#hearthfire hall

[littlemisspractical]

So ... I started this in April. And worked on it a bit, and then next picked it up at Christmas. But it's done! My LARP group, Hearthfire Hall. Closeups and character details under the cut!

Isolde Hannasdottir, Tempest Shield, Night Bringer. She is the one who started the whole thing, seeing the refugees (of which she was one) sheltering however they could and realising they needed two things: a place to stay to survive the harsh Wintermark winter, and purpose. She found the land, got the resources however she could, and rallied anyone who could help to build a brand new hall, who would take in anyone who needed it. She's now their Thane and leader, although often doesn't feel she's a good one, as she's not bold or commanding as many others are. The rest of the hall, however, follows her very happily, as she's got the perfect leadership skillset for them. A skilled healer and one of the best crafter Runesmiths in Wintermark.

Ida the River. She was in the same group as Isolde when they were forced out of their home by war, and followed Isolde south to give what help she could to people as a healer. She has backed Isolde up every step of the way forming Hearthfire, and now serves as its Grimnir and runs its hospital with the help of a large bevy of apprentices. She and Isolde don't always agree, but they have a very reliable working relationship and the easy intimacy of people who have lived and worked together for years. They might have different oppinions but they're pushing in the same direction. She's an extremely skilled healer, sworn to the craft, and now a Priest of the Way, too, to offer spiritail aid and guidance to those who need it and a refuge has lots of them). (Ida is also my character!)

Unnr. He's joined the hall with Tulli a few years ago, wanting to help their mission of helping people. He's a skilled midwife and an even more skilled merchant and dedicant of Prosperity. He's the hall Alderman and in charge of resources, a job he's far better at than anyone else around. He and Ida frequently clash on the right way to grow healing herbs, the right way to organise the hsopital and the best way to go about doing things. Despite both being loud, forceful people with loud, forceful opinions, much to the chagrin of the rest of the hall, they do both respect each other. He's also trying to woo Tulli, although nobody is sure if either of them have noticed yet. He keeps birds. The only one her with no priest training.

Tulli. She joined at the same time as Unnr, having stopped in the hall over winter and liking what she found there. A sometimes mysterious and often aloof presence, she is a Stormcrow and Priest of Wisdom, and does her best to guide the hall on those precepts. Often tries to mediate Ida and Unnr's argument's, generally to the detriment of all involved. She has the ambition to attain a high rank in the Imperial Synod, thinking the current leader of the Wisdom Assembly isn't up to much. Has certainly yet to notice Unnr's interest in her. The only one here with no ability to heal.

Eldrid. The most martial of the group and who only joined this year, she is Champion of Ambition, a formidable warrior and battlefield healer. She seeks to inspire others to ambition by example, and can be found encouraging people to pursue ambitions both great and small. A woman of action, she admires Isolde's ambition with Hearthfire and wants to help and support that.

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Continuation)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. 

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: Final Chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark walked with the dragon princess by his side, feeling the eyes of his men and household upon them. There was a sense of pride that welled up inside him as they entered Winterfell’s stone halls. Not pride in himself, but in the fact that this fierce, regal woman—this vision of Old Valyria—was now his betrothed. It was no small thing to command the presence of such a creature, both her and the dragon she rode. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders, but rather than burden him, it gave him a sense of purpose.

As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the murmurs of those gathered inside came to a halt. Servants, bannermen, and even the most hardened of his household retainers stared openly. They weren’t accustomed to such grandeur, and even in a land where strength was admired, there was something otherworldly about the princess. Her silver-gold hair, the grace of her movements, and the quiet power that seemed to radiate from her drew their eyes like moths to flame.

The warmth of the hearthfire flickered against the cold stone walls, but in the presence of the dragon princess, it felt as though the heat came from her. She walked beside Cregan with an ease that belied her strength, her violet eyes scanning the hall as if she were already its lady, its queen.

Cregan couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye, watching as she moved like liquid fire, confident and unyielding. He could see the tension in the shoulders of his bannermen, the uncertainty in the eyes of the women who served the household. They were all taken aback, and Cregan couldn’t blame them. He had lived his whole life without seeing anyone like her, and he knew, without doubt, that no one here had ever stood before the true blood of Old Valyria until now.

She was a flame in the middle of a winter storm, a vivid contrast to the world of stone and snow that surrounded her.

“I trust the halls of Winterfell meet your expectations, my lady?” Cregan asked, his voice low but carrying in the stillness of the hall. He wanted to draw her into conversation, not only to ease his own nerves but to learn more of this woman who would soon be his wife.

She turned her gaze to him, a small smile curling on her lips, though it was hard to read the full depth of her thoughts. “It is as grand as the tales say, Lord Stark. A stronghold of honor and tradition.”

Her voice was steady, yet it held an edge to it, as if there was always something more behind her words. It was as though she was measuring everything, assessing him, the people around her, and the place she would soon call home.

“I trust it will serve as more than just a stronghold for you, my lady,” Cregan replied, his eyes meeting hers directly, a subtle challenge of his own. “Winterfell is now your home, and you are its future lady.”

The princess didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Winterfell will be my home, but I have a home in the sky as well. I belong to both land and air, Lord Stark. Do not forget that.” There was a softness to her words, but it was clear. She may belong to the North by marriage, but her heart would always be tied to the skies, to her dragon.

Cregan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I doubt anyone will forget, least of all after the sight of Vaetrix in our skies," he said, and then added, more softly, "She is a magnificent creature."

The princess's expression shifted slightly, pride mingled with affection as she spoke of her dragon. “Vaetrix is the daughter of Meleys, the Red Queen herself. Her lineage is one of fire and might. She carries the blood of dragons who have seen empires rise and fall, just as I do.”

Cregan’s brows raised slightly at the mention of Meleys. He had heard of the Red Queen, the swift and powerful dragon that had once belonged to Princess Rhaenys. Her reputation was legendary. To think that Vaetrix was her offspring made the connection between the princess and her dragon even more profound. "The Red Queen," Cregan murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "Your bond with her must be strong, then. I imagine not just any rider could command such a lineage."

Her eyes gleamed in response, as if the conversation about Vaetrix sparked something deeper within her. "A dragon and their rider are bound by more than blood, Lord Stark. We share a soul, a heart. Vaetrix and I have flown together since I was a girl. She is my closest companion, my fiercest ally."

There was a tenderness in her tone now, something almost protective. It made Cregan understand, even more clearly, the depth of the bond between her and the dragon. In a way, it reminded him of the wolves of his house—loyal, fierce, and bound by an unspoken connection. But this bond was greater, stronger, and far more dangerous. He respected it, even admired it.

“Then she will be an ally to the North as well,” Cregan said, his voice filled with conviction. "As you will be."

The princess turned her eyes back to him, her gaze sharp and knowing. "The North has been promised my fire, my lord. And I keep my promises."

Her words were more than just a vow—they were a reminder of the power she wielded, the power she had been born with. Cregan nodded in response, feeling a strange comfort in that certainty. He knew, without question, that she was someone who would fight with all her strength, for her family, her dragon, and soon, for the North.

They continued walking, Cregan leading her deeper into Winterfell’s great halls, where more of his household waited in silent anticipation. Every eye was upon them as they passed, but the princess seemed unbothered by the attention, as if she had long since grown used to the weight of expectation. Cregan noticed the way people parted in her presence, not out of fear, but out of reverence. She was the embodiment of fire, and all knew they were in the presence of something greater than themselves.

As they reached the heart of Winterfell, Cregan paused, turning to face her fully. “There will be a feast tonight in your honor. A celebration of our alliance.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “It will be modest compared to what you may be accustomed to, but we take pride in what the North can offer.”

The princess’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of warmth in her eyes. “The North has already offered me more than I expected. I look forward to seeing its hospitality, Lord Stark.”

There was no mockery in her voice, no hint of the condescension he might have expected from someone raised in the splendor of court life. Instead, there was a genuine respect, a willingness to embrace the new life she was entering. Cregan nodded, feeling that strange mix of pride and anticipation once more.

As the evening drew near, Cregan knew the feast would be only the beginning. He had secured an alliance, but in the dragon princess, he had gained something far more—a partner of equal strength, whose fire would one day burn alongside his own.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the low hum of voices as the feast unfolded, the hearths were burning high to accommodate a dragon princess in it. Platters of roasted meats and winter greens filled the long tables, while horns of ale and wine passed freely from hand to hand. The air was thick with the scent of food and the crackle of the great fires, but despite the bustle of the hall, all eyes kept drifting toward the high table, where Lord Cregan Stark and his betrothed sat in full view of his bannermen, retainers, and household.

