shadows-of-almsivi
Shadows of ALMSIVI
Wayward disciple of Vivec, surviving the Skyrim wilds.
Blood and ink in the snow beneath the aurora.
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made a skyrim moodboard because I just really love this game
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((A commission by the wonderfully talented @venacoeurva! Thank you so much for this gorgeous picture of my dear old Moraelyn, you were a dream to work with! <3))
#*Morry thoughtfully writing calligraphic poetry about sucking off an Altmer behind a barn or something*#commission#I wasn't sure if venacoeurva was gonna post it first or not so I waited a few months just in case#I highly recommend giving VC money!#artwork#ooc post#ooc
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#soundtracking#Supremely Moraelyn Vibes#My computer threw its C drive and I am DOING MY BEST about it#Youtube
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Paint it Black - The Rolling Stones (Bardcore | Medieval Style Cover) -- Hildegard von Blingin’
#soundtracking#I'm always a sucker for a good Paint It Black cover#I'm not even a Rolling Stones fan it's just a supremely coverable song#my other favorite is the one in Westworld S1 during the heist
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((Some beautiful art by the delightful @villasukkahaha of my dear old Moraelyn <3 Thank you once again, I love the spot-colour golds!))
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a doodle of cliff racers…
#I normally don't reblog things to Moraelyn's blog like this#but the art is SO CUTE and I think it fits the in-character journalling vibe#god remember when I wrote journal posts#lmao#OOC
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1!
1: Gloves
There are some small things that just can’t be replaced, little trivial luxuries but nonetheless missed all the same. Some long-dead vintner’s special reserve, or a particular type of pipe tobacco fallen out of fashion, things such as these.
Take these gloves, for example. Rather good riding gloves, I must say. Here, touch for yourself if you wish, the leather is genuine Bosmeri oil-tan. Tough enough for stern-gripped riding, thin enough to pluck up a coin and feel the ridges of Tiber Septim's face. Soft suede kidskin, I think that these will become a favourite pair, in time.
They’re very like another pair of gloves I had once, when I was young. The animal those had been made from has since been rendered extinct, to the best of my knowledge; the grubs of the Grazelands burrowing woolmoth. Pale and supple as eggshell membrane, those gloves, just to the creamy side of white, absolutely paper-thin. An impractical shade for travel, perhaps, but I could never abide by strict utility alone, especially then. And they matched my Order robes quite nicely.
Such a shame… I do hope my sister took them, once I was gone. I’d hate to think they’d simply rotted away in some storage chest.
These gloves are, of course, but common goatskin, not quite so thin or divinely soft, but still… They do make my hands look rather graceful and elegant, don’t you think?
And it spares my hands from rider’s calluses, besides. I suppose that’s the main thing.
#anonymous#askmemes#askmeme#ooh fashion#I am physically restraining myself from launching off on an entire page just about Grazelands burrowing woolmoths#up there with Vvardenfell's lesser or pebble landcrabs in terms of Extensively Planned Tamriel Fauna That Only Exists In My Head#Morry is such an unpredictable muse#sometimes it's long minifics#sometimes it's “look at what I found at the market I look amazing”
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For the writing prompt list: 18 & 15
18: Autumnal
The old ostler put out a notice for a horse trainer, when the Rorikstead crops were coming into their height. A small room for my boarding built into the stable, a meal and ten septims a day were, apparently, enough to buy me, to my own surprise. Still, it is only until the ostler’s son returns from some wedding or other, and I’d grown tired of sleeping on stony ground.
It’s been rather a delight for me here, truth be told, though the pay is poor and the work leaves my body numb with exhaustion. Horses are a fondness of mine, and even the meanest and foulest-tempered of the beasts passing through the ostler’s yards can kindle a little tenderness from me. I’m tasked to breathe a little spirit back into these worn-out old carriage drafts, to take wild-eyed Reach ponies and make them fit for the smallest child’s first saddle, and by and large I do succeed by some measure. Having no friends here to speak to nor inclination to find any, I spend all of my time with the horses, and the training goes all the swifter for the closer attention. The ostler seems pleased with my progress, as am I.
Is this what it would have been like, to have held more conventional employment?
The mare I’m working today is a lively young Chorrol Red, near leaping out of her skin with excitement to be out of her stall. I can feel, in the shiver of her flank against my calves, how badly she wants to canter headlong into the open field, kicking free the stiffness of those long and boring days in the stable. Her previous master ought to be ashamed, to have let such a high-natured beast molder away indoors before trading her to us.
