#kynreeve

[ego-osbourne]

The Disadvantages of Being a Prince in Disguise

…people talk shit about you without even knowing it’s you.

Featuring @the-troll-of-the-bridge ‘s Kynreeve, alongside Velehk and Sam

Ignore that I forgot to add Velehk’s markings Y_Y

[linda-likes-to-draw]

🏴‍☠️SHIPS AHOY!🏴‍☠️

Featuring the Salt In The Wound crew!

Velehk Sain, Scuttle and Ego by @ego-osbourne

Rhytma by @inkhajiitswetrust

Kynreeveby @the-troll-of-the-bridge

Heracles by @mellowscrolls

Diana, Luce by @bostoniangirl21

Calamity by @metallic-scaled-scarf

Lorelei by @liches-covered-in-lich

Landlubber, Capsize by @bforblitz

Morale by @kiir-do-faal-rahhe

OK YEETS THIS IN YALL FACES BAIIII

[ego-osbourne]

Velehk has online anxiety

All I do is post shitposts that only me and my friends understand

@ego-osbourne 's velehk

@kururu666 's skira

my lorelei :]

@mellowstarscape 's hera

@ego-osbourne 's caspian

@the-troll-of-the-bridge 's kyn

and molag bal

[the-troll-of-the-bridge]

Dremora pirate anyone??

My boy Kynreeve back in the days

[clockworkbanana]

(2023) My Skyrim OC, Sol, and his bestie the Dremora Keanu Reeves Kynreeve.

[c4tto626]

attention! this cat keeps fighting daedric princes!!

[elderscrollsconceptart]

"Kynreeve Champion"

Art for The Elder Scrolls: Legends

Art by Geunjoo Baik

[uesp]

"But, Kynreeve, I couldn't help it! I was conjured, summoned to Nirn—by a mortal!"

--A dremora pleading with their superior to forgive their absence from their assigned post due to an unforeseen conjuration, from the book I was Summoned by a Mortal. This excuse did not work.

[libertineangel]

Mortal, for @tes-summer-fest

To an outsider, the room would appear to be somewhere between gladiatorial arena and house of worship. It was pentagonal, with a large open space in the centre surrounded on four of the five sides by six tiers of great benches wrought from dull red metal, a throne at the foot of each one. Tall figures sat proudly upon these thrones, clad in gleaming black armour engraved with countless symbols of hard-fought battles and masterful commands, their heads adorned with matching spiked diadems. Those on the bench behind them were only marginally less decorated, and lacking the diadems; the quality and ornamentation of armour further up the benches steadily declined, from undecorated black metal to dull iron to much-scarred & beaten bronze, with a final tier stood behind the highest bench wearing simple cloth and tattered leathers.

The wall which they all faced was adorned with treasures, from great weapons with names spoken in hushed tones to trophies taken from creatures whose names were not to be spoken; in front of this wall was a tall pulpit overlooking an altar of polished black stone, with a figure at either end: on the right stood one in a suit of grey steel plate, a subtle smile and a gleam in their eyes as they looked at the assembled crowd, while the figure on the left bent their knee before them, their wrists bound by a chain to the altar but their back held straight, their armour heavily-dented bronze polished to a shine.

Another emerged at the pulpit, wearing black armour with deep red accents, and spoke, their clear, imperious voice filling the room.

“I am Markynaz Ilhovad, acting as Mafrekynaz. This Kynmoot has been convened to hear the accusations put forth by Kynreeve Aezekhul-” they raised their hand toward the steel-clad figure, then to the one in chains- “against Caitiff Dezeron.” They then turned again to Aezekhul, and commanded: “State your claims.”

“Their dereliction of duty is undeniable,” Aezekhul told the room, their voice a gloating rasp as they ran their tongue across their teeth, “and further, I observed them consorting with mortals!”

The audience erupted into jeers and hissing with the second accusation, and Aezekhul’s lips curled at the reaction while Dezeron appeared unmoved; after a moment Ilhovad struck their bracer against the railing of the parapet, which issued forth a deafening clang to fill the room and leave silence in its wake, before they gave their next command.

“Present your reasoning.”

“The Caitiff is of a unit under my purview, and has failed to report to any actions or duties for sixteen cycles-” another round of low hissing passed through the audience- “a fact for which I can procure records of muster as proof if the Mafrekynaz so wishes.

