#and i didn't get to the daedric princes yet

[bam-monsterhospital]

zenimax and fake geek boys and even elderscrolls mainstream lore (the games) taking a giant muscley red 4-armed fire demon dude who only apparently seeks to destroy and burn everything, pointing, and being like “god of change.”

dagon should be the tower tarot card. you want him to be associated with natural disasters? great! let’s walk that pier: dagon should be the embodiment of sudden violent unforseen change. but still change, AND CHANGE ISN’T EVIL. it’s not good it’s not evil, dagon should be neutral and not bound by ideas of ‘EVIL DEMON FIRE MAN’.  Ambition falls within his sphere, as it falls under attempts for change, and of cOURSE he’d approve that shit, but ambition in and of itself is NOT EVIL. fuck man. i’m so sick of this christianity-laden bullshit.

tldr: mehrunes dagon should only be about change, not evil, not just destruction.

[1000fiction]

He hadn’t been your type originally. Even after several beers he still wasn’t. That’s just the way things were and he’d been okay with that, surprisingly. It wasn't often you came across someone who would buy you several drinks and still be civil after turning them down. That was usually the reason you into so many bar brawls, come to think of it. But he was nice, and funny, and that sensible part of you still kept quiet when he invited you to continue your night of fun, having already been kicked out the inn - you hadn’t meant to spill your drink down the front of the barmaid, and you were sure Sam hadn’t meant the lecherous comment about her chest either. 

You couldn’t turn down the chance to follow him to where ‘the wine flows like water’ and even now, as you stood in Misty Grove, you didn't quite regret it. Yet.

“You know, for someone who’s been downing drinks all night, I’m suddenly feeling quite sober.” The realisation that you had been taken to a plane of Oblivion hit you like a wave, made you feel vulnerable, exposed, and you felt prickles upon your skin like there was something crawling beneath it. “Why am I here, Sam?”

“Not completely sober I hope. I’ll be honest, I’m not the best decision-maker, but you? I can feel something in you, and I like it, I want to see where this goes.”

He moved to take your chin between his fingers, yet your movements were too quick, too coordinated (It would seem you were certainly sober now) and you snatched his wrist before he made contact.

“This doesn’t feel right Sam, I’m all for fun and games, but no lies.” 

The splitting grin looked foreign on his softer Breton features. There was light, and noise, a whirl of magic that nearly sucked you in. The grin fit this form perfectly.

Talons. Red talons that peaked blackened fingers took your chin and this time you let him.

“Sanguine” He chuckled low, the sound rattling in your bones.

“So glad you’re already familiar, tell me, am I a bit more your type now?” 

His bulk herded you toward the table, his thick frame slotting between your bare legs… Whenever that happened you weren’t sure, but your mind felt far too frazzled to attempt to make sense of anything that happened in a daedra’s realm.

“Easy dear, focus here, your minds changing things faster than even I can keep up with.” His clothes had gone too it would seem, the realisation that you’d wanted that to be the case suddenly brought clarity to the situation.

Sanguine, the daedric prince of hedonistic revelry, debauchery, and passionate indulges of darker natures was before you, letting you guide and shape his realm with each of your thoughts. 

“I’ve been watching you, you know, you turn your nose up at men, elves sometimes, orcs rarely, but you jump at the Argonians, the Khajit, there’s something about the… less common tastes that just get you riled, isn't there?” He stroked your nethers to prove a point, finding them hot and inviting. “You can indulge in your best-kept secrets, all in the safety of my naughty little grove, if that’s what you’d like. How does that sound?” He bent, nose pressing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“I’d like…” A breath, deep and purposeful that filled your lungs, a poor attempt to quell the stirring in your belly. It wasn’t quite nauseating the way the world shifted, how you felt as though you were still lying upon the table, but it turns out you were upright, atop a demon, and your brain tossed to keep up with the change. “I’d like to have a bit of fun with you, I think.”

He practically purred as you sank onto his rigid, ribbed, cock. The blackened length sinking into your welcoming flesh. His fangs glinted in the foggy lantern light as he grinned.

“Oh my sweet champion I promise you,” He took your hips, elongated fingers groping at the flesh of your rear “This will be a night to remember.”

[civilight-eterna]

poll loser - horndragora morrowskyrim au

(it's a winner in my heart though)

to summarize: mandragora dabbled in vampire shit. she's such a baby vampire that horn doesn't even notice. she also doesn't notice because she's also trying to hide that she's a werewolf (but I didn't get there yet). lots of little lore crumbs because morrowind taught me to read.

this is. probably the lightest and softest i can do horndragora. they're basically just a little sitcom in this.

please enjoy!

...

Mandragora chose this.

She is prepared. She is. Months of research and playing idiot acolyte for the temple to access what she needed. So much time spent on meaningless labors, just enough to scrounge together what she needed to break into Vivec’s sequestered libraries to read of the vampire clans that might fill the hole in her heart with enough power to forget her lot in life.

There was no one to wait for her. Her parents had sold her for some impure water and diluted soup to keep them alive another day so long ago that it didn’t matter. She had enough to do to keep alive herself. The luxury to wonder at their fates had long passed.

She was enamored with the Aundae clan’s grasp of magic. She descended into a smaller lair, spoke with a fledgling, hatched a bargain: he could feed every day until she turned, so long as he didn’t kill her. She would return until then.

Hunger was always a powerful motivator, whether or not you were human.

The first time, she bit her lip as his fangs broke her skin. She couldn’t cry out.

She chose this. She reminds herself every time she arrives, every time he and his cohort pass her around for a drink. She leaves woozy and weak, sometimes only barely making it back to camp before losing consciousness.

Mandragora chose this.

Why isn’t it working? She wonders desperately. She has a certain suspicion, but she can’t bear to entertain it.

And yet.

Is the clan rejecting…my blood?

