Tumgik
#*screeches in daedric*
mareenavee · 6 months
Text
WIP WHENEVER! (Wednesday?!)
Hi, today is a bit of a write off day because it's spooky season and NY weather is telling me it's mid-July somehow.
I did manage a little writing :> And I'll be happy to share about ~300 words from two WIPS! But first, tags!
Tagging the amazing and wonderful: @paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense, @thequeenofthewinter, @thana-topsy, @gilgamish, @archangelsunited, @wildhexe, @elfinismsarts, @throughtrialbyfire, @saltymaplesyrup, @snippetsrus, @rainpebble3, @kookaburra1701, @polypolymorph, @inquisition-dragonborn, @orfeoarte, @tallmatcha, @rhiannon1199, @expended-sleeper, @dirty-bosmer, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @nuwanders, @ladytanithia, @viss-and-pinegar, and @late-nite-scholar! Below the cut for shenanigans! WIP 1 has CW for creepy spooky season stuff and WIP 2 has CW for Neloth (yes) and his canon-typical racism (circa Nerevarine times in Morrowind.)
1) Spooky Collab pending a title with @thequeenofthewinter and @thana-topsy! Uldwin is his OC, and this is the downfall timeline. (: Writing is mine.
The ramp that led up to the mushroom tower was itself rotting through, stringy, toxic orange webs of slime mold eating away at the fungus. Lydia balanced precariously on the wooden support beams, cursing the weight of the daedric armor Uldwin had gifted her. Its enchantment sang to her, too—a whisper of some Bosmeri prayer. Like his voice, scratchy from use of the Thu’um. She swallowed hard against another wave of grief. This, perhaps, had been the last of his efforts to spare her whatever fate he’d willingly walked into.
The door to the tower swung open of its own accord, iron hinges rusted and knob caked with mud and grime. Then… Whatever it was had become aware of her presence. This did not bode well at all. She stepped through into the darkness, unable even to cast Candlelight to guide her way forward.
Lydia’s senses were assaulted by the stench of death—mildew and rot, must, pine, the uncomfortable sweetness of fermentation—not at all unlike the smell of Nordic tombs, long undisturbed. She brushed cobwebs away as she crept through the shadows. Dawnbreaker glowed, though its light seemed stifled in this place. Dread settled over her shoulders like a mantle. One step after another. It was all she could do, despite the fear. Despite how very much she wanted to turn and run. She knew she couldn’t. Uldwin didn’t. And now it fell to her to end this nightmare…and to bring him home.As Lydia took another step, something crunched audibly under her boot. A bone. No. She held back a scream as something screeched above her, the noise traveling through her skull like a jolt of Shock magic.
2) Light the Way which is pre-World. Backstory for Neloth and Teldryn, the Nerevarine (: And how they both ended up in the Twin Lamps.
“If I have your attention,” Im-Kilaya said after a particularly grating and reptilian-sounding throat-clearing, “we’ll need you both to help an injured once-shackled individual. His name is Tul, a fellow Saxhleel. Our Eyes have noted his injuries are beyond the help of what potions we have available.” He paused and turned to Sero, handing him a letter. “This, and he will need to be defended until you reach Sterdecan.”
“Do you expect trouble?” Sero asked, scanning the letter. Neloth glanced over his shoulder. It was written in some kind of cipher—it had to have been. Otherwise, it was an egregious misuse of parchment, describing in detail a few fictitious landmarks of Azura’s Coast. He watched as Sero folded up the letter again and tucked it behind the dark chitin plate of his armor.
“Yes, unfortunately. The farmhouse is becoming more visible than we’d like. It’s why this falls to you, Nerevarine. Protect Tul. I don’t know what waits out there in the dark, but the news brings me great discomfort.”
“Orvas has wind of us, doesn’t he?” Teldryn said after a moment. 
Im-Kilaya said nothing, and opted instead to grimace, hands tucked once again into the sleeves of his robes. Teldryn nodded; whatever silent conversation had just occurred between them seemed satisfactory enough.
Neloth knew that name. Duke Vedam’s younger brother, and, at least at one point, the more powerful of the two. There had been rumors about nefarious dealings, and a more recent loss of his position within House Hlaalu. Something Fyr had rattled on about, as he was wont to do, but Neloth hadn’t bothered to listen. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight. Not that Neloth was afraid per se, but what should have been a fairly simple task now seemed infinitely more complex than what he’d at first believed.
30 notes · View notes
Mahfaeraak (Alduin x Dragonborn)
Tumblr media
Part 1
Aurelia stepped into the dark, endless plainlands of Sovngarde alone.
Seventeen years old, with everything to give and nothing to lose, a sword in her hands and her heart in her throat. Fear wasn’t something she felt often, and she worried the World Eater would smell it on her.
The Blades had a growing army and still they sent her alone, with nothing more than the naive hopes that an unconfirmed prophecy would prove true against all the odds. Aurelia held that stupid, insignificant little prophecy in her, begging it to be true.
The souls of previous Dragonborns came to her aid but Alduin targeted her, as if the others were nothing more than fruits and bread rolls while Aurelia was a juicy, tender steak. The one thing that would quench his hunger.
She tried with great effort to block out the memories of Sovngarde — to push those terrible events to the back of her mind, locking them away so they might never be remembered again — but she still vividly recalled how easily Alduin swept through the Dragonborns. How effortlessly he isolated her. How close his teeth were to her throat. He’d laughed in her face, mocking her in his dragon tongue.
But his arrogance had been his downfall.
The final blow hadn’t been noble or brave, not the kind that was painted in chapels or mimicked in statues. There was no piercing arrow or swinging sword as Aurelia held her head up high — no. With the slip of her hand, her dagger was plunged into the World Eater’s heart and, with a roar of pain, he exploded into nothingness.
Aurelia returned home a hero, Alduin’s destroyer at seventeen years old. And yet, she still was nothing but a pawn to be shoved around and used as those around her pleased. Perhaps she killed Alduin, but snakes still slithered, wanting nothing more than to suck the life out of her.
Just how many people had promised you love and family and home only to stab a knife into your back?
The emperor.
Astrid.
Mercer.
Delphine.
‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me’... But three times? Was that just pure stupidity on Aurelia’s part?
That was why she traveled alone, that was why she rode her life out in solitude. That was why she didn’t stick her neck out for people, especially not extremely attractive dark haired, naked men.
Aurelia was on her trek back to Whiterun, needing an actual bed rather than a pack on the hard ground of a cave. It had been months since she let her guard down in a place where she knew she was safe, and her body was finally growing weary from the minimal sleep and meals, demanding she let herself rest.
That was when her path was blocked by a pack of bandits, demanding this insanely tall and stark naked man give them a hundred septims. And they called her delusional.
“Pay the toll, or its Sovngarde for you, pretty boy,” one of the bandits said, a scantily clad Nord woman. How they survived the cold in such attire was beyond you.
The man said nothing, perhaps he was a mute.
“Gods, this is inconvenient,” Aurelia mumbled, loud enough to be heard.
The male bandit's lazy gaze snapped to her, posture straightening as she approached. He had an ugly sneer on his face but his eyes roamed down her body like a slug and she was happy for her armour. Perhaps the ebony was not quite as intimidating as her Daedric armour, but it did a well enough job to protect her from pointy blades and lingering eyes.
“What did you say, bitch?”
Auerlia sighed tiredly; she just wanted to sleep.
One of the bandits started spouting off some nonsense about gutting her like a fish, but she’d already reached into her boot, pulling out one of her daggers and effortlessly throwing it into his throat. The woman beside him screeched in shock, like a choking bird.
“Can I go through now?”
“You won’t leave here alive!” The woman yelled, raising her steel sword high above her head. If Aurelia was honest, the bandit didn’t even look like she could properly wield a two-handed.
She groaned in the back of her throat as the bandit charged towards her, yellow teeth sneering. With a practice ease, Aurelia had an armoured hand gripped around the point of the sword, stopping the bandit in her tracks. In the blink of an eye, she gave one strong tug, ripping the blade from the woman’s hands and causing her to plummet to the ground.
With the same blade, the bandit’s head was ripped from her neck, tumbling to the ground.
She threw the bloodied sword to the ground, moving forward only when she was convinced there were no other bandits lingering. Odd, how this man was built like an ancient oak tree and yet wasn’t capable of taking care of two bandits.
“For the future, I’d recommend clothing yourself,” she said, a touch of humour in her voice.
Aurelia received no response, he just stared with his blood red eyes. Curious — he couldn’t be a vampire like Serana, not if he was in the sun with no protection. Now that she looked at him properly, well, she could see just how out of place he was. Porcelain white skin, long black hair, insane height, and, of course, eyes as red as blood.
Over the years, Auerlia liked to think she’d gotten quite good at reading people — their intentions, their auras. This man somehow made every alarm bell ring with a relentless force, warning her that he was nothing but danger.
Aurelia did not like anything about this man, nor the energy that radiated off of him. Without another word, she began to walk away.
His large hand gripped around her wrist like a vice, tight enough to make her want to whine in pain. She whipped her head around, alarmed as she saw his glowing red eyes.
One word circled inside her brain and, as much as she wanted to deny it, something inside of her told her it was true.
“Alduin.”
8 notes · View notes
late-nite-scholar · 8 months
Text
Aug 5th (Day 1): Prompt- Arcane / Beast 
Day 1: Beast- While on a job, Vilkas’ worst nightmare comes true. Orielle has to find a way to outsmart the Lord of the Hunt, before he reclaims Vilkas forever. Post-Purity. Prompts by @tes-summer-fest
Breton OC x Vilkas
Warnings- blood, canon-typical violence
Wordcount- around 2k
Tumblr media
It'd been a week since they'd left Whiterun, now trekking through The Pale in search of an escaped criminal. It was rumored she was holed up near the Shrouded Grove, and had killed several guards who'd attempted to recapture her. That fact alone made Vilkas glad that Orielle had agreed to him coming along. Not that she needed his help, she was a dangerously competent warrior, after all. But… he worried. 
The sun dipped low, spreading twilight over the land as they finally entered the grove. Orielle was in first, sword at the ready. Vilkas followed a step behind. Neither were quite sure what awaited them, only that it would be dangerous. 
“You’re the newest ones to try and take me back, are you?” A woman’s voice asked. She sat on top of an ancient stone column, studying them. “Well they must’ve shelled out some coin. Better than guards and thugs. Sell-swords, are ya?”
“Companions,” Orielle snapped back. 
“Testy ones, too. I suppose I should be honored then, to be sought by the mighty Companions. And it will make the story all the better after I kill you.”
She leapt from the column with a snarl. But they were ready. The woman’s knives met Orielle’s sword with a resounding clang. She moved like a beast, snarling and swiping with her blades. Vilkas evaded a series of vicious slashes then charged, hitting her with his shoulder. She stumbled back, and Orielle cast Paralyze. 
“Okay, time to take you back to Whiterun,” she nodded briskly, pulling off her pack and taking out a rope. 
“Never! I will not go back!’ The woman screamed. “Lord Hircine give me strength!”
The spell around her broke, and she leapt toward Orielle again. This time, magicka whipped around her, growing more and more violent.  She would not go back! She was faster, and the Companion woman was unprepared. 
But Vilkas hadn’t let his guard down for a second. The moment she was in range, his big, two-handed sword took her through the body and out the other side. He pulled it free again, and the woman collapsed to her knees. Weakly, she held up a bloodied hand. 
“Lord Hircine, avenge me! I am… I am your most devout follower…”
She slumped to the ground, and a large man with the skull of a deer upon his head rose up behind her. In his voice was the howl of wolves, the roar of bears, and the screech of sabre cats. 
“I shall, my dear one. Go on to the Hunting Grounds, and be free.” He stroked the woman’s hair, and she gave a final smile before stilling. Hircine raised his head again, a sharp-toothed smile forming beneath his gruesome helm. “Because now I can take back one who spurned the gift I so graciously bestowed on him. Who turned his back on his pack and abandoned them.”
Vilkas opened his mouth to reply, but Orielle was already in front of him, sword and magicka at the ready. “You will not have him, daedra.”
“Do you think me some common dremora, little Breton?” he huffed. “I am a Daedric Prince! Lord of the Hunt and Master of the Chase, and you will soon understand that. At least for a little while, until you die. And when you do, when he kills you, his soul will be mine.”   
"That's not going to happen." 
"You cannot compete with my power." Hircine nodded to Vilkas, "Welcome back. I look forward to reclaiming you."
Then Hircine was gone. Orielle turned to Vilkas, who’d gone pale. In a voice full of fear, he whispered, “You have to get out of here, Songbird. Please.”
