#elder scrolls writing

[aldruiel-scribbles]

This morning I was reading a fanfic (ao3) and everything was fine until in the comment section the author answered a question about the writing AI she was using. I felt such visceral disgust at that. I dropped the story like it was acid.

To those that use AI. How dare you? How dare you to have the audacity of using a program that steals people's creativity? How dare you feed it, taking that which was granted with love and passion and then transform it into a soulless program? How dare you bend yourself to these corporations that only seek to exploits us further?

I would 100% prefer to read a fic that has mistakes but that has care into every word and a person behind it with immense love for the fandom, than to read Shakespeare vomited by a code that it was written by a thousand cunts that wank themselves at a picture of Mark Zuckerberg.

If you're doing mental gymnastics to justify art theft and exploitation, then there's no mistake. You are wrong. Nothing will change that.

[creeperthescamp]

i think one of the least used concepts in elder scrolls lore is its nebulous relationship to truth.

like something i do actually appreciate about that cunt kirkbride's writing in morrowind is that the mythology of the tribunal is allowed to be relatively ambiguous and there's room for poetry and fable and unreliable narrators. there's a strong general tendency in both fandom and dev to interpret lore quite literally and treat every text as reliable sources of fact about tamriel even when the text is like. fiction or written with a clear bias towards certain factions or prejudices.

the main example I'm thinking of is the 'notes on racial phylogeny' lore book. it's literally just racist pseudoscience and in a real life context would be considered unreliable and deeply offensive. but in tes, i rarely see anyone stop to actually consider that perhaps this lore isn't really a factual study of how bodies work but about how the imperial empire categorises the people it colonises and justifies it's supremacy. there's so much focus on determining the rules and metaphysical aspects of the world that there's no consideration that the way factions like the empire see the world is inherently flawed.

it's fun to think of a world where stars are literal holes punched in the fabric of the sky, or that water is made of memory, but i also think it would be a much more fun and flexible world if these theories are considered to be just a few of many lenses that people in tamriel use to try to understand their world. some of my favourite pieces of lore and world building are things like 'cherims heart of anequina' that imply a rich world of culture and art; i love the idea that tamriel has art and art critics and people who discuss ideas for other purposes than trying to figure out what's The Only True Lore.

[thana-topsy]

A short comic based on the ACTUAL in-game dialogue between Colette and Urag that was so cringe I had to get it out of my brain. Thanks to @kookaburra1701 for pointing it out and cursing me with this.

Featuring Enthir being a menace.

[vexwerewolf]

I always figured the Imperials were the good guys.

Nnnnnngh… no. Imperials are the better of two bad options, and it's really muddied because Bethesda lost its good writers years before Skyrim came out. I can feel a hyperfixation coming on, so a quick TL;DR: the Empire is an Empire so it's still bad, the Stormcloaks are just racist saboteurs led by a Manchurian agent and Tiber Septim is a gigantic piece of shit who ruined everything.

Okay, so the Empire functionally lost its equivalent of the Mandate of Heaven when Martin Septim died heirless at the end of Oblivion. His sacrifice forged a new compact to end the Daedric incursions, but by that point Imperial infrastructure throughout Tamriel had been so badly damaged that it could no longer maintain order. By the time the Mede dynasty got its feet under it, several provinces had either risen in revolt against the Empire or and were busy violently settling bitter generational rivalries with each other.

Most notably, this included the Thalmor, who are openly and proudly an Altmer supremacist movement. Their primary goal is to end the dominion of Men on Tamriel and institute a second Merethic Era dominated by them. This is the most obvious reason for why they want to ban Talos worship - the idea that a Man could become Divine is grossly incompatible with their worldview. (I must note that there's also a much-discussed fan theory stating that they intend to unmake creation in its current form and destroying Talos worship is part of that, but it's partially based on sources whose canonicity is in doubt, so I'm not going to discuss it further at this time.) The Thalmor are pretty much explicitly Elf Nazis, right down to invading foreign countries and rounding up their religious minorities.

