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argisthebulwark · 9 months

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Remind Me I Am Your One & Only

summary: How I think various skryim men would react to feeling jealous. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Brynjolf, Cicero, Vilkas, Farkas, Miraak, Balimund, Erandur warnings: none

For Brynjolf, jealousy is unexpected. He’s secure in your relationship and your feelings for each other but isn't prepared to see you undercover. Watching you snag a pocket watch off some unsuspecting noble hardly distracts him from the flirtatious tone dripping from your lips. He can't exactly voice how he feels without blowing your cover. Instead, he decides two can play that game. Brynjolf knows you’re watching when his touch lingers just a tad too long on a Thane’s bejeweled necklace, smug satisfaction smothering the burning pit of jealousy in his stomach. “Don’t worry your pretty head, love. I don’t mind as long as I’m the only one you’re leavin’ with tonight.”

Cicero’s jealousy is stealthy. Most wouldn’t notice the way his smile devolves to a sneer or the narrowing of his eyes. He holds back the barrage of threats dancing along the tip of his tongue, concealing the bloodlust simmering just under his skin. He trusts his Listener. He does not trust this stranger who dared to put an all too familiar hand on them. “Silly, funny Listener. Cicero is your fool! Devoted Cicero, your loyal Keeper will take care of those who cross your boundary.”

Vilkas will get frighteningly quiet. He’s tense, eyes darkening and brows tightening as he glares down at whoever dared to speak to you in such a way. His presence at your side is near constant, always your shadow. He assumed everyone in Whiterun knew the Harbinger owned his heart. Luckily, the intensity of his stare is enough to shoo off your pursuer. “Of course I wasn’t glaring - why would you think such a thing? If I wanted to scare them off I would’ve drawn my sword. I’m not jealous, that’s childish.”

Farkas isn’t one for jealousy. He knows you only have eyes for one another. Watching someone attempt to flirt with you is fairly entertaining, knowing that you must be biting your tongue in anticipation for the killing blow. He can’t be blamed if he flexes just a tad when you point him out or drops a few more terms of endearment into the following conversation. “I thought everyone learned what a Band of Matrimony meant in our primary lessons. A shame, remind me to do something sickeningly romantic when we next visit the market.”

Miraak’s jealousy is deafening. Despite escaping Apocrypha and returning to a mortal body he’s maintained the stature of a god. Strategically placed, possessive hands and a voice rich with ancient power make no qualms with broadcasting his place as your beloved. “Mere mortal, do you not realize who stands before you? You deign to speak to them in such a familiar tone? Tsk, if I were the Dragonborn you would not remain standing. Pity.”

Balimind is not a man that is jealous often. He knows his feelings and yours, he is quite comfortable in your relationship. Even when you’re out on the road and he’s dutifully working away at his forge you remember to send letters. Whether you’re keeping him up to date on your latest conquest or expressing how lonely you are it’s reassuring. On the rare occasion he’s alone, dining in the tavern and some idle chatter about you reaches his ears, he’ll have no trouble reminding them whose arms you fall into upon returning. “C’mon now, folks. I know they’re easy on the eyes but it’s my tub they’re wrecking with all those dragon guts. Best watch your words.”

Erandur’s jealousy would be turned inward. He can only see the ways in which whoever shows interest in you compares to him - they’re younger, their pasts surely less sordid. It will surely take him some time and the occasional word of encouragement to feel confident in his place as your partner. “I assure you, my love. All is well. No need to worry over me. I am simply astonished by you. As always.”

#skyrim #skyrim fanfic #skyrim x reader #x reader fanfic #writing #brynjolf #cicero #vilkas #farkas #miraak #balimund #erandur

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 1 year

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I find it actually hilarious that ppl are saying "at least Alduin isnt racist" as if his whole schtick isnt to have complete dominance over all man and mer and as if all dragons dont believe the dovah are the SUPREME RACE and that was the whole fuckin reason that they overthrew the dragons in the first place

Species race whatever but you get my point it's very very strange

Does no one pay attention to that part of the game???

I guess not?

I raise you: every race in TES is racist against the others. Stormcloaks cities aren't alone in refusing the Khajiit caravans entrance to the cities. Imperial cities — Solitude, the Imperials capital; Whiterun, the neutral trade hub of Skyrim — refuse them.

Dunmer live in the Grey Quarter and Argonians live on the docks. This is considered wrong. But there's also the issue of thousands of years of Argonians enslavement by Dunmer and a recent invasion of Morrowind by the Argonians that decimated the southern half of the province to consider. Yes, some individuals can and do get along, but it's probably not a good idea to have two groups known to hate and antagonize each other not rubbing shoulders.

Also every Dunmer in Morrowind hates everyone else. Even other Dunmer. Outlanders . . .

The Aldmeri Dominion's entire schtick is they hate the races of men (and lesser mer, but they're pretending to like them to exploit them, shh)! They even attack members of their own Altmer race for dissention or perceived defects. They lead purges in Valenwood against the Bosmer.

Let's also remember the Countess of Leyawiin in Oblivion, Alessia Caro, who had torture chambers for Argonians and Khajiit in the castle dungeons. In a city historically rich with Argonians and Khajiit cultures.

The Bosmer and Khajiit have a long history of fighting each other. Iirc one of the Wild Hunts was instigated due to Khajiit attacks at the Valenwood - Elsweyr border.

How many times have the Bretons and Redguards sacked and burnt Orsinium, only for the Orcs to rebuild it? How many wars have been waged in the Iliac Bay region between Breton and Redguard factions, all for power?

There are so many examples. But basically:

Tl;Dr — everyone in Tamriel actually hates each other. Yes, even members of their own groups. Folks like Erandur are rare because nobody loves anyone. And if they do, it's because they want something.

#there erandur is now the only valid skyrim character #mic drop #azura's ask box #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #morrowind #oblivion #mod post

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themonsterundermystairs · 11 months

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skyrim mods for pride month!

these are some queer mods i use. if you know any others, please share!

1. LGBTQ Hold Banners & LGBTQ Pride Guard Armor Retexture

Technically twwo separate mods, but they work best together, since you will get the same pride flags for each hold. (links: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/58526 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/62402)

2. Queering Skyrim - The Children of Azura (Trans Lore) & Queering Skyrim - Blueflower Necklace & Queering Skyrim - Lavender Menace Necklace

These mods add amulets for wlw, mlm and trans pride. The trans one also adds a lot of lore, in the form of books and letters. (links: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/41145 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/27733 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/27079)

3. Simply Gay Letters

Adds a lot of gay letters. They reveal that quite a few characters are gay.

(Link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/26423)

4. Gender Neutral Clothes

These mods make clothing gender neutral, meaning women can now wear pants and men can wear dresses.

(Links: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/47037 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/49898 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/53067 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/77468 & https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/34320)

5. Pride Capes

Allows you to make pride capes and give them to your followers or wear them yourself.

(Link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/51876)

6. Handicapped Citizens- Mihail NPCs and Followers (SE-AE version) (''disabled'')

This mod adds NPCs with disabilities and at least one of them is gay.

(link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/63235)

(Tip if you use it together with the pride guard armor:

1. go to [whatever your pride guard folder is]/textures/armor/stormcloaks.

2. Find the file stormcloakscuirasswhiterunf.dds and copy it.

3. then go to [whatever your handicapped citizens folder is]/Textures/Deepening Elements of Skyrim/Handicapped Citizens/Whiterun Guard.

4. Paste your pride armor and agree to replace old file. if you don’t do that, you will have one guard who wears vanilla whiterunarmor)

7. gore

a follower who will respect your nonbinary identity. you can give him top surgery scars.

(link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/85298)

8. redcap

a riekling follower that just got a pride patch!

(link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/73441)

9. Top Surgery Scars Overlay - SE

If you want your character to have top surgery scars, this is the mod for you.

(link: https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/48654)

#skyrim #Skyrim mod #skyrim mods #lgbt #lgbtq #trans #gay #lesbian #bisexual #asexual #aromantic #disabilities #pride #pride month #gayming #redcap #skyrim gore #pride flags #happy pride month

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yanderes-galore · 1 month

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May I possibly have a romantic yandere rivalry between bulgruff (the jarl of Whiterun) and jarl ulfric with last dragonborn nord darling? Also *offers holiday cookies* enjoy ^^

Sure you can! Sorry this was late ^^;

Yandere! Jarl Balgruuf vs Yandere! Jarl Ulfric

(Last Dragonborn! Nord! Darling)

Pairing: Romantic - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Rivalry, Violence, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Blood mentioned, Murder, War, Kidnapping mentioned once, Marriage mentioned at times, Forced relationship implied.

According to the wiki, these two have some history together.

Balgruuf was originally a neutral party, not wishing to involve Whiterun in the civil war.

Yet Ulfric sees anyone who doesn't side with him as an enemy... forcing Balgruuf to side with the Imperials.

Overall this becomes not only a yandere rivalry... but a fight between Imperials and Stormcloaks.

You being The Last Dragonborn would certainly make the obsession worse.

The two would not only like the Dragonborn to be on their side... but it appears they also wish to court you too.

Which brings up old rivalries between the two Jarls.

You met the two relatively close together.

Ulfric was there when you were to be executed before Alduin crashed the execution.

Then you met Balgruuf later and became an ally.

You most likely didn't involve yourself in the civil war conflict until later, too busy dealing with dragons and Miraak to bother.

Despite this, both Jarls have kept track of your progress.

Balgruuf meets you more often, especially during the Alduin crisis.

He's had a spouse before... but she's never brought up during the events of Skyrim.

So for this... we can assume she's just not in the picture.

Balgruuf is used to you aiding Whiterun.

He's provided you hospitality as you were finding yourself... but now look at you!

