#daedric helmet

[calebwittebane]

back in early 2012 when i mastered smithing in skyrim for the very first time and went to craft me some awesome endgame heavy armor, excited about it being made from dragon bone, my reaction was, very understandably, "are you fucking kidding me man. i am not putting this on". it is 2024 and just reminding myself that this is what they made the second best armor in the game look like makes my head hurt. armor rating second to daedric but more lightweight, requiring 100 in smithing to craft, and this is what it looks like. the helmet doesn't even match the rest of the armor. it looks like the clam meat texture. it looks like actual literal garbage. it looks brittle, and like it smells bad, and i fail to see how you need to be a Master Blacksmith to make it, seeing how the actual craftsmanship on display just kind of looks like you were haphazardly hot gluing chunks to yourself. like, i thought it wouldve made sense for more advanced armors to be more elaborate, like how ebony armor is quite complex and ornate. i thought that was the process. this is dogshit. who designed this? who made the models? did the same person make the glass and elven armors in oblivion? good lord they had to invent a new bone in order to accentuate the female model's boob plate situation

[uesp]

Did You Know: Essentially every part of a troll has known valuable applications? Troll blood can be used as an alchemical ingredient. Troll skulls are a popular decoration, and can even be used as a helmet. Troll bones and skin can be used for crafting. Troll teeth make good jewelry, and even weapons. Troll fur acts as excellent fire kindling, can also be woven into napkins, or just used by itself to keep warm. If someone could ever figure out how to cook it, troll meat is a hypothetical infinite food source. Troll brains can be used to make soup. Troll spit can be used to improve weapon grip, or for binding books. Troll dung can be used as a fertilizer.

And then there is of course troll fat. Beyond its own well known alchemical applications, you can use it as a perfect cold weather lubricant. You can use it to polish armor. You can use it at the entrances to your house to repel vermin. You can dry it and eat it or add it to other food (although it will make it taste like feet). You can boil it into glue. You can turn it into candles. You can even rub it on an idol of Malacath to have a conversation with the Daedric Prince.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

Daedric Helmets

Concept art for The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind

Art by Michael Kirkbride

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[minasnorma]

A character+inventory sheet for my Nerevarine, the Dunmer spellsword Devathi Sol. He's a misanthropic grump, currently fighting over directions with the ghost of Nerevar that's been plaguing his existence since he put the Moon-and-Star ring on. (RPlaying Morrowind like it's a buddy movie is my favourite thing.)

He carries:

A glass longsword and shield, and a daedric axe. He's a proficient fighter with both, decent with daggers, but won't use anything heavier.

A bunch of magical jewelry he keeps 'just in case' but never really uses.

A copy of 'A Less Rude Song'. He has a passion for raunchy and overall inappropriate books.

A bunch of magic scrolls that don't see much use either.

An Ordinator helmet. He cut the mohawk part off for practical reasons and only wears it away from cities. He finds it a bit on the nose, but it makes Nerevar happy.

Lots of potions... And a bit of booze.

More money than he'll ever spend. Devathi stays away from people as much as he can, so he doesn't get to spend a lot.

A change of clothes.

I've never shared much about him as I find the TES fandom a bit intimidating, but I hope you'll enjoy seeing this grumpy lad!

Edit: I split the images for better mobile visibility, and added alt text.

[artofgerald]

Uhhh netherite armor idea.... took daedric and ebony armor as inspo... also a little bit of Eredin Breacc :3

And a netherite set worn by an illager royal guard. Ravager head for the helmet, and emeralds as replacement for the decor

[igorlevchenko-blog]

Autobiography of Dagoth Ur

"My father was a relentlessly self-improving bonemold armoury owner from Bal Ur with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for n'wahery. My mother was a 150-year-old dwemer prostitute named Chlzanch with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the 'roht' mark. Sometimes, he would accuse ash-yams of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament... My childhood was typical: summers in Tel Aruhn... luge lessons... In the spring, we'd make ash helmets... When I was insolent I was placed in a netch leather bag and beaten with dreugh staffs — pretty standard, really. At the age of 120, I received my first daedric scribe. At the age of 140, an Azura cultist named Vermelle ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum — it's breathtaking... I suggest you try it."

