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gutztism · 1 month

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#made this in dead silence and immediately started to cry laughing #skyrim #ulfric stormcloak #ulfric #galmar #galmar stone-fist

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thescrolls-haveforetold · 9 months

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The way of Boethiah, a Snake in the grass.

#without context #the elder scrolls #tes #nerevarine #oc: nerevarine (nameless)#elder scrolls #Skyrim #Ulfric Stormcloak #Galmar Stone-fist

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vivifriend · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter. Thank you. 💖

Tagging: @wildhexe, @rainpebble3, @bostoniangirl21, and of course anyone else who sees this and wants to do it. ^_^ And please tag me if you do, I love to see what folk are working on. And absolutely zero pressure whatsoever.

Today's snippet is going to be an odd one. I'm completely re-writing my Snowflake's Chance chapter (again) so you get a snippet from the prologue for a fic I've got mostly outlined. Please note, I'm playing a bit with timelines because I wanted to write a fic where Ulfric raises the Dragonborn for a good portion of her life.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Jora stepped forward with a smile. "I've been looking forward to this part," she said. "Galmar, if you would bring the babe here?"

He nodded, moving to stand next to her, pulling the blanket down from Brisienna's face.

"A formal adoption by a Jarl must always be given the greatest gravity." She looked between Ulfric and Molla. "Ulfric, you wish to adopt this child fully into your household?"

"Yes," Ulfric said, whispers spreading through the crowd again. He smiled, glancing at the Cyrodiilic guests. "As the daughter of Blades, she will fit well in my clan."

Galmar almost snorted when the eldest of the group turned near purple with his effort to hold his tongue. We'll need to watch for more daggers in the night. But that was going to happen anyway.

"Well then," Jora said, smiling down at Brisienna. "Ulfric, Molla, it is irregular, but I feel compelled to ask you if I may give her a second name."

"What name?" Molla asked.

"Daan."

"Daan?" Ulfric demanded.

She nodded toward the statue of Talos. "It feels right."

"It means doom, in Dragon tongue," he said.

Molla's smile took on a hard edge. "Fitting," she said, turning her gaze to Ulfric. "Let it help her to fulfill Ruliel's last wish." She turned her knowing gaze on the Cyrodiilic guests. "She will grow to be a thorn in the Dominion's side."

"Very well," Jora agreed, reaching out with an amulet of Talos, resting it in Brisienna's grasping fingers, Galmar reaching his hand up to help her manage the weight. "You are now Brisienna Daan Stormcloak. May your enemies hear your name and fear your approach."

Her tiny fingers clenched around the amulet, gem blue eyes blinking up at Galmar. He held her close, smiling down at her. One day you'll be a fierce warrior. And I'll help you walk that road.

#wip wednesday #skyrim fanfic #galmar stone-fist #ulfric stormcloak #skyrim ocs

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vokriid · 2 years

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rate my accuracy. wanted to add more but also that involved more work, sorry.

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ladytanithia · 7 months

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Writing WIP Wednesday (10/4 good buddy)

I wasn't going to share this week, because I feel like people are tired of Miranja - and me. But I can't help myself. I just hope that @thequeenofthewinter will forgive me for this snippet. This is a different Ulfric in a different reality. ;-) And yes, @dirty-bosmer, there's your favorite line again, haha!

Just got home from work and haven't checked my notifications yet, so I don't know who, if anyone, has tagged me yet. I'm just tagging everyone. :-D

@guarmommy @gwilin-stay-winnin @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy @thechaosdragoness

For Chapter 19 of The Best-Laid Plans Oft Go Awry

When Miranja entered the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric and Galmar were heading into the war room. She followed, waiting for a break in their conversation so she could address Ulfric. To her surprise, he spoke to her first this time, a brief but unmistakable glint of lust in his eyes. “If it isn’t my ‘friend’ from Helgen again. You just can’t stay away from here, can you?” His curious gaze traveled down her body and back up again, surely wondering what she was wearing beneath her long wool cloak. “So, have you finally decided to join me in the fight against the Imperial dogs who nearly put you to death?”

“I’ve come hoping to join you, yes, but not in the war.” Miranja swallowed, feeling a little ridiculous now that she was here facing him. Hopefully, the worst he’d do was tell her no and laugh her out of the place.

Ulfric became irritated. “If you’re not for me, you’re against me. What are you talking about?”

Miranja glanced self-consciously at Galmar. “Could I maybe talk to you in private, please?”

Ulfric, too, glanced at Galmar for a moment, then turned back to her with a puzzled, expectant look. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Galmar.”

Oh, that wasn’t what she wanted. For a moment, she considered just leaving. Maybe she could try again some other time, when he and Galmar were not together. But when had she ever seen them apart? And she was wearing her most attractive dress and a little makeup… She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and forged ahead, removing her cloak as she spoke, revealing her tavern dress and a large portion of her rosy flesh.

“I’m just going to come right out and say it. I’m sure you have dozens of women who throw themselves at you already, but I just want to tell you that I find you outrageously attractive and I’d just like to sleep with you if you’ll have me. Selfish, yes. But there has to be a little pleasure to break up the monotony of misery and death.”