Her hooves churn the dirt as she dances anxiously in place. The brass bells about her bridle and breastplate, the training-tack for horses prone to flight or nerves, chime at every restless step. I hold her reins just firm enough to let her feel me; I prefer the more subtle touch of directing from the knee, but she’s liable to bolt without the extra guidance. Her breed is known more for racing and courier work than for level-headedness, more spirit than sense perhaps. She sees open grass before her and nothing else, and I’d best not let her have her head or else she’s likely to throw me at once, or snap a slender leg on some hidden stone outcrop.
But still, how beautiful she is, how uncommonly fine for this place. That rich chestnut coat shines so lovely in the pale sun, bright as a new-minted copper flashing between a street-magician’s knuckles. Her restlessness is infectious; I find myself, too, looking over those rolling plains with sudden, aching longing. There’s a crispness to the morning air that would feel wonderful raking through my hair, a sluggishness to my blood from my days here that I can’t wait to shake loose. Honest labor has its sweetness, but precious little thrill has stirred me since taking up the old ostler’s offer.
Perhaps a sprint down the road to the bridge would let us both focus a little better…
15: Soup.
I’d had such hope for a good fish soup for tonight. I should know better than to think of cooking before the catch, it’s bad luck to fish with a certain recipe in mind. My nets came up in empty tatters, gnawed through and picked clean. I’d thought slaughterfish, of course, until I heard those bellowing, ugly barks from a ways past the shoreline. I was surprised to see one in a lake; Skyrim’s fauna continues to astound me the longer I stay here.
But, regardless, curiosity does not fill the stewpot. No fish soup tonight, but my recipes adapt.
Tonight, then, it is seal.
I have heard horker is best treated like pork, and a seal shouldn’t be much different, I imagine. With this in mind, I selected a shoulder, diced middling-sized, and one fin to enrich the broth. The skin I set aside; its fur carries lovely marbled markings, and should be a fair trade for a new net at the tradehouse.
The raw meat was a deep red, less like an apple and more like wine, almost the same as the wine I poured into the hissing iron pot to steam and spit. Some cabbage I added next, some garlic, a little mora tapinella from the morning’s walk. Finally, a couple of bees, finely ground, just for alchemical safety-- I don’t believe the mushrooms’ poison to survive a long cooking, but you can never be too careful.
Now, the house smells quite delightful, and I can put my feet up for a while. The soup will want a few hours over a gentle fire, and I have some reading to catch up on.
#anonymous#asks#askmemes#Moraelyn “Horse Girl but Transmasc Edition” Ithren#Moraelyn has been forcibly thrust into Cozy Pleasant Times whether he likes it or not#I can't help imagining Morry writing one of those unbearable 'please get to the point already' cooking blogs#where every recipe is preceded by like 3k words of rambling#but I've butchered carcasses before I know how exhausted he is rn#let him read his trashy romance novels by the fire#I'm hungry now
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-- Colm McGuinness' cover of 'Gimme Gimme Gimme'
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"It has! Oh, my dear, it has..." He pressed the reins into her palms, wrapping his hands around hers--Lords, her hands were so cold, poor thing. "I've... Kept to myself, this winter. I heard rumors of some awful sickness spreading through Eastmarch and thought it safer to go to ground entirely until the Spring. Caught up on some reading, you know, that sort of thing."
He rubbed warmth into her fingers, fussing over her as he would a little sister. "And you? You're looking well, I must say. Have you done something new with your scale care?"
((Shifting this impromptu RP off poor OP's horse post))
#julei zu#juleizu#oh don't ever apologize for being slow haha#I am GLACIAL in speed these days#Yeah they're just chillin' in the middle of the road somewhere#nowhere in particular
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“I swear to you, I’ll not do any harm,” Moraelyn assured, his voice smooth and soft. “I only wish to see a little better.” His long fingers closed delicately around the cold metal, lightly brushing aside the worst of the dust with the hem of his sleeve.
Faded paint emerged from the muting dirt under slow, careful touches. Smoke-grey like gull wings, traces of silver. A brilliant green, gritty with ground mineral pigment. Eyes painted in Tahvel red, made from the cast-offs of an eastern-mainland iron mine. Little by little, the image came into view as though through deep fog: a strong, muscular frame, clad all in gleaming green and silver armour, the vestments of an Armiger. A broad smile, proud and open, untroubled by the dourness of propriety; a portrait for a lover, then, or family.
