#viarmo skyrim

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

hello!! i'm on time once more <3 thank you to the amazing @skyrim-forever @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me this week!!

tagging the great @dirty-bosmer @changelingsandothernonsense @your-talos-is-problematic @orfeoarte @saltymaplesyrup

@wispstalk @gilgamish @archangelsunited @kookaburra1701 , and YOU reading this!! no pressure as always, i'm excited to see what everyone's been working on!

this is a tiny snippet from my rough draft of chapter 33 of Cycle of the Serpent! Viarmo has summoned the trio up to his office a few days before classes begin at the bard's college.

Even though he outwardly dismissed all worry about Viarmo's summons, Emeros couldn't help the gnarling bramble of nerves turning over in his abdomen. Sharp and poisonous, he had to wonder just what the headmaster could want with three of the new students. He didn't see anyone else with the letters, but perhaps this was something he did here and there to check on new people. For all he knew, the headmaster could have summoned Jorn the same way on his first day at the College. What did it matter, anyhow? If the trio were in deeper troubles, then it would be more than a polite letter under the door, certainly. The idea pecked at Emeros' mind, even as he made attempts to lift the spirits of his companions with discussion of the town itself. Solitude was a gorgeous city, and it wasn't hard to pick out details to bring up, from the stone walkways carefully laid to the buildings constructed of sturdy stone and surrounded by blooms of various flowers, but still, the cormorant bird of warning called in his mind, that this city was more than its opulence, and more than its histories. It was alive in a way that unsettled him. The march up to Viarmo's office lead them through the ground floor of the Bard's College asking for directions from Giraud, who pointed them the way. Then, several flights of stairs and a cramped tower's well, then a knock on a grand door. A call by a gravel-voiced man lead to Emeros pushing open the door, his friends behind him. "Ah, there's our newest students," came the voice, summoned from the throat of a sharp-faced Altmer, whose beard jutted out from his chin into a point. His blond hair was tucked underneath a grandly feathered cap, and every stretch of material on him bore shades of gold and teal. Expensive materials, and well kept, too, there was not an out of place stitch or mended tear on them as far as the Bosmer could see. He looked to Athenath, who fiddled with their hands, then to Wyndrelis, who shuffled his feet. "I take it you got my letter, then? Good, Arteus is a great messenger, but he tends to be a bit absent-minded at times."

"Forgive my forwardness-" Emeros began, cut off by Athenath stepping forward and starting their own sentence. "Can we ask what this is about? I didn't see anyone else with letters." They kept their eyes focused on Viarmo, but something tense caught in their voice, Emeros' gaze snagged on the edge of their shoulder. Viarmo leaned back in his chair, his barrel-figure elaborately dressed, complete with his darker teal, velvet cloak covering his shoulders, slits in its side making holes for his arms to move through. The headmaster didn't speak for a while, merely touched the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek, and Emeros' mind flooded with the worry that his friend had just made a grave mistake. He didn't voice this concern, however, as before he could put word to it, Viarmo laced his fingers together over his middle and smiled. In a low voice, as though sharing a secret with the trio, he said, "I hear you three were at Helgen. What's more, Phoebe tells me that you played a crucial role in the taking down of that dragon in Whiterun. Is this true?" The trio looked between one another, sharing glances understood in the tiniest shreds of expression. Athenath answered, "yes, sir. We, uh, didn't expect to… Encounter dragons, but we did." Viarmo leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his well-polished, mahogany desk. It was definitely imported from Alinor, Emeros thought as he took in the details, drinking of the carved, frond-like shapes in the legs of the desk, along with its multiple drawers, its mother-of-pearl adornments, its strong stature. Each carving was the pinnacle of Aldmeri wealth, and he almost deigned to think of what it cost before dragging himself from such speculation. Whatever it amounted to was enough to dizzy him. Either Viarmo was a very celebrated bard in both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, or he had friends in high places, and he didn't find himself in the mood to question which one it was. "You do realize what this means, don't you?" Viarmo pressed after a long moment, as though giving the question much thought, himself. "The return of the dragons, that is." "We figure it's probably something very important to history, that's for sure," Athenath replied quickly, managing to bubble out a small, uncomfortable laugh. "Sir, may I ask what all of this is about? I know we didn't audition, but-" "Oh, nevermind that," Viarmo sat upright and waved the thought with a heavy hand away, "we've barely got enough students to justify a building right now. Yes, normally, we'd have you three audition and then carry out tasks for the College, but right now, well, it's a complex situation, you see. And what's more, with the war going on… I'm not surprised more bards are choosing to stay in their home cities or just flat out go to other provinces that aren't Skyrim." Athenath's shoulders relaxed as the headmaster spoke. The blond Altmer shifted his posture, rummaging around for extra paper and a quill, drenching the end in thick, good-quality ink. "Now, tell me about the dragons. What were they like?"

It wasn't hard to sum up the dragons themselves: large, threatening, big teeth, and they shouted men to pieces. They set fire with a word in a language none of them knew, and they swept across the land like a great shadow, death in its wake. Viarmo furiously wrote down every detail, asking a question here or there, and when the trio finished giving their account, he looked up with a clever grin. "You know, as Giraud would tell you, history is nine parts truth, and one part fiction. Your factual accounts of the dragons are invaluable to future generations of bards who may never get to see the beasts themselves, and the College thanks you for it." As he set the paper aside to dry, he flattened a palm in the direction of the door. "If you don't have any questions for me, then you're more than free to go. Classes begin on the sixth of Heartfire, so do be sure you have all your books and supplies. Your instructors will tell you what you need." Athenath gave a small nod, turning to the door, Emeros and Wyndrelis following close behind the younger Altmer. Dismissed, the trio made their way back down the squared, winding stairwell, and back to the ground floor. Several students were making their way around the main area, up and down the stairs to the dorms and kitchens, the large, museum-like room housing the instruments filled with more presences than the previous day. This would become routine, it seemed, for the next few days.

[jiubilant]

Some people, once they're old and frail and flubbing half their chords, can feel impending weather in their bones. Inge Six-Fingers, Dean of Lute, can feel impending foolishness. She scowls and rubs her knee. A laugh like a bear being baited echoes from the headmaster's office, sure enough.

“Stop him,” groans Giraud through his hands when she stumps in. “Oh, stop him.”

The tableau's familiar, thinks Inge, already cross. Viarmo's pacing behind his desk, bright-eyed, ablaze with some new notion like Olaf in effigy. The desk is strewn with papers, winecups, tented books. Giraud's slumped in the good chair. A stranger, the only surprise, sits on the stool: a woman in hunter's furs, young, with a wolf's long smile.

“It’s only just, Giraud,” says Viarmo, spreading his huge hands in supplication. He grins at Inge. It's the same grin, she thinks, that he'd flashed at her fifty years ago before breaking another master's nose. “A king can sever our lutestrings, our purse-strings, our heads—”

“You’ve lost yours already—”

“—but who, in the end, sings the king’s deeds,” Viarmo declaims, undaunted, “when king and crown are dust indeed?”

“Too many syllables,” says the wolf-woman at once.

“You’re right," Viarmo concedes after a moment's sober thought. "Were we flyting, I’d be laughed out of court. Once more unto the breach.” He clears his throat. “But who, in sooth, sings the—”

“You,” snaps Inge, rounding on him, “you old ruffian, and you”—she jabs a finger at Giraud, who starts to attention like a flogged legionary—“tell me what you're up to, and who that—is that," she says in a different voice, staring at the bottle on the desk, "the Surilie?”

For several frightful years old Bendt, who captains the College's kitchen like a galley, has hoarded the Surilie. No one else dares enter the buttery; the door-key, on its length of dirty string, glints around Bendt's neck like a dire talisman. The masters joke that he mutters to it. The apprentices joke that a third-year who broke into the buttery for mead was walled up there alive.

"The Surilie," Viarmo announces with a grand sweep of his arm, as if heralding the arrival of some prince. He reaches for the bottle. "Let me pour you some."

