#larkscrawls

[larkscribbles]

Meme redraw to promote my fic Pyrrhic!

POV: your bestie is explaining ascending to godhood was not the W you thought it was.

[larkscribbles]

Pyrrhic

Words: 2,884 [ao3]

In the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis after months of silence Baurus is contacted by the Champion of Cyrodiil to relay some ‘good news’.

[larkscribbles]

Experimental art for my DD2 fic! “A Gruesome Recollection”! [here] [ao3] [speedpaint]

[larkscribbles]

[here] [ao3]

Here’s this month’s fic “Crying Over Delivered Milk”!

A good ol’ Legend of Zelda ficlet idea I have had since the ripe old age of… uh… teenage. If that hasn’t put you off check out the links (HYAAAH)!

Mfw I draw a character called “Blacksmith’s Wife” from a 10 year old game.

[larkscribbles]

The dragon is in the details

Word count: 3,596 [ao3]

The summoner had a simple job: summon heroes from other realms to help champion their cause. The divine weapon, Breidablik, apparently had a different definition of ‘hero’ than most. (It’s about Grima.)

[larkscribbles]

An Artist’s Vision

Yuga ponders Lorule and Hyrule’s shortcomings and how his own vision of perfection differs from those around him.

(Word count: 394, SPOILERS FOR ALBW, AO3)

Yuga does not like what he sees.

Lorule makes for a drab and dreary picture. It is a relic of a bygone era, unsurprisingly not a font of inspiration. Decaying and sparse, its sickly shades a death rattle. The slow creep of depravity in its people is all too clear; like the flora and fauna, they too have been shaped into monsters. Lorule is a composition beyond saving. A twisted mirror, warped beyond proportion. A kingdom collapsing on itself due to the foolishness of its ancestors. Who would shun the power to grant any wish you could think of?

Hideous Hyrule, a land of abundance, fares no better. Gaudy and oversaturated, filled with squandered promise. A cluttered composition, there is no focal point, no clarity amongst its eyestrain of a landscape. Too bright. The people are airheaded and soft. They have no perspective. They have never struggled for long. There is nothing dynamic about them. Hyrule is static. Uneventful. There is nothing of interest, except their elusive Triforce.

Princess Hilda is captivated by the promise of Hyrule - a kingdom that is a mirror of their own, as prosperous as she yearns for. Yuga abhors the very idea. Too sunny for his tastes. A boring and frivolous landscape. The boy - Ravio - that follows the princess around like a pet rarely appears to have thoughts of his own. He strives for the same hare-brained ideal as the princess. The pair have been searching for a solution to Lorule’s fate years before Yuga aligned himself with them.

Yuga supposes, readying his palette, that this is the power of an artist: to craft the ideal he strives for. And thankfully, he is an exceptionally skilled painter. His vision is clear and true. He must utilise his experience and wisdom to find the balance between the two kingdoms to create his own utopia. He abolishes his old piece in favour of something new, drowning it in a searing coat of white. A fresh start. He formulates a plan, an underpainting, a solid foundation to build upon. He must then boldly layer colour across its surface. Establish order. The fundamentals of how things will come into shape. Sharp edges and soft blurring must merge together, work in unison. An artist must have courage, for not everyone will share his vision. Yuga knows the worms he surrounds himself with certainly don’t.

[larkscribbles]

Vulnerability

[Ao3] Words: 1,010

Shadowheart battles with the uncomfortable truths and dangers of her situation. Notably, a bond she’s formed with one of the members of their ragtag crew. Act 1 spoilers

CW: GORE, Angst/horror content

Her train of thought is interrupted by the soft rustle of the flap serving as her tent door. The sanctity of the space interrupted by the chill of air that worms its way through the opening. The man enters, a bedroll under his arm. Their eyes lock. Grey meeting grey. Wordlessly, admission is granted. His apprehension melts away into the warm familiarity of their companionship. He perches next to her, a yellowed book in hand - Oral Histories of Faerun: Gith and Mind Flayers. She steals a glance at the crease of his brow as he reads. A peaceful moment amidst the chaos. She tucks it away into a corner of her mind.

