#ulfric x dragonborn

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Happy 2025 to all of you lovely and talented individuals out there. I have already seen SO many beautiful works out there, so I know that creative energy is flowing.

Throwing my Idiots (tm) out there. There is some slightly suggestive content here as our boy (tm) starts to get a bit handsy, but nothing too explicit. (Also adding some bonus art WIP of these two that I am working on which is still in the lining stage.)

Tagging the talented: @oblivions-dawn @dirty-bosmer @skyrim-forever @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @hircines-hunter

@sulphuricgrin @umbracirrus @pocket-vvardvark @firefly-factory @theoneandonlysemla

@vivifriend @hannah-heartstrings @inkysqueed and...ANYONE ELSE WHO WANTS TO PARTY! <3 No pressure however.

The ground gives forth again with a quake, and Ulfric reels as his legs buckle underneath him until he is kneeling. Great clouds of ash and dust obscure his vision, the fog of many souls covering the landscape around him making it impossible for him to see what is causing this noise. Alone and completely in the dark, he raises his axe again as a dark shadow makes its way to him.

“Ulfric?” A voice calls out to him, and for a moment he is certain his mind is playing tricks on him. It cannot be. 

The shadow moves again as two inky black splotches unfurl to reach towards the sky.

“Ulfric? Come closer…”

It has to be some strange magic, a new manner of psychological torture, and he will not fall for it. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and slowly moves forward, his axe ready to sing through the air at a moment’s notice.

“Ulfric, it’s you.” This time the voice is right next to his ear, wrapping around his ear warmly like a lover’s caress. 

He doesn’t wait any longer. Hesitate and you die. Blink and you fail. His body moves on its own accord, springing into action as his axe cuts through the air.

Zun Haal Viik

Ulfric’s arms drop to his waist in disbelief, weapon landing with a dull thud into the ground.

“Dahlia.” He barely get the syllables out as his wife’s hands throw themselves around him, and he picks her up, spinning her around. He can breathe again. A bright smile slides its way onto his face, joy flowing through his veins. 

“What ever are you doing all the way out here? You should be at home! I told you specifically not to—”

Dahlia’s words are hushed by a frantic kiss, Ulfric’s lips crashing against her own and nipping demandingly at them.

It has been at least seven months since he has seen her—since he has tasted her, and he will not wait one second more now that she is within reach.

One of his hands slips up and through the tangled strands of her unraveling braid as he pull her down, demanding more, and it is all she can do to gasp for a quick breath as his tongue buries its way into her mouth. 

Flashes of heat pool and then rise, winding searing tongues burning through her as they wind their way up her body. She can feel the warmth of his knuckles as they come down to trace her cheeks before they dip down to slide to the curve of her breast. Another gasp which turns into a strangled whine when one of his fingers flick over a nipple. Only he would be so bold to forget himself in the middle of a battlefield in an attempt to ravage her.

“Ulfric,” her hands come up to cup his face on both sides to pull him back from her, her eyes searching his. How she had missed their color being the first thing she sees in the mornings.

However, her husband has other ideas regarding her brief departure from what he was doing, a frustrated groan leaving him as he tries to surge forward again only for her to stop him once more.

Dahlia chuckles as she presses her forehead to his. Safety. The first time she has felt the familiar comfort of its embrace in far too long. “I missed you.”

[blossom-adventures]

For the Bad Things Bingo, I feel like Nightmares is a great prompt for Skyrim, because there is genuinely so much nightmare fuel in LDBs life? Fighting dragons, delving into undead infested tombs, being a centerpoint of brewing war... If nothing soecific, then the sheer amount of stuff just would end up in a nightmare fuel.

Also hay, hope you are doing well!

Hi! I am so so sorry it took so long to get around to posting this, things have been happening and my writing has had to take a backseat for a little while, but I am hoping that I can shift back into gear soon ☺️💙

For my @badthingshappenbingo prompt, Nightmares

This is a little teaser for the sequel to my Dragonborn story (it’s not got a title yet but I know what’s going to happen)

Visions of the Future

Ulfric stirred, he heard mumbling to his side, a regular occurrence now that he shared his bed with the Dragonborn, he turned his head slowly to look at Jaina, her eyes were still shut, and she was moving slightly, as if she was waving something away, she was clearly having a nightmare. Ulfric pushed up so he was leaning on his elbow, he reached over and gave her shoulder a light shake

“Jaina, love, wake up” Jaina sat up in bed, letting out a half gasp, half sob as she realised where she was, Ulfric moved his hand away as she calmed down

“Ulfric?” Jaina shifted so she was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees close to her chest, Ulfric moved up the bed too and wrapped his arm around her shoulders

“You’re safe, love, I’m here” Ulfric whispered as he leant closer to her, Jaina was trembling in his grip, “do you want to talk about it at all?” Jaina melted into his embrace, “was it Alec again?” She shook her head

“I… I was in a strange place… the sky was green and the water was black and as thick as honey… I… I was with someone, but he was wearing an odd mask, I couldn’t see his face”

“What happened?”

“Something grabbed me, it pulled me into the water, the man in the mask, he tried to get me out… but he couldn’t reach me, I was getting dragged deeper, and I couldn’t breathe.” Jaina started to cry, “I was so scared, Ulfric” Ulfric pulled her into his lap, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder, “it felt so real” her voice was quiet now as she continued to cry.

“And this wasn’t a place you knew?” Ulfric asked

“No… the realms of Oblivion I’ve had the misfortune of seeing never had green skies, I’ve seen red, purple and grey, but never green” Ulfric kissed the top of her head

“Jaina, this was a nightmare, nothing more”

“But all my nightmares have been places I knew, memories, things that haunt me from my past, this place… it was unknown to me, and the man in the mask? Who was he?”

“Did the man say anything?” Jaina thought for a moment, Ulfric could tell she was trying to recall the nightmare

“He… I think he called out to me, he was trapped there, he was so… sad… but then scared when I got dragged into the water” Jaina fell silent for a while, Ulfric could feel her starting to relax into his arms a little more, her breathing was also starting to even out too “Ulfric?”

“Yes, love?”

“What if my nightmare was a dream of the future? What if this is going to happen to me soon?” Ulfric’s arms tightened around her and he tucked her head under his chin.

“Jaina, my love, if you have somehow managed to foresee the future, then I am certain you will face whatever this is with the same bravery and power you’ve faced everything else with” Jaina curled up, as close to Ulfric’s chest as she could get and let out a long, trembling sigh “Rest, Jaina, you’re safe here”

[goopysoup]

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..we’ve been shot up, beat up by the fallin’ of the arrows..

song: state of my head - shinedown

in which you get shot by an arrow during the war between Stormcloaks and Imperials.

featuring: dragonborn (male), hadvar, ralof, ulfric

[as usual, all are gender neutral! it’s not listed which side the dragonborn is on, that’s for you to decide. Ulfric’s references the Dragonborn as delicate and he’s delusional asf. I was going to do more characters but my brain isn’t working today lol]

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dragonborn

“No..!” He shouted as his eyes landed on you, anger and worry growing within him as the arrow pierced your shoulder. You fell with a grunt, caught off guard by the sudden pain. You wouldn’t die, no, he wouldn’t let you.

The Dragonborn’s sword impaled the enemy in front of him, anger evident in his eyes like a burning fire. He couldn’t get to you, not until the battle was over, so he must fight harder to get to you faster.

He found you laid against a wall, your hand grasping the arrow as if you were going to rip it out, but you hadn’t. You knew better.

“My love,” he called out, rushing towards you, his heavy armour clanging with his movements. The Dragonborn crashed onto the ground beside you before he helped you remove the arrow, wincing at the cry you let out, “Shh, you’re going to be alright..”

He let his hand glow a pale yellow as he began to use the healing hands spell on you, making the weird feeling of your skin and bones quickly healing flood your senses. You leaned back against the wall, giving him a weak smile.

“My hero..”

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hadvar

You’d met Hadvar during your short time in Helgen before Alduin had destroyed it., killing anyone that had gotten in his way. It wasn’t long after your trip to Riverwood with the man that you’d decided to join the Imperials in their fight against the rebellion.

Now, you were here in Whiterun, fighting to keep it safe. You’d grown close to many of the people of the city, you’d hate to lose them to something as trivial as this. You fought well, but you’d been caught off guard by an onslaught of stormcloak soldiers surrounding you. Due to your distraction, one soldier took the chance to shoot an arrow at you, it only grazed your arm.

Once the battle was over, you’d made your way towards Jarl Balgruff, your armour had definitely seen better days. Your arm was covered in blood, you had cuts all over your body and bruises scattered along your skin.

“You made it? I was sure I’d find you face down in the dirt,” you heard Hadvar, his voice almost playful as you moved to stand next to him, tuning out Balgruff’s speech, “you seem pretty banged up there, Dragonborn.”

“It’s only a mere fatality,” you respond as you look towards the Jarl before your eyes naturally return to Hadvar. He grins a little and speaks again, “who do you think killed more rebels? You? Or me?”

You grinned and bumped his shoulder, “me, definitely.”

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ralof

“Dragonborn? Are you alright?” Ralof asked through the midst of battle, his voice echoing over the sounds of clashing swords combined with men and women dying. The screams weren’t going to be easy to forget.

“Just a scratch!” You responded, continuing your fight though you had an arrow stuck in your leg, and by the gods did it ache. You could hear him laugh as he fought with an Imperial, “you are a tough one, aren’t you?”

You breathed out in heavy breaths, your lungs aching as your body almost crumbled to the ground. You may be Dragonborn, but you were still a living creature. Ralof made his way towards you, catching you as you began to fall, “woah, there, easy..”

Your hands grasped his arms as he gently lead you to sit on the ground against one of the ruined walls, “I’m fine-“ you tried to reason as you looked up at him weakly, he only shook his head, “no, I’ll find a healer.”

Instinctively, your hand moved to remove the arrow, “I’ll be fine, Ralof,” you says stubbornly, and his hand grasped your wrist tightly, “don’t even think about it, Dragonborn. I’m getting a healer. You stay here and leave the damned arrow alone.”

You wanted to protest, groaning in annoyance before you nodded. Even in your defiance, you knew he was right.

