#riverwood forest

[dulcey4]

The sacred geometry of dandelions is so beautiful 🥰🌼 I cannot wait for them to start popping up to make some detox teas and dandelion honey, and dry some for my bunnies! With of course leaving most for the bees to feast on 🐝💕

xoxo, Tina

#sacred geometry #spiritualawareness #spiritualguidance #dandelion #vegan honey #vegan garden #vegan lifestyle #dried flowers #dark cottagecore #cottagecore #cottage aesthetic #naturecore #cottagecore aesthetic #fairycore #faecore #green witch #forestcore #foraging #RiverWood Forest

[mino-vp]

Riverwood

#virtual photography #video game photography #gaming photography #screenarchery #photography #tesvskyrim #the elder scrolls #skyrim #tesv #bethesda #riverwood #forest

[laridaec]

Riverwood during the day and a big ol' sun.

#skyrim #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #tes #skyrim special edition #sse #skyrim se #skyrimedit #skyrim elder scrolls #skyrim screenshots #skyrim scenery #tes v skyrim #tesvedit #tesv #riverwood #game scenery #game screenshots #forest #woods #woodland #aspen trees #modded skyrim

[boringbeerbear]

#the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #landscape #warm tones #forest #riverwood #marcurio #travel

[allthingstamriel]

Recognise these guys? When crossing the bridge from Riverwood, it's not uncommon for a flock of dark coloured birds with red wing-markings to burst free from one of the pine trees.

These birds are modelled after the male Red-Winged Blackbird. Is it weird that they're only males? Maybe not, the Red-Winged Blackbird is often found in all-male flocks during spring.

Unlike their real-world counterparts however, when observed closely the Skyrim bird appears to have an extra set of eyes below the first...

Not just found in Riverwood, these birds activate in a few other locations around the Skyrim forests. I've found one source saying there's supposedly six places they appear.

Have you seen them anywhere else?

#I've seen a lot of people think these are macaws or some kind of tropical bird #which tbh I did too at first lol #skyrim #skyrim bird #I've googled the hell out of these birds in skyrim and can't find much info at all #if you know anything more I'd love to hear it #I think they used to not activate properly until Skyrim SE?

[thana-topsy]

[Seventeen]

Part two of my Ralof/Hadvar quickburn. Read part one here!

-------

Hadvar hated Helgen. 

Not because the people were unpleasant or it was an ugly town. In fact, Helgen was nearly as picturesque as Riverwood. It sat nestled in the center of Falkreath Hold behind tall, fortified walls, close enough to the Throat of the World that Hadvar never felt too far from home, but deep enough into the massive pine forests that venturing there always felt like a journey. 

No, Hadvar hated Helgen because anytime he and Ralof visited, Ralof would always abandon him for Ingrid. 

It was in Hadvar’s opinion—a well-informed opinion at that, seeing as he was Ralof’s best friend and knew him better than anyone else in Skyrim—that Ingrid was a terrible match. Holding a conversation with her was like holding water in a leaky bucket. Hadvar had tried talking to her, tried to get along with her, for Ralof’s sake. But it was useless. She had about as much depth as a mud puddle. Plus, she wasn’t even a promising shield maiden. He’d always thought Ralof would find himself a woman fit to be his equal—someone courageous and true, strong in battle, with finely-honed wit and a spine of Skyforge steel. But instead he was fixated on Ingrid. 

She giggled at even his worst jokes while leaning forward onto her knees, the dip of her neckline exposing the cleft of her soft, ample breasts. Hadvar would always avert his eyes. Ralof did not. Her father was the innkeeper, and she’d sneak them bottles of mead from his collection. She was good for that at least. 

And thus, as with almost every trip to Helgen these days, Hadvar found himself alone, a bottle of mead as his sole companion and sorry consolation prize. Just before sunset he climbed atop one of the guard towers, finding the post empty. He trudged over to the edge and leaned against the stone wall, gazing down at the town’s inhabitants. The market stalls in front of the main keep were closing down for the evening, vendors rolling up their wares and shuttering their stands. Life continued on with or without him, and in that moment he felt profoundly unimportant.    

Hadvar turned away and slid down the wall to sit on the ground, pulling the cork from the mead bottle with his teeth and spitting it out. The act made him feel like a hardened bandit. He took a long pull, grimacing at the sweet burn it produced just behind his sternum, and smacked his lips. He wondered what Ralof was up to? Probably had his hands up Ingrid’s skirt by now…

“Oi, no loitering milk-drinker!” came a gruff voice from the stairs and Hadvar jumped, eyes going wide as he jerked to look.

It was Ralof, ascending the stairs with a shit-eating grin and a bottle of mead tucked beneath his arm. 

“You should have seen your face!” he laughed. 

Hadvar’s heart thudded like a war drum against his ribcage and he scowled. “What are you doing up here? Where’s Ingrid?” 

Ralof waved a hand, wrinkling his nose as he walked over. “Bah, her father is making her help out at the inn tonight. I think he’s onto us…”

“He didn’t catch you two—”

“Nooo. I’d be a dead man walking, are you kidding?” He let out a knowing laugh before lowering himself to sit down next to Hadvar. Their shoulders brushed as he shifted to pull the mead from beneath his arm. “What are you doing up here?”

“I was bored,” Hadvar said. He took a bitter pull from his mead. “I don’t know why you drag me to Helgen with you when you always end up running off to get your hilt polished.”  

“You sound jealous,” Ralof said with a smirk. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll find you a nice girl. I think Ingrid’s got a friend—” 

“I don’t want a nice girl,” Hadvar spat with a scowl, hunching over to rest his forearms against his knees. His ruddy brown hair curtained around his face.

Ralof paused for a moment, seeming thoughtful. He twisted the cork from his own mead bottle before taking a quick drink. “A… nice guy then?” he offered, sounding unsure. 

“What!?” Hadvar sat up so fast he sloshed mead onto his pants. “No! That’s not what I meant!” He could feel heat pooling in his cheeks, his ears so hot he was sure they’d sprout flames. 

Ralof raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

Hadvar let out a frustrated growl. “What I mean is… I just—” He exhaled sharply, letting his head fall back against the stone wall to look up at the sky. The sun was beginning to fade, leaving a soft cloudless gradient of pale blue and yellow. “I just miss the way things used to be, is all. There’s all this talk of—of another war and…” He groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands before taking another swig of mead. 

“If there is another war, then we fight,” said Ralof. 

Hadvar looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then down the neck of his mead bottle. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple.” Ralof shrugged and took another swig. “If the Empire wants to lick the boots of the golden elves, they’re welcome to do so. But they don’t get to drag Skyrim into their mess. And they don’t get to rip our gods from our hands.”

Hadvar continued to look into his mead bottle, rolling the neck between his palms. “...I just don’t think it’s that simple,” he said finally. 

“This topic is going to ruin my buzz,” Ralof declared. 

Hadvar scowled. “What do you want to talk about, then?” 

“Nothing.” 

So they sat in silence, each sipping their mead intermittently. Someone down on the street below let out a bellowing laugh, the large wooden gates creaked open and closed as caravans left the fort, the night time summer insects began to whirr in the treetops. 

“Y’know,” Ralof said after the silence had stretched on for an appropriate amount of time. “Sven told me that he plans to start courting Camilla.” He let out a snort. “That skeever-brain with a sharp girl like her.” He nudged Hadvar’s shoulder with his own. “She’d do better with someone like you. Y’know… You and your honeyed words.”

Hadvar made a noise of disbelief. “Honeyed words?” 

“Aye. You’d make a proper bard, I think.”

“That mead must be poisoned. It’s turned your brain to troll fat.” 

Ralof laughed. “This is some of the best mead around. Be grateful.” He reached over to clink the neck of his bottle against Hadvar’s. “Skol.”

“Skol,” Harvard repeated automatically, his tone flat.

