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dalishthunder · 11 months

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Throw a Dart at the Map (p1)

Pairing: Nebarra/LDB (Gender Neutral Reader) Rating: Mature Words: 1131 Additional Info: Pining... Fluff and pining, Takes place after "Honor and Glory", Takes place during the Island Quest

During the Great War, there had always been a twinge of sadness when the battle ended. Whether the skirmish was won or lost, there were dead to count and name. Letters to write... and no time to mourn.

After Nebarra had begun mercenary work, that had shifted to a disappointment that his bloodlust could not be fully sated. The battle ended before he'd barely wet his blade.

And now... it was more relief. Relief and the wanting to see that furiosity and passion on your face longer. More often. It was odd to think that he'd been traveling with you for over a year now. But he wasn't about to ask you to bed just to see your expressions or passion between battles. You certainly didn't feel that way about him anyway. You were Skyrim's darling. The most eligible person in the entire province and even other parts of Tamriel....

Oh, Old Soldier...

He looked over to where you stood at the bow, cold sea air whipping all around, wreathed in the glow of the auroras above. There was something so wild and serene about it... about you.

It was the first time he'd gotten to be alone with you in probably close to a month. He wasn't even quite sure why you'd volunteered to come out here with him just to make a bit of coin.

Probably needed a break from all the pomp and circumstance.

Before he knew it, he'd made it to your side, leaning against the railing, shoulder bumping against yours as the waves rocked the ship.

You gave him a smile, eyes tired, haunting in the soft green glow, before leaning against him.

"You know..." He started after a long, long while, "We can go anywhere we want to now...."

A laugh bubbled from your throat like champagne, "We? You mean you're not sick of me yet?"

"Never said that." He almost wished you could see his grin. "But as far as traveling companions go, I supposed I could do worse. And someone needs to make sure you don't get yourself killed doing something irrationally stupid."

"That someone is Xelzaz.... For both of us."

"He does have a better head on his shoulders than most, I'll give him that."

You chuckled, and after a moment, you asked, "Where would you like to go?"

Home.

"Somewhere warm."

He wasn't quite sure if it was a good idea to bring you to the Isles. The Thalmor had started to show... interest in your activities, and bringing you into the den of serpents as it were would be unwise. No matter how certain he was that you would get along well with his brother. His parents....

Gods what a dumb turn of thought. You could absolutely not meet his parents.

Ever.

How much wine had he had already?

Not enough.

You straightened up, turning around so your back was against the railing and you could look at him. Your smile was intoxicating. "Alright. I'm down for that. I'm kind of interested in seeing the Sea of Pearl. Maybe Topal Bay?"

"Ohohoho, look who's been brushing up on geography. And here I thought I'd be able to mock you forever for being a dullard."

You gave him a halfhearted shove. "Sorry, been too busy saving the whole world to know every world detail up to your standard."

"Excuses don't look good on you, my dear Dragonborn."

You rolled your eyes. "So, it's settled then?"

"That you'd a dullard?"

"No!" You smacked him on the shoulder, and he just snickered. "That after everything's over we're setting sail for the Sea of Pearl."

His heart skipped a beat. "Yeah, it's settled. Once this whole mess has been dealt with, we're going south and getting some good wine. Something full-bodied. Actually, have you ever tried metheglin?"

You shook your head.

"We'll have to get some when we head south."

"What's it taste like?"

"It's a honey liquor. I haven't had any in ages.... There was a small town near where I grew up that made the best lemon infused metheglin. Last time I had it was the night before I was shipped off. Let me tell you the hangover while I was signing away my life to The Dominion was probably the worst one I've ever had." He let out a breathy chuckle. "I thought I was going to vomit over the poor hag's shoes." You laughed again, "You'll have to show me sometime."

"Maybe after the Sea of Pearl and Topal Bay."

"I'm holding you to it."

"I said maybe."

"Too late, you've already gotten my hopes up, Nebbadiah." Your smile was infectious, and as he realized the way he'd been leaning in, he was very, very glad for his helmet. He was sure kissing you was one of the dumbest ideas that had ever cursed his mind.

"Bad idea...."

"Oh..." Your smile faltered. "Yeah... sorry, that was a silly idea. The Thalmor don't really like me... no need to stir the pot even more by going into the heart of The Dominion...."

