#waking ashland

[empressgeekt]

Trolls - Accidental Knight and the end of the world (Field of Forget-me-nots au - what if?) -PART 4!!!!

Okay, so this is a what if off of second movie of the FoF au (this post), where Barb won. This was inspired by the fic "The Beginning of the End" by AnimationFan2006 on Ao3. Pls go give it a read. I highly recommend that anyone go to look at the rest of the Field of Forgetmenots au. And I had to split it in half because I posted the first one at 2:00 am. Here is that first post! and here's part 2 and here's part 3

Keith wakes up from a dream about him and Branch practicing archery in the woods. Well, it's more of a memory, about the trolling being scared to shoot at something after accidentally hitting his brother last time. Dream Branch's presence and comfort feels so real, and once awake the trolling misses his brother more then ever. Branch's final words echoing through his mind....

"Never be afraid to shoot, it could mean your life or others."

Him and the others had taken cover on a plateau on the edges of Rock territory for the prisoner pick up. It's one of the few places with actual green vegetation in nearby because of a river that flows through it, before going deeper into the territory and the distance between the top of it and the hot ashland ground below. Demo left hours ago, and Keith's worried about him. The rock troll is a little dorky, definitely a weak link, but genuine. Branch would like him.

He joins the others outside of Rhonda, their crew consists of John Dory, Bruce, Floyd, Clay, Viva, Tresillo and Wani (DJ and the other trollings stayed at the golf course). Keith sits by the fire they set up the previous night for breakfast. He accepts the food, but doesn't interact when Bruce and Floyd try to talk to him. Keith doesn't talk much anymore. Especially to Branch's bio-brothers. The trolling's feelings towards them complicated. He was mad at them, and some part of himself wanted to be mad forever. Branch had suffered through so much, and they were never there. Whenever Keith had been hurt or sick, even if it was just a little scratch or sniffle, Branch was there patching him up with a story, medicine and a bandage. Branch's brothers didn't even bother to show up when Branch was possibly on his deathbed last year after the chef nearly cut him in half. But another part of the mossy Trolling was just to tired to be angry and wanted to just snuggle up next one of them, pretending they were Branch. Because...who knows if Keith would ever get to hug his brother again.

It didn't help that most of them were just straight up jerks. They apologized, but didn't say for what, nor did they change their behavior. Floyd wouldn't leave him alone. The red-headed brother, acted all clingy, it felt like he was trying to take Branch's place as Keith's older brother. Not that Keith would ever let that happen. Floyd couldn't be trusted, he was a lair, there was a reason that Branch didn't make promises often. Bruce kept treating him like a little kid, who couldn't take care of himself. Granted, there were somethings that Keith needed help with, but he wasn't a baby. Branch made sure that Keith had all the skills to take care of himself, and where his limits were. Bruce didn't believe him when he said that, and that was offensive not only to Keith but to Branch as well, who took great care of Keith! He just also made sure Keith knew what to do in an emergency! Unlike some people who think an eight-year-old can't cut their own sandwich!

Clay wasn't at the firepit as he was busy keeping Viva calm, since they were out of the golf course, (while she had been all for getting her sister back, going outside was still nerve wreaking), and Keith didn't mind. Clay was just straight up a hypocrite! He spoke all the time about being serious, this calm and collected guy with a plan. When in reality he never took anyone else seriously, and was a kettle ready to blow with that temper he had. Both the stringbean brother and Bruce were almost tied for most annoying since they didn't believe Keith when the trolling told them he knew what he was doing. Something had shifted with Clay recently, his temper mellowed out slightly, but it didn't change the trolling's opinion of him.

After eating, Keith would run to join Tresillo on look out, John Dory came along after a few minutes. Out of all the brothers, John Dory seemed to be the only one who actually felt guilty about leaving, and actually put effort in figuring out Keith as his own person. Not seeing him as a replacement baby brother. Not as a scared kid who didn't know what he was doing. Just as Keith. Not that Keith gave him much to work with. Still it put him leagues above the other three.

Once that anglers showed, up Keith felt excited for the first time in a long time. He was running before Poppy even exited the transport critter, but nothing would stop him from running into her arms. She looked different. Her dress dirty and ripped, a streak of black and grey going through her otherwise bright hair, and tear tracks along her eyes. But she was there and with her Keith felt safe.

If only it lasted. The soft reunion, even Viva walking over gently calling Poppy's name was interrupted by chaos breaking out in an ambush. The peace was broken, by a the zombified K-pop gang and reggaeton trolls, and Branch himself.

His brother's corrupted form is horrifying. The green of his armor, was shifted over to a burn metallic red. The smooth leaf platting and vine sashes, had been replaced with critter leather and blackened brambles. The once comforting amber color of the lenses in the mask were set ablaze with the hue of blood. The caller, and cuffs were black spiked bands, tight like shackles. Showing his brother as a prisoner in his own body. A haze of red smog surrounding him, suffocating his form.

The fight that ensues is chaotic an bloody. Tresillo and Wani take on their sisters with heavy hearts, trying to both defend themselves while not hurting their family too badly (I head canon the Reggaetón trolls as triplets, I know most people see them as a throuple, but I like the siblings angle better, sorry), with Clay and Viva backing them up due to the numbers angle. Smidge jumps in being part of the guard using her hair to subdue them best she can. Floyd and Bruce are Trying to herd the others into Rhonda so they can escape, however when they come to Poppy and Branch their both frozen. Because in front of them, sword against sword, brother against brother, John and Branch dueled. Keith could tell that Branch was holding back, or at least trying too. His strikes are shaky, like he's fighting himself. However, whatever the little restraint Branch has is slipping quickly.

John Dory is mostly panicked at this is happening. His Baby brother is trying to kill him. Not to mention, where in the world did Branch learn to sword fight like this?! Eventually the corrupted troll forced John toward the edge of the plateau, right next to the river bank before it became a waterfall. By some miracle John isn't pushed over, instead he slipped around Branch hoping to lead him away from the cliff. However, out of nowhere Branch flips back throwing his leg out and knocking john to the ground. The next few moments are clear in his mind even as his head pounds. Branch standing over him Sword raised high, ready for the final blow. Then there's the whistle of an arrow and suddenly Branch was falling over the edge, an Arrow sticking out of the middle of his baby brother's chest. John turns to look in the direction the Arrow was shot, finding Keith, the trolling trembling, his bow held up, its string shivering as if it just fired.

"What did you do?!" Clay screamed, startling the trolling, and making Poppy glare at him.

Smidge has fully restrained the other zombies attacking them. Jovi came running over, pulling John to his feet. "C'mon, if he landed in the river he has a chance," The halfing spoke.

John and his brothers, along with, Jovi, Demo Poppy, Viva and Keith load up in Rhonda and began to search the river banks below the plateau. Bruce is helping Floyd through a panic attack, and Keith is sobbing into Poppy's arms, saying "sorry" over and over again, but other then that it's a silent ride as they all look at the river bank for any unknown shapes. It's Demo that spots a grey lump among the rapids. Rhonda leaped into the water, swallowing Branch, pulling him into the cabin. Branch lands on the floor, they haze was gone but he was completely grey, soaking wet, and arrow in his chest and not breathing.

Jovi jumps in the moment the grey troll falls on the floor. He screams for people to back up as he addressed the damage. His first main concern is that the grey troll wasn't breathing. With a drowning victim getting air into the body was one of the most important tasks, and it had to be done in under five minute. He settles Branch on his back, and administers CPR, he worries about doing chest compression, but after the armor was removed, turns out the arrow wound wasn't all that deep, it was close, so close to hitting something important and killing the grey troll. Jovi's hands are horribly bloody by the time he gets Branch breathing again.

With Help from John Dory, Jovi gets Branch stable. The grey troll is stripped of his armor and weapons, left in a pair of barrowed pj shorts and bandaged torso. Tucked in tight on the sofa in the back of the Armadillo bus' cabin. Jovi isn't a doctor and for that he apologizes, but he's done his best with the phsyical. as far as he can tell, Branch has a puncture wound, along with broken ribs, but he has no answers for his lack of color.

They pick up the others, tying the Zombie's up an head back to the golf course.

On the way back, Poppy and Keith stay by Branch's side. The trolling glaring at anyone other then Jovi coming too close. It takes a hot minute but eventually Keith falls asleep curled into his big brother's side. The scene in front of her is horrifyingly similar to like when Branch was in his coma and she hates it. It hurts to see him like this, and it makes her realize just how important he is to her. She silently vowes to tell him, as soon as he wakes up.

After that she can't keep the others waiting. They need a queen right now, and Poppy can't fail them. She at first checks on her friends and thanks the new trolls for saving them, Jovi and Demo especially. When she meets Brozone, internally she's kind of fangirling, but she's to tired to express it outwardly, and it makes her very suspicious as to where they were when Branch was in trouble when she learns their his brother's too. Over all she's pretty collected, until Viva introduces herself. Now, Poppy doesn't mean to be well, mean, but she Just starts laughing. Not an "Excited to meet you this is so funny laugh" its and "Of fucking course" hysterical laugh. Viva asks if she's okay, and Poppy answers...

"Sure! Why wouldn't I be, I just found out that not only did my father lied to me for my entire life the second time like it wouldn't seriously effect me in the future! Like who cares about the other tribes! We'll never hear from them! Who cares if I don't tell my daughter about a long lost sister! it's not like their ever going to meet at the end of the world!!"

Poppy breaks down sobbing, sliding down to her knees. Cooper walks up and nudges his sister gently.

"Poppy are you okay?"

"No no i'm not."

