#and oddly preferable at least for the ones on morrowind

[bam-monsterhospital]

where’s the fish?

something i’m extremely particular of when it comes to depicting sheogorath and hermaeus mora and their planes, is the fact these two mind-related beings/planes should be heavily associated with the sea. Especially deep sea creature imagery and motifs.  to my dismay, eso goes out of its way to deny all fish associations where they’re supposed to beeeeeee.

i’m just so tired of the avoidance of fish-imagery in eso.

hungers look cool buggy-like, but then i was reminded of shivering isles’ hungers and how they remind me of dead rotting fish carcasses. 

lurkers in eso look like big rock demon mans, but in dragonborn they actually looked like creatures from the black lagoon.

sheogorath wears his boring skyrim nothing tunic of swirls and eyes, rather than the fish spine and face and fin and mouth lookin outfit of shivering isles.

no fish. anywhere. 

god i miss the sea.

[wellthebardsdead]

*the scarab prince & the runaway dragon, pt 5, part 4 here*

———

Voryn: *seated in a pile of cushions by throne, his preferred seat over any place of reverence where his husband and son should be seen instead, in his mind at least* he’s fled the city… *closes his third eye and opens his others with a sigh* I no longer feel his presence within our walls…

Nerevar: where is he headed?…

Voryn: Tear, in the direction of Tear…

Nerevar: no doubt he’s headed for a ship or means of leaving Morrowind…

Voryn: …

Nerevar: …I’m sorry, my love…

Voryn: you should have told me he was here.

Nerevar: I know, I just-

Voryn: you left him to the mercy of the temple guards. Knowing full well how they treat servants of the tribune, what did you expect they would do to him as a supposed reincarnation?!

Nerevar: I thought they would respect my authority and command as their king-

Voryn: An authority you’ve failed to impose over them!

Nerevar: …the temple was in ruin when I returned… I thought, I was being fair…

Voryn: and instead you’ve all but practically handed over your power to them and the other houses… *sighs* you should have released him the moment you saw what they were doing to him. You should have brought him to me when you saw his face wasn’t Vivec’s… no wonder he fled the moment he had the chance…

Nerevar: I know… Ive all but ruined any chances of him trusting us, but I’ll fix this- we’ll find him and bring him back into our fold before the word can spread of Vivec’s supposed return- *looks to the doors as they open, and the captain of the guard enters with two of his men carrying the crowned prince as he flails against them* well that’s some good news. Where was he?

Captain of the guard: attempting to climb over the city gates after we first barred his escape, your grace.

Nerevar: good, let him go now.

Steren: *huffs as they finally release him* Ugh!! *looks to nerevar* Father you have to let me go after him!! He’s the one I saw in my-

Nerevar: Enough. Steren… *looks over at Voryn then back at him* You disobeyed me. You went behind my back. Because of you he’s now loose and-

Steren: and terrified and probably still hurt because of you!! I should have never of told you about him! I should have-

Nerevar: ENOUGH!

Steren: *clenches his jaw and bites his tongue, hands balling into fists as he grips the fabric of his robes in barely contained anger*

Nerevar: I’m aware of my shortcomings in the handling this situation… only made further exasperated by your interference. You struck your father in your haste to go after him and yet not one utterance of an apology has left your tongue… blame me if you will for what has transpired but he only sought to protect you.

Steren: *looks from him then over at Voryn as the taller Mer looks at him with an oddly sympathetic smile, third eye open in a knowing gaze* … *walks to him and hugs him tight* sorry…

Voryn: *smiles and strokes his hair* shhh… I forgive you… go to your room, I’ll speak to you before your rest…

Steren: *wanting to protest but catching a glance of voryns expression, a thin mask of apathy hiding a scheming grin* okay… *lets him go and quietly bows to his parents before turning to leave, only for the guards to surround him and begin escorting him for added security* … *sighs*

Voryn: *watches them go before looking at Nerevar* …shall I contact Divayth to govern in your absence then?

Nerevar: *shakes his head* no, you’ll remain here and do so in my stead.

