#colette mirabel

[itsguysnightitsironic]

“Why does the lamb love Mother Midnight so?” The eager children cry.

Mary had a little lamb by Sarah Josepha Hale

For a butcher kisses the lamb's head as it sharpens the knife.

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

my secret Santa piece for @eleayres! happy holidays from the College - don't forget to keep up with your studies 😎

thanks to @scorchedcandy for hosting this event!!

[ehlnofay]

secret santa for @everybodyknows-everybodydies part ii !!! ft. all the canon sapphics you'll find about the college. all of them are in the game. you will find them all if you look hard enough

(I drew the first picture and I thought Well. I wanted to draw how I picture the characters from the college and I haven't done mirabelle and faralda yet. might want to doodle those. and then I did and thought I might do more. so I did)

[ghoulsbeard]

At noonday the College common is packed with hungry young prentices, a handful of traders, journeymen and masters and an envoy from the jarl having her lunch. Wispy clouds flit overhead on a biting steady wind. No sign of any Synod stragglers listening in— or Thalmor robes.

“I understand the budget is stretched thin,” Colette says, as usual, with an eye on the envoy, but then— she fidgets with her scarf in a little self-conscious gesture, and studiously avoids Mirabelle’s eyes, as she has not done before. “In my younger years I served as scribe to a shipping clerk. I wouldn’t deign to pen your letters, of course, Master Wizard; but I have a good eye for copying, and a clear hand.”

From Tolfdir, gently: “Terrible on the back, you know. Sleeping in that dreadful desk chair.”

Mirabelle steps aside for a string of chattering teenagers hauling armfuls of books and spellery supplies. “…I will consider that, thank you, Colette.” She is surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. “But to business, while I have you both. There is still the matter of Mzulft.”

“Dear me,” says Tolfdir.

Colette frowns. “Plinius and his set are two days gone.”

“Loria asked after them the other day. She’s convinced— that is, the Augur, the orb, this old staff they’re all determined to unearth.” She glances round again for Ancano and doesn’t find him. “I don’t believe in coincidence. And I won’t have them pin our students in the middle of their plans. We must be ready for trouble.”

“The Archmage,” Colette begins, and trails away. “…Yes, of course. Whatever is needed.”

“I don’t like any of it,” Tolfdir agrees. “The scroll and Saarthal have been trouble enough.”

Mirabelle drops her voice. “If this staff of Magnus should come to our halls— ”

“Master Wizard,” Colette cuts in primly. “You have a visitor.”

Mirabelle turns; at her elbow, Urag’s nervous young assistant clears her throat. It’s the first time Mirabelle has seen her dressed in College colors. The faded sash and mantle are both a touch too large.

She smiles. “Good afternoon.”

The poor young woman trembles all over.

“Ervine!” Arniel Gane appears as if unhelpfully conjured, harried and out of temper, storming her direction from the Hall of Attainment.

“I, um,” says Tsona-Vos. Her frills flutter. “Ah, never mind— I can see you’re very busy…”

“You may return during office hours,” Colette intones, scowling Arniel’s direction.

“I did,” Tsona-Vos says, miserably, and then as Mirabelle watches she lashes her tail and draws herself up. “Master Wizard, I— I’ve made you something— and Nirya said it was well done.”

She can feel Tolfdir raising his eyebrows.

“By her stars!” murmurs Colette.

The gift is a bronze pendant, about the size of a standard Imperial coin, thick and dark and sorceled from heart to cool circumference in a sternly woven shielding charm. It’s her policy to scrutinize magical gifts, but the craft involved is confident; and many of her students have been frightened since the Augur spoke. She had no idea Tsona-Vos was studying enchantment.

“How thoughtful,” Mirabelle observes. “This is fine work.”

Tsona-Vos gapes for a moment, then startles to attention and awkwardly clasps her hands at her back with a fraction of Urag’s gravity. “Er, yes. I mean—! Thank you, Master Wizard! I…”

“Mistress Ervine,” Arniel yowls as he advances from behind a group of gossiping journeymen.

Tolfdir touches her shoulder. “Alterationist at thirty paces.”

“I’ll put it on right now,” Mirabelle decides, and somehow Tsona-Vos’ huge stunned eyes seem to widen even further. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” cries Tsona-Vos, rambling her gratitude, and waves with both hands when Mirabelle bids her good day. At the gatehouse Faralda and a fellow in a sealskin coat have gotten into some loud disagreement with Enthir, swanning about half-frozen in his dressing gown. Mirabelle tucks the gift beneath her collar, with a private grimace for the rough twine it hangs on.

“If this staff of Magnus should come to us, we’ll have more to contend with than the Synod.”

“Perhaps the Augur has been misinterpreted,” Colette suggests under her breath.

