#kharjo speaks

[sanicsmut]

me : no i'm not a furry haha

them : but... you like j'zargo, and kharjo, and razum-dar, and scouts-many-marshes and sharp-as-night???

me : you got me there.

[varlaisvea]

... lattia mallari av malatu.

For day 4 of @tes-summer-fest: Thief

This can totes be read on its own, but is a continuation of days 1 and 2. It's also all on AO3.

Rated G-ish, veiled reference to sex, mild descriptions of racism

------

Va garlas agea, gravia ye goria, lattia mallari av malatu. "In the caverns of lore, ugly and obscure, shines the gold of truth." —Ayleid proverb

J’zargo curses every step on the way to Dawnstar. The Arch-Mage had to go to Artaeum—they say they do not trust the Psijic Order, yet when the Elf-wizards came calling, the Arch-Mage duly followed their kin through the portal. And they left J’zargo with a stupid errand, as if he is some assistant, taking care of the Arch-Mage’s unfinished business while they accomplish yet another spectacular historical achievement, no doubt. 

The moon-amulet had glowed in J’zargo’s hands, and then when he'd opened the also-glowing book… there were words that had not been there before. The fur on the back of his neck had stood on end—surely he could not return this amulet now; much larger things are at stake, or so the time-traveling Elf-wizard had said, when he came to fetch the Arch-Mage. This amulet was clearly far more powerful than its owner had let on—the Arch-Mage had said the caravan-guard told them it is only a stone, it is not worth your life. Likely the warrior-cat had no concept of what the amulet could do; such cats usually have minds as dull as their swords are sharp. A treasure like this is easily worth at least one life, especially an unimportant one… J’zargo could probably fry this ignorant cat to a crisp before he could draw his sword. Truly, a cat who does not know the worth of this treasure does not deserve it, especially not when J’zargo was the one who had unlocked its secrets, somehow. 

But, if the Arch-Mage does not keep their promises, it looks bad for the College, and the College cannot afford to lose any more prestige than it already has—then all of J’zargo’s study, hard work, and putting up with slight after slight would be for nothing. So J’zargo trudges through the snow and frigid winds, like a silly jeek who does exactly as he is told. No, he thinks bitterly, it is Zargo who trudges stupidly through the snow. J’zargo respects himself. J’zargo is not an errand-cat for the Arch-Elf.

It’s only once Dawnstar is in his sights that he fully understands this transaction will involve speaking to another Khajiit. A choke comes to his throat suddenly when he realizes he does not remember the last time he even saw another Khajiit, let alone had a conversation with one. It is a loneliness he’d anticipated when he came to Skyrim, but could never have prepared for. The trading caravans were the only other Khajiit he’d ever seen in Skyrim, and he’d distanced himself from them since the beginning—common cats who will never rise above camping in frigid fields, sleeping on the frozen ground, politely enduring suspicious glares and racist abuse for a bit of coin. He could not imagine they would have much to say to him, or he to them—J’zargo spends his time perfecting the intricate art of harnessing magicka, while the caravan-cats do not think very far beyond their next sale.

Nevertheless, their fire is warm, and they greet J’zargo with minimal suspicion about his mages’ robes. The caravan boss has surprisingly high-quality Pellitine moon-sugar—at least, if a Khajiit asks her for it—at a very reasonable price. She tells him with a sly wink that she always has quality goods for discerning buyers. At least this errand means he’ll have a steady source of good moon-sugar in the future, and won’t have to be as sparing with his supply.

J’zargo finds the cat in full plate, sitting off to the side of the fire, cleaning his sword. “Eh… hello. The Arch-Mage of Winterhold asked J’zargo to return this to you,” he says, pulling the amulet from his satchel. “It is yours, yes?”

“Ah! My amulet! I thought I’d never see it again!” Kharjo stands immediately, grinning with warmth J’zargo did not expect from a stern steel-clad warrior. He looks at J’zargo’s robes. “That Elf is Arch-Mage now? When I asked them to help with my moon-amulet, they were merely a dragonslayer, master thief, and Thane of Whiterun.”

“They seem to have a way of attaining authority, that’s for sure,” J’zargo says.

Kharjo notices J’zargo is not handing back the amulet. He looks at J’zargo with a questioning expression.

“Eh, when J’zargo had this in his possession… it, er… it made new words appear in certain books,” J’zargo says, by way of explanation.

“Jone and Jode,” Kharjo says. “I have never seen such things when I have had it.”

“It showed this one a hidden text that was supposedly about the first Khajiit Arch-Mage of Winterhold.”

Kharjo steps back. He seems like he didn’t quite believe J’zargo until he mentioned that detail. “The first Khajiit Arch-Mage,” he says, mostly to himself.

“J’zargo did not know whether to believe this thing,” he says slowly. “According to the story, he was seduced by a witch, who compelled him to teach strange dark magic at the College. The witch killed him and joined the Psijic Order, selling out the College in the process. Apparently the first Khajiit Arch-Mage was embarrassingly dull-clawed.”

“The witch was Altmer?” Kharjo asks, oddly surprised. 

“Er…” It’s a strange question, but J’zargo presses on. “The text did not say. This was during the brief period in the Second Era when the Order allowed mages of all races to join, so, not necessarily,” J’zargo says. Then, before he can stop himself, he asks, “you have heard of the Psijic Order?”

Kharjo laughs. “You sleek mages like to think all of your knowledge is so shadowy and secret! This one has been guarding caravans for the past twenty-odd years. The Psijic Order is just like the Dark Brotherhood and the Blades—everyone knows what they do, but very few know what they really do, yes?” His eyes turn to the necklace in J’zargo’s hands. 

“Ah, apologies,” J’zargo says, handing it to Kharjo slowly. Too slowly, probably; with every movement of the muscles of his arm, he wishes he had not chosen the honorable path.

Kharjo takes it and then they stare at each other awkwardly. “Er, bright Moons guide your steps, walker,” Kharjo says, but he doesn’t turn away, and neither does J’zargo. Kharjo hesitates, then turns to leave, then hesitates again. He looks at J’zargo. “Mother told this one a story about this amulet. There are, eh… similarities,” he says, wincing as he speaks. “Heh, it sounds silly when I say it out loud.”

“You must tell J’zargo, please,” J’zargo says, immediately kicking himself for being so eager and hot-headed. Too much time constantly ready to parry an insult from a man or mer.

Kharjo seems not to have expected that reaction. “Heh, I thought you would say every Khajiiti family has a silly story about some heirloom.” 

“That is true,” J’zargo says. “But recall that this amulet did some strange magic in J’zargo’s hands, and—” he looks down at his feet, then sighs. “And the information it showed me was not exactly clear on its own.”

Kharjo sighs too. “Well, when I was barely a teenager, I went on my first caravan trip. Mother did not want me to leave, but… I had to get out of Riverhold—”

“—that is not hard to believe,” J’zargo mutters, before he can stop himself.

“Ah, you have been to Riverhold.” Kharjo smiles kindly. “I miss Elsweyr bitterly, and of course I love my hometown,” he says, as J’zargo looks away from his gaze, “but…” He gestures, and J’zargo nods. “Anyway, Mother gave me this. She said to be careful, because it was cursed—of course, isn’t every ancient amulet? But mother also said that in her experience it had always felt protective.”

“A curse on your enemies, then?”

“Not quite,” Kharjo says. “I have lost it twice, and both times, when I returned home to visit Mother, she had some strange story about how some traveler or merchant brought it back to her. Both times she was afraid Kharjo had been killed, and was overjoyed to see him alive.”

