#just telvanni things

[autumnbrambleagain]

i love this stupid fucking game

i make fun of people who modded it back in the early day just playing it like a contextless single player proto-secondlife dollhouse but

i'm gonna be honest i'm just out here playing vampire telvanni dollhouse right now

[captain-of-silvenar]

Hi! I was looking at your pinned post and Brisala caught my eye because of "fungal necromancy" - so my question is, what is that, it sounds so cool! I'd love to hear more about that!

Oh, Brisala is pretty neato, thank you for the ask!

So Fungal Necromancy, what is that? First I have to explain that my idea of necromancy is basically manipulation of life energy, yeah? So not really dissimilar to regular healing magic. But necromancy has the benefit of kind of encompassing anything with life energy. And that includes plants and fungi!

As a Telvanni Wizard, Brisala is a proud citizen of Morrowind and all the natural wonders it encompasses. A majority of it is covered in gigantic mushrooms and assorted fungi, to say the least of the Telvanni Tower grew by herself. If you're not including the potentially magical landscape by virtue of the place, all the fungal mycelium alone has a huge storage of energy! Fungi in general have huge networks that spread over whole continents sometimes and they interact and transfer energy from dead matter into other living organisms it lives with. Using this as a foundation, if one were to tap into it they could draw life energy from the very land into yourself. You would need to have an immense storage of magicka in your body then, so long as you knew how to harness and use the very land to fuel yourself.

This is the magical theory Brisala has worked on since childhood. House Telvanni already pride themselves on a lot of mushroom motifs and practical uses in their every day life. Surely it has to extend to more than just a home, armor, food, and pretty decoration. Imagine what one could accomplish if you could drain a continent the size of Morrowind by tapping into a vein of mycelium? Not that Brisala would do that, it is simply too big of an idea to test for a single Master Telvanni.

But a single Telvanni Tower? Now we're talking. Brisala grows unique and strange fungi in her studies to research different properties and uses in alchemy and magicka. If magic can be tapped from them, what else could be gleaned from them? Testing has shown that mycelium networks can communicate with each other and organisms they are attached to. Brisala has successfully added herself into that equation after years of experimentation and can now use fungi as extensions of herself.

So imagine you are trying to infiltrate or sneak into a Telvanni Tower. You're as quiet as you can be, but everywhere you go you can't help but feel as if you're being watched. And if you so happen to be in the Alithar family Tower, you most certainly are being watched by Brisala and are about 0.02 seconds from being consumed by the fungal floor.

Brisala has such an aptitude for fungal manipulation, she can freely change the interior of her Tower to move stairs, walls, and even whole rooms. Whatever extra magicka she has building up in her body she could deposit it into her Tower as a backup resource. Within the confines of her own home, Brisala is a terrifying being to behold in the seat of her power.

There is always more to learn from our fungal neighbors. Brisala is dedicated in exploring every possibility fungi have in everyday and extraordinary situations. As far as she knows there are very few actual fungomancers, much less those that dabble in necromancy.

And she intends to keep it that way, her research is precious and secret. Wouldn't want some upstart Spellwright getting any funny ideas to try and rise up the ranks through her notes.

[the-sunlit-earth]

a lot of clipping to fix, but hey I got it moving at least! I'll get the Telvanni robe properly physic'd if it's the last thing I do >:0

[rvnwtch]

Playing the Eso event and Faras just said “Traveler, have you ever stood on the precipice of discovery? An arm’s length away from changing Tamriel’s history?”

And it’s like buddy… so many times.

[landgraabbed]

[kinghlaaluhelseth]

im surprised lucien (the custom follower) doesn't really react to you being a vampire

[garygoldenbignaturals]

the telvanni dork i've been talking abt wanting to make. hi this is relmona (relmon) for short and he's quite insufferable. he is so sucks. thing is he's pretty good at being a telvanni for being relatively young (he's 48) so the councilors just told the nerevarine to take him with her for the time being. he's killed two people to advance he's getting a little too ambitious for everyone's sake. he can also get real annoying, and him being out and about gives everyone a bit of momentary peace.

more about his outfit under the cut

dork wears 3 layers in vvardenfell. i like to think the elevation that comes w being a volcanic island would make vvardenfell cool and i also imagine sadrith mora to be pretty windy as well. he's from necrom and although necrom is placed atop hills and mountains, it probably isn't as breezy as sadrith mora. relmon isn't used to the windiness. also doesn't have a good cold tolerance either.

tried to put several fungi motifs on his outfit, like the curly lettuce hem to be reminiscent of oyster mushrooms, the pants and arm warmers to look like a mushroom's gills, and the sash-thing to have the telvanni symbol-inspired pattern. also the pauldrons are detachable bc i dont want to have to stress about it every time i draw em lol. might even remove it entirely, i just wasn't sure if his outfit looked dunmeri-enough.

his outfit also isn't very utilitarian, those suspender-like ribbons could be tied together to act as a utility belt, but other than that it's a very lounge-y look. comfortable for adventuring, but that's it. which doesn't become a problem for him, still, bc lystor being the person she is happily carries his stuff for him and it barely affects her encumbrance.

[uesp]

"Politics, foreigners, and just about everything else."

--Caius Cosades listing things that House Telvanni hates.

[a-thirst-for-dunmer]

look i know todd coward cares next to nothing for actual humans but transgenderism in elder scrolls is For Me, a Man with Removable Bits, and my love of this franchise

Here we goes

Argonians can just talk to a tree and get immediate top/bottom surgery. First of all, we knew the Gender Fluid came from nature, humans have been making herbaceous pastes and fluids for centuries that help block estrogen/testosterone. Second, lucky bitches. Where the Hist at can I get an amen

Orcs probably have the wise woman do their hormone potions and then the surgery when needed. I personally like to think Grar the big and bulky is like ‘take this paralysis sleep mixture and then we will remove the organ you deem unworthy.’ Malacath is god of the outcast, and of the strong and worthy, and who would understand that more than a trans Orc?