Inge watches him with fascination. "Gone mad, have you?"

"And while I'm at it," the madman continues, splashing two fingers of Bendt's best wine into the nearest cup, "may I introduce you to Lydia Lítli, fosterling of Whiterun's jarl?" His grin broadens, if such a thing is possible. Inge's leg twinges. "She's brought us Svaknir's lost verse."

Inge looks hard at him. Then she looks hard at Giraud, the little weed, who wilts. Lydia Lítli, when the hard eyes flick to her, scrapes a stiff and well-trained bow.

"No, you haven't," Inge says, staring at her. "No, she hasn't. It's—you lug," she goes on with some asperity, turning back to Viarmo, "it's lost."

Giraud's voice is muffled by his hands. "I wish it were lost."

Viarmo gestures operatically with the cup. "I have transcribed it—"

Giraud sits up. An outraged flush suffuses his peaky face. "Despoiled it—"

"—restored, with Lydia's helpful erudition and the invaluable expertise of our own Master Gemane, those portions that weathered the years poorly—"

"Filled the gaps with utter tripe, is what he means—"

"—and have prepared it for recitation on the morrow," Viarmo concludes with good cheer, "at court, where it will pay your salaries." He raises the cup in toast—then blinks at it, no doubt recalling that he'd meant it for Inge, and passes it to her. "Santé."

Kyne's bloody beak, she thinks, staring at him. "You've forged Svaknir's lost verse."

"Please, Inge." Viarmo looks down at her with eyes wide and ears flat—astonished, she thinks, as a cat tapped on the nose. Scoundrel. She can tell by his mouth that he's trying not to laugh. "Skalds have collaborated on their compositions since the first lute was strung."

"You've gotten drunk on Bendt's prize vintage," Inge retorts, not to be gainsaid, "all three of you, and forged—"

"Reconstructed—"

"Collaborated on," Giraud puts in nastily, "I thought—"

A polite throat clears. When Inge looks up, Lydia meets her eyes as only wolves will do.

"Try the wine," she says—this Hviting horse-breaker, this shield-thane in her skins. "It's good."

It's Giraud's face that finally does Inge in. She turns from them all, her scowl contorting, and drowns a laugh in the cup.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Elisif the Fair: Outwardly, I’m everything a well brought up girl should be.

Elisif, who is grieving for her husband, threatened by rebellion, dismissed by General Tullius, under the eye of the Thalmor, sneered at and ridiculed by half of Skyrim, and well aware of the stress she causes her steward while trying to handle her own anxieties — and the pestering Bards' College headmaster: Inside, I’m screaming.

[shout-it-out13]

Isran (Dawnguard) and Viarmo (Bards College) are the two most powerful characters of them all, simply because they are the only ones in a leader role that doesn’t die at the end of their faction quest line (if you can even call the bards college a quest line since it’s literally fetch this book, fetch this lute, fetch this flute, fetch this drum).

The sheer power these two men possess is not to be underestimated.

[pyrettawychwiggin]

Songstress of Skyrim - Chapter 2: Among Bards & Madmen

Disclaimer: The following story is centered around my own character, Mhari Freysri, who is the only character in this piece that I own. All other characters and elements of the world within the Elder Scrolls series is the intellectual property of Bethesda. This story contains, not just massive spoilers, but is in and of itself one very long spoiler, as it is based off of my playthrough of Skyrim: Special Edition. You have been advised. Please enjoy this newest installment of my cringy fanfiction.

Mhari stepped into the light of the main seating area as the inn's patrons chattered and drank among themselves. Very few took notice aside from the whistling Nord and the table of guards. I wonder if my voice will carry over the din... She shifted a nervous glance back to Corpulus and Lisette; the innkeeper gave her a nod of reassurance, and Lisette mouthed the words 'go on.'

Mhari closed her eyes for moment, shifting the drum in her arms so that it was nestled comfortably on the shelf of her hip; running her hands across the hide, she breathed in, focusing on the calm within, feeling her pulse slow through her fingertips. She started to play the drum, alternating strikes between the outer edge of her thumb and the heel of her palm; a slow, but steady beat sounding throughout the inn.

Slowly, conversations ceased, and heads began to turn as she began to sing the song of a cursed female troll who had fallen in love with a human man; the tale was not in her mother tongue, but she had taken great care in her pronunciation. At brief moments where she remembered the eyes on her, her voice would waver, but she would find her center again by allowing the spirit of the story overtake her thoughts. She imagined the sorrow and loneliness of the troll as the human rejected her love, dooming her to suffer her affliction in solitude for the rest of her days. Her heart ached dully in her chest as she sang the final note, allowing the last beats of the drum to fade to a slowing heartbeat, then to silence at last.

After a moment's silence, Mhari was met with modest applause and a couple scattered cheers; she gave a small bow before returning to her seat at the bar and placing the drum on the counter before her legs practically gave way with residual adrenaline. Though her emotions were that of pride and excitement, the tension of her first performance took precedence. Corpulus gave Mhari a hearty slap on the back as Lisette clapped proudly.

"You were great out there!" Lisette gushed, eyes beaming. "What else do you play?"

"A little bit of everything," Mhari replied, drinking the last of the alto wine in one long gulp. "Drums, lute, flute. My voice is my longest-standing instrument."

"Self-taught?" Lisette asked, eyebrows raised.

"Somewhat," Mhari replied dipping her head from side-to-side in uncertainty. "My father, my sisters, and I - we used to sing folk songs when we would work or travel. Everything I learned, I learned from them. Father says I have the voice of my mother, but it always takes me a little more time to learn an instrument. My sisters were always more talented on the strings."

"Well, friend," Corpulus began, holding his chin between his fingers as he thought. "Should you ever need a room for the night, you can perform here any time! If my patrons are happy enough to tip more handsomely, I'll give you a small cut of the profits!"

"You really don't mind?" Mhari asked excitedly; the prospect of a regular audience to practice for was a valuable gift for an aspiring bard, and she couldn't ask for a better set-up. "I could use the gold, but I don't want to put you out."

"Nonsense," Corpulus replied, patting Mhari jokingly on the head. "You'd be doing me a favour! What with the war going on these days, drinks and song are some of the only things taking people's minds off of things."

"And a word of advice," Lisette began, putting an arm around Mhari, rubbing her thumb and index finger together with a smirk. "Never turn down an opportunity to have your voice heard. The more well-known you become, the more coin you'll make."

"Couldn't have said it better myself!" a new voice interrupted. A Nord man with braided silver hair and red war-paint over his eyes, clad in a forest green belted tunic and brown hide breeches placed his hands on Lisette's shoulders from behind; her shoulders tensed and a bright red flush spread across her cheeks.

"Little bird, this is Jorn; another bard from the college," Lisette introduced the man with an eye-roll as she attempted to hide her giddy anxiety. "Jorn, this is..." Lisette trailed off, only just realizing she had not yet been told her new friend's name.

"Mhari," Mhari chuckled in amusement. "Mhari Freysri."

"There you have it, then," Corpulus announced, plopping three more bottles of wine onto the counter. "Drink up, bards. Tonight, we celebrate Mhari Freysri's first performance!"

The three bards laughed gaily and each took a bottle in their hands, clicking the glass together before taking a long drink of the pungent liquid; Mhari could feel her worries fading even farther into her subconscious.

Corpulus took a moment to show Mhari where her room would be before he left intermittently to tend to his patrons.

Lisette, Jorn and Mhari drank together at the table on the second level of the inn right beside Mhari's room, overlooking the shenanigans of the main level from above as the inn became even busier with the later hours. As they drank and supped on meat and cheese, Mhari could see how close Jorn and Lisette were, assuming they were a couple. Not thinking, Mhari blurted out what was on her mind. "You two are so sweet together."

Lisette nearly choked on her wine as Jorn chortled with his arm around her, patting her on the shoulder as she found her breath again, her cheeks growing even redder than they had been before.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Mhari sputtered.

