skyrim-stuff

[skyrim-stuff]

"Oh, no," says the Dragonborn, laughing. "This I will not wear. This is ridiculous."

"You did say you wanted to look the part, my Thane," says Lydia. Grave and unsmiling, she offers the offending object again. "This is a traditional Nordic helm."

"It is a hat," says the Dragonborn, "with horns on it."

She turns about, tall and splendid in her bright mail and gleaming plate, and admires the billow of her cloak. And Lydia, standing aside, admires the woman wearing it. There's a subtle grace and power in the way that the Dragonborn, gilded in the dust-flecked light that streams through the armory's sole window, tests the balance of her raiment—she moves like a rippling dancer, like a snake uncoiling in the sun.

And she won't try on her helmet.

"The horns are an emblem of Shor," Lydia explains with a strained, if patient, smile. "That's why we wear them into battle. If they're good enough for the god of men—"

"—they should be good enough for me, is that it?" The Dragonborn turns to Lydia, her smile stern, her dark eyes flashing like flint. "Well. I am not your Shor."

Lydia is nothing if not practical. She meets the Dragonborn's gaze with steadfast unconcern, though she wants to blush and laugh and look away—she has never seen a pair of eyes that blaze with such devouring heat. She's never heard a laugh so rich, never seen a smile so sharp, never melted before a keen look like butter before the knife.

Then again, she's never sworn her life to a woman before. Not formally, at least.

"No," she agrees, flushing. "You're our Ysmir. And if a hammer splits your skull, the world ends with you." She holds out the helm. "And I'll be out of a job. So put this on."

For a long, long moment, the Dragonborn looks at her.

"All right," she says at last, and sinks to one knee. She bows her head.

"Oh." Lydia stares, her face heating further. "You—you want me to—"

"Yes," says the Dragonborn. "Please."

It's a dismal coronation, thinks Lydia, fitting the helm on the Dragonborn's head. There's no music, no feast, no gold-adorned crowd. The armory is dusty. The stale air smells of oiled leather and polish. But when Lydia's fingers—never clumsier—have fumbled the last clasp, she does not draw away, and the Dragonborn looks at her with gratitude and warmth.

"I will try to be a good Ysmir," she says softly, her smile grim and strange. And then, with a bright, swift laugh that chases the shadows from her face: "How do I look?"

She looks like a warrior. A hero foretold. And that, Lydia knows with an instinctive ache, is not an answer her Thane will ever want to hear.

"Silly," she says instead, and smiles in earnest.

[skyrim-stuff]

HAPPY NEW LIFE FESTIVAAAALL AAAAHHH!!!!!! I LOVE THEM ALL SO MUCH

(….yes that’s Wabbajack)

[skyrim-stuff]

what was that you just said,

thot?