#tes v fanfic

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚!! ♥

wow! i'm on time this week!!

thank you to the lovely @dirty-bosmer @your-talos-is-problematic and @skyrim-forever for the tags!!

tagging the amazing @archangelsunited @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @gilgamish @saltymaplesyrup @thequeenofthewinter @viss-and-pinegar and @changelingsandothernonsense !

this week i'm cheating a little and posting a large portion of the (now published) rewrite of chapter 4 from Cycle of the Serpent! i've posted up to chapter 6's rewrites thus far, and should have 7 and 8 rewritten and updated soon. this chapter features the trio heading to Bleak Falls Barrow, from Emeros' point of view <3

  The road twisted narrowly from the bridge, angled and sloping, lined with strange stones. Some appeared intentionally arranged and stuck in their ways, watching the young elves through every crack in their worn surfaces. Some were more incidental, shrugging off the weather. Some appeared to be severed off from old pillars, smoothed by the many years gone by and wondering where their extra heights had gone. Emeros kept an eye on the greenery, on the land that gradually grew more and more distant, the town that faded from view as the three marched up the pathway.    The gradual drop in temperature intensified itself the further they got from Riverwood, the dusting of snow that cropped up at the tops of new and unfamiliar trees still preserved this far into Last Seed, and by the looks of the powdery texture, had fallen not too long ago. The pathway in its drastic angles took on more danger, as ice collected at the bases of the evergreens. Meticulous with their footing, the three carried themselves up the path to the barrow, careful to examine each stone they pressed their boots against.   Emeros had been in various ruins for any number of purposes over the years. He'd adventured into Ayleid ruins in his earliest days in Cyrodiil, never leaving the first chamber if he could help it, collecting samples of the mosses and fungi that grew within. Sometimes, he'd find an interesting vine, or a plant he hadn't recognized from the surface world. He'd take great pains to preserve them until he could examine them safely, testing new potions and properties, inspiration his guide in every experiment. If he combined this amount of imported trama root with this amount of the unidentified fungi, placed it in an already known potion recipe, how would it change the effects? Would it create something to heal, or to harm?    What new concoctions could he make with the native flora of Skyrim? And maybe, if luck was on his side, would he find something previously unknown in this ancient place?

  The trio trudged onward, the wind whipping at their faces, brushing flakes of snow like tiny spears against their skin. The cold was one factor all of them wished they'd prepared more thoroughly for, but if they were going to explore this place and bring back the claw, then they had to keep going. Day had long since crest the mountains, rising above them in a lustrous sheen of blue, light bleaching the landscape before them a harsh, eye-pulsing white.    As they turned their eyes to the top of the mountain, a strange stone tower came into view. Weathered by the ages and capped with snow, the sight alone sent shivers through the Bosmer. Emeros hissed for the others to get down, snagging the other two by their tunics, hidden behind a massive stone. When Wyndrelis was about to quietly protest, Emeros pressed a finger to his own lips and then gestured to the tower. The other two Mer looked.    A figure marched the slim, dreadful bridge from the tower to the mountain, back and forth at an easy pace. Bandits. And they'd almost walked right into their line of sight.    "What do we do?" Athenath asked in a hushed tone, partially unsheathing their newly acquired sword. Wyndrelis pressed his spine to the rock they huddled behind, with the spare, occasional glance to the figure.   "Emeros, you have a bow. Can you use it?" Wyndrelis asked in a hush, Emeros already nocking an arrow.   "I've been hunting in Valenwood since my childhood," he answered, taking aim. He shut one eye, lined up his shot, and stilled his breaths.   "Not yet!" 

  Emeros startled at Athenath's hard whisper, grip on the arrow tighter. He slid it forward, letting the string go slack. He cursed under his breath as he turned to Athenath, brow quirked and eyes narrow. The Altmer pressed palms to the sides of Emeros' head, and as the alchemist was about to protest, his eyes landed on a detail he'd missed.   Up the incline, pacing back and forth before them, a bandit that no one else had seen.    Two targets, then.   He looked to his companions, then to the bandit. This would come down to timing, by his own analysis. If he took one out without the other noticing at first, it would give him a few seconds to get another arrow and put the last one down. Then, they could safely traverse the mountainside. He gave Athenath one last look, this time the slightest gleam of a grin on his lip, not daring to speak too much. He knelt in the snow, nocked his arrow, and waited.   When the bandit at the fortress had their back turned, he fired. This arrow pierced through a weak spot in the incline-bandit's armor, injuring them, stunning for a moment before Emeros got another arrow through their neck. He shifted his attentions to the fortress-bandit, who dashed to the crumpled body of their companion. He fired, and this shot went clean through the torso, spearing the upper chest, likely a lung, if he guessed from here.   "I think that's all of them." Wyndrelis rose from behind the stone, wiping the snow from his trousers as he grabbed his belongings. The three rushed to the bodies, and as they confirmed that the bandits were dead, Athenath began to rifle through the pockets of the corpses. Emeros sputtered protests, but as the Altmer produced some gold, some new arrows, and a set of leather gauntlets, he found himself complaining much less. They handed the leather gauntlets to Emeros, then stood and stretched.   Wyndrelis thought something over for a moment. Then, he knelt, slowly undoing the fastens and buckles of the much warmer-looking armor the bandits wore.