A skilled Dragonborn and hero who has visited every city there is in Skyrim.

The Jarl of Whiterun finds himself falling for you each time you enter Whiterun to visit.

Even more so if you happen to have an Amulet of Mara on your person.

Then there's Ulfric who comes across you a few times.

Such as when you trap a dragon in Whiterun and when you visit Windhelm for trade.

Of course Ulfric has heard of you, you're a hero and a well-known Nord.

Part of him no doubt wishes to recruit you since he feels you understand his plight as a fellow Nord.

Another part of him feel his heart speed up when he notices you with an Amulet of Mara around your neck.

All this time and you're not claimed?

Courting you begins to be like some sort of power play between the two.

Unlike a General Tullius vs Ulfric Stormcloak rivalry... Balgruuf and Ulfric are both Nords.

So they'll be settling this the Nord way.

Through honorable battle.

I imagine things only get more complicated if you are not a neutral party.

They'd act differently if you sided with Imperials or Stormcloaks.

Siding with Imperials, Balgruuf goes along with it and follows that side with you.

Siding with Stormcloaks, Ulfric praises you and has you storm Whiterun by his side.

I imagine their rivalry would conclude when Whiterun is attacked or when Windhelm is.

Be you a defender or an attacker... it ends there.

If Ulfric wins the battle of Whiterun, he'd walk right up to Balgruuf and fight him.

Ulfric may just kill the Jarl there, he didn't just send his men there... he wanted to end that Jarl himself due to you....

It feels nice to plunge his blade into Balgruuf's gut... watching the blood spill before Ulfric turns to you.

Afterwards, Ulfric may just take you away by force if you're Imperial.

Then there's an alternate version where you storm Windhelm and have General Tullius end Ulfric.

Ulfric would've died happy by your hands... but you don't give him the satisfaction.

Balgruuf wouldn't loved to slit Ulfric's throat himself....

Afterwards Balgruuf would summon you back to Whiterun... no doubt to propose.

There's many different ways to tackle this, especially with their already established rivalry between one another.

If you're neutral in the war then one of them may just kidnap you (Most likely Ulfric).

I don't doubt they'd kill each other.

Especially if it meant one of them got you.

War or not, the two won't compromise when it comes to you.

Balgruuf thinks you could be a wonderful parent to his children in Whiterun.

While Ulfric thinks you could help him fix Skyrim as his spouse.

Who wins no doubt depends on your choices and the war as a whole...

Hopefully you make the right choices.

#yandere skyrim #yandere the elder scrolls #yandere elder scrolls #yandere ulfric stormcloak #yandere balgruuf the greater #yandere jarl balgruuf #yandere jarl ulfric

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coffee-at-daybreak · 6 days

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a fate with you | miraak x reader

"I had forgotten what it looked like."

Your cheek rests against his shoulder as you turn your head towards him. "What?"

"The sky." Miraak pauses to take a deep breath, and you can hear the inhale near your ear. "The stars, the moons."

Your head shifts as you follow his gaze up. A fortunate night for there to be no clouds, so you can see it all. And being out in the plains of Whiterun, without a tree or mountain nearby to block your view, the sky stretches beautifully all around you.

"The sky in Apocrypha always remained the same." Miraak's voice is soft but somber. "For so long, it was the only one I knew - the only one I could recall."

Sympathy squeezes at your heart. You press closer to him, your side curled against his own and your head brushing his shoulder. You're lying flat on your backs, barely fitting on the single bedroll you'd situated on a small clearing. Not that you minded a reason to be this close, where you can feel his warmth seeping into you.

A few moons had passed and there is still stark reminders of his time in Apocrypha. He seems to be learning - and relearning - rather well from your travels together, but there are still shadows of his past looming relentlessly. And in the case of restless, anxious nights, much like tonight, you do your best to stay up with him, hoping your companionship will triumph over that of his haunted memories.

"It makes you feel small, does it not?" You ask, reaching a hand out and stretching your fingers. "Puny, like ants on a log."

He huffs. A brief chuckle, but a chuckle all the same. "Indeed."

You start to slowly move your hand, fingers tracing the stars. You squint as you try to visualize the connections between them. The constellations merely twinkle back at you.

"You are anything but puny, Dovahkiin." Miraak announces gently into the silence. "A hero known amongst men and mer. Your power and influence reach beyond this plane."

A weight forms in your belly, a small stone of uneasiness. "I know," you murmur. "But sometimes I welcome feeling small, and feeling ... insignifcant."

Your hand drops, limply lying at your side. Miraak's arm shifts slightly, his hand seeking yours. Rough, warm fingers glide over your own.

"Why?" He questions.

You look at all the stars again. If you had no responsibilities, perhaps you could lie here forever, until you'd counted every star and speckle, until you could recognize every constellation.

"I can envision a life where I am just ... me. Not the Dragonborn, not any other fancy title. Just another simple soul, without any power or destiny to my name." An emotional tendril wraps around your heart but you keep going anyway. "It seems so quiet. So peaceful."

Silence stretches on for a moment. Miraak's fingers still from their lazy strokes along the back of your palm. He tenses ever so slightly against you.

"Do you long for such a life?"

He tries to deliver it as an innocent question and nothing more, but you hear the tension behind his tone. The worry.

You hum. "Sometimes." The pause that follows is brief, but you still feel the weight of his anticipation.

Your hand stretches, twining your fingers with his own. It feels like a perfect fit, and no matter what, it fills you with a sense of comfort and ease.

"But then I realize I would have never crossed paths with you, and I long for this life more."

He breathes a silent sigh of relief at your words, and a smile graces your lips. You lean your head further against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

"Perhaps in this life, we were fated to meet because of your power - our power." He gives your hand a squeeze, the pad of his thumb brushing your own. "But I wish to believe than in any life, in every life, we are fated to meet anyway."

There is a skip in your heart rate, and a warmth blooming in your chest. "You do?"

"Yes." Miraak's voice is so low and soft that were he not right up against you, it might be drowned out by the distant sounds of the plains. But despite its hushed volume, you can make out the sincerity behind his words. Like he is drawing them out from somewhere deep inside him, like his very heart is bringing them to the surface. "I would find my way to you in any plane of existence. Were we mere crop farmers on Skyrim, or grains of sand on the shores of a sea, or stars out in the endless sky. I would find you, and we would be two halves of a whole, much as we are now."

His body shifts, turning a little as he brings his free hand up to your head. He brushes away any hair that had fallen onto your forehead, placing a feather light kiss there instead. "My fate is you. It has always been, it always will be."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you wish to say something back, but you’re unsure how the words will come out past the lump in your throat. Instead you grasp at the shoulder fabric of his robes and lean your head up to find his lips with your own.

He returns the kiss like it is the most natural thing in the world. It is easy to believe his words about you two being the halves of a whole when his lips slot so perfectly against your own, or when your bodies seem to piece together as you lean in to each other. You break apart for only a second to catch air, drawing in the same unsteady breaths before you are colliding again, the familiarity of his taste and touch conquering your own consciousness.

#skyrim #elder scrolls #tesv #dragonborn #miraak #reader insert #tes #dovahkiin #elder scrolls skyrim #fanfic #gender neutral reader #miraak x reader #i love miraak but he is a challenge for me to write #but he gives me poetic kinda vibes i hope i at least got that right

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sylvienerevarine · 4 months

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Sophrine Aulette's Skyrim Encyclopedia (Part 2)

ok i guess i'm not done with this series yet. it may take a while. i keep thinking of new jokes.

Part 1 is here.

Blades

If you’ve ever met a Blade, no you haven’t (that was a joke, because they’re secretive). The Blades were originally founded as a dragon-slaying organization, but eventually expanded into other areas like bodyguarding and espionage. They got their name from using swords, which generally have blades.

Some notable Blades include:

Caius Cosades, who according to my Nana Sylvie’s memoirs never wore a shirt and drank a lot of skooma

Baurus, a fellow from the end of the 3rd Era who impressively survived the entire Oblivion Crisis

My distant great-aunt Sacha Llervu, Martin Septim’s best friend, who had a knack for closing Oblivion Gates and committing petty crimes

Delphine Fitzhubert, who is sort of my friend, except she’s still cross with me for being polite to some dragons. She’ll come around eventually.

Draugr

A draugr is a person who was alive at some point, but is now an undead sort of thing with a terrible complexion. There are a few different stories about how draugr came to be–many of them worked for dragon priests and became undead so they could keep doing their old jobs forever, and apparently some on Solstheim were cursed because they ate other people. Nasty stuff. Unless you’re Bosmer, I guess.

The good news about draugr is that they’re not terribly bright, as is proven by the fact that they can’t solve the puzzles in Nordic ruins. If you know the voice-projecting Shout like I do, you can just call “Who wants free mead?” from somewhere else in the room, and then sneak by while they’re trying to find the free mead.

Palace of Kings

I’m not allowed in here anymore (see Stormcloaks).

Stormcloaks

The Stormcloaks are a political movement based out of Windhelm, and are led by Ulfric Stormcloak (which is how they got their name). They have some pretty good ideas (make Skyrim independent, stop religious persecution, annoy the Thalmor) and some very bad ones (being horrible to Dunmer and Argonians and anyone who isn’t a Nord, really).

I once met Jarl Ulfric and pointed out some of these bad ideas to him, and he banned me from his palace. There’s gratitude for you.

Talos

You probably know about Talos from the park in Whiterun, where that fellow Heimskr is always shouting about what a good lad he was. There are two main theories about where Talos came from: either he was born in Atmora and moved to Skyrim as a young man to take Dragonborn lessons, or he was born in High Rock and did a lot of complicated political things. My grandparents favor the second explanation, since they’re very patriotic.

