#arkay windows

[iamnotshazam]

TES III Morrowind post -

A Nerevarine that, for all their humility, does not escape the power of the Heart. They wielded the Tools. They touched it even closer than the Tribunal or Dagoth Ur ever did, as the Nerevarine removed the Dwemer spell barrier channeling the power through the Tools. The Heart of the world, that was made to satisfy the other, that laughed at destruction and loved existence too well to cease. The same Heart that changed the spirit of Voryn Dagoth into Dagoth Ur merely by proximity.

A Nerevarine that chooses to not become a god. Not because Vivec never revealed the technique, nor because Indoril Nerevar chose not to in the past, nor because Azura is watching. But because they see the wreckage it made of people that might have once been true friends, Nerevar and House Dagoth and the Tribunal, and how the blessings the Tribunal thought eternal were, in the end, as impermanent as their underlying mortality. The Heart and its power was not theirs, but the world's.

A Nerevarine that touches the Heart, twice-insulated by Dwemer gauntlet holding knife and hammer, cutting at the pericardic seal on its overflowing power. And a Heart that "sees" a little mortal creature who chooses to accept the struggle given from their shared creator, Lorkhan. The Heart does not have a will of its own, but it is made to satisfy the other.

The Nerevarine changes. Perhaps it's the echo of dying near the Heart in a past life, perhaps it's because they chose to follow what others tried to force into a destiny, perhaps it's dumb luck. Mortals cannot stop change. Not even ageless mortals pretending to be gods, nor thrice-loyal stewards become devils, nor a hero healed of the divine disease and given accidental agelessness. The Nerevarine changes.

Are they Nerevar, or did they become a Nerevarine? Were they tricked, or have they tricked everyone else? Is this Nerevar a true rebirth, a reincarnation through sympathetic Azura reborn unaware? But would that also not leave them as processed through another's will as Trinimac was to become Malacath? Or would that be Arkay of death and birth, or even Akatosh of time, who ate and changed them? Does it even matter? It seems not to, right up until they are standing next to a power that makes death of immortals and eternal life of mortals. A known aid to Mantling. Hell of a time, when the Sharmat is breathing down your neck, to start remembering the trusting face of Voryn Dagoth. Or are the memories like dreams, and the Nerevarine has been sleeping this whole time?

The Nerevarine awakens, and changes.

Maybe now they always hear their heart and the hearts of others, beating away. Or they feel the current location and status of the Heart, locked away in magma flows and safe from tampering. Maybe they can change swiftly between Chimer and Dunmer, and Azura smiles and does not say if it's her power or their own. Or they can change between Mer and Man, or even Beast. Maybe it's only between their reborn shape, whatever species it may be, and that of Indoril Nerevar.

Whenever they look at the Imperial merging of Akatosh and Shor in tapestry or stained-glass window, the back of their skull aches and their heart feels ready to beat out of their chest. Sometimes they feel stabbing pains through the chest and their feet go numb and their face feels slack. The robe brushing their skin, the candle-smoke wafting into their nose, the chanting words pouring out of their mouth: it all feels like betrayal. Other times they feel ready to break into eight pieces, or like they might reach into their enemy's chest and pull out the heart without breaking skin.

(They tell none of this to Vivec when they return, or Almalexia when ensnared into her new scheme. They are surrounded by people in these cities named after gods who do not deserve it, people celebrating the defeat of Dagoth Ur and the return of Nerevar. Which the Tribunal now says they always knew was coming, but had to play the part.

And the Nerevarine wonders why they find themselves wanting to ask Sotha Sil for advice, when he is the enemy, and might even have been the first traitor of the three. Then they come upon his mechanical corpse, and before they realize the full implications, they think, Ah. Ayem went after the least resolute, the most likely to help me . . . Wait. Oh shit-)

Maybe they can feel where - although it's more like when, but sideways - time almost broke again, in the heart chamber. Was that the second time they were in there, if counting past lives, or merely the first? They can feel a . . . a something, a somewhen, a different time in which Vehk, Seht, and Ayem were gods from the beginning, or the Dwemer properly ascended, or the Nords overran Resdayn, or Nerevar believed Voryn and together they killed his teacher, his friend, his wife-

Time flows and they can sense the eyes of the gods looking at them through the veil. Either they go crazy and scream at them all like the Whitestrake did, or they choose - choose, again and again - to continue acting of their own power and volition. It's all a mortal can do.

[madam-whim]

A Visit Long Overdue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sanguine, my brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You remembered the passphrase?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And murdered Arquen.”

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@tes-summer-fest Day 4: Sanctuary

[keldjinfae]

WIP Wednesday

Okay, so I got tagged again by @dear-massacre and, like, things have been a whirlwind of hectic at the moment, but I did manage to retool what I already had before for my "Wolfrim" (giggity) fic. I figured this can still count, as well as show how my brain works during the writing process--with the Sterek Reverse Bang right around the corner and some of its artists being mutuals of mine, I might as well let them know what they could be in for. Right?

A reworked opening scene from Life in a Northern Town:

The sharp crack of creaking hinges pierced through the slumbering stillness of the early morning, leaving an echo in its wake. Rather than attempt to minimize the noise as the door swung shut behind him, Stiles hurried beneath the dimming lights of the lamps lining the road. He still winced when the aged wood of the door finally closed with a muted bang, but by then he was already far enough along that he wouldn’t be visible from the lone window facing the street, so his father at least wouldn’t immediately pick up on where he was headed.

The village of Falkreath was known for its graveyard. Rather than an actual Hall of the Dead where the deceased citizens of Falkreath Hold were entombed, as was the custom in most parts of Skyrim, they instead joined the ranks of a large, sprawling cemetery. The resident priest of Arkay oversaw their burials and otherwise kept to his nearby home, where he held rites for the god of life and death, and led mourners in services for their departed loved ones.

Outside of the small hold capitol, the cemetery was nearly <i>all</i> that Falkreath was known for. The Pine Forest had legends of its own, and the old magic of the woods was often enough to spur wary travelers past the unassuming road leading to the village in their haste to break through the trees before nightfall. Those who were brave (or avaricious) enough to shrug off superstition and remain found that the villagers had long embraced its reputation, and that death had inevitably settled into their way of life.

From the innkeeper at Dead Man’s Drink to the alchemists selling poultices and poisons at Grave Concoctions, Falkreath’s citizens were well-practiced in attracting the business of the morbidly curious. Just like they were similarly adept at drawing their attention <i>away</i> from the mages who placed the wards on the graves that made sure the dead remained restful, or the men who dug the graves in the first place. Death may have been the village’s tourist trap, but the actual trappings of death were bad for business.

Which meant having to slip out of the house just before dawn and stumble down to the cemetery, still half-asleep, if Stiles wanted to catch up to Isaac before he was finished. The sounds of his trek were exaggerated by the isolated quiet of night, his feet crunching over grass and dirt made crisp by frost. In a little over an hour’s time, the sun would warm the earth just enough to clear away it all away, but a thick fog would quickly rise up in its place to loom over most of the hold like a burial shroud.

Stiles moved quickly from the row of street lamps along the main road, veering off into the dark without the need for carrying a torch. Just like most in the village, he was able to find his way along the well-traveled paths with the familiarity of someone who’d lived there his entire life. Despite knowing the way with his eyes closed, he’d only closed about half the distance to his destination before he was curling his hands together and blowing into them for warmth, already regretting not throwing on more clothes, regardless of his haste to leave without waking his father. He tucked his stinging fingers into his armpits, folding his arms tightly over his chest as he passed by the beginning of the long, stone wall dividing the cemetery from the rest of the village.

It wasn’t much longer after that he was able to make out the faint glow of a lantern in the distance. Isaac Lahey was tall even for a Nord, his head and arms popping up above the ground every few seconds while he drove a shovel down into the frozen earth. The weak light off to his side flickered within smudged glass, throwing him into almost grotesque relief.

Tagging @nerdherderette and @ephemeronidwrites, if they're currently working on something and they feel like sharing it.

