#[skyrim guard voice] must be the wind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

argisthebulwark · 1 year

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i want to share this with you, maybe you like it, maybe you dont but in my heart i’ve never stopped wanting to become a princess in the future, yknow? like fuck corporate jobs, i wanna be a princess. but im also like addicted to the whole princess becomes somewhat rogue outlaw?

okay so, bryn breaking in some rich peoples home (or maybe a castle) only to find the lass of his dreams. im picturing something like tangled, except this motherfucker would definitely kidnap someone. for shits n giggles

listen i haven't seen tangled in like a decade but the vibes are immaculate. i do not want to have a 'job' or 'responsibilities' i simply want to chill. and i DO like it so much im sorry this took forever lmao

Just imagine Brynjolf hearing that some wealthy family has bought land in the Rift and getting giddy with excitement. They've made it obvious that their intention is to clear away the crumbling remnants of an old castle and rebuild. He keeps an eye on the construction, impressed with the sheer magnitude of the structure they're building. He rarely sees the owners, only workers.

When the construction ends and they begin work on the interior his interest wanes. He knows that it takes months for wealthy people to decorate their homes. Besides, he'll see it soon enough. He merely needs to wait for them to fill it with enough valuables to keep the Guild afloat.

(nothing nsft - i just write a lot)

Every once in a while Brynjolf checks in. He watches workers laying floorboards and hanging chandeliers. Furniture and appliances are carted in. He has no clue how many people will live in the castle or why they need so much stuff. When the paintings and bookshelves are finally hung he knows that it must be almost complete.

Despite the completion of the castle he notices that it remains dark. Whispered rumors around Riften hint that the family is traveling from far away, possibly even making the long journey from Solstheim. Others claim that the family built it only to sell to another wealthy family. Brynjolf doesn't care enough for the lives of rich folk to investigate their personal lives.

Returning from an unpleasant job in Dawnstar, Brynjolf is exhausted. His feet dragging and pack too light he's dreading the hopeful eyes of those waiting in the Cistern. Just as he's formulating the speech to explain the situation something catches his eye - there, flickering in the distance. The castle's curtains are thrown open and candles cast shadows upon the manicured lawn below.

Before he realizes what he's doing Brynjolf is crouched in the shadows of the castle's hedges. He's eyeing the broad windows and watching overdressed bodies squeeze in and out of view. The owners must be celebrating their arrival with every member of Skyrim's upper class.

They hardly hired any guards around the place. Brynjolf spots a few well-dressed employees that seem more focused on checking invitations than watching for thieves. His heart's in his throat when he scoots into the silence of the back garden.

The castle is large and spindly but one tower stands a few feet above the rest. It has to be their vault. The windows on this tower are thrown open but the lights are low, as if not wanting to draw attention. Brynjolf is grateful to the sharp new stones as he clambers his way up the side of the tower.

Sweat beading on his brow, Brynjolf grasps one last ledge. Voices float up from the garden but he doesn't waste his time - if they'd spotted him their tone wouldn't be so relaxed. A balcony at the tower's peak blocks the pesky moonlight from illuminating his hurried hop into the tower.

The staircase winds upward into the darkness. Sconces along the walkway are unlit and his footsteps are silent on the polished steps. His heart races with every step and Brynjolf finds himself envisioning what awaits at the top - chests full of gems and coin, jewelry if he's lucky. He's calculating how much space is left in his pack when he comes across the final door.

It's firmly shut. No visible locks but it doesn't budge - must be locked from the inside. Had he missed another entrance? The staircase winding up to the peak makes it impossible for a ladder to be hidden somewhere and he doubts that any of the nobles laughing and eating in the main hall are able to scale the walls.

The rational part of his mind urges him to return to the Cistern emptyhanded and create a viable plan but morbid curiosity leads to a quiet knock on the door. He waits, shocked to hear locks sliding open one by one.

"I already told you, I'm not interested in your pathetic suitors!"

When the door is wrenched open, Brynjolf is stunned. The most beautiful woman he's ever seen is glaring at him with enough venom to kill. Her fingers tap impatiently on the door as if waiting for his explanation.

"Well?" She prompts, voice sharp. "Which one sent you?"

"What?" Did she think he was from the Dark Brotherhood?

"Was it my mother or father?"

"No one." He answers curtly, ignoring the way his heart races. Surely it's from the panic of getting caught and has nothing to do with the woman glowering at him. Brynjolf pointedly ignores the way her face softens when she eyes him, noticing his attire.

"I heard the Thieves Guild was based in the Rift." Her head tilts and Brynjolf's heart skips at her words. "I didn't think you'd be so quick considering the state of your group."

"You're wrong, lass." Brynjolf lies through his teeth, surprised when she finally smiles at him.

"Oh good." She steps aside as if welcoming him. "I think we could help one another."

"How?" Brynjolf is careful, never looking away from her in case she's a threat. It has absolutely nothing to do with the alluring way she spoke or her nimble fingers braiding hair out of her face.

"I've been trapped with my family for ages." She mutters, tossing her robe aside to reveal basic clothing unlike those downstairs. "Not literally, of course, but socially. I'm chaperoned and shown off to every unmarried man on the continent with enough coin to his name. If I hadn't locked myself up here they'd be parading me around to whoever owns land in the Rift."

A nasty, jealous feeling leaves Brynjolf unsettled. He doesn't even know her name but dislikes the thought of her being treated like some animal to be sold off. He already knows he's going to agree to whatever she proposes when she faces him again, eyes full of hope.

"How can we help each other?" His voice remains neutral despite the excited fluttering in his chest.

"My parents are terrified of the Thieves Guild. Scared enough that if their eldest daughter were kidnapped I'm sure they'd pay a handsome fee to get her back."

"Sounds more like the Brotherhood or even some of the bandits." His attraction to her battles against the instinct to protect the Guild's failing image. "Thieves don't generally kidnap, lass."

"Then teach me to be a thief." She grins at him and Brynjolf knows she's won. "I can't stay here and rot in this tower or be married off to someone I hardly know."

"I'll keep you around if you're helpful." Brynjolf grumbles and savors the way her arms fling around his neck, treating her kidnapper like a savior.

"Okay!" She bounces to her desk, digging around until she finds some parchment. "Would you like to write the ransom note or shall I?"

#sorry if this isn't exactly what u wanted i've listened to soldier poet king on repeat and this is what came out #if this goes well i'll continue this sometime because. i love a good mentor/mentee fic #skyrim #asks #brynjolf #tes #writing #beloved mutuals #tesblr

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blossom-adventures · 1 year

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Another prompt from the 50 Skyrim prompts list, that @alxxiiswrites gave me in the @nirnwrote discord server

5. A visit to their favourite city

Jaina took a few steps onto the great stone bridge of Windhelm, she looked across to the city, she let out a sigh

“Home at last,” it had been nearly 2 months since she was last here and she had missed it… she’d missed the cold, the snow, the bitter winds, but what she had missed the most was probably sitting on the throne waiting for her.

Inside the city walls she saw the usual sights; the residents making their way to the market, the guards on patrol and the priest and priestess of Talos were opening the temple doors, ready for the morning’s visitors.

“Good morning, Dragonborn,” the old beggar, Silda, called to Jaina as she walked through the city

“Morning, are you well, Silda?” Jaina asked as she handed over 10 septims

“Much better now, divines bless you my lady”

“It should be enough for a room at Candlehearth, take care Silda, must dash, I’m expected at the palace”

Upon opening the doors she saw Galmar talking to Freya, Ulfric was not in the throne room

“Oh…” Jaina huffed “I was going for a grand entrance and he’s not even here to enjoy it”

“Good to see you too Snow-Hammer, he’s in his study”

“Thanks Galmar” Jaina’s voice was happy and playful… she really had missed this place.

She knocked on the door to Ulfric’s study and stepped in, the look on his face as he saw her made her smile

“You’re back”

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #dragonborn #tesv #ulfric stormcloak #oc: jaina #blossom's oc #tes ocs #blossom's prompts

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loverboy-inc · 10 months

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The streams of thick, orange clouds barreled over the city skies, blending into the blues and greens of a horizon that encircled the landscape for miles on end. As the gates parted and they left the miles of plains behind, the high grasses replaced cobblestone streets and winding waterways that lined the city walls, throughout the city and all around, providing an ever-present background radiation that seemed to clear the air of all uncomfortable silences. Guards patrolled idly through, some beginning to pass out torches to their fellow guards as they anticipated the oncoming nightfall. Whiterun was bustling, for all the city could be at this hour. It wasn't a sprawling metropolis like any of the trio had been expecting, but it was still wide and spread over the hills, dozens of homes and businesses dotting the roads up the hills which must have lead to the castle they'd been eyeing from the distance as they walked. "We'll pay whatever it takes," came the voice of a formidable man, part of his blond hair tied back from his sturdy face, "but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers," The woman he spoke to leaned casually against the post of what appeared to be the local blacksmith shop, her face ruddied from heat, smudges of soot here and there at her cheeks, "I just can't fill an order that size on my own. Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?" "Ha!" The man chortled, then continued, "I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak. Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the Legion." "Have it your way. I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle." She watched the man in Imperial armor turn and walk off towards a cluttering of stalls in what appeared to be the market square, before turning her eyes on the group, "Got some good pieces out here, if you're looking to buy. More inside." Emeros approached, wolf pelt wrapped tight in his arms, "Do you work the forge all day?" He asked, observing the surrounding equipment. The anvil, the smelter, the work bench.

#skyrim #tesblr #skyrim fic #tes v #tes v skyrim #bishop.txt #.doc #skyrim fanfiction

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vaesha-draecon · 2 years

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The Shadows of Madness (Prologue)

Skyrim… The land of unforgettable cold. The history of this land runs deep, hiding even the darkest of secrets. Many have tried to uncover these secrets, but were proven unsuccessful. That is why I was sent here, to prevent what is meant to stay buried… from seeing the light of day. That is, until I met him.

***

The sensation of Daedric steel brushing along my neck caught my attention. Somehow I wasn’t able to sense the presence of my foe until they got the better of me.

“Who are you, and what is your purpose here?!” my foe growled, feeling his breath at my nape.

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I tried to get my bearings. From what I was able to make out, my foe was male and he seemed tall. I had to regain the advantage, one wrong move and I would be counted amongst the dead in this ruin.

“I said,” his grip tightened, the blade cutting deeper into my neck “who are you, and what is your purpose here?”

“I could ask the same for you!” I snapped.

“I asked first!”

“You don’t even belong here!”

“Says who?” I replied smugly

“You’re not privy to that information!”

“Look,” I sighed “we can keep at this until the end of the era,” my foe’s grip was strong, any chance of getting free of it was futile, “or you can let me go and we can get better acquainted with one another, your choice”

It went silent for a moment, save for the sound of the wind passing through the cavern and the occasional drip of water. Finally, after an audible sigh, my foe’s grip loosened and I no longer felt the kiss of Daedric steel across my neck. With my freedom returned, I slowly turned and faced my foe, taking in his features.

Just as I thought, he was tall, at least a whole foot taller than me, and he was well built. Not too bulky, but not too slender either; and he was a Vampire too. Whoever he was, he wasn’t some ambitious fledgling looking to claim some territory. No, this man had an aura about him that screamed ancient Vampire. It was obvious how he was able to sneak up on me, let alone having me in a vice grip.

The elder Vampire looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer his demands. Smirking I gave a half-measured curtsey,

“Vaesha of House Ravenwatch, perhaps you heard of them?”

“That group of meddlers is still around? I thought they disbanded centuries ago!”

I feigned shock, earning an eye roll from the stranger.

“We’re still here, smaller than what we were, but still meddling in your affairs” I chuckled “Now, I believe it is your turn to tell me who you are,”

“Not until you tell me your purpose here!”

I wagged my finger, clicking my tongue in the process,

“Now, now, we must show proper etiquette. I tell you my time, and you tell me yours, then we may exchange pleasantries. Honestly, who taught you your manners?”

The stranger held back a retort, then straightened his posture before giving a polite bow,

“Very well, I am Sedric Volkihar, of Clan Volkihar, the Vampire elite of Skyrim,”

“Was that so hard, Princess?” I cocked my head to the side with a playful smile.

“Don’t call me that!” Sedric snapped “now tell me what your purpose is in Dimhollow Crypt! You are trespassing on Volkihar territory!”

“Oh really? That is what this place is?” I feigned ignorance for the moment “I would have never known if it weren’t for the non-existent tapestries and guards!”

“Enough games!” Sedric’s eyes flashed in anger, his fingertips started to flicker with Magicka.

“Fine,” I relented, suddenly weary of our bickering “We, as in House Ravenwatch, received reports of activity in the area, and sent me to investigate,”

“So they sent a lone runt of a Vampire into a den of beasts? My how the mighty has fallen,”

“I’m a lot stronger than I look, Princess,” I winked at him. “Now what brings the Princess all the way to a dank cavern in the middle of Skyrim, away from his luxurious castle?”

“I told you to stop calling me that!”

“My apologies your grace,”

“Enough!” Sedric’s voice echoed throughout the cavern, his fangs barred for a brief moment “I’ve had enough with your games!” he lunged at me, taking me by my shoulders and pinning me against the cold, damp rock wall.

“Well, normally I’d have dinner and a date before we reach this stage,” I teased. The wonder I haven’t met my demise yet astounds even myself at this point.

“You are the most incorrigible wretch I have ever met!”

I open my mouth to give a clever rebuttal, but pause when I start picking up the distant sound of footsteps and the shuffling of armor.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but in about five minutes we are about to have company, and by the sounds of it, they aren’t the friendly type,”

“I realize that,” Sedric hissed, before muttering a few colorful words under his breath.

“Tick-Tock, your highness, they will be upon us at any moment, and I think they’re armed,” glancing around the area for a place to hide, Sedric released me from the wall and took up my wrist, pulling me deeper into the ruins down a dilapidated corridor.

“My lord, what’s going on? Who’s this?” asked a cloaked Vampire who came rushing from an alcove beside us.

“We don’t have time, Nikolai, The Dawnguard approaches,”

The Vampire Sedric called Nikolai swore under his breath and hurried over to a weathered door, gesturing us to follow. It hadn’t occurred to me at the moment, but I wasn’t sure why Sedric was even bothering to bring me along. I was, after all, trespassing on his clan’s territory, or so he claimed.

I was dragged down a musty, narrow corridor until we reached what seemed to be an old dining hall. Sedric gave a swift tug, yanking me forward before releasing my wrist. I stumbled forward, regaining my balance before I fell onto the ancient tiled floor.

“Hey, watch it!” I snapped, abruptly turning to face Sedric and his mysterious companion “you seriously need to learn how to treat a lady!” I feigned brushing dirt from my clothes, earning a sneer from Sedric.

“Now then, before we were rudely interrupted, you were about to tell me your purpose here, weren’t you?”

“I do believe you have not earned that right,”

“Very well,” I shrugged, turning away from Sedric and moving over towards an overlook “then, would you mind telling me why the Dawnguard are here armed to the teeth?”

“Why do you need to know?!” the cloaked Vampire growled “who are you even?!”

Sedric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose,

“Her name is Vaesha, and she is with the dilapidated House of meddlers,”

“I would consider us more, how to say it, dispersed, than, dilapidated,” I turned to face the duo “also, we aren’t meddlers,” I walked towards them and held out my hand towards Nikolai,

“Vaesha Draecon, at your service”

Nikolai suddenly stiffened before letting out a worn out groan,

“By the nine, it just had to be you!” Nikolai brushed away my hand and reached up to lower his hood. I raised my brows in astonishment.