The calming weight of night presses inwards. She finishes her prayers and snuffs the small dancing flame of her lantern. They lie back to back, serenaded by the chirp of crickets. Eyelids droop.

She awakes from the embrace of sleep for a reason she does not immediately realise. She stiffens. Her bedroll is wet beneath her. A thick metallic stench hangs in the air. Her companion’s breathing is wet and ragged, almost a gurgle. Her first assumption is his throat has been slit. But this amount of blood - too much. He should not be alive. Her confusion is paralysing. She can’t bring herself to turn around.

She feels herself reaching out with her mind with probing waves of psionics. The response she receives is not one of distress in any shape or form. It’s alive, pulsing with energy and permeated with an odd sense of serenity.

There’s a squelch as he turns over to face her, inching closer. A slimy hand clasps her shoulder. The stench of gore hangs thick in the air. His hands are too large. He’s missing a finger.

A flash. She glimpses herself through his eyes. He should not be able to see her through the darkness. Human eyes are not capable of such a feat.

Her eyes prickle with tears, ice cold fear immobilising her. This is wrong. This can't be happening. How? Why now?

She feels his now bisected jaw press against the back of her skull. Warm wet tentacles slither around her head and neck. She closes her eyes. She is helpless. She cannot bring herself to scream. Nobody will come to aid her. Her goddess has forgotten her.

Mindflayers are supposed to impose happy thoughts over their prey before consuming them. Fear ruins the taste. Yet, her mind is unmuddied - she is sharply aware of her all consuming terror.

She feels the prick of lamprey like teeth acquaint themselves with the back of her skull-

Shadowheart jerks awake, hands raising to protect her head instinctively. She scans her surroundings and allows the scream to die in her throat. The cleric lies around the campfire, her companions varying distances away from the blaze. She scowls to herself - must have overheated - and kicks off her blanket. There are no stars, not even a glimmer of sky. They lie in something akin to total darkness, save the light of the fire and the faint bioluminescence of the fungi and fauna of the Underdark. Inhospitable and dangerous. No wonder she is on edge.

Quentin’s mouth is slightly ajar, his cheek sticky in a growing pile of his own drool. Not a tentacle in sight, she thinks loudly. He looks pale and sweaty. Dark circles hang under his eyes (that could give Gale a run for his money). He’s fine, as normal as anyone can be in their situation. As normal as he can be after drinking a questionable, mind-altering and ultimately ineffective potion given to him by an escapee mindflayer. She scoffs to herself, all sensible rationale for his own well being goes out the window as he ‘takes one for the team’. He’d never said it out loud but she was convinced that was the reason.

The parasite squirming in his skull had already overpowered him once and has since grown stronger. A small voice in her head asks if he is the weak link. If he’ll doom them all. If she is a fool for even daring to be close to him, to be vulnerable. The dirty screaming elf in the hag’s basement implied as much - claiming he foresaw Quentin’s death, the birth of a mindflayer and consequential slaughter of the camp.

She dispels the shiver of doubt and steels her heart. Well-founded fear or not, she will keep this to herself. Besides, they have defied the odds this far. Nobody in this camp has any other options and logically it is safest to stick together. Ashamed, she tucks the flicker of irrational hope and affection in her chest somewhere where she hopes it won’t be snuffed. She has little to cling to. Lady Shar would not approve of such a relationship (not that one exists, she assures herself) - ‘love is arson’.

Suddenly, amongst her musings, his eyes are open. She freezes.

“Are you staring at me for… ah… normal reasons?” He mumbles, peeling his face from his bedroll.

“Ceremorphosis reasons.” She informs, with a half smile.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Damn.” Despite his grin at their inside joke there’s a look in his eyes so sombre that Shadowheart is compelled to say something witty to alleviate the gloom.

But all that comes out of her sleep-addled brain is: “You needn’t worry. No Quentacles.”

“Quen-?” He looks at her incredulously for a moment before the phrase properly registers and he is desperately trying to stifle his peals of laughter with his sleeve. His face reddens. Tears shine in his eyes. The muffled noise and shaking of his shoulders is enough to summon Scratch over to lick at his face.

“I meant- you know what I meant- it’s not that funny-“ She says bluntly, voice dropping to an annoyed hiss.