Altmer just use the Alteration/Restoration school. Their plentiful magicka means they can use some form of Transmute spell to remove bits and Restoration to heal afterwards. Likely takes way more skill and only highly trained mages may do the Transition Spells but it would be funny if i just *skyrim spell noise* grow peepee

Bosmer do a mix of Altmer and Argonian shit, but in a different way. Herbs and potions for the hormone blocking, and ancient forest magic to make things get off the bod. Hircine can and has killed others who hunt the trans Bosmer, for to hunt prey that is already weak is dishonorable to him. (Yeah, OOC for Hircine, but it’s my treat)

Dunmer call upon spells, potions, and the Daedra. Azura warped their body in appearance as a curse, so logically, she could do it again for the removal of tiddy. Doesn’t mean she would, though, so the Dunmer call upon Telvanni wizards to help out with the grueling and difficult magic of gender affirmation. Hey, maybe Neloth will grant you two dicks instead of one for research purposes. Go grandpa go

Khajiit would just…do really problematic surgery in a back alley with nothing but skooma and moon sugar to help them brave the pain. I don’t know how they would do trans shit, it’s a cat with dick barbs. I don’t want those.

All the human races can’t do spells as well, nor can they brew potions with utmost care, but dammit, they want to feel whole, so the try every way they can. Wise women in Morthal, mages in taverns, the College of Winterhold, and every other method under the sun. I’d be bitten by a vampire to go get their magic skills and make myself feel me if i could, but nah that doesn’t exist.

I am glad i live in a state where gender-affirming medical care is still possible, and where trans children have no need to worry about hiding themselves until they turn 18. For the rest of my brothers and sisters, I can’t tell you how sorry I am and how i wail for you. We’ll have our win, we’re still fighting, and we’re still here. I love you guys.

Stay frosty in Dawnstar my bitches

[nerywen]

one day an imperial guard came into Telvanni tower

and didn't come out.

just little Telvanni things

[dynamite124]

Hello, I've just downloaded Taliesin and I must say that I am loving all his interactions thus far (...although I may be having issues with his horse and the naked line but hey, it's fine).

I have a few questions regarding Taliesin though, like, how old is he exactly (cough, not that I'm going to embarrass him or anything that is), and would he be partial to apple tea (or any kind of fruit tea as a way to treat his insomnia?)

And, if possible, may I know how he would react to Remiel (Self-Proclaimed Dwemechanic), Xelzaz (Argonian Telvanni), Val (the Pirate) and Auri (a fellow Mer, though a Bosmer)? I've always felt that he might possibly get along with Remiel (more like, Remiel will get along with everyone), have intellectual (?) discussions with Xelzaz and have a rather love to hate relationship with Val simply because both of them can be quite, flirty at times and might make it sort of a competition?

Thank you for reaching out. I'm sorry about Naomi being buggy but I'm not sure how to fix that - it kind of matches her personality though, wild and free, comes and goes as she pleases. And I'm working on the lines when the player is naked, takes time and lots of trial and error with an equally buggy Creation Kit. ^^;

In terms of how old Taliesin is, chronologically Taliesin is 150 years old, roughly he's around 35 years of age when compared to a human. He's yet to try tea or anything to remedy his insomnia, at night, he meditates and uses his magic to restore his energy. But I hope to add a small quest for the Dragonborn to help him get over that.

In terms of how he'd feel about Remiel, Xalzaz and Val...

With Remiel, he would appreciate having someone intelligent to talk with. I do feel him appreciating her would take some adjusting because Remiel does like to talk...a lot. Another thing he'd have to adjust to would be delving into Dwemer ruins. He doesn't like Dwemer Ruins, they're bad for his health!

I can see him on occasion just telling Remiel to stop talking once she gets started, there's only so much he can handle about a topic he's not invested in. But that's not to say he's going to find his own way to annoy her in turn.

Taliesin: What's that, Scrap? You like be better than Remiel? You want to be MY best friend instead?

Xelzaz I'm still trying to learn about. Taliesin doesn't know much about Dunmer culture, so Xelzaz introducing himself as the Lawman of the Telvanni isn't going to impress him upon first meeting. He may mistake Xelzaz as as officer of the law or thinking he's making up the title to sound important.

Taliesin: Lawman, right right...so you're good with detaining the unruly? Oh this should be fun then.

Now then...for Val Serano. Hands down, these two would NOT get along! Val is everything Taliesin hates; Liars, thieves and a pirate (water-thief basically). In his eyes, Val is a walking red flag and won't trust him.

I can see these two having petty fights or hurling insults like a vollyball game. Taliesin won't try to kill him, mind you, he knows that would upset the Dragonborn, so he'll be on his best behavior, but I can't see these two getting along.

[argisthebulwark]

Cleanse Me With Pleasure

summary: second chance! you've known them and lost them, but fate brings you back together. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used feat: Miraak, Hadvar, Vilkas warnings: very mild body horror (miraak has too many pupils), depiction of overstimulation (vilkas)

Miraak

He was your first love, the one meant to outlast all else. He became the one who shattered your heart. Your shared power as Dovahkiin should have brought you closer - your fates as the First and Last intrinsically twined together, though Miraak seemed intent on severing it. His refusal to share power turned to distrust, a fracture your relationship never recovered from.

He became obsessed. Blinded by his need to rule over Tamriel, you found yourself growing apart until you could hold onto him no longer. Miraak forgot all else when he became lost to his hunt for power, casting aside love and humanity as he lusted after forbidden knowledge. He forgot about you, his fellow Dragonborn. His beloved.