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ulfric stormcloak

Ulfric had been protective of you from the start. He knew immediately from that day on the cart headed to Helgen that you didn’t belong there, you were too delicate, too precious for this cruel world. But, as the gods would see it, you were the Dragonborn. It would be far too difficult to keep you from the dangers of Skyrim when you were the one meant to protect it. Just as he was to protect you.

For him, it took you much too long to arrive in Windhelm, but when you did he was ecstatic. His person had arrived for him, wanting to join his cause. Were you a gift from Talos himself?

He didn’t want you to fight, but you had insisted— you knew you were much stronger than he thought, that you could handle most anything. I mean, you slayed Alduin, you badass. So, he reluctantly let you join the fight, but kept any order he gave you close by just in case.

He frowned when you entered the Palace of Kings, your armour bloody, you were bloody and he hoped it wasn’t your own. But, once again, the gods defied him as you told him you’d been shot with an arrow.

“Did you kill them?” He asked, looking down at you from his throne. You shook your head, “no, they got away.” “Who was it?” You furrowed your eyebrows, why did he care?

“Some bandit, I’m not sure,” you replied as you were handed a health potion by one of the servants of the palace. You accepted it, but didn’t drink it. Ulfric knew he’d find that damn bandit and he’d slaughter them, put their head on a spike in front of his palace if you’d let him.

“Very well, get some rest, Dragonborn.”

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[matri4rch]

"The Amulet"

🤍🐻‍❄️AO3 LINK🐻‍❄️🤍

Snippet:

"Ulfric's voice echoed in his mind as the image of her face gradually dissipated into a clouded abyss of shadows and darkness. A chill ran down his spine as her godly form slowly slipped away from his grasp.

"Tell me who you are, spirit..." he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want from me?" The silence that followed once again was deafening as she continued to retreat from his touch, her hands transforming into shimmering snow that engulfed him in its icy embrace before finally letting him go.

For what felt like an eternity, Ulfric's body drifted into the freezing abyss of unconsciousness. Then, as slowly as he fell under the spell, the Jarl of Windhelm slowly returned to Nirn as he opened his eyes once again. Squinting as a deep orange and red glow blinded him, warmth caressed his frozen skin. And the overwhelming silence was drowned by the faint sound of a cracking fire."

[helgiafterdark]

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday 💛

Wednesday again!!! I've been trying to work some more on the next chapter for The Perfect Storm, because this Friday marks a year since I posted the first chapter!! I'm honestly so so happy that I'm still working on it now, after years without the heart to write, seventeen chapters in with many more to go!

Some more festival shenanigans with Elyse and Balgruuf, inspired by my discovery that one of Balgruuf's primary skills in Skyrim happens to be archery.

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Elyse groaned quietly as her arrow feebly clattered to the ground some feet before the target, and Balgruuf had to stifle a laugh as she started muttering to herself quietly. All that he could hear was her blaming both the cold and the bow, pale wisps of air dissipating around her as she grumbled. He had never expected her to be the sort of person who took losing or failing badly, but given how stubborn she could sometimes be… perhaps it wasn't as far-fetched as he had first thought.

Unfortunately, she heard him trying to conceal his amusement, and she continued mumbling for a moment longer before staring at him. “I saw that, and it isn't funny! This was a fluke, there’s only two bows I can use properly, and this isn’t like either of them!” she huffed, before taking a deep breath, walking over to him, and thrusting the bow into his hands. “How about you try? If my attempt was so amusing, then that must surely mean that you can do better than me.”

He barely had the chance to protest before she had more or less pushed him onto the mark indicated on the ground to shoot the target from. “Elyse, I wasn’t laughing at-“ He stopped speaking when he saw her hands on her hips and the raised eyebrow that she was giving him. “Oh, for the love of... Fine.”

Seemingly satisfied with his decision to go along with her demands, she called Elrindir over to ask for three more arrows.

It had been a while since he had used a bow himself, so he didn't have any high expectations of what he would be able to achieve, but… well, Elyse's arrows had barely made it halfway to the target. He was confident that he could manage at least a bit closer if he hadn't allowed himself to get too rusty in his abilities.

Balgruuf could feel Elyse’s eyes on him expectantly as he took one of the arrows he had been given, held the bow up, positioned his hands and arms, before letting the arrow loose. It sailed through the air, passing over the scattered arrows from her failed attempts, before embedding itself into the target. It wasn’t quite on the centre, but was decently close enough all things considered.

A quiet tut came from his side. “Show off. Probably just luck...”

The same happened with the second arrow. It was much closer to the edge of the target, but the wind had ended up picking up and no doubt had an impact on his aim. Elyse inhaled sharply at the very moment the arrow had landed, and from the corner of his eyes he could see her start fidgeting.

When the third arrow landed on the target she didn’t audibly react, but when he turned to face her, she had a dumbfounded stare plastered across her face. That look was quick to turn into a pout accompanied by her folding her arms over as he started laughing once more. She genuinely didn't take losing well at all.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 28: Soothing Touch ~ Ulfric Stormcloak/F!Dragonborn [1,339 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Elsa prowled into the Palace of Kings with a smirk on her face, a couple of fresh scars, and plenty of new stories to tell. Which was exactly how she liked it. High King Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne, with no small number of folk gathered in the hall to seek some favour or another from him, and so she decided he could be forgiven for not noticing her arrival. Galmar, however, did – and his responding chuckle was loud enough to draw Ulfric’s attention, who looked to him, and then followed his gaze to Elsa as she approached.

“Dragonborn,” he greeted, low voice rumbling out above all other voices in the hall.

The merchant he’d interrupted seemed miffed at first, but then he registered what Ulfric had said and all heads whipped around to look at her. She liked that just fine – it made clearing a path to the throne easier. Sauntering forth, she dipped into a half-bow, hand pressed to her chest.

“My king.”

“It’s been some time. There were rumours that you’d been killed,” he considered her slowly.

“Did you believe them?”

He offered a low, reverberating chuckle. “Not a chance.”

Elsa glanced in the direction of the merchant, and then around the crowd gathered who seemed to watch the interaction with bated breath, not wanting to so much as cough lest they miss a word. When she looked back to Ulfric, she found his eyes had not strayed an inch from her.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

And she almost sounded apologetic for it.

“Business has run late,” he replied. “But I believe Wuunferth wishes to consult you on some artefact he found.”

A lovely, convenient excuse for her to walk through the war room and up into the living quarters of the palace, right before the eyes of all those here. Elsa smiled. How she’d missed him.

To her credit, she did go to Wuunferth once she’d jogged up the stony steps that led to the sleeping chambers of those chosen enough to live within the palace itself. But only to sell him a few rare, enchanted artefacts she’d come across for a very steep price – and, as she’d suspected, he had nothing to consult her on. By the time she was done, and her pack was a good deal lighter, Jorleif had found her.

“The Jarl has ordered for a bath to be drawn for you, my lady,” he greeted, before adding quietly, “in his chambers.”

Well, she supposed he saw no use in being subtle when it came to servants of his own household.

The bath, kept scalding hot with a few artful fire spells, worked the cold out of her bones and the soreness from her muscles so well that she had only just climbed out of it by the time she heard Ulfric’s voice in the hallway outside. Wrapped in an abundant amount of soft linen, steam rose steadily from her skin as she sat before the fire, content to air-dry as she dragged a comb through her dripping hair.

Finally, the High King of Skyrim slipped into the room, closing and locking the door behind him for good measure. Elsa had just enough energy to feign an unconvincing look of surprise.

“Did I wander into your chambers instead of the guest wing? I do apologise, your majesty. That Jorleif – always up to mischief.”

He chuckled, casting aside his heavy fur-laden coat and then making quick work of the chestplate beneath with an efficiency that belied his haste. Finally, when he was done, he approached, extending one large hand towards her. Elsa grasped it and brought his knuckles to her lips – like a supplicant.

“Stop that,” Ulfric scoffed, wrapping his fingers around hers and hauling her up.

Elsa allowed it, and then she was in his arms – glad he’d disposed of his armour so that she could feel him pressed against her as she dropped the bullshit and wrapped her arms around him. One of his arms remained wrapped tightly about her waist as if fearing she’d run off again the moment he let go, but the other roamed up the curve of her spine, across her bare shoulders and up into her hair, caring not for the water still clinging to her.

All but purring, she melted into the touch, sighing her contentment. Out there, none touched her unless they intended to kill her. It was easy to forget what this was like. Often because she made sure to do so, by force of necessity. Ulfric felt the same, she knew he did, for few ever touched him without wanting something. A kiss on his hand that preceded a beg. Elsa, however, never asked him for anything. He gave her much, that was true, but she never asked for it. She never would.

He was so wrapped up in touching her – making sure she was here, real and warm and breathing, that it seemed to take him a moment to remember to kiss her. It was funny how, upon each reunion, it simultaneously felt like years since he’d last kissed her but also mere seconds, his lips pressing harshly against hers as he stole the air from her lungs.

When they parted, it was only so he could lead her to the bed, although he made no move to unwrap her from her linen, nor remove more of his clothing. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the enormous bed and he sat, pulling her so that she straddled him and then he buried his face in her hair, keeping her there as he held her tightly. Relief washed over her, the same way it would when she drank her first gulp of water after a battle, or had her first bite of food after being forced to go without without for days. Elsa returned the grip fiercely, thinking of little other than that he was here, as she’d pined for in every godforsaken ruin and cave across Skyrim. And that she’d run through any who tried to interrupt them now.

“I forgot what this was like,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“I must strive to make a more memorable bedfellow,” he remarked drily.

“Not that. This,” she squeezed, to illustrate her point.

“…If you didn’t stay away for so long, it might be easier to remember,” he murmured. “If you stayed, you’d have no chance to forget.”

“You want to install me as your mistress, is that it?”

“The Dragonborn would be a fitting High Queen of Skyrim,” he corrected. “And I could hope for no finer queen than you.”

“I’m not made for queening. For growing soft in a palace, eating that which I did not procure for myself, pretending to care for merchant squabbles.”

“There is more than one way to be a queen, Elsa. Particularly in Skyrim, and especially if you were to be my queen. Unless you think me soft and idle.”

The joke was right there, waiting to be said. A lack of hardness was never one of your problems, or some such nonsense. But to retreat into that would be taken as an insult…and he’d be right to do so. Instead, she sighed quietly and said nothing.

“Am I making progress with my case, then?” he hedged.

“What makes you say that?”