Cregan himself sat straighter than usual, though his posture seemed almost relaxed, as if he were entirely at ease in this moment. His eyes often flicked to the princess seated beside him, watching her as she navigated the curious gazes of the Northmen with the same grace she had displayed all day. There was something undeniably striking about her here, amidst the rustic grandeur of Winterfell’s Great Hall—her silver-gold hair gleaming in the firelight, her violet eyes calm yet ever watchful.

When the time came for toasts, the hall fell into a deep silence as Cregan stood, his horn of ale in hand. The attention of every man, woman, and servant shifted to him, their lord. His voice, strong and sure, carried through the hall.

“Tonight,” he began, “we honor more than just a union between two houses. We honor the blood of dragons and the fire that has joined with the winter.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the princess beside him. “The daughter of Princess Rhaenyra, the only daughter of House Targaryen, has come to the North. She is now our guest, and soon, she will be my wife.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was tempered by the awe that still hung in the air. Many had never seen a woman like her, let alone one of royal Valyrian descent. To them, she was more legend than flesh and blood.

Cregan raised his horn higher, his eyes never leaving hers. “To the Lady of Fire,” he said, his voice full of pride. “To the daughter of Rhaenyra!”

The hall erupted in cheers, the echo of voices bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Horns were raised, clashing together in raucous celebration as the Northmen embraced their lord’s words. And yet, even amidst the noise, Cregan saw the way his men stole glances at the princess, admiration clear in their eyes.

The princess raised her own horn in response, a subtle smile playing on her lips as she inclined her head toward Cregan. "To the North," she said, her voice soft but carrying through the hall with a clarity that commanded attention. "And to the strength of its people."

The words were simple, but they carried weight. The hall seemed to settle after that, the conversations resuming with renewed vigor as the feast carried on. Yet Cregan’s focus remained fixed on her.

As the noise of the hall filled the space around them, Cregan leaned slightly toward her, his voice low so that their conversation would remain private. “You’ve impressed them already,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with a rare hint of amusement. “It takes much to win the respect of Northmen, but I see it in their eyes.”

The princess turned to him, her violet gaze meeting his with a certain calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity there too. “I hadn’t expected to win their respect so soon,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “But I do not think it is me they respect so much as the idea of the alliance—of what we represent.”

Cregan considered her words, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled them over. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but it’s more than just an alliance. They see you, a dragon’s daughter, and they understand the power that you carry. You’re no simple marriage prize.”

Her lips curved upward, just a fraction. “Is that how you see me, Cregan Stark? A symbol of power?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat. “I see you as many things, princess. Power is just one of them.”

Her smile grew more visible now, and there was something lighter in her expression, as if she were pleased by his words, even if she did not show it openly. “And what else do you see, my lord?”

Cregan leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping. “I see a woman with a mind as sharp as the blade she wears. I see a rider whose bond with her dragon makes her stronger than any queen. And,” his eyes softened, the faintest glimmer of admiration in them, “I see someone who will stand beside me, not behind me.”

She studied him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she said, her tone firm but carrying an edge of warmth. “Because I have no intention of standing behind anyone.”

Cregan allowed himself a smile then, something rare and unguarded. It felt easy, natural in her presence, something he hadn’t anticipated. She wasn’t just a symbol of fire and dragons—she was alive, filled with strength and grace in equal measure, and with each passing moment, Cregan found himself looking forward to what the future might bring with her at his side.

For the rest of the evening, Cregan’s mood remained light, his smiles more frequent than anyone could remember seeing before. The hall, filled with food, laughter, and music, felt brighter somehow, as if the fire she had brought with her from the skies had seeped into Winterfell itself. There was a warmth there that was new, a change carried on dragon’s wings.

Years later, when scholars and storytellers recalled that night, they would write about how Lord Cregan Stark, known for his stoic nature, had smiled more during that feast than any had seen before, save for two other occasions—on his wedding day, and when the first child of the Dragon Princess was born in the cold halls of Winterfell. But for now, the legend was only beginning.

As the feast wore on, Cregan turned to her again, unable to resist asking, “Do you think Vaetrix feels at ease here in the cold North? It’s far from the warmth of Dragonstone.”

She tilted her head, her silver-gold hair catching the firelight once more. “Vaetrix is not concerned with warmth or cold,” she replied. “She is her mother’s daughter, bred for strength and flight, and the North’s cold will not trouble her. Besides,” her smile grew, more playful this time, “she knows I will not be far from her.”

Cregan nodded. “She is a creature of legend, like her rider,” he said softly.

The princess turned her eyes to him, the faintest flush of warmth in her cheeks. For a moment, the fire of her Valyrian blood met the unyielding strength of the North in Cregan’s gaze, and in that shared moment, both knew their bond would be one of legend.

The fire had come to Winterfell, and it would burn for generations to come.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

Main Hall

Art asset for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Hearthfire DLC

*Artist Unknown* If anyone knows the artist comment below

[ehlnofay]

my tes secret santa for @anotherclassicpretence! truth be told I've been having a tad bit of writer's block lately but some of your prompts were VERY interesting (I liked the idea of writing delphine before the main quest a lot... this more or less counts) so I hope I've done them justice. hope you're having a splendid holiday season!

...

“Steady on, Hilde,” Delphine says with a brusque, manufactured sort of calm. “You’ll do yourself a mischief.”

It's a relief, she thinks, that the day Hilde has elected to barge in with world-upending news is a convenient one; it isn’t as though Riverwood is the kind of place to attract crowds, most of the time (part of the reason she chose to live here at all) but the inn is unusually quiet now. Orgnar is nominally organising something in the cellar, which means that he’s spending an hour swapping two bottles around and calling it a day, and the dining hall is warmed to a swelter with the ever-going hearthfire, and utterly empty. No-one’s come in for lunch yet. No rooms rented out last night, either, so it’s all silent on that front; it’s just Delphine and her wet cotton cloth, wiping down the stained tables till they shine, and Hilde with her hair wrapped and her string of beads tangling round narrow, hard-knuckled fingers. She’s sat herself on the chair with the wobbly leg; it needs fixing soon. Ordinarily, Delphine would herd her onto another, but right now she doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that would get Hilde to listen.

“Hark at her!” she complains to the bead-string - all marbled glass dyed blue and red and yellow, clinking together on their leather cord. “Do a mischief - do a mischief - it’s as if she can’t bloody hear me -”

Delphine swipes the cloth over the chip in the corner of the table. “I hear you,” she replies (does she ever hear her). Hilde’s hands are white where the necklace bites into her skin; her lips are pinched into a puckered line. Her eyes are red-rimmed and fierce. “Hilde. I’m going to get you a drink to calm your nerves, and then we’ll talk it over properly, all right?”

“Talk it over,” Hilde repeats, high and scornful, and then her face screws up quite suddenly as if all the fight has fled it - the wrinkles in her cheeks deepening to uneasy valleys, knuckles pressed to the thin slat of her mouth, beads digging hard into her cheek. “Nine have mercy… thank you, Delphine.”

The inner corner of Delphine’s lip snags, near imperceptibly, between the blunt ends of her canines. She nods once, and she ducks behind the bar, folding the cloth with damp precision as she goes. The cask of ale is near empty, the mugs lined up on their shelf, sparkling clean, cutlery rattling around in its tin. It's not fancy - Riverwood is a small, old town, built on the bones of an older one, and no matter how well-run the inn has been since she bought it it's not exactly a prime destination, but it's a good sort of a place. And innkeeping is decent work. Keeps you busy. Keeps your ear to the ground. Gives you something to focus on, in the meantime -

When Delphine grabs a tankard, she notes with some incredulity that her hand is trembling. She stills it. She pours the ale until the cup rim is flecked with froth.

(Gives you something to focus on in the meantime, in between real work, while you're waiting -)

(There is a feeling rising in her body, foaming like the ale; a sour, stomach-turning excitement, as if she's in her twenties again and wet behind her ears, biting back all the intrigue. Like she has an unlined face and fresh armour and is standing again in line for her induction ceremony. Like she's staring something in the face and thinking, finally.)

Delphine caps the cask. She is not in her twenties, and she is not staring anything down; bar Hilde, a seventy year old woman with tannin-stained hands and the latest in a line of tall stories. Delphine didn't get this far (how far?) (still alive, isn’t she) through credulity. She's a pragmatist through and through - won't believe anything she hasn't seen evidence of with her own eyes; and yet.

And yet.

She sets the mug down on the table; a pale and lukewarm drop slides down the pewter, just next to the handle. She'll need to wipe it all down again, after this.

