#snow white the dragonborn

[lillxart]

I made another meme image with Nebarra and Talieisn -w- This time Snow White got in on the fun! 0w0

Poor Nebarra! XD Drinking his feelings away like always -p-

Also that gold piece on Snow's thumb is both Taliesin's earring and also her thumb ring, close together they look like one piece of jewelry but they're separate pieces my B XDD

P.S Taliesin's opinion on Snow's fit Dynamite? (Tallyboy looks fine in anything he wears)

[ladytanithia]

Writing WIP Wednesday (3/20/24)

More Miranja/Snow White silliness. May be a tad NSFW, so I'll put a cut, even though it's short.

Tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter

Tagging @dirty-bosmer @gwilin-stay-winnin @lillxart @skyrim-forever

Without further ado....

She spasmed ticklishly as Miranja’s fingertips grazed lightly down

her sides to her hips, and the brunette’s moist tongue left a cool, wet trail down the center of her abdomen. She spasmed again, giggling, as Miranja circled her navel with her tongue.

Miranja smiled, realizing that Snow (consciously or not) was accepting the magic she was sending. The smaller woman’s body was already more relaxed, in spite of the ticklishness. Miranja’s legs were still on either side of Snow’s legs, and now she kneed her milky thighs apart as she settled on her knees in between and kissed and licked the hollows of her hip bones. She pulled back laughing as Snow jerked and erupted into a fit of laughter.

“Where aren’t you ticklish?” Miranja grinned, shaking her head.

“Ummm…”

“That was a rhetorical question.” And before Snow could speak a word, Miranja planted her open lips firmly on Snow’s lower belly and blew. Hard. If the fog hadn’t begun to settle already, the sound might have carried all the way to Falkreath, along with the screaming laughter of her hapless victim.

[farraigeart]

i saw a fun prompt that was "your oc with characters they're based off of/inspired by" so i doodled a few! friojo gets two :>

characters in order:

kid icarus (captain n)

snow white (disney)

iron giant (brad bird)

pinocchio (disney)

[strigital]

it's 5am i'm fucken exhausted from cramming and also very hangry. so here's some doodling of Nim, just having some precious me-time in the dead of night, in the thickest neck of the woods where no one, not even gods, will hear your screams 🐺

EDIT: added second pic because i'm still in the Awoo™ mood

[hedonisticramblings]

Snow White and the Seven Dwarves…

…but with a hunky himbo Dragonborn and seven Kobolds that are totally simps for the big dumb lug. Bonus points if he’s a Red Dragon child of Tiamat and his knight in shining armor is a femboy Paladin of Bahamut with a really big sword…

I need to get that started.

[ghastlyspriggan]

This is Mag.

Although born into a stronghold, her father isn't the chief. Her mother, one of the chief's many wives, had an affair with a man of vampire royalty. As such, her vampiric half blocks her from inheriting the gifts Malacath blessed her stronghold with (superhuman warrior skills). However, her vampiric royal blood allows her to harness the advanced magical abilities she inherited from her father.

When Mag was born, and her nature laid bare for all to see even as a newborn baby, she and her mother were exiled from the stronghold. Mag's mother raised her as a nomad, too scared to seek shelter from her vampire lover.

Mag wants nothing more than to make her mother proud. She's aware of her half blood status and is ambivalent about it. While she wishes to be a powerful and skilled warrior so she can protect her mother with honor, she finds comfort in the magic that comes so easily to her. She practices and trains herself in its use the best way she can on her own.

Her mother loves her completely and is not repulsed by her vampiric nature, even when Mag needs to feed (she prefers to feed on the animals she hunts but it's like forcing a cat to be vegan; she doesn't get everything she needs from animal blood). Her mother helps her find suitable people to feed from (altmer blood is the most powerful and nutritious blood for her)(spoiler, it's because her father is an altmer).

What Mag's mother is unaware of is that the vampire she had an affair with had genuine feelings for her and has no idea why she fled. He searches for her but is unable to find her.

Eventually, when Mag is a young adult (early 20s) she journeys to find her abandoned father. Her mother had nothing but kind things to say about him and how he treated her when she was growing up and she finally convinced her to tell her where she met him.

It's a very heart wrenching journey and meeting and maybe I'll spare some time to write it in the coming months 🤍

bonus child and teen Mag, a volatile gremlin:

just pretend the chibi mag has pointed ears lolol

[boringbeerbear]

"- Ah shit, here we go again"

[nientedenada]

Five Skyrim Lore Facts You May Not Know!

And unlike some of the clickbait videos on Youtube, these ones are absolutely true. Let me address some of the most common lore confusions I regularly see. As a Listicle, because why not? (It's easier than writing out long lore posts.)