She returns one day to find the fledgling slaughtered. A trail of bodies leads inside. She follows the sprawl of limbs and viscera towards the echoes of battle down the chamber, knowing full well she can’t fight fair. The grip of her dagger bites at her palm.

The truth reveals itself to her.

An invasion. A cadre of vampires from the neighboring Berne clan’s coven are here to contest for territory.

And from the darkness, from the back of her head, a prickle of ill intent-

She’s too late to stop the arms that grab her and the fangs that sink in deep to her neck without permission or warning.

…

Panting in the rented tavern room’s bed next to a pile of bloody gauze, she wakes for the fourth time that night. Her homemade potions can only go so far, only give her the energy to keep her body in one piece. She can heal the wounds, but not the pain.

And they taste like shit. Saltrice and wet bread ground down into a nasty paste that makes her feel like she’ll throw up what little in her stomach she can keep down.

And yet.

This is the closest she’s felt to any kind of result. The nightmares-they were a common symptom among the newly turned. She’d read about it, with what little literacy the temple had imparted to her.

(But she’d also tried to make an offering to Vaermina, once. Another fruitless bid for power. Maybe it was just time for that particular Daedric prince to finally collect?)

No. The timing is too convenient. And she’s almost certain it isn’t even the right clan.

She’ll burn that bridge when she gets to it. If she gets to it. She needs to stay here a little longer. The temple is out of the question; if there’s something amiss with her they’ll be the first to notice, and at best she will be forced to drink down a preventive potable. The local mages guild will treat her like a test subject and ask to see her insides.

The tavern, while raucous and rowdy and noisy as it is, is the only option.

At least they can’t hear her sob through her wounds through clenched teeth in the night.

…

Two days pass. She has a worse nightmare every time she closes her eyes to rest.

Her mouth aches, like something that shouldn’t be there is pushing through.

…

The third night, she dreams of a beautiful girl with straw-colored hair. She lays in a sunny copse of trees in the warm grasses, her cheek propped on a book in her slumber. A long, antique lace and brocade dress silhouettes her legs, her waist, her figure. The scene is frozen in time.

She steps towards her but the light of the sun sharpens to an audible ringing in her ears, and as she opens her mouth to scream her skin crumbles to ash.

…

Mandragora wakes up to her new body.

She staggers to the mirror on the dresser.

She sees nothing but the room around her.

It worked.

…

The Aundae clan rejects her, and the Berne vampire that sired her was so low down the chain that they acted as though by accepting her-well, that was too generous an assessment-by taking responsibility for what she’d become, she was indebted to them for the barest extension of courtesy.

The work is dangerous and thankless. She’s not keen to lose her life-or her unlife, for that matter. They don’t even let her feed on what few humans they capture.

“Eating the rats is all a cat’s good for.”

Their jeers ring in her ears. She does as they suggest, simply to spite them by staying alive.

…

There’s a commotion at the heart of the cave. Mandragora wakes from her moldy bedroll to investigate, rounds the corner into the coven’s largest corridor, and sees a crowd gathered.

They’re dragging someone-a woman-towards the place where the humans are kept. She’s not allowed to go, but she sees a flash of wheat-colored hair and is hit with unexplainable deja vu.

…

Just one look.

Mandragora waits for everyone else to sleep. It comes much more easily to them, well-fed as they are, compared to her anyway.

She sneaks towards where the human cattle are locked up, finds the woman’s cell to see her in a restless, fitful sleep.

With supernatural steadiness, she pushes a bent pin through the lock and massages it through, turning the handle silently as it gives way.

The rusty door creaks ever so slightly, and the woman startles awake. Mandragora freezes, her silhouette caught in flickering lamplight. She alights to her side, dagger in hand, and saws at the rope and leather cords wrapped around her wrists behind her until she’s free.

“Thank you-” The woman hisses quietly, and this is the most Mandragora expects out of this. However, what she says next is something she had no contingency plan for at all.

“-let’s go.”

…

By some miracle, the woman has not caught on to the truth.

Mandragora’s features were too slight. Her teeth were barely pronounced, and her pallor suited her enough to not arouse suspicions that she’d not even attempted to allay.

Even as they stumbled into the light of day out of the cave and Mandragora crumpled to the ground with agony, the woman had dropped to her side, thrown her cloak around her shoulders, pulled the hood up, and helped her to her feet.

“By the Nine, how long did they imprison you for…? We’ll find a hollow and travel at sunset. Your eyes must be in such pain, seeing light after so long.”

Staggering with shock, and some degree of humiliation, Mandragora decides that if her skin begins to crumble and she can’t make it, that she wants one thing.

“...N-Name. Your name. I don’t know it-”

“Horn. I’m Horn. Stay with me. I’ve got you.”

“Mandragora. M…Mand…ra…”

“Mandragora.” Horn repeats firmly. “Mandragora. I won’t forget it. You’re not going to die out here.”

As Mandragora sways, unconscious before even the fall, she thinks to herself how she might not wake up ever again.

Before, something like that-

It wasn’t like she wanted to die. It was nothing like that.

But if she died right now, for some reason-

She feels she could accept it a little easier, this time.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to live, either. She’d wanted to all her life. It was all she’d wanted to do.

But something was different now.

She was looking forward to waking up.

Whatever’s happening to her, she feels something ache deep inside of her, foreign.

I want to wake up.

…

She wakes up. Again and again, for many nights, they wake together, and travel together.

The village of Khuul looks and smells like fish and shit, but they manage to buy passage to Solstheim’s Raven Rock colony, so Mandragora stomachs it as Horn handles the more social end of their engagements with the locals.

From Raven Rock, it’s just another boat to the mainland of Skyrim. But the trip is several days.

There’s room enough on board that they each get a hammock. Mandragora decides that whoever thought up the idea to sleep in what was basically a net should get an ice shiv through their eye. It feels at once like she’s suspended in a freefall and like she’s tied up and trapped and by the Nine does she hate it-

Something warm drapes over her. Suspicious, she jolts up, just to see Horn putting a conspiratorial finger to her lips.

