#Vilka the Bloody

[kit-williams]

Vilka the Bloody

Vilka the Bloody Class: Barbarian Species: Asimar? (She's never asked her father) Alignment: Chaotic Neutral/ she swings between evil and good

Vilka is a bundle of chaos!

She is the most akin to Sanguinius' Blood Angels when he first found them

She embraces the bloodlust she feels

Also has a habit of ripping off her clothes when she fights as she loves to feel the blood against her skin and feathers

Thanks to Martel she has an item that she can hide her wings, as much as she loves to show them off it doesn't help her when she wants to not be recognized

She has long blonde hair, like her father and mother, and bright blood red eyes

She tries to only show her tough side to others but is very sweet at her core liking to keep that core safe by just presenting her blood lust and aggressive half first

very close with Kharn as he will use his powers to pull Vilka out of a frenzy once the battle is done and she loves to feed off of him

She knows she is one of the physical powerhouses of the group and prides herself on that

She wears pelts and furs (think viking aestetic) but when it is celebration time she will wear dresses (think more slavic/polish)

But if you can get her off kilter then she get flustered and a nervous wreck; she knows she is not the most eloquent of speakers and doesn't hold herself to a larger than life sort of nature

She inherited a strong "primarch" aura

[vilochkaaa]

« 一 .. and blood spurting all around her, she staggers and falls on the table.»

« 一 and he's standing there at a loss

dripping gloomily from the knife

and he's pounding and chills

and his lips are quivering.»

inspo:

[ronkeyroo]

❌ CARNAGE (Tw; blood/gore)

[argisthebulwark]

Love's A Funny Thing

summary: assigning my favorite Skyrim men one of the five love languages. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used feat: Erandur, Miraak, Cicero, Brynjolf, Balimund, Erik the Slayer, Vilkas, Arnbjorn, Teldryn Sero, Farkas warnings: none

Words of Affirmation

Erandur wants nothing more than to express how deeply and all encompassing his love for you is. He loves you with each breath he draws, every day spent in your presence only strengthening your bond. The shimmering pink light of sunrises and easy breeze through a perfectly autumnal forest make his mind drift to you, often recounting the beauty he finds in the world and how it relates to you. With your hands clasped in his he admits his love for you, interrupted only by the tearful kisses you plant across his face. 

Miraak has spent lifetimes cultivating a vocabulary and puts it to good use. In languages long forgotten he whispers of his love to you, shaking the walls when his Thu’um aims to make it known to the entire world that he is yours. There is nothing but sheer adoration when he tells you how deeply your claws have sunk into his heart, how his soul spent centuries yearning for yours.  “I have wasted lifetimes searching for you, my beloved.” Miraak murmurs against your lips, voice low and velvety. “And I would face all the terror of the world again if it allowed me a few more moments in your arms.” 

Quality Time

Cicero could easily display his love with any of the love languages, even some secret bloody ones he's thought up too, but quality time means the most to him. It is most natural for him to show his love by sticking to your side - accompanying you on missions to ensure your safety and only sleeping when you’re pressed to one another, he shows you how deeply he cares by remaining with you. He wishes for nothing more than to make you laugh, to hear your voice and bask in the presence of his beloved Listener. 

Brynjolf has lost many people. There are so many friendships cut short and people he’s spent more time missing than knowing them. He makes a consistent effort to never lose time with you - after thinking Mercer snatched away another loved one, Brynjolf changes his ways. The endless nights spent working in the Cistern are replaced with a staunchly enforced time when the workday ends.  “You’re not my Guild Master anymore,” he interrupts when you hastily remember an unfinished task during dinner. “We’re home, love. I’m nothin’ but your husband here.”  He will not miss a moment with you. The days spent grieving you altered his view on work - nothing takes precedence over time with you. To him, nothing is worth losing time with his beloved. 

Gift Giving

Balimund may not have much extra time in his busy days but he always whittles out a moment for you. He often surprises you with practical gifts - perfectly balanced blades with intricate handles and jewelry intended to withstand the nastiest of spells. Each gift he gives was forged by his hands outside your home, an individual piece made just for you.  “It’s to ensure you make it back to me in one piece,” he says after strapping the beautiful dagger into a sheath at your side. His gifts are beautiful, crafted purely to show how much he adores you. 

Erik loves hunting for the perfect gift to give you - taking mental notes of what draws your eye when visiting shops, especially the items you put back after spotting the price. He knows how reluctant you are to purchase anything not deemed ‘essential’ but always finds time to slink back into the shop and buy whatever brought a smile to your face. He doesn’t care much for receiving gifts, pouring all the love he can into the specific things he can give to you. 

Acts of Service

Vilkas may have trouble with flowery words but he ensures that you know how deeply he cares. Even if his tone is harsh his intentions are good - if your footing is off or your swing is weak he could lose you. He takes on the role of Harbinger when it becomes too much for you to carry alone, offering help before you think to ask.  He cannot sit under the moonlight and tell you how his heart yearns for yours, but he will clean your wounds without hesitation. Vilkas will bandage you, will piece you back together with his own two hands without a second thought. He will wipe your tears and send your armor off to be repaired to show how deeply he cares for you. 

Arnbjorn would kill for you. Please give him an opportunity to kill for you. Although he cannot untangle the web of feelings in his mind and he isn’t one to shop for gifts he will show you in a heartbeat just how deeply he cares. He has loved and lost before - he does not intend to lose you. His blade is always ready should you ever need it, eyes and ears vigilant for any impending threat.  He is not a man of many words but you feel his love - there is love in the way he ensures your blades remain sharp and pack is fully stocked. Arnbjorn’s love is seen in the way he threatens anyone who dares to cross you and remains at your side during meetings, a silent threat to any who would harm you. The words are difficult for him to say but you know his love is there when he carries you off to bed after an especially hard day or slides you a drink without having to ask.

Physical Touch

Teldryn doesn’t think before pulling you out of danger. It is hardly a thought - his arm hooking in yours and tugging you closer, his body shielding you from danger. Even when his hands are bandaged and bleeding he checks you for injuries, fingers carefully skimming over every inch of skin in search of wounds. Your touch assures him that you are alive, that you are still with him.  His touch is a quiet comfort, an occurrence so common it becomes a natural extension of yourself. His thigh pressed to yours when you sit or the hand resting on your arm while you speak, an ever present reminder of his feelings for you. 

Farkas is ecstatic to find someone as physical as himself. From a young age he learned that Vilkas didn’t express emotions in the same manner but you understand him. You indulge his love of touch; excited hugs upon surviving an especially bloody battle or a friendly slap on the back after a drunken joke, a tender moment heightened by your hands roaming over one another. Farkas is in love with the way you react to him - the flush in your cheeks after he kisses you and the thoughtless way your hand reaches for his, the comforting swipe of your thumb over his hand when lost in thought. He simply has too much love for you to keep it all inside. 

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 19: Keeping Someone Safe ~ Vilkas/F!Dragonborn [2,166 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Canon-typical violence here ⚔️ more hurt/comfort than fluff honestly, but it has a fluffy ending!

In hindsight, Vilkas should have seen it coming. Over time, he’d grown accustomed to Astra’s affinity for magic – mostly because by the time they’d known one another for a year, by the time she was Harbinger and he felt shamed by how he’d treated her in those early days, there was little he suspected he would not accept about her. Not lead because the more he saw, the more respect he had, and the more he knew there was nothing she would do that he could not respect.

There was one spell, however, that disconcerted him from the very first moment he saw it. It was after they’d avenged Kodlak, making camp after a fierce battle with the Silverhand…and all the while, he struggled to continue pretending he had not yet noticed just how damned beautiful she was. It was more difficult to keep up that pretence now that their mission was complete and all that was left to do was face the return journey to Jorrvaskr together.