"Lisette is a fine lass, but when I join the Legion," Jorn started, mischievously tipping Lisette's chin up to look at him, leaning forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Mhari blushed just watching the bards. Lisette gulped, catching her breath in her throat in anticipation. "Well, I could never expect her to wait for my return."

"That is if I don't join the Legion first!" Lisette barked in both amusement and irritation, playfully jamming a sweet roll into his mouth. "Besides, who'd make sure you didn't get your arse handed to you on the battlefield if not me?"

Mhari laughed at the interaction between the two, taking one last long gulp of wine before placing a few spare coins on the table for Corpulus, and rising from her seat. "Well, I think I should turn in for the night. I'm beat," she yawned.

"Sleep well, little bird! I look forward to seeing you at the college," Lisette sang merrily, her words slurring ever so slightly. Jorn sat by her with his arm draped sleepily around her shoulder, waving goofily at Mhari with the other. Mhari giggled and stood up from her seat, swaying slightly as she struggled to find her balance. I may have overdone it with the wine tonight. I'm glad we chose to sit close to my room; I don't know if I'd make it up a full flight of stairs.

Mhari entered her room and gently closed the door behind her. The room was fairly sizeable, with a comfortable bed big enough for two, a large wooden dresser, a bookshelf, a small lounging area, and a writing desk by the glow of a warm light. Small windows were placed in each corner of the room where no light could be seen, hinting at lateness of the hour. Mhari stretched lazily, eyeing the thick green blanket of the bed. I know I wanted to write home before bed tonight, but I should wait until morning. My head is... spinning.

Mhari hadn't even changed her clothing before she fell into the bed, wriggling under the blanket. She was greeted by a dreamless sleep; one that she so desperately needed after her journey across the water. She could almost feel the rocking of waves as she drifted into her drunken slumber.

The sound of a chair skidding across the wooden floor of the tables beyond Mhari's door brought her back to consciousness. As she attempted to open her eyes, she found them seemingly stuck shut. She quickly remembered that she had neither changed nor removed her coal-based eye paint before sleeping. She silently reprimanded herself as she rubbed her eyes with her palms, managing to finally open them slightly. I'll need to wash up before I can open them further. What the hell was I thinking? As Mhari sat up in her bed, she hissed in pain as a dull ache reverberated throughout her head. "My head..." she groaned, placing her fingers on her temples. "I wonder if a quick healing spell will do the trick..." She looked into her palms and summoned her small reserve of magical strength, a faint golden glow emerging from her fingertips. She placed them on her temples, feeling the magic surge through her head; she brushed her hands over her head through her hair, spreading the magic across her scalp. Her skin tingled beneath her auburn locks. She knew the spell would take several minutes to take effect; she just hoped the casting was powerful enough. The spell may have been simple, but she herself was a beginner spell-caster at best.

Mhari lurched herself up to her feet and shuffled to the washbasin by the dresser, splashing water onto her face and using a linen cloth to wipe away the makeup from the previous night. She found that she already felt better with a fresh face; her pounding head had faded to a dull ache, to her relief. She dressed herself in her usual apron dress before making her way to the writing desk, drinking deep from a much-needed jug of water. She pulled out a piece of parchment from her bag and dipped her quill in the nearby inkwell.

Dearest Father, Idun & Nanna,

I hope this letter finds you well. I've arrived safely in Solitude at long last. It's bigger than I could have possibly imagined. The town square is only slightly smaller than our entire farm! It's as though I've stepped into an entirely new world; even in the midst of what should be a warmer season, the air is bitterly cold. I wonder if I will adapt to this... perhaps I should just bundle up.

I had my first performance last night at The Winking Skeever; the inn in Solitude! I was so nervous I could barely stand it, but I think I did well. I sang 'Herr Mennelig.' I thought it would be fitting, seeing as it's the first song I can remember learning. I think my drumming could use some work, but the innkeeper was happy with my song. I even received praise from two bards from the college! The next time I visit, I could use some pointers from you, Idun and Nanna; I don't think my lute-playing will impress, yet.

I'm hoping to save up enough gold to buy a horse; everything is much more expensive here. 1000 gold for a horse! Can you believe that? And that's not including the equipment.

Tensions are high in Skyrim... we'd all heard that there was a political struggle here from back home, but it seems to be on the brink of an all-out war. Don't worry, though; I'll come home if I feel that things are getting too dangerous. I don't need to get myself involved with that. I'm just here to learn.

Anyway, I suppose I should get to it. Today is the day I apply at the Bard's College! Wish me luck.

I love you all.

Signed,

Little Mhari

Mhari took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief, her hangover having passed. She folded her letter neatly, sealing it with a piece of beeswax from her writing kit. She tucked her belongings into her pack and rose to her feet. She stretched her arms up to the ceiling with a strained groan. Okay. First order of business; breakfast.

Mhari made her way down the stairs and found Corpulus lounging at a table in the now-empty inn. "Good morning, Corpulus," she greeted. Corpulus held up his mug of milk with a smile.

"Good morning, miss Mhari!" he chortled. "I hope you got some decent sleep; yesterday was a big night for you!"

"I did, thank you; though I don't envy the hangover Lisette and Jorn ought to have. They drank as much as me last night, if not more," she joked. She pulled out her letter. "Does a courier run through here from time-to-time? I need to send off a letter to my family."

"Give it here," Corpulus stated, holding out his hand. "The courier always makes a stop here at the inn. I'll hand it off to him."

"Thank you, Corpulus," Mhari took a seat in the chair across from him. On the small table was a bowl of fruit. Mhari placed some coins on the table and grabbed a red apple from the pile. "I'm off to the Bard's College after breakfast; where in the city can I find it? Solitude is so much bigger than any place I've ever been to."

"Ah, yes," Corpulus chuckled, sliding the coins into his pouch at his hip. "You're from High Rock, aren't you? Well, you'll head left when you leave the inn. Keep going past the marketplace and just follow the path past the Hall of the Dead. It'll be the big building on your left. You can't miss it."

"Sounds easy enough," Mhari sighed with relief, finishing her apple before standing upward once more. "Thank you again, my friend. I'll likely be back this evening. You're sure you don't mind that I just play for my room?"

"I'm a man of my word," Corpulus put a hand over his chest, smiling. "Like I said; you'll be doing me a favour as well. Say hello to Viarmo for me."

"Viarmo?" Mhari cocked her head to the side in confusion.

"He's the head of the Bard's College," Corpulus answered plainly. "He'll be the man you want to speak to when you get there."

Mhari pushed open the doors and stepped out into the fresh Solitude air. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the skies were clear, and the weather was much warmer than it had been the day before. I won't always be so fortunate with the weather. I should stop into a shop and pick up something warmer just to be safe... She noticed two shop signs across from the inn; one sign bore a golden scale with coins on either side, the other bore two spools of thread and a needle. She walked closer to the shop to read the lettering. "Hmm...Bits Pieces, and Radiant Raiment." Mhari muttered under her breath. "Looks awfully fancy..." she pulled out her coin-purse with a frown. Considering how expensive everything is, and how much I still need to buy, I don't think I'll be buying a horse any time soon.

"Ah, how did you enjoy your stay at the Winking Skeever?" a man's voice asked. Mhari hadn't noticed him as she was pouting at her coin-purse. She lifted her eyes to see a pale Imperial man with tousled jet black hair and a thick black beard. He wore a brown leather tunic with a well-made light green linen shirt beneath. A small tuft of black hair peeked out from the sliver at his chest. "Not only is it the best inn in Solitude; it's the only inn in Solitude."

"I take it you work here?" Mhari asked, tucking her purse away.

"Work here?" the man guffawed incredulously before folding his arms and puffing out his chest with pride. "I own it!"

"I thought Corpulus owned it," Mhari stated, raising an eyebrow suspiciously, not particularly impressed with the man's candor.

"Well, okay. My father owns the Winking Skeever, but it's the family business, so it'll be mine when he...y'know- kicks off," he explained sheepishly. "Nevermind that; I noticed you looking a bit forlorn. I hope you're not troubled by your stay?"