“Just so,” Tolfdir agrees, turning to wave at Onmund and Brelyna. “And it will take them a week to return from Mzulft, a week at least. In the meantime I’d like another look round Hall of the Elements— if you don’t mind, Mirabelle.”

“Well,” Mirabelle begins, sharply, but then Gane is upon her all afrost. At the edge of the crowd, Ancano meets her gaze and smiles.

——————

There was no time or sense to any of it. Later it came back out of order: Ancano’s shadowed face in the screaming light of the Eye— the sucking gasp at the center of her chest where something woke— an airless shattering bright tide of will— the wave of magic risen to his hand. She thought she remembered Faralda carrying an apprentice under each arm. She knew Tolfdir lingered at the doors, even without seeing him actually do it; nothing and no one could persuade him to leave her behind, despite being ordered out with the rest. The blast itself never returned except in certain dreams.

She had a dim idea of being thrown, hard; then Tolfdir was shaking her by the shoulders, where she was flat on her back instead of her feet, bruisy-headed, piled like a sack of fish against the cold chamber wall. “Not like this, no, Wolf-mother, please not like this, please, please— Mirabelle. Please, Mirabelle. Can you hear me?”

She moved her tongue around a mouth of blood and magic ash. “Yes.” The air blazed pale terrible blue. Her eyes stung. For a moment Savos hung over her, concerned or confused; she blinked hard and he was gone.

“Can you get to your feet? Take my hand. In her claws, Mirabelle, I can’t believe you— I thought— ” his voice shook. “I feared…” He shut his eyes, smiling, and shook his head. By the Eye’s wall of endless light he looked old as the cliffs. “I’ll be grateful for your luck as long as I live.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Mirabelle told him, lowly. Tolfdir’s face shuddered beneath his crying. “I felt every ward drain to the marrow.”

From a groggy distance she realized her hand was pulsing with hurt. She forced it off her chest and pried each of the stiff fingers open. Clenched there in her fist: Tsona-Vos’s charm, shattered into six blood-slick pieces, where the last of Ancano’s spell had found its mark.

[hiddenfaithy-arts]

Siulon faces Ancano in a desperate bid to stop him from using the Eye of Magnus to cause further harm.

[jiubilant]

my full thought is that

mirabelle ervine, phinis gestor, and falion arrived at the college as (quite young, in mirabelle's and phinis's cases) students

savos aren was born and raised in winterhold and (of course) began his time at the college as a student

drevis neloren and faralda have, at the start of the game, taught at the college for several years; drevis formerly belonged to the synod conclave, and faralda has a colorful past as a weather-witch. neither of them were ever enrolled at the college as apprentices

similarly, colette marence, sergius turrianus, and arniel gane all came to the college to teach after making their names at other institutions

nirya's a winterhold graduate raised to the exalted rank of adjunct

urag gro-shub initially came to the college as an independent researcher and succeeded his predecessor as master archivist sometime in his late twenties

tolfdir mastered alteration as a youth among the fryse-daughters of hjaalmarch ( a witches' coven) and has been teaching at the college for over forty years

they scraped enthir out of the larder or something. he was growing in there. i don't know

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

“The problem now,” says Mirabelle, braced against the wall and on consecutive minute ten of standing practice, “is the Synod and their—what did you say they were calling it?”

“A continental scan via the oculory’s projection mechanisms to catalogue the locations of various magical artefacts which may be of interest to the Empire,” recites Kharish, and then, flipping a page in her notebook after a beat, “or—something like that. I didn’t write all of that part down. He claimed he didn’t want us to know anything but then he wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Naturally,” she says under her breath. Less than surprising, given the persistence the Synod has shown in being a nuisance in other areas. “They’re not known for their discretion.” The small of her back protests louder; she shifts her stance in what she hopes is not a noticeable movement.

“Don’t lock your knees like that,” Colette admonishes anyway, hands twisting nervously over each other. “That’s enough for now; we’ll try again after dinner.”

“I’m doing fine. Give me a bit longer—”

“After dinner!”

Ten minutes is better than yesterday, at least. Mirabelle allows herself to be steered to her chair and exhales as Colette checks her spine vertebra by aching vertebra. “Right. Well, whatever they think they might find, they cannot find it here. And if that—”

All three heads turn to the Staff leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. The constant pressure of energy radiating from it brightens briefly under the attention. It’s been bordering on headache-inducing for days now; this almost pushes it right over.

“—if that,” she continues, rubbing her palms across her knees, meditative, “has the same qualities that caused the… orb…”

“The Eye?” Kharish offers with a thumb to her chin in thought.

“The orb,” she repeats more firmly, because it’s still a silly name for the thing, even after it all, “to interfere with their mapping attempt in the oculory—and I think it’s fair to say it does, given its appearance on the map in equivalence to it, and, well.”