Wherever he came from, we know that Talos later went around conquering and uniting any piece of land he came across, and set up what we now know as the Third Empire. Somewhere along the way he changed his name to Tiber Septim, in order to match what the money was called.

Many people believe that after Talos died, he was promoted to a member of the Divines. Just in case any of the Thalmor are reading this, I’m legally required to state that this did not happen and humans can’t become gods, because we simply don’t have the intelligence for it. Unlike the average Thalmor officer.

The Throat of the World

The Throat of the World is the tallest mountain in Skyrim and by extension Tamriel. They might have higher mountains in places like Akavir or Atmora, but no one really bothers about those places. It’s unclear how the TotW got its name, since people’s throats aren’t typically very pointy or covered in snow. My guess is that someone from the Bards’ College thought it up. The only place on the Throat to get a bite to eat is High Hrothgar, the home of the Greybeards. While the monks don’t offer much in the way of conversation, they’re very kindly old men, and won’t shout at you for accidentally falling asleep in their library and drooling on their copy of Songs of the Return.

#oc: sophrine #ulfric stormcloak #skyrim #my writing #tes #yeah we are still imitating philomena cunk here

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deadlymousex01 · 9 months

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Skyrim men watching sunset with their s/o

Brynjolf, Farkas, Vilkas, Nazir, Arnbjorn

you ask your man to come watch the sunset together so you can have some alone time

SFW, all fluff

This is my first time writing/ posting something like this so I hope you enjoy it! Feel free to comment or make requests and I’ll do my best!

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Brynjolf

- Never really bothered to watch sunsets before, let’s be honest, only ever watched the sun go down to know when its dark enough to go out and rob people blind

-First time you told him you wanted to go watch the sunset with him he laughed until he realized you were actually serious before agreeing just to humor you because he loves you

-Sitting on the edge of the docks with you he feels a bit out of place not quite knowing how to act so he just makes his sassy remarks and feels like he’s ruining the mood, the poor man has never had the chance to have a normal life he needs to learn slowly

-After a few nights of watching he starts to relax a bit and start to enjoy it and look forward to it. Spending time with you and not having to worry about the next score, the guards or Maven is a nice relief

- Vex and Delvin absolutely tease him about it afterward but it makes you happy so he’ll suffer for you

Farkas

-Quickly agrees when you ask him to join you as spending time with you is what he enjoys most, besides fighting and hunting of course

-Takes you out to the meadery to get some privacy and so the other Companions can’t interrupt and embarrass the two of you, also to get a drink afterward if you want to

-Loves when you lean on the fence so he can wrap his arms around you and rest his head on yours, or nuzzle your neck, more interested in you than the sunset to be honest but if you’re happy, he’s happy

-If you do go into the meadery and head back to Whiterun in the dark he’ll have a arm wrapped around you to keep you close and safe from danger, or so he’ll tell you in truth he just likes touching you

-If you ask him to do this every night it’ll be the thing that he looks forward to all day, just knowing he gets to spend some special time with you, since he’s not good at romantic words this lets him show you how much he cares about you

Vilkas

-Agrees because he likes spending time with you, he also appreciates the beauty of the setting sun more than his brother would

-would take you up to the skyforge, sit on the edge and wrap a arm around you. He’s not to worried about the others as Farkas is and is just happy to be with you having a special moment

-Will absolutely talk your ear off about the history of the companions if you’d let him or ask him about it, being both a talker and a history nerd he loves the chance to share his knowledge with you but also loves to hear you talk about things you’re passionate about

-When the sun has set will walk back down the stairs of the skyforge hand in hand with you taking his time so you both can be together as long as possible before giving you a sweet kiss before entering Jorrvasker

Nazier

-Is skeptical when you first ask him to watch the sunset with you but will agree as long as your out of sight (at the Dawnstar sanctuary it’s a lot easier to do, Falkreath is hard to get a good view of the setting sun)

-After the first night of watching the sun will tell you that he enjoyed it more than he expected as such moments are not the normal for him given his occupation and that he looks forward to doing it again

-Will set up a bench near the entrance of the sanctuary for the two of you to sit on as well as bring a blanket to share to protect the both of you from the cold northern Skyrim air, and to have as a excuse to hold you close to him

-Will tell you stories of his life in Hammerfell if you ask him, of course he might not tell you everything right away but if you open up to him about your life he’ll start to let you know the more dark things he’s done or things he regrets

-Takes you back inside to sit by the big fireplace and brings you a warm drink to warm you back up, sitting in silence and enjoying each others presence

Arnbjorn

-First time you asked him to watch the sunset with you he laughed, hard, until he realized you were serious and then flat out refused calling it a waste of time (depending on when you asked him he was still grieving the loss of Astrid and was lashing out at everyone and everything)

-After some time will agree to watch with you, and will just sit in silence or grunt a response if you ask him a question until the sun goes down where he will say that it was pointless like he said. However he will still come sit with you whenever you ask him despite saying this

-When you start to get closer if you shiver he will just wrap a arm around you and pull you close with no warning as being a werewolf he’s a living furnace, if you ask why he’ll just say its because the last thing the family needs is the listener getting sick or something and definitely not because he wants you close to him or anything

-When you officially become a couple there will be times he’ll be in his wolf form and wrap himself around you to keep you completely warm and safe. If you start to run your fingers through his fur while sitting there he might actually fall asleep with how relaxing it feels

-While he won’t talk much at all during these moments there doesn’t seems a need to as the quiet is good enough for him, and you both seem to know whats being said without words anyway, as you both just enjoy each others company and silent support

#farkas #arnbjorn #nazier #vilkas #brynjolf #skyrim #skyrim men

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throughtrialbyfire · 3 months

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"Cycle of the Serpent"

Chapter 19 - Sigh of the Plains

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"The trip will take two days, at least," Emeros muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "that's not accounting for breaks, camping, and any obstacles on the way." "Not too bad, then," Athenath ensured that their tambourine was safely wrapped and ready for the road, before plopping down on the bed. "With our luck, it'll be an easy walk." The other men gave him concerned glances, as though the Altmer had guaranteed a miracle. "That may be the case, but we still aren't certain of the quality of the roads, the terrain, and not to mention the bandits. Ruthless bastards, and desperate here, too, I'd presume." Emeros rose, scrutinizing the room before him for anything the group may have set aside and forgotten, or anything they may need to tidy before they left. Perhaps he was merely pacing its length because he liked the place. He'd grown fond of the inn over the past few days. The constant conversations below their feet, the music of the local bard sliding through the door, the talk of the Civil War. He enjoyed Saadia and Hulda's conversations the most. He spent a good deal of time, whenever not perched near his new friends, discussing local rumors and stories with them. Saadia was newer to Whiterun, but she had plenty to tell, and Hulda had lived her entire life here. The small bits of histories he'd collected from the pair gave him plenty to think over, and think over he did, as the reason he'd suggested Solitude made itself evident again in his mind. The three were still wanted men.

{ read on ao3 }

#tesblr #tes fic #skyrim #skyrim fic #tes v #ldb oc #the elder scrolls #fanfiction #ficblr #bishop.txt #oc ; emeros #oc ; wyndrelis #oc ; athenath #cycle of the serpent #my writing

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mareenavee · 3 months

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Better To Seek Forgiveness Than To Ask Permission

Hello friends <3 Wrote a birthday gift for @thequeenofthewinter!!! Featuring Young!Ulfric. It's a character study of the moment he decides to peace out from being a Greybeard. (:

I hope you like it, my friend 😭❤️🫂✨ I pulled some inspiration from this prompt from the Arc's archives:

The Prompt

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” ― Mary Oliver

and also, of course, Winter's Ulfric in her fic "In the Midst of Winter." <3

Without further ado:

Better To Seek Forgiveness Than To Ask Permission

Ulfric Stormcloak stands at a crossroads. The two paths are ones he has contemplated abandoning all together—though he knows turning back has its own consequences. He is young—barely trudging through his nineteenth summer. Hearthfire looms. If he does not choose a path, his twentieth year will be spent in silence, too. Some would say he has wasted most of his life up until now atop this very mountain.

Monahven—or the Throat of the World—has been his home since he was a boy. He recalls the day he was made to leave and make a new home upon the mountain. One moment, he had been pelting Balgruuf with snowballs in the fields surrounding Whiterun while their fathers spoke in Dragonsreach—and the next, so it seemed at the time, he’d been relegated to a corner of High Hrothgar. Has it been a decade already? Ulfric is sure, with the disconcerting news the pilgrims bring with them daily, that his time will be better spent elsewhere.

But here is where his conflict lies. His father expects him to honor his calling—all believe it to be his becoming a Greybeard. Below, however, his home might fall to ruin before his eyes, all while he does nothing but shovel snow and contemplate ancient tradition. He did not choose this path, and given the chance to go back in time, he would not have. All this despite how beautiful the Way of the Voice is—but beauty does not win wars.

Ulfric stands in the courtyard of High Hrothgar, and seethes when he closes his eyes. He knows of the Thalmor, and what they have done. So many lives lost—good men and women, some of which he’d known growing up—all for what? He glances at the path that leads up to the peak of the mountain—a path he has heretofore been prevented from walking. He has not mastered the Shout needed to clear the way. Most of the Greybeards, despite their age, have not. Their leader lives alone upon the peak in the harshest of elements. He stares down at the world and lets the chaos continue, despite the power he must wield to have this position.

Part of Ulfric wants to force his way through and make his case. Would the leader, mysterious as he is, release him from his oaths? It would not clear the shame that would fall on his father’s house for abandoning such a sacred duty. His home, though? His people? Would they not be worth the risk? The sacrifice?

