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metize · 11 months

Text

Mate (AFAB!Dragonborn x Farkas

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: PWP, In Heat/Mating Cycles, Werewolf Mates, Companions Questline, PIV

Summary:

You were already pent up as it was, but seeing Farkas in nothing but his breeches almost sent you in a frenzy. As you walked into the room, it took everything in you not to bury your face on his pillow, instead you tried arranging his bed while he closed the door to his bed. You could almost see the gears turning inside Farkas’ head, you gathered he was probably smelling your pheromones and trying to understand why you were there. You tried not to stare at his bare chest and how good it would feel to run your hands through his abdomen. “I… I thought I had more time to prepare. Aela told me this would happen, but I…” You sighed, fidgeting with his pillows as you tried to adjust the bedding.

“Are you… nesting on my bed?”

You dropped his pillow. Right, that was what you were doing.

A/N: I didn't find A SINGLE Heat Fic pwp with Farkas. They're werewolves! That's the whole point of being a werewolf: feral sex. Anyways, hope you enjoy it.

Jorrvaskr was asleep. The night had draped its serene embrace over Whiterun, as the weary warriors found solace within their familiar haven. Farkas himself was deep in the realm of dreams, enjoying the peace of his unassuming chamber. Yet, the tranquility was abruptly shattered by a sudden and insistent pounding on his bedroom door. Startled from his slumber, Farkas jolted awake, heart racing in surprise with the sound of pounding on his bedroom’s door.

He was ready to assume the worst, a strategy that worked just fine for Farkas over the years; strike first, think later. He grabbed the greatsword at the end of his bed and readied his stance until he heard your voice from behind the door.

“Farkas, are you up?" Your voice was breathy, a hint of urgency in your tone.

He put his guard down, it was just you, the dragonborn. He respected and greatly admired you as his shield-sister, appreciating your company whenever you came back from your adventures. He trusted you with his life. He stored his sword away before opening the door.

Sure enough he was met to the sight of you as he opened the door. He was always happy to see you, almost forgetting for a second it was the middle of the night and you woke him up because you probably needed something. You weren’t wearing your full armor, instead you sported a more casual outfit that you used to sleep in, the sight was welcome to Farkas. Seeing you in a more vulnerable position was different, he was much more used seeing you armored from head to toe. It brought back memories from the first time you arrived in Jorrvaskr, full of questions, wanderlust and with a very unusual story to tell. Vulnerable in your nightclothes, yes, maybe that was why he was feeling a sudden overprotective urge.

“Shield-sister, it’s late. Did something happen?” He asked, his eyes darting around the hallway to check for any danger. That was when it hit him. The scent.

Your scent.

Farkas and the other Companions had a very strong sense of smell, it was normal for Farkas to recognize someone solely by their scent, but this wasn’t just your usual scent, this was stronger. Sweeter. And way more distracting.

“Close the door, I don't want to wake the others,” you said, making your way past him and sitting on his bed. You were already pent up as it was, but seeing Farkas in nothing but his breeches almost sent you in a frenzy. As you walked into the room, it took everything in you not to bury your face on his pillow, instead you tried arranging his bed while he closed the door to his bed. You could almost see the gears turning inside Farkas’ head, you gathered he was probably smelling your pheromones and trying to understand why you were there. You tried not to stare at his bare chest and how good it would feel to run your hands through his abdomen. “I… I thought I had more time to prepare. Aela told me this would happen, but I…” You sighed, fidgeting with his pillows as you tried to adjust the bedding.

“Are you… nesting on my bed?”

You dropped his pillow. Right, that was what you were doing. You blushed hard, caught off guard. This was your first heat, Aela had warned you about heats and how they worked after you had been turned. You had simply completely forgotten. You couldn’t be blamed, you had a lot to do as Dragonborn and your first heat was supposed to happen later, you were sure you had more time to prepare. You were always planning on talking to Farkas about it.

“I… guess I am,” you admit defeated “Farkas, I’m… going into heat.”

“Then you really,” his breath hitched, a low growl in his voice “really, shouldn’t be in here.” His hand gripped the door handle to ground himself, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip.

“I’m here for a reason, Farkas,” you said solemnly, you got up and walked towards him. He shot you a glare.

“Don’t come any closer,” his voice was raspy and his commanding tone made you stop in your tracks. “I don’t know how much longer I can control myself with you in this state.” His breath was labored and his gaze was intense.

“Farkas I don’t want you to control yourself,” you looked at him through half-lidded eyes, regaining courage to walk closer and reach for his hand. “I want you to help me…”

As soon as your fingers touched his hand it sent a spark of electricity through you’ve been hit by a Chain Lightning spell. You didn’t even get to hold his hand, he grabbed your wrist and pulled your body flush against his. He leaned down burying his nose in the crook of your neck, taking in as much of your scent as he could. You couldn’t help but sigh in relief at his proximity, at the sheer intimacy. You grabbed onto him like a lifeline, your instincts slowly taking over your mind, the wolf inside you screaming for more.

“Please… Farkas…” You muttered under your breath.

Farkas pulled you up by your thighs and you wrapped your arms around his neck. He dropped you on the bed, oddly enough the little organizing you managed to do added so much to your comfort level. Farkas was on top of you, his mouth was hungry for yours and you were all too happy to oblige, you kissed him back, running your fingers through his long hair.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he admitted through gritted teeth, his hands undoing your blouse and groping your breasts.

“You don’t have to be…” You reassured him, his mouth was on your neck now marking you with his teeth as he pinched your nipples. You moaned in pleasure but with a hint of impatience, you squirmed under him pushing your hips up to feel some friction. “Please, please, I need you inside.”

He grunted before gripping your waist and forcing your hips down.

“It’s your first heat. I don’t wish to hurt you.” “I can take it, Farkas, please, my mate, I need you, need your cock,” you begged, your instincts completely overwhelming you with need. Farkas froze at your words before eagerly undressing the both of you in a rush.

You whined each time his hands left your skin, you felt feverish and aching with need. You were already soaked when Farkas pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, he looked down at you, his eyes dark with lust. You didn’t trust your voice to beg him again, so you tried to give him a pleading look hoping to get him to have mercy on you and give you what you were craving.

A broken moan left your mouth as he entered you with his length, Farkas seemed to be losing control, as you hoped, his patience and kindness giving place to his feral instincts to take and breed. He was fully in, save for his knot, when he started moving his hips fast and deep.

