#wulfharth of atmora

[nientedenada]

No One Knows Who Talos Is

I’ve rediscovered lately how many people think it’s canon that Talos is three guys in a trench-coat: Tiber Septim, Wulfharth of Atmora, and Zurin Arctus. 

So time for another reminder. NOWHERE IN THE GAMES OR OFFICIAL LORE TEXTS IS THIS EVER STATED.

“What about the Arcturian Heresy?” you might ask.

To which I say, “Read it.  Talos the god isn’t even mentioned in the text.” (I could add that it’s the Arcturian Heresy which doesn’t mean it’s automatically the truth and that the Greybeards in Skyrim contradict one of its biggest claims, that Tiber Septim never went up to High Hrothgar before his first big battle. But that’s another story for another time.)

“The Arcturian Heresy” is a book about how Tiber Septim managed his public profile by taking credit for two other guys’ stuff. It never says anything about the three becoming a god together afterward.

Now, if you decide to take the Arcturian Heresy as fact, it’s an interesting theory that they got all tangled up together and became a god, and of course, we had devs who endorsed the idea in non-official works. There’s a hint in one corner of Morrowind for it when we meet a guy who may be Talos and he introduces himself as Wulf. But it’s not canon, and there are a whole bunch of other possibilities for Talos’ origins.

Six Alternate Explanations

1. The most suspicious Official Imperial cult one that no one seems to buy in fandom: The gods were happy he did such a great job and said, join us. Yeah I’m suspicious too.

2. Tiber Septim engineered his own cult of worship in his lifetime (canon), and after. Somehow, he fiddled around to give himself power. (Come up with your own theory how he leveraged the people’s worship.)

3.The Book THere Be Dragons implies he ate a bunch of dragon souls to ascend. 4. He’s tapping into the Missing god Lorkhan’s power somehow. The extreme version is he mantled Lorkhan. There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence for a link between Talos and Lorkhan, but again nothing official.

5. CHIM. Speaking of mostly out-of-game theories championed by devs. CHIM is mentioned a tiny bit in game, but never explained, so it can be made to do a lot of stuff in your head-canons.. 6. The Thalmor would like to remind you that Talos is not actually a god. Sure, you can get blessings from shrines, but consider that in Morrowind, you can get blessings from saints’ shrines and it’s explicitly stated that the Tribunal priests enchant them to give the blessings. The Imperial cult is completely capable of setting up Talos shrines. (There are some issues with the Thalmor’s stance, particularly involving the DLC Knights of the Nine, but if you’re really in denial, here are your starting points.)

Final Note: This is a jokey round-up of a bunch of theories and headcanons and I’ve left out a lot of the details. But if you want my opinion?

I’m Talos-Agnostic, though I lean towards there being something to do with Lorkhan. Not fully mantling him, though, because then we’d be talking about Lorkhan not Talos, who would no longer be the Missing God. But what do i know? Have fun with all the possibilities. 

[ansu-gurleht]

how do you think lorkhan feels about the things mortals have done with his heart? like, would he approve of the tribunal or dagoth ur, or would he be glad the nerevarine stopped them from using it?

hm….this is an interesting question!

i think the best way to approach it is through the shezzarines. one such person, ysmir wulfharth, was very interested in reclaiming the heart of shor from the chimer and dwemer. this may just be a result of his nordic heritage, but i think wulfharth had a great deal to do with shaping that nordic heritage, as well!

the second notable shezzarine here is, of course, the nerevarine. (and possibly nerevar himself, if you think he’s a shezzarine too. i’m not sure!) and, of course, part of the nerevarine’s quest was to undo the ties between the tribunal and dagoth ur to the heart, thereby “freeing” it. 

so if we look at the acts of shezzarines as inherently reflective of shor/lorkhan himself, then we can definitely conclude that he’s not fond of people fiddling with his heart. i will say, though, the interpretation that he’s at the very least neutral to the prospect, say with the tribunal, is a really interesting one! i’m just not sure it’s supported by canon, necessarily. (like that’s ever stopped me before!)

[morihaus]

i dont even think wulfharth was an elf hater he hated like 4 specific elves for what i'd say was a pretty good reason

[caithyra]

But is not that THE Point?

Sometimes I like to watch what other say about the writing in The Elder Scrolls, and sometimes I run across people who, disappointed in watered down and discarded lore, try to use it it rewrites

Skyrim’s Civil War with the Stormcloaks and Talos worship is one such example when plenty of people who complain about the loss of previous lore try to use it in rewrites, and by doing so, completely misses the point of that the current story is telling (if clumsily and contradictory at times). They want the Stormcloaks’ conflict with the Empire be about venerating the old Nordic gods and be a tale about the uwunderdogs vs imperialism.

However, in the lore, this is established:

Talos is a relatively new god that has usurped the Nordic Ysmir by fusing the legend of Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora together with Hjalti Early-Beard/Tiber Septim and his right hand Zurin Arctus, via a Dragon Break named the Warp in the West created by Tiber Septim whose propaganda made him Talos of Atmora even though no one has come to Tamriel from Atmora in literal eras because it is now a frozen wasteland. The whole Nordic worship of Talos itself is an Imperialist trick to ensure the Imperialization of the Nords (yes, Talos is a god and has the powers and whatnot, but this still Imperialized Skyrim faster by equating Hjalti with Ysmir).

Ulfric sparks two rebellions by taking the religious freedoms and ancestral lands from the Reachmen while loudly complaining that he cannot worship Talos like a TrueNordTM in his ancestral homeland (that, btw, he still rules as Jarl, oh and the whole Talos of Atmora bit should make Atmora more of his ancestral land than any part of Skyrim, much less south-western Skyrim!). This leaves the Reachmen devastated, divided and in serfdom to the Nords (and thus so much more worse off than Nords after the Talos ban). The Stormcloak side also complains a lot about lack of faith/loyalty among Imperials, and at this point Ulfric is sworn to the Empire and he breaks faith with it.

He is also sworn to his High King, that he murders with his Voice before running away (instead of staying and taking the throne like a TrueNordTM would have done). We learn that violently using the Voice unless you are Dragonborn is against another ancient Nord philosophy/religion “The Way of the Voice” as taught by the Greybeards to Ulfric when they taught him to Shout, and the Way of the Voice is an ancient Nord philosophy that he has then broken for his own ends.

We also learn how he mistreats/neglects the citizens of his own Hold (Dunmer, Argonians, women, orphans...), which is a complaint he raises against the Empire’s treatment of him and his Stormcloaks.