“Beat one of the swabbies at cards and won his blanket. Doesn’t smell too bad, does it? I figured it’s better than nothing. You’ve been tossing and turning every night.”

Mandragora’s mouth hangs open with disbelief, her brows knitting together with irritation. “Just what did you wager? If you’d lost how would we afford lodging in the mainland-?”

“No money. Just a kiss.”

“You did what?”

“Technically, nothing. I won, so I didn’t have to.”

If she still had a pulse she knew it’d be accelerating violently.

…Idiot! I’ll never be warm again in my life, with or without a blanket! The words flash through her mind in an instant, and she’s once again stricken with how much this infuriating woman is going out of her way for her.

“...Then, you should at least share it. You’re the one who earned it.”

“...Oh. Alright. Thank you.”

Mandragora had assumed her offer would be taken up in time-perhaps the next night of the voyage, or the night after that.

Instead, Horn drops her belongings, shrugs out of her cloak, and climbs into the hammock beside her. Even through their clothes and back to back, the warmth of Horn’s body knocks the itchy little blanket out of the water.

Worse yet, she’d done so much of her sleeping during the day, being newly nocturnal. Horn had kindly chalked it up to her imagined status as a recently-freed abductee, and hadn’t bothered her about it. Now though. All she could do as she lay awake was wait.

All she could do was be bothered by it.

Horn slept deeply and eventually rolled onto her back. Mandragora mirrored the movement.

The hammock swayed minutely as the boat groaned through the water. A dwindling flame from a lantern overhead in the cabin occasionally fluttered across Horn’s face, illuminating her features.

Mandragora stares at her; she watches how her brow softens in the light, the subtle frown of her lips catching shadows. Her throat bobs as she swallows and Mandragora’s eyes snap straight to it, that beautiful, exposed, flawless skin at her nape.

For not the first time, Mandragora thinks about draining her pretty neck dry. She has yet to take a human vein, but she’s reluctant to entertain the prospect of taking Horn’s.

She’s almost certain it will make everything else taste so much worse. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she does. Conversely, it’s this same principal that discourages her from taking even a cursory sip of anyone else on the boat while they sleep. There are ways to make sure it doesn’t leave a mark, and that the victim doesn’t wake in the middle of it, but knowing her tenuous grasp on her powers, and perhaps, if she’s honest, a fair bit of skepticism that they’d taste anywhere near as good as Horn smells-

She won’t risk it. Not even as Horn shifts about in her sleep and drapes an arm over Mandragora’s waist, cuddling-in the name of the Nine, cuddling-her closer.

…

The next boat they take is smaller. Not many people are headed to Skyrim. There seems to be a tacit understanding between Skyrim’s inhabitants and Vvardenfell’s populace that everyone would stick to their own shitty home, thank you, and that never the twain shall meet.

But the boat is so small that-dare she admit it-Mandragora might actually miss the stupid hammock.

The bedroll is a tight fit for them both, and the ship’s cabin is so dusty that the only creatures sleeping well are the rats that share the space.

Always one to make the best of the situation, Horn sparks a flame into a lantern, pulls a book from her pack and gives an inviting tilt of her head as she settles down.

“Care for a story?”

The invitation could have been, quite literally, anything, and Mandragora would have considered it. She nods and sidles closer. She can read, but she doesn’t feel like pointing this out to Horn. She has the distinct notion that Horn’s offer to read to her has nothing to do with her literacy or lack thereof.

But she can tell from the way Horn holds the book that she was a noble in whatever life she left behind to elope to Skyrim with her. None of the pages are dogeared, and some of the gold lettering remains where careless handling would have flaked it away with time.

Mystery of the Princess Talara. Mandragora has only ever come across the fifth volume in the series, and can recite the first lines of it by heart. By what right do you arrest my father?, and so on.

Horn is full of surprises: she’s got the very first volume in her hands.

Her voice weaves word into form, quietly filling the dark. When Horn reached the description of the protagonist, Gyna-a prostitute in the kingdom’s annual March of Beauty-Mandragora felt heat pool in her cheeks. She was grateful for the dark. The given description of Gyna was so alike to Horn-flaxen hair, a tall, curvaceous figure-that her mind handily filled in the blanks with images of her companion in similar dress: barely covered in strips of silk, with flowers speckling her hair.

It was impossible not to picture the tilt of her hips and stomach, soft muscle accentuated by the clink of bangled jewellery on her wrists, waist, and ankles. The gleam of her bright eyes, nothing short of bewitching as she coaxed her fortunate client down, all that skin on display as each garment melted off of her form, lowering herself into Mandragora’s lap, over her face with bated breath, her hair falling to one side like a privacy screen-

What in the world am I thinking-

Horn, oblivious to her internal panic, read on.

“...She was falling before she understood it.”

[quicksilverdrabbles]

I had more ideas about my oc crossover thing so I wrote more dialogue for them lmaoo

~

Merlyn: Soooo... What happened to you?

Morana: ...

Merlyn: I do know Imperial Sign if you wanna use that. I know you dropped your notebook on the er- journey here.

Morana: ...! I got Crimson Plague as a child. Then bad people experimented on me, so it can't go away.

Merlyn: Damn. I kinda figured you weren't completely mute, I can hear you whisper to yourself sometimes. Kinda hard to hear with that mask on, though.

Morana: I don't like not wearing my mask. Not usually. I also don't like not being able to speak to my friends.

Merlyn: Do they not know sign in your world?

Morana: Most of them aren't totally fluent yet. Kai is a great learner, though. Lu, Tally, and Cary already knew it.

Merlyn: That's nice.

Loqi: *from afar* WHAT'D YOU SAY SHORTY?!

Sprout: YOU FUCKEN BEANSTALK! I SAID-

Merlyn: Ugh, those two again. Veda!

Veda: On it. *walks over and lifts the two into the air*

Sprout: LEMME GO!!

