#thane of haafingar

[jiubilant]

they are going to five guys

[skyrim-forever]

Things in my skyrim game that are broken currently:

can't dismiss followers -currently I have 3 and the other two are kind of third/forth wheeling the thing that Teldryn got going on

certain quests won't trigger so I can't become Thane of Haafingar

the dead body of a blood dragon keeps appearing -fuck knows when I fought that

sound isn't working

(I only have like 5 mods)

SKYRIM IS THE GAME OF ALL TIME

[jasper-the-menace]

I need to do more with Areia Camael, the Dragonborn I made up for The Mind of Dragons. She has so much weird shit going on that wasn't even brought up in the fic itself.

She has an Imperial stepfather who helped her during her transition and was the one to offer her a new name. They were very close before all of the Dragonborn nonsense kicked off.

Her two best friends are J'zargo and Serana, which is an unfortunate combination. They appeared in the fic, but the trio's dynamics didn't really appear since Areia spent most of that fic borderline comatose.

In addition to being the Thane of Haafingar, she's also the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold and the Thane of Winterhold.

And now Areia and Miraak are in the same body and co-parenting Lucia in addition to being an absolute menace on the battlefield.

[warrenwoodhouse]

No Stone Unturned - The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Guide (Game Guides) (Guides) (Warren Guides)

Guide and screenshot (background removed) by @warrenwoodhouse #warrenwoodhouse

As soon as you collect an Unusual Gem and visit an appriser in Riften, the quest begins once you speak to Vex at the Ragged Flagon. You’ll need to find 24 Stones of Barenziah which are found throughout the world. Once found, return back to Vex to begin the next quest.

Books

These books found in the game are related to the quest.

Books - Biography of Barenziah, v1

Books - Biography of Barenziah, v2

Books - Biography of Barenziah, v3

Books - The Real Barenziah, v1

Books - The Real Barenziah, v2

Books - The Real Barenziah, v3

Books - The Real Barenziah, v4

Books - The Real Barenziah, v5

Locations of all of the Stones of Barenziah

1. Burial Chambers - Ansilvund, Eastmarch

2. Stony Creek Cave, Eastmarch

3. House of Clan Shatter-Shield, Windhelm, Eastmarch

4. Jarl’s Quarters - Palace of The Kings, Windhelm, Eastmarch

5. Astrid’s Bedroom - Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath, Falkreath Hold (Collect this before the sanctuary burns down during The Dark Brotherhood quest “The Black Sacrament” > Escape the Sanctuary)

6. Bandit’s Sanctuary, Pinewatch, Falkreath Hold

7. Sunderstone Gorge, Falkreath Hold

8. Dainty Sload, Haafingar (Bugged Location. I cleaned out this place before and now I see the stone again. Why?) (2x Stones)

9. Reeking Cave - Thalmor Embassy Dungeon - Thalmor Embassy, Haafingar (Accessed via Thalmor Embassy - Dungeon during the Main Quest “Diplomatic Immunity” > Escape the Thalmor Embassy)

10. Jarl’s Quarters - Blue Palace, Solitude, Haafingar

11. Proudspire Manor, Solitude, Haafingar (Requires: Becoming “Thane of Solitude”)

12. Rannveig’s Fast, Hjaalmarch

13. Dead Crone Rock, The Reach

14. Treasury House, Markarth, The Reach

15. Dwemer Museum - Understone Keep, Markarth, The Reach

16. Black-Briar Lodge, The Rift

17. Jarl’s Quarters - Mistveil Keep, Riften, The Rift

18. Jarl’s Quarters - Dragonsreach, Whiterun, Whiterun Hold

19. Fellglow Keep, Whiterun Hold

20. Kodlak Whitemane’s Bedroom, Living Quarters - Jorrvaskr Living Quarters - Jorrvaskr, Whiterun, Whiterun Hold (Collect this before you join The Volkimir Clan in the Dawnguard DLC. Collect this before becoming a Vampire or Werewolf)

21. Whiterun Catacombs - Whiterun Hall of the Dead, Whiterun, Whiterun Hold

22. Arch-Mage’s Quarters - Hall of Elements - College of Winterhold, Winterhold, Winter Hold

23. Hob’s Fall Cave, Winter Hold

24. Throne Room - Yngvild, Winter Hold

Issues

There is still a bug in this quest with one of the stones sometimes appearing in the same location more than once after a certain number of days have passed in the game. This issue has not been fixed or resolved.

Changelog

3rd September 2024 at 10:58 am: Created post

[stormbeyondreality]

Inspired by my dear friend Senu Oblivions-dawn, (go ask them about her ocs!) have a list and an invitation! I present, the Primary "Questline"* Characters of Ebonsong:

Erlind Madieve - Breton Werewolf, they/she/he - Dovahkiin, Harbinger, Guildmaster of the Explorer's Society, Thane of Whiterun and Haafingar

Nathari - Reachfolk Werewolf, she/her - Thane of Markarth with aspirations to be Jarl

Vezha Gro-Dushnikh - Orsimer, any but defaults to he/him - Vampire Hunter, ex-Legionnaire, possible future Thane of Hjaalmarch?

Janora Viario - Bosmer, she/they - Master of the Thieves Guild, Nightingale, possible Thane of the Rift

Larus - Nord Vampire, he/him - Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, ex-bandit

Volgash Gra-Dushnikh - Orsimer, she/her - Student of the College of Winterhold, possible future Arch-Mage (in several years)?

And just for fun, have my Dragonborn from my other 'instance':

Kaivis - Orsimer, any but defaults to she/her - Dovahkiin, Legionnaire, Mercenary, ex-Court Mage of Chorrol

I have the most information currently about the first three, and about Erlind leaps and bounds more than any of the others 'cause they're the main protagonist.

*Nathari is not tied to any particular guild questline or anything, but she's also more involved in the main story than any of the others aside from Erlind so that's good enough.

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday

I posted this before I was tagged in anything but have since been tagged by @thequeenofthewinter and @throughtrialbyfire so thank you!!!

I actually have a WIP that I would like to share~ It's part of the next chapter of The Perfect Storm, and it's quite long so I've put some under the read more.

Given Whiterun’s delicate situation with regard to the ongoing war, and its central position in Skyrim which crossed over many roads and travel routes, linking hold to hold, it was not rare for Balgruuf to be receiving correspondences from the other Jarls of Skyrim. There would always be at least one per week, with some communications being more frequent than others – he couldn’t actually remember the last time that he had heard from Korir in Winterhold, whereas discussions with Siddgeir, Skald, and Thongvor Silver-Blood were held monthly.

But rare was the occasion that he would receive letters from both Windhelm and Solitude on the same day. Ulfric and Elisif, two Jarls at the complete opposite ends of Skyrim’s political spectrum. It was not the most welcoming of sights, seeing wax seals bearing the red wolf of Haafingar and the blue Bear of Eastmarch alongside each other in the hands of the apprehensive-looking Proventus.

Had it not been down to the fact that he was actually expecting a message from Ulfric, he would have taken the letters as a sign of the war inching ever closer to Whiterun’s doorstep. He recently had to reach out to him on the behest of Belethor, whose store – being a cornerstone of business in the city – had been closed for over a week on account of his goods being held up in Windhelm’s docks. With there being no general goods store, pressure was piling up on other vendors who were in turn reaching their own limits in terms of demand. There was only so long that such a position would be feasible without having to fall back on contingency supply plans, which he would much rather put into place when the war was no longer at a stalemate as opposed to as a result of supply issues.

It didn’t escape his notice, however, that this was not the first time that goods had been delayed when coming from Windhelm – and Proventus in turn remarked that it had all started happening ever since Elyse had clashed with Ulfric. Whether it was a direct result of that or not was another question, but not one that he would touch upon unless he had stronger evidence than mere correlation.

Leaning back on his seat in his study, forefinger and thumb rubbing against his chin and beard as he looked between the two letters, he decided that he would read the letter from Ulfric first, given that it was one that he had been anticipating. There was a small, nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he would likely need a strong drink once he had finished with it, but on the other hand, since when did communications with the other Jarls not ask for such?

