#skyrim fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 5 months

Text

Dark Knowledge: Part Three

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: body horror, tentacle sex, dubcon, power imbalance

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Part Three of Dark Knowledge

Hermaeus Mora gains a secret. You make your escape.

Part Two // Part Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

“Now, Dovahkiin. I would like that secret.”

Knowledge for knowledge.

That is what you promised Hermaeus Mora. A deal was made, and you must follow through.

“What sort of secret?” you whisper, leaning back as if you could escape the Daedric Prince. The four tentacles that hold you up in the air vibrate as you shift your weight away from Hermaeus Mora.

“Are you allowing me the choice?” He sounds amused, and you distinctly dislike it.

“No,” you reply, knowing that giving him the decision to select which memory to take is an unthinkable option. “I will make the choice.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly, his tentacles tightening around your limbs. You’re perhaps a few feet off the ground at most. With these tentacles around your limbs, Mora holds you close to eye-level. In this humanoid form, Mora is tall, almost seven feet.

It is such a strange thing to see a god attempt to be human in any capacity. What was twisting around in Mora’s mind that made him take this form? Why did he believe this would ease your discomfort?

“Then it is your choice,” he replies. “And I will savor whatever you wish to reveal to me.” Mora’s voice is a subtle purr. It is a tone you might hear from a lover’s lips. Is the Daedric Prince taunting you on purpose?

As if human, Mora breathes deep, the inhalation loud. But there is no exhalation, and there is no warm breath against your skin. His form expands. Ripples slightly as if in pleasure. Revulsion blooms in your chest and creeps out into your limbs.

From over his shoulders come four slim tentacles. They slide over Hermaeus Mora and reach out for you. There is no possibility of your escape, and you watch as they move closer, the tips wiggling and stretching. Then they are on you, sliding everywhere.

“Those that follow me and bend to my will do not find my intrusions painful. But since you have yet to know my true influence, I will make sure there is none.”

“How will you do that?” You don’t recognize your own voice. It is soft. Nearly inaudible.

Hermaeus Mora does not tell you with a word but with a touch.

His hand lifts, hovering just above the fabric that separates him from your left breast. The singular eye in the center of his head is focused on that spot. The Prince of Fate hesitates for a moment before closing the distance.

There is nothing human about this touch.

Hermaeus Mora squints, as if thinking, and then his movement changes to that of what would happen if this were a mortal movement. He cups your breast softly, lightly squeezing before his thumb brushes over the nipple through the fabric.

An unknown urge, an eldritch pleasure, stirs in your core. The feeling is strange, and so at odds with what your mind is thinking. Your brain is a fire of revulsion and interest. It is intrigued and yet mortified that you are at his mercy.

One of the four tentacles slithers over and around his arm, accompanying the movement of his hand. Together, they form an unearthly dance of hand and tentacle seeking to draw pleasure from you. At first, the sensation is so odd that you don’t respond at all. But slowly, almost as if not realizing the change, your core begins to warm, and you sense a wetness between your legs.

A second tentacle appears, and it moves toward your other breast. It joins in the dance, and soon you begin to surrender, pieces of you fracturing like fragments of shattered stone. The second tentacle curls around the nipple, lightly tugging as the very tip swishes back and forth. The thin fabric draped over your body does nothing to dampen the sensation.

The two remaining tentacles delve downward, first wrapping around your calves, then venturing upward over your thighs and to the space between them. Hermaeus Mora’s hand draws away from your breast even as his tentacles remain.

“I have witnessed and recorded the mortal forms of mating,” says Mora slowly. “I have yet to put any of that knowledge to use until now.”

The two tentacles slide further up your thighs, and then branch outward, coming together between you and Hermaeus Mora’s bodies. Together, they sink down down down until the joined limbs press against your entrance.

“Look at me, Dovahkiin.”

Hermaeus Mora’s command is a blow. It is sharp as steel. There is no room for refusal. You are in his realm, and his voice holds authority here.

You glance away from the tentacles to his singular eye. While there is no mouth or nose or cheekbones to show his emotions, you still sense that he’s smiling somehow. That Hermaeus Mora is grinning with pleasure at his control over you.

Something wet brushes against your clit. It is not his horrid hand and you do not need to look to know that it is but another tentacle. Yet another appendage exploring your body. This one suctions against your clit, using its naturally, wet flesh to rotate back and forth, creating a vortex of motion that quickly pulls you to the brink of an orgasm.

The stuttering breath from your lungs earn you a deep, rumbling chuckle from Mora. It simmers, and then filters out, his shoulders heaving slightly as if the Daedric Lord is prideful of his actions.

“How does this feel?” he asks. There is a detachedness to his tone, as if he’s observing you like an experiment. But that is what you are after all. You are not the Dragonborn in Hermaeus Mora’s realm but a tool for him to hoard. There is no such thing as freewill or choices with him.

Everything is a game.

Everything is a trap.

“Your touch repulses me,” you reply, making sure your tone is biting.

“Oh. No.” Hermaeus Mora chuckles. “You cannot lie to me in my own realm, Dovahkiin. I see all. I know all.”

“Then you already know how I feel. Why ask?”

“Your venom is not nearly as deadly as you believe it to be,” comes his reply. You feel scolded, and that only makes you angry.

Your hands curl into fists. “Let me give you my secret and be done with this.”

Hermaeus Mora retreats slightly. The inky, watery flesh of his humanoid form ripples like the waters beyond this tower. But it is momentary. Quick. Like a pebble plopped into a still pool. It all returns to normal.

“You entered my realm. You came to me. You sought knowledge. Fate brought you here, and fate is what brings us together now.”

There is another light twist of the tentacle around your clit. This one pulls forth a moan from between your lips. It is unbidden, and completely surprising. It happens again, and that is when the two joined tentacles begin to push in.

The intrusion is not painful. It is actually pleasant and your body surrenders to it, feeding into the gentle, pulsing sway of them inside you. The tentacle at your clit works in tandem, the three appendages working you right back over the edge.

As you squirm, and writhe, the tentacles holding onto your limbs shift. They lift you a bit higher, and then you’re tipping slightly, legs brought upward, only to bend at the knees and be pushed toward your chest.

You’re being presenting and it is both demeaning and luscious.

Hermaeus Mora brings you closer, and then his arms are around your body, his head dipping in an act that seems far too intimate.

“I’ll have that secret now.”

Mora is right. There is no pain. The tentacles moving between your legs keeps all your focus there, even as he draws you closer to his body. You’re nearly pressed up against him. One of his arms slides up your back to wrap around your throat.

Sprouting from his head, little tentacles come rushing forward. They break over your face and meander toward your nose, mouth, and ears. You try to scream but only manage to choke around them as they enter your mouth.

“Relax,” coos Hermaeus Mora. “Let me in. Bask in my presence.”

The tentacles playing with your clit brushes over you in a way that has your body seizing. This flattens the barrier, and Mora’s connection to your mind is instantaneous.

It is a dull explosion. Bright. Loud. Yet also incredibly calm. He moves through your memory, and you can feel it, as if the tentacles are sliding over, around, and in your brain. It is awful, and yet it feels like nothing at all.

Your lips begin to form words, words that tell him that it is your choice. That the memory you pick is one that you select. He is not to grab and pull whatever he likes.

But Hermaeus Mora does not listen to mortal wishes. He shifts through everything, and then you sense the halt—the collective pause.

“What is this?” His tone is cautious but curious. At first, you’re unsure of what Mora is seeing, but as he accesses the memory, it all becomes clear.

“So…that is what the Greybeards hoard atop their mountain. How…selfish of them.”

Shredded wings, missing teeth, and aged dragon scales flare in your mind. You glimpse the eyes of immortality and power. Hermaeus Mora sees it all too, and he clings to this memory, not allowing it to slip away.

Around the image of Paarthrnax there is dullness, one that intensifies into bright white until you’re completely thrust from your own head and back into Apocrypha.

“Your memory is…delicious.” The word curls in the air as if Mora is savoring it like a fine meal.

All the tentacles have retreated from you other than the four that originally held you. “You said a secret. That is not a secret.”

“But it is, Dovahkiin. It is a secret you keep. And now it is a secret I know.”

“But I told you I would give you one.”

“And so you did,” he says simply.

Your lips curl back, showing your teeth. Hermaeus Mora seems unbothered by the whole affair, continuing like he doesn’t care about your display of anger.

“I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.”

Your feral snarl ebbs slightly. “He—what?”

Slowly, the tentacles bring you back to the floor. They retreat suddenly, disappearing into Mora’s form.

Hermaeus Mora’s dark laugh swirls around you like his tentacles. “As a guest in my realm, you are under my protection.” The humanoid shape he molded himself into starts to melt. He begins to lean to the right, the shine of his body rippling like boiling water. The liquification of body and tentacle is horrid. Putrid. Even the eye molts.

You stumble backward, falling on your ass as Hermaeus Mora becomes liquid.

As if there are cracks in the floor, he starts to seep into the stone, disappearing into the rock before there is nothing left of him.

You don’t move. Every inch of you is cold and alert, completely startled by his sudden dissolving.

“Dovahkiin,” comes Mora’s voice and it is everywhere. “No harm will befall you. I will see to it that Miraak does not find you while you haunt my halls.”

Two Seekers drift into the small place, their hands outstretched instructing for you to follow them. You don’t want to go. This place is starting to worm its way inside you. Already, you feel Mora’s alluring pull.

Perhaps it’s because he dug around in your head. Or, worse, the Prince of Fate made you into a whimpering mess that gave in. The very thought is embarrassing, and shame rises in your stomach. You are no one’s property. You belong only to yourself.

And the words are a lie.

You peel yourself off the ground, and the Seekers float into position, one in front and one behind. When you enter the main room where Mora’s most loyal followers work, they do not even look up at you.

Did they hear you in there moaning for their god? Shame creeps in again, and you purposefully stare at the back of the Seeker in front of you. You’re returned to your cage, and you do not want to crawl inside. Now that you’re on the outside looking in, you are not a guest in Hermaeus Mora’s halls but a pet. A plaything. Something he can chew up and spit out once he’s drained you of your memories.

What will happen to you then?

Instead of resisting, you crawl back in, curling up in a tight ball. You keep your back to the cage door, gaze focused on the wall in front of you. The cage is built into it, the metal bars imbedded in the wall.

A plan begins to take shape in your mind. Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing at the wall. It is not as hard you first believed it to be. It’s not stone or rock but something slightly fleshy.

With the right Shout, could you rip a hole in the wall? If you manage that, where would it lead you to? Empty air? Another room? Would Hermaeus Mora know your intent before you did it and come to stop you?

Is he even capable of that?

You’re not entirely sure, and you certainly do not wish to dwell in this cage until he calls on you again. You refuse to be his puppet. The answers you sought when you entered Apocrypha are unimportant now. Miraak’s temple is heavily guarded, but you’ll take the risk infiltrating it rather than trying to seek out knowledge in Mora’s halls.

Breaking through will create noise, and you don’t even know if your Thu’um has returned to you. Hermaeus Mora did not take it away, but he did manage to silence it for a time. When does that expire? Can he reset the clock once it’s up?

Running your tongue over your teeth, you consider your options, and settle on a quiet Shout.

“Feim,” you speak into the air.

You’re pushed into the ethereal form, and though it is temporary and lasts for only a handful of seconds, your Thu’um is back.

Shifting until you’re facing the wall, you sit up enough that you’re not crammed into the small space. You scoot across the stone until your back presses against the bars. Steadying your breathing, you inhale, and then release an unrelenting force of power.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

The force of your Voice batters against the soft wall. Some of it gives, but most of it bounces back and smashes into you. The back of your head bangs against the bars and you slide to the floor, clutching your head, groaning. Through parted fingers, you glance at the wall.

It’s still standing.

You laugh and it sounds like drowning.

This is mad. This is insane. Crazy.

Is Hermaeus Mora’s control finally taking hold? Did his tentacles that moved inside you slip a bit of his influence into your body. He grew no appendage like a mortal man, nor did he finish like they do.

But Mora is a god. He is not bound to the laws that the races of Tamriel are held to.

Your spread out on your hands and knees, shifting your body across the floor like a Mudcrab until you reach the wall of your enclosure. Running your fingers along it, you test the portion of the wall where your Thu’um made contact. It gives a bit, and you flex your palm, pressing.