Your whines and moans were loud, you couldn’t help it, his tip was hitting deep into you and your body programmed itself to feel nothing but pleasure at this time. Your mind was completely gone, solely focusing on Farkas’ cock slamming into you with force and speed.

“Mine, mine, mine…” Farkas kept repeating and his words only brought you closer to climax, giving yourself completely to your mate to be owned and used to his content was embarrassingly arousing. “My mate… You look so beautiful, so needy for me, for my knot, you want me to stuff you full, hm?” You nodded rapidly, trying to let him know how eager you were without depending on your words, since you weren’t sure you could even string a sentence together. But that wasn’t enough for him, he pulled at your hair and growled into your ear. “Say it, say what you want.”

You whined, the sting in your scalp only fueling your pleasure, you looked up at him with an imploring look. “Farkas please, I want y-you to breed me please…”

He grunted, his pace steady as he looked into your eyes. “Do you? Then why did you wait so long to seek me?” He punctuated his phrases with deeper thrusts, making you cry out as he hit your deepest and sweetest spot. “Why parade around Jorrvaskr smelling this sweet and ripe for the taking? Were you hoping just any Companion would take you out in the hallway?” His voice was aggressive, possessive and it turned you on so much. “Skjor? My brother?”

You shook your head. “N-Never! Just you, I’m yours Farkas… Please!”

“Cum for me.” He growled and picked up the pace. You do. You saw stars when he reached deep inside you, the warmth of his body against yours and his teeth biting down your neck. Farkas wasn’t too far behind himself, his pace getting erratic and you could feel yourself yearn for his knot. “I’ll cum deep inside of you, my mate. Is that what you want?”

“Please… I need it, please, please…” You begged pulling him into another kiss.

His mouth devoured yours as he pounded you into the mattress, his own beast ordering him to breed you, to take you, to claim you. He thrust one last time into you, his knot plopping into you, locking you together as he buried his seed deep inside your pussy. He moaned against your ear, tugging your hair as you felt his breath on your skin.

You held each other for a second, catching your breath and letting the afterglow warm your heart. Farkas placed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your hair.

“I’ll take care of you, however many times you may need it, my mate,” he said, voice low and earnest. You hummed contently and nodded.

“Can we go once more?” You said and he chuckled.

“However many times you need it.” He repeated.

#skyrim fanfic #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim x reader #skyrim x you #skyrim x oc #tes fanfic #tesv farkas #farkas x reader #farkas x dragonborn #farkas skyrim #skyrim farkas

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armisteadrevellion · 1 month

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-breaks your door down-

MORE DRAGONBORN LUCIA CONTENT I BEG OF THEE

You’re gonna hate me…

I haven’t actually gotten around to writing the story yet 😭 although it’s remained at the back of my head for several years now, I only started recently thinking about it again in depth and fleshing out plot points/characters. Without spoiling anything, two of the major characters in it (besides Lucia and Teldryn) are Jenassa and Uthgerd! I don’t see them mentioned as often as other followers in fanfiction, which is sad because they’re some of my favorites. And the fact that they reside in the same city as Lucia is a no-brainer that they’d be included.

On the flip side— WOW I could not have foreseen how many people would be interested in it! I genuinely feel motivated to write it knowing that somebody may actually read it.

Lastly: here’s a little Lucia sketch I made a while back. Thank you so much for your interest!!

#the elder scrolls #the elder scrolls art #lucia skyrim #skyrim #skyrim art #tes #tes v skyrim #tes fanfic

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thana-topsy · 9 months

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Idk if you've discussed this before, but I saw on one of the asks you like to think about the magical side of things in TES, so was wondering: in your headcanon, which of the schools of magic are probably the most challenging to use and master?

Anon, I just need you to know that this ask sent me into an absolute fit of inspiration writing an entire treatise on this topic from Neloth's point of view, but judging by the amount of unfinished WIPs I'm working with at the moment, I didn't want to leave you (or this question) hanging for months.

I think the most challenging schools are the ones that require the greatest force of will, namely Alteration and Illusion, both of which require you to impose your will on the world around you.

With Illusion, you're manipulating the minds of others. I think @dirty-bosmer had a great passage exploring this from this post of her writing: "Sylawen flushed but rolled her eyes, then shut them. Illusion. She hated Illusion. She wished she could tell him illusion was for the weak, a field of mind games and emotions, just alteration without the grounding laws of physics. Alteration for people who were bad at math. Illusion required Sylawen to be too close to others' emotions, and though she hated to admit it, sometimes she simply didn't understand how other people were supposed to feel."

I IMMEDIATELY adopted that into my headcanons: Illusion is a school that requires you to have a tremendous amount of intuitive empathy to use effectively, which has so many twisted and interesting implications. A master of Illusion, then, might use it very sparingly.

With Alteration, you're directly impacting the world around you but still bound by the laws of the natural world -- creating shields, opening locks, transmuting metals, producing light (I don't care what Skyrim says, light spells are NOT Illusion?? make it make sense). But then there's the school of Thaumaturgy. (This classification was phased out by the time Skyrim came around, and then picked back up in ESO). I like having this distinction from Alteration. Thaumaturgy deals in changing the laws of reality, if only for a brief period of time -- breathing water, levitation, water walking, etc. I think this requires some of the highest skill to master. (I also feel like invisibility should fall under this school, but there's an argument to be made that you could use both concepts to reach the same end goal).

For a truly spectacular take on Alteration (without me splitting hairs about spell classification), I might suggest reading the beginning of chapter 93 (an excellent occult number) of @chameleonspell's Morrowind masterpiece "How to Disappear Completely", which forever altered the way I both view TES fanfic AND how I think about magic in Tamriel.

I'm going to leave my Mysticism rant for another day, because fwew I'll get lost in my own meta and this post is long enough. Thank you so much for asking!! As I said... I do love to talk magic.

#topsy's asks #elder scrolls #tes lore #elder scrolls lore #tes magical theory #tes headcanons #tes fanfic

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orfeoarte · 6 months

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WIP Whenever!

I've been SICK, and SCARED, and working on my thesis. My country is falling apart and so is my body. Let's party!

Tagged by @mareenavee @boethiahspillowbook @throughtrialbyfire and many more over the weeks. sorry, i love you!

tagging @drowsy-fantasy @changelingsandothernonsense @paraparadigm @polypolymorph @kookaburra1701 @elfinismsarts @thequeenofthewinter @tallmatcha @thana-topsy @saltymaplesyrup @archangelsunited @inquisition-dragonborn @gilgamish @snippetsrus @rainpebble3 @rhiannon1199 @skyrim-forever @caliblorn @sephirajo @thalwhore @dunmer @gortrash @dirty-bosmer @thescrolls-haveforetold @marimomoth @elavoria and the girl (gender neutral) reading this! feel free not to do your own, feel free to tag me when you do your own!