Jarl Balgruuf, Rest assured that trade will resume imminently, but that additional and appropriate tolls and tariffs will need to be paid by either yourself or the recipient before anything can be released. An invoice from my steward will soon follow this letter once he has finished with summing up the costs. This accounts for the space which the goods have taken up, depriving Windhelm’s citizens of safe storage for their own wares and supplies, in addition to the burden which was placed upon both the city’s guards and the good Nords working at the docks. In future, I would recommend that you ensure that your citizens are not using illicit traders to acquire their goods. I will not tolerate dirty money infecting Skyrim’s economy. On the topic of fees and fines, I believe that your Thane has been ignoring attempts at communications regarding her fine for assaulting me, in addition to my attempts at apologising for my brash manner of speaking with her. It has taken much self-reflection to realise that I was on the wrong side of that situation, though her escalation was still not necessary. I would like to make reparations with her, but cannot with her ignoring me. Perhaps, as her Jarl, she will listen to you. It is also time that you start listening to me too. Whiterun’s future depends on it. Regards, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak

“Irileth…” He knew that his housecarl would be close enough to be able to hear him, she always was as of late. The door creaked open, the Dunmer in question being quick to emerge with the noise that she made being enough of an indication of the raised eyebrow on her face. “Could you please inform Proventus that I would like to have an urgent audience with Belethor before this evening?” he asked, not looking up from the letter on his desk but instead reaching out for some fresh parchment and a clean quill. “And before he asks, the discussion with the brothers from the Drunken Huntsman can be pushed back to tomorrow, I will have more time then and this matter is much more pressing.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

With a quiet click, the door fell shut again and Balgruuf sighed. That feeling about needing a drink after reading the letter was on point, as usual. Fortunately, given that his work as of late was necessitating him needing more and more time in his study, he had been prepared for such an occasion and had a few bottles of Colovian brandy locked away in a cupboard – and by the Divines, he needed something strong.

Elisif’s letter would simply have to wait until later.

[jessicatredes]

hollan e. frey, first of her name // dovahkiin 🐉 archer 🏹 mage 🔥

hollan elara, born in 4E 171 to the prominent frey family of high rock, was the last dragonborn. daughter and niece to powerful restoration mages, hollan followed the tradition of her maternal line and studied healing magic. unbeknownst to her family, hollan also took great interest in the schools of conjuration and destruction, specifically focusing her attention to flame atronachs. in 4E 201, hollan would discover she was the dovahkiin. she would later take on the titles ysmir, thane of haafingar and falkreath, agent of mara, champion of hiricine, and hero of skyrim. beloved to the empire, the breton woman provided aid to the imperial legion's fight against ulfric stormcloak and his army. after the legion defeated the rebellion, hollan pledged her support to crowning jarl elisif the fair as high queen of skyrim. after the war and the high queen's coronation, hollan would be appointed as elisif's court mage. during this time she would marry hadvar of riverwood and give birth to their two daughters, elara and calistria.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

More to the Ask Backlog! Skyrim asks!

For any of your NPCs, including Teldryn.

1 What is their birthsign and does it have any large significance to who they are?

7 What non-combat skill do they excel at?

28 Are they an "explore everything in the area" type of person, or do they go "straight there and back"?

29 What do they think of Skyrim politics? (Jarls, Thanes, empire, high kings, etc)

Questions with little room for their angst, we aren't torturing the birds with this one.

1. What is their birthsign and does it have any large significance to who they are?

Sydari was born on the 13th of Suns Dawn (13th of February) and falls under The Lover as a Birthsign, so she does benefit from the added agility bonus though she doesn't really put much stock in those things. She hears utilising some of the powers from this sign makes you tired like really tired. She'd rather not.

Teldryn was born on the 28th of Evening Star (December 28) and falls under the Theif sign. He's benefited from the stealth aspects that come with that but wants to know what the fuck happened to the Luck part. He does not feel particularly lucky (he's extremely lucky he just doesn't think he is).

7. What non-combat skill do they excel at?

Sydari is a decent manipulator, she'll find a way to get what she wants without needing to resort to violence (though that can't always be avoided). Usually, she can talk herself out of a situation and most people are not strong-willed enough to resist her charms. She picked up enchanting when she designed her necklace and found that it was the only magic adjacent thing she was good at.

Teldryn has perfect penmanship, it's absolutely gorgeous. He can read and write in Cyrodilic, Dunmeris and High Elvish and speaks all three although the latter is patchy and he rarely ever uses it. This guy had a decent education and was groomed for some level of merchant work. His family owned an Ebony mine and directed a mercantile business before that (deals directly with the EETC), he was expected to join that business in either the mines or in a trade/diplomatic capacity. He sucked at the whole thing but got some pretty handwriting out of it. He's better at punching shit and stealing.

28. Are they an "explore everything in the area" type of person, or do they go "straight there and back"?

Sydari likes to explore to make sure she hasn't missed anything. There could be loot stashed anywhere! People will put gold in their boots and just leave it in the rafters! True story, she found 50 septims in a boot balanced on a rafter! She knows people will leave their valuables in the weirdest places. Check every nook and cranny, you might find something valuable.

Teldryn is very single-focused when adventuring. He wants to get in and out as quickly as possible with the thing he came there for. He doesn't need that boot in the rafter he wants that fancy enchanted dagger that's under lock and key in the master bedroom! He'll focus on that exclusively because you never know when that house is really just a giant vampire nest or a necromancer's den... and he hates undead.

29. What do they think of Skyrim politics? (Jarls, Thanes, empire, high kings, etc)

Sydari has wormed her way into Hold politics out of necessity. She's Thane in the Rift, Haafingar and Whiterun Holds because she wants property, she also wants, no needs to know what's going on in each hold in her capacity as Guild Master. She also places eyes and ears across each court (save for Windhelm, she just won't touch that place at all and Ulfric's court is notoriously difficult to put spies in. She gets her info on him through her contacts elsewhere). The civil war is something she wants no part in outside of her ability to manipulate the chaos to her advantage. She did not want to mediate a truce because she thinks both sides are being stupid and short-sighted but does so anyway, though things don't weigh in Ulfric's favour as much as he'd like and his vengeance is harsh. She can't wait to leave Skyrim for Solstheim, she's in the politics there too but it feels more simple, she knows she has a stable home there whenever she wants it.

Teldryn wants nothing to do with any politics ever again! He will wait outside, he'll wait in a tavern, he doesn't care he just doesn't want to hear about it. He's had enough of political scheming to last two lifetimes. The war was stupid, the civil war is stupid, the Empire is scum, and the Dominion are scum and none of them are as scummy as the Tribunal and the Great Houses. It's all the same shit to him. It's all scum. He'll wait for Sydari at home or in whatever tavern they are staying at! He'd rather embarrass himself in an ally again than deal with that headache.

[wine-dark-soup]

My new skyrim oc is named livia cornelia and she's an imperial to the core. Gens of wealthy traders and merchants. Has ties with the east empire trading company. Lavish lifestyle. Was admitted to the bards college years ago for the funsies. My mission currently is to befriend everyone in solitude (and haafingar in general) for the lore yes but mostly so i can become thane and buy the solitude house. It will be her canon house. She's witty and insufferable and i think will try to seduce elisif

[msmeiriona]

I need to go on a full ramble about Eirsabet and how her story goes.

Like, by the time she even get started in "main plot" nonsense she's already become Guildmaster and Archmage, thane of the rift, reach, and Haafingar, which also means dealing with Potema's nonsense, allied with the Forsworn (I mean, actually having gotten Madanach free, not just sympathetic because, yanno, thats her people and if her father is still alive he's with them as is her orphaned cousin)

Hell, before Helgen has even burned down, because I use LaL's Hunting In The Woods start for her, she's been Blood Kin of the Orcs, and basically a regular guest at Dushnikh Yal since she was a teenager.

And thats BEFORE the modded town of Silverstead is brought up, which happens during the whole Thieves Guild stuff that started everything.

The ONLY reason the main plot gets its hooks into her is because she goes to deal with the poaching thief who hit Riverwood Traders, because she needs an excuse to not be In Charge and can explain that OBVIOUSLY it is her duty as Guildmaster to make sure no rival groups start up.

Which leads her to the Word Wall, something she vaguely remembers having seen the like of a few other times in the past. But like, one of those was in Snow Veil Sanctum, and she honestly had forgotten completely about it due to, well, being nearly dead soon after.

But now, she's got this fucking weird ass stone tablet, and it's nothing she's seen. She's already closer to home than she is the College, so figures to try her Reach contacts first, but does make sure she's doing so with the whole Arch Mage gear, because some people might blow her off as just Eirsabet the huntsmage, and will need to be given the whole Authority nonsense. (Which she hates, so much. She will use her influence, but she doesn't come naturally to giving orders or making demands. Not at this point, at least.) When she tries asking Calcelmo about it he has zero interest, and sends her to Whiterun, saying that it looks like Faregar's sort of foolishness.

And then of course in Whiterun she has to all but shove the Staff of Magnus up Irileth's ass to be able to do business. That of course comes back to bite her because having thrown around her power, she can't exactly NOT go fight the dragon at the watchtower, who else is possibly more qualified? (...ok so maybe no one else is more qualified but she doesn't KNOW that yet.)

[jiubilant]

27, for Ayo or Lydia?

27. maintaining a weapon between uses

The headmaster of the Bards’ College is a huge man, handsomely-dressed, who at night moves in near-silence through his halls; only the swish of his great sleeves, slashed so that the fustian foams through, gives him away. That, and the creaky floorboard by the bushels. Lydia, without looking up, gestures for him to sit with her on the long, low trestle-bench by the kitchen door.

“Master Bard,” she says, unsmiling. She’s too preoccupied to smile. She’s sitting with her unstrung bow between her knees, working tallow-grease from the larder into the wood. “Do you hunt?”

