#f!nord dragonborn

[concussed-to-pieces]

More Honest

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls Five: Skyrim

Pairing: Argis the Bulwark/F!Dragonborn

Rating: Holy shit M.

Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day, gang! I hope you all like this indulgent little shindig inspired by a glitch that I encountered. Enjoy!

Tag List: @stargazerofgoldenwords @toxiicpop @thirstworldproblemss

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains canon-typical violence and unprotected sex between two consenting adults. Stay safe!]

Argis had always just assumed the leather thong around her neck bore a pendant of Talos. It would explain her hiding it beneath her clothes for the entirety of their partnership, and it would also explain her never taking it off. Many of his fellow Nords had a difficult time accepting the ruling on Talos.

So he was stunned when, one night at the tavern, the pendant that slipped out from beneath her undertunic was…

"An amulet of Mara?" He had asked before he could stop himself, his brow furrowed. "You're looking for marriage, then?"

Tor had gone red in the face, waving him off with an awkward cough. "I've been a follower of Mara since I was very little. I even made this pendant myself, see?" The Nord woman turned the bauble in her hands, showing Argis just how rough the traditionally-smooth edges were. "As you can tell, jewelry-crafting was not my strong suit. I was a stripling when I forged these beads and the pendant, and my patience was thin." She explained, chuckling quietly.

"It's better that way, isn't it?" Argis found himself saying. "More honest. Mara accepts us despite our faults, if I remember those long-winded sermons right."

Tor nodded. "Aye, she loves us and wishes us to love in turn. One of the things that drew me to her is that the world is far more cruel than it needs to be. I would…make it less so." She carefully tucked the amulet back beneath her clothing and, seeming to realize he had watched her do it, rushed to clarify. "I've kept it hidden since I came of age to marry," she elaborated with a sad smile. "There have always been far too many pressing concerns to trouble myself with finding a partner."

The discussion had been brief, begun and ended just as quickly. So why couldn't he get it out of his head?

…

"Why not worship Dibella? Her followers make many lofty claims in the name of love." Multitudes of beautiful men and women made their way to the shrine of Dibella every day, clad in a conglomeration of tastefully minimal garb. Surely the goddess of beauty and passion's worship would go hand in hand with the goddess of love!

"I am not nearly so vain as to believe I could become a worshipper of Dibella!" Tor had roared draconically with laughter at his suggestion, amber eyes alight. "Argis, I cannot parade like a peacock with the rest of Dibella's comely faithful. There is far too much work to be done."

"Aye, but-" Argis had paused, her words catching up to him. "My Thane, you are more than capable of being one of Dibella's faithful." He insisted boldly, unsure of where this bravery came from. 

Tor's laugh was a bit softer this time. "This body has taken a beating, Argis. I am not some soft and unmarred offering."

"It is better that way, isn't it?" Argis found himself echoing what he had said months ago. "More honest. Love is not young and untouched, but neither is it old and weary. Love…it endures through hardships, after the passion has faded."

Tor had given him a curious look, nudging her mount with her heel to bring their horses closer together. "Oddly profound for you, my housecarl." Her tone was teasing, yet serious enough that Argis knew he was on thin ice.

"I meant no disrespect to you, my Thane. It was a simple observation, nothing more."

"Then I will take the compliment." Tor had winked at him, then clicked her tongue to urge her horse into a canter.

…

Those conversations resounded in his head now as he stared at the innkeeper, who stared back at him with a perplexed expression. Kleppr finally asked, "what ails you, Argis? You look as though you've seen a ghost!" 

"N-Nothing, nothing is wrong." Argis fumbled to respond, his mind already miles away. Two days ago. She accepted that job two days ago. I only noticed her bow was gone yesterday. She's been gone two days and she didn't bring her axe--the stables, I'll ask at the stables. If her horse is still there, that means she's on foot.

The Forsworn had been harassing travelers more and more often; no doubt they had caught wind that the Dragonborn resided in Markarth. It only made sense that the Jarl would post a bounty for the clearing out of a camp nearby.

Argis stormed through the tiny market, heading for the gate. One step at a time, he told himself, trying to quell the rapidly rising panic that was gripping his throat. We gather information.

He didn't even have to question the stable attendant; the enormous head of Tor's horse (a dun beast by the name of Zace) was clearly visible over the half-closed stall door. The horse whinnied at the sight of Argis, no doubt expecting the Nord to come bearing the usual treats. Argis' own horse Tannin, the ungrateful bastard, didn't even look up from his manger.

Argis fretted for a moment, scratching Zace's pink muzzle. He quickly made his choice though, beginning to saddle both horses. He would find her faster riding than on foot.

Hopefully.

…

Well, Tor thought, in pain and more than a little concerned, this is a fine mess I've gotten myself into.

The plan, inasmuch as there was one, had been to scout the encampment and retrieve Argis once she was confident she had memorized the layout. The camp had been a bit further away than she had been led to believe, but Tor was confident they could easily reach it before the denizens of said camp decided to launch another raid.

However, she hadn't anticipated the Forsworn would be led by a hagraven. The unsettling amalgamation of avian and woman had sniffed her out almost immediately and, armed only with a rarely-used bow and limited magics, Tor had been captured. She had Shouted one of their warriors to his death, sending his body flying off the edge of a cliff, but that had just whipped the rest of them into a frenzy.

Their Briarheart had brought her down, striking what would have been a killing blow to a mere mortal when his saw-toothed blade tore through her side. Tor had been hard-pressed to stop the bleeding even with her healing spells, a task made all the more difficult by her captors frantically scrambling to bind and gag her.

Now she lay on a filthy pile of straw, attempting to glare daggers through the back of the Briarheart's head. He had been the one to rouse her from her uneasy doze in the weak, gloomy dawn, his antlered headpiece knocking the poorly-framed doorway of the hovel they kept her in. The entire structure shuddered with every gust of bitter Reach wind but still somehow managed to maintain its integrity. More’s the pity, the Dragonborn mused uncharitably, flexing her hands in their binds. They seemed to have gone numb while she slept, though whether from her position or the tightness of the ropes she could not say. 

“...jarl will have no choice but to accede, once we can scrape together the paper,” came the wheezing, tremulous rasp of the hagraven. There, that shuffling drag of clawed feet over the paltry soil. So she was fast approaching. “Our demands will be many, as this is certainly a worthy prize.”

Tor grimaced. The Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, did not exactly relish her presence in Vlindrel Hall. She doubted whatever demands this hagraven had would be particularly well-received. Hell, it might be weeks before Igmund even found whatever missive they sent; he was often mired in tedious deliberations with the Thalmor for days on end. 

The woman jerked upright as another thought struck her. Argis. She hadn't left a note, oh gods no. He hadn't been at Vlindrel when she departed either, which meant that any hope of rescue she may have harbored was quickly withering away. It could very well take a week for Argis to realize she was missing, and at that point Kleppr probably would have entirely forgotten that he had even given her that bounty…

Tor cursed herself inwardly, furious at her own ineptitude. Why did she always manage to land in these situations?! Alone, hogtied and headed to whatever axe-man the gods saw fit to place in her path this time. Except now she wasn't even able to use the Voice, and she doubted she could count on the dubious charity of Alduin to save her once more. 

Normally, she prayed from force of habit, an evening routine forged in her early years by parents who were long gone. She had never received a direct answer to a prayer, but that hadn't dampened her faith. You must be realistic with your prayers, dear one, her mother had chided her one evening. This is not a wish. It is a prayer.

Mara, Tor begged silently, her eyes closed tight. Mara, please. I need help, I need something, anything. She could work with whatever she was given, but she knew she was running out of time. The hagraven may not wish to keep her alive, and little could turn the crow-wife from her path if she decided to snuff out the Dragonborn. No, Tor jolted, the realization making her stomach lurch. It would be much simpler to kill me and replace my heart, raise me under her control. The Forsworn with the Dragonborn on their side? 

Gods, what a fool she had been. She had practically hobbled herself and fallen into their snare.

Talons curved beneath her chin, pricking the skin of her throat. "I know you are awake, little morsel." The hagraven growled, her breath hot and rank with the stench of old blood. Tor couldn't keep herself from flinching and the witch chuckled, a little jackdaw cackle. "Is it afraid of me? Poor sweetling." She cooed tenderly, clawed fingers raking through the mess of Tor's half-braided hair. The Nord woman bore this insult in silence, her teeth clenched into the gag while she continued to glare at the Briarheart. He had turned around to stare at her and his hagraven master, half-closed eyes uncannily glassy. 

Briarhearts, as far as Tor knew, teetered on that gray edge of mortality, neither truly alive nor dead. Their existence was hellish at best and blatantly cruel at worst; freshly-deceased warriors wrested back from their eternal slumber by their blood-soaked matrons, the hagravens raising the body anew and enslaving the soul in the process. Tor had only witnessed one such raising and she had fell upon the feathered creatures and their corpse-spawn with such a violence that there had been nothing left but ash. 

It seemed, however, that she would be joining their ranks soon. The hagraven, unnaturally strong even in that wizened frame, bent Tor over until her forehead was inches from the floor and slid a brown-stained bowl beneath her throat. "Cannot waste a drop of dragon blood." The hag explained needlessly, accepting a dark-bladed knife from the Briarheart. "It will not be swift. Try not to struggle, so you don't ruin your pretty, pretty flesh." Her tone was almost motherly, but it was thoroughly ruined by the horrible scrape of her voice.

Tor, of course, immediately began to struggle, thrashing as best as she could in the iron hold of the hagraven. 

The Briarheart, who had returned to his post in the doorway, grunted suddenly, his hands half-raising. "What, can't you see I'm busy?" The hagraven spat in annoyance, squawking with alarm when the Briarheart fell to its knees. Argis, his sword still run through the briarheart fruit that had replaced the half-living warrior's heart, planted a foot in the Briarheart's back and tore his blade free. 

"Where is-" he began in a fierce bellow, his volume stunning even Tor. The hagraven shrieked, talons bared, and she lunged at the large warrior. Her claws squealed against the metal of his sword, showering sparks on the floor before Argis managed to parry, the housecarl forcing his full weight down on the witch as a riposte to her attack.

Argis! Tor's eyes fell on the ceremonial dagger the hagraven had dropped and she flung herself on top of it, fingers clawing for the hilt in the straw and packed dirt of the floor. 

…

Fire exploded around the edge of Argis' shield and he snarled, ignoring the flames licking over his hauberk sleeve while he slammed the sturdy metal into the hagraven's face. The witch reeled backwards from the blow, hurling curses at him in Bretic and some other foul tongue. Argis wasn't wildly sure, but he got the sense that a few future generations of his bloodline may have been involved in her wrathful incantations. 

He for his part remained silent. Tor was alive, he had arrived in time. Relief had nearly brought him low, his defenses in shambles after the frantic dash on horseback over the mountainous, scrub bush-choked lands of the Reach. It had been all he could do to master himself before the hag reacted, only just managing to use his superior height and weight to break their stalemate. For all that their appearance was waifish and frail, hagravens had a terrible, wiry strength to their limbs. 

The witch continued to scream and clamor at him like a wild beast, her raw-throated wailing threatening to wake the dead. Argis crashed the flat of his blade on his shield and shouted in retort, drowning her out with his own din until she seemed to snap under frustration. A whirling mass of feathers engulfed her and Argis braced himself for another attack. He didn't have to wait long, though the attack came from above and he was barely able to fling the hagraven away from him before she tore his remaining eye out. She howled in fury, her motions now a frenzied race to sink her claws into any exposed skin. 

"Morsel, morsel!" she jibbered at him, which he rewarded with another stout slam of the shield against her beak-like nose. Her claws snagged in the sleeve of his hauberk and Argis was made abruptly aware of his own mortality, the warrior taking a hearty step back to pull the witch with him into the weak sunlight. A sharp, violent jerk later and he freed himself, but not without cost; his hauberk and the skin beneath it were rent deeply from those terrible talons. 

The hag paused, seeming to notice the disarray of the filthy camp around her. There had only been six Forsworn Argis had found, but he knew if any of them escaped they would raise the alarm.

So none of them had escaped. 

The witch gnashed her teeth, stamping those clawed feet on the ground and tearing at the dirt. "You'll pay for this, meat!" She raged, her eyes wild with madness. The feathers swirled once more, leaving Argis uncertain as to where her next attack would come from. Behind him, if he had to guess, and regrettably he was proven correct. 

Claws hooked into his shoulders, shearing through his mail like it was simple leather and digging for purchase in the flesh beneath. He was dragged back a step before he could find his footing, then the Nord man gritted his teeth and lunged forwards, ripping free from her ferocious talons. 

He whirled to face his foe with blade already raised to fend off the next attack, but the hag had suddenly gone still. A black point protruded from her throat and, as she collapsed in a heap, Tor was revealed behind her, the woman still in the process of thrusting the dagger home. The witch writhed on the ground for a moment, clawing futilely at her neck, then went limp.

"Tor," Argis breathed, simultaneously relieved and frantic. A deep wound marred Tor's side, the injury blotting her stained leathers black with blood. Argis stormed forward, seizing her arm. Tor looked up at him, her eyes wide, and he forced her to sit before she could manage to wriggle free. "Be still," the Nord man grated out through clenched teeth. "I'll fetch the horses."

"Argis, you're-"

"Be still." He barked, irritated when she jerked out of his hold. "Woman, I've been half out of my mind trying to find you. The least you can do is follow one simple order." The man seethed, panic sharpening his words to a razor edge.

"Argis." Tor snapped, her hand slamming down on the wound on his arm. The sudden pain had the large man breathless, and he dropped to one knee before he could steady himself. Golden light poured from beneath her hand, familiar healing magic knitting Argis' arm back together. "I'm fine." She insisted, her brow furrowed. "I'm fine, I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Were those…was she crying? Argis blinked rapidly, fumbling at her side. The skin beneath her thin traveling leathers was indeed fine; she must have healed her wound and all he had seen was the old blood still smeared on the area. "Thank the Nine." He sighed. "I thought…there was blood, I assumed the worst." 

…

"I'm fine." Tor repeated tremulously, tears streaming unchecked down her face. She couldn't seem to stop them. She was fine, Argis was wounded but alive. Why was she crying?

"Aye, I suppose you are." Argis murmured, his touch uncharacteristically gentle when he cupped her cheek to wipe the tears away. Tor found herself crumpling, shoving her face into his chest and gripping his back like he would be torn from her if she didn't. After a moment, Argis' arms wrapped around her. 

They were silent for a time, Tor with her ear pressed to his still-pounding heart and Argis with his chin resting on the top of her head. 

"I'm glad I arrived in time." Argis said finally. 

"As am I." Tor took a deep breath to steel her nerves, then pulled away. He was smiling, beaming at her and she was stunned silent by the sight. He smiled so rarely, to see him this pleased…

Argis shifted awkwardly under her stare, seeming a bit uncomfortable with her sudden muteness. "I should…er, get the horses."

Tor's ability to speak made an abrupt return as she asked, "did you bring any food?", her stomach rumbling the punctuation on her hopeful query. Her housecarl chuckled, assuring her that yes, he had indeed stocked the saddlebags. 

Argis rose, offering her a hand up even as he swayed on his feet. Tor waved him off, worriedly examining the wounds on his shoulders. Tandem trios of raking claws had ribboned the hauberk, gambeson and flesh beneath them badly. Instead of complaining of the pain, Argis bemoaned the fact that he would need to have the chain mail repaired. Tor couldn't help her laugh at that. 

Her housecarl, ever the pragmatist. 

"Once I get some food into me, I'll make quick work of those scratches," Tor promised, draping Argis' arm over her shoulders to help him walk. He was a bit unsteady, which had her concerned. 

"My Thane, I…" Argis paused, squinting. "My head feels odd," he admitted. "It's aching badly. The light hurts."

Hell. "Stay with me until you can show me where you left the horses, Argis." Tor instructed, tightening her hold on his arm. Argis nodded, his jaw set in a grim line. 

After a short, stumbling eternity, the Nord man pointed toward a tangle of juniper across the next ridge. "There." It seemed to take most of his energy just to say that much; he sagged perceptibly after the word.

Tor knew she didn't have the strength left to drag him over the rise, so she settled him down on the ground. "Stay here, I'll bring the horses to us."

