#sathrina walinstar

[herald-divine-hell]

Lucia: Did you bring me a present?

Sathrina, smiling: What do you like, love?

Lucia: Hm. Maybe a doll...or a new dress.

Sathrina: The best I can do is a glass dagger.

Lucia: Wow! Thanks, mama! You're the best!

[herald-divine-hell]

Was running around naked in Breezehome...

Listen, Lydia. Don’t give me that look.

[herald-divine-hell]

The Greybeards: Show us your Thu’um, Dragomborn. Allow us to taste it.

Sathrina: *screams with a over a decade of stress and torment*

Greybeards: You good?

[herald-divine-hell]

As the sun crested over the ruby-flamed horizon, Sathrina thought of home. Scarlet flames seared away at the darkness of night, the bright jewels of heaven swallowed by a spreading of violet and gold; and a wind picked up from the heaving seas, bringing the scent of the northern cold and ocean breath to Sathrina. High up in the tower of the Arch-Mage in Winterhold, in a land swallowed by the cold and by the darkness, the thought of home made little sense.

The home of her ancestors had been long lost, and the home their descendants now reside was a sea of sand, with waves of gold and bronze dunes, and the air took the water from one’s lungs with nimble fingers. Not here, though. Beside, Hammerfell was no longer her home. It had not been for many years. She was Arch-Mage, now. She was Sathrina Walinstar. Saidaya Nurwalid had died out in that desert, swallowed by a scorching flame and waters made of sand, murdered by steel colder than ice.

Flame erupted from the horizon, like spreading like wings, pulsing with the beat of a heart. The slate grey-blue waters were alight with the furnace of the sun, white froth glimmering with the glow of ruby, and the waters glistening in golds and crimsons. It seemed like entire world had been wrought in dragon-flame, and only Sathrina stood on the floating island of stone and ice. Even if the world burned, she must stand resolute. Even if she could last a moment longer before being melted into ash, Sathrina would do it. For her children, for her husband, for herself.

Surrounded by ice and flame, she never felt so alone.

[herald-divine-hell]

When the bears bite Sathrina, does she bite back?

Sadly, with steel and spell, yes, she does.

[herald-divine-hell]

My new Dragonborn, Sathrina Walinstar, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Keeper of the Tower of Caranthir, and Thane of Whiterun. - Background:

Sathrina Walinstar is the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, a position she held for only a few months before the Jarl of Whiterun called her counsel over the rumored threat of the return of the dragons. Daughter of Mirahn Walib, a famed Assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, Sathrina chose to change her name from Sarina Walib to Sathrina Walinstar with her assimilation into the Nordic cultures of Skyrim, which later seemignly resulted in her children’s kidnapping by the Dark Brotherhood when Sathrina was away, studying ruins in Markarth. That occurred ten years before the start of Skyrim.

Personality:

Sathrina tends to be a quiet, reserved woman, a fantastic user of all schools of magic, and considered one of the brightest in the college. She prefers to spend her time studying ancient ruins and tomes, and often is seen writing in the courtyard. With some of her closest friends, she is known to be daring, and when slipped enough ale, she could flirt the skirts off any barmaid. But often, that would leave her red of the face and apologizing to them later when all the wine is out of her. There is still a darker side to Sathrina, one that comes mostly out when she sees a child harmed. Her mercy and kindness leaves her, and her eyes are said to becomes as frosted as the Throat of the World and as flaring as the fires of dragons.

Appearance:

A short woman of five feet, Sathrina’s face appears to be carved from darken stone, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and elegantly carved jawline. Her lips are full and small, often tightened in throat, and her brows are often pulled to a furrow as if she is constantly thinking. Blue eyes, sparkling with bits of silver and gold, glimmer like ripples of moonlight in walls of cracked ice. Her curved nose is is strong and powerful, like that of an eagle’s beak, though she is often critical of it to herself. She is curvy and voluptuous, with heavy breasts and wide hips, and a little soft at the stomach and arms and thighs from her many days spent writing and reading. Her thick waves of black hair is often drawn up into a high-bun, one or two strands touched with silver-gray.

[herald-divine-hell]

Having more of a Sathrina day today, so if you want to send stuff, asking stuff about her or something, go right ahead.

[herald-divine-hell]

Should I be simping for my MILF dragonborn? Perhaps not. But I will.

[herald-divine-hell]

I’m tempted to write a one shot of Sathrina. Hmm. Of what, I wonder, and with who? *wiggles eyebrows*

[herald-divine-hell]

To play which thicc milf: Amayia or Sathrina is the question.

[herald-divine-hell]

How does your Dragonborn react when she gets a crush on someone

Thank you for the ask!

Sathrina tries to keep her cool, even as her cheeks are aflamed a bright crimson. She never expected for herself to have a crash - the murder of her husband broke her heart too much for to think of romantic attachment. But her heart have been known to be swayed, as would her mind. She tends to enjoy listening them talk, often coming over to heal them when they are hurt first, small things such as that, trying to be near to them, but not appearing desperate.

[herald-divine-hell]

As the morning broke the night, the mountains lost their dark armor, and were cloaked in stony gray and shrouded in a mantle of white mist. Sathrina tugged at the reigns of Jasir, peering up into the gray-blue sky, through the rolling fog and over the walls of roughly-hew jagged slopes of the mountain-valley. Snow dusted the surfaces of the stones, glittering bright with the speckles of sunlight coming from the east.