It takes a few days to get back to the golf course. John used the hustle to get them into rock troll territory, but he wasn't sure how the experience could effect Branch in his wounded and unconscious state. With the snackpack and every one else (zombies were left where they were tied up, sadly for Tresillo and Wani, but Demo and Jovi know that Queen Barb won't leave them to die in the wilderness due to the hunting skills their sister retained after turning), it's rather crowded, so they camp out when darkness falls, and to give Branch and Keith a little privacy he sets up a curtain in front of them. He hates it, all of his brother's hate it, but for some reason he can't help but also feel like he's intruding whenever he sees Poppy and Keith at Branch's bedside.

Clay is still mad at Keith for shooting Branch. He knows it's stupid but he is. That's his baby brother and that kid nearly killed him. Did kill him! His heart had to be restarted! he vents this all to Bruce in private, and lets his older brother take some of the weight. Bruce knows that Clay reacts with anger when he's stressed, and watching Branch get hit was terrifying, but he makes sure that Clay knows he can never let Keith know this. The kid is still a kid after all, a scared kid.

Floyd is a walking mess. He thought he was going to throw up the moment that he saw the arrow hit, the feeling growing ever stronger as he watched Jovi cut away at Branch's armor and skin to remove the arrow head. Even now he wants nothing more then to be right next to Branch holding his baby brother's hand, and feeling the living pulse in the grey troll's wrist with his own fingers. But he can't, Poppy and Keith had taken that role of soothing his wounded brother while he rested. That and the fact that he's terrified. Branch is grey, hurt, covered in scars and clearly has been mad at Floyd for a long time if it was enough for Keith to pick up on. He was scared that if he went to Branch now it would make it worse. So, he talks to Jovi, asking this oddly cute halfling troll about his brother's condition. Jovi has sympathy for Floyd, really he does, but he doesn't really know how to help, he's never had siblings before, so he just listens.

Viva is desperate to help her sister, but in her panic she falls back on the old ideals that were used in the tree during times of crisis, grin and bear it. No matter what look on the bright side. Shove the negative emotions down. It doesn't work and Poppy ends up snapping at Viva. She apologizes, and just tries to talk with her sister about how she would love to get close and do all the sister things, but she can't right now. She has Keith and Branch and the others to worry about. They need a plan, but she's never been the planning type, that has always been Branch's side of things. Viva respones that she and Clay work similarly and a little bonding happens. It's not happy, or excited, but rather just a simple understanding happening between the sisters, and its enough.

When Branch wakes up, he's pretty sure he's dreaming. The last thing he remembers is Jumping in front of Keith and Poppy. After that it's hazy. Just a void of anger, screaming and fire. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't feel. Just a complete detachment from between his soul and body. When his eyes flutter open, and his thoughts are finally clear, he thinks he's either dreaming or dead. His head is pounding, and his chest hurts. But it's clear, there's no blinding anger, and his body is his own to control. And even better, snuggled up next to him is his brother, and at his bedside Poppy is passed out in the chair next to the couch.

When Keith sees his brother's eyes open he starts crying, hugging Branch and apologizing. feeling so so guilty and so so grateful. They had no idea how Branch broke from the control, but they were so thankful. Poppy wakes up too, and hugs him gently. Though she does choses to wait for anything else until after Keith is calmed down. Branch is bone weary tired, so the back strokes he gives the trolling are weak, but they seem to sooth the trolling well enough. Still isn't enough to get him to sleep, so Branch starts humming a lullaby ("Sacred Oath" By Beth Crowley if anyone is wondering). Something broken inside of him is fixed as the music flows from his tongue and Keith lulled to sleep.

With the trolling out cold, Poppy give Branch the run down. He wants to pass back out again and never wake up at the mention of his brothers, and at the mention of Viva he has this overwhelming desire to find Peppy and punch him in the face. But in his state Branch can't doo much other then just accept his situation. He'll make the best of it, he always does, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it. It gets a little better when Poppy kisses him before they both fall back asleep though.

When morning comes, Jovi checks him out, making sure his wound is healing, and marvels at the return of colors to Branch's still dulled coat (none of them are sure how). His older brothers are there and Clay mentions Keith was the one who shot him. Branch does not miss the wince that rest of theme give, and they way Keith wilted. Branch just tells Keith he did a good job, it was a clean shot, and wouldn't scar much when healed. Clay looks surprised by his reaction, but Branch pretends not to be paying attention. Jovi continues to ask him questions, and when the topic of food comes up, Branch ahs no idea when was the last time he ate, so Jovi recommends light foods for a while. Bland porridge was for breakfast, and it was delicious.

With Branch back, Poppy feels in control again, and she's ready to take charge once more. She talks with Demo, Tresillo and Wani while Branch naps through the afternoon, and then with whisper to each other through out the night, forming a plan. With their small numbers they would need allies, the other tribes are not an option, but Poppy still has one ace up her sleeve, Bridget.

The plan is not well recevied when they present it to everyone in the morning. The snackpack is on board, while Jovi, Demo, Tresillo, and Wani don't really care they just want a home base, however it is rejected with venom by Viva and the brothers.

V: What?! NO! We are not going to the bergens, it's not safe!

Clay: I'm with Viva, this is not an option. The puttputt course is the best defence from both giants and trolls, we need to go there.

Demo: Uhm, you're defenses are not enough to stop a power cord assault.

Clay: and how would you know?

Demo: I work with musicians, Rock tribe musicians, I need to know how music weaponry works, and you're buildings are barely sound, not to mention the plastic is old and rotting.

Poppy: would stone and metal be harder to break?

Demo: in general? yeah, but if they have the right angle and frequency they could still break it.

Poppy: See we'd be safer in Bergentown, we gather up the trolls in your outpost and seek refuge with the Bergens.

Viva: Poppy no!

Poppy: And why not?

Viva: I just got my baby sister back! I am not going to let you just walk back into town full of MONSTERS! It's my job to protect you!

Poppy: And it's my job to protect everyone else! You're scared Viva, and I get it, but we can't let our fear stop us! Believe me I know just what kind of horrible things that the bergens are capable of, but i've also seen what good they can do!

Clay: how the fuck would you know what bad things their capable of?! You were a baby when the escape happened, you know nothing of what we went through!

Branch: Don't talk to her like that!

Bruce: Bitty sit back down!

Branch: Oh shut up spruce! I know my limits! And for you're information Clay she knows just how bad they can get because she was there, when I got this *points at face scar*. Chef got real pissed when I cut off her finger, you know.

Floyd: ...th-the chef gave that to you?

Clay: If you got hurt by a bergen then how on earth can you think that going to them is a good plan?!

Branch: Because I've watch them reforge their society. And I trust Poppy over any of your sorry ass opinions.

Viva:...when we get back to the golf course you'll see....

When they get back to the golf course something is immediately wrong. It's calm but the in the wrong way. All the trip wires are broken, and the gate is smashed to bits. Inside the course is a wreak, the buildings burned and crushed. Clay calls a search for survivors and the others spanned the course. All they find are zombies, Clay almost getting bitten by one when he thinks he find a survivor in the rubble.

Viva is panicking, this was her safe place, and now it was gone. Ripped away, and she doesn't know what to do. The world around her is crumbling and she has a panic attack that leads to her passing out. She comes too only to throw up and pass out again. Clay feels helpless during all this. Everyone is gone. Until...

"Hey Captian no slappy!"

A rather annoying cloud joins the chat. Branch shoots and arrow at him out of habit. However, even he can't be too upset with Cloud Guy, after he explained that he got as many putt putts out as he could with his caterbuses. "whoa that's actually nice of you." "Oh Branch you wound me, I can be nice, after all it is the end of the world. I'd be a real jerk if I didn't do anything now." Clay breaths a sigh of relief, at the news that the Puttputts, well most of them, are safe. When they meet up with the excavated Puttputts there's a lingering question in the air.

What do they do now?

Clay knows the answer and it's not going to be easy. They're going to Bergentown.

----

Stay tuned for part 5

[palmofafreezinghand]

By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM. 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

“Edward, no.” 

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut. 

“Edward, please.” 

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake. 

“Edward, don’t.” 

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor. 

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM. 

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin. 

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him. 

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear. 

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.” 

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice. 

“Did you miss your train?” She asked. 

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness. 

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.  

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune. 

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked. 

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower. 

“You are from Saint Paul?” 

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret. 

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.” 

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead. 

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave? 

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors. 

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage. 

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?” 

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet? 

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife. 

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time. 

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone —  four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life. 

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave. 

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered. 

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?” 

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.” 

That bitch. 

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend. 

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown. 

What relation would make it not odd? 

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.” 

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.” 

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case. 

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.” 

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good. 

“Oh, I will.” 

----------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour. 

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move? 

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff. 

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile. 

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm. 

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man. 

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention. 

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted. 

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.” 

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered. 

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.” 

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder. 

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband. 

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street. 

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor. 

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?” 

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.” 

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly. 

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet. 

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl. 

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor. 

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.” 

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?” 

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them. 

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.” 

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer. 

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?” 

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?” 

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—” 

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.” 

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?” 

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity. 

“The child?” 

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.” 

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions. 

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be. 

-------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM. 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life. 

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23. 

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision. 

“It is utterly depressing.” 

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed. 

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates. 

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.” 

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased. 

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.” 

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room. 

“Please, call me Esme.” 

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap. 

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately. 

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys. 

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?” 

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.” 

“Oh?” 

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?” 

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.” 

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war. 

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.” 

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting. 

“When did you see him?”  

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.” 

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move. 

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion. 

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.  

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open. 

“Edward, do not do anything to him.” 

“Go inside, Esme.” 

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob. 

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No? 

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.” 

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.” 

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already. 

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile. 

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.” 

The car engine roared to life. 

“Edward, please.” 

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake. 

“Edward, don’t.” 

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs. 

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well. 

[thana-topsy]

40. Nerevar X Voryn! Tear my heart right out!

(also maybe 32. Nerevarine X Dagoth for super tragic mirroring?)