“What precisely do you mean, when you say it doesn’t… Work…"
He stared into the antique portrait, but that was not what he saw.
He saw a late afternoon atop the Molag Mar plaza, the Temple’s domed roof gleaming resinous amber in the warm Spring sun.
shadows-of-almsivi:
dragxnsfire:
shadows-of-almsivi:
dragxnsfire
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shadows-of-almsivi
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Bring Out Your Dead (Moraelyn/Haleth)
His ears pricked for Haleth’s every word, though his eyes roamed everywhere else. That little touch of irritation had stood out to him, and though he truly had not been meaning to, he couldn’t help but note a tender spot, a raw nerve… So many years on the hunt did yield certain habits. He wanted to press a little more, hear more detail about the localmer’s ire towards his broken Temple, feel out what measure of peril he slipped through amongst the townsfolk who shared his skin; but already, Haleth’s words had turned back on themselves, and the moment was lost.
Perhaps for the best, he thought, raising his hood as well under the pretense of a sudden flurry of snow. Perhaps he had already spoken too much, and the girl led him away now to subterfuge and slaughter; perhaps in his grief, he had been too clumsy at last, and the New Temple had finally rooted out another old priest. Another blood offering to their own degeneration, to bury their shame a little deeper.
Or, he conceded, maybe the sugar had sharpened the blades of his paranoia for him. It was difficult to say, moreso to tell the difference. Did it matter? Of course it mattered, but…
Eldras, Eldras. The name had a glimmer to it, some hint of… Something he was almost but not quite grasping. Was it truly familiar, or did it just sound like something familiar? Endras, Eldren? Endisi, that cheating bastard, never did get those dice back. Eldras… Close to Endris, it hadn’t been that long since he’d parted company with the Beneran twins, maybe he was mistaken… No, no, that wasn’t it. Definitely Eldras, teasingly familiar but from where…
He craned his neck as they passed the stable, hoping for a glance at some glossy palfrey or hulking carriage-draft. There was little light to see by inside, the torches beginning to gutter in the lifting wind. One of the hearty bays he’d noted earlier nosed after a fallen chunk of apple in the straw, but the rearmost stalls were too dim to make out their residents. “I once knew many Armigers,” he said. “Quite long ago now, of course.”
The scent of summer hay and clean horsehide was a comfort. He drew it in deep, let it go as a sigh. He seemed to be doing a lot of that.
“You must forgive me, my memory is not all it once was.” It came out like a confession, why was that? “I’ve known an Eldras, but whether he was yours, I could hardly say.” He shrugged and followed along, a little closer than before but never too much, never closer than arm’s length. “Things… Smear together, sometimes. A Redoran annual looks very much like an Armiger’s recital after a century or two, and it’s hard to keep the names to the faces. I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes unwarranted.”
The young Dunmer’s boots crunched in the icy snow, her gait shuffling through the slush, piling up deeper and deeper with each passing moment. Soon enough, there would be a heavy blanket on the ground outside the gates, and deeper, stickier mud inside— travel would be treacherous, for the time being. She made her way past the stables, glancing back once or twice to ensure her charge hadn’t gotten lost in the oncoming blizzard, and giving a quick wave to her horse, snugly wrapped in a borrowed woollen blanket.
Haleth huffed, blowing on her gloved hands before igniting a small flame in them, a simple spell she’d learned in her first few months at the College of Winterhold; it would keep her warm until she was able to return home— rather, her former home. “Here,” she called back through the wind, tilting her head. “It’s gonna get bad later; but Ambarys and Malthyr could give you a good place to stay. I mean, it won’ be nearly as nice as Candlehearth hall, or so I’m told, but it’s something. Or the Temple of Talos, if you can stand ‘em talking about the guy all the time. They’re supposed to help people who need it.”
There was a click of armor, a hiss of metal scraping on metal as one of the guards at the gate moved to draw his weapon. Haleth looked up, glancing back to the older mer for a moment. “Azura’s gleaming rear, we’re just coming back in from the stables! An’ we don’t have anything to declare. See?” she cried, before holding up her hands to prove they were empty. The elder of the two guardsmen grunted, gesturing to the gate. Haleth nodded in thanks, and moved to pull open the heavy iron doors, struggling against their weight before opening it just a bit— enough for a small elf and her thin companion to squeeze through.