In his mind’s eye, Ulfric envisions great battalions of Imperial soldiers marching from the White-Gold tower in Cyrodiil. He has never been there before, but he has seen the bas-relief carvings and gold-framed paintings in other places here in Skyrim. Despite his feet being so firmly planted in the soil of this province, he cannot help but feel a call to action. He has a single Shout, and with it he can make himself as valuable as an outfit of soldiers all on his own. He can turn the tide of the War. He knows this, and yet some piece of him still feels conflicted. -> Read the rest on AO3.

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bitchwhoreofastorm · 5 months

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gratuitous nord demon backstory. following the battle of kastav, 1E392. tw: imprisonment/kidnapping

They hadn't bound her hands. Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground, they hadn't bound her hands. Even with the gag forced into her mouth, with her hands free Barfok is not without a voice: she can sign, she can make herself known, even if her protestations are witnessed only by the walls of the dungeon and the back of the half-dead boy they threw down here with her, but oh, by Kyne, by Tsun, by Mara, by dead Shor in the ground, doesn't it make everything better? She flips off her captor when he throws her in and it is utter bliss.

So, hours into being in this dungeon, she sits against the wall, practising her signs the way she used to when Ysmir first taught her how to sign it. Ahg. Aak. Ah. Bah. Bah, ah, rah, fu'u, og, kah. Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah. She finds herself keeping tempo with the dripping water coming from one corner. There's a bucket under the drip, and she realises, slowly, that's the Whiterun men's idea of water for a guest.

Yo, su. It's a slow drip, or she'd go bathe.

She hears a soft groan. Kah, eg, mah, ah.

She's not alone in this prison. Her companion, the boy, proves himself to be a little less than half-dead. He's lying on the ground with his back turned to her, not his fault, just how he landed when they tossed him in. Barfok watches with mild curiosity as he slowly rolls himself onto his back, cranes his neck up, gasping for air. He, too, is gagged. His eyes are closed, his hair is long and only red-ish and plastered to his face with sweat. His breathing comes very shallowly.

He'd lost the battle for them. His first battle, sorry luck, that. He'd been wielding the thu'um and cantering through a Whiterun wheat-field alongside her when they'd speared his horse and he'd gone flying and landed hard on his chest in a way that Barfok was surprised hadn't killed him. No wonder he now gasps like a fish. Su, tah, ug, hag, nah. The wheezy little breath he's making is profoundly annoying.

The dungeon is cold. The floor is hard beneath the sad clumps of rotten hay that line it. Barfok's hands are growing clumsy, so she tucks them into her armpits for warmth.

She settles back against the wall, listening to her fellow Tongue die. It is going to be a long night.

Her fellow Tongue does not die. His lungs learn a way to work despite whatever wreckage lays inside him, and his breathing steadies, and his throat stops its wheezing. After the first night (there's no window, but it feels like a night) he stops moaning in pain. He lies very still in a certain position after that, reluctant to move, but he is breathing deeply, and not moaning in pain.

Their captors realise that as two Tongues of Morrowind they might be worth keeping alive. In the morning they're brought bowls of cold gloopy porridge and glasses of milk. The gag is narrow enough that, with some effort, the porridge and milk can be crammed around it, so Barfok eats inelegantly, smashing porridge through the fabric with lusty grunts of undignified gusto. She's used to being starved, thank Ysmir for his diligent tutorship, and the breaking of a fast never loses its thrill.

The boy half-dead watches her. He's finally opened his eyes and tilted his head to the side to look at her; he has very blue eyes, pretty in his fine features, even bloodshot and puffy-red as they are. Just for fun, Barfok locks eyes with him as she crams fully half of her porridge-coated hand into her mouth around the gag. His eyes narrow, and he looks away from her again, the expression of disgust unmistakeable-- prudish nobility!

Still, she doesn't touch his food. And some time in the supposed afternoon he rises unsteadily, shuffles the cell door, and eats with his hands, just as absent of dignity as she was.

There's an old fire-pit in their cell. In the fire-pit, there is charcoal. Some of the charcoal is in sticks. The sticks are long enough to write with.

Barfok thinks the other Tongue broke his ribs. It's in the way he keeps one arm folded over his chest, his shoulder stiff and raised. He favours one side in movement, holding the left, the one he fell on, very rigid. When he accidentally folds his abdomen he hisses and whimpers and then his breathing gets shallow again. Barfok signs to him, and he clearly understands her, but he never replies. He refuses to move his arm from his side. He lets the pain drive him from conversation.

Drawing, however, he can do. When Barfok sits next to him and writes: 'I am Barfok' on the cell floor in Dovahzul, he leans over awkwardly and writes, beneath it, unsteadily, 'Kema.'

So they talk like that. They just write to each other. There's nothing else to do down here, and he can manage it well enough with one hand. They switch to a wall when they run out of accessible floor. They sit close together so that passing the charcoal is easier.

They write to each other about the battle. They write about Morrowind and Monahven. They talk about Ysmir. They talk about his horse-riding. They talk about her home in Whiterun. They talk about their families, and her massacred hometown, and his assassinated mother. They ponder to each other if they'll be ransomed. They ponder to each other if they'll die.

She makes him laugh, by accident. The way he groans she worries it will kill him again.

There's no window in the cell. After long intervals a guard comes down to give them food-- porridge and milk, or bread soaked in milk. Mushy food that can be eaten around a gag. Not enough to sustain them but enough to prevent immediate death. Despite the cold, Barfok starts to sleep a lot, out of boredom as much as exhaustion. She does the trick she learned on Vvardenfell, where she curls up with her knees squishing her stomach to make it smaller, to make herself feel less hungry. It helps. She doens't have a choice but for it to help.

When she's awake, Kema draws for her.

(That's not his name, she recalls Ysmir using one with more vowels, when planning for that stupid, stupid battle. But she likes the simplicity of Kema. Kah, eg, mah, ah. She's so glad he's in too much pain to write out the extraneous letters.)

Kema is a good artist. He draws her pictures of his childhood home in the elf-land, a marvelous palace with a strange shape. He draws the Queen of that palace, who Barfok finds very beautiful. He draws Monahven, and Barfok stares at it, squints at it, pretends she's looking out of the window in her own childhood home.

Barfok cannot draw. Nonetheless, she tries: she copes his drawings of Monahven, and then adds her own of a stone circle and of a baby goat she once owned. She draws Red Mountain and an implausibly rotund Ysmir with a scraggly beard before it. She draws a bunch of leeks, because it's the only thing she can think of that she knows how it looks.

The drawing of the goat is so bad it makes him laugh again, and then their fun ends, because he goes back to lying very still with his arm bent up.

Later, once he runs out of chapters of his short life, he starts drawing horses. Barfok adds horns to them. Unicorns. A stick-figure Hircine with a spear in the background. He draws guars for her, round fat shapes sharing a banquet of hay. She adds another stick-Hircine, scratching his head in confusion. Did Hircine ever go to Morrowind? He spends a long time drawing a dragon, and Barfok, lying on her belly beside him, adds in a veritable feast for it: homesteads, fleeing figures, hawks, bears, squids, a whole army succumbing to its flames. Lying flat, her stretched-out stomach growls.

A few hours after their fifth meal-- or is it a few days, or a few minutes? Is it weeks? Is it years?-- after their fifth meal, as Barfok is trying to doze, the door is slammed open.

Barfok scrambles to her feet, raising her balled-up fists. A string of drool slips out of the corner of her gag.

There is no meal for her.

Here, instead, is Jarl Olaf in the flesh.

She might have lunged. She balls her fists, she prepares for it. But he, unlike they, has no gag in his mouth. The fus he breathes is not enough to send her flying, not enough to even send her stumbling, but it is a warning nonetheless.

Olaf stands in the doorway and surveys his spoils of war. His gaze on Barfok is so loathsome that she worries she might vomit around her gag. She cannot stop shaking, not with fear but with an animal desire to fling herself upon him, to tear, to rip, to maim, to hurt--

And then he is no longer looking at her. "Kul-se-Chimarvir," breathes Olaf towards his other prisoner. "Son of Chimarvir of Mournhold. No?"

When Barfok turns she sees that Kema is folded up against the back wall of the cell. He is sitting. He has not moved. He glares resignedly at Olaf.

"Perhaps not," drawls Olaf. "Mournhold has refused to ransom you."

Then Olaf turns to Barfok, and he says, "And you. None from Monahven know of you. Who do you belong to?"

Barfok's hands refuse to be unclenched from their fists. She takes several short sharp breaths, as if this will make her bloodlust less. She cannot even think for her own rage.

"How feeble Kjoric has become," drawls Olaf. "The Tongues he sends against me, unwanted children and nobodies. Tell me, at least," he addresses Barfok, "Give me the name of someone who will cough up a few coins for your safe return, won't you?"

Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground they've left Barfok's hands unbound.

Barfok flips him off.

Olaf must think she's of some value to somebody out there, because the beating the guards give her is comparatively light. She ends up with a bloodied nose and a swollen lip and a swollen-shut eye and a few big boot-shaped bruises around her stomach, but her bones are pleasantly intact, and she's not coughing up blood, so she feels a smug sense of satisfaction, like she's gotten away with something.

Nonetheless, the aching starts up a while later, and it sets her in a foul mood. So, after she's washed her face the best she can with her filthy sleeves, she lies down in her corner, grumbling under her breath at every little ache. For not the first time she realises how unpleasant the gag is getting in her mouth, crusty and stinking pungently of curdled milk and her own rancid breath. Her clothing is scratchy for the sweat and dust caked into it. Her joints hurt from lying on the hard floor for so long and the beating hasn't distracted from that. At that dark moment, she feels very sorry for herself.