Alright, I'm sorry, I had to go with Nerevarine x Dagoth Ur because.... horror writing. Fucked Up Dreams. Yessss Gooood. Hope you ... enjoy? CW: disturbing imagery -- on par with the usual Morrowind dream sequences, but slightly hornier.

---

Nerevarine x Dagoth Ur "A kiss to wake up." (457 words)

The dreams begin as they always do: a tall, dark figure wearing a golden mask beckons you forward.

He is speaking to you, his voice pleasant and deep, tickling the center of your chest where your own heart pounds like a drum. He speaks in a language that is long dead to you, yet you feel the meaning behind his words take root, like the familiar ache of an old injury poorly healed.

He takes you by the hand, his long fingers cool to the touch, tipped red—with blood or paint, you cannot tell—and leads you through a barren wasteland. The buildings around you stand like empty crypts, their denizens risen from ash and bone to stare as you pass. Their gaping mouths locked in silent screams, jaws hanging crooked, eyeless sockets watching.

The ground is hot beneath your feet. He wraps your arm around his like you are wedded. The air is filled with smoke, the horizon hazy and red-rimmed. It burns your lungs, scraping like tiny claws. 

“There are many rooms in the house of the Master,” says the figure. “Be still in your trembling, for from the hands of your enemies I have delivered you.”

A mountain looms before you, impossibly large, and the ground begins to tilt as you walk. As you ascend the mountain he is no longer at your side. The ground curves upwards ahead of you, a sheer cliff face. You climb, digging your hands into the dirt and rock, your fingernails tearing, the fear of death thrumming through your veins. The ground rumbles beneath you, alive. 

Tha-thump—tha-thump 

You lose your grip and your stomach lurches as you fall backwards, but you are caught. Long arms, longer fingers, circling your chest, climbing the front of your neck to hold you by your throat. 

“Look,” he says into your ear. “Look upon the Heart.” 

You close your eyes, squeezing them shut. Spiraling fractals and distorted faces dance through the blackness.

“Look,” he insists. 

He is in front of you now, your face in his hands. “Look upon your Lord.” 

You open your eyes. 

Too many teeth. Too many eyes. Pulsing terror as primal as an Ashlander’s war drum.   

Tha-thump—tha-thump 

You open your mouth to scream and he brings his face to yours. His kiss sears like lava, thick as tar, foul and bitter, pushing into your mouth. And you swallow him. He slides into your gut and you feel him inside you, moving, pulsing in and out. 

Tha-thump—tha-thump 

It is ecstasy and terror and you cannot breathe, deep pleasure striking like lightning, crashing and thundering, swelling into a cacophonous symphony of agonized wails inside your head.

You awaken screaming, heat and slickness between your legs and dread in your heart. 

[changelingsandothernonsense]

11, 24, 31! (Elder scrolls oc asks)

Hi there! I'm going to answer for Erra Ilaba'andul, this time around. 11. What does your OC's daily/nightly schedule look like? Do they have any routines? Erra, prior to joining forces with the Nerevarine would usually wake up in his rented room at the Andus Tradehouse (or his yurt if hes on the road) and immediately start getting dressed so that he can start with his day. He usually lightly bathes with a basin and cloth before he dresses in his armour. Once he's done he'll usually try getting himself breakfast, usually a saltrice porridge if its available or if he's on the road, something that he's hunted and prepared for the road. If he's got work that he can do, then he'll immediately start with that, if however he doesn't have work lined up, he'll usually tackle whatever chores need doing. This typically involves armour repairs, washing linens etc. He'll check Maar Gan's Temple noticeboard for word on Blight attacks but if theres nothing for him to pick up as the sun's setting then he'll head back to the Tradehouse and have his dinner at his usual table on the ground floor. He'll usually read any letter's he's been delivered, write back or reread old ones- particularly if they are from a certain mer who holds his heart. He'll usually do this with a pipe packed with kreshweed to relax him. He'll then head back to his room, bathe properly and sleep. 24. What moral boundaries does your OC have? Have they ever crossed them? What happened? A large component of Ashlander culture is raiding frontier towns and taking tribute. It is a practice that had initially involved taking goods, gold etc. but as the Blight became more widespread and things started getting desperate, the raids would turn far more violent, with women and children also being taken and sold to Telvanni slavers or simply slaughtered. Erra has only participated in one such massacre, and that was what made him leave the wastes and settle in Redoran Lands. He can't fit in with his people (for more than just that raiding reason) so he's gone to find greener pastures so to speak. Erra won't do anything that doesn't feel like his most authentic self. That includes the cultural expectations placed upon him by his tribe. He won't live a lie, choosing exile over marriage to a "nice well named girl" and settled life over the killing and selling of innocents. 31. Your OC is packing for a day-long trip on the road. What is in their travel bag?

Erra has an enchanted pack that helps with carry weight as well as a guar he keeps in the stables named, Kušû (crocodile). So he carries quite a bit with him. Usually he'll bring his single yurt, supplies for camp, alchemical supplies, food and his folder of pressed plants. He grew up in the northern ash wastes so any plant that is brightly coloured is something he takes interest in.

A Mostly Very Specific Elder Scrolls OC Ask Game

[krispyweiss]

Song Review(s): Billy Strings - “In the Clear” -> “Ashland Breakdown” and “Psycho” (Live, Oct. 5, 2024)

Billy Strings and his band were “In the Clear” when the harmonious vocals and bluegrass melody gave way to something new and fiddler Alex Hargreaves took over as featured soloist on the instrumental “Ashland Breakdown.”

This was Strings and company in their element, opening their Oct. 5 gig and livestream from Michigan in a traditional musical setting and nodding wordlessly to the destruction left in the wake of Hurricane Helene.

The quintet, also featuring mandolinist Jarrod Walker, bassist Royal Masat and banjoist Billy Failing, carried on with “Psycho,” a song whose sweet, balladic music disguises its disturbing lyrical content.

You know the little girl next door, Mama/I think her name is Betty Clark/don’t tell me that she’s dead, Mama/why I just seen her in the park/you think I’m psycho don’t you, Mama, Strings sings tenderly, in a way that makes him sound utterly - and dangerously - around the bend.

But he’s just a superlative musician and interpreter of songs.

Grade card: Billy Strings - “In the Clear” -> “Ashland Breakdown” and “Psycho” (Live - 10/5/24) - A/A+/A-

10/6/24

[victorianasshole]

A whole mudcrab's worth of meat (Vivec x Masc!reader) Chapter 1/?

Heyy this is my first time sharing my writing on here, so be nice. This was very self indulgent, but if you guys like it, there'll porbably be more!!

Includes: 1st person reader, OC character(s), Ohmes Raht reader, masc!reader, Vivec, other canon characters, canon environment

CW: Murder, cursing, violence, fantasy bigotry?? Lmk if more needs to be added.

Word count: 2804 Part two

...

A whole mudcrab's worth of meat. Gone, just like that. I cursed under my breath as I looked up from the shrubbery at whoever was obnoxious enough to scare my lunch away. An Elseweyr mercenary… And here I thought I'd be left alone, so far east. The feline man crouched by the bank of the water, filling his water skin. Seeming pretty pissed off himself. Perhaps he was looking for someone?

Despite my gut feeling of simply turning away, I stood up, hailing the fellow. 

We soon ended up making a campfire, finding it easier to camp together for the night. Of course only after we both understood no harm would come to the other. As a performance of trust, we shared our names and secrets as well, as the moons peaked over the horizon. 

M'aiko was his name. A grumpy and quiet Cathay, but not without a small humour in his eye. As he dusted his rations with moonsugar, he began to speak freely for the first time that night. 

“M'aiko is looking for some cultist Ashlander. As it turns out this is a regular occurrence. However, this particular cultist has avoided proving his validity long enough for it to be a bother.” 

I nodded at his words, pondering the fire as it heated the hound meat I bought some days ago in Molag Mar. 

“I hear it's about some rebirth prophecy. Some king that died long ago… But wait, if you're doing this job, wouldn't your employer be-?”

M'aiko grinned, seeming a bit self-satisfied. “This one has no idea how I've come to such luck, but Lord Vivec himself sent me. Well... Through a mouthpiece.”

“How do you know you're not being set up for a simple assassination?”

“They paid beforehand. And only the houses would grace anyone with as heavy a pouch as what I got.”

I hummed... It seemed a bit too good to be true. But I didn't have the heart to say it. Though, it WAS pretty believable. As the khajiit would show me, he had the official tribunal seal on him and everything. I looked back at his pouch… 

“Say… You still owe this one for that mudcrab I was to eat tonight. Why don't you pay me back by letting me come along?”

M’aiko didn’t seem too pleased by the idea of having me with. Understandable. I was but a simple hunter. But I did so want to come with. He simply raised a brow and handed me some of his moonsugar as the meat I had on the fire seemed finished. “What could a hunter offer a mercenary?”“Restoration magic, Illusion magic… Lock picking and a good arrow.” I listed, sprinkling a healthy amount of the glittery spice on the meat. It had been quite some time since I had felt the good and warm buzz of my home’s number one trade. “And this one could only imagine you long for another cat to speak to. These dumner are not the best company…” 

I got him to laugh at that. I curled my tail in delight, knowing I had now won him over. 

…

My boot came down heavy on the last embers of the fire the next morning. We had agreed to wake early, to be done with the job as soon as possible. I wasn't too eager to kill anyone, but it was not like I hadn't done so before. The roads were treacherous. It was necessary to kill these days. This time, however, it was to be a little different. Thankfully, M'aiko and I had already planned that I was to be his shadow, and less so in the middle of the conflict. If he needed healing, he was to get healing. If he needed his back covered, he was to be aided by my arrow. That was something I could get behind.

