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whispers-of-masser · 11 months

Text

Poor Form

✧ Nebarra x human!LDB, ft. Xelzaz & Khash ✧ Fluff, maybe angst (if you squint), slow-burn with tension; 2k+ word count ✧ Mentions of blood, (poorly written) fantasy violence ♫ "Ritual" - AWAY, Echos ✒ @dalishthunder come take responsibility for this

It was the grey hour when you woke, the quiet lull between full night and the oncoming dawn. From where you lay in the tent, the only sounds you could hear were the steady breaths of your companions, the breeze rustling by outside, and the lone call of a bird, faint and dim in the distance.

Slowly, you sat up, grimacing at your sore neck and shoulders – though you had long since grown accustomed to sleeping on the ground, that didn't mean you, or your body, appreciated it. You'd have to look into getting some bed cots instead. Until then, though...

At least we stay warm through the night. The oiled leather tent kept out most of the wind, and the beasts you'd felled along the journey had long since become the bedding everyone slept on.

A sudden snore drew your attention to where Khash lay, bundled in her sleeping bag beside you, red eyes shut tight and jaw slightly parted, her sharp little teeth on display. Across from her was Xelzaz, sleeping quietly on his side with his back turned towards you; you could just make out the lump of his tail beneath the blankets. And next to him...

...was an empty bed roll, the fur still fluffed, apparently untouched through the night.

Frowning, you pushed back the blankets, habitually reaching for your sword as you rose – just in case, always just in case – and, taking care not to wake Khash, crawled quietly out of the tent.

The morning had teeth. You felt it the moment you stepped outside, the cold biting into your bare arms, gnawing through the fabric of your tunic and raising goosebumps across your skin. Your breath plumed white amidst the grey, and the dirt underfoot was cold and hard; not even the morning dew had loosened it. You found yourself wanting retreat back into the tent and burrow under your furs once more, pulling them all the way over your head and falling asleep beneath their warmth. Any other morning, you might have done just that. But...

The empty, untouched bedroll.

You squinted into the mist, eyes searching, searching... there. A figure, seated on a rock several metres away, smudged and blurred in the gloom, but glinting a familiar gold.

As you lowered your sword, a sigh slipped from your lips, drawn from some strange mix of frustration, concern, and relief.

"...How long have you been out here, Nebarra?"

"Morning to you too, guar-face," the elf drawled, and though he didn't rise, his helmeted head turned towards you. A thin layer of condensation covered the metal, droplets falling at his movement; his bangs, escaping through the visor, were damp and plastered to his helm. "And all night, to answer your question. Somebody has to keep watch."

"Obviously. But you volunteered for the first shift last night." Frowning, you looked him up and down, not bothering to mask your concerned displeasure. "Why didn't you wake me or Xelzaz? We could have relieved you. We were supposed to relieve you."

"Oh yes, a human and a lizard! I'm certain I'd feel very safe with you two on watch. Your species' eyesight is so much better than an Altmer's, after all."

Your frown deepened, brow furrowing as you stared him down. It was too early in the morning for his snark.

Wordlessly, you brought up your sword and levelled it at his throat. "I can see that gap in your armor just fine. I could kill you right now – and the same goes for whatever may have come up on us in the night."

Nebarra gave a disdainful snort, gloved hand clamping down on your blade and giving a sharp tug. Unprepared, reflexes still sluggish from sleep, you stumbled a whole two steps forward before managing to check yourself.

"Poor form," the elf sneered. "You won't be killing anything like that."

Your nostrils flared, a dozen retorts surging to your lips, but you held them all in.

He's right, and you both know it.

"I wasn't ready", "I'm still waking up", "I wasn't serious" – excuses that could get you, and maybe the others, killed. How long had Nebarra seen this in you? Why was he only mentioning it now? Why hadn't you realised it on your own, that despite your confidence, your skills, your strength – you were still very much mortal? And when had that confidence become something more dangerous – arrogance?

"...What?" Nebarra asked suddenly, drawing you from your reverie. "You have that expression again. The one where you're about to do something stupid."

"Spar with me."

"Terrible idea, absolu... wait. What?"

"Spar with me," you repeated, staring into the black of his visor. "I'm getting rusty, fighting nothing but bandits and mindless undead. This just proved it."

Nebarra was silent for a beat, his head tilting to the side. Something about the motion reminded you of a bird; the eagle-shaped helm only added to the effect. You waited patiently for his answer, wondering what exactly he had to consider –

Metal, arcing toward your sword arm.

You barely managed a dodge and a weak parry with the flat of your blade – you'd been holding it low, unready. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Clearly, Nebarra was done thinking – the two of you were sparring now.

Fair enough. Enemies wouldn't be so polite as to give you time to gear up, either. And now, for once, the odds weren't in your favour: a fully-armoured Altmer veteran with decades of experience, versus you, young, disoriented, and unarmored, only a single blade in hand.

It was thrilling.

You sidestepped another swing of Nebarra's blade – only to connect with it a moment later, coming out of the feint you had failed to read.

Sharp, stinging pain. Scarlet, dripping from your arm.

He was trying to hurt you. And you were giving him ample opportunity.

You needed to ground yourself, regain your rhythm – something you couldn't do without an opening, and Nebarra wasn't giving you any.

A glint of metal on the left – block, step back. Movement overhead, an oncoming blow – raise your sword, throw your weight behind it, disrupt his momentum.

At least, you tried. Fully armoured as he was, Nebarra had an extra thousand angaids of weight behind his swing, if not more. The sheer force of his blow knock your sword out of your hands, sending you staggering back. But the grass underfoot was slick with the morning's dew, and you were moving too fast, too unsteadily. Before you knew it, your back was colliding with the ground, and all you could see was grey sky overhead – and a golden sword coming down.

