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martindeservedbetter · 2 months

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loathing you wasn't right

Teldryn Sero x F! Dragonborn! Reader word count: 2118 triggers: none

"You're going back to Skyrim… without me?! Why?!"

"It's just…" she stared off, not wanting to meet Teldryn's upset eyes.

"... I didn't want to bring you home, to Skyrim, that is. I just wanted two lives, a Dragonborn for one, and a welcoming adventurous patron for the other. Which means-"

"You don't want me to ruin your perfect picture… what a load of crap. Fine. Go on then, go do your Skyrim things. Just know that I'll be exploring Tamriel on my own, and I won't be here when you get back."

___________________

Skip forward two weeks and Teldryn was still wasting away his days in the Retching Netch, hoping that maybe, just maybe she'd come back to him.

"Still moping over Y/n, I see," Geldis teased, placing a drink down in front of Teldryn, who sat at the bar for once, rather than the upper-level seating area.

"I paid for a drink, not a snide remark, Geldis."

"Just go out adventuring as you said. Get your mind off of her."

"And where should I be going? Hmm? The only way off this rock is to Skyrim, and I don't fancy running into her."

"Is it perhaps because you fancy her? You get it because-"

"I don't need this," Teldryn stood up, tossing Geldis some septims, grabbed his sujamma, and turned to leave the corner club.

"You can't run from your feelings, Teldryn!"

"Just watch me!”

He retorted, securing his chitin helmet back on his head before being met with the ashen atmosphere of Raven Rock.

Oh, how he loathed the place.

Sure, he had made it his home for countless years and had made many fond memories with the people, but he loathed it all the same.

Teldryn seemed to loathe many things.

He loathed the way she laughed and said his name.

He loathed the fact that she would hug him after a battle.

He loathed the way she stared in awe of their campfires.

And most importantly, he loathed the way his chest hurt when he thought of her.

“Damn her.”

It was like he couldn’t look around at the village in front of him, because all he saw were the memories bubbling up. He only stared ahead, trying to blot out any of his thoughts, and it came as no surprise to himself that he found himself pushing through the doors of her home.

The large manor she had been given was dark and cold. She had left many of her belongings behind. And Teldryn would fondly stare at them, as he continued down into the main part of her home.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here with me, Teldryn.”

“You can’t actually mean that, Y/n.”

“No, I do. It’s too large to live in alone. There’s this room over here,” she grabbed his hand and pulled him over,” I would love it if it was yours.”

“Then I’ll stay. If that’s what you wish.”

Teldryn stared down at his hand clenching and unclenching it, before shaking his head and scolding himself for trying to remember how pleasant her hand felt in his-

“Just stop it! You’re Teldryn Sero! The best swordsman in Morrowind! You’re not some lovesick s’wit, so stop acting like one.”

It was a lame attempt at clearing his mind, but he accepted it all the same and made his way into the master bedroom. Her bedroom.

What a mistake.

Her room still smelled of her, the same smell that filled his nose as she would bury her face into his chest while hugging. And although every part of him told him to leave, he stayed.

He fell onto her bed, overwhelmed by the scent of her and the softness of the furs that covered her blanket.

“Y/n… why did you leave me..?”

He muttered, tearing the helmet back off of his face and tossing it far away from him.

He heard the shattering of glass, and he cringed.

“Damn it…”

He slowly brought himself to his feet and saw the shattered vase on her desk, and as he gathered the pieces, his eyes caught the scribbling of his name.

Teldryn Sero

He set the shards aside and opened the folded paper.

I have to leave Solstheim. I can’t stay any longer, I refuse to fall anymore in love with him. Teldryn Sero… such a grumpy elf… but that didn’t stop my foolish heart. Those crimson eyes have me swooning and I want to wake up to the rasp of his voice in the morning for hundreds of thousands of mornings. But he doesn’t deserve to deal with the life I lead. The constant never knowing if I’ll return again. The endless traveling and speaking to officials, not to mention the threat of the civil war… Teldryn deserves to follow someone, to love someone that’s not me.

I’ll suffer for a thousand years if it means that Teldryn is happy.

“Stupid… so stupid…”

That didn’t stop the shaking of his hands or the pounding of his heart.

It was astonishing to learn that she had felt the same all this time. For Teldryn, it was like time stood still. Everything he loathed about her wasn't quite what he thought.

He loved the way she laughed and said his name.

He loved the fact that she would hug him after a battle.

He loved the way she stared in awe of their campfires.

He loved her.

Teldryn wanted her to wake up in his arms and see that smile she wore after hearing his voice. He wanted morning kisses and slow dances in the kitchen. He wanted everything you would never think a mercenary would want, he wanted to be loved.

Teldryn's body seemed to drag itself out of her home and back to the docks, staring out at the grayed sky and the barren harbor.

He stared out at the abyss of sea separating him from her.

"The Northern Maiden is set to return today."

"Hmm?"

Teldryn turned to the voice of the Nordic docks worker.

"You look like a man who needs to be elsewhere."

"Well thank you for telling me what I look like, I truly appreciate it."

"I'm just trying to help-"

"And I don't need it. Please go run along, and do whatever it is you do," Teldryn retorted, snapping at the poor man.

The Nord quickly scampered away from the Dunmer.

"You know, you didn't have to scare the boy, Teldryn. He did give you the information you wanted." Spoke the familiar voice.

"...I didn’t recall needing your opinion, Geldis,” Teldryn called, turning around to face his only friend.

“Ah,” spoke the Dunmeri barkeep,” but you clearly need it. You’ve been falling apart for weeks. What changed and brought you here? Did you finally realize?”

“Realize what? There’s nothing to realize-”

“Teldryn Sero, you must be a s’wit if you haven’t realized it yet. You’re in love with the Dragonborn.”

Teldryn scoffed and turned away from him.

“You can’t even lie and say no. You’ve just gotten quiet for the first time in your life.”

“You haven’t known me nearly that long-”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not the grumpy mercenary that sat in my bar for months, boasting his skills. You’re not a quiet mer, Teldryn. Just admit it.”

“No, alright? She’s already gone, and she’s been gone. Realizing something so significant now will just… just make the pain in my chest worse.”

"...you'll never be better if you don't admit it. If you truly want to move on-"

"Ah, but there's a problem Geldis. I don't want to. I don't think I can. I've never loved a man or mer before in my 200 years of life…"

"So you're holding on. You're going to spend your dying breaths waiting for that girl to return…"

"I've never made the best decisions, Geldis, you know that. Just let me have this."

"Just promise yourself and me this, you'll tell her if you see her again. You'll tell her everything Teldryn.”

“I guess I can try.”

He huffed, trying to maintain his composure and arrogant demeanor, but by Azura, he should’ve known the mer could see through it.

“Teldryn.”

“Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll tell Y/n that I… that I-”

He faked a cough, trying to cover his tracks with a ‘damn ash’.

“You’re a sorry excuse for a Dunmer if you can’t say three words.”

“She isn’t here, so I don’t have to say a word.”

Teldryn walked down the pier, fully ignoring Geldis’s protests.

And now we’re back to being a lovesick s’wit, fantastic. At least I can catch the first boat out of here, now to just…

He once again threw back on his helmet and leaned against the stone building, deciding now was a good time to get his rest before boarding the ship. He had learned how to sleep standing upright after being a mercenary for quite a number of years. The man let out a sigh and settled into a comfortable position before drifting into a light sleep.

___________________

“Teldryn?”

Ah, her voice. What a cruel joke, can’t even dream in peace.

“Silly mer…”

He felt something brush against his jaw through the scarf.

“I’ll cut your hand off if you don’t put it down,” he muttered, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Well, it’s a good thing that wasn’t my hand then.”

Then the voice proceeded to do the same thing again, which quickly brought Teldryn out of any drowsiness he had.

“I already warned you-! Y/n?”

His voice softened when he recognized her, and he felt his face begin to warm in embarrassment.

“Hey… I’m back.”

“...Why?”

He watched her face shift into one of amusement to a bittersweet one.

“I missed you. It was a mistake to leave. I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“I never left…”

He muttered, turning his face away.

“I’m glad…” she slipped her hand into his, interlocking their fingers.

Teldryn looked down at their hands, and couldn’t quell the anxiety that came off of him in droves.

“I uh… I need to tell you something.”

“Of course, Teldryn. You can tell me anything.”

“So…” he sucked in a sharp breath.

“...I didn’t exactly know how to cope with you leaving. Hit the Netch every night, and tried to sleep the day away…”

She began to run her thumb across the back of his gloved hand.

“...and I just… had so much resentment for you. It took those two weeks for me to figure it out but… I’ve learned that I simply adore your smile…”

He took a short pause to catch the embarrassed smile that ghosted her lips.

“...that I enjoyed your hugs, that I found your facial expressions… pleasant.”

“Oh yeah?”

That stupid smile of hers had come back to stay, clearly amused by his awkwardness.

"I suppose I learned that I… love you."

"I love you too Teldryn."

It blew him away how she answered him immediately, this interesting shine in her eyes. It took him a moment to realize that they were tears.

"Don't cry," he mused, wiping the tears away from her face.

"I'm just so happy. I really thought I had lost you…"

"Never. I would have waited a thousand years for you, just to have this."

Teldryn brought her hand to his lips, brushing the scarf away, and placing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Really?" She smiled, still in tears, but clearly feeling better about the situation.

"Really."

"Can I ki-"

She put her hands up to the sides of his face.

"Please do," he muttered in response, pulling the chitin helmet off and dropping it.

Y/n pulled him down to meet her, lips connecting and sending chills down his spine, pleasantly surprised by the feelings he received, he smiled into the kiss.

She was the first to pull away, grinning like an idiot, but Teldryn knew he looked the same.

"Be mine?"

"I assumed we were already there, but absolutely."

"S'wit."

"You love me."

He rolled his eyes, failing to stop smiling as well.

"I simply adore you."

Teldryn watched as her face wore a soft smile and she seemed to lose her footing.

"Oh, you like that? You want more pleasant compliments?" Teldryn teased.

"Stop being mean."

"Never," he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She gave a soft hum in response.

"Any jobs available? I'd love to bring my mercenary along."

"Well I heard the Skaals could use some help, though, it's far too cold for my liking."

"That sounds like a new adventure. Let's go!"

He quickly grabbed his helm as she dragged him by the hand.

And by Azura, did he love her more than anything.

#first fic i've posted on here!#i originally posted these on wattpad and now i wanna see how well they do on tumblr #skyrim #tes v #tes #teldryn sero #teldryn sero x reader #teldryn sero x dragonborn #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls skyrim #teldryn x reader #tes fic #martindeservedbetter #solstheim

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thana-topsy · 9 months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dirty-bosmer · 8 months

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WIP Wednesday

Omg it's so late here, but I managed to make it on time. Thanks to @gilgamish for sprinting with me. Would not have written these words otherwise <3

Tagged by: @thequeenofthewinter @ladytanithia @mareenavee @lucien-lachance @elavoria Thanks everyone 💕 Catching up on all your stuff before bed

Tagging: @atypicalacademic @gilgamish @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy. @paraparadigm @nuwanders @throughtrialbyfire @miraakulous-cloud-district @sylvienerevarine @kookaburra1701 @justafoxhound @chennnington @rainpebble3 And whoever else wants to join in c:

From Slither and Writhe

Stranded, Sylawen retreated to the inn room she’d paid off until the end of the week. It was an ugly, moldered thing, a perfect microcosm of Bravil, and she, just another haplessly floating spore destined for its dank, dark corners. Wedging herself into the far side of the rickety bed, she closed her eyes and let herself fester, let herself become one with the mildew fanning out along the paper-thin walls, then decided such an unsettling shade of beige washed her out terribly. If she had to be a fungus, surely she’d be some sort of polypore. Vibrantly red, perhaps a splash of bold yellows. Or one of those pink oyster mushrooms growing in shelves along the deadwood, sprouting atop itself like the leaves of a fleshy, monstrous rose. Yes, a far preferable alternative. And besides, she’d always favored pinks.

That night, a storm swept through the Niben. Sylawen knew not whether to consider it yet another omen that had trailed her from Skingrad or to risk a sliver of hope in these grim times— a sign of new beginnings. But by the anger with which the windows shook in their panes, she assumed it heralded shattered glass and a million tiny perforations, then moved the bed to the other side of the room. Sylawen slept lightly, if at all, blankets hiked over her head to shield herself from impending doom. Any minute now the roof is going to cave in, she thought, then scolded herself for sounding just like her brother. Why Rillion would die from the shock alone if he had to spend a minute in this inn. She imagined him here, staring at the house centipedes scurrying across the floorboards in horror, rushing behind her, screaming ‘get it out, Syl! By the Eight, get it out! Don’t let it touch me!’ And it made her smile, drew out a little snicker that just as soon filled the room with the echos of his absence. Joy rotted in her belly, and she wished she was a mold; at least then she could feed on its remains.

Most likely Rillion was lying awake in his room, stressing over where his stupid, selfish sister had run off to now, asking himself for the hundredth time why she had to make everything about herself, why she couldn’t have a civil conversation if her life depended on it, why she had to torment their mother time and time again, and over what? Over her sick, twisted little obsessions with—

That night, all the dreams that came to her wore his face.

#skyrim fic #slither and writhe #tes fic #tesblr #seyda writes #wip wednesday

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elenwen-and-ondolemar · 2 months

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I will be upfront, I've come upon this deeply disturbing text while going through the belongings of a Justiciar drunk in an alley in Markarth, for safe keeping of course, and felt the need to question you both on this.

What appears to be an Altmeri commentary on Talos:

"To kill Man is to reach Heaven, from where we came before the Doom Drum's iniquity. When we accomplish this, we can escape the mockery and long shame of the Material Prison.