Voryn: *smiles playfully, not even trying to hide his plan now* keep telling yourself that my moon and star~ *gets up and swans off*

*a few hours later*

Steren: *shoving clothes into a bag, planing to levitate from the balcony and escape that way*

???: you need armour, not silk.

Steren: *jumps and looks back to see Voryn standing directly behind him* Ata!?-

Voryn: *covers his mouth quickly before holding still, hoping no one heard* …clear… *sighs and lets go before gently handing him a bag* you’re just like your father little star… I know I won’t be able to stop you from pursuing this boy, and I don’t want to either. *smiles as he opens said bag and pulls forth trueflame* but you’ll need this, if you’re to make it to his arms reach safely.

Steren: *eyes wide, staring at it in disbelief* a-ata that’s fathers sword I can’t-

Voryn: you can, and you must… *smiles sadly* Vivienne… he needs you. He’s going to do incredible things too, but he’ll need your help…

Steren: but, how do you know this?…

Voryn: *sighs* I just do. Your father was never good at listening to me. I warned him about the tribunal, I warned him about the heart of Lorkhan. And I warned him that there’s no stopping you when your heart is set on something~ *smiles and kisses his forehead, forming a red star like mark where a third eye would be had he inherited it from him* I always told you our dreams have meaning, both in sleeping and waking. For him to appear in yours, can only mean your destinies are somehow entwined. Now go hurry… you mustn’t delay, he’s headed for Tear harbour as we speak.

Steren: b-but what about- what will father say- you-

Voryn: don’t worry about him. *gently pokes the star* we won’t be far. *chuckles*

Steren: *scrunches up his face slightly as tears prick his eyes before hugging him tight* I love you ata… I promise I’ll be safe…

Voryn: *hugs him back and strokes his hair, savouring this moment knowing it’ll be a while before he can hold him like this again* go now, hurry.

Steren: *nods, taking the bag from him along with his own, running to the balcony and looking back just long enough to see voryn following after him* … *jumps and takes flight, leaping over the rooftops of the city as he chases after his destiny*

Voryn: *walks to the balcony and smiles proudly watching him go, a little spider perching on his shoulder from a silk parachute as he does so* We’ll be right behind you… *glances to the distance beyond the city walls, seeing a silt strider galloping towards the gates, his letter having already reached the mycelium of Tel Fyr, and Divayth coming to their aid once more* …my little star…

[danse-or-farkas]

TESFEST22 Day 1: Dreams

June 11th – Dreams / Bees

I lied, I had something after all! I remembered a WIP unopened for literally years that could be cleaned up enough to be postable. Its just the first chapter of something bigger that I might never finish but I can at least say I did this much. It works as an odd little standalone, a chance encounter between two characters who have never even heard of each other.

Also posted to AO3. Just slightly over 3000 words.

Farkas arrived at the hall just as the sun was starting to set, finding it oddly empty. He had no intention of doing anything other than sleep, but made the choice to at least check in with his brother and Aela before doing so.

The city was currently sat under a lingering storm, circling back and forth for weeks unable to settle. It was thick with Red Mountain ash carried far too far from Morrowind. He didn't much like it, the hair on his arms standing on end and the fur inside stood hackles raised.

Vilkas had seen these storms before on his travels, had described them himself upon his return. The air tasting like magicka and something that might have been either meat or metal, heavy and insistent against senses made sharp by the gifts of Hircine.

Athis had once recounted the history of the ash storms and their darker cousin the blight storm, Vilkas dutifully listening and Farkas entertaining a mug of good mead instead. He almost regretted it now. Almost. Vilkas was the sort to have his eyes on the past, Farkas found the present more than enough for him to care about.

The job had been less than completely successful, the bounty recovered alive but not as intact as had been requested. The captain of the guard had insisted they be brought in for interrogation, and the bandit had insisted considerably more that he would be never be taken in so long as he had hands to hold his axe. Farkas found a compromise, much to the sheer horror of the guard and the temple healers that had to bandage and salve two bleeding stumps. Farkas had at least kept the axe, along with a set of hands just in case they could be reattached. They could not. He didn't consider it a great loss. The bandit probably did.

The fire was lit, the doors unlocked, so they were not all away on duties.