  "What in Oblivion are you doing?" Emeros hissed, Wyndrelis looking up at the other momentarily before returning to his task. Athenath joined in, helping Wyndrelis lift the fur-lined piece from the first body before they descended on the second.   "It's not like they need it, and we can't run around looking like soldiers forever," Athenath retorted.    Wyndrelis agreed, pulling the first set of armor to himself. He shifted his gaze to Athenath, brow knit. "Tell me, why did he get the gauntlets?"   Athenath shrugged as they looked up to Emeros momentarily, before handing over a soul gem they'd dug out of a bandits pack Dunmer, who tucked it into his pocket. "Archers usually need them, right? Something about the string?"    Emeros gave a small, apprehensive nod, and even though his features were marred with the shock of the pair descending upon the dead like carrion birds, he figured that they had a point. It wasn't like any of them could afford to buy armor right now, and none of them needed to run around dressed as Imperial soldiers in potentially-hostile land.   He donned the gauntlets. The leather fit well over his fingers, and most importantly, they were warm. The other two bundled up fur and leather armors, before they stepped into the tower, nudging their steps with extra caution over the frail bridge. Rifling through drawers gave them more gold and a place to toss the Imperial armor without much worry. They'd have to hurry, though. Taking too much time here meant that they were both wasting time they could be using to get in and out of the barrow, and meant that it gave the bandits more time to come find them, and the bodies of their compatriots.    Once Athenath and Wyndrelis had donned the bandit armor - "Well, you didn't seem to want it," Wyndrelis shuffled the explanation awkwardly out - the three inched back to the stability of the mountain, the wind whipping furiously around them. The steep pathway lead further upwards, to the enormous stone arches and sharp angles of the ancient ruins. Stairs slick with ice rose up to a gigantic platform, the air thick with worry. Something innate gnawed at Emeros, the warnings of old friends from northern High Rock not to head into similar structures rumored to line the furthest reaches of the province murmuring in the back of his mind. He shook them away. This was not the same. This was something he'd said he'd do, and he would bloody do it. 

  "We should be on our guard. Two bandits means there's probably more, and if we're not careful, we'll walk right into a trap."   "Or another ambush." Wyndrelis joked dryly. Emeros rolled his eyes, but still, he laughed.   "Or another ambush." He repeated, grinning.   The dark, snow-covered stone gathered in points towards the sky. They made a calculated approach, the three in a line as they focused on any potential movement from the structure. When bandits emerged from the shadows of the ancient, high-arched ruins, the caution came in handy. One of them fired arrows down at the three, barking at them to leave with their lives or they'd gut them like a purse. Athenath flinched and dodged the barrage, Wyndrelis holding up a ward, magicka pouring into his fingertips, collected in arching light. He pushed forward, Emeros using the ward's cover as a shield to fire his own arrows behind. This time, it took several shots, moving as he fired at a simultaneously moving target. He cursed and hissed as he fired at the figure until he saw them kneel, then another, then down.    A second bandit charged with a war axe, Wyndrelis using his other hand to fire a bolt of lightning that struck through the middle, jarring the bandit enough to give Athenath an opening. The Altmer charged, bashing the hilt of their sword into the back of the bandits head, hoping they'd only knocked them out.    The final bandit rushed Emeros, nearly swiping their blade into him. The Bosmer ducked down by an inch, bringing his own sword from its hilt and striking them through the chest, pushing it as deep as he could muster in the moment. The armor gave way as the bandit struggled to block, a fight that lasted mere seconds and ended just as quickly. The three caught their breaths, snow now pelting down at them from the pale clouds above their heads. Whatever world they'd just ambled into gave them one hell of a welcome.   Better than the one they'd all received at the border, Emeros thought as he tugged his cowl tighter, thefurious winds knocking the fabric off his head every time he attempted to right it. Grumbling, he left it around his neck as a scarf, and trudged up the final stairs to the doorway of Bleak Falls Barrow.    Adrenaline throttled their veins. The Mer looked between one another. Then, Emeros slowly pushed open the door to the barrow, into the dim chamber that would seal their decision. No going back from here, the decision decreed. No turning back. 

[helgiafterdark]

if you write fanfic about skyrim/tes and it features POETRY you composed (or a song etc etc), please send it to me or link it in reblogs/replies/askbox!!! i'd love to read it.

(if you haven't posted it anywhere you can still send it to me however you wish.)

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

This crackship was supposed to be FUNNY but then it got really serious instead?

At least it's sweet. Or at least @elder-dragon-reposes thinks so!

Yo @incorrectskyrimquotes do you want some Leara/Ralof romance/pining?

ao3 | masterlist

She's curled in the corner of the wagon when he first notices her. Dark red hair falls in a curtain over her face, but Ralof thinks he sees the tip of a leaflet ear poking between the fallen strands. An elf, then. He doesn't remember seeing her during the ambush and the skirmish that followed. He wonders how she got there. He wonders why. Was she at the border?

When she wakes, it's signaled by strained shoulders and a near-visible shrinking in on herself. Then Ralof is met with the most startling blue eyes he's ever seen, bright and cold and thick with ice. They sweep his face, then turn to the other occupants of their carriage. At the moment, Ralof swears those eyes hesitate and widen when the elf woman spots Jarl Ulfric, but later, he isn't sure.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She stares at him again and is quiet.

She is quiet when the Imperials corral them from the carriages to hear General Tullius's damning talk-down to Jarl Ulfric.

Then, they're in line for the chopping block. Hadvar, damn traitor that he is, is standing there prim as a princess with his quill and parchment, ready to take down the names of the convicted.

Ralof wants to curse him. He cannot.

Then the elf woman is in front of Hadvar..

"Who . . . are you?" "Leara Ormand. I, I'm from Daggerfall." "I'm sorry, miss. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

She hangs her head.

This was Imperial justice, Ralof thought. The innocent were condemned just as easily as those who fought for others' freedom. Anything that was inconvenient for the Empire must go.

They execute Snorri first, Talos guard him. Then they call the elf woman, Leara, forward. Her head no longer hangs. She walks forward with the same cool face and straight spine he's seen in other high elves.

Thunder rumbles, not for the first time since this circus began.

She kneels at the block.

All Oblivion breaks loose.

Smoke and screams resonate through the air as fire splits the skies. Visibility is lost. Ralof stumbles to the ground.

Amid the screaming, he hears a word echoing above the den and so penetrating that it chilled his soul.

Dragon.

He stumbles over something—someone. The woman, Leara.

Her hand snatches at his arm, shockingly cold amid the blistering heat.

They drag each other to the tower, making it just before Jarl Ulfric and the others close and bar the door. He turns to ask Jarl Ulfric—Could the legends be true?—and then she is gone like a dart up the stairs.