"To achieve this goal, we must:

"1) Erase the Upstart Talos from the mythic. His presence fortifies the Wheel of the Convention, and binds our souls to this plane.

"2) Remove Man not just from the world, but from the Pattern of Possibility, so that the very idea of them can be forgotten and thereby never again repeated.

"3) With Talos and the Sons of Talos removed, the Dragon will become ours to unbind. The world of mortals will be over. The Dragon will uncoil his hold on the stagnancy of linear time and move as Free Serpent again, moving through the Aether without measure or burden, spilling time along the innumerable roads we once travelled. And with that we will regain the mantle of the imperishable spirit." This is a frankly terrifying text to find on anyone, so I would suggest you illuminate the Dominions stance on this. I would also suggest you teach your Justiciars to drink less and protect their pockets better. As a general rule of course.

Elenwen: . . . That is a good general rule. I applaud your concern for the Justiciar's security. You did the right thing in asking for our response instead of indulging in baseless speculation. And this document is indeed baseless. The Altmer have never recognized Talos as a god. Commander Ondolemar, this falls within your jurisdiction. Can you provide our visitor the pertinent details of the Justiciar's work in Markarth?

Ondolemar: (He is visibly fuming.) I am aware of this particular incident, yes. I wish you had been half as solicitous about the deceased Justiciar's health. What sort of barbarian leaves a dead-drunk man outside in a Skyrim winter? If you had assisted the poor mer to an inn or temple, his parents would still have a son.

Elenwen: I am sure our guest feels awful enough about his lapse of foresight. Let's move on to the document in question.

Ondolemar: It's a Justiciar's duty to confiscate pernicious libels about the Thalmor. This one has been circulating since the late Third Era, a ridiculous forgery which attributes a range of bizarre and heretical opinions to our scholars. This document cannot have been written by an Altmer, even an apostate or renegade. Such a renegade would know how to make their heresy sound more authentic.

The greatest heresy displayed in the text is the belief that there is any need to "escape the mockery and long shame of the Material Prison." This might have been a pressing concern in the Dawn Era. But the foundation of Altmer religion is simple. Even that popular Imperial book, Varieties of Faith, gets it right.

"[Auri-El] then ascended to heaven in full observance of his followers so that they might learn the steps needed to escape the mortal plane."

Our Ancestors were trapped in Mundus, but they have ascended to Aetherius, and invite their descendants to follow. We know that our ancestors are in Aetherius since we consult with them in times of need.

This Commentary attempts to solve a problem that does not exist within Altmer religion, while claiming that Auri-El had no idea what he was doing, lied to his descendants about the way to ascension, and needs to be rescued from his own ignorance. You can see how blasphemous this reads to any Altmer. If a true Altmer scholar came to this conclusion, he or she would certainly include arguments for overcoming the resistance of Altmer believers, rather than state it as an accepted truth that underlies the rest of the argument.

Now that we have established how foreign this Commentary is to true Atmer religion, let me point out that it contradicts itself. "With Talos and the Sons of Talos removed, the Dragon will become ours to unbind. The world of mortals will be over."

Wasn't it "the Doom Drum's iniquity" that supposedly doomed us to his material prison? Suddenly, Talos instead is very important, for no reason at all. Removing Talos will apparently change the nature of the world, even though Talos only appeared in the world about seven hundred years ago. What happened to Lorkhan in this Commentary? He has apparently trapped us in mortality but doesn't matter anymore? And who knew that linear time only started when Tiber Septim was born in Atmora or Alcaire or wherever it was? Elenwen: The so-called Altmeri Commentary only makes sense as the product of a member of a Talos cult who wanted their object of worship to be the most important and powerful of the gods. Someone who had a vested interest in duping the credulous into supporting their failing cult. Someone who wanted the humans of Tamriel to see elves as their mortal enemies. In short, there is every reason to believe the Commentary was written and distributed by the premier cult of Talos, the Blades.

Fortunately, the Emperor, the Elder Council and the Hierarchy of the Imperial Cult now recognize the perverse origins of such conspiracy theories. The Empire and the Dominion join together in condemning these calumnies. If you would leave us the copy of the Commentary you retrieved for safekeeping, we can commit it to the fire, as the late Justiciar would have done.

#Thalmor #Tesblr #Tes lore #There you go TheEntity #They will not bring up the possibility Talos might be Lorkhan in some sense #Why debunk that when no one ever suggests it #Yes someone can ask them about that one #The first new answer for these two since the old reddit rp

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grape-eating-vampire · 2 months

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alright, it's done. i finished it.

this is the third and final part of things that happened in my first bg3 playthrough ever that I found so funny that I put them in my notes (spoilers below)

let me start this by saying I have only cried twice in the 155 hours it took me to complete this shit. however, I have almost-screamed at the characters more times than I'd like to admit. but first here's stuff that happened since the last one of these posts I made:

after killing Orin I went around Baldur's Gate for a while and did odd sidequests, including

clearing out a haunted house and sidelining to kill a stinky man in a wardrobe (and drag his body to a guy two streets over)

entirely ignored Gale's quest to look at a book because I kept getting arrested there after having killed the boss mage guy

I also foolishly though this wouldn't have any consequences. oh boy was I wrong

went to see a underwater prison, got told off by Gortash, decided to explore it after killing him, and promptly forgot to do so

killed Gortash! fuck that guy the only good thing about him is his fancy robe

tried to recruit a dragon called Ansur, found out the emperor is Balduran (????????? honestly I was shocked)

killed said dragon and felt like I was playing skyrim all over again

found a letter ("Dear Ansur") by Balduran/the Emperor. this was the first time I cried. I could still cry.

patch 6 came out! that was yesterday and I spent about 10 minutes trying out new kisses and sitting on Shadowhearts stool in camp (she now says "I'm glad you decided to join me" or something like that when you do)

went pretty much straight to the underground pool thing where the brain was supposed to be

failed abysmally to Dominate The Brain™

got pulled out by the emperor and had to start beef with Lae'zel because I had also forgotten to care about Orpheus and the hammer from the House of Hope

admittedly, I didn't really forget, I just didn't want to spend any more time with Raphael than I absolutely had to

my +14 persuasion saved the day once more and Lae'zel was fine with the one hope in her life getting his brains sucked out

went off to fight the brain once more. my game crashed twice trying to load that cutscene.

met all my allies! I forgot how many there were actually, and I only called on two of the groups later on

fought a lot. like a LOT lot.

got to the Netherbrain and kicked it's ass*

*had to reload about 3 times and try again because Minsc at level 12 was stuck on 100 hp for some reason and kept fucking dying

finally managed to kill the fucker! had Lae'zel deal the killing blow which seemed very fitting

more cutscenes, but this one actually didn't crash the game, I got to look at some beautiful unloaded walls and stuff instead

Lae'zel left right after we got to the haven. understandably so

remember how I ignored Gale's quest? well he didn't blow himself up like he inteded earlier, but he left to becOME A GOD????? I cannot fucking deal with this man

Karlach on the pier. this was the second time I cried, but unproportionally much so

Wyll left with her for Avernus, the little cutscene of them arriving there made me feel a bit better

Astarion had to leg it because of the sun (sorry)

Shadowheart didn't do much of anything during all of this, neither did Minsc, Halsin or Jaheira

decided to go help kids with Halsin, seems to fit my character (eventhough I really didn't roleplay so much)

we got an epilogue! yippie!

caught up there with everyone, except Lae'zel (who was there via the fantasy version of zoom) and Gale (who was there via the fantasy equivalent of a voicemail)

tried to hug Gale, couldn't, almost cried again but managed

also met a tressym who I recognized from fanart as Tara. I don't know why she was there, we never met her before and Gale hadn't mentioned her either

read a LOT of letters the party had received. barely kept my composure at the Gur's letter to Astarion

Withers did a cool speech and the game ended

after all of this and so much more that I didn't take notes about, I can confidentially say that Baldur's Gate 3 is the best video game I have ever played, and within it's genre my favourite ever!

I'm also emotionally devestated, especially after these final parts (but in a good way)

that's all, thanks for reading!

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #orin the red #enver gortash #astarion #gale #wyll #karlach #lae'zel #shadowheart #jaheira #minsc #withers #bg3 spoilers #the emperor #ansur

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isamajor · 6 days

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Whumpril day 21 to 25

More whump drabbles with Skyrim Custom-voiced followers ! :D

21 . « Just hold on. »

It was pouring rain, as if they weren't already wet enough. Wading with difficulty by the light of torches in the Drajkmyr Marsh, the party tried to outrun the hostile fauna who lived here. Night had fallen and there was no suitable surface on which to set up camp, so they were doomed to always move further.

Caryalind's teeth chattered loudly, and his torch flickered, so cold he felt. His thoughts even seemed to freeze in place and his feet moved forward on pure instinct. Taliesin placed his hand on the prince's shoulder.

“Just hold on, your Highness.” (100)

•

22 . Stoicism break

Xelzaz sat alone, hunched over. His body screamed in protest as bruises bloomed across his scales, bones grinding together from fall he suffered a few hours ago. Pride prevented him from showing the extent of his pain, even amongst closest comrades. But each movement, each breathe hurt. Struggling not to betray his agony despite ingesting a numbing potion, Xelzaz maintained a calm demeanor all day. Now, safe within his tent, his defenses lowered and his stoicism dissolved. Sobs rose in his throat. He kept them completely silent, except for sharp inhalations that tore through his chest, the pained moans of which he quickly stifled. (104)

•

23 . Presumed dead

Several had fallen down the mountain, but Lydia had not been found. She did not respond to calls and despite searches, her body was not found. They stayed several days looking for her and waiting for her, but she never came. Xelzaz ended up expressing what everyone was thinking and fearing. "She is probably dead. May she have gone to Sovngarde."

A silence dotted with sad sighs answered him. The mountain was cruel and its frozen slopes dangerous. After a final farewell carried by the wind, and some montain flowers thrown in the abyss, they ended up continuing on their way. (101)

•

24 . No Time to Rest

The exploration of this ruin had been trying and it was with a certain joy that they had come out with the prospect of a well-deserved rest to heal their wounds. But they didn't have time for that. Sensing their weakness, a pack of wolves pounced on them, lips curled. Exhausted, weapons fell heavy in their hands. Kaidan groaned every time he swung his sword. Auri struggled to catch her breath after each shot. Inigo's reflexes were no longer as good. Lucien stayed behind to try to heal his comrades with the little Magicka he had left. Rest had to wait. (104)

•

25 . « Brace yourself. »

“We have no choice, we have to cross.”

Taliesin looked at the Dragonborn in horror, shaking his head. The river was in flood, the bridge could no longer be seen. He wouldn't go any further.

"Without me."

Kaidan sneered. "Brace yourself.", he just had time to say before suddenly grabbing the terrified Mer and throwing him over his shoulder. Without waiting, he entered the river, firmly holding Taliesin who suddenly stopped struggling as soon as the water soaked his robes. With gritted teeth, soaked and terrified, shaking uncontrollably, he clung helplessly to Kaidan, forced to trust in his abilities. (99)

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trickstarbrave · 4 months

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I WROTE MORE!!! YAYYYY

vivi and steren finally escape :> ready to start their lives over somewhere else~

and the brothel madam is uhhhh not gonna get out of this one.

vivienne belongs to @mulberrycafe (go read vivi's story pls)

The moments between imprisonment and freedom were tense and stressful, Steren’s hands trembling.

Vivienne had come in, as planned, killing Steren’s client after his own and carefully dressed Steren before covering the mark on his forehead with makeup. But they weren’t in the clear yet; it would be conspicuous to leave together when most people entered and exited the brothel alone, so they had to wait.

Vivienne left first, as per Steren’s insistence. He’d lied, convincing Vivienne the one to leave first was the most likely to be caught, and luckily Vivienne had believed him. In truth, Steren knew the last one out would be the most likely to be caught. Honestly, he had never missed recall and intervention more than he did right now, being too weak to cast a proper spell. Still though, he didn’t want to be caught; freedom was so close he could practically taste it, but Vivienne came first for now. Steren was strong enough to endure, Vivienne was someone soft and kind in spite of all the suffering he’d been subjected to for things he couldn’t control.

The collar around his neck had never felt more heavy as he waited, body and face mostly covered. He was counting down the seconds, before finally getting up from the parlor room to head out the door, after a few others filed out.

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. It was risky--very, very risky. A thought tickled the back of his mind: what if Vivienne left him behind? He could have gotten too antsy, running to the docks without him.

Steren could hear the brothel madam yelling at the two of them to hurry up for their next clients, banging on the walls. Steren had just enough magicka to lock them before they hurried out, which would keep her distracted for a few minutes as she cursed and swore and looked for the keys on her keyring. He put all of his energy into walking correctly, not limping and hissing in pain.

Finally, in the alley they had planned to meet, he felt some of the anxiety melt off him as he nearly collapsed into Vivienne.

“I’ve got you…” Vivienne cooed. “C’mon, just a bit more. Can you do it?”

Steren nodded, his voice hoarse. “I can just… Let me lean on you a bit.” The brothel madam was still swearing and cursing, saying she would beat them black and blue when she got in there, as they went down alleyway after alleyway to the main strip.

“Excuse me--is this ship headed for Solstheim? Or Skyrim?” Vivienne asked a captain who was getting ready to set sail.

“Ah, we are heading for Skyrim, yes. If you stay on long enough we can also take you to the Illiac Bay--” The captain took a look at Steren who was sweating from exertion and anxiety. “Your friend here alright?”