I followed M'aiko's steps through the tiny islands on the edge of the coast. We agreed that the roads were too risky to be caught in. The roads had yet to become more guarded in the wake of the recent uptick in crime this year, but we were primarily worried about being seen by commoners. M’aiko had promised confidentiality. So hiding in nature seemed like our best bet.

The round volcanic pebbles rustled by the shoreline, making odd clicking sounds as they grinded together. I picked one up and put it in my pocket as we walked. The trip wouldn’t take so long, he assured. Halfway to Sadrith Mora. So I was content enough to just walk along. Passing small ruins of Dwemer, egg mines, and other small locations of note… I enjoyed the change of scenery. M’aiko was quick, however, so we never stayed in one place for long. Only when we rested. He even carried me when the water was too high for me to safely swim from island to island with my gear, simply because he didn’t have the time to go around. We used the night for travelling as well. But not before long…

“You see the tents over the creeks, yes?”

I hummed in the affirmative, having already subconsciously lowered my body a little. 

“We are to target Dralas. He is a loud type, easy to spot. Preferably no one will see us by the time it is over.”

“I'll head up behind the cliffside then. From there, my arrow and spells will be within range of the camp.” 

I suggested, and M'aiko silently nodded in agreement to the plan. I took that as my cue to quietly disappear up the hill to take purchase by a larger rock, for cover. Once I was situated and hidden, I took my dagger and let the sun fall upon it, guiding the reflected light upon M'aiko to tell him I was ready.

And so he went.

He was quick. I couldn't look away for a moment, lest he simply disappear from my eyes. Not a soul in the camp realised as he sneaked from tent to tent, many of the nomads having yet to properly wake up yet. Then Dralas stepped out from the wise women's tent. And things were quick to get more complicated. 

As Dralas stepped outside, he called the camp close to surround him, to make some kind of announcement. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could easily understand that all this attention on our target was a stick in the wheel for M'aiko's plan. I tried to think, quickly. M'aiko looked up at me in frustrated uncertainty… I took out one of my arrows and brushed my hand against the stick. Concentrating on it… And just then, I was no longer holding an arrow. I put the weight I felt in my hand against the arrow rest on my bow, breathed in as I pulled the string back… And then Dralas clutched his chest. Blood spread quickly under his sandy cape. The arrow revealed itself as my concentration faltered. And Dralas fell to the ground.

The outrage was immediate, and the armed Ashlanders were soon out to search the surrounding area for me. M'aiko took the opposite direction, and I spent my remaining magic to become unseen as I followed him away from the crime scene…

“...Did I get him properly? I couldn't see if he died from where I sat.” 

I spoke up quietly, dropping the invisibility when I knew we were both hidden well enough. We could still hear the yells from the camp.

“Oh, you got him alright.”

M’aiko's voice was heaving, and I was for a moment afraid that he had gotten hurt in the chaos of getting away. But he held up a hand to signal he was fine.

“...You're coming back to Vivec with this one. I think this calls for you to get the other half of the payment.”

…

I had never been to Vivec City before. I had imagined it to be big, but this was beyond my expectations. The newly finished Foreign Quarter greeted us, and M’aiko looked down at me with a humoured expression. I barely noticed, my eyes glued to the giant rock floating over the tops of the cantons. I knew I was small, but this made me feel ever so smaller… 

“Never been here, I assume?”

I shook my head quietly and fixed on the straps of my old rucksack a bit. Maybe I looked too uncomfortable. Holding onto my dignity, I took the first step over the bridge to the city, knowing M’aiko would follow to not lose me in the crowd.

We had travelled together for a little under a week now, through the east side. Become what I would probably call friends. We never really spoke when on the move, but we shared plenty of stories and laughs over the fire. The night before we arrived at Vivec, I had taken out the Skyrim mead I had been keeping for the right occasion. The wooden cups dyed lightly purple from the blackberry spirits. M’aiko nodded a thank you. He was quiet tonight. “The Temple Canton is open to the public. When we get there, we’ll likely speak with Vivec about your payment.”

I choked on the mead. “What, THE Vivec??”

M’aiko nodded, giving a cheeky smile I had come to recognize as teasing. But it seemed a bit forced. I understood it fine enough. Two Khajiiti mercenaries are not exactly ‘meant’ to interact with the Dumner gods. And the thought of even setting foot in the home of one of them was nerve-wracking… We drank from our cups in silent synchronicity. After a moment of quiet, I decided to ask what I was sure we were both uncertain about.

“Well, what do you plan on saying to him?”

The stairs up to the temple looked like a whole day’s worth of fitness. This god must think they’re quite high and mighty… I tried my best not to roll my eyes at having to exhaust myself, as we approached the temple doors. Or palace doors. At this point, I wasn’t sure what to call this gold-plated erection... M’aiko patted my back as we reached the final steps, heaving just as much as myself by the end. The guards standing watch by the entrance somehow emanated the energy of a side eye to the both of us through their helms, looking on as we caught our breath a bit. But they didn’t block the entrance, thankfully. 

I looked at M’aiko. M’aiko looked at me, reflecting my expression perfectly. He looked like he was about to shit himself. 

“On three?”

“No, that’s stupid.” He countered, opening the temple gate with a push before I could quip back. I sucked in a small breath, getting my heart stuck in my throat. I was not ready. Neither was he, but the bastard didn’t show it like I undoubtedly was. 

I had no choice but to follow his tail, however, making an active effort not to make myself too visible. Or visible at all. Anything to make M’aiko be the one talking.

The greeting hall felt bigger than it looked from the outside. Murals complimented the round loft of the chamber, gold lines shimmering echoes of the stories they told. Of Vivec, and his deeds to the lands of Vvardenfell. Of his accomplishments, and their power. I looked down at the floor. It seemed rude to stare. A small pat on my back from M’aiko made me buckle down on one knee, my eyes still fixed on the tiled floor. I felt rickety and confused. And then I felt warmth fall on my forehead and shin. A bright light casting shadows in the cracks of the ceramic stone. I made damn sure to keep my head down.

“Lord Vivec. This one comes to announce the downfall of Dralas of the Erabenimsun Tribe.” He sounded so formal.

“I thank you for this news. Who is your companion?”

My throat bobbed. I didn’t know if I should talk. Or look up. But M’aiko thankfully set forth my name before I had to do it. 

“He was the one who dealt the final blow. That is why we went to you directly, so you can judge the payment for his contribution.”

“I see.”

…I had to look up now.

When we locked eyes, he surprisingly didn’t seem all that imposing. More curious and gentle than anything. He was still hard to look at, with practically shining skin and a presence that nearly filled the entire room. It was hard to hold a common-folk bias towards what I was looking at. Even when I was kneeling on a floor that probably cost more to make than what I would have been sold for. 

I made an awkward croak. He smiled. I looked back down. “I have made up my mind. I propose you get equal payment to compliment your companion’s pouch. Furthermore, I will sign you a permit to purchase housing here in Vivec, for your initiative to help the temple. And lastly…”I could see the god’s feet touch the ground, not a sound emanating from him at all. It made me wonder if I was imagining things. I couldn’t hear him like I heard most other living things. I couldn’t find a breath. A heartbeat. Except for my own galloping organ.

“I thank you. Should you ever need work again, you will always be welcome in the temple for it. I will make sure there is always a position you may take.”

I tried making a sound, pressing out what could be interpreted as a “thank you”. It didn’t go too well, so I tried adding some kind of head-bowing to it. M’aiko thanked them as well, following my lead with a bow. This was scary and embarrassing and humiliating and I needed to leave. M’aiko was already getting up and leaving. But as I went to stand myself, to back away timidly, I was robbed of that opportunity to flee, to get away from the probably already sore eyes of the God-King. However, they were the one stopping me, calling my name. “You are but a simple hunter, yes?”

I looked back instinctively, but quickly changed my mind and averted my gaze again when I actually met them with my eyes. “Uh… Yeah- Yes. I’ve just been living off the land. For about eight months now.”

It took real strength to not use khajiiti formalities with him. I had come to know how dumner people sometimes react to such things, so I tried my best to use their tongue. But if this had been the Mane… I remembered giving my hair when I went away. It was much like this. Scary, humbling and breathtaking. Speaking to overpowering devines was never really my cup of tea. But back then, before all of it, when I had given my hair. It felt easier. Maybe that was simply just because it was kin. Or because I had an innocence to hide behind.

“You must excuse my curiosity. But I fail to see how a common hunter like yourself would need to know illusion magic to such a high degree.”

M’aiko hadn’t said how I killed Dralas, did he? He didn’t. I looked up at Vivec, my confusion louder than my awe for just a moment. They simply smiled encouragingly for an answer. “Uhm… I, well..” Would I get captured if I just run now? Was I allowed to tell him? I should act less apprehended.

“.... Back in Elsweyr, I once spent my days making some coin in higher circles, lending out my services to nobles who wanted an extra hand in networking. It was… Appreciated, when one’s opponents heard false rumours. Saw the wrong hand at the gambling table. Things like that. After some complications with those very opponents, it was best for me to leave and live off the grid for a while.”

Vivec hummed along to my words, giving a small nod. Did I just out myself for a fraud? Or a criminal? I did, I didn’t mean to say so much. It was as if their gaze pulled the words out of my mouth with string. My mind raced to try and read the god’s reaction. Was such activity illegal here? I hadn’t done it since I left, but… 

“A social networker, then. I won’t pry into why you’ve ended up here in Vvardenfell, of all places. However…”

I had to look down again when he came closer. They were scrutinizing me, I knew as much. But I also knew why, now. I was useful. I could feel it in their demeanour, I had proved myself useful. More handy than a sword for hire, at least…

“... Hm. I look forward to our next meeting, friend.”

I bowed my head.

[choilacanth]

What do Teldryn and dara think about the great houses/house culture in general? What do they think of the tribunal and the daedra? Are either of them very religious or does being dragon born complicate that a bit? Also favourite type of cheese?