Ralof doesn't see Leara again until he stumbles into the Keep. She's on the floor, propped against the wall with her face flushed and her hands encrusted in frost. In her hands, she's clutching the hilt of a katana, but where she got it, Ralof doesn't know. Her eyes are closed, and she looks desperately like she's trying to catch her breath. But Ralof knows that soon this room will be swarming with Imperials fleeing the firestorm outside. They needed to go.

Their trip through the keep and its cave network is a blur of exhaustion and bloodshed. Her hands leave a trail of black frosted blood pools in their wake. The katana sings like hissing ice in her hands when they face the Torturer and sleeps just as easily when they agree to sneak past the bear.

He takes Leara to Gerdur. He needs to return to Windhelm as soon as possible, but it is clear as sunlight that Leara has been caught in a bad spot. When Gerdur hears about their escape from Helgen, she is only too willing to help out Ralof's new "friend."

Ralof waves Leara goodbye the morning after they stumble into Gerdur's yard. She is sitting on the porch, her katana beside her, but her face is clean from the ash of their near-death.

"Be well, Ralof!"

She says in farewell.

Ralof grins at her, not quite full, and leaves. And his mind wanders down other paths, away from his harried flight with Leara Ormand.

But he thinks of her again when he's faced with the white-blue ice of the White River biting at the ancient stones of Windhelm. When he returns to the field, he halfway remembers the song of her katana in the whistling of the wind through the pines.

But it is the dragon attack on Whiterun that eventually brings her back to the forefront of his mind. The attack is months after Helgen, but not long enough for the people of Skyrim to forget that a dragon leveled an entire village and stirred the embers of the Civil War into a full blaze with Ulfric Stormcloak's escape from the Imperials. The fighting has just picked up again after the winter lull when the news of the attack spreads like wild . . . dragon fire.

And with that news comes the murmur of Dragonborn. The Greybeards called her.

"Her?" "Some pointy ear. Not a Nord."

It is only when someone mentions that the Dragonborn carries a katana that Ralof knows that she and Leara are the same. It makes for a good story around the campfire when Ralof tells how he and the Dragonborn escaped that first dragon attack. Most don't believe him. Some do.

Then there are those who scoff at the idea of an elf woman being the Nords' hero. It's not long before Ralof finds himself in front of Commander Gonnar for brawling over it.

Commander Gonnar is . . . not impressed.

"Do you think we're out here to brawl like barflies?" "No sir." "No, because we have a job to do, leiutenant, and you can't perform your job when you're out there rolling in the dirt because someone insulted an elf to your face." "She's the Dragonborn, sir." "Well, then, she doesn't need you taking up for her, does she?" "Yes, sir."

Commander Gonnar sends him back to Windhelm soon after that. Less trouble in the camp.

Even in Windhelm, support for the Dragonborn is mixed, especially when Ralof hears about her plans to hold a peace talk at High Hrothgar. He volunteers for Ulfric Stormcloak's guard. The Jarl, at least, doesn't seem to care about What the Dragonborn is, so long as she takes care of Skyrim. That's fair enough, all things considered.

At High Hrothgar, Leara is happy to see him. Ralof is surprised when she catches his hand up in hers, a grin curving her white gold face. She seems happy . . . for someone who then proceeds to manipulate an entire table to agree to her terms while holding everyone else at their starting positions.

Yes, Leara is perfectly fine. Or so Ralof convinces himself, until he finds her in an alcove, sometime after dinner, with her katana in her hands and her face too pale. Her breathing is shallow and she's not seeing.

Ralof is crouched beside her in a moment.

"Leara—" "Elenwen. Elenwen."

Her skin is clammy. Oh.

Ralof holds Leara's hand through the panic attack beating on her. The best he can do is talk to her and rub her shoulder. Eventually, he manages to pry the katana from her death grip. Her hands soon fist in his hauberk. She falls asleep not long after that.

She is apologetic but still thankful afterward. For the first time, Ralof sees the layer of ice in her eyes give way to glimpses of spring waters.

Ralof might not know what happened to Leara, but he knows being a hero hasn't suddenly made her invincible. If anything, it's exacerbated a deeper problem. Problems he doesn't dare to tease out when General Stone-Fist sits down to talk about the Dragonborn as the Stormcloaks make their descent from the Throat of the World.

Months pass before he sees her again, and then it's on the wings of her victory over the World-Eater. She sweeps into WIndhelm and soon Ralof finds himself at the bar with her at Candlehearth Hall. He looks forward to speaking to her again but is nonetheless surprised by her turn in conversation.

"What do you know about the Butcher murders?" "Well . . ."

Ralof can't say he's kept up with the whole drawn-out tragedy, but Leara seems intent on investigating, and he commits to helping her—as much as his duties allow, that is. Later, when she brings the amulet to him with whispered descriptions of a room bathed in sinew and blood, he suggests the court wizard. Ulfric trusts the man, and from what Ralof has heard, Wuunferth seems pretty knowledgeable.

Directing Leara to speak to Wuunferth does not prevent her from being stabbed by the Butcher days later. She takes Calivto Corrium out with her own bloodied ice before collapsing in a shivering heap. She is taken to her room at Candlehearth before Ralof can check in on her. Before he can see that she's okay.

Leara will be okay. Ralof will not.

When Ralof accompanies the guards to clear out the House of Curiosities, he finds the Dibella statue modeled in Leara's likeness: White gold, small, naked, and frigid.

Rage bursts in his chest. He throws it into the wall. On impact, it shatters in a rain of pottery shards, painted and false.

From there, Ralof hurries to Candlehearth. There, he finds Leara propped in a chair; when he enters, she's half-heartedly nibbling an apple tart but, at the sight of him, sets it aside.

"Ralof! Would you like some pastry?"

Her smile is bright, if strained by the lingering pain. She half-raises the plate toward him.

Ralof takes it from her, and setting it on the table, kneels beside her chair. As he does so, he takes the cold hand in his, clasping it between both palms. He bows over her hand in his, his forearms braced against the chair arms.

"Ralof? Are you okay? What's happened?"

But Ralof can't speak. How can he? How can he speak into existence the truth his spirit has been seeking this whole time? He must tell her. He's not a coward, but a brave son of Skyrim! But the words stick in Ralof's throat, even when Leara's other hand comes to card through his hair.

