#oh and shalidor in the back

[caliblorn]

Alright, alright, I’m very aware of the “no fraternization” rule of the Mages Guild, but I think they deserve a post-Coldharbour break. Maybe the Guild has organized a little evening for those who came back. Oh, did you know Altmer not handling alcohol is one of my fave headcanons?

#tes #eso #tesblr #gabrielle benele #vanus galerion #valaste just WASTED #oh and shalidor in the back #originally wanted to do something with fighters guild/mages guild #but then i remembered...technically no one from the fighters guild comes back....ohw #doodles

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

The site had just been marked as a passing reference in one of the numerous incomplete texts in Shalidor’s own hand (not always legible, as the great mage—and she has very tactfully not said this aloud to Urag—had atrocious penmanship), which is why she hadn’t come expecting much the first time. Most of the places mentioned in Shalidor’s notes either no longer exist or are long since emptied, by age or by adventurers who don’t know anything about good conservation technique and insist on leaving their own journals all over the place with barely a page or two filled. She imagines whoever is bookbinding for these adventurers must run a surprisingly lucrative business.

This particular site, being potentially important (please let it be important), has earned a second visit after an impassioned dual presentation that the Archmage politely listened to about a nonsequential quarter of between extended bouts of contemplating the steam from his tea, should one be inclined to a generous estimate.

“This is it, then?” Tolfdir huffs out a breath and lowers his pack to the ground in a relatively dry patch, peering with interest at the mostly-buried structure before them. “I do so love a good excavation, it must be said. How did you get in the first time?”

“Well—” Kharish tests the dirt with the toe of her boot. Not too muddy, under the snow, as long as they’re careful. “Took some digging.” She drops into a crouch, tilts her head, squints. She’d covered up the entrance when she’d left last time to try to keep the interior as undisturbed as possible, not expecting to have to uncover it again herself. “Over there, I think—I couldn’t get to the door, but something knocked a hole in there that did drop down into what looked like the main entry passage.”

“Fascinating,” says Tolfdir, clapping his hands together. “Shall we?”

She goes first, because it’s more of a drop than she remembered and she does not want to know what happens to her career trajectory if he breaks an ankle. A smattering of dislodged dust and dirt dribbles from the lip of the hole in the ceiling when she looks up, arms held out and knees braced. “Rea—ack.” His satchel smacks into her temple and she blinks a brief burst of stars out of her eyes. He is unexpectedly sturdy. Maybe she could have let him go first after all.

“Thank you,” he says cheerfully, righting himself and starting down the dark hall, magelight already hovering over his shoulder. “They don’t put much padding on these floors, do they? Notes for future tomb-builders, let’s say.”

Kharish ducks under a low-hanging cobweb. “Future, er… I thought you said these kinds of tombs weren’t still being built?”

“Not at all,” Tolfdir pauses to inspect a relief, nose nearly against the stone. “But wouldn’t it be nice if they were? The use of a hall of the dead has been much more prevalent than a tomb barrow for—oh, ages now.” He seems pleased by whatever he needed to sniff from the wall and steps back again, brushing off his hands. “Eras, even! Why, I should tell you, it’s gone through several renovations of course, but the Windhelm hall of the dead, for example, is quite the historical treat. In fact, records dating back to the second era seem to indicate—”

She remembers abruptly that Urag specifically warned her, stressing the timeframe of once they’d arrived, not to ask Tolfdir about tombs. Or their architecture. You’ll never get him to stop, he’d said seriously, rubbing at the bridge of his nose the way he does when he’s been wearing his glasses too long, and you can’t afford distraction in there because we may not get another chance at this one. Do not let him talk about the tombs.

“What do you know about Ulfsild?” she interrupts—which is all she can think of right now, a little jittery, with the mental note to ask him again about the Windhelm hall of the dead on the way back to Winterhold to make up for the interruption—and hesitates a moment to slide an ajar coffin lid closed as gently as she can.

Tolfdir hums thoughtfully. She hadn’t expected it to work so well, but he says, “Oh, no more than the average scholar, I suppose. Not quite more than the name. It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Another thing to love about these old places; every one holds some grand new discovery that could alter our understanding of the world as we know it.” He adjusts the strap of his satchel on his shoulder and continues, gesturing for her to take the lead now that he’s done studying the bas-relief. “It didn’t sound like you and Urag had gotten very far in the journal transcription; had you come across anything of note yet?”

It’s always better to be cautious about things that aren’t certain—if she were to allow herself to be a little reductive, she would say that history is nothing but context, and an asyndetic text, even a primary source, requires a degree of speculation that, applied too liberally, can often be worse than useless. And it’s not really quite her field anyway: she repairs the books. What’s inside, she’s still discovering, is often more questions than answers. “It’s a possibility,” Kharish acknowledges finally. There’s a narrow stairway; she turns sideways, awkward, to descend. “The back two-thirds looked much more esoteric, but the first section appeared to be fairly detailed notes on the construction of Eyevea. From what I saw of the relevant entries, her discussion suggested more of a—technical familiarity—than Urag says is typically believed she would have had.”