Hilde takes it, absent-minded; the beads slither from where they’re strung around her hands to rest in a smooth curve over her chest. Her hands are shaking - she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t stop them. There is a look about her, all of a sudden, that seems dreadfully, fixedly haunted, like a woman looking down the barrel of a cannon, some rapid-rigged explosive, something to level the town. Like she’s caught the apocalypse’s eye. Delphine reaches out, perfunctory, and pats the back of her hand; Hilde grimaces and downs half her tankard in one long, desperate swig.

Light’s coming in through the window-slats up by the rafters, dull and gold, dust motes in the shafts of it. It makes the white wimple of cloth swaddled hastily around Hilde’s head shine in places.

“Big as the mountain,” she mumbles into the lip of the tankard, fingers wrapped tight around its handle, “black as night - flew right over the barrow like something fit to block out the sun.”

Delphine’s teeth scrape over that spot at the corner of her lip. She can’t help but say, “Are you sure -”

“I know what I saw,” Hilde snaps. Her knuckles and lips are blanched and colourless. Liquid sloshes over the edge of her cup with her sharp, abortive gestures. “I saw a dragon.”

Delphine is very careful not to let her face do anything at all, there.

(It’s adrenaline, she knows; the pointed, muscle-coiled readiness to move - to act - to make a plan in service of a solid end and carry it off perfectly; the comfort of seeing possibility roll out before her like a long many-doored hallway, like a road she might be able to walk instead of these four walls she’s circled for too many years. Innkeeping is decent work - keeps her ear to the ground - keeps her busy in the interim, but it’s not what Delphine does, not what she’s been trained to do; not a purpose, not something to strive for, and oh, Divines -)

(None of this is substantiated. Delphine is not a rash and green youth, not anymore and not again, and she will not start running away with silly fantasies before she’s checked anything at all; she has had her fill of disappointment, and should know better than to invite it - should know better than to start spinning grand plans, before she’s even sent out some missives to the pale cobweb of contacts she has left - over the barrow; west, then - is there a significance, to the barrow? Does she have anything about it in her side room? Nine, it’s times like this she misses the old library and the mad old codger that kept it, and, no. No.)

(Yes.)

“It’ll come back,” Hilde’s saying with fearful certainty; lips flecked with spittle and beer-foam, hands still shaking. “It’ll come back, and it’ll kill us all, and then you’ll believe me -”

“I believe you,” Delphine tells her, and it is inexplicably, regrettably true. (She’s thinking about the library. She’s thinking about the dragonlore. She’s thinking that if dragons are back, someone will have to do something about it - and oh Divines how she has missed being the one to do something about it.)

Her hands are still, but only through some effort.

She feels like she’s been dozing for twenty years and only now has been shocked awake.

Hilde looks at her, white-mouthed and white-scarved; she frowns, a tense, sour thing, and she says doubtfully, “You look like you need a drink.”

Delphine laughs. It’s a short, gruff bark of sound. Her hands are flat on the tabletop; her hair is coming loose in thin wisps from the tight knot at the base of her skull. Sunlight trickles through the windows, golden-fresh. “No,” she says. “No, thank you, Hilde, I'm good."

[ikeromantic]

Lights

Ikemen Advent prompt featuring Leon Dompteur! approx. 600 words.

Leon kissed the back of Emma’s hand. “Aren’t you glad I pulled you away from Sariel for the evening? This has to be more fun than reading reports.”

“It is! I’m just worried about catching up tomorrow,” she admitted. Her gaze cast around the narrow stairwell, dimly lit by low burning lamps. “I am always behind.”

“The reports will be there whenever, right? But tonight? This moment? We’ll only get to enjoy it once.” His smile was contagious, and Emma felt her lips curl up at the edges in turn.

She nodded. “You’re right. Thank you for reminding me.” 

Leon chuckled. “Good. Now, let me help you up, just here - yes -” His strong hands guided her up the last steps, to the watchtower at the top. 

Winter wind licked at her cheeks and chilled the tip of her nose. A bit of hair came loose from her cap to dance in the breeze. Emma barely noticed it. Her gaze was fixed on the view.

Below them, the capital sprawled in its splendor. Ten thousand glittering lights, more, as far as the eye could see. An ocean of flickering candle flames and lantern lights and hearthfires. It was breathtaking.

“Worth the climb?” Leon took her arm and led her to the rail. 

“Oh my . . . yes. It’s lovely!” Emma leaned into his side as he slipped an arm over her shoulder. “Is that the city hall, there? The one with the colorful lanterns?” She pointed toward one brightly lit building, with lanterns in all the colors of a spring garden. It stood out on this cold night, a flower out of season.

“It is.” He kissed the top of her head and rested his chin lightly there. 

They stayed like that for several breaths, holding each other. Watching the twinkling lights, feeling each other’s heartbeats.

A tiny snowflake drifted down and landed on Emma’s cheek. “Leon! Look! Snow!”

“Already?” He laughed. “I didn’t think it was cold enough yet.”

Emma grinned as another snowflake drifted toward them. And then another. And then a flurry. “Have you ever caught one on your tongue?”

“Have you?” A challenging glint shone in his eye.

“Of course! Like this -” She stuck her tongue out, weaving around the tower-top. 

Leon laughed harder, joining her in the chase for a taste of the season’s first snow. 

Emma raised a victorious fist in the air. “I got it! I got one!”

“Let me see,” the prince took her hand and pulled her close. 

“It already ditholved,” she said, her tongue still sticking out. “You can’t thee it.”

“Can’t I?” Leon’s smile was wide and his eyes were alight with joy. 

Emma felt warm inside and out as she caught and held his gaze. “Maybe you should look closer, hm?” Her face flushed with heat at such forwardness, but the prince rewarded her with a kiss. Passion barely held in check, a promise of more to come. 

@candied-boys @queengiuliettafirstlady

[a-thirst-for-dunmer]

Don’t be shy to plop a reason down in the comments! I like Lakeview because of the lakeside scenery, the treasures in Lake Ilinalta, and the spawn rate of enemies because it just makes life interesting.

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

FINALLY

Hallowed

On the night of Yule, when the Wild Hunt rides and oaths are made in the Great Hall, Athelstan visits his dead.

---

The boar’s blood was not yet done dripping down its bristles, the hearthfire glinting against one blank eye, when Ragnar made his oath.

There had been others throughout the night, made by men to their king or to one another in – Athelstan suspected – varying degrees of intoxication. So far he had not made his own. Perhaps he wasn’t drunk enough.

Ragnar didn’t need to silence the crowd, the sight of him rising from his bench was enough to gather their attention. While a large man himself, he was hardly the tallest in the room – yet there was and had always been something about him that commanded regard. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, black as the boar’s. “I, too, have a vow to make on this night,” he said in a voice that carried in spite of its softness. “My vow is to my wife and queen; to protect her, to honour her, in the year to come and beyond.”

He shared a look with Aslaug, seated proud and glowing at her place beside him. There was something there, some wild form of love Athelstan had not the name for.

Ragnar approached her and laid his hands over the slight mound of her belly. “And for my son, whoever he may be, my oath is to raise in him all the strength he needs - all the wisdom and the courage and Odin’s wrath.”

Something like a war cry went up amongst a few members of the crowd, and under the din the queen whispered something in Ragnar’s ear, her long fingers cupping his cheek almost possessively. The smile he gave her was silent and small, only for her.

Ragnar raised his drinking horn. “To my wife, to my sons. To old friends, and the new year.”

Athelstan could be sure of almost nothing with him, but he thought Ragnar’s eyes found his own in the crowd as they all drank. To old friends.

Despite the warmth in the hall – from the built up fire and mass of human bodies alike – Athelstan felt a chill creep down his back. It was said spirits could walk on this night – years ago he would have dismissed that as pagan nonsense, now he was less sure. On instinct, he glanced over his shoulder. Nothing was there, as he had thought. Only the wide planks of the wall behind him, rising far up to the point of the roof.

As the men and women about him continued in their festivities, he found himself hovering, once again, on the edges of things. A place he found himself often.

There had been a great hunt that day. For the boar. Athelstan had been offered a place in the hunt, of course, Ragnar all but insisting. He had turned it down. Which, he thought, Ragnar must have known would happen.

“We would be honoured to have you with us. Now that you’re a brave warrior again,” he’d added with one of his wicked grins, giving Athelstan a squeeze on the shoulder where muscles long out of use were finally coming to life again. “You would do well, my friend. Don’t doubt yourself.”

“Doubt aside, if there’s a chance I’ll be gutted by a pair of tusks I’d rather not take it,” Athelstan had replied dryly.

Ragnar gave his shoulder a rough pat. “I could command it of you. As your king.”

“You won’t.”