Some of that fleshy wall gives, until a small portion of it falls away. It isn’t large, and not big enough to put your hand through. Using your nails, you start to scratch and pull at the material, more of it falling away. The texture is almost gelatinous, and as the hole grows bigger, you’re able to stare into it.

Through the hole you glimpse towering spires and connecting bridges. You shift position, glimpsing the murky water below. A lone tentacle breaches the surface, slithering up from the depths, squirming around in the air as if seeking something. Maybe is senses you, and this is Mora’s way of silently instructing you to cease.

Yet, there is hope.

There is no deep drop or immediate fall. You glimpse bars. Black metal like your cage? At least, that is what it appears to be. You can’t reach it to find out, but it does look to be the same. You claw at the wall again, this time with renewed energy.

More of the fleshy material falls into the cell or outward. The hole grows larger as you pull more of it away. The smile that spreads across your face is a feral one. From behind you, beyond the archway that leads into the room holding your cage, comes the distinct screech of the Seekers. They heard your Thu’um, and you are running out of time.

With renewed vigor, you rip and tear, not caring is you split nail or skin. All of that can heal. Your freedom is the most important thing.

The screeching becomes louder, striking down to your heart, sending your limbs into an agitated, frantic spin as you try to make your escape route wider.

A hurling, rippling force of air slams into your back. It shoves you forward against the wall. When you make contact, it bends outward. Another rippling force of air follows the next. The wall gives a bit more.

You turn your head toward the room. Two Seekers float just beyond the bars, their face mandibles flaring with agitation. Their hands extended outward, and you put all your pressure against the crumbling wall.

Together, they release another wave, and you grin in victory.

The wall gives. You fall backward.

And roll out into the curved embrace of those black metal bars.

There is a peace for a few seconds. And that metal shifts, revealing not bars but tentacles. Sudden horror of the implication flows into you like a thunderstorm. The tentacles wiggle. Bend outward. Unfurl.

There is only air. A hover before the descent.

Then you’re falling.

Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

Part Two // Part Four

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats

57 notes · View notes

dirty-bosmer · 6 months

Text

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @skyrim-forever @lucien-lachance @thequeenofthewinter @kookaburra1701 @mareenavee Thank you <3

Tagging: @gilgamish @atypicalacademic @elavoria @dumpsterhipster @wispstalk @miraakulous-cloud-district @ladytanithia @viss-and-pinegar @nuwanders @sylvienerevarine @paraparadigm @rainpebble3 @inkysqueed @throughtrialbyfire @orfeoarte @weirdisme @fenverflymm (<- forever keeping up with ur usernames lol) and whoever else has something to share this week :D

Back on my Slither and Writhe brainrot. A snip from chapter 5.

An hour or so later (who could tell, really), Sylawen returned to the large indent in the ground she’d come to claim as her bed. She wondered if the ransom letter had ever made it to her parents, if they were gathered around the hearth having sent off the money as demanded, praying to their disparate gods for her safe return. And if it hadn’t? Surely by now they’d know she hadn’t made it to Whiterun. Yes, of course. Surely. With a groan Sylawen curled inward, reverting to a primordial grub-state, hoping some pale, filmy membrane would sprout outward from her spine to enclose her, and she prayed to whichever of her parents’ gods would listen that when she woke up, either the world would be sparkly and brand new or she would. “... done wasting all my time with this, Thrynn,” came Garthek’s voice from the floor above. “No word yet, and it’s been weeks. I ain’t waiting around to hear back about this damn rendezvous.” “C’mon, it’s not been so long. Not sure if you’ve bothered looking at a map, but Falkreath is several thousand miles away from—” There was a thud and a stumble, the sound of wood scraping against wood. Someone had been shoved against a chair. “Don’t smart mouth me, boy,” Garthek hissed. “Now, I’ve wasted too much damn time on this plan of yours, and for all we know, her family’s sending mercs instead of money. We need to get back to the Pale, been south for too long with nothing to show for it, and now the damned Jarl is hounding me for tribute if we want to keep working in his hold. Says he needs a cut, and it’s sure as all hells’ ain’t coming out of my pocket.” “I know it’s taking longer than expected,” Thrynn said, his voice strained, “but her family’s good for the money.” “That’s what she told you? Shit, I’d tell you my papi was good to lick your ass if I thought it would keep me alive a day longer.” “Look, it’s slim pickings here. Few caravans come through the pass this near to winter, and scouts say the Legion’s been gathering near Helgen, so we’re pretty much limited to—” “Nah, we ain’t limited to shit. We’re going north, Thrynn, back to the camp, and we’re not bringing your little elf bitch with us, so get rid of her.” “Garthek—” But Garthek didn’t reply and as his heavy footsteps stomped out of the room to an inaudible distance away, Sylawen realized Thrynn was left alone upstairs, alone with his orders and his bone-handled knife. She bolted up. From above came the sharp creeak, creeak, creeeaak of the floorboards and his steps moving closer to the basement hatch. He wouldn’t. She sunk her hands into the dirt beneath her as if to find a root buried nearby, something to grasp onto, to ground her. He wouldn’t. He can’t. Creeak, creeak, creeeaak. There he was, right outside the hatch now, and she could hear the rattling of the iron rung as he grasped it to lift. The rusted hinge croaked out its late lamplight dirge because for all it knew, this was the last time it would be opened, and once it shut again, it would remain forever closed.

For whatever reason the fact that Thrynn had a history as a bandit has remained embedded in my brain, and if there's anything I know about writing fic, it's that I have to cram in all the random NPCs I can.

#wip wednesday #skyrim fic #slither and writhe #Sonny writes

66 notes · View notes

mazurga · 29 days

Text

Audhelm doesn’t remember his life before the Companions.

Some of his new shield-siblings are deliberately choosing not to remember, or at least he hasn’t yet won them over enough for them to share. Audhelm can guess at pieces of Athis’ past, the distrust a Dunmer must face so far from home. And he has a pretty good idea of what debts Torvar must owe, from the times he’s awoken in the morning to find Torvar only just falling into bed across the way, trailing a strong scent of mead.

For Audhelm, though, there are simply no clues he might let slip about his history. It is as if his mind had been smelted down completely, and the steel only reforged into its new shape when Aela and Njada Stone-arm found him.

He’d awoken in the snow north of Whiterun, confused, naked, and afraid, and the last all the more desperately so when a pack of wolves set on him out of nowhere. He’d thrown out an alteration spell purely by reflex and laid down a thick trail of spikes, which had slowed the pursuing pack enough that Aela and Njada had been able to pick them off one at a time.

Afterwards, they’d looked him over--Aela had politely kept her eyes on his face--and decided that, despite the unusual braids in his beard, he might as well be a kinsman, since he wasn’t obviously mer, beast, or Redguard. His lack of clothing had, inexplicably, been a factor in that conclusion.

He hadn’t remembered his name. Still doesn’t. Njada had come up with Audhelm as an ironic joke, since he lacked both. She’d thought it was funny, although she had to explain that “aud” was an old word for “wealth”; Aela had just frowned at her until he told them it was fine.

And then they’d fed and clothed him, and brought him home to Jorrvaskr.

Audhelm is grateful, of course. From everything he’s heard in the Hall and around Whiterun, he could easily have died a hundred times over, wandering the wilderness armed with barely remembered scraps of spells (not to mention the lack of clothing). He doesn’t mind paying his dues to the Companions, either, so long as it isn’t roughing up random citizens or finding some noble’s lost ring. Collecting pelts and rescuing people suits him just fine.

It’s only…

He would honestly much rather spend his days picking mushrooms.

Audhelm isn’t much of an alchemist, that’s for sure. Putting random flower petals or leaves in his mouth, determining the right proportions to mix and for how long--none of it appeals to him, although he knows enough not to poison himself. (He probably isn’t much of a baker, either, though Tilma wouldn’t let him near her oven to try anyway.) He just knows mushrooms: the safest kinds to eat, where to find them in shade and soil. It’s probably what he was doing before Aela and Njada found him.

And it’s what he’s doing when he stumbles across Taliesin.

#skyrim #gif #elder scrolls #audhelm #skyrim mods #tesblr #skyrim taliesin #skyrim fic #tes fic #wip #ifttt #writing fic again!

32 notes · View notes

martindeservedbetter · 27 days

Text

warhammer

Brynjolf x F! Dragonborn! Reader

word count: 1985

triggers: none

summary: Who could've thought a pair like them could've bonded over a warhammer? Clearly not themselves.

prompt: from @writings-of-a-hufflepuff List #5 prompt 9.

"You really thought I was dead?"

"Mercer, you're back, but where's-"

"Dead. Karliah got her before I got the chance to save her. Such a shame really... she showed so much promise."

The guild all watched Brynjolf freeze, but they'd all seen it before. It wasn't new for his protege to get caught or killed, but his response was so different this time. He seemed... sadder. As this time it was personal like she was more than a protege.

"I'll be back. I'm going to go find her."

"Were you not listening boy? She's dead."

"Just let me do this, alright? I just need to know." He retorted, not keeping to his cool under pressure attitude.

"Do I need to get you a horse-?" Delvin asked, only to be cut off by the man in question.

"I'll be fine Delvin. Be back as soon as I can-" Brynjolf answered.

"You're insane Brynjolf. Can't you just take my word for it?!" Mercer yelled, calling after the man who was already leaving. The man who ignored the protests of the other members entirely.

___________________

Not finding any proof had only made it that much harder for Brynjolf to accept it. And he scoured the Sanctum, only to find dried blood in an open room.

Damn Karliah. Damn her to Oblivion.

Brynjolf had struggled to find any other way to accept it, so he just blamed Karliah instead, finding it was much easier than anything else. She had killed the last guild master, so who's to say that she wouldn't kill another member? One that was going to help fix all of the problems.

"Brynjolf, please, just stop drinking, it's not going to change anything," Vekel muttered.

"Just give me the damn drink, Vekel."

"No. I will not indulge you in this. I don't care if you're hurting, please just accept that she's gone."

"How? She was... she was special."

"The same way I got over my parents. Time and goodbyes." Sapphire suddenly began speaking and slid into the barstool next to Brynjolf.

"I'm not ready for that."

"Then no mead, no wine, no alcohol whatsoever. It won't help, it'll only make it worse."

Brynjolf groaned, and got up and walked away, hoping to at least be alone. To maybe find some peace by going through her things. To maybe just sleep. Just anything to be free of people's dagger-like eyes that pierced him with judgment.

His eyes flickered to her empty bed, the way it just looked so wrong. Brynjolf sat himself in front of her chest, looking through her things, noticing things that he recognized, specifically a certain warhammer...

"Lass, this is ballsy, even for you."

"Shh, it'll be fine."

He watched her sneak away, attempting to steal the war hammer right off the guard's back.

And all Brynjolf remembered was the way the hammer was too heavy for her hands and she carried it back over to him with the largest smile on her face.

"I told you it'd be fine."

"I guess I should believe you more often lass."

He took the hammer out of her arms, and she seemed to sigh in relief, but still high from the thrill of theft.

"Obviously. Don't be an idiot, I'm just as good of a thief as yourself."

"Of course," he mused as he mussed up her hair, and she slapped his hand away.

"Do you know how hard it is to tame this?!"

And Brynjolf just laughed as she attempted to fix her barely messed up hair, scowling as she did so.

"You're so lovely, lass."

"I would say 'you too' but you were a jerk who messed up my hair!"

"You look fine, lass."

"Says the guy who rolls out of bed and looks gorgeous."

"That's very flattering, Y/n, but not entirely true."

He watched her jaw drop, and he gave a soft chuckle.

"You do not comb through your hair! There's no way in Oblivion-"

"And that's where you'd be wrong lass."

"Oh, my gods... Brynjolf is a fancy man."

"And proud of it."

He winked, yet didn't fail to catch the glimpse of a blush dusting her cheeks.

"What happened to you lass..?"

It wasn't long before there was a clamor coming from the Flagon, and when the Cistern door flew open, every member was on alert.

Karliah...

Brynjolf decided to be civilized but was not afraid to turn from the plan if it even slightly went south.

"Karliah, what did you do to Y/n?"

___________________

"Y/n? You're alive?"

It was Vekel who seemed to notice her first, and it drew the attention of the few other members still in the Flagon.