“Heh, it is cursed to return to Riverhold, perhaps,” J’zargo says.

“Mother says its first owner was a mage adept, also from Riverhold. The story goes that he was secretly a Ziz Zhan assassin who had run afoul of the Zhan, and they killed him on his way to Winterhold to become a student.” Kharjo looks away, a bit sheepish. “Heh, apparently a witch brought him back to life with an enchanted pearl,” he holds up the necklace, which features a large, faintly blue-tinged pearl at the center of an intricate metal cage.

J’zargo stares at it, remembering how tempted he’d been to steal the Saarthal amulet—which, he now remembers, also had a large pearl at the center—when he’d noticed it just laying around the Arch-Mage’s quarters. He briefly considers swiping the amulet back from this cat’s claws and running away as fast as his legs will take him.

Kharjo cautiously watches J’zargo’s reaction. “Eh, us northerners and our back-country superstitions, hm?” he says.

“J’zargo is from Torval,” J’zargo says with southern pride.

Kharjo looks J’zargo up and down. “Yes, this is obvious.” What is that supposed to mean? “So anyway,” Kharjo continues, “having been resurrected, the mage expressed his deepest gratitude to the witch under the shining aurora, several times. When the witch was thoroughly subdued, the mage stole their pearl." He laughs. “I think that part was one of my ancestors spicing up the tale by mixing in Rajhin and Mafala, but it makes for a much more interesting family story, so Kharjo makes sure to keep it in. Heh, but of course, unfortunately for the mage, the pearl was already cursed.”

"This mage does sound about as dull-clawed as the Arch-Mage I read about," says J'zargo. "Everyone knows that stealing a powerful item from a witch has consequences, yes? Even Rajhin could not manage hold onto the power he stole from Mafala.”

“Just so,” Kharjo says. “Any Khajiit worth their whiskers is wise enough to fear a witch’s wrath.”

“Then, what happened to the mage?”

Kharjo laughs. “I don’t know; the story ends after he steals the pearl. But, the pearl was cursed—at some point, it was given to the Temple of the Purifying Moons in Riverhold, after their pair of Temple Pearls was stolen. Of course temples must house a pair of pearls, to honor the Moons, but the witch’s pearl would not bind with any other pearl, no matter how many sanctifying rituals or spells were cast. The Winterhold mage was long gone, and the pearl had rejected the blessing of Jone and Jode, so it was considered quite unlucky. Apparently, it was given to one of my ancestors who was an acolyte at the temple.” He laughs to himself, gazing at the amulet as he turns it over in his hand. “But, if we are talking about the same cat,” he says, “it sounds like the witch got their revenge eventually.”

“Who is to say?” J’zargo says with a shrug. “Khajiiti stories are not exactly known for their factual accuracy.”

Kharjo smiles like a crooked crescent moon. “Ah, but they are always true, yes?” 

Despite himself, J’zargo grins. “Ha, just so!” They both laugh, and then there is a long, not-entirely-comfortable silence. J’zargo spends it cursing himself for being so reluctant to leave this stupid necklace behind. It is only a stone, he reminds himself. It doesn’t help.

“It seems like it would be easier to simply steal back your pearl,” says Kharjo, scratching his head, “but this one has never really understood mages.” He smiles.

“Neither has J’zargo, if it makes you feel better,” says J’zargo with a chuckle, in his nervousness friendlier than he’d meant to be.

Kharjo is still turning the amulet over in his hand, his movements suggesting strong muscle memory, something he has done in idle moments for most of his life. “I have always felt safer with this around my neck.”

J’zargo forces a smile. “I wish I’d had more time to learn what secrets it could tell me, but…” he looks at Kharjo, at Kharjo’s beaten-up armor and battle-scratched sword, at the weary caravan horses, the unwelcoming homes of Dawnstar, the wind whipping in from the harbor, the other caravan members readying their tents, the setting sun. “Anything that makes Khajiit feel safer in this frozen place is a precious blessing.” He’s a little proud of himself for not saying that with a resigned sigh. “Jone and Jode watch over you, walker,” he says. He forces his feet to turn around.

“Wait,” Kharjo says. J’zargo turns, and Kharjo lets out a heavy sigh. “It is not curiosity alone that made you hesitant to return this.”

“No,” J’zargo says. “But nor is it greed, nor ambition.” He sighs. “J’zargo is as surprised as anyone.” They both chuckle. “It is… well, I do not actually know what the problem is, but… I think the College is in danger.”

Kharjo looks at him with something like pity. “More danger, you mean.”

“Eh, yes. I suppose. Anyway, I have been researching for days, trying to figure out what to do. I do not know what this Khajiit Arch-Mage has to do with anything, but…” ugh, “I think reading about him might help me find part of the answer.” So much time without speaking to a single other Khajiit has made him prone to oversharing. He does not like it.

Kharjo closes his eyes and breathes in. “Mother always said that Kharjo is not its final owner.” He sighs again, and looks at the amulet in his hand. “It is only a stone, right?” He smiles weakly and holds the amulet out to J’zargo.

Two minutes ago, J’zargo was still half-considering stealing the amulet as soon as Kharjo turned his back, but now, he feels sick at the thought of taking away something that could make a Khajiit feel less unwelcome and alone in Skyrim. Namiira take this frigid place. “No,” he says, holding up his hand. “The night is dark, and this one has his own fire,” he says. He conjures a tiny mote of flame.

Kharjo shakes his head resolutely. “Even if your Arch-Mage is not the same cat as my pearl-thief, the College of Winterhold was important to both of them. This pearl came from the other end of Tamriel to be in just the place it was needed, at just the right time. It cannot be a coincidence. Or at least, things make more sense if it is not a coincidence.” He looks at J’zargo pleadingly. “And you still brought it back to me, when you had every reason not to. Please.” Now he almost looks like he’s fighting tears. “Heh, it will make Mother laugh, when I tell her how I lost it this time.” He thrusts his hands at J’zargo again.

J’zargo takes the necklace and puts it in the inner pouch of his robes. “Thank you,” he says, not sure how to express the deep and unwelcome emotion he’s having. “You have made the cold snow feel like warm sands to me. I will repay this kindness. I promise.” He turns to leave, then turns back. “Keep your claws sharp in Skyrim, walker,” he says. He casts a ward over the caravan, the strongest he can muster. The moons are in Cathay; the ward will last for days. “Bright Moons light your path.”

For some reason, he can’t bear to look back at the caravan as he trudges away. 

[late-nite-scholar]

Aug 15 (Day 4)-Thief/Enamoured

Azuri is visited by an unexpected guest and it’s lovely. Prompts by @tes-summer-fest

Dunmer LDB x Kharjo

Warnings- none

Wordcount- ~840

***

“Someone to see you, Archmage.”

Azuri stood up from the little garden bed, she’d been almost finished anyway. “Of course.”

A Khajiiti woman stepped forward as the servant retreated. Azuri craned her neck upward; the other woman was larger than anyone she’d ever met. She was easily ten feet tall and massively built with grey, stripey fur. She wore elegant Khajiiti plate armor that was enamelled a deep, lustrous purple. It was quite possibly the prettiest armor Azuri had ever seen.  

“May this one kneel to be closer? Some do not like that, but some like it too much.” The woman’s voice was brighter than Azuri anticipated. 

“Oh… yes. I wouldn’t mind. It would make it easier to talk.”

The other woman knelt; her tufted ears twitching in amusement. But her smile was kind, and oh, so familiar. “This one is pleased to meet you. This one is Chihari.”

