#vyra demnevanni

[kagrena]

(CW: direct references to in-universe slavery)

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From the diary of Knocks-on-Wood, Caravan Drover to Vyra Demnevanni: Midnight. 20th, First Seed. 1E 655. Trade Job: Seventy-Two. Route: Tel Enora -> Kemel-Ze. Progress: 34km. Wind: North-West, 309°. Weather: light ash. Lunch: Jellied nix-eels and mushroom assortment (Kemel-Ze style), with shalk egg. Progress Report: Conditions calm. No sickness. Decent spirits amongst the crew – all gotten paid on time. Caravan made good progress despite ash. Cargo all accounted for. Vyra did not yell at Drels, or any of the crew today. Ahead of schedule for once. [Scrawled in the margin: She's not as green as she was once. Almost competent now.] Miscellaneous Notes: Breakthrough. Finally, Vyra's talking again.

Had thought I'd fucked it thoroughly. Vyra, being Vyra, the former pride of Kemel-Ze, hadn’t even given me a sideways glance for weeks since she found out.

[Scrawled in the margin: Can't blame her much. What kind of fucked excuse for a father does she have, employing some schmuck to spy on his favourite bastard?]

Had expected I’d have to talk sense into her, but she approached me first. Sat with me at the start of the night watch. I'd told her to get some shut-eye. It would be her turn in four hours, she needed all the sleep she could get.

“You’re on Sydras Demnevanni’s payroll,” she had said in response. First words to me in weeks.

Told her then, bluntly, that she wouldn’t like what she was going to hear.

“This isn’t about what I’d like, Knox—” [Scrawled up in the corner of the page: But she’d end up getting her way in the end, wouldn’t she?] “—You've been on Sydras' payroll. Since the beginning.”

“Vyra,” I’d told her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t you fucking ‘don’t’ me, Knox. You owe me some fucking answers.”

[Scrawled in the margin: Don’t owe her anything asides from what’s on the dotted line.]

“Demnevanni,” she continued. "Does he know about the Tel Mora shitshow from last year?”

Put my head in my hands. [She's like a battering ram when she gets riled up.]

“Answer the question, Knox. Does he know what really happened up en route from Tel Mora? What really happened with that job? Does he or doesn’t he?”

“Vyra, I'm his damned spy, you know the answer—”

“Don’t fuck with me. Does he know about that job? Does he know about Trade Job Fifty-Nine?”

[Should have lied. Should have just fucking lied.]

“No.” It came out so quiet. You could barely hear. “No, Vyra, he doesn’t.”

And she hadn’t expected that. She’d stepped backwards. She looked at me like I was something new.

“You didn't... so does he also know, then, that I now know—?”

“No, Vyra. He also doesn’t know that you now know about…”

“The fact you’re spying on me. That I know you have been spying on me for years. He truly doesn't know? I-- Why?”

Couldn’t bring myself to squeeze out a lie to that one. Couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Vyra might be a half-dwarf heretic who hadn't tried to even like the chimer she now lived among, having left her brass castle, and still, couldn't think of anyone except her damn self – [Scrawled in the margin: Who are you trying to kid, Knox?] – but she'd been wronged, well enough. And when you travel with someone for years, you also learn their tells. And Vyra – she saw straight through mine.

“So… what, Knox, you don't care? You don't fucking care?”

That, I just shrugged. What was left to say?

"I don't. I don't actually give a damn about Sydras Demnevanni."

And that was when she laughed – threw back her head and cackled. Laughed like the whole world had gone mad except her, echoed through the crags.

[Scrawled in the margin: Girl's fucked in the head.]

[Scrawled in the margin, directly underneath: No more than you, Knox.]

“Fuck me, Knox,” she’d told me. “I'd spent the past hundred days wondering if you were somehow loyal to him.”

“Loyal to Demnevanni?”

What had he ever done to deserve loyalty? That old wizard-lord wouldn't dare stand within five feet of a guar, not for his life.

[A note scrawled in the margin: He pays damn well. It’s the easiest damn coin you've made since you left the Marsh. You send a packet of coins home every month, don't you forget it.]

“Don't say it like it's fucking implausible," said Vyra. “I know he's a cunt, but—” Hist be damned, should have seen the grin on her then – Vyra was beaming. “Knox, you should have said. Would have made trusting you a damn sight easier.”

“Didn't know you trusted me one bit, Vee.”

Vyra huffed and crossed her arms.

“Knox, has it ever occurred to you that I have to trust you? The rest of the crew can go back singing up with the tones for all I care but this – this right here? Doesn't work without you. Besides—”

[Scrawled in the margin, somewhere: Think that was a compliment.]

[Scrawled in the margin, somewhere: She's called everyone but you incompetent. Keep your guar steady.]

"Besides what? Where's this going?"

"I want to do more jobs like Fifty-Nine again."

[Scrawled in the margin: Trade Job Fifty Fucking Nine]

“Vyra.”

“Which means I really have to trust you.”

“Vee.”

[Scrawled all along the margin, in rough strokes: Why, in the name of all the damned gods and beasts and things unholy, does Vyra, a bastard merchant who's never given a shit about tearing anyone else down to get what she wants, give a damn about what happens to Telvanni slaves? Is it guilt? Is it something personal? It couldn't be out of a sense of justice – she knows how this world works, she's too damn smart for that. Can't figure it out.]

“Knox, I've thought things through. I think we can minimise the risks—”

“There's no playing safe with that kind of cargo. Telvanni—”

“You think I don't know what the Telvanni do to them?”