She’d been in a questionable state, then – sore, tired, bloodied, just as he was, but with the added dilemma of being low on Magicka. When their fire would not start, the wood too frost-ridden and the impending blizzard threatening to make it worse, she’d trotted out the spell. Brow furrowed in concentration, her right hand was held aloft and a foul red light began to wind its way around her, leaving Vilkas to watch warily as her face grew a shade paler. After, she’d been able to conjure a fireball hot and strong enough to get the fire going.

“I thought you’d ran out of magic back then,” he’d said. “Does it regenerate that quickly?”

Something to do with her being the Dragonborn, perhaps?

“The spell before that,” she’d explained, voice rough. “It adds to my magic reserves – at the cost of my health.”

“To what extent?”

“Whatever extent the caster allows. A desperate measure…but this cold would kill even Nords such as us.”

Afterwards, he’d put the matter from his mind all too willingly. It had, after all, been the only time he’d seen her use it – before or since. She’d spoken truthfully when she said it was a desperate measure, and he could not fairly fault her for using it in those cases. Vilkas trusted her judgement.

At least until the next time rolled around.

What was supposed to have been a fairly routine draugr-infested dungeon clear-out ended up sending them headlong into a fight with something much more terrible. A Dragon Priest. They’d been woefully ill-prepared for such a battle. Foolishly ill-prepared, even with Astra’s habit of hoarding potions instead of damn well using them. And it showed. By that point, retreat wasn’t an option – some foul sorcery keeping them locked in the dungeon until they defeated their foe, and so the only way to go was through.

The fight was a laborious thing – even by the standards of their usual fights – their foe was fierce, but that was not a trait that they themselves lacked either, and it eventually became clear that it was a matter of who would tire first. Who would make the first mistake. Vilkas knew not whether Dragon Priests tired, but he could only hope that if not, they at least erred.

Moments after that half-hearted hope crossed his mind, disaster struck. Wedging the blade of her dagger in her mouth, Astra bared her teeth in a feral snarl, brought her two palms together, and shot a hefty ice spike in the direction of the Priest. It hit its mark, flying through his ward like it was nothing and embedded itself in his chest, sending him flying back from where he’d hovered in mid-air. But the force knocked Astra back, too, landing hard on the stone floor of the tomb. The Dragon Priest recovered faster.

Vilkas had no arsenal of spells – he had no bow, he didn’t even have a dagger. Nothing to stop the Priest from attacking, and no time to cover the distance required to prevent any real attack. Either dazed, weakened, or both, Astra faltered in getting up and the loathsome creature lifted one gnarled hand, ice forming around its claw-like fingers much like it had gathered in the blonde’s grasp moments prior.

Ducking, Vilkas seized an axe from the hand of a dispatched draugr and hurled it at the Priest. It met its mark, finishing the job Astra’s previous attack had started…but not before the ice spike shot from its hand. It was then that he did the only thing he could do – the only thing that made sense.

“Vilkas, no!” her shriek was ragged, and he went down at the same time the Priest did.

Although it looked like he’d die a touch more slowly, the spike embedded neatly between his collarbones, hardly slowed at all by his armour. He tasted copper rather swiftly. Kneeling over him in an instant, her icy blue eyes wide with terror, she tried to summon the familiar golden glow of a healing spell into her hands – both hands – but it fizzled out before his skin could even be warmed by it.

Swearing raggedly, she parted her hands. The light in the right remained golden, but the left was soon enveloped in the glowing red light he’d hated so much the last time he’d seen it.

Vilkas seized her hand, unable to speak – unable to tell her not to be so daft, nor that if there was any way he could choose to go, it would be this one. In defence of her. Unable even to admit that he only wished he’d been able to kiss her first. Just once.

But she shook him off, and that terrible red light began worming its way up her arm, her face paling as she channelled her lifeforce into driving healing magic into him, instead. The world faded to black by the time the red glow had wormed its way up to her elbow.

Consciousness returned to him in dribs and drabs. A scratchy tightness in his throat that usually followed a night of giving in to his brother plying him with ale – along with an ache in his shoulders and upper back, reminding him that he was no longer a lad who had seen but twenty summers, who might sleep where he dropped without feeling the consequences of it the next day.

He grunted, but it came out as more of a wheeze, a stray gust of wind howled throughout the crypt, and awareness finally hit him. As did the quiet. Eyes flying open, the light assaulted them quickly but he did not allow himself to pause, hands scrabbling for purchase on the stony floor as he shoved himself up. As he did so, his right hand met skin – smooth, soft skin, not that of any draugr. And it was cold as ice.

Astra lay slumped on the ground beside him, her face stark white and her lips blue – so blue that he thought her dead, until her eyelids twitched and he caught the shallow, beleaguered rise and fall of her chest. Vilkas had seen enough corpses to know she was very close to becoming one.

She had her last resorts, and he had his. Graverobbing. They’d passed enough burial urns to come through here, plenty brimming with treasures left behind for long-departed loved ones, leaving them all untouched because they weren’t beasts. But now he had no choice. If he had to answer to the Nine for this one day, so be it.

Minutes later he returned, although he still feared it was too long a time away, feeling sick to the core that he’d return to find the few meagre signs of life utterly gone – that she’d passed alone, on the floor of a dungeon while he scraped for scraps to help. But she had not. So, he allowed himself to hope. The three healing potions he’d managed to find helped with that, and he hoped they would help more still.

The potion ordinarily looked like pink-tinged water, but it might as well have been as vivid as blood for how it stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor, pooling at her lips and sliding down her chin. She’d cut one side of her lips when she’d wedged the dagger between them, and the potion healed as it trickled across it, the skin slowly knitting together. Vilkas stared at it for a moment, and then he took inspiration – if she could not drink it, perhaps she would still absorb it.

Cutting away her leather armour, and dearly hoping she’d live to scold him for it later, he dripped the potion across whatever skin he could find. Her jaw, her neck, the expanse of skin above her breastband, and he almost sobbed in relief when her heartbeat strengthened beneath his ministrations, and colour slowly returned to her skin.

By the time he uncorked the second bottle, she was hazily drinking it down – although still far from conscious. Hope. All he could do was hope.

Astra was awoken by the smell of a campfire. The sound of one, too, after she drifted a little more into consciousness. A fleeting sense of urgency flitted through her then – but one untethered to anything so mundane as reason or coherency, so she left it to drift by with little more than a furrowed brow and a weary exhale. The sigh wheezed its way out of her, high and reedy. She grunted. Had she drank last night? Farkas, though she loved him like a brother, liked to pretend that all had the same tolerance to ale that he did.

“Astra?”

It was not Farkas’ voice that met her ears then, but Vilkas’ – and that was all it took for everything to hit. Vilkas. The last she recalled, she’d been kneeling over him as he died, furiously funnelling more and more of her lifeforce into Magicka, despite the dizziness that pulled at her head, the black spots dotting her vision, and the cold that quickly seeped into her bones.

Her eyes opened as a hand cupped the side of her face, and she was met with the sight of piercing grey eyes before her. And a grin. Vilkas so rarely grinned – although he was not so without humour as he’d have some believe. His usual war paint was little more than a brown smudge around the very edges of his eyes, blending in to the dark circles that had formed around his eyes, thick dark stubble lined his jaw, and there was an angry patch of sore red skin at his throat, as though he’d had a brush with what was almost frostbite.

Throwing herself into his arms required more strength than she had – but he met her halfway, pulling her bodily the rest of the distance until she was all but in his lap, clinging to her as fiercely as she tried to cling to him.

“Never again!” he insisted fiercely into her tangled hair. “Do you hear me, Astra? Never!”

“Should we talk about the decision that led to me doing it?” she countered, unabashed. “Would you make me such a promise?”

