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monstersandmaw · 9 months

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Snowfall - a polyamorous m/m/m fantasy story ft. an elf, a vampire, and a draugr/lich (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I had a random and vivid dream about a draugr/lich with a secret, living in an old tomb in Skyrim and meeting a twinky, kinda foul-mouthed elven adventurer and his snooty, grumpy, (not-so-)secretly adoring vampire boyfriend. This was the result.

Daethir is pronounced 'day-theer', Nyr 'Neer', and Karsi 'car-si' (with a short 'i' like 'hit').

If you’ve not played Skyrim, none of the lore is needed to enjoy this story. It’s just someone else’s sandbox I’m playing in for some handy, pre-existing lore.

Content: Brief/passing mention of enslavement and mass sacrifice, genocide of an entire species, a tiny bit of blood and threat to life, and Daethir’s inner (and outer) monologue which includes a fair few uses of the word ‘fuck’.

Wordcount: 7589

Despite what the tattered remnants of his pride were trying to tell him, Daethir was most definitely, one hundred percent lost.

He was completely fucking disorientated in this dilapidated shithole of an ancient Nord tomb. He was also incandescently furious about that fact.

His sense of direction was fucking legendary. He must have explored a hundred underground tombs and dwarven cities, sunk deep into the earth as well as forgotten places consumed by rambling forests, and never once had he got lost before. He’d even been to bloody Labyrinthian! But no. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere maybe three or four hours back, and now he was balls deep in skeever shit and cobwebs, and couldn’t find the way out.

“Oh man, Karsi must be going berserk out there,” he muttered through clenched teeth, breath billowing in the dark, cold tunnel.

The draugrs’ strange compulsion to keep the tombs somewhat maintained for their slumbering master meant that there was nearly always light flickering in the sconces on the walls, and braziers were often found burning at the intersections of the tomb’s warren of passageways, and he found himself pathetically grateful that he wasn’t lost in the pitch black at least.

“Hold on, love,” he added as he set his jaw and tried to strain his senses for the faintest lift of a breeze in the stagnant air of the tomb. “I’m coming.”

He hoped the vampire didn’t hurt himself trying to break through the unique enchantment that seemed to stop the undead from passing through it. Gods, Karsi had practically been spitting venom when he’d discovered he couldn’t enter the tomb with Daethir, no matter what spells he hurled at the doorway. Daethir, as usual, had slipped gleefully through in the blink of an eye and without a backward glance.

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” he thought bitterly, and the pervasive fear of dying alone in the dark crystallised into something sharper and edged with guilt when he realised that Karsi would never know exactly how he died, and would never be able to recover his lover’s body. “Shit.”

Something moved up ahead and he froze.

Blue eyes in the dark.

Shit.

A draugr Death Lord from the size of it, and from that ugly horned helmet.

Before he could formulate any sort of plan, hands reached out from the darkness behind him.

One clasped right over his mouth to form a perfect seal against the scream that rose unbidden from the pit of his stomach, and the other wrapped around his waist, and he found himself lifted bodily off the floor and into an alcove.

Naturally, like the well-trained, level-headed, and seasoned rogue he was, Daethir thrashed in blind and abject panic, lashing out with his heels until a hoarse, scraping voice rasped in his ear, “Auri-el have mercy, stop! I’m trying to save your life!”

Deciding that his luck might have been on the cusp of changing, or that he was about to become easy prey for some maniac who apparently lived down there in the dark tunnels of an ancient Nord tomb, Daethir went limp. He was not put down.

For a long few minutes, neither of them dared move in case the slightest sound attracted the Death Lord who was patrolling the corridor up ahead. Like an extremely loyal but not terribly bright guard dog, it swung its head back and forth, growling and snarling to itself and adjusting its grip on the enormous ebony war axe in its right hand. At the way the light played along the black blade of that axe like firelight on oil, Daethir shuddered involuntarily into the grasp of his mysterious rescuer.

“Easy,” the voice breathed, right in his ear. His tapering, sensitive, elven ear.

He shuddered again and tried not to gasp for an entirely different reason this time. Funny how terror and pleasure seemed to go hand in hand for him. After all, he was dating a vampire, and the two of them frequently mixed feeding and fucking, so he was no stranger to a healthy dose of of fear lacing his pleasure. But now was absolutely, categorically not the time to start getting turned on by a strong stranger manhandling him in a dark tomb. Gross, Dae, get it together.

The hand across his mouth was warm and leathery and strong, and by the faint glimmer of torchlight from beyond their shadowed alcove, he could see the faintest flash of bone-white flesh. Strange, but not totally unusual. People were born without pigment in their skin, after all. Heck, he’d spent an entire summer with an orc carpenter who had the most beautiful red eyes and skin so pale he couldn’t go out in the sun for long without burning. Caedrak hadn’t been able to see more than a foot in front of him, but he’d made the most beautiful things with his big, sensitive hands…

Dammit, Daethir, pull yourself the fuck together.

In the distance, the Draugr Death Lord huffed in irritation, then shuffled away in the opposite direction, and the figure behind him relaxed.

“Before I let go of you, I need you to swear something,” the voice said.

It was a strange voice. Although it was as dry as the coarsest sands from Elsweyr, the consonants were crisply articulated, and it had a strange lilt to it, as though the speaker was used to the music of another language from another age. Karsi spoke a bit like that too, though nowhere near as much as this. Daethir, raised in the Ratway of Riften, spoke like a gutter-skeever with the brash accent to match.

Still with the person’s hand clamped across his mouth, he couldn't do much to respond beyond a little noncommittal shrug, and received a dry chuckle in response.

“Fine,” his saviour said with an evident smile, “When I release you, walk forward and do not look back.”

That… That was not what he’d been expecting. And the way the person spoke seemed so heartbreakingly sad that he felt his own chest constrict for a moment. He floundered a little, and, perhaps mistaking the movement for panic, his saviour set his feet back down on the ground.

Slowly, hesitantly, those spider-pale hands drew back, and of course, Daethir immediately turned around.

And screamed.

Flailing, he staggered back into the corridor that had so recently been vacated by the Death Lord, and fell hard onto his backside, sprawled on the damp ground and staring up at the emaciated corpse of another draugr.

Searing, sapphire blue eyes blazed out of a face devoid of all colour, so much so that for a heartbeat, Daethir thought he was looking at a skeleton, except this person still had flesh and muscle on their frame, even if it had all been withered away over time to white leather stretched over bone.

Pale lips pulled back off perfect teeth in a grimace, and white, barely-there eyebrows tugged into a hurt expression so profound that Daethir found himself suddenly silenced by it.

Then, because he was apparently pathologically incapable of keeping his mouth shut, he blurted, “Shit, I’m sorry, I just –”

At a croaking shout of triumph from the connecting tunnel, the pale draugr’s head twitched around and it let out a snarl of its own. “No time. Come on,” and with that, it surged forwards, grabbed Daethir by the wrist and hauled him to his feet with a strength that he would never have expected from a creature so thin.

Unlike the other draugr he’d encountered on his way down into the depths of the tomb – the ones who’d stumbled around and dragged their bare feet along like stiff, empty Dwarven automata – this one was nimble and lithe, and it wore a loose, undyed linen shift that was belted at the waist and fell halfway down its emaciated thighs. Its feet were bare though, and as it turned and yanked him down a corridor, Daethir had to duck beneath a long, white plait that swung behind it like a flailing ship’s rope in a high wind.

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming, ow!” he yelped, trying to keep his feet in the same frantic rhythm while also attempting to twist free of the vice-strong grip of the creature’s fingers.

“Do not fall behind,” the draugr rasped, and then let go.

“You’ll show me the way out?” he chirped hopefully, and the draugr glanced back over its shoulder.

“I’ll take you to –” its eyes went wide and for a moment, Daethir thought the creature had tripped because it turned back abruptly and shoved him hard in the chest, sending him reeling. Daethir’s shoulder struck the tunnel wall and he let out an ‘oof’ of surprise on impact, but a second later, an ebony war axe embedded itself in the damp, softly crumbling stone of a mortuary shelf.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at the weapon.

“Run! This way,” the strange, pale draugr gasped, and Daethir followed blindly.

Something seemed to ripple and shimmer in the wall up ahead, and a blue light pulsed in the draugr’s hand as they charged towards the rockface. The creature seemed to be running straight at the section of wall that was warping disturbingly and Daethir’s feet slowed.

“Don’t stop! Through the doorway, quick!” the draugr barked.

“What doorway?!” he yelped, skidding to a stop a few paces behind the apparently mad draugr. “You’re nuts. This place has sent you round the bed. That’s a solid fucking wall right there, I’m not –”

“Come on!” the creature hissed in obvious frustration. It was unnervingly similar to the tone of voice Karsi took with him when he was exasperated, and Daethir was being stupid or stubborn (or both) about something.

When Daethir didn’t move, and the footsteps and continuous cursing in a language he couldn't understand drifted round the corner from the fast-approaching Death Lord, the odd, silver-haired draugr rolled its eerie, blue eyes and snatched his hand again.

With a yell of horror and surprise, Daethir was tugged forwards into the wall. He closed his eyes, expecting to be slammed into solid stonework, and was amazed when he found himself staggering right into the chest of the draugr, who nudged him to stand behind its back while it worked some kind of magic on the wall or portal.

“The fuck…?” he breathed, chest heaving.

The draugr, still holding his right hand, worked a spell with its left, and the doorway in the wall vanished and returned to looking like uninterrupted rock.