He found near the whole guild assembled in the training yard, forming a half circle. All but Kodlak, and that alone was never a good omen. His absence always led to chaos.

The newest recruit was cheering, blood pouring from their nose and arms raised in the air. Athis was on the floor, the bruise around his eye already ugly and blotchy. If his eyes were not already a deep red at least one would most certainly have been now.

“Who’s next?” They bellowed, turning a swaggering full circle and issuing the challenge to all assembled.

Aela nudged Vilkas, motioning over her shoulder with just her eyes. Farkas didn't have time to duck away, his scent had caught on the wind and tipped her off to his arrival.

“I volunteer my brother.” Vilkas looked to him, a raised eyebrow and a look daring him to refuse.

Farkas swore under his breath as the crowd collectively turned. Now that his honour was at stake he had no choice, and certainly Vilkas and Aela both knew it.

Geir grinned like a fool, kicking his heel into the dust and licking his lip expectantly. Newest of the guild but with the arrogance of a seasoned Circle veteran, carrying himself like he had some great destiny to fulfil.

“I’ll give it a try.” He shrugged his travel pack off and entered the arena.

“Don’t feel too bad when I beat you down, I know how that Nord pride can get.” They were a Nord too, pale in skin, hair and eye, but their accent had a Colovian Imperial lilt to it that betrayed their birth outside Skyrim.

Farkas took his place a handful of steps apart from him, raised his sword and shifted his feet to a more defensive posture. He knew that his opponent preferred a much heavier offensive style with little regard to defence, Skjor many times calling it ‘undisciplined’ at its best.

The new recruit just flashed him a sharp smile and raised his own sword with a flourish, shooting a proud smirk to the assembled Companions.

Vilkas and Aela both rolled their eyes at him, hoping that Farkas would strike the whelp and his ego back down.

Geir struck first, Farkas shifting back with a feint before lashing out and narrowly missing.

There was another strike, the angle too high and easily deflected away by Farkas.

The pattern was easy and familiar to him, his opponent the sort to tire himself out too quickly to be a true threat.

The next strike was born of frustration, too much weight behind it. With the opportunity dragged open by his mistake Farkas caught him with the pommel of his sword right above the arch of his eyebrow, the wound flowing freely and quickly.

Geir staggered back before Farkas could press his advantage, pressing a hand to the cut and streaking his face and hair red.

He managed to back up just enough to miss the edge of Farkas’ swing, the blade whistling past him, putting him on the back foot and parrying.

With a moment of boldness Farkas took the offensive with a wide swing carrying his weight behind it, a considerable measure more control over it than his opponent. He could have sworn there was a shimmer of blue as they managed to somehow weave under the blade lightning fast, a deliberate flick of their wrist splattering his eyes and mouth with their blood.

He stumbled past his smirking opponent, heart thundering as he felt it rise in him. He turned, baring teeth a little too sharp with a snarl. It mattered little as a knee connected with his stomach and knocked the air from him, an elbow to the back of his skull knocking him to the dirt.

“I call foul.” Aela stormed in separating them, shoving Geir back hard enough he almost fell back on his rear.

Vilkas helped his brother to his feet, hissing something under his breath that Farkas couldn’t quite understand through the hunger and the need to tear at warm flesh.

“I won.” Geir pounded at his chest with his free hand and crowded into Aela’s personal space with none of the respect due to the Circle.

“By dishonourable means.” Aela had dealt with more than her share of pups that thought they had teeth sharper than hers so did not flinch nor move, fully ready to put him back down where he belonged if needed. And he certainly needed it. “Go clean yourself up.”

Geir opened his mouth to protest, drawing a sharp breath that Vilkas almost swore carried some threat with it before deciding else wise. They simply stormed off, jaw clenched and fire behind their eyes.

Farkas stumbled slightly as he was pulled upright by his brother, the taste of blood and ash and lightning still rich on his tongue. He shivered, having to take a steadying breath and push down hard on the feeling until it subsided. He had to wonder just what potion was still in his blood for it to be so rich and strange.

The rest had scattered quickly partly in disappointment, part in fear Aela might turn her wrath toward them.