"On my oath, I will protect you if we ever do. Besides, if I'm going to retire on Auridon and buy a vineyard, the Thalmor had best get used to you or have a blade shoved through their gut."

It was difficult to make out in the dim green light, but he was pretty sure your cheeks flushed... or perhaps it was wishful thinking. And then you headbutted his shoulder. "What's the point of retiring if we can't relax."

We.

Yes, he was very glad for his helmet.

"Hmmm... I suppose we could settle for southern Cyrodil instead if we really have to." He drawled.

We.

Your forehead was still pressed into his armor. He was afraid if he moved, the mood would shatter; That nebulous future together fade on the wind....

"I think I want to travel a lot more before I retire."

"We've still got plenty of time left." After all, you were supposed to be the avatar of Talos or some such nonesense that the nords had made up. And as much as he liked to complain, Nebarra wasn't even technically middle aged.

"We've still gotta get Xelzaz to Highrock.... And figure out what happened to Lucifer."

He rolled his eyes, of course you'd have to bring them up while he was trying to live in some stupid little fantasy. He looked out over the horizon, spotting a small island. Someplace to dock for the night and potentially hide the boat until he needed it again.

Because as much as he'd like to believe the wine, and talk about sailing away or settling down together, he needed to live in the real world. So, reluctantly he pulled away.

"Yes, well, like I said, plenty of time."

#nebarra #nebarra skyrim #skyrim #custom voiced followers #thunderous applesauce #odt #I know I'm writing a lot for him #I am sorry.... It will happen again #Throw a dart at the map

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wispstalk · 2 years

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land

Cloud Ruler Temple clings to the mountainside. At times it's as if the barren slopes are all that remains of the world, an island of cold rock drifting in some hazy void. All the rest, from the wind-battered highlands to the glittering Topal bay, seems burnt away— a dream forgotten with no one left to dream it.

Martin leans in a crenel, flanked by the two watchtowers. Up here the wind rides high and wild, plucking at the ends of his hair as it races by. First Seed can only charitably be considered a spring month this far north, but the brazier nearby fends off the chill, and Bruma Valley sleeps curled at the foot of the mountain. Tanis was right: this really is the best brooding spot in the whole temple.

A hand on his shoulder. Martin had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Before he can rouse himself to turn, a slender grey hand comes to cover his eyes.

“Tanis, what—”

“What phase is Secunda in?” the Hero of Kvatch cuts in.

“I—” Martin lets out a soft huff of laughter. “I don’t know. I was… somewhere else.”

“I know you were.” Tanis lowers his hand and cups Martin’s jaw, tilting it upward.

Secunda full, Masser a waxing crescent. A cold, clear night, with high winds herding the clouds away. One seems to have strayed from the flock, however: Tanis nudges him with an elbow, proffering a steaming mug.

An alchemist never offers tea without some ulterior motive. With the coming of spring, Tanis has been plying the temple’s residents with “blood tonics,” whatever those are. But he has a mind for flavor: the bitter, earthy root is rounded out with fennel and cardamom, sweetened with honey. The warmth of it in his hand, the warmth of Tanis at his back, settles Martin back into himself. He breathes in the aromatic steam and looks out again with fresh eyes.

Up here the plants hang on for dear life. Tough, scrubby little things, huddled low in the hollows that pock the rough granite. Down the slopes their defenses thicken: evergreens bent into crooked sprays, their rugged branches bearing crowns of bright, tender green. The spruce buds are luminous in the moonlight. Evidence of another winter survived, another chance to jostle for a place in the sun.

“A prison with a view,” Tanis remarks, “but damned if it isn’t the best view in all Cyrodiil.”

“I've wondered what keeps you here,” Martin says wryly. "Moved up in the world from your dungeon cell, haven't you?"

Tanis slips an arm around Martin’s waist. “I like it here. More than I thought I would. I've seen every corner of this land of yours by now, priest, and it's a fine one.”

Martin breaks into a faint smile. “It really is.”

Far below them the forest spills down the mountain like dark velvet. Bruma’s watchfires are tiny embers in the coal-dark valley. He makes a note to come out in the daylight. Surely there is a stirring in the cradle of the Jeralls. Sun-starved residents baring their arms in defiance of the chill, farmers out to till the fallow fields. Here he is too high up to see the bustle, but he knows— despite all, the sun will draw them out.