[pyrettawychwiggin]

Songstress of Skyrim - Sub-Chapter 2: Honouring the Dead

Disclaimer: The following story is centered around my own character, Mhari Freysri, who is the only character in this piece that I own. All other characters and elements of the world within the Elder Scrolls series is the intellectual property of Bethesda. This story contains, not just massive spoilers, but is in and of itself one very long spoiler, as it is based off of my playthrough of Skyrim: Special Edition. You have been advised. Please enjoy this newest installment of my cringy fanfiction.

It had been a calm day for Mhari. Grey clouds loomed over the city of Solitude, threatening a rainstorm that had yet to come, and a brisk wind had blown in from the east. She had spent the greater part of her morning curled up in her room at The Winking Skeever, fashioning her leathers and wolf pelts into a hide armour set at candlelight. She reinforced her fur-lined boots and thick gloves with leather lining to help keep the frostbite at bay. Mhari used a piece of the wood scrap that had been leftover from her shield, and fashioned two small beads with an Imperial war horn carved onto the face in memory of Fura. I'd like to stop by the Temple of the Divines; offer up a prayer for Fura... I can take the beads to Angeline and Vivienne once I've enchanted them.

As she sat cross-legged on the foot of her bed, she glanced over to the candle on the bedside table, noticing it had burned nearly half-way down to the holder.

"Ah," she sighed aloud. "I've been at this longer than I thought; only a few hours of sunlight left..."

Mhari set her new armour neatly in the trunk at the foot of the bed and rose to her feet, fastening her cloak over her shoulders with a yawn and a sigh.

As she stepped out into the streets of Solitude, the rainclouds had mostly dispersed; Mhari made her way up the stone stairway to the upper levels of the city, passing by the guard's training yard. Half a dozen soldiers were paired up, practicing their form with their swords and shields.

Captain Aldis stepped among them, carefully eyeing their form when he noticed Mhari as she passed. He gave her a subtle smile and a curt nod, which she returned with a small wave. He still seems out of sorts, but I suppose that's to be expected. Mhari came to a small courtyard where two royal thrones sat side-by-side in front of five rows of pews. Beyond the pews were a set of massive, silver double doors leading into the Temple of the Divines. Mhari removed her cloak and stepped inside.

"Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you," a soft woman's voice greeted Mhari from within the temple. She was tall, lovely, and had some of the kindest eyes Mhari had ever seen, putting her instantly at ease. She donned the soft gold and yellow robes of the priests and priestesses of Skyrim, and they almost seemed to make her glow. "I am Freir, the priestess of this temple. How may I help?"

"Oh, hello," Mhari hadn't been expecting a priestess to approach her so quickly. "I'm here to pray to the shrines."

"Of course, my dear. This way," Freir's smile was warm and genuine as she lead Mhari beyond the pews and great stone pillars to the central room of the temple, shimmering in hues of gold and violet from the well-kept stain glass windows above. There were nine alcoves, each holding a shrine for a different god; Dibella, Julianos, Akatosh, Mara, Stendarr, Arkay, Zenithar, and her personal favourite, Kynareth. However, she noticed one of the alcoves was empty; a bare pedestal stood where a shrine had clearly been up until recently.

"My apologies, priestess," Mhari began, her eyes settled on the empty alcove. "But I can't help but notice one of your alcoves is empty; you mentioned eight divines earlier, but there are clearly meant to be nine, aren't there?"

"That once held the shrine to Talos, but the worship of Talos was banned by the White-Gold Concordat some time ago," the priestess explained. She noticed Mhari's blank look of confusion and chuckled. "That's the peace treaty that ended the war with the elves of the Aldmeri Dominion."

"The peace treaty banned the worship of one of Skyrim's gods?" Mhari frowned. "I'd imagine that would cause more problems than it would solve, wouldn't it?"

"The Dominion recognized the heresy of proclaiming Talos a god. Talos was a great man, and a great emperor; but that does not make him a god," Freir paused for a moment, her expression darkening ever so slightly. "No matter how much the Stormcloaks may wish it were so."

"I see," Mhari nodded in understanding, but she was still conflicted on the concept. "I have much to learn about the history of this land. Thank you for your help, priestess."

Mhari approached the shrine of Kynareth and held Fura's beads in her hands; she whispered a prayer into her palms as the carvings etched into the wood began to glow with a soft teal light.

"Kynareth, Kyne, Kin, Khenarthi, Tava;

O' Mother of the Heavens, O' Mother of the Winds

Please bless these beads in the name of Fura Morrard,

Fallen soldier of Solitude, and beloved daughter,

So that she may yet protect and watch over her loved ones,

Who still remain in this realm."

As the echo of her voice faded, as did the glow; but the beads still tingled with the spark of Mhari's magic, a small enchantment now cast within the wood. I wish I could give it a stronger casting, but I just don't have the skill. Maybe someday I can find a mage to show me a thing or two about working with magic.

Mhari tucked the beads away and started to make her way out of the building when she noticed an elderly man sulking in one of the pews.

"Take my advice," he sighed when he realized Mhari had been looking at him. "Never gamble."

"Well, I suppose that is good advice..." Mhari replied, taking a seat next to him in the pew. "I take it you've gotten yourself into some debt trouble, then?"

"Damn Irnskar has me in debt up to the eyes." The man's eyes lifted to look at the shrines, his expression grim. "Too many drinking games. Too many bets. And I'm too old to ever raise the coin on my own."

Mhari frowned; he did look well into his years. He had clearly been a seasoned warrior at some point, but now he appeared frail enough to break. "Maybe I could talk to Irnskar. I'm sure he can be reasoned with."

"He's a stubborn oaf," the man sighed. "I don't know what good it'll do."

"Hey, the worst thing that happens is he tells me to go jump in a river," Mhari joked. "What is your name? It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to find out you're not the only one indebted to this fellow. I want to avoid any possible misunderstandings."

"Octieve," he replied. "Octieve San."

"I'll let you know if I have any luck with Irnskar," Mhari stood from her seat and straightened herself out before making her way out to the courtyard of Solitude.

Mhari slowly made her way through the streets of Solitude on her way to Angeline's Aromatics. As she passed by the marketplace, a small body thumped into her from around a stall, tumbling back onto the ground. Mhari looked down to see the little girl she had seen when she'd first arrived in Solitude; Svari. Two children bolted past her shouting over their shoulder. "Come on, Svari! You're it!"

Svari pulled herself back to her feet with a pout. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Mhari shrugged with a smile. "Are you okay?"

"I..." Svari's eyes moved to her toes, saddening at Mhari's words. "I don't wanna talk."

Mhari frowned and put a hand on Svari's shoulder as she started crying; she let her sob for a few minutes before leading her to Bits and Pieces to buy each of them a honey nut treat. They found a bench in the marketplace to sit and talk. Svari had stopped crying, but she was still sniffling and rubbing her eyes with her hands as she stared at her toes.

"Look," Mhari began. "I'm sorry about your uncle."

"Thanks," Svari sniffled, nibbling on her honey nut treat. She paused for moment before continuing. "Papa talks about it some. Mom doesn't say much since uncle Roggvir died. She doesn't even go to temple anymore."

"Do you think she should be?"

Svari nodded. "I wish she would. At least that way, she'd have someone to talk to."

"Perhaps I could convince her," Mhari suggested. "If nothing else, I can at least be someone she can talk to. Nobody should have to bear the weight of losing a loved one alone."

"You would do that?!" Svari's eyes lit up. She wasted no time, and grabbed Mhari's wrist, running past the marketplace, leading Mhari to a small, neat home near the Bard's College. "This is my house; mama should be inside. Let's go!"

The home was warm and cozy, but Mhari could feel an air of sadness and grief. Svari's mother, Greta sat at a chair by the dining table, staring at the floor with a cloudy expression not unlike the one Svari had when she first bunped into Mhari. Greya didn't even seem to notice that Mhari and Svari had walked through the door. Mhari cleared her throat quietly, causing Greta to look up slowly. Her eyes regarded Mhari for a moment before moving over to Svari, who stood behind Mhari, peeking out from her hip.