The Blades never served the Mede Empire. Martin was the last Emperor they served. They then devoted themselves to looking for a new Dragonborn and working against the Thalmor. Titus Mede I created a new organization called the Penitus Oculatus, which handled all intelligence and security for the Mede Dynasty. The Penitus Oculatus has been the official Imperial organization for more than 175 years, while the Blades have been an independent force. It makes the Mede decision to outlaw the Blades a lot easier to understand if you know they weren't their employees at all. The Blades were loose cannons they couldn't control.

Ysgramor didn't destroy the snow elves. The stories about Ysgramor say he and his 500 Companions showed up in Skyrim, killed or sent the snow elves into exile, took all of Skyrim, and then wandered over to pick fights with the neighbours. In reality, the Falmer weren't completely driven from Skyrim till the reign of King Harald, thirteen generations after Ysgramor. In the interim, there was a whole Dragon cult and war, culminating with Alduin being flung through the time wound. It's a long period. The real Ysgramor definitely clashed with his snow-elf neighbours but he's accumulated the stories of hundreds of years around his mythic name.

The Companions haven't been a Nord-only organization for a very long time. You might think that a bunch of warriors venerating the legacy of Ysgramor and his Companion would be Nord only, and that was probably true way back in the First Era. But by the end of the First Era, the Companions had boasted both a Redguard and Elf (Altmer or Bosmer) Harbinger. Cirroc and Henantier are some of the most famous Harbingers in the history of the Companions. We're in the Fourth Era now, so if you're playing a non-Nord, you're following in a long tradition by joining the companions. (As is Athis.)

The Imperial Legion didn't win back most of Cyrodiil in the Great War. People often ask why Titus Mede II agreed to the harsh peace of the White-Gold Concordat after his army had destroyed the Dominion army in Cyrodiil and taken back the Imperial City. But that's not what really happened. The Legion destroyed "the main army". Other Aldmeri armies are mentioned in Cyrodiil. After Red Ring, the Dominion still occupied Anvil, Skingrad, Bravil, and Leyawiin. "The Great War" doesn't say that any of these cities were liberated. Put those territories together and you'll realize the Empire never got back its coastline or the Niben river. Titus Mede made his deal while the Dominion still occupied half of Cyrodiil. Maybe he could have won if he'd pushed on, but his decision is a lot easier to understand with this context.

The Bretons Don't Worship Talos. This is one of my favourite lore bits to explain. Talos is not a god in TES II, Daggerfall, though he is a historical figure, Tiber Septim. He's only introduced as a god in Morrowind. So, a lot of people assume that he's been retconned into the Breton religion, like he was into the Nord/Imperial religions. This is not true. In both Morrowind and Skyrim, the book Varieties of Faith in the Empire does not list Talos/Ysmir as part of the Breton pantheon. They worship the Eight (and sometimes Y'ffre, Magnus, and Phynaster), as they always have. Tiber Septim is an important historical figure whom some Bretons regard as one of their own, but he isn't an official god. I love this tidbit because it makes the White-Gold Concordat absolutely brilliant. One remaining province, Skyrim, gets all upset while High Rock wouldn't care. Cyrodiil is presumably somewhere in the middle. It's a perfect way to drive a wedge among the provinces. (Hammerfell's left the Empire, but for the record, they don't worship Talos either.)

[freetobeeyouandme]

Chapter 12: This Is The Part Where Someone Gets Stabbed In the Back and We All Act Shocked

...actually that title is a lie. The stabbing happens in the front, but either way there is violence and so, what bliss. Will has a vision, Mike makes a bold move, and the party is no closer to fighting One because, shocker, there is more to the story.

Tags: M, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Fantasy AU, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Horror, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Summary:

Mike Wheeler hates High School, so when he almost dies and falls through a portal to another world, he’s not going to complain. Especially not when that world does not only have swords and magic but seems to work exactly according to the rules of his favorite tabletop role-playing game. But his euphoria might be short lived because the party of adventurers he falls in with turns out to be the target of an evil god and the fate of the world might rest on their shoulders. So, exactly like his games of D&D. Except the wanna-be Paladin soon realizes that being a hero is much harder in real life than it is in-game. - Or, Mike gets isekai’d into a world where D&D is real.

An excerpt and taglist below the cut:

Excerpt:

There is a small, rational part of Mike’s brain that knows that people sometimes wake up and get out of bed in the middle of the night. He has gotten up to get a drink before and then again later because the drink had finished circling through his system. There is no reason, really, why the same principle shouldn’t also apply to dragonborn Clerics living in a fantasy world, and for all he knows Will has simply stepped out to relieve himself.