“Hello, brother,”

“Molag’s balls!” Sedric exclaimed throwing his hand over his eyes in disbelief “you didn’t tell me you had a sister, an annoying one on top of that,”

“Believe me sir, I wish I didn’t,” Nikolai turned to Sedric “I didn’t find in necessary information since we haven’t seen each other in a few decades,”

“Alright, family reunion aside, can we please get to the bigger picture here?” I sarcastically waved to get their attention “Why is the Dawnguard hot on your tails? In fact, why is the Dawnguard even around, they disbanded sometime in the Second Era!”

Nikolai looked to Sedric, then back to me, sighing in defeat,

“A rogue group of vampires seeking to gain influence in Harkon’s court decided to lay waste to the Hall of the Vigilant, as well as terrorizing the holds across Skyrim, and we were sent to find them and dispose of them before they put our clan in jeopardy.”

I looked to Sedric,

“There, was that so hard?” I asked “anyway, it’ll explain why House Ravenwatch sent me out to investigate. However, my trail brought me to Dank Hollow Tomb”

“Dimhollow Crypt” Sedric interjected.

“Whatever!” I threw my arms up in the air, then starting to pace back and fourth “someone has been very naughty and made a huge mess of themselves that I have to clean up!” I abruptly turned for Sedric “just think Princess, if you would have told me this from the beginning, you would have dealt with your unruly ruffians and I would be on my way back to give my report and we’d never cross paths again. But now we’re hiding from a reformed group of Vampire hunters!”

“How is this my fault? You were the one trespassing!”

“And? I tried knocking, but no one answered my knocking at the cavern entrance. Also there were no signs that said: “House Ravenwatch, keep out!” so I just let myself in,”

“By the divines you’re making me wither away,” Sedric groaned, rubbing his temples.

Our bickering was interrupted by loud rumbling echoing throughout the chamber. Sedric, Nikolai, and I ran towards the overlook. Down below we saw two figures in what seemed to be a large arena.

“It couldn’t be…” Sedric muttered as he watched one of the two figures in the distance.

“Couldn’t be who…?” I asked turning, to Sedric.

But before I could pry any more information from him, Sedric turned to Nikolai,

“Come on, we have to return to the castle, Lord Harkon needs to hear about this!”

“Uhm, excuse me, what about me?” I asked as I watched the two Vampires rush about the chamber, gathering up various items and rapidly stuffing them into satchels. I quickly took hold of Sedric’s arm, yanking him towards me so I could get some answers. Despite him being much older, and thus much stronger, I tightened my grip on him.

“What? Can’t you see I am busy?” he snapped.

“Clearly,” I replied “whoever that is, it sure has you in a frenzy, do you mind telling me who that is?”

Sedric tightened his jaw, looking to Nikolai, then back to me,

“Someone who we all thought lost and has something very important to Lord Harkon,” Sedric ripped his arm from my grasp and turned to Nikolai, gesturing for him to follow “and she might be in danger,” Sedric and Nikolai brushed passed me, heading towards another hidden corridor.

“We must leave,”

“What am I going to tell House Ravenwatch? Maybe they can offer aid?” I asked.

“Tell them nothing. They won’t be able to help us,” and then he was gone as the cavern vanished behind a hidden door. I pondered on his words for a moment before glancing down towards where the two figures once stood. Even with my Vampire sight, I could barely make out their forms as they were heading deeper into the ruins of the crypt.

I never returned to House Ravenwatch after that day, and It would be several months before I saw Sedric again.

#The shadows of Madness #Sedsha #Sedric #Vaesha #Elder Scrolls #The Elder Scrolls #Skyrim #Vampire #OC #tes #tes vampire #Skyrim oc #tes v skyrim

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bitchwhoreofastorm · 3 years

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"Drem yol lok," whispers a voice like a fragrant wind, rousing Barfok from her thoughts.

It is rare, for a woman like Barfok to be lost in her thoughts, but this is a rare occasion. She's sitting at the edge of the grand platform at Bleak-Falls, her legs dangling off into cold thin Skyrim-air, well away from the chaos of the after-moot festivities. It is a strange occasion, this hogithum, attended by three shards of a splintered empire and turned controversial by the presence of an ignoble southern empress-- there's much to think about, so much that even Barfok, the young precocious prodigy of Ysmir, might wander away from the singing and sit on a ledge and get lost in her thoughts.

She does not turn around, healthily wary of unexpected greetings. "Nax od gol," she replies, an edge of laughter in her voice.

"Is this how you greet a fellow-Tongue?"

"Aye, Ysobel, that's how I do it."

Dangerous, but when Barfok looks back she sees that the Reach-witch is wearing a wolf's smile. Silhouetted by distant firelight, Ysobel Pale-Heart is tall and antlered and ethereal, the lines in her face catching faint slivers of flame-orange. Even her grinning teeth look red.

Ysobel draws forwards to the edge, and Barfok hauls herself to her feet to greet her properly. They do not touch, but stand close together, looking out into the blackness beyond the stone platform.

"I'm here to thank you for the dance," says Ysobel after some time. Her breath is hot and swirls around them in eddies, like a gust over a plains.

Barfok shrugs. "Thank you for joining in with us. The look on Olaf's face! I don't pity him, though. If he didn't want us singing over his cruddy speeches, maybe he should shut his mouth, huh?"

"I liked that song. You call it the Ballad of Ysmir?"

"Ah, just a little thing I wrote."

"It's very good. You have a lovely voice."

Blushing in the darkness, Barfok shoves her hands into her trousers and looks down at her feet. "Ah, hah."

A brief silence falls between them. Ysobel the Reach-witch has a fearsome reputation: it's said that she's tamed the Direnni. It's said that she made the ground swallow a legion of orcs. Even Barfok feels bashful in her presence.

"... What do you think of her?" asks Ysobel.

"Eh?" Barfok looks up at her. "You mean the Empress? Um. She's not wearing good wool. You ought to go touch her cloak, it ent good wool. What else do you make of her?"

Ysobel's eyes crinkle into a smiling shape. "I meant Alessia."

"Alessia?"

"The leader of the slave rebellion which founded their empire. Don't you know her?"

Barfok looks up. One of the moons is peeking beyond the tip of Throat-of-the-world, red and ominous. "I know. Father told me all the stories. She's like... the Silmoran Paarthurnax, right?"

"Morihaus is the Silmoran's Paarthurnax. Although, I daresay, our Paarthurnax has no equivalent."

"Right. Silmora's got Alduin."

"Yes, but they call him Akatosh, now."

Barfok looks over at Ysobel again, frowning. There's a strange expression on the other woman's face, one she can't identify and can't understand.

"You didn't announce yourself at the moot," Ysobel remarks mildly, "So I do not know your name. Wo hin?"

"... Zu'u Barfok."

"Kul se Fokbar?"

"Mm."

"Let me tell you of history, Barfok son of Fokbar." Ysobel closes her eyes. "We Nords have never been fools. From the start we knew this business of conquest was an ugly one indeed. All thu'um users must find ways to guard their minds from the terrible draconic might of our words, and so it was with the conquests, too. Without a reason to hold in your mind, you will go mad, as sure as the moons will rise over that mountain."

Barfok can see her breath misting before her.

"When the Nords went pouring into Morrowind, they needed an excuse. Something to tell themselves, that they might block out the weeping of elven children. And do you know what they shoved in their ears?"

"Tundra-cotton?"

"The name Alessia."

#wrote this for a writing race couldnt be fucked to edit it or give it an ending #fic #barfok

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venomasides · 3 years

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Zu’u Alduin | Day 27

I finally finished a monster of a story that got way longer than intended! Alduin was severely lacking in a villain speech, so I had to fix that. Takes place in an AU where the world eater and ulfric decide to tagteam.

The sky over Windhelm is black. Flurries consume the slag-laden streets, white powder dusting the furs and shoulder pads of the hundreds gathered at the doors of The Palace of Kings. They crowd like horkers upon a rocky shore, children pushing through the legs of their elders to get a better look, dunmer and argonian packed behind as stormcloak soldiers crowd the frontmost rows.

Ulfric Stormcloak stands on the highest step to the palace. His right hand, Gunmar, stands with him.

He is silent, face as dark and stony as Windhelm itself. The crowd is restless.

What’s going on?- mom I’m cold- must be a special occasion to let the swamp lizards in- is he throwing the dark elves out?- better hurry it up, I’ve got soup boiling.

The jarl of Windhelm takes a deep breath. This day would come eventually.

Gunmar leans in, whispering just above the winds. “Are you sure about this, Ulfric?”

He isn’t, but what difference does that make?

“And what, send my people home? After packing them in the streets like horker meat and promising answers? It's much too late for that, Gunmar.”

“Very well.”

His lips pulled into a brooding frown, Ulfric clears his throat. His people deserve answers. They deserve to know the true weight of their service, their destinies, the path that they travel with him.

The hard part about legends is that they’re rather unclear. Truths are harder to stomach than ideals.

“Sons and Daughters of Skyrim,” he starts as he always does. “For as proud as we are to fight for this home, our home, war does not come without its costs. You have much to weigh on your hearts, beyond freedom from those who wish to take Skyrim away from us. I know this. I’ve lived with it since I was a boy.

“But when I was a boy, there were no dragons. Legends were only stories for our fathers to reminisce. In this age, the legends have come true. They are as true for me as they are for you, and all men that hold the Stormcloak banner.

“In our pride, we forget the very stones we stand on, placed by our ancestors. Built to honor Ysgromor, bolstered to honor avatars of the gods: Dragons.”

Murmurs break out among the crowd, men and women whispering to one another in confusion. Some nod in excitement, absorbing every word, perplexed. Far behind the nords, elves shift uncomfortable on their heels.

Wuunferth, just beside Galmar, whispers accusingly “What exactly is the meaning of this?”

Whether or not they know their destiny, they’d best accept it.

All of them.

“Dragons do not have to be our enemy.” Ulfric squares his shoulders. “For we and they are one in the same: We seek freedom, to take back what is rightfully ours! We are more than legends! The stormcloaks are here, now, and the season unending ends TONIGHT.”

The jarl of Windhelm clashes the hilt of his battleaxe to the ground. A signal to Gunmar, who hesitates as he brings the battle horn to his lips.

Brassy echoes ring through the ancient city, dancing in empty streets. The haughtiest of men raise their weapons with vigor, unknowing of shadows lurking in the mountains, and the women nervously glance between soldiers and their children.

Silence falls. A sleeping city waits.

In the distant night, wings beat against the wind. Wings as black as the night, joined by others.

LOK - VAH - KOOR

The sky erupts with ancient words, clouds splitting and bursting like the eruption of the Red Mountain. Moonlight pours onto the land, winds blown far in a single burst as dresses and capes flutter in the force of the blast. A little girl, Sofia, latches onto the leg of a beggar.

Roars fill the night. Two dragons emerge from what remains over the clouds, flying down into the city. Their shadows obscure the moonglow, twisting over the faces of horrified townspeople, some screaming, others running. The tremble of dragon landfall brings them to their knees.

Two dragons land upon roofs parallel to the palace doors, hanging their wings over the walls. Each are as large as they are spiny, scales ridden with ancient battle scars. Survivors of the dragon war.

Guards stand terrified, weapons frozen in their hands. Bowmen draw arrows with trembling fingers.

The voice of Ulfric Stormcloak rings out among the people, “STAY YOUR WEAPONS.”

Such a command fails to reach all; arrows fly from archers too far into their shot. The dragons flinch at the volley, merely annoyed with arrows that fail to pierce a single scale.

One scoffs. “Nikriin joor. Drog-ill bo! Your true High King arrives!”

The other dragon, horns as curved as the crescent moon, shakes his head. Thu’um thunders from his maw.

ZUN - HAAL - VIIK

A chorus of weapons clatters to the ground. Ulfric stares into a sea of white faces, frightened into submission. Some of the warriors wear expressions as stone as the Jarl’s own, their steel resting in the snow..

The shouting dragon returns attention to his brother, voice smug. “Tinvaak rel, Golznokliz.”

Dragons brothers aren’t unlike human brothers, it seems. It would be more amusing had they not reduced his people to playthings. The sons and daughters of skyrim are still, and those from other lands yet remain, stilled by fear and awe.

‘Victory’ doesn’t last; the dragons silence, bowing their heads for the arrival of their king.

A heavy shadow glides through the night. Larger than the others, it briefly overtakes the city, witnesses swallowed in the darkness. The massive black dragon flies low, allowing the moon to return. With several forceful wingbeats, he comes to a rest atop the Palace of Kings, gazing down upon the Stormcloaks with gleaming red eyes.

The black dragon’s scales shine like polished blades in the moonlight, ornamental spires decorating the beast from his head to his tail. His wings, armored as the rest of him, stretch out comfortably against the roof, shingles and snow falling from the disturbance

Alduin the World-Eater rests before them.

Golnokliz crawls gracefully along the wall, dropping like a bat at the palace gates. His maw forces the fleeing people back in, threatening their necks with his teeth.

With a voice as deep as the rumbling of mountains, rough as blade-sharpening stones, the Lord of Dragons speaks.

“Zu’u, faal thur se lein, daal! Krosis fahdon, speak first. Tell your people the truth.”

His people are terrified, more now than they’ve been since the war started. Ulfric looks back to them from the World Eater, sure to keep his chin high. Their leader doesn’t cower. Their leader doesn’t lie.

Ulfric puts his axe blade to the ground, resting his palms on the end of the hilt.

“Helgen was not an accident.”

Utter silence falls among the fearful chatter. Only the cries of babes permeate the shock, too young to understand.

This is all for them, isn’t it?

“Geh. Indeed my fire burns in favor of the ancient ways. Silence now, Midjoor.”

Babes stop crying. Not a single peep sounds from the courtyard, only the heavy breathing of dragons and nervous feet shifting in the snow. Alduin raises his neck, horns jagged as peaks against the moon. He sits as distinguished as a jarl in his throne. A growl clears his throat.

“Sons and daughters of Skyrim... This is what you call yourselves, vahzen? It seems the years of my absence have stretched beyond your fragile memories. I am Alduin, First Born of Akatosh, rightful ruler of the place you call Mundus. Zu’u rel! I am not a myth!”

“So the legends are true?” A brave soldier says from the crowd, louder as he draws the great dragon’s attention. “You’ve come back to end the world?”

Alduin glares.

“Nahlot Joor! Your ancient heroes are liars. Ages ago, atop the Monahven, I battled with the Tongues. They postponed fate with an Elder Scroll, only to sing songs of my felling! Lo Nikriin!” The world eater adjusts himself, raising his head higher. “Zu’u los unslaad! I am real.”

“Well, we can see that-” Ulfric’s elbow meets Galmar’s gut before his housecarl can say any more.

In the night, more massive figures twist beyond the boundaries of the courtyard. Dragons gather for their master’s speech, nesting on rooftops like great eagles, eyes upon the largest, darkest dragon.

“Nunon. I am the means to end your… season unending, as the ancient joor call it. With the beat of my great wings, I bring the beginning of a new era! This land rots and the hand of elves and human empires, does it not? Paak! The Dov and the Stormcloak seek one simple thing, that of which I offer you: Freedom from the ulse liz that have taken OUR ancient home!”