Loqi: YOU'RE LUCKY SHE CAN DO THIS, SHORTCAKE!

Sprout: OH OFF WIT' YE!

Ko'irra: Ko'irra has finished her Blood Potions. She is greatful for the materials, friend.

Morana: *thumbs up*

Merlyn: I don't even want to know where you got stuff like human hearts and flesh..

Morana: ...? From humans.

Merlyn: I said I don't want to know-

Avery: *giggling* I suppose you must find ways to acquire several strange ingredients for your potions. You must have a strong stomach.

Morana: *waves her hand in a 'so-so' manner before remembering Avery can't see it* ... Sabre eyes and human hearts don't really affect me. I'm not very squeamish.

Merlyn: She said she's not squeamish.

Avery: Ah! I suppose you must not be. I imagine I wouldn't be a healer if I could see. Even just the feeling of blood and gore is enough to give me the ick sometimes.

Morana/Merlyn relaying: It's not a bad thing to not like blood.

Ko'irra: Ko'irra thinks blood is delicious.

Merlyn: Yes, yes we know. Vampire things.

Ko'irra: She is also a follower of Namira.

Merlyn: ... Right, we.. didn't need to know that. Thanks, though.

Avery: I imagine many of your companions are not fond of your tendency to follow Daedric Princes.

Ko'irra: Ko'irra has given them many chances to leave if they so wish. None have, so she can only assume they tolerate it.

Merlyn: Yeah, that checks out. Kinda seems to be the trend no matter what.

Shie: Haha. Veda got you suspended again, shorty?

Sprout: DON'T YE EVEN FUCKEN START-

Loqi: ONLY I CAN CALL HIM SHORTY YOU DRAUGR!

Shie: DRAUGR?!

Veda: I only have two hands, don't make me get my Gynoids.

Avery: Are we at least all in agreement thay Mehrunes Dagon's dagger stays broken, no matter what Princes we follow?

Morana: Absolutely.

Merlyn: Oh definitely.

Ko'irra: After what that one did to Kaidan? His dagger can rot in Oblivion for all Ko'irra cares.

[motherofcats666]

amusing things from this playthrough

-The courier showed up in Riverwood with the letter from the jarl of Falkreath, with the Miraak cultists right behind him. They were polite enough to let him finish talking before they attacked though. (I think this gives more weight to the theory that the courier is a Daedric prince, so the cultists know better than to fuck with him)

-At Kynesgrove, Agmaer did the thing where he jumped on Saloknir's head for the kill

-Accidentally picked up a piece of Dwarven scrap metal, the kind you can't do anything with, and dropped it again. Agmaer was like, "Hey, you left this over there. You're lucky; someone else might have kept it for himself. Here you go." ?? I DIDN'T WANT IT. But I was already overencumbered so I gave it back to him along with a bunch of other stuff and so now he gets to carry it FOREVER. 😆

-Serana keeps getting lost. She noped out of the Malkoran fight entirely. IDK why she's so buggy for me. I wasn't even using AFT; I only do that to turn off her idle chatter and constant complaining. She hasn't gotten in a fight with Kharjo and Agmaer yet though; my headcanon is Inigo and Hadvar just REALLY don't like her.

[cheeseandstrawberrytartlover]

A cure

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Ben was in an empty, dark room. They tried to walk forward but the black on the floor was starting to grab at him. As if they wanted them to stay. The further he walked, the worse it got. They couldn't cry out for help. They could do nothing except feel themselves sinking and eventually drowning.

Suddenly they could hear a familiar voice, "Beeen."

Ben opened his eyes to find the Daedric Prince of Madness right before their eyes and they startled.

"Oops! Good- well, you slept through the entire day. Good Evening!"

The little champion searched for the window right by the bed and looked outside. Lo and behold it was dusk.

Sheogorath chuckled at Ben's confused face.

"This is what happens when you do not rest enough. I will see you in the throne room in..."

He tilted his head to look out of the window and pondered, "Let us say... five minutes."

Sheogorath smiled and quickly exited the room.

Ben looked on in horror. They slept through an entire day? Why did nobody tell them? They jumped out of bed and fixed their clothing. They put their hair in a bun and ran after Sheogorath who was already gone. Ben looked from side to side, trying to regain their sense of direction and ran in the direction of the throne room.

This time they didn't arrive late and found a circle of chairs with most being already used. Ben moved towards an empty chair and Thadon happily waved at them.

They quickly plopped down on the chair and tried to keep the back straight. Parallel to them, Sheogorath was sitting on a much more fancy chair with his staff in his hands.

The throne room doors sprung open and Syl joined the circle, "Apologies, my Lord."

Sheogorath smiled, "Ah! Do not worry."

Syl was surprised that Ben was sitting right next to her and she crossed her arms.

Ben was just very confused and Sheogorath immediately picked up on that confusion.

"Ah! Of course. Would anyone like to explain why we are here?"

Another bosmer woman raised her hand.

"Yes, Cutter, my dear?"

Cutter was an odd name for a person. She smiled, "Well, we are here to discuss our issues! Things that we might want to talk about and everyone else tries to help you solve those issues! I am happy to be here today! I would be happier stabbing my enemies and watch them bleed out, but-"

Sheogorath raised his hand, "That's enough, Cutter."

Cutter looked down. Ben was looking around the circle.

"Ben, you have been invited by me to join us today. We help ourselves and each other here. If you are too nervous or... anything else, you are allowed to leave. Would you please introduce yourself?"

Ben fidgeted with their hands and just noticed Haskill next to them. They started to sign and Haskill started to translate.

"My name is Ben. I am nineteen years of age and I was born in Kvatch, Cyrodiil."

Sheogorath nodded, "Go on."

Ben didn't have anything else to talk about.

"What do you struggle with?"

Cutter tilted her head, "Violent thoughts?"

Syl sighed, "Paranoia?"

Thadon interrupted, "Manic episodes?"