One twelfth-cycle ago, I was bound and summoned to the mortal plane by some petty conjuror to assist in a raid upon a caravan, whereupon I found the Caitiff acting as its guard-” the hissing was a little louder this time, along with quiet murmuring of scorn- “and furthermore, I saw them...engage in affection with one of the drivers before entering battle!” The room broke out into a clamour of disgust once more, and Aezekhul snarled as their hands tightened to fists, shooting a venomous glare at Dezeron opposite. Dezeron himself remained silent, breathing low and steady, meeting his accuser’s gaze with eyes hard as the stone between them.

Ilhovad struck the railing to bring order to the room once more, before raising their hand in Dezeron’s direction.

“Caitiff Dezeron, you may respond.”

Dezeron took a deep breath, looking to Ilhovad, then Aezekhul, then the rest of the room, before he began to speak.

“The Kynreeve’s words are true, all of them,” he declared, a defiant pride in his voice, unwavering before the instant furore his admission instigated. “Sixteen and one-eighth cycles ago I was summoned to the mortal plane, but the sorcerer responsible failed to bind me. I killed them, left their little hall of learning and made my way to the city gates, where I overpowered their watchmen and escaped to the wilderness.” The noise of the room abated somewhat, the opening of his story proving surprisingly respectable, though Dezeron took no notice as he continued.

“For a full mortal year I lived as a roving bandit, assaulting traders and travellers for food and materials, sheltering in caves, raiding isolated settlements when the guard was light, surviving alone against the weather and the creatures of the wilds. One day, I chose to attack a trade caravan.” Dezeron took a breath as his voice wavered just a little, just for a moment. “A two-horse wagon and a one-horse cart, three men between them. I ambushed them from the roadside, at sunset – the cart travelled behind so I leapt upon it, threw down the driver and drew my sword, but he recovered quickly and called for aid as he took up arms. The wagon’s guard joined him and I engaged them both, and they proved to be competent warriors, but nevertheless they were outmatched, and as that became apparent they called for the wagon’s driver to join them.” As Dezeron spoke of the guards’ prowess the corners of his mouth twitched upward, and again his voice softened slightly as he mentioned the wagon driver.

“He came quickly, and with a gesture and a flash of light I found my hand stayed against my will. He looked at me, and only for a second was it the look of a man facing an enemy. He acknowledged my skill in combat, and he could see that I deserved better than a life scraping by as a brigand, he told me that the caravan could use a third guard and that I could fill that role admirably, and I accepted his proposition.”

Any respect he had thus far accrued was swept away in an instant, which the audience made abundantly clear.

“You accepted the pity of a mortal!” Aezekhul spat, half to Dezeron and half to the room at large.

“I made the sensible tactical decision!” Dezeron shouted back, chains rattling as he slammed his fists on the altar. “I was alone, stranded in the mortal realm, a threat and a target to all that moved! I had no unit, no clan, no allies, in hostile lands from which I could neither retreat nor establish a foothold. I was offered a position in which I could do battle alongside reliable allies, that gave me safe travel along the roads, that allowed me to enter established settlements, make use of their forges and replenish my supplies, with greatly diminished risk of overwhelming conflict. Yes, I found acceptance distasteful, but I challenge any of you to deny that it was the tactically prudent option!”

“You seemed to find the taste just fine by the time I saw you,” Aezekhul retorted, setting off another round of jeers as Dezeron bared his teeth with a low growl, before Ilhovad intervened with another silencing clang.

“The Caitiff’s reasoning is sound. Continue.”

Dezeron took a slow, deep breath, and resumed his story.

“For the first few months, I spoke to the others very little beyond the necessities of duty, behaving as any Kyn would in such company, treating them simply as mortals in an alliance of convenience, until one night in which we faced a particularly fearsome ambush – a whole group of bandits, they caught us in a valley, passing through the ruins of an old gatehouse – we fought them off but it was a great challenge, and Sabir & Luzghul – our other two guards – were both wounded, needing some days to recover. After that, once their wounds no longer impaired their capability, I offered to train them in combat as we practice it-” this caused another outcry from the room, and even Ilhovad’s eyes flashed, making no motion to restore calm.

“I shared no secrets of Kyn, only the rudimentary forms and techniques, deeming it necessary to improve our safety and effectiveness as a fighting unit. They were grateful, and they learned well, and...the bonds of alliance were solidified. We talked of past battles, of travels, the things we’d seen, the skilled opponents and terrible creatures we’d faced, and Colwyn…” Dezeron took another breath, his voice now holding little trace of its previous hardness.