“Kind of is. What does that even imply? My own- what- brand? Style?” He hugs the dog around the scuff of his neck, beaming.

“Stop laughing so loud or you’ll wake the entire camp!”

Despite herself, she mirrors his smile.

[larkscribbles]

[here] [ao3]

Here’s the art for this month’s fanfic! Baldur’s Gate 3!! Shocking! Give it a peek if you’re interested. (The title is a big fancy word - Recalcitrance!)

[larkscribbles]

[here] [ao3]

It’s that time of the month! Fic time! Here’s my longest one yet! (A TESfest submission too.)

[larkscribbles]

🦑Caught to Order🦑

[ao3] Word count: 1006

Greater Marrows new fisherman ponders his abrupt arrival. A horrifying find jars him from his thoughts.

(Based off the start of the game so hopefully no spoilers!)

The sun had begun to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in swathes of yellow and orange. The sea slowly but surely had grown more agitated, now lapping aggressively at the sides of the fishing vessel. I lamented there was only one lousy rod on the loaned ship. It had done the job well enough so far, at least.

With nothing better to do, my mind drifted back to my abrupt arrival. The crash. I couldn’t remember much - the memory was blurred at the edges, distorted. It didn’t make sense. I could handle a boat, couldn’t I? The lighthouse hadn’t pierced the thick fog as it should have. As the mayor had said - “It was shining right at you”. In daylight my new vessel had passed the scene of the accident. The rock wasn’t there anymore. Or maybe it was - no - had it shifted? Damn it. It was as if the ever-present fog had muddied my own mind. The townsfolk almost seemed scared of it. The lighthouse keeper certainly was, the perpetual scowl etched on her face. Or maybe that was just when conversing with me - an outsider. Everyone else had been friendly enough.

I was jarred out of my thoughts by the telltale thrashing of a fish. The blanket of night had crept in - how long had it been? I stumbled towards the line. The catch fought with an unnatural strength and rhythm. Finally, I reeled it in, scarcely believing my eyes, choking on my own breath. The rod landed with a clatter, slamming the writhing thing onto the deck.

It should have been a squid but it wasn’t. Not entirely.

The mantle was intact but it soon ballooned into something grotesque and twisted. Soon the maroon head of the squid became ribbons of flesh, engulfed by a green glowing gelatinous sack. It was a miracle, or perhaps a curse that it was alive. Malformed tendrils writhed beneath it. No tentacles, eyes, or mouth to feed itself. Just a carrier… of… something. The smaller viridescent cores were suspended within a mass of goo. I dared not touch it. The blood - ichor more likely, it was thicker than blood - around the hook was black.

Panic seized my chest. I didn’t know what to do in the face of such an aberration. My face burned with heat despite the cold shards of fear that pierced my lungs with every breath. My ears rang in alarm, head began to throb the more I dared look at it. This was wrong. All wrong. A distant, distorted wail of a foghorn brought me back to my senses. I made an effort to slow my breathing with the rising and falling of the boat, consoling myself with the knowledge I was not far from Greater Marrow. I would return to solid land where I could steady my nerves and get an appraisal of this thing from the fishmonger there. Yes, I would be interested to hear his appraisal. He had asked for an odd fish. Not something like this- I took another steadying breath. It was just a fish, nothing more. As I turned the ship to leave, I saw it had stopped moving. It had died seconds since it was removed from the water and yet it continued to twitch and pulse out the corner of my eye. I doggedly focused on the lights of the town, revving the engine louder than needed to try and drown out my own thoughts. No matter how much it made my skin crawl it was just a fish.

The fishmonger did not seem surprised when the bell announced my arrival. He politely averted his gaze at my state of disarray, bushy eyebrows lowering to cover his eyes. His expression soon shifted when I presented my find to him, hands shaking. He knew I’d found it. This was far from a mere ‘deformity’ as he’d described. I was seized by a pang of guilt. I shouldn’t have given this to him, I shouldn’t have. I knew he intended to eat it. Eat it! He hadn’t been subtle about his intentions at all. I could be killing this man for all I know-

I had scarcely been listening to what the man was saying, his appraisal of it, head bobbing in approval. He picked up the specimen with no fear, feeling it for a moment before bringing a sharp knife to its side and splitting it cleanly in half. Green and black mingled on the wooden counter. An air of morbid curiosity settled as he picked out a square of fabric - a delicately patterned handkerchief, white with crimson thread - from within the sludge. I tried to focus. He paid me generously from the catch, asking I send more of these monstrosities his way should I find them. Bile burned my throat. The world swayed precariously beneath my feet as if I was still at sea.