[Scrawled, in larger and larger letters: Why does she care? Why does she care so much? What does this mean to you, Vyra?]

“Not so loud,” I snapped.

She dropped her voice to a fierce whisper.

“By all the fucking tones on this fucking plane of existence – Knox – Knox, please—”

“Please what?”

[Scrawled in the margin, somewhere: First or second time Vyra had ever said please in her life, I reckon.]

“Think about it. Just think about it. I – I can't just do the same-in same-out for another five years, pretending like nothing is wrong with this damn world. I'll actually kill someone.”

“Vyra, you can't—”

“Shut up. This will be more fucking important than anything we've ever fucking done in our sorry lives.”

I’d given her a hard look.

[Scrawled up in the corner of the page: What the in the four corners happened, Vyra? What happened in that little clan of yours, that raised you and fed you, where you never wanted for much, that you'd toss yourself out with the nix-hounds?]

[Scrawled up in the corner, directly underneath: Hate it when she's right]

Then I’d sighed.

“Shit, Vyra. You've really thought about the risks of taking on wanted folk as travellers?”

“I know the risks.”

“And when we get caught?”

“I know the risks.”

“And you’ve thought about the rest of us? What getting caught might mean for the likes of us? A Marsh exile, two Ashlander vagabonds, and a half-deaf sewer rat you've made out to be a stableboy—"

“Lyr isn't—”

“—I know she isn't – Let me finish.”

She halted.

“Jade's already got a price on his head out in Hammerfell. I can’t step foot in half the kingdoms of Argonia else they’ll have my head. You know what will happen to us?”

“I’ll take the fall—”

“But they’ll blame us. We're the leftover scraps, the dregs, the scum they've raked off the bottom—”

“You're not scum—”

“—But we're scum to them. And they're the ones that matter. They're the ones with the noose, Vee. Think about that.”

Vyra looked at me like she wanted to tear me apart. But didn't say anything.

Things got real quiet, after that. Didn't have much else to say. Vyra, reckon by the way her hands twitched, she started counting the stars. New moons, plenty of them out.

[Scrawled up in the corner: Know it's her favourite sky. Know she's sentimental for it, despite the fact that she pretends she couldn't give a damn. My theory's that she likes to count to keep it all in check. Always stock-keeping.]

It got comfortable after a while.

[Scrawled all along the margin: If I close my eyes, it’s not too far from the cornerclub days again. Trading stories about old jobs gone wrong and things gone sour like we could have been friends. Back when Demnevanni was still bank-rolling his favourite bastard daughter’s scheme to fleece all the other wizard-lords to Oblivion and back when we spent every coin of his dirty money after pay day on Flin and Wildgrass. We’d pour our hearts and guts out, then head out of town, gaze up at the stars, and smoke in a ditch somewhere. She’d count them, tell me shit about magnetic fields and constellations. Always surprised me that. On the worst days, I forget she’s anything other than a Caravan Master. The damn thing she refuses to call herself. Vyra, call me Vyra, she says— gets short with you otherwise. Like a Caravan Master might.]

She stood up suddenly. Held my gaze.

“I won't go ahead with it unless you’re on board, Knox."

"That's bullshit, Vee."

"No. No it's not." She looked me dead in the eye. “And you're not scum to me, Knox.”

Didn't say anything to that. [Scrawled at the bottom of the page: Hate it when she's right.]. Simply watched her walk off, shrinking from big to small as she moved up towards the horizon, up towards the smoke still billowing from the campfire. Still smouldering. Tried to look away. Looked up instead.

[Scrawled in the margin: Burnt silver, that colour – she'd say the tone, wouldn't she? – where she'd been looking, her patch of stars up in the sky. Pretty. But not much else to note.]

The rest of the watch was uneventful.

[profanetools]

top left - preliminary rough sketch of rzarak/vyra demnevanni, pre self-exile, as a young tonal architect (I have yet to settle on exact hairstyle or length but she def had those ringlets)

bottom left - preliminary rough sketch of endrys demnevanni

right - preliminary roigh sketch of rzarak/vyra post self-exile, at least 15 years into merchant caravan trading (know its not an exact copy shhh)

details may be subject to change, I'm trying hard to make vyra distinct from how I've drawn bald dunmer/chimer characters in the past

[keeninghearts]

From the diary of Knocks-on-Wood:

Entry 1479.

Midnight. 20th, Frostfall. 1E 620

Job 72. Route: Tel Enora, Western Branch -> Duumvanzel, Vvardenfel. Progress: 24km. Wind: North-North West, 19°. Weather: light ash.

Lunch: Jellied shalk-eels and southern mushroom assortment, with egg.

Notes: Breakthrough at last.

Had thought I'd fucked it thoroughly with Vyra. Tightly wound up and clammed shut since discovery of employment by Sydras Demnevanni.

[In the margin: Don't blame her, really. What kind of fucked excuse for a father, employing some schmuck drover to spy on his favourite bastard? I'd feel hurt in her shoes]

Calmer, during the day. Has been talking to the rest of the crew politely, even Drels.

[In the margin: Think the pep talk worked. They don't deserve the shit they've been dragged into, but it's not good being at odds.]

No snapping. Good spirits. Caravan made good progress despite weather. Cargo all accounted for. Ahead of schedule. For once.

[In the margin: Maybe unfair. She's not as green as she was once. Almost competent now.]

[In the margin, again: Too mean. You won't lower yourself to her level.]

Spoke to me at the beginning of the night watch, far from the fire.