"Miss Greta," Mhari began. "Svari and I were talking about... well, everything that's been happening lately. She'd mentioned you were going through some tough times; we thought perhaps you could use someone to talk to."

"Oh, really?" Greta let out an embarassed sigh of frustration as she eyed Svari, who tucked her hands behind her back and looked down sheepishly. "She's going to get a sit-down later."

"Please don't be angry with her." Mhari frowned as Svari tucked farther behind her. "She just wants to support you. You may hide your grief well, but your daughter seems to know you well enough to realize when you're simply trying to be strong for her sake."

"I don't see how speaking to a stranger will help; but it may be better than nothing." Greta sighed, her expression softening slightly, but her brow still furrowed in discomfort. "Take a walk with me, will you? Svari, go play with your friends."

As Svari ran off to join her friends, Mhari and Greta began making their way back to the town square. They were silent at first. Mhari decided it would be best to allow Greta to speak when she was ready.

"Do you think his death was justified?" Greta asked, finally, her voice quiet.

"I didn't know your brother," Mhari replied. "I've heard others talk about what happened, but I would like to get your take on the story."

"He opened a gate and they executed him for it... he opened a gate and the wrong man rode out of it. If that man hadn't been Ulfric Stormcloak. If Ulfric hadn't killed High King Torygg..." Greta's face began to redden with anger as she spoke, still trying to keep her voice low so as to not draw attention. Mhari could tell she was fighting tears as she paused. "...but it was Ulfric. And he did kill the king in honourable combat. My brother refused to allow the Imperials to take revenge for the deed. So now he's dead."

Mhari looked to the sky in thought for a moment. I thought there would be more to this whole mess than what I was hearing. Other folks who I've spoken to made it sound like this Ulfric fellow just slaughtered the High King in his sleep. But it sounds like it was a battle of tradition gone horribly wrong. "It sounds to me like Roggvir did what he thought was right, then," Mhari said finally.

"Then, like Roggvir, you have a Nord's heart. It's hard for many of the people here to understand," Greta sighed, almost in relief; as though she had been ready to be berated for refusing to refer to her brother as a traitor as most others had. "I think Aldis understands. I don't think I could have stayed here if anyone else had..."

Greta trailed off as she realized where they were. As Mhari and Greta rounded the corner to the square, they could clearly see that Roggvir's body had yet to be moved from the ground by the executioner's block. Greta froze in her place, holding back tears. Mhari placed a hand gently on her shoulder, standing in front of her to block the view of Roggvir's body. "Greta, we don't have to be here. We could go to the temple instead. Svari mentioned that you haven't been for some time."

"I want to go back, but I won't feel right in there without a tie to Talos," Greta blinked away tears as they welled up in her eyes.

"The empty alcove," Mhari nodded in understanding.

"My brother wore an amulet of Talos at all times; he kept it with him no matter where he went. If I had that..." Greta's eyes moved behind Mhari to his body before she clenched them shut again. "Oh, Gods. I can't go near his body..."

"Wait here, Greta. Let me bring it to you." Greta simple nodded in response, but could not bring herself to speak further.

As Mhari approached Roggvir's headless body, she noticed his hand had been clasping his amulet at the moment of his death. When the acrid scent of decay hit her nose, she found the need to hold her breath as she drew closer. I can't believe haven't taken him to the Hall of Arkay, yet...She carefully pried his fingers open and retrieved the amulet, saying a silent prayer under her breath to Arkay before returning to Greta, who had chosen to wait just around the corner out of sight from the executioner's block.

"Here, Greta." Mhari held out the amulet as Greta took it with shaking fingers. "You may want to clean it up a bit, but at least now you have your connection to Talos."

"Thank you so much." Greta took the amulet, moving her hands over the pendant before holding it close to her chest. She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to collect herself. "It'll be good to return to temple. I'm glad Svari convinced you to talk to me."

"I'm happy to help. Thank you for telling me your side of the story; and Roggvir's."

"Here." Greta reached into her pocket and pulled out a small pouch of coins. "It's not much, but it's the least I can do."

"If you're sure." Mhari took the pouch and slipped it into her own pack with a thankful smile. "Did you want me to walk with you for a while longer?"

"No, that's alright. I should go make sure Svari's okay." Greta tucked the amulet into her pocket, keeping her hand on the pendant as she spoke. "Then I think I need some time alone to think."

Mhari nodded. Without another word, Greta started to slowly make her way to the temple. As Svari bolted past Mhari alongside her friends, she yelled a jovial 'thank you!' over her shoulder.

By the time Mhari had returned to The Winking Skeever, the dinner rush was in full-swing; Lisette and Jorn played their lute and drum for their rowdy patrons while Corpulus and Sorex buzzed from table to table with rounds of drinks. Mhari greeted Corpulus with a smile and motioned for him to come speak with her when he had a moment.

"What can I do for you, miss Mhari?" he said finally as he approached her at the bar, handing her a mug of ale.

"Would you be able to point me into the direction of a man named Irnskar?" Mhari asked as her eyes moved amongst the patrons throughout the inn. "If he's even here tonight."

"Thank you, Corpulus." Mhari popped a coin into his hand. "I'll let you get back to it."

"Ah, yes. He's right over there." Corpulus motioned his free hand to a chair by the fire where an older man with a grouchy expression dined on a plate of venison alone, seemingly impervious to the jovial atmosphere around him. "Mind yourself - he's about as pleasant to talk to as he looks."

Mhari approached the large, old Nord as he took a large gulp of mead from his hammered copper mug, paying no mind to the fact that most of it simply dribbled down the long, coarse hairs of his white beard. As he noticed Mhari drawing closer, he sighed in irritation, placing his mug back on the table, looking into the fire with a scowl. "Unless we have specific business, I'm not interested."

Mhari could tell he was trying to intimidate her into leaving him be; for a moment it almost worked as she stopped walking for a moment. No, Mhari. Hold your ground. She furrowed her brow and made direct eye contact with Irnskar, grabbing a nearby chair and sliding it over to sat in front of him, challenging his glowering stare with one of her own. "I'm here to ask that you forgive Octieve's debts."

"Debts are debts," Irnskar scoffed, almost amused at Mhari's audacity; he raised his voice and made eye contact with Octieve, who sat at a table across the room with a young, brown-haired woman who pursed her lips at Irnskar's posturing. "Either he pays them, or his kind do!"

"He's an old man, Irnskar," Mhari sighed with a shake of her head. "Just let it go, already."

"You sound like a priest of Mara," Irnskar grumbled, rolling his eyes incredulously. Mhari raised an eyebrow, and maintained her eye contact with the Nord, who tried to ignore her for a moment before letting out a growl. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

"What can I say?" Mhari shrugged. "What I lack in physical strength, I make up for in persistence."

"I'll tell you what; buy me an ale and leave me the hell alone. You can tell Octieve I'll forget about his debt," Irnskar said reluctantly. Mhari smiled triumphantly and raised her arm to wave Corpulus over. "This time."

Once Corpulus dropped off the mug of ale, Mhari walked over to Octieve's table and took a seat. "Good news; Irnskar's agreed to forgive your debt."

Octieve sighed in relief as the young woman that had he been sitting with nodded with silent approval. "Thank you, miss. You've done a fine thing for me."

"Just don't let it happen again," the woman said folding her arms as she spoke to Octieve. "I don't think he'll forgive your debt a second time."

"What kind of work did you do before you decided to settle down?" Mhari asked, relaxing into her chair with another drink. "Farmer? Sailor? Soldier?"

"Yes, yes, Evette." Octieve waved his hand flippantly at the woman. Evette rolled her eyes with a incredulous chuckle before leaving coins on the table to pay her tab. As she walked out of the inn, Octieve looked into his mug happily. "My daughter. She's always been the brains of the family; and now that my working days are over, she keeps me fed."

"Soldier; used to be in the heavy division," Octieve replied. "Maybe you wouldn't know it to look at me now; but if I have a greatsword in my hands, I'm a force to be reckoned with."

Octieve told Mhari some stories about his days as a soldier as they shared a few more drinks.