When he leaves, the words are still lodged in his throat. The whole time he doesn't speak, Leara simply strokes his hair, and when he leaves, she offers another smile. Confused, certainly, but soft. Kind.

Ralof is tempted to ask Generals Stone-Fist or Thrice-Pierced to deploy him to a camp in Hjaalmarch or the Reach, but every time, he's driven to stay. All the while, Leara is recovering. Soon, she's back on her feet, and when she mentions leaving Windhelm, Ralof feels as if he'll be sick.

What will she do once she's out there, alone?

She's capable, he reminds himself. Yes, she defeated the World Eater. But then she was nearly murdered by a serial killer. All it took was one mistake. One. And Leara would be, Leara . . .

Leara would be dead.

t's that thought that drives him to Candlehearth again. He's hurrying down the hall toward Leara's room before he realizes Elda is calling him.

"She's gone." "What?" "The Dragonborn, she checked out this morning."

Bile churns in Ralof's gut. She's gone.

Again the Palace of the Kings, Ralof seeks the training yard. Hack. Slash. Stab. Leara left. Slash. Hack. Stab. Leara was alone. Slash. Swipe. Turn. Leara might not come back. Stab. Hack. What if she . . .

No. He was being dramatic.

Ralof is not given long to wallow. General Stone-Fist promotes him to captain and deploys him to the Reach, clear across Skyrim. In the Reach, there's more to worry about than the abstract until proven idea of Leara's present safety. Ralof's, for one thing, and the state of the Stormcloaks campaign in the region, for the greater.

He is in the Reach a month before reports filter out of Markarth about heightened Forsworn activity in the city. The Forsworn were already a pain in the rear out in the hills and crags. Ralof did not look forward to weeding out a potential secondary force when the Stormcloaks marched on Markarth.

Then, a report comes saying there's been a breakout from Cidhna Mine. And that Madanach is alive. Ralof has a bad feeling about this. He's pretty sure Jarl Ulfric will have plenty to say about the situation.

Whatever Ulfric would say is driven from Ralof's mind when a thin figure stumbles into camp. Her hair is wild, her eyes are wild, and in her hands is that same katana.

Ralof is running to Leara to catch her in his arms before her knees even threaten to buckle.

"It's my fault." "Shhh." "Ralof, Ralof, Markarth . . ." "We'll take care of it. Don't worry, Leara."

Soon, she's asleep in the medical tent. Ralof is sitting beside her when Commander Kottir pokes his head in.

"So, that's the one stirring up the fuss in camp." "The Dragonborn, Commander." "That's what I hear."

Commander Kottir nods, grim.

"See that she doesn't die on our hands. We can't afford the talk."

Jaw clenched, Ralof just nods. Leara's hand is in his. Over the cot, he catches the commander's eye. Kottir's eyes linger on the joined hands before slipping from the tent.

When Leara wakes, Ralof learns all the dark details of Leara's ill-fated investigation iin Markarth that turned into her incarceration and eventual jailbreak with the King in Rags and his court.

"I had no idea what I was getting into. It was like a completely different playing field from what I'm used to."

Ralof can't offer much advice, except that when the Stormcloaks take over Markarth, they'd weed out the Forsworn support. Leara's face is drawn, but she squeezes his hand.

When she leaves, she says she's heading for Solitude. Ralof wishes her well, but a feeling of foreboding seeps into his bones. She doesn't say why she's going to Solitude, but there's a particular gleam in her eye that piques him in a certain way.

Without Leara in camp, Ralof's focus goes back to the war. General Stone-Fist comes out west, and Ralof is asked to accompany him to Hjaalmarch. They have their eyes on Fort Snowhawk, but before they get there, an anonymous tip comes in that the Dragonborn is being held by the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep.

When he reads the note, Galmar's face is hard. Ralof is cold.

"We can't leave her there, General." "We might have no choice."

But Ralof can't accept that. He'll go after her by himself. His knapsack is packed and his sword is sharpened when he heads for the edge of camp. Galmar stops him.

"You're not going to Northwatch alone." "Respectfully, General, but I am. I can't just leave Leara with the Thalmor when I can do something about it." "No, Captain, you're not going alone." "But sir—" "We'll be leading a raid on the fortress."

The Stormcloak attack on Northwatch is swift and pointed. The Thalmor wizards are difficult, but they're no contest when met in the tight melee range of the halls. General Stone-Fist's battlecry rings off the stonework, rallying the rebels. This is not like their plans for Snowhawk. They weren't trying to hold the fort. Raid, disrupt, and devastate, however? Doable.

Throughout the raid, Ralof felt at turns cold and furious. Leara is here somewhere, he thinks as he leads a group down into the dungeons.

The scent of blood and bile burns his nose. Ralof pushes forward until, rounding a corner, he runs headlong into a tall golden-haired Altmer. Lightning sizzles on her fingers, burning the air and setting Ralof's teeth on edge even as he thrusts his sword deep into her stomach.

Blood curdles out of her mouth as Ralof pushes passed her into the cell beyond. There.

Her head lulled to the side and eyes heavy, Leara is strapped to the wrack, her thin arms stretched skeletal over her head. In her mouth is a heavy gag, tied tight to prevent her from using the Thu'um. Ralof is at her side in an instant, making quick work of the bindings. He pulls the gag from her mouth, tossing it to the side. Behind him, one of the battlemaidens drops to her knees, checking Leara's throat and wrists.

"Captain." "How is she, Tilda?" "Sir, I don't think—"

But Ralof has Leara in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. She's not heavy at all. They were starving her. Feeding meant removing the gag, risking the Voice. She wasn't this light in the Reach. They starved her.

He hugs her tighter to his chest, and hurries from the keep, Tilda and another soldier on his heels.

That night, after setting fire to the keep, Galmar meets him in the field healer's tent. It's even less equipped than what they have at one of their permanent campsites, and Ralof fears it won't be enough.