[sadist1224]

Skyrim AU.

Description: After the battle with the dragon in the swamps, you rest in one of your escape rooms with Gas and a Ghost. You have to look after guys a little bit.

Number of words: yes, the dick knows, but it is read in about 6-8 minutes.

You don't have to understand the lora Skyrim device to read this.

Translation into English through a translator

In fact, you have just returned to Mirwatch. Ghost, exhausted and tired, throws off his armor as soon as he steps into the territory of the tower. Kyle is grumbling somewhere behind you about manners, but you're honestly on Simon's side right now. Killing a dragon is never easy. And it's even worse if the skirmish takes place in a swamp. Damn Morph. You hate swamps. And Ghost hates it too.

But unfortunately, absorbing the dragon soul is above your comfort.

It seems that Kyle is the only one who wins. Of course, a magician doesn't need to jump from hummock to hummock to catch up with a damn flying reptile and stab it with a sword. Fortunately for you, Ghost took the brunt of the attack, so you mostly used only the bow. The main thing is that the job is done.

Mirwatch was cozy. At some point, Kyle insisted that your team needed a base in the Morfal area, and although Price was unhappy with the costs, he agreed with the magician's proposal. Kyle found the tower himself, as he admitted, by accident. Expenses were spent on its improvement, and the end result was beyond praise. Two floors: the first is a household, the second is a laboratory. And as much as you love the Lake Estate in Falkreath, you should at least admit to yourself that Kyle did a good job.

You were brought back to the world by a rude grunt from the sleeping area, where Ghost was throwing off his dirty armor.

"I'll help him." You nod towards the grumbling man and Kyle nods back at you.

"Yeah, I'll be upstairs."

In sync with the retreating footsteps of the Gas, you approach Simon's bed.

"Problems?" - the nearest wall serves as a support for you while your gaze slides over the familiar scar on the man's back. He's sweating, a purple bruise blooms under his shoulder from a dragon strike, and Ghost hisses as he takes off his shirt.

"I need to go to the sauna." - the man glances over his shoulder without turning completely. His Daedric helmet rested on the bedside table while a black bandit mask handkerchief covered his nose and mouth.

"Yeah. I'll dial it. - you wave your hand, heading for the descent to the basement. "Come as soon as you're ready."

The man does not keep himself waiting. In fact, it appears almost a minute later, but you have enough time to quickly heat up the water with a flame spell.

By the time you take off your light armor and roll up your sleeves, Simon will already be sitting chest-deep in the water, legs wide apart.

It's not the first time you've seen him naked, but something gives you goosebumps every time. It's nice. Touching him, running my fingers over his scars, burrowing into his blond curls. But nothing gives you pleasure like an invisible feeling of trust on his part.

"You seemed to want to help." His grin is kind and teasing. It seems like you've been admiring him for too long.

"Don't push yourself," you smile, grabbing a clean little towel from the shelf and sitting on the edge of the tub, next to him.

There are several signed jars of soap and powders on the table next to you. Another advantage of Kyle's alchemy. You don't know much about it yourself, but Gas floats like a fish in this craft, so your team doesn't have to worry about hygiene products.

"Not lavender."

"Then the mountain flower?"

With a light movement, you run a rag over his arm, rising up to his shoulder, lightly massaging the tense muscles, and then smoothly move to his chest and abs, receiving a barely audible relaxed moan as a reward.

"Is it nice?" - you can't help but smile contentedly while Ghost changes position.

"Be careful. I can get used to it."

"Well, then you'll have to fight with Soap. - you run a rag along his spine, gently skirting the wounded place. "I won't wash you two at the same time."