“Eyes to the sky, Hadvar,” Ralof said after a beat. “We’re not fighting today, right?”

“...I s’pose not.”

“Then we leave those worries for the future.” 

They sat in silence for a bit longer, their shoulders pressed together, and Hadvar leaned against Ralof more than was probably necessary. After another moment, Ralof rolled forward onto his feet and pushed to stand. 

“Come!” he declared. “Enough moping.”

“Where are we going?” 

“Back to the inn!” Ralof reached a hand down. “Away from all this gloom.”

“Just leave me up here,” Hadvar said, ignoring Ralof’s outstretched hand. “I’ll just ruin the mood.” 

Ralof sighed loudly, then reached down and grabbed one of Hadvar’s wrists. “Up, damn you. Enough of all this.” 

Despite everything, Hadvar let himself be pulled to his feet. The two of them descended the tower together and headed back towards the inn. The front door had been propped open to let the fresh summer air into the longhouse, the sounds of a jaunty tune filtering out into the street along with rhythmic clapping and singing of the patrons. Ralof threw an arm around Hadvar’s shoulder, beginning to sing along as they stepped up onto the front porch. Hadvar couldn’t help but smirk, looping an arm around Ralof’s waist. 

“You sound like a dying cow when you sing.” 

Ralof made a rude, wet noise directly into Hadvar’s ear, and Hadvar shoved his friend away with a laugh, wiping the saliva off with the palm of his hand.

“We can’t all have the gifts of Dibella, y’know,” Ralof argued, rosy-cheeked. “She should have given you a pair of tits to go with that singing voice of yours.”

Hadvar gave him a rough shove but smiled. “You’d like that, I bet.” 

Ralof downed the rest of his mead and threw the empty bottle over the side of the porch before shoulder checking Hadvar so hard he slammed back against the side of the building, knocking the air from his lungs. 

“You oaf!” he wheezed. “Watch—” 

Ralof was directly in front of him, pushing right up into his space, his hands twisting the front of Hadvar’s shirt. Neither of them moved, barely a breath apart. Hadvar’s heart pounded so loud he felt it in the soles of his feet. Ralof was looking at him, his gaze unsteady with drink, blue eyes twinkling with the flicker of torch light. Then he smiled, fierce as a saber cat, and planted a firm kiss on Hadvar’s lips. 

Hadvar sucked in a breath through his nose, his eyes going wide. Impossible, he thought. And before he could think further, it was over, and Ralof was pulling away, still smiling. He swaggered away like a pleased tomcat, jerking a hand over his shoulder to beckon Hadvar after him. 

“You coming inside or not?” 

Hadvar’s entire body buzzed with arousal and confusion, his chest threatening to split open with the ache of it all and his pants tightening in an unwanted and embarrassing way. Ralof disappeared into the inn, leaving Hadvar alone. He reached his hand up to trace his lips, numb with disbelief. Had he…? Did he feel…?

Hadvar stumbled into the inn after him and then the night went on as if nothing had happened. The bard continued to play, the patrons continued to sing. Ingrid eventually found her way into Ralof’s lap, and Hadvar got drunk enough to lead the entire room in a call and response of “Come Now Ysmir”. He caught Ralof’s eye in the middle of a verse. He was staring at him from overtop Ingrid’s shoulder, his expression raw, transfixed, as if nobody else in the room existed. 

Hadvar smiled and continued to sing.

#ralof/hadvar #topsy writes #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fanfic #elder scrolls #tes v skyrim #tesblr #hadvar/ralof

[skyhaven-sims]

Lakeview Manor

I’ve decided that instead of releasing the Skyrim builds individually, I’m going to aim for a save file. I haven’t found anything that exists yet for a realistic medieval play through, so hopefully this project will change that.

The T.O.O.L. mod has been a godsend for helping make the builds feel realistic. I’ve been able to create lush forests around the builds that help it feel more immersive and less like a modern Sims world.

So far, Riverwood and Lakeview Manor are both completed. Next is Solitude, which is the biggest undertaking, but so far so good.

#sims #sims 4 #ts4 build #ts4 medieval #sims medieval #skyrim #ts4 save file #ts4 simblr #ts4 screenshots #medieval sims

[naturalbornlosers]

“If by Sun and Moon I Swore”

one-shot, M-rated, M/M, hadvar/ralof, post-civil war

Summary: With the Empire's victory in the Skyrim Civil War, Hadvar has been quietly readjusting to regular life. This comes to a halt when he finds himself thrown off-balance by a visit from an old friend. 

Preview

 Night sunk the sea in hues of indigo and sapphire. The stars marched along in their silver garb. Hadvar entered the manor and shut its door, the sound rattling against the walls, reverberating in the size of the place. One day, he'd sell it and move back home to Riverwood. His stomach panged with the thought of home, and he clenched and unclenched the memory of it's lumbering forests, it's thickly wooded horizons, the constant rush of water outside oaken walls, flowers that cascaded their mingling scents on every loose spring breeze.

 He tugged off his cloak, shuddering once its warmth left his shoulders, resting it loosely along the surface of a chair. He stoked the hearth in the kitchen and sat by it for a while, musing to himself internally on the various chores he needed to handle. Dusting the place took forever, an endless task that left him worn, but it needed to be done.

 He was about to rise and get to work on a quick meal when the door knocker reverberated through the manor, shaking at every tile in the floor, every piece of glass in the windows. It had only been a small knock, but to Hadvar, it seemed as loud as a shield to a sword.

 "Just a moment," he called, moving to the door, his exhaustion from a long day's work evident in his gait. He pulled the door open slowly, peering out into the dark.

 In a woolen, grey cloak, stood a figure that made his heart stop.

 "Ralof?"

 The other cracked a small grin. "Hadvar, it's been too long."

#tesblr #tes v #skyrim #tes v skyrim #tes 5 skyrim #skyrim fanfic #skyrim fic #skyrim fanfiction #hadvar/ralof #hadvar #ralof #ralof of riverwood #tes fic #tes v fic #Statement.txt #my writing #my fics #hadvar x ralof

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - The Wives of Shor I: Moth to Flame

tagged by @dirty-bosmer tyty❤️ tagging @nientedenada and @tallmatcha

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (entire fic is E) Category: M/M Pairing: Kaidan/Lucien Flavius Genre(s): Romance (bodice-rippers my beloveds), bildungsroman Other main characters: Inigo the Brave, she/her Breton LDB

Summary: A scene from near the beginning of the fic, Kaidan and and Hadvar share a moment of soldier camaraderie the night before they delve into Bleak Falls Barrow. Lucien Flavius is by Joseph Russell, Kaidan is by Liv Templeton, and Inigo the Brave is by SmartBlueCat.

27 Last Seed, 4E 401 The cool night air was bracing; the usual sounds of daily life in Riverwood had given over to the quiet of the evening: the creaking of the water wheel, the rippling of water in the millrace, and a thousand crickets in the forest. High overhead the stars glimmered.

A creak of leather caught Kaidan's attention. Just at the edge of the lantern-light from the sconces at the door of the Sleeping Giant, Hadvar leaned against the roadside fence, looking up at the arches that carved out chunks of the night sky. He turned towards Kaidan as the inn's door clattered shut.

"Peaceful evening," Kaidan remarked, walking over to Hadvar.

"Aye," Hadvar replied, taking a sip from the tankard in his hand. "When I was a lad I thought it was too peaceful, and that living here I would never get my chance at glory and adventure." He laughed bitterly. "Now I'm going to choke on it. Did you want something from me?"

"You looked like you could use the company," said Kaidan, also leaning on the fence and looking up towards the barrow. "I also wanted to apologize." Hadvar looked up at him in surprise. "For not believing you about the attack on Helgen. About the-" even after hearing multiple eye-witness accounts the word felt strange and ridiculous on his lips "-dragon."