Leara is incredibly small and broken under the blankets. New golden scars peak from under the collar of her waif-thin shirt, tracing the path of her veins. Sitting by her bedside, Ralof has held her hand since Tilda finished examing her, the battlemaiden's face grey. The chill in Leara's hand is different now. Unsettling. He can feel the weight of Galmar's eyes on him.

"Tilda told me." "Oh." "If she wakes, she may not be the same."

Galmar cut himself off, but Ralof didn't pay attention. His focus was centered on the slight rise and fall of Leara's chest as she breathed. Every breath was shallow, and none of them restful.

"Listen, Ralof. When the time comes, if you need to take some time and go back home for a few weeks, not a man amung us would begrudge you that."

His throat thick, Ralof only nods.

With Leara in the condition she was in, it was risky to move her, but staying meant her death. The Stormcloaks were caught in a delicate situation, especially considering that they were still in Imperial territory.

"I can give you two days."

Ralof heard Galmar say to Tilda. The battlemaiden nodded. She worked diligently with Leara, praying to Talos, Mara, and Kyne for healing while attempting to work her own arts. Ralof prayed too, though his prayers beseeched Akatosh second only to Talos. But he also prayed to Arkay, begging for the tenuous thread of Leara's life to be strengthened.

One day elapsed. The second one drew toward its close.

There was no change. Within the last hours, Ralof sat on his knees, her hand in his and clasped against his forehead as he leaned into her cot. Ralof's chest ached.

One of the soldiers appeared at the tent flap, but Ralof didn't look up.

"Captain, General's ordered the camp to pack up and head out." "Thank you, Jorvar."

Then it was Tilda's hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Ralof. We must wrap her up and get her on a horse. We've given her as much rest as we can." "She's not strong enough." "Perhaps not, but we have to trust in the Divines that she may be."

His mouth in a line, Ralof simply nodded. Sighing, Tilda turned to finish packing the medical supplies they'd brought from the Haafingar camp.

A tear stung his eyes, followed by another. They weren't the first he'd shed over her, but the fear and despair were beginning to gnaw deeper into his spirit. With trembling lips, Ralof dotted a kiss on Leara's palm, then her knuckles, and the pads of each finger. At last, he drew the thin hand to lay flat on his heart.

Please.

Leara remains stable on the trip to the Haafingar camp, wrapped in blankets and nestled in the bottom of their one wagon. Tilda keeps vigil at her head. Beside the wagon, Ralof rides on horseback, his sword and Leara's katana sheathed at his side.

They make it to the camp, and Tilda is able to administer different medicines that she did not have before. Some color returns to Leara's face, but she still breathes shallowly. Soon, Tilda grows adamant that they must take her to Whiterun, to the Temple of Kynareth. Galmar, while seeing reason in some of Tilda's arguments, is quick to remind the battlemaiden that Whiterun is not their ally. The Stormcloaks cannot step foot in the city. Tilda insists that they can under certain terms.

In the midst of them, Ralof keeps praying that perhaps Leara would at least open her eyes. One last time. During these times, he often falls asleep, his head by her arm on the cot.

It is one of these times that Ralof fell asleep that he thought he woke up. Really, he was sure in the moment that he had, but afterward could never be totally sure. As he lay in half-sleep, he watched a man with golden skin and blue-fire eyes slip into the tent. As he approached, his feet made no noise.

The man's hand passed unfelt (and yet felt) over Ralof's head before landing on Leara's arm. As if entranced, Ralof watched the man remove Leara's hand from his grip and tuck it over her stomach.

"Oh, little one."

For the rest of his life, Ralof could never remember what happened afterward. One minute he was half watching the stranger pass the backs of his fingers over and over Leara's sallow cheek, and then the next, well. The next moment Ralof knew on waking was Leara's fingers carding through his hair. He stirred, and then stared.

From her pillow, Leara was smiling at him. It was a slight smile, still touched with pain, but it was alive because she was awake and she was here.

Ralof met the summer lake warmth of Leara's eyes. And he knew. He clasped her hand in his, and once more began to kiss it. Leara laughed, small and tired, but awake and alive. So very much alive!

He grinned at her.

"I love you." "I know."

Her voice was worn, tired, and fracturing, but so soft and relieved. Hopeful. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Leara's wrist. Yes, he loved her very much, and he would tell her so every day for the rest of their lives.

fin

[titisorriso]

Getting into an artblock, so i'm finishing old sketches to try and get those creative juices flowing again. Here are some of my favorite OC's from Skyrim. They hate eachother.

[bwoobiez]

Dumb Dog [NSFW || Vilkas x GN!Masc!Reader]

— CONTENT: Masc-bodied reader but they're kept gn, pet play, size kink, dumbification elements, some monsterfucking and brief piss play

— AUTHORS NOTE: more submissive vilkas! i wanna see more submissive vilkas!

SUMMARY: To the rest of Whiterun and the Companions, Vilkas was a formidable warrior who was not only skilled in battle, but gifted in intelligence as well. But whenever he was getting demolished by you, you ripped that mask right off to reveal the big fuck-mutt underneath.

He used to see receiving anal as a threat to his masculinity, so he never had it until his first sexual encounter with you. He still had an insecurity towards being perceived as the “submissive” one in the relationship, so he put up his macho front again in public.

“Just be gentle, ok?” he stammered. His eyes flickered between your face and your cock, wondering how the hell you’d even fit it all. “Of course, love,” you cooed as you slathered some lubricant on your cock and then some on his asshole. One of the strongest fighters in the Companions - and in Whiterun - laid at the edge of the bed with a nervous expression you’ve never seen before. This oh so smart and ferocious warrior was about to take your cock up his ass, how sweet. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, just relax…”

Vilkas never had his mind so completely broken. You’ve fried all his brain cells and reduced him to a dog whose only purpose was to follow commands and cry during sex

Like every mutt, he loved being called a good boy. Besides the bedroom, you also said it during training sessions (when you two were alone) or after bringing down an enemy.

After clearing out a camp of bandits, you both turned towards each other with victorious grins on your faces. You reached over and placed your hands on the sides of his head, ruffling his hair as you would a dog, “Good boy! Goood boy! You are such a good guard dog!”  Vilkas looked utterly adorable: his pretty face was covered in blood, adorned with a beaming smile that revealed pieces of flesh between his teeth. He wore human remains so well! Just a second ago he was skillfully slaying enemies, and now here he was, soaking up commendation from his master; if he were in his werewolf form, his tail would fall off from how fast it would be wagging.