He spent his childhood with his hands in the soil, his body tuned to the grand order of the seasons, his mind trained to look for the potential that lives in each tiny seed. Every stretch of land on which he’s walked has given him something to love. Tall reeds waving on the shores of Lake Rumare; dark-winged skimmers nesting in Anvil’s dunes; stubborn Kvatch in the hinterlands, perched proudly on its hill.

And yes, even here. The silent, remote immensity of stone, keeping vigil over the boundless horizon.

The mountain fastness seems less an island to him now. It settles, takes root; becomes part of a living, breathing whole. A land that goes on, and on.

#can you tell i am pre-emptively fending off the winter sads #tes oblivion #hero of kvatch #martin septim #elder scrolls #oc: tanis #long post #ray writes

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kagrena · 3 years

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ruins

There is a ruin on an island north, far north, beyond the depths of winter: an old, crumbling temple that points towards the first forest. It is swallowed by thundering seas and winds unending, a storm without relent, and yet the temple is a place of calm where the stars no longer twinkle. It might be lost, were it not for the tides, who still remember, and whisper that it is named for clouded Ysmir. It’s a name that means nothing to you, except for steel, the beginning of a storm.

In the glittering westward seas, speckled with isles bewitched by the falling sun, where ships have fallen spell-bound beneath the waves, there’s the ruin of a fallen tower that hasn’t quite sunk. Aldmyne, the western witch, mist-made and lightning-touched, before the old song shattered and there were elves, many, she liked to unweave sails into silver thread and lace the skies with the first rains from this place. You loved her name.

You were born into a world, your mother told you, woven from corpses. Crumbling histories, the bloodied remnants of old kings, were to be your cradle. You were certainly not to fear them (you would be the fear of them). From what was rotting, flowers would bloom. The Mythic Dawn had told you more: you would weave a crown of them, by your magic. You’d flourish through the rot, through the breaking of the wheel and the building of one anew while the world devours itself. You’d be queen of the forest, and queen of the fire.

You’d been thinking on this, wandering pleasant Cyrodiil, green and plenty Cyrodiil, strewn with all things crumbling, and the blood of others buried beneath its fields of wildflowers. This is not your inheritance. How could it be? Your mother is gone, and you have no father – he is no one, and thus, he is everyone, he is aldmer and he is atmoran and he is the old dark from which you will ascend and yet little more than a shadow cast from exactly nothing. Illusions of grandeur.

You are not named for him. Nor are you named from myth, nor a legend. You needed no queens. You’d pull your name from street signs and village notice boards and the bold lettering front of a market stall and lists of common exports from Anvil to the Illiac Bay you snatched from a shipping manifest in the third place you’d stowed away that season, you pull your name from guards’ rosters and the third most prominent wizard in the colovian highlands. You had shed your true calling, your true name – for they were words that exist for others to place you and position you and puppeteer you – after your mother was strung up. You are not Ysmir and Aldmyne. You are not Mother’s child. You are not the daughter of the dark. You are not a bold line on Topal’s star chart or a prized gem of Azura’s twilight collection.

You look now to the priest, whose eyes are searching in the night. Perhaps for a constellation. You’re far north, now, the frost is beginning to bite and the keen eyes of a blade grandmaster cut at your back during the daylight hours, making sure that you did not stray from those clearly demarcated roads, under the steady watch of the Imperial Legion. You’d noticed the priest had kept his jaw tighter, his words terser, rarely drawn, since you’d seen the priory ablaze. The stars do not twinkle. The embers, however, are warm.

“Ysamyne,” you say to him.

It is not a name, a line predestined, prophesied, drawn up in the stars, storm’s daughter, lightning-born, but instead the remnants of things pulled from memory, pulled from the earth lost beneath the waters, wreckage, broken fables, meaningless, now, made anew. Made by you.

“Ysamyne?” he says. He looks to you, unsure. It’s almost a question.

You roll your eyes. You point at yourself with one very clear finger.

“Ysamyne Montrose.”

Perhaps you'll tell the priest, when you know him better, about Ysmir, about Aldmyne, about your terrible habit of making up nonsense, and also that you had thought it would be faintly amusing, for your second name to be the same as the guard who locked you in a cell in the first place.

For now, he gives you the best smile an exhausted man can offer. Kvatch is still smoke and ruin, even if you can no longer see it.