[In the margin: New moon, the stars are out. You know it's her favourite sky. You know she's sentimental for it, despite the fact that she pretends she couldn't give a damn. Not a born theatre player, our Vyra.]

"Knox," she'd said, direct. Eye contact. "Do you ever miss anything from home?"

[In the margin: First time she's asked that directly. Part of me still wishes I could have told her to fuck off the first time she mentioned home. ]

I told her that I didn't owe her an answer.

"You're on Sydras' payroll."

I repeated the fact that I didn't owe her an answer.

"So you don't care. You don't fucking care."

And she laughed like the whole world was a joke.

[In the margin: Girl's fucked in the head.]

[In the margin: No more than you, Knox.]

I told her I didn't follow.

"You don't need to. I don't owe you an answer, either. But -- I'm relieved, actually. Had wondered if you were loyal."

"To your father?"

"To Demnevanni, yes."

I responded in the negative.

[In the margin: Not false. This contract is the best pay I've got since I left the Marsh. And no more.]

Vyra laughed.

"You should have said. Would have made trusting you a damn sight easier over the past few weeks."

I responded that I wasn't aware that she trusted me at all.

"You're my drover. Have to. The rest of them can go damned to oblivion if I please but this won't work if I don't trust you."

[In the margin: Think that was a compliment.]

[In the margin: She's called everyone but you incompetent.]

"And I want to do more jobs like Fifty-Nine again. That means I really have to trust you."

I told her that was a dangerous game to play. It was risky enough the first time.

"You think I don't know that?"

I told her that she hadn't thought about the consequences for the rest of us. A black marsh exile, two ashlander vagabonds, a half-mute stable kid. What would happen to us if we got caught?

She didn't have a good answer to that.

[In the margin: Why does Vyra, a half-dwemer bastard with all the manners of a cave-dweller, give a damn about slaves? It's not guilt. It's not principled, either. It's not a sense of moral obligation -- don't know if she's ever given a damn about what's right

[In the margin: You shouldn't judge because she's dwemer Knox. You know better than that. It's probably like everything with Vyra -- way too perspnal]

But she did tell me though, she wouldn't go ahead unless I agreed.

"We're not single-handedly setting up an underground railroad," I had told her direct. "I won't be put to the torch by the Dres for what they think is property theft."

She acquiesced to that.

[In the margin: Could have twisted her arm more. Made it hurt. Why didn't I?]

"Once a year."

"Won't make that kind of promise."

"Not a promise."

"Then what?"

"What I'd hope for, almost."

"Vyra. You know damn better than to be talking like an optimist now."

She laughed. Then started telling me some crazy clan story about some old wives tale about how positive thinking can demagnetise some tonal circuit or whatsit. She'd stopped to ask me if I knew what a magnet was half-way through.

[In the margin: She doesn't think you're an idiot, Knox. She's the idiot here.]

The next hour was trading old horror stories from our old lives like we used to during cornerclub days, when Vyra and I did nothing but talk.

[In the margin: I don't know how I feel about forgiveness. I don't know how I feel about Vyra, either.]

[kagrena]

@libertineangel

1E659. Leftunch

There had been no resentment shown on his part, Rtheldren could say that much.

He had welcomed her on arrival. Had offered her tea – knowing she'd laugh and refuse, making that same old crack about 'her secret supply'. Had even offered her a tour of the facility - which she'd also refused, she'd seen it at least a dozen times, she'd seen all the research facilities a dozen times, as he knew well – and he had smiled – even laughed – while they reminisced about the 'good old years', all those fond tales of her madcap workshops where he and the rest of her apprentices would toss around earth-shattering ideas like they were weightless – the world still a puzzlebox to be cracked, the brassprints to rework the entire architectural academy something they'd hash out over supper. Halycon days. Before they knew what a storm really tasted like.

"Do you really still enjoy it out here, Rtheldren?" Bthemetez had asked him, with a particular stress on really.

It was a pointed question. Rather than questioning the logic behind it - a younger Rtheldren, more easily rattled, would have asked her: what did she mean, really? That out here, out in the Velothi mountains, in a small but uneventful research facility whose only claim to fame was that it had simply been ignored by the Nords, that could have been left to rust, was beneath him? - he instead had laughed gently - she had not changed one bit, had she?

He had said: "Yes, I do. Really."

It was an honest answer. His old mentor may not understand - she had never lost so much at the Grand Debate - but what he had here, his fellow engineers and him had managed to construct out of very little, by their own hands. He had come to value it. He had come to see meaning in the rhythm of a quieter life, away from the raucous debates, where he mostly fixed things of minor importance. What other Dwemer Architects would call utter tedium.

And so when Bthemetz, 'The Brass Architect', his old and still, despite everything, beloved mentor, then asked him for his support at the next Grand Debate, he had answered thus:

"No, I cannot."

It did not seem as if Bthemetz had anticipated this answer.

"Respectfully, why?"

Why? There were a dozen reasons. The fact that despite whatever old sentiment the Choir had towards either Bthemetz the Martyr, the old folk tales, or "The Brass Architect", the respected Tonal Architect, the debate that she was planning to stage – at the eleventh hour, while they were on the brink of a war, against Kagrenac, against her Numidium, concerning ethics – was academic suicide. The fact that it had only been twelve years since he last supported someone on such a venture. The fact that Bthemetz, an mer-construct of polished brass who wore violet plumes of flame around an engraved face-mask, who had arrived from Vvardenfell's Core via airship, such was her urgency, to a minor research facility in the Velothi mountains where nothing of interest had happened in a hundred years, and seemed to be unaware of the disparity of her presence in this place. Who still seemed to think she was an exiled scholar in rags, marching through the desert. Who seemed to think Rtheldren would make excellent primary support – who had previously rejected her, that she was now sincerely turning to him for help?

