#skyrim legate rikke

[skyrim-addict]

“Ulfric would expunge from Skyrim citizens whose only crime was to be born of a non-Nordic woman. That is unacceptable to free men everywhere.” – Legate Rikke

WHAT!!! BRO I’VE NEVER HEARD THIS LINE OF DIALOGUE BEFORE THATS CRAZY!! Also nearly the same energy as the Thalmor/Altmer with their “pure blood” shit tbh like holy moly dude.

[hadvarandralof]

this is my contribution to the funniest redraw meme ever

[silusvesuius]

my accumulated 19th century drawings; posting them before i forget they existed or stop liking them

[mavariel]

Ulfric, my old friend… what happened to you?

[omegatheimmortaldragonborn]

Imagine if Balgruuf was sat next to the Dragonborn during season unending, how fucking chaotic that'd be 😭

Sat there giggling like fucking kids taking the piss out of Ulfric, Elenwen, and Tullius bickering under their breaths

Legate and Galmar side-eyeing them constantly

The witty come backs they'd conjure up too omgg

Why didn't we get this 😭😭🙏🙏🙏

[skyrimlesbians]

Legate Rikke is a lesbian!

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Elenwen: General, I need a favour.

General Tullius: I am not giving you another lap dance.

Legate Rikke: Lap dance?

Ondolemar: ANOTHER?

[decadencetranscendence]

💞💕💕

前段时间画的一些skyrim，p4有一只我的龙裔～～～～

[ehlnofay]

The Dragonborn does not speak at the council, for all the trouble she went to arranging it.

She sits in a straight-backed chair at the head of the table, her sword in its scabbard resting against the stone. (She was the only one permitted to carry a weapon into the assembly.) Lydia, her sharp-faced housecarl, is seated to her left.

It’s the Dragonborn’s council, for all intents and purposes – it may not have been her idea, but it was she who petitioned for it, persuading Arngeir and then the war-leaders and the dignitaries they dragged with them. It was for her sake alone (Dragonborn, Ysmir, legend come to life) that some agreed to attend at all.

But when the council finally begins, kings and warriors crowded around the long stone table, she is silent. An argument begins immediately, Ulfric objecting to Thalmor presence within the negotiations and Tullius objecting to his objection, and it splinters off into something thorny and onerous. It takes half an hour for discussion to begin properly – and then someone says something and they’re off again, everyone around the table coiled tight and wary, and the Dragonborn stares into the middle distance and offers no thoughts.

It doesn’t stop, the talk of trading holds like game pieces and demands that the armies’ leaders be compensated for massacres that never touched them. Arngeir tries to quiet them, and Esbern’s desperate passion riles them up, and when half of the room has leapt to its feet and voices echo off High Hrothgar’s sacred, watching stones, the Dragonborn finally speaks –

Which is to say, she claps her hands over her ears and spits a Word that rips the voices from their lips and the room is finally, mercifully silent.

Her housecarl, the only one who does not seem startled by this, places a hand on the back of her chair and says, “Thane?”

The Dragonborn uncurls, removes her hands from her head, lays them flat on the table.

“I don’t understand,” she says, slow, as though the words are weighed down. She isn’t looking into the middle distance; her eyes shift from face to face like she is trying to meet everyone’s gaze at once.

Galmar Stone-fist, standing by a chair to her right, claws at his fur-lined collar. “We have –”

“Let the Dragonborn speak,” Lydia interrupts, voice and eyes steely. Galmar’s face twists, but he falls silent.

The Dragonborn presses her hands into the stone tabletop.

“Do you believe,” she says, “that the dragons will leave your side alone?”

On the other side of the table, General Tullius raises a sceptical brow. He leans back into his chair. “If you have a point, then make it. We don’t have time for more nonsense.”

Her eyes snap to him. Lydia repeats, “Let her speak.”

The Dragonborn holds up a hand.

“Do you believe,” she enunciates carefully, “that the dragons care anything for your war? None of this matters.”

“On the contrary –”

“Alduin will tear your cities down,” she tells them. Her eyes are eerie dark as holes too deep to track, and even her housecarl is staring at her now. “Only I can stop it. Until you get out of my way, you are fighting over rubble.”