Have some Saathel being a little shit

Silence embraced the pair like a foggy blanket in the cold air, dew coalescing minimally into suspended crystals stinging their faces with an adder's mettle.

Faendal flinched, sinking into himself. Unlike Saathel, he wasn't all too dressed for the weather.

"C'mere, fur is large enough."

He was unlikely to accept the kindness she had decided to extend, unlikelier to even look past her ill-fitting furs and decide he could nest in their warmth; but he did.

"They don't like our sort 'round here," Saathel started, moving to a side so he could cover himself with her cloak.

"You don't say," Faendal snorted, blowing warm air into his hands and rubbing them together.

"Mmh-hmm, and I wanna make them hate me."

His amber eyes went dark, almost lifeless for a second. It scared Saathel how eerily similar he looked to that mare she had killed earlier. Like an open flame, it spread; she knew the name of the emotion that tangled with her thoughts when death and the waking world mingled in such a way. The bruise on his face was already an angry red.

He shook his head. "Not a good idea. If they hate you, they'll do anything to make you feel unwelcome. Trust me."

If she looked at it enough, there was a thread begging to be pulled there. One of history, ready to see the light. Just a question was required, and Saathel was drunk enough to pry: "Sounds like experience."

His expression continued on its darkened course. Anything to see it lighten, anything but the touch of a mage.

"Well, I made myself an enemy. Sven, the bard in there—" Saathel interrupted him with a too-tardy smirk, gesturing her hands along.

"Nord plucking the strings like he's fingerin' a lass?"

A loud snort, more giggles shared under that pelt. Sometimes beating up a stranger was a good conversation starter.

"Y— Hah! Don't say it like that. I'd rather not have to picture that." Once Faendal could calm his breathing down, he sighed, shook his head, and continued. "We fancy the same woman, Camilla. He's made my life here miserable ever since I started courting her."

An owl passed soundlessly over their heads, the night hunter casting a shadow on them when its wings hid the moon. Saathel grinned. Inspired by its flight, she too could be silent and deadly.

"Court her harder and better. Or set him up for failure."

She didn't even need to suggest that, apparently. Faendal's eyes glittered, alight with energy and scheming once more. To be in pursuit of one's desires… always, the sweetest part of the hunt is the chase itself. She knew that to be true even when dealing with heart-hunts. For his part, Faendal looked to agree.

He wet his lips, cast a glance towards the dying lights of the tavern, and smirked.

"Think you could help me with that?"

[...]

If there was something Saathel loved, it was sticking her nose in matters that were firmly none of her business.

#writeblr #fanficblr #tes fanfic #tesblr #oc: saathel #bosmer #faendal #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim oc #skyrim #WIGGLES im back? maybe?#my writing

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dirty-bosmer · 9 months

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Forgotten: Treacle

Here with my first and probably only @tes-summer-fest contribution of the year. I've been pretty busy this summer, but I'm happy to have participated at least once :)

Written for @atypicalacademic, who inspired me to continue Scar-Tail's story past his canon quest line. You were so right. He deserves happiness 🥲

summary: Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned, and though you may run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

warnings: non-graphic mentions of death and dissolution

Ao3 link: here

Scar-Tail doesn’t speak his name anymore, not even in his native tongue. He wonders, if enough time passes, will he ever forget its rhythm or will it quake within him always like a second bloodbeat? Some days he feels it trapped behind his teeth— the sibilant shape of it, the phantom weight of it, the gathering swell in the hollow pocket of his throat. The Hist still speaks it in his sleep where formless figures call him by the name his brother called him, and even in dreams the name is doused in venom. Even in dreams, the only ones who speak it want him dead.

The knife that sleeps beneath his pillow isn’t there when he reaches, but he feels it like the ghost itch of an amputated limb. His magelight flares. The looming darkness in the corner is revealed as merely shadow. Still he sleeps with the candle burning, for even shadow he is hesitant to trust these days as he was one once not very long ago, remembers that the darkness wears a sinuous smile, and he knows where it hides its teeth.

Two days, and he’s on the road again, a stranger bound to Nirn by a will and only a will. Rootless, unmoored, his body has become a foreign thing— spines ground down as the face sculptor recommended and belly fattened on unfamiliar foods. In Bruma, he discovered a taste for mead, and he likes it too much. The sweet amber color, the heady wave of its warmth. ‘Like drinking liquid sun,’ he told the barkeep, and it earned a laugh and another round on the house. These days he gets drunk on the smallest kindnesses. These days, he no longer feels like something trapped inside a jar.

If Ocheeva could see him like this, she’d recoil, wouldn’t recognize him. If Ocheeva could see him like this—

Citrine eyes in a face of jade scales. The memory sears sharp, but one day the fleshwork will heal the brand. He scratches at it, picks at it like an old scab, and strews the roadsides in eggshell and pale, stringy yolk as he births himself from the detritus of the life clinging to his heels.

Every new city demands that he is less of his past self, so he chokes it down and rolls new names on his tongue, hoping to forget the bitter taste of the Hist— Maheelus. Tanaka. Vetra-Mahei. Sings-in-Silver— but the sap runs through him like iron through a vein, and though Scar-Tail is fading, if the wind asked his name, what could he tell her? What could he offer if only breath?

—

Wake up one morning and find yourself dissolved beside the shadow left behind when Magnus pulled all darkness from the sky. When you leave the bed, you leave your old body too, a ghost peeled out from the pool that once was your lungs, and you wrangle its waters down a new stream, shape its banks to hold a new life. Touch the mirror. Touch your bare-faced spirit. Ask if it’s the same at the root now that you’ve stripped its branches clean. Become a new shape. Wear a new face that strangers wave to in the streets without fear, for you are a Saxhleel made of grafts. Look, all rough burls sanded down. Every scale is now smooth to the touch.

Yet the Hist still reads your scars, the ones you thought the magic had healed over, knows you bleed black sap when cut open. You are ku-vastei, cannot be gentled, will never be talcum soft, and when the Hist sees the man you’ve stuffed your soul inside of, it knows his smile required so many knives to be carved.