"Y/n? But Mercer said-" Tonilia started.

"Mercer lied. He's lied to all of you for years."

The newest recruit had been confirmed dead by the current guild master, and he'd managed to convince everyone but a certain second in command.

"Brynjolf looked for you. We were also worried about the fact that you two were gone that he just, decided to seek answers for himself... He hasn't been well."

"Vekel, is he here? We have a lot to talk about, and I need the entire guild's attention."

"Of course, he should just be in the Cistern-"

But she was already gone, ready to tell everyone the truth and to address her Brynjolf situation, but that would have to take a backseat. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

As she pushed through the Cistern door, she heard arguing amongst the members and loads of insults toward Karliah.

"Mercer's a liar."

"Lass..."

Brynjolf's face softened and she watched his body seem to go slack.

'He looked for you... he hasn't been well.'

"Karliah saved my life. Mercer tried to kill me."

She lifted her shirt to show the fresh scar along her stomach.

Brynjolf's eyes traced the marred skin, and his body seemed to tense the longer he looked.

"He's been robbing you blind for years, check the vault."

Karliah added, standing right by Y/n's side. Y/n had put her shirt back down, smoothing it out as she stood increasingly closer to Karliah.

"Lass?"

Those eyes of his... those gorgeous emerald eyes bore into her, coaxing an answer from her. Silently pleading for the truth, clearly uncomfortable with the woman beside her.

"She's right, please, Bryn, believe us." Y/n copied his own eyes, begging him for the decency to believe her.

He let out a sigh before shouting," Oi, Delvin! We need to open the vault."

"Thank you..." she breathed, smiling over to Karliah.

Brynjolf looked over to her, very upset about the large scar on her torso, and although he was warry of Karliah, he knew of what happened to Gallus and it didn't help that he knew what it felt like to hear that Y/n was dead. But he threw that to the side when he saw Y/n smile at Karliah, watching her seem very relaxed around the supposed murderer of Gallus and Y/n herself.

"You called, Brynjolf?"

"Put your key in, we need to get this door open."

"Of course."

Y/n hesitantly walked toward the vault, standing right beside Brynjolf. It made him feel a wave of relief knowing she was this close again.

"It's empty! It's all gone!" Delvin yelled back to the group after doing a sweep of the vault.

"Mercer! Damn him!" Brynjolf answered, entering the vault to confirm the claim.

It was a stab at the entire guild like someone had slit the guild's throat and captured its riches as if it were blood. The experience was numbing to most guild members, realizing that not only had all of their hard work been for naught, but their guild master was also the reason for it. He had caused every problem they had ever faced, yet always found some scapegoat, never allowing himself to be seen in a negative light as he tore the guild apart from the inside.

"When I see him, I swear I'm going to-"

"Vex! You know that's not how we operate. We just need to figure this out..." Brynjolf chided the white-haired woman, who was now seething in anger but held her tongue, silently planning Mercer Frey's death in several different ways.

"Lass," Brynjolf turned to Y/n," Tell me everything that's been going on."

"I will Bryn, I promise, but first... can we be alone? Vekel said you haven't been well-"

"So long as we speak of the guild first, of course, lass."

Y/n held out a hand, which he quickly accepted, allowing her to lead him to the intended destination. Although the place was just the secret entrance for the Cistern, they sat on the hidden steps together.

She first informed him about how Karliah had been framed, that Mercer Frey had betrayed them and brought a curse upon the Guild after infuriating Nocturnal. She then led into the tales of the secret trio of Nightingales being true.

"The Nightingales? I thought that was just an old legend, but I believe you lass."

"It seems that we don't have much of a choice in anything anymore Bryn..."

He cleared his throat, garnering her undivided attention.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about lass?"

She gave a soft smile, grabbing his hand and intertwining her fingers with his.

"Vekel said you've been..." she paused, for lack of better words," not well."

"I've not been ill, lass."

"I didn't mean it that way. He said you came for me."

"...I had to make sure it wasn't true."

"You really thought I was dead?"

"No," Brynjolf felt his heart jump into his throat, and he tried to cough up an answer.

"I just... I didn't believe Mercer when he told me you were dead... I... I had to see for myself."

Brynjolf's eyes didn't meet hers, but he rubbed the back of her palm with his thumb.

"You know I missed you, missed us. You know that right?"

"I missed you more than you know... Saw you kept that old warhammer... that was a nice day..."

"That was a nice day... I found out that you were a fancy man."

"And I found out that I loved you," he spoke just below a whisper, just as if it were just a breath.

"Bryn? What was that?"

"Don't worry about it. So I'm a fancy man? I'm glad you remember lass."

"No, don't lass me. You never told me you were hurting. Was it that hard with me gone?"

She had begun to hold his hand a little bit tighter as she looked over at him, trying to get him to look back into her eyes.

"Yes lass," and for the first time since they started their little talk, the emerald-eyed man looked her in the eye.

"It was hard."

"But I'm just, me."

"And that's just it Y/n. You're just you, and down the line, I fell in love with you. I searched for you... because I didn't want to come back to a guild without you."

"I love you too. Gods above, I've been in love with that stupid accent of yours since you told me I couldn't steal that warhammer." She said with a laugh, letting herself fall to lean against his side.

He kissed her temple and gave her hand a squeeze before muttering," That's when I fell as well."

"Future romance advice for those who need it, just steal a warhammer, then you'll love each other." She teased, currently pleased with their current situation.

"Steal one more for the road? We can fix the guild later?" He offered, and he knew the answer as soon as he was pulled to his feet.

"Whoever gets one first, without being caught, gets a kiss!"

"I'm not against this bargain..."

And the pair of thieves both split, oh so full of love, and ready for everything they faced in front of them.

21 notes · View notes

throughtrialbyfire · 1 month

Text

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

on time this week! lets goooooo!! thank you to the amazing @thequeenofthewinter and @skyrim-forever for tagging me!! tagging @umbracirrus @your-talos-is-problematic @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @changelingsandothernonsense @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @wispstalk @gilgamish @viss-and-pinegar and anyone who feels like joining! no pressure as always <3

since i just finished my rewrite of the early chapters of Cycle of the Serpent and posted a new chapter, i'm bringing an excerpt from another wip. i have no idea when this one will even remotely get finished, as it's one that i come back to and then leave alone for months on end, but i love the slow working of it. so, here's a tiny bit of my dragonborn frothar fic, "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"! this is an extremely rough draft, but i hope you enjoy!

The dragon didn't entirely sell Dagny on not telling their father, but it sure was interesting. Plus, if it got her moping brother out of Dragonsreach for a night, then maybe it'd be fun to send him on his merry way. The two crept through the halls, down past a locked door, through strange and unused corridors. How many basements and cellars did one castle need? Frothar cursed silently as he followed his sister through the dark, her own cloak concealing her form. He'd donned one for his travels, and was glad he'd done so. The chill under these stones sunk into his blood. He couldn't stop the shivers that raced up his spine at every cobweb, and wondered how many frost spiders he may have been standing above his entire life. Maybe this was where Farengar got some of his ingredients, but he wouldn't pry. That'd give away where he'd been. And he couldn't be sure, he didn't see anything larger than a typical house spider, but… "Stop." Dagny pushed a hand out in front of her. Frothar, lost in his thoughts, stumbled backwards, boots making a loud, metallic sound against his armor. "What? Why?" She turned back, brow scrunched. "Because you're stepping on my cloak, what else?" He hadn't realized how close he'd been walking behind her. Trusting her sense of direction, and losing himself in the examinations of his surroundings, he'd found that he'd been a mere hairs width away from her. He swallowed uncomfortably, scrunching his nose. "Ah." "Come on," she hurried him along, rolling her eyes. She gestured forward, her feet again finding graceful step along the stone, his shambling awkwardly behind her. For his younger sister, she sure was bossy. But, that had always been Dagny, since the moment she was born. The minute the girl learned how to talk, he'd watched her demand things, from her toys to attention to outings. She'd demanded horses to ride and blades to spar with and dresses upon dresses. He snickered every now and again thinking back on the first year of the Dragon Crisis, how one of the ones she'd had tailored had never arrived, and she sulked for weeks after. Last he heard, it wound up in the closet of some Thalmor general's daughter, but that was just gossip.

Frothar did his best to keep a subtle distance between the pair, but not too far as to get lost in the dark. Lanterns were a risk, so Dagny lead by a tiny candle and her hand cupped around the flame. The flickering illuminated the dust, the piles of hay, the musty stench that surrounded them filling his nose. "So, how come you knew of these tunnels, and I didn't?" He finally asked, Dagny stopping momentarily. Before he could ask why, she swayed the candle, dropping the hand that shielded the flame, metal on a small bench catching the gleam. A shrine to Talos, as solemn as the grave, buried deep beneath Dragonsreach. "These tunnels were built for times of war, didn't you pay attention? Farengar taught us all about them, but you just kept dozing off in his lessons." "Not my fault that he taught them on the Great Balcony," Frothar replied, thinking back on the early summer afternoons where the wizard taught them the history of their Hold - much to the dismay of both the children and the wizard himself - and the warmth of creeping sleep that Frothar did his best to resist, and failed fantastically on some days. He figured this must have been one of those days, and instead turned his attention to the shrine. The offerings were simple; coins, snowberries, and tundra cotton. Still, it sent a pang of familiarity through him, of the conversations his father and uncle had in secret, of Nelkir's idle gossip, the youngest being fully aware of their father's worship. Perhaps Frothar was the last of the siblings to become aware of this fact, and in a way, it sent another pang of worry into his heart. Did he miss even more important information? Was he truly sleeping through some of the lessons Farengar departed, the important ones? He didn't have any time to think this over, as Dagny trudged forward through the dark, winding her way through familiar pathways. Frothar fell in step behind her, not wanting to be left behind. He didn't want to know if he was right on the frost spiders being beneath the castle, or whether that was just his paranoia.

The door slid open with a loud, thunderous creak, the kind that made him wince and worry if anyone heard it. Dagny, unfazed, pushed through, blowing the candle out. Frothar looked at her with a knit brow, but Dagny waved it away. "I know my way through the tunnels," she explained. Apparently, she'd been doing this for a while. He looked out on the horizon. Whiterun sat in a basin of wide plains, between the rising mountains, much like the center of a delicate bowl. The wind brushed through his dark hair, and he stepped forward, grass crunching beneath his feet. He'd packed his things for this trek, but he had no idea just how much of his adventure was going to be him tracking down the dragon, or him trying to survive it. "Good luck. Oh, and Frothar? Next time Nelkir offers first, take it up, or I'm gonna have to drag you through the dusty basements again." He watched as Dagny turned and shut the door behind her, barring it. He was truly, completely on his own out here.

#skyrim #skyrim fic #fanfic #tes v #tesblr #tes fanfiction #skyrim fanfiction #bishop.txt #wip wednesday #frothar of whiterun #dagny of whiterun #dragonborn frothar #ldb #last dragonborn #my writing

22 notes · View notes

memaidraws · 5 months

Text

READ ON AO3

✦ Onmund x Original Breton Character ✦ Farkas x Female Nord Dragonborn

✦ Rated: M (for safety)

✦ Mentions of abuse, found family and magical academy shenanigans.

Despite the rising tension in Skyrim, the College of Winterhold still plays host to a series of magical adventures, more so with the arrival of its newest Nord apprentice, Onmund. But he soon learns that his call to the college wasn’t to answer his destiny, but that of the Dragonborn’s as well.

Fluff, fun and a little bit of angst. Canon can and will be bent.

Welp, I was gone for a while, but I'm back now. Between depression, burnout and a life changing bit of news, I'm ready to start posting more regularly again, starting with this beast of a fanfic.

I'm mostly editing for clarity and a few lines that bothered me here and there. Thanks for sticking with me, folks!