"Oh, no sir," Mhari replied quickly, not wanting to give the man the wrong impression.

"Sorex; Sorex Vinius," the man corrected. Mhari shook the man's hand politely. She noticed that his hands seemed awfully soft for a working man; she wondered if he had actually worked a day in his life when his next question seemed to answer her own. "You wouldn't happen to have a moment to do me a favour, would you?"

"That depends on the favour, but I'm listening," Mhari replied carefully.

"I have a delivery to make to the Jarl's steward, Falk Firebeard. He ordered two bottles of Stros M'Kai Rum - top tier stuff," he explained, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "It'd save me a lot of trouble if you would take it to the Blue Palace and deliver it for me. I'm sure he'd give you some coin for the effort."

"And I suppose you won't?" Mhari inquired, her eyebrow raised.

"Oh, the coin I have is for the inn, you understand," Sorex sputtered with a shrug.

"Well, if nothing else, I'll do it for you and Corpulus," Mhari sighed. "It's the least I can do for allowing me to perform at the inn.'

"Good! Good!" Sorex chuckled contently. "I'll see you around, then."

With that, the man handed Mhari the bottle of wine before strolling off to the marketplace, chatting up a the pretty Imperial woman with honey-brown hair she'd seen during the execution.

Mhari shrugged and tucked the wine safely into her pack and walked into Radiant Raiment without another word; dimly-lit and meticulously organized from floor to ceiling.

"Why, hello! Here to buy?" a haughty voice greeted from near the counter beyond the entrance. Mhari nodded politely in response. At the counter were two Altmer women - high elves; they were both at least two hands taller than Mhari, with long, slender, pointed ears, and jagged jawlines with cheekbones that could probably slice bread. The Altmer behind the counter had golden hair that fell to her shoulders, and the other had two perfectly-symmetrical pigtails pulled to the back of her head. Their eyes were gold and filled to the brim with judgement from the moment Mhari walked into view. They wore some of the cleanest, and best-tailored fine clothing Mhari had seen thus far. The Altmer with pigtails sized Mhari up for a moment with an eyebrow raised in disdain. "If you have to ask the price, you might be in the wrong store."

"Do you always insult people when you meet them?" Mhari retorted, folding her arms in irritation at the elf's greeting.

"It's not an insult," the elf replied with a bored sigh. "Just an observation."

Mhari frowned; the woman was being incredibly rude, but Mhari did not sense the vitriol she had expected in her response. The Altmer spoke as if she were simply stating the obvious.

"If I were walking around with a wound, I would want you to tell me to see a doctor," the elf continued. "Your outfit is something of an open wound... where attire is concerned."

"What?" Mhari clicked her tongue and looked down to her clothing. "I made this myself."

"Yes, we can tell," a too-sweet-to-be-sincere reply came from the other woman at the counter. The elf with pigtails shot her a look, causing her to roll her eyes and return to sewing the dress she had been working on. "You'll have to excuse me; my sister Taarie is the one who gets on with people. It's her one virtue, really."

"You'll have to forgive my sister, Endarie," Taarie bit back with an overdone smile that could out-sweeten sugarcane. "Sometimes I wonder if she would do better to sew her own mouth shut rather than the fine fabrics that I bring her."

"Well, I could use your advice," Mhari changed the subject slightly, feeling uncomfortable as their air in the shop seemed to turn to ice. "What would one wear to the court? I need to make a delivery there, but even I know this won't cut it."

"You're going to the Blue Palace?" Taarie sounded impressed, thinking for a moment before continuing. She and her sister exchanged a momentary glance. "That does present an opportunity."

"Oh?" Mhari was unsure of what the elf could possibly need from her.

"If you're willing to wear one of Radiant Raiment's outfits and speak with the Jarl, I would not only pay you," Taarie began; Mhari heard the word 'pay' and had already decided she would accept the request. "I will also let you keep the outfit."

That sounds easy enough. Mhari thought to herself. "I'll do it."

"Good. Here's the outfit," Taarie handed Mhari a forest green dress with gold and red accents, with a neat brown fur mantle. "Try to get Jarl Elisif's opinion on it."

"And do tell her it's from Radiant Raiment," Endarie muttered from the counter. "Oh, and try not to embarrass yourself, will you? The last thing we need is you making a mess of our reputation."

Mhari was shooed out of the shop before she could offer up a retort. Scowling, she neatly folded the fine dress and tucked it away in her bag for later. Would it have killed them to say please or thank you...?

"Oh well," Mhari let out a resigned sigh. "At the very least, I'll have some nicer clothing if I need them, and I should hopefully get some coin for the wine delivery. I'm sure that between my performing at the inn and picking up little favours around the city, I'll have enough gold to buy a horse in no time."

Mhari pushed open the doors to the shop next-door and was greeted with a refreshingly-friendly Redguard woman in a casual red dress bearing white linen accents, with greying hair, who sat comfortably in a chair by the counter.

"Welcome to Bits Pieces. Feel free to look around."

Mhari greeted the woman politely, who introduced herself as Sayma; she was relieved to strike a good deal for a small tent and cooking pot, and after mentioning her desire to make some warmer clothing, the pelts of three unusually-large wolves. This is thicker fur than any of the wolves I've seen from back home; this should provide some decent coverage from the wind, at least.

"Thank you, Sayma; it was a pleasure meeting you," Mhari smiled at the Redguard woman.

"A pleasure, miss Mhari," Sayma took her seat once more beside the counter. "Be sure to speak with my husband Beirand at his forge up by the Fletcher's Shop. He should have a few more essentials if you're going to be traveling outside of Solitude."

"I'll be sure to do that," Mhari replied, waving politely to the woman as she left the shop.

Alright, enough stalling. Mhari took a deep breath as she looked across the marketplace. I ought to go straight to the Bard's College before it gets any later in the day.

Mhari passed by the marketplace, seeing three small stalls and an old well in the centre. Three children bolted by, laughing and shouting as they dodged around Mhari.

"Sorry, lady!"

"Yeah, sorry!"

Mhari laughed and shook her head as she continued along the cobblestone path. Now that she was getting to see more of it, Solitude was truly a wonder.

The pale grey walls of the city extended to incredible heights, bordering the entire city, and flags of Haafingar hung proudly on nearly every wall. There were small smatterings of trees and various flowers ranging from the golden hues Dragon's Tongue to the soft violets of Lavender and Nightshade all throughout the pathways of the city. Every home she passed by was sizeable and incredibly well-kept. Guards were wandering throughout the city, sporting their chainmail and the bold red robes of the hold. Even the graveyard down the small slope from the Hall of the Dead was as beautiful and well-maintained as every building within the city's walls.

At last, Mhari spotted the Bard's College across from the Hall of the Dead, just as Corpulus has said. It was even larger than the inn, with a marble courtyard leading to what appeared to be a small gathering area with tiered steps surrounding it; perfect for theatrical performances and merry meetings.

As Mhari pushed open the doors to the college, she was amazed at the interior of the building. Throughout the building were beautiful pillars of stone and some of the cleanest marble floors Mhari had ever seen. If the Bard's College looks this immaculate, I could only imagine what the Blue Palace is like. Mhari thought to herself, staring awestruck at the building around her. She almost didn't notice the tall Altmer man approaching her from nearby.

"Welcome to the Bard's College; I am Viarmo, the headmaster here." Viarmo was just as tall as Taarie and Endarie, and while he carried himself with pride, he did not speak to Mhari with the same snobbish derision. "How may I help you?"

Mhari felt almost as nervous as she had before her first performance. She did her best to put her anxiety out of her mind as she stood as tall and proud as she was able. "My name is Mhari Freysri - of High Rock, sir. I'm here to apply for the college."

"Always a pleasure to meet a prospective bard," Viarmo stated with a graceful bow and a smile. "You should be aware that many apply, but we accept very few people. When possible, we ask applicants to perform tasks the college needs completed."