—

Salt crusts on his scales as the sea mist dries. “Haul,” the shipmaster says, and Scar-Tail does. He’s been in this town too long but the pay is good and the work is hard, and he’s come to find comfort in the foreign smell of human sweat. In the evening, his shift over, he wanders Taneth’s harbors for the breeze. There, Abrim finds him, always does. He guides Scar-Tail down to the taverns where the rest of his crew sits drinking away their gold, and Scar-Tail follows, drawn to his side like some heat-seeking whelp. Inside, he sits facing the door.

The torchlight throws dizzy shapes on the wall. The tavern churns, and all around him is a froth of people as thick as the head on his ale. He won’t feel the buzz until the fourth beer if he feels it at all, but even without it, he’s content here. Here in the briny stew of the seaport with the salt smell and the raucous laughter, the human heat wrapped around his shoulder. Willing himself to weightlessness, he lets Abrim rock him side to side in the rhythm of shanties he never had the chance to learn the words of. Even when he tries, the melodies don't fit in his mouth, but Abrim’s smile is reassuring. Abrim is gilded in the torch flame. Every part of him is a different shade of brown such that Scar-Tail needs only look at him in flickering light to feel he’s travelled all of Tamriel’s woods, seen every kind of tree there is.

—

Two weeks, and new callouses have formed on the pads of his palms. He relishes the rope burn, the way the thick braids abrade compared to the slender wires of a garrote wrapped tight around each fist. Staring at the old knots on his knuckles, he thinks, this is honest work. This is good work, and at night the only part of it that follows him to sleep is the vision of a stained shirt, gleaming skin in the sunlight, the sweat rolling off like beads of oil.

Abrim’s ship is packed and set to leave Taneth, and the next time Scar-Tail sees him, he knows it will be the last. The thought floods him with a new kind of fear. It sloshes cold in his chest, clings thick to every branch of his lungs. He thinks, this must feel like drowning.

But the evening air is dry and spiced in sunset reds. Scar-Tail breathes, regains his footing on solid land. At the taverns, Abrim is as he always is, and he is warm in color, deep in scent, rich in sea-spun stories that fill Scar-Tail with as much envy as they do wonder for the sailors and storm-weavers that long ago swam these waters. Scar-Tail wonders if the villains in these tales were star-made as he was, if their cradles were lined in rot like his nest was with razors. If born on a different day under the light of a different constellation, would they have been heroes? Would they have lived on forever in the hearts of men?

The tavern roar grows muffled at his ears as the crashing waves lull him into dream. He imagines himself a new life, resplendent in the awe of those who survive him, those who love him enough to sing his name to strangers too. In this life, his hands are bloodless. In this dream, he’s never held a knife. Could he have it one day? Can he live a small legend, erase enough of who he once was to one day hear his name spoken with full use of the tongue?

The wondering is ripe, ripe enough to overwhelm him. In the ale’s reflection, he sees the palimpsest he’s become. The pitted wound that is Scar-Tail forms a craggy mantle beneath his skin, and there is little give when he presses, the tissue tough beneath. He is still there no matter how hard he’s scraped, Scar-Tail, full of pride, a mutinous tremor through the din. Though it reaches him as only whisper, that name is wreathed in wire, and the recurved fang of its echo sinks deeper with every twist.

What will it take to strangle this voice that has stitched its dying breath inside his ears? When he hears it, he feels like a missing person, like a part of him has ceased to exist. A sickness rises inside him; he tastes himself decaying. For all the poisons he’s swallowed, now immune to, it’s the acrid tang of dissolution that sends him rushing into the night to spew his dinner into the sea.

Scar-Tail retches, turned over in a bout of vertigo. Abrim walks over and pats him on the back. “Uta-’mei, what’s wrong?” he says. “Can’t handle the drink? Come, let’s get you home.”

Scar-Tail coughs. “What did you call me?”

“I’ll explain it another night.”

“When?”

Abrim’s smile is a sliver of opal in the sandstone. “The next time,” he says, “Come on now. Stay close to me.”

And even if Scar-Tail never learns what Abrim meant, he knows that this name fits better than any he’s given himself before. He likes the feel of it, Uta-’mei, the liquor kick of it rising beneath the sour spit in his mouth, and decides that if he dies tomorrow with no one else to speak it, his ghost will scratch it into his own headstone before he completely disappears.

—

Wake up one morning and find the world you lived in gone to dust. You lay shipwrecked, bare to the bone, alone in the silver light of dawn. New flesh will have to be sculpted onto your frame, but you’ve paid someone do it before. You’ll do it again. This time, even your shadow has left you. ‘Good riddance,’ you say. You will have to remake that too.

The sand of your past life clings to your soles, chafes between every toe. You count the grains knowing it will be the last time its coarse edges erode you. Soon, you will bathe in cleaner waters, be free of it, be glistening, yolk-filled and new. Now that you’re here, and he’s gone—

No, now that he’s here, and you’re gone—

Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned and though you run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

Sweet child, the wind calls, have no fear. This shade was to preserve you from the blinding harshness of the day that will turn your eyes to water in your skull. Sweet child, look at you, so lost now. Look, curled up, all fetal, how your own reflection cows you. This shade was to serve you as much as you were to serve the god who wove it, and even with your claws clipped and your teeth hidden behind hand-carved grinning lips, your bones retain their shape, always will until you break them. Raise a hand. Press it to the foamy shoreline to obscure the rippling image beneath. Find each finger whittled to such a sharp point that your touch will forever bear the risk of drawing blood.

—

The shop windows taunt him from his periphery, but he will pass one hundred more if that’s what it takes to prove his presence. His footfalls are heavy, yet he persists, learns how to walk again, how to exert his body upon the world if only to feel it press up against his feet.

But it is enough to be above ground, free to float like a loosed leaf, released from the mire he was hatched into. The wind tugs on the knobs that are left of his spines, and if Scar-Tail lives, it is not in name but in this ever-changing shape, this new boundary layer surrounding each limb. And he chooses to live here. Here where the sun bakes the earth and the water pulls all moisture from his lips. Here, tasting the salt in the air, the sunshine golden-sweet, like mead. Drunk on its light, he chokes, spills past the brim, and when he laughs it’s because the first breath he ever took was smothered in darkness; all light he’d drank before had been drawn in through gasps.

One hand in the ocean, the water moves freely through his fingers. He couldn’t divert it, couldn’t destroy it if he tried. To his reflection, he offers the jagged slash of his smile, and he doesn’t care what gnarled image stares back. He says, “Name me. Call me by the sigh that leaves your lips when I’m within you. I shred myself apart to stand before you here, reborn, and did I tell you how it hurt, to push air out of these new lungs?”