He did not say a word of this, though.

Instead, he said:

"Rzarak."

He stared at Bthemetz. In the two hundred years since he had made her acquaintence, he had seen the flames that adorned her brass-face blaze in almost all the tones and subtones the ear could catch: brass-gold, violet, sharp turquoise, steady rose, rust, viridian. But he had never seen all those bright flames tipped with gold, bold and brash, completely vanish before.

They returned, a not a beat later, brighter, stronger.

"She goes by Vyra now," said Bthemetz. There was still the same mirth in her voice as before, though it has lost its warmth.

"She – you're still in contact?"

"Not precisely, no."

He tried to look at Bthemetz, to catch anything in between her features. It had always been difficult, in his experience, to read much emotion in that implacable brass-face, with its permanent half-smirk engraved in, at the head of her brass chassis. He had to imagine there was a piece missing. Something he couldn't quite unpick. Rzarak – Vyra – had been only half his age when he had offered his support, when he had watched Kagrenac tear her assidiously into tiny pieces of scrapnel.

"Bthemetz... do you regret what happened to her? To... Vyra?"

There was a short pause.

"No, I don't."

He did not have a moment to catch his breath before she continued:

"I suspect you may disagree with me – that is your prerogative, after all – but I do still hold that the architectural basis for Numidium is theoretically sound. I do acknowledge the debate Vyra spearheaded raised some extremely pressing concerns – which have since been addressed, quite thoroughly, I should add – but the architectural design of Numidium is not—"

"That's not my point."

She halted.

"The consequences Rz- Vyra faced for speaking out against Numidium were severe," said Rtheldren. "Stripping her of her chief status. Barring her from several roles near-permanently. Let alone the social ostracisation."

Bthemetz cocked her head to the side.

"You and I both recall that my former apprentice took a project made under oath of secrecy and made it a public affair. Do you simply not expect her to face any kind of consequence?"

"The Choir concurred that the matter had been kept secret amongst Kagrenac and the other Senior Architects for far too long. The exemptions for truth-ringers exist for that reason — that does not justify the severity of the punishment."

A valve released a slow, steady hiss of steam.

"The loss of her chief status was a decision her clan made independently of us. You know I – you know Kagrenac, even – had no say in that. Every decision made about what projects she could or could not work on was made by the respective Lead Architects in question – again, out of our hands. This was not a punishment, as you say, concocted in a backroom, we do not punish dissent—"

Rtheldren tried not to frown.

"I know you considered her a truth-ringer, Rtheldren," she continued. "Confronting a hostile Choir, with all those Architects' glares like daggers at her back. A lone voice in the din, trying to stop the slow march towards our self-inflicted end. At a young age, even. I understand that. I see the romance in it, even! But you, equally, must understand, to the Architects that have spent years, if not decades on projects that must – given the war on our heels, given the continuing hostility shown to our kind outside of Resdayn – must remain an absolute secret, trust is paramount. Many felt what Vyra did was a fundamental breach of trust. A breach of faith, even. That she would cast out details of the Numidium project – arguably the most dangerous and yet most vital project we have ever pursued, one that shall truly define what it means to be a dwemer – for all to see, it was, to them, heartbreaking."

Rtheldren shook his head.

"Why is it when you speak of her, I hear your voice and yet Kagrenac's words? Next you'll be telling me about her 'squandered talent' and 'waste of potential'."

A second valve released steam - a sharp hiss, this time.

"I am simply trying to explain their point of view. I suppose you think I abdicated all responsibility, don't you? Vyra can make her own decisions – and no, I would never chain her here if she felt it was not home, I don't care if others think her departure is regrettable – I am simply trying to explain– by the twelve–"

There was a sudden crack in her voice. She spat out a curse in an old, defunct dialect of Aldmeris he couldn't understand.

"She should have known the consequences. I do not even know what she was thinking. She could have spoken to me – before, before the Debate, before it was too late—"

There was a long, heavy silence.

"She trusted you," said Rtheldren. "She trusted you, perhaps more than anyone in the world."

Bthemetz stared at him.

"Tell me then. Tell me, what would you have had me do? What could I have possibly done?"

Rtheldren could think of a few things. She could have rallied behind her cause. Or she could have refused to denounce her. Or she could have stood up, in front of the Choir, regardless of her perspective, and decried the way they whispered of Vyra as a traitor and a threat, instead of a dissident unafraid of the truth, unafraid of what personal consequence it might bring, part of a long and proud Dwemeri tradition.

"You could have said no to Kagrenac," said Rtheldren.

At first, Bthemetz said nothing. Then she laughed. She laughed so bitterly, it almost sounded like sobbing.

"I pleaded with her for weeks. Don't do this. Don't destroy her. Let another speak, let another stand–" She shook her head. "Kagrenac turned around and nearly bit my head off for trying. 'She is like a daughter to me as well' I was told. 'Do you not think this is beyond difficult for me?' I was told. I didn't care. I did everything short of getting on my knees. I begged her to be merciful." She snorted. "Foolish. What value does mercy have for a Dwemer? Vyra herself would have had me hung if she'd known I'd tried to get Kagrenac to be gentle with her for even a moment in the Debate chamber. Do you know, when she realised I would be adding my voice to the Choir, she told me not to hold anything back." Bthemetz shook her head. "The pride that girl had. With that attitude, she could have almost been Kagrenac's own. Not that it would have made a whit of difference in the end, really."