There is, again, silence. Arngeir is visibly thankful for the reprieve; High Hrothgar’s walls, unused as they are to such uproar, can once again, if briefly, know peace.

Ulfric stood up sometime in the yelling; he has not sat back down. He is leaning a little on the stone back of his chair as he says, “You called us here in hopes of a ceasefire, Dragonborn. Truces aren’t made of empty air. Terms have to be negotiated.”

The Dragonborn stares him down. Her palms remain flat on the table; her sword stays resting against her chair.

“But you aren’t negotiating with him,” she says, the words still heavy, still slow. “You’re negotiating terms with me.”

There is a pause. The watchful stones soak in the silence.

“With you,” the Legate replies.

The Dragonborn’s face is blank. “If you truce, I will fight Alduin.” She speaks the weighed-down words as though they are the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I won’t. Your cities will fall as Helgen, and you will die afraid. Those are my terms.”

Lydia places a hand, palm up, on the table. The Dragonborn covers it with her own, mimicking the pose of the wrist, the splay of the fingers.

“Now,” the Dragonborn announces, her voice a laggard echo of Arngeir’s opening speech, “who would like to begin the negotiations?”

(There is no shouting during the rest of the peace council.)

[nauteno]

"show me what you've got, Dragonborn"/The guys of skyrim who give the quest(TES:V)

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Today, a letter from Rikke to Galmar because why not?

Tagging, but as always, you are under no obligation: @oblivions-dawn @dirty-bosmer @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @tallmatcha @skyrim-forever @bostoniangirl21 @vivifriend @umbracirrus @sylvienerevarine @stormbeyondreality @fallen-chances @ladytanithia

Galmar,

I hope this letter finds you well and that everything is going to plan back in Windhelm as I can certainly tell you things have changed in Cyrodiil. While I know that we all knew what was coming, I don’t think anyone could have prepared us for what I have seen here—and what we will see in the future. I’ll try to keep things as brief as possible in the interest of time and possible Thalmor spies.

They’re here, and they’re everywhere, but that isn’t something you don’t already know. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I can see you doing that through this parchment clear as day. What I mean to say is that they are here in a manner which are so engrained into normal life that in some ways you wouldn’t expect it: a merchant walking down the street wearing the newest Summerset trends all trimmed in fanciful needlework, a couple sitting on a park bench in Talos Plaza enjoying highly-tariffed imported confections, or even the gravedigger with neatly-manicured fingernails.

No one does those things anymore. 

Then, there are the ways you do expect. The puppet Elder Council all handpicked and placed there by Alinor. The air of oppression that is here here—a thick fog which would have Ulfric tossing and turning in his bed at night if he could feel it. I, for one, am glad he is not here. He should not have to experience this again.

Everything feels exactly as it did before Red Ring, where the air is so dense that I can barely breathe. As if something is coming, waiting to break over us at any second and with one false move everything will come tumbling down. I know it. You’d know it too if you were here. This is exactly what the Empire was trying to avoid in the first place, but perhaps it was already here just hiding under the surface. Divines know I am tired of asking myself this same question every night.

However, not everything is negative. Do you know what else there is? Hope. That same small shining beacon of determination which led us to hold the city all those years ago. It’s still here, burning bright as dragon fire. I have spoken to some of those who remain here. Our mission was successful. There are people here—regular, normal, everyday people who are ready to fight…and there are also some old contacts who are ready to take arms. What other option is there when we know what is coming? We were the ones there the first time, and we are the only ones who know that they’re capable of. I don’t know about you, but over my dead body will I allow this to happen again. There was too much carnage and too much loss. For better or worse with Ulfric in charge, I will finish what we started or see you in Sovngarde.

Take care and take caution. As I said, everything appears to be calm and stable on the outside, but the Aldmeri Dominion’s specialty is patience…and distraction. I don’t know when they’ll strike or when I’ll be coming home, but what I do know is that I’ll be waiting for you.