And finally, we learn that the Thalmor actually likes the Stormcloak Rebellion and that up until the Markarth Incident, Ulfric was working with them (now he’s “unknowingly” working for their interests though any dying brain cell would figure out that he’s supporting the Dominion with his actions [and I am under the belief that he sparked the Forsworn Rebellion for them, and to the Thalmor the Stormcloak Rebellion was an unexpected bonus, akin to Naarifin’s conquest of Cyrodiil], and also, why doesn’t he question all those convenient supplies and info that the Thalmor keeps dropping in his lap? Not that it stopped Tullius from defeating him in a few months in Ulfric’s own Hold...).

And then we have Froki blatantly telling us how Imperialized the current Nords are in their religion (though badly, if he was to be only rep for the old gods, he, and his questline, should have been much more developed, and he should have not been the only follower of the old ways).

Basically, the heart of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and the Civil War, is Hypocrisy and the Glorification of Ulfric Stormcloak.

That’s why it has to be Talos and cannot be Ysmir, Sai or Shor. The God of the Empire has to be worshiped by the Stormcloaks because he is the God of the Empire they rebel against (and thus their true loyalties when it comes to Talos worship are in question). He has to be the Breton impostor usurping a Nordic legendary hero-king-god to force everyone into his Empire, because it mirrors Ulfric’s duplicity and self-serving actions.

If it was any ancient Nordic god, it would have been about what Ulfric claimed it to be: The defense of Nordic religion and culture, and by extension, the Nordic peoples.

It is not. Just like how the current uber-Nord Talos of Atmora worship is all about the deification of Tiber Septim, a Breton from Alcaire, the Stormcloak Rebellion is all about the Cult of Personality of Ulfric Stormcloak.

That’s why we learn all those things above, and while yes, I wish we got the old Nordic faith (among others) fully represented in Skyrim, inserting it into the Civil War would have created a much different story and changed Ulfric’s character to be opposite of what he is. In this case, I feel that the writers either knew what they were doing (how it turned out in the game notwithstanding), or they accidentally created a consistent narrative about Ulfric’s (and the Stormcloaks’) hypocrisy.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

this is @trinimac​‘s fault, ideas about malacath and wulfharth being pals are hers.

-

"Voryn, this is my..."

If one read between the lines, one might have seen this disaster coming from the start. Anyone with a careful eye for history, anyone accustomed to analysing old tales, might have been canny enough to realize that Wulfharth's poetic title-- the Silent-- was, in ways, nothing more than the awestruck moniker meant to hide the shortfalls of a profoundly ineloquent man. Indeed, as one might expect from someone who couldn't string a sentence together without blasting down a house, Wulfharth was a poor speaker at the best of times. But Voryn had never before witnessed the wreckage that was him, trying to make introductions.

Nonetheless, Wulfharth persevered. He stood very close to Voryn, as if using his considerable size as a shield against the coldness of the empty Windhelm council-room in which they stood, with one hand firmly grasping Voryn's shoulder. "Voryn, this is... my... This is Voryn, my..." He spoke slowly, his accent made thick by hesitation. "... Voryn, my... elf."

Voryn remained silent.

"Voryn," Wulfharth continued, gesturing with his free hand. "This is... he’s my..."

Across from them, seated quite casually on a large dining-table as if it were a bench, the gigantic grey form of the Daedric Prince Malacath crossed his arms and nodded patiently.

"He is my Daedric." Wulfharth concluded.

"Your Daedric," Malacath repeated after him, raising an eyebrow.

"Daedric Prince.”

"Hm. Got there in the end." Malacath inclined his fearsome visage in Voryn's general direction. "Well met... Wulfharth's elf."

In the chaotic years since the start of the war, not once had Voryn-- who had never been free of doubt even in the easy times-- questioned his decisions to the extent of which he questioned them now. He found himself staring past Malacath, at the empty room, its stark stone walls and its dusty red tapestries, the candles flickering weakly in their wrought-iron sconces, and in the span of a second he mentally surveyed his whole life over, a futile post-mortem to determine how it all went so wrong. And even as he did this he found himself betrayed by his old foe, good manners; when Malacath said well met he dipped into a small bow.

"Hai..." Voryn began. Then he stopped. "Drem yol--" he tried again, only for the words to die in his mouth. "Er," he concluded weakly, "Wulfharth, a moment?"

Wulfharth released his arm and Voryn turned to face him. Before Wulfharth could ask for clarification, Voryn signed him a question: "How do I greet him?"

He watched Wulfharth's deep grey eyes near-disappear as his thick brow furrowed.

"How do you greet a Daedric Prince?" Voryn repeated himself in Nord Sign, his hands shaking.

Wulfharth signed back a concise answer: "What?"

"What is the correct greeting?"

"There is none."

"How do you greet him?"

Wulfharth shrugged one of his broad shoulders. "Slug him in the face."

"What?"

"I hit him. In the face."

Despairing, Voryn turned back to Malacath, who had been watching their exchange with bemused interest. "Hai-- Hai ashpiti, Daedra. I am Voryn Dagoth of House Dagoth, ally to Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora, who has generously introduced us."

Malacath snorted. "I can read it."

"Pardon?"

"Nord Sign. I can read it."

"Er--"

"Should've listened to him. Punched me in the face."

From the corner of his eye Voryn saw Wulfharth give an apologetic shrug.

Voryn winced. "Allow me to say that I'm usually more polite. If I had been told I'd been meeting a Daedric Prince--"

"I told him," Wulfharth mumbled. The immortal warlord of the Nords didn't seem much happier than Voryn himself did, with his gaze directed to the tile floor and his face lost in his beard.

"You said you were taking me to meet your ally. The leader of the orcs."

"Yes. Him. I did."

"You didn't mention--"

"And who else would be the leader of the orcs, elf?" Malacath cut in, voice booming. "They have only one leader! "

Voryn ignored him, turning in a fluster to his ally. "Ysmir, you've always kept odd friends, but even for you this is-- how did you even meet him?"

Wulfharth was still staring at the floor. "Made me."

"Made you what?"

"Out of ash."

"What?"

"I made him out of ash," Malacath clarified. The God of All Orcs was now lying leisurely on his side so that he could more closely watch the bickering; his face, giant and tusky and coloured like vomit, wasn't any less frightening up close.

Voryn, exasperated, looked back to Malacath. "Yes. Of course. Right. Explain the metaphor?"

"It's not a metaphor," Wulfharth murmured.

"Oh. Of course. Of course! Is that why I've had to make the cleaners dust so thoroughly after each one of your visits? Of course."

Malacath snorted another laugh, and this time it felt like a blast from a furnace. "I like him, Wulf."