Against all odds, all expectations, heads raise in interest and awe at the words of the wyrm. The hearts of his soldiers are no longer chilled. Some raise their fists and cry out in agreement.

Those furthest in the crowd step back into the shadows.

Dragon wings raise up, moonbeam’s shining through the filament in muted, glowing colors as the beasts raise themselves in power. Alduin himself rests on two legs, wings gesturing outward like painter’s hands at the world she shapes with words.

“No longer are we enemies! Kein oblann- The Dragon War is long over. Together, my Rage and your people shall set a fire that will drive our enemies to destruction, and take back what is rightfully ours!”

“Together, we are DOVAH. We ARE the rightful rulers of Tamriel, and I am THE FIRST BORN OF AKATOSH!”

Alduin spreads his wings to their fullest, shadow swallowing the people of Windhelm, wings grayish red in the light. He roars his words, the other dragons following suit. None are great enough to overpower his own.

The bravest of the nords cheer, clapping their heads and clamoring their weapons together. Undoubtedly, the world eater is thinking of what fine servants they’ll be.

This is what’s best- this is what must be done to save Skyrim -but still, the dread pools deep in Ulfric’s bones.

#Oof. this one killed my wrists #back to tiny scenes for a while #day 27 #sky/rim

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madam-whim · 3 years

Note

!! for the tesblr ask, how bout 19 or 10?

♥ @reachfolk

Thank you for asking! <3 I decided on 10 for this one! So, here’s how my LDB Rienn made her first friend in Skyrim, who also became the best friend she ever had.

__________________________________________________

Last Seed wasn’t the coldest of months. Farkas knew this. But this was still Skyrim, and Oh, I’ll be fine was not what he wanted to hear from a fragile-looking woman who was currently planning on sleeping on one of the benches surrounding the Gildergreen. Outside. Alone. Even though it was still summer, there was a chill in the air that never really seemed to go away, and with the sunlight now gone for the night, it would hardly get any warmer. The woman simply had to know this, and yet...

He usually tried to stay out of other people’s business, but this? This was certainly not fine. Farkas was a man who went with what his gut instinct told him, and it had served him well so far, despite his brother’s repeated attempts at convincing him to “think things through”. Right now, said instinct was screaming at him to help this stranger, who kept insisting that she was alright. Farkas did not believe her for a second.

Maybe it was the way she was dressed – her boots and cloak had seen better days, and the dress she was wearing hardly even fit her. Perhaps it was borrowed, because while it would probably fit a Nord woman of average height and size, it hung loosely on the stranger’s frame and was long enough for her to nearly trip on the hem whenever she took a step. Maybe it was the haunted look in her eyes that made him doubt, or maybe it was that she looked exhausted. One way or another, she more than likely needed help. Or maybe just directions.

“You should really get out of the cold”, Farkas advised her. “It’s only going to get worse until the sun comes back up.” But the stranger only shook her head. “I’m from Bruma”, she said in a small voice, “I can handle a little cold.” Farkas nearly laughed out loud at that. “That’s still in Cyrodiil, though”, he argued. “It’s different here, colder. The wind feels like you’ve been cut with a blade sometimes, if you can still feel your face, that is. And you’re… not dressed for the weather. Also, you’re not a Nord.” At least she did not look like one. More like an Imperial. Or a Redguard, maybe. She seemed to be just about as stubborn as every Nord in existence, though, because she just shrugged, even though she didn’t sound as confident as she probably meant to when she answered. “I’ve had worse”, she claimed.

That was still not even close to what Farkas wanted to hear. Most people who decided (or were forced to) sleep in the streets at least had the common sense to choose a more sheltered spot. And while the stranger did look like she’d had a rough few days, she didn’t look like a beggar. Not like someone used to being out here. Farkas still hoped she was just a bit lost.

“If it’s a place to stay for the night you need, the Bannered Mare’s your best bet”, he tried in another attempt to talk her out of possibly freezing to death. “You must have passed it on your way up here, it’s hard to miss.” “I did”, the stranger replied, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. Then, she sighed. “Look, I’m not stupid. I’m not from around here, as you know. I don’t know much about this place, but I do know I don’t have the coin for the inn. So, the bench it is. It’s got a brazier next to it, so I won’t freeze. Probably.” She still tried to appear confident, but Farkas didn’t miss the insecure look in her eyes. Those were… strange, he’d noticed. They were a shade of brown that seemed almost golden. Maybe that was common for Imperials? He had no idea. He had bigger problems on his hands anyway, like making sure the stranger didn’t die. “So you’re saying you came to the city knowing you had no coin, and still chose to spend the night here?”, he asked with a raised eyebrow. She had said she wasn’t stupid, but that meant she had to have known this wouldn’t work out. “I didn’t plan to be here”, she muttered, defensive. “I didn’t expect to be stuck in the Jarl’s keep for as long as I was, and by the time I got out it was too late to make it back to Riverwood before nightfall. Just my luck.”

At that, Farkas paused. He had overheard some of the guards talking about a messenger from Riverwood earlier, one who’d insisted to see Jarl Balgruuf, claiming to bring news from Helgen. And then there were the rumors about dragons… The Companions had heard about them, of course, half of Whiterun had been talking about them, but if Helgen had truly been destroyed by such a beast, if the rumors were true and this woman knew something…

“Are you the one who brought news of the dragons?”, he asked, lowering his voice just in case someone walked by. The woman just groaned. “Oh, fantastic. Let me guess, the entire city has heard about it by now? Look, I really can’t tell you anything, I promised the Jarl I would keep this to myself until they’ve figured out how to deal with those things. He says he can’t afford a panic right now, and who knows what he’ll do to me if he finds out I’ve been telling people about what I’ve seen?” “Alright”, Farkas sighed before settling on the bench the stranger had been planning to sleep on. This was going to take a bit of convincing, not that he was surprised. “Sit with me.” The woman hesitated for a moment, but then joined him. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do. “Now”, Farkas continued, “look straight ahead. See that building?” “The one that looks like a boat turned upside down?” “I… suppose”, he muttered. He hadn’t really thought of it that way, but now that she mentioned it… But now wasn’t the time to think about the shape of the roof. “That’s Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions. Do they ever tell you about us down in Cyrodiil?” The stranger nodded. “Yes, but I haven’t heard much. The Nords in Bruma sometimes tell stories, that’s all. The Companions are similar to the Fighter’s Guild, from what I’ve gathered. Is that right?” “To be honest, I don’t know what the Guild is like”, Farkas admitted with a grin. “As for us, we fight, sometimes for glory and honor, sometimes for the good old septim, and then we drink and swap stories. You won’t find better warriors in all of Skyrim though. So if the Jarl has a dragon problem, he’ll be coming to us sooner or later. Might as well tell me about it now.”

The stranger turned to really face him, as if considering whether she could trust him. And then, suddenly it was as if a dam had been broken, and everything the woman had tried to keep to herself simply bubbled to the surface. “Can’t really get into more trouble than I’m already in”, she muttered. “So fine. Yes. There are dragons out there. Or at least one. I… barely escaped Helgen with my life when it attacked.” There was a story there, Farkas just knew it, but he didn’t interrupt. If he wanted to gain the woman’s trust, he’d have to let her speak. “The people of Riverwood helped me when I got there, and in exchange I was asked to get the news to the Jarl”, she explained. “But he doesn’t have any idea on how to defend the city either, and his court wizard is equally clueless, just… very enthusiastic, and now they want me – me – to go look for some artifact in a barrow on the off chance that it might tell them something useful, but there might be undead there and I’ve never held a sword in my life, and how they got the idea that I’m the right person for the job simply because I avoided being burned to ash is beyond me! I wanted to become a bard, not… not monster food!”

As she spoke, her voice rose and for the first time, she didn’t seem lost anymore, just desperate and angry. That was understandable, Farkas thought – after all, she’d barely survived a dragon attack and now she was being told to risk her life for something that could still turn out to be worthless. “Well, we might be able to help with the barrow problem, at least”, Farkas offered with a smile, but the stranger only rolled her eyes at him. “I still have no coin. Or do honor and glory suffice as payment this time?” She sounded almost bitter, Farkas thought. This was the voice of someone who hadn’t experienced much kindness lately, which was reason enough for him to offer it freely. “There’s enough honor in helping to defeat a dragon for most of us”, he shrugged. “Come on up to Jorrvaskr with me. They’d let you stay the night too, if you tell them how you escaped Helgen. That should make for quite the story. They’ll be entertained, and you, my friend, will no longer be cold.”

He rose, and to his relief, the stranger followed suit. “Beats sleeping under a dead tree, I suppose”, she sighed. “That it does. The name’s Farkas by the way.” “Rienn.” “Well then, come on, Rienn. Oh, and once we get in there… Don’t mind my brother. He pretends to hate everyone at first, that’s just how he is.” “That sounds… reassuring”, Rienn said, but there was a trace of laughter in her voice, and for now, that was good enough.

#my writing #skyrim #farkas #oc: rienn #intya answers

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ladydaedra · 3 years

Text

Whiterun

Part: 10/?

Pairings: Ulfric x Dragonborn; Brynjolf x OC; Cicero x OC; Ondolemar x OC

Warnings: Descriptions of violence and gore; Skyrim takes on a bit of 'Game of Thrones' feeling; may contain controversial themes.

