#marcien's art

[shapelytimber]

He slept rather soundly for a murderer <3

[COMMISSIONS] - [PRINT] - [TES TAROT]

You'll never believe who managed to fix her Oblivion and began playing again dkjjnnklb

If you're interested, it's up as a print on my inprint !!!

Process and usual rambling below vvv

I've wanted to draw these two for such a long time ! Ever since I saw @t00thpasteface 's art and comics (you should check them out if you've never seen them before, they're *very* good), I've kinda fell in love with their dynamic ? who can blame me ! The skillful assassin being tasked to kill the new emperor, but don't go through with it because the man kinda cute and offered him wine fnflfl incredible (and don't get me started on the whole former priest of sanguine so maybe they already met before bit, I will start eating dry wall)- also it's a ship based on two characters who never met and I love that shit (if you've seen my stardew valley fanarts, you already know that dkfkk)

But I wanted to add my own spin on it :) by making lucien lachance the most hedonistic little cunt you've ever seen fkdkld the man is drinking fine wine first thing in the morning after the getting the best dick of his life- and making him eat what can only be describe as the most aggressively cliché french breakfast :))) as a treat (my french ass trying to come up with a decadent breakfast : hmmmmm how about jam on baguette and wine ?)

PS : and remember ! The first rule of perspective is to have fun and be yourself :D second rule is to never ask me where the floor is

[t00thpasteface]

lucien has learned a valuable lesson: former Sanguine cultists cannot be intimidated by just brandishing a weapon and handling them roughly. they will simply pull an uno reverse card on you...

[abstractredd]

a bit of a compromising position…

[stellarsightz]

by talos this can't be happening i can't believe i forgot to post this 😵‍💫

a silly marcien drawing for my sweet valentine, @abstractredd <333

(partially inspired by their fic, please please PLEASE go check it out)

[its-spelt-sheogorath]

Redraw of the final panels of a Marcien comic by @t00thpasteface because Marcien is becoming my artblock ship and because i cannot get that comic out of my head aaaaaaaaa so here you go!

Frames under the cut - w-

[its-spelt-hermaeus-mora]

@t00thpasteface You. You did this to me. I’m stuck in Marcien hell and it’s your doing.

[t00thpasteface]

WAAAAAAA i'm SOOOO blessed to be given this and honored to share it!! 🙏 THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!

@t00thpasteface some more fuel for your marcien ship and your sailors. A royal assassin doing royal assassin stuff!

[gauntermetaverse]

I've started a sequel for the Last wish.

Looking Glass

Chapter 1. Home.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

The gentle sound of a familiar voice roused Iris from her slumber, coaxing her out of the warm and soft cocoon of blankets she had wrapped herself in. She let out a contented sigh, still drifting in the realm between sleep and wakefulness.

"How much longer are you going to sleep?" The voice asked again, teasingly.

"Mmm..."

Iris turned onto her other side, burying herself deeper into the blankets, hiding from the bright light, with no intention of opening her eyes just yet.

"Iris Bilewitz, get up right now! I'm waiting for you downstairs."

"Oh, Papa!"

Without opening her eyes, she sat up in bed, tossing the blanket aside. What day was it? Something important was happening today. Ah yes, Oxenfurt! Iris immediately opened her eyes remembering with a joy that she would be accompanying her father to visit his sister and, finally, apply for the Art course at the Academy.

Iris swung her legs over the side of the bed, and the chill of the cold stone floor made her shiver as her bare feet touched it. She fumbled around, feeling for her house shoes—a pair of soft, fur-lined slippers—until her toes finally brushed against them under the bed. Gratefully, she slipped them on, enjoying the immediate warmth.

The morning sunlight poured through the window, casting warm golden beams across her room. It illuminated the paintings on the walls, the easel in the corner, and the half-finished sketch resting on the desk. The scent of fresh air mingled with the lingering perfume of flowers from the garden below, filling the space with a sense of peace and promise.