Ulfric looked surprised and actually laughed, and she prepared to be ordered out.

“You’re absolutely right.” Ulfric smiled, and Miranja was gratified to see that lustful twinkle back in his eyes. “You have more stones than Galmar over there. And you’re a lot better looking, too.”

Galmar grumbled and voiced his misgivings. “Ulfric, this Imperial harlot may be a spy, sent to get close to you to assassinate you. Don’t let your little head think for your big one.”

Ulfric had started reaching out to touch Miranja’s hair, but he stopped at Galmar’s words and dropped his arm. “Would you like to search her first, Galmar?”

“She’s the Dragonborn,” Galmar pointed out. “She doesn’t need a weapon to kill you. You, of all people, should recognize that.”

“Ah, Galmar,” Ulfric sighed. “That is why you are my right-hand man. I bow to your counsel. But there is more than one way to have a woman. Bind her and gag her.”

Miranja had figured that going alone and without armor would make her appear less threatening, but she obviously hadn’t thought this through as well as she should have. She honestly had no intention of assassinating Ulfric – yet – but of course, they wouldn’t know that. And she’d left Erik back at the Candlehearth to wait for her, so she was on her own here.

Ulfric stepped close and held the back of her head while stuffing his handkerchief into her mouth with his other hand. Galmar roughly grabbed her arms, and a Stormcloak commander she hadn’t even noticed was in the room tied her wrists snugly with a sturdy leather strap and a clever knot. Having her arms tied behind her back forced her chest out, and Ulfric’s eyes shifted downward, but he continued to hold her still while Galmar went on to secure the handkerchief in her mouth with another leather strap stretched across her mouth and tied behind her head. He wasn’t at all careful about it; her hair was caught uncomfortably in the knot and pulled when she moved.

Now Ulfric took hold of the lock of hair he’d been reaching for, lifting it to his nostrils and smelling the lavender she always used. He leaned in closer and nuzzled her ear, sucking on the flesh of her neck. Her heartbeat quickened at his closeness, his warmth, his lips on her skin, the scent of him, masculine but not sweaty or rank.

“I prefer my women to be blonde Nords, but you’re still a comely lass,” he murmured throatily, pulling her against him so that she could feel his erection. “And just the very idea of the future High King and the Dragonborn… mmm… This will be a very pleasant diversion, even if the bards can never compose a song about it.”

#skyrim #elder scrolls #tesblr #miranja #fanfic #ao3 #wip wednesday #tanithia writes #ulfric stormcloak #galmar stone-fist #risky business #rash decisions

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h3raklion · 2 years

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~low quality Skyrim memes~ 5th edition

#ulfric stormcloak #skyrim #skyrim memes #tes v #tes #galmar stone-fist #stormcloak #stormcloak rebellion #elder scrolls #the elder scrolls

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thequeenofthewinter · 1 year

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Fic Friday

Hey friends! It's Friday, and I have a new chapter of my fic fresh out of the kitchen and baked just for you. All 8800 plus words! ....yeah. Things got away from me a little because there are a lot of things happening in this chapter. Anyway! I hope you enjoy the latest installment!

Rating: E (canon-typical violence, explicit content, check the tags)

Genre: Romance, action, adventure, drama

Pairing: Dahlia Wintersnow (OC Dragonborn)/Ulfric Stormcloak

Link to AO3: Click here!

Snippet:

“You can’t let your anger get the best of you!” He catches and holds Ulfric’s eye despite the fact that he can see angry heat rolling like waves off of him. “This is exactly how you got that blasted reputation!”

The Jarl starts to protest, but Galmar will not allow him the time.

“Others do not see what I do. What Dahlia sees.” He waves his hands vaguely towards towards Ulfric. “We know you because we are close to you—because you have let us in. They do not. You know I am right, but you’re refusing to see it because of your drive, your passion, your bleeding heart.”

At this, Ulfric deflates with a sigh. Of course Galmar would see that, and after all the years of standing by his side, his houscarl knows exactly what makes him tick down to the last Dwemer cog. This is a classic case of him letting his emotions run away from him. He means well not just for Dahlia, not just for Eastmarch, but for all of Skyrim. His deepest desires are not anchored in a desperate, selfish grab for power as most would be inclined to think. He truly believes in this. A better Skyrim which is free. The idea courses through his veins, swells his lungs, feeds his soul— it’s the very dream which teases at the edges of his nightly fantasies and the nightmare which tears straight through to his guilty conscious.

“Thank you, Galmar, for the perspective.” He rubs at his temples, trying to massage away the headache from earlier. He knows Galmar is right. While most times Ulfric is good about keeping a level-head about things and see the bigger picture, when it comes to those few things which really matter to him, he is selfish and blinded by that which he is afraid of losing. And what man wouldn’t be? He is only human. However, if he wants to rule over Skyrim and see her into a new dawn, he is going to have to be more self-aware.