“I see! Yes, I believe I recall he told me their separation occurred during the whole Eyevea ordeal. Very sad, isn’t it?” he muses. “Scholars of the same discipline should never get too involved. Think how many good academic arguments would be discouraged if the participants risked upending their home lives!”

“Well, I don’t know about that; being able to articulate a distinction between your home life and your academic life should be a priority if you’re really invested in the preservation of both aspects of the relationship, but even so, incompatible personalities will probably always find something to—hang on, this one,” she cuts herself off, stopping before an arch marked with a stylized owl and going for her little notebook. The hollow eyes glare down at her. She squints back at them and then compares it to the unflattering scribble in her notes. “Yes. This one.”

“Ah!” Tolfdir peers up at it, redirecting his magelight to shift the shadows. A fistful of dust from overhead smatters into his hair. Kharish reaches up absently to ruffle the debris out of her own hair, waiting. The faint dust cloud that results drifts downward, glittering faintly in the magelight, and dissipates. “The owl of Jhunal—not as popular as Kyne’s hawk, as bird imagery goes, but no less significant for it. Did you know, when associated with a specific mage, the configuration of the feathers is thought to represent the school the mage specialized in—”

Scrambling for something to write with in her bag, she shakes her notebook to a fresh page. “Wait, wait, wait—really? Which feathers? What would this one represent?”

“Hmm,” he says, thoughtful. And then, again, “Hmm.” He puts a hand to his chin, gesturing with the other to move the magelight once more. “I can’t say it looks to be one of the established schools of magic. The barring on the tail is quite destruction, but the chiselwork across the shoulders more closely resembles the iconography for alteration. And the head! Difficult to make out, but it doesn’t look right at all. You know, I do wish we’d thought to bring a stepping-stool.”

She pauses, staring at the owl. If it were a flat carving they could take a rubbing and look at it later in better light, perhaps; beveled as it is though, the distortion of a rubbing might obscure or alter some small important detail. “Can you draw?”

“Oh, well,” says Tolfdir, stroking his beard modestly, “I won’t be asked to paint in Solitude any time soon, certainly, but I have been known to—doodle, as it were. On occasion. One must have hobbies, after all.”

---

Which is how he ends up on her shoulders, carefully copying the owl into her notes.

“The iconography really is all over the place,” he muses. “It will be worth reviewing my references once we get back, I believe. Most fascinating!”

“I’m sure it’ll be a—” He can’t see her, but she valiantly struggles to maintain a straight face anyway, on principle. “—hoot.”

The scrtch of paper pauses overhead as he laughs, sudden and delighted. “Yes, of course! I’ll be certain to gather, ah, owl the material required.”

“Ha! —whoops, sorry—” The laugh pitches him backwards with an oop!; she bites back her grin, standing straighter and rebalancing him. “If all else fails we may have to wing it.”

“Oh, no,” he says gravely, “that would be academically irresponsible.” When she sets him down, though, there’s a twinkle in his eye as he returns her notes. “Here you are: one mysterious owl, rendered to the best of these old hands’ capabilities. Onward, then,” he begins, looking preemptively pleased with himself; “while we still have a few unruffled feathers each.”

Her laughter rings out with an echo down the hall ahead of them. The dust that falls loose from the ceiling lands light as snow.

---

The room is just as she left it, mostly: the loose jaw of the skeleton in the sarcophagus at the center of the room has dropped to tangle with the collarbones. “Sorry,” Kharish whispers to the skull, gingerly lifting the mandible pieces back into place, pressing a touch of sticking shield to the joint with her thumb. It will almost certainly fall apart again, but not, at least, while they’re here. To Tolfdir, she says aloud, “There shouldn’t be anything new—I took the journal from the mouth, three pieces in worse shape from the shelf, and a rubbing of the inscription at the base of the platform.”

He has his nose poked rapturously into an urn when she turns around. “Funerary oils,” he says by way of explanation; “they vary slightly depending on region, era, belief—” A beat. He sniffs it again. “Decidedly floral,” he says, thoughtful. “Though gone quite stale, of course.”

There isn’t anything new, as predicted. She generally leaves the grave goods alone. No need to bother with anything that can’t be read or transcribed or translated. The dead should be allowed to keep whatever artefacts of life they have left, when they can; the ones that have opinions on the matter historically tend to agree on this. Much of what’s here, Kharish thinks, seems puzzlingly unimportant, as far as things left in tombs go. A cracked alchemical retort, bits of glass around the base, next to three also-smashed empty bottles. A plain, tarnished metal ring at the bottom of half a mug. A regular, if rotten, stick that (she checked) has no magical resonance whatsoever.

Checking through the shelves up against the wall for anything of interest, she pauses at a small metal figure of a wolf, on its side behind a cup and laid atop a disintegrating scarf. Cruder than an artisan’s rendition would be, with the tell-tale prick about it of something that’s been shaped with magic. The back of the head and the base of its ears have been worn smooth, as though by the meditative rubbing of a fingertip. Careful, she takes the wolf—small and disconcertingly cool in her palm. For Mara or for Ulfsild herself, she wonders. She can’t say it in any official capacity, as it’s a sentimental and unacademic thought, but it’s cute. And the soft shape of the ears and the tilt of the head do seem to invite touch.