She closed her eyes.

"We shall all be humbled by the Debate," said Rtheldren softly, quoting the old proverb. "Only ever humbled in its hall."

A piece of old religious scripture, part-forgotten, part-discarded.

"By its ears, by its lips, by its hands," finished Bthemetz.

It had become no less weighty over time.

[kagrena]

@jiubilant

From the diary of Knocks-on-Wood, Caravan Drover to Vyra Demnevanni:

Midnight. 14th, Last Seed. 1E 649. Trade Job: Nine. Route: Nchuleftingth -> Bamz-Amschend (via. Sadrith Mora). Progress: 26km. Wind: East, 96. Weather: Clear. Lunch: Steamed ash yam and hackle-lo saltrice with crab. Progress Report: Little to report. Steady progress. Calm weather. No sickness. Miscellaneous Notes: "What's your fondest memory?"

[TEAR IN PAGE. REST OF ENTRY MISSING]

"It's… well."

She looks distant. Like the world's going pale. There's nothing but grass under her knees and stars up dotting the sky and since the wind's stopped, all of a sudden, and it makes the quiet feel so loud.

It's late. You wonder whether maybe, maybe you both should've gotten flat-out drunk instead.

Dangerous territory, questions.

"It's my, ah." She speaks without warning. "My uma."

Before you can ask—

"Ma or pa, mum or dad, mama or papa—" She twists a hand, like she's the esteemed noble instead of the wild cast-off, as she says those words, "—or what have you. The chimer words for them always felt so wrong."

She takes a long sigh. Leans right back into the dirt. Doesn't look at you.

"My uma. I don't remember much about her. Suppose that's why it's so fucking fond." She hacks out a laugh. "Ironic. Half of what I remember isn't even mine. Her face, I only know what she looks like from the daguerrotypes my omas kept around. She's younger in those than I am by decades. Hadn't even gone on sabbatical yet—"

She shut her mouth, suddenly. And she's quiet for a while. She – damn, was this too far? You hadn't even expected an answer—

"I don't even know what she sounds like. You know, they say you'll mourn twice, the day you forget your uma's voice." There's a hasty laugh, tough, under her breath. "I mix hers up with my uncle's and some of my cousins'. Dawned on me a while back that I muddled them all up. I couldn't even tell you the day I forgot."

You can't see in the dark. You can't see her pull at the dirt beneath her fingers.

"The bits that I do remember, they're nothing much... but they're mine. Smell of her hands. Her favourite earrings – the ones I thought were ugly. The pattern of her, um, fuck – cutting-garment? Not a robe, sturdier, more practical, it's workshop-wear, but still long... smock, or frock, maybe?

"That was my favourite thing. It changed colour. I mean, they all did – they're made from brass weave and spidersilk, and brass – brass can be lots of colours, depends on the light and tone. I remember hers had pink in it, sometimes, if the light was right."

She breathes out, suddenly.

"And it had these..."

She gestures, tracing something you can't see in the air.

"These parallel lines, that would trail out of floating semi-circles, and those lines would criss-cross each other, cut above and below without ever touching..."

Her hands twist around each other, at something out of reach.

"... I don't know how to explain it, but they were almost... they looked almost exactly like these stringy little sea creatures that'd wash up on the shore near Kemel-Ze. Looked like baby netch jellies made of wire. Called it her jelly-fish-frock."

You can almost feel her smile.

"I could've spent hours tracing the pattern on that damn thing. How every circle seemed to interlock, but didn't. How close it all got to crashing into each other, but didn't. Used to jump with my fingers from fish-leg to fish-leg, until my uma got tired of it and told me I'd spent too long, gone and drowned in the sea. Glug-glug-glug."

She sits up, suddenly. Hands still stuck mid-air.

"My uma – I remember this time. I'd gotten really upset about something – no idea what, I just remember being so upset and just... running and clinging to my uma. Clinging to that smock... and I think about how it smelled of her, her and fresh soap my omas made, and sometimes soot and hot metal and sometimes a little of the sea, because the soap couldn't always get rid of that smell. I didn't really give a damn. It was my uma. My uma. I'd just hold on to her, my uma, and try to bury myself in her clothes and cling on for dear life."

Her voice goes soft.

"Guess I thought I might drown too, if I let go, huh."

She puts her hands on her knees. She doesn't look at you for the longest while.

"... it was a really nice texture," She mumbles under her breath. "Just... really smooth."

[profanetools]

vyra's a really funny example of this because, in part due to bad/traumatic experiences with her chimeri family & their expectations of her, absolutely has zero interest in engaging culturally with any of that, so clings onto a lot of dwemer... chauvinism? i suppose? even though 1. she has a lot of academic trauma from training to be a tonal architect and has experienced a lot of negatives from her previous prestigious role 2. she has far more experience of travelling than most, and is keenly aware of how individual chimer have immense expertise of weaving, or magic, or alchemy, or pottery, or alternative agriculture, as a result of the amount of trading she does, and has a better appreciation for dwemer craftsmen who are not professional tonal architects and dwemer arts that exist outside of her remit

and yet still is stubbornly dismissive about chimer as a whole - because it's a bad habit, because it's a poor black/white coping mechanism of various far more complex familial dynamics, and because part of her still doesn't want to let go of what she left behind at the academy - and acknowledge there are better opportunities elsehwere, or acknowledge the unspoken class systems and hierarchies in place in late dwemereth.

