#larkscrawls

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Echoes of Wisdom drawing for my fic “An Echo Back”. I swear this is the first Zelda I haven’t done dirty. Drawing chibis is fun to practice.

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An Echo Back

Words: 1,232 [Ao3]

Set postgame in Echoes of Wisdom! (SPOILERS.)

The conclusion of their adventure has given Princess Zelda a lot to think about and Link certainly has his own concerns to bring up. This only brings more questions and highlights an uncertain future.

The princess and swordsman sat perched on a corner turret of Hyrule castle. The two had fallen into a comfortable silence, exhausted from the events of the day. Combating ancient evils was apparently exhausting, whether you wielded a piece of the triforce or not. Things were different now it was over, it was something in the air. The hours of the day had advanced without notice, the creep of twilight swathed the sky in pale yellows and lavender purples. Zelda turned the Tri Rod over again in her hands, a weight heavy in her chest. It no longer buzzed with power. Despite the twisted yellow and green wood, it might as well have been any old staff. No. She chided herself internally. It was a memento of her friend. Zelda couldn’t help but feel the word implied some kind of mourning. She tried to untangle the knot of emotion inside her with her mind. Tri and their friends were with the Goddesses. Safe. Happy. She wished them a peaceful sleep. She was sad. It wasn’t a teary kind of sad, but she knew the feeling would linger for some time. A rift in her heart that she would have to close herself.

Perhaps the atmosphere had not been as comfortable as she had initially assumed, for the Princess’ attention was drawn to the sound of her companion standing. Link walked the perimeter of the turret, once, then twice, eyes downcast and searching. His hand flexed on the pommel of his sword, not in any attempt to draw it, Zelda assumed it was some way to ground himself.

“Link?” She prompted. It still felt odd to put the name to a face. (A hylian face, not a malicious duplicate.) “Is something wrong?”

The swordsman held her gaze, expression conveying a gravity that urged the princess to her feet. His hands made a flurry of gestures she struggled to follow. Zelda’s face contorted, she lamented her education did not cover sign language. Link seemed to understand her confusion and changed tactics. He tugged at his cloak, then bared his teeth, fingers twisting into an imitation of claws. Zelda blinked.

“Monster?”

He gestured at his cloak again. Zelda connected the dots. “Blue. The blue monster. You’re worried about it.” She paused, searching the recesses of her mind. “We…” she started, heavily considering her word choice, for it had been a team effort overall. “… fought an echo of it. You’re worried the actual thing is still out there?”

Link gave one of his signature curt nods. He dropped to a knee, tracing a jagged outline on the floor. Zelda had seen enough rifts to identify the shape.

“We closed the rift.” She nodded.

Link stepped to the inner wall of the castle, extending a hand to the town and its inhabitants, who were in the midst of clearing up the impromptu celebration. (Her father had assured them both the formal one would begin a different day so they could rest.)

“Everyone returned... I- oh. I see. The monster should be with us. But, that is assuming it didn’t fade away. That was something Tri said would happen if one stayed too long in the Still World. You just cease to exist.”

The swordsman seemed to accept this answer with an angling of his head. He seemed to relax slightly, enough that his left hand fell from his blade. The princess cringed as a flicker of doubt lingered in her mind. She considered the Tri Rod. “Then again, I don’t know if you could make an echo of something that doesn’t exist anymore. I never tried it. Maybe Null could. It seemed to have a stronger sorcerous might than me.”

Link’s arms were folded now, weight shifted onto one of his feet. His jaw was tightly set. He looked off into the mists of the Eternal Woods. Zelda moved to stand beside him, boots clicking against the stone floor.

“I’m sure if the beast did return we could deal with it.” She spoke softly, if a little suddenly, extending a hand to try and comfort him. Her fingers barely grazed the shoulder of his tunic before Link jerked away, eyes wide. She had never seen him this wrong-footed, he looked taken aback. Embarrassed at having not fully comprehended the gesture until it was too late. Zelda recovered quickly by turning her raised arm into a thinking hand on her chin. She tried to carry the momentum into a joke. “I’d just need to convince Lueburry to make me a blade that rivals your Sword of Might. Which might be quite a feat given… no more crystals will show up on account of there being no more rifts to fix… I’d also need formal sword fighting lessons, so there’s that. Unless we could find another way I could just borrow all your sword fighting skills!” She gave him a smile to show all was well.

Link looked relieved but the tips of his ears had gone noticably red. He gave her a slow nod. His mouth was something just shy of a smile, no longer downturned and something above neutral. He scrubbed at an eye with his sleeve.

“I think it’s best if we retire soon. I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s quite a trek back to Suthorn at this hour… I’m sure my father made it apparent you’re very welcome to stay for the night. There’s a spare room next to mine on the East wing of the castle.”