"Me too," Wulfharth replied.

"I'd like him more if he hit me. In the face."

"By Boethiah--"

It was the sort of momentary social foible that haunts every seasoned diplomat; the moment of impulse, where one abandons all dignity in the futile hope of impressing a formidable political foe. Voryn, who by all rights considered himself too experienced to make such blunders, saw himself as if from outside his body, like some particularly bad dream-- a dislocated part of himself watched, in perfect clarity and perfect horror, as his scrawny sorcerer's arm in its crimson finery was thrust forwards, sending his fist colliding quite feebly with Malacath's face.

There wasn't even time for his life to flash before his eyes before Malacath burst into roaring laughter.

Wulfharth's hand was around his arm, yanking him back, while Malacath bellowed with laughter. "Oh, Azura," Voryn whispered, slumping against his ally as the Daedra's breath washed over the both of them. But none of the expected retribution came; Wulfharth only patted him on the back and whispered, breath hot on his cheek, "Good."

"Good, good," Malacath wheezed. "Honest effort, elf." He sat up, wiping tears from his eyes. "Yes, Wulf, fine, I'll take him." And he ceased laughing, fixing his gaze on Voryn's pale and ash-covered face. "So, let's talk about Lorkhan's Heart."

[barfok]

mori that suggestion activated my autism i can't stop thinking about baby wulfharth on atmora meeting a kamal

[colonel-killa-bee]

Alright boss since you're back help me understand Talos. I'm back hard into TES and still don't get it. He's supposedly at least 3 people, Tiber, Wulfharth and Zurin Arctus. But Tiber was also an assumed name of Hjalti Early-Beard, a very Nordic name for someone who was apparently a Breton? But then there's a Talos of Atmora, too! And then there's the whole 'Tiber ascended via myth magic with the Mantella recreating the murder of Lorkhan' somehow. Or he just straight up mantles Lorkhan? Help me

XD ok so to make it easier, all anyone really needs to know is that Tiber is a god. That’s all we really know for sure now. Whether he mantles Lorkhan or not I think can be argued to be true, and the only real dodgy part of his mythos is if he’s three people or not.

Which honestly doesn’t matter.

[boethiah]

roundup of ysmir wulfharth headcanons cause not everyones been following me for five years lol

was orphaned at 11 after he was shipwrecked as he came over from atmora. was rescued by dragons, who called him ‘uncle shor’ and took turns raising him. paarthurnax is his father.

he does not consider himself a nord and doesn’t really like the nords at all. after they converted to the alessian pantheon he liked them less. after spending two centuries occupying morrowind with them he really did not like them one whit, because the nord demons are terrible.

during the occupation he was friends with voryn dagoth, with whom he would stare silently and poignantly at red mountain for several hours. (he actually allied with house dagoth during the occupation, they had tentative plans to invade red mountain and drive out the dwemer but those never bore fruit)

he’s almalexia’s biological father. this was kept a secret from almalexia all the way up until the ebonheart pact. he is disappointed about her use of lorkhan’s heart, but not so disappointed he wouldn’t climb out of the grave to help her form a new nordic-dunmeri alliance, or handcraft her some hideous boots 

he handcrafted eso almalexia’s hideous boots. 

his voice is too strong for him to speak normally so in the first era he’s effectively mute, unless he’s trying to cause an earthquake or something, in which case he has A LOT TO SAY. he mostly speaks in sign language or occasionally by whispering

he can write to communicate if he must but as he was raised by dragons he was taught first to read and write in dovahzul. he can kind of write aldmeris but his spelling is atrocious. letters in aldmeris from wulfharth tend to be illegible. and it does not help that he can cause an earthquake with a sneeze so as if you’re going to correct his spelling 

he doesn’t have many of lorkhan’s memories but he has enough. he’s well accustomed to aedra and daedra approaching him with their most emotional lorkhan-related grievances. 

one of those grievances was the encounter that produced almalexia. the chimer are just boethiah’s ongoing inability to get over lorkhan

as an atmoran, he has pointy little ears 

[vosh-rakh]

Mauloch had gathered his best warriors for raiding Windhelm. By reports from his scouts he knew that this was a night of holiday, with people drunk and celebrating in the streets praying to whatever heathen gods the Northmen revered. The raid would be simple: charge through the open gates, slaughter, burn, and loot. Windhelm’s bounty would become Mauloch’s people’s. There would be no suffering or want this winter.

His scouts were right: it was a parade. A military parade.

His warriors would not rout. Neither their nor Mauloch’s pride would allow it. And so they were slain by the guards and soldiers of the city.

The smoldering ash of Mauloch’s spirit sparked with the death of each of his men, until he was alone, surrounded by Northmen, shouting in their cold arctic tongue. Then it was an inferno, and the men who dared charge him were mutilated by Vosh Rakh. 

It seemed he had slaughtered hundreds when the entire city was shaken by a clap of thunder shaped like a word: “OBLAAN.”

The sound froze the fighters in their tracks, including Mauloch. His eyes searched for the origin, finding it at the top of the stairs to the palace.

“I will handle this one,” boomed the man, his voice rattled the bricks of the plaza. He cloaked in furred regalia and topped with a jagged crown of horn and bone. In his hand was an ebony straight-sword, long and vicious, but in his throat was a dragon, unforgiving and powerful.

Mauloch did not know this man-king. By appearances there was no reason to fear him. But in that Voice, Mauloch remembered, and his heart shivered with doubt.

“Who are you?”

“I am High King of Skyrim, Ysmir Wulfharth of Atmora.” The Nord warriors made way for his approach, and knelt in deference.

He steeled his resolve and clenched his fists on Vosh Rakh’s handle. “That crown will belong to me,” he shouted, trying (and failing) to match his challenger’s presence. 

“This crown,” spake the king, quiet and then loud, “belongs to no one.” 

Ysmir seemed too old to be so fast. He spoke in cut-stroke and throat-throw, a poetry that penetrated the entire world. Mauloch struggled to match with parries and hold his ground. 

But for all his might, today marked Mauloch’s second defeat in combat since he was born. Ysmir disarmed him with a shout, and held him at sword-point. Mauloch paused for a moment, paralyzed with a fear he refused to remember. Then he jumped away from Ysmir, towards one of the Northmen, and wrested an axe from him with the crack of bone.

Ysmir smiled faintly. To Mauloch it seemed the apparition of something long dead. But in an instant he was disarmed again and laid out on his back by a powerful word.

Gasping for air, searching for an opportunity to strike, to retaliate, to retreat, anything, Mauloch cried, “What are you?”