"Don't mention it." In the woods an elk's bugle echoed out of the trees. "If the tables were turned, I wouldn't have believed you, either. But you and Inigo helped me and for that you will always have my gratitude. Would have been a fine ending to my tale, perishing of thirst within sight of Whiterun's walls."

"That it would."

They fell into a companionable silence; the muffled sound of a Nord drinking song filtering through the sturdy timbers and into the night. Kaidan hoped it wasn't too bawdy a tune, but he also knew he'd been able to recite at least a dozen ribald limericks by the time he was Pascale's age and he had turned out fine. After a few more moments Kaidan spoke.

"I've been selling my sword long enough to know when a man is dreading the morning."

Hadvar sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not too obvious. I, er, also overheard you talking to Lucien on the road," Kaidan admitted. "About the stories your gran told."

Hadvar groaned. "I've faced down bandits, rebels, anything else the Legion has pointed me at, and I haven't felt this nervous since the night before the first day of training." He suddenly turned to look at Kaidan. "If you're doubting my mettle, don't. My orders are to retrieve the Dragonstone, and get everyone back out safely. No matter how much some old ghost stories have me spooked I've never refused a mission and I don't intend to start now."

"Never doubted you for a second. I can tell you're a man who does what he intends to do." Kaidan turned to look back at the Sleeping Giant, its horn-pane windows glowing golden in the evening gloom. "I'm not too pleased about having tramp through a dusty old cave myself. Those places are always crawling with frostbite spiders."

Hadvar pulled a face. "And you just know that the mages will be wanting to stop to harvest venom and silk every time we kill one. Are you sure we can't leave them here?"

"I tried leaving them in Whiterun, you saw how well that worked!" Kaidan said, while Hadvar chuckled at his indignation. "Digging around in dangerous places is the entire reason Lucien came here, and trying to leave Pascale anywhere out of trouble...you might as well tell a cat to stay put." Hadvar laughed harder.

"I meant to ask you, how did you find yourself with such...an array of traveling companions?" asked Hadvar. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but you strike me as someone who is used to working alone. And...that girl does not look like your kin."

Kaidan could tell Hadvar was looking at him sideways, judging his reaction, and suppressed the annoyance at the question. It was only natural - Brynjar probably fielded it countless times as he dragged Kaidan around from one end of Tamriel to the other.

"She's not kin. She's from High Rock." Kaidan met Hadvar's veiled reproach without apology. "And if you must know, she saved my life."

Hadvar choked on the swig of ale he'd been taking from his tankard.

"Laugh all you want, it's true," Kaidan smiled himself now.

"And you had difficulty believing in a dragon."

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #tes v skyrim #kaidan 2 #kaidan skyrim #wip wednesday #fic wip #fic: the wives of shor #hadvar of riverwood #kb writes

[thequeenofthewinter]

Not Fic Friday

It's me. It's a posting Friday, but unfortunately life has been particularly chaotic over these last two weeks, and I won't be able to post as I normally do today. I'll be posting next Friday instead.

Curious about what I'm writing? Dropping some links. ;)

Part 1: In the Midst of Winter

Part 2: An Invincible Summer

Have an extra snippet as an apology:

In plain mid-Winter the frozen tundras of Skyrim are nothing but dead and grey shadows of future begotten seasons—the ghost of what once was or what will be. It is hard for anyone to believe in such stark conditions that there ever was a season where tender shoots of leaves pushed forth from the forests and blades of grass whispered in the wind. No matter which way Ralof turns, the monotoned landscapes are a wasteland laid bare as they stretch out before him as far as his eyes can see. He is no stranger to the abandoned landscapes this time of year brings as he crawls through brambles of brittle undergrowth which snap crisply beneath his feat. However, with two weeks on the road, what he wouldn’t do to see the lush forests of Riverwood in full bloom or even the jeweled greens of the great evergreen forests of Eastmarch. He is starved for color, drained of anything which would give some semblance that this blur of flat delirium will cease any time soon. When he was asked to act as an emissary for the High King and Queen, he was honored to take the job. He still is, but travel has been slow going as he trudges through the snow and slush of the backroads in Skyrim, and he had hoped to be at the border almost a week ago. Picking up his head to cast another futile look across the sleeping forests of southern Falkreath, only the barest glimmer of promise is in sight as he observes the ever-looming Jerall mountain pass getting closer. Sentinel seems so far away and nearly impossible to reach. He sighs, letting out a puff of more frosty air to add to the already expanse of too many shades white before him.

At least when he crosses through Halldir’s Carin over the border, he will be able to take a horse to make things easier on him. As a precautionary measure, he has decided to go on foot until reaching Hammerfell. There have been reports of the scattered remnants of Imperial military camps attacking anyone getting too close to Cyrodiil. Once he reaches Elinhir, it should only be another week until he reaches Hammerfell’s capital. With every step he takes, the significance of the letter he carries weighs heavier and heavier upon him. Ralof chews on his lip as he thinks about its contents—the hope that is placed solely into his hands. He has not felt so important since he was promoted to officer months ago during the heat of in the Civil War. Back then, lives depended on him as they trusted him to command and see their way through to the end. While it is only a single piece of parchment, he still feels the gravity of it just as acutely. It is not just a small contingent of lives which are at stake now but rather all of Skyrim. He can feel their bodies piling up on his shoulders and pressing him into the slushy mud of the path he currently walks. What if he should fail and come back empty-handed?

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #ulfric stormcloak #dahlia wintersnow #ralof of riverwood #winter writes #sorry about the delay

[dulcey4]

My goal in life.

#cottagecore #goblincore #faecore #forestcore #lotr memes #lotrdaily #lord of the rings #fool of a took #nature fairy #forest witch #green witch #riverwood forest

[mino-vp]

Rainbow over Riverwood

#virtual photography #video game photography #gaming photography #screenarchery #photography #tesvskyrim #the elder scrolls #skyrim #tesv #bethesda #riverwood #forest

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part II: Raven

ao3

masterlist

First (previous) | Next

Shout out to the fantastic @ravenmind2001 for reading over this and keeping me from going nuts.

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre @kurakumi

#######

Delphine’s face contorted into incredulous confusion. “She’s a Blade.”

“Yes,” Esbern nodded, having already gone over this with her a couple of times. He didn’t seem to mind, though. He looked happy enough to have reunited with both women away from the danger of the Thalmor.

Leara, for her part, sat in a corner, polishing the curved steel of her katana. They left Riften just over a week ago, taking the roads at night and sleeping in the brush during the day. Every day for over thirty years was a new lesson in survival, but roughing it through the wilderness was something she’d not done since her escape from Skingrad before the end of the Great War. She took the hunter’s trail through the Jeralls. Between Esbern’s compass spell, her clairvoyance anchored to Riverwood, and her Blade’s memory of her previous trip through, they made it in due time to reach the Sleeping Giant Inn by the end of the month.

Delphine was waiting for them. Just Delphine.

Leara never thought she’d be so glad to see the stubborn Knight-Sister, but the feeling was soon dismissed when Delphine could do nothing but gape after Esbern revealed Leara was once a Blade herself. Leara was simply glad that Delphine didn’t have to know about her history in the Dominion. The mission had been so secret that the only record of it that the Grandmaster ever gave the chronicler was that she was relocated from Cloud Ruler to Alinor for reconnaissance. Anything more was need-to-know and there was no one left alive who needed to know. Not anymore.

She traced the engraved glyphs on her blade with the pad of her finger, deep in thought. She nearly missed Esbern’s scrambling for one of his books as he spoke in a rushed, almost absent whisper about Alduin’s Wall and an ancient Akaviri temple.

“I know where it is,” he was saying, flipping through his notes. "Ah, yes. The entrance seems to be near to what's now known as the Karthspire. We'll have to see what we find when we arrive."

Delphine nodded, “Then let's go.”