He drew back and she only then noted their surroundings. Still where they’d been when she was last conscious, he’d dragged out the bodies of the draugr and the Dragon Priest, and decimated a bookcase and its ancient contents for the fire that now burned on the cleared-out stone floor. He’d even unpacked his bedroll to deposit her into. How long had she been out? It took the fire out of her next question more than her sorry shape ever could.

“What were you thinking?” she breathed. “You dove in front of that…you were a hair’s breadth from…”

She was certain he was going to die – and even then, she’d have acted no differently, fuelling her life-force into healing spells to drive into his lifeless- no. No. It had not happened. Against all odds, it had not happened. Her hands began to tremble, even where they clung onto him.

Through it all, all she could think of was how stupid they’d been. Not even in what they’d done here, for deep down she knew if it were to happen again tomorrow, or in an hour, or in the next minute, they’d do it all again exactly as they had, but in everything before. In all of the shared looks that didn’t amount to anything, both too nervous to have the follow-through on what they both hoped the other was feeling. The thing that now showed very clearly in both of their faces, and how they clung to one another still.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he said. “I won’t lose you.”

“…We’re of one mind then,” she said.

It took less bravery than she thought. Because it was obvious now, was it not?

If it hadn’t already shown on his face, she would’ve known from the way he kissed her then.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[wellthebardsdead]

Kaidan: Hands and knees covered in dirt again aye Farkas? Been playing in the flower bed again?

Farkas: bite me Kaidan- *freezes seeing Marigold coming* … *hurries off and returns with a bouquet of Marigolds, lavender and forget me nots he’d arranged* Marie! Here, I grew these for you.

Marigold: *bright red* y-you? F-for me? I- *takes it and sniffs at it* m-my sense of smell isn’t good at all but I love these, I can actually smell them and they look l-lovely. Th-thank you Farkas.

Farkas: Don’t mention it, there’s plenty more where they came from t- Ow?! Kaidan?!

Kaidan: *suddenly drags him back into jorrvaskr* What the fock?! You know I’m trying to court them!!

Farkas: well you’re doing a shit job at it Welp! *pushes him away*

Kaidan: He’s not a one book person and I’ve got plenty more chapters to dig through yet so I know what he likes! *pushes him back*

Farkas: Maybe if you tried asking him you’d know!! *pushes him harder knocking him against the tables*

Kaidan: …

Farkas: …

*meanwhile outside*

Ysolda: oh they’re lovely, did he grow them himself?

Marigold: he did, I-I’ve never had anyone give me flowers before I don’t know what to do.

Ysolda: take him to dinner obvious-

Marigold: *quickly moves her out of the way as suddenly the doors to jorrvaskr bust open and Kaidan & Farkas tumble down the stairs beating the crap out of each other* WHAT THE FUCK?!

Vilkas & Skjor: *trying to separate them*

Skjor: LET GO KAIDAN!

Vilkas: BROTHER STOP THIS! *looks back at the mead hall* SOME HELP WOULD BE APPRECIATED!

Athis: *holding his bloodied nose* no thanks I already tried.

Marigold: *stomps his foot* KAIDAN!

Kaidan & Farkas: *still going at it*

Marigold: *hands Ysolda the flowers and braces himself* FUS-

Everyone else: *moves as far out of the way as they can*

Marigold: RO DAH!!!!!

Kaidan & Farkas: *both get blasted off each other by the dragonborns thuum and right into the stream surrounding the gildergleam*

Farkas: ughhh- *sits up rubbing his face*

Kaidan: *grunts getting up to his feet ready for round 2* You gob shi-

Marigold: Kaidan.

Kaidan: *turns around to see the high elf standing there looking pissed*

Farkas: *looks up to see his brother glaring down at him* He started it.

Vilkas: I don’t care who started it. *grabs him by his hair pulling him up to his feet* you made a fool of yourself and the companions. Go inside.

Farkas: … *huffs and limps back up the stairs*

Skjor: *watches him go before looking at kaidan* learn to control your jealousy and your anger while you’re at it. Pup. *walks off after Farkas*

Vilkas: *just looks at Kaidan and shakes his head before looking over at marigold then back at him* I won’t say anything. I think you’re in enough trouble as is… *walks after Skjor and his brother*

Kaidan: *watches them go before looking at Marigold* Marie I can explain I just-

Marigold: I don’t want to hear it kaidan… I’ll see you at home. Clean yourself up… *huffs and turns away walking off with ysolda*

Ysolda: *hands him back the flowers tucking one behind his ear while she’s at it* I’d always wondered what it’d be like having men fighting over me, but after witnessing that I never want to experience that myself.

Marigold: *sighs* gods I’m so embarrassed… *takes a flower putting it behind her ear as well*

Kaidan: *watches them leave* … fuck…

*The next morning*

Kaidan & Farkas: *both red black & purple all over, both pouting still*

Vilkas: You two are going to apologise to each other and if you wish to compete for his hand you’re going to do so as gentlemen. Not a couple untrained pups.

Kaidan: I’m not apologising for anything.

Farkas: neither am I…

Vilkas: *looks at Aela*

Aela: *pulls out a fungal pod and waves it at Kaidan* you sure about that?

Vilkas: *pulls out a tiny baby frostbite spider and holds it close to his brothers face* You reeeeally sure about that?

Kaidan & Farkas: IM SORRY! IM SORRY! IM SORRY!!!!

[late-nite-scholar]

Aug 5th (Day 1): Prompt- Arcane / Beast 

Day 1: Beast- While on a job, Vilkas’ worst nightmare comes true. Orielle has to find a way to outsmart the Lord of the Hunt, before he reclaims Vilkas forever. Post-Purity. Prompts by @tes-summer-fest

Breton OC x Vilkas

Warnings- blood, canon-typical violence

Wordcount- around 2k

It'd been a week since they'd left Whiterun, now trekking through The Pale in search of an escaped criminal. It was rumored she was holed up near the Shrouded Grove, and had killed several guards who'd attempted to recapture her. That fact alone made Vilkas glad that Orielle had agreed to him coming along. Not that she needed his help, she was a dangerously competent warrior, after all. But… he worried. 

The sun dipped low, spreading twilight over the land as they finally entered the grove. Orielle was in first, sword at the ready. Vilkas followed a step behind. Neither were quite sure what awaited them, only that it would be dangerous. 

“You’re the newest ones to try and take me back, are you?” A woman’s voice asked. She sat on top of an ancient stone column, studying them. “Well they must’ve shelled out some coin. Better than guards and thugs. Sell-swords, are ya?”

“Companions,” Orielle snapped back. 

“Testy ones, too. I suppose I should be honored then, to be sought by the mighty Companions. And it will make the story all the better after I kill you.”

She leapt from the column with a snarl. But they were ready. The woman’s knives met Orielle’s sword with a resounding clang. She moved like a beast, snarling and swiping with her blades. Vilkas evaded a series of vicious slashes then charged, hitting her with his shoulder. She stumbled back, and Orielle cast Paralyze. 

“Okay, time to take you back to Whiterun,” she nodded briskly, pulling off her pack and taking out a rope. 

“Never! I will not go back!’ The woman screamed. “Lord Hircine give me strength!”

The spell around her broke, and she leapt toward Orielle again. This time, magicka whipped around her, growing more and more violent.  She would not go back! She was faster, and the Companion woman was unprepared. 

But Vilkas hadn’t let his guard down for a second. The moment she was in range, his big, two-handed sword took her through the body and out the other side. He pulled it free again, and the woman collapsed to her knees. Weakly, she held up a bloodied hand. 

“Lord Hircine, avenge me! I am… I am your most devout follower…”

She slumped to the ground, and a large man with the skull of a deer upon his head rose up behind her. In his voice was the howl of wolves, the roar of bears, and the screech of sabre cats. 