Like an echo of creation the king became larger than his body, filling the clear sky with cloud and thunder, wind whipping the walls, helmets from soldiers, hair from faces. A proclamation that felt like an accusation roared into Mauloch, pressing him into the stone relentlessly, refusing his rising.

“I am Wulfharth of Atmora, Dragon of the North, Shor’s Tongue, Breath of Kyne - and the High King of Skyrim. You will not return here. BO NOL VUS.”

With the last word, Mauloch was pressed into himself, and all was blackness.

- - - - -

In the beginning there was nothing, a complete numbness that the mind was barely aware of. Then there was falling, deep into something, something not-there but always-there. The mind fell into it, buffeted by whirling thoughts and concepts and fears and desires, all fleeting, just like the mind. 

The mind was afraid and so it grasped the first fear it could: emptiness. To satisfy this fear it opened widely, an expansion of space to corners unknown and infinite. In the emptiness it found an infinity, and so it knew there was something there.

The mind tried to open its eyes to look for the something that was there. To open eyes, it needed eyes. To open eyes, it needed eyelids. To open eyes, it needed eye sockets. To open eyes, it needed a head. To open eyes, it needed a face. To open eyes ..... This continued until the memory of a form became a form. Then ..... To open eyes, it needed something to see.

The emptiness was now less empty, containing two things: a remembered form that could perceive forms, and a vast sea of grey. Light and dark were forced apart and at the edge was the ash that remained. The mind felt heat (pain?) in the soles (souls?) of the form (body?) that it had remembered (made?).

The heat brought questions (answers?), and the questions wanted (needed?). So the mind focused on the heat, on the parenthetical. The heat was pain. The mind was soul. The form was body. The remembering created. The questions needed answers.

The next question: Which question should I answer first? The question after that: “I”?

“Mauloch,” the mouth of the body of the mind said. With this sound, the emptiness left with a smile, content that the mind could accomplish the rest.

- - - - -

Mauloch found himself in a pit of ash floating in the void. No, not the void. This was Oblivion. How did he find himself here? He couldn’t remember. He thought very hard. 

There was a storm. There was cold stone pressing brick-shapes into his back. There was immense pressure, and the pressure was shaped like words, and the words were ...

“Breath of Kyne?” That was what Lorkhan liked to call his wife. Had Kynareth brought him here? No. Her name was only invoked. 

More words floated to him through the sea of grey. “Shor’s Tongue?” Shor ... That was what Kynareth called Lorkhan. Had Lorkhan done this to him? Had Mauloch finally found him, and been judged for his betrayal?

Mauloch could not remember more. The cold, the stone, the storm, the name ... Shor. Shor. Shor. Lorkhan ... a face. A man, draped in fur, crowned in bone, using stolen words wreathed in scales. A new shape for a dead man. A dead man who’d finally had his revenge.

Revenge. Mauloch’s mind remembered in turn the face of every orc who had died there for him. His eyes blinded white with wrath. He had to get back. He had to destroy those Nords who had destroyed his men.

He marched through the ash, seeking an exit, a portal, something to free him from this place. Long he searched and found nothing but more smoke and soot. He cursed and swore and beat his chest. Then for a while he sat paralyzed, defeated, hopeless.

- - - - -

His anger and despair wore him to sleep. He dreamt of a palace, elegant and resplendent, pure and untainted. He wandered its halls, not recognizing them but not unfamiliar.

As if by design he made his way into an open courtyard, a garden blooming with life. Noble trees stood guard over verdant grass separating plots of radiant blossoms of every shape and color. Pride swelled in his chest. But it was accompanied by longing and regret.

The longing pulled him towards one flower, a golden rose. When he reached out to touch it, the regret turned it black. It crumbled under his fingers. 

Instead of falling, the ash jumped onto his hand, spreading its heat across his skin, climbing his arm to his chest and enveloping his entire body. He was captured in a burning stasis. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and the ash came in, choking him and filling his soul.

He was a smoldering grey statue, paralyzed, forced to watch as the palace caught fire and spread, scorching the ceilings and torching the walls, charring everything black like hands, pulling something grey from something timeless, and changing it forever.

- - - - -

When Mauloch awoke, he was standing in a garden he did not recognize. Its trees and flowers were haunting, but held no meaning to him.

The garden was contained within walls of bright steel and dark iron. Mauloch examined his hands. They were burnt black, smoldering with residual heat. His entire body was like the remains at the bottom of a forge.

He left the garden and took a moment to explore the rest of the structure. It was a vast stronghold, punctured by colossal towers and littered with impervious fortresses. But everywhere there was extra space, room for expansion and improvement. The smoke and soot that choked the air throughout seemed to dance in the suggestion of shape, ideas for growth. At his whim the smoke became stone, the soot became steel.

He looked behind him in one of the open courtyards. Rising from the ash in the distance was a tall thing, taller than everything else. It was a backbone, a tower that held this place together. He knew it would be a beacon for the lost, for his people. They would start coming soon.

So Mauloch made ready for those to come. He filled the fields with spacious barracks and brutal palaces, filled racks with weapons and carved arenas into ash. They would need things to do, to always keep ready for battle.

As the Ashen Forge grew, so did the Ashpit. It began to glow dimly in Oblivion, stretching its arms like a net. The mind expanded beyond the body, beyond the plane, and stepped into a new place in the Aurbis.

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

Yeah, yet Wulfharth is the one with a major presence in northern myth, is enough of a ethnonationalist figure for the Stormcloaks to follow, could only be stopped by having Red Mountain drop on him, him being erased as a god would be seen as a far greater betrayal to the northern allies, and all of this still works in his function to actual head honcho of the Nord Gods Kyne.

Tiber Septim is, like... none of that, and was barely taken in consideration by nords back 200 years before, hell, Martin Septim would have been a far better candidate for sudden worship at that point if we ascribe the sudden Talos Shift to imperial propaganda post Oblivion Crisis attempting to unify the provinces under a sole religion and erase the local worships and shit, especially after centuries of this tactic not working.

And even if they didn't realize all this, even with Talos of Atmora having still never existed as a person outside of one breton assassin pretending to be a nord pretending to be a imperial, even then they should have still, as you said, call Talos Ysmir.

Hell, they could even use it as a excuse to violate the concordate, the fools.

It’s difficult to remember that the populace of Tamriel don’t… know the things that we do! The Nords who worship Talos/Ysmir/Tiber Septim don’t know about the Talos Oversoul, so of course they just think Talos was one single Nord guy who became a God later on - Hjalti, Ysmir Wulfharth and Zurin engineered it that way!