And yet the first thing Mike feels on seeing Will gone is panic. He wants to say that it is because Will hadn’t even wanted to get up for breakfast yesterday, but his sleep foggy brain doesn’t think about that later, when it’s already too late. For now he opens his eyes, finds the sleeping bag beside him deserted, and bolts upright as the realization that something is wrong wakes him up worse than chugging a whole six pack of cokes would have. He brings his blanket up around him to protect him from the cold – and sees the fire pit has puttered out. The reason for that is the third thing he notices: Someone has left the door to the barn open as they went out, and the wind whipping inside has blown out the flames. The reason he can see all of that in the first place is that it’s not the middle of the night. Sunlight streams through the open door, making the snowflakes that drift and collect in a solid pile around it glitter white and gold. It also lights up the soundly sleeping shapes of his friends around him, some buried under blankets and cozied up to each other as their unconscious bodies react to the shift in temperature but none yet rested enough to properly react to the danger. However long they had decided to go last night, the practice had wiped them out good: No one seemed to have stayed up for watch, which spoke favorably for the trust they had built as a team but also would have left them wide open to an attack. Especially since the snow dizzying around the entrance does so in lazy whirls more so than the storm that had raged when they went to bed.

It’s good news for their journey and gives Mike some hope that when he finds their wayward Cleric it won’t be frozen into a Will-cicle.

Mike pulls on his boots as quietly as he can, secures his blanket around his shoulders and tip toes out into the freezing waste beyond. The snowstorm has abated more than he anticipated, leaving the surrounding fields and woods clearly visible, as is the destruction One’s descent up the mountain had wrought on them. In the advancing flurry of the storm they hadn’t been able to see the black tendrils that sneak up their trunks, boring into and under the bark and leaving the pines look half dead. The farmhouse to his right doesn’t look much better, the wooden slats that make up the building rotted and caving under the weight of the snow. Mike has barely set a foot outside when the groaning of the building catches his attention, and he watches in horror as the roof over the front porch caves in, sealing off the entrance. He whirls on the barn with his heart beating an even faster staccato in his throat, but at least the side building has managed to avoid the worst of it. The dead remains of vines reach like the grasping fingers of the dead up the side of the building, but at least the structure looks intact.

It still doesn’t mean they should dawdle for much longer now that the skies are clear again.

He tears his eyes away from the building, surveying the rest of the clearing that farm occupies for a clue to where Will could have gone, and finds him at the far edge of it, a dark and still figure. Mike approaches carefully, not wanting to startle his friend, but Will doesn’t so much as twitch, even when he should be able to hear the snow crunching under Mike’s feet. His gaze is fixed on something in the far distance, far above the line of trees, but either dragonborn vision is better than that of humans or Will isn’t fully awake, because Mike can’t find whatever he is looking at. Considering the way his hands hang limply at his side and his shoulders slump, the latter seems more likely. And when Mike rounds him, he finds that Will’s eyes are indeed fixed on nothing: They’re rolled so far back into his head that only the whites are showing, and not even the cold wind rustling his thin tunic seems to be enough to snap Will back to reality.

Unofficial Tag List (aka you interacted with my posts about this fic, please tell me if you want me to not tag you in the future (or want to be added)): @smalltownwheeler @wheelerpilled @wrong-energy @foodiewithdahoodie @doggozzy @gardenfairie @beelikesbirds @beverlysclown @yickarus @sourdough-el @hessolivagant @hesquietoday @oldfashionedmorphine @total-serene560 @bylersrise @hawkinsunderground @generalstorecashier @snixx @camel-casing @bylersbear01 @turningsoft @casatoan @maru-chu @mid13s @goldentrunks @bunnybylerfangirl @willbyersenthusiast @letterstomichelangelo @drowninginideas @fluffyfangirl @artsyna @absolutelynotyouidiot @bymarara @unknowmiau @are-you-reddie @elherself134 @longtallglasses @kennahjune @easilyentertained99 @bylerschapter @eli-being-silly @bylerina

[unrinconmas]