·•★•·

They took the Falkreath road to the Reach, the cover created by the pines and mists offering more protection than the open tundra of Whiterun. Leara and Delphine shouldered the brunt of the night watches, taking turns to peer into the shroud of night beyond their little camps. Fires were kept small and low burning, just enough to cook the occasional rabbit and ward off the damp chill that sank into their bones each night. They avoided the roads. While Leara had no choice in the inevitability of showing her face in public, the threat of being hunted by the Thalmor bound the three Blades into the shadows. Eerie noises followed them through the forest, strange lights appearing and disappearing at intervals between the trees once the sun was down. Out there, bandits and highwaymen were the least of their problems. One grey morning, before rousing Delphine and Esbern, Leara spied a High Elf in scout’s armor watching from the edge of a cliff. Even after she woke Delphine and told her, it was hours before they could leave, waiting for the scout to leave the area.

Their arrival in the Karth River Canyon wasn’t the end of their trouble. Leara found herself toe to claw with a half-woman, half-bird monster in a magic duel that only ended when the Dragonborn drew her katana across the creature’s feathery chest and sent her squawking into the river with a Fus Ro! It echoed through the valley, subduing all other sounds.

One of the remaining Forsworn stared at her from across a bridge, crude sword half raised and face full of terror. It twisted into hatred. “She-Bear!”

Then all the remaining Forsworn converged on Leara.

By the time the Forsworn were dead and Delphine and Esbern hauled her into the cave system at the heart of the camp, Leara was winded. Her lungs felt stripped, and her hands were freezing. She stumbled her way through the various traps and riddles set up by the ancient Blades to guard their temple. Her knees finally buckled when they reached the blood seal. It was a while before she could stand and attempt to open the barrier. The head of Reman Cyrodiil watched her as she hobbled to her feet and cut a gash across her palm with the heel of her katana. Her eyes met those of the statue’s, crystal on stone. It felt as if he was assessing her.

Nothing happened for several long moments as her blood dripped down to coat the seal. From the corner of her eye, she saw Esbern begin to deflate back into the hopeless state she found him in. Her hands on her hips, Delphine rolled her eyes and scoffed before pacing away. And then, below Leara, the seal pulsed golden. Fires around the room burst to life as if lit by an invisible hand. The statue of Reman Cyrodiil bowed and moved away, disappearing into the ceiling to reveal a broad winding stair.

This was Sky Haven Temple.

After that, everything seemed to click into place. They found the temple, and inside, in a place of eminence, they found Alduin’s Wall. Collapsing into a chair older than the Third Empire, Leara almost fell asleep while Esbern studied the temple’s architecture. Delphine’s hurried voice faded in and out, telling the old loremaster to focus, as Leara fought against sleep. Her bones still ached from the weight of the Forsworn piling on her. There was a pinch in her side from an awkward dent in her armor. She’d need to have it beaten out once she made it back to Whiterun. After she got some money.

Torch in hand, Esbern examined Alduin’s Wall, exclaiming over its preservation. As he read the wall, Leara lulled into a light doze. She watched a black dragon rise from behind the wall and swoop around the cavernous hall, shouting “She’s mine! She’s mine!” as Delphine and Esbern ran around like headless chickens.

“Hey, Leara.” Leara startled awake. Delphine was staring at her expectantly. Esbern was still studying the relief, but from Delphine’s frown, they were no closer to finding the answer to defeating Alduin than they were when they left Riverwood. Delphine pursed her lips, disgruntled. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? A Shout that can knock a dragon out of the sky?”

A Shout that could knock a dragon out of the sky–? Her mind raced back over everything she’d learned about dragons since defeating the first one outside of Whiterun back at the end of winter. She knew precious little about Shouting, most of what she’d learned coming from the Greybeards during her brief time in High Hrothgar. If anyone knew about such a thing, it’d be the Greybeards. She told Delphine.

The younger Blade sighed in resignation. “You're probably right. I was hoping to avoid having to involve them in this, but it seems we have no choice.”

Haunching forward with her elbows on her knees, Leara pinched her nose. Don’t ask, she told herself. Do not ask—

“Delphine, it’s obvious you have an issue with the Greybeards. What have they done to make you resent them so much?” To be honest, Leara got the impression that there wasn’t a lot that Delphine didn’t resent. Not without just cause, but there comes a point when it all becomes too much.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t resent them yourself,” said Delphine. At the Dragonborn’s look of shock, she elaborated, “If they had their way, you'd do nothing but sit up on their mountain with them and talk to the sky, or whatever it is they do! The Greybeards are so afraid of power that they won't use it. Think about it. Have they tried to stop the civil war, or done anything about Alduin? No. And they're afraid of you, of your power. Trust me, there's no need to be afraid. Think of Tiber Septim. Do you think he'd have founded the Empire if he'd listened to the Greybeards?"

Leara stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown horns and started ramming her head into the wall like a dumb goat. Is that what she thought of the Greybeards’ philosophy? A responsibility to use power wisely and respect the natural balance of the world was reduced to petty isolationism and fear. She could almost see the little Breton, head too small for the Blade’s helmet she wore like a crown, begging the Grandmaster to deploy her to Summerset. Heedless of the danger and finesse involved in such a mission. The woman in front of her had grown into the skin of one used to hiding, but still lacked the insight and tact necessary to find a path back into the sun. Distrust made Delphine bitter, and Leara pitied her.

She was too tired for this. “The Greybeards,” Leara began, tone diplomatic, “teach balance and restraint. Too much or too little will over-tip the scales and upend the natural order of things. It’s not that they fear power, they respect it.” She refrained from pointing out that Tiber Septim’s founding of the Third Empire was born from his unquenchable greed.

Delphine scowled. “For a former Blade, you sound rather comfortable with their way of doing things.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a rivalry,” Leara sniffed, choosing to ignore the ‘former’ Blade comment.

“There’s not – look. There's always a choice, and there's always a risk.” Delphine gave her a pointed look. “But if you live in fear of what might go wrong, you'll end up doing nothing. Like the Greybeards up on their mountain.”

“Are you worried I’ll run?”

Delphine was quiet, Leara met her gaze across the short distance. Everything about the Breton was pale, from her platinum hair to the grey-blue of her eyes, but at that moment, in the torchlight, she was a phantom from the past. The fire reflected in her eyes was an accusation. Traitor, they screamed as the fires consumed the tower and the lake shone and burned. Traitor. Traitor.

Leara blinked, and the spell was broken. Delphine’s eyes were her own again, no longer a ghost’s.

“Just don't let them turn you away from your destiny,” she was saying. “You're Dragonborn, and you're the only one who can stop Alduin. You should remember that better than anyone.”

“Right,” Leara said. She got to her feet, casting a weak magelight overhead as she passed Delphine. “I’m going to rest. I’ll set out for High Hrothgar in the morning.” She needed some time alone.

·•★•·

A tempus spell told her it was after the fourth watch when she woke. One of the others must have built a fire after she’d gone to sleep, its coals still glowing with dying warmth. She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, shuddering. The old temple was drafty. She fancied she could almost hear the wind, howling like a pack of wolves up the mountainside and over the peak. Again, she regretted leaving Karnwyr in the sewer. Leara allowed herself a moment to think about the wolf before getting up. The sun was already up, but if she started off soon, she could beat the dusk out of the worst of the Reach’s mountains. Then straight to Whiterun.

She stirred the coals, adding a few more sticks brought from the Forsworn camp down on the river. Across the makeshift hearth, Delphine rolled over, hair lashing across her pallet in a tight braid. Leara sighed and began to pack her things.

Once dressed, she stopped to look over Alduin’s Wall. The white of her magelight cast it in stark relief, harsh and bold compared to the eerie shadows set to play across the carvings by the torches.

“Delphine said you were setting off for High Hrothgar.”

“Yes,” she nodded, not surprised to find Esbern off to the side, already working despite the hour.