Viarmo looks at her, she guesses, with polite astonishment.

Then he laughs—a short, sonorous noise, like an accidental brush against a bell—and settles beside her with heavy grace. “Only for footnotes.”

Lydia snorts.

She’d come to the College, a week or so ago, to deliver poor Jon’s letters of recommendation. She’s stuck around since to stay useful, and to talk up Jon between errands for old Bendt, and because Viarmo has a reputed nose for scandal—if something unplanned happens at the Embassy party, thinks Lydia, her current company will be the first to know. She’s gleaned enough from students’ gleeful gossip to know that he’s either blackmailing half the notables in Haafingar, or—less likely, but still possible—that he’s invited to every party in the hold not so that the thanes can keep an eye on him, but so they can admire his beard.

Not every party, she reminds herself. The Thalmor do not like his pasquinades.

“I’ll go,” she says before he can ask, flipping the bow to grease the other limb. The yew is a familiar, smiling weight in her hands—the skalds, she supposes, feel a similar fellowship with their lutes. “I spoke to Master Gemane. If I leave tomorrow, I can be back by Tirdas with the lost lay.”

“If you find it.” Viarmo raises an immaculate brow. The scent of his beard oil, flowery and bright, mingles with the tang of the tallow. “If it exists.”

“If it exists”—Lydia flips the greasing-cloth over her shoulder—“and if I find it”—she sets the bow against her boot and strings it in one smooth, swift stroke—“will you take Jon?”

“I’ll take him,” says Viarmo, not for the first time, “when I’ve heard him sing. How eager you are to plunge into peril.”

He makes a small correction to his cloakpin, which had looked fine before. Then he frowns at it, disgruntled as an overgroomed cat, and fiddles with it again. Lydia tries not to stare. Every moment of this man’s life, she thinks, must be marked by some vain, minute adjustment: smoothing his hair, sweeping back his mantle when he sits, sipping his ale so the froth doesn’t fleck his beard.

He twists the brooch winking at his cuff. Then he looks, with pointed delicacy, at Lydia.

“Are you wondering,” he asks, “why I go to all this fuss?”

Lydia flushes, caught. She doesn’t like to lie. “Yes.”

The man stands to pick an apple from one of the bushels. Then he glances back at her, serious and kind, as though she were a student struggling with a chord.

“In the public eye,” he says, “the Headmaster of the Bards’ College is not a person. He is a personage.”

Lydia stares at him.

“And when you are a personage,” says Viarmo, “people look to you. Not at you. To you.” He holds out the apple, not without humor, like a player monologuing to a skull; his voice, too, takes on a mock solemnity. “Your friends for strength. Your enemies for weaknesses. You must mind what you show them—in your speech, your deportment, your dress. Your conduct. What you choose, or choose not, may have consequences beyond what you foresee.” He gives the apple a toss, casting her a cryptic sidelong look, then buffs it on his prodigious sleeve. “Housecarl.”

Lydia stills. She hadn’t told him that she was anyone’s housecarl.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly. Carefully. The bow in her hands, still strung, shifts like a living thing. “For the counsel. But I’m not a—” She hesitates. “Personage.”

The eyebrow again. “You haven’t fought dragons?”

“I’m not the one,” says Lydia, her face heating, “who kills them.”

She glowers down at her bow, wondering why she’d strung it in the first place. Why Delphine, now, gives the commands. Why, when the Dragonborn had smiled and said wait here, she had listened—

The bench creaks. Viarmo—whether the person or the personage, Lydia is now unsure—sets the apple down between them.

“Why did you ask,” he says lightly, “if I hunt?”

He’s doing her an enormous kindness, Lydia thinks, in changing the subject. He could, knowing what he knows, be cross-examining her for his songs.

“The way you walk,” she says gruffly, reaching for the bowhorn to slip the string. The yew is still supple enough to pass muster, of course it is, and there is little to shoot in the College kitchen—

“Well, I—I have hunted, I suppose,” says Viarmo.

Lydia looks at him sidelong.

“When I was a boy,” he elaborates, though she hadn’t asked. He’s fiddling with his cuff-brooch again, smiling in a strange, thin way. “My brothers and I would gad about shooting crows for the farmers. They’d pay two drakes a brace.”

Lydia’s hand hesitates on the horn.

“Here,” she says shortly—and, for some reason, passes him her bow.

He looks at her with blank astonishment, holding it like a broomstick. “Er—”

“You don’t forget,” says Lydia. She reaches down to draw an arrow from her quiver, propped with her bowcase against the bench’s leg. “Your head might. Your arms don’t.”

Viarmo’s perfect brows knit together. He twangs the string as if tuning a harp.

Then he sets the arrow to it, brisk and businesslike, as though they’re out on the range. “Mark?”

Lydia almost smiles. “That pheasant.”

“And what if my venerable cook comes in,” says Viarmo, straight-faced, “and sees me taking potshots at his poultry?”

“I’ll hold him off.”

She had wondered, handing the bow to him, if he would be able to draw it. He pulls the taut string back without a tremor, aiming for one of the pheasants hanging half-plucked from the low rafter, and looses an arrow that pings off one of Bendt’s best saucepans instead.

“Well,” he says eloquently.

Lydia gives him a long, assessing look, then passes him another arrow. His form hadn’t been magnificent. It also hadn’t been bad. “Crows, you said?”

“Crows.”

“Not dead pheasants.”

“Never,” says Viarmo, with great solemnity, “a dead pheasant.”

Lydia nods.

Then she picks up the apple, takes a bite, and tosses it over her head. “Mark!”

The second arrow sings through the air, swift as a crescendo, and spears the apple through the core.

[33 worldbuilding prompts]

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Aurora Orianus: Hey, Fellow Thane!

Erikur: Whaddya want? I’m busy! Tax fraud doesn’t commit itself, ya know.

[boethiah]