He fell to his knees with a cry. Orielle knelt with him, her hands on his shoulders. “Vilkas! You’re… it’s impossible…”
“I was a werewolf for a decade. I purged it… but Hircine’s power is stronger than that… I can’t fight it…” Fur sprung up on Vilkas’ arms and face, his eyes turning gold. As his face lengthened he cried her name. It melted into a howl of agony as he thrashed and snarled, trying to fight the process. But there was no fighting it. All the things he remembered; smells magnified, the change of balance and movement, the feral, animal instincts, all came rushing back. Before, he’d had a modicum of control over these wilder instincts, he’d been able to use his human, rational mind to overcome it. But there was no control this time. There was only him, and his prey. 
Orielle watched all this in horror. She knew he’d been a werewolf, but that was before they’d met. She’d never seen the transformation for herself. It looked every bit as terrible as Vilkas had described to her. And now he was no longer Vilkas but a great, hulking beast. He roared, showing off long, wickedly sharp fangs. 
Then his golden eyes fixated on her. 
Before she could react, he pounced, pinning her to the ground. He growled, deep in his chest. Those teeth were close now, his hot breath on her face and ready to tear her apart. 
“Vilkas. Vilkas, my darling…” she said softly, though she didn’t know how much of him remained, or if he’d been taken over completely. 
He snarled, snapping at her. His teeth just barely grazed her cheek, but thankfully not enough to break the skin. Wriggling and pulling an arm free, she cast Pacify on him. The wolf cocked its head and sat back, looking at her. Then it whimpered, and looked down at itself. Strange, yelping cries followed; pained sounds that tore her heart. 
Then he ran. 
Orielle watched, hardly breathing. But just as quickly she was on her feet and running after him. She couldn’t let him go like that! What if… what if he ran and hid and she never found him? She wasn’t going to let that happen. Even if she had to go back to Jorrvaskr and drag Besharat and Aela and Farkas up here to track him down. But that was only if the trail got cold. And she wasn’t planning on letting that happen. She would not leave her darling in this state for even a second longer than necessary.
Vilkas was crashing through the bush, making no attempt at quietness. Even if not for that, then the sign he left behind was more than enough for even a mediocre tracker like her to follow. He didn't seem to be thinking about where he was going, either. This was panicked flight, just trying to get as far away as possible. Perhaps the Pacify had gotten through to the real Vilkas? If only she would be so lucky. 
She kept following, knowing the spell would wear off soon. And sure enough, he leapt out at her again, snarling. 
"Do you think I will fight you?" She asked the wolf. He charged, but she sidestepped and he sailed by, scrambling to right himself again. She cast Pacify for a second time. Vilkas howled in agony again and ran off before she could react. 
With a sigh, she continued to follow him. She wondered how long they could play this little game. As long as Hircine wants us to, I guess, she thought to herself. That was a less than appealing idea. The Lord of the Hunt would not end this game until one of them was dead. Unless… unless she could outsmart him, turn the hunt around and earn his respect. That was what Besharat had done when brought into one of Hircine's hunts. Orielle sighed again. But Besharat was the Dragonborn, and she was not. She would have to be extra careful. 
As she ran, so did her mind. How could she earn Hircine's respect without hurting Vilkas? If she trapped him? Caught him? Would that be enough? What about if she cured him, took away his lycanthropy? She thought about what Besharat had told her about how they’d cured Kodlak and Vilkas the first time, going over the details. A nascent idea was swirling around in her head already. She wasn’t sure it would work, but she was going to try. She may have given up the life of a mage, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten what she’d learned. Or that she’d stopped learning, for that matter.   
This time when the beast leapt at her, she cast Paralyze on it. The creature whined and struggled, but was now at her mercy. The wind whipped around her, seeming to whisper all her doubts over again. What if this doesn’t work? What if you make it worse? What if you can’t do it? 
She grit her teeth, snapping back. “I trained with great mages in High Rock and Cyrodiil. I have read and studied my whole life. And you will not turn my mind against me! Or do you seek to cheat at our game?” 
The wind stilled and she put her plan into action. She cast a life detection spell first. She could now see Vilkas’ aura, and another one within him, struggling to take control. Reading its essence brought a smile to her face. This might work. Casting Command Creature and Conjure Familiar so quickly they overlapped, the second aura leapt out of Vilkas’ body. She now faced down a spectral wolf nearly as tall as herself, but she held her ground. It tensed, growling and ready to attack. 
“I’m not going to fight you.” She said quietly. “But you are going back where you came from.”
She gathered herself, taking a deep breath and casting Banish Daedra. And prayed it would work as she put her whole will behind it. 
The wolf howled as it dissipated, its essence sucked into the swirling portal that flared up and then winked out just as quickly. The beast was gone, banished back to Oblivion from whence it’d come. She’d really done it!
But her celebration was short-lived. She turned and ran to where Vilkas lay crumpled on the ground. “Thank Mara!” she cried to see him still breathing and to feel his heart beat strongly beneath her hand. She could only hope he would now be alright. 
“Well, little Breton, you turned around the game and banished my gift once again. That part disappoints me, he was such a good beast. Fierce and lethal. He hunted so beautifully.” 
Hircine spoke with a wistfulness as he looked down at them. Orielle stood, magicka already crackling, but he held up a placating hand. "But I have also never seen anyone do what you have done, it was an ingenious use of spells. For that, I must commend you. To be an effective hunter is to use one’s strengths and wits to their fullest, as you have done here. Take him, then, and carry on. My devotee is in my realm now, and she will be happy there regardless of this outcome. Well done, little Breton.”  
Then Hircine was gone, and Vilkas began to stir. Orielle dropped down beside him again, a knot growing in her stomach. What would he be like? Was he truly cured? 
His eyes opened, now back to their normal silver-grey. In a wavering voice, he asked, "Did I hurt you?" 
"Not at all, darling." 
"Where are we?" 
"I'm not entirely sure. But we are going to camp here so you can rest. Then tomorrow, if you’re up to it, we'll figure out our way home." She kissed his cheek.
He responded by pulling her into a hug. "This was my worst nightmare… my greatest fear. But you stood so bravely…oh, my Songbird…you are so strong…" 
"Shh, don't worry about that now. It's over and we are free again. Here, I'll start a fire and we'll make some food." 
Once their meal was ready they sat by the fire, watching the auroras flicker and weave through the sky. As Orielle leaned her head against his shoulder, Vilkas knew he was the luckiest man on the whole of Nirn. 
11 notes · View notes
Haskill: "My Lady? Where are y-"
Sheo!Ben: *hanging upside-down from the damn chandelier* "..."
Haskill: "..."
Haskill: "I am getting the broom again-"
Sheo!Ben: *high-pitched daedric screeching*
16 notes · View notes
hrodvitnon · 2 years
Note
Elder Scrolls Shenanigans: *At the Thalmor Embassy* “So, Dragonborn, how are you going to get past the gu- no. No. You’re not using that.” “I’m freezing, the drinks tasted horrible, the hostess was definitely being a racist bitch behind my back, I’m taking these with me.” “You’re not taking Volendrung and Daedric Armour and smashing up the emba-” *cut to dozens of dead Thalmor, embassy’s on fire, and the Dragonborn somehow managing to escape unseen. Because there’s no witnesses left alive*
Delphine, screeching: THAT IS NOT HOW THE OPERATION WAS SUPPOSED TO GO! WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM?!
Lydia, calmly sipping mead: First time?
8 notes · View notes
kagrena · 3 years
Text
apotheosis
You witnessed the birth of a god, once. And you had thought you were going to perish before him. 
For all those tomes of knowledge of all things daedric you’d committed to memory, all those forbidden rituals you’d inscribed onto your skin, secret years of practice and work and dedication, it struck you, you and all your twenty-one years rife with illicit, powerful magic, that now the world was alight and you, you were running, terror-stricken, hair-crackling-on-end, fingertips ridden with lightning, all the walls crashing down around as the sky bleached with fire, the city full of screeching and teeming with legions of daedra that blazed through the streets as a Prince tore the earth beneath your feet – that it would not save you. It would never save you. All your magic couldn’t save you. And it hit you – all that terror, that quiet, maddening terror – it wanted to swallow you up and up until there was nothing left but trembling and all you wanted was to scream, scream past it – but you couldn’t – you didn’t let yourself think – because you had grit your teeth and grasped his hand, and you had to run – 
You grasped his hand. You weren’t lovers – perish that thought. No, you were young and grim and openly treasonous and to the brim with a certain hatred, whereas he and all his bitterness – he’d been weathered by so much time. While you seethed at the Empire, the Empire that had forgotten everything except ceremony, he’d been unfussed by the pomp and circumstance that ensnared him, smiling wryly at you, throughout that pitiable crowning, as part of you still desperately wished White-Gold would sink through the bloodied earth it was built upon upon. Perhaps he had already known. You hadn’t – how could you have known – the gates opened and the world knew red again and you found yourself clinging, suddenly, to the hand of a man draped in all the silly trimmings of The Emperor, illustrious and ill-fitting, the silver spilling across the fire. You pulled him to the temple steps – you’d grasped his hand – until all that silver grew and glistened into the wings of a dragon and your hand could no longer fit in his – and still, you tried to hold on, you’d thought he’d been the only thing worth holding onto in this world of cold marble and stolen jewels and stained glass and sickly hymns – and as everything you could see turned to white, it all turned to white, you’d really thought you were going to die.
(You weren’t ready)
And when the light cleared, and when the world came back into proper order, it was still white. It smelled too clean. Your hands were still outstretched, now in the shape of nothing: he and his weathered hands had vanished. What was left was pure stone. The shape of a god he had told you – in private, tucked around the ears of fervent blades, with that same wry smile he’d tucked away for you – that he did not always care for, and for whom he had always harboured doubts.
You looked to the sky. It was completely clear.
(In three days, you’d bring him flowers. They’d wilt too soon, in that heavy summer heat, and it is why it took you three days. Perhaps you were supposed to cry then. You had allowed yourself, before, to flood in front of him: to boil over and spill yourself, to pour out what you’d kept clasped away. He’d had just enough tenderness then, with just a bit of firm. He’d known, somehow, the rains would bring new blooms in time, if they didn’t wash everything away.)
You cried out. You cried out, in a rage. Akatosh was unworthy of him.
------------
< Prev | Directory | Next >
89 notes · View notes
tamrielwolf · 3 years
Text
(Part 1) One of the most noteworthy battles the Tribunal have participated in, is the defense of Mournhold from Mehrunes Dagon’s unexpected manifestation in 1E 2920 on the 12th of Sun’s Dusk. Although Vivec was not present, Sotha Sil and Almalexia arrived to discover their beloved city fell victim to the havoc of the Daedric Prince.
Tumblr media
“A gout of ever-erupting flame was all that remained of the central courtyard of Castle Mournhold, blasting skyward into the boiling clouds. A thick, tarry smoke rolled through the streets, igniting everything that was wood or paper on fire…” “…The only thing that kept all of Mournhold from burning to the ground was the wet, sputtering blood of its people.”
Mehrunes Dagon smiled as he surveyed the castle crumbling.
"To think I nearly didn't come," he said aloud, his voice booming over the chaos. "Imagine missing all this fun."
-2920, The Last Year of the First Era, book eleven
Mehrunes Dagon’s sudden invasion was tragic timing for Sotha Sil and Almalexia, as it was scheduled in the midst of the Four Score War, a conflict between Morrowind’s Tribunal Temple and the Reman Empire. It was also very unforeseen since only months prior, Sotha Sil had previously made a pact with the Daedric Princes that forbid them from disrupting Tamriel known as the Coldharbor Compact. Nonetheless, Sotha Sil and Almalexia stood against Mehrunes Dagon and the valor of their combined force sent him writhing back to Oblivion.
Tumblr media
“Mehrunes Dagon, the Flame Tyrant! Mehrunes Dagon, Father of Cataclysm! Recall how he marched upon Almalexia’s jewel!… Ayem's voice like a screeching steam-whistle, and Sotha Sil's like a lurching engine.
"ERAM VAR AE ALTADOON!" they cried, rending their garments and donning their killing masks. Ayem drew her bright Hopesfire and skipped over the flames like a river-stone. With a mighty scream, she plunged the blade deep into Dagon's breast and turned it like a jailer's key. Scorching blood spewed out of the wound, scalding her hands and face. As she fell, the Divine Metronome chiseled a thought-rune of infinite angles. Do you remember how the veins of tin, copper, and orichalc erupted from the depths to break our mother's Fall? Through His will alone, Mighty Seht wound the veins into god-bronze whips, and lashed the Prince pitilessly…You must recall the howls of Madness! How Dagon foamed and snarled beneath the lash of Sotha Sil! "Behold!" cried the Divine Metronome as He smashed the Prince to splinters. "Behold the wrath of lost Ald Sotha! Know death at my hands, false-son of a false-father! KAER PADHOME VIE ALTADOON!"