“I shall, my dear one. Go on to the Hunting Grounds, and be free.” He stroked the woman’s hair, and she gave a final smile before stilling. Hircine raised his head again, a sharp-toothed smile forming beneath his gruesome helm. “Because now I can take back one who spurned the gift I so graciously bestowed on him. Who turned his back on his pack and abandoned them.”

Vilkas opened his mouth to reply, but Orielle was already in front of him, sword and magicka at the ready. “You will not have him, daedra.”

“Do you think me some common dremora, little Breton?” he huffed. “I am a Daedric Prince! Lord of the Hunt and Master of the Chase, and you will soon understand that. At least for a little while, until you die. And when you do, when he kills you, his soul will be mine.”   

"That's not going to happen." 

"You cannot compete with my power." Hircine nodded to Vilkas, "Welcome back. I look forward to reclaiming you."

Then Hircine was gone. Orielle turned to Vilkas, who’d gone pale. In a voice full of fear, he whispered, “You have to get out of here, Songbird. Please.”

He fell to his knees with a cry. Orielle knelt with him, her hands on his shoulders. “Vilkas! You’re… it’s impossible…”

“I was a werewolf for a decade. I purged it… but Hircine’s power is stronger than that… I can’t fight it…” Fur sprung up on Vilkas’ arms and face, his eyes turning gold. As his face lengthened he cried her name. It melted into a howl of agony as he thrashed and snarled, trying to fight the process. But there was no fighting it. All the things he remembered; smells magnified, the change of balance and movement, the feral, animal instincts, all came rushing back. Before, he’d had a modicum of control over these wilder instincts, he’d been able to use his human, rational mind to overcome it. But there was no control this time. There was only him, and his prey. 

Orielle watched all this in horror. She knew he’d been a werewolf, but that was before they’d met. She’d never seen the transformation for herself. It looked every bit as terrible as Vilkas had described to her. And now he was no longer Vilkas but a great, hulking beast. He roared, showing off long, wickedly sharp fangs. 

Then his golden eyes fixated on her. 

Before she could react, he pounced, pinning her to the ground. He growled, deep in his chest. Those teeth were close now, his hot breath on her face and ready to tear her apart. 

“Vilkas. Vilkas, my darling…” she said softly, though she didn’t know how much of him remained, or if he’d been taken over completely. 

He snarled, snapping at her. His teeth just barely grazed her cheek, but thankfully not enough to break the skin. Wriggling and pulling an arm free, she cast Pacify on him. The wolf cocked its head and sat back, looking at her. Then it whimpered, and looked down at itself. Strange, yelping cries followed; pained sounds that tore her heart. 

Then he ran. 

Orielle watched, hardly breathing. But just as quickly she was on her feet and running after him. She couldn’t let him go like that! What if… what if he ran and hid and she never found him? She wasn’t going to let that happen. Even if she had to go back to Jorrvaskr and drag Besharat and Aela and Farkas up here to track him down. But that was only if the trail got cold. And she wasn’t planning on letting that happen. She would not leave her darling in this state for even a second longer than necessary.

Vilkas was crashing through the bush, making no attempt at quietness. Even if not for that, then the sign he left behind was more than enough for even a mediocre tracker like her to follow. He didn't seem to be thinking about where he was going, either. This was panicked flight, just trying to get as far away as possible. Perhaps the Pacify had gotten through to the real Vilkas? If only she would be so lucky. 

She kept following, knowing the spell would wear off soon. And sure enough, he leapt out at her again, snarling. 

"Do you think I will fight you?" She asked the wolf. He charged, but she sidestepped and he sailed by, scrambling to right himself again. She cast Pacify for a second time. Vilkas howled in agony again and ran off before she could react. 

With a sigh, she continued to follow him. She wondered how long they could play this little game. As long as Hircine wants us to, I guess, she thought to herself. That was a less than appealing idea. The Lord of the Hunt would not end this game until one of them was dead. Unless… unless she could outsmart him, turn the hunt around and earn his respect. That was what Besharat had done when brought into one of Hircine's hunts. Orielle sighed again. But Besharat was the Dragonborn, and she was not. She would have to be extra careful. 

As she ran, so did her mind. How could she earn Hircine's respect without hurting Vilkas? If she trapped him? Caught him? Would that be enough? What about if she cured him, took away his lycanthropy? She thought about what Besharat had told her about how they’d cured Kodlak and Vilkas the first time, going over the details. A nascent idea was swirling around in her head already. She wasn’t sure it would work, but she was going to try. She may have given up the life of a mage, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten what she’d learned. Or that she’d stopped learning, for that matter.   

This time when the beast leapt at her, she cast Paralyze on it. The creature whined and struggled, but was now at her mercy. The wind whipped around her, seeming to whisper all her doubts over again. What if this doesn’t work? What if you make it worse? What if you can’t do it? 

She grit her teeth, snapping back. “I trained with great mages in High Rock and Cyrodiil. I have read and studied my whole life. And you will not turn my mind against me! Or do you seek to cheat at our game?” 

The wind stilled and she put her plan into action. She cast a life detection spell first. She could now see Vilkas’ aura, and another one within him, struggling to take control. Reading its essence brought a smile to her face. This might work. Casting Command Creature and Conjure Familiar so quickly they overlapped, the second aura leapt out of Vilkas’ body. She now faced down a spectral wolf nearly as tall as herself, but she held her ground. It tensed, growling and ready to attack. 

“I’m not going to fight you.” She said quietly. “But you are going back where you came from.”

She gathered herself, taking a deep breath and casting Banish Daedra. And prayed it would work as she put her whole will behind it. 

The wolf howled as it dissipated, its essence sucked into the swirling portal that flared up and then winked out just as quickly. The beast was gone, banished back to Oblivion from whence it’d come. She’d really done it!

But her celebration was short-lived. She turned and ran to where Vilkas lay crumpled on the ground. “Thank Mara!” she cried to see him still breathing and to feel his heart beat strongly beneath her hand. She could only hope he would now be alright. 

“Well, little Breton, you turned around the game and banished my gift once again. That part disappoints me, he was such a good beast. Fierce and lethal. He hunted so beautifully.” 

Hircine spoke with a wistfulness as he looked down at them. Orielle stood, magicka already crackling, but he held up a placating hand. "But I have also never seen anyone do what you have done, it was an ingenious use of spells. For that, I must commend you. To be an effective hunter is to use one’s strengths and wits to their fullest, as you have done here. Take him, then, and carry on. My devotee is in my realm now, and she will be happy there regardless of this outcome. Well done, little Breton.”  

Then Hircine was gone, and Vilkas began to stir. Orielle dropped down beside him again, a knot growing in her stomach. What would he be like? Was he truly cured? 

His eyes opened, now back to their normal silver-grey. In a wavering voice, he asked, "Did I hurt you?" 

"Not at all, darling." 

"Where are we?" 

"I'm not entirely sure. But we are going to camp here so you can rest. Then tomorrow, if you’re up to it, we'll figure out our way home." She kissed his cheek.

He responded by pulling her into a hug. "This was my worst nightmare… my greatest fear. But you stood so bravely…oh, my Songbird…you are so strong…" 

"Shh, don't worry about that now. It's over and we are free again. Here, I'll start a fire and we'll make some food." 

Once their meal was ready they sat by the fire, watching the auroras flicker and weave through the sky. As Orielle leaned her head against his shoulder, Vilkas knew he was the luckiest man on the whole of Nirn. 

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

For the Skyrim OCs ask! Tell me about Ravonna! Answer two or three of your faves from the list in her voice.

Link to the ask game can be found here <;3.

Oh my God, this is brilliant! I've done an ask game a few months ago where I let Ravonna respond and she's been itching to talk again, so I'm letting her take the lead (don't mind the emojis, she is fascinated with them). Also, sorry for taking so long to get to this! I guess Ravonna got a bit shy?

🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮🔮

Greeting and salutations, it's me again, ready to run my mouth. Thank you for the ask game and for giving me the opportunity to speak here again. You may live to regret it *she laughs*. Here, have a pint, we may be here for a while. I'm a bard, and let me tell you, we like to talk. A lot.

One of the questions that sparkled an interest on this one over here: Do they believe the College of Winterhold caused the Great Collapse? If no, what is their theory?

I am a mage, and I've also been to the College in Winterhold, and let me tell you: that place was where I felt the most welcome in all of Skyrim. I wasn't delusional when me and Lucien planned the trip to Skyrim, I knew the people aren't the most welcoming, but I'm one of them, a bloody Nord, and all I got was shitty remarks, growls and weird looks. I even got to jail once because I almost got into a fight with this guy. *she huffs a laugh*. There was a huge giant, and I rushed to help! Mind you, I had just escaped Helgen, I was having the worst day of my life (narrator's note: this wasn't the 'worst day of her life', she is just exaggerating) and then this Vilkas guy comes in and he starts preaching about how he needs none of my fancy magic and that this is his city and I'm not welcomed there. I just know that my '''''fancy magic''''' would kick his ass into oblivion and back! ANYWAY, I deviated form the subject a bit, but The College of Mages is my safe space in Skyrim, and there are some of the nicest, most fun people. So I don't believe that they were responsible for one bit! It was probably the flying whales, or the Kraken! Or just nature, which can be scary as fuck. Or an army of giants? I don't know, I wasn't there, but I will defend the mages! And this brings me to my next question: Do they believe in snow/sky whales? Yes. I've seen stranger things. Besides, Hjaldir saw some. he even hunted some, but they're extremely tricky to catch, but the meat on those things? DELICIOUS. EXQUISITE! I need to go back to High Rock and eat an entire whale right now! *she laughs, but her smile is filled with nostalgia and sadness. She misses Hjaldir and her old life a lot. She finishes her pint of mead in one big gulp.* (the author is trying to get her to stop, but she wants to answer the other magic question)

AH, how can I resist this one: If they are a magic user, what is their favorite school of magic? Do they have a natural talent for magic, or does it require diligence and study?

But here's the thing, I don't know! Magic is so amazing and it can be used in so many ways! I love to combine the schools of magic, it's really effective! But of course, nothing compares to destruction! I am a master destruction mage, and I've worked with this school of magic for as long as I remember. This is where I feel most comfortable! And one school of magic that I find really useless is restoration. *Miraak, the ultimate healer, raises an eyebrow from somewhere* I mean, I can just buy the potions! I have no need for it, really!

[bloodiedtarnished]

Bios for Mobile

Vilkas the Bloodied Tarnished.

Age: 30

Species: Human

Background:

Once apart  of the Redmane army, succumbed; to the rot, Vilkas awoke years later with none of his armour, his memories nor weapons. The only thing that lingered was the memory of the wet burning sensation of the scarlet rot.

Slowly, over time Vilkas’s memories returned to him, bring heartbreak yet peace to no longer be unbounded to his past. Letting go is hard but Vilkas seems to have filled that void with a certain white mask.

Vilkas sees Mist like a younger brother, taking the Misbegotten-Omen hybrid under his wing on their adventures across The Lands Between holding no ill will for ones the golden order rejected.

Likes:  Enjoys the company of others. Studying sorcerery, hanging out with Varre and Mist.

Dislikes: Malenia, the Scarlet Rot.

Mist the misbegotten.

Age: 18

Species: Mistbegotten/Omen hybrid

Background:

Born at Castle Morne to a Winged Misbegotten mother and an Omen father, Mist’s life before his kin’s rebellion at Morne was grim and tought.

Often being used for hard labour and domestic tasks, Mist often felt outcasted being larger than most of his siblings and fellow Misbegotten with under developed wings only suited for gliding at most.

But on the faithful night his kin rebelled Mist found his wings for once to be useful, acidently falling from a castle wall and gliding upon a gale Mist ended up landing in the wilds of Weeping  Peninsula.

Now discovered by Vilkas and brought along by the strange Tarnished, Mist is exploring the world and himself with his new found freedoms.

Likes: Meaty and sugary foods.

Dislikes: Having his tail grabbed. Omen killers. The Golden Order.

[ti-shen-zhi-bing]

Heaven’s Reach (Space Opera AU)

In the Galaxy of Heaven’s Reach, Vilkas history is quite similar to his history within his Classic Verse. 

Upon the Forest Planet of Gesii IV, there lives a monastic order of warriors, known as the Jenarise. They specialize in using beam-staves and a set of special essence techniques to defeat creatures of the Dark. Whether they be from Terminus; The Underverse where Unliving Creatures reside, Canal Space; The Chaotic Home of the Raksha Lords, or Malfean Space; Home of the Demon Princes and their subjects. They stand firm against these monsters, to protect the Galaxy at large.

As Ascetic Warrior Monks, they train those who study under them to let go of their ties to the world. They are a weakness that can be exploited by Demons, Fae, and Undead. Love is the strongest thing in the world, that can be used against them. This is why, The Jenarise are highly recommended to not fall in love or have children. This is however, taken as a suggestion and not a hard rule.

One Warrior, known as Koryu, during a mission to a planet besieged by the horrific Vamps of Terminus Space. There, he teamed up with a member of the Central Empire, a winged woman with an angelic appearance. She gave him the name of Grainne, and together they cleansed the world of the Vamp Filth that infested it.

Their year long campaign had many ups and downs, but in the end, they joined together in union, and from this union, a son was born. This son bore the amethyst hair and eyes of his father, but sported the makings of wings like his mother. 

Unfortunately, a year after their campaign was fully completed, they had to return to their respective homes. One to Gesii, and the other to The Central Empire’s Capital of Aden.

Which left the fate of the child in the airs. In the end, the child was better off going with his father to live a monastic life upon the Warrior-Monk Temple Planet. He was raised in their ways, and taught the same things they were. 

Through the years, he had been on many adventures. Saving a Hive World from the horrors of a Malfean Lion-Priest known as a Teodozjia. Rescuing a daughter of a Cynis Pharmaceuticals Corporation’s Board Director, who soon became a good companion of his for many future adventures, and even a lover, she proved to be a rather great fighter in her own right, using a sniper and strange needles to incapacitated enemies. They Defeated Vamps not unlike his parents did once. Of course, the Jenarise and Cynis Daughter split ways at some point. Which only proved to be his down fall in his final adventure amongst the living.

On one mission, he was forced to fight Terminus Undead Swarms. And usually, a Jenarise would come out of it unscathed, but he was cocky, hot-headed, and took on more than he can chew. He defeated the Swarms, but there was one thing that he didn’t defeat. Their General, an Abyssal Exalted, that wore a cloak of black feathers and a crow-like mask, infamously known as the Son of Crows. The young bird warrior stood no chance against, his wings were ripped from their sockets, and he was left inches away from Death’s Door. He would die if he did not get medical treatment.

He was fortunate however, that a Deathlord watched the entire battle take place, and the graceful princess decided to reward the warrior for his service. She offered him a choice, serve her and forsake his old life. Or die, on a rock, surrounded by enemies without a chance of seeing his loved ones again.

Like any sane person desperate not to die, he chose the former. This made him the individual he is now, a Knight of Death. Serving the Black Crane Princess for four long years. Years in which he did horrible things that his uprising disagreed with him. Learning Necromancy at the Princess’ behest, training in Dark Martial Arts, and learning to use his unholy power to the fullest.

In the end, he escaped, stealing a single ship, and an experimental warp core with it. This Experimental Warp Core was what allowed him to disappear without leaving a Warp Signature that the Empires of Terminus could trace. Letting him instantaneously jump across the Galaxies rather than spending time in Warp to get somewhere else.