No maker’s mark on it, though. Made then by someone who didn’t make a habit of magic metalworking? She sets the wolf upright on the scarf again, the clink of little inexpertly-shaped metal paws on the shelf muffled. It’s the only thing like itself in the room. Broken glass, broken dishes, dried-out inkpots, a rotting scarf, and a wolf. And lots of dust and dirt, but that’s a given.

Too many questions, really. She wipes her palms on her thighs and turns back to the center of the room. “What do you make of the epitaph?”

“A bit more hostile than epitaphs tend to be, curiously.” Tolfdir sets down a lens he’d been inspecting and nods back to the sarcophagus, peering at the plaque again. He threads his fingers through his beard in contemplation. “It’s rather—well, the person leaving the inscription clearly wishes regret upon the, ah, entombed, expressing triumph at outliving her, with some rather colorful language and a consumptive metaphor; though I’m not quite clear why.”

“A consumptive—oh,” she says; then, again, “oh.” The notes left pointedly wedged between the teeth. Hand to her mouth, she looks from him to the empty eye sockets of the skull. “—eat your words.”

#writing tag #Kharish gra-Shatul #FIELD TRIP TIME. FINALLY #clocking in at just over 2200 words whoops

[thana-topsy]

WIP Wednesday 7/26/23

Wednesday again already!? I was tagged by @mareenavee and @kookaburra1701 who I'm pretty sure have already read snippets of this, but here you go again some more. (Oh and @skyrim-forever thank you!)

I'll try to tag people that I know aren't already getting bombarded with tags lol. So let's go @throughtrialbyfire @greyborn2 @what-with-you-dear @metallic-scaled-scarf @mongoose-bite @yesjejunus @nientedenada @moriche show me ya wips.

This is from the broader Enthir story I'm now working on, including 100% more backstory.

---

Word count: 1260

Urag was a fixture of the College of Winterhold just as much as the statue of Shalidor himself. When Enthir had first arrived, newly freed from the rigid curriculum of the Imperial University, ripe with enthusiasm and fresh charisma, he’d quickly gotten himself into the old orc’s good graces. In his near fifty year tenure in academia thus far, Enthir had but one rule: always befriend the archivist.   

Of course, Urag ran his Arcanaeum very differently than the stuffy bastards at the Imperial University. Differently from the University of Gwilym, for that matter. And the Synod’s archives weren’t even worth mentioning in comparison to the College of Winterhold’s vast collection, much of which (Enthir later found out) was locked away in some secret archive and put out on rotation. A large chunk of the collection—known colloquially as the Forbidden Archives—could only be accessed if you knew what you were asking for, presented a thesis and outline detailing the nature of your study, and clearly stated your reasons for needing said research materials, all stamped with the Arch-Mage’s seal of approval. 

Or, bypassing all of that, one could attempt to make nice with the librarian. 

“Please?” Enthir was on the tips of his toes as he leaned across the high desk, jutting out his lower lip. “I won’t even take them out of the Arcanaeum. You can hover behind me menacingly while I read, even.”

“Nope. I’m going to need to see your proposed outline,” Urag repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Enthir curled his lips against his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Well, here’s the thing—I don’t exactly know how to propose anything without knowing whether or not my theory is even feasible.”

“I believe you just described a hypothesis,” Urag said, a shimmer of playfulness behind his gruff expression. “Which would be a great way to start your outline.”   

Enthir smiled thinly before pushing away from the desk and spinning on his heel, expression dropping into a scowl as soon as his back was turned. He sat down at one of the long tables with an audible huff and pulled a scroll from his satchel, all while contemplating what he knew of Urag’s character thus far and the likelihood of the orc accepting a blowjob in exchange for reading material. Something told him it wouldn’t work quite as well as it had at the Synod.

He began to furiously scribble his ‘proposed outline’ with more ink on his quill than necessary, the first sentence’s letters bubbling and blending together in a physical manifestation of his petulance. Soon enough, he’d tricked himself into actually completing the task at hand, lost in his own theories. He blew across the page as he finished, reading it over while he waited for the ink to dry, before rolling it up and marching back over to Urag’s desk. 

“Here,” he said, offering the proposal to Urag with a scowl. 

Urag took it, unfurled the scroll, and proceeded to read the outline at a leisurely pace as Enthir drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Urag’s eyebrows slowly crept upwards as he read, his eyes darting to Enthir only once while wearing an expression that was hard to parse.  

“Interesting theory,” Urag said at last, rolling the scroll back up and handing it to Enthir. “Bold, even. But it’s missing something.”

Enthir quirked a brow in silent question. 

“The Arch-Mage’s seal.”

“Come on, Urag!” Enthir exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “I don’t have time for this bureaucratic bullshit!” 

“This bureaucratic bullshit, as you call it, is how our collection has survived as long as it has,” Urag all but growled. “You’re a formidable scholar. That much is clear. But you’re not above the rules.”

Enthir hissed through his bared teeth. Final play, he thought, and marched around the desk. Urag managed to look surprised as Enthir rounded the corner and took a knee in front of his chair.

“What–?”