Did You Know: The first of Ysgramor’s Five Hundred Mighty Companions was actually two, the ashen-amalgamation of his sons that had survived Sarthaal only to die in the freeze-rains of the returning, named Tsunaltir and Stuhnalmir when alive and now called the Grit-Prince Tstunal, whose Tear-Wives were Vramali, Jarli-al, Alleir, and Tusk Widow Who Foreswore Her Name, whose Wine-Wives were Elja Hate-Basket and Ingridal who lost her casket at the burning, and Mjarili-al Half-Casket, whose Hearth-Wives were none survived, and whose Kyne-Wives were none survived, and whose Shield-Wives were Shanjenen the Echo-Eaten and Jahnsdotter Whose-Name-Stays-in-its-Cradle. There were also the twenty-two Thunder Shield Women ungiven to marriage and so served as Ysgramor’s oracle-aunts until Kyne would wind them away: Unalt, Hrim, Kjhelt of the Cult of Orkey, Ingridal who used her wine casket as a drum, Fjorli, Mjemk, Soress-li, Anshalf whose gigantic shield was stripped from a karstaag-man, Khela and Akhela who traded shields daily out of some geas, Vemmab, Borgasa, Nem-yet, Vashina, Frekshild, Dahnarlyet, Mem-yet Chemua who held secret shield-songs “unneeded yet”, and their five eldest, called the Five Eldest of the Thunder Shield Women. There were also his ten Totem-Uncles, whose names are too long for ink, but are these in swift: Aldugapadptujenmenhelfnenjaarighuruijleymora, Ghrojarhisysmirirekyetrethaalma, Talochletnoocnenuethethelaldmerysriemaeneynjora, Kjarkaakfajiriutyestrualkethmemvirillichenswalwe, Mnenatmetmoraldumirirekyetrethaalnenjaarighuru, Bjornalijleyyetrethaalmaljarkaakfaltalochletghuru, Mjanorralpaghrohardolwepthuulruelmehykhenharl, Kaejistroonaalmerrisliysmieiltethahldlungalthadnh, Drummersretyaljarkaakfaltalochletgehmoraldukyne, and the Last, whose name cannot even be writ in swift, but you know him. There were his Torc-Nephews, Khaalthhe the Lynx-or-Leopard (this one was more his pet than torc-bearer, but Ysgramor was gregarious and warm), Alabar the Oddly-Colored (his personal Clever Man by blood), Hegm the Deaf, and Bjurl Dahnaorsson who Heard Enough to Let Hegm Know Later. There were his Nieces-of-Snow, Teb the Deaf, Mbjanal the Deaf, Fehg-fehg the Deaf, and Tsjari their Speaker. There were his pets of renown, the Hoagbellows Goat, Bjorga-mawr the Definitely-a-Leopard, Jeorr the Rabbit-Hawk, Heimnelraw the Regular Hawk, Hans the Fox, Fefmem and Gemalleir, the two-headed glow-eel, Dyssl-veb the Bear, whose tusks were adorned in devil-scratch, Dyssl-veb’s Wine-Wife Casket-Jane, Gremfell the wicker-what, a creature no one could identify but was counted among the Mighty, Hgmm the Snake, Febhradrneed the Cloud, and Rackety-Nix the Nix-hound. Of Ysgramor’s immediate family there were these among the Five Hundred, but he counted among their number and of that of his own hearth his belt, Ysgrim Ysgramorsbelt.By tradition, the Boat-Thanes were allowed to race for the vanguard of their High King, and Morgan the Red and his longboat Drumbeater took the foremost before crashing into the hazards of the Broken Cape in 1E68, no souls aboard surviving except for Olaf the Dog, a berserker who had been to Hsaarik’s Head a thousand times or more and knew leaping magic. He jumped from the wreckage all the way to Skyrim, landing on Olaf’s bridge. He was burnt there for his cheating by the students of Haafingar, which now happens every year. Besides his Boat-Thane, Olaf’s dead companions were these: Gyre the Old Beater, Grimwelt his Witch-Glass, Stenv Stenvnulson, Jeghwyr and her brothers Fjurlt the Going Grey, Vrolwyr who changed gender on accident, and Deilmark the Master of Oars, the Clever-Man Hguelg the Mumbling, who whipped the sails of the Drumbeater too hard with his mutter-magic, his student Frendlmegh the Kilt (too short for most), his Wine-Wife Shenya Cracked-Casket, Piemaker Maefwe and her cake-uncle Thendjar the Snappily-Clad, the leader of reavers Mjhro-li who bore a three-bladed shield, her Whetstone-Sons Unjor and Hghewenntar and Djaffidd, the whale-addict Gfeful who cracked his face across the ice laughing like a child at fair, the Six Drum quartet, and the oarsmen: Blue Dugal, Ttuj the Driftsman, Einhelf, Amornen and his brother Tefflnen, Gjaarigh, Urul Uruson, Dgaargl who slept through it all, Nenmor Orcsneck, Svir the Unthaned, Saddle-Not the Mule, Hgelhelm the Outcast who once married a snow drake as if no one would notice, Haalj Hgelhelmson (of whose lineage the less the said the better), Crendandel and Hfewl and Nuil and Second Nuil (four brothers who had not talked since their father’s death at Sarthaal), and Fvelfrim the Heaven-Scented.Afterwards came the crash of the longboat Bloodwood Tongue of Nhemakhela Stare-breaker’s belong, no souls aboard surviving. Its loss was grievous and hard enough to break the song out of any flourish, and immediately the Toll-Taker called Gald, Ugawen, Thehp, Naandl, Mjtujjor, Jarnnmegh, Sveinhelf, Nenthwen, Jaaril-ghur, Einmor, Lleymwnnem, Mnoor, Thurwhn, Ghrokarg, Nhsmir, Fire-kin Fhaal, Mjaaloc, Thletnn-li, Bjrochtehl, Nocnenue, Fhethe, Llaldesmiir, Wyndl, Maewyn, Svenredd, Kaene, Einnjoral, Jjarkaak, Nendlfaj, Ciriul, Gwemlthrest, Ruald, Einndmel, Mjuul, Sorshen, Swalne, Njnenya, Thoraj, Frendetter, Rrummrir, Grethnaal, and Swemnen to the Under-Hall some call Hell.By 1E421, Ysgramor revised the rites of vanguard and appointed Rebec the Red to lead the return with the Nail-knock, whose longboat counted these Sons and Daughters of Kyne among their number: Rebec’s Hearth-Husband Jjauf who shouted out shoes, her Pity-Husbands Korl-jkorl, Heimgrud the Laughing Lake, Njimal, Bjimal Njimalson, and Thalld the Hobbler, found wandering in the forests of Mora with lost feet, who not even Jjauf could help, her Shield-Husband Valomar of the Daggershout, his brother Halomar the Handle-Maker, and their ash-uncle Noaheim who was risen also from the Sack, and her ash-aunt Marthelk, the last two of which bore (the first) Guri Nail-Face, Hgaehmhel, Nbikki the Red, Khalokehl, Ysmehka, Jorgal the Child-Skald, Ghem-fegh, and Dolweppa Heimsdotter, all of which were seen as outcasts from Shor’s eye, as dust shall not mate with dust, but Ysgramor’s Sovngarde's Plea was enough that they could be Accounted, if only by being ground into the very timbers of Rebec’s longboat. And their gathered brothers and sisters were Mjanor, Ralpagh the Red, Rohard the Red, Olwep the Bald who couldn’t stand so many reds, Thuulrue Thuulsson, Kaejis, Ntroonaal the Bailiff, Merry Eyesore the Elk, Ysmieil the Younger, Ysmieil Named as Such Because His Parents Forgot They Used That Name Before, Tethahld, Lungalth, Thadnh-eli the betrothed to all Sarthaal in the manner of the Dibellites, Drum-Maker Haraldmer who was part mer to his sorrow, Ysret the Red, Yaljar who ate a whole bear out of haste because he needed to keep his picnic courtship of Kfalta Lakesdotter going (and she was here with him still but unwed until her tutelage under Chemua was complete), Fegh-let and Lochlet, Gehmora who would never know doom and this maddened her, and Idulkyne the feather-painter. Of the Nail-Knock’s Heroes unrelated to Rebec directly were the boat-carls and staghorn-fighters, Taloc of the Thorn-Torc tribe, Hletno who never made up his mind until wasabi, Ocne the Clever Man, Nue his Book-Wife, Thethel the Red, Lundga Aldmer-Eater for she did so, Bysri her sister that once knocked down Ysgramor’s belt at the Old Hold fair, Njemae and Neyn, Jora and her younger brother Jorel, Lynx-singer and Clever Kid in turn.Behind the bulk of Ysgramor’s fleet were the rest of the Boat-Thanes, who are named in full shortly hereafter. The Five Hundred’s last few were still in Ald Mora and yet to break sail. These were the Fifty Five Beards of the Broadwall, who gave tithe-torc and swear-casket to their Thoom-Thane, Vrage the Gifted, born under the strange suns (meaning the sun of Ald Mora and the sun of Merethland) of 1E208, and it was his clan that built and broke and rebuilt Broadwall whenever the Nords deigned to sing their return whether forwards or back and they were Vrage’s Sky-Wife, Thoom-Sha, the Queen of the Tongues of Men, whose lineage was without end in a language of silent letters and bog-gods that still hide in the moss beneath the previous kalpa and who wore a fake beard everywhere save for bed, and Hwamjar the Bear-Shaper and his brother Hwem, both of which served at the shieldwall of Elhnowhen under the direction of Stuhn, and Olaj Olo the demi-god of Mead, and Jarmungdrung the Hammer who could read rock, and Five-Headed Ysmalos (meaning also Gulgar, Solst, Svon, and Hoomdel), and Gorgos the Greywalk whose stride could cross the perimeter of Broadwall in a the span of a hiccup (a measure of time still used among the Lords of High Hrothgar), and Bhag the Great Debater who would one day be undone by invisible deeds, and Bhag the Counterargument who would also one day be undone, and Fjalr the Fire Trophy, recovered from the void by Vrage his torc-uncle, and Harald Hairy-Breeks, who never looked on Vrage directly for fear of foxes, and Thoom-Hungry Hjeimdal, whose flesh was breaking with his collected shouts, and Baruhk of Baruhk whose paganism would’ve been disavowed had anyone known its source, and Karkux the Tower of Meat, who even the karstaag-men feared Alduin could not eat ever in whole, and Eighteen-Eared Maryx, who listens to all the shouts that predate our dawn and is counted as the king of those mice that the lynx-cats swear fealty to (and his Heroic Ears are these, Accounted: Thirfl, Jhun, Chorj, Penny-Town Pel, Tsmir, Stsmir, Ear