Ben hesitated and then continued signing.

Haskill got back to translating, "I struggle with violent thoughts, constant exhaustion and thoughts of..."

Ben stopped and Haskill gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"I think I would be better off dead."

An imperial man in the circle nodded. Sheogorath smiled, "Thank you for opening up."

Sheogorath clapped once and everyone startled.

"Todays subject is habits! Habits are actions that you keep on repeating without even knowing it! There are good and bad habits. Name a few that come to mind."

The imperial man uncertainly raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"When I get nervous, I start biting my nails."

"Does anyone have an idea for solving nail biting?"

Thadon raised his hand.

"Yes, Thadon?"

"Maybe chew on something else? Like dried meat?"

The imperial nodded slowly, "I haven't tried that yet..."

Sheogorath looked to Cutter.

"Cutter?"

"I... do not want to share it. I do not want to make anyone uncomfortable."

"That's fine. We can talk about it later, okay?"

Cutter nodded.

Sheogorath's gaze wandered over to Ben and they were already dreading his question.

"Ben?"

Ben shrugged and shook their head while fidgeting with his hands.

"Well, I have an answer for you. You often fidget with your hands which isn't necessarily bad, but it can make other folks as nervous as you."

Ben looked down at their hands and looked a little bit surprised.

"And that's the danger of a habit! You had no idea! But- don't stop. It helps you. That is something I will probably elaborate on it further... but later. Not right now. Thadon!"

Thadon sat there nervously, "I uhm- I don't quite have a habit."

"A positive one, then?"

"I often paint when I am happy."

Sheogorath smiled and nodded.

Syl didn't even have to be asked, "I stay longer in my room then I have to be. I need to be motivated to leave."

Sheogorath inhaled sharply, "Try to stay out of your room, except when you need to, alright?"

Syl nodded.

Sheogorath sighed, "Very well! Does somebody need help with a certain situation they have experienced recently?"

The imperial man started talking but Ben was no longer listening.

A few minutes might have passed. Maybe a lot of minutes, maybe an hour. Ben was ripped out of their thoughts by a slight pain in their belly.

"All right, everyone! We'll see each other next thurdas!"

Everyone stood up except Ben and bowed, "Thank you, Lord Sheogorath."

Cutter approached Sheogorath and they started talking. Suddenly Thadon got closer to Ben and shook their hand.

"Ahh yes, THERE you are! You couldn't imagine how long I've been waiting for you. So little to do, and so much time. Hmm, could you, in fact, imagine just how long I've been waiting? I don't think you could, but I might be wrong. I might also not care. Which is it?"

Ben tilted their head.

"Haven't I? Hmm, perhaps not. It felt like rather a long time, but then long times get longer when you're standing around thinking about them. A curious thing, that. Long roads get longer too, if you're thinking about them, but what about long words? They don't change nearly as much. Long, short -- it all ends up the same. Dust and tears. Usually tears first, then the dust. Dust can't cry, you see. That would be... well, amusing. You know what's NOT amusing? I don't have my Chalice of Reversal. It makes me sad. When I get sad, I don't care to do much of anything. I certainly don't care to help people who show up on my doorstep wanting something. Are we getting the picture here?"

Ben tilted his head in the other direction and simply signed "Chalice?"

"You haven't heard of it, yet you know its name? What a strange creature you are. One of my favorite toys. Does wonders for creativity. Well, not by itself, but it helps. Those Elytra, clever little bugs that they are. Is this making sense? Look, you eat the Felldew, then use the Chalice, and find the world a much brighter and happier place. Honest. But I don't have it. So I can't eat Felldew, because that would just be bad. I mean, really bad. Damn her! Are we done? We are done."

That's when Thadon left and Ben walked after Syl into the house of Dementia, to introduce themself.

Syl turned around in disgust, "Why do you approach the Duchess of Dementia? Do you seek death?"

Ben was taken aback, but proceeded that Sheogorath had sent them.

"You're the one the Madgod sent, aren't you? Then you're safe for now. Speak to no one unless I instruct you to. None of them can be trusted. Do you hear me? None! Surrounded by traitors and spies, I am. Always, always. They watch and wait, eager to slip a knife into my spine when I'm not looking."

Ben asked who was spying on her.

"Could be all of them. Every last one. None can be trusted. But they'll never take me down. Never! I'll see them all rotting in shallow graves before I let my guard down! You... you will help me. Yes, yes. You will be most useful."

They nodded.

"You're going to find out who knows. You're going to learn who keeps secrets, who conspires against me. You will be my Grand Inquisitor. Expose the conspirators, and they will be punished, I assure you. Find out who keeps secrets, and what they are. Speak with Herdir. He will help you. Do you understand what is required of you? If no one is found, you will be held responsible."

After that Syl left as well. What was it with nobles always leaving after they are done talking?

Ben turned around to go back into the throne room and Sheogorath was waiting for them.

"There you are again! Listen, I forgot to give you something yesterday. Come here."

Ben quickly walked over to him only to be grabbed by their face again.

"I will show you a spell - the ability to summon Haskill, my Chamberlain, to aid you in your travels. He knows a lot. More than he knows. In fact, give it a try. Haskill! Walk over there!"

Haskill sighed and jogged to the other side of the throne room. Sheogorath showed Ben the spell and in preparation, Ben inhaled sharply before summoning Haskill.

"Ah...our Lord has granted you the power to summon me. How wonderful for me."

Sheogorath laughed, being delighted at seeing someone else summon Haskill, "Do it again! Do it again!"

Ben walked backwards and summoned Haskill again. To Haskill's dismay, "Ah, summoned again. My lord does so enjoy that, as is His prerogative. I'll assume you're done for now."

Ben nodded and put the spell away. Haskill sighed in gratefulness and walked back to his post.

Sheogorath chuckled and gave Haskill a little pat on the back, "Okay! Okay. Go ahead and do the tasks that my little darlings have given to you! Off you go!!"