It should be considered, however, that Tiber Septim was an UNBELIEVABLY MASSIVE PIECE OF SHIT. There's credible evidence that during his mortal life he assassinated the Cyrodillian monarch to whom he had sworn fealty and then seized his throne. He had a dalliance with Berenziah that ended up getting her pregnant, then forcibly abducted her and had the child aborted without her consent. After gaining Numidium from a treaty with the Tribunal of Morrowind, he discovered that they hadn't given them its power source (Lorkhan's Heart - understandable, since it was the source of their false divinity), and so he created a new one, the Mantella, by tearing the souls out of Ysmir and Zurin Arctus, two of his most loyal companions. He used Numidium to brutally conquer the rest of Tamriel and then turned it on all the noble families in Cyrodil who hadn't supported him. His empire - as all empires are - was built entirely on murder, pillage and rape. And - as all emperors do - he rewrote his own history because nobody dared openly oppose it. If the Aedra truly did award him a seat amongst them after this (and the fact that his bloody armor counts as "the blood of a divine" in Oblivion suggests that they did), it's questionable whether any of them are worthy of worship.

Nonetheless, worship of Talos was of extreme cultural importance to the Nords, because he was considered by history to have been a Nord, and indeed born in Atmora, the mythic first homeland of the Nords (although, again, it's likely he was just fucking lying - heterodox historical accounts suggest he was born in High Rock and never saw Atmora in his life). The White-Gold Concordat was formulated specifically to provoke division between the remaining provinces of the Empire - the Thalmor correctly predicted that the Nords would never tolerate being stripped of their right to worship Talos, and would rise in revolt against an Empire that mandated it.

The specific cause of the Stormcloak Rebellion is also… dubious. During the war with the Thalmor, the Imperial Legion had all but pulled out of Skyrim. This allowed an uprising by the Reachmen, an ethnic minority within southwestern Skyrim who, notably, had been brutally disenfranchised and stripped of their land by… Tiber Septim! Thanks, Talos, you continue to be a gigantic piece of shit! Anyway, they seized control of Markarth and held it for two years, during which by most accounts they ruled it as an independent kingdom that was making overtures towards being recognised by the Empire. After the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, Ulfric Stormcloak raised an army to retake it, and was promised by the Jarl of the Reach (and, allegedly, the Empire itself) that worship of Talos would be freely allowed in Markarth. Ulfric Stormcloak then proceeded to lay siege to the city and butcher it, ethnically cleansing the city of every last Reachman down to the women and children, slaughtering any Nord who had collaborated with them and allegedly even killing those citizens of Markarth who hadn't answered his call to arms.

Inevitably, the Thalmor found out about the Talos worship anyway and the Jarl was forced to sell out Ulfric and his men. This is generally considered to be the betrayal that sparked the civil war, but at this point we must examine who Ulfric is.

Ulfric was trained in the Thu'um from an early age by the Greybeards, but abandoned his tutelage to fight in the Great War. We know little of his performance other than that he was captured by the Thalmor, tortured extensively, and falsely made to believe that the information he had given under torture was instrumental in the fall of the Imperial City. His father, the Jarl of Windhelm, died while he was in prison, and he was forced to deliver a eulogy via a letter that he had smuggled out of the prison. He claims he escaped from captivity, while Thalmor records claim that they let him go intentionally; neither source is particularly reliable.

From a sociopolitical standpoint, Ulfric is a staunch Nordic traditionalist who openly states that he doesn't believe Skyrim has had a "true" High King for centuries, considering recent monarchs to simply be puppets installed by the Empire. He also seems to be deeply racist: in contrast to his father, he banned Argonians from entering Windhelm proper, confining them to the Assemblage on the docks, and he's allowed racist sentiments towards the Dunmer residents of the Grey Quarter to worsen. Even citizens of Windhelm who support the rebellion comment that isn't doing very much governing, since the civil war eats up most of his attention.

One point I will give to Ulfric is that establishing Skyrim as an independent kingdom that can actively resist the Thalmor isn't actually as far-fetched as it seems. After the White-Gold Concordat ceded half of Hammerfell to the Thalmor, Hammefell said "how about fuck you," broke from the Empire entirely, and smacked the Thalmor down so hard they had to sign the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai and retreat from Hammerfell entirely. This rendered the nation a haven for those opposed to the Thalmor, and they're in such a strong position that the Alik'r can actively hunt Thalmor collaborators like Saadia in other nations. Hammerfell is in a better position than Skyrim, and it did it without any Imperial aid.

(A hilarious fact about the Hammerfell situation is that the Thalmor tried the exact same thing there - inciting a civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears, two factions that have hated one another for generations. Unfortunately, they fucked it up so badly that it actually managed to end the rivalry and unite both of them against the Thalmor.)