The sun sets over the Abecean, bleeds a burnt orange that reminds him of the light that lived in Teinaava’s eyes when they were young. It is by some secret alchemy that a longing still brews for the brother who asked for his heart ripped clean from his chest. Yet he still feels it, yes, love for the brother who believes him now dead, who believes Scar-Tail had been the one to betray him. He will feel it always, he thinks. It’s the gift he’s given himself, to love unbidden, to love when no one wants it, to thirst for life in great bursts that swell within him like sap bubbling out of a wounded tree.

He cannot quell it, not even if he tried. It will ooze from him in the next life too.

Tomorrow, he will travel north to meet Abrim in Sentinel, or maybe he will cross the deserts and find another town to welcome him home, but when he leaves Taneth, he will shed his last skin, and he considers the last person to speak his name was a woman who had been hired to kill him. When she offered up his heart, what did his brother feel in return? Joy to have fed him back to the soil? Relief to return him to the root?

He hopes so.

#Scar Tail #the elder scrolls oblivion #tes fanfic #dark brotherhood #tesblr #I wrote most of this in the rainforest with @dumpsterhipster #wrote the rest on the plane home :D #treacle

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skyrim-forever · 9 months

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The Dragonborn's Inferno

Since my silly little post about wanting to write a crossover TES/Divine Comedy garnered a lot of interest I decided to go ahead and give it a shot! This is a little scene I'm working on for Canto I of Inferno.

Tagging those who showed interested in reading: @greyborn2 @lucien-lachance @thana-topsy @naturalbornlosers @ladytanithia @alicehealer @abstractredd @saffronornah @faenamoonseeker @notoriousbastardlover @alpha-centauriiae <3

Thank you so much for your interest it was really motivating, I hope you enjoy!

Canto I

Ascended half-way up the mountain I found myself obscured in snow Confused, and I knew I lost the way

There was no way to tell where I was The snow blowing wildly in the wind To remember it sends a shiver down my spine

The wind so biting, but not worse than death itself Arkay’s embrace had eluded me that day For there was good to be found on that mountain

The wind had cleared to let me see That I was at the Throat of the World All of Tamriel within my vision

I could see much further than any time prior From the Adamantine Tower in High Rock To the festering jewel of Black Marsh

But the view did not remain mine alone For from behind me came the roar of a troll A frost troll, one that I had recognized

Having fought this valiant foe before I was surprised to have found it again Especially now, on one such day

The troll lunges for my arm Narrowly dodging it’s fearsome claws I went to ready an attack

I did not have time to go on the offence For a golden figure appeared between the troll and I Reduced it to nothing but dust

“Have mercy on me you, you the man before me” I shouted to the figure A figure which transformed into a man

A man of simple robes And medium length tawny hair Stood before me, his smile warm

“No longer a man, but in my mortal life I was one. I was born in the Imperial Province A commoner, meant to fulfill a divine purpose.

My youth was spent in debauchery, Until I found the Divines. Who never intended for me to rule.”

How could I have not known? I open my mouth to speak Fearful of stuttering in his presence

“For you are Emperor Martin Septim,

The leader, the martyr, who died for Tamriel. You who embodied Akatosh in that great battle.”

I finished my statement by bowing Grateful that he had appeared to me To know that I did not walk this plane alone

“I come to you now, in my true form, Despite it all, in my heart I am but a priest, acting in his will”

Gesturing for me to stand up, I obeyed the Emperor To which he spoke again to me

“You who have lived a thousand lives Dragonborn does not cover the extent of you life” The Avatar of Akatosh tells me

“You who have been Listener and Guildmaster, Moon-born and Vampire, Stormcloak and Legionnaire”

I was humbled by his kind words That the Hero of the Oblivion Crisis And last true Emperor, would even speak to me

“You flatter me my liege But I stand but a humble individual Graced in your divine light”

And I continued to speak my praises “You who, along with the Hero of Kvatch Succeeded in destroying Mehrunes Dagon”

Through the grace of Akatosh, he laughed A slight chuckle in good will Divinity had only increased his kindness

“I say nothing that is untrue friend, For I who has always known you, See in my heart you, truly, as Akatosh’s chosen”

The Avatar of Akatosh himself Saw me as an equal, even if my actions Pale in comparison to his

“Please, my Emperor, tell me about that day! The day Kvatch was attacked!” I plead with him

A warm smile emerged on his face “I’m afraid most memories have left me, Memories of my dear friend are gone.”

“Though I may not remember their name, Nor do I remember their face, I do remember the warmth of their friendship”

His eyes closed, basking in the memories “But I do not you are not unlike them Both prisoners burdened by destiny”

A moment of silence fell between us I waited for the last Septim to break it To which he did

“We must make haste Dragonborn, For I have been asked to guide you. Another divine quest is asked of you”

And so we left that mountain The highest point in Tamriel Followed his lead into the void.

#skyrim #the elder scrolls #tes #tesblr #oblivion #Martin septim #dragonborn #dovahkiin #Dragonborn's inferno #the divine comedy parody #I tried to capture Dante's simping for Virgil #which isn't hard because it's martin #who wouldn't think he's the greatest #he is the greatest #skyrim fanfic #tes fanfic #fanfic #fanficition

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katastronoot · 5 months

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Baurus / Frieda (hok) oneshot

Just sayin this is short and cute and I thought of it last night and hasn’t left my mind. Also cute little illustration to go with it cus why not?

A Toast in Cloud Rulers Cupboard

Tap tap tap. Nimble fingers touched the fabric of his doublet. His eyes jolted underneath the ever growing pressure of his eyelids. What time was it? The moonlight still streamed through the patterned window. Dawn hadn’t arrived yet.

“Are you going to fall asleep standing up?” Her voice was lifted with an amusing snort. He rolled his eyes.

“I suppose if you are I can send you to sleep with the horses in the stables. I’m sure Ferrum would appreciate to sleep in a bed instead of his cot in the armory.”

Baurus smirked, “What do you need of me Frieda?”

She tugged on the fellow blade standing behind her. “Fortis here is going to take watch for the remainder of the night.”

His eyebrow furrowed in confusion. It was his position every night to be on guard behind the emperor’s door. He had a three hour break once the sun rose and then he would resume his duty accompanying Martin down to the dining hall for breakfast and then to his study. It was like clockwork every day. His routine was solid and impenetrable.