Argis blinked wearily up at her, his exhaustion evident in the way his head kept lolling forwards onto his chest. Tor puffed out a breath, and then turned to clamber up the steep incline. 

Zace, bless his heart, was mouthing disinterestedly at the scrubby brush around him. Tannin noticed her first, if his huffing snort was any indicator. Zace whinnied loudly when she called his name, trotting to the end of his lead. 

"Aye, I should have brought you." Tor allowed with a rueful smile, rubbing her mount's nose and then taking Tannin's reins.

…

Brain Rot, a common ailment when battling hagravens, had been what robbed the spirit from Argis' nigh-indomitable form. Oh certainly, the priestess of Dibella had assured that he would recover if he was allowed to rest, even offering her own body to lie beside him in an effort to break the fever that wracked his unconscious form. 

Tor may have ushered the extremely-beautiful woman out of Vlindrel Hall a bit more hastily than was proper, but managing her jealousy had never been a strong suit. She had wondered more than once if it had something to do with her dragon blood and just how hot it ran. She tended towards fierce, almost single-minded protection of whatever she held dear, and Argis…

Argis was indeed dear to her. Not that he needed to know that, of course! It would be much simpler for him to find a normal partner, settle down with them and enjoy his life. Tor understood with a heavy sadness that should he turn his wandering eye to her, it would only lead him to grief…a life of violence, bloodshed and no-doubt eventual death at the hands of some ambitious soul. It was not a life she wished on any, and so she had stayed carefully distant. Whatever feelings bloomed in her heart were always hers alone to bear.

He had rescued her, though. That knowledge kept her awake fretting into the early hours, the foyer consistently frequented by restless pacing. She hadn't gotten the chance to ask him just why he had come after her so quickly, why he had thought that the Dragonborn wouldn't be able to manage a simple encampment of Forsworn. Admittedly, her Thu'um was not well-trained. A single full shout could leave her throat raw for hours, as it had during her bout with the Forsworn, and she was lax in her meditation. Inner peace hadn't seemed like a priority what with a world-ending beast breathing down her neck.

Perhaps she had been too confident. Truly, if Argis hadn't arrived when he did, she shuddered to think of what blind havoc her body could be wreaking. He had rescued her. 

He had rescued the Dragonborn.

If nothing else, she could endure the blow to her pride to give him the satisfaction of her admission of that fact.

…

He became aware of the embers in the hearth, listening to them softly hum and crackle to one another as they died down. It must be late.

There was the clatter of a wooden object being placed on the table beside his bed. After a moment, a ladle was pressed to his lips and the man drank ravenously from the cool water. 

Argis finally managed to open his eye for the first time in what felt like weeks, staring upwards at the stone ceiling. He heard a gasp beside him but he didn't even have the strength to turn his head.

"Argis!"

Her.

His body suddenly felt like it was full of sunlight, too enormous to fight, too airy to grasp. He strained to move and her hands carefully framed his jaw, easing his head to the side. 

Tor was alive. He hadn't failed. The fever dreams had been so vivid at some points that Argis was still uncertain if this was reality. He had watched her die so many times…

"Thane." He rasped. 

Tor hushed him, a damp rag smoothing back the hair that had gotten stuck to his forehead. "It's alright, you're safe." She soothed, her expression achingly concerned. Argis' breath hitched, eye widening. 

Why is she looking at me like that? 

He tried again to speak, swallowing hard beforehand. "My Thane, I-" 

"Please Argis, save your strength. You've been ill for days." Tor murmured. "I'll fetch you some broth."

Moving his body felt like it was nigh-impossible, but Argis still managed to grab her wrist before she could flee. "Are you well?" He breathed, his sight already wavering with exhaustion.

The woman nodded, blinking rapidly before turning away. "A-Aye." She mumbled, scrubbing at her eyes. "Quite well, my housecarl."

He couldn't recall her ever saying his title so tenderly.

…

The dynamic seemed to have shifted between them and Tor didn't know how to adjust. 

Argis had silently accepted her thanks and proceeded to act as though the mishap had not occurred, the man clearly ready to put the whole thing behind them. On the one hand, it was as if nothing had changed, but on the other, everything had changed. Tor floundered, simultaneously wishing he would say something and being grateful that he had so quickly moved past it. 

Perhaps the dynamic had only changed for her, so bound to her dragon pride that she couldn't reconcile herself with these uncertain emotions. Uncertain!, she scoffed at herself, hardly uncertain. It is longing for what I cannot have, and lust for my shield-mate. It was plain as a fresh coat of whitewash but still she bandied with it, tamping down her thoughts night after night.

Mara, I don't know what to do.

…

The trek to Riften had been long and fraught with wretched weather. After dismounting Tannin, Argis had to brace himself against a beam in the stables so he could settle his hip back into place. Alongside him, Tor stretched with a long groan, shaking the rainwater off her oilcloth cloak. 

"I can speak with the jarl tomorrow morning." She grunted as she raised her arms overhead. "Tonight, all I want is a hot meal and a soft bed."

"Aye." Argis agreed, beginning to remove Tannin's tack. "I assume you'll be going to the shrine?"

"Indeed, before my meal so I don't fall asleep mid-prayer." Tor grinned up at him from beneath her hood but Argis quickly averted his gaze, continuing to busy himself with his mount's needs. He heard her exhale after a moment, then, "I'll get us a room and arrange our meals. Could you-"

"I'll tend to Zace." The man cut her off, already knowing what she would say. This was their usual arrangement, after all. He must have said it a bit sharper than he intended however, because Tor fell silent and departed without another word.

What am I doing? Argis rested his forehead on Tannin's side, sighing heavily. What am I doing?

He stepped out into the weather once more an hour later, squinting against the downpour as he moved from lantern to lantern. Riften made Argis uneasy, but since becoming Tor's housecarl he had noted a significant decrease in harassment of his person. It was as if even the ne'er do wells of Riften could sense the power rolling off of Tor in silent waves, and they did their utmost to give the woman and her housecarl a wide berth. 

Upon entering the Bee And Barb, Argis was assaulted by a wave of sound and light. The common room was packed to the gills with townsfolk, all of them drinking and discussing their day with one another. In spite of himself, Argis could feel his shoulders relax. Blessed normalcy, the fleeting taste of the mundane. The world continued on it would seem, civil war, dragons and all. 

Talen-Jei waved him over, the Argonian obviously in good spirits. "Tor told us you would be coming! How do you fare?" He asked the housecarl, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

"Well enough. The trek was misery, so we are glad for your hospitality." Argis replied stiffly, always torn between being a proper housecarl or speaking in a more casual manner. 

Talen-Jei didn't seem to mind, the provisioner clapping him warmly on the shoulder. "Tor secured your bed and a hot dinner, would you like the key to your room now or will you wait for your meal to be prepared?"

Argis shook his head. "I can wait. No need for you or Keerava to trouble yourselves serving us." 

"You are too kind, as always!" Argis raised an eyebrow at how chipper Talen-Jei was. He seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, almost suspiciously good. Upon pointing that out though, Talen-Jei simply offered him a broad, toothy grin. "It is good that you and Tor are here, my friend. May Mara smile upon you both."

Argis blinked, feeling more and more like he was missing some vital piece of information as the innkeeper bustled away, humming a tune the whole while.

…

Tor pursed her lips, a bit confused. Normally the shrine of Mara was vacant aside from the clergy and perhaps a worshiper or two. Tonight for some reason the shrine entrance was draped in wet garlands of rain-battered flowers, and inside appeared to be teeming with people. She recognized a few vestments of Dibella amongst the crowd, and after several moments of thought (as well as some frantic mental counting) the Dragonborn realized that today was possibly the worst day they could have come to Riften. 

Not that Markarth would have been any better, if anything it would have been far more chaotic, but Hearts Day was celebrated by any who had a vested interest in romance and all that came with it. Dibella's faithful often intermingled with Mara's, especially today when the songs were sung and the flowers braided into their boughs for the lintel.

So much for her evening of quiet prayer! She ought to have realized once she saw how crowded the stables were, but she had been preoccupied with…

Tor frowned, tugging her hood forward and carefully making her way through the festooned congregants to the altar. The statue of Mara gazed upwards with that vague, loving benevolence, her arms wide in welcome. Before her was the customary bowl for offerings, currently piled high with seasonal blooms, greenery and gold pieces.

The Dragonborn breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of spice and incense that hung heavy in the air as she rested her palms on the altar. Mara, is this a sign? Coming here on this day, with no true intent to do so, finding a room at the inn on this day? If this is mere coincidence, I fear my heart will break. 

The deity, as expected, gave no direct reply, and Tor departed after placing a handful of Septims in the basin atop its plinth. 

The rainy night seemed all the more dreary once she left the warm, bustling atmosphere of the shrine, so it was with quickened steps that the woman made her way to the Bee And Barb, where Argis was waiting.

Argis. She froze inches from pulling open the inn's door, her hand hovering in midair. There had only been one room available, and she hadn't questioned whether the room would have two beds. 

Perhaps she was making a mountain out of a molehill. Tor felt a bit annoyed with herself, a bit frantic, and then more annoyed that she was frantic. What did she have to fear? She could have any partner she chose! They should count themselves lucky if she graced them with her presence. As the Dragonborn, she had to but speak and she would be flooded with proposals. 

Aye, and there was the problem with the whole thing. It would be some grasping nobility, some starstruck yearling coming to her to ask you're looking for marriage?, greed or awe shining in their eyes. Not the one person she sought. 

Tor straightened her shoulders, smoothed her expression, and opened the door to the inn.

…

"Ah." His conversational skills had always been lacking, but now Argis was at a loss. Tor, for her part, turned about the room again, seeming to be searching futilely for a second bed. 

"It would appear," she began carefully, shooting him a look that was downright apologetic, "that this lodging has afforded us one bed."

Argis grunted in reply. He may only have the lone eye, but it still worked. He settled down into one of the chairs beside the bed, placing both their trenchers on the somewhat-rickety table. "Come eat. You must be hungry. I know I am." He tried to soften his words somewhat, gesturing towards her with an already-full spoon. 

Tor lowered herself gingerly into the chair across from him, exhaling a sigh when the furniture held her weight. 

Argis couldn't help his chuckle at that, shaking his head. "My Thane, if these matchsticks could support me, they'll assuredly support you."

"It's always so damp here though, I fear the moisture gets into the wood." Tor mused, tearing a piece of warm bread from the loaf and dunking it into the stew they were to share. Argis caught himself watching her hands and he quickly adjusted his posture, staring down at the baked potatoes in front of him. 

He heard Tor's spoon clatter against her trencher, the woman exhaling harshly once more. "What is it?" She erupted crossly. "That's the fourth time you've done that today alone! Have I upset you, my housecarl?"

"I-" Argis stuttered, bewildered. She didn't usually snap at him, her temper always held in the burning, tense posture of her shoulders. "I apologize, my Thane. I meant no offense. I…I find myself at a loss, is all."

"Whatever for?" She still sounded annoyed, her voice sharp and carrying that burr of draconic rumble. "Look at me, Argis. What is the matter?" Tor continued after a moment of him studying his potatoes further.

"That is the matter." Argis was horrified to hear his own voice mutter, the warrior betraying himself at the bitter end. He heard her breath hitch. "I shouldn't look at you. If I so much as look at you, my mind…does things I cannot allow." He tried to explain, the words coming painfully slow. "I am your housecarl, and you are my Thane."

"Be honest with me, Argis." Why was her voice so soft? "What are these thoughts you struggle with?"

"Daydreams." Argis grated out, praying for mercy. 

The gods were not with him this evening, however, as he heard and felt Tor lean her weight onto the table. "Daydreams, aye?" Her voice now held a note of teasing, almost smug, but too warm for it to endure. "Daydreams about your Thane? Oh, surely that would be unheard of."

"Do not mock me, woman." Argis growled, glaring intently down at his meal.

"I could never." Tor insisted, and Argis finally dared to look up at her. She was just sitting there, elbows propped up on the table with a serious expression on her face. "The question is, would you rather keep it to your daydreams?" 

Argis opened his mouth, then paused. "You would have nothing to fear from me regardless, my Thane." He replied stiffly. "I am able to master myself and this…issue doesn't need to impede our current arrangement." Please don't send me away.

Tor sighed, rubbing her upper arms in a clear effort to banish some phantom chill. "I'm not concerned with impedement, Argis. What concerns me is that you may not understand the gravity of what could happen to you if you…if we become involved." Her face had gone pensive with contemplation. "I am the Dragonborn. You've witnessed time and again what lengths my enemies will go to in order to remove me from this mortal realm."

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," Argis rasped around the traitorous lump of hope in his throat. "Whatever they may be."

"But is this what you want?" Tor pressed. "I would not have you risk your life for me out of a misplaced sense of duty. We need not discuss this again, should you reconsider."

"I will not." Argis snarled. "I've thought and thought about this, I can't bear to think about it anymore. I…I want to." He was ashamed of how quiet his voice was when next he asked, "are you looking for marriage?"

"You've asked me that once before," was her light response, offering him no true resolution. 

Slowly, carefully, Argis slipped a finger beneath the leather thong around her neck, tugging the amulet of Mara into view. "Answer me, Tor." He murmured, using the sturdy leather cord to ease her closer. "Answer me. This goes no further than what you'll allow." She avoided his gaze for several long seconds, the woman obviously turning something over in her mind. Argis merely waited patiently, the uncertain conclusion twisting his stomach into a tight knot.

"I am." The Dragonborn, the woman, answered his query softly, glancing up at him through the curtain of her lashes. "Are…Are you interested?"

Argis cleared his throat. "I am."

"You are." She breathed, her whole face lighting up. "Soon?"

"Aye." Argis agreed eagerly, rising from the table and extending her a hand. "Now."

"Now? But the food-!"

Argis groaned in exasperation, knowing he could never tear her from a hot meal. "Finish the blasted thing, then. But hurry."

…

Maramal, priest of Mara, raised his hands while smiling at the couple before him. "It was Mara who first gave birth to all creation, and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learn to love one another. It is from this love that we learn a life lived alone is no life at all."

A breathless hush had fallen over the crowded shrine. All that could be heard was the sound of crackling torches and the fierce downpour outside hammering on the courtyard.

It's perfect, Tor decided, giving Argis' hand a small squeeze. The priestess at the shrine and multiple enthusiastic faithful had seen fit to adorn her hair with flowers scavenged from the altar, carefully braiding the delicate blooms into her long brown locks. Argis had simply stood there and watched it happen, an odd little smile on his face the entire time while Tor protested half-heartedly. 

"We gather here today under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and in the next, in prosperity and poverty, in joy and hardship." The priest then turned to Argis, asking the time-honored question, "Do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?" 

"Now and forever." Argis echoed, his voice strong and certain. 

Tor closed her eyes, a wave of relief washing over her. No matter how much she had tried to reassure herself, there had been that fear he would decide against this…incredibly impulsive course of action. 

Now though it was her turn to respond, the priest giving her a proud, warm look as he queried, "do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?"

"Now and forever." Tor said it softly, but the rafters still shuddered overhead from the power of the Thu'um. Argis chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed." The officiant intoned, smiling broadly. The packed shrine burst into cheers, pilgrims tossing flowers and offering well-wishes to one of the many newly-wedded couples they would see that evening alone. As Tor and Argis stepped aside to make room for the next pair, Tor was startled by her housecarl sweeping her up in his arms and bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

Not my housecarl, she corrected herself hazily after a moment, my husband. 

"Sorry." Argis apologized, the man sounding as breathless as she felt. "Wanted to do that for a long time."

"Well don't stop now." Tor implored, dazed from the kiss and the sincere smile that he was aiming at her. "Surely you have more you would like to give?"

Argis opened his mouth, seeming to be about to retort, but he abruptly shook his head. Instead, he grasped her hand once more, urging her outside. 

…

"My wife," Argis breathed against her mouth, trailing kisses down her jaw. Tor was still fumbling with the buttons on her tunic, soft, helpless little whimpers catching in her throat. "Should we wipe the paint off first?" The man asked after a moment, his thumb smearing her customary facial adornment. 

Tor seemed to come back to herself, jerking fully upright. "Yes, I-I ought to-I mean, I should." Argis moved to fetch the ewer and basin, inciting her to frantically protest, "I can do it myself!"