The Whelps carried Athis away to be healed now that the evenings entertainment had turned sour, Aela and Vilkas staying near. Skjor had chosen to follow Geir, giving Aela a knowing look as he left. He was uncertain that the newest recruit would reign their temper in before doing something that might land them in the Dragonsreach dungeon for a week or two, and someone needed to be present before he embarrassed the whole guild.

Once Vilkas was certain Farkas was well his mood shifted, concern melting away to brotherly contempt.

“What in Shors name was that?” He stood up tall, folding his arms across his chest.

“I got sucker punched by that dishonourable bastard and that's all you’ve got to say?” He hadn't been expecting sympathy, only some restraint. Vilkas was perpetually short on both when it came to his dearest brother.

“All I’ve got to say?” Vilkas scoffed. “I should be dragging your bed back to the Whelp quarters after that. Swap that skyforge steel for wood.”

“That bad?” That stung, Farkas drawing a whistling breath through his teeth and almost taking it seriously.

“It was bad.” Aela snorted a laugh. “Worry not. We can drown your sorrows, forget your losses and remember the victories.”

“We got a fresh batch of mead in, few ills can’t be soothed by a good honey brew.”

“I hear that.” Farkas smiled broadly, getting a near matching one from Vilkas.

“You’ll not be hearing the end of this for a while.”

They returned to the hall, mood lifted and in a surprisingly great mood for a man beaten into the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Farkas was pleasantly warm, well fed and more than well filled with mead. The Markarth Bronze always had such a nice afterglow to it, slow and molten in his veins and in his head, leaving his thoughts delightfully clouded. It had paired well with the slab of roasted pork Tilma had served, Farkas’ portion just the slightest bit more generous at the expense of Geir, and not unnoticed too from the way the recruit had watched him every time he though he wasn't looking.

He found his bed easily, kicking off his boots and finding no energy or will left for anything else. Sleeping in his armour was now a problem for the sober Farkas yet to be.

Face down in his pillow sleep took him quickly. He would have been out cold until long after dawn had been and gone if not for the chill wind that stirred him to consciousness. He had thought through a sleep addled mind that the inn had left its doors open, as had once happened in Winterhold on a particularly awful job. It returned quickly that he was home, deep enough underground that no breeze could ever reach him.

Without opening his eyes he took a shallow breath, scenting the air. Old and stale, wrong, damp, heavy with salt. It wasn't even the familiar salt of sweat and blood, it was more like the stagnant salt marsh of Morthal without the rich earth beneath.

Awareness and sobriety came too easily, Farkas on his feet and reaching for the spare candle and striking stone he kept near to his bed. Even late into the night Tilma kept a few lanterns burning in the hall, a trickle of light under his door enough to navigate by and now starkly absent.

He got a spark, just enough that the candle sputtered to life with a too pale light. The dark retreated a little, but not near as much as it should have. The corners of the room stayed inky black, textured and heavy, and Farkas was almost certain, watching.

His door opened not to Jorrvaskr, but to a stone floored corridor illuminated by pale orbs floating in the near dark like anglerfish. Something unseen fluttered nearby, the sound most certainly living but like no bird nor bat he had ever encountered.

He raised his light high, something small and chattering retreating away from him and dropping the thing it had been gnawing on. He approached, tapping it with his foot. A book, small and unmarked, leatherbound and oddly shiny.

He crouched low, sweeping it up swiftly without taking his eyes off the way ahead for any danger. It was oddly stiff to the touch, considerably heavier than its size suggested.

He tried to shake it open onto a random page and found them stuck together, only the first page free and blank. After rattling it a few times it seemed it didn't want to cooperate.

He made the mistake of trying to turn the page with the hand holding his candle. He snapped away from it with a hiss, throwing the candle doing so, sucking on the pad his thumb to stop the bleeding. The pages were razor thin glass etched with words in some shifting language unreadable, and Farkas was quite certain there was a hint of aggressive intelligence there. It fell hard, landing flat soundlessly. Farkas kicked it away, a splash telling him there was deep water in the gloom and that he ought to watch his step.

The candle rolled away from him, the dark coiling up around the flame and choking it.

