then later on a werewolf. For years she trained with them, growing stronger by the day, feeding off the anger and resentment towards vampires. Once she felt strong enough, Lizzie set out to search for the damned vampire and avenge her family. She at first began in Solitude; renting out a room and there at the Winking Skeever she meets a bard nicknamed Bonejangles, a redguard man along with his band of reanimated, sentient draugr whom are trying to push a new era of music onto Tamriel. It was loud, had a great beat, a catchy tune good enough to dance along, and spontaneous lyrics and vocals; and yet few seemed to care for his music, as they’re in favor of more traditional songs. Lizzie, on the other hand, supported his ideas; not a huge surprise that they wound up becoming close friends. Bonejangles catches her off-guard and offers to help her take down the vampire, Lizzie refuses at first, but reconsiders when he reveals to her that he’s in the Dawnguard- a vampire hunter, the bard thing was just to throw off any suspicion. The two find Bumby hiding out inside one of the many Dwemer Ruins in Markarth, which had been infested with chaurus and Falmer, which were taken down easily. In the heat of battle, however, Bumby manages to get a good swipe at Bonejangles, almost taking out one of his eyes and breaking his leg when tossed around. This angers Lizzie, and as a result, transforms into a werewolf in front of them. Her angered roar was enough to scare the vampire as he attempts to scurry off; not a good idea when a pissed off werewolf could easily catch up to you. Bumby begs for mercy, but his pleas fall upon deaf ears; Lizzie savors his screams as she tears him apart, and she would’ve completely lost it if it weren’t for the fact that Bonejangles was in need of medical attention. Satisfied, Lizzie reverts back and after dragging her friend out of the ruins, begins healing him. With her family now avenged, Lizzie wonders what to do with her life. Bonejangles offers to take her to Fort Dawnguard to consider becoming a professional vampire hunter, and she did seem to agree at first, at least until news of people getting assassinated in all parts of Skyrim catch her attention, no doubt this was the work of the Dark Brotherhood, but it was the way the victims died that interested her. All victims found were burned alive, likely by a Flame Atronach- controlled by one gifted mage. Thinking her sister could still be alive, Lizzie performs the Black Sacrament (the human flesh and heart used for the ritual was…“donated” by a lovely bandit outlaw that dared to cross her.) in the hopes that Alice would come to her for a contract…

Emily

Race: Wood Elf (formerly), Khajit Class: Warrior Faction(s): None Weapons: Scimitar, Iron Shield, Falmer Bow Daedric Artifacts: Ebony blade, Ebony Mail Follower: Victor (technically she’s his follower) Likes: Weddings, Butterflies, Night time, Dancing Dislikes: Dark places, Bandits, Thalmor, Stuck-up people Favorite Capital(s): Riften, Markarth, Whiterun Least Favorite Capital(s): Morthal, Winterhold, Windhelm Favorite Quest: The Book of Love Least Favorite Quest: Blood on the Ice Bio: A former priestess of Dibella, Emily was the most attractive wood elf to grace Skyrim. Her beauty would entice men, some even begging for her hand. She had refused them all; except one. He was a high elf, worked at the Thalmor Embassy in Solitude. Emily thought him the perfect man, how he won her heart with his charisma. However, her story isn’t exactly light-hearted. Instead of meeting her beloved to elope at the Temple of Mara in Riften, she met her end- sacrificed as an offering to the Daedric prince, Boethiah. Her body was carelessly thrown into the river, forever lost; but her soul, however, lived on in anger. She was finally released when some poor fool by the name of Victor Van Dort had come across the Shrine, but instead of sacrificing another soul, he released her. Emily was overjoyed, now finally able to leave that wretched shrine; all that was left now was to take revenge.

Her lover had taken refuge within a Bandit camp in Falkreath, adorned with the Ebony mail and blade Boethiah had bestowed upon him. His recent failure on trying to lure a high elf woman in Solitude left him vulnerable to attack. He had stepped out from his shelter for fresh air, instead being greeted with the scent of death and the tip of a Scimitar pointed to his gullet. The sword was held by a Khajit woman, her body foreign to him, but the fire in her eyes had him frozen in fear. “Emily?” His lips trembled, now stiff as a board; Emily had taken on a new body, found on the way to Knifepoint ridge. She glared, ordering him to walk, lest she behead him on the spot. With Victor in tow, just in case things got out of hand; Emily travelled to the Shrine of Boethiah, offering the man she once trusted to the Daedric Prince. Boethiah was pleased, and granted her lover’s armor and sword as a gift. She now travels alongside Victor as his most trusted companion, besides Barbas that is. Emily misses her old body, but has thankfully accepted the fact that she’d never recover it.

#skyrim au #nebby's stupid ideas

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dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth · 4 years ago

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emeraldninjaiv replied to your post “Nobody: Literally nobody: Not a godsforsaken soul in the world: Me:...”

I would like to see it

QwQ Aaaaaaahhhhh thank you so much!!!!! *hugs you tightly* If you’d like, I’ll put the story under the cut here since it’s so long. Love you so much!!!!