Ohhhh there's a lot to get to here :D

First, favorite cheese: Darra loves Aged Helgen cheese and would move a mountain to have it again since Helgen burned down. Teldryn prefers scuttle, but after being asked for his opinions on all kinds of cheese still thinks guar cheese, Ashlander style, is best.

Houses

Darra kind of rolls her eyes at the whole House thing because her father (RIP) was a really old guy from a kwama farmer family in rural Vvardenfell who never let go of his House Hlaalu aspirations. She has much more of a Skyrim-influenced outlook, also, House Hlaalu had fallen in the time since her father first idealized them, so she would rather figure things out on her own and not be tied to any particular group except her own family. (In lieu of a house, the Salvi family had ties to the other Dunmer in the Rift. Darra just knows the other houses have some important presence, but is too removed from it all.)

Teldryn, Ashlander roots and all, moved out of Vvardenfell after the Red Year and grew up in Blacklight, a Redoran stronghold. He thought he could do something worthwhile for his birth clan (and a certain someone) by joining House Redoran. However, to put it lightly, that didn't work out. He still respects what House Redoran has accomplished in general, but House life isn't for him at all. (House Hlaalu is a no because he has strong feelings against the Imperial presence in Morrowind. House Telvanni had land disputes with his clan. While he can also respect them, he has a chip on his shoulder and doesn't have enough interest in hardcore magic to join.)

Daedra/Tribunal/religion

Darra's father was quick to accept the Reclamations. Upon moving to Skyrim with his wife, he downplayed the less accessible bits and started keeping icons of Zenithar around to work with Nords more freely. The familiy still prayed to Azura, the most palatable of the Three in Skyrim, but more as a way to keep Dunmer tradition. Darra mostly practices the same to remember her family. She knows the history of the Tribunal from some books and what the old Dunmer tell her, but all the perspectives make it a mess. As for being dragonborn, Sovngarde seems like "the place next door" even after she actually visits it. She doesn't know where she will end up when she dies, but as Teldryn says, "I'm not too worried about you, you'll manage to find me again somehow."

Teldryn has always walked with the Three, and doesn't deny it. He also wakes up with the dawn to pray and then train, but it isn't a very big part of his life either. (Darra has since joined him, but still can’t outrun him, ash lungs and all.)

On an aside, Darra's mother (also RIP) was very devoted to Azura, claiming Azura guided her out of Vvardenfell days before the Red Year and led her to meet Darra's father. With this in mind, Darra attempted to use "Azura guided me to you" as a pickup line long before going to Solstheim. It didn't work at all.

[ladm-daily]

When I'll just wake up with the blues again, no

Song: One Hundred Rooms

121/121

Ashland begins tomorrow!

[nemenalya]

Forgotten/devotion; Day 5 of @tes-summer-fest After the ash has settled on Vvardenfell and the legions of fallen have been gently led into their ancestors’ custody, it takes Dal an embarrassingly long time before she manages to break into the sealed off Dwemer city. There’s no battle wounds to blame for her dallying, and the double-edged news of a victory too dearly bought reached them soon enough– she’s never been so indifferent, nay so faithlessly aghast at Azura’s grand designs. A face far kinder, far more beautiful than the Prince’s haunting her dreams. By the time she sets out in earnest, it too haunts her every waking moment. 

She almost fails at the door –comes close to shredding her fingers on the immovable stone seal– but she’s already sinned so deeply and eagerly that she’d wade forward into Oblivion before turning back. It would have been near impossible to find the entrance she finally manages to slip through, had they not once parted too close to the brass sentinels for the increasingly paranoid times they lived in. The ghost of a kiss taunts her, the scrape of metal hinges the chime of brass on chitin, pistons pumping the hot air of sweetly warm breath. 

Beyond the hallways are empty, scattered with curious piles of dust as she advances deeper, no echo of living beings. In the blindingly cold light cast neither from Azura’s sky nor Boethiah’s fire it’s all too easy to be reminded of a House mer ancestral tomb long disused. No single bone, just metal, metal, metal, yet she feels awfully watched. Good.

Arkngath signed fanciful pictures of the city more than once; describing the way to her study in precise detail while throwing whimsical morsels about the baths, the workshops. Dal remembers the explanations well, the awfully explicit fantasies her partner wove for them. Suggestive smiles and gestures as they lay under the open sky, hands and minds wandering to the facsimile of a starry canopy in her room, where the Dwemer constellations would keep watch over them. 

She’s had the layout of the cavernous floors traced on still golden skin more times to count, though it’s torture to recall the strong hands so gently roaming muscles and ink, drawing goosebumps over ticklish ribs. Dal blames it on these distractions, tinged sweeter with despair and longing, that twice she gets lost. Still silent on her feet, she retraces her steps by necessity. There is no one to ask for directions, if they would even understand her, and she avoids the constructs like one would the osseous tomb guardians. 

The study is as beautiful as Arkngath described, door standing open to reveal a domed room full of spheres and gems and so much brass inlaid with other precious metals she has no name for. Clean cut stone walls stuffed with scrolls and tombs, the paper giving the room a peculiar warmth the rest of the pristinely kept keep sorely lacked. Constellations whir overhead with the ticking of a hundred cogwheels. Beyond, the curved ceiling is eternally dark, a deep unsettling blue stuck in perfect nadir between dusk and dawn. No indigo, no rose to blot out the myriad stars. Suddenly this mechanical sky is too profane a mockery to bear, forever devoid of Azura‘s touch, her hopeful blessings. Dal shivers, wishing fervently Arkngath were here to wrap her softly in warm arms, polished jewellery cool on a flushed face. The soft smell that would comfortingly envelop her as she closed eyes eternally red with unshed tears. 

In the corner is a blanket thoughtlessly discarded, beautiful ashlander weave crumpled on the cot. Familiar comfort in this abandoned alien structure, Dal still remembers the day she gifted it, the jovial arch of her partner’s “thank you” as ‘gath spoke with one arm all evening to not let go of the love declaration. When Dal hugs the fabric close the smell still lingers faintly, and she drapes herself in it as she paces the room to sooth panicked thoughts.

There’s an itch under her skin like the tremor before a storm, and when her feet have traced three circles round the chamber faster and faster, she descends unto the shelves. Like a tempest she rifles around, overturning sheets and sheaves, until hidden between piles of equations and diagrams, she finds a letter half written. 

“Beloved,” it reads, “there is something afoot, and I wish you were safe in my arms behind these walls, for all you and yours would sooner run them down. Little is known or told, but the construct-wizards” –they had formed their own silly parlance learning each other’s tongue, loaning vaguely from proper Dwemeris– “and our architects have become yet more secretive and meticulous in their preparations.” 

The daedric letters always look a little too neat and stocky under Arkngath‘s quill, but as the line skips too far they lie even more squat, almost a little smeared. “Forgive me, my head was not made for this suspense. If only you could be here to ease the tension. Your hands on my neck, soothing the muscles. I’d make do with the baths, but the steam makes me unea– you’re rubbing off on me, beloved. Soon I’ll sound like a Chimer, then maybe I will be thrown out to join you. Nchamz told me she keeps hearing a sound, a hum beating increasingly louder…”

She has to hold the letter to the light now to make out the last lines, hasty and uneven, jumbled across the page. Beneath her knees, a wrap dress shivers to the floor as she scrambles across the seat and halfway onto the table. “Dal, beloved, song of my stars, I’ve seen you! Please make it stop, the visions, the pain. I-I can’t see, can you read– don’t go! The pulse, I can feel you running through– no, the arc–” 

The line drops off in the middle of a word, ink splattering across the paper, pooling at the crude upstroke of a cess. 

With it shatters Dal’s entire world. She tears apart the desk, the shelves, but none of the letters make sense to her, and even if they would, the words wouldn‘t. So many secrets she’ll never read and what if somewhere Arkngath left her another message, a clue where she’s gone, who’s taken her– Dal crumbles down under the profane facsimile of a sky as not-masser rises bleeding garnet red. Raw hands clutch the half finished letter to her chest as rawer still panic robs her breath. 

In the soon forgotten depths of an unremarkable Dwemer keep that outlasted the usefulness of its name, a blanket still holding the ghost fragrances of spiced soap and sulphur hides tears running down ash-grey cheeks, forming ash-grey clusters in the scattered dust.

[bretongirlwrites]

for the worldbuilding prompts: dawn in a city, listening to it wake up

I was awoken though underground, from a red-tinged half-dream I couldn’t recall, by some commotion outside: Balmora’s windows hardly meriting the name, I must go entirely outside to sate my curiosity; and indeed, to determine the very time. I’d been so used to Solstheim’s eternal light, that I’d gone blinking into the darkness of last night; so I was comforted, by a sort of watery dawn, and besides the commotion, a silence half as if upon snow. A moment, before I may work out which side of the building I must investigate; then quite without ceremony, a woman shot past me, beating off some canine-thing with a stick. 

The creature, which I later knew to call a nix-hound, was half the size of a wolf, and possessing none of the grace nor wit, scarpered legs in all directions over the flags, and disappeared. The woman had not seen me; or pretended not to. My explanation must be sought, when she returned, and began to re-stack a collection of crates; my reassurance, solely from her continued presence on the streets. She and I were the only ones yet up, – but did not exchange a single glance though I, City despite myself, looked for one, – a strange sort of dawn, this obstinate silence; and the threat from the hills, of oversized vermin with too many appendages. A fine introduction to Balmora.

A fine introduction! – I had not quite so much, yesterday, felt as if I intruded: but this was no Imperial City dawn. In the City, I might have gone inconnu even leaping between the rooftops. Here the roofs were tightly walled; and there was nobody, nobody, around. The only chimes hung clattering in the wind, on the doors of those nostalgic for some Ashlander tent; but not nostalgic enough, that they had not settled in the most Imperialised city in all Morrowind. – I’d been told that: Imperialised, and half believed it; but the City, but even Kvatch, had been half up before dawn; but here, with no corn-exchange nor shambles-market; with no dustbin-men nor knocker-uppers; with no church-bells!...