Skyrim's intro is perhaps the most misunderstood and confusing intro to any video game. Ten years later, a lot of players are still trying to figure out why the game starts with you heading north from Cyrodiil into Skyrim with a prisoner that should have been heading south out of Skyrim. Well, here are the facts and hopefully this will make things clearer! Ulfric was ambushed in Darkwater Crossing which is near Windhelm. He was then transported to Cyrodiil, likely for a trial in the Imperial City, the road south of Helgen is the only border crossing to Cyrodiil. A couple of letters during the Civil War questline reveal that the Pale Pass is closed and inaccessible due to an avalanche, this is also the excuse Bethesda uses to explain why the Stormcloaks are able to hold off the Empire, the Empire can't get reinforcements as the letters state. So Tullius makes the decision to return to Helgen which is an imperial outpost, he knows the Stormcloaks are coming for Ulfric so the safest solution is to kill him while they can to end the war swiftly. The Dragonborn gets caught sneaking past a closed border into a war zone, the decision to execute the Dragonborn isn't very surprising, you can hear the imperial captain trying to act quickly. Alduin appears in Helgen because of the time wound on top of High Hrothgar which is very close by, he is not summoned by the Dragonborn or by Lokir's stupid prayer, he is actually summoned because Ulfric fulfilled the prophecy of the Dragonborn when he murdered the king. Bethesda tried to make this clear by giving you the Book of the Dragonborn in the torture chamber in Helgen so that should be the very first book you find and hopefully read. "When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn." This prophecy is brilliant as it ties together the previous Elder Scrolls games. Misrule: imperial battle mage Jagar Tharn used illusion magic to disguise himself as the imprisoned Uriel Septim VII. Several wars followed due to this. Brass tower: represents Numidium and the genocide of Altmer as the Aldmeri Dominion was brought down in the second era. Thrice blessed: was the tribunal, Almalexia, Sotha Sil and Vivec, Red Tower of course is the Red Mountain, the giant volcano you see from Solstheim. Dragonborn Ruler: the end of the Septim bloodline (play Oblivion), White tower represents the White Gold Tower in the imperial city Snow Tower: represents the throat of the world where the time wound is, but also the center of Skyrim which now lies “sundered, kingless, bleeding” why? Because of Ulfric, why did Ulfric kill the high king and fulfill the prophecy? Because of the Talos ban, and why did that happen? Look back to the Brass Tower. All the pieces fall into place! World eater of course is Alduin, the Wheel is Aurbis and the Last Dragonborn is some cat that leads a bunch of thieves and is married to a lizard, or whatever you make of your Dragonborn. Finally, the reason the Seal of Akatosh (or as some people call it, Empire logo or even Skyrim logo) has a missing piece of the wing, is to illustrate that it is an old book. Yes, Skyrim's main cover is the Book of the Dragonborn, you really should have read it your first time around. I hope this clarifies things.

The Drunken Orc

[thelavenderelf]

Something a little different than usual, but this is a page out of my sketchbook regarding the fur coat I designed for Sylvana that she wears during the events of Unstable. That piece can be found here.

I am a huge nerd when it comes to costume design and storytelling with costumes, so I wanted to make something that represents what she's going through in my fic. This outfit was also heavily inspired by the gorgeous fur coat Daenerys Targaryen wears in Game of Thrones.

My handwriting is kinda illegible, so my design notes will be under the cut. With some more in-depth info of course. It became a bit of an essay:

The majority of the coat is made out of an off white, creamy fur. Probably an ivory more than anything. The color represents the snow, death, and mourning. She starts wearing it after Kodlak's funeral, so it's a symbol that she's still mourning for him. The snow connection is obviously because of her snow elf heritage and it's winter time during the story. As for death, that is a bit more metaphorical. Or is IT!?!?!?

The coat is embroidered with strips of blue suede handstitched in a pattern closely related to the scale pattern of a dragon. Here is one of the reference images I used for the pattern:

Before Unstable, Sylvana was very much a reluctant hero and wanted nothing to do with being the Dragonborn. Unstable begins about a year and a half after said revelation, and she's starting to become much more comfortable with the title. This coat is the first piece of clothing she owns that was made just for her. She commissioned it from Radiant Raiment in Solitude and she specifically requested the dragon scale pattern because she thought it would be cheeky whenever a dragon tried to pick a fight and insult her with terms such as "soft belly."

The pattern also represents her growing confidence in herself and her abilities.

Blue represents her love of Skyrim and all the people she has come to care for. But most importantly, it mainly represents her growing bond with Vilkas. I also like to think that it was dyed blue with a mixture of nirnroot. Something tells me that nirnroot provides a nice blue dye.

The back of the coat features a panel of silvery, grey fur that continues to mimic the dragon scale pattern. The color silver represents change, vulnerability, and almost a sense of paranoia. And with the silver being on her back, her most vulnerable place, it also represents an incoming danger that she doesn't suspect.

And finally, the coat is lined with a light golden suede. It represents the past and a hidden connection. The golden hue is a call back to her being raised on Summerset and within the Thalmor. As for the hidden connection, it also draws back to the past, but way before she can even remember. This hidden connection represents a familial bond that she has wanted for so long, but may not be one she expects.

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest day 2 - BELOVED

“I am not,” the Dragonborn begins, in the flurry of cold and lonely snow, and she stops.

Lydia is crouching by the fire, wind whipping her hair from its ties. She waits patiently for the thought to complete itself.

The Dragonborn twists her hands. They are gloveless, and white in the cold, but the frost doesn’t touch her unless it’s targeted, these days, and the cold sinking into her skin is more of an embrace than an injury. She doesn’t need warmth like other people do.

She doesn’t need warmth, or food, or rest, like people do.