"I'd be happy to take on any task you have," Mhari replied, surprised at her own confidence.

"Well, I do have a task befitting an aspiring bard," Viarmo began. He motioned to a nearby chair at a seating area by the entrance. Mhari followed him as he took a seat across from her, picking up a dinner roll, leaning back into the chair as he began to speak. "The Jarl has forbidden the Burning of King Olaf; it's a festival put on by the college every year. Put plainly, we need to change her mind."

"How can we manage that?" Mhari asked, her expression growing serious as she considered the information being presented to her.

"I want her to read King Olaf's verse; a part of the Poetic Edda - the living history of Skyrim. Unfortunately, the verse was lost long ago,' Viarmo explained, motioning for Mhari to help herself to a dinner roll. Mhari munched away as Viarmo continued his explanation. "According to Giraud, one of our deans, the portion of the Edda dealing with King Olaf might still exist in Dead Man's Respite."

"That is quite a task." Mhari replied with an impressed whistle. "But I myself am very curious about Skyrim's history; I should like to have a look at this portion of the Poetic Edda myself. Would you be able to tell me more about it?"

"I think Giraud would give you the best explanation of both the Edda and the history of the verse. He's right over there by the common area," Viarmo pointed to the other side of the hall where an older Imperial man in fine red quilted clothing read a comically large with a goblet of wine in his other hand.

"Why did the Jarl forbid the festival?" Mhari asked, finishing off her dinner roll and leaning forward to give the headmaster her full attention.

"As you may or may not be aware, Elisif's husband, the High King Torygg was recently killed," Viarmo began, his expression darkening as he furrowed his brow at the memory. "Jarl Elisif mourns her husband deeply, and feels that a festival that burns a king in effigy is... distasteful."

Mhari nodded grimly in response, but said nothing.

"I tried to convince her that the festival is many centuries old, and celebrates Solitude, but I need proof," he sighed. "I believe King Olaf's Verse will provide that proof."

"Understood," Mhari said finally. She sat up straight and bowed her head slightly to Viarmo. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Giraud!" Viarmo called over his shoulder. Giraud looked up from his book, not having expected his name to be called so suddenly. "Would you come fill in our newest applicant on the details of her task?"

"With pleasure," Giraud cleared his throat and slid the book he had been reading carefully back onto it's shelf in chronological order before he made his way over to the seating area, taking up the last chair in the corner. "So you're the one he's sending to find the verse. That's good; we shouldn't just leave it lying around now that we know where it is."

"What can you tell me about the verse?" Mhari leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, eagerly awaiting his response.

"The verse was Svaknir's contribution to the Poetic Edda, the living history of Skyrim," Giraud explained with pride, simply happy to have a prospective bard who had even a modicum of interest in the history. "Each bard adds to the Edda in his or her time."

"So King Olaf's Verse is a lost part of the Edda," Mhari nodded in understanding, feeling growing excitement to seek out such an important piece of this fascinating land's history.

"And an ancient one at that. The verse criticized the reigning King Olaf. He was so incensed the bard was put to death and all the copies burned. At least, that's what we thought until I translated some ancient texts a year or so ago," Giraud explained. Viarmo's attention was turned to a squabble between bards in the other room as he excused himself quietly. "We now believe King Olaf buried the truth with the bard. If I'm right, Svaknir and King Olaf's Verse lie in Dead Man's Respite, along with the burial chamber of King Olaf himself."

"Fascinating," Mhari whispered in awe.

"Fascinating, yes; but I should warn you," Giraud grew serious. "You might find more than just King Olaf's Verse in that tomb. You need to be careful."

"Thank you, Dean Giraud," Mhari stood with him and shook his hand as she spoke. She bid him farewell and walked back out to the early evening Solitude air.

By the time Mhari had received her instructions, she was about ready to collapse. I sounded so confident when I accepted this quest, but I don't even know how I'm going to get to Dead Man's Respite, much less traverse an entire tomb on my own. Mhari sighed, jingling her coin purse that now somehow felt even more empty than before. I don't even have enough provisions to make the trip there.

As she was walking with her head hung in deep thought, she suddenly bumped into someone. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she said instinctively. She looked down to see that she had knocked over a disheveled-looking old man with desperate, mad eyes. She held out her hand to help him scramble back to his feet. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Please, my lady! Hear my plea!" the man's cries took Mhari by surprise, causing her to step back a little once she had helped the man up. "My master; he is lost between worlds and I cannot bring him back!"

Lost between worlds...? Mhari's confusion grew as the man continued.

"My master has abandoned me! Abandoned his people! And nothing I say can change his mind. Now he refuses to even see me. He says I 'interrupt his vacation'." The man's eyes saddened as he recounted his tale; Mhari stood by just as confused as before. "It's been so many years; won't you please help?"

"How can I even find your master, mister, uhh..." Mhari awaited the man to introduce himself. "Dervenin, my lady!" he chirped abruptly. "Last I saw him, he was visiting a friend in the Blue Palace. But no one as mundane as the Jarl. No, no such people are below him. He went into the forbidden wing of the palace to speak with an old friend. Said it had been ages since they last had tea."

"Your master is just... having tea with an old friend?" Mhari asked skeptically. "I thought you said he'd been gone for years?"

"Oh, and you'll need the hip bone!" Dervenin barked as though he had just remembered. He shoved a large human pelvic bone into Mhari's arms. Where was he even keeping this...? Mhari could see no discernable pockets on the man. "No entering Pelagius' Wing without that!"

"Um... thank you. I think," Mhari stuttered, uncertain as to what else to say; she tucked the oddly large hip bone into her pack, assuming the guards would not look kindly on a civilian carrying around something so conspicuous. "Dervenin... why don't you leave your master? Surely abandoning his people would be nothing short of unforgiveable."

"Oh, you just don't understand! Without him, I am not free; without him, I am doomed! All of his empire shall fall into chaos!" Dervenin replied, frantically, almost yelling at the top of his lungs as he spoke.

"Dervenin," Mhari sighed, her frustration beginning to get the better of her. "Who is your master, exactly?"

"He is a great man, but one rarely praised!" Dervenin replied, a genuine smile stretching across his lips; Mhari shuddered slightly, feeling as though his grin seemed to stretch unnaturally wide across his face. "He rules twin empires that span the length and breadth of our minds! All know him, but few can name him; but...he has forbidden me from saying his name, and woe to those who draw his ire. But you'll know him when you see him. He's the one who made me like this!"

"Duly noted," Mhari responded carefully with a nod. "I will see what I can do; but I can't promise anything."

"Thank you!" Dervenin didn't seem to acknowledge her warning, kissing her hands in a grateful frenzy. "Thank you, my lady!" Without another word, Dervenin scurried off to the graveyard.

What an odd man...

Mhari heaved her now-much-heavier pack back to the Winking Skeever, ready for a night of well-needed rest.

"Corpulus, my friend," she greeted as she slid up to the counter. "I was thinking of playing the drum this evening for your lovely patrons."

"Play away, songstress!" Corpulus replied with an exaggerated, flourish of his hand and a bow. Mhari giggled, shaking her head, as she made her way back to her room to change and pick up the drum she had used the night before.

"What should I play tonight?" Mhari wondered aloud. "Surely they wouldn't appreciate if I simply played the same song every single night."

As Mhari adorned herself with her usual coal-lined eyes, she settled on her song choice for the evening; a far more upbeat song, and perhaps more ambitious. "I hope they like it."

As Mhari took her place in the dining area, settling into her playing position, she swore under her breath. I feel just as nervous as I did the night before. She took a deep breath, allowing her a moment to find her center once more, momentarily blocking out the sounds and chaos of the inn. Deep breaths...

To Mhari's delight, a couple patrons that were deep enough into their cups rose from their seats to stomp and dance to her playing; Mhari had not seen her music move someone to dance aside from her family in this manner, and the thought of it made her giddy with excitement; her fear was quickly forgotten for the rest of her performance; though her crowd was not much larger than the one she had performed for the night prior. To scattered, but enthusiastic applause, Mhari skipped to the counter where Corpulus thumped his hand on the counter-top in delight.