-The Truth in Sequence: Volume 8
Tumblr media
“I Let all heed the lessons of Mournhold, where ALMSIVI’s wrath shattered Oblivion’s favored son! Curse! Curse! Curse the name of calamity's tyrant king!”
-Sotha Sil’s plaque dedicated to the Defense of Mournhold at the Elegiac Replication
83 notes · View notes
kettlequills · 2 years
Text
and if the world should end (hold me)
Dragonborn Laataazin does not manifest their Dragon Aspect often. When they do, they are ... different. A03. a short and sweet piece of laat/miraak. tw: dacryphilia, dragon aspect, daedric corruption, pre-sex. n s f w ish, r. Mature.
Laat wasn’t hard to track.
Their passage had seared footprints ringed with soot into the dark wet earth below the hardpacked snow. Hail stung Miraak’s eyes, made him wish for his mask as he followed them, stepping from footprint to footprint in imitation of their aggressive, short stride. White winds gathering speed billowed around him, rumbling clouds bruiselike with the anger of a Dragonborn’s impetuous, imperious presence.
Kyne the war-hawk recognised the realised majesty of her lover, the dragon. But the winds that battered Miraak’s robes like seeking fingers were, for once, not for him; Laat was a bloodsong behind his heartbeat. His senses prickled in that chilling calling of soul to soul, the second of warning he had directly before a dragon dropped from the sky spitting flaming death.
Their Shout still rung in heaven’s ears; shudders of grey rock pitted the flung-fingers of the reaching trees. He saw the shape of them, indescribable and immense, the starry wings that eclipsed the sun, the interlocking scales like plates of black diamond. They were blurry with heat through the trees, thick with curling black spines that made his mouth dry in remembered fear of the overlord great enough to force dragons to heel.
In a small clearing ringed by bony black trees, they waited for him, incandescent as a heretic’s pyre. Unapologetic for the vicious spike-dripping crown of their fearsome Dragon Aspect, as unalike the auroral shimmering of his as night to day.
He hardly understood the words that flew out of mouth.
"Use me."
Laat shot him a wild-eyed glare over their ramrod stiff shoulders. The line of their spine was steel, naked as a child, they had never looked fiercer. It only made the scales that ridged from the normally-soft, giving flesh sharper, darker against their sunstruck skin, highlighted the curve of muscles wound killing-tight. Scars painted that rippling canvas, furrowed like plough-marks beneath the earth cut through the sunken ruins of Miraak’s time, scarring hidden barrows and graves with a thousand criss-crossing reminders of the new age.
Miraak's breath hitched on a choking swallow.
"I know - I know you need to-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. To claim understanding. "You - you can use me."
Laat turned fully to face him, their eyes raking over him with a palpable hunger. Centuries of torment facing the worst daedra and dragons could muster had Miraak stiffen his body instead of stepping back. How red Laataazin’s eyes glowed, framed by light-sucking oubliettes of the void between stars caught in each cruelly-glittering scale. He didn’t think he would ever grow accustomed to how they looked at him, even with soft brown human eyes. With their humanity washed away to reveal the world-eater beneath, it struck him as a hurricane strikes a poor-rooted tree, scattering needles like prayers and tearing roots from the ground, leaving behind only hollows – aching, dark, twisted hollows, that begged to be filled.
“Leave," they rumbled, and their voice shook the trees, the sky, the sun, the stars. Shook Miraak’s soul free in his chest, and he yearned to stretch his own wings, test his fang and fire against theirs. "Dii britrozii. Leave now."
It was his chance to renounce this stupidity.
"No," Miraak whispered.
Laat lunged for him.
He stood his ground, managed even not to hiss when they collided and Laat slammed him back against a tree. The wet chill seeped in through the back of his robes, the rough bark dug into the knobbles of his vertebra. An old wound flared to life with a dull ache, and he grimaced. The tree groaned; he heard the woody screech of Laat’s claws churning the bark to charnel. Smoke scorched his arm, he shifted and embraced them instead.
They were scarcely better. Laat was so hot they burned, pinning him between the slick ice of the deep-frozen tree and the fire of the fever in their soul. Their eyes flickered with mad red glow when he touched them of his own accord, some softening of the slit pupil that managed to coax a flurry of desire along with a distant sense of crippling danger.
At first, he thought they would seize a kiss from him, but instead, they pressed their feverish forehead against his. They had to lean up on their toes to reach him, he felt the trembling of their body, half-fever, half the strain of keeping themselves lifted. Sweat-slick locks of their hair tickled his cheeks. The tree shivered as they sunk their claws in deeper for purchase. The hard nubs of the swelling horns were near-painful, like resting his bare skin against fresh-forged maceheads, but the skin underneath it was still human, dripping with sweat that splashed onto his Miraak’s cheeks like tears.
“I could hurt you,” they warned him, maelstrom eyes beckoning him to fall in, let the wine-waters wash over him, into him.
“You’re not hurting me now,” Miraak pointed out, “And I’ll heal.”
They growled at that, actually growled, and Miraak swallowed past a dizzying rush. Their fingers wove knots into the tangled hair, tugging him down to them. They bit his cheek, above the rasp of his beard. The sharpness of the pain made his eyes water involuntarily; knowing them, he blinked and let the tear fall. Laat’s warm, wet tongue chased it, their saliva sticky and cold on his cheek. Their moan reverberated through them like a living thing, buzzed through Miraak’s bones like a symphony, like a roar.
“You don’t like daedra,” they said, with an increasingly strained voice.
Miraak hesitated. It was true that he could see Sanguine all over them, in the sticky strawberry handprints that followed the hunger of their blush, the reddish glow, the fiery fever that melted holes in the snow. Their breath tasted of wine, their lips of chillies and crushed pistachio. Erotic tastes, exotic tastes, nothing like the dull human tastes of sweat and the faint reek of armour oil he associated with them.
In their Dragon Aspect, the fullest expansion of their soul, Sanguine stained them as Mora had corrupted him. Miraak saw the path of Sanguine’s touches, the places where he had scraped bitter nails over Laat’s ribs, the splutters of his cursed wine in their belly, the burnished royal red and purples that shifted like abstract bruises under their skin, seductively drawing his eye to their hips, their breasts, the rasp of their stubble. Their sensitive places, their soft places, marked with claws and teeth and bloodsport long before he had even known of their existence.
To touch them would be to walk his fingertips over the leavings of a daedric lord.
He lifted his head from theirs to avoid their cursed eyes. He focused instead on the scars that twisted their forehead, counting them to ground himself. Faded, a little, under the burning wreath of horns that tumbled around their head like deadly locks of hair, but ever-present and quartering their beloved face like the grid of a map leading to something like home.
There were six scarlines that disappeared into their hair; number four wavered drunkenly over some long-ago notch and split into a wide river of pinkish white. Number two came accompanied by a star-scatter of freckles, dots and splashes of brown that hid in the wrinkles of their skin, the perpetual frown lines, the soft creases of age and laughter around their eyes.
He knew these scars, had felt them, traced them, kissed them, just as he knew the impatient tugging of their trembling hands woven into his beard. Knew them, the Dragonborn who loved life too passionately to waste it at Hermaeus Mora’s command, who had taken every backslide and frustration of his long recovery in stride. Who touched him with such tenderness Miraak could almost believe he had never met any daedra that wasted his body and destroyed his pride at all.
The hair that pushed its way stubbornly out amidst the scars was grey and stringy, touches of brown still surviving at the tips. He could not stop himself from cupping their cheeks, tilting their head down to nibble on the soft fuzz. The keratin crunched under his playful teeth.
He remembered to purse his lips together in one of Laat’s odd kisses when he rubbed his nose against the familiar topography of their scarred face, nuzzling them as Sahrotaar, the friendliest of his dragons, would. Even now, it made them smile; he felt the reflexive twitch of their cheek muscles under his palms, the notch of their dimples against the pad of his thumbs.
“You are not a daedra,” he murmured, words that whispered round the actual truth, “I trust you.”
They bit his shoulder through his robes, but they didn’t cleave a snaggletoothed bite through layers of fabric until they could rend and tear properly at his bloodied flesh. Instead they held him in their mouth, their damp tongue pressing against his collarbone, then mumbled and mouthed their way across to the neckline of his robes. There, they bit on painless fabric, hard enough he saw their jaw pale with the force and their teeth ground audibly. Their lips were wet when they lifted their head, too-bright eyes swirling like chips of galaxies set into a mortal face.
“Let me,” Laataazin begged.
Miraak offered them a small, nervous smile.
“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.”
18 notes · View notes
Text
Entry Back in the Hollow City
I cannot wait to be rid of this plane. Yet out there is still Er-Jaseen, continuing his battle with the Molag Bal. All that can be done is for us to wait and learn of what will come of it.
I suppose I should start at the beginning. 
When we arrived, Abnur Tharn pulled Er-Jaseen and Tel and I aside. He stressed the need for resolve and not to waver. For a man who typically uses snide comments, backhanded compliments, and dark humor, he gave a rather heartfelt and rousing encouragement.
The others milled about with increasing anxiety. I am sure it was because they were not yet certain about which of them would not be surviving. Who would they have to grieve for.
Since the power the Amulet of Kings would provide would only last a short time, we were told that we would all have to journey close enough to be in Molag Bal’s presence. Then as soon as the ritual was complete, it would be a dash to the prince’s palace and a battle that needed to go as quick as possible.
We knew the dangers would be greater than anything we had ever faced before. And it was Tel and my job to ensure that Er-Jaseen made it to this battle.
Tharn told Er-Jaseen that if he managed to succeed that his soul and those of all the other surviving vestiges would be returned. I did not know if these were pretty lies meant to encourage or if they were true, but it appeared to bolster Er-Jaseen’s resolve.
We fought our way past Daedric warriors and looming beasts with talons and fangs and claws, all designed to rip mortal bodies apart. We came to a huge chamber, wide across as a castle and as long as a city.
Guarding the whole was a massive titan, it’s huge wings as wide across as two longboats. It let out a horrifying screech as we descended the stairs. Those with magic kept their distance, hurling destructive spell after spell. Those of us with weapons surrounded the beast on all sides, making to sure land a blow, then dodge its gigantic limbs and gnashing blade-like teeth.
It was a slow and difficult battle, but we managed to attack the weak spots enough to hinder its mobility, and from there, we could bit by bit take down each of its limbs and wings, then concentrate on its head.
As we stepped over that fallen creature, we saw nearly infinite lanes with row after row of imposing stone cylinders which hummed with magicka, and contained within each one was a screaming, writhing body. Most seemed to be those of mortals, many begging for forgiveness from their master as pain and horrifying illusions filled their minds and body. It was clear that this was where the Prince of Pain kept those who displeased him most.
To confirm this, in the center of this grand hall was a special dias, with dremora and skeletons whipping an Altmeri figure upon a rack. Lyris asked if it was Mannimarco.
I approached invisibly and was filled with satisfaction to see that it was indeed the villain, being lashed with flaming whips. I returned and confirmed that it was. I could see a gleam in her eyes as well, she wanted to face him and say something.
As we approached, we were set upon by the torturers. They were easy to overtake with our numbers. They were nothing compared to the titan.
We stood over Mannimarco. He cursed us for ruining his supposedly perfect plan to become a god. Told us that it brought him satisfaction to know that although he suffered as Molag Bal’s favorite plaything now, it would be nothing compared to what he would inflict upon our group.
Er-Jaseen told him we were going to defeat Molag Bal and reclaim all the souls that he had stolen. He called us arrogant for thinking we could accomplish such a thing, ironic coming from the mer who thought he could trick his own Prince.
We walked away and left him to his fate as Tharn mocked him and told him he was getting what he deserved. I agreed. There was none as deserving of an eternity of torture by Molag Bal than that mer.
We moved ahead, fighting past more Daedric guardians. Varen told us that we were getting close, he could sense it. In truth I did not need Varen’s comments to know. Something in me got ice cold as we moved into a courtyard. It almost burned with how cold it was, right in the center of my chest.
I was only too glad when we found the remnants of some sort of temple. When Tharn announced that this was the best place, I was eager to get it completed. Breathing was difficult, the pain was so heavy in my chest.
Tharn bid Er-Jaseen to make his decision, one of them needed to give their lives for Er-Jaseen to be imbued with the power of Akatosh. Er-Jaseen spoke with the others. I wanted to ask Tharn if he thought it would be enough power, but I knew it was best not to inject any doubt into anyone’s mind, myself included. I simply needed to have faith. A difficult task, to be sure.