Wordcount: 2009

~~~~~

"This is it, men! " Galmar yells at the Stormcloak soldiers as Whiterun is bombarded with trebuchet attacks, "They say that our cause is false and that we are nothing more than thieves, thugs, and murderers! But no! We are farmers! We are craftsmen! We are sons and daughters of shopkeepers, maidservants and soldiers! We are the sons and daughters of Skyrim!" Ayla looks back at the large army from where she stands on a rock, observing the city. Her own army stands amongst the Stormcloaks and they too cheer at Galmar's speech.

"And we have come this far because our cause is true. Because we fight as one. And because our hearts are bursting with anger!" Galmar continues, his voice loud and strong, "What we do here today, we do for our country! For all the true Nords of Skyrim!" both armies cheer at his words and Ayla tightens her grip on her bow, an arrow knocked with the tip on fire as a way to signal Aaryah when to attack.

"Whiterun's walls are tall, but they are old and crumbling, like the Empire whose Legion lines them," Galmar informs the armies, glancing over at the city before looking back at the soldiers, "They've barricades to block us, but we'll tear through them and the Imperials behind them! Our objective is the drawbridge. If we can find a way to drop it, the city will be ours! Everyone on me. Let's show these Imperial milk drinkers what true Nords look like!"

Ayla hears the armies give a battle cry as they charge towards the city. She watches as the Imperials fire arrows on the advancing soldiers, their focus on what is on the ground but not what is in the sky. Ayla raises her bow and pulls the string back as a gust of wind blows. She aims for the broken tower behind the Imperial's barricades and fires.

The arrow whistles as it flies through the air but Ayla soon loses it and assumes it hit correctly as a dragon descends from the sky, landing on the tower and lighting a few Imperials on fire. With a smile, Ayla jumps off the rock and hurries around the walls and climbs the walls behind the barricade. She lands behind an Imperial, whose arrow is aimed at Galmar, and slits his throat. He spasms as he grasps at his open throat before falling to the floor, dead within a few seconds.

"Odahviing,"

"It's the Dragonborn!" an Imperial yells, alerting the rest of his comrades, "she's with the Stormcloaks," he adds and draws his sword, hesitating to attack her. An arrow takes him down and that is when the Imperials break out of their shock and charge at her. She sidesteps the first attack and sends one of her swords into the chest of another. She pulls the blade out just in time to block an attack as she slices the throat of another soldier with her second sword.

"Fus Ro Dah!" she Shouts when a large cluster of Imperials charge at her, sending them flying into walls or over them while some soldiers are lucky to just slide across the ground. She barely misses being hit by an arrow as she runs over towards the raised drawbridge. She quickly runs into the tower and fights her way to the top and onto the bridge where the drawbridge controls are.

She lowers the drawbridge and turns around in time to see Odahviing land and set an entire group of the opposing side, both Imperial and Whiterun city guards, on fire before flying off again, this time over the walls and into the city. Ayla hurries down the ladder and into the city, where most of their enemies have been defeated thanks to the dragons.

"Hurry! To Dragonsreach!" Galmar yells as he runs past her, several Stormcloak soldiers following him. Ayla turns to see some of her soldiers there.

"Go through the city, kill any attacker you face," she orders them as she takes a few steps in the direction of the market, "help any and all civilians injured because of the fighting and protect them with your lives," she adds before turning and running towards Dragonsreach. She hears one of the dragons set something on fire nearby but she doesn't look to see who.

Instead, she cuts down any enemy on her way to Dragonsreach, stopping only when she sees Athena and Vilkas in front of Jorrvaskr, "what's wrong?" she asks the female, who smiles.

"Nothing," she replies, "just making sure the rest of the Companions are safe. We'll be back in the fight soon," she promises and Ayla nods her head.

"Odah and Aaryah did most of the fighting inside the city for us," she explains before glancing over her shoulder at the deserted streets of Whiterun, littered with Imperial and Guard bodies. What a waste of life, she thinks before turning back to her friend, "go through the city and find and aid any civilians," she adds and runs off before Athena can reply.

Ayla runs up the steps and is soon standing in front of the door. She places her hand on the wood and sighs, remembering when she first entered the hall so long ago and how welcoming Balgruuf was. Now she is here, attacking his city. She can only imagine what will happen when she enters the hall.

"Enough, I surrender!" she hears Balgruff yell from above the stairs, "I surrender. Peace! Everyone stand down," Ayla walks up the steps and stops at the top, seeing Galmar and a few Stormcloak soldiers standing between her and Balgruuf, "that's an order! Stand down,"

Ayla looks over to see an elderly man walk past her and stand next to Galmar. She walks forward a few steps but stays in the background, "Vignar Grey-Mane," Balgruuf says with an irritated tone, "your family was noticeably absent from the walls. Now I know why. Wouldn't a dagger in the back have sufficed?"

"You think this is personal?" Vignar asks, anger in his tone as he puts his hands on his hips, "the Empire has no place in Skyrim...not anymore. And you?" Vignar pauses for effect, "you have no place in Whiterun anymore," Ayla stares at the old man's back, raising an eyebrow at the man's gloating tone.

"A convenient position to hold now. But mark my word's old man, in the days to come, Ulfric will spread his rebellion thin. And what then?" Balgruuf asks the group, his arms crossed across his chest as he glares at them.

Galmar chuckles, "you couldn't have possibly seen the attacking dragons while locked in here," he says as he steps aside, revealing Ayla to the former Jarl, "let this answer your question," Galmar adds and Ayla slowly looks at Balgruuf to see him shaking his head in disappointment.

"You too?" he asks her and Ayla looks away, unable to handle his words, "you, Thane of Whiterun, attacked this city for what? For glory? Money?"

"I did it for Skyrim," she snaps angrily, turning to face his wrath head-on. She can feel her voice start to waver but she stays strong. Balgruuf stares at her for a few seconds before scoffing at her words.

"That's what they all say,"

"I didn't do it to destroy the Empire, I am doing this to end the Thalmor, who are my true enemies," Ayla says firmly, taking a few steps towards him and keeping her head held high, "believe me I wish it wouldn't end this way but it must. The Thalmor's claim on this land will be destroyed, even if I must die to do so,"

She watches in silence as Balgruuf processes her words, his eyes burning holes in her skin. Ayla purses her lips to keep her emotions from showing, "Why should I trust a woman who betrayed my trust," he says with no emotion before looking away from her.

Ayla scoffs, shaking her head and sighing, "you will be going to my base as a prisoner of war," she informs the Jarl, who whips his head to stare at her, "my soldiers will transport you under lock and key and bound by chains. Your children will be staying at my base, taken in by a family where they will be taught manners,"

"You can't!" Balgruuf says in disbelief, "they're my children, they need their father!" Ayla almost caved but she clears her throat and meets his gaze with a cold one of her own.

"You should have thought about that before you sided with the Empire," she says before turning and leaving the building, passing a large group of her soldiers as she goes. Once the door shuts she hurried off to behind the palace, where she recollects herself.

She leans against the stone walls of the city, eyes closed and biting her lip to keep herself from breaking down in sobs. She just destroyed a family and betrayed one of the few people she trusted with her life. She feels disgusted with herself. As someone who knows what it is like to grow up without any parents, she shouldn't be the one to do that to other kids.

War is a nasty thing and she can't imagine that ruling a country will be any different. She wipes her eyes, which had shed a few tears, before returning to her soldiers.

"You'll regret this, Dragonborn," Irileth snarls at Ayla as she is led past, her red eyes glaring at her. Ayla looks away from the Dunmer woman, refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her reaction.

"I brought you into my home. I made you my Thane. I trusted you," Balgruuf seethes as he stops in front of Ayla. She looks up at him with an emotionless gaze. She wasn't going to break. She wasn't. She refused to, "and you repay me by burning my town,"

Something shifts behind Ayla and she glances over her shoulder to see Odahviing there, his red eyes locked on the Jarl as a growl emits from his throat, "with the dragon I helped you trap, no less," Balgruuf adds and Ayla turns to look back at him, "the dragon I risked my city to trap," he continues and Ayla raises an eyebrow.

"Guilt tripping me won't work, Balgruuf, you know that," she reminds him as she crosses her arms, "believe me when I say that I wish things turned out differently, I really do. But you chose your side and I can't make you change your mind,"

Balgruuf stares down at her in silence for a few seconds, studying her features before scoffing, "you're right, you can't," he agrees, "but tell me where my children will be going since they're practically orphans now,"

"You're not dying, Balgruuf," Ayla explains as Odahviing huffs behind her, "Ulfric wanted to, but I convinced him to spare you and your family as a repayment for how much you helped me in the past," she pauses as she watches Balgruuf's children follow her soldiers out of Whiterun, "as I told you before, your children will be taken in by a family at my base where they will work in the farms, not as slaves, but as free children, able to run and play to their hearts content,"

Balgruuf remains silent, watching his young son and daughter leave their home, "I suppose I must thank you for not throwing them into a cell," he mutters begrudgingly as he looks back at the Dragonborn, his anger calming, "and I wish you luck in your attempt to rid Skyrim of the elves without the Empire's help," he adds before he is led away again.

"Things are going to get worse," she says softly and Odah hums in response.

"Do you think you did the right thing?"

Ayla shrugs, taking a deep breath, "we shall see in the months to come," she replies as she looks over at the red-scaled dragon, "tonight has changed the course of this war, for better or for worse,"

#Skyrim #Skyrim fanfiction #Dragonborn #Dovahkiin #Ulfric Stormcloak #Brynjolf #Cicero #Ulfric x Dragonborn #Brynjolf x OC #Cicero x Listener #Fanfic

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thalmor-banjo · 3 years

Text

I thought I'd share this little bullshit snippet. I'm taking a break from like all other forms of social media, but felt bad because I haven't posted any original content in what feels like agesssssssss.

So, here we are! It's a piece I wrote a long time ago (think before December) for Cerrebryn and Ondolemar. His voice is like really good in this one??? Like normally I write him with an American accent (cause that's what I have and I'm lazy), but writing him in the BBC accent (forget what it's called, see above description: lazy) worked like really well? I'll warn you though, it was just a little blurb the brain worm was niggling at me to write so it ain't the best. Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

Calcelmo Gets A Date

Cerrebryn skipped up the stairs. Dinya Balu had sent her to Markarth. Her mission? Spreading Mara’s message. It was midday, yet her target was still at work. He never seemed to rest or eat. Aicantar shot her a warning glance as she walked up to his uncle. She tapped on his shoulder and waited.

After a moment, he answered, “Yes, yes, what do you need? I’m a very busy man.” She grinned, “Calcelmo of Markarth?” He flapped a hand impatiently at his enchanting table, “I have no time for such pleasantries.” “I’ve been sent by Lady Mara.” His demeanor instantly changed. The wizard turned, joy sparking in his amber eyes, “I was beginning to worry you’d never arrive. Come, take a walk with me.” They left Ancarion behind in a stupor.

He led her up the nearby tower and took a seat on a spindly stool. “I hope you’ll excuse an old man’s paranoia. I’ve been thinking about her quite a bit. Do you know Faleen?” He said her name like a prayer, devotion obvious even in his tone. “The Jarl’s Housecarl?” Calcelmo nodded, “Yes. She is a beauty like none other. Even the fairest maidens of Alinor could never compare.” Noticing he was rambling, he coughed and continued, “My trouble is, I can’t seem to speak around her. My mouth goes dry and I begin shaking...or maybe that’s the side effects of prolonged exposure to Aetherium? An interesting thought, but I digress.” Cerrebryn sighed, a familiar Thalmor face flashing through her mind, “I understand. Is there anything you can talk about?” The old man shook his head wearily, “Faleen can turn on you fast as a sabercat if you bring up the wrong topic. I’ve seen it happen.” “Is there anyone she’s close to that we can talk with?” His brow furrowed, “Only one, Yngvar. Would you speak to him for me?” She nodded tiredly and left. It was strange how she was also roped into these matters.

She stepped out into the waning sunlight and stretched. Cerrebryn snorted. Mara had sent her on a quest to heal the broken hearts of Skyrim, yet she had one as well. It seemed like the divines had a sense of irony at least. It could never happen anyway. The Thalmor were an order of warriors famed for their rigidity and focus on pure-blooded breeding. Shaking her head, she dispelled those notions and kept walking.

Yngvar was resting against the side of a bridge, picking his teeth with a dagger. “Do you know what Faleen likes?” He glanced up at her, danger dancing in his eyes, “What’s it to you?” “I have a mission from the temple of Mara.” “Is that some roundabout way of saying you fancy her?” She paused, debating whether she should reveal Calcelmo’s affections, “Not me, but a friend.” He smiled slyly, “I see. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I’m glad; Faleen needs a little warmth. Her soft spot is poetry.” Cerrebryn thanked him, turning to leave. After two steps he called out, “You know, I was trained as a bard.” She pivoted and he continued, “I’ve got an old poem for a lady from Rorikstead. I could change it...if you’ve got the coin.” “How much?” “Two hundred.” She easily removed the Septims from her pouch and handed them to the brute. “Let me write it down so you won’t forget.” Yngvar scratched away at the paper with his bit of charcoal. Cerrebryn had pulled out Lydia’s latest letter from home. “Who is this poem from?” She stopped reading, “Calcelmo.” He laughed, “That sly old codger.” Finished, the poem traded hands, “Tell him I wish his endeavor luck.”

The sun had set while she was outside, and all the torches were being lit across the city and into the Keep. Edging around one of the guards assigned with the job, she skipped up to the dias. Faleen immediately tensed, but relaxed when she realized who it was. Raerek grinned at her, always the kindest person in the Keep. “Can I help you, young one?” She shook her head, hair becoming a bit disheveled, and chirped, “Nope! Just here to drop something off for Faleen!” The Redguard woman glanced up suddenly when the folded sheet was thrust into her hand. “Apologies if some of it is smudged, I-” The other woman opened the paper and read it. Then, she ripped a sheet of parchment off a shelf and began scribbling rapidly with a fresh quill. The steward and Jarl exchanged nervous glances, but they went unseen.

When she turned around, Faleen’s eyes were filled with stars. “Would you mind delivering this for me?” She sighed softly at the end of her sentence and Cerrebryn giggled behind her hand. Taking the paper, she left, announcing, “Off I go!” She walked with haste, this time bumping into the object of her affections. The Thalmor’s large hands caught her around the waist, preventing what would have been a nasty fall, “Cerrebryn, what is the meaning-” She plucked his arms (she swooned on the inside, realizing they were corded with muscle) off her body, and sheepishly smiled back at him as she ran off, “Sorry Ondolemar! I’ve got a delivery to make!”

In truth, she would have liked to spend a millennium in those arms. But, she was on an errand that shouldn’t be delayed. Matters of the heart are things of the now, not of the thousand years later. The woman ran through the tunnel, nearly tripping on a stray piece of rubble. Calcelmo was sitting on a bench, deeply immersed in examining a chip of Aetherium. She skidded to a stop at his feet, puffing, “From...Faleen...” Aicantar stared at the odd pair. The conjurer ripped it out of her hand and shot to his feet, “This is...fantastic! If you’ll excuse me, I must go see Faleen.” And with that, he ran out of the workshop. Frankly, he was faster than she had thought he could go.

Cerrebryn trailed behind him, still a bit winded. He continued running, straight up to the Housecarl. She peeked around the dias’s corner, like a child. Igmund’s brows had raised in surprise, but Raerek just continued serenely smiling. Calcelmo fidgeted, his large frame towering over the smaller woman. “Faleen...I...” She captured his hand with her own, “Shhh, no need for words...I never realized you were so nuanced.” He stared down at her, then clutched their joined hands to his heart, “I love you.” She smiled radiantly, “So I hear. Come here, you.” Then, using her warrior’s strength, she dipped him and joined their lips. Igmund stared at his steward, eyes bulging, a mix of surprise and slight horror plain across his features. Raerek simply shrugged.

Cerrebryn grinned, glad they were happy. Helping Dinya and the Temple was rewarding and worth any long trips zigzagging the province. Someone was sneaking nearer to her. The only warning was a rustle of robes and a whiff of Dragon’s Breath. The air above her ear warmed with his breath. “Was that your doing?” She glanced back at Ondolemar and her lips quirked upwards in a slight grin, “Dinya sent me on a mission. I just had to!” He sighed, “Must you fix everything?” Her grin widened a bit, “You know me. Everyone deserves a happy ending.” Ancarion wandered in, disgust and shock warring on his face at the sight of his uncle and the Housecarl locking lips. The couple split apart, Raerek clapping lightly. He stumbled back to the workshop with a befuddled expression.

His chest brushed against her back as he leaned in further, “Except you, right?” She bit her lip a bit at the slight huskiness of his voice. It was surely unintentional but made him all the more attractive. “I’ll get mine eventually. After all, there’s still nearly three hundred years left for me. If it takes two hundred seventy-five, at least I helped some folks!” Ondolemar chuckled lightly, changing the subject entirely, “Could I speak with you outside Dibella’s temple at midnight?” Cerrebryn nearly fainted. Was he asking to have a courtship meeting?! She quickly chastised herself. No, a “superiorly bred mer” wouldn’t sully himself with someone who wasn’t a purebred Alinor maiden. The woman nodded happily anyway, excited, “It’s a date!”