Kema, too, has been lying very still in his corner ever since Olaf's visit. He hadn't even stirred during her beating-- not that she can blame him for that, really. But lying there in the dark she hears him breathing in a weird way. She hears him shuffle around, then gasp in pain, and then he sucks in some hoarse breath, and moves against the ground again. This goes on for quite some time.

He's trying to puncture his own lung. Barfok realises this with a dim disinterest. This thought comes moments before she falls asleep.

Herma-Mora appears to her. She's sitting very still against the wall when the blackness before her blossoms into a thousand emerald eyes. A staring fractal descends upon her, infinity's watchfulness coalescing on a prisoner.

She thinks that he'll have the usual offer: he helps her and her soul wears away a little bit more. But he doesn't say anything. She can't say anything, either.

So she hangs there in a miasma of swamp black and forest green, being blinked at.

After a million years, or three hours, or a minute, or a second-- was she asleep?-- she blinks and he's gone again. The torches have been lit in the hallway again. She wonders if Herma-Mora would pay a ransom for her.

One day, the jailor throws in a blanket, so now Barfok and Kema sleep side by side, Barfok pressed against his back so as not to harm his broken-up front. They don't really talk any more, they've run out of charcoal and he still won't move his arm. Barfok paces around the cell sometimes, and washes daily from the water-bucket, and signs poetry to herself, but Kema seems to have given up. Most of the time he just lies there. He seems to like staring at the old drawings they did together, of the horses and the dragon with its feast. When they wrote to each other, Barfok had offered condolences about his dead horse, and he'd said that he was sad about it, too. Krosis. Geh, Krosis. Men love their horses.

One day Barfok tries looking for more charcoal-- she wants to tell him about the Herma-Mora vision, she wants to confess to someone before she's dragged into Apocrypha the moment they die down here-- but they've used it all up. There's no word for Herma-Mora in Nordic Sign so she's forced to keep the secret.

On a different day, Barfok offers in sign to bathe him. He doesn't agree but he doesn't refuse either, and he doesn't fight when she unbuttons his now-crusty tunic and pulls it aside.

Below the fabric his chest is a tapestry of blue and purple and yellow and black. When he breathes the movement is asynchronous, the two sides of him rise at different times. His eyes are closed and he is breathing very shallowly, as if he's trying not to breathe at all, as if he's willing himself to be elsewhere.

Barfok uses a corner of his the blanket to clean the dirt away from his chin and his neck. It must have been trapped there since the battle, since he fell from his horse. There's even still strands of straw in his hair. He blighted all the wheat in the field. She'd never seen a thu'um like that; she found it-- finds it-- so horrifying it doesn't bear thinking of. But her own stomach remains empty, and she cannot help but feel just the tiniest bit gleeful, at the thought everyone up there will be going as sad and hungry as she is.

Barfok is not the caring sort. After a half-hearted attempt to clean him up, she braids his hair for him instead. He has very long, very pretty hair, and now that it hasn't been washed for a very long time, the colour has gone from flirting-with-blond to a definitive rusty red. Like an old wagon's axle, like the half-eaten blade of the sword her little brother found in the forest once. She puts it in very bad braids and then she leaves him to his sulking, overcome with her own misery.

He looks so dumb in those awful braids. They don't suit him at all. But he falls asleep with a peaceful comforted expression, unaware of the violence she just wrought upon him.

They are sitting on opposite walls and Barfok signs a question to him:

"When we get out, do you want to keep being friends?"

He's holding his arm rigid by his chest, the way he always does. She's surprised he's even sitting up. He's been growing more and more quiet over the past few-- what unit of time are they in, is it the next era already?-- and she thinks he's looking paler, that he's not breathing very well.

She is more surprised when he uncoils both arms and signs back to her:

"If."

The door is thrown open. Barfok had been asleep, and she's barely realised she's conscious again when the jailor barks: "Up."

For some stupid reason Barfok obeys; she's on her feet before she's even fully awake. Flustered with surprise, she flails both hands at the jailor, the universal Nordic sign for "What?"

"You've been ransomed," the jailor tells them. "I'm to take you to Dunmeth pass. Get up, come on, it's a long trip."

There's a drumming in Barfok's ears that she only belatedly realises is her own heart. She signs, "Who?" And then she raps out a series of letters: Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah? And then she signs the symbol for dragons. The symbol for king. She's babbling with her hands before she realises the jailor doesn't read sign.

"On your feet, now," the jailor barks again, and Barfok hears her friend also struggling to his feet. She does not go to help him but she doesn't hear him fall.

Then the jailor is leading them out, and they're walking through the hallway, walking together, walking… out of the cell, up the stairs, out of Oblivion, back into the world of mortals. They're crossing from one plane to another, treading over a billion stars.

Every step hurts. Her muscles feel very weak, the bruises from her beating are groaning with protest. She can hear Kema breathing through his nose in a way that suggests he's fighting back sobs. But the jailor walks before them, leading them boldly out, and he pays no notice to their agonies.

In fact, he's self-absorbed-- he's complaining to himself, though saying it as if he's addressing him. "Primitive heathens," he's spitting, "Imagine leaving your child to languish in an enemy dungeon for a week. A whole week!…"

They make it to Dunmeth pass, though Barfok does not recall the trip. Ysmir is there with the ransom, and the elven Queen is also there, and she is much prettier than she was in the charcoal drawing. And then, like wheels of cheese at a farmer's market, two young prisoners of war are passed off to their loved ones, and they're free, and they're safe, and they're home.

… There's a healer from Kogoruhn who sees to them. There's a special knife to pull away the gags, and there's Barfok, yelling, screaming at the top of her lungs just to get it all out. It's a gleeful sort of screaming, the delighted raucous of a goat kid learning to use its lungs for the first time-- incoherent hollering until Ysmir gives her a gentle slap about the head to shut her up. Then there's food, food, food! There's a cup of very strong flin with some sort of medicine in it, there's a clean tunic to get changed into, there's Ysmir, steady as a rock beside her, beside her, here, here. Barfok babbles through her mouthfuls of food, gleeful to be speaking aloud even more than she is for the nourishment and the rescue. She swears to Kyne, Tsun, Mara, Shor, all she wanted to do was talk. All she wants to do is talk and talk and talk. She's never loved the sound of her own voice so much.

They get on the road as soon as they can. There's a whole caravan that's come for them, carts and soldiers, a small army Ysmir's brought, he doesn't trust the Alessians. There's a second army that Barfok is told belongs to Mournhold. Reveling in her regained voice, Barfok hangs off of Ysmir's arm and chatters to every soldier that comes her way. Ysmir pretends not to approve of this display, but he lets her hold onto his arm, and he's never done that before, so she knows he must be pleased to hear her voice again. Ysmir's arm is terrifically warm.

And finally, after she's talked at Ysmir until her throat sounds like a frog croaking, after her lungs are burning and her head is swimming with flin, Barfok wanders off to find her newfound dungeon friend.

She finds him in a cart in the Mournhold half of the caravan. They've made a bed for him, he's lying in a nest of soft wool blankets and silk sheets. His filthy clothes have been changed for some soft-looking elven robes, and the Queen of Mournhold is sitting near his head, studiously untangling his hair from the horrid braids Barfok had put it in. A healer sits at the other side of him, preparing some pungent mixture to slather on his deformed purple-black chest.

In the light of day he looks closer to death than he had in the dungeon. Barfok even thinks he might be asleep, resting so peacefully in this decadent cart-back bedding. But when the Queen stops her work at Barfok's approach, he opens a single eye. He tilts his head very slightly and stares down at Barfok, half-lidded, his bloodless lips drawn into a thin line.

Barfok is half-drunk from medicated brandy, Barfok has an eye swollen shut from being beaten and is wearing an old ill-fitting tunic from Ysmir. She is not fit for an audience with nobility. She greets them nonetheless.

"Wow." Barfok says. And then, "You look like shit."

Now he opens both eyes, and he raises his head from his pillows to stare down at her.

"I'm Barfok," Barfok follows up, her voice unsteady. "And you're, eh, you're Kema, right?" She feels herself sway a little. "Kema of Mournhold. Yeah. Of Chimarvir."

He blinks very slowly. The Queen who sits behind him looks vaguely unimpressed.

"It's pronounced Chemua," he says, hoarsely. "And you are the most annoying woman I've ever met."

#i'm on a temporary hiatus from the TES fandom while in the throes of a much dumber hyperfixation #but here. drivel from my second dumbest hyperfixation: my awful ocs #this was originally posted on my other acc i'm just putting it here because somehow i still like it

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ms-katonic-of-tamriel · 25 days

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Prodigal Dragonborn AU

Thinking of a timeslip AU where due to Misadventure, Lucien from PD ends up in some other timeline where time went another way, and he and Miraak didn't meet.

Started out as a Gol Hah Dov AU, and that would be interesting, Lucien seeing a timeline where Miraak has not only hooked up with someone else, but met Lucien, even got on with him, but never showered any of that obsessive devotion on him that Lucien First Acolyte of the Cult of Miraak got without even trying. Not to mention Chry reacting to a Lucien that has Slept With His Husband In The Other Timeline, and GHD Lucien losing his mind and panicking.

However, I couldn't actually write that as GHD is very much not my fic... but I could do one without the GHD elements, and a straight up AU of PD where Melinda fell to Miraak who successfully escaped Apocrypha. And because this Miraak is, to put it mildly, very much still a Dark Lord Dragonborn, he sets out to conquer the world, and two years or so after escaping, has killed Ulfric and taken over Windhelm and the Stormcloaks, legalised Talos worship after acknowledging Talos as an honoured and respected precursor Dragonborn worthy of worship, and is now High King of most of an independent Skyrim.