A thief’s paradise: had I been more in my right mind, and not still in the silt-strider swaying and dizzying discussion of destiny from yesterday, then I should have picked a dozen locks before anyone saw me: for the guards, becoming tired and lazy, kept to narrow unconscious patrols. Nobody burgles in broad daylight: they’d doubtless been told. The thief’s eye would have mapped out half of the city, before anyone else was up and about. As it was I found the same streets as had brought me, yesterday, to the Mages’ Guild; and sitting at last at the door to the Cornerclub, I must sit and wait…

In the City, I’d have been pushed away half a minute after sitting: by some guard thinking me a beggar, – by the very door slamming open in invented urgency, – by someone already late, – by the movements of crowds. I half wanted it: half wanted not to have to think. Half wanted not to be so present, that I could hear a cliff-racer a mile off; that when at last the doors started to open, I may identify one by one, by smell, what constituted each inhabitant’s breakfast. In the City, – one cannot intrude on a place already filled to bursting; nor is one’s mind still hazed in the confusion of yesterday, when it is replaced and spectacularly, by the confusion of today. I stood, –

I was not the only one out, now: heard indeed, low voices greeting each other, even a tuneless whistle: but heard also, still the cliff-racer on the horizon; and when I walked, and when I tried as I had in the City, to be unobtrusive, – still I felt unseen glances towards me; and still my shoes, my damnable shoes, echoed magnificently upon silent flagstones! –

[falmerbrook]

Warm Blood

For @tes-summer-fest Day 6: Blood. It's sort of a stretch of the prompt, but I wanted to write this little OC interaction and then realized, oh hey, that kinda fits, so here we are.

Also there's a little companion art piece at the end!

-----

Summary: An ashlander boy wakes up early and gets a lesson on Argonian physiology and what it means to have warm blood.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49071244

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Chanu, despite his recent run of sleepless nights plagued by disturbing dreams, had made a habit of waking before his family and the rest of the tribe. It meant less sleep, but it was the only time he was allowed to wander off away from the camp and explore lately—well, he explicitly wasn’t allowed, actually, but rather it was the only time he could get away with it. It’s not like he would be able to sleep much anyway. His nightmares had made Nibani Maesa strangely nervous, and she had ordered him to stay within sight of someone at all times and remain within the camp. Whatever. Bad dreams didn’t mean bad things would happen in the waking world. She was just stressed, and justifiably so with the recent commotion in the tribe and the strange outlander having recently been living among them.

With carefully placed steps, the boy slipped from his family’s tent and into the crisp early morning air. The summer sun had already risen slightly over the horizon, and its rays cast yellow streaks over the hills guarding the shaded camp. Chanu paused, pulling his shawl tighter over his shivering shoulders, and took a moment to survey around the camp and figure out his adventure of the morning. Despite the chill, the air was still, and visibility was low, with an ashy haze obscuring the lands around the camp. In the distance, a silt strider cooed, but there were no intriguing sounds close by. The only unusual object within Chanu’s view was the outlander’s meager tent south of the camp, although at this point it had been there so long it was starting to feel usual to him. Of note, though, was the flap at the front hanging open. Bingo—adventure.

The rest of the tribe had wanted very little to do with the outlander, let alone his belongings, but Chanu was fascinated with him. He talked weird, he walked weird, he acted weird, and he looked very weird. But despite his weirdness, and the fact that the tribe regularly reminded him of it, he insisted on sticking around. Chanu enjoyed his presence though. He had been one of the few sources of relief from Chanu’s boredom during the long summer days, playing games with the boy, and more than once intercepting Chanu from one of his sleepwalking bouts during his nightmares. There was no way the boy would miss out on the opportunity to dig through his stuff.

Chanu slithered over to the tent, taking a glance to the left and right as he approached, and peered within. Inside was a simple sleeping matt, a pile of cheap furs belonging to animals Chanu had never heard of, a backpack, and a haphazard mess of random junk strewn about. Slowly, Chanu pulled the open flap to the side and reached his free hand towards the backpack.

“Are you not tired, kid?”

The voice echoed from Chanu’s right, and he nearly leapt out of his skin. He whipped his head in the direction of the sound, only to see the outlander peaking his snout from over the edge of a rock at the top of the hill looking over the boy. He seemed relaxed, but Chanu could only stare up at him with wide red eyes and a guilty stiffness.

“You can barely sleep through a night, and you get up this early? Where do you get all that energy you always have like that?” His voice was uncharacteristically slow and lethargic, raspier than his usual Argonian growl.

“No, I'm not tired. I mean, a little. Kinda. But I’m fine,” Chanu replied with a shrug, realizing the outlander wasn’t mad. Change of plans: his new adventure was figuring out what the outlander was up to. He stood and wandered up the hill with an energetic curiosity so he wouldn’t look as tired as he felt.

“Are you not tired?” the boy teased, “Why are you awake? You told me two days ago you also get nightmares and don’t sleep well too.”

Chanu had reached the top of the hill to the rock the outlander was lounging upon. His clothes had been tossed beside him, and he was laying on his stomach with his arms folded under his chin and his legs and tail sprawled out behind him.

“What are you doing?” Chanu asked, moving to sit next to the outlander’s head.

“Sunning myself,” he mumbled, eyes closed with a relaxed expression, “I do this every morning.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve never seen you do this before.”

The outlander laughed lazily at Chanu’s incredulousness, “Well, maybe if you were a bit more observant you would’ve. I’m always up here. It’s a good place to do it.”

“Well,” Chanu paused, searching for a retort, “you haven’t noticed me every morning either!”

“I have. You’re not very sneaky about it. It’s a miracle your sister hasn’t noticed yet.”

Chanu’s teasing attitude switched off in an instant, “Please don’t tell her!”

The outlander just smirked at his pleading, “I wasn’t planning on it.”

The morning silence filled the space again for a moment, but Chanu, in all his young boy-ness, was not going to tolerate it.

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you ‘sunning yourself’? What does that mean?” Chanu’s questioning was growing increasingly exasperated.

“If I don’t warm up first thing when I wake up, I’ll be too tired to do anything for the rest of the day. Since the nights get so chilly here, I gotta use the sun.” The outlander opened his eyes and sat up on his elbows, facing Chanu.

“I don’t get it. We can get you some more blankets if you need them. I’m sure Shuri wouldn’t mind making you one.”

The outlander shook his head, “Wouldn’t help enough. Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s just a thing I do. It doesn’t bother me.”

Chanu was just growing more confused, “But why? I don’t know anyone else who needs to ‘sun’ themselves every morning. Why do you have to do it? Is there something wrong with you? Are you sick? Do you have some weird mainland sickness?” he interrupted himself with a gasp, leaning forward into the outlander’s face dramatically, “Oh no! Do you think you have corprus?!”

The outlander laughed, voice clearer than it had been earlier, “I’m not sick. You don’t know anyone else who does this because you don’t know any other Argonians.”

“Oh. So, it’s a lizard thing?”

“It’s an Argonian thing, yes.”

Chanu paused for another moment, thinking, but evidently nothing came of it.

“But w—”

“Why, why, why! If you shut it for half a minute, I can explain. So, you mer have warm blood, which means your body can keep you warm even when it’s cold.” The Outlander shifted onto one of his elbows, gesturing to Chanu with his other hand.

“But I feel cold when it’s cold. Am I not really a mer?”

“Well, obviously there are limits. But you didn’t need to wear extra layers in the shade down there compared to up here, yeah?”

Chanu thought for a moment again, hands reaching up to feel the woven shawl around his shoulders. He felt comfortable now in the sun.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, us Argonians don’t have warm blood, so it doesn’t keep us warm when it’s cold or chilled when it’s warm. When the air is cold, I’m cold, and I don’t have the energy to do anything when I’m too cold, y’know. So, I have to get myself hot in the morning so I can deal with the chilliness later in the day.”

Chanu had become enraptured, “Wow. You lizard folk—”

“Argonians.”

“—Argonians sure are weird. How do you deal with that all the way out here.”

The outlander shrugged, “I don’t have to eat as often as you. We’re from Black Marsh too, where it’s hot and humid all the time and this is less of a problem.”

 Chanu wrinkled his nose, “Ew. Sounds gross.”

“Maybe to you, elf,” the outlander scoffed with a smile, poking Chanu’s arm, “Sounds like paradise to me.” Chanu squirmed away from the attack and giggled.

“Well, if it sounds so nice, why don’t you go there instead of here?”

The outlander’s mood changed suddenly, his smile slipping from his face as if the warm sun had melted it off. His gaze shifted away from Chanu’s and to the rock beneath him. For a few moments, he opened and closed his mouth as if trying to form the words within it, but before he could speak, a voice rang out from the camp behind Chanu.

“Chanu!”

“Crap. I’m gonna be in so much trouble,” Chanu groaned.

“Well, you better run back then,” the outlander said, his smile returning as he ruffled Chanu’s hair, “You can tell them it’s my fault. They’ll probably find a way to blame me anyway.”

Chanu hopped up from his sitting position and ran down the hill, waving to the outlander as he went. The outlander watched as he disappeared among the tents but could still hear the scolding the boy received from the rock.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

One strange day the netchiman's wife awakes in Vivec's place.

It's new and familiar to her all at once; she's been resurrected without having died. Her hands are still her own, her body and memories are still alone, and yet-- her? She knows in theory that she has not been her for a long time, that the person she was yesterday saw the term like an ill-fitting shirt. And yet, she is a her. She is the netchiman's wife.