Er-Jaseen finished and spoke to all of us. He said that since all of them wished to give their life and he did not want to deny anyone the right to a meaningful death, he thought it best to give the right to sacrifice their life to Varen, should he decide to take it. Varen had been the one to create the soulburst and start the sequence of events that lead to the Planemeld to begin with. Then he asked Varen if that is the choice he would like to make.
Varen thanked Er-Jaseen and said he was honored to be allowed to make amends for his arrogance and asked to have it done.
I would not have made such a speech myself. I am sure it will ease his mind, but it will no doubt leave Lyris and Sai Sahan to wonder if they should not have done more to prevent Varen’s death.
Yet it is not my decision and I am sure since Er-Jaseen spent more time with all of them, it was more difficult for him to sentence any of them to their deaths. At least this way it was not wholly his decision, I suppose. Still, it is justice that the one responsible take the harshest penalty to reverse that which he created.
Tharn took the Amulet of Kings in hand and had us all move into position. Varen said a prayer that asked for forgiveness from Akatosh and for the power to protect Nirn through his sacrifice.
Tharn assured Varen that while history would never know the sacrifice he made, all of us present would remember what he gave us to save Nirn. A rare moment of compassion, perhaps, but a beautiful one. Then Tharn started the ritual.
As he cast his spell, Varen’s body lifted up into the air and began to glow with a golden radiance. The light grew greater and greater in brightness and then shot out of Varen’s body. The cold and lifeless corpse of a once emperor fell limp to the cold stone below as the light shot into Er-Jaseen’s body, causing him to glow. And from that glowing, armor began to form around him, until he stood head to toe in divine armor of a most intricate design.
Tharn stood bent over, gathering his strength and told us to hurry, that he would get the others to safety.
And so we ran. Er-Jaseen’s feet never quite touched the ground, he seemed to be floating and moving faster than usual. Tel and I had to use all our energy to keep up with him. We needed to protect him. That was our mission.
Sai Sahan and Lyris shouted their encouragement and words of our assured success as we ran and I knew that this was a moment that counted for more than what most people can accomplish in a lifetime.
We came to a huge wall and Er-Jaseen held out his hands. A blast of fire melted through the stone wall, as though it were a hot knife through a block of chilled butter. Tel and I had to be careful not to step on the molten stone as we hurried through after Er-Jaseen.
Then above the fortification loomed the figure of Molag Bal. He taunted us and claimed us mad and pathetic in turns.
When enemies set upon us, Er-Jaseen’s divine powers knocked them easily aside. Daedroths fell as easily as paper before his blows. And a sweep of his sword slayed a line of Dremora. Tel and I stayed to his back, picking off any that would try and sneak up upon him.
A whole bride Molag Bal blew to pieces to prevent our crossing, but like with the wall, divine power sprung from Er-Jaseen’s hands. This time it gathered the broken stone chunks and reformed that which had been broken. We raced across, lungs burning as we forced ourselves to keep up with our divinely imbued companion.
Larger and larger armies of greater and greater beasts set upon us all. The fighting grew harder. It was taking more strikes for Er-Jaseen to fell the Daedra army. I could feel my strength trying to give out and could see that Tel was tiring as well. I took the opportunity of a break in the fight to drink several potions and tossed a couple to Tel as well. I knew that the aftermath would wreck havoc on my body, but this was too important to not continue. We had to make sure that Er-Jaseen made it to his battle with Molag Bal. We need to do our best to ensure he succeeded. There was no other way for our souls to be recovered and those of so many others.
Er-Jaseen melted through another wall and we raced after him up a set of stairs where we faced the Daedric Prince standing before us.
Molag Bal swept his arms towards us. I teleported out of the way, just as those clawed hands gripped, whole body, Tel in one and Er-Jaseen in the other. I looked up horrified as I saw the grip tighten. I heard the sickening crack of bones snapping and saw Tel’s head go limp above Molag Bal’s giant fist, their feet dangling loose.
Then there was a blinding flash of light. I looked away for a moment, then back, to see Er-Jaseen fighting the strength of Molag Bal, opening up his hand. The light turned to a fire, burning Molag Bal’s hand, arm, and face. He gave as scream and let go of Er-Jaseen, who glided softly down to the ground.
Instead of standing stories above us, Molag Bal stepped to the ground now only three times our height. I summoned my shades to attack and Er-Jaseen was soon locked in battle with him as well.
I teleported behind Molag Bal and slashed across his back. Then he teleported away, I rolled to dodge, then turned to see a blue light heading in my direction. I tried to dodge again but it spread along the azure plasm on the ground and I was pulled to my knees from the pain. I could not move. I was frozen in place. I saw Er-Jaseen still fighting. And it could have been a trick of the eye, but Molag Bal seemed to be smaller somehow. Closer to double Er-Jaseen’s height rather than more.
I willed my shades to go for the Prince’s back. They struck him and he turned his head to me. Then he vanished from my line of sight. I could not move or see him. I knew he was coming for me.
There was nothing I could do.
There was a sound above me, a sudden crushing weight and a sharp pain. I heard the sound of all my bone break as I felt them splinter inside me.
When I awoke, I was in the Hollow City. Cadwell standing above me and Tel by my side. Cadwell had made sure to scoop each of us up as soon as we reformed and brought us to safety.
North of us, Er-Jaseen continues the fight. May the Hist he shares a bond with give him the strength. May Akatosh and the rest of the Divines continue to imbue him with power. And may the Three guide and protect him. All of us who had our mortal lives stolen away depend on it.
2 notes · View notes
yffresbeard · 4 years
Text
Having ended Nocturnal and Clavicus Vile’s threat to the Clockwork City of Sotha Sil, Esralene has made her way to Summerset to pursue the Daedric Triad and somehow warn the Psijics on the island of Artaeum of their vulnerability.
Also this has no title because I am exceedingly bad at titling things and this is only 500 words so like, who cares right?
The beast's jaws - Razum-dar assumes they are jaws, at least - open wide and it screeches horribly. How embarrassing, to die at the hands (claws?) of some awful crab. Raz scrabbles for his blade as the beast lunges forward and -
An arrow hits the creature squarely in its soft underbelly, the force behind it knocking it to the ground. Before the creature has a chance to rise, another pierces its beady eye. Raz takes the opportunity to drive his blade through its head, carapace cracking sickeningly as the beast squeals and clicks. Its spindling limbs twitch several times, then go still amidst the corpses of the other beasts. The sound of squelching flesh when he removes his blade is revolting.
"Why is it that whenever I find you, you are always in trouble?" It has been several long months since he last heard that voice, but Raz knows it like he knows the taste of his mother's moon-sugared herring. Gruff, vaguely annoyed, a teasing lilt you would have to know her to recognize, and an unmistakable heavy Valenwood accent. He almost breathes her name before turning to face his savior, face split in a wide grin.
"Raz had the situation under control, but your help is appreciated," he replies. It's an overstatement, of course - he is capable, but the beast had caught him off guard. Lucky for him, Esralene has a habit of showing up whenever he needs her most.
If only she would appear whenever he wanted her, too.
She walks toward him briskly and stops to retrieve her arrows from the corpse. The crowd by the bridge disperses and returns to town, the excitement well over, and Raz embraces Esra tightly, undeterred by the large horns attached to her hood (though they do complicate matters somewhat).
It takes several moments for Raz to realize that her arms have wrapped themselves around his waist - something she almost certainly would not have done in public a short time ago. Something happened to her in Clockwork City, Raz guesses. Now is not the time to ask her what that something was.
Extricating herself from his arms, she speaks up. "Raz, what are you doing here?"
"This one is working. Queen Ayrenn's decree to open Summerset’s borders must be enforced - Raz is making sure that happens." The bosmer nods slowly, and he swears he can see the frown forming even under her mask. "But what brings you to the Isle, little thorn?"
Esra's eyes narrow as she looks around the wooded area behind them. For threats or eavesdroppers, Raz is unsure. "Nothing good," is her brisk reply, and he knows she will not say more, for now. Satisfied that they are alone, though, Esra pulls her cowl down, revealing her face in full. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you again, Raz." Her smile is small, and tired, but genuine.
"You do not need to. But there is work for two of the Queen's Eyes, and Raz would be happy to work with his partner again, yes?" His head tilts, his tail twitches, he holds a breath. He half-expects her to say no, that whatever brings her here is more important than being an Eye, more important than him-
"It… would be nice to do some normal work for a change."
31 notes · View notes
soullessdragonheart · 3 years
Note
A series of anchors fall to the earth as a black ring forms in the sky with thunderous sound. It was time to rain down and bring an army to play with the local villages and cities.
That thundering, creaking noise... it was so familiar... so out of place... 
And yet, as the Argonian witnessed the sky darken, he takes off full tilt, drawing steel and launching himself at the nigh-crumbling dolmen, cutting down one of the four hooded figures circling it.
Tumblr media
“...This is the biggest, and last mistake you fools ever make.”
One of the cultists raise a skeleton from the ground, with just enough time to watch the Dragonknight cleave it in two, before slamming his shield directly into their face, knocking them to the ground a few feet away. Another attempts to cast Frost Storm at him, the slow yet powerful spell being side-stepped around, and with a swipe of Agthux’s blade, they’re struck by a bolt of fire.
A screech can be heard behind him. Agthux swivels, and a Clanfear lands talons-first onto his shield. He knocks it off, blasting it away with a burst of flame from his mouth. Turning to cut down a second Clanfear that had attempted to flank him, his chest seizes up, as a familiar, booming voice echoes around him.
“AH, SO AFTER ALL THIS TIME, YOU RETURN NOW TO DISRUPT MY DEVOTED MINIONS ONCE MORE.”
He’s caught off guard, and an Ogrim knocks him off his feet. A single roll is all it takes to skid back to his feet however, and with a thrust of his sword arm, a red hot chain impales the repulsive daedra.
Tumblr media
“I stopped you before, Bal. And I’ll stop you as many times as it takes for you to finally hold your L.”
Yanking back hard on the chain, Agthux lets out a groan of effort as he swings the chain, Ogrim included, into a few more daedra, as well as the last, conscious cultist, and slamming them into the Anchor Point, killing all of them under the force of this wrecking ball of an Ogrim.
“IT TOOK THE FIVE COMPANIONS, YOUR PATHETIC MAGES’ AND FIGHTERS’ GUILDS, THE AMULET OF KINGS, AND THAT MEDDLING MERIDIA TO STOP ME.”
Agthux rushes to one of the pinions, thrusting his hand into the glowing center, as a burst of energy cracks one of the chains in the anchor. He then immediately swivels around, beheading a flame atronarch, and, sprouting wings, launches himself into the center of three more with an impressive burst of flame knocking them back. 
“AND NOW LOOK AT YOU... LOST AND ALONE, IN A TIME THAT ISN’T YOUR OWN. YOU HAVE LOST, FIREBREATHER.”
The Dragonknight inhales deeply, absorbing the lifeforce of the atronarchs around him, before an earth-cracking blast of fire dissipates the lot of them. He rushes to the next pinion, thrusting his hand into the center as a horde of scamps leap at him.
Blazing spines burst from his back, impaling those scamps foolish enough to leap at the Argonian with his back turned.
Another chain begins to crack.
“No matter what time I find myself in... I will always have allies, and friends I can count on,” the Argonian rebuttals grimly. “All you have are snivelling cowards, begging for scraps of power they will never receive.”
He thrusts an arm upward, massive talons bursting from the floor, and gripping a few of the Seducer Brutes that had just landed. A burning cloud of ash begins to swirl around the group, who begin to cough and sweat, the heat getting to be too much. He follows up by blasting them with fire, then using the moment they shield their faces as an opportunity to get in close.
Tumblr media
He makes a deep gash in one, simultaneously blocking a blow from another. The third rushes forth, but with a swipe of his blade, the daedra had been tripped onto her ass. The second daedra makes another attempt to strike, but is stabbed through the chest by the Dragonknight’s blade. As she crumples, Agthux makes a break for the fourth pinion, leaping over the tripped daedra, his sabatons breaking her nose and slamming her into the ground as he uses her face as a springboard.
Thrusting his hand into the center, the final chain cracks, leaving one final pinion to destroy the entire structure. Unfortunately, Agthux knew it was never that easy... and as one final streak of blue crashes into the ground, the Argonian finds himself staring up at a Daedric Titan, the beast roaring as it spreads its wings.
“...Oddly appropriate, Moleman Bag. I bet you have plenty of these fuckers just waiting in the wings, don’t you?”