#elder scrolls #ondolemar #fanfic #quest rewrite #i'm so sorry #hope you enjoy #skyrim

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drunkdaisychains · 3 years

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Aera the Fair

full story updated regularly @

https://www.wattpad.com/story/258839356-aera-the-fair

Pairings: OCF/OCM, OC/Brynjolf

Warnings: Smut, killing, theft, fluff

Summery:Between the Butcher murders, lovers spats, and the war going one, it’s a wonder that there is any peace in Windhelm. Valun Stormcloak, son of Ulfric, has taken an interest in a fair maiden adopted into clan Shattersheild. But she has an incriminating secret. Can she keep her man, avenge her family, and keep her secret or will she be cast out of the city, never able to see her family again.

An excerpt from Chapter 4

"Stop! Assassin!" The Markarth guards chased her towards the city gates. She had successfully planted the incriminating letter on her target but was caught sneaking out of his room in the keep. She dodged and swerved people as she sprinted from the scene. She just needed the shadows of the night to conceal her. As she stepped briskly down the steps and away from the city she tried not to concentrate on the burning building in her legs. Farther and farther they carried her as she dipped and dodged arrows flying from the guards bows. She finally saw it, the shadows along the side of the road that she'd slip into. As quick as she appeared she vanished, not even an invisibility spell needed tho she did have that power. As she controlled her breathing she heard the crunching of dirt as guards flew past her.

"Damn. We lost her," one said after a moment of looking around. After another bit of sniffing the air they turned to return to their posts. She waited with a hand over her mouth until she couldn't hear them and her shoulders relaxed. She decided it was best to stick to the shadows the rest of her way back to the sanctuary. Forsworn had been attacking travellers for months and she knew they attacked in numbers. She was skilled but not against an army. Her journey was uneventful aside from the occasional wildlife, she made record time back to the sanctuary. Little did she know as she passed through the door, she would be met with aftermath. She was able to piece together the scene in moments and listened anxiously as the family discussed the moments that had just transpired.

Oh Cicero. You should have waited until I got back. Thought to herself as Astrid had furiously turned to her. Her objective was simple, she wanted her husband home and alive… and avenged.

"Take Shadowmere. You'll notice he's one of us," she suggested and Aera turned on her heel. She needed to get to her friend before that werewolf did and she needed to fix this. As she approached the black pond outside the sanctuary doors it began to boil. The sounds of galloping could be heard mixed with the bubbling and finally with a grand rear, Shadowmere appeared.

"That's showy, even for you," she giggled at the horse. Shadowmere was more apart of the brotherhood than Astrid but Aera was not about to let on that she knew it. The Dark steed had been fabled in the Brotherhood as he was Lucien Lachance's ride. Shadowmere was family quite literally and had always wondered why she was not the one to inherit him. For her surname was LaChance, she was always destined to be an assassin like her ancestor. She dropped the last name,in favour of her nickname given to her in Bruma, when she crossed over the border. She didn't know that it was the same as the Jarl in Solitude but to change it after would have been suspicious.

She mounted Shadowmere and kicked him in the direction of Dawnstar.

Upon arriving she was met with the scene of blood and a clearly injured Arnbjorn. She gave him a healing potion from her satchel and offered him Shadowmere.

"Oh don't worry about me. I'll make it back, just make sure that bastard regrets it." He muttered before stalking off.

"What is life's greatest illusion?" The ghostly voice belonging to the door asked.

"Innocence, my brother," she answered.

"Welcome home," as it opened toward her. The sanctuary was in rather nice shape for being abandoned. Desolate and home to only spiders but she could find comfort here if she had to. She summoned her ancestor to fight alongside her, greeting him as an old friend.

"Ah Listener, the Night Mother has told me of your devotion," he growled. She was in awe but had no time to be struck as a spectral assassin materialized from the wall. Cicero's voice could be heard taunting her. She hoped he hadn't turned on her as well. She sliced through spectral assassin after spectral assassin, nearly being run through by traps set or set on fire. The cold ruins of whatever tunneled into the sanctuary made her breathe freeze. She could hear a weird growl before Lucien jumped past her and began fending off the troll. Once she shook off her shock she too joined in the quarrel. Finally after a gruelling tour through the snow and cobwebs, she burst into the door where Cicero's voice was clearest she had heard since she stepped through the door. She sheathed her swords and rushed to his side. Her friend was in a bad way and could use a potion. She dug through her satchel and uncorked the small red vial handing it to him to drink.

"I won't kill you," she confirmed. Cicero had warned her that Astrid was a traitor and she had more reason to trust him than her. Lucien mumbled about a purification, much like the Cheydinhal she had begun at despite it being considered the Bravil chapter.

"You must leave Cicero here so Astrid believes I am dead!" He exclaimed.

"She'll have no choice but to believe me. I just hope she doesn't come check for herself," she said out loud.

"Go now! Go tell the traitor you killed Cicero," he said scooting closer to the fire. She nodded and turned on her heel to make the journey back.

While the journey back wasn't as bad now that she was on the best steed for an assassin to be paired with, she was worried about Cicero. When she wasn't worrying about his well being her mind wandered over to Valun. She would reminisce their tumble together and how he gave her what she couldn't find in Brynjolf or the sailors who would always propose to her. She had even considered Thrynn before he showed how belligerent he was on mead. They all had excitement and mystery. They would all be able to give her a fair life, but whether they wanted to or she wanted them to was up for debate. But with Valun she also received a comfort she had never had. It was easy to be with him and forget about her secrets with him. It was just when she would think of them again they would hit her like a ton of bricks and he would be right there kissing away her worries, trying to convince her to be his bride.

Thankfully Astrid not only believed her, but sent her on the next step for the grand scheme they had planned. She had to find the author of the popular cookbook "uncommon taste" and steal his identity. First she needed to go to Markarth to locate him. She used her travel time on Shadowmere to prepare her alibi and to make her travel decisions. She would prepare for the possibility of an extended time away while they dealt with the final mark. Killing the emperor was no small task and she wanted to ensure there was no way she would be compromised if she had to stay away longer. The chef in Markarth was easy to get the information from, and simply having the kitchens closed off already while he slept made it perfect to stuff a cloth in his mouth when she took his life. This job was far too easy, the cook, innkeeper, and even the bard at the inn almost jumped at the opportunity to tell someone the orc was in their basement room. Foolish of them to not be more discrete. Lugging the large Orsimer into the hiding place was the hardest part. It made her arms burn to pull herself up the ladder after. It was finally time to make history. She rode up to the Solitude gates, Jarrin root in her pocket. She had changed into fine clothes and a chef's hat so to look the part she was playing.

The writ worked to allow her access and soon she was in the kitchen with the regular castle dour cook stirring away at the base of a potage le magnifique. She took some creative liberties while cooking before placing the Jarrin root into the stew and watching it dissolve quickly. The cook picked up the pot and carried it painstakingly slowly into the dining room where the Emperor sat with nobles from all over Skyrim. She placed herself on the side of the table closest to the door for a quick escape. When his face landed in his bowl she was already turned around and sprinting to the door. Unfortunately that's where she would be stopped by Commander Maro, angry and vengeful.

"As of right now your sanctuary is being put to the sword," he growled, the words were like fire in her ears. Her last home, destroyed by the Empire. She must have looked as crazy mad as Cicero did because there was an unsure look in Maro's eyes as she ran up to him with her swords drawn. Immediately she used both blades to slice his head off, as if he were softened butter. It rolled down off his neck and to his guards feet as she sheathed the bloody blades and sprinted down the tower steps. She dodged soldiers left and right knowing she had to get to the sanctuary as fast as she could. She used the city walls the same way she had when she killed the Vicci girl at her own wedding. The walls were able to limit her exposure to flying arrows and pursuing guards, her lungs burned as she pushed to keep going as fast as she could.

She burst through the gate doors before they could lock them and took a running start at Shadowmere, who seemed to know exactly what to do as he began trotting in the other direction before launching into a sprint before she was properly seated.

"We have to go home Shadowmere, they need us," she said to the steed as she fumbled with a stirrup to give relief from the bouncing. Her eyes watered both from the worry and from the wind. When she made it up to the sanctuary she could see the horses and soldiers waiting. Shadowmere charged them, rearing and attacking them as Aera hopped off. She spun with her blades out, cutting through the skin exposed from where the armour couldn't protect. She whirled around ensuring no one but her and Shadowmere would survive this fight. Finally as the soldiers lay in pools of their own blood she turned to the door and rushed in.

Fire, oil that was used to cause the fire, and bodies were everywhere. She stabbed the two soldiers who advanced on her almost as if they were an afterthought and rushed deeper into the burning hall to find survivors. Veezara and Festus' bodies were burned and almost unrecognizable. Gabriella and her spider were nowhere to be found and Arnbjorn was a werewolf, attacking a group of soldiers at once before succumbing to his injuries too. She rushed to the dining hall to find Nazir fighting more of the assailants and she immediately joined in.

"You're alive!" Nazir yelled over slashing and clashing.

"Can't say the same for everyone else," she yelled back clearly distraught. The last soldier was run through with a final slash of her sword and she was able to turn to the blood splattered Alik'r. They both launched into a search for survivors until she heard the ghostly voice calling to her. She was in the night mother's room and she was requesting her to step into the coffin. Aera was hesitant but obliged as she is the chosen listener. She closed her eyes trying to block out the heinous trauma that had just occurred.

"Sleep…" the voice soothed.

#skyrim fanfiction #bryjolf #The Elder Scrolls #fanfiction #romance #action #the dark brotherhood #Assassin #cicero

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afni-fics · 3 years

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Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 8: The Bandit Tower

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 8: The Bandit Tower by C_R_Scott Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read Summary:

In the pre-dawn hours, Tim and Lucien begin their journey to Bleak Falls Barrows. Along the way, they come upon an old abandoned watchtower...

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

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About an hour before sunrise. Tim left Gerdur's home without waking its occupants and went to wait for Lucien on the bridge that lead out of town towards the mountains. He nibbled on some bread and cheese as he listened to the sound of the water rushing over the rocks underneath him. It was a calming sound that soothed his jangled nerves somewhat, and also helped distract him just a little from the fact that he had no access to coffee.

Now that several days had passed since first waking up on that road to Helgen, his body had acclimated enough to remind him, at that god-awful pre-dawn hour, oh by-the-way aren't we addicted to caffeine and why haven't you gotten your fix yet?! Unfortunately, far as he could find from both the inns in Riverwood and in Whiterun, coffee just didn't exist in Skyrim. Apparently Nords just woke up and powered through mornings like Kryptonians.

On top of the growing headache behind his eyes that always signaled the first miserable sign of caffiene withdrawl, Tim was also coping with the lingering pain from his burns. Though he'd used the balm and re-wrapped his torso, upper left arm, and shoulder in linen bandages, the ache of the burn had made it nearly impossible to sleep, especially since he couldn't reach the entire burn area on his back. There were areas he just couldn't get to on his own, and he hadn't wanted to ask for help from anyone else.

So he was sore, tired, and feeling irritable at hell. If it weren't for the weight of the three hundred gold coins resting in pouch at his waist, he would've seriously considered leaving Lucien behind to spare him the pain of dealing with his foul mood. The poor museum man just didn't deserve that.

"I'm going to step out on a limb and guess you are not typically a morning person."

Tim glanced toward the voice and scanned Lucien carefully. While the man had professed not to be much of a fighter, at least he had the sense to know how to dress for the climate they were about to travel into. He appeared to be wearing multiple, sensible layers of clothing meant to keep him warm underneath a long robe that was trimmed with intricate embroidery and had a hood that was already drawn over his head. Above that he wore long fur cloak that settled upon his shoulders and down his back. The man also had a backpack that was probably filled with his research gear, a small oil lantern that was clipped to one side of his belt, and a sheathed sword strapped to the other side.

Tim smiled wryly. "I've always been more of a night owl," he said, hoping belatedly that owls were actually a bird that existed in this place.

Apparently they were as Lucien gave him a sympathetic look. "I understand completely. Used to be the same way when I entered university a few years back. Here." The scholar reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a leather waterskin.

Tim took the waterskin and noticed it felt warm. He gave Lucien a quizzical look.

"It's a blend of tea I concocted to help with these kinds of mornings. Brewed some up and made enough for both of us. I figured it was the least I could do for surprising you last night with 'extra baggage' for your trip to the Barrows." Lucien urged Tim to try it.

Curiously, Tim did take sip. It definitely wasn't coffee, but as far as teas went it wasn't that bad. There was definitely a strong herbal quality to it, though Tim couldn't even begin to identify what it could be from. There was also a slight smokiness to the flavor as well, as if there was some sort of roasted grain mixed in. But most important of all, whatever was in it was taking the edge off his caffeine withdrawl symptoms.

"Thanks Lucien. I really needed that," he said after a moment.

"Wonderful! Shall we be off then?"

***

When the pair of them left Riverwood, though the sun hadn't risen yet the sky was clear. Unfortunately, the further up the mountain they went towards the Barrows, the worse the weather got. First there was fog. Then there was snow. Tim had shrugged his own fur cloak into a better position to cover more of his body. A glance backward confirmed Lucien had done the same. It was clear neither of them were acclimated to this kind of weather, not like the local Nords.

"How long do you think it will take to reach the Barrow?" Lucien asked as he paused to warm his hands over his small oil lantern.

Tim made a mental note to purchase a lantern the next time he saw one at a general store. "Gerdur said that once we reach the abandoned tower, we should be about halfway there."

They continued their trek up the barely there path for about an hour. The snow and the fog made it hard to see more than a few yards far in front of them. For awhile there, Tim wondered if perhaps they had missed seeing the abandoned tower at all.

As their path began to level off where the mountain began to naturally plateau Tim could finally see it. There was an old stone watchtower set right at the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the valley below.

"Finally," Lucien said as he caught sight of the tower as well. "Let's stop there for a bit of a rest before going up the rest of the way."

Tim almost agreed with him, but then he noticed movement around the base of the tower. "Wait!" he said as he reached out to snag Lucien by the cloak and dragged him behind a large pile of rocks.

"What's wron--" Lucien started to ask, but was startled by the expression on his companion's face. Tim's face was a mask of deadly serious focus as he stared at the tower from behind the cover of the rocks.

"There are people at the tower. At least two."

Lucien peeked over the top of the rocks, eyes squinting as he tried to see through the fog and snow. "They must be the bandits that have taken root in this area. But are you sure about the number? I can barely see the outline of the tower through all this mist, let alone any people." When he didn't get an answer, Lucien glanced to his side. "Timothy?"

Much to his surprise, he was all alone except for Tim's footprints winding around the rocks in the snow.

***

Tim stealthily moved closer to the tower by slinking from cover to cover. He hoped Lucien would take the unspoken hint and stay behind until he was done.

This... felt good. Hiding in shadows. Keeping a civilian safe. Creeping up on goons/bandits while he plotted their inevitable takedown. Finally, for the first time since arriving in Skyrim, Tim felt like himself.

From where he sat, he could see that there was just a change in the guard. One who had been standing at a post a few yards from the tower entrance was swapped by another who'd walked out from it. Tim counted his lucky stars. It was this movement that had caught his attention earlier. Due to the weather, if it had just been the guard standing there, he might not have caught sight of him until it was too late.

Once the other guard disappeared into the tower, leaving his partner alone, Tim made his move.