“Colwyn, the wagon driver, our leader, he listened so carefully, so intently, not to reports of combat or of training, but to stories of all that lies beyond his realm. He was endlessly curious, as we rode together he’d often ask me of the outer realms, the forgotten planes seldom travelled, the places and the beings that mortals have yet to dream of, and he’d ask me about my nature, to try and let him understand what he could of an existence he can never feel, and...as he did so he likewise spoke of himself, of mortal life and thought and feeling, and he...we grew close, over many months, and…” He struck the altar again, though less forcefully this time, and looked around the room, his eyes wide, and the audience filled this momentary pause with an outpouring of disgust and scorn.

“There are experiences, ways of living, that you could never understand! The feelings he has introduced me to, they cannot arise among Kyn, our society has no place for them, no room for them!”

At this point Dezeron’s voice was completely drowned out by the audience, with Ilhovad still making no attempt to stop them, even baring their teeth a little themselves, while Aezekhul stood cackling, a twisted smile on their face. Dezeron let out a grunt of frustration, yanking his wrists against the chains and straining to stand for a moment before closing his eyes, breathing heavily.

A few moments later there was a flash of light, engulfing him with a feeling of weightlessness.

He became aware of the smell of recently-fallen rain on grass, he felt crisp night air through his nostrils, and he heard a sobbing man fall to his knees next to him.

“Oh, Dez, thank the gods you’re alright! I was so scared when I saw you were gone, and I waited like you said I should, and I did the spell like you taught me-”

“Col, my love, you did well, just as I told you,” Dezeron spoke softly, holding Colwyn tight to him, before pulling back to look him carefully in the eye, “but please listen, because I will be commanded back and time is short.” He put a hand to Colwyn’s cheek, and Colwyn nodded as he tried to steady his breaths, before Dezeron leant forward to whisper something in his ear. “Speak it precisely, and command my presence, and I will return to you.”

Colwyn nodded again, and Dezeron took his hands in his own. A shadow tinged with red grew across him, and he disappeared.

Back kneeling before the altar, the furore of the crowd was louder than ever, but Ilhovad was no longer willing to waste time on spectacle. As soon as Dezeron had fully materialised, they struck the railing hard enough to bring immediate silence to the room, both hands gripping it as they spoke, almost shouting themselves.

“The veracity of the Kynreeve’s accusations is beyond doubt, and only compounded by the attempt to depart this Kynmoot without leave! Therefore, in my capacity as Mafrekynaz, I hereby command that the Caitiff Dezeron be immediately put to-”

Dezeron suddenly let out a pained cry, appeared to blur and flicker, and vanished.

Once again Colwyn immediately dropped to his knees and embraced Dezeron the moment he appeared, but Dezeron could spare no time for comfort.

“Speak it again! Speak it again, and tell me..tell me I am released from all bonds of Kyn and clan, severed from all ties of commands and duties, now and in perpetuity!”

Colwyn’s voice stuttered and trembled but he did as he was asked, and Dezeron fell to the ground with an agonized cry, blurring before Colwyn’s eyes for a moment; he let out a cry himself at the sight, sobbing again as he moved with him, and for a time they both lay in silence, breathing heavily.

“Is it...over? You won’t disappear again?” Colwyn asked weakly.

“It’s over, love, never to happen again,” Dezeron whispered.

For another few minutes they were silent, until Colwyn softly spoke again.

“What...what did I do?”

“You spoke my protonymic, the true name of my soul, and with it you severed me from my Kyn. No command of theirs can ever again hold sway over me, and the gods themselves could not reforge those bonds...I am now yours, and yours alone.”

They held each other close, lying quiet and still in the soft grass.

[larkscribbles]

The Last Gate

1965 Words [ao3]

In the wake of the Oblivion Crisis the Champion of Cyrodiil continues to fight - she has a promise to keep and people to protect. But what is to become of her should she complete her goal? What fate is left for her after the last gate is closed?

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

The kynreeve has enough sense to try and charge her, forcing their shields together so he can swing at her back with his mace. She pivots, pushing off, taking the brunt of the blow but using the brief lull to find the space to the side of his chestplate and drive her blade in. The creature snarls angrily, spitting blood, trying to bat her off, flailing in desperation. The imperial spellsword rams her buckler into her adversary’s head, knocking him off balance. Then, taking advantage of the opening, reigns down blow after blow with the pommel of her sword. She halts to retrieve the daedra’s own weapon to finish the job, denting its helmet until it stops moving. It’s messy and inefficient. Her arms hang leaden at her sides. The rational part of her hates herself for wasting energy like this, but the blood in her veins boils. A hot seething anger so deep it shakes her entire being, driving her onwards like an engine. The fire of her fury leaves her numb to everything else, even common sense, this is the last gate - the 60th. Nothing else matters after this.

