#reachfolk

[moonshadovv]

presenting unto Skyrim fans for their consideration: transfemme Miraak? Because we love a gatekeeping girlboss dragon priest.

I've also made her mixed snow elven and reachfolk-- with draconic influence from her millennium stewing in apocrypha and having nothing better to do than absorb draconic knowledge, and that eventually comes to change her physically.

[tastesoftamriel]

The issue I see with the ESO Dark Heart of Skyrim depiction of Reachfolk is primarily the division between "ethnic/indigenous" stereotypes, e.g. living in "tribes" in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and being hostile to outsiders, and the "civilised" Reachfolk who are depicted as far smarter because they live within the relatively safe confines of Markarth with taverns and banking services and other city crap that are the benchmarks of modernity and Tamrielic civility.

There is no reason beyond blind ethnocentrism that this is a division that exists, either in real life or in fantasy (if we allow the latter to truly break the bonds of fiction into something *better*). So-called "primitive" peoples, be that the Azande or Trobrianders, have been subject to ridicule due to their indigenous knowledge, myths, and beliefs as unaligned with our post-enlightenment, postmodernist, scientific worldview. In the eyes of many writers, projecting what is deemed within their worldview to be "good" for their characters is really a detriment when it comes to original worldbuilding.

At the risk of sounding like yet another unhinged Marxist, my final comment concerns the structures of Reach society. The hierarchical structure of Reach clans is not something I'm super familiar with so I may come off as sounding like an idiot here, but bear with me. Why are Reachfolk, with supposedly primitive and unchangeable belief systems, upheld to the societal structures of mainstream Tamrielic groups? Why would they trade with gold, if they traded at all; and if they didn't, someone needs to do some research on the historical basis of global trade, which cough cough involves cooperation and amicable relations between disparate groups over huge distances and periods of time. Why are the Reachfolk exempt from this cycle of amicability? Is it more thrilling to write them as hostile savages, ready to attack anyone who supposedly threatens their way of life?

Yes, they would be thoroughly aware of the dangers of colonisation. But why have city Reachfolk been portrayed as sensible citizens of Tamriel while their brethren in the wilderness are presented as wild, IGNOBLE savages? Where is the justice in portraying indigenous peoples as they truly are and are capable of, rather than re-used Western tropes surrounding the division of self and savage Other?

Once again, this ties into the prominent Western tradition of Othering those who don't follow the tenets of a monotheistic, hegemonic, organised religion, or similarly prescribed worldview. By not including Aedra worship in Reachfolk culture, they are seen as savages and people who should be civilised and brought into the fold of the Divines. There is a pervasive undertone of violence linked to so-called "primitive" groups in TES, and this may just be to make convenient NPC bandits, but also perpetuates a stereotype that deeply harms real-life indigenous and culturally marginalised groups.

This is why careful worldbuilding is so so so important because we can project the world WE want, free from the socionormative biases that taint fantasy writing. Yes it's necessary to draw inspiration from real life, I do it all the time, but there's a point where you say "what if real life isn't that great of an idea to project here?"

I'd like to conclude by saying that I'd like to see this decolonisation of fantasy writing extended to other socially marginalised and misunderstood groups in TES, such as Bosmer, Argonians, giants, minotaurs, and the Bandaari (I could rant about them all day but I have other writing to attend to). We can do so much better not only with our ability to create some truly original fantasy worldbuilding, but also by showing others that by decolonising our own writing, we are becoming more sensitive to the worldview of others and incorporating that in an insightful and respectful manner.

[corviride]

I think every TES creator that forgets that Reachmen exist or pretends that they don't should be stoned. This includes game designers. Todd, Emil. I'll be watching you.

[scuttling-void]

Sorry I can't stop drawing Nana lately (plus Namira, of course)

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

Despite their similarities Reachfolk are actually significantly taller than average Bretons

The average height of a Reachman is slightly taller than an average Nord

[archangelsunited]

Chapter 9: The Limits of My Language

“Look me in the eye when I talk to you.”

[hircines-hunter]

Shadow of the Druadach Chapter 1

Tiernan pulled his hood tighter around his face. He readjusted the fox scarf around his face, trying to create a warmer environment for his face. The warmth lasted mere moments before quickly freezing again. He cursed and groaned. How much longer would he need to climb up this Divine forsaken mountain? He briefly wondered why he even bothered going to Winterhold, but he sighed. He knew the answer. Paarthurnax had asked him. If anyone else had done so, even his own clan, he would’ve said no.

He looked up the road. He saw the top of a large castle. A fortress. He watched a magical light bounce from various points inside the massive fortress. At least, he could now see his destination instead of snow. He picked up the pace, so he could get indoors faster. So he could warm up.