“Lydia,” the Dragonborn says, and she kneels so the snow soaks the knees of her trousers. Lydia sits huddled in a cloak close enough to the fire that the snow has melted from the stone. She meets her eyes. “Housecarl. You are wonderful. Have been wonderful.” She needs to make this point because she understands now; thinks, finishes the sentence, “I am not like you.”

There is a beat.

Lydia has to raise her voice a bit above the wind. “You are not wonderful?” She is smiling, a bit; almost laughing. It is nice.

“I could be wonderful,” the Dragonborn replies. “But I am not like you.”

“You’ll need to be a bit clearer than that, Thane.”

The words won’t come.

“Joor,” she says (carefully, softening the sound of it in her mouth), because it’s the closest thing she can think of. “You. Delphine. All. I am not like you.”

Lydia sits up a little straighter, pulling the fabric of the cloak tight around her shoulders. She tips her head to the side and asks, “Are you getting to a question, or are you telling me something?”

The Dragonborn rolls the idea around in her mouth. Decisively, she says, “Telling.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, staring at her across the fire.

The cold rimes her lashes. Her eyelids stick when she blinks.

“I am,” the Dragonborn tries to explain, “strange. I am separate from you. I am made of something other. You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Lydia is trying – and largely failing – to wrangle her hair back into something manageable, but it slips from her hands and whirls merrily about her face. The squall snatches the words from her mouth as she says them, and it is only by virtue of being downwind that the Dragonborn hears her at all. “I know you think differently. I thought – well, some of it was the head injury –”

Some of it probably is. She remembers vaguely – back from the very beginning, waking up in the cottage with nothing but a pain in her head and a storming phantasmagoria of burning eyes and burning bodies and wings as large as the world in her mind – the distant words of the healer spoken to the woman who cared for her before she herself had figured out how to talk. The healer said that her mind was altered by her wound, that she would likely never be back to who she was before. As she’d been no-one before, it hardly mattered.

“ – but I thought it was the dragon.”

She’d thought so, too.

“Not quite,” the Dragonborn says. She can feel the goosebumps rising on her sopping wet knees. How to verbalise it? “What we are made of is the same. The dov. Me. But.”

When she does not speak again, staring hard into the fire, Lydia prompts, “But what?”

“When smiths change the metal.” Lydia raises a quizzical brow. The Dragonborn says clumsily, “I can’t think it.” She doesn’t know the word. “We are made of the same thing. But we are changed differently.”

“Blacksmiths?” Lydia checks.

“Blacksmiths.”

Neither of them can remember it, but as she’s already more or less gotten her point across, it hardly matters.

The wind snuffs out an edge of the fire. The Dragonborn sparks it again with a Word.

Lydia wipes the already-freezing damp off her cheek and huddles deeper into her hood. She asks, “If you’re not like us and you’re not like the dragons, what are you like?”

That’s an easy one. “I’m like me,” the Dragonborn says.

“And what are you?”

That’s harder.

She knows, or she thinks she does, but it’s not easy to find the words to explain it. She’s not sure if it’s something that can be explained. Her knees are sinking ever-deeper into the snow. Her joints ache with the cold.

“I told you this is all I can do,” she says.

Lydia looks blank for a moment as her hood flaps over her eyes. Her face shifts. “On the road to Winterhold,” she replies. “Yeah, I remember.”

“The prophecy.” The Dragonborn’s right eye is getting harder and harder to open. “The quest. That’s it, I think.”

She’s made of it, this purpose built into her bones. There’s no escaping it.

Not unless she tries, according to Paarthurnax. Not unless she works for it. But she doesn’t want to escape it, finds the idea that she could try vaguely unsettling. (She could be anything, he told her, and isn’t that just the most terrifying thing she’s ever heard?)

“That’s what you are?” Lydia asks, words ripped to shreds in the gale. (The Dragonborn begins to think they should not have had this conversation on the mountain, so close to the storms, but they needed privacy.)

She nods.

“Then what happens when you’ve fulfilled the prophecy? When the quest is done?”

“Then I’ll be full,” the Dragonborn says, as confidently as if she has not been puzzling over this since the last almost-ending and her conversations on the mountaintop. “Or I’ll disappear. One of the two.”

Lydia snorts. “Let’s hope it’s the former, then.”

“Let’s hope,” the Dragonborn agrees gravely.

They sit without speaking, for a time, in the company of the howling wind.

The Dragonborn remembers. She looks at Lydia’s cold-grey face. “That’s why I told you.”

“What’s why you told me?”

There’s more than one reason she tried to explain it to her, really, but this one is the relevant one. She has learned a lot this week. Been made aware of questions that she had not known to ask. Things to be thankful for that she had never considered. The Dragonborn dips her hands into the snow softening beneath her shins and says, “What will you do, after?”