She waves a hand in the Staff’s direction. If it were not a somewhat concerning thought to have of an ostensibly inanimate object, she could almost think it preening.

“…general aura. I am not interested in being indicated on any further attempts to create a map of Synod targets; we have our hands full enough as it is. I don’t know what the Psijics have that would be capable of dampening the orb’s propensity for the kind of entropic flares we saw, but I would rather they had taken the one thing we are positive is capable of subduing it.”

“I could write a letter,” Kharish says doubtfully, “but I don’t know where we’d send it.”

“Well, if they all blow their secret Psijic island to bits, I hardly think it’s our fault,” scoffs Colette as she goes to sit again and scribbles something down in her notes. (Hopefully, Mirabelle thinks, rueful, that she will not be expected to sit on her hands for another interminable week.) “Transplanar nonsense. They can flash around pausing time, and being cryptic, and pretending not to be involved in anything, but they can’t be bothered with a mailing address!”

“It would require a very intrepid courier, certainly.” She pauses at a knock on the door, something easing in her shoulders at the sight of Faralda, familiar bruises under her eyes belying her usual indefatigable composure, and a tray of four steaming cups.

“What have I missed?”

“Ten minutes,” says Colette importantly.

Faralda sits, eyebrows lifting. A bright curl falls loose, brushes across her cheekbone; she must have been sat with a hand in her hair in concentration for a few hours, at least. Too much documentation in the wake of the incident, trying to walk the line of sufficiently detailed for the records without being overly revealing. Mirabelle makes a mental note to ask her to bring everything by, later, to let her take some of it herself. (Please.) “Yesterday was seven, wasn’t it?” She draws her chair up to the table and brings her own cup to her lips.

“And a month ago I could have stood unassisted for several hours,” Mirabelle says dryly, “but I think that would scarcely have been a riveting conversation topic. We were discussing what to do about—the Staff.”

It draws the eye again. The momentary silence is unsettling in its totality. The Staff does nothing, but she has the uncanny sense that it’s thinking, somehow.

“I don’t like it,” Colette says at last. “It feels like it’s looking at me.” She takes a sip from her cup and then coughs, sputtering. “How much sugar did you put in here?”

“Four,” Faralda looks at her, confused, and then blinks. “—no. You said two.”

“Four! Who is using four!”

“I don’t know. It’s—the morning was very long.” She drags a hand down her face. “Although I’d thought you a little more inclined to sweet things, lately,” she says, with a flicker of a grin cast sideways for Mirabelle, who puts a finger to her own mouth in warning.

Kharish slides her cup across the table, ears pricked with interest. “You can have mine if you like; I haven’t touched it yet. Is that true? Do you—”

Coloring, Colette insists, “It is not!” She takes the cup, though, eyeing it with some apprehension.

“…as we were saying, though,” Mirabelle rubs at the bridge of her nose, trying not to mirror Faralda’s smile, “the Staff.”

“We could try to find a way to… dim it, so to speak.” Faralda nods towards the Staff. “So it doesn’t light up the whole town, feeling like that. Synod, yes? If that thing doesn’t give off as strong a signature it would be easier disguised.”

“We’ll have to ask Drevis what he thinks,” she muses. “We’d need more than simple invisibility, for certain, but he had that thesis on localized perception-warping around an object. I believe he was still missing a book from the demonstration of it.”

Kharish is staring at the thing, brow knit, fingers turning idly in her lap. “Urag and I can go over anything that might be relevant from the Shalidor-Ulfsild notes, too. They both did enough hiding things, at least,” she says with a faint smile, “that there ought to be something useful in there. And—I can run through my notes from Mzulft again. I might have missed something yet.”

They’ve retrodden the events of Mzulft, now, a handful of times. Mirabelle is privately inclined to think it likely that the disastrous Synod expedition’s lone survivor may not have even made it back to Cyrodiil—which would, of course, be unfortunate (but would also solve the whole thing quite handily, wouldn’t it). Pragmatically, though, better to assume they’ll be dealt the worst hand, and so she’s had Kharish take her through her notes again and again, in the hopes some clue to diverting the attention drawn by the oculory map will become clear if only they review once more. One can always trust an archivist to keep notes, at least. “Have Arniel take a look,” she decides. “If nothing else, he may have an idea how to plausibly suggest their calibration was imprecise.”

“He won’t be too busy with the—?” Kharish cuts herself off at a quick pointed look from Faralda. “Er—yes. I’ll see what he can make of it. You can always blame me,” she offers, “if you need. Say I must have skewed their results.”