Before Urag could finish his question, Enthir was already pulling the necklace from the satchel on his belt with steady hands. The palm-sized opal charm shone with a brilliant light, almost too bright to look at directly. Enthir glanced up at Urag to find the orc’s expression slack with awe, the multicolor refraction glistening in his dark eyes. 

“Where… did you get that?” 

Enthir allowed himself a sly smile. “I have my connections,” he said, turning the necklace over in his palm, rolling the charm between his fingers like a captured star. “And I have a buyer, but it’s time-sensitive. And this little trinket is not something I’m going to be able to sell to just anyone. Hence the… expeditious nature of my request.”

Enthir saw Urag’s throat bob as he swallowed. “May I?” he asked quietly. 

Enthir hesitated, his fingers tightening around the charm almost unconsciously. But then he smiled. “Sure.”

Urag took the opal from him with the reverence of a temple priest, turning it between his fingers as he continued to stare. He glanced back at Enthir with an expression he, once again, couldn’t quite interpret—it could have been respect, possibly even a hint of being impressed—but there was a nervous pull in the pit of Enthir’s stomach that told him that maybe he’d misjudged. That Urag would confiscate the necklace and report him to the Arch-Mage for possession of Daedric artifacts. 

“You’re dealing in dangerous territory, my friend,” Urag said at last, handing the opal charm back to Enthir. “But I have good news, at least. You don’t need permission to access anything from the archives. One moment.”

Enthir watched Urag push out of his chair and walk away from the desk, disappearing around the bend of the bookshelves. He returned the shining necklace to his satchel and got to his feet, leaning back against the lower edge of the desk with crossed arms. Urag returned several minutes later holding a nondescript tome.

“Here,” he said, setting the book on the lower desk between them, hidden from any possible student that might pass by. The title read: The Knights of the Silver Rose. “Familiar with the order?” 

Enthir just shook his head, leaning in close enough for their shoulders to brush as he flipped open the cover and began to skim the table of contents.

“Group of anti-daedra crusaders. The only thing that makes them stand out from any of the others we’ve gotten over the past few millennia is that they kept records on the artifacts they confiscated, as opposed to outright destroying them. This book is part history, part catalog.” He reached over to turn the page, his hand brushing against Enthir’s, dry and warm. “Here. Page one-seventy-five.”

Enthir let Urag flip to the appropriate page, glancing up at the orc’s face. He wore an expression of concentration—studiousness. Enthir felt a light fluttering beneath his ribs, stirrings of conspiratorial excitement. Not only had Urag recognized the artifact on sight, but he had known the exact book to pull for further information. An obscure one, at that.     

“The Opal Charm of Meridia,” Urag said, tapping the page with a thick finger and looking to Enthir with an air of smug satisfaction. “There you have it.” 

“Thanks,” Enthir muttered, unable to pull his gaze away from Urag’s face. 

“Just say what you want more directly from now on,” Urag said with another smirk, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re not in Cyrodiil anymore.” 

Enthir’s expression split into a wide smile, and he clapped a hand against Urag’s broad shoulder. “Urag, my friend, I believe you and I are going to have a very fruitful relationship.”

#topsy writes #enthir #urag gro shub #enthir/urag #kind of #kind of a meetcute?? but if they already knew each other for a little while #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #college of winterhold #tes lore #tesblr #wip wednesday

[wellthebardsdead]

Marigold: *walking out of the throne room in understone keep, right into Ondolemar* oh forgive me-

Ondolemar: you are-… Alive?! Young Lord Varla is that you?!

Marigold: *looks up at him slightly* yes, Ondolemar was it? You were one of my fathers associates…

Ondolemar: wer- I… yes… *sighs* my heart breaks for you. I’m sure you’re aware of what happened to him and your mother.

Marigold: *sighs* yes, I am indeed. If I didn’t have affairs here in skyrim that needed my attention I’d of taken the first ship back to Alinor upon finding out. I- *makes his eyes water up and sniffles putting on a convincing emotional act* I heard it was an assassination but nobody would give me the details.

Ondolemar: It was… Gruesome… When your body wasn’t found, lord thallery sent word to every justiciar to find you… How did you end up in skyrim?

Marigold: I took a ship to Cyrodiil and from there to Windhelm. I’m studying dwemer Magic’s and their ruins placements across tambriel. I believe they were tapping into the same energy vein Shalidor did. When I left father told me he’d put all my affairs in order and inform Ancano our courtship would be put on hiatus until my return… I couldn’t tell him myself, he’d only try to stop me… *sighs* I wish I’d given mother one more hug before I left… *wipes his eyes on his sleeve as he starts to cry, tricking the older Altmer easily*

Ondolemar: *gently pats his shoulder* I’m sure she knows you loved her regardless. *sighs* but I’m glad you came here on your own accord, not kidnapped like everyone feared… *offers him a handkerchief*

Marigold: *sniffles and takes it drying his eyes* thank you… forgive me, I’m unsightly to be seen in this state- *rubs his face* I am glad to have run into you so far from home, I’ll get out of your hair now.

Ondolemar: I- where are you headed if I may ask?…

Marigold: oh, I’m staying in Markarth this evening then leaving for a dwemer ruin in the morning. Why?