Link’s two emphatic nods spoke for themselves so the pair departed. Zelda spun the Tri Rod in her hand. She wondered if she had been slightly spoiled on her travels, if she was going to have to get used to not having the ability to conjure anything (including a copy of her own bed when desired). Then again, echoes of food had been distinguishable from their counterpart so perhaps the real deal was superior. Zelda bid goodnight to the king, not wanting to risk herself or Link being drawn into any more lengthy conversations.

As they arrived outside the two doors, Zelda was struck with the realisation another parting might follow. After this adventure Link surely intended to return home, but would he stay there? Admittedly, they hadn’t known each other for all that long. Could they even be considered… friends? Those were hard to get as a princess. She cleared her throat. “Should you need anything, I am next door. Goodnight, Link.”

As Zelda pushed open the door to her room, she felt a hand at her shoulder. She turned. At first she assumed Link was giving her a nod, then realised the motion looked slightly odd. His shoulders were high, eyes on the floor. It took a couple of false starts.

“Good- Goodnight.” His voice wavered from disuse. He made an effort to meet her eye, smiled politely, gave the princess a curt bow and hurriedly excused himself to his room. The door closed with a click.

Zelda struggled to hide her delight. “Goodnight!” She called again, emphatically, through the door. “Sleep well!”

She floated into her own room, giddy. The princess pressed her back against the inside of the door, hands over her mouth. She certainly felt… ‘thank you’ as Tri would have put it. Her cat watched her from atop the bed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Don’t give me that look,” Zelda hissed.

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Tfw you don’t know if your pal who’s a vampire can eat regular food or drink her hot appy juice.

(I wrote a silly little Skyrim fanfic) [speedpaint]

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Meme redraw to promote my fic Pyrrhic!

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

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Hungry?

Word count: 1,514 [Ao3]

Following their meeting in Dimhollow Crypt, the Dragonborn and Serana stop in Morthal for the night. The vampire is given a moment to reflect on the past, what she must do in the present and an inkling of what the future might hold. (Set at the start of the dawnguard dlc.)

Serana did not think highly of Morthal, a smattering of thatched roof buildings mired in a gunky half-slush marsh. The few people they met outside were just as icy as the weather. Serana’s inner bookworm would have imagined a future of flourishing cities, mind-bending magical and technological advancements. Instead, Skyrim remained barren, cold and perpetually layered in a thick swathe of snow. She was sure the fading daylight did not help this sentiment. In fact, it caused her companion to lose his footing and stagger up the three remaining wooden steps to the inn. He acknowledged this flailing and windmilling by clearing his throat and a curt “Tired.”

In all fairness, she was too, despite having slept for hundreds of years. It had been a long trek to get anywhere near this level of civilization. Her limbs were stiff from exertion and the cold.

The Moorside Inn, despite being one of the largest structures in the city, was particularly devoid of life. A combination of a distrust of outsiders and the late hour, one would assume. While her associate made a beeline for the innkeep, Serana perched on a stool and allowed herself a moment to take it all in. The air was warm, tinged with the thick scents of smoke and wood. The room was wreathed in orange, illuminated by the licks of flame persisting in the firepit. It was lived in and homely, a far cry from the cold stone of Castle Volkihar. She found her mind wondering how her home had changed in her absence. The brief warmth of nostalgia was promptly snuffed by the bitter thoughts of her father. She hoped he had not become too embroiled in his obsession, she hoped he had come to his senses. And her mother… Serana blinked hard enough to focus her mind back on the present. The man she had encountered, Quentin, seemed capable enough to take her to the castle and smart enough to let her do the talking when they arrived. He was presently stumbling over his own words, gaze flicking between the innkeep and her. Hm. Perhaps not.

“Two beds, please. Uh- not a double bed- like two seperate - do you want to be in different rooms? I’ll pay.” He had splayed his palms in an indeterminate gesture, presumably some sort of asking for her input.

Serana thought on it a moment, then shrugged. “No difference to me.”

He seemed relatively happy by this, but the quirk of his brow and the way his mouth pressed into a thin smile suggested some awkward undercurrent. His voice quietened and he leaned over the desk conspiratorially. “So, uhm, what’s cheaper?”

This earned him a hearty chuckle from the innkeep.

The vampire rolled her eyes and busied herself with unbuckling her cloak. The wet bundle of cloth it had been reduced to reminded her why she disliked the snow. She laid it out on the seat next to her, the thing certainly needed to dry. Her companion strolled into view, two mugs in hand.

“Hot cider. I don’t know if you like cider. Or- or if you can have it with your… uhm. If you’re allergic to apples or something. If you don’t like it I can definitely drink two-“

“It’s great, thank you.” Serana wrapped her hands around the sides of the mug, enjoying the warmth emanating from it. She then made a very obvious show of sipping it to clarify her point.