[elderscrollsconfessions]

Confession: I still don’t completely understand what a hagraven is. You could tell me they are a completely unique species or just ugly, immortal human women and I’d believe you either way.

mod note: going to be insufferable and explain:

druids and wyresses are Y’ffre-affiliated mystics who are connected to the Earthbones of Nirn, and are arguably the Breton (culturally; not exclusive to Bretons) equivalent of Spinners and similar traditions among the Bosmer

witches (like the Glenmoril Wyrd, but also witches of the Reachfolk) are different, because rather than connecting to Aedra, they connect to Daedric Princes. Hircine and Nocturnal and Namira most famously, but also others (thus far no canon mention of Sanguine witches but like . . . that’s just common sense that no game has implemented just yet). some witches are nice and some are not

hagravens are sort of an ascended form of witches. they’re transformed. some live alone or with others of their own kind. among the Reachfolk, it’s not unusual for them to live within or hold leadership positions within their Reach clans, even retaining a Reachman spouse

you could think of witches and hagravens as one might think of a vampire vs a Volkihar-style vampire lord -- the fulfillment of a promise, and the shedding of further humanity (or whatever, as the case may be) for more power

if you know more than I do and have something useful to add, please do so

[yansurnummu]

Little Fox

(ft. @tilliphont's boy, Bjalin. thank you for letting me borrow him <3 )

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

Of course, many Reach clans had stories of creatures of the night. Cunning things, with pale skin and blood-red eyes, like a person but inhuman all at once. Some would say they feared the sun, dwelling in castles in the grand caverns below empty Dwemer halls. Some would say they inhabited the cracks and crevices of the mountains, and with bat-like features they would hibernate, hanging from the ceilings.

You mustn't play near the Karth, little ones, the clan-witch would say, for the life-stealers hide ‘neath the ice, and they'll steal you too, should you stray!

Donobhan had never been one to listen to the Elders. He strayed and wandered, often forgetting to watch his step. 

Why would you do that? His father would scold with barely-concealed frustration. 

Donobhan couldn't come up with an answer. It didn't seem like a big deal. No one got hurt. He and Daighre were just having fun, exploring and looking at insects and critters in the woods. I don't know, he replied, not understanding the anger directed at him that then followed.

There is something wicked about that boy, Daighre’s mother lamented from inside the yurt. 

The cold air stung his eyes as he ran from the camp. He threw himself in the snow on the banks of the Karth, part of him fearing that the tears might freeze onto his face. He sat there, sobbing for what felt like hours, not noticing the crunching of snow behind him until arms curled tightly around him.

I'm sorry, Daighre said, her voice shaking. It's not fair. They're not fair to you.

Why am I like this? Why do I make a mess of everything? he cried. I don’t want to! I want to be good, but no matter how I try, it’s never enough!

He knew she didn't have an answer for him; but her being there was enough. He didn’t feel as alone, crying into her soft furred collar, her arms squeezing around him tightly.

The whistling of the kettle finally became loud enough to pull him from his memories back into the present. Donobhan grimaced, quickly jumping to his feet and pulling the bubbling-over kettle off the flame.

“Ah, shit…” he cursed to himself, rubbing his eyes. Some days were harder than others.

Where had his line of thought begun? He sighed, leaving the kettle to cool and stepping through the curtain of the yurt, feeling like he needed to get some air.

Outside, he stared up at the afternoon sky. It was moderately cloudy, though not terribly cold, most of the snow having melted now in the early Spring months. He breathed in, feeling his anxiety simmering down now that he was no longer trapped inside.

Beside him, he heard Calahan push through the curtain to join him outside. Donobhan watched him curiously as he bounded off, barking happily at something, until he caught a shape approaching off in the distance.

Grinning, he rushed back inside, finishing the task of making canis root tea, this time with one additional cup.

“Hello there!” Donobhan called once the figure was close enough, setting two cups of tea down on the bench beside the doused campfire. In reply, he received a wave and a warm smile as Bjalin approached. Calahan trotted happily beside him, rushing back to Donobhan, wagging his tail like he’d found a treasure out in the melting snow.

Getting a hug from Bjalin was like having every joint along his spine corrected in ways he didn’t know he needed. He was a big man, even by Nord standards, and Donobhan had to reach to wrap his arms around his neck, burying his nose in a cloak that smelled of oiled leather and pine. But he was so kind and gentle, unlike other Nords who had only met him with scorn. He laughed, his heart fluttering, as Bjalin pressed a kiss to his temple, his soft beard tickling his face.

“It’s so good to see you, my friend,” Donobhan grinned, pulling away from the hug but keeping his hands at his shoulders.

“You as well,” he gestured with his hands, slowly, knowing that Donobhan was still learning. “I brought you a few things from town.”