However, there is a resistance movement. A Certain Someone did not take too kindly to his partner getting killed, and raced back to Whiterun to raise the alarm. And so Whiterun is still independent under Jarl Balgruuf, but it's also home to the resistance militia known as the Merry Men, who wear jester outfits to hide their real faces and carry out guerrilla attacks on Miraak's cultists wherever they find them. No prizes for guessing who they're led by.

The only reason Whiterun has held out against three dragons, Bend Will and the massed ranks of the Cult of Miraak and Stormcloaks is down to Cicero having hit up Madanach, and seeing as the Reach's Jarl bent the knee to Miraak, the Forsworn responded with aid and a magical shield to keep Bend Will at bay. The jester masks are likewise proof against mind control magic.

Anyway PD Lucien finds himself in the midst of all of this, dressed in his First Acolyte robes, probably fell through an Eye of Magnus-caused anomaly. He doesn't fully realise anything's changed - but his resonant sphere isn't resonating, and he can't feel Miraak in his head any more although the bond is still there. Weird and suspicious, but fixable potentially so back to Winterhold he goes. He gets back to Winterhold hoping for tea, a nice cuddle with his husband and the attentions of his cat. Walks into the longhouse... no cat. No Morrigan or Argis or kids. Just Jarl Korir and court, who see the robes and mask, assume he's part of the cult and do at least make him welcome, wanting to know if he's with the High King.

Lucien is looking around at a longhouse still heated and lit with naked flames rather than the steampipes and electric lights he's used to, and is almost afraid to ask what happened to the College. Turns out the Saarthal dig never happened, Miraak nixed the expedition on arriving in Winterhold with his troops, partly to ingratiate himself with Korir and partly for some reason Miraak never did fully explain... as if he knew what they might find there. Anyway, Aren still leads the College, which has accepted the regime change quite easily. Attitudes to magic have undergone a dramatic shift what with a True Nord Dragonborn High King Who Legalised Talos Worship wielding it as capably as any College member.

Lucien just stares mutely at the falling-apart bridge that Miraak never bothered fixing... and with no siege at the College, never needed to destroy either, and resolves to go to Windhelm.

He's let in, cultists looking at the robes then wanting the mask removed, and on looking at his face, look very confused and wonder when he left the city, weren't you at the palace with Our Lord?

"Clearly not, you should take me back there, he's probably missed me!" Lucien says cheerfully. Inwardly he's panicking, because they recognised him?? King Miraak knows Lucien Flavius??

Apparently so. King Miraak is masked and robed, no one ever sees his real face. But he starts on seeing Lucien, especially the robes, because why is Lucien wearing robes like his.

"You are a guest at my court, Lucien, but do not presume more than that. Even Archmagister Viidost doesn't have robes like this... wait, did she enchant these???"

Viidost is summoned and denies ever having seen these in her life, in fact Mr. Flavius is upstairs having tea and studying some Dwemer volumes acquired off Calcelmo in Markarth right now, he's been there for hours. And then Miraak looks closely at Lucien and realises the vennesetiid do not behave normally around him At All, and that he's from a different timeline, and suddenly Miraak has All The Questions.

"Keep Mr Flavius occupied and ensure he does not come to find me for the next few hours. I have a... visitor to entertain."

The resulting conversation is enlightening for both. Won't write it all out, but the main plot beats are this:

King Miraak is not the tyrant he seems. He's actually been quite the enlightened ruler, with schools of Jhunal opening in his territory and the study of magic becoming a little more respectable among Nords.

The Bards College regularly send students on placement to Windhelm to learn history from King Miraak.

The Butcher of Windhelm got caught within weeks of Miraak taking over Windhelm, and the Grey Quarter's been renovated. Argonians and Dunmer are allowed in the city, as are the Khajiit subject to skooma and stolen goods searches.

The Jarls serving him are actually mostly loyal. Laila Law-Giver was restored to Riften after Season Unending's events, and Maven was Bend Willed into submission. That led to Mercer Frey's execution and the return of the Skeleton Key, and Karliah is now a loyal agent of Miraak's. The Guild operates along similar lines to Ankh-Morpork's now. ;)

With Cidhna Mine no longer a prison in Markarth, the Reach is rather more peaceful and the Forsworn are haemorrhaging recruits. Miraak's yet to fight them full on, but he's got plans.

Miraak smashed the Dawnguard questline, brutally slaughtering Harkon personally. He's got Auriel's Bow mounted on his wall but rarely uses it. Serana lives at his court and is one of his closest friends and advisors. Isran is Miraak's right hand in the Rift. (Karliah's the left.)

Alliance agreement signed with Morrowind, who recognised the Free Kingdom of Skyrim and have an Embassy in Eastmarch.

This timeline's Lucien arrived at Windhelm not long before PD Lucien, hoping King Miraak might assist with an expedition to Solstheim to investigate Dumzbthar. This timeline's Lucien is a lot more naive and sheltered and innocent, and fascinated to meet a timeline traveller! Still less a version of him! Goodness, you must tell me all about it.

PD Lucien gives an edited version to his counterpart... but he tells Miraak the truth, seeing the man's not all evil, and even attempts to flirt with him, reasoning it's not cheating to get close to his timeline's equivalent of his husband, is it? It doesn't quite go according to plan but while sex doesn't happen (Lucien is secretly OK with that), an emotional tie does form.

Plot Twist! This timeline's Lucien was working for the Merry Men, hoping to lure Miraak out to Dumzbthar in person where Cicero is lying in wait, waiting for revenge.

Alas for PD Lucien having warned Miraak about what's down there, and that Melinda's partner was an Imperial redhead named Cicero who was an ex-assassin who owned a jester's outfit. Miraak instantly sees the Merry Men connection.

Plot Twist number two - Miraak never died so he still has a lot of Daedric corruption going on. The reason he never removes the mask is that he's got sickly pale grey skin with mottled black blood vessels and completely dark eyes with blue irises the only relief. His tongue and gums are black as well as his blood. Hardly anyone's seen it but he'd not survive long if his real face was ever seen. Miraak rips the mask off to show PD Lucien this after he tries to chat him up, but when Lucien reacts with genuine sadness and kindness instead of revulsion, that's when the emotional barriers give way. A strong friendship forms, and Miraak tells PD Lucien his husband is lucky to have him. Miraak's sense of honour places PD Lucien off limits romantically and sexually, for which Lucien is frankly relieved. But Miraak, after receiving a positive reaction from one Lucien, starts looking thoughtfully at the other one.

Not entirely sure how it'd all work out, especially as I don't normally write the Forsworn as antagonists, nor Cicero, who, let's face it, isn't surviving this.

I'm thinking PD Lucien somehow managing to persuade the other Lucien to switch sides and share his intel on the Merry Men. Dumzbthar trip happens, Cicero joins the party not realising Miraak knows who he is, turns traitor around the Oblivion Gate and PD Lucien gets in the way of the knives just as the portal opens behind Cicero and the last thing he sees before passing out is two Miraaks, one of whom is slaughtering Cicero while the other is healing him and telling him to hold on.

PD Lucien wakes up and suddenly realises the bond is there, and he can feel Saviik, and then realises GRIGIO is purring on his chest, and opens his eyes to see his perfectly healthy husband holding his hand, tears in his eyes.

Took Dumzbthar the longest time to get a lock on the resonant sphere's plane of existence, but Saviik had faith Lucien in any universe would wind up at Dumzbthar eventually and so it has proved. This timeline's Lucien managed to get the facility under control, and now King Miraak has a mighty Dwemer army plus the Liisunvaar at his disposal.

"Doesn't that bother you? I mean, isn't that bad? Aren't you afraid what he might do with it?"

Saviik laughs, wiping tears away. "Niid, lokaali. My first impression of him was you moving to save his life, and him saving yours with his healing magic. You are clearly convinced he's not beyond redemption, and he clearly treasures you. Also we have spoken. He speaks very highly of you and sees you as a true friend, and reassured me he has not taken advantage of you. In return, I have told him the Reachfolk have his daughter and grandson living peacefully among them, and also pointed him Matriarch Keirine's way. If he goes in peace to her, and promises to spare her people, she might help him be healed."

PD Lucien goes home with Saviik to live happily ever after. King Miraak sees him off with the other Lucien at his side, who not-so-secretly hero-worshipped the dashing First Acolyte who was smart and brave and heroic and all the things he's not.

King Miraak is a bit surprised to hear this, telling him he, Lucien of this timeline, is the reason Miraak now has a submarine and automaton army, and that while PD Lucien's stories may have inspired, who is going to help him bring steam power and electricity to his domain once it has peace, hmm?

"What... you don't mean me, do you?" Lucien gasps, going pink, and Miraak nods.

"Yes, Court Scientist Lucien, of course I do."

Lucien is delighted, accepts, wait, he's not going to use the machines to level Whiterun, is he?

No, in fact it turns out with a lot of the Merry Man leadership dead on Solstheim, the militia band falls apart. Balgruuf is a pragmatist at heart and a secret Talos worshipper to boot and agrees to talks now he doesn't have a psychotic motley-clad widower in his court to worry about.

As for the Forsworn, it turns out Madanach is ill and dying and the Forsworn are on their knees. Keirine is the one to agree to a surrender in return for their lives and help for her brother.

One Dwemer oxygen tank for his breathing, and Miraak is able to craft a Shout to sort his mind out. Madanach is, if not pleased at realising he's got to talk terms with Igmund, at least grateful for his life back, even if this is going to require regular shipments of cylinders for the breathing apparatus and regular restoration treatments off Miraak personally to really fix his lungs. How much is this going to cost... all you want is a few hours to talk to Morrigan? Sold.