Its tail sweeps across the ground, and Agthux leaps over it, rolling to a stop, and lunging onto its neck, stabbing into it, and apparently pissing it off more. It screeches in fury, throwing him off, and blasting him with a stream of fire as he lands. Before the smoke can clear, several wads of molten rock are flung from the smoking crater, crashing into its face and eyes.
Now blinded, and covered in lava, the Titan begins to thrash about, its roars would begin result in guards from nearby towns to approach.
He couldn’t let them get close... he needed to finish this fast.
The Argonian blocks a swipe from its wing, though the force still knocks him back, and manages to duck beneath a stream of flame, though not without having his tail burned in the process... and, as he finally manages to get close enough, another chain is sent out, impaling the beast’s lower jaw, and, as it tries to shake itself loose, Agthux uses the opportunity to let it swing him over its now very loosely guarded neck, and as he’s swung over its head, manages to lop it clean off with the power of centrifugal force and a well-kept sword arm.
As he lands, he slams the Daedric Titan’s head onto the ground, the chain he’d impaled into it dissipating... and with that, he thrusts his hand into the final pinion, causing the chains to finally snap, and crumble around him.
“YOU MAY HAVE WON HERE... BUT THIS WILL NOT BE OUR LAST DANCE, VESTIGE. SAVOR THE TIME YOU HAVE LEFT.”
As the chains crumble, and eerily glowing ring fades into nothing, Agthux is left panting, as the guards, now staring in awe at this strange Argonian, arrive in time to witness the end of his battle.
Tumblr media
“...Every time you show up, I will be there to kick you right back into Coldharbour.”
3 notes · View notes
powerovernothing · 4 years
Text
Tumblr media
(This small short takes places during the course of the Original Timeline, which closely follows the canon events of the Main, and the Dark Brotherhood quest line; meaning that Lucien is not present in Cloud Ruler Temple, nor does he and Martin know one another, and Korbin acts slightly more serious.) 
As the great door to the main hall of Cloud Ruler Temple creaks open, and echoes through the vast walls reaching up far into the distant ceiling above, Martin adverts his gaze from the page he was reading with the faintest of curiosity… only to realize that it was not at all some protective Blade, or even Jauffre himself, as he so believed, but actually his friend who had been away for several days now.
When the realization finally sinks in, he all but directly flies out of his seat at the table he stolen away for his more insensitive studies, and half rushes, half stumbles, over to Korbin’s side with absolute joy shining brightly in his eyes.
"Dear Divines above, thank Akatosh that you're back in one piece!" He cries out and wrap his arms around Korbin without thinking of the other’s thoughts towards such a display and pulls him into a tight embrace. Unbeknownst to the Priest that it is the very first embrace that Korbin has ever felt in his entire thirty-three years of life.
He steps back and smiles widely. "But now that you have returned, and returned safely, oh, my dear friend, you have no idea the happiness it brings me!"
However, even though Martin had almost anticipated Korbin to react in some way, even in a negative way at first, to his sudden rush of affection out of nowhere, he instead merely stands in place. Completely and utterly in shock to what was happening, what was being said in regard to his return to the temple, what Martin had done to show how pleased he was the fact that he was all right, and how he had enveloped him in his arms and cried that his safety brought so much personal happiness to him.
And this sort of affection, the sort where one person you care for comes forward, wraps their arms around you, and pulls you close? This sort of emotion that is spoken in clear, genuine words, where he is so overjoyed at your return, even though you have no idea why he should be in the first place? This confusing, yet wonderful mixture that come together in such a gentle, caring, and tender act, and the fact that Martin, of all people, was the one who thought to give to him before anyone else in his life?
It is so very overwhelming, as Korbin had truly never experienced such a thing prior to this one single moment in time, and now that he had appeared out of nowhere, when he surely least expected it to, he has no idea what to even think, let alone speak, in response to something so truly wonderful.
Thus, he just stands in front of Martin stiff and unresponsive. His mind a storm of emotions, uncertain if he deserved such a feeling, and yet believing that the action, the affection, and everything in between was so incredibly enjoyable, that he wants to feel it a thousand times more.
But instead of actually saying the words he is repeating near endlessly in his own head – ‘do that again, whatever that was, whatever you just did by holding me close, no matter why you did it, do it again, martin please’ – his eyes simply blink several times in silent confusion, as he slowly comes to terms with unconditional affection being granted to him, and Martin takes that as a sign that he had indeed overstepped somehow as he so feared.
He backs up, away from Korbin, and scratches the back of his head somewhat sheepishly. "Oh, forgive me, I should haven't... attacked you so suddenly with affection. Especially not after you had only just come back from a long journey."
Still Korbin doesn't speak, though his mind is now screaming that it is all right, that he had no trouble with what he did, that it was not a bad thing, it was a very good thing, and he wonders why his mouth refuses to work properly, and Martin takes that as a means to continue on in his place.
"But... I can see the look in your eyes, and it is not simply because I embraced you, is it? No, you have brought bad news... and I would assume that means you didn't recover the Amulet of Kings like you had hoped?"
Finally, Korbin is snapped out of his affection-based daze upon hearing the last half of Martin’s words, and he shakes his head a few more times to clear the remaining clouds that decide to linger.
"No, I didn't... that bastard Camoran rushed off into some unknown realm -- of what I can only assume is some part of Oblivion, because with our luck, of course it would be -- before I even had a chance to try and take it back..." He shrugs his pack over his shoulder, and places it upon one of the benches, before opening it and ruffling through its contents.
"However, it is not all bad news... I mean, it surely looks bleak now, and whatever forward advance we may have had, we just lost.... but even though I was unable to nab the Amulet of Kings, we may have managed to gain a newfound foothold onto something that can help us locate both it, and Camoran just as well."
Martin leans forward, wondering what his friend means by his words, when Korbin pulls out a large white book marked with an obvious Daedra rune etched upon the cover. "Because, even as everything turned to sheer madness, I still managed to grab a hold of the Mysterium Xar--"
The sound of a harsh slap echoes throughout the main hall, and the book suddenly falls to the floor out of nowhere before Korbin has a chance to even finish his sentence.
As it lands upon the wooden floorboards, Korbin is merely left foolishly holding his – now emptied – hands out to Martin where the book had once been.
Stuttering a barely formed response, it sounding much more like childish gibberish than actual words, Korbin looks down in confusion as to what actually happened, and how the book could have somehow flown out of his grip without him even realizing, and yet when raises his gaze back up towards Martin’s own, he is met with the sight of the Septim Heir standing before him with a look of genuine horror.
"Sweet merciful Nine!" Martin manages to scream, sounding almost breathless as he does. "What are you… what are you even doing thinking to hold such a thing in the palms of your hands?!"
Another failed attempt at words stumbles from Korbin’s mouth as it hangs agape, and he looks away from Martin, down to where the book laid partially open underneath the table, and then back once more; his eyes flickering with a mixture of surprise, and absolute confusion.
"What do you... what you do mean?!" He questions, his voice raising an octave to match Martin’s screeching. "I was… I was giving it to you! Isn't the Xarxes what was needed? What you wanted? What I spent all that time chasing down those dreadfully aggravating commentaries with Baurus in the city?"
"No!" Martin exclaims also instantly, and then realizes he is still shouting directly at Korbin, and that is so very much unlike him. He breathes in, slowly at first, and then deeply, and steps away from the book, and Korbin’s side for a moment as he regains his composure enough to speak in a more natural tone.
"I-I mean... yes. Yes, of course this is what is needed, but this..." Martin looks down at the book, and his eyes darken. "This is not some mere novel, Korbin. This is a truly vile, truly evil book, written by the Daedra Prince of Destruction himself, and such a thing… such a terrible thing is dangerous even to gaze upon. And knowing that you not only held it, but carried it with you for... Akatosh knows how long after you departed from your search for the Amulet of Kings..."
Korbin steps closer, and his voice drops to a whisper. "...But, how else would I have brought it back to you, then?" He questions, before a flicker of boyish playfulness dances in his eyes in a means of clearing the tense and uncomfortable air around them. "By some blessed horse bound carriage immune to all form of Daedric influence perhaps?"
Martin lets out a weak laugh at his attempt, despite it doing very little to actually calm his nerves and leans down to -- very carefully -- grab hold of the book himself.
"Ah, yes I see your point, and while such a sight in my mind’s eye is quite amusing, I can understand why you chose to do what you had to," He tells him as he sets it underneath his growing collection of books, to hide it from the common man’s sight, and then moves back towards his place at the table.
"Forgive me once more, I did not mean to overreact in the way that I did, but I have been..."
"Worried about me?" Korbin suddenly interjects, causing Martin to blush ever so faintly in response. As he comes to sit on the opposite side of the table, a half-smile spreads over his lips in knowing he had successfully caused Martin to begin to stammer about in surprise for at least once as the new dawn rose.
Before Martin can question how he could possibly know such a thing, Korbin raises his hand and stops him in advance. "...Jauffre told me when I returned back to the temple grounds," He says. "Is it true?"
"That is the very last time I entrust my emotional confessions with that man," Martin frowns with a feigned sense of anger as he looks over Korbin’s shoulder towards the main door, where he had seen Jauffre leave through only moments before his friend had walked in. When he turns back to readjust his vision upon Korbin, he sighs softly.
"But... yes. What he said to you -- even though I do wish he hadn't -- is indeed very true. I've been quite concerned over your wellbeing for a while now."
Korbin leans forward, his chin resting against his crossed arms in front of his chest. "But why? You had no reason to be." Martin’s frown deepens at his words, and Korbin suddenly backpedals slightly.
"All right, that sounded worse than I meant for it to be, but what I meant was… well, you knew that I would return to you, one way or another. Either in glorious victory with the Amulet, and the blood of Mankar Camoran smeared over my armor, or disappointingly emptied handed and injured beyond all sense or reason."
"And… which are you now?"
Korbin crinkles his nose in amusement to Martin’s question, and then leans up, holding his arms out in a dramatic gesture. "Well, I am afraid that while I do not have the Amulet of Kings upon my person, nor am I wearing it for a fashion statement, I am indeed smeared near head and toe with quite a fair amount of blood--"
"– Is any of it yours?" Martin interrupts, paying no heed to Korbin’s jesting, as a worried tone briefly overtakes his voice. "And please, be honest with me."
Korbin chuckles slightly; knowing that no matter how long he would know Martin, he would never understand how someone so remarkably… pure could ever think to care for someone such as him. In any other world, in any other universe, it wouldn’t be possible, and yet…
"Not all of it, no," He tells him, and places his hands back down over the table with a smile. "And do not give me that look, because I assure you it is not nearly as bad as you believe it to be. But, even despite the mess, I still return to you safely all the same! Just... with a horrifically cursed book, instead of the glowing piece of jewelry you so wished."
Martin falls silent for a moment, considering his words and the weight they carried, and then slowly reaches out, and touches the top of Korbin's hand with one of his own.
"Well, to be just as honest with you, my friend, I quite prefer that outcome far more than the other you offered."
Korbin's playful smile softens slightly, and as the genuine moment fades into the shadows of the main hall, he then tilts his head to the side at an angle. Trying to read the cover of the – non-Daedric, non-cursed – book that Martin had begun to comb through as he sat back down. Once more, his nose crinkles, his eyes narrow, and ultimately... he merely shakes his head in defeat. If he never attempts to read another book again, it would surely be far too soon.
"...What are you reading?"
Martin, who struggles not to show just how amusing such a sight had been to his eyes, flips the pages and hums as he locates where he last left off.
"Research upon the many different variations of Daedra," He explains. "Both lesser, as well as greater, so that we might know better the enemy we are facing when they appear out of those dreadful portals to the realms of Oblivion."
Korbin lowers his head back over his arms that were now folded once again. "That sounds... unbearably boring."
"Boring perhaps," Martin muses, reaching out and patting Korbin's arm almost absentmindedly as he speaks. "But also, quite essential for maintaining an advantage in the midst of the chaotic situation we have now found ourselves within."
Extended silence falls between both men once more, the flicker of a dying flame and the gentle flip of paper-thin pages being the only coherent sound to be heard, and after another moment passes, Korbin speaks up in a tired tone.
"...At this point I am so unbelievably exhausted that I am uncertain if you are actually saying proper words, or just making noise with your mouth..."
Martin laughs softly and turns a page. "Is that so? Then perhaps you should retire to your chambers for the --"
"Read it to me?"
Martin pauses, lowering his book and blinking in surprise to what he hears, before turning his head towards his barely conscious friend.
"You wish for me to read to you?"
"Yes," Korbin nods in emphasis. "So that I might drift off to sleep."