They shook hands as the pieces fell into place. “Azuri Indoril. You’re Kharjo’s sister?”

“Yes. And Khajiit is honored to meet you.”

“The feeling is mutual. Kharjo has told me a lot about you. Oh, but where are my manners? Come, let’s go sit and have some refreshments. I’m sure you’ve had a long trip all the way up here to Winterhold.”  

“You are most kind, Azuri.”

They headed up to the Archmage’s quarters, Chihari ducking under most doorways as they passed. Azuri gave her a rueful smile. “My apologies. I guess they didn’t account for taller people coming through here.”

“Khajiit is accustomed to it. Few places are built with Pahmar-raht in mind.”

Once they had settled around the table in the Archmage’s rooms, servants brought some snacks to complement the refreshments that Azuri already had.

“Oh, you have sweetcakes!” Chihari exclaimed, settling into the oversized armchair that Azuri had dragged over. “Ah, it is good to have a chair that fits.”

“I have plenty of drink options, also. Would you prefer cane mead or tea? I have mint and Khenarthi’s Wings Chai?”

“Ah, mint tea would be lovely. This one did not expect so many options from home in this place.”

Azuri smiled as she assembled the pot of tea and warmed it with a flame spell. “I am also far from my home. I know how it is to miss the things we leave behind. So I try to bring what I can here. So we can at least have little things like this.”

“That is a most wonderful thing. I can see why Kharjo is enamoured with you.” Her ears twitched, and Azuri knew she was doing the Khajiit equivalent of blushing. “He has sent me many letters. He speaks of you often in them.”

Azuri’s own face warmed. “I didn’t know that. I knew you two wrote back and forth, but not what about.” 

“Ah. Well, Khajiit thought to come meet you for myself. This one escorted a delegation to Solitude, and now that service is done. So, Khajiit has come now to this Winterhold to meet you and to see this one’s brother. It has been a long time since we have seen each other.”

“I think this will be a lovely surprise for him! It has been for me.”

“You are too kind, Azuri.”

***

Kharjo all but bounded up the steps to the Archmage’s rooms. Korir had called the training of the new guards early, sending everyone home for the day for some holiday or another. It just meant he could go home all the earlier to his beloved. 

As he reached the door he heard laughter from the other side. They had company? He wondered who’d come to visit? Perhaps Besharat? Or maybe Thaeril had come up from Riften? He supposed it would be nice to visit for a while…

As he opened the door, every thought flew out of his head. “Chihari?”

She crossed the room in three giant steps, gathering him into a hug that lifted him off the ground. “Kharjo!”

“You are… you are here?” he stammered as she set him down. 

“Indeed. I came to Skyrim with a job and now I am free to visit you and meet the one you are enamoured with.”

Azuri giggled as she stepped up, kissing him on the cheek. “We’ve had a lovely afternoon. I’m glad you’re home early to join us. Would you like some tea?”

His arm slipped around her waist as he smiled. “Khajiit would like that very much. My thanks, Moonbeam.” 

“You could use it after a long day of work. Come sit with us. I’d love to hear more stories now that you’re both here.”

“Of course. Chihari has not told too many embarrassing stories about Kharjo, has she?” he teased. 

“Only the ones that are true!” his sister laughed. 

As they all sat again, Khrjo found himself now thankful they had company. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined he would be able to sit at a table with both his beloved Azuri and his beloved sister. And to see them laugh and joke as if they were old friends? It was better than he could have imagined. In fact, it was perfect. 

[kharjo-san]

^ important addition from the replies

not to be dramatic but i would die for this cat

[kharjo-san]

I just wanted to collect all the Listening Personalities in one place, for the ✨Aesthetic✨

These are the first 9 — the ones most people seem to be getting!

(Link to the second half)

[aardvark-123]

~The Silver-Heart Chronicles Part 8: Moving On~

Our heroes spent an uncomfortable night sleeping in the Bleak Falls Barrow refectory, followed by a quiet breakfast of scavenged cheese. Once they were confident the dragon had got bored and wandered off, they left the barrow and headed back into town.

Camilla couldn't help but worry how her brother would be feeling. She hadn't left him on the best of terms, thanks to Yngvar and Kharjo's intervention. What if he'd sent bounty hunters after them, reported her as kidnapped, or even dug up her old doll's house and burned it out of blind, vengeful hatred?! The thought did not appeal.

Back in Riverwood, however, Lucan was in a much more even temper than could have been expected.

Yngvar looked at Kharjo. "We have?"

Kharjo looked at Yngvar. "Have we?"

"Um," said Camilla, "I was worried you'd be upset."

"Well... Maybe I should be, but I understand," said Lucan. "You needed to get all this... adventury stuff out of your system, but now that you've had a taste, it's probably far too much danger and fright for your liking. So you're gonna stay here and run the shop with me, right? And everything will be okay, right? Please say yes."

"Lucan... No! I'm going to be a warrior, a woman of adventure, see the world and have some fun for once! You can't stop me. Not any more." Almost casually, Camilla swung her war axe into the counter. "So don't try. Is that understood?"

Lucan considered it for a moment, then he burst into tears.

Satisfied that they'd paid lip service to the dark, gritty moral ambiguity of Skyrim and the way a seemingly pig-headed man could actually be speaking from genuine love and care towards his sister, albeit in a sloppy and heavy-handed way, our heroes departed from Riverwood. It was early in the morning, too dark for a good picture thanks to the RAID Weathers mod, but they were feeling good about their prospects.

"Where are we going, then?" asked Camilla.

"Kharjo and I were thinking of a second attempt at finding Whiterun," Yngvar began.

"And now that you're used to how my derriére looks in this armour," Kharjo butted in, "I am sure you will be able to tear your eyes away for long enough to check the map once in a while, yes?"

Yngvar went red. Camilla burst out laughing.

"On another note," said Yngvar, "you don't have to come with us, Camilla. You could go anywhere, do anything, be anything, although I don't recommend getting involved in the civil war."

"Oh, I know," Camilla assured him. "But you two seem like fun, so I might as well stick around!"

"Ah." Yngvar smiled. "Well, I can't promise your safety, nor can I promise something so absurd and frustrating that it beggars belief won't happen to us at every turn... If that's all right, we'd love to have you along."

"And I'd love to... Be had... Along!" Camilla giggled. She unhooked her axe and thrust it into the air. "Onwards, to Whiterun!"

They hiked down from the highland forest onto the great Whiterun tundra, past the Honningbrew meadery and a bear who will be missed. Some warriors seemed to have just finished slaying a stray giant on one of the fields nearby.

"Thanks for your help!" the ginger-haired woman shouted as they walked past. "Bunch of milk-drinkers..."

"What was her problem?" muttered Yngvar.

"I do not know," said Kharjo. "But some people can be like that, yes? There is usually no reason but their own sour tongues."

Undeterred by the sourness of Aela's tongue, Yngvar and the lads convinced the guards outside the city that no, they weren't dragons, and yes, they had a reason to go in. They neglected to clarify that their reason amounted to "we want to"; luckily, the guards bought it.

"So, this is Whiterun," said Kharjo. "It certainly is a friendly-looking city compared to some I've seen."

"Sigrid got in a fight with the blacksmith lady once," Camilla recounted excitedly. "I think that's her, working over by the gate. She broke Sigrid's nose!"

"Right. And did this Sigrid person deserve it, by any chance?" asked Yngvar.

"Probably," said Camilla.