Ghost quacks amusingly in response, relaxing his shoulders and plunging into the water a little more.

"Help with the hair? When you're done with his back, you put the rag aside and reach for the nearest bottle of liquid soap with your other hand.

In response, the man only lowers his head to you to make it more convenient. His hair has darkened from the water and foam, while you gently massage the back of his head and gently pull his strands, achieving another deeper moan.

"Don't tease me." - he growls warningly, but there is not a drop of aggression in his tone. You're chuckling softly.

"You're too tired, Ghost." - the lightness of your tone makes him turn and look defiantly into your face. You would have loved to fight with him a little more, but you were tired today too, and you had a few more things to do before going to bed.

"I'm going to put away your armor. - you get up from the edge of the tub, stretching your back and stretching your legs. - Go ahead yourself."

"Don't bother. You don't have to."

But you just smile at him, waving your hand again as you walk towards the stairs. At the very least, you need to collect the scattered parts and take them to his bed.

Already upstairs, you pick up his boots from the floor and cast a piteous glance at the ebony armor. The deep black color of the metal was stained with mud, grass and blood. We need to clean this before it dries up. After all, you can look after your hero, right?

In order not to waste time, you pick up the armor and go back to the stairs, only to the second floor, to Kyle, finding the magician at the alchemy counter.

"Can you create a liquid that cleans metal in one fell swoop, huh?" - you wink at the guy, attracting his attention, and put the armor on the bench.

"Sorry, I haven't reached that level of skill yet." He replies with a grin, nodding towards the bucket of water.

He himself had already changed into more casual clothes, and his robe, clean and fresh after cleansing magic, was hanging on one of the mannequins.

You exchange a few more words, and then focus on your business. You're cleaning armor, Kyle's experimenting with the nirn root. You finish before him, setting aside the bucket and brush. Your fatigue is already making itself felt: your eyes are tingling unpleasantly, and your legs are slowly becoming wadded up.

You approach Gaz from behind, easily hugging his waist and snuggling up to his back.

"It's going to be cold tonight. - he says softly, stroking your hand. - You can lie down with me if you want."

You whimper softly, leaving a light kiss on his cheek, and walk away, taking the armor with you.

Ghost is already asleep. His bed is right next to Kyle's, so you carefully place the armor next to the nearest mannequin, kiss Ghost on the forehead and go to bed yourself.

Tomorrow you have to walk to Solitude.

[darydark]

I'm back again with RGG x TES crossover! Now I just wanted to draw some characters, not much lore, just fun

Homare Nishitani is a redguard vampire. And he is a Nightblade

Rikiya is an argonian. He would be a hand-to-hand fighter or something like that. Not sure if I'd keep the white eye, I was just inspired by Rikiya's viper tattoo

Minami is a dark eld and he is worshipper of Azura (hence the rose tattoos and yes I changed his actual tattoos a little, so it would fit TES universe). Also he would be a Dragon Knight

Oops I forgot I flipped the canvas so daedric letters on tattoos are also flipped sorry

Yasuko is a khajiit and she wears something resembling a Mages Guild outfit. I don't have an idea what her class would be but she would be good at illusion

Kaoru is an altmer but she was born and raised in Morrowind and she became an Ordinator but usually she hides her face with a helmet

Lee is kamal. Well, he is hidden and not a lot of people know where he is but even if people see him, he is usually mistaken for a mixed race orc

It was hard to draw a race which has never been shown but I like @scalecallerpeak 's rendition of kamal so I drew him in their rendition (I hope that's allowed)

Daigo is a dunmer (and 1/4 tsaesci but it is not important) and he is in his rebellious phase. Idk what his class would be but he is usually armed with an ice staff

[the-elder-polls]

Semi-infodump for my as-of-now unnamed Dovahkiin.

-Modded playthrough, Legacy of the Dragonborn, Beyond Skyrim, and Lore-Friendly Guns.