Careless.

But there was still a chance.

Contorting violently, you grabbed Nebarra's arm as the blade sailed by, nicking your face as it passed. You didn't let go of his arm just yet, though. Instead, you pulled, leveraging your weight against his, abdomen taut as you used him to haul yourself upright. Nebarra, clearly not expecting such a move, found himself betrayed by his own momentum, drawing him forward and down, aided by your weight. Gravity took care of the rest, and he crashed towards the earth, twisting even as he fell to avoid face-planting into the ground.

As he struggled to right himself, you rushed to retrieve your sword; Nebarra was already rising by the time you turned back to him.

"No you don't," you growled, charging the mer, sword raised.

His hand shot out, a ward rippling to life, though it buckled slightly under your sword's impact. Nebarra staggered, his half-risen stance precarious, unbalanced.

Now. Now. Now.

Once, twice, thrice more your sword glanced off the ward – and on the fourth blow, it shattered, leaving the Altmer open to your assault.

Metal clanged as you brought your sword down, colliding with his gauntlet as he struggled to block with it, not given enough time to raise his own sword in defense. You let the blade slide off, intending to follow up with its momentum, but Nebarra didn't give you a chance. The moment the sword glanced off his gauntlet, he lunged, catching you in the abdomen and bringing the both of you to the ground.

The tussle that followed was a blur.

His sword arcing down, yours blocking. Hilts catching, blades flying, yanked out of your grasp and his.

Panted breaths, heaving chests, grappling and rolling across the grass.

A glint caught your eye – your sword and Nebarra's, just within reach.

He saw it too, the both of you reaching out in unison for your weapons, desperate to be faster than the other.

Leather-bound metal brushed against your palm – the hilt. Your hand closed around it, drawing it in close. Brought it swiftly upwards, blade against Nebarra's neck.

At its touch, he froze – and so did you. Because resting against your own neck, biting into the tender flesh, was the edge of Nebarra's blade.

Stalemate.

Ears ringing, heart racing, you shift your gaze from the sword to the one holding it.

Hunched over and straddling you, a leg to either side of your waist, there was hardly any distance between your bodies. The beak of his helm was close enough to brush your nose; your breath fogged on the metal. His gasping breaths may has well have been your own – you could feel them, swift and hot, slipping through the gold feathers that covered his face, carrying the faint scent of wine.

Of course, he'd been drinking. It had probably kept him warm through the night – and he'd still managed to keep you off-balanced for most of the fight.

You were in worse shape than you'd thought.

That, or... maybe Nebarra was better than he'd ever let on.

"...Tonight," you breathed, staring up at him. "Let's... spar again tonight."

Nebarra grunted; you could hear the sound echo faintly in his helmet. "Fine. Don't expect me to go easy on you."

A smile tugged at your mouth – you could feel your lips crack and stretch at the motion, dried out in the cold; you gave them a brief lick before answering. "What, and this was?"

Another affirmative grunt. "I'll be sober by tonight. Unfortunately."

You snorted, then fell silent once more. With your eyes, you found yourself tracing the curves of his helm, pausing at the sight of his bangs peeking through, dark and tangled threads of gold. Something about them was like an itch you couldn't scratch, and you had the sudden urge to brush them aside, or at least tuck them back into his helm.

As your gaze drifted upward, toward the visor, a glint in its shadows caught your eye. Again, you paused, staring intently into the dark.

A reflective sheen, a gleam of crimson –

"Are you done breathing on one another, yet?"

Xelzaz's voice shattered your focus, and both you and Nebarra snapped your heads toward the sound.

The Argonian stood just outside the tent, arms crossed, head bare of its usual hood, scales shimmering in the pale light. Beside him was Khash, a shadowy smudge in the mist; her wide red eyes seemed to float amidst the grey.

"Good morning," you said stupidly, even as Nebarra scrambled to get off you.

"Why were you fighting?" Khash asked. "Did something happen?"

"For your – obviously necessary – information," Nebarra sniffed, dusting off his armour, "we were sparring. And you had better get used to it. Our dear Dragonborn and I will continue to do so, apparently, starting today."

As you sat up, you distinctly heard Xelzaz mutter, "By the Hist." When he turned his head to you once more, there was something incredibly deadpan about his gaze, an unspoken, "Really?" in his eyes.

"What?" you mouthed back, blinking at him in confusion. He only shook his head, and have no answer.

"Right... Well, let's get the fire going again, and I'll see about getting us all breakfast."

At that, Khash's gaze snapped towards him. "Ohh, Xelzaz, can I have some Hackle-lo with it?"

"Khash, you've eaten almost my whole stock."

"Oh..."

"...I'll see if I can't spare a few more."

"Yay! Heh."

"Horker stew for you, Nebarra?"

"I'm too tired to say no... but I'll watch you every moment of its making."

"Yes, yes, as usual. And what of you, friend?" Xelzaz turned towards you, and for a moment, you couldn't answer him – you'd been too distracted watching the scene unfold, a smile on your face.

"Ah... it doesn't matter to me, I suppose. Surprise me."

And so, thirty minutes later, as the sun climbed through the sky and burned away the mist, breakfast was served.

But for some strange reason, all throughout the meal, you found your gaze drawn... repeatedly...

...to Nebarra.