As the ages have passed, you now find yourself unfulfilled. You’ve seen much of the world in your time, taken fleeting lovers and leaving few traces. The dragon blood in your veins keeps you stationary while the world shifts around you, able to inflict little change upon the matters of men. Civilizations develop and empires crumble before your eyes as you search for the place you belong. No matter how much you love this world you still seek the place that feels like home.

After many years spent unsuccessfully settling into a small village you decide to leave Skyrim. At least for a short while. Too many eyes are on you after your influential part in the civil war. You need somewhere quiet. Hoping for the comfort of an old friend or a Telvanni tower your eyes turn to Solstheim. It’s been far too long since you’ve walked its shores, perhaps clarity awaits there.

Your wish for peace is unfulfilled as always. Rumors of locals wandering off into the ashen wastes reach your ears in every tavern. Just one night, you promise yourself when you fall into a cheap rented bed. Just one night of rest and I will investigate in the morning. 

A voice you’d forgotten ages ago invades your dreams. His mantra shocks you to your core - he was behind those horrid stones? Scrambling for your pack you set off into the night fueled by anger, old and long forgotten. You don’t care how powerful he’s become in your time apart - it matters little if he’s finally ascended to godhood, you’re going to give him an earful. 

Sharp spikes and dark towers loom over the horizon - his palace. The elegant arches are beginning to crumble with no sign of repair. Perhaps all of his loyal subjects are too busy tending to those awful stones, minds stolen away by Mora’s influence. Stomping through his castle you’re horrified by the years of dust and grime accumulating on every surface. Much like yourself, it seems that this palace has spent ages stuck in a time the world has forgotten. 

Upon a spiraling staircase, the railing is surprisingly clean. Tracks of fingers trail through the dust and a shiver runs down your spine. Weak light flickers from above and you steady yourself for whoever lurks in this ancient place. It may be a sign of life but you cannot decipher whether that is a good thing.  

You should have known. The only visible light emanates from the heart of Miraak’s palace - his library. Tomes written in dead languages give way to the common tongue, each shelf meticulously cleaned. Your footsteps are careful, though you can do little to calm the erratic racing of your heart as you wind through his maze. 

A dark cloak is draped over hunched shoulders. His quill scrapes over the parchment without pause. Blazing light from the fireplace illuminates his silhouette and for a moment it’s far too easy to forget about how everything ended - the fighting, the screaming, and that uncrossable distance that grew between you. When Miraak’s head tilts you catch sight of stubble across his jaw, the once black hair now peppered with gray and white. There is the sharp angle of his nose and lips that had once spilled nothing but admissions of love. For one moment he is the man your heart still screams for. 

“You must be brave if you dare to enter.” His deep voice rumbles through the library and you’re shocked back to reality. Deep green eyes sweep toward you, pinning you in place as too many pupils assess your interruption. “Remove your hood and state your business.” 

“What have you done?” Miraak’s fingers clutch the edge of his desk, revealing sickly black veins creeping under pale skin. His eyes narrow and in a dramatic flourish he stalks toward you. Old rage builds with each step that draws him closer; that sneer on his face, the condescension in his tone, the terrible way that power has warped him. 

“How dare you speak to me like this?” He seethes, teeth practically bared when he glares you down. Standing only inches away you can feel it, the terribly oily power infecting the rest of Solstheim. It is like nothing you can recall dealing with. Attempting to move swiftly you remove your hood, brandishing a reliable dagger between your bodies to hold him off. 

Something you cannot read shifts in his eyes. He blinks too many times before one hand reaches past your weapon. You consider slicing into his arm, calculating how likely it is that Miraak could cast some horrible spell upon you when cool skin cups your cheek. 

“Darling.” Your heart squeezes when Miraak draws you closer, completely ignoring the blade pressed to his chest. “My love, where have you been?” 

“I left.” Your voice is harsh, cutting through the strange softness of his tone. You cling to the rage that fueled you to find him, grasping for something to keep you upright when his thumbs trace so lovingly across your cheeks. 

“I have searched this world for you.” 

“What?” You sputter, taking a step back. Your heart slams into your ribs when he looks at you, such adoration in eyes you have not seen in centuries. “You let me go. You forgot me.” 

“I was wrong.” Bravely, he attempts to move closer. “I cannot do this without you - I do not work without you, my love.” 

“I do not wish to rule.” Your voice quivers and you steady the dagger. Miraak makes no move away from you, still carefully holding your face. “I have never wished to rule.”

“Tell me what you want.” 

“I have told you.” You insist, obnoxious tears pricking at your eyes. It’s terribly hard to remain angry when he’s so close. “You never listen.”

“Tell me once more.” Miraak gulps, unnatural eyes never moving from yours. “Please, just once more.” 

“I want,” your voice falters as you consider your options. Rationally, you should drive the dagger into his chest and free the world from his influence. You should kill Miraak while he is distracted. You should end him before he does further damage to this world. 

But you cannot. Sweaty fingers clench around the blade but your muscles have turned to stone. He may be different, hell he may be awful, but you cannot bring yourself to kill him. He is still Miraak. Your blade stills over his heart, the only one that has called out to yours. Despite the inky black stains these are his hands, the ones you’ve imagined each time you’ve taken a lover. 

“I want you.” Fat tears coat your cheeks when you relent, speaking the words that have been a thorn in your side for too many years. Old desires wash away the anger, each night spent missing him fresh and new in your memory. You remember speaking the same words during your last argument with him, one final plea for him. “I want to find somewhere quiet and grow old with you.” 

“I am sorry that it has taken me so many years to agree. I am yours, entirely, if you will have me.” Miraak’s nose brushes yours and through your bleary vision, you see him. His vision is no longer clouded with obsession, eyes focused entirely on you. Something wrenches deep in your chest and time seems to grind to a halt. 