The streets were bustling at this hour, even with the incoming weather that was sure to bring the city’s activity— at least, in its poorer quarters— grinding to a halt. She said nothing as she lead Moraelyn up the side alleys to her grandparents’ old home, fiddling with the key in its stubborn lock, grumbling to herself as she tried to open the door. “What’s a Redoran annual?” she asked, glancing back to him, tilting her head in confusion. “My grand-ata was both: a Redoran and an Armiger. But I thought there weren’t very many of ��em. He always made it seem like there were only a few at a time.”
Finally, she heard the satisfactory click of the lock, and she pushed the door open to the small home. A thin layer of dust had come to rest over most things, though the Waiting Door in the corner practically had a centimeter of the stuff. “Here,” she said, nodding to a chair. “I’ll go get your ink.”
They made their way in silence, or at least wordlessly. The crisp crunch-creak of their footfalls played like timpani through Moraelyn’s skull, the squeal of new-fallen snow underfoot like shrieking razors in his too-sharp ears; but for all that the snow gnawed at his mind, the sounds of the city around them seemed blessedly muffled by it.
What was it that Uncle Endalyn used to say? That old idiom about hounds and honey? How did that go again…
The guards seemed more bored and ill-tempered than genuinely suspicious, likely sour at the prospect of standing at post through a blizzard; more little blessings. Not enough to feel comfortable letting them see his face, of course. Through the city’s tangled alleys, Moraelyn kept his eyes to the treacherous ground, setting his steps by vulpine habit into the prints of Haleth’s boots. Their single trail was already fading into the fresh powder by the time they halted at a tired-looking door of weathered wood, still clung to here and there by stubborn patches of faded paint.
He knocked the ice from his boots against the curb step, noting quietly the spiderweb bridging over the edge and sill of the windowpane, the touches of green corrosion like moss in the brazen lock Haleth busily wrestled with. A house little-used, it would seem, or perhaps abandoned; a trap? Couldn’t be, not without… But if… His fingers twitched, just slightly, counting out the places where his knives cleaved close and warm to his skin.
Wrist, forearm, belt, back, shoulder, boot, garter, hip, waist–
He started at Haleth’s voice, a sudden tug back to the present. His jaw ached; had he been grinding his teeth again? “Oh,” he began, “far more Redoran than Armigers, naturally. As a Great House, it’s cus–”
The stubborn door gave way, and abruptly, the young mer vanished inside with a vague welcome. He blinked.
“…Thank you.”
The humble little room was, indeed, clearly disused, and had been for quite some time. Even in the dull light from the window, the thick dust lent a soft monochrome quality. Impossible to say how long such dust had laid like dun-grey moth wings, a year? Three? Ten?
After two years, the dust doesn’t get any worse. After four, you don’t notice it.
He wandered slowly around the room, treading quietly as he was able. There was a touch of the tomb about this place, more of a mausoleum than a home. He felt a kind of shabby reverence in watching the airborne motes of dust cast up by the turbulence of his passing. Perhaps he’d best not touch anything…
An alcove in the shadows caught his eye, thicker with dust than the rest of the room. Many items were spread upon its shelves and benches, vague shapes almost completely swallowed up by cobwebs and neglect. Even so…
There, the faintest hint of some warm-toned metal, maybe brass or copper. Leaning against the wall, a rectangular shape suggesting a portrait, the small ones travelers used to carry inside their journals to protect the paintwork. And just there, almost completely filled with dust piled high like dredging flour, an embossed seal of House Redoran struck into the metal of the frame.
He raised a hesitant hand, considering whether or not to brush aside the cloaking filth. The least he could do was ask.
“Haleth?”
She flitted around the small flat like a little hummingbird, prodding things forgotten since leaving for Winterhold: a small oil lamp, a bit of its fuel long-since turned sour and scummy, lingering in the base; some candles, bottles of flin and shein, pots and pans. She ran a hand over each, searching for something-or-other. Finally, she reached a small drawer, brightening. “Ah! I knew there was still some left!” she cried, pulling the knob, and retrieving her quarry.
“Here you are!” Haleth turned on a heel, returning to her guest, shoving a stack of blank, clean— if a somewhat musty— paper. “My Grand-ata kept these around for writing letters back to the House, and our cousins, and… other people, probably?” She shrugged, turning back to the desk and diving into its bowels, knocking aside trinkets and empty inkwells. “Oh, and poetry. He always wrote songs, and poetry, and sent them back to his uncles in Morrowind.” Her nose wrinkled; though her head remained in the drawer, the childish derision was clear in her voice. “It was always about love, and heroes, and fighting monsters on behalf of the Three. Squishy stuff. Blech!”