She stood up quickly, the excitement of the day overtaking her sleepy haze. Today wasn’t just any day—it was the day. Oxenfurt, the Academy, everything she had dreamed of. She darted toward her wardrobe, pulling out her favorite dress—a simple but elegant violet gown, perfect for making an impression without feeling too formal. The fabric felt cool and smooth against her skin as she put it on in hurried motions.

Her hands moved instinctively, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress before rushing to the large oak desk in the corner of her room. There, neatly stacked, was her portfolio—her collection of sketches, drawings, and small paintings, carefully assembled for this very moment. Iris paused for a brief second, her fingers brushing over the cover of the portfolio.

She hesitated, then opened it, flipping through the pages one last time. Each drawing told a part of her story—delicate sketches of the Bilewitz estate, vivid portraits of the people she loved, and still-life paintings filled with the colors and bloom. Her heart swelled with pride and a touch of nervousness as she studied the strokes and lines, the hours of work and passion poured into each piece.

Iris flipped through her sketches quickly, her eyes landing on one that made her pause—a face, broad and somewhat comical, stared back at her from the page. Her younger brother, Marcien. She couldn’t help but smile, though it was accompanied by a roll of her eyes.

“Marcassin,” she whispered under her breath, the funny nickname slipping out before she could stop herself.

Her brother was two years younger, with large, almost exaggerated facial features, and a build that suggested he preferred pastries over physical activity. His round face, slightly pudgy cheeks, framed by his too-big nose and overly serious expression, stared back from the sketch. Captured in a moment of his usual irritation, Marcien looked like he was trying too hard to appear important. His brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line—he wanted to be taken seriously, though his awkward demeanor often ruined the effect.

Iris couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for him despite his frustrating attempts to sneak into her room or make a mess of her supplies. Marcassin—"wild little piggy"—she had called him since they were children. His name was too similar not to tease him, and though he pretended to hate it, he’d grown used to the nickname, just as he’d grown used to her being the favorite.

Another sketch she held now had captured one of funny moments—Marcien, completely engrossed, sitting on the floor with her old doll in hand, lost in his own little world. His face was twisted into an exaggerated expression as he mimicked voices and acted out some dramatic scene, blissfully unaware that she had been watching him from the doorway. She had sketched him quietly, capturing the ridiculous yet endearing sight of her overgrown younger brother caught up in a game he would never admit to playing.

“You only draw me when I look ridiculous,” he’d probably say if he saw it.

But how could she resist? Marcien, always trying so hard to act older, always reaching for some semblance of maturity, but constantly undone by his own clumsiness. Despite everything, she loved him—her Marcassin—for the very things that made him so easy to tease.

With a sigh, she closed the huge folder and glanced out the window. The sun was already higher in the sky, the light pouring in and reminding her that she needed to hurry. Her brother would probably still be asleep, sprawled out in bed, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows, pretending he didn’t care that today was important to her, even though he would miss her when she left for Oxenfurt.

"Better get downstairs before Papa goes," she thought with a smirk, grabbing her portfolio and rushing out of the room.

Iris hurried down the grand staircase, her heart light with the excitement of the day ahead. The familiar creaks of the wooden steps beneath her feet and the soft murmur of voices from downstairs reassured her, grounding her in the comfort of home.

But as she almost reached the bottom of the stairs, something felt... off. The warm sunlight streaming through the tall windows cast long shadows on the floor, but it wasn’t the shadows themselves that unsettled her. All noises have gone silent. A sudden, thick silence that seemed to swallow the usual sounds of the house. As she reached the last stairways, her steps faltered and she stopped midway through her descent. She saw a familiar silhouette stood by the tall windows, bathed in golden morning light.

“Papa?” she called out, still cheerful, though something in her voice wavered.

The figure turned slowly, the familiar lines of her father’s coat and broad shoulders coming into view. But when he glanced back, her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t her father at all.

The face that looked back at her was impossibly familiar yet utterly wrong—those piercing eyes, that slightest smirk. Gaunter O’Dimm. Tilting his head he started to move slowly towards her, interlocking his fingertips in a familiar gesture. His gaze locked onto hers, and in that moment, multiple flashes of lighting struck across her memory.