In the blink of an eye I found myself back in my boat, in bed, suppressing the urge to tremble. I would not be able to sleep if I did not find peace now. Shapes and shadows danced tauntingly across the cabin window, until a man manifested from the darkness. My stomach lurched, the cold shock of fear spreading through my system. His face was entirely obscured by the contrast of the glare from the light inside the cabin against the dark sky and sea. I scrambled to my feet. He leant against the frame, unperturbed by my horror.

“I know what you took to the fishmonger. And I’ll be clear - I know he extracted an artifact from it. I need to inspect it. But not here. Meet me on Blackstone Isle. Head out of this bay and cut South. I have a business proposition for you that you’ll want to hear.”

Suddenly he stepped backwards, the night enveloping him like a cloak. He did not wait to hear my response. His final words rang in my ears, haunting.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Sleep did not find me that night.

[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.

[larkscribbles]

Skyrim fic ft. The Face Sculptor and Dragonborn!Quentin! Fixing his nose might help save the world.

[AO3] [Tumblr]

[larkscribbles]

Afterwards

[Ao3] 950 words

Link could not sleep and Tatl knew he needed the rest, the relentless hour-after-hour pace of their quest had finally got to him. She tried to open up to him and he actually returned the favour, much to her surprise.

O==[]===========================>

The inn room was dark, the soft colours of the wallpaper muted. The preparations for the festival, the bustling town square, the sawing of wood and construction had been reduced to a muffled backdrop of sound. This was some form of reprieve. Goddesses know that’s what the boy needed. Battered and bruised, bones leaden with exhaustion. But, from the twitch of his eyes beneath his eyelids Tatl knew he was only feigning sleep. An attempt to fool himself, perhaps. Because despite everything he could still hear the slow methodical tick of the clock tower. Time ticking down. Despite the distance between them, he could feel the unrelenting fiery-eyed gaze of the mask and the moon.

Tatl descended as quietly as she could, inwardly cursing the fact she could not help but radiate light. She had some idea of what she should say - positive affirmations and encouraging Link to get some sleep. Burning the candle at both ends would just… get him killed. Hmm. Perhaps best not to say that part.

She had advanced close enough to nestle into his hat but stopped short when she noticed the tears glittering down his rounded cheeks, staining the pillow. Suddenly, his eyes were trained on her, big and blue, shining like pools of water. This was as child-like as Tatl had ever seen him, contrary to his usual persona. A look of exhaustion, defeat, being overwhelmed. The fairy halted in the air, jangling with alarm.

“I’m tired.” He croaked, voice small. Was this an admission or a dismissal?

Tatl had quickly come to suspect Link was not a regular boy, sword and horse aside. There was too much familiarity with this sort of situation. He had conquered dungeons and their trials with a clinical calm - something just short of a practiced ease. He went toe to toe with beasts and foul creatures alike, child-size sword and shield in hand. He had not offered anything in the way of an explanation. He seemed to flit from being a talkative kid who asked too-mature questions to a quiet, contemplative… for lack of a better word… thing.

“Not surprising. You should get some rest.” A pause. “The moon won’t suddenly start speeding up. You can sleep for days, if you want! Two to be exact.” Another pause. She had clearly misspoken. The humor was a little too dark, perhaps.

The boy replied with a noise between a grunt and a whine. “Can’t sleep. Not like that lullaby I learnt is going to work on me.” The brief shaky smile that graced his features disappeared in an instant, like a fleeting shadow of childhood innocence. There was the glint of the blue ocarina in one of his palms, even now. The smooth surface, a comfort.

“I can still hear it. I- there’s just too much going on.”

Who could blame him?