As he’d watched him go away, a part of Athelstan worried it would be the last time.

But it hadn’t been, as it never was. Wherever Ragnar went, he returned from .

And now the boar lay dead and butchered on the great hall table, blood staining its fur. Athelstan hovered near a pillar, for some reason unable to take his eyes from the dead creature. The flickers of firelight made it seem to be moving on its own, if he looked at it the right way. Though perhaps that was in part due to the mead taking hold.

As did happen sometimes, the sights and sounds in the hall appeared to slow, to grow distant. At gatherings such as these, Athelstan often found himself overcome by the sensation of drifting away, of moving backward away from the world. As if a pane of polished glass lay between he and it.

This had always happened, even when he was a boy, but happened more frequently now since The Thing He Did Not Wish To Remember. He felt...hidden, lurking inside his own head. Trying to describe it in his journals had done no good, and his attempts to draw it had nearly driven him insane. If he wasn’t insane already.

Sometimes he wondered about that – if he was losing his mind. He remembered Wessex, even if his memories were vague and twisted, remembered the blur of real and imagined and how he had seen and heard things he shouldn’t have, how blood dripped from his hands where –

No. Not those thoughts, not now. It was a time of celebrating, one everyone seemed able to appreciate but him.  At the very least he could pretend to.

He drank again from his mead cup, deeply this time. Normally he made sure to drink in moderation – but this night could very well end up being an exception.

A haze of smoke, and mead, and his own troubled thoughts, drew steadily over him as the night went on, leaving him feeling more distant even than before.  Loud, happy figures danced in front of him and around him, blurring slightly at the edges. He drank more. There was something spiced into his Yule-drink, beyond the mead, that dulled and sharpened his senses all at once.

At Lindisfarne...what would they have done tonight, there? As it often did unwillingly, his thoughts turned back to then and there, wondering. They would be at vespers, probably, or already abed...and less than a week away would be the yearly mass of Christ, a somber occasion. Long hours of prayer and worship, blessings of villagers. Not like this. Nothing like this.

Some sort of commotion sprung up at the end of the hall. Athelstan turned and saw a little bird had flown in, darting about the rafters, in and out of the reach of smoke. He squinted. A wren. Wrens  were an omen of...something. There were too many bird omens to keep count of.

One of the younger boys was laughing, boasting he would shoot it down with a stone and sling, getting a light rap on the arm for threatening an innocent creature. It was a sign of the gods’ presence, surely, and not to be harmed.

He could see Floki across the hall, capering about as usual. He pointed one twig-like finger up at the little bird and muttered something in Torstein’s ear. For a second Athelstan could have sworn his pale eyes met his own and narrowed.

The bird hid in a nook near the smoke hole. Smoke and fire swirled, outside, snow swirled. Somebody beat a drum. Every face looked bright and pleasant, and it was a feast and a celebration and Athelstan was meant to join in but he couldn’t stop thinking – couldn’t stop not thinking.

My mind is a well, he thought, and didn’t know what even he meant by it.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Athelstan turned and found Ragnar beside him, leaning casually against a pillar.

“Well enough,” he answered instinctively. To indicate anything else would only lead to conversations he did not wish to have.

His friend’s eyes glittered. There was always something in him Athelstan could not read. And rarely did he try. “Something is heavy in your mind.”

Nails. Axes. The Wild Hunt. Death, all around. “It’s nothing.”

Unfortunately, Ragnar had no short of ease in reading him. “Leave it, then. But be warned – in the morning, when the Hunt has passed us by, I will find you and I will make you talk to me all about your troubles. For now, have another drink.”

That brought a smile to his face. “I won’t let you get me drunk. Not again.”

“You are already drunk.”

“No I’m not.”

He did not have to look at Ragnar to see the look on his face. Ever since he had returned from England, since he had seen his scars, he had looked at him like that now and again. Like he wanted to tear open Athelstan’s skull to see what was written inside. Like he brought sorrow with him wherever he went, and only Ragnar could see it.

“You never made an oath,” he said.

Athelstan shrugged. “I am a poor speaker in front of crowds.”

A nudge on the arm. “Make one now, then. You Christians like to pledge yourselves to things, do you not? You like your promises. Go on and promise me something.”

“You aren’t making it easy, you know.”

“I am your king.”

Athelstan drank. Usually he found Ragnar’s near-constant jesting amusing; tonight it only wore him through.

Ragnar shoved his shoulder, playfully. “Go out there and make friends, then. Find a woman. Or, you could always join me and Aslaug – she wouldn’t mind.”

Athelstan gave a noncommittal grunt into his next sip of mead. An unexpected pit of anxiety opened in his stomach, deep and sudden enough to make his hands tremble. Not ten years had gone by since this man helped to kill everyone he knew, yet here they were playing at being old friends.

Was it an act? Was any of it? All of it?

The dead were riding in the skies. In four days the infant Christ would be born. He had gained something and was grieving something and a scoop had been taken out of his life, out of this too-hot hall and the dancers and spiced mead, a feather was plucked from the wren – something was terribly, dreadfully gone and he did not know what it was, which loss he mourned or why.

A stabbing pain went through his left hand, abrupt enough almost to make him cry out. Ragnar noticed anyway, fixing him with a concerned glance. Out of the corner of his eye Athelstan saw his hand dart out as if to touch him, before pulling it back.

There were things that would have been polite to say, but all he managed were a few muttered words about the heat before depositing his cup on a bench and drawing his cloak about his shoulders, slipping through the hall doors unnoticed and into the night beyond.  

Outside, he could breathe.

The sky was clear, with barely half a moon draped in cobweb-clouds, snow on the ground glistening blue and silver. Athelstan stood for a long moment in the quiet outside the hot, loud hall, momentarily stunned by the world’s beauty. He stood at the bottom of a deep bowl, cradled in snow and moonlight and stars.

The warmth clung to his skin as he began to walk, still unaffected by the light, chill wind. He was slightly dizzy, but managed his way with relative ease between the maze of wooden walls and snowdrifts that was Kattegat at Midwinter.  Everything looked brighter, more vibrant than it should. The ghosts of fires and torchlight stained the insides of his eyes. Instead of unsettling him, it put him a little more at ease.

His hand twinged again. He winced, rubbing careful circles into his palm with his thumb.

The village huts passed him by, as he continued out past the reaped, frozen fields that lay beyond it. He knew where he would go. His destination lay in a wilder and older place.

After the fields, after the scrubby bushes and first bare trees at the forest’s edge, Athelstan paused again in his journey. He was breathing heavily, despite not having gone far. The mead and Yule-drink in his blood was just enough to make the naked branches sway, seeming to merge with their own shadows into a lace-like cavern around him. He gave his head a small shake. It wasn’t real, and he knew it – but if he thought too hard it made him dizzier so he relented.

The warmth of the great hall continued to cling to him, echoes of fire playing against his skin. Only his footsteps echoed in the woods, and the soft sigh of wind in the branches above him. The moon was bright enough to light his way. And he knew this place well.

He wandered through light and shadow, from clearing to clearing until he reached a small patch of birches, their white limbs standing out shockingly vivid in the dark. Already Athelstan could feel the remaining tension loosening from his limbs – he could breathe easier here.

The moonlight caught in their white branches, encompassing him in a circle of white. Through the thin wall of trees he could just make out the edge of a now-frozen pond, one at other times he had taken time to sit beside quietly, reflecting. But he found it more of a comfort to be apart from it, separated by a few pale trunks and some dead bracken and undergrowth. Though it was only a pond, and these only trees, as he went to his knees in the snow Athelstan felt an odd childlike giddiness at being tucked away in a clearing as he was, seeing the glint of the pond’s frozen surface only in glimpses. Hidden, as in a burrow. Seeing, yet unseen. It was like...

He knew what it was like. A very long time ago, in years he could barely remember, there were nights when he’d fallen asleep early and been carried to bed by his mother or father, cradled safely in their arms. And when he’d lain half awake in the bed he and his brothers shared, peeking through the thin curtain his mother had hung to block out light, still seeing the edges of the table and chairs and his family’s bodies, the flickering candles; a warm sense of something half safe and bordering on mischief came over him. He could see them, but they could not see him. He was hidden. Yet they were right there, and at a word, any sound of alarm, they would hear him and come.

And on this night, when some said the gods could be seen and spoken to, when the dead roamed, as he knelt there it seemed like they would do the same, were he to call out to them now. They, and everyone he had loved and lost, were just there behind a thin veil, just past the trees.

“I’ve come again,” he said quietly. “It was time to talk to you again. Forgive me – I know I have not done so in a while.”