“I drank too much.” Steren lied, before giving a lopsided grin. “But we’ve already missed the last ship heading out here and need to head to Skyrim for work.”

“Ah, I see.” the captain laughed heartily. Vivienne pulled out a bag of gold, plopping it in his hands. He looked at it, whistling, slightly, before ushering them both on board. “Don’t let the drunkard make a mess of my ship!” He hollered at them.

“I-I wont!” Vivienne reassured, before rushing them into their cabin after asking for a few directions.

“Oh gods--” Steren hissed, finally laid out on his hammock.

“I’m sorry,” Vivienne apologized, before Steren cupped his cheek.

“It’s not your fault, Vivi.” Steren smiled the best he could despite the pain. “It’s the damn poison--” He groaned again. The poison plus the injuries inflicted on him from customers had really done him in tonight, but if they didn’t flee immediately he was nervous one of those councilors was actually going to kill him. If it wasn’t for the collar being in the way, they would have strangled him a lot time ago, though they nearly suffocated him on other things as well.

There was a knock at their cabin door and the two of them tensed up. After a moment, Vivienne hesitantly spoke. “C-come in.”

One of the crewmates came in with a potion bottle in hand.

“Give this to your drunk friend,” He said, lingering in the doorway but not looking at them with suspicion in the slightest. “We’ll be setting sail any minute. It’s a healing potion which should hold him over.” The crewmate then pointed to the corner. “And if he does hurl, have him do it in a bucket at least. Your job to clean it.”

“T-Thank you.” Both of them were relieved as he left. It looked like no one knew they were here yet, and soon they would be out of Morrowind for good.

“Here,” Vivienne pressed the potion to his lips, letting Steren drink. It was such a relief as it immediately hit his sore throat, some of the pain quickly fading.

“Ah, Azu--” He cut himself off. Normally he would say ‘Azura’s mercy’, but the Lady of Twilight had no mercy for him anymore. She was the one who subjected Steren to this treatment, after all. “Thank you.” He said instead, smiling. “It’s a start… Once I finally get the damn poison out of my system and rest, I’m sure I’ll be better in no time.”

The ship began moving, the anchor raised and sails down as the rocking few more intense as they moved out of the bay. Vivienne caught himself on the wall, before Steren moved slightly.

“Will you keep me company?” He asked, hoping Vivienne would say yes. If not, he would be happy just knowing they were free, even as Vivienne explored the ship. But, much to his delight, Vivienne quickly climbed into the hammock beside him, letting Steren wrap an arm around him.

“We’re free…” Vivienne whispered as the two rocked gently from the waves. Steren smiled again, nuzzling into his hair.

“We’re free.” Steren whispered back, security in his voice. “We never have to go back there ever again.”

As much as this was punishment by Azura, Steren was happy he just wasn’t alone. There was much to be thankful for, after all, in spite of all he suffered. His parents were, at least in this world, alive and happy and in love, clueless to his suffering. Steren wouldn’t know how he would live with himself knowing his father’s ghost was watching him go through that in the brothel, after all. Instead he was probably curled up comfortably in bed with his Ata, sleeping peacefully and happily.

And if she hadn’t sent him here, he would have never met Vivienne. Sweet, sweet Vivienne who took care of him for nothing in return, when he was already suffering. Who helped get him out of that hellhole, and smiled so warmly against his skin…

Before he knew it, his eyes slowly drifted shut, the pain finally fading from his senses for the first time in a long while.

Nelevi was not have a good day.

Her two best whores vanished in the night and the useless guards couldn’t find them. Absolutely infuriating on its own, but to top it off they had customers who were waiting and demanded their money back when she told them they were currently unavailable, glaring daggers at her and threatening not to come back. They had to be somewhere in the city though--it was likely Steren’s idea they run away, but because of the steady diet of poison that kept his injuries from healing and how rough his clients were, she doubted they would get far. The city was large after all; no doubt they were hiding out in some rat infested skooma den in hopes of not being discovered. Despite how much money it was losing her though, that she could deal with.

But what sent this over the edge was the Hortator showing up in broad daylight, a deadly glare in his eyes as he presented her with a ring and sword.

“Where did you get these?” The look in his eyes was bloodthirsty, and Nelevi made a note of the fact he still had Trueflame on his belt, even with a second copy in his hands.

No doubt he thought Steren was some strange imposter and had a bone to pick with him. If she had Steren she would have brought him before the hortator immediately, let him cut off his head for the blasphemy and insult that was trying to impersonate their king, and claim a reward. However, she might be able to use this to her advantage; if she said she thought he was in the city somewhere, the ordinators might be able to flush him out for her. She’d have to give up the money Steren brought in, but she could get Vivienne back at least.

“I don’t know who left them here but,” She began, spinning a few lies. “It was a customer who was here, very fond of one of my boys that I had here--pretty little thing, my poor Vivienne.” She sighed, looking distraught. “He left them here and ran without even paying the bill, and then last night Vivi was missing.” She tried to look pitiful and worried. “I don’t think they got too far, especially if he is forcing Vivienne to go with him. They’re probably still in the city, but I’ve been doing everything I could to look for the--”

“An interesting story.” Voryn Dagoth came in next, the hair on the back of her neck standing as she noticed blood on him. “The others here tell a different story.”

“What did you find?” Nerevar asked, putting the ring back on his own hand and tucking the sword away.

Voryn however, kept staring her down, rage in his eyes as he walked towards her. “You kept him here, didn’t you?”

“I-I…”

“You put a slave collar on my son and forced him to work as whore for any and every dunmer who was willing to pay to slap him around and call him by my name.”

“What?!” Nerevar’s voice rose, before he turned back at her, teeth bared.

Voryn grabbed her by the hair now, forcing her onto her knees as all the blood in her ran cold.

“Now I’ll ask you again,” Voryn had a dagger, sharp enough to draw blood just touching her skin, her whole body now trembling. “Where do you think our son is?”

“I-I don’t know!” She shouted, hoping the truth would at least spare her life. “H-he vanished last night and took that other whore with him!” She couldn’t breathe and didn’t dare look up at him. She knew she would throw up seeing his third eye glowing unnaturally down at her. “I-I had no idea Lord Dagoth, believe me, if I had known--” How could she knew Steren was their son? The Horator and Lord Dagoth couldn’t have children as far as she was concerned, and she thought the fact he looked like Voryn was a coincidence she could use to her advantage. “I-I was just following the way of the Three, you know that Lord Dagoth--”

“Stop,” Nerevar pulled Voryn’s hand and the blade away from her throat, making her shiver and gulp down air in relief.

Yes! Yes she said the right thing--of course the Hortator would acknowledge that! He was head of the new temple after all, and even if he kept the sharmat at his side for some ungodly reason, he would acknowledge that she was simply being a devout believer--

“If she wants to acknowledge the Three,” Nerevar looked down at her, his eyes devoid of light, absolutely cold, “Then so be it.” With a motion of his hands, ordinators grabbed her, beginning to tie her arms. She was in took much shock to move, let alone protest, staring in confusion. “Take her to Mournhold and lock her up.” Another shiver ran down her spine. “I’ll show her Boethiah’s wrath.”

“W-wait!” Nelevi protested now, struggling. “I was just--”

“Taking as you want, as the Three teach.” Voryn finished for her. “Yet you forgot the most important lesson--” He put his blade away, standing at Nerevar’s side. “You tried to take what belonged to someone else, yet you don’t have the power to defend that decision.” His eyes were also cold, his hand tight on the Hortator’s shoulder. “You picked the wrong target. The Three have no pity for someone with half baked ideas of their faith.”

“P-Please--!” She begged, being dragged out. “Please, I had no idea! Have mercy--”

The ordinators slammed the door, as Nerevar went to the book of customers.

“We need to round up everyone who came here,” Nerevar said, his voice and hands still trembling in rage. “Everyone who hurt Steren. Every single one.”

“We will.” Voryn nodded. “And we’ll get our little star back.”

Nerevar shoulders then shook, a few angry tears falling.

“It’s alright,” Voryn whispered. “We will find him.”

“I failed to protect him again!” Nerevar beat his fist on the table. “Azura brought him here--brought him to Morrowind and I--” He had been looking since he got word, even more hurriedly once he got his memories of that world as well.

His little star was suffering here, likely with no clue that his parents were even looking for him. And then, just as they finally caught up to him, he slipped out of their fingers again.

“You know he’s strong,” Voryn whispered, his own voice trembling. “Wherever he is, he’s safe now with his friend.” Voryn explained. “The others said the two of them were close. I’m sure we’ll find him in no time, and bring him back safe and sound.”

Nerevar wrapped his arms around Voryn tightly, still shaking, sobbing in rage and heartbreak. “And we’ll make every person who hurt him pay.” Voryn whispered, stroking his hair as he glared at the book, already spying a few familiar names of councilmen.

#vivi au #steren #steren nerevarine #vivienne dragonborn #my writing

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ironwoman359 · 7 months

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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

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throughtrialbyfire · 6 months

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𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥

i'm a day late yet again, but its that time of the week!!

firstly, thank you to the phenomenal @umbracirrus @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @mareenavee @dirty-bosmer for tagging me this week!! <33

secondly, i'm tagging the lovely @orfeoarte @aphocryphas @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @thana-topsy @boethiahspillowbook @polypolymorph @viss-and-pinegar @totally-not-deacon @gilgamish @wildhexe and you!! cant wait to see what you've all been up to this week!!

i'm working on "Cycle of the Serpent", chapters 27 and 28 right now! i'm going to share a tiny snippet from both. they're in extremely rough draft form at the moment, but i'm happy with the direction i'm taking them as i send athenath into meridia's temple >:3c

i'm also going to share a snippet from my Dragonborn Frothar fic, "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"! i've not gotten much deeper into it, i'm afraid, but i am enjoying working with this character a lot <3

chapter 27

"Listen," Emeros began in a steady voice, "there's certainly been a mistake. We're not Daedra worshippers, nor do we want anything to do with them. We're simply returning an object to it's rightful place, which would certainly prevent any other Daedra worshippers from finding it and enacting the will of…" "Meridia," the shorter Vigilant manage out. "This is the temple to Daedric Prince Meridia." "Right," Emeros nodded, "then if we return this and leave, that should be satisfactory. We've no intent to continue with the will of Meridia, we're simply putting things back where they belong. That's certainly something understandable, is it not?" "No," the taller Vigilant scoffed, "you've been carrying a Daedric artifact with intent to fulfill the wish of a Daedric Prince. In our eyes, that makes you on the same level of their worshippers." Emeros gave an agitated look to Wyndrelis, as if to ask if the Dunmer was hearing the same things he had just heard. "We've no intent to worship her, I can assure you. In fact, our friend-" he moved his hand in the direction of Athenath, "is a devotee to Mara! You've got the sense, I'm certain, to see how that makes him the opposite of a Daedra worshipper." "Anyone who does the will of-" Before the Dunmer Vigilant could finish her sentence, Athenath set the beacon in place, all five figures watching as a beam of light shot from the stone ground. Stumbling back, the Vigilants cursed and sputtered as Athenath stepped away from the statue, the pillar of light lifting the beacon into the hands of the statue.

Athenath stumbled. The world fell away and reformed under them, a new world, the same one, what did it matter? It swayed under his feet, the skies turned to melting gelatin, the clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes. ------- As the world came back to him one piece at a time, he took in the sight before them. Emeros and Wyndrelis, poised in a standoff with the Vigilants. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiking the hair on the back of their necks like an electric current run through the five at the statue's foot. Emeros gave one glance back at Athenath, Wyndrelis thickening a spark of magicka into his palm, blue against his fingertips. The Dunmer, too, turned his white irises back to the shorter of the trio, pupils landing dark, scrutinizing pinpricks against the Altmer's apprehension. Wordlessly, they understood. Athenath sprinted down from the statue's footing as lightning sprouted from Wyndrelis' hand, the sounds of battle raging above as they hopped from the stone down to another, until they landed squarely on the ground with a thud, the light of Meridia and the high-pitched whine it radiated calling to him. Pushing open the doors to the temple, they silently prayed to Mara, a plea of understanding. That she would show her compassion, and look down upon her devotee not with revulsion at the Daedric tampering in his fate, but with warmth, with love, with knowing how it was to be backed into a corner. The light of Meridia burned, the shadows split aside, and Athenath pushed forward into the ruined depths.

chapter 28

A foul air hung low around Athenath, thick in the darkness of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, darkness shrouded in its blinding power, and the stench of decay wafted into the Altmer's senses. Athenath pressed their sleeve to his nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. He stepped forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded the once-quiet air above them, using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, skin bumping, spine aching with the all-too-familiar dread that sent a shiver down the column. The lit braziers up ahead offered both peace and terror. A presence had been here. The dark, then, seemed safer than the figure they knew lurked deeper in the temple. Still, he pushed one foot ahead of the other, against stone steps worn and slicked by the ages, into the depths of Meridia's temple, despite the chill radiating around them.

"Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"

Frothar slashed away at the straw dummy before him, an intensity flaring in his eyes brighter than before, Nelkir's words ringing in his head. The promise of someone who could cover for him. It was almost too good to be true. The rumors perfumed the castle thickly of a dragon, nesting somewhere inside Whiterun Hold. Irileth had been debating the chance to dispatch a unit of guards to check it out, but Proventus and his father advised against it. His father. Frothar tore his helmet off and placed it aside. His father, who feared to lose him, an understandable fear. His father, who forbade him from getting involved in anything too dangerous, afraid to let Frothar out into the world, to watch his son get hurt, to watch his son burn up in the suns of the mountainous province. The Jarl, decorated war veteran, afraid to let Frothar so much as pick up a sword in the name of defending their Hold. He winced at the thought. Did Balgruuf not believe in him? Did the Jarl think he wasn't capable? Frothar had been trained by only the finest soldiers in Whiterun, from Great War veterans to young and talented people whose leadership was prized within the ranks of their guards. Irileth herself had tutored him in the art of wielding a blade, of stalking quietly, of keeping his head level, knowing when to stand down and when to fight. Yet even she denied him this chance to prove himself.