""Little bird!" As Mhari finished off the last sip of her ale, she heard Lisette call to her from over the din. "Come join us for a song or two!"

"With pleasure," Mhari chuckled, nodding to Octieve with a smile. She began making her way to the empty room beyond the dining area, shouting back to Lisette. "Keep the party going while I change, will you?"

By the time Mhari had emerged from the room, she giggled as she watched Lisette and Jorn who had lead the entire inn into a singalong of Ragnar the Red. As Lisette noticed Mhari walking into the light, she skipped over to her and linked her arms with hers, gaily dancing amongst the tables for the final verse as the patrons stomped and pounded their fists and ale mugs on the tables in time to the beat of Jorn's drum. As the song concluded, the inn erupted into laughter, cheers, and the clinking of ale mugs.

~To Be Continued...~

Jorn, Lisette and Mhari entertained the inn's patrons late into the night, enjoying many a drink before they finally crashed in their rooms until morning. Mhari's dreams were filled with song and dance, but she did not want to think about the hangover to come.

Note From the Author: Thank you again for reading the latest chapter of Songstress of Skyrim! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider following this story and dropping a comment. I'd love to hear what my readers think; what their favourite parts were, what they'd like to see more of, etc. I hope to see you in the next chapter, dear reader.

~Voth Werid

[tigertaurus22]

10th Floor-

Tretista Kelverian, a giant cerberus

He is rather enigmatic with three different personalities for each of his heads, and loyally guards the Kyubi Shika Guild’s most precious treasure, which is the magical energy source for the entire Forest.

Without it, the magic of the forest would eventually disappear if it is not brought back within 48 hours.

It resembles a giant pink lotus flower.

His floor resembles a gothic cathedral in aesthetic, complete with stained glass windows and an altar dedicated to the old guild members.

The Cerberus’ three personalities are labeled as ‘compassion’, ‘aggression’ and ‘reason’. They are referred to using acronyms, namely C-K, A-K, and R-K.

These acronyms are jokingly made into more interesting names, such as C.K., Cake, AK 47, Ark, Rick, Arkay, and AJ.

Kelverian is Gargantua’s counterpart

Leader of the Guardians-

Sage “Harpy” Harpuia, a gryphon in humanoid form.

Being the eldest of X’s creations, he feels a sense of superiority and responsibility over the others.

He and Axl often work together.

When he’s not supervising the other Guardians, Harpuia is either patrolling the Fortress’ grounds from the air or serving as his Masters’ second in command alongside the nekomata.

His quarters are on the same level of the Fortress as Tretista but they are on opposite ends of the level.

Harpuia is Albedo’s counterpart

[markynaz]

7/26

Belief / Dragons Written for @tes-summer-fest 2021 Wordcount: 3146 Content Warning: slight emotional abuse mentions, as appropriate when discussing Bastian Hallix's upbringing AO3 Mirror: here

“And who’s your favorite Divine?”

It was a common question for children in Daggerfall, usually asked in lieu of the small talk one would make with adults. It wasn't exactly proper to ask a child - no matter how well bred - about court gossip, or the price of bolts of Redguard cloth, or the war news that was on everyone else's lips. And it was unspeakably gauche to ask a child about their parents or family. A society as full of intrigue and gossip as the Bretons cultivated couldn’t stand for a child’s truth in any answer. No well-bred Breton of any variety would even think to put a child in the place of guarding family secrets.

So, inoffensive questions it was, and Bastian Hallix, ward of the influential Silvelles, had grown quite sick of them all by the time he was old enough to hide his annoyance.

The one about the Eight Divines was perhaps his least favorite. The easy answer was Julianos, protector of mages, but admitting it would mean admitting his magical aptitude - something the Silvelles were loathe to have Bastian say in company for reasons of their own. Barring that, it would have been easiest to make up a stock answer and stick with it, but lying never sat right with Bastian.

He was thinking about this instead of listening to the priest one Sundas afternoon. They sat - him, Quistley, and the Lord and Lady Silvelle - on the cushioned pews in King Emeric’s chapel, the sun glittering in through the stained glass windows and setting every piece of pristine silver or gold in the place glittering. Large statement jewelry was in fashion that summer. It was a fad from Cyrodil, according to Bastian’s tutors, and the concave silver brooch on Lady Silvelle’s breast was reflecting sunlight right into Bastian’s eye. He looked up to avoid the glare and examined the artful stained glass windows of the Divines while the priest started another prayer for the war effort.

Mara, goddess of love, was the first his eye fell on. Bastian stopped himself from making a face. He remembered, very faintly, thinking she was pretty at one time - remembered her being his favorite Divine when he was very, very young. Every artist put such an expression of goodness in her countenance that her face was always the first Bastian looked for. But… it was hard to believe in Mara, knowing what he knew of marriage from Lord and Lady Silvelle. Knowing what he knew of love from them, and from his brother, Quistley.

A priest had once told Bastian that Mara’s love was unconditional. Bastian didn’t think there was such a thing, but he supposed if there wasn't, Mara wouldn't still be watching over the world.

Her gentle face made him sad. He shifted his gaze.

Arkay, god of death and cycles. His sphere sounded more serious than the stained glass looked. He had one hand raised, and a kindly expression, so much that Bastian could almost forget or ignore the dead wolf at his feet and the graves filling the background of the picture.

When he'd been particularly angry with Quistley once - actually lost his temper on his foster brother, an incident that made his ears burn with shame to recall - he'd been quietly pulled aside, still fuming, by a priestess of Arkay who’d seen the whole of the confrontation. Quistley had run off to his parents, Bastian assumed to tell them how he'd behaved, and he was in no hurry to follow. Going with the priestess to calm down was by far the most agreeable option.

She'd had him hold the holy oil she was using to bless unmarked graves of paupers and disgraced women and men in the back alleys of Wayrest, talking softly to him in between murmuring prayers to her Divine. Cycles showed in life as well as death, she'd said. Bastian might have been angry with Quistley then, but one day Quistley would be angry with him, and he should always try to model the behavior he'd like shown to him in the next cycle. And - because she was a priestess of Arkay - she had added, one of them would very likely outlive the other. A life spent in cycles of rage was one the survivor was very likely to regret.

It had made sense to Bastian once he'd calmed enough to hear words. He'd returned to Lord and Lady Silvelle resigned to whatever punishment they'd assign him, and hoping to be a better brother and foster son going forward.

And then he'd found out, upon returning, that Quistley hadn't said a word to his parents, and was going to use Bastian’s fit of temper to blackmail him into doing favors for the next half year.

Bastian was fairly sure Arkay would never be his favorite Divine. Quistley shifted in his seat next to him, and in a burst of irritation, Bastian realized he was blatantly asleep in chapel.

He set his jaw and cast his gaze to the other row of stained glass.

Dibella, goddess of beauty. Her form was pleasing enough, but it held nothing for Bastian’s eyes. He could do little more than admire the artwork - for artists tended to be closer devoted to Dibella than any other Divine, and most would jump at the chance to depict her in their ideal of beauty.

Last year, Bastian had seen an artist depict Dibella in a male form for the first time in his recollection. He finally understood what had Quistley and his friends so enamored with the sculptures, stained glasses, and art pieces. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from the perfect musculature- the long hair flowing over defined back muscles - the chiseled features with just a hint of facial hair - the eyes, glimmering with intent behind his courtly Breton facade-

His ears were burning for a different reason, thinking about it.

The Silvelles hadn't cared one way or the other when his preferences were revealed. Bastian thought he even detected a hint of relief in Lady Silvelle’s voice, and thought - though it shamed him to think so meanly - it might be from the lowered likelihood of Bastian fathering children someday. It would mean fewer Hallixes for them to connect themselves with.

Not that he would force them to, if that ever came to pass. He knew his place.

Stendarr, god of justice and mercy. Bastian hadn't connected the cup on his altar to the object held in his hand for an embarrassing number of years. In his defense, the artist who’d rendered it in the Silvelles’ home chapel had either painted it very ill indeed, or it had been later ruined by some splash of ink.

