#true nord warrior my ass

[aadroiit]

ulfric stormcloak be like

racism

[khajiiti-dragonborn]

Currently trying to figure out The Temple of Dibella quest.

Why did the Forsworn kidnap the Sybil of Dibella?

Did the Forsworn know she was the Sybil of Dibella or did they just happen to bring her to what looks like a desecrated shrine of Dibella?

Why is there a shrine of Dibella in this fort?

Why are her parents Breton while she's marked as a nord? (I'm assuming this is just because they don't have the option to make non-nord child, but you can never tell what's a bug and what's a feature with Skyrim)

Considering how prevalent Dibella is in the region of Markarth (the temple, the desecrated shrine, the altar on the road to Markarth, and the Sybil also being from The Reach) in the grander historical context it seems like Dibella holds some significance to the nords in this region, and maybe even the Bretons? Which is such an interesting idea considering the Forsworn/Reachmen worship daedric princes.

Maybe the Bretons somehow began worshipping Dibella in some way, leading to a split between traditional Reachmen who worshipped mostly daedric princes led by Hircine, and more Imperial/Nordic influenced Reachmen who had a more blended pantheon (similar to cultures like the old Nords and the Khajiits), led by Dibella. A more blended religion was probably favorable to the Reachmen when they retook the Reach, who were still attempting to co-exist with the Nords (because you know the nords would have been waaay more violent if the Reachmen tried to make daedra worship as common as it seems to be in the Forsworn tribes).

Or perhaps Dibella provided the Nords with some kind of favor to overthrow the Reachmen the first time around. Maybe Dibellan worshippers were able to act as spies or somehow provided the Nord warriors plotting to take back the Reach with some sort of advantage, and in exchange Dibella was worshipped more commonly in the Reach.

Either way, there seems to be some plot threads here that a better RPG would have turned into a fully fledged story, but in true Bethesda fashion it was left as bare bones context clues for most people to go "oh that's neat" and for my autistic hyperfixated ass to go "WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN??"

Ah Skyrim, my love-hate relationship with you continues on, as strong as ever.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

(prompt fill for the tes writer’s discord)

I am a farmer's daughter. I am a god. I'm a tyrant. I'm an artist. I am irritating. I'm a warrior. I'm a charlatan. I'm undefeated in battle. I'm the rightful ruler of a small agricultural province in Morrowind. I'm a bard. I'm Kyne's chosen. I'm a genius. I am a liar. I’m lying face-down in a ditch.

This is my fault, it really is, because what else is going to happen when you lose an argument to an ehlnofey? And not only did I lose the argument, I got my ass handed to me on a platter: my fault, like I said, you don't usually meet earth-bones with a spine, but whoever makes up the light breeze that stirs on a Rain Hand's dawn takes her job very seriously, and I wasn't expecting her to call me out for the no-true-ada fallacy I've been using to sneak in and out of Apocrypha for the past... whatever.

Whatever. I'm a Tongue of such immense power that I've shouted myself off the mortal coil, I'm probably about a thousand years old if I knew how to read a calendar and I'm in the prime of my fetching life. And am I going to complain about being stuck on Nirn for a bit? Nirn ent so bad. Has its charm I guess. I was last in Silmora, which they call Cyrodiil now (like that guy from Hoag's song!), and I don't know if I'm still there, or whether I'd want to be stuck in Silmora which is now Cyrodiil at all, cause I know it's been a thousand years but old hatreds die hard and don't Alessians ban entertainment or something? Who wants that? What would I be without my singing?

Without my singing I'm just a woman face-down in a ditch.

But seriously, whatever. I'm not fussed by this. The thu'um is a debate, Ysmir taught me that once, it’s a debate and sometimes you lose. Sometimes you win, and if you're really good you win lots, but sometimes you meet a particularly stubborn earth-bone who makes up the light dawny breeze that blows on Rain's Hand and she hands you your ass on a platter. Such is life. I'm not going to wallow in it, I wont, so it's time for me to get up.