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#tesfest21 #tes #oblivion #hero of kvatch #martin septim #ysamyne montrose #The Song of Ysamyne Montrose #3rd era

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thetamrieliclibrary · 3 years

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Pocket Guide to the Empire, First Edition: Aldmeri Dominion

The Aldmeri Dominion is a relatively recent creation. [1] Formerly divided into he two realms of the Summerset Isles and Valenwood, the Aldmeri Dominion has its origins in CE830, when the heirs of the Camoran Dynasty began to fight over the Valenwood throne. When a faction of the Bosmer (Wood Elves) made overtures of peace to their longtime enemies in West Cyrodiil--territorial concessions in return for Colovian support for the faction's claimant--the Altmer (High Elves) of Summerset invaded the Valenwood Nations. Citing a stewardship clause in a treaty from a thousand years before, the High Elves quickly established a provisional government, the Thalmor, on behalf of their own claimant, Camoran Anaxemes, whose bloodline had struck the pact with the Aldmeri Council in the first place. As the Cyrodilic Empire was still in the shambles of the Interregnum, the Colovians were quickly driven back by the Aldmeri army. The other heirs of the throne were silenced, the Wood Elves thanked their cousins for bringing back stability, and the High Elves reminded Anaxemes the price of Summerset's aid: fifty years' fealty to the King of Alinor. The Aldmeri Dominion was born. [2]

The Thalmor strengthened its hold on the Valenwood Nations during the foundation of the Third Empire. Savage Bosmer tribes skirmished with the Estates along the River Strid, whipped to a frenzy by their High Elven masters. With the Empire now reunified under Tiber Septim, these attacks have subsided; but encampments wait on either side of the Valenwood border, awaiting a decisive battle. On the occasions when the Elves probe the Empire's defenses, the Legions have sent them back in tatters. Indeed, the Colovians have taken to calling their enemy the "Old Mary" Dominion, for the womanly offensives of its Elven soldiers. The situation at sea, however, is another story, and the Dominion terrorises the southern waters from the Cape of the Blue Divide to the Topal Bay. [3] Their sorcery has made allies of a few Reachmen, the Maormer of Pyandonea, and, as of this writing, perhaps even the Elsweyr Confederacy. Though no formal declaration of war has been made, Tamriel is divided between the Empire and the Elder Races, and Tiber Septim has made it known to the Thalmor that he is the True Emperor of Cyrodiil, and heir to all of its former holdings. The Elves of Tamriel have yet to answer.

Considering we have endured their offenses for two thousand years, we know surprisingly little about the Aldmeri. (Only Morrowind, under Skyrim domination during the First Empire, and open to travel and trade during most of the Common Era, is somewhat better known.). The Elves of High Rock and Cyrodiil were either wiped out long ago or displaced into obscurity. As for the Elves of the Dominion, our knowledge of their regions is limited to brief Imperial occupations, or to the translations we have of their literature (see "The Scarcity of Elven Writings").

Of particular scarcity is information about either the High Elves or the Summerset Isles. During the Second Empire [4] ambassadors were allowed only in the capital of Alinor, and thus any description of the Altmeri homeland is confined to that city alone, and elsewhere (see Places of Note--Alinor). Furthermore, we can offer only this brief but reliable account of the High Elven people. It comes from the journals of Eric of Guis [5]. Reman's emissary to the Altmer, who lived among them ca. 1E2820:

"High Elves consider themselves to be the only perfect race. Over hundreds of generations they have bred themselves into a racially pure line, and are now almost identical to one another in appearance. The theory that the High Elves do not reproduce as quickly or as often as humans is false. Rather, and to my horror, they kill nine out of ten babies born to them in their obsession for purity.

"The Altmer despise other Elves as unsophisticated churls and barely consider the non-Aldmeri races at all. They pay their Imperial tithes, I'm sure, not for fear of war with the humans but rather to keep an invasion from "infecting" their islands.

"Breeding outside the pure line is a terrible, unthinkable crime, and taken as prima facia evidence of the tainted blood of the individual in question--if they were, they wouldn't have the impulse to do it. Exile to the mainland is regarded as equivalent to a death sentence, since there is no purpose to living outside their ideal society.

:They have a high regard for order and gravitate naturally towards wearing uniforms and speaking in formal patterns. Their trees and their livestock have been bred to be as standard and ideal as they are. They have no real names of their own, only combinations of numbers that, when aloud, sound to human ears as such. They feel no real tenderness for one another and have no concept of compassion.