The wind blew and the birch limbs above him rattled together, dusting spots of frozen air down around him. An answer, he thought, and smiled to himself.

“I have felt lost,” he said, “and I have felt...troubled. But now, tonight, I am at peace. I am content. I am not often this way.”

His ungloved fingers dusted the snow by his knee, swirling patterns into it. It did not feel cold.

He cleared his throat where it felt thick, tight. “You are so close, all of you. I can hear your footsteps. I can almost see your shades.”

His brothers from Lindisfarne were there. Father Cuthbert. Somewhere beyond them were his mother and father, so long dead. If he strained, if he quieted his mind as quiet as it would go, he could remember their voices.

He did not want to look up and see an empty grove. The trail of his finger formed a manuscript swirl. “You must know that I am happy. Even if I am not the man any of you thought I’d be. “

Ragnar’s knowing glances, laughter. The sound of children’s feet and bright voices in the hall. Yule-fires burning merrily only a little ways behind him. “Yes, I am happy. Most days. One cannot be happy every day.”

He didn’t tell them about the nights he woke in a panic – because someone had called out for him and his legs would not move fast enough to bring him there, because he heard churchbells and the deep swooping of uncontrollable flames, because he heard nails being hammered incessantly and knew what that meant –  about the times when crowds or boisterous feast nights put his whole being on edge. Or the occasional days when he felt overwhelmed by melancholy, quick as a sudden tide, and nothing could break it. When his mind wandered to corners and alleyways full of shadow.

They did not need to know all that.

He looked up, at the pale halo of branches and the blue-black sky they cradled. A falling star winked at him before disappearing behind the hills.  

He was not sure he wanted to hear them speak. He did. But the dead, he felt, should stay dead. He had never known them to do anything else, after all.

But he could feel them tonight, so, so close. “I know you are here,” he said quietly, to the stars, to the hardened sheet of snow. “You don’t have to say anything. You can keep silent, if you like. I know you’re there with words or not. With me.”

His breath was a cloud of ice. “Or you could speak. If you wanted to. I – I’ll listen.”

In his chest his heart quickened. Did he want to hear them? What would that mean, to hear the dead? By all means he should want it. But the thought, perhaps foolishly, frightened him.

Would he recognize their voices?

“That is my oath to you, on this night. I will not forget you, for the rest of my days. Even if you stay silent, I will visit. And I will listen for you in the wind, in the birds. I won’t forget. I swear it.”

Three more ice-breaths. Four. He counted.

The ice crinkled and rustled under his knees as he shifted. The wind rattled ice drippings on the branches. Minute after minute passed, and Athelstan knew they weren’t coming, that they were never coming. Of course they weren’t.

He stood shakily, dusting the damp snow from his knees. Something icy ghosted across the back of his neck and he shivered, shrugging his cloak tighter around him. It was done, he was done. Time to go back now, into the warm, bright, coal-cluster that was the great hall. He took one final moment to take in the secret space, the curtain of trunks and roof of branches that has made him feel safe since he first found it, bowing his head in reverence before turning his back on it.

The snow had settled, and he could follow his own footsteps with decent accuracy back the way he came. All he heard is the wind, his own quiet breaths. The soft snow under his boots folding and flattening as he walked.

When he could see the lights of the village again, and the joyful voices are clearer, something tugged at him from behind. Not a hand, not a twig – just winter air. But he paused, turned, looked up.

The sky was glowing.

Blue and green and gold and rose-coloured swirls, waves, dragon-forms and vines...they spiraled across the sky and wound amongst the scattered stars, shifting in pattern and shape as they danced. Athelstan had to blink hard several times to ensure he wasn’t seeing things.

But they were there. Dancing across the heavens.

Dancing dragons. The night sky patterned with colour. Unease crept over him. There had been dragons in the sky at Lindisfarne, flashing in the lightning that crossed the skies. Maybe it had been on more nights than one, but that was how he recalled it; lightning and thunder and sky-dragons all at once, and the raiders that very morning.

But here, now...he could not stop looking. He didn’t know what this meant, why of all nights they had come back to him now. Only that it meant something, that he must remember it, note it.

A message from the gods. From his god. From his dead. Bright new tears stung the edges of his eyes and froze on his cheeks, but it wasn’t sorrow he felt.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. They would hear him, whoever they were.

The wind blustered snow in drifts about his feet. Ahead was the cold expanse of the north – the black-and-white forests and moors and mountains and that shining sky – and just at his back was the distant sound of singing and laughter, the glow of a human village. Neither could be ever truly gone.

Athelstan turned around, facing the warmth of his friends and their joy and struggles and love. The time would come for him to return here, but it was not now. The rest of this night belonged to the living.

****

@grantairescurls @levithestripper @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics forgot to tag you guys but I Am Gonna

[talldarkandroguesome]

27th of Hearthfire, Middas

We awoke early and myself and one of the Redoran representatives scouted the place with Er-Jaseen's overview of what she had seen. The place was crawling with cultists.

We brought it back to the group and were preparing our plan of attack when we heard the distinct sound of argument.

I went to discover that Tharn and Sai Sahan had teleported to our location. Tharn looked awful. Enough so that Sai Sahan was not even being particularly pointed in his bickering and more was telling Tharn to take it easy. Not a good sign.

He waved me over like I was his serving boy and helped to get him to our camp so that we could all share in information together. Of course, as soon as we got close, Tharn made a big show of his strong independent self and I just let him do it. He had looked so pale and fragile moments earlier. I just could not bring myself to be cruel to him.

We shared with Sai Sahan what we had seen of the defenses and he was surprised, after having defeated one dragon there, that there would still be so many cultists. He chalked it up to Kaalgrontiid's influence. He did swallow a huge amount of power from one of the moons, so who knows what all that has done to bolster his abilities.

Er-Jaseen's last way in was suspected to be blocked so Sai Sahan suggested we look near where the river flows up to the fortress.

While the others discussed that, I went to Tharn to check on him. He told me to stop bothering him like a nursemaid and to go with Sai Sahan and the others. That he would be along soon.

I told him no fetching way, that I would help him to keep up, it was too dangerous to leave him behind, even as powerful as he was, if a dragon were to show up and he was on his own. I had Tel go ahead with Er-Jaseen and said I needed to discuss a private matter with Tharn, but that we would catch up shortly.

I gave Tharn a magicka potion and one minor stamina potion. He perked back up and we met up with the others just as they had found an entrance, Tharn acting as though he were shocked that anyone could have done it without him. Typical. I just smiled. It was good to hear him be annoying again.

The halls were dark and well guarded. Those of us who were capable of scouting, would go ahead each room and bring back the numbers and locations to the others and then teams would divide to take them out. It was slower going than one might like, but it was necessary.

The major boom we got from our slow progress, was that we could overhear Kaalgrontiid speaking with his followers, making his demands. Dragons are not particularly good at being quiet, luckily for us. And with Er-Jaseen's recollection of the layout of the ruin, we made it to the amphitheater in no time.

The place was littered with towering glowing rocks of the most sickening shade of green. And there was Tharn, yelling after Kaalgrontiid of all the fetching things!

Of course, that gave the cultists time to be directed by their master to carry what he needed into the portal and shut it behind them, leaving us cut off from the thing we needed to find most. I could have throttled that old codger.

Sai Sahan told Tharn to reopen the portal, we had little time. We heard Kaalgrontiid say that he was about to make his ascension. The ritual would be happening any time now and we needed to be there. Immediately.

Tharn told me he would need my help and I was shocked by this and still a bit angry. He had given us away and was losing us precious time. He put a hand on my shoulder and admitted that Kaalgrontiid looked as though he were even more powerful than he had been when we saw him at Jode's Core and that he thought we would have all perished in the encounter. Then he gave me a look, pointed. Obviously not me for good, but I would have still died and it would have been in service to nothing.

I asked him what we were going to do. Where we just not going to try and stop Kaalgrontiid? He said we still would, of course, just smarter. Then he told me that I needed to make a bit of a sacrifice if we were to get the portal powered. I raised an eyebrow and asked what kind of sacrifice.

He waved off my concern and said it likely would not kill me. And besides, if he did accidentally manage that, at least I would be able to come back from it, unlike the others.

I told him to tell me what it was, knowing that he was right, of course. So he explained that the portals were powered by Aeonstone and the Aeonstone had no power of its own, only amplified the energy that it absorbed. So he would just put a bit of my life energy into the stones, which would amplify it enough to power the portal so that it would open.

For me personally, it sounded less than pleasant, but what choice did I have?