"Shh, let me." He soothed, dampening the washrag. "Let me tend to you, my wife."

"But…" Tor's eyes half-lidded when the cloth met her cheek, and Argis felt her lean into his touch. 

"You can clean mine off, how does that sound?" He bargained, chuckling when she nodded silently. "Our first compromise." The Dragonborn opened one eye to glare at him but remained silent, tilting her chin when he asked her to so he could clean the paint off her brow. "There, my…" Argis tripped over his words momentarily. He had considered so many options, had thought about this moment for much longer than was appropriate, yet he had never settled on what he would call her. "...my love." He finished softly, making one last sweep over the bridge of her nose.

Tor cradled his face in her hands, her eyes bright with emotion. She brought their foreheads together, whispering, "my love." 

A tremor ran through Argis' body, so like when she was using the Voice near him in battle and power surged in his very bones. Yet it was also different, for the sensation sent a rush of heat to the core of his body. Argis mutely enfolded her in his arms, everything that he had longed to say still tangling up in his chest.

Tor's sigh was deep, but it did not seem to be borne out of discontent. She pulled away from him, picking up a fresh washrag to remove his own war paint. "What will we do after this, my love?" She clearly relished the title, lingering on it a bit longer.

Argis stayed silent, waiting until she had finished cleaning the marking from his cheek and jaw. Then, the Nord man surged forward, capturing her mouth with his own and pressing her back against the wall. "Whatever your heart desires, Tor." He rumbled, relishing the shiver his voice drew from her. "Whatever you ask of me, whatever you need. I am yours."

Tor plied her fingers greedily through his damp hair, her eyes focused on the collar of his shirt instead of his face. "I…would greatly enjoy it if my husband…"

Oh, she was everything he could have dreamed of and so much more, her face aflush and her fingers sliding down to cup the back of his neck. "Ask it of me and it shall be done." Argis promised. Then, unable to keep from teasing her a bit, "surely the Dragonborn can find their Voice?"

Tor huffed at him, obviously embarrassed. "Fine, if you will force me to say it!"

"Never." The man replied gently. "I will have it from you willingly or not at all."

"I am willing, it's just that…well, it's you." Tor explained awkwardly, tight fists resting on his shoulders. "You are…different. Special."

"High praise, but I've carried your spoils across the entirety of Skyrim. Flattery will get you nowhere." He had rarely witnessed her so rattled. If he hadn't been smitten before, her actions now would have certainly tipped him over that edge. "I would hear you say it if you can, my Thane."

"I…take me to bed." She mumbled out in a rush, burying her face in his neck. "P-Please, Argis, take me to bed and make love to me."

"Have you ever before?" Argis queried while easing them down on the counterpane, letting her continue to hide her face for the moment. He felt her nod into his shoulder and he smiled without meaning to.

"I was very young." The woman tried to justify her answer, seeming concerned about his judgment. "Old enough, of course, but foolish."

"Likewise. Good to know that this isn't a first attempt for either of us." Argis rolled his neck, grunting when it popped and released some of the tension he carried in his back. "I'm not sure I would be able to keep my hands off of you," he admitted ruefully, offering her a crooked smile. "I would try, of course."

"Suppose that's all I can ask of you." Tor chuckled.

…

It was always him. 

That was how it felt, anyway. Since the day she had stumbled through the gates of Markarth, worn and haggard from the road, it was as if she had been drawn to him.

Argis had been gruff at first, not unpleasant but not overly friendly either. He had kept his distance from her until he had witnessed her fight for the first time, witnessed her using the Thu'um to scorch a path before her. Even then, he didn't cower in awe or fear. He merely hammered the flat of his blade on his shield and raised his voice with her own, unleashing the ages old fury of the shield-mate dirge. 

They had stood back to back on that rise, her axe and his sword falling upon their enemies with fervor. "Forgive me, my Thane!" The man had apologized mid-strike through gritted teeth. "I did not believe the stories. I should have known better than to doubt."

"No harm done!" Tor rasped in reply, her throat raw. "Hard to believe without seeing."

"You are as gracious as you are fierce in battle!" The compliment had shot down her spine, providing strength to her weary limbs and reinvigorating her prideful spirit. 

Once they had finally routed the enemy troops, Argis had clasped arms with her.

"Honor to you, my Thane." The man had said sincerely, the faintest shadow of a smile on his face. "I will protect you with my life."

After that skirmish they had fallen into an easy camaraderie, oftentimes riding out to scout the way ahead of the battalion's movements. For all that she wanted to keep her distance, Tor had cherished those times on the road together. It had been peaceful, normal even, like she was a regular woman. 

Soon enough reality would crash back down on her however, leaving her tossing and turning in her bedroll while nightmares of Alduin plagued her sleep. 

One night Argis had woken her from a particularly harrowing dream, and she had nearly used the Voice on him before she realized where she was, who he was. The Dragonborn hunched over in a rare moment of visible weakness, her shoulders shaking with the force of her barely-contained sobs as she cried, "it's too much, Argis, it's all too much, I can't do this-" 

"You don't have to do it alone." Argis had cut her panicked rambling short. She could still recall the sharp shadows playing over his face from the low flames of their fire, the ferocity of his expression while he stared her down. "I am sworn to carry your burdens."

It was always him. 

"Argis," Tor breathed in his ear, loving the way he shuddered against her. "Thank you." Her arms lazily slung around his neck while he thrust into her, the woman basking in the attention her new husband saw fit to lavish upon her. He was not gentle by any means but he was also not without care, seeming content to touch his forehead to her own and softly mutter praise under his breath.

That is, until he settled back and draped her legs over his thighs. One finger traced a line between her breasts, down her stomach, over her mound, and all the while Tor trembled with anticipation. "May I?" Argis asked, his hand resting above where their bodies were joined. The woman nodded rapidly and he graced her with that rare smile once more, thumb cautiously circling on her clit. His hips shifted, hilting his cock fully in her, and Tor saw stars. Her head rolled back, fingers clutching at the tangled blanket beneath her while her new husband tenderly worked her into a lather.

"Argis-" she managed to sob out, moaning when he halted his touches. Instead, they were replaced by an adjustment in position, the man easily tugging her upright to ride his cock. Tor ground herself against him and Argis busied his mouth with her breasts, all the while his hands grasping at her hips until she was certain she would be bruised.

"My love," Argis grunted suddenly, "I am close."

"T-Touch me again," Tor begged, attempting to widen her stance. The man took the hint, middle and index finger working in tandem to help her to her climax. The nails of her free hand dug into the scarring left by the hagraven on his shoulders, and Tor arched her back. "I'm never–" she gasped, struggling to speak. "Never letting anything harm you again." Her forehead met his with a renewed urgency, dragon blood running high when she snarled, "You are mine." 

"As long as you're mine in return." The Nord man responded, rumbling in what could only be satisfaction when Tor nodded without a moment of thought. "Come for me, my love." His voice then dropped to a seething whisper, "come for your husband, be a good wife and come." 

Something about the way he spoke made Tor's entire being quake and she found herself crumpling into his chest as she came, her shoulders heaving with some forgotten sensation. Pleasure, she realized dimly, it is a good feeling. She had denied herself so long it seemed as though a dam was breaking, the experience powerful enough to have tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Argis muttered an oath, picked her up off his cock like she weighed nothing and slid her down to rest on his thighs. Tor grasped his cock, needing no prompting to stroke him to his own completion. The man exhaled a shuddering groan as he came, his hot seed ending up smeared across her stomach in spurts. 

Tor dipped a finger in the mess, tucking it into her mouth for a taste. Argis groaned again, his hands carding through her disheveled hair. "Gods woman, mercy, mercy." He implored with a breathless laugh. "Have pity on me before you carry on doing something like that!"

"I love you." Tor blurted out, freezing immediately afterwards. Argis stilled as well, his lone eye wide. "I…I know we've only just married, and I'm--well, I'm not certain if you feel the same, but…" the Dragonborn trailed off awkwardly, fidgeting.

"Woman," Argis sighed finally, cupping her chin. "Do you really think I would have dealt with the frippery of that shrine if I didn't love you as well?" She could feel his hands shaking despite his stern tone. "This is not for duty or anything else you may tell yourself. This is…what I'm doing is for love."

"Ah." Tor said weakly. "I had hoped that was the case, but I didn't want to assume-" 

Argis cut her off with a kiss, laughing a little. "You are permitted to assume. Assume away," he teased, "especially if you do it while naked in my arms." Tor could feel her flush spreading down to her shoulders, which only seemed to encourage Argis' mirth. 

"Not certain how much longer I can endure you being in such good humor." She finally muttered, a bit sulky. 

"Don't pout, my love." Argis murmured, giving her one last kiss before pulling away. "Let me clean you up, and then we will rest."

"I can do it mys-!"

"Hush, love. Let me take care of you."

It really wasn't fair how he could look at her a certain way and all the fight seemed to leave her body. Tor felt a bit domesticated and she scoffed at herself, laying back at her husband's insistence and allowing him to wipe her clean. Before he could pull away again, she drew him back in for another kiss. "Forgive me my petulance?" She asked softly.

"It's already forgotten." Argis replied just as quietly, his expression warm if a bit tired. "Are you well?"

Tor waited a moment to mull the question over, taking inventory of how she felt. "Aye," she mused, stretching luxuriously. "That I am, my love." She paused, then glanced up at her husband. "Though I am a bit cold. Perhaps we could share the bed for tonight."

"Oh, only tonight?" Argis jibed, a low rumble of laughter punctuating the query when Tor huffed at him. "Of course, whatever you need my love."

"I ask for time in this." Tor whispered once they had made themselves comfortable in the bed. "I am…set in my ways." She half-hoped her new spouse had dozed off without hearing her.

"We have our entire lives." Argis slurred, the man clearly already half-asleep. A kiss landed on the nape of her neck. "All I ask in return is that you remain honest with me."

"I…" Tor bit her lip, the worries rushing to the surface anew. As if sensing her mental discomfort, Argis wrapped his arms around her, the large man protectively tucking her against his body. 

The Bulwark.

"I…I will, my love." Tor twined her fingers through his own, bringing his hand to her mouth and painstakingly kissing each knuckle. "I will do my best to give you the honesty you deserve."

"Good." Argis mumbled. "Now, be quiet and sleep."

Tor barely managed to stifle her giggle at the grumpy declaration, snuggling back into her new husband's embrace and humming in contentment. Oh certainly, the dawn would bring more work to be done! But here and now, in this moment, she could be at peace.

[hircines-hunter]

Roar of a Wolfborn completed 46/46

After losing her family, Sifkni finds herself almost executed. After fleeing, she travels to Whiterun where she encounters the Companions. She knows their secret, as she is also a werewolf. Despite feeling that someone else is better suited for the role, she is soon thrust into the position of Dragonborn. She must learn to believe in her skills and heal from her past to fulfill her destiny. Farkas x LDB {F Werewolf Nord} | Skjor x OC {M Skaal}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | EPILOGUE |

[reachwitch]

Roar of a Wolfborn completed 46/46

After losing her family, Sifkni finds herself almost executed. After fleeing, she travels to Whiterun where she encounters the Companions. She knows their secret, as she is also a werewolf. Despite feeling that someone else is better suited for the role, she is soon thrust into the position of Dragonborn. She must learn to believe in her skills and heal from her past to fulfill her destiny. Farkas x LDB {F Werewolf Nord} | Skjor x OC {M Skaal}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | EPILOGUE |

Hunt of the Blood Moons

After defeating Alduin, Last Dragonborn Sifkni is called to Falkreath for a werewolf problem. She helps solve the mystery, only to have a Great Hunt called on her by Hircine. Sequel to Roar of a Wolfborn Farkas x LDB {F Werewolf Nord}

Chapter PROLOGUE | 1 | WIP

Sivaas

After her pack is killed, Estinan wanders around Skyrim. With no home to call her own, she makes do with hunting or selling her sword arm. She ends up in Riften on a fateful day. With her pockets emptied by a handsome thief, she tracks him through the sewers and begins her strange quest with the Thieves Guild. Brynjolf x OC {F Werewolf Bosmer}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | WIP

Fury of a Tundra Wolf

Former Harbinger of the Companions, Thea Icehammer, joins the Stormcloak army. She fights alongside the army to bring Ulfric his victory and to free Skyrim from Thalmor and Empire's clutches. Galmar x OC {F Werewolf Nord}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | WIP

What are Friends for?

Ciara Finley, an aspiring alchemist and healer, finds herself in Helgen. Her childhood friend, Ralof, sits in front of her on the carriage and her fiance, Hadvar, is holding the list for the execution. After a catastrophic breakup, Ciara joins Ralof on his way to Windhelm to join the Stormcloaks. OC x OC  ; Eventual Ralof x OC {F Breton Alchemist/Healer}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | WIP

Toe the Line

'Toe the line means to follow the rules or act in the way people expect you to' A phrase and act Dyrvina was familiar with, growing up as Jarl Skald's granddaughter. Dyrvina is now sent to Windhelm as a Political message to Jarl Ulfric. Arranged to marry the Jarl of Eastmarch, Dyrvina despises her grandfather and Jarl Ulfric. Ulfric x OC {F Nord} Slowburn

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | WIP

Mother of Hunters

Adelina, a devout Hircine follower and werewolf, is called to one of the Lord Huntsman’s Great Hunts. But as the Hare. She must survive three days with his Hunters and three nights with him personally hunting her. Adelina must survive. If only to prove she is NOT a Hare. She will not ever be a HARE. Hircine x OC {F Werewolf Nede/Nord}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | Epilogue | Lore Book

Vestige Liselle encounters another Problematic Prince ft. Dragons (and Mudcrabs)

Liselle’s encounters of Tamriel and Oblivion are detailed in mostly journals. ESO Main Questline, a couple Daggerfall Covenant Quests, Clockwork City, Original Plot: Coldfire Codex, Elsweyr, Mages’ Guild, Blackwood | Future Goals: High Isle and Necrom Abnur Tharn x Vestige {F Breton}

Just a Ruin (and Mudcrab) Advocate | 158 Chapters | Journal Coldfire Codex Chap 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 Rage of Dragons and the Vestige | 65 Chapters | Journal Mages’ Guild Fiasco: Journal of Vestige Liselle |  24 Chapters | Journal In Which Liselle’s Fist Lands upon Another’s Cheek | WIP | Journal

Blessings of the Moons

Finnki is the Thane of Whiterun. She takes frequent bounties to keep her life and mind busy. She comes across the scene of an ambush. There’s only one survivor. J'Med. He’s a Khajiit from far-off lands, traveling to Skyrim to shake off his past. Finnki helps J'Med with recovery and fitting into Skyrim. J'Med teaches Finnki about moving on and leaving one’s past. OC {F Nord/Bosmer} x OC {M Khajiit}

Chapter 1 | 2 | WIP

Shadow of the Druadach

Tiernan is the Last Dragonborn. He is also a Reachman. He is a prickly man on his quest to save his world, despite the distrust and prejudice he faces on the daily. While he is looking for an Elder Scroll for Paarthurnax, he meets Rozelia Greensly. A master Mage at the College of Winterhold. She is very interested in the Reach and Reach magic. She joins Tiernan on his adventure, to his dismay. Perhaps the buds of friendship will bloom during their trip to find the Elder Scroll. Last Dragonborn {M Reachfolk} x OC {F Breton}

Chapter 1 | WIP

[yeehawbvby]

Go, Lass (Brynjolf x F!Reader)

Rating: Teen+ (explicit language, canon-typical violence)

Summary: The guards of Markarth have you cornered in the Silver-Blood Inn, eager to steal you away to Cidhna Mine. Luckily, you’re gifted a bittersweet goodbye with your favorite guildmate before you’re imprisoned for only the gods know how long.

Author’s Note: This was a fun little idea I had based off my current Skyrim run! It takes place after The Forsworn Conspiracy/before No One Escapes Cidhna Mine, and before you meet with Endon for Silver Lining. The reader-insert doesn’t have to be the Dragonborn, and your race isn’t specified either.

Sorry for any errors, I didn’t proofread before posting. Hope y’all enjoy! x

Check it out on ao3!