“That’s never going to fool a draugr,” Daethir said, eyeing the spot sceptically.

“Fooled you,” the creature quipped and turned to face him, releasing its hold on his hand.

Daethir opened and closed his mouth like a landed carp for a good three seconds before heat flooded his tanned face and he looked away. “So, what, we’re safe now? And what the fuck are you?”

“Direct, aren’t you?” the creature said archly, and hell, if it didn’t remind Daethir of Karsi’s dry sarcasm.

At that thought, another bolt of guilt lanced through his chest and he looked up at the draugr. It wasn’t surprising that the draugr was taller than he was – it was hard not to be taller than Daethir, provided that one was over the age of about fifteen. He tried out his best smile and hoped it stuck. “It’s one of my many charms. Please, don’t let it stop you from showing me how to get out of this charming tomb you call home.”

The draugr’s soft laugh was like a handful of dry, autumn leaves, rattling around the narrow space that surrounded the two of them. It soon died though, and he let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Oh no,” Daethir said, backing up a pace. “I don’t like the sound of that. You are going to show me the way out now, right?”

Slowly, the creature nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Great. Let’s move the fuck along, shall we? I’ve got a vampire waiting for me outside who will probably thrall me into complete obedience for a week for disappearing and scaring him witless, and I’d rather not make it two if I can help it. Not that I mind him thralling me, quite the contrary actually, but two weeks is a long time to spend as a puppet, even if I do get the most toe-curling orgasms out of it. Fuck, I’m running my mouth. I do that when I’m nervous, and the way you’re just staring at me like I’m some kind of hitherto-unknown species of cave mushroom that’s suddenly gained sentience is unnerving. Also you never answered my question: what the fuck are you? And are we safe now?”

The draugr blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked, and reflexively brought his hand to the back of his head to search for blood or injury in his light brown hair. When he found none, it dawned on him that the question might have been rhetorical, and he pouted. “Oh, it’s funny too. Great. I found the only draugr in all of Tamriel with a sense of humour. You are a draugr, right? Because the whole ‘mummified and still walking around’ thing is usually a dead giveaway. If you’ll pardon the pun. Man, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” the draugr said. “And yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you are, and yes, I am.”

“I am what?”

“Running your mouth again, as you put it. And I am a draugr.”

“Oh. Fuck. Well, let’s crack on then, eh?” he chirped with a nervous little laugh, gesturing behind him up what appeared to be a narrow, upward-sloping tunnel. “Lead on to freedom, and all that. You can fill me in on the way.”

The creature gave a little snort of laughter and shook its head. Sections of white hair had come loose from its braid and dangled down into its glowing, blue eyes which gave it an altogether softer, dishevelled look. It cast a couple of glowing balls of light, with which Daethir was familiar from Karsi’s magic, and they floated away up the tunnel like dandelion puffs on the wind.

Following the magelights, the draugr stepped around Daethir in the narrow tunnel, and as it passed, Daethir caught the soft scents of leather and parchment and incense, and the faint crackle of ozone that hovered around Karsi too.

“You’re a mage?” he asked to break the thick silence that had flooded into the tunnel when the draugr had fallen quiet again.

“Mm.”

“And you are definitely a draugr?”

“Mn.”

“You’re… different… from the others…” he said, inviting the draugr to expand on the statement.

“Mmm.”

“You suddenly run out of words? What happened to Mr. Funny Undead from a minute ago? Wait, that was rude. I have no idea whether you’re a ‘mister’ or something else entirely. I’m sorry.”

At that, the creature gave another grinding chuckle and halted to look back at Daethir. “I am male, if that’s your question. My name is Nýráðr.”

The way his tongue trilled over the ‘r’ and ‘th’ sounds sent a thrill through Daethir’s whole body. “Neer-ath-ur,” he repeated, frowning. “That’s… It sounds elven, but… I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s old,” he replied, and Daethir got the impression that there was some dark humour in his tone that was lost on the relatively young Bosmer. “If it’s too much of a mouthful for you, you can just call me Nyr.”

“Right. I’m Daethir.”

“You are a Wood Elf, are you not?”

“Yup, though I’m not the ‘live in the woods in my underwear and commune with squirrels’ kind of Wood Elf, so don’t go making assumptions.”

The laugh that fluttered out of Nyr was like ripping parchment, but it sounded full of unexpected delight all the same. Centuries, even millennia, as a slowly-desiccating draugr had wrought a heck of a lot of damage on the creature’s whole body by the look of it, and from the sound of things, his vocal cords hadn’t escaped unscathed either. Daethir mused that perhaps he would have had a voice as smooth and haunting as Karsi did when he had been fully alive, and something twinged in his chest at the creature’s loss.

“Well,” the draugr said, “Since we’re not making assumptions about each other, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t assume I was a mindless drone like all my fellow animated corpses down here.”

“I thought I’d already made it abundantly clear that I don’t think that,” Daethir scowled. “And you were the one who implied I had no more brains than a Death Lord…”

“You were the one who thought I was going to ram you into a wall,” Nyr countered, glancing back over his shoulder. This time, as he moved, Daethir caught sight of his pale, very tapered ear and his footsteps halted abruptly.

With his eyes wide, he stared at the elven shape of the draugr’s ear and his jaw dropped.

“What?” Nyr asked, stopping too and turning properly to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re… an elf,” he blurted stupidly, and then went on in a slightly hysterical ramble. “I mean, the name should have given it away, but… holy shit, you’re an elf! I thought draugr were all human. I mean, the Nordic kings who built these tombs were… you know, humans, and they were famous for killing everything that didn’t have a perfectly rounded ear, and they had human courts and human servants and subjects, and what the fuck?” His voice ended in a little squeak as he ran out of breath.

A slow, sad smile crept onto Nyr’s sunken features, and he sighed. “I am an elf, you’re right. Are you so far removed from my time that our story has been forgotten? Did not the Atmorans start out as our friends and allies only to betray us and subjugate us instead?”

“The Night of Tears,” Daethir exhaled, reeling.

In the cold blue glow of Nyr’s magelight, the draugr’s face settled into a frown. “I… I don’t know what that is.”

“You must have died before that all went down then,” he said, trying to scrape together what he remembered of it from Karsi’s impromptu fireside history lessons. “Shit. It was a massacre. Snow Elves descended on the human city of Saarthal in the north one night. After years of uneasy peace, they slaughtered everyone and, rumour has it, took or locked away something of great power beneath the city. After that, the humans retaliated and began the systematic genocide of all the Snow Elves in Tamriel.”

The draugr swayed and staggered, catching himself with a hand on the wall before he could collapse completely, and he stared wild-eyed at him. “They’re… They’re all gone?” he hissed, his bony chest rising and falling in fast, shallow gasps. “There are no more of us?”

“Us?” he asked, and then he really saw the white hair and colourless skin, and he understood at last. “Holy shit, you’re a Snow Elf?”

Mute, he just barely managed a nod.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should have realised and told you more gently. Karsi would have realised what you are immediately. I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped closer, closing his hand around the bare, bony forearm of the elven draugr.

“None of us…?” he asked, unable to finish the question.

“Not as far as I know,” Daethir said, much more gently this time.

He squeezed Nyr’s forearm and felt the bones shift beneath, and barely resisted the urge to jerk away in surprise. Even with his small hands, he could close his thumb and fingers around Nyr’s emaciated forearm. This close up, he could also see the way his collarbones stuck out beneath the open ‘v’ of his linen tunic’s neck, and his hollow cheeks looked all the more gaunt in the blue light that cast harsh shadows down over them. Even so, there was a cut-glass beauty to the creature with his high cheekbones and elegant jawline.

“I’m sorry, Nyr.”

The Snow Elf swallowed, blinked glassy eyes, and looked down at the point where Daethir was touching him. For a long moment, he stared, and Daethir wondered if he shouldn’t have been so forward, but the draugr gave another wheezing sigh and placed his left hand over Daethir’s and squeezed gently.

“Nothing lasts forever,” he whispered. The sound of it was like a winter wind in bare branches, and Daethir shivered. He felt like cold hands were scraping down his spine.

“What will happen to you now?” Daethir asked, still holding onto the draugr. Nyr’s body was warm – far warmer than Karsi’s undead vampire body – and his skin was supple and unbelievably soft. He’d always expected draugr to be fragile and papery, like mildewed parchment, or slimy and rotten, but Nyr was neither. He had just wasted away over time. Daethir wondered exactly how much time he’d spent alone in the dark down here, with nothing but shuffling, insentient corpses for company, and his heart went out to him. The last of his species, and confined in the tomb of his oppressors for generations while the world went on without him. “Nýráðr?”

At the sound of his full name on Daethir’s tongue, the draugr startled softly and offered him a smile that went all the way up to the corners of his kindly eyes. “If I am not caught in the next few days, the Death Lord will forget about all of this. They’re not terribly bright, after all.”

Daethir narrowed his eyes. “That means you think I’m not terribly bright, if I was as easily fooled as a fucking draugr. No offence, you know,” he added with a pointed look up and down at the draugr in front of him.

Nyr’s grip on his hand tightened for a fraction before he let go and dropped his arm, laughing quietly, that autumn rattle back in his voice. “None taken,” he said, turning to continue leading Daethir up the passage. “And in my defence, you should have been able to see through that enchantment. It really wasn’t very strong. It doesn’t have to be to keep the majority of my fellow tomb-dwellers out.”