“The first time I broached this matter, you left immediately thereafter and I did not see you for half a year.”

He did not know, and she didn’t tell him, that she’d returned expecting to find him wed off to some truly suitable candidate. Nor did she tell him that she had no idea whether she, at the time, desired or dreaded to find that such had been the case. And she certainly didn’t divulge that she now knew she’d have been sick if it had come to fruition.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, glad he could not see her face.

And Ulfric smiled – because no doubt he heard the temptation in her voice.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[galadrieljones]

Royal! Twilight! Rocking chair!!

Thank you for the prompt ❤️ The thing I felt most like writing about for this prompt was my Skyrim oc, Osk Frostborn. This is a ship I have not written before but have wanted to write for a long time.

Skyrim | Dragonborn x Ulfric Stormcloak | Mature

Winter in the Marrow: I

Have you ever opened up a book and seen words, but not known what to do with them?

Osk sat in a hard wooden chair, staring past the fire in the Nightgate Inn. Outside, the snow had been like spikes, in her eyes and in her hair. 

The bard here was loquacious.

"Those is heavy weapons," said the bard with her hands folded around her lute. "Ebony weapons? You must be rich then."

"I'm a good smith," said Osk. 

"Well, it's your hair then. Your hair gives you away." The bard had a slight lisp. She had an accent straight from the lowlands of the Rift. She wore bright red make-up on her cheeks, a rouge made from snowberries, which felt on trend to Osk, considering what she’d seen the women wearing in Solitude in those days. She had round hips, but she couldn't have been much older. Maybe in her late twenties. "Plus you had to learn smithing somewhere," the bard went on. "From someone, right? Ebony. That's expensive juice."

"What are you talking about?" said Osk.

"I mean, your hair," said the bard. She sat down in the rocking chair beside the fire, right next to Osk. "It's long and very blond. Like, white. Looks like you were born from fear."

Osk laughed at this. "That's an old wive's tale."

"Well, maybe," said the Bard. Her hair was very red. "But you were born in the Pale, weren't you?"

Osk did not answer.

"Maybe Winterhold, I suppose. Nords up in Winterhold look nigh on as elves, I'd say. They're so old in the marrow. Lots of them come ‘round here. They farm winter crops, or they're mages. But you are not a mage I reckon. I've never seen you before."

Osk took a drink from her flagon. It was punishing and strong. Some sort of mulled wine. Or maybe not. She'd already forgotten what the innkeeper had offered. "I haven't lived in Skyrim since I was a baby."

"Where'd you go?"

"Somewhere else."

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"A lot of bards have said the same exact thing, but they don't work for themselves."

"You aren't being too kind," said the bard. She seemed sad now. She looked down at her freckled hands. "I ain't no spy. I know the bad rap we got, us bards. But I ain't no spy. I swear. I'm from Falkreath. Helgen."

"Helgen?" said Osk. She had been wrong, and she felt bad. "Do you know what happened to your town?"

The bard nodded sadly, looking down at her lute. "Mother sent home about it. She's in a bad way now, I believe. Moved to Whiterun where she lives in the inn."

"I'm sorry," said Osk. "I really am." She wasn’t trying to be a bitch. She took a deep breath instead. "I don't tell people where I'm from, okay? It's not personal. It's just like...operational security."

"What's operational security?" said the bard. "Never learned nothing like that from Talos."

"It just means, I don't know you, so no matter what you say, I can't trust you. No offense."

"Guess you must be important then, eh?" This seemed to perk her up immediately. "You like, royalty?"

Osk had come across girls like her before. Rural kinds. They took on the very disposition of their crop. Hers would have been radishes. She seemed nice.

"Not really," said Osk.

"You ain't here with the Imperial Legion, are you?"

"No," said Osk. The bard recoiled. Perhaps she'd said it more forcefully than she meant. "Sorry. Just, no."

"You a Stormcloak then?"

Osk didn't answer.

"I said, are you a Stormcloak then?" said the bard, louder. She seemed to think that Osk couldn't hear properly. She glanced around, like it was a secret. But there weren't too many others at the inn that night. Some old man orc, down in the cellar. Liked her music. The innkeeper himself had dozed off behind the counter, and there were just a handful of off-duty guards from Dawnstar, piss drunk, trading bad jokes on the other side of the room. "If you are a Stormcloak," the bard continued, "that would make sense, being in the Pale and all, so close to Eastmarch. You look real tired, ma'am. You look real beat."

They both heard a loud noise then and looked toward the door. A big man had entered, bringing with him the cold, purple bite of the twilight air. Everybody got quiet, including the drunken guards. One of them dropped his flagon, and it spilled all over the floor.

The man in the doorway shook the snow out of his enormous, expensive furs. It was Ulfric Stormcloak. He wore a heavy fur cap, the face carved right off a bear.

"By Talos," said the Bard.

Osk looked away and closed her eyes against the heat from the fire. She was embarrassed. She squeezed her hands tightly into fists as a habit. She took off her heavy leather gloves, which she had not even realized she was still wearing, until now. She didn't know what to do, or how he'd managed to track her. She had been very careful.

"Osk," he said. The relief, how he regarded her. It was confusing, like the loud clanking of his chainmail against the quiet crackling of the fire. "Osk. Thank Talos."

The whole room was staring at her, including the bard. She looked at Osk with huge eyes. She’d guessed royalty. She could not have guessed this. In any case, she got up right away to ask him if he needed something, what he would like to drink. He ordered a mead and one whole apple pie with a kindly voice that Osk had rarely heard him use with his own servants, in his Palace of the Kings. 

He came and sat in the rocking chair where the sweet bard and her radish disposition had been sitting just moments before. It was strange to consider him in a rocking chair. Seemed a place for a grandmother, or a curious bard. And yet, he came to possess it. He leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees. He said it again, more forcefully now: "Osk."

It was almost pathetic, she thought. The way he spoke to her. So she looked at him. His pale hair was matted down where his hat had been. He had the saddest eyes of any man she'd ever met, frozen solid with grief. "Hello, Ulfric," she said. "How did you find me?"

"Your horse is very recognizable," said Ulfric. "Bred by the Black-Briars. You should sully her coat if you'd like to remain hidden, Osk. Especially in the Pale."

"How do you know the Black-Briars?"

He smiled.

Osk finished her mead. It made her feel dizzy. His smell and presence were all-encompassing, and they filled up the whole room, all around her. He had this habit in the mornings, of dabbing his wrists with this kind of apple essence, made for him by an alchemist in Solstheim. It smelled of bark, and tart juices. Apples were a relic from her childhood, where she had lived, hidden with her mother on a botanical berry farm near the Gold Coast of eastern Cyrodill. He liked apples. It was one of the first things they'd shared. 

"You shouldn't be seen in the Pale," she said.

"Neither should you."

"Why are you here?"

"You said not to follow," said Ulfric, removing his gloves, as he intended to stay a while. The bard stood by with his mead and his apple pie, set it down on the table between them. Ulfric thanked her and picked up his fork and knife.

"So why didn't you listen?" said Osk.

"I never listen," he said, tucking in. “I assumed you’d know this by now, Dragonborn.”

(to be continued)

Send a prompt! - Ask Box

[reachwitch]

Roar of a Wolfborn completed 46/46

After losing her family, Sifkni finds herself almost executed. After fleeing, she travels to Whiterun where she encounters the Companions. She knows their secret, as she is also a werewolf.

Despite feeling that someone else is better suited for the role, she is soon thrust into the position of Dragonborn. She must learn to believe in her skills and heal from her past to fulfill her destiny.

Farkas x LDB {F Werewolf Nord} | Skjor x OC {M Skaal}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | EPILOGUE |

Hunt of the Blood Moons

After defeating Alduin, Last Dragonborn Sifkni is called to Falkreath for a werewolf problem. She helps solve the mystery, only to have a Great Hunt called on her by Hircine. Farkas x LDB {F Werewolf Nord}

Chapter PROLOGUE | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | WIP

Sivaas

After her pack is killed, Estinan wanders around Skyrim. With no home to call her own, she makes do with hunting or selling her sword arm. She ends up in Riften on a fateful day. With her pockets emptied by a handsome thief, she tracks him through the sewers and begins her strange quest with the Thieves Guild.

Brynjolf x OC {F Werewolf Bosmer}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | WIP

Fury of a Tundra Wolf

Former Harbinger of the Companions, Thea Icehammer, joins the Stormcloak army. She fights alongside the army to bring Ulfric his victory and to free Skyrim from Thalmor and Empire's clutches.

Galmar x OC {F Werewolf Nord}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | WIP

Mother of Hunters Completed

Adelina, a devout Hircine follower and werewolf, is called to one of the Lord Huntsman’s Great Hunts. But as the Hare.

She must survive three days with his Hunters and three nights with him personally hunting her. Adelina must survive. If only to prove she is NOT a Hare. She will not ever be a HARE.

Hircine x OC {F Werewolf Nede/Nord}

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | Epilogue | Lore Book

Vestige Liselle encounters another Problematic Prince ft. Dragons (and Mudcrabs)

Liselle’s encounters of Tamriel and Oblivion are detailed in mostly journals. ESO Main Questline, a couple Daggerfall Covenant Quests, Clockwork City, Original Plot: Coldfire Codex, Elsweyr, Mages’ Guild, Blackwood | Future Goals: High Isle and Necrom

Abnur Tharn x Vestige {F Breton}

Just a Ruin (and Mudcrab) Advocate | 158 Chapters | Journal Coldfire Codex Chap 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 Rage of Dragons and the Vestige | 65 Chapters | Journal Mages’ Guild Fiasco: Journal of Vestige Liselle |  24 Chapters | Journal In Which Liselle’s Fist Lands upon Another’s Cheek | WIP | Journal

Blessings of the Moons

Finnki is the Thane of Whiterun. She takes frequent bounties to keep her life and mind busy. She comes across the scene of an ambush. There’s only one survivor. J'Med. He’s a Khajiit from far-off lands, traveling to Skyrim to shake off his past. Finnki helps J'Med with recovery and fitting into Skyrim. J'Med teaches Finnki about moving on and leaving one’s past.