"So that you might... drift off to sleep --" Martin continues to laugh under his breath as he repeats Korbin's words, and then places the hand that had been resting over his arm down into the tussled mess of grey hair; giving it a slight affectionate ruffle. "--on a wood table? Do you truly believe that wise?"
Korbin extends his hand, and points to the staircase. "Bed is up there"—he then points to where he is hunched over onto the table—"This table is right here. And as I truly do not have the strength to even pull myself upright, I believe my choice has already been made for me."
He wearily shakes Martin’s hand out of his hair and looks up with a half-lidded glare. "We all work with what we have at any given moment, Septim…" He mutters, and then blindly points to the book as he lays his head back down. "So, stop questioning my poor judgement skills, and just read."
"Very well, Korbin," Martin says with a shake of his head; knowing that no matter how long he would know Korbin, he would never understand how someone so wonderfully unique would ever think to befriend someone such as him. In any other world, in any other universe, it wouldn’t be possible, and yet…
"If this what you wish, then I am more than happy to oblige."
Martin pulls his hand back, and then shifts around more comfortably on the bench. "... Now, where was I?"
By the time that Martin reaches a point in the book where he begins speaking in remarkable detail of the various differences between a Fire Atronach, and a Storm Atronach, and why certain weapons, spells, or any other form of basic attack would prove rather ineffective to one such enemy, and yet perfectly effective to the other, Korbin is already sleeping soundly with a more than pleased smile over his lips.
15 notes · View notes
daedrichaggler · 4 years
Note
✦--trialedsage
Witness My Powers
meme | Accepting 
“I don’t understand what the problem is!” Clavicus Vile whined, once again the overly emotional Daedric Prince allowing his frustration to take the better of him. “You come to my temple, I offer you wishes, I offer you a deal, freebies even, anything! And you just… just brush me away completely uninterested? I have never met a mortal like you! I don’t understand it, I just-…”
Halfway through Clavicus Vile’s whiny, needy rant, there was a rumble of unearthly magic in the air. Strange, he thought, because it certainly didn’t come from him. A likely cause would be one of his siblings had already had a grasp on Avallac’h (most likely Meridia or Hermaeus Mora, if he had to gamble on it) and that one of their vessels was being sent. Such a theory was blown out the second it had ignited, as ghostly hooves crashing upon air made vibrations through the darkening sky. 
Then, they emerged.
The divine daedra tilted his head as he regarded the unholy riders, dark clattering towards the two. He turned back to Avallac’h, eyebrows raising as he looked at him with a pupilless gaze.
“Oh. So like… are they the ones that are stopping you from talking to me?” he asked as he heard the elf’s increasing heartbeat despite his calm demeanour, almost offended that he hadn’t sounded that terrified of him. “You should’ve said! This is like… what I do. I fix things!”
Clavicus Vile raised his hand, his elongated talons then promptly turning to a tight fist. There was an unholy screeching throughout the air, the crumbling of horses and riders in agony as their existence was promptly wiped from the plane in which they stood - the prince not breaking eye contact with pure white eyes the whole time the act took place.
Then a booming tremor through the air.
Then silence.
“So will you talk to me now?” Clavicus Vile uttered as he indignantly broke said silence.
1 note · View note
strigital · 6 years
Text
So about the Daedra Princes corrupting their champions...
…Miraak the mask used to look pretty much like any other standard issue dragon priest mask, with the only unique things about it being its name and enchantments, but after falling to Hermaeus Mora’s influence, not just the man, but the mask too changed to reflect the aspects of the Gardener of Men. The mask mimicked Herma Mora’s “shapeless void of tentacles” motif, as did the man’s clothes, weapons and even his body. His mask now was eerily similar to his master’s favorite shape: a nightmarish entity without a face and a mouthful of tentacles. His robes once brown and incrusted with gold became moldy-green, torn and covered in Herma Mora’s inky-black slime, draconic elements on his outfit morphed into ones resembling the shapeless beasts of Apocrypha. His sword now was an extension of the Daedric Prince’s self, spitting out black tendrils whenever Miraak swung it around, his staff fell victim to the same fate. Even his Voice, his Thu’um was no longer his – it was now a twisted, nightmarish screeching that sounded more like a wailing of a horrifying beast from the pits of Herma’s Realm, rather than a Shout of an atmoran hero. Miraak became an embodiment of everything that made Mora recognizable by mortals, so that any time he sent out his Dragonborn puppet to do his bidding, those unlucky ones who met Miraak immediately knew who was their executioner’s master. Even Miraak’s own body was no longer his: his eyes were just two pits of black tar with faint sparkles of glowing green irises inside, his very own skin was crawling with Herma Mora’s slimy tendrils and black blotches which constantly moved about his body creating an illusion that the man was rotting alive. The only thing that remained somewhat untouched by Hermaeus’s tainted touch was Miraak’s mind and soul, and even so there was hardly anything human left of him. It would take decades if not ages of constant cleansing rituals by the Watchers of Stendarr to purify Miraak’s very essence of the Daedra’s influence, because as long as there’s at least one drop of Herma Mora’s taint in him, Miraak will never truly be free.
The same thing happened to one of Miraak’s soul siblings. Nim became the hound of the Father of Manbeasts pretty early on in her career as Dovahkiin and found her newly found powers quite useful, never shying away from releasing her inner beast if the circumstances were just right. And the more she let the wolf out, the stronger Hircine’s grip on her soul became, until eventually she too became a reflection of the Daedric Prince’s aspects, just like Miraak. Her mask - the mighty Konahrik - was pretty much similar to all the other masks, except with tusks, that were meant to emphasize the status of the wearer as the mightiest of dragon priests. Hircine’s influence forced some noticeable changes: the mask gained a pair of twisted antlers which resembled one of the Aspects’ of Hircine – Uricanbeg’s - appearance, its tusks now also were covered in an abundance of intricate carvings that read out the chant used to summon Hircine on his Summoning day, and the mask’s lower half morphed to have some noticeable teeth like that of a werewolf. The Dragonborn’s armor, weapons and even her own body too succumbed to these changes: any fur she wore on her person somehow became a lot more life-like and looked like it truly was just a part of her body, rather than an adornment. Any weapon she picked up would gain these detailed carved images of wolves’ heads and elks’ antlers, blades would take form of a claw or a fang and sometimes a faint growl could be heard after each swing of her sword or dagger. Her body, just like Miraak’s, too became an embodiment of her Daedric master’s influence: her smirk started to resemble a snarl, her eyes glowed in the dark similar to how wolf’s eyes do, her canines and nails grew longer and if she didn’t know better she’d think she’s fallen victim to vampirism. Even her Thu’um was now less of a Shout and more of a bark with which a wolf would attack its enemy. Maybe if she followed in Kodlak’s footsteps and cleansed herself as he did, she would’ve eventually regained her humanity, but as she continues to hunt in Hircine’s name, she becomes more and more like her master.
This also made me wonder… How would Dragonborn change if they served another Prince? Would Sheogorath’s Dovahkiin be constantly followed by a bunch of glowing butterflies and smell like cheese? Would the Last Dragonborn in Meridia’s service have a pair of tiny white wings and a constant white halo around them? What about a Dragonborn loyal to Sanguine? Would they become irresistible to any man or woman and wherever they went roses would grow out of the ground? And what if Dovahkiin’s dragon allies too changed their appearance to be more similar with their Dovahkiin’s master?
I gotta admit, all this stuff is just begging to be drawn and/or written, don’t you think?
204 notes · View notes
princeofwishes · 5 years
Text
faithless
When it comes to relationships, falling in love is the easy part. It’s so incredibly simple to look at someone and feel your heart expand six times its natural size and your feelings rise up in a bubbling swarm of overwhelming affection. That part is easy enough; it’s what comes after that we fear.
Martin first met Orpheus during the war. The sky was black and ash rained down from the heavens, coating the roads and windows and screaming citizens below in a thick, heavy fog. He gathered as many people as he could and hid them inside the chapel, practically shouting his prayers to Akatosh to deliver them from this evil. People caught outside the chapel screeched in agony as daedra cut large swathes through the town, desperate to conquer and hungry for blood. Burning flesh choked the air; those inside gagged on its putrid sensations.
Evil’s forces closed in and Martin gathered the remains of his congregation to beg Akatosh take pity on them. The doors to the cathedral buckled under the assault from outside and it seemed like the end- until the pounding faded away, replaced with the sounds of clattering swords and the ungodly shrieks of those demonic creatures as an unseen force obliterated their ranks. Shouts echoed throughout the outside; help had arrived at last. The doors to the chapel were thrust open and a half-elf archer stood in the doorway. His eyes were wild and at his side hung a bloodied dagger- clearly the man had just seen combat. However, he hardly even spared his state a second thought.
Glazed, unfocused eyes swept over the room once, twice, before he jerked forward; his head made sickening contact with the chapel floor. It was enough to prompt the survivors into action. A woman started forward and cradled the man’s head, a healing spell warming her hands and repairing his physical wounds. Her eyebrows knit together in concentration and Martin stood by her to take in their saviour.
He barely noticed the Kvatch guard pushing past the crowd to escort the citizens to a safe camp. His congregation stumbled over each other as they shoved past broken buildings and climbed over debris to flee the ruins. None of those things worried him; Martin’s full attention was on the young man now lying at his side. The healer finally looked up from the elf’s unconscious form and shook her head. Breath slowly faded from his chest and his face paled.
The Daedra claimed the life of their hero, it seemed. Martin touched the man’s forehead and murmured a blessing of Arkay, but before he finished stumbling over the rites, the man jerked forward, his head colliding with Martin’s. Both of them winced and the elf man beneath him groaned, mumbling out a half-hearted apology. Despite the pain in his head, Martin felt a strange feeling of relief and had to laugh, moving his hand from the other’s head. Perhaps not, then. He’d have a chance to say thank you after all.
That day, had Orpheus actually died, Martin would never have lived. Of course, going off of that one day alone, it seems pretty far fetched but in the next few months, he began to understand why his father sent this man to him. There was something to be said for the constant dedication and loyalty, not to mention the gentle affirmations of friendship and later, love.
Yes, perhaps they were in love at one point. It was a given with how close they were and how much good Orpheus tried to do to overcome his rapidly declining mental stability. Martin could forgive him for the random bouts of madness; they were the only reason his dearest could command armies into Oblivion and return without that terrible haunted look in his eyes. However, he wasn’t blind. Martin took notice of his steadily declining control on reality and watched as he slowly stopped being the loving elf he knew.
It peaked just before they left to retake the Imperial City. Orpheus was known to disappear prior to battles, that wasn’t the problem; he came back... different. For starters, he called himself Sheogorath, which for someone who had once been a Daedric worshipper himself, was a pretty big tell. Major reveals aside, Martin watched as the body of his secret love all but distorted to reveal the body of the Mad God. In place of his Divines’ hallowed armour and blessed bow, Orpheus wielded wicked spells and the staff of Sheogorath, occasionally pulling out a small dagger to embed within his foes. It was pure mania; there was no trace of the sweet young elf he once knew anywhere in this tableau.
And when it came time for them to part, as Martin always knew they’d have to, it hurt to look at this... this stranger in his friend’s body. But when they embraced, well, he’d be lying if he said he considered allowing the man to join him. It was so lonely, dying alone, surely the gods would allow him this one selfish indulgence- just a few moments more where he could gaze into those brown eyes he loved so much and offer his friend their first and last kiss.
But when he opened his mouth to suggest it, the features shifted and he was staring into the crazed eyes of a Daedra. Revulsion overtook him and he practically jumped backwards. He felt Orpheus flinch but couldn’t- no, wouldn’t- bring himself to rectify it. This development was a punch in the gut; the man went and did the only thing in the world that could make Martin hate him.
All of these conflicting feelings clouded his last moments and when he heard Orpheus’s broken, weakened voice yelling himself hoarse by screaming that he loved him... it hurt too much to bear. In the end, he welcomed the release of joining with Akatosh. Perhaps it would make it all hurt less.
After all, he’d rather lose faith in his friend than in his god.
14 notes · View notes
forthelulzy · 6 years
Text
Throwback Thursday - Dysfunctional
First published to AO3 on 11/7/14, Dysfunctional was my fill for a kinkmeme prompt about social work in Skyrim. It is still one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written.
Angelica Laguardia, social worker with the Imperial Department of Domesticity, Children and Families Division, pays a visit to the Dragonborn's house. Predictably, chaos ensues.
Rated T. Comedy, but warnings for minor character death and mentions of cannibalism.
5334 words.