-Nord Warrior. Greatswords all the way.

-Dripped to the Nines in Insulated Dragonbone. Helmet is a Circlet. All enchanted.

-Worshipper of Talos, Hater of Thalmor, Imperial Captain.

-Member of every faction, learned their methods (became a Mage for the College, Crossbowman/Gunner for Dawnguard, Assassin for Brotherhood, and Solid Snake for the Thieves' Guild)

-Werewolf and proud of it.

-Daedric Field Day when he dies, EVERYONE has a claim one way or another.

-Hates the New Blades, as ran by Delphine.

-Loot Goblin. Collects things like it's his job. Could probably carry Morrowind's version of Stendarr's Hammer.

-Doesn't actually realize he's Dragonborn, just sort of ended up killing Alduin on accident.

honestly he sounds awesome but i need you to know that the last point caused me to physically wheeze in laughter. iconic behavior. dragonborn of all time

[isamajor]

Whumpril 2024 : days 26 to 30

The last days of @whumpril !

26 . « How could you ? »

Ever since they came upon Boethiah's altar, the Dragonborn had been acting strangely. Falsely. It was almost too late that they realized that the Daedric Prince was speaking to thir soul, leading them to the abyss of betrayal.

They have almost sacrificed the trusting Lydia, their thane, their unwavering support since the beginning. She had been narrowly saved and was staring, shocked, at her thane who had betrayed her.

“How could you?” Auri spat. "How could you even think about that? She is one of us!"

Kaidan just slapped them, his eyes filled with anger. The Dragonborn looked away, a tear rolling down their sore cheek. (105)

•

27 . « Please don't go. »

They have their hand on this new Black Book, ready to open it. Lucien grabbed their wrist, his face betraying his concern.

“Please don’t go.”, he begged, his voice sharp with anguish. Lucien stared at the Dragonborn who seemed determined to open it. Lucien's blue eyes grew wet and bright. He added :

"This is a Daedric kingdom and its Prince is a devious being. There is no certainty that you will be able to return intact... Please..."

Lucien knew that, there would be no guarantee that Hermaeus Mora would not lock them away in his world, as he had done to Miraak before. (104)

•

28 . Fight/Flight/Freeze

They saw some webs but they did not expect the monstrous size of the frostbite spider that descended on them. Inigo welcomed the sight of this spider with joy, ready to face the creature head-on. Nebarra's heart raced as he caught sight of the arachnid's menacing form. Under his helmet were hidden his features distorted by terror. His breathing had spontaneously stopped. His legs gave out, causing him to collapse to his knees. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, unable to grab his sword or cast a ward. While the others attacked the threat, he remained frozen, unable to defend himself or even flee. (105)

•

29 . Reluctant Caretaker

It was his turn on duty at Lucifer's bedside. Xelzaz was exhausted and needed to get some sleep. Reluctantly he sat at the injured man's bedside. The wound was badly infected and Lucifer was layig motionless, his breath shallow and labored, a feverish sheen coating his scales. Xelzaz had concocted a medicine for him which everyone hoped would work quickly. The Altmer sighed.

“And I’m the one being asked to babysit you, Lute.”

He placed a cloth soaked in cool water on the Argonian's forehead without much care.

“You better not die under my watch, now.”, he threatened. (100)

•

30 . « We're out of time. »

As the Dragonborn and his companions moved deeper into the Dwemer ruin of Arkngthamz, sinister rumblings were heard. Remiel and Lucien, both fascinated by Dwemer complex mechanisms and architecture, had lingered to examine a particularly intriguing tonal mechanism. The ground trembled beneath their feet, creaks echoed through the halls and walls began to crumble here and there. Both were so absorbed that they had become oblivious of the imminent danger and deaf to the calls of their companions. It was only when they were forcibly taken away by the latter who shouted "We're out of time!", that they realized the danger of their situation. (105)

You can find all the drabbles written for Whumpril 2024 here (in addition to other whump drabbles on Skyrim Custom-voiced Followers written for various challenges).