But this is where Bethesda's inability to actually capitalize on the good parts of their writing really gets to me.

The Empire in Skyrim… sucks. Like, from your perspective as a player, the first experience you have of the Empire is "okay, so you were at the border alongside this guy and we're executing him today so I guess you get to die too." The only decent Imperial you meet is Hadvar, who makes a lukewarm plea for your life but doesn't press the issue.

All of the Imperial Jarls except for Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone are dogshit. Elisif is a naive, incompetent teenager. Siddgeir is an arrogant, incompetent ponce. Igmund is a spineless Thalmor toady reigning over stolen land, having broken a promise he made to Ulfric and thus being partially responsible for the civil war. The replacement Jarls you get if you side with the Empire and conquer territories the Stormcloaks hold at the start of the game fall into two categories: "who?" and "oh fuck not you." If I say the names Brina Merilis or Kraldar, I bet you won't even remember who I'm talking about. Brunwulf Free-Winter, the replacement for Ulfric Stormcloak, has ONE personality feature and it's "I'm slightly less racist than Ulfric." But when you capture Riften for the Empire, the new Jarl is MAVEN FUCKING BLACK-BRIAR, THE SECOND-WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

But the Stormcloaks suck worse. Laila-Law Giver is a puppet for the Black-Briar crime family. Skald the Elder is a grumpy, hidebound old man. Korir might as well not be ruling anything at all. If you side with them, you have to sell out Balgruuf when the matter of Whiterun comes up - a man who has never been anything but helpful, supportive, trusting and forthright with you. Oh, and let's not forget that if you take the Reach for the Stormcloaks, the new Jarl is THONGVOR SILVER-BLOOD, LITERAL SLAVEOWNER AND WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

(There is an absolutely cursed timeline wherein during the "territory trade" at the peace talks you can hold during the main quest if you haven't finished the civil war quest yet where Maven gets the Rift and Thongor gets the Reach, meaning you have just installed the two most powerful crime families in the country into positions of executive power.)

This isn't just a case of "of course both sides aren't perfect and have issues." This is just "both sides fucking suck." A better game would allow you to make some headway in resolving the massive issues that face Skyrim, but I've already written like nine billion words here so maybe I should go into that at a different time.

[bucca2]

okay not to wax poetic about a minor side character in Skyrim that annoys the fuck out of most people, but it really does sadden me that most people are like “he’s annoying, kill him!” and then do no self reflection on the fact that they only killed him because of a petty personal gripe and because they were sent to do so by a power tripping traitor who LATER ALSO TRIES TO KILL THE LISTENER THEMSELVES.

For a long time I’ve had Thoughts™ on the phenomenon of Gamers (derogatory) who treat any NPC who is even slightly an inconvenience with disproportionate and often violent vitriol, but this post is already getting long. General musings on the tragedy of Cicero’s character and how it’s objectively the wrong choice to kill him below.

Thanks to my partner @wrenanigans I’ve had reason to re-examine Cicero’s character, and his past just makes me so deeply sad. Of course, his journals only cover DB-related events, so maybe he had a personal life he just didn’t write about, but it kind of struck both of us that he feels the loss of his fellow DB members so keenly and yet never really mentions any personal relationships outside of obligation to his fellow assassins. (i.e no family or lovers pre-insanity when he was a normal, extremely capable man) Like of course he went insane. The organization that was his entire life’s purpose not only promoted him to a position where he could no longer do what he joined them to do, but then he watched the organization dissolve around him and all his friends be slaughtered.

Then he was alone with the Night Mother waiting for her to talk to someone and give him direction for eight fucking years!!! Of course he went completely off the deep end! If I was isolated, paranoid (but is it paranoia if they’re actually out to get you?) and constantly on survival mode for that long, I’d be relieved if being a little quirky and doing little dances was the extent of my deviant behavior! (The murder comes with being in the Dark Brotherhood, so I don’t wanna hear any whining about him being stabby. Murder isn’t OK if the Dragonborn does it, but suddenly immoral if people you don’t like do it. In video games.)