“Oh, you are like a Vateshran’s hero,” he smiled, leaning up to press his lips to the corner of Bjalin’s mouth. “Come on, then, you must be tired, and cold. I just made some tea.”

Bjalin smiled and nodded, leaving a hand at the small of Donobhan’s back as he led him towards the bench.

He conversed with Bjalin for a number of hours. It had been a while since he had seen the man, the tundra too dangerous to traverse at such a length in the dead of winter. He was grateful for the company, and the distraction.

As night began to fall, Bjalin accompanied him as he walked the perimeter, tending to the magical wards keeping the spirits peaceful. The chill of the night brought him back to his earlier thread of thought, and he wondered…

“Have you ever met a vampire?” Donobhan asked, glancing at Bjalin at his side, who gave him a puzzled look.

“No,” he tapped two fingers to his thumb, slowly, even though it was a sign that Donobhan knew well enough. He then gave a curious smile, raising his hand near his head for the next sign. “Why?”

“Uh,” Donobhan chewed his lip, regretting opening his mouth on the topic. “I don't know. I was just curious if you knew anything about them.” 

Bjalin sighed through his nose, looking elsewhere, seemingly thinking.

“I couldn't tell you much,” he gestured as they walked. “You hear stories, in town. But from what I understand, it's a disease like any other.”

“Sorry, a what?” Donobhan frowned, a little embarrassed.

“Disease,” he moved both hands in circular motions that Donobhan had a hard time tracking, before spelling it out, letter by letter.

“Ah,” his gaze fell to the ground ahead of him, a little dejected. Thinking of it as a disease didn't make it sound very pleasant at all. 

Bjalin tapped the back of his hand against Donobhan's shoulder, signaling he had more to say. His eyes were soft when Donobhan looked back at him.

“You can talk to me. There's something on your mind, I know it.”

Donobhan sighed, knowing that the anxiety was just in his head. Bjalin was a kind man with an open mind, and he should feel safe telling him things.

“I think I may have… befriended a vampire,” Donobhan said, grimacing now that it had finally been said aloud.

Bjalin raised his brow, looking taken aback, but not horrified, like Donobhan had feared. 

“And?” he pinched his fingertips together, moving them to the side of his chest with a curious cock of his head. “I'm just glad you've made a friend. It's not good to be all alone out here.”

A smile crept onto Donobhan’s lips then, the rest of the tension draining from his body.

“Aye, you're right, aren't you?” he chuckled, relieved. “I don't know. I think I felt… intimidated, when I learned what they are. Not afraid, really, they're very sweet and I like them a lot, but just… well, that's a really powerful creature, and here they are, sitting at my little campfire and listening to my little stories! Felt a tad surreal, I suppose,” he pouted.

Bjalin huffed a silent laugh.

“Can I meet them?” he gestured with a grin.

“Well, I'll ask them, but I wouldn't get your hopes up,” he frowned, patting Bjalin’s shoulder. “They're very shy. It was like trying to earn the trust of a fox. I thought I was seeing a ghost for months.”

Bjalin gave him an amused look, that if Donobhan didn't know better, he might describe as smug.

“What?” he asked, cautious.

“My little fox,” he gestured, bringing his thumb and forefinger to form a circle, a nose, the rest of his fingers spread out like whiskers. Donobhan could feel his face turn as red as his hair.

“Oh, stop it, you,” he chuckled, batting playfully at Bjalin's hand. Bjalin grinned, throwing his arm around Donobhan's shoulder as they continued their walk.

Pet name aside, he caught the underlying meaning. All of them had been through their own lives of being burned at every turn. Donobhan had been slow to trust Bjalin, years ago. Bjalin, himself, was functionally an outcast of his village.

Donobhan realized then, that learning to reach out, even if it hurt, felt more brave than just giving up because it might end poorly.

He wondered if Asha-ammu felt similarly.

[madam-whim]

Aela headcanon: Her father was from the Reach.

I mean, I love the “Aela is Arnbjorn’s daughter” hc as much as the next person, but hear me out. I went looking for names for some of my Reachfolk OCs, and I ended up going through some lists of breton names as well (and by this I mean names from actual irl Breizh, not TES breton), and guess which name I found on most of those lists? Aela.

So now I’m assuming that one of her parents was from the Reach, and since Aela tracks her matrilineal heritage back to a lady named Hrotti Blackblade, which sounds like a Nord name to me, it likely wasn’t her mother.

We know nothing about her father, however, except that Aela lived with him in the woods until she was old enough to join the Companions, and that he taught her how to hunt. So in my humble opinion it’s perfectly possible that her father was from the Reach and that he was the one who named her, which is how she ended up with a name that is far more fitting for a Reachfolk character than it is for a Nord.