#skyrim fic #tes fic #skyrim #onmund #the elder scrolls #crossed by magnus #memai draws a thing #memai writes a thing

44 notes · View notes

v1ctory-or-sovngarde · 5 months

Text

𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉

yeah i can hardly believe it either. read it here and here's a related miz'ri

#my art #her hair changes every time i draw it fr #my writing #skyrim fic #skyrim oc

31 notes · View notes

nuwanders · 2 years

Photo

travel time maps for cyrodiil and solstheim! the key takeaway here is that cyrodiil is massive and solstheim is a lot bigger than you think it is (just over half the size of sicily).

the gridlines here are on the same scale as the skyrim map (which i’ve included again for reference), i.e. each tile is 40 x 40 miles. this roughly lines up with the in-game claim that mournhold is 250 miles from red mountain! i’ve also included a map of tamriel so you can see how they all fit together. you can find the original skyrim map, including guidelines for use, here.

i’ve also done maps for morrowind and vvardenfell, which you can find here.

tumblr ate the quality so DM me if you’d like higher quality copies :)

further notes under cut

cyrodiil

1. you can tell oblivion is an older game: it feels very sparse compared to skyrim, especially considering it’s supposed to be the cosmopolitan heart of the empire. for the sake of realism i upped every settlement by one increment: villages become towns, hamlets become villages, etc. but as you can see from the huge swathes of empty space, there’s still plenty of room for worldbuilding and creating your own settlements :)

2. on this scale the imperial city has a diameter of about 30 miles, which is roughly the same as modern day london. realistically the iconic wheel layout would probably only make up the very centre of the city -- i imagine it sprawls far beyond these bounds. the island itself is also more than large enough to contain plenty of farmland in addition to the city

3. i also added a bridge on the imperial city’s eastern shore because it makes absolutely NO sense for a city with as much traffic as the imperial city to have just one entry point. i know the game is tiny and walking around the loop takes like 5 min so it’s not a big deal, but as soon as you up cyrodiil’s scale to something even vaguely realistic (here it’s about 520 miles from north to south, which is roughly the same as germany -- so still not even that big), the necessity of a second entry point quickly becomes obvious: the journey from cheydinhal is reduced from 16 days on foot to just 8.

4. on this scale, (and assuming the HoK has a horse), the oblivion MQ would take an ABSOLUTE MINIMUM of three months. but realistically -- factoring in rest days, recovery times, random oblivion gates, distractions, taking the time to prepare for battles, waiting around at CRT for martin to crack the mysterium xarxes, etc -- you’d be looking at more like 6-12 months, depending on how focused your HoK is :)

solstheim

the dragonborn questline can be completed in a minimum of 20 days, starting from when the LDB arrives in raven rock and assuming that they didn’t bring their horse with them. again, however, it would likely take a little longer in practice.

hope this is useful!

#tes #oblivion #skyrim #dragonborn #solstheim #tesfic #skyrim fic #oblivion fic #tes iv #tes iv: oblivion #teslore #text #mine

819 notes · View notes

99corentine · 2 months

Link

Chapters: 50/50 Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak Characters: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Lucien Flavius, Teldryn Sero, Hermaeus Mora

The time has come.

“So you spoke to him then,” she says briskly, the air between them growing steadily colder, sharper, “You had an opportunity to kill him and didn’t take it. If you talked to him about his plans for the future, obviously he’s going to tell you what you want to hear.”

He’s getting sterner as well: “I spoke to him at length about killing him, and that sufficiently re-confirmed what I’d already decided, which is that I’m not going to do it.”

She spreads her arms wide, an I give up gesture. “What do you want me to say, then? The Blade-oath binds us to kill monsters like Paarthurnax. If you won’t do it then you’re not a Blade, and you’re not welcome here until you do.”

“Delphine, I have had it,” he snaps at last, his serene self-control splintering in the face of this audacity. His voice emerges low and guttural; both Delphine and Esbern flinch back, and behind him he can hear Lucien and Teldryn shifting anxiously as well. In his peripheral Miraak waits with expectant calm, and probably quite a satisfied look under that mask of his.

Chrysanthe speaks before anyone else has the chance to: “ You are not the leader of the Blades. I am.”

#gol hah dov #it's the LAST CHAPTER #holy cow I finished it!!#the afterword is way too long to put in the tags so please see the end of the chapter!#I will also make a follow up post #miraak #miraak x ldb #miraak x dragonborn #miraak/ldb #skyrim fic

32 notes · View notes

mareenavee · 6 months

Text

It's WIP Whenever Time Again!

Hi. So Wednesday arrived ridiculously fast, didn't it?

I've been tagged for this by the amazing @saltymaplesyrup, @oblivions-dawn and @thequeenofthewinter! Thanks for reminding me what day it was, I was completely unaware LOL

Tagging the fantastic @paraparadigm, @thana-topsy, @changelingsandothernonsense, @snippetsrus, @wildhexe, @elfinismsarts, @nuwanders, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @throughtrialbyfire, @expended-sleeper, @kookaburra1701, @archangelsunited, @dirty-bosmer, @viss-and-pinegar, @ladytanithia, @polypolymorph, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @rainpebble3, @late-nite-scholar, @greyborn2 and YOU -- yes, I know I haven't caught all of you in my tags, but I do wanna hear from you, so feel free to tag me back!

I have been BUSY lately with tons of prompts and some ask answers in prose and so I have a smattering of WIP fragments from different projects. SOME are gonna be sequel and/or spoiler territory for World. I'll mark them! Below the cut! THERE IS A LOT. 845 words or so, total.

1) In the Woods Somewhere - a ghost story told about an alternate version of Valenwood where the Wild Hunt went horribly wrong. 145 words.

They tower over all around them, monsters ever shifting from creature to terror and back again, mindless in their fury. All antler, exposed bone, sharp fangs and strips of rotting flesh held together with vines and thorns. If the pallid light of the bioluminescent fungi hits their talons just right, it might look like ebony daggers. But these? They are far sharper, designed to rend flesh from bone—to leave you as nothing but fertilizer for the soil in which new, gnarled trees might grow. There is no care—only malice, forms twisted by violence and starvation. In the darkness, all you can see is the red of their eyes which never leave you as you wander. They stalk through the night as if all living things are prey—as if all that remain in their realm have been deemed the enemy.

And they do not hunt alone.

2) By The Break of Dawn - A collab with @thequeenofthewinter and, for the art side of things, @thana-topsy (: Spooky, Doomed World sort of chaos. 182 words.

[Lydia] struck in the opening Uldwin had given her. She threw all of her fury behind the one movement she’d have time for. That which gave her the strength to drive her sword through his spine was not Aedric in origin, but she would take it, if it meant ending Uldwin’s suffering. She could almost hear Meridia cackle as the holy fire erupted from Dawnbreaker, enveloping his corpse. The stench of dry, burning flesh seared her nostrils and made her eyes water worse. Tears trailed through the ashes and dirt on her face as that which once had been Uldwin collapsed onto the floor at her feet. She withdrew Dawnbreaker with a sickening crunch which turned her stomach. The icy light where his eyes should have been blinked out. It was just as it had always been when fighting draugr.

Uldwin had been more than a draugr, though. He was her brother, in all ways that mattered. Neloth had taken him from her, and now it was time to pay for his crimes. Lydia would not let him escape her ire again.

3) And I'd Like To Say You're Never on My Mind - a fragment in Athis's POV, and is a SPOILER for World. 135 words.

“But you’d already made your choice long before.”

Amazing how easy it was to weaponize words. These, too, cut him as he spoke. He watched as she struggled and failed to hold back more tears. She could have just said instead of leaving him alone in what had once been their home to pace nervously, imagining the million ways she could’ve died. He felt hollow, but resisted once again the urge to wrap her in his arms. She didn’t need another chance. He’d given too many, and lost too much of himself in the process.

Nyenna did, at least, have the courtesy to nod. She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Athis. I didn’t mean—”

“—you did. You did mean it. Because you always had a choice. And each time you chose anyone else but me.”

4) Untitled Sequel - Teldryn's POV observing his daughter, Eris Sero, after being away from her for three years. Spoilers for World and the Sequel itself. 183 words.

“Ata!” she said with her usual bright smile. Her voice was slightly deeper than the last time he’d seen her, with more of a Winterhold brogue than he’d ever get used to. She regarded him briefly with her one good eye, its vermilion color brought out by the wine red of her mage's robes, then turned her dark eye to him. The grin faltered for a second, and then she reasserted it, shaking her head as if to dislodge a thought. Unnerving, whenever that happened. She dropped her bag there by the railing and rushed to him.

“Hla’sil,” he sighed, and enveloped her in his arms. She’d braided back her white hair, but, just like her mother’s, curls always escaped. He flattened out the shock of black strands that tended to fall into her face and kissed the top of her head. She’d only just turned twenty eight. What was that in human years? Gods, but time didn’t make any sense and passed like the flowing of a river. Ninteen, or there about. Too young for this kind of chaos. She’d always been.

5) Untitled Sequel - Eris's POV on another character, Nammu, technically not an OC. (: Spoilers, major spoilers, for this sequel. 200 words.

The Vision this time didn’t really match the ascetic monk sitting cross-legged before her now, but that didn’t matter much. She knew there was something other about him, even though he pretended to be just another Ashlander wanderer. He had magic, though, and, as Alma would say, the more of that, the better. Ata, she knew, would wholeheartedly disagree. In fact, her mere suggestion of Nammu meeting Ata back at the inn in New Balmora would likely cause problems. She just had a feeling about it, coming from the same place as the memories earlier. Weird.

Nammu stretched as he stood, leaning on a plain wooden staff. Unenchanted. Uncle Neloth would have tutted, calling it a wasted resource, but he was not here now. Nothing on Nammu was actually enchanted at all, come to think of it. Not the plain brown cloak, or the simple linen clothes, nor the dust covered boots. Not even the two lacquered wooden amulets he wore around his neck, one each with the Daedric symbols Ayem and Seht burned into them respectively. Maybe he meant to enchant them eventually. They looked more like mementos, to be perfectly honest, but she was not about to pry.

44 notes · View notes

gilgamish · 7 months

Text

WIP Wednesday - Tides to Carry Us Home

Tagged by wonderful, talented friends: @mareenavee , @thequeenofthewinter, @rainpebble3, @kookaburra1701, @dirty-bosmer , and @throughtrialbyfire! Thank you all :D! I'm glad to say I actually have a snip for today?

Tagging: @tallmatcha @thana-topsy @changelingsandothernonsense and @paraparadigm anyone else who would like to join in <3

This is from Chapter 7, which I am currently editing right now for publishing :D!

if you can get through kaidan's cornball dad jokes, there's a fullmetal alchemist reference in here somewhere i promise

High on the mountain slopes, Markarth’s Drakeside was the terrace of the city that lorded over the lower half of the city. Its avenues had already been inhabited for a thousand years, and of course, a few thousand more didn’t stop anyone from exacting rent over them. The stone estates had remained unblemished by the years and unremarkable in the eyes of city’s inhabitants, something that Kaidan would never quite get used to.

All of this history in these stones, the people passed it by as if it were common timber and clay, and not the work of a genius people capable of creating buildings that could last with mountains bearing down on them. Vlindrel was the one of these buildings, tucked away into the mountainside. It belonged to one of the few inconspicuous neighborhoods of Drakeside, facing away from the rest of the city to the foundries far below, and that knocked down the rent to something manageable for someone born outside the aristocracy, but they would rub shoulders with the lower-ranking nobles living within the city.

Perfect for someone of Felix’s trade. Alchemy allured in a way that magic couldn’t— An elixir wasn’t an exploding ball of fire, a spear of ice, or a bloodthirsty daedra. It was milder. Material. Certain, one could say. That garnered a reputation of trust that couldn’t be done by a mage living outside a jarl’s court. To Nords, the alchemist was of their world, someone who used the natural elements from the earth and melded them into something useful and good. Felix used this reputation to a fantastic degree, getting contract after contract from the nobles in the city, but sometimes, it got him a little too invested in his work, as Kaidan had found the larder was empty that morning. A bit odd for someone like Felix. Like his laboratory, he always kept his larder stocked.

“Just a walk about the gardens. Get some sunlight,” Kaidan said from the study’s door frame, as he dared to go no further. References thick as bricks were, at first, methodically and carefully stacked on the floor, as if to form a perimeter of gilded rexine and leather. But the further one went within, the neat stacks joined piles of loose paper, and crumpled notes too precious to lose. Every remotely flat surface had been covered, save for the single spot on the floor where Felix sat with knees pulled to his chest as he, with a angry twist of his hand, unbound another pamphlet.