It is all you’ve ever wanted from him. There is fear in Miraak’s eyes while he awaits your response though he makes no offensive moves - he’s left himself open if you decide to strike. There is no defense, no shield to hold you off. Miraak has made himself vulnerable to you. 

Joy and grief and all other emotions swirl together as your blade clatters to the ground. Desperate hands dig into the back of your cloak and you feel his sigh of relief against your chest, unheard promises whispered into your skin. 

Hadvar

Training. Guard rotations. Research assignments. Reconnaissance. Palace guard duty. Shift changes. Too many responsibilities and not enough time, yet for so long you managed to cling together. There was never time for anything more than falling into bed together, a shared cot and the comfort of one another. 

Schedules shifted every few weeks, never amounting to much more than a change in when you're afforded time to sleep. Without bothering to open the envelope for your new assignment you’d hobbled back toward the barracks, muscles aching from a day stuck near the city gate.

A sharp bark of your name stopped you short. A harsh explanation that you were heading off to some newly established camp in the Rift. No time to change or grab your supplies, they’ll have clothes waiting for you at the new camp. Your heart was in your throat when your commanding officer bundled you into the back of some carriage and sent you to another Hold without a chance to tell Hadvar. 

In the shuffle of everything, you lost each other. No letters could be sent as you had no idea where he’d been stationed or who his superior became after the new assignments. Though your nights were lonely, over time you accepted that he’d simply slipped through your fingers. 

Leaving the army was a difficult but necessary choice. That strange power seemed to grow with each day that passed yet you had no clue what it was. Something terrifying was happening inside you and you snuck away from your camp, deserting in search of answers. 

Your many attempts to diagnose whatever lay inside you remained unanswered. It felt like some sort of serpent, often dormant and rarely flickering into life. Presently, you find yourself glaring into the horizon and regretting that shitty mug of ale. Falkreath has yielded no answers and although you’ve tried to avoid Skyrim, the College of Winterhold may be your last resort. 

It all happens so fast. The clanging of armor and harsh shouts ringing through the forest. Dozens of blades are pointed in your direction and before you can think your hands are cuffed, pack ripped from your back and you’re shoved into a cart of fellow prisoners. 

The ride is quite short but one man insists on chatting, drawing the attention of the soldiers. Imperial soldiers. Your stomach turns sour as you rush to come up with a story - it’s been years since you deserted, no one will recognize you. You can claim to be a hunter. The forest has enough elk to make the weapons in your pack plausible. 

Staring straight down at the tips of your boots, you avoid acknowledging what is happening only a few yards away. The pleading words, the blade cutting through the air, the sickening thump. You shuffle through the line of prisoners intending to recite your half baked story, steadying yourself when you finally look up. 

“And who are,” Hadvar pauses, still staring down at his parchment. Your heart stops when he finally looks up, face bright red as recognition lights his expression. “You?”

You’re fucked. 

“I’m a hunter.” You lie as another guard ushers you toward the block. “I was looking for elk. Just a trader.” 

“Yeah.” The guard snorts, guiding you to kneel. “I’ve heard that one before.” 

There is nothing more to say, no words that will change their minds. Dew coats your knees and you can feel Hadvar staring at you, blue eyes sharp and mouth still parted with questions. You try to take comfort in the clear skies and calm breeze. If you are destined to die today, there is something nice about knowing that the last thing you see will be Hadvar. 

“Dragon!”

Your world is a blur of fire and smoke. The executioner’s blade thumps to the ground, mere seconds from taking your head. Rough hands drag you to your feet and you stumble along, unsure if you’re alive. On all sides Helgen is burning, shrieks of the dragon blend with screams of humans into one horrible sound that drowns all else out. 

Time slows to a crawl when Hadvar wheels toward you, soot staining his features as steady hands check you for injuries. For one brief moment the world is quiet, Helgen’s Keep miraculously still upright. 

“Are you alright?” All you can manage is a nod. Hadvar passes you a sword and plants his helmet on your head, instructing you to stay close. Falling into line with him is too easy - ducking when you feel his muscles flex to swing his sword, backs pressed together as you cut through Stormcloaks and spiders. 

The road is quiet, its usual sense of peace only heightening your nerves. Acrid smoke clings to your nostrils and burns sting at your skin but you continue walking, unsure of the destination. Hadvar’s steps are sure through the small village, explaining the situation with only a hint of the panic still lacing your veins. You anticipate questions he does not ask, explanations cluttering your mind but he doesn't breathe a word of your desertion.

His family is wary but welcoming. They don’t ask questions when you refuse to part, sides glued together as you recount your stories. You feel their curious eyes as Hadvar leads you downstairs to where you’ll be staying. He doesn’t pause before unbuckling his armor and falling into the sole bed, one arm open in silent invitation.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” Hadvar murmurs, allowing you to curl into his chest. You can hear the racing of his heart as one arm rests around you, perfectly aligning with all those memories. He’s warm and still smells like fire but you block it out, focusing on nothing more than Hadvar’s hands combing through the mess of your hair. “I’ve lost you so many times, I don’t know if I can let you go again.” 

Vilkas

Although Whiterun would always be your home, somewhere deep down you’d long harbored a distaste for how crowded it was. Too many sounds and smells, elbows jostling you and siblings to keep track of. Food sizzling and water gurgling from the nearby fountain, it all turned into one overwhelming wave of sensations. High walls kept out the breeze and often you found your skin felt too tight, ears ringing as you ran off toward one of the abandoned watch towers. 

From far below you heard the delighted shrieks of your younger siblings as they frolicked through the market. Your head pounded although the breeze cooled your overheated skin, lessening the sensory terror of the crowd. 

“Mind if I sit?” Your eyes shot open and you saw a boy no older than yourself standing on the final step to your hideout. “My brother’s down there but it’s - well, it’s too loud.” 