Remember to leave me a little comment, it’s always nice ;)

[totally-not-deacon]

~*~WIP Wednesday~*~

Tagged by... myself. But for once I have writing to share - so Imma post before I promptly forget. Again.

Got in in my head to throw Mar into Turbo Hell (read: Vigilant-based fic), but I guess things gotta start relatively normal before I ruin her life. :)

No content warnings... This time. It will not remain that way.

“Three hundred gold? That’s it? Well-rewarded my ass!” she barked the moment the doors to the Jarl’s longhouse swung shut. The nuisance giant they’d been sent after lay in a pool of its own blood, stark against the ice just south of town. All in a day’s work. But this? They trekked all the way out to, “godsdamned Dawnstar for this? I should feed that steward his own tee–”

“Bail’s coming out of your drinking money, not mine,” said Nebarra. Marasa glared over her shoulder at him, retort ready to fire back when she took pause. By now they’d attracted the attention of more than a few guards, and jail wasn’t exactly a place she was fond of finding herself in. Again. Fine then, he could pay for the carriage fee out of this dump. She stomped ahead with a huff.

They knocked the snow from their boots before stepping into the inn. The scant few hours of sunlight winter afforded were waning, and a stiff wind was picking up off the Sea of Ghosts, meaning it was the perfect time to settle in and spend the pocket change they’d received. That had to be the only reason anyone lived out here – the Jarl paid so little no one could afford to leave! At least they’d taken care of that whole daedric nightmare fiasco last year, so hopefully they could get a decent night’s sleep before huddling for warmth in the back of an uncovered wagon for the next gods knew how long.

Marasa tugged her helmet off as she approached the bar, stray hair pulling free of the loose bun underneath. It felt as if they’d seen every bed of every inn Skyrim had more than their own. Dawnstar, unfortunately, was no exception. They were practically on a first name basis with half the city guard, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the three days she spent driving them mad in lockup after someone wasn’t watching his coinpurse back in Riften and couldn’t bail her out. Yes, it was her that broke that guy’s nose – did you hear what he said about my ears? And yes, it was her that sent a chair flying through the inn’s only window. But still! She’d have been out in a few hours after he’d gotten a change to sell some of their loot, but of course that was when the general shop owner decided to take a damned fishing trip. Doesn’t she just have the best of luck? It wasn’t so bad, though. The whole Dragonborn thing turned out to be pretty useful when it came to weaseling into some special treatment, she had to admit. Honestly, by the time he’d returned with the money, she was fairly sure the guards would’ve paid him to get her out of their hair.

She wasn’t allowed to pick fights at the inn now. Milk drinkers.

She met Nebarra back at their usual table, dropping down next to him with a tired grunt. At least the bard wasn’t singing tonight. “How long’s it been since we killed a dragon?” she asked. Marasa flicked her bottle’s cork between her fingers before rolling it across the table, too slow to catch it before it dropped over the opposite edge and out of sight. Oops.

Nebarra paused feeding a reed into his helm, ridiculous as it always was. She rolled her eyes. “A month, maybe two. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to keep track of that?” Had it really been that long? Sure, there was a finite amount of them, she knew that, but it had only been what, three years since taking down Alduin? Must’ve thinned the herd more than she thought. “Remind me – why are we still in the province?”

“Because these Jarls make the East Empire look like a charity with how tight they hold their purse strings,” she mumbled with a petulant pout. Some thanks she gets for saving the world.

“And you dri–”

“And we drink it all away.” Marasa looked pointedly at his rapidly draining bottle, ignoring the fact that her own was in much the same state. She sighed, picking at a splintered bit of tabletop. “Where would we even go, though? High Rock’s not so bad, I guess. Still, can’t stand the all the politics.”