The Champion of Cyrodiil eyes the crumpled form of her opponent. The daedra had acted as if she didn’t have a reputation; as if she was not standing before the creature in a set of its own infernal armour covered in the blood of its brethren. Dremora didn’t feel fear in quite the same way, death was a mere inconvenience to them.

Avery shakily lowers herself onto a stone bench, having reached a room with no immediate danger she can afford herself the luxury of tending to her wounds. She has learnt there’s a pace to these things - destroying keeps as a one woman army - charging in now would be fruitless in her current state. Her helmet hits the floor with a clang. She uncorks a vial and takes heavily from the blood fountain, guzzling its contents. The cool liquid momentarily alleviates the heat of the oppressive sulphuric air. Upstairs, in the keep the dremora will be amassing their forces in a last stand to stop her acquiring the sigil stone. Without its source of magic their gate will crumble and they will no longer be able to terrorise Mundus. This is the last one. Mehrunes Dagon’s forces will at least be halted for a while - returning to this forsaken realm to lick their wounds and wait for another era where they may invade again. It’s inevitable. She’ll be long dead by then. She blinks away wetness in her eyes. Not tears. Sweat. She swallows the lump in her throat by quaffing a potion to fortify her for the coming fight; the purple elixir easing the screaming in her muscles and mind somewhat. The prickle of magicka returns to her fingers. She continues to drink vial after vial until she feels ill, simultaneously disorientated and hyper aware, shaking with adrenaline and the effects coursing through her bloodstream. She is of no use dead. She is the realm’s final defence - their shield. A tool to be used. Once this is over she will be discarded.

The champion surges onwards and upwards, charging through the final set of doors. The shining obsidian corridor rises steadily, elevating her to the final room. Every Sigilium Sanguis is concentric, multilayered with three floors, and covered in spikes. The floor is swollen to the extent its dome-like, made from a red glassy stone shot through with white veins, marbled and lumpy like a heart. Suspended from the ceiling hangs the sigil stone, burning like a small sun, bathing the room in a firey orange. Its constant thrum of energy permeates the room. The casters perched at the top are already conjuring beasts, hurling down bolts of lighting to stunt her own casting and seize her muscles. She charges up a staircase - an arrangement of red rungs that curl upwards like a bisected rib cage - hoping to bottleneck her melee opponents so she can cleave through them more efficiently. It makes her an easier target for the longer ranged attacks but the potions and buzz of her enchanted armour should mitigate the damage that should outright kill her several times over. Her blade sings and spins, severing skin, muscle and bone. The first level clears. Avery summons the pulse of a restoration spell, gauntlet of her shield hand flaring with a searing blue light - regeneration - encouraging her flesh to knit and twist back together slowly but surely.

She doesn’t see the clannfear fast enough, its reptilian crested head bowed low in a reckless charge. The creature flings itself from the top floor down at her. Claws and a pointed beak try to pierce her protection. Fire flares from the spellsword’s hand as they fall through the air, the jet of flame licking nothing initially, then whipping downwards to engulf the creature. Ochre scales char and blacken. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. The beast shrieks, having sustained too much damage from the fall, and disperses like dust in the wind, melting into the air. Avery wheezes, ribs rattling in her chest, blood staining her teeth, her eyes roll in their sockets. She lies splayed on the floor like some kind of crustacean - protected in a shell for the time being but ultimately vulnerable. Her head rings, vision clouded, smeared with red. Through the eyeholes of her helmet she can see the blurred shapes of the remaining troops advancing on her, trying to get better aim on their prone opponent, or just to see her face when they do kill her. Of course they’d enjoy that.

The spellsword grits her teeth and wills for time to slow, it takes her a moment to register every laboured breath hurts less. Her spell is still up. She just needs time. Time she doesn’t have.

A muddied figure comes into focus, making its way towards her. The highest ranked daedra barks at the others to back off its quarry. It’s purposefully using Nibenese to taunt her - so she can understand. The others hover around her like flies around a carcass.