Ondolemar: I was hoping you’d join me for dinner actually, I figured we could have a drink to remember your parents, and it’s rare I get to have such pleasant familiar company.

Marigold: I- *knowing if he says no he’ll send someone to spy on him* yes… I’d really like that actually… Skyrim is… full of people but few friendly faces… I’ll be here tonight.

Ondolemar: splendid. I look forward to it. *takes his hand giving it a kiss*

Marigold: *smiles awkwardly up at him before bowing his head and hurrying off down the stairs and through the corridor* oooh fuck that was close? Guys?

Caryalind, Kaidan, & Taliesin: *all hiding against the walls hoping Ondolemar didn’t follow him down*

Yaksha: *also against the wall not knowing why they’re doing it but wanting to be included* over here-

Marigold: *turns around to see them* oh there you are- So good news and bad news. Good news is the jarls payout for killing the forsworn was massive. And bad news, my fathers creepy associate Ondolemar invited me to dinner and if I declined-

Caryalind: spy?

Marigold: bingo.

Taliesin: this is bad-

Marigold: buuuut- *holds up the handkerchief* if I plant this in the silverbloods home-

Kaidan: we can try to get him arrested?

Marigold: yep! Now let’s get out of here before he catches me with a deserter an Akaviri and the runaway prince.

#marigold dragonborn #Altmer dragonborn #ondolemar skyrim #Kaidan skyrim #skyrim taliesin #Caryalind skyrim #yaksha skyrim

[the-drunken-huntsman]

It's @nerevar-quote-and-star! I'd like to request 10: Discovery from the prompt list!

prompt list

~

There weren't many changes to the college between the leadership of Arch-Mage Aren and Arch-Mage gra-Largashbur. Everything functioned nearly exactly the same, and the new Arch-Mage took as little interest in the day to day runnings of the college as her predecessor had, both delegating such responsibilities to their respective Master Wizards. The main difference between them is that while Savos preferred using the time he spent not running his school to simply lock himself up in his quarters doing Shalidor knows what, Murza was a bit more restless. She spent her time away from the college, adventuring with the Dragonborn. No one would ever complain of this, it simply made preforming their ethically questionable experiments easier knowing their boss was at the very least, not on the premises.

Faralda, like the rest of her colleagues, would never be one to complain about the changes in leadership. She was still able to carry out her studies in peace, give her lectures in the Hall of Elements, and, her favorite activity, sit at the end of the bridge and test the aptitude of potential students.

Wards were put up at the foot of the bridge most days of the week to keep out the unprepared and the occasional angry Winterholder (usually the Jarl in a drunken rage) coming to blame them for the decline of their once great city. But every Tirdas, the wards would come down, and would be replaced by one Altmer, ready to test the young would-be wizards (those arriving any other day of the week would have to put themselves up at The Frozen Hearth) and scare off the locals. This was her favorite day of the week. She found the cold a refreshing change from the stuffiness of the school, and since attendance had waned as of late, the solitude was much welcome. Being able to sit alone with her thoughts was what lead to some of her greatest breakthroughs.

One such Tirdas, in the summer just after Murza had taken up her position, Faralda set out for this solitude early in the morning. She reached the end of the bridge and began the process of taking down the smokey, glass like ward when she noticed a hazy figure on the other side near the bottom of the stairs. She groaned, her expectations of a quiet morning shattered as she mentally prepared her monolog for the prospective student.

But as the ward came down and the figure came clearly into view, she realized he was much closer, and much smaller, than she had expected. A small child stood on the top step, his ginger hair wild and face ruddy and wind buffed. His clothes were a bit too warm for the season and had definitely seen better days. He was wrapped in a wolf skin like a cloak. How long had he been out here? He stared up at her, head knocked all the way back to take in the tall elf, with big brown eyes and a curious face.

Who is leaving their children here? Faralda thought as she looked back down at him, He can't be the Jarl's boy, he looks as if he's barely seen three winters.

"Where is your mother, boy?" She asked. That should be a good place to start.

But instead of an answer, Faralda only received a sniffle and eyes that began to turn glassy. Oh gods, oh shit, don't make the kid cry, don't make the kid cry! She dropped to her knees to make herself less imposing, and softened her voice, "Hey now, it's alright. What's your name?"

"Um, d-dee... dir..." He sniffed and stuttered and slured his way through an answer, not seeming to know how to pronounce his own name just yet.

"Hmm, how about I call you Dire, yeah? Is that alright?" He nodded in approval. "Alright Dire, do you know where your mother is?" The tears began to fall from his face as he looked behind him, out into the town, then back to Faralda to shake his head no.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry," she moved to wipe the tears from his face. His cheeks were cold. "How long have you been out here, Dire?"

"Um, s-since... since dark," he kept his answers short through his tears.

"Since night? Did you sleep out here?" He shook his head, but continued to cry. This is getting no where. I didn't become a wizard to comfort crying children. His mother's probably staying at the Hearth and he just slipped away in the night to see the big building at the back of town. Just calm him down so you can bring him back.