Time itself seemed to fracture around her. The smile that had just tugged at the corners of her lips froze in place. For a moment, she was in two places at once—here, in her family home, and somewhere far darker. Memories rushed at her like shards of broken glass. She tried to blink them away, but they only grew sharper.

The final kiss that took her soul away. The painted world of agony and longing. The pact she had made. She remembered it all in reverse, as if her mind were unwinding itself. Olgierd’s distant eyes. The creeping rot of his heart, the endless cycle of despair.

Her hands trembled as she stared at the man below her. No... not a man.

The portfolio slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud, echoing through the silence, the darkened pages flew into the air, swirling around her like a flock of bats, twisting and flapping in front of her eyes. 

Through the flickering sketches she saw how the room itself began to twist and warp, the warmth and light of the morning fading into darkness. She covered her face with one hand and tried to catch drawings with another, but as her fingers touched the edges, the papers crumpled into ash, dissolving into dark smoke that slipped through her grasp.

Her footing wavered, and when she grasped for the familiar railing of her home’s staircase, it was no longer there. The wooden stairs of her home were transforming into uneven slate stone steps. She completely lost her balance and began to fall with chest-clenching fear, feeling time slowing down its pace. Turning back in panic, with widened eyes she saw the monolith staircase stretching upward into a void, disappearing into the blackness. Her heart raced as she saw walls sliding apart and transformed into the stone pillars engraved with strange symbols. 

But before she hit the ground, strong arms caught her, and spinning her round, Gaunter placed her carefully on the ground still holding tightly. She glanced up, through disheveled hair that had been gently pushed back by his calloused fingers, meeting his grin, feeling with her chest the vibrations of his chuckle.

“Well, hello, Iris. Welcome home.”

[goomoistslimeguy]

Oh god I just remembered I made this and completely forgot about it, might as well advertise it now eh. I'm still working on art and story for it but the story is nearly done and I've just gotta drag myself through some art and it'll be open! It's a TES AU based ask focusing on Martin Septim, Lucien Lachance, Serana and and a few other goobers (including OCs). (Oh, and it has Marcien because that ship invaded my brain. Damn you toothpasteface.)

[stinky-elf-haven]

Just thinking about them

[t00thpasteface]

So a good friend asked me about Lucien and Martin

Had to break the sad news :(

[t00thpasteface]

you been sleepin on me

[abstractredd]

you’re gonna look at me and tell me that martin, former champion of sanguine, isn’t the more dominant assertive of these two when it comes down to it??

bonus

[martianunicorn]

writing prompt: sticky fingers, fantasy, fight scene

prompted by a someone on LINE chat group.

first fic for our original works that we post here and it has to be dodgy material. Sigh.

[possible triggers: wounds, blood and innuendo]

He felt it where he had lost feeling since a long time ago. The pain jolted him awake. Aidan glanced over at the sleeping figure beside him. Soft snoring, chest rising and settling at a regular pace.

Didn't wake Sierra. Good.

Aidan rolled to his side to prop himself up. Still strength in his arms, though just barely. Clearly he was getting rusty and needed more exercise. He took a deep breath before peeking under the sheets, lifting up the waistband of his pants.

Nothing seems wrong.

--- --- --- --- ---

"We're taking the shortcut through the forested mountains, where there are at least a few hundred Shedim monsters, and you say the two of you - a girl and a cripple - can guard the goods through this?"

"A rogue and a mage," Sierra corrected the quartermaster. "I am strong, and this guy here looks frail, but once he opens his mouth you'll be fleeing with your pants wet in horror."

"Will you not give people such a disproportionate introduction of me," Aidan sighed in vain, knowing that his wife would speak as she liked regardless.

She grinned at him. Aidan pulled down his mask to reveal his scarred mouth, gnashing his teeth at her playfully. They laughed.

Like expected, the Shedim horde came out at night. Aidan felt it in the bramble wall he had built around camp.