The Redguard training master who’d been brought in to tutor Bastian and Quistley on the art of conflict swore to Stendarr sometimes, when he was mildly displeased. When he was really angry, he would revert to the Redguard pantheon. Bastian rarely heard that directed at him. More often, if he wasn't performing to standards, the wiry old man would heave a great sigh and say, “Young Bastian. One day, you'll either be delivering Stendarr’s justice, or begging his mercy at the other end of the sword. Which will it be today?”

He could almost hear it in the training master’s voice, really. Once Tutor Thierren told him about about Bastian’s aptitude for magic, he'd set to training him with a staff as well as a blade - setting up obstacle courses to get through with a weighted stave in hand, sessions where he'd give Bastian a staff with an iron core and come at him with a sword. It was always better to be on the correct side of Stendarr’s hand, and if his magicka was depleted, he needed to be able to survive and get away.

Bastian flattered himself that Thierren saw more in his future than court etiquette and uncomfortable questions answered by half-truths that made him burn inside. He was nearly seventeen now, almost a man grown. Lord Silvelle had been hinting recently that it might be time for Bastian to look after the family's interests without such a stern hand guiding him, and Bastian relished the thought.

Kynareth, goddess of the wilds and the winds. Bastian had named her as his favorite several times in response to the condescension of noble adults. Lord Silvelle’s comments that Bastian might start beginning to pay the Silvelles back for his excellent education and shelter by looking after their interests in other parts of High Rock were starting to seem more appealing the longer Bastian thought about it. Being blown about by Kynareth’s winds, seeing more of both civilization and the wilds…. It sent a little thrill through him. Being out from under the Silvelle’s roof was scarcely less exciting.

But if he kept daydreaming in that line, he knew he’d grow quite insensible to the speeches of the priest. That wouldn’t do if anyone asked him about it later. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze.

The stained glass at the front of the chapel was the grandest of all. Akatosh, the One, head of the pantheon. Bastian could appreciate the artistry in the massive stained glass, tracing with his eye how every sliver fit so perfectly into the illusion of glittering dragon scales. Most recently he'd been reading about how Akatosh,, in some manner or another, appeared in almost every pantheon across Tamriel. He'd had an animated discussion with Quistley’s tutor about it, which saved him from the more awkward conversation on why he had been caught doing Quistley’s assignments.

But unlike some of the other stained glasses, Bastian felt nothing in his heart when he looked at the image of Akatosh. After a moment of consideration, the only thing coming up seemed to be a slick, greasy guilt at not feeling anything greater.

The other Divines had expressive human faces to feel things about, he tried to rationalize to himself. And usually, it was older Bretons who took amulets of Akatosh as their personal guide, kept close to the heart. Perhaps one day he'd feel what he ought to for such an important figure. For now, he averted his eyes almost as quickly as he had looked away from Mara.

Next to him, Quistley half-snored. Bastian quickly jabbed an elbow into his ribs to keep him quiet. Quistley shifted and jabbed him back, catching Bastian in the side with not just his elbow, but the sharp, hard bit of statement jewelry on his wrist down and catching Bastian’s hip.

Bastian bit his lip to stop any sound of pain.

The bubble of resentment that burst in his throat was startling in his vehemence. This wasn't fair. If Quistley was caught sleeping in chapel, Bastian would be scolded along with him - chastised for not keeping his foster brother attentive and polite. Even when Quistley got himself into deserved trouble, he always seemed to drag Bastian down with him until they were both flailing, covered in shame, neither looking good.

No. No. He was getting angry. He couldn't. Bastian took a deep breath, exhaled as quietly as he could through parted lips, and then, catching Lord Silvelle’s head begin to turn toward him, tucked his chin and closed his eyes as if in prayer. He stayed that way until he felt his face was under control.

When he lifted his gaze again, it fell on Zenithar. Bastian examined his wizened face, how the artist had used space between the glass pieces to give the impression of lines.

Zenithar, god of fair work and commerce. Maybe one day Quistley would get his just desserts, Bastian thought with sudden savageness, and just as quickly reeled in and tempered those thoughts. No. No, Quistley didn't deserve any such thing, and in any case, he would never be allowed to fail. Anyone with the Silvelle name couldn't be allowed to show proof of family weakness.

So, perhaps, one day he would step up and be the son his parents so wished him to be. That was a much more charitable thought fo fix on, and Bastian set himself on it with the same ferocity which a deer rubbing the velvet off his antlers might set himself on a tree.

Yes. It would be so much better if Quistley would stop grieving his parents. If he would pull his weight, step up to the responsibility of being the Silvelles’ heir. Divines knew there was enough to manage and look after, from what Bastian had been able to find out. There was certainly enough of an opportunity for Quistley to earn the life he seemed to want to live.

He didn't realize until several minutes had passed in this fashion that his hand had slipped into his pocket, seeking and finding the small medallion of Julianos that he wore on a chain connected to his belt whenever he could. His fingers had fallen into the familiar habit of tracing the sharp edges of the triangle, one, two, three, four, and then twice more in that fashion before the count matched up again with the point where he'd started. The counting, the rhythm, soothed him, even enough to ignore that Quistley had slipped back into even breathing and slumber in the pew beside him.

Still tracing the edges of his amulet, his eyes lifted to the stained glass of his own protector, Julianos.

~~|\|~~

Ten years later, in the same chapel, Bastian traced the now-worn edges of the medallion as he glanced over the stained glass windows.

This time, he wasn't in King Emeric’s chapel on the good will of the Silvelles. No; those days were long past, and Bastian was learning to look on their passing with more and more relief.

The windows weren't as grand as he'd remembered them in his childhood memory. He supposed after the better part of a decade spent traveling Tamriel, seeing the wonders of the continent, it was no surprise that fading pieces of art in a Breton king's chapel would carry less mysticism. Still, something in his heart throbbed at the loss. There was just a little less beauty in the world now that he saw the images for just images, and not stand-ins for his belief in the Divines.

And yet….

Still tracing the edges of Julianos’ symbol with the pad of his thumb, Bastian looked to his companion.

Arcturus Crane. Adopted son of noble merchant lord Earl Crane, and adopted in a sense of the word that had made Bastian nearly gasp with alarm the first time he'd heard them talk to each other with frankness bordering on insouciance. Arcturus Crane, who had helped him drag Quistley out of trouble twice without complaint, who was now speaking so casually with the priest of High King Emeric’s chapel in an effort to find out the date and particulars of a certain Clairene Auzin’s marriage.

Bastian kept his focus on Arcturus’ animated hands - he always gestured so much when he talked, a habit stopped only when one hand was curled around the heavy haft of a stave - and tried to keep his breathing steady. His pulse didn't sound steady in his ears. He pressed the tip of his index finger into a worn point of the triangle on his medallion with quickly increasing pressure until he could almost feel an edge.

It might be most natural for his eye to fall on Julianos, abusing the Divine’s symbol in nervousness as he was, but instead he found his gaze on Mara instead. Mara, who had never been a Divine he understood, flowing hair and expression of kindness and warmth.

Unconditional love.

In untangling what, exactly, he felt about things the Silvelles had told him to feel a certain way about - not least of all their own actions - Bastian was starting to think he might have misjudged Mara’s sphere. Unconditional love.

The Silvelles loved Quistley unconditionally, not that he could justify that. He'd spent decades trying. Lord Crane, in contrast, didn’t treat Arcturus like the Silvelles coddled Quistley. He seemed to hold something a great deal like respect for his adopted son. Perhaps not love - he didn't act like there was any sort of paternal feeling there, and Arcturus didn't bother to affect a child's adoration - but there was still…. Something. Something Bastian couldn’t quite put a name to.

And in Arcturus’ own behavior to him. The way he grinned when Bastian got excited over a scrying eye or a new bit of magic, his instant expression of chagrin when his twisting path of shadows caught an innocent mouse and Bastian couldn't bite back his disappointment in time. Bastian had lain awake several nights chastising himself over the outburst, but… now, thinking about it, Arcturus had been rather more careful about how he placed his traps and barriers and magical effects.