Faralda moved to pet his wild windswept head, but when her hand made contact with the crown of his head she felt two hard, sharp protrusions from his skull. Her brow furrowed and while making like she was still trying to sooth him, she brushed his hair away from the area to see two small horns beginning to poke their way through. Oh shit, she thought. Faralda was not particularly skilled in conjuration but luckily she knew someone who was. Phinis has to see this.

She tried her best to keep her tone even to not scare off the boy, or whatever he was, "Are you cold, Dire? Hungry? Why don't you come with me and meet my friends?"

#no proofreading we die like men #sorry this took so long! #my writing #college of winterhold #faralda #oc: dire #oc: murza #i'd like to do a sequel to this eventually about all the mages meeting Dire but here's this for now #dire's origin story lol

[cheeseandstrawberrytartlover]

Even a Daedric Prince can be stressed

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Sheogorath himself didn't like to often meet up with Sanguine, but he did not know what to do for know.

Just like Mephala, Sanguine was confused by Sheogorath's asexual tendencies that sometimes were stronger, weaker or even gone. He was especially confused by the Daedric Prince of Madness' repulsion to sex he had from time to time, but he strongly believed in "live life the way you want".

Both of them were travelling along a little path between the many Myriad Realms of Revelry. They were just having a nice walk.

The red mist that was always present but sometimes changed color was up to Sheogorath's waist.

Right now, it seemed like a dark forest landscape.

"Sheogorath, give me a second," Sanguine assured Sheogorath and moved away from the path towards a tree.

Sheogorath couldn't see much from his current position. Sanguine started to flirt with the people copulating behind the tree which Sheogorath was very happy about to not see, "Hi, ladies! I bet you are glad that I introduced you all! Anyways, continue having fun! Oh and let me know when I can join."

The Daedric Prince of Debauchery returned to the path.

"Ahem, I'm very sorry. Duty called."

Sheogorath tried not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, I could see that."

Both of the Daedric Princes continued their walk.

Sanguine asked curiously, "And? How are you?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Sheogorath admitted.

"Aaand my godchild?"

"Oh, they're fine. They're just starting to teeth."

"With fever and everything?"

"Yes."

A great silence fell between them.

"I finally told Martin. Or well- Akatosh."

"Don't just stop there! Tell me what happened!"

They reached a clearing with tables, candles, masses of alcoholic beverages and most importantly drunkards.

"Well, he reacted quite well. He at first didn't believe that he had left me with child but... he said that he would be there when I truly needed him," Sheogorath got rudely interrupted by someone bumping into his back.

The drunkard slurred an apology, "Hey, didn't see you there-"

Sheogorath turned around. His pupils were constricted like vertical slits.

The drunkard slowly realized how his fate could end, "Oh- I'm sorry- I was not-"

Sheogorath grabbed him by his throat and threw him backwards on a table. His movements were very similar to how snakes move now and on top even more unpredictable. While the man was trying to recover and get up from the table Sheogorath pinned him down with his shoe. His heel barely missed his throat.

The drunken man winced and whimpered.

"It is surprising how easily I could kill you right now."

"Nonono- Please-"

The Daedric Prince of Debauchery decided to defend the man, "Sheogorath. He is my worshipper. I will deal with him. Calm down."

Sanguine carefully gave Sheogorath a pat on the back. He hesitated but stopped pinning the drunk man down. The man took a deep breath and slid down the table to sit down on the ground. Sheogorath turned around as if nothing happened, "Where was I?"

"He told you that he would be there?"

Sheogorath continued walking on, "When I most needed him, yes."

Sanguine quickly gave the drunkard a dirty look before catching up to Sheogorath. He playfully gave him a little push.

"I currently don't have anyone to torment. Vanus Galerion is dead, Shalidor is dead, the vestige is gone, the nerevarine is gone..."

"Then choose someone new!"

"But that is sooo harrrd..."

Sheogorath sighed.

"I can hear them cry. I can hear my baby cry. I have to go home."

Sanguine chuckled, "You can't run away from your padomayic heritage. You can try to continue being good but you are going to snap. You are a Daedric Prince."

"I know that. Let me be a good father. We will see what comes after."

That's when the Daedric Prince of Madness vanished and reappeared in his own realm.

Hearing the cries of his own baby was bothering him deeply and he ran into the nursery. You could say that it was an instinct.

He looked into the crib to see them kick and cry.

"My poor darling..."

Sheogorath gently picked his baby up and started to blow raspberries on their stomach but they continued to cry. They cried so much that even Sheogorath was starting to sob, "I'm sorry! I know that you are in pain!"

He gently gave them some kisses and prepared the bed next to the bed. He removed all the blankets and pillows to make sure that they wouldn't have any problems breathing and carefully put the baby on their back before laying down next to them.

They continued to scream and he very carefully put his hand on their torso.

"It's okay..."

To his delight they slowly stopped and turned their head to their father. Sheogorath quickly got their little wooden horse figure.

"Here, my darling," Sheogorath gently gave it to them and they started to chew on it.

He layed back down and sighed happily. There was a good silence and the Daedric Prince of Madness finally got to rest.