“It’s the same thing you would do for me.” Stone-Fist touches a hand to his shoulder, leaving Ulfric alone in the council room to ponder his life choices. Or rather the lack thereof. He has a job he is set out to do, and he cannot fail. No matter how selfish he would like to be. As much as he has decided upon this path for himself, it is just that: a straight line, where there are few choices and very little options for him in order to perform the duty he has bound himself to.

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #ulfric stormcloak #dahlia wintersnow #galmar stone-fist #winter writes #fic friday

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silusvesuius · 3 months

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ooc but whatever

#my art #ulfric stormcloak #galmar stone fist #galmar knows better than to pull a dagger on a mentally ill person but i had this vision

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 6 months

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Galmar Stone-Fist: The Dragonborn is an elf?

Ralof: Half-elf, yes.

Leara Rose-blade, the Last Dragonborn: The other half is violence!

#she's half breton and they're very scary #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #dovahkiin #ralof #galmar stone fist #windhelm #palace of the kings #nerevar queue and star #incorrect quotes #incorrect elder scrolls #incorrect skyrim quotes #tes #the elder scrolls #skyrim #the elder scrolls v: skyrim #source: shit my players say

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ehlnofay · 1 year

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The Dragonborn does not speak at the council, for all the trouble she went to arranging it.

She sits in a straight-backed chair at the head of the table, her sword in its scabbard resting against the stone. (She was the only one permitted to carry a weapon into the assembly.) Lydia, her sharp-faced housecarl, is seated to her left.

It’s the Dragonborn’s council, for all intents and purposes – it may not have been her idea, but it was she who petitioned for it, persuading Arngeir and then the war-leaders and the dignitaries they dragged with them. It was for her sake alone (Dragonborn, Ysmir, legend come to life) that some agreed to attend at all.

But when the council finally begins, kings and warriors crowded around the long stone table, she is silent. An argument begins immediately, Ulfric objecting to Thalmor presence within the negotiations and Tullius objecting to his objection, and it splinters off into something thorny and onerous. It takes half an hour for discussion to begin properly – and then someone says something and they’re off again, everyone around the table coiled tight and wary, and the Dragonborn stares into the middle distance and offers no thoughts.

It doesn’t stop, the talk of trading holds like game pieces and demands that the armies’ leaders be compensated for massacres that never touched them. Arngeir tries to quiet them, and Esbern’s desperate passion riles them up, and when half of the room has leapt to its feet and voices echo off High Hrothgar’s sacred, watching stones, the Dragonborn finally speaks –

Which is to say, she claps her hands over her ears and spits a Word that rips the voices from their lips and the room is finally, mercifully silent.

Her housecarl, the only one who does not seem startled by this, places a hand on the back of her chair and says, “Thane?”

The Dragonborn uncurls, removes her hands from her head, lays them flat on the table.

“I don’t understand,” she says, slow, as though the words are weighed down. She isn’t looking into the middle distance; her eyes shift from face to face like she is trying to meet everyone’s gaze at once.

Galmar Stone-fist, standing by a chair to her right, claws at his fur-lined collar. “We have –”

“Let the Dragonborn speak,” Lydia interrupts, voice and eyes steely. Galmar’s face twists, but he falls silent.

The Dragonborn presses her hands into the stone tabletop.

“Do you believe,” she says, “that the dragons will leave your side alone?”

On the other side of the table, General Tullius raises a sceptical brow. He leans back into his chair. “If you have a point, then make it. We don’t have time for more nonsense.”

Her eyes snap to him. Lydia repeats, “Let her speak.”

The Dragonborn holds up a hand.

“Do you believe,” she enunciates carefully, “that the dragons care anything for your war? None of this matters.”

“On the contrary –”

“Alduin will tear your cities down,” she tells them. Her eyes are eerie dark as holes too deep to track, and even her housecarl is staring at her now. “Only I can stop it. Until you get out of my way, you are fighting over rubble.”

There is, again, silence. Arngeir is visibly thankful for the reprieve; High Hrothgar’s walls, unused as they are to such uproar, can once again, if briefly, know peace.

Ulfric stood up sometime in the yelling; he has not sat back down. He is leaning a little on the stone back of his chair as he says, “You called us here in hopes of a ceasefire, Dragonborn. Truces aren’t made of empty air. Terms have to be negotiated.”

The Dragonborn stares him down. Her palms remain flat on the table; her sword stays resting against her chair.

“But you aren’t negotiating with him,” she says, the words still heavy, still slow. “You’re negotiating terms with me.”

There is a pause. The watchful stones soak in the silence.

“With you,” the Legate replies.

The Dragonborn’s face is blank. “If you truce, I will fight Alduin.” She speaks the weighed-down words as though they are the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I won’t. Your cities will fall as Helgen, and you will die afraid. Those are my terms.”

Lydia places a hand, palm up, on the table. The Dragonborn covers it with her own, mimicking the pose of the wrist, the splay of the fingers.

“Now,” the Dragonborn announces, her voice a laggard echo of Arngeir’s opening speech, “who would like to begin the negotiations?”

(There is no shouting during the rest of the peace council.)