“Of course it wasn’t you,” huffs Colette, just as Faralda says, “We might consider it.” The cup rattles as Colette jolts, nearly losing a splash of tea. “What? Why? It was their godsforsaken idea—”

“It doesn’t have to be true. Or intentional.” Faralda catches the tray where it’s started to make for the edge of the uneven table. “But they might think twice about delegating to uninvolved parties in the future if it’s pointed out that perhaps the quality of their work suffers as a result.”

“Which would be their own fault, not—”

“I did drop their focusing crystal more than once—”

Mirabelle presses a hand to her temple. “Stop,” she says aloud, and the Staff in the corner spits a single white spark with an audible crack that silences the room. She can hear her own pulse in her ears as she says, “We’ll cross that particular bridge when or if we should come to it. With any luck we won’t need to deal with them face to face, and no fingers will be pointed in either direction.”

“Better to stave off the attention in the first place,” Kharish nods, which might be taken for a joke under normal circumstances—only, her face stays worryingly grim.

The Staff crackles again. Mirabelle wishes it sounded less like laughter.

---

It seems, somehow, louder in the quiet, once the door has closed back: Kharish having left with the promise of scouring the transcriptions they’ve taken from the scholars of ages past and talking Arniel through what she can of the Mzulft oculory, and Colette with the promise of returning with her dinner and another practice session involving five bold minutes of being on her feet, presumably if she hasn’t simply expired before then, leaving the archmage and the master wizard alone. She’s still not used to the change in title. It will, she imagines, take some getting used to. Archmage Ervine. Master Wizard Faralda—who is bent over the second of the ledgers in the stack she’s lined up on the table.

“So,” Mirabelle studies her keen profile. “What is Arniel working on that I’m not meant to know about?”

A twitch of her ear. “Certain practical applications of his mechanical knowledge,” she says, evasive.

“Should I be concerned?”

“No.” Faralda turns her head, something nervous and soft flickering across the line of her mouth. “It isn’t anything more than a thought, at the moment. If it enters the realm of feasibility, you’ll be the first to know.”

She feels herself tilting, slightly, and sits straighter to correct for it, a funny little smile threatening her own expression. Odd, not to know every wheel turning beyond the door. Another thing that will take some getting used to. “Very well. I trust your judgment.”

Her master wizard rearranges the list she’s brought: things already accomplished and things yet to be done, which students have elected to withdraw and which are staying, potential places they can scrape a bit more out of the next semester’s budget for the structural repairs to the Hall of Elements (and more than likely the semester after that, and after that one too). She wonders, with a spike of something morbid, whether there’s still a smear of her blood on the cracked tile—whether once she gets her hands on a cane she’ll find a blackened stain of her own handprint smudging the splintered door. It’ll need replacing, either way.

The Staff blinks. It does—just a bit—feel as though it’s looking at her. She looks back at it, brow furrowed, and tamps down the sudden compulsion to ask what it wants.

“If I start talking to it,” Mirabelle says gravely, “hit me.”

Affronted, Faralda starts. “I’m not going to hit you.”

“The responsibility of the master wizard—”

“—can be done without smacking about the archmage,” she cuts her off, scowling, “as you of all people should be well aware.” Then, apparently catching the twinkle in her eye, she huffs out a breath. “Be serious.”

“I am quite serious. We’ve seen what the orb was capable of, and I don’t intend to let such a thing happen with its counterpart. I expect you to step in should it ever be necessary.”

“You won’t let it come to that.”

“I’d like to think not,” she says, “but I won’t pretend to assume I’m infallible.” Mirabelle shifts slightly in her chair as her back twinges. She should be lying down again soon, but, she thinks with a brush of irritation, there’s too much to be done, still; and hardly any of it can one do while confined by rest.

(The Staff humming incessantly in the corner, too, doesn’t help things. The thing has the sort of presence that is not easily ignored. Which, of course, is why they need to find how to keep it from drawing unwanted attention.)

“You’re in pain.” It’s not a question. Faralda is half to her feet already, sharp eyes studying her with concern. “Do you need—”

“I am fine. What I need is to finish this discussion. Let me do something.”

Her narrow mouth twitches to one side. “You,” she starts, and then stops. More cautious, plucking her words slowly: “You… made a face. We can discuss anything you like if you will tell me what I can do.”

“If I were experiencing—discomfort,” she says, leaning forward very subtly with her elbows on the table to alleviate some pressure, “I would be careful not to ‘make a face’ about it.”

“Evidently not careful enough.” For a moment she’s suspended, hovering; Mirabelle thinks at first that she’s waiting for an answer before her hand, warm—ever-burning furnace that she is—hesitantly drops between her shoulder blades. “Where is it?”

Wide awake and abruptly far too aware of the latent rattle in her lungs, she says, “Oh, don’t; I’ll fall asleep on you, and I am sick to death of sleeping.”