"What do you have the hankering for, bard?" Corpulus asked with a jolly grin. "I think you've earned your choice of a meal!"

"Actually," Mhari thought for a moment. "You wouldn't happen to have vegetable soup, would you?"

"Vegetable soup?" Corpulus frowned. "You don't want something a little heartier?"

"It's one of my favourites!" Mhari mumbled shyly. "I know it's boring to most folks, but it reminds me of home."

"Homesick already, eh? Here, let me get you a drink while I get that ready for you," Corpulus offered. "Alto wine?"

"Actually, if you have any mead in stock, I'll take a bottle," Mhari leaned over the bar with a yawn.

After an hour or two passed, the inn began to grow quieter, the patrons retreating to their homes and rooms. Following suit, Mhari took care to change and remove her makeup before crawling into her bed an hour later. As she laid her head on the soft, yet somehow still coarse linen pillowcase, she mulled over her next steps.

There's still so much of this city I want to see; and I may not have much gold leftover, but I need to get my supplies and provisions figured if I'm going to complete Viarmo's task... not to mention figuring out what to do about this hip-bone... The very thought of it made Mhari even drowsier. She drifted off to the sounds of the night as they echoed from just beyond the inn window; the crickets and night-bugs singing their choruses deep into the ether.

~To Be Continued...~

Note From the Author: Thank you again for reading the latest chapter of Songstress of Skyrim! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider following this story and dropping a comment below. I'd love to hear what my readers think; what their favourite parts were, what they'd like to see more of, etc. I hope to see you in the next chapter, dear reader.

~Voth Werid

[creaking-skull]

with the track record of the other guilds in skyrim i was at first extremely worried about viarmo. but if anyone had actually come to kill him as decreed by the player character getting to have everyone’s job i think he’d throw the would-be assassin through the nearest wall

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Ye Big Olde Savos Aren Headcanon Masterpost

(Super long post under the cut)

Short biography

General information:

- Savos is an only child.

- He was born in 4E 5, making him 194 years old by Skyrim time (Elven ages are ugh, but according to the UESP, 200 is old for a dunmer…)

- Savos was born under the apprentice, thus making the month of his birth Sun’s Height.

- He is bisexual.

- He was born in Winterhold and grew up among the city’s large dunmer population.

- Knows Winterhold-dialect Dunmeris, Tamrielic, Nordic, and a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- His parents owned a tailor shop.  

- He's a second generation immigrant to Skyrim. His parents came to Winterhold shortly after the fall of Baar Dau (I imagine there was a short period of growing volcanic activity before Red Mountain blew up for good), fearing further consequences of the impact. His grandparents lived in Morrowind until their death.

- He has been to Morrowind on several occasions (and he has met Neloth). He has also been to Cyrodiil.

- Savos is not very religious; he was raised to believe in the reclamations, but over the years it has become a matter of “Whichever deity is willing to listen”. However, he does practice ancestor worship in a sense; he regularly leaves a little offering for the dead of the Great Collapse (which included his parents) on the shore below Winterhold. 

- Also, due to the nord/dunmer cultural mixture of his hometown, exclamations like “Shor’s bones!” are just as much a part of his vocabulary as “Azura curse you!”.

Appearance:

- He is fairly short for a dunmer (1,68 metres); he’s just a tiny bit taller than Mirabelle.

- Savos has a Lichtenberg scar (a souvenir from Morokei) running from just below his clavicle all the way to his hips. He’s extremely self-conscious about that and will lash out at anyone questioning his explanation of “magical accident”.

- He has a barely noticeable bald patch (a scar) from when he got hit by an icicle when he was a student.

- He doesn't care much about anyone's looks, including his own. He's clean and knows when to look presentable, but he cares more about being comfy than looking good. Has exactly one outfit for special occasions.

- He's in average shape for his age and lack of physical activity. 

 Social:

- Savos does not like dealing with people in positions of authority. Serious talks with Jarl Korir, for example, are his personal nightmare.

- Although Savos is an introvert through and through, he is not necessarily shy.

- He is not a good public speaker. Even when he was still a teacher he could not capture the crowd. However, those students who still listened would get clear and easily understandable explanations and instructions.

- Savos’ “Love language” is spending time together.

- Savos enjoys giving physical affection but is terrible at receiving it. It’s not that he doesn’t like it (he’s probably quite touch starved), but he has trouble accepting that someone could care for him.

- For that reason, he’s usually the big spoon - even if his partner is taller than him.

- Savos does not like smalltalk a lot. 

- However, if someone captures his interest he has no problem chatting until the early hours of the morning.

- Despite some different opinions about his leadership, Savos still gets along with everyone in the faculty.

- He does not trust Ancano and finds him annoying at times, but the previous headcanon includes him as well.

- Savos is a fairly sensitive guy and it’s easy to tell whether he’s happy, sad or angry. However, he’s often dishonest as to why.

- Savos is one of those people who’ll always promise to do something “later” and then forget about it. Mirabelle often has to remind him of his duties - much to her annoyance.

- Savos is not the type to make enemies (at least on purpose). If he has nothing nice to say to someone, he won’t say anything.

- Although it rarely happens, Savos can hold a grudge (and for a long time, too).

- He and Viarmo are close friends (and spent a night together once)

- Mirabelle Ervine was his student and he is still very close with her.

- Savos is good friends with Tolfdir and the two sometimes go fishing together.

- He's oblivious to Kraldar's "interest" in him and views him as a good friend.

- In fact, Savos is incredibly dense when it comes to flirting.

- Although Savos doesn’t engage with the students all that much, he still feels a sense of pride whenever he hears about their accomplishments.

- He also loves J'zargo’s shenanigans.

- There are some days where he’ll lock himself in his chambers and not open the door to anybody. The rest of the faculty knows to leave him alone on “one of those days”.

- Savos tolerates some crookery as long as it serves the college. For example, although he isn’t happy about Enthir’s business ventures, he realizes that having someone who can procure anything away from the normal supply lines is indeed quite beneficial.

- I like the idea of him being the nephew of Fathis Aren, the court mage in Bravil during the oblivion crisis. Given Fathis’ area of expertise and the possibility of their lifetimes overlapping, it’s not unlikely.

- Savos is not good at comforting others. He’ll let them pour their heart out to him, he’ll listen, but he doesn’t really know how to react afterwards. However, no matter how poorly he may express it, his sympathy is usually earnest.

- He is, however, very good at keeping secrets.

Skills & Knowledge:

- After the battle with Morokei Savos obsessively researched the dragon cult and its priests. Over time he’s come to understand (but not speak!) a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- Since his conjuration magic was anything but useful against Morokei, Savos picked up restoration magic as soon as he returned to the college.

- Savos toyed with necromancy when he was an apprentice, intrigued by the promise of immortality. After what he did in Labyrinthian, he’s never used a spell of that sort again.

- Savos is extremely skilled with wards and even (re-)discovered different types of wards by combining restoration and conjuration (think of something like ESO’s barrier and bound ward spells).

- He is a good healer and possesses a decent knowledge of anatomy.

- While Savos is not a physical fighter, he still knows how to keep someone from knocking his teeth out (thanks to Hafnar).

- Savos is an average alchemist.

- He can talk backwards, much to the annoyance of Ancano or anyone else he decides to mess with. He also has a talent for deciphering drunken gibberish.

- Savos’ interest in magic, particularly conjuration, was caused and fostered by his uncle and Savos always looked forward to his visits. 

- He is a quick learner but not very studious, which made him an average student. It was his skill with wards that caught the previous archmage’s attention.

- Although he grew up in a tailor shop, he can't sew at all.

- He's a terrible cook.

- Laments that he doesn’t know telekinesis but never actually sits down to learn it.