"They are decadent and self-obsessed, and prize form and their own brand of manners or style as their main value. Aware of their aristocratic position, they surround themselves with riches and treasures, the works of great artists and the finest of everything, but have no real appreciation for any of these things. Each of them is concerned solely with himself, and as a result they do no real socialising; they meet and hold courts only to demonstrate their importance and power to each other. Rarely do they speak to the human ambassadors of Cyrodiil; when they do, their speech is full of riddles, or spell-words that enchant one to a satisfied madness."

Valenwood was claimed as a wasteland province of the Second Empire, and its geography is partially described in several Imperial surveys. Valenwood is noteworthy in that it has no cities or townships built by the Wood Elves themselves. Their strict "Green Pact" prohibits the use of wood or other vegetable derivatives as building materials, and they are too improvident to learn the use of stone. The Wood Elves permitted a few roads to be built by the Second Empire, but neglect their maintenance, as the Bosmer do not need roads to move easily through the thickest forest; these roads would be now overgrown were it not for the High Elves of the Thalmor, who have repaired and widened them for rapid passage of their arms to and from the coast. Much of the region is impenetrable mangrove and coastal rain forest, with few grasslands or glade areas until further north near the Strident Coast. Many of the human trading posts established by the Second Empire have been abandoned or claimed by the beastfolk--Centaurs, Orcs, and Imga--that share the forests with the Bosmer tribes. Humans, in general, have learned not to intrude in the forests of Valenwood. While they once depended entirely on the annual Stridmeet caravans of the Colovian West, the Wood Elves now rely on the sea piracy of the Dominion for whatever they require from the outside world.

Concerning the Wood Elves as people, we must again turn to the prolific Eric of Guid. After a grateful dismissal from the Court of Alinor, he stayed with the Bosmer for a time at the capital city of Falinesti, during its summer migration. As the city strode along the coastal region of the Cape, Eric of Guis recorded much about Valenwood culture:

"No less abhorrent are the Bosmer than their kin at Summerset, but they are far more cooperative. The Wood Elves love the current human activity because it makes them feel important.

"They are exclusively and religiously carnivorous. They cannot, or will not, eat anything that is plant-based. They eat game, beastfolk, each other, or meats imported from other regions. This part of the Green Pact is known as the Meat Mandate, and, among its other rules, it requires that a fallen enemy must be eaten completely before three days pass. The family members of the warrior that slew the enemy may help him with his meal. Needless to say, the Wood Elves do not like to engage in large battles if they have not undergone a suitable starvation period.

"Though they are excellent archers, the Green Pact forces their bowyers and fletchers to use bone or similar material, or to buy bows from other cultures. The use of woodcrafts created by another race is not forbidden, nor is the sale of their own Valenwood timber as long as it is collected by a non-Bosmeri.

"The Wood Elves, of course, cannot some anything of a vegetable nature. Bone pipes are common, however, and are filled with caterpillars or tree grubs.

"For a brief time the Colovian armies used Wood Elf archers, as in the War of Rihad two years past. The Bosmer proved to be too undisciplined and prone to desertion for further use. They would sometimes walk into the shade of a single tree and vanish. Their forest-coupling skills are remarkable. The title of their most famous poem, the Meh Ayleidion, means "The One Thousand Benefits of Hiding."

"At the trading posts of the Empire, the Wood Elves become very happy. Some creations of carpentry delight them to no end. Most of it has never occurred to them. They bring their own trade items: hides, river pearls, finger-bone charms made from the still-magically-charged hands of their dead wizards. They often buy woodcrafts that they have no use for or whose use they never bother to find out. Some of the bravest Wold Elven warrior use wagon wheels as shields, or as (they think) impressive headgear.

"While sometimes amusing, the Bosmer have a bestial side. They can resort to animal shapes if they need to, or water. Their most dreaded transformation is the Wild Hunt, which killed King Borgas [6] for the "iniquities" of his Alessian faith. The Wild Hunt is a pack of shifting forest-demons and animal-gods, thousands strong, which sweeps through the countryside killing everything in its path. The Wood Elves do not like to talk about the Hunt, and I gather they do not feel proud of this power at all--Gomini, my Bosmer companion of late, tells me that the Hunt is used for justice, but that also, "every monster in the world that has even been comes from a previous Hunt. Those Bosmer that go Wild, they not not return.""