“I’m not exactly proficient at seeing magic,” Daethir mumbled. “Can’t cast a spark myself, and scrolls are… unpredictable. Even the ones idiot Nords with no magic are supposed to be able to use,” he added morosely.

“Elves with no magic whatsoever were not common in my time, but not unheard of. I apologise. I shouldn’t have made fun of you for it.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he huffed. “Karsi is always taking the piss out of me for it. He’s pretty adept at magic – could run rings around most of the stuffy old mages at the College of Winterhold. Even the Archmage, if you believe him. He does think quite highly of himself though, so it’s hard to tell.”

After a lilting pause in which only the sound of their soft footfalls could be heard, Nyr said, “You’re fond of this ‘Karsi’.”

“Fond? Fond doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m besotted. Head over heels. Enraptured by. Enamoured of. Utterly fucking smitten.” He did his best to emulate, and perhaps exaggerate, Karsi’s refined, educated way of speaking while he rattled off a list of synonyms for ‘completely fucking whipped’.

Again, Nyr gave a rasping chuckle. “You don’t sound terribly thrilled about that.”

“Of course I’m ‘not terribly thrilled’ about that!” he exclaimed, gesturing up in the air with his hands. “The bloke’s a century-old vampire whose more educated than most princes, he’s elegant as fuck, can talk me into a stupor in a single sentence, and is more beautiful than all the Divines.”

“How is any of that a bad thing?” Nyr asked, still sounding amused by Daethir’s petulance over the matter.

“Well, you might have been starved for beauty down here in the dark for a billion years, so I can see why my face might look like it was carved by a devotee of Dibella, Goddess of Love and Sex and Beauty,” he said with deep sarcasm, “But if you’d seen a single other living soul that didn’t resemble the back end of a raisin, you’d realise that next to literally anyone else, I’m about as ordinary as it gets. I’m ignorant as fuck about lots of things. I can’t do magic. All I’m good for is sneaking about, cutting purses, breaking into places I shouldn’t be, and hitting a target dead-centre at a hundred paces with a tiny piece of steel.”

It was only when he’d finished insulting the draugr that lived down here that he remembered who and what his companion was, and he fell into an awkward silence. Then, because he couldn’t bear it a second longer, he tacked on an apology that was way too late. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’re like them. You’re not.”

“It’s alright,” he said softly. The sound was like a stone dragging across the tunnel floor. “I know what I am and what I look like by now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not like the other draugr I’ve seen.”

“Oh, goody. What a comfort it is to know that I’ll win the Annual Draugr Beauty Contest for another year in a row,” he said with caustic sarcasm.

Before Daethir could recover from the unexpected and well-deserved reprimand, the draugr rounded the corner in the steadily-rising tunnel and they came to an elaborate, carved stone door that abruptly halted their journey.

Pressing his emaciated palm against a point at the centre of the labyrinthine tangle of patterns, the draugr let his icy blue magic pour out of him and it ran through the channels of the maze like water, flowing all the way across to form a tapestry of blue and grey until, with a dull, grinding noise, the door opened slowly outwards, and a blast of freezing, snow-filled air rushed in.

The wind lifted Nyr’s white hair off his face and Daethir stared as moonlight inked silver brushstrokes across his high cheekbones and down his straight nose and delicate jawline.

For a moment, neither of them moved as the night opened up around them, but Daethir knew he had to make up for his inadvertently cruel comments, so he stepped close to the draugr and reached his hand out to cup his colourless cheek.

Nyr’s searing blue eyes fluttered closed and he sucked in a sharp breath, going rigid beneath Daethir’s touch. He traced his thumb across the Snow Elf’s high, arching cheekbone and murmured, “You really are exquisite.” He meant it too. “Thank you for saving my life, Nýráðr. I will never forget you, nor your kindness to me.”

Like a cat long-starved of affection, Nyr tipped his head into Daethir’s palm and nuzzled him once. The longing in his gaunt face cut Daethir to the quick, but he stepped back and opened his eyes. “Nor I you, Daethir,” he said in a scraping rasp.

Then his blue gaze sailed over Daethir’s head – not exactly a difficult task, given how much taller the Snow Elf was than the diminutive Bosmer – and he smiled. “Karsi, I take it?” he said dryly.

Daethir turned and had the fleeting impression of a figure standing beside a small, smouldering campfire outside the main entrance of the tomb, eyes blazing red, before the image disintegrated into a twisting swarm of black bats and Karsi reappeared right in front of Daethir, his face burning like a vengeful spirit.

“By Molag Bal’s unholy blood,” he cursed, gripping Daethir by the shoulders and lifting him away from Nyr as though he were a child that had strayed too close to a firepit. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?!” His tone was frantic and his eyes blazed red as he unleashed all his pent-up rage and fear. Then he turned with a snarl on Nyr and bared his fangs at him, putting himself between the two of them.

Magicka boiled to life in his hands, scarlet as blood and shifting eerily in the icy moonlight, and Daethir thrashed in his grip. “No! No! Karsi, no, don’t! Don’t! He saved my life, Karsi, don’t hurt him! Shit, Karsi! Fucking listen to me you overgrown, underfed leech!”

Karsi’s head snapped back to Daethir and he froze, then loosened his grip on Daethir’s leather jerkin. “That’s a draugr,” he said flatly, as if Daethir had lost his wits down in the tomb.

“Ten out of ten for observation,” Daethir sneered, looking around Karsi’s figure to meet Nyr’s gaze. “I told you he was the smart one.”

“So you did,” Nyr said dryly. He swallowed and stepped back into the shadows of the doorway, and Karsi flew at him.

The moment he hit the threshold, Karsi collided with a magical barrier and rebounded as if he’d hit a solid wall. He grunted and hissed like a wet cat, shaking himself out and rounding on Nyr again. “Why would a draugr help an intruder instead of attacking?”

Daethir blinked. It had never occurred to him to ask that question. He really was fucking simple.

Nyr’s lips twitched into his sad smile. “I couldn’t bear to see a fellow elf spend his eternity in the tomb of a human king who had been so cruel to our kind. Take care of him, Karsi,” he said, and turned away.

The door didn’t immediately close, so Daethir did something that was so perfectly in-keeping with his track record of uninhibited stupidity, and darted after him before Karsi had realised what he was doing.

The vampire snatched for him and roared in wordless fury when Daethir’s jerkin slipped through his fingers behind the impenetrable barrier and he heard the weight of compulsion in Karsi’s words as he added, “Daethir, come back here right now!”

“Doesn’t work if I'm not looking at you!” Daethir shot back merrily over his shoulder and was answered with another impotent yowl of fury from his lover.

Nyr had stopped and was frowning in confusion at him. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was even softer now, as though talking so much had strained his fragile vocal cords to their limit and even Daethir’s sharp ears nearly missed the question.

“I… I’m not sure,” he said honestly.

“Go, Daethir,” Nyr said gently. “Go with Karsi and put this place out of your mind.”

“I’m not sure I can,” he breathed. “I… Do you have to stay here? Are you trapped by the barrier that’s keeping Karsi out? Wait, no, you just passed through it. Fuck, I’m so stupid sometimes,” he said, smacking his forehead with his palm.

Nyr stepped closer and drew Daethir’s hand away from his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Karsi roared at him from the mouth of the tunnel. “Get your filthy corpse hands off him! I swear by all the blood in my body and all the blood I’ve ever taken in the unholy sacrament of feeding that I will rip you apart and scatter your remains to the wolves if you don’t unhand him!”

“Ignore him,” Daethir snorted at Nyr without looking around. “He’s always had a terrible flare for the dramatic, and it only gets worse when he’s like that.”

“He’s worried for you,” Nyr smiled, and he let go. “Cherish it.”

“Tolerate it, more like,” Daethir said with a sigh. “But yeah. Do you have to stay here?”

“Look at me, Daethir. Where else could I go? I’m the last of my race, if what you say is true, and you will probably be the first and only person not to take one look at me and decide I must be destroyed on the spot.” He jutted his delicate chin towards the tunnel mouth where Karsi was pacing and snarling with bared fangs, his eyes locked on the pair of them. “He’s already proven my point.”

“Pfft, you’re not that special. He’s like that with anyone he thinks is a threat to me, and with how often I get myself in a pickle, trust me, that’s quite a lot of people. It’s nothing personal.”

“It very much is personal, you dim-witted Wood Elf!” Karsi spat, though it came out as affectionately petulant now, rather than truly fearful. “Would you please, darling, love and light of my life, back away from that thing and come back out here to join me?” Sarcasm dripped so tangibly off his tone that Daethir could practically taste it.

He sighed and continued to ignore the vampire.

“Come with us. If you’re not bound to this place, come with us.”

“Why?”

“See the world? See what’s changed since you went in there,” he said, jerking his thumb down the passageway. “Get away from the shitty Nords who imprisoned you in there for all eternity –”

“-- Nords aren’t shitty anymore?” Nyr asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, they’re shittier than ever, especially to us elves, but –”

From behind him, Karsi sputtered. “‘Us’ elves?”

“Shut up. You’re a Nord, Karsi, so you don’t get a say in this,” Daethir barked without bite.

They heard Karsi’s inhalation of surprise, even above the wind that whistled around the mountaintop tomb. “He’s an elf? Daethir, the Nords who made the draugr would never have used elves for draugr servants. They thought they were animals!”

“Worse than animals, actually,” Nyr said with a sharp smile. “They enslaved us. We weren’t even afforded the same dignity you’d give a dog.”