The solid THUNK of the steel dagger embedding itself in the trunk of the tree he'd been leaning on immediately caught the attention of the bandit guard, startling him from his attempt to stay warm at his post.

"What the--?!" he exclaimed as he whipped his head to the left and saw the dagger vibrating mere inches from his nose. Then the sound of rustling in a nearby set of bushes, and the sight of the snow-laden branches jostling around immediately caught his eye. It looked as if there was a shadow hunched behind it. With a growl, the guard immediately drew his sword and rushed the bushes, prepared to slice open whoever had thrown the dagger. However, he ended up choking on his warcry as he saw that there was nothing but a backpack sitting in the snow. "Huh?"

Tim smirked as he crept out from behind a large boulder, his quarterstaff a comfortable weight in his hands as he prepared to swing it at his unsuspecting target.

***

The sound of a body falling to the ground with a muffled groan after a series of suspicious thudding noises caught the attention of the original guard as she poked her head out of the tower's entrance. This one drew her bow and nocked an arrow immediately upon seeing that their compatriot was not where he was supposed to be. Cautiously, she walked across the bridge that led to the mountainside. Then she saw the body of the other guard.

"Skialg!" she called out with alarm. Caution thrown to the wind, she rushed forward to check on him, though, she never saw the staff that jutted out in front of her feet, tripping her into the snow.

The moment the bow was out of her hands, Tim stepped out and kicked it well out of reach. The female Nord bandit looked up to find a wooden staff pointed ominously at her face. Her eyes widened in horror.

"You've got two choices," Tim said with a dark smirk and a low tone. "You can either jog down the mountain and never come back, or you can end up like your friend there, taking a nap in the snow. Which would you prefer?"

Tim was ready for a counterattack, and was mildly surprised when it never came. He was expecting anger and retaliation. Instead, there appeared to be genuine terror on the woman's face as she nervously scrambled to her feet and booked it down the mountain path, racing past Lucien without a second though even though she could clearly see him.

As soon as she was out of sight, Tim relaxed and rested his staff on his shoulder. "Well that was disappointing," he said as Lucien walked up to him. Though the sky was still overcast, somewhere beyond the clouds the sun had risen and had lightened up their surroundings considerably. "Are bandits around here always so skittish?"

"Well how would you feel if you had a mage's staff aimed at your face?" Lucien said with a disapproving frown. "Honestly, Timothy! A Fire Blast or Sparks or Frostbite at point-blank range like that would have been completely excessive and resulted in backlash on you as well as your target. Who taught you how to use a staff with such bad form anyways?"

"Mage's staff?" Tim looked at Lucien with confusion.

Lucien noticed the odd look Tim gave him, then motioned for TIm to give him the staff. Without protest, Tim handed it over. After a moment, it was the scholar's turn to look confused. "Wait... Is this... Just a stick?"

"Actually, it's a quarterstaff."

"But... Wait, so you don't use magic at all?"

"No."

"But you carry staff."

"Yes."

"That has no magic whatsoever."

"I guess not? Wasn't expecting it to when I bought it."

"But... What do you do with this, if not to cast spells?"

Tim blinked at him, then rubbed the back of his neck. "I just... well... hit people with it?"

Lucien gaped at him. "And, that works?"

Tim pointed at the other bandit that was still unconscious.

"Mara's mercy! Did you actually kill that bandit with a stick?!" Lucien went over and poked the bandit with Tim's quarterstaff experimentally

Tim sighed. "No, he's not dead. Just unconscious. He'll be out for hours, and we'll be long gone by then."

Lucien straightened up with a contemplative expression on his face. "So... your entire plan to get us past the bandits on our way to the Barrow was to sneak up on your own, with just a stick, to bludgeon a pair of bandits into Oblivion, but not really because you had no intention of actually killing them?"

"Yeah. Pretty much," Tim remarked as he went back to the original guard's tree. He tugged the dagger out of its bark and then went to retrieve his backpack from where he'd thrown it earlier. "Maybe it doesn't make sense to you, but even if they're bandits and on the wrong side of the law, they're still people with lives and possibly even families. To end their lives so casually, as if they were worth nothing at all..." He sighed as he closed up his pack. "It's just... not the way I was raised. Ending another human life should never be an option if there are other solutions available."

When Tim looked at Lucien again, he found the scholar studying him in a way that made him feel a little uncomfortable, like he was a puzzle needing to be solved. "That's a very noble sentiment. Truly in the spirit of Stendarr himself," Lucien finally said as he handed the quarterstaff back to Tim. "Hopefully it won't get you killed one day. Tamriel could use more people who thought like you do, though I doubt the bandits on the road will show us the same mercy."

Tim gave Lucien a weak smile. "Hopefully," he echoed. Then he motioned for Lucien to wait as he took a few minutes to drag the still unconscious bandit back into the tower. When Tim came back out to continue his journey with Lucien to the Barrows, he shrugged his shoulders at the odd look the scholar gave him. "What? It wouldn't be much better if I left him out in the open to die of exposure or to be eaten by a wolf."

Lucien laughed as he walked alongside Tim once more up the mountainside. "Somewhere up in the shrubbery there's a starving wolf that's sure to be cursing your name right now."

"Well lucky for me, I've got a big stick."

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Author Note: This is being pantsed more than plotted, and this is not beta read. We'll see where this journey takes us. Mostly I'm just doing this for my own amusement.

Note: If you have any questions about the playthrough and Tim's feelings/experiences that aren't described in the chapters, please ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to answer your questions as best I can.

#elder scrolls dc #skyrim fanfiction #tes 5 skyrim #tim drake #red robin #batfam fanfic #wip #afewnovelideas #crossover

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thetamrieliclibrary · 3 years

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Pocket Guide to the Empire, First Edition: Skyrim

Skyrim, also known as the Old Kingdom or the Fatherland[1], was the first region of Tamriel settled by humans: the hardy, brave, warlike Nords, whose descendants still occupy this rugged land, and, although perhaps somewhat reduced from the legendary renown of their forebears of old, the Nords of the pure blood still unquestionably surpass the mixed races in all the manly virtues.

Exactly when the Nords first crossed the ice-choked Sea of Ghosts from Atmora, their original homeland, is uncertain. As recorded in the Song of Return, Ysgramor and his family first landed in Tamriel at Hsaarik Head, at the extreme northern tip of Skyrim's Broken Cape, fleeing civil war in Atmora (then rather warmer than at present, as it seems to have supported a substantial population). These first settlers named the land "Mereth", after the Elves that roamed the untamed wilderness which then covered the whole of Tamriel. For a time, relations between Men and Elves were harmonious, and the Nords throve in the new land, summoning more of their kin from the North to build the city of Saarthal, the site of which has recently been located by Imperial archaeologists in the vicinity of modern Winterhold. But the Elves saw that the vital young race would soon surpass their stagnant culture[2] if left unchecked, and fell upon the unsuspecting Nords in the infamous Night of Tears; Saarthal was burned, and only Ysgramor and two of his sons[3] fought free of the carnage and escaped to Atmora. The Elves, however, had reckoned without the indomitable spirit of the Nords. Gathering his legendary Five Hundred Companions (whose names are still recited every Thirteenth of Sun's Dawn at the Feast of the Dead in Windhelm), Ysgramor returned to Tamriel with a vengeance, driving the Elves out of Skyrim and laying the foundations of the first human Empire.

It may be that the exploits of the near-mythical Ysgramor conflate the reigns of several early Nord Kings, as the Elves were not finally driven from the present boundaries of Skyrim until the reign of King Harald, the thirteenth of Ysgramor's line, at the dawn of recorded history. King Harald is also remembered for being the first King to relinquish all holdings in Atmora; the Nords of Skyrim were now a separate people, whose faces were turned firmly toward their destiny, the conquest of the vast new land of Tamriel. Indeed, the history of the Nords is the history of humans in Tamriel; all the human races, with the exception of the Redguards, are descended from Nordic stock, although in some the ancient blood admittedly runs thin.

King Vrage the Gifted began the expansion that led to the First Empire of the Nords. Within a span of fifty years, Skyrim ruled all of northern Tamriel, including most of present-day High Rock, a deep stretch of the Nibenay Valley, and the whole of Morrowind. The Conquest of Morrowind was one of the epic clashes of the First Era, when ensued many a desperate contest between Nord and Dunmer in the hills and glades of that dire kingdom, still recalled by the songs of the minstrels in the alehouses of Skyrim. The system of succession in the First Empire is worthy of note, as it proved in the end to be the Empire's undoing. By the early years of the First Empire, Skyrim was already divided into Holds, then ruled by a patchwork of clan-heads, kings, and councils (or moots), all of which paid fealty to the King of Skyrim. During the exceptionally long reign of King Harald, who died at 108 years of age and outlived all but three of his sons, a Moot was created, made up of representatives from each Hold, to choose the next King from qualified members of the royal family. Over the years, the Moot became permanent and acquired an increasing amount of power; by the reign King Borgas, the last of the Ysgramor dynasty, the Moot had become partisan and ineffective. Upon the murder[4] of King Borgas by the Wild Hunt (See Aldmeri--Valenwood), the Moot's failure to appoint the obvious and capable Jarl Hanse of Winterhold sparked the disastrous Skyrim War of Succession, during which Skyrim lost control of its territories in High Rock, Morrowind, and Cyrodiil, never to regain them. The war was finally concluded in 1E420 with the Pact of Chieftains; henceforth, the Moot was convened only when a King died without direct heirs, and it has fulfilled this more limited role admirably. It has only been called upon three times in the intervening millennia, and the Skyrim succession has never again been disputed on the field of battle.

The lands of Skyrim is the most rugged on the continent, containing four of the five highest peaks in Tamriel (see Places of Note: Throat of the World). Only in the west do the mountains abate to the canyons and mesas of the Reach, by far the most cosmopolitan of the Holds of Skyrim, Nords of the pure blood holding only the barest majority according to the recent Imperial Census. The rest of Skyrim is a vertical world: the high ridges of the northwest-to-southeast slanting mountain ranges, cleft by deep, narrow valleys where most of the population resides. Along the sides of the river valleys, sturdy Nord farmers raise a wide variety of crops; wheat flourishes in the relatively temperate river bottoms, while only the snowberry bushes can survive in the high orchards near the treeline. The original Nord settlements were generally established on rocky crags overlooking a river valley; many of these villages still survive in the more isolated Holds, especially along the Morrowind frontier. In most of Skyrim, however, this defensive posture was deemed unnecessary by the mid-first era, and most cities and towns today lie on the valley floors, in some cases still overlooked by the picturesque ruins of the earlier settlement.

Nords are masters of wood and timber construction; many structures survive in use today that were built by the first settlers over 3,000 years ago. A fine example of Nord military engineering can be seen at Old Fort, one of the royal bastions constructed by the First Empire to guard its southern frontier. Towering walls of huge, irregular porphyry blocks fit together without seam or mortar, as if constructed by mythical Elhnofey rather than men.

The nine Holds present a varied aspect in people, government, and trade. The Reach could be mistaken for one of the petty kingdoms of High Rock; it is full of Bretons, Redguards, Cyrodiils, Elves of all stripes, and even a few misplaced khajiit. The northern and eastern Holds--Winterhold Hold, Eastmarch, The Rift, and the Pale, known collectively as the Old Holds--remain more isolated, by geography and choice, and the Nords there still hold true to the old ways. Outsiders are a rarity, usually a once-yearly visit from an itinerant peddler. The young men go out for weeks into the high peaks in the dead of winter, hunting the ice wraiths that give them claim to full status as citizens (a laughable practice that could serve as a model for the more "civilized" regions of the Empire). Here, too, the people still revere their hereditary leaders, while the other Holds have long been governed (after a fashion) by elected moots. It is fortunate for Skyrim and the Septim Empire that the people of the Old Holds have preserved the traditions of their forefathers. Skyrim has long been dormant, slumbering through the millennia while upstart conquerors bestrode the Arena of Tamriel. But now, a son of Skyrim[5] once again holds the world's destiny in his hands. If Skyrim is to wake, its rebirth will be led by these true Nords who remain its best hope for the future.

[TRAVELER: I found many of these mountain villages almost empty of young men, who have been seduced into joining Septim's army by promises of wealth and glory; the village elders see little hope of their sons ever returning.]

Snow Elves[6]

Nords attribute almost any misfortune or disaster to the machinations of the Falmer, or Snow Elves, be it crop failure, missing sheep, or a traveller lost crossing a high pass. These mythical beings are popularly believed to be the descendants of the original Elven population, and are said to reside in the remote mountain fastnesses that cover most of Skyrim. However, there is no tangible evidence that this Elven community survives outside the imaginations of superstitious villagers.

The Tongues

The Nords have long practiced a spiritual form of magic known as "The Way of the Voice", based largely on their veneration of the Wind as the personification of Kynareth. Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky, and the breath and the voice of a Nord is his vital essence. Through the use of the Voice, the vital power of a Nord can be articulated into a Thu'um, or shout. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies at a distance. Masters of the Voice are known as Tongues, and their power is legendary. They can call to specific people over hundreds of miles, and can move by casting a shout, appearing where it lands. The most powerful Tongues cannot speak without causing destruction. They must go gagged, and communicate through a sign language and through scribing runes.

In the days of the Conquest of Morrowind and the founding of the First Empire, the great Nord war chiefs--Derek the Tall, Jorg Helmbolg, Hoag Merkiller--were all Tongues. When they attacked a city, they needed no siege engines; the Tongues would form up in a wedge in front of the gatehouse, and draw a breath. When the leader let it out in a thu'um, the doors were blown in, and the axemen rushed into the city. Such were the men that forged the First Empire. But, alas for the Nords, one of the mightiest of all the Tongues, Jurgen Windcaller (or the Calm, as he is better known today), became converted to a pacifist creed that denounced use of the Voice for martial exploits. His philosophy prevailed, largely due to his unshakable mastery of the Voice--his victory was sealed in a legendary confrontation, where The Calm is said to have "swallowed the Shouts" of seventeen Tongues of the militant school for three days until his opponents all lay exhausted (and then became his disciples). Today, the most ancient and powerful of the Tongues live secluded on the highest peaks in contemplation, and have spoken once only in living memory, to announce the destiny of the young Tiber Septim (as recounted in Cyrodiil). In gratitude, the Emperor has recently endowed a new Imperial College of the Voice in Markarth[7], dedicated to returning the Way of the Voice to the ancient and honourable art of war. So it may be that the mighty deeds of the Nord heroes of old will soon be equalled or surpassed on the battlefields of the present day.

Places of Note

Haafingar (Solitude)

The home of the famous Bards' College, Haafingar is also one of Skyrim's chief ports, and ships from up and down the coast can be found at her crowded quays, loading umber and salted cod for the markets of Wayrest, West Anvil, and Senchal. Founded during Skyrim's long Alessian flirtation, the Bards' College continues to flaunt a heretical streak, and its students are famous carousers, fittingly enough for their chosen trade. Students yearly invade the marketplace for a week of revelry, the climax of which is the burning of "King Olaf" in effigy, possibly a now-forgotten contender in the War of Succession. Graduates have no trouble finding employment in noble households across Tamriel, including the restored Imperial Court in Cyrodiil, but many still choose to follow in the wandering footsteps of illustrious alumni such as Callisos and Morachellis.

Windhelm

Once the capital of the First Empire, the palace of the Ysgramor dynasty still dominates the centre of the Old City. Windhelm was sacked during the War of Succession, and again by the Akaviri army of Ada'Soon Dir-Kamal; the Palace of the Kings is one of the few First Empire buildings that remains. Today, Windhelm remains the only sizable city in the otherwise determinedly rural Hold of Eastmarch, and serves as a base for Imperial troops guarding the Dunmeth Pass into Morrowind.

Throat of the World

This is the highest mountain in Skyrim, and the highest in Tamriel aside from Vvardenfell in Morrowind. The Nords believe men were formed on this mountain when the sky breathed onto the land. Hence the Song of Return refers not only to Ysgramor's return to Tamriel after the destruction of Saarthal, but to the Nords' return to what they believe was their original homeland. Pilgrims travel from across Skyrim to climb the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar, where the most ancient and honoured Greybeards[8] dwell in absolute silence in their quest to become ever more attuned to the voice of the sky.

Annotations

Annotations by YR:

"Most of the Nords I met seemed amused by this 'Fatherland' nonsense ~ the war with the 'Aldmeri Dominion' was the furthest thing in their minds."

"!"

"Ysgramor's provocations and blasphemies have, of course, been long forgotten."