“Yeah. You just gotta… not think about it.” She tried, glancing to the curtains obscuring the window. “Hey uhm. I just want you to know I’m- I’m glad we found your horse. Skullkid would have never- I don’t-” She finished her sentence with a huff of frustration, then resumed jerkily. “I’m sorry about all… about how we met, ok? You- you can get that off your mind now, at least.”

A small muffled “mhm” filled the room. Link averted his gaze to the wall, golden eyelashes eclipsing his iris. “What’re you gonna do when this is over?”

Tatl bobbed uncertainly in the air. “Depends how this goes,” she mumbled in a small voice. “My brother, my friend. I don’t want to lose them.”

“You won’t.” His voice lowered, to scarcely a whisper.

“So, uh, what about you-?”

“I ‘unno. Leave, maybe? I came here looking for a friend who… left. I don’t know where she went. I don’t think she’s here.”

“Oh.”

“Her name’s Navi. A fairy. My friend. My fairy. Even though I wasn’t supposed to have one- or I was- but I’m not-” Link sat up with a grunt of frustration. His face was overshadowed but Tatl could make out how he quickly blinked his tears away. The boy took a moment to compose himself, dangling his feet off the edge of the bed. “It’s complicated.”

“Take your time.” Another poor choice of words. They both winced at the irony.

A steadying breath. His hands balled into fists on his lap, eyes trained on the floor.

“I’ve done this before. Time travel. Saving the world. Bigger jump, seven years, I was- was an adult for a bit-” he swallowed thickly, brow furrowing as his eyes danced with visions. “But it doesn’t matter now, because it all… reset and nobody remembers anything. I did my duty and now I have nothing. Nothing I did - nobody I met - everything I sacrificed - I don’t - I don’t have a home to go back to. Nobody to truly accept me. Epona is my only friend but obviously she’s not-.”

“Oh. Oh, Link- I-” She faltered, at a loss for words. This was worse than she could have imagined.

“Navi was there with me through it all - like you - she remembered. But then - she left and I don’t know where she went.” The heels of his palms found his eyes and his entire frame shook with the effort of trying not to make a sound. His voice hitched as he choked out the next part. “She left without saying anything.”

Tatl descended to his shoulder, to provide some reassuring weight.

“You’re going to leave too after this.” He breathed in a small, broken voice. “You have people to go to, you said it yourself.”

The fairy weighed her words for a moment. “I’ll tell you, before I go, I promise.”

[larkscribbles]

How To Break The News

[AO3] Words: 1369

Relmyna Verenim has been distraught since the Greymarch, abandoned by her Lord. The sudden appearance of Sheograth’s champion “for a chat” days later is just a further irritation. The universe would be cruel to throw anything else unexpected at her.

Relmyna Verenim was startled by the knock at her door. Few in the Shivering Isles remembered to knock. Fewer still knew of her laboratory in the ruins of Xaselm. The knock was far too forceful to be her apprentice. The dunmer pursed her lips. The Greymarch had ended, surely her beloved Sheogorath would return soon. He would knock. The madwoman sucked in a lungful of stale air before opening the door.

Sheogorath’s champion.

Relmyna deflated.

There was something off about the sudden appearance that encouraged the mage to withhold her usual tone. There was, in her mind, little reason for this visit.

“What do you want?” There was a conscious effort to keep her voice neutral as opposed to irritated.

The armoured woman hovered in the doorway, expression concealed behind her helm.

“To talk.”

The inclination of the champion’s voice seemed to hint at something else; an expectation of different response. Upon their first and subsequent meetings Relmyna had quickly discovered the champion was never adept at hiding her motives or emotions. No, Avery was a very simple woman. A warrior (barely a spellsword) and nothing more.

“About?” Relmyna prodded, raising both eyebrows.

“May I come in?” The imperial’s tone lacked its usual rumble. A gauntlet was waved in the general direction of a chair. This, once again, surprised the sorceress. She had never seen this level of etiquette before. She half obliged out of surprise. This was rehearsed, surely. Avery took a seat, removed her helmet with a clank, then stared at Relmyna. Eyes narrowed. Lips pursed. One could practically hear the gears whirring in her head. Perhaps not so rehearsed. Her hostess watched, exasperation growing by the second. The women both opened their mouths to speak at the same time. The warrior finally took the initiative, swallowing thickly.