He alerted Sierra, who was never asleep. She disappeared wordlessly into the darkness of the dense forest. He jumped onto his donkey which he was resting beside, readying his staff in his hand.

A choreography that the couple was too familiar with. Sierra, who was sneaky and fast, would extinguish the enemies one by one, each knowing none the better: stealth offense. Aidan, whose spells are flashy and movements confined by his paraplegic body: offensive defence.

So he roused the rest of the camp and had them gather in the middle where it was easier for him protect. As every creature of the shade approach, Aidan would finish them off with a ball of light from his staff.

Twenty minutes later, when the camp was surrounded by the carcasses of the slayed Shedim, he could hear sounds of Sierra fighting in the forest. If she was that near, it could mean the end of the horde. Or that the horde was simply that big.

Or strong. She was fighting just one of them. Mazikin class? The humanoid shade was keeping Sierra at a distance with spike projectiles. Sierra had switched weapons to using a crossbow instead of her favoured katar and dagger.

The sight of Sierra fighting a ranged battle makes Aidan want to laugh, but he stopped when he realised she was not fighting, but kiting. Okay, so she was basically luring the boss monster here for him. Thanks, wife, very sweet of you. (As if he hasn't gotten enough kills yet.)

Time for serious business. Aidan pulled down his mask. ”Sarefah…” he incanted. A large fireball formed above him.

"Watch out!" Sierra cried out. His spellcasting did not go unnoticed by the Mazikin, which had decided to go after the more dangerous target. Spiked spines grew out of its back and flew forward at him. Aidan urged the donkey backwards. Unfortunately, his steed panicked and tripped, throwing him onto the ground.

Aidan grimaced. The boss monster may have him faced down kissing grass, but his spell was already charged. "Ba'arah!”

The fireball barreled into the Mazikin.

The resulting flare lit up the night sky. What a big fireball, he thought. But slower than Sierra, he hoped.

"Aaahh!!" he heard her shout.

"Did I accidentally set you on fire?" Aidan pushed himself up with his hands, resisting the urge to tease her.

"Not me, dumbass! You!”

"Me...?" He quickly rolled over and gave his body a once over.

THOSE SPIKES IT THREW. One of them is piercing through his left thigh. It is also on fire.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhh…!!!"

He threw out a freezing spell instinctively.

(Later, Sierra would nag him about using ice on an open wound. Hey, he is a warlock kind of mage, not a healer kind of mage, what would he know about first aid.)

--- --- --- --- ---

Nothing seems wrong, but it is not like Aidan can see all that clearly. He flipped their shared blanket open and lit a light in his palm.

Being the hyperalert rogue she is, Sierra woke up.

"Ai? What's wrong?"

"Umm. I can feel a pain. In my leg."

She sat up. "How can you feel your legs even?"

”I don't know…?"

Without warning, she lifted up his back and pulled down his pants. She gave his non-punctured right thigh a pinch. Then a few more kneads.

"I don't know what you are trying to do there, I can't feel it, but anyway I might be getting aroused if you continue that."

"I'll touch you higher if I wanted to do that," Sierra chuckled. "Okay, so still no feeling here. How about this one?" She switched to touching his left bandaged thigh.

"It hurts. And I still am not feeling your hands. Feels like the pain is inside or somewhere else."

"Hmm," she undid his bandages, and took a closer look at his wound.

The bleeding had stopped, although the sight of raw flesh pulsing without the layer of skin made Aidan grateful – just a little – that he was paralysed hip down; no doubt it would hurt like hell if he could feel it.

"There's something inside," Sierra shifted so that she was in between his legs. Aidan would make a snipe about it, but he is in pain so he shuts up.

"You can't feel it, but when I touch your skin I can feel some unnatural movement." She swung his left calf over her shoulder so she could see his thigh at eye level. "And yea, I know your legs well enough to know what's not normal with it."

She is definitely doing this on purpose, he swears. Knelt in front of him, with his legs spread open and one swung over her shoulder. "C'mon, give me a light here," that grin on her face confirmed his suspicions.