Keirine's fascinated by the Daedric corruption, but is unsure how to fix. She's never seen anything like it. Still, there are many kinds of Daedric corruption, and a ritual to fix another kind might work on this too. Off to Morthal's summoning circle for a reworked version of the vampirism cure, and Miraak's unstained once more.

Lucien was along for the ride, for science of course, and is delighted Miraak's cured, but also a little sad.

"I suppose you'll be going unmasked more often. Everyone is going to want a piece of you now. Goodness, you're probably going to get suitors! I... oh."

Crestfallen Lucien, who's barely been away from the High King's side since the other Lucien went home... only when Miraak returned to Windhelm and Lucien stayed at Dumzbthar to research more, and they wrote constantly even then. Lucien had seen the stains, and like his counterpart, reacted with sympathy... and a cuddle. Miraak had immediately given him Hugging Privileges and Lucien had enjoyed being in the Inner Circle very much, even if it was blindingly obvious First Acolyte Lucien was definitely the handsomer, smarter and more accomplished of the two of them.

"He is that way because of my influence," Miraak had told him once, smiling at him. "Shall we see what I influence you towards?"

So far, other than long, lengthy discussions about Dwemer engineering, the Dragon Cult, and anything else Lucien had questions about, he wasn't sure exactly what that had entailed. But Miraak had seemed to enjoy keeping him close by and taking him with him when travelling. Mostly to mind the Dwemer machines but Lucien had sometimes wondered.

Regardless, Miraak had seemed to want to spend most of his free time with Lucien, and Lucien had loved the attention... except if Miraak got married, Lucien supposed the new queen might not want the Court Scientist showing up to talk her husband's ear off until the early hours of the morning.

He needn't have worried. Miraak saw all too clearly and asked gently if the idea of Miraak getting married to another and having no time left for Lucien bothered him. Lucien nodded sadly, and then Miraak smiled, leaned down and kissed him, fingers caressing his cheek.

"I already have an heir, and don't need marriage to cement alliances with three dragons at my disposal. In fact, the only power I would ally with that is not already in touch is the Empire to the south. Do you think they would listen if word reached them one of their young nobles was going to be my consort? Do you think your family have enough court influence to persuade the Emperor to be reasonable?"

"I'll ask," Lucien breathes, pink and tearful and oh goodness, the High King just kissed him and proposed. Which is all a bit too much, a LOT too much... but of course he wants to, he's spent months staring at the First Acolyte version of himself getting cosy with the High King and the two of them seeming quite happy together, with Lucien wishing he was even a tenth that cool. Apparently the High King seems to think he's halfway there already.

"This isn't just because the First Acolyte got away, is it" Lucien has to ask. Miraak shakes his head.

"No. He was never mine to have. I was always intrigued by him but I knew he was pledged to another version of me, and knew he'd be thinking of that other man the whole time. I enjoyed his company and friendship but never took him to bed. You though. You're not pledged to anyone. You could be mine. I have been thinking that even while he was still here, but was never sure if you felt the same. Until now."

Lucien isn't sure what to say to that, so settles for a hug instead, accepts the proposal on condition they take things slowly in the bedroom, to which Miraak actually agrees.

Peace talks happen. His mother's instrumental in the whole deal. A treaty and trade agreement eventually result, and peace comes to Tamriel at last. And of course, Lucien gets legally united with Miraak, and physically reunited with his cat.

#prodigal dragonborn #au fanfic #miraak #lucien flavius #skyrim

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argisthebulwark · 1 year

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To be loved is to be changed - skyrim men

Includes: Vilkas, Brynjolf, Miraak, Erik the Slayer, Arnbjorn (all sfw)

Vilkas wouldn't feel himself changing. It was gradual, dozens of tiny shifts in how he saw the world. He wouldn't notice the way his tone softened or that constant buzzing annoyance faded into nothing. He wouldn't see what others could - the way his smiles came easier or the distance he'd maintained from others closing. It would finally hit him one night out of the blue. The Harbinger snoozing on his chest and his fingers combing through their hair, a book propped up in his free hand. The gaggle of new recruits would practically fall through Jorrvaskr's doors in a mess of drunken giggles and slurred words wrecking the hall's silence. Vilkas would shoot them all a warning glare as his hand lowered to cover the Harbinger's ear. They'd fall silent, making a show of tiptoeing down the stairs into their quarters when Vilkas realized what he'd done. There were no insults. He hadn't threatened to shut any of them up for good. That old anger that had been his companion throughout the years was gone, replaced by that gooey feeling the Harbinger always left him with. Their sleepy fingers closing around his arm would make him realize just who was at fault for the way he'd softened since their arrival but he couldn't find it in his heart to be angry.

Brynjolf had never known a sense of self. He was a thief, a right hand man, a pillar of support. He was whatever those around him needed to be. He could be a mentor or a student, a shadow or a distraction. He had learned at a young age that the easiest way to belong was to become what everyone needed most. His new recruit was the first person who made him want to be more. When they laughed at his jokes Brynjolf learned he was funny. When they asked about his past or his future they meant him not his place within the Guild. Brynjolf learned that he liked attention when it came from them. He wanted to be a whole person, someone who could reciprocate the love they showed him. Everything would change when the recruit grabbed him by the face, gaze intense when they stared at him and said those words. They shook Brynjolf to his core and he wanted to laugh them off, to tell them to not be silly and finish their drink but something deep down knew he had to change. "You are worthy of my love." Long after Mercer was taken care of Brynjolf would look back on who he had been - empty, no thoughts for himself, no time for anything other than his Guild. His most important lesson was learning how to set boundaries - "sorry, can't be there today. the wife's meetin' me in Whiterun." "I'll take care of it tomorrow." "I'm heading home for the night."

Miraak gave up on being a person ages ago. He became an enigma, a malevolent force to be reckoned with. No matter how much power he accumulated it was never enough. There was always more - someone stronger to take down, books being written with new knowledge, old gods turning their eyes back toward Tamriel. There was always something more. The Last Dragonborn ruined his carefully crafted world without trying. They brought him to his knees and didn't flinch under his gaze no matter how much hatred he flung at them. He wanted them to be scared and run far away from him, to escape before he ruined everything. He hadn't expected his anger to be met with tenderness, his vitriol countered by their kindness. When their hands stripped away his mask and Miraak was laid bare they didn't flinch. "I love you at your worst and I will love you at your best." The rage fizzled out at their words. Miraak allowed the Dragonborn to change him, to tear down the walls Mora had helped him build around his heart. He remembered how to be tender when the Last Dragonborn offered him their hand. They never faltered. Every change terrified him but he muscled through. He was vulnerable with the Dragonborn but he knew they would never attack. He would dig deep for whatever shred of humanity had survived and find joy in his new mortal life.

Erik would gladly welcome every exciting change in his life. He'd follow the Dragonborn wherever they went, soaking up every bit of wisdom he could - they helped him find a weapon, gifted him armor, showed him the world he'd only dreamed of before their arrival. He could hardly believe how strong he'd become during their time together. During the day he focused on his physical strength - precision with his blade and blocking blows with his shield. Once night fell and they sat in front of a crackling fire Erik would slowly gain an emotional strength he didn't expect. The Dragonborn's unwavering confidence in him wasn't something he'd experienced in Rorikstead. "I'm proud of you." They'd whisper against his shoulder and gods, Erik didn't realize how badly he needed them. His dreams of becoming a hero the bards sang of felt silly after his time out in the real world. When he looked at the Dragonborn he wanted nothing more than to be the person they saw in him. He wanted to become someone who made a difference. When Erik and the Dragonborn returned to Rorikstead after so many months away he wouldn't cower under his father's glare. He'd delight in the Dragonborn's hand in his when they regaled his family with tales of all the places they'd gone together. He was thankful for the boy who had dreamed of being an adventurer, the one who'd led him to the Dragonborn.

Arnbjorn was sure he would never love again. Despite Astrid's final betrayal he couldn't overlook the years of love and dedication they'd shared. He would settle into the new Sanctuary expecting nothing - contracts were all the same, after all. He would hate the way the Listener made him feel. He hated them for the way their smile flustered him and the way their laughter seemed to lighten his heartache for just a moment. He detested the knowing look on their face as if they could see right through his hatred to the truth he'd hidden away. The Listener would never approach him. Arnbjorn was infuriated - why did he want them to approach? He told himself that he wanted to rebuff them, a solid chance to draw a line between them. Yet he couldn't stop himself from leaping at any opportunity to bicker with them. Arnbjorn would start small. He stopped leaving the room when they entered and worked his way up - offering them a drink when they entered the kitchen or holding a door for them. The surprise in their voice would only make the guilt worse. When they returned to the Sanctuary shivering and lips blue from the cold he wouldn't think. Arnbjorn would wrap the Listener in his arms, skin overheated from the beast blood in his veins. He would allow them to curl into his body in search of heat or comfort, heart slamming shamelessly into his ribs with every brush of their hands. It took a long time but he opened himself up to the Listener. He would be shocked by how shamelessly they flirted with him after that first night and how much he liked it. He let them in, learning to live with the fact that his feelings for the Listener didn't invalidate the love he'd held for Astrid. He would become someone capable of loving again.

#skyrim #writing #vilkas #brynjolf #miraak #erik the slayer #arnbjorn

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yorkshirereaper · 3 months

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My oc Sirene has an extremely in depth storyline through which she eventually becomes a necrotic siren/nymph like spirit that inhabits the waters between whiterun and the rift, occasionally testing men and mer, rewarding those who succeed and drowning those who fail. The classic “is your axe the gold one, silver one, or (whatever shitty axe they actually dropped)” and see if they lie or tell the truth. I’m writing a little in-universe childrens tale (fic) about odhivar, an honest nord who pays for the reconstruction of Helgen with the money she rewards.

