#the cyrodilic way of life

[dundreary]

Quick, someone call the Mages Guild, because I have been brought back from the dead and there are probably necromancers afoot!

In the past few days I finally found time to get back to my mad ravings writing after a turbulent past year. I successfully reread and revised the entirety of The Cyrodillic Way of Life, fixing a lot of misspellings, repetitions and flow issues. I plan to continue the story soon.

It's weird, because I have all of those ideas where I want my characters to go and how to develop them, but it's so hard to get it down to paper... and then years pass without anything happening.

But oh well, here's to a more productive future 🤠

[noah-moth-cursed-chaos]

The Brotherhood's newest recruit was. Annoyingly sociable. A chatterbox really, it baffled Arnbjorn to no end, to his knowledge, Argonian preferred fewer words and told most things in body language, yet Zane never. Fucking. Shut. His mouth.

Astrid said she saw something in him. As did Nazir and Veez.

Arnbjorn just saw an annoyance.

"What did you think you'd do when you were young?"

Arnbjorn looked over at the man standing next to him, watching him.

"... What?"

"I'm curious, I mean, I know children don't typically dream of being assassins."

Arnbjorn stared at Zane like he had two heads, what made him think that they were close enough for Arnbjorn to speak about his childhood?

"... I wanted to be a linguist." Apparently the silence wasn't as off putting as he'd wanted. "I love language, it fascinates me. The way different people choose to communicate, ideas only present in one language or another, formalities and grammar and the way it all intersects with tone and body language."

Arnbjorn looked at him for a minute. He'd seen Zane's writing, a code of his own design, incorporated about five or six different languages and alphabets, some Arnbjorn had never seen.

It wasn't like he didn't have the skills.

Arnbjorn questioned how valuable linguistics were to argonians. Or if Zane would be listened to anywhere outside the Marsh.

"But, well. Dad was a thief. And when he died... Bellies needed to be filled, so I followed in his footsteps. And it lead me here."

"... You had siblings?"

"One, Tanasi. I miss him dearly. We had to part ways when we left the marsh, hopefully he's somewhere safe in Cyrodil." Zane's tone had... The slightest tinge of sadness, "Far from me, he was always a wonderful craftsman, hopefully he's left our old life behind and begun using those skills."

"You act like you're the thing that was fucking things up for him." Arnbjorn scoffed.

"A better brother would have been able to provide without leading the both of us into a life of crime." Zane stated, as if that were a simple fact, and not likely far more complicated.

"How old were you anyway?"

"... I was 14. Tanasi was 13."

"... What fucking choice does a 14 year old have? By the nine, cut yourself a bit of slack." Arnbjorn shook his head, "... I wanted to be a guard."

Zane was... Trying not to laugh.

"Hey! You asked alright! The companions were the closest I could get. But. Well. I've got a vengeful streak, and some bastards skimped us on pay." He looked over at Zane, "So, what drew you to the companions? You don't seem the heroic sort. And I can't say I know many other places you'd contract lycanthropy and live to tell the tale."

"The fact that you think I can't hold my own against a werewolf is insulting." Zane said, before pausing, "It was... Well it seemed right. I was in a new country, surrounded by new people. I was one of the people there when that dragon by Whiterun was killed, and the dragonborn absorbed the soul and all. He didn't want to stick around, but there were things to be done, and he trusted them to me for some reason. I suppose I was trying to prove I could fill those shoes." He shrugged, "The whole righteous schtick just didn't suit me. I killed some werewolf hunters though."

"You know the dragonborn?"

"Short khajiit, calico markings, big eyes." Zane said, "Last I heard he became the archmage."

"Divine shit, you do know the dragonborn."

"The imperials were trying to kill us both when Helgen got attacked. We escaped together."

"What'd you do to piss off the imperials?" Now Arnbjorn was actually starting to get curious. Dammit. The new guy was growing on him.

"Walked across the border. Ji'Ren was on the way out, but offered to turn back to show me somewhere I could stay, we walked over the border together just when they ambushed." Zane explained, "They smacked him over the head so hard I was worried he might not wake up at first."

"I still dunno how I feel about having you as a brother, but I will admit you live a damn interesting life."

Now it was Zane's turn to laugh, "I just go where life takes me, it tends to direct me down a lot of interesting side roads."

"Like becoming an assassin?"

"It has been interesting."

"Well, just make sure you're good at it. I'm gonna need more stories and I can't get them if you're dead."

[virginianmetrofaerie]

ondolemar headcanons bc again WE ARE LACKING

please bear with me i am a; autistic and b; obsessed with grumpy bald men. Some NSFW and Romance headcanons but nothing too explicit.

Not exactly middle aged, but not some sweet young thing either. If we're going off the idea that a 200 year old Altmer is elderly, then Ondolemar would probably be in the 75-85 year old range; the human equivalent of about 34-38. Not afraid of growing older, as in his eyes, age and wisdom is something to be respected and desired rather than feared and lamented.

Most definitely a little inbred. His bloodline is long, respected, and as pure as it gets (mostly thanks to getting a couple cousins together every now and then).

I saw something on a tes forum discussing how the Thalmor most likely occupied the majority of the Noble upper echelon in the Summerset Isles. This would be the case for Ondolemar, his father being a high-ranking Thalmor officer, and the same as his father before him.

Being the blueprint of racial purity and male attractiveness in Altmer society, Ondolemar is likely very popular with the ladies. Most definitely has a girl somewhere in every port across the Empire. However...

There has been significant pressure from his family to marry and produce an heir to carry on his family's name (especially going off the canon idea that Altmer only produce 1-2 children per couple). However, it is also an idea that Ondolemar has been putting off. He finds himself quickly bored and annoyed by any women that cross his path and desires someone that will challenge him. Frankly, he wants a woman that he can court and chase and put effort into wooing over, rather than it being the other way around.

Cares less than he actually shows about the intermixing of races across Tamriel, though is very adamant on Elven Supremacy (however, does have fascination and respect for Argonians and Khajiit). However, he will not touch a woman who is not another Altmer, unlike some of his other Thalmor colleagues such as Ancano who has most definitely had a cheeky roll in the hay with an Imperial or Dunmer woman.

A great enjoyer of sex, and is quite good at it too. Most likely going a little nuts in Markarth as the only other Altmer there are his two blokes™ as well as Calcemo and Aicantar.

Very wealthy, both generationally and through his own efforts. Doesn't flaunt his wealth, but definitely enjoys the finer things in life; expensive imported wine, high quality leather, fine art, exotic food... the list goes on. One thing he noted about Skyrim was the lack of industries supporting such exuberant wealth; in Summerset, most individuals, even the middle class, were wealthy to a degree, thus most of the industry advertised luxury and premium items. If anything, the humbleness of life in Skyrim impressed him (after he got over his initial repulsion).

I headcanon that he does own property in Skyrim; though he has an office in Understone Keep for the purpose of investigating Talos Worship in Markarth, he has been provided an abode nearby by the Embassy. He also would own private property in a more Imperial city, such as Solitude, as a means to get away when he is given some time off.

Very religious, and takes his job rather seriously, though is absolutely sick of it, and sick of Elenwen.

Skyrim had not been his first post, yet his most recent and his least desired. He had been stationed in Summerset, Elsewyr, Valenwood, and very briefly in Cyrodil Previously. Elsewyr had been his favorite; he enjoyed the culture of Khajiit as well as the tropical weather.

[seigephoenix]

Kinktober 2024: Free Space

My second Halloween themed free space for Kinktober! A trip to Skyrim is in order for my favorite Dragonborn and werewolf. These two are a comfort ship of mine.

Ship: Aurelia Tullius/Farkas Content Warning: bath sex, fingering, p in v, mostly plot for this one with a little porn Length: 2.7k

13th of Frostfall

“It’s time for that ghastly tradition,” Skjor complained as he stared out the window as the city of Whiterun prepared for the festivities after dark.  The children already wore their carved or stitched masks resembling creatures of myth.  The Companions stayed inside during the holiday as most disliked the use of magic during the festival.  Vilkas leaned back in his chair as Roscar made his way up from the barracks.  He looked uneasy, which alarmed the inner circle.  Their Harbinger rarely had that look in his eyes.

“I received a report from the Thieves Guild over in Riften,” Roscar began and Skjor scoffed.  Roscar sent him a quieting glare and Aela put her hand on Skjor’s shoulder.  “There are reports out by the springs of the Pumpkin Spectre.  I would normally attribute this to a youth’s prank, but the Guildmaster assures me that this is serious.”

“And you trust this Guildmaster?” Skjor asked cautiously.  He was surprised when even Aela nodded.  “A thief?”

“We’ve come to an understanding with the guild.  Given who is associated with them.”  Skjor took only a second to think about it and he heaved a sigh.

“Of course.  The Dragonborn.”  Roscar nodded.

“She isn’t the Guildmaster, if that’s what you’re worried about.  Her only formal affiliation is the College of Winterhold, but that woman has more connections in Skyrim than I do.  And I’ve lived here my whole life.” Roscar chuckled as Aela grinned at Skjor.

“Wait, if Aurie is with the College then surely, they’d deal with the Pumpkin Spectre?” Aela asked.  Roscar nodded and crossed his arms.

“About that.”

Whiterun, Market District

A cold chill went down Aurelia’s spine and she whipped around to see what was behind her.  Nyx and Nazir looked back at her as she stared at the streets with a suspicious gaze.  “Aurie?”

“I thought I felt something watching me,” she replied before turning back to her friends and hurried to catch up to them.

“Is that your costume?” Nyx asked as Aurelia grinned and gave a small spin.  “I’ve never seen a dress like that.”

“It’s from Cyrodil.  It was the latest fashion when I left.  Apparently, my mother snuck it into my trunk that was delivered to the soldier’s barracks up in Solitude.  My uncle sent it to me and at least this way it gets some use.”  Nyx chuckled as Nazir rolled his eyes.  The dress could barely be called a dress.  The material appeared to be held together by the grace of the divine.  Silken scraps of fabric draped over Aurelia’s legs resembling the petals of a flower.  The top had a plunging neckline clasping to a brooch at her waist.  The back was just as sparse and Aurelia felt a little uneasy showing off her scars so much, but she had to get used to them eventually.  Aurelia put a mask on her face to resemble a spriggan and that was her costume.

“I can’t believe your mother did that,” Nyx said as they approached the stalls setting up in preparation for the evening.  She’d received the same missive from Sylvana and had made her way to Whiterun.  Nazir had to see it for himself.

“Why are you two in Whiterun anyway?” Aurelia asked after they finished carving their pumpkins.  She set a small light spell in hers and grinned at the flickering light.  Nyx set the candle in hers and Nazir set his aside as normal.

“We had a mission close by and Nyx wanted to see you.”  Aurelia grinned at Nyx who gave her the same warm smile in return.  Nyx wanted to protect Aurelia and so she would not be leaving her side that night at all.