Yours,

Rikke

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

i'm back! hopefully!! (yes i know i'm a day late but STILL-)

sorry i havent been doing wip wednesdays, i'm only now really recovering from the exhaustion of last semester. that being said, thank you to the lovely @skyrim-forever for tagging me!!

i'm tagging the amazing @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @oblivions-dawn @totally-not-deacon and @archangelsunited !!!! if you're not tagged and wanna join, feel free to tag me back regardless, i love seeing what you're all working on!! <33

this comes from chapter 31 of "Cycle of the Serpent", and is a longer piece of an excerpt i posted recently. warning, it is, indeed, long. i hope you enjoy!

Mid-morning nestled uncertainly atop the high mountains at the edge of Solitude. The sun peaked its head out hours ago, and the daylight colors took it as their sign to sprawl over the sea, a chill in the air as Last Seed came to its end. A constant breeze trailed off the sea, fumbling along the multicolored flags strung between buildings, high above the trios heads as they made the brisk march to Castle Dour. The constant exchanging of shade for sun between buildings, of money for goods in the nearby market, and the eternally-present sounds of the blacksmith and his apprentice at work pushed their feet further towards the grand doors, Emeros' chin held high. He'd woken up late for the first time in a very long time, and that fact alone had done its best to unravel his senses for the first few minutes of his day. Breakfast had been a brief affair. While Athenath looked pleased to be done with all of this and finally make their way to the Bard's College, Wyndrelis shared in the uncertainty. Would Tullius really let them go, just like that? Would he sign off on their pardon and consider them free in Imperial-controlled Holds? Did it matter? They'd done what they'd set out to do, and even more, so if he didn't pardon them… Emeros tried not to think too far into the future on this. Take it one step at a time, one seagull's call after another.

The doors parted with the same, loud announcement of their entry in the creak of the hinges, and Emeros kept his head high as he walked the length of the chamber, General Tullius and Legate Rikke already engaged in some sort of disagreement over the shining pins stuck deep into an old map. Still, Tullius took his bent posture with his large hands firmly against the table, studying its every fleck of ink, every trailing of pathways and roads and borders. As he approached, Emeros got a look at the layout, the wooden pegs shifted since the last time the trio had been in this room. Some of the shifted pegs were a bright blue, and closer to the red pegs than it seemed the General liked. Legate Rikke stood near Tullius with furrowed brow, her hair catching the light, concern plain on her face. She pressed a finger against a section of the map and said something to the General, who waved a hand as though dismissing her suggestion. When Emeros cleared his throat, she looked up, surprise overtaking her features for one vital moment before settling into a small grin, the calm approval, the sturdy folding of her arms over her chest. "Welcome back. You lived." "Your fort is cleared. If you would like it to remain that way, then I would suggest sending troops there at once," Emeros stated, the stern edge to his voice accentuated by the way he appeared to be peering downward at the General's bent posture, the Legate's short and broad stature. If one were to see through the tall Bosmer's eyes for a moment, they would find he was instead staring at the corner of the table.

"Excellent," Legate Rikke motioned for a couple of nearby soldiers, speaking to them quickly, the shuffle of their feet out the door catching against the air. She prodded the tip of her tongue to the inside of her cheek, thoughts scuffling about behind her blade-sharp eyes. "You know, I'm impressed." "That's very well and good, but as previously discussed, we're here to acquire an Imperial pardon, nothing more." Emeros maintained the calm in his voice, but his patience waned thin. He understood which gears turned in her head, the same damned urge to bring them into the fold of the Legion she'd joined more than thirty years ago. Loyalty to the Empire had solidified like the cement which bound cobblestones into perfectly smoothed paths in the Imperial City, and Emeros would make it clear he shared no such loyalty. They had done all of this to save themselves from the possibility of another false imprisonment. Fort Hraagstad had been nothing more than a means to an end. He watched the Legate bite the inside of her cheek, running a hand over her head. Perhaps she was thinking of something else now. She shifted her stocky frame to face the table fully, her hands plucking another red pin and sticking it into the map, marking something important, the very piece of debate which had left she and Tullius unaware of the trio's presences until he'd made a sound. Tullius rose at last, straightening his posture. As he turned, Emeros noted the weariness in his eyes. A man visibly running on less sleep than normal, especially clutching dozens of lives in his hands and bearing even more on his shoulders, is a very volatile thing. The Bosmer swallowed down his questions, instead opting for the arching of a brow as the General took stock of the three, his focus squarely landing on Athenath's new sword for a moment. Accepting the strange, glowing thing sheathed at the bard's side, he turned again to Emeros. "You know, I've sent troops to that fort before." He shifted his weight side to side, one foot, then the other, his bulky arms folded over his barrel chest. Perhaps the Empire had sent him to handle the Civil War for his intimidating appearance, or perhaps it was an isolated post used to give disgraced soldiers another chance. In either case, he spoke again, "do you want to know what happened to them, mister Nightlock?" A pause as if awaiting an answer that refused to come. "They would come back wounded. Some, not at all. But you three strangers took it for the Legion. And not a scratch on you that I can tell."