Seven, Tark, Herjdel, Aleh-meht, Jhun Jhunson, Orozurhak, Fha-taloc, Doon’s Ear, Vrajmel, Tor’s Tallow, Khemolech, and Njord), and Haralf Half-a-Casket, whose shouts were drunken and made the snow that heard them drunk thereby, and Fokbar whose daughter will trouble the east, and great Hjalmer the soon-father of Vrage who left us the 222nd year of these days, and Unn Undershout, long-remembered Idiot Prince of Iil, and Bfehg of the Biggest Beard whose beard covered all others at Broadwall when the hurricanes came, and Thopwil the Swimmer who never knew water, and Ragam the Red Kalpa who held two kalpas one in either eye, and Formdell the Builder who baked bricks in his whispers, and Torc-Minded Tor, a hill-o’-man who gave one ear to Maryx for safekeeping, and Bright Cnechctoth who knew every shape of stone except any thereafter repainted in red, and Jkulgar the Handsome who hid his beard in shame, and Horldrung the Hammerer of the Wounded Roaring, and Idolmaker Khemkel whose urns were made to confuse the Jhunal-men, and Harag the Attack who led the spears of Broadwall in any of its aspect-myriad, and Njarlmuk the Shovel, who buried the Architects of those gone fey, and Bladdermost, the demi-god of mileposts who would make signs on the Broadwall for those that should stay away, and Djemi-thir Unnson the Sail-Maker, whose job it was to ensure no return would suffer delays.The fleet proper included the following Heroes, and they were guarded by the giant karstaag-men who walked the under-ice, the Nine Storms, Potemaic the Wolf-King, whose daughter would be of less height than her father but no less in stature, coming to her own in the nearing solitude, and blue-wristed Telmo of the Wrestling Telmos, whose tumultuous sport caused much upset in the border-makers of the Reach, and the Alehouse Giant, whose woad-markings explained how to build these halls lest some demon make us forget and set us into the ire of a summerlong sobriety, and Helmbolg with his Coughing that sometimes set the guard lamps of the karstaags into ill record, and Jurg his boon companion whose wind-calling would set it all back aright in calming assurance, and the Chandry-Man with twenty watch-lamps hanging from an icicle-chandelier he held with no hands, and Hogo-o’-Swirls who had been given to cattle-theft until Ysgramor cursed him into indenture (and all Hogo’s children thereafter perceived their inherited cow-thieving tendencies differently unto something like a law), and the proud Jhunal-Giant called Mnegmegh the Banner-Lamp who settled affairs with all foreign and jingoistic winds, and Hbolh, Storm Ninth the Name-Caller, whose lamp was lit in loud recitals, and their Crown, Hjal, whose presence will not be explained under the Pact, for that would lessen the names of the Five Hundred by many times, breaking the genesis of eschaton, and not even Fhalj the Carcass-Mouth wanted that, nor hoarse No-Questions Nidhammer Skald, whose job it was to recite the names and deeds of all present to the un-heroed children brought to ride aboardships with their Accounted parents.Despite the swinging lamps of the karstaags, great horns were often blasted from one boat-caller to another to keep the Row of Succession on their proper bearings, for Ysgramor’s Gathered have always been an unruly lot, even in make-war time. The first names of the Successor Heroes were these: Vagabond Thane of the Pale, who would always upset those in his wake, and his shield-bearers Fghiul-kul, Morhe, Morhema Morhesdotter, Mtel the Mountain, Korlo the Crevice, and Felji-hoom and Hoomfel, and the six banner-brought daughters of Eastmarch, named Felki, Grelk, Swimmer-lock, Snow-braid, Bell-striker Bel, and the Holder-of-Winterhold who was not yet set against her thane, and the Battlemost Brothers Toad-Capped Thendermah and the Eel-Eared Ghronund, and Jehgmire, Hemf the Fielder, and Jirmoug, Tsek, Malfwe, Svndlkoff the Torcless Kyne-Man, Urysmr, Ffirl the White, Vrendl the Fort, Healkmeat and his hawk-mistress Hgajfwen, their daughter Culecha who looked on Hjal when unlooked on herself, which was seldom for she was fine-looking in every known return.The second names of the Successor Heroes were these: Kilsobrad of All Camps Dunmereth, Djel-the-Diil, whose surname would litter the south, and the four witchmen of Fairhold, Jirlohem, Eloja, Mjolsmar the Smoker, and Hendel Hendson, and once the frontier oars of the blessed longboat Windhelm were broken, sixty-seven souls were given back to Shor’s keeping before their landing was reformed again to rejoin Ysgramor in Skyrim, known in song as Telhm the Master of Oars, Jwamghli-el his Wine-Queen, Felimyz their lamp-lynx, the high lord of the Collegiate Skalds, Kath Markathson, and his professors, Jirfol the Well-Read, Formu of the rangelands still-in-treaty, Ghemjour and Fehjdwhen, Daarban and Fjork-Stag, Silst and Orl the Flea, Brundhel the Sky-Scribe, her husband Greahj the Monk, and their children-in-dream Greah-li, Brundl Brundsfirst, Hgehwen, Jurldhel, and Wendel-light, and Vrandal’s Tongues-in-training, Borthwel the Mace-Biter, Hgul the Weaver, Vhguegel, Naejisl, Neltroon-li, Aald the Candlewick Sweeper, Erris-li, Grunahl the Better, Dlunga the Dwarf (not that kind), Ilthmcnon and his sister lthadnhelda, Rum-Drummer Rselret, Yalj the ark-minded craftsman, Fjaltalo made of marrow, Hjhlet and Gehmor-edda, Ghaldorj the Slave’s Whip, Hoegdi and Dehmwe, Vjalor the Knight who would wait in his metal until thaw, Chejor the Twin-Tricked, given to a grief so bitter that even snow-whales would remove themselves from his passage, and Bjorth and Ghilred and Vhehilda and Jkarle the Stoker, Bhwem-li the Succor-Wife of Khel Kehlerson, who manned reef and sail with a face of sleeted scars, and Olagga and Nemweg and Manwehg, and the eighteen oarsmen in chains: Stehn Skelsgard, Tsun’s-Folly Mjor, Freckled Ben in exile, who knew of Sarthaal only from Herkl the Shield-Fed rowing beside him, and Arjac and Thendlmegh, Freidlgaard, Nodin Nail-Try (whose face was pocked in a semblance of courage which explains his family’s ill fortunes in the Succession), Kjhelknhnel of the Stuttering Tongue, Fjac Welfson, Njacndl Welfson, Hoary Ghonn’s Skeleton, an unfleshed rower who no one questioned under the orders of Alabar Kings-Clever, Braadel and Fdedel, who sat behind the stink of Urlfjir Who-Wolves-Won’t-Eat, and the triplets beloved by Mara Mora’s Wife, Jungarrd, Kjhemger, and Red Relde, who by some contract made these last Heroes even in their chains.With the loss of the Windhelm, Rebec was given leave by the belt of Ysgramor to send an outrunner beyond the range of the karstaag lamps to scout the sludge channels of the Cape ahead for any more trouble. The Skaal volunteered her crew, who batted their way south-southeasterly into the were-winds of the Tidal Woe. Their Boat-Thane was Korst Wind-Eye, who lusted for Telhm’s Wine-Wife but was too greedy to pay tithe for her Tent-Hand, and perhaps it was this doom that spelled the loss of the whole. They were Ranalduga the Purser, Padj his Glass-Man, Tujenhelf the Clever who made for them all woad-weird against the eye of the Horned Man, Faern Sargtlin who led Korst’s reavers and would forget his place among them all, and Enjaarl and Ighur, and Uora the Witch-Wife of Jarhis (who was sleeping in the ale-ice), Irek the Fanged, Falx the Reefsman, Medoch that watched the moons move awry, and thirty-eight more names whose skins were sent back to the fleet in sacks of hair, and while those names are Accounted it is now only by the howling echoes of lost Hbolhl the Giant, who, after a blight-shaped litany of profanities against Rebec’s haste, abandoned this return in his blood-mourning.With his brother-in-karstaag gone, Helmbolg took his leave, as well, coughing out the lamps as he did so, for he was beyond anger now and into madness, and Jurg the Calm had to swallow its storms lest even the sun went out in the shouting. The issue of Borgasa, Borgas, ill-omened, the Broken-Born, then called for a reformation of the Pact, and many of the Boat-Thanes came to his side. Ysgramor could have none of it and the Heroes fell on each other as Jurg and his remaining brethren watched, called the Battle of the Guarded Sun. The dead were these, Accounted: King Kjoric and all the crew of the Whiterun, including Felmar of Teed, Gjhul-li, Killimjir, Bori Fehdson, Helmudela the Cult Maiden of the Circling Faith, Eingen the Skald, Rejnrile the Daggerlad, Mehga the Mead-Milker, her brewery-cow Cephor, the Four Nieces of Victory, the Twins of New Teed, Fevorl the Run-Like-Hell, Thistle-Song Slekka and her Tusk-Brother Jhan the Compass, and oarsmen Ghemeldart, Undel Bjem, Bjem the Elder, Corlecain, Nelfast, Svenjerl the Hale, Ghurlik the Stripped of His Cleverness, Broken-Torc Deimdel, Jarrolend and his brother Jardrung, Hammer of Caskets, who left his rowing to reaver topside, spilling the wine-hold of the Gore Use and then shouted it aflame, claiming it and all aboard, Lav Larich her Boat-Thane and his Shield-Wife Briin-Willow, and his Hearth-Wife Nulfaha, and his Orc-Orphans Settle-Down, Behave-Ye-Now, Touch-None-Here, Brought-His-Own-Blanket, and Numc the Number-Man, his three Nieces-of-Snow, their Boar Bristleback that once laid low the offal-army of Hirc, Dorald and his Autumn-Wife Kendral of Falkreath, and the oarsmen Juryl the Hairshirt, Ben Bvdel the Wide, Kjurl “Curly” Mop-Head, Vendr, Solsven, Storenar, Colhe Mehnson, Count Sthedth in exile, Ukil the Whirlpool, Hghenaard, Evanghl Dunson, and Muurldek who won his love at the Totem-Wife Fair of 1E478. Bagpipe-for-a-Back