“I need to tell you something. Potentially…” she faltered, suddenly losing her focus quickly, brow furrowing. “… What is that?”

Relmyna humoured the question, fighting down the fury bubbling inside her. This entire endeavour felt childish, stupid, the champion had visited her laboratory before. She knew of its contents. What was the point of this? The woman could scarcely act, she was certainly feigning something. Her red eyes flicked to the skinned hound on her operating table, then up to her shelf of alchemical supplies, then-

The dunmer paused as her ears picked up the distinct noise of scrambling and a rustle of fur. She turned sharply on her heel. For a fleeting second her first impulse was to laugh, this was quickly overcome with white hot rage.

“Are you mocking me?!” The sorceress nearly screamed, teeth bared, red eyes boring holes into the champion.

“No, not at all.” Her voice had returned to its usual monotone, face showing little emotion. Avery sat in the seat exactly the same as before.

The only thing new was the beard.

The shoddily constructed fake beard was misaligned on her face from the rush of putting it on. The same sickly shade of purple as her hair. Darker in patches due to whatever crude adhesive it had been stuck together with. Apparently somehow it had been hidden within the depths of her armour. What was Relmyna to think of this? What was the point of such a ploy?

“Humour me.” Her voice dropped low, before bouncing up to a mock conversational tone. Frankly, given the woman’s usual behaviour, it was unsettling. “How do you like my beard?”

“Your fake beard?”

Avery rolled her eyes and waved a hand. “Ok, but functionally it’s a beard. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Many things.”

“Any… laws?”

“Even attempting the growth of a beard is deemed unseemly by law,” The sorceress spat, knowing she was being directed towards some enigmatic point, but not what it was. She did not appreciate the feeling of being herded like a sheep. She narrowed her eyes, adding patronisingly “By unseemly I mean punishable by death.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. But, regardless, that’s not a problem for me.” Her tone was practiced, dismissive, almost bored.

“How are you above the law?!”

“Sheogorath has a beard and it’s fine.”

This was the final straw. The outrage brings crackling magic to her fingertips. The instigator doesn’t flinch. This angers her more. She SHOULD. She should fear what my wrath can bring. The outburst comes as a torrent of words.

“You dare? You fetcher! You s’wit! You think you can just…! Mock our lord like this? Is this what it’s about?! Just because of an absence you- you- what do you want me to say?! Our Lord isn’t coming back? He won’t punish you because He abandoned us? He HAD a beard?!” Relmyna’s voice cracked with a rage. She felt wetness on her cheeks. By the Madgod she was crying. Damn it. “I won’t stand for this! You’ll pay for this! I’ll- I’ll-”

The Champion did not shrink into herself but seemed aware of the severity of the outburst, a flicker of sympathy crossed her face. Crying. Not good. Relmyna did not cry about much. Her lips pursed as she smoothed the beard. She let out a small sigh and then spoke once more, voice soft.

“Has a beard.”

Slowly, her hand raised.

“It’s not a real one…”

The champion simply pointed to herself.

The sorceress’ chest heaved, so taken aback she was at a loss for words. She blinked fervently, scanning her guest’s face through her veil of tears for… something. Anything. A hint that it was a cruel joke. But unfortunately for her, she knew Avery was too blunt to be this cruel and frankly too stupid to make a decent joke in the first place.

The warrior fiddled with the neckpiece of her cuirass, averting her eyes. There was silence save the scrape of gauntlet against the metal. After some struggle, she allowed the familiar ornate collar of purple finery poke over her armour. Her voice terse when she finally spoke, bitterness permeating every word. “You don’t defeat a Daedric Prince in combat as… just … no matter how hard you want to.”

Relmyna felt faint. This was hysterical. No it wasn’t- this was horrible- The room was closing in on her, she could feel it forcing the air from her lungs. The colour drained from her face. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, gulping wetly whilst trying to find words. But what? What could she say? What could she do?

“Have you always been Sheogorath?”

“No.”

“How? For how long?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how this works.”

An uneasy blanket of silence settled.