I think for most people who don’t put much thought into Cicero and his actions, they just vaguely think “oh, Cicero betrayed the family and tried to kill Astrid, so killing him is justified irrespective of her later betraying us”, which is simply not true. There’s a very interesting post I saw floating around lately about how you can’t treat religion in fantasy worlds like TES the same way you would with religious groups IRL, because in TES there is tangible proof that gods exist, and they can and will fuck with the mortal world for their own whims. The point of the DB quest line is that the Tenets matter, and straying from them and the Night Mother almost snuffed the DB out for good. The narrative of the game explicitly justifies Cicero’s actions and QUITE LITERALLY tells you that killing Cicero is not the right call.

TES has a lot of creative interactivity with picking your own outcomes and going with your own solutions, but quests don’t usually end with “go kill this guy. but you can also spare him… ;)” They usually don’t give you an old wise dude whose spirit you can summon who tells you not to kill that clown. And then if you spare Cicero, he comes back and is a potential companion. Like…I don’t know how much more obvious it can get that you’re not supposed to kill Cicero. I get for most people it’s not that deep, but this is TES. We talk about lore here.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Arkanis

So finally finished this thing! Also known as "So how do I show the Ascended fuckery in Arkanis?"

With nebulae obviously! Anyways have this very upset Joshi slowly losing his mind in Kogoruhn!

And the fic that accompanies it! (note: Fic is a horror fic, my talents lie in horror and sad)

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

people with destinies shouldn't make plans.

day 6: blood

[muscariii]

Part 3, let's go.

(part 1 , part 2)

Ayyy sorry for the huge delay but I finally did it. Well, kind of. Because like I mentioned in that shitpost, I made 14 pages actually. But I'm splitting it because it'll be better that way. So I just gotta finish the rest and yeah. Fun :3

I may have overexaggerated Caius but this was kind of influenced by my first impression of him during my first playthrough.

Rasha isn't very happy about the situation she's currently in. She's currently kind of grumpy about everything but she's going to get more fun soon. I think!!

I'll try to get the rest of the pages done as fast as I can!! And then more and more hopefully. Hope you guys enjoy at least because I'm worried this will be boring.

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[unknownhomosapien]

Godryn had suffered from migraines for as long as he could remember. It was difficult to predict their onset and the cause of the symptoms, and many attempts to treat it barely relieve the pain. The only thing he noticed was the pattern: those dreams-stories from the Dunmer books always make him woke up exhausted, as if he had lived all the events in real. 

It was obvious why the young man doomed not to be a battle mage - the amount of fortify fatigue potions and coffee drunk by him would have been enough to knock down a Daedric prince with bare hands in a second, but all this was only to get the young mage out of bed. 

This is not the case, however. There were no dreams that night as well as any extraordinary events for him being exhausted, and only thing Godryn did was standing in front of the mirror with a sour expression, pointing finger and calling himself a "scum".

[actual-skyrim-quotes]

Random Guy on the Road: Hey, can you escort me to Khuul?

Nerevarine: Sure!

Nerevarine: *writing in journal* I can't believe the audacity of this fucking guy, asking for a fucking escort. I hope he gets Corprus and dies violently.

[gloomwitchwrites]

GloomWitch 3.5k 3.7k 3.8k Follower Event: Spooky Bingo

Yeah, yeah. I know it says 3.5k. But that has come and gone. There's almost 4k of you now. Wild. Absolutely insane. I told myself that after the 1k event, the next milestone would be 3.5k. We're here folks! In fact, we're past it! Thank you so much for all your support. I hope you enjoy the lovely little event I’ve put together.

For quick navigation and filtering, "#gloomyevent" is the event tag.

Event Status: Closed

Requests will start posting on 10/1 (full schedule is below the break as requests come in).

Event Details, Rules, Examples, and the Masterlist can be found below!

Rules:

Non-anon asks only. Taken prompts cannot be repeated. Available slots will be updated below. You can also double check before submitting.

Submit your request via the ask box.

Please choose from one of the following fandoms: Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Star Wars, Skyrim, Call of Duty (age appropriate characters only).

I have the right to deny any request.

Make sure to clarify that the request is for this event. My ask box is always open and you don’t want to be lost in the mess.

Be as vague or specific as you want. Be clear on spice level (if you want any). Vague requests will get writer's creative choice.

Prompts can be interpreted as straight horror, dark comedy, spooky, spicy, or multigenre.

Example Request:

Can I request [insert prompt & info here] for the 3.5k follow event?