She rolls out of an unfamiliar bedroll in an unfamiliar tent. Nerevar bought her this tent, she tells herself, matter-of-fact. Yes, and the bedroll was one she assembled last night, with the kresh-fibre blanket on the innermost layer, for she recalls that it was something she found comforting before this morning. These are memories from a personal history and as blurry as if seen through water. Briefly, she lays face-down on an unfamiliar floor. Where is she? She cannot smell the salt of the sea. Wait. Ashlands. Of course.

She searches her belongings for a dress, and then remembers she doesn't have one, and then simply dons a tunic and trousers. She combs her long white hair with her fingers and arranges it over her shoulders. She wraps a wool scarf around her face and creeps into the camp outside.

Why did she expect to be greeted by the Ascadian Isles: wide blue seas, shattered emerald islets, weathered basalt and towering humid clouds? Instead she's greeted with a smoggy dawn, an ash-laden atmosphere turned bleary and golden with the rising sun. This is a camp, of some sort-- Nerevar's camp, the fact comes to her-- and she's angry, for a moment, because what right has this 'Nerevar' to take her from her ocean and from her husband?

Then she turns to the side and sees him.

"Vivec!" hails a yawning figure in the shape of her husband. He is tall (and in the shape of her husband) and handsome (just like her husband) and he is a man older than she (as was her husband) and he is walking towards her. "Mornin'," he drawls, still yawning, covering his mouth with a visibly scarred hand. "How'd you sleep?"

She's mute. Her husband never liked her to speak frivolously. She knows she should reply but her tongue is leaden. Her husband never liked to be ignored. Nerevar is rubbing his eyes aggressively. She's frozen in place.

"Vivec?" asks Nerevar.

The netchiman's wife looks away.

A beat of pause. "Not well," says the man who she knows in theory is Nerevar and not her husband, "Huh."

"I slept fine," she says meekly.

"Oh," says Nerevar. "Good." Another awkward pause. "You feel like waking up the guar?"

The guar. Oh. Tied up by the emperor parasol-- sleeping in the ash. Unsteady on her feet, the netchiman's wife approaches the fearsome beasts. She knows she's done this a thousand times before and yet she's gripped with fear. Didn't she do this yesterday? They are nothing like netches.

She must've stood for too long, for there is Nerevar again, coming up behind her. "Vivec," he's saying gently, "Rough night, huh?"

She tries to stammer a reply but fails. She hangs her head.

The man who is standing so close to her and so resembles her husband makes an awkward sound. "Hmm," he says. Then, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, sera," she mumbles. "I'm well. Tell me what I must do and I shall do it. Shall I wake the guar?"

"Not yet. How's your head?"

"Is it ridden with kwama-lice? I'd shave it to please you."

"I didn't mean that." The man shaped like her husband shifts on his feet. "May I ask a few questions, though?"

"If it would please you."

"Eh. Who are you?"

She blinks at him dumbly. The thoughts come as if dragged from a deep pool.

"Vivec," she says slowly, "A gutter-get. A simulacrum of a netchiman's wife."

"Who are we?"

"You mean 'you'…? You wear dusty sandals and run a caravan. You carry a netchiman's rod."

"Who rules us?"

"You, husband." And she averts her gaze.

A long and awkward silence falls between them. She thinks of sand, and glasses of milk, and crabs in the shallow water which she once chased on the tips of her toes. She thinks of kresh-fibre mats spread out on a bumpy volcanic beach. When she looks again she sees Nerevar staring with patient concern.

"Vivec," says the man shaped like her husband, "Why don't you go sit by the fire and have some breakfast? I'll wake the guar. We're in no hurry."

She has never been one to argue. Not with him; her role unto eternity is obedience to the man who is more powerful than she. So she obeys, creeps to the unfamiliar fire in this foreign wasteland of dust, sits down on the ground with her eyes closed, and tries hard to think of her home by the sea.

[newstfionline]

Monday, January 1, 2024

Happy New Year!

At the stroke of midnight, the New Year gives a clean slate (AP) It’s an annual end-of-year exercise in futility for many. But a clean slate awaits at the stroke of midnight for the next round of resolutions. From the first spray of fireworks to the closing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” 366 days into the future—2024 is a leap year—it could be the year for finally achieving long-elusive goals, fulfilling aspirations and being resolute on all those New Year resolutions. “As humans, we are creatures that aspire,” said Omid Fotuhi, a social psychologist who is a motivation and performance researcher. “The fact that we have goals, the fact that we want to set goals is just a manifestation of that internal and almost universal desire to want to stretch, to want to reach, to want to expand and grow,” said Fotuhi. “New Year’s resolutions are one of those ways in which we do that,” he said. “There’s something very liberating about a fresh start. Imagine starting on a blank canvas. Anything is possible.”

Snow Shortages Are Plaguing the West’s Mountains (NYT) With gusts of wind howling around Mount Ashland’s vacant ski lodge this week, Andrew Gast watched from a window as a brief snowfall dusted the landscape. It was not nearly enough. The ski area’s parking lot remained largely empty. On the slopes, manzanita bushes and blades of grass were poking through patches of what little snow had landed. Even the 7,533-foot summit—the highest point in the Siskiyou Mountains along the Oregon-California border—still had bare spots. These days Mr. Gast has been checking the weather forecast the moment he wakes up, only to learn that warmer and drier days lie ahead. Across much of the West Coast, from the Cascades in the north to the Sierra Nevada in the south, mountain sites are recording less than half of their normal snowpack for this point in winter. The situation has created serious problems for dozens of ski resorts during the holiday weeks, which are crucial to their livelihoods, and has stirred wider concerns about the future—for the coming summer agriculture season and for the region’s altered ecosystems amid a warming climate. The snow that blankets mountain ranges in winters serves as a vital reservoir that is released when temperatures rise each summer. The snowmelt cools rivers enough to sustain salmon runs, propels hydropower systems that provide the region’s electricity and feeds irrigation channels needed to supply the nation’s apples, blueberries and almonds.

Last US lighthouse keeper steps down (Guardian) Sally Snowman, the last remaining official lighthouse keeper in the US, retires this weekend from her post looking after the first lighthouse built in North America, on a tiny island in Boston harbor. Snowman, 72, has been looking after Boston Light Beacon on Little Brewster Island for two decades and it’s now being sold to a private owner. The arrangement—the new owner will be required to preserve it—comes almost 60 years after it was designated a national landmark and government funding secured to keep it staffed, making it the last staffed lighthouse in the country. The lighthouse was built in 1716, almost a century after colonial settlers arrived from Europe. It had to be rebuilt after British forces blew it up in 1776, three years after a demonstration against British rule—the Boston Tea Party—kicked off a revolution.

In a crisis-ridden world, Germany’s chancellor uses his New Year’s speech to convey confidence (AP) Germany’s chancellor used his New Year’s speech to call on his country’s citizens not to lose confidence in the future as they adapt to a world experiencing multiple crises and changing at an ever-faster pace. “So much suffering; so much bloodshed. Our world has become a more unsettled and harsher place. It’s changing at an almost breathtaking speed,” Chancellor Olaf Scholz said in the prerecorded speech to be broadcast Sunday. “The result is that we, too, are having to change,” he said. “This is a worrying thing for many of us. In some, it is also causing discontent. I do take that to heart. But I also know this: We in Germany will get through it.” However, the chancellor made clear that Germany needs the work of all its people to take the country forward. “My fellow citizens, our strength also resides in the realization that each and every one of us is needed in our country—the top researcher just like the carer, the police officer just like the delivery driver, the pensioner just like the young trainee,” he said. “If we get that into our heads, if we deal with one another in that spirit of respect, then we need have no fear about the future,” Scholz said. “Then the year 2024 will be a good year for our country, even if some things do turn out differently from the way we imagine them today, on the eve of that new year.”

Ukraine, Stalled on the Front, Steps Up Sabotage, Targeting Trains (NYT) The saboteurs managed to place four explosives on a Russian freight train carrying diesel and jet fuel, roughly 3,000 miles from the Ukrainian border. But more important than the destruction of the train, Ukrainian intelligence officials said, was the timing of the blast. They needed it to blow up as the 50 rail cars were traveling through the nine-mile-long tunnel through the Severomuysky mountains, the longest train tunnel in Russia. Russia and Ukraine continue to battle on a large scale, both on the ground and with aerial strikes. But guerrilla tactics—including sabotage, commando raids, targeted assassinations and attempts to blow up ammunition depots, oil pipelines and railways—have taken on added importance as the two sides fail to make substantial advances at the front.

Japan issues tsunami warnings after a series of very strong earthquakes on the Sea of Japan coast (AP) Japan issued tsunami alerts and told people to evacuate seaside areas after a series of strong quakes on its western coastline Monday. The Japan Meteorological Agency reported quakes off the coast of Ishikawa and nearby prefectures shortly after 4 p.m., one of them with a preliminary magnitude of 7.6. It issued a major tsunami warning for Ishikawa and lower-level tsunami warnings or advisories for the rest of the western coast of Japan’s main island of Honshu. Japanese public broadcaster NHK TV warned torrents of water could reach as high as 5 meters (16.5 feet) and urged people to flee to high land or the top of a nearby building as quickly as possible.

Netanyahu says Gaza war on Hamas will go on for ‘many more months,’ thanks US for new weapons sales (AP) Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu said Saturday that Israel’s war on Hamas in Gaza will continue for “many more months,” pushing back against persistent international cease-fire calls after mounting civilian deaths, hunger and mass displacement in the besieged enclave. Netanyahu thanked the Biden administration for its continued backing, including approval for a new emergency weapons sale, the second this month, and prevention of a U.N. Security Council resolution seeking an immediate cease-fire. Israel argues that ending the war now would mean victory for Hamas, a stance shared by the Biden administration, which at the same time urged Israel to do more to avoid harm to Palestinian civilians. The Health Ministry in Gaza said Saturday that more than 21,600 Palestinians have been killed in Israel’s unprecedented air and ground offensive since the deadly Oct. 7 Hamas attack on southern Israel. It has said about 70% of those killed have been women and children.