“I should hope not. I’ll call Marence back if I have to.”

“If it will satisfy you, Master Wizard,” Mirabelle irons out a thin smile, “to make a fuss over nothing—”

“You should not play cards, Archmage.” Faralda touches a careful thumb to the ridge of her spine. “You don’t bluff well. Where is it?”

She sucks an inhale through her teeth. “Lower,” she says, eventually. The heat and pressure shift to oblige. There is, still, the perfect echo of the long-fingered hand across her upper back. “You mean that I—” She clears her throat, startled by the strain in her own voice. “You mean that I don’t bluff well against you, I think. But really: I’ll be upright sooner rather than later.” With a wry twist to her mouth, she says, “Imagine the office hours, elsewise.”

“Archmage,” Faralda says again—she says it as easily as if it’s what she’s always called her, somehow—“if anyone thinks less of you, they’re none of ours. Hold your office hours however you like; it can’t be any worse than Neloren disappearing mid-advisory meeting, or Gestor misplacing his entire desk to some far corner of Oblivion—”

Despite herself, she does laugh, rubbing at the inner corners of her eyes. “Don’t remind me. He still complains the replacement is rubbish.” But of course Faralda will take her seriously. She’ll wear the same bright eyes and mindful prick to her ears, the same flash of humor and crook of her mouth whether Mirabelle is on her feet or seated or lying down or standing on her head—the thought of which makes her huff a closed-lipped laugh again. “Alright,” she says at last. “But don’t go anywhere yet. I’d still like to run through the budget issue at least; leave it here for me when you do go. Have you already reached out to the masons—”

Faralda presses the heel of her hand into the small of her back; the heat of her unwinds something taut sitting in her aching spine and hitches her voice in her throat mid-thought. “I’m not going anywhere. What do you need?”

A breath. A beat. She looks askance at the Staff, buzzing alight, and puts out a hand—goes, at first, for Faralda’s elbow, then takes hold of her sleeve instead. “Just stand there being tall a moment,” she says lightly, “and don’t tell.”

“Tell—” She startles, grabbing for her hand, when Mirabelle pulls herself to her feet. “I’m better leverage informed first—”

“Hm. I imagine a cane will complain less, too.” It’s only four or five normal steps to sit on the edge of the bed, which translates now to an awkward shuffle that her hips prick and creak in resistance throughout.

Faralda stays standing over her a moment, looking suddenly and strangely at a loss for what to do with her hands. “Is it—better?”

“It will be.” She exhales as she lowers herself back against the lumpy stack of pillows. The relief is not total by any means, but it is a marked improvement. “Faralda,” she says, and sees the resulting unfurrowing of her brow, the slant to her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Her expression warms, embers kindling, as she pulls her chair over, offers the ledger. “I’ll hope I make a better conversationalist than a cane. Synod, Staff, stonemasons. Start us where you like.”

It is, she realizes abruptly, the first time in days the Staff has gone quiet. It feels like a fresh breath of outdoor morning chill. “Would you believe,” she says, reaching for the quill on the end table, “that I really do miss paperwork?”

Faralda’s laugh, quick and glowing, could light the hearth.

[milkcookiekin]

(look before requesting!) DNI if you are: anti-lgbt, anti-semitic, pro-Israel, racist, ableist, pro-shipper, sexist, etc. you should know the drill by now.

ask boundaries: no nsfw asks for minors (this includes if their ages are not confirmed by any official media, but they are still clearly minors), no bathroom kinks, no noncon/cnc, incest/stepcest, pedophilia, age gaps, etc., if you ask for anything of the sort, you will be blocked.

(requests are currently open, it’s first come first serve!)

(I will only be taking 75 requests at a time, so I have time to work on all of them, so check the list to see if any slots are open! only request when requests are open.)

(the ones in the “currently working on” section are in order of which I want to finish first, the rest are not, so I can’t guarantee your requests will be done in order of when you gave me your request.)

(PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, do not request if requests are closed, especially if I’m not working as often!)

main fandoms:

omori

phighting! (taking a break from these so please don’t ask, you will be informed if you weren’t aware, but don’t push further)

splatoon (just the manga)

eddsworld

boboiboy galaxy

brawl stars

the promised neverland

the bfdi series (minus idfb)

encanto (will only take romantic requests for isabela, luisa, dolores, mirabel, camilo, bruno and i’ll throw in carlos just for fun. i will only take familial/platonic requests for everyone else)

currently working on:

1. zuka nsfw hcs

2. unrequited love with subspace!

3. biograft and reader fighting together!

will work on soon:

4. dom nsfw hcs!

5. shuriken and illumina w/ feminine!male!reader (separate)

6. yandere subspace x human!gn!reader

7. katana relationship hcs!