Vilkas was tall and very muscular, but next to you, he was small. Just putting two fingers in his mouth completely filled it, and gods, you just loved shoving them in there. Little dummy would mindlessly start sucking and bobbing his head, or stroke your middle and index as he sucked on your thumb; similar to how he'd stroke your cock and suck your balls.

“Mmuuhh aah! Ouhh!” “Yeah…? You enjoying yourself…?” you growled between clenched teeth. All you saw before you was Vilkas bent over, having his body forced back and forth on your cock. His head hung low, causing drool to dribble off his top lip and fall in strings onto the messy sheets. He was getting the daylights fucked out of him, and there was no way in hell he wasn’t going to be sore after this. You removed your hands from his waist and stuck them in his mouth, stretching it into a smile with three fingers on each side. If only you saw how stupid he looked, the silly bastard. All he could do was roll his eyes back as you played with his body, head empty and full of bliss.

[Lycanthrope!Reader] You were even bigger in your beast form, holy hell. Your cock always left his ass a gaping, wide hole that oozed cum whenever you were done with him. You fucked him so rough and so good that he would leak a little.

Speaking of leaking, you both got the chance to leave your “mark” on each other. Farkas smelt a hint of you all over him but did not say anything even though it was so tempting to tease.

[Lycanthrope!Reader] Your stamina was also insane, and sex in your beast form also meant that he wouldn’t get sleep for a very long time, especially if he were in his form, too.

There have been multiple instances of animalistic sex in the remains of fallen foes.

Every sexual encounter added to the many scratches and bruises you both had. They could be played off as battle scars so it wasn’t a big deal if they were showing or not

[stormdrawsstuff]

Here's a sketch of Arviris, the main character of my fic In the Middle of the End of the World. Not sure if I'm going to finish this one or not yet.

Commission Prices: docs.google.com/document/d/11C…

[armisteadrevellion]

-breaks your door down-

MORE DRAGONBORN LUCIA CONTENT I BEG OF THEE

You’re gonna hate me…

I haven’t actually gotten around to writing the story yet 😭 although it’s remained at the back of my head for several years now, I only started recently thinking about it again in depth and fleshing out plot points/characters. Without spoiling anything, two of the major characters in it (besides Lucia and Teldryn) are Jenassa and Uthgerd! I don’t see them mentioned as often as other followers in fanfiction, which is sad because they’re some of my favorites. And the fact that they reside in the same city as Lucia is a no-brainer that they’d be included.

On the flip side— WOW I could not have foreseen how many people would be interested in it! I genuinely feel motivated to write it knowing that somebody may actually read it.

Lastly: here’s a little Lucia sketch I made a while back. Thank you so much for your interest!!

[umbracirrus]

Tempest - Chapter 1

Fic rating: M

Fic relationships: Vilkas/Female OC (Thorne), past Brynjolf/Female OC (Thorne)

Fic desctiption:

The Thieves Guild were like the family which Thorne never had, though she never felt as though she truly fit in, even after reaching position of guildmaster. After a heart-to-heart with Brynjolf, she finds herself planning to amicably part ways with the guild and find somewhere that she could belong. Somewhere that she could feel happy. That somewhere ends up being Jorrvaskr much to the chagrin of Vilkas, who feels that she is hiding more than she is letting on.

Chapter description:

After years of not feeling as though she properly fit in with the Thieves Guild, Thorne has to make two major decisions - one about her position as guildmaster, the other about her relationship with Brynjolf.

Chapter excerpt:

"Lass… You okay? You left the Flagon quite suddenly." Thorne's head shot up at the sound of Brynjolf's voice, before taking a deep breath and nodding, not really paying much attention to the question which she had been asked. He frowned, then slipped into the seat beside hers and reached out for the hand which wasn't firmly wrapped around the bottle of mead. "Talk to me. Something is the matter, and I'm worried about you. I can tell these things, remember? It's all about-" "Sizing up your mark…" She let out a quiet laugh. "I remember you saying that when we first met." After a moment, she brought her drink up to her lips, before sighing. "What made you decide to join me?" Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at her question. "I think it's quite obvious, Thorne." Her pulse quickened at his use of her name rather than 'lass' – it was very rare that he would use it, but when he did… She knew that he was being serious. "You're not happy. You've got these little furrows in your brow that never used to be there, dark circles under your eyes, and it's not often you smile anymore." His hand gently squeezed hers. "As I said, I'm worried about you." Hesitation made her body freeze after she opened her mouth just slightly, though tears were once more pricking at the corners of her eyes as she felt him looking at her. She was like an open book to him, she always had been, but hearing what he had to say… hearing that last sentence… she felt as though time was running out on keeping her innermost thoughts concealed. But she didn't want to hurt anyone- "… You're not happy in the guild, are you?"

[krastbannert]

Title: free from my soul’s condition

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Characters: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Serana (Elder Scrolls), Lydia (Elder Scrolls), Isran (Elder Scrolls), Arngeir (Elder Scrolls), Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls)

Tags: .Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana (Elder Scrolls), Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Lydia (Elder Scrolls), Hurt/Comfort, Angst. Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Redemption, Soul-Searching, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Elder Scrolls Lore, Thieves Guild (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Vampires, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recovery, no beta we die like my college gpa, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary:

Thirteen years ago, Skyrim found her hero.

Ten years ago, the Imperial Legion marched on Windhelm, and the Civil War finally came to an end.

Nine years ago, the Alduin met his doom at the gates of Sovngarde, and Aetherius itself felt the shockwaves.

Five years ago, the Last Dovahkiin met the First at the Summit of Apocrypha, only one walked out, and Korsen finally broke. In the aftermath of his journey to Solstheim, he crawled into the bottom of a mead barrel, and never came up for air. The world, as far as he’s concerned, doesn’t need him anymore, and he doesn’t need it. He’s taken enough from it, and failed at so much more.