After sunset

Aurelia wandered the streets as she saw the kids running along the edges of the pathways, screeching in laughter as they scared each other.  She gave them the treats she carried when they approached her.  They all paused as the lights flickered out with a strong breeze.  The children screeched in laughter and ran back to their parents, thinking it was all a grand game.  Aurelia did as well until she felt the cold prickle at the back of her neck.

“Aurie,” Nyx called out as they searched for her in the crowd.  “How could I lose sight of her!?” Nyx looked around worriedly as Nazir searched the crowd as well.  “Wait!  The Companions!”

“What do you mean?” Nazir asked.  “I know they are well acquainted with her.”  Nyx shook her head.

“I can’t say.  It’s part of the agreement I have with the Harbinger,” Nyx explained and while Nazir didn’t like it, he understood the secrecy.  The Companions kept their secrets and Nyx would keep theirs.  “But they can find her.  Keep looking please.”  Nazir agreed and watched as Nyx bolted towards Jorrvaskr.

She burst in causing all the warriors to jump to their feet.  Farkas was by her side first and helped her up.  “Farkas.  Shit.  I lost sight of Aurie in the marketplace!”  Roscar’s gut twisted at those words.  “I swear it was only a second but she was gone.  I can’t track her, but maybe you can?”

“If anyone can, it’ll be Farkas.” Aela assured Nyx as Farkas was already out the door.  “Let’s go and wait in the marketplace, maybe Aurie just wandered off.”

“Somehow I doubt it, but I’d like to think so.”  Nyx shook her head and she walked with Aela and Roscar back to where Nazir was.

“I haven’t been able to find her, but one of your people just rushed past me going that way.” Nazir pointed over his shoulder towards one of the side streets.

“I told you that Farkas would be able to find her.  Woe be to the Pumpkin Spectre,” Aela said with a laugh.

Side streets

“Hello?” Aurelia asked as she whipped around at the sound of the creepy laughter.  “If this is one of your pranks kiddos, it isn’t one of your better ones.”  Aurelia shivered at the icy breeze that surrounded her.  She turned at the sound of someone approaching and lashed out only to encounter warm flesh.  A familiar scent wrapped around her.  “Farkas!”

“You shouldn’t wander off.”  She puffed up at him and he ran a hand down the back of her head, checking for any injuries.  “Are you hurt?”

“Hmm?  No.  Why?” He breathed a sigh of relief.  “Why?”

“Roscar got a note from your thief friend.”  Aurelia tilted her head curiously.  “The Pumpkin Spectre is after you.”  Aurelia pointed to herself.

“Me?  What for?” Aurelia asked but he could only shrug in answer.  She huffed in annoyance and crossed her arms over her chest as she tried to figure out what the hell a spectre wanted with her.  It was ridiculous, unless.  Farkas bared his teeth menacingly as the creature appeared behind Aurelia.  She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened.

“By the Nine but you’re ugly.”  Farkas and the spirit both paused at her outburst.  Farkas couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped and Hollowjack rattled his bones at Aurelia.  Farkas grabbed her when she started towards Hollowjack.  “You’re just a damn Daedra.”

“What?” Farkas whispered as Hollowjack recoiled at her yelling at him.  “Are you certain?”  Aurelia looked over her shoulder and gave him a scathing glare.

“Of course I’m certain.  Cyrodil celebrates this festival too, and I learned all about its origins.”  She pointed towards the Daedra.  “And I know you picked me because I’m carrying something you want for your damned festival.  Picked it up at an abandoned temple the other day.”

“Give it back.”

“Alright already.  Hang on.”  Aurelia yanked free of Farkas and looked down as a few of the silken petals fell into his hands.  “Well, that’s fine.”  She turned back towards the Daedra and crossed her arms.  “First things first.  You bring us back to Nirn, specifically Skyrim.”

“Wait, we’re in Skyrim.”  Aurelia shook her head at Farkas and that’s when he realized there was a strange smell that he couldn’t place in the air.

“No.  We’re in Detritus.  His domain,” she said pointing to Hollowjack.  “Now send us back.  Then I’ll give it back to you.”  Hollowjack rattled his bones at her.  “Nope.  That part is not up for negotiation.  Bring us back or I make what you want into bone ash.”

“It is done.”  With a snap of his fingers they were in Aurelia’s home in Whiterun.  Farkas looked around in surprise before stepping closer to her, keeping his eye on the Daedra.

“Well, that is handy.  And here is what you want.” Aurelia waved her hand and the horse skull appeared in Hollowjack’s hands.  Farkas heard the faint call of a horse as if it was coming from a great distance away.  “Now, go enjoy your holiday and leave me be.”

“Your soul,” Hollowjack said pointing towards Aurelia.  She let out a laugh that bordered on maniacal, it unnerved Farkas.

“When I die, I want to see the spectacular war between the daedric lords that will happen.”  Both Hollowjack and Farkas stared at her in quiet surprise before the Pumpkin Spectre simply stepped through his portal again, closing it rather quickly behind him.

“Hah, that was easier than I thought.” Aurelia shook her head and turned to face Farkas.  “Were you worried about me?” Aurelia asked as she clasped her hands behind her back while looking up at him.  He nodded, looking at her with the worry still etched into his face.  She reached up for him pulling until her lips touched his in a feather soft kiss.  “You didn’t need to.  I knew Hollowjack was going to come after me.  I looked up what the skull was and kept it with me until the festival.”

“You knew?” Aurelia nodded at his question.  “And you still kept it?”

“Well of course.  I wouldn’t pawn it off on some poor unsuspecting soul.  As many Daedric princes as I’ve faced down, I think it’s better for me to personally take this one on.”  Farkas shook his head but he had to admit that Aurelia had more encounters than anyone he’d ever heard of.  “Plus, I could’ve gotten us out of that plane anytime.  I know the spell for opening a portal to Nirn so I wasn’t too worried.”  Farkas stared at the wall as he tried to wrap his mind around how powerful his partner was.  And he thought of her as a partner and not just a lover.  In his mind, they were on equal footings.  “Though I should let Nyx know I’m fine.”

Aurelia flicked her wrist and the message was sent.  Nyx was relieved and passed the message along to the Companions.  She and Nazir headed to a safehouse for the Brotherhood in Whiterun to sleep for the evening.  Roscar finally let himself get some sleep without worrying about a damned Dragonborn traversing damned planes of existence.

Breezehome

“You want to take a bath with me?” Aurelia asked, tilting her face up towards Farkas.  He nodded and pointed towards her tub.

“I’ll fill it,” he said but she shook her head.  He narrowed his eyes.  “No magic.”

“What?  Why!?  It’s a lot quicker.”  She turned to face him as he got that stubborn set to his jaw.  “Magically summoned water won’t harm your precious werewolf ego,” she said poking his chest with her finger.  Farkas glared down at her and grasped her finger, tugging until his lips pressed a kiss against the palm.  “Besides, this house doesn’t have a well pump nearby.  I do in Solitude, but not here.”  He sighed heavily.

“Fine.”  She grinned and waved her hand towards the tub.  Farkas watched as the water magically rose and steam floated from it.  “Still don’t like magic.”

“But you like me?”  He nodded.  “Then that’s all you need to trust.  You don’t have to trust magic but trust me and know I’d never do anything that would harm you.”  He opened his mouth to argue but agreed.  He could trust her, and he did trust her.  He grumbled a little but he agreed it was more efficient than filling it by hand.

“Now, to get this thing off.” Aurelia jumped when his hand brushed the front of her outfit.  She looked over at him when his fingers twisted and set the brooch aside, and she grinned when his eyes widened as the outfit fell to the floor with a soft flutter.  “Yep, the only thing holding it together was that little pin.”

Farkas gave her a look that had her breath hitching in her chest.  He backed her up until her hips hit the side of her tub, smiling down at her in a way that unsettled her nerves.  Her heart thundered in her ears and lips trembled under his fingers.  “Get in the bath,” he murmured before brushing his lips across hers.  Aurelia smiled up at him and climbed in sighing as the warmth soaked into her body.  He climbed in behind her after stripping out of his armor.  “Now talk.”

“Hmph, you want to know how I came to acquire the horse skull of the Pumpkin Spectre’s phantom steed?  The one that carries the headless rider?”  Farkas nodded as he pulled her back against his chest.  She was safe and unharmed.  He’d been so worried and now all that worry melted away.  “It’s stupid.  I went into the temple thinking it held a word wall.  I stumbled across the horse skull on a small altar to Malacath.  Some poor sod felt betrayed last year by the Pumpkin Spectre and stole the skull.  I do not know how they came to acquire it, but as soon as I touched it, I felt the magic go through me.  So I availed myself of the College’s expansive library and found the damn thing in a book.”  She sighed and rested her head against his chest.

“You’re a trouble magnet.”  She grinned and agreed that it described her perfectly.

“Rarely do I go looking for trouble but trouble always finds me,” she replied and sighed when his hands slid up to cup her breasts.  “Farkas.”  He shook his head and leaned forward.  His lips trailed over her shoulder, savoring the feel of her shuddering beneath him.  He eased one hand between her legs, groaning when he found her already aching for his touch.  His fingers slid into her body, curling just right as his palm massaged her sensitive nub.  His teeth sank down onto her skin with each soft moan pulled from her chest.

Aurelia panted as the heat folded itself into knots between her legs.  She shifted until she was able to sit up and then sink down on his cock with her hand guiding him into her weeping folds.  His arms wrapped around her waist, keeping her in place as he buried his face between her shoulder blades.  He just wanted to savor the connection with her for just a little longer.  His lips trailed up her spine before parting on the back of her neck and nipping the sensitive skin there.  He groaned when her body clamped down on his cock.

Aurelia began to rock her body against his, seeking the friction she so desperately needed.  She didn’t care about the water or anything else.  She just wanted to make them both feel good.  Her head dropped forward at the feel of his teeth against her.  His fingers teased and gently pinched her clit, bringing her closer and closer to that edge.  A keening cry escaped her with each stroke and press of them.  She fell off the edge into a tempest.  Waves of heated pleasure crashed through her, her mind went blank from it all, and her fingers dug into the sides of the tub.  Farkas curled around her back as his cock spasmed inside of her.  She heard him whisper her name as he came inside.

They both sat in the silence for a few moments, just basking in each other, before he slowly lifted her off him.  A weak protest met his ears but he was determined.  He wanted more.  Farkas climbed out of the tub and reached in to scoop her out.  “Use your magic to dry us.  We’re going to the bed.”

[captain-of-silvenar]

👎🎭🌈🌧️🌌🤝

Oh my god, I'm sorry for how long this took lol. Let's do this round with Kerasil!

👎 Is there someone your OC can’t stand, despite them being on the same side or sharing basic values?