“Sure.” You agreed, scrunching your legs closer to make room. He didn’t say a word, merely plopped down and began reading the book he’d tucked under his arm. His presence was nice, silent and uncaring as you unwound. A breeze whistled through old shudders carrying a welcome chill. 

“I should get back to my brother, he’ll start to worry.” He carefully placed a bookmark before standing. “My name is Vilkas.” He only introduced himself upon parting.

Your friendship was easy. Afternoons spent in comfortable silence, tidbits of information swapped once your ears stopped ringing. Vilkas’s way of speaking was refreshing; his tone was always even and getting right to the point. You never had to puzzle through the hidden meaning of what he said not did he push past your limits.

There was no way to know one meeting would be the last. Vilkas was recalled to Jorrvaskr and sent on some mission by his superiors and your mother was being shipped off to Solitude to serve the Jarl. Between packing up your entire life in a few chests and wrangling all of your siblings there was simply no time to find Vilkas, you never got a chance to say goodbye. 

Now, the title of Dragonborn grows hefty. You’ve carried it for years but it never seems to get easier - there are constantly people asking for favors or wanting to hear stories you’ve told dozens of times. Although many years have passed you often find yourself wanting to regress to that child that hid away in abandoned guard towers, wishing you could simply curl up in some corner and let the world forget you for a while.

Too many eyes are always on you, watching your every move and telling tales of your heroism. Taverns herald your arrival, merchants offer special deals for your presence, fighters either want to duel or be in your employ. It seems that quiet is simply not in the cards for you. 

Trekking across the plains, the buzz of conversation finally ceases. Most civilians aren’t motivated enough to follow you out of their walled city. You walk until your legs are numb and collapse, back pressed to Whiterun’s massive wall as you stare out across the heavens. There's no telling how much time passes - elk skip over the hillsides and shadows grow longer yet you remain, unsure if you are ready to face the bustling city once more.

“You alright?” 

There's no hiding your groan at the interruption. A gruff voice breaks through the quiet of nature, ruining the ruffling of wind through tall grass. Biting back whatever truth threatens to spill from your tongue you turn to the offender, intending to ask for a bit of time alone when you pause. 

His brown eyes have hardened, now lined with the telltale signs of many sleepless nights. Dark hair has grown out over the years and stubble lines a strong jaw, hands that once carefully balanced books now perched precariously on the hilt of his greatsword. Relief washes away all the annoyance as he silently eases to sit at your side, eyes cast out over the plains. 

“You look different.” You dare to observe, a nervous smile breaking out at his snort of laughter. 

“You’ve been gone for quite a while.” 

Everything is so easy with him. Conversation comes and goes in waves, hours spent catching each other up on your lives lapsing into a comfortable silence. As the sun dips below the horizon and Whiterun’s plains are ablaze in deep shades of orange and pink the tightness in your chest lessens, noise from of the city quieting as its inhabitants seek shelter in homes and taverns. You remain there with Vilkas for far too long, both relieved to reconnect with the one person who understands their need for quiet. 

[calebwittebane]

yknow, some questionable meta aside, i still vastly prefer morrowind having divayth fyr be present in it as a powerful respected rich ex-politician and entrepreneur and scholar, who also is a rotten person horrifically abusing his daughters and his patients and keeping them prisoner on the isolated island he calls home, and no one questions him and people blindly look up to him from afar, and the isolationist If Youre Powerful You Can Do What You Want politics of house telvanni further protect him, and his educated well-spoken gently eccentric persona further discourages people (including the player) from questioning him, and his own daughters isolated and manipulated as they are dont even know what to think about their own situation (and its awkward for them to even try to explain it), and because of his access to unique resources and information at some point in the main quest you have NO choice but to work with him if you want to survive/progress, and you have to confront all of that ugliness and decide what you want to do with it, if you even choose to notice it. the game doesnt punish you for not caring! why would it? has that not been the reality long before you ever got there? you can just get what you want from him and walk away, or you may remain angry and frustrated at your helplessness, because you know that you don't stand a chance against him and his magic he spent centuries and endless resources to hone, and there is no one with any incentive or authority to confront him. you may stay rightfully furious that this situation will not change just as it hasnt changed in so long, just as so many sickening things about the status quo on vvardenfell are way beyond your power as an individual to change. OR, if you're powerful enough--or if you come back later, having trained for this moment--you can simply take matters into your own hands, knowing this is the only way for the man to face any consequences, and get rid of the fucker once and for all. because he is, for all his pride and might, Possible To Kill. and you get cool armor out of it. so then how is it rare just kill him etc. do you see how compelling a narrative this is? both the maddening helplessness at the injustice you witness--a recurring thing in the game--and the catharsis of killing fyr? Do You Understand.

i vastly prefer all of the above to just retconning the whole thing, either ignoring it or clumsily trying to rewrite fyr into this quirky but totally harmless old man for the sake of Hey Remember This Guy. i understand not everyone likes the tone of morrowind and id be a complete fool to say it doesnt fall into a ton of pitfalls regarding many subjects and themes it tackles, but if thats the case, i really think eso was lame as hell for bringing back divayth fyr and stripping him of all that context. was it worth it? is the addition of divayth fyr to eso really that good? was the shallow "oh omg this guy was in morrowind" aspect worth it? i dont think so. and that fathers day joke was foul and we all know it

[vosh-rakh]

“What is that?” asked the visitor, one of his dangling arms pointing at Spoons-her-Sugar, who crouched in a corner he had hoped was shadowed enough to conceal him. “One of the Akaviri monkey-men? You really are an eccentric one, Tevethri.”