Karsi fell still and silent at that and stood staring for a long time. Finally, he breathed, “That hair…” He let his red gaze slide up and down Nyr’s skeletally thin body and then added, “You’re a Snow Elf.”

With a quiet dignity, Nýráðr bowed his head with closed eyes.

Daethir watched his lover for a long time, sensing the kind of thoughts that would be racing through that scholar’s head of his. Making a silent ‘wait there’ gesture to Nyr, he turned and went back to Karsi.

The vampire’s eyes were unfocused, now staring unseeing at the floor near the doorway to the tomb.

“Karse…?” Karsi truly hated that nickname because it was the word for a small, edible plant that went well with egg sandwiches in some highborn circles, and sure enough, it snapped him immediately out of his reverie.

His upper lip twitched but his eyes faded from red to gold. That he wasn’t bothering with the glamour which he usually wore around himself like an old cloak was testament to how rattled he was. He sighed and lifted his eyes from Daethir to Nyr, who was still standing, much to Daethir’s relief, in the tunnel, watching them and silent as a silver spectre.

“Think of all the questions you could ask him, Karsi,” Daethir insisted quietly. “You could annoy him into a second undeath with them all.”

Karsi’s mouth lifted at one corner into an amused smile despite himself. Then he looked down at Daethir and his eyes filled with tears. He brought both hands to Daethir’s jaw and choked, “You scared the shit out of me, love.”

“I know,” Daethir replied, placing his hands on Karsi’s waist. His heavy, wine-red robes were lashed around his slim middle with a thick band of black silk, into which was tucked a ruby-hilted dagger, and Daethir felt its cold bite against the bare inside of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m here though, and it’s entirely because of Nyr. He saved me from a Death Lord, and then when I freaked out over him being a draugr too, he saved me all over again and led me through a wall and then up here. To you. I’m alive because of him.”

He paused and tilted his head sideways in a way that he saved for special occasions just like that one: unfortunate situations (usually of his own making) when he needed Karsi to be thoroughly wrapped around his little finger and eating out of his hand and helplessly unable to say no.

Karsi swallowed.

“I owe him my life, Karsi. You owe him my life. Shouldn’t we give him another chance at living too? Let him come with us…”

Karsi’s right eyelid twitched, and although he hadn’t uttered a word, Daethir knew he had him.

He popped up onto his tiptoes, pecked the vampire on the cheek, and scuttled back to Nyr in the dark tunnel.

He took the draugr by both hands and backed up towards the doorway, and to his surprise, Nyr followed. His movements were soft, graceful and fluid as a dancer, and Daethir thought again how strangely beautiful this creature was.

Nyr stopped just shy of the threshold though, and met Karsi’s eye. He let go of Daethir’s hands and lowered his arms to his sides. Something wordless seemed to pass between the two that Daethir couldn’t unpick, and he looked from one to the other in helpless confusion.

“Kay?” he chirped after a moment. “Nyr?”

Finally, Karsi drew in a long breath, held it, and then let it go in a rush. “Do you have anything you wish to bring with you?” he asked and Daethir almost yipped with the sudden rush of joy that bubbled up inside him. He hadn’t quite dared believe it until then.

It was the same kind of excitement and trepidation he felt at the start of a new journey. No matter how many times he and Karsi had set off to find some new book or scroll or sacred offering pot, he felt the exact same flare of unbridled, effervescent joy, and now as he looked between the two undead creatures before him, he felt it again.

“If I go back down there now, I will not come out again,” Nyr said in a barely there rasp. “The Death Lords will all know by now what I did, and how I betrayed them to get Daethir out. They will forget in a week perhaps, but I would have to conceal myself, and Daethir would freeze to death up here waiting, even with a fire.”

Daethir paused and watched Karsi’s expression as the realisation dawned on the vampire of the risk Nyr had taken to get his lover out alive. Then, he surprised Daethir by raising the inside of his left wrist – the side closest to his now-silent heart – to his canines and biting his own vein, sending droplets of his precious blood spattering onto the snow rimed stone at his feet. With ritualistic intonation, he said, “You’re right. I owe you the life of my beloved. By my blood I swear to do you no harm, and to protect you to the best of my abilities until my death or such time as you release me from my oath.”

Daethir’s eyebrows shot up. He’d never heard Karsi speak like that, and he’d certainly never given a blood oath to anyone, not that Daethir knew of anyway. Astonished, he looked at Nyr.

The draugr stepped out of the doorway and around the small pool of blood that sparkled like a handful of rubies cushioned on the snow. He tilted his head slightly to one side, and smiled. “I shall do my utmost to be worthy of such an oath, vampire.” The word came out like an honorific, not an insult.

For the space of ten heartbeats – twenty, if Daethir’s pounding pulse was the cadence by which such measurements were to be judged – no one moved or spoke. Finally, Karsi turned away and walked towards the fire, his long black hair blowing loose in the wind. He looked softer now, the tension melting from his shoulders, but Daethir knew his lover to the core, and he still bore some internal struggle.

Daethir made a mental note to question him about it later, and then turned to Nyr. “Where to now?” he asked.

“I will follow where you lead, Daethir.”

At that, Daethir sucked air in through his teeth in a comical grimace. “Terrible choice,” he grinned. “Luckily for you, I follow where Karsi leads, and Karsi is full of excellent ideas and great judgement.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Karsi said over his shoulder as he stalked six paces ahead of them. “I just gave a blood oath to a draugr. You’ve rotted my brain with your company, Dae.”

Daethir grinned again and elbowed Nyr in his ribs. “You’re gonna fit right in, I just know it.”

Nyr smiled faintly and it was only then that Daethir realised that the draugr was still wearing just a linen shift and no boots.

“Shit, Nyr, you must be freezing!”

“I’m not going to die of exposure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Karsi snorted faintly, looking surprisingly amused until Daethir told him to take his own coat off and give it to Nyr, which he flat-out refused to do.

“You can’t expect him to walk around barefoot, Karse!”

“He can strip one of the bandits in the entrance for armour,” Karsi shot back, gesturing at the main door to the tomb. “It’s not like they need it. I swore to protect him, not divest myself for his comfort.”

Without a word, Nyr left in the direction Karsi had pointed, and a few minutes later, he returned wearing the black mage robes of one of the frozen corpses just inside the door, with a long fur-trimmed cloak that caught the wind and flapped like bat’s wings, and tall, black leather boots cuffed with soft fur. The cloak had a hood, which he pulled up over his head, and with the shadows it cast, he almost looked unremarkable save for that long, silver braid that hung elegantly down over one shoulder. With those new clothes on, he looked thin, yes, but not undead. Until Daethir met his blue eyes.

“Karsi, can you cast a glamour on him or something? Like the one you use? He shouldn’t have to worry about every last person we meet trying to hack his head off.”

The vampire nodded, and crossed their frozen campsite to meet him halfway. “If I may?” he asked, raising his right hand. Black and red magicka bubbled into his palm and Nyr eyed it warily, but nodded once.

“I can do it myself,” he added, “But I think you’re a stronger mage than I, and you have more experience with alteration magic, I’m sure.”

Karsi just grunted something and circled his fingertips over Nyr’s face. In place of the haunted, sunken eyes and gaunt, hollow cheeks of a corpse, a beautiful, porcelain face stared out from under the hood, and the undead, blue glow of his eyes faded to the forget-me-not blue of a wild meadow in summer.

“Holy shit, Karsi,” Daethir exhaled. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

The vampire rolled his eyes and cast the same spell on his own face, and the black sclera faded to white, and the gold deepened to a warm brown, and Daethir tried not to mourn the loss of the ‘otherness’ in his two companions.

“Karsi?”

“Mn?”

“Can you… Can you make it so that I can see you both?”

“Without affecting the way others view us?” he clarified, and Daethir nodded. He looked to Nyr for his opinion, and when the draugr just shrugged, seeming almost curious about whether such a clause could be written into a spell like that, especially after it had already been woven, Karsi took it for the challenge it undoubtedly was, and made another gesture at the side of Nyr’s face.

The face of a draugr stared back at him once again, and Daethir beamed. “I fucking love magic,” he laughed, and to his surprise, Nyr laughed too, shaking his head. “Do you mind? I mean, I was pretty rude about draugr a while ago, but I really didn’t mean to include you in it.”

“What, when you called my kind ‘the wrong end of a raisin’ or thereabouts?” he said, arching an eyebrow.

Karsi burst out laughing, and the sound was so loud and honest and off-guard that all three of them began to laugh. It took a lot to make Karsi laugh like that, and the sound of it filled Daethir’s heart to bursting.

He looped his arm through Nyr’s elbow and then dragged him round so he could stick his other arm under Karsi’s, and he dragged the two of them towards the fire and their discarded travel packs.

“Come on,” he said, glancing up at the two of them. They were almost a match in heights, he noted from about a foot below them. “Let’s put this place behind us. Karsi, what was the next item on our list?”

“The Lunarstone Chalice,” he said dryly. “Last rumoured to be in a ruined temple in the mountains north of Markarth.”

“Ooh, Markarth. My favourite place in all the world,” Daethir chimed sarcastically, unlinking both arms so he could gesture grandly while walking backwards. “Second only to Windhelm in its snobbery towards elven kind, and the whole area is bristling with rabid, frothing lunatics called the ‘Forsworn’. Can’t think of a place I’d like to start Nyr’s tour of Tamriel more than bloody fucking Markarth.”