It also ties in nicely with Aela being a follower of Hircine - she may simply have adopted her father’s religion. 

[ms-katonic-of-tamriel]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Madanach/Ulfric Stormcloak, Keirine/Miraak Characters: Cicero (Elder Scrolls), Ulfric Stormcloak, Madanach (Elder Scrolls), Kodlak Whitemane, Farkas, Vilkas (Elder Scrolls), Original Altmer Character(s), Original Imperial Character(s) (Elder Scrolls), Galmar Stone-Fist, Original Non-Dovahkiin | Dragonborn Character(s) (Elder Scrolls), Original Nord Character(s) (Elder Scrolls), Original Reachfolk Character(s) (Elder Scrolls), Miraak (Elder Scrolls) Additional Tags: Found Family, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Technically a Dragon Age Crossover, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Series: Part 2 of Unfated Summary:

In an alternate universe where the Markarth Incident took a different turn and the Stormcloaks sided with the Forsworn after their king offered a Talos-worship sanctuary, the Empire is facing civil war in Skyrim right on the heels of the Great War and risking losing the entire North. When the rebels manage to frame a staunch Imperial loyalist for Talos-worship, Titus Mede is left with no choice but to bring an agent out of forced retirement. An agent who lost his very soul to a foreign power's brutal religious establishment... and who has intimate connections to an orphaned boy at the heart of the Reach Court. As young Cicero Di Rosso starts finding a new family, the old comes back to haunt him and could destroy everything he's managed to put together.

Second Half of Sky Haven Temple!  The Ciceros find trouble.  Uncle Cicero is not helping himself in the trust stakes.  Madanach is left sorting out the mess.  And Keirine has definitely bitten off more than she can chew and should probably cry off dealing with Dragonborns.

[moonshadovv]

I managed some art again! This time, tes version of Arwyn, revised! He's an ohmes khajiit that was adopted by reachfolk after his caravan was attacked by vampires on the road and left him orphaned. He later goes on to join the Dawnguard.

[reachfolk]

❥ title: my house (in which i dwell no more)

✿ tags: hurt/comfort, homesickness, themes of diaspora and displacement, lots and lots of infodumping about markarth, reachfolk & forsworn characters

❥ word count: 4.4k

✿ summary: two displaced natives of the reach—a city boy forced to flee markarth and a wilder girl who’s never laid eyes on it—find comfort in each other.

❥ author's note: title is based off this poem. i’ve taken a lot of liberties with markarth’s layout and history because i do what i want, and because i miss souq al-hamidiyah. this is kinda set in the middle of a bunch of bigger plot stuff lol, but the gist is understandable.

✿ this is a story written by an anti-zionist syrian about the emotional turmoil of living under colonialism. palestine and syria are in every word i write.

In an entirely expected turn of events, Robin couldn’t sleep.

He hated feeling bothered by something that was a near nightly occurrence. There was no sense in it. Worst of all, his efforts to latch onto something to complain about were in vain. He could blame the cold, but the tent had been covered in layers of fur and hide that could keep a snowstorm at bay. He could blame the hard ground, but he’d spent his entire life sleeping on hard stone beds, and he’d grown to prefer it over soft mattresses. He could blame the tight space in the tent he shared with Marceline, but it was all too common for them to share a bed even when they had individual rooms available.

The more he realized how comfortable the arrangement was, the more irritated he became. Because he knew all too well why he couldn’t sleep. And he really, really would rather not think about it. If he were destined to spend the night tossing and turning, then he should at least be given an itchy wool blanket. His complaints would be much more manageable then.

But the blankets were soft, and he knew that all he could point to for his sleeplessness was the state of the world. The state of his home. The state of his family.

His thoughts were blissfully interrupted by the sound of a foot stomping thrice on the stone outside the tent. With the walls made of soft furs, knocking wasn’t much of an option, and he quickly learned that this was a common alternative in Karthspire.

Grateful as he was for the interruption, he couldn’t find it in him to hide the displeasure from his face. He stood slowly, careful to not disturb Marceline as she slept beside him. A cold burst of air smacked him in the face as he stepped outside, and it only deepened his scowl.

“What is it?” He asked, his tone flat and his back slumped.

Much to his surprise, he was met with the sight of Esmeralda before him.

“Oh, uh—” He found himself impulsively straightening his posture and righting his tone. “Esme. Hello.”

She carried with her a pair of thick blankets and a nervous expression. Foregoing any greetings, she simply said, “I wanted to check on you. These furs were—uh, are Alex’s. I figured, since she isn’t back yet, her family should be the ones to keep them.”

He barely needed to consider the offer for a moment before declining. “Have you asked our parents? We’re all good here, and mother might need them more than us.”