“I expected more.” The voice rolled down the corridor, accented and smooth.

Farkas reached to where his blade should have been on his back, a well practised move. So well practised Oblivion did not protest when the image he pressed on that thinner reality shifted just slightly to accommodate.

The stranger raised their hand with a flourish as they approached, casting a pale light that did little but illuminate the gold of their mask.

“You brought me here?” Farkas took a step toward them, a flicker of reflection and the turn of his stance suggesting he was carrying some kind of blade. No blade Farkas had ever seen writhed and squirmed, but he had heard stories of the Dunmer making weapons from flesh and bone.

They drew a breath to speak, then paused, tilting their head ever so slightly as if only now really seeing Farkas.

“Grohiik sunvaar.” The man hissed, words carrying a resonance Farkas swore he recognised, clearly irritated at what thing they had seen in him. “I call for kin and get this instead.”

“What did you call me?” Farkas knew an insult in any language. He also knew what to do with someone bold enough to think they could speak ill of him and keep all of their teeth inside their face.

“In your inelegant tongue, werewolf. A half made thing cursed by Hircine.”

“Better a wolf than a coward hiding in the dark.”

“I am no coward, and you are not who I called.” He pulled his hand close to his chest, lightning coiling ready to be thrown.

Farkas moved at the last moment, crossing the space at a sprint with his sword ready.

Their blades met, a foolish move on both their parts. If their swords were real they would have destroyed the edge of both. Farkas knew Eorland could fix his, the stranger might have a harder time reforging whatever monstrosity they wielded.

If not for Miraak’s mask Farkas would have immediately headbutted him. He instead stopped to consider it for almost a half second before doing it anyway. Miraak had just enough time to see his fate coming, and not enough to do anything about it.

Farkas struck hard enough that his sight grew blurry, stumbling backward and falling on his rear.

Miraak swore in dragontongue, tearing the mask from his face as blood streamed from his now very crooked nose. He cursed Mora for putting that bastard wolf in his presence, wondering if it was some twisted joke. The last time his master had shown him even a passing interest was two centuries prior, when Miraak had been quite entertained by the Bloodmoon hunts and Azura’s pet fumbling their way through them. This felt like a pointed message, a lesson about paying more attention to werewolves than the pursuit of knowledge.

He stood up, clutching his broken nose and failing to even slow the tide pouring between his fingers. With a wet crunch and a howl of pain he twisted it back into shape.

He took several deep breathes through clenched teeth, drawing up healing magic to dull the pain and speed the recover.

With his guard lowered he didn’t see Farkas rise to his feet too, and he had no defence when Farkas ran his blade through him.

Miraak stumbled back, Farkas barely having time to swear when they took a deep breath and shouted.

They should have been dead, Farkas had never seen a man refuse to die with a sword sheathed front to back in them, and for the mistake of assuming what he fought was entirely mortal he took the full brunt of an Unrelenting Force to the skull. The last thing he saw was those black eyes so full of quiet rage before being thrown. Had he been physically present there would have been little left of his skull intact, less so what was inside.

Miraak grasped at the hilt, dislodging the length of skyforged steel from his chest awkwardly. With each pull he had to grip farther along the length of the blade, gouging his fingers more than once, finally freeing himself from it and letting it fall to the floor with none of the care or reverence a blade of that calibre typically deserved.

He took a rattling breath, insides burning but vaguely held together by his pact and the pressure of Oblivion upon it. In one hand he pulled at the light spell snuffing it out, with the other pulling at the threads of his ritual. With a clenched fist he severed the coiled layers of intention and invocation meant to bring the Dragonborn to him, the glyphs scored into the stone floor burning green and extinguishing in a cascading pattern inwards.

Farkas was already on his back with ears ringing so loudly it had struck him blind, suddenly falling as if into water and dragged down into the sea of Oblivion. He struggled, flailing as he sank, taking a deep breath and getting a chest full of cold liquid entirely without flavour or texture.

He emerged coughing into his quarters, tangled in his sheets but otherwise entirely unscathed.