___

“C-come on, I didn’t really kill all those people! Surely you’re overlooking some details—“

“Oh no, we’ve all heard stories of your honeyed words. You’re not getting out of this one that easy.”

Shit, shit, shit, you thought to yourself.

Looking back and forth between Brynjolf and the Markarth guards, you panicked. Your heart raced as your shoulders slumped and your chest visibly began to heave.

You’d never been arrested for stealing, in all those years of doing it to survive, followed by making it into a profession with the Thieves Guild; but due to a failed attempt to help a determined Breton rid Markarth of the Forsworn, you’d really fucked up. 

Lots of weird politics. Far more killing than you were used to. So many ways to be framed in so little time. In the end, your comrade didn’t even make it — the guards made sure of his demise as soon as they’d been tipped off. All poor Eltrys wanted was a safe future for his wife and child, but that was supposedly too much to ask for in such a corrupt city.

The reason Bryn tagged along on your trip back to Markarth for this job was to bring you comfort and backup. You were two peas in a pod (albeit, Brynjolf seemed to see you as a sister whilst you hid your romantic feelings in plain sight), and you knew he’d help you if you truly needed it, no questions asked. 

You’d kept your fingers crossed, upon the law’s arrival, that the tall Nord’s presence would intimidate the guards into brushing it all off. Unfortunately, your downfall seemed certain. 

In that moment, the guards, citizens and denizens onlooking all wanted you imprisoned for life. And your favorite partner in crime was there to witness it all, barely even knowing what had gotten you into such a mess. His face looked neutral as ever, but his body language said otherwise. You knew Bryn well enough to be able to tell how tense he was.

You had three options. Option number one: run. Never come back. Screw this silversmith job that the Guild desperately needs, someone else can take care of it!

…Although, whoever is sent in your lieu might just muck it up. 

Option two: Fight. Main issue there is that it would be subjecting yourself and Brynjolf both to a death sentence.  

Option three: Turn yourself in. The prospect was terrifying, but you’d gotten yourself out of countless sticky situations. Perhaps you could figure out the details of an escape plan later. Maybe you could even organize a full-fledged jailbreak.

Everyone surrounding you knew what choices you had, merely not realizing the extra details that went into your third prospect. The inn was quieter than a crypt as they waited with baited breath to see what you’d do. 

“I…” You looked over your shoulder at Bryn, a deep exhale shaking your form as his beautiful emerald eyes met your own gaze. “I submit.” His eyes widened. The guards made a move to capture you, but you halted them, your face whipping their way.“Wait.”  

“What in the Gods’ names makes you think we—“

“I’m a cold-blooded killer, aren’t I?” You lilted, eyes stabbing into the man who’d been doing the talking for all of his crew. “If you don’t allow me to bid my friend farewell before I spend the rest of my fucking life in the mines, I could take out everyone in this room. Starting with them.”  

You tilted your head towards the small family that hid behind the counter. The parents gasped, and their son whimpered in fear, hugging himself closer to his mother. Playing into the façade, you drew a smirk across your features. 

“…Very well. You have one minute.” The guard added, glaring at Brynjolf, “No funny business or you’ll both perish.”

“Yes sir,” you lazily saluted. 

You turned around to face Brynjolf, who looked pale with discomfort. 

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve done, but—“

Before Bryn could get another word in, you tip-toed to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tender hug. 

As he returned the gesture, you turned your face until your lips brushed his ear, and ever so softly whispered, “I will get out of there.” Bryn shifted a little, and you continued, “I don’t know when, or how, and maybe I won’t even survive; but trust me when I say that I’ll see you again soon, one way or another. I’ll make damn sure of it.” 

Your partner in crime wanted to laugh. He knew you. He knew what you were capable of. No matter how foolish you were to already be conspiring an escape, he believed you could do it. But he didn’t wish to draw suspicion from the guards, so he simply nodded, an amused exhale that could’ve been mistaken for despair shaking his armored chest as he tightened his grip around your form. 

You pulled away, but before you could make your way towards your captors, you felt a tug on your arm. Turning to the source, Brynjolf pulled you close, replacing his grip on your bicep with a tender caress to your cheek from both hands.

Before you could process what was happening, he tilted your gaze upward and dipped down to your height, sealing the goodbye with a kiss. You melted into his touch, your palms finding refuge against his broad shoulders. 

As Bryn’s auburn beard tickled your chin, you smiled, basking in the taste and feel of his mouth. The warmth of his breath. The calluses of his large hands barely scratching your cheeks. After a few short seconds that you wished could be hours, he separated.

A crooked grin graced Brynjolf’s lips as he whispered to you his parting words:

“Go, Lass. Make their ancestors weep.”

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 5: X+ 1 ~ Brynjolf/F!Dragonborn [6,164 words]

Three times Brynjolf wondered just who Kirsi was, and one time he found out.

It's 2023 and I'm writing all these words about Brynjolf from Skyrim. Unreal. I can't even explain the word count. It started as a quick flufftober fill and spiralled into this monster. Filled with a hefty dose of humour at how absurd the Dragonborn's travelling companions must find it when they have fifty thousand different careers and excel at them all.

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

It was Brynjolf’s business to be able to take the measure of someone – quickly. It was no good risking being caught with his hand in some poor bugger’s pocket if that bugger was, well, poor. Not that he was ever caught, not since he was a lad, but it was the principle of the thing. The potential risk had to be outweighed by the potential reward, that was just good business, and he was a good businessman.

But Kirsi? It was a funny thing that the more he saw of her, the less it seemed he knew. She’d strolled into Riften with a bow and blade both far finer than the worn fur armour she sported, which could have meant two things. Either she could afford to heed her armour less because by the time the enemy saw her, it was too late – or the bow and blade were stolen, and the armour reflected the truth of her finances. The truth turned out to be both. Which, as far as recruitment was concerned, was perfect. Maybe the signs had been there since day one that she’d end up running their little outfit.

Unfortunately – infuriatingly – that was the last time Brynjolf had managed to successfully gauge much of anything about the Nord lass who infiltrated his thoughts more and more with each passing month. From then on, the only sure thing about her was that she could, and would, produce results. Flitting in and out of the Ragged Flagon with ill-gotten goods in her hands, a smile on her face, and…blood in her hair. Usually.

The first time, Brynjolf commented upon it, asking vaguely if she recalled their rule regarding bloodshed. She’d blinked at him, followed his gaze, and responded with an ‘oh – no, that’s unrelated, don’t worry’ before making a joke about how it blended in with the colour very nicely anyway. And that had been that. Skyrim was a demanding place in which to live, and those who’d never had blood in their hair seldom lasted long, so it wasn’t a major cause for concern.

No, Brynjolf’s cause for concern came months later – long after Kirsi had been made master of the guild, no less. They saw less of her for a while, but that was her way. That was the way with plenty here, even. Folk always turned up eventually, with a story to tell and something to sell to Tonilia, more often than not. This absence stretched on a little longer, yes, but it hadn’t even occurred to Brynjolf to really worry until she did turn up again. And she seemed in no mood for storytelling.

The Ragged Flagon went gradually silent as she walked in. Brynjolf, his usually keen senses off-duty, noticed the silence before he noticed her, turning to see what everybody else was staring at and then stilling. Kirsi strode in, steadfastly avoiding the eyes of any who looked in her direction. She wore her Nightingale armour, but it was not so form-fitting as it once had been, bunching and baggy here and there suggesting a sudden and unhealthy amount of thinning that a jagged sharpness at her jaw and cheekbones confirmed. Her auburn hair had once been bound back into a complicated series of braids, but it had long since rebelled against it, most of it curling in whisps around her face, and she was sporting a new and very angry looking scar on said face.

It ran from her right temple all the way down to her chin, framing the side of her features in a sort of jagged crescent moon.

“Kirsi…” Brynjolf said, stunned.

“I can’t discuss business right now,” she said flatly, her voice hoarse.

He hadn’t intended to discuss business…but he supposed he deserved it. He’d been avoiding her before she left, and it seemed she’d noticed. Unsurprisingly. Brynjolf fell silent, watching as she turned her head in the direction of Galathil who sad in her usual place, lifting a hand absentmindedly to the scar that they all stared at. Ultimately, she appeared to think better of it. Instead, she dropped a weighty bag of gold down onto the bar, loaded her arms up with bottles of mead, and headed for the cistern without another word.

“What was that?” Vex was the one to break the silence.

“I dunno,” Delvin responded grimly. “But she didn’t even look like that when Mercer…”

There was little need for him to elaborate on that. Brynjolf’s lips set into a thin line, then he counted to twenty, and finally he followed.

Kirsi was at her bed when he entered the cistern, not bothering to hunker behind the screen as she changed – not unusual, few of them here bothered with modesty. And the looks she was drawing were more to do with shock and dismay than anything that might be considered leering. Already she was halfway out of her Nightingale armour, and Brynjolf could see that there was little of her from the neck down that was not badly, badly bruised. Or burned. Or littered with gashes that looked one wrong twist away from reopening.

Whatever healing she’d undergone, be it from potions of magic, it appeared she’d prioritised them to heal her face. That, or they’d all been much worse beforehand. It was hard to gauge the state of her armour thanks to the colour, but he suspected if he took a real look, he’d find it stained badly with blood.

"Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at Honeyside?” he asked – if only to stop himself standing and staring like a fool any longer.

“Am I not welcome here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, lass.”

At her home in the city – which she would’ve had to bypass to get here, no less – her bed was bigger, and she had a housecarl who could help her. Not that those here wouldn’t, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for their company. It would be less stifling for her, he suspected, accepting help from one whose sworn duty was to offer it.

“Nobody can find me here,” she said finally.

After several deep breaths. Brynjolf couldn’t quite figure whether they were against whatever pain she was feeling, or just an attempt to find the patience for a conversation. She was wound tight, it was plain as day as she kicked her armour under the bed now that she was stripped down to her smalls, before she pulled a shirt over her head. There seemed to be little intention of finding breeches to go with it.

“…Are people looking for you, lass?”

People who had done this? There was a dangerous, angry streak in Brynjolf that hoped they’d come here looking. They’d regret it sorely.

“No,” she shook her head. “Just don’t want to be found.”

She paused, then, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “There’s just…there’s always something else. Can’t be dealing with it now.”

Brynjolf stilled, lost for words. Then he asked quietly.

“Do you need anything, lass?”

“Just sleep,” she said quietly.

What in the name of Talos had she gotten into? Where was it that she disappeared to so frequently? Who was she?

Kirsi slept for three days – stirring here and there to sit up and down a bottle of mead, or to turn over in a slow and beleaguered fashion that left nobody in any doubt as to how sorely she felt her injuries – but otherwise, she was out cold. The same conversation was had over and over in that time.

She needs a healer.

She is a healer.

I don’t think she has the strength to heal herself more.

Could someone carry her up above to get her help?

I don’t think she’d allow it.

Could we bring someone down here to look her over? Someone that won’t blab?

I don’t think she’d allow that, either.

Ultimately, Thrynn looked her over…with all of his limited healing knowledge, gleaned here and there from his days of patching himself up amidst bouts of banditry. Kirsi didn’t seem to notice it much. The unease in Brynjolf’s stomach gnawed deeper.

She’s more exhausted than injured, he ultimately concluded.

It didn’t cheer them much. Then, on the fifth day, she rose. The signal was given by Vipir, who strolled through the Flagon whistling a jaunty little tune, and Brynjolf was moving swiftly thereafter. Ignoring the looks that followed him. He entered the cistern expecting to find her sitting up, or maybe at the little cavern that they designated as a kitchen. Instead she was up, she was dressed, and the contents of her pack were strewn across her bed as she methodically took inventory for the trip ahead. Wherever that would be.

Brynjolf felt alarm streak through him – very much not liking the prospect of her barrelling off into the unknown after worrying them all sick for the better part of a week.

“What happened to your dagger, lass?” he asked rather than voicing any of that.

Ever since she’d commissioned it from Balimund, he’d never seen her parted from it.

“Lost it,” she muttered sourly.

“Where?”

She could have that thing wrenched out of her hand and flung into the Sea of Ghosts and she’d go diving in after it.

“Sovngarde,” she grunted.

Not in the mood for serious conversation, then.

“When are you heading out?”

“Why? Are you coming with me?”

Brynjolf made a very quick, very impulsive decision then.

“If I’m invited.”

Stilling, she turned her head and stared at him for a few long moments.

“You’re being serious?” she asked, tone unreadable.

“Things here can keep for a while,” he shrugged. “I trust the others to stop the place from burning down in my absence.”

And it was far, far better than torturing himself wondering what she was up to and how she was doing, should she leave alone.

“And you wouldn’t just rather speak another time?”

Brynjolf forced a strained laugh. “I deserve that.”

Kirsi tilted her head as if in agreement. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Don’t wear your Guild armour. Don’t pack light, either. I don’t know how long I’ll be this time,” she said, watching as he nodded along. “And Brynjolf? You have to listen to me while we’re out there. If I say no…extra-curricular activities in a certain hold, I mean it.”

“We did well enough together at Irkngthand, didn’t we?”

She considered his words for a long moment, with eyes that he knew had sussed out many a foe, and then finally she nodded.

“Fine. We leave after midday.”

“We leave,” he countered, “once you’ve eaten something.”

That earned another sigh, but it was followed by another nod, and Brynjolf took it as a good sign that she listened to him.

Stepping out into the world again felt like a gradual lightening for Kirsi. Even with the worried looks Brynjolf kept pretending he very much was not sending in her direction. They stopped at Honeyside just long enough for her to switch out weapons, stock up on potions, and for Iona to fix her new travelling companion with a withering glare, and then they were out of Riften.

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to let him come along. Well, she did know, she just wasn’t a massive fan of said reasoning. This was the first time he hadn’t given her the brush-off in months, and even in her exhaustion and the numbness that had overtaken her since defeating Alduin, she didn’t want to squander whatever chance there might’ve been for things to go back to normal between them.

…and she was at least present enough to know that weeks spend wandering and camping on her own would do little to help her mental state, at present. Maybe she could’ve hired someone to watch her back and provide civil conversation, but she also didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility of that. Brynjolf had asked to come along, and so his hide was therefore his own concern.

Being out and moving felt good, though, and with every stray breeze that caught her hair and every birdsong that met her ears, she felt more like her old self. Maybe she just needed to be reminded that it was all still here. When they set up camp for the night, she was even laughing when Bryn went out of his way to try and make her do so…although she knew just how dour she must’ve been since her return when she saw how surprised he was to get any sort of response at all.

“I’m not asking that you tell me now, lass,” he hedged when dinner was eaten and there was little to do but doze by the fire ‘til morning came. “But I have to know…are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Probably not,” she admitted quietly.

And he accepted it readily enough. Or hid well, if he did not. Well, save for one comment, spoken incredibly lightly.

“I dread to think what’s so salacious and sinister that even I can’t be told about it.”

She snorted quietly, staring at the stars above. “It’s not salacious. Nor sinister. It’s just…a lot.”

Keeping her countless lives separate was something she always endeavoured to do, all while being painfully aware that bits and pieces were bound to crash in on one another at some point. This wasn’t like keeping a spouse and a lover secret from one another, it was bigger and more all-encompassing than that. She toed the line between doing what she could to keep those boundaries in place, while staying detached enough that she wouldn’t fall to pieces should the lines in the sand be erased by a crashing wave.

It was just…neater. The guild had to stay secret for obvious reasons – she could only imagine what Vilkas or Ulfric would think if they saw her slipping into the Ragged Flagon and making all sorts of underhanded deals with her friends down there. She could even kid herself that it was easier for the guild if they didn’t know about any of the rest of it. That maybe they’d balk if they realised their Guild Master was the Dragonborn, or Ulfric’s best soldier, Thane of too many holds to count, or even Archmage of Winterhold’s college. All those titles didn’t particularly lend themselves to secrecy.

But that wasn’t why she kept it from Brynjolf. She didn’t want to be the Dragonborn, nor Stormblade, nor the Harbinger, or whatever else she was known as across this land, when Brynjolf spoke to her. When he deigned to speak to her, these days.

Which was why it was a risk bringing him with her.

But she was a thief, was she not? She was good at sneaking.