8. self aware scythe hcs

9. sub sword hcs

10. self aware darkheart hcs

11. phighters fighting and breaking up with their s/o (no I will not make a pun, fight me)

12. banhammer x wife!reader sfw and nsfw

13. army x reader

14. aloha x reader x mask

15. aviators x reader

16. ocho x octoling!reader

17. the broker smut hcs

18. edgar x isekai’d!reader

19. illumina x artist! reader

20. hyperlaser x traitor!reader

21. colt x rival!male!reader

22. colette x fem!reader who’s interested in her works

23. bottom darkheart hcs

24. husband medkit x reader hcs

25. self-aware firebrand hcs

26. scythe smut hcs (part 2)

27. illumina smut hcs

28. fluffy scythe hcs

29. kel x reader who likes writing, especially romance stories

30. broker general relationship hcs

31. platonic headcanons w/ icedagger

32. medkit hanahaki hcs

33. scythe flirting with her easily flustered s/o

34. boombox x autistic musician reader (platonic)

35. biograft w/ sibling reader

36. vine staff nsfw hcs

37. ray and emma (separate) x entp reader

38. illumina x reader angst

39. broker x medkit’s distant cousin!reader

40. young zuka relationship hcs!

41. ghostwalker x reader angst

42. windforce unrequited love hcs

43. traffic relationship hcs

44. pwnatious relationship hcs

45. rocket dating reader who’s affiliated with blackrock

46. dom and boombox (separate) w/ a bunny girl smut hcs

47. buster x reader nsfw hcs

48. bottom!pwnatious hcs

49. jesterspace x reader hcs

50. lawrie nsfw hcs

51. hyperlaser x fish-like!reader hcs

52. mortis x reader x colt hcs

53. traffic x feminine!reader

54. valk relationship hcs

55. follower!sword angst hcs

56. reader trying to be there for the main friend group after Mari’s death

57. fullscore trio x reader (separate) fluff hcs!

58. larry and lawrie (separate) dating hcs (no not with each other)

59. berry romantic headcanons

60. draco romantic headcanons

61. ray introducing reader to his family (modern au)

62. jealous fang and chester hcs (separate)

63. draco smut headcanons

64. werewolf!luisa x fem!reader (modern au)

65. platonic headcanons for tara and sandy (separate)

66. bibi x reader friends to lovers hcs!

67. boboiboy ais x reader fluff

68. adu du hcs!

69. real world aubrey x reader hcs!

70. bobble hat trying to help with reader’s awful sleep schedule!

71. four x reader relationship hcs!

72. two x reader relationship hcs!

73. tree x reader relationship hcs!

74. hachi x reader hcs!

75. sandy x reader hcs

76. emz x reader hcs!

77. fanny x reader hcs!

78. fullscore trio x reader human world hcs!

79. loser x reader hcs

80. teardrop x reader hcs

[chronologically-challenged]

I just had the realization that nearly every single conversation that the party has in the House sounds EXACTLY like a side chat from a Tales game. I can't even list specifics because they just all sound Like That. No wonder Tales of Symphonia is marked as huge inspiration!!!

Man. If I had any animation skills, I'd love to translate one of the House conversations to a side chat. Particularly either the vodka one or Bonnie asking about people kissing in plays. Those would be so fun to see.

Also:

Colette 🤝 Mirabelle

True main characters of the story, but not the protagonist

[wellthebardsdead]

Some Fun facts about Wyrm

Hes terrified of dogs. One of his earliest memories is being attacked by someone’s pet Nix hound who wanted his food. Since then anything vaguely dog or nix shaped scares him half to death. Meeting barbas did in fact make him faint from both fear and shock.

He’s neuro spicy coded. No particular diagnosis but leaning towards autistic. He’s both very empathetic but often struggles reading people and taking context from passive comments, so he tends to take things quite literally but is also quite witty and sarcastic himself.

He really wants a pet Scrib but Urag is terrified of them. So you can imagine the scream the old orc made when he returned home with two Elytra nymphs in tow.

Before meeting team dragonborn, Brelyna Maryon, Onmund & J’zargo are his only friends in his mental age group that aren’t made of machinery, and they are also the very first students in his whole life in the collage who befriended him rather than finding him odd or annoying.

He has a bad habit of falling asleep in odd places while reading or working. Urag has found him on top of a bookshelf before more than once.

He heavily dislikes Savos Aren being the arch mage and is the only person in the college who knows he sacrificed his classmates to escape the dragon priest.

He sometimes offers sugar cookies to the magicka fountains around the collage so the auger knows someone’s thinking of him.

He loves insects but is partial to moths.