For Spooky Bingo, could I request [insert prompt & info here]?

Event Status: Closed

Masterlist / Prompts:

Summon a Demon: Darth Maul (Star Wars) Hansel & Gretel: Gaz and/or Soap (CoD) - 10/15 Zombie AU: Task Force 141 (CoD) - 10/21 Haunted House: Thorin Oakenshield (The Hobbit) - 10/13 Stalker AU: Thorin Oakenshield (The Hobbit) - 10/4 Witch AU: Simon "Ghost" Riley (CoD) - 10/12 Chased Through a Corn Maze: John Price (CoD) Targeted by a Serial Killer: Aragorn (LotR) - 10/22 Body Horror: Captain Rex (Star Wars) Cult Sacrifice: Thranduil (The Hobbit) - 10/11 Picked Up a Hitchhiker: Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars) - 10/16 Eldritch Horror: Ahsoka (Star Wars) Free Space [Any Spooky Idea]: Simon “Ghost” Riley (CoD) Vampire AU: Thranduil (The Hobbit) Trick or Treating: John "Soap" MacTavish (CoD) - 10/9 Liminal Spaces: Kylo Ren (Star Wars) - 10/7 Graveyard Keeper AU: Simon "Ghost" Riley (CoD) - 10/1 Imaginary Friend: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick (CoD) - 10/5 Haunted Carnival: Simon "Ghost" Riley (CoD) Halloween Prank Gone Wrong: Merry & Pippin (LotR) - 10/23 80’s Summer Camp Slasher: Simon "Ghost" Riley (CoD) - 10/3 Haunted Hayride: Lord of the Rings Abducted by Aliens: Task Force 141 Werewolf AU: John Price (CoD) - 10/8 “Because You Were Home”: Star Wars

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno

@glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67

@tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82 @lulurubberduckie

@leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @thetaekwondofeline @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @eternallyvenus @sadlonelybagel

@haven-1307 @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep

@blackhawkfanatic @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@umno-yeah @padawancat97 @garfunklevibes2012 @thepetitemandalorian @mrsdurin

@kylies-love-letter @daemondoll @jackrabbitem @lovely-ateez @arrozyfrijoles23

bingo board made using Canva

[coffee-at-daybreak]

a fate with you | miraak x reader

"I had forgotten what it looked like."

Your cheek rests against his shoulder as you turn your head towards him. "What?"

"The sky." Miraak pauses to take a deep breath, and you can hear the inhale near your ear. "The stars, the moons."

Your head shifts as you follow his gaze up. A fortunate night for there to be no clouds, so you can see it all. And being out in the plains of Whiterun, without a tree or mountain nearby to block your view, the sky stretches beautifully all around you.

"The sky in Apocrypha always remained the same." Miraak's voice is soft but somber. "For so long, it was the only one I knew - the only one I could recall."

Sympathy squeezes at your heart. You press closer to him, your side curled against his own and your head brushing his shoulder. You're lying flat on your backs, barely fitting on the single bedroll you'd situated on a small clearing. Not that you minded a reason to be this close, where you can feel his warmth seeping into you.

A few moons had passed and there is still stark reminders of his time in Apocrypha. He seems to be learning - and relearning - rather well from your travels together, but there are still shadows of his past looming relentlessly. And in the case of restless, anxious nights, much like tonight, you do your best to stay up with him, hoping your companionship will triumph over that of his haunted memories.

"It makes you feel small, does it not?" You ask, reaching a hand out and stretching your fingers. "Puny, like ants on a log."

He huffs. A brief chuckle, but a chuckle all the same. "Indeed."

You start to slowly move your hand, fingers tracing the stars. You squint as you try to visualize the connections between them. The constellations merely twinkle back at you.

"You are anything but puny, Dovahkiin." Miraak announces gently into the silence. "A hero known amongst men and mer. Your power and influence reach beyond this plane."

A weight forms in your belly, a small stone of uneasiness. "I know," you murmur. "But sometimes I welcome feeling small, and feeling ... insignifcant."

Your hand drops, limply lying at your side. Miraak's arm shifts slightly, his hand seeking yours. Rough, warm fingers glide over your own.

"Why?" He questions.

You look at all the stars again. If you had no responsibilities, perhaps you could lie here forever, until you'd counted every star and speckle, until you could recognize every constellation.