I manage to hoist myself up on my arms and peel my face out of the mud just fine, but it's not until I wipe the water from my eyes that I see it's early dawn. I'm in a forest, a proper old forest, like that on the slopes of Monahven, where the sunlight is thin and pale as wheat and stretches its wispy fingers through tall sharp crowns of mossy green. So maybe not Silmora, but I've been unceremoniously deposited next to some sort of road that's cobbled with stone in the Alessian way, and I've never heard of any Nords in the practice of digging ditches next to their roads, at least not in the time I’m from. 

Forget about the roads! The air is cold and crisp and sweet, uncomfortable given how drenched my clothes are but I like it. I climb to my feet, swaying a little like a morning drunkard, and look around me.

Sometimes I forget how beautiful Nirn is. If I stand here a moment longer I'll probably start crying over it.

I scramble up the side of the ditch, and when my feet hit the stones I stop to shake myself off vigorous like a soggy bear. Mud sprays everywhere-- excellent. Now, much refreshed, it’s time to do the important thing. I turn to face the forest-- I think best when there’s trees in my eyes-- I breathe in deep.The air smells thickly of resin, of dew, of ditchside dung. I bring my mind into the middle of myself, and, with the ground hard and cold beneath my bare feet, my toes curled into the cracks of the pavers, my eyes all ablaze with a world that’s pale like gold, I listen for the voices that makes up all that’s around me.

I’m talking about the spirits that make up everything. I’ve always been able to hear them. See, my father was Atmoran, and he raised me in the proper way, the old way, not like the Nords who cower in their cabins and flinch away from every voice-in-the-woods. That’s some of my earliest memories: climbing into bormahi and monahi’s bed, snuggling up between two big mounds of man-flesh, and monahi fussed over my cold feet and bormahi told me those whispers that scared me out of my own bed? Why, that’s just Kyne’s handmaidens poking along the seams of our roof, kindly telling us where we ought to do a better job at shodding it up. And those howls out in the plains? That’s Mara calling all the little girls home to do their evening chores (here he’d pinch my cheeks) so once you hear Mara howling you’d best run home to help monahiil do the milking, Barfok, or do you want to be the one Mara’s howling for? 

So I learned how to listen to them young, and I was never scared like the Nords get scared. When I’d go out kulning for the cows to come home and I heard other voices joining in with me I wasn’t scared. This world’s made of voices, bormahi would say, and why ought you be scared of them? It’d be like if you opened your eyes and were scared of the towering trees before you and the thin golden sunlight dappling the path. 

My father was also a great Tongue, like all Atmorans, which is why he could hear the voices, because all Tongues need to hear them. I hear them very clearly now, after not long at all spent meditating, but I take my sweet time in picking them out, with my feet planted firm on the ground and my eyes filling up with blurry colour, gold and green. 

What I hear is: 

They’ve ruined the soil here, sulks the earth-bone from who is made the top centimetre of soil which is rich in dead rotting things. The stones stop the water coming through.

The mortals flow like rivers along here, says the earth-bone from who is made the principle of places being connected to other places in spite of distance. It is only a small strip.

It doesn’t matter, hums the earth-bone from who is made the dandelions that only grow in this part of Tamriel, The path has cracks, has cracks, has cracks, and we can slip through, we’ll always slip through because we love the sun.

And if your seeds land on the stone? asks the earth-bone who makes up the breeze that travels low and slow along flat surfaces, often kicking itself into swirling eddies for the bumps it rolls across, Oh, let the rain move them, then, I’ll let them flow.

Here’s a secret for you. This is what creation is made of: these little arguments that are always happening all around us.

The earth-bones, or the qethsegolle in the Tongue’s tongue, or the ehlnofey if you’re using theirs, or nature or existence or being or whatever of the million other terms you could call it in anyone else’s; creation is just these arguments going to and fro forever. That’s the truth of it: this ‘world’ of ours isn’t static at all. It’s got to be made and remade all the time. If any one of these little beings stopped their arguing, the world would unravel like a ripped tapestry, it would start falling apart at the seams and become nothing but knots and disorder.