Slowly, he pulled his helmet back up from the table. He examined his armor. He wasn't too tired, no, he'd not let himself wear out on sparring. And if he packed quickly enough, he might even escape with the changing of the guard at the front doors of Dragonsreach. Of course, there was always the barracks, but sneaking through there in full armor sounded like the worst idea he'd had since he voiced his longing to hunt the dragon terrorizing the countryside. He would not tell anyone. Slowly, Frothar marched to his room, slipping between the corridors and snaking his way out of the sights of any and all who might still be awake at this hour. He pulled open the creaking wooden door to his room, hissing quietly when it echoed out into the night, and shut it quickly behind himself. He snagged a pack from beside his bed and tugged a small purse from his bedside drawer, filling it with a handful of septims. He had plenty of healing potions, he tended to stock up for when sparring with guards or Irileth or his brother got too rough, and he ensured they were packed so tight they could not rattle. He could hunt for his food. He would be fine. As he slung the pack over his shoulder and began the slow march to his window, he gazed down at the craggy plateau Dragonsreach rested upon. He knew this would not be an ideal route. He'd need to find some other way down, some pathway out.

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yer-cute-when-you-scream · 1 year

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Stay with me tonight ~ Kaidan

WARNINGS: Smut, Probably Forgetting Something

A/N: I am trying something new with my blog and adding the option to request Skyrim fanfiction, idk how well this will do but it is an option now

Kaidan and Ovidia were sitting next to each other in front of the fire they had made for the night whilst Lucien and Inigo went to go look for some more wood. They were almost right outside of Windhelm, the rumors of a kid trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood had intrigued Ovidia, but Ovidia didn’t feel safe in the city, even with Kaidan, Inigo, and Lucien.

Windhelm is notorious for its racism and Ovidia, a Breton, does not want any part in that, nor does she want her friends to be the targets of racism, so they are camping a little off the roads that lead right into the city.

Ovidia clutched her cloak around her tighter as she felt a cold breeze from the wind, Kaidan rubbed his hands together and held them in front of the fire. Her eyes followed his movements, trailing off as she admired the rest of his features. Ovidia shook the thoughts that came along with it away, she thought she just need sleep, she looks over to her bedroll and immediately craves the warmth of it.

“Kaidan, I’m going to bed, I’m freezing,” Ovidia says breaking the silence, she stands up and starts to head into the tent when she hears Kaidan’s voice.

“The cold this far north has a way of creeping into your bones - I could think of a way or two to keep you warm.”

Her heart stopped, she slowly turn around and locked her eyes with his somewhat darker ones, “What do you mean?”

“Thought you must have known by now, seen me stealing glances of you; any moment I’m with you I can only think of being closer.” Kaidan stood up, slowly walking towards Ovidia and putting his hand on her cheek. Ovidia tried so hard to not immediately melt into his hand.

“Stay with me tonight… you know I’ll still be there in the morning,” he whispered, his face only inches from hers.

“Gods, I want you too…”

“I could tear that armor right off your body… c’mere, you won’t need a campfire tonight.”

Kaidan guided them both into the tent, closing it up immediately so no one could intrude on this moment. His lips practically smashed into hers, his hands immediately went to her cloak and he threw it to the ground, their armors soon joining it as well.

He laid Ovidia down on her bedroll, his hands softly caressing her, his lips leaving a trail of kisses on her legs and then onto her thighs. He discarded her undergarments, and she felt him softly rubbing her clit, she let out a small gasp and jumped a bit at the touch, his hands were still a little cold and she didn’t notice until now.

“Do you like this?”

Ovidia nodded furiously, he chuckled and kept his pace for a bit before stopping and slipping his fingers into her, his mouth on her clit now. Ovidia writhed in pleasure as Kaidan’s head was buried between her legs, one hand on her thigh to hold her close to him. Her hands roamed down her body and one found its way into his hair, the other barely touching his hand before both of their hands clasped together.

Ovidia felt a pit in her stomach, one she hadn’t felt in a long time, she almost felt embarrassed over how easy it was for Kaidan to get her like this.

“Kai, please don’t stop, I’m close,” she moaned out, squeezing his hand slightly. The pace of his fingers mixed with his curling tongue was perfect, his fingers had already found her g spot. “Come for me, darling,” he said against her, he didn’t have to do much more before Ovidia released all over his fingers; which he then sucked clean.

The sight of it was so arousing for Ovidia, she was still trying to come down from her high as she pulled him up toward her face. Kaidan kissed her slowly as he started to discard his own undergarments, “I need you now,” he whispered as he pulled away from her lips, “Is this okay?” Kaidan had lined himself up at her entrance, but he wanted to ensure she was okay with it before he went further.

Ovidia smiled and nodded, he leaned down and kissed her once more before he slowly pushed himself in. She threw her head back with a gasp of pleasure, exposing her neck which Kaidan took advantage of as he left little love bites all over. He held her close to his body as he thrusted into her, slowly at first because he wanted to savor this moment, but the more of Ovidia’s moans he heard, the faster he got.

Her nails lightly scratched down his back, and one of his hands held the back of her head as he rested his head against hers, looking each other in the eyes. Both of them were now feeling their stomachs tighten, Ovidia tried to gasp out that she was close again but couldn’t, “I know, I am too” Kaidan moaned.

His pace quickened as he saw her eyes roll back and felt her body shake. He kissed her one last time before letting his own pleasure take over and releasing inside of her. He pulled out and collapsed next to her, both of them panting, neither of them knew what to say. Ovidia turned over and grabbed her blanket, draping it over them to keep them from getting cold, “Kai?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you hold me tonight?”

“Of course, Ovidia.” He pulled her close, his arms wrapped around her and both of them thought that they fit perfectly together; but didn’t dare say it.

Ovidia could hear the fire crackle outside of the tent, and Lucien and Inigo returning with the wood they went to collect earlier. Kaidan was already snoring lightly, so she soon fell into a deep sleep as well.

#kaidan x dragonborn #kaidan skyrim #kaidan romance #kaidan x ldb #kaidan 2 #kaidan x last dragonborn #kaidan x reader #skyrim #skyrim imagine #kaidan imagine #kaidan smut #skyrim fanfiction

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thequeenofthewinter · 7 months

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Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Just because I am not writing long fic doesn’t mean I am not working on projects. Below you'll find my first ever WIP Wednesday art project, and after that have a little snippet of a ghost story prompt I am working on. (It's fresh out of the brain cells, so it may be slightly rough.)

Tagging: @mareenavee @oblivions-dawn @tallmatcha @changelingsandothernonsense @throughtrialbyfire @rainpebble3 @snowberry-crostata @paraparadigm @ladytanithia @wildhexe @dirty-bosmer @your-talos-is-problematic @umbracirrus @gilgamish @orfeoarte @skyrim-forever

Blue Dahlia

Untitled as of yet...

In the misty marshes of lowland Hjaamarch many stories are told—ones of strange magic and others of inexplicable mischief. However, as of late, many more are told of a much more insidious and unsettling nature. Chilling anecdotes have reemerged—ones which grandparents had passed from their grandparents before them in whispers of the wind long thought forgotten.

It is here. They are coming.

At first they had all thought them to be old wives’ tales, stories which were told to small children to scare them into not coming home so late from playing in the marshes. Harmless. Safe. A good bit of fun to scare annoying younger brothers and sisters. But then, it started happening: the disappearances, the strange noises, and finally, the reappearances. Children which had been lost out on the marshes suddenly came back—or at least a part of them.

Everyone had ignored it as best they could at first, passing off the peculiar behavior as a phase or some innocent game that they were playing. However, over the days and weeks to come, the noises quickly became too loud to ignore and soon, Hjaalmarch was plunged into the darkest of nightmares—a twisted, corrupted quagmire of Vaermina’s greatest masterpiece. Only it was not her.

No one and nothing—not Aedra, Daedra, nor anything from this plane to the next could save them from what was to come, as scarlet mushrooms cropped up out of nowhere and chilling vapors left behind the scent of deathbell and nightshade in every room. Only one common factor connected it all together: the children who had been whisked away for three days and three nights.

When any of the children were asked about where they were or what had happened to them, it was the only time they were oddly silent, almost catatonic as they looked with blank eyes and vacant stares upon their parents, caretakers, and eventually the Jarl herself.

“Jarl Idgrod, what are we to do?”

“Could you have not foreseen what was to come?”

“What is happening to our village?”

Questions but no answers appeared as more and more citizens brought their children to the longhouse. And here she had thought vampires were the peak of her problems.

#Skyrim fanfiction #dahlia #winter does art?#wip wednesday #winter writes

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esta-elavaris · 7 months

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Flufftober Day 5: X+ 1 ~ Brynjolf/F!Dragonborn [6,164 words]

Three times Brynjolf wondered just who Kirsi was, and one time he found out.

It's 2023 and I'm writing all these words about Brynjolf from Skyrim. Unreal. I can't even explain the word count. It started as a quick flufftober fill and spiralled into this monster. Filled with a hefty dose of humour at how absurd the Dragonborn's travelling companions must find it when they have fifty thousand different careers and excel at them all.

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

It was Brynjolf’s business to be able to take the measure of someone – quickly. It was no good risking being caught with his hand in some poor bugger’s pocket if that bugger was, well, poor. Not that he was ever caught, not since he was a lad, but it was the principle of the thing. The potential risk had to be outweighed by the potential reward, that was just good business, and he was a good businessman.

But Kirsi? It was a funny thing that the more he saw of her, the less it seemed he knew. She’d strolled into Riften with a bow and blade both far finer than the worn fur armour she sported, which could have meant two things. Either she could afford to heed her armour less because by the time the enemy saw her, it was too late – or the bow and blade were stolen, and the armour reflected the truth of her finances. The truth turned out to be both. Which, as far as recruitment was concerned, was perfect. Maybe the signs had been there since day one that she’d end up running their little outfit.

Unfortunately – infuriatingly – that was the last time Brynjolf had managed to successfully gauge much of anything about the Nord lass who infiltrated his thoughts more and more with each passing month. From then on, the only sure thing about her was that she could, and would, produce results. Flitting in and out of the Ragged Flagon with ill-gotten goods in her hands, a smile on her face, and…blood in her hair. Usually.

The first time, Brynjolf commented upon it, asking vaguely if she recalled their rule regarding bloodshed. She’d blinked at him, followed his gaze, and responded with an ‘oh – no, that’s unrelated, don’t worry’ before making a joke about how it blended in with the colour very nicely anyway. And that had been that. Skyrim was a demanding place in which to live, and those who’d never had blood in their hair seldom lasted long, so it wasn’t a major cause for concern.

No, Brynjolf’s cause for concern came months later – long after Kirsi had been made master of the guild, no less. They saw less of her for a while, but that was her way. That was the way with plenty here, even. Folk always turned up eventually, with a story to tell and something to sell to Tonilia, more often than not. This absence stretched on a little longer, yes, but it hadn’t even occurred to Brynjolf to really worry until she did turn up again. And she seemed in no mood for storytelling.

The Ragged Flagon went gradually silent as she walked in. Brynjolf, his usually keen senses off-duty, noticed the silence before he noticed her, turning to see what everybody else was staring at and then stilling. Kirsi strode in, steadfastly avoiding the eyes of any who looked in her direction. She wore her Nightingale armour, but it was not so form-fitting as it once had been, bunching and baggy here and there suggesting a sudden and unhealthy amount of thinning that a jagged sharpness at her jaw and cheekbones confirmed. Her auburn hair had once been bound back into a complicated series of braids, but it had long since rebelled against it, most of it curling in whisps around her face, and she was sporting a new and very angry looking scar on said face.

It ran from her right temple all the way down to her chin, framing the side of her features in a sort of jagged crescent moon.

“Kirsi…” Brynjolf said, stunned.

“I can’t discuss business right now,” she said flatly, her voice hoarse.

He hadn’t intended to discuss business…but he supposed he deserved it. He’d been avoiding her before she left, and it seemed she’d noticed. Unsurprisingly. Brynjolf fell silent, watching as she turned her head in the direction of Galathil who sad in her usual place, lifting a hand absentmindedly to the scar that they all stared at. Ultimately, she appeared to think better of it. Instead, she dropped a weighty bag of gold down onto the bar, loaded her arms up with bottles of mead, and headed for the cistern without another word.

“What was that?” Vex was the one to break the silence.

“I dunno,” Delvin responded grimly. “But she didn’t even look like that when Mercer…”

There was little need for him to elaborate on that. Brynjolf’s lips set into a thin line, then he counted to twenty, and finally he followed.

Kirsi was at her bed when he entered the cistern, not bothering to hunker behind the screen as she changed – not unusual, few of them here bothered with modesty. And the looks she was drawing were more to do with shock and dismay than anything that might be considered leering. Already she was halfway out of her Nightingale armour, and Brynjolf could see that there was little of her from the neck down that was not badly, badly bruised. Or burned. Or littered with gashes that looked one wrong twist away from reopening.

Whatever healing she’d undergone, be it from potions of magic, it appeared she’d prioritised them to heal her face. That, or they’d all been much worse beforehand. It was hard to gauge the state of her armour thanks to the colour, but he suspected if he took a real look, he’d find it stained badly with blood.

"Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at Honeyside?” he asked – if only to stop himself standing and staring like a fool any longer.