Read on AO3
Angelica trudged up the mountain path, notebook tucked under one arm. The house she was to visit was close to Falkreath, without being too close to the bastion of death, and she'd heard it had a lovely view of the lake from where it straddled the pass. She was optimistic; both because she expected an uneventful house-call as far as her job went and also because she was going to meet the Dragonborn. The legendary savior of them all!
She came over the rise and saw the house — and the view. It was a big house, of course it had to be to be worthy of the Dragonborn. There was a greenhouse on one wing, and a tower of some sort on the other. The trees had been cut away to the northwest to provide a shot of the sparkling Lake Ilinalta below. If only she could paint...
Focus, Angelica, she thought, and climbed the porch to knock firmly on the front door.
Silence. She couldn't even hear anyone moving inside. Were they all gone on holiday? What about the servant — er, housecarl? She'd sent that letter months ago, they should have known that the home visit wasn't optional...
Just as she was about to knock again, or start yelling that she wasn't going away, the door was flung open and a hassled, unkempt Breton — or... Reachwoman? That warpaint wasn't any Breton style that she knew of — stood there, breathing heavily.
Angelica started back, momentarily speechless. The Reachwoman stared, her one eye raking up and down Angelica's body. Goodness, she knew she was plump but that wasn't any reason to look at her like that! Then she realized that the look in the door-answerer's eye wasn't one of disgust, but... lust? There was a distinct hunger in that eye... Angelica fidgeted. She was here for her job. No distractions allowed.
"Rayya!" the Reachwoman suddenly barked. Angelica thought she was talking to her for a moment, before the other continued, "come up here a sec! Got a... guest." Her face broke into a wide, if unsettling, grin.
"Dinner guest?" came another woman's voice from somewhere within. "It's not even noon yet!"
"I don't know, but you take what shows up at your door, yeah?" the Reachwoman replied.
"I'm not here for dinner," Angelica said nervously. She had no idea what the two of them were on about, but she had the distinct impression that it was neither enjoyable for her nor sanctioned by the Eight's Temple. "I'm a social worker." She tried to peer over the Reachwoman's shoulder, but the other shifted, blocking her view.
"A social worker?!" The woman who must be Rayya appeared in the doorway, and now Angelica had utterly no hope of seeing into the depths of the house. Rayya was a tall Redguard wearing the traditional face-encircling scarf-hood of the Alik'r Desert. She was pretty, but Angelica really, really didn't like the look in her eyes. Not as much as she didn't like the still-unnamed Reachwoman's lustful stare, though.
"I, er, yes. Angelica Laguardia, social worker with the Imperial Department of Domesticity, Children and Families Division, here for a home visit."
"Er, okay..." The Reachwoman deflated. "I'm Eola, the steward of this place. Rayya's the housecarl. So, what gives? This's awfully short notice, just showing up at the door."
Odd. "You were supposed to have gotten the letter explaining this months ago...?"
The two women looked at each other, twin unreadable expressions on their faces. "I didn't get any letter," Eola said, shrugging. The lust was slowly receding from her eye.
Angelica huffed. "That courier swore he was the fastest, most reliable one in Skyrim. I guess not."
Rayya's eyes widened, but what for Angelica didn't know, until Eola said, "Oh! Er, yeah! We, um, found a dead guy over there—" she pointed vaguely, "—a couple months ago. Nord, ginger? Yeah, I think bandits got him."
"Yes! Bandits!" Rayya echoed, face red as a tomato.
"Anyway, he didn't have anything on him so we just sent him over to Falkreath to be buried!"
Angelica stood there bemusedly, only a faint, "Oh," escaping her lips. What in Oblivion...?
"So!" Eola clapped her hands. "Come on in, I guess." She turned around and went into the house, leaving the door open.
Rayya waved Angelica inside with a heavy sigh. "I'll see if I can go get—"
"TORVAR!" Eola screamed, standing at the door from the entry to the rest of the house with her hands on her hips. A faint groan followed by a thump echoed through the house just as Angelica's ears stopped ringing, and Eola turned back towards them with a grin. "He'll be down soon," she said sweetly.
"—my Thane's husband," Rayya finished, voice heavy with suffering.
The pounding of paws on hardwood was the next assault to Angelica's poor ears, and two black, four-legged things appeared from the back room. They pelted across the main hall in a matter of a second and skittered around Eola's legs before the social worker could get out a thought beyond, What the hell are those?, and launched themselves at the new scent. Angelica screeched and fell back as the two things were upon her, heavy bodies pinning her down, drool dripping on her cheeks, long gnashing teeth inches from her face—
"CuSith, Garmr!" Eola said, laughing. "Off!"
The... things gave one last lick each to her cheeks and moved away, disappearing somewhere in the main hall.
Rayya shook her head, but even she looked amused as Angelica lay there, shaking. "Sorry about that. My Thane's... dogs... have to greet everyone new."
They were like dogs, but... not dogs. Not even close. The red eyes and the cold breath... she shivered. Not dogs at all. Rayya grabbed her arm, more pulling her up than helping. Eola had disappeared somewhere, but as Rayya led her into the main hall, Angelica soon forgot all about the steward.
Artifacts. Many weapons, a few pieces of armor, the rest miscellaneous in form — most sharp and all dangerous, very obviously radiating Daedric influence from every corner of the house she could see. She recognized the Masque of Clavicus Vile along with the Ebony Mail and Spellbreaker, all three on a mannequin like they belonged there. Azura's Star lay on the mantlepiece, pulsing with light from the core to the tips of the spikes. The warped, screaming faces of the Wabbajack looked at her from a weapon stand along with what appeared to be the Ebony Blade and Volundrung. And— oh, Divines, was that a book with a cover made from mers' skins on the shelf, sitting with A Dance in Fire and Songs of the Return like it belonged there? She shuddered in revulsion and was about to bolt, to run screaming back to Falkreath — no, all the way to the Imperial City! — and report to her superiors with this, but Rayya's hand on her arm tightened dangerously, warningly, and all she managed to do was emit a squeak.
"Shh," Rayya said, and managed to be the exact opposite of soothing. By the Divines, she had walked into a madhouse.
"Ray, what...?" A man who managed to be even more disheveled than Eola appeared at the top of the stairs to the next level, blinking down at them with bloodshot eyes. He swayed on his feet, but he managed to get down the steps with the pseudo-grace of a lifelong drunk. "Oh... hi," he slurred once he was no longer in danger of sliding down on his head. "Yous must be... fo' dinner. Hic."
"No, I am not here for dinner!" she said, fed up with these constant references to spending more time with this 'family' than she had to. "I need to see the children, please. I am Angelica Laguardia, social worker with the Imperial Department of Domest—"
"Ofuck," said the drunk, looking up, where two little girls had appeared on the stairs. "Sisshel, Brit— Brit— just get down here."
The two girls who were probably sisters raced down the stairs, but were only halfway there when Sissel, in the lead, tripped over Brit-something's stuck-out foot and nearly fell. Instead she stumbled against the railing and caught herself while Brit-whatever took the lead and alighted on the main hall's floor with a flourish. Sissel righted herself and jumped onto her sister's back from above with a ferocious war cry, knocking them both to the floor where they rolled around pulling each other's hair and snarling like beasts.
"Um..." Angelica started, but Rayya stepped in before she had to.
"Sissel! Britte! Stop that, now!"
They paused in their fight, Sissel sitting on Britte's chest and Britte's hand around Sissel's neck, and glared at the housecarl. "Not our Da!" they said in unison, and went back to their scuffle.
"Oh, Morwha's tits," mumbled Rayya under her breath. She looked pointedly at Torvar.
"Wha...?"
Rayya tilted her head towards the children, raising her eyebrow meaningfully. She still hadn't let go of Angelica's arm.
"Ohh. Yeah! Girls! Whattevvver she said."
Sissel and Britte drew apart, nursing their wounds — which consisted of two tender scalps, three black eyes and an assortment of bruises between them — and chanting, "Yes, Dad."
"Goodsh. Now, Ray— whattis goin' on here agen?"
"Come on, Torvar," said Eola, emerging from what appeared to be a kitchen on the right. "Why don't you sit down? Miss Angelica here is just going to talk to the kids, take a tour, make sure we're all good here, right? Right?" The last word was directed at Angelica herself, who shuddered and nodded and began to think that maybe this Reachwoman would track her down if she said a thing to her superiors after all. Or maybe she'd never get out of this madhouse, and she would become one of them. Gulp.
She sat the kids down one at a time in the greenhouse — the only place in the entire manor with only one door where she could see that door easily — speaking to them as gently as possible but only really finding out that Britte hated Sissel, Sissel hated Britte just as much, and, oh yeah, their new dad the Dragonborn had killed their old dad the farmer.
"Wait, what?" She hadn't thought— she had realized, of course, that the Dragonborn had to have been the one to bring back all those Daedric artifacts and put them on display in his house, but to think that he had murdered the girls' father and raised them as his own afterward? What kind of man did that?
"Da told my old man not to hurt us anymore, but he didn't stop yelling at us, so Da..." Sissel drew a finger across her own neck. "And took us away in the night, like a prince or something!" Her starry-eyed expression made Angelica wince. But she was starting to see how maybe the Dragonborn could have thought he was justified.
Until Sissel piped up again. "I hear Da left our old house a mess and the guards couldn't find our father's head for a long time, whatever that means."
Oh, Mara... look down upon this child with mercy... Feeling like her stomach was trying to fight its way out of her body through her mouth, she just sat back and tried to breathe.
"Anyway, I'm really grateful that Da saved us, even if he isn't around a lot. But Dad's really funny and sings to us all the time, and Rayya is so strong and beautiful and Eola's such a good cook too!"
Great. The drunk is funny. Just what a child needs... "Ahem. Moving on. You mentioned that your Da isn't here very often...?"
"No. He's off saving the world all the time. I understand. The world has to come first."
"Saving the world?" How many things are threatening the world all the time that you can't see your own kids?
"Yeah. He killed that evil big black dragon in Sovngarde, and now the other dragons don't bother us as much at all anymore. Then he stopped a bunch of evil vampires from taking over, but saved a really nice good vampire and put her in charge of the remainder so they don't cause any more problems, then he went somewhere far away because someone was trying to kill him and saying he was a fake Dragonborn, and he found out that a Daedric Prince was behind the whole thing! I think he's off in Solitude now, helping train the new soldiers that started coming in when he won the war!"
It was quite the list, and if the child told true her Da was every bit the legend Angelica had heard him to be. She had heard that Alduin had been defeated, of course. Everyone had heard the rumble from the Throat of the World when the Greybeards and the remaining dragons spoke the Dragonborn's name and proclaimed him a true Hero, like the Nerevarine in Morrowind and the Last Champion of Cyrodiil before him.
And of course she had heard of the Imperial victory in the war, everyone knew that who was an Imperial citizen — probably even everyone who didn't live in the remote jungles of Valenwood or Black Marsh. It was why she was even here, after all. Imperial victory meant Imperial control meant Imperial bureaucracy in Skyrim once again, and no province could escape the Department of Domesticity, Children and Families Division. Not a single one. High Rock was notorious for its lax rules with regards to social workers, but even though every once in a while one particularly nosy inspector turned up dead in a drainage ditch, well, that didn't mean they were exempt either. Nope.
She was a woman on a mission, and even if that mission ended up killing her, even if she had to drag the all-mighty Dragonborn down into the dirt to do it, she would make sure these children were safe. Thus resolved, she said simply, "Are you happy?
Sissel thought on this for a moment, far longer than she should have. Angelica was beginning to despair when she tilted her head back up straight and said, "Yes. I am. Even though Britte drives me crazy and is really mean, I know my Da and Dad love me and will make sure Eola doesn't eat me."
"Eola? Why would Eola eat you— oh. OH. OH." She had seen the ring on the woman's finger, but hadn't thought — how could he have a cannibal as — as a steward?!
The same way he could have a drunk as a husband, she thought sadly. She knew what had happened to her courier, now. He had probably knocked on the door, Eola had answered, and she had decided she was feeling a bit peckish. Her stomach turned.
"Oh, I shouldn't have said that!" Sissel cried, clapping her hands over her mouth. "No, please, don't take me away! My Da loves me, I swear, and Dad too, and Rayya and CuSith and Garmr and — and even Eola! Especially Eola! She wouldn't eat me even if she was really mad at me, I know she wouldn't. Never..." she trailed off, tears flowing down her cheeks, and sniffed piteously.
Angelica stared at her, thinking. Could she really do this if the kid was happy? Despite how the situation looked? Britte had said much the same thing, even pointing out that having a very intimidating man for a father had forced her to rethink things and stop beating Sissel up quite so much. That had made Angelica wince at the time, as bad means to good ends were just as awful as bad means to bad ends, but now she thought back on that conversation of a half-hour prior and it made her hesitate. Maybe should she could just make some recommendations, maybe not even mention the Daedric artifacts everywhere, the kids obviously weren't affected by the darkness that seeped from them as she was.