[betterbemeta]

It’s so strange to see TES posts that attribute worship of Talos to the Nords. Like yeah, yeah, I know, the Stormcloaks. But the thing is? The Nords actually aren’t that big on the Imperial Divines and Talos didn’t even exist until the Septim dynasty began only a few hundred years ago. (long post)

Without the hypernationalist icon worship that the Stormcloaks use as their excuse, Talos is the Nord’s newest surrogate-hero-idol more than an actual divine being? Before Tiber Septim’s identity of Talos, many seem to have revered Ysgramor in the same way. There is a Shor-hero conquest persona that opposes elves and forms empires and Tiber Septim fit into that slot neatly as Talos. Especially with the whole Dragonborn thing having so much baggage in Skyrim in specific, considering their history with the Dragons themselves.

It’s some bizzare case where a powerful person’s cultural appropriation has gone so deep that even people of that culture think he’s “theirs.” In reality the historical tiber septim may have been heroicized (he’s definitely not from Atmora!) by Nords following his conquest of the Reach (which they like) but at the end of the day? The Imperial City is where the Temple of the One is.

Talos had a temple in Bruma in Oblivion, very near the headquarters of the Blades... and where it was sort of implied that Nords themselves aren’t big on worship of major imperial divines or partaking of some of their customs. There’s at least one minor contradiction between Oblivion and other Elder Scrolls material where a Nord says that marriage isn’t in her (? I forget who this is) culture.

Talos isn’t really a Nord god. The major devoted temples in Skyrim for other ‘Imperial’ Divines are for gods that the traditional Nord pantheon shares with that pantheon: Dibella, Mara, Kynareth. Talos is a relative newcomer to the stage.

So calls to ‘traditionalism’ and ‘Nord way of life’ in Skyrim via revering Talos are suspect to me. Talos may have been cuckoo’d into their culture but to me the Talos Worship frenzy seems like much more of a political than religious fervor. Ulfric Stormcloak knows that Tiber Septim/Talos conquered and colonized the previously un-conquered Summerset Isles and his dynasty held them as part of his empire for centuries afterward-- to me that’s a much more understandable reason why they might not want their conqueror worshiped as a god, after his worship was made implicit in their land. More so to me than the whole “only our ancestors are the gods” shit sometimes said in game, because they definitely haven’t banned any of the other Divines that don’t have Aedric equivalents. Why didn’t the White-Gold Concordant ban Dibella, for instance, if the biggest deal was that they wanted their ancestry to be the only acceptable Gods?

Ulfric himself doesn’t even much give the impression he’s devout to Talos. His action in demanding Talos worship in return for saving Markarth, from what’s said later in the Stormcloak storyline, was probably intended to provoke the Aldmeri Dominion. He extremely wants to fight them, for his own reasons.

So when people take the Nords’ zeal for Talos at face value as if that’s actually an ancient Nord tradition, I’m like... it’s as phony as modern phony Christians waving around White Guns n’ Racism Jesus as if he’s not a convenient construct cooked up to mobilize religious demographics to some political end.

And like I don’t really wanna go into the nonsense confusion of like, his possible conflation of, consumption of, mantling of the Lorkhanic being (?) Wulfharth because doing all this by bullshit lore magical means really doesn’t transcend any of this. To me it’s all magical ret con fuzzy-lore timey wimey ret con powers that deus-ex-machina all of this into being more complete than any attempt at it in real life could be. It’s still what it is. Talos is not traditional for Nords, no matter how people in Skyrim behave like that’s so. It could become traditional in a few hundred years-- all American traditions are only a few hundred years old, after all-- but this is a world created by people with no sense of time or scale or generation and traditions dating back a thousand years or more are like, a thing. There are people who can be interpreted to be almost a thousand or more years old just by themselves

Barenziah is older than Talos worship of any kind. She was alive circa the game Morrowind, in 3e427. Talos pulled one hell of a con on Skyrim, a country that’s said to have some of the oldest recorded human history in Tamriel (im skeptical, some nedes may have been first?) and in just a few hundred years made himself as Nordic to them as Ysgramor.

Like when we say “as american as apple pie” we have to bear in mind that the USA has only been around a few hundred years and our history is brief. And that we ousted the history of nations that were here long before us. Tiber Septim somehow Apple Pie’d himself into a culture that didn’t get destroyed, and has thousands of years of history without him in it.

[keeninghearts]