OC {F Nord/Bosmer} x OC {M Khajiit}

Chapter 1 | 2 | WIP

Shadow of the Druadach

Tiernan is the Last Dragonborn. He is also a Reachman. He is a prickly man on his quest to save his world, despite the distrust and prejudice he faces on the daily. While he is looking for an Elder Scroll for Paarthurnax, he meets Rozelia Greensly. A master Mage at the College of Winterhold. She is very interested in the Reach and Reach magic. She joins Tiernan on his adventure, to his dismay. Perhaps the buds of friendship will bloom during their trip to find the Elder Scroll.

Last Dragonborn {M Reachfolk} x OC {F Breton}

Chapter 1 | WIP

[rosiesmcposies]

Do you still do X Reader requests? If so, could I please get headcanons of Miraak, Serana, and Ulfric Stormcloak (separate) having feelings for the Dragonborn, only to realize the DB already has a significant other?

yup! I still do x reader stuff and I’m now open for fallout 4 characters now to! :D I’m using tumblr on mobile browser so sorry if the formats off but thank you for the request!

Miraak

honestly accepting he had feelings for the Dragonborn was hard enough and then finding out they have a s/o? He is going through it. He’s mainly filled with anger in some sense mixed with jealousy. He’s constantly going back and forth in his mind from being mad at himself for even having these feelings to being mad at their s/o, in his eyes they will never be good enough for the Dragon born. Miraak is definitely not one to tell the Dragon born EVER though. He tries to contain his emotions so it’s not obvious but if you look hard enough it’s pretty easy to tell. He’s praying for the downfall of the relationship, but also he’s like “as long as their happy I guess but don’t settle for less.” He’s the biggest hater out there.

Serana

Serana also had a hard time accepting her feelings but for much different reasons, she didn’t want to be vulnerable in that way. She had planned on telling the dragon born but she kept on pushing it off mentally going back and forth on wether she should tell them or not. After finding out they had a s/o Serana was sad but relieved she found out before she told them. She was happy they had someone but it was still a lot to deal with. Serana will tell them eventually, but she isn’t asking them out, she just wants to communicate how she feels about them, which is still really hard but she’s less stressed than before. She has an open and honest talk and hopes the feelings go away, she does isolate herself for a bit, just so she can be alone with herself and her thoughts.

Ulfric

honestly I don’t know much abt ulfric but I think he’d just like accept it. He’d be upset for sure but idk I think his confidence would like prevent him from being…distraught? He’s just a little sad by it and like gives himself a pep talk like “you are strong and could have anyone you want. Do not stress.” Idk I don’t know ulfric well bc I don’t rlly talk w him in game so that’s just what I imagined.

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Hi, hi. It's been a while since I have posted my Idiots since I have been (and still am working on more Emmrich brainrot.) However, I thought it would be nice to get back to my roots and share with you what Ulfric and Dahlia are up to.

Tagging: @oblivions-dawn, @dirty-bosmer, @hircines-hunter, @skyrim-forever @bougainvillea-and-saltwater

@pocket-vvardvark @firefly-factory @illumiera @hannah-heartstrings @vivifriend

@theoneandonlysemla @sylvienerevarine @umbracirrus and anyone else who wishes to share. <3

23rd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 203

Dearest Dahlia,

It has been so strange and too quiet with you not in the castle to fill the empty space between my thoughts. When I wake up every morning, I almost expect to find you next to me to tell me to, “stop thinking so hard” as you can “almost hear my worrying”. I promise you that this much has not changed, but that I am also trying to take care of myself.

Sylvi is doing just fine. Lydia and Narile have both taken it upon themselves to look after her most of the time. At least when I don’t have her. Normally, in the mornings I take her into my offic,e and she helps me with the endless mountains of paperwork there. (Don’t scowl at me. I’m teaching her young as she is the only heir we have.)

As for our “friend” downstairs, as promised he has been released, but under the tightest surveillance, and true to his word he has told us of other “problems” we might encounter here in Skyrim. I have dispatched some of the guards left here to help deal with them discreetly. I’ll be sending our friend out to Hammerfell with you and Galmar once this business is done. Lord Corolius currently rots in a cell in the Bloodworks as he waits for his execution date.

I pray to Talos every night to keep you safe.

Yours,

Ulfric

2nd of Evening Star, 4E 203

My bear,

Truly, it is good to hear from you as being so far from home has been rather difficult for me as well. Ralof was not joking when he said that Hammerfell is entirely unlike Skyrim. Not long upon crossing the border, we found ourselves in seas of sand and sun, endless heat following us everywhere we go. There is no escape from it. I miss the snow. I miss Windhelm. And more than anything, I miss you and Sylvi.

As for myself, I am holding together the best that I can…and trying to keep Galmar sane as well. Did you know he frets in his sleep just about as much as you do? Before you get any ideas, his tent is pitched right next to mine, so I can hear him very clearly. I’ve offered to have one of the mages make him a tonic, but the stubborn man refuses—much like you would were you here.

It is likely in the next few days that we will find a spot to make a more permanent camp. According to our sources, Queen Riyah’s sand riders are only a couple of days ride from where we currently are. I’ll be sure to keep you updated as much as I can.

…if I don’t melt first.

All my love,

Dahlia

17th of Evening Star, 4E 203

My heart,

I cannot begin to describe the feeling of complete and utter uselessness I hold when I think of you and our armies out in the field while I sit here and slog through meaningless paperwork. None of this matters in the grander scale of things. With each hour passing, my fingers itch more for the hilt of my waraxe than for that of the quill which I currently hold. 

Or perhaps it is that they yearn for the softness of your skin.

Forgive me for being an old fool, but your presence has been sorely missed in my bed. And before you go getting ideas, it is not only the intimacy I miss, it is your warmth more than anything that I long for. In these trying times, comfort is more valuable than gold, and you are my treasure.

Sylvi is doing well, so you need nor worry for her—even if I know you will still do so despite my reassurances. Recently, she has started crawling around the bear rugs we lay down for her in the Palace. She babbles as she tries to find more troubles to get into. Just like her mother, or at least that is what Lydia says as she chases her around the room. I’m inclined to agree with her, although I would say neither one of us are good at sitting still, so perhaps that comes from both of us.

Yours,

Ulfric

[blossom-adventures]

💌 : How would they plan a romantic evening for a significant other?

For Jaina, unless it was asked already. In this case perhaps... Something about her favourite romantic dinner and how it went?

Jaina has little to no experience with romance, so when she starts to get closer to Ulfric she isn’t really sure what to do in terms of a romantic evening, so she asks people she knows have had relationships; Kaidan, Kristof, her family etc. And the best advice they gave her was a romantic dinner, wine, candles, Ulfric’s favourite meal etc.

So she does that, and everything went smoothly… until a report returned from Galmar saying that a group of Imperials attacked a group Stormcloak solders as they were falling back to Windhelm, it soured Ulfric’s mood for the rest of the evening but she tried again a few days later and that was left uninterrupted, meaning they could actually enjoy the dinner and each other’s company

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part X: Swan

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Author's note: The results of the poll are in! We're splitting this chapter right down the middle! Look for Swan, continued some time next week or so.

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles

If you want to be on the tag list for future chapters, please let me know!

Content Warning: Nothing special for this chapter.

#######

“There’s nothing to discuss so long as that traitor continues to lead an insurrection against the Empire.”

“With all due respect, General, the dragons pose a greater threat.”

“They’re a nuisance, but I wasn’t sent to Skyrim to slay dragons. I intend to put down this rebellion, dragons or no dragons.”

They had been going around in circles for nearly half an hour. Leara had to respect Tullius’s ability to give her the runaround. As a tactic against politicians and the Aldmeri Dominion, it was no doubt a very useful skill, but Leara wasn’t a politician, and as for the Dominion, well, that didn’t count, did it?

Across the room, Legate Rikke stood over the map of Skyrim; while she appeared focused on the flags marking Stormcloak movement, her attention was very obviously on the discussion between the Dragonborn and the Legion General. Leara didn’t know much about the legate, save that she was well-respected even by the Stormcloaks (or so she’d heard). What would Rikke say if Leara brought up the threat of Alduin? Unbidden, she recalled how that one Stormcloak general had scoffed at the idea. As much as she’d like to chalk belief up to an inside joke for Helgen survivors – and how morbid was that? – Leara was sure Tullius wouldn’t appreciate how serious a threat the World-Eater was. She couldn’t blame him. She hadn’t understood it herself, not until she was face to face with Alduin in Kynesgrove. Dragons meant something different in Skyrim than to the rest of the Empire. Dragons were not a symbol of Imperial sovereignty and Divine salvation. To the Nords, dragons were first overlords and later the stuff of legends. And those legends came back to burn the world to ash. Still. He was at Helgen. Tullius knew what they could do.

“Given the trouble that one dragon caused the Legion last summer, I can’t imagine the growing number of attacks is doing your troops any favors,” Leara said.

Grave, General Tullius looked at the leather folios stacked near the map. “Perhaps,” he said. Tapping a finger on the stack, he added, “But all accounts show that the Stormcloaks are just as affected as we are. The dragons are just another condition we all must reckon with. The legion can weather the winter, we can deal with the dragons.”

Legate Rikke pursed her lips but remained silent.

Leara settled a contemplative expression over her face, though inside she wanted to roll her eyes at the general’s bluster. She wouldn’t accuse Tullius of arrogance. No, he was too cunning a strategist for that. But his push to stick with the conflict as if the dragons were another natural phenomenon to work around was dangerous. The kind of dangerous that would see both sides razed by dragon fire. Leara inclined her head. “For everything there is a season. Am I right in my understanding that forward progress has been slow this year? Tensions will soon reach a boiling point and, forgive me, but the peace council may be able to circumvent any more unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Ulfric’s forces are stretched thin as it is, and soon his supporters will see for themselves the consequences of opposing the Empire,” Tullius said, his hand curling into a fist. “This war will be over soon enough.”

Legate Rikke coughed.

“Is it really so simple?” Leara asked.

Tullius’s fist tightened. “Of course, it’s not,” he sighed, “Look, Miss—”

“Just Leara is fine.”

“Leara, then. The Nords seem to put a lot of stock in you being ‘Dragonborn.’ I won’t pretend to know what that means here, but the Legate has told me that you’re some type of hero. But I can’t afford to depend on one person to take care of this war. Tell me, how can you enforce this proposed peace when it’s taken legions to get this far?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Leara wondered if Tullius was as tired as she felt. “If the Emperor would just send the reinforcements I’ve asked for, this business would be done with!”