Ben would start off with Thadon and moved towards the house of mania.

[musetta3]

I would like to send you a prompt as well! "Nocturnal." go for it! And wow, I didn't realize you were the creator of the prompts! Amazing, thank you!

Thanks for the prompt, Artemis! I’m not the creator of these prompts; I found them on a writing server I’m a part of.  :)

I have for you my first foray into Skyrim fanfiction, featuring my Dragonborn, Iseult the Black. I always thought it was funny how one person could be the leader of nearly ever faction in Skyrim. This story explores how the Dragonborn’s nearest and dearest would react to hearing about their... club memberships. :)

Vilkas of Jorrvaskr had never seen a house so grand as his wife’s. When Iseult had mentioned she’d built a house not far from Whiterun, Vilkas was relieved. Outside of adventuring, he had never lived apart from his twin brother. Now he could go visit Farkas whenever he chose, or, better yet, invite him to stay in the guest room. For they had a guest room—Vilkas grinned as he set the last of his trunks in the entryway. His wife’s house could rival the jarl’s palace, he was certain.

“Welcome to Heljarchen Hall, milord,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. A tall man in practical steel armor bowed to greet him. “I am Gregor, our lady’s housecarl and steward of Heljarchen Hall. I am pleased you have arrived unharmed.” Vilkas had never seen a steward, before. The housekeeper at Jorrvaskr, Tilda, was more like a grandmother than an actual steward. She certainly never treated him like this.

“T-Thank you,” he replied, just as stiffly. “Where is my wife?” He smiled to himself; ‘wife’ was still such a new word to him. It tasted sweet on his tongue, smooth, as though it had always been a part of him. A warmth spread in his chest.

“In the armory, milord.” The man took up a trunk and carried it off for unpacking. Vilkas wandered into the main hall, secretly wondering what he had done to deserve a house with a grand fireplace and ceilings so tall, a giant wouldn’t bump his head on the rafters. Perhaps this was a dream, and he’d wake up in his bed at Jorrvaskr...

“There you are,” Iseult cried, bursting in. She wound her arms around his waist and kissed him sweetly. “I was about to mount a search party for you. Was the carriage delayed? Come and see what I made for you, love.” She whisked him through a set of double doors to what Vilkas could only describe as the most beautiful armory he had ever seen. Weapon racks, display cases with real glass he’d only seen the like of at the jarl’s palace. Mannequins and shield racks lined the wall. His jaw dropped.

“I wanted this room to be ready for you,” she said shyly. “It’s your wedding present.”

“My what?” She’d already gifted him a fine set of armor with a matching longsword. Even more?

“It’s for both of us,” she said. “My armor sets are here, too. See?” He did. On one end of the room, there mannequins sporting all sorts of different armors. He recognized some. The Wolf Armor of the Companions’ Inner Circle. Delicate glass armor made of panes of green malachite.

“Is that...” he leaned in. “Is that from the Dawnguard?”

She grinned. “Mhmm, I’m a member.” He’d never known that about her.

“And that one?” Vilkas pointed to a mannequin.

“A gift from Hircine.” His eyes went wide.

“You have armor from a daedric prince?” She seemed completely nonplussed.

“And that one is from Boethiah, as her champion. And this is from the Dark Brotherhood; I earned it as their Listener. And that one’s from the Thieves Guild; it’s specially enchanted to help with pickpocketing—er, never mind. And this one is my Nightingale armor—”

Vilkas had only heard rumors of the Nightingales. Stories of the daedric prince, Nocturnal, and her loyal, terrifying servants. Legendary thieves and bloodthirsty witches, the lot of them. To see his wife with such armor made his head spin.

“A-Are you a Nightingale, too?” he asked. 

Iseult blinked at him. “Of course, how else would I get the armor, love?”

Vilkas felt his knees go weak. He sank onto a stool in the corner. “Y-You’re the Dragonborn,” he said, counting on his fingers. “The Harbinger of the Companions, Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, member of Dawnguard, Hero of the Civil War, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood—”

“It’s hardly a brotherhood, darling, there’s only three people, including myself—”

“And Champion of nearly every daedric in existence?” He looked to her, incredulous. “Did I miss anything?” She bit her lip and thought for a moment.

“My ceremonial robes as Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold are upstairs in my wardrobe?”

Seemed there was more to his wife than Vilkas realized.

Edit: This story is also on AO3 and FFN.

[your-uncle-sheogorath]

Good evening Lord Sheogorath! A bit on the late side this Sunday, my apologies. I might have decided to have some fun and get a tad tipsy this afternoon - so it was better I did not send my weekly wishes until the alcohol was mostly cleared.

Couple of things about the week before: how did you help along with the peace negotiations? Also, how is the whole 3 faction war going? (They decided to quit yet?) Ah and about the childbirth: I 100% believed you when you said you didn't faint.

How has this week gone? Had a good time?

As I always do, I send you my best wishes for the week to come. May it bring you joy, happiness, and laughter to you, your loved ones, and all you care for.

Have a good Sunday, and take care.

Good evening to you, Sundas Anon! It’s good to hear from you - this Prince wondered where might you have been. I hope that you had a good time while tipsy?

About the peace negotiations... Well, first I must tell you that ambassador Rigurt of the Ebonheart Pact had sent a lot of invitations for “after coronation mutual understanding drinks”. A lot of dignitaries from the three Alliances were to attend and just before such drinks started I might have added a little thing to the beverages. A special formula, you see? Everyone that drank it was veeery calm and cuddly. A lot of important personalities ended up in a pile on the floor of the Temple of the One. Admissions were done as well. Important stuff there, like Jorunn the Skald-King admitting to owning a very nice teddy bear. It is known to me that King Fahara’jad was too cool for that and was practically the only one standing, though. The real peace talks happened the day after and it looks like, even if the war is not yet solved, there was a fluid dialogue and they even made a first approach to finding common ground. It’s a start.