“I’ll be fine in here. I’ve almost found the cipher for it.” Gutted, the papers dropped onto the floor. Felix sorted through it, muttering under his breath. He looked even smaller in the room he had effectively turned upside down, all in search of a scrap of paper no longer than his thumb.

Felix slapped a stack of papers together and set them down in one pile, then turned the next pile and started his search all over again. On first glance, they were some horrifically sappy love poems. Other papers were letters back home to relatives that Felix did not have, or details on how to conduct certain chirurgical operations, accompanied by past experiences. Some embellished, and others definitely not, written to the finest, most grisly details.

“You’ve been looking for it for three days.” “I’ll be in here for another week or two if I have to decode all of these again. Maybe longer.” “Why do you write your notes in code again?” “Job security.” Squinting, Felix adjusted the spectacles, leaving a smudge of dust on his nose. His fingertips were black with the dirt and dust. “Maybe taking a break will give you new ideas on where to find the cipher?” Kaidan suggested. “I just got started?” “You’ve been in here since this morning.” “Really? I…” He glanced back at where the water-clock sat at desk, but the poor contraption had been buried long ago among the reference tomes. “… Lost the time?” offered Kaidan.

Felix snorted. “That’s awful.” But he did laugh. Kaidan counted that a victory. “And we can also go by that one stall you like.” “With the pita and fried fish?” “I’m buying,” Kaidan confirmed. Felix patted his knees where he sat, balled up on the floor, but it didn’t take long for him to make up his mind. His appetite, as per usual, won out. Throwing on an overcoat and doublet, Felix joined him in Markarth’s late afternoon.

#wip wednesday #tes fic #skyrim fic #tesblr #oc: felix #tides to carry us home

39 notes · View notes

dirty-bosmer · 2 months

Text

Wip Wednesday

Was tagged many weeks ago by many people. Thank you, friends <3 Let's see what you have this week: @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @elavoria @atypicalacademic @gilgamish @kookaburra1701 @tallmatcha @nuwanders @lucien-lachance @ladytanithia @saltymaplesyrup @miraakulous-cloud-district @sheirukitriesfandom @bostoniangirl21 @throughtrialbyfire

From chapter 6 of my Skyrim necromancer fic, Slither and Writhe:

Sylawen dreamed of a meadow and the spring smell of young grass, sunlight pouring through a white hole in the sky, around it only blue. She dreamed of home or something like it, something closer to it than the manor she’d left behind in Cyrodiil, and though it didn’t take on shape the way walls did in the waking world, she could feel it all around her, a swaddling presence, the air abuzz with the heady warmth of being wanted. Here, home was an open door and a hearth full of sweet cedar. It was gentle heat, the kind that nurtured and brought new life into being. Here, Sylawen felt its comfort like the delicate squeeze of a hand-hold, wordless in its confirmation that her life was interlaced with someone else's. How she wished to lose herself in it, to let her edges fade away, to dissolve and be carried off to whatever heights warm air rose to before it was scattered to the winds and pulled down to fill the lungs of someone who wasn't her. But like all other good things in Sylawen’s life, the dream was violently wrenched from her. She awoke to a calloused hand on her shoulder and the acrid smell of stale piss emanating from the basement corner where, predictably, she’d not been afforded the luxury of a bucket. “Gah!” Sylawen reached out desperately for her bone and prepared to jab it blindly upward before she recognized the rough-hewn face of her captor. “Wh-what the fuck, Thrynn? Come to steal my restful night of sleep too?” Thrynn was a dark mass half-shadowed in the lantern light. “Where is it?” he growled, and even in this dimness, she could see his bruises, a purple blotch at the jaw, his right eye so swollen it was shut. Sylawen resisted the urge to gasp. If Garthek had done this to one of his own men, surely she should expect a treatment much worse. “Well, well,” she said, swallowing her fear. “Don’t you look like right shit today.”

#wip wednesday #slither and writhe #these two are in for such an adventure I cannot wait #sonny writes #skyrim fic

38 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 5 months

Text

Dark Knowledge: Part Two

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): brief blood, body horror, horror elements, alien / eldritch anatomy, suggestive themes

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Two of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn and Hermaeus Mora make a deal.

Part One // Part Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

Sticky. Stringy.

When you blink—or try to—it’s thick, as if someone smeared honey over your eyelids while you slept. You try again, but whatever covers your eyes resists the pull. Shaking your head, you attempt to throw off this shade. Perhaps it is something tangible that simply needs to be dislodged.

No luck. It stays.

Slowly, you reach out, lightly pressing around your eyes. Immediately, just along your cheekbone, you discover a gluey substance. You recoil, but your fingers stay, stuck in the muck. A distressed whimper leaves your lips as reality starts to set in.

You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. You are captured. A fox in a cage. And you are unable to see.

Panic sets in and then you start clawing at the sticky substance, nearly growling like a feral animal in an attempt to remove the gunk from around your eyes.

“Stop,” comes a masculine voice. It isn’t deep, but on the higher side, and the tone indicates concern. You immediately pause, chest heaving, waiting for this person to speak again.

They do not.

Licking your lips, you tilt your head in the direction in which you think the voice came from.

“Who are you?” you ask hesitantly.

A long moment of silence follows. It stretches, and the uninterrupted quiet chills you to the bone. Sorrow and despair threads through your nerves, but then the voice comes again, this time much closer.

“Don’t rub it off. It’ll help.”

You clench your fist, the muscles in your arm tighten with the anticipation of throwing a punch. Even though you’re blinded, you want answers. “Who are you?” you ask again.

“I am but a servant.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you growl.

Of all the strangeness you’ve experienced while in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, the silence is the oddest. Even though you cannot see where you are, there is no sound other than what you and this man make. There is no dripping water, no chirping of bugs, or the squeak of rats. Nothing. Just absolute silence that fills the space between breaths.

“My name is irrelevant,” comes his reply. “And it has been lost to time. I could not tell you.”

He is close, but you’re not sure how close. This man—this servant—is near enough that he doesn’t need to go above soft speaking. Which means, he might be in range of your hand. You’ll have to play this right. Keep him talking. Rely on other senses.

“All this knowledge around you and you don’t know your own name?” you mock, voice dripping with cruelty. The idea is absurd. How could you dwell in a realm like this with no knowledge of who you are?

“In order to do my work for my master, I had to relinquish the ties I had to the mortal realm,” he answers, as if it’s so simple.

Slowly, you draw your hand away from your face and to the floor. Rock. You shift a bit and then frown. Your feet are bare. You didn’t notice before. Reaching out, you grab your foot, and then your naked ankle. Horror seizes you as you quickly take note of your body.

You make it to mid-thigh before you find clothing. From there, you realize that what you have on is just a sack. Your armor and weapons are gone. The fact that you’re in different clothes means someone stripped you. Someone’s gaze was on your naked body.

Before you even have the chance to demand where your stuff is, the man answers as if already knowing your question. “It’s all somewhere safe. I saw to it myself.”

Fury burns in your veins. It doesn’t matter that you might be in an actual cage. You’re ready to rage.

“You put your hands on me,” you growl, venom seeping into every word. This man will die for touching you.

“Earthly needs are unimportant to me. They have been since I entered my master’s realm.” He says it blandly, like he cannot believe you’d even imagine such a thing. “You are His guest here, and will remain unspoiled unless he wills it.”

Unspoiled. As if you’re a piece of ripe fruit ready for the knife.

“What a benevolent master,” you mutter, seeking out with your fingers, your hands slowly sliding across the floor.

The man hums softly in agreement. “The paste on your eyes needs a bit more time.”

So far, you’ve only found more stone beneath your palms. “What is it for?” You check both ankles, wrists, and neck. There are no chains or restraints.

“To curb the madness.”

You freeze. “The what?”

“Hermaeus Mora’s influence starts to take effect the moment you enter his realm. For those of us who serve him, the influence is desired, but Lord Mora suspected this is something you did not wish for.”

Slowly, you drop your hands into your lap. Master Neloth mentioned black spots in the eyes as a sign of Hermaeus Mora’s influence in the body. Perhaps this is what the paste prevents.

Even though you wish to slit this man’s throat, you restrain some of the rising violence, opting for a more civil tone. “That is generous. Thoughtful.” The words taste foul on your tongue.

“Lord Mora understands many things.”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you sit in the silence, awaiting your opportunity.

Time passes, and you have no idea for how long. But the stranger eventually speaks again. “I do believe it is time to remove the paste.” There is soft jingling, and then the creak of hinges.

So, you are in a cage.

This stranger claims you are a guest of Hermaeus Mora, but guests are not kept in cages or stripped of their clothes. The weapons are understandable. You can forgive that but not the sack that drapes your body.

What was it that Hermaeus Mora said on the bridge just before you slipped into unconsciousness?

You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.

What does the Prince of Fate mean by that? Will the two of you actually talk? Or will he pull your memories from your mind, turning you into one of his followers? The very idea makes your skin crawl. Autonomy is important, and though you’ve completed many quests and tasks for some of Mora’s siblings, none of them will truly be able to claim you in the afterlife.

You are Dovahkiin. After you are gone, your soul will dwell within the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. But if you are trapped here, in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, will your death not ascend your soul to Shor’s mead hall?

You’ll need to play along for the time being. An opportunity will present itself, and you will escape this wretched place with its sickly green sky and tentacle-infested inky waters.

“Crawl forward,” instructs the stranger. “The door is a bit low.”

The act of moving toward this man on your hands and knees is degrading, but you do it anyway, reaching out to get a sense of the cage that you’re in. This servant of Mora is right. The door is low, and you nearly knock your head on it but prevent yourself from doing so when your raised hand clips the top of it.

“Very good. You’re out now. I’ll start cleaning around your eyes.” His voice is calm, almost fatherly, and it only makes you want to claw his eyes out. Why is he trying to comfort you? Did Hermaeus Mora tell him to? Does the Prince of Fate want you soft and compliant?

The moment the stranger’s cold hands touch your face, you lunge. It’s more of a reaction than anything, the instinctual need to protect yourself burning like a hot iron. Your hands wrap around his throat and squeeze.

The two of you fall together, and then you’re bashing his head against the floor in sharp blows that bring the scent of blood to your nostrils.

It’s over quickly. Not because you kill him, but because you’re prevented from doing so.

Long, thin fingers with sharp nails grab at your arms and effortlessly toss you aside. You roll into it, landing on your knees. You pivot, bare your teeth, ready to lunge again.

It doesn’t matter that you cannot see. You’ve fought in true dark before and yet came out alive. This is no different.

A rippling burst of air slams into you. It’s not enough to send you to the ground but you do recoil from the sudden blow. Another crashes into you, and then another. This time, you do start to bend.

Throwing your arms over your head, you tuck in and take it. Perhaps it’s only seconds of time, but they eventually recede, and then you’re shaking. You feel drained, as if your very soul has slowly been extracted from you through a small hole. The energy within you is limited, but you still have something none of them can take away.

Your Thu’um.

Rising to one knee, you inhale sharply, ready to unleash an unrelenting force of power. The moment you exhale—the moment your lips shape the words—you choke. All breath is snatched from you. Lungs shriveled. Unable to take in oxygen.

Panic spikes, and you try again, only for you to choke harder.

“I advise against it. You’ll only hurt yourself.” It’s the man, but his voice is distant and shaky, an almost moan of pain when he speaks.

You don’t care if this act won’t allow you to speak again. Your Thu’um is your lifeblood. It is the thing that beats underneath your skin alongside your heart.

This next attempt chokes you to the point that your hands come up and claw at your throat. It is agonizing, a squeeze so tight that even with the paste over your eyes, you still feel the formation of tears.

You do not try again, and the invisible grip on your throat eases.

You collapse to the floor, chest heaving. Those thin, long fingers with sharp nails curl around your forearms. There is no strength left in you to resist this time. You’re lifted off the floor, guided to your knees, and then human hands are on your face, a damp cloth moving slowly over your eyelids.

“Stay still,” comes the voice, and it is not the same man who you’ve been talking to. It’s a different one.

Slowly, the stickiness fades, replaced with a cool dampness from the cloth.

“It is done.”

You blink, and this time you see the black stone beneath your knees. Your eyelids flutter, and your gaze shifts from the floor to the person standing before you. They’re bent at the waist, a damp cloth balled up in one hand.