He’s terrible at self regulating and due to ash exposure at a young age he breathes deeper than he needs to when crying and thus ends up giving himself the hiccups each and every time.

Outside of the tribunal nightmares he’s been suffering from recently, he’s only ever dreamt of the stories Urag would read to him, or a night sky with a single moon and star, and what sounds like bells ringing softly in the distance.

He is ridiculously clumsy.

His favourite joke is to pull his Pearl eye out, rub it on his shirt and put it back in when seeing something ridiculous or unbelievable.

His three favourite professors are Tolfdir, Mirabelle, and Faralda with Miss Colette coming in fourth purely because her lessons are too early in the morning and he misses out on precious sleep in time.

Enthir is very much a (sometimes annoying) big brother figure to him despite being shorter lol.

His favourite snack is any type of jerky, but he’s partial to scrib jerky when he can get it.

Tried drinking alcohol once and regretted it immediately. Prefers tea instead.

He frequently gets tangled up in his floor length hair in his sleep but still forgets to braid it every time. Urag has found him inching his way across the floor like a worm (pun intended) more than once after cocooning himself in it from tossing and turning.

He hates boiled cream treats and any type of jelly, the texture is a huge no for him. Mushrooms are an even bigger no.

[aardvark-123]

~Excessively Twee Skyrim Headcanons: Winterhold Edition~

There are about twenty thousand people left in Winterhold. Thousands left after the Great Collapse, namely those who could afford to move out, and who dared to make the long journey through bear, bandit, wolf, troll, ice wraith, draugr and avalanche country. Winterhold was bled dry of the rich, the brave and the foolish, leaving hunters, fisherfolk, farmers and the College's mages behind.

The people of Winterhold don't really bother with money any more. Travellers come and spend the stuff on occasion, but for the most part people do what work they're good at, help each other when they can and share what they can spare. Winterhold may not be a busy or fancy city, but its people care for one-another and no-one is left on their own.

The College of Winterhold is of course the mammoth in the room; part of Winterhold, yet standing aloof from it, feared and distrusted by many. The College is often blamed for the Great Collapse, and a few of its mages have begun to resent the people of Winterhold, enough to leave the gate barred against a possible angry mob.

While there is a deep, painful rift in Winterhold's history, there are still people who reach out across it. Mages are still known to blow storms away from the coast, heal the sick and wounded, teach magic tricks to anyone who'll listen and drink the night away in the Frozen Hearth. A lot of people welcome them into the town, are glad of their help, and lend a hand at the College where one's needed.

Jarl Korir would love to be a "proper" jarl: rich, powerful, feared and adored. He'll settle, however, for "nominally in charge of a city where no-one is starving, homeless, a religious extremist, or hell-bent on conquering the world with dark magic and legions of undead". He keeps Winterhold's treasury (both piggy banks) safe for whenever the city needs a public service, and has been known to help shovel snow off the roads in late summer.

Winterhold is snowy for ten months of the year, and spends the remaining two full of slushy mud. Yes, the main roads have cobblestones, but the mud has a way of flowing down from the hills and sliding inexorably around the city. They say that the second most important possession anyone in Winterhold owns is a sturdy pair of boots.

The soil around Winterhold can barely grow a scraggly snowberry bush or a tuft of brown grass, and it's mainly through sheer determination and fervent prayers to Kyne and Azura that the first there farmers managed to grow crops. The Clever-Men of old learned how to sing vigour into Winterhold's crops and pull the frost out of their foots, but for the most part, people ate fish and seaweed and caught scurvy.

Hang on, I said 'excessively twee', didn't I? This needs a dash of my speciality, girl power and earnest silliness. For the honour of High Hrothgar!

Eight years ago, Colette Marence worked out how brew potions of Resist Frost and Fortify Stamina Regeneration for plants. Watering cans turned into vessels of enchanted rain, and soon leeks, carrots, apple trees and even tomatoes were blooming in Winterhold's fields.

Faralda has a lot of energy, which she pours into her work as the College of Winterhold's Destruction master. What she does in the game- standing guard outside the gate for hours at a time- does not do justice to the "real" Faralda at all. She has been known to somersault backwards over a stray bear whilst pelting it with fireballs, punch a dragon in the snout with her knuckles wreathed in lightning, and even teach Winterhold's handful of rebellious teenagers how to dance.

Enthir is friendly to everyone, and has worked out how to weave an irresistible sales pitch or a threatening demand for money into a polite greeting and a slap on the back. He is vulnerable, however, to being shaken roughly by the shoulders and told "GO AWAY, YOU CRETIN!".