Lydia’s face goes watchful – hair blows over her eyes. “That depends on what you do. I’ll still be sworn as your housecarl, Thane.”

“What do you want to do?” It’s important that she explain it. It’s important that they understand one another.

She spits hair out of her mouth. “I’ve been training for this job for years,” she says. “I’m not going to just quit once you’re done with your quest.”

The Dragonborn is surprised by the tension she feels leaving her joints.

“Good.” She means it, watching the snow and wind whip by Lydia’s face. She can’t find the words – can’t think how to explain what it’s all meant, how invaluable it’s all been. She can feel her face screwing up. Settles on, “What you’ve done for me can’t have been easy.”

Lydia grins, then, blinding bright as the sky all around them. “It hasn’t been,” she readily agrees. Her smile slips into something softer. “But rewarding. It’s been the greatest honour of my life to act as your wrangler.”

The Dragonborn could say the same – or something similar – if she had the words.

But she can’t find her own, so she borrows some. (I could do nothing without you – thank you for all you’ve given – your aid has been invaluable – you see me and you understand.) “I love you,” the Dragonborn says, as she’s heard it said, because isn’t that the gist of it all when it comes down to it? She stands – remembers to say, “You must be cold,” as an explanation for her actions – and begins to lead them both out of the mountaintop storm.

Lydia says something behind her, but it is snatched away by the wind; with its whistling in their ears, they stamp through the snow and back into the monastery.

[yeehawbvby]

Silver and Gold, Blood and Snow (Gortash x GN!Dark Urge)

Rating: Teen+ (Mentions of canon-typical violence)

Summary: Midwinter is a tenday away, and it has Gortash reminiscing of your holiday celebration just a few years prior.

Author’s Note: This was written as a Ko-fi request for the wonderful @liquid-coffeebear !! It takes place before the events of BG3, but after Durge got Orin'd. The Durge's race, height, gender, etc. are all left completely ambiguous. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope y'all enjoy it as much as I do! :D x

Check it out on ao3!

Snow was bountiful in the Lower City this winter.

Enver watched from the balcony as children played outside his fortress: trudging their way through the knee-high substance, pelting snowballs at one another, and letting even the weakest hit knock them down, just to have an excuse to lay atop the soft white sheets beneath them. He viewed passersby buying gifts for loved ones from the local booths and shops, arms full of burlap, and burlaps full of toys and jewelry and clothing galore. He gazed at the warm-blooded Dragonborn denizens walking freely in their typical daywear while the humans, halflings, and everyone else shivered beneath their copious layers.

The Lord had never been one for people-watching, more focused on his duties and plans for the future than those whom he’d spend it with. For some reason, though, he felt nostalgic this year.

He thought back to when you were around. Before Orin had… well, you know.

There was one Midwinter’s eve in particular that stuck out in his memory, as vivid as red on white. You had just finished wreaking havoc, as was your specialty; you would regularly fill the city’s citizens with dread, and leave them with a submissive and naïve hope for a better future that only their Lord could potentially grant them.

Blood had been splattered across the walls of every building you entered that day – the Upper City palace Enver had resided in at the time being the only exception – and in turn, crimson smears stained every inch of snow you stepped in. Of course, as a courtesy towards those you’d slain, you decorated their corpses with ribbons, and garland, and any other festive decor you could rip down from proximate displays. It was the least you could do, really.

In the midst of the chaos, you found time to steal a present for Enver. He’d complained at first that he had enough gold to buy himself anything he wanted. He appreciated the gesture, of course, but what need was there for such menial yearly practices when he could have all of Faerûn – perhaps all of the world – in his palm within the coming years?

You huffed, demanding in spite of your kind eyes that he take the damned gift before you slit his torso open and replace his viscera with it.

You truly were a being after his own heart.

He’d laughed, wordlessly taking the hastily wrapped box from you. After turning the lengthy object over in his hand for a moment, he peered up, only to view you staring intently at your own feet. Shyness was a rare look on you. It fueled Enver’s curiosity, prompting him to finally tear the parchment away from the wooden vessel.

Opening the small metal clasp revealed to him a set of golden gauntlets. There were two arm coverings that looked as if they could be a perfect fit for his person, and for his right hand only laid somewhat of a glove piece. Along with these came a set of rings, some of which resembled claws.

The ore had been molded into serpentine designs, yet within the right-hand adornment laid an empty crevice. It looked as though it was meant for a jewel of sorts, but the poor soul these had been lost to hadn’t had a chance to insert it yet.

Enver tilted his head, poring over every detail of the accessories. The back of his mind wondered just who these were originally for – certainly it must have been an elite, given the intricate craftsmanship – but his consideration evaporated as he realized it mattered not.

The poor soul was long gone anyway.