Unconditional love was Mara’s sphere. He’d never understood.

Perhaps, Bastian thought, it was less of love, and more of…. trust. A trust baseless enough to be belief, that the other person would do as you expected. And a fondness strong enough to stay steady even if that belief was proved wrong.

His sister. Bastian had no expectations of her, but in the few short weeks he'd known her to be alive… he’d begun to hope. Could she harbor the same feelings for him?

Could she believe in him like he wanted to believe in her?

Bastian released his medallion of Julianos, letting it drop at the end of its short chain back into his pocket as he stood straight. There was no way to find out except by finding out. Arcturus was turning from the priest, and from the look in his bright blue eyes, he didn't come away empty-handed.

The shock of fear that struck Bastian at the thought wasn't a surprise. Rather, he was surprised at how quickly it passed.

Why should I be scared? I won't be alone for this, he told himself, and the thought was quickly chased by, I trust him to stand by me through whatever happens.

Belief. Trust. He still shied away from the word ‘love,’ but….

Perhaps. Perhaps, in time. For now, as Arcturus strolled back to him and flashed a crooked smile (intended to put him at ease, he realized, when normally it was him scrambling to make others easy) and offered a sardonic comment in the way of letting Bastian know they had a lead, the belief in his good will was quite enough to stop the fear from freezing Bastian dead.

He walked out of High King Emeric’s chapel. He held the door for Arcturus, stepped into the bright midday sun, the sounds of Wayrest muted beyond the mage-protected castle wall. He stood there and waited for his eyes to adjust, and hoped - wished - believed, that the end of this road might finally be in sight.

[nightsketching]

Too busy to draw today but I spared a couple minutes to finish my Skyrim character sheet for Leonara, my Dragonborn.

Transcript of all the text plus some aditional detailed info that couldn’t fit in the sheet below the cut, it’s very LONG

Name : Leonara Arctis Falco

Race : Imperial

Sex : Female   

Age : 22 - 48 years ( time window from the start of the Main Quest to the end of the Dragonborn DLC, may change since I’m doing a playhthrough where I’m actually keeping track of time and events )

Class : Arcane Assassin

Orientation : Lesbian

Marital Status : Married ( post Main Quest )

Spouse : Lydia

Children : -

Home: Will be based on Winterhold for a great part of her life but travelled and had a few other homes before like the two Dark Brotherhood sanctuaries .

MAIN Factions / Titles : Legate ( former ) , Listener ( former ) , Dragonborn , Archmage.

MINOR Factions / Titles : Arcane Scholar, Thane of Whiterun , Thane of Solitude , Vampire Slayer of the Dawnguard, Honorary Member of the Moth Priests , Dwemer Expert , Savior of Solstheim ... there are others probably.

Powers and Abilities (born with them and/or unlocked through an event) : Imperial Luck, Emperor’s Voice , Tu’hum , The Mage Constelation ( magicka abilities boost ).

Powers and Abilities ( acquired ) : Summon Spectral Assassin, The Fire Within,  Mora’s agony , Secret of Arcana , Summon Karstaag , The Stones of Solstheim ? , Black Market, Dragonborn Flame, Seeker of Sorcery ... and many other minor abilities from quests , if its related to magicka she probably went looking for it for example Ahzidhal’s Genius.

MAIN skills : Destruction , Illusion , Alteration , Enchanting , Sneak

MINOR skills : Restoration, Conjuration , Alchemy , Speech , Lockpicking

Most used Armors / Clothing :Imperial Mage Uniform ( for a period ) , Dark Brotherhood robes ( for a period ) , Mantled mage robes , Archmage robes . 

Most used Weapons / Spells : Fire spells, Rage spells, Armor spells , Staff of Fireballs , Staff of Magnus , Shock and Frost enchanted Ebony Dagger . Of course this is her inventory at her maximum , she had several staves and daggers before these. Note: She can’t really fight with a sword until Lydia teaches her a bit about it later .

Other Items : Falco Family ring , Falco Family pendant , Magicka and Health potions, Research materials and assorted Soul Gems .

Likes : Wine , Sea Food , Warm Weather , Reading .

Dislikes: Cold Weather, Being Challenged .

Religion / Worship : Akatosh , Arkay , Julianos , Kynareth , Mara , Zenithar .

Brief Biography :

She joined the imperial army at a young age to run away from her parents and noble family duties and responsabilities only to end up in Skyrim and discover she’s Dragonborn , she brushes it aside in favor of finishing assisting Tullius with the war even if the dragons start making moving troops a bit more challenging. After the war is done she runs from the prophecy responsability and goes down a dark path in search of magical power that culminates with her joining the Dark Brotherhood. Still , even after consolidating her Listener role she gets thrown back into the prophecy with Alduin other Dragons now hunting her down specifically as she’s a threat , and thus she gets paired up with Lydia and circumstances force her to go on the Dragonborn path ... along the way it’s her feelings for Lydia that makes Leo turn some of her life choices around and become the (anti?) hero of Skyrim, leaving the Dark Brotherhood for good and later becoming the next Archmage of Winterhold.

[robotslenderman]

I'm gonna be without a comp for a while longer...

Am currently backing everything up to dropbox. Comp would not recognise either of my monitors so I hauled Kynareth into the office and connected her to one of his. (He's in IT. He has a lot of monitors. There's three more in the hall to try lmao though I'm sure one of them is dead.)

Before I did that though I had fun and games trying to get Kynareth to run. While I was trying to get her to play nice with my second monitor she shut off and wouldn't turn on again even after I removed the new RAM. Luckily when I dragged her into the office she decided to play (mostly) nice.

The motherboard visual ports don't work at all. The GPU has three ports for monitors - one is HDMI, one of the display ports don't plug in at all for some reason, and the second DP was the pink monstrosity in my last update. Like, everything just went pink. The third DP port worked fine... except for some reason the computer then thought she was hooked up to two monitors, not one, and I couldn't do anything on it because it treated the Pink Monstrosity as the main "monitor". But the Pink Monstrosity thought it was the *only* monitor, and wouldn't let me push windows over.

Problem was, I wanted to upgrade dropbox so I could back up Kynareth as I had no external hard drives and didn't want to risk the storage drives borking, and I couldn't see payment checkout options on the Pink Monstrosity.

But luckily tinkering with "detect other displays" on the Pink Monstrosity fixed the duplicate ghost monitor issue so I was able to switch to the only port with proper colour and actually do shit on it.

Don't want to spend too much time on cherry picking files to back up so I went "fuck it", uninstalled a whole bunch of my fattest games, and just copy pasted the entire C-drive onto dropbox. It's been copying for over an hour and is only about a quarter done. D drive is over five times as big and is gonna take even longer.

So far she hasn't crashed again and is still running. I'll stay up until C drive is done, then do D drive and hopefully she'll run through the night.

In the meantime, I've put the new build list together and I'll order the new parts tomorrow. The IT guy, whose name I STILL don't know lmao, went through the parts list with me and gave me feedback. He gave me some still good, but lower cost alternatives and we shaved $700 off the price without even really downgrading anything. If I'd taken his advice on the motherboard we'd have even got it under two grand, but I decided to stick with it.

His biggest suggestions were to change the CPU for one that's still really good for games, but the one I'd picked was overkill because I'd misunderstood the numbering convention. Another piece of advice was on storage - I was going to buy two NVMe SSDs, which are the fastest storage drives you can get, but the big one was pretty pricey. His suggestion was a small NVMe for the operating system, an SSD for my games and a hard drive for everything else that doesn't need fast loading speeds.

So I did that and now have more storage for less money! \o/

Or I will, rather, once everything is ordered.

The new computer will be named Arkay, and I've got no more gaming until he's set up. So, well, gonna catch up on my reading in the meantime.

The place I usually order from tends to be quick. I'll put in the order tomorrow morning and everything should be here in a week at the longest. (Yes, that's quick down here.) More likely stuff will start arriving Tuesday or Wednesday, but I vaguely recall Kynareth arriving over a few days instead of all at once, so.