[kagrena]

VYRA

When you come to, it's after four thousand years of being stuck while the whole world's been spinning around you, and you barely recognise a thing. They don't recognise you, either. You're not the half-wild dwemer bastard daughter of some Telvanni wizard-lord, nor are you the architect formerly known as Rzarak, fallen from grace. You don't know if you can go back to being Vyra Rzarak Demnevanni. Maybe some clans can continue on like nothing happened, go back to their workshops where the tones stopped singing so long ago, but you -- you were determined to go your own way, to make something of yourself without the choirs and the clans chiefs trying to figure out what to do with you, without the acolytes who wanted to rip out your throat and the bell towers ringing your name and the half-dozen mentors who scratched their heads because you, Vyra, you could be something brilliant -- when you weren't being difficult, which was all the damn time. You'd taken one good, long look at that world -- and you'd left it all behind.

But not without having it all first. It was the Brass Architect herself who'd gotten through to you, after all, who'd seen you as more than 'trouble', and whipped you into shape. She'd taken one look at the engine in your big old brain, fed it the nuts and bolts of tonal theory, and got it to work, got you to work, got you to love, got you to hunger, and you grew. You grew until you towered over everyone else, one of the brightest minds of your generation, right until you were shining at the top of the spire. Introduced you to the big names, to the players and shakers, to Chief Architect themselves, who picked as one of their favourites - and they did pick favourites among acolytes, that was no secret. Yes, you were good. And once you realised exactly what you were reaching for, you wanted none of it.

The Numidium Project would ruin you all.

You had told people - you'd yelled your damn lungs out - that it was all no good, that it was all was rotten to the core, years before anyone else did. You brought it to the Grand Debate, where you were scolded like a child, and got ousted from Grand Chamber by the Chief Architect herself, who'd carved you up into little pieces and served them up to applause - but by the grace of the very same Chief Architect, you had not fallen fully from your previous stature. No, you'd been offered some write-off tonal engineer position in a minor outpost where you couldn't cause any more 'upsets' nor rouse any other 'upstarts'.

'She didn't want this to happen, Zakya. She's already overcome with grief,' you were told, by the woman you'd considered more than a mother, like you were already dead.

So you left.

You left the only world you knew and you spent forty years being raw and furious with the open skies and roads before you. You cut your hair and shaved your beard, threw out every precise instrument you'd ever touched for netch leather and a well-oiled crossbow. You cut yout hair and ran a caravan from Nchumzel to Tel Enora to half-way across Tamriel that you stashed with knock-off brass implements and any runaway who could pull their weight on your pathetic, wretched father's guilt money and you hated everything and everyone you saw along the way. You cut your hair and it always grew back long and thick and curly, no matter how savagely you cut it. You cut your hair and rode out your rage, tear up the road and everything on it, until the end--

-- until the Call came --

And 'I was right,' turns out to be no comfort at all, not even a bitter one, when the world's rolled on past you, and you haven't changed a bit.

Except that your hair's grown back.

You've realised you miss your grandparents. Even though they died fifty -- four thousand and fifty -- years ago. And you'll never see your cunt of a father again -- more's the fucking pity -- nor your half-brother, unless you waste half a funeral at an ancestral -- shit, what's the word for those things? Shrine?

Your hair's long past that feeling of fresh-cut grass and is beginning to curl around your ears. It itches.

You on keep counting their names. Lyr, the stable kid sweetheart who liked your guar -- you'd let her name them, Mistymuck and Needle and Calamity, that last one you both had a soft spot for -- she'd liked them far more than she ever liked you. She's gone. So is Knocks-on-Wood, the drover your father hired to spy on you, the only person you'd ever considered taking an arrow for. You'll never catch sight of Melyn Drels and his dimwit brother again, nor Shady Jade, nor the Alessian nuns, nor the Tel Enora cornerclub crew nor ---

Kagrenac would never speak to you again.

Kagrenac is still missing. You half-wonder whether she'd thrown herself into Red Mountain in spite.

But Bthemetz might. Bthemetz--

You learn that Red Mountain still smokes in the distance in Ald Resdayn, but the trees are now younger than you are. You only recognise half the road signs in Ald Cyrod. The traders on the high road gawk at you. The route is the same.

You miss them. You've always missed them. You'll always miss them. Your life will always be missing something, and you think you'll have to live with that. You're not happy, but you're no longer so furious you don't know what to do with yourself. The old world you wanted to tear up with you is missing. And you're what's left, Vyra--

When you get enough coin together to get a good look at yourself in a looking glass and not a muddy lake, rough stubble's coming through along the length of your jaw. You decide not to touch it. You pull your hand through your hair. Strange, how its length feels like a comfort now, when it had felt like a wound before.

When you raise a knife to your scalp--

When you raise a knife to your scalp, you think better of it. You finish your tea. It's the fourth era of some empire you've never heard of. Dynasties, what are they good for? You sign the guestlist with VYRA. You give no family name.

[profanetools]

my plans were roughly:

day 1: arcane (in the sense of unknown) - 12 year old apprentice wizard endrys demnevanni discovers he has a sister, raised by the dwemer

day 2: beloved - bthemetz reflects on her wife sending assassins after her. I may actually finish this who knows.

day 3: starlit - ancient giantess obsessed with constellations rescues annoying dwemer teen who she has issued several noise complaints too

day 4: mortal / sanctuary - kagrenac is found alive, washed up on the sea, by an orc island fishing village in the 6th era or something

day 5: forgotten / devotion - I actually had a piece for this that I am now posting for free <3

day 6: in bloom / blood - vyra gets into her first fight where she nearly dies. realises some things

day 7: profane - MANY MANY things, but my favourite most outlandish was the twine game where bthemetz goes back in time to try and reason with kagrenac, failing every time

day 8: free - will publish something for this

shoutout also to the part of me that wanted to do 1st person dwemer perspectives of the disappearance for EACH PROMPT. You don't lack for ambition huh.