Now that wasn’t simple. Leara knew that much. She remembered the legions mobilizing through Colovia and the West Weald when she was still in the Imperial City. Back when the war in Skyrim was just another topic to gossip about with customers. Maybe once did The Black Horse Courier run a front page spread on it, but that was when High King Torygg was killed, and the lines were first drawn. As a Blade, Leara couldn’t help but empathize with the Stormcloaks’ desire for free Talos worship, but at the same time, she spent years in Cyrodiil and in Alinor before that. She knew what the bigger picture was and it turned her stomach. People in Cyrodiil were more concerned about their backdoor than the northern frontier, and they had a right to be. If the Emperor diverted more men to Skyrim, then the line between the Imperial City and the threat from the Aldmeri Dominion would be weakened, and they couldn’t afford that.

And that was without the dragons to contend with.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Leara admitted freely. “What I can do is advise using this peace council as a means to solidify Imperial support in Skyrim. If the Empire shows themselves willing to talk, then getting the people’s support will be easier.”

Tullius studied her for a long moment. Leara waited. He didn’t see the traitor that lurked just below her skin. Ulfric suspected it was there, but Leara prayed that the idea didn’t even enter Tullius’s mind. She was the Dragonborn, and she needed to be seen as such. Not as a Blades agent nor as a Dominion officer.

“We could use the breathing room – if you can pull this off,” he said at length. “Fine, we’ll come to this peace council, for all the good it’ll do. I still have my doubts, but who knows? Under these conditions, even Ulfric might agree to your little truce.”

“I doubt that, sir,” Legate Rikke said, face drawn. “He’ll be there. He won’t disrespect the Greybeards’ invitation, but he won’t come quietly.”

“He overestimates himself,” Tullius nodded. “That will be all, Legate.”

“Of course, General.”

Relaxing her shoulders, Leara smiled. From a pouch on her belt, she withdrew a card. “This has the details for the council,” she said, handing the card to Tullius.

He turned it over. “Two weeks. You knew I’d agree to this.”

“I was optimistic.”

Legate Rikke laughed. “You’ll need that if you think you’re going to get Ulfric to agree to anything!”

Leara only continued to smile as her anxiety over Ulfric wormed its way through her insides, squirming and gnawing.

·•★•·

Solitude was beautiful in high summer.

Winding her way through the Market District, Leara peaked at the open stalls from underneath the protection of her hood. The potent tang of salmon and other fish brought in by the morning boats wafted through the air; many were piled up in barrels and crates, but some were strung up on wire threaded between stalls where their scales caught the sun at high noon. But fish were only one of the many offerings of the Solitude market. Imports from High Rock, Cyrodiil, and the Summerset Isles glittered in the hands of merchants haggling with shoppers. It was a pleasant day and the streets were crowded with men, elves, and beast folk. It reminded Leara of a pale version of the vibrant Imperial City.

She eyed a line of shops, each with signs carved and painted in the classical cosmopolitan styles of the Heartland. Passing by a dress shop, she spied an ensemble not unlike one she recalled the Duchess of Colovia wearing to the Midyear’s celebration a couple of years before, peeking through a window. Next door were several tables displaying handcrafted leather bracers and jackets. Most were Nordic, but she spied the odd Nibenese or Colovian design in the mix. Solitude, or at least its merchant class, seemed to take many of its cues from the Imperials. Hopefully, this boded well for her hunt for a decent bookshop. She desperately needed to study some of these ancient Nord legends that were so intrinsically tied to being Dragonborn.

Although, as much as Solitude seemed to mimic the Imperial City, the lack of a common newspaper gave her pause.

Maybe she could blame that on the civil war.

Ducking through an alley, she tucked her cowl tighter around her mouth. Despite the pleasant weather, an absent breeze wound its way through the city, chilled by the Sea of Ghosts. But even if it were stifling outside, she’d keep her hood and cowl on. Solitude reflected the Imperial City in many ways, including the presence of the Aldmeri Dominion within its walls. She was too lax before when she infiltrated that party at the Embassy. And again, when she spoke with Ancano at the College. The Dominion was always watching.

Electricity teased her spine, and Leara shivered.

The familiar urge to run nipped at her feet. But no. She had come too far to run now. Even with the Dominion and Ulfric Stormcloak out to get her, she still had to think of Skyrim. Akatosh ordained it so.

Crossing the street, she slipped through the door to The Winking Skeever. Warmth and laughter pulled her in, inviting her to join the chattering patrons clustered around fish plates and bowls of mead. Her stomach twinged. Winding her way to the bar, Leara adverted her gaze from the platters of food on the nearby tables. Food could wait.

A gentle yip! brought Leara’s attention to the ground. Karnwyr slipped from under a stool, his tail wagging, and bounded up to her. “Well, hello to you, too!” Leara giggled, letting the wolf lick her hand.

“None for me, sweetness?”

The giggle petered out. “No, thank you. You reek of alcohol.”

Bishop snorted, a near-empty tankard in his hand. “There’s nothing else to do when you’re off doing gods-know-what.”

Karnwyr whined when Leara’s hand slipped from his reach, falling to her side. Clearing her throat, Leara settled on the barstool beside Bishop. “I’m done,” she said. “Tullius agreed to attend. We can leave Solitude in the morning.”

“I’ll be glad when we can put this prissy hole behind us. Their alcohol tastes like horker dung,” Bishop grumbled, throwing back the rest of his tankard.

From the other end of the counter, Leara caught sight of the innkeeper’s son, rolling his eyes, exasperation painting his face. Clearly, this wasn’t the first comment Bishop had made about the tavern’s alcohol menu.

“We’ll be back on the road in the morning.”

Bishop eyed her, his pale eyes trailing over the hood stained dark with dragon’s blood and the silver armor in desperate need of polish. “You’re done with that Legion guy?”

“Yes.”

Bishop’s mouth lifted into a crooked smirk. “Well, well, I can think of a few things we can do to pass the time till we head out again, starting with this.” He leaned forward, the scent of fermented honey and yeast curling from him into Leara’s nose as he tugged the cowl down past her chin. “My, but you do look sweet enough to eat, don’t you?”

Her chin between his fingers, Leara could do nothing but offer a weak smile. “Actually, I was planning on finding a bookstore.”

“A what? More books?” Bishop groaned, releasing her to scrub his face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“No, I’m quite serious.”

“Listen, darling,” Bishop said, resting his elbow on the counter. “It’s about time you got your head out of those books and paid attention to more important things.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Like me.”

“I do pay attention to you,” Leara said, patting his knee. Then she withdrew before he could snatch her hand in his. Standing up, she quirked her head to the side. “But I need to pay more attention to Skyrim.”

Bishop scoffed, but Leara ignored him as she slipped down the counter to where the innkeeper’s son, Sorex Vinius, stood pouring drinks. Leara waited quietly as he finished filling the tankards on one of the serving girls’ trays. As soon as the Breton girl whisked it away, he turned to Leara, raising a dark eyebrow. “Ah, Ormand, right? Here to order lunch?”

“No, thank you,” Leara smiled. “I was actually wondering if you could point me in the direction of a bookstore.”

Sorex nodded, “There’s a few options, depending on what you’re hunting for. There’s The Scholar Ship down by the docks, run by an Isabel Bourdon. That’s the place to go if you're looking for exotic, rare books. Then there’s always Bound to Please over by Radiant Raiment.”

“What sort of books do they sell?” Leara asked, not fancying a trip down to the docks if she could help it.

Sorex’s jaw slackened, “Uh, well, they specialize in—” He made a vague gesture, his eyes darting across the room before returning to Leara. She raised an eyebrow, and Sorex shrugged. “Spell tomes and, um. They specialize in,” he cleared his throat, “erotica.”

“I like the sound of that one!”

Leara winced as Bishop saddled up beside her. “I was looking for a more generalized selection.”

“Yes, of course you are,” Sorex coughed. “I’d recommend The Prints and the Paper. Run by an old seller from Wayrest, or so I’ve heard.”

“Really?” That piqued Leara’s interest. “Where is it?”

“Let’s go to that Bound to Please place,” Bishop whispered in her ear.

Sorex eyed Bishop, his brow creased. Leara couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble Bishop already caused the staff. And it was only half past twelve by the cathedral’s bell tower.

“‘round the corner from Bits and Pieces,” Sorex said slowly.

“Thank you,” Leara nodded. Then, grabbing Bishop’s wrist, she dragged him toward the door, Karnwyr bounding behind them.

“Woah, sweetheart! If only you were this enthusiastic in the bedroom!”

Leara hung her head, her hood falling over her eyes. And if she ran Bishop into the door jam as they left the Skeever, well, she wasn’t watching where she was going, was she?

·•★•·

The musky fragrance of leather covers and thick stacks of parchment teased Leara’s senses as soon as she stepped through the door. The Prints and the Paper was full of the warm dust notes that always hovered over old books despite best efforts. It wasn’t the Arcanaeum at the College, but there was a special kind of magic in a bookstore that stirred something homey and comforting in her chest.

Of course, Bishop took the opportunity to ruin it for her.

Naturally.

Picking up a particularly thick book on the Miracle of Peace, he snorted as he flipped through it. “What could you possibly want with any of this old stuff? There’s no pictures.”

“Well maybe if you learned to read,” Leara grumbled under her breath.

“What?”

“I said, some people use their imagination.”

Karnwyr sneezed, and Leara patted his head, absently. Taking the book back from Bishop, she set it back on the table where a stack of books on late Third Era High Rock geopolitics caught her eye. Topics ranging from the War of Bend'r-Mahk to the succession of the kings of Daggerfall stood out with bright gold and silver inlay on the spines. Other tables were spaced out along the central aisle, each piled high with books of various sizes and colors. In between a copy of The Real Barenziah and an anthology collection of 2920, she spied an expanded edition of The Annotated Anuad bound in a glossy black leather that could only be made from salamander skin. Leara swallowed, recalling a similar volume in Lord Varlarata’s parlor in Firsthold. Tearing her eyes from the memory, firelight drew her to the rest of the show room. There were rows and rows of bookshelves, tightly packed and dimly lit by scattered candelabras and wall sconces mounted at the ends of shelves. Leara eyed the fire with some hesitancy at its proximity to the books.