Fortis nodded with a smile that hid something behind the expression. He took note of Frieda’s gleam in her eyes. Her warm gaze more present than ever. He could have lost himself in it if it weren’t for the impending sensation that something was going on.

“I don’t like this.”

She laughed. The melody of her chuckling sent his heart beating to a faster rhythm. Drats! She was the only one that could ever break his composure. A smile slipped and it faltered once she took his hand. He swore he could feel the the heat that radiated from her through the thick layers of his gauntlet.

“C’mon Jauffre won’t mind.”

He hesitated. Jauffre would do nothing more than mind a disruption in his soldiers duties. Another tug and a smile got the thought fading away from his mind like a flyer drifting away in the wind.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She did exactly as planned as she pulled him away.

The smile she tried to hide had been breaking through as soon as she saw him drifting off to sleep on duty. He was always so stoic but had that little vise to him that reminded her of the little sheep dog she used to play with as a child. A puppy dog appearance through all of that rough exterior. She could have giggled. How funny to think such a way with all of the other havoc wrecking her mind. He always did one thing. Gave her a break from that.

“Might I ask where you are taking me? It has to be important considering you are pulling me away so suddenly.”

She nodded. “It is a matter of importance.”

Their steps reached a set of stairs leading down to the bed chambers. Her hand still rested in his as they made their descent.

He huffed, “I’m not sure your definition of importance matches mine.”

She chuckled, “Oh Baurus, don’t be so dour. It makes you show your age.”

Her eyes met his with a mischievous gleam. She saw the gears turn in his head. His smile fell.

“You aren’t.”

“I am.”

She opened the small wooden door at the end of the hall.

“Happy birthday!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He couldn’t help but assess the display before them. A part of him had to admit that it was impressive for what it was. The storage cupboard had been cleaned out to save space for a small seating area—two barrels and one cleared shelf. Upon the shelf sat two drinking glasses, a bottle of brandy, a dish of roasted chestnuts, and a quaintly iced and decorated cake.

He glanced back at Frieda. She smiled and shoved him in the room. “Hurry before someone sees. I had to set this up to keep out of curious eyes.”

“Jauffre.” He verified and she smiled. That gleam in her eye still outweighed all

“I thought this place would be best. I spent two hours cleaning it all up.” She commented as she seated herself. “You’re welcome.”

Baurus chuckled. His birthday. When was the last time he gave it any thought? Of course when the late emperor was still alive he always got well wishes on this day. Uriel Septim was a treasure to him. Not just because it was his duty but because the man did care about his men. His people. A twinge in his heart fell at that thought.

“I should be upstairs.”

Frieda huffed. “Sit down you oaf! We all deserve to celebrate our birthday!”

He did as told. The smell of the brandy already reaching his senses as she poured them both a glass. The cake smelled good too. His stomach rumbled. It had been a little while since he had eaten.

“Is that strawberry?” He asked and she nodded in a pondering way.

“You’re not sure? So I’m taking you didn’t make this?” He grinned as she blushed a little.

“No, I didn’t make it.”

“Oh Frieda…” He couldn’t help but to chuckle. She followed.

“Hey, the guy owed me a favor. I just uhm…called it in prematurely.”

He laughed, slicing into the desert. A cake, and it looked delicious. Stolen or not he was so grateful for this. For her.

“I hope you like it.” She grinned beneath her glass. “And before you ask, the brandy did not come from the prince of debauchery. I don’t think Martin would have approved…regardless of the fun we would have had.”

Baurus almost choked on the bite of cake. It’s flavor was almost to distract him from the thought. Was she aware of the effects her teasing had on him?

“Which reminds me. Be sure to leave him a slice out in the morning and a glass…Akatosh knows he needs it.”

He hoped that Frieda dismissed the added pinkness of his cheeks. He could run away then and there, demand to resume position but instead he picked up a chestnut. His thumb gliding agaisnt the smooth texture.

“I remember you telling me about always loving those.” She commented with a mouth full of icing. “I don’t really like em’ but they were easy to find and easy to roast. I used the smelter.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell Ferrum.”

It had been a while since he had them. Such a thoughtful thing for her to remember, a small little piece of knowledge to her and such a big memory to him. His lip upturned in an expression of happiness as well as sadness.

The flavor of the nut brought him back to that warm hearth fire he and his brothers sat around. Begging his mother to roast more so that they could help ease the chill of Bruma’s harsh snowy nights. They could never get enough and his kind compassionate mother always gave them just what they wanted—well when she was able.

“Oh I almost forgot!” He snapped out of the haze as he felt her touch his hand again, placing a full glass of brandy to his palm. She held up her own glass. “A toast!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What to say? She had rehearsed this in her head all day. A toast. A toast to one of the most dutiful and loyal men to serve our empire. A toast to my dearest friend always keeping me from trouble and my self corrupting antics. A toast to my best friend...A toast for the one that I hold so dear…dear in my heart.

A toast to the man I think I love?

She took a breath as she watched him smile and hold up his own glass. He had been quieter tonight. More than usual. It brought a small concern but that was easy enough for her to ignore.

“A toast.” She began, her heart rate beating quicker than before. She should have drank more before this. “A toast to one of the greatest blades in this temple. Jauffre might say otherwise but he’s not here now is he?”

Baurus chuckled. She eased a little. That was good, short and sweet. Their glasses clinked and that was that. No need to turn this into something something it shouldn’t be. Even if she wanted it to.

The spices of the brandy went down easy, quickly. They shared casual conversation. He asked her plenty about where she had been the last few days. Her answer was what it always was—don’t worry I’m fine. Those old ruins are there to be explored. No harm in it. I still have all my limbs. He then as always showed his concern for her well being and the action always caused her to feel warmth at her cheeks. A warmth not already induced from the brandy but it made a good coverage for her unwelcome display of emotion and fragility.

“Thank you for this.” He spoke softly. A gentle smile greeted her. Their bottle was almost empty.

“Of course.”

The candlelight was atmospheric. Warm and comforting as it casted from his deep brown eyes. She had to look away.

She remembered his eyes. The day when they first met. She was so fragile then so confused, misguided. Going from a ‘prisoner for murder’ to a ‘prophesied savior from the prince of destruction’ would do that to anyone. He showed her compassion and kindness. Helped to send her on this path.

Then she remembered those eyes. His lifeless eyes. He was dying. After the attack by the mythic dawn. Bleeding out in the sewers for Talos sake. The tears that she spent drained quicker than her magicka that day as she healed him. All of her strength was put into that. Any other day she wouldn’t have wasted that energy but she knew then and there that she had to save him because—

She couldn’t continue this journey without him.