“Am I not welcome here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, lass.”

At her home in the city – which she would’ve had to bypass to get here, no less – her bed was bigger, and she had a housecarl who could help her. Not that those here wouldn’t, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for their company. It would be less stifling for her, he suspected, accepting help from one whose sworn duty was to offer it.

“Nobody can find me here,” she said finally.

After several deep breaths. Brynjolf couldn’t quite figure whether they were against whatever pain she was feeling, or just an attempt to find the patience for a conversation. She was wound tight, it was plain as day as she kicked her armour under the bed now that she was stripped down to her smalls, before she pulled a shirt over her head. There seemed to be little intention of finding breeches to go with it.

“…Are people looking for you, lass?”

People who had done this? There was a dangerous, angry streak in Brynjolf that hoped they’d come here looking. They’d regret it sorely.

“No,” she shook her head. “Just don’t want to be found.”

She paused, then, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “There’s just…there’s always something else. Can’t be dealing with it now.”

Brynjolf stilled, lost for words. Then he asked quietly.

“Do you need anything, lass?”

“Just sleep,” she said quietly.

What in the name of Talos had she gotten into? Where was it that she disappeared to so frequently? Who was she?

Kirsi slept for three days – stirring here and there to sit up and down a bottle of mead, or to turn over in a slow and beleaguered fashion that left nobody in any doubt as to how sorely she felt her injuries – but otherwise, she was out cold. The same conversation was had over and over in that time.

She needs a healer.

She is a healer.

I don’t think she has the strength to heal herself more.

Could someone carry her up above to get her help?

I don’t think she’d allow it.

Could we bring someone down here to look her over? Someone that won’t blab?

I don’t think she’d allow that, either.

Ultimately, Thrynn looked her over…with all of his limited healing knowledge, gleaned here and there from his days of patching himself up amidst bouts of banditry. Kirsi didn’t seem to notice it much. The unease in Brynjolf’s stomach gnawed deeper.

She’s more exhausted than injured, he ultimately concluded.

It didn’t cheer them much. Then, on the fifth day, she rose. The signal was given by Vipir, who strolled through the Flagon whistling a jaunty little tune, and Brynjolf was moving swiftly thereafter. Ignoring the looks that followed him. He entered the cistern expecting to find her sitting up, or maybe at the little cavern that they designated as a kitchen. Instead she was up, she was dressed, and the contents of her pack were strewn across her bed as she methodically took inventory for the trip ahead. Wherever that would be.

Brynjolf felt alarm streak through him – very much not liking the prospect of her barrelling off into the unknown after worrying them all sick for the better part of a week.

“What happened to your dagger, lass?” he asked rather than voicing any of that.

Ever since she’d commissioned it from Balimund, he’d never seen her parted from it.

“Lost it,” she muttered sourly.

“Where?”

She could have that thing wrenched out of her hand and flung into the Sea of Ghosts and she’d go diving in after it.

“Sovngarde,” she grunted.

Not in the mood for serious conversation, then.

“When are you heading out?”

“Why? Are you coming with me?”

Brynjolf made a very quick, very impulsive decision then.

“If I’m invited.”

Stilling, she turned her head and stared at him for a few long moments.

“You’re being serious?” she asked, tone unreadable.

“Things here can keep for a while,” he shrugged. “I trust the others to stop the place from burning down in my absence.”

And it was far, far better than torturing himself wondering what she was up to and how she was doing, should she leave alone.

“And you wouldn’t just rather speak another time?”

Brynjolf forced a strained laugh. “I deserve that.”

Kirsi tilted her head as if in agreement. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Don’t wear your Guild armour. Don’t pack light, either. I don’t know how long I’ll be this time,” she said, watching as he nodded along. “And Brynjolf? You have to listen to me while we’re out there. If I say no…extra-curricular activities in a certain hold, I mean it.”

“We did well enough together at Irkngthand, didn’t we?”

She considered his words for a long moment, with eyes that he knew had sussed out many a foe, and then finally she nodded.

“Fine. We leave after midday.”

“We leave,” he countered, “once you’ve eaten something.”

That earned another sigh, but it was followed by another nod, and Brynjolf took it as a good sign that she listened to him.

Stepping out into the world again felt like a gradual lightening for Kirsi. Even with the worried looks Brynjolf kept pretending he very much was not sending in her direction. They stopped at Honeyside just long enough for her to switch out weapons, stock up on potions, and for Iona to fix her new travelling companion with a withering glare, and then they were out of Riften.

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to let him come along. Well, she did know, she just wasn’t a massive fan of said reasoning. This was the first time he hadn’t given her the brush-off in months, and even in her exhaustion and the numbness that had overtaken her since defeating Alduin, she didn’t want to squander whatever chance there might’ve been for things to go back to normal between them.

…and she was at least present enough to know that weeks spend wandering and camping on her own would do little to help her mental state, at present. Maybe she could’ve hired someone to watch her back and provide civil conversation, but she also didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility of that. Brynjolf had asked to come along, and so his hide was therefore his own concern.

Being out and moving felt good, though, and with every stray breeze that caught her hair and every birdsong that met her ears, she felt more like her old self. Maybe she just needed to be reminded that it was all still here. When they set up camp for the night, she was even laughing when Bryn went out of his way to try and make her do so…although she knew just how dour she must’ve been since her return when she saw how surprised he was to get any sort of response at all.

“I’m not asking that you tell me now, lass,” he hedged when dinner was eaten and there was little to do but doze by the fire ‘til morning came. “But I have to know…are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Probably not,” she admitted quietly.

And he accepted it readily enough. Or hid well, if he did not. Well, save for one comment, spoken incredibly lightly.

“I dread to think what’s so salacious and sinister that even I can’t be told about it.”

She snorted quietly, staring at the stars above. “It’s not salacious. Nor sinister. It’s just…a lot.”

Keeping her countless lives separate was something she always endeavoured to do, all while being painfully aware that bits and pieces were bound to crash in on one another at some point. This wasn’t like keeping a spouse and a lover secret from one another, it was bigger and more all-encompassing than that. She toed the line between doing what she could to keep those boundaries in place, while staying detached enough that she wouldn’t fall to pieces should the lines in the sand be erased by a crashing wave.

It was just…neater. The guild had to stay secret for obvious reasons – she could only imagine what Vilkas or Ulfric would think if they saw her slipping into the Ragged Flagon and making all sorts of underhanded deals with her friends down there. She could even kid herself that it was easier for the guild if they didn’t know about any of the rest of it. That maybe they’d balk if they realised their Guild Master was the Dragonborn, or Ulfric’s best soldier, Thane of too many holds to count, or even Archmage of Winterhold’s college. All those titles didn’t particularly lend themselves to secrecy.

But that wasn’t why she kept it from Brynjolf. She didn’t want to be the Dragonborn, nor Stormblade, nor the Harbinger, or whatever else she was known as across this land, when Brynjolf spoke to her. When he deigned to speak to her, these days.

Which was why it was a risk bringing him with her.

But she was a thief, was she not? She was good at sneaking.

It took the better part of three weeks for them to get to Whiterun – with Kirsi gradually healing herself with magic and potions both as they travelled. By the end of the first week she was smiling freely again, and by the end of the second she was cracking her own jokes to go along with his. Brynjolf didn’t press the matter of what had gotten her into such a state, and she didn’t make any more allusions to his steadfast avoidance of her prior to it, so he did what he could to avoid looking that gift-horse in the mouth.

When Whiterun loomed before them, jutting up above the rest of the landscape, she issued those aforementioned orders that he’d promised to follow back in Riften. No stealing, no conning, no shenanigans. If I have to start bullshitting, go along with it. He’d shrugged and agreed, too pleased at her swift change in spirits to start arguments now.

And the time for that bullshitting came alarmingly quickly, for they hadn’t yet yet cleared the Honningbrew Meadery when a group of warriors came walking from the other direction, spotted her, and immediately approached.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Brynjolf’s hand had been straying towards his sword when one called out.

“Kirsi! You’re back!”

They were two men and a woman, the first to greet her being the bigger of the two men. Twins, Brynjolf quickly realised, despite their difference in stature – both sporting long dark hair, and dark war paint around their eyes. The woman, another redhead, watched he and Kirsi curiously as the men stepped forth to shake her hand and then pull her into a one armed hug that mostly consisted of a thump on the back.

“Farkas,” she greeted with a tired smile, then repeating the gesture with the other two. “Vilkas. Aela.”

“We didn’t know when you were coming back. After that business with the dragon at Dragonsreach…” Aela greeted.

“Well, I’m back now,” she interrupted quickly.

“With a sellsword, too. Can’t fight your own battles these days?” Vilkas asked, his eyes lingering on Brynjolf.

Brynjolf returned the scrutiny with a lazy smile. It didn’t endear him to the man…but he hadn’t particularly intended it to.

“Not a sellsword – a friend,” she said. “This is Brynjolf. Brynjolf, these are the Companions.”

“Companions to who?” Brynjolf greeted wryly.

“Ysgramor,” Vilkas sneered.

“Oh. You must be older than you look, then.”

“We’re only here for the night. For a comfortable place to sleep and a good meal,” Kirsi interrupted – shooting a look in his direction that was too amused to hold any real bite to it.

“You’ll find both in Jorrvaskr,” Farkas said. “You and your friend. Come. It’s been too long.”

If any other than Brynjolf noted her reluctance, they did not show it.

They arrived to the Companions’ long-hall just in time for dinner – which was swiftly followed by drinking and merry-making thereafter. Brynjolf was accustomed to fudging the details as far as his identity was concerned; not often introducing himself with ‘good morning, I’m a high-ranking member of Skyrim’s biggest criminal enterprise, Dark Brotherhood notwithstanding’, and so he was able to do so here without blinking.

Well, there was one moment that gave him cause to blink. Harbinger. He had heard of the Companions, of course, he wasn’t a fool. His question by the gates had mainly been to rankle the dark-haired man who clearly loathed his presence and whatever his association might’ve been with Kirsi. Any doubt Brynjolf had as to that loathing was gone when he saw how the man’s eyes followed her about the hall throughout the night. And more-so when Brynjolf dragged her up for a dance, bringing yet another smile to her face…and a matching one to his own.

The glare gained yet more frost to it when Ria asked Kirsi about her new scar, and she lifted a hand self-consciously to it, muttering something about a dragon. Brynjolf took it to be a joke – it was what people used as an explanation for every minor cut and scrape since the beasts returned to Skyrim, but the Companions murmured appreciatively.

“I’m sure it’ll fade, with time,” the Imperial offered reassuringly.

“It suits you,” Brynjolf said simply, returning Kirsi’s gaze boldly when she eyed him in surprise – as if trying to figure out whether he was teasing or not.

When the hour grew so late that it was technically early, Kirsi finally drummed her hands against the long table at which they’d feasted, announcing loudly.

“It’s time we headed to Breezehome – I’ll come by in the morning before I leave.”

“Why not stay here? Tilma readied your quarters while we’ve all been up here. Your friend can bed down with the whelps,” Vilkas commented.

Njada made a noise of displeasure somewhere down the table. The suggestion put her in an uncomfortable position - Brynjolf could see that easily enough. Refuse, and it would be a rejection of the people whom her role here was to offer guidance. Accept, and a lesser man might be insulted in Brynjolf’s shoes. But Kirsi considered it, sighed, and then spoke.

“The Harbinger’s quarters are big enough to share, Bryn. Come on – Tilma will have a bath waiting, too.”

Brynjolf grinned as he watched Vilkas’ regret at saying a word wash over his face.

The rooms below Jorrvaskr were cooler than the hall above, not so warmed by bodies and smoke and revelry, but a bath did indeed wait there for them in the bedchamber next door to the sitting room, steam rising steadily from it.

“Ladies first,” Brynjolf shrugged.

Weeks on the road together had shed them of whatever modesty might have remained, and Kirsi shrugged and began to strip off.

“Multiple rooms, eh lass?” he commented, taking stock of the fineness of the room.

“They’ll always feel like Kodlak’s rooms to me,” she commented quietly. “My predecessor.”

“Even so, it’s funny to think what bed you chose to fall into when you needed that rest when this waited for you here.”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember what I said at the time.”

“Mm. Still, there’s a lad up there that would’ve waited on you hand and foot while you recovered.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he snorted, but then a furious motion caught his eye even as he studiously trained his gaze straight ahead.

Kirsi was in the bath, the water steadily turning murky after weeks of travel – which made it a little easier for him to keep his eyes stuck on her face, despite the flush that crept up from his neck towards his cheeks. She motioned once across her neck as if to say ‘stop’, and then pointed to her ear, and then the door.

Brynjolf almost laughed. In what world would they be overheard all the way down here? But there was no room for argument in her gaze and he slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one question on his mind.

Who are you, Kirsi?

Despite Kirsi’s fears, Brynjolf finding out about her identity – one of them, at least – did not instate the sort of distance she’d feared it might. Oh, a fair amount of good natured ribbing came her way, but with Brynjolf that was always a decidedly good thing, and so she left Whiterun in a better mood than she’d arrived…and in a mood that was unrecognisable to the one she’d departed Riften in.

Rescuing townsfolk from bandits holding them hostage? You’re joking. What are the guards doing? Resting?

You make saving lives sound like a bad thing.

It might be, depending on what it pays. How much?

What?

How much each time? What’s the going rate for a saved life?

…It doesn’t matter. It pays in more than gold. Goodwill. Contacts. Reputation.

By the Nine, it’s a pittance, isn’t it? How much Kirsi? I’ll just keep irritating you until you tell me.

…A hundred gold each time.