A wind moaned through the air, slithering through the narrow path, and kissed Sathrina’s ears. It was cold, icy to the touch, almost burning. But what little sunlight there was came upon her gently, warming off the night’s cold and the mountain’s wintry grasp.

Tiredly, she blinked and shook her head, doing her best to rid herself of what remaining sleep still clung to her bones with a tight grasp. It came with an effort. A grainy wall shrouded her gaze, but as she blinked away morning tears, the path became winding and vivid. Cobble-paved stones riddled the dirt, often haphazardly thrown together that one would had barely known when the road ended and the mountain began, had it not been the packed mounds of snow that crept up the foots of the rocky foundations. A few bushes and shrubs grew with green-white vines, some dripping with little petals of pink or orange, and others with tiny berries of blue or black. Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it, as best she could. She would eat something once she got to Iverstead...

How long would that be? she thought. She did not know the answer; and yet she would still bare the effort as she did all others. She was the Arch-Mage. Hunger could not quell her, not know; not when she was so close. 

A smile grew upon her lips as her hand went to the little black bag hanging on her leather belt. I still have some food left from yesterday. A few carrots, a couple apples, and some berries. She would gather more, just in case, and melt some snow for water. One could never be too careful, especially in the mountains, she knew, if Winterhold had taught her anything.

Yet no fear clouded her heart, nor terror rankled through her spirit. She was close, to Iverstead, that is. Getting to High Hrothgar was a different matter entirely. She already knew the stories - she would have to climb the seven thousand steps to get to the ancient citadel, seat of the Grey Beards. Smilingly grimly, she shook her head. She was far too plump for the journey - years of child bearing and seating at a desk did not help in her endavors. But she would have to make it through - for Skyrim, for her children...if she could find them. No, I will. I must. And I must save the world, even if I must die to do so.

Softly sending Jasir onto a trot, Sathrina burnt away the cold with fiery determination - the determination of a dragon. I am coming, Alduin. I am coming, Rahjai, Surma, and Masjir. I promise.

[herald-divine-hell]

As the silver-white sunlight rose in the gray dawn, Sathrina felt the wind come from the west, a hissing whisper of a ice. Everywhere in Skyrim, if it was not fire sparked by feuds, and fanned by war, the land was cold, with wilted yellowing green grass. Streams lapped blue and silver, rocks glittering like frosted gems. If one lost their footing and tumbled into one, their blood would be chilled as fast as any blade could saver or arrow could pierce.

The mountains loomed, shrouded in a mantle of mist. One marched westward, the silver mists drooling across the cliff-sides, covering thin valleys and wide fields. Only a few towers sprung up in that pool, like lone islands of gray-black in a sea of silver-white. It took effort to turn her gaze away from those mountains, to the greatest one of them all - the Throat of the World.

Tiered in snow and stone, the mountains were riddled in roughly strewn precipices, some round and others sharp. Like a coiling tail, the mist swung about, rolling over hills and hiding mountain-passes. Sunlight sprinkled through until its shivering wave was aflame with rippling pale light from the blots of light, like stars in the night skies.

The world was white, and gray, and black, and nothing more. And soon, she thought; soon it will be alight with scarlet and gold, and the white skies will be blackened, as will those mist-shrouded fields, and the mountains will be alight with fire. A cruel reversal of it all, a thing that will come to past, if she did not stop it. If she must accept another title once more, one older than Arch-Mage. A title she trembled to bear, a worse punishment that she could think of. And the wind laughed shrilly at it, as it bore that name to all flung-parts of the world.

Dovahkiin. Dragonborn.

[herald-divine-hell]

I am here for Sathrina and Alexandra being the most nerdiest people while their s/os stares fondly at them.

[herald-divine-hell]

Am I simpin’ for my milf dragon born lady? Yes, yes officer I am.

[herald-divine-hell]

The flames sparked gold and scarlet, twining like gleaming ruby threads around her fingers. Gray smoke trailed in small shivering tongues into the air, burning away the cold, crisp smell of icy-soaked stone. A small titch of a finger’s muscle, and a band of flame speared through the air sinuously, snaking here and there. Another band joined, original split, weaving together and pulling away. It bounded around the domed ceiling, spilling small sparking embers onto the ground. In Sathrina’s mind, she heard a child’s laugh. Liaba would had loved this, she thought, and her heart ached, a sudden twisting pain that made her gasp. The flaming interwoven threads fluttered, snapped and twisted, before bursting out in a bright light of gold and a rain of ash. And the northern winds of Skyrim rushed through the open arched doorway, cold gnawing with greedy fangs.

Something wet touched her cheek, and her first thought was of snow. But when her fingers brushed over it, it came away as a watery smudge of black. Ash soaked with tears - black, sickly ash. A grave of a fire that once burned so bright. Sathrina drew her hand to her chest, bend forward, and wept, wept with the weeping icy skies, wept for the burning skies of her ancestors, and wept before the black pools that were her children’s graves, never again to spark, and never again to crackle with love. And the winter’s winds were her only comfort.