The room had a steady turn as she looked around at all of the dusty wooden boxes and clouded jars that lined the shelves around them. That little buzz in her head kept her mind away from those spurts of clutter. It kept her mind wondering of a life where he wasn’t there. What would become of them once the battle was over? Would he still be here at her side? She only hoped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The brandy was hitting him more than he expected. What is in that? He wondered as he looked at the bottle. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised at this point if it were an elixir of sanguine. At least then it would explain why he was about to do what he was just about to do.

“Frieda.” His voice cracked. Damn this all.

She looked up. Her curly hair was in a mess every which way framing her flushed cheeks. There was an icing stain on her linen tunic from the cake they just shared—and finished. It looks like there won’t be a piece saved for the emperor after all.

He took a deep breath as he watched the room spin. A whistle sounded from outside, the wind resounding off of the Jerall mountains.

He felt warm lips against his. What? He instinctively reached out as ran his fingers through blonde locks. The kiss deepened and he submitted to the welcoming embrace. She tasted like honey and spice and berries and chestnuts and the earthy chill of the wind and—home.

She felt like home.

It felt like a lifetime and then it felt like it didn’t happen at all. Her mismatched blue and green eyes were looking at hers. He was in shock. She looked to be in shock.

“I—y you.”

She looked back at him with a twinge of what was it? Guilt.

“You beat me.” He murmured.

Her brows furrowed and she began to back away quickly before his arms grabbed to her shoulders unknowingly—stopping her from her retreat.

“I was just about to do that.” A soft admission. She began to laugh. A deep laugh ending in a snort, as she always did. He returned the laughter with his own.

They finished off the bottle and ate the last of the roasted chestnuts while seated on the stone floor. His arms engulfed her and she reveled in the feeling.

Frieda slowly nodded off to sleep thinking of the ways she would convince her fellow guild member for not kicking her out because of thieving inside the faction. She honestly didn’t regret it and so what if she got reprimanded.

The cake was delicious.

#I was needing to write more #and baurus and Frieda uwu #I love them #tes #tesblr #my writing #oneshot #oblivion #baurus #oc Frieda #hok #fan fic #elder scrolls #hero of kvatch #tes fanfic

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moriche · 6 months

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Inktober Day Twenty-Three: Celestial

Marks of Azura, the Urshilaku said, and they would know. They worshipped Her: the Daedric Prince of Dawn and Dusk, who carried the moons upon her brow and the stars within her hand. She, who governed twilight and the in-between. She, whose domain was Prophecy, and on whose equinox he’d been born. Nerevar had been Her champion, choosing his sigil in Her honour — and Azura had changed the Chimer in outrage at his death. “You’ve got the wrong person,” he told the crackling fire. “Your own Ashlanders are right when they say I’m more Imperial than Dunmer.” From Fear in a Handful of Dust

India ink and red watercolour on paper, 10,5 x 14,8 cm

#morichedraws #morichesfic #elder scrolls #tesart #tes #art #tes art #tesblr #azura #skyrim #morrowind #fanfiction #tes fanfic #inktober #inktober 2023 #artists on tumblr #traditional art

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throughtrialbyfire · 7 months

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WIP Wednesday lets goooooooo

man, i'm glad it's wednesday!! it's been a tough one on my end, but it's the best day of the week, and i've been having a blast reading through/looking at everyone's wips today!!

thank you to the phenomenally skilled and talented @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me!! i love seeing what you're all up to this week, expect unhinged tags on your works soon!! <3333

i'm passing the beacon to @gilgamish @orfeoarte @caliblorn @aphocryphas @totally-not-deacon @wispstalk @your-talos-is-problematic and anyone who'd like to hop in!!

this is from chapter 25 of "Cycle of the Serpent" and fresh off the presses! this is shaping up to be the longest chapter since chapter 10 at 3,132 words as of right now, and this snippet contains most of it. of course it's going to go through the editing ringer before it gets posted, but i'm pretty satisfied with how it's turned out!

the dragonborn trio is tackling fort hraagstad in hopes of acquiring an imperial pardon, and things take a bit of a turn…

have fun. ;3

quick content warning for canon-typical violence

The first to fall. The first to bleed. Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack. One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud and felt Athenath wrench a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits in Bleak Falls Barrow. Jarl Balgruuf's gift was very kind, the armor of Whiterun, but they were in Haafingar, and they were no guards. So, his gifted armor lay in a chest in the Winking Skeever, finally off their backs, along with any items they wished to spare the hell of battle. As soon as he was on his feet properly again, he felt the brunt of a shield crash into him. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above him about to crash one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. He clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort. Five. He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles unclenching, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolates under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name he refused to speak aloud. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath walk backwards along the higher pathway of Fort Hraagstad, a bandit inching closer and closer. "Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as gutted now." Athenath narrowed his gaze, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps. Wyndrelis watched. His chest tightened. Something was deeply wrong.

Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to communicate this, Emeros had flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the bandit, and once he could sense no life in them, he pulled it off, boot to their hipbone. "Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros' attention drawn to their surroundings. Six. Wyndrelis waited. He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He didn't want to think of what the mud contained now. He dismissed his spectral mace. Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life. Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he breathed a shaking sigh of relief. "Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further." "What further?" Athenath shot back, throat creaking slightly, "I thought we were done." Wyndrelis shook his head, gesturing with his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down."

Wounds treated, the trio gave a long, hesitant look to the door leading down into the fort. Wyndrelis, reaching for his corporeal mace, furrowed his brow. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his magicka into it to make it stronger, to ensure it lasted, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event they ran into any more bandits. Which, of course, he was sure that they would. Athenath leaned against the door. "We ready?" He whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow. "Open the door slowly, I think we need to take some precautions." He watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down, and slowly pressing their hand to the door. Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar, moreso. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems, but it was all in the name of being able to traverse Skyrim safely. So, he would fight. As soon as the door parted, Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, which they did, creeping low to the ground and carefully in the stone dark. Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the anxiety in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the emerging fears that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level. All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for more bandits, more of their kin, to come running and to search every crevice for the trio.