"Riveting," Emeros droned. "And what does this have to do with our pardon?" "Don't you get it?" Tullius pushed. "You survived Helgen, took Fort Hraagstad, and killed a dragon in Whiterun! Stories get around, mister Nightlock, we know about the Western Watchtower and what you three did there." He gestured a hand to the map behind him, Rikke taking her chance to go, already following some other soldiers out of the antechamber. In a lower tone, the General continued. "This war is taking its toll. We're hardly a year into it, and yet it's taken many of our men. The Empire is straining its resources, and Skyrim and all its people are suffering for it. Anyone who can turn the tides against Ulfric and win this Civil War will be-" "A hero." Emeros' patience threatened to snap. The words caught at his incisors. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I'm well aware of the rewards of heroism. A nice home in the Cyrodiilic countryside may appeal to you, General, but we've no time for such fantasies. Should we continue to traverse the Empire-controlled portions of Skyrim, we run the risk of being captured by your Legion as criminals for, need I remind you, a case of mistaken identity. I understand your desperation, really, I do, but I do not intend to drag myself nor my compatriots into such conflicts." The room dropped into a cold silence. Eye-to-eye, Emeros and Tullius stared one another down, the Bosmer's jaw grit tight, nostrils flaring. The door to Castle Dour parted, Legate Rikke on her way to lead a garrison to the now-empty fortress, Emeros figured. Athenath stood back with Wyndrelis, both of them having decided long ago that it was best that the alchemist handle this situation. The General flicked his gaze to them, then inched it from one face to another, from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, before giving an audible sigh and pressing the crook of his thumb to his forehead, massaging the stress-lined skin.

"Very well. You may have your pardon," he reached for a letter, the ink dry, already written and signed for the three elves, "but you'll need to take it by the Blue Palace yourselves." Emeros narrowed his eyes. "Why is that necessary, may I ask?" "We send word to the other Holds on our own. However, since you're already here in Solitude, you get to do the leg work yourselves. Take it by the Blue Palace and give it to the scribe, Phoebe. She'll officiate it." The General passed the paper gingerly to Emeros, the stamp of the Empire glaring back at the elf as he clutched it tight, unfolding it, scanning the writing rapidly. "I'm sure that you'll find it's all in order." "Yes, I'm sure," Emeros replied sourly, not looking up once from the paper. He read and re-read the words over and over, let them settle into the pit in his stomach, by the orders of General Tullius, Military Governer of Skyrim… After one final read-through, Emeros looked up and gave a curt nod. "Thank you for your time, General Tullius. Best of luck." He folded the letter along its preexisting creases, turning on his heel. The sound of his boots echoed through the chamber, the other two Mer exchanging a look of mild confusion before they followed suit, Athenath giving the General an awkward half-wave as they walked behind Emeros, eagerness in every step the three took. Whether this meant the end of their troubles or the beginning of new ones was a mystery, obsfuscated by the mid-morning sun and the glint of metal as soldiers trained for battle in the courtyard. Emeros clutched the letter tightly in a talon-like grasp, and prayed through the poundings of a stress headache to gods he strained to believe in that this would be over.

[gummy-axolotl]

I went to heaven and saw someone I killed. Bitch what are you doing here.

[hadvarandralof]

i did not draw these intending to post them, i just wanted to play around with this brush… but why not… anyways i love rikke i would die for her

[skyrim-forever]

We have Elenwen/General Tullius, but what about Elenwen/Legate Rikke???