So off we went to each of the stones in turn and let him use his necromantic spell upon me, siphoning off part of my life. It felt awful, a nauseating sort of feeling, but in a way that goes beyond the usual meaning of the word. It was sort of like when I overused my magicka, the way a part of you feels hollowed out, but but the same as that hollowness I feel from being parted with my soul. It is a sensation beyond easy explanation. I would say trying it is the only way to understand it, but I would not recommend anyone to do so.

Tharn seemed pretty pleased with himself for managing to do it, though the creation of the portal still took a visible toll on him and I was steadying him, even though I was the one who just lost part of my life force three times in a row. He ordered the others to hurry through, talking about limited time, but I knew that a part of it was to do with his weakness on full display. And so I did my part to try and shelter his ego from things being so noticeable and gave him more potions.

He also told Sai Sahan to rally the Dragonguard to be ready. Sai Sahan did argue with him about his condition, but Tharn made it clear what the priority was. And he was right. We needed the backup if we were going to take down a dragon. A super charged dragon. One who was in the process of attaining godhood. Living Gods were insufferable enough, what would a dragon be like? I shutter to think of it.

I helped Tharn through the portal and into a different ruin. We made sure everyone was accounted for before we headed forward. Tharn explained that this was once the seat of Kaalgrontiid's power, that before he had been imprisoned he had ruled from this place. And that in order to maintain the stronghold, they had used an Aegis, a device that kept it isolated and hidden from the rest of Nirn. He suggested that we find and destroy it first, allowing others to join us in our fight and giving the dragon Nahfahlaar and Said Sahan and his Dragonguard the chance to support our success. I had to admit, having a dragon in the fight could only help. Even if it were just to distract Kaalgrontiid and to weaken him.

Tharn also suggested that we look for any other information that could help us in the fight. We may come across tomes that Kaalgrontiid hid here to prevent others from learning how to defeat him. Anything that might help us, Tharn said, could be worth the time. We decided that, since it was a limited amount of time, that we would do best to move forward by spreading out and looking as quickly as possible. Clear a room and then look quickly as a group before moving on.

The hallways were even darker than the previous ruin. And the whole thing shook from time to time. It made our job easier that there was little inside the ruin, other than the cultists themselves. There was more rubble around than anything else.

Eventually we came to a tunnel. The shaking had gotten worse and we all feared that a collapse could occur at any time. Dirt and stones fell in places and we dodged out of the way of falling rocks more than once. But we managed to come out and into another building of the ruins and we could all breathe a sigh of relief for having survived the tunnels.

As we searched ahead, one of the Redoran called our attention to something. A tapestry was hanging on the wall and Tharn went to see what he could learn. It showed what appeared to be people bowing at the base of towering Aeonstones with the moons aligned before a third moon, a grand green moon that was twice or more the size of Masser.

The others checked some bookshelves and found words on a legend that seemed relevant. And all of them tied together. The rise of demons trying to birth a powerful new moon. And the tapestry, which Tharn said showed one of the forbidden Khajiit legends, the rise of the new moon, called the Dark Aeon. I could already guess the role the Aeonstone must play in this. Tharn was sure that Kaalgrontiid was utilizing the stone to achieve this legend, though he did not share for what reason.

We made it out and onto a balcony overlooking a large courtyard. We could hear the cultists pledging their lives to their dark purpose. But the most surprising part of this scene was who was in charge of it. There, facing the cultists, stood another dragon, not Kaalgrontiid. His pale blue hide shown in strange light as the power of the Aeonstone glittered above like a million torchbugs. He was urging the cultists to provide Kaalgrontiid with his throne in the sky or perish.

There was an urgency to Tharn's voice as he told us that before we did anything else, we needed to destroy the ritual site. It would buy us more time and we needed it. I did not know what a throne in the sky might have meant that Tharn would be more worried about than before, but the others were already ready to leap into battle.

As there were two sites to deal with, we split up. Er-Jaseen went with the Redoran and Tel and I went with Tharn. We had only enough time to wish one another luck before heading our separate ways.

It took little time to approach the altar on the western side, but the place was packed with cultists. Many of them fell before we approached, having sacrificed their entire life force to the Aeonstones. It was horrible to see how readily they gave up their lives for the destruction of Nirn. I felt a rage bubbling within me and it was not hard to find the motivation to wish to kill those who remained. I thrust a couple of potions into Tharn's hands, in case he needed them, and hurried into battle with Tel.

As soon as we have defeated the remaining cultists and their guardians, we turned to Tharn, asking how to destroy the stone. He looked at it for a moment and then got the most peculiar smile before saying he wanted to try something.

Tel and I exchanged glances but said nothing, stepping away to give him space. And then we watched as he pulled the power out of the stones and into himself.

I mean, he obviously could use the extra power right now, but I did start to wonder about his motivations in all of this. He spoke of how immense the power in just that one stone was and how it could move mountains, rather literally.

We went and met the others, who were struggling to find the best way to deal with the Aeonstone at the ritual site. Tharn asked the others to give him space. The Redoran mage seemed the most suspicious of Tharn and he seemed to notice the looks of suspicion, for he told them that, while he might regret it, he was going to borrow the power from the stones to use in our battle with Kaalgrontiid. They allowed it and I could see the calculation on the face of the Redoran mage as he looked to one of the smaller bits of Aeonstone that was in the chamber.

I decided to pocket some of the small pieces myself, you never know when it could be handy to have, right?

Tharn destroyed the last ritual stone and then we all headed back to the balcony to regroup. That was when that pale dragon swooped down and threatened us.

At first, Tharn saying that he would fend off the dragon worried me, even with his new power, surely he would tire himself out and have little left for the final battle.

Yet, with a few hand gestures, he let out a triple gout of flame that collided with the dragon mid-air, knocking it backwards. Tharn himself seemed surprised at how great the power he now possessed was.

He told the others that we must now hurry to find the Aegis and I could tell that he was tired from his spell, despite how much energy he claimed to still have. Again, I supported him and provided him with a potion. I was already nearing halfway done with my supplies, not having expected him to get so exhausted from every single spell. It worried me, yet I knew we could not succeed without him.

He had the others follow the direction of the dragon, saying that a wounded dragon is more dangerous, but entirely predictable and that it would search out the most safe and secure place to lick his wounds. He suspected that, in that place, would be the Aegis.

As we walked, he admitted to me that he had used all the energy he had collected on the wounding flames. I could tell how helpless and scared he was. His voice seemed so quiet.

There was something about that which made me feel protective of him. Like it was my job to hold him and keep him from harm. Like he was a baby scuttler with a broken leg. Fragile. I cared not what anyone said or how they might look at us, I was going to keep that old man close to me and give my life should that be needed.

Apparently a mortal holding that sort of power had done something to further weaken him, yet he said that there was no time to worry over that now. He sensed, as we drew closer on the dragon's heels, that something was about to happen. That we may not have stopped the ritual in time. The increased tremors of the island seemed to prove this.

We came upon another tapestry. This one showed a black dragon rising in the air surrounded by energy of that same sickening green light. Tharn said the cultists probably believed this was a prophecy and that was why they supported Kaalgrontiid in his task. He also said he thought that this spot that showed the power channeling up into the dragon was the location that would also house Kaalgrontiid's defenses of the island. That we needed to find that place.

We all picked up our pace, knowing that time was growing short. We came out into another open courtyard, Kaalgrontiid was perched above and his pale companion below.

Kaalgrontiid jeered and taunted us and said we were too late to stop him from becoming the Dark Aeon, the new moon, the new god. He called to his companion to defeat us and the pale dragon crawled forward, telling us that we should perish here.

I looked to see Tel's face, the mix of that rush of nerves that battle brought, excitement and fear mixed together. This was their chance. They were finally getting their dragon fight, though I was unsure if it was what they had expected or not.

Kaalgrontiid remained perched above us, clinging to a giant Aeonstone that protruded from the ruin. All the while, he shouted at his companion to keep us from the Aegis. Tharn turned to me and told me to protect him whilst he destroyed the aegis. Dragons were, even wounded, dragons.

The others rushed forward to distract. I summoned shades and all of us surrounded Tharn, trying to keep him at least partially obscured from Kaalgrontiid's sight. While the others dodged flames and atronachs, I kept close eye over Tharn working his spells. I even offered him some of my vitality if it would help. He told me to shut my mouth and not distract him, but I knew that he was considering it.

I watched the pale dragon fall and Kaalgrontiid roared a terrible cry that he was the Dark Aeon and he would rise now. A green energy began to rise up, like tendrils of flame, around his perch.

Tharn had managed to deal with the Aegis and told us to hurry, shouting for us to head into the halls. He warned us that, despite having the aegis out of the way, he could feel whatever Kaalgrontiid was doing growing in power.