And then he caught his heel on a flagstone and pitched backwards with a sharp cry of surprise, only to find hands shooting out to catch him on either side.

Nyr and Karsi hauled him upright before he landed ass-first on the icy stone, and Daethir grinned up at both of them.

“Alright,” Nyr said in his hoarse croak. “Let’s begin.”

If there's interest in these three, I'll happily add it to my 'to work on' list. Consider letting me know you enjoyed it by reblogging it or leaving a comment/ask.

Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

(if you enjoyed this draugr/lich boy, you might also like this story, featuring an altogether more shy and retiring draugr named Kalle, and the adventurer who falls in love with him over several visits to his tomb - m/f pairing).

#lich #draugr #vampire #elf #wood elf #bosmer #skyrim #skyrim story #skyrim oc #you don't need to know skyrim to read this though #polyamory #m/m/m

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midorisudachi · 23 days

Text

"The Dragonborn & The Spellsword Mercenary”

I felt like creating a sexy piece, especially when it comes to Skyrim characters.

Because, why not?

Thanks to the Skyrim mods that were finally available on XBox Series X a few months ago (because before, there were no mods for the XBox except for PCs), I was able to experience the game in an even fuller glory. Which meant that my Dragonborn OC Katarzyna could marry her hired mercenary, the Dunmer/Dark Elf Teldryn Sero. About bloody time. I also had made sure to learn 100% Sneak & 100% Pickpocket before hiring Teldryn, that way I was able to steal his helmet and have his face visible…because why was his cool face covered up?

I had first played Skyrim back in 2014, but had stopped in March of 2015 (a couple of months before my son was born) and never beat the game. It wasn’t until November 2023 that I started the game again, but when the mods showed up a few months ago, I restarted it again because there is just way too much awesomeness added! One example: the hair! Katarzyna went from short hair to getting long, red hair! Woo-hoo!

I also wanted an excuse to practice more with anatomy & poses, as well as a different sort of lighting than the one I usually do. I didn’t want the background to be a perfectly smooth black…I purposely made it more mottled with some texture, since Katarzyna & Teldryn are not in total darkness. I imaged them in the cave where they had celebrated after getting married, where there were Dark Elf Lanterns & pretty blooming trees (yes, that’s actually in the game). I also added those glowy Torchbugs to create a more dreamy feeling to it. Katarzyna is wearing the Gauldur Amulet & the Aetherial Crown. Teldryn has a Necromancer amulet (only because it gives him more "oomph" to his magic, ha ha). I hope everyone likes this!

Drawn with Sakura Pigma Micron pens, then coloured in with a mix of Copic Markers, Ohuhu Markers, & Koi Watercolours. As usual, the scanner totally kills colours…this piece looks better in real life.

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gloomwitchwrites · 7 months

Text

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

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

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

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

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

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

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t00thpasteface · 3 days

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Skyrim on the brain 24/7 so I'm turning my latest playthrough into a huge ass fanfic

Ooh Dragonborn (a fanfiction)

dragonborn: "serana i am home now, and i am looking so powerful and also my armor unbuckled?"

serana: "ooh dragonborn ooh let's do it"

dragonborn: "yes. and i will leave the iron helmet on"

meanwhile in a 20 mile radius of this event... tavern wench bodices RIPPING. argonian maids turning GAY. it was amazing

#shebbz shoutz #ask #skyrim

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what-even-is-thiss · 1 month

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It’s kinda funny how the elder scrolls game with the least amount of Roman Empire influence in the imperial armor is the game where you go to the seat of the empire

The Morrowind imperial soldiers even have a Roman style shield. The Skyrim helmets and skirt style in particular are also quite reminiscent of Roman soldiers armor.

The oblivion guy has a lil skirt over his armor and that’s about it. Oblivion armor is much more medieval inspired. And the reason I find that interesting is that Oblivion has the imperial city in it as well as a huge wine industry. It’s heavily implied to be basically fantasy Rome. And the attire of the people in Cyrodiil could be considered similar to the late Roman Empire when shirts and pants became more common across Europe and idk we can call the mages robes continuing influence of old fashioned clothes in scholarly spaces or something I dunno

Clearly Oblivion wants to be medieval Europe even though every other game in the series treats it like Ancient Rome.

Sorry I’m abnormal about Rome and my current hyperfixation has been clashing with that for a while now and I had to get it out of my system

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danshive · 1 year

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Supposedly, in Skyrim, you can wear a Falmer Helmet, a Dragon Priest Mask, and an Ebony Helm at the same time (if put on in that exact order).

So... Without the use of enchanting potions, 100 enchanting with relevant perks, and the Dragon Priest Mask that improves Alchemy, it SHOULD be possible to get +145% alchemy from equipment that's easily put on without any transformation tricks, getting arrested (seriously), etc.

I look forward to trying to confirm this tomorrow. For my current character to get an ebony helmet, they either have to get lucky with vendors / loot, OR the obvious solution of joining a cult, sacrificing someone, getting a god angry, destroying the cult, doing the god a favor, and then wiping out a bandit camp.

As one does.

Or... Ooh! This supposedly also works with execution hoods! Those are lighter, and I know how to get three of them, easy. Step one: Visit a child performing a dark ritual of death. Step two...

#skyrim

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felassan · 1 year

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Thoughts on the Dragon Age cookbook preview pages! ◕‿◕ I'm popping this under a cut in case there's anyone who doesn't wish to be spoiled about the contents of the cookbook.

One of the recipes lists a contributor, a BioWare game developer (game economy designer) whose first name is Harel. "harel" is a word in the elven language and so I just wish to say, 10/10 name.

Some of the props in some of the images on the preview pages (like the Inquisitor helmet and some banners, e.g. in Roast Turkey with Sides) remind me a lot of some of the DA props I saw on the approach to/queue line of the Dragon Age/no longer officially "Dragon Age" theme park ride when I went there hh.

I wonder who is the character whose 'voice' is being used to write the book? Are all the recipes from one person, Thedas' culinary world's answer to Genitivi? Or perhaps there are multiple 'voices'? perhaps, like "The Whole Nug" 'book' which was included in World of Thedas, they're written/compiled by Lady Savarin Ledoure? the style of these recipes reminds me of The Whole Nug.

I think I remember reading somewhere that some of the recipes in The Whole Nug in WOT were written/contributed by devs. not a surprise then that this also seems to be the case for some of these recipes!

the accompanying image for Varric's Favorite Cinnamon Rolls reminds me a bit of Skyrim sweet rolls.

I like that the little recipe introduction blurbs link to existing lore (like Paragon Varen) while also providing some new lorepieces (the competition to be crowned "Orzammar's Best Sauce" for example, correct me if I'm wrong on that one though). the thing I'm most excited about about the cook book is these snippets of new lore. ◕‿◕

obligatory mention of this

also I recognize that this is extremely niche to me as a person LOL but I really hope there's a tiny reference to Serault and Seraultine cuisine in there somewhere

I thought this was sweet and that the meta commentary (fans with their fav blorbos) was funny :')

also, it isn't lost on me that Varric's "favorite" dish yields "8 to 10 servings". It's something that you can make and serve to, or share with, a big group of friends. that's exactly like Varric, and the DAII 'found family' crew. 🥺

#dragon age #bioware #video games #feels #solas #lul

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totally-not-deacon · 5 months

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WIP Apparently-It's-Wednesday!

Tagged by @dalishthunder, and hitting up @singleteapot, @molliehaswords, @throughtrialbyfire and @electricshoebox if ya wanna have a go.

This is more a oneshot than anything, set a bit before ch6-ish in AR, but kinda stands on its own, based off the Missing in Action quest. It's a little long, so it's under the cut!

“You know we’re not getting paid, right?” he sniffed. “I don’t see why we can’t just… make something up and be done with it.”

“We’re not doing that,” Marasa said, her tone icy. Nebarra shot her an curious glance.

“What’s even the point? Snowback’s probably already dead, and the old hag just can’t accept it.” Seriously, she wasn’t actually planning on waltzing halfway across the province over a lost cause, was she? Surely she had to be a little smarter than that if she’d made it this far in life. He was beginning to have his doubts, however.

“I said, we’re not doing that.” Marasa stopped in her tracks, fists balled at her sides, choking down the urge to rip that stupid helmet off just to give him a solid blow to the face.

“There a reason you’re speaking for me now? I never agreed to anything,” he snapped back, crossing his arms and leveling an unseen glare at her.

“Because you’re such a self-centered ass, you’d rather bitch about coin than help someone for once.” She couldn’t believe him right now. Of all the times to be a stubborn jackass, he chose this one? “Maybe I have to.”

“The dead can’t be helped.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a seer,” Nebarra sneered, his own temper rising to the challenge. Neither seemed to notice the wary looks they’d been gathering while they argued in the middle of the street. “If you are, then you should also be able to see what a stupid idea this is.”

“If they bothered to take him, they did it for a reason.”

“Yeah, the reason being he’s a Stormcloak.” Nebarra rolled his eyes. It was like arguing with a stone wall.

“And so were all the others we’ve seen rotting out in the wilderness.” Marasa willed her voice steady, only barely succeeding. “If they went through the effort to capture him, they wouldn’t be killing him. Not yet. They want something from him.”

“And you know this how? Taken many tours through Northwatch, have you?”

“I – I just know.”