For a long moment he searched for danger, by sight and then scent, finding nothing but the familiar and comforting. As his heart slowed and calm thought returned he tentatively put the whole experience down as just having been a dream. He gripped at his now crumpled bed sheets, letting a breath free, a sudden sting of pain and the scent of blood catching his attention. Just faintly by the light coming in under his door he could see three deep cuts running across his thumb, already healing but darkened as if tattooed. Alongside the blood was just the slightest hint of salt water, ink, and something like spent magicka.

[uesp]

On the Topic of the Tsaesci Being Serpent People

Popular depictions of the Tsaesci have them as being snake people, similar to Lamias. However, let's take a look at the available information and depictions of them throughout TES.

One of the earliest mention of the Tsaesci comes from PGE1, which doesn't describe them thoroughly (they are only referred to as "Akaviri"), but establishes that the modern organization of the Empire was based on their reforms, as well as the style of equipment they use. It also claims that Akaviri surnames and facial features were prized traits by the population of Cyrodiil, and that the Akaviri could interbreed with the population of Cyrodiil.

The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind would include a book called Mysterious Akavir which would establish the main factions in Akavir. The Tsaesci were described as such: "Tsaesci is "Snake Palace", once the strongest power in Akavir (before the Tiger-Dragon came). The serpent-folk ate all the Men of Akavir a long time ago, but still kind of look like them. They are tall, beautiful (if frightening), covered in golden scales, and immortal."

A later line in the text implies that the claim they "ate all the Men of Akavir" was metaphorical "After the Serpent-Folk ate all the Men, they tried to eat all the Dragons. They managed to enslave the Red Dragons, but the black ones had fled to (then) Po Tun."

Morrowind would also include the historical fiction book series 2920, covering the events of the last year of the First Era. It describes the Tsaesci as being serpent people throughout the entire text. However, one clear error is at least present with its depiction of the Tsaesci. The text explicitly claims that the Tsaesci culture does not believe in shields, and that they did not use them. Later games would show this was not the case, with ancient Akaviri equipment including shields. Additionally, the text before a battle between Prince Juilek and Savirien-Chorak makes note of each piece of equipment they were using, but does not mention the dragonscale armor that the Akaviri forces were already established to use. As both fighters were noted to be "Armed befitting their culture", and Savirien-Chorak was not described as having armor like his opponent, this could indicate that the author was unaware of the traditional Akaviri fighting techniques or their preferred equipment.

The Annotated Anuad in Morrowind would make this claim: "The Wandering Ehlnofey became the Men: the Nords of Atmora, the Redguards of Yokuda, and the Tsaesci of Akavir." This establishes that Tsaesci were considered to genuinely be human by at least one source.

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion would include the first true encounters with Tsaesci. During the "Lifting the Vale" you encounter skeletons and ghosts belonging to the Akaviri invaders. The skeletons and ghosts are notably human in appearance. The journal of an Akaviri messenger has him mention mending the leg of a fellow Akaviri, and after his spinal cord is destroyed has him mention he could no longer feel his own legs. Oblivion would also show ancient Akaviri equipment styles, as well as contemporary Blades gear. The armor could arguably be described as being somewhat serpent-like in design and decoration.

PGE3 would include a note that suggestion that the author did not entirely agree with the popular depiction of Tsaesci: "In the 2703rd year of the First Era, Tamriel first faced an organized armada of Tsaesci, the so-called "Akaviri Snakemen", and met the challenge with a resounding victory in the Pale Pass of Skyrim... It should be noted that these various races of Akaviri have never been sighted by modern scholars. While tales that survive from the Akaviri Potentate describe these races in detail, it is unknown how literally they should be taken, given the possible mistranslation of the complex Tsaesci language."

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim would once again establish the same design of Blades equipment. Skyrim would also include Alduin's Wall, created by the ancient Tsaesci. Their depiction of themselves on the wall would match their previous human appearance from Oblivion.

Elder Scrolls Online would include living descendants of the Akaviri invasion, with all of them having the overall appearance of Imperials. Spirits of their ancestors were also shown to have a similar build, albeit usually with armor covering up physical features.