“Good afternoon! If you need any help, just let me know!” a wizened little Breton said, popping from between two stacks near the back. His overlarge spectacles gave his face a wide, rather goofy look.

“Yes, hello!” Leara said, practically sailing across the room from an exasperated Bishop. “I was wondering if you had any books on Nordic legends. I’m looking for the story of Olaf and the dragon!”

“Ah, yes!” the shopkeeper nodded. “I have a new edition of the Prose Edda edited by Viarmo that contains some rather fascinating annotations to the Olaf story!” With that, he disappeared between the stacks before Leara could mention anything about sightless creatures and old folktales.

“Well, that’s it, right?” Bishop asked, arms crossed. “You get your book and we can get back to more important things.”

Exhaling through her nose, Leara propped a hand on her hip. “And what do you call more important than the good of Skyrim?”

“The ‘good of Skyrim’? Please, sweetness, what does some old poem about a dead king have to do with the dragons flying around and eating people?” Bishop chuckled to himself, low and deep. But his eyes pressed into her, leering. Leara wanted to squirm. “Too bad Skyrim needs you as her savior. I could find a thing or two for you to do in my service.”

“Bishop, I don’t—”

The little bell over the door chimed, a light airy sound that was out of place in the thick atmosphere that threatened to choke her. But Leara welcomed it. She’d been avoiding the truth of her talk with Balgruuf and the plan to trap a dragon in his keep all week. It’d been painfully easy to distract Bishop from her near-confession with a kiss and a bit of heavy petting, but she could only stop him on the cusp of unbuckling her armor so many times before he snapped. Yet as much as she didn’t want to admit to the Dragonsreach plan, a greater part of her didn’t want to sleep with Bishop. Divines save her, she didn’t even want to kiss him!

But it was necessary.

She feared the day when she would believe sleeping with him would be a necessity, too.

Suddenly, the air was too warm, claustrophobic, and Leara realized that, yes, she could suffocate in her hood. She busied her hands by pushing it back from her hair, avoiding Bishop’s intensity with forced composure.

“Sweetheart, I—"

A throat cleared nearby. “Forgive me for intruding, my lady, but I believe you are whom I am looking for. Are you the Dragonborn?”

The jolt that rocked through Leara was so violent that she was stunned when, a moment later, she realized she was still standing. Her mind had wandered too far, she needed to come back. Karnwyr growled, his side pressed into her leg. Bishop scowled, and for a fleeting heartbeat, she thought it was directed at her. But no, it was toward the voice. Wrenching around, Leara locked eyes with a tall man wearing gleaming knight’s armor. Very out of place in Skyrim, but, she mused, perhaps not so much in imperialized Solitude as it would be in Whiterun or Riften. His dark hair was swept to the side, neatly combed and totally untouched by sweat or exertion. He had to have muscles. He couldn’t wear a heavy suit of armor like that without them. But somehow Leara doubted this man did much fighting, real or otherwise.

And . . . he just asked if she was the Dragonborn.

“Yes, I am,” she said, tone thin. For once, could she go somewhere without people somehow automatically knowing she’s the Dragonborn? “And who are you?”

“Oh brother, that is just great,” Bishop groaned.

“My lady,” the knight took her hand, bowing over it, “my name is Casavir. I have been searching for the Dragonborn for some time now, in hopes of aiding you in your journey to keep the dragons at bay. I would like to offer my assistance.”

Leara gaped at him, her hand caught in his as her mind tried to catch up with his proposition. Assistance with, with the dragons? Wait, Casavir? The name tugged at something in her memory – and then she recalled a golden quiff and a snobbish voice telling her about being arrested just for performing a bit of on-the-nose magic in the Solitude streets. Darren. Winterhold. Of course. That unfortunate little mage whose nose met the business end of Bishop’s fragile masculinity. Yes, she remembered now. He mentioned Casavir as being offended by his good fun.

Recalling Darren’s definition of ‘good fun,’ Leara concluded that Casavir’s ego was as delicate as Bishop’s. Yeah, no thanks. She didn’t need that hovering over her shoulder. There was enough to deal with when it was just Bishop whining in her ear.

“If it isn’t everybody’s favorite white knight,” Bishop sneered. “I was not expecting to run into you here, but the irony of it all definitely suits you. What brings you to a bookshop of all places? I think you’re looking for that other one, the spicy one.”

Clearing her throat, Leara made to pull her hand from the gloved grip, but Casavir held on. The glare he shot Bishop was anything but chivalrous. “I merely wish to assist her, much as I imagine you are doing now, Bishop.”

Bishop scoffed, suddenly too close to Leara’s shoulder. Air closed in around her. It was still too warm. “Do I look like some nerdy clerk to you? Listen up, she doesn’t need you. Go help someone who wants your holy righteousness, it’s not wanted here.” With that, he latched onto her arm.

Casavir drew her other hand closer to him, and Leara felt caught in a tug-o’-war between two children. “At least with me her moral aptitude wouldn’t plummet to the flaming depths of Oblivion, which I’m sure in your company, it has been sorely tempted to do!”

“You think a little too highly of yourself, Paladin!” Bishop laughed, cold. “With you along, she’d get so bored she’d sprint and dive headfirst into those flames, anything to make her feel alive—”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Leara heard herself say. Akatosh, but she sounded far steadier than she felt! She needed to lie down. Or at least get out from the streams of hot air blasted her from both directions. “Now, if you would be so kind—” She pulled at her hand.

Casavir dropped it. “Forgive me, my lady. I—”

“And here it is! Viarmo’s annotated Prose Edda, bound right here in Solitude by our own Bards College!”

Free of Casavir, Leara yanked herself away from Bishop to meet the shopkeeper. The old Breton buzzed to the counter, a large volume bound in emerald-dyed leather. It had to be several hundred pages in length. The cover was embossed with runic flowers and interconnecting lines crisscrossed with geometric precision. This was properly Nordic in its entirety. It was beautiful. Leara traced a thin finger lightly across the pattern in awe. “How much?”

The twinkle in the clerk’s eyes was amplified by his spectacles. “New release, forty septims!”

Air strangled in Leara’s throat. “Forty . . .?”

The shopkeeper beamed.

Well, that was more expensive than she anticipated. Still, she recalled books made with similar craftsmanship and significance going for twice that in The First Edition in the Imperial City. Three times that on a good day, if Lux Hebenus was in the mood to haggle. “That’s,” a lot, but then, if she didn’t get any other books, it might be justifiable. And besides, she quickly reminded herself, keeping up with Bishop cost her a great deal more than forty septims! If he could waste money on booze and bail money, she could buy a book. “I’ve got that right here,” she said, fishing her coin purse from her satchel.

Forty septims. Well, she was going to miss dinner reading anyway.

“Thank you, miss! Will that be all?” the shopkeeper asked.

The soft smile Leara offered him hardened when she turned around to find both Bishop and Casavir missing. Sitting primly beside a table overflowing with cookbooks, Karnwyr blinked at her and smiled, his tongue hanging. The bell over the door hadn’t rung, so she was sure they were still in the shop somewhere, probably in the stacks. She entertained taking Karnwyr and her new book and just skipping out, but quickly decided against it. As much as she didn’t want to get between whatever in Oblivion was going on between Bishop and Casavir, she remembered all too well the visceral hatred that twisted Bishop’s face at the mere mention of Casavir’s name. Then there was what happened when she left Bishop alone with Alec to consider. Sure, Alec annoyed Bishop, but it was nothing compared to the disdain he’d shown back in Winterhold. On top of that, Alec was just a bard; there wasn’t much he could do against Bishop’s ire but cry. Casavir was apparently a knight, and had a known history of arresting people who bothered him. Sure, Bishop got on her nerves too, but money for his fines was not in her limited budget. Besides, an uneasy feeling prodded her, if she couldn’t bail Bishop out, the threat of his exposing her as a former Dominion agent hung over her head. As much as she feared Ulfric Stormcloak’s anger, the wrath of the Aldmeri Dominion was far worse. If they found her, if they caught her . . . And weren’t they already hunting her, anyway? The last thing she needed was for the Thalmor to realize that the Dragonborn Blades agent and a known deserter from the war were the same person.

Bile clawed at her throat. Leara swallowed.

It was best to keep her thumb on Bishop.

“I think I’ll just browse if you don’t mind,” she said over her shoulder to the shopkeeper.

“Of course, of course!” he said, jovial. “There’s a bit of work I’ve got in the backroom, but please call out if you need anything!”

“Thanks,” Leara nodded, already beelining for the shelves. Where were they?

Karnwyr squinted at her, then shook as head. Leara sighed. “C’mon, boy.”

The shelves were stacked high to the ceiling. Passing by a ladder, Leara wondered if the old Breton had an assistant who stocked the top shelves and retrieved books for customers. She used to do that. Maybe if she survived, she could do that again, if being a living legend didn’t work out. Fingering a copy of The Eight Divines, Newly Revised, she again contemplated her idea of becoming a priestess of Akatosh. There was a comfort in religious ritual and piety, but there was a danger, too, if history was worth believing.

Her expression soured. She knew that, too.

A murmur of voices plucked at her ear. Down the narrow aisle and around a corner, she followed the charged hum until she was just out of sight.

“So that’s it. You want to know all about the Dragonborn, don’t you?” Bishop was saying. “You must be getting pretty knotted up if you’re lowering yourself to talk to the likes of me!” His laugh was coarse.

Casavir’s huffed in indignation. “It has nothing to do with her!”

“Oh, you can cut that crap out right now because you and I know both know damn well that there’s nothing else you’d want to discuss with me!”

There was a low growl – Casavir? “I am watching you, Bishop. I do not trust you, and neither should she.”

Karnwyr squinted at her, and Leara cast Muffle over the two of them just as a low whine rung itself from the wolf’s throat.

“Shh!” she cautioned, finger to her lips though there was no chance of either man hearing them. Karnwyr lowered himself to the floor, his head on his paws.