The traveller is advised to avoid the lands of the Aldmeri Dominion. Though the Thalmor have representatives at the Imperial City, and the Cyrodiilic Grand Vizier Zurin Arctus is meeting with the King of Alinor, contact with the Bosmer and Altmer are often disagreeable to the common Imperial citizen. Avoid their books and magic. Wear the permitted weaponry when near their borders. If you are manly and able, apply for service in the Legions.

The Scarcity of Elven Writings

Much of the blame for this can be laid on the Alessian Order, which was tireless in ferreting out and destroying Elven writings during its long dominance. Today, we are left with the beautiful heresies of the Anuad, surviving only by virtue of their popularity and proliferation, and perhaps a dozen more works of lesser renown. This, though, does not explain fully the scarcity of Elven letters. We might turn to Dylxexes, an early human scholar, for another answer. After studying the financial records of the Direnni Hegemony, a High Elven merchant family that exploited the human kingdoms of its day, he had this to say: "These [records] may help to explain why so much of Aldmeri literature is forbidden, scorned, or untranslated, for I have seen [their] like before. The Direnni were either exceedingly paranoid or their system of economy so inextricably linked with dangerous theosophist numeral-symbolism that much of what is recorded here requires... sorcerous precautions on the part of the reader. [Hidden magic] is everywhere incorporated in their writings... signs and preternatural runes and [correspondences]... in expenditure columns, even, or margins [that] can be fatal to the uninitiated. Crucial pages were covered with the spittle of the previous translator, who had babbled idiotically over the text for days before catching fire."

The Great Apes of Valenwood

The Great Apes, or Imga, are native beastfolk of Valenwood. they see the High Elves as their lords and masters, and as a portrait of an ideal, civilised society. Great Apes go to desperate measures to emulate the High Elves: they wear capes, practice with the dueling sword, and attempt to speak with perfect enunciation and courtly manners despite their gravelly, baritone voices. Each Imga bears some kind of title, be it Baron, Duke, Earl, or the like, which they use when addressing the members of the Thalmor (needless to say, there are no landowning Great Apes). More extreme Great Apes shave their bodies and powder their skin white to seem more like the High Elves. They often cut themselves in the process, creating the truly pathetic picture of a naked white Ape, skin dotted pink with blood, strutting around the trading posts of Valenwood with mock nobility. The Imga feel that humans are beneath them as lesser beastfolk, and pretend to find their smell exceedingly offensive--a Great Ape holds a perfumed corner of his cape to his nose when Men are around.

Places of Note

Alinor

A forbidden city for nearly fifty years, Alinor is both capital of the Summerset Isles and the heart of the Aldmeri Dominion. Human traders were only allowed at its ports, and they described the city as "made from glass or insect wings." Less fantastic accounts come from the Imperial emissaries of the Reman Dynasty, which describe the city as straight and glimmering, "a hypnotic swirl of ramparts and impossibly high towers, designed to catch the light of the sun and break it to its component colours, which lies draped across its stones until you are thankful for nightfall."

Falinesti

The walking city of the Bosmer king, Falinesti is south in the summer and north come Hearth Fire. It is the largest of Valenwood graht-oaks, whose magic was invoked at the dawn of recorded history. The Camoran throne is somewhere in the highest branches, as are numerous other dwellings. Wood Elves climb about its surface like termites, or carefully swing from level to level by means of thorny vines. Humans have generally been too unsettled by the city to stay there long, though Great Apes and Orcs are common. The Thalmor has decided to change the campital of Valenwood from Falinesti to Elden Root for the duration of the Aldmeri Dominion.

Annotations

1. Of this pamphlet, this regime, this lunacy 2. I don't know where to begin pointing out the lies 3. !!! 4. My bones chill thinking of such rampant human trespass 5. Does Grandfather remember this fool? 6. Wood Elves of the Wild Hunt, 1e369, still about in Valenwood--Willy the Bitten returned to haunt Silvenar Grove, While King Dead Wolf-Deer stalks the Lynpar March.

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#tes #the elder scrolls #tes books #the elder scrolls books #summerset isles #valenwood #altmer #bosmer #admeri dominion #alinor #falinesti

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