This is where his adventures as his own person begin. Not a Jenarise, Not a Death Knight, Not even a living person. He is Vilkas, Captain of the Black Sun, Adventurer, Bounty Hunter, Mercenary, and sometimes savior of planets from the armies of darkness and light both. 

[kit-williams]

40k & D&D crossover

So I've been playing with this idea for a couple of years now and only just recently started to work on it in earnest. So there will be headcanon posts coming/drabbles

So the D&D portion is based off of a homebrew (not mine I'm just a player) but I was making characters based off of the Primarchs and so I then decided hey why not expand upon this.

(God this is going to be messy as it's been ages since I've written last and somehow I recently got my ADHD ass dragged into lusting over COD men so forgive me)

The basis of this is all based on the fact that when Magnus fell to Chaos his soul got shattered (unsure if this was retconed or not) so one of these shards decided to save his brothers and through various points in time (and occasionally a space marine or two because time if flux for this Magnus shard)

* Debating on how much they actually know or if it's all Horus Heresy era knowledge. So when they all were brought to this new place the Heresy was still raw for them all. However they are all free from the corrupting influence of Chaos.

The brothers travelled together, which for a medieval setting they were practically a small warband of godlings, unsure of how long they travelled but during that time of them all figuring out their new home without Chaos or the Emperor around they helped Angron with his butchers nails.

Eventually the brothers split either due to a disagreement or just they found a part of the world they wanted to call home but eventually they split apart and each decided to start their own family.

Please let me know if anyone is interested in learning more as I'll need some help with names, classes, and races for some of them.

COD idea

Primarch Wife Child

Lion El'Jonson Gloria Luthor

Fulgrim The Matron Lucia

Perturabo Faustina Martel

Jaghatai Khan Help me Help me

Leman Russ Ylva Bjorn

Rogal Dorn Help me Sigismund

Konrad Curze Gloria Talos

Sanguinius Siv Vilka the Bloody

Ferrus Manus Help me Help me

Angron Nieve Kharn

Roboute Guilliman Help Me Cato

Mortarion Honeysuckle Lily

Magnus the Red Help Me Zahirah

Horus Lupercal Eirene Luna

Logar Aurelian Mary Eve

Vulkan Ulna/Migheth Ember

Corvus Corax Rook Raven

Alpharius Omegon The Face F: Gamma M: Zeta

[thequeenofthewinter]

Skyrim Characters Reacting to playing Spin the Bottle

Elisif the Fair: *prays to Diabella that the bottle lands on Falk—er doesn’t land on Ulfric* *spins uncertainly* *watches it spin with anticipation and nervousness* *lands on Falk* *squeals like a schoolgirl* *puts on lipstick*

Falk Firebeard: “Jarl Elisif, are you sure it is wise for you to participate in such ridiculous practices?” *pulls at collar* *backs away carefully from Elisif* “Oh, did you hear that? I think Sybille Stentor is calling my name. *runs away faster than if he were being chased by rampaging dremora*

Farkas: “So, you tell me I spin the bottle, and then I get to kiss someone? Where do I sign up? Can I do it more than once? Can I kiss everyone? *spins bottle* *bottle spins* *bottle spins* *bottle spins* *Farkas watches it with rapt attention* *bottle spins* *bottle spins* *bottle lands on Brynjolf* *full on make out session ensues*

Vilkas: *refuses to play because he is a wet blanket* *Farkas goes after him and drags him back* *reluctantly spins bottle* *bottle lands on Njada* *O_o* *Njada bites him*

Njada Stonearm: *growls ferally* *hisses* *goes back to kissing Vilkas*

Galmar Stone-Fist: “When I was younger, we used to play this game, but it was higher stakes…if you catch my drift.” *doesn’t look impressed* *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Ulfric* *looks at Ulfric with a raised brow* *Ulfric shakes his head but laughs*

Ulfric Stormcloak: *stares others sitting around the circle down intimidatingly* *says nothing* *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Elisif* “I’d sooner kiss the Emperor.” *moves bottle to the Dragonborn* "How would you like to be High Queen of Skyrim?"

Cicero: “Ohhh ho hoo! Kissing? Cicero kissing? Can Cicero kiss you, sweet listener?” *listener backs away carefully* “…can Cicero kiss the Night Mother then?” *crickets*

Brynjolf: “Now this is my type of game, lass.” *wiggles eyebrows suggestively* *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Cicero* *Cicero cackles and pulls out a knife* “Um, lad, I am pretty sure we don’t need knives for this game.” *Cicero moves closer* *Brynjolf turns tail and runs* *Cicero chases while brandishing the knife*

Serana: “Hmm…this seems…interesting. I’ll bite.” *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Vilkas* *Njada hisses* *Serana hisses back* *girl fight ensues* *Serana wins* *accidentally bites Vilkas’ lip* *spits* “Why do you taste like dog?!”

Uthgerd the Unbroken: “Are you sure it is supposed to be kissing and not fighting? I used to play this when I was a girl, but we would fight each other.” *crickets* *shrugs* *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Mjoll* *raises brow* *kisses Mjoll aggressively* *Mjoll bites her lip* *kissing/fighting match ensues* *Aerin cries in a corner*

Vex: “As if any of you could handle me anyway.” *looks at Cicero chasing poor Brynjolf* “If I get that clown, I refuse to play.” *spins bottle* *bottle lands on Serana* *not sure if she is excited or terrified after seeing her accidentally bite Vilkas*

Mjoll the Lioness: “This is fun.” *looks at Uthgerd with a smile and a bloody lip* “Must I spin again?”

[ronkeyroo]

ɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴɢʀʏ 🩸

[argisthebulwark]

TES Summer Fest Day Three: Ghost/Hungry

summary: Vilkas swears that he's just being a good friend - you're stuck far from home and he can't let you starve. gn vampire reader/Vilkas, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: blood obv, fangs in skin, description of biting/feeding. sexually suggestive, minors should not read or interact with this post. @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

"Just do it already."

"No. I told you I'm not doin' that." Vilkas rolls his eyes and bites back whatever insult his tongue has lined up next. Your crossed arms, the guarded way you're standing a few steps away from him, the way you won't meet his eyes - it's unlike you. Usually he's begging for an inch of personal space yet he quickly decides that this distance is far worse.

"We don't have an option."

"Of course we do. I can wait."

"You plannin' to starve?" He barks, stomping closer. He notices the nervous flush in your gaunt cheeks and can hear the way your heart kicks up when he grows near but your glare is gone. He's heard your stomach growling and seen the way you struggle to eat the salted meats he's offered - it's not enough.

"I'll be fine -"

"We've been snowed in here for days. We're out of options." Grinding his teeth together, Vilkas swallows back against his temper. He sees the fear in your eyes as they stare up at him, hands nervously playing in front of your chest.

"I can't ask this of you." Your voice wobbles, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes and his rage fizzles out. He's choking on words he can't bear to say aloud, choosing instead to grab your wrist and tug you toward the bed.

The blizzard began five days ago. If the mission had gone as intended, a branch of the Silver Hand would be extinguished without issue and you'd both be warming up in the grand hall of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas snorts at the mental image of your nose pressed to a frosted window demanding that he, your 'very best friend', play in the snow with you.

Instead, you'd taken an arrow to the gut and Vilkas' pack was abandoned in favor of speed. He'd carried your broken body to the nearest village and pleaded with the one healer to patch you up enough to get home. He didn't give a shit about the villagers glowering from their porches, he knew how terrifying he'd appeared; a bloodied stranger limping in to town and begging for help fixing some half dead vampire didn't inspire much warmth from the locals.