Sugar shivered, his fur pricking and his tail, which had already been swishing back and forth in the library-dust, straightening out in mild panic as he was acknowledged by the odd stranger. The visitor was supposedly a dark elf, although Sugar couldn’t see much of him beyond his shriveled arms hanging from the insectoid mass that surrounded him. Heavy chitinous plates enveloped him completely, like the armor on a giant kwama warrior. Sugar had heard whispers that this wizard rarely left his shell-carriage in his old age, and that his legs had atrophied as a result. The entire assemblage of shells floated about a foot in the air, suspended by faintly-glowing runes etched deep into the rims of the chitin. It had been a struggle for him to squeeze into the doors of the library. 

Master Tevethri chuckled, glancing at Sugar. “No, Moldayn. That’s just Sugar. She’s my library assistant. My brother-in-law – yes, Sevasi married a Dres for some reason – sold her to me when the Pact formed and outlawed the old tradition.”

All things considered, it had been a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Master Savethi was beyond cruel; a curse because, assuming Savethi hadn’t also sold the others to Telvanni, they had been freed by the Pact, either made citizens or sent home to Elsweyr or Black Marsh. Sugar missed most of them – especially Hears-No-Lies, an Argonian boy a few years his elder whom Sugar was very fond of – but things could be worse. Tending Master Tevethri’s library and fetching books for him wasn’t all bad, and Sugar was fed well enough, and Tevethri’s temper was much more manageable than Savethi’s.

“So it’s not a monkey-man?” Moldayn asked again, his weak, rattling voice magically amplified to be heard from within his shell.

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘Tang Mo.’ And no, she isn’t.” Tevethri waved Sugar over. “Come, Sugar. Out of the darkness, and by my side.” Sugar obeyed, slowly walking into the dim lamplight casting grotesque shadows across Moldayn’s shell. 

Tevethri laid a poorly-manicured hand on Sugar’s shoulder. “Savethi told me that she was a breed called…’dog,’ or something to that effect. Something about the moons, some astrological nonsense. She does favor an ape, though, doesn’t she? But rest assured, she is a cat. Smile for me, Sugar.”

Sugar obeyed, parting his lips wide and baring his fangs. No slave in Savethi’s plantation had good teeth, but Tevethri had different tastes. He had Sugar undergo more rigorous dental care and magical procedures to ensure healthy, white teeth.

“Impressive, impressive,” said Moldayn. “But you said she was your library assistant…how?”

“Well, you see, I taught her to read.”

Moldayn’s shell seemed to rattle in a terrible shiver. “What blasphemy, to teach a slave to read! Remember ye not of the Pocket Cabal and its wickedness?”

Tevethri scoffed. “You read too much Tribunal nonsense. There’s no harm in it. After all, she still bears a bracer. We as a race learned long ago to forbid magic to the enslaved.” He grabbed Sugar’s bracered wrist and held it high. “Besides, all she reads is book titles and authors. No harm in that.”

“Time will make a fool of you, Tevethri, I swear of it.”

“But see how useful she is! Sugar, fetch for me…hm…the ‘Compendium of Arcano-matrices,’ volume four, by Mistress Ghenima.”

Silently Sugar nodded and went about his work. With a long arm he reached up several rows of a nearby bookshelf and hoisted himself up. With simple fluid movements he shimmied across the arrayed books, stirring up dust as he scanned their spines. Dissatisfied, he lifted his tail to catch a horizontal rod hanging above the aisle, and swung backwards, letting go of the first bookshelf and catching the one behind. He followed the alphabet down to the geths and slowed down, hunting down his prey. Finally he found the set: an entire shelf lined with Ghenima’s Arcano-matrices, their dull-green leather spines etched with her name and the volume number. He plucked volume four from the row and hopped down to the soft fungal floor.

“Excellent!” said Tevethri as Sugar brought him the book. “Well done, Sugar.” Sugar, though not exactly pleased by the praise, smiled thinly with small satisfaction.

“Pah!” rattled out Moldayn from his floating shell. “Memorizing the arcano-matrices is child’s play, and Ghenima got half of them wrong.” He waved Sugar over. “Come, slave. Let’s test the limits of your master’s library, shall we?”

Sugar looked to Tevethri, the fur on his tail and neck standing on end. But Tevethri just smiled and nodded. So Sugar approached the levitating chitinous mass that was Moldayn and said, “Yes, muthsera?”

Moldayn clapped his frail hands together and chuckled. “She can speak! How delightful. See if you can find…Oh! This is a good one. ‘Daedron Field Fluctuations of the Lower Dragontails on the Second of Sun’s Dawn under Stormy Weather’ by Anonymous.”

Sugar paused to think, pressing his lips together. Had he seen that one before? Well, an order’s an order; he had to look.

The ayems were on the other side of the library, so Sugar scampered down an aisle a few shelves over before clambering up the shelves. There was an extensive section of books with anonymous authorship in the far corner of the room, stacked against the wall. He perused their spines, hoping such a lengthy title might stick out, but he struggled to find it. A rainbow of variously-dyed covers dazzled him as he shifted his eyes from volume to volume in his search, many faded from decades – no, centuries – from either constant use or simple abandonment.

One book struck him as odd. It was pitch black, the creases on its spine almost completely imperceptible in its darkness – and no letters were visible, either, neither title nor author. Sugar pulled it from the shelf to examine the front. No writing there, either. He flipped it over and found its black surface perfectly blank and unmarked. He hopped down for a moment, freeing up both hands so he could look inside for more information.

There seemed to be some mild resistance as Sugar tried to pull the pages apart, almost like it had been glued shut by its ink. Finally, he pried the papers apart and looked inside. He caught a brief glimpse of a densely-scrawled script he couldn’t recognize – no Cyrodiilic letters, no Daedric sigils. 

But then the runes started to glow a bright, garish green, sparking ever brighter, flooding the pages with a sickening vibrant light. Then tendrils of inky blackness swirled, flat on the pages at first, but then emerging into the third dimension and rising like smoke, like seaweed from the ocean floor, reaching upwards towards Sugar’s face until they completely blotted out all light and consciousness.