(It already has. Me and my comrades once used our teeth like languages, ripping up the weft and spitting out threads until the tapestry of our world lay in ugly soggy tatters. It’s a gruesome thing, this thu’um of ours.) 

No. I won’t dwell on that, and why should I? Why should I stop to think about what’s done and gone? It makes no sense, no more sense than crawling back down into the ditch and sticking my face right into the mud again. 

But ent it funny. For a moment there I forgot to pity myself, thinking like I was about the qethsegolle and their funny little argument about the pavers (I’m on the side of the soil myself, the path is an atrocious little invention, I wonder if I should tell them about Alessian construction techniques and if it would sway them?), but the sun has climbed higher and now it’s in my eyes and damn it, this is just between you and me, don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a reputation to upkeep-- I think I’m getting weepy about how beautiful it all is despite myself. 

So I sniffle and I wipe my eyes and I try to decide what I want to tell the world on this most beautiful and splendid of mornings while it’s busy arguing with itself. This forest is lovely, I’m getting sidetracked now, I’m trying to think of the words to let creation know that I love it so much. But it’s impossible. It’s just impossible. What do you say, when you’re a woman like me, when it’s a day like this? 

Hello, my name is Barfok? Won’t mean anything to them. 

Want to hear about what else the Alessians have done wrong? Maybe. I wonder what a qethsegol would think about an aquifer.

Your world is beautiful and I am so horrid that it shames me to stand before it? 

There’s something I need to say now that I hate myself for saying. I hate myself for saying it because I loved my father more than any girl has ever loved anything in the whole world, but I need to say it: he messed up with me. 

I don’t blame him for it, it wasn’t his fault at all! He was an Atmoran, he was a great man, a sensible man, he was a man that loved his sweet little daughter up until the last. He never wanted me to be a Tongue. He taught me to hear the voices of the world, but only out of love, only cause those voices are love, and this world is love, and he loved me so dear. It ent his fault. How could he have known-- how could he have ever guessed that I’d learn to speak to them, and that someone would speak back? How could he have thought to tell me about the other voices, voices that weren’t part of this creation? How would he have known his stupid little daughter would be so easily tricked? 

I told you before, remember?: I am a liar. And the thing is that I lied to him. I was a wicked child like that. When I climbed into bormahi and monahi’s bed I wasn’t scared of Kyne whistling through the walls and Mara howling out beyond the paddock, no, not at all-- what scared me the most, what scares me the most, was the big mass of green tentacles that came oozing out of the darkest corners of the ceiling and the big all-knowing eyes that never spoke at all, but only stared.

That’s another secret for you. I’m scared of anything without a voice.

The sun is hurting my eyes now, so I turn away from the woods. I still hear the earth-bones chattering away, which is reassuring, but it’s also giving me a headache, because gods, how they ever chatter! It’s times like this I really get why Jurgen wanted there to be no more of us, and why the best of us hole ourselves away in little shacks in the middle of nowhere. I was taught by Ysmir, who was the best of the best of us, and I wish I knew how he could stand it, all creation’s little bickering: I asked him once, was it easy for Shor, how did Shor stand all his companions arguing to and fro about soil permeability and rain-water paths and roads and cobbling and slate and oh-do-you-think-we-can-visit-the-ehlnofey-who-makes-up-the-quarry? And such nonsense?

How can you deal with it? I think you don’t-- you go mute or you go mad. Or you die in battle before that. Should that we all be so lucky. 

But here’s the thing: Ysmir never answers questions like that. He just looked at me, as if ought to already know. After bormahi and monahi died, when Olaf the dog came and burned down everything I ever cared about and the only way I survived was (this is between you and me, remember!) I hid in a barrel of apples while those gleaming tentacles writhed in the corner of my vision and their voice encouraged me to sing, sing, sing, after Ysmir found me in the smoldering wreckage, he treated it the same, since I survived. I already knew everything I had to. Or so he thought.