“She found this while exploring last night. She thought you would find it useful.” As Esbern approached, she saw in his hands an ancient katana, sheathed in black. She could feel the electricity curling off it. Electricity and something else that set her teeth on edge. “From what I can uncover, this katana is particularly useful against dragons.” He offered it to her.

“Is it?” she said, not taking it.

“Yes,” Esbern eyed her. “I couldn’t help but notice that the katana you carry isn’t the one you carried before the war.”

“You want to know where I got it,” Leara stated, understanding. He was curious, and he had a right to be. Delphine carried a katana, but it was the same one she carried before everything went to Oblivion. It was rare for a Blade to take the sword of another except under special circumstances, and even then, those were usually temporary. Leara looked down, pulling her katana slowly from its sheath. “It was given to me.”

Esbern peered at the bare blade under the steady magelight. “These are Altmeris,” he said in surprise, a frown creasing his lined face. “Did you acquire this in Summerset?”

“No, High Rock.” Leara shifted from one foot to the other, for once giving into the impulse. She sheathed her katana. “I should be going. Thank you for showing me that katana, but I think it will be more useful for you two to have it on hand in case a dragon attacks.”

“Of course, of course.” And Esbern returned to where his books and papers lay strewn out on the old stone table dominating the center of the room.

Leara was at the top of the stairs that led back into the caves before stopping. Bracing a hand on the archway, she called softly back to Esbern, just loud enough to catch his attention without disturbing Delphine. “Esbern?”

“Hm?”

Hesitating, Leara swallowed. “My katana, it belonged to my great-grandmother. She was a Knight-Sister during the Oblivion Crisis.”

There was a scrape and thud from Esbern’s chair as he rose from the table. “Your great-grandmother–?”

But Leara was gone.

·•★•·

She snuck by every Forsworn hunting party and Imperial patrol while trying to keep in sight of the road as she followed the Karth back to its headwaters in the mountains. It was late at night when she spied a village situated high on a rocky embankment on the river’s north shore. Hoping for an inn with an innkeeper that didn’t ask too many questions, Leara climbed the path into the village. As far as an inn was concerned, she was in luck.

A little bell chimed, and she was hit with the comforting glow of a hearth and the smell of fresh bread. The common room was well-lit and homey, with several tables scattered around the large central hearth. Old Nordic and Colovian style weapons hung high on the walls in places of honor. She focused on a polished pair of Nordic axes in a prominent place behind the bar as she approached.

“Ah, a visitor. Old Hroldan Inn has hundreds of years of history, friend,” the woman behind the bar, a blond Nord with tired eyes, said by way of greeting. “The name’s Eydis. You'll be looking to rent Tiber Septim's room, I take it?”

“Pardon?”

Eydis smiled at her, “In the Second Era, Tiber Septim himself led the army that conquered Old Hroldan from the barbarians of the Reach. Septim would later found the Empire that united Tamriel, but his first known battle and victory was right here. And this inn has the very bed the great general slept in on his first night as Old Hroldan's liberator. As good as it was hundreds of years ago."

Oh yes, the Battle of Old Hroldan. Studying keynotes on the Tiber Wars was one of the lessons given to many young knights during their Blades training. The Battle of Old Hroldan was the first victory in a campaign that led to the taking of the Western Reach. “His room’s for rent?”

“That’s right, for ten septims, it’s yours for the night.”

Leara reached for her belt, and then into her satchel, and then she padded down her armor, even though silver plate didn’t have pockets. Eydis eyed her the whole time, a crease deepening in her brow.

“I’m sorry, I thought I—” Leara coughed, flushing with embarrassment.

“If you don’t have the coin, I’m afraid I can’t board you,” Eydis said, not unkindly, but Leara could tell the woman was tired. Divines knew Leara was tired.

“Maybe I can—”

“This will cover her board for the night, and mine.”

A chill clawed its way up her spine. An arm bound in dark leather appeared in front of her, depositing a small pouch on the counter, even as she felt another wrap around her, almost completely encircling her waist. Eydis eyed her over the counter, weary eyes darting between Leara and the man looming by her shoulder.

“This one with you?” she asked, skeptical.

“Well . . .”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been looking for her for days on the road. You know how dangerous the Reach is. Thought I’d never find her for all the damn Forsworn scuttling around.” Bishop’s words were like honey in the innkeeper’s teapot: dripped just right in the bottom. He poured the water: “I’m glad I found her. I was starting to worry she’d been carried off or something.”

Eydis nodded along, thumbing through the coins in the pouch. “Right, of course. This is the right amount. Have a good rest. She looks like she needs it,” she added, thrusting her thumb in Leara’s direction. “It's the big room with the double bed.”

“Thanks,” Bishop called over his shoulder, pulling a stunned Leara along to an open door. Beyond it, Leara could make out a large bed covered in furs. The bed Talos himself slept in while still mortal. She didn’t expect to sleep a wink.

Bishop closed the door behind them. Leara sat heavily on the bed and glanced around, searching. “Where’s Karnwyr?”

“Outside.”

“Oh.”

“You left me.” Slowly, Leara lifted her head to meet Bishop’s burning eyes across the room. Even that was too close. “You left us fighting for our lives in that blasted skeever trap!” His voice was low, probably so he wouldn’t alert Eydis at the bar, but the quieter pitch was more menacing than a proper yell. Dragons Shouted like thunder. Bishop hissed like lightning. “Against the damn Thalmor! What the Hell, woman? What did you do to have the Aldmeri Dominion hunting you down?”

“I’m the Dragonborn,” she stated, focusing on the wall. There was an old tapestry depicting an artist’s rendition of Tiber Septim Shouting apart the Old Hroldan gates. It reminded her of a mosaic she saw in Bruma years before the war, before the Chapel of Talos was rededicated to Martin Septim, sainted by the Imperial church. It was gone when she went back, replaced by golden stained glass depicting the defeat of Dagon in the Oblivion Crisis. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Yeah, I got that. You’re not exactly subtle, sweetness.” Bishop laughed, but the sound held no amusement. Not any she could understand, anyway.

“So sorry I don’t rise to your expectations.”

“Didn’t have high ones of the Dragonborn to start with.” She stared at him, stunned. “I always thought it was a good story, something to tell around the fire, but a relic of the past, just like the dragons. As far as I was concerned, the only people who could shout were those Greybeards up on the Throat of the World, leeching from the pockets of gullible people. Them and Ulfric Stormcloak.” He said the name with a faux reverence worthy of the Thalmor. “The best thing he ever did was Shout apart the Forsworn.” He began to pace, agitated. He reminded her of a predator.

“Until me,” Leara sighed.

“Until you. And now the Thalmor are hunting you. Word is they’ve got a price out on your head. Not a public one, but the word’s moving through the crime world, ladyship. Some pretty nasty bastards are already on your trail.” He stopped in front of her, and suddenly he dominated her field of vision. Leara didn’t move as he stepped closer to her. “What happened to your armor?”

“My armor?”

“The dent in your left side, above your kidney,” Bishop pointed. “And on that subject, the bruise over your eye and the cut on your lip. Who attacked you?”

She swallowed. “Forsworn.”

Bishop cursed and returned to his pacing. “I don’t think you quite understand the danger you’re in, Dragonborn or not!”

“I can take care of myself, thank you,” she said, straightening up. She’d done so since before this man was born. She would do so after he was dead

“That’s just it, you don’t have to now!” Bishop shook his head, growling. He was like a caged animal. “I can protect you! I protected you from the Thalmor in the Ratway! They’re dead now because of me.”

“Am I supposed to be thankful that you saved your life and it just so happened to benefit me and my goals at the time?”

He scowled at her. “I’ve risked my life for you numerous times in the last month when nobody else gave a damn about you! And that’s the thank you I get?”