Something about that seemed to please her as a smile made its way to her lips. “That’s what Isobel said about you,” she said. “Though she was more insistent. I don’t think she’d be very pleased if I give these to anyone else. So…” She held up the blankets again, swaying them as though that made them more tantalizing.

This time, Robin took them graciously. He knew better than to fight his mother on gestures like this, and he certainly had no intention of dragging Esme into it. “Thank you. Mimi didn’t seem bothered, but she has a tendency to run cold.”

He pulled back the entrance of the tent and gently tossed the folded blankets onto his own empty bedroll, figuring he’d cover up Marceline with one of them once he made his way back to sleep.

When he turned back around, Esmeralda was still there, watching him. Her eyes bore into him with an intensity he hadn’t expected, though he couldn’t for the life of him identify the emotion underlying it.

One could blame the cold, but he knew that the way his skin prickled had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with her.

“So…” His eyes darted from place to place, looking for something to talk about without making it all too obvious that he was avoiding her gaze. “Chilly night, huh?”

“Of course. It’s winter,” she replied dismissively. Thankfully, before Robin could chide himself for his inability to hold a conversation, she changed the subject without missing a beat. “You’re not going to sleep yet?”

“Uhm, I’d like to,” he answered, “but that’s easier said than done.”

“Walk with me.”

The suddenness and directness of the invitation—or was it more of a demand?—left him speechless. All he could do was nod in response.

When she began walking off to the side, it took a long moment for his mind to process it enough to chase after her. She was making her way over to the northwestern edge of the camp. The spot was away from the main road where any attack would likely come from, so there was less of a need for a strong patrol there. In other words, they had plenty of space to themselves.

Once he caught up, he slowed down to match her pace. “Are you having trouble sleeping as well?”

“No,” she answered, “but I like to help with the evening patrols. Nighttime is about as quiet as a big settlement like Karthspire ever gets.”

From his short time here, he could understand. Throughout the day, the whole place was as busy as the Markarth marketplace, if not more so. Of course, the city was much bigger, but it provided enough privacy to hide away from the noise. Meanwhile, in Karthspire, privacy seemed to be on no one’s mind. Sure, the tents were separate enough from prying eyes, but it was a space too small to do much else besides rest. All the other affairs of a society were done out in the open—trading, cooking, crafting, drinking, dancing, teaching, and storytelling. It was no wonder the Reachfolk were known for their loud, boisterous voices. The Wilders, at least, simply had no need for an inside voice.

“It’s the best time to go for a stroll,” he agreed as the two wandered back and forth on her designated route. “Much as I enjoy the hustle and bustle, I loved nights in Markarth. You get to hear the sounds that are drowned out by daily life.”

“What were they like? The nights in the city?” The question tumbled out of her mouth with more urgency than a casual stroll required, but she seemed not to notice the confusion on his face.

“They were… uh… pretty. As far as nights go. The view of the aurora is always nice.”

He fumbled with his words trying to find what answer she was fishing for, but she kept looking at him expectantly.

“And uh… dark?” He felt a strong urge to smack himself, but settled instead for rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry, I don’t know—”

“What did it sound like?”

That much, he could answer. “Humming,” he said. “The machines hum constantly. It’s quiet, and you can’t hear it when people are running around all day. Most of the time, cities sound like the people living in them. But at night, all you hear is the city itself breathing.”

“Breathing?”

She was looking at him like that again. It left a heavy lump in his throat, and he found himself suddenly very unsure what to do with his hands. But he didn’t want her to stop, and so he went on.

“Yeah, it was—at least, I think it was the lights.” As he fumbled with his words, he began to regret every moment he didn’t spend studying the Dwarven tech around the city. He tried to recall whatever he could from the bits of knowledge he’d acquired in passing. “The old lights powering the city are still running. Well, a lot of them, especially in Dryside. Not much of the old tech survived without the automatons maintaining it, but I think Calcelmo and whoever came before him were able to figure out how to keep the lights up, and we’ve been using them as long as I can remember. I think because they can all be activated with a lever. Better than having lantern lighters work each night.”

“And they don’t go out in the rain,” she added.

“They don’t,” he nodded. “It was breathtaking when it rained at night. The droplets would catch the light, and they’d shimmer in the air, all over the city.”

By then, they had stopped walking altogether, their pace slowing to a halt as Esmeralda hung onto every word he spoke. She was no longer watching the path ahead, all her attention focused solely on him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes for long before his nervousness got the best of him. Instead, he looked over to the path leading out into the night, watching in her stead.

“I used to tinker with those bulbs whenever I could sneak off to some ruin or the other as a child,” she recalled fondly. “I learned how to operate them eventually. I still leave one on when I sleep. Something about the sound of it, the glow of it. They’ve always been soothing.”