They spent the afternoon exploring the city, making note of where all its most vital amenities were: the pub, the blacksmith, the missive board, the shop, the apothecary and the barrel which Adrienne never seemed to empty. It was a busy city where everyone seemed to have something to do, which meant most people had something with which they needed help.

"Well, yes, probably," Yngvar said carefully. "I have no interest in buying your sister, though, let me just get that out of the way. Honest to Stuhn, has there ever been a shopkeeper who's actually nice to his sister?!"

"It... It was a joke," Belethor said in a small voice. "I was joking! I made a joke. I'd never sell my sister into slavery due to the fact that I don't have a sister! And that it would be wrong. Look, are you going to kill these bandits for me or not?!"

Our heroes had little enthusiasm for the job, right up until they heard Belethor recount what cruel words the bandit chief had said some weeks ago to his sister. Kharjo shivered, Camilla wept and Yngvar's hair went grey at the mere thought of it, although with Yngvar you could hardly tell. They knew, however, that such a loathsome bully could not be allowed to live another day.

There were a few complications on the way to the bandits' den.

"Oh, Mara! Oh, Shor! I can't believe the handsome one stepped on Camilla!" wailed Yngvar, running for his life. Camilla was stuck like a piece of chewing gum to an armoured giant's foot, crying plaintively every time she hit the ground while he galumphed along in pursuit.

What ever could they do? Yngvar's fingers chanced upon a rolled-up piece of paper in his pocket, and with a desperate shout he siezed his chance.

As soon as the spell summoned her onto Nirn, the flame monarch leapt into action. She ploughed head-first into the giant's stomach, bowling him off his feet and straight into a pile of rubble. With a spin and a gleam in her eye she kicked him right in the face, denting his helmet and singeing his beard. Finally she ignited a spear of burning metal and plunged it into his heart.

"Forgive me... My brothers..." the giant groaned as he sank shakily to the ground. "At long last, the small people... Have... Triumphed. I return now... To the bones of the Earth... Rosebud."

"You really saved our bacon, you know." Yngvar looked up in admiration at the flame monarch, who was busy setting a stream on fire to show up.

"It was no problem," the Daedra giggled, doing a little twirl. "If the magic of that scroll hadn't bound me to your will, I'd have you for lunch! Good day~"

"Good... Day?" Yngvar watched her vanish in a whirl of purple energy. "I'm glad I'm not a conjurer."

Yngvar gave Kharjo a healing potion, and once he was back on his feet they turned their attention to Camilla. She was looking a little squashed, but none the worse for wear, and a quick scrub with a flannel removed most of the footprint.

Without further incident, our heroes tracked the bandits to a little cave known as Redoran's Retreat.

"I wonder who it was from House Redoran that found themself retreating here," Kharjo muttered as they ventured inside. "Oh, do not venture too far ahead with that torch, Yngvar! The lighting in here will be untenable for taking pictures."

Kharjo spoke the truth; it was far from tenable. With a small selection of dull, shadowy records of their exploits in hand, the trio fought their way to the end of the cave, where the leader of the bandits was waiting.

"I pity such pure-hearted fools as you three!" he crowed, swaggering towards our heroes with a warhammer in hand. Or was it a battle-axe? I can't tell. "Pure-hearted cowards who think men should be kind to their sisters, offer them support and understanding! Such weak-minded ideals are but paper in the fire of my hatred."

"How ignorant can you be," Yngvar said coldly, "to think anger and bitterness alone make you right? You don't know the meaning of family, the meaning of kindness! If you were worthy to call yourself 'brother', you'd have shown that poor girl how to mend her boat."

"Do you not know how lucky you are to have a sister, how much her presence enriches the world?!" Camilla piped up, her teeth bared in anger. "Women shouldn't have to cling to our brothers' sleeves! We don't deserve to be kept back, hungry and afraid, as if we'll crumble to dust out in the world! Come at me, swine, and I'll show you the strength of a true sister!"

"What is a sister? A miserable pile of diaries and pink pyjamas!" The bandit chief laughed. "Do you know mine cried after I told her she'd never be half the ferryman our father was? So pathetic! I enjoy her tears. But enough words! I shall slice and/or bludgeon thee like flies beneath my newspaper!"

The bandit chief surged forwards with bloodlust in his eyes. Yngvar met his weapon with steel only to be thrown back by the force of his onslaught. His sword bounced off the bandit chief's polearm when he tried to strike again.

Camilla and Kharjo circled around the bandit, yet somehow his weapon was there whenever they tried to strike, parrying their blows with barely a hint of effort. The bandit swung his hammer and/or axe in wild arcs, beating against his enemies' shields and leaving them no room to strike.

"I see you aren't going to make this easy," Yngvar growled. "But for people like you, I've been saving something special!" In one swift motion, he broke a vial of poison on the tip of his sword and swept the steaming green liquid across the blade. Letting out a battle cry he lunged towards the bandit.

The bandit's eyes flashed. Moving like lightning, he swung his weapon up against Yngvar's sword and flicked it into the ceiling. Without waiting for a moment he kicked Yngvar in the stomach, hurling him across the cave. Yngvar cried out in pain when he hit the rugged wall.

"Weakling!" the bandit chief roared. "None of you can hope to stand against me! Can you now see that this is the true power of a brother?!"

Kharjo hissed angrily. "Yours, my friend, is nothing more than the true power of a dickhead. Swagger and preen as much as you wish, but we will defeat you!"

"And what do you know?! Neither of you even have a sister!" The bandit chief raised his implement to strike, but out of nowhere a crossbow bolt stabbed into his arm.

"Aaaaaugh!" the bandit roared. "What in the bollocking feck?!"

"Miserable little pile of arrogance and stupidity." Yngvar blew a convenient wisp of smoke off his crossbow. Despite the blood staining his armour, he stood tall as he approached the bandit. "Strength alone is not what makes a brother. Let us show you the other ingredients!"

Yngvar pounced forwards and grabbed the bandit's injured arm. Sensing his cue, Kharjo did likewise, and sunk his claws into his other arm.

"What are you doing?! You miserable fools! Release me!" the bandit chief roared, struggling against their grip.

"Brothers weren't made to rule with an iron fist!" Yngvar roared, clinging on with all his might. "Helping our sisters, encouraging them and seeing where their greatest strengths lie, that is the true meaning of brotherhood." He smiled. "Do you still not understand? Kharjo and I have a sister, right here, and her name is Camilla Valerius!"

The bandit chief went pale, but he had no time to react. Camilla was coming for him with her axe raised high, a warrior's roar on her lips. She swung with the fury of a thousand sisters and struck his head from his neck.

The warriors sighed with relief when the bandit and his noggin fell upon the rocky floor. At last, the evil in Redoran's Retreat had fallen.

"Oh, look," Camilla said, rummaging through the bandit chief's things. "It wasn't a hammer or an axe. It was a long mace!"

"Interesting." Kharjo's forehead wrinkled. "Why, then, was it in the chest rather than clutched in our late nemesis's hands?"

"Details!" said Yngvar firmly. "Come on, let's give Belethor the good news. After you..." He smiled at Camilla. "Sis."

[supervillain-smut]

SKYRIM HUGS?????

Skyrim hugs!! I had so much fun writing these!

Cicero gives tight, enthusiastic and energetic hugs. The kind where you're almost struggling to breathe, but just enough space to breathe. He just can't help himself when he's extremely happy!

Clavicus Vile, should he actually hug someone, gives short, nearly one-armed hugs with a small pat on the back no matter the situation. You're crying? Too bad, it's even shorter, though he will at least make a small attempt at a hug; he's not very fond of them.