"I can envision a life where I am just ... me. Not the Dragonborn, not any other fancy title. Just another simple soul, without any power or destiny to my name." An emotional tendril wraps around your heart but you keep going anyway. "It seems so quiet. So peaceful."

Silence stretches on for a moment. Miraak's fingers still from their lazy strokes along the back of your palm. He tenses ever so slightly against you.

"Do you long for such a life?"

He tries to deliver it as an innocent question and nothing more, but you hear the tension behind his tone. The worry.

You hum. "Sometimes." The pause that follows is brief, but you still feel the weight of his anticipation.

Your hand stretches, twining your fingers with his own. It feels like a perfect fit, and no matter what, it fills you with a sense of comfort and ease.

"But then I realize I would have never crossed paths with you, and I long for this life more."

He breathes a silent sigh of relief at your words, and a smile graces your lips. You lean your head further against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

"Perhaps in this life, we were fated to meet because of your power - our power." He gives your hand a squeeze, the pad of his thumb brushing your own. "But I wish to believe than in any life, in every life, we are fated to meet anyway."

There is a skip in your heart rate, and a warmth blooming in your chest. "You do?"

"Yes." Miraak's voice is so low and soft that were he not right up against you, it might be drowned out by the distant sounds of the plains. But despite its hushed volume, you can make out the sincerity behind his words. Like he is drawing them out from somewhere deep inside him, like his very heart is bringing them to the surface. "I would find my way to you in any plane of existence. Were we mere crop farmers on Skyrim, or grains of sand on the shores of a sea, or stars out in the endless sky. I would find you, and we would be two halves of a whole, much as we are now."

His body shifts, turning a little as he brings his free hand up to your head. He brushes away any hair that had fallen onto your forehead, placing a feather light kiss there instead. "My fate is you. It has always been, it always will be."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you wish to say something back, but you’re unsure how the words will come out past the lump in your throat. Instead you grasp at the shoulder fabric of his robes and lean your head up to find his lips with your own.

He returns the kiss like it is the most natural thing in the world. It is easy to believe his words about you two being the halves of a whole when his lips slot so perfectly against your own, or when your bodies seem to piece together as you lean in to each other. You break apart for only a second to catch air, drawing in the same unsteady breaths before you are colliding again, the familiarity of his taste and touch conquering your own consciousness.

[thana-topsy]

SKYRIM OC ASKS

I wanted to make a more in-depth and lore-building set of questions for people's Skyrim-specific OCs! This can be used as an ask game, or if you just want to answer them all without waiting for people to ask, have at it!

(Thanks to my good fandom buddies for all the suggestions!)

Which areas of Skyrim do they find most beautiful and most dangerous?

Which cities do they prefer to stay in and why? Which cities to they avoid at all costs?

What are their religious affiliations, and how does their worship (or lack thereof) affect their day-to-day life?

Do they believe the College of Winterhold caused the Great Collapse? If no, what is their theory?

Would they be able to live off the land if they were lost in the wilds of Skyrim? How skilled are they at foraging and hunting?

What is their opinion on Skyrim's "bandit problem"?

Do they regret journeying to Skyrim? Or, if they were born in Skyrim, do they wish they could leave?

What is their favorite kind of food that can only be found in Skyrim?

Do they believe in snow/sky whales?

Are they a part of any factions, guilds, or organizations?

If they are a magic user, what is their favorite school of magic? Do they have a natural talent for magic, or does it require diligence and study?

What are their prejudices? What groups have they come to think of as 'other'? Mages? Nords? Elves? Lollygaggers?

Do they believe the old nordic tales about the Dragonborn? If they are Dragonborn how has their experience differed?

Who is their mentor? Who do they go to most for lessons?

How do they feel about consorting with daedra? Do they collect their artifacts? Are there some they would never interact with vs. some they would consider calling upon?

What are their opinions on the civil war? Do they support a side or leave them to their own devices?

Do they have family? Who doe they consider to be family?

What is their stance on taking a life? Do they kill without a second thought, in the name of a god or daedra, or do they adhere to pacifism?

How are they with money? Do they hoard, or do they spend until their pockets are empty and they have to find work again? Have they saved for any houses?

Can they read?

[a-morningstar-120]

If ANYONE is making fun of you for something you love. That is seriously the grossest behavior.

[woodlandcreatur]