When he stopped laughing – which felt like hours later – he pointed out he could make ten times that depending on the job he took. Her pointing out that she could also raid whatever lairs the jobs sent her into did little to help.

Don’t tell me half the goods you fence to Tonilia are gotten honestly, lass. It’ll break my heart.

And it was too difficult to act annoyed by him when she was laughing along.

From Whiterun they turned north to Windhelm. Kirsi withdrew her rule against larceny for all of an hour so that Brynjolf could liberate a farmhouse of a couple of bottles of wine – more for the thrill than anything else, and because free wine tasted better. That night when they made camp, they mulled it over a fire and huddled together far more closely than the barely-encroaching chill necessitated. By the time they were a few tankards deep, she felt giddy and foggy and overall like herself again, matters of fate and destiny and death and Sovngarde, and what a Dragonborn was worth once they’d achieved their purpose, fading behind Brynjolf’s jokes and the way he kept smiling at her and looking at her.

The night was pressing on when she found herself pressed against him beneath a blanket, their backs against a tree, her head on his shoulder as she was pulled further and further towards sleep.

“Lass?” he murmured lowly. “Kirsi?”

She didn’t respond – the original intention being to not respond right away, needing to blink herself into wakefulness before she could wrap her lips around syllables, much less words. But after a moment of silence, he relaxed and pulled her closer.

“I won’t give you the brush off again,” he murmured.

They were words that should have been basic decency, but they had the sound of a vow. As well as that not intended for conscious ears. So she pretended to be asleep, and soon she was no longer pretending.

It took another two weeks for them to reach Windhelm, not helped by their unhurried pace that defied the cold snapping at their heels. Kirsi, aptly named after the frost, seemed to enjoy it if anything. And Brynjolf? Brynjolf…endured it. With a smile. Primarily because he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a while…and more content than he’d admit in this strange and unexpected little routine they’d slipped into together by now.

He was happy as they slipped into Windhelm in the early hours of the morning, when he watched Kirsi pay a little brown-haired lass a hundred times what the entire stock of flowers she peddled were worth, when he found out that had been Kirsi’s main reason for wanting to come here in the first place (for it had been a while since she’d last given the wee girl a stupid amount of gold, and she was worried the last lost may have run out by now), and he was happy when they slipped into Hjerim – her stupidly big Windhelm home – and began to cobble together a hot meal.

Most of all, he was wrapped up in the atmosphere that had fast begun to overtake them. The one that had him enforcing that distance all that time ago, that stupid distance, convincing himself that his own worries were valid concerns about business and the running of the guild and not just cowardice over not wanting to face how he’d feel if it went tits up. That worry was still there, and it would gnaw at his insides like a pack of skeevers if he let it, but it was overpowered by how much he could get used to this. The little smiles. The looks. The complete lack of personal space between them as they went about their little routines.

That happiness was put on pause when a knock interrupted their dinner preparations.

Cursing beneath her breath, much as she had when they’d been spotted by the Companions, she cleaned her hands free of flour from the bread she’d been making and strode for the door. Brynjolf followed, a dagger in hand behind his back, a force of habit.

“Jorleif,” she greeted tiredly. “What is it?”

“Still not one for pleasantries, I see,” Jorleif replied. “High King Ulfric invites you to sup with him tonight – he was pleased to hear you were back in Windhelm.”

“I brought a guest with me.”

“Bring the guest, please!” Jorleif responded happily enough. “Galmar will be there, too. A real reunion, through and through.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get to the Palace of the Kings, I expect.”

“…Wait here.”

Turning away from the door, she almost walked straight into Brynjolf – and then breathed a soft laugh at the weapon in his hand. Taking up the bread dough in its bowl from the kitchen table, she strode back to Jorleif and thrust the bowl into his hands.

“Here. Have the cooks bake this, I don’t want it going to waste. Move quickly, or else the cold will ruin it."

Whether it was a ploy to be rid of the messenger quickly, a way to amuse herself, or she was truly very excited about that particular loaf of bread, it had the intended effect – the man was quickly gone, and she turned a look filled with trepidation in Brynjolf’s direction.

“How would you like to have supper with the High King of Skyrim?”

Had he not overheard the exchange, he’d never have believed her.

Rather than rush to her wardrobe to change into finery, she settled for brushing the flour from her armour (and her hair) and then leading the way out of the door. It was a short walk to the palace – and Brynjolf’s disbelief did surface when he saw how Ulfric Stormcloak greeted Kirsi. With a warm greeting, and a hug.

“When did you arrive, Stormblade?” he asked, paying Brynjolf all the attention High Kings likely usually paid people who didn’t immediately interest them.

“This morning, my King,” she bowed at the neck and was forcibly straightened, Ulfric having none of it.

“This morning? I should set the guards on you for being here so long without coming here. And who’s this?”

He had not yet looked at Brynjolf, but it was plain he had not escaped his notice.

“Brynjolf. A friend – and a travelling companion. Bryn, this is Ulfric Stormcloak, and his housecarl Galmar Stone-fist.”

This is Ulfric. Like he was a friend from the tavern and little more. Was he supposed to bow? Brynjolf did not bow – not to anybody. He didn’t much want to start here. So instead, he cleared his throat and looked between the two of them.

“I wasn’t aware you rubbed shoulders with royalty, Kirsi. I imagine how you met must be quite the tale.”

Galmar breathed a harsh laugh. “She’s not told you? By Talos, if I’d survived Helgen all within a hundred leagues of me would know the tale at all times.”

Helgen? Brynjolf stared in disbelief. The look remained on his face throughout dinner, and he was in less of a mood for teasing than he had been in Whiterun.

Do you remember Korvanjud, girl? When you snuck up onto the walkway and rained fire down on those Imperial bastards from above?

Ulfric had cut in there. I remember it. I still owe you that drink, don’t I?

You fought in the war? Brynjolf had asked, unable to help himself.

She’s not told you that either, lad? By Talos, I don’t know how Ulfric would’ve won the damn thing as swiftly as he did without the Dr-

Galmar. Kirsi had cut in, fixing the man with a hard stare.

…Without the driving force that Stormblade here proved to be. Ulfric had covered for his housecarl – and Brynjolf didn’t buy it for a second.

They returned to Hjerim that night in silence.

“Brynjolf, sooner or later you’ll have to say something to me.”

After dinner, they’d retired back to her home wordlessly, and Kirsi didn’t try to break the silence until they were out of the city gates early the next morning. Brynjolf suspected she was worried that High King of hers would issue an invitation for breakfast, too, if they didn’t make themselves scarce.

“The Companions were one thing. Harbinger, do-gooder, whatever. I figured you need easy money to supplement your finances, a cover for all of the ill-gotten gold you make with us. Whatever. Soldiering? Not my business either – the civil war never interested me, and maybe it’s a good thing that your mighty High King’s victory stopped Maven from being directly in charge of the Rift. It’s even a relief to know your not being scared of her has reasonable roots that go beyond plain old foolishness. Maybe even who you are – whoever that is – provides you with useful contacts, I don’t know. But that’s the point. I don’t know. And the more I see, the less I know.”

“Bryn…”

“Are you a highborn lass, then? Is that it? Because you’ve done too much for us for me to call that a conflict of interest, you know?”

“Not at all. I’m as common as the muck beneath our boots.”

“Most peasants don’t sup with High Kings.”

“A twist of fate, little more.”

“One you don’t trust me enough to explain.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

Sighing, she shook her head and looked out across the snow landscape, visibly searching for the words.

“Most folk like me in the context they know me in. You insist Vilkas is in love with me, and maybe he is, but only in the context he knows me in. He could barely square himself with my throwing a fireball at a draugr – some nonsense about it not being an honourable way or fight, I don’t know what the- anyway, if he does love me, he loves Kirsi, the Harbinger of the Companions and Thane of Whiterun. The one who disappears and returns having cleared out a cave of bandits, or rescued a citizen, or beat the shit out of someone who threatened a villager. That’s not me. You know that better than anybody. If he saw the rest of it? He’d go from being attracted to me, to wanting to take up arms against me very damn quickly. I can’t even resent him for it, either. He believes what I’ve led him to believe.”

It was clear she wasn’t done when she paused, and so Brynjolf waited in silence for her to continue.

“Ulfric…he’s less rigid, perhaps. Not that he’s in love with me. If he was ever going to pursue anything like that, it would be because of what I am and not who I am.

“I’m sure he has enough soldiers to take his pick from, lass.”

“It’s not that I was referring to,” she muttered sourly. “So long as I’m subtle about whatever else I get up to, I’m sure he doesn’t care. But is that better or worse than Vilkas’ outlook? I don’t…I can’t have that happen again. Not with you.”

“You think I’d go running because you give gold to orphans and run an outfit of block-headed warriors?”

“I don’t run then. And they’re not block-headed,” she said softly. “And it’s more than that.”

“How much more, Kirsi?”

“Much more. An entire world-load of complications. And you’ve shut me out before for less.”

Brynjolf faltered. “Kirsi…lass…”

They were interrupted by the screech of a dragon, and then a blast of fire.

The battle was a hard-won one. She’d fought worse dragons, after all – the worst dragon – but she was certain the ones that were left were growing fiercer, as if in some desperate bid to cling onto the foothold they’d previously dug out for themselves in this land.

They hadn’t been far from Kynesgrove, and so they’d been joined by miners and guards as they battled the beast, but that threatened to be more of a help than a hindrance – making sure none were in the line of fire as she shot spells and bellowed Shouts at the dragon until finally she could make the killing blow, driving her blade through its eye.

She turned to Brynjolf then, looking at him almost mournfully as she fought to regain her breath, well-accustomed by now to the feeling of the dragon’s soul whipping about her body and finally sinking in. It felt like she was being held before a bonfire, the heat just shy of actually burning. Brynjolf stared, his face splattered with dragon blood, his eyes wide.

“I’m the Dragonborn,” Kirsi breathed.

Like the skeever wasn’t already out of the bag. How long had she refused to use Shouts around him? Even in their pursuit of Mercer through Falmer-infested caves. All for nothing. Brynjolf continued to stare – a time during which she did her best to predict what he would do. Mostly, her money was on an awkwardly mumbled “I’m heading back to Riften, I’ll see you next time you complete a job”.

Instead, though, he threw down his blade and strode towards her, few paying them much mind at all as they trailed back towards whatever they’d been doing when the dragon descended. Now it was Kirsi’s turn to stare…right up until he was within arm’s length of her, when he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him, pulling her into a kiss that filled her with fire more than the souls of a hundred dragons ever could.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, one rough fingertip trailing across the scar at the side of her face. Kirsi was fast deciding she wasn’t going to have the face sculptor get rid of it, after all.

“No more secrets, lass?”

“No more secrets,” she confirmed softly, eyes flickering down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “Although…”

Her hands had come to rest at his chest and she felt him stiffen, dreading what she was going to say next.

“I’m also the Archmage at the College of Winterhold,” she said. “I thought we might go there next.”

Brynjolf breathed a laugh, his forehead pressing against hers. “I can live with that.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

#esta's flufftober '23 fills #flufftober 2023 #flufftober2023 #brynjolf/f!dragonborn #brynjolf x f!dragonborn #skyrim fic #skyrim fanfic #skyrim fanfiction #brynjolf fanfic #brynjolf fanfiction

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azures-grace · 14 days

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Requesting info on the 6th house au you were posting about bc yo that sounds cool

You can't see it through a screen but I'm like

Actually physically vibrating.

I came up with this AU over a year ago and it was basically "what if Alexi (my Nerevarine) just. Joined the 6th House instead of killing Dagoth Ur?"

The timing of WHEN she joined has changed a bit (from right before the fight to when she meets Dagoth Gares) and the REASONING has changed a lot (from "I don't actually like Morrowind, fuck them dudes" to "I have 0 support system and have a child and I've been sucked into a cult") but the very very basic premise is the same.

It was initially my crack AU where I couldn't tell if I wanted to ship Alexi and Dagoth Ur or not. And now it has like... Dementia metaphors. How did this even happen.

Anyways, the story ACTUALLY follows Alexi's daughter (who's never been Dagoth Ur's, no matter when in this AU's history you look). Her arc used to be centered around a lot of confusion as to why people hated her, and why things were happening, etc etc. Now she's actually gonna do something about it in the end. I'm gonna have so many random thoughts at the bottom of this just. Smushed in.

It also went from Armina being the one with zero support system to now she has an adopted sister and also a best friend/love interest when she's older. Terastelle Telvanni (sister) save me.. save me Terastelle Telvanni...

Anywho, the story has like... 2 main plots: Armina learning her dad is ✨terrible✨ and Alexi progressing through Corprus and becoming Nerevar (and losing Alexi). I will just say, though, to Armina and Tera, since they're actually IN the cult, Dagoth Ur is not a menacing figure until they know what's going on outside the mountain. I'm writing a scene where Armina literally drags him around. He's not Dagoth Ur to those kids, he's just dad.

Anyway, Alexi holds the Tools of Kagrenac (from the original au) for the most part, and she used them to manipulate the Heart to make sure her children wouldn't get Corprus (side effect was about a generation can't get it because she didn't know how to specify well). Alexi, however, DOES get it, and it leads to her physically and mentally becoming Nerevar, if that makes sense? The way it affects her is it morphs her body to be more similar to his, and it degrades her mind until she's left with only his memories and personality. And her kids have to watch it in real time 👍.

Anyway, back to the main cast: Armina, Terastelle, and Teldryn Sero. The last one was not planned.

All three represent both the main 3 star signs, as well as the Good 3 Daedra, AND they fall into "bad Daedra" counterparts later

Armina is half Bosmer and half Dunmer, and she's the Warrior and representation of Mephala (cause she's in a web of lies) and she falls to Clavicus Vile in a search for power to destroy Dagoth Ur. She fights with a big ol' 2-handed sword.