The Redoran archer demanded to know what could be done and if this was it and we had failed. Er-Jaseen told him to stay strong and that we had not lost hope yet.

Yet as we rushed about and climbed higher and higher, we hit one dead end after another. The ruins were collapsing and our way forward was blocked by collapsed ceiling beams.

Tharn, with a look on his face that was far too serene for my liking, said he would have to make a portal to the mainland. I looked at him, knowing that if he was as weak as he had been that this was a great ask. Especially with myself along.

The others did not seem to understand the gravity of it all. As Tharn went to open it I asked him if it was wise. He said it would take all his strength, but that we should find Khamira and Sai Sahan and that he would be here when we returned. To get them ready for the battle.

I said okay and urged the others to go first. Then as soon as they were through, I made Tharn close it. He did not wish to, but he did not have the strength to hold it open long enough to argue with me.

Besides, I needed to tend to him. Even as the island began to rise higher and higher into the sky. He said okay.

Then the fetcher shoved me through anyhow.

I landed on my back on hard stone, Khamira standing above me. She asked about Tharn, but my head was pounding. I tried to respond, but all I could see was that island floating higher and the darkness enveloping me.

I awoke back at the Dragonguard fortress. Apparently I had hit my head quite badly. Fetching Tharn, trying to be the hero and nearly getting me killed. The irony of it all.

Tel was there when I awoke. They had tended to my wounds and then let me rest, but said that Khamira had been asking to see me. So I shall go and see what our queen has in mind.

At least she will understand the frustration that is Tharn.

[akaviri-dovah]

Morning Star, Hearthfire and Frost Fall for Aeva <3

thank you for the ask, my friend!

(chosen oc: Aeva) (questions from HERE)

Morning Star - What was the first thing you gave your OC? Name, backstory, design, etc

For Aeva, it was her narrative role/concept/archetype. after my first attempt at a more morally grey foil to Taralka failed, I figured that instead of creating another Dragonborn, I create a more mundane character who exists in the same continuity, acting as its antagonist. back then I was not yet deep in the lore so I thought the Thalmor were the worst irredeemable villains so I set to creating one of them myself, who I imagined would relentlessly hunt Taralka down and terrorise the common folk of Skyrim on the side. then came the design and name, and the in-game reaction to my new character that sent what I had planned for her crashing down and turning her into the oddly sympathetic wet kitten we know today.

Hearthfire - Does your OC have a family (blood or found)? Who are they closest to?

She did have a family, once. at least that's how she herself would put it. when she was a child, she lived with her parents and her older sister, Kythasanwe, and none of them treated her well: Kytha actively bullied her and got away with pushing blame on Aeva while both parents turned a blind eye to it all, their favouritism clear. eventually Aeva had enough of them and ran away from them in her mid-teens. to this day she does not have anyone close enough to her to be considered a found-family...

Frost Fall - Where is your OC's primary residence? What city is there favourite?

Aeva has made her home in Vlindrel Hall in Markarth, in a high place isolated from much of the hustle and bustle below but within easy access of Understone Keep where she can go hang out with her comrades. she could call Markarth her favourite city in terms of climate and aesthetics - it's the least Skyrim that Skyrim can get - as well as for the memories she made there meeting her first friends here, so long as she disregards the rest of its population.

[shizuu-chann]

Favorite Places in Skyrim - Ranked

Solstheim - honestly, I just really love this place. It's my favorite map, I love all the creepy sounds in the distance, for some reason I love the ashes everywhere. I don't even care about the Dragonborn questline all that much, tbh, but I love all the side quests. Just *chef's kiss*

Riften/The Rift - In terms of the city, I love the bridges everywhere, I love that it's the home of the Thieves Guild (the best questline in the whole game and I will die on this hill), and I love the scenery, how it's mostly woods/forests and just chock full of trees <3. I just hate the house, Honeyside. I think it's boring and weirdly laid out, and after building your own house with the Hearthfire DLC, all the houses seem a little too small and claustrophobic. *The Shadowfoot Sanctum house you can get with the Anniversary update is nice, but again, a little too small (save for the SICK secret room), and your kids glitch out on console if you try to move them there. At least they did for me, when I tried to move them from one Creation Club house to this one, so I won't be risking that again.

3. Whiterun/Whiterun Hold - This is just my favorite city on principle, because it's so quaint and cozy feeling, and I love how it's laid out. It also has the most impressive Jarl's palace outside of Solitude. Breezehome is a great starter home, but I wish it was a little more impressive, because I would probably stay in Whiterun full time if I liked the house OR if I could build a house. However, I don't really care for the plains areas that much. I like trees, so the flat areas kind of bore me, which is the only reason it's ranked below Riften.

4. Solitude/Haafingar - The city is beautiful, and Proudspire Manor is a nice house (if narrow and HELLA expensive, thank you cupboard hack). The quests are fun, but since it's in the northern area of Skyrim, it's very snowy and cold, like visually cold. Of course not EVERYTHING is covered in snow and ice, but a lot of it is. I prefer warm-toned colors, like that of Whiterun and Riften, but otherwise Solitude is one of my favorites.

5. Falkreath/Falkreath Hold - Love the forests, the abundance of spriggans, and the house you can build because there's a beehive. The village itself, though? Nah. Not for me. Very small, insular, not much going on visually, and both jarls get on my nerves.

6. Dawnstar/The Pale - One of my faves only because I love Heljarchen Hall, and I would always choose this house if only there was a beehive, because I could almost mistake it for living in Whiterun. Otherwise, again, cold and snowy, and there's a fucking giant that always kills my cows.

7. Windhelm/Eastmarch - Only ranking this high because I like Hjerim and where you live in the city. I feel important when I own that house, but I never live there because I don't like the housecarl you're assigned. Otherwise, the blacksmith always calls me a milk-drinker (since I always side with the Imperials, which is whatever but it gets old), the city is full of racists, and it's perpetually winter and snowy, so the color palette is shades of grey only.

8. Markarth/The Reach - It would rank higher, because I like the house a lot, but I hate the mountainous area (because it's annoying to try and navigate), and there's fucking FORESWORN. EVERYWHERE. Just because of them, honestly, this place ranks low on the list.

9. Morthal/Hjaalmarch - Not a fan of swamps. That's about it. I love that there's deathbells everywhere, because they make a great poison, but the spiders, the mudcrabs, the chauruses (hate the motherfuckers)? No, thank you. I genuinely can't think of one thing here that draws me to it. There's not even that many quests, so the place feels like an afterthought, imo.

10. Winterhold - I like his place a lot, to be honest. I want to know more about the Great Collapse so badly, and the Sea of Ghosts is such a cool name. But, like, there's just nothing there. You can't build or buy a house, which is sad, because I think it would have been cool to be able to rebuild one of the destroyed houses and move in. But, it's also just so snowy and cold, and once the College questline is finished, I don't really have many reasons to go there until the Dawnguard quests and Azura's shrine. Missed opportunities all around.

Please reblog with your faves in the tags! I wanna see what they are~

[zinogirl]

Alright so: I don’t know what fucked it, but In SAE (skyrim anniversary addition) I’m unable to use the homestead’s from hearthfire

I built Heljarchen Hall, but the house just didn’t spawn.

I can’t use my already built house, Windstad Manor, because all the doors are absolutely fucked

So i had to finagle my way in, use wooden plates and whirlwind sprint to phase through walls, and gather all my shit

So now, over 2000 lbs overencumbered, im transporting my shit to breezehome

[littlemisspractical]

This is the character reference for Eleanor, also known as Ellie, Ida's 7 year old daughter. She's very enthusiastic, and while she helps her mum in the hospital as best she can, she really wants to be a warrior one day, like her father was.

The image is two sketchy digital drawings of Eleanor, who is a slender child with pale olive skin, dark brown hair and blue eyes. In the left-hand picutre she is shown in her nightgown, a simple t-shirt shaped garment that falls just above her elbows and knees. It is cream fabric, with green trim on the cuffs and hem, and a patch on one side. She also wears a matching cream nightcap. She's standing in a slightly nervous pose, both hands held together by one shoulder. In the right-hand image she stands in a neutral pose, smiling at the viewer, dressed for an artic environment. She is wearing a brown fur-lined round cap and simple coat, orange trousers and red fur-lined mittens and snow boots. The cap, coat and boots are decorated with red-and-white woven trim. The coat is also decorated with a painted eagle eyes and beak in black on the chest, and has been patched on one arm.

[selachiixiv]

Rhapsody

Hands in moon dust, face like an open furnace, they listen. There is, in truth, not much to hear on the moon to those who did not know how to listen - but to those who did, it was a rhapsody of pain. The pain of their god, locked up as he was. It called to them, as a siren to a sailor, and set the flames of their face stirring.