#nebarra #nebarra skyrim #skyrim nebarra #skyrim #i havent written action in YEARS i hope its passable #i tried to remember what my two whole gumdo lessons were like back in high school :DDD #also fyi i know ZILCH abt tes lore n stuff so uhhh pls be gentle w me on that front #i literally spent ten minutes looking up tamrielic weight measurements and then trying to convert that it to pounds and back #and apparently its only referenced in a book that appears in like four of the games so its clearly an OLD book #likely that tamriel doesnt even use that unit of measurement anymore but damnit i wanted to get SOMETHING accurate #anyway that was quite enough research for me tyvm #like mate i just wanna romance this sardonic sunflower #speaking of which i wanna give him flowers?? dont ask me why i just do #give him a boquet of yellow mountain flowers like #'i saw them and thought they looked like u'#to which he scoffs and VERY GRUDGINGLY accepts ONE #prolly tells us to give the rest to khash or xelzaz #fast forward several to months later and somehow we find that one flower v carefully pressed n preserved amongst his belongings #dont touch me i just made myself sOFT thinking about this #im literally gonna have to write it now dammit #dali this is all ur fault u have unleashed the floodgates of my garbage bin brain #........thank u :D #anyway yeah this was originally written for my ldb oc which is why the personality of the ldb here may be a bit.... specific? idk #just swapped pronouns to make it more self-insert/other people's oc friendly #anyway thank god its finally done; only took me three days #not super happy with the ending but oh well #'swhat happens when u dont write for over a year #rUST #rusty as lbd's fighting in this fic #whisper writes

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dracolichbitch · 4 months

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Dragons of a Feather

Many people liked to think Jura Rhapsodos was a savior, and perhaps, for many she was. She spent her time saving the lives of the dying and the souls of the damned. It’s what she was good at, so why not spend her waking hours helping people. Tormenting the weak didn’t interest her after all. Whether she was in Toril or Tamriel, that didn’t change. If anything, it was inconvenient to be in Toril now though. None here understood how she came by her divine powers, and the simple answer of being Dragonborn seemed to mean something different here. She quickly proved that answers didn’t matter, not as much as actions at least. She’d spent the last few years doing exactly that. Saving people and killing those that would harm them, and while she’d garnered plenty of followers who did the same in her name, she’d made just as many enemies, and it seemed today, she’d made another in the Githyanki’s lich-queen, Vlaakith.

It was with pity in her eyes and a distant sorrow in her heart that she put the creche to the sword. She offered them every chance for mercy. Too blinded by their loyalty to their queen, none would take it.

The sun had begun its slow descent towards the horizon by the time they finished burning the last body. Lae’zel was silent and surly the whole while, and offered no answer when asked about Githyanki last rites, so Jura performed her own for the dead. It was the least she could do after slaughtering them all. She knew she should feel more guilt than she did, but no child of Sithis ever felt guilt at the taking of lives, even if the Dread Father could claim her soul no longer. No, it belonged to herself now, and no one else.

She could feel the heat from the flames on her face, but it did little to warm her core. She had never been like her sister, or her parents. She took no pleasure in death. It was domination, not death, that her dragon soul craved, and if she felt anything now, it was sheer annoyance. That the Githyanki refused to lower their weapons and submit peeved her, and even still, she felt it licking at the back of her mind.

“A fine show you put on. A pity I’ve arrived too late to watch it.” A familiar voice, deep, dark, and more arrogant than any she’d ever encountered before sounded from behind her, but Jura didn’t turn to face him. In fact, it wasn’t until a strong, armored arm snaked around her waist and pulled her flush to an equally armored and sturdy chest that she addressed him.

“Dare I ask why you are here, if not to witness the slaughter?” She asked, keeping her voice clipped and monotone, daring not to betray any of the new emotions sparking to life in her chest. Surprise. Delight. Suspicion. She hadn’t known who he was the last time she saw him, when he came to her aid against the Sharrans in Waterdeep four years ago, but she knew who he was now. Lathander had told her. Even if she’d only caught glimpses of him since then, each time he always disappeared before she could reach him, before she could talk to him, demand answers as to why, she knew that it wasn’t a mere coincidence that he was here now, when they were so close to Moonrise, and the seat of the Absolute.

“Why, I’m here to see you, of course.” He chuckled against her ear, the sound dark and devilish, even as his arm around her waist tightened. She could feel his stubble scratch her neck as he brushed his lips against her sensitive skin, and she couldn’t help the shiver that went down her spine at the feeling, or the heat beginning to pool in her stomach, despite her definitely knowing better this time. “How long has it been, Jura?”

I suppose that’s more of an answer than any he gave me back then. He’s either in a giving mood, or he wants something himself. If what I’ve read of him is of any indication at least.

“A few years, but if you wanted to speak to me sooner, you could’ve. As you well know, I’m not a hard person to find.” There was no denying the hint of accusation in her voice as she turned in his grip to face him, which he surprisingly allowed, loosening his arm around her enough for her to move only to tighten it and bring her even closer to his chest afterwards. She stumbled against him at the sudden yank, her hands flying up to rest against his chest, as if to push herself away, but she made no effort to do so as of yet. Instead she looked up at his face and studied him with a scowl.

He took the form of a younger human man, around his thirties, with raven black hair cut shaggy and short to frame his face. His facial hair was kept short and trimmed, barely longer than stubble, and just seeing it brought back memories of how it felt against her thighs. His facial features were sharp and pointed, almost gaunt like his skin was stretched to its limits across his skull, but he was undeniably handsome. But most catching of all were his eyes, his irises an iridescent emerald green that seemed nearly unnatural, drowning in a sea of black sclera.

At the time of their first meeting, she didn’t have any idea who he was. Now that she knew and researched him herself, it couldn’t possibly have been more obvious.

He grinned, showing off dazzling white, unnaturally pointed teeth.

“Oh of course. One needs only follow the ashes to find you, more often than not.”

Jura shook her head with a soft scoff, though she didn’t deny it. Almost as soon as she did so, with his free hand, he gripped her chin and tilted her face up to look at him again.