Terastelle is half Dunmer and half Altmer, she's the Mage and the representation of Boethiah. My violence wins mage <3. She falls to Malacath because of how she's treated in the cult (not as badly as those outside of the mountain, but less well than Armina, because even though Armina isn't a full Dunmer, she's also Nerevar's child, so she gets a pass). Tera gets motivated by vengeance after she learns her parents were murdered by the cult. This goes interestingly for her. Idk if she gets really hurt by it or not, but she's very scorches earth about "no Dagoth survivors" just like how her family had no survivors.

Teldryn is the thief who represents Azura, and he's the only full Dunmer in the gang, but he's from outside the mountain. When he's introduced, Blacklight is the most recent addition to the house. He falls to Sheogorath (seeking a middle ground led him to insanity or something, idk). He fights with pretty much his normal fighting style from Skyrim, which is pretty mixed. I need to develop him more in the context of the AU, but I'll get to that after this.

Anywho, random thoughts now!

As the Warrior, Armina protects the Steed from the Serpent, and Alexi's sign is the Steed 👍

Both Alexi and Armina are trying to save the people they love, in different ways, and in the end, both fail.

Is my HoK still Sheogorath or is it normal Sheo?

Armina can manipulate dreams which is part of what pushes her to be Dagoth Ur's favorite child.

The way the story is written changes as Armina grows up and then learns more about the cult. Slow-burn horror 👍

I get to write Clavicus Vile at some point, I'm excited.

Armina asking Alexi why she doesn't wear layers and Alexi trying to find a way to answer that isn't "because I don't expect to have skin for much longer anyway”. The answer she ends up going with is "Mountain's too damn hot" and then starts crying whenever her daughter leaves the room

Alexi's character in that AU is so interesting to me

Like, she's technically placed very high in the hierarchy, probably second to Dagoth Ur himself, yet she's got next to no power because those she loves would be in danger if she tried anything

Anyways, I'm writing for this, drawing for it, and I'll start posting more stuff once I have the first bit of the story written and the portrait finished. Have a Tera for your time <3

I love you, Terastelle Telvanni...

#morrowind #6th House AU #oc: Terastelle Telvanni #azure arted #azure writed

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wellthebardsdead · 11 months

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Writing more of Vivienne’s story and listening to YouTube you can blame Fudgemuppet on YouTube for reminding me that there are male hagravens born from usually a Breton and a hagraven, in fact the Augur of Dunlain may be one.

Okay so, supposedly most males born by hags are culled or rounded up and dragged off somewhere from what I understand. But here’s the idea.

Esmeralda, yes that hussy with the dark feathers. Used to live in the reach, she fell in love and made a clutch with a briarheart but of all her children only one male baby survived. As per custom she was expected to cull him… but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she abandoned him at a farm near Markarth and a kindly reachmen living there found him and took him in, naming him Oleander after the poisonous leaves and flowers wrapping his swaddle to save him from getting eaten by wild animals.

He raised ‘Olie’ into a handsome young ravenborn man, but was careful to always hide his feathers from the humans around them. And despite his long dark hair, gaunt but pretty face and dark eyes which attracted all the ladies and men in the city he was never allowed to date in case they found out what he was.

But one day the stormcloaks came, lead by ulfric. His father being a known reachman was targeted by the bear of windhelm during his assault on Markarth, despite having always been a law abiding citizen. His father packed his adopted son a bag and offered himself up as a distraction so he could get away safely…

Oleander hid behind the house, witnessing his fathers death and cursing ulfrics name with the magic of the earthbones imbued upon him by his birthright, before fleeing the reach and wondering skyrim before somehow ending up on a cart bound for Helgen.

#I got pretty birb men on the brain #hagraven dragonborn #Breton dragonborn #Oleander Dragonborn #skyrim

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elder-dragon-reposes · 3 months

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Kynadora- The Wheel Turns, Chapter 1

Summary: Julia Kynadora Lastblood had only intended to come to Skyrim as a healer and help whoever she could. Instead, she finds herself front and center in the Dragon Crisis and being drawn into the Civil War. Between that and trying to find her place in Skyrim while still managing to do what she came to Skyrim for originally, the internal turmoil she’s been struggling with since her childhood becoming worse shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. Being Dragonborn certainly is though.

Author's Note: Hi everyone! I've been working on getting this out for a bit now and Chapter 1 is now ready to post. I'd really like to thank @nerevar-quote-and-star for all the support as well as for acting as a beta reader for me!

ao3 link

Tag List:

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for future updates!

The first thing that her mind can register is the sounds of nature and the roll of a cart along a bumpy stone road. One hard bump along the road shoots pain through her head and shoulders, forcing her eyes open, and yet not a sound of pain out of her. The pain subsided slightly, but she could still feel her head throb and her eyes still took a moment to go from still seeing black to seeing only in a fuzzy haze, to finally allowing her to see the world around her enough to make out the details of the world around her. The first thing her eyes truly notice is the landscape around her, mountains and snow, and nothing familiar to her. The second thing is the blond man sitting on the cart before her. His focus is somewhere off in the distance, and his attention doesn’t shift until another bump of the cart causes her to hiss in pain.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.” She nods, which her body registers as a mistake for her as soon as she follows through with the motion. Her head throbs in pain again harshly, before slowly easing off into something more manageable. It gives her the confidence to finally pull herself up into a sitting position so that the harsh bumps of the road don’t dig into her neck and bother her injury. Injuries? She’s not quite sure of what exactly is wrong with her yet. “You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

It was too much information all at once. Imperial ambush? Thief? The blond man’s armor wasn’t the type that just any bandit would wear. Or just any mercenary. And as she looked around, others in the carts in front of them wore similar garb. Why would the Imperials have ambushed them? And how did she get in the middle of it? She tried to focus on the questions, looking for the answers in her mind, but the memories surrounding the event weren’t coming to her. But it was causing more hurt. The blond’s eyes softened, a concern dancing across his features and she wished that it didn’t hurt a bit more than the physical pain dancing around her.

“Damn, you Stormcloaks.” She knew that name. How? Wait. Stormcloaks. The Civil War that had broken out in Skyrim months ago. The thing that she’d sworn to her uncle that she would avoid to the best of her abilities. That she of course had already gotten caught up in.

Wait. Where was she? She’d been heading towards a town, tiredness had been seeping into her bones and she’d been excited to finally be in Skyrim. Then noises of distress, and she’d gone to help and the world had gone dark. Her attention drifts from the conversation and onto the world around them. Things looked familiar and yet not. She didn’t know Skyrim well enough to try and even attempt to figure out where she was.

A gentle wind pushes through and her shoulders settle in a way. She’d still done it. Even if she had no idea where she was right now. She’d crossed the border into Skyrim. This was still it, the place that she’d wanted to see since she was a child and her father had told her stories that had been passed to him from his father. She was the first of her line to be in Skyrim since her great-grandfather had left for Cyrodiil. It was still more beautiful than she’d expected it to be, and she’d been expecting so much.

Her study and focus on the landscape rolling past them was interrupted by the man sitting on the left side of the blond calling out to her, dragging her attention back to the people sharing the cart with her. “You there. You and me – we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” That was true enough. She’d never done anything herself to warrant being arrested, no matter what the Empire and the Thalmor said about her family history. And she’d never left Cyrodiil until now. So it wasn’t even possible for her to be a Stormcloak, or really any other manner of criminal in Skyrim.

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” Unfortunately, also true. After all, the fact that she was also currently a prisoner of the Empire would be why she couldn’t heal her head wound, and whatever else was wrong with her, the binds blocked magicka to try and circumvent any potential escapees. Or property damage. After all, a mage who doesn’t know anything beyond flames is just as dangerous as a mage who knows many spells beyond conjuring fire. Sometimes more if they couldn’t control the flames beyond conjuring them up. From what she could tell though, she seemed to still have her armor on. Her hood was missing and so was her pack and sword, but the rest of her armor seemed to still be attached to her.

As the dark-haired man was about to respond, the soldier driving the cart turned around and smacked the wood of the cart. “Shut up back there!” He turned back to the road, and the two men looked at one another before choosing to look away completely. Her own eyes drifted to the blond and then to the landscape around her.

The dark-haired man was ultimately the one to break the silence once more after their shared moment of silence. “And what’s wrong with him?” Her brows furrow and she turns her head as far as it will go without another shot of pain to her right. Finally noticing the man who had been sitting there this whole time and whose eyes had been on her for who knew how long. He was gagged and wearing a level of finery that no one else she’d seen was. He wasn’t a normal prisoner, and a hint of danger settled in her chest.

“Watch your tongue!” The blond man’s temper pulled her attention away from the gagged man, a shock as he had been nothing but calm in the minutes she’d been lucid enough to take note of what was around her. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.” Her heart dropped. He really wasn’t a normal prisoner. This wasn’t a normal group of prisoners being transported Stuhn knows where. The dark-haired man seemed to be catching up to her thoughts as his next words registered in her pounding skull. Where were they taking them? Once more the conversation in the cart stalled. The blond mentioned Sovngarde, and all her focus went there for a moment. Had she earned a place there? Earned the ability to see her father again? Or would she join her mother in Aetherius, with the rest of her Imperial ancestors?

This time, it’s the blond who drags her out of her thoughts. He speaks softly once more, the anger he’d held before having dissipated. “Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?”

“Why do you care?” The thief’s hands were shaking, and when she looked down at her own for a moment she saw that her own were as well. It was getting more difficult to breathe, and her head hurt more from the accidental clenching and grinding of her jaw joining the head wound.

The blonde looks ahead for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts before continuing down the path of discussion he wished to. “A Nord’s last thoughts-” his eyes drift to her and he seems to correct himself, “anyone’s last thoughts should be of home.” He was right of course. She thought of many things. Of the castle and shops of Skingrad that she’d grown up in and around. Of rolling hills and smiling faces that she’d left behind. And of the little home in Rivercrest that she’d grown up in. The home that no longer existed, but lived on in memories. She wished that she might have seen the town once more before now though.

The thief’s own eyes glazed over for a moment, his focus far away from this cart and the road beneath it. Likely on what he had left behind for this potential fate too. “Rorikstead. I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.” She heard of that village. She wasn’t sure where, but she’d heard of it. A song perhaps? One her father had sung? The blond nods and his attention turns back to her.

“And you?” His eyes are tired and for a moment she’s not quite sure how to answer him when the answer feels so large to such a small question.

She thinks of kind smiles once more. Of graves that had yet to be dug when she was taken from Rivercrest. Of open arms and strawberry treats. Of friends that she may never see again. She hopes that Baura will not blame herself for whatever may occur at the end of the road that they are all on. And that her uncle wouldn’t cause too much trouble for those responsible. Her voice is rough as she speaks, like when she would get sick as a child. “Skingrad. This is my first time in Skyrim if you’ll believe it.” The soldier driving makes a noise. Of realization or recognition, she couldn’t be sure. The Jarl sitting next to her made one of clear frustration, which drew her eyes back to him. He looked away when they finally landed back on him.

“Oh. What brought you to Skyrim then?” The blond was good at this. Calming people down and distracting them from their situation. She’d had to do the same for some of her patients and appreciated being on the other side of it for right now.

“I’m a healer. I needed to be out of Cyrodiil for some time, and Skyrim seemed like as good as any place to start helping.” The blond nodded and the man next to her made another muffled noise from behind his gag. She couldn’t decipher what it meant this time though. “And you? Where are you from?”

He seemed to be surprised at the question as if he hadn’t expected another of his cart mates to ask him anything in return. “Riverwood. It’s a small logging town not far from here.” She nods and tries her best to smile reassuringly at him. When this ended, she swore to find her way to Riverwood and find his family. Tell them of his kindness in the face of an upcoming execution. If she herself was not killed as well, that is.

The conversation stalled once more and with it came the view of a walled town covered in the banners of the Empire. From the view at the top of the hill, she could see homes and what appeared to be a keep. Likely a town that was being used as a command post by the military. It was a good spot, especially since she couldn’t imagine that it was too far from the Pale Pass. At least not if she’d gotten her geographical bearings right. It was especially hard to tell since she wasn’t quite sure how long she’d been out. Hours? Days? It was hard to tell.

As they passed through the entrance, a soldier shouted out to General Tullius that the headsman was ready and waiting. She’d met him once before now. Her uncle had been called to the Imperial City for some business or another, and he’d been at the gathering. From her view of his back, it didn’t seem that he’d changed that much. She’d spoken to him about something that seemed important at the time but had been ushered away from him by her uncle shortly after.

The thief begins praying to the Imperial Divines, and she can’t stop herself from sending her own prayers off. She focuses on Kyne and Stuhn. Her action drew the attention of both the blond man and the Jarl. It made sense. She doubted that they’d run into many Imperials that worshiped the Old Nord pantheon.

It isn’t until the blond mentions the Thalmor that she notices them over by Tullius. A chill runs down her spine, and she tries to control her breathing. Her eyes slam back down to her hands, sending a shock of pain through the area of her head most near them. For a moment she looks to her right and notices that the Jarl’s position now nearly matches hers.

“This is Helgen.” Her attention is drawn away from her panic, anxiety crawling up her throat, at the sound of his voice once more. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” His distraction works. It gives her more questions though. Was that girl here? Would she watch him lose his head? “Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.” He laughs bitterly. “Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.” She wondered what that was like. Even before the killing of her parents, Imperial soldiers and walls had never equaled safety for her. She imagined that that was likely due to how her father had been the one truly caring for Rivercrest though, and not some strange commentary on the failure of the Empire and its soldiers. After all, she’d never really interacted with or seen many before Skingrad. Even though her interactions there didn’t necessarily prove very helpful in giving her a positive view of them.