Bthemetz falls, for a very long time.As the world of picturesque little paintings is pulled apart by howling winds and rain, she swears, for the first time in many years, she can taste fresh air again.And then, she lands on Nirn with a crunch.--A year passes.She has no intention on going back on her word - for as much as she hates knowing it, every storm-soaked word that Kyne spoke rang of truth as much as thunder. But the process of fulfilling her promise is not a quick one. Before she can start the ritual, she needs to collect the necessary materials, which involves a long and exhausting process of scouring old nord crypts and crumbling velothi strongholds for scraps of spellbooks and forbidden incantations about the Ash-King. (Bthemetz can hardly go to, well.... who? The Mages Guild has long gone, not that she was ever around to see it. She’d rather be still walking-in-brass than speak to an Altmeri sapiarch or a Psijic monk - who’d view her as a dangerous menance anyway. Any Ashlander wise woman with their head on straight would immediately tell her no, absolutely not - which is fairly wise of them, in all honesty, because part of what she is doing is really quite desperately stupid. No, the only method was to do this alone). And thus, the preliminary research alone takes a very long time, for walking candlelit tombs with blood caked on walls and daedric curses on lips, quiet places for the unstill, the waking dead, the festering remains, is not something one can rush. She learnt that lesson after she landed in a pile of bruises and bones almost broken with a hunger so unshakeable she could have swallowed a whole village. In the end, she had to settle for snatching her first meal from an imperial scout’s knapsack (who would have thought raw potatoes would ever taste so good). There are things now that she didn’t have to contend with as someone made of brass. She can get sick. Bleed. Her arms are covered with scratches and scabs, burns and even scars. Armour is important. She nearly even died once - exciting, she had thought, actually, that it was even possible for her to die, even as she was lying in a heap of bandages on the floor. Perhaps, she realises, in the sixth month, it would have been easier to accomplish this as a hulk of walking brass, invulnerable, unshakeable. Yet she would have missed being bleary-eyed at the wake of dawn, or having aching feet after walking for fifteen miles, or crossing windswept plains and rocky mountains as the dusk cuts the sky, moonlight brushing through forests, the taste of water from a fresh stream. She does not regret this. Not for one moment. She avoids settlements, and other people. Too much trouble, for what it’s worth. A year passes, and by the end of it she has a set of instructions on how to summon an ash vampire, neatly penned by Voryn Dagoth. --- On the edges of red mountain, an ash storm swallows the sky. From a distance, it would be impossible to notice the small, cloaked figure, with ash in her beard and a battered old book in her hands, who was definitely up to no good. As the sky howls around her, with two shaky fingers she has drawn the ritual pattern in paint. A circle for the world, Nirn herself, an eight-pointed star for its bones, eight towers, eight spokes, at each a component, a scattering of sacred ash, a petal of dragon's tongue, an old poem... the Heart to the east, the Throat to a north... she pauses at Brass-Walker, re-reading the section of notes for what must be the thousandth time. "A dwemer treasure, plucked from a brass heart", the elegant scrawl dictates. She’d had to walk into a city of dead machines and pull a soul gem out of a brass centurion’s chest herself, still glittering with energy, to fulfill that requirement. With a firm push, she puts the component in its place. Once this is done, she is going to ressurect Voryn and kill him again. Then burn his stupid spellbook.   At its centre, she has drawn another circle, and within that, a pattern familiar to both dwemer and dunmer - the scarab,  their symbol for the Missing One. Except he wasn't really missing now, was he? That was part of what she was calling here, wasn't it? Part of him. (She had searched for him too. She had tried to pull through rubble and brass to reach his chamber, and had found nothing but echoes.) All that was left now was to cast the "incantation". She had collected an array of bells and chimes - most of which had belonged to House Dagoth once, as well - which would suit as crude tonal instruments. Before, she would have gotten students of hers to put her theories and sequences into practice, since her "banishment" from Nirn meant she could never perform the rites. Timing is important, and a heart-tuned metrinome can only do so much. Now, however, when she takes the moment to be still and simply listen... even above the raging of the storm, she can hear a faint pattering, soft, but steady... She claps her hands. The bells begin to ring, frantic, feverish, trilling at strange pitches, rising with the wind. She breathes out. She can hear it, soft, but steady. She breathes in. It is time to sing. "Wulfharth of Atmora, Ysmir of old, the Grey Wind and the Ash-King, I beckon you now! I breathe life into ye! Speak with us again!" The ritual circle sparks alight. In the distance, from the settlement below, her voice sounds like a lament on the wind.  

[morihaus]

Ysmirii

Rumors spread quickly to the north, finding their way to his ear. The southern men, they say, have taken arms against their elven rulers, and the gods side with them; they say Kyne rallied them and sent forth a son of storms, who sailed through the skies and spoke like thunder, and their queen is her warrior-priestess. This all seemed to run the gambit from dubious to uninteresting to Ysmir, Dragon of the North, but one rumor did reach him, and did catch his attention, an excited murmuring among the chieftains, talk of an invincible warrior and champion to the revolt, a savior of men, enemy of elves, a god who walks.

"Shor has returned." They say.

And at this, Ysmir blows to the south, to the far distant fort at Heldon bridge, where the Paravanics make camp with the Nords of Kreath. He sees the tribes of the south eating and drinking with the Nords, who look to him with awe when they see him, and in hushed tones inform their southern neighbors of his reputation. His form is imposing without it, he towers over all in the camp as he searches for the subject of such strange rumors. A man in gleaming armor, smoother than even the finest elven craft, wearing a long white mane of hair; he sees a man of this description at the head of a bonfire, regaling chieftains of some vivid tale of blood and glory, of which they were enraptured.

He gestures with his hands out in front of him, Ysmir can see the death on his lips as he recounts his exploits, though unlike the Nords, his did not curve into any smile. It did not take long for his presence to be noticed, the man's unnerving golden eyes lock with his own and he becomes distracted from his story, words trailing off and becoming breath on the wind.

The chieftains turn to see Ysmir looming over the fire, and over them, and they stand from their seats only to kneel before him. This man, champion of the Nedes, rises to his feet and makes no such gesture. It's then that it is clear that he is not tall. He stands some number of heads shorter than Ysmir, closer in height to the southern men than the Nords, though his armor and countenance is nothing like theirs. The interlocking plates shine in the firelight, smooth like stalhrim, but dull gray in color.

He wears little hair on his face, save a strip of white below his lip, the same color as the mane of hair that falls to his shoulders- it's frayed and stained brown in places, elf's blood. Ysmir regards him in silence, and the whole of the camp falls into a hush as they view this meeting.

It is the Paravanic who speaks first. "You are Wulfharth." It's a question without the inflection of one. He seems stiff and serious to Ysmir, lacking a certain personable quality.

"Yes." Comes the response in a whisper that blows strands of white from his face. He doesn't blink.

"I've been told about you. They call you Ysmir, too, a name I wore once, for I've worn many." He speaks loudly, as though to reach Wulf all the way up there, but his cadence is awfully gentle for such a brutal warrior. "It is something I respect about you north-men, you understand that a man will have many names, as I have. They call me many things in Cyrod; Whitestrake, Triumph, Divine Crusader, but at my core," He places a fist to his chest. "I am Pelinal."

The camp is silent and still. Wind blows as the two warriors look to one another, content to merely stare in the space between words. For his part, Wulfharth seeks to analyze, for this man feels unlike anyone else here, or any either side of the mountains. While his eyes traveled up and down the knight stood before him, Pelinal's did not move, they seemed to bore straight through him as though imagining his insides. It is fortunate that Ysmir is not a man easily unnerved.

"Your men called me another name when I arrived." He said, interrupting what had been minutes of silence. Ysmir offered nothing but a soft exhale and a return to eye contact, and so he proceeded as Falkreath's chieftains watched on. "When I had crossed the bridge, helmet doffed, slick with blood, they called me 'Shor.'" Emotion takes to his face for the first time in this meeting, the slightest furrow of his brow at this syllable. "What say you to that, Ysmir? Do you agree?"

He seems aware, then, of why he's come to meet with him. The question lingered in the back of his mind all the while, but so far, he is no closer to reaching consensus. Pelinal's appearance is of little note, any Atmoran could tell you that the gods can take many forms, Shor was just as likely to appear as a fox than a man; this man wears himself strangely, this is certainly true, but is he divine? Even if he is, it doesn't mean he's Shor. Wulf thought he had a lot of ideas about who and what Shor is, but now, he's struggling to think of anything concrete that proves this man is or isn't Shor. He's a warrior like Shor, but he's a man; he hates the elves like Shor, revels in their destruction, but he has an elven name and fine armor like theirs; he fights alongside Kyne like Shor, but yet still, some have gossiped that he sings praises to the dragon, to Alduin, and counts him as an ally. Ysmir has yet to see this for himself, but still, looking down at the strange statue-still crusader, he only feels conflicted.