Hjuro-Gul the Giant (Accounted now that he showed, for he had been summoned long before now) rose from the ice and roared the sixty two souls of the Skin-Greed into Shor's domain and was slain in turn by the thooms of the Ten Tongues of the Merkiller. Reavers and archers and shield-biters were crow-bones by the third serpent-month of the battle, including four from Clan Dire, eight Rye Slaves of Ris, Rhoar the Oak, Ghemgaard the Beaked, Skarb the Haunter, two Wind-Wives of South Mereth, seven berserkers of Clan Gant, a thundernach who was granted hearth rights at the thirteenth burning of Sarthaal, eighteen Arrows of the Scrying Eyes Side-Tribe, and three fighting sharks of the King of the Hjaalmarch (who was ravaged by his pets renown when he attempted to hunt alongside them covered in ambergris). The last to die was Borgas himself, written in viscera across the ice by the power shouts of the Lord of the Wulf’s Hart, and no one gave pity when the monsters of the changewinds arrived to claim their bond on the soul of the son of Borgasa. Pyres-in-tribute delayed the return for another month, but the smoke of the kin-strife had sealed the Pact again, if only for now in shame.It is customary here that the song of return removes the one-hundred and seventy-six dead (or might-as-well-be) from the numbers of the Five Hundred for going to war without Ysgramor’s leave, who have become now Unaccounted (even the Lord of the Wulf’s Heart, who had ended Borgas, and for this he still wishes Skyrim ill). The annual reckoning of the Thirteenth of Sun's Dawn Feast for the Dead allows the skaldsingers to pause for mead and then to hearken the Reinforcements from Sovngarde, sent by Shor himself to replace the traitors, and whose number reset the sum neatly at Jhunal’s delight, for no march of the Sons and Daughters of Kyne can be ever ended. Those ghosts of the Under-Halls came from dust and were Accounted: Dust-Breeches Duadeen the Half-Viri, Kendelmarch his Tear-Wife, Hjorinu and Jerek and Ceth and Khamal (who took sidelong looks his whole life for his name and its association) and Pelek and Gorh and Fjendel their sons, Valmok their Kyne-touched oarsman, Redj the clock-talker, Tmejir and Soorn and Coll the swimmer-shield triplets, and Double-Drums Djorl, and Meghorj Ghorjson Bite-the-mer the Perhaps a Bear (no one really ever asked), and Ysmret and Ysmalijli the sisters in salt, and Rkaak the Cougher (who of course was their scout), and Aedelfalk and Haloch Helsdsooter and Mnelet and Klorgeh and Belmor the Chicken-Legged (true enough) and Maldu the Missile-Whip and Welkydna who somehow knew Aldmeri varliance and Wine-Knived Njnen who, even after being returned, bled from the wounds of his betrayal head to hand to foot, Altmet who after the decline of Winterhold ever after wore shields for boots and thereby suffered an odd gait, and Knedl and Jhoriul the brothers of mace-face violence, and Topal who loved canoes too much and Ut Hal and Ut Haj and Aldier and Versef and Plotinu who ran once with the Pelinal and Attrebal and Ut Harza and Keptak and Klo (the Hudda) and Greydill and Selt and Tso Ut and Sebl-fright and Ald Hatta and Urie-Ut and Vandal Briggs the vandal and Kama-ge and Jori-ge and Ut Ge the Old Get and Tulemeht who ran once with the Pelinal and Hearken-Beak who spoke bird and Klopitu, and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Periff and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif and Perrif their wives and finally Kopro and his wife Perrif (all southerners pressganged into Ysgramor’s service by a tweak in Shor’s breath), and Thumm, and Horaldu, and Haromir, and Kire the weird-looking lyg and Kye her sister (not weird-looking), and Dantreth the Master of Chains beloved, and Daalne and Kljnjaarighu-ru who no one called by name because it was hard to say, and Bjornal and Vjijley and Theyet and Njrethaal and Suthmal and Jjark the jerk and Hgnaak his Suffer-Wife and Fat Falt and Alo their lynx and Jarch and Mnletgh and Uru the Better-Lamplighter and Kjanorr who took a spear in his teeth cursing Merish walking-gods and Kjalpagh the Just How Many Pockets Do You Have and Drohard and Sendolwep and Thumul and Aeru and Telmedh and Yyk the Stipulator and Henharlecain (whose great-great-grandson would become so famous), and Kaejuul who wrote of a sky below us, and Nistro his wife who laughed at that notion, and Bonaal-mer the ill-blooded (for his arteries had been tampered with in the Sack) and Thisris Nail-Tongue who had Drelys speak for him and Jhun-ge the Tailor and Hgmieil their five-membered wolf, and Njork the Tooth-Torc’d, so proud in the bounty he drew from the jaws of Old Mary, and Vrendunsvalla Whose Beard Became A Mountain, and Bahldlu and Engngal and Kolth and Hgdead and Njkirnhal Njkirnhalson and Rum-Loving Seanil the Lit to Here and Takl Taklsun and his sister Kakl who wore wasabi as eyeliner, and Hgjmer and Aesret and Nyaljar Who Wore His Woad On the Inside and Angka whose lips were thorned (she was never getting married, for sure) and Barakal and Farfork and Umtalos and Gnechlet and Hegehel-mo and Haraldu and Ffedl the Favored-of-Kyne, though no one is quite sure how she gained that sobriquet, though some whispered it happened during a card play and no one can really argue with that. (If that’s not exactly one-hundred and seventy-six names it’s because I’m drunk and everyone here just yell out your names to make the difference, for you were there as you are here and let Shor’s hole-shadow beleaguer ye not.)And now the 500 were reunited, and Ysgramor sent the Four-Score ahead to blast the ice with its varlianced prow, and we were beset upon by the Devils we would rule and lose and rule again, but the Boat-Thane was a sacred Tor-Queen, her skirts and hides covered in southern moths, who made manifest in that coming fight with the crow-headed spirits of the Morag. Aboard the Four-Score were these that opposed them (and won): Aol the Oars-Body, who was mainly made of living Atmoran wood and looked a bit like a maniacal puppet but no one cared when things came to needing proper raiding speed, and Ghemel-Huhn his Whittling-Wife (a marriage type that was made solely for their own), and Wuhlnjar the lookout, and Kalo Wuhlson his son whose eyes had been Cleverly replaced by lenses of Dwemer-make, and Apletnoo and Pocne and Dooir the Devil-Bellied, and Pale Pass the snake-fighter, and Ysmanue and Jhethen the siblings who fashioned their beards as Stuhn and Tsun once did, and Hgil who used a ridiculously-large Totem of Kyne as a club, and Baarl who wore a Colovian Arrow-Catcher even though it was dyed yellow, and the Remanites called D’Arleunce and Jean-Piet and Camorleigh and Alexe, and Umjanor and Ralpag and Old Hrolhdar and Mothol Mothsdotter and Galaej peerless in the Voice who yet vowed never to use it, and finally Varoonaal who plucked the poison darts from the body of the King of Cyrod.With the Morag broken and sent into the eastern slush, we finally caught sight of Snow-Throat, and knew that our journey was near its ending again. It was the World-Eater’s-Waking that broke shore first, Shouting our victory and doom, whose Boat-Thane was Ysmaalithax the Northerly Dragon, his first-clutch-sons Tsuunalinfaxtir and St’unuhaslifafnal, whose Tear-Jills were Vorramaalix, Jarliallisuh, Alleirisughus, and the Dewclaw Widow Who Foreswore Her Name, whose Void-Jills were Eljaalithathisalif Hate-Fire and Ingridaaligu who lost her minutes in the mending, and Mjaariliaalunax Half-Fire, whose Earth-Jills were none awoke, and whose Aether-Jills were none survived, and whose Magne-Jills were Shanu’ujeneen the Star-Woven and Jaalhngithaax Whose-Name-Stays-in-its-Egg. There were also the twenty-two Thunder-Scaled Jills unbound by time and so served as Ysmaalithax’s oracle-oocytes until the Ald’uin would burn them away: Unaalthiigas, Hriimaalixixigis, Kuujhe’elthilax of the Kalpa of the Orsidoon, Ingriidarligar who used her tailclaw as a song, Faajoorliidovahilagar, Ma’aheemi, Sorress’lilargus, Ansahaalifar whose gigantic feathered-crown was stripped from a Dawn Goddess that was eaten before she could fully congeal, Khelsadaalix and Akheelaalix who traded heads daily out of some geas, Vemmaabilthax, Borgaasaalthoom, Nuum’hyetthex, Vashuunaliasthoom, Fraalxshildadoon, Daahnaarlilagus, Mehemeem’yetthex Aththoommua who held secret syllables “unneeded yet”, and their five eldest, called the Five Eldest of the Thunder-Scaled Jills. There were also Ysmaalithax’s ten Shed-Uncles, whose names cannot be heard in the language of Men. There were his Clutch-Nephews, Khaalthaheelodoon the Jill-or-Drake (this one was more his pet than descendent, but Ysmaalithax was expressive and endless), Aalabarliggus the Oddly-Colored (his personal Shout Holder by neck-blood), Hegmaaligus the Mute, and Basdsdajurlahnaor who Shouted Enough to Give Hegmaaligus His Leave. There were his Nieces-of-Clock, Teeablalidoon the Mute, Mabaanaalix the Mute, Feehuugfe’hg the Mute, and Tsjaarlilargus their Chorus. There were his shed skins of renown, the Hell-Bellows Ghost, the Rabid-Thought, Heimnelraaliagus the Regular Thought, Pelinaalilargus the Pragmatist, Fefmem and Gemalleir, the two-headed rhetoric, Dyssle’vehb the Stoic Shout, whose dewclaws were adorned in numantia-scratch, Gremmelfellixl the Elenchus, Haa���gmmel the Logoi, Febhraadrnaalis the Trivium, and Ysmaalthoom the Arête. Of those Nords that stepped back onto Skyrim from the World-Eater’s-Waking there were these among the Five Hundred, but Ysmaalithax counted that the first was his destroyer, Ysgramor the Returned