“Some people could tell. I couldn’t tell- didn’t feel any different- the guards knew immediately. Haskill said you might not know and-” Avery itched the side of her face, removing the beard as there was no longer any need for it. “I’m not very good with- I was- Haskill advised against the… beard. But I didn’t know how else to- you wouldn’t have believed me if I’d just-“

She let the words hang in the air as she met Relmyna’s eyes, hoping for some glimmer of understanding. Everything spewing forth from her mouth was a mess, even with the enchanted doublet on which was supposed to help. Wordlessly, the dunmer plucked the beard from her hands and observed it, contemplative.

“This is disgusting. Your own hair-“ The sorceress scoffed as she tried to remove the clumps now adhered to her fingers.

“I didn’t have anything else to use. Not like Haskill had any to spare.”

A pause. The dark elf made a noise between laughing and crying, then steadied her breathing. “This was your idea? You really have gone mad.”

Avery shuffled in response, brow furrowed. Before she could open her mouth, Relmyna interjected. “Tell Haskill I liked the beard. That it was a masterful way of telling me. I don’t truly think that, I just want to spite him. I hate that old fool.” She smiled thinly, voice shaky.

Avery tutted, a ghost of a smirk on her face. “He’s only doing his job - giving me advice I won’t take.”

“That’s at least one constant of Sheogorath.”

The Daedric Prince’s expression faltered, settling on resignation. “I suppose it is.”

[larkscribbles]

TESfest day 2: Beloved

Words: 445 [Ao3]

A little ficlet for y’all. Big angst.

Thank you for hosting @tes-summer-fest!

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

She strides out of the arena briskly, heavy armour clanking. Her dwarven helmet restricts her view to a slit. People bustle around her, busy with their own lives, they pay her no heed. She does not hear the small patter of shoes against the cobbles pick up into an excited run. She screeches to a halt as a mop of bright yellow hair - comically flamelike - impedes her view. She frowns. She looks down.

"Wow! You're the Grand Champion! I saw your fight against the Gray Prince! You're the best! Can I... Can I follow you around? I won't get in the way!"

His smile is so bright, hazel eyes alight with joy. The child practically bounces on the balls of his feet. He’s nervous; unsure what to do with his hands. He unclenches them, fiddles with the hem of his dark green shirt, then folds them in front of himself.

Avery’s throat is tight. She does not deserve this praise. What occurred in the arena could not be considered a fight. She had tried to let the Gray Prince die with honor. After all, he had asked her to challenge him. This was the nature of the arena. It was what he wanted. A warrior’s death. She thought she had understood.

He is burned into her mind’s eye. He stands there inert, arms wide. He does not fight back.

She walks doggedly back through the blood works. Gladiators that she had trained alongside spit at her as she passes. Snarling, weeping, cursing her name. She killed their friend, not just the champion. Owyn is the only one glad to see her. She takes a small solace in that. She may be a champion beloved by the people, but not by her peers. The Gray Prince, Agronak gro-Malog, was beloved by all.

Guilt is an iron ball in her stomach. She is the monster they claim she is. The visit from the hooded stranger in the night, asking for her allegiance, pressing a murderer’s dagger into her hands confirmed her fears.

How does she explain this to a boy? The answer is she simply cannot. She swallows thickly, considering her words. She does not wish to be too blunt. What would Baurus say?

“Beat it, kid. I don't need a fan.”

The elf’s face falls in an instant, eyes dropping to the floor, mouth twisting into a pout. "Aw gee! You sure? Okay, well, I'll be hanging around the Arena grounds if you need someone to worship the ground you walk on. Bye!" He scampers off, disappearing into the crowd.

The name Dragonheart leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She should not have chose it.

[larkscribbles]

Fated Fortune

Words: 4306

[Ao3]

Canon typical violence.

@tes-summer-fest ‘s day 1 prompt: arcane/beast

(Not sure how much more content I can chug out this week but this was super fun!)

Dungeon delving will never be a safe profession. Delving into daedric ruins even less so. Perhaps fate will be kind to the trio of thieves spurred by desperation. Perhaps not.

(Set in Skyrim era but with ESO content thrown in for spice.)