The man before you, who is old enough to be your father, peers into your face. He is completely bald and wears simple black robes that stop at his feet. The signs of madness that Master Neloth spoke of is evident. There are dark spots in the whites of his eyes, but that isn’t the only unsettling aspect.

The dark spots aren’t perfect circles, more blob-like in appearance, just like Hermaeus Mora. The dots that linger near the edges of his eyes seep outward onto his skin. From there, they form black lines, like dead veins under his skin. They stretch away to create little webs across his flesh.

He smiles, showing his teeth. They are stained with ink.

You immediately recoil but the man doesn’t seem to care that you’ve drawn back from him. The sudden movement startles whomever is holding you. The sound they make is not human. You twist enough to glance over your shoulder and find one of those creatures you’ve slain.

Its face tentacles flare slightly in agitation.

“You killed several Seekers before you were subdued. They’re not particularly happy to see that you’re alive. Or that their master spared you.”

The corner of your lip curls as you turn back to the man.

Now that the paste is gone from your eyes, the room you’re being held in becomes clearer. Just behind you is the cage. It’s all gnarled black metal. Embedded into the metal are jagged spikes that jut outward. It’s clear that they are meant to keep things out rather than the captive individual inside.

The room itself is relatively small. The walls are books including the support pillar in the center of the room. Within the ceiling are holes, and through it, you distantly see Apocrypha’s green sky. There is no door but an open archway.

At the stranger’s feet, but off to the right, is the man you choked. His eyes are vacant, staring up at the ceiling, a halo of blood crowns his head. The new stranger’s gaze follows yours and then he sighs when he lands on the dead man.

A Seeker floats in through the open archway and heads for the dead man. Using its four hands, it grabs hold of the man, dragging him out, the blood smearing across the stone.

You swallow, and your saliva sticks in your throat. “What happened to my Voice?”

The bald man in black robes bows slightly, and then straightens. “Welcome to Apocrypha, Dragonborn. I am one of the endless Ciphers of the Eye. Lord Mora asked that we look after you until we bring you at his summons.” He steps around your question.

“Why can’t I use my Thu’um,” you prompt, wanting an answer. You’re far more willing to cooperate if he’d just be reasonable. “Have you taken it?”

“Taken it?” he asks with a hint of surprise. “No. The Prince of Fate cannot steal your Thu’um. That is a gift bestowed upon you by another, and is not in his realm of control.”

“And yet, you silence me.”

The man inclines his head. “He did. But it is temporary. I assure you.” That does not bring you any comfort. “I am to escort you to him.”

You don’t need to ask to know who him is. “Now?”

“Indeed.”

You lick your lips and find only dryness. “Where are we going?”

“One of the many scriptoriums of Apocrypha. It is where we prepare the Black Books for our master. It is rewarding work. Few ever witness it from an…outside perspective.”

From the open archway, two more Seekers appear, mandibles flaring.

The Cipher bows slightly to the Seekers and takes a step back. “You will not be chained if you behave on our journey. It is not far. This I promise.”

He could promise you your release and you still wouldn’t believe him. Without your Thu’um, you’re almost powerless. While there are magic basics you understand and can control with ease, you are no mage. This man, this Cipher, may wield magic, and you have nothing to defend yourself with other than your fists.

You are vulnerable, and the bareness of this reality is tar that sticks to the skin.

Instead of pushing the issue, you comply reluctantly, following the Cipher through the archway as three Seekers drift behind you.

The walk to the scriptorium is short. The Cipher was honest about that, and you appreciate it even if you’re hesitant to do so. You also remain unrestrained, and no chains are brought.

The entrance to the scriptorium is a wide yet short bridge with two archways. One is rather simple, while the other is more intricate, narrower, and the black rock has a green glow deep within in. When you pass under it, you enter one of the many massive towers you noticed when you first entered Apocrypha.

This entryway is large, the ceiling of which juts upward sharply. From the ceiling, black tentacles hang, swaying softly, their suckers pulsing with a faint green glow. There is a simple stone pathway and it’s covered in worn, rotting paper. On either side of this stone path is that inky black water.

It’s completely still. Silent. And that is somehow even more ominous than the water that roils outside this hall.

At the end of this small path is a massive double door, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora carved into the center. The tower itself is built from stone and an endless number of books. You’re not sure if the books are the wall or the stone is. It’s all fused together.

Your small herd moves toward the doors, and as you approach, they start to open. The sound the doors makes as they open is awful. There is no creaking of metal hinges or wood, but a wet, slippery sound, like you’re trying to hold onto a wiggling eel.

As you, your guide, and your guards pass through, you’re spit out into an open atrium. You’re outside again, but it’s clear that won’t be for long. From the atrium are multiple bridges and pathways, all of which connect to various towers.

In the center of the atrium is a stone statue of a person seated on a throne. Their hands rest on the arms of the throne, but their head is covered by an open Black Book as if the tome has suctioned itself to their face.

This image calls back those brief moments before the Black Book sucked you into Apocrypha. Darkness bled from the binding only for tentacles to follow, wrapping around you tightly to drag you into Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

All around the statue are more books. Some are neatly stacked while others appear tossed. But there is little time to linger. You’re only in this atrium for a minute.

The Cipher leads you on, taking a bridge to the left. When you enter this tower, you arrive in what has to be a workshop. Your guide mentioned that the scriptoriums are places where Black Books are made, and that few outsiders ever see the process.

You are an outsider, witnessing the creation happen in real time.

Seekers and Ciphers work together. There is a mechanical-like efficiency to the whole process. The two groups work in almost near silence, as if their communications are all done internally, almost like a hive of worker bees.

There are vats of bubbling ink and some that might contain a clear glue. All the mortal helpers are bald and it is a varied mix of men and women across multiple races.

“This way,” murmurs your guide, and the two of you branch off into a much smaller room.

This one is still littered with books, all stacked high and part of the architecture. But here, it’s warmer, with actual lanterns hanging from various points around the room. The ceiling is fairly low, and there are several stone tables, all of which have stacks of books on them.

“Leave us,” comes a deep, primordial voice.

Hermaeus Mora swells into existence before you. He is not nearly as large or imposing as on the bridge, but he isn’t any less creepy.

The Cipher bows deeply, his bald head nearly touching the stone floor. He keeps his eyes turned downward as if looking on Hermaeus Mora is a privilege. He backs out of the room slowly, never turning his back from his master. The Seekers follow suit.

Hermaeus Mora floats nearer, and his form shrinks a bit more. The large eye in the center blinks slowly.

“Are you rested?”

“One cannot rest in a cage,” you snap.

The eye blinks again, followed by an amused chuckle. “A necessary precaution.”

You run your tongue over your teeth and frown. “Are you afraid of me, Prince of Fate?”

The low rumble from Hermaeus Mora is surprisingly human-like. “I’ve watched you for some time, Dovahkiin. The lure of Apocrypha is too great to ignore. Not when it is tied to your fate.”

“Then why do you wish to talk? It sounds like you have all the answers.”

“You are Dragonborn, like my servant Miraak. You are following in his footsteps, seeking power that is your birthright.”

Miraak. So, he is a servant of Hermaeus Mora. Does he walk these halls? Would you find him if you looked? Would you find him if you asked Hermaeus Mora?

Evading his questions or even outright lying won’t do you any good. He will know, maybe not completely, but he will see through a deception.

“You called to me through your book.”

“Did I?” he replies, almost breathy with surprise. That large, center eye blinks slowly again.

“Is that not what happened?” You take a step back and reach out to place your hand on a nearby stone table.

“All who seek after the secrets of my world are my servants. Willing or not. By opening that book, you served me. You…worshipped me.” That word—worshipped—rolls out in a purr. It slides over your skin as if invisible tentacles roam over your limbs.

“How do I worship you?” you counter. “I enter your realm without permission. I slay your servants. That does not sound like a loyal devotee.”

Hermaeus Mora’s form ripples like he’s shaking off a shiver. “You’ve come for secrets. You’ve come for knowledge. You’ve come for answers. All of which can be provided.”

You take another step and position yourself on the other side of the stone table, creating some sort of distance between yourself and the Daedric Prince.

Within Hermaeus Mora’s mass are smaller eyes. They blink at random, some of them disappearing entirely before returning. “Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here. To my realm. To me. As I knew it would.”

Storn Crag-Strider talked about how Hermaeus Mora likes to possess things just for the sake of possessing them. If Miraak is like you, if he is Dragonborn, then you are one more object for the Daedric Prince to hoard.

He called Apocrypha your new home, but you’re not interested in staying here, falling to the same madness the Ciphers have.

As if sensing your unease, Hermaeus Mora retreats a bit more, his form receding in shape. Like this, he isn’t nearly as frightening, but you still know who he is, and that is enough to ward off any attempt to bolt.

“What can you tell me about Miraak?” You want to divert this line of conversation to something else. Hermaeus Mora is too focused on you, and you do not care for his wandering eye. It moves in the socket, assessing, and it gives you a sense of objectification, like he’s trying to decide how valuable you are to his goals.

“Does my form disturb you?” he asks gently, not answering your question. “Would you prefer something more familiar to your mortality?”

Before you have the chance to object, Mora turns inward, his tentacles folding in as if he’s being pushed through a keyhole in a door. It all melds together and then drips to the floor. Those tentacles unfurl slowly in an upward arch, binding with each other to present a humanoid perversion of Hermaeus Mora.

He has two hands. Two feet. Two arms. Two legs. The Daedric Lord stands tall in this form, easily closing in on seven feet tall. These features are the only normal parts about him. His entire body is shiny, reflective like the inky water of his realm. Briefly, you consider whether or not it would part like water, or if it’s solid like skin. There are no anatomical features like nipples. It’s all smooth, including the space between his legs.

In the center of Mora’s face is a large, singular eye. There is no mouth, but that isn’t a surprise. Even in his true form, Hermaeus Mora has no physical mouth from which to speak. He simply does.

“Is this more pleasing to you, Dovahkiin?” Hermaeus Mora extends his hands outward, flexing each finger. A lone tentacle appears from behind his back to slide over and around his right leg. It stays put.

“Not particularly,” you answer, knowing that the truth is best.

“You offend me,” he laughs softly. Mora isn’t insulted at all. It’s clear that your discomfort amuses him. He strides forward, and there is a purposeful swagger. It’s very… human.

His hand reaches out toward the stone table, the tips of his fingers brushing along the curved edge as he circles the rocky slab. Instinct has you walking backward, but this version of Mora is tall, and his stride covers twice the distance yours does.

“You didn’t answer my question about Miraak,” you state, the fine hairs on your neck standing on end as Mora’s humanoid form advances into your personal space.

“All that he knows, he learned from me.” Hermaeus Mora’s hand reaches up, the tip of one finger running along the curve of your jaw. He is not cold or hot. In fact, there is no temperature, but his touch is tangible like flesh.

“That is not an answer and you know it,” you retort.

That large eye softens, the eyelids closing slighting as if your stubbornness is something to be enjoyed. “Miraak has been my loyal servant for many years. He has served me well, but he…grows restless under my guidance.”

Another tentacle appears from behind Mora’s back. This one wiggles upward before sliding over his shoulder and around his neck like a collar. It stays in place, shifting only when he does.

“Miraak desires to return to your world. It would spread my influence more widely across Tamriel, but it will also release him from my direct control.” Mora demonstrates his meaning by lifting a clenched fist and releasing the tension in the muscles, exposing his open palm. Within the palm, the blackness parts, and an eye appears. It briefly glances in your direction before retreating.

The finger tracing your jaw shifts into his hand. Mora steps closer and you have to crane your neck upward to see him properly. “It may be time to replace him with a more loyal servant. One who still appreciates the gifts I have to offer,” he purrs, the touch becoming a caress against your cheek.

For a moment, you lean into the touch, your body surrendering to his power. It lasts for only a handful of seconds. You’re quickly thrown out of the pull to submit, reality and awareness slamming into you like a battering ram. You stumble backward, nearly fall, and only steady yourself by reaching out to grab the stone table.

“Your words are poison,” you hiss.

“No,” replies Mora. “I am your freedom.”

He is still so close, and you need to find some distance. If that means you need to stay on the other side of the room, then that’s what you’re going to do.

The second the muscles in your legs tighten with tension, Hermaeus Mora’s gaze narrows. You begin to walk backward, moving away from the Daedric Prince, but he is having none of that.