It took the better part of three weeks for them to get to Whiterun – with Kirsi gradually healing herself with magic and potions both as they travelled. By the end of the first week she was smiling freely again, and by the end of the second she was cracking her own jokes to go along with his. Brynjolf didn’t press the matter of what had gotten her into such a state, and she didn’t make any more allusions to his steadfast avoidance of her prior to it, so he did what he could to avoid looking that gift-horse in the mouth.

When Whiterun loomed before them, jutting up above the rest of the landscape, she issued those aforementioned orders that he’d promised to follow back in Riften. No stealing, no conning, no shenanigans. If I have to start bullshitting, go along with it. He’d shrugged and agreed, too pleased at her swift change in spirits to start arguments now.

And the time for that bullshitting came alarmingly quickly, for they hadn’t yet yet cleared the Honningbrew Meadery when a group of warriors came walking from the other direction, spotted her, and immediately approached.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Brynjolf’s hand had been straying towards his sword when one called out.

“Kirsi! You’re back!”

They were two men and a woman, the first to greet her being the bigger of the two men. Twins, Brynjolf quickly realised, despite their difference in stature – both sporting long dark hair, and dark war paint around their eyes. The woman, another redhead, watched he and Kirsi curiously as the men stepped forth to shake her hand and then pull her into a one armed hug that mostly consisted of a thump on the back.

“Farkas,” she greeted with a tired smile, then repeating the gesture with the other two. “Vilkas. Aela.”

“We didn’t know when you were coming back. After that business with the dragon at Dragonsreach…” Aela greeted.

“Well, I’m back now,” she interrupted quickly.

“With a sellsword, too. Can’t fight your own battles these days?” Vilkas asked, his eyes lingering on Brynjolf.

Brynjolf returned the scrutiny with a lazy smile. It didn’t endear him to the man…but he hadn’t particularly intended it to.

“Not a sellsword – a friend,” she said. “This is Brynjolf. Brynjolf, these are the Companions.”

“Companions to who?” Brynjolf greeted wryly.

“Ysgramor,” Vilkas sneered.

“Oh. You must be older than you look, then.”

“We’re only here for the night. For a comfortable place to sleep and a good meal,” Kirsi interrupted – shooting a look in his direction that was too amused to hold any real bite to it.

“You’ll find both in Jorrvaskr,” Farkas said. “You and your friend. Come. It’s been too long.”

If any other than Brynjolf noted her reluctance, they did not show it.

They arrived to the Companions’ long-hall just in time for dinner – which was swiftly followed by drinking and merry-making thereafter. Brynjolf was accustomed to fudging the details as far as his identity was concerned; not often introducing himself with ‘good morning, I’m a high-ranking member of Skyrim’s biggest criminal enterprise, Dark Brotherhood notwithstanding’, and so he was able to do so here without blinking.

Well, there was one moment that gave him cause to blink. Harbinger. He had heard of the Companions, of course, he wasn’t a fool. His question by the gates had mainly been to rankle the dark-haired man who clearly loathed his presence and whatever his association might’ve been with  Kirsi. Any doubt Brynjolf had as to that loathing was gone when he saw how the man’s eyes followed her about the hall throughout the night. And more-so when Brynjolf dragged her up for a dance, bringing yet another smile to her face…and a matching one to his own.

The glare gained yet more frost to it when Ria asked Kirsi about her new scar, and she lifted a hand self-consciously to it, muttering something about a dragon. Brynjolf took it to be a joke – it was what people used as an explanation for every minor cut and scrape since the beasts returned to Skyrim, but the Companions murmured appreciatively.

“I’m sure it’ll fade, with time,” the Imperial offered reassuringly.

“It suits you,” Brynjolf said simply, returning Kirsi’s gaze boldly when she eyed him in surprise – as if trying to figure out whether he was teasing or not.

When the hour grew so late that it was technically early, Kirsi finally drummed her hands against the long table at which they’d feasted, announcing loudly.

“It’s time we headed to Breezehome – I’ll come by in the morning before I leave.”

“Why not stay here? Tilma readied your quarters while we’ve all been up here. Your friend can bed down with the whelps,” Vilkas commented.

Njada made a noise of displeasure somewhere down the table. The suggestion put her in an uncomfortable position - Brynjolf could see that easily enough. Refuse, and it would be a rejection of the people whom her role here was to offer guidance. Accept, and a lesser man might be insulted in Brynjolf’s shoes. But Kirsi considered it, sighed, and then spoke.

“The Harbinger’s quarters are big enough to share, Bryn. Come on – Tilma will have a bath waiting, too.”

Brynjolf grinned as he watched Vilkas’ regret at saying a word wash over his face.

The rooms below Jorrvaskr were cooler than the hall above, not so warmed by bodies and smoke and revelry, but a bath did indeed wait there for them in the bedchamber next door to the sitting room, steam rising steadily from it.

“Ladies first,” Brynjolf shrugged.

Weeks on the road together had shed them of whatever modesty might have remained, and Kirsi shrugged and began to strip off.

“Multiple rooms, eh lass?” he commented, taking stock of the fineness of the room.

“They’ll always feel like Kodlak’s rooms to me,” she commented quietly. “My predecessor.”

“Even so, it’s funny to think what bed you chose to fall into when you needed that rest when this waited for you here.”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember what I said at the time.”

“Mm. Still, there’s a lad up there that would’ve waited on you hand and foot while you recovered.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he snorted, but then a furious motion caught his eye even as he studiously trained his gaze straight ahead.

Kirsi was in the bath, the water steadily turning murky after weeks of travel – which made it a little easier for him to keep his eyes stuck on her face, despite the flush that crept up from his neck towards his cheeks. She motioned once across her neck as if to say ‘stop’, and then pointed to her ear, and then the door.

Brynjolf almost laughed. In what world would they be overheard all the way down here? But there was no room for argument in her gaze and he slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one question on his mind.

Who are you, Kirsi?

Despite Kirsi’s fears, Brynjolf finding out about her identity – one of them, at least – did not instate the sort of distance she’d feared it might. Oh, a fair amount of good natured ribbing came her way, but with Brynjolf that was always a decidedly good thing, and so she left Whiterun in a better mood than she’d arrived…and in a mood that was unrecognisable to the one she’d departed Riften in.

Rescuing townsfolk from bandits holding them hostage? You’re joking. What are the guards doing? Resting?

You make saving lives sound like a bad thing.

It might be, depending on what it pays. How much?

What?

How much each time? What’s the going rate for a saved life?

…It doesn’t matter. It pays in more than gold. Goodwill. Contacts. Reputation.

By the Nine, it’s a pittance, isn’t it? How much Kirsi? I’ll just keep irritating you until you tell me.

…A hundred gold each time.

When he stopped laughing – which felt like hours later – he pointed out he could make ten times that depending on the job he took. Her pointing out that she could also raid whatever lairs the jobs sent her into did little to help.

Don’t tell me half the goods you fence to Tonilia are gotten honestly, lass. It’ll break my heart.

And it was too difficult to act annoyed by him when she was laughing along.

From Whiterun they turned north to Windhelm. Kirsi withdrew her rule against larceny for all of an hour so that Brynjolf could liberate a farmhouse of a couple of bottles of wine – more for the thrill than anything else, and because free wine tasted better. That night when they made camp, they mulled it over a fire and huddled together far more closely than the barely-encroaching chill necessitated. By the time they were a few tankards deep, she felt giddy and foggy and overall like herself again, matters of fate and destiny and death and Sovngarde, and what a Dragonborn was worth once they’d achieved their purpose, fading behind Brynjolf’s jokes and the way he kept smiling at her and looking at her.

The night was pressing on when she found herself pressed against him beneath a blanket, their backs against a tree, her head on his shoulder as she was pulled further and further towards sleep.

“Lass?” he murmured lowly. “Kirsi?”

She didn’t respond – the original intention being to not respond right away, needing to blink herself into wakefulness before she could wrap her lips around syllables, much less words. But after a moment of silence, he relaxed and pulled her closer.

“I won’t give you the brush off again,” he murmured.

They were words that should have been basic decency, but they had the sound of a vow. As well as that not intended for conscious ears. So she pretended to be asleep, and soon she was no longer pretending.

It took another two weeks for them to reach Windhelm, not helped by their unhurried pace that defied the cold snapping at their heels. Kirsi, aptly named after the frost, seemed to enjoy it if anything. And Brynjolf? Brynjolf…endured it. With a smile. Primarily because he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a while…and more content than he’d admit in this strange and unexpected little routine they’d slipped into together by now.

He was happy as they slipped into Windhelm in the early hours of the morning, when he watched Kirsi pay a little brown-haired lass a hundred times what the entire stock of flowers she peddled were worth, when he found out that had been Kirsi’s main reason for wanting to come here in the first place (for it had been a while since she’d last given the wee girl a stupid amount of gold, and she was worried the last lost may have run out by now), and he was happy when they slipped into Hjerim – her stupidly big Windhelm home – and began to cobble together a hot meal.

Most of all, he was wrapped up in the atmosphere that had fast begun to overtake them. The one that had him enforcing that distance all that time ago, that stupid distance, convincing himself that his own worries were valid concerns about business and the running of the guild and not just cowardice over not wanting to face how he’d feel if it went tits up. That worry was still there, and it would gnaw at his insides like a pack of skeevers if he let it, but it was overpowered by how much he could get used to this. The little smiles. The looks. The complete lack of personal space between them as they went about their little routines.

That happiness was put on pause when a knock interrupted their dinner preparations.

Cursing beneath her breath, much as she had when they’d been spotted by the Companions, she cleaned her hands free of flour from the bread she’d been making and strode for the door. Brynjolf followed, a dagger in hand behind his back, a force of habit.

“Jorleif,” she greeted tiredly. “What is it?”

“Still not one for pleasantries, I see,” Jorleif replied. “High King Ulfric invites you to sup with him tonight – he was pleased to hear you were back in Windhelm.”

“I brought a guest with me.”

“Bring the guest, please!” Jorleif responded happily enough. “Galmar will be there, too. A real reunion, through and through.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get to the Palace of the Kings, I expect.”

“…Wait here.”

Turning away from the door, she almost walked straight into Brynjolf – and then breathed a soft laugh at the weapon in his hand. Taking up the bread dough in its bowl from the kitchen table, she strode back to Jorleif and thrust the bowl into his hands.

“Here. Have the cooks bake this, I don’t want it going to waste. Move quickly, or else the cold will ruin it."

Whether it was a ploy to be rid of the messenger quickly, a way to amuse herself, or she was truly very excited about that particular loaf of bread, it had the intended effect – the man was quickly gone, and she turned a look filled with trepidation in Brynjolf’s direction.

“How would you like to have supper with the High King of Skyrim?”

Had he not overheard the exchange, he’d never have believed her.

Rather than rush to her wardrobe to change into finery, she settled for brushing the flour from her armour (and her hair) and then leading the way out of the door. It was a short walk to the palace – and Brynjolf’s disbelief did surface when he saw how Ulfric Stormcloak greeted Kirsi. With a warm greeting, and a hug.

“When did you arrive, Stormblade?” he asked, paying Brynjolf all the attention High Kings likely usually paid people who didn’t immediately interest them.

“This morning, my King,” she bowed at the neck and was forcibly straightened, Ulfric having none of it.

“This morning? I should set the guards on you for being here so long without coming here. And who’s this?”

He had not yet looked at Brynjolf, but it was plain he had not escaped his notice.

“Brynjolf. A friend – and a travelling companion. Bryn, this is Ulfric Stormcloak, and his housecarl Galmar Stone-fist.”

This is Ulfric. Like he was a friend from the tavern and little more. Was he supposed to bow? Brynjolf did not bow – not to anybody. He didn’t much want to start here. So instead, he cleared his throat and looked between the two of them.

“I wasn’t aware you rubbed shoulders with royalty, Kirsi. I imagine how you met must be quite the tale.”

Galmar breathed a harsh laugh. “She’s not told you? By Talos, if I’d survived Helgen all within a hundred leagues of me would know the tale at all times.”

Helgen? Brynjolf stared in disbelief. The look remained on his face throughout dinner, and he was in less of a mood for teasing than he had been in Whiterun.

Do you remember Korvanjud, girl? When you snuck up onto the walkway and rained fire down on those Imperial bastards from above?

Ulfric had cut in there. I remember it. I still owe you that drink, don’t I?

You fought in the war? Brynjolf had asked, unable to help himself.

She’s not told you that either, lad? By Talos, I don’t know how Ulfric would’ve won the damn thing as swiftly as he did without the Dr-

Galmar. Kirsi had cut in, fixing the man with a hard stare.

…Without the driving force that Stormblade here proved to be. Ulfric had covered for his housecarl – and Brynjolf didn’t buy it for a second.

They returned to Hjerim that night in silence.

“Brynjolf, sooner or later you’ll have to say something to me.”

After dinner, they’d retired back to her home wordlessly, and Kirsi didn’t try to break the silence until they were out of the city gates early the next morning. Brynjolf suspected she was worried that High King of hers would issue an invitation for breakfast, too, if they didn’t make themselves scarce.

“The Companions were one thing. Harbinger, do-gooder, whatever. I figured you need easy money to supplement your finances, a cover for all of the ill-gotten gold you make with us. Whatever. Soldiering? Not my business either – the civil war never interested me, and maybe it’s a good thing that your mighty High King’s victory stopped Maven from being directly in charge of the Rift. It’s even a relief to know your not being scared of her has reasonable roots that go beyond plain old foolishness. Maybe even who you are – whoever that is – provides you with useful contacts, I don’t know. But that’s the point. I don’t know. And the more I see, the less I know.”

“Bryn…”

“Are you a highborn lass, then? Is that it? Because you’ve done too much for us for me to call that a conflict of interest, you know?”

“Not at all. I’m as common as the muck beneath our boots.”

“Most peasants don’t sup with High Kings.”

“A twist of fate, little more.”

“One you don’t trust me enough to explain.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

Sighing, she shook her head and looked out across the snow landscape, visibly searching for the words.

“Most folk like me in the context they know me in. You insist Vilkas is in love with me, and maybe he is, but only in the context he knows me in. He could barely square himself with my throwing a fireball at a draugr – some nonsense about it not being an honourable way or fight, I don’t know what the- anyway, if he does love me, he loves Kirsi, the Harbinger of the Companions and Thane of Whiterun. The one who disappears and returns having cleared out a cave of bandits, or rescued a citizen, or beat the shit out of someone who threatened a villager. That’s not me. You know that better than anybody. If he saw the rest of it? He’d go from being attracted to me, to wanting to take up arms against me very damn quickly. I can’t even resent him for it, either. He believes what I’ve led him to believe.”

It was clear she wasn’t done when she paused, and so Brynjolf waited in silence for her to continue.

“Ulfric…he’s less rigid, perhaps. Not that he’s in love with me. If he was ever going to pursue anything like that, it would be because of what I am and not who I am.

“I’m sure he has enough soldiers to take his pick from, lass.”

“It’s not that I was referring to,” she muttered sourly. “So long as I’m subtle about whatever else I get up to, I’m sure he doesn’t care. But is that better or worse than Vilkas’ outlook? I don’t…I can’t have that happen again. Not with you.”

“You think I’d go running because you give gold to orphans and run an outfit of block-headed warriors?”

“I don’t run then. And they’re not block-headed,” she said softly. “And it’s more than that.”

“How much more, Kirsi?”

“Much more. An entire world-load of complications. And you’ve shut me out before for less.”

Brynjolf faltered. “Kirsi…lass…”

They were interrupted by the screech of a dragon, and then a blast of fire.

The battle was a hard-won one. She’d fought worse dragons, after all – the worst dragon – but she was certain the ones that were left were growing fiercer, as if in some desperate bid to cling onto the foothold they’d previously dug out for themselves in this land.

They hadn’t been far from Kynesgrove, and so they’d been joined by miners and guards as they battled the beast, but that threatened to be more of a help than a hindrance – making sure none were in the line of fire as she shot spells and bellowed Shouts at the dragon until finally she could make the killing blow, driving her blade through its eye.

She turned to Brynjolf then, looking at him almost mournfully as she fought to regain her breath, well-accustomed by now to the feeling of the dragon’s soul whipping about her body and finally sinking in. It felt like she was being held before a bonfire, the heat just shy of actually burning. Brynjolf stared, his face splattered with dragon blood, his eyes wide.