[vivifriend]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by the lovely @pitiable-arisen and @thequeenofthewinter

I shall tag @rainpebble3 and @wildhexe (no pressure. 💖)

While I was working on Snowflake's Chance, I wrote a letter from Lewin to his mother. And I realized I needed to figure out her personality to decide how she'll respond to it. So, obviously I had to write a meanwhile fic (what I call side-fics). That's where this snippet is from.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Like every member of the Merchant's Guild before her, Ileana Hawkwing was raised with stories of werewolves, and the dangers they posed to the caravans. She learned early to call on the Daedric Prince Hircine to steer his wolves far from their wagons. It worked. Sometimes.

She saw her first werewolf at seventeen when two ambushed their caravan at dusk. The pair moved in sync, their focus on one of her family's new guardsmen, Nivos. She'd watched as they dragged him screaming away from the road, feeling sick to her stomach, her martial lessons fleeing her mind, her feet frozen to the ground. Her father had armed himself with a silver sword from his private wares, marching toward the pair when Nivos got free of them and turned into a cloud of bats, tearing away from the caravan, the werewolves in hot pursuit.

Just as she knew the stories of werewolves. So, too, did she know the stories of vampires.

Her father had cursed, chivying the group to move faster toward Camlorn, his hand rarely straying from his sword hilt over the next six days.

The werewolves didn't return. Nor did Nivos. 

But it wasn't until she managed to eavesdrop on her mother screaming at Lady Greening, the woman in charge of vetting new caravan guards, that she learned just how easy it was for both werewolves and vampires to infiltrate 'normal' society.

Naturally, she ran for the weavers shops, luring her best friend Alice out of her parents house with promise of gossip and boiled creme treats.

"What was Nivos like?" Alice asked, laying back on a half wall. "They say vampires are all pale with red eyes."

"Obviously not, or we'd never have hired him," Ileana retorted. "He was average height, dark brown eyes that I could see, and he kept his hair trimmed so it'd fit under a helmet."

"So, you had no idea he was a vampire at all?"

She shook her head, hopping onto the wall herself, picking at her treat. "He did always volunteer to take the middle of the night watches. But far as I know he didn't drink for anyone. I hope he didn't anyway."

"Was he charming?"

"Very. But mother always told me to steer clear of the guards. Says they're not to be trusted in regards to romance."

"All the romances talk about merchants or nobles falling in love with their bodyguards," she said. "That's probably what makes your mother worry."

She snorted. "I don't care about falling in love. I like those books though. Anything new come out since I've been gone?"

"Mm, I haven't checked. I've been busy at the shop. My pa says I'm almost old enough to take it over."

"Ileana!"

"Oh damn, they found me."

"You're awful," Alice laughed, sitting up and shading her eyes, a flush darkening her cheeks.

"You know he's going to realize you've got a crush on him, if you keep blushing like that," Ileana said, smirking when Alice smacked her arm and hopped down to approach Theo. 

"Is it just you?" Ileana asked, jumping down herself and sauntering over to her older brother.

"So far," he said, brushing his dark hair out of his face. "Did you hear about Nivos?"

"I heard mother yelling at Lady Greening about him."

"I think half the city did," he said dryly.

"So, what did you hear?" she demanded. "Or are you going to just hold all that info over my head?"

"Hmm, there's an idea. What is the information worth to you?" he asked, grinning when she glared at him.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

Daedric helmet.

Concept art for The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind

Art by Michael Kirkbride

[ego-osbourne]