The image of a young Esmeralda tinkering with Dwemertech both delighted and impressed him. “If you like the sound of the Dwemer machines, you’d find the whole city soothing,” he said. “It’s even clearer and louder the deeper you go, but then you’d have other things to worry about.”

“Deeper..?” She mulled over the word, seeming to turn over in her mind everything she knew about the city. “Alex said the underground was forbidden and all the entrances blocked.”

“All the entrances Alex knew about are blocked.” He couldn’t help smirking as he said that. “Good to know she never caught onto me.”

“So, then… wait, wait.” She brought a hand up to her temple as she processed his words further. “Are you saying you’ve been to Nchuand-Zel?”

Much as he wanted the answer to be a resounding yes, he chose to be truthful. “Not exactly. I’ve never been to the heart of it under the Keep, but I’ve been deeper underground than the authorities would like for civilians to go.”

If that dampened her excitement at all, it was minimal. “How’d you pull that off?”

He couldn’t help but puff up with pride as she leaned in closer, drawn in by intrigue. He’d always treated this as his own precious secret, keeping it even from his own sisters. Never before had he felt the desire to brag until she looked at him like that.

“The Warrens, usually,” he answered, hoping she would not be as deterred by that fact as the average Markarth resident would. She didn’t seem the type. “There’s lots of entrances to Nchuand-Zel, like the palace or the prison, but they’re all guarded. Except, unsurprisingly, the Warrens. The entrance there is boarded up shoddily with some wooden planks, and no one ever goes near it.”

“So you took down the boards?”

“No, not at all!” He rushed to correct her. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone at risk should anything follow me back into town. But it was easy to climb the pipes around it and sneak through the vents to the other side. No one ever noticed.”

“Ever?” She repeated the word with a tilt of her head. “So you’re saying you went there often?”

“Only when I was sick of being around everyone,” he said, truthfully. Quieter, he clarified, “So, about every other day…”

She huffed a laugh at that, and the sound went straight to his heart. “You’re exactly like your sister described you, you know.”

Squashing down his nerves, he tilted his head to the side to look at her directly. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

For a long moment, she only eyed him, exploring his features so intently that he could almost feel her on his skin. Her gaze burned a trail from his cheeks, to his jaw, to his lips. The confidence he had just barely managed to wrangle together was beginning to falter in the silence. Until, that is, her lips curled into a coquettish smile, and she finally said, “A compliment.”

With that response, he’d expected the tightness in his chest to let up, but it only seemed to burst into a heat that spread across his whole body.

“So…” She took a step closer, leaning into him. It did nothing to help his giddiness. “Is it true what they say? The automatons are still functional beneath the city?”

Thankfully, he was able to compose himself by latching onto the question. Clearing his throat, he answered, “There’s something down there. I never saw automatons, even though there were ports for them everywhere. They must be disabled throughout the city. But I heard all sorts of scuttling and moving around through some of the walls. I’d always assumed it to be skeevers, but why take the chance?”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, especially coming from the Warrens. Sounds like the vents were large enough for skeevers and all manner of creatures to get through.” She giggled to herself, and quietly added, “Even a Robin.”

He cringed at that and brought a hand to hide his flushed face. “Ugh, when you put it like that, I suppose it wasn’t as roguish and daring as it felt.”

His embarrassment only seemed to entertain her as her laugh grew louder, but she rested one hand on his shoulder and used the other to pry his hands away from covering his face. “Oh, come now, I’m only kidding,” she insisted, even as she giggled through her words. “Tell me more. Please? What was down there?”

Lucky for her, the feel of her hands on him quickly made him forget his embarrassment. He cleared the lump in his throat and went on, “The place wasn’t in good condition, obviously. But I think it used to be a shopping district back in the day, as far as I could tell from how it was built. There was a long hallway with alcoves that looked more like storefronts than homes.” As he spoke, his eyes flicked back and forth between the path ahead and Esmeralda’s face, intentionally avoiding where her hands rested in his palm and on his shoulder.

As acutely aware of her touch as he was, she seemed to have completely forgotten and made no effort to pull back. “That makes perfect sense. The Warrens give the most direct route between the two levels of the city. It must have been the perfect hub for trade between the Reachfolk aboveground and the Dwemer belowground!”

As she spoke and stared off at an undefined point in the distance, Robin could practically see her adding to map of the city that existed in her mind. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “It’s a shame we blocked off that part of the city. It would be far better than the mess that is the Dryside marketplace.”

She hummed as she took in his words. “That’s true,” she mused, a mild surprise in her tone. “Why would they relegate the tradespeople to wooden stalls crowded together in the cold when there’s a perfectly good marketplace built into the city itself?”

“And invest in Riverside?” The idea was laughable. “The Jarl would never do that. Much more convenient to leave the smeltery and slave labor neatly tucked away where travellers carrying gold don’t ever have to go.”