An infamous bandit across all 9 holds of Skyrim, Ragnar frequently performed petty theft and led crews about to riches galore. Beginning small, the bandit eventually grew skilled and, one day, chose to raid Jarl Balgruuf's palace in Whiterun. He succeeded without getting caught, took multiple weapons, some statues, and valuable armor, then sold it all. His greed took the best of him, however, and Ragnar decided to go back after a week for a second raid. This time, he was caught, but busted himself out of jail. Fleeing to Riften, Ragnar began avoiding Whiterun, knowing he would have a bounty out on himself. But here, in the home of thieves, Ragnar's cockiness overtook him. He robbed every house in the city, then the palace, yet this time his Jarl raid did not end successfully. He was immediately caught, and fled far away once more. This time to Windhelm. And now he had to avoid 2 holds, 2 bounties. In Windhelm, he escalated to murdering the individuals who threatened him, yet failed again and fled. And thus, the story continued the exact same way across the remaining holds. Balgruuf, frustrated that this man was not yet caught, and that innocent people and guards were being killed by him, placed a bounty on Ragnar for immediate murder with a substantial reward. The other holds followed suit. Ragnar was set for execution everywhere within Skyrim, no escape route given except to flee the continent. He panicked, feared for his life, knowing that drowning in riches could never buy his way out of what he'd done.

Then came Helgen.

Attempting to reach the borders of Cyrodiil, south of Riften, the Imperials caught Ragnar and immediately bound him and set him inside the caravan to be brought to execution. The bandit panicked yet again, unable to confront his fate of inevitable death now right at his feet. He cried the entire way to Helgen, until the moment he was placed upon the executioner’s block. Alduin arrived, burned the city, and Ragnar attempted once more to flee amidst the chaos. Hadvar caught him, dragged him through into the keep where Tullius demanded he escape through the tunnels. Ragnar swore he wouldn’t steal anything from Hadvar, wouldn’t do anything, but there was not much in the way of choices once the Stormcloaks attacked the pair. Although reluctant, Hadvar freed Ragnar who then slew his opponents and took a battleaxe from one. He proceeded to guide the Imperial soldier through the tunnels himself, acting as the frontline defense and offense, swearing to protect Hadvar with his life as thanks for saving his. Once the pair escaped, Ragnar thanked the man profusely as they went to his uncle’s house and explained the situation. Hadvar told him that, should the debt be truly repaid, he should go to Whiterun and ask for more guards within Riverwood.

That meant confronting the man most angry with his past actions, and the first and foremost man to want Ragnar dead.

But Ragnar knew he couldn’t lead a life of banditry and crime anymore. These innocent people, whose lives were now threatened by a dragon, were more precedented and important than him. Thus, Ragnar headed to Whiterun, dropped his weapons before all the guards, and said they could arrest him, but only if they agreed to send guards to Riverwood for protection. Ragnar was placed into the Dragonsreach prison, set for execution on an unknown day.

Commotion filled the cells around him within hours of being imprisoned. Guards seemed to crowd somebody, but Ragnar couldn’t see who. Finally, somebody busted through them all and sternly arrived at Ragnar’s cell.

Jarl Balgruuf himself, solemn and powerful in every sense, leaned against the bard and said to Ragnar he’d offer to make a deal. Another dragon was headed for the western watchtower, and only this former bandit and murderer had any idea remotely how to handle the situation. If Ragnar could lead the Whiterun guards to the tower, and slay the dragon, and if Ragnar returned alive, Balgruuf would erase all bounties placed upon him in the hold, and allow him to live as a free man.

Ragnar knew he would never return alive, but he had to take the chance, anyway. If he were to die by execution, or by dragon, he’d rather it be the honorable Nord way through combat, and against a once-extinct creature, no less. Thus, he took the offer. And led down to the guard barracks, everyone awaited his command specifically. The former bandit donned a suit of basic steel armor, took another battleaxe, and told everyone to wear fire-proof armor and gather ranged weaponry. He prepped the guards as best he could in the time they had together, and once all was set, Ragnar and everybody set out for the watchtower. Together, against all odds, they slew it, and Ragnar finally earned his freedom as promised. He swore to never commit another crime again.

A few days into having his freedom, Ragnar was approached by a Dawnguard member. This man, Isran, was looking for people to become Vampire slayers, and eliminate the threat of Vampires within Skyrim. Ragnar wanted to do something with himself, and with his newfound love of combat, so he agreed, and made his trek to Fort Dawnguard.

On his first mission, Ragnar encountered Serana who asked he bring her to her father north of Solitude. Hesitant, as he was supposed to be slaying Vampires and not helping them, he still agreed because he was trying his best to become a better person. The two walked all the way to Solitude on foot, as Ragnar had no further money after everything was confiscated outside Helgen. The two arrived safely at the docks after several days together, and Serana rowed them to the castle. They’d come to trust one another to a degree during this time, and thus, upon entering Castle Volkihar, Serana asked Harkon, her father, to trust the man. Harkon graciously thanked Ragnar, and offered a consolation: his Vampire Lord blood.