“Now Jura, don’t be like that. Just because I’ve been busy with my own work doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

“Missed me so much that every time I tried to speak to you, you vanished on me.” Jura didn’t hesitate to point out.

He chuckled, almost coyly. “Well pardon me for not indulging your every whim. Just because I came by to check on you every now and then doesn’t mean I had time to stay and chat.”

“But you do now?”

“I do now indeed.” He offered what was most likely an attempt at a charming smile. “Shall we go talk in private? Somewhere away from your newest… What do you call them?”

“We happen to be her friends, which is more than you can say, I’m sure.” Gale spoke up now, glaring over the cooking fire at him. He’d been chopping up vegetables before he arrived, and didn’t seem overly pleased to see him again, though Jura knew he wasn’t aware of his identity like she was. If he knew, he’d be brandishing magic and not a cooking knife. “I find it highly suspicious for you to turn up now, after such a hard battle. Seems to me like you’re here to try and finish us off.”

Jura let out a quiet sigh. Gale was defensive, and he had every right to be, considering who their guest was, but he didn’t even know that, so instead of endearing, his jealousy was annoying. Even if he wasn’t here, it wasn’t like she had much interest in sleeping with him instead.

“Relax, Gale. It’s fine. Believe it or not, I can handle one man by myself.” She told him, immediately brushing off his concerns, even if calling him a man was the understatement of the century.

“Yes, Gale. Why don’t you relax and continue cooking like a good little-”

Jura cut him off with a quick press of her lips to his. As soon as their lips made contact, his tongue was already prodding at the crease between hers, an entrance she was swift to deny him as she pulled away.

“You: hush and follow me.”

Her guest grinned devilishly. “Yes ma’am.”

He released his grip on her waist and her chin before gesturing for her to lead the way. Jura pulled away from him and took a moment to straighten the front of her clothes, rumpled as they were from both the fight and moving the bodies to be burned, before leading the way out of the creche’s kitchen. She paused midstep when she realized that Shadowheart and Astarion were both following them.

“Stay. I can handle him myself.” She told them without looking back towards either of them.

“Are you sure about that? He seems…” Shadowheart cut herself off, though there was no denying the apprehension in her voice. She sounded almost afraid.

“I’ll be fine.” Jura turned now to give her a reassuring smile. “Don’t forget, I’m a god. He can’t kill me in a way that matters.”

He chuckled at her words before turning to the two himself. “Yes, she’s a god, and I’m her most devout and fervent worshipper. She’s in no danger from me.” He told them, though there was nothing reassuring or sincere in his mocking tone.

Jura rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to grab him by the ear and drag him out. Instead she settled for grabbing the collar of his black velvet cloak and tugged on that instead.

“You two. Stay. You, keep moving.”

He only chuckled more at her command, but did as she obeyed, just not before taking the hand clenching his cloak in his grasp and bringing her knuckles to his lips, bowing his head ever so slightly as he did so. He looked down at her past her knuckles, and even though she couldn’t see the smirk on his lips, she could see it in his eyes.

“As you wish, milady.”

Despite everything, the tinges of a blush crept across her cheeks and Jura was quick to huff and try to pull her hand out of his, only for him to intertwine his fingers with hers and tighten his grip. She frowned at him, but he merely returned the look with a smile as he gestured with his free hand for her to continue. Silently admitting defeat this time, she continued to walk with him.

She kept an eye out to make sure the others weren’t following them at first, before leading him to the temple’s altar room, mainly because it was the deepest point of the temple and where they were least likely to be disturbed. It was only once they were there and she approached the altar that he relinquished his grip on her hand.

“You don’t seem nearly as happy to see me now as I expected you to be, considering how disappointed you were when I left your side those years ago in Waterdeep.” He noted, but unlike before, that smugness that colored his voice almost every word spoken prior wasn’t to be found here. Instead there was a hint of curiosity, but he was otherwise monotone.

“I didn’t know who you were back then.”

“Oh?” He chuckled. “But you do now?”

“Yes.” She kept her back to him now, unable to face him. She remembered those weeks they spent together in Waterdeep, hunting down the Sharrans and thwarting their plot to overtake the Weave once again. The nights she spent in his bed because she was tired and lonely and it was nice to be wanted again after who knew how many years spent studying in Apocrypha and even more sequestered alone in her tower out in Eastmarch’s farthest recesses away from the rest of the world who didn’t need her any more. It had confused her when AO told her that she’d been brought to Toril to be their God of Salvation for why would they need her if her own world didn’t, and while she’d come to discover there was no end to the amount of work for her to do here, she also discovered from others that it was his idea. He wanted her here, but she couldn’t even begin to guess why. Well, she could. She wondered if he felt in her the same that she felt in him, the aching longing in her chest that only abated when he was near. She was Dragonborn. The need to dominate was interwoven into her very being. Did that, perhaps, resonate with him?

“I want to hear you say it.” He came closer to her now and rested his hands on her hips, pulling her back against his chest again. She could feel his breath against her neck as he nuzzled her pulse, nipping at the delicate skin ever so lightly. “Say my name.”

“Bane.” She breathed his name in a whisper. “God of Tyranny.”

He nuzzled at her neck more before nipping the skin between his sharp teeth, his voice hot and heavy against her ear. “Good.”

Jura bit back the moan that threatened to escape her at the sharp pain that accompanied his teeth, instead turning to face him in his arms.

Bane made no attempt to stop her, instead, smirking down at her. He took one hand from her waist and cupped her cheek instead, running his gauntleted fingers through her hair slowly before trailing them down her neck. A flicker of fear rose in her chest as his thumb traced the center of her throat, but she was quick to shove it down as she stared into his eyes, forcing the same fearlessness that she felt when she slew dragons and toppled empires into her own.