For the first time in ages, someone had rendered him speechless. He looked up at you, whose gaze was back on his. Your eyes glimmered with a hope you clearly hadn’t wanted to be seen. You knew he respected you as his equal; that he trusted you with his life, to rule his world alongside him… yet you seemed to search for his praise..?

It was silly, really. Of course you’d earned it. These were perfect for him. He closed the gap between the two of you, placing the box in your hands so he could try the gauntlets on. The rings fit splendidly. The arm pieces could use some adjusting, as they were a bit too snug, but it was nothing his personal smith couldn’t fix.

Using one of his newly equipped prosthetic nails, he tugged you closer, planting a kiss to your slightly chapped lips. It was all the approval you needed.

In the present day, Enver looked down at the gauntlets. He rarely removed them – they’d become an integral part to his aesthetic. The empty slot that once was now contained his beloved Netherstone. Not only did your gift have sentiment, but it served a grander purpose than you’d ever come to know.

Enver missed you. Orin was a fine accomplice, but if anyone was to be Bhaal’s chosen, it should have been you… and if anyone was to share his companionship, it needed to be you. His heart felt empty in your wake.

He headed back into his chambers, requesting a cup of mulled wine from one of his servants. The same blend you’d shared on that cold Midwinter’s eve.

This Midwinter was just a tenday away. Perhaps he’d have a lonely celebration of his own this year. He’d relax by a fire and drink in your honor, reminiscing of old times and musing what could have been.

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wednesday lets goooooooo

man, i'm glad it's wednesday!! it's been a tough one on my end, but it's the best day of the week, and i've been having a blast reading through/looking at everyone's wips today!!

thank you to the phenomenally skilled and talented @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me!! i love seeing what you're all up to this week, expect unhinged tags on your works soon!! <3333

i'm passing the beacon to @gilgamish @orfeoarte @caliblorn @aphocryphas @totally-not-deacon @wispstalk @your-talos-is-problematic and anyone who'd like to hop in!!

this is from chapter 25 of "Cycle of the Serpent" and fresh off the presses! this is shaping up to be the longest chapter since chapter 10 at 3,132 words as of right now, and this snippet contains most of it. of course it's going to go through the editing ringer before it gets posted, but i'm pretty satisfied with how it's turned out!

the dragonborn trio is tackling fort hraagstad in hopes of acquiring an imperial pardon, and things take a bit of a turn…

have fun. ;3

quick content warning for canon-typical violence

The first to fall. The first to bleed. Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack. One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud and felt Athenath wrench a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits in Bleak Falls Barrow. Jarl Balgruuf's gift was very kind, the armor of Whiterun, but they were in Haafingar, and they were no guards. So, his gifted armor lay in a chest in the Winking Skeever, finally off their backs, along with any items they wished to spare the hell of battle. As soon as he was on his feet properly again, he felt the brunt of a shield crash into him. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above him about to crash one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. He clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort. Five. He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles unclenching, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolates under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name he refused to speak aloud. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath walk backwards along the higher pathway of Fort Hraagstad, a bandit inching closer and closer. "Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as gutted now." Athenath narrowed his gaze, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps. Wyndrelis watched. His chest tightened. Something was deeply wrong.

Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to communicate this, Emeros had flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the bandit, and once he could sense no life in them, he pulled it off, boot to their hipbone. "Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros' attention drawn to their surroundings. Six. Wyndrelis waited. He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He didn't want to think of what the mud contained now. He dismissed his spectral mace. Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life. Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he breathed a shaking sigh of relief. "Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further." "What further?" Athenath shot back, throat creaking slightly, "I thought we were done." Wyndrelis shook his head, gesturing with his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down."

Wounds treated, the trio gave a long, hesitant look to the door leading down into the fort. Wyndrelis, reaching for his corporeal mace, furrowed his brow. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his magicka into it to make it stronger, to ensure it lasted, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event they ran into any more bandits. Which, of course, he was sure that they would. Athenath leaned against the door. "We ready?" He whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow. "Open the door slowly, I think we need to take some precautions." He watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down, and slowly pressing their hand to the door. Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar, moreso. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems, but it was all in the name of being able to traverse Skyrim safely. So, he would fight. As soon as the door parted, Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, which they did, creeping low to the ground and carefully in the stone dark. Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the anxiety in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the emerging fears that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level. All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for more bandits, more of their kin, to come running and to search every crevice for the trio.

In an instant, chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, deer in flight from a lion, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through it's winding depths. The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall into Aetherius here, here of all places- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his spine now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join. Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end. He felt his spine against cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? The steps, slow and readied, down the stairs echoed in the room. The bandits knew that they had their prey in their clutches. No need to rush things. What could three little elves do? What good were they in this fight? Wyndrelis inhaled deeply. He exhaled. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast sharp, terrified glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panicked eyes. Emeros' own, stone-cold, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds. This offered nothing but a grave. A grave. Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no. No, no, he knew there were other options. And as much as he didn't like it, he knew what he had to do. He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. Calm settled over the Dunmer's features. He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a purple, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.