There isn't someone specifically that comes to mind right now that Kerasil would despises. Maybe Narsis Dren but he's harmless enough.

If anything, it's allied visitors to the city who don't show respect to her people or culture that put her in a twist. Kerasil can tolerate a lot from visitors, and grits her teeth a lot when it comes to politics, but it's not hard to heard the giggles and clipped comments about her people.

Oh my god, I just remembered about Captain Kaleen and it all came rushing back to me. There is someone who Kerasil absolutely cannot stand, and it was the choices Captain Kaleen wanted for herself and the Ayleid Relic.

Absolutely threw her hands up and smashed that thing so fast, forget how useful that thing could be; it enslaved the dead for personal use!

🎭 What is the one thing your OC regrets most? Would they undo it, considering how their life turned out?

As the Vestige, she regrets her earlier choices and choosing death over mercy for some of the people she encountered. After so, so long of being called to heroism and seeing the end results of her choices choosing to condemn someone to death didn't really change anything. So she wishes she could've given mercy to those earlier encounters, maybe they really could've changed themselves around. Maybe there wouldn't be another point of death in this ridiculous war.

As just the Captain of the Guard, she regrets not giving enough support out to the Silvenar. He died outside of her view, in the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion delegates in Khenarthi's Roost. It was out of her control, but Kerasil regrets for months and months at losing not just one, but both of her spiritual leaders within moments. And she blames herself for not ensuring their safety personally. Kerasil wouldn't undo it, change and moving forward are part of life and Valenwood provided a new Green Lady and Silvenar. But she sometimes entertains the thought in the depths of her mind.

🌈 Does your OC speak more than one language? If so, how many and which?

Being the Captain of the Guard in Silvenar means she meets a lot of different politicians, dignitaries, officers from her Alliance. So she's been made to and learned on her own several languages so that she can understand conversations when people come and visit the Silvenar.

Bosmeri is obvious. Same with Cyrodilic.

Altmeri spoken on a conversational level. She isn't fluent on the intricacy of cultural speech and naming conventions. She is fluent in reading them because of how many reports come to her desk in Altmeri against her will.

Ta'agra also on a conversational level. She doesn't get as much practice with this language as she doesn't get many Khajiit visitors. So she needs to refresh herself on it every time a new diplomat comes to visit the city.

🌧️ What is the favorite thing for you OC to do on a rainy day?

A rainy day can turn out two different ways. The best way is that everyone stays inside and finish up some slow chores while listening to the rain. Stoke the fires and share stories to their children.

Another way the day can turn is her children want to play outside. It is mud central and the rain in Valenwood is not misty and soft. It is like a heavy shower and one could have a practical bath outside from the pressure of it. Kerasil would join and chase her children round and round the courtyard before grabbing them and drying them off near the fire.

Either way, Kerasil values what time she has to be with her family and cherishes every moment she can get.

🌌 If your OC has a nightmare, what’s it most likely about?

There are a few different nightmares she has; it depends on which version of Kerasil I want to use. But both of them could happen so I'll list them.

If Kerasil is strictly just the Captain of the Guard, there is a horrifying nightmare where during her investigation into the necromancers in Valenwood that Melar was kidnapped. Coming back to their home and seeing it trashed and ruined and her husband missing just pitched Kerasil right into the dark. Even if that investigation is gone and done and Melar is here, just knowing that her loved one could be taken from her so easily is terrifying.

If Kerasil goes on and becomes the Vestige, it's easily just hazily seeing herself dragged to the altar and being sacrificed to Molag Bal. Feeling the knife stab into her chest and being ripped from her body and soul sent into Coldharbour. Visceral, horrifying, left a rotting scar in her chest she has to look at every time she looks at herself in the mirror. It was a turning point in her life that makes her confused if she is mortal anymore. Kerasil doesn't think about it if she can help it.

🤝 Does your OC have someone they want at their side when they are scared? Who?

Melar when she is closer to home. The warmth of her husbands arm and the safety of her house. Being able to be enclosed away from the stress of the world outside and make it just about themselves.

But she is typically not home. More often than not she is out in the field. And should she be on the field and hopefully with her best friend and investigative partner, it would be Vivaldi.

Forged from spite to a deep friendship, Vivaldi has a total understanding of the kind of work Kerasil does and the things they've seen investigating necromancy. The dangers they throw themselves into to protect the ones they love. To have a friend who will walk besides you through the dangers and fears and still stay at the end if someone you want to hold tight to and never let go.

[talldarkandroguesome]

25th of Second Seed, Sundas

It seems that Tel comes for their monthly visit with much news.

Apparently they have not bled since their last visit. the House is ecstatic. They all have congratulated themselves on their employment of the Bretons.

The one positive is, since it appears that Tel might well be pregnant, the Bretons have fulfilled their contract. And with such a quick period from their methods being utilized until apparent success, the clamoring for their services has been high.

Good riddance, I say. At least they are off. Mostly, it seems, to provide lectures to the grandmaster of every House, all of which are very excited to see how they can expedite the production of their own heirs.

Already I have heard that many scholars from the different Houses are beginning their own lectures either supporting or refuting the methods, some devising supposed better methods for guaranteeing pregnancy. Others say that it remains to be seen if such methods produce a strong or viable heir.

Whatever the case, I would hate to be any woman without means in House Telvanni. No doubt they will be doing many live experiments. All dreadful to the maximum.

To celebrate, the House allowed me to have my time with Tel free of other obligations, save for ensuring that I am doing my duty to see to nursemaids being interviewed, that the nursery is to proper standard, that Tel has the best doctors lined up, all of these things.

Of course, there will be a confirmation of the pregnancy to come. As it has been so little time, they will conduct the first one on Tel's next visit, but let us know it may take several months for the child's life force to be big enough to detect as separate within Tel's body.

The chefs have all been given instruction of what sorts of meals to produce to provide optimal nutrition to Tel and our new child as it grows within Tel.

As there was a rare circus in town, I elected to take Tel as a way to get their mind off of the madness of the House's response thus far. According to many in the Council, it is a fully authentic Nord Circus, hard to believe one would make their way to the warmer climate of Morrowind during the warmer months of the year, but that is what I was told.

Typically only Argonian circuses ever venture to Morrowind in the summer, fr under the tents it can get so very hot in the humid, scorching months from Midyear to the end of Last Seed. Still, they had such astounding reviews, I could hardly resist.

To say authentic, well, that was certainly untrue.

There were fully legitimate acts, of course. The falconry act and bear wrestling were certainly showcasing the real art and skills of Nords. And the mead they served, while of a drier variety, was the real thing.

Where things felt far more to be akin to the side show acts of Cyrodill, were the men in fake beards pretending to be the very worst stereotype of a Nord, right down to a very fake accent. There were calls to the audience to prove they could out drink a "true Nord lass" or to withstand the blizzards of the Throat of the World, all recreated there before you by mages.

Although the acting of what was, in some cases, an Imperial pretending to be a Nord, was feeding into the worst prejudices and calling it humor, there were occasional moments of actual feats. While the recreated blizzard was the work of mages, there was a point where the man, in naught but a loincloth, was not only pelted with snow, but encased within ice itself. And though I suspect there were some spells in place to support him from dying of the ordeal, it was quite an impressive showing. He did manage, with the very essence of a showman, to act the part of someone not bothered by the cold, even when his skin had turned purple in places. He did not even shiver. I have to applaud the acting in such a case.

I think my favorite part was the "Sabre Cat Princess". The narrative said that this bearded beauty was the sole survivor of a bandit attack as a child and was found by a female sabre cat who had recently lost its cub and adopted her instead, raising her as its own. And now, sabre cats, as though the maiden were one herself, saw her as one of their own. Of course she was wearing scraps of a sabre cat pelt, her beard, and they never quite explained why she had one, was spotted as the cats themselves. She had longer fangs and nails and did a whole act of being licked by one of them and then climbing into a pile with two of them and all of them looked just as docile as could be. A far cry from when they sabre cats were first brought out and scratching and roaring at the audience.

There feels as if there is more to that story. Not that I fully believe it, but I do wonder how she was able to successfully achieve such a feat.

The worst part of the circus was the clowns. I think they were supposed to be bad? It was difficult to tell. Their jokes, if one could call them that, made little sense. I think perhaps it was a translation issue in trying to tell some of them in Dunmeris. They should have kept them in common.

After the failure of the jokes, it was into a sort of slap-stick routine, very much like the morality puppet shows the Temple once put on. But it mostly was just an excuse to watch several supposedly drunk Nords fist fight one another and fall down a lot.

I give the circus credit, they did have some moderately good pickpockets. During the very impressive trick riding portion, mostly horses, though there was one kagouti, I felt a hand trying to reach into the fold of my robe where Dunmer generally keep their purses. I pressed a knife to the center of the wrist, still enjoying the show, and told the person, who was very much reaching up from behind the seating, that it was going to cost them if they wanted to get a hand into my clothing. Tel looked over at my words, worry plain on their face.

I know that they were worried I was about to murder a man at the show. Or at the very least, amputate one. The hand stopped and pulled back slightly, freezing when I pressed the knife harder.

I did not particularly care if they were pick pocketing the rich. That is a longstanding tradition of the circus and other shows of its ilk. And honestly, for the way I was misled by the Council, I was happy for other members and those nobles of the other Houses to find themselves with a lighter purse. So I let them go with a warning.

Tel looks so relieved and proud. They kept telling me how wonderful it was to see me granting such mercy. It seemed better to just let them think of it as a show of mercy than to try and explain that I thought that a redistribution of wealth was typically a good thing when it came to the elite of the city. It would have been a long conversation and I already know how Tel feels about laws being upheld properly, so I merely let them give me the compliment.

Sildras seemed generally excited about Tel's news. I think the idea of a sibling that will actually be living with him is truly exciting, though I know the age difference may be hard at times. He has lost so much and been kept from all his other siblings. I see how it wears on him. If nothing else, this happy news, which comes so soon after his nameday, has certainly lifted his spirits.

Now, the fact that Tel may in fact be with child did not stop us from enjoying the activities related to our arrangement. We made ample use of the intended purpose of the visit. Though with the watching eyes and pressure off of us, we were able to get back to our usual dynamics. It did feel more natural to return to my being the one to take their seed, rather than the other way around. Or perhaps it is just that I missed the sensation. Not that we did not do both, we certainly did, but it was nice to have some sense of normalcy return.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Number two from the OC worldbuilding ask game for Sydari! Tell me all about them languages >:)

2. How does your OC communicate? Are they monolingual or multilingual? What is the linguistic environment they’re in? If they’re monolingual, is there a social penalty for only speaking one language, or is it the norm? If they’re multilingual, which of their languages or sociolects has the most/least prestige? Is there a separation between written and oral forms of the language? Can your OC blend in or does their language mark them in some way? What are their levels of fluency, and how do they feel about them?