Rakell’s Armor

//click for better image quality … Time: 7hrs//

Rakell’s days as a kynmarcher have long-since passed, but the armor that marked him as such was simply too good to leave behind. He made it himself, after all, why wouldn’t he feel inclined to keep it? His composition relies heavily on layers of smooth plates and a chainmail hide beneath. The gold accents aren��t just for show, but can be used to apply some serious close-range damage, as seen with his claws and spiked toes (watch out for kicks!). While he doesn’t directly serve under his Prince any longer, he still harbors high respect for Mehrunes Dagon and wears his symbol with pride. The most challenging part of creating his armor was, surprisingly, NOT the part where he had to bleed on every piece to shape the ebony into daedric armor, but rather having to accommodate for his horns! His shoulders needed a lot of room, and the horns of his helmet are actually hollow to let his own horns slip into them.

~~~

Finally made a solid look for this lad. Armor is always a pain to conceptualizo but I’m happy with the results :] I’ve toned down a lot of his gold accents from the concepts, and I think I like the scarcity better. I was trying to wait for his actual reference sheet to draw his armor, but some things take a higher priority. Happy to have it done :,]

Extra note: the reason why it’s not spiky is because I think specific dremora groups have different crafting styles. Dagon dremora rely on large, smooth plates, with the only spikes to be seen being used purely for practicality. Overly-spiky armor is usually seen on Bal dremora (though they don’t share the same colors, ofc, many more blues and silvers rather than reds and golds)

[wellthebardsdead]

Fools Prayer Pt3

Part 2 here

———

*the tense stretching of fine silken threads and skittering of several chitinous legs belonging to hundreds of bodies*

“Traitor!!! TRAITOR!!!!”

???: Me?… a traitor?… *steps into view, a dunmer man dressed in a tight mash of morag tong and dark brotherhood apparel, gathered, acquired, and cut from his victims bodies to shape a dark yet tasteful outfit to mask his presence from the world* How funny. Such an accusation from your tongue… Mephala. *grins behind his chitin helm up at the daedric prince before him, strung up in her own web, being slowly ripped in two as her own daedric servants act against her whims under his command, and pull her limb by limb, drawing and quartering her by her own threads* to call me a traitor when my actions fall within your sphere. You should revere me, laud me for it, hold me aloft and beg me to be your champion in fact… how funny you call me a traitor. When you, and your fellow princes. Abandoned nerevar and I in the heart chamber of that accursed mountain… when you lead Vehk to believe your lies.

Mephala: *hisses down at him with terror present in the red of her eyes* I saw the truth of what you would become. I saw the truth of who you truely are, and I tried to lead him as my champion to stop you- *arches her back and bellows out a pained cry as her form begins to slowly split down the middle* t-to save my fellow princes from you- to save my people from you- t-to save- nerevar- from you-

???: *smiles slowly drawing the ebony blade from his back and walking to her as her form shrinks, and his grows* you made one grave mistake after the other. Daedra no matter what form are always, so very predictable that way, they never, plan, ahead. *presses the blade to her abdomen, it’s metal glowing and pulsating with the power he’d cut from azuras very soul* You thought Vehk, dear, sweet, naive, pathetic, vivec, to be heartless. *presses the blade a little harder breaking her skin as she’s ripped apart* You thought me, to have a heart. *slices into her drawing the blade up as her body splits the rest of the way exposing her heart as it’s rapid panicked pounding harmonises with her agonised screams* and you failed to consider. *raises his hands, summoning the tools of kagrenac to adorn him and his grasp as his helmet disappears allowing his long, dark hair to flow beyond his shoulders freely, and the red of his third eye to meet hers* That, Id. Be. Back.

*meanwhile*

Vivec: *quietly going about his usual route through the slums of blacklight, his body and face hidden behind his heavy garb. His spear disguised with a fishing net and basket slung over his shoulder. And his hours spent tending to those the world had forgotten. Feeding the starving, mending the hurt, and healing the sick with his ‘almost’ godly touch.* keep them as cool as you possibly can and the fever will fade as the medicine works. *smiles behind his mask as he hands a poorly infant back to his mother* but they should be alright now. You know where to find me otherwise.

Dunmer mother: thank you! Thank you Muthsera Nammu!! (highly honoured nameless one)