Erandur gives the warmest, most kind hugs of any mer or man. He is amazing at comforting his friends and even strangers, truly a light in the dark and an easy father figure. If the situation is bad enough, he'll wordlessly sink to the ground with you in his arms and allow you to sob into his shoulder while he rubs your back, telling you it's going to be okay. Whatever's hurting you will pass soon.

Kharjo is so fluffy! His armor makes it kind of difficult, but when he manages, he's so soft. He's one of the most floofy Khaijit around, and yes, he purrs. The healing powers of a cat's purr absolutely apply, you find yourself relaxing more and more by the second when he starts.

Marcurio gives passionate, desperate 'I can't believe we're alive!/I almost lost you back there!' hugs. He nearly cries, and it's one of the very few times he will show extreme weakness or emotion, unless you're married. Oh boy, you'll never get out of his arms, and he’ll be peppering kisses all over your face telling you how much he loves you and just admitting everything.

Master Neloth's hugs depend on how long he's known you; if you're too new, he'll pry you off him or worse, send you flying back with a spell or two aimed your way. However, if he's known you long enough to trust you to make his Canis Root Tea, and you get it right, he'll reluctantly allow you to wrap your arms around him and hide your face in his robes. Whether you're crying or not makes all the difference, surprisingly! He's a lot more attentive if you're crying, whereas he's just waiting for you to let go if not.

Ondolemar's hugs are the rarest of all, and must always be done in private. Only when you are hurt both physically and emotionally will he hug you, and they're worth the wait. He wraps his robes around you as well as his arms, and brings your face into the hood beside his face, practically cradling you, opting to talk in a complete whisper, soothing every possible wound, internal or external with a healing spell to pair with his words.

Sanguine gives hugs frivolously, but be warned, should the situation be too friendly, he's more likely to grab your ass or let his hands slide down to your waist. He can't let his appearance suffer because you wanted a hug from a Daedric Prince. What did you expect? However, let's say your running around after a night of partying left you a little worse for where, he'll momentarily put aside the whole deal and apologize for what happened; he just wanted to have some fun, and you looked like you needed a break from all that heroing.

Sheogorath, true to his nature, will give very unpredictable and unexpected hugs; one minute he's telling you how he's going to kill you, practically stalking towards you, then "Hah! Just kidding! Come to Uncle Sheo!" and practically squeeze the life out of you like he really was mad, but he's being forced to play nice.

Teldryn Sero gives one-armed hugs whenever he feels like it, not exactly reserved with his physical affections, but should his patron be crying, he won't hesitate to take them into his arms and sit beside them. He's a great listener, and not because he has to be; you didn't pay him for this, he knows you need it. He also has some of the best advice in all of Solstheim.

BONUS OBLIVION!

Lucien Lachance doesn't hug unless he needs to reassure. Unless a family member comes to him an utter sobbing mess, he'll give very quick hugs, wondering why on Tamriel you felt the need to do that? If a family member is hurt, especially by someone else, you know their end won't be pretty. He's the guard dog of the family, stalwart and proud, perched above keeping a careful eye on everyone, and if a potential predator should come sniffing around or even attempt to harm any of his pack, he's on them immediately. His comforting hugs are like the Void, only a thousand times warmer, completely encasing you and speaking comforting words until the hurt subsides. And then he sets out. Everyone is silent until he returns, covered in blood with news and a gift he knows you’ll like.

Vicente Valtieri gives very paternal hugs, he is absolutely the father figure of the Cheydinhal sanctuary, and takes that role with pride. He also takes it very seriously, noticing when something is wrong with his family members and wanting to help however he can. He's unafraid to give affection openly, and his hugs may be somewhat cold, but they are warm with love and affection of a family that you'll find once in a lifetime.

[kharjo-san]

LGBTQIAce+ !!!

How about we give a big "fuck you" to this guy and give a big "hello" to every aromatic heterosexual as well as every asexual heteroromantic person, y'all belong to the community do not let this idiot tell you otherwise <3

[skyrim-said-that]

I did it, i ranked them except im not exactly a fan of older guys but here you go this was not worth the half hour it took (istg if tungle eats this or chops it)

Hadvar

Rune (i was the one who sent him in but shh)

Sanguine

Kharjo

Jzargo

Jon Battle-Born

Veezara

Celann

Neetrenaza

Valindor

Borkul the Beast

Teldryn Sero

Malacath

Shadr (indifferent)

Glover Mallory

Faendal (im sorry i got the quest version where hes an asshole)

Brynjolf

Arnbjorn (married to your boss)

Kodlak Whitemane

Savos Aren

Urag gro-Shub

Ondolemar (hates dogs, i have meeko)

Erandur

Neloth

Ancano

Literally any dragon

you would put hadvar over a GOD. im sorry i gotta clown you for this hadvar was literally so BLAND. also its the way you put TWO KHAJIIT and an ARGONIAN over some absolute kings such as Borkul, brynjolf, erandur.

SPEAKING OF. bro why would you do that to brynjolf why is he so far down. also as for the odolemar thing, I'm a cat person uwu

[ladydaedra]

The Next Move

Part: 7/?

Pairings: Ulfric x Dragonborn; Brynjolf x OC; Cicero x OC; Ondolemar x OC

Warnings: Descriptions of violence and gore; Skyrim takes on a bit of 'Game of Thrones' feeling; may contain controversial themes