She didn’t speak. The bottom left corner of the tapestry was frayed, like it’d been caught on something and pulled. Part of its picture was warped and faded out from the damage. She felt like the tapestry: whole for the most part with her mind and magic intact, but she’d been yanked around, and now her edges were frayed, raw from wear, and part of her was missing, an important part that she didn’t know she had before it was gone. The tapestry could be restored, but her? Leara wasn’t so sure.

Why was she even there?

Bishop cut off midtirade when Leara pulled off her boats and laid down on top of the furs, hands folded on her stomach as she stared at the ceiling. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to sleep,” Leara said, the familiar discomfort of lying down in armor settling through her body. Her right hip ached. She ignored it. She was ignoring a lot of things lately, but that was okay. It kept her focused on her primary objective. “I am going to bed and am no longer continuing this discussion. If you wish to stay, grab a blanket and sleep in that chair. If you wish to keep talking, go outside and talk to the moons. They might have time for your whining.”

“Whining?” squawked Bishop. He sounded like that – hagraven? – when she Shouted it apart at the Karthspire. “Now listen, sweetie, I don’t—”

“Shut up.”

Spluttering. That’s how the hagraven sounded when it was drowning in blood and water. “What did you just—”

“You don’t shut up,” she said, then rolled over.

Leara ignored Bishop for the rest of the night.

·•★•·

A scream broke the still air of the pre-dawn.

Leara was yanking her boots back on as she hobbled into the common room, a yawning and stretching Bishop strolling leisurely behind her. He seemed unbothered by the scream but determined to follow Leara wherever she went, to ‘protect’ her, as he so elegantly put it the night before.

Eydis stood beside the bar, the remains of a juniper berry pie dumped on her feet and splattered across her skirt and the flagstones. The woman was as white as a sheet, eyes blown wide in terror.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Leara asked, rushing to Eydis’ side.

The woman pointed.

“Holy . . .” Bishop trailed off.

At the far table, under a nasty looking battleax black with age, was a hazy figure. Seated at the table, it seemed engrossed in the empty space before it, as if seeing something that wasn’t visible to anyone else. It moved its arms, as it would if it were eating; in their wake was a pale smoke trail of luminous blue.

A ghost.

Eydis grabbed her arm, grip fierce even through the hard silver plate and chainmail. “Do you think the ghost is one of . . . Tiber Septim's dead men?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bishop rolled his eyes. “That’s not a ghost! It’s some Forsworn black magic, and if it were a ghost, what makes you think it’s one of Tiber Septim’s men?”

Eydis glared at him, an intimidating sight despite her disheveled hair and juniper-stained clothes. “He's from the battle, I just know it! He's one of Tiber Septim's soldiers . . . back from the dead!”

Bishop’s laugh was loud and mocking. It didn’t seem to faze Eydis, much less the ghost. “That is such bull – what are you doing, woman?”

Leara sat down on the bench across from the ghostly figure. An impression of curved horns blurred in and out of focus, reminiscent of the ancient Nordic helmets she’d seen in Bleak Falls and Ustengrav. The ghost didn’t seem to be a malevolent spirit, but a lost soul. He was a warrior, and either through time or space or both, he was a long way from home.

“Hello, are you lost?”

Bishop’s “Are you serious?” faded into the background as the spirit lifted its head, alert. The embers of its eyes bore into Leara’s, arresting her movements. A chill shuddered through her, and she got a distinct impression that the ghost wasn’t seeing her, but seeing through her.

“I've been waiting for you. Hjalti.”

Hjalti struck a chord within Leara, though she couldn’t quite place it. She was sure she’d heard the name before, but . . . “Who is Hjalti?”

“You promised me, Hjalti,” the ghost said, lifting a faded hand toward her. Despite herself, Leara leaned closer. The ghost’s hand was so close, there but not; she fancied she could almost feel it on her skin, cold and warm all at once. “You promised that when we sacked Hroldan, you would make me your sworn brother.” The hand clenched, light darkening s a dying fire. “And I've waited. Even after the enemies' arrows dug into my chest and their hammers crushed my bones. I've waited. Give me your sword, Hjalti. That we may become brothers as you promised.”

Love and longing and expectation borne over centuries filled the ghost’s voice. The pieces clicked in Leara’s memory, and she knew who this was. He was one of General Talos’ men.

“What are you doing?” Bishop hissed from behind her.

She waved him off, “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m talking to someone.”

“Yeah, a fricking ghost!”

“He needs my help,” she said.

Bishop plopped onto the bench next to her. “A ghost needs your help, and so does every other Daedra-blasted sucker in Skyrim! That does not mean you should go out of your way to help every idiot that crosses your path, asking you to retrieve their hat from a cave full of vampires!”

“I’m not retrieving a hat,” she spat. She turned back to the lost warrior. “I’ll retrieve your sword.”

“I long to taste battle again,” the ghost sighed into a moan that shot ice and fire through Leara’s blood. Bishop didn’t seem fazed. “I’ll be waiting, Hjalti.”

“Of course.” Leara got to her feet with a nod and returned to the bar, Bishop cursing under his breath in her wake. She didn’t know where to start in hunting down this sword, but she had a feeling she knew who might.

Eydis stood behind the counter, hands clenched bone-white in the folds of her apron. Her eyes lit with an intrigued sort of fear as Leara approached, curious and frightened all at once. “Is it really one of Tiber Septim’s men?” she asked.

“Yes,” Leara nodded. “It seems he died in the battle with the Reachmen. He’s restless, waiting for Tiber Septim’s return. Has he never shown up before?”

Eydis twisted her apron in her hands, deep in thought. “I've heard stories that Old Hroldan was haunted, but no one’s seen a ghost here since the Great War. I haven’t, and I’ve never heard of any ghosts from the Battle of Old Hroldan showing up, either.” Eydis’ eyes trailed over Leara’s shoulder, and she turned to see the ghost milling about at the end of the hearth, warming his hands. It was an act of memory more than need. “I wonder why he’s here now?”

Leara watched the spirit. He’d called her Hjalti. Hjalti was Tiber Septim before the Nords called him Talos Stormcrown – if one believed the account in The Arcturian Heresy. Parts of Tiber Septim’s history were missing or altered, every young Blade knew that from their studies, and so all accounts were to be addressed and evaluated for historicity’s sake. But a decade in the Aldmeri Dominion and years in hiding after didn’t do her memory any favors. This ghost was one of General Talos’ men, and believed she was Hjalti, who she was pretty sure was General Talos. But why? Was it because they were both Dragonborn? Lost spirits often sought out the familiar in their wandering, looking for rest. That must be why the ghost appeared now: it felt the return of a dragon soul and came looking for help, thinking that General Talos – or Hjalti at the time – had come back for him, but all it found was her instead.

It was tragic.

“He claims Tiber Septim promised him his sword before the battle,” Leara explained, “But he was killed before he could give it to him. Do you know anything about Tiber Septim having a sword?” She pointed up at the weapons mounted along the walls. “Could it be one of these?”

“You can’t seriously believe these are from an actual battle!” Bishop said.

“They are! – well, except those axes. They belonged to my grandfather,” Eydis pointed above the bar, “But none of these belonged to Tiber Septim. Although I remember a legend that Tiber Septim had attacked one of the enemy camps before he came to Old Hroldan. It could be there.”

“Do you know which one he attacked?” Leara asked.

“Oh yeah. Do you have a map?

·•★•·

They approached the redoubt from the northeast. It was situated in the crevice of a valley, tall spires of Old Nordic architecture jutting out of the Karth’s headwaters as they flowed down from the Druadach Mountains. High on the steps, the animal skin tents of the Forsworn were visible, shielding many of the Forsworn from Bishop’s bow and Leara’s ice shards. They stood behind an outcropping of rock, watching the camp in silence. Beside Leara, Karnwyr stood, hair bristled and ears pointed forward. He’d been quite happy to see her once she emerged from the Old Hroldan Inn with a sulking Bishop and marked map, but now the wolf was all business.