“Uh-huh, like the hag just knows, right?” What had gotten into her today? That rotten milk drink of hers must have addled her brain or something, none of this made any sense. There was risking your life, and risking your life for free. Two vastly different things. “These knuckle-brains must be rubbing off on you. You’re going soft.”

“If all this bothers you so much, fine. Stay and be miserable. I’m leaving with or without you.” She wasn’t arguing about this any further. With that, Marasa shoved past him, marching towards the gates, not bothering to look back.

“And suicidal, too?” he called out after her, scowl deepening as she ignored him. Stupid elf was going to get herself killed over nothing. Nebarra stood in the road, seething, unable to uproot himself from the spot. Why did he care, after all? No. He didn’t, he told himself. It was just… frustrating, was all, watching someone he thought might have a decent head on their shoulders do one of the most idiotic things he’d witnessed in his living age. She simply refused to listen to reason. It was frustrating – she was frustrating, he repeated. That’s why he found himself stomping after her, shoving the gates open with far more effort than their well-oiled hinges required. He just… liked having the last word, was all. So what?

He caught the carriage just as the driver was climbing up to his perch, nearly throwing a small sack of coin at him before climbing in the back, opposite Marasa. She refused to look at him, furious stare burning a hole through the rough wooden floor. He frowned, catching how her hands seemed to tremble from where they dangled between her knees. It wasn’t that cold today, at least by Skyrim standards.

“Why are you so dead-set on all this?” Nebarra finally spoke nearly an hour later, assuming she’d cooled off by then. Maybe now he could get it through her thick skull, and they could turn around before they’d gotten too terribly far from town.

“Because no one…” There was no heat to her voice any longer, it cracked weakly. She finally lifted her head to face him, but it was different from before. There was a familiar, haunted look in her eyes, one he’d seen staring back in the mirror far too often than he’d ever like to admit. Marasa swallowed. “No one deserves that kind of fate.”

He said nothing, trying to ignore the pang of guilt he felt in his gut. There was something he was missing, wasn’t there? Something big. Something raw. She wasn’t going to elaborate further, he could tell by how she seemed to curl into herself slightly—guarded, wary. A cornered animal poised to bite if he kept prodding. For once, he decided to drop it, letting the carriage fall into relative silence, the crunch of rocks beneath its wheels being the only thing to cut through it.

The trip was just as tense as it was long, days spent dancing around the subject, neither keen on bringing it up again. Solitude’s windmill was just beginning to peek over the canopies, Dragon Bridge now well behind them. Time didn’t change his mind, he still thought this was a stupid thing to do, but there was no disuading her. Really, he should’ve known that already, well before they’d left Whiterun. It wasn’t like she hid her stubbornness, as if she could in the first place. In all honesty, that tenacity was likely what had kept her going – through the dragons, the endless jobs… the war. Sometimes he felt it put his own to shame, not that he’d ever tell her that.

“You do understand that the Thalmor will track down your friends and family, right?” Once again, he was the one to speak first, clamboring off the carriage after it stopped, their destination finally reached. He’d waited until they were out of earshot from any possible eavesdroppers. “You’re ready to throw them away for some Nord you don’t even know?”

“They can’t track us down if no one’s left breathing,” she said simply. They chose to forgo stopping in town, opting to begin the frigid trek to the keep, trying to stay out of sight of any Thalmor patrols. Even being seen in the area before they enacted their plan could lead to suspicion, and they weren’t about to take any more chances than they had to.

“We’re assaulting an entire keep. It’s far more likely we’ll be the ones not breathing.” Well, at least he’d been smart enough to keep his own identity under wraps. If he was lucky, that would be enough whenever he inevitably met his end there. Hopefully the farm would remain safe. They would remain safe. Gods, why was he even doing this?

“We take down literal dragons almost daily. A couple of Goldenrods is child’s play.” Perhaps it was overconfidence, but she knew how they operated, their tactics – they both did. It was a damn near suicide mission, yes, but with a bit of luck, they might just make it out intact. And hopefully with Thorald as well.

“Wow, really? At least come up with an original insult.”

“I’ve had to listen to you call me cannibal and tree lover for months now,” she smirked, a hint of playfulness behind her words. It disappeared just as quickly, replaced by a pensive frown as her bravado slipped. Her next words were quiet, more to assure herself than anything, “I’ve survived worse… I can, we can do this.”

#wip wednesday #tes #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim custom followers #oc marasa #arenthia red #nebarra #skyrim nebarra #nebarra skyrim

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bespectacled-bunny-writes · 4 months

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So, the ole Skyrim hyperfixation has been rearing its head again, and I’m just going to put this here: would anybody be interested in reading a Dragonborn/Teldryn Sero fic that I’ve been putting way too much thought into?

It doesn’t have a name yet, but one of the main plot beats will be that Teldryn has been hired by another warrior who also refuses to take off their helmet.

#skyrim #tesblr #teldryn sero #dovahkiin #tes v skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #polls

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dalishthunder · 1 year

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Destiny Waits for No One

Chapter 5 - Embers

Pairing: Eventual Nebarra/LDB (gender neutral reader)

Rating: Mature

Words: 1452

Additional Info: Slow Burn, Frenemies to lovers, Lots of Trauma

Mirmulnir.

That was its name.

You weren't quite sure how you knew, but it echoed in your thoughts, bouncing around your skull in the night;Tossing and turning and trying to find sleep.

Skin crackling and blistering under the heat.

He wasn't the one who had burned down Helgen.

You tried your best to focus on the slow breaths of Xelzaz and Khash, listen to the rhythm, try to mimic it.... But after several hours you found yourself tiptoeing over them and back into the main room of the inn. The fire was mostly embers, casting a warm dim light on the ceiling. Stretching, you made your way over to a table, rubbing some of the crust from your eyes.

"Well don't you look like a skeever's nest."

You whipped around, heart pounding. You hadn't even noticed Nebarra sulking in the corner. "Hey."

He hadn't removed his helmet, holding a bottle of wine with a straw sticking out of it.

...Weirdo.

No... that was unpleasant of you.

You wished you could will yourself to care.

You sat down on a bench, staring into the glowing coals... thoughts drawn to Helgen once more. If there were already two dragons out there... how many more were you looking at? Dragons were supposed to be extinct... and now they were burning down villages and decimating the countryside without abandon.

How many more souls would fit in you?

Would you still even be the same per-

"You know, you throw a mean right hook, I'll give you that." Nebarra's voice jolted you from your thoughts again.

You stared at him for a moment before the words registered in your brain. "Oh... thanks."

"Even if it was sloppy."

You rolled your eyes, returning your gaze to the embers.

And despite your still smoldering resentment about the way he's spoken to Xelzaz, you found yourself speaking after a long moment of silence, "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot again."

"Oh, really? And here I thought we were getting along so well." He drawled, taking a long sip of his wine.

Sighing, you leaned back against the table. "I'm not sorry for punching you."

"Ohoho, your diplomacy knows no bounds."

"Talk shit get hit." You replied simply. "But I do hope that we can start over."

"If you're trying to make friends again, I suggest you look elsewhere." The elf drank some more of his wine. "But something tells me that locals won't be interested in hiring me, so I'll settle for traveling with you for now.... And also the whole you saved my life thing."

"I guess I can work with that... for now." You crossed your arms and looked over at him and gave him a wolfish smile. "I'll wear you down with my charm eventually."

He snorted. "Charm. Right."

"I would at least like to get to know you better if we're going to be traveling companions though."

"I... suppose that's fair." He grumbled.

"So, you're not from Skyrim, I'm assuming."

"Gods no." The scorn in his voice was palpable.

The corners of your lips tugged up in the ghost of a smile. "Well, where are you from then?"

"An isolated farm on Auridon."

You waited a good long while before you realized that that he wasn't going to elaborate further. You had only just met... and you had punched him..... You supposed the terseness shouldn't have been surprising.

"Where's Auridon?"

You could feel the reproach rolling off him in waves despite his impassive mask hiding his expression. "People up in the boonies really are dumb, aren't they?"

You grabbed a tankard and chucked it at his head. It clanked against the metal, clattering to the ground.

"Wow... really mature. You're lucky I owe you a life debt or I'd take your hand for that."

"Awww, Nebby wants to hold hands?" Your grin was sharp.

"Careful now, Dragonborn, lest you speak your own desires into existence."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Gross."

He snickered at that, letting out a yawn after a moment and you just returned to watching the flames idly... It was amazing how something so beautiful and deadly was so necessary for survival.

"You should probably turn in for the night." You breathed into the stale inn air, not turning to look at your tenuously welcome companion.

"There aren't any rooms left," Replied Nebarra.

"You can take my bed."

He nearly choked on his wine, "I may enjoy the Dibellan arts, but you're really not my type."

You raised an eyebrow as you looked at him. "What?"

"Oh, you meant literally."

"What did you think I meant?"

"It appears subtlety isn't your strong suit."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Look, I'm trying to be polite here. Can't... can't you just work with me?"

"I'm not sleeping in a room full of lizards," He sneered.

"You know, I'm really starting to get why most nords hate elves," You bit back. "You've got your head stuffed so far up your arse that you can't even accept kindness- I..." A sigh escaped your lips. "Do whatever you want.... I'm not fighting you on this."

He didn't respond, and you returned your gaze to the floor, a shriek echoing in your mind.... For a moment, you'd almost forgotten that you carried them within your heart.

You weren't quite sure how long you sat there like that, but the bench groaned as somene sat beside you. "Mornin', Trouble."

You shook off the stupor and gave him a smile. "Morning, Kai. Sleep okay?"