"I don't know." The words rumble out from his throat, some men- both north and south- have made space between themselves and the two warriors as they speak, the Nords forewarn their cousins of the power of Ysmir's voice, the Nedes warn them of Whitestrake's sudden and unpredictable fury in regards to talk of the gods. Only the brave generals and chieftains remain encircled around.

Pelinal blinks, and, just slightly, raises a brow. "You do not know?"

Wulf frowns for having to repeat himself. "No." The word blows through the camp, setting a deeper chill into the Cyrod-men's bones.

"Why would they call me Shor?" Pelinal asks as flatly as before.

Because they don't know their own gods, because they long for the living spirits of Atmora who walked the land beside them, because there is something familiar about this man.

"I don't know." He repeats, deeper and more forceful than before, sending the bonfire blowing in the breeze.

"What would it mean, were I Shor? Is this war I call you for the last? Are we on the eve of a new world? I should think not, and yes, but what of you?" The knight asks, demonstrating more than a passing knowledge, more than he lets on.

Maybe he is more of a trickster than at first thought. Like Shor was. Wulfharth grumbles to himself, holding back foolish words and questions. "I don't know." He rumbles.

"This is why you're here. Word spreads- despite my protests- and you come to meet with your god, but what is it really that brought you here? What need, what want? What is it that drove you?"

Who wouldn't want to meet their god, Ysmir thinks. Who wouldn't want to know Shor, to talk to him, to ask him a million questions? Maybe he too doesn't know his god, maybe he too longs for Atmora, maybe he too sees something familiar in this man.

Through gritted teeth, the reply blows forth. "I don't know..." And at this, the sounds of thunder surround them, and the brave men finally give way for the affairs of these heroes.

Pelinal remains resolute, and in fact, raises a hand suddenly, gesturing towards him. "You restrain yourself, Ysmir? Bah! I've heard your tongue before- your true tongue, not the languages of men, but that which they took for themselves and made killing-thunder, the dragon's-throat-in-hawk's-mouth. I understand it! Speak freely to me, Ysmir, have no fear, for we may speak to one another as equals!" And with this, he set his feet firmly to the ground, and looked expectantly to the Tongue.

With such mounting frustrations, Ysmir the Silent did speak, and no retreat could have been fast enough for the men who scattered in fear and awe. "ZU'U DREH NI MINDORAAN!" His words surged forth like a thunderclap, extinguishing the flame and blowing embers all around them, upturning tents and fleeing soldiers. "ZU'U LOST MEYZ DAHIK SAAG HON HI KOS SHOR! HI KOS MED SHOR, NUZ NI MED SHOR, AHRK ZU'U DREH NI MINDOK WAAN HI KOS SHOR!" All throughout, though lesser men were sent careening to the ground or thrown into the air by his voice, Pelinal stood firm, hair whipping behind him, boots dug into the ground beneath him as though he were one with the earth. Ysmir towers over him, fists clenched at his sides as his temper flares and his voice travels throughout the land, up and down the mountains, over rivers and streams, all heard his lamentation. "FUN ZEY WO HI KOS!"

Following his final syllables, a heart-sinking tone cries out from Pelinal's lips. It is loud and violent, like his own voice, but strikes a chord like no other Thu'um. His voice becomes the howling of the wind, the screams and foot-stomps of the soldiers, the crackling of bonfires; it becomes the rustling of grass and mighty tall trees, waves crashing along distant shores, rainfall and thunder, it is explosion, it is birdsong, it is laughter, it is screaming, it is everything he's ever heard set to the intonation of two repeating notes. It is a heartbeat. For what is the first time in many years, and one of the few times in his life, Wulf falls to his knees at the voice of another, his body trembling as the sound surrounds him, consumes him; he finds himself breathless, his heart pounding to match the timbre. The noise goes on, he can barely understand the words layered within it all. Doubled over on the ground, he can't see Pelinal close his mouth, and he can't hear it as the sound lingers on for a few moments.

He feels a hand land firm on his shoulder and looks up breathlessly. Whitestrake looks down at him with serious purpose, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "You are Ysmir, heir of Shor. The east holds your birthright. Do war with the elves, defend his creation from perversion and destroy those who would enslave it." Letting this words linger for a moment, he waits before turning and walking away, leaving great Ysmir kneeling before him, head hung in contemplation. The camp is almost deserted, the men waiting outside to be sure that the shouting is over with. Bonfires had extinguished, tents and supplies, weapons, armor, provisions, all lays strewn about in a messy circle around their meeting place, with high Ysmir laid low to the ground, watching Whitestrake disappear into their number.

A year later, Ysmir Wulfharth would join in the eastern invasion, for reasons he would never confide in anyone.

[ask-a-zealous-nord]

Hail, frostland-dweller! It is fortunate to see one knowledgeable in the old ways during this dark time, where everyone is so eager to push their doctrine into our heads and their arses on our thrones. I am no worshipper, however, merely a curious scholar. Tell me - what is there to know of the old Atmoran gods and ways that Nords of today have abandoned?