- - - - -

Sugar awoke standing upright, his eyes already open. Their pupils dilated immediately in the dim light, stretching from slits to wide circles. He was surrounded by books, but this wasn’t Master Tevethri’s library. The walls weren’t lined with bookshelves; the walls were books, bricked with tomes, running black ink their mortar, held down by the sheer weight of knowledge. They were crookedly assembled, the walls uneven and jutting with loose papers half-undone from their bindings. Some of the stacks reached upwards, tilting precariously as if to form a dome above his head, but never meeting in the middle. Yet somehow they didn’t collapse – something else stabilized them. Sugar couldn’t tell if the space above him was a distant, shadowed ceiling, or a dark sky, devoid of stars. 

Blast, she shouldn’t be taking that long. I was nearly certain I had that one. You win this time, Moldayn. Come back now, Sugar. No need to waste time searching.

On the floor – even this seemed to be made mostly of books – was a circular stone platform, ringed by a faintly-luminous green etching, surrounding complicated circuits of strange runes, each glowing and humming ominously. At the center stood a pedestal almost as tall as Sugar himself, and a single black-bound tome rested upon it…beckoning.

Sugar? I said you can come back now. Don’t keep us waiting overlong.

Strange, Sugar thought, that I’m not afraid. He began to approach the pedestal. 

Fine, I’ll just go and get her. She must have gotten distracted.

Just as his claws had almost captured the tome, there was a booming sound above, like a peal of thunder. Sugar looked up, expecting the half-arches of books to tumble down and drown him in paper. Instead he beheld dark masses undulating in the hollow above, barely visible against the blackness. They were moving, not just independently, but in a single direction collectively. Finally, the movement stopped. 

By the Three! She’s…Moldayn! It’s got her, the book, it…it’s in her eyes! It’s in her damn eyes!

Then an enormous eye, seemingly bigger than the world, opened, dull green but intense, its pupil dual-lobed. 

Don’t be silly, Tevethri. You can’t trick me. “In her eyes.” Come back now, you two.

The eye spoke directly into Sugar’s head. “Mortal. You have been summoned.” Sugar could feel something, like an inchworm, exploring the depths of his mind. “Yes…this curiosity without fear. A suitable trait for my purposes.”

Moldayn, for Mephala’s sake! This isn’t a game! I need her! It’s impossible to find good slaves anymore! Get out of that ridiculous thing and come help me! It’s in her…eyes, mouth, ears…By Azura…

“Who are you?” said Sugar.

“To your people I am Hermorah, the King of Tides…the Watcher.” A laugh reverberated throughout Sugar’s skull, like a hollow knocking at the gates. “But you know nothing of your people, of course. Wouldn’t you like to? To be free, to go home?”

You know I can’t leave this shell! Just…pull them out!

“I don’t have a home.” Sugar’s fingers still twitched in the air over the tome.

“Oh, but you could. A real home of your own. A people of your own. Wouldn’t you enjoy that? And more than that. Power. Dominion over those who seek to steal it. Wrath for the slavemasters.” A long black appendage descended, writhing in the air as it approached, until it rested above the tome under Sugar’s hands, pointing. “Within this tome is your freedom. Within it is your power. Within it…is a new service. Service to me.”

I’m trying…they’re too strong! What in Oblivion is this?

Sugar looked down at the black tome. He could see now that it wasn’t completely featureless – there was an implication of meaning, of runes etched for the sole purpose of each individual reading.

He looked back up to the eye. “Give me one more thing.”

The same laughter in his head, but there was a wicked angle to it. “You believe you have bargaining power. Interesting. But I shall entertain your request.”

“Make me a man.”

I think I almost have it…call the healer, Moldayn! She’ll need her!

Hermorah fell silent for a moment, the pointing tentacle stilling. The inchworm probed deeper. “You wish for a new body. One which suits your…disposition better.”

“Yes. I will serve you only as a man. Never a woman.”

“...Very well. When you awake, you shall be born anew in my service. Claim your tome, arcanist. Your new life begins now.”

Sugar’s fingers were aching to finally lay hands upon the book. He snatched it from the pedestal, and the darkness returned…

- - - - -

…and abated. Tevethri was looking up at Sugar, having fallen somehow. His eyes were wide as the moons.

“Sugar…Sugar, what has happened to you? Moldayn! Call the damn healer!”

Sugar looked at the book in his hands. It was no longer the book he had taken from Tevethri’s library, but the book he had claimed from Hermorah. He opened it again, and the runes on the page danced a moment before settling. Somehow, he knew their meaning.

He reached up an arm – larger and more muscular than before, he noticed – and pointed it towards Tevethri, uttering the incantation.

Sickly green eyes burst open across Sugar’s face, spreading down his neck and shoulder. Oily black growths rippled across his fur, surging down his arm until they came to his slave bracer. They pried underneath it until it shattered.

“Im…possible…” muttered Tevethri.

But the growths were hungry. They lurched forward as inky tentacles, and each impaled Tevethri, piercing through his feeble wizard’s body, and before he could so much as gasp, the light faded from his eyes.

“Tevethri!” called Moldayn from beyond the rows of shelves. “Tevethri, what in Oblivion is going on?”

Sugar emerged from the tangled aisles and confronted the chitinous monster. “Who…who in the blazes are you, cat?” bellowed Moldayn

Sugar smiled. “The cat who knows.”

The tentacles roiled forward again, tearing apart the floating shell piece by piece, until Moldayn, too slow in his old age to react, collapsed to the floor, helpless.

“Wait…wait…” Moldayn whispered, his voice no longer magically amplified. “I have…gold. Skooma. You like skooma, don’t you, Sugar?”

Sugar wrapped around Moldayn, straddling his decrepit form, and pulled his head up by his sparse white hairs. Without another word, he sliced Moldayn’s throat with a single extended claw.