Vilkas is relieved that you fall to the rickety bed at his side. This abandoned cabin doesn't offer much but coverage as you wait for the storm to pass, expired rations enough to keep Vilkas alive and a couple blankets to stop your shivering. Your fingers are chilly when he feels them on his chest and he stomps down on the fucking ramming behind his ribs.

"What if I hurt you?" You whisper, big eyes staring down at his face. Vilkas fights to convince himself that his heart is hammering because he's about to let a vampire feed on him, that it has absolutely nothing to do with the idea that your lips will be on his skin. He forces his gaze to remain locked in yours, staunchly refusing to look at your uneasy grimace.

"Just stop before I'm dead." He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. It has to be because he's looking at you that he's so flustered; your wide, worried eyes and the way you bite so nervously at your lower lip. It'll be over in a moment and he can forget everything.

Fuck, he's wrong.

Your lips sear into his skin when they press to his throat. Your hands are pressed to his chest and he knows you feel the breath he sucks in, praying that you interpret it as mere nerves. His skin is tingling when you lean in closer, lips lingering over his throat just close enough to tantalize him.

"You sure?" Your breath ghosts over his skin and fuck, all those walls he's built up are crumbling. Vilkas spirals from the threat of your mouth on his skin, entire body suddenly alive.

"Get it over with." His words are missing their usual venom. Excitement colors his cheeks as anticipation chokes out whatever quip he tries to make, mind going blank when you bite him.

Sharp and quick, Vilkas feels your fangs sink into the sensitive skin of his throat. He'd worried about the pain or discomfort but he hadn't prepared for this - the shameful, all consuming arousal flooding his brain. Fists clenched at his sides he swears to withstand this without making a scene.

Vilkas fights to tame his mind, though each slight shift of your body against him leaves him wishing once more. The feeling of you relaxing into him, fingers curling into his shirt and lips resting easily against his throat, it takes time to curb the need to touch you. This is a necessity, an offer to keep you alive. Nothing more.

He will get through this. He repeats those words to himself over and over, gritting his teeth and forcing his body to remain rigid against the bed. It is for survival. It means nothing. He will remain calm. He will not make a fool of himself.

It takes all of his willpower to disregard the little fucking noise you make as his blood flows over your tongue - the soft sigh of contentment. His jaw aches from holding back the filthy sounds your touch summons, even the hint of pain feels good because it's you.

Vilkas isn't ready for your tongue to run over his throat. It's quick - the sensation of your fangs slipping from his skin and tongue skimming over the little marks but it's enough to wreck his self control. Some needy little sound rumbles through his chest and he's grabbing for you, dizzy from the loss of blood and drunk on your touch.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

Vilkas gazes up at you, completely speechless at how beautiful you look. Loose hair falls in pretty strands over your worried eyes, cheeks fuller and more flushed after feeding on him. And oh, the way your parted lips are smeared with the bright red of his blood - he can't look away. Vilkas watches numbly as his hand raises to your cheek, thumb swiping at the stain on your soft lips.

"No." He mumbles, distracted only by a tickling on his neck. He watches your eyes dart to where you'd bitten him and instinctively Vilkas arches his chin back, pleading with you for one more touch.

Fuck, your tongue traces up his throat once more and Vilkas sees stars. His need for you consumes every thought, each nerve in his body alight in a way he'd never felt before when you press a little kiss to his wound. Some desperate sound claws up his throat and Vilkas can't clamp down on it anymore. He needs you.

"You should rest." You instruct, tugging a blanket around his body. Vilkas wants to thank you or curse you for breaking down his walls but his mind is shamefully empty. He gazes up at you, one hand closing around your hip in a silent request for you to stay.

Thankfully, you remain at his side. Vilkas' eyes drift closed once he feels you curl into his chest, whispered thanks and apologies occasionally floating to his ears. He doesn't say a word, too focused on the feeling of your finger tracing little circles around the mark you've left on his throat.

He hopes it leaves a scar.

[friend-of-giants]

TES Summer Fest Day 2 - Magic @tes-summer-fest

Tagging @reachfolk @vilkas @cwahsont @lucien-lachance @qah-naarin

Word Count: 1601

Brief mentions of blood/injury, visions of destruction, and some swearing.

Also added this to my oneshot collection on AO3 here

✨️Wren has never been good with magic, but thinks she is ready to try learning something more than the basics.✨️

The body of the bear lie smoldering in the undergrowth, the stink of its singed fur and the metallic tang of blood hanging thick and heavy in the air.  Its jaws twisted open in a silent roar, teeth bared, still threatening even in death.  It would have still been alive had it not made the poor choice to ambush the greatest spellsword in Morrowind and a whirlwind with the voice of a dragon.  Though they were both unarmored and not prepared for any attack, the two Elves had made short work of the beast by means of dagger and flame.

Wren slipped Mehrune’s razor back into its sheath, its blade still covered in blood and fur.  It could be cleaned later.  Her attention was drawn to something more pressing at that moment - the ripped fabric of Teldryn’s shirt and the growing crimson stain surrounding it.  He was busy wiping off his dagger in the grass, seemingly unperturbed by his injury, which only further bothered her.  

“You’re hurt,” she noted with a trembling voice.  Fear roiled in her chest, tumultuous and cold.  She took a breath, a shallow one, her tightening throat only allowing in so much air.  “Gods be damned, Tel, do something about it!”  

Teldryn nonchalantly wiped the last of the bear’s blood from his dagger and set it back in its holster.  “You know I can heal myself, little dragon.  And you don’t need to worry about me, I’m hard to kill.”

She sighed, knowing he was right.  His skills with magic were far superior to her own, and he was tough, and would undoubtedly outlive her.  While she didn’t like to think about that last fact, she took some comfort in knowing he could take care of his own injuries,  though she still worried for him.  

A bright golden glow emanated from his palms as he went about sealing off the deep gashes that the bear's claws had carved into his flesh.  He shot her a reassuring smile, and lifted his hand after he had finished to show off what he had done.  

Wren stepped closer to inspect, reaching out to brush her fingers across his bloodied skin.  She wiped it clean, revealing unblemished slate-gray skin beneath.  “You didn’t even leave a scar,” she murmured, somewhat annoyed.  “Wish I could have figured out how to do that.”

“I suppose I could try showing you,” Teldryn offered.  He looked her up and down, and shook his head.  “But it looks like you got away unharmed, thank the Three.  I can’t show you how to heal properly unless you’ve got something that needs healing.”

“Well, I want to try learning something," she huffed.  "You know I’m horseshit at magic.”

He backed away from her ever so slightly, a nervous glint in his eyes.  “At the risk of being Shouted into this damned forest… I agree.”  

Wren only scowled, keeping her eyes firmly locked with his.  “Show me how to throw fire like you do,” she said, avoiding answering his comment for fear she would say something harsh.  “I already know how to make fire, just… I can’t do much with it.  I want to learn.”  

“If you insist.”  He scratched at his chin and cocked an eyebrow.  “Show me how you do it.  Show me what you can do first, and we’ll go from there.”

She lifted her left hand and shut her eyes for just a moment, seeing in her mind’s eye a spark setting the air ablaze.  A faint whoosh, a heat in her palm.  She opened her eyes to see a small flame flickering between her fingers, and she smiled triumphantly at Teldryn before it extinguished itself. 

Teldryn hummed thoughtfully.  “Is that as long as you can hold it for?”

Wren scowled, suddenly regretting asking for help.  “Aye, that’s it.”  Her cheeks and ears burned with embarrassment, if only she could channel that heat into a damn spell, she'd be unstoppable.  “I’m hopeless, aren't I?”

Teldryn’s expression softened, and he let out a little breath.  "I wouldn't say that.  Not everyone can do this, but we can keep trying if you want.  You can create the fire, but controlling it is something different.  Now, let's try it again," he said, reaching for her hand.  He pulled her arm out before her, straightening her fingers until her hand was flat and facing outward.  