One notable detail comes from Chevalier Renald, who is claimed to be a descendant of Reman Cyrodiil's bodyguard, and was a bodyguard to Reman III. While he had mostly a human appearance, his eyes were oddly red, and he was several hundred years old while still being spry. He would claim "shed our old skins and arose reborn in the service of his Empire and the coiled-king. I'll shed this skin as well, when it's time for a new beginning" He refused to clarify if he was speaking metaphorically or literally on the matter, although shapeshifting abilities are nothing overly special in TES. Avita Pitio, a priestess found in Hakoshae would further claim that the Akaviri were not known for their long lifespans, and that the Potentates were noted to have lived for peculiarly long periods of time.

As a conclusion, while there are some fanciful depictions of them being true serpents, almost all depictions and physical evidence points towards them being human over other possibilities. If I had to speculate, the evolution of the popular depiction would come from exaggerations on their equipment, and deliberate attempts to demonize the Tsaesci after the Potentate seized power. There is still, of course, room for further developments into this and countless unanswered questions into the Tsaesci.

[lumi-klovstad-games]

I have entirely too many OCs and I won’t ever stop

So, I will list all my OCs here, active or not. I couldn’t just keep reblogging my earlier masterlist with updates because, well, wall of text much?

I try to make sure I have at least 1 character representing each race. Not all of them are canonically Dragonborn, but I’ve marked those who are with (DK) after their name, short for Dovahkiin.

And yes, this is just my Skyrim OCs. Mostly because I play it the most (hi, endless supply of easily installed mods!), and because if I added my ESO, Oblivion, Morrowind, Daggerfall, and Arena OCs, this list would almost literally never stop.

Feel free, nay, ENCOURAGED, to drop asks about these characters because I live to blab about them to anyone in earshot (why else do you run a TES blog?).

First, the actives.

Dunmer: Radene Valos. Great-granddaughter of Queen Barenziah. Nords call her “The Red Wolf” because of how ferociously she fights, usually out of a fearful and begrudging respect. Staunch revolutionary; real Magneto/Lenin red-ragger type. She’s out to improve the lot of the Dunmer in Skyrim by any means necessary and woe betide any who stands in her way or fails to help. Member of the Morag Tong and champion of Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. Worming her way through the Stormcloaks so she can engineer a situation where all the rotten eggs of the Stormcloaks are in one basket and then blow up the basket. Also steadily poisoning most of the Black-Briar family in slow motion.

Altmer: Tarwen Verenandes (DK), a former Thalmor battlemage during the Great War. Disgusted by the violence on full display during the conflict, she resigned after the war and became a priestess of Auri-El. Her devout piety led to her being chosen by Auri-El/Akatosh to be the Last Dragonborn, and she was also gifted with being able to use Auri-El’s divine light as the basis of her spells.

Khajit: Sonn-Ja Sableclaw, an expert martial artist and assassin. Works for the Dark Brotherhood and is utterly loyal to Astrid. Prefers fisticlaws to weapons, and is absolutely lethal with them. Keeps a massive collection of knives and daggers anyway. Chose to be best friends with Arnbjorn purely for the irony. Worships Rajhin and Baan Dar.

Argonian: Murders-For-Cash, who is exactly what it says on the tin. Also Dark Brotherhood, and a Shadowscale like Veezara, who he treats like a brother. Willing to supervise children and surprisingly good at it but charges exorbitant rates for it. Worships Sithis.

Nord: Lady Gwendolyn Triggs (DK), a knight and thane in the service of Elisif the Fair and also her companion and lover. Noted for her bravery, loyalty, strength, skill in battle, and being steadfastly impossible to kill. Not part of the Imperial Legion any longer, but assists them in their operations during the Civil War anyway to both safeguard Elisif’s claim as High Queen and further her own political standing so that marriage can be an option for them. Worships the 8 post-Concordat Divines, but gives special devotion to Stendarr.

Redguard: Akivasha, an ancient Yokudan vampire Witch Queen who has awakened in the modern era. Practically a physical God. Hangs with the Dark Brotherhood because it’s the only group that has Gabriella in it. Far and away my most overpowered OC and in no way does it make her less fun. Worships Mephala and Boethiah, and begrudgingly acknowledges Molag Bal as the forefather of all vampires.