Sydari primarily speaks Cyrodilic, she grew up in Windhelm, and her native tongue was heavily repressed, particularly after the Great War. Ulfric's ascension saw a city-wide crackdown on all cultural practices that deviate from Nordic tradition. You'd think that would mean she picked up Nordic? No, her people were mostly confined to the Gray Quater with a few exceptions, Dunmer were not permitted to speak Nordic. They are not permitted to engage in their festivals or freely hold their own. So Cyrodillic, as the lingua franca of Tamriel became Sydari's first language. It's the only language that she can read and write in. And even then, her literacy leaves a lot to be desired. She coasted by with semi-literacy until she couldn't hide it any more. Dunmeris, though heavily repressed as of 4th Era 199 was freely spoken in the Grey Quarter just long enough for Sydari to pick it up. These restrictions came in slowly throughout her childhood, ramping up with the outbreak of the Great War, around the same time she fled the city. She's semi-fluent in the Windhelm dialect, though she never learnt how to read, let alone write using the daedric alphabet. Her father was no help, though he did speak exclusively in the Vvadenfell dialect of Dunmeris, it was often slurred, mumbled monologues that she only half remembers. She never really thought much about it. It's not a language commonly used in Skyrim, and though some of the Dunmer in Riften spoke a similar dialect, it was never the language anyone used to address her. Her husband knew even less, so she had to teach Brand-Shei a few key phrases. (The journal Sydari finds in the Pride of Tel Vos was translated for her by Enthir for a few favours). She was always mildly bothered by the fact she couldn't read or write in Dunmeris, mostly due to an old note she was given as a child, something secret she kept as good luck. She's had multiple opportunities to have it translated, it's just something she's built up in her mind over the last half a century. It's almost better to not know what it says. There's a scribble of an eight-legged creature she later discovered was either a netch or silt hopper, the drawing was kinda crude. Sydari hadn't really planned on visiting Morrowind, her life was in Riften, she had a home, and was attempting to build a family. But things go wrong as they always do and she found herself alone pursuing a job on Solstheim. She found that she couldn't really understand the version of Dunmeris that was spoken in Raven Rock, she had the basics but there were intricacies, phrases, implied context that she just did not have the background to understand. What makes it worse was that her knowledge was just assumed, most Dunmer that live there come from Blacklight. Sure a handful lived in Windhelm but that was before the more obvious restrictions. When she first arrived, it was hard to get anyone to speak to her unless she switched to really basic Dunmeris, Skyrim-born Dunmer are somewhat pitied but not coddled. If she wanted to speak to them, she had to use her mother tongue. Sydari is pretty good at bullshitting, so she's been able to bluff her way into acceptance. Geldis was willing to speak to her in Cyrodillic right off the bat. The guy is usually pretty open and wouldn't disparage her for not understanding half of what was being said to her. Being a tavern owner gives him more experience in dealing with outlanders. Teldryn spoke to her using Cyrodillic pretty early on, though he still assumed she was more fluent than she let on. He writes to her exclusively in Dunmeris and it's begun to cause issues. She's asked Geldis for translations on several occasions but she's embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. She mostly just switches to smiling and nodding. Only getting the letters translated if he brings them up. The letter form is familiar but she hasn't made the connection yet.

[ego-osbourne]

does sanguine keep any secrets from ego or is their relationship pretty transparent??? and vice versa: does ego keep secrets from sanguine?

Ohhhhh Anon, I loved making this ask. Be warned, though, it’s a long one. TW for drug and alcohol abuse and subsequent death.

~

Sanguine and Ego become pretty transparent in their relationship early-on. In fact, being able to share their secrets was the catalyst to ensuring that their relationship could work out.

Sanguine didn’t realize it at first, but after A Night To Remember he learns that Ego is the Dragonborn. Alarm bells immediately go off as he reminisces on a time two-hundred years prior, when he tried this same stunt with Martin Septim. The parallels drew themselves: Martin wasn’t a Dragonborn, but he was a Septim, and the Septim bloodline is famous for its Dragonborn characters. Ego is not a Septim but is the Dragonborn, and so has a symbolic connection to Martin. Both also have a connection to Akatosh, with Martin dedicating himself to the faith and Ego practically being a son of the Aedroth. And, of course, both of them have had some sort of connection with Sanguine.

In Sanguine’s eyes, Ego was essentially Martin reincarnated. Sam hadn’t completely gotten over Martin, even two centuries later, as seen by his dedication to the Sam Guevenne appearance that resembled Martin quite strongly. And so, this Martin 2.0 was a fantastic way for Sanguine to relive his time with an old friend. It was a way for Sanguine to give into his Daedric nature and corrupt that particularly special mortal all over again.

And yet, something lingered in his mind. A dread lingered. Because he knew better.

Sam didn’t tell Ego about his experience with Martin Septim or his intentions at first. He only passively entertained Ego for a short while, helping them with a few errands and quests after the events of A Night To Remember. He saw Ego open up to him, show their face to him, invite them on travels, and share stories that they enjoyed. And suddenly, Sam realized he wasn’t meeting with Ego to accomplish his twisted goals, but to simply be with them and their family. And that scared him, because he’d only ever done that with one other mortal: Martin.

Sanguine managed to keep his anxieties under wraps until being confronted with them when Ego (Moro) is reading up on Cyrodilic history.

Ego reads up on the Oblivion Crisis, the Hero of Kvatch, and Martin Septim. They see that he had an extensive history with Sanguine—or at least with his cult—and questioned Sam on it. Sanguine recounted Martin’s life, saying, “He was searching for knowledge that only Princes could give him. Maybe I wasn’t the best choice in terms of wisdom, but he didn’t scoff at the extra pleasantries that came with my domain. I guess I should feel lucky in that regard, that he didn’t run off to any of the other Princes. … It was the way he talked and questioned me that made me interested. Once I answered his questions, we had conversations. We laughed. We entertained each other. The sex was nice, but… just being with him was even more so. I’ve only ever gained that luxury from two people in my life: from Martin… and from you.” This manages to keep Ego reeled in enough to continue conversing, but also manages to save Sam from detailing the fallout of his relationship with Martin.

The more time Sanguine spends with Ego, the more he dreads it. Because he realizes he’s falling into the same exact pattern he did with Martin: swooning him, loving him, and committing dangerous acts with him until the point of break—an inability to keep his Daedric urges at rest long enough to keep Martin safe. Sanguine was the enabler, and he was dangerous with such a title.

He tries to have fun with Ego the same way he did with Martin. Partying and nights out are Sanguine’s specialty, and Ego immensely enjoys the revelry and feels safe with Sam. But Sanguine can’t keep his dread away for long, and confronts Ego.

He tells them the story about how and why Martin broke ties with him.

It was a night of particularly dangerous, drunken, drug-induced partying. Martin and his closest friends reveled with Sanguine in the Myriad. It was enjoyable to a point. Eventually, the group blacked out entirely, but only Martin and Sanguine would regain consciousness, finding the rest of the group to be dead but without any memories of how or when it all happened. Martin then realized how dangerous his life was becoming, and how his apathy toward safety in favor of bodily pleasure resulted in the death of his friends. Martin lashed out at Sam and broke ties with him, later dedicating his life in servitude of Akatosh before, finally, sacrificing himself and mantling the Aedroth, trading bodily pleasure for the safety of everyone in Tamriel.

And the worst part was, Sanguine could never see him again. He could never confront Martin and apologize properly. Akatosh was outside of his reach. There was nothing he could do.

Sanguine admitted to wanting to corrupt Ego at the start, like he’d done to so many other mortals. Then, how he wanted to experience Martin through Ego. And then, how he simply wanted to be with Ego, realizing that he genuinely loved them. He continues, “But, I’m smart enough to recognize the pattern. This has happened before. So, for your safety, and for the safety of your friends, I don’t think we should continue this relationship. It’d be foolish of you, and evil of me, to continue like we’ve been.”

Ego retaliates, though. They’re hurt knowing that Sam’s intentions weren’t always pure, but they also realize that he wouldn’t be intervening now if his mentality hadn’t changed. They relay this to him, saying, “You’re making an effort to execute this second chance properly. You’re making an effort to keep me safe. I think there are alternatives to doing so rather than splitting entirely. We could keep each other in check.”

Sanguine only sees this as him having accidentally roped Ego into his cult, though, and further tries to deflect. “I’ll continue being your patron. I’ll help you fend off other Princes. I don’t want to lose you, and I want to see you succeed. I’m just afraid that I’d be the first thing to ruin your success.”

It’s here that Ego tries to convince Sam that they fully believe in second chances, as seen by the collection of personalities in the Masquerade. Sam can’t quite connect with that idea, though, and so Ego tells him a story very similar to his own. “I was reckless too, you know? I’m still trying to make up for it all. Maybe I don’t have the same appeal towards sex and drugs as you do, but I’ve put others in danger all because of my pride. I’ve gotten them killed.” They recount the story of how they got their mask, before meeting anyone in the group, before taking on the name Ego. Upon learning they were Dragonborn, they and a band of Whiterun guards marched on Shearpoint in response to a dragon sighting. They didn’t realize that something else would be up there waiting for them.

Ego — who went by Akat at the time — was invigorated by their knowledge of being Dragonborn, thinking fate was on their side, and that they were practically immortal. They ignored the worries of the hunting party and charged at the strange figure (which they now know was a dragon priest), only to just barely survive the encounter by falling off the mountainside and away from danger, leaving the rest of the party to die. In a stroke of luck, they were able to knock off the priest’s mask before falling, and taking it with them. Instead of returning to the battle, Akat took the mask and fled, adopting the name Ego and hiding their identity. Later, when questions arose, they claimed that Akat was a separate person and a false Dragonborn, assumed to be killed in the battle of Shearpoint. They actively condemned their past self and continued to distance themself from Akat. They’ve only shared that secret with Erandur, Serana, Miraak, and now Sanguine.

Ego’s point is that their whole band is a group of people who’ve needed second chances, and that they’re willing to take Sam in, too. Sanguine warns them that he’s not like the rest of their group, he’s a Daedra, and that it puts him at a bigger risk factor than the rest. Ego says that his Prince title is half the reason why they’re willing to try, to show Sam’s better intentions.

They spend a long time quietly and passively debating with each other, both wanting to continue the relationship but ultimately agreeing to spend a night apart and sleep on it. They meet again the next day and agree to try it out. Ego works on instilling their trust into him, and Sam works on seeing Ego and Martin as separate people. There’s some small mistakes that persist through their early days in the relationship, but eventually it all works out, and they keep each other in check and make sure the other is comfortable with everything they do.

Past that, the two of them are pretty transparent. No big secrets are kept from each other, and they confide in each other a lot. Sanguine joins the ranks of the Masquerade and is eventually accepted by the rest of the party, seen as a trustworthy source. Things pretty much go up from there in terms of their relationship.