“I’m the Dragonborn,” Kirsi breathed.

Like the skeever wasn’t already out of the bag. How long had she refused to use Shouts around him? Even in their pursuit of Mercer through Falmer-infested caves. All for nothing. Brynjolf continued to stare – a time during which she did her best to predict what he would do. Mostly, her money was on an awkwardly mumbled “I’m heading back to Riften, I’ll see you next time you complete a job”.

Instead, though, he threw down his blade and strode towards her, few paying them much mind at all as they trailed back towards whatever they’d been doing when the dragon descended. Now it was Kirsi’s turn to stare…right up until he was within arm’s length of her, when he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him, pulling her into a kiss that filled her with fire more than the souls of a hundred dragons ever could.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, one rough fingertip trailing across the scar at the side of her face. Kirsi was fast deciding she wasn’t going to have the face sculptor get rid of it, after all.

“No more secrets, lass?”

“No more secrets,” she confirmed softly, eyes flickering down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “Although…”

Her hands had come to rest at his chest and she felt him stiffen, dreading what she was going to say next.

“I’m also the Archmage at the College of Winterhold,” she said. “I thought we might go there next.”

Brynjolf breathed a laugh, his forehead pressing against hers. “I can live with that.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - Nostos

Tagged by @mareenavee, @dirty-bosmer, @skyrim-forever, @rainpebble3 tyty friends🙏

I am tagging @thana-topsr @greyborn2 @gilgamish @thequeenofthewinter @changelingsandothernonsense

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence, mushy stuff [kissin' not viscera]) Category: M/F Genre(s): Romance Main characters: Borgakh the Steel Heart, Khemor gro-Skaven (Male orc LDB)

Summary: Khemor gro-Skaven thought that after he defeated Alduin, he would not have to worry about anything more dangerous than a quill knife for the rest of his existence. But when the jarl of the Pale asks him to investigate the destruction of the Hall of the Vigilants, it sets off a chain of events that ultimately leads him to wash up at the feet of Borgakh the Steel-Heart of Mor Khazgur. But what can a crippled conjuration mage-scholar half again her age possibly offer to a future Shield-Wife?

I introduced Khemor in last week's WIP Wednesday, here.

------------

As the sun dipped towards the Druadach mountains, Borgakh led them through the maze of jagged boulders and juniper scrub that made up the Karthald highlands. If it was not for the wall of mountains staying generally to their left, or the leyline of magicka he could sense to the northeast, Khemor would have suspected she was leading them in circles as they wound their way over the harsh terrain.

In several places he was certain the path would disappear only to have Borgakh make a sharp turn and what had seemed to be an impenetrable scrub thicket or wall of rock would be revealed to be passable, or broken in just right way to allow a horse and rider through while fooling the eyes of anyone not looking at it from the correct angle.

Calder was chatting happily as he led Bear on a loose rein, occasionally gesturing with the thrown horseshoe in his hand. The young Nord’s ability to make conversation with anyone under any circumstances had often served Khemor better than his housecarl’s sword arm, and he was grateful for it. It gave him more time to look at Borgakh.

Despite the chill in the air and her damp clothes, she showed no outward sign of discomfort, and navigated the uneven ground and broken rocks at a rapid pace. Now that he was behind her, he could see a buckler and sword strapped beneath her pack, not obvious to the casual observer but still easy to access. A quiver of arrows and a vicious looking knife at her hip seemed to be the weapons she preferred to have closest to hand.

How does anyone live out here? Strongholds had been doing it since the Merethic Era, but so far Khemor had seen nothing even resembling land that would be productive enough to support a settlement. Surely they don’t eat only deer and juniper berries?

"...really, you haven’t heard of the Dragonborn?"

Calder’s question caught Khemor’s wandering attention. Even if he was not recognized by sight it had been a very long time since he had met anyone who did not know of him. They really were on the edge of the map out here, weren’t they?

"I think Pavo, the owner of Kolskeggr, said something about it. Once."

"Well, surely you noticed the dragons returning, even out here! I’ve seen the empty mounds, they must be around."

Borgakh waved her hand dismissively in response. "Oh, yes, the dragons. There’s one that was at the ruins downriver."

"There’s a lair nearby?" Calder looked over his shoulder at Khemor, flashing him a toothy grin.

Next to him, Gregor heaved a weary sigh and said, "We aren’t out here to look for dragons, boy. If Jarl Thongvor wanted it gone he would have asked."

"Ha! I doubt the Silver-Bloods even know what’s all out here in this divinesforsaken backwater." Calder quickly looked over at Borgakh. "No offense."

She grunted in acknowledgement but said nothing. The path was pitching up in a gentle slope, the crest of the hillock just ahead of them. Khemor hoped the stronghold was close - it had been a very long day, and his hip and leg were throbbing. He was going to have to have Gregor assist him off of Blue if he didn’t want to make the poor mare kneel to let him dismount.

"Anyways, I hope they haven’t given you too much trouble, at least lately. My Thane-" Calder waved vaguely back towards Khemor, "-defeated Alduin two summers ago. That was the dragon that was bringing back all the other ones."

Borgakh nodded but said nothing, so Calder continued, huffing slightly between his words as he climbed.

"We’ve been killing the others as they become problems, but most seem to be retreating to the mountains."

"Yes, I’ve seen them flying west sometimes. We’ve lost a few goats." Borgakh’s voice held no trace of effort as she stepped lightly from foothold to foothold.

"Well, if needed I’m sure we’ll be able to deal with any that show up while we’re here," said Calder, in his most gallant tone. "Quite frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t targeted your settlement, they can’t seem to resist every other little hamlet and farm in the rest of Skyrim."

"Oh, I didn’t say they hadn’t attacked." Despite only being able to see a sliver of Borgakh’s face from this angle, Khemor could tell she had a smile playing on her lips.

"I said they didn’t give Mor Khazgur any trouble." Borgakh reached the top of the rise, and stood aside, gesturing to the valley below with a grand sweep of her arm.

The expected mountain-orc stronghold, with its usual curving timbers, sturdy walls, and longhouse would have been the dominant feature of the glen if it were not for the massive dragon skeleton that was splayed out on the valley floor.

"By Talos," Gregor murmured as he pulled his horse up next to Khemor.

Borgakh grinned at Calder’s dumbstruck expression, obviously pleased with herself.

It was a good piece of dramatic timing, Khemor had to admit. And the look on Calder’s face was rather amusing.

The skeleton was undeniably real even from this distance --a small industry making facsimiles had sprung up across Skyrim to take advantage of the standing bounties, and Khemor had seen many fakes just as large as this one-- but the genuine article was unmistakable.

At the far end of the basin, several broken treetops, their exposed inner wood no longer stark white, and a deep groove in the earth, now filled with new spring grass, showed where the dragon’s final stoop must have ended. As he looked more closely, Khemor could see a section of the logs on the stronghold wall had been scorched shiny black, and a few had been replaced, their brown bark standing in contrast to the char on the others.

"It must have been quite a battle," he said, breaking his silence.

"Yes," agreed Borgakh, turning her head to look up at him. Her teeth flashed white in the oncoming evening gloom. "It thought we made an easy target. Now our animals graze around its bones."

"We will be certain to keep that in mind," said Gregor.

"See that you do."

[skyrim-forever]

WIP

Happy WIP *checks watch* F R I D A Y

Well I eventually got to it and I have something to share! Thanks to @thequeenofthewinterand @dirty-bosmer for tagging me this week! Sorry it's a bit late haha

This is a bit more of my prep for TES Summer Fest, August 11th Prompt "Sword", set in the aftermath of the Battle of Whiterun where my Dragonborn Theodora will work through her complicated feelings on the Empire, destiny and Tiber Septim the man.

The Battle of Whiterun had been an Imperial Victory. A definitive moment in the Skyrim Civil War. At least that’s what she would report to General Tullius. But looking around at the damage, the destroyed buildings, the broken down defense lines, the bodies. Divines the bodies. Theodora found it hard to believe that anything about what had happened was a victory. 

She had stayed back to help the others sort through the bodies, identifying anyone they could in order to give the families closure. It was hard to see so many die for such a worthless cause. It was a worthless cause Imperials versus Stormcloaks, Empire versus Thalmor, it was all worthless. Glancing around at what remained of the living, the soldiers crying out over the bodies of their friends, she felt a pit in her stomach. 

The Greybeards had said Alduin’s return marked the end of the world, and more importantly she should let it happen. Although determined not to let that happen, even if it meant defying the Greybeards, Theodora did find herself tempted to let it all burn. Between the senseless Civil War in Skyrim and General Tullius’s comments indicating a war with the Thalmor was peering down at them; letting the world end did feel tempting. 

Walking through the Wind District, happy to see the Glidergreen survived, she stops at the Statue of Talos. Growing up her family were not particularly faithful divines so would she never quite understood the outrage from the Nords after the Great War.  However, upon finding out she was also Dovahkiin, Theodora began to look at him differently. Tiber Septim had been a man, not unlike herself, and depending on which origin story you believe, he was also a stranger in a strange land. He had been great. But in seeking greatness he never achieved goodness. What do I want? Seek Greatness? But oh to be happy she thought wistfully. Closing her eyes she imagines another life. In Anvil, her father is about to retire from the Legion, her mother teaches her the dances of those before her, they are happy. Perhaps she is married, with children, they are neither rich nor poor for they have each other. A life that feels unbelievable.

"Lost in thought are you? I did not take you for the religious type." Jarl Balgruuf emerges behind her, no doubt returning after taking care of his people.

"Desperate times will have you seeking comfort from anyone, no offence my Jarl."

"None taken my Thane." He clears his throat for a moment, "how are you holding up?"

[culturecalypsosblog]

Today’s Recipes Of Skyrim Blog is…

Snowberry Crostata 🥧❄️🗻

Note: this is one of the best pies I’ve ever had in my life I will be making it every Yule/Saturnalia!

This rustic berry tart is most commonly made over the hearthfires of home kitchens, but can occasionally be found for sale in a few taverns and inns as well. The recipe makes a dessert that’s just the side of tart, and perfect to share with your traveling companions.

Prep: 15 minutes

Baking: 40 minutes

Makes: 8-10 servings

Pairs well with: San’s spiced wine, assorted cheeses & nuts

Ingredients:

1 recipe sweet crostata dough or 2 pie shells

1 cup granulated sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp Nord spices ( 1 1/2 tablespoons ground cardamom, 3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 1 teaspoon ground mace, 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves, 1/8 teaspoon grains of paradise)

1/2 cup ( 1 stick) un-salted butter, melted

2 teaspoons almond or vanilla extract

1 cup all purpose flour

12 ounces fresh or frozen cranberries

1/2 cup sliced almonds (optional)

1 egg beaten, for glazing (so 3 eggs total)

1 tablespoon powdered sugar for dusting (use sieve or colander)

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F line a large baking sheet with parchment paper. Roll out the sweet Christata dough or pie dough in a roughly round shape to about 1/8 of an inch thick, and drape it over the large baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Leave the excess dough draped over the sides and prick the bottom all over with the fork to keep it from bubbling up too much. Cover with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator while you make the filling.

2. In a medium bowl, combine the granulated sugar, eggs, Nord spices, melted butter, and almond or vanilla extract. Whisk in the flour until you have a thick better.

3. Take the dough from the refrigerator and pour half the cranberries onto it, spreading them evenly but leaving a little space around the edge of the dough. Pour the batter over the cranberries. Sprinkle the almonds over the filling, then top with the remaining cranberries, pressing them gently into the batter.

4. Fold the hanging edges of the dough inward & over the filling to keep the berries contained. Brush with the beaten egg to glaze. Bake for about 40 minutes, or until a toothpick poked in the middle of the crostata or pie dough comes out clean. Allow to cool for about 10 minutes, then dust with powdered sugar. ENJOY!!!

I hope you enjoyed this blog more to follow soon!

Regards,

Culture Calypso’s Blog 🥧❄️🗻

[lillxart]

The most beautiful place for Snow White are the swamps of Hjaalmarch. Obviously to us in game they don't look too impressive, but I'd imagine if each region was a lot bigger and got an overhaul they'd be quite beautiful. Going off the IDEA of what the marshes would be, Snow White would like them a lot! Glowflies at night, swamp pods, the bubbling blue water, so many trees to sit in and comfortable places to camp and do necromancy! As for dangerous places, congested areas like cities, especially cities with a lot of guards.

Snow White prefers to stay in Whiterun and Riften. She adores Whiterun's people and feels she has a duty to them as their Thane. She likes how crime ridden Riften in because she feels it's easy to find hiding spots and it's generally safer for her. If the guards are too busy dealing with the thieves guild they won't notice a witch. She avoids Dawnstar unless she has to be there. The Jarl's attitude on magic and how he'd definitely behead her if she was discovered scares her.

Snow White used to worship Molag Bal up to the day of her dedication to him, to which she was horrifically changed forever. She doesn't worship him now, but technically she worships almost all Aedra and Daedra. She recognizes the power they hold and respects them, often subservient to what they ask her unless they're manipulating her for nefarious purposes (like Molag Bal has). However, she prays to Kynareth, the one who gifted her the thu'um and seeks her guidance when she's lost.

Snow White doesn't care either way, all magic has risks. What she cares about are the steps you've taken to make sure it can be prevented next time.

She's a witch XD so yes, she can survive.

When she became the High Queen of skyrim she actively sought out to deal with the bandit problem, but as an adventurer she LOVES it! Free dead bodies everywhere for her experiments! And she can get PAID to deal with them! :DDD

Snow White doesn't exactly remember where her coven was located, so to her Skyrim has always and will always be her home.

Juniper berry jam.

Snow White will believe in anything until someone proves otherwise. She's childishly naive.

In terms of canon factions she's not a part of anything. But there is a fanon guild I made called 'Necromancer's Lair' based off a Nexus mod of the same name. It's for anyone affiliated with her coven, The Seventh Order. So in short, The Seventh Order and Necromancer's Lair.

Natural talent, it's what she was bred for. But when it comes to her experiments she has to work hard to create the spells she wants. Her favorite school of magic is Conjuration and Alteration.

No prejudices per say, just a fear of magic haters. Nords make her uncomfortable because of this.

Snow White's the Dragonborn, so she believes the legends. She has no views on the past Dragonborns. The voice is hers now.

Snow White had multiple mentors from her coven over the years for different things. Hunting, magic, reading and writing, even dance lessons.

This would take too long to fully explain so I'll give a short answer. She dislikes and fears no Daedra, and doesn't mind collecting artifacts. It's not her choice to, however, viewing herself ill fitting to be a champion because she's under Kyne and Akatosh now. Snow White views that consulting with the Daedra is fine as long as you FULLY UNDERSTAND the calculated risk, you can't screw around with them or THEY WILL TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOU. This isn't because of her experience with Molag Bal, this is something her coven taught and drilled into everybody.

Snow White gets manipulated into becoming a Stormcloak, but looking back she would've supported The Empire. A civil war means nothing in the face of a Second Great War.

Snow White's memories of her family as her coven shift over the course of her story. In the end, her chosen friends are her true family.

Snow White used to kill all the time because it was just easier than reasoning with someone. But overtime she learned to show more mercy, but only for their own sake.

When Snow White expands Lakeview Manor into like a whole estate and has to pay people she gets better with money, but adventuring she goes through money like it's water. She'll raid three dungeons and be broke the next day.

Yes.

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?

[ulderansisters]

Lynea Ulderan

Character Chart

Character’s full name: Lynea Ulderan

Reason or meaning of name: Name given to her at birth

Character’s nickname/title: Dovahkiin, Dragonborn, Champion Of The Skies, Little Dragon, Queen of the Nords.

Reason for nickname: Titles given to her by the people of Skyrim

Birth date: 17th Evening Star, 4E 177.

Physical appearance

Age: 24

Weight: Lynea is slim and scrawny, often described as the runt of the litter. Her arms and legs are slightly toned from her years of adventuring, however, and she has toned calves and biceps. 

Height: Lynea stands at 5ft 5inches.

Eye color: Taken from her mother, Lynea has green eyes with specks of brown throughout them.

Skin tone: Lynea is extremely pale and does not tan in the sun, her face and shoulders are often burnt from spending time outside.