But when an all-too-familiar type of horror begins to wreak havoc on the world, and threatens to swallow the sun itself, Skyrim calls on her hero - and, for one last time, he reluctantly answers.

And into his life walks a dead woman who might just be the only who can show him how to live again.

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wheneversday!

hey there!! hope everyone's having a great (checks calendar) thursday HAHJKHGFDKJG

tagged by the amazing @boethiahspillowbook @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @thequeenofthewinter @mareenavee @umbracirrus !! thank you so much !! <3333

tagging the incredible @orfeoarte @totally-not-deacon @gilgamish @wispstalk @wildhexe @viss-and-pinegar @thana-topsy @caliblorn @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @aphocryphas and anyone who wants to hop in, feel free to tag me in what you're working on!!

this week, i'm taking a (very short) break from CotS to work on developing some characters we'll be seeing shortly. in the meantime, i started work on this new fic, following jarl balgruuf's son, frothar, around ten-ish years after the dragon crisis began! turns out, the last dragonborn may have just never had the chance to slay a dragon until now…

"Father," Frothar stood before Jarl Balgruuf, the older man seated sternly in his usual place, rooted like a tree to the forest floor, "I swear to you, if you let me go-" "Enough, Frothar," Balgruuf held up his hand, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I will not hear any more of this dragon-chasing nonsense." "But the people of Whiterun Hold aren't safe without someone hunting these creatures," he protested, fists balled at his side. "And you think I will risk my eldest son going after them? Frothar, think with your head for once, son," he cautioned, watching as the younger man drew in heavy, slow breaths through flared nostrils. "You know as well as I do that if I sent you out there on your own, you'd never come back." "If I take even one dragon with me, is that not worth the fight?"

Irileth folded her arms over her chest, statuesque in her pose. "You and your siblings should listen, for once. There's a reason you're not being allowed to charge head-first into the lair of those wretched beasts." He stared into her ruby eyes. She'd faced one and lived. He wondered if she was speaking from a will to protect Jarl Balgruuf - and by extension, his children - or from her own fears. Coward, he mentally spat. She blinked. "You think you're so above any of the men who have tried," Irileth began, "but let me tell you, many have died thinking they could take on the same challenge. You are still a boy, you're not yet-" "I'm an adult," Frothar corrected in a sneer, "I'm sure I could handle myself." "You're still a boy," Irileth repeated, slowing her words as though this would make him listen, "you may have come of age in your culture, but I have been all across Tamriel, and have seen plenty a traveler your age torn apart by the world. How many attackers have you personally taken down, on your own, whilst hungry and thirsty? How many days have you spent out of the comfort of your father's castle? How many hunts have you been on, or battles you've survived?" "Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf exhaled, "I think he gets the point." Irileth stepped back, steadying her breath. "My apologies, Jarl." "None needed," he murmured to her, before turning back to his son. "Frothar, Whiterun needs you. Our people need you. One day, you will be leading them, something you cannot do if you go chasing dragons and abandon them. These past years…" He trailed off, inhaled slowly, and spoke with a measure of stone in his voice that failed to rattle his son, "…the people of our Hold need to be able to rely upon a future leader, not watch him go running off after beasts and flights of fancy." "Wouldn't it serve better if I did kill a dragon? They'd know I'm strong, they'd know I'm reliable, then!" Frothar protested, expression betraying his frustration, brow lowered, eyes widened. "Father, let me show our people that I'm just as capable a warrior as you are! Ulfric's practically at our front door, surely this would-" "That's all, Frothar," Balgruuf leveled his voice as well as he could, but the agitation slipped in through every crevice between his teeth. "I will not have you stepping into this war, and I certainly will not let you go off chasing a dragon." Frothar narrowed his dark eyes at his father. His cheeks flushed in the heat of the braziers, and he hoped this did not indicate the blood boiling in his veins. He eyed Irileth and Jarl Balgruuf, and without a word, he turned on his heel and trudged up the stairs, far out of sight of his father and his housecarl.

"Sounds like quite a fight," Nelkir snickered, arms over his chest. The younger man stood with his back pressed against the stone wall, watching Frothar storm up the steps with a smirk sprawling over his thin lips. While Frothar and Dagny had both taken after their father, Nelkir had taken after his mother, with a weasel-like frame and spindly hands. If Frothar reached far back enough in his memory, he could touch the vague hand of a woman that their father had loved, once. Her high cheekbones and her warm countenance. Her kindness, her strangeness. "Shut it, Nelkir," Frothar grunted in return. He turned the corner, already snatching his armor from the chest nudged against the wall. "You don't understand." "Of course I do," Nelkir lowered his brow, the withering of his snarky expression catching Frothar by surprise. "You think I haven't been trying to convince Farengar to let me in on his studies? Or Kodlak Whitemane to let me into the Companions?" He pushed himself from the wall with his foot, Frothar donning his chestplate. "Come on, you and I both know what it's like to be denied something." Frother arched a brow. "What are you getting at?" "I'm saying, if you were to somehow… Oh, slip out the castle unnoticed in the middle of the night, I'm sure I could cover for you. Maybe I'd even come up with a rumor about some fair lady and some midnight rendezvous. That'd get the court talking for days." Frothar nudged his brother harshly with his elbow, Nelkir barely stumbling back. For all his scrawny figure suggested, he was surprisingly sturdy on his feet. "Oh, no. No. Absolutely not." "Aw, wouldn't it be a little fun, though? Come on, we all know I can be very convincing," Nelkir pouted comically. All tension left Frothar's shoulders, a laugh bubbling out from his lips as he pulled on his gauntlets. "I don't want you spreading rumors about some poor, sweet woman and I meeting up behind father's back. He'd hound me for days about her." They both knew this would be out of a level-headed excitement, but the idea of his father trying to dig into his nonexistent love life made him grimace. Nelkir scoffed. "Fine, have it your way." He turned, marching towards the stairwell. "If you need anything, you know where to find me." "Listening in shadows, as always," Frothar droned, rolled his eyes dramatically. Nelkir made it his business, everything happening within the walls of Dragonsreach, and no one was certain whether they liked his prying ears or not. On one hand, he'd thwarted a couple of attempts on their father's life. On the other, Frothar sometimes wondered whether this was because he wanted to be the one wielding the blade, instead.