#sanguine #sheogorath #demiprince #daedric prince #myriad realms of revelry #elder scrolls #the elder scrolls #fanfiction

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work in Progress Wednesday

Hello my lovely mutuals, followers, and general puplic of Tumblr. It's Wednesday, and we all know what that means--a snippet of what I am working on for the next chapter of my beloved behemoth of a WIP, In the Midst of Winter (E rated, please check warnings and tags). I'd like to tag @theartofimaginaryfriends @dumpsterhipster and @oblivions-dawn. (Also, don't feel any pressure to post if you haven't been writing.) Oh, and if anyone else sees this and want to participate, please do! I would love to see what you all are working on! <3 Anyway, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this little piece as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Wild winds whip around Dahlia as she takes the Staff of Magnus and starts to drain the last magical barrier of its power. Now that she is using the device, she can confirm with certainty the purpose of the artifact, if not the reason for its creation.

As she tries to concentrate on her task, it is difficult for her to disarm the last barrier due to her hair becoming plastered to her face by the winds; however, at least she doesn’t have to deal with the effects of the magical anomalies. That job has been left to the others while she concentrates on absorbing energy from the Eye. While she would love nothing more to turn her head to see how her colleagues are fairing, it takes all of her effort just to be able to wield the damn thing. If she loses even one second of focus, she is immediately tugged back to attention by the magic of the staff as it tries to feed on her magicka.

If she didn’t know better, she would think that the energy from the artifact is testing her as it pushes back against her will. The control she has over it could be described as tenuous at best, deciding to cooperate with her on sheer whim. Magic works in mysterious ways, and while the theory behind it has always fascinated Dahlia, this is one thing which she dares not turn her normal curiosity towards for fear of what she might discover. She could swear that this magic was alive.

The barrier falls after a few more minutes of careful focus—or perhaps sheer determination—who is to say? And once the mages are able to enter the gates, the group wastes no time with little celebrations. Their real work is just about to begin.

The mages flood the gates at the entrance of the College in a storm of rage. Dahlia can feel it in the air and with it the almost tangible tinge of ozone and electric discharge in the breeze from each one of her colleagues readying spells from respective schools of magic. They will be a force to be reckoned with, and Nirya and Ancano will have their judgement—of this Dahlia is absolutely certain. She can see a fire burning behind each and every one of her friends’ eyes with one singular, shared message: This is our house, and you are not welcome here.

As they enter the courtyard, Dahlia gives one last look to Faralda and J’zargo, nodding while silently sending a prayer to Talos to watch over them. After casting muffle, the two disappear, veering to the left and entering the Hall of Attainment.

That leaves herself, Brelyna, and Tolfdir to see what victory they can claim from the jaws of the Thalmor ringmaster himself, Ancano.

There is no time to waste, so they move forward quickly, footsteps crunching heavily in the frozen snows of the courtyard. If she didn't know any better, Dahlia would almost think the sound is that of snapping bones underneath her feet. It is foreboding to say the least.

With each step that brings them closer to the Hall of the Elements, they can feel the energy of the Eye drastically increase in intensity, doubling and then tripling. This causes the three remaining mages to pause, each one looking at the other in apprehension before continuing on.

However, as they pass the statue of Shalidor, there is something else which catches their attention, causing them to stop in their tracks: a familiar, but seemingly lifeless figure propped up against the inner gates.

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #dahlia wintersnow #winter writes #wip wednesday #something wicked this way comes

[datorchoe]

spare koraan lore?

Hrmmm...OH ok so,

Koraan has some VERY powerful genes.

Her mother is a descendant of my Hero of Kvatch’s brother. Of course, Risiki never knew her brother, but they are still related.

Her father is a descendant of Shalidor, the man who created the College of Winterhold and trained at the Labarynthian back in like the 1st era or something.

Because of Koraan’s insane genes, she was born with a crazy amount of magic. That’s why she achieved a “Behold” at such a young age.

Beholds are a piece of my own canon. Basically, if you achieve, like, the peak of a magic school, you are granted a Behold in the form of a tattoo that increases your magic powers when released. Koraan’s behold is in Alteration and is a purple tattoo of a heart on her chest.

#oc koraan buxom #tes oc #oc lore

[tes-trash-blog]

In all seriousness, I’m noticing a pattern among Important Nords and how they play a pretty intense game of Deflect the Blame.

The Night of Tears? 100% The Elves’ Fault. They attacked unprovoked, see? They deserved extinction. It’s a shame there aren’t any survivors who can say otherwise! All we have is Ysgramor’s word, and everyone knows he’s a reliable source of information.

The trading of Eyevea for an incomprehensible book? Oh, that was the Mad God’s trickery. Nevermind that Shalidor’s attempts to get his dumbass island back drove a young and promising mage to insanity and got my Vestige killed at least six times, it was all Sheogorath’s doing, you see.

The Inner Circle of the Companions becoming werewolves? The witches of Glenmoril tricked them! How could have Terrfyg known that Hircine-worshipping sorcerers would make him into the Actual Avatar of the Hunt and sever his ties to Sovngarde? How could he ever have guessed that actions have consequences?

The Civil War? Maybe if those damn Imperials looked away from their open and illegal worship of Talos, Skyrim wouldn’t be in this mess. Worship in secret? What are you, a coward?