"Can't complain. How are you holdin' up?" He must have noticed the bags under your eyes. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't sleep well, but someone had to make sure the tavern didn't burn down." You rubbed at your face, casting a furtive glance to where Nebarra had passed out in his chair.

Bandits stopped you on the road, but it didn't take much effort to wipe them off the map. And you had to admit, you weren't sure who was the better swordsman between Kaidan and Nebarra. You’d had every intention of allowing them to go if they surrendered… but neither of them were the sort to show mercy.

"Well, we can rest up again when we're in Redwood." Kaidan placed his hand on your shoulder, "It's only a half day's travel or so from here."

Nodding, you stood and stretched, grabbing a quick bite to eat before waking everyone up and heading out.

“Do you think they’d treat you just the same if you were weaker than them?” Kai had asked, a knowing look on his face as he took you in. Lucifer and Nebarra had taken the bodies off the side of the road, and while Nebarra seemed keen to just let them rot, it didn’t feel right to you.

“I know… I just….” You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You’ve done a service to Skyrim. They could have picked up any trade they’d wanted, but they chose to cut innocent people down for coin instead because it was easy. There’s no reasoning with that.” Your friend placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a smile, and though it was comforting, you didn’t miss the blood splatter on his cheek.

You nodded, “You’re probably right.”

But you already knew their faces were seared into your mind.

They all were.

The way Xelzaz carved the bodies up both horrified and fascinated you.

“It would be a shame to waste fresh ingredients.” He’d said when you asked, and he did have a point. It was better than them just… rotting away. So you worked with him to gather their hearts and flesh, burying what you knew you wouldn’t be able to use before rot set in.

Khash was relatively vocal in her displeasure of your desecration of the bodies, but it was either that just let them uselessly decompose. At least they could help the world in death in a way they couldn’t in life.

The gurgling of blood in their throats as they choked on it faded into the chorus of screams as you entered the gates of Riverwood.

With a deep breath, you steeled yourself, hesitating only briefly before knocking on Alvor’s door. It took a moment for him to greet you, a mug in his hand, everyone sat around the table.

“I’m sorry.” You said softly, “I did not tell you the whole truth of what happened with Hadvar….”

The flames licked around you, Hadvar’s hand closing around your own as he ushered you into the keep. How many had you seen erupt around you?

“Divines have mercy….” Sigrid had whispered as you recounted everything you could.

You weren’t sure they did.

#nebarra #kaidan 2 #xelzaz #khash the argonian #lucifer the argonian #lucien flavius #skyrim #elder scrolls #TES #x reader #thunderous applesauce #custom voiced followers #inigo the brave #odt #Destiny Waits for No One

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99corentine · 4 months

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Was digging through my sketchbook and found this doodle lol

Also! while we're at it do you think Miraak (after the whole political wars perhaps) would do some teachings at the College of Winterhold? Since he is a walking history book like Lucien and Chry said once.

I think it'd be interesting but between the whole 'becoming High King' thing I can't be sure he has time before and after he's taken over Skyrim lol.

OH and. this is probably not important but I assume Miraak's cultists got the helmet thing for the Jarl of Winterhold? Think it'd be funny if Miraak showed up at Winterhold to him and say ''hey. you got your helmet. pretty nice symbol of power and respect huh? Wrong. I'm gonna take over your lands now. And the Arch-Mage of Winterhold you scoffed at? My husband, idiot.''

Aw, what a cute doodle! I'm loving the doooom vibes Miraak gives off while Chrysanthe looks so cuddly and squishable. And is that a blushy little Onmund I see? Adorable.

Do you think Miraak would do some teachings at the College of Winterhold?

Absolutely he would. Miraak deeply enjoys talking about either a) himself or b) topics he's knowledgeable about, and he has a looot of knowledge to share. Not to mention every time he imparts some knowledge he's giving away something that Hermaeus Mora tried very hard to keep for himself (because HM likes hoarding knowledge, not sharing it) which is a great f-you to his jailer. You are right though that he probably doesn't have time after he becomes High King.

I assume Miraak's cultists got the helmet thing for the Jarl of Winterhold?

They sure did, and presented it to the Jarl without Miraak ever being involved at any point, which is a power move in all honesty. Miraak thinks Jarl Korir is a disrespectful idiot, but he's also very easily manipulated and that's exactly what you want in one of your vassals, so he keeps him around... for now. However I thought he would probably force Korir to take over a different province and hand Winterhold to him, so he could rule it alongside the College's Archmage. Rebuild Winterhold into an extremely pro-magic pro-cult town? You bet he does.

#gol hah dov #fanart!#GHD ask #love the idea that all the students have a crush on the Archmage #and are terrified of the Archmage's husband #perhaps while simultaneously having a crush on Miraak too

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ralofofriverwoods · 7 months

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Made some character descriptions!! For all of my Skyrim characters, minus zuft’zahr’s siblings and my other werewolf :3

There’s a lot more under the read more thing but I don’t wanna fully clog people’s dash up, so the Dragonborn characters are the only visible ones for now

Farlian Seven - Khajiit(Cathay), dragonborn. Farlian has white fur with black stripes reminiscent of a white tiger, and has yellow eyes. She uses heavy armor, favoring blades armor and ebony, and she uses the dragon priest mask Nahkriin. She has two golden hoop earrings on each ear. Casual clothes include a turtleneck and a long skirt with varying patterns and styles, the most common being an animated blue starry shirt and an orange cloudy sky dress. || Farlian uses an ebony mace and the daedric artifact ‘spellbreaker’, a boon from Peryite. She also utilizes some destruction magic and some restoration. || She is affiliated with almost every Skyrim faction, including; the companions, the college of winterhold, the thieves guild, the dark brotherhood, the bards college, etc.

Virthik Fjovur - nord, dragonborn. Virthik has pale pinkish skin, blue dragon like eyes, and blonde hair with a braid near the front. He has two horns reminiscent of a dragon’s, the right one broken close to the scalp. At around the middle of the forearm his hands transition from white to a scale like grey, and become a little tougher. His fingers end in slightly sharpened claws growing out of the bone of the hand. He also has rather noticeable eye bags, regardless of how much sleep he gets. He wears carved Nordic armor with no helmet when in battle. When relaxing he wears a cozy blue knit sweater, a very fluffy scarf of sorts, and fur lined cargo pants. His dragon form is a dark grey with a lighter grey highlight, and dark blue horns/joint scales.[gore until the dark red text stops] The stomach, throat, and chest of the dragon are hollowed out excluding the bones, lungs, and heart, and it is missing the usual scales and muscles that cover it up. The jawbone is also missing scales and muscles. Despite the lack of proper muscles he can still fly, eat, and breathe just fine. || Virthik uses a specially enchanted and crafted ebony sword named “ “, as well as minimal restoration magic and a wide variety of shouts. || He is affiliated with the companions, the thieves guild, the rebuilt helgen, and a few others. He is also a follower of ikalis matrix, mentioned in the section labeled gods.

Zuft’zahr Satanni - Khajiit(Cathay), dragonborn. He has mostly brown fur with black stripes. His chin, belly, and underside of his tail/inner ears are a red to tan gradient. He has a daedric reminiscent symbol on his forehead that is seemingly natural in origin. His hair is black, and He uses dragon scale armor for most open combat, but otherwise uses a mix of thieves guild and dark brotherhood armor. No matter what he he wears an orange knit scarf with red accents, however. When not out for business he wears a sweater under a nice warm coat with many pockets, and either some sweat pants or an ankle length dress. || He primarily uses the blade of woe or chillrend, but has a battleaxe as a backup weapon as well. He uses quite a lot of illusion and alteration magic as well. Zuft'zahr also owns a small enchanted pocket watch which can rewind time. He uses this to attempt for the best possible scenario in every applicable situation. || He is affiliated with the dark brotherhood, the thieves guild, the blades, the college of winterhold, and the bards college.

Ka’rah Seven - Khajiit(Suthay-raht). Ka’rah has the same fur colors as her sister, but has bluish purple eyes with bright purple veins. Her markings are much flowy and curly than farlian’s. She has a large magic scar on the left side of her face. Her hair is braided and tied together down her back, and she has “facial hair” which is puffy and flows down a few inches past her collar bone. She wears a cape, heavy duty half skirt, and a loose green shirt most of the time, but also has a ritual outfit with many skulls and whatnot. Her casual outfit is a formal skintight shirt with lace making it a turtleneck, and flowy open sleeved arms. Her pants are heavy duty with a few decorative holes at the top of the leg. She also wears a manacle that functions as a detect magic and block magic charm. She also has a talking skull named torbar, which can either be worn or carried. || She wields a staff made of bone and leather, with insets of amethyst and a large purple orb that appears to be an unknown magical gem, possibly a soul gem. This is used to focus on many spells at once, and also lets her command her skeleton army with minimal shouting. || She is affiliated very loosely with the thieves guild and the dark brotherhood, for a steady supply of corpses and gemstones to use in spellcasting, but otherwise avoids most upstanding organizations. She is a “professional Necromancer warlord”, in other words, a necromancer that just really likes showing off.