Til then, I'll brush up on comp building skills and do a lot of reading. The shop I ordered Kynareth's parts from will do computer builds, but even if they had all the pieces (as I have some of them) I wanna do it myself. It was so rewarding last time, minor mental breakdown over the internet drivers notwithstanding...

[disasterdrvid]

OC Angst and Fluff Week- Day 7

Character Death/Near-Death Experience and/or Healing from Past Trauma/Forgiving Themselves

Title: Distant Memory

Words: 439

Summary: On the way back to Cloud Ruler Elaine makes a stop at an old haunt.

Elaine wasn’t quite sure what she intended to do when she asked Martin if they could make a stop in Cheydinhal. The faces of the town had been meaningless to her for so long, and those she had known were long gone.

She walked down the streets in a daze. She could practically feel his brow furrowing behind her back, but she couldn’t stop her feet. Not until she came to the door of the old abandoned house.

It was still just as dilapidated as the last time she’d seen it. The windows were boarded up, patches of the roof no longer there, and weeds grew in what must’ve been a garden in another life. No one passed at that hour, and the bells of the Chapel of Arkay rang in the evening air.

“What is this place, Elaine?” Martin asked as he stopped at her side.

Was that a hand in one of the remaining windows, beckoning the wayward Listener back into the dank hideaway, or just a shadow? Elaine’s mind didn’t know the difference.

“Elaine?”

His hand found hers—it always did—and he stared at her with a worried gaze.

“The first time I came here I was given the passphrase,” she found herself saying. “’Sanguine, my Brother.’ Funny how things work like that…” She looked up at him. “I still remember quaking in my boots even though I’d been officially accepted into the Dark Brotherhood—after all the things I’d had to do to get to that point.”

Her other hand reached out, running along the rusted gate, and she looked at the house again. “It became home, for a time. They were my brothers and sisters. And then I killed them all and that home became their tomb for a time. It… feels so distant when I think of it now. Despite everything it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.

“It’s been so long since everything…” Elaine’s words were coming out in a rush. “But now I… I don’t have the dreams so often. And I think I can finally begin something new, something better.”

She let go of Martin’s hand and unbuckled the sheathed Blade of Woe from her belt. Opening the gate, she walked toward the door of the old house and set the blade down on the doorstep. Arquen, I wish you luck in finding your new Listener.

Elaine turned around, shutting the gate firmly behind her. “Cloud Ruler, then?” she asked.

“Unless you want to delay another night?” Martin asked with a laugh.

She gave a small smile and wrapped her arm in his. “You know me so well, Your Highness.”

[thatoneshadyshop]

You know I’m gonna win, right?

“You know I’m gonna win, right?”

“In your dreams, little brother. This one is all mine.”

“Ah, right of course. Like it was last time. And the time before that. And that time in Bravil…”

“You can’t use that one! It didn’t count. I was injured! It’s not like you can be seductive when you’re half wrapped in bandages!”

“Half wrapped in bandages, Arkay’s foot! You’d sprained your wrist, that was all, and if you’d just let me…”

Lillandril smiled to himself as he took a sip of his wine, watching his children bickering. No matter how old they got, they seemed destined to never stop teasing each other; at least now they were older, it was taken in the right spirit. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to stop them tearing seven shades of Oblivion out of each other if they started fighting like they used to.

The tavern was nearly full, which given the foul weather outside, was hardly a surprise. The slightly damp smell of drying clothes and soggy boots was mixing with the smoke the fire from the pit was producing, the hisses and pops of the logs burning mixing with the sounds of conversations, laughter, and drunken boasts. The Nords of Whiterun remained as they always had for as long as Lillandril had dwelt among them: open, honest, and full of life.

“Alright, alright, no need to go on about it!” Gwemba slammed her fist down on the table, grinning at her brother broadly. “That was before. Tonight is my night, little brother. I promise you that.”

“Oh, just like to promised to pay the tab back in Sentinel?” Birk laughed, his eyes glittering with humour. He leaned forward slightly to pick up his tankard of mead, his free hand scratching at the dirty blonde hairs on his chin. “But fine, fine, tonight is going to be your night. Except it won’t be. Because it will be my night. Again. Standard rules?”

“Standard rules,” Gwemba agreed. Where her brother was all handsome features, light with his blonde hair and blue eyes, she was all dark, broad and bristling with barely contained energy. Combined with the scars that crossed her brow and cheek, and the slight crook to her nose where it had never properly heeled, the effect made it clear that she was a woman used to looking after herself. If her brother was the image of a courtier, dressed in colourful doublets and soft materials, she was that of a brawler, and an unapologetic one at that. “But who calls the winner? Ma’Riahni isn’t here this time.”

Raising his brows, Lillandil coughed slightly. Both children turned to look at him blankly for a moment, before realisation dawned on them, a glance passing between them.

“Ah, so, erm,,, no offence, Atta,” Birk began, flashing Lillandril an apologetic smile, “but it seems, well, just a bit odd for you to call the winner. I mean, you did raise us after all, and well…”

“You can’t,” Gwemba interjected. “You wouldn’t know what makes a prize woman if she came up and pushed your face in her melons. If you had to choose between him pulling a burly Orc missing all his tusks, or me going off with the most gorgeous Altmer maiden this side of the Topal Bay, you’d call the Orc the winner every time.”

“Well!” Lillandril huffed, drawing himself up in his seat and doing his best to look unimpressed. “That is simply not true. One might not choose to indulge in the dubious joys of womenfolk oneself, yet tis hardly as if one cannot appreciate the female form! One can appreciate the art without having to touch it! Tis hardly as is…” He trailed off, noticing the look Birk and Gwemba exchanged again, an entire conversation between them.

To think. The two children he had taken in from the streets had managed to grow into the two adults opposite him. The pair of them had gone on the spend years wandering the length and breadth of Tamriel, taking on odd jobs as mercenaries and caravan guards, seeking out adventure and sights they had heard of in their parents’ stories, or that Birk had read about in his books. More than once they had taken to the ocean with the self styled Pirate Queen of the Topal Bay, reaving the waves at Ma’Riahni’s side.

Lillandril worried about them, of course, but he was also deeply proud. Gwemba had grown into an accomplished warrior and hunter, while Birk was as adept a human mage as Lillandril knew; moreover, his son simply had a way with people, a gift for speech and calming tempers that gave him some surety they could avoid any serious trouble. 

Not that they could avoid all trouble, of course. Gwemba had scars aplenty from near misses, and to hear the stories, had been saved more than once by Birk or Ma’Riahni being nearby to apply healing magics. Birk had his own injuries too, a faint line that followed his jawline from chin to ear, and a few burn marks here and there from spells gone awry. The pair of them had limped back home more than once to recover, clutching their aches and taking to their beds for weeks on end. The residents of the Den were well primed to expect their appearances, and knew that anything serious was to be reported to Lillandril immediately. 

“Alright, alright, it can’t be one,” Lillandril conceded, lowering himself back down in his chair. “But if not one, how about Sildras?” He waved his hand across the table where the young Dunmer had just taken a gulp of ale; as he realised that three pairs of eyes were suddenly turned on him, Sildras turned the gulp into a choke, and began coughing violently, waving his hand around in front of his face as if to ward off the very suggestion of his involvement. Lillandril sighed. “Never mind.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Birk said, turned his attention back to his father and sister. “We can decide ourselves who wins. We both will know, after all. And if we really can’t agree, then we roll it over to next time. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Gwemba nodded emphatically, banging her fist on the table again for good measure. “Right then. Standard rules. One person only, male or female, race doesn’t matter. They have to stay until morning, or it doesn’t count. They can’t be too drunk to know better, or under some sort of charm or other magical rubbish. No money either. It doesn’t count if you pay them.”

“Or if they pay you.” Birk had half twisted in his seat, his eyes sweeping the tavern back and forth. “No matter how good it is.” The small Bosmer trader by the window who was gazing absentmindedly into space, the pair of Breton’s sat sharing a meal under the eaves, the cook’s assistant just visible beyond the bar, stopping to wipe sweat from her brow and readjust her apron.