“Oh. Good. Great. Uhh. Jonna said she’d be around to ask about food. Are you… hungry?” He pulled a stupid face when he said this. It was the agonising kind of face that exemplified how extremely unsure the Dragonborn was of what he just said: raised eyebrows and a lopsided mouth, one side angled down to a comical degree.

“Why yes, Quentin, I could certainly eat some food right now.” She stressed the words from between gritted teeth. He narrowed his eyes as if this would help him discern whether this was a euphemism or not. “Apples and anything else are fine with me.”

The shadow on his face seemed to immediately lift, his teeth flashed in the firelight. “Oh! That’s good. That’s nice. I just didn’t- haven’t met anyone- anyone like you- with your- I’m trying not to be rude.” He finished disjointedly. “I-have-been-attacked-by-people-with-your-dietary-condition-but-I-appreciate-that’s-different-”

Serana barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Seeing the rapidly approaching innkeeper, she bowed her head slightly to avoid direct eye contact.

“You two are lucky that you got here so late. Narrowly missed out on our bard’s caterwauling. Don’t got too much left at this hour, or in general but I can heat you up some beef stew if that’ll do the trick. Can throw in some bread too.” The redguard woman’s expression was welcoming but tired.

“Yes. Good for me!” The Dragonborn flashed a thumbs up. Serana took a moment to absorb this - it wasn’t just any thumbs up, it was a double thumbs up, with his lopsided grin. By the divines, this man’s social skills… had the times changed this much? She mirrored the action on knee-jerk impulse, internally cringing at herself for it.

“Yes. Thank you,” she offered curtly.

“So where are you two headed? Figure you’re not staying in Morthal.”

Serana tried to not let the flicker of concern show on her face. It had been so long since she’d been around Skyrim. She didn’t know if any excuse she could conjure up would hold anymore. What if place names had changed drastically? She didn’t want to have to use any of her vampiric abilities if she could help it.

“Solitude. I just moved and Serana here’s going to show me the capital.” The lie rolled off his tongue surprisingly well given his prior social ineptitude, it made the vampire wonder if it was intentional.

“Ah. That’s nice.”

Serana didn’t know how intensely she was being scrutinised, nor did she want to know. She concealed herself behind her mug, made an indiscriminate grunt and stalled for time until she sensed the woman had left. Then she spoke, voice still low. “There was a civil war last time I… in the second era. One side’s capital city was Windhelm and the other was Solitude. Guess that explains who won.”

“Oh. Right. I haven’t read too much of the history.”

Serana found herself taken aback. “But you-?”

“My job is more in the realm of ancient history. And uh the prophecies.” He registered the incredulous look on Serana’s face. Quentin broke out into something just short of a laugh. “Nothing to do with my current title, well, not initially. My job! I am- was- uh- a dungeon delver.”

“So crawling through crypts wasn’t too unfamiliar.”

“No, not really. The corpses reanimating themselves in front of you is, kinda. But I’m not a graverobber, obviously.” He waved his hands enthusiastically before the gesture abruptly ended. “It wasn’t just me. I had a team and uh- I’m waiting for them here. They said they’d meet me here in Winterhold. Do- do you have any friends? I meant- as in friends around Skyrim?”

“Ah. No. I had quite a lonely upbringing at the castle. Was pretty isolated.”

“Oh. Right. I see. And- and-”

“And I’m going back there.” She finished his thought with a bow of her head.

“Yeah.”

Words unspoken hung thick in the air. The tension was cut by the scrape of wood against wood - two steaming bowls. By oblivion that woman had snuck up on them!

“Stew’s up. Enjoy.” Jonna smiled warmly, then made herself scarce. Perhaps she was just closing up for the night, or perhaps she had sensed the shift in the atmosphere.

“I have a house in Whiterun, if you’re ever around. Breezehome.” Quentin panted between mouthfuls of steam, not waiting for his food to sufficiently cool.

Despite the flicker of warmth that ignited in her chest at the gesture, Serana found herself dodging the question. “Is that a dragon thing? You trying to practice breathing fire?”

“Doesn’t help. Tried before. ‘M just hungry.” He whined to himself, unable to cool his tongue on his warmed cider. “Gonna try eating fire salts next - uh - that was a joke, obviously.”

She laughed genuinely but briefly. The feeling was fleeting, marred by the keenness of her obligations to her family, as sharp as the frosts outside. The least she needed to do was to find her mother. Companionship was a welcome but momentary reprieve from the weight of it all.

No. Serana willed herself to live in the moment. She was allowed to think of the present and future, it was healthy to do so. She just needed to close the previous chapter of her life. Get a proper conclusion to it all. The vampire was snapped out of her thoughts, stomach growling at her lack of anything after centuries of sleep. She’d have to get something proper later tonight. “Guess I’m hungry too.” She drawled in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

“Oh. Yeah. When was the last time you ate?”

“A while back.”

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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’.

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

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[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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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[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!)

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[here] [ao3]

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

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🦑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.

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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?

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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.

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