Distinguishing marks: Lynea has a scar across her back from her battle with Alduin when his claws cut deep into her back. She has small scars dotted across her body from adventuring and has a birthmark on the left side of her stomach.

Hair color: Lynea has blond hair that looks almost white in a certain light.

Hairstyle: Her hair is often tied back to keep it out of her face and to prevent it from getting tangled. If she is at home, she will wear her hair down or in a loose braid.

Voice: Lynea has a feminine voice (Voice claim: Jessica Brown Findlay as Lenore in Castlevania)

Personality

Good personality traits: Lynea is gentle. She was told by her sister that she is too kind for her own good and that she needs to stop being so nice to people. She finds it difficult to say no to people and her kindness has been taken advantage of many times. Much like her sister, she is charitable and warm. She is fiercely protective of her family and will fight to protect them. Her kindness should never be mistaken for weakness.

Bad personality traits: Lynea doesn't like to be wrong, she finds it embarrassing and as a result, she finds it hard to admit when she is in the wrong. She is also extremely impulsive and will take off adventuring without a word of warning and will remain out of contact with loved ones for weeks. She doesn't do this intentionally, she's just forgetful.

Sense of humor: Lynea has a terrible sense of humor, it's almost amusing how abysmal her humor is. She has somewhat of a dad humor and it's more cringey than it is funny.

Character’s greatest joy in life: Dragons. She is fully devoted to her fellow Dovah and works hard to spread the Way of the Voice. She becomes downcast and mournful whenever she has to kill them and she often prays to Akatosh after she takes a dragon soul.

Character’s greatest fear: Losing her purpose. She was without one for so many years of her life and discovering she was Dragonborn gave her life new meaning, it gave her a cause to be dedicated to and a reason to live. Despite the hardships that came with it, she feels she would be nothing without her gift.

Why?

In the years after she lost her parents and was separated from her sister, Lynea managed to escape capture from the Thalmor and sought refuge within Cyrodil, simply wandering from place to place. She became no one and had no purpose, only surviving for the sake of her parent's memories and the hope that one day she would be reunited with her sister again. Discovering her destiny as Dragonborn after returning to Skyrim gave her life a new meaning. People needed to be protected, she could give the protection she did not have and could do right by the people of her homeland. She is rather patriotic in the sense that she is proud of her home and heritage, she loves Skyrim and all it's people regardless of race and wants to protect them. She sees the good in everyone, from everyday citizens to bandits. 

What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil? Losing her sister. She adores her sister and always has, she looked up to her and idolized her as a child. Reuniting with her and finding her family again changed her for the better. She was surprised to discover the path her sister has followed and doesn't fully support her in being Guildmaster, but she sees the joy her Guild has brought her and knows her sister is changing the Guild for the better.

Character’s soft spot: Paarthurnax. She is devoted to him and his message, she cares deeply for him and visits him regularly. She can be stern with other dragons, reminding them of her birthright but she is smitten with Paarthurnax and doesn't have it in her to even raise her voice around him. She can often be found at the Throat of the World, curled underneath his wing as she meditates on words of power with him.

Is this soft spot obvious to others? Very, especially to other dragons, some call her Paarthurnax's Mon- daughter. 

Past

Hometown: Lynea was raised alongside her sister in Whiterun hold.

Type of childhood: Being the daughter of nobles, Lynea had a fairly comfortable childhood. A roof over her head, fine clothes to wear, and always food on the table. She had everything she could ask for and more. Her mother and father were devout Talos worshippers and openly praised God, they were proud Nords and loved their homeland. After the Thalmor and Empire entered Skyrim, many people worshipped Talos in secret but her parents refused and openly questioned the Empire's presence in Skyrim. It led to the Thalmor entering their home one night. Aemma, Alaisa's mother told her to hide in a nearby cupboard and told her sister to hide under a bed. The two children watched in hidden horror as the Thalmor broke into their home and slit their mother's throat, then dragged their beaten father away to execute him. Alaisa, filled with rage charged the Thalmor and as a result, was captured. Lynea fled into the night, terrified, she ran for hours until her legs gave out underneath her. She wandered for years, begging for coin to survive at first until she was old enough to swing a sword without knocking herself out. Then, she began mundane mercery jobs to make enough coin to survive. By the time she had reached her twelfth winter, she was a master swordswoman. She used her survival skills to keep herself safe, never sleeping in the same place twice and never using her real name. She eventually left Skyrim, traveling all over Tamriel and experiencing its wonders. Years passed and she grew curious about the state of her homeland, so she decided to travel back but was unaware of the growing civil unrest and the presence of the Thalmor in Skyrim. As she crossed the border, she walked right into an Imperial ambush, right place but wrong time. She was captured alongside Stormcloaks and shipped off to Helgen to face the executioner's blocks. Alduin's attack on Helgan saved her by mere seconds and she fled back into Skyrim.

Pets: Lynea and her sister had a pet dog called Frost.

Childhood hero: Her sister.

Education: Lynea and her sister were both well-educated by their parents. Lynea continued to educate herself over the years and loves to read. She studied the language of the Dov intensely with Paarthurnax and is almost completely fluent in the language.

Religion: As a child, Lynea and her family were devout worshippers of Talos. She has strayed mostly from her worship of Talos over the years and now dedicates most of her prayers to Akatosh and Kynareth.

Present

Current location: Lynea lives across multiple holds of Skyrim, holding the titles for Lakeview Manor and Hjaalmarch Hall as well as a home within Whiterun.

Currently living with: Lynea mostly lived alone but after aiding the Dawnguard, Serana accompanies her most days and nights.

Pets: Lynea has a soft spot for dogs and has two hounds, Meeko and Vigilance.

Religion: Worshipper of Akatosh and Kynareth 

Occupation: Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun.

Family

Mother: Aemma Ulderan

Relationship with her: Lynea adored her mother and was extremely close to her. They spent most of their time together while Alaisa spent most of her time with her father. Lynea's mother taught her to read fluently and talk properly. Aemma was happy to see Lynea embracing a traditional way of life and often tried to encourage her sister to follow Lynea's ideals and path.

Father: Sjorael Ulderan 

Relationship with him: Lynea loved her father dearly but often spent her days trying to impress him. Seeing how proud he was of Alaisa sparked a fire in her that made her want to be better, to be more like a Nord. She craved her father's approval and although she had it simply by being his daughter, she wanted more. She wanted her father to look at her the same way he looked at Alaisa.

Siblings: Alaisa Ulderan

Relationship with them: Alaisa and Lynea were close as children. There are 7 years between them but they were close and spent lots of time together, reading and staying up till the wee hours to swap stories. The death of their parents tore them apart and Alaisa spent years hating her sister, blaming her for their death and for running from the scene when she stayed and fought until she was captured. After reuniting, Alaisa and Lynea talked and she began to realize how their past affected them and stopped hating her sister, understanding that they were just children and both terrified, did what they thought was best.

Spouse: N/A

Children: N/A

Other important family members: N/A

Favorites

Color: Blue

Least favorite color: Brown

Food: Venison stew, Sweetrolls

Least favorite food: Eidar cheese, leeks

Drinks: Spiced wine, water, milk

Least favourite drinks: Any type of mead.

Mode of transportation: Dragonback

Most prized possession: Her parents wedding bands

Habits

Hobbies: Lynea has a lot of duties and expectations, she doesn't have a lot of free time. But there are days when she doesn't have to be the Dragonborn, on those days she will call Odahviing down to her and fly on dragonback across Skyrim, exploring the sky with him.

Smokes: N/A

Drinks: Lynea, much like her sister, is not a heavy drinker and has only been drunk a handfull of time

Relationships with others

Person character most hates: Elenwen. After infiltrating the Thalmor agency, Lynea discovered Elenwen was behind the capture of her sister and the murder of their parents. 

Best friend(s): Serana. Lynea bonded quickly with Serana over their shared trauma and family issues. They are fiercely protective of each other and never leave the others side.

Love interest(s): Miraak. 

Person character goes to for advice: Paarthurnax. The dragon always offers words of wisdom to Lynea. 

Person character feels responsible for or takes care of: Lynea feels a responsibility to all those in Skyrim. As Dragonborn, she feels she must protect the people and keep them safe from harm.

Person character feels shy or awkward around: Delphine.

Person character openly admires: Paarthurnax.

Person character secretly admires: Esbern

Most important person in character’s life before story starts: Alaisa.

After story starts: Alaisa.

[isirumarin]

Miraak and Isira pt.4

The young forest was made up of all small trees. The sparse canopy of the yellow-leaved trees started just above Miraak's height. Light from the morning sun shone in at an angle, illuminating the mossy ground beneath, or perhaps it was algae, growing on the ash.

Isira stooped and took a sample for later.

They walked together in silence for a long while. Each in thought, still trying to process what had happened.

"I'm not ready to go back yet." She said stopping, her eyes following a small trail leading off into the woods towards a rock cliff.

"You mean that you do not trust me." He turned and faced her, staring. 'Why did he always do that?' She thought. 'He is always staring through me.'

"If I make you uncomfortable, why did you ask me to keep my mask off?" He quipped with impatience. Isira took a deep breath and strode quietly to him, taking his hand in hers.

"Miraak, I am glad that we did not kill each other. I am glad that you are here with me, but you are still a terrifying ancient Nordic...villian..." her voice faded into a whisper. His placid visage was unyielding, but she could feel that particular designation was bothering him.

"We are going to change that, but please know that others, especially ones that are going to know who you are, are going to be wary of you. I am here for you. I am pledged to bring you back to light and back to focus from Kynareth herself." She moved his dark hair away from his strong face and gazed at him. She didn't think a human could be so handsome.

Before she could react he put his arms around her and kissed her.

The swirling sounds of rushing wind and water....the shifting of mountains...the sounds of time, the sounds of life, all played in her head. She was there, being kissed by Miraak and also nowhere....eternal....somehow.

It was over. She was back. In his arms, facing his unsmiling, ever stoic face.

"You saved me." He said finally. "There is much to be done and I'm glad that you are here with me. I will try not to disappoint. I am....unused to following another's direction." He said carefully.

"Thank you.." She said quietly, looking up at him.

She pulled away and appraised him at arm's length. "We will be meeting my group of companions. These are my most trusted followers." Isira said flatly.

"An Altmer, by name of Rumarin. He is my lover before you. He is sweet natured and will probably be terrified of you." Miraak said nothing, but crossed his arms.

"There is Inigo. He is my best friend. A Khajiit. Teldryn Sero, a dunmer obsessed with cleanliness and cynicism. J'Zargo, a Dagi-raht khajiiti wizard, and Lucien, an imperial scholar." She watched the nord with her silver eyes. "These are my company. Please do not harm them and do not mind their tongues."

"You have no Nordic followers?" He asked in an astonished tone.

Isira raised a brow with a smirk.

A crunching of ash and there was quick movements. Isira reached for Shadowsong and nocked an arrow searching for a target.

Seekers!

Miraak was already in action fighting a lurker. Isira dispatched three seekers before running back to Miraak's position. He was destroying cultists and seekers alike. The huge lurker lay dead and was leaking its acrid body fluids out onto the ash in black rivers.

Miraak's voice rang out. His thu'um was beautiful and strong. She watched him... the first Dragonborn. He was magnificent. Of course, the minions of Hermaeus Mora stood no chance.

The noise of the battle had gathered attention of a nearby camp and figures were running up the hillside.

Miraak cursed in what sounded like Dovahzul. He sheathed his terrible tentacled sword. Isira would never get used to that thing. "Damned Mora will never give up until he has one of us to feed him dragon souls." He yelled angrily, growling with frustration.

"We will deal with it." She tried to calm him.

The people from the camp were coming into view now and she saw in slowed time the looks of astonishment on her companion's faces as they approached.

Miraak drew his sword and stood tall. "Miraak, no! They are my friends!"

Her band of companions stopped a safe distance away and watched with horror and amazement.

"Isn't that the evil Nordic dragonborn, servant of Hermamora. What is it doing with Isira?" Asked tiny J'Zargo, looking up expectantly at Rumarin.

Rumarin stood silently, his jaw dangling, with a hand ruffling his long reddish blonde hair.

"Looks like she's brought home a stray." He finally said with exasperation.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

The Twelve Days of Fic-Mas

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/wAkXbp1

by PenDragon (EndlessExplorer)

Merry Fic-Mas to all fanfiction Readers & Writers and allow me to welcome you to the twelve days of Fic-Mas!

Every chapter is a different ship and a different Christmas prompt.

Apologies on the lateness - between work and college, I could only get to this project now.

I hope to update daily.

Words: 2303, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Fallout 4, Fallout (Video Games), Persona 5, Persona Series, The Evil Within (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms, Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game), God of War (Video Games), Mass Effect Trilogy, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Batman - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, Gen

Characters: Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Male Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Cassandra Pentaghast, Arthur Maxson, Female Sole Survivor, Kurusu Akira, Niijima Makoto, Sebastian Castellanos, Juli Kidman, Lily Castellanos, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Male Sole Survivor, Piper Wright, Anna (Metro), Artyom (Metro), Panam Palmer, V (Cyberpunk 2077), Male Shepard (Mass Effect), Freya (God of War), Kratos (God of War), Atreus (God of War), Miranda Lawson, Selina Kyle, Bruce Wayne, Serana (Elder Scrolls), Male Nord Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls)

Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor, Arthur Maxson/Sole Survivor, Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto, Sebastian Castellanos/Juli Kidman, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Male Sole Survivor/Piper Wright, Sole Survivor/Piper Wright, Anna/Artyom (Metro), Panam Palmer/V, Panam Palmer & V, Freya/Kratos (God of War), Atreus & Freya (God of War), Miranda Lawson/Male Shepard, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana (Elder Scrolls)

Additional Tags: Prompt Fic, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Married Couple, Love, Idiots in Love, Friendship/Love, First Christmas, First Time, Friendship, Best Friends, Family, Family Fluff, Christmas Presents

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/wAkXbp1

[molliehaswords]

As November comes to a close, the race is on: will I post the first chapter(s) of my Skyrim (Vilkas/F!HumanDragonborn) fic or the first chapter(s) of my Stardew Valley (Shane/F!Farmer) fic before the end of 2022?

I think Stardew is a little closer to posting because I haven’t fully decided how much I want to rehash Helgen for Lucia.

If anyone wants to send me asks about my Dragonborn (Lucia, half-Nord, half-Imperial, Whiterun resident and daughter of Arcadia) or my farmer (Gracie, used to spend summers at the farm when she was a kid), feel free to do so. 😁

[anoras]

‘a kiss on the brow’ with tegan and miraak?

ask meme | a kiss on the brow

rating: gen? ship: miraak/f!dragonborn (tegan) words: 829

She was floating.  Drifting.  Buoyed along by the tide of nothingness that surrounded her in shifting green-tinged light.  Experimentally, Tegan moved her fingers, dragging her hand across the lack of substance in front and around her.  It rippled like water, it cracked like ice; it seemed to ring out with a soundless hum like the feeling of a lightning strike too close for comfort.

Images formed in the ripples, distorted, shapeless things, breaking and reforming in the rhythmic movement of the Nothingness.  An eye here, alight with a fiery reflection, and there the hint of a leathery wing, rent and torn.  A hand on the pommel of a blade.  Boots on burnt and bloody stone.

Curiosity took her, and she let her fingers pull open the layers, dragging her fingers across the surface of nothingness, rippling and undulating around her.  She was still, and she shook; she moved without moving until the void seemed to open up beneath her (above her, around her) and she fell (or was she flying?)

It was snowing in the image – the dream – that solidified around her, fat flakes falling on the other side of glazed windows.  The stone halls of a keep surrounded her, those glazed windows lining it – though as she looked out as she passed by, she could see nothing but the white of snow, falling softly into nothingness.  There were no doors along the hall where she wandered, only the long and winding passage, lit with the muffled light that filtered through the windows.  It seemed to contain an emptiness, a nothingness like that which she had just left.

She walked on for what seemed like hours – or minutes, or days, or perhaps centuries passed as each step took her farther and nowhere at once – until, at last, along the wall opposite the endless windows, a door appeared.  Elaborate carvings covered it, though the longer she looked the more they seemed to writhe and shift, never settling on one image before they changed again.  It strained her eyes, like trying to focus on something far too close to her face.  She winced, shook her head, and let herself feel for the handle before she slipped inside.