“Right.” Gwemba grinned broadly, her eyes mirroring Birk’s as the leapt from person to person. The Nord with the black hair in the corner strumming the lute, the Imperial moneycounter with the close trimmed beard and rubies dancing on his fingers, the buxom tavern maid weaving between the patrons and their grabbing hands - for a moment, her eyes stopped on the knot of Companions by the door, stood in a tight circle while one of their number regaled them with tales of vapour, and then they swept on.

Lillandril smiled to himself, settling back into his chair and taking another sip of wine. They might only be passing through the area, stopping only for a couple of days out of duty to see their father, yet the old Mer was glad to see them both. He had thought them far to the south, seeing out the late autumn in the sun of Valenwood or Hammerfell; that they had found work as guards on a ship sailing from Anvil to Solitude had been pure chance. It did his old heart good to see them both. It felt like it had been decades since their last visit, and while he could not blame them - he hardly wanted to be in Skyrim himself, never mind expecting them to choose to return - it was good to see them safe and healthy. Good to see them at ease, relaxed, enjoying themselves, playing their games. It put him in mind of his youth, of time spent prowling docks and entertaining would be patrons, of camping under the stars and of being able to simply leave cares and worries behind.

“Right then.” Birk brought his attention back to his sister, pausing only to drain the remainders of his drink. “Shall we say six hours past sunrise? It seems fair with it being so late already, no?” He held his hand out to Gwemba, who reached out to firmly take it.

“Agreed. Six hours past sunrise.” She flashed another confident grin, squeezing her brother’s hand slightly. “You do know I am going to win, right?”

“In your dreams, older sister. In your dreams.”

[kingarkay]

assignment for my environments, props, and structures class

[narutomaki]

Fairytale Aesthetics-Brothers Grimm Edition

tagged by: @cadashh

tagging: @elfrootelf

For Arkay Surana

SNOW WHITE.

jade trinket boxes.  taste of iron. fingertips on a mirror.  yellow and green with envy. long handled hunting knives.  sewing by the window. combs laced with pearls and poison.  an apple white one side and red the other. white doves. frosted glass.

THE MAIDEN WITHOUT HANDS.

a blunt axe.  a ring of chalk.  tear-stained cheeks.  sweet pears. hands tied behind back.  shallow rivers. aching feet, walking for days.  flowing gown. liquid silver. wax seals. blinding lights.

THE THREE LITTLE GNOMES IN THE FOREST.

lukewarm bath water. sapphire butterflies.  tiny milk snakes. baskets of strawberries. fat toads.  sparkling snow. fur cloaks. raw gemstones. kettles made of copper.  red wine. a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere.

BLUE BEARD.

a tiny key made of gold.  pools of blood. stains that won’t rub away. galloping hooves.treasures from far away lands.  dragging by the hair. dark and damp cellars. marble walls. shivering with fear. screaming at the top of your lungs.

THE SIX SWANS.

sitting side-saddle.  daughter of a witch. nettles.  white feathers. refusing to smile. needles and threads.  a castle in the forest. sound of beating wings. birthmarks.  climbing trees. balls of yarn. silver crowns.

LITTLE RED CAP.

wildflowers.  rich-tasting cake.  wicker baskets. the path rarely trod. sharp teeth. curtains drawn.  a dying fireplace. grey pelts. red velvet. handmade quilts. sunlight peeking through branches. opening corks with a satisfying pop. looking someone directly in the eye.

[princeofwishes]

faithless

When it comes to relationships, falling in love is the easy part. It’s so incredibly simple to look at someone and feel your heart expand six times its natural size and your feelings rise up in a bubbling swarm of overwhelming affection. That part is easy enough; it’s what comes after that we fear.

Martin first met Orpheus during the war. The sky was black and ash rained down from the heavens, coating the roads and windows and screaming citizens below in a thick, heavy fog. He gathered as many people as he could and hid them inside the chapel, practically shouting his prayers to Akatosh to deliver them from this evil. People caught outside the chapel screeched in agony as daedra cut large swathes through the town, desperate to conquer and hungry for blood. Burning flesh choked the air; those inside gagged on its putrid sensations.

Evil’s forces closed in and Martin gathered the remains of his congregation to beg Akatosh take pity on them. The doors to the cathedral buckled under the assault from outside and it seemed like the end- until the pounding faded away, replaced with the sounds of clattering swords and the ungodly shrieks of those demonic creatures as an unseen force obliterated their ranks. Shouts echoed throughout the outside; help had arrived at last. The doors to the chapel were thrust open and a half-elf archer stood in the doorway. His eyes were wild and at his side hung a bloodied dagger- clearly the man had just seen combat. However, he hardly even spared his state a second thought.

Glazed, unfocused eyes swept over the room once, twice, before he jerked forward; his head made sickening contact with the chapel floor. It was enough to prompt the survivors into action. A woman started forward and cradled the man’s head, a healing spell warming her hands and repairing his physical wounds. Her eyebrows knit together in concentration and Martin stood by her to take in their saviour.

He barely noticed the Kvatch guard pushing past the crowd to escort the citizens to a safe camp. His congregation stumbled over each other as they shoved past broken buildings and climbed over debris to flee the ruins. None of those things worried him; Martin’s full attention was on the young man now lying at his side. The healer finally looked up from the elf’s unconscious form and shook her head. Breath slowly faded from his chest and his face paled.

The Daedra claimed the life of their hero, it seemed. Martin touched the man’s forehead and murmured a blessing of Arkay, but before he finished stumbling over the rites, the man jerked forward, his head colliding with Martin’s. Both of them winced and the elf man beneath him groaned, mumbling out a half-hearted apology. Despite the pain in his head, Martin felt a strange feeling of relief and had to laugh, moving his hand from the other’s head. Perhaps not, then. He’d have a chance to say thank you after all.

That day, had Orpheus actually died, Martin would never have lived. Of course, going off of that one day alone, it seems pretty far fetched but in the next few months, he began to understand why his father sent this man to him. There was something to be said for the constant dedication and loyalty, not to mention the gentle affirmations of friendship and later, love.

Yes, perhaps they were in love at one point. It was a given with how close they were and how much good Orpheus tried to do to overcome his rapidly declining mental stability. Martin could forgive him for the random bouts of madness; they were the only reason his dearest could command armies into Oblivion and return without that terrible haunted look in his eyes. However, he wasn’t blind. Martin took notice of his steadily declining control on reality and watched as he slowly stopped being the loving elf he knew.

It peaked just before they left to retake the Imperial City. Orpheus was known to disappear prior to battles, that wasn’t the problem; he came back... different. For starters, he called himself Sheogorath, which for someone who had once been a Daedric worshipper himself, was a pretty big tell. Major reveals aside, Martin watched as the body of his secret love all but distorted to reveal the body of the Mad God. In place of his Divines’ hallowed armour and blessed bow, Orpheus wielded wicked spells and the staff of Sheogorath, occasionally pulling out a small dagger to embed within his foes. It was pure mania; there was no trace of the sweet young elf he once knew anywhere in this tableau.

And when it came time for them to part, as Martin always knew they’d have to, it hurt to look at this... this stranger in his friend’s body. But when they embraced, well, he’d be lying if he said he considered allowing the man to join him. It was so lonely, dying alone, surely the gods would allow him this one selfish indulgence- just a few moments more where he could gaze into those brown eyes he loved so much and offer his friend their first and last kiss.

But when he opened his mouth to suggest it, the features shifted and he was staring into the crazed eyes of a Daedra. Revulsion overtook him and he practically jumped backwards. He felt Orpheus flinch but couldn’t- no, wouldn’t- bring himself to rectify it. This development was a punch in the gut; the man went and did the only thing in the world that could make Martin hate him.

All of these conflicting feelings clouded his last moments and when he heard Orpheus’s broken, weakened voice yelling himself hoarse by screaming that he loved him... it hurt too much to bear. In the end, he welcomed the release of joining with Akatosh. Perhaps it would make it all hurt less.

After all, he’d rather lose faith in his friend than in his god.

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