[kagrena]

WRITING DIRECTORY

My name is sasha (@profanetools), and this is a collection of writing from 2018-present, largely about the dwemer + lesbian romance.

I'm most well known for Twelve Tones, a multi-chapter fic about Kagrenac and her wife, an original character, Bthemetz, clashing over the construction of numidium.

Since I have a number of pieces of writing on this blog now, I've decided to make a directory. These pieces are organised by date of posting (old -> new).

Bolded pieces are on Archive of Our Own. Italicised pieces are personal favourites.

Dwemereth: Kagrenac & Bthemetz (Mostly 1st Era):

I - if she had the choice / II - the first memory would be of her wife

a thesis on dance

"Why do you let them call you that?" "Call you what?" "He."

and there's a lingering scent (Dumac/Nerevar)

‘The Jagged Tea Set’

#3: “to the heart of all things“

"I am not looking forward to this"

It is really only on the third day they begin to address the topic / Saviour

at first / there is the sense she could almost collapse

Hopesfire

Magic (femslash february 21 prompt)

Home (femslash february 21 prompt, NSFW)

A Thesis: On Twelve Tones plucked from a still-beating heart

After (Chapter 10 Twelve Tones Spoilers)

In The Shadow of The Missing God (Bthemetz/Boethiah, Early ME Chapter 8 Twelve Tones Spoilers)

Solaris / "Take my hand"

The Sword that Lies Between them (Kagrenac/Almalexia, NSFW)

A Thesis: On being submerged by fire (Twelve Tones spoilers)

mortar

She had been rumoured to be making a god-in-process

You had always loved her

From a lost missive, dated 1E165/4E160

ON NUMIDIUM'S BRASS ARCHITECT

Her wife sits in the parlour with freshly made tea

"Is everything alright?"

Beard care routine / [1E370. An evening party somewhere in the void]

From Dwemereth to Resadyn's Wilds: Vyra Rzarak Demnevanni (1st era):

Vyra

Knox's Diary: "Breakthrough. Finally, Vyra's talking again."

Knox's Diary: "What's your fondest memory?"

After Dwemereth: Bthemetz & Kasmei (2nd / 4th era)

Wounds & Healing

A dwarf, an assassin, and an undead nord tongue get on a cart

It's the opposite of a problem

"So, what dya think of Senya?"

Letters to Mother from the 2nd Era, numerous and unsent

(an epilogue, sorta)

The sky is full of smoke

Narga & Ysamyne (3rd era):

He had expected the witch-thief’s hidden rooms to contain materials for profane rituals / Candles (Ysamyne)

Performance (Narga/Almalexia)

Sun's Dawn, The Second Day (Narga/Ysamyne)

The Song of Ysamyne Montrose (Ysamyne)

(4th Era)

But Where is Shor?

[profanetools]

vyra demnevanni, who is sydras' dwemer bastard daughter, was raised and thus taught by the dwemer, finds the fact that not every resident of Tel Enora can read fluently somewhat baffling, even though most of them can read to a decent level - and that reading fluency is miles ahead of where it was generations ago. this largely wasn't provided by Kemel-Ze, but by members of the Tel Enora household who've opted to help others (though go back a few generations and you will find people who were taught to read by travelling dwemer on sabbatical or dwemer exiles)

[profanetools]

2, 10, 12

2. Who is your newest OC? Why did you make them?

Newest is Vyra, though technically she's something like ~2 years old. The story is a bit long: I signed up to a prompt-fill fanfiction event where someone wanted 'some tales of the dwemer'. I got fixated on this idea of a dwemer born outside of the clans who's dumped on the street. Just this illiterate street rat kid, who desperately wants to know more about the dwemer, their people, but doesn't have the familial links anymore. I got really interested in the idea of trade between chimer and dwemer as something concrete and interesting that would connect the two worlds, and initially had this kid work for a trading caravan while admiring the dwemer from afar, while the caravan master - who spoke dwemeris for trade - refused to teach this kid any and scolded their interest in the dwemer.

The more I thought about the idea the more I thought about the caravan master - this hard, embittered woman, how would she even know dwemeris? How did she get stuck in this position that she loathes? What would make her chide a 19 year old for showing interest in the dwemer? That character was and still is, to some extent, Vyra - being the bastard daughter of a Demnevanni ancestor, and then later, her ties to Bthemetz & Kagrenac, followed those questions. I realised the more interesting story focus for me wasn't Lyr (who later takes the name Rak after Vyra's dwemeri name).

I've made plenty of minor characters since who have occupied roles in my writing but I think those don't have quite the same place as 'OC' in my opinion.

10. OC you most struggled to make?

I don't think I've ever really had that much difficulty making them, actually! The characters I tend to struggle with are the characters I want to focus on more - characters who aren't warriors, rogues, or wizards, but occupy roles like peasants, farmers, traders, and artisans. Very few of them are OCs and tend to occupy the role of minor characters.

12. Which story took the most research?

Twelve Tones, due to differing/shifting timelines and various lore details.