Four large tentacles shoot out from his body, each one grabbing hold of your arms and legs. He draws you back to him, your body floating above the floor. The Prince of Fate is dangerously close. If he were truly human, the two of you would likely be touching noses.

“I know what you want,” he says softly even as the tentacles tighten around your limbs. “You want to learn a Word of Power. You want to use you power as Dragonborn to bend the world to your will. You. Crave. Power.”

You have always served others. You have always done everything for everyone else. When have you stopped to do something just for you?

Hermaeus Mora’s words are tempting, a sweet song of promise that lulls you slowly into compliance. What were those symptoms Master Neloth spoke of? Signs of corruption? Signs of madness?

Loss of will.

Have you lost it? Are you being influenced by Mora or is this your own desire finally floating to the surface?

“An exchange, Dovahkiin. What say you?”

It’s not like you have anywhere to go, and you’re not sure if your Thu’um has returned. Even if it has, would it truly do anything against the Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate? Doubtful. In his realm, he suppressed your Thu’um for a time, which means he could do it again. Why tempt fate when the odds are not on your side.

“I’m listening,” you whisper, hating that you’re giving in to him.

His shoulders soften with pleasure when you acquiesce. “Knowledge for knowledge. I bestow upon you a missing piece, and in return, you give me one of your secrets.” Hermaeus Mora clarifies his meaning by running the back of his hand down your throat.

There are worse things. There are worse deals. And this will be temporary. You will make it so.

You swallow, and deal the killing blow. “I will serve you in this way in exchange for your knowledge.”

Hermaeus Mora’s humanoid forms swells with pride. “Here then is the knowledge you need. Although,” he laughs. “You did not know you needed it. Not until you came to me.”

That massive singular eye of his closes. The tentacles around your limbs draw you closer until the two of you are almost touching. Then, the Daedric Prince clears the distance, resting his forehead against your own, joining your flesh with his.

“The second Word of Power. Use it to bend the wills of mortals to your purpose.”

The connection is immediate. It’s a blow to the face. A sharp tug on your hair. The strike of a sword against a shield.

The language of the dragons’ batters against your skull. The Word of Power appears before you, and your body immediately responds, absorbing all its knowledge and memory into yourself. It tastes like fire, and everything vibrates with a thudding thrum like the beat of dragon wings.

Your body takes it in, melts the Word of Power down into blood, and injects into your marrow, fusing yourself with the innate ability to wield it. It is your history. It is your truth. A piece that has always been with you.

Your eyes snap open and there is Mora’s singular eye.

“Now, Dovahkiin. I would like that secret.”

Part One // Part Three

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

43 notes · View notes

ironwoman359 · 8 months

Text

A Thief's Gamble - Ch.1:

No Risk, No Reward

Next: Ch.2 - All Eyes on Us Fic Masterpost

Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 2,781

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

AN: I have nothing to say for myself other than that Brynjolf is one of my favorite Skyrim characters, and this is an excuse for me to flesh him out both as an individual and in relation to the player. Has this probably been done a thousand times? Yes. Do I care? Absolutely not. Thanks for reading! (and let me know if you want to be tagged in updates, I'll do so if you like!)

--- --- ---

Brynjolf had a headache.

He’d had a faint one building behind his eyes for most of the day, but after listening to Keerava complain- loudly- that the Guild was asking more than she could afford for protection and that if he knew what was good for him he’d jump of the pier…his head was well and truly pounding.

“Want me to top that off for you, Bryn?”

Brynjolf blinked, and looked up to see Vekel looking at him expectantly, a flagon in his hand.

“Sorry lad, what was that?”

Vekel chuckled, and filled Brynjolf’s tankard with ale.

“You’ve been distracted lately, my friend. Better not let Mercer catch you staring off into space like that.”

“Now there’s an earful I don’t need,” Brynjolf agreed, lifting his tankard in acknowledgement before taking a swig.

“Well, go on then,” Vekel prodded. “Tell us what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“It’s nothing lad, just a headache,” Brynjolf said, but Vekel shook his head.

“I’m not just talking about today, Bryn, you’ve been off ever since you pulled that job on Brand-Shei.”

“Have I?” Brynolf asked, and Vekel nodded.

“You have. Which doesn’t track,” Dirge piped up, walking over to the bar. “Because you said that the job went off without a hitch.”

“So if you’re not thinking about the job, what are you thinking about?” Vekel asked.

A face came to Brynjolf’s mind unbidden, bright eyes and sharp features framed by dark hair, but he pushed the image away.

“You know as well as I do that the Guild’s seen better days, lads,” he said, taking another sip. “Just trying to work out how to bring her back to her former glory.”

“Aaaah, so that’s why you’ve been distracted these past few days,” Vekel said knowingly. “You think you’ve found another recruit, don’t you?”

“So what if I have?” Brynjolf demanded, arching an eyebrow at the barkeep. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: what this outfit needs is some fresh blood.”

“Except the last three recruits you tried to bring on board washed out before they could make any serious coin,” Dirge pointed out, and Brynjolf frowned.

“At least I’m actually trying to solve the problem,” he said. “If we ever want to get back on our feet, the Thieves Guild needs to actually employ some master thieves.”

“Aaaand, the last few kids you pulled into this mess were ‘master thief’ material?” Dirge asked, and Vekel snickered.

“Give it up, Brynjolf,” he said. “Those days are over.”

Brynjolf sighed.

“I’m telling you, this one is different…” he began, but Dirge scoffed.

“We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn! Quit kidding yourself.”

Brynjolf opened his mouth to reply, but paused. Beneath his friends’ ribbing and the quiet clinking of cups on tables and forks on plates from the Flagon’s few other patrons, there was another sound. The sound of boots on stone, the steps slow and cautious as they approached.

“It’s time to face the truth, old friend,” Vekel said. “You, Vex, Mercer…you’re all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!”

Brynjolf turned, saw exactly who he’d hoped he would, and a smile spread across his face.

“Dying breed, eh?” he repeated. “Well what do you call that then!”

The woman was slight, an Imperial by the looks of her, and she had a bow drawn, one arrow knocked loosely on the string.

“Well well, color me impressed, lass,” Brynjolf said, nodding to her. “I wasn’t certain I’d ever see you again.”

The woman’s eyes flitted around, lingering on Dirge for a moment before eventually slinging her bow over her shoulder.

“Getting here was easy,” she said, stowing her arrow in its quiver.

Brynjolf chuckled.

“Reliable and headstrong? You’re proving to be quite the prize. The name’s Brynjolf, lass.”

“Ariene,” said the Imperial.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Brynjolf said. “So... now that I've whetted your appetite with our little scheme at the market, how about handling a few deadbeats for me?"

Ariene frowned, shifting her weight.

“Deadbeats?” she asked. “What’d they do?”

“They owe our organization some serious coin, and they’ve decided not to pay,” Brynjolf explained. “I want you to explain to them the error of their ways.”

Ariene nodded thoughtfully.

“Sounds good…who are they?”

“Keerava,” Brynjolf said, ticking the marks off on his fingers, “Bersi Honey-Hand, and Haelga. Do this right, and I can promise you a permanent place in our organization.”

“And…how do you want me to handle it?” Ariene asked carefully.

Brynjolf sighed, his mind drifting back to the insults that Keerava had thrown at him that morning.

“Honestly? The debt is secondary here. What’s more important is that you get the message across that we are to be ignored.” He frowned, and looked pointedly at the bow strapped to Ariene’s back. “A word of warning though…I don’t want any of them killed. Bad for business.”

To his surprise, Ariene’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and she nodded.

“Will I get a cut?” she asked, and Brynjolf laughed.

“Of course you’ll get a cut. We take care of our own.”

“Then consider it done.”

“Alright then lass, get going. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

The woman nodded and turned without another word, heading back into the ratways the way she came.

Brynjolf grinned, and turned back to Dirge and Vekel.

“Anything to say now, lads?”

“Sure, she made it down here,” Vekel said dismissively. “But that doesn’t make her a master thief. A hundred septims says she’ll turn out just like all the others.”

“I told you Vekel, this one is different,” Brynjolf insisted.

Still, as he sat back down at the bar, it was hard to ignore the facts. He’d been trying to breathe new life into the Guild, but Vekel and Dirge had a point. Previous recruits hadn’t stuck around long. Some didn’t keep up a high standard of work, others realized how poor the Guild’s standing really was and abandoned it. A few had even been caught and either killed or imprisoned.

Brynjolf knew Mercer was running out of patience with his attempts, but he didn’t see any other options. They couldn’t rely solely on Maven forever, and the way Brynjolf saw it, their dwindling reputation and cash flow needed to be addressed, or the Guild, and everyone in it, would be history.

You’d better come through for me, lass, he thought, bringing his tankard to his lips. Because I’m putting my last bet on you.

--- --- ---

Despite his high hopes, part of Brynjolf was worried that the woman would simply take the money for herself and disappear after shaking down her three marks. After all, it’d taken her several days to reappear in the ratways after the job on Brand-Shei, and Brynjolf had been doing this for a long time.

His gut told him that she would pull through, but having a contingency was just as important as having good instincts. He’d put the word out to his contacts within the city guard to alert him if an imperial woman fitting Ariene's description tried to skip town, and he had a few others keeping eyes on the docks and weak points in the city walls in case she tried to slip out that way.

Mercer had given him the usual grief about wasting manpower, but Brynjolf knew that if the coin came through, he’d let the matter go. And as the day drew to a close and no runners came bursting into the Flagon to tell him that his recruit had killed one of the marks or vanished with his gold, the more sure he became that this had been a good call.

“I still don’t know about this, Bryn,” Delvin grumbled. “Even if this new recruit of yours is as good as you say, that don’t mean that the curse ain’t gonna affect them, same as the rest of us.”

Brynjolf rolled his eyes.

“Mentioning the curse in every other conversation isn’t going to make more people believe you, old man. It’s just going to make them think you’re crazy.”

“You can call me what you like,” Delvin said, shrugging. “Don’t change the facts.”

“Brynjolf,” Dirge called, and Brynjolf looked up to see Ariene walking towards them, a sack of gold in her hand.

“Well well, look who’s back,” he said, shooting a smug look over his shoulder at Delvin, who just shook his head and took a sip of his ale.

“So lass,” he said, getting to his feet. “Job’s done, and you even brought the gold.” He spotted movement behind her, and saw one of his runners slip into the Flagon. They flashed him a quick hand signal, and he smiled. “Best of all, you did it clean. I like that. Dumping bodies and keeping the guards quiet can be expensive.”

Ariene nodded, and held out the coin purse.

“Here’s what they owed us,” she said, and Brynjolf took it.

“Well done, lass. And it would seem I owe you something in return.”

He turned and picked up a few potion bottles from the table behind him.

“Here you go, I think you’ll find these quite useful.”

Ariene took them, examined them for a moment, then nodded, slipping them into a satchel at her side.

“What’s next, then?” she asked.

“Well,” Brynjolf said, hefting the bag of coin in his hand. “Judging from how well you handled those shopkeepers, I’d say you’ve done more than simply prove yourself.”

He looked back at Delvin and raised an eyebrow. The man nodded, and Brynjolf smiled at Ariene.

“We need people like you in our outfit.”

Ariene looked around, and Brynjolf saw her eyes linger on the rickety tables, on the grime covering the tankards, and the empty seats covered in dust. She looked up at him, and after a moment of meeting his gaze, she nodded.

“If there’s more gold where that came from, then I’m in.”

“That’s the spirit!” Brynjolf said, grinning. “Larceny’s in your blood…the telltale sign of a practiced thief. I think you’ll do more than just fit in around here.”

Brynjolf turned to lead her to the cistern but she hesitated.

“Before we go, I have to ask…” she trailed off, and looked around the room again.

“What’s on your mind?” Brynjolf asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Word is your outfit isn’t doing…well.” One side of her mouth ticked up in a half smile, and she gestured vaguely around them. “True?”

Brynjolf chuckled.

“You’re a sharp one, lass. Aye, we’ve run into a bit of a rough patch lately…but it’s nothing to be concerned about.” He let out a sigh, then flashed her a small smile. “Tell you what. You keep making us coin, and I’ll worry about everything else. Fair enough?”

Ariene nodded slowly.

“Fair enough.”