[your-talos-is-problematic]

- Introduction post! -

Hi! I’m your-talos-is-problematic, or Probby if you want a shortening. This blog is primarily focused on the Elder Scrolls, but look out for other stuff including my other special interests (Baldur’s Gate and Hollow Knight).

Please send me writing prompts related to my Elder Scrolls or BG3 OCs! And if you want any extra information on them feel free to ask :D

I love receiving asks- you’re more than welcome to ask me about anything, but especially Skyrim, my OCs, or my writing! I’m YourTalosIsProblematic (no hyphens) on AO3.

Block #baldurs gate to avoid spoilers for/content about Baldur’s Gate 3 (I also tag #baldurs gate spoilers)

Stuff I’ve Written:

I Won’t Ask You to Wait (If You Don’t Ask Me to Stay) - Afonya and Brelyna Maryon; 3rd Era Morrowind AU (6,435 words, 3/17 chapters)

“Aular Maryon just wants what’s best for his daughter Brelyna, and right now, that’s hiring the young Dunmer Afonya Orel as her personal guard. Afonya, who comes from the mainland, is in need of a job, and Brelyna is in need of a friend. It’s a match made in Moonshadow, but their growing bond is threatened by trouble in both the Maryon and Orel families.”

That Word Was Afonya - Afonya x Brelyna Maryon fluff (925 words)

“On a quiet night, hundreds of years after the events of Skyrim, Brelyna Maryon conducts a ritual to see her deceased wife again.”

No Rest for the Gifted - More Afonya x Brelyna (1,872 words)

“Brelyna’s always tried to keep the best interests of her classmates in mind. Tonight, an anxious Dragonborn is no exception. Especially because she’s head-over-heels for said Dragonborn.”

Tags:

Things not relating to Elder Scrolls are #not tes

Spoilery live-blogging of my playthrough of hollow knight is #posts made from the forgotten crossroads (I have beat the game, so it probably won’t be active)

Spoilerly live-blogging of Baldur’s Gate is #baldguysgayayeayeaye (also defunct for now)

My attempts at writing are sometimes under #probby conquers writers block

Stuff about my tes ocs are #switch skyrimverse, and individuals are #oc afonya #oc elia #oc eltid

Stuff relating to my Tav OC is #tilia of tragedy

Elder Scrolls OCs + Tilia under cut! They’re still very new and very in development. I’ve also written nothing about most of them. They have a lot going on in my head though!

Very detailed post about Afonya and Tilia (my Tav!) Probby don’t forget you put this link here

Picrew for first three

For fourth

Afonya/Afonya Orel/Afonya Maryon

Dunmer, She/Her, Lesbian, typically 20-23

Last Dragonborn, House Telvanni, Arch-Mage, Nightingale

Born as Afonya Orel, but dropped the last name when coming to Skyrim, then changed it to Maryon when she married Brelyna. Has distinctive white eyes due to an ancestor’s dealings with Sheogorath.

Lives in Heljarchen Hall (The Pale) with Brelyna, Lucia, and Runa. Formerly lived in Whiterun. Born on Morrowind’s mainland.

Elia

Dunmer, She/Her, Lesbian, 19-20

Afonya’s younger sister of three years, and one of her closest friends. Didn’t come to Skyrim with her originally, but Afonya paid for her passage after the end of the Civil War. Works as a servant to Thane Bryling.

Lives in Solitude, born on Morrowind’s mainland.

Eltid

Altmer, He/Him, Pansexual, lost count but around 150

Companions

Spent the first ~80 years of his life dating and looking for a husband willing to pay his sizable dowry. Joined the Thalmor after a bad breakup because it was the only other life path he had access to. Attempted to desert twice, and was successful once. Hates the Aldmeri Dominion for many reasons, including their promotion of very conservative ideas in Altmeri society and for taking both his sister and the love of his life away from him in different ways.

Lives in Jorrvaskr, but lived for three years at the Thalmor Embassy, and about thirty in Cyrodill, and spent his early life in the Summerset Isle in Alinor.

Tilia of Tragedy

Tiefling, She/Her, Lesbian, 30 (at beginning of game)

Lawful/Neutral Good, Karlach Romance

A draconic sorcerer who grew up in Elturel, Tilia is incredibly friendly, optimistic, and inquisitive. She lived with her parents until tieflings were banned from the city, after which her and her parents split up and moved to Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep, respectively. She worked as a tailor and studied history, then the nautiloid thing happened. Post-game she lives with Gale and Karlach in Waterdeep and helps teach Gale’s students.

Less Developed OCs: Bertrana (Victoria)

Breton, She/They, Straight, 32

Dark Brotherhood

Assassin and member of the Dark Brotherhood for eleven years. Also writes a column in the local newspaper that reports on more secretive knowledge that is desired by the people of High Rock.

Tyernath Sea-Myth

Altmer, He/Him, Gay, 263

Dark Brotherhood

Altmer pirate. Joined the Dark Brotherhood after coming to Skyrim, and travels with Faendal.

[nuwanders]

What English accents do you think they’d have in Cyrodiil other than Yorkshire accents in Kvatch (according to a headcanon by @bretongirlwrites)?

Hope the bugs aren’t biting you too much

(so far no bites or signs of activity since arriving back in the flat!! we're hoping that's the end of it, but of course we'll remain vigilant for the next few weeks until we can be certain :))

anyway! interesting ask. i'm hesitant to map real life cultures 1:1 onto TES cultures, especially when cyrodiil is clearly based on a weird mixture of ancient rome and medieval italy (and when england finds its own TES 'equivalent' in High Rock), but for the sake of answering your ask I'll assume that Cyrodilic (or what the game calls 'common' or 'Tamrielic') is the same as English. This isn't too much of a stretch; if Old Cyrodilic is similar to Latin, it seems reasonable to imagine that Old Cyrodilic + Ancient Nordic + Bretonic languages (which I headcanon to be similar to languages from the Celtic family, with the addition of French) could result in something sounding like English.

so! Cyrods speak English. I'm going to hazard a guess that the Kvatch/Yorkshire comparison comes from Sean Bean being a Yorkshireman, which is cute so I'll leave that as is.

Going further, it would probably help to draw a boundary somewhere between northern and southern English accents. It seems obvious to draw that boundary between Colovia and the Niben. The climates obviously don't map very well, but in terms of culture and vibe, the north is seen as rugged, 'wild' and economically poor whilst the south(-east) is seen as 'civilised', 'cultured' and economically prosperous. Inverted commas because this is obviously a load of bollocks, though the economic disparity is definitely there.

So to start with, I think the Nibenay Basin accent would sound similar to Estuary English (also known as BBC English, received pronunciation, etc... basically what Americans think of when someone says ‘British accent’). Cyrodiil's financial, cultural and political power is concentrated in the Basin in the same way England's international influence is concentrated in London/around the Thames. The 'Basin accent' would be spoken by the Imperial City's upper classes and mimicked by aristocrats across the province, regardless of whether or not they actually hail from the Niben.

(more under cut)

Making a slight exception to the Colovia = North rule, I'm going to say that an Anvil/Gold Coast accent sounds like West Country English. This is because the West Country, whilst being in the south of England, has more in common with the north in terms of how it is viewed by south-easterners. West Country English is associated with farmers, agriculture, and rolling green hills. If you go far enough west, you find the Cornish accent, which I think seems appropriate for sunny, coastal Anvil. A famous example of West Country English would be Sam Gamgee from TLOTR.

I think the Colovian Highlands accent would sound like Cumbrian English. Cumbrian English is spoken in the mountainous Lake District, in the north-west of England and close to the Scottish border. It shares a border with Yorkshire which would make sense given the position of Kvatch, (though I think the Kvatch accent would probably bleed into the Heartlands).

I think the Skingrad/Heartlands accent would sound like (north) Derbyshire English. Derbyshire sits in the midlands, just south of Yorkshire. It is the home of the Peak District (where I'm from!), which is very 'Heartlands' in both vibe and location.

I think the Bruma/Jerall Mountains accent would sound like north-east/Geordie English. Don't ask me for an explanation, i simply feel it in my heart. A famous example of Geordie English can be found in Billy Elliot.

The Chorrol/Great Forest accent would sound like east-midlands English, which is more a group of accents than an accent in its own right, but the important thing is that it’s not as strong as most northern accents (relative to 'standard' / RP english), but is noticeably distinguished from SE English by the short 'A' in words like bath, laugh, grass etc.

Lastly, I think the Blackwood accent would sound like Black Country English. The Black Country also lies in the midlands, but has a very distinct (and strong) dialect of its own, not dissimilar from the brummy accent of Birmingham (made internationally recognisable by Peaky Blinders). This, in my mind, is analogous to the Blackwood's proximity with the Niben yet distinct cultural identity. The Black Country is seen in England as impoverished and uncultured, which I think fits with the negative stereotyping about the Blackwood in-game.

I'm not going to break down the various regions of the Niben because I think, like in the south-east of England, there would be less variety in accent. If you want to break the Imperial City down into its different districts, you could easily do so with the various accents of London (e.g. Waterfront Cyrodilic could sound like Cockney). In general, I think the upper-middle classes and the aristocracy will speak with a Nibenese accent no matter where they're from, in much the same way 'RP English' is seen as the universal 'middle-class' accent of England.

Hope this helps!

[thanidiel]

A Visit to Skaven

“What is this, Sai?” came out in a tight voice, her want to laugh only barely suppressed as the, at the time, young woman’s hand brushed over the strangely inefficient clothesline: tied to a second stake no less than five inches away from where the first line had already anchored around another post. 

It was the sort of nonsensical, mundane, detail that a hundred people could walk by without a thought paid. Which then made it perfectly ‘Sayidra’, who always functioned even now it seems at a mundanely nonsensical level. Perhaps, terrifyingly, moreso now that she is completely non beholden to anyone, or any sort of communal responsibility.

And quite like the Redguard herself, so much so as to suddenly make this moment timeless, she responded by jutting her chin high in the air - not as though she had taken some offense to the remark and thus needed to draw herself up and fill her chest with air. But, rather, she simply did not see anything wrong with her innovation. 

So, she jut up her chin and the Redguard proclaimed firmly, “The rope was too short.”

There was never much room to ‘debate’ Sayidra on these things; she used to chop down potatoes and yuca into logs because it was the most straightforward way to process the vegetable. And when the Tumnosh twins, exasperated, had dropped themselves to the floor and gone to show her how their hearthwife and sisters would scrape off the skin with a spoon than to discard so much food for scrap, she had harrumphed and said she was to wash the dishes after the tubers. So how could she procure her own spoon?

Verita had wondered vaguely in the back of her mind as she journeyed here, on if Sayidra had modified her uncompromising order of operations at all now that she was buying her own food, with her own coin.

Right now, the odds did not look good.