It’s good that you believed me, because Daedric Princes don’t faint. Ha-ha!

This was another quiet week. Still on vacation in the Isle of Tulips. We even had a nice summer day at the beach!

Thank you for your kind wishes! May you, your loved ones and all you care fore have a wonderful week ahead of you! :3

[bmpmp3]

Been playing too much Skyrim and thinkin bout me Skyrim oc Alchem and his backstory

So his character is basically "Big, Beefy, Respects Women" in the simplest terms but he's also developed this very weird moral code?

He tries not to steal if he can help it (there were a couple mistakes from me misclicking ahsgdhsbs, also robbing graves and ruins doesn't count so he does that all day every day) and despite all the sneaky bonuses they give you at the beginning of the game when you pick khajiit for your character, he's bad at it anyway sgdhahd (he's a heavy armour boy he's too LOUD) stealth is for CHUMPS

He also very aggressively has some hangups about being forced to kill someone, like he lives in Skyrim so he accepts having to kill in self defense, and I mean he's big and buff so if you ask nicely he might do a murder favour for you, plus if you abuse children you immediately die by his hands, but if you railroad him into having to kill someone he doesn't want to, he is Not Down

I went in that abandoned house with that rando to be a good samaritan but then Molag Bal locked us in and made us kill eachother and both I and Alchem was so mad, and then later with the Dark Brotherhood in that random shed this kinda became like a character quirk? Agshsbs Alchem killed Astrid like immediately 'cause he really hates when people try to get him to kill people he hasn't deemed worthy of killing yet (those people in the shed might be bad but I have no way of knowing I am a cat man locked in a shed with an assassin qwq)

He also kinda has a bit of a vengeance streak? He's a sweet boy who respects women and loves kids but he did go on a rampage afterwards to destroy the Dark Brotherhood (nothing personal, Alchem's just pissed lol) and the only reason he didn't go on a years long quest to kill Molag Bal is 'cause he's a daedric prince and you can't agsgsgdsjjs

His backstory is kinda messy, I'm not the greatest with lore (I like it a lot and find it really fun but I also sometimes.....only take it as a suggestion qwq) but I think I'll make it that my boy Alchem was born in Elsweyr, which is low-key controlled by the thalmor rn I believe, 'cause of the moon shenanigans, and I think?? this is probably super edgy and dramatic I'm sorry but I think he was raised to be some kinda soldier? A bit of a killing machine? The khajiit in Skyrim I think are supposed to be Cathay but I might alter his design to make him a cathay-raht? Big boy.....imagine u get adopted and yer dad is literally a giant fluffy cat man who brings presents every time he comes home....sissels living the LIFE (she deserves it)

Anyway I think maybe he was raised to be some kinda soldier under the thalmor and somewhere along the way he got sick of all them racists and dissented Real Hard, which also explains why he seems to hold a real big grudge against the thalmor despite being a khajiit from Elsweyr (this mainly came from the fact that as a player i kill all the thalmor I see ahsgdhsbs)

I dunno if that's too dramatic and doesn't follow the lore enough but I tried orz anyway the gist of it all is Alchem is a Big Boy who respects women and loves kids but also he holds a lot of grudges and if you cross him he will stop at nothing until he gets revenge

Oof

Y'know him being a cathay-raht might also help explain, at least outside game fiction wise, how this big sweet boy has such high intimidation stats, for some reason I'm really good at intimidation checks in this game? I don't know why? Is it cause of all my daedric artifacts? I heard if you have daedric armour it adds intimidation, is it the same with swords and stuff? Why is everyone so scared of Alchem, he is fine u have nothing to be afraid of (unless you're thalmor, Molag Bal, or the dark brotherhood)

Anyway I dunno I love my dragon born Kitty qwq

[nghtilk]

      dinner    was    always     interesting       more so in some tavern they stumbled in.       DOVAH    digging into his meal leaving bits and scrapes to leave the table.            &    yet he was suppose to be the beast.          nose scrunching as he watched     ,    serana smirking as she brought wine to her lips.           his     meal came next     ,     a bowl of    COLD     bone broth with fish paste noodles.          A DISGUSTING LOOKING DISH     and something uncommon for the area.           the dropped temperature made most wanting to order     WARM     meals.             ——— the wolf needed cold        ,       his blood pumping far too fiercely      ,       far too strong.          bringing the bowl to his mouth to    sip    softly before using spoon to   cut   and grab the thick string.

he was entirely unable to consume     cooked    meat.          it bothered his stomach     ,     pained him almost.           he would feel weaker for having to use the strength to break it down than     refreshed.           so    ———    dishes like these weren't uncommon with him.          always odd.           BUT HE WAS ELVEN     ,     people already stared at him for    other     reasons.           he brought mug of    SWEET  BLOSSOM  ALE     to his lips to help wash down the squish bitter taste.           almost metallic like a few scales had gotten through.          but it fed him nonetheless.

the next part of his meal served      closer  to  his  heart .             a    sweet   frumenty   with colorful blossoms on top.            just as   . . .   his   father     would make.           despite the bitter start    ———    venari had a      wonderful   childhood.          taken in by a dominion solider      ,      who later became   LEADER   to him.          an older high elf with no wife or child to his name thus far.           urcelmo .           who could be found whittling by stoked fire on his days away from the     WAR.             his attention breaking at the sound of the door quickly opening then     SLAMMING      shut.           his    feral     son pressing his back to it breathing heavily with a    BRUISING    ,      already blackening eye.          there was a sigh   &   look of worry as he put the craft away before grabbing a cloth full of apple mint.