There is much to know, tome-finder. Much to know. Aye, that there is... Nords today have been taken over by fancy tales of the Divines from South. They have become obsessed with the talk of great lord Akatosh, they forgot their identity. Damn Alessians. If that cheese-brained Order didn’t spin knives of lies into our great culture, I wouldn’t be complaining about this now. The worst part is the fact the southerners grabbed OUR Gods, too! Didn’t even try to change some of them. Dibella, Mara... Worst of all the blatantly stolen Gods is Kynareth. Aye, in the true ways, we know her as Kyne the Warrior Wife, the Totem of the Hawk. It is sad days for Skyrim and her people. It is said that in the First Age, High King Borgas sold out Skyrim to the Alessian Order that controlled the First Empire. He banned our true Gods, and adopted the Southern import. Long has it been called the “Shadow of King Borgas”. I fear, however, it was not a shadow, but a wound. A wound bandaged by Ysmir Wulfharth 200 years thereafter, but alas, bandages do not last forever. Skyrim, my home, is forever changed. They sing praises to Akatosh, who is really just Alduin and Auri-El in a shoddy mixing bowl. They took what was rightfully ours. Sure, Tiber Septim may have been the Emperor, but aye, he was raised in Falkreath. He was the Dragon of the North. It was his northern brothers-in-arms that first gave him his name. “Stormcrown”. “Talos”, in Ehlnofex. Talos is our rightful divinity. TALOS AE YSMIR! And the only ones who would stand up for it, that damned Ulfric, is wrong in his act of how to get there. I should have guessed. Hope is useless, these days.There are many ways of Atmora the Elder Wood that we have long abandoned, I regret. My heart is much heavier with regret, however, for those that have been lost to the tides of Time. The foul princedom of the Dragon. Many were made before Ysgramor’s invention of our elder runes, you understand. I cannot follow the ways that have been obliterated from all Memory. Heh. Like Ald the Eater came early. In my prayers, though, I have seen a Dragon - bold and mighty. With tusks shining, too. Many foolish scholars name Alduin, “Firstborn of Akatosh”. I believe in what prissy Elf-talk in his stew of lies, remains a glimmer of Atmoran truth. Alduin must be the mystic Firstborn of something.  Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard! Begone, World-Eater! By words with older bones than your own we break your perch on this age and send you out! said he, Felldir of the Old, in the Merethic. What bone could be elder than the great Dragon of End-Time himself? I’m not sure, but I believe this to be the long-lost tusked one. The one I see in my dreams and prayer. Maybe I’m just getting old. Orkey’s Toenails, I must sound like a madman. Is my name Bjorgar, or Pelagius? Ah, well. As they say. There’s no better way of spending time in Skyrim than sitting and telling a good story. I might consider being a Skald, one day. Ah, but I’ve rambled far too long. If you must pry, get me another round of mead.

[morihaus]

through wulfharth tiber septim could probably know enough about atmoran geography and what settlements existed on the continent to make it seem like he's from there. and due to the real and canonical climatological happenings of nirn atmora might have actually been similar to how it was in wulfharth's time and not frozen. this scheme's just crazy enough to work

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

ysmir teaches amun-shae nord sign language

Ysmir makes sure to move his hands very slowly, so that Amun-Shae can keep up in reading them:

I am Wulf.

Amun-Shae sits very still, the only perceptible movement a soft quiver of her hand, where her thumb rubs the fabric of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Then, even more slowly than his, slower than clouds creeping across the sky, she extends her hands out from her wooly nest and signs in return:

I thought Ysmir.

The signs are incredibly neat despite her obvious unfamiliarity. So soon after the invasion is not long to learn one new tongue, let alone two. Ysmir nods an encouragement and replies:

I am Ysmir and Wulf and Wulfharth.

Amun-Shae nods too. Why are you different?

She had used the plural you. Ysmir looks to the door with its beautiful Mourning-hold designs, and at the guard lurking outside.

Different, he inquires. Then, We are not Nords.

I see. What are you?

We are of Atmora.

Amun-Shae's brow draws together-- she does not know the word. Atmora, she repeats the gesture, getting it slightly wrong. What is?

Ysmir's hands flex in the air, a non-verbal ‘um’. North, he then signs. Frozen.

Skyrim.

Ysmir shakes his head no. Most north. Over the sea. Our home. Place of our birth.

What is? Amun-Shae signs again.

Ysmir glances once more towards the door.

Forests, he signs to her, then when he sees her lack of understanding-- Many trees. Wild. Spirits. Beasts. Great flowing rivers made of ice. Cold. Pause. Beautiful.

Amun-Shae makes a gesture which is not in sign-language, but clearly means to continue. She's leaning forwards, having drawn her blanket more closely around her, her face pinched with curiosity.

Our gods walked that land, Ysmir tells her with his hands. And there were dragons.

Amun-Shae doesn't know that word, but she repeats it poorly. Dragon.

Big beast. Flies. Ysmir thinks for a moment, and then extends his arms, flapping as if they were wings.

"Hawk," Amun-Shae murmurs aloud.

No. Lizard. Pause. Scaled thing flies?

"You had cliff-racers?" asks Amun-Shae a little more loudly, in awe.

Ysmir shakes his head. Big. Most big lizard that flies. He bites his lip, anxious and fretful for a way to explain; he adds King of Old Elves who is time.

Amun-Shae gasps. "Auri-el. No-- dragon."

When Ysmir smiles, she lets out a quick peal of laughter, then comes to her senses immediately, covers her mouth with her hand and slumps back in her chair. Too coarse to laugh at any joke made by one of the invaders. Ysmir bows his head in shame.

"Dovah," he whispers beneath his breath, causing the paper on the table between them to flutter.

Silence has always filled the room, but now it's a somewhat awkward one. Amun-Shae looks towards a window, drawing the blanket closer around herself.

"Why did you come?" Amun-Shae asks softly, her voice timid and defeated against the quiet between them.

When she looks back at him, Ysmir signs: Atmora froze.

Amun-Shae nods. "Your home is ruined," she says for him, "And so you take our instead."

All Ysmir can really sign to that is Yes.

The day is beautiful outside the window, only slightly breezy, so that the big broad leaves of a turmeric plant sway and whisper against the pristine glass. Amun-Shae watches them bend before returning her gaze to Ysmir. With a certain amount of effort, now, as if her limbs are weary, she raises her hands and signs to him: What for are you different?

Ysmir looks to her hands, and to the greenery outside, and then to her lined and sullen face. It was only a few years ago, that his kind murdered her husband before her eyes and took her city out from under her; he's impressed that she's learned so much sign in so little, with what a poor teacher the Jarl must be; he's impressed that she can move her hands from despair at all. To lose a home is a great and terrible tragedy. Such a tragedy might paralyze even the winds.

Ysmir contemplates this all, and then he signs back: Our ears.

Ears? Amun-Shae touches her own ears, to ensure that she's gotten the right words, but her face still betrays confusion even when Ysmir confirms it. Ears, she repeats thoughtfully.

"The Jarl Mem-Yet Chemua of Mourning-Hold," announces the guard from the door.

"I've come for Ysmir," explains the tall and formidable woman who wafts in. "Enough time with my pet. How goes the lessons?"

In Amun-Shae's presence, Ysmir cannot tolerate his fellow Atmoran's gaze. He makes to glance at the window, raises his hands to answer; he has not made the first sign, however, before Amun-Shae rises from her seat. Wrapped in her blanket as if it were her shield, she strides wordlessly to Mem-Yet, who towers over her in stature and soul. Undaunted, unannounced, Amun-Shae stands on tip-toes and reaches upwards, grazing the woman's cheek briefly with her thumb before she pushes aside the thick red curtain of Mem-Yet's flame-red hair.  

"Pointed," Amun-Shae says in surprise, looking to Ysmir for confirmation of her discovery. "You men of Atmora have pointed ears."

And Ysmir only nods.