Ragnar and Serana cautiously looked to one another. Something seemed suspicious about this. Ragnar’s heart craved power once more, and so desperately. He wanted to take it so bad, but his heart also told him don’t. Taking a deep breath, the man denied Harkon, and left the castle alone. He returned to Fort Dawnguard.

During his missions for the Dawnguard, Ragnar often had to head into Riften and ask the blacksmith, Balimund, for any materials he might be willing to sell. One day, however, he noticed the old smith’s forge seeming to dwindle, and asked what he could do. Balimund told Ragnar he just needed 10 fire salts, and that was it. Immediately, the man set out amidst his Dawnguard duties to collect the salts.

One day, at the Fort, Isran called Ragnar to him and said somebody was there to see him. It was Serana. Ragnar freaked, knowing a Vampire in a whole land of Vampire Slayers, would most certainly die there. But she was too powerful for Isran, or any Dawnguard, to fight. But, she and Ragnar, who trusted one another, spoke, and began the quest to stop her father, Harkon.

As the two worked together, Ragnar proceeded to find all the fire salts for Balimund and returned them to the man. Serana jokingly said the two should date, but Balimund realized this was not necessarily a bad idea. He offered to take both out, although Serana would be the third wheel. When asked who she was, Ragnar hesitated and said, “My big sister.” Thus, convinced Serana and Ragnar were brother and sister, Balimund proceeded to date the Dawnguard man and both fell in love. But Balimund soon came to learn the whole story of the two, the prophecy, the risks Ragnar would have to take, and the fact that both would likely end up dead. He knelt before Ragnar and asked to marry him, saying that, if he were to die, at least he could die knowing he was forever bound to the man who loved him more than anything else. Cue the marriage, with Serana there to support them, of course.

Ragnar and Serana immediately embarked on their quest to get the Elder Scrolls, and learn the way to stop Harkon. Together, they entered the Soul Cairn, met Serana’s mother, Valerica, who felt disgusted at Ragnar for slaying her kind like monsters, but Ragnar promised her he would come back for her. He vowed to slay Harkon for her, to set her free, and finally let her return to the world. Valerica hardly believed his words, and more trusted Serana, but Serana seemed very confident in Ragnar’s chances at success. The pair quickly left, and proceeded to get the materials needed to slay Harkon.

The final battle came soon thereafter. Together, a former bandit, and the Vampire princess, stormed Castle Volkihar, and fought then killed Harkon once and for all, ending the prophecy and saving the world. The two embraced each other dearly, Ragnar crying into Serana who comforted him like a big sister would. She and him stuck together, and unsure what to do at this point, they simply returned to Fort Dawnguard and resided there for the coming weeks.

But Ragnar’s promise hadn’t yet been fulfilled. He approached Serana one night, and said to her they should go together into the Soul Cairn one last time, and finally free her mother. But Serana stopped him and said, “No. Our mother. You’re family to me, little brother.” They both set out for the now-abandoned Castle Volkihar, entered the Soul Cairn, and came across Valerica whose mouth fell agape at the sight of Ragnar, although he, himself, looked glum. She asked him what had happened, and he told her, “Harkon is dead. I dealt the killing blow myself.” But Valerica, for the first time in tens of thousands of years, stepped beyond her veil, and hugged Ragnar, telling him this was not a bad thing. She assured him that these efforts, by all the Dawnguard, had set her free, protected the world, and everyone both Human and Vampire. She thanked him and Serana, and said she would return to the castle with the both of them, leaving behind the Soul Cairn once and for all.

Finally finished with the Dawnguard’s primary concern, Ragnar and Balimund met up together, seeking a place to live. Ragnar had received word, however, of a castle from his Snow-Elf friend Vyrthur whom he saved, that one dilapidated castle outside Whiterun remained unused and he would be free, after having saved the Snow-Elves, to use it himself. Balimund being crafty, taught Ragnar smithing and construction techniques, and together, the two restored the castle to its former beauty and named it Moonstone Castle. But Ragnar kept Serana in mind the entire time. Within the restoration plans, he’d built countless gardens, apiaries, alchemy rooms, and littered the house with planters. He asked Serana, since she did not want to stay at Castle Volkihar, if she’d like to live with him and Balimund. Serana agreed, and Moonstone became her new home as she gardened away alongside her little brother, and the two traversed out together frequently to rid Skyrim of Harkon’s remaining loyal members who thought they could revive the prophecy.

Both Serana and Ragnar frequently visit Valerica who calls both of them her children. Taking the position as queen since, she has made a new following of Vampires who will lead the world in a far greater, more positive light, and always welcomes Ragnar with open arms to visit. She and him always embrace one another dearly when they see each other, and although Ragnar himself chooses to remain mortal, both Valerica and Serana seek to convince him otherwise someday.

#emeraldninjaiv

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