Attitude, Hopes And Fears:

- Savos is scared of lightning

- Savos tends to be pretty laid back when it comes to pranks and mischief as long as it doesn’t hurt students or staff.

- Savos is quite conflicted about his position as archmage. On the one hand, he’s proud of his station and wants to use it to improve the college, but on the other hand, he’s fully aware that he wouldn’t have gotten the title if Atmah and his other friends were still alive. Not to mention that they died under his leadership.

- Savos is both an optimist and a hopeless idealist. While this combination lets him believe that he can eventually lead the college into a better future, it also often blinds him to reality.

- In his youth, Savos dreamt of travelling the world in search for ancient knowledge - a dream shared by his friend Atmah. After Labyrinthian he buried any aspirations of adventure.

- Ever since Labyrinthian, Savos has trouble with nightmares. He often stays up late.

- He’s tried several methods to help him sleep, such as stuffing his pillow with lavender - a scent which clings to his hair.

- The easiest way to piss him off is to bring up politics.

- Savos rarely gets seriously angry but if he does, he tends to act irrationally.

- Overall Savos is not a brave man. Standing up to Ancano when he took control of the eye was perhaps the bravest things he’s ever done. It was also the most reckless he’s been since Labyrinthian

- He is crippled by a fear of repeating his mistakes.

- He’s well aware of some of his flaws (his lack of social skills, too lax attitude) but denies others, particularly those related to his past failings. 

- In Savos' opinion, a three-headed man-eating horker could apply for a place at the college—so long as it has the aptitude and keeps the man-eating in check, he'll be okay with that.

- He's got an ego the size of a peanut and it's easy to make him doubt himself.

Taste and Favourite things:

- Despite having tried many different beverages from many different parts of Tamriel, his favourite alcoholic drink is still a good mead.

- Savos has a sweet tooth which he doesn’t get to indulge all that often save for the honey he puts in his tea.

- Ever since his first trip to Morrowind, Savos has had a fascination with bugs and as a child, he always wanted a Nix-hound. He got a Nix-hound plushie instead.

- In fact, Savos likes many creepy crawlies others tend to find disgusting. Spiders, worms, bugs, scorpions — he thinks they're fascinating.

- His biggest hobby is gardening, which later led to an interest in alchemy.

- He used to be interested in archaeology (more Atmah’s hobby than his own, still…), but the expedition to Labyrinthian put a damper on that.

- His favourite food are honey nut treats, though his dad’s fish soup is the one he misses the most.

- His favourite colour is pine green, followed by the deep dark blue of the ocean.

- Savos enjoys going for a walk along the shore every once in a while.

- He is an avid reader with a preference for nonfiction, travel logs in particular. They're good for dreaming oneself away from bleak old Winterhold…

Random Headcanons:

- He’s a blanket thief.

- Savos has two standard sleeping positions: rolled halfway off the bed and blanket burrito.

- Savos is a cheerful drunk overall. However, he also becomes quite reckless if inebriated.

- Despite having lived in Winterhold all his life, he is not at all good at dealing with the cold.

- Savos is a clean but not very orderly person and the chances of finding anything in his quarters without asking is slim.

- He is an absolute night owl and has the bad habit of sleeping in his favourite chair rather than his bed. 

- Savos is not good with children. He likes them all right; he just doesn’t know what to do with them.

- However, he does stand by his opinions. In fact, he can be quite stubborn.

- Savos still has that plush nix hound mentioned above. It’s in… well-loved condition.

- Savos was the type of kid who'd always try to get out of doing chores. He spent most of his childhood playing in the streets with the other kids of the crafter's quarter. He remembers that time fondly.

- He had a very good relationship with his parents that continued into adulthood, despite their disappointment about him joining the college rather than taking over the tailor shop. 

Savos Dadcanons

- Okay so first off I can’t see Savos planning to have kids. The college is no place to raise a child (neither is Winterhold, for that matter) so if he became a father, it would be by accident. As such, I think he’d be happy but also very, very worried.

- However, when he gets to hold his kid for the first time he just turns into a joyous puddle on the floor (like, not literally, but his knees would be very weak and he’d shed few tears).

- He doesn’t really know what to do with children and that really becomes apparent when he has to handle the baby. But damn he’d try. He has probably read every book on childcare the arcanaeum has to offer, though granted there may not be too many of those.

- He’s overall not one for random silliness (I can’t see him making faces at the child or making babytalk, for example) but he’d smile and laugh a lot more around his kid.

- Also cuddles. At first Savos is a little scared of handling the child bc it’s so small and vulnerable, but eventually he’d enjoy holding the them.

- He’d try to teach his kid as much as he possibly could, though not through books and dry teaching. He’d definitely show his kid the garden or venture out into Winterhold at night to watch the stars. In a modern AU he’d absolutely be the dad building a baking soda volcano who’d then be almost as excited as the kid when the volcano explodes.

- There aren’t many children in Winterhold so Savos would be concerned that his child can’t make many -if any- friends. At some point he considered summoning a friend for them before realising that that’s a horrible idea.

- He’d continue his own dad’s bedtime story tradition.

- Savos would be a bit of a worrywart though; he’s lost so many students already so he’d definitely try and shelter his kid a bit. He’d teach them wards as soon as possible.

- He’d absolutely encourage some mischief.

- In fact, I don’t think he’d be a strict parent at all. It’d fall to his SO or Mirabelle to teach the child some boundaries. 

- As a healer, he is entirely unfazed by anatomy and awkward puberty topics. For example, he can give his child The Talk just fine, they just shouldn’t ask him how things feel\taste\etc. He’s a very private man and would get flustered at having to reveal things about his love life.

- He’d always stay a bit insecure about his parenting skills though, even when the child is all grown up. Is he a good dad? Did he raise a responsible adult? Did he prepare his child for all that’s out there? Late at night, he’d wonder.

- At any rate, Savos is by no means #1 dad, but he’d grow into it and he’d always be there for his child, even in case of potentially massive fuck ups.

Savos Adult Headcanons:

The NSFW alphabet

[whitegoldtower]

In addition to the last post;

Llevana rereads Balaarys’ journal over and over again whilst travelling to Morrowind, and catches herself humming the song.

She’s unsuccessful in locating the burial chamber of the Sixth House, and can’t get to red mountain to find Dagoth Ur’s remains, so she brings Balaarys’ skeleton home again, giving him one more adventure:

After she comes back to Skyrim, she goes to the Bard’s college in Solitude and shows Viarmo the journal, then hums the tune like

“Can you revive this song?”

To which he nods and directs her to a young dunmer bard, Veloth Sadri:

“This should be up your alley, if you’re feeling the challenge.”

The dunmer bard revives “Black is the Colour of my True Love’s Hair”, and is so moved that he also writes another song, this time in tribute of that sad Nerevarine, who flew too close to his ‘Sun and Sky’:

[wispstalk]

as-yet-unnamed bards college OC. he likes to scavenge Dwemer ruins; it's anyone's guess as to how he survives this. probably knows more than anyone in Skyrim about tonal architecture but mostly employs this knowledge to sustain a single, distorted note for ten minutes. Viarmo doesn't really get it but he pays his tuition, so.

[snowberry-crostata]

Summer Reading/Writing/Arting Tag

Tagged by the wonderful @thequeenofthewinter and @late-nite-scholar, thank you both!

1) Describe one creative WIP project you’re planning to work on over the summer:

I’m going to cheat and say two things. The first is Sundered, Kingless, Bleeding, my ongoing Dragonborn quest line novelization (chapter three is almost there - if I can make it through my in-laws’ visit this weekend I’ll have it up next week). I’m hoping to get at least one new chapter up in both June and July, and then start spending more time with it after my dissertation defense is over. I’ve also got a couple of miniatures busts (this one and this one) that I’ve been itching to paint but haven’t had time for, so I’d love to be able to carve out some time to work on those.