She looked curiously at her outstretched hand, wondering just how this was going to turn out.  Teldryn had stepped backward, she noted, putting a safe distance between himself and her.  He knows I'm going to fail, she lamented.  I should just give up and-

"Alright, shut your eyes," he said, cutting off her thoughts.  She looked to him for a moment before taking a deep breath and following his instruction.  "Good.  Now make your flame, but this time, put everything you have into it.  Take what energy you have, and give it even more."

"Whatever that means," Wren called.  Her thoughts went to the fire again, seeing it crackling along her skin, licking up her fingers.  Once more, she felt the familiar warmth in her hand, and she cracked open one eye to see the bright orange glow of flame in her palm.  

"Good, good," Teldryn praised, "now see it in your mind spraying forth.  Imagine… hmm, imagine throwing it at someone you hate.  Ulfric Stormcloak or some other n'wah.  C'mon, I know you can do this!"

"Bet I could do it if you'd stop blathering on," she muttered.  Hmm… Ulfric though… I'd like to see him burn.  Wren felt a smile on her lips, and the image of the Stormcloak leader appeared in her mind.  He stood tall and arrogant, draped in his fine furs, reveling in some victory over the countless souls he deemed beneath him.  She did hate him, truly, the entire city of Windhelm even.  Windhelm could crumble to ashes and blow away into the sea and she wouldn't shed a single tear.  

Burn it all.

Ulfric's skin blackened, blood oozed from deep cracks in his charred flesh, his furs curling and crumbling as flames ate them away into nothingness.  The city erupted into an inferno around her, its residents who once regarded her as common trash fleeing their homes, their clothing ablaze as they scrambled blindly down the alleyways clogged thick with smoke and ash. 

Wren could see it all, smell the fire and fear, hear terrified screams and the collapse of burning buildings around her.  The flame in her hand burned hotter than it ever had before, and she focused all of her hatred into that flame and released it.  Her soul came alive with a surge of dominance, her inner dragon beating its wings, fanning the flames she had created.  Her smile grew wider, her body grew warm - she could feel the radiant heat from her vision of destruction.  Searing.  Painful.  Why did it hurt?  

Something pounded against her chest, and she fell backward, the ground slammed against her back and knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp yelp.  Her eyes flew open and she saw fire around her, on her, and a piece of cloth swinging through the air.  

The cloth flopped down onto her chest with force, puffing an acrid burst of smoke into her face.  Teldryn knelt over her with panic in his eyes, having stripped himself of his own shirt that he had used to beat out the scattered small fires that caught on her clothes.  

Wren shut her eyes again and let out a growl that steadily grew into a roar of anguish.  She had failed, just as she knew she would, only in a more spectacular manner.  If the Gods could only rid her of the shame she felt… well, that would just be great.

"Azura have mercy," Teldryn exclaimed, tossing his now ruined shirt aside into the grass.  He leaned over her with a worried frown, his eyes darting over her entire form as she lay there on the ground, stupid and helpless.  "Are you alright?"

She lifted her head and looked down at herself, seeing little wisps of smoke rising from a series of scattered holes in her tunic, the edges of the fabric burnt black.  Her head dropped back into the dirt and she licked her lips.  They tasted bitter, of soot and disappointment.  "Do I look alright to you?"

"Well, you're still alive," Teldryn said.  He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a reassuring rub.  "Might need a new shirt, but you're okay.  Wish you could have seen that spell you cast, though!  Results aside, it was quite impressive."  

Wren pushed herself up to sit, and managed a little grin as her anger diminished.  "Really?  Think I could do it if I keep trying?"

He squinted at her, a sliver of red barely visible between his lashes.  "I think," he began cautiously, "you should stick with your axe and your voice." 

She swatted half-heartedly at him with the last of her waning rage, and found herself laughing.  The look of relief on Teldryn’s face was palpable, and he gripped her hand before slowly rising and pulling her to her feet.  

"Apologies about your shirt," he said, poking at her bare skin though a ragged, burnt hole in her tunic.  "Suppose we should hurry back to town and get cleaned up."  

Wren brushed at the now dried blood that covered his chest, and watched little flakes of it flutter to the earth.  "Aye, a bath sounds good.  Let's go."  Smiling, she grabbed his hand and began the walk back to Riften, leaving their mess behind. 

[faolan-red-eagle]

Day Seven: Ancient 

On Surviving a Story in Which You Are the Ghost 

tagging @qah-naarin @vilkas @reachfolk @friend-of-giants @dirty-bosmer @fennorians @cwahsont @clavicuss-vile 

“My name is Vyramth,” he wrote, on a thousand thousand pages in every language he knew, with seeker’s ink and charcoal and his own blood. “My name is Vyramth. I will get out of here.” 

Miraak found many pages scrawled hastily with the same words, over and over, in Atmoran, in Karthorad, in Dovahzul, in Falmeris, in Ayleidic: my name is Vyramth. I will get out of here. He hoped, for their sake, that they had. (He picked up a quill and found he no longer knew how to use it, no matter how hard he tried. He took to etching on stone in Dovahzul, over and over, as many times as he could: My name is Miraak. I will get out of here.) 

By the time he both figured out how to manipulate the energies of the Skaal’s All-Maker stones and retained that information (he had the unsettling conviction that he had tried this before and forgotten it), by the time he had clawed back a foothold in returning to Nirn, the only reason he remembered his name was Miraak was because the dragons called him by that name. And then, another Dragonborn came. A youth, really, appearing in the middle of Miraak’s planning, gasping for air and bloodied, mouth full of sharp teeth and eyes snake-slitted. (Had he ever been so young, so full of grief and rage and conviction bright-shining? He couldn’t remember. It almost felt like he’d always been… this age, whatever it was. Perhaps he had.) 

The youth stood, scrubbing roughly at the blood streaming from a cut above his brow, glancing about in confusion. Miraak should send the boy away, taunt him into a fight, something, and yet… It had been so long since another person, much less another Dragonborn, had come here. 

“Woth gian?” the youth muttered, staggering to his feet and slipping about on the wet pages. “Wesa tána?” A flicker of… something, long forgotten. The child Miraak had once been had a friend named Madwg, who gleefully taught him all the swearwords that he knew. Somehow, Miraak had known that one of Madwg’s descendants would be a man called Fáolan, a great war-chief and pride of his people. Madwg had green eyes, too, his hair more auburn than true red, more loose waves than curly, but still. This boy reminded him of his long (long) dead friend, and all Miraak’s half-formed desperate plans fell apart in the face of that. 

He had, originally, been trying to goad Hermaeus Mora into killing him; that or luring in someone to replace him. And now… and now, he found that he could not, that some buried part of him wanted to live. 

The boy—Ruaidrí, son of Cynwrig, of Clan Rageclaw—looked at him across the fire, in their little camp not far from the Skaal village, and asked, softly, “what is your name? Miraak is a dragon’s name, so what is yours?”

Miraak fingered the edge of the gilded mask on his face, sighing. “I would not know my own face, if you held up a disk of polished silver and bade me look. But I think… I think my name, once… it might have been Vyramth.” He rolled it over his tongue, long-forgotten words coming to his lips. “Ek heiti Výramth. Ek em drákefyll.” 

Translations: 

Karthorad - Reachspeech name for the language, literally “language of the Karth” 

Woth gian? - Reachspeech, “Where am I?” 

Wesa tána? - Reachspeech, “What (plural) are you?” since he’s talking about the group around Miraak as a whole 

Ek heiti Vyramth. Ek em drákefyll. - Atmoran (technically Old Norse, I’m using it as a stand-in here.) and Ancient Nordic, “My name is Vyramth. I am Dragonborn.”