The costs of Israel’s war on Hamas in Gaza (Washington Post) It might seem obscene to assess the mounting financial cost of Israel’s war in Gaza while the bombs are still falling on the besieged enclave, when hundreds of Palestinians, on average, are dying each day—alongside smaller, but historic, numbers of Israeli soldiers. And yet, the economics behind the weeks-long assault have powerful implications for Israel, the Palestinians and the Middle East. The cost to Gaza, while clearly devastating, has not yet begun to be calculated. About half of the buildings and two-thirds of the homes in the Strip have been damaged or destroyed, 1.8 million people have been displaced and more than 21,000 people are dead, according to the Gaza Health Ministry. The Israeli economy has been damaged, too. Since Oct. 7, government spending and borrowing have soared. Economists interviewed by The Washington Post estimate the war has cost the government about $18 billion—or $220 million a day. A war that lasts five to 10 more months could cost Israel as much as $50 billion, according to the financial newspaper Calcalist. That would equal 10 percent of the country’s GDP.

At These Schools, Arab and Jewish Students Share Their Feelings, With Each Other (NYT) In a classroom decorated with Hebrew and Arabic letters, a group of third graders—their eyes closed, their hands placed facing up on their laps—took a deep breath in unison. “And exhale,” a teacher told them. The students, a mix of Jews and Arabs, attend Max Rayne Hand in Hand School in Jerusalem, one of six such bilingual institutions in Israel dedicated to the proposition that Israelis and Palestinians can learn and live together in peace. On a recent day in December, soon after a temporary cease-fire in Gaza collapsed and the prospect for peace seemed more distant than ever, the students were meditating. If regional peace seemed momentarily unobtainable, at least they could try for inner calm. At Hand in Hand schools, every class has two teachers—a Hebrew speaker and an Arabic speaker. As suspicions between Israelis and Palestinians are at an all-time high and support for a peace deal is at its lowest point in decades, the faculty and families who make up the Hand in Hand schools are doing the difficult work of trying to overcome those differences. And they believe they have created a model of honoring one another’s traumas, experiences and histories that can be replicated across the region. The schools present history through the lenses of both Israelis and Palestinians, and foster relationships between Arabs and Jews in childhood in the hope that they can extend into adulthood. “We need to be friends with each other and not fight,” one student at the Jerusalem school said in Arabic. “We can live in peace,” said another in Hebrew.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

[Dahlia taps Erra on the shoulder politely.] Could you tell me a little bit about the culture of your tribe? Are there any customs or festivals? I would love to learn more.

The Urshilaku are renown for our Lore Keepers, our tribe has a strong legacy of farseers, most coming from within my own clan and our Wise Women are renown throughout the four main tribes. We are the ones who remember the promises of Indoril Nerevar and our way of life has been shaped by that. Though we do not hold his line, that honour goes to the Ensirhaddons of the Erabenimsun Tribe to the South East, the Ilaba'andul-Suls are connected many times over through marriage. It was always planned that our Ashkhan and Wise Women would serve to guide the Nerevarine when the time came. Kinship serving as the thread that might tie us.

I am sure you can imagine that a lot of our customs revolve around the Nerevarine Cult and preparations for when Nerevar might return. We are looked to as de-facto leaders amongst the tribes, my ancestors bringing in an era of peace amongst the warring tribes in the wake of the ever encroaching Blight.

The Urshilaku at its height was one of the strongest, we had many hunters, many herders of guar and shalk. We plied our hand at enchantments for protection against the Blight and our alchemists were amongst the best the four great tribes had to offer. Our silks were renown by not just our fellow tribesmer but were sort out by the settled Dunmer too. I find that I can easily sell a spool of raw thread in exchange for fabrics made of some strange animal from the western provinces. Blight has affected us in much the same way as our cousins and much of our herds have succumbed to the sickness in the ash. Yet we prevail.

It is customary for people in my tribe to keep the bones of our deceased guar. So that they may guide us as our ancestors would. An Urshilaku child will learn to ride a guar as soon as they can walk and should learn to shoot from their back not long after. I had once told Teldryn that I was born on the back of one when he joined me on a hunt one time not long after he had come back from Kogoruhn. It is not entirely accurate but I have been doing it for a long time. I think he understood my joke?

Harrowings are a very important component of any Ashlander's life but my tribe chooses to do two such ceremonies. The first is one's initiation into adulthood, one must collect a precious item from our burial caverns with as little casualties as possible. Less than five felled ghosts is a good number to aim for. I should know, it was my own record.

Upon a successful completion of a Harrowing the youth is officially accepted into the clan as an adult with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails. This occasion is marked by a great feast that usually involves the slaughter of one of our larger guar and the ritual scarification of the recently Harrowed's face. I received mine after fifteen summers. It was thought that I was ready for that responsibility by my great uncle, it was a great honour.

The second Harrowing is not taken by everyone. It is not quite necessary for those of my tribe who's work is to herd or hunt. There is a separate ceremony that the mages of my clan participate in, but that is to become a farseer and is not preformed by the men of my tribe.

No, those of us who were deemed Warriors by our Ashkhans after our first Harrowing were tested in a second. There is a special caste of Warriors that stand to inherit within my tribe. It is thought that no Ashkhan can lead the Urshilaku if he does not first know who his enemy is. How can he guide the Nerevarine in his quest to destroy the Sharmat without first knowing his curse.

I had seen almost twenty summers by the time I was called to the Trial of the Warrior. I was tasked with taking a pendant from the neck of an Ash Ghoul. I needed to learn how best to fell Blight Monsters without getting the curse myself. I was successful, and came home to a raging celebration much larger than my first Harrowing. I was named my uncle's heir that night and had this scar cut into my lip as a sign of my own victories.

Ritual scarification is a central part of my people's culture. We scar ourselves when we reach adulthood, when we rise up the ranks, when we marry, when we have children and when we mourn. It is a mark of shame to not have at least one set of scars before one reaches their twenty-fifth summer. It is a practice only preformed by our Wise Women and the stories sung when we emerge from her yurt are ones of bravery. Sung from deep within the throat. It is a huge occasion, one with feasting, play dueling and music.

It is my understanding that those who are of Ashland roots try to keep these traditions within the cities. However, it is with the use of tattoos which do not require the presence of a Wise Woman to preform. Teldryn has these kinds of tattoos and we have chosen to receive matching ones over our hearts to commemorate our soul bond. It was a rather unorthodox ceremony due to the nature of our relationship but no one was prepared to say no to the Great Khan, his word is law.

You may notice that many Ashlanders choose a different style of grooming from that of our settled cousins. The biggest difference from my own observations is how we like to keep our hair. House Dunmer seem to prefer what Teldryn calls "tar from Oblivion" and practice extensive hair removal. My people do not. Hair is only cut during times of sorrow. Yes many of us shave the sides or underneath but the majority of our hair is kept very long... or as long as one can manage. Mine does not grow so long, I am lucky to have it reach my mid back. If you see an Ashlander with cropped hair, it is safe to say that they are conducting a period of mourning. I would advise not bothering them, especially if they are sporting fresh, vertical scars along their cheeks. It is Sipittu, a mourning vow and we do not speak for this time. It is not, however something we expect of children. It is why you may see my brother with such scars, yet they are absent on my own face. I was still a child when we lost our parents, and such responsibilities were not expected of me.

I think that may be it. Celebrations for the Urshilaku are often long events that involve much feasting. We do not have calendar holidays such as one might expect in the cities, but we do mark many occasions as written in the stars.

[officermaddie23]

Coraline's cat after he's had catnip

Mel Jones (walking down the stairs): It's 2 am here in Ashland Oregon and I wake up to find (sees the cat destroying a roll of paper towels) Excuse me (looks around the room and sees the mess that the cat has made) He's been in the bread and he's been in the cans (looks back at the cat) Oh my god this is why I tell Coraline not to give you catnip The Cat: Well it seems like she doesn't listen

[yaldev]

The Rage

The Rage is a sound you can’t sense by hearing alone. You have to go further: you have to listen. You have to feel the trembling in the fingertips and catch the odor of blood spilled from the veins of Life. You have to learn its language, understand its motives and respect its urge to drive its million teeth through your flesh. You have to know the specifics before you can know the general, and this is what keeps most from knowing the Rage exists.

But once you’ve picked up on it, you can feel it everywhere. The Rage feeds the roots of the First Tree, stirs the sterile dirt of the Ashlands, drifts through those few remaining treetops in the Nildenese countryside, rises as a miasma from the Grind Co. landfills and radiates from Alreg factories in the frozen South. It oozes from under the streets of Pelbee, it swirls in the lobbies of arcades and offices, it warps our reflections in the mirror, the river, the fountain.

Yet more than any of this, it cackles. Gaze deep enough into the fabric of reality—don’t stare, don’t look—and you will see the mad faces laughing at you, grinning at the potted plants, the broken hearts and the void of space. The laughter is contagious, and you will cackle along in tones the others cannot hear, for they do not listen. You will laugh in silence at the feasting crystal bug, the lucky jar in the academy library, the international fresh water trade agreement and the great lined disk in the sky where a moon should have been. You will find much to laugh about, and when others ask you why you’re always in such a good mood, that’s when you’ll laugh hardest of all.

---

Yaldev is a sci-fantasy worldbuilding project by Ulysses Maurer, with art by Beeple. By looking at narratives, stylized loredumps, bad poetry and little details, we'll witness the story of a planet filled with magical power, the nation which tried to conquer it, this empire’s dramatic collapse and the new world which emerged in its wake. Along the way we'll meet the characters who live here, and we'll explore questions about nationalism, rationalism, the natural world and the quest to master it. For all stories in chronological order, check out the pinned posts at r/Yaldev!