[argisthebulwark]

Happy week one of @tescheer everyone!✨ This is fairly short since I'm still recovering from Nano, but I decided to write a little snippet with the first week's prompts Cloak and Snow :)

Starlight twinkled across the night sky, interrupted only by the white flakes as they drifted lazily toward the ground. The well worn footpath was long lost under gathering snowbanks. The Dragonborn's hands raised toward the heavens, fingertips growing numb after a long trek. Their mouth opened but found there were no words that could capture nature's beauty; snowflakes whirled in all directions and fell to blanket the silent plains of Whiterun. Trees bowed and swayed as snow gathered upon their branches, beasts silent and hiding from the late winter chill. They puffed out a cloudy breath and grinned up at the colors dancing over the horizon. For one brief moment they felt entirely alone in the universe.  "You'll catch your death out here."

Vilkas grumbled from nearby, arms surely folded over his chest. They ignored his tone - he meant no harm. Turning to chastise him for ruining the moment they paused, taken aback by the sight. Vilkas' dark hair collected flecks of snow, soft brown eyes sweeping across the landscape. Chilly winds had left his lips pink and gloved hands tightened the fur lined cloak around his shoulders. Against a backdrop of pure white he stood prominent, a shadow contrasting the dreamy background. A gentle breeze stole away the fog of his breath and whipped hair out of his face, causing the Dragonborn's heart to thump against their ribs.  He was beautiful. Bundled into his layers and brows furrowed, Vilkas looked stunning even as he stood ankle deep in snow. Despite all his grumping he'd insisted on accompanying them on their walk. Throughout his endless stream of snarky comments Vilkas had tied a scarf around their neck before tiptoeing out of Jorrvaskr. The Dragonborn stared at this man who seemed to care so deeply despite his endless protests and felt something swell deep in their chest.  "What?" He barked, cheeks bright when his glare cut over to them. His gaze softened and the Dragonborn felt a thread between their hearts snap into place, a string tightening and drawing them closer. Snow crunched underfoot as they stomped to stand before Vilkas, unsure what they intended to say.  "You're pretty." The Dragonborn watched a flash of color raise in his face, those brown eyes panning over the white hills once more. Vilkas cleared his throat as he pointedly avoided meeting their gaze but he did not move away. The Dragonborn's muscles tensed, awaiting whatever killing blow he intended to deal - his words were always especially cutting. They were stunned when he remained silent, gloved hands raising to the clasp of his cloak.  In one quick flourish, fur and soft cloth was wrapped around their body. Vilkas focused intently as he pinned it in place around their throat, the supple leather of his gloves brushing against their jaw. The Dragonborn didn't speak as he worked, though something about the way their mingling breath formed a small cloud between them captured their heart. Snowflakes continued to gather in the gentle waves of his hair, one catching on his long lashes before he stepped back.  "I told you to wear a coat." He chided, though the annoyance in his voice felt empty. Swathed in fur warmed by his body the Dragonborn couldn't help but feel cared for, his cloak wrapped neatly over their half buckled armor. It radiated the smells of home - smoke from the crackling fire in Jorrvaskr's main hall and a hint of juniper berries. The Dragonborn tucked their arms into Vilkas' cloak and, feeling just a tad daring, grasped blindly for his hand. He grumbled but accepted it, eventually allowing an arm around his middle as their legs grew tired.  The Dragonborn didn't keep track of how long they remained out there, standing on one of the many hills surrounding Whiterun's outer walls. A fallen guard tower jutted up through the blanket of snow coating the plains and constellations danced overhead, watery moonlight playing across the land. It felt so simple to simply exist with him, allowing snow to gather around their boots and melt into their hair. The two returned to Jorrvaskr when the first rays of sunlight peeked across the horizon, painting the snowy lands in all shades of pink and yellow. Soon, children would begin waking and dragging their parents into the streets. Creatures would emerge from their cover in search of food and the stars would melt into the sky. Life would march on as it always had. Each year when the snow began to fall, the Dragonborn could not help but fondly recall that night spent gazing into the heavens with Vilkas. He was not a man of flowery words but had proven that he would always be there to chase away the cold.

[in-the-heart-of-the-vampire]

My Tav on a shelf, Khione. White Dragonborn, Bard entertainer.

Khione means "snow". In greek myth she was the daughter of the North wind and the Goddess/spirit of winter.

Khione wants to spread music and joy far and wide. She has always been more of a lover then a fighter. But after being caught up with the Nautiloid, she is ready to bonk people on the head if the situations calls for it.