Imperial: Yezka of Vabonne, an OC who began as just a Rule 63 Geralt of Rivia. She’s a Witcher*. Like Gwendolyn, she’s easily picked out of a crowd due to her pronounced Warrior’s physique and tapestry of battle scars (I have a type). She dislikes political games, roundabout language, beating around the bush, social injustice, marginalization of the vulnerable, and has come to have a steady slow-burning hatred for humans as a general category because of the way she’s been treated over her six decades of monster hunting (she’s 93, but Witchers age super gracefully no matter the timeline). She fits in far better among Orcs, Elves, and the Beast Races who have also been so often mistrusted and ill-treated and has a lot of contacts in those communities. Oddly enough, she has a friends-with-benefits thing going with the vampires Hern and Hert at Half-Moon Mill in Falkreath because they only prey on humans and she’s never been hired to kill them. Worships Reyman Ebonarm, The Divine Black Knight.

?????: The Marked Cinder (DK), a mysterious figure completely shrouded from head to toe in rusty mail and plate that totally obscures his appearance, hiding the fact that he is essentially a charred and withered husk given new life by The Nine Divines. Doesn’t know it, but is no stranger to saving the world as the previous life of that body came to be known as The Eternal Champion during the events of Elder Scrolls Arena. Doesn’t really like or dislike anything, essentially serving as a walking meat grinder with a hunger for the forces of evil. Is closest to Arkay and Akatosh, but tends to regard the gods with equal authority and reverence.

* In my headcanon, Witchers were a kind of Spartan-II-esque initiative by the Vigilants of Stendarr to create “Super Vigilants” that could basically handle anything and everything. Thanks to the systematic alterations done to their physiology, the Witchers proved too difficult to control and due to the body count that arose whenever one went rogue it was a short-lived initiative. Yezka is among those that stayed loyal to the mission, if not to the Vigilants themselves. She’s easily my tallest character, towering over most fellow humans and slightly edging out a fully grown female Altmer due to the mutations she underwent.

Rest in Pepperonis: Inactive Characters I ran out of story for

Bosmer: Vynna the Magpie, a highly talented thief and general renegade with a fiercely vengeful streak towards the Thalmor, and Elenwyn in particular, thanks to their purge of Vynna’s family and village. Married to vengeance, will sleep with everyone else. Best archer of her era. Despite her gruff and macabre bearing and demeanor, plays the organized crime game well enough to be called the Queen-In-Shadows. Worships Y'ffre and Hircine.

Dunmer: Ineria Resvalyn, a Telvanni-descended blood mage and necromancer (her magic is big on total recycling) hailing from House Sadras. Scholar and surgeon first, adventurer second. Eccentric and catastrophically bad at dealing with normal people but makes up for it by having an indispensable skillset. Probably Asperger’s. Can Dunmer even have that? Big on Azura worship.

Breton: Fynnic Ironverse, privateer and bard by trade, full-time Casanova and pain the the ass insufferable know it all by nature. As quick with a blade as he is with his wit. Known far and wide for being the Troubadour who brought the Chicken Dance to Skyrim, for better or worse. His major at the Bard’s College was probably leaning against lampposts at night while taking long drags from his cigarette. Atheist, but his lifestyle aligns neatly with Sanguine’s domain.

Imperial: Alessia Laguardia (DK), former centurion in the Imperial Legion. now a top-tier monster Hunter. Big muscles, bigger scars, even bigger prey. Lives a largely solitary existence except for her dog, Flavia. Fond of impossibly gigantic swords and bows. Largely averse to what most would call decent clothing. Worships Kynareth.

Orc: Khauma Relaadri (DK), winner of Skyrim’s Unluckiest Parentage Award. Half Orc, Half Dunmer. Spat upon by both. Found acceptance in the Imperial Legion, and fights for the unified Empire she feels it represents. Her greatest goal is to be a hero, as it would both please Malacath and serve as a positive role model and example to other put-upon people throughout Tamriel that they can rise, no matter their circumstances. Worships Malacath.

There’s a ton of other characters that I’ve played as over the last 8 years, but above you’ll find the characters I was attached to enough to actually care to remember or keep playing.