The Champion of Cyrodiil sucks in a rattling breath and gathers her strength. The air crackles with magic. She screams, assaulted by first a numbing cold and then a searing heat. She rolls onto her front, breath rasping in her throat. It’s coming closer now. A mage from the staff it wields. The robe it wears. The lack of a helmet. Avery crouches, shifts her weight to the side to avoid the bolt of lightning that lances through the air at her, then retaliates with her own attack. Her assailant hadn’t expected it, the dremora had already drawn an ornate dagger. Single hand flailing to conjure a spell. She doesn’t use the pommel of the sword this time.

Her second wind kicks in. Blood rushes in her ears. She roars at the remaining daedra as if this were an arena fight, clanging her sword and shield against each other. A challenge. This is it. The final push. Without a semblance of order or restraint the remaining forces try to rush her, abandoning strategy. The woman evokes another healing spell and welcomes it, baring her teeth and bracing her shield.

~~~

She staggers up the ramp to the final floor. All she sees is black and red. The red of her own blood. The black spots creeping into the corners of her vision, drowning out the room. The ramp to the final floor is almost frilled, black rods interspersed with red waves, suspended by thick black chains. The spellsword lurches towards the only colour that is different - orange. She outstretches a shaking hand claiming the final sigil stone. A wave of emotion overcomes her, ambiguous as to whether it's fatigue or relief. The orb flares with a searing light, building until the room is entirely white. Space displaces, like a pot boiling over, flushing everything out. The Deadlands is purged of Avery’s presence for the final time.

The spellsword awakes on her side. The air is clean. The sky is bright and blue. Trees sway gently in the breeze. The skeleton of the oblivion gate lies ruined in a blackened heap. The heat of the stone pulses in her hand like a heartbeat. She swallows thickly, mouth metallic, and stands to find the grass below her is slick with blood, her armour battered and punctured. She takes a knee, seeing to some of her wounds with potions, her thirst with water, her hunger with stale bread.

Her purpose is another matter entirely. What is she to do now? The question makes her feel hollow. Since Martin had died she’d been discarded - fulfilled her job as a nameless pawn of fate, getting Martin where he needed to be. She found purpose in continuing what he would want. The realm safe - Dagon’s forces defeated - wiped from the land with the start of a new era. She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her mind is foggy. What could she do now?

There’s the brief consideration of picking up the Imperial Dragon Armour promised to her - armour fit for an emperor. She laughs at the notion. All she could think about was home so she finds herself returning to Bravil. The townsfolk were wary, simultaneously recognising her and giving her a wide berth. Some were glad to have her there, and begged her to regale her adventures. She had never been one for stories and she was acutely aware they didn’t necessarily want to know the truth. Some just wanted to know of Martin. They all talked about Martin.

The Lonely Suitor Lodge is less busy than it’s higher end counterpart. She frequents there, drowning herself in drink. The fire that fuelled her is long extinguished. The days blur together.

Despite all she’s accomplished she feels small and empty. This had been the only way she could do anything meaningful - to strike back at the Daedric Prince, a god. Even with the blessings of the Aedra there is little one can do against a Daedric Prince - the conclusion of the Oblivion Crisis proved as much. Martin’s sacrifice proved as much. The city hails her as their hero, their champion. Avery knows she is simply the only one left alive they can direct their sentiment towards. She wasn’t stronger than fate, than prophecy. An improvisation was all the world had to defend itself with. Martin didn’t have to die that way. He could have simply not sired heirs, that would have ended the Septim dynasty. He didn’t have to be snatched from the world. To sacrifice everything to a God he must have barely believed in any more.

Amidst her bitter recollections she realises she should probably tell Baurus of her whereabouts. The Blade was one of the only friends she had left. Likely considered her dead given their last conversation. She should write to him. But what would she say? There was nothing to say. She had nothing left.

She stares into her murky reflection at the bottom of her tankard.

“Miss-”

She doesn’t look up.

“Miss Champion? We- we require your aid.”

She raises her head. It’s not urgency permeating the man’s voice so much as it is fear.