She turns as much as she can to get a look at the town. At the very least before this ends, she wants to know the town as well as she can. She watches as a father orders his son inside their home, not wanting him to see the death that the soldiers he seemed fascinated by would be dealing with his own eyes just yet. She respected it. The boy seemed far too young to watch an execution, no matter how his family may feel one way or the other about the Civil War. Death wasn’t something that you could ignore once you’d been confronted with it. And it was hard to forget the memory of the first death, the first body, that you saw.

The carts all come to a stop and she releases a breath that she didn’t know she had been holding. Her heart drops, and nausea rises in her stomach. “Why are they stopping?” The thief’s voice is quiet, and she doubted that she would’ve heard it had it not been for being in such close quarters with him.

“Why do you think? End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.” She prays silently as they begin to stand and move to the edge of the cart. She ignores the exchange between the blond and the thief as she does so, focused on keeping her feet straight. Standing had caused darkness to cloud her vision once more, the wound once more rearing its ugly head. As she made it to the edge, she lost her balance and slipped clumsily off of the cart causing her leg to catch wrong on the cobblestone ground. The soldier who had been driving the cart helped her to her feet, and she walked it off, continuing to where the soldiers were grouping them.

As she walks, who she assumes is the Captain gives them instructions to step to the block when they hear their name. What was she going to do when they didn’t call it though? Would they finally realize that she didn’t belong here in this group? Or would she be sent to the block anyhow? While wrong, and technically against Imperial law, she didn’t imagine that it would matter much to them. She didn’t trust the Empire to do the “right thing” here. Its citizens didn’t matter quite as much as it pretended that they did.

Darkness clouds her vision once more as she comes to a stop, and she has to put more weight on one leg over the other to prevent her legs from buckling underneath her. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.” The Jarl stalks off to the block, making more muffled sounds from behind the gag.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!” The blond’s voice is sure in this. The Empire could say a lot of things about the Stormcloaks, but the idea that they weren’t loyal to him would be a complete lie.

The soldier holding the list continues, “Ralof of Riverwood.” The blond walks off to the block with that and a look to the list maker. Or Ralof. Ralof walks off to the block. He was sure in his steps, and she couldn’t help but admire him for his confidence, even as he walked to his death.

As the soldier moves on, a look thrown at Ralof’s back, the thief –Lokir– bolts upon his name being called. “Halt!” calls the Captain, but he keeps going. She calls for the archers, and he is downed nearly as quickly as he took off running. “Anyone else feel like running?” The Baura that lives in her mind says yes.

“Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?” She wasn’t on the list. She was expecting this, but something about it still felt strange. The fact that they’d just loaded her up with the rest of the prisoners, though she’d had her armor donned. And it certainly didn’t look like the Stormcloak’s armor or the Empire’s armor.

She remembers her uncle’s words. Hold your head high and look them in the eye when you introduce yourself. You have reason to be proud of your name. Your heritage. “Julia Lastblood. Of Skingrad.” If the soldier could look more confused, he likely would. She’d gotten many weird looks over the years as an Imperial with Nord’s surname.

He turns, “Captain, what do we do? She’s not on the list?” Here it was. A moment of truth for the place she’d lived all her life. Would she be sent to the block? Killed mercilessly like her parents? Or be spared

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.” Disappointed, but not surprised. Julia had known that this was a possibility from the very beginning, but the venom in the Captain’s voice drove the dagger of betrayal deeper into her heart.

The soldier seems surprised though, then disappointed that he will have to follow those orders. “I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to Skingrad.” Hopefully, they would go to Rivercrest after. She liked the idea of being buried next to her parents, even if she would only see one of them in the afterlife. Whichever one she was going to.

As she walks to the block, she prays under her breath. All of the gods her father taught her to worship, from Kyne and the Hearth gods to the Dead ones and even to Alduin. Praying that the world’s end would come far in the future, in the hopes that her family that she had left behind would have long lives after her. She stands by the other prisoners and meets Ralof’s eyes. There is anger there that she hopes will disappear before his head is removed.

Tullius addresses the leader of the rebellion, trying and succeeding at making himself look taller while he does so. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” Stormcloak grunts in protest, but the gag does not let him get out whatever words would be his last. “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.” Julia would laugh if it weren’t for the circumstances. She’d been born after the Great War, and Cyrodiil had never been peaceful in her lifetime. Besides, they may as well be declaring Ulfric a martyr themselves.

Whatever Stormcloak was going to grunt in response was interrupted by a sound coming from the mountains above them. A screech. It felt wrong in a way. Like something had broken. Had torn. “What was that?” The soldier’s words echoed her thoughts. What kind of creature could sound like that? It had to be large. She didn’t know enough of the creatures in Skyrim to make a guess though.

“It’s nothing. Carry on.” Tullius’ voice brings her eyes back down from the mountains, and back to the Headsman’s block. Back to her execution, and not the mystery that was above them.

The Captain calls for the Priestess to begin her prayer, and Julia prays soundlessly once more. For herself? For those she loves? She’s not quite sure anymore. One of the Stormcloaks walks forward, interrupting both prayers. “For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with.” She could respect that. They hadn’t been allowed their complete last rites, though she doubted that they would be executed twice if one of them had prayed to Talos. “Come on, I haven’t got all morning. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” She knew that she was likely not included in that sentiment, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Could she?

After the headsman’s axe falls, some of the bystanders made their thoughts known; there were those calling him traitor, and those like Ralof that called him fearless. “Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!” The renegade? The renegade? Julia doubted that anyone had ever referred to her as such, and it distracted her from the situation for a moment. It is interrupted once more though. The sound comes from the mountainside once more. But closer. It was louder. Whatever was making that sound was coming closer to Helgen. The soldier once more draws attention to it, but the Captain calls her forward.

“To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.” She moves forward, and Ralof once more meets her eyes. As she lowers herself down, her vision darkens once more. The leg she’d landed on ached as well. Neither pain would last much longer though. She closes her eyes as she sets her head on the block, and tries to empty her mind of every thought that was running through it.

Before the axe could fall and connect with her neck, the execution falls into chaos. A large, black creature lands on the tower that looms above her. It seemingly called down a storm of fire and meteors from the heavens, hitting the ground and the people around them. One of them hits the headsman, and another lands next to the block, causing it to rise and knock her on the head. She rolls off of it and regrets the movement. Her head screams in pain and it takes her a moment to orient herself.

“Hey, you! Julia! Get up! Come one, the gods won’t give us another chance!” Ralof was suddenly by her side, leading her into another tower across from the one that the dragon had landed on. Her ears ring, and it makes it hard to hear the chaos around them as they rush in, Stormcloak closing the heavy door behind them. “Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages. We need to move, now!” As they discuss the plans moving forward, one of the soldiers comes up and cuts the binds holding Julia’s hands. As the binds break and fall to the ground, she can feel her Magicka regenerate and flood her body. Thanking the soldier, her hands raised to her head, and she cast a simple healing spell on the source of her head wound. As the spell worked itself, the world stopped spinning around her and the ringing in her ears halted. She blinked and looked around the entrance room of the tower that they’d entered.

Her eyes landed on two of the soldiers lying injured on the ground and she made her way over to them. As they argued about the next steps, Julia could help here. Her bag had been taken, so she didn’t have any healing potions she could supply, but she could use her magic to help them get back on their feet for the time being.

The same soldier that had cut her binds came up to her with scavenged bandages and other supplies, and assisted her in applying them to the injured. It would be nice not to have to drain her Magicka completely while trying to help, especially since they may need to throw spells at the thing flying around the skies. The dragon? It was a terrifying thought. Julia pushed it to the back of her mind, she could follow that thought process later when everyone was out of immediate danger.

Almost as if she’d summoned the thing, the ground shook and they could hear another one of the spine-chilling sounds coming from what felt like every direction. Ralof looked around the tower, panic clear on his face. Even after his outburst earlier, it was the least calm that she’d seen him through this whole ordeal. His eyes landed on her for a moment and his brows furled as he took in what she was doing.

His attention went to the stairs and several emotions crossed his face. “Up through the tower! Let’s go! This way, Julia! Move!” The soldier and her helped the injured to their feet and began making their way up the stairs. Before they reached them though, her place was taken by one of their fellow Stormcloaks and she made her way to Ralof’s side.

“We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!” Ralof and her rushed forward up the stairs to try and help, but they were interrupted by something crashing through the wall. The rocks that came down crushed the soldier, and the dragon’s face came into the tower through the hole that it’d created.

Julia could barely hear Ralof over the sound of outside and the dragon seemed to speak, and then fire rained from its mouth. “Get back!” She threw up a ward just in time, shielding them as best she could, but they could still feel the heat coming from the fire it spat. It flew off nearly as quickly as it came. Ralof looked at her and a small smile came to his face. “Thank you.”

She claps his shoulder, returning his smile. “Of course.” They made their way to the hole in the wall, looking down at the town surrounding the foot of the tower and the destruction that had been waged on top of it. She turns to Ralof for whatever step he felt was best to take next.

“See the inn on the other side?” She could, it would be quite a drop, but they could make it. “Jump through the roof and keep going!” Julia turned to Ralof and shook her head. She wasn’t just going to leave them. Not when they’d helped her. “Go! We’ll follow you when we can!” He nearly pushed her through the hole in the stone wall, but she jumped before he could.

She rolls as she hits the floor of the top floor and looks back up at the tower. Fire and smoke obscure her view of where she has jumped from, and she waits for the next person to come crashing through into the building next to her. They do not come, and the ground shakes the building in a way that demands her to keep going. They’ll follow when they can. Ralof promised. The least she can do is try to make sure that the path is safe for them too.

Julia climbs down the building through the large hole in the floor and exits it out the hole in the siding of the building. She takes in her surroundings, the destruction of Helgen had been hard and fast even with soldiers trying to kill the thing flying through the air and raining fire and meteors and other hell down on them from the heavens. A screech coming from the sky pushes her forward through the destruction.

As the smoke grows thicker and thicker, she can only hope that she’s moving forward and not back towards the tower that she’d jumped from. Can only hope that she won’t come across the dragon as it swoops through the town raining down destruction.

“Haming! Haming!” Voices flicker louder and louder as she moves ever closer, and the scene that unfolds from the smoke as she does makes her heart stop in her chest. The child she’d seen earlier speaking with his father was standing over what she could only assume was his father, clearly frozen in fear. The dragon’s shadow comes overhead, and Julia acts before she can even think to, running for the child and grabbing him into her arms in just enough time for the beast to land in front of them.

Her eyes meet the dragon’s, and a shiver runs down her spine. The red of its eyes feeling like death had come for them all. And it might have. She runs with the boy, crying now into her neck, throwing up another ward just in time for the dragon to throw more fire at them. Arms grab her, pulling her behind a destroyed building, and she drops the ward once the dragon takes off again.

“Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want it to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy.” She nearly drops the boy as he shakes.

“No! I wanna stay with you!” The boy, Haming her mind supplies, clutches her shoulders tighter in a way that she can’t be good for his hands pushing into the metal of her armor.

“It might be best for us to stay together. At least until we can find somewhere safer.” The man who’d been crouched in the corner, Gunnar nods and gets up to follow along.

The list maker sighs, looking at the three of them, and turns to look where the dragon has left behind. “Alright. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense. You can figure out where best to go after that.” Julia nods and pats the poor boy on the back. She focuses on shielding his face from the corpse of his father as they pass. He’d seen enough of it for his lifetime. Aetherius knows that she had at his age.

Their little group follows after the soldier, taking cover by a wall as the dragon descends again, raining more fire at them. “Quickly! Follow me!” They duck through another destroyed building and come out to where most of the Imperial soldiers must have been firing arrows and spells at the thing as it flew through Helgen. Ahead of them, near the front and center of the fighting is General Tullius.

“Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we’re leaving!” For a moment his eyes meet hers and then go to the child she’s carrying and the man following after them. He nods her in that direction too, as if she is one of his soldiers to command and not a woman he’d almost executed mere minutes ago. She follows the command though, following Hadvar through the rubble and into the courtyard of the Keep, eyes scanning for any of the Stormcloaks she’d seen before, hoping that any one of them would appear. And almost as if a prayer had been answered, Ralof appears from the other side.

“Ralof! You damned traitor, out of my way!” The venom in Hadvar’s voice is clear, adding only to what is a small amount of context of their relationship that she can only assume would fill in pages of a book.

Her friend is quick to return that venom though, “We’re escaping Hadvar! You’re not stopping us this time!” Ralof’s brows furl at her arms holding Haming and over her shoulder where Gunnar is standing.

“Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” Wait, what does Hadvar mean by that? Splitting up now would mean death for them. She adjusts Haming in her grip, shoving his weight entirely onto one arm.

“Julia, come on! Into the keep!” They’re both insane. Or stupid. Or both.

“With me, prisoner! Let’s go! Come on! We need to get inside!”

“Are you both insane?” Julia’s voice comes out far stronger than she’d thought it would, given the circumstances. “The dragon currently circling above us circumvents the damned war. Get in the keep!”

She heads for the door to the left of the building that Hadvar had been heading towards, grabbing Ralof’s shoulder with her open hand on the way there. Ralof looks at her confusedly as he opens the door for her, allowing himself to be pushed inside what she can only hope is a safe harbor. She hears Gunnar chuckle slightly, smoke inhalation making it rougher, and he pushes Hadvar in behind them.

Julia can only hope that getting them to work together becomes easier from here as she hears the large door shut loudly behind them.

#julia kynadora lastblood #kynadora #skyrim #helgen

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