“What do you want, Bane?” She managed to make herself ask without her voice trembling, but the heady look in his eyes as he stared down at her like something to be desired was starting to make her legs as weak as her sense of morals always had been. She’d once served Sithis like the rest of her family, and thus she didn’t care enough about what others considered to be right or wrong to resist crawling back into bed with another god of ill repute. Literally or figuratively this time.

Bane stroked her throat with his thumb, running it up and down her windpipe as he leaned in close. His lips were almost brushing hers when he spoke, in a soft, breathless whisper. “You. I want you. On top of me, under me, by my side. It is a spot that has remained empty for time immemorial, waiting for someone like you. There can be no others.”

Jura struggled to keep her breathing easy and steady with him so close, and yet as his armor sapped the warmth from her body, her eyes drifted half shut as she stared into his.

“Is that so?” She murmured, her hand almost trembling as she wrapped her arm around his neck. She didn’t believe him. He was the God of Tyranny, so how could she trust anything he said? And yet, there was a part of her heart, withered black and twisted with loneliness that desperately wanted to. She wasn’t unaccustomed to being desired but there was something very different about the feverishly deranged masses worshipping her wanting her, and someone like him. One didn’t deserve to so much as lick her boots, but the other…? He was a man who became a god through sheer strength of will and tenacity, and that she deeply respected, even if his domain was less than wholesome. In fact, it was his domain of Tyranny that caught her interest. The possibility that he was anything like her, that he could possibly understand her own struggles with her Dragonborn soul. It called her to him. She could feel the same power inside of him, just as Miraak once felt it in her. As he once said, like calls to like.

Bane’s fingers crept up the back of her neck, threading into her tied back hair, but even as they wrapped around the crimson strands, he made no attempt to pull it. Not yet, at least.

“I won’t lie to you, Jura.” He stared straight into her eyes, seemingly unbothered by gazing into the ruby settle deep within her otherwise empty eye socket. “I have no need to. I know you can feel the call, same as I do. You can’t escape the bond between our souls, and even if you could, why would you want to?”

Jura swallowed hard at his words, or she tried to, at least, but her mouth was drier than bone as she stared into his eyes. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. His skin was warm under her touch, his hair fluffy and soft in her grip.

“Am I supposed to think I might make you a better man?”

“You could try.” His voice was as smug as ever as he brushed his lips against hers, gently for the moment. “But I doubt you’d succeed.”

“You’re right. If anything, you would just make me a monster.” She murmured, closing her eyes. She loosened her own grip on his hair.

“And how much further down must your standards fall before they reach the breaking point?” Bane chuckled, even as his own grip on her hair tightened in response. He leaned his head down, tucking his face into the crook of her neck and sighed deeply against her skin.

The scratch of his stubble against her neck sent a shiver down her spine.

“I know you, Child of Sithis. Child of Akatosh. I know what you’ve done, and what you’re capable of. You can lie to those pets of yours outside, but not to me. We both know you don’t really care about those people, or anyone in fact. You only care about one thing. It’s what your soul sings for. Power. Control. Forcing the people around you to bend to your whims and grovel at your feet like the dogs they are.” With a sharp tug, Bane yanked her head back, further exposing her neck.

A sharp hiss left her lips, but she didn’t fight him on it. Neither the gesture or the words. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. To deny it would be to lie, and to lie was pointless when they both knew that’s what the words were. A quiet gasp escaped her throat at the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into her neck, hard and deep enough to draw blood, and she couldn’t help the shudder going through her at the feeling of his hot, wet tongue lapping up the blood against her skin. She dug her nails into the back of his neck in warning, but he only chuckled against her in response before pulling away from her neck and grinning down at her.

She frowned up at him, mustering as much displeasure into her expression as she could, if only to not give away the growing heat between her legs.

“You’re a brat.”

Bane released his grip on her hair in favor of moving both hands to her hips instead, and before she could protest, he picked her up, and her arms tightened around his neck, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist in response. He grinned as he laid her back on the altar, hovering over her now.

“I have yet to hear you tell me to stop or to leave.” He leaned down, planting his hands on either side of her head against the altar and kissed her again, more fervently this time, and this time, when his tongue prodded at her lips, she parted them to let him in.

Jura could taste her own blood on his tongue as he ran it against hers, the taste hot and acrid, like swallowing an ember.

Abruptly, Bane pulled away from the kiss and stared down at her with half lidded eyes.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking just from his expression, but she knew he’d probably tell her if she asked. She didn’t ask though. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him back down for another kiss.

#tes ldb #bg3 tav #bg3 bane #banetav #in which my tes dragonborn ends up in faerun thanks to some plotting by bane #also yes i'm absolutely going with the idea that bane is dragonborn himself. no one @ me with complaints of how that wouldn't work in bg.#his canon backstory is that he was a slave to a god before killing it with the other dead three whose to say that said god didn't pluck him #from tamriel like bane did jura #idc you can fight me on this #also if you squint real hard you can pick up on the fact that they absolutely fuck on lathanders altar i just didn't get around to writing #it

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wouldntyoulichentoknow · 6 months

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local barber gets dressed every day in Literal Plot Armor, somehow still baffled by her own inexplicable survival

#Elder Scrolls #Oblivion #Molly Cadoret #~approximate armor breakdown for Reasons (I am still learning about armor don't make fun of me too harshly)#most important detail though: yes she's wearing a turtleneck under there #now we just have to get Hallie into a turtleneck to complete the set #turtlenecks WILL be the next Tamrielic fashion staple this is my divine mission