“Are you serious?” Bishop was saying. “That’s all you’ve got? You must be the hundredth lust-filled, lick her boots, sing her praises maniac that’s tried to warn her off me.” There was a pause; Leara could imagine him shaking his head in contempt. “Funny though, that’s exactly what I’ve told her before, to steer clear of you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She knows what you do to people who cross you funny. She’s been around. And when we’re done here, I’ll tell her more. I’m going to make her see that you’re not half the saint that you pretend to be.” Bishop’s voice lowered, direct. “You’re the worst kind of liar, Casavir, and do you wanna know why? You’re so desperate for people to accept the image you put on that you convince yourself that what they see is the truth. You’re a brown-noser who can’t put his vices to bed. Tell me, when you look in a mirror, what do you see? I bet you’ve even got your reflection brainwashed.”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

What in Oblivion? What in the realms of the Princes was going on between them? Leara sank to the floor, her Muffle spell hushing the clank and thud of her armor hitting the wooden slats. By the Nine, what?

“No, no way, this goes way deeper than that. There’s not an ounce of honesty in those eyes.” A dark chuckle. “Go on, make your little proposal. She’s too good for you, and she’s gonna see straight through that mask you put on. If – if – she says yes, I know how this’ll go. You may begin the night as this ‘saint’ paladin. But the man in you will want that wench in his bed, just as any red-blooded man would.”

What the bloody Hell?

“How dare you speak of her that way!” Leara barely registered Casavir’s enraged tone. Her mind was whirling. What were they even talking about?

She didn’t want in anyone’s bed! She didn’t even have her own bed. She wished people would stop trying to get her in theirs!

A warm tongue caressed her shaking hand, then a soft head pushed up on it. Reflexively, Leara began scratching behind Karnwyr’s ears. The wolf’s big brown eyes were on her, wide and warm. Constant, caring, comforting. Leara sucked in a breath, and held it, and then let go. She did this three more times.

Bishop was still talking. He was always talking.

“Don’t show off like another one of her sycophants. She doesn’t need you or anyone else to jump between her and a dragon’s teeth. No, she’s more than capable of defending her own honor. Your lust blinds you to that fact, and to the fact that she’s too much woman for you to handle.” Was there a compliment in there somewhere? Or was she a tool used to emasculate Casavir? “No,” Bishop continued, smug, “what she wants is a man who’s not afraid of making the hard decisions, who will do what must be done. She wants a man who’s a sight more honest than anyone who wears a temple’s cloak on their shoulder. A man who carries himself like some kind of standard for others to look up to—”

Leara was on her feet and out of the shop before either man even realized she was there.

·•★•·

“There you are, sweetness. I was wondering where you got off to.”

Leara didn’t turn away from the well. At the sound of footsteps, she simply sighed and continued to stare into the abyss below. So dark, so deep. Like the Void.

“Fair warning, Sir Dickwad is coming over.”

Was he? Ice crept along the weathered stones from her hand.

“My advice, ignore him. Actually, better idea, let’s walk away now—”

“My lady, forgive me for intruding,” Casavir’s lower timber cut through Bishop’s like an axe. “There was something I wished to discuss with you.” A pause. “Away from intruding interlopers.”

“What is it?” Leara asked, not caring whether Bishop was there or not. Casavir seemed to already have told him anyway, if she understood their exchange in The Prints and the Paper. Bishop knew what Casavir wanted and seemed keen to degrade him for it. And while she wasn’t overeager to humiliate others, the implications of their conversation, the idea that she was just another pretty face whose only enduring quality was to tempt men to destruction, was unsettling. Was that why so many men were obsessed with her? Because they saw her as some seductress like, like Mephala? A spider who, once she had a fly in her web, drained them of their youth and vitality until all that was left was a decayed husk.

And men wanted that. Men wanted that.

“I know we’ve just met, my lady,” Casavir said, unaware or uncaring that she was frozen. “But I want to request your company at a ball being held at the Blue Palace, here in Solitude. I am still new to Solitude, and so I am unfamiliar with the local customs. I was hoping you could offer me some guidance.” Leara watched as ice crawled down the inside well shaft toward the water below. Would it freeze solid? “If you choose to decline, I understand.”

Despite his insinuations in The Prints and the Paper, the urge to spite Bishop seized Leara with the cold fury of her own Frozen Façade spell. The ice in the well cracked and hissed. “Yeah, all right, I’ll go.”

“You what?”

Leara rounded, her hands pushing against the well. Apparently, Bishop hadn’t left, and Casavir didn’t really care about ‘interlopers’ as much as he put on. That made sense. These two seemed especially crafted by the Divines to antagonize each other whenever possible.

“You delight me, my lady,” Casavir purred. He made to take her hand, but thinking better of it, merely bowed – at the bloody waist. “I am overjoyed that you have accepted my request.” Then he shot a smug side-eye at a spluttering Bishop. “May I suggest acquiring a ball gown?”

“What?” Leara said, the implications of her acceptance catching up to her.

“I don’t know, Casavir. Personally, I can’t see you in a dress, but if that’s what you want—”

This time, the glare Casavir shot at Bishop was full-on and filled with poison.

“There’s an excellent shop here in Solitude, called The Jewel,” he said, focusing back on Leara.

“I can’t possibly afford—”

“I am told they have an extensive collection of gowns fit for the noblewomen of Haafingar,” he pressed on, as if not hearing her. Leara’s mouth snapped shut. “I am certain they will have one that interests you. I have already informed the owner of the ship that I will compensate her for anything you wish to purchase.”

“You did?” Her voice was faint.

Casavir’s smirk was shining and suave. “Am I correct to assume you are staying at The Winking Skeever?”

Leara nodded. “Stalker!” Bishop coughed into his hand.

Casavir ignored him. “I will be there at six to escort you to the ball. Until this evening, my fair lady.” And then he really did take her hand and kissed it and Leara wanted to throw up. But she didn’t.

It wasn’t that Casavir saw her as a seductress. No, no, it was worse than that. He saw her as an object, a way to one-up Bishop in whatever Divines-forsaken rivalry the two adolescents had going on.

Leara blinked and then closed her eyes. One heartbeat, two, then ten. She opened her eyes and Casavir was gone. She barely registered the distant sound of his armor clanking, drowned by the steady hum of the crowd as Bishop quickly dominated her vision.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, sweetness,” he said, arms crossed.

“Have I?”

“Yeah, and would you like me to tell you why, or will you continue to throw away my advice like trash?”

She already knew. “Enlighten me.”

“Do you know what Casavir is? He acts like some holy saint who’s the gods’ gift to humanity, but he’s still a man. I don’t care how he justifies the lies he tells himself: He can’t deny his manhood.” Bishop caught Leara’s hands in his, tugging her closer. “You’re the kind of woman that gets a man’s heart beating and the blood flowing. He’s not going to be able to lie to himself about that. So, you better be ready when he breaks.”

Was that a warning? “If you’re worried about me, then why don’t you go too?” Because lack of invitation never stopped him before, she thought, recalling Alec’s performance in the Palace of the Kings. To her surprise, she found herself missing Ulfric, of all things! But, she quickly reasoned, better the threat you know than the one you don’t.

Laughter burst out of Bishop, loud and aghast. “No! Hell, woman! Do I look like some sissy-pants noble? I’d rather walk off the dock than get roped into attending that sort of thing!”

Karnwyr hmphed, and Leara remembered Bishop’s behavior at the performance. Yes, it was best he didn’t come. All the better that his absence was of his own choosing!

“C’mon,” she said, gently disentangling her hands from his. “I need to go get this dress. The sooner, the better.”

“And here I thought we could get a late lunch. Damn paladin ruining perfectly good plans,” Bishop groaned.

Her thoughts turned to the Prose Edda safely tucked into her satchel. Yeah, she could agree with that.

·•★•·

Bells twinkled overhead when she opened the door.

“Hello and welcome to The Jewel,” greeted an Imperial woman in a linen gown cinched with a gold rope. She was light and airy, her face pale. If a breeze swept through, Leara was certain the woman would blow away on a wisp of cloud. “My name is Victoria. Are you the Dragonborn?” Leara barely accented before the woman, Victoria, clasped her hands together. “Casavir informed me that I should be expecting you. Welcome.”

Proof of Casavir’s surety that Leara would agree to this whole ball thing would have been disconcerting if she wasn’t already put off by Victoria’s porcelain nature.

Bishop whistled. “I’ll be damned, that bastard played you like lute!”

Victoria’s smile grew brittle as her eyes slid from Leara to Bishop, and then fell to Karnwyr between them, “Ah, how precious,” she said, clearly thinking Karnwyr was anything but. “I’ll have to ask your companion to take your dog out. It’s our policy, you see,” she said, placating. “No wild animals.”

If a wolf could look unimpressed, Karnwyr did.

“Are you serious?”

Leara wanted to echo Bishop’s disbelief, but she knew better. Lower-end dress shops than this in Daggerfall, Evermore, and the Imperial City had strict no-animal policies. She wanted to kick herself, wishing she’d thought of it and spared herself and Bishop the embarrassment. And Karnwyr.

“It’s fine,” Leara said before Bishop could press the issue. If he shattered Victoria’s serene façade, Leara got the impression the woman would cut him like glass. “You and Karnwyr head back to the Skeever. I’ll finish up here and meet you back there before Casavir comes by. Trust me, dress shopping would bore you to tears,” she said, ignoring Victoria’s sharp inhale.

Bishop rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, ladyship. Let’s go, Karnwyr. I know when we’re not wanted.”

With a backward glance at Leara, Karnwyr followed Bishop out the door, his tail between his legs. Leara watched them go. Bishop didn’t look back. The bells twinkled as he and Karnwyr left, and then Leara was alone with the dress designer.

For all that she enjoyed pretty clothes and sparkling jewels – just as any self-respecting Altmer, half-elven or otherwise – the prospect of being alone to be fitted for a gown to attend a ball she didn’t particularly want to attend was almost as daunting as the coming peace negotiation between General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak. Perhaps more so, given its immediacy.

“Shall we?” Victoria asked. Wagging a dainty finger, she led Leara deeper into the shop. It was a large room, about as big as The Prints and the Paper but all the more spacious for its lack of bookshelves. Windows set high in the upper walls filtered in pale afternoon sunlight. It must have been around two o’clock, Leara thought, as she took in the gossamer drapings and gilded decorations. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the opulent décor, as was usually seen in places where folk tried to emulate the rich while lacking the refined tastes of the aristocracy. The most sensical aspect of the room was the various dress mannequins, each adorned in a gown more extravagant than practical.

A stray thought went back to the blue lace number folded carefully in the bottom of her bag When did she buy that, fifteen years ago? Ten? No, eleven. When she was in Camlorn.