“You have rope lying all around, why not just swap it?” This was a foregone sort of exchange without much hope to its name. But there was a charm to this routine, regardless. It made her think to when her legs felt so foal-like, and her hair felt so frizzy, and her mind so flustered.

“It was already tied.” Ergo, she resolved the immediate problem at the time. If the rope is too short, simply add another stick. To her older comrade, there was often no preplanning or perfect item for the task. It was only the items in front of her eye that progressed her to the next step. This sort of conversation often wisped by her ears between Sayidra and the others of the Dunehound.

And in a way, that ambient sort of hardheadness and desire to think only on moving forward, made her friendship, the consideration Sayidra had always paid to her on virtue of nothing else than Verita’s breathing life, a deeply intimate and unforgettable affair.

“Fair enough,” conceded. Though as she bent to finally acknowledge the pup that had been trundling after her heels since she arrived, with flattened hands that pat and rubbed along the flanks of its body, the Imperial found she could not help but to add further, “...aren’t you worried about cluttering up the yard?”

“Ongo sen tukta?” questioned back as Sayidra had moved at this point across the stone walkway towards the door. “This is my home,” reverted back to Cyrodilic after that peppering that their crew was once so fond of. “I hope to entertain no one except you and perhaps my brother’s family from here on out.”

“Not Hakeesh or Sahiri?” Most of everyone got along. But if anyone else could call themselves a friend of the older woman, it was those two. There were many a night in those days where everyone would filter out of the galley with their dinners in hand, and Sayidra would creep and slow until the last souls had turned their backs. She would settle somewhere in that scant space and solitary Hakeesh, too, of Skaven would be heard. And it was an even more known, common, sight for the Alfiq to grow bored of her inventorying and make her way to Sayidra to chatter, and chatter, and chatter, while the Redguard worked as steadily as ever.

That made her friend laugh while she, herself, had eventually risen from the ground and made her way towards the aroma of rich meat roasting in spices now freed by the wide-open door. “Hakeesh has grandchildren to harry him in his kitchen now, and I don’t think Sahiri can bring herself to travel without the Dunehound.”

“Remember when that zhazza in Wayrest tried to pick her up?”

“...yes,” and though the other woman had not nearly the same humor as Verita, for once her smile opened in a broad display of those coffee-stained teeth, “His goat-shriek still warms this heart of mine.”

These sorts of moments always came soaring on pretty little wings, free and fluttering with its momentum, “Bogrum was fucking enraged even when we all got back.” But, of course, when the weight caught up to it - that fragile thing could never have held up. “...I was so glad Jhareem and Erissalie were there,” continued on with a sudden quietness that changed the words entirely to I miss them, do you miss them?

And that sobered the other as she wrested free mutton from the coals, and scraped off flatbread stuck to the inside of the oven. Which, as suddenly as Verita had lost her loud voice, suddenly made her feel very selfish, and very oafish. A tight and braided twist of feeling through feeling within her gut, and she wanted to be very small then. So she meekly found the table, sat down, and clasped her hands together.

Of course Sayidra misses them too. How could she not miss a lover and a friend? If anything, she probably longs for this man that will never make and share a home with her, will never grey and grow fat with her, will never be here with her, every day. She didn’t need it rubbed into her face by someone else that will never know that same grief.

It made her simply feel worse, and yet more loved than ever, that the Redguard was now brushing her hand through hair much looser than the multitudes of thin, wiry, coils of her own after the meal had been placed down in front of the Imperial.

“Eat, child,” moved right on, stepped right on, continued right on in that so-timeless way of Sayidra’s. Grief, was also a matter of moving forward for the Redguard. No time to dawdle and cry, no purpose to be found within. The motherly run of callused fingers, with fine sand and ash pocketed within the lines of dark skin and pink palms, brought her back just briefly to a time less wondrous. Though mostly that hand just dug up another conflicted lurch of frustration, then self-criticism.

She wanted the older woman to talk. Talk, in this context, being a broad and shapeless idea that held the conveniently transformative weight of an emotional tornado. Which meant that she actually wanted her to cry, which actually meant that she wanted more comfort, or actually she wanted to be frankly coddled, which all actually stood for I WANT YOU TO GRIEVE LIKE ME. Or rather, actually, for her. Please, grieve for her, too, Sayidra. 

She wished that the world would stop and grieve for the days she still spent feeling just as top heavy as a tree about to snap in twain. That cursed weight of deep loss, of so many moving forces of her life all redirected in a shiver of fate, bearing down on her neck to where that, if nothing else, showed the distinctive identities of body and soul. 

For how is it that her body could have mustered a breath at all, when everything else had sagged so sadly as to waste away?

“...I wanted to show you and Jhareem this for years, whipped garlic. It was always too troublesome before,” muttered on as Sayidra spooned into a squat vessel and generously dolloped several mouthfuls of the spread atop tender goat’s meat. And in the Redguard’s way, that meant I see you. I’m sad too. Come with me.   

That was where things went inward again, the silent whispers of I’m stupid. How could I be so stupid? How else could she ever respond to a loved one’s concession? Pop, pop, pop-- there her thoughts sizzled in that lick of shame. You’re so selfish, when did you get so selfish? Mistakes simply loved to burn themselves out at the front of her belly.

Just be graceful, the churn of her guts told her.

So she tried a smile, there. It was tentative, and fake, and almost nervous to be here, but it was heartening too in its own way. The resolution to have made herself just smile, also came with the creaking momentum of wheels slowly starting to move again, and slough off the sticky muck that had snared it.

“Remember,” begins again. Quiet and almost rasping as she found her voice again, “When Erissalie first came, and she lost her mind at Hakeesh for serving garlic to the Khajiit?” That added a sprouting touch of sincerity to her smile; their dear friend was so foolishly outspoken with the way she let her heart lead so readily.

Her pack was still slung on her back, so she had freed it with a slump towards her hip that brought it gently thudding onto the seat next her. And then because the very sight of the plate afore her was too tempting, she saw about pinching off some of the flatbread and using it to pocket the delicate meat afore her. She’d meant to procure her usual offering to the Redguard— when did Sayidra’s skin start to thin and line like that? It shouldn’t have been long ago, but yet— but her own hunger always liked to tumble over itself all of a sudden. Inattentive until the compulsion ached ravenously through her belly and pushed up behind her ribs regardless of anything else rumbling in her blood.

So then it became another pinch, and another, and then all pretense to an already rude affair vanished entirely as the pinches soon changed to torn sections, flaked meat and garlic smeared like debris across a ship’s bow. She would have been more careful if this had occurred before someone less familiar (thankfully she, like most women, simply grew more elegant of hand as she aged from here). But Verita didn’t need to, so she ate just as she needed, chin tucked and eyes only occasionally tracking her taller comrade.

“She questioned me some months after that on if it hurt,” exchanged. Bluntly, exasperatedly, that sort of distaste rolling around her frank and heavy mouth that you reserve only for friends. That hurt again, like the faucet had to gush one more time even though the pipe was already closed up. Mostly because her lightness was already this wobbling little bird righting itself from the ground, and continuing the conversation felt like as if the young Imperial had righted the plumbing only to get called back and asked if she added any clay, if she examined the weakness proper, could she account for how long that would handle? Sometimes she felt stupid for other reasons than solely her tenderness. She started to feel stupid then because she was so quick to convince herself that she already fluttered up from the prior falter. Because she wanted to convince herself and like how those of only twenty-five summers do, she tried to convince herself in that moment with a chipper and false retelling of her feelings. A lie that was so dull it only lasted less than ten seconds.

Shame hissed in another lurching boil of her gut. If the last bout were like little licks tickling her skin, this felt like she was being held right over the flame. And before it’d leave her in peace to cook in it, it’d rip all the water out of her and make her curl up in this gristly little band of displeasing meat if shame had things its way. 

Just be graceful. Just be graceful. Just be graceful. You can’t change that they’re dead. It doesn’t help. Just be graceful. Please just be graceful. You can be graceful, old girl. She doesn’t need this from you.

This part of this old story was going to be a scrabble. The tears were frogging up below her chin and she needed to fuss and putter in any sort of way she could, before they could push any higher. Thinking was slowing down her escape.

Stop thinking. Just be graceful.

Generic response (as earnest as her squished little sense of befuddlement was at this time): “...if what hurt?” questioned. Appetite evaporated away at this point, not as insulated from the fire like the rest of her; her hands still playing at this aimless act of repetitively swishing soaked bread and meat to remake the diagram of garlicky lines on her plate.

Proudly, her friend replied with absolutely no cushioning or fanfare to the coming impact,

“Me and Jhareem.”

That sent the fragile little thing of her heart shrieking and aflutter, shooed away from where it had landed with its wobbly and flapping wings. Mixed up as it was, laughter bubbled out as much as her diaphragm began to spasm and hiccup with the surge of tears springing fat, wet, and dark, down shaking cheeks.

“—S-Sai, that’s so gross—”

I don’t want to be graceful.

[mareenavee]

For Nyenna c:

24%. How easily does your character trust their feelings with others?

24%. How easily does your character trust their feelings with others?

This is a good one, too! Thank you!

Previous asks have established that Nyenna didn't grow up in a particularly welcoming and supportive environment. The person who actually had her back the most during her formative years was Eris, her step-brother, who was functionally an outcast due to being a Dunmer, even though he as the heir to the estate had his own set of expectations on his shoulders.

He would keep her safe from the bullies who would make fun of how fair she was, or how un-Bosmer-like her whole family was. How odd and unheard of their situation was. Maybe some of them had issue that her family wasn't Green Pact and actively cleared land for gardens and Alchemy, though in a place like Haven by 4th Era under Thalmor governance, it really wasn't commonly followed anyway. (headcanon, this.) Eris always advocated, especially during their flight from Valenwood and Cyrodill, absolute caution in all things. So she had been timid and quiet and reserved most of her life, out of necessity.

These days, Nyenna finds it easier to trust other people than to trust herself, insofar as she tends to believe the best in people even after all the pain she's been through. Mostly because she'd been told for so long there was no "best" in people. But her friends and found family in Whiterun helped her change that perspective, and realize not everyone is out to hurt her. Sometimes she learns lessons the hard way, if people betray that trust. Sometimes she betrays the trust of others and has to wrestle with that kind of guilt. When that happens, she tends to keep that inside, though she's not really great at hiding her anxiety from certain others who care about her and know her well.

She does eventually get married, fully believing it is her only chance at peace, safety and kindness after a lifetime of ingrained unkindness. The thing is, she doesn't yet understand what love is, or what it could mean. She married fairly quickly seeking some sort of solid ground. Her husband isn't unkind or anything like that, but it was a fast thing. She dove for the opportunity to settle and stop running for once.