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t00thpasteface · 1 year

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if it wasn't seventeen fucking minutes long i would 1000% put In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by iron butterfly on a martin septim themed playlist. i mean just look at this:

VERY MARTIN. and the drum solo FUCKS

#i don't even want to know how blitzed something called Red Mountain Wine would get you in tamriel #shebbz shoutz #tes #martin septim

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meowthiroth · 1 year

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my personal headcanon for how cyndreth even got to tamriel in the first place is that some really incompetent conjurer tried to make his own dremora-summoning scrolls, but forgot to make them actually bind the dremora they summoned & also screwed up the part that banishes them back to oblivion after the spell wears off.

so then he tries to test his new creation in a fight, inadvertently plucks Cyn from his guard post & drops him into some random bandit camp, and Cyn's like "hey wtf, put me back >:(" and then the horrible realization dawns on the conjurer that not only did he not bind this dremora correctly, but he also doesn't know any "banish daedra" spells yet

Cyn still begrudgingly helps him fight the bandits because they start attacking him too, but after that's all taken care of he just goes "nah, forget this, you're on your own, I'm going to go find someone who can send me home"

...and then he storms off into the woods nearby and proceeds to get lost for like 2 weeks straight

#fun fact: apparently dremoras canonically have an absolute dogshit sense of direction #luckily tamriel's got a lot of pretty sights to see & it quickly brings out the childlike wonder in him #by the time he reaches the imperial city hes completely forgotten what he was looking for in the first place #but hes happy to find some signs of civilization & get a break from being attacked by wolves #...and then the guards see him walk into the city & go ''OH SHIT A DAEDRA'' and end up capturing him. and thats how he ends up in jail #oblivion #tes oc #cyndreth #dremora #hok #hes kinda like that one unbound dremora at the college of winterhold that the game just forgets to despawn sometimes #so he just wanders around the college like ''ok i guess i just go here now''

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dawns-beauty · 2 months

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List of Khajiit CC Mods I Really Like

While not quite as hard to find mods for as Argonians and Orcs, good Khajiit mods do tend to get little love.

Also, I purposely left out the fluffy body texture mod and HDT tails here, because I hate them ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyways!

Khajiit Overhaul - the best part of this mod is the heads. They're high poly, but unlike the Khaj heads from High Poly Head, KO actually fixes the unnatural grimace vanilla Khajiit have.

There are options for new, bestial feet and a toe-walking stance as well. I recommend loading your texture mods after it.

Con: the male head sucks, imo. The nose is all wrong. I recommend using katiexmongo's preset as a base.

Lioness Look and Khajiit Male Lion Textures - personally, I hide everything from Lioness Look but the textures (the head is cool, but has issues with the mouth clipping). While not the best quality textures, they are patternless, which I honestly think looks better with markings in general.

Alternatively, CoverKhajiits is higher quality.

Khajiit Character Creation Extended (K.C.C.E.) - extension for RaceMenu that gives you more sliders for Khajiit faces. It is so good, seriously, you should get it ASAP if you don't have it.

3D Khajiit Brows - you know have cats have whiskers on their brows? This gives you 20 options of brow whiskers for your Khajiit.

Separated Khajiit Earrings for Character Creation - gives you some RaceMenu slides that let you give Khajiit earrings for each ear, regardless of hairstyle.

Beast Race Body Paints - adds some Khajiit and Argonian inspired markings for RaceMenu (personally I wish they were a little more inspired by actual feline markings, but oh well it's got some nice stuff)

Better Beast Race Scars - a higher quality and less saturated look for scars

More Beast Race Warpaints - tbh, I made my own RM overlay mod with these textures (they're great) so I can't speak to how this mod works with SE

Vanilla Warpaint Absolution - HQ update for face paints. I like the option to make it look a bit more like fur. Also has warpaint conversions, so you can use any regular human warpaint on beast races (and have it look right.)

Serval Khajiit Race - even if you don't want to use this (adorable!) new race, it replaces the vanilla Khajiit tintmasks (basically, eye liner, lip paint, etc) with what I think are vastly improved ones.

Note: it also replaces eye textures, so you will need to load any eye texture replacers after it.

Khajiit Hair - two really HQ and pretty hairs

Better Claws and Gauntlets DAV - I recommend this version over the original for its distribution method (DAV is really cool)

Natural Eyes - despite it being old as hell, this is the mod I like the most for Khajiit and Argonian eyes right now (I delete the rest of the textures.)

LM's Beast Teeth - not sure that this works with KO, but they look super nice compared to the gross grey vanilla teeth

#skyrim #skyrim mods #my tamriel now #khajiit #i think the thing natural eyes gets right is the pupil shape #mod recs #i feel like i've left out a lot but also all my khajiit cc mods are super customized

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legacyphoenixx · 2 months

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*Guy who’s never finished a single campaign in Baldur’s Gate 3 voice* I think my first Origin run (besides Dark Urge) is gonna be Wyll

#i think he would be fun to play firsthand and also it’d be good practice to get into his headspace for when i write him and tamriel f—#bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 posting #legacy posts

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ehlnofay · 11 months

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(For the prompts) number 6 - A juicy rumor about a prominent person

same prompt requested by @jiubilant so this will cover both :)

“Excuse me, sera?”

The bare-faced stranger looks up from the book ze’s flipping through, a line between zir brows. It's quiet as ever in the Library of Vivec, the few patrons browsing quietly, the Ordinators standing unsettlingly statue-still. The green-tinted light of the lanterns gleams off of their gold armour. The low ceilings make the place feel almost snug - or suffocating, depending on how one chooses to approach it.