crushing   the   leaves     to get them to start cooling as he crouched to place gentle cotton to the boys eye.          he     HISSED    ,     growled as he winced away.           taking the back of his head to keep him steady.           ruffled black locks     ,     soaked.            his shirt torn     ,     blood on his knuckles.          little scratches here   &   there on the olive touched skin.            his fathers lips pulling in a smirk before lowering the helping hand.          ❝   what happened this time , mui réd ?   ❞           the boy pouted      ,     grasping at the ends of his shirt refusing to look his father in the eye.           urcelmo glancing over him     ,     only to notice    one    of his sons small delicate dremora horns were   . . .    broken    the other slightly cracked.          ❝    ah   . . .   I see       ,       your school mates aren't playing nicely———   ❞

❛    ey keep calling me a     monster   !    . . . ey keep sayin I'm the son of da` daedric     ❜           urcelmo`s lips pulled into a pursed twist.         moving his hand to brush the wet strands of raven ink from his sons face.          bringing the cloth back to try to clean him up.          venari     CLEARLY  TRYING  HIS  BEST     to hold back      ,        despite the      sniffling.             ❛    held me down in th`e watdur    ———   . . .   kicked me in th`e head  .   .    ❜         well    . .    it certainly explained the broken horn.           taking his sons cheeks in his hands he brushed the dirt away before offering a     BRIGHTENED     smile.           ❝    you are     my   son .           not the son of some daedric prince    ,    not some monster  . . .   my   boy.   ❞            the young pup sniffed again bringing the back of his hand to rub unbruised eye.            ❛    but   . .   I looke` different   . .  ❜

❝   because you are . . .   ❞            ———         he didn't    DARE   SAY     the truth.           he was too young to understand      ,      too prone to drown in his emotions    &    he didn't want him to     turn.           last time it took    WEEKS    to get the form of small black pup from under the cabinets   &   turn back.           but he had to tell him     something.           ❝   you are bosmeri   . . .   elves that live in the woods.      [ a truth. ].         I found you   . . .   in the trunk of the tree     [ a lie. ].        wee little thing  [ a truth. ].      ,        and a beautiful woman told me to take you and raise you   . .   [ a lie. ].          so I did  . . .   but you are   MY   son. . .   ❞          there was another sniffle as arms wrapped around his fathers shoulders who picked him up sitting him at the table as he put the dish of       sweet   frumenty .           using the cloth to dry the moss of hair watching his son use his spoon to bring the meal to his mouth.

                  who would ever raise a    wolf    so bravely     ?     this boy . . . needed him.

❝   suppose I should have a talk with their parents . . .   ❞            he watched his son shake his head which caused his brow to quirk     ,     bringing the cloth back up to get a better view.            ❛     I punched em`    how I got away . . .    I heard` somethin crack.    ❜           oh .           mouth agape he couldn't help the chuckle    &     laugh as he gave his sons head a gentle pat.           ❝   guess I should go apologize for a couple of broken ribs then . .   ❞           towards the door he turned briefly to look at the boy kicking his legs in the high seat.           iolas forming from the cracks of the floor resting large head on the lap of the     DAEDRIC    SON.          his heart tightening in his chest   . . .   for the fate his son was to later bear.

the metal of the spoon clacked against the bowl causing ven to     COME   BACK   TO    REALITY :  THE NOW      head lifting from the back of his curled hand.          dovah    &    serana    both looking to him before the other man grinned attempting to take a spoonful.          without   his    permission.          the wolf quickly leaning over his part of the table to clamp his mouth around the spoon     ,      taking the bit he tried to steal.          narrowing silver eyes     as he took in the last bite     ,    the taste.          sweet . . and somehow     ,    still bitter.

[ask-demon-princess-astarte]

Warmth prompt for @korvanjund part two. I keep forgetting to upload these because my mind is like a sieve at the moment. Anyways, enjoy. Trigger warning for violence and gore.

Everything about Coldharbour was cold. From the residents to the very air that surrounded them. All was frigid, turning anything that came into contact as cold as the realm. So, when she came to Skyrim to take over, the weather didn't bother her. In fact, it was warmer than her home.

 But nothing compared to the warmth that washed over her the first time she killed someone. Whether it was purely from the blood that soaked into her dress or not, she couldn't say. Yet a fire ignited in her, demanding more.

 It had started as any other attack. The residents of the village cowering at her feet as their fates were decided. Children shrieking for their parents as Daedra dragged them away, their pure souls the power source of the spell. Women screaming and wailing, men yelling and roaring. All would fall silent soon. Especially when the daedroth sank their teeth into them. But this time was different. Someone fought back. 

 She had turned, signalling her soldiers to have their fun with the victims she had no use for, and began to walk back to a portal. Vulon growled slightly, nudging her briefly with his head. 

 "Go on then. Enjoy the feast." She said, rubbing her hand over the great titan's neck and watching him rush forward. Her ears twitched as she heard something rushing towards her, making her turn. A wounded guard yelled as he threw himself forward, catching her in her midriff and sending both of them back through the portal. 

 They tumbled through the sky, spinning and battling before he hit the ground. A nearby titan had grabbed her before she landed, bringing her to a softer landing.

 What is the meaning of this?! Molag's voice echoed throughout the realm as he approached, having seen the two fall. 

 "You murdered my family, you monster! I'm gonna….." The guard paused as he looked around, realising he was in the presence of a Daedric prince. "By the nine." He whimpered.

 Your gods won't hear you here, boy. Molag snarled as he reached out, only to see Azirina step closer. She held his mace in her hands, raising it to swing at the guard who had attacked her. He turned as she swung the weapon, a sickening, wet tearing sound filling the air as she decapitated him. 

 Blood poured from the wound, spurting out in time with the man's dying heartbeat. It covered her from head to toe, soaking into her dress as the body dropped. The red pool spread beneath it, steaming slightly in the frigid air. Azirina snarled once more at the body when it hit her.

 For the longest time, she had always been cold within ColdHarbour, devoid of any warmth. And now, it surrounded her in a sticky embrace. But that was not all. The heat of the blood seemed to seep into her very core, igniting a blaze and lust that pulsed along her chains. She wanted more of that warmth. 

 And nothing would stop her from getting it.