(Non-TES answer is Considering the Weekend, where I spent almost a month mapping Revachol and trying to write a complete backstory for a canon character)

[profanetools]

vyra swears that much in aldmeris but is also pretty profane in dwemeris

knox writes their lunch in every diary entry :) it's one of their favourite parts

vyra used to think pirates were cool as a child

knox, who has met actual pirates as a child, was never under that delusion

knox thinks vyra's a middle-class brat. they're half-right.

vyra thinks her dad is an idiot and was surprised he'd bother to spy on her.

knox... knows better.

knox has an argonian name they haven't used since exile.

knox has kids.

vyra's twice as old, technically, as knox, but being like 69 in elf years isn't that remarkable, especially when dwemer live up to 500.

vyra is from kemel-ze! cliffside city baby...

tel enora is a made-up settlement in the telvanni peninsula where the demnevannis originally had their seat. they migrated to vvardenfell post-battle of red mountain.

it's close to kemel-ze. no shit.

knox knows that vyra could go back home. they don't hate her as much as they feel they should for this.

[profanetools]

4, 13, 16

4. Has a dysfunctional family

OH god, so many of them, but the standouts are anyone from any kind of noble heritage - so that’s Revas Arethi, whose family were Hlaalu nobles before the Red Year and are now eternally bitter about their lost wealth like characters in a Tennessee Williams play, that’s Andrana Gaeor, whose Telvanni dad is actually her better parent compared to her irresponsible mother and her demanding altmeri family, and there’s also Vyra & Iennis Demnevanni, who also belong to the ‘I have a shitty Telvanni dad who caused me long term psychological damage’ club (Sydras abandons Vyra and then is emotionally unavailable for Iennis)

13. Knows random facts about everything

I think it’s actually Lirae, my falmer OC :) they’re autistic and are often wandering off dreaming to themselves and not interacting with others, but they’re very friendly and affable and genuinely curious about the world. ‘everything’ here tbh is limited to ‘the world below the surface’ until they make the journey up.

16. Is naïve

Ysamyne is naive about what it takes to change the world. Narga is naive about what it would take to heal centuries long wounds caused by the temple’s oppression of faith. Bthemetz is... not naive but just doesn’t want to believe the worst about Kagrenac.

[keeninghearts]

1.

Wheel crunch. Spokes in the mud, wordless, spinning to nowhere for once. Instead of the grind of the caravan the grass sings sharp in the breeze while the guar pack grazes and suddenly, hands on knees, there's time. Count all the cuts and scrapes along the way in it (too many). You're all churned up: the guards and the guar herders and the drivers and the sellers, beaten as the road, ground to ashes and ashes to dust. But in this moment, between beats, Kiln leans back with a crease for a smile and Neyla throws her head back as she laughs and Rhu mumbles something to all the guar she calls stardust and pearblossom and sweet dream names that carry on the wind. It's sunny. The storm hasn't hit.

There's a sudden crack and a whistle low that cuts through past your ears and along the grass until it pierces right in the chest.

Three bolts. Three dead bandits. Lightning wouldn't be as slick.

"Pain in the cunt," says Vyra Demnevanni, whose despite the decorated name is rolled sleeves and bare arms without a lick of ink and worn netch-leather head to toe, goggles pushing back a buzzed crop of hair, a quick-fire crossbow in oily fingers. She snaps the weapon back into place. The wire taut. A glare, served cold.

"And what the fuck were you all playing at? Wipe that smirk off, Kiln, it doesn't suit you."

She points a finger to those corpses. Hungry-eyed men.

"Those lot, they could have robbed us blind, the way you louts were all acting. Shape up. We're in the badlands. Your necks are on the line."

She shakes her head. Mutters.

"Threatening us, threatening our livelihood."

But she doesn't say a word more. She gets to work, trades a crossbow for a wrench, crouches down and tries to fix what's left of the missing spokes of the wheel back in place. The air runs cold and the wait is long, silent, and uneventful until the grind begins again.

[profanetools]

alright go ahead knock yourselves out guys :)

OC list is linked in intro, short version:

Bthemetz (dwarf, very ancient, trapped in a bespoke automaton body, more involved in shit than she'd like)

Kasmei-la (vestige, argonian, ex-ebonheart pact soldier, died, now morag tong - dubiously, soul basically belongs to various daedric princes and she hates that)

Narga gra-Daggerfall/gra-Dagoth (nerevarine, ex-imperial legion & psijic monk, city orc/dunmer with dagoth heritage)

Ysamyne (hok & ex-mythic dawn master conjurer and magical prodigy, ashlander, very angry)

Revas Arethi (ex-werewolf, dragonborn OR just the hero of dawnguard DLC, dunmer with noble hlaalu heritage)

Adiya (ex-bandit and imperial agent, hero of daggerfall, bit naive, got sent forward in time by an elder scroll)

Moragesh gra-Yakshul (ex-legionnaire great war era, orc fighter for hammerfell resistence)

Rosariah [fancy surname I forget] (ex-legionnaire great war era, redguard/breton fighter for hammerfell resistance)

Andrana (alchemist & sorcerer, not-vestige ex-aldmeri dominion during 2nd era, abandoned army to go live in the woods, become a hagraven, normal shit)

Vyra / Rzarak Demnevanni (dwemer/telvanni bastard daughter who left the dwemer due to political disagreements to run her own caravan and fuck over the Telvanni using their own money. subsists on spite alone)

Nox / Knocks-on-Wood (exile from Northern Argonia who is Vyra's partner in crime in fucking-over-the-telvanni)

Cassius (argonian wizard who just wants his research money and won't let any dragons stop him)

If I forgot anyone please forgive me.

Canon characters I will also speak about: Kagrenac, Zurin Arctus.

going to reblog an OC ask game actually I feel like talking