“A strange door has appeared in Niben Bay-“

She stands, stool clattering to the floor and clears the distance between them in three brisk paces. “A gate?” She presses, eyes flaring, voice hard.

“No- no- I don’t know- it doesn’t look like- it’s not normal-”

Avery hovers by the door. “Where.”

“It’s a small island- directly in the middle of the-”

She leaves to arm herself. Whatever it is - this gate - it’s definitely a gate. This is going to be the last damn one.

[voidtoblivion]

I’ve just realized i’ve never posted that super old drawing i made of Xaalik (like ten years ago), Time to correct my wrongs!

Fun facts : Xaalik was not Kynless at that time, i made him when i actively played Oblivion years back! He was your average Kynval/Kynreeve dremora under Mehrunes Dagon service! He basically was the ML of my fic at the time (and still is today :D )

[ego-osbourne]

Sketches p.1

Did that thing again where I drew a whole BUNCH of bases/sketches in a short period of time, then was slammed with massive art block, and as I crawl out from the depths of creative fallout I am overwhelmed with WIP guilt.

BUT THIS TIME. I am resisting the demon of shame. My art doesn’t have to be finished to post it, I don’t always have to be satisfied with it. So, for the next couple of posts, I’ll be posting my back log of things ,:] Hope you don’t mind

Why not start with some SITW shenanigans?

First image is Shares-His-Bounty, and Argonian pirate allied with Velehk Sain. He inherited his ship from his late mother, who was good friends with Velehk. Bounty took on his mother’s tracking services, becoming an excellent hunter and finder of goods and other lost things. He earned his name from his generosity among his allies.

Second image features the start of a very toxic and defo does fall apart ship between a younger Velehk and Lorelei (belonging to @liches-covered-in-lich ). This is what happens when you combine a gay man and a lesbian with a very strained boss/employee relationship. They get better but uh. Not together LOL. It’s for their own good

Last image are some doodles that Rakell makes! When you get to live as long as him (4000yrs [dremora, remember]), keeping a few journals to track everything is very handy. Drawing doodles makes remembering certain people even easier. These are just a few people that he’s taken the time to sketch:

First is a doodle of himself, with the Daedric spelling “wem,” — it’s (my own) fake Daedric meaning “me/myself.” Next is Hera with the staff, then Velehk with the sword (with Daedric spelling “Sain,”) then Kynreeve with the lute, Lubber the cat (Daedric spells “Lubb”), Erandur (the Daedric above his name spells “cherzek,” which is more fake language for “mentor”), Lorelei with the sickles, Iren with the antlers, and Ego with the axe.

Hera belongs to @mellowscrolls

Kynreeve belongs to @the-troll-of-the-bridge

Lubber belongs to @bforblitz

Lorelei belongs to @liches-covered-in-lich

[linda-likes-to-draw]

Ocs assemble! GOD this took so much longer than i hoped xd

Anyways i've been thinking about drawing ocs for cool ppl again so here it is! The Salt In The Wound crew + bonus 4 characters!

Characters, left to right, up to down:

Velehk Sain, Rakell, Ego, Kynreeve,

Calamity, Lorelei, Capsize, Morale

Rhytma, Heracles

Rethan, Bell, Assurshibael, Sanguine

Alt ver with only the SITW crew + transparent + Credits! :

@ego-osbourne (Velehk, Rakell, Ego, Sanguine)

@the-troll-of-the-bridge (Kynreeve)

@metallic-scaled-scarf (Calamity, Assur)

@liches-covered-in-lich (Lorelei)

@bforblitz (Capsize)

@kiir-do-faal-rahhe (Morale)

@inkhajiitswetrust (Rhytma)

@mellowscrolls (Heracles)

Me! @linda-likes-to-draw (Rethan, Bell)

[wilawen]

Adoration

Distributed among Wilawen's friends, but never officially published in the Summerset Isles.

The towers of our Crystal Law Beside the hills are not so high; It’s marble walls are not so white As the spry white around your eye;

The silver-woven Kynreeve staff Is trifle to the Indrik’s horn; The worship peals of crystal bells Are babble by the baby born;

The armor-glass of Alinor Seems jealous of the turtle’s gleam; And stacks of scrolls, with wisdom wrought, Of nixad pratter only dream;

And yet I bless them, every one, These honest dupes of Alaxon.

[tes-summer-fest]

Image description: Digital art of a black hand with red sigils on it cupping a man's face. The man is pale with ginger hair in braids and is looking off to the side. His hand covers the other on his cheek. The background is indistinct red jewel tones.

TES Summer Fest

6th of August : Beloved or Ritual

Because when thinking of beloved I could only think of those two,, and because I hadn't drawn Vahlok in a while

@tes-summer-fest

[wanderingcotabussurgetank]

Kynreeve Champion by Geunjoo Baik