Haleth gave a hum of approval as her hand finally wrapped around a half-full bottle of ink, carefully trying to untangle herself from the desk, and dusting some spiderwebs from her hair as she returned to Moraelyn. As she approached, however, and she followed his line of sight, her smile fell, her ears flicking back. The young mage’s lips pursed and she looked down, hands tightening around the jar of ink.
“Sorry for the mess,” she muttered, moving to try to find something, anything, to toss over the ancient altar. Her eyes fell to a cloak, one made of kresh-cloth and fine silk. It still smelled of her grand-ata’s hackle-lo pipe, even after the long years. “I can cover it. O-or— or I can get rid of it.”
But as Moraelyn approached the Waiting Door, all Haleth could do was watch, the cloak hanging limply in one hand, half-filled bottle of ink in the other. She drew in a short breath, shifting where she stood, like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit jar.
“This was my grandparent’s, when they were still… you know…” She stepped toward the corner, shrugging as her guest turned to her for permission. “Do whatever you want, I suppose. It’s not really mine. My great-grand-ata is next door. That’s where he and my Grandpapa stay when they visit Windhelm.” She tilted her head, looking between the Waiting Door and Moraelyn. “What are you going to do to it? Nothing bad, right? I don’t know if my family would appreciate if it was broken. Even if it doesn’t work.”
#dragxnsfire#Bring Out Your Dead#tag#short and sweet to get us back in the swing of things#somehow this took me all day -_-;;#Moraelyn.exe has crashed
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"Delusional Grief", by Bear McCreary.
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Mutheserahh~ Drinksh-Many-Fishh heard it isshhh looking for ring yesssh? Drinks-Many-Fishh knows where issh ring, yesssh, here, just here, with Drinksh-Many-Fish. No! No! Touch her not! Dark elveshhh should only watchh, no toughh, no painssh, not hurt Drinksh-Many-Fishh, just tell if issh ring it ish looking for.
...
... Sera, this is an old horseshoe nail.
Why don’t you-- no, no I’m not trying to take it, I promise-- Fine, yes, keep it! B’vek...
#I know you wanted a Sad Post about his long-lost wedding band but I Simply Must Stay Silly#anonymous#asks#misc asks
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*Sniff sniff* is something burning?
N’chow, the blasted pheasant--!
Ssst... Well, the skin is a total loss, but the flesh isn’t too scorched. I can only hope the sauce will save it somewhat. A pity I’m not more fond of juniper berry glazes...
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((Happy 9th blog-anniversary to my dear old Moraelyn <3 My favorite of all my artisanal homemade blorbos, and the long-suffering cypher of all my blatant personal mental illnesses and neuroses.
Thank you to everyone who's stuck with us all these years, I truly appreciate it more than you could imagine. And thank you to @thesanityclause for this excellent anniversary art!))
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It's my 9 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳
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Muthesra! Come, join us on this happy day. For we are remembering our old home, and the old ways. Perhaps you would sing us a song you remember of your childhood?
Of course, sera, of course! Let’s see now… Ah, do you remember the first year Temple lessons, for the littlest children? Those songs the Templemer would sing with us to teach us to be careful and clever? I remember, I sang them to my little sister, Aruvem.
In the velvet dark of the kwama mine
The queen counts her children, three, six, nine
Strong and meek and small in turn
With sturdy shells and bites that burn
In the deep soft ash by foyada’s glow
The nix-hounds hoot and howl and low
Guard our families, stalk our lives
Haunting songs and hungry eyes
In the flowing course of the river’s run
The fishes splash beneath the sun
Shining scales and sweet white meat
Gnaw clean our bones in long sharp teeth
In the hallowed stone of God-City’s streets
The Watch hunts traitors, slaves and thieves
Father, uncle, brother, once
Beneath the gold, are no one’s sons
Mother Morrowind, Clockwork King
The Poet’s tongues we praise and sing
ALMSIVI’s lesson to little elves
–The Three guards those who guard themselves.
#Anonymous#(This has been in my drafts since FEB 2016 what)#asks#misc asks#(I'm FINALLY on the end of my taxidermy rush work for the year so now I have a little more time to write and bury myself in TES escapism)#tumblr why do you keep fucking up my formatting
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