The College's students and faculty can be a wild, unpredictable bunch, yet Mirabelle Ervine has managed to keep the worst of their behaviour in check for years. How, you might ask? Does she whip wayward mages, send atronachs to drag them to prison, torture them with lightning or hold their loved ones to ransom? No, in fact she has a sad, almost tender way of saying she's disappointed in you that can be utterly heartbreaking. She also has fireballs.

Tolfdir is a natural-born teacher; he wants to guide the next generation of wizards to greatness, and knows the basics of all the schools of magic. He also enjoys learning, and hopes to instill that passion in at least a few of the apprentices. Mirabelle was like that too, and she often misses teaching when the busy life of a deputy arch-mage is getting her down.

Nirya and Faralda are constantly trying to one-up each other, whether in displays of ferocious magic power or tense pie-eating contests. They tried to race around the courtyard once, only to crash into each other and get concussed. They tried to climb up the statue of Azura once, only to be batted away with a rolled-up newspaper by Aranea Ienith. They tried to have a pillow fight once, only to end up having a nap together. They have successfully slain at least one Legendary Dragon.

Phinis Gestor uses a zombie to carry his shopping, just to make people stare.

[itsguysnightitsironic]

"And the devil is but a ram and I am only hunger."

The only difference between an innocent hand and a guilty one is which points first.

So the witches are linked with the rams... Because they are scapegoats? Put Goya in the phone right now, HE NEEDS TO KNOW-

(REFERENTS UNDER THE CUT)

As always, my dear Goya is here. Because this man's work is in the back of my mind like a second peer of eyes. (Get him out)

Brujas sábado (1789) de Francisco de Goya

And the only painting ever that it's The Descent from the Cross by Van der Weyden, which it's a monster of a painting, this painting will kill god and become one.

The Descent from the Cross (1435) by Rogier van der Weyden

And my dear Romanic paintings that will always be the most entertaining art ever, we will never surpass their madness, love them dearly.

Particular judgment of the soul and Saint Peter and Saint Paul (late 13th century) in the MEV, Museum of Medieval Art

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

could have been the most useful he ever was... 😔

[ehlnofay]

the biggest change I've made for efri & co.'s college questline is that they have to sneak around for all of it. in the game everyone will just send you off to do whatever but mirabelle is refusing point blank to let this ten year old (+11 year old + normal apprentices) go gallivanting off on a death mission because Obviously. so the difference is that efri has marginally more difficulty getting the necessary information to go anyway and then routinely shows up again going hi!! we did the thing!!! you can't be mad at me because we only ALMOST died and we were successful. and you can't kick me out because you're attached to me now :D (kazari stop trying to get me to tell them about the really extra stupid shit I did. I'm not dobbing on myself)

[ghoulsbeard]

“And you,” the… the woman says, “have not been with the College long, I take it.”

She is certainly dressed like a College mage, though the sleeves are tied up past a pair of broad forearms in apparent defiance of the cold, and the hem of her robe falls short of her boots. She has the presence of a bonfire— tall as a blaze, with a head of wild red hair, and eyes like torches. Mirabelle has not been introduced. She had one whispered rumor, from Colette, about a seafaring spellsword in occasional correspondence with the archmage; she hardly expected anyone flesh and blood to materialize.

“I am a professor of elements,” Mirabelle replies. “You may call me mistress of frost, or of fire, as you please; all are within my purview.”

The woman examines her for another endless moment. She has a sour, sullen face; or possibly wears her displeasure plain.

“You look like a journeyman.” Slashes a hand in the air across Mirabelle’s robes, with their sash and pin. Well. And so.

“Astutely observed. The College’s stores are limited, and we do not all tower like yourself.”

A sour eyebrow. “…Indeed.”

“Could I have your name?”

“Mistress of destruction.” She narrows her eyes. “But the academics here call me Faralda.”

[greatbritishsimchallenge]

“I can’t believe this,” Lord Randolf said flatly.

“I do not expect you to accept this at once. It has taken me some time. I have dealt with grief and anger and despair. It would be selfish of me to deny you such a process...”

“Selfish... selfish does not begin to cover what you are,” said Lord Randolf bitterly.

“But I have made peace with my predicament and, after your generous offer to listen and understand me this evening, it felt only right that I tell you the truth.”

Lord Randolf shook his head and left the room. Lady Colette exhaled heavily, collected herself and also left to rejoin the party.

Lord Randolf headed immediately to the kitchens.

“You. Girl. Where is the cook? There’s been a complaint about the food.”

“Oh! Umm I am sorry, me Lord, I -” stammered Mirabel.

“I do not need your sorrys, I need the COOK’S. Where is she?” said Lord Randolf, growing more angry.

“She is sick, me Lord. She is restin’,” implored Mirabel

“No wonder there has been a complaint! She likely tainted the food! Have her sent to my room at once. I have a headache and need to lie down.”

“Yes... me Lord...” 

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