Her destiny crashes down around her not long after her wedding. Eventually, she does meet someone else who, without bardically proclaiming their love, shows her what this kind of support could be. And she falls hard. (Even in this arc of failure and failing to meet expectations on the account of a few characters.) But with her ties to someone else, she does not verbalize how she feels right away. She ends up feeling a lot more guilt than she expected. (Which again she tries unsuccessfully to hide.) So while she isn't as free with talking about how she's feeling, it's not that she doesn't trust the other people close to her. It's that she doesn't know how to trust herself. -> The World on Our Shoulders (AO3)

[ghostathan]

Dream of Farewell

Chauncey the Bosmer, "Hero of Kvatch", dreams of an inescapable end. In the late hours, he has a fireside chat about fate with the last living Septim. Not so vague spoilers for Oblivion's Main quest.

The sound of crumbling pillars. The smell of filth, blood and sulfur. The red and gray sky crackling with lightning. The alabaster pillars and latticed windows of the Temple of One lie shattered and ruined, lying in a near perfect circle surrounding you. And in the center of it all, Martin Septim. Wearing the robes of his fathers. The same robes you witnessed fill with the blood of Uriel. Did he know? That he wore the garment of the doomed? That his face had the same grim, stalwart, yet gentle expression his father wore as he apologized to you? You feel the sickening pool in your stomach as you remember the sound of the knife sink repeatedly into flesh. You could swear that same knife was in his hands, ready to slit his own throat like a sacrificial Bull. "Farewell, my friend."

Chauncey awoke with his heart pounding in his elongated ears. Wide eyes stared into pitch black as he slowly returned to reality. If only so he could remember how to breath normally. In- then out. Slowly. Deliberately. He felt his heart return to its normal position between his lungs. Quieter. Beneath him, he felt the cold of the stone tiles seep through his bear pelt. He recalled, with difficulty, that he was in Cloud Ruler Temple. Not wanting to take his horse back down the mountain in the dead of night, he opted to stay in the great hall, near the roaring fire. The fire was out now. There wasn’t even the scent of burning wood to hint that it was ever alive. It was cold, and Chauncey was alone. He lay there for a while to ruminate on what he had seen. The ruined temple, the smell of oblivion, and his friend about to commit an act he didn’t think he could escape from. His friend. When did he start to think of Martin like that? When Chauncey had met the priest, he didn’t think anything of him. Other than he might be the only person unluckier than him. At least Chauncey had always known who his father was. Chauncey wasn't expected to save the world, and then run an empire. He remembered when they first came to Cloud Ruler. Blades in rank, cheering for the Emperor-to-be. Who only that morning was one of the peasantry. Chauncey remembers seeing Martin's shoulders tense sheepishly at the attention. His voice trying not to shake as he tried to address them all with an impromptu speech. So different from the Martin he saw in his dream. Martin addressed him as a friend in his dream as well, with such finality. Not like how Martin usually said it. With a kind smile and well wishes for whatever new mission Jauffre requested of Chauncey. It may had just been a turn of phrase, just the way Martin speaks. Some dialect from somewhere in Cyrodill. But the way he said it had such a weight of sincerity that Chauncey could never help himself from returning such a warm smile. Martin says goodbye as if the world was different. As if Chauncey was off to do anything besides run head first into a Daedric cult. As if Martin's newly discovered birthright didn’t put them in two entirely different stations in life.

Chauncey suddenly became very aware of how cold and quiet the temple was, save for the roaring of mountain winds and the distant footsteps of steel on stone from patrolling Blades. He sat up, carefully trying to keep himself wrapped in his animal hides, and made his way to the pile of logs near the icy fireplace. Without much ritual, he tossed a couple of logs into the wall's crevice and quickly set it burning with a  small amount of fire magic. The resulting fire wasn’t very large, and the wood only started to catch, but it at least gave off some warmth and emanated a bit of life with its pops and flickering movements.

Chauncey started to readjust his cocoon to lie back down when one of the side doors opened. He didn’t look to see until he heard not the sound of steel, but soft slippers and the shift of fabric. It was Martin, of course. Wrapped in a warm, expensive looking dressing robe, he pulled it tighter and shifted uncomfortably. As if he was embarrassed to be seen with it. VERY unlike the dream. Martin shifted awkwardly, not looking at the Bosmer sitting near the ever growing fire. Chauncey wondered if he was waiting for some kind of invitation in. Silly. Hasn't the man realized that everything here is his? "You're gonna get cold if you just stand around there." Chauncey yawned. Hoping that if he faked his own apathy, Martin would feel more at ease. "Close the door and get in." "Ah. Right," Martin said. He quickly and quietly closed to door, but seemed to take his time in coming near Chauncey. He glanced back and forth between his usual bench with his books and Chauncey. Chauncey scooted from his place to give Martin the space to get to his bench, but Martin surprised him by kneeling next to him. Martin grunted appropriately like the middle-aged man he was as he started to shift to a more comfortable position. Chauncey started, "No, it's cold down here! Sit on one of the chairs or get a cushion or something!" "You're sitting down here," Martin countered. "It's fine for me because I’m an adventuring Bosmer. I live for sitting in places I shouldn’t." Chauncey counter-countered, over dramatically. Martin raised his eyebrows, smirking. "Well, I am a priest. I wouldn’t have made it this far in my career if I couldn’t handle kneeling on a stone floor."

The adventuring Bosmer raised a hand in surrender and sighed, "Okay. Yeah. Fine. Grace me with your regal presence upon thine bare-ass tiles, your Highness." Martin chuckled as he finally settled down. For a few moments, they watched the fire in silence. The smell of burning sap and oak, along with its warmth filled the space between them. If Martin was uncomfortable, he didn't give a hint of it. The dull orange light illuminated his face. Not quite as aged and weary as Uriel's, but the resemblance was impossible to miss. While Chauncey knew that his own context made it obvious to him, he had to give credit to the Blades for keeping Martin's existence hidden in plain sight for so long. Martin, smile faded, caught Chauncey's staring out the corner of his eye. "Looking for the Emperor in me?" Chauncey blustered, "Hm? Oh. Not really…" He paused. "It's… I'm sure the others told you, but you-" Chauncey pondered again. He was sure Martin didn't really want to hear it but, "You look like him. In the face." He tensed for a reaction from Martin. Chauncey really didn't want to make him feel more pressure, but keeping his thoughts from Martin felt wrong. The man just found out not long ago that his entire life was a government operation. He certainly didn’t need more secrets. "What did you think of him?" Martin finally asked. "I know you were there when he was killed, but what about before?" Chauncey hummed in thought. "Did they tell you I was imprisoned when we met?" At this, Martin fully turned his head from the fire to fully face Chauncey. "Imprisoned? That's hard to believe!" Chauncey felt a little offended at that. Sure, his crime was only tax evasion, but still. "Well I was. I wasn't really much of anything back then. Even now I'm still not sure of what I'm doing here." Chauncey laughed, nervously. He checked Martin's expression. "Does that bother you?" "No, not at all. In fact I might have something in common with you. About not knowing what I'm doing." "Not imprisonment?" Martin's eyes narrowed before answering, not cruelly, "I think I'll just let you imagine that aspect." Before Chauncey could reply to that, Martin quickly added, "Back to Uriel, We were side tracked." "Oh, right! Well- hm," After a minute or two of silence, Chauncey answered, "To be honest, I wasn't really paying that much attention to him at the moment we met. He said something about seeing me in some kind of dream and asked me about the Gods and fate. He didn't seem like a crazed zealot or anything. It was just all very jarring." Chauncey continued. "Actually, I'm a little grateful for him, I guess? If he didn't allow me to follow him out of the passage, his guards would have killed me. Not that i had much choice. But also…" Chauncey felt his chest fill with something sour and hot. He wasn't sure if he should continue. "But also?" Martin urged. His voice didn’t carry any impatience or irritation. It must have been his years as a priest that trained him to sound so sincere. To give one the space to be heard. Chauncey debated with himself on whether to trust Martin with the growing wave of resentment inside of him. He remembered his dream. Those terrible robes and the same expression. Martin’s face now didn’t carry any of that. Only concern, apprehension, and a kindness one looks at a wounded animal with. The dam was lifted. "…He-he just made me mad. He just! The whole time, he just seemed to accept his 'fate' so readily. I mean, he fought off his attackers as best as he could but… Isn't that just insulting to everyone? If that were the case, then why try at anything? Why try to make yourself different or have dreams or goals if you couldn’t escape what's ahead? Why make us do this song and dance when we all end up following some God's plan? Can't we fight any of it?" Chauncey knew he was venting. He knew he was rambling but his face was getting hot and eyes stung. He turned away and tried to discreetly wipe his tears on his pelt. "I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that." "No, my friend," he heard Martin say. He felt Martin's hand rest on his shoulder. Chauncey fought off the urge to shake his hand off. Martin only wanted to help, but it just made Chauncey feel guiltier. Martin already had so much to deal with. He didn't need to have to comfort him in the dead of night, too. But Martin continued. "You're right to be angry. I felt much the same at Kvatch."

Oh no. Kvatch. The sky and the smell and the screams. He had completely forgotten. "Oh, Gods. Martin, I'm so sorry." Chauncey's voice shook too, and he hated it. "I.. I didn't help at all. I just grabbed you and left! They asked me to help drive the Daedra back and I ran! I just wanted to put it all behind me!" "I know, friend. No one blames you for that."

"You must. You have to." "I don't. And you're wrong. You did help. You single handedly closed the gate and made a path for the rest of the survivors to evacuate. Don't you realize what an incredible feat that was?" Martin gently pulled the younger man's arm to face him. "You rescued us. You saved me. For that alone, I owe you everything."

Chauncey still wouldn’t look at him. He knew Martin was right, and he knew he wasn't lying. Martin meant every word he said. Chauncey had no room to argue anything. Just nod. He still believed he should have done more, but he didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. Apparently it wasn't enough for Martin. He went on to say, "You may or may not believe me when I say this but, I'm happy you said what you had. I was trying to say I feel much the same way. About Uriel. About the Gods. About Kvatch, too." Chauncey finally met his face, though Martin's gaze was internal. "I was useless in Kvatch. I couldn't even continue my duty as a priest to lead anyone in prayer. I was so full of anger and doubt that the Gods had any such plan that was in our best interest. I wanted to leave as soon as I could. Whether you were lying or not, you had a way out for me and I took it." He added, finally looking at Chauncey with a sheepish smile. "If anything, I would say that we were the same. It sounds like Uriel brought us both into the world by pure chance, giving us some sort of destiny and abandoned us both." Chauncey had to laugh at that. "Wow, both of us, royal bastards. Imagine!" Martin laughed at that too. The conversation died off, resting until Chauncey asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"Oh, probably midnight. Its too cold and foggy outside to check." "You sure you're not uncomfortable down here?" "Actually, you were right. It's miserable on the floor. Even with the fire."