Standing before zem, shifting her weight with poorly concealed impatience, is a child in neatly tied Temple robes, a satchel tucked under her arm with the strap dangling. (Some kind of initiate, maybe – a lot of people are brought up in the Temple, raised for the vocation.) Ze says, “Yes?”

“Do you know where I can find the prayer books?” the girl asks.

The stranger closes zir own volume, frowning. “No,” ze says, “sorry. What are you looking for?”

“Consolations.” The girl’s arched brows knit, displeased; she’s shifting her feet so much that there is an honest concern she might wear right through the thick-woven rug.

“There should definitely be a few copies of that about.” The book, bound in dark, peeling leather, is placed back on its shelf. “But it might be difficult to find. The religious texts are put in every section, and the shelving system is… rather cryptic.” It’s a method of propaganda, most likely – the books of Temple doctrine being scattered among everything else, that is, not the Library of Vivec’s bizarre shelving system. Not even the books entirely about the practise of religious rituals or prayer are grouped together; they’re more inextricable, mixed in with everything else.

It might not be. Ze’s a bit jaded, at the moment; ze sees most everything the Temple does as propaganda, right now. (The problem is that so much of it is. And that’s not any kind of conjecture – Vehk told zem so. It’s hard to find any kind of reliable truth in a dogma that ze’s currently helping to twist to zir own ends.)

(Not that ze’s trying to be selfish. Things are just complicated right now.)

The girl frowns. “Drat,” she says, with an emphasis that almost makes zem laugh.

Ze asks, “What did you need it for?”

“Kena Vedren set me a project about the Library.” The girl tugs at the hair pulled in knots back from her face. “I can’t do it if I don’t find the book, I’ve got to copy from some of the pages. And I can't just find it in the bookstore back in the Redoran canton – that's cheating.”

The stranger offers, “I can help you find it.”

(Ze might as well. It’s what ze’s here for, isn’t it?)

The girl yanks at her hair sharp enough that her eyes screw up. “But I was meant to learn to find information on my own,” she says. “That was part of it.”

“Asking for help is just a tool you can use to get things done,” the stranger points out. Ze tucks a thumb into the sleeve of zir high-necked jacket. “Come on. I think that one will be in the history section. Or close to it, at least.” (It’s a safe guess; the history section is the biggest, and holds a lot of the Temple texts.)

The girl twists her mouth and acquiesces, and they begin to walk.

She eyes zem curiously as they go, the light from the green-glass lanterns reflecting starkly against her eyes. “You’re an outlander,” she pronounces, after several silent seconds.

“And you’re the first to ever make that observation,” the stranger says serenely. Ze smiles, cheeks crinkling like there’s air trapped beneath the skin. “Yes. I was born in Cyrodiil.”

The girl ponders this. Fiddling with her sash, she looks very serious in a way that doesn’t quite mesh with her lopsided face and skittish fingers. “Then why are you in the Temple Canton?”

That’s a difficult question to answer without disclosing some things that should not, right now, be disclosed.

“I still follow the Three,” ze says – because it has, at times, been not not true. Zir nails scratch absentmindedly at the skin pressed over zir cheeks – smooth, unblemished, free of ink. Zir lips are cracking again.

“Oh,” says the girl, and ponders this some more.

The history section ze’d referred to takes up a quarter of the library. The stranger nods to the Ordinators stationed by the shelves a little more deferentially than ze usually would. Zir hair falls loose over zir face as ze does so, and ze has to carefully push it back.

The book is probably here somewhere. Ze sets to scanning through the shelves.

“Did you hear the Temple is changing?” the girl asks, following the words on each book’s carefully cared-for spine with a finger, and the stranger’s stomach drops.

(Metaphorically, of course; none of zir insides do much of anything anymore.)

“I did,” ze says, neutral. “Are you hearing a lot about it?”

She shrugs. “I overhear the priests, sometimes. And Kena Vedren told me a bit. My grandmother, too.”

Her finger stops on a thick book bound in painstakingly painted guar-leather. She squints.

“It’s weird,” she tells zem, staring hard at its thick spine. “I don’t know. My grandmother doesn’t like the talk about it. She says it’s all hearsay. And none of the priests will answer my questions.”

The stranger can’t imagine they would do.

“I think it’s a bit rude that I keep asking, actually,” the girl says after a moment. “Am I talking too much? Sorry. I tend to be a bit of a chatterbox. It’s a problem – I keep talking when I’m supposed to be listening and the priests get cross.”

“That’s all right,” the stranger says. Ze looks at this child – round-faced, keen-eyed, her hands prudent around the Library’s books – and smiles. It wears wrong on zir face. “I don’t talk to very many people these days, anyway.”

The girl nods and goes back to sorting through the shelf.

“It’s just weird,” she reiterates, frowning.

The stranger takes another glance at her high, furrowed brows, asks, “What do you think?”

The child considers this. “If the Tribunal want to rest,” she says slowly, “I think they’ve earned it, haven’t they?” She sifts through a few narrow volumes, adds, “Besides, it isn’t as though they’re gone. I heard Mehra Llareth saying that the Nerevarine went to work with Lady Almalexia, help her prepare everything so she could retire from public life. Did you hear they went to Mournhold?”

If the stranger had to breathe, ze would be in trouble, air sticking to the back of zir throat. As it is, ze presses the flat of a gloved hand through zir shirt against the pendant set into the base of zir sternum. Its hard facets and sharp corners dig into the thick skin of zir palm. “I think I heard something to that effect,” ze says, and, momentarily, ze thanks all the gods ze no longer prays to for zir ever-dry eyes and zir garbled voice that does not shake.

(Ze wants, very badly, to laugh. Or perhaps to hit zir head against the wall. This is why things are all so complicated.)