Yes, I asked him how he could stand it, once. I asked him lots of things like that. And he said this: Atmoran’s don’t grieve by wailing, how can you stand it. We don’t have to stand anything at all. If you hate it so much, he said, then change it. If you hate that there’s an ehlnofey who’s weeping over how her poor soil’s been cemented over and there’s another ehlnofey griping over what roots can’t penetrate, then you change it,

or otherwise you tell them to shut up. 

The sun is getting in my eyes, but I’ve decided what I ought to say.

So I take a deep breath and I sing.

What I sing is:

HERMA-MORA, MIIRAAD BEX, VUS DAAL DREM, VODAHMIN.

With the proper intonations, in the harmonies and notes that will make the coarse dragons language-of-imposing into something comprehensible to the spirits all around me, it translates to this: 

Hermaeus Mora, the doors to Apocrypha open, and I step through them. You, earth-bones, will let me through. Why, you ask, should you bend for me? Because you do not want me here, and if this path that covers the soil upsets you, know well I will only cause greater offense. How? Look at how I crushed the reeds there, down in that ditch. Do you think that is my greatest crime? The truth is, I’ve made my living bending your kin into uglier shapes, and I’m not trying to threaten you but I want to keep the peace as well as you do, and it’s best for me not to be here. It’s better if I’m not in this world. If you let me go to Apocrypha, Nirn will return to peace. Besides, Hermaeus Mora likes me, we have an agreement, so you see how everyone will win if you let me go there now. Now. Are we in agreement? Do not make me get on my knees and beg. Oh. Excellent! It was lovely to meet you all. And by the way, I don’t like the stones that are in this path either, I think they’re hideous, and don’t get me started on that fetching ditch!

There-- a pleasant discussion, not at all like the argument I had with that breezy son of a whore who threw me into a ditch in the first place. I close my eyes when I sing, old habit, always do, but I don’t need to open them to know I’ve won the argument, and that the greenish hue just in front of my closed lids isn’t a beautiful forest, and that the dankness clinging to my skin isn’t mere road-runoff any longer.

[druidgroves]

some thoughts on my big nord guy reiner håkon who used to be a dnd character concept <3

he’s got a pinterest board :>

his original concept was an ancestral barbarian whose mom was the head of their clan/a warrior queen. overall a large man who could tear ur arms off but also is in possession of a soft heart. #1 women respecter.

big of heart (kind of) dumb of ass.

in skyrim tho he mostly exists as a friend to my fiancee’s dragonborn tegan but also. he can exist in my skrim as well. as a treat.

he was born/raised in a homestead in falkreath hold, nearish helgen.

when he was around 8 years old, his father was arrested by the thalmor after having been found at a talos shrine & was never seen again.

the day after that, reiner’s mother, sigrid, taught him how to fight & use a blade. sigrid fought in the great war (as well as her husband, ivar) so she def knows her shit.

he grows up & gets tall & jacked as fuck from farm work & the fact that his primary weapon is a great sword.

he doesn’t like the stormcloaks bc they’re racist & he thinks the empire concedes too much to the thalmor, who he Fuckin Hates, for obvious reasons.

someone tries that “are you a true Son of Skyrim™ or not?” shit on him & depending on the day he either gives them a Look or a right hook.

he’s bisexual but doesn’t know it yet. i dont really vibe w/ fictional homophobia so i don’t think skyrim/tamriel is homophobic or anything, reiner just doesn’t realize that liking guys is a thing that he can do.

overall he’s a big handsome boy that wants to do a lil adventuring and.......lads/lasses/etc........he’s single

[dinosrpg]

Nerevarine: The Reprise - Chapter Eight

With a hot meal in their guts and ample supplies in their packs, Sheev-La and Sevana made their way toward Bleak Falls Barrow, a mountaintop tomb looming over the village of Riverwood.  The Argonian couldn't help but wonder why anyone would settle with such an imposing piece of architecture so close by, but she supposed the village's namesake was profitable enough to live off of for generations.