Wordcount: 1886

~~~~~

Ayla walks through the gates of Windhelm, stopping momentarily as she looks around, studying everything in the area. The wind blows through her hair as she notes nothing notably different from the last time she visited months ago.

"This way, ma'am," the soldier says and heads off towards the Palace of Kings. As they walk, Ayla can feel the citizens of Windhelm's gaze on her, whispering that she is the Dragonborn and wondering why she is here. She looks to her left and sees a small crowd, watching her with curious eyes. It is no secret that her victory against Alduin has made her a renowned hero throughout all of Skyrim, making her a legend amongst the people.

She sends them a small smile before looking back at the looming palace ahead of her. She glances back at the city and an idea strikes her. She wants to walk Windhelm's streets, visit with its citizens, get to know them a bit more, "Sir, might you be so kind to let the Jarl know that I might be awhile," she says, stopping in her steps and the soldier turns to stare at her, "I wish to explore the city a bit. If he wishes to speak with me now and if it is as urgent as he says it is, he can find me in the city. Or he can wait until I return to the palace,"

But before the soldier can stop her, Ayla turns on her heel and walks back the way they came as a slight breeze blows. She walks down the steps, cloak flowing behind her as she stops there, glancing to her left and right, trying to decide where to go.

She ends up going to the left, knowing that is where the infamous Grey Quarter is. She wishes to see it for herself again, wondering if there were any improvements to the area housing the Dunmer. She walks down the set of steps leading to where the shops and tavern for the Dunmer and Argonians are located.

She smiles as a passing Argonian couple, who return the smile before turning completely, shocked when they recognize who she is. She can't help but smile to herself when she sees the people ahead of her slowly start recognizing her, "it can't be...the Dragonborn?" a Dunmer woman asks as she watches Ayla walk by, a few children hiding behind her, peering up at the Dragonborn.

Ayla stops and smiles at the woman before her gaze goes to the three children, who immediately retreat to hiding behind their mother's dress, "it's alright," Ayla says, bending down and sending the children a gentle smile, "I won't hurt you, I promise," one by one, the children reveal themselves. The eldest, a girl, gives Ayla a toothy grin as her younger brothers come to a stop beside her, "I'm here to help," Ayla adds, handing each child five septims.

"Ma'am, you didn't..." the mother goes to object as Ayla stands up again.

Ayla shakes her head, "I won't be bothered with the loss of fifteen septims, miss," she explains as the children giggle amongst themselves, eyes glued on the gold in their hands, "like I said, I am here to help in any way possible," the woman smiles at her before looking down at her children.

Ayla continues on her trek through the Grey Quarter, glancing up at the buildings and down at the streets. It's been a while since she has traversed these streets, but from what she remembers, they look better than they did before. The buildings that house the Dunmer and Argonians have received a touch-up, mainly to the structural part to keep them from falling. Random holes in the streets have been fixed, weeds popping out through the cracks have been removed.

Ulfric did keep his word. She was impressed, maybe the thought of losing the Dragonborn and two dragons as an ally was what pushed him. Ayla walks into a large, open area with a giant gate to her left that leads to the docks. To her right is another street leading back to the Palace of Kings.

She goes straight and turns left to walk up a flight of stairs to stop in a small courtyard surrounded by three houses. She takes a sharp left and walks down the street that has a large house to the left. If she remembers correctly, that is Aventus Aretino's house. She remembers Taliyah telling everyone the story of how she came to be a part of the Dark Brotherhood and how this little boy hired her to kill an old woman in Riften.

With a sigh, she continues forward, under the little walkway connecting it to the other half of the house and stops on a bridge, in front of a railing overlooking the Grey Quarter. From up here, it doesn't look as large as it feels down there. But it sure looks pretty cramped.

"When I went to Sovengard to fight Alduin," she starts, knowing that she has company, "I went knowing that I might die trying to defeat him. I...struggled with accepting the fact," she pauses as she watches Aaryah fly in the distance. A black dot in the vast snow-covered landscape surrounding Windhelm, "but as I stood, waiting for Alduin to arrive, I told myself that if it took me dying to save Skyrim from the World Eater, then so be it,"

She turns to look to her left to see Ulfric standing there, gaze on her. She takes a deep breath as she returns to watching Aaryah fly, "I think of it now," she pauses as Aaryah swoops down and lights something on fire before flying off again and coming back for another hit, "I will gladly lay my life down to rid Skyrim of the Thalmor. I would willingly die so I can ensure that my rebellion lives to fight another day," she then looks back at Ulfric as a gust of wind blows around them, "will you do the same?" she questions him.

Ayla studies his face for the few seconds it takes for him to answer. She notes how he is standing tall, gaze hardened as he looks at her, blue eyes scrutinizing her; sizing her up, "gladly," is his response and Ayla turns to look back at the dragon.

"The bear is the symbol of leadership, strength, and courage," she starts, hearing him take a few steps towards her, stopping only when she looks over at him, "that is the banner of Windhelm and your rebellion," she pauses as she turns to her right and starts walking back the way she came, stopping only to make sure he is following, "you are the Jarl of Windhelm and right now, during this war, they need to feel safe and secure,"

"Are you saying they don't?" Ulfric asks as he walks beside her, glancing down at her as they turn the corner and walk past the gates to the city.

Ayla looks up at him before looking ahead again, "I'm saying that they don't know what is going on," she explains, returning a smile to Torsten Cruel-Sea, "they don't know how you are faring against the Empire and from simple rumor, they don't know about the alliance,"

"I don't want to drag them into this war,"

"A good excuse to keep the alliance a secret, but it doesn't assure them that they are safe," Ayla replies as they walk through the market. Ayla glances over at the group of people shopping and sees a few of them giving her and Ulfric confused glances, "if they knew that their Jarl agreed to an alliance with the Dragonborn and her dragons, I am sure they would be more...supportive of this war knowing that they are safe,"

"If I announce the alliance, the odds of both the Thalmor and the Empire finding out is pretty great," he reasons and looks over at the Dragonborn to see her shrug.

"They would have found out regardless when both our soldiers attack one or both of them," Ayla says as they return to the courtyard in front of the Palace of Kings. She turns to him, "now you asked me here to discuss something confidential,"

~

"The Jagged Crown," Galmar says, setting a heavy helmet, no crown, on the table in the war room of Windhelm, "retrieved by a group of Stormcloaks and ripped from the power-hungry hands of the Empire,"

Ayla studies the helmet, head tilted slightly as her index finger rubs her chin, brows furrowed in thought, "this is what you called me here for?" she questions, sparing Ulfric a glance then looking back at the crown, "a spiky helmet?"

Kharjo holds back a laugh while Ulfric sighs, arms crossed in front of his chest, "not just the crown, but the next step in the war," he explains and Ayla looks over at him, raising a single eyebrow and waiting for him to continue, "we plan to attack Windhelm,"

Ayla remains silent for a few moments, looking over at Kharjo, a million thoughts racing through her head. Whiterun. She remembers how Jarl Balgruuf aided her on her mission to stop Alduin. She would prefer not to attack his home, "and why are we attacking Whiterun?" she questions, meeting Ulfric's gaze head-on.

"A week ago I sent a soldier to take my ax to Balgruuf," he explains with a deep breath, "he sent the soldier back with the ax, meaning he has sided with the Empire," Ayla looks back at the crown, her thumbnail now running across her lower lip.

"From what I understand, Balgruuf has remained uninvolved with the war by not choosing a side," she starts, glancing at both Ulfric and Galmar, "why now? And why the Empire?"

Galmar chuckles, "that is a question you will have to ask him yourself,"

"Myself?"

"Whiterun will not be easy to take," Ulfric states, "with the whole Whiterun guard plus Imperial forces as well as Thalmor protecting the city, I doubt my army alone will make a big difference,"

"You need my army and dragons," Ayla says softly, mainly to herself.

"Precisely," Ulfric replies, his hard gaze on her, "without your help, we will not be able to take Whiterun,"