“The best thing to do,” Leara whispered, careful despite the roar of the waterfalls, “is to sneak through and take out targets individually.”

Bishop’s grin was wolfish. “You want to pick them off one by one.”

Leara nodded. From what Eydis told her, Lost Valley Redoubt was once a center of deep spirituality for the men of the Western Reach, but was weakened during Tiber Septim’s campaign through the region. Legend said there were dark caverns full of black magic secrets hidden under the old barrow, but if they existed, they were destroyed or blocked off long before Tiber Septim and his army arrived to rout the remainder of the Reachmen. Now it was barely an encampment, but even so, Leara knew not to underestimate the Forsworn.

Bishop’s part in the plan was simple: snipe the Forsworn from the rocks while she snuck into the camp. Everything was okay until the man set off a tripwire and brought a giant mammoth skull swinging out of nowhere to fall on his head. The Forsworn began to gather in groups, looking for the enemy, and Leara was forced to duck into a tent for cover.

There was an alchemy station dusted with crumpled flower petals and drying mosses. A row of neat little potion bottles sat off to the side, though Leara was certain they weren’t quite as benign as they appeared. She pulled her nightgown from her satchel and, folding the bottles inside it, nestled them in the side of her bag. Perhaps the alchemist in Whiterun would buy them off her. Further perusal uncovered a few pouches of fire and frost salts.

There was a shriek outside and the explosive shockwave of a fireball. The Forsworn had a mage, or a shaman, or something. Leara prayed to Akatosh that there wasn’t another hagraven. Knowing her luck, though, there were probably two. And they probably had the sword, too.

Peeking out of the tent, she spied Bishop in the midst of a Forsworn pileup that made her ribs ache from the memory of the fight at the Karthspire. She turned to continue up through the summit. Then stopped.

Back at the inn, Bishop had been quite vehement in reminding her that he’d saved her from the Thalmor in Riften, and though she still didn’t think she needed his protection – she was a Blade, first and foremost, never mind being the Dragonborn with a power like the Voice – she owed him one. Plus, he was right. She didn’t have a lot of friends in Skyrim, and she needed an alley.

Katana in hand, Leara looked around for an idea of what to do. Marching forward would put her back where she’d been when the Forsworn attacked her at the Karthspire. After she Shouted.

Muffle cast and katana raised, Leara snuck around the rear of the tent and along the perimeter, back to where Bishop was playing chase with at least half the camp. The shaman stood back, glee twisting her already hawkish face into a dark point. Leara slipped up behind her, her Illusion spell failing as she slipped her katana into the shaman’s ribs.

The choking gurgle alerted several of the other Forsworn to her plight. By the time they reached her side, there was blood smeared around her mouth and down her side, with no sign of the assailant.

“Where is it? Where is it?” one of them shouted in anger.

“Is it a spirit?” one of the smaller girls asked.

“Don’t speak so! The spirits wouldn’t have done this to Aoife,” snapped another.

Then the shaman’s body exploded, and the air was filled with screaming.

On the next flight of stairs, a dead Reachmen at his feet, Bishop watched as an unholy fire consumed the main encampment, an unnerved fascination dancing across his face in the firelight.

From the shadows, Leara appeared beside him, Karnwyr at her heels.

“What in Oblivion . . .”

“You’re welcome,” Leara said to his dumbfounded expression. “You’re lucky I found fire salts, or they would have used you for some kind of ritualistic sacrifice.”

“Fire salts . . .?”

“Yes, do keep up. We still have to find that sword.”

·•★•·

There were two hagravens at the summit. And there was a ritual, too. It looked like they were trying to resurrect a dead man in elk hide and antlers by inserting a glowing green seed into his chest in place of the dead heart. There was something else there too, humming in the air and singing the song of the winds in her ear. She was beginning to recognize the song of the Word Walls when she came across them. Power, it sang, calling to her. Power, power, power. Not yet, she told it, looking around. She needed to take care of the hagravens first. One was bad enough, but two?

Karnwyr brushed her hand, and she followed the direction of his nose. A boulder sat precariously above the archway that led into the ritual site, held in place by a small pile of stones piled on a thin board.

Bishop hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?” as she scaled up the rock face to the ledge above the boulder. Slipping behind it, she lined herself up so the hagraven to the left of the alter was directly below and on the otherwise of the boulder.

“Fus Ro!”

Shrieking, smoke, and then a sickening crack as the boulder hit home, spraying dust and dead greenery across the clearing. The beak of the second hagraven was open in a soundless screech as her beady eyes focused at the stone where her sister had been, before darting with fiery rage to Leara as she slipped down.

“Hello,” Leara gave the bird monster a little wave.

“She-Bear! Defiler!”

“You’re an idiot,” Bishop moaned in the background.

Leara only smiled, sharp and inviting all at once as she drew her katana and charged the hagraven. The bird woman threw her hand out, and then Leara’s path was blocked as the Forsworn zombie clamored to his feet.

In his hands was the sword of General Talos!

Akaviri and Nordic steel rang out against each other, echoing off the stones only for the sound to be lost in the crashing boom of the waterfalls. Blades locked, Leara assessed her opponent: what this undead Reachman lacked in finesse, he made up for with sheer muscle, broad shoulders and thick arms bearing down on her slender frame. She wasn’t going to win this through a show of strength. She feinted, and he lurched forward, with enough momentum to swing his sword toward her neck. The sword struck the altar, steel skidding across stone in a bone-quivering wail.

Leara slipped across the ground, out from between the Forsworn and the altar. She lifted her katana.

A howling shadow swept overhead. Leara watched from the ground as Karnwyr’s front paws struck the undead Forsworn in the chest, toppling him backward. While the revenant – he wasn’t gross enough to be a zombie – tried to shake off the ravenous wolf, Leara turned to engage the hagraven. Ice coated her hand, and she hurtled spear after spear at the creature, frost meeting flame.

Steam curled through the ritual site, blooming and hissing from the collision of elements. Leara danced closer to the hagraven, mindful of her fare as she raised a frost cloak to ward off the worst of the assault. Her katana spun through the mist, gleaming with ice crystals. She struck at the hagraven.

A staff countered the strike, and her katana bounced back from the twisted wood. Letting her momentum spin her past the hagraven, she struck at the creature’s back. The staff again!

When she visited High Hrothgar, Master Arngeir mentioned a Shout that could disarm with a single Word. If only she knew it! All she knew were fragments of Unrelenting Force, Whirlwind Sprint, and—

Ah.

In a wash of fire, the hagraven swung the staff toward Leara—

“Feim!”

–and it went straight through her. Unbalanced, the hagraven went through the ethereal apparition and into the ground. Leara resolidified in the world with a single stroke to the hagraven’s thin neck.

Heart pounding against her ribs, Leara turned to find Karnwyr tearing into the fallen revenant’s chest, the glowing green seed lightless and cracked. A black arrow stuck at an angle from the dead man’s shoulder, but it was clear Karnwyr’s teeth did most of the work. Leara stooped and retrieved the sword of General Talos from where it had fallen.

It felt heavy in her hand, but not from its weight or the legacy it carried. A sense of purpose filled her, the hilt warm in her hand. This was the sword of Talos Stormcrown, and she held it in her hand.

She gave it a few practice swings as Bishop slunk up to her side.

He whistled. “Is that it, then? The sword of the almighty Talos, or whatever?”

“Yes.”

“It looks like any other old hunk of metal stuck into a crap hilt.” At Leara’s glare, he blanched. “What?”

“Oh, nothing! Only that you reduce a historical artifact to trash,” she sneered, the pale gold of her complexion hardening into marble.

Bishop laughed at her. “I really do question your intelligence sometimes, darling. I wouldn’t put my faith into any god, especially one that used to be a red-blooded man like me.”