"I told you!" "Yes, yes," Martin exasperated. He grabbed the edge of the table behind them and hoisted himself up. Chauncey watch him stretch and rub feeling back into his legs before seating himself on the bench. "We really should acquire a spare bed for you. It's a shame for you to sleep out here." "Trust me, I'm not making this a habit. I'll just get a room in Bruma next time." Martin pondered the elf below him, arms and elbows propping his face on the table. "… But then who else can I bitch to in the middle of the night about our fates?" Chauncey gasped in mock surprise. "Brother Martin! A swear?" "Oh, I can swear. In fact, I probably know a couple that you've never heard of." "I bet you don't." "You'll just have to visit more often if you want to find out," Martin smirked.

"If you can get the Empire's Spies to hoist a bed all the way up the mountain, then perhaps I could." "I could probably arrange something. As it turns out, I do have *some* influence around here." Martin reached for one of his books and absentmindedly flipped it open. Chauncey decided sitting floor made conversation too difficult and joined him on the table. He sat opposite martin, loosening his pelt a little.  "Which book is that?" Martin closed the book half way to read its spine. "Modern Heretics by Haderus of Gottlesfont. Hopefully, it would give us a lead on a potential Daedric Artifact." "Is it interesting?" "Not especially," Martin frowned. "Anyone who has any interest in Daedric Cults already knows half the information here. It's mostly expositional fluff."

Chauncey yawned. "Then don't read it. Pick something else." "It's not like I'm reading them for entertainment." "Why shouldn't you?" Chauncey regarded him, head in his hand. "No one actually expects you to be working on anything right now. You should be resting, anyway." He scanned the table for whatever books were around. A well worn, not terribly thick tome caught his eye. He picked it up and handed it to Martin. "Here. Try this one instead."

Martin took the book, doubtfully. "Glories and Laments? It does have more impressive, descriptive text, but I don't really have much reason to read it." Chauncey's mind was getting fuzzy. His tired brain allowed the next words to exit his mouth. "How about you read it to me, then? I've never heard of it." "Oh! Really? If you haven't heard of it until now, it's very good. But you want me to read to you?" Martin sounded unsure again. "Only if you want to, of course. If not, I'll just go back to sleep. I'll read that Heretics book in the morning." Martin glanced between Chauncey and the book in his own hands. It didn’t take long for him to decide, "Alright. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. And you sound like you'll be sleeping anyway." "Huzzah!" cheered Chauncey, sleepily. Martin was right. It was a good one. Chauncey was soon transported to the cavernous, vine covered ruins of Ceyatatar. Martin's voice, despite his doubts, carried the words with crystal clarity. Like a shallow stream. It wasn’t long before Chauncey drifted off into a dreamless sleep. His nightmare tucked away in the recesses of his mind. His resolve re-forged. Whatever happened, Martin was unquestionably his friend. And he would make sure that wherever their fates took them, he would do anything to protect him.

[orangevanillabubbles]

What were the events that led to Nolwenn coming to Skyrim, if she didn't grow up there? If she did, how'd she end up in/near Helgen for Alduin's appearance?

Nolwenn grew up in the Imperial City raised by her mother and part of a wealthy Breaton trading company. She was kinda trained her entire life to take on the Cyrodillic branch after her mother. Her mom was, overbearing. And due to issues between her parents, she saw her father less and less as she older. By the time she was a teen she only spoke to him through letters she snuck out of the house so her mother wouldn't know. When she was 19, she discovered her mother's plans to arrange a marriage between her and the son of a imperial council member. She took what she could and ran away, taking a ship to Solitude. She then made her way down to Riften on foot to see her father and join the guild. She was 19 when she joined the guild. 23 when she was betrayed by Mercer and "died" for a couple of months before killing him. 24 when she and Brynjolf had collected 23 of the 24 stones of barenziah. 25 when the stress of trying to find the last one got to them and a arguement over her methods led to her pulling one of her disappearing stunts. During that year she joined the dark brotherhood and found the last stone in the ashes of the sanctuary. She returned, they made up and when traveling through Falkreath one sunny afternoon, came across the wreckage of Helgen and saw Alduin flying away.

[sunxdusk]

[ STRADDLE ] : while sparring, sender gains the upper hand and pins the receiver in place, straddling their waist in the process.

The night was cold and heavy bursts of rain swept across the sky, followed by the occasional thunder but no lightning. The storm was undoubtedly the result of some storm atronach summoning lightning earlier that day. However, Savos had reassurances that the storm would dissipate by itself, so there had nothing to do but watch and wait while he scolded the student responsible for even summoning such a deadly creature. The open windows in the training room made the interior chilly, but it was the closest Briengr had been to being outdoors for three days, and he liked the smell of fresh rain.

There was so much information and many reports coming from the borders of Winterhold, and Savos Aren’s spies in the Cyrodill, that he barely had time for sleep. At moments like these, he would generally seek the old Dunmer’s counsel, but those days were gone, as he was too busy to provide any sage advice. More than anything, Briengr wanted to lose himself in oblivion. Bury his boredom in a layer of fog from the ale, but he couldn’t even manage that as Hithfaeril had promptly snatched the tankard from his hand hands and dragged him out to focus on his training.

And that was how he wound up fighting for his life against his lovely opponent and getting pinned… Again, and again, and again.

Briengr was on the ground before he could blink, but at the last second, he managed to twist just enough to avoid being pinned by the little Breton. Her sheer skill bore him down, overwhelming him the way it had all the previous times he’d pinned her. While he appreciated Hith’s efforts not to hurt him, he was as helpless now against her as he had been the first time they’d sparred together. Then, Briengr’s only hope had been to remain on his feet, evade her attacks and look for his chance, but she’d already taken him down. Desperately he braced one foot on the ground and pushed, seeking leverage, but she’d already straddled him, a conjured dagger pressed lightly against his throat in warning.

Oh, this… this was nice.

“You’re a wicked woman, aren’t you?” Even defeated and at her tender mercy, Briengr still couldn’t shut his big fucking mouth; desire rode him like an unbearable itch, an implacable hunger. His body moved under her, dancing its need, calling to her with her soft weight pinning him down and the hot scent of her body. By the Nine, he was bored and wanton, and fuck, he needed her now!

"Why don't you use your pretty little blade to cut our robes open? We have this room all to ourselves and doubt the old man will hear us make much noise."

@ramblingsofamoonwatcher

[macbeth-of-glamis]

the never-ending moons : prologue

our protagonist, amiel greyire, reflects on his past life decision and what he’s done.

fourth era, year 171. he was 19. he’d been fighting for his entire life as an orphan. but this time, it was different. he’d been picked up from the slums of the capital city of alinor, in the summerset isles. by that time, the war in cyrodil had already been bubbling and they needed soldiers. children. the aldmeri dominion needed children to fight their wars with men. it enraged him to his very core. even at that age, before everything, the way they stole him away made his blood boil. mer was not superior over man or beast, and man and beast were not superior over the mer. they all were awful in their own rights.

he gripped the chair he was sitting on in the briefing room as sweat dripped down his forehead, heavy pants leaving his parted lips as his bright blonde hair stuck to his forehead. he was changing. the aldmeri dominion made him like this. they forced him into this. threw him into a pit with the sabre cats, one of which was a carrier for the lycanthropy, and he got bit. there were six orphans in the pit, he was the only one who emerged victorious. one other survived, but… he was different. the orphan, who was a year younger than amiel, had to be dragged out, almost dead. amiel on the other hand, had ripped the throat of the lycanthropy-infected sabre cat out with his teeth, the metallic liquid coating his teeth and dripping down his chin. the ingestion of the lycanthropy infected blood is what caused his affliction.

his head twitched as he took a deep breath. his fingers tapped against the underside of the chair, closing his eyes. he was listening to the battle plan of his squadron. they were sending him, a child still, onto the front lines. sure, he was over eighteen— of age in the summerset isle— but he was still very much a child. he hated the aldmeri dominion. he never wanted to be this, he never wanted to be a soldier. yes, he was rotting on the streets— homeless and hungry— but he never would have chose this unless he was kidnapped from his bed in the middle of the night, which he was.

he remembers when the white-gold concordat was signed, outlawing the worship of talos. he was a devout trinimac follower from childhood, and did not follow talos— he did not doubt the existence of the human who rose to godhood. outlawing the worship of someone infringed on the rights of the people. this should have only applied to the empire, but, much to amiel’s dismay… this was taken away from everyone. even those that did not follow the empire.

he remembers the day he deserted. his half transformed paws dug into the dirt of the side of the valus mountains. he was trying to flee into morrowind. his paw was dug into the dense clay and dirt of the mountain, gripping on as he scaled the steep mountain. his feet were half transformed as a way to grip into the dirt, but then it began to crumble. he fell, a hundred or so feet to the forest floor below him. but, he was left unharmed. his hands and feet shrank from paws into his mer-hands and feet. he shouted, ripping off the aldmeri dominion emblem that was sewn onto his pack. he hated them, he hated who he had become. his blood boiled in his body and he roared, hands hitting against the dirt beneath him. he just wanted to leave. he knew the thalmor would find him one day, and he knew he’d never outrun them, but he’d at least try. his slender hands rubbed against his neck, knowing the marks that were there. stripes, mimicking that of a saber cat. he touched his fangs, sobbing. he wished he wasn’t like this.

he remembers his travels through tamriel. and through these travels, through these thirty odd years— he barely aged. his lycanthropy changed him. slowed the aging process. he was spotted in cyrodil by an old friend, who commented on it. amiel said nothing, and then left again for morrowind. he lived in blacklight for three years before being run out of morrowind. he lost control, ripped apart a little boy. he still thinks about that kid. he didn’t deserve that. after that, he ran to elsweyr and lived among the cat people. they were similar to him, in appearance, but they knew what he was. they didn’t like that. he left elsweyr after four years.

he lived in valenwood the longest, even though the aldmeri headquarters was based there. he knew if he hid long enough before emerging, they wouldn’t find him. he lived in aronthia. he met a girl, tyria. she was a nord who moved there from skyrim. they got married. he lived in aronthia for sixteen years. he loved it, he loved his wife. he kept his condition under control. until he didn’t. he ripped her apart as she slept. she couldn’t even fight back as his canines ripped into her.

he cried for the first time since seeing his fellow orphans die in that pit. there was so much blood. and in the center of all of that blood, was a wedding band. a shiny, golden wedding band that was tainted with the crimson blood of his now deceased wife. he sat in the corner of the room, shaking and sobbing. he was a monster. he hadn’t lashed out like this since he killed that little boy in blacklight.

instead of turning himself in, he left. he was a fugitive of the nation of valenwood. he knew if he turned himself in, he would have been given to the aldemeri dominion. he couldn’t bring himself to go back. not ever. he didn’t know how long he ran. but, it had to have been no more than four years. he crossed into cyrodil again, but then legally— for once— made his way across the border and into an entirely new place that he had never seen before.

skyrim.