“Now, if there are no more questions? How about you follow me, and I’ll show you what we’re all about.”

Brynjolf led Ariene through the back room, sliding away the false panel in the storage cupboard and stepping through to the passageway beyond.

“So everyone in the tavern back there, they’re all members?” Ariene asked.

“Not everyone is,” Brynjolf explained. “Vekel owns the Ragged Flagon, and Dirge works for him. Tonilia, well, she’s got her own business. But they all work closely with us. We keep coin in each other's pockets and watch each other's backs.”

“And you lead the Guild?” asked Ariene, and Brynjolf scoffed.

“Me? No, lass. I’m just a lieutenant. I keep things running as smooth as I can, but I’m no Guildmaster. Mercer is the one who makes the decisions around here. And speaking of…”

He led her into the cistern, where Mercer was waiting for them on the dais in the center of the room.

"Mercer?” he called. “This is the one I was talking about...our new recruit."

Mercer sighed and folded his arms.

"This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf," he said.

He turned to Ariene, and looked her up and down slowly. A frown spread across his face, and he folded his arms.

"Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, addressing her. “If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions... you do what we say, when we say.”

Ariene raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, mirroring Mercer’s pose.

“Do I make myself clear?" Mercer demanded, and Ariene glanced over at Brynjolf.

“Rules?” she asked, looking back to Mercer. “We’re thieves. What’s the point of rules?

Mercer took a slow step forward, stopping only when he was mere inches away from her face, and Brynjolf grimaced.

“I'll let that comment go because you're new here,” Mercer growled. “Ask things out of turn again, and we have a problem. Now, are. We. Clear?"

Ariene, to her credit, didn’t react beyond a slight tensing of her shoulders, and she nodded once.

“Crystal,” she said evenly.

“Good,” Mercer said, stepping back. “Then I think it's time we put your expertise to the test."

“Wait a moment,” Brynjolf said, frowning. There was only one job going on at the moment that Mercer was concerning himself with…a job that Brynjolf had not intended for a fresh recruit to try and take on all alone. “You’re not talking about Goldenglow, are you?” he asked, and Mercer nodded. “Even our little Vex couldn’t get in!”

Mercer just raised an eyebrow.

“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it.”

“Goldenglow?” Ariene repeated, and Mercer turned back to her.

“Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients,” he explained. “However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details."

He turned, clearly signaling that the conversation was over, and Brynjolf folded his arms.

“Mercer. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm?” he looked back at them, and Brynjolf looked pointedly at Ariene. “Oh, yes. Since Brynjolf assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

He turned and strode away, and Brynjolf blew out a breath before smiling at Ariene with what he hoped was a reassuring expression.

“Well he’s cheerful,” Ariene said quietly, a grin playing at the edge of her mouth, and Brynjolf tilted his head.

“How much of that ignorance was on purpose?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I wanted to see how he’d respond to confrontation. Evidently, not well.”

“Well, I could have told you that,” Brynjolf said with a quiet laugh. “But never mind that now. You’re in. Welcome to the family, lass. I'm expecting you to make us a lot of coin, so don't disappoint me."

Ariene nodded.

“So how do I get my cut of the spoils?” she asked.

“Simple,” Brynjolf replied. “Do as you're told and keep your blade clean. We can't turn a profit by killing.”

“Fine by me.”

“You should talk with Delvin Mallory and Vex. They know their way around this place and they'll be able to kick some extra jobs your way. Oh, and talk to Tonilia in the Flagon... she'll set you up with your new armor.”

“Speaking of the Flagon, I could use a drink,” Ariene said. “Let me buy you one too…as an apology for upsetting Mercer.”

Brynjolf shook his head.

“I told you lass, you just worry about making us coin. I’ll worry about everything else, and that includes Mercer, alright?”

“Well then...consider it a thank you,” she suggested.

“A thank you?” he repeated, and she actually looked a tad sheepish.

“I can tell you were taking a chance, bringing me in to all of this,” she said, her voice quiet. “It was a risk; a risk that you didn’t have to take. And I…appreciate that.”

Brynjolf smiled.

“Well, I suppose I have time for a quick drink. A drink, and a toast to the newest member of the Guild.”

Ariene brightened, and turned to head out of the cistern and back into the Flagon. Brynjolf went to follow, but glanced back over his shoulder. Mercer stood at his desk, leaning over a set of plans with a frown on his face.

“Tell you what lass,” Brynjolf said slowly. “You go on ahead, introduce yourself to the others. I’ll join you in a moment, and we can discuss business.”

Ariene nodded, and Brynjolf watched her go, waiting until the door to the Flagon closed behind her before turning and striding across the room.

“Mercer!” he said, and Mercer glared up at him. “We need to talk.”

--- --- ---

Next: Ch.2

35 notes · View notes

throughtrialbyfire · 8 months

Text

𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 ♥

you already know what time it is!!

thank you to the lovely and incredibly talented @skyrim-forever @your-talos-is-problematic @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @mareenavee @thequeenofthewinter and @dirty-bosmer for the tags this week!! i've been having an amazing time reading/looking at all your wips, and i know i say it always but i can't wait to see how your works turn out, whether writing or art!! wednesday has easily become my favorite day of the week bc of this community <3

i'm passing the tag to @umbracirrus @wispstalk @kiir-do-faal-rahhe @orfeoarte @caliblorn @thana-topsy @totally-not-deacon @aphocryphas @gilgamish and YOU! if you wanna hop in, tag me back, and no pressure as always!!

this week i've got a bit of a treat: i'm working on some art! it's one that's really pushing me out of my comfort zone in terms of pose, expression, and perspective, and i'm extremely excited to finish it and show what i've been up to! featuring the beloved Cicero, of course

aaaaaaaand since i posted chapter 14 of Cycle of the Serpent this past weekend, i'm gonna give you guys a long snippet of chapter 23. >:3c emeros is asking for the group's imperial pardon from general tullius, and it comes with a catch. fair warning, the snippet is LONG bc i am incapable of being normal about this fic. are you ready, because i sure fucking am

Emeros stifled a scoff. Athenath did not. Instead, the Altmer made a step forward, the Bosmer eyeing him with a quirked brow. The bard said, "we helped Hadvar, he said he'd help us out if we needed it." "Precisely." Emeros leveled. "In fact, he said that should we wish to acquire an Imperial pardon, to come directly to you, General Tullius." He lowered his brow. The General waited, shifting from foot to foot as he considered this, before waving an enormous hand and resting it again on the table, facing the map sprawled before him. Wooden pegs painted in red and blues littered various points, stuck in deep with metal ends. The light landed along the metal gleam of his armor, golden color running rotten in the days glare. "You know, not many survived that place. If you could give us a hand, Legate Rikke-" he motioned to the woman beside him, stray hairs catching the light, "-could have some use for you. Besides, I'm sure your being imprisoned was all a big misunderstanding." Wyndrelis cleared his throat and looked up at the Bosmer, already making a slow, calculated stride to the General, his teeth grit together. With a deep inhale, he spoke, ignoring the light twitch of his under eye, the pittering in his chest. "General, I do not wish to waste your time, nor do I believe mine is of any less value," he began, "however, my compatriots and I have come a long way to be here. Not to mention, the scene we witnessed in your town square-" "Roggvir, the traitor," Tullius scoffed, shaking his head, disbelief clearly running courses through him, "he opened the gate for Ulfric Stormcloak after he murdered High King Torygg-" "And started this bloody Civil War proper, yes, I'm well aware of the stories, sir." Emeros interrupted in a bored drone, his wrist making idle motions. General Tullius craned his neck to peer back at Emeros, one wrinkled brow raised. His face had the character of a man well beyond the usual glory days of a soldier, a war and weather-battered face, with the scarred and sun-roughened arms to match. He was no man to be trifled with in the slightest, and yet (despite the atrocious nerves burdening his every action, the weight of every word weighed heavy on the blade the General carried to cut out sharp-tongues like his) the alchemist bothered not with patience nor obedience here. Instead, the Bosmer lifted his chin, his posture taking all the hallmarks of Aldmeri society, his arms straight at his sides, his spine taut, his eyes skimming the face of the Imperial like a bird to a field mouse among the brush. "We are here for our pardon. Nothing more."

General Tullius turned again to face the Bosmer. "And we're low on men. Our ranks are thin enough as is. If you want your pardon, you'll have to earn it." He made no motion, no step, nothing to indicate intimidation, but the bead of sweat down the back of his neck brandished his demeanor, the stress he was under already. In the shadows, Emeros observed the bruise-dark circles forming under the man's eyes over the past few weeks of sleepless nights, the kind he'd seen on many an Imperial soldier returning to Cyrodiil from the front lines in the Great War. He'd been younger then, thought nothing of the bloodshed. But here? He saw the thirty years aftermath and the absurdity of the Civil War plain and simple.

"Then I believe we are at an impasse." Emeros simply turned on his heel and began the walk down the antechamber, guards unsure whether to apprehend the Bosmer or allow him to step away. General Tullius watched in disbelief, and as the doors parted, gave a great sigh.

"Wait, now."

Emeros stood on the precipice, light filtering in, casting his shadow long behind him. He turned. "Yes, sir?"

"I understand the urgency of your request, elf-"

"Emeros Nightlock."

General Tullius sighed again. "I understand the urgency of your request, mister Nightlock, but I can't grant something like that on a whim. I need to know you're not here to cause trouble. I know your winding up on the Helgen prison cart was probably just a misunderstanding, as well as these…" he gestured vaguely to Athenath and Wyndrelis, who were halfway through the antechamber and to their friends side when he'd turned back at the General's request, "…fine young people. But until I can verify that you've no intentions to make me regret that decision…"

"Ah," Emeros ticked, "a deed for a deed." He shut the doors, and made a solid march back to the war room as though nothing had happened. "Really, General, I would prefer if you had said so in the first place."

General Tullius inhaled deeply through his nose, leveling out whatever turmoil brewed behind his cold exterior. He made a motion to the Nord, Legate Rikke, who watched the trio with bewildered amusement. "You will speak to the Legate here, and do what she asks. Only then, can I grant your pardon."

"Thank you for your time, General Tullius." Emeros approached the Legate with a polite smile, the kind that barely graced his eyes, and spoke again. "What can we do for you, Legate Rikke?"

The Legate, her eyes keenly examining the three before her, barely tamped down the burgeoning smirk on her lips. "You three survived Helgen?" She shifted her light-hued gaze between their faces. Wyndrelis' nervous fidgeting, Athenath's fingers combing through his dark curls, and Emeros' cold expression, his posture high and solid - he silently hoped the shaking palms eluded her. "Not many made it out alive, you know. I've got a good feeling about you three, and I don't often get good feelings about anything. A warrior knows to trust her gut."

"Legate Rikke, I appreciate the sentiment deeply, but I would like to know what it is you're expecting us to… Do, exactly." Emeros watched the Legate as she lifted her brow, internally mulling something over before she spoke up again.

"You know, bravado gets soldiers killed."

"Fascinating. I will note that down for any soldiers I may meet."

"Emeros," Athenath hissed quietly, tugging his arm. The Bosmer seemed to come back to the room around him, as though he had been operating in some sort of pre-determined mode, a Dwemer automata wound up and gaining sentience. For a moment, his eyes flashed cold-sweat panic to the Altmer, then narrowed sternly. He returned his gaze to the Legate.

"Well," Legate Rikke breathed, sliding a palm over the map before her, "I'm sending you to clear out Fort Hraagstad. If you survive, you'll pass. If you die, then I'll have no further use for your corpses."

An icy fear grasped the trio, but Emeros merely cleared his throat and spoke again. "What is the purpose of this assignment?"

"The ancients built many of the fortresses that dot the landscape of Skyrim. Sadly, most have fallen into disrepair. And nearly all have been overrun with bandits or other vagabonds. Fort Hraagstad is one of the few that remains mostly intact. We're going to install a garrison there, but first, you three are going to clean out the bandits that have moved in."

"Mark it on our map, and we'll be off by morning." Emeros made a gesture behind himself, Wyndrelis fumbling with the map he tugged from his pocket, passing it to the Bosmer. He allowed Legate Rikke to make scratches along the surface with a quill, easy lines detailing the best path up to the fort, her face stern as she passed it back over to him.

"Good luck."

57 notes · View notes