"Righteous slaying."

"A disputed claim."

"Uncle, I saw signs that might be Falmer boundary-runes, but nothing sure. If any survive, they are wary and withdrawn."

"Septim's new college is staffed by hacks and charlatans ~ the so-called Grand Master is said to have formerly earned his living as a street performer in Windhelm ~ the students are scions of the most obsequious Nord families, hoping to curry favour with Tiber Septim's New Order ~"

"~ At last, a few Men worthy of respect. I met with an ancient Greybeard who could actually converse with me almost as an equal ~ my only such experience among the humans so far ~"

~ Follow for more books, journals, and notes from the Elder Scrolls series ~ Updates daily ~

#tes #the elder scrolls #tes books #the elder scrolls books #skyrim #atmora #nords #atmorans

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elventhief · 5 years

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Fictober Day 19: Death

A/N: Okay so I really wanted to write this scene since I have since changed my plans for the later fics so this is 10000000% au where Cara is the high queen of skyrim (its a long story come bug me about it in my ask box if you'd like) but i enjoyed this idea so much i figured i'd put it here!

Cara placed the Jagged Crown on her brow, the weight of it, making what was about to happen seem that much more permanent. She felt Miraak at her side.

“You do not have to do this, I know you do not want to.”

“I know your thoughts on the matter.”

“That does not mean that you have to do this.”

“He tried to kill me, if I let him live, who am I? Certainly not a queen. Not one that can lead her people anyway.”

Miraak gently grabbed her jaw to have her look at him, his eyes worried. “You have a gentle heart, dii lovaas. We all know this, no one can fault you for staying your hand.”

“It’s because I have a gentle heart they don’t take me seriously. It will break my heart, but,” she paused, stepping away from him, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. “This is something that must be done.”

She left the tent without another word, and Miraak followed.

The wind whipped at their robes, the camp silent as Cara, Miraak, and their honor guard walked through the cliffside camp.

A large crowd had gathered, some of the Jarls that had ridden south with them to fight the Thalmor, some lords and knights of the Empire.

Cara’s gaze snapped to that of her mother, her sister, and two brothers.

“Carawen, please I’m begging you, please pardon him.” Her mother implored, fighting the grip of two of the honor guards that were holding her back.

“Please, escort them out of here,” she adverted her gaze from her family. “They don’t need to see this.”

“You traitorous bitch.” Her older brother, Koredil swore, spitting on the ground at her feet.

“King Voriiel will put your head on a pike for this.” Nelaril added.

Cara stared at her brothers, sadness in her eyes. “I know you will never forgive me, but I’m sorry.”

Her sister was crying into their mother’s shoulder, but the guards took them away as she had asked.

Cara brought her gaze to the man kneeling in the center of the circle that had formed.

“Lord Falnar Direnni. You stand accused of attempted murder, and attempted assassination of the High Queen of Skyrim. How do you plead?”

The Altmer in front of her stared at her, venom in his blue-purple eyes. “I only regret that I didn’t throw you to the sea when you were a child, graxifalas hulkynd. You’ve been a disgrace since your mother birthed you.”

“Before I sentence you, father, I would speak for myself for once, not as Queen, but as your daughter.”

“You are no daughter of mine.”

Cara smiled. “You have said that all my life, but my imperfection comes from you, your bloodline. For years I thought, like a stupid child perhaps one day we could reconcile. But now I know that would never be the case.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “You are right, though. You are not my father, not really. I share your blood, but you do not share mine. Auri-El gave me my soul, Mara blessed it. I am the Last Dragonborn, I am of the Dragonblood, and that still doesn’t matter. All that matters is, I became the very thing you didn’t want me to be. And that is enough for me.”

The elf shook his head. “I pray for the day you die, even if it is not by my hand.”

Cara let out a deep breath. “Lord Falnar Direnni, I, Carawen Direnni, Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold, Stormcrown, Laat Dovahkiin, and High Queen of Skyrim, sentence you to die for your crimes against Skyrim and her people.”

“You won’t do it. You’re weak.”

“May the gods have mercy on you, father.”

“MUL QAH DIIV!”

Cara’s spectral dragon form settled over her shoulders, a blanket of black, gold and violet shimmering against her robes. Regal horns formed and fanned out from her brow, great transparent black wings settling on her back.

A realization settled over the old elf’s features as she took several steps towards him. “It wasn’t a lie, you really are-“

“Dovahkiin, geh, bormah.” Her Voice made the sky rumble.

Cara saw the fear in his eyes .“I’m sorry it has to end this way.” she murmured, no one but perhaps Miraak understanding her through the rumble of the sky.

“KRII LUN AUS!”

Her Voice rang out into the night, and Falnar slumped over into the dirt without a sound.

A/N: translations

graxifalas hulkynd- Aldmeri for 'Disgraceful Broken Child'

#virthiefictober #fictober 2019 #writetober 2019 #miraak #carawen x miraak #cara x miraak #elder scrolls #skyrim #drabble

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daedriclorde · 4 years

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A Thief in Wolf’s Clothing: Part I

New fic is live on Ao3! Super excited to finally share this, feels like I’ve been sitting on it and editing it FOREVER.

Summary: Surprised to have survived Helgen and its aftermath, Aerisif makes her way to Whiterun. Terrified by her second interaction with a dragon, and shaken from the following call from the heavens, Aerisif returns to Dragonsreach, where she must start her new life. Her past haunts her, but she must leave it behind if she is to survive. If Tamriel is to survive.

Anyways read Aerisif’s adventures in Chapter 1, “What Is Honor To A Thief?” here!

Now including full chapters to read here, below the cut!

Aerisif climbed the steps up to the great keep towering over Whiterun. She paused a moment at the top and fixed her gaze on the Throat of the World, looming over Tamriel. Dov-Ah-Kiin was still ringing in her ears, rattling her bones. She took a deep breath, and pushed open the doors to the keep.

Inside, the cavernous hall was dimly lit by sconces and the great fire further in. The maid eyed her suspiciously. She felt her throat constrict. Could the maid know who she was? No, you’re wearing a helm. Your face is hidden, idiot. She kept her gaze forward and marched onward into the hall.

She could hear the conversation from the other side of the hall. “You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards…”

Balgruuf watched her approach the throne expectantly. “So what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?”

Aerisif swallowed to wet her dry throat. “The watchtower was destroyed, but we felled the dragon.”

“Divines help us.” Balgruuf cursed. “I knew I could count on Irileth,” he eyed Aerisif inquisitorially. “But there must be more to it than that.”

Looking down, Aerisif hesitantly continued. “There’s more,” she started, twisting with anxiety. “Something…happened, when we felled the dragon. Your men seem to think that I may be,” Aerisif shrunk away, “the Dragonborn.” She was nearly whispering by the end.

Jarl Baalgruf stroked his beard from his throne and nodded, his eyes glazed, his mind elsewhere. “So it’s true,” he murmured. “The Greybeards really were summoning you.”

“It’s just what the men were calling me, I—“

“Not just the men. The Greybeards seem to think the same thing.”

The man the Jarl had been conversing with before spoke up. “Didn’t you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! That hasn’t happened in…centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!” The Nord was visibly excited.

Balgruuf chuckled. “Forgive my brother’s passion for history. But whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you.”

The beast that had awoken in her at Helgen fluttered its wings.

“If the Greybeards think you’re Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You’d better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It’s a tremendous honor.”

What is honor to a thief?

Balgruuf rose, lifting his broad frame from the throne. “You’ve done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn.” Aerisif flinched at the word. “By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane…” His voice trailed off as he looked between Hrongar and Proventus. Both panicked as they realized they did not know Aerisif’s name.

It was Proventus who spoke. “Your name? Tell the Jarl your name.”

“Ae—“ she started, but choked the word off before she could speak it. She could not use her real name. They would find her. Everyone would know who she was.

The Steward was growing impatient, and so was the Jarl. “Tell the Jarl your name, stranger.” Proventus was glaring now.

Aerisif panicked.

The Jarl’s eyebrows started to rise at her delay.

“Kjolti, Jarl Baalgruf. My name is Kjolti.”

He nodded solemnly. “I name you Thane Kjolti of Whiterun. It’s the greatest honor that’s within my power to grant. I assign you…” he considered a moment, then snapped his fingers at Hrongar. “Lydia, as a personal Housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office. I’ll also notify my guards of your new title.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want them to think you’re part of the common rabble now, would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn.”

Aerisif let out her breath, as they all accepted her new identity. Someone handed her a sword, and Aerisif accepted the gift. Proventus was leaning toward the Jarl, speaking on a different matter. Hrongar crossed his arms and gave Aerisif a stern look. She was dismissed.

Aerisif turned and began to walk out of the hall. A young woman with brown hair approached her. She wore a full set of steel armor, a Whiterun shield on her left arm, and a steel sword on her back.

“It is my honor to serve you, my Thane.” The woman dipped her head respectfully. “I am Lydia, your housecarl. It is my duty to protect you, and all you own. I am your sword, and your shield. I will follow you wherever you go, Thane, and I will wait tirelessly where you command. If you have a home, I shall guard it.”

Aerisif nodded, hoping her dismay wasn’t showing on her face.

This woman is going to follow me, fight for me, die for me?

The image Brynjolf getting dragged away flashed before her.

I can’t have that. I can’t be responsible for that. If I am to be the Dragonborn, I cannot have another do my fighting.

Lydia seemed to understand Aerisif’s pause. “Or, if you would like, I can wait for you here.”

Relief flooded Aerisif. She hoped she maintained composure. “Yes, I think here will be just fine. I will find you here when I am ready. Lydia, yes?” The housecarl nodded. “Thank you Lydia, I’ll be back for you.”

Lydia bowed her head, and turned and walked away.

Aerisif let out her breath again.

Get your head on straight, or they’ll find out what you are. This is just like a job, Aer. Its a job where you have to act a part to fool the mark before you rob them blind.

As persuasive as she was, Aerisif could not convince herself.

She straightened, and walked out of Dragonsreach back into the sunlight of Whiterun.

Aerisif walked slowly down the steps back into the city. Whiterun sprawled in the shadow of High Hrothgar. She craned her neck once more, still unable to see the top of the behemoth mountain. She felt her pulse start to rise again.

The Greybeards have summoned the Dragonborn. She could still feel their call reverberating in her bones. The Greybeards have summoned ME.

At the bottom of the steps, she turned left. The religious zealot was still shouting.

She could feel hot tears pooling behind her eyes.

Jorrvaskr loomed over her, and a memory clawed at Aerisif. It was too much.

Aerisif started to sprint through the streets, unable to stem the tide of emotion. Citizens looked at her strangely, some shouted at her, but she could not hear them. She ran and ran.

Finally she found a shadowed corner of the great walls surrounding the city. Out of sight and earshot of the town, she let herself sob. Aerisif collapsed on the ground and let everything flow out of her. The days after Brynjolf’s death had been so void of feeling, and the events at Helgen and the Watchtower too much for her. Curled into a ball against the stone she wailed. Grieving for Brynjolf, grieving for her family, grieving for herself. There was no way she could live up to the mantle of Dragonborn. The gods were cruel. By choosing Aerisif they had doomed all of Tamriel. A thief was not a hero.

***

Aerisif didn’t know how long she hid there. She could feel her eyes were swollen from crying, and was grateful once again for the helm hiding her face. She needed some provisions. I need coin. Aerisif didn’t need to look in her coin purse to know it was empty, but she knew how to fill it. Gathering herself up on shaky legs, she headed to the market.

She scanned the shoppers for marks. There. A Whiterun guard stood with his back to shadows. Too easy. Aerisif casually made her way around the general goods store, not making eye contact, not walking with any purpose. The bushes and shadows on the other side of the store made for easy cover. She crouched and silently crept toward the guard. Aerisif felt her nerves actually lower as she cut his purse. She could hear Brynjolf’s gentle praise at a job well done, but bit her lip to stem the tears in her eyes. No.

She found only twelve septims in his coin purse. Hardly enough to buy anything, but it was a start. Pocketing them, she slid away and searched for another target. In light like this, it was going to be hard to steal anything good. She waited, looking for the right fool.

Half an hour later, Aerisif found her coin purse sufficiently full and no one the wiser to her crimes. This is my skill set, Aerisif thought. How am I going to save Tamriel like this? I can’t STEAL a dragon to death.

Aerisif stepped into the Bannered Mare. With a roughly made steel helm she had picked up in Helgen covering her face, no one dared bother her. They might look at her strangely, in her mismatching armor, but they wouldn’t mess with her. She ordered a mead and a meal from the barkeep and sat alone in the corner, trying to gather some courage for what she had to do.

The Companions were famed across Skyrim, across Tamriel, for their prowess in battle. They were the most fearsome warriors for hire. If anyone could teach her to be a warrior, it was them. She could think of no other option. Aerisif was a thief, a really good thief. While she was deadly with a dagger, she was no warrior. Aerisif had no real clue what to do with a weapon. She could handle a bow okay, but she couldn’t call herself an accomplished archer. She needed to learn how to fight with steel.

Summoning all her courage, liquid and otherwise, Aerisif downed the last of her tankard and left the inn. She strode right up the steps to the Wind District and to Jorrvaskr. With a deep inhale at the top, she pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

Inside Jorrvaskr there was shouting and cheers. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Aerisif saw a brawl happening in the corner. A Nord and a Dark Elf were taking vicious swings at each other, to the encouragement of their peers.

The fuck kind of place IS this?

Her presence had been noticed by a man watching the fight, a tall Nord with blond hair. He stumbled over to Aerisif. He was drunk.

“Who are you?” He blurted out.

Taken aback, Aerisif didn’t have an answer for him. She was lucky that an older man, taller and more imposing, walked over and clapped a sturdy hand on the drunkard’s shoulder.

“Torvar, that is no way to greet guests in our hall,” the white-haired man admonished. He had a nasty scar on his left eye, and wore armor that bore wolves embossed in the metal.

Huh, Aerisif began to wonder.

“Welcome to Jorrvaskr, girl. What brings you to the hall of the Companions?”

Aerisif was prepared to speak now. “Who’s in charge around here?” She managed.

“In charge?” The drunk named Torvar spewed. “I’m in charge of me, and you’re in charge of you.” He grinned.

Aerisif did not like this one.

The old man spoke again. “Torvar here is right. We have no leader. But if you’re interested in joining us—“ he took an appraising look up and down Aerisif. She knew he was unimpressed. “— you’ll want to talk to Kodlak. He sorts out new whelps.”

Kodlak? Aerisif felt recognition bubble from a dusty part of her memory. The man who took me to Markarth? He’s still alive? “Where would I find him?” She was suddenly grateful for the helm covering her face.

The man tilted his head toward the other side of the hall. “Down those stairs.”

Then he must be…what was the other man’s name…Skjor!

Skjor opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by a fresh round of cheering from the crowd watching the brawl. The Dark Elf had knocked the Nord woman to the floor.

Aerisif slipped away before the men could turn their attention back to her.

These men know who I am.

Her heart was pumping. She tried to calm herself. They don’t KNOW who I am. They only know the little girl they escorted to a city. They don’t know the thief she grew up to be.

Down the stairs she pushed the door to the living quarters open, and followed the sound of voices. She paused at a tankard of mead left on a table. She downed it, and kept walking.

Just some more liquid courage.

At the end of the hall, Aerisif found two men sitting at a table, a young man in his prime and an old man, his face lined with age, speaking in hushed voices. They both wore the same wolf armor as the man upstairs.

Maybe the wolf is their sigil or something, she mused.

“But I still hear the call of the blood,” the younger of the two men said.

“We all do,” the old man answered in a deep, husky voice. “It is our burden to bear.” He looked up at Aerisif. “Ah, but look. A stranger comes to our hall.”

Aerisif straightened and tried to make herself look as tall as she could. “I would like to join the Companions.”

The two men shared a glance. “Would you now? Here. Take off that helm, girl, let me have a look at you.”

Aerisif panicked.

“Do what Kodlak says, stranger,” the young man growled.

Tensing, Aerisif pulled off the dented helm. Her black hair was matted and sweaty.

Kodlak examined her face for a long while.

Well, the woman DID say he tells character by looking into a person’s eyes. The fire-haired archer outside of Whiterun had given her the idea to join the Companions.

“How many winters have you seen?” Kodlak asked suddenly.

“Five and twenty.” Not a lie.

“Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit.” Kodlak had not stopped examining her face. “You’re from Markarth.”

Aerisif blinked. “Yes.”

Kodlak continued to stare. “You’re Gardimor’s girl.”

Aerisif held his gaze, refusing to show shock at her father’s name. “Yes.”

A tense moment passed. The young man looked back and forth between Kodlak and Aerisif, confused.

Kodlak’s face broke into a smile. “Well well. It seems Skjor was right. We did find a pup that day.”