"It'll be the perfect time to reveal the alliance," Kharjo points out and Ayla can practically hear the smirk in his voice, "the Stormcloaks charging in to take Whiterun out of the Imperials grasp with the Dragonborn and her dragons fighting alongside them. Sounds like something out of a storybook,"

"So, Dragonborn, what is it?" Galmar asks and Ayla stares at the crown as she debates the risk level of this attack. No doubt there will be casualties, as there always is in war. But this will bring them one step closer to the fall of the Empire in Skyrim and closer to chasing the Thalmor out as well, tail between their legs.

Ayla smiles, looking up to meet Ulfric's gaze, "alright, I'm in. On one condition," she replies and waits a few seconds, "Jarl Bulgruuf isn't killed. He helped me on my quest to stop Alduin and I owe him big for that,"

She watches as Ulfric shares a glance at Galmar and the two nod, "deal," and with that, the war just started.

[kharjo-san]

Also, the reason Loretta was so GD nervous and distracted at the first table read in ep 1... She was literally staring across the room at Dickie, watching her son in person for the first time, while she should have been reading her line

She looks across the room at Dickie reading, then both Ben and Dickie look up at her in confusion, and she just smiles back cuz Dickie is looking at her

[lithium223]

whumptober 26: Concussion

Fandom: Skyrim

Title: After the Storm

Characters: Ko’va (khajiit oc), Lucien Flavius, Bikhai

Rating; G/T

Ko’va woke in a strange bed yet was surrounded by familiar scents. She sat up to look around. She quickly realized that she was in the Arch-Mage’s quarters.

“Ah, you’re finally awake!”

“Lucien,” Ko’va greeted, relaxing at the sight of her friend. “What happened? Where are the others? Why are we in the Arch-Mage’s quarters? And why are the lights so dim?”

“Well,” Lucien replied amused and happy with Ko’va’s quick questions. “Do you want to good news or bad news first.?”

“Bad.”

“Mirabelle didn’t make it. And the College has gone through some structural damage. But Tolfdir is sure it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Now the good: We won! We beat Ancano and the College is saved. As for the others, Dreamer is finally sleeping, which is good cause I think that Word we found in Labrynthian is not settling well with her. Bikhai is supposed to be cleaning up and fetching you some food and medicine. I swear, I almost had to chase those two off with a broom. I had to promise to wait here with you before they would get any kind of rest.”

Ko’va chuckled lightly at that quip.

“As for where’s everyone else, I’m pretty sure Nanak is in the library,” Lucien continued, counting on his fingers. “I think Serana is in your old quarters, I’m not really sure. I haven’t seen Ma’kara or Kharjo for a few hours. And…we haven’t heard anything from Lashur, Inigo, or S’ariq, so I assume they’re still looking for Ornel.”

Lucien paused for a breath and to collect himself.

“Oh, and these are your quarters now. You’re apparently the new Arch-Mage.”

Ko’va’s jaw dropped and her ears jerked up.

“What?!”

The sound of a door opening and closing drew their attention. Lucien walked away to see who it was. 

Ko’va stayed in bed and scratched her head. By the twin moons, how much had she missed?

A moment later, Lucien and an unarmored Bikhai came around the corner carrying, food, drink, and healing potions.

“Thank the moons, you’re awake,” Bikhai said, relieved to see Ko’va awake and alert. He quickly set his delivery on the stand next to the bed. Then he leaned over and pulled Ko’va into a hug. “This one was worried.”

Ko’va happily returned the embrace. She was about to snuggle in when she heard Lucien clear his throat.

Both khajiit looked over to their friend.

“It’s getting kind of late,” Lucien said with a smile and a playful glint in his eye. “I’m going to head off to bed now since Bikhai is here now. Night.”

With that Lucien left.

“Damn it, he didn’t finish telling me what happened,” Ko’va lamented, a small pout forming on her face.

“How much do you remember,” Bikhai asked.

“The last thing I remember is standing outside of Labrynthian.”

Bikhai winced. His ears drooped and his tail lashed.

“That’s probably due to the concussion,” he sighed. “Bikhai knew you were injured. But…he didn’t say anything. Or try to stop you.”

“That’s not your fault.” Ko’va reached out and grabbed his hand. She rubbed her thumb along his knuckles to reassure him. “You’re not the one who hurt me. And we both know you wouldn’t have been able to stop me from helping.”

Ko’va gently pulled on Bikhai as she moved to make room for him.

“Will you stay with me? And tell me what happened,” Ko’va asked.

Bikhai felt himself soften as he looked into Ko’va’s honey eyes. He was always amazed by the kindness and affection he found in her gaze. These sands were truly warmer ever since he started traveling with her. And he couldn’t find it in himself to say no.

“Alright.”

Bikhai removed his boots and then he joined Ko’va in the bed. It took a moment for them to settle, with both sitting up and leaning on the headboard.

Bikhai then reached towards the table and grabbed the mug of tea and the bread he brought for her. He passed them to Ko’va and waited for her to start nibbling before speaking.

“Where should this one start?”

[dovakhiindrabbles]

Have you done anything for J'zargo or Kharjo, or even Derkeethus yet? IDK if it's even within your flavor spectrum, so you totally don't have to. But if you are ok with it though; maybe surprise us with a little story that involves 1 of them? 😻 Whatever prompt/story idea you want, I'm just really wanting to read something about 1 of them in your fun style!

Uh, hot take but the fact that I can’t marry Kharjo still upsets me a little to this day. I don’t entirely get why you can’t marry any khajit characters in general honestly, but that’s why I’m here – so I can write a fic where you can marry him

Anyways, I’d be super happy to write this prompt for you! I only hope that you have a marvelous day and enjoy!

———————————————————————————————————–

Someone had left you nightshade.  

It happened one foggy morning where mist brimmed on your skin and only the songs of a few wayward birds alerted you to the rising of the sun.  

You stretched your limbs and let out a yawn before slipping on your scattered boots and a heavy overcoat, the autumn chill thick in the air. You tipped back the flap of your tent to creep outside when the sight of a peculiarly bright purple caught your attention.  

It was nightshade – the deadly flower used in all sorts of poisons and venoms – a herald for danger in the stories you heard as a child. Even now it lingered in use of summoning the Dark Brotherhood – perhaps the most resonant symbol for difficult times.

A knot ensnared in your throat and whatever air was in your lungs vanished at the very sight of the sickeningly vibrant violet petals.  

“Oh gods…” You whispered with a suddenly shaky voice. You glanced around hurriedly, anything could’ve been lingering in those bushes and trees. “Gods, we need to leave!”  

You scrambled from your shelter and to the tent beside you where your companion, Kharjo, slept, flinging back the tent opening with eyes as wide as saucers, fear plastering your expression.  

Kharjo was already awake, sharpening one of his daggers when you arrived. His ears pricked up attentively and his pupils filled in grand inky circles – a smile tinging at the end of his lips.  

“We need to leave…!” You huffed out through your clenched jaw. “We need to need now!”  

Kharjo wrinkled his nose in confusion and leaned forward as he saw your evident panic. His hand clasping your own, gentle and soft, would’ve soothed your worries most any other time – but then, it only propelled your fear.  

If something happened to him… you wouldn’t know what you’d do. The very thought made your blood run cold. Your very lip began to quiver.  

“Slow down,” Kharjo squeezed your palm, his fur warming your snow-touched skin. “What’s going on?”  

You swallowed hard and ushered him out, your companion easily towering over you like a pillar to a fern. You pointed to the soft purple plant at your tent, almost annoyingly idle.  

“Someone left nightshade outside my tent,” You exclaimed. “I think the Dark Brotherhood o-or someone is after us! It’s too dangerous to stay here.”  

Kharjo’s ears drooped in an instant. His fur puffed out in embarrassment and even his tail swept sheepishly at the ground. “I… are you s-sure about this?” He rubbed the back of his sneck, biting the inside of his cheek.  

“What do you mean?”  

You were already bundling all your things together, even taking apart your tent in your urgency. This wasn’t something you were willing to wait for. “What else could it mean when someone leaves you a deadly plant?”

You shot up and pieces of your things scattered from your grip. You stifled a series of bitter curses. “I-I mean the damn thing is used to summon the dark brotherhood for their contact killings!”  

“Oh fuck-” An idea popped into your head that made you lose your grasp entirely. “What if it’s a threat? What if someone is going to send the Brotherhood after us?”  

Kharjo appeared to crumple further and further within himself. He couldn’t bring himself to move and though he’d never admit it, the fearless mercenary nearly forgot to breathe.  