[lavampira]

VIRIA LIORE ✧ the imperial thane of haafingar, collegiate bard, dawnguard vampire hunter, champion of the divines

[happywitch416]

Retirement, Interrupted

Elena Songschild was the easiest woman to find in Haafingar. Seated on Proudspire’s terrace, a book in hand as she lounged in her seat an ankle resting on the other knee with an ale in her hand.

"Tribune Songschild."

She barely looked up, her shoulders slumping just slightly. "Legate Rikke."

"I need you at Helgen."

She turned the page in her book. "I am retired."

"General Tullius is there, you'll be a Legate before you come home." Elena didn't look up, her brows arching even as she slightly shook her head. "It’s better retirement pay."

She rolled her eyes and turned another page. "The guard pays well. As does the temple when they need aid. I am a thane of Haafingar, and I have no need of the Legion’s coin."

"You're the best damned archer in Skyrim, I need you to go."

Elena slammed the book shut, jaw clenching as she glared at Rikke, and she got to her feet. "You should have thought about that before sending me to kill children." She spat out.

"They were Stormcloaks."

"They were children!"

"We didn't know!" Elena snarled, moving out of reach. "The Legion didn't put them there, Elena. You know that."

"The Legion turned them over to the Justiciars." She crossed her arms, gritting her teeth. "I turned them over to the Justiciars. And did nothing to help them." She grimaced, the bitter sorrow burning on her tongue and shame burning her cheeks. "I was the Legion, and we are nothing more than dogs to the Dominion. Obey orders without question, kill who they say kill, and easy to put down when we are no longer useful."

"If we end this war, they will be out of Skyrim before you know it." She offered gently.

Elena scoffed, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "Helgen won’t win a war. It's barely an outpost."

Rikke took a deep breath. They needed Elena there, an experienced hand among fresh recruits. A buffer between them and what was coming. "Ulfric is making for the border. He will have to pass near there; we only need the soldiers to do it."

"Then send some and leave me be."

"You are a Nord the Legion can trust. Your allegiance to Skyrim is unquestionable. Would an Imperial do the same?" Elena rubbed at her jaw, thumb running along her lip as she thought. "You know the land there almost as well as you know Haafingar and Hjaalmarch. If the worst happens, would he clear the border with you there?"

Elena was quiet for a long time and sighed. "I will report to Castle Dour to give you my answer in the morning."

"You'll do it." Her relief was palpable in the air.

"That is not what I said." Elena shot her a look. "I need to think, Rikke."

"But-."

"I will throw you off this porch."

Rikke blew harshly. "Fine, see you in the morning, Tribune." 

 The girls were easy to find, and Elena had to admit if they had come home to her not being there, they would have headed straight for the temple. She wanted to tell them anyway. "Runa!" She waved to her youngest who trotted over to join Sofie and Lucia. "I am headed up to the temple."

"Okaaay?" Sofie asked with an arch of her brows.

A huff of laughter left Elena even as she squatted down to their level. "Legate Rikke came to speak to me."

"They want you back." Lucia kicked at a loose cobblestone.

"Aye, a temporary posting." Sofie rolled her eyes. "I know."

"Is the coin good?" Runa asked, chewing thoughtfully on her braid.

"Good enough. Helgen is an outpost, not a lot goes on and nothing to do."

"Are you going to talk to Kyne?" Lucia asked softly.

Elena shook her head. "Maga first. Even I need my mother some days." She flashed them a grin.

"Can we go?"

Her brows furrowed. "To Helgen?"

"No, to the temple."

"Hm." She considered them thoughtfully, eyes dancing. "Is it to pray?" The three girls glanced at each other and then the ground. "Or because it's baking day and Nana always makes extra sweet rolls?" Runa grinned back first. "I won’t say no to sweet rolls." And so, her girls trooped up to the temple behind her, making faces and gestures at Castle Dour behind her back.

"All of my girls!" Maga greeted them with open arms and a wide smile, covered in flour.

"Ma." Elena brushed a kiss to her cheek, shaking her head when the girls released Maga to tear into the sweet rolls like rabid wolves. "I do try to teach them manners."

"They'll come with age. You and Odara were trolls." Elena chuckled crossing her arms as she watched them, and Maga did not miss the sadness that darkened her eyes. "You did not come just to visit your old mother."

Elena arched her brow at that. "You are hardly old."

"56 winters I’ve seen with a head full of grey to show for it. Allow me my senile moments with respect." Elena shook her head, her smile still to dim by far. "You came to speak to the priestess of the Divines then."

"Aye." She swallowed hard.

"Come, child, and have a seat. If the gods can't hear us from this kitchen, they are getting old too."

"Do they listen?" She set her elbows on the table only to remove them at Magas pointed glare. "Truly, if they did listen why aren’t they doing anything with this stupid war?"

"The Legion."

"Aye. Rikke asked me to go to Helgen, temporary posting."

"Would it be?" Elena shrugged, making Maga sigh. "Child." Elena’s brows pinched together, mouth setting in a grim line. "You wouldn't be asking me if you weren’t considering it."

She nodded slowly. "If it goes well, the war would be over."

"Ha. Rikke knows how to get you." She shook her head. "A true daughter of Skyrim and they send you off to kill your countrymen in the name of an empire you hate against a god you don't believe in."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "Talos is not the god of death and claims more than Arkay." She wrinkled her nose. "Mortals shouldn’t be given godhood."

"Don't let your father hear that." She patted Elena's hand. "You speak to Kyne; she will show you the way."

Elena looked away, studying a splinter in the table. "And what if I don't like what she says?"

"That has never stopped you before." Maga grimaced. "I would know having raised you." Elena snorted, rubbing her hands across her face. "If Rekke’s hand is guided for another reason, who are you to say no? Are you Kyne's Champion or not?"

Elena was quiet a long time, watching her girls’ squabble and laugh, sticky sweet from their fingers to their hair. "I don't know who I am anymore." Her voice was low, whisper soft. "I wanted to be a mother but what's a mother that’s never around?" Grief shrouded her forest green eyes. "Can I be her champion and angry at the gods?" She buried her head in her hands. "I was there because of Talos, he is the rallying cry for them even if the war is so much more than being able to worship a god. Was I following the gods when I let the Justiciars take those children? Did they blind me with naive hope? Was it a test that I failed? Or worse succeeded? Have they fled Tamriel and left us to kill each other?"

Maga smoothed her hair. "Those are answers I cannot give you, not as your mother or your priestess. But." Elena looked up with a sniff. "You escaped the Valenwood on your own strength. You need to trust yourself with that."

"What's the point of being strong if I can't be good?" Tears slipped down her face. "Why is being strong always another fight? Why can't I be everything I am not?"

"Mama?"

She wiped the tears from her face, shaking her head but accepting Runa’s hug. "Don't grow up for a good long while, little one."

"It sounds terrible." A snort of laughter left Elena, a smile gracing Maga’s face as well. "We ate all the sweet rolls."

"I made enough to..." Maga turned, sighing at the empty kitchen table. "Then you three are helping me bake some more."

"Yes!" Sofie whooped.

"Elena, go down and get more flour and sugar from the storeroom." Maga set to reordering the kitchen. "The biggest bags, please."

"Aye." Elena chuckled, disappearing back into the temple proper.

"Sofie, go get all the butter we have. Lucia and Runa help me get these bowls clean." Runa and Lucia shared a grin and set to work. 

 Three exhausted, flour dusted little girls were curled up in Maga’s spare room. Elena and Maga were wiping down the tables a final time and sweeping, the sweet rolls carefully set aside for the temple guards and their families.

"There's room still for you in there, Elena." She shrugged as she washed her hands. "Or are you going to the garden?"

"I don’t know."