Her shoulders slumped, and as they did, her hand fell away from his. “Typical of those damn Nords,” she spat. “They control a city built to house two peoples, and all they can think to do with it is to segregate us into their slums. Do they even have a clue what their feet trample on?”

“Doubtful,” Robin said, his own expression falling into a scowl not unlike hers. “They’d sooner forget it all and just take the privileges handed down to them without question. Most of them don’t even realize our people lived there alongside the Dwemer. Even I only learned that recently.”

“Alex said the same thing!” she exclaimed, her rage stepping aside to give way to disbelief. “I’m still confused by that. It’s the only Dwemer city with any aboveground living spaces. What, do they think the Markarth Dwarves just liked sunshine better than all the others?”

“Ah, see that’s where you’re mistaken,” Robin pointed. “They don’t think.”

She snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes. “Clearly. And they have the gall to call us uneducated.” With a swoop of her hand, she gestured to the entire mountain range around them. “I’ll bet I know more about the entirety of the Reach than they know about the one city they claim.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment.” He tried to smile with her, but an unshakeable twinge of sadness dampened it.

She caught onto it all too easily. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said, instinctively. “I just… I suppose, in a way, I envy you. As self-centered as that sounds. It’s stu—”

“Hush with that,” she quickly interrupted before his self-deprecation could go on. “You’ll find no judgement here. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Acceptance was not what he expected, nor what he was accustomed to. After taking a moment to shake off his surprise, he went on, “It’s the way you speak of the Reach. You know it in ways I never have. You know yourself in ways I never have. While you lived among our people, I was stuck in classrooms being told about how oh-so-great Emperor What’s-His-Name The Twenty-Eighth was for killing and enslaving us. Not the education I’d have chosen for myself, if I had been given a choice at all.”

She nodded along to his words, grimacing at the thought of it all. “How could I ever fault you for hating it? I’ve had nightmares more bearable than that.” With a sympathetic smile, she lightly bumped his arm. “You’re not the first city Reachman to make your way out here. Your sister did it. She struggled in all the same ways, but despite it all, she learned and thrived with us. You will too.”

His brow furrowed as he considered her words. Yes, he supposed Alex must have felt this way as well—she was the only one of the three siblings to join the Wilders of her own volition. In the chaos of everything, he hadn’t been given a chance to speak with her about why she ran off. He realized, then, that he never needed to.

“We never spoke of it growing up.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Esmeralda said. “That was always part of the problem, wasn’t it?”

As her words slowly sank in his mind, he couldn’t help but chuckle. When she tilted her head in question, he explained, “It’s funny. I’d spent years trying to make sense of it all. Who I am, and why I’m here. I’d started to believe there was no sense to be had at all, and that I was simply broken or mad. Years of confusion, and you seem to understand it within moments. Was there ever a point to the madness?”

“It’s not madness,” she said. “It’s what happens when you’re away from home for too long.”

“Markarth is home.” Even as the words left his mouth, he hated the certainty with which he said them. Markarth did nothing to deserve such a title.

“She is. But without her people, she’s hollow. She was the body, and we were the soul that gave her life. You can envy me for knowing our people, and I can envy you for knowing our city. But in the end, you’re a body without a soul, and I’m a soul without a body. Neither one of us is more alive than the other. Just a different kind of dead.”

Her words seared into his heart, burning through a wall of pain he’d long thought was impenetrable. For a moment, it felt healing. He’d never had words for it until she spoke them.

And yet all at once, behind the wall he’d never been able to see through, there was more pain. A grief—deeper, and darker, and bigger than he’d known before.

He thought that by now he had perfected the art of appearing stoic, even in his worst moments. But Esmeralda saw through it, and wordlessly interlaced her fingers with his, pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, and lifted it to her forehead.

The gesture had never been so soothing. All he could do was pull her closer with his free hand and hug her.

He did not know how long they stayed there, holding each other. It was only when he felt another hand on his shoulder that his attention snapped back to the world around them.

“Would you like me to take over your patrol, feather?” Beatrice asked, directing the question to Esmeralda.

“Ah—yes, if you would be so kind,” Esmeralda said, pulling away from the hug but keeping their hands intertwined.

Robin felt his face flush and kept his gaze on the ground. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have distracted her from her duties.”

“Nonsense.” Beatrice waved off the apology. “With everything you’ve gone through, I’m glad our Esme could bring you comfort.” Her hand came up to his chin and, with a gentle touch, lifted his head. “Don’t despair. One day, you’ll see your home again, and it shall be in better hands. We are nothing if not resilient.”