#the only nord i stan is iorel and she's not even canon #idk if this is the primarilily white/male writers being Bad At Writing or what #but it's tiring #lore overanalysis #i also wonder if there's a connection #between the nords being So Bad at owning up to their bullshit #and them being the only ones who don't see Lorkhan as a bad guy #hm.. #hmmmmm... #look man #i don't like nords #they're the laziest race of all of them #and that's kind of saying something #it's wasted potential #they had SNOW WHALES #SNOW. WHALES. #the trash talks

[roleplayingay]

TESfemslash week Day 2

Magic

+

Blank pages, two stacks of books and a quill. 

“Ahk always asks herself why couldn’t old Shalidor write in a know language. Nordic, who knows!” Ahkarajii said. It had been hours since Valaste and her began the hard work of translating a special tome Shalidor left for them in Eyevea’s library. Except the nord mage had written it in some unknown idiom neither of them had ever seen before.

Valaste chuckled as Ahk continued to mutter complaints. She had long lost account of all the days they had spent together exploring the secrets of this ancient island. Pleasant mornings studying the many rare plants and their magical properties. Warm afternoons swimming in the more private corners of the place. Chill evenings studying as many books as they could find. She smiled at the lovely memories.

Valaste’s mind was taken out of this sweet moment when her eyes scanned an specific word in the middle of a thousand ones. Var. The word echoed in her mind. She traced the letters with the tip of her fingers. 

She remembered hearing this word before. Ahk’s sister, Zahyla, would mutter something to do with it before certain battles. She had said it to Ahkarajii when the khajiit had to fight Haskill.

“Fusozay var dar.” She hand’t noticed she said it outloud.

“What ?” Ahk’s ears shot up at the sound of such phrase leaving Valaste’s lips. 

“Zahyla said it to you once. Fusozay var dar.” Valaste instinctively held one of Ahk’s hands as she talked.

“Yes, yes, kill without qualm. This one’s sister always says this. Khajiit never understood why.”

“What var means ?”

“Oh, it’s life.”

Valaste’s eyes widened and shone as she quickly turned back to the book.

“Fahlbthar is something like unbind in dwemeris. Nagaia is Ayleidoon for death. Var is life in ta’agra.”

“Ahk does not follow, dear.”

“It’s a pattern.” Valaste explained excitedly, lacing her fingers with Ahk’s. “Dwemeris, Ayleidoon and then Ta’gra. Unbind, death and life. One of the paragraphs had a word akin to gem. Perhaps something about soul gems ?”

Ahkarajii stared in shock. She let go of Valaste’s hand, rubbed her eyes and leaned over the book. How did she miss so many words written in her own language ? She had to reminds herself to stop reading when tired. 

“I am in love with a genius!” Ahk laughed and turned to Valaste. With a swift movement, she put her hands on either sides of the elf’s face and pulled her into a passionate kiss. Valaste melted against her as hands caressed her cheeks. 

#tesfemslash #valaste #eso #valaste x oc #valaste x ahkarajii #oc: ahkarajii #tes #elder scrolls

[happyloudmers]

character development questions for Taliith: 5, 11, 26, 42, 44! (Though I think I already know the answer for 42 ;))

Aaa thank you friend! On ipad sl formatting will be crappy sorry!

5: On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets

Sugary sweets, an apple, a picture of her and valaste with a lipstick kiss from valaste on it, and the ring her dad gave her before she died and became the vestige. Oh and a pocket guide of guars.

11:in what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

The eso mages guild questline. Seeing sheogorath torture and ruin valaste broke taliith’s heart. Valaste was so successful and happy and sheo wanted her to be betrayed and be left to rot and be insane, it broke Taliith until she snapped and butchered countless legions of saints and seducers to get her girlfriend back. Taliith only survived coldharbour because of knowing valaste was there for her, she was damn well returning the favour. Eventually taliith defeats haskil but then sheo fights taliith just ti extend her pain. Both almost kill the other for real, but valaste restores her own sanity (she should of in defualt game tbh) and banishes sheo, claiming seeing her gf fight for her brought back her memories and personality. Taliith and valaste cried for so much happily now sheo and shalidor were gone, and vowed their marrige there and then both had their minds back.

26: how is she with children?

To start with awful she has no idea, but valaste helps any child in need as she knew what abusive families are like, just as taliith did, and taliith becomes good with children eventually.mgood really, as the wives had to raise taliith’s sisters grandchildren when the rest of the family went.

42: Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them

Vanus! Vanus adopted and raised valaste and helped her with her aspurgers by making her deal with the libary and new students, and was a dad to her.mhe also is magnus in my world and teaches valaste his power so she could stand watch over nirn if he died. Vanus also took a liking to taliith (she first entered the guild as a girl as her evil mother hated and abandoned her) and as soon as young taliith and young valaste got on, vanus knew they would both be perfect for each other.

44: How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

Taliith cannot physically lie, if she hates someone she makes it clear,mif she likes them she opens up. Taliith only knows peace thanks to valaste,mand tells valaste she loves her lots and lots. Taliith overcame molag bal and valaste overcame sheogorath so they could be married together for eternity, and they never waste a single moment :)

Thank you for the asks aaa