“Master,” The young man broke the silence. “You’re not truly considering accepting her?”

“I am nobody’s master, Vilkas,” Kodlak’s voice had some steel to it. “And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their heart.”

“Apologies,” Vilkas bowed his head. “But perhaps this isn’t the time? We haven’t even heard of this outsider.” He flashed a charming smile at Aerisif. He was handsome, but his eyes held false intentions.

Kodlak turned to Aerisif and smiled. “You do not hear and see everything, Vilkas. I saw the fire burning in this one’s heart long before you where even a whelp.”

Aerisif saw the flames that took her home and parents and shuddered.

Vilkas looked confused, but decided against asking.

“How’s your arm, girl?” Kodlak asked.

Aerisif paused. How much of the truth do I tell him? It seemed like Kodlak could sniff out a lie better than your average Nord.

“I have much to learn.” Also not a lie.

Kodlak grinned. “That’s the spirit. Vilkas here will get started on that,” He turned to Vilkas. “Vilkas, take her out to the yard, and see what she can do.” His tone indicated the conversation was over.

Vilkas eyed Aerisif hungrily, greedily, and threw her a wolfish grin. “Aye,” He said happily, and stood from the chair and started walking down the hall.

“So, do you have a name, whelp?” Vilkas tossed his head over his shoulder, grinning.

Whelp? “Kjolti.” A lie.

“Kjolti,” Vilkas seemed to taste her name. “Welcome to Jorrvaskr, Kjolti. I’m Vilkas, the Master at Arms here.”

“Well met.” Aerisif lengthened her stride to match pace with him. They soon reached the doors that led back to the main floor of the mead hall. She thrust her dented helm back on her head.

Vilkas pushed the doors open and swaggered up the stairs. They had nearly made it to the back doors, where Aerisif assumed lay some sort of training grounds, when Vilkas turned around, smirking.

“Hey, who wants to watch me test the new blood?” He called loudly to the hall.

Aerisif felt her heart drop straight into her stomach.

The sound of chairs scraping against wood mingled with excited clamors. This test, that Aerisif had little hope of leaving with any integrity, was now to be public. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kodlak ascending the steps as well.

Divines, I’m dead.

The Companions quickly circled around the training yard. Aerisif saw several practice dummies set about. She noted some intended for archery, and began withdrawing her bow.

“Not for this, whelp.” Vilkas’s words were like a whip. “Fight me with steel.”

Aerisif felt her body drop as cold as Atmora.

“Fight…fight you?” She appraised with dread his stocky build, his thick arms, the fine steel armor he wore. The onlooking Companions chuckled.

He laughed, flashing white teeth. “Aye, whelp! Show me what you’re made of!”

She reached for the dagger hanging at her hip. Vilkas laughed again.

“Don’t insult me by calling that toy a weapon. Use real steel!”

Aerisif looked down at the dirt. “I…I have no sword.”

Vilkas made an exasperated sound. “We use blunted steel for training, whelp. Grab your weapon of choice from the rack.” He jerked his thumb toward a large wooden frame holding a multitude of weapons.

Aerisif numbly walked over. Swords, axes, and hammers of all kinds hung before her. If she had been thinking clearly, she might have picked something that was close to the dagger she was used to wielding, like a nice light sword. Maybe even an axe, for show.

If she had been thinking clearly.

The fear and hatred that pulsed in Aerisif clouded her judgement.

Full of anger, she reached instead for the largest sword she could find. A heavy, brooding greatsword filled both her hands.

Aerisif managed to keep her face steady as she struggled with the weight of the weapon.

Shor’s bones! What have I done? It was too late to turn back now. They had all seen her pick the greatsword. She grunted and found some balance in the blade, and stomped back over to the dirt circle.

Vilkas raised an eyebrow. “Quite the choice, you’ve made. Know how to use that thing?” He teased, smiling.

Oh, gods, he knows.

Aerisif responded by straightening her helm quickly, before she lost her grip on the two-handed sword.

Chuckling, Vilkas walked forward until he was just a few paces away from Aerisif. He raised his longsword above his head and swung.

To both Aerisif and Vilkas’s surprise, she managed to move her sword in time to meet his attack. The metal rang out and Aerisif’s eyes widened in shock.

Cheers rung out from the onlookers.

Aerisif’s arms already ached from the impact of the blow, but she forced them to swing the sword around and try to land a blow. She nearly fell as the weight of the blade swung too far from her center of balance.

Vilkas used the opportunity to strike Aerisif’s torso. The dulled blade scraped horrendously against the cheap armor Aerisif had scavenged.

Winded and knocked back several paces, Aerisif had managed to stay on her feet, but her sword had dropped to the ground.

Relentless, Vilkas swung again. Aerisif again raised her sword in time to block, but already weakened, his blow knocked her sword aside like it was nothing. As she was death-gripping the blade, Aerisif flew with it when Vilkas knocked it aside, and again lost her balance. Vilkas swung low and knocked her legs out from under her.

Aerisif landed in the dirt with a thud that reverberated through her whole body. She tasted the coppery tang of blood.

Around her there was an explosion of laughter. They cheered for Vilkas, who was facing the crowd of onlookers with arms raised. He looked so damned cavalier, relishing in his easy victory.

Fire burned in Aerisif’s chest. Her blood was pulsing, rushing, charging through her veins.

The beast that had been awoken in Helgen reared its head again. It was raging.

This will not do, it gritted.

Fuming, Aerisif pulled herself from the dirt. She threw the cumbersome sword to the ground, where it kicked up a small cloud of dirt.

She had caught the attention of some of the crowd.

Locking her eyes on this cocky bastard, she spat blood from her mouth, let loose a battle cry, and charged Vilkas.

He had not fully turned around before she was upon him. Too close for him to attack with his long sword, she grabbed his wrists. The mail gloves he wore may protect him from steel, but they allowed Aerisif to find the pressure point hidden there. She dug her thumbs in and twisted viscously. He cried out and his sword thudded to the ground, and before he could blink again, Aerisif had spun around, drawn her dagger and held it to his exposed throat, gripping his hair.

The silence that followed rang louder than the cheers and laughter. Aerisif panted from the anger burning inside her, eyes shifting.

Gods, what have I done?

Then, shattering the silence, the red haired woman barked out a single laugh. Another followed, and soon she was in fits of a hearty laugh. Soon, the whole crowd of them was cheering “To the Whelp!” and laughing, laughing at Vilkas.

Aerisif dropped her dagger and released Vilkas, not daring to look at his face. To her shock, he turned and met her eyes with a coy smile.

The crowd grew silent, and Aerisif saw Kodlak step forward among them. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Well,” he continued to step forward. “I think perhaps while that was not the fight we expected, it was the fight we didn’t know we wanted to see.” he smiled. “I am not certain, however, that you are a good fit for the Companions.” Aerisif felt her face redden. “You certainly have fire, girl, no one here dares deny that. But your swordsmanship is lacking…”

“I will train her, Kodlak.”

The voice came from her left. Aerisif laid eyes on the man and did a double take. She snapped her head to the right, where Vilkas stood, and back to the left, where this other man stood, with Vilkas’s face.

Twins, she quickly understood. This one was somehow even sturdier built than his brother. While Vilkas kept his hair tidy and kept, his brother left his long and wild.

Kodlak seemed surprised. “Will you, Farkas?” He turned again toward Aerisif. She was still breathing heavy from the fight and her fire. He found molten steel in her eyes. He nodded to himself. “Perhaps. Kjolti, you have one month to train and then test again. If you can prove yourself worthy at the next moon, you will earn a place in Jorrvaskr among the Companions. Farkas, you have lots of work to do. See that it is done well.” He walked off, and the rest of the Companions followed.

Vilkas had come up to Aerisif unnoticed. “I see that I was wrong about you! I thought that you wouldn’t last more than five minutes. You didn’t even last one!” He belted out a laugh deep from his belly. He saw her unsmiling face. “Ah, I jest! Once you learn how to wield steel with honor, I will gladly knock you down again. Unless, of course, you’re interested in a different sort of getting knocked around before then?” He winked at her.

Aerisif recoiled in disgust. Is he for real? She put her hand on her dagger and opened her mouth to say something regrettable when she was interrupted.

“I’m Farkas. I’m going to train you.”

Aerisif looked him up and down. Gods, I’m lucky I wasn’t fighting this brother. “Kjolti.” She offered by way of greeting, nodding.

“I liked the way you shamed my brother in front of everyone. He needs to be embarrassed every now and then.”

“Embarrassed? Ah, brother, did you not see the first part of the fight? Where I swatted this whelp to the ground like a fly?” Vilkas flashed a smile at Aerisif.

This man has more weapons than his sword, and he knows it. She knew his kind. Dangerous.

“I saw how she disarmed you like you were the whelp.” Farkas grinned at his brother. “When was the last time you were disarmed?”

Vilkas shoved his brother playfully. “Ah, come off it. You have work to do!” He strutted away. Aerisif marveled at his confidence.

“Come here. Let me show you how to hold a greatsword. Your grip is all wrong.” Farkas had picked up the dulled practice blade like it was no more than a twig. His eyes were soft and his voice was kind.

Twins, yes, but perhaps only on the outside. Aerisif nodded and watched closely. She knew her life depended on it.

#Skyrim #fanfic #Skyrim FanFic #tes #tes v #the elder scrolls #OC Dragonborn #thieves guild #the companions #brynjolf #farkas #vilkas

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moderately-ok-trash-bin · 4 years

Text

Three OTP Questions

So I just kinda spontaneously decided to write this for my two favourite OCs because if I don’t force myself to talk about them now then I never will. Sooo here’s the first one, my Altmer Dragonborn Aradove.

1) How did they first meet?

‘Must keep going. Must remain vigilant. Dragons, the Thalmor, the Imperials, bandits, beasts... any or all of them could appear at any time. I won’t be truly safe in this land until I can make it so. Rid Skyrim of the dragons and the tyrants, show her people they can trust me, and show my people that peace and coexistence is possible. Then I can go home... then I can rule a land of prosperity and growth, instead of a land of foolish supremacy and cruelty. I’ve been given this power by the Divines, and I’ve been given it for a reason. It is up to me, and me alone, to end the cycle of senseless violence that has plagued Tamriel...’

It was thoughts like this dominating my mind as I rushed through the forests and cliffs of the Rift. While I couldn’t help but feel excitement at the rush of the wind, the smell of the trees and the river, and the sounds of the untouched wilds all around me, the weight of my purpose kept my face unflinching as stone. Ever since I’d fled Summerset and, after narrowly evading execution upon reaching Skyrim, learned that I was the prophesied Dragonborn, things had been different. I was no longer a disillusioned princess with no desire to be the figurehead of a regime that rejected all ways of life but their own, but a destined hero who must bring about a new age. And this was a destiny I knew I must take seriously. It is up to me to herald in a new peace for both those it is my birthright to rule, and those is is my birthright to save. That is all that matters. Nothing less than that would satisfy me.

My head snapped to the side when I heard a faint but deep snarl in some nearby grass. I drew one of my two steel swords, and in my free hand, sent a fire bolt hurtling at the Sabre cat that now charged at me from its hiding spot. The animal screeched with rage as the flame hit the side of its face, but it did not slow, leaping into the air to attack me. I narrowly blocked its huge paws with my blade as it landed, deftly shoving it to the side and drawing my other sword in my free hand. As it dashed in to try and rake me with its claws, I inhaled sharply and, focusing my energy into my voice, I used my Shout. ‘Fus’ echoed slightly around us as the beast staggered, giving me the opening I needed to move in and put my swords through the animal’s chest.

I stepped back, briefly wondering if I’d ever get used to the feeling of using my Shouts. They were unlike anything I’d ever felt, some deep, complex knowledge in my very soul that manifested as power. This was the Divines’ gift to me, the gift that uniquely allows me to deliver this world from calamity... I’d never before imagined that such a power could exist in me...

I suddenly became acutely aware of the reality of my current situation. I’d been careless, lost in thought in the middle of the wilderness after using the most attention-grabbing power at my disposal. I’d let my guard down. I was vulnerable.

Too late.

The second Sabre cat slammed its paws into my chest and nearly knocking the wind out of me as I whirled around, claws digging into my leather armour as I winced and dropped one sword, hastily bringing the other one up toward my face. I heard the clang of bone against metal as I barely managed to put my sword between the animal’s massive teeth and my throat. I tried to push it off of me, but to no avail. It had me pinned and I was in no position to use any of its strength or even my own against it so I could get up and fight on. Magic wouldn’t work either, as I needed to keep both hands on my weapon to keep the creature at bay.

I felt my heart drop in fear. Would this thing tire before me? I was already straining to keep pushing it back at the poor angle I was forced into, would it tire before me? How long would I need to stay here? What if it outlasted me and I died here? A chorus of ‘no’ echoed within me, yet try as I might to Shout again, the power still needed time to recharge. I winced as the pressure on my chest began to register at the same time that I tried to push the Sabre cat off, closing my eyes tightly to try and distract myself from the peril of my situation, instead focusing all of my energy into trying to escape and save myself. I had no idea how long I was there. A second? Two minutes? Didn’t matter. I only snapped back to my senses when I heard a muffled cry of pain from the Sabre cat, followed by the complete removal of the pressure crushing my chest as I opened my eyes to watch the beast slump over, a shining steel greatsword being pulled from its side.

I sat up, and after looking to the Sabre cat that had just nearly ended my life just to make sure it was truly dead, I gazed up to see who it was that had come to my rescue. What I saw triggered a landslide of things within me that I could not begin to understand.

My mysterious saviour was a Nord man with dark brown hair and a short beard. Black war paint framed his eyes like tear-streaked eyeliner. He wore a type of armour I’d never seen before, with more furs and a more brownish tone of metal, and some metal wolf heads adorning the torso. After briefly looking him over, I gazed back up toward his eyes, and I became distinctly aware of both his disdainful expression, and the Imperial woman in studded armour behind him. I tried to find the words to say, but before I could, he addressed me.

“Are you alright? That thing was damned close to ripping your throat out.” Instinct told me to bite back and tell him he had no idea who he was talking to, but I refrained, only just remembering I needed to keep my identity a secret.

“I’m fine. The thing simply caught me the second I dropped my guard,” I replied, attempting to keep my composure despite the strange feelings welling within me. My face felt warm and my heart was beating faster. I glanced to the ground, briefly wondering if I’d contracted a disease from one of the Sabre cats...

“Hmph. You can’t just be complacent out here, elf. Do that, and you’re sure to get torn apart,” he sneered, my face flushing further as I looked at the annoyed expression on his face. I gritted my teeth subtly at the implication that I was just being foolish.

“I’m not a fool, I know that. It was simply bad timing to lose focus. There’s been much on my mind these past few days,” I replied, standing up and sheathing my blades.

“Hah. An off day, hmm? Of course.” I could feel the sarcasm dripping from his words, his disbelief in my abilities clear. I decided it was time to take the focus off of me, before I felt like I needed to give a demonstration.

“Those matters aside... I must thank you for saving me. You have my deepest gratitude. May I ask who you are?” I inquired, attempting to summon up the regal politeness that was drilled into me as I grew up. The man stood with a certain sense of indignance and pride as he introduced himself.

“My name is Vilkas, a member of the Companions in Whiterun. This is my Shield-Sister, Ria. We of the Companions fight for honour, glory and coin. We take the burdens of people who don’t feel up to defending their own honour,” he said confidently. I had heard mention of the Companions before, both rumour and small talk in Whiterun, and the famous Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor from my history lessons. Things had changed drastically over time, it would seem. Yet this thought’s importance in my mind paled in comparison to the still-rapid beating of my heart. Something about looking at this man gave me such a rush. I had no idea what I was feeling, and at that point I was beginning to fear it. All I knew was that I needed to get away, and quickly.

“I see. Once again, many thanks for coming to my rescue. I must now return to my travel, but know that I will not forget your help.” I turned to leave, Vilkas giving me a nod of acknowledgement as I walked away. Once I had passed through enough forest to be out of his sight, I leaned against a tree, bringing one hand to my chest and the other to my still-red face.

‘What on Nirn is this feeling...?’

2) What did they think of each other at first?

Aradove was immediately attracted to Vilkas, but she had no idea what she was feeling at first, so she was suspicious of him because of the effect he had on her until she figured out what it was. Vilkas, on the other hand, thought Aradove was just some stupid elf too full of herself to be aware of danger.

3) Were they immediately interested/attracted or did that come later?

Aradove yes, definitely. Vilkas though, only began to take a shine to her as she rose through the ranks of the Companions later on in her story and proved herself strong, honourable and level-headed.

——————————

Oh my god I did it. I wrote a whole OC post. And I don’t hate it. Whattt

@hircines-hunting-grounds @curiousartemis

Idk what do you guys think? I hope you liked it :)

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