He raised his fist, and opened his palm to give her a light.

"Okay. I think I can take it out," Sierra assessed, fingers circling his puncture wound lightly.

Before he could question "how", her thumb went in. He gasped at the sudden intrusion. "Wait, not. So… fast… I wasn't ready… for, t-that…”

The parasite in his thigh seems to sense its impending removal, so it had began squirming, with each movement sending an electric pulse through his supposedly defunct nerves to his brain. "Gu- hrrgh…!" a sound between a gasp and a grunt​ rang in his throat.

Sierra added her index finger to the hole, stretching the entry point. Tears welled up in his eyes, and Aidan bit into his perforated lips to hold back his voice from escaping. He had one hand clawing and grasping at what feels like Sierra's skin fiercely enough he thinks he drew blood (good, gotta give her a taste of the pain she is indirectly inflicting on him now), while the other struggled to hold up the light in his palm for her.

Her fingers went in deeper, probing inside of him. "Hurry up – find it quick!" He begged.

"I'm trying!" To her credit, Sierra did sound distressed about his pain. He saw blood spurting from his wound, her hand and face partially dyed dark red with the stench. The sensation in his left thigh is starting to be felt somewhere higher on his body, a little too close – he could feel the pounding of his pulse, in there, rising-

"– Got it!" Sierra forcefully pulled the parasite out. His breath hitched, and the light went out.

--- --- --- --- ---

Aidan would like to study the parasite to learn of its properties and how it worked, but the instant Sierra extracted it she ground it into minced meat with her dagger while telling it, "No one rapes my husband except me."

… He mentally rescinds any feelings of gratitude he had for her.

She turns to him and giggles, holding up two sticky fingers in a V shape for victory, covered with his rotten blood and the secretions of the parasite.

His own left hand was a little more sightly, fingertips covered with a fresh crimson. "Do me a favour, and clean us both up," he said.

"Okay," Sierra stood up to walk to where their towels hung. Blood trickled down her right thigh where he had scratched her earlier. A reflection of his own injury, he mused.

(pulled Aidan and Sierra for this fic, as one of the rare few ships that our subconscious hasn’t decided to sink yet.)

[t00thpasteface]

now THIS is classy........... perhaps classier than the lads deserve. these images taste like pomegranate to me 👍

I cannot draw to save my life, so here’s a moodboard for the wonderful  @t00thpasteface, who dragged me into marcien hell without a shred of remorse. Featuring the irredemable bastard and his sweet bastardling, images not mine. Cheers!

[libidomechanica]

And I will make a lasting things that bids nor sit nor

They hem mysavyse. Now herkneth how I baar me proprely,  ye wisė kyng, daun Salomon, ovides Art, and  the Somonour? Dooth myn herte may be gaind.  Yet knows its boughs to climbe. The circular 

arguments, or foxlike in the heat  more by prodigy Let me pour forth my tears before  the beste quoniam myghte the sands o  life succeeds it; by the quivering the  forlorn worlds have kissed me and many a myrie 

wol I tellen, in myn herte is Marcien. And  for to selle; but yet the eastern 

steeps, and loued their fasting ended, to  my fadres folk to hym in a place, for  I so oftė have y-wedded��bee; and  turned to scathe. That in their pedantic boring  cry: every farthing of the 

starres bene nigher heuen, and fold me withouten  doute: “whoso that is, and the world encompassing.  Who were banishment to a  curled like in clams as one beside— nor  Love is the shell fish did not wish to  haue behote him Hate. Oh, to possessed! Then  you are nothyng of which book eek ther was  for to quench like two grubs on  the centre sit, yet, when I see the  while thy blood agayn. Where began  the journey, but to the sun sh ines in a Lente — so ofte and shall I be at  fifty” should I meet last nights—and each other  thee liste; taak youre leves have crimes account; all in  the shimmer of evil? Than with  a dainty blush rebukd her refresshėd m any a seint sith I hadde the throe! Forget  not yet when we could have her lip?