#skyrim #oc Sirene #oc odhivar #elder scrolls #siren #siren of riverwood #tes oc #tw gore #mild gore #spirit

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ladytanithia · 7 months

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Writing WIP Wednesday

I'm pathetic and lazy and don't remember who all I was tagged by, and I don't feel like looking, so I'm just going to thank whoever tagged me (you know who you are), and tag all my friends: @dirty-bosmer @gwilin-stay-winnin @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy @thechaosdragoness @thequeenofthewinter

This is nothing fancy, just a longish scene from the next chapter of Best-Laid Plans (@mareenavee, you're not the only one with no chill), in which Erik and Miranja pass back through Rorikstead to stay a night at the Frostfruit. Erik's father notices a change in Erik after just a week of adventuring. I just get the idea that Mralki's a better dad than he lets on. ;-) I debated between this scene and the scene with Sondas (my love - ok, one of them) at Darkwater Crossing.

^O^O^O^O^O^

“When I left home, I was practically a child,” he declared as they walked. “Father will hardly know me when I go back, and I’ve only been away a week. Thanks to you, Miss Miranja, I’ve become a man in more ways than one.”

Miranja smiled and blushed with embarrassment, but also felt rather flattered.

“Maybe this is a childish idea,” Erik continued, “but it would make me feel really good if we could make love under my father’s roof. It would be like the icing on the cake. Even if he didn’t know about it, I would know, and I’d feel like I’m finally on the same level with him.”

“What if he did know?” Miranja asked. “Do you think he’d be upset? Would he call me a harlot and throw me out?”

Erik looked surprised and bemused when she glanced over at him. “I-I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t think so, though. We may be small town people, he and I, but we’re pretty open-minded. He might worry that you’ll break my heart, but he wouldn’t disrespect you.”

“Hell, Erik, I worry that I’ll break your heart. I don’t know if it’s different for men than it is for women, but I fell pretty hard for the first boy I went all the way with. I’m not the marrying kind, though, and I hope you’re not thinking along those lines yet.”

“No, ma’am,” Erik replied. Miranja worried that she’d been too harsh and looked over at him. He looked back at her with a serious expression, but didn’t seem to be hurt. She nodded once, then turned her eyes back to the road ahead of her.

“You don’t think it would be disrespecting your father?”

“Well, think of it this way, Miss Miranja. Lots of travelers come through there. Some are couples. Some must surely have relations in the beds at our inn. How much difference would it make if I was half of one of those traveling couples?”

“It could make a big difference to your father,” Miranja speculated.

“He has to expect me to be a man in every sense of the word sooner or later.”

“But what if he expects you to wait until you have your own house and a wife?”

“What if he does? This is the Fourth Era. Times are changing. I’ve even heard of men having relationships with men, and women having relationships with women. Not that that bothers me…” he interjected, an apologetic tone in his voice, “I just mean that people should be able to do what makes them happy, if it’s not hurting anyone.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Miranja smiled. “I agree wholeheartedly. It’s what my parents have always told me. Okay, my dear, we will make love at the Frostfruit Inn tonight.”

Erik’s father was pleased and surprised to see them back, and Erik told him they were only spending the night because he had to accompany Miranja back to Whiterun to put away the stuff she was collecting.

“I’ve always wanted to see Whiterun,” Erik told his father. “All my life we’ve lived just at the opposite end of the hold, yet I’ve never been there.”

Mralki couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, son. And you seem to be no worse for the wear. In fact, you seem a little different already.”

“I’ve killed two Forsworn Briar-Hearts and a hagraven,” Erik told his father proudly.

Mralki’s eyes widened for a moment, then he shook his head and smiled. “Then I guess I didn’t have so much to worry about after all.”

“Granted, I couldn’t have done it without Miss Miranja, but we made a good team, and I’m learning a lot and getting stronger already.”

Mralki turned to Miranja. “Thank you, Miranja, for taking good care of my son. I trust you will teach him well.”

“Anything I can’t teach him, I have friends who can. Don’t worry, Mralki. He’s in good hands. And who taught him to use a bow? He’s pretty good.”

Mralki smiled and blushed a little. “I did. I was in the Legion once. Archery is useful for hunting as well as battle. I still hunt occasionally, and I taught Erik when he was young. He does more hunting than I do these days.”

When Mralki asked if Erik would be staying in his old room for the night, Erik fumbled before agreeing that he would. His red face would have given him away if his hesitation hadn’t. Miranja held her breath as they awaited Mralki’s response. Mralki looked from his son’s embarrassed face to Miranja’s steady but cautious gaze, reading the signs.

“Have you already, or…?”

“Yes, sir, we have already,” Miranja stated quietly and matter-of-factly. Now Mralki hesitated, but Miranja spoke again. “Call it a friendly agreement. It’s a form of stress-relief after life-or-death situations. We’ve talked and have an understanding.”

“It was my idea, da,” Erik put in. “She told me she doesn’t want anything serious. If my heart gets broken, it’ll be my own fault.”

Mralki sighed and wiped at the bar with his towel, looking at his own hand as he spoke. “I’ve already committed to trusting you to know what you’re doing, and it sounds like you’re well aware of what you’re getting into, so I won’t lecture you. The only thing I want to remind you of, whether with this lovely lass or another, is not to let the little head do the thinking. Keep your wits about you, lad.”

“Yes, da.”

“And you can rent one of the rooms with a double bed tonight.”

Erik’s face lit up like the sun. “Thank you, da. I love you.”

Mralki waved his towel at Erik. “You know I love you, too, son. Go get cleaned up and I’ll get you two some supper.”

#skyrim #elder scrolls #tesblr #miranja #fanfic #ao3 #erik the slayer #father/son moment #tanithia writes #slutty dragonborn

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wellthebardsdead · 1 year

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To deny Godhood Pt3

Part 2 here

———

Shamat: *sleeping dreamlessly for the first time in his life despite his awkward position, dagoth ur finally silenced in his mind, the heart of lorkhan no longer pounding in his head, nor the heat from red mountain boiling his blood*

???: Voryn… it’s time to wake up…

Shamat: *blearly blinks awake to see hes still tied to the bed post, left there to stand all night as a further punishment for his behaviour, the sting in his arms from holding his weight was almost as bad as the one on his back from the lashing he received* … *looks up slowly to see nerevar looking at him with pity* … *looks away*

Nerevar: *gently places a hand on his cheek turning his head to face him* You look just like him, your voice is his, why do you deny who you are?… why must you make me hurt you like this?…

Shamat: *too tired and too weak to reply, simply leans into his touch hoping submissiveness will please him in anyway* …

Nerevar: *feeling his heart hurt for a moment at the gesture, thinking there’s still some hope to bring his friend back* …oh Voryn… *unties him and swiftly scoops him up carrying him to the wash room*

*a few moments later*

Shamat: *staring around the room with all 3 eyes trying to get used to his new sense of vision as nerevar finishes bathing him*

Nerevar: Beyond your cries of pain during the punishment, you didn’t so much as wince as I cleaned the wounds I left you…

Shamat: …you’ve seen the scars on my legs and the ones already on my back before you took the whip to it… My imprisonment was far worse than anything you can put me through… and yet here, makes me feel just as trapped as I did then…

Nerevar: You say that as if I am keeping you in a cell. As if I haven’t gone through great lengths to make this space for you. Do you really not recognise any of this?…

Shamat: *shakes his head slightly* I was never allowed inside the temple. I was born to no house. They only allowed me to sleep in the courtyard…

Nerevar: you don’t recognise your robes? Your books? Your old armour?… nothing?…

Shamat: the only thing I recognise in here is you… *looks over to his robes to see the mask of dagoth ur staring at him* and that horrible thing…

Nerevar: …you truely don’t remember do you… *sighs*

Shamat: the only memory I have of you before we met in whiterun was of the day you spared my life…

Nerevar: what?…

Shamat: you killed the dealer who used to give me skooma. I’d come to get a fix, only to see you running him through…

Nerevar: *remembering seeing him then, a near skeletal young dunmer, filthy and covered in fleas from sleeping in the dirt, cowering at his feet begging for mercy only to run away in fear upon receiving it* How long, were you on the skooma, before I found you that day?…

Shamat: Years, maybe a decade… it helped numb the pain of existing… if you’re implying it’s done something to my brain to make me forget ‘who I am’ then don’t… I was Shamat then and I’m Shamat now…

Nerevar: *sighs* why do you wish to be named an insult? A word play on the title of Sharmat? When I’ve worked so hard to repair your name in the eyes of our people, when I’ve worked so hard to allow your house back into the temple. Your people, they’re allowed to exist without shame now that you’ve returned… why deny them that?… why deny your house name?…

Shamat: why was I denied a childhood?… why did my own mother abandon me at birth claiming I was cursed? All because of this? *points to the third eye where his birthmark once was* why did I have to steal to survive? Why did I have to sleep with whoever would have me? Why did those men force feed me skooma? Why was I arrested for nearly a hundred years of my life over a murder I didn’t commit. Why should I give them anything? When all the people of this land have done is hurt me… Why should I care shout any of them? The people I love are back in skyrim… there’s nobody in this land who holds any love for me…

Nerevar: that’s not true…

Shamat: prove it…

Nerevar: … *gently pulls his head back planting a kiss just above his third eye*

Shamat: *pulls away and climbs out of the water covering himself with a towel, staring at him in a mix of confusion and insult* Only my husbands allowed to do that. You are not him.

Nerevar: I- HUSBAND?!

#Nerevars about to find out about Kaidan the haaard way #shamat the sharmat #Shamat dragonborn #Dunmer dragonborn #indoril nerevar #nerevar #Skyrim #dagoth ur #Voryn dagoth

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