This was a pilgrimage. One they had made every single year for the entire time that they had existed as they do now: one foot on either side of the dividing line between life and death.

The first day had been the first day they had started burning, upon hearing of their god's fate, of their god's imprisonment. One of the Unsundered had asked who they had served, that day, and they had breathed, tired and deep, "Hestia." And the Architect had made a noise that sounded a little bit like "of fucking course" and then left them to the very job they had held in life - the organizing of the theological discourse of their people.

They'd loved it. They'd always loved it. Their hands cradled the texts and tomes with a gentleness, their discussions of it filled near to bawdy-yet-devoted laughter and joy for their god. A rough laugh that filled the halls of Amaurot and every other land they had visited in a need to greater understand the love of something vaster than comprehension.

Death had not stemmed the flame of devotion. Undeath would not. And when their god himself died, betrayed by his own servant and slain by Azem's own hand, even that would not curb the rhapsody of Aristidis's devotion.

They were the hearthfire, and they would never cease to be the hearthfire.

[agoblincat]

I started playing Skyrim in around 2019 and it was such a delight, it was my first intro to video games since I stopped playing the ps2 when I was...12? maybe lol. I spent so many hours on this game....my first playthru I think I played an imperial and had a few mods, but mostly play vanilla, did the dragonborn and dawnguard quests and ended marrying Uthgerd living in my lakeview homestead hahaha

anyway, I have TES V special edition with the hearthfire DLC, this playthru I was just doing random stuff. I decided to become a fisherman with my khajiit. Bought my first home in Heljarchen Hall as shown above (honestly didn't know this place existed as lakeview manor was always my go to..) now I'm gonna be a homesteader and buy the other 2 plots available in game!

Look at my aquarium! Look at all those fishies I caught!

and my cow :)

That's all the screenshots I have for now

[lleeroon-blog]

Moiras journal, morndas, 29th of hearthfire 4e 201

On the days leading up to now, Leeannes been getting more dependent. During the assassinations, shes mostly asked me to slaughter them herself, which i obliged. She ran from Ivarstead to Windhelm then to Dawnstar in a full day, there Isn't any stopping her. Then after that, i had taken the liberty of dealing with Goldenglow estate, making a point of slaughtering mercenary within the walls, including that pompus elf Aringoth, to which Leanne savored the delectable taste of. Our companionship has only gotten better and better as the days treck on and we've come to rely on each other. Especially during this new contract the dark brotherhood sent us on, given to us by a woman named muiri who wanted a slimy bastard of an ex killed, along with some poor girl she was friends with. Though on our way to that, we had stopped off in whiterun to complete a mission given to us by Maven black-briar, Riftens local crime lord. She asked us to assist her inside man with taking over a competitors meadery via poisoning both the rat nest and the vats, and killing a troublesome mage who's made his home in the tunnels. After all of that has been said and done, Leanne continued her sprint toward windhelm, swapping control back to me for us to enter the city uninhibited. While i will admit, i did start taking my sweet time within the arena, slaying foes and earning extra coin for us. And Leanne did get a bit irritated with me... so much do that she forced control from me, frightened all of the spectators, tore down the door to the hall of talos and and ripped the girl we needed to kill to shreds. After the well deserved chase outside of the city, She charged up the mountain to the fortress this bastard resided killed and ate everyone, and when they finally met face to face, Leeanne called the bastard a "pompus,arrogant,weasel of a boy who's manhood is as small as his ego is large." He didn't take to kindly to that and Ended up dead not 1 minute after. After sufficiently dining upon his corpse, our resident slaughterhouse charged headlong into the dwemer ruin, making short work of the automatons and weird looking white elves within. Then came the real fight. There was this massive dwemer mechanism that was twice the height of us and fired steam from its mouth. It was a long and arduous battle but we emerged victorious thanks to not only Leeannes strength, but my quick wits. Afterwards, we had B lined it back to the sanctuary where Astrid had asked me to eavesdrop on the jester who recently joined our sanctuary, fearing treachery. She told me to hide within the Night Mothers coffin. I had picked the surprisingly easy lock on the door and made my way inside and nearly fell asleep waiting for him. At which point the corpse started talking to me. She had named me listener and told me to speak to an Amound Mottiere. The shock of everything that happened was enough to make me pass out and at that point, Leeanne took over. Indeed i did. I had shifted right when the jester opened the door and ordered us to explain, at which point i was tripping over my words and somehow managed to get out that the night mother spoke to us. That only seemed to piss him off and he was just about to draw his blade when i told him "Darkness rises when silence dies." It was at that point where he had done a backflip and cheered about how i was the listener, whatever that was. During which Astrid charged in, blade in hand and ordered an explanation for this. The jester told her that i was the listener and she simply said No you aren't, go get a job from nazir. It was just after that when moira woke up and regained control from me. Back to you, moira. Thank you pup. Nazir ordered us to slay a vampire and a bard and i'm packing up to set out now. This has been an utter roller-coaster and i don't know what to think of any of this. Ill use these assassinations to gather my thoughts on the matter. Hircine protect us.

[hiddenbeks]

1, 2, 9, 14 and 24 for the tes oc ask game :3c

yayyyyy thank you red!! and sorry it took me a sec to answer oop

gonna answer these for both heidrun and beau so it's gonna get long once again >:)c

tes oc asks

1: what era(s) is your oc from?

heidrun and isabeau are both from the 4th era! in 4E 201 when skyrim's main story takes place heidrun is 22 and isabeau is 32 years old.

2: what is your oc's birthsign? does it affect the way they live their life?

isabeau was born in rain's hand so her birthsign is the mage. those born under the sign of the mage often have a talent for spellcasting and her parents were deliberately aiming for her to be born under said sign since magical skill is valued in breton society. and isabeau's family especially is known for its long line of skilled mages with great political influence. alas despite being born under favorable stars isabeau never learned to cast spells. she might even have great magical potential but they'll never find out because she just. doesn't understand magic lol

heidrun was born in hearthfire so her birthsign is the lady and it's not as contradictory as beau's sign. the lady represents kindness, mercy and determination which are of course some of the virtues heidrun strives for! but apparently the lady is also associated with elegance and nobility (as in being of high status) which are qualities heidrun does not exhibit. so yea there's a bit of irony in her birthsign as well!

9: what is your oc's current primary living space? ex: a house, a mansion, an alley, a dormitory, campsites, etc.

heidrun spends a lot of time on the road so she often camps in the wilderness or squats in abandoned buildings and sometimes sleeps at an inn when she comes upon one. eventually she has a small cottage built near the town of ivarstead and she is very happy to finally have her own home and safe haven where she can always return to after a gruelling adventure!

by 4E 201 isabeau has restored the thieves guild's wealth and influence and since mercer frey has been dealt with and his manor in riften is vacant she decides to renovate it and turn it into her home and a new base of operations for the guild. it's free real estate 😌

14: at what age did your oc leave their hometown and why? or have they never left?

heidrun wasn't really raised in a town; the closest one to the hall of the vigilant is dawnstar and i guess that's where the hall got most of their supplies so i'm sure heidrun visited often growing up! but she was raised in the hall and didn't venture further than dawnstar until she was old enough to accompany other vigilants on their missions. anyway as we know she was forced to run away when she contracted lycanthropy and the vigilants, including her parents, turned on her. i think she was twenty or twenty-one at the time?

isabeau left wayrest at the age of twenty! her criminal activities around the city and scandalous affairs with other nobles had gotten to the point where her family's reputation was in danger so her parents finally disowned her and told her to get out of their sight. she had already grown distant from her family and was rarely seen at the family estate so she was more than happy to leave :)

24: what moral boundaries does your oc have? have they ever crossed them? what happened?

heidrun's moral boundaries are obviously informed by her upbringing and faith. don't hoard wealth don't do crime don't harm innocents etc. she would never cross her boundaries on purpose but she may have accidentally slaughtered several innocent bystanders the first few times she turned into her wolf form and lost control completely. she was obviously horrified when she turned back human and realized what she'd done and decided to go into total isolation until she'd figure out how to control her lycanthropy.

isabeau on the other hand has very few moral boundaries lmao. she's a criminal she steals and extorts and blackmails and sometimes kills or hires others to kill (she prefers ruining lives over ending them however). but it's not like she goes out of her way to be Evil. at the end of the day she's just a businesswoman okay. a businesswoman who runs a criminal business. she's very picky about her alliances and connections so if you happen to get on her good side you can count on her to watch your back. but be careful because it's also possible that she's only pretending that you've earned her loyalty and she'll discard you once she no longer has use for you.. hm.....