“She’s travelling among the people now,” the girl says. “I think. Which is strange to think about, isn’t it? But I can’t pretend to know what that would be like, being a god. It might be exhausting. And if they’re just going to take a rest, then they’re still around. And maybe they’re still listening. And maybe they’ll still speak through their people time to time – not priests, probably, but maybe their champions. Maybe the Nerevarine, if they’re helping them retire.”

Ze bites down hard on zir tongue. “Maybe.”

Blood blooms, ashy and rotten, in zir mouth. Zir tongue feels dry and thin as paper.

(It’s always interesting, to hear people speaking of zem. Normally ze doesn’t get this kind of candour – until relatively recently the scars made zem very recognisable. Ze never feels quite comfortable stripping them away, so until ze could figure out how to layer over them, ze had to settle for a distinctive face.)

(Maybe ze shouldn’t have bothered with it today. Ze’d been in the mood for peace ze wouldn’t get if noticed, but this is worse. It aches.)

Zir finger, dark-gloved, trails along the edge of a shelf, collecting dust. “Hey,” ze says, rasping, rapping a knuckle against the spine of a book dyed red and embossed with black lettering, “is this the one you were looking for?”

The girl looks up. She beams, crooked-toothed and full of life. “Yes! That’s the one I needed to copy from! Thank you for the help, sera.”

“My pleasure,” the stranger tells her through dry, chipped teeth, and ze barely waits for the girl to pull the book from the shelf before ze ducks away.

The air in the library is cold and stifling and the Ordinators’ golden faces feel like some kind of mockery. Ze taps the pendant set into the base of zir sternum, half-swallowed by the scabby skin of zir stomach, for comfort, and leaves before the green-tinged light can make zem feel any sicker. Zir shoes scrape against the mats. It sounds like rustling leaves.

Ze’s still not certain if ze wants to laugh or cry. It would be easier if either of those things came naturally anymore.

…

Back in the Palace, peeling off the clinging film of clear dull skin, Caelestis asks, “Did you know that the Nerevarine went to Mournhold to help Almalexia retire?”

There is a pause, the silence of the cavernous hall bearing down on them both. The light flickers dimly.

Vivec says, “Ah.”

Caelestis has laid zir body without much care against the low wall at the foot of the plinth. Zir gloves lie on the stone next to zem.

“Perhaps one day,” Vivec says mildly, “that will be funny.”

Perhaps. Caelestis doesn’t believe it; and though ze’s never been much for reading peoples’ feelings – and Vehk’s far less than most – ze doesn’t think they do, either. “Might as well be optimistic,” ze replies, instead of saying so.

(What good would it do? What else can be done, after all?)

Vivec, one ornamented hand trailing in the ashpit surrounding hir old plinth, blinks at zem.

“The Nerevarine might be a conduit between the people and the retired Tribunal, too,” Caelestis says. Ze digs a fingernail just a bit too deep – it breaks the crusted skin by zir eye, the rot-dark crescent of keratin dipping into whatever’s built up behind it. (It doesn’t drip, at least; it’s long since dried up.)

Vivec lets his eyes stay closed when he next blinks. “Ah.”

“Mm.”

Caelestis rubs the pad of a thumb over the scab and lets zir head tip back.

In a few months – two to six, depending on progress – the Nerevarine and the last of the Tribunal will abandon Morrowind to fend for itself. Even this country that so reveres its ancient dead has no place for them now. (Staying would only make it worse. Staying would only make it worse. Staying would only make it worse, and ze knows this – better to leave a mythic hero and Living God than remain and give the chance for anyone to learn better – but it doesn’t feel good.)

Vehk’s blood-red ring winks on their finger. Caelestis’ pendant is still cold against the flesh that holds it in.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Vivec says. He speaks strongly, but his voice doesn’t resonate like it used to; in the hollow hall it sounds lonely.

Caelestis drops a scabby black hand into the ash. “I know,” ze replies. Zir voice is quiet, vowels garbled with zir half-a-tongue. “At least this way our memory can be a comfort.”

In the time they remain, they are carefully warping the story to ensure it. In a century’s time, the Nerevarine will have gone to Mournhold to assist the goddess in withdrawing from the responsibilities she had so long shouldered. The Nerevarine will have aided the transition from Temple to Temple. The Tribunal will have stepped back from their altars and faded into obscurity gracefully. They’re getting enough ahead that they won’t even need to rewrite history – it will simply be the way it’s always been told.

It’s all they can do, now. It will have to be enough.

#I'll be honest I feel like this is a bit shit #but it's hard to judge quality when I've only just finished something #and it got me out of my slump! so I'll take it #(and post it since it Is A Prompt Thing. I Did Promise)#and if it sucks. sorry #I feel like this is the exact opposite of the prompt also. the rumours are so so normal it's the truth that's juicy and insane #the nerevarine cooperating with the living gods and helping ease the temple's transition #vs the nerevarine murdering/being murdered by a living god and planning to ditch morrowind with the last one that's still alive #in like a selfless way. but also in a selfish way. caelestis is in a weird spot at this point in zir story #give zem a couple months to make peace with zir choices and ze'll be chill. give zem a few years and they'll be absolutely thriving. maybe #I don't really know what ze gets up to once ze peaces out of tamriel. but it's probably wild #it's fun to write a bit more of caelestis and vivec's dynamic also. they are insane #YES they don't like each other. YES they are best friends.#they don't even really get along per se because there's too much history there but they're too enmeshed because of all the history there #also they're both grieving in insane ways #obsessed with them #anyway #oc tag #caelestis #vivec #my writing #fay writes #morrowind #tes #the elder scrolls #tes iii #tesblr #nerevarine

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