The midday sun warmed the furs Sheev-La had lined her armor with, helping her recover more of her energy especially as her lunch settled in her belly.  Warm in every sense for the first time since she'd come to this place, the Argonian walked with a graceful, powerful stride.  Sevana couldn't help but admire both the shape and movement of her companion's hips and thighs, not even the fur-lined armor able to hide Sheev-La's mastered gait and fitness.

As they trekked up the mountain path, the evergreen mountainside slowly turned to gray and white, to stone and snow.  The road seemed abandoned, for which Sheev-La was thankful as her careful eye kept watch.

"Now that we're back on the road," Sevana started, casually perusing an instructional spell tome she'd purchased in town, "maybe we can talk about more positive things.  Like... what did you do before arriving in Morrowind?"  Sheev-La laughed, her breath pillowing forth in a puff of vapor.

"Gods, I was a gutter-snake."

"You?  A troublemaker?  No," Sevana teased, her heavy cloak billowing slightly with a stiff, chilling breeze.

"Oh, yes.  I was brought to Vvardenfell on a prison ship.  Before then, I was doing time in the Imperial City Prison."

"What'd you do?"

"I was a second-story woman.  'Acrobat' was my official, not-criminal title, but I hardly ever used that.  Being an orphan and a problem hatchling, I tended to lean away from people.  Made each encounter with the guards a puzzle to solve, just like figuring out how to get into a house to nick valuables."  Sevana smiled and laughed both in shock and amusement; the notion that such a hero had once been a struggling thief was something straight out of fiction.

"Hard to believe you were a common burglar before you became a historical figure."

"Oh, I was no common burglar.  Before I got used to boots, I could hang from roof tiles by foot and pick the lock of a window upside down.  I was an enigma until someone caught me in the act."

"A shame it's so cold here."

"Maybe I'll get used to it here.  I plan on settling down in Whiterun when I have the money to get a house, since it's warm and seems economically lively.  Well, when dragons aren't about, at least."

"I would hope so.  But while we're on the topic of your past, what did you do before you jumped into the House politics?  You came out of nowhere, it seems."

"Honestly... I was captivated by the land.  I knew I wouldn't be able to keep doing what I did in Cyrodiil there, since the architecture was so drastically different.  I mean, even if I tried, it would've taken weeks, maybe months to get it right.  With barely two coins to rub together, I had to learn how to survive on my own.  An outlander, one of the 'slave' races of the time, a former criminal... I didn't have anyone to count on but myself.  So, I spent a long time traveling the island, learning its ebb and flow firsthand.  I'd never embraced nature so wholly before."

"Sounds like you fell in love with Vvardenfell."

"I did.  I didn't realize it until much later, but it had always been home to me.  Even though I kept to the outskirts, I ventured into the cities and towns with regularity to peddle my spoils.  And, as cold toward me as the Dunmer were, I came to admire them.  I sympathized with their struggles.  And then... I learned about what was really happening at the heart of it all."

"What changed once you learned about the prophecies?"

"Everything.  I started paying attention.  I started seeing the Blight's impact.  And while I grew as a person, Morrowind was growing weaker.  I was no healer, but I did what I could to help those who could offer relief.  I spent weeks gathering ash salts and scrib jelly to donate to the Temple."

"How did you learn about the prophecies?  From the Ashlanders?"

"That... is a long story.  One that will have to wait, it seems," Sheev-La remarked with a frown, lowering her voice.  Nodding toward the slowly-approaching barrow, the Argonian slowed her pace and widened her stance, her keen, clouded eye spotting movement.  "I see three.  An archer, a fur-wearer with a big axe, and one with a sword and shield."  Sevana nodded, putting away her tome for later.

"Something tells me they're not friendly," the Dunmer mused, gathering a swirling mass of power in her clenched fist.  As though on cue, the archer shouted to their companions, nocking an arrow to launch at the pair of intruders.

Sheev-La didn't budge, or so Sevana thought until she looked to her side to see that the Argonian had taken cover behind a rock ahead, unsheathing a throwing knife from her bandolier.  How had she moved like that?