Vivec: *smiles nodding his head to her before fixing the babies swaddle* No more givinv your poor mother grief, Hla Molamer. (Little warrior) *quietly continues on his route, eventually leaving the slums and entering the more unsavoury parts of the shipyard leading out to the broken piers and docks of the harbour, planning on catching whatever he can to continue feeding his people* hm? *glances up along the boardwalk to see a ship bearing the sigils of house indoril and the temple crest, and on it, several ordinators bearing the armoured helms of the Hortators best, all of them flanking temple guards* … *turns and walks off quietly towards the ashen sands of the beach front, hoping to avoid them at any cost necessary*

*several hours later*

Vivec: *slings his now full basket over his shoulder, satisfied with his quarry for the day as the setting sun bathes the land in a swathe of red and gold* hm?… *slows his pace spotting a group of netch, all of them slowly floating about over the sands towards the many large eroded rocks and boulders covering the beach. His mind wandering back to his childhood before his family abandoned him. Blurred memories from just beyond the days he’d taken his first steps, to the day he was old enough to wield his first spear while his father held the net, his fathers face now lost to him and to time, a distant time long ago, when childhood innocence lead him to believe everything would be alright* … *sighs* I should have just stuck to being a netchiman than playing god- *looks down for just a brief moment to see where his footing would land… only to see several, heavy footprints not his own* … *immediately looks around cautiously as panic grips him, his gaze following the prints in the ashen sand all the way over to the large rock being inspected by the bull of the small netch herd. The increasingly, agitated bull* … *quietly kneels down and picks up a pebble, before pelting it hard at the leathery creatures back, immediately turning it hostile. Not towards him. But to the two heavily armed ordinators he’d been sniffing at*

The ordinators: *immediately leap out from behind the rock, blowing their cover and attacking the netch and his herd*

Vivec: *takes off past them without a moments hesitation seeing they’re distracted, only to be taken to the ground as another unseen figure in the form of a temple guard grabs his legs* Shit- *rolls over roughly taking the guard with him and managing to pull one leg free quickly enough to kick them hard in the head, just long enough to stun them so he can get free* I haven’t done anything!!! *jumps back a little too far for a humble fisherman to manage, and floating just a little too weightlessly for any ordinary mage to achieve. Thankfully managing to grab his now half empty basket as he leaps, leaving half of his hunt lost to his attackers as he flees from the beach and back to the slums of the city*

*several hours later*

Vivec: *exhausted after having to find his way back to his ‘home’ without encountering any of the ordinators and guards now patrolling seemingly every inch of the slums. Now serving the last of the needy his catch* I’m sorry there’s not much tonight. The tide wasn’t with me. *hands it to the poorly old Mer who so kindly pats his bandaged hand in thanks*

Old mer: you owe us no apologies. We’d all be lost without you young lad. *smiles and bows his head in thanks before shuffling from his doorway with the food*

Vivec: *smiles sadly as he leaves, knowing full well they were lost due to his failures and leniency with the temple to begin with* im glad to help anyway I can. *fixes his mask and stands picking up the pot and looking in it thinking he’s done for the night* looks like it’s bread again for me… *sighs and lights the lantern above his door as always, letting anyone know he’s there if they need him*

???: excuse me.

Vivec: I’m sorry I haven’t got any left, I have some bread though if- *turns and freezes seeing several ordinators and temple guards surrounding him and his hideaway* …

Ordinator: *steps forward slowly, cautiously, the lanterns glow revealing specks of ashen sand stuck to the blue of his cape as he produces a scroll from his bag and unfurls it* By order of the son of Boethia, Hortator and Gahmerdohn of all morrowind, Indoril Nerevar, and the signatures of the greater houses. You are hereby placed under arrest. Vivec.

Vivec: *tired eyes heavy behind his mask, knowing there’s no point in running, not even knowing if he has the energy to run anymore* … *sets the pot down and slowly sits on his knees as he pulls his hood back from his hair and removes his mask, revealing his face as he presents his wrists to be shackled* I understand… please show mercy to those I have served here… they did not know of my face or name. they have suffered enough already at my hand.