It felt odd, being so seen. Robin had always been one to stick to the shadows—literally and metaphorically. He’d come to associate being perceived with being judged and misunderstood. He had never stopped to consider what it would mean to be seen and, without ever needing to defend or explain himself, simply be met with compassion.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping he did not appear as dumbfounded on the outside as he felt on the inside.

They parted, with Beatrice watching over the camp in place, and Robin and Esmeralda making their way to—well, he wasn’t quite sure. He was simply allowing her to lead, and he was too lost in thought to notice that they’d passed the tent he shared with Marceline.

It was only when she pulled him into an unfamiliar tent that he realized where she was taking him. This one was much more decorated, if haphazardly, with silver and Dwarven metal crafted into elaborate geometric shapes. A messy workbench sat in the corner, littered with Dwemer tools and half-finished projects. Below it was a chest so full of all manner of belongings that the lid could not close all the way.

Rather than an oil lamp or candle, the space was lit with the bluish hue of a Dwarven light bulb hanging upside down from the wooden scaffolds.

“I tend to collect things.” Esmeralda vaguely waved her hand at the entire place. “Don’t let it bother you. I swear, there is order in the chaos.”

That pulled a chuckle from him. “It’s no bother. I’m much the same,” he confessed, smiling as he examined it all.

After kicking off her boots, Esmeralda sat cross-legged on the bed, her back against the headboard, and patted the spot in front of her. “Join me. I’m not done interrogating you about the city, you know. I want to hear all I can before I start pestering Isobel next,” she said with a chuckle.

“What, am I being held hostage?” He joked, even as he followed suit and sat at the foot of the bed, leaving a respectable distance between them. “I take it I’m not your first victim.”

“Oh, not at all,” she said as she spread her legs out and rested her feet on his lap, any respectable distance quickly tossed aside. He did not mind in the slightest. “I’ve been grilling Alex for stories about Markarth since she joined. And Duach. And just about anyone who’s so much as stepped foot there.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess and say you’re not a Wilder by choice.”

She feigned a gasp. “What gave it away?”

“My powers of perception are like none other.”

She laughed, and Robin couldn’t help the little rush of pride from knowing he caused it.

“If you must know,” she explained, “my parents were among the rebels who retook Markarth with Madanach. They had wanted to raise a family in the city of our ancestors.” She gestured around her. “Clearly, it did not work out as planned. Now, I’m stuck begging for stories so I can imagine what my life could have been.” She gave him a light kick on the arm. “I hope it isn’t a pain, because I have no intention of stopping.”

“It isn’t,” he said, truthfully. “On the contrary, I enjoy it. I only know Markarth as she is. Conquered and soulless. I much prefer seeing her through your eyes.”

And so, the pair stayed up late into the night, exchanging stories of the city and the wilds. He told her of the acoustics in the music halls, and she told him of traditional firedances. She told him tales of swimming in the Karth river, and he told her tales of climbing the Temple of Dibella.

He did not remember when, exactly, he fell asleep. All he could recall as he was carried off to sleep was the pale blue light on Esmeralda’s face, and a feeling of home.

[corviride]

"But we don't blame the river for these things. That's just life on the Karth."

Dia duit and Ey swayel! I hear it's the norm on this website to make a post introducing yourself so people can know if you're the kind of person they wanna interact with? Ech, I'm bad at introductions. My name is Aurelia, I am a transgender lesbian from British Columbia, Canada, I am a student of Irish and Halq'emeyelem, and I'm learning how to swing a sword good. I post about Reachmen from the Elder Scrolls, and not really much else. Go play Fragments of the Past, go read Aad Semblio Impera (Hello, Maple!), and always remember that the people in power have more reason to lie than they have to tell the truth. Oh I'm also writing a Skyrim fic -- P'raps you all will get to read it one day, but you will definitely get to hear about it. I stumbled dick first into naming the main character, Daighre, the same thing as an in-game NPC -- I swear I did it by accident from altering Deire. Hóyòwèlh and Slán Go Fóill!

[bravelittlescrib]

Title: The Parable of the Wyvern and the Moon

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Pairings: Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Miraak (Elder Scrolls) & Original Character(s), Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls)/Original Male Character(s) - minor

Characters: Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Sanguine (Elder Scrolls), Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls), Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls), Borkul the Beast, Madanach (Elder Scrolls), Argis the Bulwark, Neloth (Elder Scrolls), Frea (Elder Scrolls), Hermaeus Mora

Summary: The Dragonborn is haunted by a mysterious spirit. It follows him as he throws off the would-be oppressors of his homeland, and leads him into the path of a very strange, very enchanting elf.

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

Wish you could start No One Escapes Cidhna Mine without doing The Forsworn Conspiracy first because The Forsworn Conspiracy is such a pain in the ass because Markarth is such a pain in the ass to navigate