That line of inquiry didn't last long as Sevana refocused herself, channeling her power into a ball of liquid between her hands.  With the berserker and warrior making their way down a set of stairs heading straight for them, the Dunmer funneled the liquid toward them, forming a huge, deadly spear of pure ice.  It flew straight and true with a frightening speed and purpose, anchoring the berserker to the ground by way of his leg.  Though resistant to the icy spear's chilling nature, the Nord that had fallen victim to it still howled in agony, blood pouring from his leg with every unintended motion.

The warrior, startled by her companion's injury, didn't even get a chance as a sliver of leather-corded steel buried itself in her neck.  She slumped, dropping her shield and sword before succumbing to the darkness.  Again, Sevana hadn't even seen the Argonian move, but she had noticed the knife was no longer between her fingers.

The archer loosed another arrow, the shaft whizzing toward the Dunmer but ultimately landing in the tree trunk Sevana ducked behind, her assailant seemingly competent in at least leading their target.  Sevana waited a few more breaths, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for the telltale impact of another arrow.  But the sound never came.

"You can come out," the Argonian called to Sevana.  "They're not going anywhere for a bit."

Leaning from her cover, Sevana spotted the archer clearly poised to loose another arrow... but they were laid down on the stairs, their joints locked in place.  "Did... did you paralyze that one?" she asked, a bit alarmed.  Only after she'd asked did she notice the Nord was down as well, having not even noticed he'd stopped screaming about his leg.

"Yeah.  She's going to have a lovely conversation with us about her friends," Sheev-La replied, grunting as she lifted the archer up by the waist and set her down.  The Dunmer's jaw was agape as she made her way to the stairs; she had expected Sheev-La to be competent in combat, but this was more frightening than she could've imagined.

The snap of the arrow nocked in the archer's bow brought Sevana back to the moment, Sheev-La rendering the weapon harmless for the time being.  Within seconds, the Khajiit girl regained her body's freedom of movement, eyes wide in terror as her bow twanged ineffectually.  "K-Khajiit will tell you anything, if you spare her!" she blurted out quickly, her accent thick and nigh on unintelligible to the Dunmer.

"Good, you know how this works.  I have three questions for you.  After you've answered, you're free to go.  First: what were you doing here?" Sheev-La started, her tone understanding and oddly comforting despite the dead bodies mere feet away.

"We were just raiding the tomb.  The locals have no idea the treasures they threw away, and their dusty dead have no use for them."  The Argonian nodded.

"Second: how many of you are here, discounting yourself and your former comrades here?" Sheev-La continued, gesturing toward the bodies.

"Eight.  Th-there are eight more in the tomb."

"Good, good.  Last question: I'm not going to catch you tomb-raiding anymore, am I?" the Argonian inquired, holding up a small pouch and dangling it before the Khajiit.  It jingled with promises of enough coin to at least buy food and shelter for a couple days.

"N-no, miss!  Khajiit thanks you!" the former bandit almost squeaked.

"Excellent.  The road to Riverwood is clear.  Get out of here," Sheev-La ordered her, dropping the pouch into the archer's hand.  The Khajiit gladly obliged, sprinting for town to preserve her own hide.

"Ancestors' mercy, what was that?" Sevana asked, offering a hand to the Argonian.  Sheev-La gladly took the hand, clasping it tightly and taking her assistance to stand with a soft grunt.

"What?  You know I've been at this for a long time."

"I know that, but damn...  I barely saw you move.  You were like an illusion."

"Precision and patience will outdo pure strength and cunning, in due time.  Stealth changes the pace of combat by forcing your opponents into an uncomfortable situation before they can adjust.  Everyone is their most vulnerable when they are unaware of important variables."

"I'll say...  I'm surprised I got a spell off before you were done with 'em."

"Don't sell yourself short, Sevana.  You've got weapons and tactics I don't, and you know how to apply them.  I'm sure you'll be saving my ass more than a few times before this is over," the Argonian told her, patting the Dunmer's shoulder and comforting Sevana for a change.