In an instant, chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, deer in flight from a lion, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through it's winding depths. The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall into Aetherius here, here of all places- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his spine now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join. Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end. He felt his spine against cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? The steps, slow and readied, down the stairs echoed in the room. The bandits knew that they had their prey in their clutches. No need to rush things. What could three little elves do? What good were they in this fight? Wyndrelis inhaled deeply. He exhaled. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast sharp, terrified glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panicked eyes. Emeros' own, stone-cold, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds. This offered nothing but a grave. A grave. Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no. No, no, he knew there were other options. And as much as he didn't like it, he knew what he had to do. He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. Calm settled over the Dunmer's features. He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a purple, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.

#skyrim fic #tes v #tes v fic #tesblr #tes v ocs #skyrim ocs #fort hraagstad #fort hraggstad #writeblr #ficblr #skyrim fanfic #tes fanfic #cycle of the serpent #my writing #bishop.txt #oc ; wyndrelis #oc ; emeros #oc ; athenath

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poisonheadcrabsalesman · 5 months

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An artfight attack on @kogo-dogo of their fic "The Scourge of Vvardenfell" featuring Karsaga, a Khajiit with the worst luck. He's not a hero, he's a criminal, and he's not your damn lackey - if he can help it.

#I'm not sure how to tag this #tes fanfic #Morrowind #fic tag #kogo-dogo #my edits #read my friend's writing!#it's a very fun read

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your-talos-is-problematic · 24 days

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WIP Wednesday (pronounced wed-ness-day)

Hello! Thank you to the wonderful @skyrim-forever and @thequeenofthewinter for the tags! I’ll pass it on to @throughtrialbyfire and @trickstarbrave :D

I’ve taken to writing during class so I’ve got quite a bit to share! This is the progress on chapter 3 of I Won’t Ask You to Wait, Afonya and Brelyna’s 3rd Era AU. Enjoy the exposed bones of my writing process (those bullet points) and some cuteness between Brelyna’s parents. This one’s getting long so it might have to be split into two chapters, honestly.

————————————————————————

Not much happened for the rest of the day. I walked back to Bal Ouada, earning some strange looks from its residents. Guron was, as I expected, both happy for me and annoyingly pleased with himself. I picked up my few possessions, said goodbye to the four mercenaries who had been the closest thing to friends I’d had for months, had a drink for good measure, and prayed to the Tribunal that Brelyna and I would keep getting along.

Breakfast with Linjard, recieve tanto + armor

Describe room

The sound of approaching footsteps cued me to look up. A pale hand drew back the curtain- Linjard. I’d gone to bed early the night before, so we hadn’t officially met. He stepped into the room, holding two stacked bowls in one hand. He was still the typical Nord I’d seen the other day: long blond hair, gray eyes, skin closer to the color of snow than of ash. He set down both bowls on his nightstand. “Morning, Afonya.” He gave his greeting in the Tamrielic language.

“Good morning,” I responded. He turned away from me to unstack the bowls. My best guess was that one was for him and one was for myself, so I settled onto the floor to eat. Giving up on finding a polite way to frame the question, I asked, “Do you speak Dunmeri, Linjard?”

He turned to me. “Oh. Yes, but apologies for any mispronunciation.” He sat across from me and set down the food.

I laughed. “Same goes for me in Tamrielic. I know I have a thicker accent than most.”

“You’re fine. In work-related matters, Ulvin brought Brelyna’s breakfast to her today, but that should be your responsibility from now on. Six in the morning.”

“Got it,” I said, before taking a bite of the food. It was good- a traditional noodle topped with a thin meat.

He gestured toward his own bowl. “The food’s not bad, right? Ulvin’s good at what he does. When I first started working here, I was worried they wouldn’t give us meat.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Whole family’s vegetarian. Whole House, actually.”

“Oh. Can’t believe a Nord knew that and I didn’t.” I paused. “Sorry.”

He waved it off. “You’re fine. I’ve gotten a lot of that.”

I nodded, searching for another subject. “How long have you worked here?”

“About twenty-five years, I think. My first and last job since leaving Skyrim.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said.

I looked around. “So I’ll probably die in this tower.”

He laughed. “With your job, probably not in it. Near it, likely.” I don’t think either of us knew what to say after that. “Sorry. That was dark. On to lighter matters. Do you play a string instrument?”

I was taken aback. “I do, actually. How did you know?”

He leaned forward to tap the fingers of my right hand. “Callouses. And not in the place a fighter’d have them,” he observed. I smiled. “Can I see it?”

“Sure,” I said. I’d placed the silk-wrapped violin against the wall, next to my makeshift bed. It was an import from the Summerset Isles, made of dark, expertly-cut wood and accompanied by a bow I’d re-haired myself a few times. A well-loved instrument, and for good reason; its tone was unlike anything I’d ever heard. I gently tilted it towards Linjard. “I’ve had it since I was fourteen. Most expensive thing I own, actually.”

“Not since you’ve held that,” he said, gesturing to the tanto, which I’d placed next to me. “Lord Maryon spares no expense for his daughter’s safety.”

I picked it up and lightly traced the blade with my finger. “Or for symbols of his social status.”

He laughed. “It’s probably both. Your armor’s good bugplate, too. Traditional Telvanni make. Sorry if any part doesn’t fit.”

Aular lesson

I turned. A tall woman stood behind me, hands on the doorway. Given her distressed brown robe, tangled black hair, and wrinkled face, this was probably Brelyna’s mother. I bowed.

Serjo Maryon didn’t look that upset at being interrupted. “Talmia,” he said with a smile. “Are you joining us?”

She frowned. “I have a lesson with my daughter.”

“At five, love. It’s three.”

“I thought I had her at three.” Both of them talked as if Brelyna wasn’t in the room. I made eye contact with her; she looked slightly uncomfortable but not nervous.

“Do you need her now?” he asked.

“I can wait,” she said. It was only then that she seemed to notice I was in the room. She jumped. “Who’s this?”

Serjo Maryon set down his notes and stood up to meet his wife. Next to her, he looked a lot less intimidating, in both height and demeanor. He placed a hand on her forearm as if he actually enjoyed her company. It was strange. “This is Brelyna’s sword and shield. Afonya, remember? I’ve explained her to you.” He fully turned his head towards her, something I realized he hadn’t done with anyone else.

She stared at me for a few seconds; not in the judgmental way her husband did, but like it was just her way of looking at people. She nodded and turned to leave.

“Eat something, love,” Serjo Maryon called after her.

The rest of the lesson continued in a way that I assumed was standard, for the two of them.

lunchtime

lessons with talmia

Master Maryon was definitely closer to the stereotypical Telvanni mage than her husband.

#running out of creative titles for these posts lol #tes #tes fanfic #wip wednesday

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