Maga took the towel from her and shooed her gently out with it. "Go on. You'll feel better with some trees watching over you."

Elena sighed and let herself be ushered into the hall and listened to the door shut quietly. She knew the moment she stepped back through her mother would accept her choice with that slightly disappointed but hiding it expression. She tugged at her braid and set off up the stairs to the high garden.

Two of its sides were mountain, the peak climbing high above the trees. One was the temple itself and the fourth was open to the sea of ghosts and the salt wind that swept from it mixing with the dozens of flowers. Elena headed to her favorite spot, the center of a ring of trees. Moonlight shone down in an almost perfect circle, the grass soft as she knelt, sitting back on her heels. She let her eyes close as she relaxed her shoulders, hands smoothing along her thighs.

I don't want to go to Helgen. Why is it so hard to say that? The wind fell dead, and she cracked one eye open to look around her. The treetops did not sway, there was no bend in the flowers. "I don't need the coin." She muttered, rubbing her fingers against the rough seam on her pants. They needed to be better fixed, or replaced, but she couldn't give up her favorite pair just yet.

She did want to take the girls to the Imperial City. She had loved the trip there when her parents took her and Odara and it was one of her highlights of being with the Legion. It had life that nowhere in Skyrim was capable of. There was so many people and new things to see and do and taste. A round of duty at Helgen would put them that much closer to that trip, especially if the war ended. The breeze stirred briefly, and her anger flared back to life.

"Where were you? You could have thrown off my arrows, you could have blown in a storm. You could have done anything." She glared up at the dark sky. "Shouldn't the mother of Nords protect her children?" The air grew heavy, the scent of storm filling the air. "Aye, you'll do your tricks to bully me but not to save children." She spat. "Do you even care what happens to Skyrim?" Her head fell into her hands. "I have loved this land my entire life, served as its protector in the Legion, served as your champion to protect its wild places and beauty. Why didn’t." She choked on a sob. "Why didn't you stop me?"

Elena fell silent, biting her lip to stop her tears. There was no answer, and she hadn't expected one. She had hoped, but she knew that hope was vain. After all she had seen, after all she had done. She hadn't felt worthy of her title of Champion in a long time.

As dawn peeked over the horizon, the wind grew warm, smoothing across her like a blanket. Something bumped into her, a furry head butting her hand and purring. "Greetings, Sheo." She scratched behind the cat's ears. "Caused any madness lately?" He meowed insistently and she opened her eyes. Sheo had a mouth full of tundra cotton still firmly caught on its stems. She took it gently from him. "Where did you find this?" She looked around knowing there was no tundra cotton in the garden.

She rolled the stem in her fingers and studied it again. She could almost see wings in its leaves, the wind stirring them into flight. Elena heaved a tired sigh and got to her feet.

She made her way through the temple to the hall and set the cotton before the statue of Kynareth, pressing her fingers to the blue gem at its center for a moment as she took a deep breath. 

 Castle Dour never changed, she wound her way through its labyrinths, nodding in greeting to those she knew until she finally ducked into Rikke’s quarters. The legate looked up, carefully schooling her features to emptiness as she folded a letter shut.

"How long?"

"Six weeks at most." She crossed her arms as she studied Elena. "I can triple your pay, and it's light duty. There's been no fighting on that border."

Elena ran her hand through her hair, tangling on the wind-swept curls. "When do I ride out?"

Rikke let out her held breath. "This afternoon if you can."

"You owe me." Elena told her sternly, brows furrowed. "And not just the pay." She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with a vague wave of her hand. "And no more favors, I am old and tired, and I want to raise my girls."

"We get him and no one will ask anything of you again."

 Elena Songschild Master List

Writing Master List

[delemis]

An Alternate Civil War, Part Two: The Wolves of Haafingar (2/2)

A continuation of this post

Part One: The Introduction

After the end of the Dawnstar campaign, a short meeting with Queen Elisif on the field will see the player given yet another assignment: Queen Laila Law-Giver of the Rift has thrown her lot in with the Stormcloaks. While Elisif leads the onslaught against Winterhold personally, the player will travel south - to Riften - and dethrone Laila. This turns out to be more difficult than it first appears, as Laila is being covertly aided by the Legate of Riften’s local Legion Garrison, a tactical genius who values the prosperity of the Rift above the Empire’s political neutrality, if only because of her son’s mercantile affairs in the city.

In the end, the player can win the Riften campaign one of two ways: By uncovering the Legate’s betrayal of duty and getting her sent back to Cyrodiil City to be executed, or simply by fighting in an all-out war. The former option will see Riften’s defence left in the hands of the woefully incapable Laila Law-Giver, who - well out of her depth in such matters - will request reinforcements from Ulfric. Not only will the player be able to conquer Riften, but they will also ensure that Elisif wins her campaign as well by diverting resources from the north that could’ve been utilized to defend Winterhold. 

The latter option will also see the player conquer Riften, but at a much higher cost for Haafingar, and in a way that ultimately results in Elisif being repelled from Winterhold, due to the fact that no resources are being diverted from that area. The Oprichniki will send letters to the player that actually encourage them to take this route, for reasons that become clear as the questline progresses.

If the player unearths evidence of the Legate’s betrayal in Riften then Elisif will successfully conquer Winterhold. If not, then Elisif will be wounded in the field and forced to retire to Haafingar for the time being; she will send a letter to the player, informing them that they are to travel north and head a newly raised army to attempt the conquest of Winterhold a second time. The city of Winterhold itself is tiny and insignificant, fallen far from its glory days due to the infamous catastrophes and curses that have beset it since the fourth era began. However, the forces of Winterhold - reinforced from the south by Stormcloak veterans - have holed up in the abandoned imperial Fort Kastav, a virtually impenetrable stronghold from which they’ve been able to exert their influence over the entire hold even without a strong ruler to guide them. The newly crowned Child-King Assur is being kept here, as well as his Windhelm-appointed Regent and the leader of Winterhold’s forces, Galmar Stone-Fist. 

Ultimately, after a series of skirmishes against the Stormcloaks in the stricken tundras of outer Winterhold, the player will triumph with the aid of the oprichniki, who have captured and brutally interrogated a number of prisoners of war that have revealed several key weak points in the walls of Fort Kastav. By enlisting the aid of several breton mages from Haafingar-occupied Jehenna, the player is able to infiltrate the fortress and collapse en entire section of wall, allowing Haafingar’s armies to carry out a successful - if bloody - assault. Galmar Stone-Fist will fight to the death but, after he is killed, Assur will concede to the invaders and order a surrender. Whether Winterhold is conquered by the player or by Elisif, the Child-King is taken hostage and will later be reinstated to his father’s throne in an act of mercy (or an acknowledgement of Winterhold’s growing irrelevance). 

The final campaign of the civil war will be Haafingar’s conquest of Windhelm, which will ultimately be decided in a pitched battle on the outskirts of the city. Ulfric Stormcloak, unwilling to risk the safety of his city, sallies out with the full force of his army to face the player and - if she hasn’t been wounded - Queen Elisif in battle. This last epic pitched battle will end the civil war in one of two ways: If Elisif has been wounded and cannot fight, then the player will decide Ulfric’s fate - whether to kill him on the spot or take him as a prisoner. If Elisif has not been wounded then she will make the decision for you, killing Ulfric on the spot with the power of her thu’um after a brief shouting match between the two of them. Either way, the Stormcloaks are crushed and Windhelm’s fate is left in the hands of Elisif’s advisors, who eventually come together to select a new ruler from among the populace. 

Upon returning to the city of Haafingar, if Queen Elisif failed to conquer Winterhold and if they have received the player’s cooperation, the Oprichniki will step forward to reveal their hand: A secret and distant child of King Thian’s line, and - it is hinted - perhaps a distant descendant of Potema as well. With the player’s support, and with Elisif disgraced by her failures in the war, the Oprichniki will successfully oust Haafingar’s queen and place their own ruler on the throne, beginning what can only be assumed will be a reign of terror and cruelty for Skyrim. If the player declines to support them at this stage then their coup will be rebuffed, and the oprichniki will be utterly eradicated, although it is hinted that Elisif’s reign is greatly shaken by this and may not last much longer into the future. If Elisif successfully conquered Winterhold and was present for the battle of Windhelm, then her supremacy will be embraced unconditionally and her reign will be long and prosperous. Moreover, no matter which ending Haafingar receives, the player is granted the thanedom of Dragonbridge in addition to whatever titles they may already hold (ie. Thane of Haafingar, a separate honorary title which would be obtainable independent of the Civil War questline.)

The ending of the civil war has drastic consequences for the rest of Skyrim, even the holds that had no participation in it (Falkreath, Hrothgar, Uild Vrage and especially Markarth.) It may also play into the fate of the Empire, as it is rumored that Haafingar has its own designs on the Ruby Throne, and the ambitions of Haafingar unfettered will surely mean trouble for its neighbors to the east and west no matter who ends up on the throne.