“I ah – I think we should talk…” He took a few weary steps to you as you knelt down in some feeble attempt to collect your items once more.  

“We can talk once we’re on the move,” You spoke in a slurred mess of worry. “You should start packing!”  

“No, I shouldn’t,” Kharjo sat down beside you, his eyes so utterly drenched in color that softened alongside his voice. “because nothing is wrong.”  

You stopped to gawk at him in confusion. “Kharjo, I know we can take on anyone – we’re a good team but I’m not willing to take the-”  

A bit of quiet laughter slipped from Kharjo. “I never thought the Dragonborn would be so easily frightened.” His ears perked up and his smile couldn’t help but almost gift you the same.  

Ever since you’d met he’d had that sort of miraculous effect you hadn’t found with any other. Like a scale you both balanced one another out just so from the very moment your both intertwined as a stranger willing to listen to the stories of a simple caravan guard.  

You wrinkled your nose and a bit of indignancy bubbled to the surface. “I-I’m not scared for me!” The shroud of pride melted away as your shoulders sank and forced your nervous eyes to meet his own. The weight and worry pooling in your gaze as solid as stone. “I’m scared for you – of losing you.” You bit your lip, your words caught in tremors. “I-I can’t stand the thought – I don’t know what I’d do if… if I lost you…!”  

A few tears slipped from your eyes and trickled down your cheeks. Almost frantically, Kharjo raced to wipe them away, his fingers still brushing your face. “You’re not going to lose me! I’m fine, you’re fine and…”  

He swallowed hard, mustering a sheepish confession as his ears fell back against his head.  

“I… left the nightshade.”  

You heard the words but they didn’t quite process through your head for a good few minutes. However, once it did, your jaw nearly dropped.  

Like he’d spoken a foreign language your expression twisted into one of absolute bewilderment.  

“You… you what?”  

Kharjo’s fur puffed out in alarm. He scrambled for the flower still settled before what once had been your tent. He grasped it in his paws and unfurled, allowing you to see in the early sunlight.  

“It’s not what you think!” he urged. “I swear!”  

He folded his lips and frowned as he studied the petals like one may with a jewel. “In my home… it is a gift for loved ones – for protection – it’s to tell someone you care… that you…” He glanced away, red creeping to the bare tips of his ears. “you love them…”  

A period of silence passed between the two of you, two hearts, both beating with the strength of a pounding drum within your chests.  

Kharjo took in a sharp breath and wrinkled his snout with a suddenly hurried, embarassed tone. “B-Besides, when we first met you brought something precious to me, my amulet! I only thought I should return the favor.”  

He pushed the nightshade into your open palm, both of you hesitant to let the other’s hand pass your fingers.  

“I just want you to be safe… and know I lo-” He thought better of himself. “I care for you very much.”  

Everything about him eased in an instant – speaking just above a whisper. “I’m sorry I caused such a fuss, I truly did not mean for it.”  

He rose from his spot beside you and mindlessly began to collect his things, smiling faintly. “But as long as we’re ready, we may as well get back on the road. No use wasting daylight!”  

As if you could actually focus on packing now. Your stomach swarmed with butterflies and heat rushed to your face – to say the least, you roughly resembled a strawberry.  

You could barely pay attention to a single thing other than that silly Kahjit and his even sillier gift.  

It was without foresight, fragile, and ridiculously dangerous.  

But you loved it – more than words could describe and with simply all your heart.  

And you adored Kharjo.  

So, with as equally little foresight as your companion, you lifted yourself up, leaned down beside him, and pressed a chaste, gentle kiss to his cheek.  

Kharjo’s fur exploded outwards in what one could only describe as a ‘poof’. He whipped his head to you a gawking gaze and thinly lined pupils.  

You beat him to the first word.  

“I love you too.”  

He reached crazily for a sound – any coherent sound he could possibly respond to you with. It took far longer than he liked to admit.  

“Y-You… love me? I-I mean as I love you?” He sputtered a few nervous laughs. “N-Not that I’m saying I love you in a certain way! W-We could always forget this whole morning happened if you mean-”  

“I love you exactly as you love me,” You simpered. “I’m just sorry I don’t have a flower for you to show it.”  

Kharjo smile dso wide it must’ve hurt, pulling you into an embrace so tight and so tender in had no place in the icy tundra of Skyrim.  

“It’s not necessary. You are more than enough.”  

[green-pact]

Gush to me about your tes ocs (specifically Skyrim ones because I barely know anything about the other games.......)

YESSSSSSS I hope you don’t mind me also including reference images and links, since I have a lot more stuff abt some of them on my artblog. I have a LOT to say, but I’ll try not to make it too long bc you’d be here all day hah,,

my skyrim ocs are Gaemir, Gudbrandr, Tedyth, and Jotrjo, and they’re usually the main ones I focus on in my art and stuff. the other main one I focus on is one of my ESO characters, Velethryl, who is actually a Kirby oc. like. Kirby from Nintento, that Kirby. Velethryl’s personality and abilities are mostly the same between verses.

since TES-verse Vel is really close to how he is in Kirby-verse, I’ll just leave some links to the info I have about him; X - X - X. or you can just look through my artblog and see all the stuff I post about him. my friends often compare him to Ancano, Mannimarco, Dagoth Ur, etc. basically any evil elf man is what Vel is like. some other details I can give about him is that he named his guar Patchouli, and it was a gift from his wife. his wife is a little Bosmer lady who is as close to a cowgirl as you can get in TES. she likes riding horses but Vel does NOT, so she got him something else to ride. he has connections to House Telvanni, but because he despises people he often either locks himself in his study or lurks around Morrowind practicing magic alone. he also has an illegitimate child that he has no clue about. later on down the line, he has a descendant, one of my skyrim ocs, Tedyth.

my first lad is Gaemir (pronounced “gamer” lmao..) more or less my first serious TES character. his name was originally Jecra, in my original save before I started over he was a high elf rather than a wood elf, and he was originally intended to be as close to a knight as I could make him.

currently he’s a spellsword, a priest of Mara, and a worshiper of Hermaeus Mora, though Mora is none too pleased that Gaemir is illiterate. his whole shtick is that he wants to help people see the light and do better through guidance. he assumes that people are good at heart and that most people who are “bad” are just misguided. the only people he has no sympathy for are Stormcloaks and Dark Brotherhood assassins. he likes to hang around on Solstheim, has two kids, and is in a poly relationship with Revyn Sadri and Teldryn Sero.

next is Gudbrandr, a mute high elf! he was raised by Nords after his real parents were executed by the Thalmor for speaking out against them. he uses Nord sign language and rather than using his actual voice for The Voice he signs Dovahzul. (basically I was too lazy to do the first few quests of the game so in-game I never fight the first dragon and absorbed its soul. thus mute character!) he’s a Dark Brotherhood assassin, is very very close to Cicero, who he trusts with his life. rumors spread through the Brotherhood that he COULD speak, but only to Cicero. I started a fic about him that you can read here, though I need to update it.

Tedyth is my token mage character, his specialty being fire. surprising. he was adopted young by an Imperial couple, though they treated him poorly for nearly all his childhood which eventually lead him to setting their home on fire and running off to live by himself. doesn’t like people, doesn’t like crowded areas or loud sounds, and doesn’t like being touched, he basically just wants to be alone. though he doesn’t like being around other people, he makes an exception for Kharjo, who he sticks with very very closely. his hair was very long when he was young, but the day he set his childhood home on fire he singed it off to be short, which is why its also a mess.

AND THEN WE HAVE JOJO, his name is Jotrjo but calling him Jojo is a bit easier. he’s an adventurer! he loves adventure! enjoys long walks on the beach and delving deep into ruins. he mainly gets enjoyment out of seeing new sighs and experiencing new things, things the common farmer would never get to see. he collects treasures and trinkets from his travels and likes to proudly display them in his home. he also loves story telling, often captivating an audience of local kids who are so so eager to listen to him talk about the dungeon he just cleared. he has a daughter of his own and a husband, both of which he loves with his whole heart. he’s incredibly kind and cheerful, and would do anything for the people close to him.

[kharjo-san]