Maybe they never would be. She didn't know that much about the Daedric Princes, not anymore. She had studied them as a teenager, wanting to become a conjurer like her older brother Desdemono, but that had fallen flat when she showed utterly no aptitude for magic. Or swordplay, which she tried next, or sneaking around quietly, or even swinging blindly in a target's general direction. She could not put two ingredients together and make a potion to save her life, and she could not string together two words, by Mara, without tripping over her own tongue and making herself the fool. So she had gone into the bureaucracy, desperate to make a difference, a mark on the world somehow. She had thought it would be easy. That she would save children from evil parents, reward the good ones, and that she would be her own kind of hero. All without a fancy sword or spells to sling.
And for a while, the job had proved to be exactly that. She had gone out to some falling-down shacks in Riften, to the manors of Solitude too, and had while she had found things she had not expected — namely, that some people could be horrible creatures much like the mudcrabs they put down every day — she had never been conflicted about whether to report or not. Unlike now. With the Dragonborn's kids.
"Please," Sissel whispered. Barely able to hear, Angelica thought she had made the quiet plea up at first. But then, when she did not answer, the child gave a great hi-hic and started sobbing again.
"There, there," she said awkwardly. While she loved children, and wanted her own, she couldn't talk to one any better than she could an adult. "I just need to do a tour and then I'll leave. I don't want you will be sad, Sissel, and I think taking you away will make you sad, won't it?" The girl nodded, snot dripping from her nose. "I know it will. I will try to — I always take that into account, you know. I'm not trying to be mean, but this—" she waved her hand about vaguely, to indicate the whole sorry state of affairs, "can't happen, you know? It's not right. I can make some suggestions, though. And maybe your folks will follow through. I really hope they do. And then we will go from there. No matter what, I just want what is best for you, okay?"
A pause. Sissel had quieted during Angelica's speech (the longest she had made out loud, ever, she realized) but did not reply, just continued to stare at the floor by her feet. Her small shoulders trembled minutely with every breath.
"Okay?" Angelica prompted.
"Okay." Her voice was small, defeated, and Angelica knew the child was more aware than she had thought, and not as easily mislead as most children her age. She was far, far smarter than Angelica had given her credit for.
"All right then. That's okay," she said and stood up abruptly, wanting to leave before she started crying too. She left without another word, shutting the door to the greenhouse behind her. Sighing, she leaned up against it for a moment while she held her head in her hands. Then she looked up.
Rayya, Torvar, Eola, and Britte, with CuSith and Garmr lying at their feet, were arranged in a tense half-circle of chairs facing the door.
"Er," she said, as the entire family stared at her, eyebrows raised. Even Britte, sitting on Eola's lap, was looking at her with a very serious expression. "Umm..."
"I don't want to leave," Britte blurted out into the ensuing silence.
"I'm not taking you away yet," she replied automatically. The group tensed even more, the dogs-not-dogs starting to growl, and she started inching for the front door. "I didn't mean, er... I didn't mean it like that," she stammered. "I meant that I don't think there's a need to take anyone away anywhere yet, and— I'm sorry, where is your bathroom?"
No one answered her, just glared in silence, and she started shaking even worse. Eola was licking her lips, one eye raking up and down Angelica's body again, and now that she knew that the look was one of hunger, not lust, she felt all the more queasy.
Then, slowly, two women and one girl turned as one to look at Torvar. He was still quite drunk, but closer to being sober at least, and it only took him a second to realize what they all were looking at him for. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and said, "Rayya, Eola, stay here with Britte for a second, will ya?" and got up from his chair. He went to the door leading back into the greenhouse, shot one last unreadable look at Angelica, threw it open and disappeared. The sound of heavy Falkreath lumber slamming against the frame echoed throughout the house. Angelica stood there, pressed against the wall next to the door, but could not hear a bit of what was happening within. Apparently the house had been soundproofed at some point — no wonder she'd thought no one had been home at first.
The women sat (and stood) there in silence for a moment, before Eola let Britte down to the floor and stood up. Rayya stood up too, scimitars on her hips shifting with the movement, and Angelica truly thought she was going to die then. She was disappointed when, though her world tilted, she remained conscious.
But the family just turned their backs and set about rearranging the chairs. The dogs-not-dogs got up from the floor too and wound around Angelica once, snarling and growling while she stood paralyzed, then went to a plush rug in the opposite corner and lay down side by side, watching her.
Angelica looked back to find that Rayya and Eola had arranged the chairs so that one sat alone, with four facing it in a way reminiscent of testimony before a council, or when she reported to her division superiors. She gulped: the association was not a positive one for her as she hated being the sole focus of anything, much less an interrogation like this seemed to be.
An interrogation run by a warrior woman, a cannibal, and a little girl who beat up her younger and smaller sister all the time. She realized, for the first time in her life, how pathetic and utterly defenseless she was. It was a miracle she had made the short walk to Lakeview without being eaten by a wolf. By Mara, it was a miracle she had lived as long as she had, with no weapons skills, no magical aptitude, and not even the ability to walk normally without tripping over her own feet.
"Sit!" barked Rayya, and Angelica was in the lone chair before she could think to resist. That was the danger of being Imperial City-born and part of the bureaucracy: she had occupied a specific place in the hierarchy since she was born, and had deference to authority drilled into her until it was a part of her.
Again, she wondered how she hadn't died yet. If a thief with a commanding voice just told her to hand it over on the street, he wouldn't even have to pull a weapon. Pathetic. She fidgeted in the chair, fingers drumming automatically on the underside of the seat while her knuckles turned white from her death-grip.
Rayya and Eola took their seats on the far ends of the slightly curved row of chairs facing hers, Britte hopping into the Redguard's lap this time. The girl was a bit too big to be sitting on anyone, but Rayya didn't seem to mind, playing with Britte's braids.
The greenhouse door opened and Torvar walked in, holding Sissel in his arms. Her cheeks were tear-stained and her eyes red and puffy, but she wasn't crying anymore. She ignored Angelica as Torvar walked past her and took the chair next to Rayya, and steadfastly refused to meet her eyes even when sitting on her Dad's lap facing the Imperial.
The chair next to Eola remained empty. Angelica wondered a moment who it was for, before it hit her — the Dragonborn. Oh Divines, had they somehow contacted him? Was he riding out now to protect his children? It would take a while to get from Solitude to the manor, but... but he had tamed a dragon, hadn't he? Could ride it around like a big flying horse? How fast could a dragon fly — fast enough to get here before Eola got too hungry and decided to eat her, Dragonborn or no Dragonborn? She wasn't sure which was worse, waiting however many hours before being judged by an angry father who was able to kill her with a word, or being eaten by a cannibal immediately. She started praying again, asking for the Divine's forgiveness and a quick death.
She was paralyzed, she wanted to run, she knew she wouldn't get two steps before Rayya cut her down or Eola... did what cannibals did.
While Britte and Sissel watched. Erk.
She didn't want to keep thinking about her own imminent death — would it hurt? would her disappearance be noted? would the truth ever come out if she just... was never seen again after leaving Falkreath? — but it was impossible for her to steer her thoughts away. Like that one time she had ridden past a farmstead that had been attacked by a dragon, and she just couldn't stop staring at the burnt-out husk of a home, imagining the horrible things that had taken place there.
"So, Torvar—" Eola started at last. "What do you think? What would Lothario do?"
"Lothy would be pissed," Torvar said flatly, making Angelica flinch. He seemed fully sober now. "But he's not here and he won't be for a while. I guess I'll have to deal with this myself."
Lothario. Angelica had almost forgotten the given name of the Dragonborn. He was just titles now. Lothario Nicchi was no more.
"So, Angelica Laguardia," Torvar said, his brusque Nord tongue bumping up against the smooth Imperial syllables awkwardly. "I hear you've been frightening my children, making them think we're horrible people. Abusers. Deviants. That my husband is some kind of loveless monster who sacrifices children to the Daedra..." his eyes flicked pointedly to the mace on a plaque near the hearth, the artifact that radiated the most evil influence of them all.
"I don't— I don't think it's like that, and I never said so!" Angelica protested. "You obviously love your children, and they love you. And their Da. They're not saying it just to say it either — they're smart kids. They genuinely like it here."
"But?" Torvar said with a raised eyebrow, face dangerously grim still.
"But— but— but I can't just let you leave all these Daedric things lying around!" she half-screamed, prising her own hands off the chair's edge and gesturing wildly. "They're dangerous! I can overlook the dogs — which are very obviously not dogs, I'm not stupid! — and the constant absence of one parent and the drunkenness and the fighting and— and maybe, maybe even I can overlook the cannibalism." She hissed the word, staring at Eola, who seemed startled but not the least bit ashamed. "As long as it's not random upstanding citizens anymore, for Mara's sake!"
"He came to the front door!" the Reachwoman screeched. "How could I deny such a gift from Lady Namira?!"
"Enough, Eola," Torvar said, one hand going up to massage his temples. "There are plenty of bandits in Falkreath Hold; eat them. The world will be a better place."
"And the necromancers?"
"And the necromancers," Torvar replied wearily. "And the Silver Hand, what's left of them."
The werewolf hunters? What did they ever do to anyone— Oh. Someone here must be a werewolf. Of-fucking-course. She didn't have any surprise left, it seemed.
Eola sat back, mollified for the moment, and Torvar turned back to Angelica. "So, if you think this, what do you plan to say in your report? Speak carefully, now."
"I... I think I would say that Sissel and Britte are doing well, considering their rough start in life," she said honestly. "I would say that the home is full of adults who love them, and that, despite being in the phase when everything becomes a fight of some kind, Sissel and Britte are still sisters, and sisters should stick together."
"That's nice. And the artifacts Lothario has been bringing home because there's no safer place in the world to keep them out of ill-meant hands?"
"I, um. Well, I don't have to say exactly what they are, do I? I can just write, umm... 'Parents are warriors and sometimes leave their weapons lying about where the children can get at them. Tips provided to buy warded locking cabinet.' Or something."
Torvar tilted his head, seeming to... yes, he was sniffing her. The drunk was the werewolf. Great. After a moment, he said slowly to Rayya and Eola, "Not deceitful."
"Really?!" Angelica blurted out as the other women relaxed. The whole thing was a lie — she was talking about and giving an example of a lie!
"Not malevolently," Torvar amended.
Whatever that means, she thought. Not that she wasn't happy that she seemed to be out of the fire for the moment. "Er, okay. That's good. I just need to do a quick tour, make sure the house isn't about to fall down on top of you, then I guess I'll be off. You'll get a copy of my report by next week."
Eola smiled grimly. "Torvar's got your scent now..." she said ominously.
Oh, fuck. Now she really wasn't going to do anything stupid.
"Eola! Stop that." Torvar snapped, then let Sissel off his lap.
Britte hopped down too, and the girls approached Angelica cautiously. "So we're not going away?"
For children who apparently hate each other they sure do say the exact same thing at the exact same time a lot. "Not if I can help it. I can't say the same for the next visit, but that shouldn't be for another three to five years given that I'm going to put 'no action needed' in my report."
"Good. Upstairs first, then? Coming back down for a sweep through the trophy room and kitchen, of course." Torvar said, shooing the girls outside.
He took Angelica on a brief tour, showing her the alchemy table with all manner of ingredients arranged neatly on a high shelf, and though there was deathbell, nightshade and what looked suspiciously like the jarrin root she'd seen in an illustration once, the toxic reagents were far out of reach of children and she dismissed it as a minor issue. Then the enchanting table — not a black soul gem in sight, good — and the bedrooms. While the living space was in chaos, things thrown everywhere and the beds unmade, Angelica ignored it as much as she could, looking instead for actual hazards. Finding none, she had Torvar take her back downstairs.
They went through the kitchen next, and if there were bags of some unidentifiable lumpy substance shoved to overflowing into the cabinet bottoms, she resisted the urge to look. She left as quickly as possible, a chorus of eww, eww, eww chanting in her head.
Then, the last room in the house. She walked through the door ahead of Torvar, intending to just poke her head into the space and back out again. Just a glimpse would do—
But her glimpse was of gray, leathery skin stretched taut around the unnatural glowing blue eyes of a trophy draugr.
She screamed all the way back to Falkreath. But no matter how much the town guards pressed her, she insisted it had only been a close encounter with a troll, that everything was fine at the house of the Dragonborn — no, don't go looking for the troll! — everything was fine, it was just she'd never seen one that big before.
3 notes · View notes