2) Rec a book:

I’ll always recommend Mary Roach’s books for anyone looking for hilarious, irreverent, and informative science nonfiction. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers was my first, but a lot of people like Packing for Mars too. I’m working my way through Fuzz: When Nature Breaks the Law right now, and I’ve had to stop reading it in public because I keep cracking up every few pages.

3) Rec a fic:

There are lot of amazing stories out there, but I've been particularly into in microfics recently. Jiubilant's stories are so evocative; this one with Lydia and Viarmo sticks in my brain, and I love this series of vignettes about an East Empire Company clerk who becomes archmage.

4) Rec music:

A while ago I put together instrumental writing playlists for each of the Skyrim holds and I listen to those a lot while writing, but this week I’ve been catching up on Eurovision and have been playing Lord of the Lost’s (they were robbed, their song was so good) cover of the runner-up song on repeat.

5) Share one piece of advice:

This is as much a reminder for myself as it is advice for other people: if you’re feeling frustrated or stuck with your writing, walk away for a few days (or weeks…) and re-read it later. It’ll be better than you think, and with some time away you’ll be able to catch and fix the things you didn’t see when you were deep in the trenches. Also, read your drafts out loud, not just in your head! It’s a really good way to catch typos, skipped words, repeated words, awkward phrases, etc.

@stormbeyondreality and @sylvienerevarine, if you haven’t been tagged already I would love to see what y’all have planned (no pressure though!).

[what-even-is-thiss]

Oh I forgot the headmaster of the bards college! Viarmo! Love that guy. Not his fault that his questline stinks. He’s invested in Skyrim and its history and traditions. And he runs a festival where you burn an effigy of a tyrannical king.

Rambling about elder scrolls again to distract myself but anyways people who think that high elves are all terrible are telling on themselves that they’ve only played Skyrim and didn’t play it very hard. High elves are not all stuck up racist snobs. Only a lot of them are.

The majority of named high elves you meet in basically all the games are just some guy.

[throughtrialbyfire]

one headcanon i have about the bards college is that when they perform, they often wear costumes, some more elaborate than others, and some bards even have their own recognizable flair. viarmo borrows from both cyrodiilic and summerset styles in his performing costumes, for example, with elaborate golden brocades and bright red cloaks and tunics in aquamarine. bards deserve fun costumes i think

[jiubilant]

ft. @zurin's character, casair

“It purports,” says the Headmaster of the Bards’ College, raising a classical brow, “to be the oldest teahouse in the City of Stone.”

“So does that one,” says the Archmage of Winterhold, nodding across the street. “And that one. And the, the one on Temple Way, remember, with all the trellises—”

“Please come in, messeri,” cries the girl sweeping the hearth, “or you’ll let out the cat—Pangur, no!”

They scramble to shut the door, of course. Then, of course, they have no choice but to let the girl take their cloaks hostage, to be ushered to the corner table with the charming brass lamp, and to murmur amused greetings at the house’s proprietor: a venerable gib-cat, puddled half-asleep by the fire, who blinks at them without moving a paw.

“Let out the cat,” mutters Viarmo when the girl—who knows her own cleverness, judging by her smile—has hurried out of earshot for their cups. He gestures with theatrical indignation to the hearth. “Beast didn’t even deign to roll over.”

He brushes his bright velvet doublet as if ridding it of fur. The Archmage smiles.

Whatever’s sprung up between them over the past month, he thinks, will likely end today. He’s leaving the City of Stone tomorrow—for his ice fortress, as Vjar’s put it. He’s missed it, his College: the blinding ice, the air that crystallizes in the lungs, the cold, clean vastness of the sea. The seals bawling at gulls. The gulls squalling at seals. His wonder-workers shuffling about with wind-flushed faces, blowing on their hands, stamping the snow from their boots in the entrance-hall.

But he’ll miss Markarth, too, against his better judgment—

“You won’t regret choosing the Juniper Tree,” chirps the girl, bustling back with teacups and tray. “They serve dishwater on Temple Way. Pilgrims can’t tell the difference, you know. Melze!”

She rattles out the teapot and an array of brimming bowls: honey, sugar-shavings, blackberries cooked in syrup. A silver ewer of warm milk. A carafe of cool water, and a carafe of hot. The Archmage watches with growing surprise and delight; Viarmo watches with amusement, rearranging the bowls when it looks as though the girl will run out of table.

“Melze?” he asks, catching a desperate teacup without turning a hair. The man is nine-tenths pomade.

“Tea in the dwarven style,” says the Archmage, smiling. A memory he’d thought lost returns to him: himself in a melzeruhn with his father and sister, holding his cup with both hands, sitting on two cushions in order to see over the table. “It was popular in Narsis when I was a scrib. You fix it up yourself. I didn’t know it ever crossed the Velothis—”

“This was a dwarven city, once,” says the girl with a dimpled smile. “It’s our house blend, messere, so it may surprise you.”

He suspects that it will. He hasn’t had melze in two hundred years.

“Let me,” he says when Viarmo reaches for the teapot to pour. Then, against his better judgment: “I ought to know by now what you like.”

Nothing ventured, he thinks a little desperately in the silence that follows. The big beringed hand pauses in the steam. Above it, Viarmo gives him a long, leonine look.

“Yes,” he concedes at last, nudging the teapot across the table. Their fingers almost brush. “Will I see you at that colloquium, come spring?”

* * *

The House of Dibella’s conservationist, after several minutes of scholarly rumination on her pen, rubs her face and looks up from her précis. The Juniper Tree is crowded this afternoon, she thinks with dry surprise; apart from herself, she counts two customers.

“Cottia,” she calls in the Reachling tongue of their mothers, reaching across the table for her cup: tart juniper tea, not the Nchuand brew that charms the lowlanders. “I’d like something else to chew on, please—”

“Bannuc!” her cousin announces, and drops a wedge of the hot, fluffy barley-cake on the conservationist’s notes. Then she drops herself into the adjacent chair, her eyes twinkling with the promise of some mischief. “Fresh from the stone. Do you think they’re rich, Casair?”

The glittering old gentlemen at the corner table, absorbed in a lively Haafing conversation about lausavísur, seem in no danger of understanding them. Casair counts their gleaming rings and raises her eyebrows. “Why?”

“They didn’t ask the price of the tea service.” Cottia grins like that cat. “Should I charge them double?”

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

elisif, whose husband the king was recently murdered right in front of her: idk i just dont really want to have a holiday in my city celebrating king murder rn :(

everyone in solitude: this is a TRAVESTY-

(and then viarmo is like 'you know its really a lot more similar to burning someone like ulfric heres a poem abt it' and she goes 'hm. actually we should do this every week-')

Viarmo should become a spin doctor. 🤔

[nientedenada]

I think it's just the Thalmor are very memorable to people playing Skyrim as a group. But there are lots of totally normal Altmer in Skyrim. Some of them like the tailor sisters or Nirya are snobby, but a lot of them aren't even that. they come in all varieties.

Think of Faralda, Niranye, Runil, Calcelmo, Aicantar, Reldith, Nurelion, Curwe, Fasendil, Nelacar, Melaran, Viarmo, Arivanya, Quaranir, Nenya. Just off the top of my head, these are all pretty diverse ordinary Altmer citizens. Some are scholars, soldiers, raging bores, lovers, criminals etc, but they're not really snobby or evil as a whole.

But fans just remember the Thalmor.

Honestly, I think we should just take custody of the Altmer as a whole since Bethesda clearly has no interest in doing anything with them, besides making them some greater evil and generally awful.

We do not need what they are right now. Because right now there is hardly any difference between a Thalmor and a regular citizen of the Summerset Isles and I am not standing for that.

The Altmer have so much potential for more and I am so sick of black and white thinkers looking at them and going like "Altmer should be genocided off of Tamriel"

[myhandsarentsmudgediusedigital]

Totally not me planning yet ANOTHER skyrim story, this time with canon characters forming an LDB Warrior, Mage, Thief trio.

Of course I wouldn't do that, not when I have so much unfinished hahahaha! (hides Hadvar, Onmund, and Viarmo behind my back)