“There are no men like you.” And she left him standing there, smirking as if she’d given him some sort of compliment. Approaching the Word Wall, her eyes traced the draconic glyph. She couldn’t understand them literally, but as she read, the song of the Words drew her to one word, Zii. Spirit. It was the second Word in her ethereal Shout. Her soul soared with her new understanding,

Bishop came up behind her. “Can we take this sword back to her ghost friend or are you just going to stand here all day and stare at the old stone?”

She deflated. “Yeah, let’s go.”

·•★•·

“Is that the lady who went to get Tiber Septim’s sword, Mama?” a boy seated at the bar whispered as Leara slipped into the barroom.

“Yes, Skuli, now shh,” Eydis said, reaching over the counter to stroke the boy’s hair.

Leara’s gaze zeroed in on the ghost, piddling at the spit where a roast was searing. He seemed uninterested in the roast, however; he was making stirring motions as if preparing dinner in an invisible pot.

Coming to his side, Leara drew the old sword. Like a moth to flame, the ghost turned, focus wavering between the Dragonborn and the promised sword. “I have Hjalti’s sword,” she said. With both hands on the sword, she offered it up, head bowed in respect.

The ghost reached for it. When his hand met the notched steel, an image of two young men locked in a sword fight flittered through her mind. The darker of the two swept the legs from under the taller blond. He went down with a grunt. When the dark one reached down to help up his friend, the blond dragged him to the ground, pulling him into a wrestling match that ended with both youths laughing.

The ghost gave her a wan smile, and she saw the laughing blond in the curve of his face. “It's been an honor to serve you, brother.”

Leara swallowed. “Likewise, brother.”

The weight of Hjalti Early-Beard’s sword vanished from her hand as the ghost evaporated from before her, at peace at last.

“Are we down now?”

Leara held back a sigh. Squeezing her eyes shut, she blinked back the ghost’s memory and turned to the room at large. Eydis and her son were still at the bar, wide-eyed in the wake of the ghost’s disappearance. But Bishop’s pale stare burned into her, expectant.

“We leave for Whiterun,” she said, gliding back to the door and the long road ahead.

#oc: leara roseblade #delphine #esbern #bishop #fanfic #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #dovahkiin #anti bishop #ao3 #karnwyr #mod post #i didn't know you were keeping count #last dragonborn

[maxismagik]

anya barkblossom

wood elf

120 years young

guild artisan { jewelry maker } - market trader

druid { circle of the forest }

naïve, frantic, physically weak

generous, supportive, perceptive

i had a goal for myself, and that was to officially try out d&d this year!! alas, i bring to you my newest d&d character!! i’m so excited to level her up and share her stories here. as always, it was so much fun cc shopping. at this point i’ve fully converted my game into a fantasy / medieval save. heck it.

cc list //  hair ( @feralpoodles primrose hair ) • ears ( @suzuesims elf ears ) • outfit ( @dansimsfantasy neem outfit ) riverwood build ( here )

#mine #ts4cc #ts4edit sims4fantasy #s4fantasy #ts4medieval #cottagecore #sim; anya #dnd #d&d #wood elf #verse; d&D

[boarchasers]

Day 4

Prompt: Mortal or Sanctuary

They weren't Frithjofr's footprints. Frithjofr always wore the soft blue boots from Cyrodiil, pointed at the toe, whereas these were blunt at the end and square in the heel. Quite a clear outline. Leather, finely cobbled, belonging to someone who spared no expense when it came to style. Haaki didn't know much about the mages from the College, but he assumed that ruled them out. People who, as he understood it, spent all day in a library, studying tediously old texts, probably had no need for sturdy yet fashionable walking boots.

Cold air huffed over him as the stag strode past. Haaki froze. It didn't turn off from the path. Its master must have lost sight of him when he dived into the bushes and was hoping to flush him out, like beating a rabbit from its warren. He gritted his teeth, secured his crossbow to his belt, and crawled forwards slowly on his stomach, going still whenever he came too close to the stump of bone and the smell of rotten meat.

The tracks continued through a narrow passage in the ferns, which suggested someone who knew how to keep themselves hidden, and was reasonably skilled at it, too, had it not been a seasoned hunter on their trail. That ruled out some of the freelance and mercenary mages Haaki occasionally encountered on the road, most of whom considered it a badge of honour to attract the attention of everyone in a five mile radius with their flashy spells. Who did that leave? Not another hunter. Between them, Haaki and Hjolrin knew nearly all of the hunters between Riverwood and Falkreath, and in any case, no self-respecting hunter would make a mockery of Kyne with the shambling, dragging beast.

Another roar from the stag, and as the sound churned around the forest Haaki realised he had been caught between two shelters, the safety of the bushes and the narrow path the footsteps followed. Faced with retreat or darting forwards, he sprinted for the ferns.

It was the wrong decision.

Seconds before he made the cool, shady safety of the ferns, Haaki saw it. A whisper of a shadow, the hem of some robes disappearing behind a tree, the very edge of the boots he had been following. It distracted him. For a second, a vital second, he forgot the danger behind him in favour of the quarry ahead, and a second was enough. As he ran forwards, teeth locked onto his arm and wrenched him backwards, growing tighter with every attempt to struggle free. Blood began to well up around the bone.

A deer's jaws were not designed for attack, but that didn't stop the pain, nor lessen the strength of the hold it had on him. Haaki was dimly aware of Hjolrin's voice somewhere inside his head telling him to be careful. Funny. It hadn't meant anything at the time. Mortality never did feel real, until, suddenly, all at once, it became very real indeed.

He swore, for want of anything more constructive to do, and fumbled with his free hand for the dagger Chira had given him. About as useful as a crossbow bolt in the situation, but it was something. Haaki lifted it more for reassurance than any expectation that it might help. The angle of the beast's grip on him meant he couldn't aim it towards the heart, and he doubted it would achieve much if he did, but he was able to swing it around against the stag's muzzle.

It helped, in a way. Most of the skin and muscle was already gone, which gave him a clear shot where the bone connected. The dagger smashed against the hinge of the lower jaw hard enough to dislodge it from the skull. It wasn't much, but it gave Haaki enough leeway to pull himself free.

So far so good, but he was still bleeding, and although the beast's jaw swung sickeningly around, it still had antlers, which it now lowered, ready for another charge. Haaki barely had time for a prayer to Kyne, to Stendarr, to anyone who was listening, if his soul hadn't been lost entirely to the Void, for some kind of sanctuary and safety, before he launched himself in the direction of the boots.

The chase was short, but it felt like hours. One arm flapping uselessly at his side, the other holding the bloodied dagger, Haaki leapt over brambles and dodged from side to side, trying to keep the stag from a clear charge without losing sight of the trail. Occasionally he thought he saw the flicker of the robes again. Never for very long. Prayers alternated with curses. Finally, when the blood was streaking down his wrist, when his breath was spent, when the deer readied itself for a final charge, everything somehow got worse.

The ground disappeared beneath him. The drop was quick, at least. Haaki thudded over the edge of a small cliff, onto the dirt, and winced at the crack from somewhere inside his chest. No time to worry about it, though. He reached up a hand for support as he forced himself to his feet. His palm fell against stone, carved stone, cut into the shape of bones. His blood dripped onto the cold surface and silence filled his head.

Not silence. Not completely. There was a voice, the one which haunted the darkest corners of Haaki's nights. It whispered,

'What is the blessing of existence?'

The gods had answered his prayers, with their usual twisted sense of humour. Haaki had found a sanctuary. It wasn't the one he had been looking for. With the stag not far behind, however, he realised he had no choice. He swallowed and let the old catechism come to him, all too easily.

'Mortality, my brother.'

'Welcome home.'

#haaki #trigger warning: blood/gore #trigger warning: messed up deer

[ruses-writing-realm]

Agh now thinking of a slight name tweak for the wings ppl please help I need to know which sounds better

#my passion project #need help #we do be pollin #these dang water cats