It was a room of books.  The walls piled so high with them that it seemed they were made of vellum and leather, and the floor carpeted in undulating hills.  A man knelt in the center of the piles; tall, despite his position, in dark robes of black and gold.  Dark hair and a well-groomed beard hid most of his face from view, though she could make out a strong, aquiline nose, and the heavy, sharp facial structure of a Nord.

He was muttering something, angry, frantic whispers as he dug through the piles of books, flipping through them before tossing them aside.  One landed by Tegan’s foot and she picked it up; the cover was a blank red leather, and as she flipped through the worn vellum pages, she realized that they too were blank.  Empty.  Looking around, she realized that all of the books were just as blank as this one; thousands of blank and empty pages, a room built on nothingness.

“Where is it!  He said it was here!” The man’s muttering grew louder, more frantic, pages tore beneath his fingers as she watched, “It’s supposed to be here!”

With soft steps she picked her way forward, something drawing her in to kneel in front of the man. “What are you looking for?”

He jerked, flinching at the sound of her voice, head snapping up with a frightful speed.  He had cold, gray, eyes that bored into hers with a maddening intensity, wide with surprise beneath heavy brows.  “What –  Who are you?”

“Tegan,” She murmured in response, “What are you looking for?  I’ll help you search.”

She couldn’t deny he was handsome, the striking planes of his face softening as he relaxed into a curious perusal of her features.  “Tegan.”  He sounded as though he were tasting the name, testing the way it felt in his mouth, “You will not be able to help.  This is my task alone.”

“Oh.” She blinked, “Will you at least tell me what you’re looking for?”

He nodded, eyes cast back to the books that surrounded them, “A word,” He said, “A way to win a war.”  Another book landed with a soft thud on the other side of the room, flung from his hand – though with less vicious fury than before.

She didn’t know what made her do it, curiosity perhaps, or the imaginary quality of it all; she worried little for consequences in the space of dreams, “Good luck, then,” A wild impulse drove her to lean forward, a strange pull in her chest that made her want to move closer to this stranger in her dream.  Quickly, softly, she pressed a kiss to his brow, “I hope you find what you’re searching for.”

Millennia apart, two Dragonborn woke from the same dream.

[ladydaedra]

Of Daedra and Dragons - Pt Three

Pairing: Miraak x F!Dragonborn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Windhelm failed to impress Miraak - constructed by nothing but stone with people to match the cold and bitter weather didn't help the city any. Not that he particularly cared but as he follows the Dragonborn through the winding streets of the city of stone, he couldn't help but take in how dreary and dull the city truly is.

They pass many people on the way; from the Argonians at the docks, the dark elves when they first entered the city from the docks, and to the nords in the more well-kept areas of the city. It was quick to tell that there were racial tensions in the city as well.

"Where is it that we are going?" he asks as they walk down a set of stairs into a very small graveyard that looked as if it was shoved into the small space. Considering the rest of the city, Miraak wouldn't be surprised if it was.

"My home," she replies as she leads him through the cramped cemetery and up another small flight of stairs, "unless you want to pay for a room at the inn,"

"I lack enough coin, Dragonborn,"

"Raeyna,"

"Excuse me?"

An annoyed sigh, "You can call me Raeyna instead of Dragonborn seeing as it is my name," she explains as they near the end of the walkway they are traversing.

"Ah, Dragonborn," a low and gruff voice catches Miraak's attention as he slows to a stop behind Raeyna and a Windhelm guard, "I'm glad to see you are safe. You've been gone for quite a while, people were starting to think you were dead,"

"Well, I'm not," Raeyna responds and Miraak picks up a hint of irritation from her, "now, if that is all," she goes to walk away from the guard but the man doesn't seem to pick up on her irritation. Typical.

"Jarl Ulfric would like to have a word with you,"

"As does everyone else. He can wait,"

"Jarl Ulfric is getting impatient, Dragonborn,"

"If he wishes to speak with me so badly, then he can come and find me," Raeyna snaps, whirling on the persistent guard with a fire in her green eyes as she stares the man down, "until then, he can wait as I am a very busy woman," Miraak fights back a smirk as he passes the guard and follows the Dragonborn into her house.

Walking inside, it is clear that the home is well-kept and always stocked with fresh food but Miraak doubts Raeyna has made this particular house her more permanent home.

"Dragonborn, it is good to see you alive and well," a woman speaks up as she walks down the steps, clad in heavy armor with a greatsword sheathed on her back. She smiles kindly at Raeyna but the smile quickly fades when she notices him, "and who is this?"

"Lydia, this is Miraak," Raeyna introduces, gesturing between the two with a ghost of a smile before she moves to hang her cloak up, "Miraak, this is Lydia, the steward here and at my home in Whiterun,"

Neither one smile in greeting, preferring to stare one another down as if sizing them up. That is exactly what Miraak was doing.

"You've received several summons from Jarl Stormcloak while you were away," Lydia speaks up, finally removing her eyes from Miraak and to the Dragonborn, who has now moved into the kitchen, "and if I may, I would heavily suggest choosing a-"

"No," Raeyna snaps harshly, halting her work on slicing a small wheel of cheese to send a firm look Lydia's way. A tense moment passes before Raeyna sighs and sets the knife down, "I am certain the Jarl knows how I feel about this war and understands my refusal to get involved,"

"If he did, he wouldn't be pestering you like this," Miraak grumbles as he wanders further into the home. Again the steward's eyes are on him like a hawk and doesn't waver until he remains in one spot.

"I am afraid your new friend is right,"

"Lydia, please. It's been a long journey and I don't need this conversation right now," Raeyna interrupts, a plate filled with slices of cheese in her hand, "I'd really appreciate it if you traveled back to Breezehome tonight and make sure it's secure,"

The dark-haired woman hesitates but nods in agreement, "As you wish," she responds and turns to leave, sending Miraak a glare as she passes him.

"She seems like a delight," he comments after the door shut behind the steward.

"She does an amazing job but sometimes she involves herself in matters that don't require her skillset,"

"Might I ask what this Jarl wants?"

Raeyna hesitates before shaking her head and moving towards the stairs, "It isn't important," she explains as she walks up the steps, though pauses when she is halfway, "there is a bedroom through the doorway on the other side of the room through a false cupboard, you can sleep there. We leave in six hours,"

"In a rush, Dragonborn?"

"Yes because the last thing I need right now is Ulfric Stormcloak nagging me about joining his side in this war,"

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 19: Keeping Someone Safe ~ Vilkas/F!Dragonborn [2,166 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Canon-typical violence here ⚔️ more hurt/comfort than fluff honestly, but it has a fluffy ending!

In hindsight, Vilkas should have seen it coming. Over time, he’d grown accustomed to Astra’s affinity for magic – mostly because by the time they’d known one another for a year, by the time she was Harbinger and he felt shamed by how he’d treated her in those early days, there was little he suspected he would not accept about her. Not lead because the more he saw, the more respect he had, and the more he knew there was nothing she would do that he could not respect.

There was one spell, however, that disconcerted him from the very first moment he saw it. It was after they’d avenged Kodlak, making camp after a fierce battle with the Silverhand…and all the while, he struggled to continue pretending he had not yet noticed just how damned beautiful she was. It was more difficult to keep up that pretence now that their mission was complete and all that was left to do was face the return journey to Jorrvaskr together.

She’d been in a questionable state, then – sore, tired, bloodied, just as he was, but with the added dilemma of being low on Magicka. When their fire would not start, the wood too frost-ridden and the impending blizzard threatening to make it worse, she’d trotted out the spell. Brow furrowed in concentration, her right hand was held aloft and a foul red light began to wind its way around her, leaving Vilkas to watch warily as her face grew a shade paler. After, she’d been able to conjure a fireball hot and strong enough to get the fire going.

“I thought you’d ran out of magic back then,” he’d said. “Does it regenerate that quickly?”

Something to do with her being the Dragonborn, perhaps?

“The spell before that,” she’d explained, voice rough. “It adds to my magic reserves – at the cost of my health.”

“To what extent?”

“Whatever extent the caster allows. A desperate measure…but this cold would kill even Nords such as us.”

Afterwards, he’d put the matter from his mind all too willingly. It had, after all, been the only time he’d seen her use it – before or since. She’d spoken truthfully when she said it was a desperate measure, and he could not fairly fault her for using it in those cases. Vilkas trusted her judgement.

At least until the next time rolled around.

What was supposed to have been a fairly routine draugr-infested dungeon clear-out ended up sending them headlong into a fight with something much more terrible. A Dragon Priest. They’d been woefully ill-prepared for such a battle. Foolishly ill-prepared, even with Astra’s habit of hoarding potions instead of damn well using them. And it showed. By that point, retreat wasn’t an option – some foul sorcery keeping them locked in the dungeon until they defeated their foe, and so the only way to go was through.

The fight was a laborious thing – even by the standards of their usual fights – their foe was fierce, but that was not a trait that they themselves lacked either, and it eventually became clear that it was a matter of who would tire first. Who would make the first mistake. Vilkas knew not whether Dragon Priests tired, but he could only hope that if not, they at least erred.

Moments after that half-hearted hope crossed his mind, disaster struck. Wedging the blade of her dagger in her mouth, Astra bared her teeth in a feral snarl, brought her two palms together, and shot a hefty ice spike in the direction of the Priest. It hit its mark, flying through his ward like it was nothing and embedded itself in his chest, sending him flying back from where he’d hovered in mid-air. But the force knocked Astra back, too, landing hard on the stone floor of the tomb. The Dragon Priest recovered faster.

Vilkas had no arsenal of spells – he had no bow, he didn’t even have a dagger. Nothing to stop the Priest from attacking, and no time to cover the distance required to prevent any real attack. Either dazed, weakened, or both, Astra faltered in getting up and the loathsome creature lifted one gnarled hand, ice forming around its claw-like fingers much like it had gathered in the blonde’s grasp moments prior.

Ducking, Vilkas seized an axe from the hand of a dispatched draugr and hurled it at the Priest. It met its mark, finishing the job Astra’s previous attack had started…but not before the ice spike shot from its hand. It was then that he did the only thing he could do – the only thing that made sense.

“Vilkas, no!” her shriek was ragged, and he went down at the same time the Priest did.

Although it looked like he’d die a touch more slowly, the spike embedded neatly between his collarbones, hardly slowed at all by his armour. He tasted copper rather swiftly. Kneeling over him in an instant, her icy blue eyes wide with terror, she tried to summon the familiar golden glow of a healing spell into her hands – both hands – but it fizzled out before his skin could even be warmed by it.

Swearing raggedly, she parted her hands. The light in the right remained golden, but the left was soon enveloped in the glowing red light he’d hated so much the last time he’d seen it.

Vilkas seized her hand, unable to speak – unable to tell her not to be so daft, nor that if there was any way he could choose to go, it would be this one. In defence of her. Unable even to admit that he only wished he’d been able to kiss her first. Just once.

But she shook him off, and that terrible red light began worming its way up her arm, her face paling as she channelled her lifeforce into driving healing magic into him, instead. The world faded to black by the time the red glow had wormed its way up to her elbow.

Consciousness returned to him in dribs and drabs. A scratchy tightness in his throat that usually followed a night of giving in to his brother plying him with ale – along with an ache in his shoulders and upper back, reminding him that he was no longer a lad who had seen but twenty summers, who might sleep where he dropped without feeling the consequences of it the next day.

He grunted, but it came out as more of a wheeze, a stray gust of wind howled throughout the crypt, and awareness finally hit him. As did the quiet. Eyes flying open, the light assaulted them quickly but he did not allow himself to pause, hands scrabbling for purchase on the stony floor as he shoved himself up. As he did so, his right hand met skin – smooth, soft skin, not that of any draugr. And it was cold as ice.

Astra lay slumped on the ground beside him, her face stark white and her lips blue – so blue that he thought her dead, until her eyelids twitched and he caught the shallow, beleaguered rise and fall of her chest. Vilkas had seen enough corpses to know she was very close to becoming one.

She had her last resorts, and he had his. Graverobbing. They’d passed enough burial urns to come through here, plenty brimming with treasures left behind for long-departed loved ones, leaving them all untouched because they weren’t beasts. But now he had no choice. If he had to answer to the Nine for this one day, so be it.

Minutes later he returned, although he still feared it was too long a time away, feeling sick to the core that he’d return to find the few meagre signs of life utterly gone – that she’d passed alone, on the floor of a dungeon while he scraped for scraps to help. But she had not. So, he allowed himself to hope. The three healing potions he’d managed to find helped with that, and he hoped they would help more still.

The potion ordinarily looked like pink-tinged water, but it might as well have been as vivid as blood for how it stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor, pooling at her lips and sliding down her chin. She’d cut one side of her lips when she’d wedged the dagger between them, and the potion healed as it trickled across it, the skin slowly knitting together. Vilkas stared at it for a moment, and then he took inspiration – if she could not drink it, perhaps she would still absorb it.

Cutting away her leather armour, and dearly hoping she’d live to scold him for it later, he dripped the potion across whatever skin he could find. Her jaw, her neck, the expanse of skin above her breastband, and he almost sobbed in relief when her heartbeat strengthened beneath his ministrations, and colour slowly returned to her skin.

By the time he uncorked the second bottle, she was hazily drinking it down – although still far from conscious. Hope. All he could do was hope.

Astra was awoken by the smell of a campfire. The sound of one, too, after she drifted a little more into consciousness. A fleeting sense of urgency flitted through her then – but one untethered to anything so mundane as reason or coherency, so she left it to drift by with little more than a furrowed brow and a weary exhale. The sigh wheezed its way out of her, high and reedy. She grunted. Had she drank last night? Farkas, though she loved him like a brother, liked to pretend that all had the same tolerance to ale that he did.

“Astra?”

It was not Farkas’ voice that met her ears then, but Vilkas’ – and that was all it took for everything to hit. Vilkas. The last she recalled, she’d been kneeling over him as he died, furiously funnelling more and more of her lifeforce into Magicka, despite the dizziness that pulled at her head, the black spots dotting her vision, and the cold that quickly seeped into her bones.

Her eyes opened as a hand cupped the side of her face, and she was met with the sight of piercing grey eyes before her. And a grin. Vilkas so rarely grinned – although he was not so without humour as he’d have some believe. His usual war paint was little more than a brown smudge around the very edges of his eyes, blending in to the dark circles that had formed around his eyes, thick dark stubble lined his jaw, and there was an angry patch of sore red skin at his throat, as though he’d had a brush with what was almost frostbite.

Throwing herself into his arms required more strength than she had – but he met her halfway, pulling her bodily the rest of the distance until she was all but in his lap, clinging to her as fiercely as she tried to cling to him.

“Never again!” he insisted fiercely into her tangled hair. “Do you hear me, Astra? Never!”

“Should we talk about the decision that led to me doing it?” she countered, unabashed. “Would you make me such a promise?”

He drew back and she only then noted their surroundings. Still where they’d been when she was last conscious, he’d dragged out the bodies of the draugr and the Dragon Priest, and decimated a bookcase and its ancient contents for the fire that now burned on the cleared-out stone floor. He’d even unpacked his bedroll to deposit her into. How long had she been out? It took the fire out of her next question more than her sorry shape ever could.

“What were you thinking?” she breathed. “You dove in front of that…you were a hair’s breadth from…”

She was certain he was going to die – and even then, she’d have acted no differently, fuelling her life-force into healing spells to drive into his lifeless- no. No. It had not happened. Against all odds, it had not happened. Her hands began to tremble, even where they clung onto him.

Through it all, all she could think of was how stupid they’d been. Not even in what they’d done here, for deep down she knew if it were to happen again tomorrow, or in an hour, or in the next minute, they’d do it all again exactly as they had, but in everything before. In all of the shared looks that didn’t amount to anything, both too nervous to have the follow-through on what they both hoped the other was feeling. The thing that now showed very clearly in both of their faces, and how they clung to one another still.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he said. “I won’t lose you.”

“…We’re of one mind then,” she said.

It took less bravery than she thought. Because it was obvious now, was it not?

If it hadn’t already shown on his face, she would’ve known from the way he kissed her then.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune