#Cyrodiil Gate House

[madam-whim]

A Visit Long Overdue

Martin breathed a sigh of relief as the Chapel of Arkay came into view, glad to have found his destination after such a short time. Of course, a building of that size was hard to overlook, towering over the houses surrounding it, but finding it it almost total darkness had been a challenge nonetheless. He didn’t dare use a lantern to light his path, had even foregone the use of a magelight, because as easily extinguished as it was, it shone brightly and attracted attention when there was no other source of light around. And while Martin certainly wasn’t planning anything nefarious, he also could not risk running into the city guard – not with where he was going.

It was probably not the brightest idea he’d ever had, leaving the safety of Castle Cheydinhal behind and sneaking past the guards at the gate, but then again, he had his reasons. Touring the entirety of Cyrodiil was difficult enough as it was, with the way he no longer felt safe in an unfamiliar environment. Cheydinhal was no exception, and he had nearly lost his mind with worry when he’d woken in the middle of the night in what he had believed to be a secure set of rooms, only to find his wife gone, her side of the bed cold and empty. At first he’d believed that someone, somehow, had managed to take her away, because Arri rarely left his side these days, not willingly at least, and Martin preferred it that way. They had been separated for long enough, thinking they would never see each other again, and now, not knowing where the other was was often enough to send either of them into a panic. No, Arri would never have left without a good reason.

Martin had come quite close to waking the entire castle to help look for his wife – something he could easily have done, after all, he was an Emperor whose Empress had gone missing – but Baurus had been there, and the young Blade had managed to find what Martin had overlooked in his frightened state. It turned out that Arri really had left of her own volition. She’d wedged one of the knives she always carried between their bedroom window and its frame, thus preventing it from closing fully and indicating that she had not only left that way, but also planned on returning.

“Does she have anyone in Cheydinhal?” Baurus had asked then. “Anyone that she knows, but wouldn’t want us to meet?”

That was how it had all become clear to Martin, and how he found himself near the Chapel of Arkay, looking for the abandoned house he knew to be nearby. Because while Arri had nobody left in Cheydinhal now, there had once been a family, and when Baurus had asked his question, Martin had instantly known where his wife must have gone, and he’d known he had to find her at once.

Talking his friend out of accompanying him into the city had been difficult, but he had convinced him in the end, stating that someone needed to be around and provide a cover, should it take him until morning to bring Arri back. He couldn’t possibly know how long it would take him to find his wife, and while he assumed her to be safe and unharmed physically, he didn’t know what state he’d find her in.

Locating the abandoned house itself wasn’t as difficult as Martin had initially feared. He had never been to Cheydinhal before now, but Arri had described the place to him, and even in the dark it was easy enough to locate, a perpetual thorn in the side of Arkay’s faithful, what with all the rumors floating around. Some even claimed that ‘Legend of Krately House’ had been written with this very house in mind, one of the few things associated with her past that could really make Arri laugh, likely because she knew how that particular rumor had come about. And so, Martin soon found the one building that had its door and windows nailed shut, climbing over the low wall separating the property from the street. For such a big city, it was almost eerily quiet even with it being the middle of the night, and he did not want to risk the hinges of a gate that hadn’t been in use for decades attracting anyone’s attention. He hadn’t met more than a handful of guards and two or three stumbling drunks on his way through the city, none of them having noticed him, and he intended to keep it that way.

He hesitated for a moment before summoning the weakest magelight he’d ever cast, barely enough to help him see. A guard walking by at an inopportune moment and noticing it would certainly lead to questions, and Martin didn’t care to answer them. Still, he did need to find out how Arri had entered the house. Following in her footsteps would be the easiest way in for him, too, he knew. It would cause the least amount of noise, and that was what he was aiming for, because while Arri was used to being stealthy and had arguably been trained by the best, Martin was certainly not.

His first instinct was to check the well. Arri had told him about that entrance once, back at Cloud Ruler Temple, when they’d been little more than two lost people confiding in each other. However, he found the well sealed tight, with nothing indicating that Arri had undertaken the effort of opening it back up. It would have made too much noise for her taste, Martin assumed, and so he went around the house looking for any signs she might have left behind. He found the window she’d gone through just a short time later, near the back of the house, where one would have to be actively looking to notice something was amiss. She had apparently done nothing more than to remove some of the boards that had been used to seal the window and left them hidden in the high grass. That had been enough for her to get in, and even though Martin wasn’t nearly as agile as she was, he managed to climb into the building the same way after removing one more piece of wood. He did have to hide around the corner of the house for a brief moment when he spotted the glow of a guard’s torch coming closer than he liked, but once he made it through the window, he knew he was safe from prying eyes.

Still, the hardest part was yet to come, and all he had to go on was what Arri had told him. If anything had changed in the past twenty or so years since she’d last been here, he would have to handle it on his own until he found his wife. But he was not deterred by that thought – not when there was a chance his wife needed him close.

Now that it was safe to do so, he increased the strength of his magelight, letting it guide him down into the basement, where Arri had said the door to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary was hidden. Sure enough, he found it right away – a sense of wrongness that he couldn’t even begin to describe settled over him once he got closer to it. Not that he needed it to find the entrance, really; with the Sanctuary abandoned and its last inhabitant, a woman named Arquen, dead by Arri’s own hand, there had been no one to ensure it remained hidden. It was quite likely that the only reason it hadn’t been discovered by the guard and subsequently walled off was that the house had been given a wide berth even when the Sanctuary had still been in use. Nobody had entered this place in two decades, at least not until Arri had come through.

She had even made sure to close the door behind her, Martin saw now, the rather grotesque skull on the accursed thing almost seeming to stare at him as he came closer. It had been smart of her to close it just in case she had been followed, and yet Martin was not looking forward to having the door speak to him. He was prepared for it, of course, but he still nearly jumped when the whispered question came, just as menacing as Arri had described it.

“What is the color of night?” it asked.

Martin nearly sighed in relief, ignoring the sense of dread that would certainly have kept him away if it weren’t for Arri. The passphrase was still the same, which meant he would be able to reach his wife without having to solve whatever riddle the entity within the door have him. He took a deep breath.

“Sanguine, my brother.”

The door opened, and Martin stepped inside a place that even during his darkest times, he never thought he’d ever set foot in.

He found Arri kneeling on the ground in what he assumed had once been the main hall of the sanctuary, kneeling between two Argonian skeletons. The Shadowscales, then, Martin thought. As he stepped closer, he realized Arri was talking to them, murmuring too low for him to understand. The words weren’t for him to hear, anyway, and so he stayed some distance away, giving her the time she needed.

She only noticed his presence when she stood back up, shaking the stiffness out of her legs. Martin didn’t know how long she had been sitting here, but it had to have been quite some time. When she turned to face him, her eyes were red-rimmed and there were remnants of tears still visible on her face, but she seemed clear-headed, and almost relieved, if that was possible in such a situation.

“I hoped you’d just sleep through the night and you wouldn’t even notice I was gone at all,” she greeted him, a lopsided smile on her face. Her voice was somewhat shaky, still, but nowhere near as bad as Martin had feared.

“I’m afraid I don’t sleep well without you,” he sighed, walking towards her and extending his arms so she could lean into his embrace. “But nobody except Baurus knows we’re gone at all, and we have some hours until sunrise. You could stay a while longer, if you need to.”

“That’s good,” Arri muttered, “but I do think I’m done. I had a lot to say to these two, so I talked to them last.” She paused, taking a deep breath, and Martin could almost feel the way she stepped from the past back into the now. She gave him a strange look, then. “How did you even get in here?”

“The same way you did, through back right window and then the door.”

“You remembered the passphrase?”

“That one’s hard to forget, for me,” Martin replied with a laugh, and Arri blinked at him for a moment before her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

“Didn’t even think about it like that,” she admitted. “I am sorry you had to come after me, though. I just … I never got to say goodbye, not really, so I had to come. Didn’t mean to drag you into it.”

“I understand, my love,” Martin said. “No need for apologies. I’d have done the same thing, most likely.”

Arri wrapped her arms around him the way she always did when she needed him to ground her. “It still doesn’t feel like enough. I couldn’t bring myself to come back here for so long, and now … There’s barely anything left of them. They were my siblings, Martin, the Shadowscales most of all,” she nodded at the two skeletons, “trained by the same man I was, and I failed both them and him.”

Martin shook his head. “From what I understand of how the Dark Brotherhood works, you didn’t fail anyone, not your mentor and not your siblings. Not until you left it all behind.”

“And murdered Arquen.”

“Which I cannot imagine anyone holding against you, given the circumstances. You didn’t fail anyone so much as they failed you. Nobody in this sanctuary died because of mistakes you made. They made them all on their own, and you bore the consequences. I know it doesn’t feel like that, and it likely never will, but I need you to understand that none of this was ever your fault. You were barely more than a child, and you couldn’t have done any more than you did.”

They were both silent after that, at least for a little while. Martin watched Arri turn in his arms to stare down at the bones for a bit longer, offering whatever silent support he could while she stood there, sniffling quietly, remembering long-dead people who’d loved and protected her when nobody else had.

“Would you like to bury them?” he asked after a while, gently squeezing Arri’s hand.

She only shook her head at the suggestion. “I don’t think I do. I believe they are exactly where they would want to be, at home with their family. Gods, I don’t even think they minded the way they died. But ...”

“But?”

“I’d like to go back to Applewatch one day,” she said softly. “To get Lucien and bring him back here. I know he wasn’t a good man, not at all, but I’m alive today because of him, and I owe it to him to get him back home. He should be with Ocheeva and Teinaava, he was their father in all but blood. And Vicente, well, I never really did find out if they were together or not, but … they should rest in the same place at least.”

“I think we can arrange that,” Martin smiled. “After all, digging up some old bones is hardly the most diffcult thing we’ve accomplished. It might take some planning, but we will figure something out.”

“We always do,” Arri said resolutely, dragging a hand across her face to rid herself of the last of her tears. Martin always wondered how she did it – to let her emotions out, only to rein them back in at a moment’s notice. It all came down to practice, she said, though she suspected that some small part of it was, perhaps, left over from her time as Sheogorath.

“We should get back to the castle before anyone notices we’re gone,” she decided. “How did you even get out? Because I know it wasn’t the same way I did.”

Martin suppressed a laugh, because he couldn’t see himself climbing out of a window either. “Servant’s entrance. Do not ask me how, but Baurus always knows where those are. We can go back in that way, no need for you to scale the castle wall.”

Arri nodded. “Let’s get going, then. Because … please don’t take this the wrong way, Martin, but seeing you here just feels … off, like you don’t belong. And neither do I, not anymore. I think I’ve gone soft.”

“I rather think you always were,” Martin answered, “you just couldn’t allow yourself to be, but that’s over now. We will get your mentor to put your mind at ease, and then neither of us will ever need to come back here. How does that sound?”

“Like a really good idea,” Arri answered, and then she took his hand and led him out of the sanctuary, out of her own past and back to the life they’d built together.

@tes-summer-fest Day 4: Sanctuary

[late-nite-scholar]

Aug 6th (Day 2): Prompt- Beloved / Ritual

Day 2: Beloved- An early 4th Era Imperial children’s tale/fable.

Prompts by @tes-summer-fest

Nord HoK x Martin Septim, Mara x Akatosh

Warnings- None

Wordcount- ~800

(Made this in Canva for practice and really pleased with how it turned out! It's the free version so I couldn't get rid of the watermarks)

****

(A Fourth Era Imperial children's tale)

The Great Akatosh was sad. 

The other Divines didn't understand why. He'd just won a great victory against Mehrunes Dagon, why should he be sad? He should be celebrating! 

But Akatosh remained sad. 

His beloved wife, Mother Mara, went to him. He was sitting, looking out the window of his room. 

"What's wrong, my dear?" She asked him. "What has upset you so?" 

Akatosh sighed. "My son and aspect, the hero Saint Martin, took my mantle to defeat our enemy Mehrunes Dagon. Now, that part of me is filled with great sadness." 

"What can be done to cure this malady?" Mara asked. 

"My sadness is reflected in one on Nirn." He held up his left hand. Around it was a red, braided thread. "We are bound to her by it." 

"Let us find this woman then!" Mara cried. 

But so great was Akatosh's grief that he could not be moved and he spoke no further. Mother Mara knew she would have to find this mortal on her own. 

She cast her gaze over the Great Empire of Men. There was much sadness there. Many people had been affected by the Oblivion gates and the daedra. Mara disguised herself as a kindly old woman, a flower seller, and went to the cities of Cyrodiil to find the woman bound by the red thread. 

In Anvil she found a woman crying at the docks, her face stained with tears. 

"What has happened, my dear?" She asked. 

"My husband was lost at sea in a storm," the woman replied. Mara hugged her to comfort her, but she did not have the red thread around her wrist. 

In the ruins of Kvatch, she found a woman sitting in the remains of a house, her silken gown torn and filthy. 

"What has happened, my dear?" She asked.

"The daedra destroyed my home and I have lost everything," the woman replied. Mara told a joke to comfort her, but she did not have the red thread around her wrist. 

In Leyawiin she found a woman sitting on a bench in a park, head in her hands. 

"What has happened, my dear?" She asked. 

"Bandits have stolen the goods I was to sell and I am now poor," the woman replied. Mara brought her something to eat to comfort her, but she did not have the red thread around her wrist. 

In Cheydinhal, she found a woman wandering the streets, tearing her hair. 

"What has happened, my dear?" She asked. 

"A sickness has taken my children and I am alone now," the woman replied. Mara sang her a song to comfort her, but she did not have the red thread around her wrist. 

Disheartened, Mara went to the Imperial City. She worried she would never find the woman with the red thread and she would never cure Akatosh's sadness. 

She sat down at the base of a large dragon statue, beside another woman with bright orange hair. She looked sad, and so Mara asked, "What has happened, my dear?" 

The woman sighed. "I have been afflicted by great sorrow. I have tried to help others, to maybe make the sadness fade. I helped a woman who lost her husband, another her home. I helped a woman who was robbed, and another whose children were ill. I hugged them, told them jokes, brought them food and song, but the sadness stays with me." 

The woman touched the foot of the statue, and Mara saw that around the woman's wrist was the red thread!

Mara asked her, "Where did you get that red thread?" 

"I bound myself to another in everlasting love with it," the woman replied. "A love so strong I still feel him through it, though he is lost to me." 

"Then you are the one I am looking for!" Mara cried, shedding her disguise. "My husband's aspect is afflicted by sadness also, bound by a red thread. I came to find the one who reflected it. But you are not his reflection. You have walked as I have walked, done as I have done. As Saint Martin is my husband's aspect, you, Champion of Cyrodiil, are mine." 

The women took each other's hands, and then only one remained. This new aspect joined her Divine source, and they returned to Aetherius together. In joy, they reunited with Great Akatosh. 

"My beloved, my Queen of Heaven! You have returned! And we are both whole, both increased by our love!" he cried. And all sadness was gone from that moment forward. The Divine couple and their aspects were full of joy. And that is why we bind ourselves with a red thread when we marry, to show that our love is a reflection of the love between Mother Mara and Great Akatosh.

[aladaylessecondblog]

The Limits of CHIM

Short fic I did, prequel to the entire "Dagoth Ur Dad" series. This is from my Ao3 page (got it to actually loading something, yay!).

Vivec gets CHIM and realizes it doesn't mean jack when you're still technically in the dream.

-------------------------------------------------

High Hrothgar is quiet.

The Greybeards mistrust him at first, but they allow him to join their order. It is exactly what he needs, considering all that has failed to happen. How it did not end with zero sum, Vivec was unsure, but...

...here he still was.

He had realized this was all a dream, seen the truth of it, rejected it, everything he had expected it to do. He could change things in this world, shift them about, add those who once or never were to a place and time they were never supposed to be, produce companions of any stripe, obtain anything that ever existed, and yet...

...and yet he still slept.

The sky itself mocked him, told him of his limitations. To be aware of the dream did not mean one was unbound by it. He could scream to the heavens of the injustice, but it did nothing.

The world itself was shrinking, limiting itself. Morrowind was vast and expansive. Cyrodiil was still grand, and yet, there was something it lacked. And Skyrim...

...Skyrim was the bleakest of them all.

Do the gods beyond even care for us, if this is what they are willing to do to us?

Mehrunes Dagon had been a threat, he had seen the Oblivion gates himself, had even closed a few. There had been a certain thrill in it--but the dragons, the dragons two hundred years later! How could it be a world ending threat and yet seem so much less than?

Time moved forward, and forward only, yet the numbers meant nothing.

Baar Dau. The Red Mountain. The Red Year.

Vivec could almost hear Dagoth Ur's laughter ringing in his ears. Surely this was much more a victory for the devil of Dagoth than anything he had himself dreamt up!

But still, this was the world. And Vivec waited in High Hrothgar, following the Greybeards and their Way of the Voice, hoping it would give him something. Some insight, some explanation, as to why the gods beyond the dream stripped more and more away from the world. Those gods would never reply, however...and he knew better than to mention such things to the Greybeards. The Dragonborn he avoided entirely--they were aware, of course, but the question would always be by how much?

They did not know.

They could not SEE.

Not even Paarthurnax on the very peak could--or if he did, he did not speak of it.

Alduin was defeated. The petty Civil War was ended.

The game was over, and all that remained was to wait eternal for something more to happen, for more of the world to be peeled back in the name of efficiency.

But one day...one day, high on the peak of the Throat of the World...

I know this presence.

Whether he was awake or dreaming, it did not matter.

What do you want?

A vision stirred in his mind. A stained glass man with the head of a dragon, but at a turn it was instead that of a bearded man. One limited in the same way he was...and yet, not quite in the same way.

The words arrived in his head, and Vivec's ears would be certain they hadn't been spoken. He replied in thought, thinking it better that way.

You want to send me back?

A lift of a hand, the wave of a sword. A sweeping gesture at the landscape of Skyrim.

Amaranth?

The word was all-consuming fire, but he persisted. It was not the worst of pains, but it burned like a void in the soul.

What do you want in return?

The aedra could be kindly, the imperials always said such things of Kynareth, of Akatosh, of Mara most of all, but he knew there was no gift given too freely, and this was a god he had never prayed to, not even in his Chimer days.

This dragon-god owed him nothing. The request seemed almost an odd one...

Very well. I will ensure the House of the Emperor does not fall.

And then, finally, the dragon-god spoke aloud. His voice was like thunder, and shook the ground beneath and the air around.

FENJUNTIID! MIIRAAK TIID BEX! VO!

And he understood, through long study with the Greybeards. Akatosh commanded time itself to open, to make a way for him.

And suddenly, the Time-Wound was not a scar, but open, gaping, bleeding from its edges, and Akatosh addressed him one last time.

PRUZAH WUNDUNNE...DAHMAAN.

Vivec would hardly say this would be good travels...but it would be certain that he would remember.

He could begin with Morrowind. He would give this gift.

And all Tamriel, all Mundus, would no longer be limited by the gods who wrote the sky, the gods who cared nothing for them.

[charliebug3]

Alright so I cannot sleep it is midnight and I've been listening to Eighth Wonder by Lemon Demon on loop for about 2 hours too long so I'm about to briefly become the least normal person on tesblr.

WHY I'M RIGHT: Abnur Tharn IS Zurin Arctus, Deranged Sleep-Deprived Edition

(Take all of this with a heap of salt. I am joking with the "I'm right" thing. I could be completely and utterly wrong but that's the fun of it, innit?)

So basically I stumbled upon an old concept by ESO's first Loremaster and I've never been the same since. Long story short the concept had Abnur Tharn turn into Zurin Arctus... somehow.

There's bits of that left over, methinks, in the way that House Tharn evidently, by Abnur's own admission, participated in keeping... political dissenters... under control. Now hehehe boy that's sure interesting. What um. I'm sure that will go well at some point in Tamriel's future, huh? Definitely won't ummmmmm uh something something Battlemage something cough.

There's also, of course, the way he's not particularly partial to continuing to serve under a banner that's committing mass atrocities. The willingness to give up everything for Cyrodiil. Eh, but those are just traits of someone loyal to a cause, hmm?

But regardless, none of that could mean anything. ZOS was forbidden to do anything with the Tiber Wars, or with Dragons, or with anything like that, right?

AND THEN ELSWEYR HAPPENED.

Whoopsie! Looks like the limits are off! Now comes the part where I get a progressively less coherent while making a bullet point list of things that Could be coincidence but um. Uh. Look it all makes sense together I promise.

• It's a little hidden in a line of dialogue during The Demon Weapon, but like right out the gate Abnur is directly looking for The FUCKING NUMIDIUM. Boom, first quest, it's literally right there. And where does he go looking? The Halls of Colossus. Y'know, the place where Tiber Septim and Zurin Arctus KEEP THE NUMIDIUM 300 YEARS LATER. Now of course it's a dead end this time and oopsie it's a Different horror released from the Halls but like. Come ON.

• Nahfahlaar. Hello? The crown jewel of Tiber Septim's army or whatever? He's literally just chilling in Elsweyr. And not only that, take a WILD guess who's the ONLY one present when Abnur pulls his silly little disappearing magic trick for gods know how long? Yeah I mean there's not much to say except there's a literal entire character directly from the Tiber Wars in this storyline. So we know for a fact the "no Tiber Wars" limit is off.

• Aeonstone. Hello, green crystal that amplifies the magic of souls (LITERALLY REFERRED TO AS LIFE FORCE IN MULTIPLE LINES OF DIALOGUE. FROM A VERY SPECIFIC CHARACTER.) to godly levels of power! Hmm! I wonder, just WONDER where else we might have seen this. Couldn't possibly be related to uhhhhhh the magic green crystal used to amplify someone's life force to godly levels of power. Y'know the um. The Mantella. I'm talking about the Mantella I cannot explain how much the idea that the Mantella is made of Aeonstone makes me froth at the mouth. It makes too much sense and there are like THREE people who know what Aeonstone is and does and hahaha GUESS WHICH ONE KNOWS THE MOST? Yeah it's. It's Abnur.

• Now of course there's the direct parallel of "I have lived too long and fucked up too much, I have nothing left please let me die" that's less spoken in Elsweyr than it is in Daggerfall but it is DEFINITELY still there. Like mr battlemage says "attacking Kaalgrontiid's lair would be a suicide mission" and then IMMEDIATELY is like "I am going to Kaalgrontiid's lair to attack him :)" hello??????? Ok.

• Can we just talk about the fact that of ALL the places to put the ESO storyline, it was, well. Elsweyr? The place where shit gets REAL fucked in the Tiber Wars, meaning everything we do and everyone we save in ESO: Elsweyr means NOTHING. Rimmen gets nuked by the Numidium. Senchal is home to a massacre at the hands of Tiber Septim's army. Hell, the third moon happens! In Daggerfall! ITS MANNIMARCO HE LITERALLY JUST HIJACKS KAALGRONTIID'S NEE MOON PROPHECY HGHGGGHHGBH- but boy all that amounting to nothing just. It fits. It fits so well, with the whole thing of giving up everything only for it to be taken advantage of and destroyed. And I mean. "Dying" (because neither Abnur nor Zurin actually got to die to Dragonhold or the Numidium, that'd be too easy) to stop something you ACTIVELY caused and were party to and it's 99% your fault and became so much worse than you ever could've planned for? Uh hehe. Yeah.

• I love the fact that we have literally no origin for Zurin (I DO NOT COUNT THE ARCTURIAN HERESY I DONT THINK ITS CANON. I THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW). All we know is that he's an incredibly powerful Imperial Battlemage who held the position of Grand Chancellor. Which I mean like. ESO literally gives us local incredibly powerful Grand Chancellor (it's implied that at full strength he can just casually KO a dragon and even weakened he can stand against Mannimarco (full power) long enough to not get completely obliterated). So like. It would at this point be a VERY smooth transition from one to the other.

• This is something that just completely drives me bonkers insane feral and may not actually be a connection, but uhhh the name of the Spymaster responsible for collecting info about Abnur for his Elsweyr Meet the Character article is. His. His name is FUCKING. ARCTUS. IM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP HIS NAME IS ARCTUS COVE. THAT IS NOT A COMMON NAME FOR AN IMPERIAL UNLESS I HAVE JUST COMPLETELY MISSED MULTIPLE OTHER USAGES OF THE NAME ARCUS. I JUST. AAAAAAAAAAAA

• Final little note but I think the little ESO green dragon imp pet from the Elsweyr event back in like 2019 with a model seen nowhere else in the game and a description that's literally a quote from Abnur is a. I think it's a Skakmat reference? From Daggerfall? Not entirely sure but it looks fairly similar to Skakmat's icon in Daggerfall's files. I dunno maybe I've fully lost it.

Anyway nonsense post over go about your day/night have fun. I might add citations and sources and corrections in the morning when I wake up and am coherent. Please don't kill me

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - What Waits 'Round the Corner

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Main character: Lucien Flavius Rating: T for violence Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Summary: There's a reason Lucien only made it to Falkreath before deciding he really needed some hired muscle. Lucien Flavius is from the eponymous mod by Joseph Russell.

26 Sun's Height, 4E 201. Helgen, Falkreath Hold, Province of Skyrim, the Cyrodiilic Empire.

Dear Mother,

I have made it to Skyrim! You were right, the quality of the roads took a dramatic turn for the worse as soon as we were through the Pale Pass. I got out of the cart and walked a bit just to get a reprieve from the jolting. I am resting in a small town called Helgen, just on the other side of the Pale Pass. The town has rough fieldstone walls - not a right-angle to be found - and sits on a crossroads: one road goes East over another mountain pass, and the North and Western roads go down the shoulders of the mountain to a village called Riverwood and the hold capital of Falkreath, respectively.

The mountain is something to behold! I’ve included a sketch in this letter. I can see why it is called “The Throat of the World!” We climbed and climbed coming out of Bruma up to the pass, but I don’t think the mountain top ever became appreciably closer. There seems to be a blizzard up at the peak at the moment, so I guess I would not know. If the rest of the landscape in Skyrim is this dramatic, I think I’m going to be using up all my parchment on sketches!

The letter you wrote certainly helped in this leg of the journey. I was able to convince a Legion quartermaster on her way to Skyrim with supplies to let me ride with her, and the chap in charge of the gate said that his father served under you as a Cornicen in the Great War. Maybe you remember him, Atticus Quinilum. Anyways, the quartermaster’s name is Ranne Straight-furrow. I met some Nords in Bruma but my goodness do they grow them tall up here in Skyrim! She’s got to be a head taller than any of the Colovian-born soldiers.

I’m staying at the inn here, (and really it is just the largest house in town with a handful of extra beds in the loft), run by a nice Nord named Vilod. I won’t be staying long - Helgen is really too small and remote to use as a base of operations, and the Legion makes it more of a target for the insurgents.

I am planning on setting out for Falkreath in the morning; it will be a push to make it down the mountain in one day’s travel, but the road appears well-maintained. I will purchase supplies and send for my surveying equipment. It looks like a good place to set up a base of operations, as it has an inn, and the guards here tell me there is a plethora of Dwemer and Nordic ruins in the mountains. By the time you receive this I should be in Falkreath, so please send any letters there. Even if I move on, Skyrim’s towns are connected enough that I should be able to receive them. Give my love to Father.

Your loving son,

Lucien

“Here lad, I grabbed you some supper. Courtesy of the Legion.”

Lucien looked up from his letter. Ranne towered above him, setting a trencher of bread on the table before taking her own seat. Lucien moved his parchment out of the way of any crumbs and examined the meal. It was simple but hearty fare: some sort of salted fish on coarse brown bread, and a good portion of vegetable pottage to go with it. It was a far cry from the fine foods Lucien had been brought up with in the Imperial City, but after a day of trudging through a snowy mountain pass, his mouth watered just looking at the meal.

“Thank you very much, Ranne.”

Ranne was already tucking into her supper, dipping the trencher bread into the pottage and taking large bites. She grunted in acknowledgement and made a gesture with her mead tankard that Lucien decided to interpret as ‘You’re welcome.’

The experience of eating quickly with no utensils was new to Lucien, and he was nowhere near as efficient as Ranne. She was mopping up the last of the meat juices and pottage with the crust of her bread while Lucien was still working on his first bit of fish.

“Where are you planning to go next, Lucien?” she asked, taking a swig of mead.

“I’m going to Falkreath,” Lucien replied, trying and failing to keep an errant chunk of fish on his trencher. “That seems a decently large enough…settlement… to base my initial expedition out of, without being too expensive or far away from the border.”

Ranne nodded. “There’s a scheduled patrol that will go through Falkreath in two days’ time. I’m sure Captain Hadria will let you follow along so they can escort you down the mountain.”

“Oh, I will be leaving in the morning,” said Lucien. “I have too much to do and to set up, and I want to be able to establish myself and send for the rest of my supplies before the pass closes for winter.”

Ranne stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “I think you should wait. The roads aren’t safe for a lone traveler.”

Lucien looked up from chasing a legume of indeterminate cultivar with a bit of bread-crust. “Oh, nonsense. It can’t be more than four leagues away, all downhill. I should be able to deal with a mudcrab or two! I’ve got a dagger.”

“It’s the two-legged animals you have to worry about here in Falkreath. We don’t have any large wolf packs, but they’re not the only ones waiting for a good kill.” She stood. “I can’t make you wait, though, if you’re determined.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. After all, it’s an Imperial road and those are safe for travelers.”

“That is certainly the Legion’s opinion,” Ranne sighed. “Be careful Lucien. Keep your eyes open. And… maybe write home before you set off.”

“Actually, I just finished a letter to my mother,” Lucien said. “Would you be willing to take it back to the Jerall View Inn? The innkeeper said he had a courier who makes regular trips to the Imperial City.”

“I’d be happy to, lad.” Ranne downed the last of her mead in one swig before gathering her tankard and now-empty bowl. “I’ve got a knapsack for correspondence on the wagon, just put anything you want sent in there before you leave. I’m heading for the barracks.”

“Good night, Ranne. And thank you again for the lift over the pass.”

Ranne waved off his thanks with another grunt and left the mess hall. Lucien turned his attention back to finishing his meal. After returning his bowl to Vilod, he threw his map case over his shoulder and climbed the sturdy but steep ladder to the loft.

There were several beds separated by hung hides and a few cots and bedrolls in a corner for more thrifty travelers. By the dim light of a few scattered candles, Lucien could see that several men were dealing out hands of cards and two of the beds were already occupied. The men looked up when he entered but turned back to their game immediately. The air hung heavy with the smell of soot from the hearth below and hay from the thatch above, along with the sour-sweet smell of yeast from the brewing vats.

Picking his way carefully through the beds, Lucien made his way to the alcove he had been given upon his arrival. His carry-pole was where he left it, along with the old Legion-issue loculus his mother had given him to use on the expedition. Lucien shed his doublet and opened the worn flap of the leather satchel. Briefly, he caught the strong scent of old leather and the hyssop balm his mother favored to soothe the aches and pains she had collected from her military career. An intense wave of homesickness washed over Lucien, his breath catching in his chest. Lucien was glad his back was to the rest of the room as he struggled to compose himself – he was being ridiculous; his adventure had only just started and here he was missing his mother like a child!

The tightness in his chest eased as the smell of home and family faded. While the furca was new and custom-fit to his proportions, the satchel was the same one his mother had carried during her service to the Emperor, and it was comforting to know that he was carrying a memory of her, and of home. After slipping off his boots, Lucien carefully packed his doublet, breeches, and cloak away in the manner she had taught him, and then placed the entire kit under the bed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he settled into the rough homespun and furs, hearing her voice echo in his head: Always keep everything you possibly can in your pack, Lucien. You never know when you’re going to have to make a hasty exit. He rolled over, turning away from the candlelight from the other side of the loft. The furs were rough, and the worn tick mattress allowed musty hay to poke through the fabric, scratching any exposed skin. Lucien wondered whether he would ever get comfortable moments before the long climb and warm meal took their toll and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

[nine-blessed-hero]

Yoinking an open tag from @bretongirlwrites

I'm on a little bit of a K'Rin kick, so I'll do this for her. (I know this is supposed to be a Skyrim thing, but IMO most of the questions are generic enough I can make it about Oblivion)

Favourite tavern

Rin doesn't drink (ignoring that one time in Aleswell), and with a Guild chapter in each town she rarely needs to use an inn's bed.

But at a push, she'd say the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn. It's cosy, clean, and Mariana Ancharia runs a respectable business.

Favourite drink

Some kind of fruit juice (apple, blackberry, tomato) or small beer (a la what IRL medieval peasants would have drunk).

Travelling companion

None. After the events during the Knights of the Nine, Rin cannot stand the idea of losing anyone else like that.

When Raminus mentions it might be beneficial for the apprentice wizards to accompany her, she baulks at the idea of dragging one into danger - if Geimund, a trained warrior, didn't survive, then what hope for an untrained welp?

This also hits home when she meets the Adoring Fan. She's unnecessarily rude to him in an attempt to dissuade him from following her.

Wealthy or not

As a skilled alchemist, Rin has a healthy income (when time allows), however most of her income goes to keeping her enchanted items charged or feeding the poor. I'd put her on the lower end of comfortable.

Worships the aedra or the daedra

Aedra, with a primary focus on Mara, and secondary focuses on Zenithar and Stendarr. Part of this is how she was raised, but part of this is after a lot of self-reflection during the Knights of the Nine pilgrimages she performs.

Biggest fear

That she's met her biological parents... and killed one or both in self-defence. There is nothing to indicate who they were, she might even only be half-redguard. Rin has no idea. The first time she was attacked at a camp by a redguard woman, Rin had nightmares about it for ages, the "what if" sending her into a nosedive.

Pet peeves

When people are unduly rude to beggars. In her early days, she was too timid to do anything about them but made up for other people's rudeness by pressing food, medicines and money into the beggar's hands. As she gained fame, Rin became bolder about confronting these types of people.

Do they like being Hero of Kvatch/ Champion of Cyrodiil?

She is ambivalent about both titles.

Jauffre asked her to do a task; that task entailed closing an Oblivion Gate, so she did so. It's nothing really to make a fuss about, but people will do so regardless of what she wants, so she may as well be gracious about it.

Similarly, she isn't keen on being Champion, but she understands duty; and her duty is to support Ocato and the Elder Council in their efforts to rebuild Cyrodiil. Her thoughts are always with the common folk, keeping peace and remaining compassionate to their issues; literally being their champion. She thinks that's what Martin would have wanted.

Favourite faction

Perhaps surprisingly, it's the Thieves Guild. She strongly admires the Grey Fox's commitment to protecting the poor of each city and his "robin hood" approach to thievery.

An object of sentimental value

I've struggled with this question a lot. I've kept plenty of knickknacks from my playthrough, but none of what I've kept has seemed like something Rin would keep. And she has nothing to tie her to her old life either, except the house in Bravil.

I may come up with something later, but for now, I'll say she's too practical, and not sentimental enough to keep a specific item.

Hobbies

"Hob-bee? Hobb- No. Nope, sorry. Is that Ayleidoon?" Rin is too serious for her own good. Her "hobbies" include doing alchemy, running through her martial practice, and chatting with her fellow Blades.

Favourite city

She still retains a lot of love for her home of Bravil, but it's Anvil that has her heart. It's warm, the scenery (when she takes time to explore it properly) is beautiful, the food outstanding, and the people friendly. It's restive and tranquil; an easy place to love.

(But between you, me, and the walls, her favourite place in Cyrodiil is the West Weald)

Tagging: I don't know anyone who hasn't done this yet, so if anyone fancies it - you're tagged.

[mjrkime]

I love TES series. Especially Morrowind, Oblivion and Skyrim.

Cyrodiil is comfy. Almost fairytale-like.

Warning: a long and unreasonably emotional post about a videogame

I always find myself being quite bitter whilst coming back to TES IV: Oblivion despite being overall nostalgic. Morrowing felt different and it still does. The emotional baggage that I have for TES III usually relates to my unbearable wish for an escapism which this title provided. Yet, TES IV has a significant flavour to it.

The home of pristinely clean streets, white towers, wine and beautiful pastoral scenery, it hides and nourishes bloody cults, horrific murderers, undercover intrigues and tragedies. Vvanderfell is grey and it's grey in every sense of the way. The morals, the people, the story. It's hard to be and feel heroic when you find yourself amidst a thousand years-long intrigue. Skyrim is bloody. It shows its guts to you because it can. It wants you to bathe in blood while crossing this cold and harsh land.

Oblivion doesn't want you to bathe in blood, it doesn't throw you into the web of intrigues. It gives you a simple story about a hero who finds themselves at the end of the old man's wish. Emperor Uriel Septim gives you his amulet before his inevitable demise. And after that it just goes as it always does.

Cyrodiil hides its very essence under everyone's nose. It pretends to be an idyllic place. In fact, I can absolutely feel the need to slow down and take a stroll through the beautiful cities. Together with the soundtrack, the atmosphere brings you a taste of Tamika's fine wine. Going through the vast landscapes I felt like I finally understood why sometimes we just need to stop and just stare at the sky while the sun sets. Everything feels perfect But it's oh so far away from being perfect. There's, in fact, a necromancer living under that hill. A dangerous cult of ritualistic murderers prospers under the guise of Night Mother, housing their cozy hideout in the middle of the city. A menacing entity is plotting against the mages guild, the mercenaries and bandits watch the roads, thieves are spreading their curiosity amidst the city streets. There are dark mysteries in the ancient ruins and ugly secrets among the people of Cyrodiil. The daedra shrines await their chosen puppet to fulfill their sinister purposes. Also, there's a gate to the literal daedra hellish realm right there.

The realm of Mehrunes Dagon feels like a cruel joke, an attraction in the house of horrors. There are spikes everywhere, the small islands of soil are surrounded by lava, the blood of countless victims soaks the walls of menacing towers and even the damn flora wants to murder you. It mocks the heavenly peaceful land of Cyrodiil perfectly.

What's that? Oh, a sudden realisation.

Cyrodiil seems... Stereotypical. Oae wae!

But the stereotype or not, I quite enjoy this heroic fairytale which is, in fact way darker than it may seem at first.

Every time I come back to this land I can feel the underlying bitter sweet feeling. I know and love these characters, this story and this land. But also I know how each string ends. And it hurts. Sitting in front of Martin while he reads inside the Cloud Ruler Temple, training next to Agronak in the Arena, resting and enjoying the stay inside the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. It all brings me as much misery as it does joy, because I KNOW that the ending is inevitable. I might delay it, I might never become a Champion of Cyrodiil, Arena Grand Champion or a Speaker, but it's only a fool's relief. Reading the interpretation of what might've happened to the Hero of Cyrodiil, honestly clicks to me. In my mind, my protagonist lost a good chunk of people she cared about no matter where she tried to go and what she tried to do. Strolling through Cyrodiil after the main plot always felt excruciatingly lonely and bitter. It's only logical that she would lose herself to a maddening corruption.

Every time I ride through the Colovian Highlands or stroll through the Nibenay Valley, I feel at ease and comfortable. But something inside me aches and feels like crying. Alone.

P.S. I know this feels too melancholic and d33p for a game that's basically a meme now, but I'm a person who cherishes videogame experiences way more than the real ones. Also I can't deny the emotional baggage that I have attached to it. However, I genuinely think that people kind of forgot how nice it felt to play this game. The memes are funny, yes, but I genuinely feel that the province of Cyrodiil holds way more depth than just that.

[444namesplus]

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[freya-theirondragon]

Domus Phrasticus

[sbeep]

how did skyrim's civil war go with tal?

The Big Q!

In a nutshell, largely as it plays out in game. Legion and Stormcloaks vying for getting the dragonborn on their side for the tactical and symbolic advantage. The outcome is an independent Skyrim no longer governed by the Empire, but Tal never forgets the looming Thalmor threat.

However I do stray from the canon at a few points and in fairly large ways. 👑

The Jagged Crown- Tal initially gets caught up with the Imperials to retrieve the symbol of Nord kingship. While in Solitude, he sees the sway that Thalmor advisors have over the Queen and the General. But the Empire is what he knows, he was born in Cyrodiil, but upon seeing the first clashes against the Stormcloak soldiers and really seeing nord warriors in action, he begins to think again. Instead of handing over the crown, however, he hides it. He buries it in the garden of his house. Neither faction gets the crown.  The Battle of Whiterun- By this point Tal is known to be dragonborn. He’s been invited to Windhelm to speak with Ulfric, he’s passed messages between the Jarls, the battle is inevitable. He’s in Whiterun when the Stormcloaks mass at the gates. He defends the city, protects civilians, kills Stormcloaks, and hates every second of it. He begs and convinces Balgruuf to surrender and end the bloodshed but on orders, the Imperial garrison won’t yield. Tal changes sides. The Stormcloaks take Whiterun.  Liberation of Skyrim- while Stormcloaks wage war against the Imperial forts and garrisons, Tal is forced to spend his time- a period of years in my headcanon- between the worsening dragon crisis and leading Stormcloak warriors against Thalmor targets. He fights in relatively few all put battles, preferring to target patrols, hit Thalmor outposts like ghosts in the night, and cut off Imperial supply lines. 

Relationship with Ulfric- the Jarl of Windhelm is keen to put on a good show for Tal, who’s not very worldly and unsure of how his power can be put to use when he first meets Ulfric. Over the years of the war and crisis, he learns Ulfric’s history, he deeds, his motives. Tal believes in the Stormcloak cause, that the Empire has choked the soul out of his country and they can stand strong, but Ulfric’s seemingly wilful overlooking of the violent nationalism amongst his soldiers, rejection of diversity of who can live in and contribute to Skyrim, and treatment of the Reach never escape Tal’s notice. Ulfric trusts Tal far more than Tal trusts Ulfric. 

The Battle for Solitude- Tal joins the Stormcloaks for the final assault on the capital. He fears the outcomes if he’s not. When the city is taken, Queen Elisif is captured the moment comes to declare Skyrim free, Tal stops Ulfric from reaching the throne. In his eyes the blood of all casualties of the war are on Ulfric’s hands. He’s a murderer, a power-grabbing populist who let his Stormcloaks tear the country apart, and if Skyrim is to have a future, Tal knows it can’t be made in Ulfric’s image.

They fight a holmgang- a duel to the death, because Ulfric is furious and refuses anything less- in the ruined streets of the city. Ulfric uses the thu’um, but Tal staunchly does not. He defeats Ulfric as himself, not with the dragonborn’s power.  General Tullius is allowed to live. Tal’s parting words to him before they send the general back to the Imperial City are that Skyrim will never be ruled again— but when the next war comes, and it surely will, all enemies of the Thalmor must stand together. Tal promises an alliance of equals and Tullius has no choice but to accept.

With Ulfric dead and Elisif deposed, the Jarls of Skyrim look to Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, Tal Stormshield. With no other choices and work still to do, Talos is named High King, and takes the throne. 

He refuses a coronation, the Jagged Crown stays buried in the ground, and he spends the few years until Dawnguard and Dragonborn with Eivør and Kato at his side to bring Skyrim back together, repair ties with the Reach, and break down the insular fears that the country has built up. It’s wretched, bitter work, but he does it because no one else will.

All this concludes before the end of the dragon crisis. He began as a little blacksmith whose only ambition was to build a home, and he steps into Sovngarde to defeat Alduin as high king and leader of a nation. 

[cheeseandstrawberrytartlover]

The Pilgrimage

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

The young Bruma guard awoke from his nap at the gates as a horse walked past Bruma. And then another. And then another.

Now the young imperial was suddenly wide awake at this odd realization and rubbed his eyes as more than a hundred cloaked people rode towards the Imperial City.

The horses were walking calmly. No galloping and no weapons either, only a torch bearer or two from time to time.

The imperial walked over to the road only to realize that they were all ignoring him and looking forward at the leading person on their horse.

"What?! Is going on?!"

A breton waved at him, but continued to ride with the rest.

More and more people heard of the Pilgrimage and they were afraid. Even Ocato, the High Chancellor, heard of the Pilgrimage. But he had no idea about what he should do.

Ocato nervously stood in front of the White-Gold Tower, facing the gate. As the horses passed the civilians on the street, some decided to go into their houses for comfort and out of fear.

The High Chancellor tried not to show any sign of emotions as the leader of the group stopped his horse. Only now Ocato noticed the red eyes of the completely black horse. It unnerved him slightly.

The newly risen sun illuminated the sides of the cloaked men, women and everything inbetween, revealing more of their faces.

"Halt!"

The entire army of people halted immediately.

"What- What is your business?!"

The leader removed his hood to reveal his white hair and sunset-colored horns that were shaped like a crown on top of their head.

"We came here to," the man spoke even louder, "Pay tribute to the Champion of Cyrodiil!"

The odd figure on the horse smiled and rose his arms.

"Children! Reveal your presents and get off your horses!"

All of them held up their varying presents.

Ocato was surpised and stepped aside out of confusion to reveal the already placed flowers, candles and a sketched portrait of Ben. Sheogorath's heart sank deep as he stared at the portrait.

The residents of the Shivering isles began to form a line leading to the White-Gold Tower. Everyone would give their presence here and everyone was mourning.

As the residents were walking by Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince slowly looked up the White-Gold Tower and then at the sky. The same sky that Ben had thrown objects at and cursed Akatosh for taking his lover. The same sky that Vicente and Ben had stared at while Vicente told them stories and mythology.

But he could never see that sky the same way ever again.

Shadowmere neighed at his master to get them out of their thoughts and it worked. Sheogorath gave the void horse a good scratch before looking at all of his people. A lot of them were smiling at him.

Ocato sighed nervously, "Why...? Why all of you? And especially you, horned being?"

"Paying tribute to a great hero is necessary after all. Was there a funeral?"

"Yes, there was.... though, we did not have a body... their armor is buried in the emperors' tomb. A few pieces of the golden dragon are also there."

"I think they would have wanted that, yes. Being buried near Martin... I am glad that you gave them a funeral even without a body."

"It simply had to be done. It was in order."

"Truly."

The line was moving quickly. Everyone only said a few words before getting back on their horses.

The white-haired humanoid gently caressed their heads while they passed by them. It was odd for Sheogorath to wait so patiently.

Ocato inhaled sharply, "I know who you are."

"I sure hope you do."

"Then why are you here? With your people?"

"Paying tr-"

"The real reason, Sheogorath."

Sheogorath's nose scrunched up.

"I knew Ben."

The High Chancellor stood there silently for a second. Sheogorath didn't look at him.

"I knew them well. That is the reason."

"I am surprised that you weren't here to attack us."

"What? You already have been invaded by Daedra! That would be unfair! No no, my people will leave again after this."

"Why would a Daedric Prince care about what is unfair?"

"Do. Not. Insult me, High Chancellor. Perhaps I should have taken some bodyguards with me."

The last few residents left their gifts at the site and Sheogorath noticed that a few civilians looked out of windows and peeked their heads out to see what is going on. Nosy mortals.

The Daedric Prince took a deep breath and got off his horse swiftly. Finally he revealed a Shivering Lily under his cloak. A lily that is native to the Shivering Isles and a symbol of many things like freedom.

Sheogorath slowly bent down and put it on top of the sketched portrait.

"Rest easy, Ben. Many people miss you... a thing that you never thought would happen to you. You died a hero for everyone in your life, even though you doubted it. You will be remembered, I promise," Sheogorath whispered softly.

The white-haired humanoid walked back to Shadowmere and climbed on her back.

"Let us go home, children!"

Everyone turned their horses around.

"I will not forget this, High Chancellor Ocato."

Sheogorath led his people towards the gate until they could not be seen anymore. Within minutes, they were gone and the civilians continued their daily life with caution.

[dalekofchaos]

Why The Last Dragonborn is the greatest threat to the Aldmeri Dominion

The Dragonborn is without a doubt the most powerful being in the Elder Scrolls. But no one really understands that he could bring down the Dominion and bring order to a chaotic Tamriel. 

Whether you side with the Imperials or Stormcloaks. I strongly believe that this could be the first stepping stone to becoming Emperor.

If we look at all he is capable of doing, he would get a lot of influence in the Empire. In this scenario let's say that the Last Dragonborn sides with the Empire and completes every side quest in the game. He would be a Legate in the Legion, thane of every hold, Archmage of the College, Harbinger of the Companions, Hero of House Redoran, a member of house Telvanni, the head of the largest thief organization in Tamriel, head of the Dark Brotherhood, head of the Blades, owner of 2 dragons, high ranking member of the Dawnguard or Lord of the Volkihar Clan, herald of all the Daedra, and basically The Last Dragonborn has all the love and support of Skyrim.

Let’s look at the accomplishments of TES previous heroes. 

In Morrowind The Nerevarine unites the five houses of Morrowind and the Ashlanders, brings an end to The Tribunal, stops Dagoth Ur thus completing the Nerevarine Prophecy, completes the Bloodmoon Prophecy(in which he fucking fights The Daderic Prince Hircine!), kills the god Almalexia, gains the corpus disease and becomes immortal and goes on a expedition to Akavir.

In Oblivion The Hero Of Kvatch/Champion Of Cyrodiil finds the heir to the Emperor, helps Martin Septim become Emperor, shuts down the Oblivion gates stopping the Dadera horde, Martin Septim sacrifices himself and becomes the avatar of Akatosh to stop Mehrunes Dagon and ends the Oblivion Crisis. The Hero Of Kvatch becomes The Champion Of Cyrodiil  and is known and celebrated throughout Cyrodiil for what we did to stop the Oblivion Crisis. then finds the relics of the crusader, becomes the divine crusader and defeats Umaril the Unfeathered. And lastly The Hero Of Kvatch goes to The Shivering Isles, does the bidding of Sheogorath, ends The Greymarch, stops Jyggalag and becomes the new Sheogorath.

As for Skyrim, The Last Dragonborn fulfills the prophecy as Dragonborn and stops Alduin from ending the world, stops Harkon from plunging the world in eternal darkness and travels to Solstheim to stop Miraak, The First Dragonborn. I feel that Miraak is the true climax of the story. The First Dragonborn fighting The Last Dragonborn. Fight to the death between Dragonborns. That for me is basically the ultimate culmination of the game.  But I find it dissatisfying because it just doesn’t feel like anywhere near the level to The Shivering Isles or Tribunal. We don’t become a Daedric Prince or immortal. If anything I feel a new story DLC should be given where The Last Dragonborn becomes the new Emperor of Tamriel. Not High King, Emperor. Tidus Mede II is dead, we know nothing of heirs of The Meade Dynasty and it shouldn’t be unthinkable to assume that the Last Dragonborn can’t become The Emperor. Talos was Dragonborn and it was the Dragonblood that made the Septim Dynasty and a dragonborn who made Tamriel united. Skyrim was on the verge of seceding like Hammerfell did, most likely The Imperial side won canonically(which is for the best, Ulfric did exactly what The Thalmor wanted to divide and conquer so the Empire can fall easy in the next war) as for The Blades, the next duty of The Blades would be to guide The Dragonborn on the path of becoming Emperor because what else are they meant to do? What else can they do? Alduin is dead and it is the duty of The Blades to guide The Dragonborn and to protect The Emperor. The Dragonborn as Emperor can make the Empire stronger reunite Tamriel and unite a strong Tamriel against The Thalmor.

And guess how The Dragonborn as Emperor can stop The Thalmor? Dragons.  Depending if you choose to kill or spare Paarthurnax. You either gain Paarthurnax as an ally who spreads the way of the voice to the other Dovah or The Dragons recognize your Thu’um as the strongest and Alduin’s lordship is passed on to you.  Either way after Miraak’s defeat, The Last Dragonborrn becomes the most powerful being in all of Tamriel.

Lets look at the benefits of The Last Dragonborn as Emperor. He is the Harbinger Of The Companions, so The Companions can aid The Legion with their most strongest warriors, The Dragonborn restores The Blades to their former glory. Guildmaster of The Thieve’s Guild, so Thieves can steal powerful artifacts that benefit The Thalmor, Archmage Of The College Of Winterhold, while Nords do not trust Mages, they will trust their Archmage and The Mages’ power of the arcane can rival that of the High Elves. Listener Of The Dark Brotherhood. As The Listener The Dark Brotherhood, he can arrange the deaths of important and high up Thalmor in power. He is the new Lord of the Volkihar Clan(let’s face it, absolutely no one chose to side with the Dawnguard) The Dragonborn is Champion to the Daedra. And with The Dragonborn being in service to  Hermaeus Mora, we have a chance to obtain Thalmor knowledge for our Daedric Prince of knowledge.

Skyrim’s leadership needs to change. The current leadership of Skyrim needs to be destroyed. And that’s because Jarl Balgruuf can’t even maintain his own hold. It’s a crumbling piece of ruins, even before the dragons came back. Whiterun was a shadow of it’s former self. It used to be this massive trade hub, under Balgruuf, it’s garbage. Riften is a den of corruption and Jarl Lalia who has a carriage ready in case Riften falls to Imperials. It’s fitting that at least Riften’s leader survives but leaves it’s people to the mercy of Maven Black-Briar or the dragons. Each Jarl in Skyrim is equally incompetent. If Skyrim becomes independent, they will all be incompetent together meaning the province will fall that much faster. The only potential that Skyrim has to endure for a good period of time is get better leadership. The Thalmor do not want to conquer  men. The Thalmor want to deactivate the towers, destroy the race of men and remake Nirn so that they can be gods again. And it is our duty to stop this. With the Civil War over, Aludin, Harkon and Miraak defeated, what is there for the Dragonborn to do? Become Emperor and bring an end to The Thalmor. In almost ever Elder Scrolls games, the guild questlines are canon, so The Dragonborn kills Emperor Titus Mede II. The Dragonborn can lead to an Imperial Renaissance, allow it to flourish once again. He helped quell the Stormcloak Rebellion. But what could happen is that after the Civil War is that The Dragonborn would be hailed as a hero in Skyrim and in The Imperial City. Then one day, The Dragonborn declares himself the new Dragonborn Emperor of the true Empire of Tamriel. He saw what Ulfric saw that the current Empire was weak and needs change or it will fall to the Thalmor. The Empire needs a Dragonborn Emperor once again. The Dragonborn walks into the Elder Council chambers and declares he killed Titus Mede II and declares himself Emperor. And pretty much everyone is calling for the Dragonborn’s death. But guess what the Dragonborn does next? BEND WILL! The Dragonborn uses the Bend Will shout on the Elder Council and the Elder Council declares you the Emperor of Tamriel. Now not only do we get a new Dragonborn Emperor, but we also have an army of dragons to join us. Paarthurnax could be convinced to join and lead the dragons on the path to the way of the voice to fight for The Dragonborn or if you do kill Paarthurnax, you gain Alduin’s lordship and the dragons will follow you. So you have an army of dragons and Paarthurnax as your ally. Where Tiber Septim had his personal dragon Nafaalilargus, The Dragonborn has Odahving and Durnehviir. So with the combined might of  The Last Dragonborn, Dragons, the guilds and the backing of the Imperial army led by General Tullius. Once again, Tamriel will be united against The Thalmor and  The Thalmor will be stopped and The Summerset Isles will be burned to ashes.  

[haziebat]

Moving Mountains | Ch. 1 | Skyrim x Fem!Reader

[Interactive | Readers Vote]

Word count: 2,700

Content Warning: Depictions of violence

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You find yourself in the courtyard of a palace made of smooth gray stone. Its spires graze the twinkling stars emerging in the green-tinted sky. To either side of you are aged trees. Their gnarled, leafless branches reach toward the twilit heavens. Their roots dig into lush grass that creeps into the stonework of the walkway.

You can't place the scene, but it's stained with an uneasy familiarity. Your feet recognize the stairs beneath them as you begin your climb to the palace doors. They are a stately pair - tall, with ornate filigree designs, standing in proud opposition to each other.

You reach out and take hold of a sturdy handle. It's cold to the touch - a sensation so vivid it could burn your palm.

With an uneven breath, you pull. 

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White light sears your bleary eyes.

Groaning, you pinch them shut. The glow taunts you through your eyelids. It flickers in spots, giving you the image of sunspots shining through a verdant canopy. Leaves dance in a cool breeze. Goosebumps prickle your bare skin.

Your head aches as you're jostled. A throbbing pain resonates through your muscles. Wheels click on a cobblestone road. You're certain you're on a carriage, and almost as certain that one ran you over.

This isn't right.

You force your eyes open.

They're flooded with harsh morning sun. 

Blinking away the discomfort, you begin to take in your surroundings.

You are on a cart, just as you suspected, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Behind them are towering evergreens. Birds sing among the needles. A light frost clings to the branches. Stray snowflakes meander through the air. On the road before you are more carriages with strangers clad in identical armor sitting in the backs. Carts slip off around the bend toward a destination unknown.

Unknown.

There are a lot of unknowns right now.

How you got here, for example.

You go to search the dustiest corners of your memory just to find that there are no corners to search. No dust has settled because there's nothing for it to cling to. Every stretch of your mind comes up blank. Where you were before and where you're headed... Nothing.

All that's left are the clouded memories of a dream.

Your stomach twists into a knot.

You need to focus on the things you know - on certainties.

First order of business: do you know your name?

(Y,,,,N)?

(Y/N)?

Sure.

Sounds good enough.

You're more confident about that than anything else right now.

Your name is (Y/N) and you're somewhere you don't know, on a carriage headed somewhere you don't know, surrounded by people you also don't know. The strangers share a grim expression that only makes your sinking feeling grow deeper.

You move to rub your temples and massage away the headache and racing thoughts.

Your hand is caught.

Your heart goes still.

You look down to find your wrists bound with an intricately wrapped leather strip. It digs into your flesh with each tug against it.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn't happening.

Panic threatens to seize you. It festers in your gut. Your breathing is uneven.

You look to the man across from you. He looks to be in his late twenties, with wavy blond locks falling to a square, bearded jaw. His eyes are round and prominent, a striking blue and steadfast. He's clad in armor made of supple brown leather with a muted blue sash displaying the emblem of a bear, same as most of the others.

"Where are we?" You croak out. Your throat is dry, but your voice is familiar. It's a small shred of comfort.

"You're in Skyrim, lass." He replies. He bears an accent that marks him as a Nord - a term you recognize.

"Skyrim." You repeat. Another word you know.

You're relieved you still seem to hold some functional knowledge of the world. You're in Skyrim, the snowy, northernmost province of Tamriel. It's a land of harsh frost and cruel beasts, with hardy people and hearty mead. These are all facts - little things that make such a surreal moment feel more concrete. And yet none of these details paint you a portrait of yourself. Frustration seeps in alongside anxiety.

"You were wandering near the border." The stranger explains. "Lost, confused, naked... Seems like you have a few more of your faculties back now, eh?"

You glance down at yourself. Whoever captured you had the decency to dress you, if that's what you want to call it. You're clad in rough burlap rags with dirt clinging to the fraying fibers.

"Well, I'm clothed. That's something." You reply.

"Good. Still got your sense of humor. You're going to need that." The man says.

His words unsettle you.

"How'd I wind up a captive?" You ask, tugging again at your binds. You're aware of the futility but there's little else for you to do.

"You got tangled up in the fight when the Imperials ambushed us. Couldn't get out a damn sentence but you took down two men. Can't say I've ever seen anything like it." The Nord's voice holds a hint of humor. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as that thief over there."

"Damn you Stormcloaks." The thief spits. Your attention is drawn to him. He has a lean frame and gaunt face with grime coating his skin. Greasy brown hair frames wild eyes better suited for a caged animal. "Everything was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

"Stormcloaks?" You inquire. It's the one word that escapes your recognition

"You really are in a state, aren't you?" The blond man replies with a crinkle of his brow. "I was sure everyone had gotten wind of our rebellion."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm gonna be the best gauge of that one." You say with a trace of a smirk.

"Shut up back there!" The driver barks.

A tense silence settles over the cart.

It's broken by the thief, who asks in a hushed tone, "What's wrong with him, huh?"

You follow his eyes to the man in question. They're locked on the Nord to your right. He's an imposing man with a mane of wild, deep blond hair pulled back from his face. It's adorned with braids, fastened with carved beads and leather knots. He has steely eyes beneath a stern brow. His nose is prominent and slightly crooked, giving the impression he's had it broken a time or two before. He wears fine robes adorned with chainmail - attire that indicates both his wealth and his status as a warrior. A gag is tied around his mouth.

"Watch your tongue." The Nord in front of you commands. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" The Thief nearly chokes on the words. "You're the leader of the rebellion... If they've captured you... Oh, Gods... Where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde, a Nord's afterlife,

If what he says is true - if you're headed to your death - where is your soul headed? Will you be granted an afterlife, or be met with an abrupt nothingness? Or will your lost and confused spirit be bound to mundus, cursed to wander for an eternity?

Plenty of options, and very few appealing ones.

"No! This can't be happening! This isn't happening!" The thief's voice wavers. His eyes dart about the carriage, cycling restlessly from face to face. He seems to be looking for an out you could assure him doesn't exist. His desperation is palpable.

Your heart is fluttering. Your palms begin to sweat. You don't know what life you led until this point but you can't begin to piece together how it led you here. Is this what you deserve?

It's impossible to say where you've been, or where you're headed. You can't even tell how long you've been in Tamriel. Your exact age is as murky as everything else. You can ascertain "adult" but how much of an adult is unclear. You feel as if you've been around for a while though the more you settle into your skin you feel that your body is still comparatively young.

You bring your eyes up along your bare arms and take in the pale scars dotting them.

Your skin tells stories with ghosts of burns, cuts and gashes. Though the details are lost you can make out the meat of them: no matter how long your body has been around, it has been through a lot. You seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, or a history of dangerous work.

The Nord in front of you speaks up, pulling you from your thoughts. 

"Hey... What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?" The thief snaps.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

The thief hesitates. His face contorts before softening, with thin lips curled into a frown. "Rorikstead... I'm... I'm from Rorikstead..."

"What about you?" The blond man asks.

You pause to think on the question.

Yet you keep coming up blank.

You were found wandering at the border? Which one? Southern makes the most sense - this area doesn't share the lush, mountainous terrain of High Rock. It closer resembles the Jerall mountains, with steep hills and muted greens. You could be from Cyrodiil, but something in your bones insists this answer is unsatisfactory.

Sitting on the question too long you stammer out, "I uh... I have no fucking clue."

He laughs - a genuine chuckle with a glimmering smile. "Good an answer as any. I suppose it won't make much of a difference soon."

The carriage rounds a corner and a small village comes into view. It's surrounded by a sturdy stone wall with a broad wooden gate shielding the houses from the road. A figure on the covered walkway above calls out to the man leading the caravan, "General Tullius, Sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good." A gruff voice barks. "Let's get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh... Divines, please help me!" The thief pleads with closed eyes, head slumped and shoulders shuddering.

Entering the gates, you pass the man who led the string of carriages. He seems to be in his fifties, with cropped gray hair, though his toned arms tell you he's still in good shape. His face is austere with near-black eyes boring holes into the Altmer across from him. The golden skinned elves wear dark robes and gold armor.

"Look at him," the Blond man growls, "General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves."

"Thalmor." You barely recognize the word on your tongue. You're unsure what it means. The most closely related term you can conjure is "laughing stock".

"What's their deal?" You ask.

His brow furrows. "I don't know what happened to you but whatever it was, it really did a number on you, eh lass? The Thalmor are with the Aldmeri Dominion, here to 'unify Tamriel'. Serves better to rip her apart."

Okay that sounds like... New information.

You close your eyes and take a deep, steady breath.

This, you have decided, is all bullshit.

You struggle to keep your attention outwards, away from these prying thoughts.

"This is Helgen," The Nord continues. His expression grows heavier with each turn of the wheels. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here... Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

Juniper berries. Piney, with a hint of a peppery bite. 

This trivia is useless.

Above you looms a tower. A flag at its top proudly flies the symbol of the Empire - that dragon that rings so familiar. You know it well, but you do not feel loyalty. It is simply an icon of a frail nation.

"Funny... When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe." The Nord sighs.

"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?" A young boy chirps above the murmur of the townsfolk. The people have gathered in the streets and on their porches to watch.

"You need to go inside the house, little cub." His father replies.

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

"Inside the house. Now."

"Yes, Papa."

You wonder for a moment - who were your parents? Are they worth remembering? You wait for a melancholy pang and are met with apathy. This, somehow, feels worse. You try and focus on the present - it's the most you have right now.

The carriage draws to a halt in the town square, in the shadows of the ominous stone towers. In the clearing the headsman stands by his block. His axe gleams in the sunlight, drawing your eye back no matter how you try and avoid it. Beside him is a priestess wearing golden robes and a solemn face. She's likely a follower of Arkay, here to give you a proper sendoff to the grave.

You're not sure how much stock you put in the Divines.

At the moment, you'd say not much.

"Why are we stopping?" Beads of sweat begin to trickle down the thief's forehead, leaving trails of fair skin behind. It reveals his flushed cheeks and betrays his terror even further.

"Why do you think? End of the line." The blond man gets to his feet. He's tall with broad shoulders - the quintessential Nord. Looking past him at the others, you'd say he's right at home in this crowd. It seems to be a requirement for a position as a Stormcloak. How the Imperials threw you in among them is beyond you. You're pretty sure you put even less stock in the Legion than the Gods.

You get to your feet on rickety legs and follow the men off the cart. On the ground, you can hardly see past the group.

In the gaps between heads and shoulders you see what looks to be an Imperial Captain in heavy steel armor standing beside a leather clad soldier with auburn hair and an uncertain look. In his hand is a thick tome.

"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time." The Captain's voice holds no remorse. If you aren't mistaken, it seems to be dripping pride. Your lip curls at the sound.

"Empire loves their damn lists." The blond man says in a hushed tone.

The Imperial soldier begins to read from the pages in front of him. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

Ulfric remains silent as he joins the crowd congregating by the headsman's block. He walks with his head held high. He must know he'll die a martyr. If he's a true leader, his fight should last long after him, whether or not it's in the right.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier reads.

The blond man gives you a nod and heads towards his fate. A strange loneliness sets in. For the first time since waking you don't have a companion - or at the very least a voice other than yours to drown out your thoughts. To talk over the terror creeping up your spine.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The thief's eyes are that of a cornered beast. Frenzied, he looks to the block, then back to the Captain. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

Before she can reply, he runs. His legs carry him toward the gate at an uneven pace. They look as if they'll give out beneath him. "You're not gonna kill me!"

"Halt!" The Captain's shout echoes off the buildings surrounding you. Her demand falls on deaf ears. "Archers!"

There is the pluck of bowstrings in near-unison. Lokir cries out as arrows bury themselves in his back. He collapses to the ground, blood running down his side and staining his burlap rags. He wails one final time as his arms give out beneath him.

He falls limp on the cobblestone.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The Captain asks.

She's met with silence.

The auburn haired soldier's eyes wander to the book, then back to you. "Who are you?"

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╭━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╮

Q U E S T I O N S

╰━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╯

1.) What race are you?

✶ Argonian

✶ Breton

✶ Dark Elf

✶ High Elf

✶ Imperial

✶ Khajiit

✶ Nord

✶ Orc

✶ Redguard

✶ Wood Elf

2.) Any last words when you're at the headsman's block?

✶ "I'm not a rebel!"

✶ "Your grip on that axe is sloppy. You sure you've done this before?"

��� "Fuck you."

✶ Nothing. I'm going out with whatever dignity I have.

✶ Nothing. But I spit on the executioner.

POLL CLOSES: 01/31/2021

[sapphicconservative]

Ulfric banned Argonians (and as a faithful lover of Shahvee I have to defend them), forces Dark Elves to live in slums in Windhelm (I have also married Brelyna) and I quote "has nothing but disdain for elves" is that not racism? I'm on the Stormcloak side even though I disagree with them PURELY because I worship Talos as one should and FUCK THE THALMOR

Pre-Morrowind

House Dres finds its way as one of the great houses through slavery. Specifically with slave raids in Black Marsh, home if the Argonians. They were more along a plantation House, with the slavery used as a bonus. In fact, it's stated in lore most of their plantations used only slave labor.

Other noteworthy Houses who used slave labor plantations are House Hlaalu who own at least two plantations which can be visited in the game. It's likely more as Morrowind (the game) only takes place on Vvardenfell, the island within Morrowind.

3rd Era

Morrowind is the last province to outlaw slavery and they do so at the very end of the 3rd era. But, it did not do so easily. Many dark elves opposed this as it was legal in their homeland. Others opposed abolishing slavery because they could not trust slaves.

While it is noted that all types of races have a chance of being a slave in Morrowind, it is significantly higher if you are an Argonian. Even though, if you read the dialogue they say towards them, it shows they don't believe they are well-fitted as even slaves. Saying they are useless, dirty, wicked, need to be driven out, etc.

Around the time Morrowind sets place, there's a faction of Dark Elves who practice slavery and traditional Dunmer way of life. In fact, when talking to the generic Dunmer characters, they hold a sentiment of slavery being their right and tradition.

Morrowind takes place in 3E 427. Slavery in Morrowind is finally outlawed 5 years later in 3E 432.

Dark Elves can live from a few centuries to even upwards of a thousand years. The more common life span is 200-300 years old, though. The 3rd Era is notably the shortest era as not long after the events in Oblivion, this era ends on 3E 433. Slavery was only outlawed all across Tamriel for one year.

Fourth Era

By the events of Skyrim, 4E 201, we can safely say many Dunmer still remember slavery among their homeland.

Argonians

During Oblivion, while we only saw the affect of the gate in Cyrodiil, they were spread out across all of Tamriel. In Black Marsh, though, things went down a different path. It's noted they fought back in such strength and invaded this plane of oblivion that this is the only time during the invasion that gates were willingly closed. This is because the Hist possessed the Argonians and called them back to their homeland to fight the invasion.

That is not the only recorded instance of mass controlling of the Argonians from the Hist. Following the events of Oblivion, they later raided Morrowind as well as possessing a notable amount of Argonians to create Umbriel.

When Oblivion ended, it brought upon the end of the end of the Third Era. The two other recorded events of Argonians being possessed by the Hist happened within 2 centuries of the events of Skyrim happening.

Argonians have an estimated lifespan of 150 years old, and also are the only known race with no understanding of time. They have no word for the changing of time in their language.

Skyrim

None of this is to excuse what is happening in Windhelm, but it is majorly important to understand the racial tension between the Argonians and Dark Elves, as well as the mystery surrounding Argonians with the Hist.

These two races have a history of slavery and war going as recent as early 4th Era. One is a race we know can live for centuries and the other we know has no conception of time. Windhelm is the only hold with a high concentration of both, Dunmer and Argonians.

Nords are not familiar with Argonians, but understand they can be possessed by the Hist under stressful situations. A collection of Argonians, such as the ones present in Windhelm, can overthrow a Daedra invasion. They do need to fix the living situation between the Argonians, but knowing the deep lore between these two races, I don't fault them entirely for trying to separate the two races as best as they can.

Ulfric Stormcloak

He did not force the Dark Elves to live in the Gray Quarter. This is enforced by a comment by Rolff Stone-Fist:

"I know the High King invited them here, but he didn't ask me or anyone else first. Maybe he should have."

Ulfric Stormcloak is only referred to as a Jarl, never a High King, even by his most loyal supporters. This alludes to either the late High King Torygg or another previous High King.

It was noted that the Dark Elves came in high droves to Skyrim after the Red Year in 4E 5. In fact, a comment from Ambarys Rendar enforces the notion that Dark Elves willingly stopped at Windhelm upon arrival to Skyrim.

"When the Red Mountain burned, you could scarcely breathe in Morrowind. So we came west. Windhelm is the first city on that road, and here we are. If we had known the Nords would be so unwelcoming, we may have kept walking."

By 4E 20, a monument, a Decree of Monuments, is erected in honor of the Dark Elves who made the travels to Skyrim to escape the Red Year. The wording on the monument already paints the refugees mass migration as a distant memory worth remembering.

"This tower once served as a meeting place where those brave souls who achieved safe passage to Skyrim would find loved ones, and leave notice for others who could not be found."

[. . . ]

"We, the Jarls of Skyrim, hereby decree this site as monument to the struggle of those who fled their native home of Morrowind in the time following the Red Year."

A Nord has a lifespan of roughly 60 years. By the time the Decree of Monuments is made, it is roughly 180 years before the events of Skyrim. By the time Ulfric becomes Jarl, 3 generations have come and passed.

Say what you will, as this is mostly a collection of lore a more casual player for only Skyrim may have missed, but Ulfric has been focused on preserving Nordic way of life. His whole life history is noted with many incidents of fighting to preserve Nordic traditions - not fighting status quos such as what has become of the Dark Elves and Argonians in Windhelm.

[actuallykiwi]

Inner Dragon Chapter 2: The Calm Before

The one thing they never tell you about experiencing some sort of trauma: how strange it is to find another place so calm. 

Riverwood was only a few miles from Helgen, so for Annie to walk into the town with Hadvar and see how at peace it was, she felt almost out-of-place. Helgen was just burned to the ground by a dragon, just down the road, and here they were, living another unchanging day. The only way she knew she didn’t dream it was an elderly lady yelling about seeing a dragon fly overhead. It left a pit in her stomach. 

She and Hadvar approached the blacksmith where his uncle was working. She let him take the lead in telling his uncle about what happened, but stopped him before they went inside to discuss it further. “Um, Alvor... has anyone else passed through here? Particularly a young man that kinda looks like me? But dressed in Imperial armor?” Alvor shook his head. “No, my dear. You and Hadvar are the first.” 

“Oh...” she glanced back at the road, hoping that maybe Alec was just right behind them. “You both were the first, but maybe not the last.” He assured her. “Come inside, you can tell me what happened and maybe he’ll come around later.” 

She nodded and followed him into his house. They all sat around the table while Alvor’s wife Sigrid poured them a mug of ale. Hadvar filled his uncle in on the ambush, the execution that almost happened, and then the dragon attack. “A dragon? That’s ridiculous. You just had some ale, you aren’t drunk already, boy?” Hadvar chuckled. “Honestly, I wish I was. But a dragon destroyed Helgen. Flew in out of nowhere and just... wrecked the place. Mass confusion. I’m not sure how many people made it out, but I know I wouldn’t have if not for my friend here.” He gestured at Annie, who was nibbling on a sweet roll that Sigrid passed her. She cleared her throat and covered her mouth, blushing. “Oh, you’ve got it backwards! You saved me, Hadvar.” 

Alvor smiled. “Well, whoever was the hero here, I’m glad you both made it out.” Hadvar nodded. “Agreed. But I need to get back to Solitude and report what’s happened. I was hoping you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay...” 

“Of course! Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, I’m glad to help however I can! But I need your help. We need your help.” He looked at Annie. “What do you need?” She asked. “The Jarl needs to know if there’s a dragon on the loose. Riverwood’s defenseless... We need to get Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you do this for me, I’ll be in your debt.” 

Annie stood and shook her head. “You won’t owe me a thing. We saw how strong that dragon was, the Jarl needs to know. The only thing I will ask for in return is for you to keep an eye out for my brother, Alec. He was there, too, but we got separated.” “Is that the man you mentioned before? I’ll be sure to watch for him. Thank you for this.” Alvor smiled at her, and she returned it. 

Hadvar’s family loaded them with supplies for their trip, and bid them farewell. “I can take you to Whiterun, but from there I’ll have to leave for Solitude.” Hadvar explained. Annie agreed, and they set off for the city. 

The trip up to Whiterun was rather uneventful, aside from some wolves, a reveling trio, and out on the farms, a merry band taking down a giant, which Annie was thoroughly entertained to watch. Hadvar walked her to the outer walls of the city, by the stables, and bought a horse for the rest of his journey. “You sure you’ll be alright on your own? Do you want me to wait on you?” He asked her. “No, you’ve done enough. Thank you for getting me this far, but I don’t want to keep you from your duty. Just keep an eye out for Alec for me, okay?” 

He nodded and mounted his horse. “Absolutely. Stay safe, Annie. Gods guide you.” “You too, Hadvar.” She smiled at him as he rode off, then sighed as she turned to enter the city. As she approached the gate, a guard stood blocked her from coming in. “Halt! City’s closed with dragons about, official business only.” 

“Please, Riverwood calls for the Jarl’s aid.” The guard seemed surprised. “Riverwood’s in danger too? You’d better go on in. You’ll find the jarl in Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill.” She thanked him as he opened the gate for her. 

It was strange, entering an entirely new place on her own. She was used to a parent or Alec being with her because she got sort of lonely pretty quick. The world felt suddenly much bigger to her as she strode through the city. It was much more lively than Riverwood, but not nearly as bustling as the cities back home in Cyrodiil. Right away at the city gate, an Imperial armored man argued with the blacksmith. In the market, a snooty noble was bragging to a young woman. Perhaps the most interesting thing she witnessed though was a priest preaching about Talos in the square with a large, dying tree in the middle. He made her exceedingly nervous, considering that worship of Talos was now prohibited by the Thalmor. She wondered if they would come for him. Certainly not by her word. 

Eventually, Annie found her way to the stairs leading up to the palace at the top of the hill. At the top, she turned and looked out over the city. She loved heights, as they offered the best views. She took a deep breath, and allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and calm her nerves before she entered. “What is it, Imperial?” A guard approached her. “Oh, I-I’m here to speak to the jarl. Sorry, I just wanted to admire the view for a moment.” She smiled at the guard and crossed the bridge into Dragonsreach. 

The jarl’s voice was echoing across the large chamber, deep in conversation with his steward. Annie nervously eyed the maids sweeping around the entrance, hoping to get some reassurance. They paid her no mind. So she took another deep breath and followed the staircase up to the large, ceremonious table in front of the throne. She almost froze to the spot as the jarl’s housecarl drew her weapon and approached her with extreme caution. “What’s the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.” 

Annie gulped and carefully put her hands up, trying to keep her voice steady. “I have news from Helgen, about the dragon attack.” The housecarl eyed her closely, then sheathed her weapon and allowed Annie to pass. “Well, that explains why the guards let you in. Come on, then, the jarl will want to speak to you personally.” 

The jarl’s eyes trained on her as she slowly approached the throne. Now that she could see him, she could tell that, underneath his stern gaze, slightly concerned expression, and firm grip of the arm of the throne, he was tired. But the way his gaze had focused on her, he wasn’t about to show it. When he spoke, his voice was booming, but in a lighter tone than Ulfric’s had been. 

“So. You were at Helgen. And you saw this dragon with your own eyes?” Annie nodded. “Yes, I was there. It completely destroyed Helgen, and it flew off in this direction.” The jarl gripped his throne tighter. “By Ysmir, Irileth was right!” He muttered. He looked over at his steward. “What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

His housecarl chimed in, “My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It’s in the most immediate danger, and if that dragon is still lurking in the mountains somewhere-” “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him!” The steward shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “We should not-” 

“ENOUGH!” Balgruuf slammed his fist down, causing everyone near him to jump. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” Proventus seemed to shrink into himself, and Balgruuf sighed, turning back to his housecarl. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwod at once.” She gave a small bow and salute, “Yes, my jarl,” then turned and walked to do his bidding. Proventus nervously cleared his throat and bowed as well. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties...” The jarl almost seemed to sneer at him. “That would be best.” 

Annie now stood at full attention as Jarl Balgruuf stood from his throne and approached her. “Well done. You sought me out on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.” He gave her a respectful smile and held his hand out to her. She smiled back and shook it. She could feel the rough calluses on his fingers, and the firmness of his grip convinced her that he was trying to keep it together. “Of course, sir. I’m only here to help.” Now his smile was sincere. “Glad to hear it. There is another thing you could do for me, if you’re interested. Come, let’s go find Farengar, my court wizard. He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... rumors of dragons.” He lead her past the dining hall of the grand chamber into a smaller room to the side, where a man covered in dark robes was pouring over a book. Judging by the mess of parchment, quills, maps and scribbled notes all over the table he was leaning over, she assumed he had been working at this for a while.

“Farengar, I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project.” A solid few seconds passed before the wizard’s head popped up from what he was reading. The bags under his eyes confirmed her suspicion. “Hmm? So the jarl thinks you can be of use to me? Oh yes, he must be referring to my research on the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me-Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.” The entire time he spoke, it was as if he was falling asleep and waking back up again. His words would blur together, and then speed up, and by the end of his last sentence he had lost his breath. Annie tried to process what he said. “Uh, alright... where would I be going and what would I be fetching?” Farengar seemed to catch his breath. “Straight to the point, eh? No need for tedious how’s and why’s? I like that.” Annie looked back at the jarl. He just smirked and shook his head. “I, uh, learned of an ancient stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow- a “Dragonstone”, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet-no doubt interred in the main chamber, and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.” Annie tried not to laugh. Right, simple. Balgruuf stepped forward between them. “This is a priority now. Anything we can use to fight a dragon, we need it, quickly. Before it’s too late.” 

Balgruuf began to walk back toward his throne and Farengar went back to his notes. “Uh, wait, Jarl Balgruuf?” She called for him. He turned to regard her. “I’m looking for someone... he was at Helgen with me. His name is Alec, an Imperial soldier. I was wondering if maybe you had heard anything about any other survivors? Surely some wind of what happened has passed through here...” The jarl thought for a moment. “Hmm... I haven’t heard any names, I’m sorry... But I have heard from scouts from the eastern watchtower that they witnessed a young man being taken by the Thalmor, up toward the northeast. They didn’t describe any armor, but there may be a chance...” 

Annie paused. Why would the Thalmor be taking Alec? Sure, they were a highly suspicious bunch, but he was doing his duty as a soldier. Maybe the scouts misread what was happening? Either way, if there was even a chance, she wasn’t about to pass it up. “I’ll... look into it. Thank you, my lord.” She gave a small bow. “Be careful out there, if you go after him. The ruins will be dangerous, but so are the Thalmor. Watch yourself.” He strode back to his throne. 

She hesitated to process what she just agreed to. He wasn’t lying, ancient ruins are typically rather dangerous. But the Thalmor were not people you messed around with. Might as well start there. She left the palace wondering if she was severely in over her head.

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[grimweaver]

                                                            ~*~            “Just relax,” Lucien said to me, able to sense my anxiety, which became like a barbed string around my throat as we got closer to the eastern gate.

           “I am relaxed,” I insisted, though I understood before my response was a thought that there was no use denying the ever-so subtle signals of which he was acutely observant and said, “Okay, so I am a little on edge. I can’t help feeling like they’re all going to just know the moment we arrive… like every detail of what had happened is written all over our faces. Ocheeva and Teinaava especially are extraordinarily perceptive, no doubt due to your training.”

           “I share your inclination to be discreet—at least for a while— but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they knew. The Listener did not order us to keep it a secret. They simply warned us against P.D.A and favoritism. So long as we do not violate the rules that orbit those two things, there’s nothing to worry about.”

         Except envy and hatred , I thought, and it wasn’t just M’raaj-Dar and his openly vicious demeanor that came to mind. Within the last several weeks, I had come to understand that Antoinetta, as sweet and sisterly as she seemed to be on the surface, harbored a great deal of jealousy that I feared would ultimately lead to a situation that would far surpass just the feeling of being a little less welcomed by her within the Sanctuary. She was not nearly as upfront as M’raaj-Dar, but also not at all subtle in the way that she often made passive-aggressive remarks about my completed contracts and advancements through a forced smile. She would say something along the lines of: ‘Well! I do wonder when it will ever be my turn to get such high-paying contracts!” in a most incredulous tone. And at times, while speaking to someone else, loud enough so that I could hear it, while looking directly at me: “ Agh , but it flusters and baffles me how quickly some people achieve a higher rank! It was a year and a half before I was promoted to ‘Slayer’!!” I understood fully that I was “some people”. It made a mind and spirit already troubled by the threats and cruel words of M’raaj-Dar wonder: If she is that bent out of shape over my promotions and contracts, imagine what she would have to say about me bedding with our Speaker!! What rumors will this callous gossiper spread, also twisting the truth out of spite??

           Indeed, there was a lot to worry about as far as I was concerned. I know all too well the lengths some would go to in order to destroy a person, finding ways to do so while remaining within the lawful boundaries.

           But, as much as I wanted to, I didn’t share any of this with LaChance at that time, since we were only steps away from joining the Family, and discussing this matter with him was not important enough to cause delay. Instead, I just said to him with a sigh, “I hope you’re right.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Lucien turn his head to look directly at me. I glanced back at him, seeing the confusion and concern in his eyes. “I’ll tell you later… maybe when we get to the Ebony Flask,” I added, answering the question that I sensed he was about to ask.

           “Very well,” he replied.

           The Speaker was pleased, but not the least bit surprised, to see that his expectations were met— all were ready and waiting outside the eastern gate on time, dressed in inconspicuous armor and robes, and having each in their possession what they were capable of carrying during what was expected to be at least a half of a day’s worth of traveling on foot. If either of them had a sliver of suspicion about last night’s affair, they didn't dare even hint that they did. As ever before, they were strictly formal and respectful when they greeted us, but surely most of them would not have taken such care to be so if Lucien wasn’t present.

           We set out eastward almost immediately, ascending the steep hill on the beaten path that wound past the Rickety Mine and the ruins of Kemen, and entered the pass beneath the Valus Mountains. We were following a hidden and uncharted path that none but LaChance had even known about until he had revealed it the night before. We had no choice but to place all of our trust in the Speaker’s knowledge of its infinite system of tunnels. It was only natural for uncertainty to arise in some of us, feeling like we had been walking for days when it had only been over an hour, in a dark maze of passages that all looked the same to us.

           “Are you sure you know where we’re going, Speaker?” only one was foolish enough to ask. It was Gogron, no surprise.

           “I’ve been taking this route to Morrowind from Cyrodiil regularly for over ten years, Gogron!” Lucien growled, with a power in his voice that could curdle blood. “You’ll do well to not ask that question again.”

           Gogron shut his lips tight and said not a further word of any sort the rest of the way through.

           But there was no longer any cause for doubt when a soft geographical transition occurred— from the dull, grey-hued features and sparse patches of anemic plants to a vast assortment of dense greenery that covered just about every square inch of rock from floor to ceiling; from the occasional sight of small and almost unnoticeable presence of fungal growth to what was practically a massive garden dedicated to just about every species of fungi native to the western region of Morrowind, many of which had grown big enough to house a small family (Oh, gee, I wonder if that’s why they call it “Fungal Grotto”!). There was a detectable air of ancient history, and I felt a connection of some sort to my father through his account of what happened there during the time of the Dark Anchors— what was once occupied by the chimer for an undocumented length of time, taken over by a goblin tribe until shortly after the defeat of Kra’gh the Dreugh King, then claimed by Urshilaku refugees that were driven out of their original settlement in Vvardenfell. There they were able to thrive and flourish whilst adhering to the practices and beliefs of their people, hidden from the inquisitors of the Tribunal Temple. ((CONTINUED..))