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

HOTHS character list

Welcome abord! This post is meant to show all of my ocs from my Deathbrand fic (and WYGTYA prequel) Hymn of the HIgh Seas. Meet the pirates!

Since Tumblr has a photo limit, I will present them in order of appearance in the fic, dividing this into more posts

First and foremost, the captain herself, Signe, later known as Deathbrand ;). She still has her eye in this screenshot, but in the beginning of the story she loses one of her eyes completely, and keeps that eye either shut or covered with an eyepatch for a while

2. Captain is nothing without her first mate, Rhaim, a natural-born werewolf, who truly is as passionate, protective and loyal as a wolf. Also, he has the biggest tits on the crew

3. Can't forget about best girl and professional yearner Anne. We don't see her for a while in the fic, and I miss her already. She's got her own sidequest

4. Marcus, my beloved Imperial short king, who is very good with maps and being annoying <3

5. Arvyvel, this fic's crazy wizard. No one knows how old he is and bets are going around and people keep guessing (he will never tell them)

6. Renjiro, the mysterious Akaviri swordsman and occasionally, awkward teenager. He's the baby of the crew :'). (Okay please forgive my lack of competence to make him in Skyrim, I only have it on my old laptop and it cannot handle any more mods, which makes everything impossible. HOWEVER,,, I found this actor and this guy is EXACTLY Renji! That's it, the perfect face claim, it's just as I pictured him while writing)

[helgiafterdark]

if you have invented some sort of secluded or hidden culture, family/family history/bloodline, minor religious sect or cult (esp daedric), etc. within your TES fanfic or headcanon please tell me about it!

i wanna know things like rituals and rites, family traditions, their entire family line going back centuries or more. what are their values, where do they take inspiration from, what are the origins? what are the "extremes" of the culture? etc.

what are these people called? family name? any rivals or enemies, or allies or long-time friends? where do they call home? have they been displaced? do they have a form of leadership or ranking or caste? do they have a special form of art/craft/magic/etc? please tell me anything and everything!

even if you only have tiny details figured out here and there, or if you have fully fleshed out everything by now. maybe you will be inspired to come up with new things. i need paragraphs and bullet lists of information! go!

this is a safe space for unapologetic and unrestrained infodumping/yapping abt your headcanon (always is, but i wanna know abt this specific topic at the moment)

(btw i'm still curious abt your dragon OCs and your skyrim poetry, check out my other text posts pls)

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

The Last Dragonborn, after she and Miraak escape Apocrypha: I have to warn you, I've heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.

Miraak: Okay. We'll have to base it on sex then.

[talankry]

Ari and Lucien were on a mission. Nothing official, but something entirely self indulgent for the pair of scholars. That was how they found themselves deep underground in a dwemer ruin collecting components to a machine Ari had designed as a pet project, with Lucien’s enthusiastic support. A dwarven autocannon that could be deployed during combat to fire projectiles at their enemies.

“Lucien, come see this!” Ari called, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

“What did you find?” The imperial’s voice was laced with excitement. Behind them, they didn’t see Kaidan and Inigo’s wary expressions, they were on edge.

“Oi you two, don’t run off on your own down ‘ere!” Kaidan hissed after Lucien.

“I think this is the last component we needed.” Ari ignored the tall man’s warning and pointed to a cog behind a locked gate. His smile was blinding.

“It’s perfect! There’s just um…well the door’s locked, and I don’t see a lock on this side that you can pick, Ari.” He looked down at the short breton. “Unless you’ve devised some way to open a lockless door?” He was joking, of course, but Ari only got that look in his eyes. The look that meant he was seriously contemplating something meant to be ridiculous. It was the cause of most of the group’s more exotic escapades.

“Hmm…give me a second. Stay here.” Ari ran off, slipping silently past Kaidan and Inigo in his haste to locate a switch. It was Inigo who noticed first that their resident breton was missing.

“Where is Ari?” he asked.

“I think he’s looking for the mechanism to open this door.”

“Alone?!” Kaidan balked, a hint of panic tainting his voice.

“We should stick together down here,” Inigo insisted, looking around for a sign of which direction their friend had run off in.

“How do you expect me to stop the dragonborn? Even if he wasn’t some kind of demigod of legend, you two know how slippery he is,” Lucien countered. He believed Ari could handle himself, after all, they’d fought dragons and undead and all manner of monsters and lived.

“I really hate it when you’re right. Well, which way did he go?” Imperial and khajiit watched as Kaidan tensed and began searching for the man he’d sworn to protect. How does one protect someone who sneaks away? With a look shared between them, they began walking after the large man. Though, no sooner had they taken a few steps had the door behind Lucien swung open with a loud metallic thud. On the other side, Ari, standing with that blinding smile that made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners.

“That was almost disappointingly easy. What are you lot staring at? C’mon!”

[abstractredd]

Chapters: 1/10 Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Elder Scrolls Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Hadvar/Ralof (Elder Scrolls) Characters: Hadvar (Elder Scrolls), Ralof (Elder Scrolls), Gerdur (Elder Scrolls), Original Dunmer Character(s) (Elder Scrolls), Alvor (Elder Scrolls), Delphine (Elder Scrolls), Other NPCs Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Childhood Friends, Mutual Pining, Trans Male Character, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Confessions, Homoeroticism, They're fucking gay your honor, Slow Burn, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (kind of?), who put the angst in our silly crack fic, (us. it was us), Eventual Smut  Summary: "It was the most normal conversation they had had since they had come back into contact. Ralof took a deep breath, not wanting to shatter the moment. It was almost comfortable now, sitting on the rock next to the man who used to be the person he confided all his secrets to."

[stormdrawsstuff]

Plotting out future scenes of In the Middle of the End of the World put this idea in my head, so here's a slightly younger Arviris a few years before the events of the first chapter. I'm still planning for the next chapter to go up this weekend, so this piece might not get finished until after that

Check out my commission prices!