[quicksilverdrabbles]

Khash: Um... So does she do this with all of you? *holding her arms out at her sides, having been told to stand as still as she could*

Saturn: *making adjustments on the armor she made for her, nuttering to herself* Clothes for children are so much smaller than clothes for even Wood Elves.. always forget how small we start out. Can't believe I didn't realize you didn't have a tail, that's crazy..

Xelzaz: *wearing upgraded Telvanni robes* Every single one of us.

Inigo: *wearing newly forged ebony armor* Yep.

Lucien: *wearing armored mage robes* I think it's a love language!

Khash: ... What is a love language?

Caryalind: *wearing a variant of Elven armor* How different people show affection for those they care about.

Khash: Oh.

Taliesin: *also variant Elven robes* Kaidan wouldn't accept any from her though.

Kaidan: *his armor freshly polished and upgraded* I like this one too much.

Gore: She made most of us new weapons, too. Upgraded Inigo and Kaidan's sword and bow, gave Lucien a war axe, Xelzaz and Caryalind new daggers, me a new bow.

Caryalind: Taliesin wouldn't let her touch Berwhale.

Taliesin: Over my dead body.

Khash: *eyes sparkling* That is so cool.

Saturn: You'll get a new bow too, don't worry. And we'll probably show you how to use a dagger so you don't end up in a situation like the wolves again.

Khash: Really???

Saturn: Cary or Tally will probably teach you over me, though. Or Xelzaz.

Khash: *glancing at the other Argonian* Mm..

Saturn: I'm no good with the things. Too tiny, even if they're made specifically for me.

Khash: Is that why you use such a big sword?

Saturn: Yep. Even that is pretty light for me, though.

Kaidan: She swings that greatsword around like a gods damned stick.

Caryalind: She does.

Gore: It's terrifying.

Inigo: Lucien won't let her train him in weaponry. I teach him weapons, she teaches him magic.

Lucien: Well now that's not exactly-

Xelzaz: She almost broke your old axe in half when she parried your attack.

Lucien: ... Okay yes she is terrifying.

Saturn: Hehehe

Khash: I wanna use a big sword like that someday! Will you show me??

Taliesin: *raising an eyebrow at Saturn from behind Khash's back*

Saturn: Ahaa.. Let's just wait til you get a bit stronger, yeah kiddo? *stands straight and brings her hand down on her head, patting her gently* Greatswords are heavy to other people. Even Kaidan.

Khash: Does that mean Kaidan is not as strong as Gore? Gore holds his sword over his shoulder and it does not look like it's very heavy.

Kaidan: ...

Saturn: ...

Gore: Heh. Nah, Kaidan just doesn't hold his sword like I do.

Kaidan: I feel like I don't like the way you worded that.

[thana-topsy]

The Neloth Post Nobody Asked For but now I'm making it everyone's problem

I guess I'll start out by saying: all of this pertains to my very specific version of Neloth who can be found alive and well (for now) in my fic series "Legends Never Die". It's a big wide fandom, I do not claim to be an authority on Anything, and I think everyone's little pocket universes and OC-ification of NPCs are all equally valid. These are just some of the ways I write and characterize him. So if you have any Neloth headcannons of your own, please sound off!

The Basics:

I estimate this old crusty bastard is in his 700s, or thereabouts, probably on the later end. He stopped counting at a certain point and can't be arsed to keep a talley. There are more important things that occupy his brainspace. He maintains his spry and youthful visage [cough] through his rigorous magical practices, (and his not-so-subtle interest in necromancy and discovering the secrets to immortality).

He was exiled decided to retire from the Telvanni Council a good fifty or sixty years before the eruption of Red Mountain, retreating to Solstheim to continue his experiments in seclusion. Due to severing his mainland ties and House loyalties, his power and influence are significantly weakened, though he continues to expand his studies and has a relatively well-functioning settlement of workers, as well as his current apprentice, Talvas Fathryon, under his tutelage.

And of course, the question on everyone's mind: do he fuck? In terms of his sexuality, he's finicky and if I had to slap a label on him, he's definitely in the realm of Aro-Ace, but on the gray side of things (pun intended???). Here, have an Ace Neloth Pride Flag because why not:

Personal Interests, Likes, and Dislikes:

The list of dislikes could probably rival the "color of the sky" post, so let's try to condense that into the main point: he dislikes inefficiency. The definition of what he finds "inefficient" can and does vary greatly, even in his own work. I would say one of his driving motivators is IncreasE Efficiency, above all else.

His likes are few and far between. As it stands, I could probably list three off-hand. He likes well-made tea (preferably dark, bitter, and stimulating), he likes an organized bookshelf, and he likes Teldryn Sero (who is also dark, bitter, and.... stimulating).

Morality:

Huh? What's that? Never heard of it.

I kid (kind of). Neloth has a complicated psychology. I characterize him to have underdeveloped empathy, but he is not entirely devoid of it. I suppose I'll let him explain it, (from chapter 5 of "Breathing Water"):

“I do…” Neloth began, [...] “I do… feel.” He twisted the stiff bedroll between his fingers. “I do.” [...]  “It’s just…” He didn’t know where he was going with this, but the words were clawing their way out of him like some kind of sick, emaciated animal emerging from a cave. “I don’t think I… feel… correctly.” He exhaled sharply, letting his head roll from side to side, neck popping. “I’ve always been this way. It’s not just the result of graying morals from a prolonged life. I’ve always had this,” he gestured to his chest with trembling fingers, “hole. Like something’s missing.” He pulled the bedroll tighter around him, curling in on himself. A small laugh. “It’s been useful, if I’m honest.” 

He does try, at a certain point, to understand this side of himself a little bit better. Though, honey, he's got a big storm coming.

Anyways, that's my Neloth post for now, maybe I'll add more another time. :) Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.