Victoria sailed over to a mannequin outfitted with a heavy gown, its full linen skirt was a dove grey, overlaid with cobalt silk and embroidered with golden lace and delicate bows. Its bodice was set with golden embroidery and capped with small, off-the-shoulder sleeves. Victoria traced the pink sapphire nestled in the dip of the sweetheart neckline. “I had it designed specifically in the likeness of the Blue Palace. My own rendition.” Her voice was dreamy. “Jarl Elisif herself will be wearing the original. This is just a show model. Would you like to browse my finest dress collection?” she asked. “Everything you desire will be given to you, compliments of Casavir.”

The Dominion instilled in its agents a statuesque poise that was only breakable by their superiors. More and more Leara found herself retreating into that familiar state of frosty distance. “Certainly.”

There were dresses in deep jewel tones and in floral pastels. Several had lacy trim, while others were embroidered with metallic gold and silver threads. A startling white piece was studded with white crystal and mithril thread over the bodice; displayed across from it was a crimson piece with a silk bodice and overskirt so black that it matched the Void night in Alduin’s scales. To look at it sent a chill down her spine. Silk was a prominent feature. “Imported from the Summerset Isles,” a smug Victoria sniffed, as if the King of Alinor bequeathed the material to her himself. Leara’s lip curled in distaste; the full skirts and bustles were enough to incur ridicule from the echelons of Altmer society. The tightness of the bodices was another matter entirely. Having a slim waist and narrow hips, Leara knew she would fit into any one of the dresses she chose, but the majority of Solitude’s female populace consisted of powerfully built Nords and willowy but short-waisted Bretons. Who in Oblivion were these dresses even for?

Unwitting, the Blue Palace piece drew her attention. She’d seen Jarl Elisif at the Embassy party. The girl was lovely; after all, she was known as ‘the Fair’ for a reason. Yet the would-be queen’s soft curves and full chest would be positively distorted by one of these gowns. Divines, these dresses weren’t meant for the women of Skyrim. What the Oblivion kind of circus was this fiasco?

Leara trailed past dozens of dresses, lingering just long enough to take in how each piece was absurd in its excess in its own way. There was a dress so brilliantly yellow that Leara could think of nothing but the yellow roses in the Queen’s garden at Castle Daggerfall. Another was of such rich forest green that it would have blended into the vales of the West Weald without issue. The pink was too much, a rose blush touched with the pallor of death. The lavender was little better: Once Leara thought of death, the cascading shades of purple, fading from dusk to dawn, reminded her only of electric arcs and rigor mortis.

The longer she looked, the more dismayed Leara became.

“Perhaps one of these?” Victoria offered.

Leara found herself faced with a pair of dresses in deep emerald and sapphire respectively. Identical save in the color of their crushed velvet weave, the skirts lacked the evident bustles that were so prominent in the majority of Victoria’s designs. Golden thread in delicate twirls curled up the bodice from the waistline, reaching across the velvet as creeping vines. Over the Imperial designer’s shoulder, Leara spied the same gowns in ruby and amethyst, dark and vivid. As excessive as they were, there was a certain majesty about these dresses that the others in Victoria’s collection lacked. Caressing the midnight sapphire with a tentative hand, Leara wondered if it was the sameness of their design, like Victoria had settled on one pattern so beautiful that she needed to make it four different ways, each a cardinal point on its own.

“They’re beautiful,” she admitted.

Victoria’s expression of satisfaction was more a sparkle than a beam. “I’m pleased you think so! The sapphire was meant to be Jarl Elisif’s last season, before the ball was canceled.” Her shining eyes shuttered. “What a horrible business, it was! That barbaric Stormcloak murdering such a lovely boy as Torygg! It’s a waste.”

Bile burned at Leara’s throat. Not the sapphire, then. Nor the ruby, she decided, eyeing the Imperial quality of the blood ruby and the aetheric gold. The amethyst was tempting. Cool and enticing in turns, from the velvet dusk to the threaded streams of dawn, it was positively royal in its entirety. Perhaps too much. She was the Dragonborn, not a princess or a Jarl’s wife. Though she almost sneered, if only to herself, she couldn’t see any self-respecting woman in Skyrim choosing a dress from this shop because they wanted to.

She didn’t want to, but she was still doing it. Given how Casavir viewed her, Leara supposed she wasn’t expected to have much self-respect anyway.

“The emerald,” she settled.

“A perfectly wonderful choice!” Victoria simpered. The sapphire was placed back on the hanging rack, as none of the four jewel dresses were on display. The emerald draped over her arm, Victoria led Leara to the back of the showroom. A short hall cut through the back to a room with a screen and a stole. Bolts of fabric were stacked against the walls, filling in gaps between side tables cluttered with sewing implements like thread and needles. A screen dominated one corner, opposite a full floor-length mirror.

“We’ll need to fit the gown, though you appear quite well proportioned, I must say!” Victoria giggled. “My, but doesn’t Sir Casavir have fine taste?”

Fine taste, as in fine taste in women. And ‘women’ in this case meant Leara, singular. She almost grimaced.

Victoria ushered her to the screen, and Leara hurried behind it with mixed relief. The dress was pushed into her hands, along with a shift and stays that Leara certainly didn’t pick out. There was a pair of sunkissed slippers, too, and a bone corset she was certain was an adolescent’s size. Trepidation clung to her muscles as she began stripping off her armor. It came off easily, unstrapping and stacking together in a comforting familiarity. Then her pants and undershirt went, and suddenly Leara was cold. What was she doing, trying on a ball gown she couldn’t afford for a ball she didn’t want to go to?

Leara pulled on the shift.

The corset was its own challenge, but Leara didn’t spend years of her life in Alinor and High Rock without learning to tie a corset by herself. Somewhere beyond the screen, she heard Victoria call out, asking if she needed help, but Leara didn’t answer. She’d been dressing herself since before the woman had even been born, thank you very much, and if Leara could do nothing else, she would continue to do that until age or dragon took her!

Stays in place, Leara stepped into the dress and pulled it up. It was heavy in a way her armor wasn’t, yet not unbearably so. It was cool and stifling and hot and freeing all at once. She tried to cinch the back closed, but unlike the straightforward practice of the corset, the dress’s ties proved far more complicated.

Victoria appeared as soon as Leara called for her. Her hands, making quick work of the ties, had Leara bracing against the wall as they were pulled to a near-constricting bind. As she knotted the ties, a faint and toneless humming whispered from Victoria’s lips. Leara gasped for breath. “Must it be so tight?” she asked. A morbid curiosity begged her to nick a measuring tape and wind it around her waist. She was already on the small side. What’d this do, shrink her measurements to the single digits?

How unnatural.

“It’s the fashion,” Victoria said matter-of-factly as if corsets were meant to suffocate rather than support.

The fashion where? Leara wanted to ask but didn’t.

“There,” Victoria declared. “That is a fine choice! You look stunning, marvelous, absolutely breathtaking! You will have all the men falling at your feet!”

Leara wondered if her face matched the hue of her gown.

Suddenly she wished she’d had lunch, if only so she could have something on her stomach to actually throw up.

Well, there was plenty of opportunity to fall apart before the night was over.

[matri4rch]

High Hrothgar

🤍🐻‍❄️ AO3 LINK 🐻‍❄️🤍

THE DRAGON, SHE IS HERE. it only took like a month and a torn muscle for me to sit down and think what the fuck I wanted to do with these two eloquent noble bears, but HAH. I did it!

Galmar my beloved. *kiss*

Why am I always sick or wounded, lmao

Ik I said I'd have them tussle and beat each other up but I couldn't write the damn scene. I hate fighting scenes smh.

[helgiafterdark]

[stargazer-tps]

The Muses, but it’s Skyrim

So a while back, when I was still posting often on Amino, I wrote a little blurb about an idea I had for a Barbie and the Diamond Castle x Skyrim crossover:

The characters from Barbie and the Diamond Castle living in Skyrim and fulfilling some of those character roles. Lydia as Ulfric Stormcloak—they say she murdered the High King with her voice. She was once a student of the Muses, who replace the Greybeards. 

Unlike Ulfric, though, she isn’t interested in rebellion for what she think will be better for Skyrim and its people (or at least some of the people), though she has to frame it that way in order to prevent people from overthrowing her or whatever. Like in Diamond Castle, she’s a bit of a megalomaniac.

The Muses live up in High Hrothgar, and take a much softer approach to the Voice. That power in this world is much more musical thing, though like the Greybeards, the Muses never intend for it to be used for violence or power. In Skyrim, the Greybeards use the Voice for worship, but I’d imagine the Muses encourage a more general use of “expression” cause... Barbie.

The role of Dragonborn is kind of split between Liana, Alexa, and Melody. Liana and Alexa are the heroes that help resolve the conflict throughout Skyrim, and perhaps they learn to use their Voices along the way and their personal conflict is deciding how to use their Voices (the Muses’ way? Lydia’s way? Something in between?) and fighting over that vs. the circumstances during the movie b/c Skyrim is pretty plentiful while you’re journeying. 

Melody is a Muse apprentice who showed a very natural inclination towards the Voice (like the Dragonborn) and was studying with the Muses to learn to control that power. After Lydia’s rise to power, however, she took a vow of silence to avoid misusing her Voice and to avoid being found (she was, as far as she knew, the only person who knows how to use the Voice and news travels fast in Skyrim). Liana and Alexa through singing remind Melody of being able to use the Voice as a method of expression, and she breaks her vow of silence. 

When Lydia hears that Melody is in fact out there, she goes after her and—by extension—Liana and Alexa. And so they have to confront Lydia and decide how to defeat her—whether it’s via the Voice or not.

I also had an idea of having Lydia take on the role of like Miraak in the Dragonborn DLC and having a second scenario focusing on Solstheim, but I didn’t develop that one as much.

Anyway I rewatched Diamond Castle and this happened.

Anyway, here’s some drawings that took me way too long of the Muses as Skyrim characters: I still can’t decide if Lydia works better as an Ulfric Stormcloak figure or a Miraak figure, so she’s both, sort of. Dori and Phaedra are the Greybeards or something.

Hey, where’s Melody?

She’s in hiding or something. She’s taken a vow of silence to avoid misusing her Voice, or maybe she’s just hiding from Lydia. The real answer is that I got sick of drawing in this style and didn’t want to draw anymore portraits like this. Maybe I’ll make her another stained glass window or something.