Donein Seedmire - Bosmer. Donenin has slightly desaturated yellow skin with many scars and marks. His hair is a plain dark ish brown, as are his eyes. He always looks like he has cried recently, and is a little more flushed than a Bosmer would usually be. He wears a simple green shirt with an orange scarf, as well as some plain brown pants and quality(if a little worn) leather boots. He noticeably does not possess any sort of antler or horn. His teeth are incredibly sharp, and grow back in when they either fall out or are removed. || Donenin favors the bow, and has a specially made one crafted from particularly bendable bits of cartilage, and has little garnets studded around the handle. It also sports special ebony fittings. He also carries a small, rough ebony dagger with similar garnet fittings and a bone handle. || He is not affiliated with any of the bigger organizations of skyrim, but he goes around and helps out in smaller towns like rorikstead and karthwasten. He worships kynareth and mara.

Sifaris Denhan - snow elf, vampire. Sifaris has very pale skin, and exceedingly short hair. He has a tail reminiscent of a rat’s, as well as slightly clawed hands. His eyes are a slightly harsh yellow with a red rim and black scleras, as well as a pupil reminiscent of a cat’s. He has faded red tattoos on his back(which appear more pink than red), which curl around his torso to just under his top surgery scars. He wears a black turtleneck, as well as bits of homemade chaurus armor. He has thick, padded pants and heavy duty chaurus boots and gauntlets. He also has a hood with goggles and a mask, to make sure nobody knows he's a vampire. Also it looks good. He prefers to wear hoodies and other baggy clothes when not on a job. || He usually uses a double sided greatsword, but also has been seen using alteration, and occasionally a dual set of daggers. He specifically does not use any vampire abilities in battle, because honestly he doesn't know where that blood has been. || He was affiliated with the snow elves of the forgotten vale, but now he mostly just does mercenary work. He is married to citrine. He is a vampire that is tied to sanguine, not molag bal.

Citrine - altmer, werewolf. Citrine has healthy, sunny yellow skin with a few scars and sunburns at all times. He has silver eyes, clawed hands, and very light, fluffy blonde hair. Not quite platinum blonde, but very close. Occasionally he may have certain wolfish characteristics such as a tail or claws. || Citrine usually wears a classic monk outfit, with as few buttons as possible, and no shoes or footwraps. He wears the ring of Hircine infrequently, essentially just when he's in highly populated areas. He doesn't mind randomly wolfing out, says it gives life a little more spice. || He occasionally uses brass knuckles, but otherwise sticks completely to unarmed strikes and werewolf attacks. He wields some restoration magic as well, but mostly studies whatever he can that would help out sifaris in a pinch, as he has very fast natural regeneration. || He is as dedicated to sif as the tide is to the moon. He also somewhat follows Hircine, but more in the way that an employee likes their nice ish boss (Don't call when I'm off the clock cos I prolly won't answer). He is also a fan of dibella+sanguine’s teachings, but doesn't actively follow either of them. And of course he is married to sif.

Imerae Semalion - Falmer(the in game enemy kind). Imerae also has pale pale skin, though it is much rougher than Sif’s. She has many little scrapes just about everywhere. She also has a tail similar to sif’s, but it acts more as a prehensile tail than a cat tail. She has white hair grouped into two braided pigtails. She wears the usual thieves guild getup, minus the shoes. The only difference is that it’s all a pinkish hue, as is everything she wears ever. She usually doesn’t wear much other than her thieves guild attire, but she doesn’t mind baggy short sleeve shirts. || she uses a mix of daggers and bows, and favors stealth bow techniques, with the use of detect life and undead. || she’s obviously connected to the thieves guild, but she’s also semi related to the bard’s college and the college of winterhold. She appreciates nocturnal and boethia’s thing, though she doesn’t really follow follow any one deity.

Beynir Pale-sky - Nord. Beynir is very close to your typical Nord, and ironically extremely close to the looks of the preset for a Nord in the base game. He just has stubble instead of full mutton chops, and his hair is a little curlier. He wears the usual whiterun guard outfit, but with long yellow sleeves under the Chain mail. He also has brown eyes. || he uses the standard one handed sword+shield combo, but also has trained a little bit in unarmed combat. Just in case!! || he of course is affiliated with the whiterun guard, and a little bit of the thieves guild and companions.

Lurks-in-Darkness - argonian/saxhleel. LD has mostly black scales, with dark red accents and muddy chartreuse scales along the spine+top of the head. She has shiny red feathers that end with a tick of black on her head/neck and tail. Her tongue and inner mouth is black, and has a bite similar to that of a Komodo dragon. Her eyes are a shiny blood red with very thin, sharp pupils, and she has 3 chartreuse mini horns on each side of her head. She wears many daedric related suits of armor, her favorite being a modified suit of Daedric mail with a sickly green glow and red details. She wears a casual yellow long sleeve shirt under a blacksmith’s apron, with durable leather pants and leather foot wraps. She does not actually have boobs as one may assume, she actually just hides any contraband/stolen goods she finds in a pocket in her shirt :). Taking advantage of peoples stupidity 25/8 baby! || she wields both a Daedric greatsword or an orcish hammer, as well as almost all of the offensive schools of magic, excluding some illusion and most restoration. She also owns quite a few Daedric artifacts, and can wield most all of them at least semi effectively. || she is of course affiliated with quite a few of the Daedric princes, as well as limited interaction with their respective organizations, though she also has interactions with the college of winterhold quite often. This is to get access to the Atronach forge and the Daedric gauntlet.

Sara dellum - Dunmer . Sara has grayish skin, with white and red face paint and orange-red hair in the style of dreads, tucked back in a ponytail. He wears a mix of morag tong styled gear and specially crafted bonemold, designed for peak stealth. He also has little bits of skin where a keratin like structure acts as ‘scales’ on places like the bicep, outer thigh, and stomach. This is the same color as his skin. || Sara wields dual daggers exclusively, but also knows rudimentary hand to hand combat. He has a special coin that, when incorporated with other coins, can tell him whether or not any are illegitimate. || he was affiliated with the morag tong, but has since moved on to be a lone contractor. He has occasionally run into the dark brotherhood, and visits the thieves guild often in the dark corners, for those looking to strike a quick deal for a little cheaper than the larger groups. He has also been seen skulking around in raven rock and tel mythrin.

Mako Lograk - orsimer. Mako has rough green skin with a tinge of yellow, and is quite hairy. In addition to a lot of body hair, he has mustard yellow scales speckled around his cheeks, chest, shoulders, stomach, and forearms. Essentially everywhere there is hair. His hair is dark brown, and the hair on his head is curly, while his body hair is more reminiscent of a wild hogs’, being thick and wiry, and relatively straight. He wears no shirt, but his pants are a soft and warm wool, and his boots are a waterproof leather insulated with bits of animal pelts and fur. He wears a harness for his axe to be idly carried, and lugs around a large bag meant to preserve any alchemical ingredients he may come across. || he uses a large axe to do most fighting, but also owns multiple sets of different scissors to harvest various plants and whatnot with. || he is not affiliated with any major groups, but just about every alchemist in Skyrim knows him as an extremely reliable source of ingredients for potions, and a little bit of gossip from the other alchemists.

Alriac Vilri - maomer. Alriac has pale blue skin that seems slightly transparent and shiny, and large web shaped ears. His eyes have a low blue glow, and his hair is dark ish blue with almost white streaks. He has webbed hands and feet, and his fingers end in a hard and sharp point. When on land he wears a loose, flowy button up shirt at least halfway unbuttoned, a slightly weathered teal dress, and quite honestly the worst looking boots you’ve ever seen, with mold starting to grow on the sides and at least one hole in the seams or from pure wear and tear on the leather. He also has a pearl bracelet and a silver necklace, inlaid with sapphire. When in the water he simply wears his jewelry. His mermaid tail is a shimmery silver with sapphire blue stripes near the waist, and he has gills in between his ribs. || he does not frequently fight, but when he does he prefers ice based destruction magic or alteration. Otherwise he uses sharp, shark like teeth, as well as claws to hook into prey or foe, to rip and tear.

Ithvozal Raogarn - Dwemer. Ithvozal has dark ish yellow skin meant to withstand pressure and heat. They have brown frizzy hair which they pull back into a low ponytail, and bright blue eyes. Their body is paralyzed from the waist down, and as such they use a wheelchair designed for maximum mobility and effectiveness. Some functions of this mobility device include: a built in crossbow, the ability to curl up into a ball and speed around with Ithvozal inside, interface and control of many dwarven constructs, heating and cooling, and many more small functions. || they mainly utilize a specialized hand crossbow and the weapons on their chair. They keep a notebook and pen with them at all times, to mark down what may need to be repaired or removed, as well as to plan out what they’ll build next. They also carry a wide range of tools for impromptu repairs. || ithvozal follows no gods. They are also the only one in their large cave system other than their non Dwemer friends.

Bivelle rivera - dunmer. She has pinkish grey skin with red and black face paint around the eyes. She has small dragonfly like wings, the membranes of which are a dark shimmery black-blue color, reminiscent of stained glass. She also has a small dragonfly like ‘tail’. She is wearing a red and black corset with shiny silver filigree and buckles, soft red and yellow striped pants, black boots with yellow accentwork, and a short red half skirt. Under the corset there is a flowy black blouse. || She wields a wavy dagger, as well as a variety of embalming tools and torture tools. She uses mainly necromantic magic when she is casting, but also has been seen using illusion magic when needed. || She is not affiliated with any large organizations, but has started a small cult that sows discord throughout solstheim and windhelm, and really any place they see fit. She is good acquaintances with Sara, and helps score clients whenever possible.

And that’s all the Skyrim lovelies!

#random #skyrim #farlian’s ocs #original character #oc #writing

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